VANDOVER AND THE BRUTE

By

Frank Norris

1914

Chapter One

It was always a matter of wonder to Vandover that he was able to recallso little of his past life. With the exception of the most recent eventshe could remember nothing connectedly. What he at first imagined to bethe story of his life, on closer inspection turned out to be but a fewdisconnected incidents that his memory had preserved with the greatestcapriciousness, absolutely independent of their importance. One of theseincidents might be a great sorrow, a tragedy, a death in his family; andanother, recalled with the same vividness, the same accuracy of detail, might be a matter of the least moment. 

A certain one of these wilful fillips of memory would always bringbefore him a particular scene during the migration of his family fromBoston to their new home in San Francisco, at a time when Vandover wasabout eight years old. 

It was in the depot of one of the larger towns in western New York. Theday had been hot and after the long ride on the crowded day coach thecool shadow under the curved roof of the immense iron vaulted depotseemed very pleasant. The porter, the brakeman and Vandover's fathervery carefully lifted his mother from the car. She was lying back onpillows in a long steamer chair. The three men let the chair slowlydown, the brakeman went away, but the porter remained, taking off hiscap and wiping his forehead with the back of his left hand, which inturn he wiped against the pink palm of his right. The other train, thetrain to which they were to change, had not yet arrived. It was ratherstill; at the far end of the depot a locomotive, sitting back on itsmotionless drivers like some huge sphinx crouching along the rails, wassteaming quietly, drawing long breaths. The repair gang in greasy capsand spotted blue overalls were inspecting the train, pottering about thetrucks, opening and closing the journal-boxes, striking clear notes onthe wheels with long-handled hammers. 

Vandover stood close to his father, his thin legs wide apart, holding inboth his hands the satchel he had been permitted to carry. He lookedabout him continually, rolling his big eyes vaguely, watching now therepair-gang, now a huge white cat dozing on an empty baggage truck. 

Several passengers were walking up and down the platform, staringcuriously at the invalid lying back in the steamer chair. 

The journey was too much for her. She was very weak and very pale, hereyelids were heavy, the skin of her forehead looked blue and tightlydrawn, and tiny beads of perspiration gathered around the corners of hermouth. Vandover's father put his hand and arm along the back of thechair and his sick wife rested against him, leaning her head on hiswaistcoat over the pocket where he kept his cigars and pocket-comb. Theywere all silent. 

By and by she drew a long sigh, her face became the face of an imbecile, stupid, without expression, her eyes half-closed, her mouth half-open. Her head rolled forward as though she were nodding in her sleep, while along drip of saliva trailed from her lower lip. Vandover's father bentover her quickly, crying out sharply, "Hallie!--what is it?" All at oncethe train for which they were waiting charged into the depot, fillingthe place with a hideous clangor and with the smell of steam and of hotoil. 

This scene of her death was the only thing that Vandover could rememberof his mother. 

As he looked back over his life he could recall nothing after this fornearly five years. Even after that lapse of time the only scene he couldpicture with any degree of clearness was one of the greatest trivialityin which he saw himself, a rank thirteen-year-old boy, sitting on a bitof carpet in the back yard of the San Francisco house playing with hisguinea-pigs. 

In order to get at his life during his teens, Vandover would have beenobliged to collect these scattered memory pictures as best he could, rearrange them in some more orderly sequence, piece out what he couldimperfectly recall and fill in the many gaps by mere guesswork andconjecture. 

It was the summer of 1880 that they had come to San Francisco. Oncesettled there, Vandover's father began to build small residence housesand cheap flats which he rented at various prices, the cheapest at tendollars, the more expensive at thirty-five and forty. He had closed outhis business in the East, coming out to California on account of hiswife's ill health. He had made his money in Boston and had intended toretire. 

But he soon found that he could not do this. At this time he was an oldman, nearly sixty. He had given his entire life to his business to theexclusion of everything else, and now when his fortune had been made andwhen he could afford to enjoy it, discovered that he had lost thecapacity for enjoying anything but the business itself. Nothing elsecould interest him. He was not what would be called in America a richman, but he had made money enough to travel, to allow himself anyreasonable relaxation, to cultivate a taste for art, music, literatureor the drama, to indulge in any harmless fad, such as collectingetchings, china or bric-à-brac, or even to permit himself the luxury ofhorses. In the place of all these he found himself, at nearly sixtyyears of age, forced again into the sordid round of business as the onlyescape from the mortal _ennui_ and weariness of the spirit that preyedupon him during every leisure hour of the day. 

Early and late he went about the city, personally superintending thebuilding of his little houses and cheap flats, sitting on saw-horses andpiles of lumber, watching the carpenters at work. In the evening he camehome to a late supper, completely fagged, bringing with him the smell ofmortar and of pine shavings. 

On the first of each month when his agents turned over the rents to himhe was in great spirits. He would bring home the little canvas sack ofcoin with him before banking it, and call his son's attention to theamount, never failing to stick a twenty-dollar gold-piece in each eye, monocle fashion, exclaiming, "Good for the masses, " a meaningless jestthat had been one of the family's household words for years. 

His plan of building was peculiar. His credit was good, and havingchosen his lot he would find out from the banks how much they would loanhim upon it in case he should become the owner. If this amount suitedhim, he would buy the lot, making one large payment outright and givinghis note for the balance. The lot once his, the banks loaned him thedesired amount. With this money and with money of his own he would makethe final payment on the lot and would begin the building itself, paying his labour on the nail, but getting his material, lumber, brickand fittings on time. When the building was half-way up he wouldnegotiate a second loan from the banks in order to complete it and inorder to meet the notes he had given to his contractors for material. 

He believed this to be a shrewd business operation, since the rents asthey returned to him were equal to the interest on a far larger sum thanthat which he had originally invested. He said little about the doublemortgage on each piece of property "improved" after this fashion andwhich often represented a full two-thirds of its entire value. Theinterest on each loan was far more than covered by the rents; he chosehis neighbourhoods with great discrimination; real estate wasflourishing in the rapidly growing city, and the new houses, althoughbuilt so cheaply that they were mere shells of lath and plaster, werenevertheless made gay and brave with varnish and cheap mill-work. Theyrented well at first, scarcely a one was ever vacant. People spoke ofthe Old Gentleman as one of the most successful realty owners in thecity. So pleased did he become with the success of his new venture thatin course of time all his money was reinvested after this fashion. 

At the time of his father's greatest prosperity Vandover himself beganto draw toward his fifteenth year, entering upon that period of changewhen the first raw elements of character began to assert themselves andwhen, if ever, there was a crying need for the influence of his mother. Any feminine influence would have been well for him at this time: thatof an older sister, even that of a hired governess. The housekeeperlooked after him a little, mended his clothes, saw that he took his bathSaturday nights, and that he did not dig tunnels under the garden walks. But her influence was entirely negative and prohibitory and the two wereconstantly at war. Vandover grew in a haphazard way and after schoolhours ran about the streets almost at will. 

At fifteen he put on long trousers, and the fall of the same yearentered the High School. He had grown too fast and at this time was talland very lean; his limbs were straight, angular, out of all proportion, with huge articulations at the elbows and knees. His neck was long andthin and his head large, his face was sallow and covered with pimples, his ears were big, red and stuck out stiff from either side of his head. His hair he wore "pompadour. "

Within a month after his entry of the High School he had a nickname. Theboys called him "Skinny-seldom-fed, " to his infinite humiliation. 

Little by little the crude virility of the young man began to develop inhim. It was a distressing, uncanny period. Had Vandover been a girl hewould at this time have been subject to all sorts of abnormal vagaries, such as eating his slate pencil, nibbling bits of chalk, wishing he weredead, and drifting into states of unreasoned melancholy. As it was, hisvoice began to change, a little golden down appeared on his cheeks andupon the nape of his neck, while his first summer vacation wasaltogether spoiled by a long spell of mumps. 

His appetite was enormous. He ate heavy meat three times a day, but tooklittle or no exercise. The pimples on his face became worse and worse. He grew peevish and nervous. He hated girls, and when in their societywas a very bull-calf for bashfulness and awkward self-consciousness. Attimes the strangest and most morbid fancies took possession of him, chief of which was that every one was looking at him while he waswalking in the street. 

Vandover was a good little boy. Every night he said his prayers, goingdown upon his huge knees at the side of his bed. To the Lord's Prayer headded various petitions of his own. He prayed that he might be a goodboy and live a long time and go to Heaven when he died and see hismother; that the next Saturday might be sunny all day long, and that theend of the world might not come while he was alive. 

It was during Vandover's first year at the High School that his eyeswere opened and that he acquired the knowledge of good and evil. Tillvery late he kept his innocence, the crude raw innocence of the boy, like that of a young animal, at once charming and absurd. But by and byhe became very curious, stirred with a blind unreasoned instinct. In theBible which he read Sunday afternoons, because his father gave him aquarter for doing so, he came across a great many things that filled himwith vague and strange ideas; and one Sunday at church, when theminister was intoning the Litany, he remarked for the first time thewords, "all women in the perils of child-birth. "

He puzzled over this for a long time, smelling out a mystery beneath thewords, feeling the presence of something hidden, with the instinct of ayoung brute. He could get no satisfaction from his father and by and bybegan to be ashamed to ask him; why, he did not know. Although he couldnot help hearing the abominable talk of the High School boys, he atfirst refused to believe that part of it which he could understand. Forall that he was ashamed of his innocence and ignorance and affected toappreciate their stories nevertheless. 

At length one day he heard the terse and brutal truth. In an instant hebelieved it, some lower, animal intuition in him reiterating andconfirming the fact. But even then he hated to think that people were solow, so vile. One day, however, he was looking through the volumes ofthe old Encyclopædia Britannica in his father's library, hoping that hemight find a dollar bill which the Old Gentleman told him had been atone time misplaced between the leaves of some one of the great tomes. All at once he came upon the long article "Obstetrics, " profuselyillustrated with old-fashioned plates and steel engravings. He read itfrom beginning to end. 

It was the end of all his childish ideals, the destruction of all hisfirst illusions. The whole of his rude little standard of morality waslowered immediately. Even his mother, whom he had always believed to besome kind of an angel, fell at once in his estimation. She could neverbe the same to him after this, never so sweet, so good and so pure as hehad hitherto imagined her. 

It was very cruel, the whole thing was a grief to him, a blow, a greatshock; he hated to think of it. Then little by little the first taintcrept in, the innate vice stirred in him, the brute began to make itselffelt, and a multitude of perverse and vicious ideas commenced to buzzabout him like a swarm of nasty flies. 

A certain word, the blunt Anglo-Saxon name for a lost woman, that heheard on one occasion among the boys at school, opened to him a vista ofincredible wickedness, but now after the first moment of revolt thething began to seem less horrible. There was even a certain attractionabout it. Vandover soon became filled with an overwhelming curiosity, the eager evil curiosity of the schoolboy, the perverse craving for theknowledge of vice. He listened with all his ears to everything that wassaid and went about through the great city with eyes open only to itsfoulness. He even looked up in the dictionary the meanings of the newwords, finding in the cold, scientific definitions some strange sort ofsatisfaction. 

There was no feminine influence about Vandover at this critical time tohelp him see the world in the right light and to gauge things correctly, and he might have been totally corrupted while in his earliest teens hadit not been for another side of his character that began to developabout the same time. 

This was his artistic side. He seemed to be a born artist. At first heonly showed bent for all general art. He drew well, he made curiouslittle modellings in clayey mud; he had a capital ear for music andmanaged in some unknown way of his own to pick out certain tunes on thepiano. At one time he gave evidence of a genuine talent for the stage. For days he would pretend to be some dreadful sort of character, he didnot know whom, talking to himself, stamping and shaking his fists; thenhe would dress himself in an old smoking-cap, a red table-cloth and oneof his father's discarded Templar swords, and pose before the longmirrors ranting and scowling. At another time he would devote hisattention to literature, making up endless stories with which heterrified himself, telling them to himself in a low voice for hoursafter he had got into bed. Sometimes he would write out these storiesand read them to his father after supper, standing up between thefolding doors of the library, acting out the whole narrative withfurious gestures. Once he even wrote a little poem which seriouslydisturbed the Old Gentleman, filling him with formless ideas and vaguehopes for the future. 

In a suitable environment Vandover might easily have become an author, actor or musician, since it was evident that he possessed thefundamental _afflatus_ that underlies all branches of art. As it was, the merest chance decided his career. 

In the same library where he had found the famous encyclopædia articlewas "A Home Book of Art, " one of those showily bound gift books one seeslying about conspicuously on parlour centre tables. It was an Englishpublication calculated to meet popular and general demand. There were agreat many full-page pictures of lonely women, called "Reveries" or"Idylls, " ideal "Heads" of gipsy girls, of coquettes, and heads oflittle girls crowned with cherries and illustrative of such titles as"Spring, " "Youth, " "Innocence. " Besides these were sentimental pictures, as, for instance, one entitled "It Might Have Been, " a sad-eyed girl, with long hair, musing over a miniature portrait, and another especiallyimpressive which represented a handsomely dressed woman flung upon a_Louis Quinze_ sofa, weeping, her hands clasped over her head. She wasalone; it was twilight; on the floor was a heap of opened letters. Thepicture was called "Memories. "

Vandover thought this last a wonderful work of art and made a hideouscopy of it with very soft pencils. He was so pleased with it that hecopied another one of the pictures and then another. By and by he hadcopied almost all of them. His father gave him a dollar and Vandoverbegan to add to his usual evening petition the prayer that he mightbecome a great artist. Thus it was that his career was decided upon. 

He was allowed to have a drawing teacher. This was an elderly German, animmense old fellow, who wore a wig and breathed loudly through his nose. His voice was like a trumpet and he walked with a great striding gaitlike a colonel of cavalry. Besides drawing he taught ornamental writingand engrossing. With a dozen curved and flowing strokes of an ordinarywriting pen he could draw upon a calling card a conventionalizedoutline-picture of some kind of dove or bird of paradise, all curves andcurlicues, flying very gracefully and carrying in its beak a half-openscroll upon which could be inscribed such sentiments as "From a Friend"or "With Fond Regards, " or even one's own name. 

His system of drawing was of his own invention. Over the picture to becopied he would paste a great sheet of paper, ruling off the same intospaces of about an inch square. He would cut out one of these squaresand Vandover would copy the portion of the picture thus disclosed. Whenhe had copied the whole picture in this fashion the teacher would goover it himself, retouching it here and there, labouring to obviate thechecker-board effect which the process invariably produced. 

At other times Vandover copied into his sketch-book, with hard crayons, those lithographed studies on buff paper which are published by the firmin Berlin. He began with ladders, wheel-barrows and water barrels, working up in course of time to rustic buildings set in a bit oflandscape; stone bridges and rural mills, overhung by some sort oflinden tree, with ends of broken fences in a corner of the foreground tocomplete the composition. From these he went on to bunches of grapes, vases of fruit and at length to more "Ideal heads. " The climax wasreached with a life-sized Head, crowned with honeysuckles and entitled_"Flora. "_ He was three weeks upon it. It was an achievement, averitable _chef-d'oeuvre. _ Vandover gave it to his father upon Christmasmorning, having signed his name to it with a great ornamental flourish. The Old Gentleman was astounded, the housekeeper was called in andexclaimed over it, raising her hands to Heaven. Vandover's father gavehim a five-dollar gold-piece, fresh from the mint, had the pictureframed in gilt and hung it up in his smoking-room over the clock. 

Never for a moment did the Old Gentleman oppose Vandover's wish tobecome an artist and it was he himself who first spoke about Paris tothe young man. Vandover was delighted; the Latin Quarter became hisdream. Between the two it was arranged that he should go over as soon ashe had finished his course at the High School. The Old Gentleman was totake him across, returning only when he was well established in somesuitable studio. 

At length Vandover graduated, and within three weeks of that event wason his way to Europe with his father. He never got farther than Boston. 

At the last moment the Old Gentleman wavered. Vandover was still veryyoung and would be entirely alone in Paris, ignorant of the language, exposed to every temptation. Besides this, his education would stopwhere it was. Somehow he could not make it seem right to him to cut theyoung man adrift in this fashion. On the other hand, the Old Gentlemanhad a great many old-time friends and business acquaintances in Bostonwho could be trusted with a nominal supervision of his son for fouryears. He had no college education himself, but in some vague way hefelt convinced that Vandover would be a better artist for a four years'course at Harvard. 

Vandover took his father's decision hardly. He had never thought ofbeing a college-man and nothing in that life appealed to him. He urgedupon his father the loss of time that the course would entail, but hisfather met this objection by offering to pay for any artistic tuitionthat would not interfere with the regular college work. 

Little by little the idea of college life became more attractive toVandover; at the worst, it was only postponing the Paris trip, notabandoning it. Besides this, two of his chums from the High School wereexpecting to enter Harvard that fall, and he could look forward to avery pleasant four years spent in their company. 

Out at Cambridge the term was just closing. The Old Gentleman's friendsprocured him tickets to several of the more important functions. Fromthe gallery of Memorial Hall Vandover and his father saw some of thegreat dinners; they went up to New London for the boat-race; they gainedadmittance to the historic Yard on Class-day, and saw the strangefootball rush for flowers around the "Tree. " They heard the seniors sing"Fair Harvard" for the last time, and later saw them receive theirdiplomas at Sander's Theatre. 

The great ceremonies of the place, the picturesqueness of the elm-shadedYard, the old red dormitories covered with ivy, the associations andtraditions of the buildings, the venerable pump, Longfellow's room, thelecture hall where the minute-men had barracked, all of these things, inthe end, appealed strongly to Vandover's imagination. Instead of passingthe summer months in an ocean voyage and a continental journey, he atlast became content to settle down to work under a tutor, "boning up"for the examinations. His father returned to San Francisco in July. 

Vandover matriculated the September of the same year; on the first ofOctober he signed the college rolls and became a Harvard freshman. Atthat time he was eighteen years old. 

Chapter Two

There was little of the stubborn or unyielding about Vandover, hispersonality was not strong, his nature pliable and he rearranged himselfto suit his new environment at Harvard very rapidly. Before the end ofthe first semester he had become to all outward appearances a typicalHarvardian. He wore corduroy vests and a gray felt hat, the brim turneddown over his eyes. He smoked a pipe and bought himself a brindledbull-terrier. He cut his lectures as often as he dared, "ragged" signsand barber-poles, and was in continual evidence about Foster's and amongLeavitt and Pierce's billiard-tables. When the great football games cameoff he worked himself into a frenzy of excitement over them and eventried to make several of his class teams, though without success. 

He chummed with Charlie Geary and with young Dolliver Haight, the twoSan Francisco boys. The three were continually together. They took thesame courses, dined at the same table in Memorial Hall and would haveshared the same room if it had been possible. Vandover and Charlie Gearywere fortunate enough to get a room in Matthew's on the lower floorlooking out upon the Yard; young Haight was obliged to put up with anoutside room in a boarding house. 

Vandover had grown up with these fellows and during all his life wasthrown in their company. Haight was a well-bred young boy of goodfamily, very quiet; almost every morning he went to Chapel. He wasalways polite, even to his two friends. He invariably tried to bepleasant and agreeable and had a way of making people like him. Otherwise, his character was not strongly marked. 

Geary was quite different. He never could forget himself. He wasincessantly talking about what he had done or was going to do. In themorning he would inform Vandover of how many hours he had slept and ofthe dreams he had dreamed. In the evening he would tell him everythinghe had done that day; the things he had said, how many lectures he hadcut, what brilliant recitations he had made, and even what food he hadeaten at Memorial. He was pushing, self-confident, very shrewd andclever, devoured with an inordinate ambition and particularly pleasedwhen he could get the better of anybody, even of Vandover or of youngHaight. He delighted to assume the management of things. Vandover, hemade his protégé, taking over the charge of such business as the two hadin common. It was he who had found the room in Matthew's, getting itaway from all other applicants, securing it at the eleventh hour. He putVandover's name on the waiting list at Memorial, saw that he filled outhis blanks at the proper time, helped him balance his accounts, guidedhim in the choice of his courses and in the making out of hisstudy-card. 

"Look here, Charlie, " Vandover would exclaim, throwing down theAnnouncement of Courses, "I can't make this thing out. It's all in atangle. See here, I've got to fill up my hours some way or other; _you_straighten this thing out for me. Find me some nice little course, twohours a week, say, that comes late in the morning, a good hour afterbreakfast; something easy, all lectures, no outside reading, niceinstructor and all that. " And Geary would glance over the complicatedschedule, cleverly untangling it at once and would find two or threesuch courses as Vandover desired. 

Vandover's yielding disposition led him to submit to Geary'sdictatorship and he thus early began to contract easy, irresponsiblehabits, becoming indolent, shirking his duty whenever he could, surethat Geary would think for the two and pull him out of any difficultyinto which he might drift. 

Otherwise the three freshmen were very much alike. They were hardly morethan boys and full of boyish spirits and activity. They began to see"college life. " Vandover was already smoking; pretty soon he began todrink. He affected beer, whisky he loathed, and such wine as was not tooexpensive was either too sweet or too sour. It became a custom for thethree to go into town two or three nights in the week and have beer andWelsh rabbits at Billy Park's. On these occasions, however, young Haightdrank only beer, he never touched wine or spirits. 

It was in Billy Park's the evening after the football game between theYale and Harvard freshmen that Vandover was drunk for the first time. Hewas not so drunk but that he knew he was, and the knowledge of the factso terrified him that it kept him from getting very bad. The firstsensation soon wore off, and by the time that Geary took charge of himand brought him back to Cambridge he was disposed to treat the affairless seriously. Nevertheless when he got to his room he looked athimself in the mirror a long time, saying to himself over and overagain, "I'm drunk--just regularly drunk. Good Heavens! what _would_ thegovernor say to _this_?"

In the morning he was surprised to find that he felt so little ashamed. Geary and young Haight treated the matter as a huge joke and told him ofcertain funny things he had said and done and which he had entirelyforgotten. It was impossible for him to take the matter seriously evenif he had wished to, and within a few weeks he was drunk again. He foundthat he was not an exception; Geary was often drunk with him, fully athird of all the Harvard men he knew were intoxicated at differenttimes. It was out of the question for Vandover to consider them asdrunkards. Certainly, neither he nor any of the others drank becausethey liked the beer; after the fifth or sixth glass it was all theycould do to force down another. Such being the case, Vandover oftenasked himself why he got drunk at all. This question he was never ableto answer. 

It was the same with gambling. At first the idea of playing cards formoney shocked him beyond all expression. But soon he found that a greatmany of the fellows, fellows like young Haight, beyond question steady, sensible and even worthy of emulation in other ways, "went in for thatsort of thing. " Every now and then Vandover's "crowd" got together inhis room in Matthew's, and played Van John "for keeps, " as they said, until far into the night. Vandover joined them. The stakes were small, he lost as often as he won, but the habit of the cards never grew uponhim. It was like the beer, he "went in for it" because the others did, without knowing why. Geary, however, drew his line at gambling; he nevertalked against it or tried to influence Vandover, but he never could beinduced to play "for keeps" himself. 

One very warm Sunday afternoon in the first days of April, when the lastsnows were melting, Vandover and Geary were in their room, sitting atopposite ends of their window-seat, Geary translating his Monday's"Horace" by the help of a Bonn's translation, Vandover making a pen andink drawing for the next _Lampoon_. A couple of young women passed downthe walk, going across the Yard toward the Square. They were cheaply andshowily dressed. One of them wore a mannish shirtwaist, with a highcollar and scarf. The other had taken off her gloves and was swinging abright red cape in one of her bare hands. As the couple passed theystared calmly at the two young fellows in the window; Vandover loweredhis eyes over his work, blushing, he could not tell why. Geary staredback at them, following them with his eyes until they had gone by. 

All at once he began laughing and pounding on the window. 

"Oh, for goodness sake, quit!" exclaimed Vandover in great alarm, twisting off the window-seat and shrinking back out of sight into theroom. "Quit, Charlie; you don't want to insult a girl that way. " Gearylooked at him over his shoulder in some surprise, and was about toanswer when he turned to the window again and exclaimed, grinning andwaving his hand:

"Oh, just come here, Skinny; get on to this, will you? Ah, come here andlook, you old chump! Do you think they're nice girls? Just take a _look_at them. " Vandover peered timidly around Geary's head and saw that thetwo girls were looking back and laughing, and that the one with the redcape was waving it at them. 

At supper that night they saw the girls in the gallery of Memorial. Theypointed them out to young Haight, and Geary at length managed to attracttheir attention. After supper the three freshmen, together with two oftheir sophomore acquaintances, strolled slowly over toward the Yard, lighting their pipes and cigarettes. All at once, as they turned intothe lower gate, they came full upon the same pair of girls. They werewalking fast, talking and laughing very loudly. 

"Track!" called out one of the sophomores, and the group of youngfellows parted to let them pass. The sophomore exclaimed in a tone ofregret, "Don't be in such a hurry, girls. " Vandover became scarlet andturned his face away, but the girls looked back and laughedgood-naturedly. "Come on, " said the sophomore. The group closed aroundthe girls and brought them to a standstill; they were not in the leastembarrassed at this, but laughed more than ever. Neither of them waspretty, but there was a certain attraction about them that pleasedVandover immensely. He was very excited. 

Then there was a very embarrassing pause. No one knew what to say. Gearyalone regained his assurance at length, and began a lively interchangeof chaff with one of them. The others could only stand about and smile. 

"Well, " cried the other girl after a while, "I ain't going to stand herein the snow all _night_. Let's take a walk; come along. I choose _you_. "Before Vandover knew it she had taken his arm. The sophomore managed insome way to pair off with the other girl; Haight had already left thegroup; the two couples started off, while Geary and the other sophomorewho were left out followed awkwardly in the rear for a little way andthen disappeared. 

Vandover was so excited that he could scarcely speak. This was a newexperience. At first it attracted him, but the hopeless vulgarity of thegirl at his side, her tawdry clothes, her sordid, petty talk, her slang, her miserable profanity, soon began to revolt him. He felt that he couldnot keep his self-respect while such a girl hung upon his arm. 

"Say, " said the girl at length, "didn't I see you in town the otherafternoon on Washington Street?"

"Maybe you did, " answered Vandover, trying to be polite. "I'm down therepretty often. "

"Well, I guess yes, " she answered. "You Harvard sports make a regularpromenade out o' Washington Street Saturday afternoons. I suppose I'veseen you down there pretty often, but didn't notice. Do you stand orwalk?"

Vandover's gorge rose with disgust. He stopped abruptly and pulled awayfrom the girl. Not only did she disgust him, but he felt sorry for her;he felt ashamed and pitiful for a woman who had fallen so low. Still hetried to be polite to her; he did not know how to be rude with any kindof woman. 

"You'll have to excuse me, " he said, taking off his hat. "I don'tbelieve I can take a walk with you to-night. I--you see--I've got a gooddeal of work to do; I think I'll have to leave you. " Then he bowed toher with his hat in his hand, hurrying away before she could answer hima word. 

He found Geary alone in their room, cribbing "'Horace" again. 

"Ah, you bet, " Geary said. "I shook those chippies. I sized them upright away. I was clever enough for that. They were no good. I thoughtyou would get enough of it. "

"Oh, I don't know, " said Vandover after a while, as he settled to hisdrawing. "She was pretty common, but anyhow I don't want to help bringdown a poor girl like that any lower than she is already. " This sayingstruck Vandover as being very good and noble, and he found occasion torepeat it to young Haight the next day. 

But within three days of this, at the time when Vandover would havefancied himself farthest from such a thing, he underwent a curiousreaction. On a certain evening, moved by an unreasoned instinct, hesought out the girl who had just filled him with such deep pity and suchviolent disgust, and that night did not come back to the room inMatthew's. The thing was done almost before he knew it. He could nottell why he had acted as he did, and he certainly would not havebelieved himself capable of it. 

He passed the next few days in a veritable agony of repentance, overwhelmed by a sense of shame and dishonour that were almost femininein their bitterness and intensity. He felt himself lost, unworthy, andas if he could never again look a pure woman in the eyes unless with anabominable hypocrisy. He was ashamed even before Geary and young Haight, and went so far as to send a long letter to his father acknowledging anddeploring what he had done, asking for his forgiveness and reiteratinghis resolve to shun such a thing forever after. 

What had been bashfulness in the boy developed in the young man to aprofound respect and an instinctive regard for women. This stood him ingood stead throughout all his four years of Harvard life. In general, hekept himself pretty straight. There were plenty of fast girls and lostwomen about Cambridge, but Vandover found that he could not associatewith them to any degree of satisfaction. He never knew how to take them, never could rid himself of the idea that they were to be treated asladies. They, on their part, did not like him; he was too diffident, toocourteous, too "slow. " They preferred the rough self-assertion and easyconfidence of Geary, who never took "no" as an answer and who couldchaff with them on their own ground. 

Vandover did poor work at Harvard and only graduated, as Geary said, "bya squeak. " Besides his regular studies he took time to pass threeafternoons a week in the studio of a Boston artist, where he studiedanatomy and composition and drew figures from the nude. In the summervacations he did not return home, but accompanied this artist onsketching tours along the coast of Maine. His style improved immenselythe moment he abandoned flat studies and began to work directly fromNature. He drew figures well, showed a feeling for desolate landscapes, and even gave promise of a good eye for colour. But he allowed hisfondness for art to interfere constantly with his college work. By themiddle of his senior year he was so loaded with conditions that it wasonly Geary's unwearied coaching that pulled him through at all--asVandover knew it would, for that matter. 

Vandover returned to San Francisco when he was twenty-two. It wasastonishing; he had gone away a pimply, overgrown boy, raw and callow asa fledgling, constrained in society, diffident, awkward. Now hereturned, a tall, well-formed Harvardian, as careful as a woman in thematter of dress, very refined in his manners. Besides, he was adelightful conversationalist. His father was rejoiced; every onedeclared he was a charming fellow. 

They were right. Vandover was at his best at this time; it wasundeniable that he had great talent, but he was so modest about it thatfew knew how clever he really was. 

He went out to dinners and receptions and began to move a little insociety. He became very popular: the men liked him because he was sounaffected, so straightforward, and the women because he was sorespectful and so deferential. 

He had no vices. He had gone through the ordeal of college life and hadcome out without contracting any habit more serious than a vaguedistaste for responsibility, and an inclination to shirk disagreeableduties. Cards he never thought of. It was rare that he drank so much asa glass of beer. 

However, he had come back to a great disappointment. Business in SanFrancisco had entered upon a long period of decline, and values weredecreasing; for ten years rents had been sagging lower and lower. At thesame time the interest on loans and insurances had increased, and realestate was brought to a standstill; one spoke bitterly of a certaingreat monopoly that was ruining both the city and state. Vandover'sfather had suffered with the rest, and now told his son that he couldnot at this time afford to send him to Paris. He would have to wait forbetter times. 

At first this was a sharp grief to Vandover; for years he had lookedforward to an artist's life in the Quarter. For a time he wasinconsolable, then at length readjusted himself good-naturedly to suitthe new order of things with as little compunction as before, when hehad entered Harvard. He found that he could be contented in almost anyenvironment, the weakness, the certain pliability of his charactereasily fitting itself into new grooves, reshaping itself to suit newcircumstances. He prevailed upon his father to allow him to have adowntown studio. In a little while he was perfectly happy again. 

Vandover's love for his art was keen. On the whole he kept prettysteadily to his work, spending a good six hours at his easel every day, very absorbed over the picture in hand. He was working up into largecanvases the sketches he had made along the Maine coast, great, emptyexpanses of sea, sky, and sand-dune, full of wind and sun. They werereally admirable. He even sold one of them. The Old Gentleman wasdelighted, signed him a check for twenty dollars, and told him that inthree years he could afford to send him abroad. 

In the meanwhile Vandover set himself to enjoy the new life. Little bylittle his "set" formed around him; Geary and young Haight, of course, and some half dozen young men of the city: young lawyers, medicalstudents, and clerks in insurance offices. As Vandover thus began to seethe different phases of that life which lay beyond the limits of thecollege, he perceived more and more clearly that he was an exceptionamong men for his temperance, his purity, and his clean living. 

At their clubs and in their smoking-rooms he heard certain practices, which he had always believed to be degrading and abominable, discussedwith shouts of laughter. Those matters which until now he had regardedwith an almost sacred veneration were subjects for immense jokes. A fewyears ago he would have been horrified at it all, but the fine qualityof this first sensitiveness had been blunted since his experience atcollege. He tolerated these things in his friends now. 

Gradually Vandover allowed his ideas and tastes to be moulded by thisnew order of things. He assumed the manners of these young men of thecity, very curious to see for himself the other lower side of their lifethat began after midnight in the private rooms of fast cafés and thatwas continued in the heavy musk-laden air of certain parlours amid therustle of heavy silks. 

Slowly the fascination of this thing grew upon him until it mounted to averitable passion. His strong artist's imagination began to be filledwith a world of charming sensuous pictures. 

He commenced to chafe under his innate respect and deference for women, to resent and to despise it. As the desire of vice, the blind, recklessdesire of the male, grew upon him, he set himself to destroy thisbarrier that had so long stood in his way. He knew that it was thewilful and deliberate corruption of part of that which was best in him;he was sorry for it, but persevered, nevertheless, ashamed of hisold-time timidity, his ignorance, his boyish purity. 

For a second time the animal in him, the perverse evil brute, awoke andstirred. The idea of resistance hardly occurred to Vandover; it would behard, it would be disagreeable to resist, and Vandover had notaccustomed himself to the performance of hard, disagreeable duties. Theywere among the unpleasant things that he shirked. He told himself thatlater on, when he had grown older and steadier and had profited byexperience and knowledge of the world, when he was stronger, in a word, he would curb the thing and restrain it. He saw no danger in such acourse. It was what other men did with impunity. 

In company with Geary and young Haight he had come to frequent a certainone of the fast cafés of the city. Here he met and became acquaintedwith a girl called Flossie. It was the opportunity for which he waswaiting, and he seized it at once. 

This time there was no recoil of conscience, no shame, no remorse; heeven felt a better estimation of himself, that self-respect that comeswith wider experiences and with larger views of life. He told himselfthat all men should at one time see certain phases of the world; itrounded out one's life. After all, one had to be a man of the world. Those men only were perverted who allowed themselves to be corrupted bysuch vice. 

Thus it was that Vandover, by degrees, drifted into the life of acertain class of the young men of the city. Vice had no hold on him. Thebrute had grown larger in him, but he knew that he had the creature inhand. He was its master, and only on rare occasions did he permithimself to gratify its demands, feeding its abominable hunger from thatpart of him which he knew to be the purest, the cleanest, and the best. 

Three years passed in this fashion. 

Chapter Three

Vandover had decided at lunch that day that he would not go back to workat his studio in the afternoon, but would stay at home instead and reada very interesting story about two men who had bought a wrecked opiumship for fifty thousand dollars, and had afterward discovered that shecontained only a few tins of the drug. He was curious to see how itturned out; the studio was a long way downtown, the day was a littlecold, and he felt that he would enjoy a little relaxation. Anyhow, hemeant to stay at home and put in the whole afternoon on a good novel. 

But even when he had made up his mind to do this he did not immediatelyget out his book and settle down to it. After lunch he loitered aboutthe house while his meal digested, feeling very comfortable andcontented. He strummed his banjo a little and played over upon the pianothe three pieces he had picked up: two were polkas, and the third, theair of a topical song; he always played the three together and in thesame sequence. Then he strolled up to his room, and brushed his hair fora while, trying to make it lie very flat and smooth. After this he wentout to look at Mr. Corkle, the terrier, and let him run a bit in thegarden; then he felt as though he must have a smoke, and so went back tohis room and filled his pipe. When it was going well, he took down hisbook and threw himself into a deep leather chair, only to jump up againto put on his smoking-jacket. All at once he became convinced that hemust have something to eat while he read, and so went to the kitchen andgot himself some apples and a huge slice of fresh bread. Ever sinceVandover was a little boy he had loved fresh bread and apples. Throughthe windows of the dining-room he saw Mr. Corkle digging up great holesin the geranium beds. He went out and abused him and finally let himcome back into the house and took him upstairs with him. 

Then at last he settled down to his novel, in the very comfortableleather chair, before a little fire, for the last half of August is coldin San Francisco. The room was warm and snug, the fresh bread and appleswere delicious, the good tobacco in his pipe purred like a sleepingkitten, and his novel was interesting and well written. He felt calm andsoothed and perfectly content, and took in the pleasure of the occasionwith the lazy complacency of a drowsing cat. 

Vandover was self-indulgent--he loved these sensuous pleasures, he lovedto eat good things, he loved to be warm, he loved to sleep. He hated tobe bored and worried--he liked to have a good time. 

At about half-past four o'clock he came to a good stopping-place in hisbook; the two men had got to quarrelling, and his interest flagged alittle. He pushed Mr. Corkle off his lap and got up yawning and went tothe window. 

Vandover's home was on California Street not far from Franklin. It was alarge frame house of two stories; all the windows in the front were bay. The front door was directly in the middle between the windows of theparlour and those of the library, while over the vestibule was a sort ofbalcony that no one ever thought of using. The house was set in a largewell-kept yard. The lawn was pretty; an enormous eucalyptus tree grew atone corner. Nearer to the house were magnolia and banana trees growingside by side with pines and firs. Humming-birds built in these, and onecould hear their curious little warbling mingling with the hoarse chirpof the English sparrows which nested under the eaves. The back yard wasseparated from the lawn by a high fence of green lattice-work. The hensand chickens were kept here and two roosters, one of which crowed everytime a cable-car passed the house. On the door cut through thelattice-fence was a sign, "Look Out for the Dog. " Close to the unusedbarn stood an immense windmill with enormous arms; when the wind blew inthe afternoon the sails whirled about at a surprising speed, pumping upwater from the artesian well sunk beneath. There was a smallconservatory where the orchids were kept. Altogether, it was a charmingplace. However, adjoining it was a huge vacant lot with cows in it. Itwas full of dry weeds and heaps of ashes, while around it was anenormous fence painted with signs of cigars, patent bitters, and soap. 

Vandover stood at a front window and looked out on a rather drearyprospect. The inevitable afternoon trades had been blowing hard sincethree, strong and brisk from the ocean, driving hard through the GoldenGate and filling the city with a taint of salt. Now the fog was comingin; Vandover could see great patches of it sweeping along between himand the opposite houses. All the eucalyptus trees were dripping, andoccasionally there came the faint moan of the fog-horn out at the heads. He could see up the street for nearly two miles as it climbed over NobHill. It was almost deserted; a cable-car now and then crawled up anddown its length, and at times a delivery wagon rattled across it; butthat was about all. On the opposite sidewalk two boys and a girl werecoasting downhill on their roller-skates and their brake-wagons. Thecable in its slot kept up an incessant burr and clack. The whole viewwas rather forlorn, and Vandover turned his back on it, taking up hisbook again. 

About five o'clock his father came home from his office. "Hello!" saidhe, looking into the room; "aren't you home a little early to-day? Ah, Ithought you weren't going to bring that dog into the house any more. Iwish you wouldn't, son; he gets hair and fleas about everywhere. "

"All right, governor, " answered Vandover. "I'll take him out. Comealong, Cork. "

"But aren't you home earlier than usual to-day?" persisted his father asVandover got up. 

"Yes, " said Vandover, "I guess I am, a little. "

After supper the same evening when Vandover came downstairs, drawing onhis gloves, his father looked over his paper, saying pleasantly:

"Well, where are you going to-night?"

"I'm going to see my girl, " said Vandover, smiling; then foreseeing theusual question, he added, "I'll be home about eleven, I guess. "

"Got your latch-key?" asked the Old Gentleman, as he always did whenVandover went out. 

"Yep, " called back Vandover as he opened the door. "I'll not forget itagain. Good-night, governor. "

Vandover used to call on Turner Ravis about twice a week; people saidthey were engaged. This was not so. 

Vandover had met Miss Ravis some two years before. For a time the twohad been sincerely in love with each other, and though there was neverany talk of marriage between them, they seemed to have some sort oftacit understanding. But by this time Vandover had somehow outgrown theidea of marrying Turner. He still kept up the fiction, persuaded thatTurner must understand the way things had come to be. However, he wasstill very fond of her; she was a frank, sweet-tempered girl and verypretty, and it was delightful to have her care for him. 

Vandover could not shut his eyes to the fact that young Haight was veryseriously in love with Turner. But he was sure that Turner preferred himto his chum. She was too sincere, too frank, too conscientious topractise any deception on him. 

There was quite a party at the Ravises' house that evening when Vandoverarrived. Young Haight was there, of course, and Charlie Geary. BesidesTurner herself there was Henrietta Vance, a stout, pretty girl, with popeyes and a little nose, who laughed all the time and who was verypopular. These were all part of Vandover's set; they called each otherby their first names and went everywhere together. Almost every Saturdayevening they got together at Turner's house and played whist, or euchre, or sometimes even poker. "Just for love, " as Turner said. 

When Vandover came in they were all talking at the same time, disputingabout a little earthquake that had occurred the night before. HenriettaVance declared that it had happened early in the morning. 

"_Wasn't_ it just about midnight, Van?" cried Turner. 

"I don't know, " answered Vandover. "It didn't wake me up. I didn't evenknow there was one. "

"Well, I know I heard our clock strike two just about half an hourafterward, " protested young Haight. 

"Oh, it was almost five o'clock when it came, " cried Henrietta Vance. 

"Well, now, you're _all_ off, " said Charlie Geary. "I know just when shequaked to the fraction of a minute, because it stopped our hall clock atjust a little after three. "

They were silent. It was an argument which was hard to contradict. Byand by, young Haight declared, "There must have been two of them then, because--"

"How about whist or euchre or whatever it is to be?" said CharlieGeary, addressing Turner and interrupting in an annoying way that waspeculiar to him. "Can't we start in now that Van has come?" They playedeuchre for a while, but Geary did not like the game, and by and bysuggested poker. 

"Well--if it's only just for love, " said Turner, "because, you know, mamma doesn't like it any other way. "

At ten o'clock Geary said, "Let's quit after this hand round--what doyou say?" The rest were willing and so they all took account of theirchips after the next deal. Geary was protesting against his poor luck. Honestly he hadn't held better than three tens more than twice duringthe evening. It was Henrietta Vance who took in everything; did one ever_see_ anything to beat her luck? "the funniest thing!"

They began to do tricks with the cards. Young Haight showed them a verygood trick by which he could make the pack break every time at the aceof clubs. Vandover exclaimed: "Lend me a silk hat and ninety dollars andI'll show you the queerest trick you ever saw, " which sent HenriettaVance off into shrieks of laughter. Then Geary took the cards out ofyoung Haight's hands, asking them if they knew _this_ trick. 

Turner said yes, she knew it, but the others did not, and Geary showedit to them. It was interminable. Henrietta Vance chose a card and put itback into the deck. Then the deck was shuffled and divided into threepiles. After this Geary made a mental calculation, selected one of thesepiles, shuffled it, and gave it back to her, asking her if she saw hercard in it; then more shuffling and dividing until their interest andpatience were quite exhausted. When Geary finally produced a jack ofhearts and demanded triumphantly if that was her card, Henrietta beganto laugh and declared she had forgotten _what_ card she chose. Gearysaid he would do the trick all over for her. At this, however, they allcried out, and he had to give it up, very irritated at Henrietta'sstupidity. 

Vexed at the ill success of this first trick, he retired a little fromtheir conversation, puzzling over the cards, thinking out new tricks. Every now and then he came back among them, going about from one toanother, holding out the deck and exclaiming, "Choose any card--chooseany card. "

After a while they all adjourned to the dining-room and Turner andVandover went out into the kitchen, foraging among the drawers andshelves. They came back bringing with them a box of sardines, a tin of_paté_, three quart bottles of blue-ribbon beer, and what Vandovercalled "devilish-ham" sandwiches. 

"Now do we want _tamales_ to go with these?" said Turner, as she spreadthe lunch on the table. Henrietta Vance cried out joyfully at this, andyoung Haight volunteered to go out to get them. "Get six, " Turner criedout after him. "Henrietta can always eat two. Hurry up, and we won't eattill you get back. "

While he was gone Turner got out some half-dozen glasses for their beer. "Do you know, " she said as she set the glasses on the table, "thefunniest thing happened this morning to mamma. It was at breakfast; shehad just drunk a glass of water and was holding the glass in her handlike this"--Turner took one of the thin beer glasses in her hand to showthem how--"and was talking to pa, when all at once the glass broke rightstraight around a ring, just below the brim, you know, and fell all--"On a sudden Turner uttered a shrill exclamation; the others started up;the very glass she held in her hand at the moment cracked and broke inprecisely the manner she was describing. A narrow ring snapped from thetop, dropping on the floor, breaking into a hundred bits. 

Turner drew in a long breath, open-mouthed, her hand in the air stillholding the body of the glass that remained in her fingers. They allbegan to exclaim over the wonder. 

"Well, did you ever in all your _life_?" shouted Miss Vance, breakinginto a peal of laughter. Geary cried out, "Cæsar's ghost!" and Vandoverswore under his breath. 

"If that isn't the strangest thing I ever saw!" cried Turner. "_Isn't_that funny--why--oh! I'm going _to try it with another glass_!" But thesecond glass remained intact. Geary recovered from his surprise andtried to explain how it could happen. 

"It was the heat from your fingers and the glass was cold, you know, " hesaid again and again. 

But the strangeness of the thing still held them. Turner set down theglass with the others and dropped into a chair, letting her hands fallin her lap, looking into their faces, nodding her head and shutting herlips:

"Ah, _no_, " she said after a while. "That _is_ funny. It kind of scaresone. " She was actually pale. 

"Oh, there's Dolly Haight!" cried Henrietta Vance as the door bell rang. They all rushed to the door, running and scrambling, eager to tell thenews. Young Haight stood bewildered on the door mat in the vestibule, his arms full of brown-paper packages, while they recounted the marvel. They all spoke at once, holding imaginary beer glasses toward him intheir outstretched hands. Geary, however, refused to be carried away bytheir excitement, and one heard him from time to time repeating, betweentheir ejaculations, "It was the heat from her fingers, you know, and theglass was cold. "

Young Haight was confused, incredulous; he could not at first make outwhat _had_ happened. 

"Well, just come and _look_ at the broken _glass_ on the _floor_, "shouted Turner decisively, dragging him into the dining-room. Theywaited, breathless, to hear what he would say. He looked at the brokenglass and then into their faces. Then he suddenly exclaimed:

"Ah, you're joking me. "

"No, honestly, " protested Vandover, "that was just the way it happened. "

It was some little time before they could get over their impression ofqueerness, but by and by Geary cried out that the _tamales_ were gettingcold. They settled down to their lunch, and the first thing young Haightdid was to cut his lip on the edge of the broken glass. Turner had setit down with the others and he had inadvertently filled it for himself. 

It was a trifling cut. Turner fetched some court-plaster, and his lipwas patched up. For all that, it bled quite a little. He was veryembarrassed; he kept his handkerchief to his mouth and told themrepeatedly to go on with their lunch and not to mind him. 

As soon as they were eating and drinking they began to be very jolly, and Vandover was especially good-humoured and entertaining. He madeHenrietta Vance shout with laughter by pretending that the olive in his_tamale_ was a green hen's egg. 

About half-past ten young Haight rose from the table saying he thoughtit was about time to say good-night. "Don't be in a hurry, " saidTurner. "It's early yet. " After that, however, they broke up veryquickly. 

Before he left Vandover saw Turner in the dining-room alone for aminute. 

"Will I see you at church to-morrow?" he asked, as she held his overcoatfor him. 

"I don't know, Van, " she answered. "You know Henrietta is going to stayall night with me, and I think she will want me to go home with herto-morrow morning and then stay to dinner with her. But I'm going toearly communion to-morrow morning; why can't you meet me there?"

"Why, I can, " answered Vandover, settling his collar. "I should like tovery much. "

"Well, then, " she replied, "you can meet me in front of the church athalf-past seven o'clock. "

"Hey, break away there!" cried Geary from the front door. "Come along, Van, if you are going with us. "

Turner let Vandover kiss her before they joined the others. "I'll seeyou at seven-thirty to-morrow morning, " he said as he went away. 

The three young men went off down the street, arm in arm, smoking theircigars and cigarettes. As soon as they were alone, Charlie Geary beganto tell the other two of everything he had been doing since he had lastseen them. 

"Well, sir, " he said as he took an arm of each, "well, sir, I had a finesleep last night; went to bed at ten and never woke up till half-pasteight this morning. Ah, you bet I needed it, though. I've been workinglike a slave this week. You know I take my law-examinations in about tendays. I'll pass all right. I'm right up to the handle in everything. Idon't believe the judge could stick me anywhere in the subject oftorts. "

"Say, boys, " said Vandover, pausing and looking at his watch, "it isn'tvery late; let's go downtown and have some oysters. "

"That's a good idea, " answered young Haight. "How about you, Charlie?"

Geary said he was willing. "Ah, " he added, "you ought to have seen thebeefsteak I had this evening at the Grillroom. " And as they rodedowntown he told them of the steak in question. "I had a little mug ofale with it, too, and a dish of salad. Ah, it went great. "

They decided after some discussion that they would go to the Imperial. 

Chapter Four

The Imperial was a resort not far from the corner of Sutter and Kearneystreets, a few doors below a certain well-known drug store, in onewindow of which was a showcase full of live snakes. 

The front of the Imperial was painted white, and there was a cigar-standin the vestibule of the main entrance. At the right of this mainentrance was another smaller one, a ladies' entrance, on the frostedpane of which one read, "Oyster Cafe. "

The main entrance opened directly into the barroom. It was a handsomeroom, paved with marble flags. To the left was the bar, whose counterwas a single slab of polished redwood. Behind it was a huge, plate-glassmirror, balanced on one side by the cash-register and on the other by astatuette of the Diving Girl in tinted bisque. Between the two werepyramids of glasses and bottles, liqueur flasks in wicker cases, and agreat bouquet of sweet-peas. 

The three bartenders, in clean linen coats and aprons, moved about hereand there, opening bottles, mixing drinks, and occasionally turning topunch the indicator of the register. 

On the other side of the room, facing the bar, hung a large copy of aFrench picture representing a _Sabbath_, witches, goats, and naked girlswhirling through the air. Underneath it was the lunch counter, whereclam-fritters, the specialty of the place, could be had four afternoonsin the week. 

Elsewhere were nickel-in-the-slot machines, cigar-lighters, a vase ofwax flowers under glass, and a racing chart setting forth the day'sodds, weights, and entries. On the end wall over the pantry-slides was asecond "barroom" picture, representing the ladies of a harem at theirbath. 

But its "private rooms" were the chief attraction of the Imperial. Thesewere reached by going in through the smaller door to the right of themain vestibule. Any one coming in through this entrance found himself ina long and narrow passage. On the right of this passage were eightprivate rooms, very small, and open at the top as the law required. Half-way down its length the passage grew wider. Here the rooms were onboth sides and were much larger than those in front. 

It was this part of the Imperial that was most frequented, and that hadmade its reputation. In the smaller rooms in front one had beer andWelsh rabbits; in the larger rooms, champagne and terrapin. 

Vandover, Haight, and Geary came in through the ladies' entrance of theImperial at about eleven o'clock, going slowly down the passage, lookinginto each of the little rooms, searching for one that was empty. All atonce Vandover, who was in the lead, cried out:

"Well, if here isn't that man Ellis, drinking whisky by himself. Bah! aman that will drink whisky all _alone_! Glad to see you just the same, Bandy; move along, will you--give a man some room. "

"Hello, hello, Bandy!" cried Geary and young Haight, hitting him in theback, while Geary added: "How long have you been down here? _I've_ justcome from making a call with the boys. Had a fine time; what are youdrinking, whisky? _I'm_ going to have something to eat. Didn't have muchof a lunch to-day, but you ought to have seen the steak I had at theGrillroom--as thick as that, and tender! Oh, it went great! Here, hangmy coat up there on that side, will you?"

Bancroft Ellis was one of the young men of the city with whom the threefellows had become acquainted just after their return from college. Forthe most part, they met him at downtown restaurants, in the foyers andvestibules of the theatres, on Kearney Street of a Saturday afternoon, or, as now, in the little rooms of the Imperial, where he was arecognized habitué and where he invariably called for whisky, finishingfrom three to five "ponies" at every sitting. On very rare occasionsthey saw him in society, at the houses where their "set" was received. At these functions Ellis could never be persuaded to remain in theparlours; he slipped up to the gentlemen's dressing-rooms at theearliest opportunity, and spent the evening silently smoking the cigarsand cigarettes furnished by the host. When Vandover and his friends cameup between dances, to brush their hair or to rearrange their neckties, they found him enveloped in a blue haze of smoke, his feet on a chair, his shirt bosom broken, and his waistcoat unbuttoned. He would tell themthat he was bored and thirsty and ask how much longer they were going tostay. He knew but few of their friends; his home was in a little town inthe interior and he prided himself on being a "Native Son of the GoldenWest. " He was a clerk in an insurance office on California Street, andhad never been out of the state. 

For the rest he was a good enough fellow and the three others liked himvery much. He had a curious passion for facts and statistics, and hispockets were full of little books and cards to which he was constantlyreferring. He had one of those impossible pocket-diaries, the first halfdozen pages loaded with information of every kind printed in blindingtype, postal rates to every country in the world, statistics as topopulation and rates of death, weights and measures, the highestmountains in the world, the greatest depths of the ocean. He kept alittle book in his left-hand vest pocket that gave the plan and seatingcapacity of every theatre in the city, while in the right-hand pocketwas a tiny Webster's dictionary which was his especial pride. Thecalendar for the current year was pasted in the lining of his hat, together with the means to be employed in the resuscitation of ahalf-drowned person. He also carried about a "Vest Pocket Edition ofPopular Information, " which had never been of the slightest use to him. 

The room in which they were now seated was very small and openeddirectly upon the passage. On either side of the table was a seat thatwould hold two, and on the wall opposite the door hung a mirror, itsgilt frame enclosed in pink netting. The table itself was covered with atolerably clean cloth, though it was of coarse linen and rather damp. 

There were the usual bottles of olives and pepper sauce, a plate ofbroken crackers, and a ribbed match-safe of china. The sugar bowl was ofplated ware and on it were scratched numberless dates together with thefirst names of a great many girls, "Nannie, " "Ida, " "Flossie. "

Between the castor bottles was the bill of fare, held by a thin stringbetween two immense leather covers which were stamped with winemerchants' advertisements. Geary reached for this before any of theothers, saying at the same time, "Well, what are you going to have?_I'm_ going to have a Welsh rabbit and a pint of ale. " He looked fromone to the other as if demanding whether or no they approved of hischoice. He assumed the management of what was going on, advising theothers what to have, telling Vandover not to order certain dishes thathe liked because it took so long to cook them. He had young Haight ringfor the waiter, and when he had come, Geary read off the entire order tohim twice over, making sure that he had taken it correctly. "That's whatwe want all right, all right--isn't it?" he said, looking around at therest. 

The waiter, whose eyes were red from lack of sleep, put down before thema plate of limp, soft shrimps. 

"Hello, Toby!" said Vandover. 

"Good evening, gentlemen, " answered Toby. "Why, good evening, Mr. Vandover; haven't seen you 'round here for some time. " He took theirorder, and as he was going away, Vandover called him back:

"Say, Toby, " said he, "has Flossie been around to-night?"

"No, " answered Toby, "she hasn't shown up yet. Her running-mate was inabout nine, but she went out again right away. "

"Well, " said Vandover, smiling, "if Flossie comes 'round show her inhere, will you?"

The others laughed, and joked him about this, and Vandover settled backin his seat, easing his position. 

"Ah, " he exclaimed, "I like it in here. It's always pleasant and warmand quiet and the service is good and you get such good things to eat. "

Now that the young fellows were by themselves, and could relax thatrestraint, that good breeding and delicacy which had been natural tothem in the early part of the evening at the Ravises', their mannerschanged: they lounged clumsily upon their seats, their legs stretchedout, their waistcoats unbuttoned, caring only to be at their ease. Theirtalk and manners became blunt, rude, unconstrained, the coarsermasculine fibre reasserting itself. With the exception of young Haightthey were all profane enough, and it was not very long before theirconversation became obscene. 

Geary told them how he had spent the afternoon promenading Kearney andMarket streets and just where he had gone to get his cocktail and hiscigar. "Ah, " he added, "you ought to have seen Ida Wade and BessieLaguna. Oh, Ida was rigged up to beat the band; honestly her _hat_ wasas broad across as that. You know there's no use talking, she's anawfully handsome girl. "

A discussion arose over the girl's virtue. Ellis, Geary, and youngHaight maintained that Ida was only fast; Vandover, however, had hisdoubts. 

"For that matter, " said Ellis after a while, "I like Bessie Laguna agood deal better than I do Ida. "

"Ah, yes, " retorted young Haight, "you like Bessie Laguna too muchanyhow. "

Young Haight had a theory that one should never care in any way for thatkind of a girl nor become at all intimate with her. 

"The matter of liking her or not liking her, " he said, "ought not toenter into the question at all. You are both of you out for a good timeand that's all; you have a jolly flirtation with her for an hour or two, and you never see her again. That's the way it ought to be! This idea ofgetting intimate with that sort of a piece, and trying to get her tocare for you, is all wrong. "

"Oh, " said Vandover deprecatingly, "you take all the pleasure out of it;where does your good time come in if you don't at least pretend that youlike the girl and try to make her like you?"

"But don't you see, " answered Haight, "what a dreadful thing it would beif a girl like that came to care for you seriously? It isn't the same asif it were a girl of your own class. "

"Ah, Dolly, you've got a bean, " muttered Ellis, sipping his whisky. 

Meanwhile, the Imperial had been filling up; at about eleven thetheatres were over, and now the barroom was full of men. They came in bytwos and threes and sometimes even by noisy parties of a half dozen ormore. The white swing doors of the main entrance flapped back and forthcontinually, letting out into the street puffs of tepid air tainted withthe smell of alcohol. The men entered and ordered their drinks, andleaning their elbows upon the bar continued the conversation they hadbegun outside. Afterward they passed over to the lunch counter andhelped themselves to a plate of stewed tripe or potato salad, eating itin a secluded corner, leaning over so as not to stain their coats. Therewas a continual clinking of glasses and popping of corks, and at everyinstant the cash-register clucked and rang its bell. 

Between the barroom and the other part of the house was a door hung withblue plush curtains, looped back; the waiters constantly passed back andforth through this, carrying plates of oysters, smoking rarebits, tinyglasses of liqueurs, and goblets of cigars. 

All the private rooms opening from either passage were full; the mencame in, walking slowly, looking for their friends; but more often, thewomen and girls passed up and down with a chatter of conversation, arattle of stiff skirts and petticoats, and a heavy whiff of musk. Therewas a continual going and coming, a monotonous shuffle of feet and humof talk. A heavy odorous warmth in which were mingled the smells ofsweetened whisky, tobacco, the fumes of cooking, and the scent ofperfume, exhaled into the air. A gay and noisy party developed in one ofthe large back rooms; at every moment one could hear gales of laughter, the rattle of chairs and glassware, mingled with the sounds of men'svoices and the little screams and cries of women. Every time the waiteropened the door to deliver an order he let out a momentary torrent ofnoises. 

Girls, habitués of the place, continued to pass the door of the roomwhere Vandover and his friends were seated. Each time a particularlyhandsome one went by, the four looked out after her, shutting their lipsand eyes and nodding their heads. 

Young Haight had called for more drinks, ordering, however, mineralwater for himself, and Vandover was just telling about posing the femalemodels in a certain life-class to which he belonged, when he looked upand broke off, exclaiming:

"Well, well, here we are at last! How are you, Flossie? Come right in. "

Flossie stood in the doorway smiling good-humouredly at them, without atrace of embarrassment or of confusion in her manner. She was an immensegirl, quite six feet tall, broad and well-made, in proportion. She wasvery handsome, full-throated, heavy-eyed, and slow in her movements. Her eyes and mouth, like everything about her, were large, but each timeshe spoke or smiled, she disclosed her teeth, which were as white, aswell-set, and as regular as the rows of kernels on an ear of green corn. In her ears were small yellow diamonds, the only jewellery she wore. There was no perceptible cosmetic on her face, which had a clean andhealthy look as though she had just given it a vigorous washing. 

She wore a black hat with a great flare to the brim on one side. It wastrimmed very dashingly with black feathers, imitation jet, and a littlepuff of plush--robin's-egg blue. Her dress was of rough, black camel'shair, tailor-made, and but for the immense balloon sleeves, absolutelyplain. It was cut in such a way that from neck to waist there was nobreak, the buttons being on the shoulder and under the arm. The skirtwas full and stiff, and without the least trimming. Everything wasblack--hat, dress, gloves--and the effect was of a simplicity andseverity so pronounced as to be very striking. 

However, around her waist she wore as a belt a thick rope of oxidizedsilver, while her shoes, or rather walking slippers, were of whitecanvas. 

She belonged to that class of women who are not to know one's last nameor address, and whose hate and love are equally to be dreaded. There wasupon her face the unmistakable traces of a ruined virtue and a vanishedinnocence. Her slightest action suggested her profession; as soon as sheremoved her veil and gloves it was as though she were partiallyundressed, and her uncovered face and hands seemed to be only portionsof her nudity. 

The general conception of women of her class is a painted and brokenwreck. Flossie radiated health; her eyes were clear, her nerves steady, her flesh hard and even as a child's. There hung about her an air ofcleanliness, of freshness, of good nature, of fine, high spirits, whilewith every movement she exhaled a delicious perfume that was not onlymusk, but that seemed to come alike from her dress, her hair, her neck, her very flesh and body. 

Vandover was no longer the same as he had been during his college days. He was familiar now with this odour of abandoned women, this foul sweetsavour of the great city's vice, that quickened his breath and that senthis heart knocking at his throat. It was the sensitive artist nature inhim that responded instantly to anything sensuously attractive. Eachkind and class of beautiful women could arouse in Vandover passions ofequal force, though of far different kind. Turner Ravis influenced himupon his best side, calling out in him all that was cleanest, finest, and most delicate. Flossie appealed only to the animal and the beast inhim, the evil, hideous brute that made instant answer. 

"What will you take, Flossie?" asked Vandover, as she settled herselfamong them. "We are all drinking beer except Ellis. He's filling up withwhisky. " But Flossie never drank. It was one of the peculiarities forwhich she was well known. 

"I don't want either, " she answered, and turning to the waiter, sheadded, "You can bring me some Apollinaris water, Toby. "

Flossie betrayed herself as soon as she spoke, the effect of herappearance was spoiled. Her voice was hoarse, a low-pitched rasp, husky, throaty, and full of brutal, vulgar modulations. 

"Smoke, Flossie?" said Geary, pushing his cigarette case across to her. Flossie took a cigarette, rolled it to make it loose, and smoked itwhile she told them how she had once tried to draw up the smoke throughher nose as it came out between her lips. 

"And honestly, boys, " she growled, "it made me that sick that I just hadto go to bed. "

"Who is the crowd out back?" asked Geary for the sake of sayingsomething. Flossie embarrassed them all a little, and conversation withgirls of her class was difficult. 

"Oh, that's May and Nannie with some men from a banquet at the PalaceHotel, " she answered. 

The talk dragged along little by little and Flossie began badgeringyoung Haight. "Say, you over there, " she exclaimed, "what's the matterwith you? You don't say anything. "

Young Haight blushed and answered very much embarrassed: "Oh, I'm justlistening. " He was anxious to get away. He got up and reached for hishat and coat, saying with a good-natured smile: "Well, boys and girls, I think I shall have to leave you. "

"Don't let me frighten you away, " said Flossie, laughing. 

"Oh, no, " he answered, trying to hide his embarrassment, "I have to goanyhow. "

While the others were saying good night to him and asking when theyshould see him again, Flossie leaned over to him, crying out, "Goodnight!" All at once, and before he knew what she was about, she kissedhim full on the mouth. He started sharply at this, but was not angry, simply pulling away from her, blushing, very embarrassed, and more andmore anxious to get away. Toby, the waiter, appeared at their door. 

"That last was on me, you know, " said young Haight, interceptingVandover and settling for the round of drinks. 

"Hello!" exclaimed Toby, "what's the matter with your lip?"

"I cut it a little while ago on a broken glass, " answered young Haight. "Is it bleeding again?" he added, putting two fingers on his lips. 

"It is sure enough, " said Geary. "Here, " he went on, wetting the cornerof a napkin from the water bottle, "hold that on it. "

The others began to laugh. "Flossie did that, " Vandover explained toToby. Ellis was hastily looking through his pockets, fumbling aboutamong his little books. 

"I had something here, " he kept muttering, "if I can only _find_ it, that told just what to do when you cut yourself with glass. There may beglass _in_ it, you know. "

"Oh, that's all right, that's all right, " exclaimed young Haight, nowaltogether disconcerted. "It don't amount to anything. "

"I tell you what, " observed Geary; "get some court-plaster at the snakedoctor's just above here. "

"No, no, that's all right, " returned young Haight, moving off. "Goodnight. I'll see you again pretty soon. "

He went away. Ellis, who was still searching through his little books, suddenly uttered an exclamation. He leaned out into the passage, crying:"The half of a hot onion; tie it right on the cut. " But Haight hadalready gone. "You see, " explained Ellis, "that draws out any littleparticles of glass. Look at this, " he added, reading an item just belowthe one he had found. "You can use cigar ashes for eczema. "

Flossie nodded her head at him, smiling and saying: "Well, the next timeI have eczema I will remember that. "

Flossie left them a little after this, joining Nannie and May in thelarger room that held the noisy party. The three fellows had anotherround of drinks. 

All the evening Ellis had been drinking whisky. Now he astonished theothers by suddenly calling for beer. He persisted in drinking it out ofthe celery glass, which he emptied at a single pull. Then Vandover hadclaret-punches all round, protesting that his mouth felt dry as adust-bin. Geary at length declared that he felt pretty far gone, addingthat he was in the humour for having "a high old time. "

"Say, boys, " he exclaimed, bringing his hand down on the table, "what doyou say that we all go to every joint in town, and wind up at theTurkish baths? We'll have a regular _time_. Let's see now how much moneyI have. "

Thereat they all took account of their money. Vandover had fourteendollars, but he owed for materials at his art dealer's, and so put awayeight of it in an inside pocket. The others followed his example, eachone reserving five dollars for immediate use. 

"That will be one dollar for the Hammam, " said Geary, "and four dollarsapiece for drinks. You can get all we want on four dollars. " They had alast claret-punch and, having settled with Toby, went out. 

Coming out into the cold night air from the warm interior of theImperial affected Vandover and Geary in a few minutes. But apparentlynothing could affect Ellis, neither whisky, claret-punch nor beer. Hewalked steadily between Vandover and Geary, linking an arm in each oftheirs. 

These two became very drunk almost at once. At every minute Vandoverwould cry out, "Yee-ee-_ow_! Thash way I feel, jush like that. " Gearymade a "Josh" that was a masterpiece, the success of the occasion. Itconsisted in exclaiming from time to time, "Cherries are ripe!" This wasfunny. It seemed to have some ludicrous, hidden double-meaning that wasirresistible. It stuck to them all the evening; when a girl passed themon Kearney Street and Geary cried out at her that "Cherries were ripe!"it threw them all into spasms of laughter. 

They went first to the Palace Garden near the Tivoli Theatre, whereGeary and Vandover had beer and Ellis a whisky cocktail. The performancewas just finishing, and they voted that they were not at all amused at alean, overworked girl whom they saw performing a song and dance througha blue haze of tobacco smoke; so they all exclaimed, "Cherries areripe!" and tramped out again to visit the Luxembourg. The beer began togo against Vandover's stomach by this time, but he forced it down histhroat, shutting his eyes. Then they said they would go to the toughestplace in town, "Steve Casey's"; this was on a side-street. The wallswere covered with yellowed photographs of once-famous pugilists andold-time concert-hall singers. There was sand on the floor, and in thedancing room at the back, where nobody danced, a jaded young man wasbanging out polkas and quick-steps at a cheap piano. 

At the Crystal Palace, where they all had shandy-gaff, they met one ofEllis's friends, a young fellow of about twenty. He was stone deaf, andin consequence had become dumb; but for all that he was very eager toassociate with the young men of the city and would not hear of beingseparated and set apart with the other deaf mutes. He was very pleasedto meet them and joined them at once. They all knew him pretty well andcalled him the "Dummy. "

In the course of the evening the patty was seen at nearly every bar andsaloon in the neighbourhood of Market and Kearney streets. Geary andVandover were very drunk indeed. Vandover was having a glorious time; hewas not silent a minute, talking, laughing, and singing, and crying outcontinually, "Cherries are ripe!" When he could think of nothing else tosay he would exclaim, "Yee-ee-_ow_! Thash way I feel. "

For two hours they drank steadily. Vandover was in a dreadful condition;the Dummy got so drunk that he could talk, a peculiarity which at timeshad been known to occur to him. As will sometimes happen, Geary soberedup a little and at the "Grotto" bathed his head and face in thewashroom. After this he became pretty steady, he stopped drinking, andtried to assume the management of the party, ordering their drinks forthem, and casting up the amount of the check. 

About two o'clock they returned toward the Luxembourg, staggering andswaying. The Luxembourg was a sort of German restaurant under a theatrewhere one could get some very good German dishes. There Vandover hadbeer and sauerkraut, but Ellis took more whisky. The Dummy continued tomake peculiar sounds in his throat, half-noise, half-speech, and Gearygravely informed the waiter that cherries were ripe. 

All at once Ellis was drunk, collapsing in a moment. The skin around hiseyes was purple and swollen, the pupils themselves were contracted, andtheir range of vision seemed to stop at about a yard in front of hisface. Suddenly he swept glasses, plates, castor, knives, forks, and allfrom off the table with a single movement of his arm. 

They all jumped up, sober in a minute, knowing that a scene was at hand. The waiter rushed at Ellis, but Ellis knocked him down and tried tostamp on his face. Vandover and the Dummy tried to hold his arms andpull him off. He turned on the Dummy in a silent frenzy of rage andbrought his knuckles down upon his head again and again. For the momentEllis could neither hear, nor see, nor speak; he was blind, dumb, fighting drunk, and his fighting was not the fighting of Vandover. 

"Get in here and help, will you?" panted Vandover to Geary, as hestruggled with Ellis. "He can kill people when he's like this. Oh, damnthe whisky anyhow! Look out--don't let him get that knife! Grab hisother arm, there! now, kick his feet from under him! Oh, kick hard! Siton his legs; there now. Ah! Hell! he's bitten me! Look out! here comesthe bouncer!"

The bouncer and three other waiters charged into them while they werestruggling on the floor. Vandover was twice knocked down and the Dummyhad his lip split. Ellis struggled to his feet again and, still silent, fought them all alike, a fine line of froth gathering at the corners ofhis lips. 

When they were finally ejected, and pulled themselves together in thestreet outside, Geary had disappeared. He had left them during thestruggle with Ellis and had gone home. Ah, you bet he wasn't going tostay any longer with the crowd when they got like that. If Ellis wasfool enough to get as drunk as that it was his own lookout. _He_ wasn'tgoing to stay and get thrown out of any saloon; ah, no, you bet he wastoo clever for that. He was sober enough now and would go home to bedand get a good sleep. 

The fight in the saloon had completely sobered the rest of them. Elliswas tractable enough again, and very sorry for having got them into sucha row. Vandover was horribly sick at his stomach. 

The three locked arms and started slowly toward the Turkish baths. Ontheir way they stopped at an all-night drug store and had some seltzer. 

 * * * * *

Vandover had about three hours' sleep that night. He was awakened by theattendant shaking his arm and crying:

"Half-past six, sir. "

"Huh!" he exclaimed, starting up. "What about half-past six? I don'twant to get up. "

"Told me to call you, sir, at half-past six; quarter to seven now. "

"Oh, all right, very well, " answered Vandover. He turned away his faceon the pillow, while a wretched feeling of nausea crept over him; everymovement of his head made it ache to bursting. Behind his temples theblood throbbed and pumped like the knocking of hammers. His mouth wouldhave been dry but for a thick slime that filled it and that tasted ofoil. He felt weak, his hands trembled, his forehead was cold and seemedwet and sticky. 

He could recall hardly anything of the previous night. He remembered, however, of going to the Imperial and of seeing Flossie, and he _did_remember at last of leaving word to be called at half-past six. 

He got up without waking the other two fellows and took a plunge in thecold tank, dressed very slowly, and went out. The stores were allclosed, the streets were almost deserted. He walked to the nearestuptown car-line and took an outside seat, feeling better and steadierfor every moment of the sharp morning air. 

Van Ness Avenue was very still. It was about half-past seven. Thecurtains were down in all the houses; here and there a servant could beseen washing down the front steps. In the vestibules of some of thesmaller houses were loaves of French bread and glass jars of cream, while near them lay the damp twisted roll of the morning's paper. Therewas everywhere a great chittering of sparrows, and the cable-cars, asyet empty, trundled down the cross streets, the conductors cleaning thewindows and metal work. From far down at one end of the avenue came thebells of the Catholic Cathedral ringing for early mass; and arespectable-looking second girl hurried past him carrying herprayer-book. At the other end of the avenue was a blue vista of the bay, the great bulk of Mount Tamalpais rearing itself out of the water like awaking lion. 

In front of the little church Turner was waiting for him. She wasdressed very prettily and the cold morning air had given her a finecolour. 

"You don't look more than half awake, " she said, as Vandover came up. "It was awfully good of you to come. Oh, Van, you look dreadfully. It istoo bad to make you get up so early. "

"No, no, " protested Vandover. "I was only too glad to come. I didn'tsleep well last night. I hope I haven't kept you waiting. "

"I've only just come, " answered Turner. "But I think it is time to goin. "

The little organ was muttering softly to itself as they entered. It wasvery still otherwise. The morning sun struck through the stained windowsand made pretty lights about the altar; besides themselves there weresome half dozen other worshippers. The little organ ceased with a longdroning sigh, and the minister in his white robes turned about, facinghis auditors, and in the midst of a great silence opened the communionservice with the words: "Ye who do truly and earnestly repent you ofyour sins and are in love and charity with your neighbours--"

As Vandover rose with the rest the blood rushed to his head and afeeling of nausea and exhaustion, the dregs of his previous night'sdebauch, came over him again for a moment, so that he took hold of theback of the pew in front of him to steady himself. 

Chapter Five

In the afternoons Vandover worked in his studio, which was on SacramentoStreet, but in the mornings he was accustomed to study in the life-classat the School of Design. 

This was on California Street over the Market, an immense roompartitioned by enormous wooden screens into alcoves, where thestill-life classes worked, painting carrots, grapes, and dusty brownstone-jugs. 

All about were a multitude of casts, the fighting gladiator, thediscobulus, the Venus of Milo, and hundreds of smaller pieces, masks, torsos, and the heads of the Parthenon horses. Flattened paint-tubes andbroken bits of charcoal littered the floor and cluttered the chairs andshelves. A strong odour of turpentine and fixative was in the air, mingled with the stronger odours of linseed oil and sour, stale Frenchbread. 

Every afternoon a portrait class of some thirty-odd assembled in one ofthe larger alcoves near the door. Several of the well-known streetcharacters of the city had posed for this class, and at one time FatherElphick, the white-haired, bare-headed vegetarian, with his crookedstick and white clothes, had sat to it for his head. 

Vandover was probably the most promising member of the school. His stylewas sketchy, conscientious, and full of strength and decision. He workedin large lines, broad surfaces and masses of light or shade. His colourwas good, running to purples, reds, and admirable greens, full ofbitumen and raw sienna. 

Though he had no idea of composition, he was clever enough toacknowledge it. His finished pictures were broad reaches of landscape, deserts, shores, and moors in which he placed solitary figures of men oranimals in a way that was very effective--as, for instance, a greatstrip of shore and in the foreground the body of a drowned sailor; alion drinking in the midst of an immense Sahara; or, one that he called"The Remnant of an Army, " a dying war horse wandering on an empty plain, the saddle turned under his belly, his mane and tail snarled with burrs. 

Some time before there had come to him the idea for a great picture. Itwas to be his first masterpiece, his salon picture when he should get toParis. A British cavalryman and his horse, both dying of thirst andwounds, were to be lost on a Soudanese desert, and in the middledistance on a ridge of sand a lion should be drawing in upon them, crouched on his belly, his tail stiff, his lower jaw hanging. Themelodrama of the old English "Home Book of Art" still influencedVandover. He was in love with this idea for a picture and had determinedto call it "The Last Enemy. " The effects he wished to produce wereisolation and intense heat; as to the soldier, he was as yet undecidedwhether to represent him facing death resignedly, calmly, or graspingthe barrel of his useless rifle, determined to fight to the last. 

Vandover loved to paint and to draw. He was perfectly contented when hispicture was "coming right, " and when he felt sure he was doing goodwork. He often did better than he thought he would, but never so well ashe thought he _could_. 

However, it bored him to work very hard, and when he did not enjoy hiswork he stopped it at once. He would tell himself on these occasionsthat one had to be in the mood and that he should wait for theinspiration, although he knew very well how absurd such excuses were, how false and how pernicious. 

That certain little weakness of Vandover's character, hisself-indulgence, _had_ brought him to such a point that he thought hehad to be amused. If his painting amused him, very good; if not, hefound something else that would. 

On the following Monday as he worked in the life-class, Vandover wasthinking, or, rather, trying not to think, of what he had done theSunday morning previous when he had gone to communion with Turner Ravis. For a long time he evaded the thought because he knew that if he allowedit to come into his mind it would worry and harass him. But by and bythe effort of dodging the enemy became itself too disagreeable, so hegave it up and allowed himself to look the matter squarely in the face. 

Ah, yes; it was an ugly thing he had done there, a really awful thing. He must have been still drunk when he had knelt in the chancel. Vandovershuddered as he thought of this, and told himself that one could hardlycommit a worse sacrilege, and that some time he would surely be calledto account for it. But here he checked himself suddenly, not daring togo further. One would have no peace of mind left if one went on broodingover such things in this fashion. He realized the enormity of what hehad done. He had tried to be sorry for it. It was perhaps the worstthing he had ever done, but now he had reached the lowest point. Hewould take care never to do such a thing again. After this he would bebetter. 

But this was not so. Unconsciously, Vandover had shut a door behind him;he would never again be exactly the same, and the keeping of hisappointment with Turner Ravis that Sunday morning was, as it were, along step onward in his progress of ruin and pollution. 

He shook himself as though relieving his shoulders of a weight. Themodel in the life-class had just been posed for the week, and the othershad begun work. The model for that week was a woman, a fact that pleasedVandover, for he drew these nude women better than any one in theschool, perhaps better than any one in the city. Portrait work and thepower to catch subtle intellectual distinctions in a face were sometimesbeyond him, but his feeling for the flesh, and for the movement andcharacter of a pose, was admirable. 

He set himself to work. Holding his stick of charcoal toward the modelat arm's-length, he measured off the heads, five in all, and laid off anequal number of spaces upon his paper. After this, by aid of his mirror, he studied the general character of the pose for nearly half an hour. Then, with a few strokes of his charcoal he laid off his largerconstruction lines with a freedom and a precision that were excellent. Upon these lines he made a second drawing a little more detailed, thoughas yet everything was blocked in, angularly and roughly. Then, putting athin flat edge upon his charcoal, he started the careful and finishedoutline. 

By the end of an hour the first sketch of his drawing was complete. Itwas astonishingly good, vigorous and solid; better than all, it had thatfeeling for form that makes just the difference between the amateur andthe genuine artist. 

By this time Vandover's interest began to flag. Four times he had drawnand redrawn the articulation of the model's left shoulder. As she stood, turned sideways to him, one hand on her hip, the deltoid muscle was atonce contracted and foreshortened. It was a difficult bit of anatomy todraw. Vandover was annoyed at his ill success--such close attention andcontinued effort wearied him a little--the room was overheated andclose, and the gas stove, which was placed near the throne to warm themodel, leaked and filled the room with a nasty brassy smell. Vandoverremembered that the previous week he had been looking over some oldbound copies of _l'Art_ in the Mechanics Library and had found them ofabsorbing interest. There was a pleasant corner and a huge comfortablechair near where they were in the reading-room, and from the window onecould occasionally look out upon the street. It was a quiet spot, and hewould not be disturbed all the morning. The idea was so attractive thathe put away his portfolio and drawing things and went out. 

For an hour he gave himself up to the enjoyment of _l'Art_, excusing hisindolence by telling himself that it was all in his profession and wasnot time lost. A reproduction of a picture by Gérome gave him somesuggestions for the "Last Enemy, " which he noted very carefully. 

He was interrupted by a rustle of starched skirts and a voice that said:

"Why, hello, Van!"

He looked up quickly to see a young girl of about twenty dressed in ablack close-fitting bolero jacket of imitation astrakhan with bigleg-of-mutton sleeves, a striped silk skirt, and a very broad hat tiltedto one side. Her hair was very blond, though coarse and dry from beingbleached, and a little flat curl of it lay very low on her forehead. Shewas marvellously pretty. Vandover was delighted. 

"Why, _Ida_!" he exclaimed, holding her hand; "_it's_ awfully nice tosee you here; won't you sit down?" and he pushed his chair toward her. 

But Ida Wade said no, she had just come in after a new book, and ofcourse it had to be out. But where had he kept himself so long? That wasthe way he threw off on her; ah, yes, he was going with Miss Ravis nowand wouldn't look at any one else. 

Vandover protested against this, and Ida Wade went on to ask him why hecouldn't come up to call on her that very night, adding:

"We might go to the Tivoli or somewhere. " All at once she interruptedherself, laughing, "Oh, I heard all about you the other night. _'Cherries are ripe_!' You and the boys painted the town red, didn'tyou? Ah, Van, I'm right on to _you_!"

She would not tell him how she heard, but took herself off, laughing andreminding him to come up early. 

Ida Wade belonged to a certain type of young girl that was very commonin the city. She was what men, among each other, called "gay, " thoughthat was the worst that could be said of her. She was virtuous, but thevery fact that it was necessary to say so was enough to cause thestatement to be doubted. When she was younger and had been a pupil atthe Girls' High School, she had known and had even been the companion ofsuch girls as Turner Ravis and Henrietta Vance, but since that timegirls of that class had ignored her. Now, almost all of heracquaintances were men, and to half of these she had never beenintroduced. They had managed to get acquainted with her on KearneyStreet, at theatres, at the Mechanics' Fair, and at baseball games. Sheloved to have a "gay" time, which for her meant to drink Californiachampagne, to smoke cigarettes, and to kick at the chandelier. She wasstill virtuous and meant to stay so; there was nothing vicious abouther, and she was as far removed from Flossie's class as from that ofTurner Ravis. 

She was very clever; half of her acquaintances, even the men, did notknow how very "gay" she was. Only those--like Vandover--who knew herbest, knew her for what she was, for Ida was morbidly careful ofappearances, and as jealous of her reputation as only fast girls are. 

Bessie Laguna was her counterpart. Bessie was "the girl she went with, "just as Henrietta Vance was Turner's "chum" and Nannie was Flossie's"running-mate. "

Ida lived with her people on Golden Gate Avenue not far from LarkinStreet. Her father had a three-fourths interest in a carpet-cleaningestablishment on Howard Street, and her mother gave lessons in paintingon china and on velvet. Ida had just been graduated from the normalschool, and often substituted at various kindergartens in the city. Shehoped soon to get a permanent place. 

Vandover arrived at Ida's house that night at about eight o'clock in themidst of a drenching fog. The parlour and front room on the second floorwere furnished with bay windows decorated with some meaningless sort ofmillwork. The front door stood at the right of the parlour windows. TwoCorinthian pillars on either side of the vestibule supported a balcony;these pillars had iron capitals which were painted to imitate the woodof the house, which in its turn was painted to imitate stone. The housewas but two stories high, and the roof was topped with an iron cresting. There was a microscopical front yard in which one saw a tiny gravelwalk, two steps long, that led to a door under the front steps, wherethe gas-meter was kept. A few dusty and straggling calla-lilies grewabout. 

Ida opened the door for Vandover almost as soon as he rang, and pulledhim into the entry, exclaiming: "Come in out of the wet, as the whalesaid to Jonah. _Isn't_ it a nasty night?" Vandover noticed as he came inthat the house smelt of upholstery, cooking, and turpentine. He did nottake off his overcoat, but went with her into the parlour. 

The parlour was a little room with tinted plaster walls shut off fromthe "back-parlour" by sliding doors. A ply carpet covered the floor, acheap piano stood across one corner of the room, and a greenish sofaacross another. The mantelpiece was of white marble with gray spots; onone side of it stood an Alaskan "grass basket" full of photographs, andon the other an inverted section of a sewer-pipe painted with daisiesand full of gilded cat-tails tied with a blue ribbon. Near the pianostraddled a huge easel of imitation brass up-holding the crayon pictureof Ida's baby sister enlarged from a photograph. Across one corner ofthis picture was a yellow "drape. " There were a great many of these"drapes" all about the room, hanging over the corners of the chairs, upon an edge of the mantelpiece, and even twisted about the chandelier. In the exact middle of the mantelpiece itself was the clock, one of thechief ornaments of the room, almost the first thing one saw uponentering; it was a round-faced timepiece perversely set in one corner ofan immense red plush palette; the palette itself was tilted to oneside, and was upheld by an easel of twisted brass wire. Out of thethumb-hole stuck half a dozen brushes wired together in a round bunchand covered with gilt paint. The clock never was wound. It went so fastthat it was useless as a timepiece. Over it, however, hung a large andstriking picture, a species of cheap photogravure, a lion lying in hiscage, looking mildly at the spectator over his shoulder. In front of thepicture were real iron bars, with real straw tucked in behind them. 

Ida sat down on the piano stool, twisting back and forth, leaning herelbows on the keys. 

"All the folks have gone out to a whist-party, and I'm left all alone inthe house with Maggie, " she said. Then she added: "Bessie and BandyEllis said they would come down to-night, and I thought we could all godowntown to the Tivoli or somewhere, in the open-air boxes, you know, way up at the top. " Hardly had she spoken the words when Bessie andEllis arrived. 

Ida went upstairs to get on her hat at once, because it was so late, andBessie went with her. 

Ellis and Vandover laughed as soon as they saw each other, and Ellisexclaimed mockingly, "Ye-e-ow, thash jush way I feel. " Vandover grinned:

"That's so, " he answered. "I _do_ remember now of having made thatremark several times. But _you_--oh, you were fearful. Do you rememberthe row in the Luxembourg? Look there where you bit me. "

Ellis was incensed with Geary because he had forsaken their party. 

"Oh, that's Charlie Geary, all over, " answered Vandover. 

As they were speaking there came a sudden outburst of bells in variousparts of the city and simultaneously they heard the hoarse croaking of awhistle down by the waterfront. 

"Fire, " said Vandover indifferently. 

Ellis was already fumbling in his pockets, keeping count of the strokes. 

"That's one, " he exclaimed, pulling out and studying his list ofalarm-boxes, "and one-two-three, that's three and one-two-three-_four_, one thirty-four. Let's see now! That's Bush and Hyde streets, not veryfar off, " and he returned his card to the inside pocket of his coat asthough he had accomplished a duty. 

He lit a cigar. "I wonder now, " he said, hesitating. "I guess I betternot smoke in here. I'll go outside and get a mouthful of smoke beforethe girls come down. " He went out and Vandover sat down to the cheappiano and played his three inevitable pieces, the two polkas and the airof the topical song; but he was interrupted by Ellis, who opened thedoor, crying out:

"Oh, come out here and see the _fire_, will you? Devil of a blaze!"Vandover ran out and saw a great fan-shaped haze of red through the fogover the roofs of the houses. 

"Oh, say, girls, " he shouted, jumping back to the foot of the stairs;"Ida, Bessie, there's a fire. Just look out of your windows. Hark, therego the engines. "

Bessie came tearing down the stairs and out on the front steps, wherethe two fellows were standing hatless. 

"Where? Oh, show me where! O-o-oh, sure enough! That's a _big_ fire. Just hear the engines. _Oh, let's go_!"

"Sure; come on, let's go!" exclaimed Vandover. "Tell Ida to hurry up. "

"Oh, Ida, " cried Bessie up the stairs, "there's an awful big fire rightnear here, and we're going. "

"Oh, wait!" shouted Ida, her mouth full of pins. "I had to change mywaist. Oh, _do_ wait for me. Where is it _at_? Please wait; I'm comingright down in just a minute. "

"Hurry up, hurry up!" cried Vandover. "It will be all out by the time weget there. I'm coming up to help. "

"No, no, no!" she screamed. "Don't; you rattle me. I'm all mixed up. Oh, _darn_ it, I can't find my czarina!"

But at last she came running down, breathless, shrugging herself intoher bolero jacket. They all hurried into the street and turned in thedirection of the blaze. Other people were walking rapidly in the samedirection, and there was an opening and shutting of windows and frontdoors. A steamer thundered past, clanging and smoking, followed by ascore of half-exhausted boys. It took them longer to reach the fire thanthey expected, and by the time they had come within two blocks of itthey were quite out of breath. Here the excitement was lively; thesidewalks were full of people going in the same direction; on all sidesthere were guesses as to where the fire was. On the front steps of manyhouses stood middle-aged gentlemen, still holding their evening papersand cigars, very amused and interested in watching the crowd go past. One heard them from time to time calling to their little sons, who weredancing on the sidewalks, forbidding them to go; in the open windowsabove could be seen the other members of the family, their faces faintlytinged with the glow, looking and pointing, or calling across the streetto their friends in the opposite houses. Every one was in good humour;it was an event, a fête for the entire neighbourhood. 

Vandover and his party came at last to the first engines violentlypumping and coughing, the huge gray horses standing near by, alreadyunhitched and blanketed, indifferently feeding in their nosebags. Someof the crowd preferred to watch the engines rather than the fire, andthere were even some who were coming away from it, exclaiming "falsealarm" or "all out now. "

The party had come up quite close; they could smell the burning wood andcould see the roofs of the nearer houses beginning to stand out sharpand black against the red glow beyond. It was a barn behind a huge framehouse that was afire, the dry hay burning like powder, and by the timethey reached it the flames were already dwindling. The hose was lyinglike a python all about the streets, while upon the neighbouring roofswere groups of firemen with helmets and axes; some were shouting intothe street below, and others were holding the spouting nozzles of thehose. "Ah, " exclaimed an old man, standing near to Ida and Vandover, "ah, _I_ was here when it first broke out; you ought to have seen theflames then! Look, there's a tree catching!"

The crowd became denser; policemen pushed it back and stretched a ropeacross the street. There was a world of tumbling yellow smoke that madeone's eyes smart, and a great crackling and snapping of flames. Terriblyexcited little boys were about everywhere whistling and calling for eachother as the crowd separated them. 

They watched the fire for some time, standing on a pile of boards infront of a half-built house, but as it dwindled they wearied of it. 

"Want to go?" asked Vandover at last. 

"Yes, " answered Ida, "we might as well. Oh, where's Bessie and Ellis?"They were nowhere to be seen. Vandover whistled and Ida even called, butin vain. The little boys in the crowd mimicked Ida, crying back, "Hey!Bessie! Oh, _Bes-see_, mommer wants you!" The men who stood near laughedat this, but it annoyed Vandover much more than it did Ida. 

"Ah, well, never mind, " she said at length. "Let them go. Now shall _we_go?"

It was too late for the theatre, but to return home was out of thequestion. They started off aimlessly downtown. 

While he talked Vandover was perplexed. Ida was gayly dressed and wasone of those girls who cannot open their mouths nor raise a finger inthe street without attracting attention. Vandover was not at all certainthat he cared to be seen on Kearney Street as Ida Wade's escort; onenever knew who one was going to meet. Ida was not a bad girl, she wasnot notorious, but, confound it, it would look queer; and at the sametime, while Ida was the kind of girl that one did not want to be seenwith, she was not the kind of girl that could be told so. In an upperbox at the Tivoli it would have been different--one could keep in thebackground; but to appear on Kearney Street with a girl who wore a hatlike that and who would not put on her gloves--ah, no, it was out of thequestion. 

Ida was talking away endlessly about a kindergarten in which she hadsubstituted the last week. 

She told him about the funny little nigger girl, and about the games andsongs and how they played birds and hopped around and cried, "Twit, twit, " and the game of the butterflies visiting the flowers. She evensang part of a song about the waves. 

 "Every little wave had its night-cap on; Its white-cap, night-cap, white-cap on. "

"It's more _fun_ than enough, " she said. 

"Say, Ida, " interrupted Vandover at length, "I'm pretty hungry. Can't wego somewhere and eat something? I'd like a Welsh rabbit. "

"All right, " she answered. "Where do you want to go?"

"Well, " replied Vandover, running over in his mind the places he mightreach by unfrequented streets. "There's Marchand's or Tortoni's or thePoodle Dog. "

"Suits _me_, " she answered, "any one you like. Say, Van, " she added, "weren't you boys at the Imperial the other night? What kind of a placeis that?"

On the instant Vandover wondered what she could mean. Was it possiblethat Ida would go to a place like that with him?

"The Imperial?" he answered. "Oh, I don't know; the Imperial is a sortof a nice place. It has private rooms, like all of these places. Thecooking is simply out of sight. I think there is a bar connected withit. " Then he went on to talk indifferently about the kindergarten, though his pulse was beating fast, and his nerves were strung taut. Byand by Ida said:

"I didn't know there was a bar at the Imperial. I thought it was justsome kind of an oyster joint. Why, I heard of a very nice girl, a swellgirl, going in there. "

"Oh, yes, " said Vandover, "they do. I say, Ida, " he went on, "what's thematter with going down _there_?"

"The _Imperial_?" exclaimed Ida. "Well, I guess _not_!"

"Why, it's all right, if I'm with you, " retorted Vandover, "but if youdon't like it we can go anywhere else. "

"Well, I guess we _will_ go anywhere else, " returned Ida, and for thetime the subject was dropped. 

They took a Sutter Street car and got off at Grant Avenue, havingdecided to go to Marchand's. 

"That's the Imperial down there, isn't it?" asked Ida as they reachedthe sidewalk. Vandover made a last attempt:

"I say, Ida, come on, let's go there. It's all right if I'm with you. Ah, come along; what's the odds?"

"_No_--_no_--NO, " she answered decisively. "What kind of a girl do youthink I am, anyway?"

"Well, I tell you what, " answered Vandover, "just come down _by_ theplace, and if you don't like the looks of it you needn't go in. I wantto get some cigarettes, anyhow. You can walk down with me till I do_that_. "

"I'll walk down with you, " replied Ida, "but I shan't go in. "

They drew near to the Imperial. The street about was deserted, even theusual hacks that had their stand there were gone. 

"You see, " explained Vandover as they passed slowly in front of thedoors, "this is all quiet enough. If you pulled down your veil no onewould know the difference, and here's the ladies' entrance, you see, right at the side. "

"All right, come along, let's go in, " exclaimed Ida suddenly, and beforehe knew it they had swung open the little door of the ladies' entrancewith its frosted pane of glass and had stepped inside. 

It was between nine and ten o'clock, and the Imperial was quiet as yet;a few men were drinking in the barroom outside, and Toby, the red-eyedwaiter, was talking in low tones to a girl under one of the electriclights. 

Vandover and Ida went into one of the larger rooms in the rear passageand shut the door. Ida pushed her bolero jacket from her shoulders, saying, "This seems nice and quiet enough. "

"Well, of course, " answered Vandover, as though dismissing the questionfor good. "Now, what are we going to have? I say we have champagne andoysters. "

"Let's have Cliquot, then, " exclaimed Ida, which was the only champagneshe had ever heard of besides the California brands. 

She was very excited. This was the kind of "gay" time she delighted in, tête-à-tête champagne suppers with men late at night. She had never beenin such a place as the Imperial before, and the daring and novelty ofwhat she had done, the whiff of the great city's vice caught in thismanner, sent a little tremor of pleasure and excitement over all hernerves. 

They did not hurry over their little supper, but ate and drank slowly, and had more oysters to go with the last half of their bottle. Ida'sface was ablaze, her eyes flashing, her blond hair disordered andfalling about her cheeks. 

Vandover put his arm about her neck and drew her toward him, and as shesank down upon him, smiling and complaisant, her hair tumbling upon hershoulders and her head and throat bent back, he leaned his cheek againsthers, speaking in a low voice. 

"No--no, " she murmured, smiling; "never--ah, if I hadn't come--no, Van--please--" And then with a long breath she abandoned herself. 

About midnight he left her at the door of her house on Golden GateAvenue. On their way home Ida had grown more serious than he had everknown her to be. Now she began to cry softly to herself. "Oh, Van, " shesaid, putting her head down upon his shoulder, "oh, I am so _sorry_. Youdon't think any less of me, do you? Oh, Van, you must be true to menow!"

Chapter Six

Everybody in San Francisco knew of the Ravises and always made it apoint to speak of them as one of the best families of the city. Theywere not new and they were not particularly rich. They had lived in thesame house on California Street for nearly twenty years and had alwaysbeen comfortably well off. As things go in San Francisco, they wereold-fashioned. They had family traditions and usages and time-worncustoms. Their library had been in process of collection for the pasthalf century and the pictures on the walls were oil paintings of steelengravings and genuine old-fashioned chromos, beyond price to-day. 

Their furniture and ornaments were of the preceding generation, solid, conservative. They were not chosen with reference to any one style, norall bought at the same time. Each separate piece had an individuality ofits own. The Ravises kept their old things, long after the fashion hadgone out, preferring them to the smarter "art" objects on account oftheir associations. 

There were six in the family, Mr. And Mrs. Ravis, Turner, and her olderbrother, Stanley, Yale '88, a very serious young gentleman oftwenty-seven, continually professing an interest in economics andfinance. Besides these were the two children, Howard, nine years old, and his sister, aged fourteen, who had been christened Virginia. 

They were a home-loving race. Mr. Ravis, senior, belonged to theBohemian Club, but was seldom seen there. Stanley was absorbed in hislaw business, and Turner went out but little. They much preferred eachother's society to that of three fourths of their acquaintances, most oftheir friends being "friends of the family, " who came to dinner three orfour times a year. 

It was a custom of theirs to spend the evenings in the big dining-roomat the back of the house, after the table had been cleared away, Mr. Ravis and Stanley reading the papers, the one smoking his cigar, theother his pipe; Mrs. Ravis, with the magazines and Turner with the_Chautauquan_. Howard and Virginia appropriated the table to themselveswhere they played with their soldiers and backgammon board. 

The family kept two servants, June the "China boy, " who had been withthem since the beginning of things, and Delphine the cook, a more recentacquisition. June was, in a way, butler and second boy combined; he didall the downstairs work and the heavy sweeping, but it was anothertime-worn custom for Mrs. Ravis and Turner to spend part of everymorning in putting the bedrooms to rights, dusting and making up thebeds. Besides this, Turner exercised a sort of supervision over Howardand Virginia, who were too old for a nurse but too young to take care ofthemselves. She had them to bed at nine, mended some of their clothes, made them take their baths regularly, reëstablished peace between themin their hourly quarrels, and, most arduous task of all, saw that Howardproperly washed himself every morning, and on Wednesday and Saturdayafternoons that he was suitably dressed in time for dancing school. 

It was Sunday afternoon. Mrs. Ravis was reading to her husband, who layon the sofa in the back-parlour smoking a cigar. Stanley had gone out tomake a call, while Howard and Virginia had forgathered in the bathroomto sail their boats and cigar boxes in the tub. Toward half-past three, as Turner was in her room writing letters, the door-bell rang. Shestopped, with her pen in the air, wondering if it might be Vandover. Itwas June's afternoon out. In a few minutes the bell rang again, andTurner ran down to answer it herself, intercepting Delphine, who tookJune's place on these occasions, but who was hopelessly stupid. 

Mrs. Ravis had peered out through the curtains of the parlour window tosee who it was, and Turner met her and Mr. Ravis coming upstairs, abandoning the parlour to Turner's caller. 

"Mamma and I are going upstairs to read, " explained Mr. Ravis. "It'ssome one of your young men. You can bring him right in the parlour. "

"I think it's Mr. Haight, " said Turner's mother. "Ask him to stay totea. "

"Well, " said Turner doubtfully, as she paused at the foot of the stairs, "I will, but you know we never have anything to speak of for Sundayevening tea. June is out, and you know how clumsy and stupid Delphine iswhen she waits on the table. "

It _was_ young Haight. Turner was very glad to see him, for next toVandover she liked him better than any of the others. She was neverbored by being obliged to entertain him, and he always had something tosay and some clever way of saying it. 

About half-past five, as they were talking about amateur photography, Mrs. Ravis came in and called them to tea. 

Tea with the Ravises was the old-fashioned tea of twenty years ago. Onenever saw any of the modern "delicacies" on their Sunday evening table, no enticing cold lunch, no spices, not even catsups or pepper sauces. The turkey or chicken they had had for dinner was served cold in slices;there was canned fruit, preserves, tea, crackers, bread and butter, alarge dish of cold pork and beans, and a huge glass pitcher ofice-water. 

In the absence of June, Delphine the cook went through the agony ofwaiting on the table, very nervous and embarrassed in her clean calicogown and starched apron. Her hands were red and knotty, smelling ofsoap, and they touched the chinaware with an over-zealous andconstraining tenderness as if the plates and dishes had been delicateglass butterflies. She stood off at a distance from the table makingsudden and awkward dabs at it. When it came to passing the plates, shepassed them on the wrong side and remembered herself at the wrong momentwith a stammering apology. In her excess of politeness she kept up aconstant murmur as she attended to their wants. Another fork? Yes, sir. She'd get it right away, sir. Did Mrs. Ravis want another cuppa tea? No?No more tea? Well, she'd pass the bread. Some bread, Master Howard? NiceFrench bread, he always liked that. Some more preserved pears, MissRavis? Yes, miss, she'd get them right away; they were just over here onthe sideboard. Yes, here they were. No more? Now she'd go and put themback. And at last when she had set the nerves of all of them in ajangle, was dismissed to the kitchen and retired with a gasp ofunspeakable relief. 

Somewhat later in the evening young Haight was alone with Turner, andtheir conversation had taken a very unusual and personal turn. All atonce Turner exclaimed:

"I often wonder what good I am in the world to anybody. I don't _know_ athing, I can't _do_ a thing. I couldn't cook the plainest kind of a mealto _save_ me, and it took me all of two hours yesterday to do just alittle buttonhole stitching. I'm not good for anything. I'm not a helpto anybody. "

Young Haight looked into the blue flame of the gas-log, almost the onlymodern innovation throughout the entire house, and was silent for amoment; then he leaned his elbows on his knees and, still looking at theflame, replied:

"I don't know about that. You have been a considerable help to _me_. "

"To _you_!" exclaimed Turner, surprised. "A help to _you_? Why, how doyou mean?"

"Well, " he answered, still without looking at her, "one always has one'sinfluence, you know. "

"Ah, lots of influence _I_ have over anybody, " retorted Turner, incredulously. 

"Yes, you have, " he insisted. "You have plenty of influence over thepeople that care for you. You have plenty of influence over me. "

Turner, very much embarrassed, and not knowing how to answer, bent downto the side of the mantelpiece and turned up the flame of the gas-log alittle. Young Haight continued, almost as embarrassed as she:

"I suppose I'm a bad lot, perhaps a little worse than most others, but Ithink--I hope--there's some good in me. I know all this sounds absurdand affected, but _really_ I'm not posing; you won't mind if I speakjust as I think, for this once. I promise, " he went on with a halfsmile, "not to do it again. You know my mother died when I was littleand I have lived mostly with men. You have been to me what the societyof women has been to other fellows. You see, you are the only girl Iever knew very well--the only one I ever wanted to know. I have caredfor you the way other men have cared for the different women that comeinto their lives; as they have cared for their mothers, theirsisters--and their wives. You have already influenced me as a mother orsister should have done; what if I should ever ask you to be--to be the_other_ to me, the one that's best of all?"

Young Haight turned toward her as he finished and looked at her for thefirst time. Turner was still very much embarrassed. 

"Oh, I'm very glad if I've been a help to--to anybody--to you, " shesaid, confusedly. "But I never knew that you cared--that you thoughtabout me--in that way. But you mustn't, you know, you mustn't care forme in that way. I ought to tell you right away that I never could carefor you more than--I always have done; I mean care for you only as avery, very good friend. You don't know, Dolly, " she went on eagerly, "how it hurts me to tell you so, because I care so much for you in everyother way that I wouldn't hurt your feelings for anything; but then youknow at the same time it would hurt you a great deal more if I_shouldn't_ tell you, but encourage you, and let you go on thinking thatperhaps I liked you more than any one else, when I _didn't_. Nowwouldn't that be wrong? You don't know how glad it makes me feel that Ihave been of some good to you, and that is just why I want to be sincere_now_ and not make you think any less of me--think any worse of me. "

"Oh, I know, " answered young Haight. "I know I shouldn't have saidanything about it. I knew beforehand, or thought I knew, that you didn'tcare in that way. "

"Maybe I have been wrong, " she replied, "in not seeing that you cared somuch, and have given you a wrong impression. I thought you knew how itwas all the time. "

"Knew how what was?" he asked, looking up. 

"Why, " she said, "knew how Van and I were. "

"I knew that Van cared for you a great deal. "

"Yes, but you know, " she went on, hesitating and confused, "you know weare engaged. We have been engaged for nearly two years. "

"But _he_ don't consider himself as engaged!" The words were almost outof Haight's mouth, but he shut his teeth against them and keptsilence--he hardly knew why. 

"Suppose Vandover were out of the question, " he said, getting up andsmiling in order not to seem as serious as he really was. 

"Ah, " she said, smiling back at him. "I don't know; that's a hardquestion to answer. I've never _asked_ myself _that_ question. "

"Well, I'm saving you the trouble, you see, " he answered, still smiling. "I am asking it _for_ you. "

"But I don't want to answer such a question off-hand like that; how canI tell? It would only be _perhaps_, just now. "

Young Haight answered quickly that "just now" he would be contented withthat "perhaps"; but Turner did not hear this. She had spoken at the sametime as he, exclaiming, "But what is the good of talking of that?Because no matter what happened I feel as though I could not break mypromise to Van, even if I should want to. Because I have talked likethis, Dolly, " she went on more seriously, "you must not be deceived orget a wrong impression. You understand how things are, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, " he answered, still trying to carry it off with a laugh. "Iknow, I know. But now I hope you won't let anything I have said botheryou, and that things will go on just as if I hadn't spoken, just as ifnothing had happened. "

"Why, of course, " she said, laughing with him again. "Of _course_, whyshouldn't they?"

They were both at their ease again by the time young Haight stood at thedoor with his hat in his hand ready to go. 

He raised his free hand over her head, and said, with burlesque, dramatic effect, trying to keep down a smile:

"Bless you both; go, go marry Vandover and be happy; I forgive you. "

"Ah--don't be so _utterly_ absurd, " she cried, beginning to laugh. 

Chapter Seven

On a certain evening about four months later Ellis and Vandover had a"date" with Ida Wade and Bessie Laguna at the Mechanics' Fair. Ellis, Bessie, and Ida were to meet Vandover there in the Art Gallery, as hehad to make a call with his father, and could not get there untilhalf-past nine. They were all to walk about the Fair until ten, afterwhich the two men proposed to take the girls out to the Cliff House inseparate coupés. The whole thing had been arranged by Ellis and Bessie, and Vandover was irritated. Ellis ought to have had more sense; rushingthe girls was all very well, but everybody went to the Mechanics' Fair, and he didn't like to have nice girls like Turner or Henrietta Vance seehim with chippies like that. It was all very well for Ellis, who had nosocial position, but for _him_, Vandover, it would look too confoundedqueer. Of course he was in for it now, and would have to face the music. You can't tell a girl like that that you're ashamed to be seen with her, but very likely he would get himself into a regular box with it all. 

When he arrived at the Mechanics' Pavilion, it was about twenty minutesof ten, and as he pushed through the wicket he let himself into a hugeamphitheatre full of colour and movement. 

There was a vast shuffling of thousands of feet and a subdued roar ofconversation like the noise of a great mill; mingled with these were thepurring of distant machinery, the splashing of a temporary fountain andthe rhythmic clamour of a brass band, while in the piano exhibit thehired performer was playing a concert-grand with a great flourish. Nearer at hand one could catch ends of conversation and notes oflaughter, the creaking of boots, and the rustle of moving dresses andstiff skirts. Here and there groups of school children elbowed their waythrough the crowd, crying shrilly, their hands full of advertisementpamphlets, fans, picture cards, and toy whips with pewter whistles onthe butts, while the air itself was full of the smell of fresh popcorn. 

Ellis and Bessie were in the Art Gallery upstairs. Mrs. Wade, Ida'smother, who gave lessons in hand painting, had an exhibit there whichthey were interested to find; a bunch of yellow poppies painted onvelvet and framed in gilt. They stood before it some little timehazarding their opinions and then moved on from one picture to another;Ellis bought a catalogue and made it a duty to find the title of everypicture. Bessie professed to be very fond of painting; she had 'taken itup' at one time and had abandoned it, only because the oil or turpentineor something was unhealthy for her. "Of course, " she said, "I'm nocritic, I only know what I like. Now that one over there, I like _that_. I think those ideal heads like that are lovely, don't you, Bandy? Oh, there's Van!"

"Hello!" said Vandover, coming up. "Where's Ida?"

"Hello, Van!" answered Bessie. "Ida wouldn't come. Isn't it too mean?She said she couldn't come because she had a cold, but she was justtalking through her face, I know. She's just got kind of a streak on andyou can't get anything out of her. You two haven't had a row, have you?Well, I didn't _think_ you had. But she's worried about something orother. I don't believe she's been out of the house this week. But isn'tit mean of her to throw cold water on the procession like this? She'sbeen giving me a lecture, too, and says she's going to reform. "

"Well, " said Vandover, greatly relieved, "that's too bad. We could havehad a lot of fun to-night. I'm awfully sorry. Well, what are you twogoing to do?"

"Oh, I guess we'll follow out our part of the programme, " said Ellis. "You are kind of left out, though. "

"I don't know, " answered Vandover. "Maybe I'll go downtown, and see if Ican find some of the boys. "

"Oh, Dolly Haight is around here somewheres, " said Ellis. "We saw himjust now over by the chess machine. "

"I guess I'll try and find him, then, " responded Vandover. "Well, I hopeyou two enjoy yourselves. " As he was turning away Bessie Laguna camerunning back, and taking him a little to one side said:

"You'd better go round and see Ida pretty soon if you can. She's allbroke up about something, I'm sure. I think she'd like to see you prettywell. Honestly, " she said, suddenly very grave, "I never saw Ida so cutup in my life. She's been taking on over something in a dreadful way, and I think she'd like to see you. She won't tell _me_ anything. You goaround and see her. "

"All right, " answered Vandover smiling, "I'll go. "

As he was going down the stairs on his way to find young Haight itoccurred to him what Ida's trouble might be. He was all at once struckwith a great fear, so that for an instant he turned cold and weak, andreached out his hand to steady himself against the railing of thestairs. Ah, what a calamity that would be! What a calamity! What adreadful responsibility! What a crime! He could not keep the thought outof his mind. He tried to tell himself that Ida had practically given herconsent by going into such a place; that he was not the only one, afterall; that there was nothing certain as yet. He stood on the stairway, empty for that moment, biting the end of his thumb, saying to himself ina low voice:

"What a calamity, what a horrible calamity that would be! Ah, youscoundrel! You damned fool, not to have thought!" A couple of girls, thecounter girls at one of the candy booths, came down the stairs behindhim with a great babble of talk. Vandover gave an irritated shrug of hisshoulders as if freeing himself from the disagreeable subject and wenton. 

He could not find young Haight down stairs and so went up into thegallery again. After a long time he came upon him sitting on an emptybench nursing his cane and watching the crowd go past. 

"Hello, old man!" he exclaimed. "Ellis told me I would find you aroundsomewhere. I was just going to give you up. " He sat down beside hischum, and the two began to talk about the people as they passed. "Ah, get on to the red hat!" exclaimed Vandover on a sudden. "That's thethird time she's passed. "

"Has Ellis gone off with Bessie Laguna?" asked young Haight. 

"Yes, " answered Vandover. "They're going to have a time at the CliffHouse. "

"That's too bad, " young Haight replied. "Ellis has just thrown himselfaway with that girl. He might have known some very nice people when hefirst came here. Between that girl and his whisky he has managed tospoil every chance he might have had. "

"There's Charlie Geary, " Vandover exclaimed suddenly, whistling andbeckoning. "Hey, there, Charlie! where you going? Oh, " he cried on asudden as Geary came up, "oh, get on to his new store clothes, willyou?" They both pretended to be overwhelmed by the elegance of Geary'snew suit. 

"O-oh!" cried young Haight. "The bloody, bloomin', bloated swell. Justlet me _touch_ them!"

Vandover shaded his eyes and turned away as though dazzled. "This is_too_ much, " he gasped. "Such magnificence, such purple and fine linen. "Then suddenly he shouted, "Oh, _oh! look_ at the crease in thosetrousers. No; it's too much, I can't stand it. "

"Oh, shut up, " said Geary, irritated, as they had intended he should be. "Yes, " he went on, "I thought I'd blow myself. I've been working like adog the whole month. I'm trying to get in Beale's office. Beale andStorey, you know. I got the promise of a berth last week, so I thoughtI'd blow myself for some rags. I've been over to San Rafael all dayvisiting my cousins; had a great time; went out to row. Oh, and had agreat feed: lettuce sandwiches with mayonnaise. Simply out of sight. Icame back on the four o'clock boat and held down the 'line' on KearneyStreet for an hour or two. "

"Yes?" young Haight said perfunctorily, adding after a moment, "Isn'tthis a gay crowd, a typical San Francisco crowd and--"

"I had a cocktail in the Imperial at about quarter of five, " said Geary, "and got a cigar at the Elite; then I went around to get my clothes. Oh, you ought to have heard the blowing up I gave my tailor! I let him haveit right straight. "

Geary paused a moment, and Vandover said: "Come on, let's walk around alittle; don't you want to? We might run on to the red hat again. "

"I told him, " continued Geary without moving, "that if he wanted to doany more work for me, he'd have to get in front of himself in a hurry, and that _I_ wasn't full of bubbles, if _he_ was. 'Why, ' says he, 'why, Mr. Geary, I've never had a customer talk like this to me before sinceI've been in the business!' 'Well, Mr. Allen, ' says I, 'it's time you_had_! Oh, sure, I gave it to him straight. "

"Vandover has gone daft over a girl in a red hat, " said young Haight, as they got up and began to walk. "Have you noticed her up here?"

"I went to the Grillroom after I left the tailor's, " continued Geary, "and had supper downtown. Ah, you ought to have seen the steak they gaveme! Just about as thick as it was wide. I gave the slavey a four-bittip. Oh, it's just as well, you know, to keep in with them, if you gothere often. I lunch there four or five times a week. "

They descended to the ground floor and promenaded the central aislewatching for pretty girls. In front of a candy-counter, where there wasa soda fountain, they saw the red hat again. Vandover looked hersquarely in the face and laughed a little. When he had passed he lookedback; the girl caught his eye and turned away with a droll smile. Vandover paused, grinning, and raising his hat; "I guess that's mine, "he said. 

"You are not going, are you?" exclaimed young Haight, as Vandoverstopped. "Oh, for goodness' sake, Van, do leave the girls alone for onehour in the day. Come on! Come on downtown with us. "

"No, no, " answered Vandover. "I'm going to chase it up. Good-bye. I maysee you fellows later, " and he turned back and went up to the girl. 

"Look at that!" said young Haight, exasperated. "He knows he's liable tomeet his acquaintances here, and yet there he goes, almost arm in armwith a girl like that. It's too bad; why _can't_ a fellow keep straightwhen there are such a lot of _nice_ girls?"

Geary never liked to see anything done better than he could do ithimself. Just now he was vexed because Vandover had got in ahead of him. He looked after the girl a moment and muttered scornfully:

"Cheap meat!" adding, "Ah, you bet _I_ wouldn't do that. I flattermyself that I'm a little too clever to cut my own throat in thatfashion. I look out after my interests better than that. Well, Dolly, "he concluded, "_I've_ got a thirst on. Van and Ellis have gone off withtheir girls; let's you and I go somewhere and have something wet. "

"All right. What's the matter with the Luxembourg?" answered youngHaight. 

"Luxembourg goes, then, " assented Geary, and they turned about andstarted for the door. As they were passing out some one came running upbehind them and took an arm of each: it was Vandover. 

"Hello, " cried Geary, delighted, "your girl shook you, didn't she?"

"Not a bit of it, " answered Vandover. "Oh, but say, she is out of sight!Says her name is Grace Irving. No, she didn't shake me. I made a datewith her for next Wednesday night. I didn't want to be seen around herewith her, you know. "

"Of _course_ she will keep that date!" said Geary. 

"Well, now, I think she will, " protested Vandover. 

"Well, come along, " interrupted young Haight. "We'll all go down to theLuxembourg and have something cold and wet. "

"Ah, make it the Imperial instead, " objected Vandover. "We may findFlossie. "

"Say, " cried Geary, "can't you _live_ without trailing around after somekind of petticoats?"

"You're right, " admitted Vandover, "I can't, " but he persuaded them togo to the Imperial for all that. 

At the Imperial, Toby, the red-eyed waiter, came to take their order. 

"Good evening, gentlemen, " he said. "Haven't seen you around here forsome time. "

"No, no, " said Geary. "I've been too busy. I've been working like a doglately to get into a certain office. You bet I'll make it all right--allright. Bring me a stringy rabbit and a pint of dog's-head. "

"You bet I've been working, " he continued after they had settled down totheir beer and rabbits, "working like a dog. A man's got to rustle ifhe's going to make a success at law. _I'm_ going to make it go, byGeorge, or I'll know the reason why. I'll make my way in this town andmy pile. There's money to be made here and _I_ might just as well makeit as the next man. Every man for himself, that's what _I_ say; that'sthe way to get along. It may be selfish, but you've got to do it. ByGod! it's human nature. Isn't that right, hey? Isn't that right?"

"Oh, that's right, " admitted young Haight, trying to be polite. Afterthis the conversation lagged a little. Young Haight drank hisApollinaris lemonade through a straw, Geary sipped his ale, and Vandoverfed himself Welsh rabbit and Spanish olives with the silent enjoyment ofa glutton. By and by, when they had finished and had lighted theircigars and cigarettes, they began to talk about the last Cotillon, towhich Vandover and Haight belonged. 

"Say, Van, " said young Haight, tilting his head to one side and shuttingone eye to avoid the smoke from his cigar, "say, didn't I see youdancing with Mrs. Doane after supper?"

"Yes, " said Vandover laughing; "all the men were trying to get a dancewith her. She had an edge on. "

"No?" exclaimed Geary, incredulously. 

"That's a fact, " admitted young Haight. "Van is right. "

"She was opposite to me at table, " said Vandover, "and _I_ saw her emptya whole bottle of champagne. "

"Why, I didn't know they got drunk like that at the Cotillons, " saidGeary. "I thought they were very swell. "

"Well, of course, they don't as a rule, " returned Vandover. "Of coursethere are girls like--like Henrietta Vance who belong to the Cotillonand make it what it is, and what it ought to be. But there are othergirls like Mrs. Doane and Lilly Stannard and the Trafford girls thatlike their champagne pretty well now, and don't you forget it! Oh, youknow, I wouldn't call it getting drunk, though. "

"Well, why not?" exclaimed young Haight impatiently. "Why not call it'getting drunk?' Why not call things by their right name? You can seejust how bad they are then; and I think it's shameful that such thingscan go on in an organization that is supposed to contain the very bestpeople in the city. Now, I just want to tell you what I saw at one ofthese same Cotillons in the first part of the season. Lilly Stannarddisappeared after supper and people said she was sick and was goinghome, but I knew exactly what was the matter, because I had seen her atthe supper table. Well, I had gone outside on the steps to get amouthful of smoke, and my little cousin, Hetty, who has just come outand who is only nineteen, was out there with me because it was so warminside, and _she_ had seen Lilly Stannard filling up with champagne atsupper, and didn't know what to make of it. Well, we were just talkingabout it, and I was trying to make her believe too that Lilly Stannardwas sick, when here comes Lilly herself out to her carriage. Her maidwas supporting her, just about half-carrying her. Lilly's face was sopale that the powder on it looked like ashes, her hair was all comingdown, and she was hiccoughing. Now, " continued young Haight, his eyessnapping, and his voice raised so as to make itself heard above theexclamations of his two friends, "now, that's a _fact_; I give you myword of honour that it actually happened. It's not hearsay; I saw itmyself. It's fine, isn't it?" he went on, wrathfully. "It sounds well, don't it, when it's told _just as it happened_? The girl was dead drunk. Oh, she may have made a mistake; it may have been the first time; butthe fact remains that she always drinks a lot of champagne at theCotillons, and other girls have been drunk there, too. Mrs. Doane, thatVan tells about, was _drunk_; that's the word for it. She was dead drunkthat night, and there was my little cousin, Hetty, who had never seeneven a man the worse for his liquor, standing there and taking it allin. Of course, every one hushed the thing up or else said the poor girlwas sick; but Hetty knew, and what effect do you suppose it had upon alittle girl like that, who had always been told what nice, irreproachable people went to the Cotillons? Hetty will never be thesame little girl now that she was before. Oh, it makes me damned tired. "

"Well, I don't see, " said Geary, "why the girls should make such a fussabout the men keeping straight. I daresay now that this Stannard girlwould cut us all dead if she knew how drunk we were that night aboutfour months ago--that night that you fellows got thrown out of theLuxembourg. "

"No, I don't believe she would at all, " said young Haight. 

"She'd think better of you for it, " put in Vandover. "Look here, " hewent on, "all this talk of women demanding the same moral standard formen as men do for women is fine on paper, but how does it work in reallife? The women don't demand it at all. Take the average society girl ina big city like this. The girls that we meet at teas and receptions andfunctions--don't you suppose they know the life we men lead? Of coursethey do. They may not know it in detail, but they know in a general waythat we get drunk a good deal and go to disreputable houses and thatsort of thing, and do they ever cut us for that? No, sir; not much. Why, I tell you, they even have a little more respect for us. They likea man to know things, to be experienced. A man that keeps himselfstraight and clean and never goes around with fast women, they think isridiculous. Of course, a girl don't want to know the particulars of aman's vice; what they want is that a man should have the knowledge ofgood and evil, yes, and lots of evil. To a large extent I really believeit's the women's fault that the men are what they are. If they demandeda higher moral standard the men would come up to it; they encourage aman to go to the devil and then--and then when he's rotten with diseaseand ruins his wife and has children--what is it--_'spottedtoads'_--_then_ there's a great cry raised against the men, and womenwrite books and all, when half the time the woman has only encouragedhim to be what he is. "

"Oh, well now, " retorted young Haight, "you know that all the girls arenot like that. "

"Most of them that you meet in society are. "

"But they are the best people, aren't they?" demanded Geary. 

"No, " answered Vandover and young Haight in a breath, and young Haightcontinued:

"No; I believe that very few of what you would call the 'best people' goout in society--people like the Ravises, who have good principles, andkeep up old-fashioned virtues and all that. You know, " he added, "theyhave family prayers down there every morning after breakfast. "

Geary began to smile. 

"Well, now, I don't care, " retorted young Haight, "I like that sort ofthing. "

"So do I, " said Vandover. "Up home, now, the governor asks a blessing ateach meal, and somehow I wouldn't like to see him leave it off. But youcan't tell me, " he went on, going back to the original subject of theirdiscussion, "you can't tell me that American society girls, city-bred, and living at the end of the nineteenth century, don't know aboutthings. Why, man alive, how can they help but know? Look at those thathave brothers--don't you suppose they know, and if they know, why don'tthey use their influence to stop it? I tell you if any one were to writeup the lives that we young men of the city lead after dark, peoplewouldn't believe it. At that party that Henrietta Vance gave last monththere were about twenty fellows there and I knew every one, and I waslooking around the supper-table and wondering how many of those youngfellows had never been inside of a disreputable house, and there wasonly _one_ beside Dolly Haight!"

Young Haight exclaimed at this, laughing good-naturedly, twirling histhumbs, and casting down his eyes with mock-modesty. 

"Well, that's the truth just the same, " Vandover went on. "We young menof the cities are a fine lot. I'm not doing the baby act. I'm not layingthe blame on the girls altogether, but I say that in a measure the girlsare responsible. They want a man to be a _man_, to be up to date, to bea man of the world and to go in for that sort of vice, but they don'tknow, they don't dream, how rotten and disgusting it is. Oh, I'm notpreaching. I know I'm just as bad as the rest, and I'm going to have agood time while I can, but sometimes when you stop and think, and asDolly says 'call things by their right names, ' why you feel, don't youknow--_queer_. "

"I don't believe, Van, " responded young Haight, "that it's _quite_ asbad as you say. But it's even wrong, I think, that a good girl shouldknow anything about vice at all. "

"Oh, that's nonsense, " broke in Geary; "you can't expect nowadays that agirl, an American girl, can live twenty years in a city and not knowthings. Do you think the average modern girl is going to be theabsolutely pure and innocent girl of, say, fifty years ago? Not much;they are right on to things to-day. You can't tell them much. And it'sall right, too; they know how to look out for themselves, then. It'spart of their education; and I think if they haven't the knowledge ofevil, and don't know what sort of life the average young man leads, thattheir mothers ought to tell them. "

"Well, I don't agree with you, " retorted young Haight. "There'ssomething revolting in the idea that it's necessary a young girl shouldbe instructed in that sort of nastiness. "

"Why, not at all, " answered Geary. "Without it she might be ruined bythe first man that came along. It's a protection to her virtue. "

"Oh, pshaw! I don't believe it at all, " cried young Haight, impatiently. "I believe that a girl is born with a natural intuitivepurity that will lead her to protect her virtue just as instinctively asshe would dodge a blow; if she wants to go wrong she will have to makean effort herself to overcome that instinct. "

"And if she don't, " cried Vandover eagerly, "if she don't--if she don'tprotect her virtue, I say a man has a right to go as far with her as hecan. "

"If _he_ don't, some one else will, " said Geary. 

"Ah, you can't get around it that way, " answered young Haight, smiling. "It's a man's duty to protect a girl, even if he has to protect heragainst herself. "

When he got home that night Vandover thought over this remark of youngHaight's and in its light reviewed what had occurred in the room at theImperial. He felt aroused, nervous, miserably anxious. At length hetried to dismiss the subject from his mind; he woke up his drowsinggrate fire, punching it with the poker, talking to it, saying, "Wake upthere, you!" When he was undressed, he sat down before it in hisbathrobe, absorbing its heat luxuriously, musing into the coals, scratching himself as was his custom. But for all that he frettednervously and did not sleep well that night. 

Next morning he took his bath. Vandover enjoyed his bath and usuallyspent two or three hours over it. When the water was very warm he gotinto it with his novel on a rack in front of him and a box of chocolatesconveniently near. Here he stayed, for over an hour, eating and reading, and occasionally smoking a cigarette, until at length the enervatingheat of the steam gradually overcame him and he dropped off to sleep. 

On this particular morning between nine and ten Geary called, and as washis custom came right up to Vandover's room. Mr. Corkle, lying on thewolfskin in the bay window, jumped up with a gruff bark, but, recognizing him, came up wiggling his short tail. Geary saw Vandover'sclothes thrown about the floor and the closed door of the bathroom. 

"Hey, Van!" he called. "It's Charlie Geary. Are you taking a bath?"

"Hello! What? Who is it?" came from behind the door. "Oh, is that you, Charlie? Hello! how are you? Yes, I'm taking a bath. I must have beenasleep. Wait a minute; I'll be out. "

"No, I can't stop, " answered Geary. "I've an appointment downtown;overslept myself, and had to go without my breakfast; makes me feel allbroke up. I'll get something at the Grillroom about eleven; a steak, Iguess. But that isn't what I came to say. Ida Wade has killed herself!Isn't it fearful? I thought I'd drop in on my way downtown and speak toyou about it. It's dreadful! It's all in the morning papers. She musthave been out of her head. "

"What is it--what has she done?" came back Vandover's voice. "Papers--Ihaven't seen--what has she done? Tell me--what has she done?"

"Why, she committed suicide last night by taking laudanum, " answeredGeary, "and nobody knows why. She didn't leave any message or letter oranything of the kind. It's a fearful thing to happen so suddenly, but itseems she has been very despondent and broke up about something or otherfor a week or two. They found her in her room last night about teno'clock lying across her table with only her wrapper on. She wasunconscious then, and between one and two she died. She was unconsciousall the time. Well, I can't stop any longer, Van; I've an appointmentdowntown. I was just going past the house and I thought I would run upand speak to you about Ida. I'll see you again pretty soon and we'lltalk this over. "

Mr. Corkle politely attended Geary to the head of the stairs, then wentback to Vandover's room, and after blowing under the crack of thebathroom door to see if his master was still there returned to thewolfskin and sat down on his short tail and yawned. He was impatient tosee Vandover and thought he stayed in his bath an unnecessarily longtime. He went up to the door again and listened. It was very stillinside; he could not hear the slightest sound, and he wondered againwhat could keep Vandover in there so long. He had too much self-respectto whine, so he went back to the wolfskin and curled up in the sun, butdid not go to sleep. 

By and by, after a very long time, the bathroom door swung open, andVandover came out. He had not dried himself and was naked and wet. Hewent directly to the table in the centre of the room and picked up themorning paper, looking for the article of which Geary had spoken. Atfirst he could not find it, and then it suddenly jumped into prominencefrom out the gray blur of the print on an inside page beside anadvertisement of a charity concert for the benefit of a home forincurable children. There was a picture of Ida taken from a photographlike one that she had given him, and which even then was thrust betweenthe frame and glass of his mirror. He read the article through; itsketched her life and character and the circumstances of her death withthe relentless terseness of the writer cramped for space. According tothis view, the causes of her death were unknown. It had been remarkedthat she had of late been despondent and in ill health. 

Vandover threw the paper down and straightened up, naked and dripping, putting both hands to his head. In a low voice under his breath he said:

"What have I done? What have I done now?"

Like the sudden unrolling of a great scroll he saw his responsibilityfor her death and for the ruin of that something in her which was morethan life. What would become of her now? And what would become of him?For a single brief instant he tried to persuade himself that Ida hadconsented after all. But he knew that this was not so. She hadconsented, but he had forced her consent; he was none the less guilty. And then in that dreadful moment when he saw things in their true light, all the screens of conventionality and sophistry torn away, the wordsthat young Haight had spoken came back to him. No matter if she hadconsented, it was his duty to have protected her, even against herself. 

He walked the floor with great strides, steaming with the warm water, striking his head with his hands and crying out, "Oh, this is fearful, fearful! What have I done now? I have killed her; yes, and worse!"

He could think of nothing worse that could have happened to him. What aweight of responsibility to carry--he who hated responsibility of anykind, who had always tried to escape from anything that was evenirksome, who loved his ease, his comfort, his peace of mind!

At every moment now he saw the different consequences of what he haddone. Now, it was that his life was ruined, and that all through itscourse this crime would hang like a millstone about his neck. Therecould be no more enjoyment of anything for him; all the little pleasuresand little self-indulgences which till now had delighted him werespoiled and rendered impossible. The rest of his life would have to beone long penitence; any pleasure he might take would only make his crimeseem more abominable. 

Now, it was a furious revolt against his mistake that had led him tosuch a fearful misunderstanding of Ida; a silent impotent rage againsthimself and against the brute in him that he had permitted to drag himto this thing. 

Now, it was a wave of an immense pity for the dead girl that overcamehim, and he saw himself as another person, destroying what she mostcherished for the sake of gratifying an unclean passion. 

Now, it was a terror for himself. What would they do to him? His part inthe affair was sure to be found out. He tried to think what thepunishment for such crime would be; but would he not be considered amurderer as well? Could he not hang for this? His imagination was nevermore active; his fear never more keen. At once a thousand plans ofconcealment or escape were tossed up in his mind. 

But worse than all was the thought of that punishment from which therewas absolutely no escape, and of that strange other place where hiscrime would assume right proportions and receive right judgment, nomatter how it was palliated or evaded here. Then for an instant it wasas if a gulf without bottom had opened under him, and he had to fighthimself back from its edge for sheer self-preservation. To look too longin that direction was simple insanity beyond any doubt. 

And all this time he threw himself to and fro in his room, his longwhite arms agitated and shaking, his wet and shining hair streaming farover his face, and the sparse long fell upon his legs and ankles, allstraight and trickling with moisture. At times an immense unreasoningterror would come upon him all of a sudden, horrible, crushing, so thathe rolled upon the bed groaning and sobbing, digging his nails into hisscalp, shutting his teeth against a desire to scream out, writhing inthe throes of terrible mental agony. 

That day and the next were fearful. To Vandover everything in his worldwas changed. All that had happened before the morning of Geary's visitappeared to him to have occurred in another phase of his life, years andyears ago. He lay awake all night long, listening to the creaking of thehouse and the drip of the water faucets. He turned from his food withrepugnance, told his father that he was sick, and kept indoors as muchas he could, reading all the papers to see if he had been found out. Tohis great surprise and relief, a theory gained ground that Ida wassubject to spells of ill-health, to long fits of despondency, and thather suicide had occurred during one of these. If Ida's family knewanything of the truth, it was apparent that they were doing their bestto cover up their disgrace. Vandover was too thoroughly terrified forhis own safety to feel humiliated at this possible explanation of hissecurity. There was as yet not even a guess that implicated him. 

He thought that he was bearing up under the strain well enough, but onthe evening of the second day, as he was pretending to eat his supper, his father sent the servant out and turning to him, said kindly:

"What is it, Van? Aren't you well nowadays?"

"Not very, sir, " answered Vandover. "My throat is troubling me again. "

"You look deathly pale, " returned his father. "Your eyes are sunken andyou don't eat. "

"Yes, I know, " said Vandover. "I'm not feeling well at all. I think I'llgo to bed early to-night. I don't know"--he continued, after a pause, feeling a desire to escape from his father's observation--"I don't knowbut what I'll go up now. Will you tell the cook to feed Mr. Corkle forme?"

His father looked at him as he pushed back from the table. 

"What's the matter, Van?" he said. "Is there anything wrong?"

"Oh, I'll be all right in the morning, " he replied nervously. "I feel alittle under the weather just now. "

"Don't you think you had better tell me what the trouble is?" said hisfather, kindly. 

"There _isn't_ any trouble, sir, " insisted Vandover. "I just feel alittle under the weather. "

But as he was starting to undress in his room a sudden impulse tookpossession of him, an overwhelming childish desire to tell his fatherall about it. It was beginning to be more than he was able to bearalone. He did not allow himself to stop and reason with this impulse, but slipped on his vest again and went downstairs. He found his fatherin the smoking-room, sitting unoccupied in the huge leather chair beforethe fireplace. 

As Vandover came in the Old Gentleman rose and without a word, as if hehad been expecting him, went to the door and shut and locked it. He cameback and stood before the fireplace watching Vandover as he approachedand took the chair he had just vacated. Vandover told him of the affairin two or three phrases, without choosing his words, repeating the sameexpressions over and over again, moved only with the desire to have itover and done with. 

It was like a burst of thunder. The worst his father had feared was notas bad as this. He had expected some rather serious boyish trouble, butthis was the crime of a man. Still watching his son, he put out hishand, groping for the edge of the mantelpiece, and took hold of it witha firm grasp. For a moment he said nothing; then:

"And--and you say you seduced her. "

Without looking up, Vandover answered, "Yes, sir, " and then he added, "It is horrible; when I think of it I sometimes feel as though I shouldgo off my head. I--"

But the Old Gentleman interrupted him, putting out his hand:

"Don't, " he said quickly, "don't say anything now--please. "

They were both silent for a long time, Vandover gazing stupidly at alittle blue and red vase on the table, wondering how his father wouldtake the news, what next he would say; the Old Gentleman drawing hisbreath short, occasionally clearing his throat, his eyes wanderingvaguely about the walls of the room, his fingers dancing upon the edgeof the mantelpiece. Then at last he put his hand to his neck as thoughloosening his collar and said, looking away from Vandover:

"Won't you--won't you please go out--go away for a little while--leaveme alone for a little while. "

When Vandover closed the door, he shut the edge of a rug between it andthe sill; as he reopened it to push the rug out of the way he saw hisfather sink into the chair and, resting his arm upon the table, bow hishead upon it. 

He did not see his father again that night, and at breakfast nextmorning not a word was exchanged between them, but his father did not godowntown to his office that forenoon, as was his custom. Vandover wentup to his room immediately after breakfast and sat down before thewindow that overlooked the little garden in the rear of the house. 

He was utterly miserable, his nerves were gone, and at times he wouldfeel again a touch of that hysterical, unreasoning terror that had comeupon him so suddenly the other morning. 

Now there was a new trouble: the blow he had given his father. He couldsee that the Old Gentleman was crushed under it, and that he had neverimagined that his son could have been so base as this. Vandover wonderedwhat he was going to do. It would seem as if he had destroyed all of hisfather's affection for him, and he trembled lest the Old Gentlemanshould cast him off, everything. Even if his father did not disown him, he did not see how they could ever be the same. They might go on livingtogether in the same house, but as far apart from each other asstrangers. This, however, did not seem natural; it was much more likelythat his father would send him away, anywhere out of his sight, forwarding, perhaps through his lawyer or agents, enough money to keephim alive. The more Vandover thought of this, the more he becameconvinced that such would be his father's decision. The Old Gentlemanhad spent the night over it, time enough to make up his mind, and thefact that he had neither spoken to him nor looked at him that morningwas only an indication of what Vandover was to expect. He fancied heknew his father well enough to foresee how this decision would becarried out, not with any imprecations or bursts of rage, but calmly, sadly, inevitably. 

Toward noon his father came into the room, and Vandover turned to facehim and to hear what he had to say as best he could. He knew he shouldnot break down under it, for he felt as though his misery had reachedits limit, and that nothing could touch or affect him much now. 

His father had a decanter of port in one hand and a glass in the other;he filled the glass and held it toward Vandover, saying gently:

"I think you had better take some of this: you've hardly eaten anythingin three days. Do you feel pretty bad, Van?"

Vandover put the glass down and got upon his feet. All at once a greatsob shook him. 

"Oh, governor!" he cried. 

It was as if it had been a mother or a dear sister. The prodigal son puthis arms about his father's neck for the first time since he had been alittle boy, and clung to him and wept as though his heart were breaking. 

Chapter Eight

"We will begin all over again, Van, " his father said later that sameday. "We will start in again and try to forget all this, not as much aswe _can_, but as much as we _ought_, and live it down, and from now onwe'll try to do the thing that is right and brave and good. "

"Just try me, sir!" cried Vandover. 

That was it, begin all over again. He had never seen more clearly thannow that other life which it was possible for him to live, a life thatwas above the level of self-indulgence and animal pleasures, a life thatwas not made up of the society of lost women or fast girls, but yet alife of keen enjoyment. 

Whenever he had been deeply moved about anything, the power and desireof art had grown big within him, and he turned to it now, instinctivelyand ardently. 

It was all the better half of him that was aroused--the better half thathe had kept in check ever since his college days, the better half thatcould respond to the influences of his father and of Turner Ravis, thatother Vandover whom he felt was his real self, Vandover the true man, Vandover the artist, not Vandover the easy-going, the self-indulgent, not Vandover the lover of women. 

From this time forward he was resolved to give up the world that he hadhitherto known, and devote himself with all his strength to his art. Inthe first glow of that resolution he thought that he had never beenhappier; he wondered how he could have been blind so long; what was allthat life worth compared with the life of a great artist, compared evenwith a life of sturdy, virile effort and patient labour even thoughbarren of achievement?

And then something very curious happened: The little picture of TurnerRavis that hung over his mantelpiece caught his glance, looking out athim with her honest eyes and sweet smile. In an instant he seemed tolove her as he had never imagined he could love any one. All that wasbest in him went out toward her in a wave of immense tenderness; thetears came to his eyes, he could not tell why. Ah, he was not goodenough for her now, but he would love her so well that he would growbetter, and between her and his good father and his art, the betterVandover, the real Vandover, would grow so large and strong within himthat there should be no room for the other Vandover, the Vandover ofFlossie and of the Imperial, the Vandover of the brute. 

During the course of talk that day between himself and his father, itwas decided that Vandover should go away for a little while. He was in afair way to be sick from worry and nervous exhaustion, and a sea trip toSan Diego and back seemed to be what he stood most in need of. Besidesthis, his father told him, it was inevitable that his share in Ida'sdeath would soon be known; in any case it would be better for him to beaway from the city. 

"You take whatever steamer sails next, " said his father, "and! go downto Coronado and stay there as long as you like, three weeks anyway; staythere until you get well, and when you get back, Van, we'll have a talkabout Paris again. Perhaps you would like to get away this winter, maybeas soon as next month. You think it over while you are away, and whenyou want to go, why, we'll go over together, Van. What do you think?Would you like to have your old governor along for a little while?"

 * * * * *

The _Santa Rosa_ cast off the company's docks the next day about noon inthe midst of a thick, cold mist that was half rain. The Old Gentlemancame to see Vandover off. 

The steamer, which seemed gigantic, was roped and cabled to the piers, feeling the water occasionally with her screw to keep the hawsers taut. About the forward gangway a band of overworked stevedores were stowingin the last of the cargo, aided by a donkey engine, which every now andthen broke out into a spasm of sputtering coughs. At the passengergangway a great crowd was gathered, laughing and exchanging remarks withthe other crowd that leaned over the railings of the decks. 

There was a smell of pitch and bilge in the air mingled with the reek ofhot oil from the engines. About twelve o'clock an odour of cookingarose, and the steward went about the decks drumming upon a snoring gongfor dinner. 

Half an hour later the great whistle roared interminably, drowning outthe chorus of "good-byes" that rose on all sides. Long before it hadceased, the huge bulk had stirred, almost imperceptibly at first, then, gathering headway, swung out into the stream and headed for the GoldenGate. 

Vandover was in the stern upon the hurricane deck, shaking his hattoward his father, who had tied his handkerchief to his cane and waswaving it at him as he stood upon an empty packing-case. As the throngof those who were left behind dwindled away, one by one, Vandover couldsee him standing there, almost the last of all, and long after thefigure itself was lost in the blur of the background he still saw thetiny white dot of the handkerchief moving back and forth, as if spellingout a signal to him across the water. 

The fog drew a little higher as they passed down the bay. To the leftwas the city swarming upon its hills, a dull gray mass, cut in parallelfurrows by the streets; straggling and uneven where it approached thesand-dunes in the direction of the Presidio. To the right the long slopeof Tamalpais climbed up and was lost in the fog, while directly in frontof them was the Golden Gate, a bleak prospect of fog-drenched headlandson either side of a narrow strip of yellow, frothy water. Beyond that, the open Pacific. 

A brisk cannonade was going on from the Presidio and from Black Point, and both forts were hidden behind a great curtain of tumbling whitesmoke that rolled up to mingle with the fog. Everybody was on that sideof the deck watching and making guesses as to the reason of it. It wasperhaps target practice. Ah, it was a good thing that the steamer wasnot in line with the target. Perhaps, though, that was the safest placeto be. Some one told about a derelict that was anchored as a target offthe heads, and shot at for fifteen hours without being touched once. Oh, they were great gunners at the Presidio! But just the same the sound ofcannon was a fine thing to hear; it excited one. A noisy party ofgentlemen already installed in the smoking-room came out on deck for amoment with their cards in their hands, and declared laughingly that thewhole thing was only a salute in the _Santa Rosa's_ honour. 

By the middle of the afternoon, Vandover began to see that for him thetrip was going to be tedious. He knew no one on board and had come awayso hurriedly that he had neglected to get himself any interesting books. He spent an hour or two promenading the upper deck until the cold windthat was blowing drove him to the smoking-room, where he tried tointerest himself in watching some of the whist games that were inprogress. 

It surprised him that he could find occasion to be bored so soon afterwhat had happened; but he no longer wished to occupy his mind bybrooding over anything so disagreeable and wanted some sort of amusementto divert and entertain him. Vandover had so accustomed himself to thatkind of self-indulgence that he could not go long without it. It hadbecome a simple necessity for him to be amused, and just now he thoughthimself justified in seeking it in order to forget about Ida's death. Hehad dwelt upon this now for nearly four days, until it had come to besome sort of a formless horror that it was necessary to avoid. He couldget little present enjoyment by looking forward to the new life that hewas going to begin and in which his father, his art, and Turner Raviswere to be the chief influences. The thought of this prospect did givehim pleasure, but he had for so long a time fed his mind upon the moretangible and concrete enjoyments of the hour and minute that it demandedthem now continually. 

He sat for a long time upon the slippery leather cushions of thesmoking-room trying desperately to become interested in the whist game, or gazing awestruck at the man at his elbow who was smoking blackPerrique in a pipe, inhaling the smoke and blowing it out through hisnose. After a while he returned to the deck. 

There it was cold and wet and a strong wind was blowing from the ocean. Four miles to the east an endless procession of brown, bare hills filedslowly past under the fog. The sky was a dreary brown and the leagues ofshifting water a melancholy desert of gray. Besides these there wasnothing but the bleached hills and the drifting fog; the wind blewcontinually, passing between the immense reaches of sea and sky withprolonged sighs of infinite sadness. 

Three seagulls followed the vessel, now in a long line, now abreast, andnow in a triangle. They sailed slowly about, dipping and rising in thevast hollows between the waves, turning their heads constantly from sideto side. 

Vandover went to the stern and for a time found amusement in watchingthe indicator of the patent log, and listening for its bell. But hisinterest in this was soon exhausted, and he returned to the smoking-roomagain, reflecting that this was only the first afternoon and that therestill remained two days that somehow had to be gone through with. 

About five o'clock, as he was on his way to get a glass of seltzer, hesaw Grace Irving, the girl of the red hat whom he had met at theMechanics' Fair, sitting on a camp-stool just inside of her stateroomeating a banana. The sight of her startled him out of all composure forthe minute. His first impulse was to speak to her, but he reflected thathe was done with all that now and that it was better for him to pass onas though he had not seen her, but as he came in front of her she lookedup quickly and nodded to him very pleasantly in such a way that it wasevident she had already known he was on board. It was impossible forVandover to ignore her, and though he did not stop, he looked back ather and smiled as he took off his hat. 

He went down to supper in considerable agitation, marvelling at thecoincidence that had brought them together again. He wondered, too, howshe could be so pleasant to him now, for as a matter of course he hadnot kept the engagement he had made with her at the Fair. At the sametime, he felt that she must think him a great fool not to have stoppedand spoken to her; either he should have done that or else have ignoredher little bow entirely. He was firmly resolved to have nothing to dowith her, yet it chafed him to feel that she thought him diffident. Itseemed now as though he owed it to himself to speak to her if only for aminute and make some sort of an excuse. By the time he had finished hissupper, he had made up his mind to do this, and then to avoid her forthe rest of the trip. 

As he was leaving the dining saloon he met her coming down the stairsalone, dressed very prettily in a checked travelling ulster with a grayvelvet collar, and a little fore and aft cap to match. He stopped herand made his excuses; she did not say much in reply and seemed a littleoffended, so that Vandover could not refrain from adding that he wasvery glad to see her on board. 

"Ah, you don't seem as if you were, very, " she said, putting out herchin at him prettily and passing on. It was an awkward and embarrassinglittle scene and Vandover was glad that it was over. But the thing hadbeen done now, he had managed to show the girl that he did not wish tokeep up the acquaintance begun at the Fair, and from now on she wouldkeep out of his way. 

He took a few turns on the upper deck, smoking his pipe, walking aboutfast, while his dinner digested. The sun went down behind the blackhorizon in an immense blood-red nebula of mist, the sea turned from grayto dull green and then to a lifeless brown, and the _Santa Rosa's_lights began to glow at her quarters and at her masthead; in her sternthe screw drummed and threshed monotonously, a puff of warm air reekingwith the smell of hot oil came from the engine hatch, and in an instantVandover saw again the curved roof of the immense iron-vaulted depot, the passengers on the platform staring curiously at the group around theinvalid's chair, the repair gang in spotted blue overalls, and the hugewhite cat dozing on an empty baggage truck. 

The wind freshened and he returned to the smoking-room to get warm. Thesame game of whist was going on, and the man with the Perrique tobaccohad filled another pipe and continued to blow the smoke through hisnose. 

After a while Vandover went back to the main deck and wandered aft, where he stood a long time looking over the stern, interested inwatching the receding water. It was dark by this time, the wind hadincreased and had blown the fog to landward, and the ocean had changedto a deep blue, the blue of the sky at night; here and there a wavebroke, leaving a line of white on the sea like the trail of a fallingstar across the heavens, while the white haze of the steamer's wakewandered vaguely across the intense blue like the milky way across thezenith. 

Vandover was horribly bored. There seemed to be absolutely nothing toamuse him, unless, indeed, he should decide to renew his acquaintancewith Grace Irving. But this was out of the question now, for he knewwhat it would lead to. Even if he should yield to the temptation, hedid not see how he could take any great pleasure in that sort of thingagain, after what had happened. 

Of all the consequences of what he had done, the one which had come toafflict him the most poignantly was that his enjoyment of life wasspoiled. At first he had thought that he never could take pleasure inanything again so long as he should live, that his good times were gone. But as his pliable character rearranged itself to suit the newenvironment, he began to see that there would come a time when he wouldgrow accustomed to Ida's death and when his grief would lose itssharpness. He had even commenced to look forward to this time and tolong for it as a sort of respite and relief. He believed at first thatit would not be for a great many years; but even so soon after thesuicide as this, he saw with a little thrill of comfort that it would bebut a matter of months. At the same time Vandover was surprised and eventroubled at the ease with which he was recovering from the first shock. He wondered at himself, because he knew he had been sincere in his talkwith his father. Vandover was not given to self-analysis, but now for aminute he was wondering if this reaction were due to his youth, his goodhealth and his good spirits, or whether there was something wrong withhim. However, he dismissed these thoughts with a shrug of his shouldersas though freeing himself from some disagreeable burden. Ah, he was noworse than the average; one could get accustomed to almost anything; itwas only in the books that people had their lives ruined; and to broodover such things was unnatural and morbid. Ah! what a dreadful thing tobecome morbid! He could not bring Ida back, or mitigate what he haddone, or be any more sorry for it by making himself miserable. Well, then! Only he would let that sort of thing alone after this, the lessonhad been too terrible; he would try and enjoy himself again, only itshould be in other ways. 

Later in the evening, about nine o'clock, when nearly all the passengerswere in bed, and Vandover was leaning over the side of the boatfinishing his pipe before turning in himself, Grace Irving came out ofher stateroom and sat down at a little distance from him, looking outover the water, humming a little song. She and Vandover were the onlypeople to be seen on the deserted promenade. 

Vandover saw her without moving, only closing his teeth tighter on hispipe. It was evident that Grace expected him to speak to her and hadgiven him a chance for an admirable little tête-à-tête. For a momentVandover's heart knocked at his throat; he drew his breath once or twicesharply through his nose. In an instant all the old evil instincts wereback again, urging and clamouring never so strong, never so insistent. But Vandover set his face against them, honestly, recalling hisresolution, telling himself that he was done with that life. As he hadsaid, the lesson had been too terrible. 

He turned about resolutely, and walked slowly away from her. The girllooked after him a moment, surprised, and then called out:

"Oh, Mr. Vandover!"

Vandover paused a moment, looking back. 

"Where are you going?" she went on. "Didn't you see me here? Don't youwant to come and talk to me?"

"No, " answered Vandover, smiling good-humouredly, trying to be as politeas was possible. "No, I don't. " Then he took a sudden resolution, andadded gravely, "I don't want to have anything to do with you. "

In his stateroom, as he sat on the edge of his berth winding his watchbefore going to bed, he thought over what he had said. "That was a meanway to talk to a girl, " he told himself, "but, " he added, "it's the onlything to do. I simply couldn't start in again after all that's happened. Oh, yes, that was the right thing to do!"

He felt a glow of self-respect for his firmness and his decision, apride in the unexpected strength, the fine moral rigour that he haddeveloped at the critical moment. He _could_ turn sharp around when hewanted to, after all. Ah, yes, that was the only thing to do if one wasto begin all over again and live down what had happened. He wished thatthe governor might know how well he had acted. 

Chapter Nine

Vandover stayed for two weeks at Coronado Beach and managed to pass thetime very pleasantly. He was fortunate enough to find a party at thehotel whom he knew very well. In the morning they bathed or sailed onthe bay, and in the afternoon rode out with a pack of greyhounds andcoursed jack-rabbits on the lower end of the island. Vandover's goodspirits began to come back to him, his appetite returned, his nervessteadied themselves, he slept eight hours every night. But for all thathe did not think that things were the same with him. He said to himselfthat he was a changed man; that he was older, more serious. 

During this time he received several letters from his father which heanswered very promptly. In the course of their correspondence it wasarranged that they should both leave for Europe on the twenty-fifth ofthat month, and that consequently, Vandover should return to the citynot later than the fifteenth. Vandover was having such a good time, however, that he stayed over the regular steamer in order to go upon amoonlight picnic down on the beach. The next afternoon he took passagefor San Francisco on a second-class boat. 

This homeward passage turned out to be one long misery for Vandover. Hehad never been upon a second-class boat before and had never imaginedthat anything could be so horribly uncomfortable or disagreeable. The_Mazatlan_ was overcrowded, improperly ballasted, and rolledcontinually. The table was bad, the accommodations inadequate, thepassengers hopelessly uncongenial. Cold and foggy weather accompaniedthe boat continually. The same endless procession of bleached hillsstill filed past under the mist, going now in the opposite direction, and the same interminable game of whist was played in the smoking-room, only with greasier, second-class cards, amidst the acrid smoke ofsecond-class tobacco. At supper, the first day out, a little Jew who satnext to Vandover, and who invariably wore a plush skull-cap withear-laps, tried to sell him two flawed and yellow diamonds. 

The evening after leaving Port Hartford the _Mazatlan_ ran into dirtyweather. It was not stormy--simply rough, disagreeable, the wind and seadirectly ahead. Half an hour after supper Vandover began to be sick. Fora long time he sat on the slippery leather cushions in the nastysmoking-room, sucking limes, drinking seltzer, and trying to beinterested in the card games. He dozed a little and awoke, feelingwretched, covered with a cold sweat, racked by a pain in the back of hishead, and tortured by an abominable nausea. He groped his way out uponthe swaying, gusty deck, descended to his cabin, and went to bed. 

The _Mazatlan_ had booked more passengers than could be accommodated, the steward being obliged to make up beds on the floor of the diningsaloon and even upon some of the tables. Vandover had not been able toget a stateroom, and so had put up with a bunk in the common cabin atthe stern of the vessel. 

About two o'clock in the morning he woke up in this place frightfullysick at the stomach and wretched in body and mind. He had an upper bunk, and for a long time he lay on his back rolling about with the rolling ofthe steamer, vaguely staring straight above him at the roof of thecabin, hardly a hand's-breadth above his face. The roof was iron, painted with a white paint very thick and shiny, and was studded withinnumerable bolt-heads and enormous nuts. By and by, for no particularreason, he rose on his elbow and, leaning over the side of his berth, looked about him. 

The light streaming from two strong-smelling ship's lanterns showed thecabin, long and narrow. There were two cramped passageways, on eitherside of which the tiers of bunks, mere open racks filled with bedding, rose to the roof, those occupied by women hung with spotted turkey-redcalico. 

The cabin was two decks below the open air and every berth was occupied, the only ventilation being through the door. The air was foul with thestench of bilge, the reek of the untrimmed lamps, the exhalation of somany breaths, and the close, stale smell of warm bedding. 

A vague murmur rose in the air, the sound of deep breathing, the movingof restless bodies between the coarse sheets, the momentary noise of thescratching of blunt finger-tips, a subdued cough, the moan of a sleepingchild. All the while the shaft of the screw, seemingly close beneaththe floor, pounded and rumbled without a moment's stop. 

Immediately underneath Vandover two men, saloonkeepers, awoke and littheir cigars and began a long discussion on the question of license. Twoor three bunks distant, a woman, a Salvation Army lassie, one of a largeparty of Salvationists who were on board, began to cough violently, choking for breath. Across the aisle the little Jew of the plushskull-cap with ear-laps snored monotonously in alternate keys, one aguttural bass, the other a rasping treble. The _Mazatlan_ was rollingworse than ever, now up and down, now from side to side, and now withlong forward lurches that combined the other two motions. During one ofthese latter the little Jew was half awakened. He stopped snoring, leaving an abrupt silence in the air. Then Vandover could hear himthreshing about uneasily; still half asleep he began to mutter andswear: "Dat's it, r-roll; I woult if I were you; r-roll, dat'srighd--dhere, soh--ah, geep it oop--r-roll, you damnt ole tub, yust_r-r-roll_. "

The continued pitching, the foul air, and the bitter smoke from thesaloonkeepers' cigars became more than Vandover could stand. His stomachturned, at every instant he gagged and choked. He suddenly made up hismind that he could stand it no longer, and determined to go on deck, preferring to walk the night out rather than spend it in the cabin. Hedrew on his shoes without lacing them, and dressed himself hurriedly, omitting his collar and scarf; he put his hat on his tumbled hair, swunginto his overcoat, and, wrapping his travelling-rug around him, startedup toward the deck. On the stairs he was seized with such a nausea thathe could hardly keep from vomiting where he stood, but he rushed outupon the lower deck, gaining the rail with a swimming head. 

He sank back upon an iron capstan with a groan, weak and trembling, hiseyes full of tears, a bursting feeling in his head. He was utterlymiserable. 

It was about half-past two in the morning, and a cold raw wind waswhistling through the cordage and flinging the steamer's smoke down uponthe decks and upon the water like a great veil of crêpe. A sicklyhalf-light was spread out between the sea and the heavens. By its meanshe could barely distinguish great, livid blotches of fog or cloudwhirling across the black sky, and the unnumbered multitude ofwhite-topped waves rushing past, plunging and rising like a vast herd ofblack horses galloping on with shaking white manes. Low in the northeasthorizon lay a long pale blur of light against which the bow of thesteamer, inky black, rose and fell and heaved and sank incessantly. Tothe landward side and very near at hand, so near that he could hear thesurf at their feet, the long procession of hills continually defiled, vague and formless masses between the sea and sky. The wind, the noiseof the waves rushing past, the roll of the breakers and the groaning ofthe cordage all blended together and filled the air with a prolongedminor note, lamentable beyond words. The atmosphere was cold and damp, the spray flying like icy bullets. The sombre light that hung over thesea reflected itself in long blurred streaks upon the wet decks andslippery iron rods. Here and there about the rigging a tremulous ball oforange haze showed where the ship's lanterns were swung. Directly underhim in the stern the screw snarled incessantly in a vortex of boilingwater that forever swirled away and was lost in the darkness. From timeto time the indicator of the patent log, just beside him, rang its tinybell. 

Vandover drew his rug about him and went up to the main deck, dragginghis shoelaces after him. The wind was stronger here, but he bent hishead against it and went on toward the smoking-room, for the idea hadoccurred to him that he could shut himself in there and pass the rest ofthe night upon the cushions; anything was better than returning to thecabin downstairs. 

The deck was jerked away from beneath his feet, and he was hurledforward, many times his own length, against a companionway, breaking histhumb as he fell. A second shock threw him down again as he rose;everything about him shook and danced like glassware upon a jarredtable. Then the whole ship rose under his feet as no wave had everlifted it, and fell again, not into yielding water, but upon somethingthat drove through its sides as if they had been paper. A deafening, crashing noise split the mournful howl of the wind, and far underneathhim Vandover heard a rapid series of blows, a dreadful rumbling andpounding that thrilled and quivered through all the vessel's frameworkup to her very mast-tips. On all fours upon the deck, holding to a cleatwith one hand, he braced himself, watching and listening, his senses allalive, his muscles tense. In the direction of the engine-room he heardthe furious ringing of a bell. The screw stopped. The _Mazatlan_wallowed helplessly in the trough of the sea. 

Vandover's very first impulse was a wild desire of saving himself; hehad not the least thought for any one else. Every soul on board mightdrown, so only he should be saved. It was the primitive animal instinct, the blind adherence to the first great law, an impulse that in thisfirst moment of excitement could not be resisted. He ran forward andsnatched a life-preserver from the pile that was stored beneath thebridge. 

As he was fastening it about him, the passengers began to pour out uponthe deck, from their staterooms, from the companionways, and from thedining saloon. In an instant the deck was crowded. Men and women ranabout in all directions, pushing and elbowing each other, callingshrilly over one another's heads. Near to Vandover a woman, clothed onlyin her night-dress, clung to the arm of a half-dressed man, crying againand again for a certain "August. " She wrung her hands in her excitement;at times the man shouted "August!" in a quavering bass voice. "August, here we are over _here_!" "Oh, where _is_ Gussie?" wailed the woman. "Here, here I am, " another voice answered at length; "here I am, I'm allright. " "Oh, " exclaimed the woman with a sob of relief, "here's Gussie;now let's all keep together whatever happens. "

All about the decks just such scenes were going on; most of the womenwore only their night-gowns or dressing-gowns, their hair tumbling downand blowing about their cheeks, their bare feet slipping and sliding onthe heaving wet decks. The men were in shirt and drawers, standing inthe centre of their family groups, silent, excited, very watchful;others of them ran about searching for life-preservers, shoutinghoarsely, talking to themselves, speaking all their thoughts aloud. 

But there was no panic; there was excitement, confusion, bewilderment, but no excess of fear, no unreasoning terror, deaf, blind, utterlyreckless. 

All at once a man parted the crowd with shoulders and elbows, passingalong the deck with great strides. It was the captain. The next instantVandover saw him on the bridge, hatless, without his vest or his coat, just as he had sprung from his berth. From time to time he shouted hisorders, leaning over the rail, gesturing with his arm. The crew ranabout, carrying out his directions, jostling the men out of the way, knocking over women and children, speaking to no one, intent only upontheir work. 

In a few moments the deck steward and one of the officers appeared amidthe crowd of passengers. They were very calm, and at every instantshouted, "There is no danger; every one go back to his berth; clear thedeck, please; no danger, gentlemen; everybody be quiet; go back to yourberths!" The steward even came up to Vandover and pulled at the strapsof his life-preserver, exclaiming, "Take this off! There is no danger;you're only exciting the other passengers. Come on, take it off and goback to your berth. "

Vandover obeyed him, slowly loosening the buckles, looking around him, bewildered, but still holding the preserver in his hands. 

Best of all, however, was the example of a huge old fellow wearing thecap and clothes of a boatswain's mate of a United States battleship; heseemed to dominate the excited throng in a moment, going about fromgroup to group, quieting them all, spreading a feeling of confidence andcourage throughout the whole ship. He was an inspiration to Vandover, who began to be ashamed of having yielded to the first selfish instinctof preservation. 

Just as the boatswain's mate was offering his flask to the woman whomVandover had heard calling for "August, " the _Mazatlan_ lurched heavilyonce or twice, and then slowly listed to the port side, going overfarther and farther every instant. Vandover heard a renewed rumbling andsmashing noise far beneath him, and in some way knew that the cargo wasshifting. Instead of righting herself, the ship began to heave over moreand more. The whole sea on the port side seemed to rise up to meet therail; under Vandover's feet the incline of the deck grew steeper andsteeper. All at once his excitement came back upon him with thesharpness of a blow, and he caught at the brass grating of a skylightexclaiming: "By God! We're going _over_. " The women screamed withterror; one heard the men shouting, "Look out! hold on! catch holdthere!" An old man, wearing only a gray flannel shirt, lost his footing;he fell, and rolled over and over down the deck stupidly, inertly, without making the slightest effort to save himself, without utteringthe least cry; he brought up suddenly against the rail, with a greatjar, the shock of his soft, withered body against the hard wood soundinglike the sodden impact of a bundle of damp clothes. There was a cry;they thought him killed--Vandover had seen his head gashed against asharp angle of iron--but he jumped up with sudden agility, clambering upthe slope of the deck with the strength and rapidity of an acrobat. 

There had been a great rush to the other side of the ship, a wildscrambling up the steep deck, over skylights and between masts andventilators. People clung to anything, to cleats, to steamer chairs, tothe brass railings, to the person who stood next to them. They no longerlistened to the protestations of the brave boatswain's mate; that lastlong roll had terrified them. The sense of a great catastrophe began tospread and widen all about like the rising of some fearful invisiblemist. "_What_ had happened? What was to become of them?"

While Vandover clung to the starboard rail, rolling his eyes wildly, trying to control himself again, a young man, a waiter in the diningsaloon, rushed up to him from out of the crowd, holding out his hand. "It's all up!" he shouted. 

Vandover grasped his extended palm, shaking hands with him fervently, without knowing why. The two looked straight into each other's eyes, their hands gripped close; then the waiter turned away, and dropping onhis knees began to pray silently to himself. 

Vandover saw a great many others praying; there was even a large groupgathered about the band of Salvationists trying to raise a hymn. Everynow and then their voices could be heard, singing all out of tune, amedley of discords. 

At one time Vandover caught sight of the little Jew of the plush capwith the ear-laps; he was grovelling upon the deck, huddling a smallblack satchel to his breast; without a moment's pause he screamed, "God'a' mercy! God 'a' mercy!"

The sight revolted Vandover and in a great measure helped to calm him. In a few moments he had himself in hand again, cool and self-collected, resolved not to act like a fool before the others, but to help them ifhe could. 

Near to him a Salvation Army lassie was down upon her knees trying tocord up a huge bundle wrapped in sail-cloth. "Here, " exclaimed Vandovercoming up to her, "let me help. I'll tie this for you--you put _this_on. " He took the wet, stiff ropes from between her fingers and held thelife-preserver toward her; but she refused it. 

"No, " she cried enthusiastically, "I'm going to be saved anyhow; I ain'tgoing to drown; Jesus is watching over me. Oh!" she suddenly exclaimedwith a burst of fervor, "Jesus is going to save me. I _know_ I'm goingto be saved. I feel it, I feel it _here_, " and she struck her palm onthe breast of the man's red jersey she was wearing. 

"Well, I wish _I_ could have such a confidence, " answered Vandover, sincerely envying the plain little woman under the ugly blue bonnet. 

She seemed as if inspired, her face glowing. "Only _believe_; that'sall, " she told him. "It isn't too late for you now. Ah, " she went on, smiling, "ah, you don't know what it is in a time like this! What acomfort! What a support! Oh, _look, look_!" she cried, breaking off andstarting to her feet. "That man is going to jump!"

It was the boatswain's mate, the hero who had filled all the passengerswith his own coolness and courage, who had been Vandover's inspiration. Some strange reaction seemed to have seized upon him. Of a sudden herushed to the rail, the starboard rail that was heaved so high out ofthe water, stood upon it for a moment, and then with a great shoutjumped over the side. His folly was as infectious as his courage. Fourmore men followed him, three going over all at the same time, and afourth a little later, hanging an instant upon the outside of the rail, then dropping down feet first, disappearing with a great splash thatmade itself heard in the great silence that had suddenly fallen upon thethrong. 

Every one had seen what had happened; a thrill of fear and apprehensionpassed over them all like a cold breath. They were silent, struck dumb, feeling the presence of death close by. 

Suddenly a long flash of yellow upon the bridge made a momentary streakon the darkness, and there was the report of a gun. A minute later itwas fired again, and alternating with it the _Mazatlan's_ whistle beganto roar, like a hoarse shout for help. Between these sounds could beheard the renewed clamour upon the decks, the shouting, the screaming, and the rush of many feet; the little children clung about the knees oftheir mothers, shrieking and wailing monotonously, "Oh, ma_ma_--oh, ma_ma_!" rolling their eyes fearfully behind them. 

But many of the children, even some of the older passengers, wereabsolutely silent, dazed, stupefied with terror and excitement, theireyes vague and distended, looking slowly about them, scarcely daring tomove a limb. 

Meanwhile the _Mazatlan_ was settling forward, and already the spray wasbeginning to fly over the decks. Little by little the terror increased;people threw themselves down upon the deck, rising up again, their armsraised to heaven, praying aloud, screaming the same things over and overagain. The Salvationists tried to raise another hymn, but the sound oftheir voices was drowned out by the tumult, the roaring of the whistle, the barking of the minute guns, the straining and snapping of thecordage, and the sound of waves drawing closer and closer. Prone uponthe deck, his arms still clasped about his black satchel, the little Jewof the plush cap went into some kind of fit, his eyes rolled back, histeeth grinding upon each other. Vandover turned from him in disgust. Then he looked around and above him, drawing a long breath, saying aloudto himself:

"It looks as though it were the end--well!"

All at once Vandover knew that the water had reached the boilers; therecame a noise of hissing: deafening, stunning; white billows of steampoured up over the deck. 

It was no longer the _Mazatlan_, no longer a thing of wood and iron, butsome strange huge living creature that was dying there under his feet, some enormous brute that was plunging and writhing in its last agony, its belly ripped open by a hidden enemy that struck from beneath, itsentrails torn out, its life-breath going from it in great gasps ofsteam. Suddenly its bellow collapsed; the great bulk was sinking lower;the enemy was in its very vitals. The great hoarse roar dwindled to along death rattle, then to a guttural rasp; all at once it ceased; thebrute was dead--the _Mazatlan_ was a wreck. 

Almost at the moment, he heard an order shouted twice from the bridge, where he could see the shadowy figures of the captain and officersmoving about through the clouds of steam and smoke and mist. Immediatelythere followed the shrill piping of the boatswain's whistle; one of theofficers, the first engineer, and some half dozen of the crew camedashing through the crowd, and there was a great shout of "The boats!The boats!"

The crowd broke up, rushing here and there about the ship, reformingagain in smaller bands by the boats and life-rafts. Vandover followedthe first engineer, running forward toward one of the boats in the bow. 

"Come on!" he shouted to the little Salvationist lassie, pausing amoment to help her with her heavy canvas-covered bundle. "Come on!they're going to lower the boats. "

She started up to follow him and the boom of the foremast, which theaccident had in some way loosened, swung across the deck at the samemoment. Vandover was already out of its path but it struck the youngwoman squarely across the back. She dropped in a heap upon the deck, then her body slowly straightened out, stiff and rigid, her eyes rapidlyopened and shut, and a great puff of white froth slowly started from hermouth. Vandover ran forward and lifted her up, but her back was broken;she was already dead. He rose to his feet exclaiming to himself, "Butshe was so sure--she _knew_ she was going to be saved, " then suddenlyfell silent again, gazing wonderingly at the body, disturbed, verythoughtful. 

When Vandover finally reached the lifeboat, he found a great crowdgathered there; three people were already in the boat itself. The firstengineer, who commanded that boat, and three of the crew stood by thefalls preparing to cast off. Just below on the deck of the _Mazatlan_stood two sailors keeping the crowd in order, continually shouting, "Women and children first!" As the women passed their children forward, the sailors lifted them into the boats, some shrieking, others silentand stupid as if stunned. Then the women were helped up; the men, Vandover among them, climbing in afterward. The davits were turned outand the boat was swung clear of the ship's side. 

Vandover looked out and below him and then made an involuntary movementto regain the ship's deck. Far below him, or so at least it seemed, weremountains of tumbling green water, huge, relentless, irresistible, rushing on by thousands, to shatter themselves with dreadful forceagainst the ship's side. It seemed simple madness to attempt to launchthe boat; even the sinking wreck would be safer than this chance. Vandover was terrified, again deserted by all his calmness andself-restraint. 

The sailors standing in the bow and the stern let out the ropes littleby little, the vast black hulk of the ship began to loom up above themall, higher and higher, and to their eyes the lifeboat began to growsmaller and smaller, more and more frail, more and more pitiful. 

All at once it struck the water with a crash, in an instant it wastossed up again in the air, heaving on the crest of a wave, was carriedin and dashed up against the ship, all the oars on that side snapping inan instant. It was a fearful moment; the little boat was unmanageable inan instant, leaping and plunging among the waves like a terrified horse, banged and battered between the heaving water and the hull of thesteamer itself. Vandover believed that all was over; he partially rosefrom his seat preparing to jump before the boat should swamp. 

There was an interval of shouting and confusion, the first engineer andthe crew leaning over the sides fending off the boat with the stumps ofthe oars and with long boathooks. Some oars were shipped to the otherside to take the place of the broken ones, and a score of hands tuggingat them, the boat was at length pulled away out of danger. 

The lifeboat had been built to hold thirty-five people; more than fortyhad crowded into it, and it needed all prudence and care to keep itafloat in the heavy seas that were running. The sailors and two of thepassengers were at the oars, while the first engineer took command, standing in the stern at the steering-oar. He was dressed in a suit ofoilskins, a life-preserver strapped under his arms; he wore no hat, andat every gust his drenched hair and beard whipped across his face. 

Just as the boat was pulling away from the wreck, Vandover and theothers saw the little Jew of the plush cap with the ear-laps standingupon the rail of the steamer, holding to a stanchion. He believed thathe had been abandoned, and screamed after them, stretching out hishands. The engineer turned and saw him, but shook his head. "Give waythere!" he commanded the men; "there's no more room. "

The Jew flung his satchel from him and jumped; for a moment hedisappeared, then suddenly came up on the crest of a wave, quite closeto them, gasping and beating his hands, the water running out of hismouth, and his plush cap, glossy with wet, all awry and twisted so thatone ear-lap hung over his eye like a shade. In another moment he hadgrasped one of the oar-blades. Every one was watching and there was acry, "Draw him in!" But the engineer refused. 

"It's too late!" he shouted, partly to the Jew and partly to the boat. "One more and we are swamped. Let go there!"

"But you can't let him drown, " cried Vandover and the others who satnear. "Oh, take him in anyhow; we must risk it. "

"Risk hell!" thundered the engineer. "Look here, you!" he cried toVandover and the rest. "I'm in command here and am responsible for thelives of all of you. It's a matter of his life or ours; one life orforty. One more and we are swamped. Let go there!"

"Yes, yes, " cried some. "It's too late! there's no more room!"

But others still protested. "It's too horrible; don't let him drown;take him in. " They threw him their life-preservers and the stumps of thebroken oars. But the Jew saw nothing, heard nothing, clinging to theoar-blade, panting and stupid, his eyes wide and staring. 

"Shake him off!" commanded the engineer. The sailor at the oar jerkedand twisted it, but the Jew still held on, silent and breathing hard. Vandover glanced at the fearfully overloaded boat and saw the necessityof it and held his peace, watching the thing that was being done. Thesailor still attempted to tear the oar from the Jew's grip, but the Jewheld on, panting, almost exhausted; they could hear his breathing in theboat. "Oh, don't!" he gasped, rolling his eyes. 

"Unship that oar and throw it overboard, " shouted the engineer. 

"Better not, sir, " answered the sailor. "Extra oars all broken. " The Jewwas hindering the progress of the boat and at every moment it threatenedto turn broad on to the seas. 

"God damn you, let go there!" shouted the engineer, himself wrenchingand twisting at the oar. "Let go or I'll shoot!"

But the Jew, deaf and stupid, drew himself along the oar, hand overhand, and in a moment had caught hold of the gunwale of the boat. Itcareened on the instant. There was a great cry. "Push him off! We'reswamping! Push him off!" And one of the women cried to the mate, "Don'tlet my little girls drown, sir! Push him away! Save my little girls! Lethim drown!"

It was the animal in them all that had come to the surface in aninstant, the primal instinct of the brute striving for its life and forthe life of its young. 

The engineer, exasperated, caught up the stump of one of the broken oarsand beat on the Jew's hands where they were gripped whitely upon theboat's rim, shouting, "Let go! let go!" But as soon as the Jew relaxedone hand he caught again with the other. He uttered no cry, but his faceas it came and went over the gunwale of the boat was white and writhing. When he was at length beaten from the boat he caught again at the oar;it was drawn in, and the engineer clubbed his head and arms and handstill the water near by grew red. The little Jew clung to the end of theoar like a cat, writhing and grunting, his mouth open, and his eyesfixed and staring. When his hands were gone, he tried to embrace the oarwith his arms. He slid off in the hollow of a wave, his body turned overtwice, and then he sank, his head thrown back, his eyes still open andstaring, and a silver chain of bubbles escaping from his mouth. 

"Give way, men!" said the engineer. 

"Oh, God!" exclaimed Vandover, turning away and vomiting over the side. 

A little while later some one on the bow of the boat called to theengineer asking why it was they were not heading for the shore. Theengineer did not answer, but Vandover in some way understood that it wastoo dangerous to attempt to run the breakers in such heavy weather, andthat they must keep in the open, holding the boat head on to the seasuntil either the wind fell or they were picked up by some other vessel. 

It was still very dark, and seen under the night from the little boat, the ocean and the sky seemed immense and terrible; the great waves grewout of the obscurity ahead of them, rushing down upon the boat, big, swelling, silent, their crests occasionally hissing and breaking intoirruptions of cold white froth. As one of them would draw near, the boatwould rise upon it as though it would never stop, would hang a momentupon its summit and then topple into the black gulf that followed, sending the bitter icy spray high into the air. The wind blew steadily. Suddenly toward three o'clock it began to rain. 

Vandover, the engineer, all the five sailors, and two of the passengerswere clothed. The rest of the passengers were little better than naked. Here and there a man had snatched a blanket from his berth, and one ortwo of them were wearing their trousers, but the rest were clothed forthe most part only with their shirts and drawers. There were eighteenwomen and five little girls in the boat. The little girls were welllooked after. Two were wrapped in Vandover's travelling-rug and a coupleof men had put their coats around the third. But there were not wrapsenough to go around among the women, by far the larger part of them werecovered only by their night-dresses or their bed-gowns. 

It was abominably cold; the rain fell continually, and the wind blew inlong gusts, piercing, cutting. Every plunge of the boat threw icybullets of spray into the air, which the wind caught up and flung downbroad upon the boat. Sometimes even a huge wave would break just upontheir quarter, and then great torrents of bitter, freezing water wouldfall over them in a deluge, leaving a sediment of salt that cracked theskin. The women were huddled upon the bottom of the boat near the waist, where they had been placed for greater safety. They were fouled withthe muddy water that gathered there, their long hair dishevelled, dripping with sleet, clinging to their wet cheeks and throats, theirbodies showing pink with cold, through their thin, soaked coverings, their limbs racked with long incessant shudderings, a wretched group, miserable beyond words. One of them close by Vandover's feet, he noticedparticularly, had but a single garment to cover her. She was drenchedthrough and through, her bare feet were blue with the cold, her head wasthrown back, her eyes closed. She was silent except when an unusual gustof wind whipped the rain and spray across her body like the long, finelash of a whip. Then with every breath she moaned, drawing in her breathbetween her teeth with a little whistling gasp, too weak, too exhausted, too nearly unconscious to attempt to shield herself in any way. 

Vandover could do nothing; he had almost stripped himself to help clothethe others. Nothing more could be done. The suffering had to go on, andhe began to wonder how human beings could endure such stress and yetlive. 

But Vandover himself suffered too keenly to take much thought for thesufferings of the others, while besides that anguish which he sharedwith the whole boat, the pain in his broken thumb gnawed incessantlylike a rat. From time to time he stared listlessly about him, looking atthe dark sky, the tumbling ocean, and the crowded groups in theplunging, rolling lifeboat. 

There was nothing picturesque about it all, nothing heroic. It wasunlike any pictures he had seen of lifeboat rescues, unlike anything hehad ever imagined. It was all sordid, miserable, and the sight of thehalf-clad women, dirty, sodden, unkempt, stirred him rather to disgustthan to pity. 

At last the dawn came and grew white over a world of tumbling greenbillows and scudding wrack. Some three miles distant, seen only when theboat topped a higher wave, the same procession of bleached hills movedgradually to the south under the fog, their feet covered by the whiteline of the surf. Not far behind in the wake of the boat the stern ofthe _Mazatlan_ rose out of a ring of white foam, the waves breaking overher as if she had been there for ages, the screw writhing its flangesinto the air like some enormous starfish already fastened upon the hulk. 

One of the other boats could be seen now and then between them and theshore, a momentary dot of black on the vast blur of green and gray. 

There was no conversation; the men relieved each other at the oars orbailed out the water with their caps and hands, scarcely interchanging aword. The only utterance was an occasional moaning from among the womenand children. There was nothing to eat; long since the two whisky flaskshad been exhausted. The rain fell steadily into the sea with a prolongedrippling noise. 

Vandover was leaning upon the gunwale of the boat, his head buried inhis arms, when suddenly he raised himself and asked of the man who satnext to him:

"What was the matter last night? What caused the accident?"

The other shook his head, wearily, turning away again. However, theengineer answered:

"We couldn't carry coal enough to keep up the right pressure of steamand drifted in upon a reef. I said once before that it would happen sometime. "

About an hour later Vandover dropped off to sleep, in spite of the cold, the wet, and the torment in his thumb. He dozed and woke, and dozedagain all through the morning. About noon he was awakened by a moreviolent rolling of the boat, the sound of voices, and a stir among theother passengers. 

It was still raining; the boat was no longer cutting the waves with hernose, but was being rowed seaward flank on; a sailor stood in the bowholding a coil of rope. Close in and seen over the tops of the waveswere the shaking and slatting sails of a pilot-boat, lying to. One ofthe sails bore an enormous number six. 

Vandover slept all that day and the night following, rolled in hotblankets. The next morning he awoke with a strange sense of unrealityand of having dropped a day somewhere. As he lay in his stuffy littlebunk between decks, and felt the rolling of the pilot-boat under him, hestill fancied himself upon the _Mazatlan_; he felt the pain in hisbandaged thumb and wondered how it came there. Then his fall on the deckcame back to him, the wreck of the steamer, the excitement on board, the reports of the rifle fired as a minute gun, the clouds of steam thatsmelt of a great laundry, and the drowning of the little Jew of theplush cap with the ear-laps. He shuddered and grew sick again for aminute, telling himself that he would never forget that scene. 

Such of the passengers as could get about breakfasted as best they couldin the cabin with the boatkeeper and four of the pilots. Here they wereinformed as to what was to be done with them. The schooner would not goin for two weeks, and it was out of the question to keep the castawayson board for that length of time. However, at that moment the pilotswere cruising in the neighbourhood on the lookout for two Cape Hornersthat were expected to be up at any moment. It was decided that when thefirst of these should be met with the party should be transferred. 

An hour after they had been picked up, the wind had begun to freshen. Bynoon of the second day it had come on to blow half a gale. One couldhope only for the best as regarded the rest of the _Mazatlan's_ boatsand rafts. Not another sign of the wreck was seen by the schooner. 

The castaways filled the little schooner to overflowing, hindering hermanagement, and getting in the way at every step. The pilot crew hustledthem about without ceremony, and after dinner one had to intervene toprevent a fight between one of them and a sailor from the _Mazatlan_over the question of a broken pipe. The women of the _Mazatlan_ kept intheir berths continually, rolled in hot blankets, dosed with steamingwhisky punches. In the afternoon, however, Vandover saw two of them inthe lee of the house attempting to dry their hair; one of them was thewoman he had particularly noticed in the lifeboat clad in a night-dress, and he wondered vaguely where the dress had come from she now waswearing. 

About three o'clock of the afternoon of the following day Vandover wassitting on the deck near the stern, fastening on his shoes with a lengthof tarred rope, the laces which he had left trailing having long beforebroken and pulled out. By that time the wind was blowing squally out ofthe northeast. The schooner was put under try sails, "a three-reefedmitten with the thumb brailed up, " as he heard the boatkeeper call it. This latter was at the wheel for a moment, but in a little while hecalled up a young man dressed in a suit of oilskins and a pea jacket andgave him the charge. For a long time Vandover watched the boy turningthe spokes back and forth, his eyes alternating between the binocle andthe horizon. 

In the evening about half-past ten, the lookout in the crow's nest sangout: "Smoke--oh!" sounding upon his fish horn. The boatkeeper ran aftand lit a huge calcium flare, holding it so as to illuminate the bignumber on the mainsail. Suddenly, about a quarter of a mile off theirweather-bow, a couple of rockets left a long trail of yellow against thenight. It was the Cape Horner, and presently Vandover made out herlights, two glowing spots moving upon the darkness, like the eyes ofsome nocturnal sea-monster. In a few minutes she showed a blue light onthe bridge; she wanted a pilot. 

The schooner approached and was laid to, and the towering mass of thegreat deep-sea tramp began to be dimly seen through the darkness. Therewas little confusion in making the transfer of the castaways. Most ofthem seemed still benumbed with their recent terrible exposure. Theydocilely allowed themselves to be pushed into the pilot tender and againendured the experience of being lowered to the shifting waves below. Silently, like frightened sheep, they stood up in turn in the rockingtender and allowed the life preserver to be fitted about their shouldersto protect them from the bite of the rope's noose beneath their arms. There followed a sickening upward whirl between sea and sky, and thenthe comforting grasp of many welcoming hands from the deck above. Bythree o'clock in the morning the transfer had been made. 

Vandover boarded the Cape Horner in company with the pilot and the restand reached San Francisco late on the next day, which happened to be aSunday. 

Chapter Ten

About ten o'clock Vandover went ashore in the ship's yawl and landed inthe city on a literally perfect day in early November. It seemed manyyears since he had been there. The drizzly morning upon which the _SantaRosa_ had cast off was already too long ago to be remembered. The cityitself as he walked up Market Street toward Kearney seemed to have takenon a strange appearance. 

It was Sunday, the downtown streets were deserted except for thecable-cars and an occasional newsboy. The stores were closed and intheir vestibules one saw the peddlers who were never there on week-days, venders of canes and peddlers of glue with heavy weights attached tomended china plates. 

Vandover had had no breakfast and was conscious of feeling desperatelyhungry. He determined to breakfast downtown, as he would arrive home toolate for one meal and too early for the other. 

Almost all of his money had been lost with the _Mazatlan_; he found hehad but a dollar left. He would have preferred breakfasting at theGrillroom, but concluded he was too shabby in appearance, and he knew hewould get more for his money at the Imperial. 

It was absolutely quiet in the Imperial at the hour when he arrived. Thesingle bartender was reading a paper, and in the passage between theprivate rooms a Chinese with a clean napkin wound around his head waspolishing the brass and woodwork. In the passage he met Toby, thered-eyed waiter, just going off night duty, without his usual apron orwhite coat, dressed very carefully, wearing a brown felt hat. 

"Why, how do you do, Mr. Vandover?" exclaimed Toby. "Haven't seen youround here for some time. " Vandover was about to answer when the otherinterrupted:

"Well, what's happened to _you_? Look as though you'd been drawn throughhell backward and beaten with a cat!"

In fact Vandover's appearance was extraordinary. His hat was torn andbroken, and his clothes, stained with tar and dirt, shrunken andwrinkled by sea-water. His shoes were fastened with bits of tarred rope;he was wearing a red flannel shirt with bone buttons which theboatkeeper on the pilot boat had given him, tied at the neck with apurple handkerchief of pongee silk; his hair was long, and a week'sgrowth of beard was upon his lip and cheeks. 

"That's a fact, " he answered grimly. "I do look queer. I was in a wreckdown the coast, " he added hastily. 

"The _Mazatlan!_" exclaimed Toby. "That's a fact; the papers have beenfull of it. That's so, you were one of the survivors. "

"The survivors!" echoed Vandover with wondering curiosity. "Tell me--youknow I haven't heard a word yet--were there many lives lost?" Hemarvelled at the strangeness of the situation, that this bar waitershould know more of the wreck than he himself who had been upon it. 

"You bet there were!" answered Toby. "Twenty-three altogether; one boatcapsized; Kelly, 'Bug' Kelly, son of that fellow that runs the CrystalGrotto, _he_ was drowned, and one of Hocheimer's--Hocheimer, thejeweller, you know--one of his travelling salesmen was drowned; a littleJew named Brann, a diamond expert; he jumped overboard and--"

"Don't!" said Vandover with a sharp gesture. "I saw him drown--it wassickening. "

"Were you in that boat?" exclaimed Toby. "Well, wait till I tell you;the authorities here are right after that first engineer with a sharpstick, and some of the passengers, too, for not taking him in. A womanin one of the other boats saw it all and gave the whole thing away. Athing like that is regular murder, you know. " Vandover shut his teethagainst answering, and after a little Toby went on, willing to talk. "You know, we've got a new man for the day-work down here now--Georgeisn't here any more. No, he's going to start a roadhouse out on thealmshouse drive in a few months; swell place, you know. I'll have himsend you cards for the opening. "

Vandover ordered oysters, an omelette, and a pint of claret from the newwaiter who did the day-work, and ate and drank the meal--the like ofwhich he had not tasted since leaving Coronado--with deliciousenjoyment. 

He delayed over it long, taking a great pleasure in satisfying thedemands of the animal in him. The wine made him heavy, warm, stupid; hefelt calm, soothed, and perfectly contented, and had to struggleagainst a desire to go to sleep where he was. The atmosphere of theImperial was warm and there was a tepid languor in the air as of thetraces of many past debauches, a stale odour of sweetened whisky and ofmusk. After the roughness and hardships of the last week he felt apleasant sense of quiet, of relaxation, of enervation. He even began towish that Flossie would come in. This, however, made him rouse himself;he shook himself, and started home, paying his carfare with his lastnickel. 

He sat on the outside of the car, wondering if any one he knew would seehim, half hoping that such a thing might happen, realizing the dramaticinterest that would centre about him now in his present condition as asurvivor of a wreck. The idea soon attracted him immensely and he beganto look out for any possible acquaintance as the car began to climb overNob Hill. 

At the crossing of Polk Street he saw Ida Wade's mother in deepmourning, standing near a grocery store holding a little pink parcel. 

It was like a blow between the eyes. Vandover caught his breath andstarted violently, feeling again for an instant the cold grip of thehysterical terror that had so nearly overcome him on the morning afterIda's death. It slowly relaxed, however, and by the time he had reachedthe house on California Street he was almost himself again. 

It was about church time when Vandover arrived at home once more. Therewas a Sunday quiet in the air. The bells were ringing, and here andthere family groups on their way to church, the children walking infront, very sedate in their best clothes, carrying the prayer-bookscarefully, by special privilege. 

The butler was working in the garden, as he sometimes did of a Sundaymorning, pottering about a certain bed of sweet-peas, and it was thehousekeeper who answered his ring. She recognized him with a prolongedexclamation, raising her hands to heaven. 

"O-oh, and is it you, Mr. Vandover, sir? Ah, how we've been upset aboutyou and all, and it's glad to see you back again your father will be!Oh, such times as we had when we heard about the wreck and knowing youwere on it! Yes, sir, your father's _pretty_ well, though he was mainpoorly yesterday morning. But he's better now. You'll find him in thesmoking-room now, sir. "

Vandover pushed open the door of the smoking-room quietly. His fatherwas sitting unoccupied in the huge leather chair before the fireplace. He was dead, and must have died some considerable time before, as he wasalready cold. He could have suffered no pain, hardly a muscle had moved, and his attitude was quite natural, the legs crossed, the right handholding the morning's paper. However, as soon as Vandover touched thebody it collapsed and slid down into a heap in the depth of the chair, the jaw dropping open, the head rolling sidewise upon his shoulder. 

Vandover ran out into the hall, waving his arms, shouting for theservants. "Oh, why didn't you tell me?" he cried to the housekeeper "Whydid you let me find him so? When did he die?" The housekeeper wasdistraught. She couldn't believe it. Only a little while ago he hadcalled her to say there were no more matches in the little brassmatchsafe. She began to utter long cries and lamentations like a hen indistress, raising her hands to heaven. All at once they heard some onerushing up the stairs. It was the butler, in his shirt-sleeves and hisenormous apron of ticking, still carrying his trowel in his hand. He wasbewildered, his eyes protruding, while all about him he spread the smellof fresh earth. At every instant he exclaimed:

"What? What? What's the matter?"

"Oh, my dear old governor--and all alone!" cried Vandover through shutteeth. 

"Oh, oh, the good God!" exclaimed the housekeeper, crossing herself androlling her eyes. "And him asking for matches in the little brass boxonly a minute since. Oh, the good, kind master!"

Suddenly Vandover rushed down the stairs and through the front hall, snatching his hat from the hatrack as he passed. He ran to call thefamily doctor, who lived some two blocks below on the same street. Hecaught him just as he was getting into the carry-all with his family, bound for church. 

Vandover and the physician rode back together in the carry-all, the twogray horses going up the steep hill at a trot. The doctor was dressedfor church; he wore red gloves with thick white seams, a spray oflilies-of-the-valley in his lapel. 

"I'm afraid we can do nothing, " he said warningly. "It's your father'sold enemy, I suppose. This was--it was sure to happen sooner or later. Any sudden shock, you know. "

Vandover scarcely listened, holding the door of the carry-all open withone hand, ready to jump out, beating the other hand upon his knee. 

"Go back and take the rest of them to church now, " said the doctor tohis coachman when the carry-all stopped in front of Vandover's house. 

The whole house was in the greatest agitation all the rest of the day. The curtains were drawn, the door bell rang incessantly, strange facespassed the windows, and the noise of strange footsteps continuallymounted and descended the staircase. The hours for meals were allderanged, the table stood ready all day long, and one ate when there wasa chance. The telephone was in constant use, and at every momentmessenger boys came and went, people spoke in low tones, walking ontiptoe; the florist's wagon drove to the door again and again, and thehouse began to smell of tuberoses. Reporters came, waiting patiently forinterviews, sitting on the leather chairs in the dining-room, or writingrapidly on a corner of the dining-table, the cloth pushed back. Theundertaker's assistants went about in their shirt-sleeves, working veryhard, and toward the middle of the afternoon the undertaker himself tiedthe crêpe to the bell handle. 

Little by little a subdued excitement spread throughout the vicinity. The neighbours appeared at their windows, looking down into the street, watching everything that went on. It was a veritable event, a matter ofcomment and interest for the whole block. Women found excuses to call oneach other, talking over what had happened, as they sat near theirparlour windows, shaking their heads at each other, peering out betweenthe lace curtains. The people on the cable-cars and the pedestrianslooked again and again at the crêpe on the bell handle, and thecurtained windows, craning their necks backward when they had passed. The neighbours' children collected in little groups on the sidewalk nearthe house, looking and pointing, drawn close together, talking in lowtones. At last even a policeman appeared, walking deliberately, castingthe shadow of his huge stomach upon the fence that was about the vacantlot. He frowned upon the children, ordering them away. But suddenly hediscovered an acquaintance, the driver of an express-wagon that had justdriven up with an enormous anchor of violets. He paused, exclaiming:

"Why, hello, Connors!"

"Why, hello, Mister Brodhead!"

Then a long conversation was begun, the policeman standing on thecurbstone, one foot resting upon the hub of a wheel, the expressmanleaning forward, his elbows on his knees, twirling his whip between hishands. The expressman told some sort of story, pointing with his elbowtoward the house, but the other was incredulous, gravely shaking hishead, putting his chin in the air, and closing his eyes. 

Inside the house itself there was a hushed and subdued bustling thatcentred about a particular room. The undertaker's assistants and thebarber called in low voices through the halls for basins of water andtowels. There was a search for the Old Gentleman's best clothes and hisclean linen; bureau drawers were opened and shut, closet doors softlyclosed. Relatives and friends called and departed or stayed to help. Avague murmur arose, a mingled sound of whispers and light foot-steps, the rustle of silks, and the noise of stifled weeping, and then at lastsilence, night, solitude, a single gas-jet burning, and Vandover wasleft alone. 

The suddenness of the thing had stunned and dizzied him, and he had gonethrough with all the various affairs of the day wondering at hiscalmness and fortitude. Toward eleven o'clock, however, after thesuppressed excitement of the last hours, as he was going to bed, thesense of his grief and loss came upon him all of a sudden, with theirreal force for the first time, and he threw himself upon the bed facedownward, weeping and groaning. During the rest of the night pictures ofhis father returned to him as he had seen him upon different occasions, particularly three such pictures came and went through his mind. 

In one the Old Gentleman stood in that very room, with the decanter inhis hand, asking him kindly if he felt very bad; in another he was onthe pier with his handkerchief tied to his cane, waving it afterVandover as though spelling out a signal to him across the water. But ina third, he was in the smoking-room, fallen into the leather chair, hisarm resting on the table and his head bowed upon it. 

After the funeral, which took place from the house, Vandover drove backalone in the hired carriage to his home. He would have paid the driver, but the other told him that the undertaker looked out for that. Vandoverwatched him a moment as he started his horses downhill, the brake as itscraped against the tire making a noise like the yelping of a dog. Thenhe turned and faced the house. It was near four o'clock in theafternoon, and everything about the house was very quiet. All thecurtains were down except in one of the rooms upstairs. The butler hadalready opened these windows and was airing the room. Vandover couldhear him moving about, sweeping up, rearranging the furniture, making upthe bed again. In front of him, between the horse-block and the frontdoor, one or two smilax leaves were still fallen, and a tuberose, already yellow. Behind him in the street he had already noticed themarks of the wheels of the hearse where it had backed up to the curb. 

The crêpe was still on the bell handle. Vandover did not know whether ithad been forgotten, or whether it was proper to leave it there longer. At any rate he took it off and carried it into the house with him. 

His father's hat, a stiff brown derby hat, flat on the top, hung on thehatrack. This had always been a sign to Vandover that his father was athome. The sight was so familiar, so natural, that the same idea occurredto him now involuntarily, and for an instant it was as though he haddreamed of his father's death; he even wondered what was this terriblegrief that had overwhelmed him, and thought that he must go and tell hisfather about it. He took the hat in his hands, turning it abouttenderly, catching the faint odour of the Old Gentleman's hair oil thathung about it. It all brought back his father to him as no picture evercould; he could almost _see_ the kind old face underneath the broad curlof the brim. His grief came over him again keener than ever and he puthis arms clumsily about the old hat, weeping and whispering to himself:

"Oh, my poor, dear old dad--I'm never going to see you again, never, never! Oh, my dear, kind old governor!"

He took the hat up to his room with him, putting it carefully away. Thenhe sat down before the window that overlooked the little garden in therear of the house, looking out with eyes that saw nothing. 

Chapter Eleven

The following days as they began to pass were miserable. Vandover hadnever known until now how much he loved his father, how large a place hehad filled in his life. He felt horribly alone now, and a veritablefeminine weakness overcame him, a crying need to be loved as his fatherhad loved him, and also to love some one as he himself had loved hisfather. Worst of all, however, was his loneliness. He could think of noone who cared in the least for him; the very thought of Turner Ravis oryoung Haight wrought in him an expression of scorn. He was sure that hewas nothing to them, though they were the ones whom he considered hisbest friends. 

Another cause of misery was the fact that his father's death in leavinghim alone had also thrown him upon his own resources. Now he would haveto shoulder responsibilities which hitherto his father had assumed, anddecide questions which until now his father had answered. 

However, he felt that his father's death had sobered him as nothingelse, not even Ida's suicide, had done. The time was come at length forhim to take life seriously. He would settle down now to work at his art. He would go to Paris as his father had wished, and devote himselfearnestly to painting. Yes, the time was come for him to steady himself, and give over the vicious life into which he had been drifting. 

But it was not long before Vandover had become accustomed to hisfather's death, and had again rearranged himself to suit the newenvironment which it had occasioned. He wondered at himself because ofthe quickness with which he had recovered from this grief, just asbefore he had marvelled at the ease with which he had forgotten Ida'sdeath. Could it be true, then, that nothing affected him very deeply?Was his nature shallow?

However, he was wrong in this respect; his nature was not shallow. Ithad merely become deteriorated. 

Two days after his father's death Vandover went into the Old Gentleman'sroom to get a certain high-backed chair which had been moved there fromhis own room during the confusion of the funeral, and which, pendingthe arrival of the trestles, had been used to support the coffin. 

As he was carrying it back his eye fell upon a little heap of objectscarefully set down upon the bureau. They were the contents of the OldGentleman's pockets that the undertaker had removed when the body wasdressed for burial. 

Vandover turned them over, sadly interested in them. There was thewatch, some old business letters and envelopes covered with memoranda, his fountain-pen, a couple of cigars, a bank-book, a small amount ofchange, his pen-knife, and one or two tablets of chewing-gum. 

Vandover thrust the pen and the knife into his own pocket. Thebank-book, letters, and change he laid away in his father's desk, butthe cigars and the tablets of gum, together with the crumpledpocket-handkerchief that he found on another part of the dressing-case, he put into the Old Gentleman's hat, which he had hidden on the topshelf of his clothes closet. The watch he hung upon a little brassthermometer that always stood on his centre table. He even wound up thewatch with the resolve never to let it run down so long as he shouldlive. 

The keys, however, disturbed him, and he kept changing them from onehand to the other, looking at them very thoughtfully. They suggested tohim the inquiry as to whether or no his father had made a will, and howmuch money he, Vandover, could now command. One of the keys was a longbrass key. Vandover knew that this unlocked a little iron box that fromtime out of mind had been screwed upon the lower shelf of the clothescloset in his father's room. It was in this box that the Old Gentlemankept his ready money and a few important papers. 

For a long time Vandover stood undecided, changing the keys about fromone hand to the other, hesitating before opening this iron box; he couldnot tell why. By and by, however, he went softly into his father's room, and into the clothes closet near the head of the bed. Holding the keytoward the lock, he paused listening; it was impossible to rid his mindof the idea that he was doing something criminal. He shook himself, smiling at the fancy, assuring himself of the honesty of the thing, yetopening the box stealthily, holding the key firmly in order that itmight not spring back with a loud click, looking over his shoulder thewhile and breathing short through his nose. 

The first thing that he saw inside was a loaded revolver, the suddenview of which sent a little qualm through the pit of his stomach. Hetook it out gingerly, holding it at arm's length, throwing open thecylinder and spilling out the cartridges on the bed, very careful to letnone of them fall on the floor lest they should explode. 

Next he drew out the familiar little canvas sack. In it weretwenty-dollar gold-pieces, the coin that used to be "Good for theMasses. " Behind that was about thirty dollars in two rolls, and last ofall in an old, oblong tin cracker-box a great bundle of papers. A listof these papers was pasted on one end of the box. They comprised deeds, titles, insurance policies, tax receipts, mortgages, and all the papersrelating to the property. Besides these there was the will. 

He took out this box, laying it on the shelf beside him. He was closingthe small iron safe again very quietly when all at once, before he couldthink of what he was doing, he ran his hand into the mouth of the canvassack, furtively, slyly, snatched one of the heavy round coins, andthrust it into his vest pocket, looking all about him, listeningintently, saying to himself with a nervous laugh, "Well, isn't it mineanyway?"

In spite of himself he could not help feeling a joy in the possession ofthis money as if of some treasure-trove dug up on an abandoned shore. Heeven began to plan vaguely how he should spend it. 

However, he could not bring himself to open any of the papers, but sentthem instead to a lawyer, whom he knew his father had often consulted. Afew days later he received a typewritten letter asking him to call athis earliest convenience. 

It was at his residence and not at his office that Vandover saw thelawyer, as the latter was not well at the time and kept to his bed. However, he was not so sick but that his doctor allowed him to transactat least some of his business. Vandover found him in his room, a hugeapartment, one side entirely taken up by book-shelves filled with worksof fiction. The walls were covered with rough stone-blue paper, formingan admirable background to small plaster casts of Assyrian_bas-reliefs_ and large photogravures of Renaissance portraits. Underneath an enormous baize-covered table in the centre of the roomwere green cloth bags filled apparently with books, padlocked tinchests, and green pasteboard deed-boxes. The lawyer was sitting up inbed, wearing his dressing-gown and occasionally drinking hot water froma glass. He was a thin, small man, middle-aged, with a very round headand a small pointed beard. 

"How do you do, Mr. Vandover?" he said, very pleasantly as Vandoverpassed by the servant holding open the door and came in. 

"How do you do, Mr. Field?" answered Vandover, shaking his hand. "Well, I'm sorry to see you like this. "

"Yes, " answered the lawyer, "I'm--I have trouble with my digestionsometimes, more annoying than dangerous, I suppose. Take a chair, won'tyou? You can find a place for your hat and coat right on the tablethere. Well, " he added, settling back on the pillows and looking atVandover pleasantly, "I think you've grown thinner since the last time Isaw you, haven't you?"

"Yes, " answered Vandover grimly, "I guess I have. "

"Yes, yes, I suppose so, of course, " responded the lawyer with a vagueair of apology and sympathy. "You have had a trying time of it lately, taking it by and large. I was _very_ painfully shocked to hear of yourfather's death. I had met him at lunch hardly a week before; he was afar heartier man than I was. Eat? You should have seen--splendidappetite. He spoke at length of you, I remember; told me you expected togo abroad soon to study painting; in fact, I believe he was to go toParis with you. It was very sad and very sudden. But you know we've allbeen expecting--been fearing--that for some time. "

They both were silent for a moment, the lawyer looking absently at thefoot-board of the bed, nodding his head slowly from time to time, repeating, "Yes, sir--yes, sir. " Suddenly he exclaimed, "Well--now, let's see. " He cleared his throat, coming back to himself again, andcontinued in a very businesslike and systematic tone:

"I have looked over your father's papers, Mr. Vandover, as yourequested me to, and I have taken the liberty of sending for you to letyou know exactly how you stand. "

"That's the idea, sir, " said Vandover, very attentive, drawing up hischair. 

Mr. Field took a great package of oblong papers from the small tablethat stood at the head of his bed, and looked them over, adjusting hiseyeglasses. "Well, now, suppose we take up the real property first, " hecontinued, drawing out three or four of these papers and unfolding them. "All of your father's money was invested in what we call 'improvedrealty. '"

He talked for something over an hour, occasionally stopping to answer aquestion of Vandover's, or interrupting himself to ask him if heunderstood. At the end it amounted to this:

The bulk of the estate was residence property in distant quarters of thecity. Some twenty-six houses, very cheaply built, each, on an average, renting for twenty-eight dollars. When all of these were rented, thegross monthly income was seven hundred and twenty-eight dollars. At thistime, however, six were vacant, bringing down the gross receipts permonth to five hundred and sixty dollars. The expenses, which includedwater, commissions for collecting, repairs, taxes, interest oninsurance, etc. , when expressed in the terms of a monthly average, amounted to one hundred and eighty-six dollars. 

"Well, now, let's see, " said Vandover, figuring on his cuff, "onehundred and eighty-six from five hundred and sixty leaves me a netmonthly income of three hundred and eighty-four--no, seventy-four. Threehundred and seventy-four dollars. "

The lawyer shook his head while he drank another glass of hot water:

"You see, " he said, wiping his moustache in the hollow of his palm, "yousee, we haven't figured on the mortgages yet. "

"Mortgages?" echoed Vandover. 

"Yes, " answered Mr. Field, "when I spoke of expenses I was basing themupon the monthly statements of Adams & Brunt, your father's agents. Butthey never looked after the mortgages. Your father acted directly withthe banks in that matter. I find that there are mortgages that cover theentire property, even the homestead. They are for 6-1/2 and 7 per cent. In some cases there are two mortgages on the same piece of property. "

"Well, " said Vandover. 

"Well, " answered the lawyer, "the interest on these foots up to abouttwo hundred and ninety dollars a month. "

Vandover made another hasty calculation on his cuff, and leaned back inhis chair staring at the lawyer, saying:

"Why, that leaves eighty-four dollars a month, net. "

"Yes, " assented Field. "I made it that, too. "

"Why, the governor used to allow _me_ fifty a month, " returned Vandover, "just for pocket money. "

"I'm afraid you mustn't expect anything like that, now, Mr. Vandover, "replied Field, smiling. "You see, when your father was alive andpursuing his profession, he made a comfortable income besides that whichhe derived from his realty. His law business I consider to have beenexcellent when you take everything into consideration. He often madefive hundred dollars a month at it. Such are the figures his papersshow. He could make you a handsome allowance while he was alive, but allthat is stopped now!"

"Well, but didn't he--didn't he leave any money, any--any--any lumpsum?" inquired Vandover incredulously. 

"There was his bank account, " answered the other. "You see, he investedmost of his savings in this same realty, and since he stopped buildinghe seems to have lived right up to his income. "

"But eighty-four dollars!" repeated Vandover; "why, look at the house onCalifornia Street where we live. It costs that much to run it, theservants and all. "

"Here's your father's domestic-account book, " answered Field, taking itup and turning the leaves. "One hundred and seventy-five dollars a monthwere the average running expenses. "

_"One hundred and seventy-five!"_ shouted Vandover, feeling suddenly asif the ground were opening under him. "Why, great heavens! Mr. Field, where am I going to get--what am I going to _do_?"

Mr. Field smiled a little. "Well, " he said, "you must make up your mindto live more modestly. "

"Modestly?" exclaimed Vandover, scornfully. 

"You'll have to rent the house and take rooms. "

Vandover gave a gasp of relief. 

"I hadn't thought of that, " he answered, subsiding at once. "How muchwould it bring--the house?"

The lawyer hesitated as to this. "That I could hardly tell youdefinitely, " he answered, shaking his head. "Adams & Brunt could giveyou more exact figures. In fact, I would suggest that you put it intotheir hands. California near Franklin, isn't it? Yes; the neighbourhoodisn't what it used to be, you know. Every one wants to live out onPacific Heights now. Double house? Yes, well--with the furniture, Isuppose--oh, I don't know--say, a hundred and fifty. But, you know, myestimate is only guesswork. Brunt is the man you want to see. "

"Well, " answered Vandover, solaced, "that makes--two thirty-four; that'smore like it. But, " he added, hastily, "you say the homestead ismortgaged as well; how about the interest on that?"

"You needn't be bothered about that, " answered Mr. Field. "The intereston _that_ mortgage is included in the two hundred and ninety that Ispoke of, and the insurance interest on the homestead is included inAdams & Brunt's statement. That was on the whole estate _with_ thehomestead, you understand? But there is another thing you must look outfor. Most of the mortgages are for one year, and every time they arerenewed there is an expense of between forty and fifty dollars. "

"Yes, I see, " assented Vandover. 

"Now, " resumed the lawyer, "here is your father's bank account. He hadin the First National to his credit between nine and ten thousanddollars; nine thousand seven hundred and ninety, to be exact. Hisprofessional account book shows that there is now due him in bills andnotes eight hundred and thirty dollars; on the debit side he owes in allnine hundred; the difference, you see, is seventy. Nine thousand sevenhundred and ninety less seventy leaves a balance of nine thousand sevenhundred and twenty. All clear?" he asked, interrupting himself. Vandovernodded and the other continued:

"Now, your father left a will; here it is. I drew it for him a year agolast September. He has given fifteen hundred dollars to some cousin inthe southern part of the state, and six hundred to a few charities herein the city. The remainder, seven thousand five hundred and twenty, andall the rest of the estate is left to you with the wish that you pursueyour art studies abroad. Brunt, of Adams & Brunt, and myself areappointed executors. So now, that is just how you stand as far as I cansee: seventy-five hundred dollars in ready money and, if we suppose yourent the California Street house, income property that nets you twohundred and thirty-four a month. The will will have to be probated sometime next month and you will have to appear; however, I shall let youknow about that in time. "

During the next two weeks Vandover was plunged into the affairs ofbusiness for the first time in his life. It interested and amused him, and he felt a certain self-importance in handling large sums of money, and in figuring interest, rents, and percentages. Three days after hisinterview with Mr. Field the sale of his father's office effects tookplace, and the consequent five hundred dollars Vandover turned over intothe hands of the lawyer, who was already looking for an investment forthe eighty-nine hundred. This matter had given Vandover considerableanxiety. 

"I don't want anything fancy, " he said to Field. "No big per cents. Andbigger risks. If I've got to live economically I want something that'ssecure. A good solid investment, don't you know, with a fair interest;that's what I'm looking for. "

"Yes, " answered the lawyer grimly; "I've been looking for that myselfever since I was your age. "

They both laughed, and the lawyer added: "Has Brunt found a tenant forthe California Street house yet? No? Well, perhaps you had better keepthat five hundred for your running expenses until he does. It willprobably take some time. "

"All right, " answered Vandover. "There were a couple of women up to lookat the place yesterday, but they wanted to use it for a boarding-house. I won't hear to that. Brunt says they would ruin it, dead sure. "

"I suppose you are looking around, yourself, for rooms?" inquired Mr. Field. "Have you found anything to suit you?"

"No, " answered Vandover, "I have not. I don't like the idea of livingin one of the downtown hotels, and as far as I have looked, the uptownflats are rather steep. However, I haven't gone around very much as yet. I've been so busy. Oh, how about the paving of the street in front ofthose Bush Street houses of mine? Brunt says that the supervisors havepassed a resolution of intention to that effect. Now shall I let thecity contractor have the job or give it to Brunt's man?"

"Better let the city people do it, " advised Field. "They may chargemore, but you needn't pay _them_ for a long time. "

By the end of three weeks Vandover had sickened of the whole thing. Thenovelty was gone, and business affairs no longer amused him. Besidesthis, he was anxious to settle down in some comfortable rooms. It wasnow the middle of winter and he had determined that it was not theseason for a European trip. He would wait until the summer before goingto Paris. 

Little by little Vandover turned over the supervision and management ofhis affairs and his property to Adams & Brunt, declaring that he couldnot afford to be bothered with them any longer. This course was muchmore expensive and by no means so satisfactory from a business point ofview, but Vandover felt as though the loss in money was more than offsetby his freedom from annoyance and responsibility. 

He was eager to get settled. The idea of taking rooms that should be allhis own and that he could fit up to suit his taste attracted himimmensely. Already he saw himself installed in charming bachelor'sapartments, the walls covered with rough stone-blue paper forming anadmirable background for small plaster casts of Assyrian _bas-reliefs_and photogravures of Velasquez portraits. There would be a pipe-rackover the mantelpiece, and a window-seat with a corduroy cushion such ashe had had in his room in Matthew's. 

Very slowly his father's affairs were settled, and by degrees the estatebegan to adjust itself to the new grooves in which it was to run. By themiddle of December everything was beginning to go smoothly, and the daybefore Christmas Mr. Field announced to Vandover that he had investedhis eighty-nine hundred in registered U. S. 4 per cents. They had hadseveral long talks concerning this sum of money, and in the end hadconcluded that it would be better to invest it in some such fashionrather than to take up any of the mortgages that were on the houses. 

During the first weeks of the new year the house on California Streetwas rented for one hundred and twenty-five dollars to an Englishgentleman, the president of a fruit syndicate in the southern part ofthe state. There were but three in the family, and though the rent wasbelow that which Vandover had desired, Brunt advised him to close thetransaction at once, as they were desirable tenants and would probablystay in the house a long time. 

On the last evening which he was to spend in his home, Vandover cast uphis accounts and made out a schedule as to his monthly income. 

 Rent from realty, net average $ 84. 00 Rent from homestead property on California Street 125. 00 Interest on U. S. Bonds, 4 per cent. 23. 00 _______ Total $232. 00 In small iron safe $170. 00 Received from sale of office effects $500. 00 _______ $670. 00 Expenses, outstanding bills, lawyer's fees, undertaker's bill, expenses for collecting, etc 587. 00 _______ Balance, January 16th $83. 00

Then with a shrug of the shoulders he dismissed the whole burdensomebusiness from his mind. Brunt would manage his property, sending himregularly the monthly statement in order to keep him informed. TheEnglish gentleman of the fruit syndicate would add his hundred andtwenty-five, and the 4 per cents. , faithfully brooding over hiseighty-nine hundred in the dark of the safety deposit drawer, wouldbring forth their little quota of twenty-three with absolute certainty. Two thirty-two a month. Yes, he was comfortably fixed and was free nowto do exactly as he pleased. 

His first object now was to settle down for the winter in some pleasantrooms. He had decided that he would look for a suite of three--abedroom, studio, and sitting-room. The bedroom he was not particularabout, the studio he hoped would have plenty of light from the north, but the sitting-room _must_ be sunny and overlook the street, else whatwould be the use of a window-seat? As to the neighbourhood, he thoughthe would prefer Sutter Street anywhere between Leavenworth and Powell. 

In the downtown part this street was entirely given over to businesshouses; in the far, uptown quarter it was lined with residences; butbetween these two undesirable extremes was an intermediate districtwhere the residences had given place to flats, and the business blocksto occasional stores. It was a neighbourhood affected by doctors, dentists, and reputable music-teachers; drug stores occupied many of thecorners, here and there a fine residence still withstood the advance ofbusiness, there were a number of great apartment houses, and even one ortwo club buildings. 

It was a gay locality, not too noisy, not too quiet. The street was oneof the great arteries of travel between the business and the residenceportions of the city, and its cable-cars were frequented by ladies goingto their shopping or downtown marketing or to and from the matinées. Acquaintances of Vandover were almost sure to pass at every hour. 

He took rooms temporarily at the Palace and at once set about locatingon Sutter Street. He had recourse again to Brunt, who furnished him witha long list of vacancies in that neighbourhood. Apartment-hunting was anagreeable pastime to Vandover, though in the end it began to bore him. Altogether, he visited some fifteen or twenty suites, in each casetrying to fit himself into the rooms, imagining how the window-seatwould look in such a window, how the pipe-rack would show over such amantel, just where on such walls the Assyrian _bas-reliefs_ could beplaced to the best advantage, and if his easel could receive enoughsteady light from such windows. Then he considered the conveniences, thebaths, the electric light, and the heat. 

After a two weeks' search, he had decided upon one of two suites; bothof these were in the desired neighbourhood but differed widely in otherrespects. 

The first was reasonable enough in the matter of rent, and had even beenoccupied by an artist for some three or four years previous. However, the room that Vandover proposed to use as a sitting-room was small andhad no double windows, thus making the window-seat an impossibility. There did not seem to be any suitable place for the Assyrian_bas-reliefs_, and the mantelpiece was of old-fashioned white marblelike the mantelpiece in Mrs. Wade's front parlour, a veritable horror. It revolted Vandover even to think of putting a pipe-rack over it. Thesedefects were offset by the studio, a large and splendid room withhardwood floors and an enormous north light, the legendary studio, thedream of an artist, precisely such a studio as Vandover had hoped hewould occupy in the Quarter. 

The other suite was in a great apartment house, a hotel in fact, butvery expensive, with electric bulbs and bells, and with a tiled bathroomconnecting with the bedroom. The room which he would be obliged to useas his studio was small, dark, the light coming from the west. But thesitting-room was perfect. It had the sun all day long through a huge baywindow that seemed to have been made for a window-seat; there wereadmirable, well-lighted spaces on the walls for casts and pictures, andthe mantelpiece was charming, extremely high, and made of oak; in aword, the exact sitting-room that Vandover had in mind. Already he sawhimself settled there as comfortably and snugly as a kernel in anutshell. It was true that upon investigation he found that the gratehad been plastered up and the flue arranged for a stove. But for thatmatter there were open-grate stoves to be had that would permit the fireto be seen and that would look just as cheerful as a grate. He had evenseen such a stove in the window of a hardware store downtown, a tiledstove with a brass fender and with curious flamboyant ornaments ofcast-iron--a jewel of a stove. 

For two days Vandover hesitated between these two suites, undecidedwhether he should sacrifice his studio for his sitting-room, or hissitting-room for his studio. At length he came to the conclusion that ashe was now to be an artist a good studio ought to be the firstconsideration, and that since he was to settle down to hard, seriouswork at last he owed it to himself to have a fitting place in which topaint; yes, decidedly he would take the suite with the studio. He wentto the agent, told him of his decision, and put up a deposit to securethe rooms. 

The same day upon which he took this decided step he had occasion topass by both places in question. As he approached the apartment housein which the rejected suite was situated it occurred to him to tell theclerk in the office that he had decided against the rooms; he could takea last look at them at the same time. 

He was shown up to the rooms again, and walked about in thesitting-room, asking the same questions about the heat, the plumbing, and the baths. He even went to the window and looked out into thestreet. It _was_ a first-rate berth just the same, and how jolly itwould be to lounge in the window-seat of a morning, with a paper, acigarette, and a cup of coffee, watching the people on their waydowntown; the women going to their shopping and morning's marketing. Then all at once he remembered that at most he would only have theserooms for five months, and reflected that if his whole life was to bedevoted to painting he might easily put up with an inconvenient studiofor a few months. Once at Paris all would be different. 

At that the rooms took on a more charming aspect than ever; never hadthey appeared cheerier, sunnier, more comfortable; never had the oakmantel and the tiled stove with the flamboyant ornaments been moredesirable; never had a window-seat seemed more luxurious, never apipe-rack more delectable, while at the same time, the other rooms, therooms of the big studio, presented themselves to his imagination moresombre, uncomfortable, and forbidding than ever. It was out of thequestion to think of living there; he was angry with himself for havinghesitated so long. But suddenly he remembered the deposit he had alreadymade; it was ten dollars; for a moment he paused, then dismissed thematter with an impatient shrug of the shoulders. "So much the worse, " hesaid. "What's ten dollars?" He made up his mind then and there and wentdownstairs, walking on his heels, to tell the clerk that after all hewould engage the rooms from that date. 

Chapter Twelve

Vandover took formal possession of his rooms on Sutter Street during thefirst few days of February. For a week previous they had been in thegreatest confusion: the studio filled with a great number of trunks, crates, packing cases, and furniture still in its sacking. In thebedroom was stored the furniture that had been moved out of thesitting-room, while the sitting-room itself was given over to thepaperhangers and carpenters. Vandover himself appeared from time totime, inquiring anxiously as to the arrival of his "stuff, " or sittingon a packing-case, his hands in his pockets, his hat pushed back, and acigarette between his lips. 

He had passed a delightful week selecting the wall paper and the patternfor the frieze, buying rugs, screens, Assyrian _bas-reliefs_, photogravures of Renaissance portraits, and the famous tiled stove withits flamboyant ornaments. Just after renting his home he had had a talkwith the English gentleman of the fruit syndicate and had spoken aboutcertain ornaments and bits of furniture, valuable chiefly to himself, which he wished to keep. The president of the fruit syndicate had beenvery gracious in the matter, and as soon as Vandover had taken his roomshe had removed two great cases of such articles from the CaliforniaStreet house and had stored them in the studio. 

After the workmen were gone away Vandover began the labour ofarrangement, aided by one of the paperhangers he had retained for thatpurpose. It was a work of three days, but at last everything was in itsplace, and one evening toward the middle of the month Vandover stood inthe middle of the sitting-room in his shirt-sleeves, holding thetweezers and a length of picture-wire in his hand, and looked around himin his new home. 

The walls were hung with dull blue paper of a very rough texture set offby a narrow picture moulding of ivory white. A dark red carpet coveredwith rugs and skins lay on the floor. Upon the left-hand wall, reachingto the floor, hung a huge rug of sombre colours against which were fixeda fencing trophy, a pair of antlers, a little water colour sketch of aNorwegian fjord, and Vandover's banjo; underneath it was a low but verybroad divan covered with corduroy. To the right and left of this divanstood breast-high bookcases with olive green curtains, their topsserving as shelves for a multitude of small ornaments, casts of animalsby Fremiet and Barye, Donatello's lovely _femme inconnue_, beer steins, a little bronze clock, a calendar, and a yellow satin slipper ofFlossie's in which Vandover kept Turkish cigarettes. The writing-deskwith the huge blue blotter in a silver frame, the paper-cutter, and theenormous brass inkstand filled the corner to the right of the divan, while drawn up to it was the huge leather chair, the chair in which theOld Gentleman had died. In the drawer of the desk Vandover kept hisfather's revolver; he never thought of loading it; of late he had onlyused it to drive tacks with, when he could not find the hammer. Oppositethe divan, on the other side of the room, was the famous tiled stovewith the flamboyant ornaments; back of this the mantel, and over themantel a row of twelve grotesque heads in plaster, with a space betweeneach for a pipe. To the left in the angle of the room stood the Japanesescreen in black and gold, and close to this a tea-table of bamboo and apiano-lamp with a great shade of crinkly red paper that Turner Ravis hadgiven to Vandover one Christmas. The bay window was filled by thewindow-seat, covered with corduroy like the divan and heaped withcushions, one of them of flaming yellow, the one spot of vivid colouramidst the dull browns and sombre blues of the room. A great sideboardwith decanters and glasses and chafing-dishes faced the window from theend wall. The entrance to the studio opened to the left of it, whichentrance Vandover had hung with curtains of dust-brown plush. 

The casts of the Assyrian _bas-reliefs_ were against the wall uponeither side of the window. There were three of them, two representingscenes from the life of the king, the third the wounded lioness whichVandover never wearied of admiring. 

Upon the wall over the mantel hung two very large photogravures, one ofRembrandt's "Night Watch, " the other a portrait of Velasquezrepresenting a young man with a hunting spear. Above one of thebookcases was an admirable reproduction of the "Mona Lisa"; above theother, a carbon print of a Vandyke, a Dutch lady in a silk gown and veryhigh ruff. 

By the side of the "Mona Lisa, " however, was a cheap brass rack stuffedwith photographs: actresses in tights, French quadrille dancers, highkickers, and chorus girls. 

In the studio, Vandover had tacked great squares and stripes ofturkey-red cloth against the walls to serve as a background for hissketches. Some dozen or more portfolios and stretchers were leanedagainst the baseboard, and a few ornaments and pieces of furniture, suchthings as Vandover set but little store by, were carelessly arrangedabout the room. The throne and huge easel were disposed so as to receiveas much light as was possible. 

Beyond the studio was the bedroom, but here there was only theregulation furniture. Some scores of photographs of Vandover's friendswere tacked upon the walls, or thrust between the wood and glass of themirror. 

A new life now began for Vandover, a life of luxury and aimlessnesswhich he found charming. He had no duties, no cares, noresponsibilities. But there could be no doubt that he was in a mannerchanged; the old life of dissipation seemed to have lost its charm. Fornearly twenty-six years nothing extraordinary had happened to break inupon the uneventful and ordinary course of his existence, and then, suddenly, three great catastrophes had befallen, like the springing ofthree successive mines beneath his feet: Ida's suicide, the wreck, andhis father's death, all within a month. The whole fabric of hischaracter had been shaken, jostled out of its old shape. His desire ofvice was numbed, his evil habits all deranged; here, if ever, was thechance to begin anew, to commence all over again. It seemed an easymatter: he would merely have to remain inactive, impassive, and hischaracter would of itself re-form upon the new conditions. 

But Vandover made another fatal mistake: the brute in him had only beenstunned; the snake was only soothed. His better self was as sluggish asthe brute, and his desire of art as numb as his desire of vice. It wasnot a continued state of inaction and idleness that could help him, butrather an active and energetic arousing and spurring up of those betterqualities in him still dormant and inert. The fabric of his nature wasshaken and broken up, it was true, but if he left it to itself there wasdanger that it would re-form upon the old lines. 

And this was precisely what Vandover did. As rapidly as ever his pliablecharacter adapted itself to the new environment; he had nothing to do;there was lacking both the desire and necessity to keep him at hiseasel; he neglected his painting utterly. He never thought of attendingthe life-class at the art school; long since he had given up hisdowntown studio. He was content to be idle, listless, apathetic, lettingthe days bring whatever they chose, making no effort toward any fixedroutine, allowing his habits to be formed by the exigencies of the hour. 

He rose late and took his breakfast in his room; after breakfast he satin his window-seat, reading his paper, smoking his pipe, drinking hiscoffee, and watching the women on their way downtown to their morning'sshopping or marketing. Then, as the fancy moved him, he read a novel, wrote a few letters, or passed an hour in the studio dabbling with somesketches for the "Last Enemy. " Very often he put in the whole morningdoing pen and inks of pretty, smartly dressed girls, after Gibson'smanner, which he gave away afterward to his friends. In the afternoon heread or picked the banjo or, sitting down to the little piano he hadrented, played over his three pieces, the two polkas and the air of thetopical song. At three o'clock, especially of Wednesday and Saturdayafternoons, he bestirred himself, dressed very carefully, and wentdowntown to promenade Kearney and Market streets, stopping occasionallyat the Imperial, where he sometimes found Ellis and Geary and where hetook cocktails in their company. 

He rarely went out in the evenings; his father's death had changed allthat, at least for a while. He had not seen Turner Ravis nor HenriettaVance for nearly two months. 

Vandover took his greatest pleasure while in his new quarters, delightedto be pottering about his sitting-room by the hour, setting it torights, rearranging the smaller ornaments, adjusting the calendar, winding the clock and, above all, tending the famous tiled stove. 

In his idleness he grew to have small and petty ways. The entire daywent in doing little things. He passed one whole afternoon delightfully, whittling out a new banjo bridge from the cover of a cigar-box, scrapingit smooth afterward with a bit of glass. The winding of his clock wasquite an occurrence in the course of the day, something to be lookedforward to. The mixing of his tobacco was a positive event andundertaken with all gravity, while the task of keeping it moist and ripein the blue china jar, with the sponge attachment, that always stood onthe bamboo tea-table by the Japanese screen, was a wearing anxiety thatwas yet a pleasure. 

It became a fad with him to do without matches, using as a substitute"lights, " tapers of twisted paper to be ignited at the famous stove. Hefound amusement for two days in twisting and rolling these "lights, "cutting frills in the larger ends with a pair of scissors, and stackingthem afterward in a Chinese flower jar he had bought for the purpose andstood on top of the bookcases. The lights were admirably made and lookedvery pretty. When he had done he counted them. He had made two hundredexactly. What a coincidence!

But the stove, the famous tiled stove with flamboyant ornaments, was thechiefest joy of Vandover's new life. He was delighted with it; it was soartistic, so curious, it kept the fire so well, it looked so cheerfuland inviting; a stove that was the life and soul of the whole room, astove to draw up to and talk to; no, never was there such a stove! Therewas hardly a minute of the day he was not fussing with it, raking itdown, turning the damper off and on, opening and shutting the door, filling it with coal, putting the blower on and then taking it offagain, sweeping away the ashes with a little brass-handled broom, orstudying the pictures upon the tiles: the "Punishment of Caliban and HisAssociates, " "Romeo and Juliet, " the "Fall of Phaeton. " He evenpretended to the chambermaid that he alone understood how to manage thestove, forbidding her to touch it, assuring her that it had to be coaxedand humoured. Often late in the evening as he was going to bed he wouldfind the fire in it drowsing; then he would hustle it sharply to arouseit, punching it with the poker, talking to it, saying: "Wake up there, you!" And then when the fire was snapping he would sit before it in hisbathrobe, absorbing its heat luxuriously and scratching himself, as washis custom, for over an hour. 

But very often in the evening he would have the boys, Ellis, Geary, andyoung Haight, up to a little improvised supper. They would bring home_tamales_ with them, and Vandover would try to make Welsh rabbits, whichdid not always come out well and which they oftentimes drank instead ofate. Ellis, always very silent, would mix and drink cocktailscontinually. Vandover would pick his banjo, and together with youngHaight would listen to Geary. 

"Ah, you bet, " this one would say, "I'm going to make my pile in thistown. I can do it. Beale sent me to court the other morning to get thejudge's signature. He had a grouch on, and wanted to put me off. Youought to have heard me jolly him. I talked right up to him! Yes, sir;you bet! Didn't I have the gall? That's the way you want to do to getalong--get right in and not be afraid. I got his signature, you bet. Ah, I'm right in it with Beale; he thinks I'm hot stuff. "

Now that there was nothing to worry him, and little to occupy his mind, Vandover gave himself over considerably to those animal pleasures whichhe enjoyed so much. He lay abed late in the morning, dozing between thewarm sheets; he overfed himself at table, and drank too much wine; heate between meals, having filled his sideboard with canned patés, pottedbirds, and devilled meats; while upon the bamboo table stood a tin boxof chocolates out of which he ate whole handfuls at a time. He wouldtake this box into the bathroom with him and eat while he lay in the hotwater until he was overcome by the enervating warmth and by the steamand would then drop off to sleep. 

It was during these days that Vandover took up his banjo-playingseriously, if it could be said that he did anything seriously at thistime. He took occasional lessons of a Mexican in a room above awigmaker's store on Market Street, and learned to play by note. For alittle time he really applied himself; after he had mastered thecustomary style of play he began to affect the more brilliant and fancyperformances, playing two banjos at once, or putting nickels under thebridge and picking the strings with a calling-card to imitate amandolin. He even made up some comical pieces that had a great successamong the boys. One of these he called the "Pleasing Pan-HellenicProduction"; another was the imitation of the "Midway Plaisance Music, "and a third had for title "A Sailor Robbing a Ship, " in which he managedto imitate the sounds of the lapping of the water, the creaking of theoarlocks, the tramp of the sailor's feet upon the deck, the pistol shotthat destroyed him, and--by running up the frets on the bass-string--hisdying groans, a finale that never failed to produce a tremendous effect. 

Chapter Thirteen

Just before Lent, and about three months after the death of Vandover'sfather, Henrietta Vance gave a reception and dance at her house. Theaffair was one of a series that the girls of the Cotillon had beengiving to the men of the same club. Vandover had gone to all but thelast, which had occurred while he was at Coronado. He was sure ofmeeting Geary, young Haight, Turner Ravis, and all the people of his setat these functions, and had always managed to have a very jolly time. Hehad been very quiet since his father's death and had hardly gone out atall; in fact, since Ida Wade's death and his trip down the coast he hadseen none of his acquaintances except the boys. But he determined nowthat he would go to this dance and in so doing return once more to theworld that he knew. By this time he had become pretty well accustomed tohis father's death and saw no reason why he should not have a good time. 

At first he thought he would ask Turner to go with him, but in the endmade up his mind to go alone, instead; one always had a better time whenone went alone. Young Haight would have liked to have asked Turner, butdid not because he supposed, of course, that Vandover would take her. Inthe end Turner had Delphine act as her escort. 

Vandover arrived at Henrietta Vance's house at about half-past eight. Acouple of workmen were stretching the last guy ropes of the awning thatreached over the sidewalk; every window of the house was lighted. Thefront door was opened for the guest before he could ring, and he passedup the stairs, catching a glimpse of the parlours through the portièresof the doors. As yet they were empty of guests, the floors were coveredwith canvas, and the walls decorated with fern leaves. In a windowrecess one of the caterer's men was setting out two punch bowls and amultitude of glass cups; three or four musicians were gathered about thepiano, tuning up, and one heard the subdued note of a cornet; the airwas heavy with the smell of pinks and of La France roses. 

At the turn of the stairs the Vances' second girl in a white lawn capdirected him to the gentlemen's dressing-room, which was the room ofHenrietta Vance's older brother. About a dozen men were here before him, some rolling up their overcoats into balls and stowing them with theircanes in the corners of the room; others laughing and smoking together, and still others who were either brushing their hair before the mirrorsor sitting on the bed in their stocking feet, breathing upon theirpatent leathers, warming them before putting them on. There were one ortwo who knew no one and who stood about unhappily, twisting the tissuepaper from the buttons of their new gloves, and looking stupidly at thepictures on the walls of the room. Occasionally one of the gentlemenwould step to the door and look out into the hall to see if the ladieswhom they were escorting were yet come out of their dressing-room, readyto go down. 

On the centre table stood three boxes of cigars and a great manypackages of cigarettes, while extra hairbrushes, whiskbrooms, and papersof pins had been placed about the bureau. 

As Vandover came in, he nodded pleasantly to such of the men as he knew, and, after hiding his hat and coat under the bed, shook himself into hisclothes again and rearranged his dress tie. 

The house was filling up rapidly; one heard the deadened roll of wheelsin the street outside, the banging of carriage doors, and an incessantrustle of stiff skirts ascending the stairs. From the ladies'dressing-room came an increasing soprano chatter, while downstairs theorchestra around the piano in the back parlour began to snarl and whinelouder and louder. About the halls and stairs one caught brief glimpsesof white and blue opera cloaks edged with swan's-down alternating withthe gleam of a starched shirt bosom and the glint of a highly polishedsilk hat. Odours of sachet and violets came and went elusively ormingled with those of the roses and pinks. An air of gayety andexcitement began to spread throughout the house. 

"Hello, old man!" "Hello, Van!" Charlie Geary, young Haight, and Elliscame in together. "Hello, boys!" answered Vandover, hairbrush in hand, turning about from the mirror, where he had been trying to make his hairlie very flat and smooth. 

"Look here, " said Geary, showing him a dance-card already full, "I'vegot every dance promised. I looked out for that at the last one of theseaffairs; made all my arrangements and engagements then. Ah, you bet, Idon't get left on any dance. That's the way you want to rustle. Ah, " hewent on, "had a bully sleep last night. I knew I was going to be outlate to-night, so I went to bed at nine; didn't wake up till seven. Hada fine cutlet for breakfast. "

It was precisely at this moment that Geary got his first advancement inlife. Mr. Beale, Jr. , head clerk in the great firm of Beale & Story, came up to him as he was drawing off his overcoat:

"How is Fischer?" asked Geary. 

Beale, Jr. , pulled him over into a corner, talking in a low voice. "He'seven worse than yesterday, " he answered. "I think we shall have to givehim a vacation, and that's what I want to speak to you about. If youcan, Geary, I should like to have you take his place for a while, atleast until we get through with this contract case. I don't know aboutFischer. He's sick so often, I'm afraid we may have to let him goaltogether. "

Suddenly the orchestra downstairs broke out into a clash of harmony andthen swung off with the beat and cadence of a waltz. The dance wasbeginning; a great bustle and hurrying commenced about thedressing-rooms and at the head of the stairs; everybody went down. Inthe front parlour by the mantel Henrietta Vance and Turner stood oneither side of Mrs. Vance, receiving, shaking hands, and laughing andtalking with the different guests who came up singly, in couples, or innoisy groups. 

No one was dancing yet. The orchestra stopped with a flourish of thecornet, and at once a great crowding and pushing began amidst a vast humof talk. The cards were being filled up, a swarm of men gathered abouteach of the more popular girls, passing her card from hand to hand whileshe smiled upon them all helplessly and good-naturedly. The dance-cardshad run short and some of the men were obliged to use their visitingcards; with these in one hand and the stump of a pencil in the other, they ran about from group to group, pushing, elbowing, and calling overone another's heads like brokers in a stock exchange. 

Geary, however, walked about calmly, smiling contentedly, verygood-humoured. From time to time he stopped such a one of the hurrying, excited men as he knew and showed him his card made out weeks before, saying, "Ah, how's that? _I_ am all fixed; made all my engagements atthe last one of these affairs, even up to six extras. That's the way youwant to rustle. "

Young Haight was very popular; everywhere the girls nodded and smiled athim, many even saving a place on their cards for him before he hadasked. 

Ellis took advantage of the confusion to disappear. He went up into thedeserted dressing-room, chose a cigar, unbuttoned his vest and sat downin one chair, putting his feet upon another. The hum of the dance cameto him in a prolonged and soothing murmur and he enjoyed it in somestrange way of his own, listening and smoking, stretched out at ease inthe deserted dressing-room. 

Vandover went up to Turner Ravis smiling and holding out his hand. Sheseemed to be curiously embarrassed when she saw him, and did not smileback at him. He asked to see her card, but she drew her hand quicklyfrom his, telling him that she was going home early and was not dancingat all, that in fact she had to "receive" instead of dance. It wasevident to Vandover that he had done something to displease her, and hequickly concluded that it was because he had not asked her to go withhim that evening. 

He turned from her to Henrietta Vance as though nothing unusual hadhappened, resolving to see her later in the evening and in the meanwhileinvent some suitable excuse. Henrietta Vance did not even see his hand;she was a very jolly girl, ordinarily, and laughed all the time. Now shelooked him squarely in the face without so much as a smile, at onceangry and surprised; never had anything seemed so hateful anddisagreeable. Vandover put his hand back into his pocket, trying tocarry it all off with a laugh, saying in order to make her laugh withhim as he used to do, "Hello! how do you do this evening? It's apleasant morning this afternoon. " "How do you do?" she answerednervously, refusing to laugh. Then she turned from him abruptly to talkto young Haight's little cousin Hetty. 

Mrs. Vance was neither embarrassed nor nervous as the girls had been. She stared calmly at Vandover and said with a peculiar smile, "I amsurprised to see you here, Mr. Vandover. "

An hour later the dance was in full swing. Almost every number was awaltz or a two-step, the music being the topical songs and popular airsof the day set to dance music. 

About half-past ten o'clock, between two dances, the cornet sounded atrumpet call; the conversation ceased in a moment, and Henrietta Vance'sbrother, standing by the piano, called out, "The next dance will be the_first extra_, " adding immediately, "a _waltz_. " The dance recommenced;in the pauses of the music one heard the rhythmic movement of the feetshuffling regularly in one-two-three time. 

Some of the couples waltzed fast, whirling about the rooms, bearingaround corners with a swirl and swing of silk skirts, the girls' facesflushed and perspiring, their eyes half-closed, their bare, whitethroats warm, moist, and alternately swelling and contracting with theirquick breathing. On certain of these girls the dancing produced apeculiar effect. The continued motion, the whirl of the lights, the heatof the room, the heavy perfume of the flowers, the cadence of the music, even the physical fatigue, reacted in some strange way upon theiroversensitive feminine nerves, the monotony of repeated sensationproducing some sort of mildly hypnotic effect, a morbid hystericalpleasure the more exquisite because mixed with pain. These were thegirls whom one heard declaring that they could dance all night, thegirls who could dance until they dropped. 

Other of the couples danced with the greatest languor and gravity, theirarms held out rigid and at right angles with their bodies. 

About the doors and hallways stood the unhappy gentlemen who knew noone, watching the others dance, feigning to be amused. Some of them, however, had ascended to the dressing-room and began to strike up anacquaintance with each other and with Ellis, smoking incessantly, discussing business, politics, and even religion. 

In the ladies' dressing-room two of the maids were holding a longconversation in low tones, their heads together; evidently it wasconcerning something dreadful. They continually exclaimed "Oh!" and"Ah!" suddenly sitting back from each other, shaking their heads, andbiting their nether lips. On the top floor in the hall the servants intheir best clothes leaned over the balustrade, nudging each other, talking in hoarse whispers or pointing with thick fingers swollen withdish-water. All up and down the stairs were the couples who were sittingout the dance, some of them even upon the circular sofa in the hall overthe first landing. 

The music stopped, leaving a babel of talk in the air, the couples fellapart for an instant, but a great clapping of hands broke out and thetired musicians heroically recommenced. 

As soon as the short _encore_ was done there was a rush for the lemonadeand punch bowls. The guests thronged around them joking each other. "Hello! are you here _again_?" "Oh, this is dreadful!" "This makes _six_times I've seen you here. "

A smell of coffee rose into the air from the basement. It was abouthalf-past eleven; the next dance was the supper dance and the gentlemenhurried about anxiously searching the stairs, the parlours, and theconservatory for the girls who had promised them this dance weeksbefore. The musicians were playing a march, and the couples crowded downthe narrow stairs in single file, the ladies drawing off their gloves. The tired musicians stretched themselves, rubbed their eyes, and beganto talk aloud in the deserted parlours. 

Supper was served in the huge billiard-room in the basement and waseaten in a storm of gayety. The same parties and "sets" tried to gettogether at the same table; Henrietta Vance's party was particularlynoisy: at her table there was an incessant clamour of screams and shoutsof laughter. One ate oysters _à la poulette_, terrapin-salads, andcroquettes; the wines were Sauternes and champagnes. With the nuts anddessert the caps came on, and in a few minutes were cracking andsnapping all over the room. 

Six of the unfortunates who knew no one, but who had managed through acommon affliction to become acquainted with each other, gathered at aseparate table. Ellis was one of their number; he levied a twenty-fiveassessment, and tipped the waiter a dollar and a half. This oneaccordingly brought them extra bottles of champagne in which they foundconsolation for all the _ennui_ of the evening. 

After supper the dancing began again. The little stiffness andconstraint of the earlier part of the evening was gone; by this timenearly everybody, except the unfortunates, knew everybody else. The gooddinner and the champagne had put them all into an excellent humour, andthey all commenced to be very jolly. They began a Virginia Reel stillwearing the magician's caps and Phrygian bonnets of tissue paper. 

Young Haight was with Turner Ravis as much as possible during theevening, very happy and excited. Something had happened; it wasimpossible for him to say precisely what, for on the face of thingsTurner was the same as ever. Nothing in her speech or actions wasdifferent, but there was in her manner, in the very air that surroundedher, something elusive and subtle that set him all in a tremor. Therewas a change in his favour; he felt that she liked to have him with herand that she was trying to have him feel as much in some mysterious wayof her own. He could see, however, that she was hardly conscious ofdoing this and that the change was more apparent to his eyes than it wasto hers. 

"Must you really go home now?" he said, as Turner began to talk ofleaving, soon after supper. They had been sitting out the dance under apalm at the angle of the stairs. 

"Yes, " answered Turner; "Howard has the measles and I promised to behome early. Delphine was to come for me and she ought to be here now. "

"Delphine?" exclaimed young Haight. "Didn't you come with Van?"

"No, " answered Turner quietly. Only by her manner, and by something inthe way she said the word, Haight knew at once that she had brokendefinitely with Vandover. The talk he had had with her at her house cameback to him on the instant. He hesitated a moment and then asked:

"There is something wrong? Has Van done anything--never mind, I don'tmean that; it's no business of mine, I suppose. But I know you care forhim. I'm sorry if--"

But he was not sorry. Try as he would, his heart was leaping in him forjoy. With Vandover out of the way, he knew that all would be different;Turner herself had said so. 

"Oh, everything is wrong, " said Turner, with tears in her eyes. "I havebeen so disappointed in Van; oh, terribly disappointed. "

"I know; yes, I think I know what you mean, " answered young Haight in alow voice. 

"Oh, please don't let's talk about it at all, " cried Turner. But youngHaight could not stop now. 

"Is Van really out of the question, then?" he asked. 

"Oh, yes, " she exclaimed, not seeing what he was coming to. "Oh, yes;how could I--how _could_ I care for him after--after what has happened?"

Very much embarrassed, young Haight went on: "I know it's unfair to takeadvantage of you now, but do you remember what you said once? That ifVandover were out of the question, that _'perhaps'_ you might--that itwould be--that there might be a chance for me?"

Turner was silent for a long time, and then she said: "Yes, I remember. "

"Well, how about that _now_?" asked young Haight with a nervous laugh. 

"Ah, " answered Turner, "how do I know--so soon!"

"But what do you _think_, Turner?" he persisted. 

"But I haven't thought at all, " she returned. 

"Well, think now!" he went on. "Tell me--how about that?"

"About _what_?"

"Ah, you know what I mean, " young Haight replied, feeling like a littleboy, "about what you said at your house that Sunday night. Please tellme; you don't know how much it means to me. "

"Oh, there's Delphine at the door!" suddenly exclaimed Turner. "Now, really, I _must_ go down. She doesn't know where to go; she's sostupid!"

"No, " he answered, "not until you tell me!" He caught her hand, refusingto let it go. 

"Ah, how mean you are to corner me so!" she cried laughing andembarrassed. "Must I--well--I know I shouldn't. _O-oh_, I just _detest_you!" Young Haight turned her hand palm upward and kissed the littlecircle of crumpled flesh that showed where her glove buttoned. Then shetore her hand away and ran downstairs, while he followed more slowly. 

On her way back to the dressing-room she met him again, crossing thehall. 

"Don't you want to see me home?" she said. 

"Do I _want_ to?" shouted young Haight. 

"Oh, but I forgot, " she cried. "You can't. I won't let you. You haveyour other dances engaged!"

"Oh, damn the other dances!" he exclaimed, but instead of beingoffended, Turner only smiled. 

Toward one o'clock there was a general movement to go. Henrietta Vanceand Mrs. Vance were inquired for, and the blue and white opera cloaksreappeared, descending the stairs, disturbing the couples who wereseated there. The banging of carriage doors and the rumble of wheelsrecommenced in the street. The musicians played a little longer. As theparty thinned out, there was greater dance room and a consequent greaterpleasure in dancing. These last dances at the end of the evening wereenjoyed more than all the others. But the party was breaking up fast:Turner had already gone home; Mrs. Vance and Henrietta were back attheir places in front of the mantel, surrounded by a group of gentlemenin capecoats and ladies in opera wraps. Every one was crying "Good-bye"or "Good night!" and assuring Mrs. Vance and Henrietta of theenjoyableness of the occasion. Suddenly the musicians played "Home SweetHome. " Those still dancing uttered an exclamation of regret, butcontinued waltzing to this air the same as ever. Some began to danceagain in their overcoats and opera wraps. Then at last the tiredmusicians stopped and reached for the cases of their instruments, andthe remaining guests, seized with a sudden panic lest they should be thelast to leave, fled to the dressing-rooms. These were in the greatestconfusion, every one was in a hurry; in the gentlemen's dressing-roomthere was a great putting on of coats and mufflers and a searching formisplaced gloves, hats and canes. A base hum of talk rose in the air, bits and ends of conversation being tossed back and forth across theroom. "_You_ haven't seen my hat, have you, Jimmy?" "Did you meet thatgirl I was telling you about?" "Hello, old man! have a good timeto-night?" "Lost your hat? No, I haven't seen it. " "Yes, about half-pastten!" "Well, I told him that myself!" "Ah, you bet it's the man thatrustles that gets there. " "Come round about four, then. " "What's thematter with coming home in _our_ carriage?"

At the doors of the dressing-rooms the ladies joined their escorts, anda great crowd formed in the halls, worming down the stairs and out uponthe front steps. As the first groups reached the open air there was agreat cry: "Why, it's pouring rain!" This was taken up and repeated andcarried all the way back into the house. There were exclamations ofdismay and annoyance: "Why, it's raining right _down_!" "What _shall_ wedo!" Tempers were lost, brothers and sisters quarrelling with each otherover the question of umbrellas. "Ah, " said Geary, delighted, peeling thecover from his umbrella in the vestibule, "I _thought_ it was going torain before I left and brought mine along with me. Ah, you bet I alwayslook out for rain!" On the horse-block stood the caller, chanting up thecarriages at the top of his voice. The street was full of coupés, carriages, and hacks, the raindrops showing in a golden blur as theyfell across the streaming light of their lamps. The horses were smokingand restless, and the drivers in oilskins and rubber blankets werewrangling and shouting. At every instant there was a long roll of wheelsinterrupted by the banging of the doors. Near the caller stood a uselesspoliceman, his shield pinned on the outside of his wet rubber coat, onwhich the carriage lamps were momentarily reflected in long verticalstreaks. 

In a short time all the guests were gone except the one young lady whosemaid and carriage had somehow not been sent. Henrietta Vance's brothertook this one home in a hired hack. Mrs. Vance and Henrietta sat down torest for a moment in the empty parlours. The canvas-covered floors werelittered with leaves of smilax and La France roses, with bits of ribbon, ends of lace, and discarded Phrygian bonnets of tissue paper. The butlerand the second girl were already turning down the gas in the otherrooms. 

 * * * * *

Long before the party broke up Vandover had gone home, stunned anddazed, as yet hardly able to realize the meaning of what had happened. Some strange and dreadful change had taken place; things were different, people were different to him; not every one had been so outspoken asTurner, Henrietta Vance and her mother, but even amongst others who hadtalked to him politely and courteously enough, the change was no lessapparent. It was in the air, a certain vague shrinking and turning ofthe shoulder, a general atmosphere of aversion and repulsion, an unseenfrown, an unexpressed rebuff, intangible, illusive, but as unmistakableas his own existence. The world he had known knew him now no longer. Itwas ostracism at last. 

But why? Why? Sitting over his tiled flamboyant stove, brooding into thewinking coals, Vandover asked himself the question in vain. He knew whatlatitude young men were allowed by society; he was sure nothing short ofdiscovered crime could affect them. True enough he had at one timeallowed himself to drift into considerable dissipation, but he was donewith that now, he had reformed, he had turned over a new leaf. Even athis worst he had only lived the life of the other young men around him, the other young men who were received as much as ever, even thoughpeople, the girls themselves, practically knew of what they did, knewthat they were often drunk, and that they frequented the society ofabandoned women. What had he done to merit this casting off? What_could_ he have done? He even went so far as to wonder if there wasanything wrong about his father or his sudden death. 

A little after one o'clock he heard Geary's whistle in the streetoutside. "Hello, old man!" he cried as Vandover opened the window. "Iwas just on my way home from the hoe-down; saw a light in your windowand thought I'd call you up. Say, have you got anything wet up there?I'm extra dry. "

"Yes, " said Vandover, "come on up!"

"Did you hear what Beale said to me this evening?" said Geary, as hemixed himself a cocktail at the sideboard. "Oh, I tell you, I'm gettingright in, down at that office. Beale wants me to take the place of oneof the assistants in the firm, a fellow who's got the consumption, coughing up his lungs all the time. It's an important place, hundred amonth; that's right. Yes, sir; you bet, I'm going to get in and rustlenow and make myself so indispensable in that fellow's place that theycan't get along without me. I'll crowd him right out; I know it may beselfish, but, damn it! that's what you have to do to get along. It'shuman nature. I'll tell you right here to-night, " he exclaimed withsudden energy, clenching his fist and slowly rapping the knuckles on thetable to emphasize each word, "that I'll be the head of that firm someday, or I'll know the reason why. "

When Geary finally became silent, the two looked into the fire for sometime without speaking. At last Geary said:

"You came home early to-night, didn't you?"

"Yes, " answered Vandover, stirring uneasily. "Yes, I did. "

There was another silence. Then Geary said abruptly: "It's too bad. Theyare kind of stinky-pinky to you. "

"Yes, " said Vandover with a grin. "_I_ don't know what's the matter. Everybody seems nasty!"

"It's that business with Ida Wade, you know, " replied Geary. "It gotaround somehow that she killed herself on your account. Everybody seemsto be on to it. I heard it--oh, nearly a month ago. "

"Oh, " said Vandover with a short laugh, "that's it, is it? I waswondering. "

"Yes, that's it, " answered Geary. "You see they don't know for sure; noone _knows_, but all at once every one seemed to be talking about it, and they suspect an awful lot. I guess they are pretty near right, aren't they?" He did not wait for an answer, but laughed clumsily andwent on: "You see, you always have to be awfully careful in thosethings, or you'll get into a box. Ah, you bet I don't let any girl _I_go with know _my_ last name or _my_ address if I can help it. I'm cleverenough for that; you have to manage very carefully; ah, you bet! Youought to have looked out for that, old man!" He paused a moment and thenwent on: "Oh, I guess it will be all right, all right, in a littlewhile. They will forget about it, you know. I wouldn't worry. I guess itwill be all right. "

"Yes, " answered Vandover absently, "I guess so--perhaps. "

A few days later Vandover was in the reading-room of the MechanicsLibrary, listlessly turning over the pages of a volume of _l'Art_. Itwas Saturday morning and the place was full of ladies who were downtownfor their shopping and marketing, and who had come in either to changetheir books or to keep appointments with each other. On a suddenVandover saw Turner just passing into the Biography alcove. He got upand followed her. She was standing at the end of the dim book-linedtunnel, searching the upper shelves, her head and throat bent back, andher gloved finger on her lip. The faint odour of the perfume she alwaysaffected came to him mingled with the fragrance of the jonquils at herbelt and the smell of leather and of books that exhaled from the shelveson either side. He did not offer to take her hand, but came up slowly, speaking in a low voice. 

It was the last time that Vandover ever met Turner Ravis. They talkedfor upward of an hour, leaning against the opposite book-shelves, Vandover with his fists in his pockets, his head bent down, and thepoint of his shoe tracing the pattern in the linoleum carpet; Turner, her hands clasped in front of her, looking him squarely in the face, speaking calmly and frankly. 

"Now, I hope you see just how it is, Van, " she said at length. "What hashappened hasn't made me cease to care for you, because if I had reallycared for you the way I thought I did, the way a girl ought to care forthe man she wants to marry, I would have stood by you througheverything, no matter what you did. I don't do so now, because I find Idon't care for you as much as I thought I did. What has happened hasonly shown me that. I'm sorry, oh, so sorry to be disappointed in you, but it's because I only think of you as being once a very good friend ofmine, not because I love you as you think I did. Once--a long timeago--when we first knew each other, then, perhaps--things were differentthen. But somehow we seem to have grown away from that. Since then wehave both been mistaken; you thought I cared for you in that way, and Ithought so, too, and I thought you cared for me; but it was only that wewere keeping up appearances, pretending to ourselves just for the sakeof old times. We don't love each other now; you know it. But I havenever intentionally deceived you or tried to lead you on; when I toldyou I cared for you I really thought I did. I meant to be sincere; Ialways thought so until this happened, and then when I saw how easily Icould let you go, it only proved to me that I did not care for you as Ithought I did. It was wrong of me, I know, and I should have known myown mind before, but I didn't, I didn't. You talk about Dolly Haight;but it is not Dolly Haight at all who has changed my affection for you. I will be just as frank as I can with you, Van. I may learn really tolove Dolly Haight; I don't know, I think perhaps I will, but it isn'tthat I care for him _just_ because I don't care for you. Can't you see, it's just as if I had never met you. You know it's very hard for me tosay this to you, Van, and I suppose it's all mixed up, but I can't helpit. You don't know how sorry I am, because we have been such oldfriends--because I really did care for you as a friend; it's a proof ofit, that there is no other man in the world I could talk to like this. Ithink, too, Van, that was the only way you cared for me, just as a goodfriend--except perhaps at first, when we first knew each other. You knowyourself that is so. We really haven't loved each other at all for along time, and now we have found it out before it was too late. And evenif everything were different, Van, don't you know how it is with girls?They really love the man who loves them the most. Half the time they'rejust in love with being loved. That's the way most girls love nowadays, and you know yourself, Van, that Dolly Haight really loves me more thanyou do. " She gathered up her books and went on after a pause, straightening up, ready to go: "If I should let myself think of what youhave done, I feel--as if--as if--why, dreadful--I--that I should hateyou, loathe you; but I try not to do that. I have been thinking it allover since the other night. I shall always try to think of you at yourbest; I have tried to forget everything else, and in forgetting it Iforgive you. I can honestly say that, " she said, holding out her hand, "I forgive you, and you must forgive me because once, by deceivingmyself, I deceived you, and made you think that I cared for you in thatway when I didn't. " As their hands fell apart Turner faced him andadded, with tears in her eyes: "You know this must be good-bye for good. You don't know how it hurts me to tell you. I know it looks as if I weredeserting you when you were alone in the world and had most need of someone to influence you for the good. But, Van, won't you be better now?Won't you break from it all and be your own self again? I have faith inyou. I believe it's in you to become a great man and a good man. Itisn't too late to begin all over again. Just be your better self; liveup to the best that's in you; if not for your own sake, then for thesake of that other girl that's coming into your life some time; thatother girl who is good and sweet and pure, whom you will really, reallylove and who will really, really love you. "

 * * * * *

All the rest of that month Vandover was wretched. So great was his shameand humiliation over this fresh disaster that he hardly dared to showhimself out of doors. His grief was genuine and it was profound. Yet hetook his punishment in the right spirit. He did not blame any one buthimself; it was only a just retribution for the thing he had done. Onlywhat made it hard to bear was the fact that the chastisement had fallenupon him long after he had repented of the crime, long after he hadresolved to lead a new and upright life; but with shut teeth hedetermined still to carry out that resolve; he would devote all hisfuture life to living down the past. It might be hard; it might be onelong struggle through many, many years, but he would do it. Ah, yes, hewould show them; they had cast him off, but he would go away to Parisnow as he had always intended. As invariably happened when he was deeplymoved, he turned to his art, blindly and instinctively. He would go toParis now and study his paintings, five, ten years, and come back atlast a great artist, when these same people who had cast him off wouldbe proud to receive him. Turner was right in saying that he had in himthe making of a great man. He _knew_ that she was right; knew that if heonly gave the better part of him, the other Vandover, the chance, thathe would become a great artist. Well, he would do so, and then when hecame back again, when all the world was at his feet, and there were longarticles in the paper announcing his arrival, these people would throngaround him; he would show them what a great and noble nature he reallyhad; he would forgive them; he would ignore what they had done. He evendramatized a little scene between himself and Turner, then Mrs. Haight. They would both be pretty old then and he would take her children on hislap and look at her over their heads--he could almost see those heads, white, silky and very soft--and he would nod at her thoughtfully, andsay, "Well, I have taken your advice, do you remember?" and she was toanswer, "Yes, I remember. " There were actually tears in his eyes as hesaw the scene. 

At the very first he thought that he could not live without Turner; thathe loved her too much to be able to give her up. But in a little whilehe saw that this was not so. She was right, too, in saying that he hadlong since outlived his first sincere affection for her. He had felt fora long time that he did not love her well enough to marry her; that hedid not love her as young Haight did, and he acknowledged to himselfthat this affair at least had ended rightly. The two loved each other, he could see that; at last he even told himself that he would be glad tosee Turner married to Dolly Haight, who was his best friend. But for allthat, it came very hard at first to give up Turner altogether; never tosee her or speak to her again. 

As the first impressions of the whole affair grew dull and blunt by thelapse of time, this humble penitential mood of Vandover's passed awayand was succeeded by a feeling of gloomy revolt, a sullen rage at theworld that had cast him off _only_ because he had been found out. Hethought it a matter of self-respect to resent the insult they had putupon him. But little by little he ceased to regret his exile; the newlife was not so bad as he had at first anticipated, and his relationswith the men whom he knew best, Ellis, Geary, and young Haight, were innowise changed. He was no longer invited anywhere, and the girls he hadknown never saw him when he passed them on the street. It washumiliating enough at first, but he got used to it after a while, and bydint of thrusting the disagreeable subject from his thoughts, byrefusing to let the disgrace sink deep in his mind, by forgetting thewhole business as much as he could, he arrived after a time to bepassably contented. His pliable character had again rearranged itself tosuit the new environment. 

Along with this, however, came a sense of freedom. Now he no longer hadanything to fear from society; it had shot its bolt, it had done itsworst, there was no longer anything to restrain him, now he could doanything. 

He was in precisely this state of mind when he received the cards forthe opening of the roadhouse, the "resort" out on the Almshouse drive, about which Toby, the waiter at the Imperial, had spoken to him. 

Vandover attended it. It was a debauch of forty-eight hours, the longestand the worst he had ever indulged in. For a long time the brute hadbeen numb and dormant; now at last when he woke he was raging, moreinsatiable, more irresistible than ever. 

The affair at the roadhouse was but the beginning. All at once Vandoverrushed into a career of dissipation, consumed with the desire of vice, the perverse, blind, and reckless desire of the male. Drunkenness, sensuality, gambling, debauchery, he knew them all. He rubbed elbowswith street walkers, with bookmakers, with saloonkeepers, with theexploiters of lost women. The bartenders of the city called him by hisfirst name, the policemen, the night detail, were familiar with hisface, the drivers of the nighthawks recognized his figure by the streetlamps, paling in the light of many an early dawn. At one time andanother he was associated with all the different types of people in thelow "sporting set, " acquaintances of an evening, whose names grew faintto his recollection amidst the jingle of glasses and the popping ofcorks, whose faces faded from his memory in the haze of tobacco smokeand the fumes of whisky; young men of the city, rich without apparentmeans of livelihood, women and girls "recently from the East" with roomsover the fast restaurants; owners of trotting horses, actresses withoutengagements, billiard-markers, pool-sellers and the sons of theproprietors of halfway houses and "resorts. " With all these Vandoverkept the pace at the Imperial, at the race-track, at the gambling tablesin the saloons and bars along Kearney and Market streets, and in thedisreputable houses amid the strong odours of musk and the rustle ofheavy silk dresses. It lasted for a year; by the end of that time he hadabout forgotten his determination to go to Paris and had grown out oftouch with his three old friends, Ellis, Geary, and Haight. He seldomsaw them now; occasionally he met them in one of the little rooms of theImperial over their beer and Welsh rabbits, but now he always went on tothe larger rooms where one had champagne and terrapin. He felt that heno longer was one of them. 

That year the opera came to San Francisco, and Vandover hired amessenger boy to stand in line all night at the door of the music storewhere the tickets were to be sold. Vandover could still love music. Inthe wreckage of all that was good that had been going on in him his lovefor all art was yet intact. It was the strongest side of his nature andit would be the last to go. 

Chapter Fourteen

The house was crowded to the doors; there was no longer any standingroom and many were even sitting on the steps of the aisles. In the boxesthe gentlemen were standing up behind the chairs of large plain ladiesin showy toilets and diamonds. The atmosphere was heavy with the smellof gas, of plush upholstery, of wilting bouquets and of sachet. A finevapour as of the visible exhalation of many breaths pervaded the house, blurring the lowered lights and dimming the splendour of the great glasschandelier. 

It was warm to suffocation, a dry, irritating warmth that perspirationdid not relieve, while the air itself was stale and close as thoughfouled by being breathed over and over again. In the topmost galleries, banked with tiers of watching faces, the heat must have been unbearable. 

The only movement perceptible throughout the audience was the littleswaying of gay-coloured fans like the balancing of butterflies about tolight. Occasionally there would be a vast rustling like the sound ofwind in a forest, as the holders of librettos turned the leavessimultaneously. 

The orchestra thundered; the French horns snarling, the first violinswailing in unison, while all the bows went up and down together likeparts of a well-regulated machine; the kettle-drums rolled sonorously atexact intervals, and now and then one heard the tinkling of the harplike the pattering of raindrops between peals of thunder. The leaderswayed from side to side in his place, beating time with his baton, hishand, and his head. 

On the stage itself the act was drawing to a close. There had just beena duel. The baritone lay stretched upon the floor at left centre, hissword fallen at some paces from him. On the left of the scene, front, stood the tenor who had killed him, singing in his highest register, very red in the face, continually striking his hand upon his breast andpointing with his sword toward his fallen enemy. Next him on the extremeleft was his friend the basso, in high leather boots, growling from timeto time during a sustained chord, "_Mon honneur et ma foi. _" In thecentre of the stage, the soprano, the star, the prima donna chanted afervid but ineffectual appeal to the tenor who cried, "_Jamais, jamais!_" striking his breast and pointing with his sword. The primadonna cried, "_Ah, mon Dieu, ayez pitié de moi. _" Her confidante, themezzo-soprano, came to her support, repeating her words with animpersonal meaning, "_Ayez pitié d'elle. _" "_Mon honneur et ma foi_, "growled the basso. The contralto, dressed as a man, turned toward theaudience on the extreme right, bringing out her notes with a wrench anda twist of her body and neck, and intoning, "_Ah, malheureuse! Mon Dieu, ayez pitié d'elle. _"

The leader of the chorus, costumed as the captain of the watch, leanedover the dead baritone and sang, "_Il est mort, il est mort. Mon Dieu, ayez pitié de lui. _" The soldiers of the watch were huddled togetherimmediately back of him. They wore tin helmets, much too large, andgreen peplums, and repeated his words continually. 

The chorus itself was made up of citizens of the town; it was in asemicircle at the back of the stage--the men on one side, the women onthe other. They made all their gestures together and chanted withoutceasing: "_O horreur, O mystére! Il est mort. Mon Dieu, ayez pitié denous!_"

"_De Grace!_" cried the prima donna. 

"_Jamais, jamais!_" echoed the tenor, striking his breast and pointingwith his sword. 

"_O mystére!_" chanted the chorus, while the basso struck his hand uponhis sword hilt, growling "_Mon honneur et ma foi. _"

The orchestra redoubled. The finale began; all the pieces of theorchestra, all the voices on the stage, commenced over again very loud. They all took a step forward, and the rhythm became more rapid, till itreached a climax where the prima donna's voice jumped to a C in alt, holding it long enough for the basso to thunder, "_Mon honneur et mafoi_" twice. Then they all struck the attitudes for the closing tableauand in one last burst of music sang all together, "_Mon Dieu, ayez pitiéde moi_" and "_de lui_" and "_d'elle_" and "_de nous_. " Then theorchestra closed with a long roll of the kettle-drums, and the primadonna fainted into the arms of her confidante. The curtain fell. 

There was a roar of applause. The gallery whistled and stamped. Everyone relaxed his or her position, drawing a long breath, looking about. There was a general stir; the lights in the great glass chandelierclicked and blazed up, and a murmur of conversation arose. Thefootlights were lowered and the orchestra left their places anddisappeared underneath the stage, leaving the audience with theconviction that they had gone out after beer. All over the house oneheard the shrill voices of boys crying out, "Op'ra books--books for theop'ra--words and music for the op'ra. "

Throughout the boxes a great coming and going took place and aninterchange of visits. The gentlemen out in the foyer stood aboutconversing in groups or walked up and down smoking cigarettes, oftenpausing in front of the big floral piece that was to be given to theprima donna at the end of the great scene in the fourth act. 

There was a little titter of an electric bell. The curtain was about togo up, and a great rush for seats began. The orchestra were coming backand tuning up. They sent up a prolonged medley of sounds, little minorchirps and cries from the violins, liquid runs and mellow gurgles fromthe oboes, flutes, and wood-wind instruments, and an occasionaldeep-toned purring from the bass viols. A bell rang faintly from behindthe wings, the house lights sank, and the footlights blazed up. Theleader tapped with his baton; a great silence fell upon the house, whilehere and there one heard an energetic "Ssh! ssh!" The fourth act wasabout to begin. 

When the curtain rose on the fourth act one saw the prima donna standingin a very dejected pose in the midst of a vast apartment that might havebeen a bedchamber, a council hall, or a hall of audience. She was alone. She wore a loose cream-coloured gown knotted about the waist; her armswere bare, and her hair unbound and flowing loose over her shoulders toher girdle. She was to die in this act; it promised to be harrowing; andthe first few notes she uttered recurred again later on as the motif forthe famous quartet in the "great scene. "

But for all this, the music had little by little taken possession ofVandover, and little by little he had forgotten his surroundings, thestifling air of the house, the blinding glitter of the stage and thediscomfort of his limbs cramped into the narrow orchestra chair. Allmusic was music to him; he loved it with an unreasoned, uncriticallove, enjoying even the barrel organs and hand pianos of the streets. For the present the slow beat and cadence of the melodies of the operahad cradled all his senses, carrying him away into a kind of exalteddream. The quartet began; for him it was wonderfully sweet, thelong-sustained chords breathing over the subdued orchestralaccompaniment, like some sweet south wind passing in long sighs over thepulse of a great ocean. It seemed to him infinitely beautiful, infinitely sad, subdued minor plaints recurring persistently again andagain like sighs of parting, but could not be restrained, like voices ofregret for the things that were never to be again. Or it was a pathos, ajoy in all things good, a vast tenderness, so sweet, so divinely purethat it could not be framed in words, so great and so deep that it foundits only expression in tears. There came over him a vague sense of thosethings which are too beautiful to be comprehended, of a nobility, aself-oblivion, an immortal eternal love and kindness, all goodness, allbenignity, all pity for sin, all sorrow for grief, all joy for the true, the right, and the pure. 

To be better, to be true and right and pure, these were the only thingsthat were worth while, these were the things that he seemed to feel inthe music. It was as if for the moment he had become a little childagain, not ashamed to be innocent, ignorant of vice, still believing inall his illusions, still near to the great white gates of life. 

The appeal had been made directly to what was best and strongest inVandover, and the answer was quick and over-powering. All the good thatstill survived in him leaped to life again in an instant, clamouring forrecognition, pleading for existence. The other Vandover, the betterVandover, wrestled with the brute in him once more, never before sostrong, never so persistent. He had not yet destroyed all that was goodin him; now it had turned in one more revolt, crying out against him, protesting for the last time against its own perversion and destruction. Vandover felt that he was at the great crisis of his life. 

After all was over he walked home through the silent streets, proceedingslowly, his hands in his pockets, his head bent down, his mind verybusy. Once in his rooms he threw off his things and, having stirred upthe drowsing fire in the tiled stove, sat down before it in hisshirt-sleeves, the bosom of his full dress shirt bulging from his vestand faintly creaking as from time to time he drew a long breath. He hadbeen lured into a mood where he was himself at his very best, where theother Vandover, the better Vandover, drew apart with eyes turnedaskance, looking inward and downward into the depths of his owncharacter, shuddering, terrified. Far down there in the darkest, lowestplaces he had seen the brute, squat, deformed, hideous; he had seen itcrawling to and fro dimly, through a dark shadow he had heard itgrowling, chafing at the least restraint, restless to be free. For nowat last it was huge, strong, insatiable, swollen and distorted out ofall size, grown to be a monster, glutted yet still ravenous, somefearful bestial satyr, grovelling, perverse, horrible beyond words. 

And with the eyes of this better self he saw again, little by little, the course of his whole life, and witnessed again the eternal strugglebetween good and evil that had been going on within him since his veryearliest years. He was sure that at the first the good had been thestrongest. Little by little the brute had grown, and he, pleasure-loving, adapting himself to every change of environment, luxurious, self-indulgent, shrinking with the shrinking of a sensuousartist-nature from all that was irksome and disagreeable, had shut hisears to the voices that shouted warnings of the danger, and had allowedthe brute to thrive and to grow, its abominable famine gorged from thestore of that in him which he felt to be the purest, the cleanest, andthe best, its bulk fattened upon the rot and the decay of all that wasgood, growing larger day by day, noisome, swollen, poddy, a filthyinordinate ghoul, gorged and bloated by feeding on the good things thatwere dead. 

Besides this he saw how one by one he had wrenched himself free from allthose influences that had tended to foster and to cultivate all thebetter part of him. 

First of all, long ago it seemed now, he had allowed to be destroyedthat first instinctive purity, that fragile, delicate innocence whichdies young in almost every human being, and that one sees evaporatingunder the earliest taint of vice with a smile partly of contempt, partly of pity, partly of genuine regret. 

Next it had been his father. The Old Gentleman had exerted a greatinfluence over Vandover; he had never forgotten that scene the morningafter he had told him of his measure of responsibility in Ida Wade'ssuicide, the recovery from the first shock of dazed bewilderment andthen the forgiveness, the solicitude and the encouragement to begin overagain, to live it down and to do that which was right and good and true. Not only had he stopped his ears to this voice, but also, something toldhim, he had done much to silence it forever. Despite the Old Gentleman'sapparent fortitude the blow must have carried home. What must he nothave suffered during those long weeks while Vandover was away, whatlonely broodings in the empty house; and then the news of the wreck, thedays of suspense!

It all must have told; the Old Gentleman was not strong; Vandover couldnot but feel that he had hastened his death, and that in so doing he haddestroyed another influence which would have cultivated and fostered hisbetter self, would have made it strong against the attacks of the brute. 

The other person who had helped to bring out all that was best inVandover had been Turner Ravis. There was no denying that when he hadfirst known her he had loved her sincerely. Things were vastly differentwith him when Turner had been his companion; things that were unworthy, that were low, that were impure and vicious, did not seem worth whilethen; not only did they have no attraction for him, but he even shunnedand avoided them. He knew he was a better man for loving her; invariablyshe made him wish to be better. But little by little as he frequentedthe society of such girls as Ida Wade, Grace Irving, and Flossie, hisaffection for Turner faded. As the habits of passionate and unhealthyexcitement grew upon him he lost first the taste and then the verycapacity for a calm, pure feeling. His affection for her he fritteredaway with fast girls and abandoned women, strangled it in the foulmusk-laden air of disreputable houses, dragged and defiled it in thewine-lees of the Imperial. In the end he had quite destroyed it, wilfully, wantonly killed it. As Turner herself had said, she could onlybe in love with being loved; her affection for him had dwindled aswell; at last they had come to be indifferent to each other, she nolonger inspired him to be better, and thus he had shaken off this goodinfluence as well. 

Public opinion had been a great check upon him, the fear of scandal, thedesire to stand well with the world he knew. Trivial though he felt itto be, the dread of what people would say had to a great extent heldVandover back. He had a position to maintain, a reputation to keep up inthe parlours and at the dinner tables where he was received. It couldnot be denied that society had influenced Vandover for good. But this, too, like all the others, he had cast from him. Now he was ostracized, society cared no longer what he did, his position was gone, hisreputation was destroyed. There was no one now to stand in his way. 

Vandover could not fall back on any religious influence. Religion hadnever affected him very deeply. It was true that he had been baptized, confirmed, and had gone to church with considerable regularity. If hehad been asked if he was a Christian and believed in God he would haveanswered "Certainly, certainly. " Until the time of his father's death hehad even said his prayers every night, the last thing before turning outthe gas, sitting upon the edge of his bed in his night-gown, his head inboth his hands. He added to the Lord's Prayer certain other petitions asto those who were in trouble, sorrow, poverty, or any other privations;he asked for blessings upon his father and upon himself, praying for theformer's health and prosperity, and for himself, that he might become agreat artist, that the "Last Enemy" might be admitted to the Salon whenhe had painted it, and that it might make him famous. But, as a rule, Vandover thought very little about religious matters and when he did, told himself that he was too intelligent to believe in a literal heaven, a literal hell, and a personal God personally interfering in humanaffairs like any Jove or Odin. But the moment he rejected a concretereligion Vandover was almost helpless. He was not mystic enough to findany meaning in signs or symbols, nor philosophic enough to grasp vagueand immense abstractions. Infinities, Presences, Forces, could not helphim withstand temptation, could not strengthen him against the brute. Hefelt that somewhere, some time, there was punishment for evildoing, but, as happened in the case of Ida Wade's death, to dwell on suchthoughts disturbed and terrified him. He did not dare to look long inthat direction. Conscience, remorse, repentance, all these had been keenenough at first, but he had so persistently kicked against the pricksthat little by little he had ceased to feel them at all. 

Then an immense and overwhelming terror seized upon him. Was therenothing, then--nothing left which he could lay hold of to save him? Heknew that he could not deliver himself by his own exertions. Religioncould not help him, he had killed his father, estranged the girl hemight have loved, outraged the world, and at a single breath blightedthe fine innate purity of his early years. It was as if he had enteredinto his life in the world as into some vast labyrinth, wandering onaimlessly, flinging from him one by one the threads, the clues, thatmight have led him again to a safe exit, going down deeper and deeperuntil, when near the centre, he had suddenly felt the presence of thebrute, had heard its loathsome muttering growl, had at last seen it fardown at the end of a passage, dimly and in a dark shadow; terrified, hehad started back, looking wildly about for any avenue of escape, searching with frantic haste and eagerness for any one of those clues hehad so carelessly cast from him, realizing that without such guidance hewould inevitably tend down again to that fatal central place where thebrute had its lair. 

There was nothing, nothing. He clearly saw the fate toward which he washurrying; it was not too late to save himself if he only could findhelp, but he could find _no_ help. His terror increased almost tohysteria. It was one of those dreadful moments that men sometimesundergo that must be met alone, and that when past, remain in the memoryfor all time; a glimpse far down into the springs and wheels of life; aglimpse that does not come often lest the reason brought to the edge ofthe fearful gulf should grow dizzy at the sight, and reeling, toppleheadlong. 

But suddenly Vandover rose to his feet, the tears came to his eyes, andwith a long breath he exclaimed: "Thank God for it!" He grew calmer in amoment, the crisis had passed, he had found a clue beneath his gropingfingers. 

He had remembered his art, turning to it instinctively as he always didwhen greatly moved. This was the one good thing that yet survived. Itwas the strongest side of him; it would be the last to go; he felt itthere yet. It was the one thing that could save him. 

The thought had come to him so suddenly and with such marvellousclearness that in his present exalted state of mind it filled him with avague sense of awe, it seemed like a manifestation, a writing on thewall. Might it not be some sort of miracle? He had heard of menreforming their lives, transformed almost in an instant, and had scoffedat the idea. But might it not be true, after all? What was thiswonderful thing that had happened to him? Was this less strange than amiracle? Less divine?

The following day Vandover rented a studio. It was the lofty room withhardwood floors and the immense north light in that suite which he hadrejected when looking for rooms on the former occasion. He gave noticeto the clerk in the apartment house where his quarters were situatedthat he intended to vacate after the first of the month. Charming as hehad found these rooms, he gave up, with scarcely a regret, the idea ofliving in them any longer. In a month it would be summer and he would beon his way to Paris. 

But so great was his desire for work now, so eager was he to start the"Last Enemy, " so strong was the new energy that shook him, that Vandovercould not wait until summer to begin work again. He grudged everythingnow that kept him away from his easel. 

He disappeared from the sight of his ordinary companions; he did noteven seek the society of Geary or of young Haight. All the sketches hehad made for the "Last Enemy, " together with his easel and his disusedpalette, his colour-box, tubes, brushes and all the other materials andtools for his work, he caused to be transferred to the new studio. Besides this he had the stretcher made, best twill canvas on a framefour feet long, two and a half feet high. This was for the large sketchof the picture. But the finished work he calculated would demand aneight by five stretcher. 

He did not think of decorating the room, of putting any ornaments aboutthe wall. He was too serious, too much in earnest now to think of that. The studio was not to be his lounging place, but his workshop. His artwas work with him now, hard, serious work. It was above all _work_ thathe needed to set him right again, regular work, steady, earnest work, not the dilettante fancy of an amateur content with making prettythings. 

Never in his life had Vandover been so happy. He came and wentcontinually between his rooms, his studio, and his art dealers, trampinggrandly about the city, whistling to himself, strong, elated, filledwith energy, vigour, ambition. At times his mind was full ofthankfulness at this deliverance at the eleventh hour; at times it wasbusy with the details of the picture, its composition, its colourscheme. The main effects he wanted to produce were isolation and intenseheat, the shadows on the sand would be blue, the horizon line high onthe canvas, the sky would be light in tone, almost white near the earth. 

The morning when he first began to work was charming. His new studio wasin the top floor of a five-story building, and on arriving there, breathless from his long climb up the stairs, Vandover threw open thewindow and gazed out and down upon the city spread out below him, enjoying the view a moment before settling to his work. 

A little later the trades would be blowing strong and brisk from theocean, driving steadily through the Golden Gate, filling the city with ataint of salt; but at present the air was calm, touched with a certainnimbleness, a sparkling effervescence, invigourating, exhilarating. 

It was early in the forenoon, not yet past nine o'clock, and the mistthat gathers over the city just before dawn was steaming off under thesun, very thin and delicate, turning all distant objects a flat tone ofpale blue. Over the roofs of the houses he could catch a glimpse of thedistant mountains, faint purple masses against the pale edge of the sky, rimming the horizon round with a fillet of delicate colour. But anylarger view was barred by a huge frame house with a slated mansard roof, directly opposite him across the street, a residence house, one of thefew in the neighbourhood. It had been newly painted white and showedbrave and gay against the dark blue of the sky and the ruddy greens ofthe great garden in which it stood. Vandover from his window could fromtime to time catch the smell of eucalyptus trees coming to him in longaromatic breaths mingled with the odour of wet grass and fresh paint. Somewhere he heard a hummingbird singing, a tiny tweedling thread ofsong, while farther off two roosters were crowing back and forth at eachother with strained and raucous trumpet calls. 

Vandover turned back to his work. Under the huge north light was theeasel, and clamped upon it the stretcher, blank, and untouched. The verysight of the heavy cream-white twill was an inspiration. AlreadyVandover saw a great picture upon it; a great wave of emotion suddenlywelled up within him and he cried with enthusiasm:

"By God! it is in moods like this that _chef d'oeuvres_ are made. "

Around the baseboard of the room were a row of _esquisses_ for thepicture, on small landscape-stretchers, mere blotches of colour laid onwith the palette knife and large brushes, almost unintelligible to anyone but Vandover. He selected two or three of these and fastened them tothe easel above the big stretcher where he could have them continuallyin his eye. He lit his pipe, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and standingbefore the easel, began to sharpen a stick of charcoal with an oldrazor, drawing the blade toward him so as to keep the point of the stickfrom breaking. Then at last with a deep breath of satisfaction he beganblocking in the first large construction lines of his picture. 

It was one o'clock before he knew it. He went downtown and had a hastylunch, jealous of every moment that was not spent on his picture. Thesight of it as he re-entered the room sent a thrill all over him; he wassucceeding better than he could have expected, doing better than hethought he would. He felt sure that now he should do good work; everystage of the picture's progress was an inspiration for the next one. Atthis time the figures had only been "placed, " broadly sketched in largelines, "blocked in" as he called it. The next step was the seconddrawing, much more finished. 

He rapped the stretcher sharply with his knuckles; it respondedsonorously like a drumhead, the vibration shaking the charcoal from thetracings, filling the air with a fine dust. The outlines grew faint, just perceptible enough to guide him in the second more detaileddrawing. 

He brought his stick of charcoal to a very fine edge and set to workcarefully. In a moment he stopped and, with his chamois cloth, dustedout what he had drawn. He had made a false start, he began but could notrecall how the lines should run, his fingers were willing enough; in hisimagination he saw just how the outlines should be, but somehow he couldnot make his hand interpret what was in his head. Some third mediumthrough which the one used to act upon the other was sluggish, dull;worse than that, it seemed to be absent. _"Well, "_ he muttered, "can't Imake this come out right?" Then he tried more carefully. His imaginationsaw the picture clearer, his hand moved with more assurance, but the twoseemed to act independently of each other. The forms he made on thecanvas were no adequate reflection of those in his brain; some thirddelicate and subtle faculty that coordinated the other two and thatcalled forth a sure and instant response to the dictates of his mind, was lacking. The lines on his canvas were those of a child just learningto draw; one saw for what they were intended, but they were crude, theyhad no life, no meaning. The very thing that would have made themintelligible, interpretive, that would have made them art, was absent. Athird, a fourth, and a fifth time Vandover made the attempt. It wasuseless. He knew that it was not because his hand lacked cunning onaccount of long disuse; such a thing, in spite of popular belief, neverhappened to artists--a good artist might abandon his work for fiveyears, ten years--and take it up again precisely where he had laid itdown with no loss of technical skill. No, this thing seemed more subtle, so subtle that at first he could hardly grasp it. But suddenly a greatfear came upon him, a momentary return of that wild hysterical terrorfrom which he believed he had forever escaped. 

"Is it gone?" he cried out. "Is it gone from me? My art? Steady, " hewent on, passing his hand over his face with a reassuring smile;"steady, old man, this won't do, again--and so soon! It won't do for youto get scared twice like that. This is just nervousness, you areoverexcited. Pshaw! What's the matter with me? Let's get to work. "

Still another time he dusted out what he had done and recommenced, concentrating all his attention with a tremendous effort of the will. Grotesque and meaningless shapes, the mocking caricatures of those hesaw in his fancy, grew under his charcoal, while slowly, slowly, aqueer, numb feeling came in his head, like a rising fog, and the touchof that unreasoning terror returned, this time stronger, morepersistent, more tenacious than before. 

Vandover nerved himself against it, not daring to give in, fearing toallow himself to see what this really meant. He passed one hand over hischeek and along the side of his head, the fingers dancing. "Hum!" hemuttered, looking vaguely about him, "this is bad. I mustn't let thisget the better of me now. I'll knock off for to-day, take a little rest, begin again to-morrow. "

In ten minutes he was back at his easel again. His charcoal wandered, tracing empty lines on his canvas, the strange numbness grew again inhis head. All the objects in the range of his eyes seemed to move backand stand on the same plane. He became a little dizzy. 

"It's the _tobacco_, " he exclaimed. "That pipe always was too strong. "He turned away to the open window, feeling an irresistible need ofdistraction, of amusement, and he remained there resting on his elbows, listening and looking, trying to be interested. 

It was toward the middle of the afternoon. The morning mist was longsince evaporated and the first faint puffs of the inevitable trade windwere just stirring the leaves of the eucalyptus across the street. Inthe music-room of the white house the young lady of the family hadopened the piano and was practising finger-exercises. The scales andarpeggios following one another without interruption, came to his earsin a pleasant monotone. A Chinese "boy" in a stiff blouse of whitelinen, made a great splashing as he washed down the front steps with abucket of water and the garden hose. Grocery and delivery wagons cameand went, rattling over the cobbles and car-tracks, while occasionally awhistle blew very far off. At the corner of the street by alivery-stable a little boy in a flat-topped leather cap was callingincessantly for some unseen dog, whistling and slapping his knees. An express-wagon stopped a few doors below the white house and the driverpulled down the back-board with a strident rattle of chains; the cablein its slot kept up an unceasing burr and clack while the carsthemselves trundled up and down the street, starting and stopping with ajangling of bells, the jostled glass windows whirring in a prolongedvibrant note. All these sounds played lightly over the steady muffledroar that seemed to come from all quarters at once; it was that deepmurmur, that great minor diapason that always disengages itself fromvast bodies, from mountains, from oceans, from forests, from sleepingarmies. 

The desire for movement, for diversion, for anything that would keep himfrom thinking was not to be resisted. Vandover caught up his hat andfled from the room, not daring to look again at the easel. Once outside, he began to walk, anywhere, straight before him, going on with greatstrides, his head in the air. 

He found Charlie Geary and took him to supper. Vandover talkedcontinually on all sorts of subjects, speaking very rapidly. In theevening he insisted on Geary going to the theatre with him. He paid theclosest attention to the play, letting it occupy his mind entirely. Whenthe play was over and the two were about to say good night, Vandoverbegan to urge Geary to sleep up at his rooms that night. He overrode hisobjections, interrupting him, taking hold of his arm, and starting off. But Geary, a little surprised at his manner, refused. There were certainlaw papers he had taken home with him from the office that afternoon andthat it was necessary he should return in the morning. Ah, you bet, hewould get it right in the neck if old Beale didn't have thosedepositions the first thing when the office was open. Ah, he was gettingto be indispensable down there. He had had Fischer's place now for ayear. Fischer had never come back, and he had the promise of being takenon as head clerk as soon as Beale Jr. Went into the partnership with oldBeale. "I'll make my way in this town yet, " he declared. "I'll be inthat partnership myself some day. You see; yes, sir; ah, you bet!"

The idea of passing the night alone terrified Vandover. He startedtoward home, walking up Sutter Street, proceeding slowly, his hands inhis pockets. All at once he stopped, without knowing why; he rousedhimself and looked about him. There was a smell of eucalyptus in theair. Across the street was the huge white house, and he found that hehad stopped just before the door of the building on the top floor ofwhich his studio was situated. All day Vandover's mind had been in thegreatest agitation, his ideas leaping and darting hither and thitherlike terrified birds in a cage. Just now he underwent a sudden reaction. It had all been a matter of fancy, nothing but nervousness; he had notdrawn for some time, his hand lacked cunning from long disuse. Thedesire for work came upon him again overpoweringly. He wanted to seeagain if he could not draw just as truly and freely as in the old days. No, he could not wait till morning; he must put himself to the testagain at once, at the very instant. It was a sudden feminine caprice, induced, no doubt, by the exalted, strained, and unnatural condition ofhis nerves, a caprice that could not be reasoned with, that could not bewithstood. He had his keys with him, he opened the outside door andgroped his way up the four long flights of stairs to his studio. 

The studio was full of a sombre half-light, like a fog, spreadingdownward from the great north light in the sloping roof. The window wasstill wide open, the stretcher showed a pale gray blur. Vandover wasabout to light the gas when he checked himself, his arm still raisedabove his head. Ah, no; he did not dare to look at the result of hisday's work. It would be better to start in afresh from the beginning. Hefound the chamois skin on the tray of the easel and rubbed out all thedrawing on the canvas. Then he lit the gas. 

As he turned to his work once more a little thrill of joy and of reliefpassed over him. This time his hand was sure, steady, his head wasclear. It had been nervousness after all. As he picked up his charcoalhe even exclaimed to himself, "Just the same, that _was_ a curiousexperience this afternoon. "

But the curious experience repeated itself again that night as soon ashe tried to work. Once more certain shapes and figures were born uponhis canvas, but they were no longer the true children of hisimagination, they were no longer his own; they were changelings, grotesque abortions. It was as if the brute in him, like some maliciouswitch, had stolen away the true offspring of his mind, putting in theirplace these deformed dwarfs, its own hideous spawn. 

Through the numbness and giddiness that gradually came into his headlike a poisonous murk he saw one thing clearly: It was gone--his art wasgone, the one thing that could save him. That, too, like all the othergood things of his life, he had destroyed. At some time during thoseyears of debauchery it had died, that subtle, elusive something, delicate as a flower; he had ruined it. Little by little it had exhaledaway, wilting in the air of unrestrained debauches, perishing in thewarm musk-laden atmosphere of disreputable houses, defiled by the breathof abandoned women, trampled into the spilt wine-lees of the Imperial, dragged all fouled and polluted through the lowest mire of the greatcity's vice. 

For a moment Vandover felt as though he was losing his hold upon hisreason; the return of the hysteria shook him like a dry, light leaf. Hesuddenly had a sensation that the room was too small to hold him; heran, almost reeled, to the open window, drawing his breath deep andfast, inhaling the cool night air, rolling his eyes wildly. 

It was night. He looked out into a vast blue-gray space sown with pointsof light, winking lamps, and steady slow-burning stars. Below him wasthe sleeping city. All the lesser staccato noises of the day had longsince died to silence; there only remained that prolonged and sullendiapason, coming from all quarters at once. It was like the breathing ofsome infinitely great monster, alive and palpitating, the sistole anddiastole of some gigantic heart. The whole existence of the greatslumbering city passed upward there before him through the still nightair in one long wave of sound. 

It was Life, the murmur of the great, mysterious force that spun thewheels of Nature and that sent it onward like some enormous engine, resistless, relentless; an engine that sped straight forward, drivingbefore it the infinite herd of humanity, driving it on at breathlessspeed through all eternity, driving it no one knew whither, crushing outinexorably all those who lagged behind the herd and who fell fromexhaustion, grinding them to dust beneath its myriad iron wheels, ridingover them, still driving on the herd that yet remained, driving itrecklessly, blindly on and on toward some far-distant goal, some vagueunknown end, some mysterious, fearful bourne forever hidden in thickdarkness. 

Chapter Fifteen

About a week later Hiram Wade, Ida's father, brought suit againstVandover to recover twenty-five thousand dollars, claiming that hisdaughter had killed herself because she had been ruined by him and thathe alone was responsible for her suicide. 

Vandover had passed this week in an agony of grief over the loss of hisart, a grief that seemed even sharper than that which he had felt overthe death of his father. For this last calamity was like the death of achild of his, some dear, sweet child, that might have been his companionthroughout all his life. At times it seemed to him impossible that hisart should fail him in this manner, and again and again he would puthimself at his easel, only to experience afresh the return of thenumbness in his brain, the impotency of his fingers. 

He had begun little by little to pick up the course of his life oncemore, and on a certain Wednesday morning was looking listlessly throughthe morning paper as he sat in his window-seat. The room was delightful, flooded with the morning sun, the Assyrian _bas-reliefs_ just touchedwith a ruddy light, the Renaissance portraits looking down at himthrough a fine golden haze; a little fire, just enough to blunt thekeenness of the early morning air, snapping in the famous tiled andflamboyant stove. All about the room was a pleasant fragrance of coffeeand good tobacco. 

Vandover caught sight of the announcement of the suit with a suddensharp intake of breath that was half gasp, half cry, starting up fromthe window-seat, reading it over again and again with staring eyes. 

It was a very short paragraph, not more than a dozen lines, lost at thebottom of a column, among the cheap advertisements. It made no allusionto any former stage of the affair; from its tone Ida might have killedherself only the day before. It seemed hardly more than a notice thatsome enterprising reporter, burrowing in the records at the City Hall, had unearthed and brought to light with the idea that it might be ofpossible interest to a few readers of the paper. But there was his namestaring back at him from out the gray blur of the type, like somereflection of himself seen in a mirror. Insignificant as the paragraphwas, it seemed to Vandover as though it was the only item in the wholepaper. One might as well have trumpeted his crime through the streets. 

"But twenty-five thousand dollars!" exclaimed Vandover, terrified. "Where will _I_ find twenty-five thousand dollars?" And at once he fellto wondering as to whether or no in default of payment he could be sentto the penitentiary. The idea of winning the suit did not enter his mindan instant; he did not even dream of fighting it. 

For the moment it was like fire driving out fire. He forgot the loss ofhis art, his mind filled only with the sense of the last disaster. Whatcould he do? Twenty-five thousand dollars! It would ruin him. A cry ofexasperation, of rage at his own folly, escaped him. "Ah, what a foolI've been!"

For an hour he raged to and fro in the delightful sunlit room, pacingback and forth in its longest dimension between the bamboo tea-table andthe low bookcase, a thousand different plans and projects coming andgoing in his head. As his wits steadied themselves he began to see thathe must consult at once with some lawyer--Field, of course--perhapssomething could be done; a clever lawyer might make out a case for himafter all. But all at once he became convinced that Field would notundertake his defence; he knew he had no case; so what could Field dofor him? He would have to tell him the truth, and he saw with absoluteclearness that the lawyer would refuse to try to defend him. The thingcould not honourably be done. But, then, what _should_ he do? He musthave legal advice from some quarter. 

He was still in this state of perplexity when Charlie Geary arrived, pounding on the door and opening it immediately afterward as was hiscustom. 

"Hello!" said Vandover, surprised. "Hello, Charlie! is that you?"

"Say, " exclaimed Geary without returning his greeting, holding up hishand as if to interrupt him; "say, have you seen your lawyer yet--seen_any_ lawyer?"

"No, " answered Vandover, shaking his head gravely; "no, I've only thisminute read about it in the paper. " He was glad that Geary had come; atonce he felt a desire to throw this burden upon his chum's shoulders, to let him assume the management of the affair, just as in the oldcollege days he had willingly, weakly, submitted to the dictatorship ofthe shrewder, stronger man who smoothed out his difficulties for him, and extricated him from all his scrapes. He knew Geary to be full ofenergy and resource, and he had confidence in his ability as a lawyer, even though he was so young in years and experience. Besides this, hewas his friend, his college chum; for all Geary's disagreeable qualitieshe knew he would do the right thing by him now. 

"You're the one man of all others I wanted to see, " he exclaimed as hegripped his hand. "By George! I'm glad you have come. Here, sit down andlet's talk this over. " Geary took the big leather chair behind the desk, and Vandover flung himself again upon the window-seat. It was as if thetwo were back in the room in Matthew's; hundreds of times in those daysthey had occupied precisely these positions, Geary bending over at thestudy table, intent, nervous, very keen, Vandover lounging idly upon thewindow-seat, resting easily on his elbow listening to the other man'sadvice. 

"Now, what must I do, Charlie?" Vandover began. "See my lawyer, Isuppose? But do you think a lawyer like Field would take my case? Youknow I haven't a leg to stand on. "

"But you haven't seen him?" inquired Geary sharply. "Haven't seenanybody about it?" Vandover shook his head. "Sure?" insisted Gearyanxiously. 

"Why, I have only just heard about it twenty minutes ago, " protestedVandover. "Why are you so particular about that?" he added. Then Gearyexploded his mine. 

"Because, " he said, with a smile of triumph that he could not restrain, "because we are the counsel for the other side. I am on the case. "

Vandover bounded from the window-seat speechless with astonishment, bitterly disappointed. "_You?_ he shouted. Geary slowly nodded his head, enjoying Vandover's bewilderment. Vandover dropped back upon thecushions again, staring at him wildly with growing suspicion and anger. He would not have thought it possible that Geary could so sacrificetheir old friendship to his own personal interest. The two continuedstaring at each other across the table for a moment. In the silencethey heard the long rumble of a cable-car passing the house, and thepersistent jangling of its bell as it approached the street crossing. Agrocery wagon went up the side street, the horses' hoofs making acadenced clapping sound upon the asphalt. 

"Well, " exclaimed Vandover scornfully, "I suppose that's business, but Iwould call it damned unkind!"

"Now, look here, old man, " returned Geary consolingly. "Don't you takethe monkey-wrench off the safety valve like that. What am I here for ifit isn't to help you? Maybe you don't know that this is a mightyunprofessional thing to do. Ah, you bet, if old Beale knew this I wouldget it right in the neck. Don't you suppose I can help you more asWade's lawyer than I could as yours? And now that's the very first thingI've got to tell you--to keep this dark, that I have seen you. I can'tdo anything for you if you don't promise that. "

"Oh, that's all right, " returned Vandover, reassured. "That's all right, you can--"

"It's not considered the right thing to do, " Geary continued, notheeding Vandover's answer, "but I just do it because"--he began to makeawkward gestures with both his hands--"because we're old friends, likethat. That was the very first thing I thought of when Beale Jr. Told methat we two had the case--that I could get you out of this hole betteras Wade's lawyer than as your own. Ah, you bet, I was clever enough tosee that the first thing. "

"I'm sure it was awfully good of you, old man, " said Vandover sincerely. "I'm in a lot of trouble nowadays!"

"Well, now don't you bother, Van, " answered Geary consolingly. "I guesswe can pull you out of this all right. " He drew up to the table, lookingabout from side to side. "Got any writing paper concealed about thepremises?" he asked. Vandover pushed him over his writing pad, andGeary, taking the cap from his fountain pen, began asking a series ofquestions, taking down his answers in shorthand. After he had asked himas to his age, length of residence in the city, his property, and somefew other technical matters, he leaned back in his chair and said:

"Now, let's hear your side of the story, Van. I don't suppose you liketo go over the thing again, but you see I ought to know. " Vandover toldof the affair, Geary making notes as he went along. It was nearly noonbefore their interview was at an end. Then Geary gathered up the papersand reached for his hat and stick, saying:

"Well, now, that's all we can do to-day. I think I'll be up to see youagain day after to-morrow, in the afternoon. Beale Jr. And I have a datewith Mr. Wade again to-morrow, I think, and I can talk to you moredefinitely after that. You know this is the devil of a thing to do, " hesuddenly exclaimed apprehensively, "this playing back and forth betweenthe two parties like this; regularly dishonourable, don't you know?"

"If you think it's dishonourable, " said Vandover as he accompanied Gearyto the door, "if you think it's dishonourable, Charlie, why, don't doit! I don't want to ask you to do anything dishonourable for me. "

"Oh, that's all right, " replied Geary uneasily; "I had just as soon doit for you, only listen to this: don't you say a word about the case toanybody, not to your lawyer, nor to anybody. If Field should write toyou, you tell him you have counsel already. And, look here! you may havethe reporters up here pretty soon, and don't you open your face to them;you mind that; don't you let them get a thing out of you. And there'sanother thing you must understand: I'm not your lawyer, of course; yousee that. I could be disbarred if I was lawyer for both sides. It's likethis, you see: I'm Wade's lawyer--at least the firm I am with are hislawyers--and of course I'm acting in Wade's interest. But you're an oldchum of mine, and if I can I'm going to try and make it easier for you. You understand, don't you?"

"Yes, I understand, Charlie, " answered Vandover, "and you are just abrick. "

Vandover passed the rest of the day in his sitting-room, the suspense ofthe situation slowly screwing his nerves tenser and tenser. He walkedfor hours back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back, his headbent down, his forehead drawn into a frown of anxiety and exasperation, or he stood for a long time at the window looking out into the streetwith eyes that saw nothing. At supper that night he found that hisappetite had left him; the very thought of food revolted him. Hereturned to his room between seven and eight o'clock, his body and mindcompletely fagged, feeling a crying need of some diversion, some escapefrom the thoughts that had been hounding him all day. 

He made up his mind to read a little before going to bed, and all atonce remembered a book that he had once begun a long time ago but hadnever finished: the story of two men who had bought a wrecked opium shipfor fifty thousand dollars and had afterward discovered that shecontained only a few tins of the drug. He had never read on to find howthat story turned out. Suddenly he found himself repeating, "Twenty-fivethousand dollars, twenty-five thousand dollars--where will _I_ findtwenty-five thousand dollars?" He wondered if he would go to jail if hefailed to pay. His interest in the book was gone in a moment, and hetook up another of his favourite novels, the story of a boy at the timeof Christ, a Jewish boy unjustly condemned to the galleys, liberatedafterward, and devoting his life to the overthrow of his enemy, whom atlast he overcame and humbled, fouling him in a chariot race, all butkilling him. 

He sat down in the huge leather chair, and, drawing it up to the pianolamp and cocking his feet upon the table, began to read. In a fewmoments the same numbness stole into his head like a rising fog, aqueer, tense feeling, growing at the back of his forehead and at thebase of his skull, a dulness, a strange stupefying sensation as of sometorpid, murky atmosphere. He looked about him quickly; all the objectsin the range of his vision--the corner of the desk, the corduroy couch, the low bookcase with Flossie's yellow slipper and Barye's lioness uponit--seemed to move back and stand upon the same plane; the objectsthemselves appeared immovable enough, but the sensation of them in hisbrain somewhere behind his eyes began to move about in a slow, dizzywhirl. The old touch of unreasoning terror came back, together with asudden terror of the spirit, a sickening sinking of the heart, aloathing of life, terrible beyond words. 

Vandover started up, striving to keep himself in hand, fighting againsta wild desire to rush about from wall to wall, shrieking and waving hisarms. Over and over again he exclaimed, "Oh, _what_ is the matter withme?" The strangeness of the thing was what unsettled and unnerved him. He had all the sensations of terror, but without any assignable reason, and this groundless fear became in the end the cause of a new fear: hewas afraid of this fear that was afraid of nothing. 

Very gradually, however, the crisis passed away. He became a littlecalmer, and as he was mixing himself a glass of whisky and water at thesideboard he decided that he would go to bed. He was sure that he wouldbe better for a good night's rest; evidently his nerves were out oforder; it would not do for him to read late at night. He realized all atonce that his mind and body alike were exhausted. 

He passed a miserable night, dozing and waking at alternate hours untilthree o'clock, when he found it impossible to get to sleep; hour afterhour he lay flat on his back staring open-eyed into the darkness, listening to the ticking of the clock, the mysterious footsteps thatcreaked the floors overhead, and the persistent drip of a water faucet. Outside in the street he heard at long intervals the rattling of wheelsas the early milk wagons came and went; a dog began to bark, three gruffnotes repeated monotonously at exact intervals; all at once there was along muffled roll and an abrupt clacking noise; it ceased, then brokeout again sharply, paused once more, then recommenced, settling to aprolonged minor hum; the cable was starting up; it was almost morning, the window of his room began to show a brighter blur in the darkness, while very far off he could hear the steady puffing of a locomotive. Asthe first cable-car trundled by the house he dropped off to sleep forthe last time, being waked again toward nine o'clock by the sound ofsome one shovelling coal outside under his window, the shovel clinkingand rasping upon the stone sidewalk. 

He felt a little refreshed, but as he entered the dining-room for hislate breakfast the smell of food repulsed him; his appetite was gone; itwas impossible for him to eat. Toward eleven o'clock that same morninghe was pottering idly about his sitting-room, winding his clock andshaking down the ashes in the tiled flamboyant stove; his mind was stillbusy going over for the hundredth time all the possibilities of HiramWade's suit, and he was just wondering whether something in the way of acompromise might not be arranged, when with the suddenness of a blowbetween the eyes the numbness in his head returned, together with thesame unreasoning fear, the same depression of spirits, the same fearfulsinking of the heart. What! it was coming back again, this strangeattack, coming back even when his attention was not concentrated, evenwhen there was no unusual exertion of his brain!

Then the torment began. This time the crisis did not pass off; from nowon it persisted continually. Vandover began to feel strange. At firstthe room looked unfamiliar to him, then his own daily life no longerseemed recognizable, and, finally, all of a sudden, it was the wholeworld, all the existing order of things, that appeared to draw off likea refluent tide, leaving him alone, abandoned, cast upon some fearful, mysterious shore. 

Nothing seemed worth while; all the thousand little trivial things thatmade up the course of his life and in which he found diversion andamusement palled upon him. A fearful melancholia settled over him, adespair, an abhorrence of living that could not be uttered. This onlywas during the day. It was that night that Vandover went down into thepit. 

He went to bed early, his brain in a whirl, his frame worn out as iffrom long physical exertion. He was just dropping into a grateful sleepwhen his whole body twitched suddenly with a shock and a recoil of allhis nerves; in an instant he was broad awake, panting and exhausted asif from a long run. Once more he settled himself upon the pillow, andonce more the same leap, the same sharp spasm of his nerves caught himback to consciousness with the suddenness of a relaxed spring. At lastsleep was out of the question; his drowsiness of the early part of theevening passed away, and he lay back, his hands clasped behind his head, staring up into the darkness, his thoughts galloping incessantly throughhis brain, suffering without pain as he had never imagined a human beingcould suffer though racked with torture from head to heel. 

From time to time a slow torsion and crisping of all his nerves, beginning at his ankles, spread to every corner of his body till he hadto shut his fists and teeth against the blind impulse to leap from hisbed screaming. His hands felt light and, as he told himself, "jumpy. "All at once he felt a peculiar sensation in them: they seemed to swell, the fingers puffing to an enormous size, the palms bulging, the wholemember from the wrist to the nails distended like a glove when one hasblown into it to straighten it out. Then he had a feeling that his headwas swelling in the same way. He had to rub his hands together, to passthem again and again over his face to rid himself of the fancy. 

But the strange numb feeling at the base of the skull did not keep himfrom thinking--he would have been glad if it had--and now at last whenthe terror overcame him it was no longer causeless; he knew now what hefeared--he feared that he was going mad. 

It was the punishment that he had brought upon himself, some fearfulnervous disease, the result of his long indulgence of vice, his vilesubmission to the brute that was to destroy his reason; some collapse ofall his faculties, beginning first with that which was highest, mostsensitive--his art--spreading onward and downward till he should havereached the last stages of idiocy. It was Nature inexorably exacting. Itwas the vast fearful engine riding him down beneath its myriad spinningwheels, remorselessly, irresistibly. 

The dreadful calamities that he had brought upon himself recoiled uponhis head, crushing him to the dust with their weight of anguish andremorse: Ida Wade's suicide, his father's death, his social banishment, the loss of his art, Hiram Wade's lawsuit menacing him with beggary, andnow this last, this approaching insanity. It was no longer fire drivingout fire; the sense of all these disasters seemed to come back upon himat once, as keen, as bitter as when they had first befallen. He had toldhimself that he did not believe in a hell. Could there be a worse hellthan this?

But all at once, without knowing why, moved by an impulse, a blind, resistless instinct, Vandover started up in bed, raising his claspedhands above him, crying out, "Oh, help me! Why don't you _help_ me? Youcan if you only will!" Who was it to whom he had cried with suchunerring intuition? He gave no name to this mysterious "You, " thisstrange supernatural being, this mighty superhuman power. It was the cryof a soul in torment that does not stop to reason, the wild last hopethat feels its own helplessness, that responds to an intuition of aforce outside of itself--the force that can save it in its time ofperil. 

Trembling, his hands still clasped above him, Vandover waited for ananswer, waited for the miracle. In the tortured exalted state of hisnerves he seemed suddenly possessed of a sixth sense; he fancied that hewould know, there in that room, in a few seconds, while yet his handsremained clasped above his head. It was his last hope: if this failedhim there was nothing left. Still he waited; he felt that he should knowwhen the miracle came, that he would suddenly be filled with a sense ofpeace, of quiet joy. Still he waited--there was nothing, nothing but thevast silence, the unbroken blackness of the night, a night that was tolast forever. There was no answer, nothing but the deaf silence, theblind darkness. But in a moment he felt that the very silence, the verylack of answer, was answer in itself; there was nothing for him. Eventhat vast mysterious power to which he had cried could not help him now, _could_ not help him, could not stay the inexorable law of nature, couldnot reverse that vast terrible engine with its myriad spinning wheelsthat was riding him down relentlessly, grinding him into the dust. Andafterward? After the engine had done its work, when that strange othertime should come, that other life, what then? No, not even then, nothingbut outer darkness then and the gnashing of teeth, nothing but the deafsilence, nothing but the blind darkness, nothing but the unbrokenblackness of an eternal night. 

It was the end of everything! With a muffled cry, "Oh, I can't standthis!" Vandover threw himself from his bed, groping his way out into thesitting-room. By this time he was only conscious of a suffering toogreat to be borne, everything else was blurred as in a thick mist. Fornearly an hour he stumbled about in the darkened room, bruising himselfagainst the furniture, dazed, numb, trying in vain to find the drawer ofthe desk where he kept his father's revolver. At last his hand closedupon it, gripping it so tightly that the hundreds of little nicks andscratches made by the contact of the tacks and nails which he hadhammered with it nipped and bit into his palm like the teeth of tinymice. A vague feeling of shame overcame him at the last moment: he hadno wish to be found sprawling upon the floor, dressed only in hisnight-gown. He lit the gas and put on his bathrobe, drawing the cordssecurely about his waist and neck. 

When he turned about to pick up the revolver again he found that hisdetermination had weakened considerably, and he was obliged to reflectagain upon the wreck of his life and soul before he was back once moreto the proper pitch of resolution. It was five minutes to two, and hemade up his mind to kill himself when the clock struck the hour. Hespent the intervening moments in arranging the details of the matter. Atfirst he thought he would do it standing, but he abandoned that idea, fearing to strike his head against the furniture as he fell. He wasabout to decide upon the huge leather chair, when the remembrance of hisfather's death made that impossible. He finally concluded to sit uponthe edge of his bed, leaning a little backward so as not to fall uponthe floor, and he dragged the bed out into the sitting-room, preferringsomehow to die there. For a moment the idea of lying at length upon thebed occurred to him, but in an instant he recoiled from it, horrified atthe thought of the death that struck from above; no, it would be best tosit upon the edge of the bed, falling backward with the shot. Then hewondered as to which it should be, his heart or his head; evidently thehead was the better; there upon the right side in the little hollow ofthe temple, and the next moment he found himself curiously touching andpressing the spot with his fingers. All at once he heard the littleclicking noise that the clock makes a minute or so before the hour. Itwas almost two; he sat down upon the edge of the bed, cocking therevolver, waiting for the clock to strike. An idea came to him, and helooked at the calendar that stood at the right of the clock upon the topof the low bookcase. It was the twelfth of April, Thursday; that, then, was to be the date of his death--Thursday, April twelfth, at two in themorning, so it would read upon his gravestone. For an instant theawfulness of the thing he was to do came upon him, and the next instanthe found himself wondering if they still coursed jack-rabbits withgreyhounds down at Coronado the way they used to do when he was there. All at once the clock struck two, and at the very last instant astrange impulse to seat himself before the mirror came upon him. He drewup a chair before it, watching his reflection intently, but even as heraised the revolver he suddenly changed his purpose without knowing why, and all at once crammed the muzzle into his mouth. He drew the trigger. 

He heard no sound of a report; he felt no shock, but a great feeblenessran throughout his limbs, a relaxing and weakening of all his muscles;his eyes were open and he saw everything small and seemingly very faroff as through the reversed end of an opera-glass. Suddenly he fainted. 

When Vandover came to himself again it was early morning. The room wasfull of daylight, but the gas was still burning. Little by little thefearful things of the night came back to him; he realized that he hadshot himself, and he waited for the end, not daring to move, his eyesclosed, his hand still gripping the scratched butt of the revolver inhis lap. For a long time he lay back in the chair, motionless, hisconsciousness slowly returning like an incoming tide. At length hestarted to his feet with an expression of scorn and incredulity; he wasas sound as ever, there was neither scratch nor scar upon him; he hadnot shot himself after all. 

Curiously, he looked at the revolver, throwing open the breech--thecylinder was empty; he had forgotten to load it. "What a fool!" heexclaimed, laughing scornfully, and still laughing he walked to thecentre of the room under the chandelier and turned out the gas. 

But when he turned about, facing the day once more, facing that day andthe next and the next throughout all the course of his life, the senseof his misery returned upon him in its full strength and he raised hisclenched fist to his eyes, shutting out the light. Ah, no, he could notendure it--the horror of life overpassed the horror of death; he couldnot go on living. A new thought had come to him. Wretched as he was, hesaw that in time his anguish of conscience, even his dread of losing hisreason, would pass from him; he would become used to them; yes, evenbecome used to the dread of insanity, and then he would return once moreto vice, return once more into the power of the brute, the perverse andevil monster that was knitted to him now irrevocably, part for part, fibre for fibre. He saw clearly that nothing could save him, he had hadhis answer that night, there was to be no miracle. Was it not right, then, that he should destroy himself? Was it not even his duty? Thebetter part of him seemed to demand the act; should he not comply whilethere yet was any better part left? In a little while the brute was totake all. 

On the shelves above his washstand Vandover found the cartridges in agreen pasteboard box, and loaded all the chambers of the revolver, carefully. He closed the breech; but as he was about to draw back thehammer all his courage, all his resolution, crumbled in an instant likea tower of sand. He did not dare to shoot himself--he was afraid. Thenight before he had been brave enough; how was it now that he could notcall up the same courage, the same determination? When he thought overthe wreck, the wretched failure of his life, the dreadful prospect ofthe future years, his anguish and his terror were as keen as ever. Butnow there was a shrinking of his every nerve from the thought ofsuicide, the instinctive animal fear of death, stronger than himself. His suffering had to go on, had to run its course, even death would nothelp him. Let it go on, it was only the better part of him that wassuffering; in a little while this better part would be dead, leavingonly the brute. It would die a natural death without any interventionfrom him. Was there any need of suicide? Suicide! Great God! his wholelife had been one long suicide. 

 * * * * *

That same morning Charlie Geary had eaten a very thick underdone steakfor breakfast after enjoying a fine long sleep of eight hours. Towardeight o'clock he went downtown. He did not take a car; he preferred towalk; it helped his digestion and it gave him exercise. At night hewalked home as well; that gave him an appetite; besides, with the tencents that he saved in this way, he bought himself a nice cigar that hesmoked in the evening to help digest his supper. He was very careful ofhis health. Ah, you bet, one had to look out for one's health. 

At the office that morning he had a long talk with Beale, Jr. , as toHiram Wade's suit. The great firm of Beale & Storey, into whose officeGeary had been received, made a specialty of damage suits, andespecially those suits that were brought against a certain greatmonopoly which it was claimed was ruining the city and the state; such acase involving nearly a quarter of a million of dollars was nowoccupying the attention of the heads of the firm and, indeed, of thewhole office. Hiram Wade's suit was assigned to the assistants. Beale, Jr. , was one of these, and Charlie Geary had managed to push himselfinto the position of his confidential clerk. But Beale, Jr. , himselftook little interest in the Wade suit; the suit against the greatmonopoly was coming to a head; it was a battle of giants; the wholeoffice found itself embroiled, and little by little Beale, Jr. , allowedhimself to be drawn into the struggle. The management of the Wade casewas given over to Geary's hands. 

When he had first heard of his assignment to the case Geary had beenunwilling to act against his old chum, but it was the first legal affairof any great importance with which he had been connected, and he wassoon devoured with an inordinate ambition to distinguish himself in theeyes of the firm, to get a "lift, " to take a long step forward towardthe end of his desires, which was to become one of the firm itself. Heknew he could make a brilliant success of the case. Geary was at thistime nearly twenty-eight, keen, energetic, immensely clever; and thecase against Vandover was strong. No one knew better than he himself howintimate Vandover had been with Ida Wade; Vandover had told him much ofthe details of their acquaintance. Besides this, a letter which Ida hadwritten to Vandover the day before her suicide had been found, torn inthree pieces, thrust between the leaves of one of the books that sheused to study at the normal school. It directly implicated Vandover--itwas evidence that could not be gainsaid. Geary had resolved to push thecase against his old chum. Vandover ought to see that with Geary it wasa matter of business; he, Geary, was only an instrument of the law; ifGeary did not take the case some other lawyer would. At any rate, whether Van would see it in this light or not, Geary was determined totake the case; it was too good an opportunity to let slip; he was goingto make his way in the law or he would know the reason why. Every manfor himself, that was what he said. It might be damned selfish, but itwas human nature; if he had to sacrifice Van, so much the worse. It wasevident that his old college chum was going to the dogs anyway, but comewhatever would, _he_, Geary, was going to be a _success_. Ah, you bet, he would make his way and he would make his money. 

Ever since he had come into his little patrimony Geary had been makingoffers to Vandover for his block in the Mission. Geary would offer onlyeight thousand dollars, but Brunt steadily advised Vandover againstlistening to such a figure, assuring him that the property was valued attwelve thousand six hundred. Vandover had often wondered at Geary'spersistence in the matter, and had often asked him what he couldpossibly want of the block. But Geary was very vague in his replies, generally telling Vandover that there was money in the investment if onecould and would give the proper attention to pushing it. He toldVandover that he--Vandover--was no business man, which was thelamentable truth, and would much prefer to live upon the interest of hisbonds rather than to be continually annoyed by defective plumbing, complaints, and repairs. The truth of the matter was that Geary knewthat a certain immense boot and shoe concern was after the same piece ofproperty. The houses themselves were nothing to the boot and shoepeople; they wanted the land in order to build their manufactory uponit. A siding of the railroad ran down the alley just back of theproperty, a fact that hurt the lot for residence purposes, but that wasindispensable for the boot and shoe people. Geary knew that the heads ofthe manufactory were determined to buy the lot, and he was sure that ifproperly handled by clever brokers they could be induced to offer atleast one third more than its appraised valuation. It was a chance for afine speculation, and it was torture to Geary to think that Vandover, orin fact any one besides himself, was going to profit by it. 

The afternoon of the day upon which Hiram Wade had brought suit fortwenty-five thousand dollars, while Geary was pottering about his swiveloffice chair with an oil can trying to find out where it creaked, abrilliant idea had suddenly occurred to him, a stroke of genius, averitable inspiration. Why could he not make the Wade suit a machinewith which to force Vandover into the sale of the property?

His first idea had been to push the case so vigorously that Vandoverwould surely lose it. But on second thought this course did not seem topromise any satisfactory results. Geary knew very well that though HiramWade had sued for twenty-five thousand dollars he could not recover morethan five thousand, if as much as that. Geary did not know the exactstate of Vandover's affairs, but he did not think that his chum wouldsell any property in order to make the payment of damages. It was muchmore likely that he would raise the five thousand, or whatever it mightbe, by placing a second mortgage on some of his property. This, however, was presuming that Wade would get judgment for about five thousanddollars. But suppose that Vandover thought that Wade could actuallyrecover twenty-five thousand! Suppose that Geary himself should seeVandover and induce him to believe such a story, and to settle theaffair out of court! Vandover was as ignorant of law as he was ofbusiness. Geary might frighten him into a sale. Yet this plan seemedvery impracticable. In the first place, it would be unprofessional forGeary to have an interview with Vandover under such circumstances, thestory was almost too monstrous even for Vandover's credibility, andbesides, Geary would not pay, could not pay twenty-five thousand for theproperty. This last was a serious tangle. In order to get Vandover tosell, Geary would have to represent the damage suit as involving alarger sum of money than Geary was willing to give for the block, even afar larger sum than that which the boot and shoe manufacturers could beinduced to pay for it. It seemed to be a deadlock. Geary began to seethat the whole idea was out of the question. Yet the desire of it cameback upon him again and again. He dwelt upon it constantly, smelling outthe chance for a "deal" somewhere in the tangle with the instinct of thekeen man of business. At last he seemed to have straightened it out. Theidea of a compromise came into his mind. What if Vandover and Hiram Wadecould be made to compromise upon eight thousand dollars! Geary would bewilling to pay Vandover eight thousand for the block. That was hisoriginal offer. Wade, though he had sued for twenty-five thousand, couldeasily be made to see that eight thousand was as much as he couldreasonably expect, and Geary knew the boot and shoe manufacturers wouldpay fifteen thousand for the lot, perhaps more. 

But in order to carry out the delicate and complicated affair it wasabsolutely necessary to keep Vandover from seeing a lawyer. Geary knewthat any lawyer would fight the proposition of a compromise at eightthousand dollars: five thousand was as much as Wade could possibly getin court, and if judgment for such amount was rendered, Vandover'scounsel would advise him to raise the sum by mortgaging some propertyinstead of selling the block. 

Yet as soon as Geary arrived at a solution of the problem, as soon asthe "deal" began to seem feasible, he commenced to hesitate. It was notso much that the affair was crooked, that his rôle in it was, to say theleast, unprofessional, as it was the fact that Vandover was his oldcollege chum and that, to put the matter into plain words, Geary wasswindling his best friend out of a piece of property valued at twelvethousand six hundred dollars, and preventing him from reselling the samepiece at a very advanced figure. Again and again he wished that it wassome other than Vandover; he told himself that in such case he would putthe screw on without the least compunction. All through one night Gearywas on the rack torn between his friendship for his chum and hisdevouring, inordinate ambition to make his way and to make his pile. Inthe end Vandover was sacrificed--the opportunity was too good--Gearycould not resist the chance for a "deal. " Ah, you bet, just think of it, after all, not only would Vandover believe that Geary was doing him agreat service, but the office would be delighted with him for winninghis first case, they would get a heavy fee from Wade, and he wouldnearly double his money invested in the block in the Mission. As soon ashe had made up his mind to put the "deal" through, he had seen Vandoverat his rooms early in the morning and had induced him to promise not toengage any other counsel and in general keep very quiet about the wholebusiness. 

The day after, he and Beale, Jr. , had an appointment with Hiram Wade, but toward noon Beale, Jr. , disappeared, leaving word for Geary that hehad gone to court with his father to hear the closing arguments in thegreat suit against the monopoly, the last struggle in the tremendouslegal battle that had embroiled the whole office; Geary was to use hisown judgment in the Wade case. Geary laboured with Hiram Wade all thatafternoon. The old fellow mistrusted him on account of his youth and hisinexperience, was unwilling to arrive at any definite conclusion withoutthe sanction of Geary's older associate, and for a long time wouldlisten to nothing less than ten thousand dollars, crying out that hisgray hairs had been dishonoured, and striking his palm upon hisforehead. Nothing could move him. He, also, had his ambitions; it washis dream to own the carpet-cleaning establishment in which he now hadbut a three-fourths interest. Summer was coming, the time of year whenpeople were going into the country, leaving their carpets to be cleanedin their absence. If he could obtain complete ownership of his businesswithin the month he fancied that he saw an opportunity to make moremoney than he had done before at any previous season. 

"Why, I tell you, Mister Geary, " he exclaimed indignantly, wagging hishead, "it would seem like selling my daughter's honour if we shouldcompromise at any less figure. I am a father. I--I have my feelings, haven't I?"

"Well, now, it isn't like that at all, Mr. Wade, " answered Geary, makingawkward gestures with both his hands. "It isn't what we _ought_ to getout of him. Could any sum of money, could millions compensate you forMiss Ida's death? I guess not. It's what we _can_ get. If this thingcomes into court we won't get but five thousand out of him; I'll tellyou that right now. He could raise that by a mortgage, easy; but if wecompromise we can squeeze him for eight thousand. You see, the fact thatwe can act directly with him instead of through counsel makes it easierfor us. Of course, as I tell you, it isn't just the legal thing to do, but I'm willing to do it for you because I think you've been wronged andoutraged. "

Wade struck his hand to his head. "I tell you, he's brought dishonourupon my gray hairs, " he exclaimed. 

"Exactly, of course, I understand how you feel, " replied Geary, "but nowabout this eight thousand? I tell you what I'll do. " He had resolved tostake everything upon one last hazard. "See here, Mr. Wade, there's adifference, of course, between eight thousand dollars and ten thousand, but the use of money is worth something, isn't it? And money down, coldhard cash, is worth something, isn't it? Well, now, suppose you got thateight thousand dollars money down within three days?"

Hiram Wade still demurred a little longer for the sake of his ownself-respect and his dishonoured hairs, but in the end it was agreedthat if the money was paid over to him in full before the end of thefollowing week he would be content and would agree to the compromise. Eight thousand dollars would still be enough to buy out his partner'sinterest, and even then he would have a little left over with which toimprove a certain steaming apparatus. If the amount was paid in fullwithin a week he could get control of the cleaning-works in time tocatch all of the summer trade. 

Geary had calculated that this last argument would have its weight; thegreat difficulty now was to get Vandover to sell at such a low figureand upon such short notice. He almost despaired of his success in thisquarter; however, it all depended upon Vandover now. 

Early in the forenoon of the next day Geary pounded on the door ofVandover's sitting-room, pushing it open without waiting for an answer. Vandover was lying in his shirt-sleeves on the corduroy divan under thehuge rug of sombre colours that hung against the wall, and he did notget up as Geary came in; in fact, he hardly stirred. 

"Hello!" cried Geary, closing the door with his heel. "Didn't expect tofind _you_ up so early. _I've_ been up since half-past six; hadbreakfast at seven, fine cutlet, and then got down to the office attwenty minutes of eight. How's that for rustling, hey?"

"Yes?" said Vandover, dully. 

"But, say, " exclaimed Geary, "what's all the matter with _you_? You lookall frazzled out, all pale around the wattles. Ah, you've been hittingup a pace again. You're a bird, Van, there's no use talking! All nightracket this trip?". 

"I suppose so, " answered Vandover, never moving. 

"But you _do_ look gone-in this morning, sure, " continued Geary, seatinghimself on the edge of the table and pushing back his hat. "Never sawyou looking so bad; you ought to be more careful, Van; there'll be asmash some time. Ah, you bet a man ought to look out for his health. Iwalk downtown every morning, and three times a week I take a cold showeras soon as I get up. Ah, I tell you, that braces a fellow up; you oughtto try it; it's better than a dozen cocktails. You keep on getting thinlike you have for the past few days and I'll have to be calling youSkinny Seldom-fed again, like we used to. Now, tell the truth, what timedid you get to bed last night? Did you go to bed at all?"

"No, " replied Vandover with a long breath, looking vaguely at thepipe-rack on the opposite wall. 

"I thought as much, " answered Geary. "Well, that's like you. " He pauseda moment, and then went on, nervously gesturing with both his handssimultaneously. "Well, I've had a long talk with Wade. I tell you, Van, that old boy is as stubborn as a mule. You see, he knows he's got acase. I couldn't talk him out of that. I'll tell you how it is, "continued Geary, preparing to spring another mine; "he's found a letterIda wrote you the day before she killed herself. " He paused to watch theeffect upon Vandover. Vandover waited for him to go on, but seeing thathe did not and that he expected him to say something, nodded his headonce and answered:

"I see. "

"Don't you know, that letter that she wrote to you telling you how itwas, how she was fixed?" repeated Geary, puzzled and irritated atVandover's indifference. 

"I know. "

"Well, he's got it, anyhow, " pursued Geary, "and of course that tellsagainst you. Well, I had a long talk with him yesterday afternoon and Igot him to compromise. Of course, you know in suits like this one aparty sues for a great deal more than he expects to get. At first youknow he said twenty-five thousand; that figure was decided upon at thefirst interview he had with us. Of course, he could never get judgmentfor that much. But he hung out at ten thousand; said it would be sellinghis daughter if he took any less. Now I knew you couldn't raise thatmuch on any property you have, especially in these hard times--" Gearypaused for the fraction of an instant; he had thrown out the last remarkas a feeler, to see what Vandover would say; but his chum said nothing, staring vaguely at the opposite wall, merely making a faint sign to showthat he understood, closing his eyes and bending his head. "And so, "continued the other, "I jewed him down, and what do you suppose? Well, sir, from twenty-five thousand I brought him right down to, say, eightthousand. I could see that he had some scheme that he wants to go intoright away, and that he wants ready money, right on the nail, you know, to carry it through. Ah, you bet, I was clever enough to see that. Iwaltzed him right over when I began to speak of ready money, cash down. As soon as he'd squeal I'd spring cold cash on him, money down, and he'shit gravel like an ostrich. Well, " he went on deliberately after apause, getting up from the table and standing before Vandover, his handsin his pockets, "well, I think that's the best I can do for you, Van. It's a good deal better than I expected, but I've done the best I couldfor you, and I would advise you to see him on the proposition. "

"All right, " said Vandover. "Go ahead. "

Geary was perplexed. "Well, you think that's a good thing, don't you?You think I've done my best for you? You see it as I do, don't you?"

Vandover withdrew his eyes from the other wall, glancing under heavyeyelids at Geary, and with a slight movement of his head and shouldersreplied:

"Of course. "

"Have you got the money?" asked Geary eagerly; then, irritated at hisindiscretion, hastened to interrupt himself. "You see, he hasn't put hisproposition into writing yet, but it's like this: if you can pay himeight thousand dollars in cash before the end of next week he'll sign adocument to the effect that he is satisfied. "

"I've got no money, " said Vandover quietly. 

"I was afraid you wouldn't have, " said Geary, "but you can raise itsomewhere. You had better close with the old man as soon as you can, Van, while he's in the mood for it; you'll make a clear two thousand byit. You can see that as well as I can. Now, where can you--how is yourproperty fixed? Let's see! Here's the statement you made to me the otherday, " continued Geary, drawing his shorthand notes from his portfolio. "How about this piece on California Street, the one that you haverented, the homestead, you know?"

"Yes, there's that, " answered Vandover, changing the position of hishead upon his clasped hands. 

"But that's pretty well papered up already, " returned Geary, consultinghis notes. "You couldn't very well raise another mortgage on that. '"

"I'd forgotten, " answered Vandover. "There's the block in the Mission. He can have _that_. "

Geary began to tremble with excitement. It looked as though he might beable to make the deal after all. But the next instant he grewsuspicious. Vandover's indifference puzzled him. Might he not have somegame of his own? The idea of playing off his cleverness against that ofan opponent strung his nerves in an instant; the notion of an impendingstruggle was almost an inspiration, and his innate desire of getting thebetter of a competitor, even though it was his closest friend, arousedhis wits and sharpened his faculties like a stimulant. He had nohesitancy in sacrificing his chum. It was business now; friendshipceased to be a factor in the affair. Ah, Van was going to be foxy; he'dshow him that he could be foxy, too. 

"He can have it?" echoed Geary. "You don't mean to sign it over to himbodily?"

"Oh, I suppose it could be mortgaged, " answered Vandover. 

"Yes, that's the idea, " returned Geary. "You want me to figure that outfor you? I can just as well as not. Well, now, let's see, " he went on, settling himself at the desk, and figuring upon a sheet of Vandover'sstamped letter-paper. "The banks will never give you more than twothirds of the appraised value; that's as much as we can expect; thatwould come to--well, let's see--that would come to six thousand on thatpiece; then you could mortgage something else to make up thedifference. "

"Wouldn't it be more than six thousand?" asked Vandover with a littleshow of interest. "I think that block has been appraised at somethingover twelve thousand. "

"Ah, yes, " returned Geary, putting his chin in the air, "that was youragent's valuation five years ago; but you know property out there, infact, property all over the city, what they call inside property, hasbeen going right down for the last ten years. That's what I've alwaysbeen telling you. You couldn't possibly get more than nine thousand forthat block to-day. You see the railroad there hurts it. "

"I suppose so, " replied Vandover. "I've heard the governor say as muchin his time. "

"Of course, " exclaimed Geary, delighted at this unexpected turn. 

"Well, then, he can have my bonds, " said Vandover. "I've got eighty-ninehundred in bonds; he can have those. Let him have anything he wants. "

"Oh, don't touch your bonds, " answered Geary. "Hang on to those. Bondsare always good--U. S. Bonds. You don't want to sell those, Van. You see, the homestead is already mortgaged. And, besides, you know, too, thatthe banks are asking an awful big per cent. For mortgages on realestate; it's seven and a half nowadays. Don't sell your bonds. I'll tellyou why: U. S. Bonds are always good; they never depreciate, but it'sdifferent with realty, especially in this city just now. It's beendepreciating ever since your father's time, and it's going to go righton depreciating. If you want to sell anything, sell your realty beforeit gets any lower. Now you don't want to sell your home, do you? Youdon't like that idea. You've lived there so long, and then what wouldyou do with the furniture; besides, the rent of that, " he glanced againat his notes, "is bringing you in a good hundred and twenty-five amonth. If you've got to sell at all, why not sell your Mission block?"

"All right, " said Vandover, as if wearied by Geary's clamour, "I'll signit over to him. "

"No, that's not the idea at all, " Geary insisted. "He wants the readymoney; he don't want depreciated real estate. You'll have to find apurchaser in the next week if you possibly can in such a short time, andmake over the money to Wade. But if you can't sell in that time you willhave to dig up ten thousand instead of eight. It's a hard position foryou, Van; it's just a chance, you know, but I thought I would give youthe benefit of that chance. If you want to give me a power of attorneyI'll try and sell it for you. "

"I guess Brunt would do that, " replied Vandover. 

"Yes, " retorted Geary, watchful as a lynx, "but they would charge you abig commission. Of course _I_ wouldn't think of asking you anything morethan the actual costs. I am afraid that they would try to sell it atauction, too, if they knew you had to realize on it in so short a time, and it would go for a mere song then; you know how it is. "

"I thought, " inquired Vandover, "that you wanted that property. "

"Yes, " replied Geary, hesitating, "I--I did want to buy it of you once;well, for that matter I do now. But you know how it is with me. "

"I might as well sell it to you as to any one else, " returned Vandover. 

"Well, now, it's like this, Van, " said Geary. "I know that block isworth nine thousand dollars; I won't deceive you. But I can only giveyou eight thousand for it. That's all the money I've got. But I'm notgoing to take advantage of your position to jew you down. I want theblock, I'll admit that, but I'm not going to have you sacrifice it forme, or for any one else. I think you can get nine thousand for it. Iknow you could if we had a little more time, and I'm not sure but what Icould find a purchaser for you within the next week that would give younine thousand. "

"Oh, I don't care, Charlie; I'm sick of everything; eight thousand, ninethousand, anything you like; take it at your own figure. "

Geary began to tremble once more, and this time his excitement was sogreat that he hardly dared to trust himself to speak; his breath grewshort, his hands in his pockets twitched nervously, and curledthemselves into fists, his heart seemed to him to beat high in histhroat; he hesitated long, pretending to deliberate as he steadiedhimself. 

Vandover remained silent, his hands still clasped back of his head, staring at the opposite wall with eyes that saw nothing. The littleclock began to strike ten. 

"I don't know, Van, " said Geary; "I don't like to do this, and yet Iwould like to help you out of this muss. You see, if I should everbenefit by the property you would feel as though I had taken advantageof you at this time and worked a flim-flam on you!"

"Oh, I'll look out for that, " returned Vandover. 

"No, no, I don't feel quite right about it, " answered Geary, wagging hishead and shutting his eyes. "Better see what we can do at a forcedsale. "

"Why, don't you see you would be doing me a favour?" said Vandoverwearily. "I _ask_ you to buy the block. I don't care what your figureis!"

Once more Geary hesitated, for the last time going over the whole dealin his mind from beginning to end, testing it, looking for weak points. It was almost perfect. Suppose the boot and shoe people did not buy thelot? He could resell it elsewhere, even below its appraised value andyet make money by the transaction; the lot was cheap at ten thousand; itmight bring twelve; even as an ordinary, legitimate speculation it wasto be desired at such a figure. Suppose the boot and shoe people backedout entirely, suppose even he could not find another purchaser for theproperty, why, then, he could hold on to it; the income from the rentswas fully 10 per cent. Of the price he would have paid for it. 

"Well, Van, " he said at last, making a slow, awkward gesture with hisleft hand, all the fingers extended, "well, I'll take you up--but Idon't feel as though I should--" He suddenly interrupted himself with aburst of sincerity, exclaiming: "Sure, old man, if I had nine thousandI'd give it to you for the block, that's straight goods. " He felt thathe was conscientious in saying this. It was true he would have givennine thousand if he had had it. For that matter he might have given tenor twelve. 

"Can't we settle the whole matter to-day?" said Vandover. "Righthere--now. I'm sick of it, sick of everything. Let's get it done with. "

Geary nearly bounded from his seat. He had been wondering how he mightaccomplish this very thing. "All right, " he said briskly, "no reason inwaiting. " He had seen to it that he should be prepared to close the salethe moment that Vandover was willing. Long ago, when he had first hadthe idea of buying the block, he had spent a day in the offices of thecounty recorder, the tax collector, and the assessor, assuring himselfof the validity of the title, and only two days ago he had gone over thematter again in order to be sure that no encumbrances had been added tothe block in the meanwhile. He found nothing; the title was clear. 

"Isn't this rather rushing the thing through?" he asked. "Maybe youmight regret it afterward. Don't you want to take two or three days tothink it over?"

"No. "

"Sure now?" persisted Geary. 

"But I've _got_ to sell before three days, " answered Vandover. "Otherwise he'll want ten thousand. "

"That's a fact, " admitted the other. "Well, " he went on, "if your mind'smade up, why--we can go right ahead. As I say, there's no reason forwaiting; better take up Wade while he's in the mood for it. You see, hehasn't signed any proposition as yet, and he might go back on us. "Vandover drew a long breath and got up slowly, heavily, from the couch, saying:

"What's the odds to me what I sell for? _I_ don't get the money. "

"Well, what do you say if we go right down to a notary's office and putthis thing right through, " Geary suggested. 

"Come on, then. "

"Have you got your abstract here, the abstract of the block?" Vandovernodded. "Better bring it along, then, " said Geary. 

The office of the notary adjoined those of the firm of Beale & Storey;in fact, he was in a sense an attaché of the great firm and transacted agreat deal of legal business for them. Vandover and Geary fell upon himin an idle moment. A man had come to regulate the water filter, whichtook the place of an ice cooler in a corner of one of the anterooms, andwhile he was engaged at his work the notary stood at his back, abusinghim and exclaiming at the ineffectiveness of the contrivance. The notarywas a middle-aged man with a swollen, purple face; he had a toothpickbehind each ear and wore an office coat of gray linen, ripped at theshoulders. 

Then the transfer was made. It was all settled in less than half anhour, unceremoniously, almost hastily. For the sake of form Geary signeda check for eight thousand dollars which Vandover in his turn made overto Hiram Wade. The notary filled out a deed of grant, bargain, and sale, pasting on his certificate of acknowledgment as soon as Vandover andGeary had signed. Geary took the abstract, thrusting it into hisbreast-pocket. As far as Vandover was concerned, the sale was complete, but he had neither his properly nor its equivalent in money. 

"Well, " declared Geary at length, "I guess that's all there is to bedone. I'll get a release from old man Wade and send it to you to-morrowor next day. Now, let's go down to the Imperial and have a drink on it. "They went out, but the notary returned to the anteroom, turning thespigot of the filter to right and left, frowning at it suspiciously, refusing to be satisfied. 

Chapter Sixteen

That particular room in the Lick House was well toward the rear of thebuilding, on one of the upper floors, and from its window, one lookedout upon a vast reach of roofs that rose little by little to meet theabrupt rise of Telegraph Hill. It was a sordid and grimy wilderness, topped with a gray maze of wires and pierced with thousands of chimneystacks. Many of the roofs were covered with tin long since blackened byrust and soot. Here and there could be seen clothes hung out to dry. Occasionally upon the flanking walls of some of the larger buildings wasdisplayed an enormous painted sign, a violent contrast of intense blackand staring white amidst the sooty brown and gray, advertising sometobacco, some newspaper, or some department store. Not far in thedistance two tall smokestacks of blackened tin rose high in the air, above the roof of a steam laundry, one very large like the stack of aCunarder, the other slender, graceful, with a funnel-shaped top. All dayand all night these stacks were smoking; from the first, the larger one, rolled a heavy black smoke, very gloomy, waving with a slow andcontinued movement like the plume of some sullen warrior. But the otherone, the tall and slender pipe, threw off a series of little whitepuffs, three at a time, that rose buoyant and joyous into the air likeso many white doves, vanishing at last, melting away in the highersunshine, only to be followed by another flight. They came three at atime, the pipe tossing them out with a sharp gay sound like a note oflaughter interrupted by a cough. 

But the interior of the room presented the usual dreary aspect of thehotel bedroom--cheerless, lamentable. 

The walls were whitewashed and bare of pictures or ornaments, and thefloor was covered with a dull red carpet. The furniture was a "set, " allthe pieces having a family resemblance. On entering, one saw the bedstanding against the right-hand wall, a huge double bed with the name ofthe hotel in the corners of its spread and pillowcases. In the exactmiddle of the room underneath the gas fixture was the centre-table, andupon it a pitcher of ice-water. The blank, white monotony of one sideof the room was jarred upon by the grate and mantelpiece, iron, paintedblack, while on the mantelpiece itself stood a little porcelainmatchsafe with ribbed sides in the form of a truncated cone. Preciselyopposite the chimney was the bureau, flanked on one side by the door ofthe closet, and on the other in the corner of the room by the stationarywashstand with its new cake of soap and its three clean, glossy towels. On the wall to the left of the door was the electric bell and thedirections for using it, and tacked upon the door itself a card as tothe hours for meals, the rules of the hotel, and the extract of the codedefining the liabilities of innkeepers, all printed in bright red. Everything was clean, defiantly, aggressively clean, and there was aclean smell of new soap in the air. 

But the room was bare of any personality. Of the hundreds who had livedthere, perhaps suffered and died there, not a trace, not a suggestionremained; their different characters had not left the least impress uponits air or appearance. Only a few hairpins were scattered on the bottomof one of the bureau drawers, and two forgotten medicine bottles stillremained upon the top shelf of the closet. 

This had been the appearance of Vandover's new home when he had firstcome to it, after leaving his suite of rooms in the huge apartment houseon Sutter Street. He had lived here now for something over a year. 

It had all commenced with the seizure of his furniture by theproprietors of the apartment house. Almost before he knew it he owed forsix months' room and board; when the extras were added to this bill itswelled to nearly a thousand dollars. At first he would not believe it;it was not possible that so large a bill could accumulate without hisknowledge. He declared there was a mistake, tossing back the bill to theclerk who had presented it, and shaking his head incredulously. Thisother became angry, offered to show the books of the house. The managerwas called in and attempted to prove the clerk's statement by figures, dates, and extracts from the entries. Vandover was confused by theirnoise, and grew angry in his turn; vociferating that he did not proposeto be cheated, the others retorted in a rage, the interview ended in ascene. 

But in the end they gained their point; they were right, and at lengthVandover was brought around to see that he was in the wrong, but he hadno ready money, and while he hesitated, unwilling to part with any ofhis bonds or to put an additional mortgage upon the homestead, thehotel, after two warnings, suddenly seized upon his furniture. What amisery!

In a moment of time it was all taken from him, all the lovelybric-à-brac, all the heavy pieces, all the little articles of _vertu_which he had bought with such intense delight and amongst which he hadlived with such happiness, such contentment, such never-failingpleasure. Everything went--the Renaissance portraits, the pipe-rack, thechair in which the Old Gentleman had died, the Assyrian _bas-reliefs_and, worst of all, the stove, the famous tiled stove, the delightfulcheery iron stove with the beautified flamboyant ornaments. For thefirst few months after the seizure Vandover was furious with rage anddisappointment, persuaded that he could never live anywhere but in justsuch a room; it was as if he had been uprooted and cast away upon somebarren, uncongenial soil. His new room in the hotel filled him withhorror, and for a long time he used it only as a place where he couldsleep and wash. For a long time even his pliable character refused tofit itself to such surroundings, refused to be content between fourenormous white walls, a stuccoed ceiling, and a dark red carpet. Hepassed most of his time elsewhere, reading the papers at the MechanicsLibrary in the morning, and in the afternoon sitting about the hoteloffice and parlours until it was time to take his usual little fouro'clock stroll on Kearney and Market streets. He had long since become afamiliar figure on this promenade. Even the women and girls of Flossie'stype had ceased to be interested in this tall, thin young man with thetired, heavy eyes and blue-white face. One day, however, a curiousincident did for a moment invest Vandover with a sudden dramaticinterest. It was just after he had moved down to the Lick House, about amonth after he had sold the block in the Mission. Vandover was standingat Lotta's fountain at the corner of Kearney and Market streets, interested in watching a policeman and two boys reharnessing a horseafter its tumble. All at once he fell over flat into the street, jostling one of the flower venders and nearly upsetting him. He struckthe ground with a sodden shock, his arms doubled under him, his hatrolling away into the mud. Bewildered, he picked himself up; very fewhad seen him fall, but a little crowd gathered for all that. One askedif the man was drunk, and Vandover, terrified lest the policeman shouldcall the patrol wagon, hurried off to a basement barber shop near by, where he brushed his clothes, still bewildered, confused, wondering howit had happened. 

The fearful nervous crisis which Vandover had undergone had passed offslowly. Little by little, bit by bit, he had got himself in hand again. However, the queer numbness in his head remained, and as soon as heconcentrated his attention on any certain line of thought, as soon as hehad read for any length of time, especially if late at night, thenumbness increased. Somewhere back of his eyes a strange blurring mistwould seem to rise; he would find it impossible to keep his mind fixedupon any subject; the words of a printed page would little by littlelose their meaning. At first this had been a source of infinite terrorto him. He fancied it to be the symptoms of some approaching mentalcollapse, but, as the weeks went by and nothing unusual occurred, hebecame used to it, and refused to let it worry him. If it made his headfeel queer to read, the remedy was easy enough--he simply would notread; and though he had been a great reader, and at one time had beenused to spend many delightful afternoons lost in the pages of a novel, he now gave it all up with an easy indifference. 

But, besides all this, the attack had left him with nerves all unstrung;even his little afternoon walk on Kearney and Market streets exhaustedhim; any trifling and sudden noise, the closing of a door, the strikingof a clock, would cause him to start from his place with a gasp and aquick catch at the heart. Toward evening this little spasm of nerveswould sometimes come upon him even when there was nothing to cause it, and now he could no longer drop off to sleep without first undergoing awhole series of these recoils and starts, that would sometimes bring himviolently up to a sitting posture, his breath coming short and quick, his heart galloping, startled at he knew not what. 

At first he had intended to see a doctor, but he had put off carryinghis intention into effect until he had grown accustomed to the wholematter; otherwise, he was well enough, his appetite was good, and whenhe finally did get to sleep he would not wake up for a good eight hours. 

One evening, however, about three months after the first crisis and justas Vandover was becoming well accustomed to the condition of body andmind in which it had left him, the second attack came on. It wasfearful, much worse than on the first occasion, and this time there wasno room for doubt. Vandover knew that for the moment he was actuallyinsane. 

Ellis had been with Vandover most of that afternoon, the two had beenplaying cards in Vandover's room until nearly six o'clock. All theafternoon they had been drinking whisky while they played, and bysupper-time neither of them had any appetite. Ellis refused to go down, declaring that if he should eat now it would make him sick. Vandoverwent down alone, but once in the dining-room he found that _he_ couldnot eat either. However, he knew that it was not the whisky. For twodays his appetite had been failing him. The smell of food revolted him, and he left the supper-table, going up to his bare and lamentable roomwith the feeling that he was about to undergo a long spell of sickness. In the deserted hall, between the elevator and the door of his room, thesecond crisis came upon him all at once. It was so sudden that it was asif some enemy had leaped upon his back, springing out of the shadow, gripping him from behind, holding him close. Once more the hysteriashook him like a dry leaf. The little nervous starts came so fast thatthey ran together, mingling to form one long thrill of terror, theblind, unreasoning terror of something unknown; the numbness weigheddown upon his brain until consciousness dwindled to a mere point andmercifully dulled the torture of his crisping nerves. It seemed to himthat his hands and head were rapidly swelling to enormous size. 

All this he had felt before; it was his old enemy, but now with thissecond attack began a new and even stranger sensation. In his distortedwits he fancied that he was in some manner changing, that he wasbecoming another man; worse than that, it seemed to him that he was nolonger human, that he was sinking, all in a moment, to the level ofsome dreadful beast. 

Later on in that same evening Ellis met young Haight coming out of oneof the theatres, and told him a story that Haight did not believe. Elliswas very pale, and he seemed to young Haight to be trying to keep downsome tremendous excitement. 

"If he was drunk, " said Ellis, "it was the strangest drunk I ever saw. He came back into the room on all fours--not on his hands and knees, youunderstand, but running along the floor upon the palms of his hands andhis toes--and he pushed the door of the room open with his head, nuzzling at the crack like any dog. Oh, it was horrible. _I_ don't knowwhat's the matter with Van. You should have seen him; his head washanging way down, and swinging from side to side as he came along; itshook all his hair over his eyes. He kept rattling his teeth together, and every now and then he would say, way down in his throat so itsounded like growls, 'Wolf--wolf--wolf. ' I got hold of him and pulledhim up to his feet. It was just as though he was asleep, and when Ishook him he came to all at once and began to laugh. 'What's the matter, Van?' says I. 'What are you crawling on the floor that way for?' 'I'mdamned if I know, ' says he, rubbing his eyes. 'I guess I must have beenout of my head. Too much whisky!' Then he says: 'Put me to bed, willyou, Bandy? I feel all gone in. ' Well, I put him to bed and went out toget some bromide of potassium; he said that made him sleep and kept hisnerves steady. Coming back, I met a bell-boy just outside of Van's door, and told him to ask the hotel doctor to come up. You see, I had notopened the door of the room yet, and while I was talking to the bell-boyI could hear the sound of something four-footed going back and forthinside the room. When I got inside there was Van, perfectly naked, goingback and forth along the wall, swinging his head very low, grumbling tohimself. But he came to again as soon as I shook him, and seemeddreadfully ashamed, and went to bed all right. He got to sleep finally, and I left the doctor with him, to come out and get something for my ownnerves. "

"What did the doctor say was the matter?" asked young Haight, in horror. 

"_Lycanthropy-Pathesis_. I never heard the name before--some kind ofnervous disease. I guess Van had been hitting up a pretty rapid gait, and then I suppose he's had a good deal to worry him, too. "

 * * * * *

Once more the attack passed off, leaving Vandover exhausted, his nervesall jangling, his health impaired. Every day he seemed to grow thinner, great brown hollows grew under his eyes, and the skin of his foreheadlooked blue and tightly drawn. By degrees a deep gloom overcame himpermanently, nothing could interest him, nothing seemed worth while. Notonly were his nerves out of tune, but they were jaded, deadened, slack;they were like harpstrings that had been played upon so long and soviolently that now they could no longer vibrate unless swept with a verywhirlwind. 

As he had foreseen, Vandover had returned again to vice, to the vicethat was knitted into him now, fibre for fibre, to the ways of the brutethat by degrees was taking entire possession of him. But he no longerfound pleasure even in vice; once it had been his amusement, now it washis occupation. It was the only thing that seemed to ease the horriblenervousness that of late had begun to prey upon him constantly. 

But though nothing could amuse him, on the other hand nothing couldworry him; in the end the very riot of his nerves ceased even to annoyhim. He had arrived at a state of absolute indifference. He had so oftenrearranged his pliable nature to suit his changing environment that atlast he found that he could be content in almost any circumstances. Hehad no pleasures, no cares, no ambitions, no regrets, no hopes. It wasmere passive existence, an inert, plantlike vegetation, the moment'spause before the final decay, the last inevitable rot. 

One day after he had been living nearly a year at the Lick House, Adams& Brunt, the real estate agents, sent him word that they had an offerfor his property on California Street. It was the homestead. The Englishgentleman, the president of the fruit syndicate who had rented the houseof Vandover, was now willing to buy it. His business was by this time ona firm and paying basis and he had decided to make his home in SanFrancisco. He offered twenty-five thousand dollars for the house, including the furniture. 

Brunt had several talks with Vandover and easily induced him to sell. "You can figure it out for yourself, Mr. Vandover, " he said, as hepointed out his own calculations to him; "property has been going downin the city for the last ten years, and it will continue to do so untilwe can get a competing railroad through. Better sell when you can, andtwenty-five thousand is a fair price. Of course, you will have to payoff the mortgage; you won't get but about fifteen thousand out of it, but at the same time you won't have to pay the interest on that mortgageto the banks; that will be so much saved a month; add that to what youcould get for your fifteen thousand at, say, 6 per cent. , and you wouldhave a monthly income nearly equal to the present rent of the house, andmuch more certain, too. Suppose your tenant should go out, then wherewould you be?"

"All right, all right, " answered Vandover, nodding his head vaguely. "Goahead, _I_ don't care. " He parted from his old home with as muchindifference as he had parted from his block in the Mission. 

Vandover signed the deed that made him homeless, and at about the sametime the first payment was made. Ten thousand dollars was deposited inone of the banks to his credit, and a check sent to him for the amount. The very next day Vandover drew against it for five hundred dollars. 

At one time he had had an ambition to buy back his furniture from thehuge apartment house in which he had formerly lived, and with it to makehis cheerless bedroom in the Lick House seem more like a home. He feltit almost as a dishonour to have strangers using this furniture, sittingin the great leather chair in which the Old Gentleman had died, staringstupidly at his Renaissance portraits and copies of Assyrian_bas-reliefs_. Above all, it was torture to think that other hands thanhis own would tend the famous tiled and flamboyant stove, a stove thathad its moods, its caprices, like any living person, a stove that had tobe coaxed and humoured, a stove that he alone could understand. He hadtold himself that if ever again he should have money enough he wouldbring back this furniture to him. At first its absence had been a matterfor the keenest regret and grief. He had been so used to pleasantsurroundings that he languished in his new quarters as in a prison. Hisindulgent, luxurious character continually hungered after subdued, harmonious colours, pictures, ornaments, and soft rugs. His imaginationwas forever covering the white walls with rough stone-blue paper, andplacing screens, divans, and window-seats in different parts of the coldbare room. One morning he had even gone so far as to pin about the wallslittle placards which he had painted with a twisted roll of the hotelletter-paper dipped into the inkstand. "Pipe-rack Here. " "Mona LisaHere. " "Stove Here. " "Window-seat Here. " He had left them up there eversince, in spite of the chambermaid's protests and Ellis' clumsy satire. 

Now, however, he had plenty of money. He would have his furniture backwithin the week. He came back from the bank, the money in his pocket, and went up to the room directly, with some vague intention of writingto the proprietors of the apartment house at once. But as he shut thedoor behind him, leaning his back against it and looking about, hesuddenly realized that his old-time desire was passed; he had become soused to these surroundings that it now no longer made any difference tohim whether or not they were cheerless, lamentable, barren. It was likeall his other little ambitions--he had lost the taste for them, nothingmade much difference after all. His money had come too late. 

Why should he spend his five hundred dollars on something that could nolonger amuse him? It would be much wiser to spend it all in having agood time somewhere--champagne dinners with Flossie, or betting on theraces--he did not know exactly what. It was true that even thesealternatives would not amuse him very much--he would fall back upon themas things of habit. For that matter everything was an _ennui_, andVandover began to long for some new pleasure, some violent untriedexcitement. 

Since the sale of the block in the Mission he had seen but little ofGeary; young Haight had not been his companion since the time whenTurner Ravis had broken with him, but little by little he had begun toassociate with Ellis and his friend the Dummy. Almost every evening thethree were together, sometimes at the theatre, sometimes in the backrooms of the Imperial, sometimes even in the parlours of certain houses, amid the murmur of heavy silks and the rustle of stiffly starchedskirts. At times they would be drunk four nights of the week, and onthese occasions it was tacitly understood between Ellis and Vandoverthat they should try to get the Dummy so full that he could talk. 

However, Ellis' vice was gambling; he and the Dummy often passed thewhole night over their cards, and as Vandover came more and more underEllis' influence--succumbing to it as weakly as he had succumbed to theinfluence of Charlie Geary--he began to join these parties. They playedVan John at five dollars a corner. Vandover won as often as he lost, butthe habit of cards grew upon him steadily. 

Toward eleven o'clock the evening of the day upon which he had drawn hisfive hundred, Vandover went around to the Imperial looking for his twofriends. He found Ellis drinking whisky all alone in one of the littlerooms, as was his custom; fifteen minutes later the Dummy and Flossiejoined them. Flossie had grown stouter since Vandover had first knownher, nearly ten years ago. She had a double chin, and puffy, discolouredpockets had come under her eyes. Now her hair was dyed, her cheeks andlips rouged, and her former air of health and good spirits gone. Shenever laughed. She had smoked so many cigarettes that now her voicehardly rose above a whisper. At one time she had been accustomed toboast that she never drank, and it had been one of her peculiarities forwhich she was well known. But on this occasion she joined Ellis in hiswhisky. She had long since departed from her old-time rule oftemperance, and nowadays drank nothing else but whisky. She had evenbecome well known for the quantity of whisky she could drink. 

For half an hour the four sat around the little table, talking about thenew, enormous Sutro Baths that were building at that time. After a whileFlossie left them, and the Dummy began to imitate the motions of someone dealing cards, looking at the same time inquiringly into theirfaces. 

"How about that, Bandy?" asked Vandover. "Shall we have a gameto-night?"

The man of few words merely nodded his head and drank off the rest ofhis whisky at a swallow. They all went up to Vandover's room. Vandovergot out the cards, the celluloid chips, and a fresh box of cigars. TheDummy held up two fingers of his left hand, shutting them togetherafterward with his right and making a hissing noise between his teeth. He raised his eyebrows at Vandover. Vandover understood, and, ringingfor a bell-boy, ordered up three bottles of soda in siphon bottles. 

The game was _vingt et un_, or, as they called it, Van John. They cutfor banker. Ellis turned the first ace, and Vandover bought the bankfrom him. For the first hour they were very jolly, laughing and talkingback and forth at each other; the Dummy especially communicative, continually scribbling upon his writing-pad, holding it toward theothers. But it was not necessary for them to put their replies inwriting--he understood from watching the movement of their lips. Theluck had not declared itself as yet; none of them had lost or won verymuch. The bell-boy brought up the siphons. The Dummy took off his coat, and the other two followed his example. They were all smoking, and anacrid blue haze filled the room, making a golden blur about each gasglobe. 

But little by little the passion of the gambling seized upon them. Theluck had begun to declare itself, alternating between Ellis and theDummy. Vandover lost steadily; twice already his bank had been broken, and he had been forced to buy in. The play resolved itself into twoparts, Vandover struggling to keep up with the game on one side, and onthe other a great battle going on between Ellis and the Dummy. Longsince they had ceased to laugh, and not a word was spoken; each one wasabsorbed in the game, intently watching the cards as they were turned. The four gas-jets of the chandelier flared steadily, filling the roomwith a crude raw light that was reflected with a blinding glare from thefour staring white walls, the room grew hot, the layer of foul warm airjust beneath the ceiling, slowly descending. The acrid tobacco smoke nolonger rose, but hung in long, slow-waving threads just above theirheads. They played on steadily; a great stillness grew in the room, astillness broken only by the little rattle of chips and subdued rustleof the shuffled cards. Once Vandover stopped, just time enough to throwoff his vest, his collar, and his scarf. For a moment the luck seemedabout to settle on him. He was still banking, and twice in successionhe drew Van John, both times winning heavily from the Dummy, and alittle later tied Ellis at twenty when the latter had staked on nearly athird of his chips. But in the next half-dozen hands Ellis got back thelead again, winning from both the others. From this time on it wassettled. The luck suddenly declared openly for Ellis, the Dummy andVandover merely fighting for second place. Ellis held his lead; at oneo'clock he was nearly fifty dollars ahead of the game. The profoundsilence of the room seemed to widen about them. After midnight thenoises in the hotel, the ringing of distant call bells, the rattle ofdishes from the kitchens, the clash of closing elevator doors, graduallyceased; only at long intervals one heard the hurried step of a bell-boyin the hall outside and the clink of the ice in the water pitcher thathe was carrying. Outside a great quiet seemed in a sense to rise fromthe sleeping city, the noises in the streets died away. The lastelectric car went down Kearney Street, getting under way with a longminor wail. Occasionally a belated coupé, a nighthawk, rattled over thecobbles, while close by, from over the roofs, the tall slender stackupon the steam laundry puffed incessantly, three puffs at a time, likesome kind of halting clock. The room became more and more close, none ofthem would take the time to open the window, from ceiling to floor theair was fouled by their breathing, by the tobacco smoke and by the fourflaring gas-jets. By this time a sombre excitement burnt in their eyesand quivered in their fingers. Never for an instant did their glancesleave the cards. Ellis was drinking whisky again, mixed with soda, hishand continually groping for the glass with a mechanical gesture; theDummy was so excited he could not keep his cigar alight, and contentedhimself with chewing the end with an hysterical motion of his jaws. Theperspiration stood in beads on the back of Vandover's hands, runningdown in tiny rivulets between his fingers, his teeth were shut closetogether and he was breathing short through his nose, a fine tremblinghad seized upon his hands so that the chips in his palm rattled likecastanets. In the stale and murky atmosphere of the overheated room inthe midst of the vast silence of the sleeping city they played onsteadily. 

Then they began to "plunge, " agreeing to play a no limit game andraising the value of a red chip to ten dollars; at times they evenplayed with the coins themselves when their chips were exhausted. Vandover had lost all his ready money, and now for a long time had beengambling with the five hundred dollars he had that day drawn from thebank. Ellis had practically put the Dummy out of the play, and now thegame was between him and Vandover. Ellis was banking, and at lengthoffered to sell the bank to either one of them. For the first time sincethe real gambling began they commenced to talk a little, but in short, brief sentences, answering by monosyllables and by signs. 

"How much for the bank?" inquired Ellis, holding up the deck and lookingfrom one to the other. Instantly the Dummy wrote ten dollars, infigures, on his pad, and showed it to him. Vandover looked at what theDummy had written, and said:

"Fifteen. "

"Twenty, " scribbled the Dummy, as he watched Vandover's lips form theword. 

"Twenty-five, " returned Vandover. The Dummy hesitated a moment and thenwrote "thirty. " Ellis shook his head saying, "I'll keep the bank myselfat that. "

"Forty dollars!" cried Vandover. The Dummy shook his head, leaning backin his chair. Ellis shoved the pack across the table to Vandover, andVandover gave him a twenty-dollar bill and two red chips. 

On Vandover's very first deal around, the Dummy "stood" on the secondcard, for twelve chips; Ellis bet twenty-five on his first card, and, ashe got the second, turned both of them face up. He had two jacks. "Twenty-five on each of these, " he said. "I'll draw to each one. "Vandover looked at his own card; it was a ten-spot. All at once he grewreckless, and seized with a sudden folly, resolved to attempt a great_coup_. "Double up!" he ordered. The Dummy set out twelve more chips, and Ellis another fifty, making his bet an even hundred. Vandover beganto deal to Ellis. On the first jack Ellis drew eighteen and stood atthat; the first card that fell to the second jack was an ace. "VanJohn, " he remarked quietly. The Dummy drew three cards and stood onnineteen. Vandover turned up his own card and began to deal for himself. He already had a ten; now he drew a seven-spot and king in succession. 

"The bank pays, " he exclaimed. He paid the Dummy twenty-four chips. Hegave Ellis fifty for the eighteen he had drawn on his first jack, andone hundred for the Van John upon the second, since the lattercombination called for double the amount wagered; besides this, the bankwas lost to him. Including the forty that he had paid for the bank, hehad lost in all two hundred and fourteen dollars. 

Never in his life had Vandover played so high a game, never before hadhe won or lost more than fifty dollars at a sitting. But he was contentto have it thus. Here at last was the new pleasure for which he hadlonged, the fresh violent excitement that alone could rouse his jadednerves, the one thing that could amuse him. However, the failure of his_coup_ had left him without chips; he was out of the game. He decidedthat he would stop; more than half of his five hundred dollars was gonealready. He drank off a glass of soda, the dregs of one of the siphonbottles, and got up yawning, shivering a little and stretching his armshigh above. The other two played on steadily. The Dummy began to gainslowly upon Ellis, playing very cautiously, betting only upon facecards, aces, and ten-spots. Twice Ellis offered to sell him the bank, but he refused, fearful lest it should change his luck. 

Vandover sat behind the Dummy's chair, watching his game, but at length, worn out, he began to drop off to sleep, waking every now and then witha sudden leap and recoil of all his nerves. An hour later the persistentscratching of a match awoke him. Ellis and the Dummy were still playing, and the Dummy was once more relighting the stump of his cigar. Elliscontinued to deal, winning at almost every play; a great pile of chipsand money lay at his elbow. For a few minutes Vandover watched theDummy's game, leaning forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees. Butit was evident that the Dummy had lost his nerve. Ellis' continuedwinnings had at length demoralized him. At one time he would bet heavilyon worthless cards, and at another would throw back nines and tens forno apparent reason. Finally Ellis dealt him a queen, which he kept, betting ten chips. His next card was a seven-spot. He signed to Ellisthat he would stand. Ellis drew twenty in three cards. Vandover couldnot restrain an exclamation of impatience at the Dummy's stupidity. Whata fool a man must be to stand on seventeen with only two in the game. All at once he tossed twenty dollars across the table to Ellis, saying, "Give me that in chips. I'm coming in again. " Once more he resumed hisseat at the table, and Ellis dealt him a hand. 

But Vandover's interruption had for an instant taken Ellis' mind fromthe game. He stirred in his chair and looked about the room, puffing outhis cheeks and blowing between his lips. 

"Say, this room is close enough to strangle you. Open the window behindyou, Van, you're nearest to it. " As Vandover raised the curtain heuttered a cry: "Look here! will you?"

It was morning; the city was flooded by the light of the sun already anhour high. The sky was without a cloud. Over the roofs and amongst thegray maze of telegraph wires swarms of sparrows were chitteringhoarsely, and as Vandover raised the window he could hear the newsboysfar below in the streets chanting the morning's papers. 

"Come on, Van!" exclaimed Ellis impatiently; "we're waiting for you. "

That night decided it. From that time on, Vandover's only pleasure wasgambling. Night and day he sat over the cards, the passion growing uponhim as he continued to lose, for his ill luck was extraordinary. It wasa veritable mania, a wild blind frenzy that knew no limit. At first hehad contented himself with a game in which twenty or thirty dollars wasas much as he could win or lose at a sitting, but soon this palled uponhim; he was obliged to raise the stakes continually in order to arousein him the interest, the keen tense excitement, that his jaded nervescraved. 

The five hundred dollars that he had drawn from the ten thousand, thefirst payment on his old home, melted away within a week. Only a fewyears ago Vandover would have stopped to reflect upon the meaning ofthis, would have resisted the temptation that drew him constantly to thegambling-table, but the idea of resistance never so much as occurred tohim. He did not invest his fifteen thousand, but drew upon itcontinually to satisfy his last new craze. It was not with any hope ofwinning that he gambled--the desire of money was never strong in him--itwas only the love of the excitement of the moment. 

Little by little the fifteen thousand in the bank dwindled. It did notall go in cards. Certain habits of extravagance grew upon Vandover, thenatural outcome of his persistent gambling, the desire of winning easilybeing balanced by the impulses to spend quickly. He took a certainhysterical delight in flinging away money with both hands. Now it wasthe chartering of a yacht for a ten-days' cruise about the bay, or itwas a bicycle bought one week and thrown away the next, a fresh suit ofclothes each month, gloves worn but once, gold-pieces thrust intoFlossie's pockets, suppers given to bouffe actresses--twenty-four-houracquaintances--a racehorse bought for eight hundred dollars, resold fortwo hundred and fifty--rings and scarf-pins given away to the women andgirls of the Imperial, and a whole world of follies that his poordistorted wits conceived from hour to hour. His judgment was gone, hismind unbalanced. All his life Vandover had been sinking slowly lower andlower; this, however, was the beginning of the last plunge. The processof degeneration, though inevitable, had been gradual as long as heindulged generally in all forms of evil; it was only now when a passionfor one particular vice absorbed him that he commenced to rush headlongto his ruin. 

The fifteen thousand dollars--the price of his old home--he gambled orflung away in a little less than a year. He never invested it, but ateinto it day after day, sometimes to pay his gambling debts, sometimes toindulge an absurd and extravagant whim, sometimes to pay his bill at theLick House, and sometimes for no reason at all, moved simply by areckless desire for spending. 

On the evening of a certain Thanksgiving day, nine months after he hadsold the house, Vandover came in through the ladies' entrance of theImperial, going slowly down the passageway, looking into the littlerooms on his right for Ellis or the Dummy. There had been a greatintercollegiate football game that day, and Vandover, remembering thathe had once found an interest in such things, had at first determined tosee it. But toward eleven o'clock in the morning the rain had begun tofall, and Ellis, who was to have gone with him, declared that he did notcare enough about the game to go out to it in the rain. Vandover wasdisappointed; he fancied that he could have enjoyed the game--as much ashe could enjoy anything of late--but he hated to go to places alone. Inthe end, however, he resolved to go whether Ellis went or not. It was aholiday. Vandover had Ellis and the Dummy to lunch with him at thehotel, where they arranged the menu of a famous Thanksgiving dinner forthat evening: they would meet in one of the little rooms of the Imperialand go from there to the restaurant. As they were finishing their lunchVandover said:

"I got a new kind of liqueur yesterday--has a colour like violets andsmells like cologne. You fellows better come up to my room and try it. I've got to go up and change anyway, if I go out to that game. " They allwent up to Vandover's cheerless room, and Ellis began to argue withVandover against the folly of going anywhere in the rain. 

"_You_ don't want to go to that game, Van. Just look how it's raining. I'll bet there won't be a thousand people there. They'll probablypostpone the game anyway. Say, this _is_ queer looking stuff. What doyou call it?"

"_Crème violette. _"

The Dummy set down his emptied liqueur glass on the mantelshelf, andnodded approvingly at Vandover; then he scribbled, "Out of sight, " onhis tablet. 

"Tastes like cough syrup and alcohol, " growled Ellis, scowling andsipping. "I think a pint of this would make the Dummy talk Dutch. Keepit up, Dummy, " he continued, articulating distinctly so that the othercould catch the movement of his lips. "Drink some more--make you talk. "Vandover was cutting the string around a pasteboard box that had justcome from his tailor's; it was a new suit of clothes, rough cheviot, brown with small checks. He dressed slowly and tipped forward theswinging mirror of the bureau to see how the trousers set. MeanwhileEllis and the Dummy had got out the cards and chips from the drawer ofthe centre-table and had begun a game. 

"Better change your mind, Van, " said Ellis without raising his eyes fromthe cards. 

"No, sir, " answered Van. "You don't know how it is--you never were acollege man. Why, I wouldn't miss a football game for anything. Talkabout your horse-racing, talk about your baseball--I tell you there'snothing in the world so exciting as a hot football game. " He swung intohis long high-coloured waterproof and stood behind Ellis, watching hisgame for a moment while he tied a couple of long silk streamers to hisumbrella handle. 

"It's one of the college colours, " he explained. "Seems like old timesback at Harvard. " Ellis snorted with contempt. 

"Such kids!" he growled. 

"I saw one of the coaches go down the street a little while ago, "continued Vandover, still watching Ellis shuffle and deal. "There wereabout twenty college men on top, and they had a big bulldog allharnessed out in their colours, and they were blowing fish-horns, and Itell you it made me wish I was one of them again. " Ellis did not answer;it was probable he did not hear. Both he and the Dummy were settlingdown for a game that no doubt would last all the afternoon. Vandovermade them free of his room, and they often gambled there when he wasaway. But it invariably made Ellis nervous to have any one stand behindhis chair while he was playing; he began to move about uneasily. By andby he looked at his watch. "Better get a move on, " he said, "you'll belate. "

"Just a minute, " answered Vandover, more and more interested in thegame. "Go on playing; don't bother about me. Oh, I saw Charlie Geary, too, " he continued, "on another coach; there was a party of them. Charlie was with Turner Ravis on the box seat. You remember TurnerRavis, don't you, Bandy? The girl I used to go with. "

"There's a girl I never liked, " observed Ellis. "She always struck me asbeing one of these regular snobs. "

"Ah, snob is no name for it, " assented Vandover. "She thought she wastoo damned high-toned for me. As soon as I got into that mess about IdaWade, she threw me over. No, she didn't want to be associated with meany longer. Well, she can go to the devil. Geary's welcome to her. "

"I thought Dolly Haight was going to marry her, " said Ellis. "What wasthe matter _there_?"

"I don't know, " returned Vandover; "probably Dolly Haight didn't haveenough money to suit her. Guess she wants a man that will make his pilein this town and make his way, too. Ah, you bet!"

Half an hour later he was still behind Ellis' chair. Ellis had become sofidgety that he was losing steadily. Once more he turned to Vandover, speaking over his shoulder, "Come on, come on, Van, go along to yourfootball; you make me nervous standing there. " Vandover pushed aten-dollar gold-piece across the table to the Dummy, who was banking, and said:

"Give me that in chips. I'm coming in. "

"I thought you were going to the game?" inquired Ellis. 

"Ah, the devil!" answered Vandover. "Too much rain. "

They had played without interruption all that afternoon, and for onceVandover had all the luck. When they broke up about five o'clock withthe understanding to meet again in the Imperial at seven, he had wonnearly a hundred dollars. 

When Vandover went out to keep this appointment he found thestreets--especially Kearney and Market streets--crowded. It was abouthalf-past six. The football game was over and the college men hadreturned. They were everywhere, marching about in long files, chain-gangfashion, each file headed by a man beating upon a gong, or parading thesidewalks ten abreast, singing college songs or shouting their slogan. At every moment one heard the college yells answering each other fromstreet corner to street corner, "Rah, rah, rah--Rah, rah, rah!" Vandoverfound the Imperial crowded with students. The barroom was packed to thedoors, every one of the little rooms in the front hall was full, whileFlossie and Nannie had a great party of the young fellows in one of thelarger rooms in the rear. Among the crowd in the barroom, three membersof the winning team--heroes, with bandages about their heads--werebreaking training, smoking and drinking for the first time in many longweeks. 

Vandover found Ellis and the Dummy leaning against the wall in thecrowded front passage. They were both in bad humour, the Dummy sulkingbecause Flossie had left him for one of the football men, the full-back, a young blond giant with two dislocated fingers; Ellis in a rage becausehe could get no cocktails at the bar, only straight drinks thatnight--too much of a crowd. These damn college sports thought theyowned the town. "Ah, let's get out of here, Van!" he called over theheads of the throng as soon as Vandover came in sight. 

They went out into the street and started in the direction of therestaurant where they had decided to eat their Thanksgiving dinner. After leaving Vandover that afternoon Ellis had seen the head waiter ofthis restaurant and had explained to him the bill of fare that Vandover, the Dummy, and himself had arranged during their lunch at the LickHouse. The streets had relapsed into a momentary quiet--it was betweenhalf-past six and seven--and most of the college men were gathered intothe hotels and cafés eating dinner. About an hour later they wouldreappear again for a moment on their way to the theatre, which they wereto attend in a body. 

But Vandover suddenly discovered that he could not eat a mouthful, thesmell of food revolted him, and little by little an irregular twitchinghad overcome his hands and forearms. 

He had received a great shock. That same evening, as he was leaving thehotel, the clerk at the office had handed him some letters that hadaccumulated in his box. Vandover could never think to ask for his mailin the morning as he went in to breakfast. Something was surely wrongwith his head of late. Every day he found it harder and harder toremember things. There were three letters altogether: one was thetailor's bill mailed the same day that his last suit had been finished;a second was an advertisement announcing the near opening of the SutroBaths that were building at that time; and the third a notice from thebank calling his attention to the fact that his account was overdrawn bysome sixty dollars. 

At first Vandover did not see the meaning of this notice, and thrust itback in his pocket together with the tailor's bill; then slowly an ideastruggled into his mind. Was it possible that he no longer had any moneyat the bank? Was his fifteen thousand gone? From time to time hisbank-book had been balanced, and invariably during the first days ofeach month his checks had come back to him, used and crumpled, coveredwith strange signatures and stamped in blue ink; but after the first fewmonths he had never paid the least attention to these; he never keptaccounts, having a veritable feminine horror of figures. But it wasabsurd to think that his money was gone. Pshaw! one could not spendfifteen thousand in nine months! It was preposterous! This notice wassome technicality that he could not understand. He would look into itthe next day. And so he dismissed the wearisome matter from his mindwith a shrug of his shoulders as though ridding himself of sometroublesome burden. However, the idea persisted. Somehow, between thelines of the printed form he smelt out a fresh disaster. He read it overagain and again. All at once as he stood in the doorway of the hotel, turning up the collar of his waterproof and watching the little pools inthe hollows of the asphalt pavement to see if it were still raining, theconviction came upon him. In a second he knew that he was ruined. Thetrue meaning of the notice became apparent with the swiftness of a greatflash of light. He had spent his fifteen thousand dollars!

The blow was strong enough, sudden enough to penetrate even Vandover'sclouded and distorted wits. His nerves were gone in a minute, a suddenstupefying numbness fell upon his brain, and the fear of somethingunknown, the immense unreasoning terror that had gripped him for thefirst time the morning after Ida Wade's suicide came back upon him, horrible, crushing, so that he had to shut his teeth against a wildhysterical desire to rush through the streets screaming and waving hisarms. 

By the time the three friends had reached the restaurant where they wereto eat their Thanksgiving dinner, Vandover's appetite had given place toa loathing of the very smell of food, his nervousness was fastapproaching hysteria, the little nerve clusters all over his body seemedto be crisping and writhing like balls of tiny serpents, at intervals hewould twitch sharply as though startled at some sudden noise, his breathcoming short, his heart beating quick. 

They had their dinner in one of the private rooms of the restaurant onthe second floor. All through the meal Vandover struggled to keephimself in hand, fighting with all his strength against thisreappearance of his old enemy, this sudden return of the dreadfulcrisis, determined not to make an exhibition of himself before theothers. He pretended to eat, and forced himself to talk, joining in withEllis, who was badgering the Dummy about Flossie. The proper thing todo was to fill the Dummy's glass while his attention was otherwiseabsorbed, and in the end to get him so drunk that he could talk. Towardthe end of the dinner Ellis was successful. All at once the Dummy gotupon his feet, his eyes were glazed with drunkenness, he swayed about inan irregular circle, holding up, now by the table, now by thechair-back, and now by the wall behind him. He was very angry, exasperated beyond control by Ellis' raillery and abuse. He forgothimself and uttered a series of peculiar cries very faint and shrill, like the sounds of a voice heard through a telephone when someimperfection of transmission prevents one from distinguishing the words. His mouth was wide open and his tongue rolled about in an absurd waybetween his teeth. Now and then one could catch a word or two. Elliswent into spasms of laughter, holding his sides, gasping for breath. Vandover could not help being amused, and the two laughed at the Dummy'sstammering rage until their breath was spent. Throughout the rest of theevening the Dummy recommenced from time to time, rising unsteadily tohis feet, shaking his fists, pouring out a stream of little ineffectualbirdlike twitterings, trying to give Ellis abuse for abuse, trying totalk long after it had ceased to amuse the other two. Ellis had beendrinking for nearly six hours, without the liquor producing theslightest effect upon him; long since, the Dummy was hopelessly drunk;and now Vandover, who had been drinking upon an empty stomach, began togrow very noisy and boisterous. Little by little Ellis himself commencedto lose his self-control. By and by he and Vandover began to sing, eachindependent of the other, very hoarse and loud. The Dummy joined them, making a hideous and lamentable noise which so affected Ellis that hepretended to howl at it like a little dog overcome by mournful music. But suddenly Ellis had an idea, crying out thickly, between twohiccoughs:

"Hey, there, Van, do your dog-act for us! Go on! Bark for us!"

By this time Vandover was very nearly out of his head, his drunkennessfinishing what his nervousness had begun. The attack was fastapproaching culmination; strange and unnatural fancies began to come andgo in his brain. 

"Go on, Van!" urged Ellis, his eyes heavy with alcohol. "Go on, do yourdog-act!"

All at once it was as though an angry dog were snarling and barking overa bone there under the table about their feet. Ellis roared withlaughter, but suddenly he himself was drunk. All the afternoon he hadkept himself in hand; now his intoxication came upon him in a moment. The skin around his eyes was purple and swollen, the pupils themselveswere contracted; they grew darker, taking on the colour of bitumen. Suddenly he swept glasses, plates, castor, knives, forks, and all fromoff the table with a single movement of his arm. Then the alcoholovercame him all in an instant like a poisonous gas. He swayed forwardin his chair and fell across the stripped table, his head rollinginertly between his outstretched arms. He did not move again. 

In a neighbouring room young Haight had been dining with some collegefellows, fraternity men, all friends of his, upon whose coach he hadridden to and from the game. He had heard Vandover and Ellis in the roomacross the hall and had recognized their voices. Haight had never been afriend of Ellis, but no one, not even Turner, had grieved more overVandover's ruin than had his old-time college chum. 

Young Haight heard the noise of the falling crockery as Ellis swept thetable clear, and turned his head sharply, listening. There was amoment's silence after this, and Haight, fearing some accident hadhappened, stepped out into the hall and stood there a moment listeningagain; his head inclined toward the closed door. He heard no groaning, no exclamations of pain, not even any noise of conversation; onlythrough the closed door came a steady sound of barking. 

Puzzled, he tried the door and, finding it locked, as he had expected, put one foot upon the knob and, catching hold of the top jamb, raisedhimself up and looked down through the open space that answered for atransom. 

The room was very warm, the air thick with the smell of cooked food, thefumes of whisky, and the acrid odour of cigar smoke. Ellis had rolledfrom his chair and lay upon the floor sprawling on his face in the wreckof the table. Near to him, likewise upon the floor, but sitting up, hisback against the wall, was the Dummy. He was muttering incessantly tohimself, as if delighted at having found his tongue, his head swayingon his shoulders, and a strange murmur, soft, birdlike, meaningless, like sounds heard from a vast distance, coming from his wide-open mouth. 

Vandover was sitting bolt upright in his chair, his hands gripping thetable, his eyes staring straight before him. He was barking incessantly. It was evident that now he could not stop himself; it was likehysterical laughter, a thing beyond his control. Twice young Haightcalled him by name, kicking the door as his leg hung against it. At lastVandover heard him. Then as he caught sight of his face over the door heraised his upper lip above his teeth and snarled at him, long andviciously. 

As Haight dropped down into the hall a waiter came running up; he, too, had heard the noise of the breaking dishes. As he thrust his key intothe lock he paused a moment, listening and looking in a puzzled way atyoung Haight. "They have a dog in here, then? They had no dog when theycame. That's funny!"

"Open the door, " said young Haight quietly. Once inside Haight wentdirectly to Vandover, crying out: "Come! come on, Van! come home withme. " Vandover started suddenly, looking about him bewildered, drawinghis hand across his face. 

"Home, " he repeated vaguely; "yes, that's the idea. Let's go home. Iwant to go to bed. Hello, Dolly! where did _you_ come from? Say, Dolly, let me tell you--listen here--come down here close; you mustn't mind me;you know I'm a wolf mostly!"

They went down toward the Lick House. Vandover grew steadier after a fewminutes in the open air. Young Haight locked arms with him; they went ontogether in silence. By this time the streets were crowded again, thetheatres were over, and the college men were once more at large. Nowthey were all gathered together into one immense procession, headed by abrass band in a brewer's wagon, and they tramped aimlessly to and froabout Kearney and Market streets, making a hideous noise. At the headthe band was playing a popular quick-step with a great banging of a bassdrum. The college men in the front ranks were singing one song, thosein the rear another, while the middle of the column was given over to anabominable medley of fish-horns, policemen's rattles and great Chinesegongs. At stated intervals the throng would halt and give the collegeyell. 

"Dolly, you and I used to do that, " said Vandover, looking after theprocession. He had himself well in hand by this time. "What was thematter with me back there at the restaurant, Dolly?" he asked after awhile. 

"Oh, you'd been drinking a good deal, I guess, " answered young Haight. "You--you had some queer idea about yourself!"

"Yes, I know, " answered Vandover quickly. "Fancied I was some kind of abeast, didn't I--some kind of wolf? I have that notion sometimes and Ican't get it out of my head. It's curious just the same. "

They went up to Vandover's room. Vandover lit the gas, but he couldhardly keep back an exclamation as the glare suddenly struck youngHaight's face. What in heaven's name was the matter with his old-timechum? He seemed to be blighted, shattered, struck down by some terrible, overwhelming calamity. A dreadful anguish looked through his eyes. Thesense of a hopeless misery had drawn and twisted his face. There couldbe no doubt that something had made shipwreck of his life. Vandover waslooking at a ruined man. 

"My God, Dolly!" exclaimed Vandover, "what's happened to you? You looklike a death's-head, man! What's gone wrong? Aren't you well?"

Haight caught his friend's searching gaze, and for a moment they lookedat each other without speaking. There was no mistaking the fearful griefthat smouldered behind Haight's dull, listless eyes. For a momentVandover thought of Turner Ravis. But even if she had turned him off, that alone would not account for his friend's fearful condition of mindand body. 

"What is it, Dolly?" persisted Vandover. "We used to be pretty goodchums, not so long ago. "

They sat down on the edge of the bed, and for a moment their positionsseemed reversed: Haight the one to be protected and consoled, Vandoverthe shielding and self-reliant one. 

Young Haight passed his hand over his face before he answered, andVandover noticed that his fingers trembled like an old man's. 

"Do you remember that night, Van, when you and Charlie and I all wentout to Turner's house, and we had _tamales_ and beer, and a glass brokein that peculiar way, and I cut my lip?"

Vandover nodded, forcing his attention against the alcoholic fumes, tofollow his friend's words. 

"We went down to the Imperial afterward, " Haight continued, "and raninto Ellis, and we had something more to eat. Do you remember that as wesat there, Toby, the waiter, brought Flossie in, and she sat there withus a while?"

He paused, choosing his words. Vandover listened closely, trying torecall the incident. 

"She kissed me, " said young Haight slowly, "and the court-plaster cameoff. You know I never had anything to do with women, Van. I always triedto keep away from them. But that's where my life practically came to anend. "

"You mean--" began Vandover. "You mean--that you--that Flossie--?"

Haight nodded. 

"Good God! I can't believe it. It's not possible! I _know_ Flossie!"

Haight shook his head, smiling grimly. 

"I can't help that, Van, " said he. "There's no denying facts, there's noother possible explanation! As soon as I knew, I went to the doctorshere, and then I went to New York for treatment, but there's no hope. Ididn't know, you see. I didn't believe it possible. Turner Ravis and Iwere engaged. I waited too long! There's only one escape for me now. "His voice dropped, he stared for a moment at the floor. Then hestraightened up, and said in a different tone, "But, damn it, Van, let'snot talk about it! I'm haunted with the thing day and night. I want totalk to you! I want to talk to you seriously. You know you are ruiningyourself, old man!"

But Vandover interrupted him with a gesture, saying, "Don't go on, Dolly; it isn't the least use. There _was_ a time for that, but that waslong ago. I used to care, I used to be sorry and all that, but I'm notnow. Ruining myself? Why, I _have_ ruined myself long ago. We're bothruined--only in your case it wasn't your fault. It's too late for menow, and I'm even not sorry that it _is_ too late. Dolly, I don't _want_to pull up. You can't imagine a man fallen as low as that, can you? Icouldn't imagine it myself a few years ago. I'm going right straight tothe devil now, and you might as well stand aside and give me a freecourse, for I'm bound to get there sooner or later. I suppose you wouldthink that a man who could see this as plainly as I do would be afraid, would have remorse and all that sort of thing. Well, I did at first. I'll never forget the night when I first saw it; came near shootingmyself, but I got over it, and now I'm used to the idea. Dolly, _I canget used to almost anything_. Nothing makes much difference to menowadays--only I like to play cards. Look here!" he went on, laying outthe notice from the bank upon the table, "this came to-day. You see whatit is! I sold the old house on California Street. Well, I've gambledaway that money in less than a year. It seems that I'm a financial ruinnow, but"--and he began to laugh--"I live through it somehow. The newsdidn't prevent me from getting drunk to-night. "

After young Haight was gone, Vandover went to bed, turning out the gasand drawing down the window half-way from the top. The wine had made himsleepy; he was dropping away into a very grateful doze when a suddenshock, a violent leap of every nerve in his body, brought him up to asitting posture, gasping for breath, his heart fluttering, his handsbeating at the empty air. He settled down again, turning upon hispillow, closing his eyes, very weary, longing for a good night's sleep. Dolly Haight's terrible story, his unjustified fate, and the hopelesstragedy of it, came back to him. Vandover would gladly have changedplaces with him. Young Haight had the affection and respect of eventhose that knew. He, Vandover, had thrown away his friends' love andtheir esteem with the rest of the things he had once valued. Histhoughts, released from all control of his will, began to come and gothrough his head with incredible rapidity, confused ideas, half-remembered scenes, incidents of the past few days, bits and ends ofconversation recalled for no especial reason, all galloping across hisbrain like a long herd of terrified horses; an excitement grew uponhim, a strange thrill of exhilaration. He was broad awake now, butsuddenly his left leg, his left arm and wrist, all his left side jerkedwith the suddenness of a sprung trap; so violent was the shock that theentire bed shook and creaked with it. Then the inevitable reactionfollowed, the slow crisping and torsion of his nerves, twisting uponeach other like a vast swarm of tiny serpents; it seemed to begin withhis ankles, spreading slowly to every part of his body; it was averitable torture, so poignant that Vandover groaned under it, shuttinghis eyes. He could not keep quiet a second--to lie in bed was animpossibility; he threw the bed-clothes from him and sprang up. He didnot light the gas, but threw on his bathrobe and began to walk thefloor. Even as he walked, his eyelids drooped lower and lower. The needof sleep overcame him like a narcotic, but as soon as he was about tolose himself he would be suddenly and violently awakened by the sameshock, the same jangling recoil of his nerves. Then his hands and headseemed to swell; next, it was as though the whole room was too small forhim. He threw open the window and, leaning upon his elbows, looked out. 

The clouds had begun to break, the rain was gradually ceasing, leavingin the air a damp, fresh smell, the smell of wet asphalt and the odourof dripping woodwork. It was warm; the atmosphere was dank, heavy, tepid. One or two stars were out, and a faint gray light showed him thevast reach of roofs below stretching away to meet the abrupt rise ofTelegraph Hill. Not far off the slender, graceful smokestack puffedsteadily, throwing off continually the little flock of white jets thatrose into the air very brave and gay, but in the end dwindledirresolutely, discouraged, disheartened, fading sadly away, vanishingunder the night, like illusions disappearing at the first touch of theoutside world. As Vandover leaned from his window, looking out into thenight with eyes that saw nothing, the college slogan rose again from thegreat crowd of students who still continued to hold the streets. 

"Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah!"

He turned back into the room, groping among the bottles on his washstandfor his bromide of potassium. As he poured out the required dose intothe teaspoon his hand twitched again sharply, flirting the medicineover his bared neck and chest, exposed by the bathrobe which he had leftopen at the throat. It was cold, and he shivered a bit as he wiped itdry with the back of his hand. 

He knew very well that his nervous attack was coming on again. As he setdown the bottle upon the washstand he muttered to himself, "Now I'mgoing to have a night of it. " He began to walk the floor again withgreat strides, fighting with all his pitiful, shattered mind against theincreasing hysteria, trying to keep out of his brain the strangehallucination that assailed it from time to time, the hallucination of athing four-footed, a thing that sulked and snarled. The hotel grewquiet; a watchman went down the hall turning out each alternate gas jet. Just outside of the door was a burner in a red globe, fixed at a stairlanding to show the exit in case of fire. This burned all night and itstreamed through the transom of Vandover's room, splotching the ceilingwith a great square of red light. Vandover was in a torment, overcomenow by that same fear with which he had at last become so familiar, theunreasoning terror of something unknown. He uttered an exclamation, asuppressed cry of despair, of misery, and then suddenly checked himself, astonished, seized with the fancy that his cry was not human, was not ofhimself, but of something four-footed, the snarl of some exasperatedbrute. He paused abruptly in his walk, listening, for what he did notknow. The silence of the great city spread itself around him, like thestill waters of some vast lagoon. Through the silence he heard the noiseof the throng of college youths. They were returning, doubling upontheir line of march. A long puff of tepid air breathing through the openwindow brought to his ears the distant joyous sound of their slogan:

"Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah!"

They passed by along the adjacent street, their sounds growing faint. Vandover took up his restless pacing again. Little by little thehallucination gained upon him; little by little his mind slipped fromhis grasp. The wolf--the beast--whatever the creature was, seemed in hisdiseased fancy to grow stronger in him from moment to moment. But withall his strength he fought against it, fought against this strangemania, that overcame him at these periodical intervals--fought with hishands so tightly clenched that the knuckles grew white, that the nailsbit into the palm. It seemed to him that in some way his personalitydivided itself into three. There was himself, the real Vandover of everyday, the same familiar Vandover that looked back at him from his mirror;then there was the wolf, the beast, whatever the creature was that livedin his flesh, and that struggled with him now, striving to gain theascendency, to absorb the real Vandover into its own hideous identity;and last of all, there was a third self, formless, very vague, elusive, that stood aside and watched the strife of the other two. But as hefought against his madness, concentrating all his attention with atremendous effort of the will, the queer numbness that came upon hismind whenever he exerted it enwrapped his brain like a fog, and thisthird self grew vaguer than ever, dwindled and disappeared. Somehow itseemed to be associated with consciousness, for after this the sense ofthe reality of things grew dim and blurred to him. He ceased to knowexactly what he was doing. His intellectual parts dropped away one byone, leaving only the instincts, the blind, unreasoning impulses of theanimal. 

Still he continued his restless, lurching walk back and forth in hisroom, his head hanging low and swinging from side to side with themovement of his gait. He had become so nervous that the restraintimposed upon his freedom of movement by his bathrobe and his loosenight-clothes chafed and irritated him. At length he had stripped offeverything. 

Suddenly and without the slightest warning Vandover's hands came slowlyabove his head and he dropped forward, landing upon his palms. All in aninstant he had given way, yielding in a second to the strangehallucination of that four-footed thing that sulked and snarled. Nowwithout a moment's stop he ran back and forth along the wall of theroom, upon the palms of his hands and his toes, a ludicrous figure, likethat of certain clowns one sees at the circus, contortionists walkingabout the sawdust, imitating some kind of enormous dog. Still he swunghis head from side to side with the motion of his shuffling gait, hiseyes dull and fixed. At long intervals he uttered a sound, half word, half cry, "Wolf--wolf!" but it was muffled, indistinct, raucous, comingmore from his throat than from his lips. It might easily have been thegrowl of an animal. A long time passed. Naked, four-footed, Vandover ranback and forth the length of the room. 

By an hour after midnight the sky was clear, all the stars were out, themoon a thin, low-swinging scimitar, set behind the black mass of theroofs of the city, leaving a pale bluish light that seemed to come fromall quarters of the horizon. As the great stillness grew more and morecomplete, the persistent puffing of the slender tin stack, the three gayand joyous little noises, each sounding like a note of discreet laughterinterrupted by a cough, became clear and distinct. Inside the room therewas no sound except the persistent patter of something four-footed goingup and down. At length even this sound ceased abruptly. Worn out, Vandover had just fallen, dropping forward upon his face with a longbreath. He lay still, sleeping at last. The remnant of the great band ofcollege men went down an adjacent street, raising their cadenced sloganfor the last time. It came through the open window, softened as it wereby the warm air, thick with damp, through which it travelled:

"Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah!"

Naked, exhausted, Vandover slept profoundly, stretched at full length atthe foot of the bare, white wall of the room beneath two of the littleplacards, scrawled with ink, that read, "Stove Here"; "Mona Lisa Here. "

Chapter Seventeen

On A certain Saturday morning two years later Vandover awoke in his roomat the Reno House, the room he had now occupied for fifteen months. 

One might almost say that he had been expelled from the Lick House. Fora time he had tried to retain his room there with the idea of paying hisbills by the money he should win at gambling. But his bad luck was nowbecome a settled thing--almost invariably he lost. At last Ellis and theDummy had refused to play with him, since he was never able to pay themwhen they won. They had had a great quarrel. Ellis broke with himsullenly, growling wrathfully under his heavy moustache, and the Dummyhad written upon his pad--so hastily and angrily that the words couldhardly be read--that he would not play with professional gamblers, menwho supported themselves by their winnings. Damn it! one had to be agentleman. 

Next, Vandover had tried to borrow some money of Charlie Geary. Gearyhad told him that he could not afford as much as Vandover needed. ThenVandover became enraged. He had long since seen that Geary hadpractically swindled him out of his block in the Mission, and at thatvery moment the huge boot and shoe "concern" was completing the factorybuilt upon the ground that Vandover had once owned. Geary had clearedseven thousand dollars on his "deal. " His refusal to loan his old-timefriend fifty dollars upon this occasion had exasperated Vandover out ofall bounds. There was a scene. Vandover told Geary what he thought ofhis "deal" in very plain words. They shouted "swindler" and "gambler"into each other's faces; the whole office was aroused; Vandover wasejected by force. On a stair landing half-way to the street he sat downand cried into his arms folded upon his knees. When he returned to hisroom he had a sudden return of his dreadful nervous malady and barkedand whined under the bed. 

Then Vandover wrote a fifty-dollar check on the bank--the same bank thathad just notified him that he was overdrawn--and passed it upon youngHaight. How he came to do the thing he could not tell; it might havebeen the influence of Geary's successful robbery, or it might have beenthat he had at last lost all principle, all sense of honour andintegrity. At any rate, he could not bring himself to feel very sorry. He knew that young Haight would not prosecute him for the dishonesty; hetraded upon Haight's magnanimity; he only felt glad that he had thefifty dollars. But by this time Vandover did not even wonder at his ownbaseness and degradation. A few years ago this would have been the case;now his character was so changed that the theft seemed somehowconsistent. He had destroyed young Haight's friendship for him. He hadcast from him his college chum, his best friend, but neither did thisaffect him. Nothing made much difference to him now. 

Nevertheless, Vandover was evicted from the Lick House three days afterhe had stolen young Haight's money. Instead of paying his bills with theamount, he gambled it away in a back room of a new café on Market Streetwith Toby, the red-eyed waiter from the Imperial, and a certain German"professor, " a billiard marker, who wore a waistcoat figured with littledesigns of the Eiffel Tower, and who was a third owner in a trottingmare named Tomato Ketchup. 

Vandover was now left with only his bonds, his U. S. 4 per cents. Thesebrought him in but sixty-nine dollars a quarter, or as he had had itarranged, twenty-three dollars a month. Just at this time, as if by amiracle, a veritable God from the Machine, Vandover's lawyer, Mr. Field, found him an opportunity to earn some money. For the first and only timein his life Vandover knew what it was to work for a living. The workthat Field secured for him was the work of painting those littlepictures on the lacquered surface of iron safes, those little ovallandscapes between the lines of red and gold lettering--landscapes, rugged gorges, ocean steamships under all sail, mountain lakes withsailboats careening upon their surfaces, the boat indicated by twolittle triangular dabs of Chinese white, one for the sail itself and theother for its reflection in the water. Sometimes even he was called uponto paint other little pictures upon the sides of big express wagons--twohorses, one white and the other bay, galloping very free in an openfield, their manes and tails flying, or a bulldog, very savage, sittingupon a green and black safe, or the head of a mastiff with a spikedcollar about his neck. 

What with the pay for this sort of work and the interest of his bonds, Vandover managed to lead a haphazard sort of life, living about in cheaplodging-houses and cheap restaurants. But he was never more than asecond-class workman, and he was so irregular that he could never bedepended upon. 

The moment he began to paint again--even to paint such pitiful littlepictures as these--the same familiar experience repeated itself, theunwillingness of his fingers, their failure to rightly interpret hisideas, the resulting crudity of his work, the sudden numbness in hisbrain, the queer, tense sensation behind his eyes. But Vandover had longsince become accustomed to these symptoms and would not have minded themat this time had it not been that they were occasionally followed by anervous twitching and jerking of his whole arm, so that sometimes hecould not hold the brush steady a minute at a time. 

For two years he had drifted about the city, living now here and nowthere, a real hand-to-mouth existence, sinking a little lower each day. Now, no one knew him. He had completely passed out of the lives ofHaight, Geary, and Ellis, just as before he had passed out of the life ofTurner Ravis. At the end of the first year they had ceased even to thinkabout him. For a long time they thought that he was dead, until one dayEllis declared that he had seen him far down on Kearney Street, near theBarbary Coast, looking at the pictures in the illustrated weeklies thatwere tacked upon the show-board on the sidewalk in front of astationer's. Ellis had told the others that on this occasion Vandoverseemed to be more sickly than ever; he described his appearance indetail, wagging his head at his own story, pursing his lips, putting hischin in the air. Vandover had worn an old paint-stained pair of bluetrousers, fastened with a strap, so that his shirt showed below hisvest; he had no collar, and he had allowed his beard to grow, astraggling thin beard, through which one could see the buttons of hisshirt, a dirty beard full of the cracker crumbs from the freelunch-counters of cheap saloons; he had on a hat which he had worn whenthey had known him; but one should see that hat now!

It was all true: little by little Vandover had abandoned all interestin his personal appearance. Of course it was impossible for him to dresswell at this time, but he had even lost regard for decency andcleanliness. He washed himself but rarely. He had even acquired thehabit of sleeping with all his clothes on during the colder nights ofthe year. 

Nothing made any difference. Gradually his mind grew more and moreclouded; he became stupid, sluggish. He went about the city from dawn todark, his feet dragging, his head hanging low and swinging from side toside with the motion of his gait. He rarely spoke; his eyes took on adull, glazed appearance, filmy, like the eyes of a dead fish. At certainintervals his mania came upon him, the strange hallucination ofsomething four-footed, the persistent fancy that the brute in him hadnow grown so large, so insatiable, that it had taken everything, even tohis very self, his own identity--that he had literally _become thebrute_. The attack passed off and left him wondering, perplexed. 

The Reno House, where Vandover had lived for some fifteen months, was asort of hotel on Sacramento Street below Kearney. The neighbourhood waslow--just on the edge of the Barbary Coast, abounding in stores forsecond-hand clothing, saloons, pawnshops, gun-stores, bird-stores, andthe shops of Chinese cobblers. Around the corner on Kearney Street was aconcert hall, a dive, to which the admission was free. Near by was theold Plaza. 

Underneath the hotel on the ground floor were two saloons, a barbershop, and a broom manufactory. The lodgers themselves were for the mostpart "transients, " sailors lounging about shore between two voyages, Swedes and Danes, farmhands, grape-pickers, and cow-punchers fromdistant parts of the state, a few lost women, and Japanese cooks andsecond-boys remaining there while they advertised for positions. 

Vandover sank to the grade of these people at once with that fataladaptability to environment which he had permitted himself to fosterthroughout his entire life, and which had led him to be contented inalmost any circumstances. It was as if the brute in him were foreverseeking a lower level, wallowing itself lower and lower into the filthand into the mire, content to be foul, content to be prone, to be inertand supine. 

It was Saturday morning about a quarter of nine. The wet season hadbegun early that year. Though this was but the middle of September, therain had fallen steadily since the previous Wednesday. Its steadymurmur, prolonged and soothing like the purring of a great cat, filledVandover's room with a pleasant sound. The air of the room was thick andfoul, heavy with the odour of cooking, onions, and stale bedding. It wasvery warm; there was no ventilation. Vandover lay upon the bed halfawake, dozing under the thick coarse blankets and soiled counterpane. With the exception of his shoes and coat he wore all his clothes. He wasglad to be warm, to be stupefied by the heat of the bedding and the badair of the room. 

In the next room a Portuguese fruit vender, very drunk, was fightingwith the tin pitcher and pasteboard bowl on his wash-stand, trying towet his head, swearing and making a hideous clatter. At length he tippedthem over upon the floor and gave the pitcher a great kick. The noiseroused Vandover; he sat up in bed, stretching, rubbing his hands overhis face. About the same moment the clock in the office downstairsstruck nine. Vandover let his feet drop to the floor and sat on the edgeof the bed, looking vaguely about him. His face, ordinarily very pale, was oily from sleep and red upon one side from long contact with thepillow, the marks of the creases still showing upon his cheek. His longstraight hair fell about his eyes and ears like a tangled mane. A thinstraggling beard and moustache, of a brown much lighter than his hair, covered the lower part of his face. His nose was long and pinched, whilebrown and puffed pockets hung beneath his eyes. 

He wore a white shirt very crumpled and dirty, a low standing collar anda black four-in-hand necktie, very greasy. His trousers were striped andof a slate blue colour--the "blue pants" of the ready-made clothingstores. Still sitting on the bed, Vandover continued his stupid gazeabout the room. 

The room was small, and at some long-forgotten, almost prehistoricperiod had been covered with a yellowish paper, stamped with a hugepattern of flowers that looked like the flora of a carboniferousstrata, a pattern repeated to infinity wherever the eye turned. Newspapers were pasted upon the ceiling and a great square of very dirtymatting covered the floor. There were a few pieces of furniture, veryold-fashioned, made of pine, with a black walnut veneer, two chairs, awashstand and the bed. A great pile of old newspapers tied up with balerope was kicked into one corner. Two gas brackets without globesstretched forth their long arms over the empty space where the bureaushould have been. Under the single window was Vandover's trunk, and uponit his colour box and pots of paint. His hat hung upon a hook screwed tothe door. The hat had once been black, but it had long since turned to agreenish hue, and sweat stains were showing about the band. 

Vandover dressed slowly. He straightened his hair a bit before the cheapmirror that hung over the washstand, putting on his hat immediatelyafter to keep it in place. He washed his hands in the dirty water thathad stood in his pasteboard bowl since the previous afternoon, but lefthis face as it was. He put on his coat, an old cutaway which had beenhis best years ago, but which was now absurdly small for him, the breastall spotted and streaked with old stains of soup and gravy. Last of allhe drew on his shoes. They were new. Vandover had bought them two daysbefore for a dollar and ninety cents. They were lined so as to makesocks superfluous. 

It had been a bad week with Vandover. The paint-shop had given him nowork to do for ten days, and he had been forced to get along in some wayupon the interest of his bonds--that is to say, upon five dollars andseventy-five cents a week. Two dollars and seventy-five cents of thiswent for his room rent, one dollar and ninety for his shoes, and Tuesdayafternoon he had bought a package of cigarettes for ten cents. BySaturday morning he had spent seventy-five cents for food. 

When the paint-shop gave him enough work it was Vandover's custom to buya week's commutation ticket at a certain restaurant. He never ate at thehotel; it was too expensive. By the commutation system he could buy twodollars and twenty-five cents' worth of meals for two dollars, paying intickets at each meal. 

But such a thing had been impossible this week. He had been forced tofall back upon the free-lunch system. In two years Vandover had learneda great deal; even his dulled wits had been sharpened when it had cometo a question of food. The brute in him might destroy all his finerqualities, but even the brute had to feed. When work failed him at thebeginning of the week Vandover was not unprepared for the contingency;the thing had happened before and he knew how to meet it. 

On Monday he beat up and down the Barbary Coast, picking out fifteen ortwenty saloons which supported a free-lunch counter in connection withthe bar. He took his breakfast Monday morning at the first of these. Hepaid five cents for a glass of beer and ate his morning's meal at thelunch counter: stew, bread, and cheese. At noon he made his dinner atthe second saloon on his route. Here he had another glass of beer, agreat plate of soup, potato salad, and pretzels. Thus he managed to feedhimself throughout the week. 

It was always his great desire to feed well at Sunday's dinner, to spendat least a quarter on that meal. It was something to be looked forwardto throughout the entire week. But to get twenty-five cents ahead whenhe was out of work was bitter hard. That week he had started out withthe determination to eat but two meals a day. He would thus save fivecents daily and by Sunday morning would be thirty cents to the good. Buteach day his resolution broke down. At breakfast he would resolve to gowithout his lunch, at lunch he would make up his mind to go withoutsupper, and at supper he would tell himself that now at least hisdetermination was irrevocable--he would eat no breakfast the nextmorning. But on each and every occasion his hunger proved too strong, his feet carried him irresistibly to the saloon lunch counters, whetherhe would or no. At no time in his life had Vandover accustomed himselfto self-denial; he could hardly begin now. 

At length Saturday morning had come, and while he was dressing herealized that he could not look forward to any unusual dinner the nextday at noon. The disappointment had all the force of an unexpecteddisaster and he began keenly to regret his weakness of the past week. Suddenly Vandover resolved that he would go without food all that day;it would be a saving of fifteen cents, which, added to the five centsthat he would spend anyway for his dinner, would almost make a quarter. He knew where he could dine excellently well for twenty cents. However, he could not make up his mind to go without his Sunday morning'sbreakfast. That, he told himself, he must eat. 

Once dressed, Vandover went out. Fortunately, the rain had stopped. Hewent on down through the reeking, steaming streets to one of the bigfruit markets not far from the water front. The Portuguese fruit venderwho roomed next to him at the Reno House was employed at a stall here. Vandover knew him a little, and it was not hard for him to get a thinslice of cocoanut out from the inside rind of one of those that werelying cracked open among his other wares. 

All the morning Vandover chewed this slice of cocoanut, at the same timedrinking a great deal of water; for hours he deadened the pang of hungerby this means. He passed the time for the most part sitting on thebenches in the Plaza reading an old newspaper that he had found under aseat. The sun came out a little; Vandover found the warmth verygrateful. He told himself that he could easily hold out until the nextmorning. 

He had forgotten about the time and was surprised when the whistles allover the town began to blow for noon. In an instant Vandover was hungryagain. It was all one that he chewed the little pulp of cocoanut rindmore vigorously than ever, swallowed great draughts of water at thepublic fountains; the little gnawing just between his chest and hisstomach began to persist. He got up and began to walk. He left the Plazabehind him, crossed Kearney Street and went on down Clay Street till hereached the water front. For a time he found a certain diversion amongthe shipping and especially in watching a gang of caulkers knocking awayat the seams of an immense coal steamer. He sat upon a great ironclamped pile, spitting into the yellow water below. The air was full ofthe smell of bilge and oakum and fish; the thousands of masts made agray maze against the sky; occasionally an empty truck trundled over thehollow docks with a sound of distant cannon. A weakness, a littletrembling that seemed to come from the pit of his stomach, began uponVandover. He was very hungry. Evidently the slice of cocoanut was nolonger effective. He swallowed it and lit a cigarette, one of thehalf-dozen still left of the pack he had bought the Tuesday before. 

He smoked the cigarette slowly, inhaling as much of the smoke as hecould. This quieted him for an hour, but he had the folly to smoke againat the end of that time, and at once--as he might have known--was hungryagain. Until dark he struggled along, drinking water continually, chewing chips of wood, toothpicks, bits of straw, anything so that theaction of his jaws might cheat the demands of his stomach. Towardhalf-past seven in the evening he returned to his room in the RenoHouse. If he could get to sleep that would be best of all. On the stairsof the hotel, while going up to his room, the strong smell of cookingonions came suddenly to his nostrils. It was delicious. Vandoverbreathed in the warm savour with long sighs, closing his eyes; a greatfeebleness overcame him. He asked himself how he could get through thenext twelve hours. 

An hour later he went to bed, hiccoughing from the water he had beendrinking all day. By this time he had torn the paper from one of hiscigarettes and was chewing the tobacco. This was his last resort, anexpedient which he fell back upon only in great extremity, as itinvariably made him sick to his stomach. He slept a little, but in halfan hour was broad awake again, gagging and retching dreadfully. Therewas nothing on his stomach to throw up, and now at length the hunger inhim raged like a wolf. Vandover was in veritable torment. 

He could not keep his thoughts away from the money in his pocket, anickel and two dimes. He could eat if he wanted to, could satisfy thisincessant craving. At every moment the temptation grew stronger. Whyshould he wait until morning? He had the money; it was only a matter ofa few minutes' walk to the nearest saloon. But he set his face againstthis desire; he had held out so long that it would be a pity to give innow; he was not so very hungry after all. No, no; he would not give in, he was strong enough; as long as he used his will he need not succumb. It was just a question of asserting his strength of mind, of calling upthe better part of him. Even better than eating would be thesatisfaction of knowing that he had shown himself stronger than hislower animal appetite. No; he would not give in. 

Hardly a minute after he had arrived at this resolution Vandover foundhimself drawing on his coat and shoes making ready to go out--to go outand eat. 

The gas in the room was lit, his money, the nickel and the two dimes, was shut in one of his fists. He was dressing himself with one hand, dressing with feverish, precipitate haste. What had happened? Hemarvelled at himself, but did not check his preparations an instant. Hecould not stop, whether he would or no; there was something in himstronger than himself, something that urged him on his feet, that drovehim out into the street, something that clamoured for food and thatwould not be gainsaid. It was the animal in him, the brute, that wouldbe fed, the evil, hideous brute grown now so strong that Vandover couldnot longer resist it--the brute that had long since destroyed all hisfiner qualities but that still demanded to be fed, still demanded tolive. All the little money that Vandover had saved during the day hespent that night among the coffee houses, the restaurants, and thesaloons of the Barbary Coast, continuing to eat even after his hungerwas satisfied. Toward daylight he returned to his room, and all dressedas he was flung himself face downward among the coarse blankets andgreasy counterpane. For nearly eight hours he slept profoundly, withlong snores, prone, inert, crammed and gorged with food. 

It was the middle of Sunday afternoon when he awoke. He roused himselfand going over to the Plaza sat for a long while upon one of thebenches. It was a very bright afternoon and Vandover sat motionless fora long time in the sun while his heavy meal digested, very happy, content merely to be warm, to be well fed, to be comfortable. 

Chapter Eighteen

That winter passed, then the summer; September and October came andwent, and by the middle of November the rains set in. One very wetafternoon toward the end of the month Charlie Geary sat at his desk inhis own private office. He was unoccupied for the moment, leaning backin his swivel chair, his feet on the table, smoking a cigar. Geary hadbroken from his old-time habit of smoking only so many cigars as hecould pay for by saving carfare. He was doing so well now that he couldafford to smoke whenever he chose. He was still with the great firm ofBeale & Storey, and while not in the partnership as yet, had worked upto the position of an assistant. He had cases of his own now, a greatmany of them, for the most part damage suits against that certainenormous corporation whom it was said was ruining the city and entirestate. Geary posed as one of its bitterest enemies, pushing each suitbrought against it with a tireless energy, with a zeal that was almostvindictive. He began to fit into his own niche, in the eyes of thepublic, and just in proportion as the corporation was hated, Geary wasadmired. Money came to him very fast. He was hardly thirty at this time, but could already be called a rich man. 

His "deal" with Vandover had given him a taste for real estate, and nowand then, with the greatest caution, he made a few discreet investments. At present he had just completed a row of small cottages across thestreet from the boot and shoe factory. The cottages held two rooms and alarge kitchen. Geary had calculated that the boot and shoe concern wouldemploy nearly a thousand operatives, and he had built his row with theview of accommodating a few of them who had families and who desired tolive near the factory. His agents were Adams & Brunt. 

It was toward half-past five, there was nothing more that Geary could dothat day, and for a moment he leaned back in his swivel chair, beforegoing home, smiling a little, very well pleased with himself. He wasstill as clever and shrewd as ever, still devoured with an incarnateambition, still delighted when he could get the better of any one. Hewas yet a young man; with the start he had secured for himself, andwith the exceptional faculties, the faculties of self-confidence and"push" that he knew himself to possess, there was no telling to whatposition he might attain. He knew that it was only a question oftime--of a short time even--when he would be the practical head of thegreat firm. Everything he turned his hand to was a success. His row ofhouses in the Mission might be enlarged to a veritable settlement forevery workman in the neighbourhood. His youth, his cleverness, and hisambition, supported by his money on the one hand, and on the other bythe vast machinery of the great law firm, could raise him to a greatplace in the world of men. Gazing through the little blue haze of hiscigar smoke, he began to have vague ideas, ideas of advancement, ofpolitical successes. Politics fascinated him--such a field of actionseemed to be the domain for which he was precisely suited--not thepolitics of the city or of the state; not the nasty little squabbling ofboodlers, lobbyists, and supervisors, but something large, somethinginspiring, something on a tremendous scale, something to which one couldgive up one's whole life and energy, something to which one couldsacrifice everything--friendships, fortunes, scruples, principles, lifeitself, no matter what, anything to be a "success, " to "arrive, " to "getthere, " to attain the desired object in spite of the whole world, toride on at it, trampling down or smashing through everything that stoodin the way, blind, deaf, fists and teeth shut tight. Not the littlesquabbling politics of the city or state, but national politics, thesway and government of a whole people, the House, the Senate, thecabinet and the next--why not?--the highest, the best of all, theExecutive. Yes, Geary aspired even to the Presidency. 

For a moment he allowed himself the indulgence of the delightful dream, then laughed a bit at his own absurdity. But even the entertainment ofso vast an idea had made his mind, as it were, big; it was hard to comedown to the level again. In spite of himself he went on reasoning instupendous thoughts, in enormous ideas, figuring with immenseabstractions. And then after all, why not? Other men had striven andattained; other men were even now striving, other men would "arrive";why should not he? As well he as another. Every man for himself--thatwas his maxim. It might be damned selfish, but it was human nature: theweakest to the wall, the strongest to the front. Why should not he be inthe front? Why not in the very front rank? Why not be even before thefront rank itself--the leader? Vast, vague ideas passed slowly acrossthe vision of his mind, ideas that could hardly be formulated intothought, ideas of the infinite herd of humanity, driven on as if by someenormous, relentless engine, driven on toward some fearful distantbourne, driven on recklessly at headlong speed. All life was but astruggle to keep from under those myriad spinning wheels that dashed soclose behind. Those were happiest who were farthest to the front. To lagbehind was peril; to fall was to perish, to be ridden down, to be beatento the dust, to be inexorably crushed and blotted out beneath thatmyriad of spinning iron wheels. Geary looked up quickly and saw Vandoverstanding in the doorway. 

For the moment Geary did not recognize the gaunt, shambling figure withthe long hair and dirty beard, the greenish hat, and the streaked andspotted coat, but when he did it was with a feeling of anger andexasperation. 

"Look here!" he cried, "don't you think you'd better knock before youcome in?"

Vandover raised a hand slowly as if in deprecation, and answered slowlyand with a feeble, tremulous voice, the voice of an old man: "I didknock, Mister Geary; I didn't mean no offence. " He sat down on the edgeof the nearest chair, looking vaguely and stupidly about on the floor, moving his head instead of his eyes, repeating under his breath fromtime to time, "No offence--no, sir--no offence!"

"Shut that door!" commanded Geary. Vandover obeyed. He wore no vest, andthe old cutaway coat, fastened by the single remaining button, exposedhis shirt to view, abominably filthy, bulging at the waist like ablouse. The "blue pants, " held up by a strap, were all foul with mud andgrease and paint, and there hung about him a certain odour, thatpeculiar smell of poverty and of degradation, the smell of stale clothesand of unwashed bodies. 

"Well?" said Geary abruptly. 

Vandover put the tips of his fingers to his lips and rolled his eyesabout the room, avoiding Geary's glance; then he dropped them to thefloor again, looking at the pattern in the carpet. 

"Well, " repeated Geary, irritated, "you know I haven't got all the timein the world. " All at once Vandover began to cry, very softly, snufflingwith his nose, his chin twitching, the tears running through his thin, sparse beard. 

"Ah, get on to yourself!" shouted Geary, now thoroughly disgusted. "Quitthat! Be a man, will you? Stop that! do you hear?" Vandover obeyed, catching his breath and slowly wiping his eyes with the side of hishand. 

"I'm no good!" he said at length, wagging his head and blinking throughhis tears. "I'm--I'm done for and I ain't got no money; yet, of course, you see I don't mean no offence. What I want, you see, is to be a manand not give in and not let the wolf get me, and then I'll go back toParis. Everything goes round here, very slow, and seems far off; that'swhy I can't get along, and I'm that hungry that sometimes I twitch allover. I'm down. I ain't got another cent of money and I lost my job atthe paint-shop. There's where I drew down twenty dollars a week paintinglandscapes on safes, you know, and then--"

Geary interrupted him, crying out, "You haven't a cent? Why, what haveyou done with your bonds?"

"Bonds?" repeated Vandover, dazed and bewildered. "I ain't never had anybonds. What bonds? Oh, yes, " he exclaimed, suddenly remembering, "yes, Iknow, my bonds, of course; yes, yes--well, I--those--those, I had tosell those bonds--had some debts, you see, my board and my tailor'sbill. They got out some sort of paper after me. Yes, I had forgottenabout my bonds. I lost every damned one of them playing cards--gambled'em all away. Ain't I no good? But I was winner once--just in two nightsI won ten thousand dollars. Then I must have lost it again. You see, Iget so hungry sometimes that I twitch all over--so, just like that. Lendme a dollar. "

For a few moments Geary was silent, watching Vandover curiously, as hesat in a heap on the edge of the chair, fumbling his greenish hat, looking about the floor. Presently he asked:

"When did you lose your job at the paint-shop?"

"Day before yesterday. "

"And you are out of work now?"

"Yes, " answered Vandover. "I'm broke; I haven't a cent. I'm blest if Iknow how I'm to get along. Lately I've been working for a paint-shop, painting landscapes on safes. I drew down fifty dollars a week there, but I've lost my job. "

"Good Lord, Van!" Geary suddenly exclaimed, nodding his head toward himreflectively, "I'm sorry for you!"

The other laughed. "Yes; I suppose I'm a pitiable looking object, butI'm used to it. I don't mind much now as long as I can have a place tosleep and enough to eat. If you can put me in the way of some work, Charlie, I'd be much obliged. You see, that's what I want--work. I don'twant to run any bunco game. I'm an honest man--I'm too honest. I gaveaway all my money to help another poor duck; gave him thousands, he wasgood to me when I was on my uppers and I meant to repay him. I wasgrateful. I signed a paper that gave him everything I had. It was inParis. There's where my bonds went to. He was a struggling artist. "

"Look here!" said Geary, willing to be interested, "you might as well betruthful with me. You can't lie to me. Have you gambled away all thosebonds, or have you been victimized, or have you still got them? Come, now, spit it out. "

"Charlie, I haven't a cent!" answered Vandover, looking him squarely inthe face. "Would I be around here and trying to get work from you if Ihad? No; I gambled it all away. You know I had eighty-nine hundred inU. S. 4 per cents. Well, first I began to pawn things when my money gotshort--the Old Gentleman's watch that I said I never would part with, then my clothes. I couldn't keep away from the cards. Of course, youcan't understand that; gambling was the only thing that could amuse me. Then I began to mortgage my bonds, very little at first. Oh, I wentslow! Then I got to selling them. Well, somehow, they all went. For atime I got along by the work at the paint-shop. But they have let me outnow; said I was so irregular. I owe for nearly a month at mylodging-place. " His eyes sought the floor again, rolling about stupidly. "Nearly a month, and that's what makes me jump and tremble so. You oughtto see me sometimes--_b-r-r-r-h!_--and I get to barking! I'm a wolfmostly, you know, or some kind of an animal, some kind of a brute. ButI'd be all right if everything didn't go round very slowly, and seem faroff. But I'm a wolf. You look out for me; best take care I don't biteyou! Wolf--wolf! Ah! It's up four flights at the end of the hall, verydark, eight thousand dollars in a green cloth sack, and lots of lightsa-burning. See how long my finger nails are--regular claws; that's thewolf, the brute! Why can't I talk in my mouth instead of in my throat?That's the devil of it. When you paint on steel and iron your coloursdon't dry out true; all the yellows turn green. But it would 'a' beenall straight if they hadn't fired me! I never talked to anybody--thatwas _my_ business, wasn't it? And when all those eight thousand littlelights begin to burn red, why, of course that makes you nervous! So Ihave to drink a great deal of water and chew butcher's paper. That foolshim and he thinks he's eating. Just so as I can lay quiet in the Plazawhen the sun is out. There's a hack-stand there, you know, and everytime that horse tosses his head so's to get the oats in the bottom ofthe nose-bag he jingles the chains on the poles and, by God! that'sfunny; makes me laugh every time; sounds gay, and the chain sparklesmighty pretty! Oh, I don't complain. Give me a dollar and I'll bark foryou!"

Geary leaned back in his chair listening to Vandover, struck withwonder, marvelling at that which his old chum had come to be. He wassorry for him, too, yet, nevertheless, he felt a certain indefinitesatisfaction, a faint exultation over his misfortunes, glad that theirpositions were not reversed, pleased that he had been clever enough tokeep free from those habits, those modes of life that ended in suchfashion. He rapped sharply on the table. Vandover straightened up, raising his eyes:

"You want some work?" he demanded. 

"Yes; that's what I'm after, " answered Vandover, adding, "I must haveit!"

"Well, " said Geary, hesitatingly, "I can give you something to do, butit will be pretty dirty. "

Vandover smiled a little, saying, "I guess you can't give me any workthat would be too dirty for me!" With the words he suddenly began to cryagain. "I want to be honest, Mister Geary, " he exclaimed, drawing thebacks of his fingers across his lips; "I want to be honest; I'm down andI don't mean no offence. Charlie, you and I were old chums once atHarvard. My God! to think I was a Harvard man once! Oh, I'm a goner nowand I ain't got a friend. When I was in the paint-shop they paid mewell. I've been in a paint-shop lately painting the little pictures onthe safes, little landscapes, you know, and lakes with mountains aroundthem. I pulled down my twenty dollars and findings!"

"Oh, don't be a fool!" cried Geary, ashamed even to see such anexhibition. "If you can't be a man, you can get out. Now, see here, youcame up here once and insulted me in my office, and called me aswindler. Ah, you bet you had the swelled head then and insulted me, attacked my honesty and charged me with shoving the queer. Now I neverforget those things generally, but I am willing to let that pass thistime. I could be nasty now and tell you to rustle for yourself. If youwant half a dollar now to get something to eat, why, I'll give it toyou. But I don't propose to support you. Ah, no; I guess not! If youwant to work I'll give you a chance, but I shall expect you to do goodwork if I give you my good money for it. You may be drunk now or--_I_don't know what's the matter with you. But you come up here to-morrow atnoon, and if you come up here sober or straight or"--Geary began to makeawkward gestures in the air with both hands--"come up here to talk_business_, I may have something for you, but I can't stop any longerthis evening. "

Vandover got upon his feet slowly, turning his greenish hat about by thebrim, nodding his head. "All right, all right, " he answered. "Thank youvery much, Mister Geary. It's very good of you, I'm sure. I'll be aroundat noon sure. "

When Geary was left alone, he walked slowly to his window, and stoodthere a moment looking aimlessly down into the street, shaking his headrepeatedly, astonished at the degradation of his old-time chum. While hestood there he saw Vandover come out upon the sidewalk from the door ofthe great office building. Geary watched him, very interested. 

Vandover paused a moment upon the sidewalk, turning up the collar of hisold cutaway coat against the cold trade wind that was tearing throughthe streets; he thrust both his hands deep into his trousers pockets, gripping his sides with his elbows and drawing his shoulders together, shrinking into a small compass in order to be warm. The wind blew thetails of his cutaway about him like flapping wings. He went up thestreet, walking fast, keeping to the outside of the sidewalk, hisshoulders bent, his head inclined against the wind, his feet draggingafter him as he walked. For a moment Geary lost sight of him amid agroup of men who were hoisting a piano upon a dray. The street wasrather crowded with office boys, clerks, and typewriters going home tosupper, and Geary did not catch sight of him again immediately; then allat once he saw him hesitating on a corner of Kearney Street, waiting foran electric car to pass; he crossed the street, running, his hands stillin his pockets, and went on hurriedly, dodging in and out of the throng, his high shoulders, long neck, and greenish hat coming into sight atintervals. For a moment he paused to glance into the show window of atobacconist and pipe-seller's store. A Chinese woman passed him, pattering along lamely, her green jade ear-rings twinkling in the lightof a street lamp, newly lighted. Vandover looked after her a moment, gazing stupidly, then suddenly took up his walk again, zigzagging amidthe groups on the asphalt, striding along at a great pace, his head lowand swinging from side to side as he walked. He was already far down thestreet; it was dusk; Geary could only catch glimpses of his head andshoulders at long intervals. He disappeared. 

 * * * * *

About ten minutes before one the next day as Geary came back from lunchhe was surprised to see Vandover peeping through the half-open door ofhis office. He had not thought that Vandover would come back. 

Of the many different stories that Vandover had told about thedisappearance of his bonds, the one that was probably truest was the onethat accounted for the thing by his passion for gambling. For a longtime after his advent at the Reno House this passion had been dormant;he knew no one with whom he could play, and every cent of his income nowwent for food and lodging. But one day, about six months before hisvisit to Geary's office, Vandover saw that the proprietor of the RenoHouse had set up a great bagatelle board in a corner of thereading-room. A group of men, sailors, ranchmen, and fruit venders werealready playing. Vandover approached and watched the game, veryinterested in watching the uncertain course of the marble jog-joggingamong the pins. The clear little note of the bell or the dry rattle asthe marble settled quickly into one of the lucky pockets thrilled himfrom head to foot; his hands trembled, all at once his whole left sidetwitched sharply. 

From that day the fate of the rest of Vandover's little money wasdecided. In two weeks he had lost twenty dollars at bagatelle, obtainingthe money by selling a portion of his bonds at a certain broker's onMontgomery Street. As soon as he had begun to gamble again the oldhabits of extravagance had come back upon him. From the moment he knewthat he could get all the money he wanted by the mere signing of apaper, he ceased to be economical, scorning the former niggardlinessthat had led him to starve on one day that he might feast the next; now, he feasted every day. He still kept his room at the Reno House, butinstead of taking his meals by any ticket system, he began to affect therestaurants of the Spanish quarter, gorging himself with the hot spicedmeals three and four times a day. He quickly abandoned the bagatelleboard for the card-table, gambling furiously with two of the ranchmen. Almost invariably Vandover lost, and the more he lost the more eager andreckless he became. 

In a little time he had sold every one of his bonds and had gambled awayall but twenty dollars of the money received from the last one sold. This sum, this twenty dollars, Vandover decided to husband carefully. Itwas all that was left between him and starvation. He made up his mindthat he must stop gambling and find something to do. He had long sinceabandoned his work at the paint-shop, but at this time he returned thereand asked for his old occupation. They laughed in his face. Was that theway he thought they did business? Not much; another man had his job, amuch better man and one who was regular, who could be depended on. Thatsame evening Vandover broke his twenty dollars and became very drunk. Agame of poker was started in a back room of one of the saloons on theBarbary Coast. One of the players was a rancher named Toedt, afellow-boarder at the Reno House, but the two other players werestrangers; and there in that narrow, dirty room, sawdust on the floor, festoons of fly-specked red and blue tissue paper adorning the singleswinging lamp, figures cut from bill-posters of the Black Crook pastedon the walls, there in the still hours after midnight, long after thebarroom outside had been closed for the night, the last penny ofVandover's estate was gambled away. 

The game ended in a quarrel, Vandover, very drunk, and exasperated athis ill luck, accusing his friend Toedt, the rancher, of cheating. Toedtkicked him in the stomach and made him abominably sick. Then they wentaway and left Vandover alone in the little dirty room, racked withnausea, very drunk, fallen forward upon the table and crying into hisfolded arms. After a little he went to sleep, but the nausea continued, nevertheless, and in a few moments he gagged and vomited. He nevermoved. He was too drunk to wake. His hands and his coat-sleeves, thetable all about him, were foul beyond words, but he slept on in themidst of it all, inert, stupefied, a great swarm of flies buzzing abouthis head and face. It was the day after this that he had come to seeGeary. 

"Ah, " said Geary, as he came up, "it's you, is it? Well, I didn't expectto see you again. Sit down outside there in the hall and wait a fewminutes. I'm not ready to go yet--or, wait; here, I tell you what todo. " Geary wrote off a list of articles on a slip of paper and pushed itacross the table toward Vandover, together with a little money. "You getthose at the nearest grocery and by the time you are back I'll be readyto go. "

That day Geary took Vandover out to the Mission. They went out in thecable-car, Geary sitting inside reading the morning's paper, Vandoverstanding on the front platform, carrying the things that Geary had toldhim to buy: a bar of soap, a scrubbing brush, some wiping cloths, abroom, and a pail. 

Almost at the end of the car-line they got off and crossed over to whereGeary's property stood. Vandover looked about him. The ground on whichhis own block had once stood was now occupied by an immense red brickbuilding with white stone trimmings; in front on either side of the mainentrance were white stone medallions upon which were chiselled the headof a workman wearing the square paper cap that the workman never wears, and a bent-up forearm, the biceps enormous, the fist gripping the shorthammer that the workman never uses. An enormous round chimney sproutedfrom one corner; through the open windows came the vast purring ofmachinery. It was a boot and shoe factory, built by the great concernwho had bought the piece of property from Geary for fifteen thousanddollars, the same property Geary had bought from Vandover for eight. 

Across the street from the factory was a long row of little cottages, very neat, each having a tiny garden in front where nasturtiums grew. There were fifteen of these cottages; three of them only were vacant. 

"That was _my_ idea, " observed Geary, as they approached the row, willing to explain even though he thought Vandover would not comprehend, "and it pays like a nitrate bed. I was clever enough to see thatcottages like these were just what's wanted by the workmen in thefactory that have families. I made some money when I sold out my blockto the boot and shoe people, and I invested it again in these cottages. They are cheap and serviceable and they meet the demand. " Vandovernodded his head in assent, looking vaguely about him, now at thecottages, now at the great building across the street. Geary got thekeys to one of the vacant cottages and the two went inside. 

"Now here's what I want you to do, " began Geary, pointing about with hisstick. "You see, when some of these people go out they leave the roomsnasty, and that tells against the house when parties come to look at it. I want you to go all over it, top and bottom, end to end, and give it agood cleaning, sweep the floor, and wash the paint, you know. And nowthese windows, you see how dirty they are; wash those inside and out, but don't disturb the agents' signs; you understand?"

"Yes, I understand. "

"Now come out here into the kitchen. Look at these laundry tubs and thatsink. See all that grease! Clean that all out, and underneath the sinkhere. See that rubbish! Take that out, too. Now in here--look at thatbathtub and toilet. You see how nasty they have left them. You want tomake 'em look like new!"

"Yes. "

"Now come downstairs. You see I give 'em a little floored basement, here; kind of a storeroom and coalroom. Here's where most of the dirtand rubbish is. Just look at it! See all that pile over there?"

"I see. "

"Take it all out and pile it in the back yard. I'll have an ashman comeand remove it. Whew! there is a dead hen under here; sling that out thefirst thing. "

They went back through the house again, and Geary pointed out the tinygarden to Vandover. "Straighten that up a bit, pick up those oldnewspapers and the tin cans. Make it look neat. Now you understand justwhat I want? You make a good job of it, and when you are through withthis house, you begin on the next vacant one farther down the row. Youcan get the keys at the same place. You get to work right away. I shouldthink you ought to finish this house this afternoon. "

"All right, " answered Vandover. 

"I'm going to look around a little. I'll drop in again in about an hourand see how you're getting on. "

With that Geary went away. It was Saturday afternoon, and as the lawoffice closed at noon that day, Geary very often spent the time untilevening looking about his property. He left Vandover and went slowlydown the street, noting each particular house with immense satisfaction, even entering some of them, talking with the womenfolk, all the menbeing at the factory. 

Vandover took off his coat, his old and greasy cutaway, and began work. He drew a pail of water from the garden faucet in a neighbour's yard, and commenced washing the windows. First he washed the panes from theinside, very careful not to disturb Adams & Brunt's signs, and thencleaned the outside, sitting upon the window ledge, his body half in andhalf out of the house. 

Geary enjoyed himself immensely. The news of the landlord's visit hadspread from cottage to cottage, awakening a mild excitement throughoutthe length of the row. The women showed themselves on the steps or onthe sidewalks, very slatternly, without corsets, their hair coming down, dressed in faded calico wrappers just as they had come from the laundrytubs or the cook-stove. They bethought them of their various grievances, a leak here, a broken door-bell there, a certain bad smell that wassupposed to have some connection with a rash upon the children's faces. They waited for Geary's appearance by ones and twos, timid, veryrespectful, but querulous for all that, filling the air with theirlamentations. 

Vandover had finished with the windows. Now he was cleaning out the sinkand the laundry tubs. They smelt very badly and were all foul with agreasy mixture of old lard, soap, soot, and dust; a little mould waseven beginning to form about the faucets of the tubs. The escape pipe ofthe sink was clogged, and he had to run his finger into it again andagain to get it free. The kitchen was very dirty; old bottles of sweetoil, mouldy vinegar and flat beer cluttered the dusty shelves of thepantry. 

Meanwhile Geary continued his rounds. He went about among the groups ofhis tenants, very pleased and contented, smiling affably upon them. Heenlarged himself, giving himself the airs of an English lord in themidst of his tenantry, listening to their complaints with agood-humoured smile of toleration. A few men were about, some of whomwere out of work for the moment; others who were sick. To these Gearywas particularly condescending. He sat in their parlours, little, crowded rooms, smelling of stale upholstery and of the last meal, whereknitted worsted tidies, very gaudy, covered the backs of the largerchairs and where one inevitably discovered the whatnot standing in onecorner, its shelves filled with shell-boxes, broken thermometers andlittle alabaster jars, shaped like funeral urns, where one kept thematches. The wife brought the children in, very dirty, looking solemnlyat Geary, their eyes enlarged in the direct unwinking gaze of cows. 

By this time Vandover had finished with the sinks and tubs and was downupon his hands and knees scrubbing the stains of grease upon the floorof the kitchen. It was very hard work, as his water was cold. He wasstill working about this spot when Geary returned. By this time Vandoverwas so tired that he trembled all over, his spine seemed to be breakingin two, and every now and then he paused and passed his hand over thesmall of his back, closing his eyes and drawing a long breath. 

"Well, how are you getting on?" asked Geary, as he came into thekitchen, drawing on his gloves, about ready to go home. 

"Oh, I'm getting along, " replied Vandover, rising up to his knees. 

"You want to hurry up, " answered Geary. "You must be done with thishouse by this evening. You see, I want to advertise it in to-morrow'spapers. "

"All right; I'll have it done. "

"Pretty dirty, wasn't it?"

"Yes, pretty dirty. "

"You may have to work here a little later than usual this afternoon, butbe sure you have everything cleaned up before you leave, " Geary said. 

"All right, " answered Vandover, bending to his work again. 

Just as Geary was leaving he had the admirable good fortune to meet onthe steps of the cottage a little group who were house-hunting; twoyoung women and a little boy. The mother of the little boy, so sheexplained to him, was married to one of the burnishers in the factory;the other woman was her sister. 

Geary showed them about the little house, very eager to secure them astenants then and there. He began to sing its praises, its nearness tothe factory, its excellent plumbing, its bathroom and its one stationarywashstand; its little garden and its location on the sunny side of thestreet. "I'm a good landlord, " he said to them, as he ushered them intothe kitchen. "Any one in the row will tell you that. I make it a pointto keep my houses in good repair and to keep them clean. You see, I havea man here now cleaning out. " Vandover glanced up at the women aninstant. The two of them and the little boy looked down at him on allfours upon the floor. Then he went on with his work. 

"This is the kitchen, you see, " pursued Geary. "Notice how large it is;you see, here are your laundry tubs, your iron sink, your boiler, everything you need. Of course, it's a little grimy now, but by the timethe man gets through, it will be as clean as your face. Now comedownstairs here and I'll show the basement. "

In a moment their voices sounded through the floor of the kitchen, anindistinct, continuous murmur. Then the party returned and passed byVandover again and stood for a long time in the front room haggling. Thecottage rented for fifteen dollars. The young woman was willing to takeit at that, but with the understanding that Geary should pay the waterrent. Geary refused, unwilling even to listen to such a thing. Everyother tenant in the row paid for his own water. The young women wentaway shaking their heads sadly. Geary let them get half-way down thefront steps and then called them back. He offered a compromise, theyoung women should pay for the water, but half of their first month'srent should be remitted. The burnisher's wife still hesitated, saying, "You know yourself this house is awfully dirty. "

"Well, you see I'm having it cleaned!"

"It'll have to be cleaned pretty thoroughly. I can't stand _dirt. _"

"It _will_ be cleaned thoroughly, " persisted Geary. "The man will workat it until it is. You can keep an eye on him and see that the work isdone to suit you. "

"You see, " objected the burnisher's wife, "I would want to move in rightaway. I don't want to wait all week for the man to get through. "

"But he is going to be through with this house to-night, " exclaimedGeary delighted. "Come now, I know you want this cottage and I wouldlike to have such nice-looking people have it. I know you would makegood tenants. I can find lots of other tenants for this house, only youknow how it is, a nasty, slovenly woman about the house and a raft ofdirty children. And you don't like dirt, I can see that. Better call ita bargain, and let it go at that. "

In the end the burnisher's wife took the house. Geary even induced herto deposit five dollars with him in order to secure it. 

Vandover was down in the basement filling a barrel with the odds andends of rubbish left by the previous tenants: broken bottles, oldcorsets, bones, rusty bedsprings. The dead hen he had taken out first ofall, carrying it by one leg. It was a gruesome horror, partly eaten byrats, swollen, abnormally heavy, one side flattened from lying so longupon the floor. He could hardly stand; each time he bent over it seemedas though his backbone was disjointing. After cleaning out the debris hebegan to sweep. The dust was fearful, choking, blinding, so thick thathe could hardly see what he was about. By and by he dimly made outGeary's figure in the doorway. 

"Those people have taken the house, " he called out, "and I promised themyou would be through with it by this evening. So you want to stay withit now till you're finished. I guess there's not much more to do. Don'tforget the little garden in front. "

"No; I won't forget!"

Geary went away, and for another hour Vandover kept at his work, stolidly, his mind empty of all thought, knowing only that he was verytired, that his back pained him. He finished with the basement, but ashe was pottering about the little garden, picking up the discolourednewspapers with which it was littered, the burnisher's wife returned, together with her sister and the little boy; the little boy eating aslice of bread and butter. They re-entered the house; Vandover heardtheir voices, now in one room, now in another. They were looking overtheir future home again; evidently they lived close by. 

Suddenly the burnisher's wife came out upon the front steps, lookingdown into the little garden, calling for Vandover. She was not pretty;she had a nose like a man and her chin was broad. 

"Say, there, " she called to Vandover, "do you mean to say that you'vefinished inside here?"

"Yes, " answered Vandover, straightening up, nodding his head. "Yes, I'vefinished. "

"Well, just come in here and look at this. "

Vandover followed her into the little parlour. Her sister was there, very fat, smelling somehow of tallow candles and cooked cabbage; nearbystood the little boy still eating his bread and butter. 

"Look at that baseboard, " exclaimed the burnisher's wife. "You nevertouched that, I'll bet a hat. " Vandover did not answer; he brought inthe pail of water, and soaping his scrubbing brush, went down again onhis hands and knees, washing the paint on the baseboard where theburnisher's wife indicated. The two women stood by, looking on anddirecting his movements. The little boy watched everything, neverspeaking a word, slowly eating his bread and butter. Streaks of butterand bread clung to his cheeks, stretching from the corners of his mouthto his ears. 

"I don't see how you come to overlook that, " said the burnisher's wifeto Vandover. "That's the dirtiest baseboard I ever saw. Oh, my! I justcan't naturally stand _dirt_! There, you didn't get that stain off. That's tobacco juice, I guess. Go back and wash that over again. "Vandover obeyed, holding the brush in one hand, crawling back along thefloor upon one palm and his two knees, a pool of soapy, dirty water verycold gathered about him, soaking in through the old "blue pants" andwetting him to the skin, but he slovened through it indifferently. "Puta little more elbow grease to it, " continued the burnisher's wife. "Youhave to rub them spots pretty hard to get 'em out. Now scrub all alonghere near the floor. You see that streak there--that's all gormed upwith something or other. Bugs get in there mighty quick. There, that'lldo, I guess. Now, is everything else all clean? Mister Geary said it wasto be done to my satisfaction, and that you were to stay here untileverything was all right. "

All at once her voice was interrupted by the prolonged roar of thefactory's whistle, blowing as though it would never stop. It washalf-past five. In an instant the faint purring of the machinerydwindled and ceased, leaving an abrupt silence in the air. A momentlater the army of operatives began to pour out of the main entrance; menand girls and young boys, all in a great hurry, the men settling theircoat collars as they ran down the steps. The usually quiet street wascrowded in an instant. 

The burnisher's wife stood on the steps of the vacant house with hersister, watching the throng debouch into the street. All at once thesister exclaimed, "There he is!" and the other began to call, "Oscar, Oscar!" waving her hand to one of the workmen on the other side of thestreet. It was her husband, the burnisher, and he came across thestreet, crowding his lunch basket into the pocket of his coat. He was athin little man with a timid air, his face white and fat and coveredwith a sparse unshaven stubble of a pale straw colour. An odour as of aharness shop hung about him. Vandover gathered up his broom and pail andsoap preparing to go home. 

"Well, Oscar, I've taken the house!" said his wife to the burnisher ashe came up the steps. "But I couldn't get him to say that he'd let mehave it for fifteen, water _included_. The landlord himself, Mr. Geary, was here to-day and I made the dicker with him. He's had a man here allday cleaning up. " She explained the bargain, the burnisher approving ofeverything, nodding his head continually. His wife showed him about thehouse, her sister and the little boy following in silence. "He's a goodlandlord, I guess, " continued the young woman; "anybody in the row willtell you that, and he means to keep his houses in good repair. Now yousee, here's the kitchen. You see how big it is. Here's our laundry tubs, our iron sink, our boiler, and everything we want. It's all as clean asa whistle; and get on to this big cubby under the sink where I can stowaway things. " She opened its door to show her husband, but all at oncestraightened up, exclaiming, "Well, dear me _suz_--did you _ever_ seeanything like that?" The cubby under the sink was abominably dirty. Vandover had altogether forgotten it. 

The little burnisher himself bent down and peered in. 

"Oh, that'll never do!" he cried. "Has that man gone home yet? Hemustn't; he's got to clean this out first!" He had a weak, faint voice, small and timid like his figure. He hurried out to the front door andcalled Vandover back just as he was going down the steps. The two wentback into the kitchen and stood in front of the sink. "Look underthere!" piped the burnisher. "You can't leave that, that way. "

"You know, " protested his wife, "that this all was to be done to oursatisfaction. Mr. Geary said so. That's the only way I came to take thehouse. "

"It's about six o'clock, though, " observed her fat sister, who smelt ofcooked cabbage. "Perhaps he'd want to go home to his dinner. " But atthis both the others cried out in one voice, the burnisher exclaiming:"I can't help _that_, this has got to be done first, " while his wifeprotested that she couldn't naturally stand dirt, adding, "This all wasto be done to our satisfaction, and we ain't satisfied yet by a longshot. " Delighted at this excitement, the little boy forgot to eat intohis bread and butter, rolling his eyes wildly from one to the other, still silent. 

Meanwhile, without replying, Vandover had gone down upon the flooragain, poking about amid the filth under the sink. The four others, theburnisher, his wife, his sister-in-law and his little boy, stood aboutin a half-circle behind him, seeing to it that he did the work properly, giving orders as to how he should proceed. 

"Now, be sure you get everything out that's under there, " said theburnisher. "Ouf! how it smells! They made a regular dump heap of it. "

"What's that over in the corner there?" cried the wife, bending down. "Ican't see, it's so dark under there--something gray; can't you see, inunder there? You'll have to crawl way in to get at it--go way in!"Vandover obeyed. The sink pipes were so close above him that he wasobliged to crouch lower and lower; at length he lay flat upon hisstomach. Prone in the filth under the sink, in the sour water, thegrease, the refuse, he groped about with his hand searching for thesomething gray that the burnisher's wife had seen. He found it and drewit out. It was an old hambone covered with a greenish fuzz. 

"Oh, did you _ever_!" cried the burnisher, holding up his hands. "Here, don't drop that on my clean floor; put it in your pail. Now get out therest of the dirt, and hurry up, it's late. " Vandover crawled back, halfthe way under the sink again, this time bringing out a rusty pan halffull of some kind of congealed gravy that exhaled a choking, acridodour; next it was an old stocking, and then an ink bottle, a brokenrat-trap, a battered teapot lacking a nozzle, a piece of rubber hose, anold comb choked with a great handful of hair, a torn overshoe, newspapers, and a great quantity of other debris that had accumulatedthere during the occupancy of the previous tenant. 

"Now go over the floor with a rag, " ordered the little burnisher, whenthe last of these articles had been brought out. "Wipe up all that nastymuck! Look there by your knee to your left! Scrub that big spot therewith your brush--looks like grease. That's the style--scrub it hard!"His wife joined her directions to his. Then it was over here, and overthere, now in that corner, now in this, and now with his brush and soap, and now with his dry rag, and hurry up all the time because it wasgrowing late. But the little boy, carried away by the interest of theoccasion, suddenly broke silence for the first time, crying out shrilly, his mouth full of bread and butter, "Hey there! Get up, you oldlazee-bones!"

The others shouted with laughter. _There_ was a smart little boy foryou. Ah, he'd be a man before his mother. It was wonderful how that boysaw everything that went on. He took an _interest_, that was it. Youought to see, he watched everything, and sometimes he'd plump out withthings that were astonishing for a boy of his years. Only four and ahalf, too, and they reminded each other of the first day he put onknickerbockers; stood in front of the house on the sidewalk all day longwith his hands in his pockets. The interest was directed from Vandover, they turned their backs, grouping themselves about the little boy. Theburnisher's sister-in-law felt called upon to tell about her littlegirl, a matter of family pride. _She_ was going on twelve, and would yousuppose that little thing was in next to the last grade in the grammarschool? Her teacher had said that she was a real wonder; never had hadsuch a bright pupil. Ah, but one should see how she studied over herbooks all the time. Next year they were to try to get her into the highschool. Of course she was not ready for the high school yet, and it wasagainst the rule to let children in that way, she was too young, butthey had a pull, you understand. Oh, yes, for sure they had a pull. _They'd_ work her in all right. The burnisher's wife was not listening. She wanted to draw the interest back to her own little boy. She bentdown and straightened out his little jacket, saying, "Does he like hisbread 'n butter? Well, he could have all he wanted!" But the little boypaid no attention to her. He had made a _bon-mot_, ambition stirred inhim, he had tasted the delights of an appreciative audience. Bread andbutter had fallen in his esteem. He wished to repeat his former success, and cried out shriller than ever:

"Hey, there! Get up, you old lazee-bones!"

But his father corrected him--his mother ought not to encourage him tobe rude. "That's not right, Oscar, " he observed, shaking his head. "Youmust be kind to the poor man. "

Vandover was sitting back on his heels to rest his back, waiting tillthe others should finish. 

"Well, all through?" inquired the burnisher in his thin voice. Vandovernodded. But his wife was not satisfied until she had herself carefullypeered into the cubby, while her husband held a lighted match for her. "Ah, that's something like, " she said finally. 

It was nearly seven. Vandover prepared to go home a second time. Thelittle boy stood in front of him, looking down at him as he made hisbrush and rags and broom into a bundle; the boy slowly eating his breadand butter the while. In one corner of the room an excited whisperedconference was going on between the burnisher, his wife, and his fatsister-in-law. From time to time one heard such expressions as"Overtime, you know--not afraid of work--ah! think I'd better, looks asthough he needed it. " In a moment the two women went out, calling invain for the little boy to follow, and the burnisher crossed the roomtoward Vandover. Vandover was on his knees tying up his bundle with abit of bale rope. 

"I'm sorry, " began the burnisher awkwardly. "We didn't mean to keep youfrom your supper--here, " he went on, holding out a quarter to Vandover, "here, you take this, that's all right--you worked overtime for us, that's all right. Come along, Oscar; come along, m'son. "

Vandover put the quarter in his vest pocket. 

"Thank you, sir, " he said. 

The burnisher hurried away, calling back, "Come along, m'son; don't keepyour mama waiting for supper. " But the little boy remained veryinterested in watching Vandover, still on the floor, tying the lastknots. As he finished, he glanced up. For an instant the two remainedthere motionless, looking into each other's eyes, Vandover on the floor, one hand twisted into the bale rope about his bundle, the little boystanding before him eating the last mouthful of his bread and butter.