StrictlyBusiness:MoreStoriesOfTheFourMillion

ByO.Henry

StrictlyBusiness

ISTRICTLYBUSINESS

Isupposeyouknowallaboutthestageandstagepeople.You'vebeentouchedwithandbyactors,andyoureadthenewspapercriticismsandthejokesintheweekliesabouttheRialtoandthechorusgirlsandthelong-hairedtragedians.And I suppose that a condensed list of your ideas about the mysteriousstagelandwouldboildowntosomethinglikethis:Leadingladieshavefivehusbands,pastediamonds,andfiguresnobetterthanyourown(madam)iftheyweren'tpadded.Chorusgirlsareinseparablefromperoxide,Panhards andPittsburg.All showswalkback toNewYorkon tanoxford and railroad ties. Irreproachable actresses reserve the comic-landladypart for theirmothers on Broadway and their step-aunts on the road. KyrleBellew'srealnameisBoyleO'Kelley.TheravingsofJohnMcCulloughinthephonographwere stolen from the first sale of the Ellen Terrymemoirs. JoeWeberisfunnierthanE.H.Sothern;butHenryMillerisgettingolderthanhewas.Alltheatricalpeopleonleavingthetheatreatnightdrinkchampagneandeatlobsters until noon the next day.After all, themovingpictures havegot the

wholebunchpoundedtoapulp.Now,fewofusknowthereallifeofthestagepeople.Ifwedid,theprofessionmightbemoreovercrowdedthanitis.Welookaskanceattheplayerswithaneyefullofpatronizingsuperiority—andwegohomeandpractiseallsortsofelocutionandgesturesinfrontofourlookingglasses.Latterlytherehasbeenmuchtalkoftheactorpeopleinanewlight.Itseemsto have been divulged that instead of being motoring bacchanalians anddiamond-hungryloreleistheyarebusinesslikefolk,studentsandasceticswithchilder and homes and libraries, owning real estate, and conducting theirprivate affairs in as orderly and unsensational a manner as any of us goodcitizenswho are bound to the chariotwheels of the gas, rent, coal, ice, andwardmen.Whethertheoldorthenewreportofthesock-and-buskinersbethetrueoneisa surmise that has no place here. I offer youmerely this little story of twostrollers;andforproofofitstruthIcanshowyouonlythedarkpatchabovethecast-ironofthestage-entrancedoorofKeetor'soldvaudevilletheatremadetherebythepetulantpushofglovedhandstooimpatienttofingertheclumsythumb-latch—andwhere I last sawCherrywhisking through like a swallowintohernest,ontimetotheminute,asusual,todressforheract.ThevaudevilleteamofHart&Cherrywasaninspiration.BobHarthadbeenroamingthroughtheEasternandWesterncircuitsforfouryearswithamixed-upactcomprisingamonologue,threelightningchangeswithsongs,acoupleof imitations of celebrated imitators, and a buck-and-wing dance that haddrawnaglanceofapprovalfromthebass-violplayerinmorethanonehouse—thanwhichnoperformereverreceivedmoresatisfactoryevidenceofgoodwork.Thegreatesttreatanactorcanhaveistowitnessthepitifulperformancewithwhichallotheractorsdesecratethestage.InordertogivehimselfthispleasurehewilloftenforsakethesunniestBroadwaycornerbetweenThirty-fourthandForty-fourth to attend a matinée offering by his less gifted brothers. Onceduring the lifetimeof aminstrel jokeone comes to scoff and remains togothrough with that most difficult exercise of Thespian muscles—the audiblecontactofthepalmofonehandagainstthepalmoftheother.One afternoon Bob Hart presented his solvent, serious, well-knownvaudevillianfaceatthebox-officewindowofarivalattractionandgothisd.h.couponforanorchestraseat.A,B,C,andDglowedsuccessivelyontheannouncementspacesandpassedinto oblivion, each plunging Mr. Hart deeper into gloom. Others of theaudienceshrieked,squirmed,whistled,andapplauded;butBobHart,"AlltheMustard and aWhole Show in Himself," sat with his face as long and his

handsasfarapartasaboyholdingahankofyarnforhisgrandmothertowindintoaball.But when H came on, "The Mustard" suddenly sat up straight. H was thehappyalphabeticalprognosticatorofWinonaCherry, inCharacterSongsandImpersonations.Therewere scarcelymore than twobites toCherry;but shedeliveredthemerchandisetiedwithapinkcordandchargedtotheoldman'saccount.Shefirstshowedyouadeliciouslydewyandginghamycountrygirlwith a basket of property daisies who informed you ingenuously that therewereother things tobe learnedat theold logschool-housebesidescipherin'and nouns, especially "When the Teach-er Kept Me in." Vanishing, with aquickflirtofginghamapron-strings,shereappearedinconsiderablylessthana"trice"asafluffy"Parisienne"—soneardoesArtbringtheoldredmilltotheMoulinRouge.Andthen—Butyouknowtherest.AndsodidBobHart;buthesawsomebodyelse.HethoughthesawthatCherrywastheonlyprofessionalontheshortorderstagethathehadseenwhoseemedexactlytofitthepartof"HelenGrimes"inthesketchhehadwrittenandkepttuckedawayinthetrayofhistrunk.OfcourseBob Hart, as well as every other normal actor, grocer, newspaper man,professor,curbbroker,andfarmer,hasaplaytuckedawaysomewhere.Theytuck 'em in trays of trunks, trunks of trees, desks, haymows, pigeonholes,inside pockets, safe-deposit vaults, handboxes, and coal cellars, waiting forMr.Frohmantocall.Theybelongamongthefifty-sevendifferentkinds.But BobHart's sketchwas not destined to end in a pickle jar. He called it"MiceWillPlay."Hehadkeptitquietandhiddenawayeversincehewroteit,waiting to find a partnerwho fitted his conception of "HelenGrimes."Andhere was "Helen" herself, with all the innocent abandon, the youth, thesprightliness,andtheflawlessstageartthathiscriticaltastedemanded.After the act was over Hart found the manager in the box office, and gotCherry'saddress.AtfivethenextafternoonhecalledatthemustyoldhouseintheWestFortiesandsentuphisprofessionalcard.Bydaylight,inasecularshirtwaistandplainvoileskirt,withherhaircurbedandherSister ofCharity eyes,WinonaCherrymight havebeenplaying thepart of PrudenceWise, the deacon's daughter, in the great (unwritten) NewEnglanddramanotyetentitledanything."I know your act, Mr. Hart," she said after she had looked over his cardcarefully."Whatdidyouwishtoseemeabout?""I saw youwork last night," saidHart. "I'vewritten a sketch that I've beensavingup.It'sfortwo;andIthinkyoucandotheotherpart.IthoughtI'dseeyouaboutit.""Comein theparlor,"saidMissCherry."I'vebeenwishingforsomethingof

thesort.IthinkI'dliketoactinsteadofdoingturns."BobHartdrewhischerished"MiceWillPlay"fromhispocket,andreadittoher."Readitagain,please,"saidMissCherry.And then she pointed out to him clearly how it could be improved byintroducingamessenger insteadofa telephonecall,andcuttingthedialoguejust before the climax while they were struggling with the pistol, and bycompletely changing the lines and business of Helen Grimes at the pointwhere her jealousy overcomes her.Hart yielded to all her strictureswithoutargument.Shehadatonceputherfingeronthesketch'sweakerpoints.Thatwasherwoman'sintuitionthathehadlacked.AttheendoftheirtalkHartwaswilling to stake the judgment, experience, and savings of his four years ofvaudevillethat"MiceWillPlay"wouldblossomintoaperennialflowerinthegarden of the circuits. Miss Cherry was slower to decide. After manypuckeringsofhersmoothyoungbrowandtappingsonhersmall,whiteteethwiththeendofaleadpencilshegaveoutherdictum."Mr.Hart,"saidshe,"Ibelieveyoursketchisgoingtowinout.ThatGrimespart fits me like a shrinkable flannel after its first trip to a handless handlaundry.IcanmakeitstandoutlikethecoloneloftheForty-fourthRegimentataLittleMothers'Bazaar.AndI'veseenyouwork.Iknowwhatyoucandowiththeotherpart.Butbusinessisbusiness.Howmuchdoyougetaweekforthestuntyoudonow?""Twohundred,"answeredHart."Igetonehundredformine,"saidCherry."That'sabout thenaturaldiscountforawoman.ButI liveonitandputafewsimoleonseveryweekundertheloosebrickintheoldkitchenhearth.Thestageisallright.Iloveit;butthere'ssomething else I love better—that's a little country home, some day, withPlymouthRockchickensandsixduckswanderingaroundtheyard."Now,letmetellyou,Mr.Hart,IamSTRICTLYBUSINESS.Ifyouwantmetoplaytheoppositepartinyoursketch,I'lldoit.AndIbelievewecanmakeitgo.Andthere'ssomethingelseIwanttosay:There'snononsenseinmymake-up;I'monthelevel,andI'monthestageforwhatitpaysme,justasothergirlsworkinstoresandoffices.I'mgoingtosavemymoneytokeepmewhenI'mpast doing my stunts. No Old Ladies' Home or Retreat for ImprudentActressesforme."Ifyouwanttomakethisabusinesspartnership,Mr.Hart,withallnonsensecutoutofit,I'minonit.Iknowsomethingaboutvaudevilleteamsingeneral;butthiswouldhavetobeoneinparticular.IwantyoutoknowthatI'monthestageforwhatIcancartawayfromiteverypay-dayinalittlemanilaenvelopewithnicotinestainsonit,wherethecashierhaslickedtheflap.It'skindofa

hobby ofmine towant to cravenettemyself for plenty of rainy days in thefuture. I want you to know just how I am. I don't know what an all-nightrestaurantlookslike;Idrinkonlyweaktea;Ineverspoketoamanatastageentranceinmylife,andI'vegotmoneyinfivesavingsbanks.""MissCherry,"saidBobHartinhissmooth,serioustones,"you'reinonyourown terms. I've got 'strictly business' pasted inmy hat and stenciled onmymake-upbox.WhenIdreamofnightsIalwaysseeafive-roombungalowonthenorthshoreofLongIsland,withaJapcookingclambrothandducklinginthekitchen,andmewiththetitledeedstotheplaceinmypongeecoatpocket,swinginginahammockonthesideporch,readingStanley's'ExplorationsintoAfrica.'Andnobodyelsearound.YouneverwasinterestedinAfrica,wasyou,MissCherry?""Notany,"saidCherry."WhatI'mgoing todowithmymoneyis tobank it.Youcanget fourpercent.ondeposits.Evenat thesalary I'vebeenearning,I'vefiguredoutthatintenyearsI'dhaveanincomeofabout$50amonthjustfrom the interest alone.Well, Imight invest someof theprincipal ina littlebusiness—say,trimminghatsorabeautyparlor,andmakemore.""Well," said Hart, "You've got the proper idea all right, all right, anyhow.There aremighty fewactors that amount to anythingat allwhocouldn't fixthemselves for the wet days to come if they'd save their money instead ofblowingit.I'mgladyou'vegotthecorrectbusinessideaofit,MissCherry.Ithinkthesameway;andIbelievethissketchwillmorethandoublewhatbothofusearnnowwhenwegetitshapedup."The subsequent history of "MiceWill Play" is the history of all successfulwritingsforthestage.Hart&Cherrycutit,piecedit,remodeledit,performedsurgicaloperationson thedialogueandbusiness, changed the lines, restored'em,addedmore,cut'emout,renamedit,gaveitbacktheoldname,rewroteit,substitutedadaggerforthepistol,restoredthepistol—putthesketchthroughalltheknownprocessesofcondensationandimprovement.Theyrehearseditbytheold-fashionedboardinghouseclockintherarelyusedparlor until itswarning click at fiveminutes to the hourwould occur everytimeexactlyhalfasecondbeforetheclickoftheunloadedrevolverthatHelenGrimesusedinrehearsingthethrillingclimaxofthesketch.Yes, thatwas a thriller and a piece of excellentwork. In the act a real 32-caliberrevolverwasusedloadedwitharealcartridge.HelenGrimes,whoisaWesterngirlofdecidedlyBuffaloBillishskillanddaring,istempestuouslyinlovewithFrankDesmond, theprivate secretaryandconfidentialprospectiveson-in-law of her father, "Arapahoe" Grimes, quarter-million-dollar cattleking,owningaranchthat,judgingbythescenery,isineithertheBadLandsorAmagansett,L. I.Desmond(inprivate lifeMr.BobHart)wearsputteesand

Meadow Brook Hunt riding trousers, and gives his address as New York,leavingyoutowonderwhyhecomestotheBadLandsorAmagansett(asthecase may be) and at the same time to conjecture mildly why a cattlemanshouldwantputteesabouthisranchwithasecretaryin'em.Well, anyhow, you know aswell as I do that we all like that kind of play,whetherweadmititornot—somethingalonginbetween"Bluebeard,Jr.,"and"Cymbeline"playedintheRussian.Therewere only twoparts and a half in "MiceWill Play."Hart andCherrywere the two, of course; and the halfwas aminor part always played by astage hand, who merely came in once in a Tuxedo coat and a panic toannouncethatthehousewassurroundedbyIndians,andtoturndownthegasfireinthegratebythemanager'sorders.Therewasanothergirl in thesketch—aFifthAvenuesocietyswelless—whowas visiting the ranch and who had sirened Jack Valentine when he was awealthyclub-manonlowerThirdAvenuebeforehelosthismoney.Thisgirlappeared on the stage only in the photographic state—Jack had her SaronystuckuponthemanteloftheAmagan—oftheBadLandsdroringroom.Helenwasjealous,ofcourse.Andnowforthethriller.Old"Arapahoe"Grimesdiesofanginapectorisonenight—soHeleninformsusinastage-ferryboatwhisperoverthefootlights—whileonlyhissecretarywaspresent.Andthatsamedayhewasknowntohavehad$647,000incashinhis(ranch)libraryjustreceivedforthesaleofadroveofbeevesintheEast(thataccountsforthepricewepayforsteak!).Thecashdisappears at the same time. Jack Valentine was the only person with theranchmanwhenhemadehis(alleged)croak."GawdknowsIlovehim;butifhehasdonethisdeed—"yousabe,don'tyou?AndthentherearesomemeanthingssaidabouttheFifthAvenueGirl—whodoesn't comeon the stage—and canweblameher,with thevaudeville trustholdingdownpricesuntiloneactuallymustbebuttonedinthebackbyacallboy,maidscostsomuch?But, wait. Here's the climax. Helen Grimes, chaparralish as she can be, isgoadedbeyond imprudence.Sheconvincesherself that JackValentine isnotonlyafalsetto,butafinancier.Toloseatonefellswoop$647,000andaloverinridingtrouserswithanglesinthesideslikethevariationsonthechartofatyphoid-feverpatientisenoughtomakeanyperfectladymad.So,then!Theystandinthe(ranch)library,whichisfurnishedwithmountedelkheads(didn't the Elks have a fish fry in Amagensett once?), and the dénouementbegins. I knowofnomore interesting time in the runof aplayunless it bewhentheprologueends.Helen thinks Jackhas taken themoney.Who elsewas there to take it?The

box-officemanagerwasat thefrontonhis job; theorchestrahadn't left theirseats;andnomancouldgetpast"OldJimmy,"thestagedoor-man,unlesshecouldshowaSkyeterrieroranautomobileasaguaranteeofeligibility.Goaded beyond imprudence (as before said), Helen says to Jack Valentine:"Robber and thief—andworse yet, stealer of trusting hearts, this should beyourfate!"Withthatoutshewhips,ofcourse,thetrusty32-caliber."But Iwill bemerciful," goes onHelen. "You shall live—thatwill be yourpunishment.IwillshowyouhoweasilyIcouldhavesentyoutothedeaththatyoudeserve.Thereisherpictureonthemantel.Iwillsendthroughhermorebeautifulfacethebulletthatshouldhavepiercedyourcravenheart."And she does it. And there's no fake blank cartridges or assistants pullingstrings.Helen fires. The bullet—the actual bullet—goes through the face ofthephotograph—andthenstrikesthehiddenspringoftheslidingpanelinthewall—andlo!thepanelslides,andthereisthemissing$647,000inconvincingstacks of currency and bags of gold. It's great.You know how it is.Cherrypractisedfortwomonthsatatargetontheroofofherboardinghouse.Ittookgoodshooting. In the sketchshehad tohit abrassdiskonly three inches indiameter,coveredbywallpaperinthepanel;andshehadtostandinexactlythesamespoteverynight,andthephotohadtobe inexactly thesamespot,andshehadtoshootsteadyandtrueeverytime.Ofcourseold"Arapahoe"hadtuckedthefundsawaythereinthesecretplace;and, of course, Jack hadn't taken anything except his salary (which reallymight have come under the head of "obtaining money under"; but that isneitherherenorthere);and,ofcourse,theNewYorkgirlwasreallyengagedtoaconcretehousecontractorintheBronx;and,necessarily,JackandHelenendedinahalf-Nelson—andthereyouare.AfterHartandCherryhadgotten"MiceWillPlay"flawless,theyhadatry-outatavaudevillehousethataccommodates.Thesketchwasahousewrecker.Itwasoneof thoserarestrokesof talent that inundatesa theatrefromtheroofdown.Thegallerywept;andtheorchestraseats,beingdressedforit,swamintears.After theshowthebookingagentssignedblankchecksandpressedfountainpensuponHartandCherry.Fivehundreddollarsaweekwaswhatitpannedout.Thatnightat11:30BobHart tookoffhishatandbadeCherrygoodnightatherboarding-housedoor."Mr.Hart,"saidshethoughtfully,"comeinsidejustafewminutes.We'vegotourchancenowtomakegoodandmakemoney.Whatwewanttodoistocut

expenseseverycentwecan,andsaveallwecan.""Right,"saidBob."It'sbusinesswithme.You'vegotyourschemeforbankingyours;andIdreameverynightofthatbungalowwiththeJapcookandnobodyaround to raise trouble.Anything toenlarge thenet receiptswill engagemyattention.""Come inside just a fewminutes," repeatedCherry, deeply thoughtful. "I'vegotapropositiontomaketoyouthatwillreduceourexpensesalotandhelpyou work out your own future and help me work out mine—and all onbusinessprinciples."

"Mice Will Play" had a tremendously successful run in New York for tenweeks—ratherneatforavaudevillesketch—andthenitstartedonthecircuits.Withoutfollowingit, itmaybesaid that itwasasoliddrawingcardfor twoyearswithoutasignofabatedpopularity.SamPackard,managerofoneofKeetor'sNewYorkhouses, saidofHart&Cherry:"As square and high-toned a little team as ever cameover the circuit. It's apleasure to read their names on the booking list. Quiet, hard workers, noJohnnyandMabelnonsense,onthejobtotheminute,straighthomeaftertheiract,andeachof 'emasgentlemanlikeasa lady. Idon'texpect tohandleanyattractionsthatgivemelesstroubleormorerespectfortheprofession."Andnow,aftersomuchcrackingofanutshell,hereisthekernelofthestory:Attheendofitssecondseason"MiceWillPlay"camebacktoNewYorkforanother run at the roof gardens and summer theatres. There was never anytroubleinbookingitatthetop-notchprice.BobHarthadhisbungalownearlypaid for, and Cherry had somany savings-deposit bank books that she hadbeguntobuysectionalbookcasesontheinstalmentplantoholdthem.I tell you these things to assureyou, even ifyoucan't believe it, thatmany,verymanyof the stagepeopleareworkerswithabidingambitions—just thesameasthemanwhowantstobepresident,orthegroceryclerkwhowantsahomeinFlatbush,oraladywhoisanxioustoflopoutoftheCount-panintothePrince-fire.AndIhopeImaybeallowedtosay,withoutchippingintothecontributionbasket,thattheyoftenmoveinamysteriouswaytheirwonderstoperform.But,listen.At thefirstperformanceof"MiceWillPlay" inNewYorkat theWestphalia(nohamsalludedto)Theatre,WinonaCherrywasnervous.Whenshefiredatthe photograph of the Eastern beauty on the mantel, the bullet, instead ofpenetratingthephotoandthenstrikingthedisk,wentintothelowerleftside

ofBobHart'sneck.Notexpectingtogetitthere,Hartcollapsedneatly,whileCherryfaintedinamostartisticmanner.The audience, surmising that they viewed a comedy instead of a tragedy inwhich the principals were married or reconciled, applauded with greatenjoyment. The Cool Head, who always graces such occasions, rang thecurtaindown,andtwoplatoonsofsceneshiftersrespectivelyandmoreorlessrespectfully removedHart&Cherry from the stage.Thenext turnwent on,andallwentasmerryasanalimonybell.Thestagehandsfoundayoungdoctoratthestageentrancewhowaswaitingfor a patientwith adecoctionofAm.B'ty roses.Thedoctor examinedHartcarefullyandlaughedheartily."No headlines for you, Old Sport," was his diagnosis. "If it had been twoinchestotheleftitwouldhaveunderminedthecarotidarteryasfarastheRedFront Drug Store in Flatbush and Back Again. As it is, you just get theproperty man to bind it up with a flounce torn from any one of the girls'Valenciennesandgohomeandget itdressedby theparlor-floorpractitioneron your block, and you'll be all right. Excuse me; I've got a serious caseoutsidetolookafter."Afterthat,BobHartlookedupandfeltbetter.AndthentowherehelaycameVincente, theTrampJuggler,great inhis line.Vincente,a solemnman fromBrattleboro,Vt.,namedSamGriggsathome,senttoysandmaplesugarhometotwosmalldaughtersfromeverytownheplayed.VincentehadmovedonthesamecircuitswithHart&Cherry,andwastheirperipateticfriend."Bob,"saidVincenteinhisseriousway,"I'mgladit'snoworse.Thelittleladyiswildaboutyou.""Who?"askedHart."Cherry," said the juggler. "Wedidn'tknowhowbadyouwerehurt;andwekeptheraway.It'stakingthemanagerandthreegirlstoholdher.""It was an accident, of course," said Hart. "Cherry's all right. She wasn'tfeeling in good trim or she couldn't have done it. There's no hard feelings.She'sstrictlybusiness.ThedoctorsaysI'llbeonthejobagaininthreedays.Don'tletherworry.""Man,"saidSamGriggsseverely,puckeringhisold,smooth,linedface,"areyouachessautomatonorahumanpincushion?Cherry'scryingherheartoutforyou—calling 'Bob,Bob,'everysecond,with themholdingherhandsandkeepingherfromcomingtoyou.""What'sthematterwithher?"askedHart,withwide-openeyes."Thesketch'llgoonagaininthreedays.I'mnothurtbad,thedoctorsays.Shewon'tloseouthalfaweek'ssalary.Iknowitwasanaccident.What'sthematterwithher?"

"Youseemtobeblind,orasortofafool,"saidVincente."Thegirllovesyouandisalmostmadaboutyourhurt.What'sthematterwithyou?Isshenothingtoyou?Iwishyoucouldhearhercallyou.""Lovesme?"askedBobHart,risingfromthestackofsceneryonwhichhelay."Cherrylovesme?Why,it'simpossible.""Iwishyoucouldseeherandhearher,"saidGriggs."But,man," saidBobHart, sitting up, "it's impossible. It's impossible, I tellyou.Ineverdreamedofsuchathing.""Nohumanbeing,"said theTrampJuggler,"couldmistake it.She'swildforloveofyou.Howhaveyoubeensoblind?""But,myGod,"saidBobHart,risingtohisfeet,"it'stoolate.It'stoolate,Itellyou,Sam;it'stoolate.Itcan'tbe.Youmustbewrong.It'simpossible.There'ssomemistake."She'scryingforyou,"saidtheTrampJuggler."Forloveofyoushe'sfightingthree,andcallingyournamesoloudtheydon'tdaretoraisethecurtain.Wakeup,man.""For loveofme?" saidBobHartwith staringeyes. "Don't I tell you it's toolate?It'stoolate,man.Why,CherryandIhavebeenmarriedtwoyears!"

IITHEGOLDTHATGLITTERED

Astorywithamoralappendedislikethebillofamosquito.Itboresyou,andtheninjectsastingingdrop to irritateyourconscience.Therefore letushavethemoralfirstandbedonewithit.Allisnotgoldthatglitters,butitisawisechildthatkeepsthestopperinhisbottleoftestingacid.WhereBroadwayskirtsthecornerofthesquarepresidedoverbyGeorgetheVeraciousistheLittleRialto.Herestandtheactorsofthatquarter,andthisistheir shibboleth: "'Nit,' says I toFrohman, 'you can't touchme for a kopecklessthantwo-fiftyper,'andoutIwalks."WestwardandsouthwardfromtheThespianglareareoneortwostreetswherea Spanish-American colony has huddled for a little tropical warmth in thenippingNorth.Thecentreof life in thisprecinct is"ElRefugio,"acaféandrestaurant that caters to the volatile exiles from the South. Up from Chili,Bolivia, Colombia, the rolling republics of Central America and the irefulislandsoftheWesternIndiesflitthecloakedandsombreroedseñores,whoarescatteredlikeburninglavabythepoliticaleruptionsoftheirseveralcountries.

Hither they come to lay counterplots, to bide their time, to solicit funds, toenlistfilibusterers,tosmuggleoutarmsandammunitions,toplaythegameatlongtaw.InElRefugio,theyfindtheatmosphereinwhichtheythrive.IntherestaurantofElRefugioareservedcompoundsdelightfultothepalateofthemanfromCapricornorCancer.Altruismmusthaltthestorythuslong.On,diner,wearyoftheculinarysubterfugesoftheGallicchef,hietheetoElRefugio!Thereonlywillyoufindafish—bluefish,shadorpompanofromtheGulf—bakedafter theSpanishmethod.Tomatoesgive it color, individualityandsoul;chilicoloradobestowsuponitzest,originalityandfervor;unknownherbs furnishpiquancyandmystery, and—but its crowningglorydeservesanewsentence.Aroundit,aboveit,beneathit,initsvicinity—butneverinit—hovers an ethereal aura, an effluvium so rarefied and delicate that only theSocietyforPsychicalResearchcouldnoteitsorigin.Donotsaythatgarlicisin the fish at El Refugio. It is not otherwise than as if the spirit of Garlic,flitting past, haswafted one kiss that lingers in the parsley-crowneddish ashauntingasthosekissesinlife,"byhopelessfancyfeignedonlipsthatareforothers." And then, when Conchito, the waiter, brings you a plate of brownfrijolesandacarafeofwinethathasneverstoodstillbetweenOportoandElRefugio—ah,Dios!OnedayaHamburg-AmericanlinerdepositeduponPierNo.55Gen.PerricoXimenesVillablanca Falcon, a passenger fromCartagena. TheGeneralwasbetweenaclaybankandabayincomplexion,hada42-inchwaistandstood5feet 4 with his Du Barry heels. He had themustache of a shooting-galleryproprietor, he wore the full dress of a Texas congressman and had theimportantaspectofanuninstructeddelegate.Gen. Falcon had enoughEnglish under his hat to enable him to inquire hisway to the street in which El Refugio stood. When he reached thatneighborhood he saw a sign before a respectable red-brick house that read,"Hotel Español." In the window was a card in Spanish, "Aqui se hablaEspañol."TheGeneralentered,sureofacongenialport.In the cozy office was Mrs. O'Brien, the proprietress. She had blond—oh,unimpeachablyblondhair.Fortherestshewasamiability,andranlargelytoinchesaround.Gen.Falconbrushedthefloorwithhisbroad-brimmedhat,andemittedaquantityofSpanish, thesyllablessounding likefirecrackersgentlypoppingtheirwaydownthestringofabunch."SpanishorDago?"askedMrs.O'Brien,pleasantly."IamaColombian,madam,"saidtheGeneral,proudly."IspeaktheSpanish.The advisement in yourwindow say theSpanishhe is spokenhere.How isthat?""Well,you'vebeenspeakingit,ain'tyou?"saidthemadam."I'msureIcan't."

AttheHotelEspañolGeneralFalconengagedroomsandestablishedhimself.Atduskhesaunteredoutuponthestreetstoviewthewondersofthisroaringcity of theNorth.Ashewalkedhe thought of thewonderful goldenhair ofMme.O'Brien."It ishere,"said theGeneral tohimself,nodoubt inhisownlanguage,"thatoneshallfindthemostbeautifulseñorasintheworld.IhavenotinmyColombiaviewedamongourbeautiesonesofair.Butno!Itisnotfor the General Falcon to think of beauty. It is my country that claimsmydevotion."AtthecornerofBroadwayandtheLittleRialtotheGeneralbecameinvolved.The street cars bewildered him, and the fender of one upset him against apushcartladenwithoranges.Acabdrivermissedhimaninchwithahub,andpouredbarbarousexecrationsuponhishead.Hescrambledtothesidewalkandskipped again in terror when the whistle of a peanut-roaster puffed a hotscreaminhisear."VálgameDios!Whatdevil'scityisthis?"AstheGeneralflutteredoutofthestreamersofpasserslikeawoundedsnipehe was marked simultaneously as game by two hunters. One was "Bully"McGuire, whose system of sport required the use of a strong arm and themisuseof an eight-inchpieceof leadpipe.TheotherNimrodof the asphaltwas"Spider"Kelley,asportsmanwithmorerefinedmethods.Inpouncingupontheirself-evidentprey,Mr.Kelleywasashadethequicker.HiselbowfendedaccuratelytheonslaughtofMr.McGuire."G'wan!"hecommandedharshly."Isawitfirst."McGuireslunkaway,awedbysuperiorintelligence."Pardonme," saidMr.Kelley, to theGeneral, "but yougot balledup in theshuffle, didn't you?Letme assist you."He picked up theGeneral's hat andbrushedthedustfromit.ThewaysofMr.Kelleycouldnotbutsucceed.TheGeneral,bewilderedanddismayedbytheresoundingstreets,welcomedhisdelivererasacaballerowithamostdisinterestedheart."Ihaveadesire,"saidtheGeneral,"toreturntothehotelofO'Brien,inwhichI am stop. Caramba! señor, there is a loudness and rapidness of going andcominginthecityofthisNuevaYork."Mr.Kelley'spolitenesswouldnotsufferthedistinguishedColombiantobravethe dangers of the return unaccompanied.At the door of theHotel Españoltheypaused.Alittle lowerdownon theoppositesideof thestreetshone themodestilluminatedsignofElRefugio.Mr.Kelley,towhomfewstreetswereunfamiliar, knew the place exteriorly as a "Dago joint." All foreigners Mr.Kelleyclassedunderthetwoheadsof"Dagoes"andFrenchmen.HeproposedtotheGeneralthattheyrepairthitherandsubstantiatetheiracquaintancewithaliquidfoundation.

Anhour later foundGeneral Falcon andMr.Kelley seated at a table in theconspirator'scornerofElRefugio.Bottlesandglasseswerebetweenthem.Forthe tenth time theGeneral confided the secret of hismission to theEstadosUnidos. He was here, he declared, to purchase arms—2,000 stands ofWinchester rifles—for the Colombian revolutionists. He had drafts in hispocket drawn by the Cartagena Bank on its New York correspondent for$25,000. At other tables other revolutionists were shouting their politicalsecrets to their fellow-plotters; but none was as loud as the General. Hepoundedthetable;hehallooedforsomewine;heroaredtohisfriendthathiserrandwasa secretone, andnot tobehintedat toa living soul.Mr.Kelleyhimselfwasstirredtosympatheticenthusiasm.HegraspedtheGeneral'shandacrossthetable."Monseer,"hesaid,earnestly,"Idon'tknowwherethiscountryofyoursis,butI'm for it. I guess itmust be a branch of theUnited States, though, for thepoetry guys and the schoolmarms call us Columbia, too, sometimes. It's aluckythingforyouthatyoubuttedintometo-night.I'mtheonlymaninNewYorkthatcangetthisgundealthroughforyou.TheSecretaryofWaroftheUnitedStatesismebestfriend.He'sinthecitynow,andI'llseehimforyouto-morrow. In the meantime, monseer, you keep them drafts tight in yourinsidepocket. I'llcall foryouto-morrow,and takeyou toseehim.Say! thatain't the District of Columbia you're talking about, is it?" concluded Mr.Kelley,withasuddenqualm."Youcan'tcapturethatwithno2,000guns—it'sbeentriedwithmore.""No,no,no!"exclaimedtheGeneral."ItistheRepublicofColombia—itisag-r-reatrepubliconthetopsideofAmericaoftheSouth.Yes.Yes.""Allright,"saidMr.Kelley,reassured."Nowsupposewetrekalonghomeandgoby-by.I'llwrite to theSecretaryto-nightandmakeadatewithhim.It'saticklishjobtogetgunsoutofNewYork.McCluskyhimselfcan'tdoit."Theypartedat thedoorof theHotelEspañol.TheGeneralrolledhiseyesatthemoonandsighed."Itisagreatcountry,yourNuevaYork,"hesaid."Trulythecarsinthestreetsdevastateone,and theengine thatcooks thenuts terriblymakesasqueak intheear.But,ah,SeñorKelley—theseñoraswithhairofmuchgoldness,andadmirablefatness—theyaremagnificas!Muymagnificas!"KelleywenttothenearesttelephoneboothandcalledupMcCrary'scafé,faruponBroadway.HeaskedforJimmyDunn."IsthatJimmyDunn?"askedKelley."Yes,"cametheanswer."You'realiar,"sangbackKelley,joyfully."You'retheSecretaryofWar.Wait

theretillIcomeup.I'vegotthefinestthingdownhereinthewayofafishyoueverbaited for. It's aColorado-maduro,with agoldbandaround it and freecouponsenoughtobuyaredhalllampandastatuetteofPsycherubberinginthebrook.I'llbeuponthenextcar."JimmyDunnwasanA.M.ofCrookdom.Hewasanartistintheconfidenceline.Heneversawabludgeoninhislife;andhescornedknockoutdrops.Infact, hewould have set nothing before an intended victim but the purest ofdrinks,ifithadbeenpossibletoprocuresuchathinginNewYork.Itwastheambitionof"Spider"KelleytoelevatehimselfintoJimmy'sclass.These two gentlemen held a conference that night at McCrary's. Kelleyexplained."He'saseasyasagumshoe.He'sfromtheIslandofColombia,wherethere'sastrike,orafeud,orsomethinggoingon,andthey'vesenthimupheretobuy2,000Winchesters to arbitrate the thingwith.He showedme two drafts for$10,000each,andonefor$5,000onabankhere. 'S truth,Jimmy,Ifelt realmadwithhimbecausehedidn'thaveitinthousand-dollarbills,andhandittomeonasilverwaiter.Now,we'vegottowaittillhegoestothebankandgetsthemoneyforus."Theytalkeditoverfortwohours,andthenDunnsaid;"BringhimtoNo.––––Broadway,atfouro'clockto-morrowafternoon."InduetimeKelleycalledattheHotelEspañolfortheGeneral.HefoundthewilywarriorengagedindelectableconversationwithMrs.O'Brien."TheSecretaryofWariswaitin'forus,"saidKelley.TheGeneraltorehimselfawaywithaneffort."Ay,señor,"hesaid,withasigh,"dutymakesacall.But,señor,theseñorasofyour Estados Unidos—how beauties! For exemplification, take you laMadameO'Brien—quemagnifica!Sheisonegoddess—oneJuno—whatyoucalloneox-eyedJuno."NowMr.Kelleywasawit;andbettermenhavebeenshriveledbythefireoftheirownimagination."Sure!"hesaidwithagrin;"butyoumeanaperoxideJuno,don'tyou?"Mrs.O'Brienheard,andliftedanauriferoushead.HerbusinesslikeeyerestedforaninstantuponthedisappearingformofMr.Kelley.Exceptinstreetcarsoneshouldneverbeunnecessarilyrudetoalady.WhenthegallantColombianandhisescortarrivedat theBroadwayaddress,theywereheldinananteroomforhalfanhour,andthenadmittedintoawell-equippedofficewhereadistinguishedlookingman,withasmoothface,wroteatadesk.GeneralFalconwaspresentedtotheSecretaryofWaroftheUnited

States,andhismissionmadeknownbyhisoldfriend,Mr.Kelley."Ah—Colombia!" said the Secretary, significantly, when he was made tounderstand; "I'm afraid there will be a little difficulty in that case. ThePresident and I differ in our sympathies there. He prefers the establishedgovernment, while I—" the secretary gave the General a mysterious butencouraging smile. "You, of course, know, General Falcon, that since theTammanywar,anactofCongresshasbeenpassedrequiringallmanufacturedarms and ammunition exported from this country to pass through the WarDepartment.Now,ifIcandoanythingforyouIwillbegladtodosotoobligemyoldfriend,Mr.Kelley.Butitmustbeinabsolutesecrecy,asthePresident,asIhavesaid,doesnotregardfavorablytheeffortsofyourrevolutionarypartyinColombia.Iwillhavemyorderlybringalistoftheavailablearmsnowinthewarehouse."TheSecretarystruckabell,andanorderlywiththelettersA.D.T.onhiscapsteppedpromptlyintotheroom."BringmeScheduleBofthesmallarmsinventory,"saidtheSecretary.The orderly quickly returned with a printed paper. The Secretary studied itclosely."I find," he said, "that in Warehouse 9, of Government stores, there isshipmentof2,000standsofWinchesterriflesthatwereorderedbytheSultanofMorocco,whoforgottosendthecashwithhisorder.Ourruleisthatlegal-tendermoneymust be paid down at the time of purchase.My dearKelley,yourfriend,GeneralFalcon,shallhavethislotofarms,ifhedesiresit,atthemanufacturer's price. And you will forgive me, I am sure, if I curtail ourinterview. I am expecting the JapaneseMinister and CharlesMurphy everymoment!"As one result of this interview, the General was deeply grateful to hisesteemed friend, Mr. Kelley. As another, the nimble Secretary of War wasextremelybusyduringthenexttwodaysbuyingemptyriflecasesandfillingthem with bricks, which were then stored in a warehouse rented for thatpurpose. As still another, when the General returned to the Hotel Español,Mrs.O'Brienwentuptohim,pluckedathreadfromhislapel,andsaid:"Say, señor, I don'twant to 'butt in,' butwhat does thatmonkey-faced, cat-eyed,rubber-neckedtinhorntoughwantwithyou?""Sangredemivida!"exclaimedtheGeneral."Impossibleitisthatyouspeakofmygoodfriend,SeñorKelley.""Comeintothesummergarden,"saidMrs.O'Brien."Iwanttohaveatalkwithyou."Letussupposethatanhourhaselapsed.

"And you say," said the General, "that for the sum of $18,000 can bepurchased the furnishment of the house and the lease of one yearwith thisgardensolovely—soresemblinguntothepatiosofmycaraColombia?""Anddirtcheapatthat,"sighedthelady."Ah,Dios!"breathedGeneralFalcon."What tomeiswarandpolitics?Thisspot is one paradise.My country it have other brave heroes to continue thefighting.Whattomeshouldbegloryandtheshootingofmans?Ah!no.Itishere Ihave foundoneangel.Letusbuy theHotelEspañolandyoushallbemine,andthemoneyshallnotbewasteonguns."Mrs. O'Brien rested her blond pompadour against the shoulder of theColombianpatriot."Oh,señor,"shesighed,happily,"ain'tyouterrible!"Two days later was the time appointed for the delivery of the arms to theGeneral.Theboxesofsupposedrifleswerestackedintherentedwarehouse,andtheSecretaryofWarsatuponthem,waitingforhisfriendKelleytofetchthevictim.Mr.Kelleyhurried, at thehour, to theHotelEspañol.He found theGeneralbehindthedeskaddingupaccounts."I have decide," said the General, "to buy not guns. I have to-day buy theinsides of this hotel, and there shall be marrying of the General PerricoXimenesVillablancaFalconwithlaMadameO'Brien."Mr.Kelleyalmoststrangled."Say, you old bald-headed bottle of shoe polish," he spluttered, "you're aswindler—that'swhatyouare!You'vebought aboardinghousewithmoneybelongingtoyourinfernalcountry,whereveritis.""Ah," said theGeneral, footingupa column, "that iswhatyoucall politics.Warandrevolutiontheyarenotnice.Yes.ItisnotbestthatoneshallalwaysfollowMinerva.No. It is of quite desirable to keep hotels and bewith thatJuno—thatox-eyedJuno.Ah!whathairofthegolditisthatshehave!"Mr.Kelleychokedagain."Ah,SenorKelley!"saidtheGeneral,feelinglyandfinally,"isitthatyouhavenevereatenofthecornedbeefhashthatMadameO'Brienshemake?"

IIIBABESINTHEJUNGLE

MontagueSilver,thefineststreetmanandartgrafterintheWest,saystomeonceinLittleRock:"Ifyoueverloseyourmind,Billy,andgettoooldtodohonestswindlingamonggrownmen,gotoNewYork.IntheWestasuckerisborneveryminute;butinNewYorktheyappearinchunksofroe—youcan'tcount'em!"Two years afterward I found that I couldn't remember the names of theRussianadmirals,andInoticedsomegrayhairsovermy leftear;soIknewthetimehadarrivedformetotakeSilver'sadvice.IstruckNewYorkaboutnoononeday,andtookawalkupBroadway.AndIrun against Silver himself, all encompassed up in a spacious kind ofhaberdashery,leaningagainstahotelandrubbingthehalf-moonsonhisnailswithasilkhandkerchief."Paresisorsuperannuated?"Iaskshim."Hello,Billy,"saysSilver;"I'mgladtoseeyou.Yes,itseemedtomethattheWestwasaccumulatingalittletoomuchwiseness.I'vebeensavingNewYorkfordessert.Iknowit'salow-downtricktotakethingsfromthesepeople.Theyonlyknowthisandthatandpasstoandfroandthinkeverandanon.I'dhateformymothertoknowIwasskinningtheseweak-mindedones.Sheraisedmebetter.""Isthereacrushalreadyinthewaitingroomsoftheolddoctorthatdoesskingrafting?"Iasks."Well,no,"saysSilver;"youneedn'tbackEpidermistowinto-day.I'veonlybeen here a month. But I'm ready to begin; and the members of WillieManhattan'sSundaySchoolclass,eachofwhomhasvolunteeredtocontributeaportionofcuticletowardthisrehabilitation,mayaswellsendtheirphotostotheEveningDaily."I'vebeenstudyingthetown,"saysSilver,"andreadingthepaperseveryday,andIknowitaswellasthecatintheCityHallknowsanO'Sullivan.Peoplehereliedownonthefloorandscreamandkickwhenyouaretheleastbitslowabout takingmoneyfromthem.ComeupinmyroomandI'll tellyou.We'llworkthetowntogether,Billy,forthesakeofoldtimes."Silver takesme up in a hotel. He has a quantity of irrelevant objects lyingabout."There'smorewaysofgettingmoneyfromthesemetropolitanhayseeds,"saysSilver, "than there is of cooking rice in Charleston, S. C. They'll bite atanything. The brains of most of 'em commute. The wiser they are inintelligencethelessperceptionofcognizancetheyhave.Why,didn'tamantheotherdaysell J.P.MorgananoilportraitofRockefeller, Jr., forAndreadelSarto'scelebratedpaintingoftheyoungSaintJohn!

"Youseethatbundleofprintedstuffinthecorner,Billy?That'sgoldminingstock.Istartedoutonedaytosell that,butIquit it in twohours.Why?Gotarrestedforblockingthestreet.Peoplefoughttobuyit.Isoldthepolicemanablockofitonthewaytothestation-house,andthenItookitoffthemarket.Idon't want people to giveme their money. I want some little considerationconnectedwiththetransactiontokeepmypridefrombeinghurt.Iwant'emtoguessthemissingletterinChic—go,ordrawtoapairofninesbeforetheypaymeacentofmoney."Nowthere'sanotherlittleschemethatworkedsoeasyIhadtoquitit.Youseethat bottle of blue inkon the table? I tattooed an anchoron thebackofmyhandandwenttoabankandtold 'emIwasAdmiralDewey'snephew.Theyofferedtocashmydraftonhimforathousand,butIdidn'tknowmyuncle'sfirst name. It shows, though,what an easy town it is.As for burglars, theywon'tgo inahousenowunless there'sahotsupperreadyandafewcollegestudentstowaiton'em.They'resluggingcitizensallovertheupperpartofthecityandIguess, takingthetownfromendtoend,it'saplaincaseofassaultandBattery.""Monty," says I, when Silver had slacked, up, "you may have Manhattancorrectly discriminated in your perorative, but I doubt it. I've only been intown twohours,but itdon'tdawnuponme that it'sourswithacherry in it.There ain't enough rus in urbe about it to suitme. I'd be a good dealmuchbettersatisfiedifthecitizenshadastrawormoreintheirhair,andrunmoretovelveteenvestsandbuckeyewatchcharms.Theydon'tlookeasytome.""You'vegot it,Billy,"saysSilver."Allemigrantshave it.NewYork'sbiggerthanLittleRockorEurope,and it frightensa foreigner.You'llbeall right. ItellyouIfeellikeslappingthepeopleherebecausetheydon'tsendmealltheirmoneyinlaundrybaskets,withgermicidesprinkledoverit.Ihatetogodownonthestreettogetit.Whowearsthediamondsinthistown?Why,Winnie,theWiretapper'swife, andBella, theBuncosteerer's bride.NewYorkers can beworkedeasier thanablueroseona tidy.TheonlythingthatbothersmeisIknowI'llbreakthecigarsinmyvestpocketwhenIgetmyclothesallfulloftwenties.""I hope you are right,Monty," says I; "but I wish all the same I had beensatisfiedwithasmallbusinessinLittleRock.Thecropoffarmersisneversoshortouttherebutwhatyoucangetafewof'emtosignapetitionforanewpostofficethatyoucandiscountfor$200atthecountybank.Thepeoplehereappear topossess instinctsofself-preservationand illiberality. I fearme thatwearenotculturedenoughtotacklethisgame.""Don't worry," says Silver. "I've got this Jayville-near-Tarrytown correctlyestimated as sure asNorthRiver is theHudson andEastRiver ain't a river.Why,therearepeoplelivinginfourblocksofBroadwaywhoneversawany

kind of a building except a skyscraper in their lives! A good, live hustlingWesternmanoughttogetconspicuousenoughhereinsideofthreemonthstoincureitherJerome'sclemencyorLawson'sdispleasure.""Hyperboleaside,"saysI,"doyouknowofanyimmediatesystemofbuncoingthe community out of a dollar or two except by applying to the SalvationArmyorhavingafitonMissHelenGould'sdoorsteps?""Dozensof'em,"saysSilver."Howmuchcapitalhaveyougot,Billy?""Athousand,"Itoldhim."I'vegot$1,200,"sayshe."We'llpoolanddoabigpieceofbusiness.There'ssomanywayswecanmakeamillionthatIdon'tknowhowtobegin."The next morning Silver meets me at the hotel and he is all sonorous andstirredwithakindofsilentjoy."We're tomeet J.P.Morgan this afternoon," sayshe. "Aman Iknow in thehotel wants to introduce us. He's a friend of his. He says he likes to meetpeoplefromtheWest.""Thatsoundsniceandplausible,"saysI."I'dliketoknowMr.Morgan.""It won't hurt us a bit," says Silver, "to get acquainted with a few financekings.IkindoflikethesocialwayNewYorkhaswithstrangers."Theman Silver knewwas namedKlein.At three o'clockKlein brought hisWallStreetfriendtoseeusinSilver'sroom."Mr.Morgan"lookedsomelikehispictures,andhehadaTurkishtowelwrappedaroundhisleftfoot,andhewalkedwithacane."Mr.SilverandMr.Pescud,"saysKlein."Itsoundssuperfluous,"sayshe,"tomentionthenameofthegreatestfinancial—""Cutitout,Klein,"saysMr.Morgan."I'mgladtoknowyougents;Itakegreatinterest in theWest. Klein tells me you're from Little Rock. I think I've arailroadortwoouttheresomewhere.IfeitherofyouguyswouldliketodealahandortwoofstudpokerI—""Now,Pierpont,"cutsinKlein,"youforget!""Excuseme,gents!"saysMorgan;"sinceI'vehadthegoutsobadIsometimesplayasocialgameofcardsatmyhouse.NeitherofyouneverknewOne-eyedPeters,didyou,whileyouwasaroundLittleRock?HelivedinSeattle,NewMexico."Beforewecouldanswer,Mr.Morganhammersonthefloorwithhiscaneandbeginstowalkupanddown,swearinginaloudtoneofvoice."Theyhavebeenpoundingyourstocks to-dayon theStreet,Pierpont?"asksKlein,smiling.

"Stocks!No!"roarsMr.Morgan."It'sthatpictureIsentanagenttoEuropetobuy.Ijustthoughtaboutit.Hecabledmeto-daythatitain'ttobefoundinallItaly. I'd pay $50,000 to-morrow for that picture—yes, $75,000. I give theagentalacarteinpurchasingit.IcannotunderstandwhytheartgallerieswillallowaDeVinchyto—""Why,Mr.Morgan," saysklein; "I thoughtyouownedallof theDeVinchypaintings.""Whatisthepicturelike,Mr.Morgan?"asksSilver."ItmustbeasbigasthesideoftheFlatironBuilding.""I'mafraidyourarteducationisonthebum,Mr.Silver,"saysMorgan."Thepicture is27 inchesby42;and it iscalled 'Love's IdleHour.' It representsanumberofcloakmodelsdoingthetwo-steponthebankofapurpleriver.Thecablegramsaiditmighthavebeenbroughttothiscountry.Mycollectionwillneverbecompletewithoutthatpicture.Well,solong,gents;usfinanciersmustkeepearlyhours."Mr.Morgan and Klein went away together in a cab.Me and Silver talkedabouthowsimpleandunsuspectinggreatpeoplewas;andSilversaidwhatashameitwouldbetotrytorobamanlikeMr.Morgan;andIsaidIthoughtitwouldbe rather imprudent,myself.Kleinproposes a stroll after dinner; andmeandhimandSilverwalksdowntowardSeventhAvenuetoseethesights.Klein sees a pair of cuff links that instigate his admiration in a pawnshopwindow,andweallgoinwhilehebuys'em.Afterwegot back to thehotel andKleinhadgone,Silver jumps atme andwaveshishands."Didyouseeit?"sayshe."Didyouseeit,Billy?""What?"Iasks."Why, thatpicture thatMorganwants. It'shanging in thatpawnshop,behindthedesk.Ididn'tsayanythingbecauseKleinwasthere.It'sthearticlesureasyoulive.Thegirlsareasnaturalaspaintcanmakethem,allmeasuring36and25and42skirts,iftheyhadanyskirts,andthey'redoingabuck-and-wingonthebankofariverwiththeblues.WhatdidMr.Morgansayhe'dgiveforit?Oh,don'tmakemetellyou.Theycan'tknowwhatitisinthatpawnshop."When the pawnshop opened the next morning me and Silver was standingthereasanxiousasifwewantedtosoakourSundaysuit tobuyadrink.Wesaunteredinside,andbegantolookatwatch-chains."That'saviolentspecimenofachromoyou'vegotupthere,"remarkedSilver,casual, to the pawnbroker. "But I kind of enthuse over the girl with theshoulder-bladesandredbunting.Wouldanofferof$2.25for itcauseyoutoknockoveranyfragilearticlesofyourstockinhurryingitoffthenail?"

Thepawnbrokersmilesandgoesonshowingusplatewatch-chains."That picture," says he, "was pledged a year ago by an Italian gentleman. Iloanedhim$500onit.Itiscalled'Love'sIdleHour,'anditisbyLeonardodeVinchy.Twodaysago the legal timeexpired, and it becameanunredeemedpledge.Hereisastyleofchainthatiswornagreatdealnow."At the end of half an hourme and Silver paid the pawnbroker $2,000 andwalked out with the picture. Silver got into a cab with it and started forMorgan's office. I goes to the hotel andwaits for him. In two hours Silvercomesback."DidyouseeMr.Morgan?"Iasks."Howmuchdidhepayyouforit?"Silversitsdownandfoolswithatasselonthetablecover."I never exactly sawMr.Morgan," he says, "becauseMr.Morgan's been inEurope for amonth.Butwhat'sworryingme,Billy, is this:The departmentstores have all got that same picture on sale, framed, for $3.48. And theycharge$3.50fortheframealone—that'swhatIcan'tunderstand."

IVTHEDAYRESURGENT

I can see the artist bite the end of his pencil and frown when it comes todrawinghisEasterpicture; forhis legitimatepictorialconceptionsof figurespertinenttothefestivalarebutfourinnumber.First comes Easter, pagan goddess of spring.Here his fancymay have freeplay.Abeautifulmaidenwithdecorativehairand thepropernumberof toeswillfill thebill.MissClariceSt.Vavasour, thewell-knownmodel,willposeforitinthe"Lethergogallagher,"orwhateveritwasthatTrilbycalledit.Second—the melancholy lady with upturned eyes in a framework of lilies.Thisismagazine-covery,butreliable.Third—MissManhattanintheFifthAvenueEasterSundayparade.Fourth—MaggieMurphywithanewred feather inheroldstrawhat,happyandself-conscious,intheGrandStreetturnout.Of course, the rabbits do not count. Nor the Easter eggs, since the highercriticismhashard-boiledthem.The limited field of its pictorial possibilities proves that Easter, of all ourfestivaldays,isthemostvagueandshiftinginourconception.Itbelongstoallreligions,althoughthepagansinventedit.Goingbackstillfurthertothefirstspring,we can see Eve choosingwith pride a new green leaf from the tree

ficuscarica.Now,theobjectofthiscriticalandlearnedpreambleistosetforththetheoremthatEaster is neither a date, a season, a festival, a holidaynor an occasion.WhatitisyoushallfindoutifyoufollowinthefootstepsofDannyMcCree.Easter Sunday dawned as it should, bright and early, in its place on thecalendar betweenSaturday andMonday.At 5.24 the sun rose, and at 10.30Dannyfolloweditsexample.Hewentintothekitchenandwashedhisfaceatthe sink. His mother was frying bacon. She looked at his hard, smooth,knowingcountenanceashejuggledwiththeroundcakeofsoap,andthoughtofhisfatherwhenshefirstsawhimstoppingahotgrounderbetweensecondand third twenty-two years before on a vacant lot inHarlem,where the LaPaloma apartment house now stands. In the front room of the flat Danny'sfathersatbyanopenwindowsmokinghispipe,withhisdishevelledgrayhairtossedaboutby thebreeze.Hestillclung tohispipe,althoughhissighthadbeentakenfromhimtwoyearsbeforebyaprecociousblastofgiantpowderthatwentoffwithoutpermission.Very fewblindmencare for smoking, forthereasonthat theycannotsee thesmoke.Now,couldyouenjoyhaving thenewsreadtoyoufromaneveningnewspaperunlessyoucouldseethecolorsoftheheadlines?"'TisEasterDay,"saidMrs.McCree."Scramblemine,"saidDanny.After breakfast he dressed himself in the Sabbath morning costume of theCanal Street importing house dray chauffeur—frock coat, striped trousers,patentleathers,gildedtracechainacrossfrontofvest,andwingcollar,rolled-brim derby and butterfly bow from Schonstein's (between Fourteenth StreetandTony'sfruitstand)Saturdaynightsale."You'llbegoin'outthisday,ofcourse,Danny,"saidoldmanMcCree,alittlewistfully."'Tisakindofholiday,theysay.Well,it'sfinespringweather.Icanfeelitintheair.""Why should I not be going out?" demandedDanny in his grumpiest chesttones."ShouldIstayin?AmIasgoodasahorse?Onedayofrestmyteamhasaweek.Whoearns themoney for the rent and thebreakfastyou've justeat,I'dliketoknow?Answermethat!""All right, lad," said the oldman. "I'mnot complainin'.Whileme two eyeswas good therewas nothin' better tomymind than aSundayout.There's asmellofturfandburnin'brushcomin'inthewindy.Ihavemetobaccy.Agoodfinedayandristtoye,lad.TimesIwishyourmotherhadlarnedtoread,soImightheartherestaboutthehippopotamus—butletthatbe.""Now,whatisthisfoolishnesshetalksofhippopotamuses?"askedDannyof

hismother,ashepassed through thekitchen. "Haveyoubeen takinghim totheZoo?Andforwhat?""I have not," said Mrs. McCree. "He sets by the windy all day. 'Tis littlerecreationablindmanamongthepoorgetsatall.I'mthinkin'theywanderintheirmindsattimes.Onedayhetalksofgreasewithoutstoppin'forthemostofanhour.Ilookstoseeifthere'slardburnin'inthefryin'pan.Thereisnot.HesaysIdonotunderstand. 'Tiswearydays,Sundays,andholidaysandall,forablindman,Danny.Therewasnobetternorstronger thanhimwhenhehadhistwoeyes. 'Tisafineday,son.Injoyyeselfag'instthemorning.Therewillbecoldsupperatsix.""Have you heard any talk of a hippopotamus?" asked Danny of Mike, thejanitor,ashewentoutthedoordownstairs."I have not," said Mike, pulling his shirtsleeves higher. "But 'tis the onlysubject in the animal, natural and illegal lists of outrages that I've not beencomplainedtoaboutthesetwodays.Seethelandlord.Orelsemoveoutifyelike.Haveyehippopotamusesinthelease?No,then?""Itwas theoldmanwhospokeof it,"saidDanny."Likely there'snothinginit."DannywalkedupthestreettotheAvenueandthenstrucknorthwardintotheheart of the districtwhere Easter—modern Easter, in new, bright raiment—leadsthepascalmarch.Outoftoweringbrownchurchescametheblithemusicof anthems from the choirs. The broad sidewalksweremoving parterres oflivingflowers—soitseemedwhenyoureyelookedupontheEastergirl.Gentlemen,frock-coated,silk-hatted,gardeniaed,sustainedthebackgroundofthe tradition. Children carried lilies in their hands. The windows of thebrownstonemansionswerepackedwith themostopulentcreationsofFlora,thesisteroftheLadyoftheLilies.Around a corner, white-gloved, pink-gilled and tightly buttoned, walkedCorrigan,thecop,shieldtothecurb.Dannyknewhim."Why,Corrigan,"heasked,"isEaster? Iknowitcomes the first timeyou'refullafterthemoonrisesontheseventeenthofMarch—butwhy?Isitaproperandreligiousceremony,ordoestheGovernorappointitoutofpolitics?""'Tisanannualcelebration," saidCorrigan,with the judicialairof theThirdDeputyPoliceCommissioner,"peculiartoNewYork.ItextendsuptoHarlem.SometimestheyhasthereservesoutatOneHundredandTwenty-fifthStreet.Inmyopinion'tisnotpolitical.""Thanks," said Danny. "And say—did you ever hear a man complain ofhippopotamuses?Whennotspeciallyindrink,Imean.""Nothing larger than sea turtles," said Corrigan, reflecting, "and there was

woodalcoholinthat."Dannywandered.Thedouble,heavyincumbencyofenjoyingsimultaneouslyaSundayandafestivaldaywashis.Thesorrowsofthehand-toilerfithimeasily.Theyarewornsooftenthattheyhangwiththepicturesquelinesofthebesttailor-madegarments.Thatiswhywell-fedartistsofpencilandpenfindinthegriefsofthecommonpeopletheirmost striking models. But when the Philistine would disport himself, thegrimness ofMelpomene, herself, attends upon his capers. Therefore,DannysethisjawhardatEaster,andtookhispleasuresadly.The family entrance ofDugan's caféwas feasible; soDanny yielded to thevernalseasonas farasaglassofbock.Seated inadark, linoleumed,humidbackroom,hisheartandmindstillgropedafterthemysteriousmeaningofthespringtimejubilee."Say,Tim,"hesaidtothewaiter,"whydotheyhaveEaster?""Skiddoo!"saidTim,closingasophisticatedeye."Isthatanewone?Allright.TonyPastor'sforyoulastnight,Iguess.Igiveitup.What'stheanswer—twoapplesorayardandahalf?"FromDugan'sDanny turnedbackeastward.TheApril sun seemed to stir inhimavague feeling thathecouldnot construe.HemadeawrongdiagnosisanddecidedthatitwasKatyConlon.A block from her house on Avenue A he met her going to church. Theypumpedhandsonthecorner."Gee! but you look dumpish and dressed up," said Katy. "What's wrong?Comeawaywithmetochurchandbecheerful.""What'sdoingatchurch?"askedDanny."Why,it'sEasterSunday.Silly!Iwaitedtillafterelevenexpectin'youmightcomearoundtogo.""What does this Easter stand for, Katy," asked Danny gloomily. "Nobodyseemstoknow.""Nobodyasblindasyou,"saidKatywithspirit."Youhaven'tevenlookedatmynewhat.Andskirt.Why,it'swhenallthegirlsputonnewspringclothes.Silly!Areyoucomingtochurchwithme?""Iwill,"saidDanny."IfthisEasterispulledoffthere,theyoughttobeabletogive someexcuse for it.Not that thehat ain't a beauty.Thegreen roses aregreat."At church the preacher did some expounding with no pounding. He spokerapidly,forhewasinahurrytogethometohisearlySabbathdinner;butheknew his business. There was one word that controlled his theme—

resurrection.Not a new creation; but a new life arising out of the old. Thecongregation had heard it often before. But there was a wonderful hat, acombinationof sweetpeasand lavender, in thesixthpewfrom thepulpit. Itattractedmuchattention.AfterchurchDannylingeredonacornerwhileKatywaited,withpiqueinhersky-blueeyes."Areyoucomingalongtothehouse?"sheasked."Butdon'tmindme.I'llgetthereallright.Youseemtobestudyin'alotaboutsomething.Allright.WillIseeyouatanytimespecially,Mr.McCree?""I'llbearoundWednesdaynight asusual," saidDanny, turningandcrossingthestreet.Katywalkedawaywiththegreenrosesdanglingindignantly.Dannystoppedtwoblocksaway.Hestoodstillwithhishandsinhispockets,at thecurbonthecorner.His facewas thatofagraven image.Deep inhissoulsomethingstirred so small, so fine, so keen and leavening that his hard fibres did notrecognize it. It was somethingmore tender than theApril day,more subtlethanthecallofthesenses,pureranddeeper-rootedthantheloveofwoman—for had he not turned away from green roses and eyes that had kept himchainedforayear?AndDannydidnotknowwhatitwas.Thepreacher,whowasinahurrytogotohisdinner,hadtoldhim,butDannyhadhadnolibrettowithwhichtofollowthedrowsyintonation.Butthepreacherspokethetruth.SuddenlyDannyslappedhislegandgaveforthahoarseyellofdelight."Hippopotamus!"heshoutedtoanelevatedroadpillar."Well,howisthatforabumguess?Why,blastmyskylights!Iknowwhathewasdrivingatnow."Hippopotamus!Wouldn'tthatsendyoutotheBronx!It'sbeenayearsinceheheardit;andhedidn'tmissitsoveryfar.Wequitat469B.C.,andthiscomesnext.Well,awoodenmanwouldn'thaveguessedwhathewastryingtogetoutofhim."Danny caught a crosstown car and went up to the rear flat that his laborsupported.OldmanMcCreewasstillsittingbythewindow.Hisextinctpipelayonthesill."Willthatbeyou,lad?"heasked.Danny flared into the rageofa strongmanwho is surprisedat theoutsetofcommittingagooddeed."Whopaystherentandbuysthefoodthatiseateninthishouse?"hesnapped,viciously."HaveInorighttocomein?""Ye'reafaithfullad,"saidoldmanMcCree,withasigh."Isiteveningyet?"

Dannyreacheduponashelfandtookdownathickbooklabeledingiltletters,"TheHistoryofGreece."Dustwasonithalfaninchthick.Helaiditonthetableandfoundaplacein itmarkedbyastripofpaper.Andthenhegaveashortroaratthetopofhisvoice,andsaid:"Wasitthehippopotamusyouwantedtobereadtoaboutthen?""DidIhearyeopenthebook?"saidoldmanMcCree."Manyandwearybethemonthssincemy ladhas read it tome. Idinno;but I tookagreat likings tothemGreeks.Yeleftoffataplace.'Tisafinedayoutside,lad.Beoutandtakerest from yourwork. I have gotten used tome chair by thewindy andmepipe.""Pel-Peloponnesuswas the placewherewe left off, and not hippopotamus,"saidDanny. "Thewar began there. It kept something doing for thirty years.TheheadlinessaysthataguynamedPhilipofMacedon,in338B.C.,gottobebossofGreecebygettingthedecisionatthebattleofCher-Cheronoea.I'llreadit."Withhishandtohisear,raptinthePeloponnesianWar,oldmanMcCreesatforanhour,listening.Thenhegotupandfelthiswaytothedoorofthekitchen.Mrs.McCreewasslicingcoldmeat.Shelookedup.TearswererunningfromoldmanMcCree'seyes."Doyouhearourladreadin'tome?"hesaid."Thereisnonefinerintheland.Mytwoeyeshavecomebacktomeagain."AftersupperhesaidtoDanny:"'Tisahappyday,thisEaster.AndnowyewillbeofftoseeKatyintheevening.Wellenough.""Whopaystherentandbuysthefoodthatiseateninthishouse?"saidDanny,angrily. "Have Ino right to stay in it?After supper there isyet to come thereadingof the battle ofCorinth, 146B.C.,when the kingdom, as they say,became an in-integral portion of the Roman Empire. Am I nothing in thishouse?"

VTHEFIFTHWHEEL

TheranksoftheBedLinemovedclosertogether;foritwascold.Theywerealluvialdepositof thestreamof life lodged in thedeltaofFifthAvenueandBroadway.TheBedLiners stamped their freezing feet, looked at the emptybenchesinMadisonSquarewhenceJackFrosthadevictedthem,andmutteredto one another in a confusion of tongues. The Flatiron Building, with its

impious, cloud-piercing architecture looming mistily above them on theopposite delta,mightwell have stood for the tower ofBabel,whence thesepolyglotidlershadbeencalledbythewingedwalkingdelegateoftheLord.Standing on a pine box a head higher than his flock of goats, the Preacherexhortedwhatevertransientandshiftingaudiencethenorthwinddoledouttohim.Itwasaslavemarket.Fifteencentsboughtyouaman.YoudeededhimtoMorpheus;andtherecordingangelgaveyoucredit.Thepreacherwas incrediblyearnestandunwearied.Hehad lookedover thelistofthingsonemaydoforone'sfellowman,andhadassumedforhimselfthetaskofputtingtobedallwhomightapplyathissoapboxonthenightsofWednesdayandSunday.That leftbut fivenights forotherphilanthropists tohandle; and had they done their part as well, this wicked city might havebecome a vast Arcadian dormitory where all might snooze and snore thehappyhoursaway,lettingproblemplaysandtherentmanandbusinessgotothedeuce.Thehourofeightwasbutalittlewhilepast;sightseersinasmall,darkmassofpayoreweregatheredin theshadowofGeneralWorth'smonument.Nowandthen,shyly,ostentatiously,carelessly,orwithconscientiousexactnessonewouldstepforwardandbestowuponthePreachersmallbillsorsilver.Thenalieutenant ofScandinavian coloring and enthusiasmwouldmarch away to alodging house with a squad of the redeemed. All the while the Preacherexhorted thecrowd in termsbeautifullydevoidofeloquence—splendidwiththedeadly,accusativemonotonyoftruth.BeforethepictureoftheBedLinersfades youmust hear one phrase of the Preacher's—the one that formed histhemethatnight.Itisworthyofbeingstenciledonallthewhiteribbonsintheworld."Nomaneverlearnedtobeadrunkardonfive-centwhisky."Thinkofit,tippler.ItcoversthegroundfromthesproutingryetothePotter'sField.Aclean-profiled,erectyoungmanintherearrankofthebedlessemulatedtheterrapin,drawinghisheadfardowninto theshellofhiscoatcollar. Itwasawell-cut tweed coat; and the trousers still showed signs of having flattenedthemselvesbeneath the compellinggoose.But, conscientiously, Imustwarnthemilliner's apprenticewho reads this, expectingaReginaldMontressor instraits, to peruse no further. The young man was no other than ThomasMcQuade, ex-coachman, discharged for drunkenness onemonth before, andnowreducedtothegrimyranksoftheone-nightbedseekers.If you live in smaller New York you must know the Van Smuythe familycarriage,drawnby the two1,500-pound,100 to1-shotbays.Thecarriage isshaped like a bath-tub. In each end of it reclines an old ladyVan Smuythe

holdingablacksunshadethesizeofaNewYear'sEvefeathertickler.BeforehisdownfallThomasMcQuadedrovetheVanSmuythebaysandwashimselfdriven byAnnie, theVanSmuythe lady'smaid.But it is one of the saddestthingsaboutromancethatatightshoeoranemptycommissaryoranachingtoothwillmake a temporary heretic of anyCupid-worshiper.AndThomas'sphysical troubles were not few. Therefore, his soul was less vexed withthoughtsofhislostlady'smaidthanitwasbythefanciedpresenceofcertainnon-existentthingsthathisrackednervesalmostconvincedhimwereflying,dancing, crawling, and wriggling on the asphalt and in the air above andaroundthedismalcampusoftheBedLinearmy.Nearlyfourweeksofstraightwhiskyandadietlimitedtocrackers,bologna,andpicklesoftenguaranteesapsycho-zoologicalsequel.Thusdesperate,freezing,angry,besetbyphantomsashewas,hefelttheneedofhumansympathyandintercourse.TheBedLinerstandingathis rightwasayoungmanofabouthisownage,shabbybutneat."What's the diagnosis of your case, Freddy?" asked Thomas, with thefreemasonicfamiliarityofthedamned—"Booze?That'smine.Youdon'tlooklikeapanhandler.NeitheramI.AmonthagoIwaspushingthelinesoverthebacksofthefinestteamofPercheronbuffaloesthatevermadetheirmiledownFifthAvenuein2.85.Andlookatmenow!Say;howdoyoucometobeatthisbedbargain-counterrummagesale."The other young man seemed to welcome the advances of the airy ex-coachman."No,"saidhe,"mineisn'texactlyacaseofdrink.UnlessweallowthatCupidisabartender.Imarriedunwisely,accordingtotheopinionofmyunforgivingrelatives.I'vebeenoutofworkforayearbecauseIdon'tknowhowtowork;andI'vebeensickinBellevueandotherhospitalsformonths.Mywifeandkidhadtogobacktohermother.Iwasturnedoutofthehospitalyesterday.AndIhaven'tacent.That'smytaleofwoe.""Toughluck,"saidThomas."Amanalonecanpullthroughallright.ButIhatetoseethewomenandkidsgettheworstofit."Just then therehummedupFifthAvenueamotorcarsosplendid, so red,sosmoothly running, so craftily demolishing the speed regulations that it drewtheattentionevenofthelistlessBedLiners.Suspendedandpinionedonitsleftsidewasanextratire.When opposite the unfortunate company the fastenings of this tire becameloosed. It fell to the asphalt, bounded and rolled rapidly in thewake of theflyingcar.ThomasMcQuade,scentinganopportunity,dartedfromhisplaceamongthePreacher'sgoats.Inthirtysecondshehadcaughttherollingtire,swungitover

his shoulder, and was trotting smartly after the car. On both sides of theavenue people were shouting, whistling, and waving canes at the red car,pointingtotheenterprisingThomascomingupwiththelosttire.Onedollar,Thomashadestimated,wasthesmallestguerdonthatsograndanautomobilistcouldofferfortheservicehehadrendered,andsavehispride.Two blocks away the car had stopped. There was a little, brown, muffledchauffeurdriving,andanimposinggentlemanwearingamagnificentsealskincoatandasilkhatonarearseat.Thomasproffered thecaptured tirewithhisbestex-coachmanmannerandalookinthebrighterofhisreddenedeyesthatwasmeanttobesuggestivetotheextentofasilvercoinortwoandreceptiveuptohigherdenominations.But the lookwas not so construed. The sealskinned gentleman received thetire,placeditinsidethecar,gazedintentlyattheex-coachman,andmutteredtohimselfinscrutablewords."Strange—strange!"saidhe."OnceortwiceevenI,myself,havefanciedthattheChaldeanChiroscopehasavailed.Coulditbepossible?"ThenheaddressedlessmysteriouswordstothewaitingandhopefulThomas."Sir, I thankyou foryourkind rescueofmy tire.And Iwouldaskyou, if Imay, a question. Do you know the family of Van Smuythes living inWashingtonSquareNorth?""Oughtn'tIto?"repliedThomas."Ilivedthere.WishIdidyet."Thesealskinnedgentlemanopenedadoorofthecar."Stepinplease,"hesaid."Youhavebeenexpected."ThomasMcQuade obeyed with surprise but without hesitation. A seat in amotorcarseemedbetterthanstandingroomintheBedLine.Butafterthelap-robe had been tucked about him and the auto had sped on its course, thepeculiarityoftheinvitationlingeredinhismind."Maybetheguyhasn'tgotanychange,"washisdiagnosis."Lotsoftheseswellroundersdon'tlugaboutanyreadymoney.Guesshe'lldumpmeoutwhenhegetstosomejointwherehecangetcashonhismug.Anyhow,it'sacinchthatI'vegotthatopen-airbedconventionbeattoafinish."Submerged inhisgreatcoat, themysteriousautomobilist seemed,himself, tomarvelatthesurprisesoflife."Wonderful!amazing!strange!"herepeatedtohimselfconstantly.When thecarhadwell entered thecrosstownSeventies it swungeastwardahalfblockandstoppedbeforearowofhigh-stooped,brownstone-fronthouses."Bekindenoughtoentermyhousewithme,"saidthesealskinnedgentleman

when they had alighted. "He's going to dig up, sure," reflected Thomas,followinghiminside.Therewasadimlightinthehall.Hishostconductedhimthroughadoortotheleft, closing it after him and leaving them in absolute darkness. Suddenly aluminousglobe,strangelydecorated,shonefaintlyinthecentreofanimmenseroomthatseemedtoThomasmoresplendidlyappointedthananyhehadeverseenonthestageorreadofinfairytales.Thewallswerehiddenbygorgeousredhangingsembroideredwithfantasticgold figures.At the rearendof the roomweredrapedportièresofdullgoldspangledwithsilvercrescentsandstars.Thefurniturewasofthecostliestandrarest styles. The ex-coachman's feet sank into rugs as fleecy and deep assnowdrifts. Therewere three or four oddly shaped stands or tables coveredwithblackvelvetdrapery.ThomasMcQuade took in the splendors of this palatial apartmentwith oneeye.Withtheotherhelookedforhisimposingconductor—tofindthathehaddisappeared."B'gee!"mutteredThomas,"thislistenslikeaspookshop.Shouldn'twonderifitain'toneoftheseMoravianNights'adventuresthatyoureadabout.Wonderwhatbecameofthefurryguy."Suddenly a stuffed owl that stood on an ebony perch near the illuminatedglobe slowly raised hiswings and emitted from his eyes a brilliant electricglow.With a fright-born imprecation, Thomas seized a bronze statuette of Hebefroma cabinet near by andhurled itwith all hismight at the terrifying andimpossible fowl. The owl and his perch went over with a crash. With thesound therewas a click, and the roomwas floodedwith light fromadozenfrosted globes along the walls and ceiling. The gold portières parted andclosed, and the mysterious automobilist entered the room. He was tall andwore evening dress of perfect cut and accurate taste. A Vandyke beard ofglossy,goldenbrown,ratherlongandwavyhair,smoothlyparted,andlarge,magnetic, orientally occult eyes gave him a most impressive and strikingappearance. If you can conceive aRussianGrandDuke in aRajah's throne-roomadvancingtogreetavisitingEmperor,youwillgathersomethingofthemajesty of his manner. But ThomasMcQuade was too near his d t's to bemindful of his p's and q's. When he viewed this silken, polished, andsomewhatterrifyinghosthethoughtvaguelyofdentists."Say, doc," said he resentfully, "that's a hot bird you keep on tap. I hope Ididn'tbreakanything.ButI'venearlygotthewilliwalloos,andwhenhethrewthem32-candle-powerlampsofhisonme,Itookasnap-shotathimwiththatlittlebrassFlatironGirlthatstoodonthesideboard."

"Thatismerelyamechanicaltoy,"saidthegentlemanwithawaveofhishand."MayIaskyoutobeseatedwhileIexplainwhyIbroughtyoutomyhouse.Perhapsyouwouldnotunderstandnorbeinsympathywiththepsychologicalprompting that causedme to do so. So Iwill come to the point at once byventuringtorefertoyouradmissionthatyouknowtheVanSmuythefamily,ofWashingtonSquareNorth.""Anysilvermissing?"askedThomastartly."Anyjoolrydisplaced?OfcourseIknow 'em.Anyof the old ladies' sunshades disappeared?Well, I know 'em.Andthenwhat?"TheGrandDukerubbedhiswhitehandstogethersoftly."Wonderful!" he murmured. "Wonderful! Shall I come to believe in theChaldeanChiroscopemyself?Letmeassureyou,"hecontinued,"thatthereisnothing for you to fear. Instead, I think I can promise you that very goodfortuneawaitsyou.Wewillsee.""Do they want me back?" asked Thomas, with something of his oldprofessionalpride inhisvoice. "I'llpromise tocutout theboozeanddo theright thingif they'll trymeagain.Buthowdidyougetwise,doc?B'gee, it'stheswellestemploymentagencyIwaseverin,withitsflashlightowlsandsoforth."With an indulgent smile the gracious host begged to be excused for twominutes.Hewentouttothesidewalkandgaveanordertothechauffeur,whostillwaitedwiththecar.Returningtothemysteriousapartment,hesatbyhisguestandbegantoentertainhimsowellbyhiswittyandgenialconversethatthepoorBedLineralmostforgotthecoldstreetsfromwhichhehadbeensorecentlyandsosingularly rescued.Aservantbroughtsome tendercold fowlandteabiscuitsandaglassofmiraculouswine;andThomasfelttheglamourofArabiaenvelophim.Thushalfanhourspedquickly;andthenthehonkofthereturnedmotorcaratthedoorsuddenlydrewtheGrandDuketohisfeet,withanothersoftpetitionforabriefabsence.Twowomen,wellmuffled against the cold,were admitted at the front doorand suavely conducted by the master of the house down the hall throughanother door to the left and into a smaller room, which was screened andsegregated from the larger front room by heavy, double portières. Here thefurnishingswereevenmoreelegantandexquisitelytastefulthanintheother.On a gold-inlaid rosewood tablewere scattered sheets ofwhite paper and aqueer, triangular instrument or toy, apparently of gold, standing on littlewheels.Thetallerwomanthrewbackherblackveilandloosenedhercloak.Shewasfifty,withawrinkledandsadface.Theother,youngandplump,tookachairalittle distance away and to the rear as a servant or an attendantmight have

done."You sent forme,ProfessorCherubusco," said the elderwoman,wearily. "Ihopeyouhavesomethingmoredefinite thanusual tosay. I'veabout lost thelittle faith I had in your art. I would not have responded to your call thiseveningifmysisterhadnotinsisteduponit.""Madam," said theprofessor,withhisprinceliest smile, "the trueArt cannotfail.Tofindthetruepsychicandpotentialbranchsometimesrequirestime.Wehavenot succeeded, I admit,with thecards, thecrystal, the stars, themagicformulæofZarazin,northeOracleofPo.Butwehaveatlastdiscoveredthetrue psychic route. The Chaldean Chiroscope has been successful in oursearch."Theprofessor'svoicehadaringthatseemedtoproclaimhisbeliefinhisownwords.Theelderlyladylookedathimwithalittlemoreinterest."Why,therewasnosenseinthosewordsthatitwrotewithmyhandsonit,"shesaid."Whatdoyoumean?""The words were these," said Professor Cherubusco, rising to his fullmagnificentheight:"'Bythefifthwheelofthechariotheshallcome.'""Ihaven'tseenmanychariots,"said the lady,"butIneversawonewithfivewheels.""Progress," said the professor—"progress in science and mechanics hasaccomplishedit—though,tobeexact,wemayspeakofitonlyasanextratire.Progress in occult art has advanced in proportion.Madam, I repeat that theChaldeanChiroscopehassucceeded. Icannotonlyanswer thequestion thatyouhavepropounded,butIcanproducebeforeyoureyestheproofthereof."Andnowtheladywasdisturbedbothinherdisbeliefandinherpoise."Oprofessor!"shecriedanxiously—"When?—where?Hashebeenfound?Donotkeepmeinsuspense.""Ibegyouwillexcusemeforaveryfewminutes,"saidProfessorCherubusco,"andIthinkIcandemonstratetoyoutheefficacyofthetrueArt."Thomas was contentedly munching the last crumbs of the bread and fowlwhentheenchanterappearedsuddenlyathisside."Areyouwillingtoreturntoyouroldhomeifyouareassuredofawelcomeandrestorationtofavor?"heasked,withhiscourteous,royalsmile."Do I look bughouse?" answeredThomas. "Enough of the footback life forme.Butwilltheyhavemeagain?Theoldladyisasfixedinherwaysasanutonanewaxle.""My dear young man," said the other, "she has been searching for youeverywhere."

"Great!" said Thomas. "I'm on the job. That team of dropsical dromedariestheycallhorses is ahandicap for a first-class coachman likemyself;but I'lltakethejobback,sure,doc.They'regoodpeopletobewith."Andnowachangecameo'erthesuavecountenanceoftheCaliphofBagdad.Helookedkeenlyandsuspiciouslyattheex-coachman."MayIaskwhatyournameis?"hesaidshortly."You've been looking for me," said Thomas, "and don't know my name?You're a funny kind of sleuth. You must be one of the Central Officegumshoers. I'mThomasMcQuade,ofcourse;and I'vebeenchauffeurof theVanSmuytheelephantteamforayear.Theyfiredmeamonthagofor—well,doc,yousawwhatIdidtoyouroldowl.Iwentbrokeonbooze,andwhenIsawthetiredropoffyourwhizwagonIwasstandinginthatsquadofhoboesat theWorthmonumentwaitingforafreebed.Now,what's theprizefor thebestanswertoallthis?"Tohis intensesurpriseThomas felthimself liftedby thecollaranddragged,withoutawordofexplanation,tothefrontdoor.Thiswasopened,andhewaskicked forcibly down the stepswith one heavy, disillusionizing, humiliatingimpactofthestupendousArabian'sshoe.Assoonastheex-coachmanhadrecoveredhisfeetandhiswitshehastenedasfastashecouldeastwardtowardBroadway."Crazyguy,"washisestimateofthemysteriousautomobilist."Justwantedtohavesomefunkiddin',Iguess.Hemighthavedugupadollar,anyhow.NowI'vegottohurryupandgetbacktothatgangofbumbedhuntersbeforetheyallgetpreachedtosleep."WhenThomasreachedtheendofhistwo-milewalkhefoundtheranksofthehomelessreducedtoasquadofperhapseightorten.Hetooktheproperplaceofanewcomerattheleftendoftherearrank.Inafileinfrontofhimwastheyoungmanwhohadspokentohimofhospitalsandsomethingofawifeandchild."Sorrytoseeyoubackagain,"saidtheyoungman,turningtospeaktohim."Ihopedyouhadstrucksomethingbetterthanthis.""Me?"saidThomas."Oh,Ijusttookarunaroundtheblocktokeepwarm!Iseethepublicain'tlendingtotheLordveryfastto-night.""In this kind of weather," said the young man, "charity avails itself of theproverb,andbothbeginsandendsathome."AndthePreacherandhisvehementlieutenantstruckupalasthymnofpetitionto Providence and man. Those of the Bed Liners whose windpipes stillregisteredabove32degreeshopelesslyandtunelesslyjoinedin.

InthemiddleofthesecondverseThomassawasturdygirlwithwind-tosseddraperybattlingagainst thebreezeandcomingstraight towardhimfromtheoppositesidewalk."Annie!"heyelled,andrantowardher."Youfool,youfool!"shecried,weepingandlaughing,andhanginguponhisneck,"whydidyoudoit?""TheStuff,"explainedThomasbriefly."Youknow.Butsubsequentlynit.Notadrop."Heledhertothecurb."Howdidyouhappentoseeme?""I came to find you," saidAnnie, holding tight to his sleeve. "Oh, you bigfool!ProfessorCherubuscotoldusthatwemightfindyouhere.""ProfessorCh––––Don'tknowtheguy.Whatsaloondoesheworkin?""He'saclairvoyant,Thomas;thegreatestintheworld.HefoundyouwiththeChaldeantelescope,hesaid.""He'saliar,"saidThomas."Ineverhadit.Heneversawmehaveanybody'stelescope.""Andhesaidyoucameinachariotwithfivewheelsorsomething.""Annie,"saidThomssolicitously,"you'regivingmethewheelsnow.IfIhadachariot I'd have gone to bed in it long ago. And without any singing andpreachingforanightcap,either.""Listen,youbig fool.TheMissis saysshe'll takeyouback. Ibeggedher to.Butyoumustbehave.Andyoucangouptothehouseto-night;andyouroldroomoverthestableisready.""Great!"saidThomasearnestly."YouareIt,Annie.Butwhendidthesestuntshappen?""To-night at ProfessorCherubusco's.He sent his automobile for theMissis,andshetookmealong.I'vebeentherewithherbefore.""What'stheprofessor'sline?""He's a clearvoyant and a witch. The Missis consults him. He knowseverything.Buthehasn'tdonetheMissisanygoodyet,thoughshe'spaidhimhundredsofdollars.Buthetoldusthat thestars toldhimwecouldfindyouhere.""What'stheoldladywantthischerry-bustertodo?""That's a family secret," said Annie. "And now you've asked enoughquestions.Comeonhome,youbigfool."TheyhadmovedbutalittlewayupthestreetwhenThomasstopped."Gotanydoughwithyou,Annie?"heasked.Annielookedathimsharply.

"Oh,Iknowwhatthatlookmeans,"saidThomas."You'rewrong.Notanotherdrop.Butthere'saguythatwasstandingnexttomeinthebedlineovertherethat's in bad shape. He's the right kind, and he's got wives or kids orsomething,andhe'sonthesicklist.Nobooze.IfyoucoulddiguphalfadollarforhimsohecouldgetadecentbedI'dlikeit."Annie'sfingersbegantowiggleinherpurse."Sure, I've gotmoney," said she. "Lots of it.Twelve dollars."And then sheadded,withwoman'sineradicablesuspicionofvicariousbenevolence:"Bringhimhereandletmeseehimfirst."Thomaswentonhismission.ThewanBedLinercamereadilyenough.Asthetwodrewnear,Annielookedupfromherpurseandscreamed:"Mr.Walter—Oh—Mr.Walter!"Isthatyou,Annie?"saidtheyoungmanmeekly."Oh,Mr.Walter!—andtheMissishuntinghighandlowforyou!""Doesmotherwanttoseeme?"heasked,withaflushcomingoutonhispalecheek."She's been hunting for you high and low. Sure, shewants to see you. Shewants you to come home. She's tried police and morgues and lawyers andadvertisinganddetectivesandrewardsandeverything.Andthenshetookupclearvoyants.You'llgorighthome,won'tyou,Mr.Walter?""Gladly,ifshewantsme,"saidtheyoungman."Threeyearsisalongtime.Isuppose I'll have to walk up, though, unless the street cars are giving freerides.Iusedtowalkandbeatthatoldplugteamofbaysweusedtodrivetothecarriage.Havetheygotthemyet?""They have," said Thomas, feelingly. "And they'll have 'em ten years fromnow. The life of the royal elephantibus truckhorseibus is one hundred andforty-nine years. I'm the coachman. Just gotmy reappointment fiveminutesago. Let's all ride up in a surface car—that is—er—if Annie will pay thefares."OntheBroadwaycarAnniehandedeachoneoftheprodigalsanickeltopaytheconductor."Seemstomeyouaremightyrecklessthewayyouthrowlargesumsofmoneyaround,"saidThomassarcastically."In that purse," saidAnnie decidedly, "is exactly $11.85. I shall take everycentofitto-morrowandgiveittoprofessorCherubusco,thegreatestmanintheworld.""Well,"saidThomas,"Iguesshemustbeaprettyflyguytopipeoffthingsthewayhedoes.I'mgladhisspookstoldhimwhereyoucouldfindme.Ifyou'll

givemehisaddress,somedayI'llgoupthere,myself,andshakehishand."Presently Thomas moved tentatively in his seat, and thoughtfully felt anabrasionortwoonhiskneesandhiselbows."Say, Annie," said he confidentially, maybe it's one of the last dreams ofbooze,butI'veakindofarecollectionofridinginanautomobilewithaswellguythattookmetoahousefullofeaglesandarclights.Hefedmeonbiscuitsandhotair,andthenkickedmedownthefrontsteps.Ifitwasthedt's,whyamIsosore?""Shutup,youfool,"saidAnnie."IfIcouldfindthatfunnyguy'shouse,"saidThomas,inconclusion,"I'dgouptheresomedayandpunchhisnoseforhim."

VITHEPOETANDTHEPEASANT

Theotherdayapoetfriendofmine,whohaslivedinclosecommunionwithnatureallhislife,wroteapoemandtookittoaneditor.Itwas a livingpastoral, full of the genuinebreath of the fields, the songofbirds,andthepleasantchatteroftricklingstreams.Whenthepoetcalledagaintoseeaboutit,withhopesofabeefsteakdinnerinhisheart,itwashandedbacktohimwiththecomment:"Tooartificial."SeveralofusmetoverspaghettiandDutchessCountychianti,andswallowedindignationwithslipperyforkfuls.And there we dug a pit for the editor.With us was Conant, a well-arrivedwriter of fiction—amanwho had trod on asphalt all his life, andwho hadnever lookeduponbucolicscenesexceptwithsensationsofdisgustfromthewindowsofexpresstrains.Conantwrote a poem and called it "TheDoe and theBrook." Itwas a finespecimenofthekindofworkyouwouldexpectfromapoetwhohadstrayedwith Amaryllis only as far as the florist's windows, and whose soleornithologicaldiscussionhadbeencarriedonwithawaiter.Conantsignedthispoem,andwesentittothesameeditor.Butthishasverylittletodowiththestory.Justastheeditorwasreadingthefirstlineofthepoem,onthenextmorning,abeing stumbled off the West Shore ferryboat, and loped slowly up Forty-

secondStreet.Theinvaderwasayoungmanwithlightblueeyes,ahanginglipandhairtheexact color of the little orphan's (afterward discovered to be the earl'sdaughter) inoneofMr.Blaney'splays.His trouserswerecorduroy,his coatshort-sleeved,withbuttonsinthemiddleofhisback.Onebootlegwasoutsidethecorduroys.Youlookedexpectantly,thoughinvain,athisstrawhatforearholes, its shape inaugurating the suspicion that it had been ravaged from aformer equine possessor. In his hand was a valise—description of it is animpossibletask;aBostonmanwouldnothavecarriedhislunchandlawbooksto his office in it. And above one ear, in his hair, was a wisp of hay—therustic's letterofcredit,hisbadgeof innocence, the lastclinging touchof theGardenofEdenlingeringtoshamethegold-brickmen.Knowingly, smilingly, the city crowds passed him by. They saw the rawstranger stand in thegutter and stretchhisneckat the tallbuildings.At thistheyceasedtosmile,andeventolookathim.Ithadbeendonesooften.Afewglanced at the antique valise to see what Coney "attraction" or brand ofchewinggumhemightbethusdinningintohismemory.Butforthemostparthewas ignored.Even thenewsboys lookedboredwhenhescampered likeacircusclownoutofthewayofcabsandstreetcars.At EighthAvenue stood "BuncoHarry,"with his dyedmustache and shiny,good-naturedeyes.Harrywastoogoodanartistnottobepainedatthesightofanactoroverdoinghispart.Heedgeduptothecountryman,whohadstoppedtoopenhismouthatajewelrystorewindow,andshookhishead."Toothick,pal,"hesaid,critically—"toothickbyacoupleof inches.Idon'tknowwhatyourlayis;butyou'vegotthepropertiestoothick.Thathay,now—why,theydon'tevenallowthatonProctor'scircuitanymore.""Idon'tunderstandyou,mister,"said thegreenone."I'mnot lookin' foranycircus.I'vejustrundownfromUlsterCountytolookatthetown,bein'thatthehayin'soverwith.Gosh!butit'sawhopper.IthoughtPoughkeepsiewassomepunkins;butthisheretownisfivetimesasbig.""Oh,well,"said"BuncoHarry,"raisinghiseyebrows,"Ididn'tmeantobuttin.Youdon'thavetotell.Ithoughtyououghttotonedownalittle,soItriedtoputyouwise.Wishyousuccessatyourgraft,whateveritis.Comeandhaveadrink,anyhow.""Iwouldn'tmindhavingaglassoflagerbeer,"acknowledgedtheother.Theywenttoacaféfrequentedbymenwithsmoothfacesandshiftyeyes,andsatattheirdrinks."I'mgladIcomeacrossyou,mister,"saidHaylocks."How'dyouliketoplayagameortwoofseven-up?I'vegotthekeerds."

He fished them out of Noah's valise—a rare, inimitable deck, greasy withbaconsuppersandgrimywiththesoilofcornfields."BuncoHarry"laughedloudandbriefly."Notforme,sport,"hesaid,firmly."Idon'tgoagainstthatmake-upofyoursforacent.But Istill sayyou'veoverdone it.TheReubshaven'tdressed likethat since '79. Idoubt ifyoucouldworkBrooklyn for akey-windingwatchwiththatlayout.""Oh,youneedn'tthinkIain'tgotthemoney,"boastedHaylocks.Hedrewforthatightlyrolledmassofbillsaslargeasateacup,andlaiditonthetable."Got thatformyshareofgrandmother'sfarm,"heannounced."There's$950inthatroll.ThoughtI'dcometothecityandlookaroundforalikelybusinesstogointo.""BuncoHarry"tookuptherollofmoneyandlookedatitwithalmostrespectinhissmilingeyes."I'veseenworse,"hesaid,critically. "Butyou'llneverdo it in themclothes.Youwanttogetlighttanshoesandablacksuitandastrawhatwithacoloredband,andtalkagooddealaboutPittsburgandfreightdifferentials,anddrinksherryforbreakfastinordertoworkoffphonystufflikethat.""What'shisline?"askedtwoorthreeshifty-eyedmenof"BuncoHarry"afterHaylockshadgathereduphisimpugnedmoneyanddeparted."Thequeer,Iguess,"saidHarry."Orelsehe'soneofJerome'smen.Orsomeguywithanewgraft.He'stoomuchhayseed.Maybethathis—Iwondernow—oh,no,itcouldn'thavebeenrealmoney."Haylockswanderedon.Thirstprobablyassailedhimagain,forhedivedintoadarkgroggeryonasidestreetandboughtbeer.Atfirstsightofhimtheireyesbrightened;butwhenhis insistentandexaggeratedrusticitybecameapparenttheirexpressionschangedtowarysuspicion.Haylocksswunghisvaliseacrossthebar."Keepthatawhileforme,mister,"hesaid,chewingat theendofavirulentclaybankcigar."I'llbebackafterIknockaroundaspell.Andkeepyoureyeonit,forthere's$950insideofit,thoughmaybeyouwouldn'tthinksotolookatme."Somewhereoutsideaphonographstruckupabandpiece,andHaylockswasoffforit,hiscoat-tailbuttonsfloppinginthemiddleofhisback."Divvy,Mike," said the men hanging upon the bar, winking openly at oneanother."Honest,now," said thebartender,kicking thevalise toone side. "Youdon'tthink I'd fall to that, do you? Anybody can see he ain't no jay. One of

McAdoo'scome-onsquad,Iguess.He'sashineifhemadehimselfup.Thereain'tnopartsofthecountrynowwheretheydresslikethatsincetheyrunruralfreedeliverytoProvidence,RhodeIsland.Ifhe'sgotnine-fifty in thatvaliseit'saninety-eightcentWaterburythat'sstoppedattenminutestoten."When Haylocks had exhausted the resources of Mr. Edison to amuse hereturned forhisvalise.And thendownBroadwayhegallivanted,culling thesightswithhiseagerblueeyes.ButstillandevermoreBroadwayrejectedhimwithcurtglancesandsardonicsmiles.Hewastheoldestofthe"gags"thatthecity must endure. He was so flagrantly impossible, so ultra rustic, soexaggeratedbeyond themost freakishproductsof thebarnyard, thehayfieldandthevaudevillestage,thatheexcitedonlywearinessandsuspicion.Andthewispofhayinhishairwassogenuine,sofreshandredolentofthemeadows,soclamorouslyruralthatevenashell-gamemanwouldhaveputuphispeasandfoldedhistableatthesightofit.Haylocksseatedhimselfuponaflightofstonestepsandoncemoreexhumedhisrollofyellow-backsfromthevalise.Theouterone,atwenty,heshuckedoffandbeckonedtoanewsboy."Son,"saidhe,"runsomewhereandgetthischangedforme.I'mmightynighoutofchickenfeed.Iguessyou'llgetanickelifyou'llhurryup."Ahurtlookappearedthroughthedirtonthenewsy'sface."Aw,watchert'ink!G'wanandgetyerfunnybillchangedyerself.Deyain'tnofarmclothesyergoton.G'wanwityerstagemoney."On a corner lounged a keen-eyed steerer for a gambling-house. He sawHaylocks,andhisexpressionsuddenlygrewcoldandvirtuous."Mister," said the rural one. "I've heard of places in this here townwhere afellowcouldhaveagoodgameofoldsledgeorpegacardatkeno.Igot$950inthisvalise,andIcomedownfromoldUlstertoseethesights.Knowwhereafellowcouldgetactiononabout$9or$10?I'mgoin'tohavesomesport,andthenmaybeI'llbuyoutabusinessofsomekind."Thesteererlookedpained,andinvestigatedawhitespeckonhisleftforefingernail."Cheese it,oldman,"hemurmured, reproachfully."TheCentralOfficemustbebughousetosendyououtlookinglikesuchagillie.Youcouldn'tgetwithintwoblocksofasidewalkcrapgameinthemTonyPastorprops.TherecentMr.Scotty fromDeathValleyhasgotyoubeat a crosstownblock in thewayofElizabethansceneryandmechanicalaccessories.Let itbeskiddooforyours.Nay,Iknowofnogildedhallswhereonemaybetapatrolwagonontheace."Rebuffedonceagainby thegreatcity that is soswift todetectartificialities,Haylockssatuponthecurbandpresentedhisthoughtstoholdaconference.

"It'smy clothes," said he; "durned if it ain't. They think I'm a hayseed andwon'thavenothin'todowithme.NobodynevermadefunofthishatinUlsterCounty.IguessifyouwantfolkstonoticeyouinNewYorkyoumustdressupliketheydo."So Haylocks went shopping in the bazaars where men spake through theirnosesandrubbedtheirhandsandranthetapelineecstaticallyoverthebulgeinhisinsidepocketwherereposedarednubbinofcornwithanevennumberofrows.AndmessengersbearingparcelsandboxesstreamedtohishotelonBroadwaywithinthelightsofLongAcre.At 9 o'clock in the evening one descended to the sidewalk whom UlsterCountywould have foresworn. Bright tanwere his shoes; his hat the latestblock. His light gray trousers were deeply creased; a gay blue silkhandkerchief flapped from the breast pocket of his elegant Englishwalkingcoat. His collar might have graced a laundry window; his blond hair wastrimmedclose;thewispofhaywasgone.For an instant he stood, resplendent,with the leisurely air of a boulevardierconcoctinginhismindtherouteforhiseveningpleasures.Andthenheturneddownthegay,brightstreetwiththeeasyandgracefultreadofamillionaire.But in the instant thathehadpaused thewisestandkeenesteyes in thecityhadenvelopedhimintheirfieldofvision.Astoutmanwithgrayeyespickedtwoofhisfriendswithaliftofhiseyebrowsfromtherowofloungersinfrontofthehotel."ThejuiciestjayI'veseeninsixmonths,"saidthemanwithgrayeyes."Comealong."It was half-past eleven when a man galloped into the West Forty-seventhStreetPoliceStationwiththestoryofhiswrongs."Ninehundred and fifty dollars," he gasped, "allmy share of grandmother'sfarm."The desk sergeant wrung from him the name Jabez Bulltongue, of LocustValleyfarm,UlsterCounty,andthenbegantotakedescriptionsofthestrong-armgentlemen.When Conant went to see the editor about the fate of his poem, he wasreceivedovertheheadoftheofficeboyintotheinnerofficethatisdecoratedwiththestatuettesbyRodinandJ.G.Brown."When I read the first line of 'TheDoe and the Brook,'" said the editor, "IknewittobetheworkofonewhoselifehasbeenhearttoheartwithNature.Thefinishedartof thelinedidnotblindmetothatfact.Touseasomewhathomelycomparison,itwasasifawild,freechildofthewoodsandfieldsweretodonthegarboffashionandwalkdownBroadway.Beneaththeapparelthe

manwouldshow.""Thanks," saidConant. "I suppose the checkwill be round onThursday, asusual."The morals of this story have somehow gotten mixed. You can take yourchoiceof"StayontheFarm"or"Don'tWritePoetry."

VIITHEROBEOFPEACE

MysteriesfollowoneanothersocloselyinagreatcitythatthereadingpublicandthefriendsofJohnnyBellchambershaveceasedtomarvelathissuddenandunexplaineddisappearancenearlyayearago.Thisparticularmysteryhasnowbeenclearedup,butthesolutionissostrangeandincredibletothemindof the average man that only a select few who were in close touch withBellchamberswillgiveitfullcredence.Johnny Bellchambers, as is well known, belonged to the intrinsically innercircleoftheélite.Withoutanyoftheostentationofthefashionableoneswhoendeavortoattractnoticebyeccentricdisplayofwealthandshowhestillwasaufaitineverythingthatgavedeservedlustretohishighpositionintheranksofsociety.Especially did he shine in thematter of dress. In this hewas the despair ofimitators.Alwayscorrect,exquisitelygroomed,andpossessedofanunlimitedwardrobe, he was conceded to be the best-dressed man in New York, and,therefore,inAmerica.TherewasnotatailorinGothamwhowouldnothavedeemed it a precious boon to have been granted the privilege of makingBellchambers' clothes without a cent of pay. As hewore them, theywouldhavebeenapricelessadvertisement.Trouserswerehisespecialpassion.Herenothing but perfection would he notice. He would have worn a patch asquickly as he would have overlooked a wrinkle. He kept a man in hisapartmentsalwaysbusypressinghisamplesupply.Hisfriendssaidthatthreehours was the limit of time that he would wear these garments withoutexchanging.Bellchambersdisappearedverysuddenly.Forthreedayshisabsencebroughtnoalarmtohisfriends,andthentheybegantooperate theusualmethodsofinquiry.Allof themfailed.Hehad leftabsolutelyno tracebehind.Then thesearchforamotivewasinstituted,butnonewasfound.Hehadnoenemies,hehadnodebts,therewasnowoman.Therewereseveralthousanddollarsinhisbank to his credit. He had never showed any tendency toward mentaleccentricity; in fact, he was of a particularly calm and well-balanced

temperament.Everymeansoftracingthevanishedmanwasmadeuseof,butwithoutavail.Itwasoneofthosecases—morenumerousinlateyears—wheremenseemtohavegoneoutliketheflameofacandle,leavingnotevenatrailofsmokeasawitness.InMay,TomEyres andLancelotGilliam, twoofBellchambers' old friends,went for a little run on the other side.While pottering around in Italy andSwitzerland,theyhappened,oneday,tohearofamonasteryintheSwissAlpsthatpromisedsomethingoutsideof theordinary tourist-beguilingattractions.Themonasterywasalmost inaccessible to theaveragesightseer,beingonanextremely rugged and precipitous spur of the mountains. The attractions itpossessed but did not advertise were, first, an exclusive and divine cordialmade by themonks thatwas said to far surpass benedictine and chartreuse.Next a huge brass bell so purely and accurately cast that it had not ceasedsounding since it was first rung three hundred years ago. Finally, it wasasserted that no Englishman had ever set foot within its walls. Eyres andGilliamdecidedthatthesethreereportscalledforinvestigation.IttookthemtwodayswiththeaidoftwoguidestoreachthemonasteryofSt.Gondrau.Itstooduponafrozen,wind-sweptcragwiththesnowpiledaboutitintreacherous,driftingmasses.Theywerehospitablyreceivedbythebrotherswhosedutyitwastoentertaintheinfrequentguest.Theydrankofthepreciouscordial,findingitrarelypotentandreviving.Theylistenedtothegreat,ever-echoingbell,andlearnedthattheywerepioneertravelers,inthosegraystonewalls, over the Englishman whose restless feet have trodden nearly everycorneroftheearth.At three o'clock on the afternoon they arrived, the two young GothamitesstoodwithgoodBrotherCristoferinthegreat,coldhallwayofthemonasteryto watch the monks march past on their way to the refectory. They cameslowly, pacing by twos, with their heads bowed, treading noiselessly withsandaledfeetupontheroughstoneflags.Astheprocessionslowlyfiledpast,EyressuddenlygrippedGilliambythearm."Look,"hewhispered,eagerly,"attheonejustoppositeyounow—theoneonthisside,withhishandathiswaist—ifthatisn'tJohnnyBellchambersthenIneversawhim!"Gilliamsawandrecognizedthelostglassoffashion."What thedeuce," saidhe,wonderingly, "is oldBell doinghere?Tommy, itsurelycan'tbehe!NeverheardofBellhavingaturnforthereligious.Factis,I'veheardhimsaythingswhenafour-in-handdidn'tseemtotieupjustrightthatwouldbringhimupforcourt-martialbeforeanychurch.""It'sBell,withoutadoubt,"saidEyres,firmly,"orI'mprettybadlyinneedofanoculist.But thinkof JohnnyBellchambers, theRoyalHighChancellorofswell togs and the Mahatma of pink teas, up here in cold storage doing

penance ina snuff-coloredbathrobe! Ican'tget it straight inmymind.Let'saskthejollyoldboythat'sdoingthehonors."BrotherCristoferwasappealedtoforinformation.Bythattimethemonkshadpassed into the refectory. He could not tell to which one they referred.Bellchambers? Ah, the brothers of St. Gondrau abandoned their worldlynameswhentheytookthevows.Didthegentlemenwishtospeakwithoneofthe brothers? If theywould come to the refectory and indicate the one theywishedtosee,thereverendabbotinauthoritywould,doubtless,permitit.Eyres and Gilliam went into the dining hall and pointed out to BrotherCristoferthemantheyhadseen.Yes,itwasJohnnyBellchambers.Theysawhis face plainly now, as he sat among the dingybrothers, never lookingup,eatingbrothfromacoarse,brownbowl.Permissiontospeaktooneofthebrotherswasgrantedtothetwotravelersbytheabbot,andtheywaitedinareceptionroomforhimtocome.Whenhedidcome,treadingsoftlyinhissandals,bothEyresandGilliamlookedathiminperplexity and astonishment. It was Johnny Bellchambers, but he had adifferent look.Upon his smooth-shaven facewas an expression of ineffablepeace, of rapturous attainment, of perfect and complete happiness.His formwasproudlyerect,hiseyesshonewithasereneandgraciouslight.Hewasasneatandwell-groomedasintheoldNewYorkdays,buthowdifferentlywasheclad!Nowheseemedclothedinbutasinglegarment—alongrobeofroughbrowncloth,gatheredbyacordatthewaist,andfallinginstraight,loosefoldsnearlytohisfeet.Heshookhandswithhisvisitorswithhisoldeaseandgraceof manner. If there was any embarrassment in that meeting it was notmanifested by Johnny Bellchambers. The room had no seats; they stood toconverse."Glad to see you, old man," said Eyres, somewhat awkwardly. "Wasn'texpecting to findyouuphere.Not abad idea though, after all.Society's anawful sham.Must be a relief to shake the giddy whirl and retire to—er—contemplationand—er—prayerandhymns,andthosethings."Oh,cutthat,Tommy,"saidBellchambers,cheerfully."Don'tbeafraidthatI'llpassaroundtheplate.Igothroughthesething-um-bobswiththerestoftheseoldboysbecausetheyaretherules.I'mBrotherAmbrosehere,youknow.I'mgiven just tenminutes to talk to you fellows. That's rather a new design inwaistcoats you have on, isn't it, Gilliam?Are theywearing those things onBroadwaynow?""It's the same old Johnny," saidGilliam, joyfully. "What the devil—Imeanwhy—Oh,confoundit!whatdidyoudoitfor,oldman?""Peelthebathrobe,"pleadedEyres,almosttearfully,"andgobackwithus.Theold crowd'll gowild to see you. This isn't in your line,Bell. I know half a

dozen girls that wore the willow on the quiet when you shook us in thatunaccountable way. Hand in your resignation, or get a dispensation, orwhatever you have to do to get a release from this ice factory. You'll getcatarrhhere,Johnny—and—MyGod!youhaven'tanysockson!"Bellchamberslookeddownathissandaledfeetandsmiled."Youfellowsdon'tunderstand,"hesaid,soothingly."It'sniceofyoutowantmetogoback,buttheoldlifewillneverknowmeagain.Ihavereachedherethegoalofallmyambitions.Iamentirelyhappyandcontented.HereIshallremain for the remainder of my days. You see this robe that I wear?"Bellchambers caressingly touched the straight-hanging garment: "At last Ihavefoundsomethingthatwillnotbagattheknees.Ihaveattained—"Atthatmomentthedeepboomofthegreatbrassbellreverberatedthroughthemonastery.Itmusthavebeenasummonstoimmediatedevotions,forBrotherAmbrosebowedhishead,turnedandleftthechamberwithoutanotherword.Aslightwaveofhishandashepassedthroughthestonedoorwayseemedtosayafarewelltohisoldfriends.Theyleft themonasterywithoutseeinghimagain.And this is the story that TommyEyres andLancelotGilliam brought backwiththemfromtheirlatestEuropeantour.

VIIITHEGIRLANDTHEGRAFT

The other day I ran across my old friend Ferguson Pogue. Pogue is aconscientious grafter of the highest type. His headquarters is the WesternHemisphere,andhislineofbusinessisanythingfromspeculatingintownlotson theGreat Staked Plains to sellingwooden toys inConnecticut,made byhydraulicpressurefromnutmegsgroundtoapulp.NowandthenwhenPoguehasmadeagoodhaulhecomestoNewYorkforarest.He says the jug ofwine and loaf of bread andThou in thewildernessbusinessisaboutasmuchrestandpleasuretohimasslidingdownthebumpsatConeywouldbe toPresidentTaft. "Giveme,"saysPogue,"abigcity formyvacation.EspeciallyNewYork. I'mnotmuchfondofNewYorkers,andManhattanisabouttheonlyplaceontheglobewhereIdon'tfindany."WhileinthemetropolisPoguecanalwaysbefoundatoneoftwoplaces.Oneis a little second-hand book-shop on Fourth Avenue, where he reads booksabouthishobbies,Mahometanismandtaxidermy.Ifoundhimattheother—hishallbedroominEighteenthStreet—wherehesatinhisstockingfeettrying

topluck"TheBanksoftheWabash"outofasmallzither.Fouryearshehaspractisedthistunewithoutarrivingnearenoughtocastthelongesttroutlinetothewater'sedge.Onthedresserlayablued-steelColt'sforty-fiveandatightroll of tens and twenties large enough around to belong to the springrattlesnake-story class. A chambermaid with a room-cleaning air flutterednearbyinthehall,unabletoenterortoflee,scandalizedbythestockingfeet,aghastattheColt's,yetpowerless,withhermetropolitaninstincts,toremoveherselfbeyondthemagicinfluenceoftheyellow-huedroll.I sat onhis trunkwhileFergusonPogue talked.Noone couldbe frankerormorecandidinhisconversation.BesidehisexpressionthecryofHenryJamesfor lacteal nourishment at the age of onemonthwould have seemed like aChaldeancryptogram.Hetoldmestoriesofhisprofessionwithpride,forheconsidered it an art. And I was curious enough to ask himwhether he hadknownanywomenwhofollowedit."Ladies?" saidPogue,withWestern chivalry. "Well, not to anygreat extent.Theydon'tamounttomuchinspeciallinesofgraft,becausethey'reallsobusyingenerallines.What?Why,theyhaveto.Who'sgotthemoneyintheworld?Themen.Did you ever know aman to give awoman a dollarwithout anyconsideration?Amanwillshellouthisdusttoanothermanfreeandeasyandgratis.ButifhedropsapennyinoneofthemachinesrunbytheMadamEve'sDaughters' Amalgamated Association and the pineapple chewing gum don'tfalloutwhenhepulls the leveryoucanhearhimkick to thesuperintendentfour blocks away. Man is the hardest proposition a woman has to go upagainst.He's the low-gradeone, and shehas toworkovertime tomakehimpay.Two times out of five she's salted. She can't put in crushers and costlymachinery.He'dnotice'emandbeontothegame.Theyhavetopanoutwhattheyget,andithurtstheirtenderhands.Someof'emarenaturalsluicetroughsand can carry out $1,000 to the ton. The dry-eyed ones have to depend onsignedletters,falsehair,sympathy,thekangaroowalk,cowhidewhips,abilitytocook, sentimental juries, conversationalpowers, silkunderskirts, ancestry,rouge, anonymous letters, violet sachet powders, witnesses, revolvers,pneumatic forms, carbolic acid, moonlight, cold cream and the eveningnewspapers.""Youareoutrageous,Ferg,"Isaid."Surelythereisnoneofthis 'graft'asyoucallit,inaperfectandharmoniousmatrimonialunion!""Well," said Pogue, "nothing that would justify you every time in callingPoliceHeadquarters andorderingout the reservesandavaudevillemanageronadead run.But it's thisway:Supposeyou're aFifthAvenuemillionaire,soaringhigh,ontherightsideofcopperandcappers."Youcomehomeatnightandbringa$9,000,000diamondbroochtotheladywho's stakedyou foraclaim.Youhand itover.Shesays, 'Oh,George!' and

lookstoseeifit'sbacked.Shecomesupandkissesyou.You'vewaitedforit.Yougetit.Allright.It'sgraft."But I'm telling you about Artemisia Blye. She was from Kansas and shesuggestedcorninallofitsphases.Herhairwasasyellowasthesilk;herformwasastallandgracefulasastalkinthelowgroundsduringawetsummer;hereyeswereasbigandstartlingasbunions,andgreenwasherfavoritecolor."OnmylasttripintothecoolrecessesofyoursequesteredcityImetahumannamedVaucross.Hewasworth—thatis,hehadamillion.Hetoldmehewasin business on the street. 'A sidewalkmerchant?' says I, sarcastic. 'Exactly,'sayshe,'Seniorpartnerofapavingconcern.'"Ikindoftooktohim.Forthisreason,ImethimonBroadwayonenightwhenIwasoutofheart,luck,tobaccoandplace.Hewasallsilkhat,diamondsandfront. He was all front. If you had gone behind him you would have onlylookedyourselfintheface.IlookedlikeacrossbetweenCountTolstoyandaJunelobster.Iwasoutofluck.Ihad—butletmelaymyeyesonthatdealeragain."Vaucrossstoppedandtalkedtomeafewminutesandthenhetookmetoahigh-toned restaurant to eat dinner. There was music, and then someBeethoven,andBordelaisesauce,andcussinginFrench,andfrangipangi,andsomehauteurandcigarettes.WhenIamflushIknowthemplaces."Ideclare,ImusthavelookedasbadasamagazineartistsittingtherewithoutanymoneyandmyhairallrumpledlikeIwasbookedtoreadachapterfrom'Elsie's SchoolDays' at aBrooklynBohemian smoker.ButVaucross treatedmelikeabearhunter'sguide.Hewasn'tafraidofhurtingthewaiter'sfeelings."'Mr.Pogue,'heexplainstome,'Iamusingyou.'"'Goon,'saysI;'Ihopeyoudon'twakeup.'"And then he tellsme, you know, the kind ofman hewas.Hewas aNewYorker.Hiswholeambitionwastobenoticed.Hewantedtobeconspicuous.Hewantedpeople topoint himout andbow tohim, and tell otherswhohewas.He said it had been the desire of his life always.He didn't have but amillion,sohecouldn'tattractattentionbyspendingmoney.Hesaidhetriedtoget intopublicnoticeone timebyplanting a little public squareon the eastsidewithgarlicforfreeuseofthepoor;butCarnegieheardofit,andcoveredit over at once with a library in the Gaelic language. Three times he hadjumpedinthewayofautomobiles;buttheonlyresultwasfivebrokenribsandanoticeinthepapersthatanunknownman,fivefeetten,withfouramalgam-filled teeth, supposed tobe the lastof the famousRedLearyganghadbeenrunover."'Evertrythereporters,'Iaskedhim.

"'Lastmonth,'saysMr.Vaucross,'myexpenditureforlunchestoreporterswas$124.80.'"'Getanythingoutofthat?'Iasks."'Thatremindsme,'sayshe;'add$8.50forpepsin.Yes,Igotindigestion.'"'HowamIsupposedtopushalongyourscrambleforprominence?'Iinquires.'Contrast?'"'Something of that sort to-night,' says Vaucross. 'It grieves me; but I amforcedtoresorttoeccentricity.'Andherehedropshisnapkininhissoupandrisesupandbowstoagentwhoisdevastatingapotatounderapalmacrosstheroom."'ThePoliceCommissioner,' saysmyclimber,gratified. 'Friend', says I, in ahurry,'haveambitionsbutdon'tkickarungoutofyourladder.Whenyouuseme as a stepping stone to salute the police you spoil my appetite on thegroundsthatImaybedegradedandincriminated.Bethoughtful.'"AttheQuakerCitysquabencasseroletheideaaboutArtemisiaBlyecomestome."'Suppose I canmanage to get you in thepapers,' says I—'a columnor twoeverydayinallof'emandyourpictureinmostof'emforaweek.Howmuchwoulditbeworthtoyou?'"'Tenthousanddollars,'saysVaucross,warminaminute.'Butnomurder,'sayshe;'andIwon'twearpinkpantsatacotillon.'"'Iwouldn't askyou to,' says I. 'This is honorable, stylish anduneffeminate.Tellthewaitertobringademitasseandsomeotherbeans,andIwilldisclosetoyoutheopusmoderandi.'"We closed the deal an hour later in the rococo rouge et noise room. Itelegraphed that night to Miss Artemisia in Salina. She took a couple ofphotographs and an autograph letter to an elder in the Fourth PresbyterianChurchinthemorning,andgotsometransportationand$80.ShestoppedinTopekalongenoughto tradeaflashlight interiorandavalentineto thevice-presidentofatrustcompanyforamileagebookandapackageoffive-dollarnoteswith$250scrawledontheband."Thefiftheveningaftershegotmywireshewaswaiting,alldécolletéeanddressed up, forme andVaucross to take her to dinner in one of theseNewYork feminine apartment houses where a man can't get in unless he playsbeziqueandsmokesdepilatorypowdercigarettes."'She's a stunner,' says Vaucross when he saw her. 'They'll give her a two-columncutsure.'"This was the scheme the three of us concocted. It was business straight

through.Vaucrosswas to rushMissBlyewith all the style and display andemotionhecouldforamonth.Ofcourse, thatamountedtonothingasfarashis ambitionswere concerned.The sight of aman in awhite tie and patentleather pumps pouring greenbacks through the large end of a cornucopia topurchasenutrimentandheartseasefortall,willowyblondesinNewYorkisascommonasightasblue turtles indelirium tremens.Buthewas towriteherloveletters—theworstkindofloveletters,suchasyourwifepublishesafteryouaredead—everyday.Attheendofthemonthhewastodropher,andshewouldbringsuitfor$100,000forbreachofpromise."MissArtemisiawastoget$10,000.Ifshewonthesuitthatwasall;andifshelostshewastogetitanyhow.Therewasasignedcontracttothateffect."Sometimestheyhadmeoutwith'em,butnotoften.Icouldn'tkeepuptotheirstyle.Sheusedtopullouthisnotesandcriticizethemlikebillsoflading."'Say,you!'she'dsay. 'Whatdoyoucallthis—lettertoaHardwareMerchantfrom His Nephew on Learning that His Aunt Has Nettlerash? You EasternduffersknowasmuchaboutwritinglovelettersasaKansasgrasshopperdoesabout tugboats. "My dearMiss Blye!"—wouldn't that put pink icing and alittleredsugarbirdonyourbridalcake?Howlongdoyouexpecttoholdanaudience in a court-roomwith that kind of stuff?Youwant to get down tobusiness, and call me "Tweedlums Babe" and "Honeysuckle," and signyourself"Mama'sOwnBigBadPuggyWuggyBoy"ifyouwantanylimelighttoconcentrateuponyoursparsegrayhairs.Getsappy.'"After thatVaucross dipped his pen in the indelible tabasco.His notes readlike something or other in the original. I could see a jury sitting up, andwomentearingoneanother'shatstohear'emread.AndIcouldseepilingupfor Mr. Vaucross as much notoriousness as Archbishop Cranmer or theBrooklynBridgeorcheese-on-saladeverenjoyed.Heseemedmightypleasedattheprospects."They agreed on a night; and I stood on Fifth Avenue outside a solemnrestaurantandwatched'em.Aprocess-serverwalkedinandhandedVaucrossthepapersathis table.Everybody lookedat 'em;andhe lookedasproudasCicero. I went back to my room and lit a five-cent cigar, for I knew the$10,000wasasgoodasours."Abouttwohourslatersomebodyknockedatmydoor.TherestoodVaucrossandMissArtemisia,andshewasclinging—yes,sir,clinging—tohisarm.Andthey tells me they'd been out and got married. And they articulated sometrivialcadencesaboutloveandsuch.Andtheylaiddownabundleonthetableandsaid'Goodnight'andleft."Andthat'swhyIsay,"concludedFergusonPogue,"thatawomanistoobusyoccupiedwithhernaturalvocationandinstinctofgraftsuchasisgivenherfor

self-preservationandamusementtomakeanygreatsuccessinspeciallines.""Whatwasinthebundlethattheyleft?"Iasked,withmyusualcuriosity."Why,"saidFerguson,"therewasascalper's railroad ticketas farasKansasCityandtwopairsofMr.Vaucross'soldpants."

IXTHECALLOFTHETAME

When the inauguration was accomplished—the proceedings were madesmoothbythepresenceoftheRoughRiders—itiswellknownthataherdofthose competent and loyal ex-warriors paid a visit to the big city. Thenewspaper reportersdugoutof their trunks theoldbroad-brimmedhats andleather belts that they wear to North Beach fish fries, and mixed with thevisitors.Nodamagewasdonebeyondtheemploymentofthewonderfulplural"tenderfeet" in each of the scribe's stories. The Westerners mildlycontemplatedtheskyscrapersashighasthethirdstory,yawnedatBroadway,hunched down in the big chairs in hotel corridors, and altogether looked asbored and dejected as a member of Ye Ancient and Honorable Artilleryseparatedduringashambattlefromhisvalet.Out of this sightseeing delegations of goodKing Teddy's Gentlemen of theRoyalBear-houndsdroppedoneGreenbrierNye,ofPinFeather,Ariz.The daily cyclone of Sixth Avenue's rush hour swept him away from thecompanyofhispardners true.Thedustfromathousandrustlingskirtsfilledhiseyes.Themightyroaroftrainsrushingacrosstheskydeafenedhim.Thelightning-flashoftwicetenhundredbeamingeyesconfusedhisvision.ThestormwassosuddenandtremendousthatGreenbrier'sfirstimpulsewastoliedownandgrabaroot.Andthenherememberedthatthedisturbancewashuman,andnotelemental;andhebackedoutofitwithagrinintoadoorway.Thereportershadwrittenthatbutforthewide-brimmedhatstheWestwasnotvisibleuponthesegauchosoftheNorth.Heavensharpentheireyes!Thesuitofblackdiagonal,wrinkledinimpossibleplaces;thebrightbluefour-in-hand,factorytied;thelow,turned-downcollar,patternofthedaysofSeymourandBlair,white glazed as the letters on thewindow of the open-day-and-night-except-Sundayrestaurants;theout-curveatthekneesfromthesaddlegrip;thepeculiarspreadofthehalf-closedrightthumbandfingersfromthestiffholduponthecirclinglasso;thedeeplyabsorbedweathertanthatthehottestsunofCapeMaycanneverequal;theseldom-winkingblueeyesthatunconsciouslydividedtherushingcrowdsintofours,asthoughtheywerebeingcountedout

of a corral; the segregated loneliness and solemnity of expression, as of anEmperororofonewhosehorizonshavenotintrudeduponhimnearerthanaday'sride—thesebrandsoftheWestweresetuponGreenbrierNye.Oh,yes;he wore a broad-brimmed hat, gentle reader—just like those the MadisonSquare Post Office mail carriers wear when they go up to Bronx Park onSundayafternoons.SuddenlyGreenbrierNyejumpedintothedriftingherdofmetropolitancattle,seizeduponaman,draggedhimoutofthestreamandgavehimabuffetuponhiscollar-bonethatsenthimreelingagainstawall.Thevictimrecoveredhishat,with theangry lookofaNewYorkerwhohassufferedanoutrageandintendstowritetotheTrib.aboutit.Buthelookedathis assailant, and knew that the blow was in consideration of love andaffectionafterthemanneroftheWest,whichgreetsitsfriendswithcontumelyanduproarandpoundingfists,andreceivesitsenemiesindecorumandorder,suchasthejudiciousplacingofthewelcomingbulletdemands."God in themountains!" criedGreenbrier, holding fast to the foreleg of hiscull."CanthisbeLonghornMerritt?"Theothermanwas—oh,lookonBroadwayanydayforthepattern—businessman—latestrolled-brimderby—goodbarber,business,digestionandtailor."GreenbrierNye!"heexclaimed,graspingthehandthathadsmittenhim."Mydearfellow!Sogladtoseeyou!Howdidyoucometo—oh, tobesure—theinaugural ceremonies—I remember you joined theRoughRiders.Youmustcomeandhaveluncheonwithme,ofcourse."Greenbrierpinnedhimsadlybutfirmlytothewallwithahandthesize,shapeandcolorofaMcClellansaddle."Longy,"hesaid,inamelancholyvoicethatdisturbedtraffic,"whathavetheybeendoing toyou?Youact just likeacitizen.Theydonemadeyou intoaninmate of the city directory. You never made no such Johnny BranchexecrationofyourselfasthatoutontheGila. 'Comeandhavelunchingwithme!'Youneverdefinedgrubbyanysuchtermsofreproachinthemdays.""I'vebeenlivinginNewYorksevenyears,"saidMerritt."It'sbeeneightsincewepunchedcowstogetherinOldManGarcia'soutfit.Well,let'sgotoacafé,anyhow.Itsoundsgoodtohearitcalled'grub'again."They picked their way through the crowd to a hotel, and drifted, as by anaturallaw,tothebar."Speakup,"invitedGreenbrier."AdryMartini,"saidMerritt."Oh,Lord!"criedGreenbrier; "andyetmeandyouonce saw the samepink

GilamonsterscrawlingupthewallsofthesamehotelinCañonDiablo!Adry—butletthatpass.Whiskeystraight—andthey'reonyou."Merrittsmiled,andpaid.Theylunchedinasmallextensionofthediningroomthatconnectedwiththecafé.Merritt dexterouslydivertedhis friend's choice, thathoveredoverhamandeggs,toapuréeofcelery,asalmoncutlet,apartridgepieandadesirablesalad."Ontheday,"saidGreenbrier,grievedandthunderous,"whenIcan'tholdbutonedrinkbeforeeatingwhenImeetafriendIain'tseenineightyearsata2by4 table in a thirty-cent town at 1 o'clockon the third dayof theweek, Iwantninebroncostokickmefortytimesovera640-acresectionofland.Getthemstatistics?""Right, oldman," laughedMerritt. "Waiter, bring an absinthe frappé and—what'syours,Greenbrier?""Whiskey straight,"mournedNye. "Out of the neck of a bottle you used totake it, Longy—straight out of the neck of a bottle on a galloping pony—Arizonaredeye,notthisab—oh,what'stheuse?They'reonyou."Merrittslippedthewinecardunderhisglass."Allright.IsupposeyouthinkI'mspoiledbythecity.I'masgoodaWesternerasyouare,Greenbrier;but,somehow,Ican'tmakeupmymindtogobackoutthere.NewYorkiscomfortable—comfortable.Imakeagoodliving,andIliveit.Nomorewetblanketsandridingherdinsnowstorms,andbaconandcoldcoffee,andblowoutsonceinsixmonthsforme.IreckonI'llhangouthereinthe future.We'll take in the theatre to-night,Greenbrier, and after thatwe'lldineat—""I'll tellyouwhatyouare,Merritt,"saidGreenbrier, layingoneelbowinhissaladandtheotherinhisbutter."Youareaconcentrated,effete,unconditional,short-sleeved, gotch-earedMiss SallyWalker. Godmade you perpendicularandsuitabletoridestraddleandusecusswordsintheoriginal.WhereforeyouhavesufferedhishandiworktoelapsebyremovingyourselftoNewYorkandputtingonlittleshoestiedwithstrings,andmakingfaceswhenyoutalk.I'veseenyouropeandtieasteerin42½.Ifyouwastoseeonenowyou'dwritetothe Police Commissioner about it. And these flapdoodle drinks that youinoculate your systemwith—these little essences of cowslip with acorns in'em, and paregoric flip—they ain't anyways in assent with the cordiality ofmanhood.Ihatetoseeyouthisway.""Well,Mr.Greenbrier,"saidMerritt,withapologyinhistone,"inawayyouareright.SometimesIdofeellikeIwasbeingraisedonthebottle.But,Itellyou,NewYorkiscomfortable—comfortable.There'ssomethingaboutit—the

sightsandthecrowds,andthewayitchangeseveryday,andtheveryairofitthat seems to tie a one-mile-long stake rope around aman's neck, with theotherendfastenedsomewhereaboutThirty-fourthStreet.Idon'tknowwhatitis.""Godknows,"saidGreenbriersadly,"andIknow.TheEasthasgobbledyouup.Youwasvenison,andnowyou'reveal.Youputmeinmindofajaponicain a window.You've been signed, sealed and diskivered. Requiescat in hocsigno.Youmakemethirsty.""Agreenchartreusehere,"saidMerritttothewaiter."Whiskeystraight," sighedGreenbrier, "and they'reonyou,you renegadeoftheround-ups.""Guilty,withanapplicationformercy,"saidMerritt."Youdon'tknowhowitis,Greenbrier.It'ssocomfortableherethat—""Pleaseloanmeyoursmellingsalts,"pleadedGreenbrier."IfIhadn'tseenyouoncebluffthreebluffersfromMazatzalCitywithanemptyguninPhoenix—"Greenbrier'svoicediedawayinpuregrief."Cigars!"hecalledharshlytothewaiter,tohidehisemotion."ApackofTurkishcigarettesformine,"saidMerritt."They'reonyou,"chantedGreenbrier,strugglingtoconcealhiscontempt.AtseventheydinedintheWhere-to-Dine-Wellcolumn.That evening agalaxyhad assembled there.Bright shone the lightso'er fairwomen and br—let it go, anyhow—brave men. The orchestra playedcharmingly.Hardlyhadatipfromadinerbeenplacedinitshandsbyawaiterwhenitwouldburstforthintosoniferousness.ThemorebeeryoucontributedtoitthemoreMeyerbeeritgaveyou.Whichisreciprocity.Merrittputforthexertionsonthedinner.Greenbrierwashisoldfriend,andhelikedhim.Hepersuadedhimtodrinkacocktail."Itakethehorehoundtea,"saidGreenbrier,"foroldtimes'sake.ButI'dpreferwhiskeystraight.They'reonyou.""Right!"saidMerritt."Now,runyoureyedownthatbilloffareandseeif itseemstohitchonanyoftheseitems.""Lay me on my lava bed!" said Greenbrier, with bulging eyes. "All thesespecimens of nutriment in the grub wagon! What's this? Horse with theheaves?Ipass.Butlookalong!Here'struckfortwentyround-upsallspelledoutindifferentdirections.WaittillIsee."Theviandsordered,Merrittturnedtothewinelist."ThisMedocisn'tbad,"hesuggested.

"You're the doc," said Greenbrier. "I'd rather have whiskey straight. It's onyou."Greenbrierlookedaroundtheroom.Thewaiterbroughtthingsandtookdishesaway.Hewasobserving.HesawaNewYorkrestaurantcrowdenjoyingitself."HowwastherangewhenyoulefttheGila?"askedMerritt."Fine," said Greenbrier. "You see that lady in the red speckled silk at thattable.Well,shecouldwarmoverherbeansatmycampfire.Yes,therangewasgood.ShelooksasniceasawhitemustangIseeonceonBlackRiver."Whenthecoffeecame,Greenbrierputonefootontheseatofthechairnexttohim."Yousaiditwasacomfortabletown,Longy,"hesaid,meditatively."Yes,it'sacomfortabletown.It'sdifferentfromtheplainsinabluenorther.Whatdidyoucallthatmessinthecrockwiththehandle,Longy?Oh,yes,squabsinacashroll.They'reworththeroll.Thatwhitemustanghadjustsuchawayofturninghisheadandshakinghismane—lookather,Longy.If I thoughtIcouldselloutmyranchatafairprice,IbelieveI'd—"Gyar—song!" he suddenly cried, in a voice that paralyzed every knife andforkintherestaurant.Thewaiterdivedtowardthetable."Twomoreofthemcocktaildrinks,"orderedGreenbrier.Merrittlookedathimandsmiledsignificantly."They'reonme,"saidGreenbrier,blowingapuffofsmoketotheceiling.

XTHEUNKNOWNQUANTITY

The poet Longfellow—or was it Confucius, the inventor of wisdom?—remarked:"Lifeisreal,lifeisearnest;Andthingsarenotwhattheyseem."

As mathematics are—or is: thanks, old subscriber!—the only just rule bywhichquestionsoflifecanbemeasured,letus,byallmeans,adjustourthemeto the straightedgeand thebalancedcolumnof thegreatgoddessTwo-and-Two-Makes-Four. Figures—unassailable sums in addition—shall be set overagainstwhateveropposingelementtheremaybe.

Amathematician, after scanning the above two lines of poetry, would say:"Ahem!younggentlemen,ifweassumethatXplus—thatis,thatlifeisreal—thenthings(allofwhichlifeincludes)arereal.Anythingthatisrealiswhatitseems. Then if we consider the proposition that 'things are not what theyseem,'why—"Butthisisheresy,andnotpoesy.WewoothesweetnymphAlgebra;wewouldconduct you into the presence of the elusive, seductive, pursued, satisfying,mysteriousX.Not long before the beginning of this century, SeptimusKinsolving, an oldNewYorker,inventedanidea.Heoriginatedthediscoverythatbreadismadefrom flour and not from wheat futures. Perceiving that the flour crop wasshort, and that the Stock Exchangewas having no perceptible effect on thegrowingwheat,Mr.Kinsolvingcorneredtheflourmarket.Theresultwasthatwhenyouormylandlady(beforethewarsheneverhadtoturnherhandtoanything;Southernersaccommodated)boughtafive-centloafofbreadyoulaiddownanadditionaltwocents,whichwenttoMr.Kinsolvingasatestimonialtohisperspicacity.AsecondresultwasthatMr.Kinsolvingquitthegamewith$2,000,000prof—er—rake-off.Mr.Kinsolving'ssonDanwasatcollegewhenthemathematicalexperimentinbreadstuffs was made. Dan came home during vacation, and found the oldgentlemaninareddressing-gownreading"LittleDorrit"ontheporchofhisestimable red brick mansion in Washington Square. He had retired frombusinesswithenoughextratwo-centpiecesfrombreadbuyerstoreach,iflaidsidebyside,fifteentimesaroundtheearthandlapasfarasthepublicdebtofParaguay.Danshookhandswithhisfather,andhurriedovertoGreenwichVillagetoseehis old high-school friend, Kenwitz. Dan had always admired Kenwitz.Kenwitz was pale, curly-haired, intense, serious, mathematical, studious,altruistic,socialistic,andthenaturalfoeofoligarchies.Kenwitzhadforegonecollege,andwaslearningwatch-makinginhisfather'sjewelrystore.Danwassmiling,jovial,easy-temperedandtolerantalikeofkingsandragpickers.Thetwo foregathered joyously, being opposites. And then Dan went back tocollege,andKenwitztohismainsprings—andtohisprivatelibraryintherearofthejewelryshop.FouryearslaterDancamebacktoWashingtonSquarewiththeaccumulationsof B. A. and two years of Europe thick upon him.He took a filial look atSeptimus Kinsolving's elaborate tombstone in Greenwood and a tediousexcursion through typewritten documents with the family lawyer; and then,feeling himself a lonely and hopeless millionaire, hurried down to the old

jewelrystoreacrossSixthAvenue.Kenwitz unscrewed a magnifying glass from his eye, routed out his parentfromadingyrearroom,andabandonedtheinteriorofwatchesforoutdoors.HewentwithDan,andtheysatonabenchinWashingtonSquare.Danhadnotchangedmuch;hewasstalwart,andhadadignity thatwas inclined to relaxinto a grin. Kenwitz was more serious, more intense, more learned,philosophicalandsocialistic."Iknowaboutitnow,"saidDan,finally."Ipumpeditoutoftheeminentlegallightsthatturnedovertomepoorolddad'scollectionsofbondsandboodle.Itamounts to $2,000,000, Ken. And I am told that he squeezed it out of thechaps thatpay theirpennies for loavesofbreadat littlebakeries around thecorner.You'vestudiedeconomics,Dan,andyouknowallaboutmonopolies,and the masses, and octopuses, and the rights of laboring people. I neverthought about those things before. Football and trying to be white to myfellow-manwereabouttheextentofmycollegecurriculum."But since I came back and found out how dadmade hismoney I've beenthinking.I'dlikeawfullywelltopaybackthosechapswhohadtogiveuptoomuchmoneyforbread.Iknowitwouldbuckthelineofmyincomeforagoodmanyyards;butI'dliketomakeitsquarewith'em.Isthereanywayitcanbedone,oldWaysandMeans?"Kenwitz's big black eyes glowed fierily. His thin, intellectual face took onalmost a sardonic cast.HecaughtDan's armwith thegripof a friendandajudge."Youcan'tdoit!"hesaid,emphatically."Oneofthechiefpunishmentsofyoumenofill-gottenwealthisthatwhenyoudorepentyoufindthatyouhavelostthe power to make reparation or restitution. I admire your good intentions,Dan,butyoucan't doanything.Thosepeoplewere robbedof theirpreciouspennies.It'stoolatetoremedytheevil.Youcan'tpaythemback""Ofcourse,"saidDan,lightinghispipe,"wecouldn'thuntupeveryoneoftheduffersandhand'embacktherightchange.There'sanawfullotof'embuyingbreadallthetime.Funnytastetheyhave—Inevercaredforbreadespecially,except fora toastedcrackerwith theRoquefort.Butwemight finda fewof'emandchucksomeofdad'scashbackwhereitcamefrom.I'dfeelbetterifIcould. It seems tough forpeople tobeheldup for a soggy thing likebread.Onewouldn'tmindstandingariseinbroiledlobstersordeviledcrabs.Gettoworkandthink,Ken.IwanttopaybackallofthatmoneyIcan.""Thereareplentyofcharities,"saidKenwitz,mechanically."Easyenough,"saidDan,inacloudofsmoke."IsupposeIcouldgivethecityapark,orendowanasparagusbedinahospital.ButIdon'twantPaultogetawaywiththeproceedsofthegoldbrickwesoldPeter.It'sthebreadshortsI

wanttocover,Ken."ThethinfingersofKenwitzmovedrapidly."Do you know how much money it would take to pay back the losses ofconsumersduringthatcornerinflour?"heasked."Idonot."saidDan,stoutly."MylawyertellsmethatIhavetwomillions.""If you had a hundred millions," said Kenwitz, vehemently, "you couldn'trepair a thousandth part of the damage that has been done. You cannotconceiveoftheaccumulatedevilsproducedbymisappliedwealth.Eachpennythatwaswrungfromtheleanpursesofthepoorreactedathousandfoldtotheirharm.Youdonotunderstand.Youdonotseehowhopelessisyourdesiretomakerestitution.Notinasingleinstancecanitbedone.""Backup,philosopher!" saidDan. "Thepennyhasnosorrow that thedollarcannotheal.""Notinoneinstance,"repeatedKenwitz."Iwillgiveyouone,andletussee.ThomasBoynehadalittlebakeryoverthereinVarickStreet.Hesoldbreadtothepoorestpeople.Whenthepriceofflourwentuphehadtoraisethepriceofbread.Hiscustomersweretoopoortopayit,Boyne'sbusinessfailedandhelosthis$1,000capital—allhehadintheworld."DanKinsolvingstrucktheparkbenchamightyblowwithhisfist."Iaccepttheinstance,"hecried."TakemetoBoyne.Iwillrepayhisthousanddollarsandbuyhimanewbakery.""Writeyourcheck,"saidKenwitz,withoutmoving,"and thenbegin towritechecks in payment of the train of consequences. Draw the next one for$50,000.Boynewentinsaneafterhisfailureandsetfiretothebuildingfromwhich hewas about to be evicted. The loss amounted to thatmuch.Boynediedinanasylum.""Sticktotheinstance,"saidDan."Ihaven'tnoticedanyinsurancecompaniesonmycharitylist.""Drawyournextcheckfor$100,000,"wentonKenwitz."Boyne'ssonfellintobad ways after the bakery closed, and was accused of murder. He wasacquitted lastweekaftera threeyears' legalbattle,and thestatedrawsupontaxpayersforthatmuchexpense.""Back to thebakery!"exclaimedDan, impatiently."TheGovernmentdoesn'tneedtostandinthebreadline.""Thelast itemof the instanceis—comeandIwillshowyou,"saidKenwitz,rising.TheSocialisticwatchmakerwashappy.Hewasamillionaire-baiterbynatureandapessimistbytrade.Kenwitzwouldassureyouinonebreaththatmoney

wasbutevilandcorruption,andthatyourbrand-newwatchneededcleaningandanewratchet-wheel.He conducted Kinsolving southward out of the square and into ragged,poverty-haunted Varick Street. Up the narrow stairway of a squalid bricktenementheledthepenitentoffspringoftheOctopus.Heknockedonadoor,andaclearvoicecalledtothemtoenter.Inthatalmostbareroomayoungwomansatsewingatamachine.ShenoddedtoKenwitzastoafamiliaracquaintance.OnelittlestreamofsunlightthroughthedingywindowburnishedherheavyhairtothecolorofanancientTuscan'sshield. She flashed a rippling smile at Kenwitz and a look of somewhatflusteredinquiry.Kinsolving stood regarding her clear and pathetic beauty in heart-throbbingsilence.ThustheycameintothepresenceofthelastitemoftheInstance."Howmany thisweek,MissMary?" asked thewatchmaker.Amountain ofcoarsegrayshirtslayuponthefloor."Nearlythirtydozen,"saidtheyoungwomancheerfully."I'vemadealmost$4.I'mimproving,Mr.Kenwitz.Ihardlyknowwhattodowithsomuchmoney."Hereyesturned,brightlysoft,inthedirectionofDan.Alittlepinkspotcameoutonherround,palecheek.Kenwitzchuckledlikeadiabolicraven."MissBoyne," he said, "letme presentMr.Kinsolving, the son of themanwhoputbreadupfiveyearsago.Hethinkshewouldliketodosomethingtoaidthosewhowhereinconveniencedbythatact."The smile left theyoungwoman's face.She rose andpointedher forefingertowardthedoor.ThistimeshelookedKinsolvingstraightintheeye,butitwasnotalookthatgavedelight.ThetwomenwentdownVarickStreet.Kenwitz,lettingallhispessimismandrancorandhatredof theOctopuscometo thesurface,gibedat themoneyedsideofhis friend inanacrid torrentofwords.Danappeared tobe listening,andthenturnedtoKenwitzandshookhandswithhimwarmly."I'm obliged to you, Ken, old man," he said, vaguely—"a thousand timesobliged.""MeinGott!youarecrazy!"criedthewatchmaker,droppinghisspectaclesforthefirsttimeinyears.TwomonthsafterwardKenwitzwentintoalargebakeryonlowerBroadwaywithapairofgold-rimmedeyeglassesthathehadmendedfortheproprietor.AladywasgivinganordertoaclerkasKenwitzpassedher."Theseloavesaretencents,"saidtheclerk.

"Ialwaysgetthemateightcentsuptown,"saidthelady."Youneednotfilltheorder.Iwilldrivebythereonmywayhome."Thevoicewasfamiliar.Thewatchmakerpaused."Mr.Kenwitz!"criedthelady,heartily."Howdoyoudo?"Kenwitzwastryingtotrainhissocialisticandeconomiccomprehensiononherwonderfulfurboaandthecarriagewaitingoutside."Why,MissBoyne!"hebegan."Mrs.Kinsolving,"shecorrected."DanandIweremarriedamonthago."

XITHETHING'STHEPLAY

Beingacquaintedwithanewspaperreporterwhohadacoupleoffreepasses,Igottoseetheperformanceafewnightsagoatoneofthepopularvaudevillehouses.Oneofthenumberswasaviolinsolobyastriking-lookingmannotmuchpastforty,butwithverygraythickhair.Notbeingafflictedwithatasteformusic,IletthesystemofnoisesdriftpastmyearswhileIregardedtheman."Therewas a story about that chap amonth or two ago," said the reporter."Theygavemetheassignment.Itwastorunacolumnandwastobeontheextremelylightandjokingorder.TheoldmanseemstolikethefunnytouchIgivetolocalhappenings.Oh,yes,I'mworkingonafarcecomedynow.Well,Iwentdowntothehouseandgotallthedetails;butIcertainlyfelldownonthatjob.Iwentbackandturnedinacomicwrite-upofaneastsidefuneralinstead.Why?Oh, Icouldn't seemtogetholdof itwithmyfunnyhooks, somehow.Maybeyoucouldmakeaone-acttragedyoutofitforacurtain-raiser.I'llgiveyouthedetails."Aftertheperformancemyfriend,thereporter,recitedtomethefactsovertheWürzburger."Iseenoreason,"saidI,whenhehadconcluded,"whythatshouldn'tmakearattling good funny story.Those three people couldn't have acted in amoreabsurdandpreposterousmanneriftheyhadbeenrealactorsinarealtheatre.I'mreallyafraidthatallthestageisaworld,anyhow,andalltheplayersmenandwomen.'Thething'stheplay,'isthewayIquoteMr.Shakespeare.""Tryit,"saidthereporter."Iwill,"saidI;andIdid,toshowhimhowhecouldhavemadeahumorouscolumnofitforhispaper.

There stands a house nearAbingdonSquare.On the ground floor there hasbeenfortwenty-fiveyearsalittlestorewheretoysandnotionsandstationeryaresold.Onenighttwentyyearsagotherewasaweddingintheroomsabovethestore.The Widow Mayo owned the house and store. Her daughter Helen wasmarriedtoFrankBarry.JohnDelaneywasbestman.Helenwaseighteen,andher picture had been printed in amorning paper next to the headlines of a"Wholesale FemaleMurderess" story fromButte,Mont. But after your eyeandintelligencehadrejectedtheconnection,youseizedyourmagnifyingglassandreadbeneath theportraitherdescriptionasoneofaseriesofProminentBeautiesandBellesofthelowerwestside.FrankBarry and JohnDelaneywere "prominent" young beaux of the sameside, and bosom friends,whomyou expected to turn upon each other everytime the curtainwent up. Onewho pays hismoney for orchestra seats andfictionexpectsthis.Thatisthefirstfunnyideathathasturnedupinthestoryyet. Both had made a great race for Helen's hand.When Frank won, Johnshookhishandandcongratulatedhim—honestly,hedid.After the ceremony Helen ran upstairs to put on her hat. She was gettingmarriedinatravelingdress.SheandFrankweregoingtoOldPointComfortfor a week. Downstairs the usual horde of gibbering cave-dwellers werewaiting with their hands full of old Congress gaiters and paper bags ofhominy.Then therewasa rattleof the fire-escape,and intoher room jumps themadand infatuated JohnDelaney,with a damp curl drooping upon his forehead,andmadeviolentandreprehensiblelovetohislostone,entreatinghertofleeorflywithhimtotheRiviera,ortheBronx,oranyoldplacewherethereareItalianskiesanddolcefarniente.It would have carried Blaney off his feet to see Helen repulse him. Withblazingandscornfuleyesshefairlywitheredhimbydemandingwhateverhemeantbyspeakingtorespectablepeoplethatway.Inafewmomentsshehadhimgoing.Themanlinessthathadpossessedhimdeparted.Hebowedlow,andsaidsomethingabout"irresistibleimpulse"and"forevercarry inhisheart thememoryof"—andshesuggested thathecatchthefirstfire-escapegoingdown."I will away," said John Delaney, "to the furthermost parts of the earth. Icannotremainnearyouandknowthatyouareanother's.IwilltoAfrica,andthereamidotherscenesstrivetofor—""Forgoodnesssake,getout,"saidHelen."Somebodymightcomein."Hekneltupononeknee,andsheextendedhimonewhitehandthathemight

giveitafarewellkiss.Girls,wasthischoiceboonofthegreatlittlegodCupidevervouchsafedyou—tohavethefellowyouwanthardandfast,andhavetheoneyoudon'twantcomewithadampcurlonhisforeheadandkneeltoyouandbabbleofAfricaandlovewhich,inspiteofeverything,shallforeverbloom,anamaranth,inhisheart?Toknowyourpower,andtofeelthesweetsecurityofyourownhappystate; to send the unlucky one, broken-hearted, to foreign climes,while youcongratulateyourselfashepresseshislastkissuponyourknuckles,thatyournailsarewellmanicured—say,girls, it'sgalluptious—don't ever let itgetbyyou.Andthen,ofcourse—howdidyouguessit?—thedooropenedandinstalkedthebridegroom,jealousofslow-tyingbonnetstrings.The farewell kisswas imprinted uponHelen's hand, and out of thewindowanddownthefire-escapesprangJohnDelaney,Africabound.Alittleslowmusic,ifyouplease—faintviolin,justabreathintheclarinetanda touchof the 'cello. Imagine the scene. Frank,white-hot,with the cry of amanwoundedtodeathburstingfromhim.Helen,rushingandclingingtohim,trying toexplain.Hecatchesherwristsand tears themfromhisshoulders—once, twice, thrice he sways her thisway and that—the stagemanagerwillshow you how—and throws her from him to the floor a huddled, crushed,moaningthing.Never,hecries,willhelookuponherfaceagain,andrushesfromthehousethroughthestaringgroupsofastonishedguests.And,nowbecauseitistheThinginsteadofthePlay,theaudiencemuststrollout into the real lobby of the world and marry, die, grow gray, rich, poor,happyorsadduringtheintermissionoftwentyyearswhichmustprecedetherisingofthecurtainagain.Mrs.Barry inherited the shop and the house.At thirty-eight she could havebested many an eighteen-year-old at a beauty show on points and generalresults.Onlyafewpeoplerememberedherweddingcomedy,butshemadeofitnosecret.Shedidnotpackitinlavenderormothballs,nordidshesellittoamagazine.Onedayamiddle-agedmoney-makinglawyer,whoboughthislegalcapandinkofher,askedheracrossthecountertomarryhim."I'm really much obliged to you," said Helen, cheerfully, "but I marriedanothermantwentyyearsago.Hewasmoreagoosethanaman,butIthinkIlove him yet. I have never seen him since about half an hour after theceremony.Wasitcopyinginkthatyouwantedorjustwritingfluid?"Thelawyerbowedover thecounterwithold-timegraceand leftarespectfulkissonthebackofherhand.Helensighed.Partingsalutes,howeverromantic,

maybeoverdone.Hereshewasatthirty-eight,beautifulandadmired;andallthat she seemed to have got from her lovers were approaches and adieus.Worsestill,inthelastoneshehadlostacustomer,too.Businesslanguished,andshehungoutaRoomtoLetcard.Twolargeroomson the third floor were prepared for desirable tenants. Roomers came, andwent regretfully, for the house of Mrs. Barry was the abode of neatness,comfortandtaste.OnedaycameRamonti,theviolinist,andengagedthefrontroomabove.Thediscordandclatteruptownoffendedhisniceear;soafriendhadsenthimtothisoasisinthedesertofnoise.Ramonti, with his still youthful face, his dark eyebrows, his short, pointed,foreign, brown beard, his distinguished head of gray hair, and his artist'stemperament—revealed in his light, gay and sympathetic manner—was awelcometenantintheoldhousenearAbingdonSquare.Helen livedon the floor above the store.Thearchitectureof itwas singularandquaint.Thehallwaslargeandalmostsquare.Uponesideofit,andthenacross the endof it ascended anopen stairway to the floor above.This hallspaceshehadfurnishedasasittingroomandofficecombined.Thereshekepther desk andwrote her business letters; and there she sat of evenings by awarm fire and a bright red light and sewed or read. Ramonti found theatmosphere so agreeable that he spent much time there, describing toMrs.BarrythewondersofParis,wherehehadstudiedwithaparticularlynotoriousandnoisyfiddler.NextcomeslodgerNo.2,ahandsome,melancholymanintheearly40's,witha brown, mysterious beard, and strangely pleading, haunting eyes. He, too,found the society of Helen a desirable thing.With the eyes of Romeo andOthello'stongue,hecharmedherwithtalesofdistantclimesandwooedherbyrespectfulinnuendo.FromthefirstHelenfeltamarvelousandcompellingthrillinthepresenceofthisman.Hisvoicesomehowtookherswiftlybacktothedaysofheryouth'sromance. This feeling grew, and she gave way to it, and it led her to aninstinctivebelief thathehadbeena factor in that romance.And thenwithawoman's reasoning (oh, yes, they do, sometimes) she leaped over commonsyllogisms and theory, and logic, and was sure that her husband had comebacktoher.Forshesawinhiseyeslove,whichnowomancanmistake,andathousandtonsofregretandremorse,whicharousedpity,which isperilouslyneartoloverequited,whichisthesinequanoninthehousethatJackbuilt.But she made no sign. A husband who steps around the corner for twentyyearsandthendropsinagainshouldnotexpecttofindhisslipperslaidouttooconveniently near nor a match ready lighted for his cigar. There must be

expiation, explanation, and possibly execration.A little purgatory, and then,maybe, if he were properly humble, he might be trusted with a harp andcrown.Andsoshemadenosignthatshekneworsuspected.Andmyfriend, thereporter,couldseenothingfunny in this!Sentoutonanassignment towrite up a roaring, hilarious, brilliant joshing story of—but Iwillnotknockabrother—letusgoonwiththestory.OneeveningRamontistopped inHelen'shall-office-reception-roomand toldhislovewiththetendernessandardoroftheenrapturedartist.Hiswordswerea bright flame of the divine fire that glows in the heart of amanwho is adreameranddoercombined."Butbeforeyougivemeananswer,"hewenton,beforeshecouldaccusehimofsuddenness,"Imusttellyouthat'Ramonti'istheonlynameIhavetoofferyou.Mymanager gaveme that. I do not knowwho I am orwhere I camefrom.Myfirstrecollectionisofopeningmyeyesinahospital.Iwasayoungman, and I had been there forweeks.My life before that is a blank tome.TheytoldmethatIwasfoundlyinginthestreetwithawoundonmyheadandwas brought there in an ambulance. They thought I must have fallen andstruckmyheaduponthestones.TherewasnothingtoshowwhoIwas.Ihaveneverbeenabletoremember.AfterIwasdischargedfromthehospital,Itookup the violin. I have had success. Mrs. Barry—I do not know your nameexceptthat—Iloveyou;thefirsttimeIsawyouIrealizedthatyouweretheonewomanintheworldforme—and"—oh,alotofstufflikethat.Helenfeltyoungagain.Firstawaveofprideandasweetlittlethrillofvanitywentalloverher;andthenshelookedRamontiintheeyes,andatremendousthrobwent throughher heart. Shehadn't expected that throb. It tookher bysurprise.Themusicianhadbecomeabigfactorinherlife,andshehadn'tbeenawareofit."Mr.Ramonti,"shesaidsorrowfully(thiswasnotonthestage,remember; itwas in the old home near Abingdon Square), "I'm awfully sorry, but I'm amarriedwoman."Andthenshetoldhimthesadstoryofherlife,asaheroinemustdo,soonerorlater,eithertoatheatricalmanagerortoareporter.Ramontitookherhand,bowedlowandkissedit,andwentuptohisroom.Helen sat down and lookedmournfully at her hand.Well shemight. Threesuitorshadkissedit,mountedtheirredroansteedsandriddenaway.Inanhourenteredthemysteriousstrangerwiththehauntingeyes.Helenwasin thewillow rocker, knitting a useless thing in cotton-wool.He ricochetedfromthestairsandstoppedforachat.Sittingacrossthetablefromher,healsopoured out his narrative of love. And then he said: "Helen, do you not

rememberme?IthinkIhaveseenitinyoureyes.Canyouforgivethepastandrememberthelovethathaslastedfortwentyyears?Iwrongedyoudeeply—Iwasafraid tocomeback toyou—butmy loveoverpoweredmy reason.Canyou,willyou,forgiveme?"Helenstoodup.Themysteriousstrangerheldoneofherhandsinastrongandtremblingclasp.Thereshestood,andIpitythestagethatithasnotacquiredascenelikethatandheremotionstoportray.Forshestoodwithadividedheart.Thefresh,unforgettable,virginalloveforherbridegroomwashers; the treasured,sacred,honoredmemoryofher firstchoicefilledhalfhersoul.Sheleanedtothatpurefeeling.Honorandfaithandsweet,abidingromanceboundhertoit.Buttheotherhalfofherheartandsoulwasfilledwithsomethingelse—alater,fuller,nearerinfluence.Andsotheoldfoughtagainstthenew.And while she hesitated, from the room above came the soft, racking,petitionarymusicofaviolin.Thehag,music,bewitchessomeofthenoblest.Thedawsmaypeckuponone'ssleevewithoutinjury,butwhoeverwearshisheartuponhistympanumgetsitnotfarfromtheneck.Thismusicandthemusiciancalledher,andathersidehonorandtheoldloveheldherback."Forgiveme,"hepleaded."Twentyyearsisalongtimetoremainawayfromtheoneyousayyoulove,"shedeclared,withapurgatorialtouch."HowcouldI tell?"hebegged."Iwillconcealnothingfromyou.ThatnightwhenheleftIfollowedhim.Iwasmadwithjealousy.OnadarkstreetIstruckhimdown.Hedidnotrise.Iexaminedhim.Hisheadhadstruckastone.Ididnotintendtokillhim.Iwasmadwithloveandjealousy.Ihidnearbyandsawanambulancetakehimaway.Althoughyoumarriedhim,Helen—""WhoAreYou?"criedthewoman,withwide-openeyes,snatchingherhandaway."Don'tyourememberme,Helen—theonewhohasalwayslovedyoubest?IamJohnDelaney.Ifyoucanforgive—"Butshewasgone,leaping,stumbling,hurrying,flyingupthestairstowardthemusicandhimwhohadforgotten,butwhohadknownherforhisineachofhistwoexistences,andassheclimbedupshesobbed,criedandsang:"Frank!Frank!Frank!"Threemortalsthusjugglingwithyearsasthoughtheywerebilliardballs,andmyfriend,thereporter,couldn'tseeanythingfunnyinit!

XIIARAMBLEINAPHASIA

MywifeandIpartedonthatmorninginpreciselyourusualmanner.Shelefthersecondcupofteatofollowmetothefrontdoor.Thereshepluckedfrommylapel the invisiblestrandof lint (theuniversalactofwoman toproclaimownership)andbademetotakecareofmycold.Ihadnocold.Nextcameherkiss of parting—the level kiss of domesticity flavored with Young Hyson.There was no fear of the extemporaneous, of variety spicing her infinitecustom.Withthedefttouchoflongmalpractice,shedabbedawrymywell-setscarfpin;andthen,asIclosedthedoor,Iheardhermorningslipperspatteringbacktohercoolingtea.When I set out I had no thought or premonition ofwhatwas to occur. Theattackcamesuddenly.FormanyweeksIhadbeentoiling,almostnightandday,atafamousrailroadlawcasethatIwontriumphantlybutafewdayspreviously.Infact,Ihadbeendigging away at the law almost without cessation formany years. Once ortwicegoodDoctorVolney,myfriendandphysician,hadwarnedme."If you don't slacken up, Bellford," he said, "you'll go suddenly to pieces.Eitheryournervesoryourbrainwillgiveway.Tellme,doesaweekpassinwhichyoudonotreadinthepapersofacaseofaphasia—ofsomemanlost,wanderingnameless,withhispastandhis identityblottedout—andall fromthatlittlebrainclotmadebyoverworkorworry?""I always thought," said I, "that the clot in those instanceswas really to befoundonthebrainsofthenewspaperreporters."DoctorVolneyshookhishead."Thediseaseexists,"hesaid."Youneedachangeorarest.Court-room,officeandhome—there is theonly routeyou travel.For recreationyou—read lawbooks.Bettertakewarningintime.""OnThursdaynights," Isaid,defensively,"mywifeandIplaycribbage.OnSundays she reads tome theweekly letter fromhermother.That lawbooksarenotarecreationremainsyettobeestablished."That morning as I walked I was thinking of Doctor Volney's words. I wasfeelingaswellasIusuallydid—possiblyinbetterspiritsthanusual.I woke with stiff and cramped muscles from having slept long on theincommodiousseatofadaycoach.Ileanedmyheadagainsttheseatandtriedtothink.AfteralongtimeIsaidtomyself:"Imusthaveanameofsomesort."

Isearchedmypockets.Notacard;notaletter;notapaperormonogramcouldI find. But I found in my coat pocket nearly $3,000 in bills of largedenomination. "I must be some one, of course," I repeated to myself, andbeganagaintoconsider.Thecarwaswellcrowdedwithmen,amongwhom,Itoldmyself,theremusthavebeensomecommoninterest,fortheyintermingledfreely,andseemedinthebestgoodhumorandspirits.Oneofthem—astout,spectacledgentlemanenvelopedinadecidedodorofcinnamonandaloes—tookthevacanthalfofmy seat with a friendly nod, and unfolded a newspaper. In the intervalsbetween his periods of reading, we conversed, as travelers will, on currentaffairs.Ifoundmyselfabletosustaintheconversationonsuchsubjectswithcredit,atleasttomymemory.Byandbymycompanionsaid:"Youareoneofus,ofcourse.FinelotofmentheWestsendsinthistime.I'mgladtheyheldtheconventioninNewYork;I'veneverbeenEastbefore.Myname'sR.P.Bolder—Bolder&Son,ofHickoryGrove,Missouri."Thoughunprepared,Irosetotheemergency,asmenwillwhenputtoit.NowmustIholdachristening,andbeatoncebabe,parsonandparent.Mysensescameto therescueofmyslowerbrain.The insistentodorofdrugsfrommycompanionsuppliedoneidea;aglanceathisnewspaper,wheremyeyemetaconspicuousadvertisement,assistedmefurther."Myname,"saidI,glibly,"isEdwardPinkhammer. Iamadruggist,andmyhomeisinCornopolis,Kansas.""I knew you were a druggist," said my fellow traveler, affably. "I saw thecallousspotonyour right forefingerwhere thehandleof thepestle rubs.Ofcourse,youareadelegatetoourNationalConvention.""Areallthesemendruggists?"Iasked,wonderingly."Theyare.This car came through from theWest.And they'reyourold-timedruggists, too—none of your patent tablet-and-granule pharmashootists thatuse slot machines instead of a prescription desk. We percolate our ownparegoric and roll our own pills, andwe ain't above handling a few gardenseedsinthespring,andcarryingasidelineofconfectioneryandshoes.ItellyouHampinker, I've got an idea to springon this convention—new ideas iswhattheywant.Now,youknowtheshelfbottlesoftartaremeticandRochellesaltAnt.etPot.Tart.andSod.etPot.Tart.—one'spoison,youknow,andtheother's harmless. It's easy to mistake one label for the other. Where dodruggistsmostlykeep'em?Why,asfarapartaspossible,ondifferentshelves.That's wrong. I say keep 'em side by side, sowhen youwant one you canalwayscompareitwiththeotherandavoidmistakes.Doyoucatchtheidea?""Itseemstomeaverygoodone,"Isaid.

"All right!When I spring it on the convention you back it up.We'll makesome of these Eastern orange-phosphate-and-massage-cream professors thatthinkthey'retheonlylozengesinthemarketlooklikehypodermictablets.""IfIcanbeofanyaid,"Isaid,warming,"thetwobottlesof—er—""Tartrateofantimonyandpotash,andtartrateofsodaandpotash.""Shallhenceforthsitsidebyside,"Iconcluded,firmly."Now, there's another thing," said Mr. Bolder. "For an excipient inmanipulatingapillmasswhichdoyouprefer—themagnesiacarbonateorthepulverisedglycerrhizaradix?""The—er—magnesia,"Isaid.Itwaseasiertosaythantheotherword.Mr.Bolderglancedatmedistrustfullythroughhisspectacles."Givemetheglycerrhiza,"saidhe."Magnesiacakes.""Here'sanotheroneof these fakeaphasiacases,"hesaid,presently,handingmehisnewspaper,andlayinghisfingeruponanarticle."Idon'tbelievein'em.Iputnineoutof tenof 'emdownasfrauds.Amangetssickofhisbusinessandhis folks andwants to have a good time.He skips out somewhere, andwhentheyfindhimhepretendstohavelosthismemory—don'tknowhisownname, and won't even recognize the strawberry mark on his wife's leftshoulder.Aphasia!Tut!Whycan'ttheystayathomeandforget?"Itookthepaperandread,afterthepungentheadlines,thefollowing:"DENVER,June12.—ElwynC.Bellford,aprominentlawyer,ismysteriouslymissingfromhishomesincethreedaysago,andalleffortstolocatehimhavebeeninvain.Mr.Bellfordisawell-knowncitizenofthehigheststanding,andhasenjoyedalargeandlucrativelawpractice.HeismarriedandownsafinehomeandthemostextensiveprivatelibraryintheState.Onthedayofhisdisappearance,hedrewquitealargesumofmoneyfromhisbank.Noonecanbefoundwhosawhimafterheleftthebank.Mr.Bellfordwasamanofsingularlyquietanddomestictastes,andseemedtofindhishappinessinhishomeandprofession.Ifanyclueatallexiststohisstrangedisappearance,itmaybefoundinthefactthatforsomemonthshehasbeendeeplyabsorbedinanimportantlawcaseinconnectionwiththeQ.Y.andZ.RailroadCompany.Itisfearedthatoverworkmayhaveaffectedhismind.Everyeffortisbeingmadetodiscoverthewhereaboutsofthemissingman.""Itseems tomeyouarenotaltogetheruncynical,Mr.Bolder," Isaid,after Ihad read the despatch. "This has the sound, tome, of a genuine case.Whyshouldthisman,prosperous,happilymarried,andrespected,choosesuddenlytoabandoneverything?Iknowthattheselapsesofmemorydooccur,andthatmendofindthemselvesadriftwithoutaname,ahistoryorahome."

"Oh,gammonandjalap!"saidMr.Bolder."It'slarksthey'reafter.There'stoomuch education nowadays.Menknowabout aphasia, and they use it for anexcuse.Thewomenarewise,too.Whenit'sallovertheylookyouintheeye,asscientificasyouplease,andsay:'Hehypnotizedme.'"Thus Mr. Bolder diverted, but did not aid, me with his comments andphilosophy.Wearrived inNewYorkabout tenatnight. I rode inacab toahotel,and Iwrote my name "Edward Pinkhammer" in the register. As I did so I feltpervade me a splendid, wild, intoxicating buoyancy—a sense of unlimitedfreedom,ofnewly attainedpossibilities. Iwas just born into theworld.Theoldfetters—whatevertheyhadbeen—werestrickenfrommyhandsandfeet.Thefuturelaybeforemeaclearroadsuchasaninfantenters,andIcouldsetoutuponitequippedwithaman'slearningandexperience.Ithoughtthehotelclerklookedatmefivesecondstoolong.Ihadnobaggage."TheDruggists'Convention,"Isaid."Mytrunkhassomehowfailedtoarrive."Idrewoutarollofmoney."Ah!" saidhe, showinganauriferous tooth, "wehavequiteanumberof theWesterndelegatesstoppinghere."Hestruckabellfortheboy.Iendeavoredtogivecolortomyrôle."There is an importantmovementon foot amongusWesterners," I said, "inregard toarecommendation to theconvention that thebottlescontaining thetartrateofantimonyandpotash,andthetartrateofsodiumandpotashbekeptinacontiguouspositionontheshelf.""Gentlemantothree-fourteen,"saidtheclerk,hastily.Iwaswhiskedawaytomyroom.The next day I bought a trunk and clothing, and began to live the life ofEdwardPinkhammer.Ididnottaxmybrainwithendeavorstosolveproblemsofthepast.Itwasapiquantandsparklingcupthatthegreatislandcityhelduptomylips.Idrankof itgratefully.ThekeysofManhattanbelongtohimwhoisable tobearthem.Youmustbeeitherthecity'sguestoritsvictim.The following few days were as gold and silver. Edward Pinkhammer, yetcountingback to his birth byhours only, knew the rare joyof having comeuponsodivertingaworldfull-fledgedandunrestrained.Isatentrancedonthemagiccarpetsprovidedintheatresandroof-gardens,thattransportedoneintostrange and delightful lands full of frolicsome music, pretty girls andgrotesquedrollyextravagantparodiesuponhumankind.Iwenthereandthereatmy own dear will, bound by no limits of space, time or comportment. Idined inweird cabarets, at weirder tables d'hôte to the sound ofHungarian

musicandthewildshoutsofmercurialartistsandsculptors.Or,again,wherethenight lifequiversintheelectricglarelikeakinetoscopicpicture,andthemillineryoftheworld,anditsjewels,andtheoneswhomtheyadorn,andthemenwhomakeall threepossiblearemetforgoodcheerand thespectaculareffect.AndamongallthesescenesthatIhavementionedIlearnedonethingthatIneverknewbefore.AndthatisthatthekeytolibertyisnotinthehandsofLicense,butConventionholdsit.Comityhasatoll-gateatwhichyoumustpay,oryoumaynotenterthelandofFreedom.Inalltheglitter,theseemingdisorder, the parade, the abandon, I saw this law, unobtrusive, yet like iron,prevail.Therefore,inManhattanyoumustobeytheseunwrittenlaws,andthenyouwillbefreestofthefree.Ifyoudeclinetobeboundbythem,youputonshackles.Sometimes,asmymoodurgedme,Iwouldseekthestately,softlymurmuringpalm rooms, redolent with high-born life and delicate restraint, inwhich todine. Again I would go down to the waterways in steamers packed withvociferous, bedecked, unchecked love-making clerks and shop-girls to theircrude pleasures on the island shores. And there was always Broadway—glistening, opulent, wily, varying, desirable Broadway—growing upon onelikeanopiumhabit.OneafternoonasIenteredmyhotelastoutmanwithabignoseandablackmustacheblockedmywayinthecorridor.WhenIwouldhavepassedaroundhim,hegreetmewithoffensivefamiliarity."Hello, Bellford!" he cried, loudly. "What the deuce are you doing in NewYork?Didn'tknowanythingcoulddragyouawayfromthatoldbookdenofyours.IsMrs.B.alongoristhisalittlebusinessrunalone,eh?""You havemade amistake, sir," I said, coldly, releasingmy hand from hisgrasp."MynameisPinkhammer.Youwillexcuseme."Themandroppedtooneside,apparentlyastonished.AsIwalkedtotheclerk'sdeskIheardhimcalltoabellboyandsaysomethingabouttelegraphblanks."Youwillgivememybill,"Isaidtotheclerk,"andhavemybaggagebroughtdown in half an hour. I do not care to remain where I am annoyed byconfidencemen."Imovedthatafternoontoanotherhotel,asedate,old-fashionedoneonlowerFifthAvenue.Therewasarestauranta littlewayoffBroadwaywhereonecouldbeservedalmost al fresco in a tropic arrayof screening flora.Quiet and luxury and aperfect service made it an ideal place in which to take luncheon orrefreshment.OneafternoonIwastherepickingmywaytoatableamongthefernswhenIfeltmysleevecaught.

"Mr.Bellford!"exclaimedanamazinglysweetvoice.I turned quickly to see a lady seated alone—a lady of about thirty, withexceedinglyhandsomeeyes,wholookedatmeasthoughIhadbeenherverydearfriend."Youwereabouttopassme,"shesaid,accusingly."Don'ttellmeyoudonotknowme.Whyshouldwenotshakehands—atleastonceinfifteenyears?"I shook hands with her at once. I took a chair opposite her at the table. Isummonedwithmy eyebrows a hoveringwaiter.The ladywasphilanderingwithanorangeice.Iorderedacrèmedementhe.Herhairwasreddishbronze.Youcouldnotlookatit,becauseyoucouldnotlookawayfromhereyes.Butyouwereconsciousof itasyouareconsciousofsunsetwhileyou look intotheprofunditiesofawoodattwilight."Areyousureyouknowme?"Iasked."No,"shesaid,smiling."Iwasneversureofthat.""Whatwouldyouthink,"Isaid,alittleanxiously,"ifIweretotellyouthatmynameisEdwardPinkhammer,fromCornopolis,Kansas?""WhatwouldIthink?"sherepeated,withamerryglance."Why,thatyouhadnotbroughtMrs.BellfordtoNewYorkwithyou,ofcourse.Idowishyouhad.IwouldhavelikedtoseeMarian."Hervoiceloweredslightly—"Youhaven'tchangedmuch,Elwyn."Ifeltherwonderfuleyessearchingmineandmyfacemoreclosely."Yes,youhave,"sheamended,andtherewasasoft,exultantnoteinherlatesttones;"Iseeitnow.Youhaven'tforgotten.Youhaven'tforgottenforayearoradayoranhour.Itoldyouyounevercould."Ipokedmystrawanxiouslyinthecrèmedementhe."I'msureIbegyourpardon,"Isaid,alittleuneasyathergaze."Butthatisjustthetrouble.Ihaveforgotten.I'veforgotteneverything."She floutedmy denial. She laughed deliciously at something she seemed toseeinmyface."I'veheardofyouattimes,"shewenton."You'requiteabiglawyeroutWest—Denver, isn't it, orLosAngeles?Marianmust beveryproudof you.Youknew,Isuppose,thatImarriedsixmonthsafteryoudid.Youmayhaveseenitinthepapers.Theflowersalonecosttwothousanddollars."Shehadmentionedfifteenyears.Fifteenyearsisalongtime."Would it be too late," I asked, somewhat timorously, "to offer youcongratulations?""Not if you dare do it," she answered,with such fine intrepidity that Iwas

silent,andbegantocreasepatternsontheclothwithmythumbnail."Tellme one thing," she said, leaning towardme rather eagerly—"a thing Ihave wanted to know for many years—just from a woman's curiosity, ofcourse—haveyoueverdaredsincethatnighttotouch,smellorlookatwhiteroses—atwhiteroseswetwithrainanddew?"Itookasipofcrèmedementhe."Itwouldbeuseless, I suppose," I said,withasigh,"forme to repeat that Ihave no recollection at all about these things.Mymemory is completely atfault.IneednotsayhowmuchIregretit."The lady rested her arms upon the table, and again her eyes disdained mywordsandwent travelingby theirown routedirect tomysoul.She laughedsoftly,withastrangequalityinthesound—itwasalaughofhappiness—yes,andofcontent—andofmisery.Itriedtolookawayfromher."Youlie,ElwynBellford,"shebreathed,blissfully."Oh,Iknowyoulie!"Igazeddullyintotheferns."MynameisEdwardPinkhammer,"Isaid."IcamewiththedelegatestotheDruggists'NationalConvention.Thereisamovementonfootforarranginganewposition for thebottlesof tartrateofantimonyand tartrateofpotash, inwhich,verylikely,youwouldtakelittleinterest."Ashininglandaustoppedbeforetheentrance.Theladyrose.Itookherhand,andbowed."Iamdeeplysorry,"Isaidtoher,"thatIcannotremember.Icouldexplain,butfear you would not understand. You will not concede Pinkhammer; and Ireallycannotatallconceiveofthe—therosesandotherthings.""Good-by,Mr. Bellford," she said, with her happy, sorrowful smile, as shesteppedintohercarriage.Iattendedthetheatrethatnight.WhenIreturnedtomyhotel,aquietmanindark clothes, who seemed interested in rubbing his finger nails with a silkhandkerchief,appeared,magically,atmyside."Mr.Pinkhammer,"hesaid,givingthebulkofhisattentiontohisforefinger,"mayIrequestyoutostepasidewithmeforalittleconversation?Thereisaroomhere.""Certainly,"Ianswered.He conductedme into a small, private parlor.A lady and a gentlemanwerethere.Thelady,Isurmised,wouldhavebeenunusuallygood-lookinghadherfeaturesnotbeencloudedbyanexpressionofkeenworryandfatigue.Shewasofastyleoffigureandpossessedcoloringandfeaturesthatwereagreeabletomyfancy.Shewasinatravelingdress;shefixeduponmeanearnestlookof

extreme anxiety, and pressed an unsteady hand to her bosom. I think shewouldhavestartedforward,butthegentlemanarrestedhermovementwithanauthoritativemotionofhishand.Hethencame,himself,tomeetme.Hewasamanofforty,alittlegrayaboutthetemples,andwithastrong,thoughtfulface."Bellford,oldman,"hesaid,cordially,"I'mgladtoseeyouagain.Ofcoursewe know everything is all right. I warned you, you know, that you wereoverdoingit.Now,you'llgobackwithus,andbeyourselfagaininnotime."Ismiledironically."Ihavebeen'Bellforded'sooften,"Isaid,"thatithaslostitsedge.Still,intheend, it may grow wearisome. Would you be willing at all to entertain thehypothesis thatmy name is Edward Pinkhammer, and that I never saw youbeforeinmylife?"Beforethemancouldreplyawailingcrycamefromthewoman.Shesprangpast his detaining arm. "Elwyn!" she sobbed, and cast herself uponme, andclungtight."Elwyn,"shecriedagain,"don'tbreakmyheart.Iamyourwife—callmynameonce—justonce.Icouldseeyoudeadratherthanthisway."Iunwoundherarmsrespectfully,butfirmly."Madam," I said, severely, "pardon me if I suggest that you accept aresemblancetooprecipitately.Itisapity,"Iwenton,withanamusedlaugh,asthethoughtoccurredtome,"thatthisBellfordandIcouldnotbekeptsidebysideuponthesameshelfliketartratesofsodiumandantimonyforpurposesofidentification.Inordertounderstandtheallusion,"Iconcludedairily,"itmaybe necessary for you to keep an eye on the proceedings of the Druggists'NationalConvention."Theladyturnedtohercompanion,andgraspedhisarm."Whatisit,DoctorVolney?Oh,whatisit?"shemoaned.Heledhertothedoor."Gotoyourroomforawhile,"Iheardhimsay."Iwillremainandtalkwithhim.Hismind?No,Ithinknot—onlyaportionofthebrain.Yes,Iamsurehewillrecover.Gotoyourroomandleavemewithhim."The lady disappeared. The man in dark clothes also went outside, stillmanicuringhimselfinathoughtfulway.Ithinkhewaitedinthehall."Iwould like to talkwithyouawhile,Mr.Pinkhammer, if Imay," said thegentlemanwhoremained."Very well, if you care to," I replied, "and will excuse me if I take itcomfortably;Iamrathertired."Istretchedmyselfuponacouchbyawindowandlitacigar.Hedrewachairnearby."Let us speak to the point," he said, soothingly. "Your name is not

Pinkhammer.""Iknowthataswellasyoudo,"Isaid,coolly."Butamanmusthaveanameofsomesort.IcanassureyouthatIdonotextravagantlyadmirethenameofPinkhammer.Butwhenone christensone's self suddenly, the finenamesdonotseemtosuggest themselves.But,suppose ithadbeenScheringhausenorScroggins!IthinkIdidverywellwithPinkhammer.""Yourname,"saidtheotherman,seriously,"isElwynC.Bellford.Youareoneof the first lawyers inDenver.You are suffering from an attack of aphasia,which has caused you to forget your identity. The cause of it was over-application to your profession, and, perhaps, a life too bare of naturalrecreationandpleasures.Theladywhohasjustlefttheroomisyourwife.""SheiswhatIwouldcallafine-lookingwoman,"Isaid,afterajudicialpause."Iparticularlyadmiretheshadeofbrowninherhair.""Sheisawifetobeproudof.Sinceyourdisappearance,nearlytwoweeksago,she has scarcely closed her eyes. We learned that you were in New YorkthroughatelegramsentbyIsidoreNewman,atravelingmanfromDenver.Hesaidthathehadmetyouinahotelhere,andthatyoudidnotrecognizehim.""IthinkIremembertheoccasion,"Isaid."Thefellowcalledme'Bellford,'ifIamnotmistaken.Butdon'tyouthinkitabouttime,now,foryoutointroduceyourself?""IamRobertVolney—DoctorVolney.Ihavebeenyourclosefriendfortwentyyears,andyourphysicianforfifteen.IcamewithMrs.Bellfordtotraceyouassoonaswegotthetelegram.Try,Elwyn,oldman—trytoremember!""What's the use to try?" I asked, with a little frown. "You say you are aphysician. Is aphasia curable?When aman loses hismemory does it returnslowly,orsuddenly?""Sometimesgraduallyandimperfectly;sometimesassuddenlyasitwent.""Willyouundertakethetreatmentofmycase,DoctorVolney?"Iasked."Old friend," said he, "I'll do everything in my power, and will have doneeverythingthatsciencecandotocureyou.""Verywell,"saidI."ThenyouwillconsiderthatIamyourpatient.Everythingisinconfidencenow—professionalconfidence.""Ofcourse,"saidDoctorVolney.Igotupfromthecouch.Someonehadsetavaseofwhiterosesonthecentretable—aclusterofwhiteroses,freshlysprinkledandfragrant.Ithrewthemfaroutofthewindow,andthenIlaidmyselfuponthecouchagain."Itwillbebest,Bobby,"Isaid,"tohavethiscurehappensuddenly.I'mrathertiredofitall,anyway.YoumaygonowandbringMarianin.But,oh,Doc,"I

said, with a sigh, as I kicked him on the shin—"good old Doc—it wasglorious!"

XIIIAMUNICIPALREPORT

Thecitiesarefullofpride,Challengingeachtoeach—Thisfromhermountainside,Thatfromherburthenedbeach.R.KIPLING.FancyanovelaboutChicagoorBuffalo, letussay,orNashville,Tennessee!TherearejustthreebigcitiesintheUnitedStatesthatare"storycities"—NewYork,ofcourse,NewOrleans,and,bestof thelot,SanFrancisco.—FRANKNORRIS.East is East, and West is San Francisco, according to Californians.Californiansarea raceofpeople; theyarenotmerely inhabitantsofaState.Theyare theSouthernersof theWest.Now,Chicagoansareno less loyal totheircity;butwhenyouask themwhy, theystammerandspeakof lakefishandthenewOddFellowsBuilding.ButCaliforniansgointodetail.Ofcoursetheyhave,intheclimate,anargumentthatisgoodforhalfanhourwhileyouarethinkingofyourcoalbillsandheavyunderwear.Butassoonastheycometomistakeyoursilenceforconviction,madnesscomesuponthem,andtheypicturethecityoftheGoldenGateastheBagdadoftheNewWorld.Sofar,asamatterofopinion,norefutationisnecessary.But,dearcousinsall(fromAdamandEvedescended),itisarashonewhowilllayhisfingeronthemap and say: "In this town there can be no romance—what could happenhere?"Yes, it isaboldandarashdeed tochallenge inonesentencehistory,romance,andRandandMcNally.NASHVILLE—A city, port of delivery, and the capital of the State ofTennessee,isontheCumberlandRiverandontheN.C.&St.L.andtheL.&N.railroads.ThiscityisregardedasthemostimportanteducationalcentreintheSouth.I stepped off the train at 8 P.M. Having searched the thesaurus in vain foradjectives, Imust, as a substitution, hieme to comparison in the form of arecipe.Take aLondon fog30parts;malaria10parts; gas leaks20parts; dewdrops

gathered in a brick yard at sunrise, 25 parts; odor of honeysuckle 15 parts.Mix.ThemixturewillgiveyouanapproximateconceptionofaNashvilledrizzle.Itis not so fragrant as a moth-ball nor as thick as pea-soup; but 'tis enough—'twillserve.Iwent to a hotel in a tumbril. It required strong self-suppression forme tokeepfromclimbingtothetopofitandgivinganimitationofSidneyCarton.The vehiclewas drawn by beasts of a bygone era and driven by somethingdarkandemancipated.Iwassleepyandtired,sowhenIgot tothehotelIhurriedlypaidit thefiftycents it demanded (with approximate lagniappe, I assure you). I knew itshabits;andIdidnotwanttohearitprateaboutitsold"marster"oranythingthathappened"befo'dewah."Thehotelwasoneofthekinddescribedas"renovated."Thatmeans$20,000worthofnewmarblepillars, tiling, electric lightsandbrasscuspidors in thelobby,andanewL.&N.timetableandalithographofLookoutMountainineachoneof thegreat roomsabove.Themanagementwaswithout reproach,the attention full of exquisite Southern courtesy, the service as slow as theprogress of a snail and as good-humored asRipVanWinkle.The foodwasworth traveling a thousand miles for. There is no other hotel in the worldwhereyoucangetsuchchickenliversenbrochette.At dinner I asked a Negro waiter if there was anything doing in town. Hepondered gravely for aminute, and then replied: "Well, boss, I don't reallyreckonthere'sanythingatalldoin'aftersundown."Sundown had been accomplished; it had been drowned in the drizzle longbefore.Sothatspectaclewasdeniedme.ButIwentforthuponthestreetsinthedrizzletoseewhatmightbethere.Itisbuiltonundulatinggrounds;andthestreetsarelightedbyelectricityatacostof$32,470perannum.AsIleftthehoteltherewasaraceriot.Downuponmechargedacompanyoffreedmen,orArabs,orZulus,armedwith—no,Isawwithreliefthattheywerenot rifles, butwhips.And I sawdimly a caravanof black, clumsyvehicles;andatthereassuringshouts,"Kyaryouanywhereinthetown,boss,fuhfiftycents,"IreasonedthatIwasmerelya"fare"insteadofavictim.Iwalkedthroughlongstreets,allleadinguphill.Iwonderedhowthosestreetsevercamedownagain.Perhapstheydidn'tuntiltheywere"graded."Onafewofthe"mainstreets"Isawlightsinstoreshereandthere;sawstreetcarsgobyconveyingworthyburghershitherandyon;sawpeoplepassengagedintheartofconversation,andheardaburstofsemi-livelylaughterissuingfromasoda-

water and ice-cream parlor. The streets other than "main" seemed to haveenticed upon their borders houses consecrated to peace and domesticity. Inmanyofthemlightsshonebehinddiscreetlydrawnwindowshades;inafewpianos tinkled orderly and irreproachable music. There was, indeed, little"doing."IwishedIhadcomebeforesundown.SoIreturnedtomyhotel.

In November, 1864, the Confederate General Hood advanced againstNashville,whereheshutupaNationalforceunderGeneralThomas.ThelatterthensalliedforthanddefeatedtheConfederatesinaterribleconflict.AllmylifeIhaveheardof,admired,andwitnessedthefinemarksmanshipoftheSouthinitspeacefulconflictsinthetobacco-chewingregions.Butinmyhotel a surprise awaited me. There were twelve bright, new, imposing,capaciousbrasscuspidorsinthegreatlobby,tallenoughtobecalledurnsandsowide-mouthed that the crackpitcher of a ladybaseball team shouldhavebeenabletothrowaballintooneofthematfivepacesdistant.But,althoughaterrible battle had raged and was still raging, the enemy had not suffered.Bright, new, imposing, capacious, untouched, they stood. But, shades ofJefferson Brick! the tile floor—the beautiful tile floor! I could not avoidthinkingofthebattleofNashville,andtryingtodraw,asismyfoolishhabit,somedeductionsabouthereditarymarksmanship.Here I first sawMajor (bymisplaced courtesy)WentworthCaswell. I knewhimforatypethemomentmyeyessufferedfromthesightofhim.Arathasnogeographicalhabitat.Myoldfriend,A.Tennyson,said,ashesowellsaidalmosteverything:Prophet,cursemetheblabbinglip,AndcursemetheBritishvermin,therat.Letusregardtheword"British"asinterchangeableadlib.Aratisarat.This man was hunting about the hotel lobby like a starved dog that hadforgottenwhere he had buried a bone.He had a face of great acreage, red,pulpy, and with a kind of sleepy massiveness like that of Buddha. Hepossessedonesinglevirtue—hewasverysmoothlyshaven.Themarkof thebeast isnot indelibleuponamanuntilhegoesaboutwithastubble. I thinkthatifhehadnotusedhisrazorthatdayIwouldhaverepulsedhisadvances,andthecriminalcalendaroftheworldwouldhavebeensparedtheadditionofonemurder.IhappenedtobestandingwithinfivefeetofacuspidorwhenMajorCaswellopenedfireuponit.Ihadbeenobservantenoughtoperceivethattheattackingforce was using Gatlings instead of squirrel rifles; so I side-stepped sopromptly that the major seized the opportunity to apologize to anoncombatant.He had the blabbing lip. In fourminutes he had becomemy

friendandhaddraggedmetothebar.I desire to interpolate here that I am a Southerner. But I am not one byprofessionor trade.Ieschewthestringtie, theslouchhat, thePrinceAlbert,thenumberofbalesofcottondestroyedbySherman,andplugchewing.WhentheorchestraplaysDixie Idonotcheer. I slidea little loweron the leather-cornered seat and,well, order anotherWürzburger andwish thatLongstreethad—butwhat'stheuse?MajorCaswellbangedthebarwithhisfist,andthefirstgunatFortSumterre-echoed.WhenhefiredthelastoneatAppomattoxIbegantohope.Butthenhebeganonfamilytrees,anddemonstratedthatAdamwasonlyathirdcousinofacollateralbranchof theCaswell family.Genealogydisposedof,he tookup,tomydistaste,hisprivatefamilymatters.Hespokeofhiswife,tracedherdescentback toEve, andprofanelydenied anypossible rumor that shemayhavehadrelationsinthelandofNod.BythistimeIwasbeginningtosuspectthathewastryingtoobscurebynoisethe fact that he had ordered the drinks, on the chance that I would bebewilderedintopayingforthem.Butwhentheyweredownhecrashedasilverdollar loudly upon the bar.Then, of course, another servingwas obligatory.AndwhenIhadpaidforthatItookleaveofhimbrusquely;forIwantednomoreofhim.ButbeforeIhadobtainedmyreleasehehadpratedloudlyofanincomethathiswifereceived,andshowedahandfulofsilvermoney.WhenIgotmykeyatthedesktheclerksaidtomecourteously:"IfthatmanCaswellhasannoyedyou,andifyouwouldliketomakeacomplaint,wewillhavehimejected.Heisanuisance,aloafer,andwithoutanyknownmeansofsupport,althoughheseemstohavesomemoneymostthetime.Butwedon'tseemtobeabletohituponanymeansofthrowinghimoutlegally.""Why,no,"saidI,aftersomereflection;"Idon'tseemywaycleartomakingacomplaint.ButIwouldliketoplacemyselfonrecordasassertingthatIdonotcareforhiscompany.Yourtown,"Icontinued,"seemstobeaquietone.Whatmanner of entertainment, adventure, or excitement have you to offer to thestrangerwithinyourgates?""Well,sir,"saidtheclerk,"therewillbeashowherenextThursday.Itis—I'lllookitupandhavetheannouncementsentuptoyourroomwiththeicewater.Goodnight."After Iwentup tomyroomI lookedout thewindow. Itwasonlyabout teno'clock,butIlookeduponasilenttown.Thedrizzlecontinued,spangledwithdimlights,asfarapartascurrantsinacakesoldattheLadies'Exchange."A quiet place," I said tomyself, asmy first shoe struck the ceiling of theoccupantoftheroombeneathmine."NothingofthelifeherethatgivescolorandvarietytothecitiesintheEastandWest.Justagood,ordinary,humdrum,

businesstown."Nashvilleoccupiesa foremostplaceamong themanufacturingcentresof thecountry. It is the fifthbootandshoemarket in theUnitedStates, the largestcandy and cracker manufacturing city in the South, and does an enormouswholesaledrygoods,grocery,anddrugbusiness.ImusttellyouhowIcametobeinNashville,andIassureyouthedigressionbringsasmuchtediumtomeasitdoestoyou.Iwastravelingelsewhereonmyownbusiness,butIhadacommissionfromaNorthernliterarymagazinetostopoverthereandestablishapersonalconnectionbetweenthepublicationandoneofitscontributors,AzaleaAdair.Adair(therewasnocluetothepersonalityexceptthehandwriting)hadsentinsomeessays(lostart!)andpoemsthathadmadetheeditorsswearapprovinglyover their oneo'clock luncheon.So theyhad commissionedme to roundupsaidAdairandcornerbycontracthisorheroutputattwocentsawordbeforesomeotherpublisherofferedhertenortwenty.At nine o'clock the nextmorning, aftermy chicken livers en brochette (trythemifyoucanfindthathotel),Istrayedoutintothedrizzle,whichwasstillonforanunlimitedrun.AtthefirstcornerIcameuponUncleCæsar.Hewasastalwart Negro, older than the pyramids, with gray wool and a face thatremindedmeofBrutus,andasecondafterwardsof thelateKingCettiwayo.Hewore themost remarkable coat that I ever had seen or expect to see. ItreachedtohisanklesandhadoncebeenaConfederategrayincolors.ButrainandsunandagehadsovariegateditthatJoseph'scoat,besideit,wouldhavefadedtoapalemonochrome.Imustlingerwiththatcoat,forithastodowiththestory—thestorythatissolongincoming,becauseyoucanhardlyexpectanythingtohappeninNashville.Once it must have been the military coat of an officer. The cape of it hadvanished, but all adown its front it had been frogged and tasseledmagnificently. But now the frogs and tassles were gone. In their stead hadbeenpatiently stitched (I surmisedby somesurviving"blackmammy")newfrogs made of cunningly twisted common hempen twine. This twine wasfrayedanddisheveled.Itmusthavebeenaddedtothecoatasasubstituteforvanished splendors, with tasteless but painstaking devotion, for it followedfaithfullythecurvesofthelong-missingfrogs.And,tocompletethecomedyand pathos of the garment, all its buttons were gone save one. The secondbutton from the top alone remained. The coat was fastened by other twinestrings tied through the buttonholes and other holes rudely pierced in theoppositeside.Therewasneversuchaweirdgarmentsofantasticallybedeckedandof somanymottledhues.The lonebuttonwas the sizeof ahalf-dollar,madeofyellowhornandsewedonwithcoarsetwine.

ThisNegrostoodbyacarriagesooldthatHamhimselfmighthavestartedahacklinewithitafterheleft thearkwiththetwoanimalshitchedtoit.AsIapproached he threw open the door, drew out a feather duster, waved itwithoutusingit,andsaidindeep,rumblingtones:"Step right in, suh; ain't a speckof dust in it—jus' got back froma funeral,suh."Iinferredthatonsuchgalaoccasionscarriagesweregivenanextracleaning.Ilookedupanddownthestreetandperceivedthattherewaslittlechoiceamongthevehiclesforhirethatlinedthecurb.IlookedinmymemorandumbookfortheaddressofAzaleaAdair."Iwanttogoto861JessamineStreet,"Isaid,andwasabouttostepintothehack. But for an instant the thick, long, gorilla-like arm of the old Negrobarredme.Onhismassiveandsaturninefacealookofsuddensuspicionandenmity flashed for a moment. Then, with quickly returning conviction, heaskedblandishingly:"Whatareyougwinetherefor,boss?""Whatisittoyou?"Iasked,alittlesharply."Nothin',suh,jus'nothin'.Onlyit'salonesomekindofpartoftownandfewfolks ever has business out there. Step right in. The seats is clean—jes' gotbackfromafuneral,suh."Amileandahalfitmusthavebeentoourjourney'send.Icouldhearnothingbutthefearfulrattleoftheancienthackovertheunevenbrickpaving;Icouldsmell nothing but the drizzle, now further flavored with coal smoke andsomethinglikeamixtureoftarandoleanderblossoms.AllIcouldseethroughthestreamingwindowsweretworowsofdimhouses.The cityhas an areaof 10 squaremiles; 181miles of streets, ofwhich137milesarepaved;asystemofwater-worksthatcost$2,000,000,with77milesofmains.Eight-sixty-one Jessamine Streetwas a decayedmansion. Thirty yards backfromthestreetitstood,outmergedinasplendidgroveoftreesanduntrimmedshrubbery.A rowofboxbushesoverflowedandalmosthid thepaling fencefromsight; thegatewaskept closedbya ropenoose that encircled thegatepostandthefirstpalingofthegate.Butwhenyougotinsideyousawthat861wasashell,ashadow,aghostofformergrandeurandexcellence.Butinthestory,Ihavenotyetgotinside.WhenthehackhadceasedfromrattlingandthewearyquadrupedscametoarestIhandedmyjehuhisfiftycentswithanadditionalquarter,feelingaglowofconsciousgenerosity,asIdidso.Herefusedit."It'stwodollars,suh,"hesaid."How'sthat?"Iasked."Iplainlyheardyoucalloutatthehotel:'Fiftycentsto

anypartofthetown.'""It's two dollars, suh," he repeated obstinately. "It's a long ways from thehotel.""Itiswithinthecitylimitsandwellwithinthem."Iargued."Don'tthinkthatyouhavepickedupagreenhornYankee.Doyouseethosehillsoverthere?"Iwent on, pointing toward the east (I could not see them, myself, for thedrizzle);"well,Iwasbornandraisedontheirotherside.Youoldfoolnigger,can'tyoutellpeoplefromotherpeoplewhenyousee'em?"The grim face of King Cettiwayo softened. "Is you from the South, suh? Ireckonitwasthemshoesofyournfooledme.Theyissomethin'sharpinthetoesforaSoutherngen'l'mantowear.""Thenthechargeisfiftycents,Isuppose?"saidIinexorably.Hisformerexpression,aminglingofcupidityandhostility,returned,remainedtenseconds,andvanished."Boss,"hesaid,"fiftycentsisright;butIneedstwodollars,suh;I'mobleegedto have two dollars. I ain't demandin' it now, suh; after I knowwhar you'sfrom; I'm jus' sayin' that I has to have two dollars to-night, and business ismightypo'."Peace and confidence settled upon his heavy features. He had been luckierthanhehadhoped.Insteadofhavingpickedupagreenhorn,ignorantofrates,hehadcomeuponaninheritance."Youconfoundedoldrascal,"Isaid,reachingdowntomypocket,"yououghttobeturnedovertothepolice."ForthefirsttimeIsawhimsmile.Heknew;heknew.HEKNEW.Igavehimtwoone-dollarbills.AsIhandedthemoverInoticedthatoneofthemhadseenparloustimes.Itsupperright-handcornerwasmissing,andithad been torn through the middle, but joined again. A strip of blue tissuepaper,pastedoverthesplit,preserveditsnegotiability.EnoughoftheAfricanbanditforthepresent:Ilefthimhappy,liftedtheropeandopenedacreakygate.Thehouse,asIsaid,wasashell.Apaintbrushhadnot touchedit in twentyyears.IcouldnotseewhyastrongwindshouldnothavebowleditoverlikeahouseofcardsuntilIlookedagainatthetreesthathuggeditclose—thetreesthatsawthebattleofNashvilleandstilldrewtheirprotectingbranchesarounditagainststormandenemyandcold.AzaleaAdair, fiftyyears old,white-haired, a descendant of the cavaliers, asthinandfrailasthehouseshelivedin,robedinthecheapestandcleanestdressIeversaw,withanairassimpleasaqueen's,receivedme.

The reception room seemed amile square, because there was nothing in itexceptsomerowsofbooks,onunpaintedwhite-pinebookshelves,acrackedmarble-toptable,aragrug,ahairlesshorsehairsofaandtwoorthreechairs.Yes,therewasapictureonthewall,acoloredcrayondrawingofaclusterofpansies.IlookedaroundfortheportraitofAndrewJacksonandthepineconehangingbasketbuttheywerenotthere.AzaleaAdairandIhadconversation,alittleofwhichwillberepeatedtoyou.ShewasaproductoftheoldSouth,gentlynurturedintheshelteredlife.Herlearning was not broad, but was deep and of splendid originality in itssomewhatnarrowscope.Shehadbeeneducatedathome,andherknowledgeof theworldwas derived from inference and by inspiration. Of such is theprecious, small group of essayists made. While she talked to me I keptbrushingmyfingers, trying,unconsciously, to rid themguiltilyof theabsentdust from the half-calf backs of Lamb, Chaucer, Hazlitt, Marcus Aurelius,MontaigneandHood.Shewasexquisite,shewasavaluablediscovery.Nearlyeverybodynowadaysknowstoomuch—oh,somuchtoomuch—ofreallife.IcouldperceiveclearlythatAzaleaAdairwasverypoor.Ahouseandadressshe had, not much else, I fancied. So, divided between my duty to themagazineandmyloyaltytothepoetsandessayistswhofoughtThomasinthevalley of the Cumberland, I listened to her voice, which was like aharpsichord's,andfoundthatIcouldnotspeakofcontracts.InthepresenceofthenineMusesand the threeGracesonehesitated to lower the topic to twocents. There would have to be another colloquy after I had regained mycommercialism. But I spoke of my mission, and three o'clock of the nextafternoonwassetforthediscussionofthebusinessproposition."Yourtown,"Isaid,asIbegantomakereadytodepart(whichisthetimeforsmooth generalities), "seems to be a quiet, sedate place. A home town, Ishouldsay,wherefewthingsoutoftheordinaryeverhappen."

ItcarriesonanextensivetradeinstovesandhollowwarewiththeWestandSouth,anditsflouringmillshaveadailycapacityofmorethan2,000barrels.AzaleaAdairseemedtoreflect."Ihaveneverthoughtofitthatway,"shesaid,withakindofsincereintensitythat seemed tobelong toher. "Isn't it in the still, quietplaces that thingsdohappen?IfancythatwhenGodbegantocreatetheearthonthefirstMondaymorningonecouldhaveleanedoutone'swindowandheardthedropsofmudsplashing fromHis trowel asHebuilt up the everlastinghills.What did thenoisiest project in theworld—Imean the building of theTower ofBabel—result in finally? A page and a half of Esperanto in the North AmericanReview."

"Ofcourse,"saidIplatitudinously,"humannatureisthesameeverywhere;butthere is more color—er—more drama andmovement and—er—romance insomecitiesthaninothers.""Onthesurface,"saidAzaleaAdair."Ihavetraveledmanytimesaroundtheworldinagoldenairshipwaftedontwowings—printanddreams.Ihaveseen(ononeofmyimaginarytours)theSultanofTurkeybowstringwithhisownhandsoneofhiswiveswhohaduncoveredher face inpublic. Ihaveseenaman inNashville tear up his theatre tickets because hiswifewas going outwithherfacecovered—withricepowder.InSanFrancisco'sChinatownIsawtheslavegirlSingYeedippedslowly, inchby inch, inboilingalmondoil tomakeherswearshewouldneverseeherAmerican loveragain.Shegave inwhen the boiling oil had reached three inches above her knee. At a euchrepartyinEastNashvilletheothernightIsawKittyMorgancutdeadbysevenof her schoolmates and lifelong friends because she had married a housepainter.Theboilingoilwassizzlingashighasherheart;butIwishyoucouldhaveseenthefinelittlesmilethatshecarriedfromtabletotable.Oh,yes,itisahumdrumtown.Justa fewmilesof redbrickhousesandmudand lumberyards."Someoneknockedhollowlyatthebackofthehouse.AzaleaAdairbreathedasoft apology and went to investigate the sound. She came back in threeminuteswithbrightenedeyes,afaintflushonhercheeks,andtenyearsliftedfromhershoulders."Youmusthaveacupofteabeforeyougo,"shesaid,"andasugarcake."Shereachedandshookalittleironbell.InshuffledasmallNegrogirlabouttwelve, barefoot, not very tidy, glowering at me with thumb in mouth andbulgingeyes.AzaleaAdairopenedatiny,wornpurseanddrewoutadollarbill,adollarbillwith the upper right-hand corner missing, torn in two pieces, and pastedtogetheragainwitha stripofblue tissuepaper. Itwasoneof thebills IhadgiventhepiraticalNegro—therewasnodoubtaboutit."GouptoMr.Baker'sstoreonthecorner,Impy,"shesaid,handingthegirlthedollarbill,"andgetaquarterofapoundoftea—thekindhealwayssendsme—and ten centsworth of sugar cakes.Now, hurry.The supply of tea in thehousehappenstobeexhausted,"sheexplainedtome.Impyleftbythebackway.Before thescrapeofherhard,barefeethaddiedaway on the back porch, a wild shriek—I was sure it was hers—filled thehollow house. Then the deep, gruff tones of an angryman's voicemingledwiththegirl'sfurthersquealsandunintelligiblewords.Azalea Adair rose without surprise or emotion and disappeared. For twominutesIheardthehoarserumbleoftheman'svoice;thensomethinglikean

oathandaslightscuffle,andshereturnedcalmlytoherchair."Thisisaroomyhouse,"shesaid,"andIhaveatenantforpartofit.Iamsorryto have to rescindmy invitation to tea. It was impossible to get the kind Ialwaysuseatthestore.Perhapsto-morrow,Mr.Bakerwillbeabletosupplyme."I was sure that Impy had not had time to leave the house. I inquiredconcerningstreet-carlinesandtookmyleave.AfterIwaswellonmywayIrememberedthatIhadnotlearnedAzaleaAdair'sname.Butto-morrowwoulddo.That sameday I started inon thecourseof iniquity that thisuneventfulcityforceduponme.Iwasinthetownonlytwodays,butinthattimeImanagedtolieshamelesslybytelegraph,andtobeanaccomplice—afterthefact,ifthatisthecorrectlegalterm—toamurder.As I rounded the corner nearest my hotel the Afrite coachman of thepolychromatic, nonpareil coat seizedme, swungopen thedungeonydoor ofhis peripatetic sarcophagus, flirted his feather duster and began his ritual:"Steprightin,boss.Carriageisclean—jus'gotbackfromafuneral.Fiftycentstoany—"And then he knew me and grinned broadly. "'Scuse me, boss; you is degen'l'manwhatridoutwithmedismawnin'.Thankyoukindly,suh.""Iamgoingoutto861againto-morrowafternoonatthree,"saidI,"andifyouwill be here, I'll let you driveme. So you knowMissAdair?" I concluded,thinkingofmydollarbill."Ibelongedtoherfather,JudgeAdair,suh,"hereplied."Ijudgethatsheisprettypoor,"Isaid."Shehasn'tmuchmoneytospeakof,hasshe?"ForaninstantIlookedagainatthefiercecountenanceofKingCettiwayo,andthenhechangedbacktoanextortionateoldNegrohackdriver."Sheain'tgwinetostarve,suh,"hesaidslowly."Shehasreso'ces,suh;shehasreso'ces.""Ishallpayyoufiftycentsforthetrip,"saidI."Dat is puffeckly correct, suh,"he answeredhumbly. "I jus' had tohavedattwodollarsdismawnin',boss."Iwent to the hotel and lied by electricity. Iwired themagazine: "A.Adairholdsoutforeightcentsaword."Theanswerthatcamebackwas:"Giveittoherquickyouduffer."Justbeforedinner"Major"WentworthCaswellboredownuponmewith the

greetings of a long-lost friend. I have seen few men whom I have soinstantaneouslyhated,andofwhomitwassodifficulttoberid.Iwasstandingatthebarwhenheinvadedme;thereforeIcouldnotwavethewhiteribboninhis face. Iwouldhavepaidgladly for thedrinks,hoping, thereby, to escapeanother;buthewasoneofthosedespicable,roaring,advertisingbibberswhomusthavebrassbandsandfireworksattenduponeverycentthattheywasteintheirfollies.Withanairofproducingmillionshedrewtwoone-dollarbillsfromapocketanddashedoneofthemuponthebar.Ilookedoncemoreatthedollarbillwiththe upper right-hand corner missing, torn through the middle, and patchedwithastripofbluetissuepaper.Itwasmydollarbillagain.Itcouldhavebeennoother.Iwentup tomy room.Thedrizzle and themonotonyof adreary, eventlessSouthern townhadmademe tiredand listless. I remember that justbefore Iwent to bed Imentally disposed of themysterious dollar bill (whichmighthaveformedtheclewtoatremendouslyfinedetectivestoryofSanFrancisco)bysayingtomyselfsleepily:"SeemsasifalotofpeoplehereownstockintheHack-Driver'sTrust.Paysdividendspromptly, too.Wonder if—"Then I fellasleep.KingCettiwayowas at his post thenextday, and rattledmybonesover thestonesoutto861.HewastowaitandrattlemebackagainwhenIwasready.AzaleaAdairlookedpalerandcleanerandfrailerthanshehadlookedonthedaybefore.Aftershehadsignedthecontractateightcentsperwordshegrewstillpalerandbegantoslipoutofherchair.WithoutmuchtroubleImanagedto get her up on the antediluvian horsehair sofa and then I ran out to thesidewalk and yelled to the coffee-colored Pirate to bring a doctor. With awisdomthatIhadnotexpectedinhim,heabandonedhisteamandstruckoffup the street afoot, realizing the value of speed. In tenminutes he returnedwithagrave,gray-hairedandcapablemanofmedicine.Inafewwords(worthmuchlessthaneightcentseach)Iexplainedtohimmypresenceinthehollowhouseofmystery.Hebowedwithstatelyunderstanding,andturnedtotheoldNegro."UncleCæsar,"he said calmly, "Runup tomyhouse and askMissLucy togiveyouacreampitcher fullof freshmilkandhalf a tumblerofportwine.And hurry back. Don't drive—run. I want you to get back sometime thisweek."It occurred to me that Dr. Merriman also felt a distrust as to the speedingpowersoftheland-pirate'ssteeds.AfterUncleCæsarwasgone,lumberingly,butswiftly,upthestreet,thedoctorlookedmeoverwithgreatpolitenessandasmuchcarefulcalculationuntilhehaddecidedthatImightdo.

"Itisonlyacaseofinsufficientnutrition,"hesaid."Inotherwords,theresultofpoverty,pride,andstarvation.Mrs.Caswellhasmanydevotedfriendswhowould be glad to aid her, but she will accept nothing except from that oldNegro,UncleCæsar,whowasonceownedbyherfamily.""Mrs.Caswell!"saidI,insurprise.AndthenIlookedatthecontractandsawthatshehadsignedit"AzaleaAdairCaswell.""IthoughtshewasMissAdair,"Isaid."Marriedtoadrunken,worthlessloafer,sir,"saidthedoctor."Itissaidthatherobs her even of the small sums that her old servant contributes toward hersupport."When themilk andwine had been brought the doctor soon revivedAzaleaAdair.Shesatupandtalkedofthebeautyoftheautumnleavesthatweretheninseason,andtheirheightofcolor.Shereferredlightlytoherfaintingseizureastheoutcomeofanoldpalpitationoftheheart.Impyfannedherasshelayonthesofa.Thedoctorwasdueelsewhere,andIfollowedhimtothedoor.Itold him that it was within my power and intentions to make a reasonableadvance ofmoney toAzaleaAdair on future contributions to themagazine,andheseemedpleased."By theway," he said, "perhaps youwould like to know that you have hadroyaltyforacoachman.OldCæsar'sgrandfatherwasakinginCongo.Cæsarhimselfhasroyalways,asyoumayhaveobserved."AsthedoctorwasmovingoffIheardUncleCæsar'svoiceinside:"Didhegetbofeofdemtwodollarsfromyou,Mis'Zalea?""Yes,Cæsar," I heardAzaleaAdair answerweakly.And then Iwent in andconcluded business negotiations with our contributor. I assumed theresponsibilityofadvancingfiftydollars,puttingitasanecessaryformalityinbindingourbargain.AndthenUncleCæsardrovemebacktothehotel.HereendsallofthestoryasfarasIcantestifyasawitness.Therestmustbeonlybarestatementsoffacts.Ataboutsixo'clockIwentoutforastroll.UncleCæsarwasathiscorner.Hethrew open the door of his carriage, flourished his duster and began hisdepressingformula:"Steprightin,suh.Fiftycentstoanywhereinthecity—hack'spufficklyclean,suh—jus'gotbackfromafuneral—"Andthenherecognizedme.Ithinkhiseyesightwasgettingbad.Hiscoathadtakenonafewmorefadedshadesofcolor,thetwinestringsweremorefrayedandragged,thelastremainingbutton—thebuttonofyellowhorn—wasgone.AmotleydescendantofkingswasUncleCæsar!About twohours later I sawan excited crowdbesieging the front of a drugstore.Inadesertwherenothinghappensthiswasmanna;soIwedgedmyway

inside.OnanextemporizedcouchofemptyboxesandchairswasstretchedthemortalcorporealityofMajorWentworthCaswell.Adoctorwastestinghimforthe immortal ingredient. His decision was that it was conspicuous by itsabsence.The erstwhileMajor had been found dead on a dark street and brought bycuriousandennuiedcitizenstothedrugstore.Thelatehumanbeinghadbeenengaged in terrific battle—the details showed that. Loafer and reprobatethoughhehadbeen,hehadbeenalso awarrior.Buthehad lost.Hishandswereyetclinchedsotightlythathisfingerswouldnotbeopened.Thegentlecitizenswhohadknowhimstoodaboutandsearchedtheirvocabulariestofindsomegoodwords,ifitwerepossible,tospeakofhim.Onekind-lookingmansaid,aftermuchthought:"When'Cas'wasaboutfo'teenhewasoneofthebestspellersinschool."WhileIstoodtherethefingersoftherighthandof"themanthatwas"whichhungdownthesideofawhitepinebox,relaxed,anddroppedsomethingatmyfeet.Icovereditwithonefootquietly,andalittlelateronIpickeditupandpocketedit.Ireasonedthatinhislaststrugglehishandmusthaveseizedthatobjectunwittinglyandhelditinadeathgrip.At the hotel that night the main topic of conversation, with the possibleexceptions of politics and prohibition, was the demise ofMajor Caswell. Iheardonemansaytoagroupoflisteners:"In my opinion, gentlemen, Caswell was murdered by some of these no-account niggers for hismoney.Hehad fifty dollars this afternoonwhich heshowedtoseveralgentlemeninthehotel.Whenhewasfoundthemoneywasnotonhisperson."Ileftthecitythenextmorningatnine,andasthetrainwascrossingthebridgeover theCumberlandRiver I tookoutofmypocket ayellowhornovercoatbuttonthesizeofafifty-centpiece,withfrayedendsofcoarsetwinehangingfromit,andcastitoutofthewindowintotheslow,muddywatersbelow.Iwonderwhat'sdoinginBuffalo!

XIVPSYCHEANDTHEPSKYSCRAPER

Ifyouareaphilosopheryoucandothisthing:youcangotothetopofahighbuilding,lookdownuponyourfellow-men300feetbelow,anddespisethemas insects. Like the irresponsible black waterbugs on summer ponds, theycrawlandcircleandhustleaboutidioticallywithoutaimorpurpose.Theydo

notevenmovewiththeadmirableintelligenceofants,forantsalwaysknowwhen they are going home. The ant is of a lowly station, but hewill oftenreachhomeandgethisslippersonwhileyouareleftatyourelevatedstation.Man, then, to the housetopped philosopher, appears to be but a creeping,contemptible beetle. Brokers, poets, millionaires, bootblacks, beauties, hod-carriersandpoliticiansbecomelittleblackspecksdodgingbiggerblackspecksinstreetsnowiderthanyourthumb.Fromthishighviewthecityitselfbecomesdegradedtoanunintelligiblemassofdistortedbuildingsandimpossibleperspectives;thereveredoceanisaduckpond; the earth itself a lost golf ball.All theminutiae of life are gone.Thephilosophergazesintotheinfiniteheavensabovehim,andallowshissoultoexpandtotheinfluenceofhisnewview.HefeelsthatheistheheirtoEternityandthechildofTime.Space, too,shouldbehisbytherightofhisimmortalheritage, and he thrills at the thought that some day his kind shall traversethose mysterious aerial roads between planet and planet. The tiny worldbeneathhisfeetuponwhichthistoweringstructureofsteelrestsasaspeckofdustuponaHimalayanmountain—itisbutoneofacountlessnumberofsuchwhirling atoms. What are the ambitions, the achievements, the paltryconquestsand lovesof those restlessblack insectsbelowcomparedwith thesereneandawful immensityof theuniverse that liesaboveandaround theirinsignificantcity?Itisguaranteedthatthephilosopherwillhavethesethoughts.Theyhavebeenexpresslycompiledfromthephilosophiesoftheworldandsetdownwiththeproper interrogation point at the end of them to represent the invariablemusingsofdeepthinkersonhighplaces.Andwhenthephilosophertakestheelevatordownhismindisbroader,hisheartisatpeace,andhisconceptionofthecosmogonyofcreationisaswideasthebuckleofOrion'ssummerbelt.ButifyournamehappenedtobeDaisy,andyouworkedinanEighthAvenuecandy store and lived in a little cold hall bedroom, five feet by eight, andearned$6perweek,andateten-centlunchesandwerenineteenyearsold,andgot up at 6.30 andworked till 9, and never had studied philosophy,maybethingswouldn'tlookthatwaytoyoufromthetopofaskyscraper.TwosighedforthehandofDaisy,theunphilosophical.OnewasJoe,whokeptthesmalleststoreinNewYork.Itwasaboutthesizeofatool-boxoftheD.P.W., and was stuck like a swallow's nest against a corner of a down-townskyscraper. Its stock consisted of fruit, candies, newspapers, song books,cigarettes, and lemonade in season.When sternwinter shook his congealedlocksandJoehadtomovehimselfandthefruitinside,therewasexactlyroominthestorefortheproprietor,hiswares,astovethesizeofavinegarcruet,andonecustomer.

Joewas not of the nation that keeps us forever in a furorewith fugues andfruit. He was a capable American youth who was laying by money, andwantedDaisytohelphimspendit.Threetimeshehadaskedher."Igotmoneysavedup,Daisy,"washislovesong;"andyouknowhowbadIwantyou.Thatstoreofmineain'tverybig,but—""Oh, ain't it?" would be the antiphony of the unphilosophical one. "Why, IheardWanamaker'swastryingtogetyoutosubletpartofyourfloorspacetothemfornextyear."DaisypassedJoe'scornereverymorningandevening."Hello,Two-by-Four!"washerusualgreeting."Seemstomeyourstorelooksemptier.Youmusthavesoldapackofchewinggum.""Ain'tmuchroominhere,sure,"Joewouldanswer,withhisslowgrin,"exceptforyou,Daise.Meandthestorearewaitin'foryouwheneveryou'll takeus.Don'tyouthinkyoumightbeforelong?""Store!"—afinescornwasexpressedbyDaisy'suptiltednose—"sardinebox!Waitin'forme,yousay?Gee!you'dhavetothrowoutaboutahundredpoundsofcandybeforeIcouldgetinsideofit,Joe.""Iwouldn'tmindanevenswaplikethat,"saidJoe,complimentary.Daisy'sexistencewaslimitedineveryway.Shehadtowalksidewaysbetweenthe counter and the shelves in the candy store. In her own hall bedroomcozinesshadbeencarriedclosetocohesiveness.ThewallsweresoneartooneanotherthatthepaperonthemmadeaperfectBabelofnoise.Shecouldlightthe gaswith one hand and close the doorwith the otherwithout taking hereyesoff the reflectionofherbrownpompadour in themirror.Shehad Joe'spicture in a gilt frame on the dresser, and sometimes—but her next thoughtwouldalwaysbeofJoe'sfunnylittlestoretackedlikeasoapboxtothecornerof that great building, and away would go her sentiment in a breeze oflaughter.Daisy'sothersuitorfollowedJoebyseveralmonths.Hecametoboardinthehouse where she lived. His name was Dabster, and he was a philosopher.Though young, attainments stood out upon him like continental labels on aPassaic(N.J.)suit-case.Knowledgehehadkidnappedfromcyclopediasandhandbooksofusefulinformation;butasforwisdom,whenshepassedhewasleftsnifflingintheroadwithoutsomuchasthenumberofhermotorcar.Hecould and would tell you the proportion of water and muscle-makingproperties of peas and veal, the shortest verse in the Bible, the number ofpoundsofshinglenailsrequiredtofasten256shingleslaidfourinchestotheweather,thepopulationofKankakee,Ill.,thetheoriesofSpinoza,thenameofMr. H. McKay Twombly's second hall footman, the length of the Hoosac

Tunnel, the best time to set a hen, the salary of the railway post-officemessengerbetweenDriftwoodandRedBankFurnace,Pa.,andthenumberofbonesintheforelegofacat.The weight of learning was no handicap to Dabster. His statistics were thesprigsofparsleywithwhichhegarnishedthefeastofsmalltalkthathewouldsetbeforeyouifheconceivedthattobeyourtaste.Andagainheusedthemasbreastworksinforagingattheboardinghouse.Firingatyouavolleyoffiguresconcerning the weight of a lineal foot of bar-iron 5 × 2¾ inches, and theaverageannualrainfallatFortSnelling,Minn.,hewouldtransfixwithhisforkthebestpieceofchickenonthedishwhileyouweretryingtorallysufficientlytoaskhimweaklywhydoesahencrosstheroad.Thus,brightlyarmed,andfurtherequippedwithameasureofgoodlooks,ofahair-oily,shopping-district-at-three-in-the-afternoonkind,itseemsthatJoe,oftheLilliputianemporium,hada rivalworthyofhissteel.ButJoecarriednosteel.Therewouldn'thavebeenroominhisstoretodrawitifhehad.One Saturday afternoon, about four o'clock,Daisy andMr.Dabster stoppedbeforeJoe'sbooth.Dabsterworeasilkhat,and—well,Daisywasawoman,andthathathadnochancetogetbackinitsboxuntilJoehadseenit.Astickofpineapplechewinggumwastheostensibleobjectofthecall.Joesupplieditthroughtheopensideofhisstore.Hedidnotpaleorfalteratsightofthehat."Mr.Dabster'sgoing to takemeon topof thebuilding toobserve theview,"said Daisy, after she had introduced her admirers. "I never was on askyscraper.Iguessitmustbeawfullyniceandfunnyupthere.""H'm!"saidJoe."Thepanorama,"saidMr.Dabster,"exposedtothegazefromthetopofaloftybuilding is not only sublime, but instructive. Miss Daisy has a decidedpleasureinstoreforher.""It'swindyup there, too, aswell ashere," said Joe. "Areyoudressedwarmenough,Daise?""Surething!I'malllined,"saidDaisy,smilingslylyathiscloudedbrow."Youlookjustlikeamummyinacase,Joe.Ain'tyoujustputinaninvoiceofapintofpeanutsoranotherapple?Yourstocklooksawfulover-stocked."Daisygiggledatherfavoritejoke;andJoehadtosmilewithher."Your quarters are somewhat limited, Mr.—er—er," remarked Dabster, "incomparisonwiththesizeofthisbuilding.Iunderstandtheareaofitssidetobeabout340by100feet.Thatwouldmakeyouoccupyaproportionatespaceasif half of Beloochistan were placed upon a territory as large as the UnitedStateseastoftheRockyMountains,withtheProvinceofOntarioandBelgiumadded."

"Is that so, sport?" said Joe,genially. "YouareWeisenheimeron figures, allright.Howmanysquarepoundsofbaledhaydoyouthinkajackasscouldeatifhestoppedbrayin'longenoughtokeepstillaminuteandfiveeighths?"AfewminuteslaterDaisyandMr.Dabstersteppedfromanelevatortothetopflooroftheskyscraper.Thenupashort,steepstairwayandoutupontheroof.Dabsterledhertotheparapetsoshecouldlookdownattheblackdotsmovinginthestreetbelow."Whatare they?" sheasked, trembling.Shehadneverbeenonaheight likethisbefore.AndthenDabstermustneedsplaythephilosopheronthetower,andconducthersoulforthtomeettheimmensityofspace."Bipeds," he said, solemnly. "See what they become even at the smallelevationof340feet—merecrawlinginsectsgoingtoandfroatrandom.""Oh, they ain't anything of the kind," exclaimed Daisy, suddenly—"they'refolks!Isawanautomobile.Oh,gee!arewethathighup?""Walkoverthisway,"saidDabster.He showed her the great city lying like an orderly array of toys far below,starredhereandthere,earlyasitwas,bythefirstbeaconlightsofthewinterafternoon. And then the bay and sea to the south and east vanishingmysteriouslyintothesky."Idon'tlikeit,"declaredDaisy,withtroubledblueeyes."Saywegodown."But the philosopherwas not to be denied his opportunity.Hewould let herbeholdthegrandeurofhismind,thehalf-nelsonhehadontheinfinite,andthememoryhehadforstatistics.AndthenshewouldnevermorebecontenttobuychewinggumatthesmalleststoreinNewYork.Andsohebegantoprateofthe smallnessofhumanaffairs, andhow that even so slight a removal fromearth made man and his works look like one tenth part of a dollar thricecomputed.Andthatoneshouldconsider thesiderealsystemandthemaximsofEpictetusandbecomforted."Youdon'tcarrymewithyou,"saidDaisy."Say,Ithinkit'sawfultobeupsohighthatfolkslooklikefleas.OneofthemwesawmighthavebeenJoe.Why,Jiminy!wemightaswellbeinNewJersey!Say,I'mafraiduphere!"Thephilosophersmiledfatuously."The earth," said he, "is itself only as a grain of wheat in space. Look upthere."Daisy gazed upward apprehensively. The short daywas spent and the starswerecomingoutabove."Yonder star," said Dabster, "is Venus, the evening star. She is 66,000,000

milesfromthesun.""Fudge!"saidDaisy,withabriefflashofspirit,"wheredoyouthinkIcomefrom—Brooklyn?SusiePrice,inourstore—herbrothersentheratickettogotoSanFrancisco—that'sonlythreethousandmiles."Thephilosophersmiledindulgently."Ourworld,"he said, "is91,000,000miles from the sun.Thereareeighteenstarsofthefirstmagnitudethatare211,000timesfurtherfromusthanthesunis. If oneof themshouldbe extinguished itwouldbe threeyearsbeforewewouldseeitslightgoout.Therearesixthousandstarsofthesixthmagnitude.Ittakesthirty-sixyearsforthelightofoneofthemtoreachtheearth.Withaneighteen-foot telescope we can see 43,000,000 stars, including those of thethirteenthmagnitude,whoselighttakes2,700yearstoreachus.Eachofthesestars—""You'relyin',"criedDaisy,angrily."You'retryin'toscareme.Andyouhave;Iwanttogodown!"Shestampedherfoot."Arcturus—"began thephilosopher, soothingly, buthewas interruptedby ademonstration out of the vastness of the nature that he was endeavoring toportraywith hismemory instead of his heart. For to the heart-expounder ofnaturethestarsweresetinthefirmamentexpresslytogivesoftlighttoloverswandering happily beneath them; and if you stand tiptoe some Septembernightwithyoursweetheartonyourarmyoucanalmosttouchthemwithyourhand.Threeyearsfortheirlighttoreachus,indeed!Outofthewestleapedameteor,lightingtheroofoftheskyscraperalmosttomidday.Itsfieryparabolawaslimnedagainsttheskytowardtheeast.Ithissedasitwent,andDaisyscreamed."Takemedown,"shecried,vehemently,"you—youmentalarithmetic!"Dabstergother to theelevator,and insideof it.Shewaswild-eyed,andsheshudderedwhentheexpressmadeitsdebilitatingdrop.Outside the revolving door of the skyscraper the philosopher lost her. Shevanished;andhestood,bewildered,withoutfiguresorstatisticstoaidhim.Joehadalullintrade,andbysquirmingamonghisstocksucceededinlightingacigaretteandgettingonecoldfootagainsttheattenuatedstove.The door was burst open, and Daisy, laughing, crying, scattering fruit andcandies,tumbledintohisarms."Oh,Joe,I'vebeenupontheskyscraper.Ain'titcozyandwarmandhomelikeinhere!I'mreadyforyou,Joe,wheneveryouwantme."

XVABIRDOFBAGDAD

WithoutadoubtmuchofthespiritandgeniusoftheCaliphHarunAlRashiddescendedtotheMargraveAugustMichaelvonPaulsenQuigg.Quigg'srestaurantisinFourthAvenue—thatstreetthatthecityseemstohaveforgotten in its growth. Fourth Avenue—born and bred in the Bowery—staggersnorthwardfullofgoodresolutions.WhereitcrossesFourteenthStreetitstrutsforabriefmomentproudlyintheglareofthemuseumsandcheaptheatres.Itmayyetbecomeafitmateforitshigh-bornsisterboulevardtothewest,oritsroaring,polyglot,broad-waistedcousin to the east. It passes Union Square; and here the hoofs of the drayhorses seem to thunder in unison, recalling the tread of marching hosts—Hooray!Butnowcomethesilentandterriblemountains—buildingssquareasforts,highastheclouds,shuttingoutthesky,wherethousandsofslavesbendover desks all day. On the ground floors are only little fruit shops andlaundriesandbookshops,whereyouseecopiesof"Littell'sLivingAge"andG.W.M.Reynold'snovelsinthewindows.Andnext—poorFourthAvenue!—thestreetglidesintoamediaevalsolitude.Oneachsideareshopsdevotedto"Antiques."Letussayitisnight.Meninrustyarmorstandinthewindowsandmenacethehurrying cars with raised, rusty iron gauntlets. Hauberks and helms,blunderbusses,Cromwellianbreastplates,matchlocks,creeses,andtheswordsanddaggersofanarmyofdead-and-gonegallantsgleamdullyintheghostlylight. Here and there from a corner saloon (lit with Jack-o'-lanterns orphosphorus), stagger forth shuddering, home-bound citizens, nerved by thetankardswithintotheirfearsomejourneyadownthateldrichavenuelinedwiththebloodstainedweaponsofthefightingdead.Whatstreetcouldliveinclosedbythesemortuaryrelics,andtrodbythesespectralcitizensinwhosesunkenheartsscarceonegoodwhooportra-la-laremained?Not Fourth Avenue. Not after the tinsel but enlivening glories of the LittleRialto—notaftertheechoingdrum-beatsofUnionSquare.Thereneedbenotears,ladiesandgentlemen;'tisbutthesuicideofastreet.Withashriekandacrash Fourth Avenue dives headlong into the tunnel at Thirty-fourth and isneverseenagain.Near the sad scene of the thoroughfare's dissolution stood the modestrestaurantofQuigg.Itstandsthereyetifyoucaretoviewitscrumblingred-brickfront,itsshowwindowheapedwithoranges,tomatoes,layercakes,pies,cannedasparagus—itspapier-mâchélobsterandtwoMaltesekittensasleepon

a bunch of lettuce—if you care to sit at one of the little tables uponwhoseclothhasbeentracedintheyellowestofcoffeestainsthetrailoftheJapaneseadvance—tosit therewithoneeyeonyourumbrellaand theotherupon thebogusbottlefromwhichyoudropthecounterfeitsaucefoisteduponusbythecursed charlatan who assumes to be our dear old lord and friend, the"NoblemaninIndia."Quigg'stitlecamethroughhismother.OneofherancestorswasaMargravineofSaxony.HisfatherwasaTammanybrave.OnaccountofthedilutionofhisheredityhefoundthathecouldneitherbecomeareigningpotentatenorgetajobintheCityHall.Soheopenedarestaurant.Hewasamanfullofthoughtandreading.Thebusinessgavehimaliving,thoughhegaveitlittleattention.Onesideofhishousebequeathedtohimapoeticandromanticadventure.Theothergavehimtherestlessspiritthatmadehimseekadventure.BydayhewasQuigg, the restaurateur. By night he was the Margrave—the Caliph—thePrinceofBohemia—goingaboutthecityinsearchoftheodd,themysterious,theinexplicable,therecondite.Onenightat9,atwhichhourtherestaurantclosed,Quiggsetforthuponhisquest.Therewasaminglingoftheforeign,themilitaryandtheartisticinhisappearanceashebuttonedhiscoathighupunderhisshort-trimmedbrownandgraybeardand turnedwestward toward themorecentral lifeconduitsof thecity.Inhispockethehadstoredanassortmentofcards,writtenupon,withoutwhichheneverstirredoutofdoors.Eachofthosecardswasgoodathisownrestaurant for its face value. Some called simply for a bowl of soup orsandwichesandcoffee;othersentitledtheirbearertoone,two,threeormoredaysof fullmeals;a fewwere for single regularmeals;avery fewwere, ineffect,mealticketsgoodforaweek.OfrichesandpowerMargraveQuigghadnone;buthehadaCaliph'sheart—itmay be forgiven him if his head fell short of the measure of Harun AlRashid's.PerhapssomeofthegoldpiecesinBagdadhadputlesswarmthandhope into the complainants among the bazaars than had Quigg's beef stewamongthefishermenandone-eyedcalendersofManhattan.Continuinghisprogressinsearchofromancetodiverthim,orofdistressthathemight aid,Quigg became aware of a fast-gathering crowd thatwhoopedandfoughtandeddiedatacornerofBroadwayandthecrosstownstreetthathe was traversing. Hurrying to the spot he beheld a young man of anexceedinglymelancholyandpreoccupieddemeanorengagedinthepastimeofcastingsilvermoneyfromhispockets in themiddleof thestreet.Witheachmotionofthegenerousone'shandthecrowdhuddleduponthefallinglargessewithyellsofjoy.Trafficwassuspended.Apolicemaninthecentreofthemobstoopedoftentothegroundasheurgedtheblockaderstomoveon.The Margrave saw at a glance that here was food for his hunger after

knowledge concerning abnormal working of the human heart. Hemade hisway swiftly to the young man's side and took his arm. "Come with me atonce,"hesaid,inthelowbutcommandingvoicethathiswaitershadlearnedtofear."Pinched," remarked the youngman, looking up at himwith expressionlesseyes. "Pinchedbyapainlessdentist.Takemeaway, flatty,andgivemegas.Somelayeggsandsomelaynone.Whenisahen?"Stilldeeply seizedby some inwardgrief,but tractable,heallowedQuigg toleadhimawayanddownthestreettoalittlepark.There,seatedonabench,heuponwhomacornerofthegreatCaliph'smantlehasdescended,spakewithkindnessanddiscretion,seekingtoknowwhatevilhad come upon the other, disturbing his soul and driving him to such ill-consideredandruinouswasteofhissubstanceandstores."Iwasdoing theMonteCristo act as adaptedbyPompton,N. J.,wasn't I?"askedtheyoungman."You were throwing small coins into the street for the people to scrambleafter,"saidtheMargrave."That'sit.Youbuyallthebeeryoucanhold,andthenyouthrowchickenfeedto— Oh, curse that word chicken, and hens, feathers, roosters, eggs, andeverythingconnectedwithit!""Youngsir,"saidtheMargravekindly,butwithdignity,"thoughIdonotaskyourconfidence,Iinviteit.IknowtheworldandIknowhumanity.Manismystudy, though I do not eye him as the scientist eyes a beetle or as thephilanthropistgazesattheobjectsofhisbounty—throughaveiloftheoryandignorance. It ismypleasureanddistraction to interestmyself in thepeculiarand complicatedmisfortunes that life in a great city visits uponmy fellow-men.Youmaybefamiliarwiththehistoryofthatgloriousandimmortalruler,theCaliphHarunAlRashid,whosewiseandbeneficentexcursionsamonghispeopleinthecityofBagdadsecuredhimtheprivilegeofrelievingsomuchoftheirdistress. InmyhumblewayIwalk inhis footsteps. I seek for romanceandadventureincitystreets—notinruinedcastlesorincrumblingpalaces.Tome the greatest marvels of magic are those that take place in men's heartswhenacteduponbythefuriousanddiverseforcesofacrowdedpopulation.Inyour strange behavior this evening I fancy a story lurks. I read in your actsomethingdeeperthanthewantonwastefulnessofaspendthrift.Iobserveinyourcountenancethecertaintracesofconsuminggriefordespair.Irepeat—Iinviteyourconfidence.Iamnotwithoutsomepowertoalleviateandadvise.Willyounottrustme?""Gee, how you talk!" exclaimed the young man, a gleam of admirationsupplantingforamomentthedullsadnessofhiseyes."You'vegottheAstor

Libraryskinnedtoasynopsisofprecedingchapters.ImindthatoldTurkyouspeakof.Iread'TheArabianNights'whenIwasakid.HewasakindofBillDevery and Charlie Schwab rolled into one. But, say, you might waveenchanted dishrags andmake copper bottles smoke up coon giants all nightwithoutevertouchingme.Mycasewon'tyieldtothatkindoftreatment.""IfIcouldhearyourstory,"saidtheMargrave,withhislofty,serioussmile."I'llspielitinaboutninewords,"saidtheyoungman,withadeepsigh,"butIdon'tthinkyoucanhelpmeany.Unlessyou'reapeachatguessingit'sbacktotheBosphorusforyouonyourmagiclinoleum."

THESTORYOFTHEYOUNGMANANDTHEHARNESSMAKER'SRIDDLE

"I work in Hildebrant's saddle and harness shop down in Grant Street. I'veworkedtherefiveyears.Iget$18aweek.That'senoughtomarryon,ain'tit?Well, I'm not going to get married. Old Hildebrant is one of these funnyDutchmen—youknowthekind—alwaysgettingoffbumjokes.He'sgotabouta million riddles and things that he faked from Rogers Brothers' great-grandfather.BillWatsonworksthere,too.MeandBillhavetostandforthemchestnuts day after day.Why dowe do it?Well, jobs ain't to be picked offeveryAnheuserbush—Andthenthere'sLaura."What?Theoldman'sdaughter.Comesintheshopeveryday.Aboutnineteen,andthepictureoftheblondethatsitsonthepalisadesoftheRhineandcharmsthe clam-diggers into the surf.Hair the color of strawmatting, and eyes asblackandshinyasthebestharnessblacking—thinkofthat!"Me?well,it'seithermeorBillWatson.Shetreatsusbothequal.Billisalltothepsychopathicabouther;andme?—well,yousawmeplatingtheroadbedoftheGreatMaroonWaywithsilverto-night.ThatwasonaccountofLaura.Iwasspiflicated,YourHighness,andIwotnotofwhatIwouldst."How?Why,oldHildebrandt says tomeandBill this afternoon: 'Boys, oneriddle have I for you gehabt haben. A young man who cannot riddlesantworten,heisnotsogoodbybusinessforeinfamilytoprovide—isnotthat—hein?' And he hands us a riddle—a conundrum, some calls it—and hechuckles interiorly andgivesbothofus till to-morrowmorning toworkouttheanswer to it.Andhesayswhicheverofusguesses the reparteeendof itgoestohishouseo'Wednesdaynighttohisdaughter'sbirthdayparty.Anditmeans Laura for whichever of us goes, for she's naturally aching for ahusband, and it's eithermeorBillWatson, for oldHildebrant likesusboth,and wants her to marry somebody that'll carry on the business after he's

stitchedhislastpairoftraces."Theriddle?Why,itwasthis:'Whatkindofahenlaysthelongest?Thinkofthat!Whatkindofahen lays the longest?Ain't it likeaDutchman to riskaman'shappinessonafoolpropositionlikethat?Now,what'stheuse?WhatIdon't know about henswould fill several incubators. You say you're givingimitations of the old Arab guy that gave away—libraries in Bagdad.Well,now,canyouwhistleupafairythat'llsolvethishenquery,ornot?"WhentheyoungmanceasedtheMargravearoseandpacedtoandfrobythepark bench for severalminutes. Finally he sat again, and said, in grave andimpressivetones:"Imustconfess,sir, thatduringtheeightyearsthatIhavespentinsearchofadventureandinrelievingdistressIhaveneverencounteredamoreinterestingoramoreperplexingcase.IfearthatIhaveoverlookedhensinmyresearchesand observations.As to their habits, their times andmanner of laying, theirmanyvarietiesandcross-breedings,theirspanoflife,their—""Oh,don'tmakeanIbsendramaofit!"interruptedtheyoungman,flippantly."Riddles—especially old Hildebrant's riddles—don't have to be worked outseriously.Theyare light themes suchasSimFordandHarryThurstonPeckliketohandle.But,somehow,Ican'tstrikejusttheanswer.BillWatsonmay,and hemay not. To-morrowwill tell.Well,YourMajesty, I'm glad anyhowthatyoubutted inandwhiled the timeaway. IguessMr.AlRashidhimselfwould have bounced back if one of his constituents had conducted him upagainstthisriddle.I'llsaygoodnight.Peacefo'yours,andwhat-you-may-call-itsofAllah."TheMargrave,stillwithagloomyair,heldouthishand."I cannot express my regret," he said, sadly. "Never before have I foundmyselfunabletoassistinsomeway.'Whatkindofahenlaysthelongest?Itisabafflingproblem.Thereisahen,Ibelieve,calledthePlymouthRockthat—""Cutitout,"saidtheyoungman."TheCaliphtradeisamightyseriousone.Idon'tsupposeyou'devenseeanythingfunnyinapreacher'sdefenseofJohnD.Rockefeller.Well,goodnight,YourNibs."FromhabittheMargravebegantofumbleinhispockets.Hedrewforthacardandhandedittotheyoungman."Domethefavortoacceptthis,anyhow,"hesaid."Thetimemaycomewhenitmightbeofusetoyou.""Thanks!" said the young man, pocketing it carelessly. "My name isSimmons."Shametohimwhowouldhintthatthereader'sinterestshallaltogetherpursuetheMargraveAugustMichaelvonPaulsenQuigg. I am indeedastray ifmy

handfailinkeepingthewaywheremyperuser'sheartwouldfollow.Thenletus,onthemorrow,peepquicklyinatthedoorofHildebrant,harnessmaker.Hildebrant's 200 pounds reposed on a bench, silver-buckling a raw leathermartingale.BillWatsoncameinfirst."Vell," said Hildebrant, shaking all over with the vile conceit of the joke-maker,"hafyouguessedhim?'Vatkindofahenlaysderlongest?'""Er—why, I think so," said Bill, rubbing a servile chin. "I think so, Mr.Hildebrant—theonethatlivesthelongest—Isthatright?""Nein!"saidHildebrant,shakinghisheadviolently."Youhafnotguessedderanswer."Billpassedonanddonnedabed-tickapronandbachelorhood.In came the young man of the Arabian Night's fiasco—pale, melancholy,hopeless."Vell," said Hildebrant, "haf you guessed him? 'Vat kind of a hen lays derlongest?'"Simmons regarded himwith dull savagery in his eye. Should he curse thismountainofpernicioushumor—cursehimanddie?Whyshould—ButtherewasLaura.Dogged, speechless,he thrusthishands intohiscoatpocketsandstood.HishandencounteredthestrangetouchoftheMargrave'scard.Hedrewitoutandlooked at it, as men about to be hanged look at a crawling fly. There waswritten on it in Quigg's bold, round hand: "Good for one roast chicken tobearer."Simmonslookedupwithaflashingeye."Adeadone!"saidhe."Goot!"roaredHildebrant,rockingthetablewithgiantglee."Dotisright!Yougomeatminehouseat8o'clocktoderparty."

XVICOMPLIMENTSOFTHESEASON

There are no more Christmas stories to write. Fiction is exhausted; andnewspaperitems,thenextbest,aremanufacturedbycleveryoungjournalistswho have married early and have an engagingly pessimistic view of life.Therefore, for seasonable diversion, we are reduced to very questionable

sources—factsandphilosophy.Wewillbeginwith—whicheveryouchoosetocallit.Children are pestilential little animals with whichwe have to cope under abewildering variety of conditions. Especially when childish sorrowsoverwhelmthemareweput toourwits'end.Weexhaustourpaltrystoreofconsolation;andthenbeatthem,sobbing,tosleep.Thenwegrovelinthedustofamillionyears,andaskGodwhy.Thuswecalloutoftherat-trap.Asforthe children, no one understands them except old maids, hunchbacks, andshepherddogs.NowcomesthefactsinthecaseoftheRag-Doll,theTatterdemalion,andtheTwenty-fifthofDecember.OnthetenthofthatmonththeChildoftheMillionairelostherrag-doll.Therewere many servants in the Millionaire's palace on the Hudson, and theseransacked the house and grounds, butwithout finding the lost treasure. Thechildwasagirloffive,andoneofthoseperverselittlebeaststhatoftenwoundthesensibilitiesofwealthyparentsbyfixingtheiraffectionsuponsomevulgar,inexpensive toy instead of upon diamond-studded automobiles and ponyphaetons.TheChildgrievedsorelyandtruly,athinginexplicabletotheMillionaire,towhomthe rag-dollmarketwasaboutas interestingasBayStateGas;and tothe Lady, the Child's mother, whowas all form—that is, nearly all, as youshallsee.TheChildcriedinconsolably,andgrewhollow-eyed,knock-kneed,spindling,andcorykilvertyinmanyotherrespects.TheMillionairesmiledandtappedhiscoffers confidently. The pick of the output of the French and Germantoymakerswasrushedbyspecialdeliverytothemansion;butRachelrefusedto be comforted. She was weeping for her rag child, and was for a highprotective tariff against all foreign foolishness. Then doctorswith the finestbedsidemannersandstop-watcheswerecalledin.Onebyonetheychatteredfutilely about peptomanganate of iron and sea voyages and hypophosphitesuntil their stop-watches showed that Bill Rendered was under the wire forshoworplace.Then,asmen,theyadvisedthattherag-dollbefoundassoonas possible and restored to its mourning parent. The Child sniffed attherapeutics, chewed a thumb, and wailed for her Betsy. And all this timecablegramswerecomingfromSantaClaussayingthathewouldsoonbehereandenjoiningustoshowatrueChristianspiritandletuponthepool-roomsandtontinepoliciesandplatoonsystemslongenoughtogivehimawelcome.Everywhere the spirit of Christmas was diffusing itself. The banks wererefusing loans, the pawn-brokers had doubled their gang of helpers, peoplebumped your shins on the streets with red sleds, Thomas and Jeremiahbubbledbeforeyouonthebarswhileyouwaitedononefoot,holly-wreathsof

hospitalitywerehunginwindowsofthestores,theywhohad'emweregettingtheirfurs.Youhardlyknewwhichwasthebestbetinballs—three,high,moth,orsnow.Itwasnotimeatwhichtolosetherag-dolloryourheart.If Doctor Watson's investigating friend had been called in to solve thismysteriousdisappearancehemighthaveobservedontheMillionaire'swallacopyof"TheVampire."Thatwouldhavequicklysuggested,byinduction,"Aragandaboneandahankofhair.""Flip,"aScotchterrier,nexttotherag-dollin theChild'sheart, frisked through thehalls.Thehankofhair!Aha!X, theunfound quantity, represented the rag-doll. But, the bone?Well, when dogsfindbonesthey—Done!Itwereaneasyandafruitful tasktoexamineFlip'sforefeet.Look,Watson!Earth—dried earth between the toes.Of course, thedog—butSherlockwasnot there.Therefore itdevolves.But topographyandarchitecturemustintervene.TheMillionaire's palace occupied a lordly space. In front of it was a lawnclose-mowedasaSouthIrelandman'sfacetwodaysafterashave.Atonesideof it,andfrontingonanotherstreetwasapleasaunce trimmed toa leaf,andthe garage and stables. The Scotch pup had ravished the rag-doll from thenursery,draggedittoacornerofthelawn,dugahole,andburieditafterthemanner of careless undertakers.There you have themystery solved, and nochecks to write for the hypodermical wizard or fi'-pun notes to toss to thesergeant.Thenlet'sgetdowntotheheartofthething, tiresomereaders—theChristmasheartofthething.Fuzzy was drunk—not riotously or helplessly or loquaciously, as you or Imight get, but decently, appropriately, and inoffensively, as becomes agentlemandownonhisluck.Fuzzywasasoldierofmisfortune.Theroad,thehaystack,theparkbench,thekitchen door, the bitter round of eleemosynary beds-with-shower-bath-attachment,thepettypickingsandignoblygarneredlargesseofgreatcities—theseformedthechaptersofhishistory.Fuzzywalked toward theriver,downthestreet thatboundedonesideof theMillionaire's house and grounds. He saw a leg of Betsy, the lost rag-doll,protruding, like the clue to a Lilliputianmurdermystery, from its untimelygraveinacornerofthefence.Hedraggedforththemaltreatedinfant,tuckeditunderhisarm,andwentonhiswaycrooningaroadsongofhisbrethrenthatno doll that has been brought up to the sheltered life should hear.Well forBetsythatshehadnoears.Andwellthatshehadnoeyessaveunseeingcirclesofblack;forthefacesofFuzzyandtheScotchterrierwerethoseofbrothers,andtheheartofnorag-dollcouldwithstandtwicetobecomethepreyofsuchfearsomemonsters.Thoughyoumaynotknowit,Grogan'ssaloonstandsneartheriverandnear

thefootofthestreetdownwhichFuzzytraveled.InGrogan's,Christmascheerwasalreadyrampant.Fuzzy entered with his doll. He fancied that as a mummer at the feast ofSaturnhemightearnafewdropsfromthewassailcup.HesetBetsyonthebarandaddressedherloudlyandhumorously,seasoninghis speech with exaggerated compliments and endearments, as oneentertaininghisladyfriend.Theloafersandbibbersaroundcaughtthefarceofit, and roared.ThebartendergaveFuzzyadrink.Oh,manyofuscarry rag-dolls."One for the lady?" suggested Fuzzy impudently, and tucked anothercontributiontoArtbeneathhiswaistcoat.He began to see possibilities in Betsy. His first-night had been a success.Visionsofavaudevillecircuitabouttowndawneduponhim.Inagroupnearthestovesat"Pigeon"McCarthy,BlackRiley,and"One-ear"Mike, well and unfavorably known in the tough shoestring district thatblackenedtheleftbankoftheriver.Theypassedanewspaperbackandforthamongthemselves.The itemthateachsolidandbluntforefingerpointedoutwasanadvertisementheaded"OneHundredDollarsReward."Toearnitonemustreturntherag-dolllost,strayed,orstolenfromtheMillionaire'smansion.Itseemedthatgriefstillravaged,unchecked,inthebosomofthetoofaithfulChild. Flip, the terrier, capered and shook his absurd whisker before her,powerlesstodistract.ShewailedforherBetsyinthefacesofwalking,talking,mama-ing,andeye-closingFrenchMabellesandViolettes.Theadvertisementwasalastresort.BlackRiley came from behind the stove and approached Fuzzy in his one-sidedparabolicway.The Christmas mummer, flushed with success, had tucked Betsy under hisarm,andwasabouttodeparttothefillingofimpromptudateselsewhere."Say,'Bo,"saidBlackRileytohim,"wheredidyoucopoutdatdoll?""This doll?" askedFuzzy, touchingBetsywithhis forefinger to be sure thatshe was the one referred to. Why, this doll was presented to me by theEmperorofBeloochistan.IhavesevenhundredothersinmycountryhomeinNewport.Thisdoll—""Cheesethefunnybusiness,"saidRiley."Youswipeditorpickeditupatdehouseondehillwhere—butneverminddat.Youwanttotakefiftycentsforderags,andtakeitquick.Mebrother'skidathomemightbewantin'toplaywidit.Hey—what?"Heproducedthecoin.

Fuzzy laughed a gurgling, insolent, alcoholic laugh in his face. Go to theofficeofSarahBernhardt'smanagerandpropose tohimthatshebereleasedfromanight's performance to entertain theTackytownLyceumandLiteraryCoterie.YouwillheartheduplicateofFuzzy'slaugh.BlackRileygaugedFuzzyquicklywithhisblueberryeyeasawrestlerdoes.His handwas itching to play theRoman andwrest the ragSabine from theextemporaneousmerry-andrewwhowas entertaining an angel unaware.Butherefrained.Fuzzywasfatandsolidandbig.Threeinchesofwell-nourishedcorporeity, defended from the winter winds by dingy linen, intervenedbetween his vest and trousers. Countless small, circular wrinkles runningaround his coat-sleeves and knees guaranteed the quality of his bone andmuscle. His small, blue eyes, bathed in the moisture of altruism andwooziness,lookeduponyoukindly,yetwithoutabashment.Hewaswhiskerly,whiskyly,fleshilyformidable.So,BlackRileytemporized."Wot'llyoutakeforit,den?"heasked."Money,"saidFuzzy,withhuskyfirmness,"cannotbuyher."He was intoxicated with the artist's first sweet cup of attainment. To set afaded-blue,earth-stainedrag-dollonabar,toholdmimicconversewithit,andto find his heart leaping with the sense of plaudits earned and his throatscorchingwith free libationspoured inhis honor—couldbase coinbuyhimfromsuchachievements?YouwillperceivethatFuzzyhadthetemperament.Fuzzywalkedoutwiththegaitofatrainedsea-lioninsearchofothercaféstoconquer.Thoughtheduskoftwilightwashardlyyetapparent,lightswerebeginningtospangle the city like pop-corn bursting in a deep skillet. Christmas Eve,impatiently expected, was peeping over the brink of the hour.Millions hadpreparedforitscelebration.Townswouldbepaintedred.You,yourself,haveheardthehornsanddodgedthecapersoftheSaturnalians."Pigeon"McCarthy,BlackRiley, and "One-ear"MikeheldahastyconverseoutsideGrogan's.Theywerenarrow-chested,pallidstriplings,notfighters intheopen,butmoredangerousintheirwaysofwarfarethanthemostterribleofTurks.Fuzzy,inapitchedbattle,couldhaveeatenthethreeofthem.Inago-as-you-pleaseencounterhewasalreadydoomed.TheyovertookhimjustasheandBetsywereenteringCostigan'sCasino.Theydeflectedhim,andshovedthenewspaperunderhisnose.Fuzzycouldread—andmore."Boys,"saidhe,"youarecertainlydamntruefriends.Givemeaweektothinkitover."Thesoulofarealartistisquenchedwithdifficulty.

Theboyscarefullypointedouttohimthatadvertisementsweresoulless,andthatthedeficienciesofthedaymightnotbesuppliedbythemorrow."Acoolhundred,"saidFuzzythoughtfullyandmushily."Boys," said he, "you are true friends. I'll go up and claim the reward.Theshowbusinessisnotwhatitusedtobe."Nightwasfallingmoresurely.Thethreetaggedathissidestothefootoftherise onwhich stood theMillionaire's house. There Fuzzy turned upon themacrimoniously."Youareapackofputty-facedbeagle-hounds,"heroared."Goaway."Theywentaway—alittleway.In"Pigeon"McCarthy'spocketwasasectionofone-inchgas-pipeeightincheslong.Inoneendof itandin themiddleof itwasa leadplug.One-halfof itwas packed tight with solder. Black Riley carried a slung-shot, being aconventional thug. "One-ear"Mike relied upon a pair of brass knucks—anheirloominthefamily."Why fetchandcarry," saidBlackRiley, "whensomeonewilldo it forye?Lethimbringitouttous.Hey—what?""Wecanchuckhimintheriver,"said"Pigeon"McCarthy,"withastonetiedtohisfeet.""Youseguysmakemetired,"said"One-ear"Mikesadly."Ain'tprogresseverappealedtononeofyez?Sprinklealittlegasolineon'im,anddrop'imontheDrive—well?"FuzzyenteredtheMillionaire'sgateandzigzaggedtowardthesoftlyglowingentranceofthemansion.Thethreegoblinscameuptothegateandlingered—oneoneachsideofit,onebeyondtheroadway.Theyfingeredtheircoldmetalandleather,confident.Fuzzyrangthedoor-bell,smilingfoolishlyanddreamily.Anatavisticinstinctprompted him to reach for the button of his right glove. But he wore nogloves;sohislefthanddropped,embarrassed.Theparticularmenialwhosedutyitwastoopendoorstosilksandlacesshiedat first sightofFuzzy.But a secondglance took inhispassport, his cardofadmission, his surety of welcome—the lost rag-doll of the daughter of thehousedanglingunderhisarm.Fuzzywasadmitted intoagreathall,dimwith theglowfromunseen lights.ThehirelingwentawayandreturnedwithamaidandtheChild.Thedollwasrestored to themourningone.Sheclaspedher lostdarling toherbreast;andthen,withtheinordinateselfishnessandcandorofchildhood,stampedherfootandwhinedhatredandfearoftheodiousbeingwhohadrescuedherfromthe

depths of sorrow and despair. Fuzzy wriggled himself into an ingratiatoryattitudeandessayedtheidioticsmileandblatteringsmalltalkthatissupposedto charm the budding intellect of the young. The Child bawled, and wasdraggedaway,huggingherBetsyclose.There came the Secretary, pale, poised, polished, gliding in pumps, andworshippingpompandceremony.Hecountedout intoFuzzy'shand ten ten-dollar bills; then dropped his eye upon the door, transferred it to James, itscustodian, indicated the obnoxious earner of the rewardwith the other, andallowedhispumpstowafthimawaytosecretarialregions.JamesgatheredFuzzywithhisowncommandingopticandswepthimasfarasthefrontdoor.Whenthemoneytouchedfuzzy'sdingypalmhisfirst instinctwas to take tohisheels;butasecondthoughtrestrainedhimfromthatblunderofetiquette.Itwashis;ithadbeengivenhim.It—and,oh,whatanelysiumitopenedtothegaze of his mind's eye! He had tumbled to the foot of the ladder; he washungry,homeless,friendless,ragged,cold,drifting;andheheldinhishandthekeytoaparadiseofthemud-honeythathecraved.Thefairydollhadwavedawandwithherrag-stuffedhand;andnowwhereverhemightgotheenchantedpalaces with shining foot-rests and magic red fluids in gleaming glasswarewouldbeopentohim.HefollowedJamestothedoor.Hepausedthereastheflunkydrewopenthegreatmahoganyportalforhimtopassintothevestibule.Beyondthewrought-irongates in thedarkhighwayBlackRileyandhis twopalscasuallystrolled,fingeringundertheircoatstheinevitablyfatalweaponsthatweretomaketherewardoftherag-dolltheirs.Fuzzy stopped at the Millionaire's door and bethought himself. Like littlesprigsofmistletoeonadeadtree,certainlivinggreenthoughtsandmemoriesbegantodecoratehisconfusedmind.Hewasquitedrunk,mindyou,andthepresentwasbeginningtofade.Thosewreathsandfestoonsofhollywiththeirscarlet berries making the great hall gay—where had he seen such thingsbefore?Somewherehehadknownpolishedfloorsandodorsoffreshflowersinwinter,and—andsomeonewassingingasonginthehousethathethoughthehadheardbefore.Someonesingingandplayingaharp.Ofcourse,itwasChristmas—Fuzzythoughhemusthavebeenprettydrunktohaveoverlookedthat.Andthenhewentoutofthepresent,andtherecamebacktohimoutofsomeimpossible, vanished, and irrevocable past a little, pure-white, transient,forgotten ghost—the spirit of noblesse oblige. Upon a gentleman certainthingsdevolve.

Jamesopenedtheouterdoor.Astreamoflightwentdownthegraveledwalkto the iron gate. Black Riley, McCarthy, and "One-ear" Mike saw, andcarelesslydrewtheirsinistercordoncloseraboutthegate.With amore imperious gesture than James'smaster had ever used or couldever use, Fuzzy compelled themenial to close the door.Upon a gentlemancertainthingsdevolve.EspeciallyattheChristmasseason."It is cust—customary," he said to James, the flustered, "when a gentlemancallsonChristmasEvetopassthecomplimentsoftheseasonwiththeladyofthe house. You und'stand? I shall not move shtep till I pass compl'mentsseasonwithladythehouse.Und'stand?"Therewasanargument.Jameslost.Fuzzyraisedhisvoiceandsentitthroughthe house unpleasantly. I did not say hewas a gentleman.Hewas simply atrampbeingvisitedbyaghost.Asterlingsilverbellrang.Jameswentbacktoanswerit,leavingFuzzyinthehall.Jamesexplainedsomewheretosomeone.ThenhecameandconductedFuzzyintothelibrary.The ladyenteredamoment later.Shewasmorebeautifulandholy thananypicture that Fuzzy had seen. She smiled, and said something about a doll.Fuzzydidn'tunderstandthat;herememberednothingaboutadoll.A footman brought in two small glasses of sparkling wine on a stampedsterling-silverwaiter.TheLadytookone.TheotherwashandedtoFuzzy.Ashis fingersclosedon theslenderglassstemhisdisabilitiesdroppedfromhimforonebriefmoment.Hestraightenedhimself;andTime,sodisobligingtomostofus,turnedbackwardtoaccommodateFuzzy.ForgottenChristmasghostswhiter than the falsebeardsof themost opulentKris Kringle were rising in the fumes of Grogan's whisky. What had theMillionaire'smansion todowitha long,wainscotedVirginiahall,where theridersweregroupedaroundasilverpunch-bowl,drinkingtheancienttoastoftheHouse?Andwhyshouldthepatterofthecabhorses'hoofsonthefrozenstreet be in any wise related to the sound of the saddled hunters stampingundertheshelterofthewestveranda?AndwhathadFuzzytodowithanyofit?The Lady, looking at him over her glass, let her condescending smile fadeawaylikeafalsedawn.Hereyesturnedserious.ShesawsomethingbeneaththeragsandScotchterrierwhiskersthatshedidnotunderstand.Butitdidnotmatter.Fuzzyliftedhisglassandsmiledvacantly."P-pardon, lady,"hesaid,"butcouldn't leavewithoutexchangin'comp'ments

sheasonwithladyth'house.'Gainstprinc'plesgen'lemandosho."And then he began the ancient salutation that was a tradition in the Housewhenmenworelacerufflesandpowder."Theblessingsofanotheryear—"Fuzzy'smemoryfailedhim.TheLadyprompted:"—Beuponthishearth.""—Theguest—"stammeredFuzzy."—Anduponherwho—"continuedtheLady,withaleadingsmile."Oh,cutitout,"saidFuzzy,ill-manneredly."Ican'tremember.Drinkhearty."Fuzzyhadshothisarrow.Theydrank.TheLadysmiledagainthesmileofhercaste.Jamesenvelopedandre-conductedhimtowardthefrontdoor.Theharpmusicstillsoftlydriftedthroughthehouse.Outside,BlackRileybreathedonhiscoldhandsandhuggedthegate."Iwonder,"saidtheLadytoherself,musing,"who—butthereweresomanywho came. Iwonderwhethermemory is a curse or a blessing to themaftertheyhavefallensolow."Fuzzyandhisescortwerenearlyatthedoor.TheLadycalled:"James!"James stalkedbackobsequiously, leavingFuzzywaitingunsteadily,withhisbriefsparkofthedivinefiregone.Outside,BlackRileystampedhiscoldfeetandgotafirmergriponhissectionofgas-pipe."Youwillconductthisgentleman,"saidthelady,"Downstairs.ThentellLouistogetouttheMercedesandtakehimtowhateverplacehewishestogo."

XVIIANIGHTINNEWARABIA

ThegreatcityofBagdad-on-the-Subwayiscaliph-ridden.Itspalaces,bazaars,khans,andbywaysarethrongedwithAlRashidsindiversdisguises,seekingdiversionandvictims for theirunbridledgenerosity.Youcanscarcely findapoorbeggarwhomtheyarewilling to letenjoyhis spoilsunsuccored,norawrecked unfortunate uponwhom theywill not reshower themeans of freshmisfortune.Youwillhardlyfindanywhereahungryonewhohasnothadtheopportunitytotightenhisbeltingiftlibraries,norapoorpunditwhohasnotblushed at the holiday basket of celery-crowned turkey forced resoundinglythroughhisdoorbytheeleemosynarypress.

So then, fearfully through the Harun-haunted streets creep the one-eyedcalenders, the Little Hunchback and the Barber's Sixth Brother, hoping toescapetheministrationsoftherovinghordeofcaliphoidsultans.Entertainment for many Arabian nights might be had from the histories ofthose who have escaped the largesse of the army of Commanders of theFaithful. Until dawn youmight sit on the enchanted rug and listen to suchstories as are told of the powerful genie Roc-Ef-El-Er who sent the FortyThievestosoakuptheoilplantofAliBaba;ofthegoodCaliphKar-Neg-Ghe,who gave away palaces; of the SevenVoyages of Sailbad, the Sinner, whofrequentedwooden excursion steamers among the islands; of the FishermanandtheBottle;oftheBarmecides'Boardinghouse;ofAladdin'srisetowealthbymeansofhisWonderfulGas-meter.Butnow,therebeingtensultanstooneSheherazade,sheisheldtoovaluabletobeinfearofthebowstring.Inconsequencetheartofnarrativelanguishes.And, as the lesser caliphs are hunting the happy poor and the resignedunfortunate fromcover tocover inorder toheapupon themstrangemerciesandmysteriousbenefits,toooftencomesthereportfromArabianheadquartersthatthecaptiverefused"totalk."This reticence, then, in the actors who perform the sad comedies of theirphilanthropy-scourgedworld,must,inadegree,accountfortheshortcomingsofthispainfullygleanedtale,whichshallbecalled

THESTORYOFTHECALIPHWHOALLEVIATEDHISCONSCIENCE

Old Jacob Spragginsmixed for himself some Scotch and lithiawater at his$1,200oaksideboard.Inspirationmusthaveresultedfromits imbibition, forimmediately afterwardhe struck thequarteredoak soundlywithhis fist andshoutedtotheemptydiningroom:"Bythecokeovensofhell, itmustbe that ten thousanddollars! If Icangetthatsquared,it'lldothetrick."Thus,bythecommonestartificeofthetrade,havinggainedyourinterest,theactionofthestorywillnowbesuspended,leavingyougrumpilytoconsiderasortofdullbiographybeginningfifteenyearsbefore.WhenoldJacobwasyoungJacobhewasabreakerboyinaPennsylvaniacoalmine. I don't know what a breaker boy is; but his occupation seems to bestandingbyacoaldumpwithawanlookandadinner-pailtohavehispicturetakenformagazinearticles.Anyhow,Jacobwasone.But,insteadofdyingof

overworkatnine,andleavinghishelplessparentsandbrothersatthemercyoftheunionstrikers'reservefund,hehitcheduphisgalluses,putadollarortwoinasidepropositionnowandthen,andatforty-fivewasworth$20,000,000.Therenow!it'sover.Hardlyhadtimetoyawn,didyou?I'veseenbiographiesthat—butletusdissemble.I want you to consider Jacob Spraggins, Esq., after he had arrived at theseventhstageofhiscareer.Thestagesmeantare,first,humbleorigin;second,deservedpromotion;third,stockholder;fourth,capitalist;fifth,trustmagnate;sixth,richmalefactor;seventh,caliph;eighth,x.Theeighthstageshallbelefttothehighermathematics.Atfifty-fiveJacobretiredfromactivebusiness.Theincomeofaczarwasstillrollinginonhimfromcoal,iron,realestate,oil,railroads,manufactories,andcorporations, but none of it touched Jacob's hands in a raw state. It was asterilized increment, carefully cleaned and dusted and fumigated until itarrivedatitsultimatestageofuntainted,spotlesschecksinthewhitefingersofhisprivatesecretary.Jacobbuilta three-million-dollarpalaceonacorner lotfrontingonNabobAvenue,cityofNewBagdad,andbegantofeelthemantleof the lateH.A.Rashiddescendinguponhim.Eventually Jacobslipped themantleunderhiscollar, tied it inaneat four-in-hand,andbecamea licensedharrierofourMesopotamianproletariat.Whenaman'sincomebecomessolargethatthebutcheractuallysendshimthekindofsteakheorders,hebeginstothinkabouthissoul'ssalvation.Now,thevariousstagesorclassesofrichmenmustnotbeforgotten.Thecapitalistcantellyoutoadollartheamountofhiswealth.Thetrustmagnate"estimates"it.TherichmalefactorhandsyouacigaranddeniesthathehasboughttheP.D.&Q.ThecaliphmerelysmilesandtalksaboutHammersteinandthemusicallasses.Thereisarecordoftremendousaltercationatbreakfastina"Where-to-Dine-Well" tavern between amagnate and his wife, the rift within the lootbeingthatthewifecalculatedtheirfortuneatafigure$3,000,000higherthandidherfuturedivorcé.Oh,well,I,myself,heardasimilarquarrelbetweenaman and his wife because he found fifty cents less in his pockets than hethoughthehad.Afterall,weareallhuman—CountTolstoi,R.Fitzsimmons,PeterPan,andtherestofus.Don't lose heart because the story seems to be degenerating into a sort ofmoralessayforintellectualreaders.Therewillbedialogueandstagebusinessprettysoon.WhenJacobfirstbegantocomparetheeyesofneedleswiththecamelsintheZoohedecideduponorganizedcharity.Hehadhissecretarysendacheckforonemillion to theUniversalBenevolentAssociationof theGlobe.Youmayhave looked down through a grating in front of a decayedwarehouse for a

nickel thatyouhaddropped through.But that is neitherherenor there.TheAssociationacknowledgedreceiptofhisfavorofthe24thult.withenclosureasstated.Separatedbyadoubleline,butstillmightyclosetothematterunderthe caption of "Oddities of the Day's News" in an evening paper, JacobSpragginsreadthatone"JasperSpargyous"had"donated$100,000totheU.B.A.ofG."Acamelmayhaveastomachforeachdayintheweek;butIdarenot venture to accord him whiskers, for fear of the Great Displeasure atWashington;butifhehavewhiskers,surelynotoneofthemwillseemtohavebeeninsertedintheeyeofaneedlebythateffortofthatrichmantoentertheK. of H. The right is reserved to reject any and all bids; signed, S. Peter,secretaryandgatekeeper.Next,Jacobselectedthebestendowedcollegehecouldscareupandpresenteditwitha$200,000laboratory.Thecollegedidnotmaintainascientificcourse,butitacceptedthemoneyandbuiltanelaboratelavatoryinstead,whichwasnodiversionoffundssofarasJacobeverdiscovered.The facultymetand invitedJacob tocomeoverand takehisABCdegree.Before sending the invitation they smiled, cut out the C, added the properpunctuationmarks,andallwaswell.Whilewalking on the campus before being capped and gowned, Jacob sawtwoprofessorsstrollingnearby.Theirvoices,longadaptedtoindooracoustics,undesignedlyreachedhisear."There goes the latest chevalier d'industrie," said one of them, "to buy asleepingpowderfromus.Hegetshisdegreeto-morrow.""Inforoconscientiæ,"saidtheother."Let's'eave'arfabrickat'im."Jacob ignored the Latin, but the brick pleasantrywas not too hard for him.There was no mandragora in the honorary draught of learning that he hadbought.ThatwasbeforethepassageofthePureFoodandDrugsAct.Jacobweariedofphilanthropyonalargescale."If I could see folksmadehappier," he said to himself—"If I could see 'emmyselfandhear 'emexpress theirgratitudeforwhat Idonefor 'emitwouldmakemefeelbetter.Thisdonatin'fundstoinstitutionsandsocietiesisaboutassatisfactoryasdroppingmoneyintoabrokenslotmachine."So Jacob followed his nose, which led him through unswept streets to thehomesofthepoorest."Theverything!"saidJacob."Iwillchartertworiversteamboats,packthemfulloftheseunfortunatechildrenand—saytenthousanddollsanddrumsandathousand freezers of ice cream, and give them a delightful outing up theSound.The seabreezeson that tripought toblow the taintoff someof thismoneythatkeepscominginfasterthanIcanworkitoffmymind."

Jacobmust have leaked some of his benevolent intentions, for an immensepersonwithabaldfaceandamouththatlookedasifitoughttohavea"DropLettersHere"signoverithookedafingeraroundhimandsethiminaspacebetweenabarber'spoleandastackofashcans.Wordscameoutofthepost-officeslit—smooth,huskywordswithgloveson'em,butsoundingasiftheymightturntobareknucklesanymoment."Say, Sport, do you know where you are at? Well, dis is Mike O'Grady'sdistrict you're buttin' into—see? Mike's got de stomach-ache privilege foreverykidindisneighborhood—see?Andifdere'sanypicnicsorredballoonstobedealtouthere,Mike'smoneypays for 'em—see?Don'tyoubutt in,orsomething'llbehandedtoyou.Yoused––––settlersandreformerswithyoursocialologiesandyourmillionairedetectiveshavegotdisdistrictinahellofafix, anyhow. With your college students and professors rough-housing desoda-water stands and dem rubber-neck coaches fillin' de streets, de folksdownhereare'fraidtogooutofdehouses.Now,youleave'emtoMike.Deybelongstohim,andheknowshowtohandle'em.Keeponyourownsideofdetown. Are you some wiser now, uncle, or do you want to scrap wit' MikeO'GradyfordeSantaClausbeltindisdistrict?"Clearly, thatspotinthemoralvineyardwaspreempted.SoCaliphSpragginsmenacednomorethepeopleinthebazaarsoftheEastSide.Tokeepdownhisgrowingsurplushedoubledhisdonationstoorganizedcharity,presentedtheY.M.C.A. of his native townwith a $10,000 collection of butterflies, andsentachecktothefaminesufferersinChinabigenoughtobuynewemeraldeyesanddiamond-filledteethforall theirgods.Butnoneof thesecharitableactsseemedtobringpeacetothecaliph'sheart.Hetriedtogetapersonalnoteintohisbenefactionsbytippingbellboysandwaiters$10and$20bills.Hegotwellsnickeredatandderidedforthatbytheminionswhoacceptwithrespectgratuitiescommensuratetotheserviceperformed.Hesoughtoutanambitiousandtalentedbutpooryoungwoman,andboughtforherthestarpartinanewcomedy.Hemighthavegottenridof$50,000moreofhiscumbersomemoneyinthisphilanthropyifhehadnotneglectedtowriteletterstoher.Butshelostthe suit for lack of evidence, while his capital still kept piling up, and hisoptikosneedleorumcamelibus—orrichman'sdisease—wasunrelieved.InCaliphSpraggins's$3,000,000homelivedhissisterHenrietta,whousedtocookforthecoalminersinatwenty-five-centeatinghouseinCoketown,Pa.,andwhonowwouldhaveofferedJohnMitchellonlytwofingersofherhandto shake. And his daughter Celia, nineteen, back from boarding-school andfrombeingpolishedoffbyprivateinstructorsintherestaurantlanguagesandthoseétudesandthings.Celia is the heroine. Lest the artist's delineation of her charms on this verypagehumbugyourfancy,takefrommeherauthorizeddescription.Shewasa

nice-looking,awkward,loud,ratherbashful,brown-hairedgirl,withasallowcomplexion, bright eyes, and a perpetual smile. She had a wholesome,Spraggins-inheritedloveforplainfood,looseclothing,andthesocietyofthelowerclasses.Shehadtoomuchhealthandyouthtofeeltheburdenofwealth.Shehadawidemouththatkeptthepeppermint-pepsintabletsrattlinglikehailfrom the slot-machinewherever shewent, and she couldwhistle hornpipes.Keepthispictureinmind;andlettheartistdohisworst.Celia looked out of herwindow one day and gave her heart to the grocer'syoungman.The receiver thereofwas at thatmoment engaged in concedingimmortality tohishorseandcallingdownuponhim theultimate fateof thewicked;sohedidnotnoticethetransfer.Ahorseshouldstandstillwhenyouareliftingacrateofstrictlynew-laideggsoutofthewagon.Young lady reader, youwould have liked that grocer's youngman yourself.Butyouwouldn'thavegivenhimyourheart,becauseyouaresavingitforariding-master,ora shoe-manufacturerwitha torpid liver,or somethingquietbutrichingraytweedsatPalmBeach.Oh,Iknowaboutit.SoIamgladthegrocer'syoungmanwasforCelia,andnotforyou.Thegrocer'syoungmanwasslimandstraightandasconfidentandeasyinhismovements as the man in the back of the magazines who wears the newfrictionless rollersuspenders.Heworeagraybicyclecapon thebackofhishead,andhishairwasstraw-coloredandcurly,andhissunburnedfacelookedlikeone that smiledagooddealwhenhewasnotpreaching thedoctrineofeverlastingpunishmenttodelivery-wagonhorses.HeslungimportedA1fancygroceriesaboutas though theywereonly the stuffhedeliveredatboarding-houses; and when he picked up his whip, your mind instantly recalledMr.Tackettandhisairwiththebuttonlessfoils.Tradesmendelivered theirgoodsat a sidegateat the rearof thehouse.Thegrocer'swagoncameaboutteninthemorning.ForthreedaysCeliawatchedthedriverwhenhecame, findingsomethingneweach time toadmire in theloftyandalmostcontemptuouswayhehadoftossingaroundthechoicestgiftsofPomona,Ceres,andthecanningfactories.ThensheconsultedAnnette.To be explicit, Annette McCorkle, the second housemaid who deserves aparagraph herself. Annette Fletcherized large numbers of romantic novelswhich she obtained at a free public library branch (donated by one of thebiggestcaliphsinthebusiness).ShewasCelia'sside-kickerandchum,thoughAuntHenriettadidn'tknowit,youmayhazardabeanortwo."Oh,canary-birdseed!"exclaimedAnnette."Ain'titacorkin'situation?Youaheiress,andfallin'inlovewithhimonsight!He'sasweetboy,too,andabovehis business. But he ain't susceptible like the common run of grocer'sassistants.Heneverpaysnoattentiontome."

"Hewilltome,"saidCelia."Riches—"beganAnnette,unsheathingthenotunjustifiablefemininesting."Oh, you're not so beautiful," said Celia, with her wide, disarming smile."NeitheramI;buthesha'n'tknowthatthere'sanymoneymixedupwithmylooks,suchas theyare.That's fair.Now,Iwantyou to lendmeoneofyourcapsandanapron,Annette.""Oh, marshmallows!" cried Annette. "I see. Ain't it lovely? It's just like'Lurline,theLeft-Handed;or,AButtonholeMaker'sWrongs.'I'llbethe'llturnouttobeacount."Therewasalonghallway(or"passageway,"astheycall it inthelandoftheColonels) with one side latticed, running along the rear of the house. Thegrocer'syoungmanwent through this todeliverhisgoods.Onemorninghepassedagirlintherewithshiningeyes,sallowcomplexion,andwide,smilingmouth,wearingamaid'scapandapron.Butashewascumberedwithabasketof Early Drumhead lettuce and Trophy tomatoes and three bunches ofasparagusandsixbottlesofthemostexpensiveQueenolives,hesawnomorethanthatshewasoneofthemaids.But onhiswayout he cameupbehindher, and shewaswhistling "Fisher'sHornpipe"soloudlyandclearlythatallthepiccolosintheworldshouldhavedisjointedthemselvesandcreptintotheircasesforshame.Thegrocer'syoungmanstoppedandpushedbackhiscapuntilithungonhiscollarbuttonbehind."That'souto'sight,Kid,"saidhe."MynameisCelia,ifyouplease,"saidthewhistler,dazzlinghimwithathree-inchsmile."That's all right. I'mThomasMcLeod.Whatpart of thehousedoyouworkin?""I'mthe—thesecondparlormaid.""Doyouknowthe'FallingWaters'?""No,"saidCelia,"wedon'tknowanybody.Wegotrichtooquick—thatis,Mr.Spragginsdid.""I'llmakeyouacquainted,"saidThomasMcLeod."It'sastrathspey—thefirstcousintoahornpipe."If Celia's whistling put the piccolos out of commission, ThomasMcLeod'ssurelymadethebiggestfluteshunttheirholes.Hecouldactuallywhistlebass.Whenhe stoppedCeliawas ready to jump intohisdeliverywagonand ridewithhimclear to theendof thepierandon to the ferry-boatof theCharon

line."I'llbearoundto-morrowat10:15,"saidThomas,"withsomespinachandacaseofcarbonic.""I'll practice that what-you-may-call-it," said Celia. "I can whistle a finesecond."The processes of courtship are personal, and do not belong to generalliterature.Theyshouldbechronicled indetailonly inadvertisementsof irontonics and in the secret by-laws of the Woman's Auxiliary of the AncientOrderoftheRatTrap.Butgenteelwritingmaycontainadescriptionofcertainstagesof itsprogresswithout intrudingupontheprovinceof theX-rayorofparkpolicemen.A day came when Thomas McLeod and Celia lingered at the end of thelatticed"passage.""Sixteenaweekisn'tmuch,"saidThomas,lettinghiscaprestonhisshoulderblades.Celia looked through the lattice-work andwhistled a deadmarch. Shoppingwith Aunt Henrietta the day before, she had paid that much for a dozenhandkerchiefs."MaybeI'llgetaraisenextmonth,"saidThomas."I'llbearoundto-morrowatthesametimewithabagofflourandthelaundrysoap.""Allright,"saidCelia."Annette'smarriedcousinpaysonly$20amonthforaflatintheBronx."Never foramomentdidshecounton theSpragginsmoney.SheknewAuntHenrietta'sinvincibleprideofcasteandpa'smightinessasaColossusofcash,andsheunderstoodthatifshechoseThomassheandhergrocer'syoungmanmightgowhistleforaliving.Anotherdaycame,ThomasviolatingthedignityofNabobAvenuewith"TheDevil'sDream,"whistledkeenlybetweenhisteeth."Raised to eighteen a week yesterday," he said. "Been pricing flats aroundMorningside.Youwanttostartuntyingthoseapronstringsandunpinningthatcap,oldgirl.""Oh,Tommy!"saidCelia,withherbroadestsmile."Won't thatbeenough?IgotBettytoshowmehowtomakeacottagepudding.Iguesswecouldcallitaflatpuddingifwewantedto.""Andtellnolie,"saidThomas."AndIcansweepandpolishanddust—ofcourse,aparlormaid learns that.Andwecouldwhistleduetsofevenings."

"Theoldmansaidhe'draisemetotwentyatChristmasifBryancouldn'tthinkofanyhardernametocallaRepublicanthana 'postponer,'"saidthegrocer'syoungman."Icansew,"saidCelia; "and Iknow thatyoumustmake thegascompany'smanshowhisbadgewhenhecomestolookatthemeter;andIknowhowtoputupquincejamandwindowcurtains.""Bully!you'reallright,Cele.Yes,Ibelievewecanpullitoffoneighteen."Ashewas jumping into thewagon thesecondparlormaidbraveddiscoverybyrunningswiftlytothegate."And,oh,Tommy, I forgot," shecalled, softly. "Ibelieve Icouldmakeyourneckties.""Forgetit,"saidThomasdecisively."And another thing," she continued. "Sliced cucumbers at night will driveawaycockroaches.""And sleep, too, you bet," said Mr. McLeod. "Yes, I believe if I have adeliverytomakeontheWestSidethisafternoonI'lllookinatafurniturestoreIknowoverthere."It was just as the wagon dashed away that old Jacob Spraggins struck thesideboardwith his fist andmade themysterious remark about ten thousanddollars that you perhaps remember.Which justifies the reflection that somestories,aswellaslife,andpuppiesthrownintowells,movearoundincircles.PainfullybutbrieflywemustshedlightonJacob'swords.The foundation of his fortunewasmadewhen hewas twenty.A poor coal-digger(everhearofarichone?)hadsavedadollarortwoandboughtasmalltractoflandonahillsideonwhichhetriedtoraisecorn.Notanubbin.Jacob,whosenosewasadivining-rod,toldhimtherewasaveinofcoalbeneath.Hebought the land from theminer for $125 and sold it amonth afterward for$10,000.Luckilytheminerhadenoughleftofhissalemoneytodrinkhimselfintoablackcoatopeningintheback,assoonasheheardthenews.Andso,forfortyyearsafterward,wefindJacobilluminatedwiththesuddenthoughtthatifhecouldmakerestitutionofthissumofmoneytotheheirsorassignsoftheunluckyminer,respiteandNepenthemightbehis.Andnowmustcomeswiftaction,forwehaveheresomefourthousandwordsandnotatearshedandneverapistol,joke,safe,norbottlecracked.OldJacobhiredadozenprivatedetectivestofindtheheirs,ifanyexisted,oftheoldminer,HughMcLeod.Getthepoint?OfcourseIknowaswellasyoudothatThomasisgoingtobethe heir. Imight have concealed the name; butwhy always hold back your

mystery till the end? I say, let it come near themiddle so people can stopreadingthereiftheywantto.After the detectives had trailed false clues about three thousand dollars—Imeanmiles—theycorneredThomasatthegroceryandgothisconfessionthatHughMcLeodhadbeenhis grandfather, and that therewerenoother heirs.Theyarrangedameeting forhimandoldJacobonemorning inoneof theiroffices.Jacoblikedtheyoungmanverymuch.Helikedthewayhelookedstraightathimwhenhe talked,and thewayhe threwhisbicyclecapover the topofarose-coloredvaseonthecentre-table.Therewasaslight flaw inJacob'ssystemof restitution.Hedidnotconsiderthat the act, to be perfect, should include confession. So he representedhimselftobetheagentofthepurchaserofthelandwhohadsenthimtorefundthesalepricefortheeaseofhisconscience."Well,sir,"saidThomas,"thissoundstomelikeanillustratedpost-cardfromSouthBostonwith'We'rehavingagoodtimehere'writtenonit.Idon'tknowthegame. Is this ten thousanddollarsmoney, or do I have to save somanycouponstogetit?"OldJacobcountedouttohimtwentyfive-hundred-dollarbills.Thatwasbetter,hethought,thanacheck.Thomasputthemthoughtfullyintohispocket."Grandfather'sbestthanks,"hesaid,"tothepartywhosendsit."Jacobtalkedon,askinghimabouthiswork,howhespenthisleisuretime,andwhathisambitionswere.ThemorehesawandheardofThomas,thebetterheliked him. He had not met many young men in Bagdad so frank andwholesome."I would like to have you visit my house," he said. "I might help you ininvesting or laying out your money. I am a very wealthy man. I have adaughter about grown, and Iwould like for you to knowher.There are notmanyyoungmenIwouldcaretohavecallonher.""I'mobliged,"saidThomas."I'mnotmuchatmakingcalls.It'sgenerallytheside entrance for mine. And, besides, I'm engaged to a girl that has theDelaware peach crop killed in the blossom. She's a parlormaid in a housewhereIdelivergoods.Shewon'tbeworkingtheremuchlonger,though.Say,don'tforgettogiveyourfriendmygrandfather'sbestregards.You'llexcusemenow;mywagon'soutsidewitha lotofgreenstuff that'sgot tobedelivered.Seeyouagain,sir."At eleven Thomas delivered some bunches of parsley and lettuce at theSpragginsmansion. Thomaswas only twenty-two; so, as he came back, he

tookout thehandfulof five-hundred-dollarbills andwaved themcarelessly.Annettetookapairofeyesasbigascreamedoniontothecook."Itoldyouhewasacount,"shesaid,afterrelating."Heneverwouldcarryonwithme.""Butyousayheshowedmoney,"saidthecook."Hundredsofthousands,"saidAnnette."Carriedaroundlooseinhispockets.Andheneverwouldlookatme.""Itwaspaidtometo-day,"ThomaswasexplainingtoCeliaoutside."Itcamefrommygrandfather's estate. Say,Cele,what's the use ofwaiting now? I'mgoingtoquitthejobto-night.Whycan'twegetmarriednextweek?""Tommy," said Celia. "I'm no parlormaid. I've been fooling you. I'mMissSpraggins—Celia Spraggins. The newspapers say I'll beworth fortymilliondollarssomeday."Thomaspulledhiscapdownstraightonhishead for the first timesincewehaveknownhim."I suppose then," said he, "I suppose then you'll not be marrying me nextweek.Butyoucanwhistle.""No,"saidCelia,"I'llnotbemarryingyounextweek.Myfatherwouldneverletmemarryagrocer'sclerk.ButI'llmarryyouto-night,Tommy,ifyousayso."OldJacobSpragginscamehomeat9:30P.M.,inhismotorcar.Themakeofityouwill have to surmise sorrowfully; I amgivingyouunsubsidized fiction;had it been a street car I couldhave toldyou its voltage and thenumberofwheelsithad.Jacobcalledforhisdaughter;hehadboughtarubynecklaceforher,andwantedtohearhersaywhatakind,thoughtful,dearolddadhewas.Therewasabriefsearchinthehouseforher,andthencameAnnette,glowingwiththepureflameoftruthandloyaltywellmixedwithenvyandhistrionics."Oh, sir," said she, wondering if she should kneel, "Miss Celia's just thisminuterunningawayoutof thesidegatewithayoungmantobemarried.Icouldn'tstopher,sir.Theywentinacab.""Whatyoungman?"roaredoldJacob."Amillionaire,ifyouplease,sir—arichnoblemanindisguise.Hecarrieshismoneywithhim,andtheredpeppersandtheonionswasonlytoblindus,sir.Heneverdidseemtotaketome."Jacobrushedoutintimetocatchhiscar.Thechauffeurhadbeendelayedbytryingtolightacigaretteinthewind."Here,Gaston,orMike,orwhateveryoucallyourself,scootaroundthecorner

quickerthanblazesandseeifyoucanseeacab.Ifyoudo,runitdown."Therewas a cab in sight a block away.Gaston, orMike,with his eyes halfshutandhismindonhiscigarette,pickedupthetrail,neatlycrowdedthecabtothecurbandpocketedit."Whatt'ellyoudoin'?"yelledthecabman."Pa!"shriekedCelia."Grandfather'sremorsefulfriend'sagent!"saidThomas."Wonderwhat'sonhisconsciencenow.""Athousandthunders,"saidGaston,orMike."Ihavenoothermatch.""Youngman,"saidoldJacob,severely,"howaboutthatparlormaidyouwereengagedto?"

A couple of years afterward old Jacob went into the office of his privatesecretary."The Amalgamated Missionary Society solicits a contribution of $30,000towardtheconversionoftheKoreans,"saidthesecretary."Pass'emup,"saidJacob."The University of Plumville writes that its yearly endowment fund of$50,000thatyoubestoweduponitispastdue.""Tell'emit'sbeencutout.""TheScientificSocietyofClamCove,LongIsland,asks for$10,000 tobuyalcoholtopreservespecimens.""Wastebasket.""The Society for Providing Healthful Recreation for Working Girls wants$20,000fromyoutolayoutagolfcourse.""Tell'emtoseeanundertaker.""Cut 'emallout,"wentonJacob."I'vequitbeingagoodthing.Ineedeverydollar I can scrape or save. I want you to write to the directors of everycompanythatI'minterestedinandrecommenda10percent.cut insalaries.Andsay—InoticedhalfacakeofsoaplyinginacornerofthehallasIcamein.Iwantyoutospeaktothescrubwomanaboutwaste.I'vegotnomoneytothrowaway.Andsay—we'vegotvinegarprettywellinhand,haven'twe?'"TheGlobeSpice&SeasonsCompany,"saidsecretary,"controls themarketatpresent.""Raisevinegartwocentsagallon.Notifyallourbranches."Suddenly Jacob Spraggins's plump red face relaxed into a pulpy grin. He

walkedovertothesecretary'sdeskandshowedasmallredmarkonhisthickforefinger."Bitit,"hesaid,"darnedifhedidn't,andheain'thadthetooththreeweeks—JakyMcLeod,myCelia'skid.He'llbeworthahundredmillionsbythetimehe'stwenty-oneifIcanpileitupforhim."Ashewasleaving,oldJacobturnedatthedoor,andsaid:"Bettermake thatvinegar raise threecents insteadof two. I'll beback inanhourandsigntheletters."ThetruehistoryoftheCaliphHarunAlRashidrelatesthattowardtheendofhisreignheweariedofphilanthropy,andcausedtobebeheadedallhisformerfavoritesandcompanionsofhis"ArabianNights" rambles.Happyarewe inthese days of enlightenment, when the only death warrant the caliphs canserveonusisintheformofatradesman'sbill.

XVIIITHEGIRLANDTHEHABIT

HABIT—atendencyoraptitudeacquiredbycustomorfrequentrepetition.Thecriticshaveassailedeverysourceofinspirationsaveone.Tothatonewearedrivenforourmoraltheme.Whenwelevieduponthemastersofoldtheygleefullyduguptheparallelstoourcolumns.Whenwestrovetosetforthreallife they reproached us for trying to imitate Henry George, GeorgeWashington,Washington Irving,and IrvingBacheller.Wewroteof theWestand theEast,and theyaccusedusofbothJesseandHenryJames.Wewrotefromourheart—andtheysaidsomethingaboutadisorderedliver.Wetookatext from Matthew or—er—yes, Deuteronomy, but the preachers werehammering away at the inspiration idea before we could get into type. So,driven to thewall, we go for our subject-matter to the reliable, old,moral,unassailablevademecum—theunabridgeddictionary.MissMerriamwas cashier atHinkle's.Hinkle's is one of the big downtownrestaurants.Itisinwhatthepaperscallthe"financialdistrict."Eachdayfrom12 o'clock to 2 Hinkle's was full of hungry customers—messenger boys,stenographers, brokers, owners of mining stock, promoters, inventors withpatentspending—andalsopeoplewithmoney.The cashiership at Hinkle's was no sinecure. Hinkle egged and toasted andgriddle-cakedandcoffeedagoodmanycustomers;andhelunched(asgoodawordas "dined")manymore. Itmightbe said thatHinkle'sbreakfast crowdwasacontingent,buthisluncheonpatronageamountedtoahorde.

MissMerriamsatonastoolatadeskinclosedonthreesidesbyastrong,highfencingofwovenbrasswire.Throughan archedopening at thebottomyouthrustyourwaiter'scheckandthemoney,whileyourheartwentpit-a-pat.ForMissMerriamwaslovelyandcapable.Shecouldtake45centsoutofa$2bill and refuse an offer of marriage before you could—Next!—lost yourchance—please don't shove. She could keep cool and collected while shecollectedyourcheck,giveyouthecorrectchange,winyourheart,indicatethetoothpickstand,andrateyoutoaquarterofacentbetterthanBradstreetcouldtoathousandinlesstimethanittakestopepperaneggwithoneofHinkle'scasters.There is an old and dignified allusion to the "fierce light that beats upon athrone." The light that beats upon the young lady cashier's cage is alsosomethingfierce.Theotherfellowisresponsiblefortheslang.Everymale patron ofHinkle's, from theA.D. T. boys up to the curbstonebrokers,adoredMissMerriam.When theypaid theirchecks theywooedherwitheverywileknowntoCupid'sart.Betweenthemeshesofthebrassrailingwent smiles, winks, compliments, tender vows, invitations to dinner, sighs,languishing looks and merry banter that was wafted pointedly back by thegiftedMissMerriam.There isnocoignofvantagemoreeffective than thepositionofyoung ladycashier.Shesitsthere,easilyqueenofthecourtofcommerce;sheisduchessofdollarsanddevoirs,countessofcomplimentsandcoin,leadingladyofloveand luncheon.You take fromher a smile and aCanadiandime, andyougoyourwayuncomplaining.You count the cheerywordor two that she tossesyou as misers count their treasures; and you pocket the change for a fiveuncomputed.Perhapsthebrass-boundinaccessibilitymultiplieshercharms—anyhow,sheisashirt-waistedangel,immaculate,trim,manicured,seductive,bright-eyed,ready,alert—Psyche,Circe,andAteinone,separatingyoufromyourcirculatingmediumafteryoursirloinmedium.The youngmenwho broke bread at Hinkle's never settledwith the cashierwithoutanexchangeofbadinageandopencompliment.Manyofthemwenttogreaterlengthsanddroppedpromissoryhintsoftheatreticketsandchocolates.The older men spoke plainly of orange blossoms, generally withering thetentativepetalsbyafter-allusions toHarlemflats.Onebroker,whohadbeensqueezedbycopperproposedtoMissMerriammoreregularlythanheate.During a brisk luncheon hourMissMerriam's conversation, while she tookmoneyforchecks,wouldrunsomethinglikethis:"Goodmorning,Mr.Haskins—sir?—it'snatural,thankyou—don'tbequitesofresh...Hello,Johnny—ten,fifteen,twenty—chasealongnoworthey'lltakethe letters off your cap . . . Beg pardon—count it again, please—Oh, don't

mentionit...Vaudeville?—thanks;notonyourmovingpicture—IwastoseeCarterinHeddaGableronWednesdaynightwithMr.Simmons...'Scuseme,Ithoughtthatwasaquarter. . .Twenty-fiveandseventy-five'sadollar—gotthatham-and-cabbagehabityet. Isee,Billy . . .Whoareyouaddressing?—say—you'llgetallthat'scomingtoyouinaminute...Oh,fudge!Mr.Bassett—you'realwaysfooling—no—?Well,maybeI'llmarryyousomeday—three,fourandsixty-five is five . . .Kindlykeep themremarks toyourself, ifyouplease...Tencents?—'scuseme;thecheckcallsforseventy—well,maybeitisaoneinsteadofaseven. . .Oh,doyoulikeit thatway,Mr.Saunders?—some prefer a pomp; but they say this Cleo de Merody does suit refinedfeatures...andtenisfifty...Hikealongthere,buddy;don'ttakethisforaConeyIslandticketbooth...Huh?—why,Macy's—don'titfitnice?Oh,no,itisn't toocool—these light-weight fabrics is all thego this season . . .Comeagain, please—that's the third time you've tried to—what?—forget it—thatlead quarter is an old friend ofmine . . . Sixty-five?—must have had yoursalaryraised,Mr.Wilson...IseenyouonSixthAvenueTuesdayafternoon,Mr.DeForest—swell?—oh,my!—whoisshe?...What'sthematterwithit?—why, it ain't money—what?—Columbian half?—well, this ain't SouthAmerica...Yes,Ilikethemixedbest—Friday?—awfullysorry,butItakemyjiu-jitsu lesson on Friday—Thursday, then . . . Thanks—that's sixteen timesI'vebeentoldthatthismorning—IguessImustbebeautiful...Cutthatout,please—who do you think I am? . . .Why,Mr.Westbrook—do you reallythinkso?—the idea!—one—eightyand twenty'sadollar—thankyoueversomuch, but I don't ever go automobile ridingwith gentlemen—your aunt?—well, that's different—perhaps . . . Please don't get fresh—your check wasfifteen cents, I believe—kindly step aside and let . . . Hello, Ben—comingaroundThursdayevening?—there'sagentlemangoingtosendaroundaboxofchocolates,and...fortyandsixtyisadollar,andoneistwo..."About themiddle of one afternoon the dizzy goddessVertigo—whose othernameisFortune—suddenlysmoteanold,wealthyandeccentricbankerwhilehe was walking past Hinkle's, on his way to a street car. A wealthy andeccentricbankerwhoridesinstreetcarsis—moveup,please;thereareothers.ASamaritan, aPharisee, amanandapolicemanwhowere first on the spotliftedBankerMcRamseyandcarriedhim intoHinkle's restaurant.When theaged but indestructible banker opened his eyes he saw a beautiful visionbendingoverhimwithapitiful, tendersmile,bathinghisforeheadwithbeeftea and chafing his handswith something frappé out of a chafing-dish.Mr.McRamseysighed,lostavestbutton,gazedwithdeepgratitudeuponhisfairpreserveress,andthenrecoveredconsciousness.TotheSeasideLibraryallwhoareanticipatingaromance!BankerMcRamseyhadanagedandrespectedwife,andhissentimentstowardMissMerriamwere

fatherly.Hetalkedtoherforhalfanhourwithinterest—notthekindthatwentwithhistalksduringbusinesshours.ThenextdayhebroughtMrs.McRamseydown to see her. The old couple were childless—they had only a marrieddaughterlivinginBrooklyn.Tomakeashortstoryshorter,thebeautifulcashierwontheheartsofthegoodoldcouple.Theycame toHinkle's againandagain; they invitedher to theirold-fashionedbutsplendidhomeinoneoftheEastSeventies.MissMerriam'swinning loveliness, her sweet frankness and impulsive heart took them bystorm.TheysaidahundredtimesthatMissMerriamremindedthemsomuchof their lost daughter. TheBrooklynmatron, néeRamsey, had the figure ofBuddhaandafaceliketheidealofanartphotographer.MissMerriamwasacombinationofcurves,smiles,roseleaves,pearls,satinandhair-tonicposters.Enoughofthefatuityofparents.AmonthaftertheworthycouplebecameacquaintedwithMissMerriam,shestoodbeforeHinkleoneafternoonandresignedhercashiership."They'regoing toadoptme,"she told thebereft restaurateur. "They're funnyoldpeople,butregulardears.Andtheswellhometheyhavegot!Say,Hinkle,there isn'tanyuseof talking—I'mon theà lacarte towearbrowndudsandgoggles inawhizwagon,ormarryadukeat least.Still, I somehowhate tobreak out of the old cage. I've been cashiering so long I feel funny doinganythingelse. I'llmiss joshing the fellowsawfullywhen they lineup topayforthebuckwheatsand.ButIcan't letthischanceslide.Andthey'reawfullygood,Hinkle;IknowI'llhaveaswelltime.Youowemenine-sixty-twoandahalffortheweek.Cutoutthehalfifithurtsyou,Hinkle."Andtheydid.MissMerriambecameMissRosaMcRamsey.Andshegracedthe transition. Beauty is only skin-deep, but the nerves lie very near to theskin. Nerve—but just here will you oblige by perusing again the quotationwithwhichthisstorybegins?TheMcRamseyspouredoutmoney likedomesticchampagne topolish theiradoptedone.Milliners,dancingmastersandprivatetutorsgotit.Miss—er—McRamseywas grateful, loving, and tried to forgetHinkle's.Togive amplecredit to the adaptability of the American girl, Hinkle's did fade from hermemoryandspeechmostofthetime.Not every one will remember when the Earl of Hitesbury came to EastSeventy–––– Street, America. He was only a fair-to-medium earl, withoutdebts, and he created little excitement. But you will surely remember theeveningwhentheDaughtersofBenevolenceheldtheirbazaarintheW––––f-A––––aHotel.Foryouwerethere,andyouwroteanotetoFannieonthehotelpaper,andmailedit, justtoshowherthat—youdidnot?Verywell;thatwastheeveningthebabywassick,ofcourse.

At the bazaar theMcRamseys were prominent.MissMer—er—McRamseywasexquisitelybeautiful.TheEarlofHitesburyhadbeenveryattentivetohersincehedroppedintohavealookatAmerica.Atthecharitybazaartheaffairwassupposedtobegoingtobepulledofftoafinish.Anearlisasgoodasaduke.Better.Hisstandingmaybelower,buthisoutstandingaccountsarealsolower.Ourex-young-lady-cashierwasassignedtoabooth.Shewasexpectedtosellworthlessarticlestonobsandsnobsatexorbitantprices.TheproceedsofthebazaarweretobeusedforgivingthepoorchildrenoftheslumsaChristmasdin––––Say!didyoueverwonderwheretheygettheother364?MissMcRamsey—beautiful,palpitating,excited,charming,radiant—flutteredabout inherbooth.An imitationbrassnetwork,witha littlearchedopening,fencedherin.AlongcametheEarl,assured,delicate,accurate,admiring—admiringgreatly,andfacedtheopenwicket."Youlookchawming,youknow—'ponmywordyoudo—mydeah,"hesaid,beguilingly.MissMcRamseywhirledaround."Cutthatjoshingout,"shesaid,coollyandbriskly."Whodoyouthinkyouaretalkingto?Yourcheck,please.Oh,Lordy!—"Patrons of the bazaar became aware of a commotion and pressed around acertainbooth.TheEarl ofHitesbury stoodnearbypulling apaleblondandpuzzledwhisker."MissMcRamseyhasfainted,"someoneexplained.

XIXPROOFOFTHEPUDDING

SpringwinkedavitreousopticatEditorWestbrookoftheMinervaMagazine,anddeflectedhimfromhiscourse.HehadlunchedinhisfavoritecornerofaBroadway hotel, and was returning to his office when his feet becameentangledinthelureofthevernalcoquette.Whichisbywayofsayingthatheturned eastward in Twenty-sixth Street, safely forded the spring freshet ofvehiclesinFifthAvenue,andmeanderedalongthewalksofbuddingMadisonSquare.Thelenientairandthesettingsofthelittleparkalmostformedapastoral;thecolor motif was green—the presiding shade at the creation of man and

vegetation.Thecallowgrassbetween thewalkswas the colorofverdigris, a poisonousgreen,reminiscentofthehordeofderelicthumansthathadbreatheduponthesoilduring thesummerandautumn.Thebursting treebuds lookedstrangelyfamiliartothosewhohadbotanizedamongthegarnishingsofthefishcourseof a forty-cent dinner. The sky abovewas of that pale aquamarine tint thatballroompoets rhymewith"true"and"Sue"and"coo."Theonenaturalandfrankcolorvisiblewastheostensiblegreenofthenewlypaintedbenches—ashadebetweenthecolorofapickledcucumberand thatofa lastyear's fast-blackcravenette raincoat.But, to the city-bredeyeofEditorWestbrook, thelandscapeappearedamasterpiece.Andnow,whetheryouareof thosewho rush in, or of thegentle concoursethatfearstotread,youmustfollowinabriefinvasionoftheeditor'smind.EditorWestbrook'sspiritwascontentedandserene.TheAprilnumberoftheMinerva had sold its entire edition before the tenth day of the month—anewsdealerinKeokukhadwrittenthathecouldhavesoldfiftycopiesmoreifhehad'em.Theownersofthemagazinehadraisedhis(theeditor's)salary;hehad just installed inhis homea jewelof a recently imported cookwhowasafraidofpolicemen;andthemorningpapershadpublishedinfullaspeechhehadmade at a publishers' banquet.Also therewere echoing in hismind thejubilantnotesofasplendidsongthathischarmingyoungwifehadsungtohimbeforehelefthisup-townapartmentthatmorning.Shewastakingenthusiasticinterest in her music of late, practising early and diligently. When he hadcomplimentedherontheimprovementinhervoiceshehadfairlyhuggedhimforjoyathispraise.Hefelt,too,thebenign,tonicmedicamentofthetrainednurse,Spring,trippingsoftlyadownthewardsoftheconvalescentcity.While EditorWestbrook was sauntering between the rows of park benches(alreadyfillingwithvagrantsandtheguardiansof lawlesschildhood)hefelthissleevegraspedandheld.Suspectingthathewasabouttobepanhandled,heturned a cold and unprofitable face, and saw that his captor was—Dawe—ShacklefordDawe,dingy, almost ragged, thegenteel scarcelyvisible inhimthroughthedeeperlinesoftheshabby.Whiletheeditorispullinghimselfoutofhissurprise,aflashlightbiographyofDaweisoffered.Hewasafictionwriter,andoneofWestbrook'soldacquaintances.Atonetimetheymighthavecalledeachotheroldfriends.Dawehadsomemoneyinthosedays, and lived in a decent apartment house near Westbrook's. The twofamilies often went to theatres and dinners together. Mrs. Dawe and Mrs.Westbrook became "dearest" friends. Then one day a little tentacle of theoctopus,justtoamuseitself,ingurgitatedDawe'scapital,andhemovedtothe

GramercyParkneighborhoodwhereone, fora fewgroatsperweek,maysitupon one's trunk under eight-branched chandeliers and opposite Carraramarblemantelsandwatchthemiceplayuponthefloor.Dawethoughttoliveby writing fiction. Now and then he sold a story. He submitted many toWestbrook.TheMinervaprintedoneor twoof them; therestwerereturned.Westbrooksentacarefulandconscientiouspersonalletterwitheachrejectedmanuscript, pointing out in detail his reasons for considering it unavailable.Editor Westbrook had his own clear conception of what constituted goodfiction.SohadDawe.Mrs.Dawewasmainlyconcernedabouttheconstituentsof the scanty dishes of food that she managed to scrape together. One dayDawe had been spouting to her about the excellencies of certain Frenchwriters.Atdinnertheysatdowntoadishthatahungryschoolboycouldhaveencompassedatagulp.Dawecommented."It'sMaupassanthash,"saidMrs.Dawe."Itmaynotbeart,butIdowishyouwoulddoafive-courseMarionCrawfordserialwithanEllaWheelerWilcoxsonnetfordessert.I'mhungry."As far as this from successwas ShacklefordDawewhen he pluckedEditorWestbrook'ssleeveinMadisonSquare.ThatwasthefirsttimetheeditorhadseenDaweinseveralmonths."Why, Shack, is this you?" said Westbrook, somewhat awkwardly, for theformofhisphraseseemedtotouchupontheother'schangedappearance."Sitdownforaminute,"saidDawe,tuggingathissleeve."Thisismyoffice.Ican'tcometoyours, lookingasIdo.Oh,sitdown—youwon'tbedisgraced.Thosehalf-pluckedbirdsontheotherbencheswilltakeyouforaswellporch-climber.Theywon'tknowyouareonlyaneditor.""Smoke,Shack?"saidEditorWestbrook,sinkingcautiouslyuponthevirulentgreenbench.Healwaysyieldedgracefullywhenhedidyield.Dawesnappedatthecigarasakingfisherdartsatasunperch,oragirlpecksatachocolatecream."Ihavejust—"begantheeditor."Oh, Iknow;don't finish,"saidDawe."Givemeamatch.Youhave just tenminutestospare.Howdidyoumanagetogetpastmyoffice-boyandinvademysanctum?Therehegoesnow,throwinghisclubatadogthatcouldn'treadthe'KeepofftheGrass'signs.""Howgoesthewriting?"askedtheeditor."Lookatme,"saidDawe,"foryouranswer.Nowdon'tputonthatembarrassed,friendly-but-honestlookandaskmewhyIdon'tgetajobasawineagentoracabdriver.I'minthefighttoafinish.IknowIcanwritegoodfictionandI'llforceyoufellowstoadmitityet.I'llmakeyouchange thespellingof 'regrets' to 'c-h-e-q-u-e'before I'mdone

withyou."EditorWestbrook gazed through his nose-glasses with a sweetly sorrowful,omniscient,sympathetic,skepticalexpression—thecopyrightedexpressionoftheeditorbeleaguredbytheunavailablecontributor."Haveyou read the last story I sentyou—'TheAlarumof theSoul'?" askedDawe."Carefully. I hesitatedover that story,Shack, really I did. It had somegoodpoints. Iwaswritingyoua letter tosendwith itwhenitgoesbacktoyou.Iregret—""Nevermindtheregrets,"saidDawe,grimly."There'sneithersalvenorstingin'emanymore.WhatIwanttoknowiswhy.Comenow;outwiththegoodpointsfirst.""Thestory,"saidWestbrook,deliberately,afterasuppressedsigh,"iswrittenaround an almost original plot. Characterization—the best you have done.Construction—almostasgood,except fora fewweak jointswhichmightbestrengthenedbyafewchangesandtouches.Itwasagoodstory,except—""IcanwriteEnglish,can'tI?"interruptedDawe."Ihavealwaystoldyou,"saidtheeditor,"thatyouhadastyle.""Thenthetroubleis—""Sameoldthing,"saidEditorWestbrook."Youworkuptoyourclimaxlikeanartist.Andthenyouturnyourselfintoaphotographer.Idon'tknowwhatformofobstinatemadnesspossessesyou,but that iswhatyoudowitheverythingthatyouwrite.No,Iwillretractthecomparisonwiththephotographer.Nowandthenphotography,inspiteofitsimpossibleperspective,managestorecordafleetingglimpseoftruth.Butyouspoileverydénouementbythoseflat,drab,obliteratingstrokesofyourbrush that Ihave sooftencomplainedof. Ifyouwouldrisetotheliterarypinnacleofyourdramaticsenses,andpainttheminthehighcolors that art requires, thepostmanwould leave fewerbulky, self-addressedenvelopesatyourdoor.""Oh, fiddles and footlights!" cried Dawe, derisively. "You've got that oldsawmilldramakinkinyourbrainyet.Whenthemanwiththeblackmustachekidnaps golden-haired Bessie you are bound to have the mother kneel andraiseherhandsinthespotlightandsay:'MayhighheavenwitnessthatIwillrestneithernightnordaytilltheheartlessvillainthathasstolenmechildfeelstheweightofanother'svengeance!'"EditorWestbrookconcededasmileofimperviouscomplacency."Ithink,"saidhe,"thatinreallifethewomanwouldexpressherselfinthosewordsorinverysimilarones."

"Notinasixhundrednights'runanywherebutonthestage,"saidDawehotly."I'lltellyouwhatshe'dsayinreallife.She'dsay:'What!Bessieledawaybyastrangeman?GoodLord! It's one trouble after another!Getmyother hat, Imusthurryaround to thepolice-station.Whywasn't somebody lookingafterher,I'dliketoknow?ForGod'ssake,getoutofmywayorI'llnevergetready.Not that hat—the brown one with the velvet bows. Bessie must have beencrazy; she'susually shyof strangers. Is that toomuchpowder?Lordy!HowI'mupset!'"That'sthewayshe'dtalk,"continuedDawe."Peopleinreallifedon'tflyintoheroics andblankverse at emotional crises.They simply can't do it. If theytalkatallonsuchoccasionstheydrawfromthesamevocabularythattheyuseeveryday,andmuddleuptheirwordsandideasalittlemore,that'sall.""Shack," said Editor Westbrook impressively, "did you ever pick up themangledandlifelessformofachildfromunderthefenderofastreetcar,andcarry it inyourarmsand lay itdownbefore thedistractedmother?Didyouever do that and listen to the words of grief and despair as they flowedspontaneouslyfromherlips?""Ineverdid,"saidDawe."Didyou?""Well, no," said Editor Westbrook, with a slight frown. "But I can wellimaginewhatshewouldsay.""SocanI,"saidDawe.AndnowthefittingtimehadcomeforEditorWestbrooktoplaytheoracleandsilence his opinionated contributor. It was not for an unarrived fictionist todictate words to be uttered by the heroes and heroines of the MinervaMagazine,contrarytothetheoriesoftheeditorthereof."My dear Shack," said he, "if I know anything of life I know that everysudden, deep and tragic emotion in the human heart calls forth an apposite,concordant,conformableandproportionateexpressionoffeeling.Howmuchof this inevitableaccordbetweenexpressionandfeelingshouldbeattributedtonature,andhowmuch to the influenceofart, itwouldbedifficult tosay.Thesublimelyterribleroarofthelionessthathasbeendeprivedofhercubsisdramatically as far above her customary whine and purr as the kingly andtranscendentutterancesofLearareabovethelevelofhissenilevaporings.Butit is also true that all men and women have what may be called a sub-consciousdramaticsensethatisawakenedbyasufficientlydeepandpowerfulemotion—a sense unconsciously acquired from literature and the stage thatpromptsthemtoexpressthoseemotionsinlanguagebefittingtheirimportanceandhistrionicvalue.""Andinthenameofthesevensacredsaddle-blanketsofSagittarius,wheredidthestageandliteraturegetthestunt?"askedDawe.

"Fromlife,"answeredtheeditor,triumphantly.Thestorywriterrosefromthebenchandgesticulatedeloquentlybutdumbly.Hewasbeggaredforwordswithwhichtoformulateadequatelyhisdissent.Onabenchnearbyafrowzyloaferopenedhisredeyesandperceivedthathismoralsupportwasdueadowntroddenbrother."Punchhimone,Jack,"hecalledhoarselytoDawe."W'at'shecomemakin'anoiselikeapennyarcadeforamongstgen'lementhatcomesinthesquaretosetandthink?"EditorWestbrooklookedathiswatchwithanaffectedshowofleisure."Tellme," askedDawe,with truculent anxiety, "what especial faults in 'TheAlarumoftheSoul'causedyoutothrowitdown?""WhenGabrielMurray," saidWestbrook, "goes to his telephone and is toldthathisfiancéehasbeenshotbyaburglar,hesays—Idonotrecalltheexactwords,but—""I do," saidDawe. "He says: 'DamnCentral; she always cutsme off.' (Andthentohisfriend)'Say,Tommy,doesathirty-twobulletmakeabighole?It'skind of hard luck, ain't it? Could you get me a drink from the sideboard,Tommy?No;straight;nothingontheside.'""And again," continued the editor, without pausing for argument, "whenBereniceopenstheletterfromherhusbandinformingherthathehasfledwiththemanicuregirl,herwordsare—letmesee—""Shesays,"interposedtheauthor:"'Well,whatdoyouthinkofthat!'""Absurdlyinappropriatewords,"saidWestbrook,"presentingananti-climax—plungingthestoryintohopelessbathos.Worseyet;theymirrorlifefalsely.Nohuman being ever uttered banal colloquialisms when confronted by suddentragedy.""Wrong," saidDawe, closinghisunshaven jawsdoggedly. "I saynomanorwomaneverspouts 'high-falutin' talkwhentheygoupagainstarealclimax.Theytalknaturallyandalittleworse."The editor rose from the bench with his air of indulgence and insideinformation."Say, Westbrook," said Dawe, pinning him by the lapel, "would you haveaccepted 'TheAlarum of the Soul' if you had believed that the actions andwords of the characters were true to life in the parts of the story that wediscussed?""It isvery likely that Iwould, if Ibelieved thatway,"said theeditor. "But IhaveexplainedtoyouthatIdonot."

"IfIcouldprovetoyouthatIamright?""I'msorry,Shack,butI'mafraidIhaven'ttimetoargueanyfurtherjustnow.""Idon'twant to argue," saidDawe. "Iwant todemonstrate toyou from lifeitselfthatmyviewisthecorrectone.""Howcouldyoudothat?"askedWestbrook,inasurprisedtone."Listen,"saidthewriter,seriously."Ihavethoughtofaway.Itisimportanttome that my theory of true-to-life fiction be recognized as correct by themagazines. I'vefoughtfor it for threeyears,andI'mdowntomylastdollar,withtwomonths'rentdue.""Ihaveappliedtheoppositeofyourtheory,"saidtheeditor,"inselectingthefiction for theMinervaMagazine. The circulation has gone up from ninetythousandto—""Fourhundredthousand,"saidDawe."Whereasitshouldhavebeenboostedtoamillion.""Yousaidsomethingtomejustnowaboutdemonstratingyourpettheory.""Iwill.Ifyou'llgivemeabouthalfanhourofyourtimeI'llprovetoyouthatIamright.I'llproveitbyLouise.""Yourwife!"exclaimedWestbrook."How?""Well, not exactly by her, but with her," saidDawe. "Now, you know howdevotedandlovingLouisehasalwaysbeen.ShethinksI'mtheonlygenuinepreparation on the market that bears the old doctor's signature. She's beenfonder and more faithful than ever, since I've been cast for the neglectedgeniuspart.""Indeed,sheisacharmingandadmirablelifecompanion,"agreedtheeditor."IrememberwhatinseparablefriendssheandMrs.Westbrookoncewere.Wearebothluckychaps,Shack,tohavesuchwives.YoumustbringMrs.Daweup some evening soon, and we'll have one of those informal chafing-dishsuppersthatweusedtoenjoysomuch.""Later," said Dawe. "When I get another shirt. And now I'll tell you myscheme.WhenIwasabouttoleavehomeafterbreakfast—ifyoucancallteaand oatmeal breakfast—Louise told me she was going to visit her aunt inEighty-ninthStreet.Shesaidshewouldreturnatthreeo'clock.Sheisalwaysontimetoaminute.Itisnow—"Daweglancedtowardtheeditor'swatchpocket."Twenty-sevenminutestothree,"saidWestbrook,scanninghistime-piece."Wehavejustenoughtime,"saidDawe."Wewillgotomyflatatonce.Iwillwriteanote,addressittoherandleaveitonthetablewhereshewillseeitas

she enters the door.You and Iwill be in the dining-room concealed by theportières.InthatnoteI'llsaythatIhavefledfromherforeverwithanaffinitywho understands the needs of my artistic soul as she never did.When shereads itwewillobserveheractionsandhearherwords.Thenwewillknowwhichtheoryisthecorrectone—yoursormine.""Oh, never!" exclaimed the editor, shaking his head. "That would beinexcusably cruel. I could not consent to haveMrs.Dawe's feelings playeduponinsuchamanner.""Braceup,"saidthewriter."IguessIthinkasmuchofherasyoudo.It'sforher benefit aswell asmine. I've got to get amarket formy stories in someway.Itwon'thurtLouise.She'shealthyandsound.Herheartgoesasstrongasaninety-eight-centwatch.It'lllastforonlyaminute,andthenI'llstepoutandexplaintoher.Youreallyoweittometogivemethechance,Westbrook."EditorWestbrookatlengthyielded,thoughbuthalfwillingly.Andinthehalfofhimthatconsentedlurkedthevivisectionistthatisinallofus.Lethimwhohasnotusedthescalpelriseandstandinhisplace.Pity'tisthattherearenotenoughrabbitsandguinea-pigstogoaround.ThetwoexperimentersinArtlefttheSquareandhurriedeastwardandthentothe south until they arrived in the Gramercy neighborhood.Within its highironrailingsthelittleparkhadputonitssmartcoatofvernalgreen,andwasadmiringitselfinitsfountainmirror.Outsidetherailingsthehollowsquareofcrumbling houses, shells of a bygone gentry, leaned as if in ghostly gossipovertheforgottendoingsofthevanishedquality.Sictransitgloriaurbis.A block or two north of the Park, Dawe steered the editor again eastward,then, after covering a short distance, into a lofty but narrow flathouseburdenedwithafloridlyover-decoratedfaçade.Tothefifthstorytheytoiled,andDawe,panting,pushedhislatch-keyintothedoorofoneofthefrontflats.When the door opened Editor Westbrook saw, with feelings of pity, howmeanlyandmeagerlytheroomswerefurnished."Getachair, ifyoucanfindone,"saidDawe,"whileIhuntuppenandink.Hello,what'sthis?Here'sanotefromLouise.Shemusthaveleftittherewhenshewentoutthismorning."He picked up an envelope that lay on the centre-table and tore it open.Hebegantoreadtheletterthathedrewoutofit;andoncehavingbegunitaloudhe so read it through to theend.Theseare thewords thatEditorWestbrookheard:"DEARSHACKLEFORD:"BythetimeyougetthisIwillbeaboutahundredmilesawayandstilla-going.I'vegotaplaceinthechorusoftheOccidentalOperaCo.,andwestart

ontheroadto-dayattwelveo'clock.Ididn'twanttostarvetodeath,andsoIdecidedtomakemyownliving.I'mnotcomingback.Mrs.Westbrookisgoingwithme.Shesaidshewastiredoflivingwithacombinationphonograph,iceberganddictionary,andshe'snotcomingback,either.We'vebeenpractisingthesongsanddancesfortwomonthsonthequiet.Ihopeyouwillbesuccessful,andgetalongallright!Good-bye."LOUISE."Dawedroppedtheletter,coveredhisfacewithhistremblinghands,andcriedoutinadeep,vibratingvoice:"MyGod,whyhastthougivenmethiscuptodrink?Sincesheisfalse,thenletThyHeaven'sfairestgifts,faithandlove,becomethejestingby-wordsoftraitorsandfiends!"EditorWestbrook'sglassesfell tothefloor.Thefingersofonehandfumbledwithabuttononhiscoatasheblurtedbetweenhispalelips:"Say,Shack,ain'tthatahellofanote?Wouldn'tthatknockyouoffyourperch,Shack?Ain'tithell,now,Shack—ain'tit?"

XXPASTONEATROONEY'S

Only on the lower East Side of New York do the houses of Capulet andMontagusurvive.Theretheydonotfightbythebookofarithmetic.Ifyoubutbiteyourthumbatanupholderofyouropposinghouseyouhaveworkcutoutforyoursteel.OnBroadwayyoumaydragyourmanalongadozenblocksbyhisnose,andhewillonlybawlfor thewatch;but in thedomainof theEastSideTybaltsandMercutiosyoumustobservethenicetiesofdeportmenttothewinkofanyeyelashandtoaninchofelbowroomatthebarwhenitspatronsincludefoesofyourhouseandkin.So,whenEddieMcManus,knowntotheCapuletsasCorkMcManus,driftedintoDutchMike's for a stein of beer, and cameupon a bunch ofMontagusmakingmerrywith the suds,hebegan toobserve the strictestparliamentaryrules.Courtesyforbadehisleavingthesaloonwithhisthirstunslaked;cautionsteeredhimtoaplaceatthebarwherethemirrorsuppliedthecognizanceoftheenemy'smovementsthathisindifferentgazeseemedtodisdain;experiencewhispered to him that the finger of trouble would be busy among thechattering steins at Dutch Mike's that night. Close by his side drew BrickCleary,hisMercutio,companionofhisperambulations.Thustheystood,fouroftheMulberryHillGangandtwooftheDryDockGang,mindingtheirP's

andQ'ssosolicitouslythatDutchMikekeptoneeyeonhiscustomersandtheother on an open space beneath his bar inwhich itwas his custom to seeksafety whenever the ominous politeness of the rival associations congealedintotheshapesofbulletsandcoldsteel.ButwehavenottodowiththewarsoftheMulberryHillsandtheDryDocks.WemusttoRooney's,where,onthemostblighteddeadbranchofthetreeoflife,alittlepaleorchidshallbloom.Overstrainedetiquetteatlastgaveway.Itisnotknownwhofirstoversteppedtheboundsofpunctilio;buttheconsequenceswereimmediate.BuckMalone,of the Mulberry Hills, with a Dewey-like swiftness, got an eight-inch gunswung round from his hurricane deck. But McManus's simile must be thetorpedo.HeglidedinunderthegunsandslippedascantthreeinchesofknifebladebetweentheribsoftheMulberryHillcruiser.MeanwhileBrickCleary,adevotee to strategy, had skimmed across the lunch counter and thrown theswitchoftheelectrics,leavingthecombattobewagedbythelightofgunfirealone.DutchMikecrawledfromhishavenandran into thestreetcryingforthewatchinsteadofforaShakespearetoimmortalizetheCimmerianshindy.The cop came, and found a prostrate, bleedingMontagu supported by threedistraitandreticentfollowersoftheHouse.Faithfultotheethicsofthegangs,nooneknewwhencethehurtcame.TherewasnoCapulettobeseen."Rausmitderinterrogatories,"saidBuckMalonetotheofficer."SureIknowwhodoneit.Ialwaysmanagestogetabird'seyeviewofanyguythatcomesupan'makesashowcaseforahardwarestoreoutofme.No.I'mnottellingyou his name. I'll settlewith ummeself.Wow—ouch! Easy, boys!Yes, I'llattendtohiscasemeself.I'mnotmakinganycomplaint."At midnight McManus strolled around a pile of lumber near an East Sidedock,andlingeredinthevicinityofacertainwaterplug.BrickClearydriftedcasuallytothetrystingplacetenminuteslater."He'llmaybenotcroak,"saidBrick;"andhewon'ttell,ofcourse.ButDutchMikedid.Hetoldthepolicehewas tired of having his place shot up. It's unhandy just now, because TimCorrigan'sinEuropeforaweek'sendwithKings.He'llbebackontheKaiserWilliamsnextFriday.You'llhavetoduckoutofsighttillthen.Tim'llfixitupallrightforuswhenhecomesback."Thisgoes toexplainwhyCorkMcManuswent intoRooney'sonenightandtherelookeduponthebright,strangerfaceofRomanceforthefirsttimeinhisprecariouscareer.UntilTimCorriganshouldreturnfromhisjauntamongKingsandPrincesandholduphisbigwhitefingerinprivateoffices,itwasunsafeforCorkinanyoftheoldhauntsofhisgang.Sohelay,perdu,inthehighrearroomofaCapulet,readingpinksportingsheetsandcursingtheslowpaddlewheelsoftheKaiser

Wilhelm.ItwasonThursdayeveningthatCork'sseclusionbecameintolerable tohim.Neverahartpantedforwaterfountainashedidforthecooltouchofadriftingstein,forthefirmsecurityofafoot-railinthehollowofhisshoeandthequiet,heartychallengesoffriendshipandreparteealongandacrosstheshiningbars.Buthemustavoidthedistrictwherehewasknown.Thecopswerelookingforhimeverywhere,fornewswasscarce,andthenewspaperswereharpingagainon the failure of the police to suppress the gangs. If they got him beforeCorrigancameback,thebigwhitefingercouldnotbeuplifted;itwouldbetoolate then. But Corrigan would be home the next day, so he felt sure therewould be small danger in a little excursion that night among the crasspleasuresthatrepresentedlifetohim.Athalf-pasttwelveMcManusstoodinadarkishcross-townstreetlookingupatthename"Rooney's,"pickedoutbyincandescentlightsagainstasignboardoverasecond-storywindow.Hehadheardoftheplaceasatough"hang-out";with its frequenters and its locality he was unfamiliar. Guided by certainunerring indications common to all such resorts, he ascended the stairs andenteredthelargeroomoverthecafé.Here were some twenty or thirty tables, at this time about half-filled withRooney's guests. Waiters served drinks. At one end a human pianola withdruggedeyeshammeredthekeyswithautomaticandfuriousunprecision.Atmerciful intervals awaiterwould roaror squeak a song—songs full of "Mr.Johnsons" and "babes" and "coons"—historical word guaranties of thegenuineness of African melodies composed by red waistcoated younggentlemen,nativesofthecottonfieldsandriceswampsofWestTwenty-eighthStreet.ForonebriefmomentyoumustadmireRooneywithmeashereceives,seats,manipulates, and chaffs his guests. He is twenty-nine. He hasWellington'snose,Dante's chin, the cheek-bones of an Iroquois, the smile ofTalleyrand,Corbett'sfootwork,andthepoiseofaneleven-year-oldEastSideCentralParkQueenof theMay.He is assisted by a lieutenant known asFrank, a pudgy,easychap,swell-dressed,whogoesamongthetablesseeingthatdullcaredoesnotintrude.Now,whatisthereaboutRooney'stoinspireallthispother?Itismore respectable by daylight; stout ladies with children and mittens andbundles and unpedigreed dogs drop up of afternoons for a stein and a chat.Evenbygaslight thediversionsaremelancholyi' themouth—drinkandrag-time,andanoccasional surprisewhen thewaiter swabs thesuds fromunderyourstickyglass.Thereisananswer.Transmigration!ThesoulofSirWalterRaleighhastraveledfrombeneathhisslasheddoublettoakindredhomeunderRooney'svisibleplaidwaistcoat.Rooney'sistwentyyearsaheadofthetimes.Rooney has removed the embargo. Rooney has spread his cloak upon the

soggycrossingofpublicopinion,andanyElizabethwhotreadsuponit isasmuchaqueenasanother.Attend to the revelationof thesecret. InRooney'sladiesmaysmoke!McManus sat down at a vacant table.He paid for the glass of beer that heordered, tiltedhisnarrow-brimmedderby to thebackofhisbrick-dusthead,twinedhisfeetamongtherungsofhischair,andheavedasighofcontentmentfrom the breathing spaces of his innermost soul; for this mud honey wasclarifiedsweetnesstohistaste.Theshamgaiety,thehecticglowofcounterfeithospitality, the self-conscious, joyless laughter, the wine-born warmth, theloudmusic retrieving the hour from frequentwhiles of awful and corrodingsilence,thepresenceofwell-clothedandfrank-eyedbeneficiariesofRooney'sremovalof therestrictionslaidupontheweed, thefamiliarblendedodorsofsoaked lemon peel, flat beer, and peau d'Espagne—all theseweremanna toCorkMcManus,hungryforhisweek in thedesertof theCapulet'shighrearroom.Agirl,alone,enteredRooney's,glancedaroundwith leisurelyswiftness,andsatoppositeMcManusathistable.Hereyesresteduponhimfortwosecondsin the lookwithwhichwoman reconnoitres allmenwhom she for the firsttimeconfronts.Inthatspaceoftimeshewilldecideupononeoftwothings—eithertoscreamforthepolice,orthatshemaymarryhimlateron.Herbriefinspectionconcluded,thegirllaidonthetableawornredmoroccoshoppingbagwith the inevitable top-gallant sailof frayed lacehandkerchiefflying from a corner of it. After she had ordered a small beer from theimmediatewaiter she took fromherbagaboxof cigarettes and lightedonewithslightlyexaggeratedeaseofmanner.ThenshelookedagainintheeyesofCorkMcManusandsmiled.Instantlythedoomofeachwassealed.Theunqualifieddesireofamantobuyclothesandbuildfiresforawomanfora whole lifetime at first sight of her is not uncommon among that humbleportion of humanity that does not care for Bradstreet or coats-of-arms orShaw'splays.Loveatfirstsighthasoccurredatimeortwoinhighlife;but,asa rule, the extemporemania is to be found amongunsophisticated creaturessuch as the dove, the blue-tailed dingbat, and the ten-dollar-a-week clerk.Poets,subscriberstoallfictionmagazines,andschatchens,takenotice.With theexchangeof themysteriousmagneticcurrentcametoeachof themtheinstantdesiretolie,pretend,dazzleanddeceive,whichistheworstthingaboutthehypocriticaldisorderknownaslove."Haveanotherbeer?"suggestedCork.Inhiscirclethephrasewasconsideredtobeacard,accompaniedbyaletterofintroductionandreferences."No, thanks," said the girl, raising her eyebrows and choosing her

conventional words carefully. "I—merely dropped in for—a slightrefreshment."Thecigarettebetweenherfingersseemedtorequireexplanation."My aunt is a Russian lady," she concluded, "and we often have a postperannualcigaretteafterdinnerathome.""Cheese it!" said Cork, whom society airs oppressed. "Your fingers are asyellowasmine.""Say,"saidthegirl,blazinguponhimwithlow-voicedindignation,"whatdoyouthinkIam?Say,whodoyouthinkyouaretalkingto?What?"She was pretty to look at. Her eyes were big, brown, intrepid and bright.Underherflatsailorhat,plantedjauntilyononeside,hercrinkly,tawnyhairpartedandwasdrawnback, lowandmassy, ina thick,pendantknotbehind.Theroundnessofgirlhoodstill lingeredinherchinandneck,buthercheeksandfingerswerethinningslightly.Shelookedupontheworldwithdefiance,suspicion, and sullen wonder. Her smart, short tan coat was soiled andexpensive.Twoinchesbelowherblackdressdroppedthelowestflounceofaheliotropesilkunderskirt."Beg your pardon," said Cork, looking at her admiringly. "I didn't meananything.Sure,it'snoharmtosmoke,Maudy.""Rooney's,"saidthegirl,softenedatoncebyhisamends,"istheonlyplaceIknowwherealadycansmoke.Maybeitain'tanicehabit,butauntyletsusathome.Andmynameain'tMaudy,ifyouplease;it'sRubyDelamere.""That'sa swellhandle," saidCorkapprovingly. "Mine'sMcManus—Cor—er—EddieMcManus.""Oh,youcan'thelpthat,"laughedRuby."Don'tapologize."CorklookedseriouslyatthebigclockonRooney'swall.Thegirl'subiquitouseyestookinthemovement."Iknowit'slate,"shesaid,reachingforherbag;"butyouknowhowyouwantasmokewhenyouwantone.Ain'tRooney'sall right? Inever sawanythingwrong here. This is twice I've been in. I work in a bookbindery on ThirdAvenue.A lot of us girls have beenworking overtime three nights aweek.Theywon'tletyousmokethere,ofcourse.Ijustdroppedinhereonmywayhomeforapuff.Ain'titallrightinhere?Ifitain't,Iwon'tcomeanymore.""It'salittlebitlateforyoutobeoutaloneanywhere,"saidCork."I'mnotwisetothisparticularjoint;butanyhowyoudon'twanttohaveyourpicturetakenin it for a present to yourSundaySchool teacher.Have onemore beer, andthensayItakeyouhome.""ButIdon'tknowyou,"saidthegirl,withfinescrupulosity."Idon'tacceptthecompany of gentlemen I ain't acquaintedwith.My aunt never would allowthat."

"Why," saidCorkMcManus,pullinghisear, "I'm the latest thing in suitingswithsideventsandbellskirtwhenitcomestoescortin'alady.Youbetyou'llfindmeallright,Ruby.AndI'llgiveyouatipastowhoIam.Mygovernorisoneofthehottestcross-bunsoftheWallStreetpush.Morgan'scabhorsecastsashoeeverytimetheoldmanstickshisheadoutthewindow.Me!Well,I'mintrainin' down the Street. The old man's goin' to put a seat on the StockExchange inmystockin'mynextbirthday.But itall sounds likea lemon tome.WhatIlikeisgolfandyachtin'and—er—well,sayacorkin'fastten-roundboutbetweenwelter-weightswithwalkin'gloves.""Iguessyoucanwalktothedoorwithme,"saidthegirlhesitatingly,butwithacertainpleased flutter. "Still IneverheardanythingextragoodaboutWallStreetbrokers,orsportswhogotoprizefights,either.Ain'tyougotanyotherrecommendations?""I think you're the swellest looker I've had my lamps on in little old NewYork,"saidCorkimpressively."That'llbeaboutenoughofthat,now.Ain'tyouthekidder!"Shemodifiedherchiding words by a deep, long, beaming, smile-embellished look at hercavalier."We'lldrinkourbeerbeforewego,ha?"Awaitersang.Thetobaccosmokegrewdenser,driftingandrisinginspirals,waves, tilted layers,cumulusclouds,cataractsandsuspendedfogs likesomefifthelementcreatedfromtheribsoftheancientfour.Laughterandchatgrewlouder, stimulated by Rooney's liquids and Rooney's gallant hospitality toLadyNicotine.One o'clock struck. Down-stairs there was a sound of closing and lockingdoors. Frank pulled down the green shades of the front windows carefully.Rooneywentbelowinthedarkhallandstoodatthefrontdoor,hiscigarettecachedinthehollowofhishand.ThenceforthwhoevermightseekadmittancemustpresentacountenancefamiliartoRooney'shawk'seye—thecountenanceofatruesport.Cork McManus and the bookbindery girl conversed absorbedly, with theirelbowson the table.Theirglassesofbeerwerepushed tooneside, scarcelytouched,withthefoamonthemsunkentoathinwhitescum.SincethestrokeofonethestalepleasuresofRooney'shadbecomerenovatedandspiced;notbyanyaddition to the listofdistractions,butbecausefromthatmoment thesweets became stolen ones. The flattest glass of beer acquired the tang ofillegality; themildestclaretpunchstruckaknockoutblowat lawandorder;theharmlessandgenialcompanybecameoutlaws,defyingauthorityandrule.ForafterthestrokeofoneinsuchplacesasRooney's,whereneitherbednorboard is tobehad,drinkmaynotbesetbefore the thirstyof thecityof thefourmillion.Itisthelaw.

"Say,"saidCorkMcManus,almostcoveringthetablewithhiseloquentchestandelbows,"wasthatdeadstraightaboutyouworkin'inthebookbinderyandlivin'athome—andjusthappenin' inhere—and—andall thatspielyougaveme?""Sureitwas,"answeredthegirlwithspirit."Why,whatdoyouthink?DoyousupposeI'dlietoyou?Godowntotheshopandask'em.Ihandedittoyouonthelevel.""Onthedeadlevel?"saidCork."That'sthewayIwantit;because—""Becausewhat?""I throwupmyhands,"saidCork."You'vegotmegoin'.You're thegirl I'vebeenlookin'for.Willyoukeepcompanywithme,Ruby?""Wouldyoulikemeto—Eddie?""Surestthing.ButIwantedastraightstoryabout—aboutyourself,youknow.Whenafellowhadagirl—asteadygirl—she'sgottobeallright,youknow.She'sgottobestraightgoods.""You'llfindI'llbestraightgoods,Eddie.""Ofcourseyouwill.Ibelievewhatyoutoldme.Butyoucan'tblamemeforwantin'tofindout.Youdon'tseemanygirlssmokin'cigarettesinplaceslikeRooney'saftermidnightthatarelikeyou."The girl flushed a little and lowered her eyes. "I see that now," she saidmeekly."Ididn'tknowhowbaditlooked.ButIwon'tdoitanymore.AndI'llgostraighthomeeverynightandstaythere.AndI'llgiveupcigarettesifyousayso,Eddie—I'llcut'emoutfromthisminuteon."Cork's air became judicial, proprietary, condemnatory, yet sympathetic. "Aladycansmoke,"hedecided,slowly,"attimesandplaces.Why?Becauseit'sbein'aladythathelpsherpullitoff.""I'mgoingtoquit.There'snothingtoit,"saidthegirl.Sheflickedthestubofhercigarettetothefloor."Attimesandplaces,"repeatedCork."WhenIcallroundforyouofevenin'swe'llhuntoutadarkbenchinStuyvesantSquareandhaveapuffortwo.ButnomoreRooney'satoneo'clock—see?""Eddie,doyoureallylikeme?"Thegirlsearchedhishardbutfrankfeatureseagerlywithanxiouseyes."Onthedeadlevel.""Whenareyoucomingtoseeme—whereIlive?""Thursday—dayafterto-morrowevenin'.Thatsuityou?""Fine.I'llbereadyforyou.Comeaboutseven.Walktothedoorwithmeto-

nightandI'llshowyouwhereI live.Don't forget,now.Anddon'tyougo toseeanyothergirlsbeforethen,mister!Ibetyouwill,though.""Onthedead level,"saidCork,"youmake 'emall look likerag-dolls tome.Honest,youdo.IknowwhenI'msuited.Onthedeadlevel,Ido."Againstthefrontdoordown-stairsrepeatedheavyblowsweredelivered.Theloud crashes resounded in the room above. Only a trip-hammer or apoliceman'sfootcouldhavebeentheauthorofthosesounds.Rooneyjumpedlikeabullfrogtoacorneroftheroom,turnedofftheelectriclightsandhurriedswiftlybelow.Theroomwasleftutterlydarkexceptforthewinkingredglowof cigars and cigarettes. A second volley of crashes came up from theassaulteddoor.Alittle,rustling,murmuringpanicmovedamongthebesiegedguests.Frank,cool,smooth,reassuring,couldbeseenintherosyglowoftheburningtobacco,goingfromtabletotable."All keep still!"washis caution. "Don't talkormakeanynoise!Everythingwillbeallright.Now,don'tfeeltheslightestalarm.We'lltakecareofyouall."Rubyfeltacross the tableuntilCork's firmhandcloseduponhers."Areyouafraid,Eddie?"shewhispered."Areyouafraidyou'llgetafreeride?""Nothin'doin' in theteeth-chatterin' line,"saidCork."IguessRooney'sbeenslowwithhisenvelope.Don'tyouworry,girly;I'lllookoutforyouallright."Yet Mr. McManus's ease was only skin- and muscle-deep.With the policelookingeverywhereforBuckMalone'sassailant,andwithCorriganstillontheoceanwave,he felt that tobecaught in apolice raidwouldmeananendedcareerforhim.HewishedhehadremainedinthehighrearroomofthetrueCapuletreadingthepinkextras.Rooneyseemedtohaveopenedthefrontdoorbelowandengagedthepoliceinconferenceinthedarkhall.Thewordlesslowgrowloftheirvoicescameupthestairway.Frankmadeawirelessnewsstationofhimselfattheupperdoor.Suddenly he closed the door, hurried to the extreme rear of the room andlightedadimgasjet."Thisway,everybody!"hecalledsharply."Inahurry;butnonoise,please!"Theguestscrowdedinconfusiontotherear.Rooney'slieutenantswungopenapanelinthewall,overlookingthebackyard,revealingaladderalreadyplacedfortheescape."Down and out, everybody!" he commanded. "Ladies first! Less talking,please!Don'tcrowd!There'snodanger."Amongthelast,CorkandRubywaitedtheirturnattheopenpanel.Suddenlysheswepthimasideandclungtohisarmfiercely."Beforewegoout,"shewhisperedinhisear—"beforeanythinghappens,tell

meagain,Eddie,doyoul—doyoureallylikeme?""On the dead level," said Cork, holding her close with one arm, "when itcomestoyou,I'mallin."Whentheyturnedtheyfoundtheywere lostandindarkness.Thelastof thefleeing customers had descended. Half way across the yard they bore theladder, stumbling, giggling, hurrying to place it against an adjoining lowbuildingovertheroofofwhichtheironlyroutetosafety."Wemayaswellsitdown,"saidCorkgrimly."MaybeRooneywillstandthecopsoff,anyhow."Theysatatatable;andtheirhandscametogetheragain.Anumberofmenthenenteredthedarkroom,feelingtheirwayabout.Oneofthem,Rooneyhimself,foundtheswitchandturnedontheelectriclight.Theothermanwas a cop of the old régime—a big cop, a thick cop, a fuming,abruptcop—notaprettycop.Hewentuptothepairatthetableandsneeredfamiliarlyatthegirl."Whatareyousedoin'inhere?"heasked."Droppedinforasmoke,"saidCorkmildly."Hadanydrinks?""Notlaterthanoneo'clock.""Getout—quick!"orderedthecop.Then,"Sitdown!"hecountermanded.He took offCork's hat roughly and scrutinized him shrewdly. "Your name'sMcManus.""Badguess,"saidCork."It'sPeterson.""CorkMcManus,orsomethinglikethat,"saidthecop."YouputaknifeintoamaninDutchMike'ssaloonaweekago.""Aw, forget it!" said Cork, who perceived a shade of doubt in the officer'stones."You'vegotmymugmixedwithsomebodyelse's.""Have I?Well, you'll come to the station withme, anyhow, and be lookedover. The description fits you all right." The cop twisted his fingers underCork'scollar."Comeon!"heorderedroughly.CorkglancedatRuby.Shewaspale,andherthinnostrilsquivered.Herquickeyedanced fromoneman's face to theotheras they spokeormoved.Whathardluck!Corkwasthinking—Corriganonthebriny;andRubymetandlostalmostwithinanhour!Somebodyat thepolicestationwouldrecognizehim,withoutadoubt.Hardluck!But suddenly thegirl sprangupandhurledherselfwithbotharmsextendedagainstthecop.HisholdonCork'scollarwasloosenedandhestumbledback

twoorthreepaces."Don'tgosofast,Maguire!"shecriedinshrillfury."Keepyourhandsoffmyman! You knowme, and you know I'm givin' you good advice. Don't youtouchhimagain!He'snottheguyyouarelookin'for—I'llstandforthat.""Seehere,Fanny,"saidtheCop,redandangry,"I'lltakeyou,too,ifyoudon'tlookout!Howdoyouknowthisain'tthemanIwant?Whatareyoudoinginherewithhim?""HowdoIknow?"saidthegirl,flamingredandwhitebyturns."BecauseI'veknownhimayear.He'smine.Oughtn'tItoknow?AndwhatamIdoin'herewithhim?That'seasy."She stooped low and reached down somewhere into a swirl of flirteddraperies, heliotrope and black. An elastic snapped, she threw on the tabletowardCorkafoldedwadofbills.Themoneyslowlystraighteneditselfwithlittleleisurelyjerks."Take that, Jimmy, and let's go," said the girl. "I'm declarin' the usualdividends,Maguire," she said to theofficer. "Youhadyourusual five-dollargraftattheusualcorneratten.""Alie!"saidthecop,turningpurple."YougoonmybeatagainandI'llarrestyoueverytimeIseeyou.""No,youwon't,"saidthegirl."AndI'lltellyouwhy.Witnessessawmegiveyouthemoneyto-night,andlastweek,too.I'vebeengettingfixedforyou."Cork put thewad ofmoney carefully into his pocket, and said: "Come on,Fanny;let'shavesomechopsueybeforewegohome.""Clearout,quick,bothofyou,orI'll—"Thecop'sblustertrailedawayintoinconsequentiality.At the corner of the street the two halted. Cork handed back the moneywithoutaword.Thegirltookitandslippeditslowlyintoherhand-bag.HerexpressionwasthesameshehadwornwhensheenteredRooney'sthatnight—shelookedupontheworldwithdefiance,suspicionandsullenwonder."IguessImightaswellsaygood-byehere,"shesaiddully."Youwon'twanttoseemeagain,ofcourse.Willyou—shakehands—Mr.McManus.""Imightn'thavegotwiseifyouhadn'tgivethesnapaway,"saidCork."Whydidyoudoit?""You'dhavebeenpinchedif Ihadn't.That'swhy.Ain't that reasonenough?"Thenshebegan tocry. "Honest,Eddie, Iwasgoin' tobe thebestgirl in theworld.IhatedtobewhatIam;Ihatedmen;IwasreadyalmosttodiewhenIsawyou.Andyouseemeddifferentfromeverybodyelse.AndwhenIfoundyoulikedme,too,why,IthoughtI'dmakeyoubelieveIwasgood,andIwas

goin'tobegood.Whenyouaskedtocometomyhouseandseeme,why,I'dhave died rather than do anything wrong after that. But what's the use oftalkingaboutit?I'llsaygood-by,ifyouwill,Mr.McManus."Corkwaspullingathisear."IknifedMalone,"saidhe."Iwastheonethecopwanted.""Oh, that's all right," said the girl listlessly. "It didn't make any differenceaboutthat.""ThatwasallhotairaboutWallStreet.Idon'tdonothin'buthangoutwithatoughgangontheEastSide.""Thatwasallright,too,"repeatedthegirl."Itdidn'tmakeanydifference."Corkstraightenedhimself,andpulledhishatdownlow."IcouldgetajobatO'Brien's,"hesaidaloud,buttohimself."Good-by,"saidthegirl."Comeon,"saidCork,takingherarm."Iknowaplace."Twoblocksawayheturnedwithherupthestepsofaredbrickhousefacingalittlepark."Whathouseisthis?"sheasked,drawingback."Whyareyougoinginthere?"Astreetlampshonebrightlyinfront.Therewasabrassnameplateatonesideoftheclosedfrontdoors.Corkdrewherfirmlyupthesteps."Readthat,"saidhe.She lookedat thenameon theplate, andgavea crybetweenamoanandascream. "No, no, no, Eddie!Oh,myGod, no! Iwon't let you do that—notnow!Letme go!You shan't do that!You can't—youmus'n't!Not after youknow!No,no!Comeawayquick!Oh,myGod!Please,Eddie,come!"Halffainting,shereeled,andwascaughtinthebendofhisarm.Cork'srighthandfeltfortheelectricbuttonandpresseditlong.Anothercop—howquicklytheyscenttroublewhentroubleisonthewing!—camealong,sawthem,andranupthesteps."Here!Whatareyoudoingwiththatgirl?"hecalledgruffly."She'llbeallrightinaminute,"saidCork."It'sastraightdeal.""Reverend Jeremiah Jones," read the cop from the door-plate with truedetectivecunning."Correct,"saidCork."Onthedeadlevel,we'regoin'togetmarried."

XXI

THEVENTURERS

LetthestorywreckitselfonthespreadingrailsoftheNonSequiturLimited,ifitwill;firstyoumusttakeyourseatintheobservationcar"Raisond'être"foronemoment.Itisfornolongerthantoconsiderabriefessayonthesubject—letuscallit:"What'sAroundtheCorner."Omnemundus in duas partes divisum est—menwhowear rubbers and paypoll-taxes, and men who discover new continents. There are no morecontinentstodiscover;butbythetimeovershoesareoutofdateandthepollhasdevelopedintoanincometax,theotherhalfwillbeparallelingthecanalsofMarswithradiumrailways.Fortune,Chance,andAdventurearegivenassynonymousinthedictionaries.To theknowing eachhas adifferentmeaning.Fortune is aprize tobewon.Adventure is the road to it.Chance iswhatmay lurk in the shadows at theroadside. The face of Fortune is radiant and alluring; that of Adventure isflushedandheroic.ThefaceofChanceisthebeautifulcountenance—perfectbecausevagueanddream-born—thatweseeinourtea-cupsatbreakfastwhilewegrowloverourchopsandtoast.TheVENTURER is onewho keeps his eye on the hedgerows andwaysidegroves and meadows while he travels the road to Fortune. That is thedifferencebetweenhimandtheAdventurer.Eatingtheforbiddenfruitwasthebest recordevermadebyaVenturer.Trying toprove that ithappened is thehighest work of the Adventuresome. To be either is disturbing to thecosmogonyofcreation.So,asbracket-sawedandcity-directoriedcitizens,letus light our pipes, chide the children and the cat, arrange ourselves in thewillowrockerundertheflickeringgasjetatthecoolestwindowandscanthislittletaleoftwomodernfollowersofChance.

"DidyoueverhearthatstoryaboutthemanfromtheWest?"askedBillinger,in the little dark-oak room to your left as you penetrate the interior of thePowhatanClub."Doubtless,"saidJohnReginaldForster,risingandleavingtheroom.Forstergothisstrawhat (strawswillbe inandmaybeoutagain longbeforethisisprinted)fromthecheckroomboy,andwalkedoutoftheair(asHamletsays).Billingerwasused tohavinghis stories insultedandwouldnotmind.Forsterwas inhis favoritemood andwanted togo away fromanywhere.Aman, in order to get on good terms with himself, must have his opinionscorroborated and his moodsmatched by some one else. (I had written that"somebody";butanA.D.T.boywhooncetookatelegramformepointedoutthat I could savemoney by using the compoundword. This is a vice versa

case.)Forster'sfavoritemoodwasthatofgreatlydesiringtobeafollowerofChance.He was a Venturer by nature, but convention, birth, tradition and thenarrowinginfluencesofthetribeofManhattanhaddeniedhimfullprivilege.Hehadtroddenallthemain-traveledthoroughfaresandmanyofthesideroadsthat are supposed to relieve the tedium of life. But none had sufficed. Thereasonwasthatheknewwhatwastobefoundattheendofeverystreet.Heknewfromexperienceandlogicalmostpreciselytowhatendeachdigressionfromroutinemustlead.Hefoundadepressingmonotonyinallthevariationsthat the music of his sphere had grafted upon the tune of life. He had notlearnedthat,althoughtheworldwasmaderound,thecirclehasbeensquared,andthatit'strueinterestistobein"What'sAroundtheCorner."Forsterwalkedabroadaimlessly from thePowhatan, tryingnot to taxeitherhisjudgmentorhisdesireastowhatstreetshetraveled.Hewouldhavebeengladtolosehiswayifitwerepossible;buthehadnohopeofthat.Adventureand Fortunemove at your beck and call in theGreaterCity; but Chance isoriental. She is a veiled lady in a sedan chair, protected by a special trafficsquad of dragonians. Crosstown, uptown, and downtown you may movewithoutseeingher.At the end of an hour's stroll, Forster stood on a corner of a broad, smoothavenue, lookingdisconsolately across it at apicturesqueoldhotel softlybutbrilliantlylit.Disconsolately,becauseheknewthathemustdine;anddininginthat hotel was no venture. It was one of his favorite caravansaries, and sosilentandswiftwouldbetheserviceandsodelicatelychoicethefood,thatheregretted the hunger that must be appeased by the "dead perfection" of theplace'scuisine.Eventhemusicthereseemedtobealwaysplayingdacapo.Fancycametohimthathewoulddineatsomecheap,evendubious,restaurantlowerdowninthecity,wheretheerraticchefsfromallcountriesoftheworldspreadtheirnationalcookeryfortheomnivorousAmerican.Somethingmighthappen there out of the routine—he might come upon a subject without apredicate, a road without an end, a question without an answer, a causewithout an effect, a gulf stream in life's salt ocean.He had not dressed forevening;heworeadarkbusinesssuitthatwouldnotbequestionedevenwherethewaitersservedthespaghettiintheirshirtsleeves.SoJohnReginaldForsterbegantosearchhisclothesformoney;becausethemore cheaply you dine, the more surely must you pay. All of the thirteenpockets,largeandsmall,ofhisbusinesssuitheexploredcarefullyandfoundnotapenny.Hisbankbookshowedabalanceof fivefigures tohiscredit intheOldIronsidesTrustCompany,but—Forster became aware of a man nearby at his left hand who was really

regarding him with some amusement. He looked like any business man ofthirty or so, neatly dressed and standing in the attitude of onewaiting for astreet car. But there was no car line on that avenue. So his proximity andunconcealedcuriosityseemedtoForstertopartakeofthenatureofapersonalintrusion.But,ashewasaconsistentseekerafter"What'sAroundtheCorner,"instead of manifesting resentment he only turned a half-embarrassed smileupontheother'sgrinofamusement."Allin?"askedtheintruder,drawingnearer."Seemsso,"saidForster."Now,Ithoughttherewasadollarin—""Oh, I know," said the otherman,with a laugh. "But therewasn't. I've justbeen through thesameprocessmyself,as Iwascomingaround thecorner. Ifoundinanuppervestpocket—Idon'tknowhowtheygotthere—exactlytwopennies.Youknowwhatkindofadinnerexactlytwopennieswillbuy!""Youhaven'tdined,then?"askedForster."Ihavenot.ButIwouldliketo.Now,I'llmakeyouaproposition.Youlooklike amanwhowould takeupone.Your clothes lookneat and respectable.Excusepersonalities.Ithinkminewillpassthescrutinyofaheadwaiter,also.Supposewegoovertothathotelanddinetogether.Wewillchoosefromthemenu like millionaires—or, if you prefer, like gentlemen in moderatecircumstancesdiningextravagantlyforonce.Whenwehavefinishedwewillmatch withmy two pennies to see which of us will stand the brunt of thehouse'sdispleasureandvengeance.MynameisIves.Ithinkwehavelivedinthesamestationoflife—beforeourmoneytookwings.""You'reon,"saidForster,joyfully.Herewas a venture at leastwithin the borders of themysterious country ofChance—anyhow,itpromisedsomethingbetter thanthestale infestivityofatabled'hôte.The two were soon seated at a corner table in the hotel dining room. IveschuckedoneofhispenniesacrossthetabletoForster."Matchforwhichofusgivestheorder,"hesaid.Forsterlost.Ives laughed and began to name liquids and viands to the waiter with theabsorbed but calm deliberation of one who was to the menu born. Forster,listening,gavehisadmiringapprovaloftheorder."Iamaman,"saidIves,duringtheoysters,"Whohasmadealifetimesearchafter the to-be-continued-in-our-next. I am not like the ordinary adventurerwhostrikesforacovetedprize.NoryetamIlikeagamblerwhoknowsheiseither to win or lose a certain set stake. What I want is to encounter an

adventuretowhichIcanpredictnoconclusion.ItisthebreathofexistencetometodareFate in itsblindestmanifestations.Theworldhascometorunsomuchbyroteandgravitation thatyoucanenteruponhardlyanyfootpathofchanceinwhichyoudonotfindsignboardsinformingyouofwhatyoumayexpectatitsend.IamliketheclerkintheCircumlocutionOfficewhoalwayscomplainedbitterlywhenanyonecameintoaskinformation. 'Hewantedtoknow,youknow!'wasthekickhemadetohisfellow-clerks.Well,Idon'twanttoknow,Idon'twanttoreason,Idon'twanttoguess—Iwanttobetmyhandwithoutseeingit.""Iunderstand,"saidForsterdelightedly."I'veoftenwantedthewayIfeelputintowords.You'vedoneit.Iwanttotakechancesonwhat'scoming.SupposewehaveabottleofMosellewiththenextcourse.""Agreed," said Ives. "I'm glad you catch my idea. It will increase theanimosity of the house toward the loser. If it does not weary you, we willpursuethetheme.OnlyafewtimeshaveImetatrueventurer—onewhodoesnotaskascheduleandmapfromFatewhenhebeginsajourney.But,astheworldbecomesmorecivilizedandwiser,themoredifficultitistocomeuponanadventuretheendofwhichyoucannotforesee.IntheElizabethandaysyoucould assault thewatch, wring knockers from doors and have a jolly set-towith the blades in any convenient angle of a wall and 'get away with it.'Nowadays, ifyouspeakdisrespectfully toapoliceman,all that is left to themostromanticfancyis toconjecture inwhatparticularpolicestationhewilllandyou.""Iknow—Iknow,"saidForster,noddingapproval."IreturnedtoNewYorkto-day,"continuedIves,"fromathreeyears'ramblearound theglobe.Thingsarenotmuchbetter abroad than theyareathome.The whole world seems to be overrun by conclusions. The only thing thatinterests me greatly is a premise. I've tried shooting big game in Africa. Iknowwhatanexpressriflewilldoatsomanyyards;andwhenanelephantorarhinocerosfalls to thebullet, IenjoyitaboutasmuchasIdidwhenIwaskeptinafterschooltodoasuminlongdivisionontheblackboard.""Iknow—Iknow,"saidForster."There might be something in aeroplanes," went on Ives, reflectively. "I'vetriedballooning;butitseemstobemerelyacut-and-driedaffairofwindandballast.""Women,"suggestedForster,withasmile."Threemonthsago,"saidIves."IwaspotteringaroundinoneofthebazaarsinConstantinople.Inoticedalady,veiled,ofcourse,butwithapairofespeciallyfineeyesvisible,whowasexaminingsomeamberandpearlornamentsatoneof the booths.With her was an attendant—a big Nubian, as black as coal.

Afterawhiletheattendantdrewnearertomebydegreesandslippedascrapofpaperintomyhand.IlookedatitwhenIgotachance.Onitwasscrawledhastilyinpencil:'ThearchedgateoftheNightingaleGardenatnineto-night.'Doesthatappeartoyoutobeaninterestingpremise,Mr.Forster?""ImadeinquiriesandlearnedthattheNightingaleGardenwasthepropertyofanoldTurk—agrandvizier,orsomethingofthesort.OfcourseIprospectedforthearchedgateandwasthereatnine.ThesameNubianattendantopenedthegatepromptlyontime,andIwentinsideandsatonabenchbyaperfumedfountainwiththeveiledlady.Wehadquiteanextendedchat.ShewasMyrtleThompson, a lady journalist, whowaswriting up the Turkish harems for aChicagonewspaper.ShesaidshenoticedtheNewYorkcutofmyclothesinthe bazaar andwondered if I couldn'twork something into themetropolitanpapersaboutit.""Isee,"saidForster."Isee.""I'vecanoed throughCanada,"saidIves,"downmanyrapidsandovermanyfalls.But I didn't seem to getwhat Iwantedout of it because I knew therewereonlytwopossibleoutcomes—Iwouldeithergotothebottomorarriveatthe sea level. I've played all games at cards; but the mathematicians havespoiled thatsportbycomputing thepercentages. I'vemadeacquaintancesontrains, I've answered advertisements, I've rung strange door-bells, I've takeneverychancethatpresenteditself;buttherehasalwaysbeentheconventionalending—thelogicalconclusiontothepremise.""Iknow,"repeatedForster."I'vefeltitall.ButI'vehadfewchancestotakemychanceatchances.Isthereanylifesodevoidofimpossibilitiesaslifeinthiscity? There seems to be a myriad of opportunities for testing theundeterminable; but not one in a thousand fails to land you where youexpected it to stop. I wish the subways and street cars disappointed one asseldom.""The sun has risen," said Ives, "on the Arabian nights. There are no morecaliphs.Thefisherman'svaseisturnedtoavacuumbottle,warrantedtokeepanygenieboilingorfrozenforforty-eighthours.Lifemovesbyrote.Sciencehaskilledadventure.TherearenomoreopportunitiessuchasColumbusandthemanwho ate the first oyster had. The only certain thing is that there isnothinguncertain.""Well,"saidForster,"myexperiencehasbeenthelimitedoneofacityman.Ihaven'tseentheworldasyouhave;butitseemsthatweviewitwiththesameopinion.But,ItellyouIamgratefulforeventhislittleventureofoursintothebordersofthehaphazard.Theremaybeatleastonebreathlessmomentwhenthebillforthedinnerispresented.Perhaps,afterall,thepilgrimswhotraveledwithoutscriporpursefoundakeenertastetolifethandidtheknightsofthe

Round Table who rode abroad with a retinue and King Arthur's certifiedchecksintheliningoftheirhelmets.Andnow,ifyou'vefinishedyourcoffee,supposewematchoneof your insufficient coins for the impendingblowofFate.WhathaveIup?""Heads,"calledIves."Headsitis,"saidForster,liftinghishand."Ilose.Weforgottoagreeuponaplanforthewinnertoescape.Isuggestthatwhenthewaitercomesyoumakea remark about telephoning to a friend. I will hold the fort and the dinnercheck long enough for you to get your hat and be off. I thank you for aneveningoutoftheordinary,Mr.Ives,andwishwemighthaveothers.""Ifmymemoryisnotatfault,"saidIves,laughing,"thenearestpolicestationisinMacDougalStreet.Ihaveenjoyedthedinner,too,letmeassureyou."Forstercrookedhisfingerforthewaiter.Victor,withalocomotiveeffortthatseemedtoowemoretopneumaticsthantopedestrianism,glidedtothetableand laid the card, facedownward, by the loser's cup.Forster took it up andadded the figures with deliberate care. Ives leaned back comfortably in hischair."Excuseme,"saidForster;"butIthoughtyouweregoingtoringGrimesaboutthattheatrepartyforThursdaynight.Hadyouforgottenaboutit?""Oh,"saidIves,settlinghimselfmorecomfortably,"Icandothatlateron.Getmeaglassofwater,waiter.""Wanttobeinatthedeath,doyou?"askedForster."Ihopeyoudon'tobject,"saidIves,pleadingly."NeverinmylifehaveIseenagentlemanarrestedinapublicrestaurantforswindlingitoutofadinner.""Allright,"saidForster,calmly."YouareentitledtoseeaChristiandieinthearenaasyourpousse-café."Victorcamewiththeglassofwaterandremained,withthedisengagedairofaninexorablecollector.Forsterhesitated for fifteen seconds, and then tookapencil fromhispocketand scribbled his name on the dinner check. Thewaiter bowed and took itaway."The fact is," saidForster,witha little embarrassed laugh, "IdoubtwhetherI'm what they call a 'game sport,' which means the same as a 'soldier ofFortune.' I'llhavetomakeaconfession.I'vebeendiningat thishotel twoorthreetimesaweekformorethanayear.Ialwayssignmychecks."Andthen,withanoteofappreciationinhisvoice:"Itwasfirst-rateofyoutostaytoseeme throughwith itwhenyou knew I had nomoney, and that youmight bescoopedin,too."

"IguessI'llconfess,too,"saidIves,withagrin."Iownthehotel.Idon'trunit,of course, but I always keep a suite on the third floor for my use when Ihappentostrayintotown."Hecalledawaiterandsaid:"IsMr.Gilmorestillbehindthedesk?Allright.TellhimthatMr.Ivesishere,andaskhimtohavemyroomsmadereadyandaired.""Another venture cut short by the inevitable," said Forster. "Is there aconundrumwithoutananswerinthenextnumber?Butlet'sholdtooursubjectjust for a minute or two, if you will. It isn't often that I meet a man whounderstandstheflawsIpickinexistence.Iamengagedtobemarriedamonthfromto-day.""Ireservecomment,"saidIves."Right;Iamgoingtoaddtotheassertion.Iamdevotedlyfondofthelady;butIcan'tdecidewhethertoshowupat thechurchormakeasneakforAlaska.It'sthesameidea,youknow,thatwewerediscussing—itdoesforafellowasfar as possibilities are concerned. Everybody knows the routine—you get akissflavoredwithCeylonteaafterbreakfast;yougototheoffice;youcomebackhomeanddressfordinner—theatretwiceaweek—bills—mopingaroundmost evenings trying to make conversation—a little quarrel occasionally—maybesometimesabigone,andaseparation—orelseasettlingdownintoamiddle-agedcontentment,whichisworstofall.""Iknow,"saidIves,noddingwisely."It'sthedeadcertaintyofthething,"wentonForster,"thatkeepsmeindoubt.There'llnevermorebeanythingaroundthecorner.""Nothingafterthe'LittleChurch,'"saidIves."Iknow.""Understand,"saidForster,"thatIaminnodoubtastomyfeelingstowardthelady.ImaysaythatIlovehertrulyanddeeply.Butthereissomethinginthecurrent that runs through my veins that cries out against any form of thecalculable.IdonotknowwhatIwant;butIknowthatIwant it. I'mtalkinglikeanidiot,Isuppose,butI'msureofwhatImean.""Iunderstandyou,"saidIves,withaslowsmile."Well,IthinkIwillbegoinguptomyroomsnow.Ifyouwoulddinewithmehereoneeveningsoon,Mr.Forster,I'dbeglad.""Thursday?"suggestedForster."Atseven,ifit'sconvenient,"answeredIves."Sevengoes,"assentedForster.Athalf-pasteightIvesgotintoacabandwasdriventoanumberinoneofthecorrectWestSeventies.Hiscardadmittedhimtothereceptionroomofanold-

fashionedhouseintowhichthespiritsofFortune,ChanceandAdventurehadnever dared to enter. On the walls were the Whistler etchings, the steelengravingsbyOh-what's-his-name?, the still-lifepaintingsof thegrapesandgardentruckwiththewatermelonseedsspilledonthetableasnaturalaslife,andtheGreuzehead.Itwasahousehold.Therewasevenbrassandirons.Onatable was an album, half-morocco, with oxidized-silver protections on thecornersofthelids.Aclockonthemanteltickedloudly,withawarningclickatfiveminutestonine.Iveslookedatitcuriously,rememberingatime-pieceinhisgrandmother'shomethatgavesuchawarning.And then down the stairs and into the room cameMaryMarsden. Shewastwenty-four,andIleavehertoyourimagination.ButImustsaythismuch—youth and health and simplicity and courage and greenish-violet eyes arebeautiful, and she had all these. She gave Ives her hand with the sweetcordialityofanoldfriendship."You can't thinkwhat a pleasure it is," she said, "to have you drop in onceeverythreeyearsorso."Forhalfanhour they talked. Iconfess that Icannot repeat theconversation.Youwill find it inbooks in the circulating library.When that part of itwasover,Marysaid:"Anddidyoufindwhatyouwantedwhileyouwereabroad?""WhatIwanted?"saidIves."Yes. You know you were always queer. Even as a boy you wouldn't playmarbles or baseball or any game with rules. You wanted to dive in waterwhereyoudidn'tknowwhetheritwasteninchesortenfeetdeep.Andwhenyougrewupyouwerejust thesame.We'veoftentalkedaboutyourpeculiarways.""IsupposeIaman incorrigible,"saidIves."Iamopposed to thedoctrineofpredestination,totheruleofthree,gravitation,taxation,andeverythingofthekind.Lifehasalwaysseemedtomesomethinglikeaserialstorywouldbeiftheyprintedaboveeachinstalmentasynopsisofsucceedingchapters."Marylaughedmerrily."BobAmestoldusonce,"shesaid,"ofafunnythingyoudid.ItwaswhenyouandhewereonatrainintheSouth,andyougotoffatatownwhereyouhadn'tintendedtostopjustbecausethebrakemanhungupasignintheendofthecarwiththenameofthenextstationonit.""I remember," said Ives. "That 'next station' has been the thing I've alwaystriedtogetawayfrom.""Iknowit,"saidMary."Andyou'vebeenveryfoolish.Ihopeyoudidn'tfindwhatyouwantednottofind,orgetoffatthestationwheretherewasn'tany,or

whatever itwasyouexpectedwouldn'thappen toyouduring the threeyearsyou'vebeenaway.""TherewassomethingIwantedbeforeIwentaway,"saidIves.Marylookedinhiseyesclearly,withaslight,butperfectlysweetsmile."Therewas,"shesaid."Youwantedme.Andyoucouldhavehadme,asyouverywellknow."Withoutreplying,Iveslethisgazewanderslowlyabouttheroom.Therehadbeennochangeinitsincelasthehadbeeninit,threeyearsbefore.Hevividlyrecalledthethoughtsthathadbeeninhismindthen.Thecontentsofthatroomwere as fixed, in their way, as the everlasting hills. No changewould evercomethereexcepttheinevitableoneswroughtbytimeanddecay.Thatsilver-mountedalbumwouldoccupy thatcornerof that table, thosepictureswouldhangonthewalls,thosechairsbefoundintheirsameplaceseverymornandnoonandnightwhile thehouseholdhung together.Thebrass andironsweremonuments to order and stability. Here and there were relics of a hundredyearsagowhichwerestill livingmementosandwouldbeformanyyears tocome.One going from and coming back to that housewould never need toforecastordoubt.Hewouldfindwhatheleft,andleavewhathefound.Theveiled lady, Chance, would never lift her hand to the knocker on the outerdoor.Andbeforehimsat the ladywhobelongedin theroom.Coolandsweetandunchangeable shewas. She offered no surprises. If one should pass his lifewithher, thoughshemightgrowwhite-hairedandwrinkled,hewouldneverperceivethechange.Threeyearshehadbeenawayfromher,andshewasstillwaiting forhimas establishedandconstant as thehouse itself.Hewas surethatshehadoncecaredforhim.Itwastheknowledgethatshewouldalwaysdosothathaddrivenhimaway.Thushisthoughtsran."Iamgoingtobemarriedsoon,"saidMary.OnthenextThursdayafternoonForstercamehurriedlytoIve'shotel."Oldman," said he, "we'll have to put that dinner off for a year or so; I'mgoingabroad.Thesteamersailsatfour.Thatwasagreattalkwehadtheothernight,anditdecidedme.I'mgoingtoknockaroundtheworldandgetridofthatincubusthathasbeenweighingonbothyouandme—theterribledreadofknowingwhat'sgoingtohappen.I'vedoneonethingthathurtsmyconsciencealittle;butIknowit'sbestforbothofus.I'vewrittentotheladytowhomIwasengagedandexplainedeverything—toldherplainlywhyIwasleaving—thatthemonotonyofmatrimonywouldneverdoforme.Don'tyouthinkIwasright?""Itisnotformetosay,"answeredIves."Goaheadandshootelephantsifyou

think itwill bring the element of chance intoyour life.We'vegot to decidethesethingsforourselves.ButItellyouonething,Forster,I'vefoundtheway.I'vefoundoutthebiggesthazardintheworld—agameofchancethatneverisconcluded,aventurethatmayendinthehighestheavenortheblackestpit.Itwill keep aman on edge until the clods fall on his coffin, because hewillneverknow—notuntilhislastday,andnotthenwillheknow.Itisavoyagewithout a rudder or compass, and you must be captain and crew and keepwatch,everydayandnight,yourself,withnoonetorelieveyou.IhavefoundtheVENTURE.Don'tbotheryourselfaboutleavingMaryMarsden,Forster.Imarriedheryesterdayatnoon."

XXIITHEDUEL

Thegods,lyingbesidetheirnectaron'Lympusandpeepingovertheedgeofthecliff,perceiveadifferenceincities.Althoughitwouldseemthat to theirvision towns must appear as large or small ant-hills without specialcharacteristics, yet it is not so. Studying the habits of ants from so great aheight shouldbebut amilddiversionwhencoupledwith the softdrink thatmythology tells us is their only solace. But doubtless they have amusedthemselvesbythecomparisonofvillagesandtowns;anditwillbenonewstothem (nor, perhaps, to many mortals), that in one particularity New Yorkstandsuniqueamongthecitiesoftheworld.ThisshallbethethemeofalittlestoryaddressedtothemanwhositssmokingwithhisSabbath-slipperedfeeton another chair, and to the woman who snatches the paper for a momentwhileboilinggreensoranarcotizedbabyleavesherfree.WiththeseIlovetosituponthegroundandtellsadstoriesofthedeathofKings.NewYorkCity is inhabitedby4,000,000mysterious strangers; thus beatingBird Centre by three millions and half a dozen nine's. They came here invariouswaysandformanyreasons—HendrikHudson,theartschools,greengoods, the stork, the annual dressmakers' convention, the PennsylvaniaRailroad, love of money, the stage, cheap excursion rates, brains, personalcolumnads.,heavywalkingshoes,ambition,freighttrains—allthesehavehadahandinmakingupthepopulation.ButeverymanJackwhenhefirstsetsfootonthestonesofManhattanhasgottofight.Hehasgottofightatonceuntileitherheorhisadversarywins.Thereisnorestingbetweenrounds,fortherearenorounds.Itissluggingfromthefirst.Itisafighttoafinish.YouropponentistheCity.Youmustdobattlewithitfromthetimetheferry-

boatlandsyouontheislanduntileitheritisyoursorithasconqueredyou.Itisthesamewhetheryouhaveamillioninyourpocketoronlythepriceofaweek'slodging.Thebattle is to decidewhether you shall become aNewYorker or turn therankest outlander and Philistine. Youmust be one or the other. You cannotremainneutral.Youmustbefororagainst—loverorenemy—bosomfriendoroutcast.And,oh, thecity isageneral in thering.Notonlybyblowsdoes itseektosubdueyou.Itwoosyoutoitsheartwiththesubtletyofasiren.ItisacombinationofDelilah,greenChartreuse,Beethoven,chloralandJohnL. inhisbestdays.In other cities youmaywander and abide as a strangerman as long as youplease.YoumayliveinChicagountilyourhairwhitens,andbeacitizenandstill prate of beans if Boston mothered you, and without rebuke. You maybecomeacivicpillarinanyothertownbutKnickerbocker's,andallthetimepublicly sneering at its buildings, comparing them with the architecture ofColonelTelfair's residence in Jackson,Miss.,whenceyouhail, andyouwillnot be set upon. But inNewYork youmust be either aNewYorker or aninvaderofamodernTroy, concealed in thewoodenhorseofyourconceitedprovincialism. And this dreary preamble is only to introduce to you theunimportantfiguresofWilliamandJack.TheycameoutoftheWesttogether,wheretheyhadbeenfriends.Theycametodigtheirfortunesoutofthebigcity.FatherKnickerbockermetthemattheferry,givingonearight-handeronthenose and theother anupper-cutwithhis left, just to let themknow that thefightwason.Williamwasforbusiness;JackwasforArt.Bothwereyoungandambitious;sotheycounteredandclinched.IthinktheywerefromNebraskaorpossiblyMissouri orMinnesota. Anyhow, they were out for success and scraps andscads,andtheytackledthecityliketwoLochinvarswithbrassknucksandapullattheCityHall.Four years afterwardWilliam and Jackmet at luncheon. The businessmanblew in like aMarchwind, hurled his silk hat at awaiter, dropped into thechairthatwaspushedunderhim,seizedthebilloffare,andhadorderedasfaras cheese before the artist had time to do more than nod. After the nod ahumoroussmilecameintohiseyes."Billy,"he said, "you'redone for.Thecityhasgobbledyouup. It has takenyou and cut you to its pattern and stamped youwith its brand. You are sonearly like ten thousandmen Ihave seen to-day thatyoucouldn'tbepickedoutfromthemifitweren'tforyourlaundrymarks.""Camembert," finished William. "What's that? Oh, you've still got your

hammer out for New York, have you? Well, little old Noisyville-on-the-Subwayisgoodenoughforme.It'sgivingmemine.And,say,Iusedtothinkthe West was the whole round world—only slightly flattened at the poleswheneverBryanran.Iusedtoyellmyselfhoarseaboutthefreeexpense,andhangmyhatonthehorizon,andsaycuttingthingsinthegrocerytolittlesoapdrummersfromtheEast.ButI'dneverseenNewYork, then,Jack.Mefor itfromtherathskellersup.SixthAvenueistheWesttomenow.HaveyouheardthisfellowCrusoesing?Thedesertisleforhim,Isay,butmywifemademego.GivemeMayIrwinorE.S.Willardanytime.""PoorBilly," said theartist, delicately fingeringacigarette. "You remember,when we were on our way to the East how we talked about this great,wonderfulcity,andhowwemeanttoconqueritandneverletitgetthebestofus?Weweregoingtobejustthesamefellowswehadalwaysbeen,andneverlet it master us. It has downed you, old man. You have changed from amaverickintoabutterick.""Don't see exactlywhat you are driving at," saidWilliam. "I don't wear analpacacoatwithbluetrousersandaseersuckervestondressoccasions,likeIused to do at home. You talk about being cut to a pattern—well, ain't thepattern all right?When you're inRome you've got to do as theDagoes do.This town seems to me to have other alleged metropolises skinned to flagstations. According to the railroad schedule I've got in mind, Chicago andSaint JoandParis,France,areasteriskstops—whichmeansyouwavea redflagandgetoneveryotherTuesday.IlikethislittlesuburbofTarrytown-on-the-Hudson.There's somethingor somebodydoingall the time. I'mclearing$8,000 a year selling automatic pumps, and I'm living like kings-up.Why,yesterday,IwasintroducedtoJohnW.Gates.Itookanautoridewithawineagent's sister. I saw twomen runoverbya street car, and I seenEdnaMayplay in the evening. Talk about the West, why, the other night I wokeeverybody up in the hotel hollering. I dreamed I was walking on a boardsidewalkinOshkosh.Whathaveyougotagainstthistown,Jack?There'sonlyonethinginitthatIdon'tcarefor,andthat'saferryboat."Theartistgazeddreamilyatthecartridgepaperonthewall."Thistown,"saidhe,"isaleech.Itdrainsthebloodofthecountry.Whoevercomestoitacceptsachallengetoaduel.Abandoningthefigureoftheleech,itisajuggernaut,aMoloch,amonstertowhichtheinnocence,thegenius,andthebeautyofthelandmustpay tribute.Hand tohandeverynewcomermuststrugglewith theleviathan.You'velost,Billy.Itshallneverconquerme.Ihateitasonehatessinorpestilenceor—thecolorworkinaten-centmagazine.Idespiseitsveryvastnessandpower.Ithasthepoorestmillionaires, thelittlestgreatmen,thelowest skyscrapers, the dolefulest pleasures of any town I ever saw. It hascaughtyou,oldman,butIwillneverrunbesideitschariotwheels.Itglosses

itselfastheChinamanglosseshiscollars.Givemethedomesticfinish.Icouldstanda town ruledbywealthorone ruledby an aristocracy;but this is onecontrolled by its lowest ingredients. Claiming culture, it is the crudest;asseveratingitspre-eminence, it is thebasest;denyingalloutsidevaluesandvirtue, it is thenarrowest.Giveme thepure and theopenheart of theWestcountry.Iwouldgobackthereto-morrowifIcould.""Don'tyoulikethisfiletmignon?"saidWilliam."Shucks,now,what'stheusetoknock the town! It's thegreatest ever. I couldn't sell one automaticpumpbetweenHarrisburgandTommyO'Keefe'ssaloon,inSacramento,whereIselltwentyhere.AndhaveyouseenSaraBernhardtin'AndrewMack'yet?""Thetown'sgotyou,Billy,"saidJack."All right," saidWilliam."I'mgoing tobuyacottageonLakeRonkonkomanextsummer."AtmidnightJackraisedhiswindowandsatclosetoit.Hecaughthisbreathatwhathesaw,thoughhehadseenandfeltitahundredtimes.Farbelowandaround lay thecity likea raggedpurpledream.The irregularhouseswerelikethebrokenexteriorsofcliffsliningdeepgulchesandwindingstreams.Someweremountainous;somelayinlong,desertcañons.Suchwasthebackgroundof thewonderful, cruel, enchanting,bewildering, fatal, greatcity.Butintothisbackgroundwerecutmyriadsofbrilliantparallelogramsandcirclesandsquaresthroughwhichglowedmanycoloredlights.Andoutoftheviolet and purple depths ascended like the city's soul sounds and odors andthrills that make up the civic body. There arose the breath of gaietyunrestrained, of love, of hate, of all the passions thatman can know.Therebelow him lay all things, good or bad, that can be brought from the fourcorners of the earth to instruct, please, thrill, enrich, despoil, elevate, castdown,nurtureorkill.Thustheflavorofitcameuptohimandwentintohisblood.Therewasaknockonhisdoor.Atelegramhadcomeforhim.ItcamefromtheWest,andthesewereitswords:"Comebackandtheanswerwillbeyes."DOLLY."Hekepttheboywaitingtenminutes,andthenwrotethereply:"Impossibletoleavehereatpresent."Thenhesatatthewindowagainandletthecityputitscupofmandragoratohislipsagain.Afterallitisn'tastory;butIwantedtoknowwhichoneoftheheroeswonthebattle against the city. So I went to a very learned friend and laid the casebefore him. What he said was: "Please don't bother me; I have Christmaspresentstobuy."

Sothereitrests;andyouwillhavetodecideforyourself.

XXIII"WHATYOUWANT"

Night had fallen on that great and beautiful city known as Bagdad-on-the-Subway.AndwiththenightcametheenchantedglamourthatbelongsnottoArabiaalone.Indifferentmasqueradethestreets,bazaarsandwalledhousesoftheoccidentalcityofromancewerefilledwiththesamekindoffolkthatsomuch interested our interesting old friend, the lateMr. H. A. Rashid. TheyworeclotheselevenhundredyearsnearertothelateststylesthanH.A.sawinoldBagdad;buttheywereaboutthesamepeopleunderneath.Withtheeyeoffaith,youcouldhaveseentheLittleHunchback,SinbadtheSailor,FitbadtheTailor, the Beautiful Persian, the one-eyed Calenders, Ali Baba and FortyRobbersoneveryblock,andtheBarberandhisSixBrothers,andalltheoldArabiangangeasily.Butletusrevenuetoourlambchops.OldTomCrowleywasacaliph.Hehad$42,000,000inpreferredstocksandbondswith solid gold edges. In these times, to be called a caliph youmusthavemoney.Theold-stylecaliphbusinessasconductedbyMr.Rashidisnotsafe.IfyouholdupapersonnowadaysinabazaaroraTurkishbathorasidestreet,andinquire intohisprivateandpersonalaffairs, thepolicecourt'llgetyou.Old Tom was tired of clubs, theatres, dinners, friends, music, money andeverything.That'swhatmakesacaliph—youmustget todespiseeverythingthatmoneycanbuy,andthengooutandtrytowantsomethingthatyoucan'tpayfor."I'lltakealittletrotaroundtownallbymyself,"thoughtoldTom,"andtryifIcan stir up anything new. Let's see—it seems I've read about a king or aCardiff giant or something in old times who used to go about with falsewhiskers on,making Persian dateswith folks he hadn't been introduced to.Thatdon't listenlikeabadidea.IcertainlyhavegotacaseofhumdrumnessandfatigueonfortheonesIdoknow.ThatoldCardiffusedtopickupcasesoftroubleasheranupon'emandgive'emgold—sequins,Ithinkitwas—andmake'emmarryorgot'emgoodGovernmentjobs.Now,I'dlikesomethingofthatsort.Mymoney isasgoodashiswaseven if themagazinesdoaskmeeverymonthwhere I got it. Yes, I guess I'll do a little Cardiff business to-night,andseehowitgoes."Plainlydressed,oldTomCrowleylefthisMadisonAvenuepalace,andwalked

westwardandthensouth.Ashesteppedtothesidewalk,Fate,whoholdstheends of the strings in the central offices of all the enchanted cities pulled athread,andayoungmantwentyblocksawaylookedatawallclock,andthenputonhiscoat.James Turner worked in one of those little hat-cleaning establishments onSixthAvenue inwhichafirealarmringswhenyoupush thedooropen,andwheretheycleanyourhatwhileyouwait—twodays.Jamesstoodalldayatanelectric machine that turned hats around faster than the best brands ofchampagne ever could have done. Overlooking your mild impertinence infeelingacuriosityaboutthepersonalappearanceofastranger,Iwillgiveyouamodifieddescriptionofhim.Weight,118;complexion,hairandbrain,light;height,fivefeetsix;age,abouttwenty-three;dressedina$10suitofgreenish-blueserge;pocketscontainingtwokeysandsixty-threecentsinchange.ButdonotmisconjecturebecausethisdescriptionsoundslikeaGeneralAlarmthatJameswaseitherlostoradeadone.Allons!James stood all day at his work. His feet were tender and extremelysusceptible to impositionsbeingputuponorbelow them.All day long theyburnedand smarted, causinghimmuch sufferingand inconvenience.Buthewas earning twelve dollars per week, which he needed to support his feetwhetherhisfeetwouldsupporthimornot.JamesTurnerhadhisownconceptionofwhathappinesswas,justasyouandIhaveours.Yourdelightistogadabouttheworldinyachtsandmotor-carsandtohurlducatsatwildfowl.Mineis tosmokeapipeatevenfallandwatchabadger,a rattlesnake,andanowlgo into theircommonprairiehomeonebyone.JamesTurner'sideaofblisswasdifferent;butitwashis.Hewouldgodirectlytohisboarding-housewhenhisday'sworkwasdone.Afterhissupperofsmallsteak,Bessemerpotatoes,stooed(notstewed)applesandinfusionofchicory,hewouldascendtohisfifth-floor-backhallroom.Thenhewouldtakeoffhisshoesandsocks,placethesolesofhisburningfeetagainstthecoldbarsofhisironbed,and readClarkRussell's seayarns.Thedelicious reliefof thecoolmetal applied to his smarting soleswas his nightly joy. His favorite novelsneverpalleduponhim; theseaand theadventuresof itsnavigatorswerehissole intellectualpassion.Nomillionairewaseverhappier thanJamesTurnertakinghisease.WhenJamesleftthehat-cleaningshophewalkedthreeblocksoutofhiswayhome to look over the goods of a second-hand bookstall. On the sidewalkstands he had more than once picked up a paper-covered volume of ClarkRussellathalfprice.

While he was bending with a scholarly stoop over the marked-downmiscellany of cast-off literature, old Tom the caliph sauntered by. Hisdiscerningeye,madekeenbytwentyyears'experienceinthemanufactureoflaundrysoap(savethewrappers!)recognizedinstantlythepooranddiscerningscholar, a worthy object of his caliphanous mood. He descended the twoshallow stone steps that led from the sidewalk, and addressed withouthesitation the object of his designed munificence. His first words were noworsethansalutatoryandtentative.James Turner looked up coldly, with "Sartor Resartus" in one hand and "AMadMarriage"intheother."Beat it," said he. "I don't want to buy any coat hangers or town lots inHankipoo,NewJersey.Runalong,now,andplaywithyourTeddybear.""Young man," said the caliph, ignoring the flippancy of the hat cleaner, "Iobserve that you are of a studious disposition.Learning is one of the finestthingsintheworld.Ineverhadanyofitworthmentioning,butIadmiretoseeitinothers.IcomefromtheWest,whereweimaginenothingbutfacts.MaybeIcouldn'tunderstandthepoetryandallusionsinthembooksyouarepickingover,butIliketoseesomebodyelseseemtoknowwhattheymean.I'mworthabout$40,000,000, and I'mgetting richer everyday. Imade theheightof itmanufacturing Aunt Patty's Silver Soap. I invented the art of making it. IexperimentedforthreeyearsbeforeIgotjusttherightquantityofchlorideofsodiumsolutionandcausticpotashmixturetocurdleproperly.AndafterIhadtaken some$9,000,000outof the soapbusiness Imade the rest incornandwheat futures. Now, you seem to have the literary and scholarly turn ofcharacter;andI'lltellyouwhatI'lldo.I'llpayforyoureducationatthefinestcollegeintheworld.I'llpaytheexpenseofyourrummagingoverEuropeandtheartgalleries,andfinallysetyouupinagoodbusiness.Youneedn'tmakeitsoapifyouhaveanyobjections.Iseebyyourclothesandfrazzlednecktiethatyouaremightypoor;andyoucan'taffordtoturndowntheoffer.Well,whendoyouwanttobegin?"ThehatcleanerturneduponoldTomtheeyeoftheBigCity,whichisaneyeexpressiveofcoldandjustifiablesuspicion,ofjudgmentsuspendedashighasHaman was hung, of self-preservation, of challenge, curiosity, defiance,cynicism, and, strange as you may think it, of a childlike yearning forfriendliness and fellowship thatmust be hiddenwhen onewalks among the"strangerbands."For inNewBagdadone, inorder to survive,must suspectwhosoever sits, dwells, drinks, rides, walks or sleeps in the adjacent chair,house,booth,seat,pathorroom."Say,Mike," said JamesTurner, "what'syour line,anyway—shoe laces? I'mnot buying anything.You better put an egg in your shoe and beat it beforeincidentsoccurtoyou.Youcan'tworkoffanyfountainpens,goldspectacles

you foundon the street, or trust companycertificatehouse clearingsonme.Say, do I look like I'd climbed down one of them missing fire-escapes atHeliconHall?What'svitiatingyou,anyhow?""Son," said the caliph, in his most Harunish tones, "as I said, I'm worth$40,000,000.Idon'twanttohaveitallputinmycoffinwhenIdie.Iwanttodo some good with it. I seen you handling over these here volumes ofliterature, and I thought I'd keep you. I've give the missionary societies$2,000,000, but what did I get out of it? Nothing but a receipt from thesecretary.Now,youarejustthekindofyoungmanI'dliketotakeupandseewhatmoneycouldmakeofhim."Volumes of Clark Russell were hard to find that evening at the Old BookShop.AndJamesTurner's smartingandaching feetdidnot tend to improvehis temper.Humble hat cleaner thoughhewas, he had a spirit equal to anycaliph's."Say,youoldfaker,"hesaid,angrily,"beonyourway.Idon'tknowwhatyourgame is,unlessyouwant change for abogus$40,000,000bill.Well, Idon'tcarrythatmucharoundwithme.ButIdocarryaprettyfairleft-handedpunchthatyou'llgetifyoudon'tmoveon.""Youareablamedimpudentlittlegutterpup,"saidthecaliph.ThenJamesdeliveredhisself-praisedpunch;oldTomseizedhimbythecollarand kicked him thrice; the hat cleaner rallied and clinched; two bookstandswereoverturned,andthebookssentflying.Acopycameup,tookanarmofeach,andmarchedthemtotheneareststationhouse."Fightinganddisorderlyconduct,"saidthecoptothesergeant."Three hundred dollars bail," said the sergeant at once, asseveratingly andinquiringly."Sixty-threecents,"saidJamesTurnerwithaharshlaugh.The caliph searched his pockets and collected small bills and changeamountingtofourdollars."Iamworth,"hesaid,"fortymilliondollars,but—""Lock'emup,"orderedthesergeant.Inhiscell,JamesTurnerlaidhimselfonhiscot,ruminating."Maybehe'sgotthemoney,andmaybeheain't.Butifhehasorheain't,whatdoeshewanttogo'roundbuttingintootherfolks'sbusinessfor?Whenamanknowswhathewants,andcangetit,it'sthesameas$40,000,000tohim."Thenanideacametohimthatbroughtapleasedlooktohisface.He removedhis socks, drewhis cot close to the door, stretchedhimself outluxuriously,andplacedhistorturedfeetagainstthecoldbarsofthecelldoor.

Something hard and bulky under the blankets of his cot gave one shoulderdiscomfort.Hereachedunder,anddrewoutapaper-coveredvolumebyClarkRussellcalled"ASailor'sSweetheart."Hegaveagreatsighofcontentment.Presently,tohiscellcamethedoormanandsaid:"Say,kid, thatoldgazabo thatwaspinchedwithyouforscrappingseems tohave been the goods after all.He 'phoned to his friends, and he's out at thedesknowwitharollofyellowbacksasbigasaPullmancarpillow.Hewantstobailyou,andforyoutocomeoutandseehim.""TellhimIain'tin,"saidJamesTurner.

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