LAUGHING BILL HYDE

And Other Stories

By REX BEACH

AUTHOR OF

"Rainbow's End, " "Heart of the Sunset, " "The Spoilers, " Etc. 

1917

[Illustration: "LIKE ME?" HE ASKED. PONATAH TURNED AWAY BLINDLY]

Mr. William Hyde was discharged from Deer Lodge Penitentiary a changedman. That was quite in line with the accepted theory of criminaljurisprudence, the warden's discipline, and the chaplain's prayers. Yes, Mr. Hyde was changed, and the change had bitten deep; hishumorous contempt for the law had turned to abiding hatred; hissunburned cheeks were pallid, his lungs were weak, and he coughedconsiderably. Balanced against these results, to be sure, were thebenefits accruing from three years of corrective discipline at theState's expense; the knack of conversing through stone walls, whichMr. Hyde had mastered, and the plaiting of wonderful horsehairbridles, which he had learned. Otherwise he was the same "LaughingBill" his friends had known, neither more nor less regenerate. 

Since the name of Montana promised to associate itself with unpleasantmemories, Mr. Hyde determined at once to bury his past and begin lifeanew in a climate more suited to weak lungs. To that end he stuck up apeaceful citizen of Butte who was hurrying homeward with an armful ofbundles, and in the warm dusk of a pleasant evening relieved himof eighty-three dollars, a Swiss watch with an elk's-tooth fob, apearl-handled penknife, a key-ring, and a bottle of digestive tablets. 

Three wasted years of industry had not robbed Mr. Hyde of thetechnique of his trade, hence there was nothing amateurish oruproarious about the procedure. He merely back-heeled the pedestrianagainst a bill-board, held him erect and speechless by placing hisleft hand upon his victim's shoulder and pressing his left forearmfirmly across the gentleman's apple, the while with his own dexterousright mit he placed the eighty-three dollars in circulation. Duringthe transaction he laughed constantly. An hour later he was en routefor the sunny South, there being good and sufficient reasons why hepreferred that direction to any other. 

Arizona helped Mr. Hyde's lungs, for the random town which he selectedwas high and dry, but, unfortunately, so was Laughing Bill soon afterhis arrival, and in consequence he was forced to engage promptly ina new business enterprise. This time he raised a pay-roll. It was aneasy task, for the custodian of the pay-roll was a small man with akindly and unsuspicious nature. As a result of this operation Bill wasenabled to maintain himself, for some six weeks, in a luxury to whichof late he had been unaccustomed. At the end of this time the originalbearer of the payroll tottered forth from the hospital and, chancingto overhear Mr. Hyde in altercation with a faro dealer, he was struckby some haunting note in the former's laughter, and lost no time inshuffling his painful way to the sheriff's office. 

Seeing the man go, Laughing Bill realized that his health againdemanded a change of climate, and since it lacked nearly an hour oftrain time he was forced to leave on horseback. Luckily for him hefound a horse convenient. It was a wild horse, with nothing whateverto indicate that it belonged to any one, except the fact that itcarried a silver-mounted saddle and bridle, the reins of which werefastened to a post in front of a saloon. 

Mr. Hyde enjoyed the ride, for it kept him out in the open air. Itgrieved him to part with the horse, a few hours later, but beingprodigal with personal property he presented the animal to a poorMexican woman, leaving her to face any resulting embarrassments. Tenminutes later he swung himself under a west-bound freight, and indue time arrived in California, somewhat dirty and fatigued, but inexcellent humor. 

Laughing Bill's adventures and his aliases during his slow progress upthe coast form no part of this story. It might be said, with a greatdeal of truth, that he was missed, if not mourned, in many towns. Finally, having found the climates of California, Oregon andWashington uniformly unsuited to one of his habits, force ofcircumstance in the shape of numerous hand-bills adorned with anunflattering half-tone of himself, but containing certain undeniablyaccurate data such as diameter of skull, length of nose, angle of ear, and the like, drove him still north and west. Bill was a modest man;he considered these statistics purely personal in character; to seethem blazoned publicly on the walls of post-offices, and in thecorridors of county buildings, outraged his finer feelings, so he wentaway from there, in haste, as usual. 

Having never sailed the sea, he looked forward to such an experiencewith lively anticipation, only to be disappointed in the realization. It was rough off Flattery, and he suffered agonies strange andterrifying. In due time, however, he gained his sea legs and, beingforever curious, even prying, he explored the ship. His explorationswere interesting, for they took him into strange quarters--intothe forecastle, the steerage, even into some of the first-classstate-rooms, the doors of which had been left "on the hook" whiletheir occupants were at meals. No small benefit accrued to Mr. Hydefrom these investigations. 

One day during the dinner-hour, as he was occupied in admiring thecontents of a strange suit-case, a voice accosted him over hisshoulder, and he looked up to discover a face in the cabin window. Bill realized that an explanation was due, for it was evident thatthe speaker had been watching him for some little time; but under thecircumstances, even though the face in the window was round, youthful, good-humored, explanations promised to be embarrassing. 

"How d'y?" said Mr. Hyde. 

"What luck?" inquired the stranger. 

Mr. Hyde sat back upon his heels and grinned engagingly. "Not much, "he confessed. "Can't find it nowhere. This guy must be a missionary. "

The new-comer opened the door and entered. He was a medium-sized, plump young man. "Oh, I say!" he protested. "Is it as bad as that?"Bill nodded vaguely, meanwhile carefully measuring the physicalproportions of the interloper. The latter went on:

"I saw that you knew your business, and--I was hoping you'd manage tofind something I had missed. "

Mr. Hyde breathed deep with relief; his expression altered. "You beenthrough ahead of me?" he inquired. 

"Oh, several times; daily, in fact. " The speaker tossed a bunch ofkeys upon the berth, saying: "Glance through the steamer-trunk whileyou're here and declare me in on anything-you find. "

Mr. Hyde rose to his feet and retreated a step; his look of relief wasreplaced by one of dark suspicion. As always, in moments of extremity, he began to laugh. 

"Who are you?" he demanded. 

"I? Why, I live here. That's my baggage. I've been through it, asI told you, but--" The young man frowned whimsically and lit acigarette. "It doesn't diagnose. I can't find a solitary symptom ofanything worth while. Sit down, won't you?"

Mr. Hyde's manner changed for a second time. He was embarrassed, apologetic, crestfallen. "_Your_ cabin? Why, then--it's my mistake!"he declared. "I must 'a' got in the wrong flat. Mac sent me up for adeck of cards, but--Say, that's funny, ain't it?"

He began to see the joke upon himself, and the youth echoed hislaughter. 

"It _is_ funny, " the latter agreed. "For Heaven's sake, don't spoilit. Sit down and have a smoke; I'm not going to eat you. "

"See here! You don't mean--? D'you think for a minute--?" Mr. Hyde began with rotund dignity, but the other waved his cigaretteimpatiently, saying:

"Oh, drop that stuff or I'll page your friend 'Mac' and show you up. "

In assuming his air of outraged innocence Laughing Bill had archedhis hollow chest and inhaled deeply. As a result he began to cough, whereupon his new acquaintance eyed him keenly, saying:

"That's a bad bark. What ails you?"

"Con, " said Laughing Bill. 

"Pardon me. I wouldn't have smoked if I'd known. " The speaker droppedhis cigarette and placed a heel upon it. "What are you doing here?Alaska's no place for weak lungs. "

Gingerly seating himself upon the narrow settee Mr. Hyde murmured, wonderingly: "Say! You're a regular guy, ain't you?" He began to laughagain, but now there was less of a metallic quality to his merriment. "Yes sir, dam' if you ain't. " He withdrew from his pocket asilver-mounted hair-brush and comb, and placed them carefully upon thewashstand. "I don't aim to quit winner on a sport like you. "

"Thanks, awfully!" smiled the young man. "I'd have fought you for thatcomb and brush. Girl stuff, you understand? That's she. " He pointed toa leather-framed photograph propped against the mirror. 

Laughing Bill leaned forward and studied the picture approvingly. "Some queen, all right. Blonde, I reckon. "

"Sure. You like blondes?"

"Who, me? I ain't strong for no kind of women. You hate her, don'tyou?"

The young man smiled more widely, his whole face lit up. "I hate herso much that I kissed her good-by and sailed away to make a quickfortune. I hope Alaska's unhealthy. "

"Yeah?"

"You see, I'm a doctor. I'm a good doctor, too, but it takes a longtime to prove it, out in the States, and I can't wait a long time. "

Mr. Hyde pondered briefly. "I don't see's you got much on me, Doc, " hesaid. "I frisk 'em while they're good and healthy, and you 'take' 'emwhen they're feeble. I don't see no difference to speak of. "

"It's an interesting viewpoint, " the physician agreed, seriouslyenough, "and I respect every man's opinion. Tell me, how did youacquire that cough?"

"Livin' in a ground-floor apartment. "

"What's your business?"

"Harness-maker. "

"Hm-m! You'll do well up here. " The doctor was highly entertained. "Iunderstand there's a horse at Nome. "

"_A_ horse!"

"Alaska isn't a stock country. "

Laughing Bill was genuinely surprised. "No horses!" he murmured. "Howthe hell do you get away?"

"You don't. You stay and face the music. "

"Now what do you know about that?" There was a brief silence. "Well, Ibet I'll turn my hand to something. "

"No doubt. You impress me as a man of resource. " The doctor's eyestwinkled and Bill smiled. A bond of friendly understanding had alreadysprung up between the two men. "Now then, I'm interested in your case. I've a notion to try to cure you. "

"Nothing doin' on the fees. I'm a dead card. "

"Oh, I won't charge you anything! I'm merely interested in obscureailments, and, if I'm not mistaken, you suffer from more thanone--well, disease. I think you need curing about as badly as any manI ever saw. "

Now Laughing Bill was not skilled in subtleties, and his relief atextricating himself from a trying predicament banished any resentmenthe might have felt at the doctor's double meaning. Since the latterwas a good-natured, harmless individual he decided to humor him, andso, after they had visited for an hour or more, Mr. Hyde discreetlywithdrew. But, oddly enough, during the days immediately following, Laughing Bill grew to like the young fellow immensely. This in itselfwas a novel experience, for the ex-convict had been a "loner" allhis-life, and had never really liked any one. Dr. Evan Thomas, however, seemed to fill some long-felt want in Hyde's hungry make-up. He fitted in smoothly, too, and despite the latter's lifelong habit ofsuspicion, despite his many rough edges, he could not manage to holdthe young man at a distance. 

Thomas was of a type strange to the wanderer, he was educated, he hadunfamiliar airs and accomplishments, but he was human and naturalwithal. He was totally ignorant of much that Mr. Hyde deemedfundamental, and yet he was mysteriously superior, while hisindifferent good nature, his mild amusement at the antics of the worldabout him covered a sincere and earnest nature. He knew his business, moreover, and he revolutionized Bill's habits of hygiene in spite ofthe latter's protests. 

But the disease which ravaged Mr. Hyde's constitution had its toes dugin, and when the steamer touched at St. Michaels he suffered a severehemorrhage. For the first time in his life Laughing Bill stood face toface with darkness. He had fevered memories of going over side on astretcher; he was dimly aware of an appalling weakness, which grewhourly, then an agreeable indifference enveloped him, and for a longtime he lived in a land of unrealities, of dreams. The day came whenhe began to wonder dully how and why he found himself in a freezingcabin with Doctor Thomas, in fur cap and arctic overshoes, tendinghim. Bill pondered the phenomenon for a week before he put his queryinto words. 

"I've had a hard fight for you, old man, " the doctor explained. "Icouldn't leave you here to die. "

"I guess I must 'a' been pretty sick. "

"Right! There's no hospital here, so I took this cabin--borrowed itfrom the Company. We don't burn much fuel, and expenses aren't high. "

"You been standin' off the landlord?"

"Yes. "

There was a considerable silence, then Bill said, fervently: "You're aregular guy, like I told you! But you got your pill business to attendto. I'm all right now, so you better blow. "

Thomas smiled dubiously. "You're a long way from all right, andthere's no place to 'blow' to. The last boat sailed two weeks ago. "

"Last boat for where?"

"For anywhere. We're here for the winter, unless the mail-carrier willtake us to Nome, or up the Yukon, after the trails open. "

"I bet you'll do a good business right here, when folks see what youdone for me, " Bill ventured. 

"Just wait till you look at the town--deserted warehouses, some youngand healthy watchmen, and a Siwash village. You're the only possiblepatient in all of St. Michaels. "

Bill lay silent for an hour, staring through the open cabin windowat a gray curtain of falling snowflakes; then he shook his head andmuttered:

"Well, I be danged!"

"Anything you want?" Thomas inquired, quickly. 

"I was just thinking about that gal. " Bill indicated theleather-framed photograph which was prominently featured above theother bunk. "You ain't gettin' ahead very fast, are you?"

This time the young medical man smiled with his lips only--his eyeswere grave and troubled. "I've written her all the circumstances, andshe'll understand. She's that sort of a girl. " He turned cheerfullyback to his task. "I found that I had a few dollars left, so we won'tstarve. "

Mr. Hyde felt impelled to confess that in his war-bag there was a rollof some seven hundred dollars, title to which had vested in him on thenorthward trip, together with certain miscellaneous objects of virtu, but he resisted the impulse, fearing that an investigation by hisnurse might lead the latter to believe that he, Bill, was not aharness-maker at all, but a jewelry salesman. He determined to springthat roll at a later date, and to present the doctor with a very thin, very choice gold watch out of State-room 27. Bill carried out thisintention when he had sufficiently recovered to get about. 

Later, when his lungs had healed, Bill hired the mail-man to take himand his nurse to Nome. Since he was not yet altogether strong, he rodethe sled most of the way, while the doctor walked. It was a slow andtiresome trip, along the dreary shores of Behring Sea, over timberlesstundras, across inlets where the new ice bent beneath their weight andwhere the mail-carrier cautiously tested the footing with the head ofhis ax. Sometimes they slept in their tent, or again in road-housesand in Indian villages. 

Every hour Laughing Bill grew stronger, and with his strength ofbody grew his strength of affection for the youthful doctor. Billexperienced a dog-like satisfaction in merely being near him; hesuffered pangs when Thomas made new friends; he monopolized himjealously. The knowledge that he had a pal was new and thrilling; itgave Bill constant food for thought and speculation. Thomas was alwaysgentle and considerate, but his little services, his unobtrusivesacrifices never went unnoticed, and they awoke in the bandit anever-increasing wonderment. Also, they awoke a fierce desire to squarethe obligation. 

The two men laid over at one of the old Russian towns, and Thomas, aswas his restless custom, made investigation of the native village. Of course Bill went with him. They had learned by this time to enterIndian houses without knocking, so, therefore, when they finally cameto a cabin larger and cleaner than the rest they opened the door andstepped inside, quite like experienced travelers. 

A squaw was bent over a tub of washing, another stood beside the tinyfrosted window staring out. Neither woman answered the greeting of thewhite men. 

"Must be the chief's house, " Thomas observed. 

"Must be! I s'pose the old bird is out adding up his reindeer. 'Sapolio Sue' is prob'ly his head wife. " Laughing Bill ran aninterested eye over the orderly interior. "Some shack, but--I miss theusual smell. "

Neither woman paid them the least attention, so they continued to talkwith each other. 

"I wonder what she is washing, " Doctor Thomas said, finally. 

The figure at the window turned, exposing the face of a comely youngIndian girl. Her features were good, her skin was light. She eyed theintruders coolly, then in a well-modulated voice, and in excellentEnglish, she said:

"She is washing a pair of sealskin pants. "

Both men removed their caps in sudden embarrassment. Thomas exclaimed:

"I beg your pardon! We thought this was just an ordinary native house, or we wouldn't have intruded. "

"You haven't intruded. This is 'Reindeer Mary's' house. " The girl hadagain turned her back. 

"Are you Reindeer Mary?"

"No, I am Ponatah. Mary befriended me; she lets me live with her. "

"Allow me to introduce Mr. Hyde. I am Doctor Thomas. We were veryrude--"

"Oh, everybody comes here. " The men recognized instantly in thespeaker's face, as well as in her voice, that education had set itsstamp. "Will you sit down and wait for her?"

"You overwhelm us. " After an awkward moment the physician queried, "How in the world did you learn to speak such good English?"

"A missionary took an interest in me when I was a little girl. He sentme to Carlisle. "

Laughing Bill had been an attentive listener, now he ventured to say:"I know this Carlisle. He's a swell football player, or something. "

Ponatah smiled, showing a row of small, white teeth. "Carlisle is anIndian school. "

"What made you come back?" Thomas inquired, curiously. 

Ponatah shrugged her shoulders. "There was an end to the money. Whatcould I do? At first I thought I'd be able to help my people, but--Icouldn't. They will learn from the white people, but not from one oftheir own kind. "

"Your parents--?"

"They died when I was a baby. Mary took me in. " The girl spoke in aflat, emotionless tone. 

"It must be tough to come back to this, now that you know what lifereally is, " said Thomas, after a time. 

Ponatah's eyes were dark with tragedy when she turned them to thespeaker. "_God!_" she cried, unexpectedly, then abruptly she facedthe window once more. It was a moment before she went on in fierceresentment:

"Why didn't they leave me as they found me? Why did they teach metheir ways, and then send me back to this--this dirt and ignorance andsqualor? Sometimes I think I can't stand it. But what can I do? Nobodyunderstands. Mary can't see why I'm different from her and the others. She has grown rich, with her reindeer; she says if this is good enoughfor her it should be good enough for me. As for the white men who comethrough, they can't, or they won't, understand. They're hateful to me. Petersen, the mail-carrier, for instance! I don't know why I'm tellingyou this. You're strangers. You're probably just like Petersen. "

"I know why you're telling us, " Thomas said, slowly. "It's becauseI--because we're _not_ like Petersen and the others; it's becauseI--we can help you. "

"Help me?" sneered the girl. "How?"

"I don't know, yet. But you're out of place here. There's a place foryou somewhere; I'll find it. "

Ponatah shook her head wearily. "Mary says I belong here, with mypeople. "

"No. You belong with white people--people who will treat you well. "

This time the girl smiled bitterly. "They have treated me worse thanmy own people have. I know them, and--I hate them. "

"Ain't you the sore-head, now?" Laughing Bill murmured. "You got ahundred-per-cent. Grouch, but if the old medicine-man says he'll putyou in right, you bet your string of beads he'll do it. He's got agift for helpin' down-and-outers. You got class, Kid; you certainlyrhinestone this whole bunch of red men. Why, you belong in Frenchheels and a boodwar cap; that's how I dope you. "

"There must be a chance for a girl like you in Nome, " Thomascontinued, thoughtfully. "You'd make a good hand with children. Suppose I try to find you a place as governess?"

"_Would_ you?" Ponatah's face was suddenly eager. "Children? Oh yes!I'd work my fingers to the bone. I--I'd do _anything_--"

"Then I'll do what I can. "

For some time longer the three of them talked, and gradually into thenative girl's eyes there came a light, for these men were not like theothers she had met, and she saw the world begin to unfold before her. When at last they left she laid a hand upon the doctor's arm and said, imploringly:

"You won't forget. You--promise?"

"I promise, " he told her. 

"He don't forget nothing, " Bill assured her, "and if he does I'll seethat he don't. "

After they had gone Ponatah stood motionless for a long time, then shewhispered, breathlessly:

"Children! Little white children! I'll be very good to them. "

"She's a classy quilt, " Laughing Bill said, on the way back to theroad-house. 

"She's as pretty as a picture, and little more than a child, " thedoctor admitted. 

"You made a hit. She'd do 'most anything for you. " The doctormuttered, absent-mindedly. "She's stood off Petersen and thesered-necks, but she'd fall for you. " Mr. Hyde was insinuating. 

Thomas halted; he stared at his partner curiously, coldly. "Say! Doyou think that's why I offered to help her?" he inquired. 

"Come clean!" The invalid winked meaningly. "You're a long ways fromhome, and I've knew fellers to do a lot worse. You can grab her, easy. And if you do--"

Thomas grunted angrily. "I've put up with a lot from you, " he said, then he strode on. 

"And if you do, " the other resumed, falling into step with him, "I'llbust you right where you're thickest. "

"Eh?"

"I'll bust you wide open. Oh, me 'n' that gal in the leather frame hada long talk while I was sick in St. Mikes, and she asked me to keepyou in the middle of the trail. Well, I'm the little guy that can doit. "

"Bill!" Evan Thomas's eyes were twinkling. "I believe I'm going tocure you, after all, " said he. 

Late that afternoon Mr. Hyde disappeared; he did not show up untilafter dark. 

"I been to see Lo, the poor squaw, " he readily confessed. "She ain'tthe pure domestic leaf, she's a blend--part Rooshian, or something. Seems there was a gang of Rooshians or Swedes or Dagoes of some sortused to run this country. She says they horned into some of the bestInjun families, and she's one of the 'overs. '"

"They were Russians. "

"Rooshians is a kind of white people, ain't they? Well, that's how shecome so light-complected. You remember she said our folks had treatedher bad? It's a fact, Doc. She spilled the story, and it made amouthful. It's like this: when Nome was struck a Swede feller shehad knew staked her a claim, but she couldn't hold it, her bein' asquab--under age, savvy? There's something in the law that preventsInjuns gettin' in on anything good, too; I don't rightly recollectwhat it is, but if it's legal you can bet it's crooked. Anyhow, UncleSam lets up a squawk that she's only eighteen, goin' on nineteen, anda noble redskin to boot, and says his mining claims is reserved forLaps and Yaps and Japs and Wops, and such other furrin' slantheads oflegal age as declare their intention to become American citizens iftheir claims turn out rich enough so's it pays 'em to do so. 

"Well, Ponatah's Swede friend gets himself froze, somehow, so she hasto pass the buck. Naturally, she turns to her pals, the missionaries. There's a he-missionary here--head mug of the whole gang. He's a godlywalloper, and he tears into Satan bare-handed every Sunday. He slamsthe devil around something shameful, and Ponatah thinks he's a squareguy if ever they come square, so she asks him to re-locate her claim, on shares, and hold it for the joint account. Old Doctor M. E. Churchagrees to split fifty-fifty, half to her and half to heaven, then hevamps to Nome and chalks his monaker over the Kid's. Now get me: theclaim turns out good, and Ponatah's heavenly pilot makes a Mexicandivvy--he takes the money and gives her his best wishes. He grabseverything, and says he never knew nobody by the name of Ponatah--hegets so he can't even pronounce it. He allows her face is familiar, but he can't place her, and the partnership idea allus was repugnantto him. He never was partners with nobody, understand? He blows theshow; he bows out and leaves the Kid flat. He forsakes the Milky Wayfor the Great White one, and he's out there now, smokin' Coronas andwearin' a red vest under his black coat, with a diamond horseshoein his tie. It looks to me like the James boys could 'a' learnedsomething from this gospel hold-up. "

"Do you believe her story?" Thomas inquired. 

"She don't know enough to lie, and you can't trust a guy that wearshis collar backwards. "

"She should go to court. "

Mr. Hyde shook his head. "I been there, often, but I never picked up abet. Somehow or other courts is usually right next to jails, and yougot to watch out you don't get in the wrong place. You can't winnothing in either one. I thought I'd tell you the story, so if youever meet up with this shave-tail preacher and he wants a headachepill you can slip him some sugar-coated arsenic. "

In the days immediately following Doctor Thomas's arrival at Nomehe was a busy man, but he did not forget Ponatah. He was allowed noopportunity of doing so, for Bill frequently reminded him of her, andas a result it was not long before he found a place for his charge, inthe home of a leading merchant. Arrangements made, Bill went in searchof the mail-carrier. 

Petersen was drinking with two friends at the bar of the Last Chance, and he pressed his late passenger to join them. But alcoholism was notone of Mr. Hyde's weaknesses. The best of Bill's bad habits was muchworse than drink; he had learned from experience that liquor put atraitor's tongue in his head, and in consequence he was a teetotaler. 

"I got a job for you, Pete, " he announced. "I got you anothersled-load for your next trip. You know Ponatah?"

"Ponatah? Sure Aye know 'im. " Petersen. Spoke with enthusiasm. 

"Well, bring her along when you come. Me 'n' the little Doc willsettle. "

"Dat's good yob for me, all right. Vot mak' you tank she'll come? Ayeask her plenty tams, but she ant like me. "

"You slip her this billy-ducks and she'll come. "

Petersen pocketed the letter which Bill handed him; his eyesbrightened; the flush in his face deepened. "You bet your gum bootsAye bring her. She's svell, ant she, Bill? She's yust some svell likewhite voman. "

"Who's this?" queried one of Petersen's companions. 

"Ponatah. She's jung sqvaw. Aye got eyes on dat chicken long tamnow. " The burly mail-man laughed loudly and slapped his friend on theshoulder. 

Mr. Hyde appeared to share in the general good nature. Carelessly, smilingly he picked up Petersen's dog-whip, which lay coiled on thebar; thoughtfully he weighed it. The lash was long, but the handle wasshort and thick, and its butt was loaded with shot; it had much thebalance of a black-jack--a weapon not unknown to Mr. Hyde. 

"Pretty soft for you mail-men. " The former speaker grinned. 

"Ja! Pretty soft. Aye bet Aye have good tam dis trip. Yust vait. Youdon't know how purty is Ponatah. She--"

Petersen's listeners waited. They are waiting yet, for the mail-mannever completed his admiring recital of the Indian girl's charms, owing to the fact that the genial Mr. Hyde without warning tapped hislate friend's round head with the leather butt of the dog-whip. Hadit not been for the Norseman's otter cap it is probable that a newmail-carrier would have taken the St. Michaels run. 

Petersen sat down upon his heels, and rested his forehead against thecool brass foot-rail; the subsequent proceedings interested him notat all. Those proceedings were varied and sudden, for the nearest anddearest of Petersen's friends rushed upon Mr. Hyde with a roar. Him, too, Bill eliminated from consideration with the loaded whip handle. But, this done, Bill found himself hugged in the arms of the otherman, as in the embrace of a bereaved she-grizzly. Now even at his bestthe laughing Mr. Hyde was no hand at rough-and-tumble, it being hisopinion that fisticuffs was a peculiarly indecisive and exhausting wayof settling a dispute. He possessed a vile temper, moreover, and oncearoused half measures failed to satisfy it. 

After Mr. Hyde's admirable beginning those neutrals who had seen thestart of the affray were prepared to witness an ending equally quickand conclusive. They were surprised, therefore, to note that Bill putup a very weak struggle, once he had come to close quarters. He madeonly the feeblest resistance, before permitting himself to be bornebackward to the floor, and then as he lay pinned beneath his opponenthe did not even try to guard the blows that rained upon him; as amatter of fact, he continued to laugh as if the experience were highlydiverting. 

Seeing that the fight was one-sided, the bartender hastened from hisretreat, dragged Petersen's champion to his feet, and flung him backinto the arms of the onlookers, after which he stooped to aid theloser. His hands were actually upon Bill before he understood themeaning of that peculiar laughter, and saw in Mr. Hyde's shakingfingers that which caused him to drop the prostrate victim as if hewere a rattlesnake. 

"God'l'mighty!" exclaimed the rescuer. He retreated hurriedly whencehe had come. 

Bill rose and dusted himself off, then he bent over Petersen, who wasstirring. 

"Just give her that billy-ducks and tell her it's all right. Tell herI say you won't hurt her none. " Then, still chuckling, he slipped intothe crowd and out of the Last Chance. As he went he coughed and spat amouthful of blood. 

Once the mail-carrier had been apprised of the amazing incidents whichhad occurred during his temporary inattention, he vowed vengeance ina mighty voice, and his threats found echo in the throats of his twocompanions. But the bartender took them aside and spoke guardedly:

"You better lay off of that guy, or he'll fatten the graveyard withall three of you. I didn't 'make' him at first, but I got him now, allright. "

"What d'you mean? Who is he?"

"His name's Hyde, 'Laughing Bill. '"

"'Laughing Bill' Hyde!" One of Petersen's friends, he who had comelast into the encounter, turned yellow and leaned hard against thebar. A sudden nausea assailed him and he laid tender hands upon hisabdomen. "'Laughing Bill' Hyde! That's why he went down so easy! Why, he killed a feller I knew--ribboned him up from underneath, justthat way--and the jury called it self-defense. " A shudder racked thespeaker's frame. 

"Sure! He's a cutter--a reg'lar gent's cutter and fitter. He'd 'a' hadyou all over the floor in another minute; if I hadn't pried you apartthey'd 'a' sewed sawdust up inside of you like you was a doll. He hadthe old bone-handled skinner in his mit; that's why I let go of him. Laughing Bill! Take it from me, boys, you better walk around him likehe was a hole in the ice. "

It may have been the memory of that heavy whip handle, it may havebeen the moral effect of stray biographical bits garnered here andthere around the gambling-table, or it may have been merely a highand natural chivalry, totally unsuspected until now, which promptedPetersen to treat Ponatah with a chill and formal courtesy when hereturned from St. Michaels. At any rate, the girl arrived in Nome withnothing but praise for the mail-man. Pete Petersen, so she said, mighthave his faults, but he knew how to behave like a perfect gentleman. 

Ponatah took up her new duties with enthusiasm, and before a month hadpassed she had endeared herself to her employers, who secretly assuredDoctor Thomas that they had discovered a treasure and would never partwith her. She was gentle, patient, sweet, industrious; the childrenidolized her. The Indian girl had never dreamed of a home like this;she was deliriously happy. 

She took pride in discharging her obligations; she did not forget themen who had made this wonder possible. They had rented a little cabin, and, after the fashion of men, they make slipshod efforts at keepinghouse. Since it was Ponatah's nature to serve, she found time somehowto keep the place tidy and to see to their comfort. 

Laughing Bill was a hopeless idler; he had been born to leisure andwas wedded to indigence, therefore he saw a good deal of the girl onher visits. He listened to her stories of the children, he admired hernew and stylish clothes, he watched her develop under the influence ofher surroundings. Inasmuch as both of them were waifs, and beholdento the bounty of others, thy had ties in common--a certainmutuality--hence they came to know each other intimately. 

Despite the great change in her environment, Ponatah remained in manyways quite aboriginal. For instance, she was embarrassingly direct andstraightforward; she entirely lacked hypocrisy, and that which puzzledor troubled her she boldly put into words. There came a time when Billdiscovered that Ponatah's eyes, when they looked at him, were morethan friendly, that most of the services she performed were aimed athim. 

Then one day she asked him to marry her. 

There was nothing brazen or forward about the proposal; Ponatah merelygave voice to her feelings in a simple, honest way that robbed her ofno dignity. 

Bill laughed the proposal off. "I wouldn't marry the Queen of Sheby, "said he. 

"Why?"

"I ain't that kind of a bird, that's why. "

"What kind of a bird are you?" Ponatah eyed him with grave curiosity. "All men marry. I'm reading a great many books, and they're all aboutlove and marriage. I love you, and I'm pretty. Is it because I'm anIndian--?"

"Hell! That wouldn't faze me, Kiddo. You skin the white dames aroundthis village. But you better cut out them books. "

"I'd make you a good wife. "

"Sure! You're aces. But I'd make a bum husband. I ain't got the breathto blow out a candle. " Mr. Hyde chuckled; the idea of marriage plainlyamused him. "How you know I ain't got a covey of wives?" he inquired. 

"Oh, I know!" Ponatah was unsmiling. "I'm simple, but I can seethrough people. I can tell the good ones and the bad ones. You're agood man, Billy. "

Now this praise was anything but agreeable to Mr. Hyde, for above allthings he abhorred so-called "good" people. Good people were suckers, and he prided himself upon being a wise guy, with all that was meantthereby. 

"You lay off of me, Kid, " he warned, darkly, "and you muffle themwedding bells. You can't win nothing with that line of talk. If Iwas fifty inches around the chest, liked to work, and was fond ofpas'ment'ries I'd prob'ly fall for you, but I ain't. I'm a good man, all right--to leave alone. I'll be a brother to you, but that's mylimit. " The subject was embarrassing, so he changed it. "Say! I beenthinking about that claim of yours. Didn't you get no paper from thatmissionary?"

"No. "

"Then his word's as good as yours. "

"That's what the lawyer told me. I offered to give him half, but hewouldn't touch the case. "

"It was a dirty deal, but you better forget it. "

"I'll try, " the girl promised. "But I don't forget easily. "

Laughing Bill's rejection of Ponatah's offer of marriage did not inthe least affect their friendly relations. She continued to visit thecabin, and not infrequently she reverted to the forbidden topic, onlyto meet with discouragement. 

Doctor Thomas had opened an office, of course, but business was lightand expenses heavy. Supplies were low in Nome and prices high; coal, for instance, was a hundred dollars a ton and, as a result, mostof the idle citizens spent their evenings---but precious littleelse--around the saloon stoves. When April came Laughing Billregretfully decided that it was necessary for him to go to work. Theprospect was depressing, and he did not easily reconcile himself toit, for he would have infinitely preferred some less degraded andhumiliating way out of the difficulty. He put up a desperate battleagainst the necessity, and he did not accept the inevitable untilthoroughly convinced that the practice of medicine and burglary couldnot be carried on from the same residence without the risk of seriousembarrassment to his benefactor. 

However, to find employment in a community where there were two men toone job was not easy, but happily--or unhappily--Bill had a smatteringof many trades, and eventually there came an opening as handy-man at amine. It was a lowly position, and Bill had little pride in it, forhe was put to helping the cook, waiting on table, washing dishes, sweeping cabins, making beds, and the like. He had been assured thatthe work was light, and so it was, but it was also continuous. Hecould summon not the slightest interest in it until he discovered thatthis was the very claim which rightfully belonged to Ponatah. Then, indeed, he pricked up his ears. 

The Aurora Borealis, as the mine was now called, had been working allwinter, and gigantic dumps of red pay-dirt stood as monuments to theindustry of its workmen. Rumor had it that the "streak" was rich, andthat Doctor Slayforth, the owner, would be in on the first boat topersonally oversee the clean-ups. The ex-missionary, Bill discovered, had the reputation of being a tight man, and meanly suspicious inmoney matters. He reposed no confidence in his superintendent, asurly, saturnine fellow known as Black Jack Berg, nor in Denny Slevin, his foreman. So much Laughing Bill gathered from camp gossip. 

It soon became evident that Black Jack was a hard driver, for sluicingbegan with the first trickle of snow water--even while the ditcheswere still ice-bound--and it continued with double shifts thereafter. A representative of Doctor Slayforth came out from Nome to watch thefirst clean-up, and Bill, in his capacity as chambermaid, set up a cotfor him in the cabin shared by Black Jack and Denny. While so engagedthe latter discovered him, and gruffly ordered him to remove the cotto the bunk-house. 

"Put him in with the men, " growled Slevin. "Serves the dam' spyright. "

"Spy? Is he a gum-shoe?" Mr. Hyde paused, a pillow slip between histeeth. 

"That's what! Me and Jack was honest enough to run things allwinter, but we ain't honest enough to clean up. That's like oldSlayforth--always lookin' to get the worst of it. I'm square, and so'sJack. Makes me sick, this spyin' on honest folks. Everybody knows wewouldn't turn a trick. "

Now it was Laughing Bill's experience that honesty needs no boosting, and that he who most loudly vaunts his rectitude is he who is leastcertain of it. 

"The boss must be a good man, him being a sort of psalm-singer, " Billventured, guilelessly. 

Denny snorted: "Oh, sure! He's good, all right. He's 'most toogood--to be true. Billy, my boy, when you've seen as many crooks as Ihave you'll know 'em, no matter how they come dressed. "

As he folded the cot Mr. Hyde opined that worldly experience mustindeed be a fine thing to possess. 

"You go gamble on it!" Slevin agreed. "Now then, just tell thatHawkshaw we don't want no dam' spies in our house. We're square guys, and we can't stomach 'em. "

That evening Black Jack called upon the handy-man to help with theclean-up, and put him to tend the water while he and Denny, under thewatchful eye of the owner's representative, lifted the riffles, workeddown the concentrates, and removed them from the boxes. 

Bill was an experienced placer miner, so it was not many days beforehe was asked to help in the actual cleaning of the sluices. He wasglad of the promotion, for, as he told himself, no man can squeeze alemon without getting juice on his fingers. It will be seen, alas!that Mr. Hyde's moral sense remained blunted in spite of the refininginfluence of his association with Doctor Thomas. But Aurora dustwas fine, and the handy-man's profits were scarcely worth the risksinvolved in taking them. 

One morning while Bill was cleaning up the superintendent's cabinhe noticed a tiny yellow flake of gold upon the floor in front ofSlevin's bed. Careful examination showed him several "colors" of thesame sort, so he swept the boards carefully and took up the dust ina "blower. " He breathed upon the pile, blowing the lighter particlesaway. A considerable residue of heavy yellow grains remained. Witha grin Bill folded them in a cigarette paper and placed them in hispocket. But it puzzled him to explain how there came to be gold on thecabin floor. His surprise deepened when, a few days later, he foundanother "prospect" in the same place. His two sweepings had yieldedperhaps a pennyweight of the precious metal--enough to set him tothinking. It seemed queer that in the neighborhood of Black Jack'sbunk he could find no pay whatever. 

Slevin had left his hip boots in the cabin, and as Laughing Billturned down their tops and set them out in the wind to dry his sharpeye detected several yellow pin-points of color which proved, uponcloser investigation, to be specks of gold clinging to the wet lining. 

"Well, I be danged!" said Mr. Hyde. Carefully, thoughtfully, hereplaced the boots where he had found them. The knowledge that he wason a hot trail electrified him. 

At the next clean-up Laughing Bill took less interest in his part ofthe work and more in Denny Slevin's. When the riffles were washed, and the loose gravel had been worked down into yellow piles of richconcentrates, Slevin, armed with whisk broom, paddle, and scoop, climbed into the sluices. Bill watched him out of a corner of his eye, and it was not long before his vigilance was rewarded. The hold-upman turned away with a feeling of genuine admiration, for he hadseen Slevin, under the very nose of the lookout, "go south" with asubstantial amount of gold. 

The foreman's daring and dexterity amazed Bill and deepened hisrespect. Slevin's work was cunning, and yet so simple as to be almostlaughable. With his hip boots pulled high he had knelt upon one kneein the sluice scooping up the wet piles of gold and black iron sand, while Berg held a gold pan to receive it. During the process BlackJack had turned to address the vigilant owner's representative, and, profiting by the brief diversion, Bill had seen Denny dump a heapingscoop-load of "pay" into the gaping pocket-like top of his capaciousrubber boot. 

"The sons-of-a-gun!" breathed Laughing Bill. "The double-crossingsons-of-a-gun! Why, it begins to look like a big summer for me. "

Bill slept well that night, for now that he knew the game which wasgoing on he felt sure that sooner or later he would take a hand in it. Just how or when the hand would fall he could not tell, but that didnot worry him in the least, inasmuch as he already held the trumps. Itseemed that a kindly fortune had guided him to the Aurora; that fatehad decreed he should avenge the wrongs of Ponatah. The handy-man fellasleep with a smile upon his lips. 

The first ship arrived that very evening, and the next day DoctorSlayforth in person appeared at the Aurora. He was a thin, restlessman with weak and shifting eyes; he said grace at dinner, givingthanks for the scanty rations of hash and brown beans over which hishungry workmen were poised like cormorants. The Aurora had won thename of a bad feeder, but its owner seemed satisfied with his meal. Later Bill overheard him talking with his superintendent. 

"I'm disappointed with the clean-ups, " Slayforth confessed. "The payappears to be pinching out. "

"She don't wash like she sampled, that's a fact, " said Black Jack. 

"I'm afraid we shall have to practise economies--"

"Look here! If you aim to cut down the grub, don't try it, " counseledBerg. "It's rotten now. "

"Indeed? There appeared to be plenty, and the quality was excellent. Ifear you encourage gluttony, and nothing so interferes with work. Wemust effect a saving somehow; there is too great a variation betweentheoretical and actual values. "

"Huh! You better try feeding hay for a while, " sourly grumbled thesuperintendent. "If you ain't getting what you aimed to get it'sbecause it ain't in the cards. "

This conversation interested Bill, for it proved that the robbers hadhelped themselves with a liberal hand, but how they had managed toappropriate enough gold to noticeably affect the showing of thewinter's work intensely mystified him; it led him to believe thatBlack Jack and Denny were out for a homestake. 

That such was indeed the case and that Slevin was not the only thiefBill soon discovered, for after the next clean-up he slipped awaythrough the twilight and took stand among the alders outside the rearwindow of the shack on the hill. From his point of concealment hecould observe all that went on inside. 

It was a familiar scene. By the light of an oil lamp Black Jack wasputting the final touches to the clean-up. Two gold pans, heaped highwith the mingled black sand and gold dust, as it came out of thesluices, were drying on the Yukon stove, and the superintendent wasengaged in separating the precious yellow particles from the worthlessmaterial which gravity had deposited with it. This refining processwas slow, painstaking work, and was effected with the help of a flatbrass scoop--a "blower. " By shaking this blower and breathing upon itscontents the lighter grains of iron sand were propelled to the edge, as chaff is separated from wheat, and fell into a box held between thesuperintendent's knees. The residue, left in the heel of the blowerafter each blowing process, was commercial "dust, " ready for the bankor the assay office. Doctor Slayforth, with his glasses on the end ofhis nose, presided at the gold scales, while Denny Slevin looked on. As the dust was weighed, a few ounces at a time, it was dumped into amoose-skin sack and entered upon the books. 

Black Jack had the light at his back, he was facing the window, therefore Laughing Bill commanded an unobstructed view of hisadept manipulations. It was not long before the latter saw himsurreptitiously drop a considerable quantity of gold out of the scoopand into the box between his knees, then cover it up with the blacksand. This sleight-of-hand was repeated several times, and whenthe last heap of gold had been weighed Bill estimated that DoctorSlayforth was poorer by at least a hundred ounces--sixteen hundreddollars. There was no question about it now; these were not commonthieves; this was becoming a regular man's game, and the stakes wereassuming a size to give Laughing Bill a tingling sensation along hisspine. Having discovered the _modus operandi_ of the pair, and havingread their cards, so to speak, he next set himself to discover wherethey banked their swag. But this was by no means easy. His utmostvigilance went unrewarded by so much as a single clue. 

Berg and Slevin had a habit of riding into town on Saturday nights, and the next time they left the claim Bill pleaded a jumping toothacheand set out afoot for medical attention. 

It was late when he arrived at Nome, nevertheless a diligent searchof the Front Street saloons failed to locate either man. He was stilllooking for them when they came riding in. 

With their delayed arrival Bill's apprehensions vanished, as likewisedid his imaginary toothache. He had feared that they were in the habitof bringing the gold to Nome, there perhaps to bank it with somefriend; but now he knew that they were too cautious for that, andpreferred instead to cache it somewhere in the hills. This simplifiedmatters immensely, so Bill looked up his little doctor for a sociablevisit. 

Thomas was in his office; he greeted Bill warmly. 

"Say! Pill-rolling must be brisk to keep you on the job tillmidnight, " the latter began. 

"Business is rotten!" exclaimed the physician. "And it's a rottenbusiness. "

"Nobody sick? That's tough. Open a can of typhoid germs, and I'll put'em in the well. Anything to stir up a little trade. "

"I've just balanced my books and--I've just heard from Alice. "

"Do the books balance?"

"Oh, perfectly--nothing equals nothing--it's a perfect equilibrium. Alice wants me to come home and start all over, and I'm tempted to doso. "

"Ain't going to throw up your tail, are you?"

"I can't get along without her. " Thomas was plainly in the depths; heturned away and stared moodily out into the dim-lit street. It wasmidnight, but already the days were shortening, already there was anhour or two of dusk between the evening and the morning light. 

"Of course you can't get along without her, " the ex-bandit agreed. "Iseen that when I looked at her picture. Why don't you bring her in?"

"Bring her in--_here_?" Thomas faced about quickly. "Humph! Not much. "

"Well, this ain't no doll's village, that's a fact. It's full ofwicked men, and the women ain't wuth braggin' over. S'pose we go outand marry her?"

"We?" Thomas smiled for the first time. 

"Sure. I'll stick to the bitter finish. "

"I'm broke, Bill. "

"Pshaw, now! Don't let that worry you. I got money. "

"You?" The doctor was surprised. "Where did you get it?"

"Well, I _got_ it! That's the main thing. It was--left to me. "

"Honestly?"

"What d'you mean, 'honestly'?"

"How much?"

"I dunno, exactly. You see, I ain't got it actually in my mit--"

"Oh!"

"But I'll have it, all righto. It's just waiting for me to close downon it. I reckon there must be a thousand gold buzzards in the stack, mebby more. It's all yours. "

"Thanks!" said the physician, unimpressed. 

"Look me in the eye. " Bill spoke earnestly. "Twenty thousand iron menain't so bad. It'll buy a lot of doll's clothes. We can have a bigparty--I ain't kidding!" Then reading amused incredulity in hisfriend's face he demanded: "How you know I ain't got a rich uncle thatraised me from a colt and that broke his heart at me runnin' away andturning out wild, and has had lawyers gunnin' for me ever since heknew he was gettin' old and going to croak? How you know that, eh?"

"I don't know. I don't know anything about you, Bill. That's one ofthe most interesting features of our friendship. "

"Well, pay a little attention to me. Now then, I figger it like this:I got lungs like a grasshopper, and the money won't do me no good, soI'll stake you and Miss Alice to it. "

Doctor Thomas eyed the speaker curiously. "I believe you would, " saidhe, after a moment. 

"Would I? Say! You ever seen a feather bed tied up with a rope? Yousit tight and I'll slip you a roll just that size. "

"Of course you know I wouldn't take it?"

"Why not? It's more'n likely it'll get me into evil company or gimmesome bad habit, and I'll gargle off before I've had a chance to spendit. I ain't strong. "

"I'll earn what I get, Billy. "

"All right. If you feel like that I'll bet it for you on a crap game, and you can take the winnings--"

"Nothing doing. I want honest money--money that I can look in theface. "

Mr. Hyde was out of patience. "All money's honest, after you get it!"he cried. "It's gettin' it that draws blood. I never knew the silverbird to fly off a dollar and scratch a guy, did you?"

"I want to make money--that's why I came up to this God-forsakenplace--but--when your uncle's draft arrives you cash it. "

"Ain't you the champeen bone-dome?" muttered Bill. Such an attitudeseemed to him both senseless and quixotic, for he had never attachedthe least sentiment to money. Money was an elemental necessity, therefore he looked upon it with practical, unromantic eyes, and helped himself to it as he helped himself to such elementalnecessities as air or water. Most of life's necessaries had falleninto monopolistic hands and were used to wring tribute fromunfortunate mortals who had arrived too late to share in the graft, aswitness, for instance, Standard Oil. So ran Bill's reasoning when hetook the trouble to reason at all. Men had established arbitrary rulesto govern their forays upon one another's property, to be sure, butunder cover of these artificial laws they stole merrily, and got awaywith it. Eagles did not scruple to steal from one another, horses ateone another's fodder; why human beings should not do likewise hadalways puzzled Mr. Hyde. The basic principle held good in both cases, it seemed to him, and Doctor Thomas's refusal to share in the cominglegacy struck him as silly; it was the result of a warped and unsoundphilosophy. But argue as he would he could not shake his friend'sopinion of the matter. 

One evening, not long after his visit to town, Bill's toothachereturned again to plague him. He raised groans and hoarse profanities, and then, while the crew was still at supper, he abandoned his workand set out in search of relief. But he did not go to Nome. Onceout of sight of the mine he doubled back and came out behind thesuperintendent's cabin. A moment later he was stretched out in thenarrow, dark space beneath Black Jack's bunk. Dust irritated Bill'slungs, therefore he had carefully swept out the place that morning;likewise he had thoughtfully provided himself with a cotton comforteras protection to his bones. He had no intention of permitting himselfto be taken at a disadvantage, and knowing full well the painfulconsequences of discovery he opened his bone-handled pocket-knife andtested its keen edge with his thumb. In the interests of peace andgood-fellowship, however, he hoped he could go through the nightwithout coughing. 

Slevin was the first to return from supper. He went directly to hisbunk, drew a bottle of whisky from beneath his pillow, poured himselfa drink, and replaced the bottle. When Berg entered he went through asimilar procedure, after which a fire was built, the men kicked offtheir boots, lit their pipes, and stretched out upon their beds. 

"I've been thinking it over, " the superintendent began, "and you can'tdo it. "

"Why not?" queried Slevin. "I told his nibs I was sick of the grub. "

"Foremen don't quit good jobs on account of the grub. You've got tostick till fall; then we'll both go. We'll strike the old man for araise--"

"Humph! He'll let us go, quick enough, when we do that. Let's strikehim now. I'm through. "

"Nothing stirring, " Berg firmly declared. "We'll play out the string. I'm taking no chances. "

"Hell! Ain't we takin' a chance every day we stay here? I'm gettingso I don't sleep. I got enough to do me; I ain't a hog. I got a bullycorner all picked out, Jack--best corner in Seattle for a gin-mill. "

"It'll wait. Corners don't get up and move. No, I won't hold thebag for you or for anybody, " declared the former speaker. "We'll gothrough, arm in arm. Once we're away clean you can do what you like. Me for the Argentine and ten thousand acres of long-horns. You betterforget that corner. Some night you'll get stewed and spill the beans. "

"Who, me?" Slevin laughed in disdain. "Fat chance!" There was a longsilence during which the only sound was the bubbling of a pipe. "Is'pose I'll have to stick, if you say so, " Denny agreed finally, "butI'm fed up. I'm getting jumpy. I got a hunch the cache ain't safe; Ifeel like something was goin' to happen. "

Mr. Slevin's premonition, under the circumstances, was almost uncanny;it gave startling proof of his susceptibility to outside influences. 

"You _are_ rickety, " Black Jack told him. "Why, there ain't anydanger; nobody goes up there. " Laughing Bill held his breath, missingnot a word. "If they did we'd pick 'em up with the glasses. It's opencountry, and we'd get 'em before they got down. "

"I s'pose so. But the nights are getting dark. "

"Nobody's out at night, either, you boob. I ain't losing any slumberover that. And I ain't going to lose any about your quitting ahead ofme. That don't trouble me none. " Berg yawned and changed the subject. Half an hour later he rose, languidly undressed and rolled into hisbed. Slevin followed suit shortly after, and the rapidity with whichboth men fell asleep spoke volumes for the elasticity of the humanconscience. 

Now, Laughing Bill had come prepared to spend the night, but histhroat tickled and he had a distressing habit of snoring, therefore hedeemed it the part of caution to depart before he dropped off into theland of dreams. He effected the manoeuver noiselessly. 

Bill lingered at the spring hole on the following morning, and losthimself in an attentive study of the surrounding scenery. It wasfairly impressive scenery, and he had a keen appreciation of nature'sbeauty, but Black Jack's words continued to puzzle him. "Nobody goesup there. " Up where? The Aurora lay in a valley, therefore most of thecountry round about was "up"--it was open, too. The ridges were boldand barren, garbed only with shreds and patches of short grass andreindeer moss. "We'd pick 'em up with the glasses--we'd get 'em beforethey got down. " Manifestly the cache was in plain sight, if one onlyknew where to look for it, but Mr. Hyde's sharp eyes took in tenthousand likely hiding-places, and he reasoned that it would be worsethan folly to go exploring blindly without more definite data than hepossessed. 

It was clever of the pair to hide the swag where they could oversee itevery hour of the day, and they had chosen a safe location, too, fornobody wasted the effort to explore those domes and hogbacks now thatthey were known to contain no quartz. There was Anvil Mountain, forinstance, a bold schist peak crowned with a huge rock in the likenessof a blacksmith's anvil. It guarded the entrance to the valley, risingfrom the very heart of the best mining section; it was the mostprominent landmark hereabouts, but not a dozen men had ever climbedit, and nowadays nobody did. 

As Bill pondered the enigma, out from his bed in the willows came DonAntonio de Chiquito, a meek and lowly burro, the only member of theAurora's working force which did not outrank in social importance theman-of-all-work. Don Antonio was the pet of the Aurora Borealis, andits scavenger. He ate everything from garbage to rubber boots--he waseven suspected of possessing a low appetite for German socks. It was, in fact, this very democratic taste in things edible which causedhim to remain the steadiest of Doctor Slayforth's boarders. Wisdom, patience, the sagacity of Solomon, lurked in Don Antonio's eyes, andLaughing Bill consulted him as a friend and an equal. 

"Tony, " said he, "you've done a heap of prospecting and you know thebusiness. There's a rich pocket on one of them hills. Which one isit?"

Don Antonio de Chiquito had ears like sunbonnets; he folded them back, lifted his muzzle toward Anvil rock, and brayed loudly. 

"Mebbe you're right, " said the man. He fitted the Chinese yoke to hisskinny shoulders, and took up his burden. The load was heavy, the yokebruised his bones, therefore he was moved to complain: "The idea ofme totin' water for the very guys that stole my uncle's money! It'sawful--the darned crooks!"

It was a rainy evening when business next took Black Jack Berg andDenny Slevin to town. Having dined amply, if not well, they donnedslickers, saddled a pair of horses, and set out down the creek. Fewpeople were abroad, therefore they felt secure from observation whenthey swung off the trail where it bends around the foot of AnvilMountain and bore directly up through the scattered alders. The grasswas wet, the rain erased the marks of their horses' feet almost in thepassing. Tethering their mounts in the last clump of underbrush theriders labored on afoot up a shallow draw which scarred the steepslope. The murk of twilight obscured them, but even in a good lightthey would have run small risk of discovery, for slow-moving humanfigures would have been lost against the dark background. 

The climb was long and arduous; both men were panting when theybreasted the last rise and looked down into the valley where lay theAurora Borealis. This was a desolate spot, great boulders, fallen fromthe huge rock overhead, lay all about, the earth was weathered bywinter snows and summer rains. Ghostly fingers of mist writhed overthe peak; darkness was not far distant. 

The robbers remained on the crest perhaps twenty minutes, then theycame striding down. They passed within a hundred yards of LaughingBill Hyde, who lay flat in the wet grass midway of their descent. He watched them mount and ride out of sight, then he continued hispainful progress up the hillside. 

Weak lungs are not suited to heavy grades and slippery footing. Billwas sobbing with agony when he conquered the last rise and collapsedupon his face. He feared he was dying, every cough threatened ahemorrhage; but when his breath came more easily and he missed thefamiliar taste of blood in his mouth he rose and tottered aboutthrough the fog. He could discover no tracks; he began to fear thenight would foil him, when at last luck guided his aimless footstepsto a slide of loose rock banked against a seamy ledge. The surface ofthe bank showed a muddy scar, already half obliterated by the rain;brief search among the near-by boulders uncovered the hiding-place ofa pick and shovel. 

For once in his life Mr. Hyde looked upon these tools with favor, andenergetically tackled the business end of a "Number 2. " He consideredpick-and-shovel work the lowest form of human endeavor; neverthelesshe engaged in it willingly enough, and he had not dug deeply beforehe uncovered the side of a packing-case, labeled "Choice CaliforniaCanned Fruits. " Further rapid explorations showed that the box wasfitted with a loose top, and that the interior was well-nigh filledwith stout canvas and moose skin bags. Bill counted them; he weighedone, then he sat down weakly and his hard, smoke-blue eyes widenedwith amazement. 

"Suffering cats!" he whispered. He voiced other expletives, too, evenmore forcefully indicative of surprise. He was not an imaginative man;it did not occur to him to doubt his sanity or to wonder if he wereawake, nevertheless he opened one of the pokes and incredulouslyexamined its contents. "I'm dam' if it ain't!" he said, finally. "Ishould reckon they _was_ ready to quit. Argentine! Why, Jack'll bustthe bottom out of a boat if he takes this with him. He'll drown a lotof innocent people. " Mr. Hyde shook his head and smiled pityingly. "Itain't safe to trust him with it. It ain't safe--the thievin' devil!There's five hundred pounds if there's an ounce!" He began to figurewith his finger on the muddy shovel blade. "A hundred thousand bucks!"he announced, finally. "Them boys is _all right_!"

Slowly, reluctantly, he replaced the gold sacks, reburied the box, andplaced the tools where he had found them; then he set out for home. 

Don Antonio de Chiquito was contentedly munching an empty oat sack, doubtless impelled thereto by the lingering flavor of its formercontents, when on the following morning Bill accosted him. 

"Tony, I got to hand it to you, " the man said, admiringly. "You'resome pocket miner, and you speak up like a gent when you're spoken to. I got some nice egg-shells saved up for you. " Then his voice droppedto a confidential tone. "We're in with a passel of crooks, Tony. Evilassociates, I call 'em. They're bound to have a bad influence overus--I feel it a'ready, don't you? Well, s'pose you meet me to-night atthe gap in the hedge and we'll take a walk?"

Don Antonio appeared in every way agreeable to the proposal, but tomake certain that he would keep his appointment Bill led him downinto the creek bottom and tied him securely, after which he removed apack-saddle and a bundle of hay from the stable. The saddle he hid inthe brush, the hay he spread before his accomplice, with the generousinvitation: "Drink hearty; it's on the house!" In explanation he wenton: "It's this way, Tony; they left the elevator out of that Anvilskyscraper, and I can't climb stairs on one lung, so you got to be mysix-cylinder oat-motor. We got a busy night ahead of us. "

That evening Laughing Bill ascended Anvil Mountain for a second time, but the exertion did not wind him unduly, for he made the ascent atthe end of Don Antonio's tail. He was back in camp for breakfast, anddespite his lack of sleep he performed his menial duties during theday with more than his usual cheerfulness. 

 * * * * *

"Speed up, can't you?" Slevin paused midway of the steepest slope andspoke impatiently to his partner below. 

"I'm coming, " Black Jack panted. Being the heavier and clumsier of thetwo, the climb was harder for him. "You're so spry, s'pose you justpack this poke!" He unslung a heavy leather sack from his belt andgave it to Denny. 

"We'd ought to 'a' got an early start, " the latter complained. "Thedays are gettin' short and I had a rotten fall going down, last time. "

Relieved of some fifteen pounds of dead, awkward weight--and nothingis more awkward to carry than a sizable gold sack--Berg made betterspeed, arriving at the cache in time to see Slevin spit on his handsand fall to digging. 

"Every time we open her up I get a shiver, " Denny confessed, with alaugh. "I'm scared to look. "

"Humph! Think she's going to get up and walk out on us?" Berg seatedhimself, lit his pipe, and puffed in silence for a while. "We ain'tnever been seen, " he declared, positively. "She's as safe as the Bankof England as long as you don't get drunk. "

"Me drunk! Ha! Me and the demon rum is divorced forever. " Slevin'sshovel struck wood and he swiftly uncovered the box, then removed itstop. He, stood for a full minute staring into its interior, then hecried, hoarsely, "_Jack_!"

Berg was on his feet in an instant; he strode to the excavation andbent over it. After a time he straightened himself and turned blazingeyes upon his confederate. Denny met his gaze with the glare of a mandemented. 

"Wha'd I tell you?" the latter chattered. "I told you they'd get it. By God! They have!"

He cast an apprehensive glance over his shoulder. Far below the lightsof the valley were beginning to twinkle, in the direction of Nome thecross on the Catholic church gleamed palely against the steel-grayexpanse of Behring Sea. 

Berg was a man of violent temper; he choked and gasped; his face wasbloated with an apoplectic rage. He began to growl curses deep in histhroat. "_Who_ got it?" he demanded. "Who d'you mean by '_they_'?"

"'Sh-h!" Slevin was panic-stricken; he flung out a nervous, jerkyhand. "Mebbe they're here--now. Look out!"

"Who d'you mean by '_they_'?" the larger man repeated. 

"I--God! I dunno! But there must 'a' been more'n one. Five hundredpounds! One man couldn't pack it!"

"You said '_they_'!" Berg persisted in an odd tone. 

Slevin's madly roving gaze flew back and settled upon the discoloredvisage thrust toward him, then his own eyes widened. He recoiled, crying:

"Look here! You don't think I--?" His words ended in a bark. 

"I ain't said what I think, but I'm thinkin' fast. Nobody knew it butus--"

"How d'you know?"

"I know. "

Slowly Slevin settled himself. His muscles ceased jumping, his bullethead drew down between his shoulders. "Well, it wasn't me, so it must'a' been--_you_!"

"Don't stall!" roared the larger man. "It won't win you anything. Youcan't leave here till you come through. "

"That goes double, Jack. I got my gat, too, and you ain't going to runout on me. "

"You wanted to quit. You weakened. "

"You're a liar!"

The men stared fixedly at each other, heads forward, bodies tense; asthey glared the fury of betrayal grew to madness. 

"Where'd you put it?" Berg ground the words between his teeth. 

"I'm askin' you that very thing, " the foreman answered in a thin, menacing voice. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he widened the distancebetween himself and his accuser. It was not a retreat, he merely drewhimself together defensively, holding himself under control with thelast supreme effort of his will. 

The tension snapped suddenly. 

With a harsh, wordless cry of fury Black Jack tore his six-shooterfrom its resting-place. But Slevin's right hand stirred in unison andit moved like light. Owing to the fact that he carried his gun beneathhis left armpit he was the first to fire, by the fraction of a second. It was impossible to miss at this distance. Berg went to his kneesas if hit by a sledge. But he fired from that position, and his shotcaught Slevin as the latter crow-hopped nimbly. Both men were downnow. Slevin, however, seemed made of rubber; he was up again almostinstantly, and zigzagging toward the shelter of the nearest rocks. Berg emptied his Colt at the running target, then a shout burst fromhis lips as he saw Denny pitch forward out of sight. 

With shaking, clumsy fingers Black Jack reloaded his hot weapon. Withhis left hand pressed deep into his side he rose slowly to his feetand lurched forward. 

"You rat!" he yelled. "Double-cross _me_, will yeh?" He heard thesound of a body moving over loose stones and halted, weaving in histracks and peering into the gloom. 

"Come out!" he ordered. "Come out and own up and I'll let yeh off. "

There was a silence. "I see yeh!" He took unsteady aim at a shadow andfired. "Never mind, I'll get yeh!" After a little while he stumbledonward between the boulders, shouting a challenge to his invisibleopponent. He had gone perhaps fifty feet when the darkness was stabbedby the blaze of Slevin's gun. Three times the weapon spoke, at littlemore than arm's-length, and Black Jack spun on his heels, then rockedforward limply. It was a long time before the sound of his loud, slowbreathing ceased. Not until then did Denny Slevin move. With a rattlein his throat the foreman crept out from hiding and went down themountain-side upon his hands and knees. 

It occasioned considerable speculation at the Aurora Borealis whenneither the superintendent nor the foreman appeared for breakfast. Later, a telephone message to Doctor Slayforth having elicited thestartling intelligence that neither man had been seen in town duringthe night, there came a flicker of excitement. This excitement blazedto white heat when Slayforth rode up on a muddy horse, accompanied bythe town marshal and the chief of police. Followed more telephoningand some cross-examination. But the men were gone. They haddisappeared. 

It was a mystery baffling any attempt at explanation, for there wereno ships in the roadstead, and hence it was impossible for the pairto have taken French leave. While a search party was being organizedthere came word that the missing saddle-horses had been found on theslope of Anvil Mountain, and by the time Slayforth's party had reachedthe ground more news awaited them. Up near the head of the draw someone had discovered the body of Denny Slevin. There was a rush thither, and thence on up the trail Slevin had left, to the scene of thetwilight duel, to Black Jack Berg and the cache in the slide. 

The story told itself down to the last detail; it was the story of athieves' quarrel and a double killing. Doctor Slayforth fell uponhis bag of gold as a mother falls upon her babe; he voiced loud, hysterical condemnation of the deed; he wept tears of mingledindignation and thanksgiving; he gabbled scriptural quotations aboutthe wages of sin. Then, remembering that the wages of his men weregoing on, he sent them back to their work, and determined to dock halftheir morning's pay. 

The story of the tragedy was still the sensation of Nome when, afortnight later, Laughing Bill Hyde showed up in town with thecheerful announcement that he had been fired. Ponatah was at the cabinwhen he arrived, and she did not try to conceal her joy at seeing himagain. 

"I've been so unhappy, " she told him. "You've never been out of mythoughts, Billy. "

"Ain't you got nothing better to think about than me?" he asked, witha smile. "Well, the psalm-shouter let me out--jerked the piller-slipfrom under me, you might say--and turned me adrift. He's got ahigh-chested, low-browed Swede in my place. It takes a guy with hairdown to his eyebrows to be a buck chamber-maid. "

"The old rascal!" Ponatah's face darkened with anger. "No wonder thosemen robbed him. I wish they had taken all his gold, and escaped. "

"You're pretty sore on his heavenly nibs, ain't you?" Ponatah clenchedher hands and her eyes blazed. "Well, you got this consolation, theAurora ain't as rich as it was. "

"It would have been rich enough for us. "

"Us?"

"Yes. You'd marry me if I were rich, wouldn't you?"

"No, I wouldn't, " Bill declared, firmly. "What's the use to kid you?"

"Why wouldn't you? Are you ashamed of me?"

Bill protested, "Say, what is this you're giving me, the thirddegree?"

"If I were as rich as--well, as Reindeer Mary, wouldn't you marry me?"Ponatah gazed at the unworthy object of her affections with a yearningthat was embarrassing, and Laughing Bill was forced to spar for wind. 

"Ain't you the bold Mary Ann--makin' cracks like that?" he chided. "I'm ashamed of you, honest. I've passed up plenty of frills in mytime, and we're all better off for it. My appetite for marriage ain'tno keener than it used to be, so you forget it. Little Doc, he's themarrying kind. "

"Oh yes. He tells me a great deal about his Alice. He's very muchdiscouraged. If--if I had the Aurora I wouldn't forget him; I'd givehim half. "

"Would you, now? Well, he's the one stiffneck that wouldn't take it. He's funny that way--seems to think money 'll bite him, or something. I don't know how these pullanthrofists get along, with proud peoplealways spurning their gifts. He's got my nan. You take my tip, Kid, and cling to your coin. Salt it down for winter. That's what I'm doingwith mine. "

"Are you?" Ponatah was not amused, she was gravely interested. "Ithought you were broke, Billy. "

"Where'd you get that at?" he demanded. "I've always got a pinch ofchange, I have. I'm lucky that way. Now then, you run along and don'tnever try to feint me into a clinch. It don't go. "

Laughing Bill enjoyed a good rest in the days that followed. He restedhard for several weeks, and when he rested he lifted his hand toabsolutely nothing. He was an expert idler, and with him indolence wasbut a form of suspended animation. In spite of himself, however, hewas troubled by a problem; he was completely baffled by it, in fact, until, without warning and without conscious effort, the solutionpresented itself. Bill startled his cabin mate one day by theannouncement that he intended to go prospecting. 

"Nonsense!" said Thomas, when the first shock of surprise had passed. "This country has been run over, and every inch is staked. "

"I bet I'll horn in somewhere. All I want is one claim where I gotroom to sling myself. "

"If that's all you want I'll give you a claim. It has twenty acres. Isthat room enough?"

"Plenty. Where is it?"

"It's on Eclipse Creek, I believe. A patient gave it to me for abill. "

"He won't call for a new deal if I strike it rich?"

"No. I paid his fare out of the country. But why waste your valuabletime? Your time _is_ valuable, I presume?"

"Sure! I ain't got much left. You don't believe in hunches, doyou? Well, I do. I've seen 'em come out. Look at Denny Slevin, forinstance! I heard him say he had a hunch something unpleasant wasgoing to happen to him, and it did. We'll go fifty-fifty on thisEclipse Creek. "

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Suit yourself. Fresh air won'thurt you. "

The first frosts of autumn had arrived before Laughing Bill returnedto town with the announcement that he had struck a prospect. DoctorThomas was at first incredulous, then amazed; finally, when thetrue significance of those tiny yellow grains came home to him, hisenthusiasm burst all bounds. He was for at once closing his office andjoining actively in his partner's work, but Bill would not hear tosuch a thing. 

"Stick to the pills and powders, Doc, " he counseled. "You know thatgame and I know this. It's my strike and I don't want no amachoorsbutting in. I got options on the whole creek--she's eclipsed forfair--'cause I don't like neighbors. You shut your trap till springand sit tight, then we'll roll our packs, stomp on the fire, and callthe dog. Old Home Week for us. "

"But, Billy, we can't work out that claim in one winter, " protestedthe physician. 

"How d'you know we can't? Mebbe it's just a pocket. "

"We'll find other pockets. We have the whole creek--"

"Say, how much d'you need to satisfy you?" Bill inquired, curiously. 

"I--don't know. A hundred thousand dollars, perhaps. "

"A hundred thousand! Whew! You got rich tastes! This ain't nobonanza. "

"But if it's any good at all it will net us that much, probably more. "

Bill considered briefly, then he announced: "All right, bo, I gotyour idea. When I hand you a hundred thousand iron men we quit--noquestions, no regrets; Is that it? But you've hiked the limit on me; Idunno's I'll make good. "

By the time snow flew the tent on Eclipse Creek had been replaced by acouple of warm shacks, provisions had been bought, and a crew hired. Work commenced immediately, and it continued throughout the winterwith Bill in charge. The gravel was lean-looking stuff, but it seemedto satisfy the manager, and whenever Thomas came out from town hereceived encouraging reports from his partner. Hyde ceased playingsolitaire long enough to pan samples in his tub of snow water. Now hadthe younger man been an experienced placer miner he might have notedwith suspicion that whenever Bill panned he chewed tobacco--a newhabit he had acquired--and not infrequently he spat into the tub ofmuddy water. But Thomas was not experienced in the wiles and artificesof mine-salters, and the residue of yellow particles left in the panwas proof positive that the claim was making good. It did strike himas strange, however, that when he selected a pan of dirt and washedit unassisted he found nothing. At such times Bill explainedglibly enough that no pay dump carried steady values, and that aninexperienced sampler was apt to get "skunked" under the best ofcircumstances. Concentrates lay in streaks and pockets, he declared. Then to prove his assertions Bill would help his partner pan, andinasmuch as he wore long finger-nails, underneath which colors of goldcould be easily concealed, it was not surprising that he succeeded infinding a prospect where the doctor had failed. For fear Thomas shouldstill entertain some lingering doubts, Bill occasionally sent him downinto the shaft alone, to sample the pay streak, but in each instancehe took pains to go down beforehand with a shot-gun and some shells ofhis own loading and to shoot a few rounds into the face of the thawedground. 

The winter passed quickly enough, Bill's only concern arising from thefact that his strike had become common knowledge, and that men wereclamoring to buy or to lease a part of the creek. It was a tiny creek, and he had it safely tied up under his options, therefore he was in aposition to refuse every offer. By so doing he gained the reputationof being a cautious, cagey man and difficult to deal with. 

Bill paid off his crew out of the first spring cleanup, from the dusthe had managed to dump into the sluices at night. Thereafter he sentthe gold to town by Doctor Thomas, who came after it regularly. Whenhe closed down the works, in June, he and his partner held bankdeposit slips for a trifle over one hundred thousand dollars. Rumorplaced their profits at much more. 

Bill saw little of Ponatah after his return to Nome, for the girlavoided him, and when he did see her she assumed a peculiar reserve. Her year and a half of intimate association with cultured people hadin reality worked an amazing improvement in her, and people no longerregarded her as an Indian, but referred to her now as "that Russiangoverness, " nevertheless she could retreat behind a baffling airof stolidity--almost of sullenness--when she chose, and that wasprecisely the mask she wore for Bill. In reality she was far fromstolid and anything but sullen. 

For his part he made no effort to break down the girl's guard; hecontinued to treat her with his customary free good nature. 

Notwithstanding the liberal margin of profit on his winter'soperations, Bill realized that he was still shy approximately halfof the sum which Doctor Thomas had set as satisfactory, and when thelatter began planning to resume work on a larger scale in the fall Mr. Hyde was stricken with panic. Fearing lest his own lack of enthusiasmin these plans and his indifference to all affairs even remotelyconcerning Eclipse Creek should awaken suspicion, he determined tosell out his own and his partner's interests in accordance with theiroriginal understanding. Without consulting Thomas he called uponDoctor Slayforth. 

The pious mine-owner was glad to see him; his manner was not at allwhat it had been when Bill worked for him. His words of greetingfairly trickled prune juice and honey. 

"Say, Doc, I got a load on my chest! I'm a strayed lamb and you beinga sort of shepherd I turns to you, " Bill began. 

"I trust you have not come in vain. " The ex-missionary beamedbenignly. "It has been my duty and my privilege to comfort theafflicted. What troubles you, William?"

"There's a school of sharks in this village, and I don't trust 'em. They're too slick for a feller like me, "

"It _is_ an ungodly place, " the doctor agreed. "I have felt the callto work here, but my duties prevent. Of course I labor in the Lord'svineyard as I pass through, but--I am weak. "

"Me, too, and getting weaker daily. " Bill summoned a hollow cough. "Listen to that hospital bark, ' I gotta blow this place, Doc, orthey'll button me up in a rosewood overcoat. I gotta sell EclipseCreek and beat it. " Again he coughed. 

"I am distressed. But why do you come here?"

"I aim to sell out to you. "

"What is your price, William?"

"A hundred and fifty thousand, cash. "

Slayforth lifted protesting palms. "My dear man--"

"That's cheaper'n good advice, and you know it. I took out 'most thatmuch last winter with a scowegian gang of six. Here's the bank's O. K. But I ain't got use for a lot of money, Doc. I wouldn't know how torun a vineyard like you do. All I want is a nice little corner saloonor a cattle ranch. "

"It is a large sum of money you ask. There is always an element ofuncertainty about placer mining. " Doctor Slayforth failed to concealthe gleam of avarice in his eyes. 

"Doc, take it from me; there ain't a particle of uncertainty aboutEclipse Creek, " Bill earnestly assured his hearer. "If I told youwhat's there you wouldn't believe me. But Thomas, he's got a gal and Igot a cough. They both need attention, and he's the only guy that cangive it. We're willing to hand you Eclipse Creek if you'll take it. "

There was considerable conversation, and a visit to Eclipse Creek, butthe doctor, it proved, was willing to take any good bargain, and a fewdays later the transfer was made. When the larger part of Slayforth'swinter's clean-up had changed hands the two partners adjourned toThomas's little office. 

"Well!" The physician heaved a deep sigh of relief. "It's all over, and--I feel as if I were dreaming. "

"The _Oregon_ sails to-morrow. It's time to stomp on the fire. "

"I--I wonder if we were wise to sell out at that price, " the doctormused, doubtfully. 

"You lay a bet on it, bo. Something tells me that soul-saver will gobust on Eclipse Creek. I got a hunch that way. " Mr. Hyde's seamy facewrinkled into a broad grin. 

"Well, I've more faith in your hunches than I used to have. You'vebeen a good friend, Bill, and a square one. " The speaker choked, thenwrung his partner's hand. "I've cabled Alice to meet us. I want you toknow her and--I want her to see that I cured you, after all. "

"I'd admire to meet her, but my taste has allus run more tobrunettes, " said Mr. Hyde. Then, since he abhorred emotional display, he continued, briskly: "Now call the dog. I'm off to buy our duckets. "

Laughing Bill purchased three tickets instead of two, then he went insearch of Ponatah. It so chanced that he found her alone. Now neitherhe nor any other man had ever called upon her, therefore she wasdumfounded at his coming. 

"Well, Kid, " he announced, "me 'n' the Doc have sold Eclipse Creek, and we bow out tomorrow on the big smoke. "

Ponatah opened her lips, but no sound issued. She possessed a strongyoung body, but the strength, the life, seemed suddenly to go out ofit, leaving her old and spiritless. 

"Got a kind word for us?" the man inquired, with a twinkle. 

"I'm glad you struck it rich, " she murmured, dully. "You--you'll takecare of yourself, Billy?"

"Who, me? I don't s'pose so. I don't know how to take care ofnothing. " There was a moment of silence. "Like me?" he asked. 

Ponatah turned away blindly, but as she did so Laughing Bill put hishand gently upon her shoulder, saying:

"Cheer up, Kid. You're going to join the troupe. I've come to getyou. "

There was amazement, incredulity, in the girl's face as she lifted itto his. "What do you--mean?" she quavered. "Are you going to--marryme?"

"You guessed it!" he laughed. "I been aiming to put up that job on youfor a long time, but I had a lot of deals on my hands. I was a sortof power-of-attorney for a coupla simps, and it kept me busy. Ifyou think the two of us can do with three lungs, why, we'll grab apsalm-shouter and--"

"Billy! Billy!" Ponatah clung to him fiercely, hungrily. "Oh, Billy--I'll make you well. We'll go to Arizona, Colorado, Montana--where it is high and dry--"

"I been to them places, " he told her, dubiously, "and I 'most stoppedbreathing altogether. "

"New Mexico, then. You won't be ashamed of me there. "

"Say, Kid! I wouldn't be ashamed of a harelip and warts in New Mexico. But you got me wrong; I'm plumb proud of you, and just to prove itI aim to make you carry our bank-roll in your name. That's how shestands at the bank, and that's how she's goin' to stand. From time totime you can gimme a check for what you think I'm wuth. Now then, dowith me as you will; grab your lid; we'll join hands and be solderedup. "

Laughing Bill stared after the girl as she hurried away; musingly hesaid: "The little Doc got in on no pair, for it was all her coin, ofcourse. But she'd 'a' had to split, fifty-fifty, with a lawyer, so itain't a bad deal all around. "

THE NORTH WIND'S MALICE

It had snowed during the night, but toward morning it had grown cold;now the sled-runners complained and the load dragged heavily. Folsom, who had been heaving at the handle-bars all the way up the DexterCreek hill, halted his dogs at the crest and dropped upon the sled, only too glad of a breathing spell. His forehead was wet with sweat;when it began to freeze in his eyebrows he removed his mittens andwiped away the drops, then watched them congeal upon his fingers. Yes, it was all of thirty below, and a bad morning to hit the trail, but--Folsom's face set itself--better thirty below in the open thanthe frigid atmosphere of an unhappy home. 

Harkness, who had led the way up the hill, plodded onward for a timebefore discovering that his companion had paused; then, through thering of hoar frost around his parka hood, he called back:

"I'll hike down to the road-house and warm up. "

Folsom made no answer, he did not even turn his head. Taciturnity wasbecoming a habit with him, and already he was beginning to dislike hisnew partner. For that matter he disliked everybody this morning. 

Below him lay the level tundra, merging indistinguishably with thewhite anchor-ice of Behring Sea; beyond that a long black streak ofopen water, underscoring the sky as if to emphasize the significanceof that empty horizon, a horizon which for many months would remainunsmudged by smoke. To Folsom it seemed that the distant stretch ofdark water was like a prison wall, barring the outside world from himand the other fools who had elected to stay "inside. "

Fools? Yes; they were all fools!

Folsom was a "sour-dough. " He had seen the pranks that Alaskan wintersplay with men and women, he had watched the alteration in minds andmorals made by the Arctic isolation, and he had considered himselfproof against the malice that rides the north wind--the mischief thatcomes with the winter nights. He had dared to put faith in his perfecthappiness, thinking himself different from other men and Lois superiorto other wives, wherefore he now called himself a fool!

Sprawled beside the shore, five miles away, was Nome, its ugliness ofcorrugated iron, rough boards, and tar paper somewhat softened by thedistance. From the jumble of roofs he picked out one and centered hisattention upon it. It was his roof--or had been. He wondered, with asudden flare of wrathful indignation, if Lois would remember that factduring his absence. But he banished this evil thought. Lois had pride, there was nothing common about her; he could not believe that shewould affront the proprieties. It was to spare that very pride ofhers, even more than his own, that he had undertaken this adventure tothe Kobuk; and now, as he looked back upon Nome, he told himself thathe was acting handsomely in totally eliminating himself, thus allowingher time and freedom in which to learn her heart. He hoped that beforehis return she would have chosen between him and the other man. 

It was too cold to remain idle long. Folsom's damp body beganto chill, so he spoke to his team and once more heaved upon thehandle-bars. 

Leaving the crest of the ridge behind, the dogs began to run; theysoon brought up in a tangle at the road-house door. When Harknessdid not appear in answer to his name Folsom entered, to find histrail-mate at the bar, glass in hand. 

"Put that down!" Folsom ordered, sharply. 

Harkness did precisely that, then he turned, wiping his lips withthe back of his hand. He was a small, fox-faced man; with a grin heinvited the new-comer to "have one. "

"Don't you know better than to drink on a day like this?" the latterdemanded. 

"Don't worry about me. I was raised on 'hootch, '" said Harkness. 

"It's bad medicine. "

"Bah! I'll travel further drunk than--" Harkness measured his criticwith an insolent eye--"than some folks sober. " He commenced to warmhimself at the stove, whereupon the other cried, impatiently:

"Come along. We can't stop at every cabin. "

But Harkness was in no hurry, he consumed considerable time. Whenhe finally followed Folsom out into the air the latter, being in apeculiarly irritable mood, warned him in a voice which shook withanger:

"We're going to start with an understanding. If you take another drinkduring the daytime I'll leave you flat. "

"Rats! How you aim to get to the Kobuk without me?" asked Harkness. 

"I'll manage somehow. "

The smaller man shot a startled glance at the speaker, then hisinsolence vanished. "All right, old top, " he said, easily. "But don'tcut off your nose to spite your face. Remember, I promised if you'dstick to me you'd wear gold-beaded moccasins. " He set off at a trot, with the dogs following. 

This fellow Harkness had come with the first snow into Nome, bearingnews of a strike on the Kobuk, and despite his braggadocio he had maderather a good impression. That luck which favors fools and fakers hadguided him straight to Folsom. He had appeared at a psychologicalmoment in the latter's affairs, two disastrous seasons having almostbroken Folsom and rendered him eager to grasp at anything whichpromised quick returns; moreover, the latter had just had a seriousquarrel with his wife. Harkness had offered a half interest in hisKobuk claims for a grubstake and a working partner, and, smartingunder the unaccustomed sting of domestic infelicity, the other hadaccepted, feeling sure in his own mind that Lois would not let himleave her when the time came to go. But the time had come, and Loishad offered no objection. She had acted strangely, to be sure, but shehad made no effort to dissuade him. It seemed as if the proposal toseparate for the winter had offended rather than frightened her. Well, that was the way with women; there was no pleasing them; when youtried to do the decent thing by them they pretended to misunderstandyour motives. If you paid them the compliment of utter confidence theyabused it on the pretext that you didn't love them; if you allowedyour jealousy to show, they were offended at your lack of trust. 

So ran the husband's thoughts. He hoped that six months of widowhoodwould teach Lois her own mind, but it hurt to hit the trail withnothing more stimulating than a listless kiss and a chill request towrite when convenient. Now that he was on his way he began to think ofthe pranks played by malicious nature during the long, dark nights, and to wonder if he had acted wisely in teaming up with this footlessadventurer. He remembered the malice that rides the winter winds, themischief that comes to Arctic widows, and he grew apprehensive. 

The travelers put up that night at the Tin Road-house, a comfortlessshack sheathed with flattened kerosene cans, and Folsom's irritationat his new partner increased, for Harkness was loud, boastful, andblatantly egotistical, with the egotism that accompanies denseignorance. 

The weather held cold, the snow remained as dry as sand, so they madeslow progress, and the husband had ample time to meditate upon hiswrongs, but the more he considered them the less acutely they smartedhim and the gentler became his thoughts of Lois. The solitudes werehealing his hurt, the open air was cooling his anger. 

At Kougarok City, a miserable huddle of cottonwood cabins, Harknessescaped his partner's watchful eye and got drunk. Folsom found thefellow clinging to the bar and entertaining a crowd of loafers withhis absurd boastings. In a white fury he seized the wretch, draggedhim from the room, and flung him into his bunk, then stood guard overhim most of the night. 

It was during the quieter hours when the place rumbled to snores thatFolsom yielded to his desire to write his wife, a desire which hadbeen growing steadily. He was disgusted with Harkness, disappointedwith the whole Kobuk enterprise, and in a peculiarly softened mood, therefore, he wrote with no attempt to conceal his yearning, homesicktenderness. 

But when he read the letter in the morning it struck him as weak andsentimental, just the sort of letter he would regret having written ifit should transpire that Lois did not altogether share his feelings. So he tore it up. 

Those were the days of faint trails and poor accommodations; as yetthe road to the Arctic was little traveled and imperfectly known, soHarkness acted as guide. He had bragged that he knew every inch of thecountry, but he soon proved that his ideas of distance were vague andfaulty--a serious shortcoming in a land with no food, no shelter, andno firewood except green willows in the gulch-bottoms. Folsom began tofear that the fellow's sense of direction was equally bad, and taxedhim with it, but Harkness scoffed at the idea. 

Leaving the last road-house behind them, they came into a hillysection of great white domes, high hog-backs, and ramifying creeks, each one exactly like its neighbor; two days' travel through this, according to Harkness, should have brought them to the Imnachuck, where there was food and shelter again. But when they pitched camp forthe second night Folsom felt compelled to remind his partner that theywere behind their schedule, and that this was the last of their grub. 

"Are you sure you're going right?" he inquired. 

"Sure? Of course I'm sure. D'you think I'm lost?"

Folsom fed some twisted willow-tops into the sheet-iron stove. "Iwouldn't recommend you as a pathfinder, " said he. "You said we'd sleepout one night. This is two, and to-morrow we'll walk hungry. "

"Well, don't blame me!" challenged the other. "I'm going slow on youraccount. "

Now nothing could have galled Folsom more than a reflection uponhis ability to travel. His lips whitened, he was upon the point ofspeaking his mind, but managed to check himself in time. Harkness'spersonality rasped him to the raw, and he had for days struggledagainst an utterly absurd but insistent desire to seize the littlecoxcomb by the throat and squeeze the arrogance out of him as juice issqueezed out of a lemon. There is flesh for which one's fingers itch. 

"I notice you're ready to camp when I am, " the larger man muttered. "Understand, this is no nice place to be without grub, for it's liableto storm any hour, and storms last at this season. "

"Now don't get cold feet. " Harkness could be maddeningly patronizingwhen he chose. "Leave it to me. I'll take you a short cut, and we'lleat lunch in a cabin to-morrow noon. "

But noon of the next day found Harkness still plodding up the riverwith the dogs close at his heels. The hills to the northward weregrowing higher, and Folsom's general knowledge of direction told himthat they were in danger of going too far. 

"I think the Imnachuck is over there, " said he. 

Harkness hesitated, then he nodded: "Right-o! It's just over thatlow saddle. " He indicated a sweeping hillside ahead, and a half-milefurther on he left the creek and began to climb. This was heavy workfor the dogs, and mid-afternoon came before the partners had gainedthe summit only to discover that they were not upon a saddlebackafter all, but upon the edge of a vast rolling tableland from which afanlike system of creeks radiated. In all directions was a desolatewaste of barren peaks. 

Folsom saw that the sky ahead was thick and dark, as if a stormimpended, and realizing only too well the results of the slightesterror in judgment he called to Harkness. But the latter pretendednot to hear, and took advantage of the dogs' fatigue to hurry out ofearshot. It was some time before the team overhauled him. 

"Do you know where you are?" Folsom inquired. 

"Certainly. " Harkness studied the panorama spread before him. "Thatblue gulch yonder is the Imnachuck. " He pointed to a valley perhapsfour miles away. 

A fine snow began to sift downward. The mountain peaks to thenorthward became obscured as by thin smoke, the afternoon shortenedwith alarming swiftness. Night, up here with a blizzard brewing, wasunthinkable, so after a while the driver called another halt. 

"Something informs me that you're completely lost, " he said, mildly. 

"Who, me? There she is. " Harkness flung out a directing hand oncemore. 

Folsom hesitated, battling with his leaping desires, and upon thatmomentary hesitation hinged results out of all proportions to thegravity of the situation--issues destined to change the deepestchannels of his life. Folsom hesitated, then he yielded to hisimpulse, and the luxury of yielding made him drunk. He walked aroundthe sled, removing his mittens with his teeth as he went. Without aword he seized his companion by the throat and throttled him until hiseyes protruded and his face grew black and bloated. He relaxed hisstiff fingers finally, then he shook the fellow back to consciousness. 

"Just as I thought, " he cried, harshly. "That's not the gulch youpointed out before. You're lost and you won't admit it. "

Harkness pawed the air and fought for his breath. There was abjectterror in his eyes. He reeled away, but saw there was no safety inflight. 

"Own up!" Folsom commanded. 

"You--said this was the way, " the pathfinder whimpered. "You mademe--turn off--" Folsom uttered a growl and advanced a step, whereuponhis victim gurgled: "D-don't touch me! That's the Imnachuck, so helpme God! I'm--I'm almost sure it is. "

"_Almost_!" The speaker stooped for his mittens and shook the snow outof them; he was still struggling to control himself. "Look here, Mr. Know-It-All, I've never been here before, and you have; somewhere inyour thick skull there must be some faint remembrance of the country. You got us into this fix, and I'm going to give you one more chanceto get us out of it. Don't try to think with your head, let your feetthink for you, and maybe they'll carry you to the right gulch. If theydon't--" Folsom scanned the brooding heavens and his lips compressed. "We're in for a storm and--we'll never weather it. Take one look whilethere's light to see by, then turn your feet loose and pray that theylead you right, for if they don't, by God, I'll cut you loose!"

It soon proved that memory lay neither in Harkness's head nor in hisfeet; when he had veered aimlessly about for half an hour, evidentlyfearing to commit himself to a definite course, and when the wind camewhooping down, rolling a twilight smother ahead of it, Folsom turnedhis dogs into the nearest depression and urged them to a run. Thegrade increased, soon brittle willow-tops brushed against the speedingsled: this brush grew higher as the two men, blinded now by the gale, stumbled onward behind the team. They emerged from the gulch into awider valley, after a while, and a mile further on the dogs burstthrough a grove of cottonwoods and fetched up before a lighted cabinwindow. 

Harkness pulled back his parka hood and cried, boastfully: "What did Itell you? I knew where I was all the time. " Then he went in, leavinghis partner to unhitch the team and care for it. 

Friendships ripen and enmities deepen quickly on the trail, seeds ofdiscord sprout and flourish in the cold. Folsom's burst of temper hadserved to inflame a mutual dislike, and as he and Harkness journeyednorthward that dislike deepened into something akin to hatred, for themen shared the same bed, drank from the same pot, endured the sameexasperations. Nothing except their hope of mutual profit heldthem together. In our careless search for cause and effect we areaccustomed to attribute important issues to important happenings, amazing consequences to amazing deeds; as a matter of fact it is thetrivial action, the little thing, the thing unnoticed and forgottenwhich bends our pathways and makes or breaks us. 

Harkness was a hare-brained, irresponsible person, incapable ofsteadiness in thought or action, too weak to cherish actual hatred, too changeable to nurse a lasting grudge. It is with such frailinstruments that prankish fate delights to work, and, although henever suspected it, the luxury of yielding to that sudden gust ofpassion cost Folsom dear. 

Arrived finally at the Kobuk the miner examined the properties coveredby his option, and impressed by the optimism of the men who had madethe gold discovery he paid Harkness the price agreed upon. The dealcompleted, he sent the fellow back to Candle Creek, the nearestpost, for supplies. Folsom's mood had altogether changed by now, so, strangling his last doubt of Lois, he wrote her as he had written atKougarok City, and intrusted the letter to his associate. 

Harkness, promptly upon his arrival at Candle, got drunk. He stayeddrunk for three days, and it was not until he was well started on hisway back to the Kobuk that he discovered Folsom's letter still in hispocket. 

Now, to repeat, the man was not malicious, neither was he bad, but ashe debated whether he should back-track there came to him the memoryof his humiliation on the Imnachuck divide. 

So! His brains were in his feet, eh? Folsom had strangled him until hekicked, when, all the time, they had been on the right trail. Harknessfelt a flash of rage, like the flare of loose gunpowder, and in theheat of it he tore the letter to atoms. It was a womanish, spitefulthing to do, and he regretted it, but later when he greeted thehusband he lied circumstantially and declared he had given the missiveinto the hands of the mail-carrier on the very hour of his departure. By this time, doubtless, it was nearly to Nome. Soon thereafterHarkness forgot all about the incident. 

Folsom was a fast worker. He hired men and cross-cut the mostpromising claim. Bed-rock was shallow, and he soon proved it to bebarren, so he went on to the next property. When he had prospectedthis claim with no better results than before he wrote his wifeconfessing doubts of the district and voicing the fear that hiswinter's work would be wasted. Again he let his pen run as it would;the letter he gave to a neighbor who was leaving for Candle Creek inthe morning. 

Folsom's neighbor was a famous "musher, " a seasoned, self-reliant man, thoroughly accustomed to all the hazards of winter travel, but tenmiles from his destination he crossed an inch-deep overflow whichrendered the soles of his muk-luks slippery, and ten yards further on, where the wind had laid the glare-ice bare, he lost his footing. Hefell and wrenched his ankle and came hobbling into Candle half an hourafter the monthly mail for Nome had left. 

Three weeks later Folsom wrote his wife for the third time, and againa month after that. All three letters joined company in Candle Creek;for meanwhile the mail-man's lead dog had been killed in a fight witha big malamute at Lane's Landing, causing its owner to miss a trip. Now dog-fights are common; by no logic could one attribute weightyresults to the loss of a sixty-pound leader, but in this instance itso happened that the mail-carrier's schedule suffered so that hiscontract was canceled. 

Meanwhile a lonely woman waited anxiously in Nome, and as the resultof a stranger's spite, a wet muk-luk, and a vicious malamute heranxiety turned to bitterness and distrust. 

It is never difficult to forward mail in the north, for every "musher"is a postman. When news came to Candle Creek that the Governmentservice had been discontinued the storekeeper, one end of whose barserved as post-office, sacked his accumulated letters and intrustedthem to some friends who were traveling southward on the morrow. Thetrader was a canny man, but he loved to gamble, so when his friendsoffered to bet him that they could lower the record from Candle toNome he went out into the night, sniffed the air and studied thestars, then laid them a hundred dollars that they could not. 

Excited to recklessness by this wager the volunteer mail-men cutdown their load. They left their stove and tent and grub-box behind, planning to make a road-house every night except during the long jumpfrom the Imnachuck to Crooked River. They argued that it was worth ahundred dollars to sleep once under the open sky. 

The fruits of that sporting enterprise were bitter; the trader won hisbet, but he never cashed it in. Somewhere out on the high barrens astorm swooped down upon the travelers. To one who has never faced anArctic hurricane it seems incredible that strong men have died withincall of cozy cabins or have frozen with the lashings of their sledsbut half untied. Yet it is true. The sudden awful cold, the shoutingwind, the boiling, blinding, suffocating rush of snow; the sweatyclothes that harden into jointless armor; the stiff mittens and theclumsy hands inside--these tell a tale to those who know. 

The two mail-carriers managed to get into their sleeping-bags, but thegale, instead of drifting them over with a protective mantle of snow, scoured the mountain-side bare to the brittle reindeer moss, and theybegan to freeze where they lay. Some twenty hours they stood it, thenthey rose and plunged ahead of the hurricane like bewildered cattle. The strongest man gave up first and lay down, babbling of thingsto eat. His companion buried him, still alive, and broke down thesurrounding willow-tops for a landmark, then he staggered on. By somemiracle of good luck, or as a result of some unsuspected power ofresistance, he finally came raving into the Crooked River Road-house. When the wind subsided they hurried him to Nome, but he wasfrightfully maimed and as a result of his amputations he lay gabblinguntil long after the spring break-up. 

Folsom did not write again. In fact, when no word came from Lois, hebitterly regretted the letters he had written. He heard indirectlyfrom her; new-comers from Nome told him that she was well, but thatwas all. It was enough. He did not wish to learn more. 

Spring found him with barely enough money to pay his way back. He wasblue, bitter, disheartened, but despite the certainty that hiswife had forsaken him he still cherished a flickering hope of areconciliation. Strangely enough he considered no scheme of vengeanceupon the other man, for he was sane and healthy, and he loved Lois toowell to spoil her attempt at happiness. 

It so happened that the Arctic ice opened up later this spring thanfor many seasons; therefore the short summer was well under way beforethe first steam-schooner anchored off the Kobuk. Folsom turned hisback upon the wreck of his high hopes, his mind solely engaged withthe problem of how to meet Lois and ascertain the truth without undueembarrassment to her and humiliation to himself. The prospect ofseeing her, of touching her, of hearing her voice, affected himpainfully. He could neither eat nor sleep on the way to Nome, butpaced the deck in restless indecision. He had come to consider himselfwholly to blame for their misunderstanding, and he wished only for achance to win back her love, with no questions asked and no favorsgranted. 

When there were less than fifty miles to go the steamer broke hershaft. There was no particular reason why that shaft should break, but break it did, and for eighteen hours--eighteen eternities toFolsom--the ship lay crippled while its engine-room crew laboredmanfully. 

Folsom had been so long in the solitudes that Nome looked like abig city when he finally saw it. There were several ships in theroadstead, and one of them was just leaving as the Kobuk boat came toanchor. She made a splendid sight as she gathered way. 

The returning miner went ashore in the first dory and as he steppedout upon the sand a friend greeted him:

"Hello there, old settler! Where you been all winter?"

"I've been to the Kobuk, " Folsom told him. 

"Kobuk? I hear she's a bum. "

"'Bum' is right. Maybe she'll do to dredge some day. "

"Too bad you missed the _Oregon_; there she goes now. " The man pointedseaward. 

"Too bad?"

"Sure! Don't you know? Why, Miz Folsom went out on her!"

Folsom halted; after a momentary pause he repeated, vaguely, "Wentout?"

"Exactly. Didn't you know she was going?"

"Oh yes--of course! The _Oregon_!" Folsom stared at the fading plumeof black smoke; there was a curious brightness in his eyes, his facewas white beneath its tan. "She sailed on the _Oregon_ and I missedher, by an hour! That broken shaft--" He began to laugh, and turninghis back upon the sea he plodded heavily through the sand toward themain street. 

Folsom found no word from his wife, his house was empty; but helearned that "the man" had also gone to the States, and he drew hisown conclusions. Since Lois had ordered her life as she saw fit therewas nothing to do but wait and endure--doubtless the divorce wouldcome in time. Nevertheless, he could not think of that broken shaftwithout raving. 

Being penniless he looked for work, and his first job came from asmall Jewish merchant, named Guth, who offered him a hundred dollarsto do the assessment work on a tundra claim. For twenty days Folsompicked holes through frozen muck, wondering why a thrifty person likeGuth would pay good money to hold such unpromising property as this. 

The claim was in sight of Nome, and as Folsom finished his last day'slabor he heard bells ringing and whistles blowing and discovered thatthe town was ablaze. He hurried in to find that an entire block inthe business center of the city had been destroyed and with it Guth'slittle store, including all its contents. He found the Jew in tears. 

"What a misfortune!" wailed the merchant. "Ruined, absolutely--and bya match! It started in my store--my little girl, you understand?And now, all gone!" He tore his beard and the tears rolled down hischeeks. 

The little man's grief was affecting, and so Folsom inquired moregently than he intended, "I'm sorry, of course, but how about my moneyfor the Lulu assessment?"

"Money? There's your money!" Guth pointed sadly into the smolderingruins. "Go find it--you're welcome to anything I have left. Gott! Whata country! How can a man get ahead, with no insurance?"

Folsom laughed mirthlessly. His hard luck was becoming amusing andhe wondered how long it would last. He had counted on that hundreddollars to get away from Nome, hoping to shake misfortune from hisheels, but a match in the hands of a child, like that broken propellershaft, had worked havoc with his plans. Well, it was useless to cry. 

To the despairing Hebrew he said: "Don't lose your grip, old man. Buckup and take another start. You have your wife and your little girl, atleast, and you're the sort who makes good. "

"You think so?" Guth looked up, grateful for the first word ofencouragement he had heard. 

"It's a cinch! Only don't lose your courage. "

"I--I'll do what's right by you, Mr. Folsom, " declared the other. "I'll deed you a half interest in the Lulu. "

But Folsom shook his head. "I don't want it. There's nothing thereexcept moss and muck and salmon berries, and it's a mile to bed-rock. No, you're welcome to my share; maybe you can sell the claim forenough to make a new start or to buy grub for the wife and the kid. I'll look for another job. "

For a month or more the lonesome husband "stevedored, " wrestlingfreight on the lighters, then he disappeared. He left secretly, in thenight, for by now he had grown fanciful and he dared to hope that hecould dodge his Nemesis. He turned up in Fairbanks, a thousand milesaway, and straightway lost himself in the hills. 

He had not covered his tracks, however, for bad luck followed him. 

Now no man starves in Alaska, for there is always work for theable-bodied; but whatever Folsom turned his hand to failed, and by andby his courage went. He had been a man of consequence in Nome; hehad made money and he had handled other men, therefore his sense offailure was the bitterer. 

Meanwhile, somewhere in him there remained the ghost of his faithin Lois, the faintly flickering hope that some day they would cometogether again. It lay dormant in him, like an irreligious man'sunacknowledged faith in God and a hereafter, but it, too, vanishedwhen he read in a Seattle newspaper, already three months old, theannouncement of his wife's divorce. He flinched when he read that ithad been won on the grounds of desertion, and thereafter he shunnednewspapers. 

Spring found him broke, as usual. He had become bad company and menavoided him. It amused him grimly to learn that a new strike had beenmade in Nome, the biggest discovery in the camp's history, and torealize that he had fled just in time to miss the opportunity ofprofiting by it. He heard talk of a prehistoric sea-beach line, astreak of golden sands which paralleled the shore and lay hidden belowthe tundra mud. News came of overnight fortunes, of friends grownprosperous and mighty. Embittered anew, Folsom turned again to thewilderness, and he did not reappear until the summer was over. He cameto town resolved to stay only long enough to buy bacon and beans, buthe had lost his pocket calendar and arrived on a Sunday, when thestores were closed. 

Even so little a thing as the loss of that calendar loomed big in thelight of later events, for in walking the streets he encountered afriend but just arrived from the Behring coast. 

The man recognized him, despite his beard and his threadbare mackinawsand they had a drink together. 

"I s'pose you heard about that Third Beach Line?" the new-comerinquired. Folsom nodded. "Well, they've opened it up for miles, andit's just a boulevard of solid gold. 'Cap' Carter's into it big, andso are the O'Brien boys and Old Man Hendricks. They're lousy withpay. "

"I did the work on a tundra claim, " said Folsom; "the Lulu--"

"The _Lulu_!" Folsom's friend stared at him. "Haven't you heard aboutthe Lulu? My God! Where you been, anyhow? Why, the Lulu's a mint! Guthis a millionaire and he made it all without turning a finger. "

Folsom's grip on the bar-rail tightened until his knuckles were white. 

"I'm telling you right, old man; he's the luckiest Jew in the country. He let a lay to McCarthy and Olson, and they took out six hundredthousand dollars, after Christmas. "

"Guth offered me a--half interest in the Lulu when his store burnedand--I turned it down. He's never paid me for that assessment work. "

The Nomeite was speechless with amazement. "The son-of-a-gun!" hesaid, finally. "Well, you can collect now. Say! That's what he meantwhen he told me he wanted to see you. Guth was down to the boat when Ileft, and he says: 'If you see Folsom up river tell him to come back. I got something for him. ' Those were his very words. That little Jewaims to pay you a rotten hundred so you won't sue him for an interest. By Gorry, I wouldn't take it! I'd go back and make him do the rightthing. I'd sue him. I'd bust him in the nose! A half interest--in theLulu! My God!" The speaker gulped his drink hastily. 

After consideration, Folsom said: "He'll do the right thing. Guthisn't a bad sort. "

"No. But he's a Jew; trust him to get his. "

"I wouldn't ask him to do more than pay his debt. You see I refusedhis offer. "

"What of that? I'd give it a try, anyhow, and see if he wouldn'tsettle. There's lots of lawyers would take your case. But say, that'sthe toughest tough-luck story I ever heard. You've sure got a jinx onyou. "

"I'm going back, but I won't sue Guth. I'm sick of Alaska; it haslicked me. I'm going out to God's country. "

Folsom indeed acknowledged himself beaten. The narrow margin by whichhe had missed reward for his work and his hardships bred in him suchhatred for Alaska that he abruptly changed his plans. He had no heart, perversity had killed his courage. It exasperated him beyond allmeasure to recall what little things his luck had hinged upon, whatstraws had turned his feet. A moment of pique with Lois, a brokenpiece of steel, a match, a momentary whim when Guth offered himpayment. It was well that he did not know what part had been played byhis quarrel with Harkness, that wet muk-luk, that vicious lead dog, and the storekeeper's wager. 

Folsom carried cord-wood to pay for a deck passage down river. Hediscovered en route that Guth had really tried to get in touch withhim, and in fact appeared greatly concerned over his failure to do so, for at Tanana he received another message, and again at St. Michaels. He was grimly amused at the little Jew's craftiness, yet it sorelyoffended him to think that any one should consider him such a welcher. He had no intention of causing trouble, for he knew he had no legalclaim against the fellow, and he doubted if he possessed even a moralright to share in the Lulu's riches. To play upon the Hebrew's fears, therefore, savored of extortion. Nevertheless, he was in no agreeableframe of mind when he arrived at his destination and inquired forGuth. 

The new-made millionaire was in his office; Folsom walked inunannounced. He had expected his arrival to create a scene, and he wasnot disappointed. But Guth's actions were strange, they left the newarrival dazed, for the little man fell upon him with what appeared tobe exuberant manifestations of joy. 

"Mr. Folsom!" he cried. "You have come! You got my letters, eh? Well, I wrote you everywhere, but I was in despair, for I thought you mustbe dead. Nobody knew what had become of you. "

"I got your message in Fairbanks. "

"You heard about the Lulu, eh? Gott! She's a dandy. "

"Yes. I can hardly believe it. So, you're rich. Well, I congratulateyou, and now I can use that hundred. "

Guth chuckled. "Ha! You will have your joke, eh? But the Lulu is nojoke. Come, we will go to the bank; I want them to tell you how muchshe has yielded. You'll blame me for leasing her, but how was I toknow what she was?"

"I--Why should I blame--" Folsom stared at the speaker. "It's none ofmy business what the Lulu has yielded. In fact, I'll sleep better if Idon't know. "

Little Guth paused and his mouth opened. After a moment he inquired, curiously: "Don't you understand?" There was another pause, then hesaid, quietly, "I'm a man of my word. "

Folsom suddenly saw black, the room began to spin, he passed his handacross his eyes. "Wait! Let's get this straight, " he whispered. 

"It is all very simple, " Guth told him. "We are equal partners inthe Lulu--we have been, ever since the day my store burned. It was alittle thing you said to me then, but the way you said it, the factthat you didn't blame me, gave me new heart. Did you think I'd renig?"When Folsom found no answer the other nodded slowly. "I see. Youprobably said, 'That Guth is a Jew and he'll do me up if he can. 'Well, I am a Jew, yes, and I am proud of it; but I am an honest man, too, like you. "

Folsom turned to the wall and hid his face in the crook of his arm, but with his other hand he groped for that of the Hebrew. 

The story of the Lulu is history now; in all the north that mine isfamous, for it made half a dozen fortunes. In a daze, half doubtingthe reality of things, Folsom watched a golden stream pour into hislap. All that winter and the next summer the Lulu yielded wondrously, but one of the partners was not happy, his thoughts being ever of thewoman who had left him. Prosperity gave him courage, however, and whenhe discovered that Lois had not remarried he determined to press hisluck as a gambler should. 

When the second season's sluicing was over and the ground had frozenhe went outside. 

The day after he sailed Lois arrived in Nome, on the last boat. Shewas older, graver; she had heard of the Lulu, but it was not thatwhich had brought her back. She had returned in spite of the Lulu tosolve an aching mystery and to learn the why of things. Her husband'sriches--she still considered him her husband--merely made the taskmore trying. 

Advised that Folsom had passed almost within hailing distance of her, she pressed her lips together and took up her problem of living. Theprospect of another lonely Alaskan winter frightened her, and yetbecause of the Lulu she could not return by the ship she had come on. Now that Folsom was a Croesus she could not follow him too closely--hemight misunderstand. After all, she reflected, it mattered little toher where she lived. 

Guth called at her cabin, but she managed to avoid seeing him, andsomehow continued to avoid a meeting. 

Late in December some travelers from Candle Creek, while breaking ashort cut to the head of Crooked River, came upon an abandoned sledand its impedimenta. Snow and rain and summer sun had bleached itswood, its runners were red streaks of rust, its rawhide lashings hadbeen eaten off, but snugly rolled inside the tarpaulin was a sackof mail. This mail the travelers brought in with them, and the Nomenewspapers, in commenting upon the find, reprinted the story of thattragic fight for life in the Arctic hurricane, now almost forgotten. 

Folsom's three letters reached their destination on Christmas Day. They were stained and yellow and blurred in places, for they werethree years old, but the woman read them with eyes wide and wondering, and with heart-beats pounding, for it seemed that dead lips spoke toher. Ten minutes later she was standing at Guth's door, and when helet her in she behaved like one demented. She had the letters hiddenin her bosom, and she would not let him see them, but she managed tomake known the meaning of her coming. 

"You know him, " she cried, hysterically. "You made him rich. You'velived alongside of him. Tell me then, has he--has he--changed? Theseletters are old. Does he still care, or--does he hate me, as heshould?"

Guth smiled; he took her shaking hands in his, his voice was gentle. "No, no! He doesn't hate you. He has never mentioned your name to me, or to any one else, so far as I know, but his money hasn't satisfiedhim. He is sad, and he wants you. That is what took him to the States, I'm sure. "

Lois sank into a chair, her face was white, her twisting fingersstrained at each other. "I can't understand. I can't make head or tailof it, " she moaned. "It seems that I wronged him, but see what ruin hehas made for me! Why? Why--?"

"Who can understand the 'why' of anything?" inquired the littleHebrew. "I've heard him curse the perversity of little things, andrave at what he called the 'malice of the north wind. ' I didn't dareto ask him what he meant, but I knew he was thinking of the evil whichhad come between you two. Who was to blame, or what separated you, henever told me. Well, his bad luck has changed, and yours, too; and I'mhappy. Now then, the wireless. You can talk to him. Let us go. "

An hour later a crackling message was hurled into the empty Christmassky, a message that pulsed through the voids, was relayed over ice andbrine and drifted forests to a lonely, brooding man three thousandmiles away. 

The answer came rushing back:

"Thank God! Am starting north tomorrow. Love and a million kisses. Wait for me. "

Folsom came. Neither ice nor snow, neither winter seas nor tracklesswastes, could daunt him, for youth was in his heart and fire ranthrough his veins. North and west he came by a rimy little steamer, asfast as coal could drive her, then overland more than fifteen hundredmiles. His record stands unbroken, and in villages from Katmai to theKuskokwim the Indians tell of the tall white man with the team offifteen huskies who raced through as if a demon were at his heels; howhe bored headlong into the blizzards and braved January's fiercestrage; how his guides dropped and his dogs died in their collars. Thatwas how Folsom came. 

He was thin and brown, the marks of the frost were bitten deep intohis flesh when, one evening in early March, he drove into Nome. Hehad covered sixty miles on the last day's run, and his team wasstaggering. He left the dogs in their harnesses, where they fell, andbounded through the high-banked streets to Lois's cabin. 

It was growing dark, a light gleamed from her window; Folsom glimpsedher moving about inside. He paused to rip the ice from his beardedlips, then he knocked softly, three times. 

As he stood there a gentle north wind fanned him. It was deadly cold, but it was fresh and clean and vastly invigorating. There was nomalice in it. 

At his familiar signal he heard the clatter of a dish, dropped fromnerveless fingers, he heard a startled voice cry out his name, then hepressed the latch and entered, smiling. 

HIS STOCK IN TRADE

"The science of salesmanship is quite as exact as the science ofastronomy, " said Mr. Gross, casting his eyes down the table to seethat he had the attention of the other boarders, "and much moreintricate. The successful salesman is as much an artist in his line asthe man who paints pictures or writes books. "

"Oh, there's nothing so artistic as writing books, " protested MissHarris, the manicurist. "Nothing except acting, perhaps. Actors areartistic, too. But salesmen! I meet lots in my business, and I'm notstrong for them. "

Mr. Gross smiled at her indulgently; it was an expression that becamehim well, and he had rehearsed it often. 

"The power to sell goods is a talent, my dear Miss Harris, just likethe power to invent machinery or to rule a city, or--or--to keep a setof books. Don't you agree with me, Mrs. Green?"

Mrs. Green, the landlady, a brown, gray woman in black, smiledfrigidly. "You're _so_ original, Mr. Gross, " said she, "it's apleasure to hear you, I'm sure. "

Gross was an impressive talker, due to the fact that he plagiarizedoffice platitudes; he ran on pompously, dropping trade mottoes andshop-worn bits of philosophy until young Mitchell, unable longer toendure the light of admiration he saw in Miss Harris's eyes, rolledup his napkin to the size of a croquette and interrupted by noisilyshoving back his chair and muttering under his breath:

"That stuff comes on printed cards. They give it away. "

Mrs. Green called to him, "It's bread pudding, Mr. Mitchell, and verynice. "

"Thanks! My gout is bad again, " he said, at which some of the morefrivolous-minded boarders snickered. 

"Mitchell is a bright boy--in many ways, " Gross remarked, a momentlater, "but he's too fresh. I don't think he'll last long at theoffice. "

Instead of climbing to his hall kennel on the fourth floor rear, LouisMitchell went out upon the rusty little porch of the boarding-houseand sat down on the topmost step, reflecting gloomily that a clerk hassmall chance against a head bookkeeper. 

Life at Mrs. Green's pension--she called it that, rates six dollarsup, terms six dollars down--had not been the same for the youthfulhermit of the hall bedroom since Gross had met him and Miss Harris inthe park a few Sundays before and, falling under the witchery of themanicurist's violet eyes, had changed his residence to coincide withtheirs. Gross now occupied one of the front rooms, and a correspondingplace in the esteem of those less fortunate boarders to whom the merecontemplation of ten dollars a week was an extravagance. Mitchell hadlong adored the blonde manicurist, but once the same roof shelteredher and the magnificent head bookkeeper, he saw his dream of love andtwo furnished rooms with kitchenette go glimmering. 

Time was when Miss Harris had been content with Sundays in the park, vaudeville--first balcony--on Wednesdays, and a moving picture now andthen. These lavish attentions, coupled with an occasional assault uponsome delicatessen establishment, had satisfied her cravings for thehigher life. Now that Gross had appeared and sown discord with hisprodigality she no longer cared for animals and band concerts, she hadacquired the orchestra-seat habit, had learned to dance, and, aboveall, she now possessed a subtle refinement in regard to victuals. Shecriticized Marlowe's acting, and complained that cold food gave herindigestion. No longer did she sit the summer evenings out withMitchell, holding his hand in her lap and absent-mindedly buffing hisnails, warning him in sweet familiarity that his cuticle was "growingdown. " In consequence of her defection, fierce resentment smoldered inthe young man's breast. He was jealous; he longed to out-squanderthe extravagant Mr. Gross; he lusted to spend money in unstintedquantities, five dollars an evening if or when necessary. 

But there seemed little hope of his ever attaining such a purse-proudposition, for while he loomed fairly large in the boarding-houseatmosphere of Ohio Street--or had so loomed until the advent of thereckless bookkeeper--he was so small a part of the office force ofComer & Mathison, jobbers of railway supplies, as to resemble nothingmultiplied by itself. He received twelve dollars a week, to be sure, for making telephone quotations and extending invoices between times;but when, as the evening shadows of pay-day descended and he drew hisenvelope, the procedure reminded him vaguely of blackmail, for anyoffice-boy who did not stutter could have held his job. 

When at seven forty-five Miss Harris appeared upon the porch with herhat and gloves and two-dollar-ticket air, and tripped gaily away incompany with Mr. Gross, young Mitchell realized bitterly that the costof living had increased and that it was up to him to raise his salaryor lose his lady. 

He recalled Gross's words at supper-time, and wondered if there reallycould be a science to business; if there could be anything to successexcept hard work. Mr. Comer, in his weekly talks to the officeforce, had repeatedly said so--whence the origin of the bookkeeper'swarmed-over wisdom--but Mitchell's duties were so simple and soconstricted as to allow no opening for science, or so, at least, itseemed to him. How could he be scientific, how could he find play forgenius when he sat at the end of a telephone wire and answered routinequestions from a card? Every day the General Railway Sales Managergave him a price-list of the commodities which C. & M. Handled, andwhen an inquiry came over the 'phone all he was required, all hewas permitted, to do was to read the figures and to quote time ofdelivery. If this resulted in an order the Sales Manager took thecredit. An open quotation, on the other hand, made Mitchell thesubject of brusque criticism for offering a target to competitors, andwhen he lost an order he was the goat, not the General Railway SalesManager. 

No one around the office was too lowly to exact homage from thequotation clerk, and no one was tongue-tied in the matter ofcriticism, hence his position was neither one of dignity nor onethat afforded scope for talent in the money-making line. And yet ifsalesmanship really were a science, Mitchell reasoned, there mustbe some way in which even a switchboard operator could profit byacquiring it. What if he were buckled to the end of a wire? Humannature is the same, face to face or voice to voice; surely then, ifhe set his mind to the task, he could make himself more than a merestring of words over a telephone. Heretofore he had been workingwholly with his fingers, his ear-drums, and his vocal cords; hedetermined henceforth to exercise his intelligence, if he had any. Itwas indeed high time, for Miss Harris was undoubtedly slipping away, lured by luxuries no clerk could afford, and, moreover, he, Mitchell, was growing old; in a scant two years he would be able to vote. Hebegan forthwith to analyze the situation. 

There wasn't much to it. His telephone calls came almost whollyfrom the purchasing departments of the various railroads. Dailyrequisitions were filled by the stenographers in those railwayoffices, young ladies who through their long experience were allowedto attend to the more unimportant purchases. It was in quoting priceson these "pick-ups" that Mitchell helloed for eight hours a day. Of course no large orders ever came over his wire, but this smallbusiness carried an unusual profit for supply houses like Comer &Mathison, and in consequence it was highly prized. 

After a period of intense and painful thought the young man realized, for the first time, that it was not the telephone itself which askedfor price and time of delivery, but a weak, imaginative human being, like himself, at the other end of the wire. He reasoned further thatif he could convince that person that the voice from Conner & Mathisonlikewise issued from a human throat, then it might be possible to getaway, in a measure at least, from the mechanical part of the businessand establish altogether new relations. If there were really ascience to salesmanship, it would work at long distance as well as atcollar-and-elbow holds, and Mitchell's first task, therefore, shouldbe to project his own personality into the railroad offices. He wentto bed still trying to figure the matter out. 

His opportunity to test his new-born theory came on the followingmorning when an irritable female voice over at the Santa Fé asked theprice on twenty kegs of rivets. 

"Good morning, Santa Fe-male, " he answered, cheerily. 

There was a moment of amazed silence, then the young lady snapped:"'Good morning'? What is this, the Weather Bureau? I want Comer &Mathison. "

"Gee! Can't a fellow display a little courtesy in business?" Mitchellinquired. "I'd rather be nice to you than not. "

"All right, Mr. Comer, " the voice replied, sarcastically. "Make a niceprice on those rivets--and cut out the kidding. "

"Listen; my name's not Comer; it's Mitchell. I'm not kidding, either. I want you to ask for me whenever you call up. Every little bit helps, you know. "

"Oh, I see. You want the carriage man to call your number. All right, Mitch. If you're out at lunch with Mr. Carnegie the next time I want adozen number ten sheets I'll have you paged at the Union League Club. "

If the speaker liked this kind of blank verse, she had called up theright supply house, for Mitchell came back with:

"Say, if I ever get _your_ number, I'll do the calling, Miss SantaFé. "

"_W-what_?" came the startled reply. 

"I mean what I say. I'd love to call--"

"Is that so? Well, I do all the calling for our, family, and I'm goingto call you right now. What's the price of those rivets?"

"Two sixty-five. "

"Too high! Good-by. "

"Wait a minute. " Mitchell checked the lady before she could "plug out"on him. "Now that you've got those rivets out of your system, may Iget personal for an instant?"

"Just about an instant. "

"I could listen to _you_ all day. "

"Oops, Horace; he loves me!" mocked the lady's voice. 

"See here, I'm a regular person--with references. I've been talking toyou every day for six months, so I feel that we're acquainted. Somepleasant evening, when your crew of hammock gladiators palls on you, let me come around and show you the difference. "

"What difference?"

"I'll show you what a real porch-climber is like. "

"Indeed! I'll think it over. "

Ten minutes later Miss Santa Fe called up again. 

"Hello! I want Mitchell, the junior partner. "

"This is Mitchell. "

"Did you say those rivets were two-fifty?"

"Should they be?"

"They should. "

"They are. "

"Ship them to Trinidad. "

"That's bully of you, Miss Santa Claus. I want to--" But the wire wasdead. 

Mitchell grinned. Personality did count after all, and he had provedthat it could be projected over a copper wire. 

An hour later when Miss Northwestern called him for a price onstay-bolt iron she did not ring off for fifteen minutes, and at theend of that time she promised to take the first opportunity of havinganother chat. In a similar manner, once the ice had been broken atthe C. & E. I. , Mitchell learned that the purchasing agent was at WestBaden on his vacation; that he had stomach trouble and was cranky;that the speaker loved music, particularly Chaminade and George Cohan, although Beethoven had written some good stuff; that she'd been toGrand Haven on Sunday with her cousin, who sold hats out of Clevelandand was a prince with his money, but drank; and that the price oncorrugated iron might be raised ten cents without doing any damage. 

On the following afternoon Murphy, the Railroad Sales Manager, stoppedon his way past Mitchell's desk to inquire:

"Say, have you been sending orchids to Miss Dunlap over at the SantaFe? I was in there this morning, and she wanted to know all aboutyou. "

"Did you boost me?" Louis inquired. "It won't hurt your sales to plugmy game. "

"She said you and she are 'buddies' over the wire. What did she mean?"

"Oh, wire pals, that's all. What kind of a looker is she, Mr. Murphy?"

The Sales Manager shrugged his shoulders. "She looks as if she wasgood to her mother. " Then he sauntered away. 

Mitchell, in the days that followed, proceeded to become acquaintedwith the Big Four, and in a short time was so close to the Lackawannathat he called her Phoebe Snow. The St. Paul asked for him three timesin one afternoon, and the Rock Island, chancing to ring up while hewas busy, threatened to hang crêpe on the round-house if he were notsummoned immediately to enter an order for a manhole crab. 

Within a week he became the most thoroughly telephoned person in theoffice, and had learned the tastes, the hopes, the aims, and theambitions of his respective customers. Miss C. & E. I. , for instance, whose real name was Gratz, was a bug on music; Miss Northwestern wasliterary. She had read everything Marion Crawford ever wrote, andconsidered her the greatest writer Indiana had produced, but was sorryto learn from Mitchell that her marriage to Capt. Jack Crawford hadturned out so unhappily--some men were brutes, weren't they? There wasa hidden romance gnawing at the Big Four's heart, and Phoebe Snowhad a picture of James K. Hackett on her desk and wanted to start apoultry farm. The Santa Fé had been married once, but had taken hermaiden name, it was so much pleasanter in business. 

As Mitchell's telephone orders piled up, day after day, Murphy beganto treat him more like an employee than a "hand, " and finally offeredhim a moderate expense account if he cared to entertain his railroadtrade. When the young man's amazement at this offer had abatedsufficiently for him to accept he sent the office-boy around to theSanta Fe on the run, instructing him to size up Miss Dunlap andreport. It was the first order he had ever issued in the office, andthe news spread quickly that he had been "raised. "

Mr. Gross took occasion to congratulate the despised underling withpompous insincerity, whereat Louis admonished him scowlingly to beatit back to his trial balance or he'd bounce a letter-press on hisdome. 

When the office-boy reappeared he turned in a laconic report, "She's apeach!"

Mitchell sweated the lad for further details, then nearly strained atendon in getting to the telephone booth. 

"Hello, Miss Dunlap, " he called. "Are you tied up for to-night?"

"I'm knot. The k is silent. "

"Will you go to the theater with me?"

"Nickelodeon?"

"No, Montgomery and Stone. "

The lady muttered something unintelligible, then she titterednervously. "Those top balconies make me dizzy. "

"How about the orchestra--sixth row? Could you keep your head there?"

"You must own a bill-board. "

"No, it's a bank-book; same initials, you see. I'm an heiress. "

"See here, Mitch"--Miss Dunlap became serious--"you're a good littlecopper-wire comedian, but I don't know you nor your people. "

"Well, I come from one of the oldest families in Atwood, Michigan, andthat town was settled over thirty years ago. "

"But you don't know me, " the lady demurred. 

"I do, too. You're a tall blonde, gray eyes, blue dress; you have adimple--"

"Well, I declare! All right, then; seven-thirty to-night, six hundredand twelve Filbert Street, fourth apartment, and many thanks. "

Fifteen minutes before the appointed time Louis Mitchell was fidgetingnervously outside the Filbert Street cold-water "walk-up" known asGeraldine Manor, wondering if Miss Dunlap would notice his clothes. Twelve dollars a week had starved his wardrobe until it resembled theback-drop for a "Pity the Blind" card; but promptly on the minutehe punched the button at the fourth apartment. An instant later herealized that no matter how he looked he had it on Miss Dunlap byeighty per cent. 

She was a blonde, to be sure, for the time being, and by the grace ofH_{2}O_{2}. One glance convinced her caller of two things--_viz_. , that his office-boy did not care much for peaches, and that the SantaFé purchasing agent had a jealous wife. The most that possibly couldbe said in praise of Miss Dunlap's appearance was that she was thelargest stenographer in Chicago. Then and there, however, her callerqualified as a salesman; he smiled and he chatted in a free and easyway that had the lady roped, thrown, and lashed to his chariot inthree minutes by her alarm-clock. 

They went to the theater, and when Montgomery sprang a joke or Stonedid a fall Miss Dunlap showed her appreciation after the fashion of alaughing hyena. Between times she barked enthusiastically, giving ventto sounds like those caused when a boy runs past a picket fence with astick in his hand. She gushed, but so does Old Faithful. Anyhow, theaudience enjoyed her greatly. 

At supper Mitchell secured parking space for his companion at theUnion Café, and there he learned how a welsh rabbit may be humiliatedby a woman. During the _débâcle_ he fingered the money in his pocket, then shut his eyes and ordered a bottle of champagne, just to see ifit could be done. Contrary to his expectation, the waiter did notswoon; nor was he arrested. Root-beer had been Mitchell's mainintoxicant heretofore, but as he and the noisy Miss Dunlap sipped theeffervescing wine over their ice-cream, they pledged themselves toenjoy Monday evenings together, and she told him, frankly:

"Mitch, you're the nickel-plated entertainer, and I'll never missanother Monday eve unless I'm in the shops or the round-house. Youcertainly have got class. "

At breakfast Miss Harris regarded Lotus darkly, for Mr. Gross had toldher just enough to excite her curiosity. 

"Where were you last night?" she inquired. 

"I went to a show. "

"Were the pictures good?"

"They don't have pictures at the Grand. "

"Oh--h!" The manicurist's violet eyes opened wide. "Louis--you _drank_something. You're awful pale. What was it?"

"Clicquot! That's my favorite brand. "

Miss Harris clutched the table-cloth and pulled a dish into her lap. After a moment she said: "Maybe you'll take me somewhere to-night. Wehaven't been out together for the longest time. "

"Oh, I see! This is Gross's night at the Maccabbees', isn't it?" Louisgloated brutally over her confusion. "Sorry, but I'll probably have toentertain some more customers. The firm is keeping me busy. "

At the office things went most pleasantly for the next few weeks;sixty per cent. Of the city's railroad business came to Comer &Mathison; the clerks began to treat Mitchell as if he were an equal;even Gross lost his patronizing air and became openly hateful, whileMurphy--Louis no longer called him Mister--increased his assistant'sexpense account and confided some of his family affairs to the latter. Mr. Comer, the senior partner, began to nod familiarly as he passedthe quotation clerk's desk. 

Nor were Louis's customers all so eccentric as Miss Dunlap. PhoebeSnow, for instance, was very easy to entertain, and the Northwesterntook to his custody like a hungry urchin to a barbecue. He gave themeach one night a week, and in a short time all his evenings weretaken, as a consequence of which he saw less and less of Miss Harris. But, although he and his manicurist were becoming strangers, he soonbegan to call the waiters at Rector's by their given names, and anumber of the more prominent cab-drivers waved at him. 

One morning when, for the tenth successive time, he slid into hisdesk-chair an hour late, Mr. Comer bowed to him, not only familiarly, but sarcastically, then invited him to step into his private officeand see if he could locate the center of the carpet. It was ageometrical task that Louis had been wishing to try for some time. 

The senior partner began with elaborate sarcasm. "I notice you'renot getting down until nine o'clock lately, Mr. Mitchell. Is yourautomobile out of order?"

"I have no automobile, Mr. Comer, " the youth replied, respectfully. 

"No? I'm surprised. Well, if eight sharp is too early, you may setyour time. "

Mitchell tried his best to appear disconcerted. "You know I'm busyevery evening with my trade, " said he. 

"Nonsense. I've seen you out with a different dressmaker every nightthat I've been down-town. "

"Those are not dressmakers, they are stenographers from the railroadoffices. I'm sorry you're not satisfied with me, but I'm glad youcalled me in, for I've been meaning to speak to you about this verything. You see, I have practically all the railroad business in thecity, and it takes too much of my time keeping it lined up. I have noleisure of my own. I'll quit Saturday night, if convenient. "

Mr. Comer grunted like a man who has stepped off a flight of stairsone step too soon. "I didn't know it was really business. Of course, if it is, why, you needn't quit--exactly--"

"I'm afraid I'll have to. " Mitchell dropped his eyes demurely. "I'vehad a number of offers, and in justice to myself--"

"Offers? _You_? How much?"

"One hundred a month and expenses. "

Mr. Comer removed his glasses, he polished them carefully, then hereadjusted them and leaned forward, looking the young man over fromhead to foot, as if he had never until this moment seen more than hisvague outlines. 

"Um-m! You're nineteen years old, I believe!"

"Yes, sir. "

"Well, then, an hour's delay won't be serious. Now you go back toyour desk and send Mr. Murphy here. I'll let you know shortly whetherSaturday night or this noon will be convenient. "

It was perhaps a half-hour before lunch-time when Mr. Comer againcalled for Mitchell, greeting him with the gruff inquiry:

"See here, do you think I'm going to advance you from twelve totwenty-five a week at one clip?"

"No, sir. "

"Humph! I'm not. I had a talk with Murphy. I think he's a liar, butI'm going to make it fifteen hundred a year and expenses. Now get busyand work your 'trade' for all it's worth. "

Young Mitchell's knees wabbled, but, having learned the value of ablack mask and a gun, he went through his victim thoroughly while hehad him down. 

"I'd like a traveling position the first of the year, sir, if youdon't mind. "

"All right! If you hold your present gait I'll give you the Westernroads. Anything else you'd like? Well, then, git!"

That day Louis switched from the narrow-countered bakery-lunch routeto regular standard-gauge restaurants; he ordered clothes like abookmaker's bride and he sent a cubic foot of violets to Miss Harris. At dinner-time he patronized Mr. Gross so tantalizingly that thelatter threatened to pull his nose out until it resembled a yard ofgarden hose. 

The whole boarding-house was agog at Mitchell's good fortune andMiss Harris smiled on him in a manner reminiscent of the good oldante-bookkeeper--one might say "ante-vellum"--days. She hinted thatMr. Gross's company did not wholly satisfy her soul-hunger, and evenconfessed that she was lonely; but this was Mitchell's Rock Islandevening, and although the frank surrender in Miss Harris's eyes causedhim to gasp as if he were slowly settling into a barrel of ice-water, he tore himself from her side. 

Louis's batting average would have reached one thousand had it notbeen for the Monon. Miss Day, the young lady there, had a vocabularylimited to "Hello, " "Too high, " and "Good-by, " and it becameparticularly galling to learn that the fellow at James & Naughten'swas pulling down the business, so Mitchell went to Murphy with aproposition which showed that his mental growth had kept pace with hisfinancial advancement. 

"You need a new stenographer, " he declared. 

"Oh, do I? Why do I need a new stenographer, Mr. Bones?"

"Well, it would be a good investment, and I know a corker. "

"Who is she?"

"Miss Day, of the Monon. "

"I didn't know you cared for Miss Day. "

"I don't. That's the reason I want her to work for you. "

Murphy coughed slightly, then he agreed. "You're learning the game. We'll give her a three-dollar raise, and take her on. "

Shortly thereafter Mitchell began to get acquainted with the new MissMonon along the right lines, and gave her Thursday nights. She was agreat improvement over Miss Day; she was, in fact, quite differentfrom any of the others. She was small and winsome, and she didn't careto run around. She liked her home, and so did Mitchell after he hadcalled a few times. Before long he began to look forward eagerlyto Thursday nights and Miss Monon's cozy corner with its red-plushcushions--reminiscent of chair-cars, to be sure--and its darknessillumined dimly by red and green signal lamps. Many a pleasant eveningthe two spent there, talking of locomotive planished iron, wirenails, and turnbuckles, and the late lunch Miss Monon served beat thesystem's regular buffet service a city block. Of course they lit thered fire in front of James & Naughten's and turned the green lightMitchell's way. He had the right of way on the Monon after that, andother salesmen were side-tracked. 

But this was too easy to last. Human affairs never run smoothly; it isa man's ability to surmount the hummocks and the pressure ridges thatenables him to penetrate to the polar regions of success. The firstinkling of disaster came to Mitchell when Miss Dunlap began to tireof the gay life and chose to spend her Monday evenings at home, wherethey might be alone together. She spoke of the domestic habits she hadacquired during her brief matrimonial experience; she boldly declaredthat marriage was the ideal state for any man, and that two could liveas cheaply as one, although personally she saw no reason why a girlshould quit work the instant she became a wife, did he? She confessedthat Monday evenings had become so pleasant that if Louis couldarrange to drop in on Fridays also, the week would be considerablybrightened thereby and her whole disposition improved. Now Fridayswere cinched tightly to the Big Four, but the young man dared notacknowledge it, so he confessed that all his evenings except Mondaywere taken up with night school, whereupon Miss Dunlap, in orderto keep abreast of his mental development, decided to take acorrespondence course in Esperanto. 

It transpired also that his attentions toward the Lackawanna hadbeen misconstrued, for one night when Phoebe bade him adieu in thevestibule she broke down and wept upon his shoulder, saying that hiscoldness hurt her. She confessed that a rate clerk in the freightdepartment wanted to marry her, and she supposed she'd have to accepthis dastardly proposal because a girl couldn't go on working allher life, could she? Then Miss Gratz, of the C. & E. I. , following ared-letter night at Grand Opera, succeeded by a German pancake and astein at the Edelweiss and a cab-ride home, took Louis gravely to taskfor his extravagance and hinted that he ought to have a permanentmanager who took an interest in him, one who loved music as he did andwhose tastes were simple and Teutonic. 

When the literary lady of the Northwestern declined a trip to theWhite City and began to read Marion Crawford aloud to him Louis awoketo the gravity of the situation. 

But before he had worked the matter out in his own mind that rateclerk of whom Miss Lackawanna had spoken dropped in at Comer &Mathison's, introduced himself to Mitchell and told him, with a degreeof firmness which could not be ignored, that his attentions to MissPhoebe Snow were distasteful. He did not state to whom. Louis's callerhad the physical proportions of a "white hope, " and he wasted fewwords. He had come to nail up a vacate notice, and he announced simplybut firmly that Miss Snow's Wednesday evenings were to be consideredopen time thereafter, and if Mitchell elected to horn his way in itwas a hundred-to-one shot that he'd have to give up solid foods for amonth or more and take his nourishment through a glass tube. 

Nor were the young man's troubles confined to the office. Miss Harris, it seemed, had seen him with a different lady each night she and Mr. Gross had been out, and had drawn her own conclusions, so, therefore, when he tried to talk to her she flared up and called him a dissipatedroué, and threatened to have the head bookkeeper give him a thrashingif he dared to accost her again. 

Now the various apartments where Mitchell had been calling, these pastmonths, were opulently furnished with gifts from the representativesof the various railway supply houses of the city, each article beingcunningly designed to cement in the mind of the owner a source ofsupply which, coupled with price and delivery, would make for goodsales service. He was greatly surprised one day to receive a brasslibrary lamp from the Santa Fé the initial destination of which hadevidently been changed. Then came a mission hall-clock in the originalpackage, redirected in the hand of Miss Gratz, of the C. & E. I. , andone day the office-boy from the Lackawanna brought him a smoking-setfor which Miss Phoebe Snow had no use. Gifts like these piledup rapidly, many of them bearing witness to the fact that theirconsignment originated from Mitchell's very rivals in the railroadtrade. Judging from the quantity of stuff that ricocheted from theSanta Fé it was Miss Dunlap's evident desire to present him with awhole housekeeping equipment as quickly as possible. Louis's deskbecame loaded with ornaments, his room at Mrs. Green's became filledwith nearly Wedgwood vases, candlesticks, and other bric-à-brac. Heacquired six mission hall-clocks, a row of taborets stood outside ofhis door like Turkish sentinels, and his collection of ash-receiverswas the best in Chicago. 

Miss Harris continued to ignore him, however, and he learned with ajealous pang that she was giving Mr. Gross a gratuitous course offacial massage and scalp treatments. No longer did Mitchell entertainhis trade; they entertained him. They tried to help him save hismoney, and every evening he was forced to battle for his freedom. 

In desperation he finally went to Murphy begging quick promotion to atraveling position, but the Sales Manager told him there was no chancebefore the first of the year, then asked him why he had lost his gripon the Lackawanna business. 

As a matter of fact, since Miss Phoebe's rate clerk had declaredhimself Mitchell had slipped a few Wednesday nights, trusting tohold the Lackawanna trade by virtue of his past performances, but herealized in the light of Murphy's catechism that eternal visiting isthe price of safety. He sighed, therefore, and called up the lady, then apprehensively made a date. 

That visit issued in disaster, as he had feared. The rate clerk, gifted with some subtle second sight, had divined his treachery andwas waiting. He came to meet the caller gladly, like a paladin. Louisstrove to disarm the big brute by the power of the human eye, thenwhen that did not work he explained, politely, earnestly, that hisweekly calls were but part and parcel of his business, and that therewas nothing in his mind so remote as thoughts of matrimony. But therate clerk was a stolid, a suspicious person, and he was gnawed bya low and common jealousy. Reason failing, they came together, amalgamating like two drops of quicksilver. 

On the following morning Mitchell explained to Mr. Comer thatin stepping out of the bathtub he had slipped and wrenched bothshoulders, then while passing through the dark hall had put his faceinto mourning by colliding with an open door. His ankles he hadsprained on the way down-town. 

About nine-thirty Miss Dunlap called up, but not to leave an order. When she had finally rung off Louis looked dazedly at the wire to seeif the insulation had melted. It seemed impossible that rubber andgutta-percha could withstand such heat as had come sizzling from theSanta Fé. From what the lady had said it required no great inductivepowers to reason that the rate clerk had told all. Coming victoriousto Miss Lackawanna's door to have his knuckles collodionized he hadmade known in coarse, triumphant language the base commercialism ofhis rival. 

The result had been that Phoebe arose in her wrath. Just to verify thestory she had called up the other railroad offices this morning, and the hideous truth had come out. It had come out like a herd ofjack-rabbits ahead of a hound. Miss Dunlap was shouting mad, butPhoebe herself, when she called up, was indignant in a mean, sarcasticmanner that hurt. The Northwestern rang Mitchell to say good-byforever and to hope his nose was broken; the Big Four promised thather brother, who was a puddler in the South Chicago steel mills, wouldrun in and finish the rate clerk's job; Miss Gratz, of the C. &E. I. , was tearfully plaintive and, being German, spoke of suicide. Of courseall business relations with these offices were at an end. 

During that whole day but one 'phone order came, and that was fromMiss Monon. Mitchell had been steeling himself to hear from her, butit seemed that she took the whole thing as rather a good joke. Shetold him she had known all the time why he came to see her, and whenhe reminded her that it was Thursday she invited him to call if hethought it worth while. 

When he saw Miss Harris at supper-time and undertook to explain hisblack eyes she assured him coldly that he and his ebony gig-lampsmattered nothing in her young life, as evidence of which she flashed amagnificent three-quarter carat diamond solitaire on her third finger. She and Mr. Gross expected to be married inside of two or three yearsif all went well, she told him. 

At eight o'clock, disguised behind a pair of blue goggles, Louisheaded for Miss Monon's door, glad that the cozy corner was so dimlylighted. When he arrived she bathed his battle-scarred features withhamamelis, which is just the same as Pond's Extract, but doesn't costso much, and told him the other girls had acted foolishly. She wasvery sweet and gentle with him and young Mitchell, imperfect as washis vision, saw something in her he had never seen before. 

A week went by, during which it seemed that all the railroads exceptthe Monon had suddenly gone out of business. It was as if a strike hadbeen declared. Another week passed and Mitchell's sales were scarcelynoticeable, so Mr. Comer called him in to ask:

"Is your 'phone disconnected?"

"No, sir. "

"Do you know the price of our goods?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Don't you sleep well at home?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Then what has become of those pick-ups?"

"I seem to have lost--my trade. "

"Your 'trade'! Bah! Young man, you've been dissipating. That expenseaccount turned your head. You've been blowing in our money on yourfriends and you've let your customers go. If you can't hold therailroad business we'll get some fellow who can. Cut out yoursewing-circle wine suppers and your box parties to the North Shoredébutantes and get busy. You've got a week to make good. One week. "

There wasn't the slightest chance, and Mitchell told Miss Mononso when Thursday came around. He told her all about that promisedposition on the road and what it meant to him, and then he told herthat beginning Monday he'd have to hunt a new berth at twelve dollarsper. She was very quiet, very sympathetic--so sympathetic, in fact, that he told her some other things which no young man on a diminishingsalary should tell. She said little at the moment, but she didconsiderable thinking, and she got busy on her 'phone early the nextmorning. The first number she called was the Santa Fé's. When she hadfinished talking with Miss Dunlap that hempen-haired sentimentalistwas dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief and blowing her nose, assuring Miss Monon, at the same time, that she was a dear and thatit was all right now that she knew the truth. Miss Monon blushedprettily, thanked her, and confessed that she had felt it coming onfor some time. Thereupon they took turns calling the others, from theBig Four to the C. &E. I. , with the result that Mitchell's wire began toheat up. 

Phoebe Snow called him to say that she hadn't meant what she said, that he was a good old scout, and that the rate clerk was sorry also, and wanted to stand treat for a Dutch lunch. Then she left an orderfor a ton and a half of engine bolts. 

Miss Gratz cried a little when she heard Mitchell's voice and told himto make his own price on forty kegs of washers and suit himself aboutdelivery. 

Miss Dunlap confessed that it was her pride which had spoken, and, anyhow, she knew altogether too much about marriage to take anotherchance. She'd rather have one man friend than three husbands. 

One by one the flock returned, and Saturday night Mitchell sent fivepounds of chocolates and a sheaf of red roses to the one who had madeit all come out right. He got his share of business after that, andwhen the holidays came they brought him his promotion. 

Murphy, who knew most of the facts, was the first to congratulate him. "Jove!" he said, "that little Monon lady saved your bacon, didn't she?By. The way, you never told me what her name was. "

Young Mitchell's cheeks assumed a shell-pink shade as he replied: "Itdoesn't matter what her name was, it's Mitchell now. We were marriedyesterday and--all the roads were represented at the wedding. "

WITH BRIDGES BURNED

Louis Mitchell knew what the telegram meant, even though it was briefand cryptic. He had been expecting something of the sort ever sincethe bottom dropped out of the steel business and prices tobogganedforty dollars a ton. Nevertheless, it came as an undeniable shock, forhe had hoped the firm would keep him on in spite of hard times. Hewondered, as he sadly pocketed the yellow sheet, whether he had in himthe makings of a good life-insurance agent, or if he had not better"join out" with a medicine show. This message led him to think histalents must lie along the latter line. Certainly they did not lie inthe direction of metal supplies. 

He had plenty of time to think the situation over, however, for it isa long jump from Butte to Chicago; when he arrived at the latter placehe was certain of only one thing, he would not stand a cut in salary. Either Comer & Mathison would have to fire him outright or keep him onat his present wage; he would not compromise as the other salesmen haddone and were doing. 

Twenty-five hundred a year is a liberal piece of money where peopleraise their own vegetables, but to a man traveling in the West it isabout equal to "no pair. " Given two hundred dollars a month and a fairexpense account a salesman can plow quite a respectable furrow aroundPlymouth Rock, but out where they roll their r's and monogram theirlive stock he can't make a track. Besides the loss of prestige and allthat went with it, there was another reason why young Mitchell couldnot face a cut. He had a wife, and she was too new, too wonderful;she admired him too greatly to permit of such a thing. She might, shedoubtless would, lose confidence in him if he took a step backward, and that confidence of hers was the most splendid thing in Mitchell'slife. No, if Comer & Mathison wanted to make any change, they wouldhave to promote him. Ten minutes with the "old man, " however, servedto jar this satisfactory determination to its foundation. Mr. Comerput the situation clearly, concisely. 

"Business is rotten. We've got to lay all the younger men off or we'llgo broke, " he announced. 

"But--I'm married, " protested the young salesman. 

"So am I; so is Mathison; so are the rest of the fellows. But, my boy, this is a panic. We wouldn't let you go if we could keep you. "

"I can sell goods--"

"That's just it; we don't want you to. Conditions are such that wecan't afford to sell anything. The less business we do the fewerlosses we stand to make. Good Lord, Louis, this is the worst year thetrade has ever known!"

"B-but--I'm married, " blankly repeated Mitchell. 

Comer shook his head. "We'd keep you in a minute if there was any wayto do it. You go home and see the wife. Of course if you can showus where you're worth it, we'll let you stay; but--well, you can't. There's no chance. I'll see you to-morrow. "

Ordinarily Mitchell would not have allowed himself the extravaganceof a cab, but to-day the cars were too slow. He wondered how the girlwould take this calamity, their very first. As a matter of fact, shedivined the news even before he had voiced his exuberant greetings, and, leading him into the neat little front room, she curled up at hisside, demanding all the reasons for his unexpected recall. He saw thatshe was wide-eyed and rather white. When he had broken the bad newsshe inquired, bravely:

"What is your plan, boy?"

"I haven't any. "

"Nonsense!"

"I mean it. What can I do? I don't know anything except the steelbusiness. I can lick my weight in wildcats on my own ground--but--"The wife nodded her blonde head in complete agreement. "But that letsme out, " he concluded, despondently. "I can sell steel because I knowit from the ground up; it's my specialty. "

"Oh, we mustn't think about making a change. "

"I've handled more big jobs than any man of my age and experience onthe road, and yet--I'm fired. " The husband sighed wearily. "I builtthat big pipe line in Portland; I sold those smelters in Anaconda, andthe cyanide tanks for the Highland Girl. Yes, and a lot of other jobs, too. I know all about the smelter business, but that's no sign I cansell electric belts or corn salve. We're up against it, girlie. "

"Have people quit building smelters?"

"They sure have--during this panic. There's nothing doing anywhere. "

The wife thought for a moment before saying, "The last time you werehome you told me about some Western mining men who had gone to SouthAfrica--"

"Sure! To the Rand! They've made good, too; they're whopping bigoperators, now. "

"You said there was a large contract of some sort coming up inLondon. "

"Large! Well, rather! The Robinson-Ray job. It's the biggest ever, inmy line. They're going to rebuild those plants the Boers destroyed. Iheard all about it in Montana. "

"Well!" Mrs. Mitchell spoke with finality. "That's the place for you. Get the firm to send you over there. "

"Um-m! I thought about that, but it scared me out. It's too big. Why, it's a three-million-dollar job. You see, we've never landed a largeforeign contract in this country as yet. " Mitchell sat up suddenly. "But say! This panic might--" Then he relaxed. "Oh, what's the use?If there were a chance the firm wouldn't send me. Comer would gohimself--he'd take the whole outfit over for a job like that. Besides, it's too big a thing for our people; they couldn't handle it. "

Mrs. Mitchell's eyes were as round as buttons. "Three million dollars'worth of steel in one contract! Do you think you could land it if youwent?"

"It's my line of work, " the young man replied, doubtfully. "I'll betI know more about cyanide tanks than any salesman in Europe, and if Ihad a decent price to work on--"

"Then it's the chance we've been waiting for. "

The girl scrambled to her feet and, fetching a chair, began to talkearnestly, rapidly. She talked for a long time, until gradually theman's gray despondency gave way to her own bright optimism. Nor wasit idle theory alone that she advanced; Mitchell found that she knewalmost as much about the steel business as he did, and when she hadfinished he arose and kissed her. 

"You've put new heart into me, anyhow. If you're game to do yourshare, why--I'll try it out. But remember it may mean all we've got inthe bank, and--" He looked at her darkly. 

"It's the biggest chance we'll ever have, " she insisted. "It's worthtrying. Don't let's wait to get rich until we are old. "

When Mr. Comer returned from lunch he found his youngest salesmanwaiting for him, and inside of ten minutes he had learned whatMitchell had on his mind. With two words Comer blew out the gas. 

"You're crazy, " said he. 

"Am I? It's worth going after. "

"In the first place no big foreign job ever came to America--"

"I know all that. It's time we got one. "

"In the second place Comer & Mathison are jobbers. "

"I'll get a special price from Carnegie. "

"In the third place it would cost a barrel of money to send a man toEngland. "

Mitchell swallowed hard. "I'll pay my own way. "

Mr. Comer regarded the speaker with genuine astonishment. "_You'll_pay your way? Why, you haven't got any money. "

"I've got a thousand dollars--or the wife has. It's our nest-egg. "

"It would take five thousand to make the trip. "

"I'll make it on one. Yes, and I'll come back with that job. Don't yousee this panic makes the thing possible? Yes, and I'm the one manto turn the trick; for it's right in my line. I'll see the Carnegiepeople at Pittsburgh. If they quote the right price I'll ask you for aletter, and that's all you'll have to do. Will you let me go?"

"What sort of a letter?"

"A letter stating that I am your general sales manager. "

The steel merchant's mouth fell open. 

"Oh, I only want it for this London trip, " Mitchell explained. "Iwon't use it except as a credential. But I've got to go armed, youunderstand. Mr. Comer, if I don't land that Robinson-Ray contract, Iwon't come back. I--I couldn't, after this. Maybe I'll drive a 'bus--Ihear they have a lot of them in London. "

"Suppose, for instance, you should get the job on a profitable basis;the biggest job this concern ever had and one of the biggest ever letanywhere--" Mr. Comer's brow was wrinkled humorously. "What would youexpect out of it?"

Mitchell grinned. "Well, if I signed all those contracts as yourgeneral sales manager, I'd probably form the habit. "

"There's nothing modest about you, is there?" queried the elder man. 

"Not a thing. My theory of business is that a man should either befired or promoted. If I get that job I'll leave it to you to do what'sright. I won't ask any questions. "

"The whole thing is utterly absurd, " Mitchell's employer protested. "You haven't a chance! But--Wait!" He pressed a button on his desk. "We'll talk with Mathison. "

Louis Mitchell took the night train for Pittsburgh. He was back inthree days, and that afternoon Mr. Comer, in the privacy of his ownoffice, dictated a letter of which no carbon copy was preserved. Hegave it to the young man with his own hand, and with these words:"You'd better think it over carefully, my boy. It's the most idioticthing I ever heard of, and there isn't one chance in a million. Itwon't do you any good to fail, even on a forlorn hope like this. "

But Mitchell smiled. "I can't fail--I'm married. " Then when the otherseemed unimpressed by this method of reasoning, he explained: "I guessyou never saw my wife. She says I can do it. "

It was only to this lady herself that Mitchell recited the details ofhis reception at Pittsburgh, and of the battle he had fought in theCarnegie office. The Carnegie men had refused to take him seriously, had laughed at him as at a mild-mannered lunatic. 

"But I got my price, " he concluded, triumphantly, "and it sure looksgood to me. Now for the painful details and the sad good-bys. "

"How long will you be gone?" his wife inquired. 

"I can't stay more than a month, the bank-roll is too small. "

"Oo-oo-h! A month! London is a long way off. " Mrs. Mitchell's voicebroke plaintively and her husband's misgivings at once took fire. 

"If I fail, as they all feel sure I will, what then?" he inquired. "I'll be out of a job! I'll be a joke in the steel business; I'll bebroke. What will you do?"

She gave him a ravishing, dimpled smile, and her eyes were brave oncemore. "Why, I haven't forgotten my shorthand, and there are always thedepartment stores. " In a high, querulous tone she cried "Ca--a--sh!"then laughed aloud at his expression. "Oh, it wouldn't hurt me any. But--you won't fail--you can't! We're going to be rich. Now, we'lldivide our grand fortune. " She produced a roll of currency from herpurse and took four twenty-dollar bills from it. 

"Only eighty dollars?" he queried. 

"It's more than enough for me. You'll be back in a month. " She thrustthe remaining notes into his hand. "It's our one great, gloriouschance, dear. Don't you understand?"

Faith, hope and enthusiasm, the three graces of salesmanship, thrivebest in bright places. Had it not been for his wife's cheer duringthose final hours young Mitchell surely would have weakened before itcame time to leave on the following day. It was a far cry to London, and he realized 'way back in his head that there wasn't one chance ina million of success. He began to doubt, to waver, but the girl seemedto feel that her lord was bound upon some flaring triumph, and evenat the station her face was wreathed in smiles. Her blue eyes werebrimming with excitement; she bubbled with hopeful, helpful advice;she patted her husband's arm and hugged it to her. "You're going towin, boy. You're going to win, " she kept repeating. For one momentonly--at the actual parting--she clung to him wildly, with all herwoman's strength, then, as the warning cry sounded, she kissed himlong and hungrily, and fairly thrust him aboard the Pullman. He didnot dream how she wilted and drooped the instant he had gone. 

As the train pulled out he ran back to the observation car to wavea last farewell, and saw her clinging to the iron fence, sobbingwretchedly; a desolate, weak little girl-wife mastered by a thousandfears. She was too blind with tears to see him. The sight raised alump in the young husband's throat which lasted to Fort Wayne. 

"Poor little thoroughbred, " he mused. "I just can't lose, that's all. "

The lump was not entirely gone when the luncheon call came, soMitchell dined upon it, reasoning that this kind of a beginningaugured well for an economical trip. 

Now that he was away from the warmth of his wife's enthusiasmcontemplation of his undertaking made the salesman rather sick. Ifonly he were traveling at the firm's expense, if only he had somethingto fall back upon in case of failure, if only Comer & Mathison werebehind him in any way, the complexion of things would have beenaltogether different. But to set out for a foreign land with nobacking whatever in the hope of accomplishing that which no Americansalesman had ever been able to accomplish, and to finance theundertaking out of his own pocket on a sum less than he would haveexpected for cigarette money--well, it was an enterprise to testa fellow's courage and to dampen the most youthful optimism. Hisproposal to the firm to win all or lose all, he realized now, hadbeen in the nature of a bluff, and the firm had called it. There wasnothing to do, therefore, but go through and win; there could be noturning back, for he had burned his bridges. 

When one enters a race-horse in a contest he puts the animal in goodcondition, he grooms it, he feeds it the best the stable affords, he trains and exercises it carefully. Mitchell had never owned arace-horse, but he reasoned that similar principles should apply to ahuman being under similar conditions. He had entered a competition, therefore he decided to condition himself physically and mentally forthe race. A doped pony cannot run, neither can a worried salesman sellgoods. 

In line with this decision, he took one of the best state-rooms on the_Lucania_, and denied himself nothing that the ship afforded. Everymorning he took his exercise, every evening a rub-down. He trainedlike a fighter, and when he landed he was fit; his muscles werehard, his stomach strong, his brain clear. He went first-class fromLiverpool to London; he put up at the Metropole in luxurious quarters. When he stopped to think about that nine hundred and twenty, alreadyamazingly shrunken, he argued bravely that what he had spent had goneto buy condition powders. 

On the way across he had posted himself so far as possible about theproposed Robinson-Ray plant. He learned that there were to be fifteenbatteries of cyanide tanks, two high--eighty-four in all--supportedby steel sub- and super-structures; the work to be completed atKrugersdorpf, twenty miles out of Johannesburg, South Africa. The address of the company was No. 42-1/2 Threadneedle Street. Threadneedle Street was somewhere in London, and London was thecapital of a place called England. 

He knew other African contracts were under consideration, but hedismissed them from his thoughts and centered his forces uponthis particular job. Once he had taken a definite scent his earlytrepidations vanished. He became obsessed by a joyous, purposeful, unceasing energy that would not let him rest. 

The first evening in London he fattened himself for the fray with ahearty dinner, then he strove to get acquainted with his neighbors andhis environment. The nervous force within him needed outlet, but hewas frowned upon at every quarter. Even the waiter at his table madeit patent that his social standing would not permit him to indulgein the slightest intimacy with chance guests of the hotel, while theyoung Earl who had permitted Mitchell to register at the desk declinedutterly to go further with their acquaintance. Louis spent the eveningat the Empire, and the next morning, which was Sunday, he put in onthe top of a 'bus, laying himself open to the advances of anybody whocared to pay him the slightest attention. But he was ignored; eventhe driver, who spoke a foreign language, evidently considered him asuspicious character. Like a wise general, Louis reconnoitered No. 42-1/2 Threadneedle Street during the afternoon, noting the lay of theland and deciding upon modes of transportation to and from. Underthe pressure of circumstance he chose a Cannon Street 'bus, fare"tuppence. "

Now garrulity is a disease that must either break out or strike inwardwith fatal results. When Sunday night came, Mitchell was about readyto fare forth with gun and mask and take conversation away fromanybody who had it to spare. He had begun to fear that his vocal cordswould atrophy. 

He was up early, had breakfasted, and was at 42-1/2 ThreadneedleStreet promptly at nine, beating the janitor by some twenty minutes. During the next hour and a half he gleaned considerable informationregarding British business methods, the while he monotonously poundedthe sidewalk. 

At nine-thirty a scouting party of dignified office-boys made acautious approach. At nine-thirty-five there came the main army ofclerks, only they were not clerks, but "clarks"--very impressivegentlemen with gloves, spats, sticks, silk hats and sack coats. Atthis same time, evidently by appointment, came the charwomen--"char"being spelled s-c-r-u-b, and affording an example of how pure Englishhas been corrupted out in the Americas. 

After the arrival of the head "clarks" and stenographers atnine-forty-five, there ensued fifteen minutes of guarded conversationin front of the offices. During this time the public issues of the daywere settled and the nation's policies outlined. At ten o'clock theoffices were formally opened, and at ten-thirty a reception wastendered to the managers who arrived dressed as for any well-conductedafternoon function. 

To Mitchell, who was accustomed to the feverish, football methods ofAmerican business life, all this was vastly edifying and instructive;it was even soothing, although he was vaguely offended to note thatpassers-by avoided him as if fearful of contamination. 

Upon entering 42-1/2 Threadneedle Street, he was halted by animperious office-boy. To him Louis gave his card with a request thatit be handed to Mr. Peebleby, then he seated himself and for an hourwitnessed a parade of unsmiling, silk-hatted gentlemen pass in and outof Mr. Peebleby's office. Growing impatient, at length, he inquired ofthe boy;

"Is somebody dead around here or is this where the City Councilmeets?"

"I beg pardon?" The lad was polite in a cool, superior way. 

"I say, what's the idea of the pall-bearers?"

The youth's expression froze to one of disapproval and suspicion. 

"I mean the parade. Are these fellows Congress- or minstrel-men?"

His hearer shrugged and smiled vacuously, then turned away, whereuponMitchell took him firmly by the arm. 

"Look here, my boy, " he began. "There seems to be a lot of informationcoming to both of us. Who are these over-dressed gentlemen I seepromenading back and forth?"

"Why--they're callers, customers, representatives of the firms we dobusiness with, sir. "

"Is this Guy Fawkes Day?"

"No, sir. "

"Are these men here on business? Are any of them salesmen, forinstance?"

"Yes, sir; some of them. Certainly, sir. "

"To see Mr. Peebleby about the new construction work?"

"No doubt. "

"So, you're letting them get the edge on me. "

"I beg pardon?"

"Never mind, I merely wanted to assure you that I have some olivespats, a high hat, and a walking-stick, but I left them at my hotel. I'm a salesman, too. Now then let's get down to business. I've comeall the way from America to hire an office-boy. I've heard so muchabout English office-boys that I thought I'd run over and get one. Would you entertain a proposition to go back to America and become mypartner?"

The boy rolled his eyes; it was plain that he was seriously alarmed. "You are ragging me, sir, " he stammered, uncertainly. 

"Perish the thought!"

"I--I--Really, sir--"

"I pay twenty-five dollars a week to office-boys. That's five 'pun' inyour money, I believe. But, meanwhile, now that I'm in London, I havesome business with Mr. Peebleby. " Mitchell produced an American silverdollar and forced it into the boy's hand, whereupon the latter blinkedin a dazed manner, then hazarded the opinion that Mr. Peebleby mightbe at leisure if Mr. Mitchell had another card. 

"Never mind the card; I can't trust you with another one. Just show methe trail and I'll take it myself. That's a way we have in America. "

A moment later he was knocking at a door emblazoned, "DirectorGeneral. " Without awaiting an invitation, he turned the knob andwalked in. Before the astonished Mr. Peebleby could expostulate he hadintroduced himself and was making known his mission. 

Fortunately for Mitchell, Englishmen are not without a sense ofhumor. The announcement that this young man had come all the way fromChicago, Illinois, U. S. A. , to bid on the Krugersdorpf work struck Mr. Peebleby as amusing. Not only was the idea in itself laughable, butalso the fact that a mere beardless youth should venture to figure ona contract of such gigantic proportions quite convulsed the DirectorGeneral, and in consequence he smiled. Then fearing that his dignityhad been jeopardized, he announced politely but firmly that theproposition was absurd, and that he had no time to discuss it. 

"I've come for that job, and I'm going to take it back with me, "Mitchell averred, with equal firmness. "I know more about this classof work than any salesman you have over here, and I'm going to buildyou the finest cluster of cyanide tanks you ever saw. "

"May I ask where you obtained this comprehensive knowledge of tankconstruction?" Mr. Peebleby inquired, with some curiosity. 

"Sure!" Mitchell ran through a list of jobs with which the DirectorGeneral could not have been unfamiliar. He mentioned work that causedthat gentleman to regard him more respectfully. For a time questionsand answers shot back and forth between them. 

"I tell you, that is my line, " Mitchell declared, at length. "I'llread any blueprints you can offer. I'll answer any queries you canformulate. I'm the accredited representative of a big concern, and I'mentitled to a chance to figure, at least. That courtesy is due me. "

"I dare say it is, " the other reluctantly agreed. "I'm very busy, butif that is the quickest way to end the discussion I'll give you theprints. I assure you, nevertheless, it is an utter waste of your timeand mine. " He pushed a button and five minutes later a clerk staggeredback into the room with an armful of blueprints that caused Mitchellto gasp. 

"The bid must be in Thursday at ten-thirty, " Peebleby announced. 

"Thursday? Why, good Lord! That's only three days, and there's adray-load of drawings!"

"I told you it was a waste of time. You should have come sooner. "

Mitchell ran through the pile and his heart grew sick with dismay. There were drawings of tanks, drawings of substructures andsuperstructures in every phase of construction--enough of themto daunt a skilled engineer. He realized that he had by no meansappreciated the full magnitude of this work, in fact had never figuredon a job anything like this one. He could see at least a week's hard, constant labor ahead of him--a week's work to be done in three days. There was no use trying; the time was too short; it was a physicalimpossibility to formulate an intelligent proposition in such ashort length of time. Then to Mitchell's mind came the picture ofa wretched, golden-haired girl clinging to the iron fence of thePennsylvania depot. He gathered the rolls into his arms. 

"At ten-thirty, Thursday, " said he. 

"Ten-thirty, sharp. "

"Thank you. I'll have my bid in. "

His muscles ached and his knees were trembling even before he hadreached the street. When he tried to board a 'bus he was waved away, so he called a cab, piled his blueprints inside of it, and thenclambered in on top of them. He realized that he was badly frightened. 

To this day the sight of a blueprint gives Louis Mitchell a peculiarnausea and a fluttering sensation about the heart. At three o'clockthe next morning he felt his way blindly to his bed and toppled uponit, falling straightway into a slumber during which he passed throughmonotonous, maddening wastes of blue and white, over which ranserpentine rows of figures. 

He was up with the dawn and at his desk again, but by four thatafternoon he was too dazed, too exhausted to continue. His eyes wereplaying him tricks, the room was whirling, his hand was shaking untilhis fingers staggered drunkenly across the sheets of paper. Groundplans, substructures, superstructures, were jumbled into a frightfultangle. He wanted to yell. Instead he flung the drawings about theroom, stamped savagely upon them, then rushed down-stairs and devoureda table d'hôte dinner. He washed the meal down with a bottle of redwine, smoked a long cigar, then undressed and went to bed amid thescattered blueprints. He slept like a dead man. 

He arose at sun-up, clear-headed, calm. All day he worked like amachine, increasing his speed as the hours flew. He took good care toeat and drink, and, above all, to smoke at regular intervals, but hedid not leave his room. By dark he had much of the task behind him; bymidnight he began to have hope; toward dawn he saw the end; and whendaylight came he collapsed. 

He had deciphered the tank and superstructure plans on forty-five setsof blueprints, had formulated a proposition, exclusive of substructurework, basing a price per pound on the American market then ruling, f. O. B. Tidewater, New York. He had the proposition in his pocketwhen he tapped on the ground-glass door of Mr. Peebleby's office atten-twenty-nine Thursday morning. 

The Director General of the great Robinson-Ray Syndicate was genuinelysurprised to learn that the young American had completed a bid in soshort a time, then requested him, somewhat absent-mindedly, to leaveit on his desk where he could look it over at his leisure. 

"Just a moment, " said his caller. "I'm going to sit down and talk toyou again. How long have you been using cyanide tanks, Mr. Peebleby?"

"Ever since they were adopted. " Mr. Peebleby was visibly annoyed atthis interruption to his morning's work. 

"Well, I can give you a lot of information about them. "

The Director General raised his brows haughtily. "Ah! Suggestions, amendments, improvements, no doubt. "

"Exactly. "

"In all my experience I never sent out a blueprint which some youthfulsalesman could not improve upon. Generally the younger the salesmanthe greater the improvement. "

In Mitchell's own parlance he "beat Mr. Peebleby to the punch. " "Ifthat's the case, you've got a rotten line of engineers, " he franklyannounced. 

"Indeed! I went over those drawings myself. I flattered myself thatthey were comprehensive and up-to-date. " Mr. Peebleby was annoyed, nevertheless he was visibly interested and curious. 

"Well, they're not, " the younger man declared, eying him boldly. "For instance, you call for cast-iron columns in your sub-andsuper-structures, whereas they're obsolete. We've discarded them. Whatyou save in first cost you eat up, twice over, in freight. Not onlythat, but their strength is a matter of theory, not of fact. Then, too, in your structural-steel sections your factor of safety iswrongly figured. To get the best results your lower tanks are twentyinches too short and your upper ones nine inches too short. Foranother thing, you're using a section of beam which is five per cent. Heavier than your other dimensions call for. "

The Director General sat back in his chair, a look of extremealertness replacing his former expression. 

"My word! Is there anything else?" He undertook to speak mockingly, but without complete success. 

"There is. The layout of your platework is all wrong--out of line withmodern practice. You should have interchangeable parts in every tank. The floor of your lower section should be convex, instead of flat, toget the run-off. You see, sir, this is my line of business. "

"Who is your engineer?" inquired the elder man. "I should like to talkto him. "

"You're talking to him now. I'm him--it--them. I'm the party! I toldyou I knew the game. "

There was a brief silence, then Mr. Peebleby inquired, "By the way, who helped you figure those prints?"

"Nobody. "

"You did that _alone_, since Monday morning?" The speaker wasincredulous. 

"I did. I haven't slept much. I'm pretty tired. "

There was a new note in Mr. Peebleby's voice when he said: "Jove! I'vetreated you badly, Mr. Mitchell, but--I wonder if you're too tired totell my engineers what you told me just now? I should like them tohear you. "

"Trot them in. " For the first time since leaving this office threedays before, Mitchell smiled. He was getting into his stride at last. After all, there seemed to be a chance. 

There followed a convention of the draftsmen and engineers of theRobinson-Ray Syndicate before which an unknown American youthdelivered an address on "Cyanide Tanks. How to Build Them; Where toBuy Them. "

It was the old story of a man who had learned his work thoroughly andwho loved it. Mitchell typified the theory of specialization; what heknew, he knew completely, and before he had more than begun his talkthese men recognized that fact. When he had finished, Mr. Peeblebyannounced that the bids would not be opened that day. 

The American had made his first point. He had gained time in whichto handle himself, and the Robinson-Ray people had recognized a newfactor in the field. When he was again in the Director General's room, the latter said:

"I think I will have you formulate a new bid along the lines you havelaid down. "

"Very well. "

"You understand, our time is up. Can you have it ready by Saturday, three days from now?"

Mitchell laughed. "It's a ten days' job for two men. "

"I know, but we can't wait. "

"Then give me until Tuesday; I'm used to a twenty-four-hour shiftnow. Meanwhile I'd like to leave these figures here for your chiefdraftsman to examine. Of course they are not to be consideredbinding. "

"Isn't that a bit--er--foolish?" inquired Peebleby? "Aren't youleaving a weapon behind you?"

"Yes, but not the sort of a weapon you suspect, " thought Mitchell. "This is a boomerang. " Aloud, he answered, lightly: "Oh, that's allright. I know I'm among friends. "

When his request was granted he made a mental note, "Step number two!"

Again he filled a cab with drawings, again he went back to theMetropole and to maddening columns of new figures--back to themonotony of tasteless meals served at his elbow. 

But there were other things besides his own bid to think of now. Mitchell knew he must find what other firms were bidding on the job, and what prices they had bid. The first promised to require someingenuity, the second was a Titan's task. 

Salesmanship, in its highest development, is an exact science. Giventhe data he desired, Louis Mitchell felt sure he could read thefigures sealed up in those other bids to a nicety, but to get thatdata required much concentrated effort and much time. Time was what heneeded above all things; time to refigure these myriad drawings, timeto determine when the other bids had gone in, time to learn tradeconditions at the competitive plants, time to sleep. There were notsufficient hours in the day for all these things, so he rigidlyeconomized on the least important, sleep. He laid out a programfor himself; by night he worked in his room, by day he cruised forinformation, at odd moments around the dawn he slept. He began to feelthe strain before long. Never physically robust, he began to grow blueand drawn about the nostrils. Frequently his food would not stay down. He was forced to drive his lagging spirits with a lash. To accomplishthis he had to think often of his girl-wife. Her letters, writtendaily, were a great help; they were like some God-given cordial thatinfused fresh blood into his brain, new strength into his flagginglimbs. Without them he could not have held up. 

With certain definite objects in view he made daily trips toThreadneedle Street. Invariably he walked into the general officesunannounced; invariably he made a new friend before he came out. Peebleby seemed to like him; in fact asked his opinion on certainforms of structure and voluntarily granted the young man two days ofgrace. Two days! They were like oxygen to a dying man. 

Mitchell asked permission to talk to the head draftsman and receivedit, and following their interview he requested the privilege ofdictating some notes regarding the interview. In this way he met thestenographer. When he had finished with her he flipped the girl a goldsovereign, stolen from the sadly melted nine hundred and twenty. 

As Mitchell was leaving the office the Director General yielded to akindly impulse and advised his new acquaintance to run over to Parisand view the Exposition. 

"You can do your figuring there just as well as here, " said he. "I don't want your trip from Chicago to be altogether wasted, Mr. Mitchell. "

Louis smiled and shook his head. "I can't take that Exposition backwith me, and I can take this contract. I think I'll camp with my bid. "

In the small hours of that night he made a discovery thatelectrified him. He found that the most commonly used section in hisspecifications, a twelve-inch I-beam, was listed under the Englishcustom as weighing fifty-four pounds per foot, whereas thestandardized American section, which possessed the same carryingstrength, weighed four pounds less. Here was an advantage of eightper cent. In cost and freight! This put another round of the ladderbeneath him; he was progressing well, but as yet he had learnednothing about his competitors. 

The next morning he had some more dictation for Peebleby'sstenographer, and niched another sovereign from his sad littlebank-roll. When the girl gave him his copy he fell into conversationwith her and painted a picture of Yankeeland well calculated to keepher awake nights. They gossiped idly, she of her social obligations, he of the cyanide-tank business--he could think of nothing else totalk about. Adroitly he led her out. They grew confidential. Sheadmitted her admiration for Mr. Jenkins from Edinburgh. Yes, Mr. Jenkins's company was bidding on the Krugersdorpf job. He was muchnicer than Mr. Kruse from the Brussels concern, and, anyhow, thoseBelgian firms had no chance at this contract, for Belgium waspro-Boer, and--well, she had heard a few things around the office. 

Mitchell was getting "feed-box" information. When he left he knewthe names of his dangerous competitors as well as those whom, in alllikelihood, he had no cause to fear. Another step! He was gainingground. 

In order to make himself absolutely certain that his figures would below, there still remained three things to learn, and they were mattersupon which he could afford to take no slightest chance of mistake. He must know, first, the dates of those other bids; second, themarket-price of English steel at such times; and, third, the cost offabrication at the various mills. The first two he believed couldbe easily learned, but the third promised to afford appallingdifficulties to a man unfamiliar with foreign methods and utterlylacking in trade acquaintances. He went at them systematically, however, only to run against a snag within the hour. Not only did hefail to find the answer to question number one, but he could find nomarket quotations whatever on structural steel shapes such as enteredinto the Krugersdorpf job. 

He searched through every possible trade journal, through readingrooms and libraries, for the price of I-beams, channels, Z-bars, andthe like; but nowhere could he even find mention of them. His failureleft him puzzled and panic-stricken; he could not understand it. Ifonly he had more time, he reflected, time in which to learn the usagesand the customs of this country. But time was what he had not. He wastired, very tired from his sleepless nights and hours of daylightstrain--and meanwhile the days were rushing past. 

While engaged in these side labors, he had, of course, been workingon his draftsmen friends, and more assiduously even than upon hisblue-prints. On Tuesday night, with but one more day of grace ahead ofhim, he gave a dinner to all of them, disregarding the fact that hisbank-roll had become frightfully emaciated. 

For several days after that little party blue-printing in theRobinson-Ray office was a lost art. When his guests had dined and hadsettled back into their chairs, Mitchell decided to risk all upon onethrow. He rose, at the head of the table, and told them who he was. Heutterly destroyed their illusions regarding him and his position withComer & Mathison, he bared his heart to those stoop-shouldered, shabbyyoung men from Threadneedle Street and came right down to the ninehundred and twenty dollars and the girl. He told them whatthis Krugersdorpf job meant to him and to her, and to the fourtwenty-dollar bills in Chicago, Illinois, U. S. A. 

Those Englishmen listened silently. Nobody laughed. Perhaps it was thesort of thing they had dreamed of doing some day, perhaps there wereother girls in other tiny furnished flats, other hearts wrapped up insimilar struggles for advancement. They were good mathematicians, itseemed, for they did not have to ask Mitchell how the nine hundredand twenty was doing, or to inquire regarding the health of the othereighty. One of them, a near-sighted fellow with thick lenses, arosewith the grave assertion that he had taken the floor for the purposeof correcting a popular fallacy; Englishmen and Yankees, he declared, were not cousins, they were brothers, and their interests ever hadbeen and ever would be identical. He said, too, that England wantedto do business with America, and as for this particular contract, notonly did the British nation as a whole desire America to secure it, but the chaps who bent over the boards at No. 42-1/2 ThreadneedleStreet were plugging for her tooth and nail. His hollow-chestedcompanions yelled their approval of this statement, whereupon Mitchellagain arose, alternately flushing and paling, and apologized for whathad happened in 1776. He acknowledged himself ashamed of the 1812affair, moreover, and sympathized with his guests over their presenttrouble with the Boers. When he had finished they voted him the besthost and the best little cyanide tank-builder known to them--and theneverybody tried to tell him something at once. 

They told him among other things that every bid except his had been infor two weeks, and that they were in the vault under the care of Mr. Pitts, the head draftsman. They promised to advise him if any new bidscame in or if any changes occurred, and, most important of all, theytold him that in England all structural steel shapes, instead of beingclassified as in America, are known as "angles, " and they told himjust how and where to find the official reports giving the price ofthe same for every day in the year. 

The word "angles" was the missing key, and those official marketreports formed the lock in which to fit it. Mitchell had taken severalmighty strides, and there remained but one more step to take. 

When his guests had finally gone home, swearing fealty, and declaringthis to be the best dinner they had ever drunk, he hastened back tohis room, back to the desert of blueprints and to the interminablecolumns of figures, and over them he worked like a madman. 

He slept two hours before daylight, then he was up and toiling again, for this was his last day. Using the data he had gathered the nightbefore, he soon had the price of English and Scottish steel at thetime the last bids were closed. Given one thing more--namely, the costof fabrication in these foreign shops, and he would have reduced thishazard to a certainty, he would be able to read the prices containedin those sealed bids as plainly as if they lay open before him. Buthis time had narrowed now to hours. 

He lunched with John Pitts, the head draughtsman, going back to pickup the boomerang he had left the week before. 

"Have you gone over my first bid?" he asked, carelessly. 

"I have--lucky for you, " said Pitts. "You made a mistake. "

"Indeed! How so?"

"Why, it's thirty per cent. Too low. It would be a crime to give youthe business at those figures. "

"But, you see, I didn't include the sub-structure. I didn't have timeto figure that. " Mitchell prayed that his face might not show hiseagerness. Evidently it did not, for Pitts walked into the trap. 

"Even so, " said he; "it's thirty per cent. Out of the way. I madeallowance for that. "

The boomerang had finished its flight!

Once they had separated, Mitchell broke for his hotel like ahunted man. He had made no mistake in his first figures. The greatKrugersdorpf job was his; but, nevertheless, he wished to make himselfabsolutely sure and to secure as much profit as possible for Comer& Mathison. Without a handsome profit this three-million-dollar jobmight ruin a firm of their standing. 

In order to verify Pitts's statement, in order to swell his proposedprofits to the utmost, Mitchell knew he ought to learn the "overhead"in English mills; that is, the fixed charges which, added to shopcosts and prices of material, are set aside to cover office expenses, cost of operation, and contingencies. Without this informationhe would have to go it blind, after a fashion, and thereby riskpenalizing himself; with it he could estimate very closely the amountsof the other bids and insure a safe margin for Comer & Mathison. Inaddition to this precaution he wished to have his own figures checkedup, for even under normal conditions, if one makes a numerical errorin work of this sort, he is more than apt to repeat it time and again, and Mitchell knew himself to be deadly tired--almost on the vergeof collapse. He was inclined to doze off whenever he sat down; theraucous noises of the city no longer jarred or startled him, and hissurroundings were becoming unreal, grotesque, as if seen through thespell of absinthe. Yes, it was necessary to check off his figures. 

But who could he get to do the work? He could not go to ThreadneedleStreet. He thought of the Carnegie representative and telephoned him, explaining the situation and his crying need, only to be told thatno one in that office was capable of assisting him. He was referred, however, to an English engineer who, it was barely possible, couldhandle the job. In closing, the Carnegie man voiced a vague warning:

"His name is Dell, and he used to be with one of the Edinburghconcerns, so don't let him know your inside figures. He might spring aleak. "

A half-hour later Mitchell, his arms full of blue-prints, was in Mr. Dell's office. But the English engineer hesitated; he was very busy;he had numerous obligations. Mitchell gazed over the threadbare roomsand hastily estimated how much of the nine hundred and twenty dollarswould be left after he had paid his hotel bill. What there was to domust be done before the next morning's sun arose. 

"This job is worth ten sovereigns to me if it is finished tonight, " hedeclared, briskly. 

Mr. Dell hesitated, stumbled, and fell. "Very well. We'll begin atonce, " said he. 

He unrolled the blue-prints, from a drawer he produced a sliding-rule. He slid this rule up; he slid it down; he gazed through his glassesat space; he made microscopic Spencerian figures in neat rows andcolumns. He seemed to pluck his results from the air with necromanticcunning, and what had taken the young man at his elbow days and nightsof cruel effort to accomplish--what had put haggard lines about hismouth and eyes--the engineer accomplished in a few hours by meansof that sliding-rule. Meanwhile, with one weary effort of will, hisvisitor summoned his powers and cross-examined him adroitly. Here wasthe very man to supply the one missing link in the perfect chain;but Mr. Dell would not talk. He did not like Americans nor Americanmethods, and he made his dislike apparent by sealing his lips. Mitchell played upon his vanity at first, only to find the man whollylacking in conceit. Changing his method of attack, Mitchell built afire under Mr. Dell. He grilled everything British, the people, theirsocial customs, their business methods, even English engineers, andhe did it in a most annoying manner. Mr. Dell began to perspire. He worked doggedly on for a while, then he arose in defense of hiscountry, whereupon Mitchell artfully shifted his attack to Englishsteel-mills. The other refuted his statements flatly. At length theengineer was goaded to anger, he became disputative, indignant, loquacious. 

When Louis Mitchell flung himself into the dark body of his cab, late that evening, and sank his legs knee-deep into those hatefulblue-prints, he blessed that engineer, for Dell had told him all hewished to know, all he had tried so vainly to discover through othersources. The average "overhead" in British mills was one hundred andthirty per cent. , and Dell _knew_. 

The young man laughed hysterically, triumphantly, but the sound wasmore like a tearful hiccough. To-morrow at ten-thirty! It was nearlyover. He would be ready. As he lolled back inertly upon the cushionshe mused dreamily that he had done well. In less than two weeks, in aforeign country, and under strange conditions, without acquaintance orpull or help of any sort, he had learned the names of his competitivefirms, the dates of their bids, and the market prices ruling on everypiece of steel in the Krugersdorpf job when those bids were figured. He had learned the rules governing English labor unions; he knew allabout piece-work and time-work, fixed charges and shop costs, togetherwith the ability of every plant figuring on the Robinson-Ray contractto turn out the work in the necessary time. All this, and more, hehad learned legitimately and without cost to his commercial honor. Henceforth that South-African contract depended merely upon his ownability to add, subtract, and multiply correctly. It was his just assurely as two and two make four--for salesmanship is an exact science. 

The girl would be very happy, he told himself. He was glad that shecould never know the strain it had been. 

Again, through the slow, silent hours of that Wednesday night, Mitchell fought the fatigue of death, going over his figurescarefully. There were no errors in them. 

Dawn was creeping in on him when he added a clean thirty-per-cent. Profit for his firm, signed his bid, and prepared for bed. But hefound that he could not leave the thing. After he had turned in hebecame assailed by sudden doubts and fears. What if he had made amistake after all? What if some link in his chain were faulty? What ifsome other bidder had made a mistake and underfigured? Such thoughtsmade him tremble. Now that it was all done, he feared that he had beenoverconfident, for could it really be possible that the greatest steelcontract in years would come to him? He grew dizzy at the picture ofwhat it meant to him and to the girl. 

He calmed himself finally and looked straight at the matter, sittingup in bed, his knees drawn up under his chin. While so engaged hecaught sight of his drawn face in the mirror opposite and startedwhen he realized how old and heavy with fatigue it was. He determinedsuddenly to shave that profit to twenty-nine per cent. And makeassurance doubly sure, but managed to conquer his momentary panic. Cold reasoning told him that his figures were safe. 

Louis Mitchell was the only salesman in Mr. Peebleby's office thatmorning who did not wear a silk hat, pearl gloves, and spats. Inconsequence the others ignored him for a time--but only for a time. Once the proposals had been read, an air of impenetrable gloom spreadover the room. The seven Scotch, English, and Belgian mourners staredcheerlessly at one another and then with growing curiosity at theyoung man from overseas who had underbid the lowest of them by sixthousand pounds sterling, less than one per cent. After a while theybowed among themselves, mumbled something to Mr. Peebleby, andwent softly out in their high hats, their pearl gloves, and theirspats--more like pall-bearers now than ever. 

"Six hundred and thirty-seven thousand five hundred pounds sterling!"said the Director General. "By Jove, Mitchell, I'm glad!" They shookhands. "I'm really glad. "

"That's over three million dollars in real money, " said the youth. "It's quite a tidy little job. "

Peebleby laughed. "You've been very decent about it, too. I hope tosee something of you in the future. What?"

"You'll see my smoke, that's all. "

"You're not going back right away?"

"To-morrow; I've booked my passage and cabled the girl to meet me inNew York. "

"My word! A girl! She'll be glad to hear of your success. "

"Oh, I've told her already. You see, I knew I'd won. "

The Director General of the Robinson-Ray Syndicate stared in openamazement, but Mitchell hitched his chair closer, saying:

"Now let's get at those signatures. I've got to pack. "

That night Louis Mitchell slept with fifteen separate contracts underhis pillow. He double-locked the door, pulled the dresser in front ofit, and left the light burning. At times he awoke with a start andfelt for the documents. Toward morning he was seized with a suddenfright, so he got up and read them all over for fear somebody hadtampered with them. They were correct, however, whereupon he read thema second time just for pleasure. They were strangely interesting. 

On the _Deutschland_ he slept much of the way across, and by thetime Liberty Statue loomed up he could dream of other things thanblue-prints--of the girl, for instance. 

She had enough left from the eighty dollars to bring her to New Yorkand to pay for a week's lodging in West Thirty-fourth Street, thoughhow she managed it Mitchell never knew. She was at the dock, ofcourse. He knew she would be. He expected to see her with her armsoutstretched and with the old joyous smile upon her dimpled face, and, therefore, he was sorely disappointed when he came down the gang-plankand she did not appear. He searched high and low until finally hediscovered her seated over by the letter "M, " where his trunk waswaiting inspection. There she was, huddled up on a coil of rope, crying as if her heart would break; her nerve was gone, along with thefour twenty-dollar bills; she was afraid to face him, afraid there hadbeen an error in his cablegram. 

Not until she lay in his arms at last, sobbing and laughing, herslender body all aquiver, did she believe. Then he allowed her to feelthe fifteen contracts inside his coat. Later, when they were in a cabbound for her smelly little boarding-house, he showed them to her. Inreturn she gave him a telegram from his firm--a telegram addressed asfollows:

Mr. LOUIS MITCHELL, General Sales Manager, Comer & Mathison, New York City. 

The message read:

That goes. COMER. 

Mitchell opened the trap above his head and called up to the driver:"Hey, Cabbie! We've changed our minds. Drive us to the Waldorf--at agallop. "

WITH INTEREST TO DATE

This is the tale of a wrong that rankled and a great revenge. It isnot a moral story, nor yet, measured by the modern money code, is itwhat could be called immoral. It is merely a tale of sharp witswhich clashed in pursuit of business, therefore let it be consideredunmoral, a word with a wholly different commercial significance. 

Time was when wrongs were righted by mace and battle-ax, amid fanfaresand shoutings, but we live in a quieter age, an age of repression, wherein the keenest thrust is not delivered with a yell of triumph northe oldest score settled to the blare of trumpets. No longer do themen of great muscle lord it over the weak and the puny; as a rulethey toil and they lift, doing unpleasant, menial duties forhollow-chested, big-domed men with eye-glasses. But among those veryspindle-shanked, terra-cotta dwellers who cower at draughts and eatsoda mints, the ancient struggle for supremacy wages fiercer thanever. Single combats are fought now as then, and the flavor of victoryis quite as sweet to the pallid man back of a roll-top desk as to theswart, bristling baron behind his vizored helmet. 

The beginning of this story runs back to the time Henry Hanford wentwith the General Equipment Company as a young salesman full of hopeand enthusiasm and a somewhat exaggerated idea of his own importance. He was selling shears, punches, and other machinery used in thefabrication of structural steel. In the territory assigned to him, theworks of the Atlantic Bridge Company stuck up like a sore thumb, foralthough it employed many men, although its contracts were large andits requirements numerous, the General Equipment Company had neversold it a dollar's worth of anything. 

In the course of time Hanford convinced himself that the AtlanticBridge Company needed more modern machinery, so he laid siege toJackson Wylie, Sr. , its president and practical owner. He spent all ofsix months in gaining the old man's ear, but when he succeeded helaid himself out to sell his goods. He analyzed the Atlantic BridgeCompany's needs in the light of modern milling practice, anddemonstrated the saving his equipment would effect. A big order andmuch prestige were at stake, both of which young Hanford neededbadly at the time. He was vastly encouraged, therefore, when thebridge-builder listened attentively to him. 

"I dare say we shall have to make a change, " Mr. Wylie reluctantlyagreed. "I've been bothered to death by machinery salesmen, but you'rethe first one to really interest me. "

Hanford acknowledged the compliment and proceeded further to elaborateupon the superiority of the General Equipment Company's goods overthose sold by rival concerns. When he left he felt that he had Mr. Wylie, Sr. , "going. "

At the office they warned him that he had a hard nut to crack; thatWylie was given to "stringing" salesmen and was a hard man to closewith, but Hanford smiled confidently. Granting those facts, theyrendered him all the more eager to make this sale; and the bridgecompany really did need up-to-date machinery. 

He instituted an even more vigorous selling campaign, he sent muchprinted matter to Mr. Wylie, Sr. , he wrote him many letters. Being athoroughgoing young saleman, he studied the plant from the ground up, learning the bridge business in such detail as enabled him to talkwith authority on efficiency methods. In the course of his studies hediscovered many things that were wrong with the Atlantic, and spentdays in outlining improvements on paper. He made the acquaintance ofthe foremen; he cultivated the General Superintendent; he even met Mr. Jackson Wylie, Jr. , the Sales Manager, a very polished, metallic youngman, who seemed quite as deeply impressed with Hanford's statements asdid his father. 

Under our highly developed competitive system, modern business is donevery largely upon personality. From the attitude of both father andson, Hanford began to count his chickens. Instead of letting up, however, he redoubled his efforts, which was his way. He spent so muchtime on the matter that his other work suffered, and in consequencehis firm called him down. He outlined his progress with the AtlanticBridge Company, declared he was going to succeed, and continued tocamp with the job, notwithstanding the firm's open doubts. 

Sixty days after his first interview he had another visit with Wylie, senior, during which the latter drained him of information and made anappointment for a month later. Said Mr. Wylie:

"You impress me strongly, Hanford, and I want my associates to hearyou. Get your proposition into shape and make the same talk to themthat you have made to me. "

Hanford went away elated; he even bragged a bit at the office, and thereport got around among the other salesmen that he really had done theimpossible and had pulled off something big with the Atlantic. It wasa busy month for that young gentleman, and when the red-letter day atlast arrived he went on to Newark to find both Wylies awaiting him. 

"Well, sir, are you prepared to make a good argument?" the fatherinquired. 

"I am. " Hanford decided that three months was not too long a time todevote to work of this magnitude, after all. 

"I want you to do your best, " the bridge-builder continued, encouragingly, then he led Hanford into the directors' room, where, tohis visitor's astonishment, some fifty men were seated. 

"These are our salesmen, " announced Mr. Wylie. He introduced Hanfordto them with the request that they listen attentively to what theyoung man had to say. 

It was rather nervous work for Hanford, but he soon warmed up andforgot his embarrassment. He stood on his feet for two long hourspleading as if for his life. He went over the Atlantic plant from endto end; he showed the economic necessity for new machinery; then heexplained the efficiency of his own appliances. He took rival typesand picked them to pieces, pointing out their inferiority. He showedhis familiarity with bridge work by going into figures which bore outhis contention that the Atlantic's output could be increased and atan actual monthly saving. He wound up by proving that the GeneralEquipment Company was the one concern best fitted to effect theimprovement. 

It had taken months of unremitting toil to prepare himself for thisexposition, but the young fellow felt he had made his case. When hetook up the cost of the proposed instalment, however, Mr. JacksonWylie, Sr. , interrupted him. 

"That is all I care to have you cover, " the latter explained. "Thankyou very kindly, Mr. Hanford. "

Hanford sat down and wiped his forehead, whereupon the other steppedforward and addressed his employees. 

"Gentlemen, " said he, "you have just listened to the best argument Iever heard. I purposely called you in from the road so that you mighthave a practical lesson in salesmanship and learn something from anoutsider about your own business. I want you to profit by this talk. Take it to heart and apply it to your own customers. Our sellingefficiency has deteriorated lately; you are getting lazy. I want youto wake up and show better results. That is all. You might thank thisyoung gentleman for his kindness. "

When the audience had dispersed, Hanford inquired, blankly, "Don't youintend to act on my suggestions?"

"Oh no!" said Mr. Wylie, in apparent surprise. "We are doing nicely, as it is. I merely wanted you to address the boys. "

"But--I've spent three months of hard labor on this! You led me tobelieve that you would put in new equipment. "

The younger Wylie laughed, languidly exhaling a lungful of cigarettesmoke. "When Dad gets ready to purchase, he'll let you know, " said he. 

Six months later the Atlantic Bridge Company placed a mammoth orderwith Hanford's rival concern, and he was not even asked to figure onit. 

That is how the seeds of this story were sown. Of course the facts gotout, for those Atlantic salesmen were not wanting in a sense of humor, and Hanford was joshed in every quarter. To make matters worse, his firm called him to account for his wasted time, implying thatsomething was evidently wrong with his selling methods. Thus began alack of confidence which quickly developed into strained relations. The result was inevitable; Hanford saw what was coming and was wiseenough to resign his position. 

But it was the ridicule that hurt him most. He was unable to getaway from that. Had he been at all emotional, he would have sworn avendetta, so deep and lasting was the hurt, but he did not; he merelyfailed to forget, which, after all, is not so different. 

It seemed queer that Henry Hanford should wind up in the bridgebusiness himself, after attempting to fill several unsatisfactorypositions, and yet there was nothing remarkable about it, for thatthree months of intense application at the Atlantic plant had givenhim a groundwork which came in handy when the Patterson Bridge Companyoffered him a desk. He was a good salesman; he worked hard and intime he was promoted. By and by the story was forgotten--by everyone except Henry Hanford. But he had lost a considerable number ofprecious years. 

 * * * * *

When it became known that the English and Continental structuralshops were so full of work that they could not figure on the mammothfive-million-dollar steel structure designed to span the Barrata Riverin Africa, and when the Royal Commission in London finally advertisedbroadcast that time was the essence of this contract, Mr. JacksonWylie, Sr. , realized that his plant was equipped to handle the job inmagnificent shape, with large profit to himself and with great renownto the Wylie name. He therefore sent his son, Jackson Wylie, theSecond, now a full-fledged partner, to London armed with letters toalmost everybody in England from almost everybody in America. 

Two weeks later--the Patterson Bridge Company was not so aggressiveas its more pretentious rival--Henry Hanford went abroad on the samemission, but he carried no letters of introduction for the very goodreason that he possessed neither commercial influence nor socialprestige. Bradstreets had never rated him, and _Who's Who_ containedno names with which he was familiar. 

Jackson Wylie, the Second had been to London frequently, and he wasaccustomed to English life. He had friends with headquarters atPrince's and at Romano's, friends who were delighted to entertain soprominent an American; his letters gave him the entree to many of thebest clubs and paved his way socially wherever he chose to go. 

It was Hanford's first trip across, and he arrived on British soilwithout so much as a knowledge of English coins, with nothing inthe way of baggage except a grip full of blue-prints, and with nodestination except the Parliament buildings, where he had been ledto believe the Royal Barrata Bridge Commission was eagerly andimpatiently awaiting his coming. But when he called at the Parliamentbuildings he failed not only to find the Commission, but even toencounter anybody who knew anything about it. He did manage to locatethe office, after some patient effort, but learned that it was nothingmore than a forwarding address, and that no member of the Commissionhad been there for several weeks. He was informed that the Commissionhad convened once, and therefore was not entirely an imaginary body;beyond that he could discover nothing. On his second visit to theoffice he was told that Sir Thomas Drummond, the chairman, was inside, having run down from his shooting-lodge in Scotland for the day. ButSir Thomas's clerk, with whom Hanford had become acquainted at thetime of his first call, informed him that Mr. Jackson Wylie, theSecond, from America, was closeted with his lordship, and inconsequence his lordship could not be disturbed. Later, when Hanfordgot more thoroughly in touch with the general situation, he began torealize that introductions, influence, social prestige would in allprobability go farther toward landing the Barrata Bridge than mereengineering, ability or close figuring--facts with which the youngerWylie was already familiar, and against which he had provided. It alsobecame plain to Hanford as time went on that the contract would ofnecessity go to America, for none of the European shops were inposition to complete it on time. 

Owing to government needs, this huge, eleven-span structure had to beon the ground within ninety days from the date of the signing of thecontract, and erected within eight months thereafter. The Commission'sclerk, a big, red-faced, jovial fellow, informed Hanford that pricewas not nearly so essential as time of delivery; that although thecontract glittered with alluring bonuses and was heavily weightedwith forfeits, neither bonuses nor forfeitures could in the slightestmanner compensate for a delay in time. It was due to this very fact, to the peculiar urgency of the occasion, that the Commissioners wereinclined to look askance at prospective bidders who might in any wayfail to complete the task as specified. 

"If all that is true, tell me why Wylie gets the call?" Hanfordinquired. 

"I understand he has the very highest references, " said theEnglishman. 

"No doubt. But you can't build bridges with letters of introduction, even in Africa. "

"Probably not. But Sir Thomas is a big man; Mr. Wylie is one of hissort. They meet on common ground, don't you see?"

"Well, if I can't arrange an interview with any member of theCommission, I can at least take you to lunch. Will you go?"

The clerk declared that he would, indeed, and in the days thatfollowed the two saw much of each other. This fellow, Lowe by name, interested Hanford. He was a cosmopolite; he was polished to thehardness of agate by a life spent in many lands. He possessed a coldeye and a firm chin; he was a complex mixture of daredeviltry andmeekness. He had fought in a war or two, and he had led hopes quiteas forlorn as the one Hanford was now engaged upon. It was this bond, perhaps, which drew the two together. 

In spite of Lowe's assistance Hanford found it extremely difficult, nay, almost impossible, to obtain any real inside informationconcerning the Barrata Bridge; wherever he turned he brought upagainst a blank wall of English impassiveness: he even experienceddifficulty in securing the blue-prints he wanted. 

"It looks pretty tough for you, " Lowe told him one day. "I'm afraidyou're going to come a cropper, old man. This chap Wylie has the railand he's running well. He has opened an office, I believe. "

"So I understand. Well, the race isn't over yet, and I'm a goodstayer. This is the biggest thing I ever tackled and it means a lot tome--more than you imagine. "

"How so?"

Hanford recited the story of his old wrong, to Lowe's frank amazement. 

"What a rotten trick!" the latter remarked. 

"Yes! And--I don't forget. "

"You'd better forget this job. It takes pull to get consideration frompeople like Sir Thomas, and Wylie has more than he needs. A fellowwithout it hasn't a chance. Look at me, for instance, working at adesk! Bah!"

"Want to try something else?"

"I do! And you'd better follow suit. "

Hanford shook his head. "I never quit--I can't. When my chance at thisbridge comes along--"

Lowe laughed. 

"Oh, the chance will come. Chances always come; sometimes we don't seethem, that's all. When this one comes I want to be ready. Meanwhile, Ithink I'll reconnoiter Wylie's new office and find out what's doing. "

Day after day Henry Hanford pursued his work doggedly, seeing much ofLowe, something of Wylie's clerk, and nothing whatever of Sir ThomasDrummond or the other members of the Royal Barrata Bridge Commission. He heard occasional rumors of the social triumphs of his rival, and met him once, to be treated with half-veiled amusement by thatpatronizing young man. Meanwhile, the time was growing short andHanford's firm was not well pleased with his progress. 

Then the chance came, unexpectedly, as Hanford had declared chancesalways come. The remarkable thing in this instance was not that theveiled goddess showed her face, but that Hanford was quick enoughto recognize her and bold enough to act. He had taken Lowe to theTrocadero for dinner, and, finding no seats where they could watch thecrowd, he had selected a stall in a quiet corner. They had been therebut a short time when Hanford recognized a voice from the stalladjacent as belonging to the representative of the Atlantic BridgeCompany. From the sounds he could tell that Wylie was giving adinner-party, and with Lowe's aid he soon identified the guests asmembers of the Royal Barrata Bridge Commission. Hanford began tostrain his ears. 

As the meal progressed this became less of an effort, for youngWylie's voice was strident. The Wylie conversation had ever beenlimited largely to the Wylies, their accomplishments, their purposes, and their prospects; and now having the floor as host, he talkedmainly about himself, his father, and their forthcoming Barrata Bridgecontract. It was his evident endeavor this evening to impress hisdistinguished guests with the tremendous importance of the AtlanticBridge Company and its unsurpassed facilities for handling big jobs. A large part of young Wylie's experience had been acquired bymanipulating municipal contracts and the aldermen connected therewith;he now worked along similar lines. Hanford soon learned that he wastrying in every way possible to induce Drummond and his associatesto accompany him back to America for the purpose of provingbeyond peradventure that the Atlantic could take care of afive-million-dollar contract with ease. 

"As if they'd go!" Lowe said, softly. "And yet--by Jove! he talks asif he had the job buttoned up. "

The Englishman was alert, his dramatic instinct was at play;recognizing the significance of Wylie's offer and its possible bearingupon Hanford's fortunes, he waved the waiter away, knowing better thanto permit the rattle of dishes to distract his host's attention. 

Meanwhile, with clenched teeth and smoldering eyes Henry Hanford heardhis rival in the next compartment identify the State of New Jersey bythe fact that the works of the Atlantic Bridge Company were locatedtherein, and dignify it by the fact that the Jackson Wylies livedthere. 

"You know, gentlemen, " Wylie was saying, "I can arrange the tripwithout the least difficulty, and I assure you there will be nodiscomfort. I am in constant cipher communication with my father, andhe will be delighted to afford you every courtesy. I can fix it up bycable in a day. "

Hanford arose with a silent gesture to his guest, then, although themeal was but half over, he paid the bill. He had closed his campaign. Right then and there he landed the great Barrata Bridge contract. 

Lowe, mystified beyond measure by his friend's action, made no commentuntil they were outside. Then he exclaimed:

"I say, old top, what blew off?"

Hanford smiled at him queerly. "The whole top of young Wylie's headblew off, if he only knew it. It's my day to settle that score, andthe interest will be compounded. "

"I must be extremely stupid. "

"Not at all. You're damned intelligent, and that's why I'm going toneed your help. " Hanford turned upon the adventurer suddenly. "Haveyou ever been an actor?"

Lowe made a comical grimace. "I say, old man, that's pretty rough. Mypeople raised me for a gentleman. "

"Exactly. Come with me to my hotel. We're going to do each other agreat favor. With your help and the help of Mr. Jackson Wylie theSecond's London clerk, I'm going to land the Barrata Bridge. "

Hanford had not read his friend Lowe awrong, and when, behind lockeddoors, he outlined his plan, the big fellow gazed at him withamazement, his blue eyes sparkling with admiration. 

"Gad! That appeals to me. I--think I can do it. " There was no timidityin Lowe's words, merely a careful consideration of the risks involved. 

Hanford gripped his hand. "I'll attend to Wylie's clerk, " he declared. "Now we'd better begin to rehearse. "

"But what makes you so positive you can handle his clerk?" queriedLowe. 

"Oh, I've studied him the same way I've studied you! I've been doingnothing else for the last month. "

"Bli' me, you're a corker!" said Mr. Lowe. 

 * * * * *

Back in Newark, New Jersey, Jackson Wylie, Sr. , was growing impatient. In spite of his son's weekly reports he had begun to fret at theindefinite nature of results up to date. This dissatisfaction it wasthat had induced him to cable his invitation to the Royal Commissionto visit the Atlantic plant. Mr. Jackson Wylie, Sr. , had a mysteriousway of closing contracts once he came in personal contact with theproper people. In the words of his envious competitors, he had "goodterminal facilities, " and he felt sure in his own mind that he couldget this job if only he could meet some member of that Commission whopossessed the power to act. Business was bad, and in view of his son'spreliminary reports he had relied upon the certainty of securing thistremendous contract; he had even turned work away so that his plantmight be ready for the rush, with the result that many of his men nowwere idle and that he was running far below capacity. But he likewisehad his eye upon those English bonuses, and when his associates rathertimidly called his attention to the present state of affairs heassured them bitingly that he knew his business. Nevertheless, hecould not help chafing at delay nor longing for the time to come tosubmit the bid that had lain for a month upon his desk. The magnitudeof the figures contained therein was getting on Mr. Wylie's nerves. 

On the tenth of May he received a cablegram in his own official cipherwhich, translated, read:

Meet Sir Thomas Drummond, Chairman Royal Barrata Bridge Commission, arriving Cunard Liner _Campania_, thirteenth, stopping Waldorf. Arrange personally Barrata contract. Caution. 

The cablegram was unsigned, but its address, "Atwylie, " betrayed notonly its destination, but also the identity of its sender. Mr. JacksonWylie, Sr. , became tremendously excited. The last word conjured upbewildering possibilities. He was about to consult his associates whenit struck him that the greatest caution he could possibly observewould consist of holding his own tongue now and henceforth. They hadseen fit to criticize his handling of the matter thus far; he decidedhe would play safe and say nothing until he had first seen Sir ThomasDrummond and learned the lay of the land. He imagined he might thenhave something electrifying to tell them. He had "dealt from thebottom" too often, he had closed too many bridge contracts in histime, to mistake the meaning of this visit, or of that last word"caution. "

During the next few days Mr. Jackson Wylie, Sr. , had hard work to holdhimself in, and he was at a high state of nervous tension when, onthe morning of the fourteenth day of May, he strolled into theWaldorf-Astoria and inquired at the desk for Sir Thomas Drummond. 

There was no Sir Thomas stopping at the hotel, although a Mr. T. Drummond from London had arrived on the _Campania_ the day before. Mr. Jackson Wylie placed the heel of his right shoe upon the favorite cornof his left foot and bore down upon it heavily. He must begetting into his dotage, he reflected, or else the idea of afive-million-dollar job had him rattled. Of course Sir Thomas wouldnot use his title. 

At the rear desk he had his card blown up through the tube to "Mr. T. Drummond, " and a few moments later was invited to take the elevator. 

Arriving at the sixth floor, he needed no page to guide him; bootspointed his way to the apartment of the distinguished visitor as plainlyas a lettered sign-board; boots of all descriptions--hunting-boots, riding-boots, street shoes, lowshoes, pumps, sandals--black ones and tanones--all in a row outside the door. It was a typically English display. Evidently Sir Thomas Drummond was a personage of the most extremeimportance and traveled in befitting style, Mr. Wylie told himself. Nothing was missing from the collection, unless perhaps a pair of rubberhip-boots. 

A stoop-shouldered old man with a marked accent and a port-wine noseshowed Mr. Wylie into a parlor where the first object upon whichhis active eyes alighted was a mass of blue-prints. He knew thesedrawings; he had figured on them himself. He likewise noted a hat-boxand a great, shapeless English bag, both plastered crazily with hoteland steamship labels hailing from every quarter of the world. It wasplain to be seen that Sir Thomas was a globe-trotter. 

"Mr. Drummond begs you to be seated, " the valet announced, with whatseemed an unnecessary accent on the "mister, " then moved silently out. 

Mr. Wylie remarked to himself upon the value of discreet servants. They were very valuable; very hard to get in America. This must besome lifelong servitor in his lordship's family. 

There was no occasion to inquire the identity of the tall, floridEnglishman in tweeds who entered a moment later, a bundle of estimatesin his hand. "Sir Thomas Drummond, Chairman of the Royal BarrataBridge Commission, " was written all over him in large type. 

His lordship did not go to the trouble of welcoming his visitor, butscanned him frigidly through his glasses. 

"You are Mr. Jackson Wylie, Senior?" he demanded, abruptly. 

"That is my name. "

"President of the Atlantic Bridge Company, of Newark, New Jersey?"

"The same. "

"You received a cablegram from your son in London?"

"Yes, your lordship. "

Sir Thomas made a gesture as if to forego the title. "Let me see it, please. "

Mr. Wylie produced the cablegram, and Drummond scanned it sharply. Evidently the identification was complete. 

"Does any one besides your son and yourself know the contents of thismessage?"

"Not a soul. "

"You have not told any one of my coming?"

"No, sir!"

"Very well. " Sir Thomas appeared to breathe easier; he deliberatelytore the cablegram into small bits, then tossed the fragments intoa wastepaper basket before waving his caller to a chair. He stillremained very cold, very forceful, although his stiff formality hadvanished. 

"Do you understand all about this bridge?" he inquired. 

Wylie senior took the cue of brusqueness and nodded shortly. 

"Can you build it in the time specified?"

"With ease. "

"Have you submitted your bid?"

"Not yet. I--"

"What is the amount of your proposal?"

The president of the Atlantic Bridge Company gasped. This was theboldest, the coldest work he had ever experienced. Many times he hadwitnessed public officials like Sir Thomas Drummond approach thisdelicate point, but never with such composure, such matter-of-factcertainty and lack of moral scruple. Evidently, however, thisEnglishman had come to trade and wanted a direct answer. There was nofalse pose, no romance here. But Jackson Wylie, Sr. , was too shrewd abusiness man to name a rock-bottom price to begin with. The trainingof a lifetime would not permit him to deny himself a liberal leewayfor hedging, therefore he replied, cautiously:

"My figures will be approximately £1, 400, 000 sterling. " It was hislongest speech thus far. 

For what seemed an hour to the bridge-builder Sir Thomas Drummondgazed at him with a cold, hard eye, then he folded his papers, rolled up his blue-prints, placed them in the big traveling-bag, andcarefully locked it. When he had finished he flung out this questionsuddenly:

"Does that include the Commissioners?"

Up to this point Mr. Jackson Wylie had spoken mainly in monosyllables;now he quit talking altogether; it was no longer necessary. He merelyshook his head in negation. He was smiling slightly. 

"Then I shall ask you to add £200, 000 sterling to your price, " hislordship calmly announced. "Make your bid £1, 600, 000 sterling, andmail it in time for Wednesday's boat. I sail on the same ship. Proposals will be opened on the twenty-fifth. Arrange for an Englishindemnity bond for ten per cent. Of your proposition. Do notcommunicate in any manner whatsoever with your son, except to forwardthe sealed bid to him. He is not to know of our arrangement. You willmeet me in London later; we will take care of that £200, 000 out of thelast forty per cent. Of the contract price, which is payable thirtydays after completion, inspection, and acceptance of the bridge. Youwill not consult your associates upon leaving here. Do I make myselfclear? Very well, sir. The figures are easy to remember: £1, 600, 000;£1, 400, 000 to you. I am pleased with the facilities your plant offersfor doing the work. I am confident you can complete the bridge ontime, and I beg leave to wish you a very pleasant good day. "

Jackson Wylie, Sr. , did not really come to until he had reachedthe street; even then he did not know whether he had come down theelevator or through the mail-chute. Of one thing only was he certain:he was due to retire in favor of his son. He told himself thathe needed a trip through the Holy Land with a guardian and anursing-bottle; then he paused on the curb and stamped on his corn fora second time. 

"Oh, what an idiot I am!" he cried, savagely. "I could havegotten £1, 600, 000 to start with, but--by gad, Sir Thomas is thecoldest-blooded thing I ever went against! I--I can't help but admirehim. "

Having shown a deplorable lack of foresight, Mr. Wylie determined tomake up for it by an ample display of hindsight. If the profits on thejob were not to be so large as they might have been, he would atleast make certain of them by obeying instructions to the letter. Inaccordance with this determination, he made out the bid himself, andhe mailed it with his own hand that very afternoon. He put three bluestamps on the envelope, although it required but two. Then he calledup an automobile agency and ordered a foreign town-car his wife hadadmired. He decided that she and the girls might go to Paris for thefall shopping--he might even go with them, in view of that morning'sepisode. 

For ten days he stood the pressure, then on the morning of thetwenty-fourth he called his _confrères_ into the directors' room, thatsame room in which young Hanford had made his talk a number of yearsbefore. Inasmuch as it was too late now for a disclosure to affect theopening of the bids in London, he felt absolved from his promise toSir Thomas. 

"Gentlemen, I have the honor to inform you, " he began, pompously, "that the Barrata Bridge is ours! We have the greatest structuralsteel job of the decade. " His chest swelled with justifiable pride. 

"How? When? What do you mean?" they cried. 

He told them of his mysterious but fruitful interview at the Waldorften days previously, enjoying their expressions of amazement to thefull; then he explained in considerable detail the difficulties he hadsurmounted in securing such liberal figures from Sir Thomas. 

"We were ready to take the contract for £1, 300, 000, as you willremember, but by the exercise of some diplomacy"--he coughedmodestly--"I may say, by the display of some firmness andindependence, I succeeded in securing a clean profit of $500, 000 overwhat we had expected. " He accepted, with becoming diffidence, thecongratulations which were showered upon him. Of course, the newscreated a sensation, but it was as nothing to the sensation thatfollowed upon the receipt of a cablegram the next day which read:

ATWYLIE, Newark, New Jersey. 

Terrible mistake somewhere. We lost. Am coming home to-day. 

Mr. Jackson Wylie, Sr. , also went home that day--by carriage, for, after raving wildly of treachery, after cursing the name of someEnglish nobleman, unknown to most of the office force, he collapsed, throwing his employees into much confusion. There were rumors ofan apoplectic stroke; some one telephoned for a physician; but thepresident of the Atlantic Bridge Company only howled at the latterwhen he arrived. 

What hit the old man hardest was the fact that he could not explain tohis associates--that he could not even explain to himself, for thatmatter. He could make neither head nor tail of the affair; his son wason the high seas and could not be reached; the mystery of the wholetransaction threatened to unseat his reason. Even when his sorrowingheir arrived, a week after the shock, the father could gather nothingat first except the bare details. 

All he could learn was that the Royal Barrata Bridge Commissionhad met on the twenty-fifth day of May, for the second time in itshistory, with Sir Thomas Drummond in the chair. In the midst of anultra-British solemnity the bids had been opened and read--nine ofthem--two Belgian, one German, two French, one English, one Scottish, and two American. 

The only proposals that conformed to the specifications in everyrespect were the last named. They were perfect. The Atlantic BridgeCompany, of Newark, New Jersey, offered to do the work as specifiedfor £1, 600, 000 sterling. The Patterson Bridge Company, through itsauthorized agent, Mr. Henry Hanford, named a price of £1, 550, 000. Therest was but a matter of detail. 

Having concluded this bald recital, Jackson Wylie, the Second, spreadhis hands in a gesture of despair. "I can't understand it, " he said, dolefully. "I thought I had it cinched all the time. "

"_You_ had it cinched!" bellowed his father. "_You_! Why, you ruinedit all! Why in hell did you send him over here?"

"I? Send who? What are you talking about?"

"That man with the boots! That lying, thieving scoundrel, Sir ThomasDrummond, of course. "

The younger Wylie's face showed blank, uncomprehending amazement. "SirThomas Drummond was in London all the time I was there. I saw himdaily, " said he. 

Not until this very moment did the president of the Atlantic BridgeCompany comprehend the trap he had walked into, but now the wholehideous business became apparent. He had been fooled, swindled, and ina way to render recourse impossible; nay, in a manner to blacken hisreputation if the story became public. He fell actually ill from thepassion of his rage and not even a long rest from the worries ofbusiness completely cured him. The bitter taste of defeat would notdown. He might never have understood the matter thoroughly had it notbeen for a missive he received one day through the mail. It was a billfrom a London shoe-store for twelve pairs of boots, of varying styles, made out to Henry Hanford, and marked "paid. "

Mr. Jackson Wylie, Sr. , noted with unspeakable chagrin that the lastword was heavily under-scored in ink, as if by another hand. Hanford'sbill was indeed paid, and with interest to date. 

THE CUB REPORTER

Why he chose Buffalo Paul Anderson never knew, unless perhaps ithad more newspapers than Bay City, Michigan, and because his ticketexpired in the vicinity of Buffalo. For that matter, why he shouldhave given up an easy job as the mate of a tugboat to enter thetortuous paths of journalism the young man did not know, and, lackingthe introspective faculty, he did not stop to analyze his motives. Sofar as he could discover he had felt the call to higher endeavor, andjust naturally had heeded it. Such things as practical experience andeducational equipment were but empty words to him, for he was youngand hopeful, and the world is kind at twenty-one. 

He had hoped to enter his chosen field with some financial backing, and to that end, when the desire to try his hand at literature hadstruck him, he had bought an interest in a smoke-consumer which afireman on another tugboat had patented. In partnership with theinventor he had installed one of the devices beneath a sawmill boileras an experiment. Although the thing consumed smoke surprisingly well, it likewise unharnessed such an amazing army of heat-units that itmelted the crown-sheet of the boiler; whereupon the sawmill men, beingsingularly coarse and unimaginative fellows, set upon the patentee andhis partner with ash-rakes, draw-bars, and other ordinary, unpatentedimplements; a lumberjack beat hollowly upon their ribs with a peavy, and that night young Anderson sickened of smoke-consumers, harked anewto the call of journalism, and hiked, arriving in Buffalo with sevendollars and fifty cents to the good. 

For seven dollars, counted out in advance, he chartered a furnishedroom for a week, the same carrying with it a meal at each end of theday, which left in Anderson's possession a superfluity of fifty centsto be spent in any extravagance he might choose. 

Next day he bought a copy of each newspaper and, carefully scanningthem, selected the one upon which to bestow his reportorial gifts. This done, he weighed anchor and steamed through the town in search ofthe office. Walking in upon the city editor of _The Intelligencer_, hegazed with benevolent approval upon that busy gentleman's broad back. He liked the place, the office suited him, and he decided to have hisdesk placed over by the window. 

After a time the editor wheeled, displaying a young, smooth, fat face, out of which peered gray-blue eyes with pin-point pupils. 

"Well?" he queried. 

"Here I am, " said Anderson. 

"So it appears. What do you want?"

"Work. "

"What kind?"

"Newspapering. "

"What can you do?"

"Anything. "

"Well, well!" cried the editor. "You don't look much like a newspaperman. "

"I'm not one--yet. But I'm going to be. "

"Where have you worked?"

"Nowhere! You see, I'm really a playwright. "

The editor's face showed a bit of interest. "Playwright, eh? Anderson!Anderson!" he mused. "Don't recall the name. "

"No, " said Paul; "I've never written any plays yet, but I'm goingto. That's why I want to sort of begin here and get the hang of thiswriting game. "

A boy entered with some proofs at that moment and tossed them uponthe table, distracting the attention of the newspaper man. The latterwheeled back to his work and spoke curtly over his shoulder. 

"I'm not running a school of journalism. Good-by. "

"Maybe you'd like me to do a little space work--?"

"I'd never like you. Get out. I'm busy. "

Anderson retired gracefully, jingling his scanty handful of nickelsand dimes, and a half-hour later thrust himself boldly in upon anothereditor, but with no better result. He made the rounds of all theoffices; although invariably rebuffed he became more firmly convincedthan ever that journalism was his designated sphere. 

That night after dinner he retired to his room with the eveningpapers, wedged a chair against his bed, and, hoisting his feet uponthe wash-stand, absorbed the news of the day. It was ineffably sweetand satisfying to be thus identified with the profession of letters, and it was immeasurably more dignified than "tugging" on the SaginawRiver. Once he had schooled himself in the tricks of writing, hedecided he would step to higher things than newspaper work, but forthe present it was well to ground himself firmly in the rudiments ofthe craft. 

In going through the papers he noted one topic which interested him, a"similar mystery" story on the second page. From what he could gather, he judged that much space had already been given to it; for now, inasmuch as no solution offered, the item was dying slowly, the majorportion of each article being devoted to a rehash of similar unsolvedmysteries. 

Anderson read that the body of the golden-haired girl still lay at theMorgue, unidentified. Bit by bit he pieced together the lean storythat she was a suicide and that both the police and the press hadfailed in their efforts to unearth the least particle of informationregarding her. In spite of her remarkable beauty and certain unusualcircumstances connected with her death investigation had led nowhere. 

On the following day Anderson again walked into the editorial-roomsof _The Intelligencer_ and greeted the smooth, fat-faced occupantthereof. 

"Anything doing yet?" he inquired. 

"Not yet, " said the newspaper man, with a trace of annoyance in hisvoice. As the applicant moved out he halted him at the door with thewords: "Oh! Wait!"

Anderson's heart leaped. After all, he thought, perseverance would--

"Not yet, nor soon. " The editor smiled broadly, and Paul realized thatthe humor in those pin-point eyes was rather cruel. 

Five other calls he made that day, to be greeted gruffly in everyinstance except one. One man encouraged him slightly by saying:

"Come back next week; I may have an opening then. "

In view of the "pay-as-you-enter" policy in vogue at Anderson'sboarding-house he knew there could be no next week for him, thereforehe inquired:

"How about a little space work in the meantime? I'm pretty good atthat stuff. "

"You are?"

"Surest thing you know. "

"Did you ever do any?"

"No. But I'm good, just the same. "

"Huh!" the editor grunted. "There's no room now, and, come to think ofit, you needn't bother to get around next week. I can't break in newmen. "

That evening young Anderson again repaired to his room with hisharvest of daily papers, and again he read them thoroughly. He was byno means discouraged as yet, for his week had just begun--therewere still five days of grace, and prime ministers have been madeovernight, nations have fallen in five days. Six calls a day for fivedays, that meant thirty chances for a job. It was a cinch!

Hidden away among the back pages once more he encountered thegolden-haired-girl story, and although one paper featured it a bitbecause of some imaginary clue, the others treated it casually, makingpublic the information that the body still lay at the Morgue, asilent, irritating thing of mystery. 

On the third day Paul made his usual round of calls. He made them morequickly now because he was recognized, and was practically thrown outof each editorial sanctum. His serenity remained unruffled, andhis confidence undisturbed. Of all the six editors, Burns, of _TheIntelligencer_, treated him worst, adding ridicule to his gruffness, arefinement of cruelty which annoyed the young steamboat man. Andersonclenched his hard-knuckled hand and estimated the distance fromeditorial ear to point of literary chin, but realized in time thatsteamboat methods were out of place here in the politer realms ofjournalism. 

Four times more he followed his daily routine, and on Monday morningarose early to avoid his landlady. His week was up, his nickels anddimes were gone, nevertheless he spent the day on his customaryrounds. He crept in late at night, blue with the cold and rather dazedat his bad luck; he had eaten nothing since the morning before, andhe knew that he dared not show up at the breakfast-table the nextmorning. For the time being discouragement settled upon him; itsettled suddenly like some heavy smothering thing; it robbed him ofhope and redoubled his hunger. He awoke at daylight, roused by thesense of his defeat, then tiptoed out while yet the landlady was abed, and spent the day looking for work along the water-front. But winterhad tied up the shipping, and he failed, as he likewise failed atsundry employment agencies where he offered himself in any capacity. 

At noon he wandered into the park, and, finding a sheltered spot, sunned himself as best he could. He picked up the sheets of awind-scattered paper and read until the chill December afternoongot into his bones and forced him to his feet. The tale of theunidentified girl at the Morgue recurred to him when he read theannouncement that she would be buried two days later in the Potter'sField. Perhaps the girl had starved for lack of work, he reflected. Perhaps hunger and cold had driven her to her death. Certainly thosetwo were to blame for many a tragedy calculated to mystify warmly cladpolicemen and well-fed reporters. 

When he stole, shivering, into his bleak bedroom, late that night, hefound a note pinned upon his pillow. Of course the landlady needed herrent--all landladies were in need of money--and of course he would getout in the morning. He was glad she had not turned him out during theday, for this afforded him sanctuary for another night at least. Afterto-morrow it would be a park bench for his. 

He left his valise behind in the morning, rather lamenting the factthat the old lady could not wear the shirts it contained, and hopingthat she would realize a sufficient sum from their sale to pay hisbill. 

It was late afternoon when he commenced his listless tramp toward thenewspaper offices. Since Burns had become his pet aversion, he savedhim for the last, framing a few farewell remarks befitting the deathof hopes like his, and rehearsing an exit speech suitable to mark hisdeparture from the field of letters. 

When he finally reached _The Intelligencer_ editorial-rooms, Burnsrounded on him angrily. 

"For the love of Mike! Are you here again?" he demanded. 

"I thought you might like to have some space work--"

"By heavens! You're persistent. "

"Yes. "

"We editors are an unfeeling lot, aren't we?" the fat young maninquired. "No temperament, no appreciation. " He laughed noiselessly. 

"Give me a job, " Anderson cried, his voice breaking huskily. "I'llmake good. I'll do anything. "

"How long do you intend to keep bothering me?" questioned Burns. 

Anderson's cheeks were blue and the backs of his legs were tremblingfrom weakness, but he repeated, stolidly: "Give me a job. I--I won'tbother you after that. I'll make good, see if I don't. "

"You think well of yourself, don't you?"

"If you thought half as well of me as I do, " Paul assured him, "I'd beyour star reporter. "

"Star hell!" testily cried the editor. "We haven't got such a thing. They don't know they're alive, except on pay-day. Look at this blondgirl at the Morgue--they've wasted two weeks on that case. " He pausedsuddenly, then his soft lips spread, showing his sharp, white teeth. Modifying his tone, he continued: "Say, I rather like you, Anderson, you're such a blamed nuisance. You've half convinced me that you're agenius. "

The younger man's hunger, which had given up in despair, raised itshead and bit into his vitals sharply. 

"Maybe I--"

"I've a notion to give you a chance. "

"That's all I want, " the caller quavered, in a panic. "Just give me atoe-hold, that's all, " His voice broke in spite of his effort tohold it steady. Burns wasn't a bad sort, after all; just grouchy andirritable. Perhaps this was merely his way. 

Burns continued: "Well, I will give you an assignment, a goodassignment, too, and if you cover it I'll put you on permanently. I'lldo more than that, I'll pay you what we pay our best man, if you makegood. That's fair, isn't it?"

He smiled benignly, and the soon-to-be reporter's wits went caperingoff in a hysterical stampede. Anderson felt the desire to wring thefellow's hand. 

"All that counts in this office is efficiency, " the latter went on. "We play no favorites. When a man delivers the goods we boost him;when he fails we fire him. There's no sentiment here, and I hold myjob merely because I'm the best man in the shop. Can you go to workto-night?"

"Why--why--yes, sir!"

"Very well. That's the spirit I like. You can take your time on thestory, and you needn't come back till you bring it. "

"Yes, sir. "

"Now pay attention, here it is. About two weeks ago a blond girlcommitted suicide in a Main Street boarding-house. The body's down atthe Morgue now. Find out who she is. " He turned back to his desk andbegan to work. 

The hungry youth behind him experienced a sudden sinking at thestomach. All at once he became hopelessly empty and friendless, and hefelt his knees urging him to sit down. He next became consciousthat the shoulders of Mr. Burns were shaking a bit, as if he hadencountered a piece of rare humor. After an instant, when Andersonmade no move to go, the man at the desk wheeled about, exposing abloated countenance purple with suppressed enjoyment. 

"What's the matter?" he giggled. "Don't you want the job? I can't tellyou any more about the girl; that's all we know. The rest is up toyou. You'll find out everything, won't you? Please do, for your ownsake and the sake of _The Intelligencer_. Yes, yes, I'm sure you will, because you're a good newspaper man--you told me so yourself. " Hisappreciation of the jest threatened to strangle him. 

"Mr. Burns, " began the other, "I--I'm up against it. I guess you don'tknow it, but I'm hungry. I haven't eaten for three days. "

At this the editor became positively apoplectic. 

"Oh yes--yes, I do!" He nodded vigorously. "You show it in your face. That's why I went out of my way to help you. He! He! He! Now you runalong and get me the girl's name and address while I finish thisproof. Then come back and have supper with me at the Press Club. "Again he chortled and snickered, whereupon something sullen and fierceawoke in young Anderson. He knew of a way to get food and a bed and aplace to work even if it would only last thirty days, for he judgedBurns was the kind of man who would yell for the police in case of anassault. Paul would have welcomed the prospect of prison fare, but hereasoned that it would be an incomplete satisfaction merely to mashthe pudgy face of Mr. Burns and hear him clamor. What he wanted atthis moment was a job; Burns's beating could hold over. This suicidecase had baffled the pick of Buffalo's trained reporters; it hadfoiled the best efforts of her police; nevertheless, this fat-paunchedfellow had baited a starving man by offering him the assignment. Itwas impossible; it was a cruel joke, and yet--there might be a chanceof success. Even while he was debating the point he heard himself say:

"Very well, Mr. Burns. If you want her name I'll get it for you. "

He crammed his hat down over his ears and walked out, leaving theastonished editor gazing after him with open mouth. 

Anderson's first impulse had been merely to get out of Burns's office, out of sight of that grinning satyr, and never to come back, butbefore he had reached the street he had decided that it was as well tostarve striving as with folded hands. After all, the dead girl had aname. 

Instead of leaving the building, he went to the files of the paperand, turning back, uncovered the original story, which he cut out withhis pen-knife, folded up, and placed in his pocket. This done, hesought the lobby of a near-by hotel, found a seat near a radiator, andproceeded to read the clipping carefully. 

It was a meager story, but it contained facts and was free from theconfusion and distortions of the later accounts, which was preciselywhat he wished to guard against. Late one afternoon, so the storywent, the girl had rented a room in a Main Street boarding-house, hadeaten supper and retired. At eleven o'clock the next day, when she didnot respond to a knock on her door, the room had been broken into andshe had been found dead, with an empty morphine-bottle on the bureau. That was all. There were absolutely no clues to the girl's identity, for the closest scrutiny failed to discover a mark on her clothingor any personal articles which could be traced. She had possessed noluggage, save a little hand-satchel or shopping-bag containing a fewcoins. One fact alone stood out in the whole affair. She had paid forher room with a two-dollar Canadian bill, but this faint clue had beenfollowed with no result. No one knew the girl; she had walked out ofnowhere and had disappeared into impenetrable mystery. Those were thefacts in the case, and they were sufficiently limited to baffle thebest efforts of Buffalo's trained detective force. 

It would seem that there can be no human creature so obscure as tohave neither relatives, friends, nor acquaintances, and yet thisappeared to be the case, for a full description of this girl hadbeen blazoned in the papers of every large city, had been exposed incountless country post-offices, and conveyed to the police of everycity of the States and Canada. It was as if the mysterious occupant ofthe Morgue had been born of the winter wind on that fateful eveningtwo weeks before. The country had been dragged by a net of publicity, that marvelous, fine-meshed fabric from which no living man is smallor shrewd enough to escape, and still the sad, white face at theMorgue continued to smile out from its halo of gold as if in gentlemockery. 

For a long time Paul Anderson sat staring into the realms ofspeculation, his lips white with hunger, his cheeks hollow andfeverish from the battle he had waged. His power of exclusion wasstrong, therefore he lost himself to his surroundings. Finally, however, he roused himself from his abstraction and realized the ironyof this situation. He, the weakest, the most inexperienced of all themen who had tried, had been set to solve this mystery, and starvationwas to be the fruit of his failure. 

He saw that it had begun to snow outside. In the lobby it was warm andbright and vivid with jostling life; the music of a stringed orchestrasomewhere back of him was calling well-dressed men and women in todinner. All of them seemed happy, hopeful, purposeful. He noted, furthermore, that three days without food makes a man cold, even ina warm place, and light-headed, too. The north wind had bitten himcruelly as he crossed the street, and now as he peered out of theplate-glass windows the night seemed to hold other lurking horrorsbesides. His want was like a burden, and he shuddered weakly, hesitating to venture out where the wind could harry him. It was agreat temptation to remain here where there was warmth and laughterand life; nevertheless, he rose and slunk shivering out into thedarkness, then laid a course toward the Morgue. 

While Anderson trod the snowy streets a slack-jowled editor sat atsupper with some friends at the Press Club, eating and drinkingheartily, as is the custom of newspaper men let down for a moment fromthe strain of their work. He had told a story, and his caustic wayof telling it had amused his hearers, for each and every one of themremembered the shabby applicant for work, and all of them had wastedbaffling hours on the mystery of this girl with the golden hair. 

"I guess I put a crimp in him, " giggled Mr. Burns. "I gave him achance to show those talents he recommends so highly. "

"The Morgue, on a night like this, is a pretty dismal place for ahungry man, " said one of the others. "It's none too cheerful in thedaytime. "

The others agreed, and Burns wabbled anew in his chair in appreciationof his humor. 

Young Anderson had never seen a morgue, and to-night, owing to hiscondition, his dread of it was child-like. It seemed as if thisparticular charnel-house harbored some grisly thing which stoodbetween him and food and warmth and hope; the nearer he drew to it thegreater grew his dread. A discourteous man, shrunken as if from thechill of the place, was hunched up in front of a glowing stove. Hegreeted Anderson sourly:

"Out into that courtyard; turn to the left--second door, " he directed. "She's in the third compartment. "

Anderson lacked courage to ask the fellow to come along, but stumbledout into a snow-filled areaway lighted by a swinging incandescentwhich danced to the swirling eddies. 

Compartment! He supposed bodies were kept upon slabs or tables, orsomething like that. He had steeled himself to see rows of unspeakablesights, played upon by dripping water, but he found nothing of thesort. 

The second door opened into a room which he discovered was colder thanthe night outside, evidently the result of artificial refrigeration. He was relieved to find the place utterly bare except for a sort ofcar or truck which ran around the room on a track beneath a row ofsquare doors. These doors evidently opened into the compartmentsalluded to by the keeper. 

Which compartment had the fellow said? Paul abruptly discovered thathe was rattled, terribly rattled, and he turned back out of the place. He paused shortly, however, and took hold of himself. 

"Now, now!" he said, aloud. "You're a bum reporter, my boy. " Aninstant later he forced himself to jerk open the first door at hishand. 

For what seemed a full minute he stared into the cavern, as ifpetrified, then he closed the door softly. Sweat had started from hisevery pore. Alone once more in the great room, he stood shivering. "God!" he muttered. This was newspaper training indeed. 

He remembered now having read, several days before, about an Italianlaborer who had been crushed by a falling column. To one unaccustomedto death in any form that object, head-on in the obscurity of thecompartment, had been a trying sight. He began to wonder if it werereally cold or stiflingly hot. 

The boy ground his teeth and flung open the next door, slamming ithurriedly again to blot out what it exposed. Why didn't they keep themcovered? Why didn't they show a card outside? Must he examine everygrisly corpse upon the premises?

He stepped to the third door and wrenched it open. He knew the girl atonce by her wealth of yellow hair and the beauty of her still, whiteface. There was no horror here, no ghastly sight to weaken a man'smuscles and sicken his stomach; only a tired girl asleep. Andersonfelt a great pity as he wheeled the truck opposite the door andreverently drew out the slab on which the body lay. He gazed upon herintently for some time. She was not at all as he had pictured her, andyet there could be no mistake. He took the printed description fromhis pocket and reread it carefully, comparing it point by point. Whenhe had finished he found that it was a composite word photograph, vaguely like and yet totally unlike the person it was intended toportray, and so lacking in character that no one knowing the originalintimately would have been likely to recognize her from it. 

So that was why no word had come in answer to all this newspaperpublicity. After all, this case might not be so difficult as it hadseemed; for the first time the dispirited youth felt a faint glow ofencouragement. He began to formulate a plan. 

Hurriedly he fumbled for his note-book, and there, in that houseof death, with his paper propped against the wall, he wrote atwo-hundred-word description; a description so photographically exactthat to this day it is preserved in the Buffalo police archives as aperfect model. 

He replaced the body in its resting-place and went out. There was nochill in him now, no stumbling nor weakness of any sort. He had founda starting-point, had uncovered what all those trained newspaper menhad missed, and he felt that he had a chance to win. 

Twenty minutes later Burns, who had just come in from supper, turnedback from his desk with annoyance and challenge in his little, narroweyes. 

"Well?"

"I think I've got her, Mr. Burns. "

"Nonsense!"

"Anyhow, I've got a description that her father or her mother orher friends can recognize. The one you and the other papers printeddisguised her so that nobody could tell who she was--it might havecovered a hundred girls. "

Rapidly, and without noting the editor's growing impatience, Paul readthe two descriptions, then ran on, breathlessly:

"All we have to do is print ten or twenty thousand of these and mailthem out with the morning edition--separate sheets, posters, youunderstand?--so they can be nailed up in every post-office within twohundred miles. Send some to the police of all the cities, and we'llhave a flash in twenty-four hours. "

Burns made no comment for a moment. Instead, he looked the young manover angrily from his eager face to his unblacked shoes. His silence, his stare, were eloquent. 

"Why? Why not?" Anderson demanded, querulously. "I tell you thisdescription isn't right. It--it's nothing like her, nothing at all. "

"Say! I thought I'd seen the last of you, " growled the corpulent man. "Aren't you on to yourself yet?"

"Do you--mean that your talk this evening don't go?" Paul demanded, quietly. "Do you mean to say you won't even give me the chance youpromised?"

"No! I don't mean that. What I said goes, all right, but I told _you_to identify this girl. I didn't agree to do it. What d'you think thispaper is, anyhow? We want stories in this office. We don't care who orwhat this girl is unless there's a story in her. We're not running ajob-print shop nor a mail-order business to identify strayed females. Twenty thousand posters! Bah! And say--don't you know that no two mencan write similar descriptions of anybody or anything? What's thedifference whether her hair is burnished gold or 'raw gold' or hereyes bluish gray instead of grayish blue? Rats! Beat it!"

"But I tell you--"

"What's her name? Where does she live? What killed her? That's what Iwant to know. I'd look fine, wouldn't I, circularizing a dead story?Wouldn't that be a laugh on me? No, Mr. Anderson, author, artist, andplaywright, I'm getting damned tired of being pestered by you, and youneedn't come back here until you bring the goods. Do I make myselfplain?"

It was anger which cut short the younger man's reply. On account ofpetty economy, for fear of ridicule, this editor refused to relievesome withered old woman, some bent and worried old man, who might be, who probably were, waiting, waiting, waiting in some out-of-the-wayvillage. So Anderson reflected. Because there might not be a story init this girl would go to the Potter's Field and her people would neverknow. And yet, by Heaven, they _would_ know! Something told him there_was_ a story back of this girl's death, and he swore to get it. Witha mighty effort he swallowed his chagrin and, disregarding the insultto himself, replied:

"Very well. I've got you this time. "

"Humph!" Burns grunted, viciously. 

"I don't know how I'll turn the trick, but I'll turn it. " For thesecond time that evening he left the office with his jaws setstubbornly. 

Paul Anderson walked straight to his boarding-house and bearded hislandlady. "I've got a job, " said he. 

"I'm very glad, " the lady told him, honestly enough. "I feared youwere going to move out. "

"Yes!" he repeated. "I've got a job that carries the highest salaryon the paper. You remember the yellow-haired girl who killed herselfawhile ago?" he asked. 

"Indeed I do. Everybody knows about that case. "

"Well, it got too tough for the police and the other reporters, sothey turned it over to me. It's a bully assignment, and my pay startswhen I solve the mystery. Now I'm starved; I wish you'd rustle me somegrub. "

"But, Mr. Anderson, you're bill for this week? You know I get paidin--"

"Tut, tut! You know how newspapers are. They don't pay in advance, andI can't pay you until they pay me. You'll probably have to wait untilSaturday, for I'm a little out of practice on detective stuff. ButI'll have this thing cleared up by then. You don't appreciate--you_can't_ appreciate--what a corking assignment it is. "

Anderson had a peculiarly engaging smile, and five minutes later hewas wrecking the pantry of all the edibles his fellow-boarders hadoverlooked, the while his landlady told him her life's history, weptover the memory of her departed husband, and confessed that she hopedto get out of the boarding-house business some time. 

A good night's sleep and a hearty breakfast put the young man in finefettle, and about ten o'clock he repaired to a certain rooming-houseon Main Street, the number of which he obtained from the clipping inhis pocket. 

A girl answered his ring, but at sight of him she shut the doorhurriedly, explaining through the crack:

"Mrs. MacDougal is out and you can't come in. "

"But I want to talk to you. "

"I'm not allowed to talk to reporters, " she declared. "Mrs. MacDougalwon't let me. "

A slight Scotch accent gave Anderson his cue. "MacDougal is a goodScotch name. I'm Scotch myself, and so are you. " He smiled hisboarding-house smile, and the girl's eyes twinkled back at him. "Didn't she tell you I was coming?"

"Why, no, sir. Aren't you a reporter?"

"I've been told that I'm not. I came to look at a room. "

"What room?" the girl asked, quickly. "We haven't any vacant rooms. "

"That's queer, " Anderson frowned. "I can't be mistaken. I'm sure Mrs. MacDougal said there was one. "

The door opened slowly. "Maybe she meant the one on the second floor. "

"Precisely. " An instant later he was following his guide up-stairs. 

Anderson recognized the room at a glance, from its description, butthe girl did not mention the tragedy which had occurred therein, sohe proceeded to talk terms with her, prolonging his stay as long aspossible, meanwhile using his eyes to the best advantage. He inventedan elaborate ancestry which he traced backward through the pages of_Scottish Chiefs_, the only book of the sort he had ever read, and bythe time he was ready to leave the girl had thawed out considerably. 

"I'll take the room, " he told her, "and I'm well pleased to get it. Idon't see how such a good one stands vacant in this location. "

There was an instant's pause, then his companion confessed: "There's areason. You'll find it out sooner or later, so I may as well tell you. That's where the yellow-haired girl you hear so much about killedherself. I hope it won't make any difference to you, Mr. --"

"Gregor. Certainly not. I read about the case. Canadian, wasn't she?"

"Oh yes! There's no doubt of it. She paid her rent with a Canadianbill, and, besides, I noticed her accent. I didn't tell the reporters, however, they're such a fresh lot. "

Paul's visit, it appeared, had served to establish one thing, atleast, a thing which the trained investigators had not discovered. Canadian money in Buffalo was too common to excite comment, thereforenone of them had seen fit to follow out that clue of the two-dollarbill. 

"The papers had it that she was some wealthy girl, " the former speakerran on, "but I know better. "

"Indeed? How do you know?"

"Her hands! They were good hands, and she used them as if she knewwhat they were made for. "

"Anything else?"

"No. She seemed very sad and didn't say much. Of course I only saw heronce. "

Anderson questioned the girl at some further length, but discoverednothing of moment, so he left, declaring that he would probably moveinto the room on the following day. 

Prom the rooming-house he went directly to the Morgue, and for asecond time examined the body, confining his attention particularly tothe hands. The right one showed nothing upon which to found a theory, save that it was, indeed, a capable hand with smooth skin andwell-tended nails; but on examining the left Paul noted a markedpeculiarity. Near the ends of the thumb and the first finger the skinwas roughened, abrased; there were numerous tiny black spotsbeneath the skin, which, upon careful scrutiny, he discovered to bemicroscopic blood-blisters. 

For a long time he puzzled over this phenomenon which had escaped allprevious observers, but to save him he could invent no explanation forit. He repaired finally to the office of the attendant and asked forthe girl's clothes, receiving permission to examine a small bundle. 

"Where's the rest?" he demanded. 

"That's all she had, " said the man. 

"No baggage at all?"

"Not a thing but what she stood up in. The coroner has her jewelry andthings of that sort. "

Anderson searched the contents of the bundle with the utmost care, butfound no mark of any sort. The garments, although inexpensive, werebeautifully neat and clean, and they displayed the most marvelousexamples of needlework he had ever seen. Among the effects was a plushmuff, out of which, as he picked it up, fell a pair of little knittedmittens--or was there a pair? Finding but the one, he shook the muffagain, then looked through the other things. 

"Where's the other mitten?" he inquired. 

"There 'ain't been but the one, " the attendant told him. 

"Are you sure?"

"See here, do you think I'm trying to hold out a yarn mitten on you?I say there 'ain't been but the one. I was here when she came, and Iknow. "

Discouraged by the paucity of clues which this place offered, Andersonwent next to the coroner's office. 

The City Hall newspaper squad had desks in this place, but Paul paidno attention to them or to their occupants. He went straight to thewicket and asked for the effects of the dead girl. 

It appeared that Burns had told his practical joke broadcast, forthe young man heard his name mentioned, and then some one behind himsnickered. He paid no attention, however, for the clerk had handed hima small leather bag or purse, together with a morphine-bottle, aboutthe size and shape of an ordinary vaseline-bottle. The bag was cheapand bore no maker's name or mark. Inside of it was a brooch, a ring, asilver chain, and a slip of paper. Stuck to the bottom of the reticulewas a small key. Paul came near overlooking the last-named article, for it was well hidden in a fold near the corner. Now a key to anunknown lock is not much to go on at best, therefore he gave hisattention to the paper. It was evidently a scrap torn from a sheet ofwrapping-paper, and bore these figures in pencil:

 9. 25 6. 25 ---- 3. 00

While he was reading these figures Paul heard a reporter say, loudly, "Now that I have written the paper, who will take it?"

Another answered, "I will. "

"Who are you?" inquired the first voice. 

"Hawkshaw, the detective. "

Anderson's cheeks flushed, but he returned the bag and its contentswithout comment and walked out, heedless of the laughter of thesix reporters. The injustice of their ridicule burnt him like abranding-iron, for his only offense lay in trying the impossible. These fellows had done their best and had failed, yet they jeered athim because he had tackled a forlorn hope. They had taken the trailwhen it was hot and had lost it; now they railed at him when he tookit cold. 

All that afternoon he tramped the streets, thinking, thinking, untilhis brain went stale. The only fresh clues he had discovered thusfar were the marks on finger and thumb, the fact that the girl was aCanadian, and that she had possessed but one mitten instead of two. This last, for obvious reasons, was too trivial to mean anything, andyet in so obscure a case it could not be ignored. The fact that shewas a Canadian helped but little, therefore the best point upon whichto hang a line of reasoning seemed to be those black spots on the lefthand. But they stumped Anderson absolutely. 

He altered his mental approach to the subject and reflected upon thegirl's belongings. Taken in their entirety they showed nothing savethat the girl was poor, therefore he began mentally to assort them, one by one. First, clothes. They were ordinary clothes; they betrayednothing. Second, the purse. It was like a million other purses andshowed no distinguishing mark, no peculiarity. Third, the jewelry. Itwas cheap and common, of a sort to be found in any store. Fourth, themorphine-bottle. Paul was forced likewise to dismiss consideration ofthat. There remained nothing but the scrap of paper, torn from thecorner of a large sheet and containing these penciled figures:

 9. 25 6. 25 ---- 3. 00

It was a simple sum in subtraction, a very simple sum indeed; toosimple, Anderson reflected, for any one to reduce to figures unlessthose figures had been intended for a purpose. He recalled the faceat the morgue and vowed that such a girl could have done the summentally. Then why the paper? Why had she taken pains to tear off apiece of wrapping-paper, jot down figures so easy to remember, and preserve them in her purse? Why, she did so because she wasmethodical, something answered. But, his alter ego reasoned, if shehad been sufficiently methodical to note a trivial transaction socarefully, she would have been sufficiently methodical to use somebetter, some more methodical method. She would not have torn off acorner of thick wrapping-paper upon which to keep her books. There wasbut one answer, memorandum!

All right, memorandum it was, for the time being. Now then, in whatbusiness could she have been engaged where she found it necessary tokeep memoranda of such inconsiderable sums? Oh, Lord! There were amillion! Paul had been walking on thin ice from the start; now it gaveway beneath him, so he abandoned this train of thought and went backonce more to the bundle of clothes. Surely there was a clue concealedsomewhere among them, if only he could find it. They were poorclothes, and yet, judging by their cut, he fancied the girl had lookedexceedingly well in them--nay, even modish. She had evidently spentmuch time on them, as the beautiful needlework attested. At this pointAnderson's mind ran out on to thin ice again, so he reverted to thegirl herself for the _n_th time. She was Canadian, her hands wereuseful, there were tiny blood-blisters on the left thumb and indexfinger, and the skin was roughened and torn minutely, evidently bysome sharp instrument. What instrument? He answered the questionalmost before he had voiced it. A needle, of course!

Paul stopped in his walk so abruptly that a man poked him in the backwith a ladder; but he paid no heed, for his mind was leaping. Thatthickening of the skin, those tiny scratches, those blood-blisters, those garments without mark of maker, yet so stylish in cut and socarefully made, and furthermore that memorandum:

 9. 25 6. 25 ---- 3. 00

"Why, she was a dressmaker!" said Anderson, out loud. He went backover his reasoning, but it held good--so good that he would havewagered his own clothes that he was right. Yes, and those figuresrepresented some trifling purchases or commission--for a customer, nodoubt. 

It followed naturally that she was not a Buffalo dressmaker, else shewould have been identified long since; nor was it likely that she camefrom any city, for her clothes had not given him the impression ofbeing city-made, and, moreover, the publicity given to the casethrough the press, even allowing for the fact that the printeddescription had been vague, would have been sure to uncover heridentity. No, she was a Canadian country seamstress. 

The young man's mind went back a few years to his boyhood on aMichigan farm, where visiting dressmakers used to come and stay by theweek to make his mother's clothes. They usually carried a littleflat trunk filled with patterns, yard sticks, forms, and otherparaphernalia of the trade. Paul remembered that the owners used tobuy the cloths and materials at the country stores, and render astrict accounting thereof to his mother. Well, where was the trunkthat went with this country dressmaker?

The question of baggage had puzzled him from the start. Had the girlbeen possessed of a grip or bundle of any kind at the time of herdeath that question would have been answered. But there was absolutelynothing of the sort in her room. Her complete lack of luggage hadmade him doubt, at first, that she was an out-of-town visitor; but, following his recent conclusions, he decided now that directly theopposite was true. She had come to Buffalo with nothing but a trunk, otherwise she would have taken her hand-luggage with her to the MainStreet rooming-house. It remained to find that trunk. 

This problem threatened even greater difficulties than any hitherto, and Paul shivered as the raw Lake wind searched through his clothes. He wondered if it had been as cold as this when the girl arrived inBuffalo. Yes, assuredly. Then why did she go out with only one mitten?His reason told him that the other one had been lost by the police. But the police are careful, as a rule. They had saved every otherarticle found in the girl's possession, even to a brooch and pin andscrap of paper. Probably the girl herself had lost it. But countrydressmakers are careful, too; they are not given to losing mittens, especially in cold weather. It was more reasonable to believe that shehad mislaid it among her belongings; inasmuch as those belongings, according to Paul's logic, were doubtless contained in her trunk, thatwas probably where the missing mitten would be found. But, after all, had she really brought a trunk with her?

Like a flash came the recollection of that key stuck to the bottom ofthe girl's leather purse at the coroner's office. Ten minutes laterPaul was back at the City Hall. 

For a second time he was greeted with laughter by the reportorialsquad; again he paid no heed. 

"Why, you saw those things not two hours ago, " protested the coroner'sclerk, in answer to his inquiry. 

"I want to see them again. "

"Well, I'm busy. You've had them once, that's enough. "

"Friend, " said Anderson, quietly, "I want those things and I want themquick. You give them to me or I'll go to the man higher up and getthem--and your job along with them. "

The fellow obeyed reluctantly. Paul picked the key loose and examinedit closely. While he was thus engaged, one of the reporters behind himsaid:

"Aha! At last he has the key to the mystery. "

The general laughter ceased abruptly when the object of this banterthrust the key into his pocket and advanced threateningly toward thespeaker, his face white with rage. The latter rose to his feet; heundertook to execute a dignified retreat, but Anderson seized himviciously, flung him back, and pinned him against the wall, crying, furiously:

"You dirty rat! If you open your face to me again, I'll brain you, andthat goes for all of this death-watch. " He took in the other five menwith his reddened eyes. "When you fellows see me coming, hole up. Understand?"

His grip was so fierce, his mouth had such a wicked twist to it, thathis victim understood him perfectly and began to grin in a sickly, apologetic fashion. Paul reseated the reporter at his desk withsuch violence that a chair leg gave way; then he strode out of thebuilding. 

For the next few hours Anderson tramped the streets in impotent anger, striving to master himself, for that trifling episode had so upset himthat he could not concentrate his mind upon the subject in hand. Whenhe tried to do so his conclusions seemed grotesquely fanciful andfarfetched. This delay was all the more annoying because on the morrowthe girl was to be buried, and, therefore, the precious hourswere slipping away. He tried repeatedly to attain that abstract, subconscious mood in which alone shines the pure light of inductivereasoning. 

"Where is that trunk? Where is that trunk? Where is that trunk?" herepeated, tirelessly. Could it be in some other rooming-house? No. Ifthe girl had disappeared from such a place, leaving her trunk behind, the publicity would have uncovered the fact. It might be lying in thebaggage-room of some hotel, to be sure; but Paul doubted that, for thesame reason. The girl had been poor, too; it was unlikely that shewould have gone to a high-priced hotel. Well, he couldn't examine allthe baggage in all the cheap hotels of the city--that was evident. Somehow he could not picture that girl in a cheap hotel; she was toofine, too patrician. No, it was more likely that she had left hertrunk in some railroad station. This was a long chance, but Paul tookit. 

The girl had come from Canada, therefore Anderson went to the GrandTrunk Railway depot and asked for the baggage-master. There were otherroads, but this seemed the most likely. 

A raw-boned Irish baggage-man emerged from the confusion, and of asudden Paul realized the necessity of even greater tact here than hehad used with the Scotch girl, for he had no authority of any sortbehind him by virtue of which he could demand so much as a favor. 

"Are you a married man?" he inquired, abruptly. 

"G'wan! I thought ye wanted a baggage-man, " the big fellow replied. 

"Don't kid me; this is important. "

"Shure, I am, but I don't want any accident insurance. I took a chanceand I'm game. "

"Have you any daughters?"

"Two of them. But what's it to ye?"

"Suppose one of them disappeared?"

The baggage-man seized Anderson by the shoulder; his eyes dilated;with a catch in his voice he cried:

"Love o' God, speak out! What are ye drivin' at?"

"Nothing has happened to your girls, but--"

"Then what in hell--?"

"Wait! I had to throw a little scare into you so you'd understand whatI'm getting at. Suppose one of your girls lay dead and unidentifiedin the morgue of a strange city and was about to be buried in thePotter's Field. You'd want to know about it, wouldn't you?"

"Are ye daft? Or has something really happened? If not, it's a damnfool question. What d'ye want?"

"Listen! You'd want her to have a decent burial, and you'd want hermother to know how she came to such a pass, wouldn't you?"

The Irishman mopped his brow uncertainly. "I would that. "

"Then listen some more. " Paul told the man his story, freely, earnestly, but rapidly; he painted the picture of a shy, lonely girl, homeless, hopeless and despondent in a great city, then the picture oftwo old people waiting in some distant farmhouse, sick at heart anduncertain, seeing their daughter's face in the firelight, hearingher sigh in the night wind. He talked in homely words that left thebaggage-man's face grave, then he told how Burns, in a cruel jest, hadsent a starving boy out to solve the mystery that had baffled the bestdetectives. When he had finished his listener cried:

"Shure it was a rotten trick, but why d'ye come here?"

"I want you to go through your baggage-room with me till we find atrunk which this key will fit. "

"Come on with ye. I'm blamed if I don't admire yer nerve. Of courseye understand I've no right to let ye in--that's up to thestation-master, but he's a grouchy divil. " The speaker led Paul intoa room piled high with trunks, then summoned two helpers. "We'll moveevery dam' wan of them till we fit your little key, " he declared; thenthe four men fell to. 

A blind search promised to be a job of hours, so Paul walked down therunway between the piles of trunks, using his eyes as he went. Atleast he could eliminate certain classes of baggage, and thus he mightshorten the search; but half-way down the row he called sharply to thesmashers:

"Come here, quick!" At his tone they came running. "Look! that one inthe bottom row!" he cried. "That's it. Something tells me it is. "

On the floor underneath the pile was a little, flat, battered tintrunk, pathetically old-fashioned and out of place among its morestylish neighbors; it was the kind of trunk Paul had seen in hismother's front room on the farm. It was bound about with a bit ofrope. 

His excitement infected the others, and the three smashers went at thepile, regardless of damage. Anderson's suspense bid fair to choke him;what if this were not the one? he asked himself. But what if it werethe right one? What if this key he clutched in his cold palm shouldfit the lock? Paul pictured what he would see when he lifted the lid:a collection of forms, hangers, patterns, yard-sticks, a tape measure, and somewhere in it a little black yarn mitten. He prayed blindly forcourage to withstand disappointment. 

"There she is, " panted his Irish friend, dragging the object out intothe clear. The other men crowded closer. "Come on, lad. What are yewaitin' for?"

Anderson knelt before the little battered trunk and inserted the key. It was the keenest moment he had ever lived. He turned the key; thenhe was on his feet, cold, calm, his blue eyes glittering. 

"Cut those ropes. Quick!" he ordered. "We're right. "

The man at his side whipped out a knife and slashed twice. 

"Come close, all of you, " Paul directed, "and remember everything wefind. You may have to testify. "

He lifted the lid. On the top of the shallow tray lay a little blackyarn mitten, the mate to that one in the city Morgue. 

Anderson smiled into the faces of the men at his side. "That's it, " hesaid, simply. 

The tall Irishman laid a hand on his shoulder, saying: "Yer all right, boy. Don't get rattled, "

Paul opened the till and found precisely the paraphernalia he hadexpected: there were forms, hangers, patterns, yard-sticks, and a tapemeasure. In the compartment beneath were some neatly folded clothes, the needlework of which was fine, and in one corner a bundle ofletters which Anderson examined with trembling fingers. They wereaddressed to "Miss Mabel Wilkes, Highland, Ontario, Canada, Care ofCaptain Wilkes. "

The amateur detective replaced the letters carefully; he closed andlocked the trunk; then he thanked his companions. 

"If I had a dollar in the world, " said he, "I'd ask you boys to have adrink, but I'm broke. " Then he began to laugh foolishly, hysterically, until the raw-boned man clapped him on the back again. 

"Straighten up, lad. Ye've been strained a bit too hard. I'lltelephone for the cops. "

In an instant Paul was himself. "You'll do nothing of the sort, " hecried. "Why, man, you'll spoil the whole thing. I've worked this outalone, and if the police hear of it they'll notify all the papers andI'll have no story. Burns won't give me that job, and I'll be hungryagain. "

"True! I forgot that fat-headed divil of an editor. Well, you say theword and nobody won't know nothin' from us. Hey, boys?"

"Sure not, " the other men agreed. This lad was one of their kind; hewas up against it and fighting for his own, therefore they knew how tosympathize. But Paul had been seized with terror lest his story mightget away from him, therefore he bade them a hasty good-by and spedup-town. His feet could not carry him swiftly enough. 

Burns greeted him sourly when he burst into the editorial sanctum. Itwas not yet twenty-four hours since he had sent this fellow away withinstructions not to return. 

"Are you back again?" he snarled. "I heard about your assaulting Wellsdown at the City Hall. Don't try it on me or I'll have you pinched. "

Paul laughed lightly. "I don't have to fight for my rights any more. "

"Indeed! What are you grinning about? Have you found who that girlis?"

"I have. "

"_What?_" Burns's jaw dropped limply; he leaned forward in his chair. 

"Yes, sir! I've identified her. "

The fat man was at first incredulous, then suspicious. "Don't try anytricks on me, " he cried, warningly. "Don't try to put anything over--"

"Her name is Mabel Wilkes. She is the daughter of Captain Wilkes, ofHighland, Ontario. She was a country dressmaker and lived with herpeople at that place. Her trunk is down at the Grand Trunk depot withthe rest of her clothes in it, together with the mate to the mittenshe had when she killed herself. I went through the trunk with thebaggage-master, name Corrigan. Here's the key which I got from herpurse at the coroner's office. "

Burns fixed his round eyes upon the key, then he shifted them slowlyto Anderson's face. "Why--why--this is amazing! I--I--" He cleared histhroat nervously. "How did you discover all this? Who told you?"

"Nobody told me. I reasoned it out. "

"But how--Good Lord! Am I dreaming?"

"I'm a good newspaper man. I've been telling you that every day. Maybeyou'll believe me now. "

Burns made no reply. Instead, he pushed a button and Wells, of theCity Hall squad, entered, pausing abruptly at sight of Anderson. Giving the latter no time for words, Mr. Burns issued hisinstructions. On the instant he was the trained newspaper man again, cheating the clock dial and trimming minutes: his words were sharp anddecisive. 

"That suicide story has broken big and we've got a scoop. Anderson hasidentified her. Take the first G. T. Train for Highland, Ontario, andfind her father, Captain Wilkes. Wire me a full story about the girlMabel, private life, history, everything. Take plenty of space. Haveit in by midnight. "

Wells's eyes were round, too; they were glued upon Paul with ahypnotic stare, but he managed to answer, "Yes, sir!" He was no longergrinning. 

"Now, Anderson, " the editor snapped, "get down-stairs and see if youcan write the story. Pile it on thick--it's a corker. "

"Very good, sir, but I'd like a little money, " that elated youthdemanded, boldly. "Just advance me fifty, will you? Remember I'm ontop salary. "

Burns made a wry face. "I'll send a check down to you, " he promised, "but get at that story and make it a good one or I'll fire youtonight. "

Anderson got. He found a desk and began to write feverishly. Ahalf-hour later he read what he had written and tore it up. Anotherhalf-hour and he repeated the performance. Three times he wrote thetale and destroyed it, then paused, realizing blankly that as anewspaper story it was impossible. Every atom of interest surroundingthe suicide of the girl grew out of his own efforts to solve themystery. Nothing had happened, no new clues had been uncovered, no onehad been implicated in the girl's death, there was no crime. It wasa tale of Paul Anderson's deductions, nothing more, and it had nonewspaper value. He found he had written about himself instead ofabout the girl. 

He began again, this time laboriously eliminating himself, and when hehad finished his story it was perhaps the poorest journalistic effortever written. 

Upon lagging feet he bore the copy to Burns's office. But the editorgave him no time for explanation, demanding, fiercely:

"Where's that check I sent you?"

"Here it is. " The youth handed it to him. "Make a mistake?"

"I certainly did. " Burns tore up the check before saying, "Now you getout, you bum, and stay out, or take the consequences. "

"Get out? What for?"

"You know what for. " Burns was quivering with rage. "You ran a goodbluff and you nearly put it over; but I don't want to advertise myselfas a jackass, so I shan't have you pinched unless you come back. "

"Come back? I intend to stay. What's the matter?"

"I had an idea you were fourflushing, " stormed the editor, "so I wentdown to the G. T. Depot myself. There's no trunk of the sort there;Corrigan never saw you or anybody like you. Say, why didn't you walkout when you got that check? What made you come back?"

Anderson began to laugh softly. "Good old Corrigan! He's all right, isn't he? Well, he gets half of that check when you rewrite it, if Idon't laugh myself to death before I get to the bank. "

"What d'you mean?" Burns was impressed by the other's confidence. 

"Nothing, except that I've found one square man in this village. Onesquare guy is a pretty big percentage in a town the size of Buffalo. Corrigan wouldn't let you see the depot if I wasn't along. Put on yourcoat and come with me--yes, and bring a couple of hired men if it willmake you feel any better. "

At the depot he called the baggage-master to him, and said:

"Mr. Corrigan, this is Mr. Burns, the city editor of _TheIntelligencer_. "

"That's what he told me, " grinned the Irishman, utterly ignoring theyoung editor; "but you didn't give him no references, and I wouldn'ttake a chance. "

Burns maintained a dignified silence; he said little even when thecontents of the trunk were displayed to him. Nor did he open his mouthon the way back to the office. But when he was seated at his desk andhad read Anderson's copy he spoke. 

"This is the rottenest story ever turned in at this office, " said he. 

"I know it is, " Paul agreed, frankly, then explained his difficulty inwriting it. 

"I'll do it myself, " Burns told him. "Now, you go home and reportto-morrow. "

A very tired but a very happy young man routed out the landlady of acheap boarding-house that night and hugged her like a bear, explainingjoyously that he had done a great big thing. He waltzed her down thehall and back, while she clutched wildly at her flapping flannelwrapper and besought him to think of her other boarders. He waltzedher out of her bedroom slippers, gave her a smacking big kiss on herwrinkled cheek, then left her, breathless and scandalized, but allaflutter. 

The city had read the story when Anderson awoke the next morning, for_The Intelligencer_ had made a clean "beat, " and Burns had played upthe story tremendously, hence it was with jumping pulses that Paulscanned the front page of that journal. The further he read, however, the greater grew his indignation. 

The history of Mabel Wilkes, under the magic touch of Burns, had, to be sure, become a wonderful, tragic story; but nowhere in it wasmention made of Paul Anderson. In the patient and ingenious solutionof the mystery of the girl's identity no credit was given to him. Thecleverness and the perseverance of _The Buffalo Intelligencer_ wasexploited, its able reportorial staff was praised, its editorialshrewdness extolled, but that was all. When he had concluded readingthe article Anderson realized that it was no more than a boost for thecity editor, who it was plain to be seen, had uncovered the storybit by bit, greatly to the confusion of the police and the detectivebureau. 

It astounded as well as angered Paul to realize how cleverly Burns hadcovered him up, therefore the sense of injustice was strong in himwhen he entered the office. His enemy recognized his mood, and seemedto gloat over it. 

"That was good work you did, " he purred, "and I'll keep you on as longas you show ability. Of course you can't write yet, so I'll let youcover real-estate transactions and the market. I'll send for you whenyou're needed. "

Anderson went back to his desk in silent rage. Real estate! Burnsevidently intended to hold him down. His gloomy meditations weresomewhat lightened by the congratulations of his fellow-reporters, whorather timidly ventured to introduce themselves. They understood thefacts and they voiced a similar indignation to his. Burns had playedhim a rotten trick, they agreed. Not content with robbing his newreporter of the recognition which was justly his, the fellow wasevidently determined to vent his spite in other ways. Well, that waslike Burns. They voiced the opinion that Anderson would have a toughjob getting through interference of the kind that their editor wouldthrow in his way. 

Hour after hour Paul sat around the office nursing his disappointment, waiting for Burns to send him out. About two o'clock Wells hurriedinto the office, bringing with him the afternoon papers still wet fromthe press. In his eyes was an unwonted sparkle. He crossed directly toAnderson and thrust out his palm. 

"Old man, I want to shake with you, " said he. "And I want to apologizefor being a rotter. "

Paul met him half-way, and the fellow went on:

"Burns gave us the wrong tip on you--said you were a joke--that's whywe joshed you. But you showed us up, and I'm glad you did. "

"Why--thank you!" stammered the new reporter, upon whom this manlyapology had a strong effect. "It--it was more luck than anything. "

"Luck nothing! You're a genius, and it's a dirty shame the way theboss tried to steal your credit. However, it seems he overreachedhimself. " Wells began to laugh. 

"_Tried_ to steal it! Good Lord! he did steal it! How do you mean heoverreached himself?"

"Haven't you seen the afternoon papers?"

"No. "

"Well! Read 'em!" Mr. Wells spread his papers out before Paul, whoseastonished eyes took in for a second time the story of the Wilkessuicide. But what a story!

He read his own name in big, black type; he read head-lines that toldof a starving boy sent out on a hopeless assignment as a cruel joke;he read the story as it had really occurred, only told in the thirdperson by an author who was neither ashamed nor afraid to givecredit where it was due. The egotistical pretense of _The BuffaloIntelligencer_ was torn to shreds, and ridicule was heaped upon itseditor. Paul read nervously, breathlessly, until Wells interruptedhim. 

"I'm to blame for this, " said he. "I couldn't stand for such a crookeddeal. When I got in this morning and saw what that fat imbecile haddone to you I tipped the true facts off to the others--all of thefacts I knew. They got the rest from Corrigan, down at the Grand Trunkdepot. Of course this means my job, if the old man finds it out; but Idon't give a damn. "

As yet Anderson was too dazed to grasp what had happened to him, butthe other continued:

"The boys have had it in for Burns, on the quiet, for months, and nowI guess they're even. "

"I--I don't know how to thank you, " stammered Anderson. 

"Don't try. You're a born reporter, and the other papers will give youa job even if the baby hippo in yonder fires you. "

A boy touched Paul on the arm with the announcement, "Mr. Burns wantsto see you. "

"Oho!" cried Wells. "He's got the bad news. Gee! I'd like to hear whathe says. I'll bet he's biting splinters out of his desk. Let me knowwhat comes off, will you?"

When Anderson entered the office of his editor he was met by awhite-faced man whose rage had him so by the throat that speech for amoment was impossible. Beneath Mr. Burns's feet, and strewn broadcastabout the room, were the crumpled sheets of the afternoon papers. Burns glared at the newcomer for a moment, then he extended a shakingfinger, crying, furiously:

"You did this!"

"Did what?"

"You put up this job. You made a fool of me!"

"No, sir! I did not. Your parents saw to that. "

"Don't tell me you didn't, you--you damned ungrateful--" Burns seemedabout to assault his reporter, but restrained himself. "You're fired!Do you understand? Fired--discharged. "

"Say, Burns--"

"Not a word. I'm done with you. I--"

"Just a minute, " young Anderson cried, in a tone that stilled theother. "I'm fired, am I, for something I didn't do? Very well!I'm glad of it, for now you can't stand in my way. You tried todouble-cross me and failed. You robbed me of what was mine and gotcaught at it. You're a big man, in your way, Burns, but some daypeople will tell you that the biggest thing you ever did was to firePaul Anderson. That's how small you'll be, and that's how big I'mgoing to grow. You've 'welched' on your own word; but there's onething you gave me that you can't take away, and that's the knowledgethat I'm a newspaper man and a good one. Now just one thing more: I'mbroke today, but I'm going to lick you as soon as I save up enough forthe fine. "

With studied insolence the speaker put on his hat, slammed the doorbehind him, and walked out of _The Intelligencer_ office, leaving theapoplectic editor thereof secure in the breathless knowledge that foronce in his life he had heard the truth spoken. Mr. Burns wondered howlong it would take that young bully to save up ten dollars and costs. 

OUT OF THE NIGHT

"There is but one remedy for your complaint. " Doctor Suydam settleddeeper into his chair. "Marry the girl. "

"That is the only piece of your professional advice I ever cared tofollow. But how?"

"Any way you can--use force if necessary--only marry her. Otherwise Ipredict all sorts of complications for you--melancholia, brain-fag, bankruptcy--"

Austin laughed. "Could you write me a prescription?"

"Oh, she'll have you, Bob. You don't seem to realize that you are agood catch. "

Austin finished buckling his puttee before rising to his full height. "That doesn't mean anything to her. She doesn't need to make a catch. "

"Nonsense! She's just like all the others, only richer and nicer. Goat her as if she were the corn-market; she won't be half so hard tocorner. You have made a name for yourself, and a blamed sight moremoney than you deserve; you are young--comparatively, I mean. "

The elder man stroked his shock of iron-gray hair for answer. 

"Well, at any rate you are a picturesque personage, even if you can'twear riding-clothes. "

"Doesn't a man look like the devil in these togs?" Austin posedawkwardly in front of a mirror. 

"There's only one person who can look worse in riding-clothes than aman--that's a woman. "

"What heresy, particularly in a society doctor! But I agree with you. I learned to ride on her account, you know. As a matter of fact, Ihate it. The sight of a horse fills me with terror. "

Doctor Suydam laughed outright at this. "She tells me that you have avery good seat. "

"Really!" Austin's eyes gleamed suddenly. "You know I never hada chance to ride when I was a youngster--in fact, I never had anopportunity to do anything except work. That's what makes me so crudeand awkward. What I know I have picked up during the last few years. "

"You make me tired!" declared the former. "You aren't--"

"Oh, I don't skate on waxed floors nor spill tea, nor clutch at mychauffeur in a tight place, but you know what I mean. I feel lonesomein a dress-suit, a butler fills me with gloom, and--Well, I'm not oneof you, that's all. "

"Perhaps that's what makes a hit with Marmion. She's used to the otherkind. "

"It seems to me that I have always worked, " ruminated the formerspeaker. "I don't remember that I ever had time to play, even afterI came to the city. It's a mighty sad thing to rob a boy of hischildhood; it makes him a dull, unattractive sort when he grows up. I used to read about people like Miss Moore, but I never expected toknow them until I met you. Of course, that corn deal rather changedthings. "

"Well, I should rather say it did!" Suydam agreed, with emphasis. 

"The result is that when I am with her I forget the few things I havedone that are worth while, and I become the farm-hand again. I'mnaturally rough and angular, and she sees it. "

"Oh, you're too sensitive! You have a heart like a girl underneaththat saturnine front of yours, and while you look like the Sphinx, you are really as much of a kid at heart as I am. Where do you rideto-day?"

"Riverside Drive. "

"What horse is she riding?"

"Pointer. "

The doctor shook his head. "Too many automobiles on the Drive. He's arotten nag for a woman, anyhow. His mouth is as tough as a stirrup, and he has the disposition of a tarantula. Why doesn't she stick tothe Park?"

"You know Marmion. "

"Say, wouldn't it be great if Pointer bolted and you saved her life?She couldn't refuse you then. "

Austin laughed. "That's not exactly the way I'd care to win her. However, if Pointer bolted I'd probably get rattled and fall off myown horse. I don't like the brutes. Come on, I'm late. "

"That's right, " grumbled the other, "leave me here while you makelove to the nicest girl in New York. I'm going down to the office andamputate somebody. "

They descended the single flight to the street, where Austin's groomwas struggling with a huge black. 

"It's coming pretty soft for you brokers, " the doctor growled, as hiscompanion swung himself into the saddle. "The next time I get a friendI'll keep him to myself. "

Austin leaned forward with a look of grave anxiety upon his ruggedfeatures and said: "Wish me luck, Doc. I'm going to ask her to-day. "

"Good for you, old fellow. " There was great fondness in the youngerman's eyes as he wrung the rider's hand and waved him adieu, thenwatched him disappear around the corner. 

"She'll take him, " he mused, half aloud. "She's a sensible girl evenif all New York has done its best to spoil her. " He hailed a taxicaband was hurried to his office. 

It was perhaps two hours later that he was called on the telephone. 

"Hello! Yes, yes! What is it?" he cried, irritably. "Mercy Hospital!_What_?" The young physician started. "Hurt, you say? Run-away? Go on, quick!" He listened with whitening face, then broke in abruptly: "Ofcourse he sent for me. I'll be right up. "

He slammed the receiver upon its hook and, seizing his hat, bolted outthrough a waiting-room full of patients. His car was in readiness, andhe called to his chauffeur in such tones that the fellow vaulted tohis seat. 

"Go up Madison Avenue; there's less traffic there. And for God's sake_hurry_!"

During two years' service with New York's most fashionable physicianthe driver had never received a command like this, and he opened uphis machine. A policeman warned him at Thirty-third Street and the carslowed down, at which Suydam leaned forward, crying, roughly:

"To hell with regulations! There's a man dying!"

The last word was jerked from him as he was snapped back into hisseat. Regardless of admonitory shouts from patrolmen, the Frenchcar sang its growing song, while truck-drivers bellowed cursesand pedestrians fled from crossings at the scream of its siren. Across-town car blocked them, and the brakes screeched in agony, whileDoctor Suydam was well-nigh catapulted into the street; then they wereunder way again, with the car leaping from speed to speed. It was thefirst time the driver had ever dared to disregard those upraised, white-gloved hands, and it filled his joy-riding soul with exultation. A street repair loomed ahead, whereupon, with a sickening skid, theyswung into a side street; the gears clashed again, and an instantlater they shot out upon Fifth Avenue. At the next corner they laymotionless in a blockade, while the motor shuddered; then they dodgedthrough an opening where the mud-guards missed by an inch and werewhirling west toward Broadway. At 109th Street a bicycle officerstared in amazement at the dwindling number beneath the rear axle, then ducked his head and began to pedal. He overhauled the speedingmachine as it throbbed before the doors of Mercy Hospital, to begreeted by a grinning chauffeur who waved him toward the building andtold of a doctor's urgency. 

Inside, Doctor Suydam, pallid of face and shaking in a mostunprofessional manner, was bending over a figure in riding-clothes, the figure of a tall, muscular man who lay silent, deaf to his wordsof greeting. 

They told him all there was to tell in the deadly, impersonal wayof hospitals, while he nodded swift comprehension. There had been arunaway--a woman on a big, white-eyed bay, that had taken fright at anautomobile; a swift rush up the Driveway, a lunge over the neck ofthe pursuing horse, then a man wrenched from his saddle and draggedbeneath cruel, murderous hoofs. The bay had gone down, and the womanwas senseless when the ambulance arrived, but she had revived andhad been hurried to her home. In the man's hand they had found thefragment of a bridle rein gripped with such desperation that theycould not remove it until he regained consciousness. He had askedregarding the girl's safety, then sighed himself into oblivion again. They told Suydam that he would die. 

With sick heart the listener cursed all high-spirited women andhigh-strung horses, declaring them to be works of the devil, likeautomobiles; then he went back to the side of his friend, where otherhands less unsteady were at work. 

"Poor lonely old Bob!" he murmured. "Not a soul to care except Marmionand me, and God knows whether she cares or not. "

 * * * * *

But Robert Austin did not die, although the attending surgeons saidhe would, said he should, in fact, unless all the teachings of theirscience were at fault. He even offended the traditions of the hospitalby being removed to his own apartments in a week. There Suydam, whohad watched him night and day, told him that Miss Moore had a brokenshoulder and hence could not come to see him. 

"Poor girl!" said Austin, faintly. "If I'd known more about horses Imight have saved her. "

"If you'd known more about horses you'd have let Pointer run, "declared his friend. "Nobody but an idiot or a Bob Austin would havetaken the chance you did. How is your head?"

The sick man closed his eyes wearily. "It hurts all the time. What'sthe matter with it?"

"We've none of us been able to discover what isn't the matter with it!Why in thunder did you hold on so long?"

"Because I--I love her, I suppose. "

"Did you ask her to marry you?" Suydam had been itching to ask thequestion for days. 

"No, I was just getting to it when Pointer bolted. I--I'm slow at suchthings. " There was a moment's pause. "Doc, what's the matter with myeyes? I can't see very well. "

"Don't talk so much, " ordered the physician. "You're lucky to be hereat all. Thanks to that copper-riveted constitution of yours, you'llget well. "

But it seemed that the patient was fated to disappoint the predictionsof his friend as well as those of the surgeons at Mercy Hospital. Hedid not recover in a manner satisfactory to his medical adviser, andalthough he regained the most of his bodily vigor, the injury to hiseyes baffled even the most skilled specialists. 

He was very brave about it, however, and wrung the heart of DoctorSuydam by the uncomplaining fortitude with which he bore examinationafter examination. Learned oculists theorized vaporously about opticatrophies, fractures, and brain pressures of one sort and another; andmeanwhile Robert Austin, in the highest perfection of bodily vigor, inthe fullest possession of those faculties that had raised him from anunschooled farm-boy to a position of eminence in the business world, went slowly blind. The shadows crept in upon him with a deadly, merciless certainty that would have filled the stoutest heart withgloom, and yet he maintained a smiling stoicism that deceived all buthis closest associates. To Doctor Suydam, however, the incontestableprogress of the malady was frightfully tragic. He alone knew the man'sabundant spirits, his lofty ambitions, and his active habits. He aloneknew of the overmastering love that had come so late and wasdestined to go unvoiced, and he raved at the maddening limits of hisprofession. In Austin's presence he strove to be cheerful and tolighten the burden he knew was crushing the sick man; but at othertimes he bent every energy toward a discovery of some means to checkthe affliction, some hand more skilled than those he knew of. In time, however, he recognized the futility of his efforts, and resignedhimself to the worst. He had a furious desire to acquaint MarmionMoore with the truth, and to tell her, with all the brutal franknesshe could muster, of her part in this calamity. But Austin would nothear of it. 

"She doesn't dream of the truth, " the invalid told him. "And I don'twant her to learn. She thinks I'm merely weak, and it grieves herterribly to know that I haven't recovered. If she really knew--itmight ruin her life, for she is a girl who feels deeply. I want tospare her that; it's the least I can do. "

"But she'll find it out some time. "

"I think not. She comes to see me every day--"

"Every day?"

"Yes. I'm expecting her soon. "

"And she doesn't know?"

Austin shook his head. "I never let her see there's anything thematter with my sight. She drives up with her mother, and I wait forher there in the bay-window. It's getting hard for me to distinguishher now, but I recognize the hoofbeats--I can tell them every time. "

"But--I don't understand. "

"I pretend to be very weak, " explained the elder man, with a guiltyflush. "I sit in the big chair yonder and my Jap boy waits on her. Sheis very kind. " Austin's voice grew husky. "I'm sorry to lose sight ofthe Park out yonder, and the trees and the children--they're growingindistinct. I--I like children. I've always wanted some for myself. I've dreamed about--that. " His thin, haggard face broke into a wistfulsmile. "I guess that is all over with now. "

"Why?" questioned Suydam, savagely. "Why don't you ask her to marryyou, Bob? She couldn't refuse--and God knows you need her. "

"That's just it; she couldn't refuse. This is the sort of thing afellow must bear alone. She's too young, and beautiful, and fine to beharnessed up to a worn-out old--cripple. "

"Cripple!" The other choked. "Don't talk like that. Don't be so blamedresigned. It tears my heart out. I--I--why, I believe I feel this morethan you do. "

Austin turned his face to the speaker with a look of such tragicsuffering that the younger man fell silent. 

"I'm glad I can hide my feelings, " Austin told him, slowly, "for thatis what I have to do every instant she is with me. I don't wish toinflict unnecessary pain upon my friends, but don't you suppose I knowwhat this means? It means the destruction of all my fine hopes, thedeath of all I hold dear in the world. I love my work, for I am--or Iwas--a success; this means I must give it up. I'm strong in body andbrain; this robs me of my usefulness. All my life I have prayed thatI might some time love a woman; that time has come, but this meansI must give her up and be lonely all my days. I must grope my waythrough the dark with never a ray of light to guide me. Do you knowhow awful the darkness is?" He clasped his hands tightly. "I must gohungering through the night, with a voiceless love to torture me. Justat the crowning point of my life I've been snuffed out. I must fallbehind and see my friends desert me. "

"Bob!" cried the other, in shocked denial. 

"Oh, you know it will come to that. People don't like to feel pityforever tugging at them. I've been a lonely fellow and my friends arenumbered. For a time they will come to see me, and try to cheer me up;they will even try to include me in their pleasures; then when it isno longer a new story and their commiseration has worn itself out theywill gradually fall away. It always happens so. I'll be 'poor BobAustin, ' and I'll go feeling my way through life an object of pity, astumbling, incomplete thing that has no place to fill, no object towork for, no one to care. God! I'm not the sort to go blind! Where'sthe justice of it? I've lived clean. Why did this happen to me? Why?Why? I know what the world is; I've been a part of it. I've seen thespring and the autumn colors and I've watched the sunsets. I've lookedinto men's faces and read their souls, and when you've done that youcan't live in darkness. I can't and--I won't!"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm going away. "

"When? Where?"

"When I can no longer see Marmion Moore and before my afflictionbecomes known to her. Where--you can guess. "

"Oh, that's cowardly, Bob! You're not that sort. You mustn't! It'sunbelievable, " his friend cried, in a panic. 

Austin smiled bitterly. "We have discussed that too often, and--I'mnot sure that what I intend doing is cowardly. I can't go now, for thething is too fresh in her memory, she might learn the truth and holdherself to blame; but when she has lost the first shock of it I shallwalk out quietly and she won't even suspect. Other interests will comeinto her life; I'll be only a memory. Then--" After a pause he wenton, "I couldn't bear to see her drop away with the rest. "

"Don't give up yet, " urged the physician. "She is leaving for thesummer, and while she is gone we'll try that Berlin chap. He'll behere in August. "

"And he will fail, as the others did. He will lecture some clinicabout me, that's all. Marmion will hear that my eyes have given outfrom overwork, or something like that. Then I'll go abroad, and--Iwon't come back. " Austin, divining the rebellion in his friend'sheart, said, quickly: "You're the only one who could enlighten her, Doc, but you won't do it. You owe me too much. "

"I--I suppose I do, " acknowledged Suydam, slowly. "I owe you more thanI can ever repay--"

"Wait--" The sick man raised his hand, while a sudden light blazed upin his face. "She's coming!"

To the doctor's trained ear the noises of the street rose in aconfused murmur, but Austin spoke in an awed, breathless tone, almostas if he were clairvoyant. 

"I can hear the horses. She's coming to--see me. "

"I'll go, " exclaimed the visitor, quickly, but the other shook hishead. 

"I'd rather have you stay. "

Austin was poised in an attitude of the intensest alertness, hisangular, awkward body was drawn to its full height, his lean face waslighted by some hidden fire that lent it almost beauty. 

"She's getting out of the carriage, " he cried, in a nervous voice;then he felt his way to his accustomed arm-chair. Suydam was about togo to the bay-window when he paused, regarding his friend curiously. 

"What are you doing?"

The blind man had begun to beat time with his hand, counting under hisbreath: "One! Two! Three!--"

"She'll knock when I reach twenty-five. 'Sh! 'sh!" He continued hispantomime, and Suydam realized that from repeated practice Austin hadgauged to a nicety the seconds Marmion Moore required to mount thestairs. This was his means of holding himself in check. True toprediction, at "Twenty-five" a gentle knock sounded, and Suydam openedthe door. 

"Come in, Marmion. "

The girl paused for the briefest instant on the threshold, and thedoctor noted her fleeting disappointment at seeing him; then she tookhis hand. 

"This _is_ a surprise, " she exclaimed. "I haven't seen you for ever solong. "

Her anxious glance swept past him to the big, awkward figure againstthe window's light. Austin was rising with apparent difficulty, andshe glided to him. 

"Please! Don't rise! How many times have I told you not to exertyourself?"

Suydam noted the gentle, proprietary tone of her voice, and it amazedhim. 

"I--am very glad that you came to see me. " The afflicted man's voicewas jerky and unmusical. "How are you to-day, Miss?"

"He shouldn't rise, should he?" Miss Moore appealed to the physician. "He is very weak and shouldn't exert himself. "

The doctor wished that his friend might see the girl's face as he sawit; he suddenly began to doubt his own judgment of women. 

"Oh, I'm doing finely, " Austin announced. "Won't you be seated?" Hewaved a comprehensive gesture, and Suydam, marveling at the mannerin which the fellow concealed his infirmity, brought a chair for thecaller. 

"I came alone to-day. Mother is shopping, " Miss Moore was saying. "See! I brought these flowers to cheer up your room. " She held up agreat bunch of sweet peas. "I love the pink ones, don't you?"

Austin addressed the doctor. "Miss Moore has been very kind to me; I'mafraid she feels it her duty--"

"No! No!" cried the girl. 

"She rarely misses a day, and she always brings flowers. I'm very fondof bright colors. "

Suydam cursed at the stiff formality in the man's tone. How could anywoman see past that glacial front and glimpse the big, achingheart beyond? Austin was harsh and repellent when the least bitself-conscious, and now he was striving deliberately to heighten theeffect. 

The physician wondered why Marmion Moore had gone even thus far inshowing her gratitude, for she was not the self-sacrificing kind. Asfor a love match between two such opposite types, Suydam could notconceive of it. Even if the girl understood the sweet, simple natureof this man, even if she felt her own affections answer to his, Suydambelieved he knew the women of her set too well to imagine that shecould bring herself to marry a blind man, particularly one of noaddress. 

"We leave for the mountains to-morrow, " Marmion said, "so I came tosay good-by, for a time. "

"I--shall miss your visits, " Austin could not disguise his genuineregret, "but when you return I shall be thoroughly recovered. Perhapswe can ride again. "

"Never!" declared Miss Moore. "I shall never ride again. Think of thesuffering I've caused you. I--I--am dreadfully sorry. "

To Suydam's amazement, he saw the speaker's eyes fill with tears. Adoubt concerning the correctness of his surmises came over him and herose quickly. After all, he reflected, she might see and love the realBob as he did, and if so she might wish to be alone with him in thislast hour. But Austin laughed at his friend's muttered excuse. 

"You know there's nobody waiting for you. That's only a pretense tofind livelier company. You promised to dine with me. " To Miss Moore heexplained: "He isn't really busy; why, he has been complaining for anhour that the heat has driven all his patients to the country, andthat he is dying of idleness. "

The girl's expression altered curiously. She shrank as if wounded; shescanned the speaker's face with startled eyes before turning with astrained smile to say:

"So, Doctor, we caught you that time. That comes from being ahigh-priced society physician. Why don't you practise among themasses? I believe the poor are always in need of help. "

"I really have an engagement, " Suydam muttered. 

"Then break it for Mr. Austin's sake. He is lonely and--I must begoing in a moment. "

The three talked for a time in the manner all people adopt for asick-room, then the girl rose and said, with her palm in Austin'shand:

"I owe you so much that I can never hope to repay you, but you--youwill come to see me frequently this season. Promise! You won't hideyourself, will you?"

The blind man smiled his thanks and spoke his farewell withmeaningless politeness; then, as the physician prepared to see her toher carriage, Miss Moore said:

"No! Please stay and gossip with our invalid. It's only a step. "

She walked quickly to the door, flashed them a smile, and was gone. 

Suydam heard his patient counting as before. 

"One! Two! Three--!"

At "Twenty-five" the elder man groped his way to the open bay-windowand bowed at the carriage below. There came the sound of hoofs androlling wheels, and the doctor, who had taken stand beside his friend, saw Marmion Moore turn in her seat and wave a last adieu. Austincontinued to nod and smile in her direction, even after the carriagewas lost to view; then he felt his way back to the arm-chair and sanklimply into it. 

"Gone! I--I'll never be able to see her again. "

Suydam's throat tightened miserably. "Could you see her at all?"

"Only her outlines; but when she comes back in the fall I'll be asblind as a bat. " He raised an unsteady hand to his head and closed hiseyes. "I can stand anything except that! To lose sight of her dearface--" The force of his emotion wrenched a groan from him. 

"I don't know what to make of her, " said the other. "Why didn't youlet me go, Bob? It was her last good-by; she wanted to be alone withyou. She might have--"

"That's it!" exclaimed Austin. "I was afraid of myself; afraid I'dspeak if I had the chance. " His voice was husky as he went on. "It'shard--hard, for sometimes I think she loves me, she's so sweet and sotender. At such times I'm a god. But I know it can't be; that it isonly pity and gratitude that prompts her. Heaven knows I'm uncouthenough at best, but now I have to exaggerate my rudeness. I playa part--the part of a lumbering, stupid lout, while my heart isbreaking. " He bowed his head in his hands, closing his dry, feverisheyes once more. "It's cruelly hard. I can't keep it up. "

The other man laid a hand on his shoulder, saying: "I don't knowwhether you're doing right or not. I half suspect you are doingMarmion a bitter wrong. "

"Oh, but she can't--she _can't_ love me!" Austin rose as iffrightened. "She might yield to her impulse and--well, marry me, forshe has a heart of gold, but it wouldn't last. She would learn sometime that it wasn't real love that prompted the sacrifice. Then Ishould die. "

The specialist from Berlin came, but he refused to operate, declaringbluntly that there was no use, and all during the long, hot summerdays Robert Austin sat beside his open window watching the lightdie out of the world, waiting, waiting, for the time to make hissacrifice. 

Suydam read Marmion's cheery letters aloud, wondering the while at thewistful note they sounded now and then. He answered them in his ownhandwriting, which she had never seen. 

One day came the announcement that she was returning the first week inOctober. Already September was partly gone, so Austin decided to sailin a week. At his dictation Suydam wrote to her, saying that thestrain of overwork had rendered a long vacation necessary. The doctorwrithed internally as he penned the careful sentences, wondering ifthe hurt of the deliberately chosen words would prevent her sensingthe truth back of them. As days passed and no answer came he judged ithad. 

The apartment was stripped and bare, the trunks were packed on theafternoon before Austin's departure. All through the dreary mockery ofthe process the blind man had withstood his friend's appeal, his sternface set, his heavy heart full of a despairing stubbornness. Now, being alone at last, he groped his way about the premises to fix themin his memory; then he sank into his chair beside the window. 

He heard a knock at the door and summoned the stranger to enter, thenhe rose with a gasp of dismay. Marmion Moore was greeting him withsweet, yet hesitating effusiveness. 

"I--I thought you were not coming back until next week, " he stammered. 

"We changed our plans. " She searched his face as best she could in theshaded light, a strange, anxious expression upon her own. "Your lettersurprised me. "

"The doctor's orders, " he said, carelessly. "They say I have brokendown. "

"I know! I know what caused it!" she panted. "You never recovered fromthat accident. You did not tell me the truth. I've always felt thatyou were hiding something from me. Why? Oh, why?"

"Nonsense!" He undertook to laugh, but failed in a ghastly manner. "I've been working too hard. Now I'm paying the penalty. "

"How long will you be gone?" she queried. 

"Oh, I haven't decided. A long time, however. " His tone bewilderedher. "It is the first vacation I ever had; I want to make the most ofit. "

"You--you were going away without saying good-by to--your oldfriends?" Her lips were white, and her brave attempt to smile wouldhave told him the truth had he seen it, but he only had her tone to goby, so he answered, indifferently:

"All my arrangements were made; I couldn't wait. "

"You are offended with me, " Miss Moore said, after a pause. "How haveI hurt you? What is it; please? I--I have been too forward, perhaps?"

Austin dared not trust himself to answer, and when he made no sign thegirl went on, painfully:

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to seem bold. I owe you so much; we weresuch good friends--" In spite of her efforts her voice showed hersuffering. 

The man felt his lonely heart swell with the wild impulse to tell herall, to voice his love in one breathless torrent of words that wouldundeceive her. The strain of repression lent him added brusquenesswhen he strove to explain, and his coldness left her sorely hurt. His indifference filled her with a sense of betrayal; it chilled theimpulsive yearning in her breast. She had battled long with herselfbefore coming and now she repented of her rashness, for it was plainhe did not need her. This certainty left her sick and listless, therefore she bade him adieu a few moments later, and with achingthroat went blindly out and down the stairs. 

The instant she was gone Austin leaped to his feet; the agony of deathwas upon his features. Breathlessly he began to count:

"One! Two! Three--!"

He felt himself smothering, and with one sweep of his hand ripped thecollar from his throat. 

"Five! Six! Seven--!"

He was battling like a drowning man, for, in truth, the very breath ofhis life was leaving him. A drumming came into his ears. He felt thathe must call out to her before it was too late. He was counting aloudnow, his voice like the moan of a man on the rack. 

"Nine! Ten--!"

A frenzy to voice his sufferings swept over him, but he held himself. Only a moment more and she would be gone; her life would be sparedthis dark shadow, and she would never know, but he--he would indeed beface to face with darkness. 

Toward the last he was reeling, but he continued to tell off theseconds with the monotonous regularity of a timepiece, his every powercentered on that process. The idea came to him that he was countinghis own flickering pulse-throbs for the last time. With a tremendouseffort of will he smoothed his face and felt his way to the openwindow, for by now she must be entering the landau. A moment laterand she would turn to waft him her last adieu. Her last! God! How theseconds lagged! That infernal thumping in his ears had drowned thenoises from the street below. He felt that for all time the torture ofthis moment would live with him. 

Then he smiled! He smiled blindly out into the glaring sunlight, andbowed. And bowed and smiled again, clinging to the window-casing tosupport himself. By now she must have reached the corner. He freed onehand and waved it gaily, then with outflung arms he stumbled back intothe room, the hot tears coursing down his cheeks. 

Marmion Moore halted upon the stairs and felt mechanically for hergold chatelaine. She recalled dropping it upon the center-table as shewent forward with hands outstretched to Austin; so she turned back, then hesitated. But he was leaving to-morrow; surely he wouldnot misinterpret the meaning of her reappearance. Summoning herself-control, she remounted the stairs quickly. 

The door was half ajar as she had left it in her confusion. Musteringa careless smile, she was about to knock, then paused. Austin wasfacing her in the middle of the room, beating time. He was countingaloud--but was that his voice? In the brief instant she had been gonehe had changed astoundingly. Moreover, notwithstanding the fact thatshe stood plainly revealed, he made no sign of recognition, but merelycounted on and on, with the voice of a dying man. She divined thatsomething was sadly amiss; she wondered for an instant if the man hadlost his senses. 

She stood transfixed, half-minded to flee, yet held by some pityingdesire to help; then she saw him reach forward and grope his wayuncertainly to the window. In his progress he stumbled against achair; he had to feel for the casing. Then she knew. 

Marmion Moore found herself inside the room, staring with wide, affrighted eyes at the man whose life she had spoiled. She pressed herhands to her bosom to still its heavings. She saw Austin nodding downat the street below; she saw his ghastly attempt to smile; she heardthe breath sighing from his lungs and heard him muttering her name. Then he turned and lurched past her, groping, groping for his chair. She cried out, sharply, in a stricken voice:

"Mr. Austin!"

The man froze in his tracks; he swung his head slowly from side toside, as if listening. 

"What!" The word came like the crack of a gun. Then, after a moment, "Marmion!" He spoke her name as if to test his own hearing. It was thefirst time she had ever heard him use it. 

She slipped forward until within an arm's-length of him, thenstretched forth a wildly shaking hand and passed it before hisunwinking eyes, as if she still disbelieved. Then he heard her moan. 

"Marmion!" he cried again. "My God! little girl, I--thought I heardyou go!"

"Then this, _this_ is the reason, " she said. "Oh-h-h!"

"What are you doing here? Why did you come back?" he demanded, brutally. 

"I forgot my--No! God sent me back!"

There was a pause, during which the man strove to master himself; thenhe asked, in the same harsh accents:

"How long have you been here?"

"Long enough to see--and to understand. "

"Well, you know the truth at last. I--have gone--blind. " The last wordcaused his lips to twitch. He knew from the sound that she was weepingbitterly. "Please don't. I've used my eyes too much, that is all. Itis--nothing. "

"No! No! No!" she said, brokenly. "Don't you think I understand? Don'tyou think I see it all now? But why--why didn't you tell me? Why?"When he did not answer she repeated: "God sent me back. I--I was notmeant to be so unhappy. "

Austin felt himself shaken as if by a panic. He cried, hurriedly:"You see, we've been such good friends. I knew it would distress you. I--wanted to spare you that! You were a good comrade to me; we werelike chums. Yes, we were chums. No friend could have been dearer to methan you, Miss Moore. I never had a sister, you know. I--I thought ofyou that way, and I--" He was struggling desperately to save the girl, but his incoherent words died on his lips when he felt her come closeand lay her cheek against his arm. 

"You mustn't try to deceive me any more, " she said, gently. "I washere. I know the truth, and--I want to be happy. "

Even then he stood dazed and disbelieving until she continued:

"I know that you love me, and that I love you. "

"It is pity!" he exclaimed, hoarsely. "You don't mean it. "

But she drew herself closer to him and turned her tear-stained face upto his, saying, wistfully, "If your dear eyes could have seen, theywould have told you long ago. "

"Oh, my love!" He was too weak to resist longer. His arms weretrembling as they enfolded her, but in his heart was a gladness thatcomes to but few men. 

"And you won't go away without me, will you?" she questioned, fearfully. 

"No, no!" he breathed. "Oh, Marmion, I have lost a little, but I havegained much! God has been good to me. "

THE REAL AND THE MAKE-BELIEVE

On his way down-town Phillips stopped at a Subway news-stand andbought all the morning papers. He acknowledged that he was vastlyexcited. As he turned in at the stage door he thrilled at sight ofthe big electric sign over the theater, pallid now in the morningsunshine, but symbolizing in frosted letters the thing for which hehad toiled and fought, had hoped and despaired these many years. Thereit hung, a dream come true, and it read, "A Woman's Thrall, By HenryPhillips. "

The stage-door man greeted him with a toothless smile and handed him abundle of telegrams, mumbling: "I knew it would go over, Mr. Phillips. The notices are swell, ain't they?"

"They seem to be. "

"I ain't seen their equal since 'The Music Master' opened. We'll run ayear. "

This differed from the feverish, half-hysterical praise of theevening before. Phillips had made allowances then for the spell of afirst-night enthusiasm and had prepared himself for a rude awakeningthis morning--he had seen too many plays fail, to put much faithin the fulsomeness of first-nighters--but the words of the doormancarried conviction. He had felt confident up to the last moment, to besure, for he knew he had put his life's best work into this drama, andhe believed he had written with a master's cunning; nevertheless, whenhis message had gone forth a sudden panic had seized him. He had begunto fear that his judgment was distorted by his nearness to the play, or that his absorption in it had blinded him to its defects. It wasevident now, however, that these fears had been ill-founded, for noplay could receive such laudatory reviews as these and fail to setNew-Yorkers aflame. 

Certain printed sentences kept dancing through his memory: "Unknowndramatist of tremendous power, " "A love story so pitiless, so true, that it electrifies, " "The deep cry of a suffering heart, " "NormaBerwynd enters the galaxy of stars. "

That last sentence was the most significant, the most wonderful ofall. Norma Berwynd a star! Phillips could scarcely credit it; hewondered if she had the faintest notion of how or why her triumph hadbeen effected. 

The property man met him, and he too was smiling. 

"I just came from the office, " he began. "Say! they're raving. It'sthe biggest hit in ten years. "

"Oh, come now! It's too early for the afternoon papers--"

"The papers be blowed! It's the public that makes a play; the wholetown knows about this one already. It's in and over, I tell you;we'll sell out tonight. Believe me, this is a knock-out--a regularbull's-eye. It won't take no government bonds to bridge us over thenext two weeks. "

"Did you get the new props?"

"Sure! The electrician is working on the drop light for the first act;we'll have a better glass crash tonight, and I've got a brand-newdagger. That other knife was all right, but Mr. Francis forgot how tohandle it. "

"Nevertheless, it's dangerous. We came near having a real tragedy lastevening. Don't let's take any more chances. "

"It wasn't my fault, on the level, " the property man insisted. "Francis always 'goes up' at an opening. "

"Thank Heaven the papers didn't notice it. "

"Huh! We could _afford_ to kill an actor for notices like them. Itwould make great advertising and please the critics. Say! I knew thisshow was a hit. "

Under the dim-lit vault of the stage Phillips found the third-actscenery set for the rehearsal he had called, then, having given hisinstructions to the wardrobe woman, he drew a chair up before a bunchlight and prepared to read for a second time the morning reviews. 

He had attempted to read them at breakfast, but his wife--Theplaywright sighed heavily at the memory of that scene. Léontine hadbeen very unjust, as usual. Her temper had run away with her again andhad forced him to leave the house with his splendid triumph spoiled, his first taste of victory like ashes in his mouth. He was, in a way, accustomed to these endless, senseless rows, but their increasingfrequency was becoming more and more trying, and he was beginning todoubt his ability to stand them much longer. It seemed particularlynasty of Léontine to seize upon this occasion to vent her open dislikeof him--their relations were already sufficiently strained. Marriage, all at once, assumed a very lopsided aspect to the playwright; he hadgiven so much and received so little. 

With an effort he dismissed the subject from his mind and set himselfto the more pleasant task of looking at his play through the eyes ofthe reviewers. 

They had been very fair, he decided at last. Their only criticismwas one which he had known to be inevitable, therefore he felt noresentment. 

"Norma Berwynd was superb, " he read; "she combined with rare beautya personality at once bewitching and natural. She gave life to herlines; she was deep, intense, true; she rose to her emotional heightsin a burst of power which electrified the audience. We cannot butwonder why such an artist has remained so long undiscovered. "

The dramatist smiled; surely that was sufficient praise to compensatehim for the miserable experience he had just undergone. He readfurther:

"Alas, that the same kind things cannot be said of Irving Francis, whose name is blazoned forth in letters of fire above the theater. Hehas established himself as one of America's brightest stars; but therôle of John Danton does not enhance his reputation. In his lighterscenes he was delightful, but his emotional moments did not ring true. In the white-hot climax of the third act, for instance, which is thebig scene of the play, he was stiff, unnatural, unconvincing. Eitherhe saw Miss Berwynd taking the honors of stardom away from him andgenerously submerged his own talent in order to enhance her triumph, or it is but another proof of the statement that husband and wife donot make convincing lovers in the realm of the make-believe. It wassurely due to no lack of opportunity on his part--"

So the writer thought Irving Francis had voluntarily allowed his wifeto rival him. Phillips smiled at this. Some actors might be capableof such generosity, but hardly Irving Francis. He recalled the man'sinsistent demands during rehearsals that the 'script be changed tobuild up his own part and undermine that of his wife; the many heatedarguments which had even threatened to prevent the final performanceof the piece. Irving's egotism had blinded him to the true resultof these quarrels, for although he had been given more lines, morescenes, Phillips had seen to it that Norma was the one to reallyprofit by the changes. Author and star had been upon the vergeof rupture more than once during that heartbreaking period ofpreparation, but Phillips was supremely glad now that he had heldhimself in control. Léontine's constant nagging had borne fruit, afterall, in that it had at least taught him to bite down on his words, andto smile at provocation. 

Yes! Norma Berwynd was a star in spite of herself, in spite of herhusband. She was no longer merely the wife of Irving Francis, thepopular idol. Phillips was glad that she did not know how long it hadtaken him to effect her independence, nor the price he had paid forit, since, under the circumstances, the truth could help neither ofthem. 

He was aroused from his abstraction by the rustle of a woman'sgarments, and leaped to his feet with a glad light in his eyes, onlyto find Léontine, his wife, confronting him. 

"Oh!" he said; then with an effort, "What is the matter?"

"Nothing. "

"I didn't know you were coming down-town. "

"Whom were you expecting?" Léontine mocked, with that slight accentwhich betrayed her Gallic origin. 

"No one. "

She regarded him with fixed hostility. "I came down to see yourrehearsal. You don't object, I hope?"

"Why should I object?" Phillips turned away with a shrug. "I'msurprised, that's all--after what you said this morning. Isn't yourinterest in the play a trifle--tardy?"

"No! I've been greatly interested in it all the time. I read itseveral times in manuscript. "

"Indeed! I didn't know that. It won't be much of a rehearsal thismorning; I'm merely going to run over the third act with Mr. And Mrs. Francis. "

"You can rehearse her forty years and she'll never play the part. "

"The critics don't agree with you; they rave over her. If Francishimself--"

Mrs. Phillips uttered an exclamation of anger. "Oh, of course, _she_is perfect! You wouldn't give me the part, would you? No. You gave itto her. But it's mine by rights; I have the personality. "

"I wrote it for her, " said the husband, after a pause. "I can't seeyou in it. "

"Naturally, " she sneered. "Well, _I_ can, and it's not too late tomake the change. I'll replace her. My name will help the piece. "

"Léontine!" he exclaimed, in amazement. "What are you talking about?The play is a tremendous success as it is, and Miss Berwynd is a bighit. I'd be crazy to make a change. "

"You won't give me the part?"

"Certainly not. You shouldn't ask it. "

"Doesn't Léontine Murat mean more to the public than Norma Berwynd?"she demanded. 

"Until last night, yes. To-day--well, no. She has created this rôle. Besides--you--couldn't play the part. "

"And why not, if you please?"

"I don't want to hurt your feelings, Léontine. "

"Go on!" she commanded, in a voice roughened by passion. 

"In the first place you're not--young enough. " The woman quivered. "Inthe second place, you've grown heavy. Then, too, your accent--"

She broke out at him furiously. "So! I'm old and fat and foreign. I'velost my beauty. You think so, eh? Well, other men don't. I'll show youwhat men think of me--"

"This is no time for threats, " he interrupted, coldly. 

"Bah! I don't threaten. " Seizing him by the arm, she swung him about, for she was a large woman and still in the fullest vigor of herwomanhood. "Listen! You can't fool me. I know why you wrote this play. I know why you took that girl and made a star of her. I've known thetruth all along. "

"You have no cause to--"

"Don't lie!" she stormed at him. "I can read you like a book. But Iwon't stand for it. " She flung his arm violently from her and turnedaway. 

"I think you'd better go home, " he told her. "You'll have the stagehands talking in a minute. "

She laughed disagreeably, ignoring his words. "I watched you writethis play! I have eyes, even if Irving Francis is blind. It's time heknew what is going on. "

"There is nothing going on, " Phillips cried, heatedly; but his wifemerely shrugged her splendid shoulders and, opening her gold vanitycase, gave her face a deft going over with a tiny powder puff. Aftera time the man continued: "I could understand your attitude ifyou--cared for me, but some years ago you took pains to undeceive meon that point. "

Léontine's lip curled, and she made no answer. 

"This play is a fine piece of property; it will bring us a great dealof money; it is the thing for which I have worked years. "

"I am going to tell Francis the truth about you and his wife!" shesaid. 

"But there's nothing to tell, " the man insisted, with an effort torestrain himself. "Besides, you must know the result if you start athing like that. He'll walk out and take his wife with him. That wouldruin--"

"Give me her part. "

"I won't be coerced, " he flared up, angrily. "You are willing toruin me, out of pique, I suppose, but I won't permit it. This is thebiggest thing I ever did, or ever will do, perhaps; it means honor andrecognition, and--you're selfish enough to spoil it all. I've neverspoken to Norma Berwynd in any way to which her husband or you couldobject. Therefore I resent your attitude. "

"My attitude! I'm your wife. "

He took a turn across the stage, followed by her eyes. Pausing beforeher at length, he said, quietly: "I've asked you to go home and nowI insist upon it. If you are here when I return I shall dismiss therehearsal. I refuse to allow our domestic relations to interfere withmy business. " He strode out to the front of the house and then pacedthe dark foyer, striving to master his emotions. A moment later hesaw his wife leave the stage and assumed that she had obeyed hisadmonitions and gone home. 

The property-man appeared with an armful of draperies and mechanicalappliances, interrupting his whistling long enough to call out. 

"Here's the new hangings, Mr. Phillips, and the Oriental rugs. I'vegot the dagger, too. " He held a gleaming object on high. "Believe me, it's some Davy Crockett. There's a newspaper guy out back and he wantsyour ideas on the American drama. I told him they were great. Will yousee him?"

"Not now. Tell him to come back later. "

"Say! That John Danton is some character. Why don't you let him havethe gal?"

"Because--well, because it doesn't happen in real life, and I've triedto make this play real, more than anything else. "

When Norma Berwynd and her husband arrived Phillips had completelyregained his composure, and he greeted them cordially. The womanseemed awed, half-frightened, by her sudden rise to fame. She seemedto be walking in a dream, and a great wonder dwelt in her eyes. As forFrancis, he returned the author's greeting curtly, making it plainthat he was in no agreeable temper. 

"I congratulate you, Phillips, " he said. "You and Norma have becomefamous overnight. "

The open resentment in his tone angered the playwright and caused himto wonder if their long-deferred clash was destined to occur thismorning. He knew himself to be overwrought, and he imagined Francis tobe in no better frame of mind; nevertheless, he answered, pacifically:

"If that is so we owe it to your art. "

"Not at all. I see now what I failed to detect in reading andrehearsing the piece, and what you neglected to tell me, namely, thatthis is a woman's play. There's nothing in it for me. There's nothingin my part. "

"Oh, come now! The part is tremendous; you merely haven't got the mostout of it as yet. "

Francis drew himself up and eyed the speaker coldly. "You're quotingthe newspapers. Pray be more original. You know, of course, how Istand with these penny-a-liners; they never have liked me, but as forthe part--" He shrugged. "I can't get any more out of it than there isin it. "

"Doubtless that was my fault at rehearsals. I've called this one so wecan fix up the weak spot in the third act. "

"Well! We're on time. Where are the others?" Francis cast an inquiringglance about. 

"I'll only rehearse you and Mrs. Francis. "

"Indeed!" The former speaker opened his mouth for a cutting rejoinder, but changed his mind and stalked away into the shadowy depths of thewings. 

"Please make allowances for him, " Norma begged, approaching Phillipsin order that her words might not be overheard. "I've never seen himso broken up over anything. He is always unstrung after an opening, but he is--terrible, this morning. "

There was trouble, timidity, and another indefinable expression in thewoman's eyes as they followed the vanishing figure of her husband;faint lines appeared at the corners of her mouth, lines which hadno place in the face of a happily married woman. She was trembling, moreover, as if she had but recently played some big, emotional rôle, and Phillips felt the old aching pity for her tugging at his heart. Hewondered if those stories about Francis could be true. 

"It has been a great strain on all of us, " he told her. "But you? Howdo you feel after all this?" He indicated the pile of morning papers, and at sight of them her eyes suddenly filled with that same wonderand gladness he had noticed when she first arrived. 

"Oh-h! I--I'm breathless. Something clutches me--here. " She laidher hand upon her bosom. "It's so new I can't express it yet, except--well, all of my dreams came true in a night. Some fairy wavedher wand and, lo! poor ugly little me--" She laughed, although it wasmore like a sob. "I had no idea my part was so immense. Had you?"

"I had. I wrote it that way. My dreams, also, came true. "

"But why?" A faint flush stole into her cheeks. "There are so manywomen who could have played the part better than I. You had courage torisk your piece in my hands, Mr. Phillips. "

"Perhaps I knew you better than you knew yourself. " She searched hisface with startled curiosity. "Or better at least than the world knewyou. Tell me, there is something wrong? I'm afraid he--resents your--"

"Oh no, no!" she denied, hastily, letting her eyes fall, but notbefore he had seen them fill again with that same expression of painand bewilderment. "He's--not himself, that's all. I--You--won'tirritate him? Please! He has such a temper. "

Francis came out of the shadows scowling. "Well, let's get at it, "said he. 

Phillips agreed. "If you don't mind we'll start with your entrance. Iwish you would try to express more depth of feeling, more tenderness, if you please, Mr. Francis. Remember, John Danton has fought this loveof his for many years, undertaking to remain loyal to his wife. Hedoesn't dream that Diane returns his love, for he has never spoken, never even hinted of his feelings until this instant. Now, however, they are forced into expression. He begins reluctantly, frightened atthe thing which makes him speak, then when she responds the dam breaksand his love over-rides his will power, his loyalty, his lifelongprinciples; it sweeps him onward and it takes her with him. The truthappals them both. They recognize its certain consequences and yet theyrespond freely, fiercely. You can't overplay the scene, Mr. Francis. "

"Certainly I can overplay it, " the star declared. "That's the danger. My effects should come from repression. "

"I must differ with you. Repressive methods are out of place here. Yousee, John Danton loses control of himself--"

"Nonsense!" Francis declared, angrily. 

"The effectiveness of the scene depends altogether upon its--well, itssavagery. It must sweep the audience off its feet in order that theclimax shall appear logical. "

"Nonsense again! I'm not an old-school actor, and I can't chewscenery. I've gained my reputation by repressive acting, byintensity. "

"This is not acting; this is real life. "

Francis's voice rose a tone in pitch, and his eyes flashed at thisstubborn resistance to his own set ideas. 

"Great heavens, Phillips! Don't try to tell me my own business. People don't behave that way in real life; they don't explode underpassion--not even jealousy or revenge; they are reserved. Reserve!That's the real thing; the other is all make-believe. "

Seeing that it was useless to argue with the man, Phillips saidnothing more, so Francis and his wife assumed their positions andbegan their lines. 

It was a long scene and one demanding great force to sustain. It wasthis, in fact, which had led to the choice of Irving Francis for theprincipal rôle, for he was a man of tremendous physical power. He hadgreat ability, moreover, and yet never, even at rehearsals, had hebeen able to invest this particular scene with conviction. Phillipshad rehearsed him in it time and again, but he seemed strangelyincapable of rising to the necessary heights. He was hollow, artificial; his tricks and mannerisms showed through like familiartrade marks. Strangely enough, the girl also had failed to get themost out of the scene, and this morning, both star and leading womanseemed particularly cold and unresponsive. They lacked the spark, theuplifting intensity, which was essential, therefore, in desperation, Phillips finally tried the expedient of altering their "business, " ofchanging positions, postures, and crosses; but they went through thescene for a second time as mechanically as before. 

Knowing every line as he did, feeling every heart throb, living andsuffering as John Danton was supposed to be living and suffering, Phillips was nearly distracted. To him this was a wanton butchery ofhis finest work. He interrupted, at last, in a heart-sick, hopelesstone which sorely offended the already irritated Francis. 

"I'm--afraid it's no use. You don't seem to get it. "

"What is it I don't get?" roughly demanded the actor. 

"You're not genuine--either of you. You don't seem to feel it. "

"Humph! We're married!" said the star, so brutally that his wifeflushed painfully. "I tell you I get all it's possible to get out ofthe scene. You wrote it and you see a lot of imaginary values; butthey're not there. I'm no superman--no god! I can't give you more thanthe part contains. "

"Look at it in this light, " Phillips argued, after a pause. "Diane isa married woman; she, too, is fighting a battle; she is restrained byevery convention, every sense of right, every instinct of wifehood andwomanhood. Now, then, you must sweep all that aside; your own firemust set her ablaze despite--"

"I? _I_ must do all this?" mocked the other, furiously. "Why must _I_do it all? Make Norma play up to me. She underplays me all the time;she's not in my key. That's what's the matter--and I'm damned tired ofthis everlasting criticism. "

There was a strained silence, during which the two men faced eachother threateningly, and a panic seized the woman. 

She managed to say, uncertainly: "Perhaps I--should play up to you, Irving. "

"On the contrary, I don't think the fault is yours, " Phillips said, stiffly. 

Again there was a dramatic silence, in which there was no element ofthe make-believe. It was the clash of two strong men who disliked eachother intensely and whose masks were slipping. Neither they nor theleading woman detected a figure stealing out from the gloom, as ifdrawn by the magnetism of their anger. 

"My fault, as usual, " Francis sneered. "Understand this, Phillips, myreputation means something to me, and I won't be forced out of a goodengagement by a--well, by you or by any other stage manager. "

Phillips saw that same fearful look leap into the woman's eyes, and itchecked his heated retort. "I don't mean to find fault with you, " hedeclared, evenly. "I have the greatest respect for your ability as anactor, but--"

The star tossed his massive head in a peculiarly aggravating manner. "Perhaps you think you can play the part better than I?"

"Irving! _Please_!" breathed his wife. 

"Show me how it should be done, if you feel it so strongly. "

"Thank you, I will, " Phillips answered, impulsively. "I'm not anactor, but I wrote this piece. What's more, I lived it before I wroteit. It's my own story, and I think I know how it should be played. "

Francis smiled mockingly. "Good!" said he; "I shall learn something. "

"Do you mind?" The author turned to the real Diane, and she shook herhead, saying, uncertainly:

"It's--very good of you. "

"Very well. If you will hold the manuscript, Mr. Francis, I'll try toshow what I feel the scene lacks. However, I don't think I'll need anyprompting. Now, then, we'll begin at John Danton's entrance. "

With the mocking smile still upon his lips, Francis took themanuscript and seated himself upon the prompter's table. 

It was by no means remarkable that Henry Phillips should knowsomething about acting, for he had long been a stage manager, and inemergencies he has assumed a good many divergent rôles. He felt noself-consciousness, therefore, as he exchanged places with Francis;only an intense desire to prove his contentions. He nerved himself toan unusual effort, but before he had played more than a few moments heforgot the hostile husband and began to live the part of John Dantonas he had lived it in the writing, as he invariably lived it everytime he read the play or saw it acted. 

Nor, as he had said, did he need prompting, for the lines were not thewritten speeches of another which had been impressed upon his brainby the mechanical process of repetition; they were his own thoughtsexpressed in the simplest terms he knew, and they came forth unbidden, hot, eager. Once he began to voice them he was seized by that samemighty current which had drawn them from him in the first place andleft them strewn upon paper like driftwood after a flood. He hadacted every part of his play; he had spoken every line many times insolitude; but this was the first time he had faced the real Diane. Hefound himself mastered by a fierce exultation; he forgot that hewas acting or that the woman opposite him was playing a rôle of hiscreation; he began to live his true life for the first time since hehad met the wife of Irving Francis. Clothed in the make-believe, thereal Henry Phillips spoke freely, feelingly. His very voice changed intimbre, in quality; it became rich, alive; his eyes caressed the womanand stirred her to a new response. 

As for Irving Francis, he watched the transformation withastonishment. Grudgingly, resentfully, he acknowledged that this wasindeed fine acting. He realized, too, that his blind egotism hadserved merely to prove the truth of the author's criticism andto emphasize his own shortcomings. The idea enraged him, but thespectacle held him enthralled. 

Norma Berwynd was not slow to appreciate the truth. Accustomedthoroughly to every phase of the make-believe world in which shedwelt, she recognized unerringly in the new John Danton's words andactions something entirely unreal and apart from the theatrical. Theconviction that Henry Phillips was not acting came to her with ablinding suddenness, and it threw her into momentary confusion, henceher responses were mechanical. But soon, without effort on her part, this embarrassment fell away and she in turn began to blaze. The flamegrew as Phillips breathed upon it. She realized wildly that her hearthad always hungered for words like these, and that, coming from hislips, they carried an altogether new and wondrous meaning; that theyfilled some long-felt, aching want of which she had been ignorantuntil this moment. The certainty that it was Phillips himself whospoke, and not a mere character of his creation, filled her with anexultant recklessness. She forgot her surroundings, her husband'spresence, even the fact that the lines she spoke were not of her ownmaking. 

Never had the scene been played like this. It grew vital, it took ona tremendous significance. No one could have observed it and remainedunresponsive. Francis let fall the manuscript and stared at the actorswonderingly. Since he was an actor, nothing was so real to him, nothing so thrilling, as the make-believe. He realized that this wasindeed a magnificent exhibition of the artificial. With parted lipsand pulse athrob he followed the wooing of that imaginary John Danton, in whom he could see no one but himself. 

After a time he became conscious of a presence at his side, and heardsome one breathing heavily. Turning with a start, he found LéontinePhillips at his shoulder. She, too, was aroused, but in her sneeringvisage was that which brought the actor abruptly out of his spell. Shehad emerged from the shadows noiselessly, and was leaning forward, herstrong hands gripping the edge of the table littered with its manyproperties. 

Mrs. Phillips had played emotional scenes herself, but never with suchmelodramatic intensity as she now unconsciously displayed. Her wholebody shook as with an ague, her dark face was alive with a jealous furywhich told Irving Francis the story he had been too dull to suspect. Thetruth, when it came home, smote him like a blow; his hatred for theauthor, which had been momentarily forgotten--momentarily lost in hisadmiration of the artist--rose up anew, and he recognized this occultspell which had held him breathless as the thrall of a vital reality, not, after all, the result of inspired acting. Instantly he saw past themake-believe, into the real, and what he saw caused him to utter asmothered cry. 

Léontine turned her face to him. "You fool!" she whispered throughlivid lips. 

Francis was a huge, leonine man; he rose now to his full height, as acat rises. But the drama drew his gaze in spite of himself; he couldnot keep his eyes from his wife's face. Léontine plucked at his sleeveand whispered again:

"You _fool_!"

Something contorted the actor's frame bitterly, and he gasped like aman throttled. Léontine could feel his muscles stiffen. 

But the two players were in Elysium. They had reached the climax ofthe scene; Danton had told his love as only a great, starved love cantell itself, and with swimming eyes and fluttering lids, with heartpounding beneath her folded hands, Diane swayed toward him and hisarms enfolded her. Her body met his, yielded; her face was upturned;her fragrant, half-opened lips were crushed to his in a fierce, impassioned kiss of genuine ecstasy. 

Up to this moment the intensity of Francis's rage had held himparalyzed, despite the voice which was whispering so constantly at hisear; but now, when he saw his wife swooning upon the breast of the manwho had played his part, he awoke. 

"She knows he loves her, " Léontine was saying. "You let him tell herin front of your face. He has taken her away from you!"

Mrs. Phillips's eyes fell upon the working fingers of the man as theyrested beside her own. They were opening and closing hungrily. Shealso saw the naked knife which lay upon the table, and she moved itforward cautiously until the eager fingers twined about it. Then shebreathed, "Go!" and shoved him forward fiercely. 

It was Irving Francis's cry of rage as he rushed upon them whicharoused Norma Berwynd from her dream, from her intoxication. She sawhim towering at Phillips's back, and with a scream she tried to savethe latter. 

The husband's blow fell, however; it was delivered with all the savagefury that lay in Irving Francis's body, and his victim was fairlydriven to his knees beneath it. The latter rose, then staggered, and, half sliding through the woman's sheltering embrace, crumpled limplyinto a massive upholstered chair. He, too, was dazed by the suddentransition from his real world to his make-believe. 

When his eyes cleared he saw Norma Berwynd struggling with herhusband, interposing her own slender body in his path. Francis wascursing her foully for her unfaithfulness; his voice was thick andbrutal. 

"Yes! It's true!" she cried, with hysterical defiance. "I never knewtill now; but it's true! It's _true_!"

"You've killed him!" Léontine chattered, shrilly, and emerged from theshadows, her dark features ashen, her eyes ringed with white. Mrs. Francis turned from her husband and flung her arms about the recumbentman, calling wildly to him. 

The dénouement had come with such swiftness that it left all four ofthem appalled at their actions. Seeing what his brief insanity had ledhim into, Francis felt his strength evaporate; his face went white, his legs buckled beneath him. He scanned the place wildly in search ofmeans of escape. 

"My God! My God!" Léontine was repeating. "Why doesn't somebody come?"

Now that his brain had cleared, and he knew what hand had smitten him, and why, Phillips was by far the calmest of the four. He saw the knifeat his feet and smiled, for no steel could rob him of that gladnesswhich was pulsing through his veins. He was still smiling when hestooped and picked up the weapon. He arose, lifting Norma to her feet;then his hand slid down and sought hers. 

"You needn't worry, " he said to Francis. "You see--this is the newdagger I got for the end of the act. "

He held it out in his open palm for all of them to see, and they notedthat it was strangely shortened--that the point of the sliding bladewas barely exposed beneath the hilt. 

Francis wiped his wet face, then shuddered and cursed weakly withrelief, meanwhile groping at the prompter's table for support. "Sold!A prop knife!" he cried. 

"You--you're not really--" Norma swayed forward with eyes closed. 

Léontine laughed. 

"By God! I meant it, " the star exclaimed, uncertainly. "You can'tdeny--" He gasped and tugged at his collar. 

"I believe there is nothing to deny, " the author said, quietly. Helooked first at his wife, then at his enemy, and then down at thequivering, white face upturned to his. "There is nothing to deny, isthere?" he inquired of Norma. 

"Nothing!" she said. "I--I'm glad to know the truth, that's all. "

Francis glared first at one, then at the other, and as he did so hebegan to realize the full cost of his action. When it came home tohim in terms of dollars and cents, he showed his true character bystammering:

"I--I made a frightful mistake. I'm--not myself; really, I'm not. Itwas your wife's fault. " In a panic he ran on, unmindful of Léontine'sscorn. "She did it, Mr. Phillips. She gave me the knife. She whisperedthings--she made me--I--I'm very sorry--Mr. Phillips, and I'll playthe part the way you want it. I will, indeed. "

Léontine met her husband's look defiantly; hence it was as much to heras to the cringing actor that the playwright said:

"Your salary will go on as usual, under your contract, Mr. Francis--that is, until the management supplies you with a new play;but I'm the real John Danton, and I shall play him tonight andhenceforth. "

"Then, I'm--discharged? Norma--d'you hear that? We're canceled. Fired!"

"No, Miss Berwynd's name will go up in lights as the star, if shecares to stay, " said Phillips. "Do you wish to remain?" He looked downat the woman, and she nodded. 

"Yes, oh yes!" she said. "I _must_ stay. I daren't go back. " Thathunted look leaped into her eyes again, and Phillips recognized it nowas fear, the abject physical terror of the weaker animal. "I want togo--forward--not backward, if there is any way. "

"I'll show you the way, " he told her, gently. "We'll find ittogether. "

He smiled reassuringly, and with a little gasping sigh she placed herhand in his. 

RUNNING ELK

Up from the valley below came the throb of war drums, the faint rattleof shots, and the distant cries of painted horsemen charging. Frommy vantage-point on the ridge I had an unobstructed view of theencampment, a great circle of tepees and tents three miles incircumference, cradled in a sag of the timberless hills. The soundscame softly through the still Dakota air, and my eye took in everysharp-drawn detail of the scene--ponies grazing along the creekbottom, children playing beneath the blue smoke of camp-fires, thedense crowd ringed about a medicine pole in their center, intent on awar-dance. 

Five thousand Sioux were here in all their martial splendor. They werepainted and decked and trapped for war, living again their days ofplenty, telling anew their tales of might, and repeating on a mimicscale their greatest battles. Five days the feasting had continued;five mornings had I been awakened at dawn to see a thousand ochered, feathered horsemen come thundering down upon the camp, their horsesrunning flat, their rifles popping, while the valley rocked to theirbattle-cries and to the answering clamor of the army which rode forthto meet them. Five sultry days had I spent wandering unnoticed, ungreeted, and disdained, an alien in a hostile land, tolerated butunwelcome. Five evenings had I witnessed the tents begin to glow andthe campfires kindle until the valley became hooped about as if by amillion giant fireflies. Five nights had I strayed, like a lost soul, through an unreal wilderness, harkening to the drone of stories toldin an unfamiliar tongue, to the minor-keyed dirges of an unknown race, to the thumping of countless moccasined feet in the measures of queerdances. The odors of a savage people had begun to pall on me, and thesound of a strange language to annoy; I longed for another white man, for a word in my own tongue. 

It was the annual "Give-away" celebration, when all the tribeassembles to make presents, to race, to tell stories, and to recountthe legends of their prowess. They had come from all quarters of thereservation, bringing their trunks, their children, and their dogs. Ofthe last named more had come, by far, than would go back, for this wasa week of feasting, and every day the air was heavy with the smellof singeing hair, and the curs that had been spared gnawed at anever-increasing pile of bones. 

I had seen old hags strangle dogs by pulling on opposite ends of aslip-noose, or choke them by laying a tent-pole on their throats andstanding on the ends; I had seen others knock them down with billetsof wood, drag them kicking to the fires, and then knock them downagain when they crawled out of the flames. All in all, I had acquiredmuch information regarding the carnival appetites of the noble redman, learning that he is poetic only in the abstract. 

It was drawing on toward sunset, so I slipped into my camera strap anddescended the slope. I paused, however, while still some distanceaway from my tent, for next to it another had been erected during myabsence. It was a tiny affair with a rug in front of it, and upon therug stood a steamer-chair. 

"Hello, inside!" I shouted, then ran forward, straddling papooses andshouldering squaws out of my way. 

"Hello!" came an answer, and out through the flap was thrust the headof my friend, the Government doctor. 

"Gee! I'm glad to see you!" I said as I shook his hand. "I'm aslonesome as a deaf mute at a song recital. "

"I figured you would be, " said the doctor, "so I came out to see thefinish of the feast and to visit with you. I brought some bread fromthe Agency. "

"Hoorah! White bread and white conversation! I'm hungry for both. "

"What's the matter? Won't the Indians talk to you?"

"I guess they would if they could, but they can't. I haven't found oneamong the whole five thousand who can understand a word I say. YourGovernment schools have gone back in the betting with me, Doc. Youmust keep your graduates under lock and key. "

"They can all speak English if they want to--that is, the youngerones. Some few of the old people are too proud to try, but the otherscan talk as well as we can, until they forget. "

"Do you mean to say these people have been fooling me? I don't believeit, " said I. "There's one that can't talk English, and I'll make a beton it. " I indicated a passing brave with an eagle-feather head-dresswhich reached far down his naked legs. He was a magnificent animal;he was young and lithe, and as tall and straight as a sapling. "I'vetried him twice, and he simply doesn't understand. "

My friend called to the warrior: "Hey, Tom! Come here a minute. "The Indian came, and the doctor continued, "When do you hold thehorse-races, Thomas?"

"To-morrow, at four o'clock, unless it rains, " said the fellow. He spoke in an odd, halting dialect, but his words were perfectlyunderstandable. 

"Are you going to ride?"

"No; my race-horse is sick. "

As the ocher-daubed figure vanished into the dusk the old man turnedto me, saying, "College man. "

"What?"

"Yes. B. A. He's a graduate. "

"Impossible!" I declared. "Why, he talks like a foreigner, or as if hewere just learning our language. "

"Exactly. In another three years he'll be an Indian again, through andthrough. Oh, the reservation is full of fellows like Tom. " Thedoctor heaved a sigh of genuine discouragement. "It's a melancholyacknowledgment to make, but our work seems to count for almostnothing. It's their blood. "

"Perhaps they forget the higher education, " said I; "but how about theAgency school, where you teach them to farm and to sew and to cook, aswell as to read and to write? Surely they don't forget that?"

"I've heard a graduating class read theses, sing cantatas, and deliversounding orations; then I've seen those same young fellows, threemonths later, squatting in tepees and eating with their fingers. It'sa common thing for our 'sweet girl graduates' to lay off their whitecommencement-day dress, their high-heeled shoes and their pretty hats, for the shawl and the moccasin. We teach them to make sponge-cake andto eat with a fork, but they prefer dog-soup and a horn spoon. Ofcourse there are exceptions, but most of them forget much faster thanthey learn. "

"Our Eastern ideas of Mr. Lo are somewhat out of line with the facts, "I acknowledged. "He's sort of a hero with us. I remember severalsuccessful plays with romantic Indians in the lead. "

"I know!" My friend laughed shortly. "I saw some of them. If you like, however, I'll tell you how it really happens. I know a story. "

When we had finished supper the doctor told me the story of RunningElk. The night was heavy with unusual odors and burdened by weirdmusic; the whisper of a lively multitude came to us, punctuated atintervals by distant shouts or shots or laughter. On either hand thecampfires stretched away like twinkling stars, converging steadilyuntil the horns joined each other away out yonder in the darkness. Itwas a suitable setting for an epic tale of the Sioux. 

"I've grown gray in this service, " the old man began, "and the longerI live the less time I waste in trying to understand the differencebetween the Indian race and ours. I've about reached the conclusionthat it's due to some subtle chemical ingredient in the blood. Onerace is lively and progressive, the other is sluggish and atavistic. The white man is ever developing, he's always advancing, alwaysexpanding; the red man is marking time or walking backward. It is onlya matter of time until he will vanish utterly. He's different from thenegro. The negro enlarges, up to a certain limit, then he stops. Somepeople claim, I believe, that his skull is sutured in such a manner asto check his brain development when his bones finally harden and set. The idea sounds reasonable; if true, there will never be a seriousconflict between the blacks and the whites. But the red man differsfrom both. To begin with, his is not a subject race by birth. Physically he is as perfect as either; Nature has endowed him withan intellect quite as keen as the white man's, and with an openarticulation of the skull which permits the growth of his brain. Somewhere, nevertheless, she has cunningly concealed a flaw, a flawwhich I have labored thirty years to find. 

"I have a theory--you know all old men have theories--that it isa physical thing, as tangible as that osseous constriction of thecranium which holds the negro in subjection, and that if I could laymy finger on it I could raise the Indian to his ancient mastery andto a dignified place among the nations; I could change them from avanishing people into a race of rulers, of lawgivers, of creators. Atleast that used to be my dream. 

"Some years ago I felt that I was well on my way to success, for Ifound a youth who offered every promise of great manhood. I studiedhim until I knew his every trait and his every strength--he didn'tseem to have any weaknesses. I raised him according to my own ideas;he became a tall, straight fellow, handsome as a bronze statue of agod. Physically he was perfect, and he had a mind as fine as his body. He had the best blood of his nation in him, being the son of a warchief, and he was called Thomas Running Elk. I educated him at theAgency school under my own personal supervision, and on every occasionI studied him. I spent hours in shaping his mind and in bending himaway from the manners and the habits of his tribe. I taught him tothink like a white man. He responded like a growing vine; he becamethe pride of the reservation--a reserved but an eager youth, with anunderstanding and a wit beyond that of most white boys of his age. Search him as rigorously as I might, I couldn't find a single flaw. Ibelieved I was about to prove my theory. 

"Running Elk romped through our school, and he couldn't learn fastenough; when he had finished I sent him East to college, and, in orderto wean him utterly away from the past, instead of sending him toan Indian school I arranged for him to enter one of the big Easternuniversities, where no Indian had ever been, where constantassociation with the flower of our race would by its own force raisehim to a higher level. Well, it worked. He led his classes as astag leads a herd. He was a silent, dignified, shadowy figure; hisfellow-students considered him unapproachable, nevertheless theyadmired and they liked him. In all things he excelled; but he wasbest, perhaps, in athletics, and for this I took the credit--a Joviansatisfaction in my work. 

"News of his victories on track and field and gridiron came to meregularly, for his professors were interested in my experiment. As forthe boy himself, he never wrote; it was not his nature. Nor did hecommunicate with his people. He had cut himself off from them, and Ithink he looked down upon them. At intervals his father came to theAgency to inquire about Running Elk, for I did not allow my protégéto return even during vacations. That was a part of my plan. At mystories of his son's victories the father made no comment; he merelylistened quietly, then folded his blanket about him and slipped away. The old fellow was a good deal of a philosopher; he showed neitherresentment nor pleasure, but once or twice I caught him smiling oddlyat my enthusiasm. I know now what was in his mind. 

"It was in Running Elk's senior year that a great thing came to him, a thing I had counted upon from the start. He fell in love. A girlentered his life. But this girl didn't enter as I had expected, andwhen the news reached me I was completely taken aback. She was a girlI had dandled on my knees as a child, the only daughter of an oldfriend. Moreover, instead of Running Elk being drawn to her, as I hadplanned, she fell desperately in love with him. 

"I guess the gods were offended at my presumption and determined byone hair's-breadth shift to destroy the balance of my whole structure. They're a jealous lot, the gods. I didn't understand, at that time, how great must have been the amusement which I offered them. 

"You've heard of old Henry Harman? Yes, the railroad king. It was hisdaughter Alicia. No wonder you look incredulous. 

"In order to understand the story you'll have to know something aboutold Henry. You'll have to believe in heredity. Henry is a self-mademan. He came into the Middle West as a poor boy, and by force ofindomitable pluck, ability, and doggedness he became a captain ofindustry. We were born on neighboring farms, and while I, after alifetime of work, have won nothing except an underpaid Governmentjob, Henry has become rich and mighty. He had that indefinable, unacquirable faculty for making money, and he became a commandingfigure in the financial world. He's dominant, he's self-centered, he'sone-purposed; he's a rough-hewn block of a man, and his unboundedwealth, his power, and his contact with the world have never smoothednor rounded him. He's just about the same now as when he was a sectionboss on his own railroad. His daughter Alicia is another Henry Harman, feminized. Her mother was a pampered child, born to ease and enslavedto her own whims. No desire of hers, however extravagant, ever wentungratified, and right up to the hour of her death old Henry neversaid no to her--partly out of a spirit of amusement, I dare say, andpartly because she was the only unbridled extravagance he had everyielded to in all his life. Well, having sowed the wind, he reaped thewhirlwind in Alicia. She combined the distinguishing traits of bothparents, and she grew up more effectively spoiled than her mother. 

"When I got a panicky letter from one of Running Elk's professorscoupling her name vaguely with that of my Indian, I wavered inmy determination to see this experiment out; but the analyst isunsentimental, and a fellow who sets out to untangle the skein ofnature must pay the price, so I waited. 

"That fall I was called to Washington on department business--wewere fighting for a new appropriation--and while there I went to thetheater one night. I was extremely harassed, and my mind was filledwith Indian matters, so I went out alone to seek an evening's relief, not caring whither my feet took me. 

"The play was one of those you spoke of; it told the story of a youngIndian college man in love with a white girl. Whether or not it waswell written I don't know; but it seemed as if the hand of destiny hadled me to it, for the hero's plight was so similar to the situation ofRunning Elk that it seemed almost uncanny, and I wondered if this playmight afford me some solution of his difficulty. 

"You will remember that the Indian in the play is a great footballhero, and a sort of demi-god to his fellows. He begins to considerhimself one of them--their equal--and he falls in love with the sisterof his chum. But when this fact is made known his friends turnagainst him and try to show him the barrier of blood. At the finish amessenger comes bearing word that his father is dead and that he hasbeen made chief in the old man's place. He is told that his peopleneed him, and although the girl offers to go with him and make herlife his, he renounces her for his duty to the tribe. 

"Well, it was all right up to that point, but the end didn't help mein shaping the future of Running Elk, for his father was hale, hearty, and contented, and promised to hang on in that condition as long as wegave him his allowance of beef on Issue Day. 

"That night when I got back to the hotel I found a long-distancecall from old Henry Harman. He had wired me here at the Agency, and, finding I was in Washington, he had called me from New York. He didn'ttell me much over the 'phone, except that he wanted to see me at onceon a matter of importance. My work was about finished, so I took thetrain in the morning and went straight to his office. When I arrived Ifound the old fellow badly rattled. There is a certain kind of worrywhich comes from handling affairs of importance. Men like Henry Harmanthrive upon it; but there's another kind which searches out the jointsin their coats of mail and makes women of them. That's what Henry wassuffering from. 

"'Oh, Doc, I'm in an awful hole!' he exclaimed. 'You're the only manwho can pull me out. It's about Alicia and that damned savage ofyours. '

"'I knew that was it, ' said I. 

"'If you've heard about it clear out there, ' Harman declared, with acatch in his voice, 'it's even worse than I thought. ' He strode up anddown his office for a few moments; then he sank heavily into his chairand commenced to pound his mahogany desk, declaring, angrily:

"'I won't be defied by my own flesh and blood! I won't! That'sall there is to it. I'm master of my own family. Why, the thing'sfantastic, absurd, and yet it's terrible! Heavens! I can't believeit!'

"'Have you talked with Alicia?'

"'Not with her, _to_ her. She's like a mule. I never saw such a willin a woman. I--I've fought her until I'm weak. Where she got hertemper I don't know. ' He collapsed feebly and I was forced to smile, for there's only one thing stubborn enough to overcome a Harman'sresistance, and that is a Harman's desire. 

"'Then it isn't a girlish whim?' I ventured. 

"'_Whim!_ Look at me!' He held out his trembling hands. 'She's lickedme, Doc. She's going to marry that--that--' He choked and muttered, unintelligibly: 'I've reasoned, I've pleaded, I've commanded. Shemerely smiles and shrugs and says I'm probably right, in the abstract. Then she informs me that abstract problems go to pieces once in awhile. She says this--this--Galloping Moose, this yelping ghost-dancerof yours, is the only real man she ever met. '

"'What does he have to say?'

"'Humph!' grunted Harman. 'I offered to buy him off, but he threatenedto serve me up with dumplings and wear my scalp in his belt. Suchinsolence! Alicia wouldn't speak to me for a week. '

"'You made a mistake there, ' said I. 'Running Elk is a Sioux. As forAlicia, she's thoroughly spoiled. She's never been denied any singlething in all her life, and she has your disposition. It's a difficultsituation. '

"'Difficult! It's scandalous--hideous!'

"'How old is Alicia?'

"'Nineteen. Oh, I've worn out that argument! She says she'll wait. Youknow she has her own money, from her mother. '

"'Does Running Elk come to your house?'

"At this my old friend roared so fiercely that I hastened to say:'I'll see the boy at once. I have more influence with him than anybodyelse. '

"'I hope you can show him how impossible, how criminal, it is to ruinmy girl's life. ' Harman said this seriously. 'Yes, and mine, too, for that matter. Suppose the yellow newspapers got hold of this!' Heshuddered. 'Doc, I love that girl so well that I'd kill her with myown hands rather than see her disgraced, ridiculed--'

"'Tut, tut!' said I. 'That's pride--just plain, selfish pride. '

"'I don't care a damn what it is, I'd do it. I earned my way in theworld, but she's got blue blood in her and she was born to a position;she goes everywhere. When she comes out she'll be able to marry intothe best circles in America. She could marry a duke, if she wanted to. I'd buy her one if she said the word. Naturally, I can't stand forthis dirty, low-browed Injun. '

"'He's not dirty, ' I declared, 'and he's not as low-browed as someforeigner you'd be glad to pick out for her. '

"'Well, he's an Injun, ' retorted Harman, 'and that's enough. We'veboth seen 'em tried; they all drop back where they started from. Youknow that as well as I do. '

"'I don't know it, ' said I, thinking of my theories. 'I've been usinghim to make an experiment, but--the experiment has gotten away fromme. I dare say you're right. I wanted him to meet and to know whitegirls, but I didn't want him to marry one--certainly not a girl likeAlicia. No, we must put a stop to this affair. I'll see him rightaway. '

"'To-morrow is Thanksgiving, ' said Henry. 'Wait over and go up with usand see the football game. '

"'Are you going?'

"Harman grimaced. 'Alicia made me promise. I'd rather take her thanlet her go with friends--there's no telling what she might do. '

"'Why let her go at all?' I objected. 

"The old fellow laughed mirthlessly. 'Why _let_ her? Running Elk playsfull-back! How _stop_ her? We'll pick you up at your hotel in themorning and drive you up in the car. It's the big game of the year. You'll probably enjoy it. I won't!'

"Miss Harman seemed glad to see me on the following day. She must haveknown that I was in her father's confidence, but she was too wellschooled to show it. As we rode out in the big limousine I undertookto study her, but the reading of women isn't my game. All I could seewas a beautiful, spirited, imperious girl with the Harman eyes andchin. She surprised me by mentioning Running Elk of her own free will;she wasn't the least bit embarrassed, and, although her father's facewhitened, she preserved her quiet dignity, and I realized that she wasin no wise ashamed of her infatuation. I didn't wonder that the oldgentleman chose to accompany her to this game, although he musthave known that the sight of Running Elk would pain him like abranding-iron. 

"It was the first great gridiron battle I had ever seen, and so I wasunprepared for the spectacle. The enthusiasm of that immense crowdastonished me, and in spite of the fact that I had come as a tired oldman, it got into my veins until my heart pounded and my pulses leaped. The songs, the shouts, the bellows of that multitude were intenselythrilling, for youth was in them. I grew young again, and I was halfashamed of myself until I saw other people of my own age who had alsobecome boys and girls for the day. And the seriousness of it! Why, itwas painful! Not one of those countless thousands was a disinterestedspectator; they were all intensely partisan, and you'd have thoughtlife or death hung on the victory. 

"Not one, did I say? There was one who held himself aloof from all theenthusiasm. Old Henry sat like a lump of granite, and out of regardfor him I tried to restrain myself. 

"We had a box, close to the side lines, with the _élite_ of the Easton either hand--people whose names I had read. They bowed and smiledand waved to our little party, and I felt quite important. 

"You've probably seen similar games, so there's no need of mydescribing this one, even if I could. It was my first experience, however, and it impressed me greatly. When the teams appeared Irecognized Running Elk at a distance. So did the hordes of madmenbehind us, and I began to understand for the first time what it wasthat the old man in the seat next to mine was combating. 

"A dancing dervish in front of the grandstand said something through amegaphone, then he waved a cane, whereupon a tremendous barking, 'Rah!Rah! Rah!' broke out. It ended with my Sioux boy's name, and I wishedthe old chief back in Dakota were there to see his son and to witnessthe honor done him by the whites. 

"Quite as impressive to me as this demonstration was the death-likesilence which settled over that tremendous throng when the teamsscattered out in readiness. The other side kicked off, and the ballsailed high and far. As it settled in its downward flight, I saw alithe, tall shadow of a man racing toward it, and I recognized myboy. I'd lost his position for the moment, but I knew that hungry, predatory stride which devoured the yards as if he were a thing of thewind. He was off with the ball in the hollow of his arm, right backinto the heart of his enemies, dodging, darting, leaping, twisting, always advancing. They tore his interference away from him, but, nevertheless, he penetrated their ranks and none of them could layhands upon him. He was running free when tackled; his assailantlaunched himself with such savage violence that the sound of theirimpact came to us distinctly. As he fell I heard Alicia Harman gasp. Then the crowd gave tongue. 

"From that time on to the finish of the game my eyes seldom leftRunning Elk, and then only long enough to shoot covert glances at mycompanions. 

"Although the skill of my young Sioux overtopped that of all the othercontestants, the opposing team played as one man; they were likea wonderful, well-oiled piece of machinery, and--they scored. Allthrough the first half our side struggled to retaliate, but at theintermission they had not succeeded. 

"So far Running Elk hadn't noticed our presence, but when the teamsreturned for the second half he saw us. He didn't even know that I wasin the East; in fact, he hadn't laid eyes on me for more than threeyears. The sight of me there in the box with Alicia and her fathermust have been an unpleasant shock to him; my face must have seemed anevil omen; nevertheless, he waved his hand at me and smiled--one ofhis rare, reserved smiles. I couldn't help marveling at the fellow'sphysical beauty. 

"I had been secretly hoping that his side would be defeated, so thatMiss Harman might see him for once as a loser; but the knowledge ofour presence seemed to electrify him, and by the spark of his ownmagnetism he fired his fellows until they commenced to play likemadmen; I have no doubt they were precisely that. His spirit was likesome galvanic current, and he directed them with a master mind. He wasa natural-born strategist, of course, for through him ran the blood ofthe craftiest race of all the earth, the blood of a people who havealways fought against odds, to whom a forlorn hope is an assuranceof victory. On this day the son of a Sioux chief led the men ofthat great university with the same skill that Hannibal led hisCarthaginian cohorts up to the gates of Rome. He led them with thecunning of Chief Joseph, the greatest warrior of his people. He wasindefatigable, irresistible, magnificent--and he himself tied thescore. 

"In spite of myself I joined madly in the cheering; but the boy didn'tlet down. Now that his enemies recognized the source of their peril, they focused upon him all their fury. They tried to destroy him. Theyfell upon him like animals; they worried and they harried and theybattered him until I felt sick for him and for the girl beside me, who had grown so faint and pale. But his body was of my making; I hadspent careful years on it, and although they wore themselves out, theycould not break Running Elk. He remained a fleeting, an elusive thing, with the vigor of a wild horse. He tackled their runners with theferocity of a wolf. 

"It was a grand exhibition of coolness and courage, for he waseverywhere, always alert and always ready--and it was he who won thegame. 

"There came some sort of a fumble, too fast for the eye to follow, andthen the ball rolled out of the scrimmage. Before we knew what hadhappened, Running Elk was away with it, a scattered field ahead ofhim. 

"I dare say you have heard about that run, for it occurred in the lastthree minutes of play, and is famous in football annals to this day, so I'm told. It was a spectacular performance, apparently devised byfate to make more difficult the labors of old Henry and me. Everyliving soul on those high-banked bleachers was on his feet at thefinish, a senseless, screaming demon. I saw Alicia straining forward, her face like chalk, her very lips blanched, her whole high-strungbody aquiver. Her eyes were distended, and in them I saw a look whichtold me that this was no mere girlish whim, that this was more thanthe animal call of youth and sex. Running Elk had become a fetish toher. 

"The father must likewise have recognized this, for as we passed outhe stammered into my ear:

"'You see, Doc, the girl's mad. It's awful--awful. I don't know whatto do. '

"We had become momentarily separated from her, and therefore I urgedhim: 'Get her away, quick, no matter how or where. Use force if youhave to, but get her out of this crowd, this atmosphere, and keep heraway. I'll see _him_ to-night. '

"The old fellow nodded. 'I--I'll kidnap her and take her to Europe, 'he mumbled. 'God! It's awful!'

"I didn't go back to the city with the Harmans; but I told Aliciagood-by at the running-board of the machine. I don't think she heardme. 

"Running Elk was glad to see me, and I spent that evening with him. Heasked all about his people; he told me of his progress, and he spokelightly of his victory that day. But sound him as I would, I couldelicit no mention of Alicia Harman's name. He wasn't much of a talker, anyhow, so at last I was forced to bring up the subject myself. At myfirst word the silence of his forefathers fell upon him, and all hedid was listen. I told him forcibly that any thoughts of her wereridiculous and impossible. 

"'Why?' said he, after I had finished. 

"I told him a thousand reasons why; I recounted them cruelly, unfeelingly, but he made no sign. As a matter of fact, I don't thinkhe understood them any more than he understood the affair itself. Heappeared to be blinded, confused by the splendor of what had come tohim. Alicia was so glorious, so different, so mysterious to him, thathe had lost all sense of perspective and of proportion. Recognizingthis, I descended to material things which I knew he could grasp. 

"'I paid for your education, ' said I, 'and it is almost over with. Ina few months you'll be turned out to make your own living, and thenyou'll encounter this race prejudice I speak of in a way to effectyour stomach and your body. You're a poor man, Running Elk, and you'vegot to earn your way. Your blood will bar you from a good many meansof doing it, and when your color begins to affect your earningcapacity you'll have all you can do to take care of yourself. Lifeisn't played on a gridiron, and the first thing you've got to do isto make a man of yourself. You've got no right to fill your head withdreams, with insane fancies of this sort. '

"'Yes, sir!' said he, and that was about all I could get out of him. His reticence was very annoying. 

"I didn't see him again, for I came West the next day, and the weeksstretched into months without word of him or of the others. 

"Shortly before he was due to return I was taken sick--the one bigillness of my life, which came near ending me, which made me into thecreaking old ruin that I am. They sent me away to another climate, where I got worse, then they shifted me about like a bale of goods, airing me here and there. For a year and a half I hung over the edge, one ailment running into another, but finally I straightened out a bitand tottered back into Washington to resume operations. 

"For six months I hung around headquarters, busied on departmentmatters. I had lost all track of things out here, meanwhile, for theagent had been changed shortly after I left, and no one had takenthe trouble to keep me posted; but eventually I showed up on thereservation again, reaching here on the first of July, three daysbefore the annual celebration of the people. 

"Many changes had occurred in my two years' absence, and there was noone to bring me gossip, hence I heard little during the first day ortwo while I was picking up the loose ends of my work. One thing I didfind out, however--namely, that Running Elk had come straight homefrom college, and was still on the reserve. I determined to look himup during the festival. 

"But on the morning of the Fourth I got the surprise of my life. Thestage from the railroad brought two women, two strange women, who camestraight to my office--Alicia Harman and her French maid. 

"Well, I was fairly knocked endwise; but Alicia was as well-poised andas self-contained as on that Thanksgiving morning in New York whenshe and old Henry had picked me up in their automobile--a trifle morestunning and a bit more determined, perhaps. Oh, she was a splendidcreature in the first glory of her womanhood, a perfectly groomed andan utterly spoiled young goddess. She greeted me graciously, with thatqueenly air of all great ladies. 

"'Where is your father?' I asked, as she laid off her dust-coat. 

"'He's in New York, ' said she. 'I'm traveling alone. '

"'And where have you been all this time?'

"'In Europe, mainly; Rome, Naples, Cairo, India, St. Petersburg, London--all about, in fact. Father took me abroad the day afterThanksgiving--you remember? And he has kept me there. But I came ofage two weeks ago. '

"'Two weeks!' I ejaculated. 

"'Yes, I took the first ship after my birthday. I've been travelingpretty constantly ever since. This is a long way from the world outhere, isn't it?' She looked around curiously. 

"'From your world, yes, ' said I, and when she offered nothing furtherI grew embarrassed. I started to speak; then, noting the maid, Ihesitated; but Alicia shook her head faintly. 

"'Lisette doesn't understand a word of English, ' said she. 

"'Why have you come out here, Alicia?' I inquired. I was far more illat ease than she. 

"'Do you need to ask?' She eyed me defiantly. 'I respected father'swishes when I was in my minority. I traveled and studied and did allthe tiresome things he commanded me to do--as long as he had the rightto command. But when I became my own mistress I--took my full freedom. He made his life to suit himself; I intend to make mine to suitmyself. I'm sorry I can't please him, but we don't seem to see thingsthe same way, and I dare say he has accepted the inevitable. '

"'Then you consider this--this move you evidently contemplate asinevitable?'

"She lifted her dainty brows. 'Inevitable isn't a good word. I wish acertain thing; I have wished it from the first; I have never ceasedfor an instant to wish it; I feel that I must have it; therefore, toall intents and purposes, it is inevtable. Anyhow, I'm going to haveit. '

"'You have--er--been in communication with--'

"'Never! Father forbade it. '

"'Then how did you know he is here?'

"'He wrote me when he left college. He said he was coming home. I'veheard nothing since. He is here, isn't he?'

"'So I believe. I haven't seen him yet; you know I've been awaymyself. '

"'Will you take me to him?'

"'Have you really weighed this thing?' I remonstrated. 'Do you realizewhat it means?'

"'Please don't. ' She smiled wearily. 'So many people have tried toargue me out of my desires. I shall not spoil my life, believe me; itis too good a thing to ruin. That is precisely why I'm here. '

"'If you insist. ' I gave in reluctantly. 'Of course I'll put myselfat your service. We'll look for him to-morrow. ' All sorts of wildexpedients to thwart a meeting were scurrying through my mind. 

"'We'll go to-day, ' said she. 

"'But--'

"'At once! If you're too busy I'll ask somebody else--'

"'Very well!' said I. 'We'll drive out to the encampment. ' And I sentfor my buckboard. 

"I was delayed in spite of myself until nearly sundown, and meanwhileAlicia Harman waited in my office, pacing the floor with ill-concealedimpatience. Before starting I ventured one more remonstrance, for Iwas filled with misgivings, and the more I saw of this girl the morefantastic and unnatural this affair seemed. But the unbridled impulsesof her parents were bearing fruit, and no one could say her nay. Sheafforded the most illuminating study in heredity that I have everwitnessed. 

"We didn't say much during our fifteen-mile drive, for I was worriedand Alicia was oddly torn between apprehension and exultation. We hadleft the French maid behind. I don't know that any woman ever went toher lover under stranger circumstances or in greater perturbation ofspirit than did this girl, behind whom lay a generation of selfishnessand unrestraint. 

"It was well along in the evening when we came over the ridge and sawthe encampment below us. You can imagine the fairy picture it madewith its myriad of winking fires, with the soft effulgence of athousand glowing tents, and with the wonderful magic of the night overit all. As we drew nearer, the unusual sounds of a strange merrymakingcame to us--the soft thudding of drums, the weird melody of thedances, the stir and the confusion of crowded animal life. In thedaylight it would have been sufficiently picturesque, but under thewizard hand of the darkness it became ten times more so. 

"When I finally tied my horses and led the girl into the heart of it Ithink she became a bit frightened, for these Indians were the Sioux ofa bygone day. They were barbaric in dress and in demeanor. 

"I guided her through the tangle of tepees, through glaring fire-litcircles and through black voids where we stumbled and had to feel ourway. We were jostled and elbowed by fierce warriors and by sullensquaws. At every group I asked for Running Elk, but he was merely oneof five thousand and nobody knew his whereabouts. 

"The people have ever been jealous of their customs, and as a resultwe were frequently greeted by cold looks and sudden silences. Recognizing this open resentment, my companion let down a thickautomobile veil which effectually hid her face. Her dust-coat was longand loose and served further to conceal her identity. 

"At one time we came upon a sight I would gladly have spared her--thespectacle of some wrinkled hags strangling a dog by the light of afire. The girl at my side stifled a cry at the apparition. 

"'What are they doing?' she gasped. 

"'Preparing the feast, ' I told her. 

"'Do they--really--'

"'They do, ' said I. 'Come!' I tried to force her onward, but she wouldnot stir until the sacrifice had been dragged to the flames, whereother carcasses were singeing among the pots and kettles. From everyside came the smell of cooking meat, mingled with the odor of burninghair and flesh. I could hear Miss Harman panting as we went on. 

"We circled half the great hoop before we came upon the trail of ourman, and were directed to a near-by tepee, upon the glowing walls ofwhich many heads were outlined in silhouette, and from which came themonotonous voice of a story-teller. 

"I don't know what hopes the girl had been nursing; she must havelooked upon these people not as kindred of Running Elk, but rather ashis servants, his slaves. Realizing that her quest was nearly ended, her strength forsook her and she dropped behind me. The entrance tothe tepee was congested by those who could not find space inside, butthey rose silently, upon recognizing me, and made room. I lifted theflap and peered within, clearing a view for Miss Harman. 

"We beheld a circle of half-naked braves in full war regalia, squatting haunch to haunch, listening to a story-teller. In front ofthem was a confusion of blackened pails and steaming vessels, intowhich they dipped with their naked fingers. Their faces were streakedwith paint, their lips were greasy with traces of the dish, the airof the place was reeking from their breaths. My eyes were slower thanAlicia's, and so I did not distinguish our quarry at first, although aslow sigh at my ear and a convulsive clutch at my arm told me that hewas there. 

"And then I, too, saw Running Elk. It was he who was talking, to whomthe others listened. What a change two years had wrought! His voicewas harsh and guttural, his face, through the painted daubs andstreaks, was coarser and duller than when I had seen him. His verybody was more thin and shrunken. 

"He finished his tale while we stared at him; the circle broke intocommendatory grunts, and he smiled in childlike satisfaction at theimpression he had made. He leaned forward and, scrutinizing the litterof sooty pots, plunged his hand into the nearest one. 

"Miss Harman stumbled back into the crowd and her place was taken by asquaw. 

"'Running Elk, ' I called, over the heads of those next the entrance, and, seeing my face against the night, he arose and came out, steppingover the others. 

"'How do you do?' I said. 'You haven't forgotten me, have you?'

"He towered head and shoulders above me, his feather head-dress addingto his stature. The beaded patterns of his war-harness stood out dimlyin the half-light. 

"'No, no! I will never forget you, doctor. You--you have been sick. 'The change in his speech was even more noticeable when he turnedhis tongue to English. He halted over his words and he mouthed themhesitatingly. 

"'Yes, pretty sick. And you, what are you doing?'

"'I do what the rest do, ' said he. 'Nothing! I have some horses and afew head of cattle, that is all. '

"'Are you satisfied?' I demanded, sharply. He eyed me darkly for aninstant, then he answered, slowly:

"'I am an Indian. I am satisfied. '

"'Then education didn't do you any good, after all?' I was offended, disappointed; I must have spoken gruffly. 

"This time he paused a long while before he replied. 

"'I had dreams, ' said he, 'many dreams, and they were splendid; butyou told me that dreams were out of place in a Sioux, so I forgotthem, along with all the things I had learned. It is better so. '

"Alicia Harman called me in a voice which I did not recognize, so Ishook hands with Running Elk and turned away. He bowed his head andslunk back through the tepee door, back into the heart of his people, back into the past, and with him went my experiment. Since then I havenever meddled with the gods nor given them cause to laugh at me. "

The doctor arose and stretched himself, then he entered his tent fora match. The melancholy pulse of the drums and the minor-keyed chantwhich issued out of the night sounded like a dirge sung by a dyingpeople. 

"What became of Running Elk?" I inquired. 

The old man answered from within. "That was he I asked about thehorse-races. He's the man you couldn't understand, who wouldn't talkto you. He's nearly an Indian again. Alicia Harman married a duke. "

THE MOON, THE MAID, AND THE WINGED SHOES

The last place I locked wheels with Mike Butters was in Idaho. I'djust sold a silver-lead prospect and was proclaimin' my prosperitywith soundin' brass and ticklin' symbols. I was tuned up to G andsingin' quartettes with the bartender--opery buffet, so to speak--whenin Mike walked. It was a bright morning out-side and I didn'treco'nize him at first against the sunlight. 

"Where's that cholera-morbus case?" said he. 

"Stranger, them ain't sounds of cramps, " I told him. "It's me singin''Hell Amongst the Yearlin's. '" Then I seen who he was and I fell amonghim. 

When we'd abated ourselves I looked him over. 

"What you doin' in all them good clothes?" I inquired. 

"I'm a D. D. S. "

"Do tell! All I ever took was the first three degrees. Gimme the gripand the password and I'll believe you. "

"That ain't a Masonic symbol, " said he. "I'm a dentist--a bony fidodentist, with forceps and a little furnace and a gas-bag and awaitin'-rooms". He swelled up and bit a hang-nail off of his cigar. 

"Yep! A regular toothwright. "

Naturally I was surprised, not to say awed. "Have you got much of apractice?" I made bold to ask. 

"Um-m--It ain't what it ought to be, still I can't complain. It takestime to work into a fashionable clienteel. All I get a whack at now isInjuns, but I'm gradually beginnin' to close in on the white teeth. "

Now this was certainly news to me, for Mike was a foot-racer, and agood one, too, and the last time I'd seen him he didn't know nothingabout teeth, except that if you ain't careful they'll bite yourtongue. I figured he was lyin', so I said:

"Where did you get your degree--off of a thermometer?"

"Nothing of the tall. I run it down. I did, for a God's fact. It'slike this: three months ago I crep' into this burg lookin' for amatch, but the professions was overcrowded, there bein' fourteenlawyers, a half-dozen doctors, a chiropodist, and forty-threebartenders here ahead of me, not to speak of a tooth-tinker. Thatthere dentist thought he could sprint. He come from some Easterncollege and his pa had grub-staked him to a kit of tools and sent himout here to work his way into the confidences and cavities of theIdahobos. 

"Well, sir, the minute I seen him I realized he was my custard. Hewore sofy cushions on his shoulders, and his coat was cut in at theback. He rolled up his pants, too, and sometimes he sweetened the viewin a vi'lent, striped sweater. I watered at the mouth and picked myteeth over him--he was that succ'lent. 

"He'd been lookin' down on these natives and kiddin' 'em ever since hearrived, and once a week, reg'lar, he tried to frame a race so's hecould wear his runnin'-pants and be a hero. I had no trouble fixin'things. He was a good little runner, and he done his best; but when Ibreasted the tape I won a quick-claim deed to his loose change, to abrand-new office over a drug-store, and to enough nickel-plated pliersfor a wire-tapper. I staked him to a sleeper ticket, then I moved intohis quarters. The tools didn't have no directions on 'em, but I'vefiggered out how to use most of 'em. "

"I gather that this here practice that you're buildin' up ain'texactly remunerative, " I said to Mike. 

"Not yet it ain't, but I'm widenin' out. There ain't a day passes thatI don't learn something. I was out drummin' up a little tradewhen your groans convinced me that somebody in here had a jumpin'toothache. If you ain't busy, mebbe you can help me get a patient. "

This particular saloon had about wore out its welcome with me, so Iwas game for any enterprise, and I allowed a little patient-huntin'would prob'ly do me good. I drawed my six gun and looked her over. 

"It's a new sport, but I bet I'll take to it, " said I. "What d'you do, crease 'em or cripple 'em?"

"Pshaw! Put up that hearse ticket, " Mike told me. "Us doctors don'ttake human life, we save it. "

"I thought you said you was practisin' on Injuns. "

"Injuns is human. For a fact! I've learned a heap in this business. Not that I wouldn't bust one if I needed him, but it ain't necessary. Come, I'll show you. "

This here town had more heathens than whites in it, and before we'dgone a block I seen a buck Injun and his squaw idlin' along, lookin'into the store winders. The buck was a hungry, long-legged feller, andwhen we neared him Mike said to me:

"Hist! There's one. I'll slip up and get him from behind. You grab himif he runs. "

This method of buildin' up a dental practice struck me as somestrange, but Butters was a queer guy and this was sort of a roughtown. When he got abreast of Mr. Lo, Mike reached out and garnered himby the neck. The Injun pitched some, but Mike eared him down finally, and when I come up I seen that one side of the lad's face was swelledup something fearful. 

"Well, well, " said I. "You've sure got the dentist's eye. You musthave spied that swellin' a block away. "

Mike nodded, then he said: "Poor feller! I'll bet it aches horrible. My office is right handy; let's get him in before the marshal seesus. "

We drug the savage up-stairs and into Mike's dental stable, then webedded him down in a chair. He protested considerable, but we got himthere in a tollable state of preservation, barring the fact that hewas skinned up on the corners and we had pulled a hinge off from theoffice door. 

"It's a shame for a person to suffer thataway, " Mike told me; "butthese ignorant aborigines ain't educated up to the mercies of science. Just put your knee in his stummick, will you? What could be finer thanto alleviate pain? The very thought in itself is elevatin'. I'm inthis humanity business for life--Grab his feet quick or he'll kick outthe winder. "

"Whoa!" I told the Injun. "Plenty fix-um!" I poked the swellin' on hisface and he let out a yelp. 

"It's lucky we got him before multiplication set in, " Mike assured me. "I lay for 'em that-away at the foot of the stairs every day; but thisis the best patient I've had. I've a notion to charge this one. "

"Don't you charge all of 'em?" I wanted to know. 

"Nope. I got a tin watch off of one patient when he was under gas, butthe most of 'em ain't worth goin' through. You got to do a certainamount of charity work. "

"Don't look like much of a business to me, " I said. 

"There's something about it I like, " Mike told me. "It sort of growson a feller. Now that you're here to help catch 'em, I calc'late toacquire a lot of skill with these instruments. I've been playin' alone hand and I've had to take little ones that I could handle. "

When Mike produced a pair of nickel-plated nail-pullers, Mr. Injunsnorted like a sea-lion, and it took both of us to hold him down; butfinally I tied his hair around the head-rest and we had him. His manewas long and I put a hard knot in it, then I set on his moccasinswhile Doctor Butters pried into his innermost secrets. 

"There she is--that big one. " Mike pointed out a tooth that lookedlike the corner monument to a quartz claim. 

"You're on the wrong side, " I told him. 

"Mebbe I am. Here's one that looks like it would come loose easier. "Mike got a half-Nelson over in the east-half-east quarter-section ofthe buck's mouth and throwed his weight on the pliers. 

The Injun had pretty well wore himself out by this time, and whenhe felt those ice-tongs he just stiffened out--an Injun's dead gamethat-away; he won't make a holler when you hurt him. His squaw washangin' around with her eyes poppin' out, but we didn't pay noattention to her. 

Somehow Mike's pinchers kept jumpin' the track and at every slip a newwrinkle showed in the patient's face--patient is the right word, allright--and we didn't make no more show at loosenin' that tusk than asif we'd tried to pull up Mount Bill Williams with a silk thread. Atlast two big tears come into the buck's eyes and rolled down hischeeks. First time I ever seen one cry. 

Now that weakness was plumb fatal to him, for right there and then hecracked his plate with his missus. Yes, sir, he tore his shirt-waistproper. The squaw straightened up and give him a look--oh, what alook!

"Waugh!" she sniffed. "Injun heap big squaw!" And with that sheswished out of the office and left him flat. Yes, sir, she just blewhim on the spot. 

I s'pose Mike would have got that tooth somehow--he's a perseverin'party--only that I happened to notice something queer and called himoff. 

"Here, wait a minute, " said I, and I loosened him from the man'schest. Mike was so engorsed in the pursuit of his profession that hewas astraddle of his patient's wishbone, gougin' away like a quartzminer. "Take your elbow out of his mouth and lemme talk to him aminute. " When the savage had got his features together, I said to him, "How you catch um bump, hey?" And I pointed to his jaw. 

"Bzz-zz-zz!" said he. 

I turned to Doctor Butters. "Hornet!" I declared. 

When Mike had sized up the bee-sting he admitted that my diagnosiswas prob'ly correct. "That's the trouble with these patients, " hecomplained. "They don't take you into their confidence. Just the same, I'm goin' to attend to his teeth, for there's no tellin' when I'llcatch another one. "

"What's wrong with his teeth?" I questioned. "They look good to me, except they're wore down from eatin' camus. If he was a horse I'djudge him to be about a ten-year-old. "

"You never can tell by lookin' at teeth what's inside of 'em. Anyhow, a nice fillin' would set 'em off. I ain't tried no fillin's yet. Gimmethat Burley drill. "

I wheeled out a kind of sewing-machine; then I pedaled it while Mikedug into that Injun's hangin' wall like he had a round of holes toshoot before quittin'-time. This here was more in my line, bein' ahard-rock miner myself, and we certainly loaded a fine prospect ofgold into that native's bi-cuspidor. We took his front teeth becausethey was the easiest to get at. 

It was just like I said, this Injun's white keys was wore off shortand looked like they needed something, so we laid ourselves out tosupply the want. We didn't exactly fill them teeth; we merely rivetedon a sort of a plowshare--a gold sod-cutter about the size of yourfinger-nail. How Mike got it to stick I don't know, but he must havepicked up quite a number of dentist's tricks before I came. Anyhow, there she hung like a brass name-plate, and she didn't wabble hardlyat all. You'd of been surprised to see what a difference it made inthat redskin's looks. 

We let our patient up finally and put a lookin'-glass in his hand. Atfirst he didn't know just what to make of that fillin'; but when heseen it was real gold a grin broke over his face, his chest swelledup, and he walked out of the office and across the street to a noveltystore. In a minute out he came with a little round lookin'-glass and apiece of buckskin, and the last we seen of him he was hikin' down thestreet, grinnin' into that mirror as happy as a child and polishin'that tusk like it had started to rust. 

"Which I sure entitle a gratifyin' operation, " said Mike. 

"I'm in no ways proud of the job, " I told him. "I feel like I'd salteda mine. "

Well, me and Mike lived in them dental parlors for a couple of weeks, decoyin' occasional natives into it, pullin', spilin', fillin', andfilin' more teeth than a few, but bimeby the sport got tame. 

One day Mike was fakin' variations on his guitar, and I was washin'dishes, when I said: "This line is about as excitin' as a game ofjack-straws. D'you know it's foot-racin' time with the Injuns?"

"What?"

"Sure. They're gettin' together at old Port Lewis to run races thisweek. One tribe or the other goes broke and walks home every year. Ifwe could meet up with the winnin' crowd, down on the La Plata--"

I didn't have to say no more, for I had a hackamore on Mike'sattention right there, and he quit climbin' the "G" string and put uphis box. 

The next day we traded out of the tooth business and rode south downthe old Navajo trail. We picked a good campin' spot--a little "flat"in a bend of the river where the grazin' was good--and we turned theponies out. 

We didn't have to wait long. A few evenings later, as we et supper weheard a big noise around the bend and knew our visitors was comin'. They must of had three hundred head of horses, besides a big outfit ofblankets, buckskin, baskets, and all the plunder that an Injun outfittravels with. At sight of us in their campin'-place they halted, andthe squaws and the children rode up to get a look at us. 

I stepped out in front of our tent and throwed my hand to my forehead, shading my eyes--that's the Injun sign of friendship. An old chief anda couple of warriors rode forrad, Winchester to pommel, but, seein' wewas alone, they sheathed their guns, and we invited 'em to eat. 

It didn't take much urgin'. While we fed hot biscuits to the head menthe squaws pitched camp. 

They was plumb elated at their winnin' up at Fort Lewis, and thegamblin' fever was on 'em strong, so right after supper they invitedus to join 'em in a game of Mexican monte. I let Mike do thecard-playin' for our side, because he's got a pass which is thedespair of many a "tin-horn. " He can take a clean Methodist-Episcopaldeck, deal three hands, and have every face card so it'll answer toits Christian name. No, he didn't need no lookout, so I got myselfinto a game of "bounce the stick, " which same, as you prob'ly know, ispurely a redskin recreation. You take a handful of twigs in your hand, then throw 'em on to a flat rock endways, bettin' whether an odd or aneven number will fall outside of a ring drawed in the dirt. After acouple of hours Mike strolled up and tipped me the wink that he'ddusted his victims. 

"Say, " he began, "there's the niftiest chicken down here that I eversee. "

"Don't start any didos with the domestic relations of this tribe, " Itold him, "or they'll spread us out, and spread us thin. Remember, you're here on business bent, and if you bend back and forrads, frombusiness to pleasure, and versy visa, you'll bust. These people hasscrooplous ideas regardin' their wives and I respect 'em. "

"She ain't married, " Mike told me. "She's the chief's daughter, andshe looks better to me than a silver mine. "

Durin' that evening we give the impression that we was well heeled, sothe tribe wasn't in no hurry to break camp on the following morning. 

Along about noon I missed Mike, and I took a stroll to look for him. Ifound him--and the chief's daughter--alongside of a shady trout pool. She was weavin' a horsehair bracelet onto his wrist, and I seen theflash of his ring on her finger. Mike could travel some. 

He was a bit flustered, it seemed to me, and he tried to laugh thematter off, but the girl didn't. There was something about the lookof her that I didn't like. I've seen a whole lot of trouble come fromless than a horsehair bracelet. This here quail was mebbe seventeen;she was slim and shy, and she had big black eyes and a skin likevelvet. I spoke to Mike in words of one syllable, and I drug him awaywith me to our tent. 

That afternoon some half-grown boys got to runnin' foot-races and Mikeentered. He let 'em beat him, then he offered to bet a pony that theycouldn't do it again. The kids was game, and they took him quick. Mikefaked the race, of course, and lost his horse, that bein' part of ourprogam. 

When it was all over I seen the chief's daughter had been watchin' us, but she didn't say nuthin'. The next mornin', however, when we got upwe found a bully pinto pony tied to one of our tent stakes. 

"Look who's here, " said I. "Young Minnie Ha-ha has made good yourlosin's. "

"That pony is worth forty dollars, " said Mike. 

"Sure. And you're as good as a squaw-man this minute. You'rebetrothed. "

"Am I?" The idy didn't seem to faze Mike. "If that's the case, " saidhe, "I reckon I'll play the string out. I sort of like it as far asI've gone. "

"I wish she'd gave us that cream-colored mare or hers, " I said. "It'sworth two of this one. "

"I'll get it to-day, " Mike declared. And sure enough, he lost anotherfoot-race, and the next morning the cream-colored mare was picketed infront of our tent. 

Well, this didn't look good to me, and I told Mike so. I never wasmuch of a hand to take money from women, so I served a warnin' onhim that if we didn't get down to business pretty quick and make ourclean-up I proposed to leave him flat on his back. 

That day the young men of the tribe did a little foot-runnin', andMike begged 'em to let him in. It was comical to see how pleasedthey was. They felt so sure of him that they began pro-ratin' ourbelongin's among one another. They laid out a half-mile course, andeverybody in camp went out to the finish-line to see the contest andto bet on it. The old chief acted as judge, bookmaker, clerk of thecourse, referee, and stakeholder. I s'pose by the time the race wasready to start there must of been fifty ponies up, besides a lot ofmoney, but the old bird kept every wager in his head. He rolled up acouple of blankets and placed 'em on opposite sides of the track, andshowed us by motions that the first man between 'em would be declaredthe winner. All the money that had been bet he put in little piles ona blanket; then he give the word to get ready. 

I had no trouble layin' our money at one to five, and our ponies atthe same odds; then, when everything was geared up, I called Mike fromhis tent. Say, when he opened the fly and stepped out there was acommotion, for all he had on was his runnin'-trunks and his spikedshoes. The Injuns was in breech-cloths and moccasins, and, of course, they created no comment; but the sight of a half-nekked white man wassomething new to these people, and the first flash they got at Mike'sfancy togs told 'em they'd once more fell a victim to the white man'swiles. 

They was wise in a minute, and some of the young hot-bloods was forsmokin' us up, but the chief was a sport--I got to give the old birdcredit. He rared back on his hind legs and made a stormy palaver;as near as I could judge he told his ghost-dancers they'd beencold-decked, but he expected 'em to take their medicine and grin, and, anyhow, it was a lesson to 'em. Next time they'd know better'n tomonkey with strangers. Whatever it was he said, he made his point, andafter a right smart lot of powwowin' the entertainment proceeded. ButMike and me was as popular with them people as a couple of polecats ata picnic. 

Mike certainly made a picture when he lined up at the start; he stoodout like a marble statue in a slate quarry. I caught a glimpse of thechief's daughter, and her eyes was bigger than ever, and she had herhands clinched at her side. He must have looked like a god to her;but, for that matter, he was a sight to turn any untamed female heart, whether the owner et Belgian hare off of silver service or boiledjack-rabbit out of a coal-oil can. Women are funny thataway. 

It's a pot-hunter's maxim never to win by a big margin, but to noseout his man at the finish. This Mike did, winnin' by a yard; then heacted as if he was all in--faked a faint, and I doused him with asombrero of water from the creek. It was a spectacular race, at that, for at the finish the runners was bunched till a blanket would ofcovered 'em. When they tore into the finish I seen the chief's girl doa trick. Mike was runnin' on the outside, and when nobody was watchin'her the little squaw kicked one of them blanket bundles about two feetdown the course, givin' Mike that much the "edge. " She done it cleverand it would have throwed a close race. 

Them savages swallered their physic and grinned, like the chief hadtold 'em, and they took it standin' up. They turned over the flower oftheir pony herd to us, not to mention about six quarts of silver moneyand enough blankets to fill our tent. The old chief patted Mike on theback, then put both hands to his temples with his fingers spread out, as much as to say, "He runs like a deer. "

Bimeby a buck stepped up and begun makin' signs. He pointed to the sunfour times, and we gathered that he wanted us to wait four days untilhe could go and get another man. 

Mike tipped me the wink, sayin': "They're goin' after the champeen ofthe tribe. That phony faint of mine done it. Will we wait? Why, say, we'd wait four years, wouldn't we? Sweet pickin's, I call it. Champeen, huh?"

"For me, I'd wait here till I was old folks, " I said. "I don't aim toleave these simple savages nothin'. Nothin' at all, but a lot of idleregrets. "

Well, sir, there was a heap of excitement in that camp for the nextthree days. All them Injuns done, was to come and look at Mike andfeel of his legs and argue with one another. The first night after therace Mike tuned up his guitar, and later on I heard snatches of the"Spanish Fandango" stealin' up from the river bank. I knew what wason; I knew without lookin' that the old chief's girl was right therebeside him, huggin' her knees and listenin' with both ears. I didn'tlike to think about it, for she was a nice little yearlin', and itlooked to me like Mike was up to his usual devilment. Seemed like alow-down trick to play on an injunoo like her, and the more I studiedit the warmer I got. It was a wonderful night; the moonlight drenchedthe valley, and there was the smell of camp-fires and horses overeverything--just the sort of a night for a guitar, just the sort of anight to make your blood run hot and to draw you out into the glitterand make you race with your shadow. 

When Mike moseyed in, along about ten o'clock, he was plumb loco;the moon-madness was on him strong. His eyes was as bright as silvercoins, and his voice had a queer ring to it. 

"What a night!" said he. "And what a life this is Lord! I'm tired ofpot-huntin'. I've trimmed suckers till I'm weary; I've toted a goldbrick in my pocket till my clothes bag. I'm sick of it. I'm goin' tobeat this Injun champeen, take my half of our winnin's, sell off therunty ones, and settle down. "

"Where do you aim to settle?" I inquired. 

"Oh, anywhere hereabouts. These are good people, and I like 'em. "

"You mean you're goin' to turn out with the Injuns?" I inquired, withmy mouth open. Mike had led so sudden that he had me over the ropes. 

"I'm goin' to do that very little thing, " he declared. "I dunno how totalk much Navajo, but I'm learnin' fast, and she got my meanin'. Weunderstand each other, and we'll do better as time goes on. She callsme 'Emmike'! Sweet, ain't it?" He heaved a sigh, then he gargled alaugh that sounded like boilin' mush. "It ain't often a feller like megets a swell little dame that worships him. Horses, guns, camp-fires!Can you beat it?"

"If that squaw had a soft palate or a nose like a eeclair, youwouldn't be so keen for this simple life, " I told him. "She hasstirred up your wickedness, Mike, and you've gone nutty. You'remoon-crazy, that's all. You cut it out. "

I argued half the night; but the more I talked the more I seen thatMike was stuck to be a renegade. It's a fact. If he hadn't of beena nice kid I'd of cut his hobbles and let him go; but--pshaw! MikeButters could run too fast to be wasted among savages, and, besides, it's a terrible thing for a white man to marry an Injun. The red neverdies out in the woman, but the white in the man always changes into adirty, muddy red. I laid awake a long while tryin' to figger out a wayto block his game, but the only thing I could think of was to tie himup and wear out a cinch on him. Just as I was dozin' off I had an idy. I didn't like it much at first; I had to swaller hard to down it, butthe more I studied it the better it looked, so for fear I'd weaken Irolled over and went to sleep. 

Mike was in earnest, and so was the girl; that much I found outthe next day. And she must of learned him enough Navajo to proposemarriage with, and he must of learned her enough English to say "yes, "for she took possession of our camp and begun to order me around. First thing she lugged our Navajo blankets to the creek, washed 'em, then spread 'em over some bushes and beat 'em with a stick until theywere as clean and soft as thistle-down. I'll admit she made a pleasantpicture against the bright colors of them blankets, and I couldn'taltogether blame Mike for losin' his head. He'd lost it, all right. Every time she looked at him out of them big black eyes he got aswabbly as clabber. It was plumb disgustin'. 

That evenin' he give her a guitar lesson. Now Mike himself was a sadmusician, and the sound of him fandangoin' uncertainly up and down thefretful spine of that instrument was a tribulation I'd put up with onaccount of friendship, pure and simple, but when that discord-lovin'lady cliff-dweller set all evenin' in our tent and scrapedsnake-dances out of them catguts with a fish-bone, I pulled my freightand laid out in the moonlight with the dogs. 

Mike's infatuation served one purpose, though; he spent so much timewith the squab that it give me an opportunity to work out my scheme. That guitar lesson showed me that vig'rous measures was necessary, soI dug up a file, a shoemaker's needle and some waxed thread, all ofwhich we had in our kit. 

On the fourth morning there was a stir in the camp, and we knew thatthe courier had got back with his runner. Pretty soon the wholevillage stormed up to our tent in a body. 

"Let's go out and look him over, " I said. 

"What's the use of lookin' at him?" Mike inquired. "All Injuns lookalike--except one. "

I pulled back the tent fly and stepped out; then I called to Mike, forthe first thing I seen was that gold fillin' of ours. Yes, sir, rightthere, starin' me in the eye, was the sole and shinin' monument tome and Mike's brief whirl at the science of dentistry. The facesurroundin' it was stretched wide and welcome, and the minute thishere new-comer reco'nized me, he drawed back his upper lip and pointedproudly to his ornament, then he dug up his lookin'-glass and hispolishin'-rag and begun to dust it off. It was plain to be seen thathe thought more of it than his right eye. And it impressed the otherInjuns, too; they crowded up and studied it. They took turns feelin'of it, especially the squaws, and I bet if we'd had our dentist outfitwith us we could of got rich right there. The chief's daughter, inparticular, was took with the beauties of that gew-gaw, and she madesigns to us that she wanted one just like it. 

"I never noticed he was so rangy, " Mike told me, when he'd sized upthe new arrival. "Say, this guy looks good. He's split plumb to thelarynx and I bet he can run, for all of that wind-shield. "

I noticed that Mike was pretty grave when he come back in the tent, and more than once that day I caught him lookin' at the champeen, sortof studyin' him out. But for that matter this new party was gettin'his full share of attention; everywhere he went there was a trail ofkids at his heels, and every time he opened his mouth he made a hitwith the grown folks. The women just couldn't keep their eyes offenhim, and I seen that Mike was gettin' pretty sore. 

In the evenin' he made a confession that tipped off the way his mindwas workin'. "This is the first time I ever felt nervous before arace, " said he. "Mebbe it's because it's goin' to be my last race;mebbe it's because that Injun knows me and ain't scared of me. Anyhow, I'm scared of _him_. That open-faced, Elgin-movement buck has got metickin' fast. "

"That ain't what's got your goat, " I told him. 

"Your cooin' dove is dazzled by that show of wealth, and you know it. "

"Hell! She's just curious, that's all. She's just a kid. I--I wish I'dof known who he was when I treated him. I'd of drove a horse-shoe nailin his knee. "

But all the same Mike looked worried. 

It rained hard that night, and the next morning the grass was prettywet. Mike tried it, first thing, and come back grinnin' till the topof his head was an island. 

"That sod is so slippery old Flyin' Cloud can't get a good stride inhis moccasins. Me, I can straddle out and take holt with my spikes. Them spikes is goin' to put us on easy street. You see! I don't carehow good he is, they're goin' to give me four hundred head of broncsand a cute little pigeon to look out for 'em. Me, I'm goin' to layback and learn to play the guitar. I'm goin' to learn it by note. "

"You sure got the makin's of a squaw-man, " I told him. "Seems likeI've over-read your hand. I used to think you had somethin' in youbesides a appetite, but I was wrong. You're plumb cultus, Mike. "

"Don't get sore, " he grinned. "I got my chance to beat the game andI'm goin' to take it. I can't run foot-races, and win 'em, all mylife. Some day I'll step in my beard and sprain my ankle. Ambition'sa funny thing. I got the ambition to quit work. Besides, she--youknow--she's got a dimple you could lay your finger in. You'd ought tohear her say 'Emmike'; it's certainly cute. "

We bet everything we had--everything except that pinto pony and thecream-colored mare. I held them two out, for I figgered we was goin'to need 'em and need 'em bad, if my scheme worked out. 

The course--it was a quarter-mile, straight-away--was laid out alongthe bottom-land where the grass was thick and short. Me and the chiefand his girl set on a blanket among the little piles of silver, andthe rest of the merry villagers lined up close to the finish-line. Wewhite men had been the prime attraction up till now, but it didn'ttake me long to see that we wasn't any more. Them people was allwrapped up in the lad with the gold name-plate, and they was rootin'for him frantic. Last thing he done was to give his eighteen-caratsquaw-catcher the once-over with his buckskin buffer, then he shinedit at the chief's girl and trotted down to the startin'-line. Inoticed that she glued her big-and-liquids on him and kept 'em there. 

It was beautiful to watch those two men jockey for a start; the Injunwas lean and hungry and mighty smart--but Mike was smarter still. Ofcourse he got the jump. 

It was a pretty start, and Mike held his lead for fifty yards or more. I'll admit I was worked up. I've had my heart in my mouth so oftenover his races that it's wore smooth from swallerin', but this time itjust wouldn't go down. Our dental patient was runnin' an awful race, but it looked like Mike had him; then, just as the boy settled downand reached out into that long, strong stride of his'n, somethinghappened. He slipped. He would have fell, except that he caughthimself. The next second he slipped again, and Mr. "Man in Love with aGold Fillin'" passed him. 

With that them Injuns begun to speak. Some of their yells broughthunks of throat with 'em, and that whole region begun to echo as farsouth as the Rio Bravo. 

My scheme had worked, all right. You see, when Mike was doin' hisheavy courtin' I'd planted my ace in the hole; I'd took off the outersoles of his runnin'-shoes and filed the spikes almost in two, closeup to the plate. When I sewed the leather back on, it never showed, but the minute he struck his gait they broke with him and he begin tomiss his pull. He might have won at that, for he's got the heart of alion, but I s'pose the surprise did as much as anything else tobeat him. It made my heart bleed to see the fight he put up, but hefinished six feet to the bad and fell across the mark on his face, sobbin' like a child. It's the game ones that cry when they're licked;analyze a smilin' loser and you'll find the yellow streak. I liftedhim to his feet, but he was shakin' like a bush in the wind. 

"Them shoes!" he wailed. "Them damned shoes!" Then he busted out againand blubbered like a kid. 

Right then I done some actin'; but, pshaw! anybody can act when he hasto. If I'd of overplayed my hand a nickel's worth he'd of clumb up melike a rat up a rafter and there would of been human reminders allover that neighborhood. Not but what I would have got him eventually, bein' as I had my side-arms, but I liked Mike and I wouldn't killnobody if I was sober. 

It happened that he fell right at the feet of the chief's girl, andwhen I lifted him up he seen her. But, say, it must have been a shockto him. Her eyes was half shut, her head was throwed back, and she washissin' like a rattlesnake. Mike stiffened and sort of pawed at her, but she drawed away just like that other squaw in our dentist officehad drawed away from her liege lord and master. 

"Waugh! White man heap squaw!" said she, and with that she flirted herbraids and turned to the winner of the race. She went up to him andlifted his lip with her thumb like she just had to have another lookat his gold tooth, then she smiled up into his face and they walkedaway together without a glance in our direction. 

Mike follered a step or two, then he stopped and stared around at thecrowd. It was a big minute for him, and for me, too, and I'll prob'lynever forget the picture of that pantin' boy at bay among themgrinnin' barbarians. The curs was yappin' at his heels, the squawswas gigglin' and makin' faces, the bucks was showin' their teeth andpointin' at his tears. 

Mike never said a word. He just stooped down and peeled off hisrunnin'-shoes, then he throwed 'em as far as he could, right out intothe river. "Who the hell would marry a dame like that?" he sobbed. "She's stuck on his jewelry. "

"Come on, lad, " said I; and I led him to our tent. Then, while he puton his clothes, I saddled the pinto pony and the cream-colored mare, for it was six days to the railroad. 

FLESH

I

Should you chance, in crossing a certain mountain pass in southernCatalonia, to find yourself poised above a little valley against theopposite side of which lies a monastery, look to the heights aboveit. Should you piece out from among the rocks the jagged ruins of acastle, ask its name. Your guide will perhaps inform you that thoseblackened stones are called "The Teeth of the Moor, " and if he knowsthe story he will doubtless tell it to you, crossing himself manytimes during the recital. In all probability, however, he will merelyshrug his shoulders and say it is a place of bad repute, nothing more. 

Even the monks of the monastery, who are considered well versed inlocal history, have forgotten the reason for the name, although theyrecall the legend that once upon a time the castle harbored a haughtyMoslem lord. Few of them ever heard the story of Joseph the Anchorite, and how he sought flesh within its portals; those who have will notrepeat it. Time was, however, when the tale was fresh, and it runsthis wise:

Away back in the reign of Abderamus the Just, First Caliph of theWest, Hafiz, a certain warlike Moor, amazed at the fertility ofthis region, established on the edge of the plateau a stronghold ofsurprising security. His house he perched upon the crest of the cliffoverlooking the valley below. It was backed by verdant, sun-kissedslopes which quickly yielded tribute in such quantity as to renderhim rich and powerful. Hafiz lived and fought and died beneath theCrescent banner, leaving in his place a son, who likewise waged war tothe northward on behalf of the Prophet and all True Believers, at thesame time farming his rich Catalonian acres. 

Generations came and went, and, although the descendants of Hafizwaxed strong, so also did the power of the hated Christians. Livingas they did upon the very fringe of the Mussulman empire, theMoors beheld with consternation the slow encroachment of theUnbelievers--more noticeable here than farther to the southward. At intervals these enemies were driven back, but invariably theyreappeared, until at length, upon the plain beneath the castle, monkscame and built a monastery which they called San Sebastian. Beneaththe very eyes of Abul Malek, fourth descendant of Hafiz, they raisedtheir impious walls; although he chafed to wreak a bloody vengeancefor this outrage, his hands were tied by force of circumstance. Wearied with interminable wars, the Moorish nation had sought respite;peace dozed upon the land. Men rested and took from the earth newstrength with which to resume the never-ending struggle between theCrescent and the Cross, wherefore Abul Malek's rage availed himnothing. From his embrasured windows he beheld the cassocked enemiesof his creed passing to and fro about their business; he heard hissacred hour of prayer desecrated by their Christian bells, and coulddo no more than revile them for dogs, the while he awaited the will ofAllah. It was scant comfort for a man of his violent temper. 

But the truce threatened never to be broken. Years passed and stillpeace continued to reign. Meanwhile the Moor fed upon his wrongs and, from incessant brooding over them, became possessed of a fury morefanatical, more poisonous even than had been engendered by his manybattles. 

Finally, when the wrong had bit too deep for him to endure, hesummoned all his followers, and selecting from their number onehundred of the finest horsemen, he bade them make ready for a journeyto Cordova; then in their presence he kissed the blue blade of hisscimitar and vowed that the shackles which had hampered him and themwould be struck off. 

For many days there ensued the bustle and the confusion of a greatpreparation in the house of the Moor; men came and went, women sewedand cleaned and burnished; horses were groomed, their manes werecombed and their hoofs were polished; and then one morning, ere thegolden sun was an hour high, down the winding trail past the monasteryof San Sebastian, came a brilliant cavalcade. Abul Malek led, seatedupon an Arabian steed whiter than the clouds which lay piled above thewestward mountains. His two sons, Hassam and Elzemah, followed astridehorses as black as night--horses the distinguished pedigrees of whichwere cited in the books of Ibn Zaid. Back of them came one hundredswarthy warriors on other coal-black mounts, whose flashing sidesflung back the morning rays. Their flowing linen robes were like thesnow, and from their turbans gleamed gems of value. Each horseman boreat his girdle a purse, a kerchief, and a poinard; and in their purseslay two thousand dinars of gold. Slaves brought up the rear ofthe procession, riding asses laden with bales, and they led fiftyblood-red bays caparisoned as for a tournament. 

With scowling glances at the monastery the band rode on across thevalley, climbed to the pass, and disappeared. After many days theyarrived at Cordova, then when they had rested and cleansed themselves, Abul Malek craved audience of the Caliph, Aboul-Abbas El Hakkam. Beingof distinguished reputation, his wish was quickly granted; and on thefollowing day in the presence of the Hadjeb, the viziers, the whiteand black eunuchs, the archers, and the cuirassiers of the guard, hemade a gift to his sovereign of those hundred northern horsemen andtheir mounts, those fifty blooded bays and their housings, those balesof aloe-wood and camphor, those silken pieces and those two thousanddinars of yellow Catalonian gold. This done, he humbly craved afavor in return, and when bade to speak, he began by telling of theindignities rendered him by the monks of San Sebastian. 

"Five generations my people have dwelt upon our lands, serving thetrue God and His Prophet, " he declared, with quivering indignation;"but now those idolaters have come. They gibe and they mock at mebeneath my very window. My prayers are broken by their yammerings;they defile my casement, and the stench of their presence assails mynostrils. "

"What do you ask of me?" inquired the Caliph. 

"I ask for leave to cleanse my doorstep. "

The illustrious Moslem shook his head, whereat Abul Malek cried:

"Does not the Koran direct us to destroy the unbelieving and theimpious? Must I then suffer these infidels to befoul my garden?"

"God is merciful; it is His will that for a time the Unbelievers shallappear to flourish, " said the Caliph. "We are bound by solemn compactwith the kings of Leon and Castile to observe an armistice. Thatarmistice we shall observe, for our land is weary of wars, our men aretired, and their scars must heal. It is not for you or for me to say:'This is good, or this is evil. ' Allah's will be done!"

Abul Malek and his sons returned alone to their mountains, but whenthey reined in at the door of their castle the father spat venomouslyat the belfried roof of the monastery beneath and vowed that he wouldyet work his will upon it. 

Now that the Law forbade him to make way with his enemies by force, hecanvassed his brain for other means of effecting their downfall; butevery day the monks went on with their peaceful tasks, unmindful ofhis hatred, and their impious religion spread about the countryside. Abul Malek's venom passed them by; they gazed upon him with gentleeyes in which there was no spleen, although in him they recognized abitter foe. 

As time wore on his hatred of their religion became centered upon themonks themselves, and he undertook by crafty means to annoy them. Mensaid these Christian priests were good; that their lives were spent inprayer, in meditation, and in works of charity among the poor; talescame to the Moor of their spiritual existence, of their fleshlyrenunciation; but at these he scoffed. He refused to credit them. 

"Pah!" he would cry, tugging at his midnight beard; "how can these menbe aught but liars, when they live and preach a falsehood? Their creedis impious, and they are hypocrites. They are not superior beings, they are flesh like you or me. They have our passions and our faults, but a thousand times multiplied, for they walk in darkness and dwellin hypocrisy. Beneath their cassocks is black infamy; their hearts arefull of evil--aye, of lust and of every unclean thing. Being false tothe true God, they are false to themselves and to the religion theyprofess; and I will prove it. " Thus ran his reasoning. 

In order to make good his boast Abul Malek began to study themonks carefully, one after another. He tried temptation. A certaingross-bellied fellow he plied with wine. He flattered and fawned uponthe simple friar; he led him into his cellars, striving to poisonthe good man's body as well as his mind; but the visitor partook inmoderation, and preached the gospel of Christ so earnestly that theSaracen fled from his presence, bathing himself in clean water to berid of the pollution. 

Next he laid a trap for the Abbot himself. He selected the fairest ofhis slaves, a well-rounded woman of great physical charm, and bribedher with a girdle of sequins. She sought out the Abbot and professeda hunger for his creed. Bound thus by secrecy to the pious man, shelured him by every means at her command. But the Abbot had room for nopassion save the love of Christ, and her wiles were powerless againstthis armor. 

Abul Malek was patient; he renewed his vow to hold the false religionup to ridicule and laughter, thinking, by encompassing the downfallof a single advocate, thus to prove his contention and checkmate itsever-widening influence. He became obsessed by this idea; he schemedand he contrived; he used to the utmost the powers of his Orientalmind. From his vantage-point above the cloister he heard the monksdroning at their Latin; his somber glances followed them at theirdaily tasks. Like a spider he spun his web, and when one victim brokethrough it he craftily repaired its fabric, luring another into itsmeshes. 

At times he shared his vigil with his daughter Zahra, a girl oftwelve, fast growing into womanhood; and since she had inheritedhis wit and temperament, he taught her to share his hatred of theblack-robed men. 

This Moorish maiden possessed the beauty of her mother, who had diedin childbirth; and in honor of that celebrated favorite of AbderamusIII. She had been christened "Flower of the World. " Nor was the titletoo immoderate, as all men who saw her vowed. Already the hot sun ofCatalonia had ripened her charms, and neighboring lords were beginningto make extravagant overtures of marriage. But seeing in her apossible weapon more powerful than any he had yet launched against themonks of San Sebastian, the father refused to consider even the bestof them. He continued to keep her at his side, pouring his hatred intoher ears until she, too, was ablaze with it. 

Zahra was in her fourteenth year when Abul Malek beheld, one day, anew figure among those in the courtyard of the monastery below. Evenfrom his eminence the Saracen could see that this late-comer wasa giant man, for the fellow towered head and shoulders above hisbrethren. Inquiry taught him that the monk's name was Joseph. Nor wastheir meeting long delayed, for a sickness fell among the people ofthe valley, and Abul Malek, being skilled in medicine, went out tominister among the poor, according to his religion. At the sick-bed ofa shepherd the two men came face to face. 

Joseph was not young, nor was he old, but rather he had arrived at theperfect flower of his manhood, and his placid soul shone out throughfeatures of unusual strength and sweetness. In him the crafty Moorbeheld a difference which for a time was puzzling. But eventually heanalyzed it. The other monks had once been worldly men--they showed itin their faces; the countenance of Fray Joseph, on the contrary, wasthat of a boy, and it was without track of temptation or trace ofevil. He had lived a sheltered life from his earliest youth, so ittranspired, and Abul Malek rejoiced in the discovery, it being hisbelief that all men are flesh and that within them smolder flameswhich some day must have mastery. If this monk had never let his youthrun free, if he had never met temptation and conquered it, thosepent-up forces which inhabit all of us must be gathering power, yearby year, and once the joint of this armor had been found, once itcould be pierced, he would become earthly like other men, and hisfalse religion would drop away, leaving him naked under the irksomegarb of priesthood. 

Accordingly, the Moor tested Fray Joseph, as he had tested the Abbotand the others, but to no avail, and he was in despair, until one daythe secret of his failure was unexpectedly revealed. 

Being busied with his accounts, he had repaired to the shade of apomegranate grove near the cliff, the better to escape the heat; whileso engaged up the path from the monastery came the good brother. Justabreast of Abul Malek's point of vantage Joseph paused to listen. Asongbird was trilling wondrously and the monk's face, raised towardthe pomegranate trees, became transfigured. He changed as if bymagic; his lips parted in a tender smile, his figure grew tense withlistening; not until the last note had died away did he move. Thena great breath stirred his lungs, and with shining eyes and raptcountenance he went on into the fields. 

Abul Malek rose, his white teeth gleaming through his beard. 

"Allah be praised!" he exclaimed. "It is music!" And rolling up hispapers, he went into the house. 

Early on the following morning another cavalcade filed down past themonastery of San Sebastian; but this procession was in great contrastto the one that had gone by five years before. Instead of gailycaparisoned warriors, it was composed mainly of women and slaves, witha mere handful of guards to lead the way. There were bondmaidens andseamstresses, an ancient nurse and a tutor of languages; while astrideof a palfrey at her father's side rode the youthful lady of thecastle. Her veil was wet upon her cheeks, her eyes were filled withshadows; yet she rode proudly, like a princess. 

Once more the train moved past the sun-baked walls of the monastery, across the plain to the mountain road that led to the land of bountyand of culture. Late that afternoon Brother Joseph learned from thelips of a herdsman that the beauteous Zahra, flower of all the Moorishrace, had gone to Cordova to study music. 

II

Abul Malek once more rode home alone to his castle; but this time ashe dismounted at his door he smiled at the monastery below. 

Four years crept by, during which the Saracen lord brooded over thevalley and the monk Joseph went his simple way, rendering servicewhere he could, preaching, by the example of his daily life and hisunselfish devotion, a sermon more powerful than his lips could utter. Through it all the Moor watched him carefully, safeguarding him as aprovident farmer fattens a sheep for the slaughter. Once a year thefather rode southward to Cordova, bringing news with his return thatdelighted the countryside, news that penetrated even the walls of SanSebastian and filled the good men therein with gladness. It seemedthat the maiden Zahra was becoming a great musician. She pursued herstudies in the famous school of Ali-Zeriab, and not even Moussalihimself, that most gifted of Arabian singers, could bring more tendernotes from the lute than could this fair daughter of Catalonia. Herskill transcended that of Al Farabi, for the harp, the tabor, and themandolin were wedded to her dancing fingers; and, most marvelous ofall, her soul was so filled with poetry that her verses were sung fromValencia to Cadiz. It was said that she could move men to laughter, totears, to deeds of heroism--that she could even lull them to sleep bythe potency of her magic. She had once played before the Caliph underamazing circumstances. 

The Prince of True Believers, so ran the story, had quarreled withhis favorite wife, and in consequence had fallen into a state ofmelancholy so deep as to threaten his health and to alarm hisministers. Do what they would, he still declined, until in despair theHadjeb sent for Zahra, daughter of Abul Malek. She came, surrounded byher servants, and sang before El Hakkam. So cunningly did she contriveher verses, so tender were her airs, so potent were her flutteringfingers, that those within hearing were moved to tears, and theunhappy lover himself became so softened that he sped to the arms ofhis offended beauty and a reconciliation occurred. In token of hisgratitude he had despatched a present of forty thousand drachmas ofgold to the singer, and her renown went broadcast like a flame. 

When Abul Malek heard of this he praised his God, and, gathering hishorsemen, he set out to bring his daughter home, for the time wasripe. 

One evening in early spring, that magic season when nature is mostcharming, Fray Joseph, returning to his cell, heard from behind ascreen of verdure alongside his path a woman singing. But was thissinging? he asked himself. Could mortal lips give birth to melody likethis? It was the sighing of summer winds through rustling leaves, themusic of crystal brooks on stony courses, the full-throated worshipof birds. Joseph listened, enthralled, like a famished pilgrim in thedesert. His simple soul, attuned to harmonies of the woodland, leapedin answer; his fancy, starved by years of churchly rigor, quickenedlike a prisoner at the light of day. Not until the singer had ceaseddid he resume his way, and through his dreams that night ran the songof birds, the play of zephyrs, the laughter of bubbling springs. 

A few evenings later he heard the voice again, and paused with lipsapart, with heart consumed by eagerness. It was some slave girl busiedamong the vines of Abul Malek, he decided, for she translated all thefragmentary airs that float through summer evenings--the songs ofsweethearts, the tender airs of motherhood, the croon of distantwaterfalls, the voice of sleepy locusts--and yet she wove them into anair that carried words. It was most wonderful. 

Joseph felt a strong desire to mingle his voice with the singer's, buthe knew his throat to be harsh and stiff from chanting Latin phrases. He knew not whither the tune would lead, and yet, when she sang, hefollowed, realizing gladly that she voiced the familiar music of hissoul. He was moved to seek her out and to talk with her, until heremembered with a start that she was a woman and he a priest. 

Each night he shaped his course so as to bring him past the spotwhere the mysterious singer labored, and in time he began to feel thestirring of a very earthly curiosity, the which he manfully foughtdown. Through the long, heated hours of the day he hummed her airs andrepeated her verses, longing for the twilight hour which would bringthe angel voice from out the vineyard. Eventually the girl began tosing of love, and Joseph echoed the songs in solitude, his voice asrasping and untrue as that of a frog. 

Then, one evening, he heard that which froze him in his tracks. Thesinger accompanied herself upon some instrument the like of which hehad never imagined. The music filled the air with heavenly harmony, and it set him to vibrating like a tautened string; it rippledforth, softer than the breeze, more haunting than the perfume of thefrangipani. Joseph stood like a man in a trance, forgetful of allthings save these honeyed sounds, half minded to believe himselffavored by the music of the seraphim. 

Never had he dreamed of such an intoxication. And then, as if tointensify his wild exultation, the maiden sang a yearning strain ofpassion and desire. 

The priest began to tremble. His heart-beats quickened, his sensesbecame unbridled; something new and mighty awoke within him, and hewas filled with fever. His huge thews tightened, his muscles swelledas if for battle, yet miracle of miracles, he was melting like a childin tears! With his breath tugging at his throat, he turned off thepath and parted the verdure, going as soundlessly as an animal; andall the while his head was whirling, his eyes took note of nothing. Hewas drawn as by a thousand invisible strings, which wound him towardthe hidden singer. 

But suddenly the music ended in a peal of rippling laughter and therecame the rustle of silken garments. Fray Joseph found himself in alittle open glade, so recently vacated that a faint perfume stilllingered to aggravate his nostrils. Beyond stretched the vineyard ofthe Moor, a tangle of purpling vines into the baffling mazes of whichthe singer had evidently fled. 

So she had known of his presence all along, the monk reflected, dizzily. It followed, therefore, that she must have waited everyevening for his coming, and that her songs had been sung for him. Anecstasy swept over him. Regaining the path, he went downward to themonastery, his brain afire, his body tingling. 

Joseph was far too simple for self-analysis, and he was too enchantedby those liquid strains to know what all this soul confusion foretold;he merely realized that he had made the most amazing of discoveries, that the music of the spheres had been translated for his privilegedears, that a door had opened allowing him to glimpse a glory hiddenfrom other mortals. It was not the existence of the singer, but of themusic, that excited him to adoration. He longed to possess it, to takeit with him, and to cherish it like a thing of substance, to worshipit in his solitude. 

The song had been of love; but, after all, love was the burden of hisreligion. Love filled the universe, it kept the worlds a-swinging, itwas the thing that dominated all nature and made sweet even the rigidlife of an anchorite. It was doubtless love which awoke this fierceyet tender yearning in him now, this ecstasy that threatened tosmother him. Love was a holy and an impersonal thing, nevertheless itblazed and melted in his every vein, and it made him very human. 

Through all that night Fray Joseph lay upon his couch, rapt, thankful, wondering. But in the morning he had changed. His thoughts becameunruly, and he recalled again that tantalizing perfume, the shy tonesof that mischief laughter. He began to long intensely to behold theauthor of this music-magic, to behold her just once, for imaginationgraced her with a thousand witching forms. He wished ardently, also, to speak with her about this miracle, this hidden thing called melody, for the which he had starved his life, unknowingly. 

As the afternoon aged he began to fear that he had frightened her, and therefore when he came to tread his homeward path it was with astrange commingling of eagerness and of dread. But while still at adistance, he heard her singing as usual, and, nearing the spot, hestopped to drink in her message. Again the maiden sang of love; againthe monk felt his spirit leaping as she fed his starving soul evenmore adroitly than she fingered the vibrant strings. At last her wild, romantic verses became more unrestrained; the music quickened until, regardless of all things, Fray Joseph burst the thicket asunder andstood before her, huge, exalted, palpitant. 

"I, too, have sung those songs, " he panted, hoarsely. "That melody haslived in me since time began; but I am mute. And you? Who are you?What miracle bestowed this gift--?"

He paused, for with the ending of the song his frenzy was dying andhis eyes were clearing. There, casting back his curious gaze, was abewitching Moorish maid whose physical perfection seemed to cause thevery place to glow. The slanting sunbeams shimmered upon her silkengarments; from her careless hand drooped an instrument of gold and oftortoise-shell, an instrument strange to the eyes of the monk. Herfeet were cased in tiny slippers of soft Moroccan leather; her limbs, rounded and supple and smooth as ivory, were outlined beneath wideflowing trousers which were gathered at the ankles. A tunic of finestfabric was flung back, displaying a figure of delicate proportions, half recumbent now upon the sward. 

The loveliness of Moorish women has been heralded to the world; it isnot strange that this maid, renowned even among her own people, shouldhave struck the rustic priest to dumbness. He stood transfixed; andyet he wondered not, for it was seemly that such heavenly music shouldhave sprung from the rarest of mortals. He saw that her hair, blackerthan the night, rippled in a glorious cascade below her waist, andthat her teeth embellished with the whiteness of alabaster thevermilion lips which smiled at him. 

That same intoxicating scent, sweeter than the musk of Hadramaut, enveloped her; her fingers were jeweled with nails which flashed inrivalry with their burden of precious stones as she toyed with thewhispering strings. 

For a time she regarded the monk silently. 

"I am Zahra, " she said at length, and Joseph thrilled at the tones ofher voice. "To me, all things are music. "

"Zahra! 'Flower of the World, '" he repeated, wonderingly. After aninstant he continued, harshly, "Then you are the daughter of theMoor?"

"Yes. Abul Malek. You have heard of me?"

"Who has not? Aye, you were rightly called 'Flower of the World. 'But--this music! It brought me here against my will; it pulls at melike straining horses. Why is that? What wizardry do you possess? Whatstrange chemistry?"

She laughed lightly. "I possess no magic art. We are akin, you and I. That is all. You, of all men, are attuned to me. "

"No, " he said, heavily. "You are an Infidel, I am a Christian. Thereis no bond between us. "

"So?" she mocked. "And yet, when I sing, you can hear the nightingalesof Aden; I can take you with me to the fields of battle, or to theinnermost halls of the Alhambra. I have watched you many times, Brother Joseph, and I have never failed to play upon your soul as Iplay upon my own. Are we not, then, attuned?"

"Your veil!" he cried, accusingly. "I have never beheld a Moorishwoman's face until now. "

Her lids drooped, as if to hide the fire behind them, and she replied, without heeding his words: "Sit here, beside me. I will play for you. "

"Yes, yes!" he cried, eagerly. "Play! Play on for me! But--I willstand. "

Accordingly she resumed her instrument; and o'er its strings herrosy fingers twinkled, while with witchery of voice and beauty sheenthralled him. Again she sang of love, reclinging there like an_houri_ fit to grace the paradise of her Prophet; and the giant monkbecame a puppet in her hands. Now, although she sang of love, it was adifferent love from that which Joseph knew and worshiped; and as shetoyed with him his hot blood warred with his priestly devotion untilhe was racked with the tortures of the pit. But she would not let himgo. She lured him with her eyes, her lips, her luscious beauty, untilhe heard no song whatever, until he no longer saw visions of spiritualbeatitude, but flesh, ripe flesh, aquiver and awake to him. 

A cry burst from him. Turning, he tore himself away and went crashingblindly through the thicket like a bull pursued. On, on he fled, downto the monastery and into the coolness of his cell, where, upon thesmooth, worn flags, he knelt and struggled with this evil thing whichaccursed his soul. 

For many days Joseph avoided the spot which had witnessed histemptation; but of nights, when he lay spent and weary with hisbattle, through the grating of his window came the song of the Saracenmaid and the whisper of her golden lute. He knew she was calling tohim, therefore he beat his breast and scourged himself to cure hislonging. But night after night she sang from the heights above, andthe burden of her song was ever the same, of one who waited and of onewho came. 

Bit by bit she wore down the man's resistance, then drew him upthrough the groves of citron and pomegrante, into the grape fields;time and again he fled. Closer and closer she lured him, until one dayhe touched her flesh--woman's flesh--and forgot all else. But now itwas her turn to flee. 

She poised like a sunbeam just beyond his reach, her bosom heaving, her lips as ripe and full as the grapes above, her eyes afire withinvitation. In answer to his cry she made a glowing promise, subtle, yet warm and soft, as of the flesh. 

"To-night, when the moon hangs over yonder pass, I shall play on thebalcony outside my window. Beneath is a door, unbarred. Come, for Ishall be alone in all the castle, and there you will find music madeflesh, and flesh made music. " Then she was gone. 

The soul of the priest had been in torment heretofore, but chaosengulfed it during the hours that followed. He was like a man bereftof reason; he burned with fever, yet his whole frame shook as from awintry wind. He prayed, or tried to, but his eyes beheld no visionsave a waiting Moorish maid with hair like night, his stammeringtongue gave forth no Latin, but repeated o'er and o'er her partingpromise:

"There you will find music made flesh and flesh made music. "

He realized that the foul fiend had him by the throat, and undertookto cast him off; but all the time he knew that when the moon came, bringing with it the cadence of a song, he would go, even though hisgoing led to perdition. And go he did, groveling in his misery. Hissandals spurned the rocky path when he heard the voice of Zahrasighing through the branches; then, when he had reached the castlewall, he saw her bending toward him from the balcony above. 

"I come to you, " she whispered; and an instant later her form showedwhite against the blackness of the low stone door in front of him. There, in the gloom, for one brief instant, her yielding body met his, her hands reached upward and drew his face down to her own; then outfrom his hungry arms she glided, and with rippling laughter fled intothe blackness. 

"Zahra!" he cried. 

"Come!" she whispered, and when he hesitated, "Do you fear to follow?"

"Zahra!" he repeated; but his voice was strange, and he tore at thecloth that bound his throat, stumbling after her, guided only by hervoice. 

Always she was just beyond his reach; always she eluded him; yet neverdid he lose the perfume of her presence nor the rustle of her silkengarments. Over and over he cried her name, until at last he realizedfrom the echo of his calling that he had come into a room of greatdimensions and that the girl was gone. 

For an instant he was in despair, until her voice reached him fromabove:

"I do but test you, Christian priest. I am waiting. "

"'Flower of the World, '" he stammered, hoarsely. "Whence lead thestairs?"

"And do you love me, then?" she queried, in a tone that set him allablaze. 

"Zahra, " he repeated, "I shall perish for want of you. "

"How do you measure this devotion?" she insisted, softly. "Will itcool with the dawn, or are you mine in truth forever and all time?"

"I have no thought save that of you. Come, Light of my Soul, or Ishall die. "

"Do you then adore me above all things, earthly and heavenly, that youforsake your vows? Answer, that my arms may enfold you. "

He groaned like a man upon a rack, and the agony of that cry was proofconclusive of his abject surrender. 

Then, through the dead, black silence of the place there came astartling sound. It was a peal of laughter, loud, evil, triumphant;and, as if it had been a signal, other mocking voices took it up, until the great vault rang to a fiendish din. 

"Ho! Hassam! Elzemah! Close the doors!" cried the voice of Abul Malek. "Bring the lights. "

There followed a ponderous clanging and the rattle of chains, thewhile Fray Joseph stood reeling in his tracks. Then suddenly fromevery side burst forth the radiance of many lamps. Torches sprang intoflame, braziers of resin wood began to smoke, flambeaux were lit, and, half blinded by the glare, the Christian monk stood revealed in thehall of Abul Malek. 

He cast his eyes about, but on every side he beheld grinning men ofswarthy countenance, and at sight of his terror the hellish merrimentbroke forth anew, until the whole place thundered with it. Facinghim, upon an ornamental balcony, stood the Moor, and beside him, withelbows on the balustrade and face alight with sinister enjoyment, stood his daughter. 

Stunned by his betrayal, Joseph imploringly pronounced her name, atwhich a fresh guffaw resounded. Then above the clamor she inquired, with biting malice:

"Dost thou any longer doubt, oh, Christian, that I adore thee?"At this her father and her brothers rocked back and forth, as ifsuffocated by the humor of this jest. 

The lone man turned, in mind to flee, but every entrance to the hallwas closed, and at each portal stood a grinning Saracen. He bowed hisshaven head, and his shame fell slowly upon him. 

"You have me trapped, " he said. "What shall my punishment be?"

"This, " answered the Moorish lord; "to acknowledge once again, beforeus all, the falseness of your faith. "

"That I have never done; that I can never do, " said Joseph. 

"Nay! But a moment ago you confessed that you adored my daughter aboveall things, earthly or heavenly. You forswore your vows for her. Repeat it, then. "

"I have sinned before God; but I still acknowledge Him and crave Hismercy, " said the wretched priest. 

"Hark you, Joseph. You are the best of monks. Have you ever done evilbefore this night?"

"My life has been clean, but the flesh is weak. It was the witchcraftof Satan in that woman's music. I prayed for strength, but I waspowerless. My soul shall pay the penalty. "

"What sort of God is this who snares His holiest disciple, with thelusts of the flesh?" mocked Abul Malek. "Did not your prayers mountup so high? Or is His power insufficient to forestall the devil? Bah!There is but one true God, and Mohammed is His Prophet. These manyyears have I labored to rend your veil of holiness asunder andto expose your faith to ridicule and laughter. This have I doneto-night. "

"Stop!" cried the tortured monk. "Bring forth a lance. "

"Nay! Nay! You shall hear me through, " gloated Abul Malek; and againJoseph bowed his tonsured head, murmuring:

"It is my punishment. "

Ringed about thus by his enemies, the priest stood meekly, while thesweat came out upon his face; as the Saracen mocked and jeered at himhe made no answer, except to move his lips in whispered grayer. Had itnot been for this sign they might have thought him changed to stone, so motionless and so patient did he stand. How long the baiting lastedno one knew; it may have been an hour, then Joseph's passive silenceroused the anger of the overlord, who became demoniac in his rage. His followers joined in harrying the victim, until the place became ababel. Finally Elzemah stepped forward, torch in hand, and spat uponthe giant black-robed figure. 

The monk's face whitened, it grew ghastly; but he made no movement. Then in a body the infidels rushed forth to follow the example ofAbul Malek's son. They swarmed about the Christian, jeering, cursing, spitting, snatching at his garments, until their master cried:

"Enough! The knave has water in his veins. His blood has soured. Deserted by his God, his frame has withered and his vigor fled. "

"Yes, " echoed his daughter. "He is great only in bulk. Had he been aMan I might have loved him; but the evil has fled out of him, leavingnothing but his cassock. Off with his robe, Elzemah. Let us see ifaught remains. "

With swift movement her brother tore at the monk's habit, baring hisgreat bosom. At this insult to his cloth a frightful change swept overthe victim. He upheaved his massive shoulders, his gleaming head rosehigh, and in the glaring light they saw that his face had lost allsweetness and humility; it was now the visage of a madman. All fleshlypassion stored through thirty years of cloister life blazed forth, consuming reason and intelligence; with a sweep of his mighty arms hecleared a space about him, hurling his enemies aside as if they weremade of straw. He raised his voice above the din, cursing God and menand Moors. As they closed in upon him he snatched from the hands of alusty slave a massive wrought-iron brazier, and whirling it high abovehis head, he sent its glowing coals flying into the farthest cornersof the room. Then with this weapon he laid about him right and left, while men fell like grain before the reaper. 

"At him!" shouted Abul Malek, from his balcony. "Pull down the weaponsfrom the walls! The fool is mad!"

Zahra clutched at her father's sleeve and pointed to a distant corner, where a tongue of flame was licking the dry woodwork and hangings. Her eyes were flashing and her lips were parted; she bent forward, following the priest with eagerness. 

"Allah be praised!" she breathed. "He is a Man!"

Elzemah strove to sheathe his poinard in the monk's bare breast, butthe brazier crushed him down. Across the wide floor raged the contest, but the mighty priest was irresistible. Hassam, seeing that the priestwas fighting toward the balcony, flung himself upon the stairs, cryingto his father and his sister to be gone. By now the castle echoed witha frightful din through which arose a sinister crackling. The lightincreased moment by moment, and there came the acrid smell of smoke. 

Men left the maniac to give battle to the other fury. Some fled to thedoors and fought with their clumsy fastenings, but as they flungthem back a draught sucked through, changing the place into a ragingfurnace. 

With his back against the stairs, Hassam hewed at the monk with hisscimitar; he had done as well had he essayed to fell an oak with asingle blow. Up over him rushed the giant, to the balcony above, whereAbul Malek and his daughter stood at bay in the trap of their ownmanufacture. There, in the glare of the mounting flames, Fray Josephsank his mighty fingers through the Moor's black beard. 

The place by now was suffocating, and the roar of the conflagrationhad drowned all other sounds. Men wrapped their robes about theirheads and hurled themselves blindly at the doors, fighting with oneanother, with the licking flames, with the dead that clogged theslippery flags. But the maid remained. She tore at the tatteredcassock of the priest, crying into his ear:

"Come, Joseph! We may yet escape. "

He let the writhing Abul Malek slip from out his grasp and peered ather through the smother. 

"Thou knowest me not?" she queried. "I am Zahra. " Her arms entwinedhis neck for a second time that night, but with a furious cry heraised his hands and smote her down at his feet, then he fled back tothe stairs and plunged down into the billows that raged ahead of thefresh night wind. 

The bells of San Sebastian were clanging the alarm, the good monkswere toiling up the path toward the inferno which lit the heavens, when, black against the glare, they saw a giant figure approaching. Itcame reeling toward them, vast, mighty, misshapen. Not until it was intheir very midst did they recognize their brother, Joseph. He wasbent and broken, he was singed of body and of raiment, he gibberedfoolishly; he passed them by and went staggering to his cell. Long erethey reached the castle it was but a seething mountain of flame; andin the morning naught remained of Abul Malek's house but heated ruins. 

Strange tales were rife concerning the end of the Moor and of hisimmediate kin, but the monks could make little out of them, for theywere garbled and too ridiculous for belief. No Mussulman who survivedthe fire could speak coherently of what had happened in the greathall, nor could Fray Joseph tell his story, for he lay stricken with amalady which did not leave him for many weeks. Even when he recoveredhe did not talk; for although his mind was clear on most matters, nay, although he was as simple and as devout as ever, a kind Providence hadblotted out all memory of Zahra, of his sin, and of the temptationthat had beset his flesh. 

So it is that even to this day "The Teeth of the Moor" remains a termof mystery to most of the monks of San Sebastian.