WHIRLIGIGS

by

O. HENRY

CONTENTS

 I. THE WORLD AND THE DOOR

 II. THE THEORY AND THE HOUND

 III. THE HYPOTHESES OF FAILURE

 IV. CALLOWAY'S CODE

 V. A MATTER OF MEAN ELEVATION

 VI. "GIRL"

 VII. SOCIOLOGY IN SERGE AND STRAW

 VIII. THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF

 IX. THE MARRY MONTH OF MAY

 X. A TECHNICAL ERROR

 XI. SUITE HOMES AND THEIR ROMANCE

 XII. THE WHIRLIGIG OF LIFE

 XIII. A SACRIFICE HIT

 XIV. THE ROADS WE TAKE

 XV. A BLACKJACK BARGAINER

 XVI. THE SONG AND THE SERGEANT

 XVII. ONE DOLLAR'S WORTH

XVIII. A NEWSPAPER STORY

 XIX. TOMMY'S BURGLAR

 XX. A CHAPARRAL CHRISTMAS

 XXI. A LITTLE LOCAL COLOUR

 XXII. GEORGIA'S RULING

XXIII. BLIND MAN'S HOLIDAY

 XXIV. MADAME BO-PEEP, OF THE RANCHES

I

THE WORLD AND THE DOOR

A favourite dodge to get your story read by the public is to assertthat it is true, and then add that Truth is stranger than Fiction. I do not know if the yarn I am anxious for you to read is true; butthe Spanish purser of the fruit steamer _El Carrero_ swore to me bythe shrine of Santa Guadalupe that he had the facts from the U. S. Vice-consul at La Paz--a person who could not possibly have beencognizant of half of them. 

As for the adage quoted above, I take pleasure in puncturing it byaffirming that I read in a purely fictional story the other day theline: "'Be it so, ' said the policeman. " Nothing so strange has yetcropped out in Truth. 

When H. Ferguson Hedges, millionaire promoter, investor and man-about-New-York, turned his thoughts upon matters convivial, and word of itwent "down the line, " bouncers took a precautionary turn at the Indianclubs, waiters put ironstone china on his favourite tables, cabdrivers crowded close to the curbstone in front of all-night cafés, and careful cashiers in his regular haunts charged up a few bottles tohis account by way of preface and introduction. 

As a money power a one-millionaire is of small account in a city wherethe man who cuts your slice of beef behind the free-lunch counterrides to work in his own automobile. But Hedges spent his money aslavishly, loudly and showily as though he were only a clerksquandering a week's wages. And, after all, the bartender takes nointerest in your reserve fund. He would rather look you up on hiscash register than in Bradstreet. 

On the evening that the material allegation of facts begins, Hedgeswas bidding dull care begone in the company of five or six goodfellows--acquaintances and friends who had gathered in his wake. 

Among them were two younger men--Ralph Merriam, a broker, and Wade, his friend. 

Two deep-sea cabmen were chartered. At Columbus Circle they hove tolong enough to revile the statue of the great navigator, unpatriotically rebuking him for having voyaged in search of landinstead of liquids. Midnight overtook the party marooned in the rearof a cheap café far uptown. 

Hedges was arrogant, overriding and quarrelsome. He was burly andtough, iron-gray but vigorous, "good" for the rest of the night. Therewas a dispute--about nothing that matters--and the five-fingered wordswere passed--the words that represent the glove cast into the lists. Merriam played the rôle of the verbal Hotspur. 

Hedges rose quickly, seized his chair, swung it once and smashedwildly down at Merriam's head. Merriam dodged, drew a small revolverand shot Hedges in the chest. The leading roysterer stumbled, fell ina wry heap, and lay still. 

Wade, a commuter, had formed that habit of promptness. He juggledMerriam out a side door, walked him to the corner, ran him a block andcaught a hansom. They rode five minutes and then got out on a darkcorner and dismissed the cab. Across the street the lights of a smallsaloon betrayed its hectic hospitality. 

"Go in the back room of that saloon, " said Wade, "and wait. I'll gofind out what's doing and let you know. You may take two drinks whileI am gone--no more. "

At ten minutes to one o'clock Wade returned. "Brace up, old chap, " hesaid. "The ambulance got there just as I did. The doctor says he'sdead. You may have one more drink. You let me run this thing foryou. You've got to skip. I don't believe a chair is legally a deadlyweapon. You've got to make tracks, that's all there is to it. "

Merriam complained of the cold querulously, and asked for anotherdrink. "Did you notice what big veins he had on the back of hishands?" he said. "I never could stand--I never could--"

"Take one more, " said Wade, "and then come on. I'll see you through. "

Wade kept his promise so well that at eleven o'clock the next morningMerriam, with a new suit case full of new clothes and hair-brushes, stepped quietly on board a little 500-ton fruit steamer at an EastRiver pier. The vessel had brought the season's first cargo of limesfrom Port Limon, and was homeward bound. Merriam had his bank balanceof $2, 800 in his pocket in large bills, and brief instructions to pileup as much water as he could between himself and New York. There wasno time for anything more. 

From Port Limon Merriam worked down the coast by schooner and sloop toColon, thence across the isthmus to Panama, where he caught a trampbound for Callao and such intermediate ports as might tempt thediscursive skipper from his course. 

It was at La Paz that Merriam decided to land--La Paz the Beautiful, a little harbourless town smothered in a living green ribbon thatbanded the foot of a cloud-piercing mountain. Here the littlesteamer stopped to tread water while the captain's dory took himashore that he might feel the pulse of the cocoanut market. Merriamwent too, with his suit case, and remained. 

Kalb, the vice-consul, a Græco-Armenian citizen of the United States, born in Hessen-Darmstadt, and educated in Cincinnati ward primaries, considered all Americans his brothers and bankers. He attachedhimself to Merriam's elbow, introduced him to every one in La Paz whowore shoes, borrowed ten dollars and went back to his hammock. 

There was a little wooden hotel in the edge of a banana grove, facingthe sea, that catered to the tastes of the few foreigners that haddropped out of the world into the _triste_ Peruvian town. At Kalb'sintroductory: "Shake hands with ----, " he had obediently exchangedmanual salutations with a German doctor, one French and two Italianmerchants, and three or four Americans who were spoken of as gold men, rubber men, mahogany men--anything but men of living tissue. 

After dinner Merriam sat in a corner of the broad front _galeria_ withBibb, a Vermonter interested in hydraulic mining, and smoked and drankScotch "smoke. " The moonlit sea, spreading infinitely before him, seemed to separate him beyond all apprehension from his old life. Thehorrid tragedy in which he had played such a disastrous part nowbegan, for the first time since he stole on board the fruiter, awretched fugitive, to lose its sharper outlines. Distance lentassuagement to his view. Bibb had opened the flood-gates of a streamof long-dammed discourse, overjoyed to have captured an audience thathad not suffered under a hundred repetitions of his views andtheories. 

"One year more, " said Bibb, "and I'll go back to God's country. Oh, Iknow it's pretty here, and you get _dolce far niente_ handed to you inchunks, but this country wasn't made for a white man to live in. You've got to have to plug through snow now and then, and see a gameof baseball and wear a stiff collar and have a policeman cuss you. Still, La Paz is a good sort of a pipe-dreamy old hole. And Mrs. Conant is here. When any of us feels particularly like jumping intothe sea we rush around to her house and propose. It's nicer to berejected by Mrs. Conant than it is to be drowned. And they saydrowning is a delightful sensation. "

"Many like her here?" asked Merriam. 

"Not anywhere, " said Bibb, with a comfortable sigh. She's the onlywhite woman in La Paz. The rest range from a dappled dun to thecolour of a b-flat piano key. She's been here a year. Comes from--well, you know how a woman can talk--ask 'em to say 'string' andthey'll say 'crow's foot' or 'cat's cradle. ' Sometimes you'd thinkshe was from Oshkosh, and again from Jacksonville, Florida, and thenext day from Cape Cod. "

"Mystery?" ventured Merriam. 

"M--well, she looks it; but her talk's translucent enough. Butthat's a woman. I suppose if the Sphinx were to begin talking she'dmerely say: 'Goodness me! more visitors coming for dinner, and nothingto eat but the sand which is here. ' But you won't think about thatwhen you meet her, Merriam. You'll propose to her too. "

To make a hard story soft, Merriam did meet her and propose to her. He found her to be a woman in black with hair the colour of a bronzeturkey's wings, and mysterious, _remembering_ eyes that--well, thatlooked as if she might have been a trained nurse looking on when Evewas created. Her words and manner, though, were translucent, as Bibbhad said. She spoke, vaguely, of friends in California and some ofthe lower parishes in Louisiana. The tropical climate and indolentlife suited her; she had thought of buying an orange grove later on;La Paz, all in all, charmed her. 

Merriam's courtship of the Sphinx lasted three months, although be didnot know that he was courting her. He was using her as an antidotefor remorse, until he found, too late, that he had acquired the habit. During that time he had received no news from home. Wade did not knowwhere he was; and he was not sure of Wade's exact address, and wasafraid to write. He thought he had better let matters rest as theywere for a while. 

One afternoon he and Mrs. Conant hired two ponies and rode out alongthe mountain trail as far as the little cold river that came tumblingdown the foothills. There they stopped for a drink, and Merriam spokehis piece--he proposed, as Bibb had prophesied. 

Mrs. Conant gave him one glance of brilliant tenderness, and then herface took on such a strange, haggard look that Merriam was shaken outof his intoxication and back to his senses. 

"I beg your pardon, Florence, " he said, releasing her hand; "but I'llhave to hedge on part of what I said. I can't ask you to marry me, ofcourse. I killed a man in New York--a man who was my friend--shothim down--in quite a cowardly manner, I understand. Of course, thedrinking didn't excuse it. Well, I couldn't resist having my say; andI'll always mean it. I'm here as a fugitive from justice, and--Isuppose that ends our acquaintance. "

Mrs. Conant plucked little leaves assiduously from the low-hangingbranch of a lime tree. 

"I suppose so, " she said, in low and oddly uneven tones; "but thatdepends upon you. I'll be as honest as you were. I poisoned myhusband. I am a self-made widow. A man cannot love a murderess. SoI suppose that ends our acquaintance. "

She looked up at him slowly. His face turned a little pale, and hestared at her blankly, like a deaf-and-dumb man who was wondering whatit was all about. 

She took a swift step toward him, with stiffened arms and eyesblazing. 

"Don't look at me like that!" she cried, as though she were in acutepain. "Curse me, or turn your back on me, but don't look that way. Am I a woman to be beaten? If I could show you--here on my arms, and on my back are scars--and it has been more than a year--scarsthat he made in his brutal rages. A holy nun would have risen andstruck the fiend down. Yes, I killed him. The foul and horriblewords that he hurled at me that last day are repeated in my ears everynight when I sleep. And then came his blows, and the end of myendurance. I got the poison that afternoon. It was his custom todrink every night in the library before going to bed a hot punch madeof rum and wine. Only from my fair hands would he receive it--because he knew the fumes of spirits always sickened me. That nightwhen the maid brought it to me I sent her downstairs on an errand. Before taking him his drink I went to my little private cabinet andpoured into it more than a tea-spoonful of tincture of aconite--enough to kill three men, so I had learned. I had drawn $6, 000 that Ihad in bank, and with that and a few things in a satchel I left thehouse without any one seeing me. As I passed the library I heard himstagger up and fall heavily on a couch. I took a night train for NewOrleans, and from there I sailed to the Bermudas. I finally castanchor in La Paz. And now what have you to say? Can you open yourmouth?"

Merriam came back to life. 

"Florence, " he said earnestly, "I want you. I don't care what you'vedone. If the world--"

"Ralph, " she interrupted, almost with a scream, "be my world!"

Her eyes melted; she relaxed magnificently and swayed toward Merriamso suddenly that he had to jump to catch her. 

Dear me! in such scenes how the talk runs into artificial prose. Butit can't be helped. It's the subconscious smell of the footlights'smoke that's in all of us. Stir the depths of your cook's soulsufficiently and she will discourse in Bulwer-Lyttonese. 

Merriam and Mrs. Conant were very happy. He announced theirengagement at the Hotel Orilla del Mar. Eight foreigners and fournative Astors pounded his back and shouted insincere congratulationsat him. Pedrito, the Castilian-mannered barkeep, was goaded to extraduty until his agility would have turned a Boston cherry-phosphateclerk a pale lilac with envy. 

They were both very happy. According to the strange mathematics ofthe god of mutual affinity, the shadows that clouded their pasts whenunited became only half as dense instead of darker. They shut theworld out and bolted the doors. Each was the other's world. Mrs. Conant lived again. The remembering look left her eyes. Merriam waswith her every moment that was possible. On a little plateau under agrove of palms and calabash trees they were going to build a fairybungalow. They were to be married in two months. Many hours of theday they had their heads together over the house plans. Their jointcapital would set up a business in fruit or woods that would yield acomfortable support. "Good night, my world, " would say Mrs. Conantevery evening when Merriam left her for his hotel. They were veryhappy. Their love had, circumstantially, that element of melancholyin it that it seems to require to attain its supremest elevation. Andit seemed that their mutual great misfortune or sin was a bond thatnothing could sever. 

One day a steamer hove in the offing. Bare-legged and bare-shoulderedLa Paz scampered down to the beach, for the arrival of a steamer wastheir loop-the-loop, circus, Emancipation Day and four-o'clock tea. 

When the steamer was near enough, wise ones proclaimed that she wasthe _Pajaro_, bound up-coast from Callao to Panama. 

The _Pajaro_ put on brakes a mile off shore. Soon a boat came bobbingshoreward. Merriam strolled down on the beach to look on. In theshallow water the Carib sailors sprang out and dragged the boat with amighty rush to the firm shingle. Out climbed the purser, the captainand two passengers, ploughing their way through the deep sand towardthe hotel. Merriam glanced toward them with the mild interest due tostrangers. There was something familiar to him in the walk of one ofthe passengers. He looked again, and his blood seemed to turn tostrawberry ice cream in his veins. Burly, arrogant, debonair as ever, H. Ferguson Hedges, the man he had killed, was coming toward him tenfeet away. 

When Hedges saw Merriam his face flushed a dark red. Then he shoutedin his old, bluff way: "Hello, Merriam. Glad to see you. Didn'texpect to find you out here. Quinby, this is my old friend Merriam, of New York--Merriam, Mr. Quinby. "

Merriam gave Hedges and then Quinby an ice-cold hand. "Br-r-r-r!" saidHedges. "But you've got a frappéd flipper! Man, you're not well. You're as yellow as a Chinaman. Malarial here? Steer us to a bar ifthere is such a thing, and let's take a prophylactic. "

Merriam, still half comatose, led them toward the Hotel Orilla delMar. 

"Quinby and I, " explained Hedges, puffing through the slippery sand, "are looking out along the coast for some investments. We've justcome up from Concepción and Valparaiso and Lima. The captain of thissubsidized ferry boat told us there was some good picking aroundhere in silver mines. So we got off. Now, where is that café, Merriam? Oh, in this portable soda water pavilion?"

Leaving Quinby at the bar, Hedges drew Merriam aside. 

"Now, what does this mean?" he said, with gruff kindness. "Are yousulking about that fool row we had?"

"I thought, " stammered Merriam--"I heard--they told me you were--that I had--"

"Well, you didn't, and I'm not, " said Hedges. "That fool youngambulance surgeon told Wade I was a candidate for a coffin justbecause I'd got tired and quit breathing. I laid up in a privatehospital for a month; but here I am, kicking as hard as ever. Wadeand I tried to find you, but couldn't. Now, Merriam, shake hands andforget it all. I was as much to blame as you were; and the shotreally did me good--I came out of the hospital as healthy and fit asa cab horse. Come on; that drink's waiting. "

"Old man, " said Merriam, brokenly, "I don't know how to thank you--I--well, you know--"

"Oh, forget it, " boomed Hedges. "Quinby'll die of thirst if we don'tjoin him. "

Bibb was sitting on the shady side of the gallery waiting for theeleven-o'clock breakfast. Presently Merriam came out and joined him. His eye was strangely bright. 

"Bibb, my boy, " said he, slowly waving his hand, "do you see thosemountains and that sea and sky and sunshine?--they're mine, Bibbsy--all mine. "

"You go in, " said Bibb, "and take eight grains of quinine, right away. It won't do in this climate for a man to get to thinking he'sRockefeller, or James O'Neill either. "

Inside, the purser was untying a great roll of newspapers, many ofthem weeks old, gathered in the lower ports by the _Pajaro_ to bedistributed at casual stopping-places. Thus do the beneficent voyagersscatter news and entertainment among the prisoners of sea andmountains. 

Tio Pancho, the hotel proprietor, set his great silver-rimmed _anteojos_upon his nose and divided the papers into a number of smaller rolls. A barefooted _muchacho_ dashed in, desiring the post of messenger. 

"_Bien venido_, " said Tio Pancho. "This to Señora Conant; that to elDoctor S-S-Schlegel--_Dios_! what a name to say!--that to Señor Davis--one for Don Alberto. These two for the _Casa de Huespedes, Numero6, en la calle de las Buenas Gracias_. And say to them all, _muchacho_, that the _Pajaro_ sails for Panama at three this afternoon. If any haveletters to send by the post, let them come quickly, that they mayfirst pass through the _correo_. "

Mrs. Conant received her roll of newspapers at four o'clock. The boywas late in delivering them, because he had been deflected from hisduty by an iguana that crossed his path and to which he immediatelygave chase. But it made no hardship, for she had no letters to send. 

She was idling in a hammock in the patio of the house that sheoccupied, half awake, half happily dreaming of the paradise that sheand Merriam had created out of the wrecks of their pasts. She wascontent now for the horizon of that shimmering sea to be the horizonof her life. They had shut out the world and closed the door. 

Merriam was coming to her house at seven, after his dinner at thehotel. She would put on a white dress and an apricot-coloured lacemantilla, and they would walk an hour under the cocoanut palms by thelagoon. She smiled contentedly, and chose a paper at random from theroll the boy had brought. 

At first the words of a certain headline of a Sunday newspaper meantnothing to her; they conveyed only a visualized sense of familiarity. The largest type ran thus: "Lloyd B. Conant secures divorce. " And thenthe subheadings: "Well-known Saint Louis paint manufacturer winssuit, pleading one year's absence of wife. " "Her mysteriousdisappearance recalled. " "Nothing has been heard of her since. "

Twisting herself quickly out of the hammock, Mrs. Conant's eye soontraversed the half-column of the "Recall. " It ended thus: "It will beremembered that Mrs. Conant disappeared one evening in March of lastyear. It was freely rumoured that her marriage with Lloyd B. Conantresulted in much unhappiness. Stories were not wanting to the effectthat his cruelty toward his wife had more than once taken the form ofphysical abuse. After her departure a full bottle of tincture ofaconite, a deadly poison, was found in a small medicine cabinet in herbedroom. This might have been an indication that she meditatedsuicide. It is supposed that she abandoned such an intention if shepossessed it, and left her home instead. "

Mrs. Conant slowly dropped the paper, and sat on a chair, clasping herhands tightly. 

"Let me think--O God!--let me think, " she whispered. "I tookthe bottle with me . . . I threw it out of the window of the train. . . I-- . . . There was another bottle in the cabinet . . . There were two, side by side--the aconite--and the valerian that Itook when I could not sleep . . . If they found the aconite bottlefull, why--but, he is alive, of course--I gave him only aharmless dose of valerian . . . I am not a murderess in fact . . . Ralph, I--O God, don't let this be a dream!"

She went into the part of the house that she rented from the oldPeruvian man and his wife, shut the door, and walked up and down herroom swiftly and feverishly for half an hour. Merriam's photographstood in a frame on a table. She picked it up, looked at it with asmile of exquisite tenderness, and--dropped four tears on it. AndMerriam only twenty rods away! Then she stood still for ten minutes, looking into space. She looked into space through a slowly openingdoor. On her side of the door was the building material for a castleof Romance--love, an Arcady of waving palms, a lullaby of waves onthe shore of a haven of rest, respite, peace, a lotus land of dreamyease and security--a life of poetry and heart's ease and refuge. Romanticist, will you tell me what Mrs. Conant saw on the other sideof the door? You cannot?--that is, you will not? Very well; thenlisten. 

_She saw herself go into a department store and buy five spools ofsilk thread and three yards of gingham to make an apron for the cook. "Shall I charge it, ma'am?" asked the clerk. As she walked out alady whom she met greeted her cordially. "Oh, where did you get thepattern for those sleeves, dear Mrs. Conant?" she said. At the cornera policeman helped her across the street and touched his helmet. "Anycallers?" she asked the maid when she reached home. "Mrs. Waldron, "answered the maid, "and the two Misses Jenkinson. " "Very well, " shesaid. "You may bring me a cup of tea, Maggie. _"

Mrs. Conant went to the door and called Angela, the old Peruvianwoman. "If Mateo is there send him to me. " Mateo, a half-breed, shuffling and old but efficient, came. 

"Is there a steamer or a vessel of any kind leaving this coastto-night or to-morrow that I can get passage on?" she asked. 

Mateo considered. 

"At Punta Reina, thirty miles down the coast, señora, " he answered, "there is a small steamer loading with cinchona and dyewoods. Shesails for San Francisco to-morrow at sunrise. So says my brother, whoarrived in his sloop to-day, passing by Punta Reina. "

"You must take me in that sloop to that steamer to-night. Will you dothat?"

"Perhaps--" Mateo shrugged a suggestive shoulder. Mrs. Conanttook a handful of money from a drawer and gave it to him. 

"Get the sloop ready behind the little point of land below the town, "she ordered. "Get sailors, and be ready to sail at six o'clock. Inhalf an hour bring a cart partly filled with straw into the patiohere, and take my trunk to the sloop. There is more money yet. Now, hurry. "

For one time Mateo walked away without shuffling his feet. 

"Angela, " cried Mrs. Conant, almost fiercely, "come and help me pack. I am going away. Out with this trunk. My clothes first. Stiryourself. Those dark dresses first. Hurry. "

From the first she did not waver from her decision. Her view was clearand final. Her door had opened and let the world in. Her love forMerriam was not lessened; but it now appeared a hopeless andunrealizable thing. The visions of their future that had seemed soblissful and complete had vanished. She tried to assure herself thather renunciation was rather for his sake than for her own. Now thatshe was cleared of her burden--at least, technically--would nothis own weigh too heavily upon him? If she should cling to him, wouldnot the difference forever silently mar and corrode their happiness?Thus she reasoned; but there were a thousand little voices calling toher that she could feel rather than hear, like the hum of distant, powerful machinery--the little voices of the world, that, whenraised in unison, can send their insistent call through the thickestdoor. 

Once while packing, a brief shadow of the lotus dream came back toher. She held Merriam's picture to her heart with one hand, while shethrew a pair of shoes into the trunk with her other. 

At six o'clock Mateo returned and reported the sloop ready. He andhis brother lifted the trunk into the cart, covered it with straw andconveyed it to the point of embarkation. From there they transferredit on board in the sloop's dory. Then Mateo returned for additionalorders. 

Mrs. Conant was ready. She had settled all business matters withAngela, and was impatiently waiting. She wore a long, loose black-silkduster that she often walked about in when the evenings were chilly. On her head was a small round hat, and over it the apricot-colouredlace mantilla. 

Dusk had quickly followed the short twilight. Mateo led her by darkand grass-grown streets toward the point behind which the sloop wasanchored. On turning a corner they beheld the Hotel Orilla del Marthree streets away, nebulously aglow with its array of kerosene lamps. 

Mrs. Conant paused, with streaming eyes. "I must, I _must_ see himonce before I go, " she murmured in anguish. But even then she did notfalter in her decision. Quickly she invented a plan by which she mightspeak to him, and yet make her departure without his knowing. Shewould walk past the hotel, ask some one to call him out and talk a fewmoments on some trivial excuse, leaving him expecting to see her ather home at seven. 

She unpinned her hat and gave it to Mateo. "Keep this, and wait heretill I come, " she ordered. Then she draped the mantilla over her headas she usually did when walking after sunset, and went straight to theOrilla del Mar. 

She was glad to see the bulky, white-clad figure of Tio Panchostanding alone on the gallery. 

"Tio Pancho, " she said, with a charming smile, "may I trouble you toask Mr. Merriam to come out for just a few moments that I may speakwith him?"

Tio Pancho bowed as an elephant bows. 

"Buenas tardes, Señora Conant, " he said, as a cavalier talks. Andthen he went on, less at his ease:

"But does not the señora know that Señor Merriam sailed on the _Pajaro_for Panama at three o'clock of this afternoon?"

II

THE THEORY AND THE HOUND

Not many days ago my old friend from the tropics, J. P. Bridger, United States consul on the island of Ratona, was in the city. Wehad wassail and jubilee and saw the Flatiron building, and missedseeing the Bronxless menagerie by about a couple of nights. Andthen, at the ebb tide, we were walking up a street that parallels andparodies Broadway. 

A woman with a comely and mundane countenance passed us, holding inleash a wheezing, vicious, waddling, brute of a yellow pug. The dogentangled himself with Bridger's legs and mumbled his ankles in asnarling, peevish, sulky bite. Bridger, with a happy smile, kickedthe breath out of the brute; the woman showered us with a quick rainof well-conceived adjectives that left us in no doubt as to our placein her opinion, and we passed on. Ten yards farther an old womanwith disordered white hair and her bankbook tucked well hiddenbeneath her tattered shawl begged. Bridger stopped and disinterredfor her a quarter from his holiday waistcoat. 

On the next corner a quarter of a ton of well-clothed man with arice-powdered, fat, white jowl, stood holding the chain of adevil-born bulldog whose forelegs were strangers by the length of adachshund. A little woman in a last-season's hat confronted him andwept, which was plainly all she could do, while he cursed her in lowsweet, practised tones. 

Bridger smiled again--strictly to himself--and this time he took outa little memorandum book and made a note of it. This he had no rightto do without due explanation, and I said so. 

"It's a new theory, " said Bridger, "that I picked up down in Ratona. I've been gathering support for it as I knock about. The world isn'tripe for it yet, but--well I'll tell you; and then you run yourmind back along the people you've known and see what you make of it. "

And so I cornered Bridger in a place where they have artificial palmsand wine; and he told me the story which is here in my words and onhis responsibility. 

One afternoon at three o'clock, on the island of Ratona, a boy racedalong the beach screaming, "_Pajaro_, ahoy!"

Thus he made known the keenness of his hearing and the justice of hisdiscrimination in pitch. 

He who first heard and made oral proclamation concerning the tootof an approaching steamer's whistle, and correctly named the steamer, was a small hero in Ratona--until the next steamer came. Wherefore, there was rivalry among the barefoot youth of Ratona, and many fellvictims to the softly blown conch shells of sloops which, as theyenter harbour, sound surprisingly like a distant steamer's signal. And some could name you the vessel when its call, in your dullerears, sounded no louder than the sigh of the wind through thebranches of the cocoanut palms. 

But to-day he who proclaimed the _Pajaro_ gained his honours. Ratonabent its ear to listen; and soon the deep-tongued blast grew louderand nearer, and at length Ratona saw above the line of palms on thelow "point" the two black funnels of the fruiter slowly creepingtoward the mouth of the harbour. 

You must know that Ratona is an island twenty miles off the south ofa South American republic. It is a port of that republic; and itsleeps sweetly in a smiling sea, toiling not nor spinning; fed by theabundant tropics where all things "ripen, cease and fall toward thegrave. "

Eight hundred people dream life away in a green-embowered villagethat follows the horseshoe curve of its bijou harbour. They aremostly Spanish and Indian _mestizos_, with a shading of San DomingoNegroes, a lightening of pure-blood Spanish officials and a slightleavening of the froth of three or four pioneering white races. Nosteamers touch at Ratona save the fruit steamers which take on theirbanana inspectors there on their way to the coast. They leave Sundaynewspapers, ice, quinine, bacon, watermelons and vaccine matter atthe island and that is about all the touch Ratona gets with theworld. 

The _Pajaro_ paused at the mouth of the harbour, rolling heavily inthe swell that sent the whitecaps racing beyond the smooth waterinside. Already two dories from the village--one conveying fruitinspectors, the other going for what it could get--were halfway outto the steamer. 

The inspectors' dory was taken on board with them, and the _Pajaro_steamed away for the mainland for its load of fruit. 

The other boat returned to Ratona bearing a contribution from the_Pajaro's_ store of ice, the usual roll of newspapers and onepassenger--Taylor Plunkett, sheriff of Chatham County, Kentucky. 

Bridger, the United States consul at Ratona, was cleaning his riflein the official shanty under a bread-fruit tree twenty yards from thewater of the harbour. The consul occupied a place somewhat near thetail of his political party's procession. The music of the bandwagon sounded very faintly to him in the distance. The plums ofoffice went to others. Bridger's share of the spoils--theconsulship at Ratona--was little more than a prune--a dried prunefrom the boarding-house department of the public crib. But $900yearly was opulence in Ratona. Besides, Bridger had contracted apassion for shooting alligators in the lagoons near his consulate, and was not unhappy. 

He looked up from a careful inspection of his rifle lock and saw abroad man filling his doorway. A broad, noiseless, slow-moving man, sunburned almost to the brown of Vandyke. A man of forty-five, neatly clothed in homespun, with scanty light hair, a close-clippedbrown-and-gray beard and pale-blue eyes expressing mildness andsimplicity. 

"You are Mr. Bridger, the consul, " said the broad man. "Theydirected me here. Can you tell me what those big bunches of thingslike gourds are in those trees that look like feather dusters alongthe edge of the water?"

"Take that chair, " said the consul, reoiling his cleaning rag. "No, the other one--that bamboo thing won't hold you. Why, they'recocoanuts--green cocoanuts. The shell of 'em is always a lightgreen before they're ripe. "

"Much obliged, " said the other man, sitting down carefully. "Ididn't quite like to tell the folks at home they were olives unless Iwas sure about it. My name is Plunkett. I'm sheriff of ChathamCounty, Kentucky. I've got extradition papers in my pocketauthorizing the arrest of a man on this island. They've been signedby the President of this country, and they're in correct shape. Theman's name is Wade Williams. He's in the cocoanut raisingbusiness. What he's wanted for is the murder of his wife two yearsago. Where can I find him?"

The consul squinted an eye and looked through his rifle barrel. 

"There's nobody on the island who calls himself 'Williams, '" heremarked. 

"Didn't suppose there was, " said Plunkett mildly. "He'll do by anyother name. "

"Besides myself, " said Bridger, "there are only two Americans onRatona--Bob Reeves and Henry Morgan. "

"The man I want sells cocoanuts, " suggested Plunkett. 

"You see that cocoanut walk extending up to the point?" said theconsul, waving his hand toward the open door. "That belongs to BobReeves. Henry Morgan owns half the trees to loo'ard on the island. "

"One, month ago, " said the sheriff, "Wade Williams wrote aconfidential letter to a man in Chatham county, telling him where hewas and how he was getting along. The letter was lost; and the personthat found it gave it away. They sent me after him, and I've got thepapers. I reckon he's one of your cocoanut men for certain. "

"You've got his picture, of course, " said Bridger. "It might beReeves or Morgan, but I'd hate to think it. They're both as finefellows as you'd meet in an all-day auto ride. "

"No, " doubtfully answered Plunkett; "there wasn't any picture ofWilliams to be had. And I never saw him myself. I've been sheriffonly a year. But I've got a pretty accurate description of him. About5 feet 11; dark-hair and eyes; nose inclined to be Roman; heavy aboutthe shoulders; strong, white teeth, with none missing; laughs a gooddeal, talkative; drinks considerably but never to intoxication; looksyou square in the eye when talking; age thirty-five. Which one ofyour men does that description fit?"

The consul grinned broadly. 

"I'll tell you what you do, " he said, laying down his rifle andslipping on his dingy black alpaca coat. "You come along, Mr. Plunkett, and I'll take you up to see the boys. If you can tellwhich one of 'em your description fits better than it does theother you have the advantage of me. "

Bridger conducted the sheriff out and along the hard beach close towhich the tiny houses of the village were distributed. Immediatelyback of the town rose sudden, small, thickly wooded hills. Up one ofthese, by means of steps cut in the hard clay, the consul ledPlunkett. On the very verge of an eminence was perched a two-roomwooden cottage with a thatched roof. A Carib woman was washingclothes outside. The consul ushered the sheriff to the door of theroom that overlooked the harbour. 

Two men were in the room, about to sit down, in their shirt sleeves, to a table spread for dinner. They bore little resemblance one tothe other in detail; but the general description given by Plunkettcould have been justly applied to either. In height, colour of hair, shape of nose, build and manners each of them tallied with it. Theywere fair types of jovial, ready-witted, broad-gauged Americans whohad gravitated together for companionship in an alien land. 

"Hello, Bridger" they called in unison at sight Of the consul. "Comeand have dinner with us!" And then they noticed Plunkett at hisheels, and came forward with hospitable curiosity. 

"Gentlemen, " said the consul, his voice taking on unaccustomedformality, "this is Mr. Plunkett. Mr. Plunkett--Mr. Reeves and Mr. Morgan. "

The cocoanut barons greeted the newcomer joyously. Reeves seemedabout an inch taller than Morgan, but his laugh was not quite asloud. Morgan's eyes were deep brown; Reeves's were black. Reeveswas the host and busied himself with fetching other chairs andcalling to the Carib woman for supplemental table ware. It wasexplained that Morgan lived in a bamboo shack to "loo'ard, " but thatevery day the two friends dined together. Plunkett stood stillduring the preparations, looking about mildly with his pale-blueeyes. Bridger looked apologetic and uneasy. 

At length two other covers were laid and the company was assigned toplaces. Reeves and Morgan stood side by side across the table fromthe visitors. Reeves nodded genially as a signal for all to seatthemselves. And then suddenly Plunkett raised his hand with agesture of authority. He was looking straight between Reeves andMorgan. 

"Wade Williams, " he said quietly, "you are under arrest for murder. "

Reeves and Morgan instantly exchanged a quick, bright glance, thequality of which was interrogation, with a seasoning of surprise. Then, simultaneously they turned to the speaker with a puzzled andfrank deprecation in their gaze. 

"Can't say that we understand you, Mr. Plunkett, " said Morgan, cheerfully. "Did you say 'Williams'?"

"What's the joke, Bridgy?" asked Reeves, turning, to the consul witha smile. 

Before Bridger could answer Plunkett spoke again. 

"I'll explain, " he said, quietly. "One of you don't need anyexplanation, but this is for the other one. One of you is WadeWilliams of Chatham County, Kentucky. You murdered your wife on May5, two years ago, after ill-treating and abusing her continually forfive years. I have the proper papers in my pocket for taking youback with me, and you are going. We will return on the fruit steamerthat comes back by this island to-morrow to leave its inspectors. Iacknowledge, gentlemen, that I'm not quite sure which one of you isWilliams. But Wade Williams goes back to Chatham County to-morrow. Iwant you to understand that. "

A great sound of merry laughter from Morgan and Reeves went out overthe still harbour. Two or three fishermen in the fleet of sloopsanchored there looked up at the house of the diablos Americanos onthe hill and wondered. 

"My dear Mr. Plunkett, " cried Morgan, conquering his mirth, "thedinner is getting, cold. Let us sit down and eat. I am anxious toget my spoon into that shark-fin soup. Business afterward. "

"Sit down, gentlemen, if you please, " added Reeves, pleasantly. "Iam sure Mr. Plunkett will not object. Perhaps a little time may be ofadvantage to him in identifying--the gentleman he wishes toarrest. "

"No objections, I'm sure, " said Plunkett, dropping into his chairheavily. "I'm hungry myself. I didn't want to accept thehospitality of you folks without giving you notice; that's all. "

Reeves set bottles and glasses on the table. 

"There's cognac, " he said, "and anisada, and Scotch 'smoke, ' and rye. Take your choice. "

Bridger chose rye, Reeves poured three fingers of Scotch for himself, Morgan took the same. The sheriff, against much protestation, filledhis glass from the water bottle. 

"Here's to the appetite, " said Reeves, raising his glass, "of Mr. Williams!" Morgan's laugh and his drink encountering sent him into achoking splutter. All began to pay attention to the dinner, whichwas well cooked and palatable. 

"Williams!" called Plunkett, suddenly and sharply. 

All looked up wonderingly. Reeves found the sheriff's mild eyeresting upon him. He flushed a little. 

"See here, " he said, with some asperity, "my name's Reeves, and Idon't want you to--" But the comedy of the thing came to his rescue, and he ended with a laugh. 

"I suppose, Mr. Plunkett, " said Morgan, carefully seasoning analligator pear, "that you are aware of the fact that you will importa good deal of trouble for yourself into Kentucky if you take backthe wrong man--that is, of course, if you take anybody back?"

"Thank you for the salt, " said the sheriff. "Oh, I'll take somebodyback. It'll be one of you two gentlemen. Yes, I know I'd get stuckfor damages if I make a mistake. But I'm going to try to get theright man. "

"I'll tell you what you do, " said Morgan, leaning forward with ajolly twinkle in his eyes. "You take me. I'll go without anytrouble. The cocoanut business hasn't panned out well this year, andI'd like to make some extra money out of your bondsmen. "

"That's not fair, " chimed in Reeves. "I got only $16 a thousand formy last shipment. Take me, Mr. Plunkett. "

"I'll take Wade Williams, " said the sheriff, patiently, "or I'll comepretty close to it. "

"It's like dining with a ghost, " remarked Morgan, with a pretendedshiver. "The ghost of a murderer, too! Will somebody pass thetoothpicks to the shade of the naughty Mr. Williams?"

Plunkett seemed as unconcerned as if he were dining at his own tablein Chatham County. He was a gallant trencherman, and the strangetropic viands tickled his palate. Heavy, commonplace, almostslothful in his movements, he appeared to be devoid of all thecunning and watchfulness of the sleuth. He even ceased to observe, with any sharpness or attempted discrimination, the two men, one ofwhom he had undertaken with surprising self-confidence, to dragaway upon the serious charge of wife-murder. Here, indeed, was aproblem set before him that if wrongly solved would have amounted tohis serious discomfiture, yet there he sat puzzling his soul (to allappearances) over the novel flavour of a broiled iguana cutlet. 

The consul felt a decided discomfort. Reeves and Morgan were hisfriends and pals; yet the sheriff from Kentucky had a certain rightto his official aid and moral support. So Bridger sat the silentestaround the board and tried to estimate the peculiar situation. Hisconclusion was that both Reeves and Morgan, quickwitted, as he knewthem to be, had conceived at the moment of Plunkett's disclosure ofhis mission--and in the brief space of a lightning flash--theidea that the other might be the guilty Williams; and that each ofthem had decided in that moment loyally to protect his comradeagainst the doom that threatened him. This was the consul's theoryand if he had been a bookmaker at a race of wits for life and libertyhe would have offered heavy odds against the plodding sheriff fromChatham County, Kentucky. 

When the meal was concluded the Carib woman came and removed thedishes and cloth. Reeves strewed the table with excellent cigars, and Plunkett, with the others, lighted one of these with evidentgratification. 

"I may be dull, " said Morgan, with a grin and a wink at Bridger; "butI want to know if I am. Now, I say this is all a joke of Mr. Plunkett's, concocted to frighten two babes-in-the-woods. Is thisWilliamson to be taken seriously or not?"

"'Williams, '" corrected Plunkett gravely. "I never got off any jokesin my life. I know I wouldn't travel 2, 000 miles to get off a poorone as this would be if I didn't take Wade Williams back with me. Gentlemen!" continued the sheriff, now letting his mild eyes travelimpartially from one of the company to another, "see if you can findany joke in this case. Wade Williams is listening to the words Iutter now; but out of politeness, I will speak of him as a thirdperson. For five years he made his wife lead the life of a dog--No;I'll take that back. No dog in Kentucky was ever treated as shewas. He spent the money that she brought him--spent it at races, atthe card table and on horses and hunting. He was a good fellow tohis friends, but a cold, sullen demon at home. He wound up the fiveyears of neglect by striking her with his closed hand--a hand ashard as a stone--when she was ill and weak from suffering. Shedied the next day; and he skipped. That's all there is to it. It'senough. I never saw Williams; but I knew his wife. I'm not a man totell half. She and I were keeping company when she met him. Shewent to Louisville on a visit and saw him there. I'll admit that hespoilt my chances in no time. I lived then on the edge of theCumberland mountains. I was elected sheriff of Chatham County a yearafter Wade Williams killed his wife. My official duty sends me outhere after him; but I'll admit that there's personal feeling, too. And he's going back with me. Mr. --er--Reeves, will you pass me amatch?

"Awfully imprudent of Williams, " said Morgan, putting his feet upagainst the wall, "to strike a Kentucky lady. Seems to me I've heardthey were scrappers. "

"Bad, bad Williams, " said Reeves, pouring out more Scotch. 

The two men spoke lightly, but the consul saw and felt the tensionand the carefulness in their actions and words. "Good old fellows, "he said to himself; "they're both all right. Each of 'em is standingby the other like a little brick church. "

And then a dog walked into the room where they sat--a black-and-tanhound, long-eared, lazy, confident of welcome. 

Plunkett turned his head and looked at the animal, which halted, confidently, within a few feet of his chair. 

Suddenly the sheriff, with a deep-mouthed oath, left his seat and, bestowed upon the dog a vicious and heavy kick, with his ponderousshoe. 

The hound, heartbroken, astonished, with flapping ears and incurvedtail, uttered a piercing yelp of pain and surprise. 

Reeves and the consul remained in their chairs, saying nothing, butastonished at the unexpected show of intolerance from the easy-goingman from Chatham county. 

But Morgan, with a suddenly purpling face, leaped, to his feet andraised a threatening arm above the guest. 

"You--brute!" he shouted, passionately; "why did you do that?"

Quickly the amenities returned, Plunkett muttered some indistinctapology and regained his seat. Morgan with a decided effortcontrolled his indignation and also returned to his chair. 

And then Plunkett with the spring of a tiger, leaped around thecorner of the table and snapped handcuffs on the paralyzed Morgan'swrists. 

"Hound-lover and woman-killer!" he cried; "get ready to meet yourGod. "

When Bridger had finished I asked him:

"Did he get the right man?"

"He did, " said the Consul. 

"And how did he know?" I inquired, being in a kind of bewilderment. 

"When he put Morgan in the dory, " answered Bridger, "the next day totake him aboard the _Pajaro_, this man Plunkett stopped to shake handswith me and I asked him the same question. "

"'Mr. Bridger, ' said he, 'I'm a Kentuckian, and I've seen a greatdeal of both men and animals. And I never yet saw a man that wasoverfond of horses and dogs but what was cruel to women. '"

III

THE HYPOTHESES OF FAILURE

Lawyer Gooch bestowed his undivided attention upon the engrossing artsof his profession. But one flight of fancy did he allow his mind toentertain. He was fond of likening his suite of office rooms to thebottom of a ship. The rooms were three in number, with a dooropening from one to another. These doors could also be closed. 

"Ships, " Lawyer Gooch would say, "are constructed for safety, withseparate, water-tight compartments in their bottoms. If onecompartment springs a leak it fills with water; but the good ship goeson unhurt. Were it not for the separating bulkheads one leak wouldsink the vessel. Now it often happens that while I am occupied withclients, other clients with conflicting interests call. With theassistance of Archibald--an office boy with a future--I cause thedangerous influx to be diverted into separate compartments, while Isound with my legal plummet the depth of each. If necessary, theymay be baled into the hallway and permitted to escape by way of thestairs, which we may term the lee scuppers. Thus the good ship ofbusiness is kept afloat; whereas if the element that supports her wereallowed to mingle freely in her hold we might be swamped--ha, ha, ha!"

The law is dry. Good jokes are few. Surely it might be permittedLawyer Gooch to mitigate the bore of briefs, the tedium of torts andthe prosiness of processes with even so light a levy upon the goodproperty of humour. 

Lawyer Gooch's practice leaned largely to the settlement of maritalinfelicities. Did matrimony languish through complications, hemediated, soothed and arbitrated. Did it suffer from implications, he readjusted, defended and championed. Did it arrive at theextremity of duplications, he always got light sentences for hisclients. 

But not always was Lawyer Gooch the keen, armed, wily belligerent, ready with his two-edged sword to lop off the shackles of Hymen. Hehad been known to build up instead of demolishing, to reunite insteadof severing, to lead erring and foolish ones back into the foldinstead of scattering the flock. Often had he by his eloquent andmoving appeals sent husband and wife, weeping, back into each other'sarms. Frequently he had coached childhood so successfully that, atthe psychological moment (and at a given signal) the plaintive pipe of"Papa, won't you tum home adain to me and muvver?" had won the dayand upheld the pillars of a tottering home. 

Unprejudiced persons admitted that Lawyer Gooch received as big feesfrom these reyoked clients as would have been paid him had the casesbeen contested in court. Prejudiced ones intimated that his fees weredoubled, because the penitent couples always came back later for thedivorce, anyhow. 

There came a season in June when the legal ship of Lawyer Gooch (toborrow his own figure) was nearly becalmed. The divorce mill grindsslowly in June. It is the month of Cupid and Hymen. 

Lawyer Gooch, then, sat idle in the middle room of his clientlesssuite. A small anteroom connected--or rather separated--thisapartment from the hallway. Here was stationed Archibald, who wrestedfrom visitors their cards or oral nomenclature which he bore to hismaster while they waited. 

Suddenly, on this day, there came a great knocking at the outermostdoor. 

Archibald, opening it, was thrust aside as superfluous by the visitor, who without due reverence at once penetrated to the office of LawyerGooch and threw himself with good-natured insolence into a comfortablechair facing that gentlemen. 

"You are Phineas C. Gooch, attorney-at-law?" said the visitor, histone of voice and inflection making his words at once a question, anassertion and an accusation. 

Before committing himself by a reply, the lawyer estimated hispossible client in one of his brief but shrewd and calculatingglances. 

The man was of the emphatic type--large-sized, active, bold anddebonair in demeanour, vain beyond a doubt, slightly swaggering, readyand at ease. He was well-clothed, but with a shade too muchornateness. He was seeking a lawyer; but if that fact would seem tosaddle him with troubles they were not patent in his beaming eye andcourageous air. 

"My name is Gooch, " at length the lawyer admitted. Upon pressure hewould also have confessed to the Phineas C. But he did not consider itgood practice to volunteer information. "I did not receive yourcard, " he continued, by way of rebuke, "so I--"

"I know you didn't, " remarked the visitor, coolly; "And you won't justyet. Light up?" He threw a leg over an arm of his chair, and tosseda handful of rich-hued cigars upon the table. Lawyer Gooch knew thebrand. He thawed just enough to accept the invitation to smoke. 

"You are a divorce lawyer, " said the cardless visitor. This time therewas no interrogation in his voice. Nor did his words constitute asimple assertion. They formed a charge--a denunciation--as one wouldsay to a dog: "You are a dog. " Lawyer Gooch was silent under theimputation. 

"You handle, " continued the visitor, "all the various ramifications ofbusted-up connubiality. You are a surgeon, we might saw, who extractsCupid's darts when he shoots 'em into the wrong parties. You furnishpatent, incandescent lights for premises where the torch of Hymen hasburned so low you can't light a cigar at it. Am I right, Mr. Gooch?"

"I have undertaken cases, " said the lawyer, guardedly, "in the line towhich your figurative speech seems to refer. Do you wish to consult meprofessionally, Mr. --" The lawyer paused, with significance. 

"Not yet, " said the other, with an arch wave of his cigar, "not justyet. Let us approach the subject with the caution that should havebeen used in the original act that makes this pow-wow necessary. There exists a matrimonial jumble to be straightened out. But beforeI give you names I want your honest--well, anyhow, your professionalopinion on the merits of the mix-up. I want you to size up thecatastrophe--abstractly--you understand? I'm Mr. Nobody; and I've gota story to tell you. Then you say what's what. Do you get mywireless?"

"You want to state a hypothetical case?" suggested Lawyer Gooch. 

"That's the word I was after. 'Apothecary' was the best shot I couldmake at it in my mind. The hypothetical goes. I'll state the case. Suppose there's a woman--a deuced fine-looking woman--who has runaway from her husband and home? She's badly mashed on another man whowent to her town to work up some real estate business. Now, we may aswell call this woman's husband Thomas R. Billings, for that's hisname. I'm giving you straight tips on the cognomens. The Lothariochap is Henry K. Jessup. The Billingses lived in a little town calledSusanville--a good many miles from here. Now, Jessup leavesSusanville two weeks ago. The next day Mrs. Billings follows him. She's dead gone on this man Jessup; you can bet your law library onthat. "

Lawyer Gooch's client said this with such unctuous satisfaction thateven the callous lawyer experienced a slight ripple of repulsion. Henow saw clearly in his fatuous visitor the conceit of the lady-killer, the egoistic complacency of the successful trifler. 

"Now, " continued the visitor, "suppose this Mrs. Billings wasn't happyat home? We'll say she and her husband didn't gee worth a cent. They've got incompatibility to burn. The things she likes, Billingswouldn't have as a gift with trading-stamps. It's Tabby and Roverwith them all the time. She's an educated woman in science andculture, and she reads things out loud at meetings. Billings is noton. He don't appreciate progress and obelisks and ethics, andthings of that sort. Old Billings is simply a blink when it comes tosuch things. The lady is out and out above his class. Now, lawyer, don't it look like a fair equalization of rights and wrongs that awoman like that should be allowed to throw down Billings and take theman that can appreciate her?

"Incompatibility, " said Lawyer Gooch, "is undoubtedly the source ofmuch marital discord and unhappiness. Where it is positively proved, divorce would seem to be the equitable remedy. Are you--excuse me--isthis man Jessup one to whom the lady may safely trust her future?"

"Oh, you can bet on Jessup, " said the client, with a confident wag ofhis head. "Jessup's all right. He'll do the square thing. Why, heleft Susanville just to keep people from talking about Mrs. Billings. But she followed him up, and now, of course, he'll stick to her. When she gets a divorce, all legal and proper, Jessup will do theproper thing. "

"And now, " said Lawyer Gooch, "continuing the hypothesis, if youprefer, and supposing that my services should be desired in the case, what--"

The client rose impulsively to his feet. 

"Oh, dang the hypothetical business, " he exclaimed, impatiently. "Let's let her drop, and get down to straight talk. You ought to knowwho I am by this time. I want that woman to have her divorce. I'llpay for it. The day you set Mrs. Billings free I'll pay you fivehundred dollars. "

Lawyer Gooch's client banged his fist upon the table to punctuate hisgenerosity. 

"If that is the case--" began the lawyer. 

"Lady to see you, sir, " bawled Archibald, bouncing in from hisanteroom. He had orders to always announce immediately any clientthat might come. There was no sense in turning business away. 

Lawyer Gooch took client number one by the arm and led him suavelyinto one of the adjoining rooms. "Favour me by remaining here a fewminutes, sir, " said he. "I will return and resume our consultationwith the least possible delay. I am rather expecting a visit from avery wealthy old lady in connection with a will. I will not keep youwaiting long. "

The breezy gentleman seated himself with obliging acquiescence, andtook up a magazine. The lawyer returned to the middle office, carefully closing behind him the connecting door. 

"Show the lady in, Archibald, " he said to the office boy, who wasawaiting the order. 

A tall lady, of commanding presence and sternly handsome, enteredthe room. She wore robes--robes; not clothes--ample and fluent. In her eye could be perceived the lambent flame of genius and soul. In her hand was a green bag of the capacity of a bushel, and anumbrella that also seemed to wear a robe, ample and fluent. Sheaccepted a chair. 

"Are you Mr. Phineas C. Gooch, the lawyer?" she asked, in formal andunconciliatory tones. 

"I am, " answered Lawyer Gooch, without circumlocution. He nevercircumlocuted when dealing with a woman. Women circumlocute. Time iswasted when both sides in debate employ the same tactics. 

"As a lawyer, sir, " began the lady, "you may have acquired someknowledge of the human heart. Do you believe that the pusillanimousand petty conventions of our artificial social life should stand as anobstacle in the way of a noble and affectionate heart when it findsits true mate among the miserable and worthless wretches in the worldthat are called men?"

"Madam, " said Lawyer Gooch, in the tone that he used in curbing hisfemale clients, "this is an office for conducting the practice of law. I am a lawyer, not a philosopher, nor the editor of an 'Answers to theLovelorn' column of a newspaper. I have other clients waiting. Iwill ask you kindly to come to the point. "

"Well, you needn't get so stiff around the gills about it, " said thelady, with a snap of her luminous eyes and a startling gyration of herumbrella. "Business is what I've come for. I want your opinion inthe matter of a suit for divorce, as the vulgar would call it, butwhich is really only the readjustment of the false and ignobleconditions that the short-sighted laws of man have interposed betweena loving--"

"I beg your pardon, madam, " interrupted Lawyer Gooch, with someimpatience, "for reminding you again that this is a law office. Perhaps Mrs. Wilcox--"

"Mrs. Wilcox is all right, " cut in the lady, with a hint of asperity. "And so are Tolstoi, and Mrs. Gertrude Atherton, and Omar Khayyam, andMr. Edward Bok. I've read 'em all. I would like to discuss with youthe divine right of the soul as opposed to the freedom-destroyingrestrictions of a bigoted and narrow-minded society. But I willproceed to business. I would prefer to lay the matter before you inan impersonal way until you pass upon its merits. That is to describeit as a supposable instance, without--"

"You wish to state a hypothetical case?" said Lawyer Gooch. 

"I was going to say that, " said the lady, sharply. "Now, suppose thereis a woman who is all soul and heart and aspirations for a completeexistence. This woman has a husband who is far below her in intellect, in taste--in everything. Bah! he is a brute. He despises literature. He sneers at the lofty thoughts of the world's great thinkers. Hethinks only of real estate and such sordid things. He is no mate for awoman with soul. We will say that this unfortunate wife one day meetswith her ideal--a man with brain and heart and force. She loves him. Although this man feels the thrill of a new-found affinity he is toonoble, too honourable to declare himself. He flies from the presenceof his beloved. She flies after him, trampling, with superbindifference, upon the fetters with which an unenlightened socialsystem would bind her. Now, what will a divorce cost? Eliza AnnTimmins, the poetess of Sycamore Gap, got one for three hundred andforty dollars. Can I--I mean can this lady I speak of get one thatcheap?"

"Madam, " said Lawyer Gooch, "your last two or three sentences delightme with their intelligence and clearness. Can we not now abandon thehypothetical and come down to names and business?"

"I should say so, " exclaimed the lady, adopting the practical withadmirable readiness. "Thomas R. Billings is the name of the lowbrute who stands between the happiness of his legal--his legal, butnot his spiritual--wife and Henry K. Jessup, the noble man whomnature intended for her mate. I, " concluded the client, with an airof dramatic revelation, "am Mrs. Billings!"

"Gentlemen to see you, sir, " shouted Archibald, invading the roomalmost at a handspring. Lawyer Gooch arose from his chair. 

"Mrs. Billings, " he said courteously, "allow me to conduct you intothe adjoining office apartment for a few minutes. I am expecting avery wealthy old gentleman on business connected with a will. In avery short while I will join you, and continue our consultation. "

With his accustomed chivalrous manner, Lawyer Gooch ushered hissoulful client into the remaining unoccupied room, and came out, closing the door with circumspection. 

The next visitor introduced by Archibald was a thin, nervous, irritable-looking man of middle age, with a worried and apprehensiveexpression of countenance. He carried in one hand a small satchel, which he set down upon the floor beside the chair which the lawyerplaced for him. His clothing was of good quality, but it was wornwithout regard to neatness or style, and appeared to be covered withthe dust of travel. 

"You make a specialty of divorce cases, " he said, in, an agitated butbusiness-like tone. 

"I may say, " began Lawyer Gooch, "that my practice has notaltogether avoided--"

"I know you do, " interrupted client number three. "You needn't tellme. I've heard all about you. I have a case to lay before youwithout necessarily disclosing any connection that I might have withit--that is--"

"You wish, " said Lawyer Gooch, "to state a hypothetical case. 

"You may call it that. I am a plain man of business. I will be asbrief as possible. We will first take up hypothetical woman. We willsay she is married uncongenially. In many ways she is a superiorwoman. Physically she is considered to be handsome. She is devotedto what she calls literature--poetry and prose, and such stuff. Herhusband is a plain man in the business walks of life. Their home hasnot been happy, although the husband has tried to make it so. Sometime ago a man--a stranger--came to the peaceful town in whichthey lived and engaged in some real estate operations. This woman methim, and became unaccountably infatuated with him. Her attentionsbecame so open that the man felt the community to be no safe place forhim, so he left it. She abandoned husband and home, and followed him. She forsook her home, where she was provided with every comfort, tofollow this man who had inspired her with such a strange affection. Is there anything more to be deplored, " concluded the client, in atrembling voice, "than the wrecking of a home by a woman'suncalculating folly?"

Lawyer Gooch delivered the cautious opinion that there was not. 

"This man she has gone to join, " resumed the visitor, "is not the manto make her happy. It is a wild and foolish self-deception that makesher think he will. Her husband, in spite of their many disagreements, is the only one capable of dealing with her sensitive and peculiarnature. But this she does not realize now. "

"Would you consider a divorce the logical cure in the case youpresent?" asked Lawyer Gooch, who felt that the conversation waswandering too far from the field of business. 

"A divorce!" exclaimed the client, feelingly--almost tearfully. "No, no--not that. I have read, Mr. Gooch, of many instances whereyour sympathy and kindly interest led you to act as a mediatorbetween estranged husband and wife, and brought them together again. Let us drop the hypothetical case--I need conceal no longer that itis I who am the sufferer in this sad affair--the names you shallhave--Thomas R. Billings and wife--and Henry K. Jessup, the manwith whom she is infatuated. "

Client number three laid his hand upon Mr. Gooch's arm. Deep emotionwas written upon his careworn face. "For Heaven's sake", he saidfervently, "help me in this hour of trouble. Seek out Mrs. Billings, and persuade her to abandon this distressing pursuit of her lamentablefolly. Tell her, Mr. Gooch, that her husband is willing to receiveher back to his heart and home--promise her anything that willinduce her to return. I have heard of your success in these matters. Mrs. Billings cannot be very far away. I am worn out with traveland weariness. Twice during the pursuit I saw her, but variouscircumstances prevented our having an interview. Will you undertakethis mission for me, Mr. Gooch, and earn my everlasting gratitude?"

"It is true, " said Lawyer Gooch, frowning slightly at the other's lastwords, but immediately calling up an expression of virtuousbenevolence, "that on a number of occasions I have been successful inpersuading couples who sought the severing of their matrimonial bondsto think better of their rash intentions and return to their homesreconciled. But I assure you that the work is often exceedinglydifficult. The amount of argument, perseverance, and, if I may beallowed to say it, eloquence that it requires would astonish you. Butthis is a case in which my sympathies would be wholly enlisted. Ifeel deeply for you sir, and I would be most happy to see husband andwife reunited. But my time, " concluded the lawyer, looking at hiswatch as if suddenly reminded of the fact, "is valuable. "

"I am aware of that, " said the client, "and if you will take the caseand persuade Mrs. Billings to return home and leave the man alone thatshe is following--on that day I will pay you the sum of one thousanddollars. I have made a little money in real estate during the recentboom in Susanville, and I will not begrudge that amount. "

"Retain your seat for a few moments, please, " said Lawyer Gooch, arising, and again consulting his watch. "I have another clientwaiting in an adjoining room whom I had very nearly forgotten. I willreturn in the briefest possible space. "

The situation was now one that fully satisfied Lawyer Gooch's love ofintricacy and complication. He revelled in cases that presented suchsubtle problems and possibilities. It pleased him to think that hewas master of the happiness and fate of the three individuals who sat, unconscious of one another's presence, within his reach. His oldfigure of the ship glided into his mind. But now the figure failed, for to have filled every compartment of an actual vessel would havebeen to endanger her safety; with his compartments full, his ship ofaffairs could but sail on to the advantageous port of a fine, fat fee. The thing for him to do, of course, was to wring the best bargain hecould from some one of his anxious cargo. 

First he called to the office boy: "Lock the outer door, Archibald, and admit no one. " Then he moved, with long, silent strides into theroom in which client number one waited. That gentleman sat, patientlyscanning the pictures in the magazine, with a cigar in his mouth andhis feet upon a table. 

"Well, " he remarked, cheerfully, as the lawyer entered, "have you madeup your mind? Does five hundred dollars go for getting the fair ladya divorce?"

"You mean that as a retainer?" asked Lawyer Gooch, softlyinterrogative. 

"Hey? No; for the whole job. It's enough, ain't it?"

"My fee, " said Lawyer Gooch, "would be one thousand five hundreddollars. Five hundred dollars down, and the remainder upon issuanceof the divorce. "

A loud whistle came from client number one. His feet descended to thefloor. 

"Guess we can't close the deal, " he said, arising, "I cleaned up fivehundred dollars in a little real estate dicker down in Susanville. I'd do anything I could to free the lady, but it out-sizes my pile. "

"Could you stand one thousand two hundred dollars?" asked the lawyer, insinuatingly. 

"Five hundred is my limit, I tell you. Guess I'll have to hunt up acheaper lawyer. " The client put on his hat. 

"Out this way, please, " said Lawyer Gooch, opening the door that ledinto the hallway. 

As the gentleman flowed out of the compartment and down the stairs, Lawyer Gooch smiled to himself. "Exit Mr. Jessup, " he murmured, as hefingered the Henry Clay tuft of hair at his ear. "And now for theforsaken husband. " He returned to the middle office, and assumed abusinesslike manner. 

"I understand, " he said to client number three, "that you agree to payone thousand dollars if I bring about, or am instrumental in bringingabout, the return of Mrs. Billings to her home, and her abandonment ofher infatuated pursuit of the man for whom she has conceived such aviolent fancy. Also that the case is now unreservedly in my hands onthat basis. Is that correct?"

"Entirely", said the other, eagerly. "And I can produce the cash anytime at two hours' notice. "

Lawyer Gooch stood up at his full height. His thin figure seemed toexpand. His thumbs sought the arm-holes of his vest. Upon his facewas a look of sympathetic benignity that he always wore during suchundertakings. 

"Then, sir, " he said, in kindly tones, "I think I can promise you anearly relief from your troubles. I have that much confidence in mypowers of argument and persuasion, in the natural impulses of thehuman heart toward good, and in the strong influence of a husband'sunfaltering love. Mrs. Billings, sir, is here--in that room--" thelawyer's long arm pointed to the door. "I will call her in at once;and our united pleadings--"

Lawyer Gooch paused, for client number three had leaped from his chairas if propelled by steel springs, and clutched his satchel. 

"What the devil, " he exclaimed, harshly, "do you mean? That woman inthere! I thought I shook her off forty miles back. "

He ran to the open window, looked out below, and threw one leg overthe sill. 

"Stop!" cried Lawyer Gooch, in amazement. "What would you do? Come, Mr. Billings, and face your erring but innocent wife. Our combinedentreaties cannot fail to--"

"Billings!" shouted the now thoroughly moved client. "I'll Billingsyou, you old idiot!"

Turning, he hurled his satchel with fury at the lawyer's head. Itstruck that astounded peacemaker between the eyes, causing him tostagger backward a pace or two. When Lawyer Gooch recovered his witshe saw that his client had disappeared. Rushing to the window, heleaned out, and saw the recreant gathering himself up from the top ofa shed upon which he had dropped from the second-story window. Without stopping to collect his hat he then plunged downward theremaining ten feet to the alley, up which he flew with prodigiouscelerity until the surrounding building swallowed him up from view. 

Lawyer Gooch passed his hand tremblingly across his brow. It was ahabitual act with him, serving to clear his thoughts. Perhaps also itnow seemed to soothe the spot where a very hard alligator-hide satchelhad struck. 

The satchel lay upon the floor, wide open, with its contents spilledabout. Mechanically, Lawyer Gooch stooped to gather up the articles. The first was a collar; and the omniscient eye of the man of lawperceived, wonderingly, the initials H. K. J. Marked upon it. Thencame a comb, a brush, a folded map, and a piece of soap. Lastly, ahandful of old business letters, addressed--every one of them--to"Henry K. Jessup, Esq. "

Lawyer Gooch closed the satchel, and set it upon the table. Hehesitated for a moment, and then put on his hat and walked into theoffice boy's anteroom. 

"Archibald, " he said mildly, as he opened the hall door, "I am goingaround to the Supreme Court rooms. In five minutes you may step intothe inner office, and inform the lady who is waiting there that"--here Lawyer Gooch made use of the vernacular--"that there's nothingdoing. "

IV

CALLOWAY'S CODE

The New York _Enterprise_ sent H. B. Calloway as special correspondentto the Russo-Japanese-Portsmouth war. 

For two months Calloway hung about Yokohama and Tokio, shaking dicewith the other correspondents for drinks of 'rickshaws--oh, no, that's something to ride in; anyhow, he wasn't earning the salarythat his paper was paying him. But that was not Calloway's fault. The little brown men who held the strings of Fate between theirfingers were not ready for the readers of the _Enterprise_ to seasontheir breakfast bacon and eggs with the battles of the descendants ofthe gods. 

But soon the column of correspondents that were to go out with theFirst Army tightened their field-glass belts and went down to theYalu with Kuroki. Calloway was one of these. 

Now, this is no history of the battle of the Yalu River. That hasbeen told in detail by the correspondents who gazed at the shrapnelsmoke rings from a distance of three miles. But, for justice's sake, let it be understood that the Japanese commander prohibited a nearerview. 

Calloway's feat was accomplished before the battle. What he did wasto furnish the _Enterprise_ with the biggest beat of the war. Thatpaper published exclusively and in detail the news of the attack onthe lines of the Russian General on the same day that it was made. No other paper printed a word about it for two days afterward, excepta London paper, whose account was absolutely incorrect and untrue. 

Calloway did this in face of the fact that General Kuroki was makinghis moves and laying his plans with the profoundest secrecy as faras the world outside his camps was concerned. The correspondentswere forbidden to send out any news whatever of his plans; and everymessage that was allowed on the wires was censored with rigidseverity. 

The correspondent for the London paper handed in a cablegramdescribing Kuroki's plans; but as it was wrong from beginning to endthe censor grinned and let it go through. 

So, there they were--Kuroki on one side of the Yalu with forty-twothousand infantry, five thousand cavalry, and one hundred andtwenty-four guns. On the other side, Zassulitch waited for him withonly twenty-three thousand men, and with a long stretch of river toguard. And Calloway had got hold of some important inside informationthat he knew would bring the _Enterprise_ staff around a cablegram asthick as flies around a Park Row lemonade stand. If he could only getthat message past the censor--the new censor who had arrived andtaken his post that day!

Calloway did the obviously proper thing. He lit his pipe and sat downon a gun carriage to think it over. And there we must leave him; forthe rest of the story belongs to Vesey, a sixteen-dollar-a-weekreporter on the _Enterprise_. 

Calloway's cablegram was handed to the managing editor at fouro'clock in the afternoon. He read it three times; and then drew apocket mirror from a pigeon-hole in his desk, and looked at hisreflection carefully. Then he went over to the desk of Boyd, hisassistant (he usually called Boyd when he wanted him), and laid thecablegram before him. 

"It's from Calloway, " he said. "See what you make of it. "

The message was dated at Wi-ju, and these were the words of it:

 Foregone preconcerted rash witching goes muffled rumour mine dark silent unfortunate richmond existing great hotly brute select mooted parlous beggars ye angel incontrovertible. 

Boyd read it twice. 

"It's either a cipher or a sunstroke, " said he. 

"Ever hear of anything like a code in the office--a secret code?"asked the m. E. , who had held his desk for only two years. Managingeditors come and go. 

"None except the vernacular that the lady specials write in, " saidBoyd. "Couldn't be an acrostic, could it?"

"I thought of that, " said the m. E. , "but the beginning letterscontain only four vowels. It must be a code of some sort. "

"Try em in groups, " suggested Boyd. "Let's see--'Rash witchinggoes'--not with me it doesn't. 'Muffled rumour mine'--musthave an underground wire. 'Dark silent unfortunate richmond'--noreason why he should knock that town so hard. 'Existing greathotly'--no it doesn't pan out. I'll call Scott. "

The city editor came in a hurry, and tried his luck. A city editormust know something about everything; so Scott knew a little aboutcipher-writing. 

"It may be what is called an inverted alphabet cipher, " said he. "I'll try that. 'R' seems to be the oftenest used initial letter, with the exception of 'm. ' Assuming 'r' to mean 'e', the mostfrequently used vowel, we transpose the letters--so. "

Scott worked rapidly with his pencil for two minutes; and then showedthe first word according to his reading--the word "Scejtzez. "

"Great!" cried Boyd. "It's a charade. My first is a Russiangeneral. Go on, Scott. "

"No, that won't work, " said the city editor. "It's undoubtedly acode. It's impossible to read it without the key. Has the officeever used a cipher code?"

"Just what I was asking, " said the m. E. "Hustle everybody up thatought to know. We must get at it some way. Calloway has evidentlygot hold of something big, and the censor has put the screws on, orhe wouldn't have cabled in a lot of chop suey like this. "

Throughout the office of the _Enterprise_ a dragnet was sent, haulingin such members of the staff as would be likely to know of a code, past or present, by reason of their wisdom, information, naturalintelligence, or length of servitude. They got together in a groupin the city room, with the m. E. In the centre. No one had heardof a code. All began to explain to the head investigator thatnewspapers never use a code, anyhow--that is, a cipher code. Ofcourse the Associated Press stuff is a sort of code--an abbreviation, rather--but--

The m. E. Knew all that, and said so. He asked each man how long hehad worked on the paper. Not one of them had drawn pay from an_Enterprise_ envelope for longer than six years. Calloway had been onthe paper twelve years. 

"Try old Heffelbauer, " said the m. E. "He was here when Park Row wasa potato patch. "

Heffelbauer was an institution. He was half janitor, half handy-manabout the office, and half watchman--thus becoming the peer ofthirteen and one-half tailors. Sent for, he came, radiating hisnationality. 

"Heffelbauer, " said the m. E. , "did you ever hear of a code belongingto the office a long time ago--a private code? You know what a codeis, don't you?"

"Yah, " said Heffelbauer. "Sure I know vat a code is. Yah, apoutdwelf or fifteen year ago der office had a code. Der reborters in dercity-room haf it here. "

"Ah!" said the m. E. "We're getting on the trail now. Where was itkept, Heffelbauer? What do you know about it?"

"Somedimes, " said the retainer, "dey keep it in der little roombehind der library room. "

"Can you find it?" asked the m. E. Eagerly. "Do you know where it is?"

"Mein Gott!" said Heffelbauer. "How long you dink a code live? Derreborters call him a maskeet. But von day he butt mit his head dereditor, und--"

"Oh, he's talking about a goat, " said Boyd. "Get out, Heffelbauer. "

Again discomfited, the concerted wit and resource of the _Enterprise_huddled around Calloway's puzzle, considering its mysterious wordsin vain. 

Then Vesey came in. 

Vesey was the youngest reporter. He had a thirty-two-inch chest andwore a number fourteen collar; but his bright Scotch plaid suit gavehim presence and conferred no obscurity upon his whereabouts. Hewore his hat in such a position that people followed him about to seehim take it off, convinced that it must be hung upon a peg driveninto the back of his head. He was never without an immense, knotted, hard-wood cane with a German-silver tip on its crooked handle. Veseywas the best photograph hustler in the office. Scott said it wasbecause no living human being could resist the personal triumph itwas to hand his picture over to Vesey. Vesey always wrote his ownnews stories, except the big ones, which were sent to the rewritemen. Add to this fact that among all the inhabitants, temples, andgroves of the earth nothing existed that could abash Vesey, and hisdim sketch is concluded. 

Vesey butted into the circle of cipher readers very much asHeffelbauer's "code" would have done, and asked what was up. Someone explained, with the touch of half-familiar condescension thatthey always used toward him. Vesey reached out and took thecablegram from the m. E. 's hand. Under the protection of somespecial Providence, he was always doing appalling things like that, and coming, off unscathed. 

"It's a code, " said Vesey. "Anybody got the key?"

"The office has no code, " said Boyd, reaching for the message. Veseyheld to it. 

"Then old Calloway expects us to read it, anyhow, " said he. "He's upa tree, or something, and he's made this up so as to get it by thecensor. It's up to us. Gee! I wish they had sent me, too. Say--wecan't afford to fall down on our end of it. 'Foregone, preconcertedrash, witching'--h'm. "

Vesey sat down on a table corner and began to whistle softly, frowning at the cablegram. 

"Let's have it, please, " said the m. E. "We've got to get to work onit. "

"I believe I've got a line on it, " said Vesey. "Give me tenminutes. "

He walked to his desk, threw his hat into a waste-basket, spread outflat on his chest like a gorgeous lizard, and started his pencilgoing. The wit and wisdom of the _Enterprise_ remained in a loosegroup, and smiled at one another, nodding their heads toward Vesey. Then they began to exchange their theories about the cipher. 

It took Vesey exactly fifteen minutes. He brought to the m. E. A padwith the code-key written on it. 

"I felt the swing of it as soon as I saw it, " said Vesey. "Hurrah forold Calloway! He's done the Japs and every paper in town that printsliterature instead of news. Take a look at that. "

Thus had Vesey set forth the reading of the code:

 Foregone - conclusion Preconcerted - arrangement Rash - act Witching - hour of midnight Goes - without saying Muffled - report Rumour - hath it Mine - host Dark - horse Silent - majority Unfortunate - pedestrians* Richmond - in the field Existing - conditions Great - White Way Hotly - contested Brute - force Select - few Mooted - question Parlous - times Beggars - description Ye - correspondent Angel - unawares Incontrovertible - fact

 *Mr. Vesey afterward explained that the logical journalistic complement of the word "unfortunate" was once the word "victim. " But, since the automobile became so popular, the correct following word is now "pedestrians. " Of course, in Calloway's code it meant infantry. 

"It's simply newspaper English, " explained Vesey. "I've beenreporting on the _Enterprise_ long enough to know it by heart. OldCalloway gives us the cue word, and we use the word that naturallyfollows it just as we use 'em in the paper. Read it over, and you'llsee how pat they drop into their places. Now, here's the message heintended us to get. "

Vesey handed out another sheet of paper. 

 Concluded arrangement to act at hour of midnight without saying. Report hath it that a large body of cavalry and an overwhelming force of infantry will be thrown into the field. Conditions white. Way contested by only a small force. Question the Times description. Its correspondent is unaware of the facts. 

"Great stuff!" cried Boyd excitedly. "Kuroki crosses the Yaluto-night and attacks. Oh, we won't do a thing to the sheets that makeup with Addison's essays, real estate transfers, and bowling scores!"

"Mr. Vesey, " said the m. E. , with his jollying-which-you-should-regard-as-a-favour manner, "you have cast a serious reflection upon theliterary standards of the paper that employs you. You have alsoassisted materially in giving us the biggest 'beat' of the year. Iwill let you know in a day or two whether you are to be discharged orretained at a larger salary. Somebody send Ames to me. "

Ames was the king-pin, the snowy-petalled Marguerite, the star-brightlooloo of the rewrite men. He saw attempted murder in the pains ofgreen-apple colic, cyclones in the summer zephyr, lost children inevery top-spinning urchin, an uprising of the down-trodden masses inevery hurling of a derelict potato at a passing automobile. When notrewriting, Ames sat on the porch of his Brooklyn villa playingcheckers with his ten-year-old son. 

Ames and the "war editor" shut themselves in a room. There was a mapin there stuck full of little pins that represented armies anddivisions. Their fingers had been itching for days to move thosepins along the crooked line of the Yalu. They did so now; and inwords of fire Ames translated Calloway's brief message into a frontpage masterpiece that set the world talking. He told of the secretcouncils of the Japanese officers; gave Kuroki's flaming speeches infull; counted the cavalry and infantry to a man and a horse;described the quick and silent building, of the bridge at Suikauchen, across which the Mikado's legions were hurled upon the surprisedZassulitch, whose troops were widely scattered along the river. Andthe battle!--well, you know what Ames can do with a battle if you givehim just one smell of smoke for a foundation. And in the same story, with seemingly supernatural knowledge, he gleefully scored the mostprofound and ponderous paper in England for the false and misleadingaccount of the intended movements of the Japanese First Army printedin its issue of _the same date_. 

Only one error was made; and that was the fault of the cable operatorat Wi-ju. Calloway pointed it out after he came back. The word"great" in his code should have been "gage, " and its complementalwords "of battle. " But it went to Ames "conditions white, " and ofcourse he took that to mean snow. His description of the Japanesearmy struggling through the snowstorm, blinded by the whirling flakes, was thrillingly vivid. The artists turned out some effectiveillustrations that made a hit as pictures of the artillery draggingtheir guns through the drifts. But, as the attack was made on thefirst day of May, "conditions white" excited some amusement. But itin made no difference to the _Enterprise_, anyway. 

It was wonderful. And Calloway was wonderful in having made the newcensor believe that his jargon of words meant no more than acomplaint of the dearth of news and a petition for more expensemoney. And Vesey was wonderful. And most wonderful of all arewords, and how they make friends one with another, being oftassociated, until not even obituary notices them do part. 

On the second day following, the city editor halted at Vesey's deskwhere the reporter was writing the story of a man who had broken hisleg by falling into a coal-hole--Ames having failed to find amurder motive in it. 

"The old man says your salary is to be raised to twenty a week, " saidScott. 

"All right, " said Vesey. "Every little helps. Say--Mr. Scott, which would you say--'We can state without fear of successfulcontradiction, ' or, 'On the whole it can be safely asserted'?"

V

A MATTER OF MEAN ELEVATION

One winter the Alcazar Opera Company of New Orleans made a speculativetrip along the Mexican, Central American and South American coasts. The venture proved a most successful one. The music-loving, impressionable Spanish-Americans deluged the company with dollars and"vivas. " The manager waxed plump and amiable. But for theprohibitive climate he would have put forth the distinctive flower ofhis prosperity--the overcoat of fur, braided, frogged and opulent. Almost was he persuaded to raise the salaries of his company. Butwith a mighty effort he conquered the impulse toward such anunprofitable effervescence of joy. 

At Macuto, on the coast of Venezuela, the company scored its greatestsuccess. Imagine Coney Island translated into Spanish and you willcomprehend Macuto. The fashionable season is from November to March. Down from La Guayra and Caracas and Valencia and other interior townsflock the people for their holiday season. There are bathing andfiestas and bull fights and scandal. And then the people have apassion for music that the bands in the plaza and on the sea beachstir but do not satisfy. The coming of the Alcazar Opera Companyaroused the utmost ardour and zeal among the pleasure seekers. 

The illustrious Guzman Blanco, President and Dictator of Venezuela, sojourned in Macuto with his court for the season. That potent ruler--who himself paid a subsidy of 40, 000 pesos each year to grand operain Caracas--ordered one of the Government warehouses to be clearedfor a temporary theatre. A stage was quickly constructed and roughwooden benches made for the audience. Private boxes were added forthe use of the President and the notables of the army and Government. 

The company remained in Macuto for two weeks. Each performance filledthe house as closely as it could be packed. Then the music-mad peoplefought for room in the open doors and windows, and crowded about, hundreds deep, on the outside. Those audiences formed a brilliantlydiversified patch of colour. The hue of their faces ranged from theclear olive of the pure-blood Spaniards down through the yellow andbrown shades of the Mestizos to the coal-black Carib and the JamaicaNegro. Scattered among them were little groups of Indians with faceslike stone idols, wrapped in gaudy fibre-woven blankets--Indiansdown from the mountain states of Zamora and Los Andes and Miranda totrade their gold dust in the coast towns. 

The spell cast upon these denizens of the interior fastnesses wasremarkable. They sat in petrified ecstasy, conspicuous among theexcitable Macutians, who wildly strove with tongue and hand to giveevidence of their delight. Only once did the sombre rapture of theseaboriginals find expression. During the rendition of "Faust, " GuzmanBlanco, extravagantly pleased by the "Jewel Song, " cast upon the stagea purse of gold pieces. Other distinguished citizens followed his leadto the extent of whatever loose coin they had convenient, while someof the fair and fashionable señoras were moved, in imitation, tofling a jewel or a ring or two at the feet of the Marguerite--whowas, according to the bills, Mlle. Nina Giraud. Then, from differentparts of the house rose sundry of the stolid hillmen and cast upon thestage little brown and dun bags that fell with soft "thumps" and didnot rebound. It was, no doubt, pleasure at the tribute to her artthat caused Mlle. Giraud's eyes to shine so brightly when she openedthese little deerskin bags in her dressing room and found them tocontain pure gold dust. If so, the pleasure was rightly hers, for hervoice in song, pure, strong and thrilling with the feeling of theemotional artist, deserved the tribute that it earned. 

But the triumph of the Alcazar Opera Company is not the theme--itbut leans upon and colours it. There happened in Macuto a tragicthing, an unsolvable mystery, that sobered for a time the gaiety ofthe happy season. 

One evening between the short twilight and the time when she shouldhave whirled upon the stage in the red and black of the ardent Carmen, Mlle. Nina Giraud disappeared from the sight and ken of 6, 000 pairsof eyes and as many minds in Macuto. There was the usual turmoil andhurrying to seek her. Messengers flew to the little French-kept hotelwhere she stayed; others of the company hastened here or there whereshe might be lingering in some tienda or unduly prolonging her bathupon the beach. All search was fruitless. Mademoiselle hadvanished. 

Half an hour passed and she did not appear. The dictator, unused tothe caprices of prime donne, became impatient. He sent an aide fromhis box to say to the manager that if the curtain did not at once risehe would immediately hale the entire company to the calabosa, thoughit would desolate his heart, indeed, to be compelled to such an act. Birds in Macuto could be made to sing. 

The manager abandoned hope for the time of Mlle. Giraud. A member ofthe chorus, who had dreamed hopelessly for years of the blessedopportunity, quickly Carmenized herself and the opera went on. 

Afterward, when the lost cantatrice appeared not, the aid of theauthorities was invoked. The President at once set the army, thepolice and all citizens to the search. Not one clue to Mlle. Giraud'sdisappearance was found. The Alcazar left to fill engagements fartherdown the coast. 

On the way back the steamer stopped at Macuto and the manager madeanxious inquiry. Not a trace of the lady had been discovered. TheAlcazar could do no more. The personal belongings of the missing ladywere stored in the hotel against her possible later reappearance andthe opera company continued upon its homeward voyage to New Orleans. 

 * * * * *

On the camino real along the beach the two saddle mules and the fourpack mules of Don Señor Johnny Armstrong stood, patiently awaiting thecrack of the whip of the _arriero_, Luis. That would be the signal forthe start on another long journey into the mountains. The pack muleswere loaded with a varied assortment of hardware and cutlery. Thesearticles Don Johnny traded to the interior Indians for the gold dustthat they washed from the Andean streams and stored in quills and bagsagainst his coming. It was a profitable business, and Señor Armstrongexpected soon to be able to purchase the coffee plantation that hecoveted. 

Armstrong stood on the narrow sidewalk, exchanging garbled Spanishwith old Peralto, the rich native merchant who had just charged himfour prices for half a gross of pot-metal hatchets, and abridgedEnglish with Rucker, the little German who was Consul for the UnitedStates. 

"Take with you, señor, " said Peralto, "the blessings of the saintsupon your journey. "

"Better try quinine, " growled Rucker through his pipe. "Take twograins every night. And don't make your trip too long, Johnny, because we haf needs of you. It is ein villainous game dot Melvilleplay of whist, and dere is no oder substitute. _Auf wiedersehen_, undkeep your eyes dot mule's ears between when you on der edge of derbrecipices ride. "

The bells of Luis's mule jingled and the pack train filed after thewarning note. Armstrong, waved a good-bye and took his place at thetail of the procession. Up the narrow street they turned, and passedthe two-story wooden Hotel Ingles, where Ives and Dawson and Richardsand the rest of the chaps were dawdling on the broad piazza, readingweek-old newspapers. They crowded to the railing and shouted manyfriendly and wise and foolish farewells after him. Across the plazathey trotted slowly past the bronze statue of Guzman Blanco, withinits fence of bayoneted rifles captured from revolutionists, and outof the town between the rows of thatched huts swarming with theunclothed youth of Macuto. They plunged into the damp coolness ofbanana groves at length to emerge upon a bright stream, where brownwomen in scant raiment laundered clothes destructively upon the rocks. Then the pack train, fording the stream, attacked the sudden ascent, and bade adieu to such civilization as the coast afforded. 

For weeks Armstrong, guided by Luis, followed his regular route amongthe mountains. After he had collected an arroba of the preciousmetal, winning a profit of nearly $5, 000, the heads of the lightenedmules were turned down-trail again. Where the head of the GuaricoRiver springs from a great gash in the mountain-side, Luis halted thetrain. 

"Half a day's journey from here, Señor, " said he, "is the village ofTacuzama, which we have never visited. I think many ounces of gold maybe procured there. It is worth the trial. "

Armstrong concurred, and they turned again upward toward Tacuzama. The trail was abrupt and precipitous, mounting through a denseforest. As night fell, dark and gloomy, Luis once more halted. Before them was a black chasm, bisecting the path as far as they couldsee. 

Luis dismounted. "There should be a bridge, " he called, and ran alongthe cleft a distance. "It is here, " he cried, and remounting, led theway. In a few moments Armstrong, heard a sound as though a thunderousdrum were beating somewhere in the dark. It was the falling of themules' hoofs upon the bridge made of strong hides lashed to poles andstretched across the chasm. Half a mile further was Tacuzama. Thevillage was a congregation of rock and mud huts set in theprofundity of an obscure wood. As they rode in a sound inconsistentwith that brooding solitude met their ears. From a long, low mud hutthat they were nearing rose the glorious voice of a woman in song. The words were English, the air familiar to Armstrong's memory, butnot to his musical knowledge. 

He slipped from his mule and stole to a narrow window in one end ofthe house. Peering cautiously inside, he saw, within three feet ofhim, a woman of marvellous, imposing beauty, clothed in a splendidloose robe of leopard skins. The hut was packed close to the smallspace in which she stood with the squatting figures of Indians. 

The woman finished her song and seated herself close to the littlewindow, as if grateful for the unpolluted air that entered it. When she had ceased several of the audience rose and cast littlesoftly-falling bags at her feet. A harsh murmur--no doubt abarbarous kind of applause and comment--went through the grimassembly. 

Armstrong, was used to seizing opportunities promptly. Takingadvantage of the noise he called to the woman in a low but distinctvoice: "Do not turn your head this way, but listen. I am an American. If you need assistance tell me how I can render it. Answer as brieflyas you can. "

The woman was worthy of his boldness. Only by a sudden flush of herpale cheek did she acknowledge understanding of his words. Then shespoke, scarcely moving her lips. 

"I am held a prisoner by these Indians. God knows I need help. Intwo hours come to the little hut twenty yards toward the Mountainside. There will be a light and a red curtain in the window. There isalways a guard at the door, whom you will have to overcome. For thelove of heaven, do not fail to come. "

The story seems to shrink from adventure and rescue and mystery. Thetheme is one too gentle for those brave and quickening tones. And yetit reaches as far back as time itself. It has been named"environment, " which is as weak a word as any to express theunnameable kinship of man to nature, that queer fraternity that causesstones and trees and salt water and clouds to play upon our emotions. Why are we made serious and solemn and sublime by mountain heights, grave and contemplative by an abundance of overhanging trees, reduced to inconstancy and monkey capers by the ripples on a sandybeach? Did the protoplasm--but enough. The chemists are lookinginto the matter, and before long they will have all life in the tableof the symbols. 

Briefly, then, in order to confine the story within scientific bounds, John Armstrong, went to the hut, choked the Indian guard and carriedaway Mlle. Giraud. With her was also conveyed a number of pounds ofgold dust she had collected during her six months' forced engagementin Tacuzama. The Carabobo Indians are easily the most enthusiasticlovers of music between the equator and the French Opera House in NewOrleans. They are also strong believers that the advice of Emersonwas good when he said: "The thing thou wantest, O discontented man--take it, and pay the price. " A number of them had attended theperformance of the Alcazar Opera Company in Macuto, and found Mlle. Giraud's style and technique satisfactory. They wanted her, so theytook her one evening suddenly and without any fuss. They treated herwith much consideration, exacting only one song recital each day. Shewas quite pleased at being rescued by Mr. Armstrong. So much formystery and adventure. Now to resume the theory of the protoplasm. 

John Armstrong and Mlle. Giraud rode among the Andean peaks, envelopedin their greatness and sublimity. The mightiest cousins, furthestremoved, in nature's great family become conscious of the tie. Amongthose huge piles of primordial upheaval, amid those gigantic silencesand elongated fields of distance the littlenesses of men areprecipitated as one chemical throws down a sediment from another. They moved reverently, as in a temple. Their souls were uplifted inunison with the stately heights. They travelled in a zone of majestyand peace. 

To Armstrong the woman seemed almost a holy thing. Yet bathed in thewhite, still dignity of her martyrdom that purified her earthly beautyand gave out, it seemed, an aura of transcendent loveliness, in thosefirst hours of companionship she drew from him an adoration that washalf human love, half the worship of a descended goddess. 

Never yet since her rescue had she smiled. Over her dress she stillwore the robe of leopard skins, for the mountain air was cold. Shelooked to be some splendid princess belonging to those wild andawesome altitudes. The spirit of the region chimed with hers. Hereyes were always turned upon the sombre cliffs, the blue gorges andthe snow-clad turrets, looking a sublime melancholy equal to theirown. At times on the journey she sang thrilling te deums andmisereres that struck the true note of the hills, and made theirroute seem like a solemn march down a cathedral aisle. The rescuedone spoke but seldom, her mood partaking of the hush of nature thatsurrounded them. Armstrong looked upon her as an angel. He could notbring himself to the sacrilege of attempting to woo her as otherwomen may be wooed. 

On the third day they had descended as far as the _tierra templada_, the zona of the table lands and foot hills. The mountains werereceding in their rear, but still towered, exhibiting yet impressivelytheir formidable heads. Here they met signs of man. They saw thewhite houses of coffee plantations gleam across the clearings. Theystruck into a road where they met travellers and pack-mules. Cattlewere grazing on the slopes. They passed a little village where theround-eyed _niños_ shrieked and called at sight of them. 

Mlle. Giraud laid aside her leopard-skin robe. It seemed to be atrifle incongruous now. In the mountains it had appeared fittingand natural. And if Armstrong was not mistaken she laid aside withit something of the high dignity of her demeanour. As the countrybecame more populous and significant of comfortable life he saw, witha feeling of joy, that the exalted princess and priestess of theAndean peaks was changing to a woman--an earth woman, but no lessenticing. A little colour crept to the surface of her marble cheek. She arranged the conventional dress that the removal of the robe nowdisclosed with the solicitous touch of one who is conscious of theeyes of others. She smoothed the careless sweep of her hair. Amundane interest, long latent in the chilling atmosphere of theascetic peaks, showed in her eyes. 

This thaw in his divinity sent Armstrong's heart going faster. Somight an Arctic explorer thrill at his first ken of green fields andliquescent waters. They were on a lower plane of earth and life andwere succumbing to its peculiar, subtle influence. The austerity ofthe hills no longer thinned the air they breathed. About them was thebreath of fruit and corn and builded homes, the comfortable smell ofsmoke and warm earth and the consolations man has placed betweenhimself and the dust of his brother earth from which he sprung. While traversing those awful mountains, Mile. Giraud had seemed tobe wrapped in their spirit of reverent reserve. Was this that samewoman--now palpitating, warm, eager, throbbing with conscious life andcharm, feminine to her finger-tips? Pondering over this, Armstrongfelt certain misgivings intrude upon his thoughts. He wished he couldstop there with this changing creature, descending no farther. Herewas the elevation and environment to which her nature seemed torespond with its best. He feared to go down upon the man-dominatedlevels. Would her spirit not yield still further in that artificialzone to which they were descending?

Now from a little plateau they saw the sea flash at the edge of thegreen lowlands. Mile. Giraud gave a little, catching sigh. 

"Oh! look, Mr. Armstrong, there is the sea! Isn't it lovely? I'm sotired of mountains. " She heaved a pretty shoulder in a gesture ofrepugnance. "Those horrid Indians! Just think of what I suffered!Although I suppose I attained my ambition of becoming a stellarattraction, I wouldn't care to repeat the engagement. It was verynice of you to bring me away. Tell me, Mr. Armstrong--honestly, now--do I look such an awful, awful fright? I haven't looked into amirror, you know, for months. "

Armstrong made answer according to his changed moods. Also he laidhis hand upon hers as it rested upon the horn of her saddle. Luis wasat the head of the pack train and could not see. She allowed it toremain there, and her eyes smiled frankly into his. 

Then at sundown they dropped upon the coast level under the palms andlemons among the vivid greens and scarlets and ochres of the _tierracaliente_. They rode into Macuto, and saw the line of volatile bathersfrolicking in the surf. The mountains were very far away. 

Mlle. Giraud's eyes were shining with a joy that could not haveexisted under the chaperonage of the mountain-tops. There were otherspirits calling to her--nymphs of the orange groves, pixies from thechattering surf, imps, born of the music, the perfumes, colours andthe insinuating presence of humanity. She laughed aloud, musically, at a sudden thought. 

"Won't there be a sensation?" she called to Armstrong. "Don't I wishI had an engagement just now, though! What a picnic the press agentwould have! 'Held a prisoner by a band of savage Indians subdued bythe spell of her wonderful voice'--wouldn't that make great stuff?But I guess I quit the game winner, anyhow--there ought to be acouple of thousand dollars in that sack of gold dust I collected asencores, don't you think?"

He left her at the door of the little Hotel de Buen Descansar, whereshe had stopped before. Two hours later he returned to the hotel. Heglanced in at the open door of the little combined reception room andcafe. 

Half a dozen of Macuto's representative social and official_caballeros_ were distributed about the room. Señor Villablanca, thewealthy rubber concessionist, reposed his fat figure on two chairs, with an emollient smile beaming upon his chocolate-coloured face. Guilbert, the French mining engineer, leered through his polishednose-glasses. Colonel Mendez, of the regular army, in gold-laceduniform and fatuous grin, was busily extracting corks from champagnebottles. Other patterns of Macutian gallantry and fashion pranced andposed. The air was hazy with cigarette smoke. Wine dripped upon thefloor. 

Perched upon a table in the centre of the room in an attitude of easypreëminence was Mlle. Giraud. A chic costume of white lawn and cherryribbons supplanted her travelling garb. There was a suggestion oflace, and a frill or two, with a discreet, small implication ofhand-embroidered pink hosiery. Upon her lap rested a guitar. In herface was the light of resurrection, the peace of elysium attainedthrough fire and suffering. She was singing to a lively accompanimenta little song:

 "When you see de big round moon Comin' up like a balloon, Dis nigger skips fur to kiss de lips Ob his stylish, black-faced coon. "

The singer caught sight of Armstrong. 

"Hi! there, Johnny, " she called; "I've been expecting you for anhour. What kept you? Gee! but these smoked guys are the slowest youever saw. They ain't on, at all. Come along in, and I'll make thiscoffee-coloured old sport with the gold epaulettes open one for youright off the ice. "

"Thank you, " said Armstrong; "not just now, I believe. I've severalthings to attend to. "

He walked out and down the street, and met Rucker coming up from theConsulate. 

"Play you a game of billiards, " said Armstrong. "I want something totake the taste of the sea level out of my mouth. "

VI

"GIRL"

In gilt letters on the ground glass of the door of room No. 962 werethe words: "Robbins & Hartley, Brokers. " The clerks had gone. It waspast five, and with the solid tramp of a drove of prize Percherons, scrub-women were invading the cloud-capped twenty-story officebuilding. A puff of red-hot air flavoured with lemon peelings, soft-coal smoke and train oil came in through the half-open windows. 

Robbins, fifty, something of an overweight beau, and addicted to firstnights and hotel palm-rooms, pretended to be envious of his partner'scommuter's joys. 

"Going to be something doing in the humidity line to-night, " he said. "You out-of-town chaps will be the people, with your katydids andmoonlight and long drinks and things out on the front porch. "

Hartley, twenty-nine, serious, thin, good-looking, nervous, sighedand frowned a little. 

"Yes, " said he, "we always have cool nights in Floralhurst, especiallyin the winter. "

A man with an air of mystery came in the door and went up to Hartley. 

"I've found where she lives, " he announced in the portentoushalf-whisper that makes the detective at work a marked being to hisfellow men. 

Hartley scowled him into a state of dramatic silence and quietude. But by that time Robbins had got his cane and set his tie pin to hisliking, and with a debonair nod went out to his metropolitanamusements. 

"Here is the address, " said the detective in a natural tone, beingdeprived of an audience to foil. 

Hartley took the leaf torn out of the sleuth's dingy memorandum book. On it were pencilled the words "Vivienne Arlington, No. 341 East----th Street, care of Mrs. McComus. "

"Moved there a week ago, " said the detective. "Now, if you want anyshadowing done, Mr. Hartley, I can do you as fine a job in that lineas anybody in the city. It will be only $7 a day and expenses. Cansend in a daily typewritten report, covering--"

"You needn't go on, " interrupted the broker. "It isn't a case of thatkind. I merely wanted the address. How much shall I pay you?"

"One day's work, " said the sleuth. "A tenner will cover it. "

Hartley paid the man and dismissed him. Then he left the office andboarded a Broadway car. At the first large crosstown artery of travelhe took an eastbound car that deposited him in a decaying avenue, whose ancient structures once sheltered the pride and glory of thetown. 

Walking a few squares, he came to the building that he sought. It wasa new flathouse, bearing carved upon its cheap stone portal itssonorous name, "The Vallambrosa. " Fire-escapes zigzagged down itsfront--these laden with household goods, drying clothes, andsqualling children evicted by the midsummer heat. Here and there apale rubber plant peeped from the miscellaneous mass, as if wonderingto what kingdom it belonged--vegetable, animal or artificial. 

Hartley pressed the "McComus" button. The door latch clickedspasmodically--now hospitably, now doubtfully, as though inanxiety whether it might be admitting friends or duns. Hartleyentered and began to climb the stairs after the manner of those whoseek their friends in city flat-houses--which is the manner of a boywho climbs an apple-tree, stopping when he comes upon what he wants. 

On the fourth floor he saw Vivienne standing in an open door. Sheinvited him inside, with a nod and a bright, genuine smile. Sheplaced a chair for him near a window, and poised herself gracefullyupon the edge of one of those Jekyll-and-Hyde pieces of furniture thatare masked and mysteriously hooded, unguessable bulks by day andinquisitorial racks of torture by night. 

Hartley cast a quick, critical, appreciative glance at her beforespeaking, and told himself that his taste in choosing had beenflawless. 

Vivienne was about twenty-one. She was of the purest Saxon type. Herhair was a ruddy golden, each filament of the neatly gathered massshining with its own lustre and delicate graduation of colour. Inperfect harmony were her ivory-clear complexion and deep sea-blue eyesthat looked upon the world with the ingenuous calmness of a mermaid orthe pixie of an undiscovered mountain stream. Her frame was strongand yet possessed the grace of absolute naturalness. And yet with allher Northern clearness and frankness of line and colouring, thereseemed to be something of the tropics in her--something of languorin the droop of her pose, of love of ease in her ingenious complacencyof satisfaction and comfort in the mere act of breathing--somethingthat seemed to claim for her a right as a perfect work of nature toexist and be admired equally with a rare flower or some beautiful, milk-white dove among its sober-hued companions. 

She was dressed in a white waist and dark skirt--that discreetmasquerade of goose-girl and duchess. 

"Vivienne, " said Hartley, looking at her pleadingly, "you did notanswer my last letter. It was only by nearly a week's search that Ifound where you had moved to. Why have you kept me in suspense whenyou knew how anxiously I was waiting to see you and hear from you?"

The girl looked out the window dreamily. 

"Mr. Hartley, " she said hesitatingly, "I hardly know what to say toyou. I realize all the advantages of your offer, and sometimes I feelsure that I could be contented with you. But, again, I am doubtful. I was born a city girl, and I am afraid to bind myself to a quietsuburban life. "

"My dear girl, " said Hartley, ardently, "have I not told you that youshall have everything that your heart can desire that is in my powerto give you? You shall come to the city for the theatres, forshopping and to visit your friends as often as you care to. You cantrust me, can you not?"

"To the fullest, " she said, turning her frank eyes upon him with asmile. "I know you are the kindest of men, and that the girl you getwill be a lucky one. I learned all about you when I was at theMontgomerys'. "

"Ah!" exclaimed Hartley, with a tender, reminiscent light in his eye;"I remember well the evening I first saw you at the Montgomerys'. Mrs. Montgomery was sounding your praises to me all the evening. And she hardly did you justice. I shall never forget that supper. Come, Vivienne, promise me. I want you. You'll never regret comingwith me. No one else will ever give you as pleasant a home. "

The girl sighed and looked down at her folded hands. 

A sudden jealous suspicion seized Hartley. 

"Tell me, Vivienne, " he asked, regarding her keenly, "is thereanother--is there some one else ?"

A rosy flush crept slowly over her fair cheeks and neck. 

"You shouldn't ask that, Mr. Hartley, " she said, in some confusion. "But I will tell you. There is one other--but he has no right--Ihave promised him nothing. "

"His name?" demanded Hartley, sternly. 

"Townsend. "

"Rafford Townsend!" exclaimed Hartley, with a grim tightening of hisjaw. "How did that man come to know you? After all I've done forhim--"

"His auto has just stopped below, " said Vivienne, bending over thewindow-sill. "He's coming for his answer. Oh I don't know what todo!"

The bell in the flat kitchen whirred. Vivienne hurried to press thelatch button. 

"Stay here, " said Hartley. "I will meet him in the hall. "

Townsend, looking like a Spanish grandee in his light tweeds, Panamahat and curling black mustache, came up the stairs three at a time. He stopped at sight of Hartley and looked foolish. 

"Go back, " said Hartley, firmly, pointing downstairs with hisforefinger. 

"Hullo!" said Townsend, feigning surprise. "What's up? What are youdoing here, old man?"

"Go back, " repeated Hartley, inflexibly. "The Law of the Jungle. Doyou want the Pack to tear you in pieces? The kill is mine. "

"I came here to see a plumber about the bathroom connections, " saidTownsend, bravely. 

"All right, " said Hartley. "You shall have that lying plaster tostick upon your traitorous soul. But, go back. " Townsend wentdownstairs, leaving a bitter word to be wafted up the draught of thestaircase. Hartley went back to his wooing. 

"Vivienne, " said he, masterfully. "I have got to have you. I willtake no more refusals or dilly-dallying. "

"When do you want me?" she asked. 

"Now. As soon as you can get ready. "

She stood calmly before him and looked him in the eye. 

"Do you think for one moment, " she said, "that I would enter your homewhile Héloise is there?"

Hartley cringed as if from an unexpected blow. He folded his arms andpaced the carpet once or twice. 

"She shall go, " he declared grimly. Drops stood upon his brow. "Whyshould I let that woman make my life miserable? Never have I seen oneday of freedom from trouble since I have known her. You are right, Vivienne. Héloise must be sent away before I can take you home. Butshe shall go. I have decided. I will turn her from my doors. "

"When will you do this?" asked the girl. 

Hartley clinched his teeth and bent his brows together. 

"To-night, " he said, resolutely. "I will send her away to-night. "

"Then, " said Vivienne, "my answer is 'yes. ' Come for me when youwill. "

She looked into his eyes with a sweet, sincere light in her own. Hartley could scarcely believe that her surrender was true, it wasso swift and complete. 

"Promise me, " he said feelingly, "on your word and honour. "

"On my word and honour, " repeated Vivienne, softly. 

At the door he turned and gazed at her happily, but yet as one whoscarcely trusts the foundations of his joy. 

"To-morrow, " he said, with a forefinger of reminder uplifted. 

"To-morrow, " she repeated with a smile of truth and candour. 

In an hour and forty minutes Hartley stepped off the train atFloralhurst. A brisk walk of ten minutes brought him to the gate of ahandsome two-story cottage set upon a wide and well-tended lawn. Halfway to the house he was met by a woman with jet-black braided hairand flowing white summer gown, who half strangled him without apparentcause. 

When they stepped into the hall she said:

"Mamma's here. The auto is coming for her in half an hour. She cameto dinner, but there's no dinner. "

"I've something to tell you, " said Hartley. "I thought to break it toyou gently, but since your mother is here we may as well out with it. "

He stooped and whispered something at her ear. 

His wife screamed. Her mother came running into the hall. Thedark-haired woman screamed again--the joyful scream of a well-belovedand petted woman. 

"Oh, mamma!" she cried ecstatically, "what do you think? Vivienne iscoming to cook for us! She is the one that stayed with theMontgomerys a whole year. And now, Billy, dear, " she concluded, "youmust go right down into the kitchen and discharge Héloise. She hasbeen drunk again the whole day long. "

VII

SOCIOLOGY IN SERGE AND STRAW

The season of irresponsibility is at hand. Come, let us twine roundour brows wreaths of poison ivy (that is for idiocy), and wander handin hand with sociology in the summer fields. 

Likely as not the world is flat. The wise men have tried to provethat it is round, with indifferent success. They pointed out to us aship going to sea, and bade us observe that, at length, the convexityof the earth hid from our view all but the vessel's topmast. But wepicked up a telescope and looked, and saw the decks and hull again. Then the wise men said: "Oh, pshaw! anyhow, the variation of theintersection of the equator and the ecliptic proves it. " We could notsee this through our telescope, so we remained silent. But it standsto reason that, if the world were round, the queues of Chinamenwould stand straight up from their heads instead of hanging down theirbacks, as travellers assure us they do. 

Another hot-weather corroboration of the flat theory is the fact thatall of life, as we know it, moves in little, unavailing circles. More justly than to anything else, it can be likened to the gameof baseball. Crack! we hit the ball, and away we go. If we earn arun (in life we call it success) we get back to the home plate andsit upon a bench. If we are thrown out, we walk back to the homeplate--and sit upon a bench. 

The circumnavigators of the alleged globe may have sailed the rim of awatery circle back to the same port again. The truly great return atthe high tide of their attainments to the simplicity of a child. Thebillionaire sits down at his mahogany to his bowl of bread and milk. When you reach the end of your career, just take down the sign "Goal"and look at the other side of it. You will find "Beginning Point"there. It has been reversed while you were going around the track. 

But this is humour, and must be stopped. Let us get back to theserious questions that arise whenever Sociology turns summer boarder. You are invited to consider the scene of the story--wild, Atlanticwaves, thundering against a wooded and rock-bound shore--in theGreater City of New York. 

The town of Fishampton, on the south shore of Long Island, is notedfor its clam fritters and the summer residence of the Van Plushvelts. 

The Van Plushvelts have a hundred million dollars, and their name is ahousehold word with tradesmen and photographers. 

On the fifteenth of June the Van Plushvelts boarded up the front doorof their city house, carefully deposited their cat on the sidewalk, instructed the caretaker not to allow it to eat any of the ivy on thewalls, and whizzed away in a 40-horse-power to Fishampton to strayalone in the shade--Amaryllis not being in their class. If you are asubscriber to the _Toadies' Magazine_, you have often--You say you arenot? Well, you buy it at a news-stand, thinking that the newsdealeris not wise to you. But he knows about it all. HE knows--HE knows!I say that you have often seen in the _Toadies' Magazine_ pictures ofthe Van Plushvelts' summer home; so it will not be described here. Our business is with young Haywood Van Plushvelt, sixteen years old, heir to the century of millions, darling of the financial gods andgreat grandson of Peter Van Plushvelt, former owner of a particularlyfine cabbage patch that has been ruined by an intrusive lot ofdowntown skyscrapers. 

One afternoon young Haywood Van Plushvelt strolled out between thegranite gate posts of "Dolce far Niente"--that's what they calledthe place; and it was an improvement on dolce Far Rockaway, I cantell you. 

Haywood walked down into the village. He was human, after all, andhis prospective millions weighed upon him. Wealth had wreaked uponhim its direfullest. He was the product of private tutors. Even underhis first hobby-horse had tan bark been strewn. He had been born witha gold spoon, lobster fork and fish-set in his mouth. For which Ihope, later, to submit justification, I must ask your consideration ofhis haberdashery and tailoring. 

Young Fortunatus was dressed in a neat suit of dark blue serge, aneat, white straw hat, neat low-cut tan shoes, of the well-known"immaculate" trade mark, a neat, narrow four-in-hand tie, and carrieda slender, neat, bamboo cane. 

Down Persimmon Street (there's never tree north of Hagerstown, Md. )came from the village "Smoky" Dodson, fifteen and a half, worst boy inFishampton. "Smoky" was dressed in a ragged red sweater, wrecked andweather-worn golf cap, run-over shoes, and trousers of the"serviceable" brand. Dust, clinging to the moisture induced by freeexercise, darkened wide areas of his face. "Smoky" carried a baseballbat, and a league ball that advertised itself in the rotundity of histrousers pocket. Haywood stopped and passed the time of day. 

"Going to play ball?" he asked. 

"Smoky's" eyes and countenance confronted him with a frankblue-and-freckled scrutiny. 

"Me?" he said, with deadly mildness; "sure not. Can't you see I'vegot a divin' suit on? I'm goin' up in a submarine balloon to catchbutterflies with a two-inch auger. 

"Excuse me, " said Haywood, with the insulting politeness of hiscaste, "for mistaking you for a gentleman. I might have knownbetter. "

"How might you have known better if you thought I was one?" said"Smoky, " unconsciously a logician. 

"By your appearance, " said Haywood. "No gentleman is dirty, raggedand a liar. "

"Smoky" hooted once like a ferry-boat, spat on his hand, got a firmgrip on his baseball bat and then dropped it against the fence. 

"Say, " said he, "I knows you. You're the pup that belongs in thatswell private summer sanitarium for city-guys over there. I seen youcome out of the gate. You can't bluff nobody because you're rich. And because you got on swell clothes. Arabella! Yah!"

"Ragamuffin!" said Haywood. 

"Smoky" picked up a fence-rail splinter and laid it on his shoulder. 

"Dare you to knock it off, " he challenged. 

"I wouldn't soil my hands with you, " said the aristocrat. 

"'Fraid, " said "Smoky" concisely. "Youse city-ducks ain't got the Isand. I kin lick you with one-hand. "

"I don't wish to have any trouble with you, " said Haywood. "I askedyou a civil question; and you replied, like a--like a--a cad. "

"Wot's a cad?" asked "Smoky. "

"A cad is a disagreeable person, " answered Haywood, "who lacks mannersand doesn't know his place. They sometimes play baseball. "

"I can tell you what a mollycoddle is, " said "Smoky. " "It's a monkeydressed up by its mother and sent out to pick daisies on the lawn. "

"When you have the honour to refer to the members of my family, " saidHaywood, with some dim ideas of a code in his mind, "you'd betterleave the ladies out of your remarks. "

"Ho! ladies!" mocked the rude one. "I say ladies! I know what themrich women in the city does. They, drink cocktails and swear and giveparties to gorillas. The papers say so. "

Then Haywood knew that it must be. He took off his coat, folded itneatly and laid it on the roadside grass, placed his hat upon it andbegan to unknot his blue silk tie. 

"Hadn't yer better ring fer yer maid, Arabella?" taunted "Smoky. ""Wot yer going to do--go to bed?"

"I'm going to give you a good trouncing, " said the hero. He did nothesitate, although the enemy was far beneath him socially. Heremembered that his father once thrashed a cabman, and the papers gaveit two columns, first page. And the _Toadies' Magazine_ had a specialarticle on Upper Cuts by the Upper Classes, and ran new pictures ofthe Van Plushvelt country seat, at Fishampton. 

"Wot's trouncing?" asked "Smoky, " suspiciously. "I don't want yourold clothes. I'm no--oh, you mean to scrap! My, my! I won't do athing to mamma's pet. Criminy! I'd hate to be a hand-laundered thinglike you. 

"Smoky" waited with some awkwardness for his adversary to prepare forbattle. His own decks were always clear for action. When he shouldspit upon the palm of his terrible right it was equivalent to "You mayfire now, Gridley. "

The hated patrician advanced, with his shirt sleeves neatly rolled up. "Smoky" waited, in an attitude of ease, expecting the affair to beconducted according to Fishampton's rules of war. These allowedcombat to be prefaced by stigma, recrimination, epithet, abuse andinsult gradually increasing in emphasis and degree. After a round ofthese "you're anothers" would come the chip knocked from the shoulder, or the advance across the "dare" line drawn with a toe on the ground. Next light taps given and taken, these also increasing in force untilfinally the blood was up and fists going at their best. 

But Haywood did not know Fishampton's rules. Noblesse oblige kept afaint smile on his face as he walked slowly up to "Smoky" and said:

"Going to play ball?"

"Smoky" quickly understood this to be a putting of the previousquestion, giving him the chance to make practical apology by answeringit with civility and relevance. 

"Listen this time, " said he. "I'm goin' skatin' on the river. Don'tyou see me automobile with Chinese lanterns on it standin' and waitin'for me?"

Haywood knocked him down. 

"Smoky" felt wronged. To thus deprive him of preliminary wrangle andobjurgation was to send an armoured knight full tilt against acrashing lance without permitting him first to caracole around thelist to the flourish of trumpets. But he scrambled up and fell uponhis foe, head, feet and fists. 

The fight lasted one round of an hour and ten minutes. It waslengthened until it was more like a war or a family feud than a fight. Haywood had learned some of the science of boxing and wrestling fromhis tutors, but these he discarded for the more instinctive methods ofbattle handed down by the cave-dwelling Van Plushvelts. 

So, when he found himself, during the mêlée, seated upon the kickingand roaring "Smoky's" chest, he improved the opportunity by vigorouslykneading handfuls of sand and soil into his adversary's ears, eyesand mouth, and when "Smoky" got the proper leg hold and "turned" him, he fastened both hands in the Plushvelt hair and pounded the Plushvelthead against the lap of mother earth. Of course, the strife was notincessantly active. There were seasons when one sat upon the other, holding him down, while each blew like a grampus, spat out the moreinconveniently large sections of gravel and earth and strove to subduethe spirit of his opponent with a frightful and soul-paralyzing glare. 

At last, it seemed that in the language of the ring, their effortslacked steam. They broke away, and each disappeared in a cloud as hebrushed away the dust of the conflict. As soon as his breathpermitted, Haywood walked close to "Smoky" and said:

"Going to play ball?"

"Smoky" looked pensively at the sky, at his bat lying on the ground, and at the "leaguer" rounding his pocket. 

"Sure, " he said, offhandedly. "The 'Yellowjackets' plays the 'LongIslands. ' I'm cap'n of the 'Long Islands. '"

"I guess I didn't mean to say you were ragged, " said Haywood. "Butyou are dirty, you know. "

"Sure, " said "Smoky. " "Yer get that way knockin' around. Say, Idon't believe them New York papers about ladies drinkin' and havin'monkeys dinin' at the table with 'em. I guess they're lies, like theyprint about people eatin' out of silver plates, and ownin' dogs thatcost $100. "

"Certainly, " said Haywood. "What do you play on your team?"

"Ketcher. Ever play any?"

"Never in my life, " said Haywood. "I've never known any fellowsexcept one or two of my cousins. "

"Jer like to learn? We're goin' to have a practice-game before thematch. Wanter come along? I'll put yer in left-field, and yer won'tbe long ketchin' on. "

"I'd like it bully, " said Haywood. "I've always wanted to playbaseball. "

The ladies' maids of New York and the families of Western mine ownerswith social ambitions will remember well the sensation that wascreated by the report that the young multi-millionaire, Haywood VanPlushvelt, was playing ball with the village youths of Fishampton. Itwas conceded that the millennium of democracy had come. Reporters andphotographers swarmed to the island. The papers printed half-pagepictures of him as short-stop stopping a hot grounder. The _Toadies'Magazine_ got out a Bat and Ball number that covered the subjecthistorically, beginning with the vampire bat and ending with thePatriarchs' ball--illustrated with interior views of the VanPlushvelt country seat. Ministers, educators and sociologistseverywhere hailed the event as the tocsin call that proclaimed theuniversal brotherhood of man. 

One afternoon I was reclining under the trees near the shore atFishampton in the esteemed company of an eminent, bald-headed youngsociologist. By way of note it may be inserted that all sociologistsare more or less bald, and exactly thirty-two. Look 'em over. 

The sociologist was citing the Van Plushvelt case as the mostimportant "uplift" symptom of a generation, and as an excuse for hisown existence. 

Immediately before us were the village baseball grounds. And now camethe sportive youth of Fishampton and distributed themselves, shouting, about the diamond. 

"There, " said the sociologist, pointing, "there is young VanPlushvelt. "

I raised myself (so far a cosycophant with Mary Ann) and gazed. 

Young Van Plushvelt sat upon the ground. He was dressed in a raggedred sweater, wrecked and weather-worn golf cap, run-over shoes, andtrousers of the "serviceable" brand. Dust clinging to the moistureinduced by free exercise, darkened wide areas of his face. 

"That is he, " repeated the sociologist. If he had said "him" I couldhave been less vindictive. 

On a bench, with an air, sat the young millionaire's chum. 

He was dressed in a neat suit of dark blue serge, a neat white strawhat, neat low-cut tan shoes, linen of the well-known "immaculate"trade mark, a neat, narrow four-in-hand tie, and carried a slender, neat bamboo cane. 

I laughed loudly and vulgarly. 

"What you want to do, " said I to the sociologist, "is to establish areformatory for the Logical Vicious Circle. Or else I've got wheels. It looks to me as if things are running round and round in circlesinstead of getting anywhere. "

"What do you mean?" asked the man of progress. 

"Why, look what he has done to 'Smoky', " I replied. 

"You will always be a fool, " said my friend, the sociologist, getting up and walking away. 

VIII

THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF

It looked like a good thing: but wait till I tell you. We were downSouth, in Alabama--Bill Driscoll and myself--when this kidnappingidea struck us. It was, as Bill afterward expressed it, "during amoment of temporary mental apparition"; but we didn't find that outtill later. 

There was a town down there, as flat as a flannel-cake, and calledSummit, of course. It contained inhabitants of as undeleterious andself-satisfied a class of peasantry as ever clustered around aMaypole. 

Bill and me had a joint capital of about six hundred dollars, andwe needed just two thousand dollars more to pull off a fraudulenttown-lot scheme in Western Illinois with. We talked it over on thefront steps of the hotel. Philoprogenitiveness, says we, is strongin semi-rural communities; therefore and for other reasons, akidnapping project ought to do better there than in the radius ofnewspapers that send reporters out in plain clothes to stir up talkabout such things. We knew that Summit couldn't get after us withanything stronger than constables and maybe some lackadaisicalbloodhounds and a diatribe or two in the _Weekly Farmers' Budget_. So, it looked good. 

We selected for our victim the only child of a prominent citizen namedEbenezer Dorset. The father was respectable and tight, a mortgagefancier and a stern, upright collection-plate passer and forecloser. The kid was a boy of ten, with bas-relief freckles, and hair thecolour of the cover of the magazine you buy at the news-stand when youwant to catch a train. Bill and me figured that Ebenezer would meltdown for a ransom of two thousand dollars to a cent. But wait till Itell you. 

About two miles from Summit was a little mountain, covered with adense cedar brake. On the rear elevation of this mountain was a cave. There we stored provisions. One evening after sundown, we drove in abuggy past old Dorset's house. The kid was in the street, throwingrocks at a kitten on the opposite fence. 

"Hey, little boy!" says Bill, "would you like to have a bag of candyand a nice ride?"

The boy catches Bill neatly in the eye with a piece of brick. 

"That will cost the old man an extra five hundred dollars, " says Bill, climbing over the wheel. 

That boy put up a fight like a welter-weight cinnamon bear; but, atlast, we got him down in the bottom of the buggy and drove away. Wetook him up to the cave and I hitched the horse in the cedar brake. After dark I drove the buggy to the little village, three miles away, where we had hired it, and walked back to the mountain. 

Bill was pasting court-plaster over the scratches and bruises on hisfeatures. There was a fire burning behind the big rock at the entranceof the cave, and the boy was watching a pot of boiling coffee, withtwo buzzard tail-feathers stuck in his red hair. He points a stickat me when I come up, and says:

"Ha! cursed paleface, do you dare to enter the camp of Red Chief, theterror of the plains?

"He's all right now, " says Bill, rolling up his trousers and examiningsome bruises on his shins. "We're playing Indian. We're makingBuffalo Bill's show look like magic-lantern views of Palestine in thetown hall. I'm Old Hank, the Trapper, Red Chief's captive, and I'm tobe scalped at daybreak. By Geronimo! that kid can kick hard. "

Yes, sir, that boy seemed to be having the time of his life. The funof camping out in a cave had made him forget that he was a captivehimself. He immediately christened me Snake-eye, the Spy, andannounced that, when his braves returned from the warpath, I was to bebroiled at the stake at the rising of the sun. 

Then we had supper; and he filled his mouth full of bacon and breadand gravy, and began to talk. He made a during-dinner speechsomething like this:

"I like this fine. I never camped out before; but I had a pet 'possumonce, and I was nine last birthday. I hate to go to school. Rats ateup sixteen of Jimmy Talbot's aunt's speckled hen's eggs. Are thereany real Indians in these woods? I want some more gravy. Does thetrees moving make the wind blow? We had five puppies. What makes yournose so red, Hank? My father has lots of money. Are the stars hot? Iwhipped Ed Walker twice, Saturday. I don't like girls. You dassentcatch toads unless with a string. Do oxen make any noise? Why areoranges round? Have you got beds to sleep on in this cave? Amos Murrayhas got six toes. A parrot can talk, but a monkey or a fish can't. How many does it take to make twelve?"

Every few minutes he would remember that he was a pesky redskin, andpick up his stick rifle and tiptoe to the mouth of the cave to rubberfor the scouts of the hated paleface. Now and then he would let out awar-whoop that made Old Hank the Trapper shiver. That boy had Billterrorized from the start. 

"Red Chief, " says I to the kid, "would you like to go home?"

"Aw, what for?" says he. "I don't have any fun at home. I hate togo to school. I like to camp out. You won't take me back home again, Snake-eye, will you?"

"Not right away, " says I. "We'll stay here in the cave a while. "

"All right!" says he. "That'll be fine. I never had such fun in allmy life. "

We went to bed about eleven o'clock. We spread down some wideblankets and quilts and put Red Chief between us. We weren't afraidhe'd run away. He kept us awake for three hours, jumping up andreaching for his rifle and screeching: "Hist! pard, " in mine andBill's ears, as the fancied crackle of a twig or the rustle of a leafrevealed to his young imagination the stealthy approach of the outlawband. At last, I fell into a troubled sleep, and dreamed that I hadbeen kidnapped and chained to a tree by a ferocious pirate with redhair. 

Just at daybreak, I was awakened by a series of awful screams fromBill. They weren't yells, or howls, or shouts, or whoops, or yawps, such as you'd expect from a manly set of vocal organs--they weresimply indecent, terrifying, humiliating screams, such as women emitwhen they see ghosts or caterpillars. It's an awful thing to hear astrong, desperate, fat man scream incontinently in a cave at daybreak. 

I jumped up to see what the matter was. Red Chief was sitting onBill's chest, with one hand twined in Bill's hair. In the other hehad the sharp case-knife we used for slicing bacon; and he wasindustriously and realistically trying to take Bill's scalp, accordingto the sentence that had been pronounced upon him the evening before. 

I got the knife away from the kid and made him lie down again. But, from that moment, Bill's spirit was broken. He laid down on his sideof the bed, but he never closed an eye again in sleep as long as thatboy was with us. I dozed off for a while, but along toward sun-up Iremembered that Red Chief had said I was to be burned at the stakeat the rising of the sun. I wasn't nervous or afraid; but I sat upand lit my pipe and leaned against a rock. 

"What you getting up so soon for, Sam?" asked Bill. 

"Me?" says I. "Oh, I got a kind of a pain in my shoulder. I thoughtsitting up would rest it. "

"You're a liar!" says Bill. "You're afraid. You was to be burned atsunrise, and you was afraid he'd do it. And he would, too, if hecould find a match. Ain't it awful, Sam? Do you think anybody will payout money to get a little imp like that back home?"

"Sure, " said I. "A rowdy kid like that is just the kind that parentsdote on. Now, you and the Chief get up and cook breakfast, while I goup on the top of this mountain and reconnoitre. "

I went up on the peak of the little mountain and ran my eye over thecontiguous vicinity. Over toward Summit I expected to see the sturdyyeomanry of the village armed with scythes and pitchforks beating thecountryside for the dastardly kidnappers. But what I saw was apeaceful landscape dotted with one man ploughing with a dun mule. Nobody was dragging the creek; no couriers dashed hither and yon, bringing tidings of no news to the distracted parents. There was asylvan attitude of somnolent sleepiness pervading that section of theexternal outward surface of Alabama that lay exposed to my view. "Perhaps, " says I to myself, "it has not yet been discovered thatthe wolves have borne away the tender lambkin from the fold. Heavenhelp the wolves!" says I, and I went down the mountain to breakfast. 

When I got to the cave I found Bill backed up against the side of it, breathing hard, and the boy threatening to smash him with a rock halfas big as a cocoanut. 

"He put a red-hot boiled potato down my back, " explained Bill, "andthen mashed it with his foot; and I boxed his ears. Have you got a gunabout you, Sam?"

I took the rock away from the boy and kind of patched up the argument. "I'll fix you, " says the kid to Bill. "No man ever yet struck the RedChief but what he got paid for it. You better beware!"

After breakfast the kid takes a piece of leather with strings wrappedaround it out of his pocket and goes outside the cave unwinding it. 

"What's he up to now?" says Bill, anxiously. "You don't think he'llrun away, do you, Sam?"

"No fear of it, " says I. "He don't seem to be much of a home body. But we've got to fix up some plan about the ransom. There don't seemto be much excitement around Summit on account of his disappearance;but maybe they haven't realized yet that he's gone. His folks maythink he's spending the night with Aunt Jane or one of the neighbours. Anyhow, he'll be missed to-day. To-night we must get a message to hisfather demanding the two thousand dollars for his return. "

Just then we heard a kind Of war-whoop, such as David might haveemitted when he knocked out the champion Goliath. It was a sling thatRed Chief had pulled out of his pocket, and he was whirling it aroundhis head. 

I dodged, and heard a heavy thud and a kind of a sigh from Bill, likea horse gives out when you take his saddle off. A niggerhead rock thesize of an egg had caught Bill just behind his left ear. He loosenedhimself all over and fell in the fire across the frying pan of hotwater for washing the dishes. I dragged him out and poured cold wateron his head for half an hour. 

By and by, Bill sits up and feels behind his ear and says: "Sam, doyou know who my favourite Biblical character is?"

"Take it easy, " says I. "You'll come to your senses presently. "

"King Herod, " says he. "You won't go away and leave me here alone, will you, Sam?"

I went out and caught that boy and shook him until his frecklesrattled. 

"If you don't behave, " says I, "I'll take you straight home. Now, areyou going to be good, or not?"

"I was only funning, " says he sullenly. "I didn't mean to hurt OldHank. But what did he hit me for? I'll behave, Snake-eye, if youwon't send me home, and if you'll let me play the Black Scout to-day. "

"I don't know the game, " says I. "That's for you and Mr. Bill todecide. He's your playmate for the day. I'm going away for a while, on business. Now, you come in and make friends with him and say youare sorry for hurting him, or home you go, at once. "

I made him and Bill shake hands, and then I took Bill aside and toldhim I was going to Poplar Cove, a little village three miles from thecave, and find out what I could about how the kidnapping had beenregarded in Summit. Also, I thought it best to send a peremptoryletter to old man Dorset that day, demanding the ransom and dictatinghow it should be paid. 

"You know, Sam, " says Bill, "I've stood by you without batting aneye in earthquakes, fire and flood--in poker games, dynamiteoutrages, police raids, train robberies and cyclones. I never lost mynerve yet till we kidnapped that two-legged skyrocket of a kid. He'sgot me going. You won't leave me long with him, will you, Sam?"

"I'll be back some time this afternoon, " says I. "You must keep theboy amused and quiet till I return. And now we'll write the letter toold Dorset. "

Bill and I got paper and pencil and worked on the letter while RedChief, with a blanket wrapped around him, strutted up and down, guarding the mouth of the cave. Bill begged me tearfully to make theransom fifteen hundred dollars instead of two thousand. "I ain'tattempting, " says he, "to decry the celebrated moral aspect ofparental affection, but we're dealing with humans, and it ain't humanfor anybody to give up two thousand dollars for that forty-pound chunkof freckled wildcat. I'm willing to take a chance at fifteen hundreddollars. You can charge the difference up to me. "

So, to relieve Bill, I acceded, and we collaborated a letter that ranthis way:

 _Ebenezer Dorset, Esq. :_

 We have your boy concealed in a place far from Summit. It is useless for you or the most skilful detectives to attempt to find him. Absolutely, the only terms on which you can have him restored to you are these: We demand fifteen hundred dollars in large bills for his return; the money to be left at midnight to-night at the same spot and in the same box as your reply--as hereinafter described. If you agree to these terms, send your answer in writing by a solitary messenger to-night at half-past eight o'clock. After crossing Owl Creek, on the road to Poplar Cove, there are three large trees about a hundred yards apart, close to the fence of the wheat field on the right-hand side. At the bottom of the fence-post, opposite the third tree, will be found a small pasteboard box. 

 The messenger will place the answer in this box and return immediately to Summit. 

 If you attempt any treachery or fail to comply with our demand as stated, you will never see your boy again. 

 If you pay the money as demanded, he will be returned to you safe and well within three hours. These terms are final, and if you do not accede to them no further communication will be attempted. 

 TWO DESPERATE MEN. 

I addressed this letter to Dorset, and put it in my pocket. As I wasabout to start, the kid comes up to me and says:

"Aw, Snake-eye, you said I could play the Black Scout while you wasgone. "

"Play it, of course, " says I. "Mr. Bill will play with you. Whatkind of a game is it?"

"I'm the Black Scout, " says Red Chief, "and I have to ride to thestockade to warn the settlers that the Indians are coming. I'm tiredof playing Indian myself. I want to be the Black Scout. "

"All right, " says I. "It sounds harmless to me. I guess Mr. Bill willhelp you foil the pesky savages. "

"What am I to do?" asks Bill, looking at the kid suspiciously. 

"You are the hoss, " says Black Scout. "Get down on your hands andknees. How can I ride to the stockade without a hoss?"

"You'd better keep him interested, " said I, "till we get the schemegoing. Loosen up. "

Bill gets down on his all fours, and a look comes in his eye like arabbit's when you catch it in a trap. 

"How far is it to the stockade, kid?" he asks, in a husky manner ofvoice. 

"Ninety miles, " says the Black Scout. "And you have to hump yourselfto get there on time. Whoa, now!"

The Black Scout jumps on Bill's back and digs his heels in his side. 

"For Heaven's sake, " says Bill, "hurry back, Sam, as soon as you can. I wish we hadn't made the ransom more than a thousand. Say, you quitkicking me or I'll get up and warm you good. "

I walked over to Poplar Cove and sat around the postoffice andstore, talking with the chawbacons that came in to trade. Onewhiskerando says that he hears Summit is all upset on account of ElderEbenezer Dorset's boy having been lost or stolen. That was all Iwanted to know. I bought some smoking tobacco, referred casually tothe price of black-eyed peas, posted my letter surreptitiously andcame away. The postmaster said the mail-carrier would come by in anhour to take the mail on to Summit. 

When I got back to the cave Bill and the boy were not to be found. Iexplored the vicinity of the cave, and risked a yodel or two, butthere was no response. 

So I lighted my pipe and sat down on a mossy bank to awaitdevelopments. 

In about half an hour I heard the bushes rustle, and Bill wabbled outinto the little glade in front of the cave. Behind him was the kid, stepping softly like a scout, with a broad grin on his face. Billstopped, took off his hat and wiped his face with a red handkerchief. The kid stopped about eight feet behind him. 

"Sam, " says Bill, "I suppose you'll think I'm a renegade, but Icouldn't help it. I'm a grown person with masculine proclivities andhabits of self-defense, but there is a time when all systems ofegotism and predominance fail. The boy is gone. I have sent himhome. All is off. There was martyrs in old times, " goes on Bill, "that suffered death rather than give up the particular graft theyenjoyed. None of 'em ever was subjugated to such supernaturaltortures as I have been. I tried to be faithful to our articles ofdepredation; but there came a limit. "

"What's the trouble, Bill?" I asks him. 

"I was rode, " says Bill, "the ninety miles to the stockade, notbarring an inch. Then, when the settlers was rescued, I was givenoats. Sand ain't a palatable substitute. And then, for an hour Ihad to try to explain to him why there was nothin' in holes, howa road can run both ways and what makes the grass green. I tellyou, Sam, a human can only stand so much. I takes him by the neckof his clothes and drags him down the mountain. On the way hekicks my legs black-and-blue from the knees down; and I've got tohave two or three bites on my thumb and hand cauterized. 

"But he's gone"--continues Bill--"gone home. I showed him theroad to Summit and kicked him about eight feet nearer there at onekick. I'm sorry we lose the ransom; but it was either that or BillDriscoll to the madhouse. "

Bill is puffing and blowing, but there is a look of ineffable peaceand growing content on his rose-pink features. 

"Bill, " says I, "there isn't any heart disease in your family, isthere?

"No, " says Bill, "nothing chronic except malaria and accidents. Why?"

"Then you might turn around, " says I, "and have a took behind you. "

Bill turns and sees the boy, and loses his complexion and sits downplump on the round and begins to pluck aimlessly at grass and littlesticks. For an hour I was afraid for his mind. And then I told himthat my scheme was to put the whole job through immediately and thatwe would get the ransom and be off with it by midnight if old Dorsetfell in with our proposition. So Bill braced up enough to give thekid a weak sort of a smile and a promise to play the Russian in aJapanese war with him is soon as he felt a little better. 

I had a scheme for collecting that ransom without danger of beingcaught by counterplots that ought to commend itself to professionalkidnappers. The tree under which the answer was to be left--and themoney later on--was close to the road fence with big, bare fields onall sides. If a gang of constables should be watching for any one tocome for the note they could see him a long way off crossing thefields or in the road. But no, sirree! At half-past eight I was up inthat tree as well hidden as a tree toad, waiting for the messenger toarrive. 

Exactly on time, a half-grown boy rides up the road on a bicycle, locates the pasteboard box at the foot of the fence-post, slips afolded piece of paper into it and pedals away again back towardSummit. 

I waited an hour and then concluded the thing was square. I slid downthe tree, got the note, slipped along the fence till I struck thewoods, and was back at the cave in another half an hour. I opened thenote, got near the lantern and read it to Bill. It was written with apen in a crabbed hand, and the sum and substance of it was this:

 _Two Desperate Men. 

 Gentlemen:_ I received your letter to-day by post, in regard to the ransom you ask for the return of my son. I think you are a little high in your demands, and I hereby make you a counter-proposition, which I am inclined to believe you will accept. You bring Johnny home and pay me two hundred and fifty dollars in cash, and I agree to take him off your hands. You had better come at night, for the neighbours believe he is lost, and I couldn't be responsible for what they would do to anybody they saw bringing him back. Very respectfully, EBENEZER DORSET. 

"Great pirates of Penzance!" says I; "of all the impudent--"

But I glanced at Bill, and hesitated. He had the most appealing lookin his eyes I ever saw on the face of a dumb or a talking brute. 

"Sam, " says he, "what's two hundred and fifty dollars, after all?We've got the money. One more night of this kid will send me to a bedin Bedlam. Besides being a thorough gentleman, I think Mr. Dorset isa spendthrift for making us such a liberal offer. You ain't goingto let the chance go, are you?"

"Tell you the truth, Bill, " says I, "this little he ewe lamb hassomewhat got on my nerves too. We'll take him home, pay the ransomand make our get-away. "

We took him home that night. We got him to go by telling him that hisfather had bought a silver-mounted rifle and a pair of moccasins forhim, and we were going to hunt bears the next day. 

It was just twelve o'clock when we knocked at Ebenezer's front door. Just at the moment when I should have been abstracting the fifteenhundred dollars from the box under the tree, according to the originalproposition, Bill was counting out two hundred and fifty dollars intoDorset's hand. 

When the kid found out we were going to leave him at home he startedup a howl like a calliope and fastened himself as tight as a leech toBill's leg. His father peeled him away gradually, like a porousplaster. 

"How long can you hold him?" asks Bill. 

"I'm not as strong as I used to be, " says old Dorset, "but I think Ican promise you ten minutes. "

"Enough, " says Bill. "In ten minutes I shall cross the Central, Southern and Middle Western States, and be legging it trippingly forthe Canadian border. "

And, as dark as it was, and as fat as Bill was, and as good a runneras I am, he was a good mile and a half out of Summit before I couldcatch up with him. 

IX

THE MARRY MONTH OF MAY

Prithee, smite the poet in the eye when he would sing to you praisesof the month of May. It is a month presided over by the spirits ofmischief and madness. Pixies and flibbertigibbets haunt the buddingwoods: Puck and his train of midgets are busy in town and country. 

In May nature holds up at us a chiding finger, bidding us rememberthat we are not gods, but overconceited members of her own greatfamily. She reminds us that we are brothers to the chowder-doomedclam and the donkey; lineal scions of the pansy and the chimpanzee, and but cousins-german to the cooing doves, the quacking ducks and thehousemaids and policemen in the parks. 

In May Cupid shoots blindfolded--millionaires marry stenographers;wise professors woo white-aproned gum-chewers behind quick-lunchcounters; schoolma'ams make big bad boys remain after school; ladswith ladders steal lightly over lawns where Juliet waits in hertrellissed window with her telescope packed; young couples out for awalk come home married; old chaps put on white spats and promenadenear the Normal School; even married men, grown unwontedly tender andsentimental, whack their spouses on the back and growl: "How goes it, old girl:"

This May, who is no goddess, but Circe, masquerading at the dancegiven in honour of the fair débutante, Summer, puts the kibosh on usall. 

Old Mr. Coulson groaned a little, and then sat up straight in hisinvalid's chair. He had the gout very bad in one foot, a house nearGramercy Park, half a million dollars and a daughter. And he had ahousekeeper, Mrs. Widdup. The fact and the name deserve a sentenceeach. They have it. 

When May poked Mr. Coulson he became elder brother to the turtle-dove. In the window near which he sat were boxes of jonquils, of hyacinths, geraniums and pansies. The breeze brought their odour into the room. Immediately there was a well-contested round between the breath of theflowers and the able and active effluvium from gout liniment. Theliniment won easily; but not before the flowers got an uppercut toold Mr. Coulson's nose. The deadly work of the implacable, falseenchantress May was done. 

Across the park to the olfactories of Mr. Coulson came otherunmistakable, characteristic, copyrighted smells of spring that belongto the-big-city-above-the-Subway, alone. The smells of hot asphalt, underground caverns, gasoline, patchouli, orange peel, sewer gas, Albany grabs, Egyptian cigarettes, mortar and the undried ink onnewspapers. The inblowing air was sweet and mild. Sparrows wrangledhappily everywhere outdoors. Never trust May. 

Mr. Coulson twisted the ends of his white mustache, cursed his foot, and pounded a bell on the table by his side. 

In came Mrs. Widdup. She was comely to the eye, fair, flustered, forty and foxy. 

"Higgins is out, sir, " she said, with a smile suggestive of vibratorymassage. "He went to post a letter. Can I do anything for you, sir?"

"It's time for my aconite, " said old Mr. Coulson. "Drop it for me. The bottle's there. Three drops. In water. D---- that is, confoundHiggins! There's nobody in this house cares if I die here in thischair for want of attention. "

Mrs. Widdup sighed deeply. 

"Don't be saying that, sir, " she said. "There's them that would caremore than any one knows. Thirteen drops, you said, sir?"

"Three, " said old man Coulson. 

He took his dose and then Mrs. Widdup's hand. She blushed. Oh, yes, it can be done. Just hold your breath and compress the diaphragm. 

"Mrs. Widdup, " said Mr. Coulson, "the springtime's full upon us. "

"Ain't that right?" said Mrs. Widdup. "The air's real warm. Andthere's bock-beer signs on every corner. And the park's all yaller andpink and blue with flowers; and I have such shooting pains up my legsand body. "

"'In the spring, '" quoted Mr. Coulson, curling his mustache, "'a y----that is, a man's--fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. '"

"Lawsy, now!" exclaimed Mrs. Widdup; "ain't that right? Seems likeit's in the air. "

"'In the spring, '" continued old Mr. Coulson, "'a livelier iris shinesupon the burnished dove. '"

"They do be lively, the Irish, " sighed Mrs. Widdup pensively. 

"Mrs. Widdup, " said Mr. Coulson, making a face at a twinge of his goutyfoot, "this would be a lonesome house without you. I'm an--that is, I'm an elderly man--but I'm worth a comfortable lot of money. If halfa million dollars' worth of Government bonds and the true affection ofa heart that, though no longer beating with the first ardour of youth, can still throb with genuine--"

The loud noise of an overturned chair near the portières of theadjoining room interrupted the venerable and scarcely suspectingvictim of May. 

In stalked Miss Van Meeker Constantia Coulson, bony, durable, tall, high-nosed, frigid, well-bred, thirty-five, in-the-neighbourhood-of-Gramercy-Parkish. She put up a lorgnette. Mrs. Widdup hastilystooped and arranged the bandages on Mr. Coulson's gouty foot. 

"I thought Higgins was with you, " said Miss Van Meeker Constantia. 

"Higgins went out, " explained her father, "and Mrs. Widdup answeredthe bell. That is better now, Mrs. Widdup, thank you. No; there isnothing else I require. "

The housekeeper retired, pink under the cool, inquiring stare of MissCoulson. 

"This spring weather is lovely, isn't it, daughter?" said the old man, consciously conscious. 

"That's just it, " replied Miss Van Meeker Constantia Coulson, somewhatobscurely. "When does Mrs. Widdup start on her vacation, papa?"

"I believe she said a week from to-day, " said Mr. Coulson. 

Miss Van Meeker Constantia stood for a minute at the window gazing, toward the little park, flooded with the mellow afternoon sunlight. With the eye of a botanist she viewed the flowers--most potentweapons of insidious May. With the cool pulses of a virgin ofCologne she withstood the attack of the ethereal mildness. The arrowsof the pleasant sunshine fell back, frostbitten, from the cold panoplyof her unthrilled bosom. The odour of the flowers waked no softsentiments in the unexplored recesses of her dormant heart. The chirpof the sparrows gave her a pain. She mocked at May. 

But although Miss Coulson was proof against the season, she waskeen enough to estimate its power. She knew that elderly men andthick-waisted women jumped as educated fleas in the ridiculous trainof May, the merry mocker of the months. She had heard of foolish oldgentlemen marrying their housekeepers before. What a humiliatingthing, after all, was this feeling called love!

The next morning at 8 o'clock, when the iceman called, the cook toldhim that Miss Coulson wanted to see him in the basement. 

"Well, ain't I the Olcott and Depew; not mentioning the first name atall?" said the iceman, admiringly, of himself. 

As a concession he rolled his sleeves down, dropped his icehooks on asyringa and went back. When Miss Van Meeker Constantia Coulsonaddressed him he took off his hat. 

"There is a rear entrance to this basement, " said Miss Coulson, "whichcan be reached by driving into the vacant lot next door, where theyare excavating for a building. I want you to bring in that way withintwo hours 1, 000 pounds of ice. You may have to bring another man ortwo to help you. I will show you where I want it placed. I also want1, 000 pounds a day delivered the same way for the next four days. Your company may charge the ice on our regular bill. This is for yourextra trouble. "

Miss Coulson tendered a ten-dollar bill. The iceman bowed, and heldhis hat in his two hands behind him. 

"Not if you'll excuse me, lady. It'll be a pleasure to fix things upfor you any way you please. "

Alas for May!

About noon Mr. Coulson knocked two glasses off his table, broke thespring of his bell and yelled for Higgins at the same time. 

"Bring an axe, " commanded Mr. Coulson, sardonically, "or send outfor a quart of prussic acid, or have a policeman come in and shoot me. I'd rather that than be frozen to death. "

"It does seem to be getting cool, Sir, " said Higgins. "I hadn'tnoticed it before. I'll close the window, Sir. "

"Do, " said Mr. Coulson. "They call this spring, do they? If it keepsup long I'll go back to Palm Beach. House feels like a morgue. "

Later Miss Coulson dutifully came in to inquire how the gout wasprogressing. 

"'Stantia, " said the old man, "how is the weather outdoors?"

"Bright, " answered Miss Coulson, "but chilly. "

"Feels like the dead of winter to me, " said Mr. Coulson. 

"An instance, " said Constantia, gazing abstractedly out the window, "of 'winter lingering in the lap of spring, ' though the metaphor isnot in the most refined taste. "

A little later she walked down by the side of the little park and onwestward to Broadway to accomplish a little shopping. 

A little later than that Mrs. Widdup entered the invalid's room. 

"Did you ring, Sir?" she asked, dimpling in many places. "I askedHiggins to go to the drug store, and I thought I heard your bell. "

"I did not, " said Mr. Coulson. 

"I'm afraid, " said Mrs. Widdup, "I interrupted you sir, yesterday whenyou were about to say something. "

"How comes it, Mrs. Widdup, " said old man Coulson sternly, "that Ifind it so cold in this house?"

"Cold, Sir?" said the housekeeper, "why, now, since you speak of itit do seem cold in this room. But, outdoors it's as warm and fineas June, sir. And how this weather do seem to make one's heart jumpout of one's shirt waist, sir. And the ivy all leaved out on the sideof the house, and the hand-organs playing, and the children dancing onthe sidewalk--'tis a great time for speaking out what's in theheart. You were saying yesterday, sir--"

"Woman!" roared Mr. Coulson; "you are a fool. I pay you to take careof this house. I am freezing to death in my own room, and you come inand drivel to me about ivy and hand-organs. Get me an overcoat atonce. See that all doors and windows are closed below. An old, fat, irresponsible, one-sided object like you prating about springtimeand flowers in the middle of winter! When Higgins comes back, tell himto bring me a hot rum punch. And now get out!"

But who shall shame the bright face of May? Rogue though she be anddisturber of sane men's peace, no wise virgins cunning nor coldstorage shall make her bow her head in the bright galaxy of months. 

Oh, yes, the story was not quite finished. 

A night passed, and Higgins helped old man Coulson in the morning tohis chair by the window. The cold of the room was gone. Heavenlyodours and fragrant mildness entered. 

In hurried Mrs. Widdup, and stood by his chair. Mr. Coulson reachedhis bony hand and grasped her plump one. 

"Mrs. Widdup, " he said, "this house would be no home without you. Ihave half a million dollars. If that and the true affection of aheart no longer in its youthful prime, but still not cold, could--"

"I found out what made it cold, " said Mrs. Widdup, leanin' against hischair. "'Twas ice--tons of it--in the basement and in the furnaceroom, everywhere. I shut off the registers that it was coming throughinto your room, Mr. Coulson, poor soul! And now it's Maytime again. "

"A true heart, " went on old man Coulson, a little wanderingly, "thatthe springtime has brought to life again, and--but what will mydaughter say, Mrs. Widdup?"

"Never fear, sir, " said Mrs. Widdup, cheerfully. "Miss Coulson, sheran away with the iceman last night, sir!"

X

A TECHNICAL ERROR

I never cared especially for feuds, believing them to be even moreoverrated products of our country than grapefruit, scrapple, orhoneymoons. Nevertheless, if I may be allowed, I will tell you of anIndian Territory feud of which I was press-agent, camp-follower, andinaccessory during the fact. 

I was on a visit to Sam Durkee's ranch, where I had a great timefalling off unmanicured ponies and waving my bare hand at the lowerjaws of wolves about two miles away. Sam was a hardened person ofabout twenty-five, with a reputation for going home in the dark withperfect equanimity, though often with reluctance. 

Over in the Creek Nation was a family bearing the name of Tatum. Iwas told that the Durkees and Tatums had been feuding for years. Several of each family had bitten the grass, and it was expected thatmore Nebuchadnezzars would follow. A younger generation of eachfamily was growing up, and the grass was keeping pace with them. But Igathered that they had fought fairly; that they had not lain incornfields and aimed at the division of their enemies' suspenders inthe back--partly, perhaps, because there were no cornfields, andnobody wore more than one suspender. Nor had any woman or child ofeither house ever been harmed. In those days--and you will find itso yet--their women were safe. 

Sam Durkee had a girl. (If it were an all-fiction magazine that Iexpect to sell this story to, I should say, "Mr. Durkee rejoiced in afiancée. ") Her name was Ella Baynes. They appeared to be devoted toeach other, and to have perfect confidence in each other, as allcouples do who are and have or aren't and haven't. She was tolerablypretty, with a heavy mass of brown hair that helped her along. Heintroduced me to her, which seemed not to lessen her preference forhim; so I reasoned that they were surely soul-mates. 

Miss Baynes lived in Kingfisher, twenty miles from the ranch. Samlived on a gallop between the two places. 

One day there came to Kingfisher a courageous young man, rather small, with smooth face and regular features. He made many inquiries aboutthe business of the town, and especially of the inhabitantscognominally. He said he was from Muscogee, and he looked it, withhis yellow shoes and crocheted four-in-hand. I met him once when Irode in for the mail. He said his name was Beverly Travers, whichseemed rather improbable. 

There were active times on the ranch, just then, and Sam was too busyto go to town often. As an incompetent and generally worthless guest, it devolved upon me to ride in for little things such as post cards, barrels of flour, baking-powder, smoking-tobacco, and--letters fromElla. 

One day, when I was messenger for half a gross of cigarette papersand a couple of wagon tires, I saw the alleged Beverly Travers in ayellow-wheeled buggy with Ella Baynes, driving about town asostentatiously as the black, waxy mud would permit. I knew thatthis information would bring no balm of Gilead to Sam's soul, so Irefrained from including it in the news of the city that I retailedon my return. But on the next afternoon an elongated ex-cowboy ofthe name of Simmons, an old-time pal of Sam's, who kept a feed storein Kingfisher, rode out to the ranch and rolled and burned manycigarettes before he would talk. When he did make oration, his wordswere these:

"Say, Sam, there's been a description of a galoot miscallin' himselfBevel-edged Travels impairing the atmospheric air of Kingfisher forthe past two weeks. You know who he was? He was not otherwise thanBen Tatum, from the Creek Nation, son of old Gopher Tatum that yourUncle Newt shot last February. You know what he done this morning?He killed your brother Lester--shot him in the co't-house yard. "

I wondered if Sam had heard. He pulled a twig from a mesquite bush, chewed it gravely, and said:

"He did, did he? He killed Lester?"

"The same, " said Simmons. "And he did more. He run away with yourgirl, the same as to say Miss Ella Baynes. I thought you might liketo know, so I rode out to impart the information. "

"I am much obliged, Jim, " said Sam, taking the chewed twig from hismouth. "Yes, I'm glad you rode Out. Yes, I'm right glad. "

"Well, I'll be ridin' back, I reckon. That boy I left in the feedstore don't know hay from oats. He shot Lester in the back. "

"Shot him in the back?"

"Yes, while he was hitchin' his hoss. "

"I'm much obliged, Jim. "

"I kind of thought you'd like to know as soon as you could. "

"Come in and have some coffee before you ride back, Jim?"

"Why, no, I reckon not; I must get back to the store. "

"And you say--"

"Yes, Sam. Everybody seen 'em drive away together in a buckboard, with a big bundle, like clothes, tied up in the back of it. He wasdrivin' the team he brought over with him from Muscogee. They'll behard to overtake right away. "

"And which--"

"I was goin' on to tell you. They left on the Guthrie road; butthere's no tellin' which forks they'll take--you know that. "

"All right, Jim; much obliged. "

"You're welcome, Sam. "

Simmons rolled a cigarette and stabbed his pony with both heels. Twenty yards away he reined up and called back:

"You don't want no--assistance, as you might say?"

"Not any, thanks. "

"I didn't think you would. Well, so long!"

Sam took out and opened a bone-handled pocket-knife and scraped adried piece of mud from his left boot. I thought at first he wasgoing to swear a vendetta on the blade of it, or recite "The Gipsy'sCurse. " The few feuds I had ever seen or read about usually openedthat way. This one seemed to be presented with a new treatment. Thus offered on the stage, it would have been hissed off, and one ofBelasco's thrilling melodramas demanded instead. 

"I wonder, " said Sam, with a profoundly thoughtful expression, "if thecook has any cold beans left over!"

He called Wash, the Negro cook, and finding that he had some, orderedhim to heat up the pot and make some strong coffee. Then we went intoSam's private room, where he slept, and kept his armoury, dogs, and thesaddles of his favourite mounts. He took three or four six-shootersout of a bookcase and began to look them over, whistling "The Cowboy'sLament" abstractedly. Afterward he ordered the two best horses on theranch saddled and tied to the hitching-post. 

Now, in the feud business, in all sections of the country, I haveobserved that in one particular there is a delicate but strictetiquette belonging. You must not mention the word or refer to thesubject in the presence of a feudist. It would be more reprehensiblethan commenting upon the mole on the chin of your rich aunt. I found, later on, that there is another unwritten rule, but I think thatbelongs solely to the West. 

It yet lacked two hours to supper-time; but in twenty minutes Sam andI were plunging deep into the reheated beans, hot coffee, and coldbeef. 

"Nothing like a good meal before a long ride, " said Sam. "Eat hearty. "

I had a sudden suspicion. 

"Why did you have two horses saddled?" I asked. 

"One, two--one, two, " said Sam. "You can count, can't you?"

His mathematics carried with it a momentary qualm and a lesson. Thethought had not occurred to him that the thought could possibly occurto me not to ride at his side on that red road to revenge and justice. It was the higher calculus. I was booked for the trail. I began toeat more beans. 

In an hour we set forth at a steady gallop eastward. Our horses wereKentucky-bred, strengthened by the mesquite grass of the west. BenTatum's steeds may have been swifter, and he had a good lead; but ifhe had heard the punctual thuds of the hoofs of those trailers ofours, born in the heart of feudland, he might have felt thatretribution was creeping up on the hoof-prints of his dapper nags. 

I knew that Ben Tatum's card to play was flight--flight until hecame within the safer territory of his own henchmen and supporters. He knew that the man pursuing him would follow the trail to any endwhere it might lead. 

During the ride Sam talked of the prospect for rain, of the price ofbeef, and of the musical glasses. You would have thought he had neverhad a brother or a sweetheart or an enemy on earth. There are somesubjects too big even for the words in the "Unabridged. " Knowingthis phase of the feud code, but not having practised it sufficiently, I overdid the thing by telling some slightly funny anecdotes. Samlaughed at exactly the right place--laughed with his mouth. When Icaught sight of his mouth, I wished I had been blessed with enoughsense of humour to have suppressed those anecdotes. 

Our first sight of them we had in Guthrie. Tired and hungry, westumbled, unwashed, into a little yellow-pine hotel and sat at atable. In the opposite corner we saw the fugitives. They were bentupon their meal, but looked around at times uneasily. 

The girl was dressed in brown--one of these smooth, half-shiny, silky-looking affairs with lace collar and cuffs, and what I believethey call an accordion-plaited skirt. She wore a thick brown veil downto her nose, and a broad-brimmed straw hat with some kind of feathersadorning it. The man wore plain, dark clothes, and his hair wastrimmed very short. He was such a man as you might see anywhere. 

There they were--the murderer and the woman he had stolen. There wewere--the rightful avenger, according to the code, and thesupernumerary who writes these words. 

For one time, at least, in the heart of the supernumerary there rosethe killing instinct. For one moment he joined the force ofcombatants--orally. 

"What are you waiting for, Sam?" I said in a whisper. "Let him haveit now!"

Sam gave a melancholy sigh. 

"You don't understand; but _he_ does, " he said. "_He_ knows. Mr. Tenderfoot, there's a rule out here among white men in the Nation thatyou can't shoot a man when he's with a woman. I never knew it to bebroke yet. You _can't_ do it. You've got to get him in a gang of men orby himself. That's why. He knows it, too. We all know. So, that'sMr. Ben Tatum! One of the 'pretty men'! I'll cut him out of the herdbefore they leave the hotel, and regulate his account!"

After supper the flying pair disappeared quickly. Although Sam hauntedlobby and stairway and halls half the night, in some mysterious waythe fugitives eluded him; and in the morning the veiled lady in thebrown dress with the accordion-plaited skirt and the dapper young manwith the close-clipped hair, and the buckboard with the prancing nags, were gone. 

It is a monotonous story, that of the ride; so it shall becurtailed. Once again we overtook them on a road. We were aboutfifty yards behind. They turned in the buckboard and looked at us;then drove on without whipping up their horses. Their safety nolonger lay in speed. Ben Tatum knew. He knew that the only rock ofsafety left to him was the code. There is no doubt that, had hebeen alone, the matter would have been settled quickly with SamDurkee in the usual way; but he had something at his side thatkept still the trigger-finger of both. It seemed likely that hewas no coward. 

So, you may perceive that woman, on occasions, may postpone instead ofprecipitating conflict between man and man. But not willingly orconsciously. She is oblivious of codes. 

Five miles farther, we came upon the future great Western city ofChandler. The horses of pursuers and pursued were starved and weary. There was one hotel that offered danger to man and entertainment tobeast; so the four of us met again in the dining room at the ringingof a bell so resonant and large that it had cracked the welkin longago. The dining room was not as large as the one at Guthrie. 

Just as we were eating apple pie--how Ben Davises and tragedyimpinge upon each other!--I noticed Sam looking with keenintentness at our quarry where they were seated at a table across theroom. The girl still wore the brown dress with lace collar and cuffs, and the veil drawn down to her nose. The man bent over his plate, with his close cropped head held low. 

"There's a code, " I heard Sam say, either to me or to himself, "thatwon't let you shoot a man in the company of a woman; but, by thunder, there ain't one to keep you from killing a woman in the company of aman!"

And, quicker than my mind could follow his argument, he whipped aColt's automatic from under his left arm and pumped six bullets intothe body that the brown dress covered--the brown dress with the lacecollar and cuffs and the accordion-plaited skirt. 

The young person in the dark sack suit, from whose head and from whoselife a woman's glory had been clipped, laid her head on her armsstretched upon the table; while people came running to raise Ben Tatumfrom the floor in his feminine masquerade that had given Sam theopportunity to set aside, technically, the obligations of the code. 

XI

SUITE HOMES AND THEIR ROMANCE

Few young couples in the Big-City-of-Bluff began their marriedexistence with greater promise of happiness than did Mr. And Mrs. Claude Turpin. They felt no especial animosity toward each other;they were comfortably established in a handsome apartment house thathad a name and accommodations like those of a sleeping-car; they wereliving as expensively as the couple on the next floor above who hadtwice their income; and their marriage had occurred on a wager, aferry-boat and first acquaintance, thus securing a sensationalnewspaper notice with their names attached to pictures of the Queen ofRoumania and M. Santos-Dumont. 

Turpin's income was $200 per month. On pay day, after calculating theamounts due for rent, instalments on furniture and piano, gas, andbills owed to the florist, confectioner, milliner, tailor, winemerchant and cab company, the Turpins would find that they still had$200 left to spend. How to do this is one of the secrets ofmetropolitan life. 

The domestic life of the Turpins was a beautiful picture to see. Butyou couldn't gaze upon it as you could at an oleograph of "Don't WakeGrandma, " or "Brooklyn by Moonlight. "

You had to blink when looked at it; and you heard a fizzing sound justlike the machine with a "scope" at the end of it. Yes; there wasn'tmuch repose about the picture of the Turpins' domestic life. It wassomething like "Spearing Salmon in the Columbia River, " or "JapaneseArtillery in Action. "

Every day was just like another; as the days are in New York. In themorning Turpin would take bromo-seltzer, his pocket change from underthe clock, his hat, no breakfast and his departure for the office. Atnoon Mrs. Turpin would get out of bed and humour, put on a kimono, airs, and the water to boil for coffee. 

Turpin lunched downtown. He came home at 6 to dress for dinner. Theyalways dined out. They strayed from the chop-house to chop-sueydom, from terrace to table d'hôte, from rathskeller to roadhouse, from caféto casino, from Maria's to the Martha Washington. Such is domesticlife in the great city. Your vine is the mistletoe; your fig treebears dates. Your household gods are Mercury and John Howard Payne. For the wedding march you now hear only "Come with the Gypsy Bride. "You rarely dine at the same place twice in succession. You tire ofthe food; and, besides, you want to give them time for the question ofthat souvenir silver sugar bowl to blow over. 

The Turpins were therefore happy. They made many warm and delightfulfriends, some of whom they remembered the next day. Their home lifewas an ideal one, according to the rules and regulations of the Bookof Bluff. 

There came a time when it dawned upon Turpin that his wife was gettingaway with too much money. If you belong to the near-swell class in theBig City, and your income is $200 per month, and you find at the endof the month, after looking over the bills for current expenses, thatyou, yourself, have spent $150, you very naturally wonder what hasbecome of the other $50. So you suspect your wife. And perhaps yougive her a hint that something needs explanation. 

"I say, Vivien, " said Turpin, one afternoon when they were enjoying inrapt silence the peace and quiet of their cozy apartment, "you've beencreating a hiatus big enough for a dog to crawl through in thismonth's honorarium. You haven't been paying your dressmakeranything on account, have you?"

There was a moment's silence. No sounds could be heard except thebreathing of the fox terrier, and the subdued, monotonous sizzling ofVivien's fulvous locks against the insensate curling irons. ClaudeTurpin, sitting upon a pillow that he had thoughtfully placed upon theconvolutions of the apartment sofa, narrowly watched the riante, lovely face of his wife. 

"Claudie, dear, " said she, touching her finger to her ruby tongue andtesting the unresponsive curling irons, "you do me an injustice. Mme. Toinette has not seen a cent of mine since the day you paid yourtailor ten dollars on account. "

Turpin's suspicions were allayed for the time. But one day soon therecame an anonymous letter to him that read:

 "Watch your wife. She is blowing in your money secretly. I was a sufferer just as you are. The place is No. 345 Blank Street. A word to the wise, etc. A MAN WHO KNOWS"

Turpin took this letter to the captain of police of the precinct thathe lived in. 

"My precinct is as clean as a hound's tooth, " said the captain. "Thelid's shut down as close there as it is over the eye of a Williamsburggirl when she's kissed at a party. But if you think there's anythingqueer at the address, I'll go there with ye. "

On the next afternoon at 3, Turpin and the captain crept softly up thestairs of No. 345 Blank Street. A dozen plain-clothes men, dressed infull police uniforms, so as to allay suspicion, waited in the hallbelow. 

At the top of the stairs was a door, which was found to be locked. The captain took a key from his pocket and unlocked it. The two menentered. 

They found themselves in a large room, occupied by twenty or twenty-five elegantly clothed ladies. Racing charts hung against the walls, a ticker clicked in one corner; with a telephone receiver to his ear aman was calling out the various positions of the horses in a veryexciting race. The occupants of the room looked up at the intruders;but, as if reassured by the sight of the captain's uniform, theyreverted their attention to the man at the telephone. 

"You see, " said the captain to Turpin, "the value of an anonymousletter! No high-minded and self-respecting gentleman shouldconsider one worthy of notice. Is your wife among this assembly, Mr. Turpin?"

"She is not, " said Turpin. 

"And if she was, " continued the captain, "would she be within thereach of the tongue of slander? These ladies constitute a BrowningSociety. They meet to discuss the meaning of the great poet. Thetelephone is connected with Boston, whence the parent societytransmits frequently its interpretations of the poems. Be ashamed ofyer suspicions, Mr. Turpin. "

"Go soak your shield, " said Turpin. "Vivien knows how to take care ofherself in a pool-room. She's not dropping anything on the ponies. There must be something queer going on here. "

"Nothing but Browning, " said the captain. "Hear that?"

"Thanatopsis by a nose, " drawled the man at the telephone. 

"That's not Browning; that's Longfellow, " said Turpin, who sometimesread books. 

"Back to the pasture!" exclaimed the captain. "Longfellow made thepacing-to-wagon record of 7. 53 'way back in 1868. "

"I believe there's something queer about this joint, " repeated Turpin. 

"I don't see it, " said the captain. 

"I know it looks like a pool-room, all right, " persisted Turpin, "butthat's all a blind. Vivien has been dropping a lot of coin somewhere. I believe there's some under-handed work going on here. "

A number of racing sheets were tacked close together, covering a largespace on one of the walls. Turpin, suspicious, tore several of themdown. A door, previously hidden, was revealed. Turpin placed anear to the crack and listened intently. He heard the soft hum of manyvoices, low and guarded laughter, and a sharp, metallic clicking andscraping as if from a multitude of tiny but busy objects. 

"My God! It is as I feared!" whispered Turpin to himself. "Summonyour men at once!" he called to the captain. "She is in there, Iknow. "

At the blowing of the captain's whistle the uniformed plain-clothesmen rushed up the stairs into the pool-room. When they saw thebetting paraphernalia distributed around they halted, surprised andpuzzled to know why they had been summoned. 

But the captain pointed to the locked door and bade them break itdown. In a few moments they demolished it with the axes they carried. Into the other room sprang Claude Turpin, with the captain at hisheels. 

The scene was one that lingered long in Turpin's mind. Nearly a scoreof women--women expensively and fashionably clothed, many beautifuland of refined appearance--had been seated at little marble-toppedtables. When the police burst open the door they shrieked and ranhere and there like gayly plumed birds that had been disturbed in atropical grove. Some became hysterical; one or two fainted; severalknelt at the feet of the officers and besought them for mercy onaccount of their families and social position. 

A man who had been seated behind a desk had seized a roll of currencyas large as the ankle of a Paradise Roof Gardens chorus girl andjumped out of the window. Half a dozen attendants huddled at one endof the room, breathless from fear. 

Upon the tables remained the damning and incontrovertible evidencesof the guilt of the habituées of that sinister room--dish after dishheaped high with ice cream, and surrounded by stacks of empty ones, scraped to the last spoonful. 

"Ladies, " said the captain to his weeping circle of prisoners, "I'llnot hold any of yez. Some of yez I recognize as having fine houses andgood standing in the community, with hard-working husbands and childerat home. But I'll read ye a bit of a lecture before ye go. In thenext room there's a 20-to-1 shot just dropped in under the wire threelengths ahead of the field. Is this the way ye waste your husbands'money instead of helping earn it? Home wid yez! The lid's on theice-cream freezer in this precinct. "

Claude Turpin's wife was among the patrons of the raided room. He ledher to their apartment in stem silence. There she wept soremorsefully and besought his forgiveness so pleadingly that he forgothis just anger, and soon he gathered his penitent golden-haired Vivienin his arms and forgave her. 

"Darling, " she murmured, half sobbingly, as the moonlight driftedthrough the open window, glorifying her sweet, upturned face, "I knowI done wrong. I will never touch ice cream again. I forgot you werenot a millionaire. I used to go there every day. But to-day I feltsome strange, sad presentiment of evil, and I was not myself. I ateonly eleven saucers. "

"Say no more, " said Claude, gently as he fondly caressed her wavingcurls. 

"And you are sure that you fully forgive me?" asked Vivien, gazing athim entreatingly with dewy eyes of heavenly blue. 

"Almost sure, little one, " answered Claude, stooping and lightlytouching her snowy forehead with his lips. "I'll let you knowlater on. I've got a month's salary down on Vanilla to win thethree-year-old steeplechase to-morrow; and if the ice-cream hunchis to the good you are It again--see?"

XII

THE WHIRLIGIG OF LIFE

Justice-of-the-Peace Benaja Widdup sat in the door of his officesmoking his elder-stem pipe. Half-way to the zenith the Cumberlandrange rose blue-gray in the afternoon haze. A speckled hen swaggereddown the main street of the "settlement, " cackling foolishly. 

Up the road came a sound of creaking axles, and then a slow cloud ofdust, and then a bull-cart bearing Ransie Bilbro and his wife. Thecart stopped at the Justice's door, and the two climbed down. Ransiewas a narrow six feet of sallow brown skin and yellow hair. Theimperturbability of the mountains hung upon him like a suit of armour. The woman was calicoed, angled, snuff-brushed, and weary with unknowndesires. Through it all gleamed a faint protest of cheated youthunconscious of its loss. 

The Justice of the Peace slipped his feet into his shoes, for the sakeof dignity, and moved to let them enter. 

"We-all, " said the woman, in a voice like the wind blowing through pineboughs, "wants a divo'ce. " She looked at Ransie to see if he noted anyflaw or ambiguity or evasion or partiality or self-partisanship in herstatement of their business. 

"A divo'ce, " repeated Ransie, with a solemn nod. "We-all can't gitalong together nohow. It's lonesome enough fur to live in themount'ins when a man and a woman keers fur one another. But whenshe's a-spittin' like a wildcat or a-sullenin' like a hoot-owl in thecabin, a man ain't got no call to live with her. "

"When he's a no-'count varmint, " said the woman, "without any especialwarmth, a-traipsin' along of scalawags and moonshiners and a-layin' onhis back pizen 'ith co'n whiskey, and a-pesterin' folks with a pack o'hungry, triflin' houn's to feed!"

"When she keeps a-throwin' skillet lids, " came Ransie's antiphony, "and slings b'ilin' water on the best coon-dog in the Cumberlands, andsets herself agin' cookin' a man's victuals, and keeps him awake o'nights accusin' him of a sight of doin's!"

"When he's al'ays a-fightin' the revenues, and gits a hard name in themount'ins fur a mean man, who's gwine to be able fur to sleep o'nights?"

The Justice of the Peace stirred deliberately to his duties. Heplaced his one chair and a wooden stool for his petitioners. Heopened his book of statutes on the table and scanned the index. Presently he wiped his spectacles and shifted his inkstand. 

"The law and the statutes, " said he, "air silent on the subjeck ofdivo'ce as fur as the jurisdiction of this co't air concerned. But, accordin' to equity and the Constitution and the golden rule, it's abad barg'in that can't run both ways. If a justice of the peace canmarry a couple, it's plain that he is bound to be able to divo'ce 'em. This here office will issue a decree of divo'ce and abide by thedecision of the Supreme Co't to hold it good. "

Ransie Bilbro drew a small tobacco-bag from his trousers pocket. Outof this he shook upon the table a five-dollar note. "Sold a b'arskinand two foxes fur that, " he remarked. "It's all the money we got. "

"The regular price of a divo'ce in this co't, " said the Justice, "airfive dollars. " He stuffed the bill into the pocket of his homespunvest with a deceptive air of indifference. With much bodily toiland mental travail he wrote the decree upon half a sheet of foolscap, and then copied it upon the other. Ransie Bilbro and his wifelistened to his reading of the document that was to give them freedom:

"Know all men by these presents that Ransie Bilbro and his wife, Ariela Bilbro, this day personally appeared before me and promisesthat hereinafter they will neither love, honour, nor obey each other, neither for better nor worse, being of sound mind and body, and acceptsummons for divorce according to the peace and dignity of the State. Herein fail not, so help you God. Benaja Widdup, justice of the peacein and for the county of Piedmont, State of Tennessee. "

The Justice was about to hand one of the documents to Ransie. Thevoice of Ariela delayed the transfer. Both men looked at her. Theirdull masculinity was confronted by something sudden and unexpected inthe woman. 

"Judge, don't you give him that air paper yit. 'Tain't all settled, nohow. I got to have my rights first. I got to have my ali-money. 'Tain't no kind of a way to do fur a man to divo'ce his wife 'thouther havin' a cent fur to do with. I'm a-layin' off to be a-goin' upto brother Ed's up on Hogback Mount'in. I'm bound fur to hev a pa'rof shoes and some snuff and things besides. Ef Rance kin affo'd adivo'ce, let him pay me ali-money. "

Ransie Bilbro was stricken to dumb perplexity. There had been noprevious hint of alimony. Women were always bringing up startling andunlooked-for issues. 

Justice Benaja Widdup felt that the point demanded judicial decision. The authorities were also silent on the subject of alimony. But thewoman's feet were bare. The trail to Hogback Mountain was steep andflinty. 

"Ariela Bilbro, " he asked, in official tones, "how much did you 'lowwould be good and sufficient ali-money in the case befo' the co't. "

"I 'lowed, " she answered, "fur the shoes and all, to say five dollars. That ain't much fur ali-money, but I reckon that'll git me to upbrother Ed's. "

"The amount, " said the Justice, "air not onreasonable. Ransie Bilbro, you air ordered by the co't to pay the plaintiff the sum of fivedollars befo' the decree of divo'ce air issued. "

"I hain't no mo' money, " breathed Ransie, heavily. "I done paid youall I had. "

"Otherwise, " said the Justice, looking severely over his spectacles, "you air in contempt of co't. "

"I reckon if you gimme till to-morrow, " pleaded the husband, "I moutbe able to rake or scrape it up somewhars. I never looked for to bea-payin' no ali-money. "

"The case air adjourned, " said Benaja Widdup, "till to-morrow, whenyou-all will present yo'selves and obey the order of the co't. Followin' of which the decrees of divo'ce will be delivered. " He satdown in the door and began to loosen a shoestring. 

"We mout as well go down to Uncle Ziah's, " decided Ransie, "and spendthe night. " He climbed into the cart on one side, and Ariela climbedin on the other. Obeying the flap of his rope, the little red bullslowly came around on a tack, and the cart crawled away in the nimbusarising from its wheels. 

Justice-of-the-peace Benaja Widdup smoked his elder-stem pipe. Latein the afternoon he got his weekly paper, and read it until thetwilight dimmed its lines. Then he lit the tallow candle on histable, and read until the moon rose, marking the time for supper. Helived in the double log cabin on the slope near the girdled poplar. Going home to supper he crossed a little branch darkened by a laurelthicket. The dark figure of a man stepped from the laurels andpointed a rifle at his breast. His hat was pulled down low, andsomething covered most of his face. 

"I want yo' money, " said the figure, "'thout any talk. I'm gettin'nervous, and my finger's a-wabblin' on this here trigger. "

"I've only got f-f-five dollars, " said the Justice, producing itfrom his vest pocket. 

"Roll it up, " came the order, "and stick it in the end of this heregun-bar'l. "

The bill was crisp and new. Even fingers that were clumsy andtrembling found little difficulty in making a spill of it andinserting it (this with less ease) into the muzzle of the rifle. 

"Now I reckon you kin be goin' along, " said the robber. 

The Justice lingered not on his way. 

The next day came the little red bull, drawing the cart to theoffice door. Justice Benaja Widdup had his shoes on, for he wasexpecting the visit. In his presence Ransie Bilbro handed to hiswife a five-dollar bill. The official's eye sharply viewed it. It seemed to curl up as though it had been rolled and inserted intothe end of a gun-barrel. But the Justice refrained from comment. It is true that other bills might be inclined to curl. He handedeach one a decree of divorce. Each stood awkwardly silent, slowlyfolding the guarantee of freedom. The woman cast a shy glancefull of constraint at Ransie. 

"I reckon you'll be goin' back up to the cabin, " she said, along 'iththe bull-cart. There's bread in the tin box settin' on the shelf. Iput the bacon in the b'ilin'-pot to keep the hounds from gittin' it. Don't forget to wind the clock to-night. "

"You air a-goin' to your brother Ed's?" asked Ransie, with fineunconcern. 

"I was 'lowin' to get along up thar afore night. I ain't sayin' asthey'll pester theyselves any to make me welcome, but I hain't nowharelse fur to go. It's a right smart ways, and I reckon I better begoin'. I'll be a-sayin' good-bye, Ranse--that is, if you keer fur tosay so. "

"I don't know as anybody's a hound dog, " said Ransie, in a martyr'svoice, "fur to not want to say good-bye--'less you air so anxious togit away that you don't want me to say it. "

Ariela was silent. She folded the five-dollar bill and her decreecarefully, and placed them in the bosom of her dress. Benaja Widdupwatched the money disappear with mournful eyes behind his spectacles. 

And then with his next words he achieved rank (as his thoughts ran)with either the great crowd of the world's sympathizers or the littlecrowd of its great financiers. 

"Be kind o' lonesome in the old cabin to-night, Ranse, " he said. 

Ransie Bilbro stared out at the Cumberlands, clear blue now in thesunlight. He did not look at Ariela. 

"I 'low it might be lonesome, " he said; "but when folks gits mad andwants a divo'ce, you can't make folks stay. "

"There's others wanted a divo'ce, " said Ariela, speaking to the woodenstool. "Besides, nobody don't want nobody to stay. "

"Nobody never said they didn't. "

"Nobody never said they did. I reckon I better start on now tobrother Ed's. "

"Nobody can't wind that old clock. "

"Want me to go back along 'ith you in the cart and wind it fur you, Ranse?"

The mountaineer's countenance was proof against emotion. But hereached out a big hand and enclosed Ariela's thin brown one. Her soulpeeped out once through her impassive face, hallowing it. 

"Them hounds shan't pester you no more, " said Ransie. "I reckon Ibeen mean and low down. You wind that clock, Ariela. "

"My heart hit's in that cabin, Ranse, " she whispered, "along 'ith you. I ai'nt a-goin' to git mad no more. Le's be startin', Ranse, so's wekin git home by sundown. "

Justice-of-the-peace Benaja Widdup interposed as they started for thedoor, forgetting his presence. 

"In the name of the State of Tennessee, " he said, "I forbid you-all tobe a-defyin' of its laws and statutes. This co't is mo' than willin'and full of joy to see the clouds of discord and misunderstandin'rollin' away from two lovin' hearts, but it air the duty of the co'tto p'eserve the morals and integrity of the State. The co't remindsyou that you air no longer man and wife, but air divo'ced by regulardecree, and as such air not entitled to the benefits and 'purtenancesof the mattermonal estate. "

Ariela caught Ransie's arm. Did those words mean that she must losehim now when they had just learned the lesson of life?

"But the co't air prepared, " went on the Justice, "fur to remove thedisabilities set up by the decree of divo'ce. The co't air on hand toperform the solemn ceremony of marri'ge, thus fixin' things up andenablin' the parties in the case to resume the honour'ble andelevatin' state of mattermony which they desires. The fee furperformin' said ceremony will be, in this case, to wit, five dollars. "

Ariela caught the gleam of promise in his words. Swiftly her hand wentto her bosom. Freely as an alighting dove the bill fluttered to theJustice's table. Her sallow cheek coloured as she stood hand in handwith Ransie and listened to the reuniting words. 

Ransie helped her into the cart, and climbed in beside her. Thelittle red bull turned once more, and they set out, hand-clasped, forthe mountains. 

Justice-of-the-peace Benaja Widdup sat in his door and took off hisshoes. Once again he fingered the bill tucked down in his vestpocket. Once again he smoked his elder-stem pipe. Once again thespeckled hen swaggered down the main street of the "settlement, "cackling foolishly. 

XIII

A SACRIFICE HIT

The editor of the _Hearthstone Magazine_ has his own ideas about theselection of manuscript for his publication. His theory is no secret;in fact, he will expound it to you willingly sitting at his mahoganydesk, smiling benignantly and tapping his knee gently with hisgold-rimmed eye-glasses. 

"The _Hearthstone_, " he will say, "does not employ a staff ofreaders. We obtain opinions of the manuscripts submitted to usdirectly from types of the various classes of our readers. "

That is the editor's theory; and this is the way he carries it out:

When a batch of MSS. Is received the editor stuffs every one of hispockets full of them and distributes them as he goes about during theday. The office employees, the hall porter, the janitor, the elevatorman, messenger boys, the waiters at the café where the editor hasluncheon, the man at the news-stand where he buys his evening paper, the grocer and milkman, the guard on the 5. 30 uptown elevated train, the ticket-chopper at Sixty ----th street, the cook and maid at hishome--these are the readers who pass upon MSS. Sent in to the_Hearthstone Magazine_. If his pockets are not entirely emptied bythe time he reaches the bosom of his family the remaining ones arehanded over to his wife to read after the baby goes to sleep. A fewdays later the editor gathers in the MSS. During his regular roundsand considers the verdict of his assorted readers. 

This system of making up a magazine has been very successful; and thecirculation, paced by the advertising rates, is making a wonderfulrecord of speed. 

The _Hearthstone_ Company also publishes books, and its imprint is tobe found on several successful works--all recommended, says theeditor, by the _Hearthstone's_ army of volunteer readers. Now andthen (according to talkative members of the editorial staff) the_Hearthstone_ has allowed manuscripts to slip through its fingers onthe advice of its heterogeneous readers, that afterward proved to befamous sellers when brought out by other houses. 

For instance (the gossips say), "The Rise and Fall of Silas Latham"was unfavourably passed upon by the elevator-man; the office-boyunanimously rejected "The Boss"; "In the Bishop's Carriage" wascontemptuously looked upon by the street-car conductor; "TheDeliverance" was turned down by a clerk in the subscription departmentwhose wife's mother had just begun a two-months' visit at his home;"The Queen's Quair" came back from the janitor with the comment: "Sois the book. "

But nevertheless the _Hearthstone_ adheres to its theory and system, and it will never lack volunteer readers; for each one of the widelyscattered staff, from the young lady stenographer in the editorialoffice to the man who shovels in coal (whose adverse decision lost tothe _Hearthstone_ Company the manuscript of "The Under World"), hasexpectations of becoming editor of the magazine some day. 

This method of the _Hearthstone_ was well known to Allen Slayton whenhe wrote his novelette entitled "Love Is All. " Slayton had hung aboutthe editorial offices of all the magazines so persistently that he wasacquainted with the inner workings of every one in Gotham. 

He knew not only that the editor of the Hearthstone handed his MSS. Around among different types of people for reading, but that thestories of sentimental love-interest went to Miss Puffkin, theeditor's stenographer. Another of the editor's peculiar customs was toconceal invariably the name of the writer from his readers of MSS. Sothat a glittering name might not influence the sincerity of theirreports. 

Slayton made "Love Is All" the effort of his life. He gave it sixmonths of the best work of his heart and brain. It was a purelove-story, fine, elevated, romantic, passionate--a prose poem thatset the divine blessing of love (I am transposing from the manuscript)high above all earthly gifts and honours, and listed it in thecatalogue of heaven's choicest rewards. Slayton's literary ambitionwas intense. He would have sacrificed all other worldly possessionsto have gained fame in his chosen art. He would almost have cut offhis right hand, or have offered himself to the knife of theappendicitis fancier to have realized his dream of seeing one of hisefforts published in the _Hearthstone_. 

Slayton finished "Love Is All, " and took it to the _Hearthstone_ inperson. The office of the magazine was in a large, conglomeratebuilding, presided under by a janitor. 

As the writer stepped inside the door on his way to the elevator apotato masher flew through the hall, wrecking Slayton's hat, andsmashing the glass of the door. Closely following in the wake of theutensil flew the janitor, a bulky, unwholesome man, suspenderless andsordid, panic-stricken and breathless. A frowsy, fat woman withflying hair followed the missile. The janitor's foot slipped on thetiled floor, he fell in a heap with an exclamation of despair. Thewoman pounced upon him and seized his hair. The man bellowed lustily. 

Her vengeance wreaked, the virago rose and stalked triumphant asMinerva, back to some cryptic domestic retreat at the rear. Thejanitor got to his feet, blown and humiliated. 

"This is married life, " he said to Slayton, with a certain bruisedhumour. "That's the girl I used to lay awake of nights thinkingabout. Sorry about your hat, mister. Say, don't snitch to the tenantsabout this, will yer? I don't want to lose me job. "

Slayton took the elevator at the end of the hall and went up to theoffices of the _Hearthstone_. He left the MS. Of "Love Is All" withthe editor, who agreed to give him an answer as to its availabilityat the end of a week. 

Slayton formulated his great winning scheme on his way down. Itstruck him with one brilliant flash, and he could not refrain fromadmiring his own genius in conceiving the idea. That very night heset about carrying it into execution. 

Miss Puffkin, the _Hearthstone_ stenographer, boarded in the same housewith the author. She was an oldish, thin, exclusive, languishing, sentimental maid; and Slayton had been introduced to her some timebefore. 

The writer's daring and self-sacrificing project was this: He knewthat the editor of the _Hearthstone_ relied strongly upon MissPuffkin's judgment in the manuscript of romantic and sentimentalfiction. Her taste represented the immense average of mediocre womenwho devour novels and stories of that type. The central idea andkeynote of "Love Is All" was love at first sight--the enrapturing, irresistible, soul-thrilling feeling that compels a man or a womanto recognize his or her spirit-mate as soon as heart speaks to heart. Suppose he should impress this divine truth upon Miss Puffkinpersonally!--would she not surely indorse her new and rapturoussensations by recommending highly to the editor of the _Hearthstone_the novelette "Love Is All"?

Slayton thought so. And that night he took Miss Puffkin to thetheatre. The next night he made vehement love to her in the dimparlour of the boarding-house. He quoted freely from "Love Is All";and he wound up with Miss Puffkin's head on his shoulder, and visionsof literary fame dancing in his head. 

But Slayton did not stop at love-making. This, he said to himself, was the turning point of his life; and, like a true sportsman, he"went the limit. " On Thursday night he and Miss Puffkin walked overto the Big Church in the Middle of the Block and were married. 

Brave Slayton! Châteaubriand died in a garret, Byron courted a widow, Keats starved to death, Poe mixed his drinks, De Quincey hit the pipe, Ade lived in Chicago, James kept on doing it, Dickens wore whitesocks, De Maupassant wore a strait-jacket, Tom Watson became aPopulist, Jeremiah wept, all these authors did these things for thesake of literature, but thou didst cap them all; thou marriedst a wifefor to carve for thyself a niche in the temple of fame!

On Friday morning Mrs. Slayton said she would go over to the_Hearthstone_ office, hand in one or two manuscripts that the editorhad given to her to read, and resign her position as stenographer. 

"Was there anything--er--that--er--you particularly fanciedin the stories you are going to turn in?" asked Slayton with athumping heart. 

"There was one--a novelette, that I liked so much, " said his wife. "Ihaven't read anything in years that I thought was half as nice andtrue to life. "

That afternoon Slayton hurried down to the _Hearthstone_ office. Hefelt that his reward was close at hand. With a novelette in the_Hearthstone_, literary reputation would soon be his. 

The office boy met him at the railing in the outer office. It was notfor unsuccessful authors to hold personal colloquy with the editorexcept at rare intervals. 

Slayton, hugging himself internally, was nursing in his heart theexquisite hope of being able to crush the office boy with hisforthcoming success. 

He inquired concerning his novelette. The office boy went into thesacred precincts and brought forth a large envelope, thick with morethan the bulk of a thousand checks. 

"The boss told me to tell you he's sorry, " said the boy, "but yourmanuscript ain't available for the magazine. "

Slayton stood, dazed. "Can you tell me, " he stammered, "whether orno Miss Puff--that is my--I mean Miss Puffkin--handed in a novelettethis morning that she had been asked to read?"

"Sure she did, " answered the office boy wisely. "I heard the old mansay that Miss Puffkin said it was a daisy. The name of it was, 'Married for the Mazuma, or a Working Girl's Triumph. '"

"Say, you!" said the office boy confidentially, "your name's Slayton, ain't it? I guess I mixed cases on you without meanin' to do it. Theboss give me some manuscript to hand around the other day and I gotthe ones for Miss Puffkin and the janitor mixed. I guess it's allright, though. "

And then Slayton looked closer and saw on the cover of his manuscript, under the title "Love Is All, " the janitor's comment scribbled with apiece of charcoal:

"The ---- you say!"

XIV

THE ROADS WE TAKE

Twenty miles west of Tucson, the "Sunset Express" stopped at a tank totake on water. Besides the aqueous addition the engine of that famousflyer acquired some other things that were not good for it. 

While the fireman was lowering the feeding hose, Bob Tidball, "Shark"Dodson and a quarter-bred Creek Indian called John Big Dog climbed onthe engine and showed the engineer three round orifices in pieces ofordnance that they carried. These orifices so impressed the engineerwith their possibilities that he raised both hands in a gesture suchas accompanies the ejaculation "Do tell!"

At the crisp command of Shark Dodson, who was leader of the attackingforce the engineer descended to the ground and uncoupled the engineand tender. Then John Big Dog, perched upon the coal, sportively heldtwo guns upon the engine driver and the fireman, and suggested thatthey run the engine fifty yards away and there await further orders. 

Shark Dodson and Bob Tidball, scorning to put such low-grade ore asthe passengers through the mill, struck out for the rich pocket of theexpress car. They found the messenger serene in the belief that the"Sunset Express" was taking on nothing more stimulating and dangerousthan aqua pura. While Bob was knocking this idea out of his head withthe butt-end of his six-shooter Shark Dodson was already dosing theexpress-car safe with dynamite. 

The safe exploded to the tune of $30, 000, all gold and currency. Thepassengers thrust their heads casually out of the windows to look forthe thunder-cloud. The conductor jerked at the bell-rope, whichsagged down loose and unresisting, at his tug. Shark Dodson and BobTidball, with their booty in a stout canvas bag, tumbled out of theexpress car and ran awkwardly in their high-heeled boots to theengine. 

The engineer, sullenly angry but wise, ran the engine, according toorders, rapidly away from the inert train. But before this wasaccomplished the express messenger, recovered from Bob Tidball'spersuader to neutrality, jumped out of his car with a Winchester rifleand took a trick in the game. Mr. John Big Dog, sitting on the coaltender, unwittingly made a wrong lead by giving an imitation of atarget, and the messenger trumped him. With a ball exactly betweenhis shoulder blades the Creek chevalier of industry rolled off tothe ground, thus increasing the share of his comrades in the loot byone-sixth each. 

Two miles from the tank the engineer was ordered to stop. 

The robbers waved a defiant adieu and plunged down the steep slopeinto the thick woods that lined the track. Five minutes of crashingthrough a thicket of chaparral brought them to open woods, where threehorses were tied to low-hanging branches. One was waiting for JohnBig Dog, who would never ride by night or day again. This animal therobbers divested of saddle and bridle and set free. They mounted theother two with the bag across one pommel, and rode fast and withdiscretion through the forest and up a primeval, lonely gorge. Herethe animal that bore Bob Tidball slipped on a mossy boulder and brokea foreleg. They shot him through the head at once and sat down tohold a council of flight. Made secure for the present by the tortuoustrail they had travelled, the question of time was no longer so big. Many miles and hours lay between them and the spryest posse that couldfollow. Shark Dodson's horse, with trailing rope and dropped bridle, panted and cropped thankfully of the grass along the stream in thegorge. Bob Tidball opened the sack, drew out double handfuls of theneat packages of currency and the one sack of gold and chuckled withthe glee of a child. 

"Say, you old double-decked pirate, " he called joyfully to Dodson, "you said we could do it--you got a head for financing that knocksthe horns off of anything in Arizona. "

"What are we going to do about a hoss for you, Bob? We ain't got longto wait here. They'll be on our trail before daylight in themornin'. "

"Oh, I guess that cayuse of yourn'll carry double for a while, "answered the sanguine Bob. "We'll annex the first animal we comeacross. By jingoes, we made a haul, didn't we? Accordin' to themarks on this money there's $30, 000--$15, 000 apiece!"

"It's short of what I expected, " said Shark Dodson, kicking softly atthe packages with the toe of his boot. And then he looked pensively atthe wet sides of his tired horse. 

"Old Bolivar's mighty nigh played out, " he said, slowly. "I wish thatsorrel of yours hadn't got hurt. "

"So do I, " said Bob, heartily, "but it can't be helped. Bolivar's gotplenty of bottom--he'll get us both far enough to get fresh mounts. Dang it, Shark, I can't help thinkin' how funny it is that anEasterner like you can come out here and give us Western fellows cardsand spades in the desperado business. What part of the East was youfrom, anyway?"

"New York State, " said Shark Dodson, sitting down on a boulder andchewing a twig. "I was born on a farm in Ulster County. I ran awayfrom home when I was seventeen. It was an accident my coming West. Iwas walkin' along the road with my clothes in a bundle, makin' for NewYork City. I had an idea of goin' there and makin' lots of money. Ialways felt like I could do it. I came to a place one evenin' wherethe road forked and I didn't know which fork to take. I studied aboutit for half an hour, and then I took the left-hand. That night I runinto the camp of a Wild West show that was travellin' among the littletowns, and I went West with it. I've often wondered if I wouldn'thave turned out different if I'd took the other road. "

"Oh, I reckon you'd have ended up about the same, " said Bob Tidball, cheerfully philosophical. "It ain't the roads we take; it's what'sinside of us that makes us turn out the way we do. "

Shark Dodson got up and leaned against a tree. 

"I'd a good deal rather that sorrel of yourn hadn't hurt himself, Bob, " he said again, almost pathetically. 

"Same here, " agreed Bob; "he was sure a first-rate kind of a crowbait. But Bolivar, he'll pull us through all right. Reckon we'd better bemovin' on, hadn't we, Shark? I'll bag this boodle ag'in and we'll hitthe trail for higher timber. "

Bob Tidball replaced the spoil in the bag and tied the mouth of ittightly with a cord. When he looked up the most prominent object thathe saw was the muzzle of Shark Dodson's . 45 held upon him without awaver. 

"Stop your funnin', " said Bob, with a grin. "We got to be hittin' thebreeze. "

"Set still, " said Shark. "You ain't goin' to hit no breeze, Bob. Ihate to tell you, but there ain't any chance for but one of us. Bolivar, he's plenty tired, and he can't carry double. "

"We been pards, me and you, Shark Dodson, for three year, " Bob saidquietly. "We've risked our lives together time and again. I'vealways give you a square deal, and I thought you was a man. I'veheard some queer stories about you shootin' one or two men in apeculiar way, but I never believed 'em. Now if you're just havin' alittle fun with me, Shark, put your gun up, and we'll get on Bolivarand vamose. If you mean to shoot--shoot, you blackhearted son of atarantula!"

Shark Dodson's face bore a deeply sorrowful look. "You don't know howbad I feel, " he sighed, "about that sorrel of yourn breakin' his leg, Bob. "

The expression on Dodson's face changed in an instant to one of coldferocity mingled with inexorable cupidity. The soul of the man showeditself for a moment like an evil face in the window of a reputablehouse. 

Truly Bob Tidball was never to "hit the breeze" again. The deadly . 45of the false friend cracked and filled the gorge with a roar that thewalls hurled back with indignant echoes. And Bolivar, unconsciousaccomplice, swiftly bore away the last of the holders-up of the"Sunset Express, " not put to the stress of "carrying double. "

But as "Shark" Dodson galloped away the woods seemed to fade from hisview; the revolver in his right hand turned to the curved arm of amahogany chair; his saddle was strangely upholstered, and he openedhis eyes and saw his feet, not in stirrups, but resting quietly on theedge of a quartered-oak desk. 

I am telling you that Dodson, of the firm of Dodson & Decker, WallStreet brokers, opened his eyes. Peabody, the confidential clerk, wasstanding by his chair, hesitating to speak. There was a confused humof wheels below, and the sedative buzz of an electric fan. 

"Ahem! Peabody, " said Dodson, blinking. "I must have fallen asleep. I had a most remarkable dream. What is it, Peabody?"

"Mr. Williams, sir, of Tracy & Williams, is outside. He has come tosettle his deal in X. Y. Z. The market caught him short, sir, if youremember. "

"Yes, I remember. What is X. Y. Z. Quoted at to-day, Peabody?"

"One eighty-five, sir. "

"Then that's his price. "

"Excuse me, " said Peabody, rather nervously "for speaking of it, butI've been talking to Williams. He's an old friend of yours, Mr. Dodson, and you practically have a corner in X. Y. Z. I thought youmight--that is, I thought you might not remember that he sold youthe stock at 98. If he settles at the market price it will take everycent he has in the world and his home too to deliver the shares. "

The expression on Dodson's face changed in an instant to one of coldferocity mingled with inexorable cupidity. The soul of the man showeditself for a moment like an evil face in the window of a reputablehouse. 

"He will settle at one eighty-five, " said Dodson. "Bolivar cannotcarry double. "

XV

A BLACKJACK BARGAINER

The most disreputable thing in Yancey Goree's law office was Goreehimself, sprawled in his creaky old arm-chair. The rickety littleoffice, built of red brick, was set flush with the street--the mainstreet of the town of Bethel. 

Bethel rested upon the foot-hills of the Blue Ridge. Above it themountains were piled to the sky. Far below it the turbid Catawbagleamed yellow along its disconsolate valley. 

The June day was at its sultriest hour. Bethel dozed in the tepidshade. Trade was not. It was so still that Goree, reclining in hischair, distinctly heard the clicking of the chips in the grand-juryroom, where the "court-house gang" was playing poker. From the openback door of the office a well-worn path meandered across the grassylot to the court-house. The treading out of that path had cost Goreeall he ever had--first inheritance of a few thousand dollars, nextthe old family home, and, latterly the last shreds of his self-respectand manhood. The "gang" had cleaned him out. The broken gambler hadturned drunkard and parasite; he had lived to see this day come whenthe men who had stripped him denied him a seat at the game. His wordwas no longer to be taken. The daily bouts at cards had arrangeditself accordingly, and to him was assigned the ignoble part of theonlooker. The sheriff, the county clerk, a sportive deputy, a gayattorney, and a chalk-faced man hailing "from the valley, " sat attable, and the sheared one was thus tacitly advised to go and growmore wool. 

Soon wearying of his ostracism, Goree had departed for his office, muttering to himself as he unsteadily traversed the unlucky pathway. After a drink of corn whiskey from a demijohn under the table, he hadflung himself into the chair, staring, in a sort of maudlin apathy, out at the mountains immersed in the summer haze. The little whitepatch he saw away up on the side of Blackjack was Laurel, the villagenear which he had been born and bred. There, also, was the birthplaceof the feud between the Gorees and the Coltranes. Now no direct heirof the Gorees survived except this plucked and singed bird ofmisfortune. To the Coltranes, also, but one male supporter was left--Colonel Abner Coltrane, a man of substance and standing, a memberof the State Legislature, and a contemporary with Goree's father. Thefeud had been a typical one of the region; it had left a red record ofhate, wrong and slaughter. 

But Yancey Goree was not thinking of feuds. His befuddled brain washopelessly attacking the problem of the future maintenance of himselfand his favourite follies. Of late, old friends of the family hadseen to it that he had whereof to eat and a place to sleep--but whiskeythey would not buy for him, and he must have whiskey. His law businesswas extinct; no case had been intrusted to him in two years. He hadbeen a borrower and a sponge, and it seemed that if he fell no lowerit would be from lack of opportunity. One more chance--he was sayingto himself--if he had one more stake at the game, he thought he couldwin; but he had nothing left to sell, and his credit was more thanexhausted. 

He could not help smiling, even in his misery, as he thought of theman to whom, six months before, he had sold the old Goree homestead. There had come from "back yan'" in the mountains two of the strangestcreatures, a man named Pike Garvey and his wife. "Back yan', " with awave of the hand toward the hills, was understood among themountaineers to designate the remotest fastnesses, the unplumbedgorges, the haunts of lawbreakers, the wolf's den, and the boudoir ofthe bear. In the cabin far up on Blackjack's shoulder, in the wildestpart of these retreats, this odd couple had lived for twenty years. They had neither dog nor children to mitigate the heavy silence of thehills. Pike Garvey was little known in the settlements, but all whohad dealt with him pronounced him "crazy as a loon. " He acknowledgedno occupation save that of a squirrel hunter, but he "moonshined"occasionally by way of diversion. Once the "revenues" had dragged himfrom his lair, fighting silently and desperately like a terrier, andhe had been sent to state's prison for two years. Released, he poppedback into his hole like an angry weasel. 

Fortune, passing over many anxious wooers, made a freakish flight intoBlackjack's bosky pockets to smile upon Pike and his faithful partner. 

One day a party of spectacled, knickerbockered, and altogether absurdprospectors invaded the vicinity of the Garvey's cabin. Pike liftedhis squirrel rifle off the hooks and took a shot at them at long rangeon the chance of their being revenues. Happily he missed, and theunconscious agents of good luck drew nearer, disclosing theirinnocence of anything resembling law or justice. Later on, theyoffered the Garveys an enormous quantity of ready, green, crisp moneyfor their thirty-acre patch of cleared land, mentioning, as an excusefor such a mad action, some irrelevant and inadequate nonsense about abed of mica underlying the said property. 

When the Garveys became possessed of so many dollars that theyfaltered in computing them, the deficiencies of life on Blackjackbegan to grow prominent. Pike began to talk of new shoes, a hogsheadof tobacco to set in the corner, a new lock to his rifle; and, leadingMartella to a certain spot on the mountain-side, he pointed out to herhow a small cannon--doubtless a thing not beyond the scope of theirfortune in price--might be planted so as to command and defend thesole accessible trail to the cabin, to the confusion of revenues andmeddling strangers forever. 

But Adam reckoned without his Eve. These things represented to himthe applied power of wealth, but there slumbered in his dingy cabin anambition that soared far above his primitive wants. Somewhere in Mrs. Garvey's bosom still survived a spot of femininity unstarved by twentyyears of Blackjack. For so long a time the sounds in her ears hadbeen the scaly-barks dropping in the woods at noon, and the wolvessinging among the rocks at night, and it was enough to have purged herof vanities. She had grown fat and sad and yellow and dull. But whenthe means came, she felt a rekindled desire to assume the perquisitesof her sex--to sit at tea tables; to buy futile things; to whitewashthe hideous veracity of life with a little form and ceremony. So shecoldly vetoed Pike's proposed system of fortifications, andannounced that they would descend upon the world, and gyrate socially. 

And thus, at length, it was decided, and the thing done. The villageof Laurel was their compromise between Mrs. Garvey's preference forone of the large valley towns and Pike's hankering for primevalsolitudes. Laurel yielded a halting round of feeble socialdistractions comportable with Martella's ambitions, and was notentirely without recommendation to Pike, its contiguity to themountains presenting advantages for sudden retreat in case fashionablesociety should make it advisable. 

Their descent upon Laurel had been coincident with Yancey Goree'sfeverish desire to convert property into cash, and they bought the oldGoree homestead, paying four thousand dollars ready money into thespendthrift's shaking hands. 

Thus it happened that while the disreputable last of the Goreessprawled in his disreputable office, at the end of his row, spurned bythe cronies whom he had gorged, strangers dwelt in the halls of hisfathers. 

A cloud of dust was rolling, slowly up the parched street, withsomething travelling in the midst of it. A little breeze wafted thecloud to one side, and a new, brightly painted carryall, drawn by aslothful gray horse, became visible. The vehicle deflected from themiddle of the street as it neared Goree's office, and stopped in thegutter directly in front of his door. 

On the front seat sat a gaunt, tall man, dressed in black broadcloth, his rigid hands incarcerated in yellow kid gloves. On the back seatwas a lady who triumphed over the June heat. Her stout form wasarmoured in a skin-tight silk dress of the description known as"changeable, " being a gorgeous combination of shifting hues. She saterect, waving a much-ornamented fan, with her eyes fixed stonily fardown the street. However Martella Garvey's heart might be rejoicingat the pleasures of her new life, Blackjack had done his work with herexterior. He had carved her countenance to the image of emptiness andinanity; had imbued her with the stolidity of his crags, and thereserve of his hushed interiors. She always seemed to hear, whateverher surroundings were, the scaly-barks falling and pattering down themountain-side. She could always hear the awful silence of Blackjacksounding through the stillest of nights. 

Goree watched this solemn equipage, as it drove to his door, with onlyfaint interest; but when the lank driver wrapped the reins about hiswhip, awkwardly descended, and stepped into the office, he roseunsteadily to receive him, recognizing Pike Garvey, the new, thetransformed, the recently civilized. 

The mountaineer took the chair Goree offered him. They who cast doubtsupon Garvey's soundness of mind had a strong witness in the man'scountenance. His face was too long, a dull saffron in hue, andimmobile as a statue's. Pale-blue, unwinking round eyes withoutlashes added to the singularity of his gruesome visage. Goree was at aloss to account for the visit. 

"Everything all right at Laurel, Mr. Garvey?" he inquired. 

"Everything all right, sir, and mighty pleased is Missis Garvey and mewith the property. Missis Garvey likes yo' old place, and she likesthe neighbourhood. Society is what she 'lows she wants, and she isgettin' of it. The Rogerses, the Hapgoods, the Pratts and the Troyshev been to see Missis Garvey, and she hev et meals to most of tharhouses. The best folks hev axed her to differ'nt kinds of doin's. Icyan't say, Mr. Goree, that sech things suits me--fur me, give methem thar. " Garvey's huge, yellow-gloved hand flourished in thedirection of the mountains. "That's whar I b'long, 'mongst the wildhoney bees and the b'ars. But that ain't what I come fur to say, Mr. Goree. Thar's somethin' you got what me and Missis Garvey wants tobuy. "

"Buy!" echoed Goree. "From me?" Then he laughed harshly. "I reckonyou are mistaken about that. I reckon you are mistaken about that. Isold out to you, as you yourself expressed it, 'lock, stock andbarrel. ' There isn't even a ramrod left to sell. "

"You've got it; and we 'uns want it. 'Take the money, ' says MissisGarvey, 'and buy it fa'r and squar'. '"

Goree shook his head. "The cupboard's bare, " he said. 

"We've riz, " pursued the mountaineer, undeflected from his object, "aheap. We was pore as possums, and now we could hev folks to dinnerevery day. We been recognized, Missis Garvey says, by the bestsociety. But there's somethin' we need we ain't got. She says itought to been put in the 'ventory ov the sale, but it tain't thar. 'Take the money, then, ' says she, 'and buy it fa'r and squar'. "'

"Out with it, " said Goree, his racked nerves growing impatient. 

Garvey threw his slouch hat upon the table, and leaned forward, fixinghis unblinking eyes upon Goree's. 

"There's a old feud, " he said distinctly and slowly, "'tween you 'unsand the Coltranes. "

Goree frowned ominously. To speak of his feud to a feudist is aserious breach of the mountain etiquette. The man from "back yan'"knew it as well as the lawyer did. 

"Na offense, " he went on "but purely in the way of business. MissisGarvey hev studied all about feuds. Most of the quality folks in themountains hev 'em. The Settles and the Goforths, the Rankins and theBoyds, the Silers and the Galloways, hev all been cyarin' on feudsf'om twenty to a hundred year. The last man to drap was when yo'uncle, Jedge Paisley Goree, 'journed co't and shot Len Coltrane f'omthe bench. Missis Garvey and me, we come f'om the po' white trash. Nobody wouldn't pick a feud with we 'uns, no mo'n with a fam'ly oftree-toads. Quality people everywhar, says Missis Garvey, has feuds. We 'uns ain't quality, but we're buyin' into it as fur as we can. 'Take the money, then, ' says Missis Garvey, 'and buy Mr. Goree's feud, fa'r and squar'. '"

The squirrel hunter straightened a leg half across the room, drew aroll of bills from his pocket, and threw them on the table. 

"Thar's two hundred dollars, Mr. Goree; what you would call a fa'rprice for a feud that's been 'lowed to run down like yourn hev. Thar's only you left to cyar' on yo' side of it, and you'd make mightypo' killin'. I'll take it off yo' hands, and it'll set me and MissisGarvey up among the quality. Thar's the money. "

The little roll of currency on the table slowly untwisted itself, writhing and jumping as its folds relaxed. In the silence thatfollowed Garvey's last speech the rattling of the poker chips in thecourt-house could be plainly heard. Goree knew that the sheriff hadjust won a pot, for the subdued whoop with which he always greeteda victory floated across the square upon the crinkly heat waves. Beads of moisture stood on Goree's brow. Stooping, he drew thewicker-covered demijohn from under the table, and filled a tumblerfrom it. 

"A little corn liquor, Mr. Garvey? Of course you are joking about--what you spoke of? Opens quite a new market, doesn't it? Feuds. Prime, two-fifty to three. Feuds, slightly damaged--two hundred, Ibelieve you said, Mr. Garvey?"

Goree laughed self-consciously. 

The mountaineer took the glass Goree handed him, and drank the whiskywithout a tremor of the lids of his staring eyes. The lawyerapplauded the feat by a look of envious admiration. He poured his owndrink, and took it like a drunkard, by gulps, and with shudders at thesmell and taste. 

"Two hundred, " repeated Garvey. "Thar's the money. "

A sudden passion flared up in Goree's brain. He struck the table withhis fist. One of the bills flipped over and touched his hand. Heflinched as if something had stung him. 

"Do you come to me, " he shouted, "seriously with such a ridiculous, insulting, darned-fool proposition?"

"It's fa'r and squar', " said the squirrel hunter, but he reached outhis hand as if to take back the money; and then Goree knew that hisown flurry of rage had not been from pride or resentment, but fromanger at himself, knowing that he would set foot in the deeper depthsthat were being opened to him. He turned in an instant from anoutraged gentleman to an anxious chafferer recommending his goods. 

"Don't be in a hurry, Garvey, " he said, his face crimson and hisspeech thick. "I accept your p-p-proposition, though it's dirt cheapat two hundred. A t-trade's all right when both p-purchaser andb-buyer are s-satisfied. Shall I w-wrap it up for you, Mr. Garvey?"

Garvey rose, and shook out his broadcloth. "Missis Garvey will bepleased. You air out of it, and it stands Coltrane and Garvey. Justa scrap ov writin', Mr. Goree, you bein' a lawyer, to show we traded. "

Goree seized a sheet of paper and a pen. The money was clutched inhis moist hand. Everything else suddenly seemed to grow trivial andlight. 

"Bill of sale, by all means. 'Right, title, and interest in and to'. . . 'forever warrant and--' No, Garvey, we'll have to leave out that'defend, '" said Goree with a loud laugh. "You'll have to defend thistitle yourself. "

The mountaineer received the amazing screed that the lawyer handedhim, folded it with immense labour, and laced it carefully in hispocket. 

Goree was standing near the window. "Step here, " he said, raising hisfinger, "and I'll show you your recently purchased enemy. There hegoes, down the other side of the street. "

The mountaineer crooked his long frame to look through the window inthe direction indicated by the other. Colonel Abner Coltrane, anerect, portly gentleman of about fifty, wearing the inevitable long, double-breasted frock coat of the Southern lawmaker, and an old highsilk hat, was passing on the opposite sidewalk. As Garvey looked, Goree glanced at his face. If there be such a thing as a yellow wolf, here was its counterpart. Garvey snarled as his unhuman eyes followedthe moving figure, disclosing long, amber-coloured fangs. 

"Is that him? Why, that's the man who sent me to the pen'tentiaryonce!"

"He used to be district attorney, " said Goree carelessly. "And, bythe way, he's a first-class shot. "

"I kin hit a squirrel's eye at a hundred yard, " said Garvey. "So thatthar's Coltrane! I made a better trade than I was thinkin'. I'lltake keer ov this feud, Mr. Goree, better'n you ever did!"

He moved toward the door, but lingered there, betraying a slightperplexity. 

"Anything else to-day?" inquired Goree with frothy sarcasm. "Anyfamily traditions, ancestral ghosts, or skeletons in the closet?Prices as low as the lowest. "

"Thar was another thing, " replied the unmoved squirrel hunter, "thatMissis Garvey was thinkin' of. 'Tain't so much in my line as t'other, but she wanted partic'lar that I should inquire, and ef you waswillin', 'pay fur it, ' she says, 'fa'r and squar'. ' Thar's a buryin'groun', as you know, Mr. Goree, in the yard of yo' old place, underthe cedars. Them that lies thar is yo' folks what was killed by theColtranes. The monyments has the names on 'em. Missis Garvey says afam'ly buryin' groun' is a sho' sign of quality. She says ef we gitthe feud, thar's somethin' else ought to go with it. The names onthem monyments is 'Goree, ' but they can be changed to ourn by--"

"Go! Go!" screamed Goree, his face turning purple. He stretched outboth hands toward the mountaineer, his fingers hooked and shaking. "Go, you ghoul! Even a Ch-Chinaman protects the g-graves of hisancestors--go!"

The squirrel hunter slouched out of the door to his carryall. Whilehe was climbing over the wheel Goree was collecting, with feverishcelerity, the money that had fallen from his hand to the floor. Asthe vehicle slowly turned about, the sheep, with a coat of newlygrown wool, was hurrying, in indecent haste, along the path to thecourt-house. 

At three o'clock in the morning they brought him back to his office, shorn and unconscious. The sheriff, the sportive deputy, the countyclerk, and the gay attorney carried him, the chalk-faced man "from thevalley" acting as escort. 

"On the table, " said one of them, and they deposited him there amongthe litter of his unprofitable books and papers. 

"Yance thinks a lot of a pair of deuces when he's liquored up, " sighedthe sheriff reflectively. 

"Too much, " said the gay attorney. "A man has no business to playpoker who drinks as much as he does. I wonder how much he droppedto-night. "

"Close to two hundred. What I wonder is whar he got it. Yance ain'thad a cent fur over a month, I know. "

"Struck a client, maybe. Well, let's get home before daylight. He'llbe all right when he wakes up, except for a sort of beehive about thecranium. "

The gang slipped away through the early morning twilight. The nexteye to gaze upon the miserable Goree was the orb of day. He peeredthrough the uncurtained window, first deluging the sleeper in a floodof faint gold, but soon pouring upon the mottled red of his flesh asearching, white, summer heat. Goree stirred, half unconsciously, among the table's débris, and turned his face from the window. Hismovement dislodged a heavy law book, which crashed upon the floor. Opening his eyes, he saw, bending over him, a man in a black frockcoat. Looking higher, he discovered a well-worn silk hat, and beneathit the kindly, smooth face of Colonel Abner Coltrane. 

A little uncertain of the outcome, the colonel waited for the other tomake some sign of recognition. Not in twenty years had male membersof these two families faced each other in peace. Goree's eyelidspuckered as he strained his blurred sight toward this visitor, andthen he smiled serenely. 

"Have you brought Stella and Lucy over to play?" he said calmly. 

"Do you know me, Yancey?" asked Coltrane. 

"Of course I do. You brought me a whip with a whistle in the end. "

So he had--twenty-four years ago; when Yancey's father was his bestfriend. 

Goree's eyes wandered about the room. The colonel understood. "Liestill, and I'll bring you some, " said he. There was a pump in the yardat the rear, and Goree closed his eyes, listening with rapture to theclick of its handle, and the bubbling of the falling stream. Coltranebrought a pitcher of the cool water, and held it for him to drink. Presently Goree sat up--a most forlorn object, his summer suit of flaxsoiled and crumpled, his discreditable head tousled and unsteady. Hetried to wave one of his hands toward the colonel. 

"Ex-excuse--everything, will you?" he said. "I must have drunk toomuch whiskey last night, and gone to bed on the table. " His browsknitted into a puzzled frown. 

"Out with the boys awhile?" asked Coltrane kindly. 

"No, I went nowhere. I haven't had a dollar to spend in the last twomonths. Struck the demijohn too often, I reckon, as usual. "

Colonel Coltrane touched him on the shoulder. 

"A little while ago, Yancey, " he began, "you asked me if I had broughtStella and Lucy over to play. You weren't quite awake then, and musthave been dreaming you were a boy again. You are awake now, and Iwant you to listen to me. I have come from Stella and Lucy to theirold playmate, and to my old friend's son. They know that I am goingto bring you home with me, and you will find them as ready with awelcome as they were in the old days. I want you to come to my houseand stay until you are yourself again, and as much longer as you will. We heard of your being down in the world, and in the midst oftemptation, and we agreed that you should come over and play at ourhouse once more. Will you come, my boy? Will you drop our old familytrouble and come with me?"

"Trouble!" said Goree, opening his eyes wide. "There was never anytrouble between us that I know of. I'm sure we've always been thebest friends. But, good Lord, Colonel, how could I go to your home asI am--a drunken wretch, a miserable, degraded spendthrift andgambler--"

He lurched from the table into his armchair, and began to weep maudlintears, mingled with genuine drops of remorse and shame. Coltranetalked to him persistently and reasonably, reminding him of thesimple mountain pleasures of which he had once been so fond, andinsisting upon the genuineness of the invitation. 

Finally he landed Goree by telling him he was counting upon his helpin the engineering and transportation of a large amount of felledtimber from a high mountain-side to a waterway. He knew that Goreehad once invented a device for this purpose--a series of slides andchutes upon which he had justly prided himself. In an instant thepoor fellow, delighted at the idea of his being of use to any one, hadpaper spread upon the table, and was drawing rapid but pitifully shakylines in demonstration of what he could and would do. 

The man was sickened of the husks; his prodigal heart was turningagain toward the mountains. His mind was yet strangely clogged, andhis thoughts and memories were returning to his brain one by one, likecarrier pigeons over a stormy sea. But Coltrane was satisfied withthe progress he had made. 

Bethel received the surprise of its existence that afternoon when aColtrane and a Goree rode amicably together through the town. Side byside they rode, out from the dusty streets and gaping townspeople, down across the creek bridge, and up toward the mountain. Theprodigal had brushed and washed and combed himself to a more decentfigure, but he was unsteady in the saddle, and he seemed to be deep inthe contemplation of some vexing problem. Coltrane left him in hismood, relying upon the influence of changed surroundings to restorehis equilibrium. 

Once Goree was seized with a shaking fit, and almost came to acollapse. He had to dismount and rest at the side of the road. Thecolonel, foreseeing such a condition, had provided a small flask ofwhisky for the journey but when it was offered to him Goree refused italmost with violence, declaring he would never touch it again. By andby he was recovered, and went quietly enough for a mile or two. Thenhe pulled up his horse suddenly, and said:

"I lost two hundred dollars last night, playing poker. Now, where didI get that money?"

"Take it easy, Yancey. The mountain air will soon clear it up. We'llgo fishing, first thing, at the Pinnacle Falls. The trout are jumpingthere like bullfrogs. We'll take Stella and Lucy along, and have apicnic on Eagle Rock. Have you forgotten how a hickory-cured-hamsandwich tastes, Yancey, to a hungry fisherman?"

Evidently the colonel did not believe the story of his lost wealth; soGoree retired again into brooding silence. 

By late Afternoon they had travelled ten of the twelve miles betweenBethel and Laurel. Half a mile this side of Laurel lay the old Goreeplace; a mile or two beyond the village lived the Coltranes. The roadwas now steep and laborious, but the compensations were many. Thetilted aisles of the forest were opulent with leaf and bird and bloom. The tonic air put to shame the pharmacopæia. The glades were darkwith mossy shade, and bright with shy rivulets winking from the fernsand laurels. On the lower side they viewed, framed in the nearfoliage, exquisite sketches of the far valley swooning in its opalhaze. 

Coltrane was pleased to see that his companion was yielding to thespell of the hills and woods. For now they had but to skirt the baseof Painter's Cliff; to cross Elder Branch and mount the hill beyond, and Goree would have to face the squandered home of his fathers. Everyrock he passed, every tree, every foot of the rocky way, was familiarto him. Though he had forgotten the woods, they thrilled him like themusic of "Home, Sweet Home. "

They rounded the cliff, descended into Elder Branch, and paused thereto let the horses drink and splash in the swift water. On the rightwas a rail fence that cornered there, and followed the road andstream. Inclosed by it was the old apple orchard of the home place;the house was yet concealed by the brow of the steep hill. Inside andalong the fence, pokeberries, elders, sassafras, and sumac grew highand dense. At a rustle of their branches, both Goree and Coltraneglanced up, and saw a long, yellow, wolfish face above the fence, staring at them with pale, unwinking eyes. The head quicklydisappeared; there was a violent swaying of the bushes, and anungainly figure ran up through the apple orchard in the direction ofthe house, zig-zagging among the trees. 

"That's Garvey, " said Coltrane; "the man you sold out to. There's nodoubt but he's considerably cracked. I had to send him up formoonshining once, several years ago, in spite of the fact that Ibelieved him irresponsible. Why, what's the matter, Yancey?"

Goree was wiping his forehead, and his face had lost its colour. "DoI look queer, too?" he asked, trying to smile. "I'm just rememberinga few more things. " Some of the alcohol had evaporated from his brain. "I recollect now where I got that two hundred dollars. "

"Don't think of it, " said Coltrane cheerfully. "Later on we'll figureit all out together. "

They rode out of the branch, and when they reached the foot of thehill Goree stopped again. 

"Did you ever suspect I was a very vain kind of fellow, Colonel?" heasked. "Sort of foolish proud about appearances?"

The colonel's eyes refused to wander to the soiled, sagging suit offlax and the faded slouch hat. 

"It seems to me, " he replied, mystified, but humouring him, "Iremember a young buck about twenty, with the tightest coat, thesleekest hair, and the prancingest saddle horse in the Blue Ridge. "

"Right you are, " said Goree eagerly. "And it's in me yet, though itdon't show. Oh, I'm as vain as a turkey gobbler, and as proud asLucifer. I'm going to ask you to indulge this weakness of mine in alittle matter. "

"Speak out, Yancey. We'll create you Duke of Laurel and Baron of BlueRidge, if you choose; and you shall have a feather out of Stella'speacock's tail to wear in your hat. "

"I'm in earnest. In a few minutes we'll pass the house up there onthe hill where I was born, and where my people have lived for nearly acentury. Strangers live there now--and look at me! I am about toshow myself to them ragged and poverty-stricken, a wastrel and abeggar. Colonel Coltrane, I'm ashamed to do it. I want you to let mewear your coat and hat until we are out of sight beyond. I know youthink it a foolish pride, but I want to make as good a showing as Ican when I pass the old place. "

"Now, what does this mean?" said Coltrane to himself, as hecompared his companion's sane looks and quiet demeanour with hisstrange request. But he was already unbuttoning the coat, assentingreadily, as if the fancy were in no wise to be considered strange. 

The coat and hat fitted Goree well. He buttoned the former about himwith a look of satisfaction and dignity. He and Coltrane were nearlythe same size--rather tall, portly, and erect. Twenty-five yearswere between them, but in appearance they might have been brothers. Goree looked older than his age; his face was puffy and lined; thecolonel had the smooth, fresh complexion of a temperate liver. He puton Goree's disreputable old flax coat and faded slouch hat. 

"Now, " said Goree, taking up the reins, "I'm all right. I want you toride about ten feet in the rear as we go by, Colonel, so that they canget a good look at me. They'll see I'm no back number yet, by anymeans. I guess I'll show up pretty well to them once more, anyhow. Let's ride on. "

He set out up the hill at a smart trot, the colonel following, as hehad been requested. 

Goree sat straight in the saddle, with head erect, but his eyes wereturned to the right, sharply scanning every shrub and fence andhiding-place in the old homestead yard. Once he muttered to himself, "Will the crazy fool try it, or did I dream half of it?"

It was when he came opposite the little family burying ground that hesaw what he had been looking for--a puff of white smoke, coming fromthe thick cedars in one corner. He toppled so slowly to the left thatColtrane had time to urge his horse to that side, and catch him withone arm. 

The squirrel hunter had not overpraised his aim. He had sent thebullet where he intended, and where Goree had expected that it wouldpass--through the breast of Colonel Abner Coltrane's black frockcoat. 

Goree leaned heavily against Coltrane, but he did not fall. Thehorses kept pace, side by side, and the Colonel's arm kept him steady. The little white houses of Laurel shone through the trees, half a mileaway. Goree reached out one hand and groped until it rested uponColtrane's fingers, which held his bridle. 

"Good friend, " he said, and that was all. 

Thus did Yancey Goree, as he rode past his old home, make, consideringall things, the best showing that was in his power. 

XVI

THE SONG AND THE SERGEANT

Half a dozen people supping at a table in one of the upper-Broadwayall-night restaurants were making too much noise. Three times themanager walked past them with a politely warning glance; but theirargument had waxed too warm to be quelled by a manager's gaze. It wasmidnight, and the restaurant was filled with patrons from the theatresof that district. Some among the dispersed audiences must haverecognized among the quarrelsome sextet the faces of the playersbelonging to the Carroll Comedy Company. 

Four of the six made up the company. Another was the author of thecomedietta, "A Gay Coquette, " which the quartette of players had beenpresenting with fair success at several vaudeville houses in the city. The sixth at the table was a person inconsequent in the realm of art, but one at whose bidding many lobsters had perished. 

Loudly the six maintained their clamorous debate. No one of the Partywas silent except when answers were stormed from him by the excitedones. That was the comedian of "A Gay Coquette. " He was a young manwith a face even too melancholy for his profession. 

The oral warfare of four immoderate tongues was directed at MissClarice Carroll, the twinkling star of the small aggregation. Excepting the downcast comedian, all members of the party united incasting upon her with vehemence the blame of some momentousmisfortune. Fifty times they told her: "It is your fault, Clarice--itis you alone who spoilt the scene. It is only of late that you haveacted this way. At this rate the sketch will have to be taken off. "

Miss Carroll was a match for any four. Gallic ancestry gave her avivacity that could easily mount to fury. Her large eyes flashed ascorching denial at her accusers. Her slender, eloquent armsconstantly menaced the tableware. Her high, clear soprano voice roseto what would have been a scream had it not possessed so pure amusical quality. She hurled back at the attacking four theirdenunciations in tones sweet, but of too great carrying power for aBroadway restaurant. 

Finally they exhausted her patience both as a woman and an artist. She sprang up like a panther, managed to smash half a dozen plates andglasses with one royal sweep of her arm, and defied her critics. Theyrose and wrangled more loudly. The comedian sighed and looked atrifle sadder and disinterested. The manager came tripping andsuggested peace. He was told to go to the popular synonym for war sopromptly that the affair might have happened at The Hague. 

Thus was the manager angered. He made a sign with his hand and awaiter slipped out of the door. In twenty minutes the party of sixwas in a police station facing a grizzled and philosophical desksergeant. 

"Disorderly conduct in a restaurant, " said the policeman who hadbrought the party in. 

The author of "A Gay Coquette" stepped to the front. He worenose-glasses and evening clothes, even if his shoes had been tansbefore they met the patent-leather-polish bottle. 

"Mr. Sergeant, " said he, out of his throat, like Actor Irving, "Iwould like to protest against this arrest. The company of actors whoare performing in a little play that I have written, in company with afriend and myself were having a little supper. We became deeplyinterested in the discussion as to which one of the cast isresponsible for a scene in the sketch that lately has fallen so flatthat the piece is about to become a failure. We may have been rathernoisy and intolerant of interruption by the restaurant people; but thematter was of considerable importance to all of us. You see that weare sober and are not the kind of people who desire to raisedisturbances. I hope that the case will not be pressed and that we maybe allowed to go. "

"Who makes the charge?" asked the sergeant. 

"Me, " said a white-aproned voice in the rear. "De restaurant sent meto. De gang was raisin' a rough-house and breakin' dishes. "

"The dishes were paid for, " said the playwright. "They were not brokenpurposely. In her anger, because we remonstrated with her forspoiling the scene, Miss--"

"It's not true, sergeant, " cried the clear voice of Miss ClariceCarroll. In a long coat of tan silk and a red-plumed hat, shebounded before the desk. 

"It's not my fault, " she cried indignantly. "How dare they say sucha thing! I've played the title rôle ever since it was staged, and ifyou want to know who made it a success, ask the public--that's all. "

"What Miss Carroll says is true in part, " said the author. "For fivemonths the comedietta was a drawing-card in the best houses. Butduring the last two weeks it has lost favour. There is one scene init in which Miss Carroll made a big hit. Now she hardly gets a handout of it. She spoils it by acting it entirely different from her oldway. "

"It is not my fault, " reiterated the actress. 

"There are only two of you on in the scene, " argued the playwrighthotly, "you and Delmars, here--"

"Then it's his fault, " declared Miss Carroll, with a lightning glanceof scorn from her dark eyes. The comedian caught it, and gazed withincreased melancholy at the panels of the sergeant's desk. 

The night was a dull one in that particular police station. 

The sergeant's long-blunted curiosity awoke a little. 

"I've heard you, " he said to the author. And then he addressed thethin-faced and ascetic-looking lady of the company who played "AuntTurnip-top" in the little comedy. 

"Who do you think spoils the scene you are fussing about?" he asked. 

"I'm no knocker, " said that lady, "and everybody knows it. So, when Isay that Clarice falls down every time in that scene I'm judging herart and not herself. She was great in it once. She does it somethingfierce now. It'll dope the show if she keeps it up. "

The sergeant looked at the comedian. 

"You and the lady have this scene together, I understand. I supposethere's no use asking you which one of you queers it?"

The comedian avoided the direct rays from the two fixed stars of MissCarroll's eyes. 

"I don't know, " he said, looking down at his patent-leather toes. 

"Are you one of the actors?" asked the sergeant of a dwarfish youthwith a middle-aged face. 

"Why, say!" replied the last Thespian witness, "you don't notice anytin spear in my hands, do you? You haven't heard me shout: 'See, theEmperor comes!' since I've been in here, have you? I guess I'm on thestage long enough for 'em not to start a panic by mistaking me for athin curl of smoke rising above the footlights. "

"In your opinion, if you've got one, " said the sergeant, "is the frostthat gathers on the scene in question the work of the lady or thegentleman who takes part in it?"

The middle-aged youth looked pained. 

"I regret to say, " he answered, "that Miss Carroll seems to havelost her grip on that scene. She's all right in the rest of theplay, but--but I tell you, sergeant, she can do it--she has doneit equal to any of 'em--and she can do it again. "

Miss Carroll ran forward, glowing and palpitating. 

"Thank you, Jimmy, for the first good word I've had in many a day, "she cried. And then she turned her eager face toward the desk. 

"I'll show you, sergeant, whether I am to blame. I'll show themwhether I can do that scene. Come, Mr. Delmars; let us begin. Youwill let us, won't you, sergeant?"

"How long will it take?" asked the sergeant, dubiously. 

"Eight minutes, " said the playwright. "The entire play consumes butthirty. "

"You may go ahead, " said the sergeant. "Most of you seem to sideagainst the little lady. Maybe she had a right to crack up a sauceror two in that restaurant. We'll see how she does the turn before wetake that up. "

The matron of the police station had been standing near, listening tothe singular argument. She came nigher and stood near the sergeant'schair. Two or three of the reserves strolled in, big and yawning. 

"Before beginning the scene, " said the playwright, "and assuming thatyou have not seen a production of 'A Gay Coquette, ' I will make abrief but necessary explanation. It is a musical-farce-comedy--burlesque-comedietta. As the title implies, Miss Carroll's rôle isthat of a gay, rollicking, mischievous, heartless coquette. Shesustains that character throughout the entire comedy part of theproduction. And I have designed the extravaganza features so that shemay preserve and present the same coquettish idea. 

"Now, the scene in which we take exception to Miss Carroll's acting iscalled the 'gorilla dance. ' She is costumed to represent a wood nymph, and there is a great song-and-dance scene with a gorilla--played byMr. Delmars, the comedian. A tropical-forest stage is set. 

"That used to get four and five recalls. The main thing was theacting and the dance--it was the funniest thing in New York for fivemonths. Delmars's song, 'I'll Woo Thee to My Sylvan Home, ' while heand Miss Carroll were cutting hide-and-seek capers among the tropicalplants, was a winner. "

"What's the trouble with the scene now?" asked the sergeant. 

"Miss Carroll spoils it right in the middle of it, " said theplaywright wrathfully. 

With a wide gesture of her ever-moving arms the actress waved back thelittle group of spectators, leaving a space in front of the desk forthe scene of her vindication or fall. Then she whipped off her longtan cloak and tossed it across the arm of the policeman who stillstood officially among them. 

Miss Carroll had gone to supper well cloaked, but in the costume ofthe tropic wood nymph. A skirt of fern leaves touched her knee; shewas like a humming-bird--green and golden and purple. 

And then she danced a fluttering, fantastic dance, so agile and lightand mazy in her steps that the other three members of the CarrollComedy Company broke into applause at the art of it. 

And at the proper time Delmars leaped out at her side, mimickingthe uncouth, hideous bounds of the gorilla so funnily that thegrizzled sergeant himself gave a short laugh like the closing of apadlock. They danced together the gorilla dance, and won a hand fromall. 

Then began the most fantastic part of the scene--the wooing of thenymph by the gorilla. It was a kind of dance itself--eccentric andprankish, with the nymph in coquettish and seductive retreat, followedby the gorilla as he sang "I'll Woo Thee to My Sylvan Home. "

The song was a lyric of merit. The words were non-sense, as befittedthe play, but the music was worthy of something better. Delmarsstruck into it in a rich tenor that owned a quality that shamed theflippant words. 

During one verse of the song the wood nymph performed the grotesqueevolutions designed for the scene. At the middle of the second verseshe stood still, with a strange look on her face, seeming to gazedreamily into the depths of the scenic forest. The gorilla's lastleap had brought him to her feet, and there he knelt, holding herhand, until he had finished the haunting-lyric that was set in theabsurd comedy like a diamond in a piece of putty. 

When Delmars ceased Miss Carroll started, and covered a sudden flow oftears with both hands. 

"There!" cried the playwright, gesticulating with violence; "thereyou have it, sergeant. For two weeks she has spoiled that scene injust that manner at every performance. I have begged her to considerthat it is not Ophelia or Juliet that she is playing. Do you wondernow at our impatience? Tears for the gorilla song! The play is lost!"

Out of her bewitchment, whatever it was, the wood nymph flaredsuddenly, and pointed a desperate finger at Delmars. 

"It is you--you who have done this, " she cried wildly. "You neversang that song that way until lately. It is your doing. "

"I give it up, " said the sergeant. 

And then the gray-haired matron of the police station came forwardfrom behind the sergeant's chair. 

"Must an old woman teach you all?" she said. She went up to MissCarroll and took her hand. 

"The man's wearing his heart out for you, my dear. Couldn't you tellit the first note you heard him sing? All of his monkey flip-flopswouldn't have kept it from me. Must you be deaf as well as blind?That's why you couldn't act your part, child. Do you love him or musthe be a gorilla for the rest of his days?"

Miss Carroll whirled around and caught Delmars with a lightning glanceof her eye. He came toward her, melancholy. 

"Did you hear, Mr. Delmars?" she asked, with a catching breath. 

"I did, " said the comedian. "It is true. I didn't think there wasany use. I tried to let you know with the song. "

"Silly!" said the matron; "why didn't you speak?"

"No, no, " cried the wood nymph, "his way was the best. I didn't know, but--it was just what I wanted, Bobby. "

She sprang like a green grasshopper; and the comedian opened his arms, and--smiled. 

"Get out of this, " roared the desk sergeant to the waiting waiter fromthe restaurant. "There's nothing doing here for you. "

XVII

ONE DOLLAR'S WORTH

The judge of the United States court of the district lying along theRio Grande border found the following letter one morning in his mail:

 JUDGE: When you sent me up for four years you made a talk. Among other hard things, you called me a rattlesnake. Maybe I am one--anyhow, you hear me rattling now. One year after I got to the pen, my daughter died of-- well, they said it was poverty and the disgrace together. You've got a daughter, Judge, and I'm going to make you know how it feels to lose one. And I'm going to bite that district attorney that spoke against me. I'm free now, and I guess I've turned to rattlesnake all right. I feel like one. I don't say much, but this is my rattle. Look out when I strike. Yours respectfully, RATTLESNAKE. 

Judge Derwent threw the letter carelessly aside. It was nothing newto receive such epistles from desperate men whom he had been calledupon to judge. He felt no alarm. Later on he showed the letter toLittlefield, the young district attorney, for Littlefield's name wasincluded in the threat, and the judge was punctilious in mattersbetween himself and his fellow men. 

Littlefield honoured the rattle of the writer, as far as it concernedhimself, with a smile of contempt; but he frowned a little over thereference to the Judge's daughter, for he and Nancy Derwent were to bemarried in the fall. 

Littlefield went to the clerk of the court and looked over the recordswith him. They decided that the letter might have been sent by MexicoSam, a half-breed border desperado who had been imprisoned formanslaughter four years before. Then official duties crowded thematter from his mind, and the rattle of the revengeful serpent wasforgotten. 

Court was in session at Brownsville. Most of the cases to be triedwere charges of smuggling, counterfeiting, post-office robberies, andviolations of Federal laws along the border. One case was that of ayoung Mexican, Rafael Ortiz, who had been rounded up by a cleverdeputy marshal in the act of passing a counterfeit silver dollar. Hehad been suspected of many such deviations from rectitude, but thiswas the first time that anything provable had been fixed upon him. Ortiz languished cozily in jail, smoking brown cigarettes and waitingfor trial. Kilpatrick, the deputy, brought the counterfeit dollar andhanded it to the district attorney in his office in the court-house. The deputy and a reputable druggist were prepared to swear that Ortizpaid for a bottle of medicine with it. The coin was a poorcounterfeit, soft, dull-looking, and made principally of lead. It wasthe day before the morning on which the docket would reach the case ofOrtiz, and the district attorney was preparing himself for trial. 

"Not much need of having in high-priced experts to prove the coin'squeer, is there, Kil?" smiled Littlefield, as he thumped the dollardown upon the table, where it fell with no more ring than would havecome from a lump of putty. 

"I guess the Greaser's as good as behind the bars, " said the deputy, easing up his holsters. "You've got him dead. If it had been justone time, these Mexicans can't tell good money from bad; but thislittle yaller rascal belongs to a gang of counterfeiters, I know. This is the first time I've been able to catch him doing the trick. He's got a girl down there in them Mexican jacals on the river bank. I seen her one day when I was watching him. She's as pretty as a redheifer in a flower bed. "

Littlefield shoved the counterfeit dollar into his pocket, and slippedhis memoranda of the case into an envelope. Just then a bright, winsome face, as frank and jolly as a boy's, appeared in the doorway, and in walked Nancy Derwent. 

"Oh, Bob, didn't court adjourn at twelve to-day until to-morrow?" sheasked of Littlefield. 

"It did, " said the district attorney, "and I'm very glad of it. I'vegot a lot of rulings to look up, and--"

"Now, that's just like you. I wonder you and father don't turnto law books or rulings or something! I want you to take me outplover-shooting this afternoon. Long Prairie is just alive with them. Don't say no, please! I want to try my new twelve-bore hammerless. I've sent to the livery stable to engage Fly and Bess for thebuckboard; they stand fire so nicely. I was sure you would go. "

They were to be married in the fall. The glamour was at itsheight. The plovers won the day--or, rather, the afternoon--overthe calf-bound authorities. Littlefield began to put his papersaway. 

There was a knock at the door. Kilpatrick answered it. A beautiful, dark-eyed girl with a skin tinged with the faintest lemon colourwalked into the room. A black shawl was thrown over her head andwound once around her neck. 

She began to talk in Spanish, a voluble, mournful stream of melancholymusic. Littlefield did not understand Spanish. The deputy did, andhe translated her talk by portions, at intervals holding up his handto check the flow of her words. 

"She came to see you, Mr. Littlefield. Her name's Joya Treviñas. Shewants to see you about--well, she's mixed up with that Rafael Ortiz. She's his--she's his girl. She says he's innocent. She says shemade the money and got him to pass it. Don't you believe her, Mr. Littlefield. That's the way with these Mexican girls; they'll lie, steal, or kill for a fellow when they get stuck on him. Never trust awoman that's in love!"

"Mr. Kilpatrick!"

Nancy Derwent's indignant exclamation caused the deputy to flounderfor a moment in attempting to explain that he had misquoted his ownsentiments, and then he went on with the translation:

"She says she's willing to take his place in the jail if you'll lethim out. She says she was down sick with the fever, and the doctorsaid she'd die if she didn't have medicine. That's why he passed thelead dollar on the drug store. She says it saved her life. ThisRafael seems to be her honey, all right; there's a lot of stuff in hertalk about love and such things that you don't want to hear. "

It was an old story to the district attorney. 

"Tell her, " said he, "that I can do nothing. The case comes up in themorning, and he will have to make his fight before the court. "

Nancy Derwent was not so hardened. She was looking with sympatheticinterest at Joya Treviñas and at Littlefield alternately. The deputyrepeated the district attorney's words to the girl. She spoke asentence or two in a low voice, pulled her shawl closely about herface, and left the room. 

"What did she say then?" asked the district attorney. 

"Nothing special, " said the deputy. "She said: 'If the life of theone'--let's see how it went--'_Si la vida de ella a quien tu amas_--if the life of the girl you love is ever in danger, remember RafaelOrtiz. '"

Kilpatrick strolled out through the corridor in the direction of themarshal's office. 

"Can't you do anything for them, Bob?" asked Nancy. "It's such alittle thing--just one counterfeit dollar--to ruin the happinessof two lives! She was in danger of death, and he did it to save her. Doesn't the law know the feeling of pity?"

"It hasn't a place in jurisprudence, Nan, " said Littlefield, "especially _in re_ the district attorney's duty. I'll promise youthat the prosecution will not be vindictive; but the man is as good asconvicted when the case is called. Witnesses will swear to his passingthe bad dollar which I have in my pocket at this moment as 'ExhibitA. ' There are no Mexicans on the jury, and it will vote Mr. Greaserguilty without leaving the box. "

The plover-shooting was fine that afternoon, and in the excitement ofthe sport the case of Rafael and the grief of Joya Treviñas wasforgotten. The district attorney and Nancy Derwent drove out fromthe town three miles along a smooth, grassy road, and then struckacross a rolling prairie toward a heavy line of timber on PiedraCreek. Beyond this creek lay Long Prairie, the favourite haunt of theplover. As they were nearing the creek they heard the galloping of ahorse to their right, and saw a man with black hair and a swarthy faceriding toward the woods at a tangent, as if he had come up behindthem. 

"I've seen that fellow somewhere, " said Littlefield, who had a memoryfor faces, "but I can't exactly place him. Some ranchman, I suppose, taking a short cut home. "

They spent an hour on Long Prairie, shooting from the buckboard. Nancy Derwent, an active, outdoor Western girl, was pleased with hertwelve-bore. She had bagged within two brace of her companion'sscore. 

They started homeward at a gentle trot. When within a hundred yardsof Piedra Creek a man rode out of the timber directly toward them. 

"It looks like the man we saw coming over, " remarked Miss Derwent. 

As the distance between them lessened, the district attorney suddenlypulled up his team sharply, with his eyes fixed upon the advancinghorseman. That individual had drawn a Winchester from its scabbardon his saddle and thrown it over his arm. 

"Now I know you, Mexico Sam!" muttered Littlefield to himself. "Itwas you who shook your rattles in that gentle epistle. "

Mexico Sam did not leave things long in doubt. He had a nice eye inall matters relating to firearms, so when he was within good riflerange, but outside of danger from No. 8 shot, he threw up hisWinchester and opened fire upon the occupants of the buckboard. 

The first shot cracked the back of the seat within the two-inch spacebetween the shoulders of Littlefield and Miss Derwent. The next wentthrough the dashboard and Littlefield's trouser leg. 

The district attorney hustled Nancy out of the buck-board to theground. She was a little pale, but asked no questions. She had thefrontier instinct that accepts conditions in an emergency withoutsuperfluous argument. They kept their guns in hand, and Littlefieldhastily gathered some handfuls of cartridges from the pasteboard boxon the seat and crowded them into his pockets. 

"Keep behind the horses, Nan, " he commanded. "That fellow is a ruffianI sent to prison once. He's trying to get even. He knows our shotwon't hurt him at that distance. "

"All right, Bob, " said Nancy steadily. "I'm not afraid. But you comeclose, too. Whoa, Bess; stand still, now!"

She stroked Bess's mane. Littlefield stood with his gun ready, praying that the desperado would come within range. 

But Mexico Sam was playing his vendetta along safe lines. He wasa bird of different feather from the plover. His accurate eye drewan imaginary line of circumference around the area of danger frombird-shot, and upon this line lie rode. His horse wheeled to theright, and as his victims rounded to the safe side of their equinebreast-work he sent a ball through the district attorney's hat. Oncehe miscalculated in making a détour, and over-stepped his margin. Littlefield's gun flashed, and Mexico Sam ducked his head to theharmless patter of the shot. A few of them stung his horse, whichpranced promptly back to the safety line. 

The desperado fired again. A little cry came from Nancy Derwent. Littlefield whirled, with blazing eyes, and saw the blood tricklingdown her cheek. 

"I'm not hurt, Bob--only a splinter struck me. I think he hit oneof the wheel-spokes. "

"Lord!" groaned Littlefield. "If I only had a charge of buckshot!"

The ruffian got his horse still, and took careful aim. Fly gave asnort and fell in the harness, struck in the neck. Bess, nowdisabused of the idea that plover were being fired at, broke hertraces and galloped wildly away. Mexican Sam sent a ball neatlythrough the fulness of Nancy Derwent's shooting jacket. 

"Lie down--lie down!" snapped Littlefield. "Close to the horse--flaton the ground--so. " He almost threw her upon the grass against theback of the recumbent Fly. Oddly enough, at that moment the wordsof the Mexican girl returned to his mind:

"If the life of the girl you love is ever in danger, remember RafaelOrtiz. "

Littlefield uttered an exclamation. 

"Open fire on him, Nan, across the horse's back. Fire as fast as youcan! You can't hurt him, but keep him dodging shot for one minutewhile I try to work a little scheme. "

Nancy gave a quick glance at Littlefield, and saw him take out hispocket-knife and open it. Then she turned her face to obey orders, keeping up a rapid fire at the enemy. 

Mexico Sam waited patiently until this innocuous fusillade ceased. He had plenty of time, and he did not care to risk the chance of abird-shot in his eye when it could be avoided by a little caution. He pulled his heavy Stetson low down over his face until the shotsceased. Then he drew a little nearer, and fired with careful aim atwhat he could see of his victims above the fallen horse. 

Neither of them moved. He urged his horse a few steps nearer. Hesaw the district attorney rise to one knee and deliberately levelhis shotgun. He pulled his hat down and awaited the harmless rattleof the tiny pellets. 

The shotgun blazed with a heavy report. Mexico Sam sighed, turnedlimp all over, and slowly fell from his horse--a dead rattlesnake. 

At ten o'clock the next morning court opened, and the case of theUnited States versus Rafael Ortiz was called. The district attorney, with his arm in a sling, rose and addressed the court. 

"May it please your honour, " he said, "I desire to enter a _nollepros. _ in this case. Even though the defendant should be guilty, there is not sufficient evidence in the hands of the government tosecure a conviction. The piece of counterfeit coin upon theidentity of which the case was built is not now available asevidence. I ask, therefore, that the case be stricken off. "

At the noon recess Kilpatrick strolled into the district attorney'soffice. 

"I've just been down to take a squint at old Mexico Sam, " said thedeputy. "They've got him laid out. Old Mexico was a tough outfit, Ireckon. The boys was wonderin' down there what you shot him with. Some said it must have been nails. I never see a gun carry anythingto make holes like he had. "

"I shot him, " said the district attorney, "with Exhibit A of yourcounterfeiting case. Lucky thing for me--and somebody else--thatit was as bad money as it was! It sliced up into slugs very nicely. Say, Kil, can't you go down to the jacals and find where that Mexicangirl lives? Miss Derwent wants to know. "

XVIII

A NEWSPAPER STORY

At 8 A. M. It lay on Giuseppi's news-stand, still damp from thepresses. Giuseppi, with the cunning of his ilk, philandered on theopposite corner, leaving his patrons to help themselves, no doubt ona theory related to the hypothesis of the watched pot. 

This particular newspaper was, according to its custom and design, aneducator, a guide, a monitor, a champion and a household counsellorand _vade mecum_. 

From its many excellencies might be selected three editorials. Onewas in simple and chaste but illuminating language directed toparents and teachers, deprecating corporal punishment for children. 

Another was an accusive and significant warning addressed to anotorious labour leader who was on the point of instigating hisclients to a troublesome strike. 

The third was an eloquent demand that the police force be sustainedand aided in everything that tended to increase its efficiency aspublic guardians and servants. 

Besides these more important chidings and requisitions upon the storeof good citizenship was a wise prescription or form of procedure laidout by the editor of the heart-to-heart column in the specific caseof a young man who had complained of the obduracy of his lady love, teaching him how he might win her. 

Again, there was, on the beauty page, a complete answer to a younglady inquirer who desired admonition toward the securing of brighteyes, rosy cheeks and a beautiful countenance. 

One other item requiring special cognizance was a brief "personal, "running thus:

 DEAR JACK:--Forgive me. You were right. Meet me corner Madison and ----th at 8. 30 this morning. We leave at noon. PENITENT. 

At 8 o'clock a young man with a haggard look and the feverish gleam ofunrest in his eye dropped a penny and picked up the top paper as hepassed Giuseppi's stand. A sleepless night had left him a late riser. There was an office to be reached by nine, and a shave and a hasty cupof coffee to be crowded into the interval. 

He visited his barber shop and then hurried on his way. He pocketedhis paper, meditating a belated perusal of it at the luncheon hour. At the next corner it fell from his pocket, carrying with it his pairof new gloves. Three blocks he walked, missed the gloves and turnedback fuming. 

Just on the half-hour he reached the corner where lay the gloves andthe paper. But he strangely ignored that which he had come to seek. He was holding two little hands as tightly as ever he could andlooking into two penitent brown eyes, while joy rioted in his heart. 

"Dear Jack, " she said, "I knew you would be here on time. "

"I wonder what she means by that, " he was saying to himself; "but it'sall right, it's all right. "

A big wind puffed out of the west, picked up the paper from thesidewalk, opened it out and sent it flying and whirling down a sidestreet. Up that street was driving a skittish bay to a spider-wheelbuggy, the young man who had written to the heart-to-heart editor fora recipe that he might win her for whom he sighed. 

The wind, with a prankish flurry, flapped the flying newspaper againstthe face of the skittish bay. There was a lengthened streak of baymingled with the red of running gear that stretched itself out forfour blocks. Then a water-hydrant played its part in the cosmogony, the buggy became matchwood as foreordained, and the driver rested veryquietly where he had been flung on the asphalt in front of a certainbrownstone mansion. 

They came out and had him inside very promptly. And there was one whomade herself a pillow for his head, and cared for no curious eyes, bending over and saying, "Oh, it was you; it was you all the time, Bobby! Couldn't you see it? And if you die, why, so must I, and--"

But in all this wind we must hurry to keep in touch with our paper. 

Policeman O'Brine arrested it as a character dangerous to traffic. Straightening its dishevelled leaves with his big, slow fingers, hestood a few feet from the family entrance of the Shandon Bells Café. One headline he spelled out ponderously: "The Papers to the Front in aMove to Help the Police. "

But, whisht! The voice of Danny, the head bartender, through thecrack of the door: "Here's a nip for ye, Mike, ould man. "

Behind the widespread, amicable columns of the press Policeman O'Brinereceives swiftly his nip of the real stuff. He moves away, stalwart, refreshed, fortified, to his duties. Might not the editor man viewwith pride the early, the spiritual, the literal fruit that hadblessed his labours. 

Policeman O'Brine folded the paper and poked it playfully under thearm of a small boy that was passing. That boy was named Johnny, and hetook the paper home with him. His sister was named Gladys, and shehad written to the beauty editor of the paper asking for thepracticable touchstone of beauty. That was weeks ago, and she hadceased to look for an answer. Gladys was a pale girl, with dull eyesand a discontented expression. She was dressing to go up to theavenue to get some braid. Beneath her skirt she pinned two leaves ofthe paper Johnny had brought. When she walked the rustling sound wasan exact imitation of the real thing. 

On the street she met the Brown girl from the flat below and stoppedto talk. The Brown girl turned green. Only silk at $5 a yard couldmake the sound that she heard when Gladys moved. The Brown girl, consumed by jealousy, said something spiteful and went her way, withpinched lips. 

Gladys proceeded toward the avenue. Her eyes now sparkled likejagerfonteins. A rosy bloom visited her cheeks; a triumphant, subtle, vivifying, smile transfigured her face. She was beautiful. Could thebeauty editor have seen her then! There was something in her answerin the paper, I believe, about cultivating kind feelings toward othersin order to make plain features attractive. 

The labour leader against whom the paper's solemn and weightyeditorial injunction was laid was the father of Gladys and Johnny. Hepicked up the remains of the journal from which Gladys had ravished acosmetic of silken sounds. The editorial did not come under his eye, but instead it was greeted by one of those ingenious and speciouspuzzle problems that enthrall alike the simpleton and the sage. 

The labour leader tore off half of the page, provided himself withtable, pencil and paper and glued himself to his puzzle. 

Three hours later, after waiting vainly for him at the appointedplace, other more conservative leaders declared and ruled in favour ofarbitration, and the strike with its attendant dangers was averted. Subsequent editions of the paper referred, in coloured inks, to theclarion tone of its successful denunciation of the labour leader'sintended designs. 

The remaining leaves of the active journal also went loyally to theproving of its potency. 

When Johnny returned from school he sought a secluded spot and removedthe missing columns from the inside of his clothing, where they hadbeen artfully distributed so as to successfully defend such areas asare generally attacked during scholastic castigations. Johnnyattended a private school and had had trouble with his teacher. Ashas been said, there was an excellent editorial against corporalpunishment in that morning's issue, and no doubt it had its effect. 

After this can any one doubt the power of the press?

XIX

TOMMY'S BURGLAR

At ten o'clock P. M. Felicia, the maid, left by the basement door withthe policeman to get a raspberry phosphate around the corner. Shedetested the policeman and objected earnestly to the arrangement. She pointed out, not unreasonably, that she might have been allowed tofall asleep over one of St. George Rathbone's novels on the thirdfloor, but she was overruled. Raspberries and cops were not createdfor nothing. 

The burglar got into the house without much difficulty; because wemust have action and not too much description in a 2, 000-word story. 

In the dining room he opened the slide of his dark lantern. With abrace and centrebit he began to bore into the lock of the silver-closet. 

Suddenly a click was heard. The room was flooded with electric light. The dark velvet portières parted to admit a fair-haired boy of eightin pink pajamas, bearing a bottle of olive oil in his hand. 

"Are you a burglar?" he asked, in a sweet, childish voice. 

"Listen to that, " exclaimed the man, in a hoarse voice. "Am I aburglar? Wot do you suppose I have a three-days' growth of bristlybeard on my face for, and a cap with flaps? Give me the oil, quick, and let me grease the bit, so I won't wake up your mamma, who is lyingdown with a headache, and left you in charge of Felicia who has beenfaithless to her trust. "

"Oh, dear, " said Tommy, with a sigh. "I thought you would be moreup-to-date. This oil is for the salad when I bring lunch from thepantry for you. And mamma and papa have gone to the Metropolitan tohear De Reszke. But that isn't my fault. It only shows how long thestory has been knocking around among the editors. If the author hadbeen wise he'd have changed it to Caruso in the proofs. "

"Be quiet, " hissed the burglar, under his breath. "If you raise analarm I'll wring your neck like a rabbit's. "

"Like a chicken's, " corrected Tommy. "You had that wrong. You don'twring rabbits' necks. "

"Aren't you afraid of me?" asked the burglar. 

"You know I'm not, " answered Tommy. "Don't you suppose I know factfrom fiction. If this wasn't a story I'd yell like an Indian when Isaw you; and you'd probably tumble downstairs and get pinched on thesidewalk. "

"I see, " said the burglar, "that you're on to your job. Go on withthe performance. "

Tommy seated himself in an armchair and drew his toes up under him. 

"Why do you go around robbing strangers, Mr. Burglar? Have you nofriends?"

"I see what you're driving at, " said the burglar, with a dark frown. "It's the same old story. Your innocence and childish insouciance isgoing to lead me back into an honest life. Every time I crack a cribwhere there's a kid around, it happens. "

"Would you mind gazing with wolfish eyes at the plate of cold beefthat the butler has left on the dining table?" said Tommy. "I'mafraid it's growing late. "

The burglar accommodated. 

"Poor man, " said Tommy. "You must be hungry. If you will please standin a listless attitude I will get you something to eat. "

The boy brought a roast chicken, a jar of marmalade and a bottle ofwine from the pantry. The burglar seized a knife and fork sullenly. 

"It's only been an hour, " he grumbled, "since I had a lobster and apint of musty ale up on Broadway. I wish these story writers wouldlet a fellow have a pepsin tablet, anyhow, between feeds. "

"My papa writes books, " remarked Tommy. 

The burglar jumped to his feet quickly. 

"You said he had gone to the opera, " he hissed, hoarsely and withimmediate suspicion. 

"I ought to have explained, " said Tommy. "He didn't buy the tickets. "The burglar sat again and toyed with the wishbone. 

"Why do you burgle houses?" asked the boy, wonderingly. 

"Because, " replied the burglar, with a sudden flow of tears. "Godbless my little brown-haired boy Bessie at home. "

"Ah, " said Tommy, wrinkling his nose, "you got that answer in thewrong place. You want to tell your hard-luck story before you pullout the child stop. "

"Oh, yes, " said the burglar, "I forgot. Well, once I lived inMilwaukee, and--"

"Take the silver, " said Tommy, rising from his chair. 

"Hold on, " said the burglar. "But I moved away. " I could find noother employment. For a while I managed to support my wife andchild by passing confederate money; but, alas! I was forced to givethat up because it did not belong to the union. I became desperateand a burglar. "

"Have you ever fallen into the hands of the police?" asked Tommy. 

"I said 'burglar, ' not 'beggar, '" answered the cracksman. 

"After you finish your lunch, " said Tommy, "and experience the usualchange of heart, how shall we wind up the story?"

"Suppose, " said the burglar, thoughtfully, "that Tony Pastor turns outearlier than usual to-night, and your father gets in from 'Parsifal'at 10. 30. I am thoroughly repentant because you have made me think ofmy own little boy Bessie, and--"

"Say, " said Tommy, "haven't you got that wrong?"

"Not on your coloured crayon drawings by B. Cory Kilvert, " said theburglar. "It's always a Bessie that I have at home, artlesslyprattling to the pale-cheeked burglar's bride. As I was saying, yourfather opens the front door just as I am departing with admonitionsand sandwiches that you have wrapped up for me. Upon recognizing meas an old Harvard classmate he starts back in--"

"Not in surprise?" interrupted Tommy, with wide, open eyes. 

"He starts back in the doorway, " continued the burglar. And then herose to his feet and began to shout "Rah, rah, rah! rah, rah, rah!rah, rah, rah!"

"Well, " said Tommy, wonderingly, "that's, the first time I ever knew aburglar to give a college yell when he was burglarizing a house, evenin a story. "

"That's one on you, " said the burglar, with a laugh. "I was practisingthe dramatization. If this is put on the stage that college touch isabout the only thing that will make it go. "

Tommy looked his admiration. 

"You're on, all right, " he said. 

"And there's another mistake you've made, " said the burglar. "Youshould have gone some time ago and brought me the $9 gold piece yourmother gave you on your birthday to take to Bessie. "

"But she didn't give it to me to take to Bessie, " said Tommy, pouting. 

"Come, come!" said the burglar, sternly. "It's not nice of you totake advantage because the story contains an ambiguous sentence. Youknow what I mean. It's mighty little I get out of these fictionaljobs, anyhow. I lose all the loot, and I have to reform every time;and all the swag I'm allowed is the blamed little fol-de-rols andluck-pieces that you kids hand over. Why, in one story, all I got wasa kiss from a little girl who came in on me when I was opening a safe. And it tasted of molasses candy, too. I've a good notion to tie thistable cover over your head and keep on into the silver-closet. "

"Oh, no, you haven't, " said Tommy, wrapping his arms around his knees. "Because if you did no editor would buy the story. You know you'vegot to preserve the unities. "

"So've you, " said the burglar, rather glumly. "Instead of sitting heretalking impudence and taking the bread out of a poor man's mouth, whatyou'd like to be doing is hiding under the bed and screeching at thetop of your voice. "

"You're right, old man, " said Tommy, heartily. "I wonder what theymake us do it for? I think the S. P. C. C. Ought to interfere. I'msure it's neither agreeable nor usual for a kid of my age to butt inwhen a full-grown burglar is at work and offer him a red sled and apair of skates not to awaken his sick mother. And look how they makethe burglars act! You'd think editors would know--but what's theuse?"

The burglar wiped his hands on the tablecloth and arose with a yawn. 

"Well, let's get through with it, " he said. "God bless you, my littleboy! you have saved a man from committing a crime this night. Bessieshall pray for you as soon as I get home and give her her orders. Ishall never burglarize another house--at least not until the Junemagazines are out. It'll be your little sister's turn then to run inon me while I am abstracting the U. S. 4 per cent. From the tea urnand buy me off with her coral necklace and a falsetto kiss. "

"You haven't got all the kicks coming to you, " sighed Tommy, crawlingout of his chair. "Think of the sleep I'm losing. But it's tough onboth of us, old man. I wish you could get out of the story and reallyrob somebody. Maybe you'll have the chance if they dramatize us. "

"Never!" said the burglar, gloomily. "Between the box office and mybetter impulses that your leading juveniles are supposed to awakenand the magazines that pay on publication, I guess I'll always bebroke. "

"I'm sorry, " said Tommy, sympathetically. "But I can't help myselfany more than you can. It's one of the canons of household fictionthat no burglar shall be successful. The burglar must be foiled bya kid like me, or by a young lady heroine, or at the last moment byhis old pal, Red Mike, who recognizes the house as one in which heused to be the coachman. You have got the worst end of it in any kindof a story. "

"Well, I suppose I must be clearing out now, " said the burglar, takingup his lantern and bracebit. 

"You have to take the rest of this chicken and the bottle of wine withyou for Bessie and her mother, " said Tommy, calmly. 

"But confound it, " exclaimed the burglar, in an annoyed tone, "theydon't want it. I've got five cases of Château de Beychsvelle at homethat was bottled in 1853. That claret of yours is corked. And youcouldn't get either of them to look at a chicken unless it was stewedin champagne. You know, after I get out of the story I don't have somany limitations. I make a turn now and then. "

"Yes, but you must take them, " said Tommy, loading his arms with thebundles. 

"Bless you, young master!" recited the burglar, obedient. "Second-StorySaul will never forget you. And now hurry and let me out, kid. Our2, 000 words must be nearly up. "

Tommy led the way through the hall toward the front door. Suddenlythe burglar stopped and called to him softly: "Ain't there a cop outthere in front somewhere sparking the girl?"

"Yes, " said Tommy, "but what--"

"I'm afraid he'll catch me, " said the burglar. "You mustn't forgetthat this is fiction. "

"Great head!" said Tommy, turning. "Come out by the back door. "

XX

A CHAPARRAL CHRISTMAS GIFT

The original cause of the trouble was about twenty years in growing. 

At the end of that time it was worth it. 

Had you lived anywhere within fifty miles of Sundown Ranch you wouldhave heard of it. It possessed a quantity of jet-black hair, a pairof extremely frank, deep-brown eyes and a laugh that rippled acrossthe prairie like the sound of a hidden brook. The name of it wasRosita McMullen; and she was the daughter of old man McMullen of theSundown Sheep Ranch. 

There came riding on red roan steeds--or, to be more explicit, on apaint and a flea-bitten sorrel--two wooers. One was Madison Lane, and the other was the Frio Kid. But at that time they did not call himthe Frio Kid, for he had not earned the honours of specialnomenclature. His name was simply Johnny McRoy. 

It must not be supposed that these two were the sum of the agreeableRosita's admirers. The bronchos of a dozen others champed their bitsat the long hitching rack of the Sundown Ranch. Many were thesheeps'-eyes that were cast in those savannas that did not belong tothe flocks of Dan McMullen. But of all the cavaliers, Madison Laneand Johnny McRoy galloped far ahead, wherefore they are to bechronicled. 

Madison Lane, a young cattleman from the Nueces country, won the race. He and Rosita were married one Christmas day. Armed, hilarious, vociferous, magnanimous, the cowmen and the sheepmen, laying asidetheir hereditary hatred, joined forces to celebrate the occasion. 

Sundown Ranch was sonorous with the cracking of jokes and sixshooters, the shine of buckles and bright eyes, the outspoken congratulations ofthe herders of kine. 

But while the wedding feast was at its liveliest there descended uponit Johnny McRoy, bitten by jealousy, like one possessed. 

"I'll give you a Christmas present, " he yelled, shrilly, at the door, with his . 45 in his hand. Even then he had some reputation as anoffhand shot. 

His first bullet cut a neat underbit in Madison Lane's right ear. Thebarrel of his gun moved an inch. The next shot would have been thebride's had not Carson, a sheepman, possessed a mind with triggerssomewhat well oiled and in repair. The guns of the wedding party hadbeen hung, in their belts, upon nails in the wall when they sat attable, as a concession to good taste. But Carson, with greatpromptness, hurled his plate of roast venison and frijoles at McRoy, spoiling his aim. The second bullet, then, only shattered the whitepetals of a Spanish dagger flower suspended two feet above Rosita'shead. 

The guests spurned their chairs and jumped for their weapons. It wasconsidered an improper act to shoot the bride and groom at a wedding. In about six seconds there were twenty or so bullets due to bewhizzing in the direction of Mr. McRoy. 

"I'll shoot better next time, " yelled Johnny; "and there'll be a nexttime. " He backed rapidly out the door. 

Carson, the sheepman, spurred on to attempt further exploits by thesuccess of his plate-throwing, was first to reach the door. McRoy'sbullet from the darkness laid him low. 

The cattlemen then swept out upon him, calling for vengeance, for, while the slaughter of a sheepman has not always lacked condonement, it was a decided misdemeanour in this instance. Carson wasinnocent; he was no accomplice at the matrimonial proceedings; nor hadany one heard him quote the line "Christmas comes but once a year" tothe guests. 

But the sortie failed in its vengeance. McRoy was on his horse andaway, shouting back curses and threats as he galloped into theconcealing chaparral. 

That night was the birthnight of the Frio Kid. He became the "badman" of that portion of the State. The rejection of his suit by MissMcMullen turned him to a dangerous man. When officers went after himfor the shooting of Carson, he killed two of them, and entered uponthe life of an outlaw. He became a marvellous shot with either hand. He would turn up in towns and settlements, raise a quarrel at theslightest opportunity, pick off his man and laugh at the officersof the law. He was so cool, so deadly, so rapid, so inhumanlyblood-thirsty that none but faint attempts were ever made to capturehim. When he was at last shot and killed by a little one-armed Mexicanwho was nearly dead himself from fright, the Frio Kid had the deathsof eighteen men on his head. About half of these were killed in fairduels depending upon the quickness of the draw. The other half weremen whom he assassinated from absolute wantonness and cruelty. 

Many tales are told along the border of his impudent courage anddaring. But he was not one of the breed of desperadoes who haveseasons of generosity and even of softness. They say he never hadmercy on the object of his anger. Yet at this and every Christmastideit is well to give each one credit, if it can be done, for whateverspeck of good he may have possessed. If the Frio Kid ever did akindly act or felt a throb of generosity in his heart it was once atsuch a time and season, and this is the way it happened. 

One who has been crossed in love should never breathe the odour fromthe blossoms of the ratama tree. It stirs the memory to a dangerousdegree. 

One December in the Frio country there was a ratama tree in fullbloom, for the winter had been as warm as springtime. That way rodethe Frio Kid and his satellite and co-murderer, Mexican Frank. The kidreined in his mustang, and sat in his saddle, thoughtful and grim, with dangerously narrowing eyes. The rich, sweet scent touched himsomewhere beneath his ice and iron. 

"I don't know what I've been thinking about, Mex, " he remarked in hisusual mild drawl, "to have forgot all about a Christmas present I gotto give. I'm going to ride over to-morrow night and shoot MadisonLane in his own house. He got my girl--Rosita would have had me ifhe hadn't cut into the game. I wonder why I happened to overlook itup to now?"

"Ah, shucks, Kid, " said Mexican, "don't talk foolishness. You knowyou can't get within a mile of Mad Lane's house to-morrow night. Isee old man Allen day before yesterday, and he says Mad is going tohave Christmas doings at his house. You remember how you shot up thefestivities when Mad was married, and about the threats you made?Don't you suppose Mad Lane'll kind of keep his eye open for a certainMr. Kid? You plumb make me tired, Kid, with such remarks. "

"I'm going, " repeated the Frio Kid, without heat, "to go to MadisonLane's Christmas doings, and kill him. I ought to have done it a longtime ago. Why, Mex, just two weeks ago I dreamed me and Rosita wasmarried instead of her and him; and we was living in a house, and Icould see her smiling at me, and--oh! h----l, Mex, he got her; andI'll get him--yes, sir, on Christmas Eve he got her, and then's whenI'll get him. "

"There's other ways of committing suicide, " advised Mexican. "Whydon't you go and surrender to the sheriff?"

"I'll get him, " said the Kid. 

Christmas Eve fell as balmy as April. Perhaps there was a hint offar-away frostiness in the air, but it tingles like seltzer, perfumedfaintly with late prairie blossoms and the mesquite grass. 

When night came the five or six rooms of the ranch-house werebrightly lit. In one room was a Christmas tree, for the Lanes had aboy of three, and a dozen or more guests were expected from the nearerranches. 

At nightfall Madison Lane called aside Jim Belcher and three othercowboys employed on his ranch. 

"Now, boys, " said Lane, "keep your eyes open. Walk around the houseand watch the road well. All of you know the 'Frio Kid, ' as they callhim now, and if you see him, open fire on him without asking anyquestions. I'm not afraid of his coming around, but Rosita is. She'sbeen afraid he'd come in on us every Christmas since we were married. "

The guests had arrived in buckboards and on horseback, and were makingthemselves comfortable inside. 

The evening went along pleasantly. The guests enjoyed and praisedRosita's excellent supper, and afterward the men scattered in groupsabout the rooms or on the broad "gallery, " smoking and chatting. 

The Christmas tree, of course, delighted the youngsters, and above allwere they pleased when Santa Claus himself in magnificent white beardand furs appeared and began to distribute the toys. 

"It's my papa, " announced Billy Sampson, aged six. "I've seen him wear'em before. "

Berkly, a sheepman, an old friend of Lane, stopped Rosita as she waspassing by him on the gallery, where he was sitting smoking. 

"Well, Mrs. Lane, " said he, "I suppose by this Christmas you'vegotten over being afraid of that fellow McRoy, haven't you? Madisonand I have talked about it, you know. "

"Very nearly, " said Rosita, smiling, "but I am still nervoussometimes. I shall never forget that awful time when he came so nearto killing us. "

"He's the most cold-hearted villain in the world, " said Berkly. "Thecitizens all along the border ought to turn out and hunt him down likea wolf. "

"He has committed awful crimes, " said Rosita, "but--I--don't--know. I think there is a spot of good somewhere in everybody. He was notalways bad--that I know. "

Rosita turned into the hallway between the rooms. Santa Claus, inmuffling whiskers and furs, was just coming through. 

"I heard what you said through the window, Mrs. Lane, " he said. "Iwas just going down in my pocket for a Christmas present for yourhusband. But I've left one for you, instead. It's in the room toyour right. "

"Oh, thank you, kind Santa Claus, " said Rosita, brightly. 

Rosita went into the room, while Santa Claus stepped into the coolerair of the yard. 

She found no one in the room but Madison. 

"Where is my present that Santa said he left for me in here?" sheasked. 

"Haven't seen anything in the way of a present, " said her husband, laughing, "unless he could have meant me. "

The next day Gabriel Radd, the foreman of the X O Ranch, dropped intothe post-office at Loma Alta. 

"Well, the Frio Kid's got his dose of lead at last, " he remarked tothe postmaster. 

"That so? How'd it happen?"

"One of old Sanchez's Mexican sheep herders did it!--think of it!the Frio Kid killed by a sheep herder! The Greaser saw him ridingalong past his camp about twelve o'clock last night, and was soskeered that he up with a Winchester and let him have it. Funniestpart of it was that the Kid was dressed all up with white Angora-skinwhiskers and a regular Santy Claus rig-out from head to foot. Thinkof the Frio Kid playing Santy!"

XXI

A LITTLE LOCAL COLOUR

I mentioned to Rivington that I was in search of characteristic NewYork scenes and incidents--something typical, I told him, withoutnecessarily having to spell the first syllable with an "i. "

"Oh, for your writing business, " said Rivington; "you couldn't haveapplied to a better shop. What I don't know about little old New Yorkwouldn't make a sonnet to a sunbonnet. I'll put you right in themiddle of so much local colour that you won't know whether you are amagazine cover or in the erysipelas ward. When do you want to begin?"

Rivington is a young-man-about-town and a New Yorker by birth, preference and incommutability. 

I told him that I would be glad to accept his escort and guardianshipso that I might take notes of Manhattan's grand, gloomy and peculiaridiosyncrasies, and that the time of so doing would be at his ownconvenience. 

"We'll begin this very evening, " said Rivington, himself interested, like a good fellow. "Dine with me at seven, and then I'll steer youup against metropolitan phases so thick you'll have to have akinetoscope to record 'em. "

So I dined with Rivington pleasantly at his club, in Forty-eleventhstreet, and then we set forth in pursuit of the elusive tincture ofaffairs. 

As we came out of the club there stood two men on the sidewalk nearthe steps in earnest conversation. 

"And by what process of ratiocination, " said one of them, "do youarrive at the conclusion that the division of society into producingand non-possessing classes predicates failure when compared withcompetitive systems that are monopolizing in tendency and resultinimically to industrial evolution?"

"Oh, come off your perch!" said the other man, who wore glasses. "Your premises won't come out in the wash. You wind-jammers who applybandy-legged theories to concrete categorical syllogisms send logicalconclusions skallybootin' into the infinitesimal ragbag. You can'tpull my leg with an old sophism with whiskers on it. You quote Marxand Hyndman and Kautsky--what are they?--shines! Tolstoi?--hisgarret is full of rats. I put it to you over the home-plate that theidea of a cooperative commonwealth and an abolishment of competitivesystems simply takes the rag off the bush and gives me hyperesthesiaof the roopteetoop! The skookum house for yours!"

I stopped a few yards away and took out my little notebook. 

"Oh, come ahead, " said Rivington, somewhat nervously; "you don'twant to listen to that. "

"Why, man, " I whispered, "this is just what I do want to hear. Theseslang types are among your city's most distinguishing features. Isthis the Bowery variety? I really must hear more of it. "

"If I follow you, " said the man who had spoken first, "you do notbelieve it possible to reorganize society on the basis of commoninterest?"

"Shinny on your own side!" said the man with glasses. "You neverheard any such music from my foghorn. What I said was that I did notbelieve it practicable just now. The guys with wads are not in theframe of mind to slack up on the mazuma, and the man with the portabletin banqueting canister isn't exactly ready to join the Bible class. You can bet your variegated socks that the situation is allspifflicated up from the Battery to breakfast! What the country needsis for some bully old bloke like Cobden or some wise guy like old BenFranklin to sashay up to the front and biff the nigger's head withthe baseball. Do you catch my smoke? What?"

Rivington pulled me by the arm impatiently. 

"Please come on, " he said. "Let's go see something. This isn't whatyou want. "

"Indeed, it is, " I said resisting. "This tough talk is the very stuffthat counts. There is a picturesqueness about the speech of the lowerorder of people that is quite unique. Did you say that this is theBowery variety of slang?"

"Oh, well, " said Rivington, giving it up, "I'll tell you straight. That's one of our college professors talking. He ran down for a day ortwo at the club. It's a sort of fad with him lately to use slang inhis conversation. He thinks it improves language. The man he istalking to is one of New York's famous social economists. Now willyou come on. You can't use that, you know. "

"No, " I agreed; "I can't use that. Would you call that typical of NewYork?"

"Of course not, " said Rivington, with a sigh of relief. "I'm glad yousee the difference. But if you want to hear the real old tough Boweryslang I'll take you down where you'll get your fill of it. "

"I would like it, " I said; "that is, if it's the real thing. I'veoften read it in books, but I never heard it. Do you think it will bedangerous to go unprotected among those characters?"

"Oh, no, " said Rivington; "not at this time of night. To tell thetruth, I haven't been along the Bowery in a long time, but I know itas well as I do Broadway. We'll look up some of the typical Boweryboys and get them to talk. It'll be worth your while. They talk apeculiar dialect that you won't hear anywhere else on earth. "

Rivington and I went east in a Forty-second street car and then southon the Third avenue line. 

At Houston street we got off and walked. 

"We are now on the famous Bowery, " said Rivington; "the Bowerycelebrated in song and story. "

We passed block after block of "gents'" furnishing stores--thewindows full of shirts with prices attached and cuffs inside. Inother windows were neckties and no shirts. People walked up and downthe sidewalks. 

"In some ways, " said I, "this reminds me of Kokomono, Ind. , duringthe peach-crating season. "

Rivington was nettled. 

"Step into one of these saloons or vaudeville shows, " said he, "with alarge roll of money, and see how quickly the Bowery will sustain itsreputation. "

"You make impossible conditions, " said I, coldly. 

By and by Rivington stopped and said we were in the heart of theBowery. There was a policeman on the corner whom Rivington knew. 

"Hallo, Donahue!" said my guide. "How goes it? My friend and I aredown this way looking up a bit of local colour. He's anxious to meetone of the Bowery types. Can't you put us on to something genuine inthat line--something that's got the colour, you know?"

Policeman Donahue turned himself about ponderously, his florid facefull of good-nature. He pointed with his club down the street. 

"Sure!" he said huskily. "Here comes a lad now that was born on theBowery and knows every inch of it. If he's ever been above Bleeckerstreet he's kept it to himself. "

A man about twenty-eight or twenty-nine, with a smooth face, wassauntering toward us with his hands in his coat pockets. PolicemanDonahue stopped him with a courteous wave of his club. 

"Evening, Kerry, " he said. "Here's a couple of gents, friends ofmine, that want to hear you spiel something about the Bowery. Can youreel 'em off a few yards?"

"Certainly, Donahue, " said the young man, pleasantly. "Goodevening, gentlemen, " he said to us, with a pleasant smile. Donahuewalked off on his beat. 

"This is the goods, " whispered Rivington, nudging me with his elbow. "Look at his jaw!"

"Say, cull, " said Rivington, pushing back his hat, "wot's doin'?Me and my friend's taking a look down de old line--see? De coppertipped us off dat you was wise to de bowery. Is dat right?"

I could not help admiring Rivington's power of adapting himself tohis surroundings. 

"Donahue was right, " said the young man, frankly; "I was brought upon the Bowery. I have been news-boy, teamster, pugilist, member ofan organized band of 'toughs, ' bartender, and a 'sport' in variousmeanings of the word. The experience certainly warrants thesupposition that I have at least a passing acquaintance with a fewphases of Bowery life. I will be pleased to place whatever knowledgeand experience I have at the service of my friend Donahue's friends. "

Rivington seemed ill at ease. 

"I say, " he said--somewhat entreatingly, "I thought--you're notstringing us, are you? It isn't just the kind of talk we expected. You haven't even said 'Hully gee!' once. Do you really belong on theBowery?"

"I am afraid, " said the Bowery boy, smilingly, "that at some time youhave been enticed into one of the dives of literature and had thecounterfeit coin of the Bowery passed upon you. The 'argot' to whichyou doubtless refer was the invention of certain of your literary'discoverers' who invaded the unknown wilds below Third avenue andput strange sounds into the mouths of the inhabitants. Safe in theirhomes far to the north and west, the credulous readers who werebeguiled by this new 'dialect' perused and believed. Like Marco Poloand Mungo Park--pioneers indeed, but ambitious souls who could notdraw the line of demarcation between discovery and invention--theliterary bones of these explorers are dotting the trackless wastes ofthe subway. While it is true that after the publication of themythical language attributed to the dwellers along the Bowery certainof its pat phrases and apt metaphors were adopted and, to a limitedextent, used in this locality, it was because our people are prompt inassimilating whatever is to their commercial advantage. To thetourists who visited our newly discovered clime, and who expected arealization of their literary guide books, they supplied the demandsof the market. 

"But perhaps I am wandering from the question. In what way can Iassist you, gentlemen? I beg you will believe that the hospitality ofthe street is extended to all. There are, I regret to say, manycatchpenny places of entertainment, but I cannot conceive that theywould entice you. "

I felt Rivington lean somewhat heavily against me. "Say!" heremarked, with uncertain utterance; "come and have a drink with us. "

"Thank you, but I never drink. I find that alcohol, even in thesmallest quantities, alters the perspective. And I must preserve myperspective, for I am studying the Bowery. I have lived in it nearlythirty years, and I am just beginning to understand its heartbeats. It is like a great river fed by a hundred alien streams. Each influxbrings strange seeds on its flood, strange silt and weeds, and now andthen a flower of rare promise. To construe this river requires a manwho can build dykes against the overflow, who is a naturalist, ageologist, a humanitarian, a diver and a strong swimmer. I love myBowery. It was my cradle and is my inspiration. I have published onebook. The critics have been kind. I put my heart in it. I am writinganother, into which I hope to put both heart and brain. Consider meyour guide, gentlemen. Is there anything I can take you to see, anyplace to which I can conduct you?"

I was afraid to look at Rivington except with one eye. 

"Thanks, " said Rivington. "We were looking up . . . That is . . . Myfriend . . . Confound it; it's against all precedent, you know . . . Awfully obliged . . . Just the same. "

"In case, " said our friend, "you would like to meet some of our Boweryyoung men I would be pleased to have you visit the quarters of ourEast Side Kappa Delta Phi Society, only two blocks east of here. "

"Awfully sorry, " said Rivington, "but my friend's got me on the jumpto-night. He's a terror when he's out after local colour. Now, there's nothing I would like better than to drop in at the Kappa DeltaPhi, but--some other time!"

We said our farewells and boarded a home-bound car. We had a rabbit onupper Broadway, and then I parted with Rivington on a street corner. 

"Well, anyhow, " said he, braced and recovered, "it couldn't havehappened anywhere but in little old New York. "

Which to say the least, was typical of Rivington. 

XXII

GEORGIA'S RULING

If you should chance to visit the General Land Office, step into thedraughtsmen's room and ask to be shown the map of Salado County. Aleisurely German--possibly old Kampfer himself--will bring it toyou. It will be four feet square, on heavy drawing-cloth. Thelettering and the figures will be beautifully clear and distinct. Thetitle will be in splendid, undecipherable German text, ornamented withclassic Teutonic designs--very likely Ceres or Pomona leaningagainst the initial letters with cornucopias venting grapes andwieners. You must tell him that this is not the map you wish to see;that he will kindly bring you its official predecessor. He will thensay, "Ach, so!" and bring out a map half the size of the first, dim, old, tattered, and faded. 

By looking carefully near its northwest corner you will presently comeupon the worn contours of Chiquito River, and, maybe, if your eyes aregood, discern the silent witness to this story. 

The Commissioner of the Land Office was of the old style; hisantique courtesy was too formal for his day. He dressed in fineblack, and there was a suggestion of Roman drapery in his longcoat-skirts. His collars were "undetached" (blame haberdasheryfor the word); his tie was a narrow, funereal strip, tied in thesame knot as were his shoe-strings. His gray hair was a trifletoo long behind, but he kept it smooth and orderly. His face wasclean-shaven, like the old statesmen's. Most people thought it astern face, but when its official expression was off, a few hadseen altogether a different countenance. Especially tender andgentle it had appeared to those who were about him during the lastillness of his only child. 

The Commissioner had been a widower for years, and his life, outsidehis official duties, had been so devoted to little Georgia that peoplespoke of it as a touching and admirable thing. He was a reserved man, and dignified almost to austerity, but the child had come below it alland rested upon his very heart, so that she scarcely missed themother's love that had been taken away. There was a wonderfulcompanionship between them, for she had many of his own ways, beingthoughtful and serious beyond her years. 

One day, while she was lying with the fever burning brightly in herchecks, she said suddenly:

"Papa, I wish I could do something good for a whole lot of children!"

"What would you like to do, dear?" asked the Commissioner. "Givethem a party?"

"Oh, I don't mean those kind. I mean poor children who haven't homes, and aren't loved and cared for as I am. I tell you what, papa!"

"What, my own child?"

"If I shouldn't get well, I'll leave them you--not _give_ you, butjust lend you, for you must come to mamma and me when you die too. Ifyou can find time, wouldn't you do something to help them, if I askyou, papa?"

"Hush, hush dear, dear child, " said the Commissioner, holding her hotlittle hand against his cheek; "you'll get well real soon, and you andI will see what we can do for them together. "

But in whatsoever paths of benevolence, thus vaguely premeditated, theCommissioner might tread, he was not to have the company of hisbeloved. That night the little frail body grew suddenly too tired tostruggle further, and Georgia's exit was made from the great stagewhen she had scarcely begun to speak her little piece before thefootlights. But there must be a stage manager who understands. Shehad given the cue to the one who was to speak after her. 

A week after she was laid away, the Commissioner reappeared at theoffice, a little more courteous, a little paler and sterner, with theblack frock-coat hanging a little more loosely from his tall figure. 

His desk was piled with work that had accumulated during the fourheartbreaking weeks of his absence. His chief clerk had done what hecould, but there were questions of law, of fine judicial decisionsto be made concerning the issue of patents, the marketing andleasing of school lands, the classification into grazing, agricultural, watered, and timbered, of new tracts to be opened tosettlers. 

The Commissioner went to work silently and obstinately, puttingback his grief as far as possible, forcing his mind to attack thecomplicated and important business of his office. On the second dayafter his return he called the porter, pointed to a leather-coveredchair that stood near his own, and ordered it removed to a lumber-roomat the top of the building. In that chair Georgia would always sitwhen she came to the office for him of afternoons. 

As time passed, the Commissioner seemed to grow more silent, solitary, and reserved. A new phase of mind developed in him. He could notendure the presence of a child. Often when a clattering youngsterbelonging to one of the clerks would come chattering into the bigbusiness-room adjoining his little apartment, the Commissioner wouldsteal softly and close the door. He would always cross the street toavoid meeting the school-children when they came dancing along inhappy groups upon the sidewalk, and his firm mouth would close into amere line. 

It was nearly three months after the rains had washed the last deadflower-petals from the mound above little Georgia when the "land-shark"firm of Hamlin and Avery filed papers upon what they considered the"fattest" vacancy of the year. 

It should not be supposed that all who were termed "land-sharks"deserved the name. Many of them were reputable men of good businesscharacter. Some of them could walk into the most august councils ofthe State and say: "Gentlemen, we would like to have this, and that, and matters go thus. " But, next to a three years' drought and theboll-worm, the Actual Settler hated the Land-shark. The land-sharkhaunted the Land Office, where all the land records were kept, andhunted "vacancies"--that is, tracts of unappropriated publicdomain, generally invisible upon the official maps, but actuallyexisting "upon the ground. " The law entitled any one possessingcertain State scrip to file by virtue of same upon any land notpreviously legally appropriated. Most of the scrip was now in thehands of the land-sharks. Thus, at the cost of a few hundred dollars, they often secured lands worth as many thousands. Naturally, thesearch for "vacancies" was lively. 

But often--very often--the land they thus secured, though legally"unappropriated, " would be occupied by happy and contented settlers, who had laboured for years to build up their homes, only to discoverthat their titles were worthless, and to receive peremptory notice toquit. Thus came about the bitter and not unjustifiable hatred felt bythe toiling settlers toward the shrewd and seldom merciful speculatorswho so often turned them forth destitute and homeless from theirfruitless labours. The history of the state teems with theirantagonism. Mr. Land-shark seldom showed his face on "locations" fromwhich he should have to eject the unfortunate victims of a monstrouslytangled land system, but let his emissaries do the work. There waslead in every cabin, moulded into balls for him; many of his brothershad enriched the grass with their blood. The fault of it all lay farback. 

When the state was young, she felt the need of attracting newcomers, and of rewarding those pioneers already within her borders. Yearafter year she issued land scrip--Headrights, Bounties, VeteranDonations, Confederates; and to railroads, irrigation companies, colonies, and tillers of the soil galore. All required of the granteewas that he or it should have the scrip properly surveyed upon thepublic domain by the county or district surveyor, and the land thusappropriated became the property of him or it, or his or its heirs andassigns, forever. 

In those days--and here is where the trouble began--the state'sdomain was practically inexhaustible, and the old surveyors, withprincely--yea, even Western American--liberality, gave goodmeasure and over-flowing. Often the jovial man of metes and boundswould dispense altogether with the tripod and chain. Mounted on a ponythat could cover something near a "vara" at a step, with a pocketcompass to direct his course, he would trot out a survey by countingthe beat of his pony's hoofs, mark his corners, and write out hisfield notes with the complacency produced by an act of duty wellperformed. Sometimes--and who could blame the surveyor?--whenthe pony was "feeling his oats, " he might step a little higher andfarther, and in that case the beneficiary of the scrip might get athousand or two more acres in his survey than the scrip called for. But look at the boundless leagues the state had to spare! However, noone ever had to complain of the pony under-stepping. Nearly everyold survey in the state contained an excess of land. 

In later years, when the state became more populous, and land valuesincreased, this careless work entailed incalculable trouble, endlesslitigation, a period of riotous land-grabbing, and no littlebloodshed. The land-sharks voraciously attacked these excesses inthe old surveys, and filed upon such portions with new scrip asunappropriated public domain. Wherever the identifications of theold tracts were vague, and the corners were not to be clearlyestablished, the Land Office would recognize the newer locations asvalid, and issue title to the locators. Here was the greatesthardship to be found. These old surveys, taken from the pick of theland, were already nearly all occupied by unsuspecting and peacefulsettlers, and thus their titles were demolished, and the choice wasplaced before them either to buy their land over at a double price orto vacate it, with their families and personal belongings, immediately. Land locators sprang up by hundreds. The country washeld up and searched for "vacancies" at the point of a compass. Hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of splendid acres were wrestedfrom their innocent purchasers and holders. There began a vast hegiraof evicted settlers in tattered wagons; going nowhere, cursinginjustice, stunned, purposeless, homeless, hopeless. Their childrenbegan to look up to them for bread, and cry. 

It was in consequence of these conditions that Hamilton and Averyhad filed upon a strip of land about a mile wide and three miles long, comprising about two thousand acres, it being the excess overcomplement of the Elias Denny three-league survey on Chiquito River, in one of the middle-western counties. This two-thousand-acre bodyof land was asserted by them to be vacant land, and improperlyconsidered a part of the Denny survey. They based this assertion andtheir claim upon the land upon the demonstrated facts that thebeginning corner of the Denny survey was plainly identified; that itsfield notes called to run west 5, 760 varas, and then called forChiquito River; thence it ran south, with the meanders--and so on--and that the Chiquito River was, on the ground, fully a mile fartherwest from the point reached by course and distance. To sum up: therewere two thousand acres of vacant land between the Denny survey properand Chiquito River. 

One sweltering day in July the Commissioner called for the papers inconnection with this new location. They were brought, and heaped, afoot deep, upon his desk--field notes, statements, sketches, affidavits, connecting lines--documents of every description thatshrewdness and money could call to the aid of Hamlin and Avery. 

The firm was pressing the Commissioner to issue a patent upon theirlocation. They possesed inside information concerning a newrailroad that would probably pass somewhere near this land. 

The General Land Office was very still while the Commissioner wasdelving into the heart of the mass of evidence. The pigeons couldbe heard on the roof of the old, castle-like building, cooing andfretting. The clerks were droning everywhere, scarcely pretendingto earn their salaries. Each little sound echoed hollow and loudfrom the bare, stone-flagged floors, the plastered walls, and theiron-joisted ceiling. The impalpable, perpetual limestone dust thatnever settled, whitened a long streamer of sunlight that pierced thetattered window-awning. 

It seemed that Hamlin and Avery had builded well. The Denny survey wascarelessly made, even for a careless period. Its beginning cornerwas identical with that of a well-defined old Spanish grant, but itsother calls were sinfully vague. The field notes contained no otherobject that survived--no tree, no natural object save ChiquitoRiver, and it was a mile wrong there. According to precedent, theOffice would be justified in giving it its complement by course anddistance, and considering the remainder vacant instead of a mereexcess. 

The Actual Settler was besieging the office with wild protests _in re_. Having the nose of a pointer and the eye of a hawk for the land-shark, he had observed his myrmidons running the lines upon his ground. Making inquiries, he learned that the spoiler had attacked his home, and he left the plough in the furrow and took his pen in hand. 

One of the protests the Commissioner read twice. It was from a woman, a widow, the granddaughter of Elias Denny himself. She told how hergrandfather had sold most of the survey years before at a trivialprice--land that was now a principality in extent and value. Hermother had also sold a part, and she herself had succeeded to thiswestern portion, along Chiquito River. Much of it she had been forcedto part with in order to live, and now she owned only about threehundred acres, on which she had her home. Her letter wound up ratherpathetically:

"I've got eight children, the oldest fifteen years. I work all dayand half the night to till what little land I can and keep us inclothes and books. I teach my children too. My neighbours is allpoor and has big families. The drought kills the crops every two orthree years and then we has hard times to get enough to eat. There isten families on this land what the land-sharks is trying to rob us of, and all of them got titles from me. I sold to them cheap, and theyaint paid out yet, but part of them is, and if their land should betook from them I would die. My grandfather was an honest man, and hehelped to build up this state, and he taught his children to behonest, and how could I make it up to them who bought from me? Mr. Commissioner, if you let them land-sharks take the roof from over mychildren and the little from them as they has to live on, whoeveragain calls this state great or its government just will have a lie intheir mouths"

The Commissioner laid this letter aside with a sigh. Many, many suchletters he had received. He had never been hurt by them, nor had heever felt that they appealed to him personally. He was but thestate's servant, and must follow its laws. And yet, somehow, thisreflection did not always eliminate a certain responsible feeling thathung upon him. Of all the state's officers he was supremest in hisdepartment, not even excepting the Governor. Broad, general land lawshe followed, it was true, but he had a wide latitude in particularramifications. Rather than law, what he followed was Rulings:Office Rulings and precedents. In the complicated and new questionsthat were being engendered by the state's development theCommissioner's ruling was rarely appealed from. Even the courtssustained it when its equity was apparent. 

The Commissioner stepped to the door and spoke to a clerk in the otherroom--spoke as he always did, as if he were addressing a prince ofthe blood:

"Mr. Weldon, will you be kind enough to ask Mr. Ashe, the stateschool-land appraiser, to please come to my office as soon asconvenient?"

Ashe came quickly from the big table where he was arranging hisreports. 

"Mr. Ashe, " said the Commissioner, "you worked along the ChiquitoRiver, in Salado County, during your last trip, I believe. Do youremember anything of the Elias Denny three-league survey?"

"Yes, sir, I do, " the blunt, breezy, surveyor answered. "I crossed iton my way to Block H, on the north side of it. The road runs with theChiquito River, along the valley. The Denny survey fronts three mileson the Chiquito. "

"It is claimed, " continued the commissioner, "that it fails to reachthe river by as much as a mile. "

The appraiser shrugged his shoulder. He was by birth and instinct anActual Settler, and the natural foe of the land-shark. 

"It has always been considered to extend to the river, " he said, dryly. 

"But that is not the point I desired to discuss, " said theCommissioner. "What kind of country is this valley portion of (let ussay, then) the Denny tract?"

The spirit of the Actual Settler beamed in Ashe's face. 

"Beautiful, " he said, with enthusiasm. "Valley as level as thisfloor, with just a little swell on, like the sea, and rich as cream. Just enough brakes to shelter the cattle in winter. Black loamy soilfor six feet, and then clay. Holds water. A dozen nice little houseson it, with windmills and gardens. People pretty poor, I guess--toofar from market--but comfortable. Never saw so many kids in mylife. "

"They raise flocks?" inquired the Commissioner. 

"Ho, ho! I mean two-legged kids, " laughed the surveyor; "two-legged, and bare-legged, and tow-headed. "

"Children! oh, children!" mused the Commissioner, as though a newview had opened to him; "they raise children!

"It's a lonesome country, Commissioner, " said the surveyor. "Can youblame 'em?"

"I suppose, " continued the Commissioner, slowly, as one carefullypursues deductions from a new, stupendous theory, "not all of them aretow-headed. It would not be unreasonable, Mr. Ashe, I conjecture, tobelieve that a portion of them have brown, or even black, hair. "

"Brown and black, sure, " said Ashe; "also red. "

"No doubt, " said the Commissioner. "Well, I thank you for yourcourtesy in informing me, Mr. Ashe. I will not detain you any longerfrom your duties. "

Later, in the afternoon, came Hamlin and Avery, big, handsome, genial, sauntering men, clothed in white duck and low-cut shoes. Theypermeated the whole office with an aura of debonair prosperity. Theypassed among the clerks and left a wake of abbreviated given names andfat brown cigars. 

These were the aristocracy of the land-sharks, who went in for bigthings. Full of serene confidence in themselves, there was nocorporation, no syndicate, no railroad company or attorney generaltoo big for them to tackle. The peculiar smoke of their rare, fatbrown cigars was to be perceived in the sanctum of every department ofstate, in every committee-room of the Legislature, in every bankparlour and every private caucus-room in the state Capital. Alwayspleasant, never in a hurry, in seeming to possess unlimited leisure, people wondered when they gave their attention to the many audaciousenterprises in which they were known to be engaged. 

By and by the two dropped carelessly into the Commissioner's roomand reclined lazily in the big, leather-upholstered arm-chairs. Theydrawled a good-natured complaint of the weather, and Hamlin told theCommissioner an excellent story he had amassed that morning fromthe Secretary of State. 

But the Commissioner knew why they were there. He had half promisedto render a decision that day upon their location. 

The chief clerk now brought in a batch of duplicate certificates forthe Commissioner to sign. As he traced his sprawling signature, "Hollis Summerfield, Comr. Genl. Land Office, " on each one, the chiefclerk stood, deftly removing them and applying the blotter. 

"I notice, " said the chief clerk, "you've been going through thatSalado County location. Kampfer is making a new map of Salado, andI believe is platting in that section of the county now. "

"I will see it, " said the Commissioner. A few moments later he went tothe draughtsmen's room. 

As he entered he saw five or six of the draughtsmen grouped aboutKampfer's desk, gargling away at each other in pectoral German, andgazing at something thereupon. At the Commissioner's approach theyscattered to their several places. Kampfer, a wizened little German, with long, frizzled ringlets and a watery eye, began to stammerforth some sort of an apology, the Commissioner thought, for thecongregation of his fellows about his desk. 

"Never mind, " said the Commissioner, "I wish to see the map you aremaking"; and, passing around the old German, seated himself upon thehigh draughtsman's stool. Kampfer continued to break English intrying to explain. 

"Herr Gommissioner, I assure you blenty sat I haf not it bremeditated--sat it wass--sat it itself make. Look you! from se field noteswass it blatted--blease to observe se calls: South, 10 degrees west1, 050 varas; south, 10 degrees east 300 varas; south, 100; south, 9west, 200; south, 40 degrees west 400--and so on. Herr Gommissioner, nefer would I have--"

The Commissioner raised one white hand, silently, Kampfer dropped hispipe and fled. 

With a hand at each side of his face, and his elbows resting upon thedesk, the Commissioner sat staring at the map which was spread andfastened there--staring at the sweet and living profile of littleGeorgia drawn thereupon--at her face, pensive, delicate, andinfantile, outlined in a perfect likeness. 

When his mind at length came to inquire into the reason of it, hesaw that it must have been, as Kampfer had said, unpremeditated. Theold draughtsman had been platting in the Elias Denny survey, andGeorgia's likeness, striking though it was, was formed by nothing morethan the meanders of Chiquito River. Indeed, Kampfer's blotter, whereon his preliminary work was done, showed the laborious tracingsof the calls and the countless pricks of the compasses. Then, overhis faint pencilling, Kampfer had drawn in India ink with a full, firmpen the similitude of Chiquito River, and forth had blossomedmysteriously the dainty, pathetic profile of the child. 

The Commissioner sat for half an hour with his face in his hands, gazing downward, and none dared approach him. Then he arose andwalked out. In the business office he paused long enough to ask thatthe Denny file be brought to his desk. 

He found Hamlin and Avery still reclining in their chairs, apparentlyoblivious of business. They were lazily discussing summer opera, itbeing, their habit--perhaps their pride also--to appear supernaturallyindifferent whenever they stood with large interests imperilled. Andthey stood to win more on this stake than most people knew. Theypossessed inside information to the effect that a new railroad would, within a year, split this very Chiquito River valley and send landvalues ballooning all along its route. A dollar under thirty thousandprofit on this location, if it should hold good, would be a loss totheir expectations. So, while they chatted lightly and waited for theCommissioner to open the subject, there was a quick, sidelong sparklein their eyes, evincing a desire to read their title clear to thosefair acres on the Chiquito. 

A clerk brought in the file. The Commissioner seated himself andwrote upon it in red ink. Then he rose to his feet and stood for awhile looking straight out of the window. The Land Office capped thesummit of a bold hill. The eyes of the Commissioner passed over theroofs of many houses set in a packing of deep green, the wholecheckered by strips of blinding white streets. The horizon, where hisgaze was focussed, swelled to a fair wooded eminence flecked withfaint dots of shining white. There was the cemetery, where lay manywho were forgotten, and a few who had not lived in vain. And onelay there, occupying very small space, whose childish heart had beenlarge enough to desire, while near its last beats, good to others. The Commissioner's lips moved slightly as he whispered to himself: "Itwas her last will and testament, and I have neglected it so long!"

The big brown cigars of Hamlin and Avery were fireless, but they stillgripped them between their teeth and waited, while they marvelled atthe absent expression upon the Commissioner's face. 

By and by he spoke suddenly and promptly. 

"Gentlemen, I have just indorsed the Elias Denny survey for patenting. This office will not regard your location upon a part of it as legal. "He paused a moment, and then, extending his hand as those dear old-timeones used to do in debate, he enunciated the spirit of that Ruling thatsubsequently drove the land-sharks to the wall, and placed the seal ofpeace and security over the doors of ten thousand homes. 

"And, furthermore, " he continued, with a clear, soft light upon hisface, "it may interest you to know that from this time on this officewill consider that when a survey of land made by virtue of acertificate granted by this state to the men who wrested it from thewilderness and the savage--made in good faith, settled in good faith, and left in good faith to their children or innocent purchasers--whensuch a survey, although overrunning its complement, shall call forany natural object visible to the eye of man, to that object it shallhold, and be good and valid. And the children of this state shalllie down to sleep at night, and rumours of disturbers of title shallnot disquiet them. For, " concluded the Commissioner, "of such is theKingdom of Heaven. "

In the silence that followed, a laugh floated up from the patent-roombelow. The man who carried down the Denny file was exhibiting itamong the clerks. 

"Look here, " he said, delightedly, "the old man has forgotten hisname. He's written 'Patent to original grantee, ' and signed it'Georgia Summerfield, Comr. "'

The speech of the Commissioner rebounded lightly from the impregnableHamlin and Avery. They smiled, rose gracefully, spoke of the baseballteam, and argued feelingly that quite a perceptible breeze had arisenfrom the east. They lit fresh fat brown cigars, and driftedcourteously away. But later they made another tiger-spring for theirquarry in the courts. But the courts, according to reports in thepapers, "coolly roasted them" (a remarkable performance, suggestive ofliquid-air didoes), and sustained the Commissioner's Ruling. 

And this Ruling itself grew to be a Precedent, and the Actual Settlerframed it, and taught his children to spell from it, and there wassound sleep o' nights from the pines to the sage-brush, and from thechaparral to the great brown river of the north. 

But I think, and I am sure the Commissioner never thought otherwise, that whether Kampfer was a snuffy old instrument of destiny, orwhether the meanders of the Chiquito accidentally platted themselvesinto that memorable sweet profile or not, there was brought about"something good for a whole lot of children, " and the result oughtto be called "Georgia's Ruling. "

XXIII

BLIND MAN'S HOLIDAY

Alas for the man and for the artist with the shifting point ofperspective! Life shall be a confusion of ways to the one; thelandscape shall rise up and confound the other. Take the case ofLorison. At one time he appeared to himself to be the feeblest offools; at another he conceived that he followed ideals so fine thatthe world was not yet ready to accept them. During one mood he cursedhis folly; possessed by the other, he bore himself with a serenegrandeur akin to greatness: in neither did he attain the perspective. 

Generations before, the name had been "Larsen. " His race hadbequeathed him its fine-strung, melancholy temperament, its savingbalance of thrift and industry. 

From his point of perspective he saw himself an outcast from society, forever to be a shady skulker along the ragged edge of respectability;a denizen _des trois-quartz de monde_, that pathetic spheroid lyingbetween the _haut_ and the _demi_, whose inhabitants envy each of theirneighbours, and are scorned by both. He was self-condemned to thisopinion, as he was self-exiled, through it, to this quaint Southerncity a thousand miles from his former home. Here he had dwelt forlonger than a year, knowing but few, keeping in a subjective worldof shadows which was invaded at times by the perplexing bulks ofjarring realities. Then he fell in love with a girl whom he met in acheap restaurant, and his story begins. 

The Rue Chartres, in New Orleans, is a street of ghosts. It lies inthe quarter where the Frenchman, in his prime, set up his translatedpride and glory; where, also, the arrogant don had swaggered, anddreamed of gold and grants and ladies' gloves. Every flagstone hasits grooves worn by footsteps going royally to the wooing and thefighting. Every house has a princely heartbreak; each doorway itsuntold tale of gallant promise and slow decay. 

By night the Rue Chartres is now but a murky fissure, from which thegroping wayfarer sees, flung against the sky, the tangled filigree ofMoorish iron balconies. The old houses of monsieur stand yet, indomitable against the century, but their essence is gone. Thestreet is one of ghosts to whosoever can see them. 

A faint heartbeat of the street's ancient glory still survives in acorner occupied by the Café Carabine d'Or. Once men gathered there toplot against kings, and to warn presidents. They do so yet, but theyare not the same kind of men. A brass button will scatter these;those would have set their faces against an army. Above the doorhangs the sign board, upon which has been depicted a vast animal ofunfamiliar species. In the act of firing upon this monster isrepresented an unobtrusive human levelling an obtrusive gun, once thecolour of bright gold. Now the legend above the picture is fadedbeyond conjecture; the gun's relation to the title is a matter offaith; the menaced animal, wearied of the long aim of the hunter, hasresolved itself into a shapeless blot. 

The place is known as "Antonio's, " as the name, white upon the red-littransparency, and gilt upon the windows, attests. There is a promisein "Antonio"; a justifiable expectancy of savoury things in oil andpepper and wine, and perhaps an angel's whisper of garlic. But therest of the name is "O'Riley. " Antonio O'Riley!

The Carabine d'Or is an ignominious ghost of the Rue Chartres. Thecafé where Bienville and Conti dined, where a prince has broken bread, is become a "family ristaurant. "

Its customers are working men and women, almost to a unit. Occasionally you will see chorus girls from the cheaper theatres, and men who follow avocations subject to quick vicissitudes; but atAntonio's--name rich in Bohemian promise, but tame in fulfillment--manners debonair and gay are toned down to the "family" standard. Should you light a cigarette, mine host will touch you on the "arrum"and remind you that the proprieties are menaced. "Antonio" enticesand beguiles from fiery legend without, but "O'Riley" teaches decorumwithin. 

It was at this restaurant that Lorison first saw the girl. A flashyfellow with a predatory eye had followed her in, and had advanced totake the other chair at the little table where she stopped, butLorison slipped into the seat before him. Their acquaintance began, and grew, and now for two months they had sat at the same table eachevening, not meeting by appointment, but as if by a series offortuitous and happy accidents. After dining, they would take a walktogether in one of the little city parks, or among the panoramicmarkets where exhibits a continuous vaudeville of sights and sounds. Always at eight o'clock their steps led them to a certain streetcorner, where she prettily but firmly bade him good night and lefthim. "I do not live far from here, " she frequently said, "and youmust let me go the rest of the way alone. "

But now Lorison had discovered that he wanted to go the rest of theway with her, or happiness would depart, leaving, him on a very lonelycorner of life. And at the same time that he made the discovery, thesecret of his banishment from the society of the good laid its fingerin his face and told him it must not be. 

Man is too thoroughly an egoist not to be also an egotist; if he love, the object shall know it. During a lifetime he may conceal it throughstress of expediency and honour, but it shall bubble from his dyinglips, though it disrupt a neighbourhood. It is known, however, thatmost men do not wait so long to disclose their passion. In the caseof Lorison, his particular ethics positively forbade him to declarehis sentiments, but he must needs dally with the subject, and woo byinnuendo at least. 

On this night, after the usual meal at the Carabine d'Or, he strolledwith his companion down the dim old street toward the river. 

The Rue Chartres perishes in the old Place d'Armes. The ancientCabildo, where Spanish justice fell like hail, faces it, and theCathedral, another provincial ghost, overlooks it. Its centre is alittle, iron-railed park of flowers and immaculate gravelled walks, where citizens take the air of evenings. Pedestalled high above it, the general sits his cavorting steed, with his face turned stonilydown the river toward English Turn, whence come no more Britons tobombard his cotton bales. 

Often the two sat in this square, but to-night Lorison guided her pastthe stone-stepped gate, and still riverward. As they walked, he smiledto himself to think that all he knew of her--except that be lovedher--was her name, Norah Greenway, and that she lived with herbrother. They had talked about everything except themselves. Perhapsher reticence had been caused by his. 

They came, at length, upon the levee, and sat upon a great, prostratebeam. The air was pungent with the dust of commerce. The great riverslipped yellowly past. Across it Algiers lay, a longitudinous blackbulk against a vibrant electric haze sprinkled with exact stars. 

The girl was young and of the piquant order. A certain brightmelancholy pervaded her; she possessed an untarnished, pale prettinessdoomed to please. Her voice, when she spoke, dwarfed her theme. Itwas the voice capable of investing little subjects with a largeinterest. She sat at ease, bestowing her skirts with the littlewomanly touch, serene as if the begrimed pier were a summer garden. Lorison poked the rotting boards with his cane. 

He began by telling her that he was in love with some one to whom hedurst not speak of it. "And why not?" she asked, accepting swiftlyhis fatuous presentation of a third person of straw. "My place in theworld, " he answered, "is none to ask a woman to share. I am anoutcast from honest people; I am wrongly accused of one crime, and am, I believe, guilty of another. "

Thence he plunged into the story of his abdication from society. Thestory, pruned of his moral philosophy, deserves no more than theslightest touch. It is no new tale, that of the gambler's declension. During one night's sitting he lost, and then had imperilled a certainamount of his employer's money, which, by accident, he carried withhim. He continued to lose, to the last wager, and then began to gain, leaving the game winner to a somewhat formidable sum. The same nighthis employer's safe was robbed. A search was had; the winnings ofLorison were found in his room, their total forming an accusativenearness to the sum purloined. He was taken, tried and, throughincomplete evidence, released, smutched with the sinister _devoirs_of a disagreeing jury. 

"It is not in the unjust accusation, " he said to the girl, "that myburden lies, but in the knowledge that from the moment I staked thefirst dollar of the firm's money I was a criminal--no matter whetherI lost or won. You see why it is impossible for me to speak of loveto her. "

"It is a sad thing, " said Norah, after a little pause, "to think whatvery good people there are in the world. "

"Good?" said Lorison. 

"I was thinking of this superior person whom you say you love. Shemust be a very poor sort of creature. "

"I do not understand. "

"Nearly, " she continued, "as poor a sort of creature as yourself. "

"You do not understand, " said Lorison, removing his hat and sweepingback his fine, light hair. "Suppose she loved me in return, andwere willing to marry me. Think, if you can, what would follow. Nevera day would pass but she would be reminded of her sacrifice. I wouldread a condescension in her smile, a pity even in her affection, thatwould madden me. No. The thing would stand between us forever. Onlyequals should mate. I could never ask her to come down upon my lowerplane. "

An arc light faintly shone upon Lorison's face. An illumination fromwithin also pervaded it. The girl saw the rapt, ascetic look; it wasthe face either of Sir Galahad or Sir Fool. 

"Quite starlike, " she said, "is this unapproachable angel. Really toohigh to be grasped. "

"By me, yes. "

She faced him suddenly. "My dear friend, would you prefer your starfallen?" Lorison made a wide gesture. 

"You push me to the bald fact, " he declared; "you are not in sympathywith my argument. But I will answer you so. If I could reach myparticular star, to drag it down, I would not do it; but if it werefallen, I would pick it up, and thank Heaven for the privilege. "

They were silent for some minutes. Norah shivered, and thrust herhands deep into the pockets of her jacket. Lorison uttered aremorseful exclamation. 

"I'm not cold, " she said. "I was just thinking. I ought to tell yousomething. You have selected a strange confidante. But you cannotexpect a chance acquaintance, picked up in a doubtful restaurant, tobe an angel. "

"Norah!" cried Lorison. 

"Let me go on. You have told me about yourself. We have been suchgood friends. I must tell you now what I never wanted you to know. I am--worse than you are. I was on the stage . . . I sang in thechorus . . . I was pretty bad, I guess . . . I stole diamonds fromthe prima donna . . . They arrested me . . . I gave most of them up, and they let me go . . . I drank wine every night . . . A greatdeal . . . I was very wicked, but--"

Lorison knelt quickly by her side and took her hands. 

"Dear Norah!" he said, exultantly. "It is you, it is you I love!You never guessed it, did you? 'Tis you I meant all the time. Now Ican speak. Let me make you forget the past. We have both suffered;let us shut out the world, and live for each other. Norah, do youhear me say I love you?"

"In spite of--"

"Rather say because of it. You have come out of your past noble andgood. Your heart is an angel's. Give it to me. "

"A little while ago you feared the future too much to even speak. "

"But for you; not for myself. Can you love me?"

She cast herself, wildly sobbing, upon his breast. 

"Better than life--than truth itself--than everything. "

"And my own past, " said Lorison, with a note of solicitude--"can youforgive and--"

"I answered you that, " she whispered, "when I told you I loved you. "She leaned away, and looked thoughtfully at him. "If I had not toldyou about myself, would you have--would you--"

"No, " he interrupted; "I would never have let you know I loved you. Iwould never have asked you this--Norah, will you be my wife?"

She wept again. 

"Oh, believe me; I am good now--I am no longer wicked! I will bethe best wife in the world. Don't think I am--bad any more. If youdo I shall die, I shall die!"

While he was consoling, her, she brightened up, eager and impetuous. "Will you marry me to-night?" she said. "Will you prove it that way. I have a reason for wishing it to be to-night. Will you?"

Of one of two things was this exceeding frankness the outcome: eitherof importunate brazenness or of utter innocence. The lover'sperspective contained only the one. 

"The sooner, " said Lorison, "the happier I shall be. "

"What is there to do?" she asked. "What do you have to get? Come!You should know. "

Her energy stirred the dreamer to action. 

"A city directory first, " he cried, gayly, "to find where the manlives who gives licenses to happiness. We will go together and routhim out. Cabs, cars, policemen, telephones and ministers shall aidus. "

"Father Rogan shall marry us, " said the girl, with ardour. "I willtake you to him. "

An hour later the two stood at the open doorway of an immense, gloomybrick building in a narrow and lonely street. The license was tightin Norah's hand. 

"Wait here a moment, " she said, "till I find Father Rogan. "

She plunged into the black hallway, and the lover was left standing, as it were, on one leg, outside. His impatience was not greatlytaxed. Gazing curiously into what seemed the hallway to Erebus, he was presently reassured by a stream of light that bisected thedarkness, far down the passage. Then he heard her call, andfluttered lampward, like the moth. She beckoned him through adoorway into the room whence emanated the light. The room wasbare of nearly everything except books, which had subjugated allits space. Here and there little spots of territory had beenreconquered. An elderly, bald man, with a superlatively calm, remote eye, stood by a table with a book in his hand, his fingerstill marking a page. His dress was sombre and appertained to areligious order. His eye denoted an acquaintance with theperspective. 

"Father Rogan, " said Norah, "this is _he_. "

"The two of ye, " said Father Rogan, "want to get married?"

They did not deny it. He married them. The ceremony was quicklydone. One who could have witnessed it, and felt its scope, might havetrembled at the terrible inadequacy of it to rise to the dignity ofits endless chain of results. 

Afterward the priest spake briefly, as if by rote, of certain othercivil and legal addenda that either might or should, at a later time, cap the ceremony. Lorison tendered a fee, which was declined, andbefore the door closed after the departing couple Father Rogan's bookpopped open again where his finger marked it. 

In the dark hall Norah whirled and clung to her companion, tearful. 

"Will you never, never be sorry?"

At last she was reassured. 

At the first light they reached upon the street, she asked the time, just as she had each night. Lorison looked at his watch. Half-pasteight. 

Lorison thought it was from habit that she guided their steps towardthe corner where they always parted. But, arrived there, shehesitated, and then released his arm. A drug store stood on thecorner; its bright, soft light shone upon them. 

"Please leave me here as usual to-night, " said Norah, sweetly. "Imust--I would rather you would. You will not object? At sixto-morrow evening I will meet you at Antonio's. I want to sit withyou there once more. And then--I will go where you say. " She gavehim a bewildering, bright smile, and walked swiftly away. 

Surely it needed all the strength of her charm to carry off thisastounding behaviour. It was no discredit to Lorison's strength ofmind that his head began to whirl. Pocketing his hands, he rambledvacuously over to the druggist's windows, and began assiduously tospell over the names of the patent medicines therein displayed. 

As soon as be had recovered his wits, he proceeded along the street inan aimless fashion. After drifting for two or three squares, heflowed into a somewhat more pretentious thoroughfare, a way muchfrequented by him in his solitary ramblings. For here was a row ofshops devoted to traffic in goods of the widest range of choice--handiworks of art, skill and fancy, products of nature and labour fromevery zone. 

Here, for a time, he loitered among the conspicuous windows, where wasset, emphasized by congested floods of light, the cunningest spoil ofthe interiors. There were few passers, and of this Lorison was glad. He was not of the world. For a long time he had touched his fellowman only at the gear of a levelled cog-wheel--at right angles, andupon a different axis. He had dropped into a distinctly new orbit. The stroke of ill fortune had acted upon him, in effect, as a blowdelivered upon the apex of a certain ingenious toy, the musical top, which, when thus buffeted while spinning, gives forth, with scarcelyretarded motion, a complete change of key and chord. 

Strolling along the pacific avenue, he experienced singular, supernatural calm, accompanied by an unusual a activity of brain. Reflecting upon recent affairs, he assured himself of his happiness inhaving won for a bride the one he had so greatly desired, yet hewondered mildly at his dearth of active emotion. Her strangebehaviour in abandoning him without valid excuse on his bridal evearoused in him only a vague and curious speculation. Again, he foundhimself contemplating, with complaisant serenity, the incidents of hersomewhat lively career. His perspective seemed to have been queerlyshifted. 

As he stood before a window near a corner, his ears were assailed by awaxing clamour and commotion. He stood close to the window to allowpassage to the cause of the hubbub--a procession of human beings, which rounded the corner and headed in his direction. He perceived asalient hue of blue and a glitter of brass about a central figure ofdazzling white and silver, and a ragged wake of black, bobbingfigures. 

Two ponderous policemen were conducting between them a woman dressedas if for the stage, in a short, white, satiny skirt reaching to theknees, pink stockings, and a sort of sleeveless bodice bright withrelucent, armour-like scales. Upon her curly, light hair was perched, at a rollicking angle, a shining tin helmet. The costume was to beinstantly recognized as one of those amazing conceptions to whichcompetition has harried the inventors of the spectacular ballet. Oneof the officers bore a long cloak upon his arm, which, doubtless, hadbeen intended to veil the I candid attractions of their effulgentprisoner, but, for some reason, it had not been called into use, tothe vociferous delight of the tail of the procession. 

Compelled by a sudden and vigorous movement of the woman, the paradehalted before the window by which Lorison stood. He saw that she wasyoung, and, at the first glance, was deceived by a sophisticalprettiness of her face, which waned before a more judicious scrutiny. Her look was bold and reckless, and upon her countenance, where yetthe contours of youth survived, were the finger-marks of old age'scredentialed courier, Late Hours. 

The young woman fixed her unshrinking gaze upon Lorison, and called tohim in the voice of the wronged heroine in straits:

"Say! You look like a good fellow; come and put up the bail, won'tyou? I've done nothing to get pinched for. It's all a mistake. Seehow they're treating me! You won't be sorry, if you'll help me out ofthis. Think of your sister or your girl being dragged along thestreets this way! I say, come along now, like a good fellow. "

It may be that Lorison, in spite of the unconvincing bathos of thisappeal, showed a sympathetic face, for one of the officers left thewoman's side, and went over to him. 

"It's all right, Sir, " he said, in a husky, confidential tone; "she'sthe right party. We took her after the first act at the Green LightTheatre, on a wire from the chief of police of Chicago. It's only asquare or two to the station. Her rig's pretty bad, but she refusedto change clothes--or, rather, " added the officer, with a smile, "toput on some. I thought I'd explain matters to you so you wouldn'tthink she was being imposed upon. "

"What is the charge?" asked Lorison. 

"Grand larceny. Diamonds. Her husband is a jeweller in Chicago. Shecleaned his show case of the sparklers, and skipped with a comic-operatroupe. "

The policeman, perceiving that the interest of the entire group ofspectators was centred upon himself and Lorison--their conferencebeing regarded as a possible new complication--was fain to prolongthe situation--which reflected his own importance--by a littleafterpiece of philosophical comment. 

"A gentleman like you, Sir, " he went on affably, "would never noticeit, but it comes in my line to observe what an immense amount oftrouble is made by that combination--I mean the stage, diamondsand light-headed women who aren't satisfied with good homes. I tellyou, Sir, a man these days and nights wants to know what his womenfolks are up to. "

The policeman smiled a good night, and returned to the side of hischarge, who had been intently watching Lorison's face during theconversation, no doubt for some indication of his intention to rendersuccour. Now, at the failure of the sign, and at the movement made tocontinue the ignominious progress, she abandoned hope, and addressedhim thus, pointedly:

"You damn chalk-faced quitter! You was thinking of giving me a hand, but you let the cop talk you out of it the first word. You're a dandyto tie to. Say, if you ever get a girl, she'll have a picnic. Won'tshe work you to the queen's taste! Oh, my!" She concluded with ataunting, shrill laugh that rasped Lorison like a saw. The policemenurged her forward; the delighted train of gaping followers closed upthe rear; and the captive Amazon, accepting her fate, extended thescope of her maledictions so that none in hearing might seem to beslighted. 

Then there came upon Lorison an overwhelming revulsion of hisperspective. It may be that he had been ripe for it, that theabnormal condition of mind in which he had for so long existed wasalready about to revert to its balance; however, it is certain thatthe events of the last few minutes had furnished the channel, if notthe impetus, for the change. 

The initial determining influence had been so small a thing as thefact and manner of his having been approached by the officer. Thatagent had, by the style of his accost, restored the loiterer to hisformer place in society. In an instant he had been transformed from asomewhat rancid prowler along the fishy side streets of gentility intoan honest gentleman, with whom even so lordly a guardian of the peacemight agreeably exchange the compliments. 

This, then, first broke the spell, and set thrilling in him aresurrected longing for the fellowship of his kind, and the rewards ofthe virtuous. To what end, he vehemently asked himself, was thisfanciful self-accusation, this empty renunciation, this moralsqueamishness through which he had been led to abandon what was hisheritage in life, and not beyond his deserts? Technically, he wasuncondemned; his sole guilty spot was in thought rather than deed, andcognizance of it unshared by others. For what good, moral orsentimental, did he slink, retreating like the hedgehog from his ownshadow, to and fro in this musty Bohemia that lacked even thepicturesque?

But the thing that struck home and set him raging was the part playedby the Amazonian prisoner. To the counterpart of that astoundingbelligerent--identical at least, in the way of experience--to one, by her own confession, thus far fallen, had he, not three hours since, been united in marriage. How desirable and natural it had seemed tohim then, and how monstrous it seemed now! How the words of diamondthief number two yet burned in his ears: "If you ever get a girl, she'll have a picnic. " What did that mean but that women instinctivelyknew him for one they could hoodwink? Still again, there reverberatedthe policeman's sapient contribution to his agony: "A man these daysand nights wants to know what his women folks are up to. " Oh, yes, hehad been a fool; he had looked at things from the wrong standpoint. 

But the wildest note in all the clamour was struck by pain'sforefinger, jealousy. Now, at least, he felt that keenest sting--amounting love unworthily bestowed. Whatever she might be, he lovedher; he bore in his own breast his doom. A grating, comic flavour tohis predicament struck him suddenly, and he laughed creakingly as heswung down the echoing pavement. An impetuous desire to act, tobattle with his fate, seized him. He stopped upon his heel, and smotehis palms together triumphantly. His wife was--where? But therewas a tangible link; an outlet more or less navigable, through whichhis derelict ship of matrimony might yet be safely towed--thepriest!

Like all imaginative men with pliable natures, Lorison was, whenthoroughly stirred, apt to become tempestuous. With a high andstubborn indignation upon him, be retraced his steps to theintersecting street by which he had come. Down this he hurried to thecorner where he had parted with--an astringent grimace tinctured thethought--his wife. Thence still back he harked, following throughan unfamiliar district his stimulated recollections of the way theyhad come from that preposterous wedding. Many times he went abroad, and nosed his way back to the trail, furious. 

At last, when he reached the dark, calamitous building in which hismadness had culminated, and found the black hallway, he dashed downit, perceiving no light or sound. But he raised his voice, hailingloudly; reckless of everything but that he should find the oldmischief-maker with the eyes that looked too far away to see thedisaster he had wrought. The door opened, and in the stream of lightFather Rogan stood, his book in hand, with his finger marking theplace. 

"Ah!" cried Lorison. "You are the man I want. I had a wife of you afew hours ago. I would not trouble you, but I neglected to note howit was done. Will you oblige me with the information whether thebusiness is beyond remedy?"

"Come inside, " said the priest; "there are other lodgers in thehouse, who might prefer sleep to even a gratified curiosity. "

Lorison entered the room and took the chair offered him. The priest'seyes looked a courteous interrogation. 

"I must apologize again, " said the young man, "for so soon intrudingupon you with my marital infelicities, but, as my wife has neglectedto furnish me with her address, I am deprived of the legitimaterecourse of a family row. "

"I am quite a plain man, " said Father Rogan, pleasantly; "but I donot see how I am to ask you questions. "

"Pardon my indirectness, " said Lorison; "I will ask one. In this roomto-night you pronounced me to be a husband. You afterward spoke ofadditional rites or performances that either should or could beeffected. I paid little attention to your words then, but I am hungryto hear them repeated now. As matters stand, am I married past allhelp?"

"You are as legally and as firmly bound, " said the priest, "as thoughit had been done in a cathedral, in the presence of thousands. Theadditional observances I referred to are not necessary to thestrictest legality of the act, but were advised as a precaution forthe future--for convenience of proof in such contingencies as wills, inheritances and the like. "

Lorison laughed harshly. 

"Many thanks, " he said. "Then there is no mistake, and I am the happybenedict. I suppose I should go stand upon the bridal corner, andwhen my wife gets through walking the streets she will look me up. "

Father Rogan regarded him calmly. 

"My son, " he said, "when a man and woman come to me to be married Ialways marry them. I do this for the sake of other people whom theymight go away and marry if they did not marry each other. As you see, I do not seek your confidence; but your case seems to me to be one notaltogether devoid of interest. Very few marriages that have come tomy notice have brought such well-expressed regret within so short atime. I will hazard one question: were you not under the impressionthat you loved the lady you married, at the time you did so;"

"Loved her!" cried Lorison, wildly. "Never so well as now, thoughshe told me she deceived and sinned and stole. Never more than now, when, perhaps, she is laughing at the fool she cajoled and left, withscarcely a word, to return to God only knows what particular line ofher former folly. "

Father Rogan answered nothing. During the silence that succeeded, hesat with a quiet expectation beaming in his full, lambent eye. 

"If you would listen--" began Lorison. The priest held up his hand. 

"As I hoped, " he said. "I thought you would trust me. Wait but amoment. " He brought a long clay pipe, filled and lighted it. 

"Now, my son, " he said. 

Lorison poured a twelve month's accumulated confidence into FatherRogan's ear. He told all; not sparing himself or omitting the factsof his past, the events of the night, or his disturbing conjecturesand fears. 

"The main point, " said the priest, when he had concluded, "seems tome to be this--are you reasonably sure that you love this woman whomyou have married?"

"Why, " exclaimed Lorison, rising impulsively to his feet--"whyshould I deny it? But look at me--am fish, flesh or fowl? That isthe main point to me, I assure you. "

"I understand you, " said the priest, also rising, and laying down hispipe. "The situation is one that has taxed the endurance of mucholder men than you--in fact, especially much older men than you. Iwill try to relieve you from it, and this night. You shall see foryourself into exactly what predicament you have fallen, and how youshall, possibly, be extricated. There is no evidence so credible asthat of the eyesight. "

Father Rogan moved about the room, and donned a soft black hat. Buttoning his coat to his throat, he laid his hand on the doorknob. "Let us walk, " he said. 

The two went out upon the street. The priest turned his face down it, and Lorison walked with him through a squalid district, where thehouses loomed, awry and desolate-looking, high above them. Presentlythey turned into a less dismal side street, where the houses weresmaller, and, though hinting of the most meagre comfort, lacked theconcentrated wretchedness of the more populous byways. 

At a segregated, two-story house Father Rogan halted, and mounted thesteps with the confidence of a familiar visitor. He ushered Lorisoninto a narrow hallway, faintly lighted by a cobwebbed hanging lamp. Almost immediately a door to the right opened and a dingy Irishwomanprotruded her head. 

"Good evening to ye, Mistress Geehan, " said the priest, unconsciously, it seemed, falling into a delicately flavoured brogue. "And is ityourself can tell me if Norah has gone out again, the night, maybe?"

"Oh, it's yer blissid riverence! Sure and I can tell ye the same. The purty darlin' wint out, as usual, but a bit later. And she says:'Mother Geehan, ' says she, 'it's me last noight out, praise thesaints, this noight is!' And, oh, yer riverence, the swate, beautifuldrame of a dress she had this toime! White satin and silk andribbons, and lace about the neck and arrums--'twas a sin, yerreverence, the gold was spint upon it. "

The priest heard Lorison catch his breath painfully, and a faint smileflickered across his own clean-cut mouth. 

"Well, then, Mistress Geehan, " said he, "I'll just step upstairs andsee the bit boy for a minute, and I'll take this gentleman up withme. "

"He's awake, thin, " said the woman. 'I've just come down from sittingwid him the last hour, tilling him fine shtories of ould CountyTyrone. 'Tis a greedy gossoon, it is, yer riverence, for meshtories. "

"Small the doubt, " said Father Rogan. "There's no rocking would puthim to slape the quicker, I'm thinking. "

Amid the woman's shrill protest against the retort, the two menascended the steep stairway. The priest pushed open the door of aroom near its top. 

"Is that you already, sister?" drawled a sweet, childish voice fromthe darkness. 

"It's only ould Father Denny come to see ye, darlin'; and a foinegentleman I've brought to make ye a gr-r-and call. And ye resaves usfast aslape in bed! Shame on yez manners!"

"Oh, Father Denny, is that you? I'm glad. And will you light thelamp, please? It's on the table by the door. And quit talking likeMother Geehan, Father Denny. "

The priest lit the lamp, and Lorison saw a tiny, towsled-haired boy, with a thin, delicate face, sitting up in a small bed in a corner. Quickly, also, his rapid glance considered the room and itscontents. It was furnished with more than comfort, and its adornmentsplainly indicated a woman's discerning taste. An open door beyondrevealed the blackness of an adjoining room's interior. 

The boy clutched both of Father Rogan's hands. "I'm so glad youcame, " he said; "but why did you come in the night? Did sister sendyou?"

"Off wid ye! Am I to be sint about, at me age, as was TerenceMcShane, of Ballymahone? I come on me own r-r-responsibility. "

Lorison had also advanced to the boy's bedside. He was fond ofchildren; and the wee fellow, laying himself down to sleep alone inthat dark room, stirred-his heart. 

"Aren't you afraid, little man?" he asked, stooping down beside him. 

"Sometimes, " answered the boy, with a shy smile, "when the rats maketoo much noise. But nearly every night, when sister goes out, MotherGeehan stays a while with me, and tells me funny stories. I'm notoften afraid, sir. "

"This brave little gentleman, " said Father Rogan, "is a scholar ofmine. Every day from half-past six to half-past eight--when sistercomes for him--he stops in my study, and we find out what's in theinside of books. He knows multiplication, division and fractions; andhe's troubling me to begin wid the chronicles of Ciaran ofClonmacnoise, Corurac McCullenan and Cuan O'Lochain, the gr-r-reatIrish histhorians. " The boy was evidently accustomed to the priest'sCeltic pleasantries. A little, appreciative grin was all the attentionthe insinuation of pedantry received. 

Lorison, to have saved his life, could not have put to the child oneof those vital questions that were wildly beating about, unanswered, in his own brain. The little fellow was very like Norah; he had thesame shining hair and candid eyes. 

"Oh, Father Denny, " cried the boy, suddenly, "I forgot to tell you!Sister is not going away at night any more! She told me so when shekissed me good night as she was leaving. And she said she was sohappy, and then she cried. Wasn't that queer? But I'm glad; aren'tyou?"

"Yes, lad. And now, ye omadhaun, go to sleep, and say good night; wemust be going. "

"Which shall I do first, Father Denny?"

"Faith, he's caught me again! Wait till I get the sassenach into theannals of Tageruach, the hagiographer; I'll give him enough of theIrish idiom to make him more respectful. "

The light was out, and the small, brave voice bidding them good nightfrom the dark room. They groped downstairs, and tore away from thegarrulity of Mother Geehan. 

Again the priest steered them through the dim ways, but this time inanother direction. His conductor was serenely silent, and Lorisonfollowed his example to the extent of seldom speaking. Serene hecould not be. His heart beat suffocatingly in his breast. Thefollowing of this blind, menacing trail was pregnant with he knew notwhat humiliating revelation to be delivered at its end. 

They came into a more pretentious street, where trade, it could besurmised, flourished by day. And again the priest paused; this timebefore a lofty building, whose great doors and windows in the lowestfloor were carefully shuttered and barred. Its higher apertures weredark, save in the third story, the windows of which were brilliantlylighted. Lorison's ear caught a distant, regular, pleasing thrumming, as of music above. They stood at an angle of the building. Up, alongthe side nearest them, mounted an iron stairway. At its top was anupright, illuminated parallelogram. Father Rogan had stopped, andstood, musing. 

"I will say this much, " he remarked, thoughtfully: "I believe you tobe a better man than you think yourself to be, and a better man than Ithought some hours ago. But do not take this, " he added, with a smile, "as much praise. I promised you a possible deliverance from anunhappy perplexity. I will have to modify that promise. I can onlyremove the mystery that enhanced that perplexity. Your deliverancedepends upon yourself. Come. "

He led his companion up the stairway. Halfway up, Lorison caught himby the sleeve. "Remember, " he gasped, "I love that woman. "

"You desired to know. 

"I--Go on. "

The priest reached the landing at the top of the stairway. Lorison, behind him, saw that the illuminated space was the glass upper half ofa door opening into the lighted room. The rhythmic music increased asthey neared it; the stairs shook with the mellow vibrations. 

Lorison stopped breathing when he set foot upon the highest step, forthe priest stood aside, and motioned him to look through the glass ofthe door. 

His eye, accustomed to the darkness, met first a blinding glare, and then he made out the faces and forms of many people, amidan extravagant display of splendid robings--billowy laces, brilliant-hued finery, ribbons, silks and misty drapery. And thenhe caught the meaning of that jarring hum, and he saw the tired, pale, happy face of his wife, bending, as were a score of others, over her sewing machine--toiling, toiling. Here was the folly shepursued, and the end of his quest. 

But not his deliverance, though even then remorse struck him. Hisshamed soul fluttered once more before it retired to make room for theother and better one. For, to temper his thrill of joy, the shine ofthe satin and the glimmer of ornaments recalled the disturbing figureof the bespangled Amazon, and the base duplicate histories lit by theglare of footlights and stolen diamonds. It is past the wisdom of himwho only sets the scenes, either to praise or blame the man. But thistime his love overcame his scruples. He took a quick step, andreached out his hand for the doorknob. Father Rogan was quicker toarrest it and draw him back. 

"You use my trust in you queerly, " said the priest sternly. "What areyou about to do?"

"I am going to my wife, " said Lorison. "Let me pass. "

"Listen, " said the priest, holding him firmly by the arm. "I am aboutto put you in possession of a piece of knowledge of which, thus far, you have scarcely proved deserving. I do not think you ever will; butI will not dwell upon that. You see in that room the woman youmarried, working for a frugal living for herself, and a generouscomfort for an idolized brother. This building belongs to the chiefcostumer of the city. For months the advance orders for the comingMardi Gras festivals have kept the work going day and night. I myselfsecured employment here for Norah. She toils here each night fromnine o'clock until daylight, and, besides, carries home with her someof the finer costumes, requiring more delicate needlework, and worksthere part of the day. Somehow, you two have remained strangelyignorant of each other's lives. Are you convinced now that your wifeis not walking the streets?"

"Let me go to her, " cried Lorison, again struggling, "and beg herforgiveness!'

"Sir, " said the priest, "do you owe me nothing? Be quiet. It seemsso often that Heaven lets fall its choicest gifts into hands that mustbe taught to hold them. Listen again. You forgot that repentant sinmust not compromise, but look up, for redemption, to the purest andbest. You went to her with the fine-spun sophistry that peace could befound in a mutual guilt; and she, fearful of losing what her heart socraved, thought it worth the price to buy it with a desperate, pure, beautiful lie. I have known her since the day she was born; she is asinnocent and unsullied in life and deed as a holy saint. In thatlowly street where she dwells she first saw the light, and she haslived there ever since, spending her days in generous self-sacrificefor others. Och, ye spalpeen!" continued Father Rogan, raising hisfinger in kindly anger at Lorison. "What for, I wonder, could she beafter making a fool of hersilf, and shamin' her swate soul with lies, for the like of you!"

"Sir, " said Lorison, trembling, "say what you please of me. Doubt itas you must, I will yet prove my gratitude to you, and my devotion toher. But let me speak to her once now, let me kneel for just onemoment at her feet, and--"

"Tut, tut!" said the priest. "How many acts of a love drama do youthink an old bookworm like me capable of witnessing? Besides, whatkind of figures do we cut, spying upon the mysteries of midnightmillinery! Go to meet your wife to-morrow, as she ordered you, andobey her thereafter, and maybe some time I shall get forgiveness forthe part I have played in this night's work. Off wid yez down theshtairs, now! 'Tis late, and an ould man like me should be takin' hisrest. "

XXIV

MADAME BO-PEEP, OF THE RANCHES

"Aunt Ellen, " said Octavia, cheerfully, as she threw her black kidgloves carefully at the dignified Persian cat on the window-seat, "I'ma pauper. "

"You are so extreme in your statements, Octavia, dear, " said AuntEllen, mildly, looking up from her paper. "If you find yourselftemporarily in need of some small change for bonbons, you will findmy purse in the drawer of the writing desk. "

Octavia Beaupree removed her hat and seated herself on a footstoolnear her aunt's chair, clasping her hands about her knees. Her slimand flexible figure, clad in a modish mourning costume, accommodateditself easily and gracefully to the trying position. Her bright andyouthful face, with its pair of sparkling, life-enamoured eyes, triedto compose itself to the seriousness that the occasion seemed todemand. 

"You good auntie, it isn't a case of bonbons; it is abject, staring, unpicturesque poverty, with ready-made clothes, gasolined gloves, andprobably one o'clock dinners all waiting with the traditional wolf atthe door. I've just come from my lawyer, auntie, and, 'Please, ma'am, I ain't got nothink 't all. Flowers, lady? Buttonhole, gentleman?Pencils, sir, three for five, to help a poor widow?' Do I do itnicely, auntie, or, as a bread-winner accomplishment, were my lessonsin elocution entirely wasted?"

"Do be serious, my dear, " said Aunt Ellen, letting her paper fall tothe floor, "long enough to tell me what you mean. Colonel Beaupree'sestate--"

"Colonel Beaupree's estate, " interrupted Octavia, emphasizing herwords with appropriate dramatic gestures, "is of Spanish castellararchitecture. Colonel Beaupree's resources are--wind. ColonelBeaupree's stocks are--water. Colonel Beaupree's income is--allin. The statement lacks the legal technicalities to which I have beenlistening for an hour, but that is what it means when translated. "

"Octavia!" Aunt Ellen was now visibly possessed by consternation. "Ican hardly believe it. And it was the impression that he was worth amillion. And the De Peysters themselves introduced him!"

Octavia rippled out a laugh, and then became properly grave. 

"_De mortuis nil_, auntie--not even the rest of it. The dear oldcolonel--what a gold brick he was, after all! I paid for my bargainfairly--I'm all here, am I not?--items: eyes, fingers, toes, youth, old family, unquestionable position in society as called forin the contract--no wild-cat stock here. " Octavia picked up the morningpaper from the floor. "But I'm not going to 'squeal'--isn't thatwhat they call it when you rail at Fortune because you've, lost thegame?" She turned the pages of the paper calmly. "'Stock market'--nouse for that. 'Society's doings'--that's done. Here is my page--thewish column. A Van Dresser could not be said to 'want' for anything, of course. 'Chamber-maids, cooks, canvassers, stenographers--'"

"Dear, " said Aunt Ellen, with a little tremor in her voice, "please donot talk in that way. Even if your affairs are in so unfortunate acondition, there is my three thousand--"

Octavia sprang up lithely, and deposited a smart kiss on the delicatecheek of the prim little elderly maid. 

"Blessed auntie, your three thousand is just sufficient to insure yourHyson to be free from willow leaves and keep the Persian in sterilizedcream. I know I'd be welcome, but I prefer to strike bottom likeBeelzebub rather than hang around like the Peri listening to the musicfrom the side entrance. I'm going to earn my own living. There'snothing else to do. I'm a--Oh, oh, oh!--I had forgotten. There'sone thing saved from the wreck. It's a corral--no, a ranch in--letme see--Texas: an asset, dear old Mr. Bannister called it. Howpleased he was to show me something he could describe as unencumbered!I've a description of it among those stupid papers he made me bringaway with me from his office. I'll try to find it. "

Octavia found her shopping-bag, and drew from it a long envelopefilled with typewritten documents. 

"A ranch in Texas, " sighed Aunt Ellen. "It sounds to me more like aliability than an asset. Those are the places where the centipedes arefound, and cowboys, and fandangos. "

"'The Rancho de las Sombras, '" read Octavia from a sheet of violentlypurple typewriting, "'is situated one hundred and ten miles southeastof San Antonio, and thirty-eight miles from its nearest railroadstation, Nopal, on the I. And G. N. Ranch, consists of 7, 680 acresof well-watered land, with title conferred by State patents, andtwenty-two sections, or 14, 080 acres, partly under yearly runninglease and partly bought under State's twenty-year-purchase act. Eightthousand graded merino sheep, with the necessary equipment of horses, vehicles and general ranch paraphernalia. Ranch-house built of brick, with six rooms comfortably furnished according to the requirements ofthe climate. All within a strong barbed-wire fence. 

"'The present ranch manager seems to be competent and reliable, and israpidly placing upon a paying basis a business that, in other hands, had been allowed to suffer from neglect and misconduct. 

"'This property was secured by Colonel Beaupree in a deal with aWestern irrigation syndicate, and the title to it seems to be perfect. With careful management and the natural increase of land values, itought to be made the foundation for a comfortable fortune for itsowner. '"

When Octavia ceased reading, Aunt Ellen uttered something as near asniff as her breeding permitted. 

"The prospectus, " she said, with uncompromising metropolitansuspicion, "doesn't mention the centipedes, or the Indians. And younever did like mutton, Octavia. I don't see what advantage you canderive from this--desert. "

But Octavia was in a trance. Her eyes were steadily regardingsomething quite beyond their focus. Her lips were parted, and her facewas lighted by the kindling furor of the explorer, the ardent, stirring disquiet of the adventurer. Suddenly she clasped her handstogether exultantly. 

"The problem solves itself, auntie, " she cried. "I'm going to thatranch. I'm going to live on it. I'm going to learn to like mutton, and even concede the good qualities of centipedes--at a respectfuldistance. It's just what I need. It's a new life that comes when myold one is just ending. It's a release, auntie; it isn't a narrowing. Think of the gallops over those leagues of prairies, with the windtugging at the roots of your hair, the coming close to the earthand learning over again the stories of the growing grass and thelittle wild flowers without names! Glorious is what it will be. ShallI be a shepherdess with a Watteau hat, and a crook to keep the badwolves from the lambs, or a typical Western ranch girl, with shorthair, like the pictures of her in the Sunday papers? I think thelatter. And they'll have my picture, too, with the wild-cats I'veslain, single-handed, hanging from my saddle horn. 'From the FourHundred to the Flocks' is the way they'll headline it, and they'llprint photographs of the old Van Dresser mansion and the church whereI was married. They won't have my picture, but they'll get an artistto draw it. I'll be wild and woolly, and I'll grow my own wool. "

"Octavia!" Aunt Ellen condensed into the one word all the protestsshe was unable to utter. 

"Don't say a word, auntie. I'm going. I'll see the sky at night fitdown on the world like a big butter-dish cover, and I'll make friendsagain with the stars that I haven't had a chat with since I was a weechild. I wish to go. I'm tired of all this. I'm glad I haven't anymoney. I could bless Colonel Beaupree for that ranch, and forgive himfor all his bubbles. What if the life will be rough and lonely! I--Ideserve it. I shut my heart to everything except that miserableambition. I--oh, I wish to go away, and forget--forget!"

Octavia swerved suddenly to her knees, laid her flushed face in heraunt's lap, and shook with turbulent sobs. 

Aunt Ellen bent over her, and smoothed the coppery-brown hair. 

"I didn't know, " she said, gently; "I didn't know--that. Who was it, dear?"

When Mrs. Octavia Beaupree, née Van Dresser, stepped from the train atNopal, her manner lost, for the moment, some of that easy certitudewhich had always marked her movements. The town was of recentestablishment, and seemed to have been hastily constructed of undressedlumber and flapping canvas. The element that had congregated about thestation, though not offensively demonstrative, was clearly composed ofcitizens accustomed to and prepared for rude alarms. 

Octavia stood on the platform, against the telegraph office, andattempted to choose by intuition from the swaggering, stragglingstring, of loungers the manager of the Rancho de las Sombras, whohad been instructed by Mr. Bannister to meet her there. That tall, serious, looking, elderly man in the blue flannel shirt and white tieshe thought must be he. But, no; he passed by, removing his gaze fromthe lady as hers rested on him, according to the Southern custom. Themanager, she thought, with some impatience at being kept waiting, should have no difficulty in selecting her. Young women wearing themost recent thing in ash-coloured travelling suits were not soplentiful in Nopal!

Thus keeping a speculative watch on all persons of possible managerialaspect, Octavia, with a catching breath and a start of surprise, suddenly became aware of Teddy Westlake hurrying along the platform inthe direction of the train--of Teddy Westlake or his sun-brownedghost in cheviot, boots and leather-girdled hat--Theodore Westlake, Jr. , amateur polo (almost) champion, all-round butterfly and cumbererof the soil; but a broader, surer, more emphasized and determinedTeddy than the one she had known a year ago when last she saw him. 

He perceived Octavia at almost the same time, deflected his course, and steered for her in his old, straightforward way. Something likeawe came upon her as the strangeness of his metamorphosis wasbrought into closer range; the rich, red-brown of his complexionbrought out so vividly his straw-coloured mustache and steel-grayeyes. He seemed more grown-up, and, somehow, farther away. But, whenhe spoke, the old, boyish Teddy came back again. They had been friendsfrom childhood. 

"Why, 'Tave!" he exclaimed, unable to reduce his perplexity tocoherence. "How--what--when--where?"

"Train, " said Octavia; "necessity; ten minutes ago; home. Yourcomplexion's gone, Teddy. Now, how--what--when--where?"

"I'm working down here, " said Teddy. He cast side glances about thestation as one does who tries to combine politeness with duty. 

"You didn't notice on the train, " he asked, "an old lady with graycurls and a poodle, who occupied two seats with her bundles andquarrelled with the conductor, did you?"

"I think not, " answered Octavia, reflecting. "And you haven't, byany chance, noticed a big, gray-mustached man in a blue shirt andsix-shooters, with little flakes of merino wool sticking in his hair, have you?"

"Lots of 'em, " said Teddy, with symptoms of mental delirium under thestrain. Do you happen to know any such individual?"

"No; the description is imaginary. Is your interest in the old ladywhom you describe a personal one?"

"Never saw her in my life. She's painted entirely from fancy. She ownsthe little piece of property where I earn my bread and butter--theRancho de las Sombras. I drove up to meet her according to arrangementwith her lawyer. "

Octavia leaned against the wall of the telegraph office. Was thispossible? And didn't he know?

"Are you the manager of that ranch?" she asked weakly. 

"I am, " said Teddy, with pride. 

"I am Mrs. Beaupree, " said Octavia faintly; "but my hair never wouldcurl, and I was polite to the conductor. "

For a moment that strange, grown-up look came back, and removed Teddymiles away from her. 

"I hope you'll excuse me, " he said, rather awkwardly. "You see, I'vebeen down here in the chaparral a year. I hadn't heard. Give me yourchecks, please, and I'll have your traps loaded into the wagon. Joséwill follow with them. We travel ahead in the buckboard. "

Seated by Teddy in a feather-weight buckboard, behind a pair of wild, cream-coloured Spanish ponies, Octavia abandoned all thought for theexhilaration of the present. They swept out of the little town anddown the level road toward the south. Soon the road dwindled anddisappeared, and they struck across a world carpeted with an endlessreach of curly mesquite grass. The wheels made no sound. The tirelessponies bounded ahead at an unbroken gallop. The temperate wind, madefragrant by thousands of acres of blue and yellow wild flowers, roaredgloriously in their ears. The motion was aërial, ecstatic, with athrilling sense of perpetuity in its effect. Octavia sat silent, possessed by a feeling of elemental, sensual bliss. Teddy seemed to bewrestling with some internal problem. 

"I'm going to call you madama, " he announced as the result of hislabours. "That is what the Mexicans will call you--they're nearlyall Mexicans on the ranch, you know. That seems to me about the properthing. "

"Very well, Mr. Westlake, " said Octavia, primly. 

"Oh, now, " said Teddy, in some consternation, "that's carrying thething too far, isn't it?"

"Don't worry me with your beastly etiquette. I'm just beginning tolive. Don't remind me of anything artificial. If only this air couldbe bottled! This much alone is worth coming for. Oh, look I there goesa deer!"

"Jack-rabbit, " said Teddy, without turning his head. 

"Could I--might I drive?" suggested Octavia, panting, with rose-tintedcheeks and the eye of an eager child. 

"On one condition. Could I--might I smoke?"

"Forever!" cried Octavia, taking the lines with solemn joy. "How shallI know which way to drive?"

"Keep her sou' by sou'east, and all sail set. You see that black speckon the horizon under that lowermost Gulf cloud? That's a group oflive-oaks and a landmark. Steer halfway between that and the littlehill to the left. I'll recite you the whole code of driving rules forthe Texas prairies: keep the reins from under the horses' feet, andswear at 'em frequent. "

"I'm too happy to swear, Ted. Oh, why do people buy yachts or travelin palace-cars, when a buckboard and a pair of plugs and a springmorning like this can satisfy all desire?"

"Now, I'll ask you, " protested Teddy, who was futilely striking matchafter match on the dashboard, "not to call those denizens of the airplugs. They can kick out a hundred miles between daylight and dark. "At last he succeeded in snatching a light for his cigar from the flameheld in the hollow of his hands. 

"Room!" said Octavia, intensely. "That's what produces the effect. Iknow now what I've wanted--scope--range--room!"

"Smoking-room, " said Teddy, unsentimentally. "I love to smoke in abuckboard. The wind blows the smoke into you and out again. It savesexertion. "

The two fell so naturally into their old-time goodfellowship that itwas only by degrees that a sense of the strangeness of the newrelations between them came to be felt. 

"Madama, " said Teddy, wonderingly, "however did you get it into yourbead to cut the crowd and come down here? Is it a fad now among theupper classes to trot off to sheep ranches instead of to Newport?"

"I was broke, Teddy, " said Octavia, sweetly, with her interest centredupon steering safely between a Spanish dagger plant and a clump ofchaparral; "I haven't a thing in the world but this ranch--not evenany other home to go to. "

"Come, now, " said Teddy, anxiously but incredulously, "you don'tmean it?"

"When my husband, " said Octavia, with a shy slurring of the word, "died three months ago I thought I had a reasonable amount of theworld's goods. His lawyer exploded that theory in a sixty-minute fullyillustrated lecture. I took to the sheep as a last resort. Do youhappen to know of any fashionable caprice among the gilded youth ofManhattan that induces them to abandon polo and club windows to becomemanagers of sheep ranches?"

"It's easily explained in my case, " responded Teddy, promptly. "Ihad to go to work. I couldn't have earned my board in New York, so Ichummed a while with old Sandford, one of the syndicate that owned theranch before Colonel Beaupree bought it, and got a place down here. Iwasn't manager at first. I jogged around on ponies and studied thebusiness in detail, until I got all the points in my head. I saw whereit was losing and what the remedies were, and then Sandford put mein charge. I get a hundred dollars a month, and I earn it. "

"Poor Teddy!" said Octavia, with a smile. 

"You needn't. I like it. I save half my wages, and I'm as hard as awater plug. It beats polo. "

"Will it furnish bread and tea and jam for another outcast fromcivilization?"

"The spring shearing, " said the manager, "just cleaned up a deficit inlast year's business. Wastefulness and inattention have been the ruleheretofore. The autumn clip will leave a small profit over allexpenses. Next year there will be jam. "

When, about four o'clock in the afternoon, the ponies rounded agentle, brush-covered hill, and then swooped, like a doublecream-coloured cyclone, upon the Rancho de las Sombras, Octavia gavea little cry of delight. A lordly grove of magnificent live-oaks castan area of grateful, cool shade, whence the ranch had drawn its name, "de las Sombras"--of the shadows. The house, of red brick, one story, ran low and long beneath the trees. Through its middle, dividing itssix rooms in half, extended a broad, arched passageway, picturesquewith flowering cactus and hanging red earthern jars. A "gallery, " lowand broad, encircled the building. Vines climbed about it, and theadjacent ground was, for a space, covered with transplanted grass andshrubs. A little lake, long and narrow, glimmered in the sun at therear. Further away stood the shacks of the Mexican workers, thecorrals, wool sheds and shearing pens. To the right lay the low hills, splattered with dark patches of chaparral; to the left the unboundedgreen prairie blending against the blue heavens. 

"It's a home, Teddy, " said Octavia, breathlessly; that's what itis--it's a home. "

"Not so bad for a sheep ranch, " admitted Teddy, with excusable pride. "I've been tinkering on it at odd times. "

A Mexican youth sprang from somewhere in the grass, and took charge ofthe creams. The mistress and the manager entered the house. 

"Here's Mrs. MacIntyre, " said Teddy, as a placid, neat, elderly ladycame out upon the gallery to meet them. "Mrs. Mac, here's the boss. Very likely she will be wanting a hunk of ham and a dish of beansafter her drive. "

Mrs. MacIntyre, the housekeeper, as much a fixture on the place as thelake or the live-oaks, received the imputation of the ranch'sresources of refreshment with mild indignation, and was about to giveit utterance when Octavia spoke. 

"Oh, Mrs. MacIntyre, don't apologize for Teddy. Yes, I call him Teddy. So does every one whom he hasn't duped into taking him seriously. Yousee, we used to cut paper dolls and play jackstraws together ages ago. No one minds what he says. "

"No, " said Teddy, "no one minds what he says, just so he doesn't do itagain. "

Octavia cast one of those subtle, sidelong glances toward him frombeneath her lowered eyelids--a glance that Teddy used to describe asan upper-cut. But there was nothing in his ingenuous, weather-tannedface to warrant a suspicion that he was making an allusion--nothing. Beyond a doubt, thought Octavia, he had forgotten. 

"Mr. Westlake likes his fun, " said Mrs. Maclntyre, as she conductedOctavia to her rooms. "But, " she added, loyally, "people around hereusually pay attention to what he says when he talks in earnest. Idon't know what would have become of this place without him. "

Two rooms at the east end of the house had been arranged for theoccupancy of the ranch's mistress. When she entered them a slightdismay seized her at their bare appearance and the scantiness oftheir furniture; but she quickly reflected that the climate was asemi-tropical one, and was moved to appreciation of the well-conceivedefforts to conform to it. The sashes had already been removed from thebig windows, and white curtains waved in the Gulf breeze that streamedthrough the wide jalousies. The bare floor was amply strewn with coolrugs; the chairs were inviting, deep, dreamy willows; the walls werepapered with a light, cheerful olive. One whole side of her sittingroom was covered with books on smooth, unpainted pine shelves. Sheflew to these at once. Before her was a well-selected library. Shecaught glimpses of titles of volumes of fiction and travel not yetseasoned from the dampness of the press. 

Presently, recollecting that she was now in a wilderness given over tomutton, centipedes and privations, the incongruity of these luxuriesstruck her, and, with intuitive feminine suspicion, she began turningto the fly-leaves of volume after volume. Upon each one was inscribedin fluent characters the name of Theodore Westlake, Jr. 

Octavia, fatigued by her long journey, retired early that night. Lyingupon her white, cool bed, she rested deliciously, but sleep coquettedlong with her. She listened to faint noises whose strangeness kept herfaculties on the alert--the fractious yelping of the coyotes, theceaseless, low symphony of the wind, the distant booming of the frogsabout the lake, the lamentation of a concertina in the Mexicans'quarters. There were many conflicting feelings in her heart--thankfulness and rebellion, peace and disquietude, loneliness and asense of protecting care, happiness and an old, haunting pain. 

She did what any other woman would have done--sought relief in awholesome tide of unreasonable tears, and her last words, murmured toherself before slumber, capitulating, came softly to woo her, were "Hehas forgotten. "

The manager of the Rancho de las Sombras was no dilettante. He was a"hustler. " He was generally up, mounted, and away of mornings beforethe rest of the household were awake, making the rounds of the flocksand camps. This was the duty of the major-domo, a stately old Mexicanwith a princely air and manner, but Teddy seemed to have a great dealof confidence in his own eyesight. Except in the busy seasons, henearly always returned to the ranch to breakfast at eight o'clock, with Octavia and Mrs. Maclntyre, at the little table set in thecentral hallway, bringing with him a tonic and breezy cheerfulnessfull of the health and flavour of the prairies. 

A few days after Octavia's arrival he made her get out one of herriding skirts, and curtail it to a shortness demanded by the chaparralbrakes. 

With some misgivings she donned this and the pair of buckskin leggingshe prescribed in addition, and, mounted upon a dancing pony, rode withhim to view her possessions. He showed her everything--the flocksof ewes, muttons and grazing lambs, the dipping vats, the shearingpens, the uncouth merino rams in their little pasture, the water-tanksprepared against the summer drought--giving account of his stewardshipwith a boyish enthusiasm that never flagged. 

Where was the old Teddy that she knew so well? This side of him wasthe same, and it was a side that pleased her; but this was all sheever saw of him now. Where was his sentimentality--those old, varying moods of impetuous love-making, of fanciful, quixoticdevotion, of heart-breaking gloom, of alternating, absurd tendernessand haughty dignity? His nature had been a sensitive one, histemperament bordering closely on the artistic. She knew that, besidesbeing a follower of fashion and its fads and sports, he had cultivatedtastes of a finer nature. He had written things, he had tampered withcolours, he was something of a student in certain branches of art, andonce she had been admitted to all his aspirations and thoughts. Butnow--and she could not avoid the conclusion--Teddy had barricadedagainst her every side of himself except one--the side that showed themanager of the Rancho de las Sombras and a jolly chum who had forgivenand forgotten. Queerly enough the words of Mr. Bannister's descriptionof her property came into her mind--"all inclosed within a strongbarbed-wire fence. "

"Teddy's fenced, too, " said Octavia to herself. 

It was not difficult for her to reason out the cause of hisfortifications. It had originated one night at the Hammersmiths' ball. It occurred at a time soon after she had decided to accept ColonelBeaupree and his million, which was no more than her looks and theentrée she held to the inner circles were worth. Teddy had proposedwith all his impetuosity and fire, and she looked him straight in theeyes, an said, coldly and finally: "Never let me hear any such sillynonsense from you again. " "You won't, " said Teddy, with an expressionaround his mouth, and--now Teddy was inclosed within a strongbarbed-wire fence. 

It was on this first ride of inspection that Teddy was seized by theinspiration that suggested the name of Mother Goose's heroine, and heat once bestowed it upon Octavia. The idea, supported by both asimilarity of names and identity of occupations, seemed to strike himas a peculiarly happy one, and he never tired of using it. TheMexicans on the ranch also took up the name, adding another syllableto accommodate their lingual incapacity for the final "p, " gravelyreferring to her as "La Madama Bo-Peepy. " Eventually it spread, and"Madame Bo-Peep's ranch" was as often mentioned as the "Rancho de lasSombras. "

Came the long, hot season from May to September, when work is scarceon the ranches. Octavia passed the days in a kind of lotus-eater'sdream. Books, hammocks, correspondence with a few intimate friends, arenewed interest in her old water-colour box and easel--thesedisposed of the sultry hours of daylight. The evenings were alwayssure to bring enjoyment. Best of all were the rapturous horsebackrides with Teddy, when the moon gave light over the wind-sweptleagues, chaperoned by the wheeling night-hawk and the startled owl. Often the Mexicans would come up from their shacks with their guitarsand sing the weirdest of heart-breaking songs. There were long, cosychats on the breezy gallery, and an interminable warfare of witsbetween Teddy and Mrs. MacIntyre, whose abundant Scotch shrewdnessoften more than overmatched the lighter humour in which she waslacking. 

And the nights came, one after another, and were filed away by weeksand months--nights soft and languorous and fragrant, that shouldhave driven Strephon to Chloe over wires however barbed, that mighthave drawn Cupid himself to hunt, lasso in hand, among those amorouspastures--but Teddy kept his fences up. 

One July night Madame Bo-Peep and her ranch manager were sitting onthe east gallery. Teddy had been exhausting the science ofprognostication as to the probabilities of a price of twenty-fourcents for the autumn clip, and had then subsided into an anestheticcloud of Havana smoke. Only as incompetent a judge as a woman wouldhave failed to note long ago that at least a third of his salary musthave gone up in the fumes of those imported Regalias. 

"Teddy, " said Octavia, suddenly, and rather sharply, "what are youworking down here on a ranch for?"

"One hundred per, " said Teddy, glibly, "and found. "

"I've a good mind to discharge you. "

"Can't do it, " said Teddy, with a grin. 

"Why not?" demanded Octavia, with argumentative heat. 

"Under contract. Terms of sale respect all unexpired contracts. Mineruns until 12 P. M. , December thirty-first. You might get up atmidnight on that date and fire me. If you try it sooner I'll be in aposition to bring legal proceedings. "

Octavia seemed to be considering the prospects of litigation. 

"But, " continued Teddy cheerfully, "I've been thinking of resigninganyway. "

Octavia's rocking-chair ceased its motion. There were centipedes inthis country, she felt sure; and Indians, and vast, lonely, desolate, empty wastes; all within strong barbed-wire fence. There was a VanDresser pride, but there was also a Van Dresser heart. She must knowfor certain whether or not he had forgotten. 

"Ah, well, Teddy, " she said, with a fine assumption of politeinterest, "it's lonely down here; you're longing to get back to theold life--to polo and lobsters and theatres and balls. "

"Never cared much for balls, " said Teddy virtuously. 

"You're getting old, Teddy. Your memory is failing. Nobody ever knewyou to miss a dance, unless it occurred on the same night with anotherone which you attended. And you showed such shocking bad taste, too, in dancing too often with the same partner. Let me see, what was thatForbes girl's name--the one with wall eyes--Mabel, wasn't it?"

"No; Adéle. Mabel was the one with the bony elbows. That wasn't wallin Adéle's eyes. It was soul. We used to talk sonnets together, andVerlaine. Just then I was trying to run a pipe from the Pierianspring. "

"You were on the floor with her, " said Octavia, undeflected, "fivetimes at the Hammersmiths'. "

"Hammersmiths' what?" questioned Teddy, vacuously. 

"Ball--ball, " said Octavia, viciously. "What were we talking of?"

"Eyes, I thought, " said Teddy, after some reflection; "and elbows. "

"Those Hammersmiths, " went on Octavia, in her sweetest societyprattle, after subduing an intense desire to yank a handful ofsunburnt, sandy hair from the head lying back contentedly against thecanvas of the steamer chair, "had too much money. Mines, wasn't it? Itwas something that paid something to the ton. You couldn't get a glassof plain water in their house. Everything at that ball was dreadfullyoverdone. "

"It was, " said Teddy. 

"Such a crowd there was!" Octavia continued, conscious that she wastalking the rapid drivel of a school-girl describing her first dance. "The balconies were as warm as the rooms. I--lost--something atthat ball. " The last sentence was uttered in a tone calculated toremove the barbs from miles of wire. 

"So did I, " confessed Teddy, in a lower voice. 

"A glove, " said Octavia, falling back as the enemy approached herditches. 

"Caste, " said Teddy, halting his firing line without loss. "Ihobnobbed, half the evening with one of Hammersmith's miners, a fellowwho kept his hands in his pockets, and talked like an archangel aboutreduction plants and drifts and levels and sluice-boxes. "

"A pearl-gray glove, nearly new, " sighed Octavia, mournfully. 

"A bang-up chap, that McArdle, " maintained Teddy approvingly. "Aman who hated olives and elevators; a man who handled mountains ascroquettes, and built tunnels in the air; a man who never uttered aword of silly nonsense in his life. Did you sign those lease-renewalapplications yet, madama? They've got to be on file in the land officeby the thirty-first. "

Teddy turned his head lazily. Octavia's chair was vacant. 

A certain centipede, crawling along the lines marked out by fate, expounded the situation. It was early one morning while Octavia andMrs. Maclntyre were trimming the honeysuckle on the west gallery. Teddy had risen and departed hastily before daylight in response toword that a flock of ewes had been scattered from their bedding groundduring the night by a thunder-storm. 

The centipede, driven by destiny, showed himself on the floor of thegallery, and then, the screeches of the two women giving him his cue, he scuttled with all his yellow legs through the open door into thefurthermost west room, which was Teddy's. Arming themselves withdomestic utensils selected with regard to their length, Octavia andMrs. Maclntyre, with much clutching of skirts and skirmishing for theposition of rear guard in the attacking force, followed. 

Once outside, the centipede seemed to have disappeared, and hisprospective murderers began a thorough but cautious search for theirvictim. 

Even in the midst of such a dangerous and absorbing adventure Octaviawas conscious of an awed curiosity on finding herself in Teddy'ssanctum. In that room he sat alone, silently communing with thosesecret thoughts that he now shared with no one, dreamed there whateverdreams he now called on no one to interpret. 

It was the room of a Spartan or a soldier. In one corner stood a wide, canvas-covered cot; in another, a small bookcase; in another, a grimstand of Winchesters and shotguns. An immense table, strewn withletters, papers and documents and surmounted by a set of pigeon-holes, occupied one side. 

The centipede showed genius in concealing himself in such barequarters. Mrs. Maclntyre was poking a broom-handle behind thebookcase. Octavia approached Teddy's cot. The room was just as themanager had left it in his hurry. The Mexican maid had not yet givenit her attention. There was his big pillow with the imprint of hishead still in the centre. She thought the horrid beast might haveclimbed the cot and hidden itself to bite Teddy. Centipedes were thuscruel and vindictive toward managers. 

She cautiously overturned the pillow, and then parted her lips to givethe signal for reinforcements at sight of a long, slender, dark objectlying there. But, repressing it in time, she caught up a glove, apearl-gray glove, flattened--it might be conceived--by many, manymonths of nightly pressure beneath the pillow of the man who hadforgotten the Hammersmiths' ball. Teddy must have left so hurriedlythat morning that he had, for once, forgotten to transfer it to itsresting-place by day. Even managers, who are notoriously wily andcunning, are sometimes caught up with. 

Octavia slid the gray glove into the bosom of her summery morning gown. It was hers. Men who put themselves within a strong barbed-wire fence, and remember Hammersmith balls only by the talk of miners aboutsluice-boxes, should not be allowed to possess such articles. 

After all, what a paradise this prairie country was! How it blossomedlike the rose when you found things that were thought to be lost! Howdelicious was that morning breeze coming in the windows, fresh andsweet with the breath of the yellow ratama blooms! Might one notstand, for a minute, with shining, far-gazing eyes, and dream thatmistakes might be corrected?

Why was Mrs. Maclntyre poking about so absurdly with a broom?

"I've found it, " said Mrs. MacIntyre, banging the door. "Here it is. "

"Did you lose something? asked Octavia, with sweetly politenon-interest. 

"The little devil!" said Mrs. Maclntyre, driven to violence. "Ye've noforgotten him alretty?"

Between them they slew the centipede. Thus was he rewarded for hisagency toward the recovery of things lost at the Hammersmiths' ball. 

It seems that Teddy, in due course, remembered the glove, and when hereturned to the house at sunset made a secret but exhaustive searchfor it. Not until evening, upon the moonlit eastern gallery, did hefind it. It was upon the hand that he had thought lost to him forever, and so he was moved to repeat certain nonsense that he had beencommanded never, never to utter again. Teddy's fences were down. 

This time there was no ambition to stand in the way, and the wooingwas as natural and successful as should be between ardent shepherd andgentle shepherdess. 

The prairies changed to a garden. The Rancho de las Sombras became theRanch of Light. 

A few days later Octavia received a letter from Mr. Bannister, inreply to one she had written to him asking some questions about herbusiness. A portion of the letter ran as follows:

 "I am at a loss to account for your references to the sheep ranch. Two months after your departure to take up your residence upon it, it was discovered that Colonel Beaupree's title was worthless. A deed came to light showing that he disposed of the property before his death. The matter was reported to your manager, Mr. Westlake, who at once repurchased the property. It is entirely beyond my powers of conjecture to imagine how you have remained in ignorance of this fact. I beg that you that will at once confer with that gentleman, who will, at least, corroborate my statement. "

Octavia sought Teddy, with battle in her eye. 

"What are you working on this ranch for?" she asked once more. 

"One hundred--" he began to repeat, but saw in her face that sheknew. She held Mr. Bannister's letter in her hand. He knew that thegame was up. 

"It's my ranch, " said Teddy, like a schoolboy detected in evil. "It'sa mighty poor manager that isn't able to absorb the boss's business ifyou give him time. "

"Why were you working down here?" pursued Octavia still strugglingafter the key to the riddle of Teddy. 

"To tell the truth, 'Tave, " said Teddy, with quiet candour, "it wasn'tfor the salary. That about kept me in cigars and sunburn lotions. Iwas sent south by my doctor. 'Twas that right lung that was going tothe bad on account of over-exercise and strain at polo and gymnastics. I needed climate and ozone and rest and things of that sort. "

In an instant Octavia was close against the vicinity of the affectedorgan. Mr. Bannister's letter fluttered to the floor. 

"It's--it's well now, isn't it, Teddy?"

"Sound as a mesquite chunk. I deceived you in one thing. I paid fiftythousand for your ranch as soon as I found you had no title. I hadjust about that much income accumulated at my banker's while I've beenherding sheep down here, so it was almost like picking the thing up ona bargain-counter for a penny. There's another little surplus ofunearned increment piling up there, 'Tave. I've been thinking of awedding trip in a yacht with white ribbons tied to the mast, throughthe Mediterranean, and then up among the Hebrides and down Norway tothe Zuyder Zee. "

"And I was thinking, " said Octavia, softly, "of a wedding gallop withmy manager among the flocks of sheep and back to a wedding breakfastwith Mrs. MacIntyre on the gallery, with, maybe, a sprig of orangeblossom fastened to the red jar above the table. "

Teddy laughed, and began to chant:

 "Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep, And doesn't know where to find 'em. Let 'em alone, and they'll come home, And--"

Octavia drew his head down, and whispered in his ear, But that is oneof the tales they brought behind them.