A GENTLEMAN VAGABONDAND SOME OTHERS

BY

F. HOPKINSON SMITH

NEW YORKGROSSET & DUNLAPPUBLISHERS

1895

_INTRODUCTORY NOTE_

_There are gentlemen vagabonds and vagabond gentlemen. Here and there onefinds a vagabond pure and simple, and once in a lifetime one meets agentleman simple and pure. _

_Without premeditated intent or mental bias, I have unconsciously tomyself selected some one of these several types, --entangling them in thethreads of the stories between these covers. _

_Each of my readers can group them to suit his own experience. _

F. H. S. NEW YORK, 150 E. 34TH ST. 

CONTENTS

 PAGEA GENTLEMAN VAGABOND 1A KNIGHT OF THE LEGION OF HONOR 36JOHN SANDERS, LABORER 67BÄADER 82THE LADY OF LUCERNE 102JONATHAN 126ALONG THE BRONX 141ANOTHER DOG 147BROCKWAY'S HULK 160

A GENTLEMAN VAGABOND

I

I found the major standing in front of Delmonico's, interviewing a large, bare-headed personage in brown cloth spotted with brass buttons. The majorwas in search of his very particular friend, Mr. John Hardy of MadisonSquare, and the personage in brown and brass was rather languidlyindicating, by a limp and indecisive forefinger, a route through a sectionof the city which, correctly followed, would have landed the major in theEast River. 

I knew him by the peculiar slant of his slouch hat, the rosy glow of hisface, and the way in which his trousers clung to the curves of hiswell-developed legs, and ended in a sprawl that half covered his shoes. Irecognized, too, a carpet-bag, a ninety-nine-cent affair, an "occasion, "with galvanized iron clasps and paper-leather sides, --the kind opened withyour thumb. 

The major--or, to be more definite, Major Tom Slocomb of Pocomoke--wasfrom one of the lower counties of the Chesapeake. He was supposed to own, as a gift from his dead wife, all that remained unmortgaged of a vastcolonial estate on Crab Island in the bay, consisting of several thousandacres of land and water, --mostly water, --a manor house, once paintedwhite, and a number of outbuildings in various stages of dilapidation anddecay. 

In his early penniless life he had migrated from his more northern nativeState, settled in the county, and, shortly after his arrival, had marriedthe relict of the late lamented Major John Talbot of Pocomoke. This hadbeen greatly to the surprise of many eminent Pocomokians, who boasted ofthe purity and antiquity of the Talbot blood, and who could not look on insilence, and see it degraded and diluted by an alliance with a "harfstrainer or worse. " As one possible Talbot heir put it, "a picayune, low-down corncracker, suh, without blood or breedin'. "

The objections were well taken. So far as the ancestry of the Slocombfamily was concerned, it was a trifle indefinite. It really could not betraced back farther than the day of the major's arrival at Pocomoke, notwithstanding the major's several claims that his ancestors came overin the Mayflower, that his grandfather fought with General Washington, andthat his own early life had been spent on the James River. Thesestatements, to thoughtful Pocomokians, seemed so conflicting andimprobable, that his neighbors and acquaintances ascribed them either tothat total disregard for salient facts which characterized the major'sspeech, or to the vagaries of that rich and vivid imagination which hadmade his conquest of the widow so easy and complete. 

Gradually, however, through the influence of his wife, and because of hisown unruffled good-humor, the antipathy had worn away. As years sped on, no one, except the proudest and loftiest Pocomokian, would have cared totrace the Slocomb blood farther back than its graft upon the Talbot tree. Neither would the major. In fact, the brief honeymoon of five years leftso profound an impression upon his after life, that, to use his own words, his birth and marriage had occurred at the identical moment, --he had neverlived until then. 

There was no question in the minds of his neighbors as to whether themajor maintained his new social position on Crab Island with more thanordinary liberality. Like all new vigorous grafts on an old stock, he notonly blossomed out with extraordinary richness, but sucked the sap of theprimeval family tree quite dry in the process. In fact, it was universallyadmitted that could the constant drain of his hospitality have beenbrought clearly to the attention of the original proprietor of the estate, its draft-power would have raised that distinguished military gentlemanout of his grave. "My dear friends, " Major Slocomb would say, when, afterhis wife's death, some new extravagance was commented upon, "I felt I owedthe additional slight expenditure to the memory of that queen among women, suh--Major Talbot's widow. "

He had espoused, too, with all the ardor of the new settler, the severalarticles of political faith of his neighbors, --loyalty to the State, belief in the justice and humanity of slavery and the omnipotent rights ofman, --white, of course, --and he had, strange to say, fallen into thepeculiar pronunciation of his Southern friends, dropping his final _g_'s, and slurring his _r_'s, thus acquiring that soft cadence of speech whichmakes their dialect so delicious. 

As to his title of "Major, " no one in or out of the county could tellwhere it originated. He had belonged to no company of militia, neitherhad he won his laurels on either side during the war; nor yet had theshifting politics of his State ever honored him with a staff appointmentof like grade. When pressed, he would tell you confidentially that he hadreally inherited the title from his wife, whose first husband, as was wellknown, had earned and borne that military distinction; adding tenderly, that she had been so long accustomed to the honor that he had continued itafter her death simply out of respect to her memory. 

But the major was still interviewing Delmonico's flunky, oblivious ofeverything but the purpose in view, when I touched his shoulder, andextended my hand. 

"God bless me! Not you? Well, by gravy! Here, now, colonel, you can tellme where Jack Hardy lives. I've been for half an hour walkin' round thisgarden lookin' for him. I lost the letter with the number in it, so I cameover here to Delmonico's--Jack dines here often, I know, 'cause he told meso. I was at his quarters once myself, but 't was in the night. I amcompletely bamboozled. Left home yesterday--brought up a couple ofthoroughbred dogs that the owner wouldn't trust with anybody but me, andthen, too, I wanted to see Jack. "

I am not a colonel, of course, but promotions are easy with the major. 

"Certainly; Jack lives right opposite. Give me your bag. "

He refused, and rattled on, upbraiding me for not coming down to CrabIsland last spring with the "boys" when the ducks were flying, punctuatinghis remarks here and there with his delight at seeing me looking so well, his joy at being near enough to Jack to shake the dear fellow by the hand, and the inexpressible ecstasy of being once more in New York, the centreof fashion and wealth, "with mo' comfo't to the square inch than any otherspot on this terrestrial ball. "

The "boys" referred to were members of a certain "Ducking Club" situatedwithin rifle-shot of the major's house on the island, of which club JackHardy was president. They all delighted in the major's society, reallyloving him for many qualities known only to his intimates. 

Hardy, I knew, was not at home. This, however, never prevented his coloredservant, Jefferson, from being always ready at a moment's notice towelcome the unexpected friend. In another instant I had rung Hardy'sbell, --third on right, --and Jefferson, in faultless evening attire, wascarrying the major's "carpet-bag" to the suite of apartments on the thirdfloor front. 

Jefferson needs a word of comment. Although born and bred a slave, he isthe product of a newer and higher civilization. There is hardly a trace ofthe old South left in him, --hardly a mark of the pit of slavery from whichhe was digged. His speech is as faultless as his dress. He is clean, close-shaven, immaculate, well-groomed, silent, --reminding me always of amahogany-colored Greek professor, even to his eye-glasses. He keeps hisrooms in admirable order, and his household accounts with absoluteaccuracy; never spilled a drop of claret, mixed a warm cocktail, or serveda cold plate in his life; is devoted to Hardy, and so punctiliously politeto his master's friends and guests that it is a pleasure to have him serveyou. 

Strange to say, this punctilious politeness had never extended to themajor, and since an occurrence connected with this very bag, to be relatedshortly, it had ceased altogether. Whether it was that Jefferson hadalways seen through the peculiar varnish that made bright the major'sveneer, or whether in an unguarded moment, on a previous visit, the majorgave way to some such outburst as he would have inflicted upon thedomestics of his own establishment, forgetting for the time the superiorposition to which Jefferson's breeding and education entitled him, Icannot say, but certain it is that while to all outward appearancesJefferson served the major with every indication of attention andhumility, I could see under it all a quiet reserve which marked the lineof unqualified disapproval. This was evident even in the way he carriedthe major's bag, --holding it out by the straps, not as became the handlingof a receptacle containing a gentleman's wardrobe, but by the neck, so tospeak, --as a dog to be dropped in the gutter. 

It was this bag, or rather its contents, or to be more exact its lack ofcontents, that dulled the fine edge of Jefferson's politeness. He unpackedit, of course, with the same perfunctory care that he would have bestowedon the contents of a Bond Street Gladstone, indulging in a prolongedchuckle when he found no trace of a most important part of a gentleman'swardrobe, --none of any pattern. It was, therefore, with a certain grimhumor that, when he showed the major to his room the night of hisarrival, he led gradually up to a question which the unpacking a few hoursbefore had rendered inevitable. 

"Mr. Hardy's orders are that I should inform every gentleman when heretires that there's plenty of whiskey and cigars on the sideboard, andthat"--here Jefferson glanced at the bag--"and that if any gentleman cameunprepared there was a night shirt and a pair of pajams in the closet. "

"I never wore one of 'em in my life, Jefferson; but you can put thewhiskey and the cigars on the chair by my bed, in case I wake in thenight. "

When Jefferson, in answer to my inquiries as to how the major had passedthe night, related this incident to me the following morning, I coulddetect, under all his deference and respect toward his master's guest, acertain manner and air plainly implying that, so far as the major andhimself were concerned, every other but the most diplomatic of relationshad been suspended. 

The major, by this time, was in full possession of my friend's home. Theonly change in his dress was in the appearance of his shoes, polished byJefferson to a point verging on patent leather, and the adoption of ablack alpaca coat, which, although it wrinkled at the seams with acertain home-made air, still fitted his fat shoulders very well. To thiswere added a fresh shirt and collar, a white tie, nankeen vest, and thesame tight-fitting, splay-footed trousers, enriched by a crease ofJefferson's own making. 

As he lay sprawled out on Hardy's divan, with his round, rosy, clean-shaven face, good-humored mouth, and white teeth, the wholeenlivened by a pair of twinkling eyes, you forgot for the moment that hewas not really the sole owner of the establishment. Further intercoursethoroughly convinced you of a similar lapse of memory on the major's part. 

"My dear colonel, let me welcome you to my New York home!" he exclaimed, without rising from the divan. "Draw up a chair; have a mouthful of mocha?Jefferson makes it delicious. Or shall I call him to broil anotherpo'ter-house steak? No? Then let me ring for some cigars, " and he touchedthe bell. 

To lie on a divan, reach out one arm, and, with the expenditure of lessenergy than would open a match-box, to press a button summoning anattendant with all the unlimited comforts of life, --juleps, cigars, coffee, cocktails, morning papers, fans, matches out of arm's reach, everything that soul could covet and heart long for; to see all theseseveral commodities and luxuries develop, take shape, and materializewhile he lay flat on his back, --this to the major was civilization. 

"But, colonel, befo' you sit down, fling yo' eye over that garden in thesquare. Nature in her springtime, suh!"

I agreed with the major, and was about to take in the view over thetreetops, when he tucked another cushion under his head, elongated hisleft leg until it reached the window-sill, thus completely monopolizingit, -and continued without drawing a breath:--

"And I am so comfo'table here. I had a po'ter-house steak thismornin'--you're sure you won't have one?" I shook my head. "A po'ter-housesteak, suh, that'll haunt my memory for days. We, of co'se, have at homeevery variety of fish, plenty of soft-shell crabs, and 'casionally acanvasback, when Hardy or some of my friends are lucky enough to hit one, but no meat that is wo'th the cookin'. By the bye, I've come to take Jackhome with me; the early strawberries are in their prime, now. You willjoin us, of course?"

Before I could reply, Jefferson entered the room, laid a tray of cigarsand cigarettes with a small silver alcohol lamp at my elbow, and, with acertain inquiring and, I thought, slightly surprised glance at the major'ssprawling attitude, noiselessly withdrew. The major must have caught theexpression on Jefferson's face, for he dropped his telescope leg, andstraightened up his back, with the sudden awkward movement of a similarlyplaced lounger surprised by a lady in a hotel parlor. The episode seemedto knock the enthusiasm out of him, for after a moment he exclaimed inrather a subdued tone:--

"Rather remarkable nigger, this servant of Jack's. I s'pose it is theinfluence of yo' New York ways, but I am not accustomed to his kind. "

I began to defend Jefferson, but he raised both hands in protest. 

"Yes, I know--education and thirty dollars a month. All very fine, butgive me the old house-servants of the South--the old Anthonys, andKeziahs, and Rachels. They never went about rigged up like a stick ofblack sealing-wax in a suit of black co't-plaster. They were easy-goin'and comfortable. Yo' interest was their interest; they bore yo' name, looked after yo' children, and could look after yo' house, too. Now seethis nigger of Jack's; he's better dressed than I am, tips round as solemnon his toes as a marsh-crane, and yet I'll bet a dollar he's as slick andcold-hearted as a high-water clam. That's what education has done for_him_. 

"You never knew Anthony, my old butler? Well, I want to tell you, he _was_a servant, as _was_ a servant. During Mrs. Slocomb's life"--here the majorassumed a reminiscent air, pinching his fat chin with his thumb andforefinger--"we had, of co'se, a lot of niggers; but this man Anthony! Bygravy! when he filled yo' glass with some of the old madeira that hadrusted away in my cellar for half a century, "--here the major now slippedhis thumb into the armhole of his vest, --"it tasted like the nectar of thegods, just from the way Anthony poured it out. 

"But you ought to have seen him move round the table when dinner was over!He'd draw himself up like a drum-major, and throw back the mahogany doorsfor the ladies to retire, with an air that was captivatin'. " The major wasnow on his feet--his reminiscent mood was one of his best. "That's been agood many years ago, colonel, but I can see him now just as plain as if hestood before me, with his white cotton gloves, white vest, and green coatwith brass buttons, standin' behind Mrs. Slocomb's chair. I can see theold sidebo'd, suh, covered with George III. Silver, heirlooms of acentury, "--this with a trance-like movement of his hand across his eyes. "I can see the great Italian marble mantels suppo'ted on lions' heads, theinlaid floor and wainscotin'. "--Here the major sank upon the divan again, shutting both eyes reverently, as if these memories of the past were asort of religion with him. 

"And the way those niggers loved us! And the many holes they helped us outof. Sit down there, and let me tell you what Anthony did for me once. " Iobeyed cheerfully. "Some years ago I received a telegram from a veryintimate friend of mine, a distinguished Baltimorean, --the Nestor of theMaryland bar, suh, --informin' me that he was on his way South, and that hewould make my house his home on the followin' night. " The major's eyeswere still shut. He had passed out of his reverential mood, but the effortto be absolutely exact demanded concentration. 

"I immediately called up Anthony, and told him that Judge Spofford of theSupreme Co't of Maryland would arrive the next day, and that I wanted thebest dinner that could be served in the county, and the best bottle ofwine in my cellar. " The facts having been correctly stated, the majorassumed his normal facial expression and opened his eyes. 

"What I'm tellin' you occurred after the war, remember, when putty neareverybody down our way was busted. Most of our niggers had run away, --all'cept our old house-servants, who never forgot our family pride and ournoble struggle to keep up appearances. Well, suh, when Spofford arrivedAnthony carried his bag to his room, and when dinner was announced, if it_was_ my own table, I must say that it cert'ly did fa'rly groan with thedelicacies of the season. After the crabs had been taken off, --we werealone, Mrs. Slocomb havin' gone to Baltimo', --I said to the judge: 'Yo'Honor, I am now about to delight yo' palate with the very best bottle ofold madeira that ever passed yo' lips. A wine that will warm yo' heart, and unbutton the top button of yo' vest. It is part of a specialimportation presented to Mrs. Slocomb's father by the captain of one ofhis ships. --Anthony, go down into the wine-cellar, the inner cellar, Anthony, and bring me a bottle of that old madeira of '37--stop, Anthony;make it '39. I think, judge, it is a little dryer. ' Well, Anthony bowed, and left the room, and in a few moments he came back, set a lighted candleon the mantel, and, leanin' over my chair, said in a loud whisper: 'Decellar am locked, suh, and I'm 'feard Mis' Slocomb dun tuk de key. '

"'Well, s'pose she has, ' I said; 'put yo' knee against it, and fo'ce thedo'. ' I knew my man, suh. Anthony never moved a muscle. 

"Here the judge called out, 'Why, major, I couldn't think of'--

"'Now, yo' Honor, ' said I, 'please don't say a word. This is my affair. The lock is not of the slightest consequence. '

"In a few minutes back comes Anthony, solemn as an owl. 'Major, ' said he, 'I done did all I c'u'd, an' dere ain't no way 'cept breakin' down de do'. Las' time I done dat, Mis' Slocomb neber forgib me fer a week. '

"The judge jumped up. 'Major, I won't have you breakin' yo' locks andannoyin' Mrs. Slocomb. '

"'Yo' Honor, ' I said, 'please take yo' seat. I'm d----d if you shan'ttaste that wine, if I have to blow out the cellar walls. '

"'I tell you, major, ' replied the judge in a very emphatic tone and withsome slight anger I thought, 'I ought not to drink yo' high-flavoredmadeira; my doctor told me only last week I must stop that kind of thing. If yo' servant will go upstairs and get a bottle of whiskey out of my bag, it's just what I ought to drink. '

"Now I want to tell you, colonel, that at that time I hadn't had a bottleof any kind of wine in my cellar for five years. " Here the major closedone eye, and laid his forefinger against his nose. 

"'Of co'se, yo' Honor, ' I said, 'when you put it on a matter of yo' healthI am helpless; that paralyzes my hospitality; I have not a word to say. Anthony, go upstairs and get the bottle. ' And we drank the judge'swhiskey! Now see the devotion and loyalty of that old negro servant, seehis shrewdness! Do you think this marsh-crane of Jack's"--

Here Jefferson threw open the door, ushering in half a dozen gentlemen, and among them the rightful host, just returned after a week'sabsence, --cutting off the major's outburst, and producing another equallyexplosive:--

"Why, Jack!"

Before the two men grasp hands I must, in all justice to the major, saythat he not only had a sincere admiration for Jack's surroundings, butalso for Jack himself, and that while he had not the slightestcompunction in sharing or, for that matter, monopolizing his hospitality, he would have been equally generous in return had it been possible for himto revive the old days, and to afford a menage equally lavish. 

It is needless for me to make a like statement for Jack. One half themajor's age, trained to practical business life from boyhood, frank, spontaneous, every inch a man, kindly natured, and, for one so young, adeep student, of men as well as of books, it was not to be wondered atthat not only the major but that every one else who knew him loved him. The major really interested him enormously. He represented a type whichwas new to him, and which it delighted him to study. The major'sheartiness, his magnificent disregard for _meum_ and _tuum_, his uniqueand picturesque mendacity, his grandiloquent manners at times, studied, ashe knew, from some example of the old regime, whom he either consciouslyor unconsciously imitated, his peculiar devotion to the memory of his latewife, --all appealed to Jack's sense of humor, and to his enjoyment ofanything out of the common. Under all this he saw, too, away down in themajor's heart, beneath these several layers, a substratum of truekindness and tenderness. 

This kindness, I know, pleased Jack best of all. 

So when the major sprang up in delight, calling out, "Why, Jack!" it waswith very genuine, although quite opposite individual, sympathies, thatthe two men shook hands. It was beautiful, too, to see the major welcomeJack to his own apartments, dragging up the most comfortable chair in theroom, forcing him into it, and tucking a cushion under his head, orringing up Jefferson every few moments for some new luxury. These he wouldcatch away from that perfectly trained servant's tray, serving themhimself, rattling on all the time as to how sorry he was that he did notknow the exact hour at which Jack would arrive, that he might have hadbreakfast on the table--how hot had it been on the road--how well he waslooking, etc. 

It was specially interesting, besides, after the proper introductions hadbeen made, to note the way in which Jack's friends, inoculated with thecontagion of the major's mood, and carried away by his breezy, buoyantenthusiasm, encouraged the major to flow on, interjecting little asidesabout his horses and farm stock, agreeing to a man that the two-year oldcolt--a pure creation on the moment of the major--would certainly beat therecord and make the major's fortune, and inquiring with great solicitudewhether the major felt quite sure that the addition to the stables whichhe contemplated would be large enough to accommodate his stud, with othersimilar inquiries which, while indefinite and tentative, were, so tospeak, but flies thrown out on the stream of talk, --the major risingcontinuously, seizing the bait, and rushing headlong over sunken rocks andthrough tangled weeds of the improbable in a way that would have donecredit to a Munchausen of older date. As for Jack, he let him run on. Oneplank in the platform of his hospitality was to give every guest a freerein. 

Before the men separated for the day, the major had invited eachindividual person to make Crab Island his home for the balance of hislife, regretting that no woman now graced his table since Mrs. Slocomb'sdeath, --"Major Talbot's widow--Major John Talbot of Pocomoke, suh, " thisimpressively and with sudden gravity of tone, --placing his stables, hiscellar, and his servants at their disposal, and arranging for everybodyto meet everybody else the following day in Baltimore, the major startingthat night, and Jack and his friends the next day. The whole party wouldthen take passage on board one of the Chesapeake Bay boats, arriving offCrab Island at daylight the succeeding morning. 

This was said with a spring and joyousness of manner, and a certainquickness of movement, that would surprise those unfamiliar with some ofthe peculiarities of Widow Talbot's second husband. For with that truespirit of vagabondage which saturated him, next to the exquisite luxury oflying sprawled on a lounge with a noiseless servant attached to the otherend of an electric wire, nothing delighted the major so much as an outing, and no member of any such junketing party, be it said, was more popularevery hour of the journey. He could be host, servant, cook, chambermaid, errand-boy, and _grand seigneur_ again in the same hour, adapting himselfto every emergency that arose. His good-humor was perennial, unceasing, one constant flow, and never checked. He took care of the dogs, unpackedthe bags, laid out everybody's linen, saw that the sheets were dry, received all callers so that the boys might sleep in the afternoon, didall the disagreeable and uncomfortable things himself, and let everybodyelse have all the fun. He did all this unconsciously, graciously, andsimply because he could not help it. When the outing ended, you partedfrom him with all the regret that you would from some chum of your collegedays. As for him, he never wanted it to end. There was no office, nor lawcase, nor sick patient, nor ugly partner, nor complication of any kind, commercial, social, or professional, which could affect the major. For himlife was one prolonged drift: so long as the last man remained he couldstay. When he left, if there was enough in the larder to last over, themajor always made another day of it. 

II

The major was standing on the steamboat wharf in Baltimore, nervouslyconsulting his watch, when Jack and I stepped from a cab next day. 

"Well, by gravy! is this all? Where are the other gentlemen?"

"They'll be down in the morning, major, " said Jack. "Where shall we sendthis baggage?"

"Here, just give it to me! Po'ter, _po'ter_!" in a stentorian voice. "Takethese bags and guns, and put 'em on the upper deck alongside of myluggage. Now, gentlemen, just a sip of somethin' befo' they haul thegang-plank, --we've six minutes yet. "

The bar was across the street. On the way over, the major confided to Jackfull information regarding the state-rooms, remarking that he had selectedthe "fo' best on the upper deck, " and adding that he would have paid forthem himself only a friend had disappointed him. 

It was evident that the barkeeper knew his peculiarities, for a tall, black bottle with a wabbly cork--consisting of a porcelain marble confinedin a miniature bird-cage--was passed to the major before he had opened hismouth. When he did open it--the mouth--there was no audible protest asregards the selection. When he closed it again the flow line had fallensome three fingers. It is, however, fair to the major to say that only onethird of this amount was tucked away under his own waistcoat. 

The trip down the bay was particularly enjoyable, brightened outside onthe water by the most brilliant of sunsets, the afternoon sky a glory ofpurple and gold, and made gay and delightful inside the after-cabin bythe charm of the major's talk, --the whole passenger-list entranced as heskipped from politics and the fine arts to literature, tarrying a momentin his flight to discuss a yellow-backed book that had just beenpublished, and coming to a full stop with the remark:--

"And you haven't read that book, Jack, --that scurrilous attack on theindustries of the South? My dear fellow! I'm astounded that a man of yo'gifts should not--Here--just do me the favor to look through my baggage onthe upper deck, and bring me a couple of books lyin' on top of mydressin'-case. "

"Which trunk, major?" asked Jack, a slight smile playing around his mouth. 

"Why, my sole-leather trunk, of co'se; or perhaps that Englishhat-box--no, stop, Jack, come to think, it is in the small valise. Here, take my keys, " said the major, straightening his back, squeezing his fathand into the pocket of his skin-tight trousers, and fishing up with hisfore-finger a small bunch of keys. "Right on top, Jack; you can't missit. "

"Isn't he just too lovely for anything?" said Jack to me, when we reachedthe upper deck, --I had followed him out. "He's wearing now the onlydecent suit of clothes he owns, and the rest of his wardrobe you couldstuff into a bandbox. English sole-leather trunk! Here, put your thumb onthat catch, " and he drew out the major's bag, --the one, of course, thatJefferson unpacked, with the galvanized-iron clasps and paper-leathersides. 

The bag seemed more rotund, and heavier, and more important looking thanwhen I handled it that afternoon in front of Delmonico's, presenting awell-fed, even a bloated, appearance. The clasps, too, appeared to haveall they could do to keep its mouth shut, while the hinges bulged in anominous way. 

I started one clasp, the other gave way with a burst, and the nextinstant, to my horror, the major's wardrobe littered the deck. First thebooks, then a package of tobacco, then the one shirt, porcelain-finishedcollars, and the other necessaries, including a pair of slippers and acomb. Next, three bundles loosely wrapped, one containing two wax dolls, the others some small toys, and a cheap Noah's ark, and last of all, wrapped up in coarse, yellow butcher's paper, stained and moist, a freshlycut porter-house steak. 

Jack roared with laughter as he replaced the contents. "Yes; toys for thelittle children--he never goes back without something for them if it takeshis last dollar; tobacco for his old cook, Rachel; not a thing forhimself, you see--and this steak! Who do you suppose he bought that for?"

"Did you find it?" called out the major, as we reëntered the cabin. 

"Yes; but it wasn't in the English trunk, " said Jack, handing back thekeys, grave as a judge, not a smile on his face. 

"Of co'se not; didn't I tell you it was in the small bag? Now, gentlemen, listen!" turning the leaves. "Here is a man who has the impertinence tosay that our industries are paralyzed. It is not our industries; it is ourpeople. Robbed of their patrimony, their fields laid waste, their estatesconfiscated by a system of foreclosure lackin' every vestige of decencyand co'tesy, --Shylocks wantin' their pound of flesh on the very hour andday, --why shouldn't they be paralyzed?" He laughed heartily. "Jack, youknow Colonel Dorsey Kent, don't you?"

Jack did not, but the owners of several names on the passenger-list did, and hitched their camp-stools closer. 

"Well, Kent was the only man I ever knew who ever held out against thedamnable oligarchy. "

Here an old fellow in a butternut suit, with a half-moon of white whiskerstied under his chin, leaned forward in rapt attention. 

The major braced himself, and continued: "Kent, gentlemen, as many of youknow, lived with his maiden sister over on Tinker Neck, on the same pieceof ground where he was bo'n. She had a life interest in the house andproperty, and it was so nominated in the bond. Well, when it got down tohog and hominy, and very little of that, she told Kent she was goin' tolet the place to a strawberry-planter from Philadelphia, and go toBaltimo' to teach school. She was sorry to break up the home, but therewas nothin' else to do. Well, it hurt Kent to think she had to leave homeand work for her living, for he was a very tender-hearted man. 

"'You don't say so, Jane, ' said he, 'and you raised here! Isn't that verysudden?' She told him it was, and asked him what he was going to do for ahome when the place was rented?

"'Me, Jane? I shan't do anythin'. I shall stay here. If your money affairsare so badly mixed up that you're obliged to leave yo' home, I am verydeeply grieved, but I am powerless to help. I am not responsible for theway this war ended. I was born here, and here I am going to stay. " And hedid. Nothing could move him. She finally had to rent him with thehouse, --he to have three meals a day, and a room over the kitchen. 

"For two years after that Kent was so disgusted with life, and the turn ofevents, that he used to lie out on a rawhide, under a big sycamore tree infront of the po'ch, and get a farm nigger to pull him round into the shadeby the tail of the hide, till the grass was wore as bare as yo' hand. Thenhe got a bias-cut rockin'-chair, and rocked himself round. 

"The strawberry man said, of co'se, that he was too lazy to live. But Ilook deeper than that. To me, gentlemen, it was a crushin', silent protestagainst the money power of our times. And it never broke his spirit, neither. Why, when the census man came down a year befo' the colonel'sdeath, he found him sittin' in his rockin'-chair, bare-headed. Withouthavin' the decency to take off his own hat, or even ask Kent's permissionto speak to him, the census man began askin' questions, --all kinds, asthose damnable fellows do. Colonel Kent let him ramble on for a while, then he brought him up standin'. 

"'Who did you say you were, suh?'

"'The United States census-taker. '

"'Ah, a message from the enemy. Take a seat on the grass. '

"'It's only a matter of form, ' said the man. 

"'So I presume, and very bad form, suh, ' looking at the hat still on theman's head. 'But go on. '

"'Well, what's yo' business?' asked the agent, taking out his book andpencil. 

"'My business, suh?' said the colonel, risin' from his chair, mad clearthrough, --'I've no business, suh. I am a prisoner of war waitin' to beexchanged!' and he stomped into the house. "

Here the major burst into a laugh, straightened himself up to his fullheight, squeezed the keys back into his pocket, and said he must take alook into the state-rooms on the deck to see if they were all ready forhis friends for the night. 

When I turned in for the night, he was on deck again, still talking, hishearty laugh ringing out every few moments. Only the white-whiskered manwas left. The other camp-stools were empty. 

II

At early dawn the steamboat slowed down, and a scow, manned by twobare-footed negroes with sweep oars, rounded to. In a few moments themajor, two guns, two valises, Jack, and I were safely landed on its wetbottom, the major's bag with its precious contents stowed between hisknees. 

To the left, a mile or more away, lay Crab Island, the landed estate ofour host, --a delicate, green thread on the horizon line, broken by twoknots, one evidently a large house with chimneys, and the other a clump oftrees. The larger knot proved to be the manor house that sheltered thebelongings of the major, with the wine-cellars of marvelous vintage, thetable that groaned, the folding mahogany doors that swung back for beviesof beauties, and perhaps, for all I knew, the gray-haired, ebony butler inthe green coat. The smaller knot, Jack said, screened from public view thelittle club-house belonging to his friends and himself. 

As the sun rose and we neared the shore, there came into view on the nearend of the island the rickety outline of a palsied old dock, clutchingwith one arm a group of piles anchored in the marsh grass, and extendingthe other as if in welcome to the slow-moving scow. We accepted theinvitation, threw a line over a thumb of a pile, and in five minutes wereseated in a country stage. Ten more, and we backed up to an old-fashionedcolonial porch, with sloping roof and dormer windows supported by highwhite columns. Leaning over the broken railing of the porch was ahalf-grown negro boy, hatless and bare-footed; inside the door, lookingfurtively out, half concealing her face with her apron, stood an old negrowoman, her head bound with a bandana kerchief, while peeping from behindan outbuilding was a group of children in sun-bonnets and strawhats, --"the farmer's boys and girls, " the major said, waving his hand, aswe drove up, his eyes brightening. Then there was the usual collection offarm-yard fowl, beside two great hounds, who visited each one of us inturn, their noses rubbing our knees. 

If the major, now that he was on his native heath, realized in his ownmind any difference between the Eldorado which his eloquence had conjuredup in my own mind, the morning before in Jack's room, and the hard, coldfacts before us, he gave no outward sign. To all appearances, judgingfrom his perfect ease and good temper, the paint-scaled pillars were thefinest of Carrara marble, the bare floors were carpeted with the softestfabrics of Turkish looms, and the big, sparsely furnished rooms were somany salons, where princes trod in pride, and fair ladies stepped ameasure. 

The only remark he made was in answer to a look of surprise on my facewhen I peered curiously into the bare hall and made a cursory mentalinventory of its contents. 

"Yes, colonel; you will find, I regret to say, some slight changes sincethe old days. Then, too, my home is in slight confusion owin' to thespring cleanin', and a good many things have been put away. "

I looked to Jack for explanation, but if that thoroughbred knew where themajor had permanently put the last batch of his furniture, he, too, gaveno outward sign. 

As for the servants, were there not old Rachel and Sam, chef and valet?What more could one want? The major's voice, too, had lost none of itspersuasive powers. 

"Here, Sam, you black imp, carry yo' Marster Jack's gun and things to myroom, and, Rachel, take the colonel's bag to the sea-room, next to thedinin'-hall. Breakfast in an hour, gentlemen, as Mrs. Slocomb used tosay. "

I found only a bed covered with a quilt, an old table with small drawers, a wash-stand, two chairs, and a desk on three legs. The walls were bareexcept for a fly-stained map yellow with age. As I passed through thesitting-room, Rachel preceding me with my traps, I caught a glimpse oftraces of better times. There was a plain wooden mantelpiece, a widefireplace with big brass andirons, a sideboard with and without brasshandles and a limited number of claw feet, --which if brought under thespell of the scraper and varnish-pot might once more regain its lostestate, --a corner-cupboard built into the wall, half full of fragments ofold china, and, to do justice to the major's former statement, there wasalso a pair of dull old mahogany doors with glass knobs separating theroom from some undiscovered unknown territory of bareness and emptinessbeyond. These, no doubt, were the doors Anthony threw open for the beviesof beauties so picturesquely described by the major, but where were theChippendale furniture, the George III. Silver, the Italian marble mantelswith carved lions' heads, the marquetry floors and cabinets?

I determined to end my mental suspense. I would ask Rachel and get at thefacts. The old woman was opening the windows, letting in the fresh breathof a honeysuckle, and framing a view of the sea beyond. 

"How long have you lived here, aunty?"

"'Most fo'ty years, sah. Long 'fo' Massa John Talbot died. "

"Where's old Anthony?" I said. 

"What Anthony? De fust major's body-servant?"

"Yes. "

"Go 'long, honey. He's daid dese twenty years. Daid two years 'fo' MassaSlocomb married Mis' Talbot. "

"And Anthony never waited at all on Major Slocomb?"

"How could he wait on him, honey, when he daid 'fo' he see him?"

I pondered for a moment over the picturesque quality of the major'smendacity. 

Was it, then, only another of the major's tributes to his wife, --thiswhole story of Anthony and the madeira of '39? How he must have loved thisdear relict of his military predecessor!

An hour later the major strolled into the sitting-room, his arm throughJack's. 

"Grand old place, is it not?" he said, turning to me. "Full of historicinterest. Of co'se the damnable oligarchy has stripped us, but"--

Here Aunt Rachel flopped in--her slippers, I mean; the sound wasdistinctly audible. 

"Bre'kfus', major. "

"All right, Rachel. Come, gentlemen!"

When we were all seated, the major leaned back in his chair, toyed withhis knife a moment, and said with an air of great deliberation:--

"Gentlemen, when I was in New York I discovered that the fashionable dishof the day was a po'ter-house steak. So when I knew you were coming, Iwired my agent in Baltimo' to go to Lexington market and to send me downon ice the best steak he could buy fo' money. It is now befo' you. 

"Jack, shall I cut you a piece of the tenderloin?"

A KNIGHT OF THE LEGION OF HONOR

It was in the smoking-room of a Cunarder two days out. The evening hadbeen spent in telling stories, the fresh-air passengers crowding thedoorways to listen, the habitual loungers and card-players abandoningtheir books and games. 

When my turn came, --mine was a story of Venice, a story of the old palaceof the Barbarozzi, --I noticed in one corner of the room a man seated alonewrapped in a light shawl, who had listened intently as he smoked, but whotook no part in the general talk. He attracted my attention from hislikeness to my friend Vereschagin the painter; his broad, white forehead, finely wrought features, clear, honest, penetrating eye, flowing mustacheand beard streaked with gray, --all strongly suggestive of thatdistinguished Russian. I love Vereschagin, and so, unconsciously, and bymental association, perhaps, I was drawn to this stranger. Seeing my eyefixed constantly upon him, he threw off his shawl, and crossed the room. 

"Pardon me, but your story about the Barbarozzi brought to my mind so manydelightful recollections that I cannot help thanking you. I know that oldpalace, --knew it thirty years ago, --and I know that cortile, and althoughI have not had the good fortune to run across either your gondolier, Espero, or his sweetheart, Mariana, I have known a dozen others asromantic and delightful. The air is stifling here. Shall we have ourcoffee outside on the deck?"

When we were seated, he continued, "And so you are going to Venice topaint?"

"Yes; and you?"

"Me? Oh, to the Engadine to rest. American life is so exhausting that Imust have these three months of quiet to make the other nine possible. "

The talk drifted into the many curious adventures befalling a man in hisjourneyings up and down the world, most of them suggested by the queerstories of the night. When coffee had been served, he lighted anothercigar, held the match until it burned itself out, --the yellow flamelighting up his handsome face, --looked out over the broad expanse oftranquil sea, with its great highway of silver leading up to the fullmoon dominating the night, and said as if in deep thought:--

"And so you are going to Venice?" Then, after a long pause: "Will you mindif I tell you of an adventure of my own, --one still most vivid in mymemory? It happened near there many years ago. " He picked up his shawl, pushed our chairs close to the overhanging life-boat, and continued: "Ihad begun my professional career, and had gone abroad to study thehospital system in Europe. The revolution in Poland--the revolt of'62--had made traveling in northern Europe uncomfortable, if notdangerous, for foreigners, even with the most authentic of passports, andso I had spent the summer in Italy. One morning, early in the autumn, Ibade good-by to my gondolier at the water-steps of the railroad station, and bought a ticket for Vienna. An important letter required my immediatepresence in Berlin. 

"On entering the train I found the carriage occupied by two persons: alady, richly dressed, but in deep mourning and heavily veiled; and a man, dark and smooth-faced, wearing a high silk hat. Raising my cap, I placedmy umbrella and smaller traps under the seat, and hung my bundle oftraveling shawls in the rack overhead. The lady returned my salutationgravely, lifting her veil and making room for my bundles. The dark man'sonly response was a formal touching of his hat-brim with his forefinger. 

"The lady interested me instantly. She was perhaps twenty-five years ofage, graceful, and of distinguished bearing. Her hair was jet-black, brushed straight back from her temples, her complexion a rich olive, herteeth pure white. Her lashes were long, and opened and shut with a slow, fan-like movement, shading a pair of deep blue eyes, which shone with thatpeculiar light only seen when quick tears lie hidden under half-closedlids. Her figure was rounded and full, and her hands exquisitely modeled. Her dress, while of the richest material, was perfectly plain, with abroad white collar and cuffs like those of a nun. She wore no jewels ofany kind. I judged her to be a woman of some distinction, --an Italian orHungarian, perhaps. 

"When the train started, the dark man, who had remained standing, touchedhis hat to me, raised it to the lady, and disappeared. Her onlyacknowledgment was a slight inclination of the head. A polite stranger, no doubt, I thought, who prefers the smoker. When the train stopped forluncheon, I noticed that the lady did not leave the carriage, and on myreturn I found her still seated, looking listlessly out of the window, herhead upon her hand. 

"'Pardon me, madame, ' I said in French, 'but unless you travel somedistance this is the last station where you can get anything to eat. '

"She started, and looked about helplessly. 'I am not hungry. I cannoteat--but I suppose I should. '

"'Permit me;' and I sprang from the carriage, and caught a waiter with atray before the guard reclosed the doors. She drank the coffee, tasted thefruit, thanking me in a low, sweet voice, and said:--

"'You are very considerate. It will help me to bear my journey. I am verytired, and weaker than I thought; for I have not slept for many nights. '

"I expressed my sympathy, and ended by telling her I hoped we could keepthe carriage to ourselves; she might then sleep undisturbed. She looked atme fixedly, a curious startled expression crossing her face, but made noreply. 

"Almost every man is drawn, I think, to a sad or tired woman. There is alook about the eyes that makes an instantaneous draft on the sympathies. So, when these slight confidences of my companion confirmed my misgivingsas to her own weariness, I at once began diverting her as best I couldwith some account of my summer's experience in Venice, and with such of myplans for the future as at the moment filled my mind. I was youngerthen, --perhaps only a year or two her senior, --and you know one is notgiven to much secrecy at twenty-six: certainly not with a gentle ladywhose good-will you are trying to gain, and whose sorrowful face, as Ihave said, enlists your sympathy at sight. Then, to establish some sort offooting for myself, I drifted into an account of my own home life; tellingher of my mother and sisters, of the social customs of our country, of thefreedom given the women, --so different from what I had seen abroad, --oftheir perfect safety everywhere. 

"We had been talking in this vein some time, she listening quietly untilsomething I said reacted in a slight curl of her lips, --more incredulousthan contemptuous, perhaps, but significant all the same; for, lifting hereyes, she answered slowly and meaningly:--

"'It must be a paradise for women. I am glad to believe that there is onecorner of the earth where they are treated with respect. My ownexperiences have been so different that I have begun to believe that noneof us are safe after we leave our cradles. ' Then, as if suddenly realizingthe inference, the color mounting to her cheeks, she added: 'But please donot misunderstand me. I am quite willing to accept your statement; for Inever met an American before. '

"As we neared the foothills the air grew colder. She instinctively drewher cloak the closer, settling herself in one corner and closing her eyeswearily. I offered my rug, insisting that she was not properly clad for ajourney over the mountains at night. She refused gently but firmly, andclosed her eyes again, resting her head against the dividing cushion. Fora moment I watched her; then arose from my seat, and, pulling down mybundle of shawls, begged that I might spread my heaviest rug over her lap. An angry color mounted to her cheeks. She turned upon me, and was about torefuse indignantly, when I interrupted:--

"'Please allow me; don't you know you cannot sleep if you are cold? Letme put this wrap about you. I have two. '

"With the unrolling, the leather tablet of the shawl-strap, bearing myname, fell in her lap. 

"'Your name is Bosk, ' she said, with a quick start, 'and you an American?'

"'Yes; why not?'

"'My maiden name is Boski, ' she replied, looking at me in astonishment, 'and I am a Pole. '

"Here were two mysteries solved. She was married, and neither Italian norSlav. 

"'And your ancestry?' she continued with increased animation. 'Are you ofPolish blood? You know our name is a great name in Poland. Yourgrandfather, of course, was a Pole. ' Then, with deep interest, 'What areyour armorial bearings?'

"I answered that I had never heard that my grandfather was a Pole. It wasquite possible, though, that we might be of Polish descent, for my fatherhad once told me of an ancestor, an old colonel, who fell at Austerlitz. As to the armorial bearings, we Americans never cared for such things. Theonly thing I could remember was a certain seal which my father used towear, and with which he sealed his letters. The tradition in the familywas that it belonged to this old colonel. My sister used it sometimes. Ihad a letter from her in my pocket. 

"She examined the indented wax on the envelope, opened her cloak quickly, and took from the bag at her side a seal mounted in jewels, bearing acrest and coat of arms. 

"'See how slight the difference. The quarterings are almost the same, andthe crest and motto identical. This side is mine, the other is myhusband's. How very, very strange! And yet you are an American?'

"'And your husband's crest?' I asked. 'Is he also a Pole?'

"'Yes; I married a Pole, ' with a slight trace of haughtiness, evenresentment, at the inquiry. 

"'And his name, madame? Chance has given you mine--a fair exchange isnever a robbery. '

"She drew herself up, and said quickly, and with a certain bearing I hadnot noticed before:--

"'Not now; it makes no difference. '

"Then, as if uncertain of the effect of her refusal, and with awillingness to be gracious, she added:--

"In a few minutes--at ten o'clock--we reach Trieste. The train stopstwenty minutes. You were so kind about my luncheon; I am stronger now. Will you dine with me?'

"I thanked her, and on arriving at Trieste followed her to the door. As wealighted from the carriage I noticed the same dark man standing by thesteps, his fingers on his hat. During the meal my companion seemedbrighter and less weary, more gracious and friendly, until I called thewaiter and counted out the florins on his tray. Then she laid her handquietly but firmly upon my arm. 

"'Please do not--you distress me; my servant Polaff has paid foreverything. '

"I looked up. The dark man was standing behind her chair, his hat in hishand. 

"I can hardly express to you my feelings as these several discoveriesrevealed to me little by little the conditions and character of mytraveling companion. Brought up myself under a narrow home influence, withonly a limited knowledge of the world, I had never yet been thrown in witha woman of her class. And yet I cannot say that it was altogether thecharm of her person that moved me. It was more a certain hopeless sort ofsorrow that seemed to envelop her, coupled with an indefinable distrustwhich I could not solve. Her reserve, however, was impenetrable, and herguarded silence on every subject bearing upon herself so pronounced that Idared not break through it. Yet, as she sat there in the carriage afterdinner, during the earlier hours of the night, she and I the onlyoccupants, her eyes heavy and red for want of sleep, her beautiful hairbound in a veil, the pallor of her skin intensified by the sombre hues ofher dress, I would have given anything in the world to have known her wellenough to have comforted her, even by a word. 

"As the night wore on the situation became intolerable. Every now and thenshe would start from her seat, jostled awake by the roughness of theroad, --this section had just been completed, --turn her face the other way, only to be awakened again. 

"'You cannot sleep. May I make a pillow for your head of my other shawl? Ido not need it. My coat is warm enough. '

"'No; I am very comfortable. '

"'Forgive me, you are not. You are very uncomfortable, and it pains me tosee you so weary. These dividing-irons make it impossible for you to liedown. Perhaps I can make a cushion for your head so that you will resteasier. '

"She looked at me coldly, her eyes riveted on mine. 

"'You are very kind, but why do you care? You have never seen me before, and may never again. '

"'I care because you are a woman, alone and unprotected. I care mostbecause you are suffering. Will you let me help you?'

"She bent her head, and seemed wrapped in thought. Then straightening up, as if her mind had suddenly resolved, --

"'No; leave me alone. I will sleep soon. Men never really care for a womanwhen she suffers. ' She turned her face to the window. 

"'I pity you, then, from the bottom of my heart, ' I replied, nettled ather remark. 'There is not a man the length and breadth of my land whowould not feel for you now as I do, and there is not a woman who wouldmisunderstand him. '

"She raised her head, and in a softened voice, like a sorrowing child's, it was so pathetic, said: 'Please forgive me. I had no right to speak so. I shall be very grateful to you if you can help me; I am so tired. '

"I folded the shawl, arranged the rug over her knees, and took the seatbeside her. She thanked me, laid her cheek upon the impromptu pillow, andclosed her eyes. The train sped on, the carriage swaying as we rounded thecurves, the jolting increasing as we neared the great tunnel. Settlingmyself in my seat, I drew my traveling-cap well down so that its shadowfrom the overhead light would conceal my eyes, and watched her unobserved. For half an hour I followed every line in her face, with its delicatenostrils, finely cut nose, white temples with their blue veins, and thebeautiful hair glistening in the half-shaded light, the long lashesresting, tired out, upon her cheek. Soon I noticed at irregular intervalsa nervous twitching pass over her face; the brow would knit and relaxwearily, the mouth droop. These indications of extreme exhaustion occurredconstantly, and alarmed me. Unchecked, they would result in an alarmingform of nervous prostration. A sudden lurch dislodged the pillow. 

"'Have you slept?' I asked. 

"'I do not know. A little, I think. The car shakes so. '

"'My dear lady, ' I said, laying my hand on hers, --she started, but did notmove her own, --'it is absolutely necessary that you sleep, and at once. What your nervous strain has been, I know not; but my training tells methat it has been excessive, and still is. Its continuance is dangerous. This road gets rougher as the night passes. If you will rest your headupon my shoulder, I can hold you so that you will go to sleep. '

"Her face flushed, and she recovered her hand quickly. 

"'You forget, sir, that'--

"'No, no; I forget nothing. I remember everything; that I am a stranger, that you are ill, that you are rapidly growing worse, that, knowing as Ido your condition, I cannot sit here and not help you. It would bebrutal. '

"Her lips quivered, and her eyes filled. 'I believe you, ' she said. Then, turning quickly with an anxious look, 'But it will tire you. '

"'No; I have held my mother that way for hours at a time. '

"She put out her hand, laid it gently on my wrist, looked into my facelong and steadily, scanning every feature, as if reassuring herself, thenlaid her cheek upon my shoulder, and fell asleep. 

 * * * * *

"When the rising sun burst behind a mountain-crag, and, at a turn in theroad, fell full upon her face, she awoke with a start, and looked aboutbewildered. Then her mind cleared. 

"'How good you have been. You have not moved all night so I might rest. Iawoke once frightened, but your hands were folded in your lap. '

"With this her whole manner changed. All the haughty reserve was gone; allthe cynicism, the distrust, and suspicion. She became as gentle and tenderas an anxious mother, begging me to go to sleep at once. She would seethat no one disturbed me. It was cruel that I was so exhausted. 

"When the guard entered, she sent for her servant, and bade him watch outfor a pot of coffee at the next station. 'To think monsieur had not sleptall night!' When Polaff handed in the tray, she filled the cups herself, adding the sugar, and insisting that I should also drink part of herown, --one cup was not enough. Upon Polaff's return she sent for herdressing-case. She must make her toilet at once, and not disturb me. Itwould be several hours before we reached Vienna; she felt sure I wouldsleep now. 

"I watched her as she spread a dainty towel over the seat in front, andbegan her preparations, laying out the powder-boxes, brushes, and comb, the bottles of perfume, and the little knickknacks that make up thefittings of a gentlewoman's boudoir. It was almost with a show ofenthusiasm that she picked up one of the bottles, and pointed out to meagain the crest in relief upon its silver top, saying over and over againhow glad she was to know that some of her own blood ran in my veins. Shewas sure now that I belonged to her mother's people. When, at the nextstation, Polaff brought a basin of water, and I arose to leave the car, she begged me to remain, --the toilet was nothing; it would be over in aminute. Then she loosened her hair, letting it fall in rich masses abouther shoulders, and bathed her face and hands, rearranging her veil, andadding a fresh bit of lace to her throat. I remember distinctly howprofound an impression this strange scene made upon my mind, so differentfrom any former experience of my life, --its freedom from conventionality, the lack of all false modesty, the absolute absence of any touch ofcoquetry or conscious allurement. 

"When it was all over, her beauty being all the more pronounced now thatthe tired, nervous look had gone out of her face, she still talked on, saying how much better and fresher she felt, and how much more rested thanthe night before. Suddenly her face saddened, and for many minutes shekept silence, gazing dreamily down into the abysses white with the rush ofAlpine torrents, or hidden in the early morning fog. Then, finding I wouldnot sleep, and with an expression as if she had finally resolved upon somedefinite action, and with a face in which every line showed the sincerestconfidence and trust, --as unexpected as it was incomprehensible tome, --she said:--

"'Last night you asked me for my name. I would not tell you then. Now youshall know. I am the Countess de Rescka Smolenski. I live in Cracow. Myhusband died in Venice four days ago. I took him there because he wasill, --so ill that he was carried in Polaff's arms from the gondola to hisbed. The Russian government permitted me to take him to Italy to die. OnePole the less is of very little consequence. A week ago this permit wasrevoked, and we were ordered to report at Cracow without delay. Why, I donot know, except perhaps to add another cruelty to the long list of wrongsthe government have heaped upon my family. My husband lingered three dayswith the order spread out on the table beside him. The fourth day theylaid him in Campo Santo. That night my maid fell ill. Yesterday morning asecond peremptory order was handed me. I am now on my way home to obey. '

"Then followed in slow, measured sentences the story of her life: marriedat seventeen at her father's bidding to a man twice her age; surrounded bya court the most dissolute in eastern Europe; forced into a socialenvironment that valued woman only as a chattel, and that ostracized ordefamed every wife who, reverencing her womanhood, protested against itsexcesses. For five years past--ever since her marriage--her husband'scareer had been one long, unending dissipation. At last, broken down by alife he had not the moral courage to resist, he had succumbed and taken tohis bed; thence, wavering between life and death, like a burnt-out candleflickering in its socket, he had been carried to Venice. 

"'Do you wonder, now, that my faith is gone, my heart broken?'

"We were nearing Vienna; the stations were more frequent; our own carriagebegan filling up. For an hour we rode side by side, silent, she gazingfixedly from the window, I half stunned by this glimpse of a life thepathos of which wrung my very heart. When we entered the station sheroused herself, and said to me half pleadingly:--

"'I cannot bear to think I may never see you again. To-night I must stayin Vienna. Will you dine with me at my hotel? I go to the Metropole. Andyou? Where did you intend to go?'

"'To the Metropole, also. '

"'Not when you left Venice?'

"'Yes; before I met you. '

"'There is a fate that controls us, ' she said reverently. 'Come at seven. '

"When the hour arrived I sent my card to her apartment, and was usheredinto a small room with a curtain-closed door opening out into a largersalon, through which I caught glimpses of a table spread with glass andsilver. Polaff, rigid and perpendicular, received me with a stiff, formalrecognition. I do not think he quite understood, nor altogether liked, hismistress's chance acquaintance. In a moment she entered from a dooropposite, still in her black garments with the nun's cuffs and broadcollar. Extending her hand graciously, she said:--

"'You have slept since I left you this morning. I see it in your face. Iam so glad. And I too. I have rested all day. It was so good of you tocome. '

"There was no change in her manner; the same frank, trustful look in hereyes, the same anxious concern about me. When dinner was announced sheplaced me beside her, Polaff standing behind her chair, and the otherattendants serving. 

"The talk drifted again into my own life, she interrupting with pointedquestions, and making me repeat again and again the stories I told her ofour humble home. She must learn them herself to tell them to her ownpeople, she said. It was all so strange and new to her, so simple and sogenuine. With the coffee she fell to talking of her own home, thedespotism of Russia, the death of her father, the forcing of her brothersinto the army. Still holding her cup in her hands, she began pacing up anddown, her eyes on the floor (we were alone, Polaff having retired). Thenstopping in front of me, and with an earnestness that startled me:--

"'Do not go to Berlin. Please come to Cracow with me. Think. I am alone, absolutely alone. My house is in order, and has been for months, expectingme every day. It is so terrible to go back; come with me, please. '

"'I must not, madame. I have promised my friends to be in Berlin in twodays. I would, you know, sacrifice anything of my own to serve you. '

"'And you will not?' and a sigh of disappointment escaped her. 

"'I cannot. '

"'No; I must not ask you. You are right. It is better that you keep yourword. '

"She continued walking, gazing still on the floor. Then she moved to themantel, and touched a bell. Instantly the curtains of the door divided, and Polaff stood before her. 

"'Bring me my jewel-case. '

"The man bowed gravely, looked at me furtively from the corner of his eye, and closed the curtains behind him. In a moment he returned, bearing alarge, morocco-covered box, which he placed on the table. She pressed thespring, and the lid flew up, uncovering several velvet-lined trays filledwith jewels that flashed under the lighted candles. 

"'You need not wait, Polaff. You can go to bed. '

"The man stepped back a pace, stood by the wall, fixed his eye upon hismistress, as if about to speak, looked at me curiously, then, bowing low, drew the curtains aside, and closed the door behind him. 

"Another spring, and out came a great string of pearls, a necklace ofsapphires, some rubies, and emeralds. These she heaped up upon the whitecloth beside her. Carefully examining the contents of the case, she drewfrom a lower tray a bracelet set with costly diamonds, a rare andbeautiful ornament, and before I was aware of her intent had clasped itupon my wrist. 

"'I want you to wear this for me. You see it is large enough to go quiteup the arm. "

"For a moment my astonishment was so great I could not speak. Then Iloosened it and laid it in her hand again. She looked up, her eyesfilling, her face expressive of the deepest pain. 

"'And you will not?'

"'I cannot, madame. In my country men do not accept such costly presentsfrom women, and then we do not wear bracelets, as your men do here. '

"'Then take this case, and choose for yourself. '

"I poured the contents of a small tray into my hand, and picked out aplain locket, almond-shaped, simply wrought, with an opening on one sidefor hair. 

"'Give me this with your hair. '

"She threw the bracelet into the case, and her eyes lighted up. 

"'Oh, I am so glad, so glad! It was mine when I was a child, --my mothergave it to me. The dear little locket--yes; you shall always wear it. '

"Then, rising from her seat, she took my hands in hers, and, looking downinto my face, said, her voice breaking:--

"'It is eleven o'clock. Soon you must leave me. You cannot stay longer. Iknow that in a few hours I shall never see you again. Will you join me inmy prayers before I go?'

"A few minutes later she called to me. She was on her knees in the nextroom, two candles burning beside her, her rich dark hair loose about hershoulders, an open breviary bound with silver in her hands. I can see hernow, with her eyes closed, her lips moving noiselessly, her great lasheswet with tears, and that Madonna-like look as she motioned me to kneel. For several minutes she prayed thus, the candles lighting her face, theroom deathly still. Then she arose, and with her eyes half shut, and herlips moving as if with her unfinished prayer, she lifted her head andkissed me on the forehead, on the chin, and on each cheek, making withher finger the sign of the cross. Then, reaching for a pair of scissors, and cutting a small tress from her hair, she closed the locket upon it, and laid it in my hand. 

"Early the next morning I was at her door. She was dressed and waiting. She greeted me kindly, but mournfully, saying in a tone which denoted herbelief in its impossibility:--

"'And you will not go to Cracow?'

"When we reached the station, and I halted at the small gate opening uponthe train platform, she merely pressed my hand, covered her head with herveil, and entered the carriage followed by Polaff. I watched, hoping tosee her face at the window, but she remained hidden. 

 * * * * *

"I turned into the Ringstrasse, still filled with her presence, andtortured by the thought of the conditions that prevented my following her, called a cab, and drove to our minister's. Mr. Motley then held theportfolio; my passport had expired, and, as I was entering Germany, neededrenewing. The attaché agreed to the necessity, stamped it, and brought itback to me with the ink still wet. 

"'His excellency, ' said he, 'advises extreme caution on your part whilehere. Be careful of your associates, and keep out of suspicious company. Vienna is full of spies watching escaped Polish refugees. Yourname'--reading it carefully--'is apt to excite remark. We are powerless tohelp in these cases. Only last week an American who befriended a man inthe street was arrested on the charge of giving aid and comfort to theenemy, and, despite our efforts, is still in prison. '

"I thanked him, and regained my cab with my head whirling. What, afterall, if the countess should have deceived me? My blood chilled as Iremembered her words of the day before: recalled by the government shehated, her two brothers forced into the army, the cruelties andindignities Russia had heaped upon her family, and this last peremptoryorder to return. Had my sympathetic nature and inexperience gotten me intotrouble? Then that Madonna-like head with angelic face, the lips moving inprayer, rose before me. No, no; not she. I would stake my life. 

"I entered my hotel, and walked across the corridor for the key of myroom. Standing by the porter was an Austrian officer in full uniform, evento his white kid gloves. As I passed I heard the porter say in German:--

"'Yes; that is the man. '

"The Austrian looked at me searchingly, and, wheeling around sharply, said:--

"'Monsieur, can I see you alone? I have something of importance tocommunicate. '

"The remark and his abrupt manner indicated so plainly an arrest, that forthe moment I hesitated, running over in my mind what might be my wisestcourse to pursue. Then, thinking I could best explain my business inVienna in the privacy of my room, _I_ said stiffly:--

"'Yes; I am now on my way to my apartment. I will see you there. '

"He entered first, shut the door behind him, crossed the room; passed hishand behind the curtains, opened the closet, shut it, and said:--

"'We are alone?'

"'Quite. '

"Then, confronting me, 'You are an American?'

"'You are right. '

"'And have your passport with you?'

"I drew it from my pocket, and handed it to him. He glanced at thesignature, refolded it, and said:--

"'You took the Countess Smolensk! to the station this morning. Where didyou meet her?'

"'On the train yesterday leaving Venice. '

"'Never before?'

"'Never. '

"'Why did she not leave Venice earlier?'

"'The count was dying, and could not be moved. He was buried two daysago. '

"A shade passed over his face, 'Poor De Rescka! I suspected as much. '

"Then facing me again, his face losing its suspicious expression:--

"'Monsieur, I am the brother of the countess, --Colonel Boski of the army. A week ago my letters were intercepted, and I left Cracow in the night. Since then I have been hunted like an animal. This uniform is my thirddisguise. As soon as my connection with the plot was discovered, my sisterwas ordered home. The death of the count explains her delay, and preventedmy seeing her at the station. I had selected the first station out ofVienna. I tried for an opportunity this morning at the depot, but darednot. I saw you, and learned from the cabman your hotel. '

"'But, colonel, ' said I, the attaché's warning in my ears, 'you willpardon me, but these are troublous times. I am alone here, on my way toBerlin to pursue my studies. I found the countess ill and suffering, andunable to sleep. She interested me profoundly, and I did what I could torelieve her. I would have done the same for any other woman in hercondition the world over, no matter what the consequences. If you are herbrother, you will appreciate this. If you are here for any other purpose, say so at once. I leave Vienna at noon. '

"His color flushed, and his hand instinctively felt for his sword; then, relaxing, he said:--

"'You are right. The times are troublous. Every other man is a spy. I donot blame you for suspecting me. I have nothing but my word. If you do notbelieve it, I cannot help it. I will go. You will at least permit me tothank you for your kindness to my sister, ' drawing off his glove andholding out his hand. 

"'The hand of a soldier is never refused the world over, ' and I shook itwarmly. As it dropped to his side I caught sight of his seal-ring. 

"'Pardon me one moment. Give me your hand again. ' The ring bore the crestand motto of the countess. 

"'It is enough, colonel. Your sister showed me her own on the train. Pardon my suspicions. What can I do for you?' He looked puzzled, hardlygrasping my meaning. 

"'Nothing. You have told me all I wanted to know. '

"'But you will breakfast with me before I take the train?' I said. 

"'No; that might get you into trouble--serious trouble, if I should bearrested. On the contrary, I must insist that you remain in this roomuntil I leave the building. '

"'But you perhaps need money; these disguises are expensive, ' glancing athis perfect appointment. 

"'You are right. Perhaps twenty rubles--it will be enough. Give me youraddress in Berlin. If I am taken, you will lose your money. If I escape, it will be returned. '

"I shook his hand, and the door closed. A week later a man wrapped in acloak called at my lodgings and handed me an envelope. There was noaddress and no message, only twenty rubles. "

 * * * * *

I looked out over the sea wrinkling below me like a great sheet of graysatin. The huge life-boat swung above our heads, standing out in strongrelief against the sky. After a long pause, --the story had strangelythrilled me, --I asked:--

"Pardon me, have you ever seen or heard of the countess since?"

"Never. "

"Nor her brother?"

"Nor her brother. "

"And the locket?"

"It is here where she placed it. "

At this instant the moon rolled out from behind a cloud, and shone full onhis face. He drew out his watch-chain, touched it with his thumb-nail, andplaced the trinket in my hand. It was such as a child might wear, anenameled thread encircling it. Through the glass I could see the tiny nestof jet-black hair. 

For some moments neither of us spoke. At last, with my heart aglow, mywhole nature profoundly stirred by the unconscious nobility of the man, Isaid:--

"My friend, do you know why she bound the bracelet to your wrist?"

"No; that always puzzled me. I have often wondered. "

"She bound the bracelet to your wrist, as of old a maid would have woundher scarf about the shield of her victorious knight, as the queen wouldpin the iron cross to the breast of a hero. You were the first gentlemanshe had ever known in her life. "

JOHN SANDERS, LABORER

[The outlines of this story were given me by my friend Augustus Thomas, whose plays are but an index to the tenderness of his own nature. ]

He came from up the railroad near the State line. Sanders was the name onthe pay-roll, --John Sanders, laborer. There was nothing remarkable abouthim. He was like a hundred others up and down the track. If you paid himoff on Saturday night you would have forgotten him the next week, unless, perhaps, he had spoken to you. He looked fifty years of age, and yet hemight have been but thirty. He was stout and strong, his hair and beardcropped short. He wore a rough blue jumper, corduroy trousers, and a redflannel shirt, which showed at his throat and wrists. He wore, too, aleather strap buckled about his waist. 

If there was anything that distinguished him it was his mouth and eyes, especially when he smiled. The mouth was clean and fresh, the teethsnow-white and regular, as if only pure things came through them; theeyes were frank and true, and looked straight at you without wavering. Ifyou gave him an order he said, "Yes, sir, " never taking his gaze fromyours until every detail was complete. When he asked a question it was tothe point and short. 

The first week he shoveled coal on a siding, loading the yard engines. Then Burchard, the station-master, sent him down to the street crossing toflag the trains for the dump carts filling the scows at the long dock. 

This crossing right-angled a deep railroad cut half a mile long. On thelevel above, looking down upon its sloping sides, staggered a row ofhalf-drunken shanties with blear-eyed windows, and ragged roofs patchedand broken; some hung over on crutches caught under their floor timbers. Sanders lived in one of these cabins, --the one nearest the edge of thegranite retaining-wall flanking the street crossing. 

Up the slopes of this railroad cut lay the refuse of theshanties, --bottomless buckets, bits of broken chairs, tomato cans, rustyhoops, fragments of straw matting, and other debris of the open lots. Inthe summer-time a few brave tufts of grass, coaxed into life by the warmsun, clung desperately to an accidental level, and now and then a gaydandelion flamed for a day or two and then disappeared, cut off by somebedouin goat. In the winter there were only patches of blackened snow, fouled by the endless smoke of passing trains, and seamed with theshort-cut footpaths of the yard men. 

There were only two in Sanders's shanty, --Sanders and his crippleddaughter, a girl of twelve, with a broken back. She barely reached thesill when she stood at the low window to watch her father waving his flag. Bent, hollow-eyed, shrunken; her red hair cropped short in her neck; herpoor little white fingers clutching the window-frame. "The express is latethis morning, " or "No. 14 is on time, " she would say, her restless, eagerblue eyes glancing at the clock, or "What a lot of ashes they do behaulin' to-day!" Nothing else was to be seen from her window. 

When the whistle blew she took down the dinner-pail, filled it withpotatoes and the piece of pork hot from the boiling pot, poured the coffeein the tin cup, put on the cover, and, limping to the edge of theretaining-wall, lowered it over by a string to her father. Sanders lookedup and waved his hand, and the girl went back to her post at the window. 

When the night came he would light the kerosene lamp in their one room andread aloud the stories from the Sunday papers, she listening eagerly andasking him questions he could not answer, her eyes filling with tears orher face breaking into smiles. This summed up her life. 

Not much in the world, all this, for Sanders!--not much of rest, orcomfort, or happy sunshine, --not much of song or laughter, the pipe ofbirds or smell of sweet blossoms, --not much room for gratitude or courageor human kindness or charity. Only the ceaseless engine-bell, the grime, the sulphurous hellish smoke, the driving rain, the ice and dust, --onlythe endless monotony of ill-smelling, steaming carts, the smoke-stainedsignal-flag and greasy lantern, --only the tottering shanty with the twobeds, the stove, and the few chairs and table, --only the blue-eyedcrippled girl who wound her thin arms about his neck. 

It was on Sundays in the summer that the dreary monotony ceased. ThenSanders would carry her to the edge of the woods, a mile or more back ofthe cut. There was a little hollow carpeted with violets, and a pond, where now and then a water-lily escaped the factory boys, and there werebig trees and bushes and stretches of grass, ending in open lots squaredall over by the sod gatherers. 

On these days Sanders would lie on his back and watch the treetops swayingin the sunlight against the sky, and the girl would sit by him and makemounds of fresh mosses and pebbles, and tie the wild flowers into bunches. Sometimes he would pretend that there were fish in the pond, and would cuta pole and bend a pin, tie on a bit of string, and sit for hours watchingthe cork, she laughing beside him in expectation. Sometimes they wouldboth go to sleep, his arm across her. And so the summer passed. 

One day in the autumn, at twelve-o'clock whistle, a crowd of youngruffians from the bolt-works near the brewery swept down the crossingchasing a homeless dog. Sanders stood in the road with his flag. A passingfreight train stopped the mob. The dog dashed between the wheels, doubling, and then bounding up the slope of the cut, sprang through thehalf-open door of the shanty. When he saw the girl he stopped short, hesitated, looked anxiously into her face, crouched flat, and pullinghimself along by his paws, laid his head at her feet. When Sanders camehome that night the dog was asleep in her lap. He was about to drive himout until he caught the look in her face, then he stopped, and laid hisempty dinner-pail on the shelf. 

"I seen him a-comin', " he said; "them rats from the bolt-factory wasa-humpin' him, too! Guess if the freight hadn't a-come along they'da-ketched him. "

The dog looked wistfully into Sanders's face, scanning him curiously, timidly putting out his paw and dropping it, as if he had been too bold, and wanted to make some sort of a dumb apology, like a poor relation whohas come to spend the day. He had never had any respectableancestors, --none to speak of. You could see that in the coarse, shaggyhair, like a door mat; the awkward ungainly walk, the legs doubling underhim; the drooping tail with bare spots down its length, suggesting pastindignities. He was not a large dog--only about as high as a chair seat;he had mottled lips, too, and sharp, sawlike teeth. One ear was gone, perhaps in his puppyhood, when some one had tried to make a terrier ofhim and had stopped when half done. The other ear, however, was activeenough for two. It would curl forward in attention like a deer's, or startup like a rabbit's in alarm, or lie back on his head when the girl strokedhim to sleep. He was only a kickable, chasable kind of a dog, --a dog madefor sounding tin pans tied to his tail and whooping boys behind. 

All but his eyes! These were brown as agates, and as deep and clear. Kindly eyes that looked and thought and trusted. It was these eyes thatfirst made the girl love him; they reminded her, strange to say, of herfather's. She saw, too, perhaps unconsciously to herself, down in theirdepths, something of the same hunger for sympathy that stirred her ownheart--the longing for companionship. She wanted something nearer her ownage to love, though she never told her father. This was a heartache shekept to herself, perhaps because she hardly understood it. 

The dog and the girl became inseparable. At night he slept under her bed, reaching his head up in the gray dawn, and licking her face until shecovered him up warm beside her. When the trains passed he would stand upon his hind legs, his paws on the sill, his blunt little nose against thepane, whining at the clanging bells, or barking at the great rings ofsteam and smoke coughed up by the engines below. 

She taught him all manner of tricks. How to walk on his hind feet with apaper cap on his head, a plate in his mouth, begging. How to make believehe was dead, lying still a minute at a time, his odd ear furling nervouslyand his eyes snapping fun; how to carry a basket to the grocery on thecorner, when she would limp out in the morning for a penny's worth of milkor a loaf of bread, he waiting until she crossed the street, and thenmarching on proudly before her. 

With the coming of the dog a new and happier light seemed to havebrightened the shanty. Sanders himself began to feel the influence. Hewould play with him by the hour, holding his mouth tight, pushing back hislips so that his teeth glistened, twirling his ear. There was a thirdperson now for him to consult and talk to. "It'll be turrible cold at thecrossin' to-day, won't it, Dog?" or, "Thet's No. 23 puffin' up in the cut:don't yer know her bell? Wonder, Dog, what she's switched fur?" he wouldsay to him. He noticed, too, that the girl's cheeks were not so white andpinched. She seemed taller and not so weary; and when he walked up thecut, tired out with the day's work, she always met him at the door, thedog springing half way down the slope, wagging his tail and bounding aheadto welcome him. And she would sing little snatches of songs that hermother had taught her years ago, before the great flood swept away thecabin and left only her father and herself clinging to a bridge, she witha broken back. 

After a while Sanders coaxed him down to the track, teaching him to bringback his empty dinner-pail, the dog spending the hour with him, sitting byhis side demurely, or asleep in the sentry-box. 

All this time the dog never rose to the dignity of any particular name. The girl spoke of him as "Doggie, " and Sanders always as "the Dog. " Thetrainmen called him "Rags, " in deference, no doubt, to his torn ear andthreadbare tail. They threw coal at him as he passed, until it leaked outthat he belonged to "Sanders's girl. " Then they became his champions, andthis name and pastime seemed out of place. Only once did he earn anydistinguishing sobriquet. That was when he had saved the girl's basket, after a sharp fight with a larger and less honest dog. Sanders then spokeof him, with half-concealed pride, as "the Boss, " but this only lasted aday or so. Publicly, in the neighborhood, he was known as "Sanders's dog. "

One morning the dog came limping up the cut with a broken leg. Some said ahorse had kicked him; some that the factory boys had thrown stones at him. He made no outcry, only came sorrowfully in, his mouth dry anddust-covered, dragging his hind leg, that hung loose like a flail; then helaid his head in the girl's lap. She crooned and cried over him all day, binding up the bruised limb, washing his eyes and mouth, putting him inher own bed. There was no one to go for her father, and if there were, hecould not leave the crossing. When Sanders came home he felt the leg overcarefully, the girl watching eagerly. "No, Kate, child, yees can't donothin'; it's broke at the jint. Don't cry, young one. "

Then he went outside and sat on a bench, looking across the cut and overthe roofs of the factories, hazy in the breath of a hundred furnaces, andso across the blue river fringed with waving trees where the blessed sunwas sinking to rest. He was not surprised. It was like everything else inhis life. When he loved something, it was sure to be this way. 

That night, when the girl was asleep, he took the dog up in his arms, andwrapping his coat around him so the corner loafers could not see, rang thebell of the dispensary. The doctor was out, but a nurse looked at thewound. "No, there was nothing to be done; the socket had been crushed. Keep it bandaged, that was all. " Then he brought him home and put himunder the bed. 

In three or four weeks he was about again, dragging the leg when hewalked. He could still get around the shanty and over to the grocer's, buthe could not climb the hill, even with the pail empty. He tried one day, but he only climbed half way. Sanders found him in the path when he wenthome, lying down by the pail. 

Sanders worried over the dog. He missed the long talks at the crossingover the dinner, the poor fellow sitting by his side watching everyspoonful, his eyes glistening, the old ear furling and unfurling likea toy flag. He missed, too, his scampering after the sparrows and pigeonsthat often braved the desolation and smoke of this inferno to pick upthe droppings from the carts. He missed more than all thecompanionship, --somebody to sit beside him. 

As for the girl--there was now a double bond between her and the dog. Hewas not only poor and an outcast, but a cripple like herself. Before, shewas his friend, now, she was his mother, whispering to him, her cheek tohis; holding him up to the window to see the trains rush by, his nosetouching the glass, his poor leg dangling. 

The train hands missed him too, vowing vengeance, and the fireman of No. 6, Joe Connors, spent half a Sunday trying to find the boy that threw thestone. Bill Adams, who ran the yard engine, went all the way home the nextday after the accident for a bottle of horse liniment, and left it at theshanty, and said he'd get the doctor at the next station if Sanderswanted. 

One broiling hot August day--a day when the grasshoppers sang among theweeds in the open lot, and the tar dripped down from the roofs, when theteams strained up the hill reeking with sweat, a wet sponge over theireyes, and the drivers walked beside their carts mopping their necks--onone of these steaming August days the dog limped down to the crossing justto rub his nose once against Sanders as he stood waving his flag, or tolook wistfully up into his face as he sat in the little pepper-box of ahouse that sheltered his flags and lantern. He did not often come now. They were making up the local freight--the yard engine backing andshunting the cars into line. Bill Adams was at the throttle and Connorswas firing. A few yards below Sanders's sentry-box stood an empty flat caron a siding. It threw a grateful shade over the hard cinder-coveredtracks. The dog had crawled beneath its trucks and lay asleep, hisstiffened leg over the switch frog. Adams's yard engine puffing by wokehim with a start. There was a struggle, a yell of pain, and the dog fellover on his back, his useless leg fast in the frog. Sanders heard the cryof agony, threw down his flag, bounded over the cross-ties, and crawledbeneath the trucks. The dog's cries stopped. But the leg was fast. In amoment more he had rushed back to his box, caught up a crowbar, and wasforcing the joint. It did not give an inch. There was but one thingleft--to throw the switch before the express, due in two minutes, whirledpast. In another instant a man in a blue jumper was seen darting up thetracks. He sprang at a lever, bounded back, and threw himself under theflat car. Then the yelp of a dog in pain, drowned by the shriek of anengine dashing into the cut at full speed. Then a dog thrown clear of thetrack, a crash like a falling house, and a flat car smashed into kindlingwood. 

When the conductor and passengers of the express walked back, Bill Adamswas bending over a man in a blue jumper laid flat on the cinders. He wasbleeding from a wound in his head. Lying beside him was a yellow doglicking his stiffened hand. A doctor among the passengers opened his redshirt and pressed his hand on the heart. He said he was breathing, andmight live. Then they brought a stretcher from the office, and Connors andBill Adams carried him up the hill, the dog following, limping. 

Here they laid him on a bed beside a sobbing, frightened girl; the dog ather feet. 

Adams bent over him, washing his head with a wad of cotton waste. 

Just before he died he opened his eyes, rested them on his daughter, halfraised his head as if in search of the dog, and then fell back on his bed, that same sweet, clear smile about his mouth. 

"John Sanders, " said Adams, "how in h--- could a sensible man like youthrow his life away for a damned yellow dog?"

"Don't, Billy, " he said. "I couldn't help it. He was a cripple. "

BÄADER

I was sitting in the shadow of Mme. Poulard's delightful inn at St. Michelwhen I first saw Bäader. Dinner had been served, and I had helped to payfor my portion by tacking a sketch on the wall behind the chair of thehostess. This high valuation was not intended as a special compliment tome, the wall being already covered with similar souvenirs from thesketch-books of half the painters in Europe. 

Bäader, he pronounced it Bayder, had at that moment arrived in answer to atelegram from the governor, who the night before, in a moment ofdesperation, had telegraphed the proprietor of his hotel in Paris, "Sendme a courier at once who knows Normandy and speaks English. " Thebare-headed man who, hat in hand, was at this moment bowing soobsequiously to the governor, was the person who had arrived in response. He was short and thick-set, and perfectly bald on the top of his head in asmall spot, friar-fashion. He glistened with perspiration that collectednear the hat-line, and escaped in two streams, drowning locks of blackhair covering each temple, stranding them like wet grass on hischeek-bones below. His full face was clean-shaven, smug, and persuasive, and framed two shoe-button eyes that, while sharp and alert, lackedneither humor nor tenderness. 

He wore a pair of new green kid gloves, was dressed in a brown cloth coatbound with a braid of several different shades, showing different dates ofrepair, and surmounted by a velvet collar of the same date as the coat. His trousers were of a nondescript gray, and flapped about a pair ofbrand-new gaiters, evidently purchased for the occasion, and, from thenumerous positions assumed while he talked, evidently one size too small. 

His hat--the judicious use of which added such warmth, color, andpicturesqueness to his style of delivery, now pressed to his chest, nowraised aloft, now debased to the cobbles--had once had some dignity andproportions. Continual maltreatment had long since taken all the gay andfrolicsome curl out of its brim, while the crown had so often collapsedthat the scars of ill-usage were visible upon it. And yet at a distancethis relic of a former fashion, as handled by Bäader, --it was socontinually in his grasp and so seldom on his head, that you could neversay it was worn, --this hat, brushed, polished, and finally slicked by itsowner to a state slightly confusing as to whether it were made of polishediron or silk, was really a very gay and attractive affair. 

It was easy to see that the person before me had spared neither skill, time, nor expense to make as favorable an impression on his possibleemployers as lay in his power. 

"At the moment of the arrival of ze dépêche télégraphique, " Bäadercontinued, "I was in ze office of monsieur ze propriétaire. It was at zeconclusion of some arrangement commercial, when mon ami ze propriétairesay to me: 'Bäader, it is ze abandoned season in Paris. Why not arrangefor ze gentlemen in Normandy? The number of francs a day will be atleast'"--here Bäader scrutinized carefully the governor's face--'"at leastto ze amount of ten'--is it not so, messieurs? Of course, " noting a slightcontraction of the eyebrows, "if ze service was of long time, and to zemost far-away point, some abatement could be posseeble. If, par exemple, it was to St. Malo, St. Servan, Paramé, Cancale spéciale, Dieppe petite, Dinard, and ze others, the sum of nine francs would be quite sufficient. "

The governor had never heard Dieppe called "petite" nor Cancale"spéciale, " and said so, lifting his eyebrows inquiringly. Bäader did notwaver. "But if messieurs pretend a much smaller route and of few days, sayto St. Michel, Paramé, and Cancale, "--here the governor's brow relaxedagain, --"then it was imposseeble, --if messieurs will pardon, --quiteimposseeble for less zan ten francs. "

So the price was agreed upon, and the hat, now with a decided metallicsheen, once more swept the cobblestones of the courtyard. The ceremonybeing over, its owner then drew off the green kid gloves, folded them flaton his knee, guided them into the inside pocket of the brown coat with theassorted bindings as carefully as if they had been his letter of credit, and declared himself at our service. 

It was when he had been installed as custodian not only of our handluggage, but to a certain extent of our bank accounts and persons for somedays, that he urged upon the governor the advisability of our at onceproceeding to Cancale, or Cancale spéciale, as he insisted on calling it. I immediately added my own voice to his pleadings, arguing that Cancalemust certainly be on the sea. That, from my recollection of numerouswater-colors and black-and-whites labeled in the catalogue, "Coast nearCancale, " and the like, I was sure there must be the customary fish-girls, with shrimp-nets carried gracefully over one shoulder, to say nothing ofbrawny-chested fishermen with flat, rimless caps, having the usual littleround button on top. 

The governor, however, was obdurate. He had a way of being obdurate whenanything irritated him, and Bäader began to be one of these things. Cancale might be all very well for me, but how about the hotel for him, who had nothing to do, no pictures to paint? He had passed that time inhis life when he could sleep under a boat with water pouring down the backof his neck through a tarpaulin full of holes. 

"The hotel, messieurs! Imagine! Is it posseeble that monsieur imagine forone moment that Bäader would arrange such annoyances? I remember ze hotelquite easily. It is not like, of course, ze Grand Hôtel of Paris, but itis simple, clean, ze cuisine superb, and ze apartment fine and hospitable. Remembare it is Bäader. "

"And the baths?" broke out the governor savagely. 

Bäader's face was a study; a pained, deprecating expression passed over itas he uncovered his head, his glazed headpiece glistening in the sun. 

"Baths, monsieur--and ze water of ze sea everywhere?"

These assurances of future comfort were not overburdened with details, butthey served to satisfy and calm the governor, I pleading, meanwhile, thatBäader had always proved himself a man of resource, quite ready whenrequired with either a meal or an answer. 

So we started for Cancale. 

On the way our courier grew more and more enthusiastic. We were travelingin a four-seated carriage, Bäader on the box, pointing out to us inEnglish, after furtive conversations with the driver in French, theprincipal points of interest. With many flourishes he led us to Paramé, one of those Normandy cities which consist of a huge hotel with enormouspiazzas, a beach ten miles from the sea, and a small so-calledfishing-village as a sort of marine attachment. To give a realistic touch, a lone boat is always being tarred somewhere down at the end of one of itstoy streets, two or three donkey-carts and donkeys add an air ofpicturesqueness, and the usual number of children with red pails andshovels dig in the sand of the roadside. All the fish that are sold comefrom the next town. It was too early in the season when we reached therefor girls in sabots and white caps, the tide from Paris not having set in. The governor hailed it with delight. "Why the devil didn't you tell meabout this place before? Here we have been fooling away our time. "

"But it is only Paramé, monsieur, " with an accent on the "only" and alifting of the hands. "Cancale spéciale will charm you; ze coast it is soimmediately flat, and ze life of ze sea charmante. Nevare at Paramé, always at Cancale. " So we drove on. The governor pacified butanxious--only succumbing at my argument that Bäader knew all Normandythoroughly, and that an old courier like him certainly could be trusted toselect a hotel. 

 * * * * *

You all know the sudden dip from the rich, flat country of Normandy downthe steep cliffs to the sea. Cancale is like the rest of it. The townitself stands on the brink of a swoop to the sands; the fishing-villageproper, where the sea packs it solid in a great half-moon, with a lightburning on one end that on clear nights can be seen as far as Mme. Poulard's cozy dining-room at St. Michel. 

One glimpse of this sea-burst tumbled me out of the carriage, sketch-trapin hand. Bäader and the governor kept on. If the latter noticed thediscrepancy between Bäader's description of the country and the actualtopography, no word fell from him at the moment of departure. 

From my aerie, as I worked under my white umbrella below the cliff, Icould distinctly make out our traveling-carriage several hundred feetbelow and a mile away, crawling along a road of white tape with a greenselvage of trees, the governor's glazed trunk flashing behind, Bäader'ssilk hat burning in front. Then the little insect stopped at a white spotbacked by dots of green; a small speck broke away, and was swallowed upfor a few minutes in the white dot, --doubtless Bäader to parley forrooms, --and then to my astonishment the whole insect turned and begancrawling back again, growing larger every minute. All this occurred beforeI had half finished my outline or opened my color-box. Instantly the truthdawned upon me, --the governor was going back to Paramé. An hour, perhaps, had elapsed when Bäader, with uncovered head and beaded with perspiration, the two locks of hair hanging limp and straight, stood before me. 

"What was the matter with the governor, Bäader? No hotel after all?"

"On the contraire, pardonnez-moi, monsieur, a most excellent hotel, simpleand quite of ze people, and with many patrons. Even at ze moment ofarrival a most distinguished artist, a painter of ze Salon, was with hiscognac upon a table at ze entrance. "

"No bath, perhaps, " I remarked casually, still absorbed in my work, andwith my mind at rest, now that Bäader remained with me. 

"On the contraire, monsieur, les bains are most excellent--primitive, ofcourse, simple, and quite of ze people. But, monsieur le gouverneur is nomore young. When one is no more young, "--with a deprecatingshrug, --"parbleu, it is imposseeble to enjoy everything. Monsieur legouverneur, I do assure you, make ze conclusion most regretfully to returnto Paramé. "

I learned the next morning that he evinced every desire to drown Bäader inthe surf for bringing him to such an inn, and was restrained only by theknowledge that I should miss his protection during my one night inCancale. 

"Moreover, it is ze grande fête to-night--ze fête of ze République. Zareare fireworks and illumination and music by ze municipality. It is simple, but quite of ze people. It is for zis reason that I made ze effort specialwith monsieur le gouverneur to remain with you. Ah! it is you, monsieur, who are so robust, so enthusiastic, so appreciative. "

Here Bäader put on his hat, and I closed my sketch-trap. 

"But monsieur has not yet dined, " he said as we walked, "nor even at hishotel arrived. Ze inn of Mme. Flamand is so very far away, and ze ascentup ze cliffs difficile. If monsieur will be so good, zare is a café nearby where it is quite posseeble to dine. "

Relieved of the governor's constant watchfulness Bäader became himself. Hebustled about the restaurant, called for "Cancale spéciale, " a variety ofoysters apparently entirely unknown to the landlord, and interviewed the_chef_ himself. In a few moments a table was spread in a corner of theporch overlooking a garden gay with hollyhocks, and a dinner was orderedof broiled chicken, French rolls, some radishes, half a dozen apricots, and a fragment of cheese. When it was over, --Bäader had been served in anadjoining apartment, --there remained not the amount mentioned in a formerout-of-door feast, but sufficient to pack at least one basket, --in thiscase a paper box, --the drumsticks being stowed below, dunnaged by tworolls, and battened down with fragments of cheese and three apricots. 

"What's this for, Bäader? Have you not had enough to eat?"

Bäader's face wore its blandest smile. "On ze contraire, I have made formyself a most excellent repast; but if monsieur will consider--ze dinneris a prix fixe, and monsieur can eat it all, or it shall remain for zepropriétaire. Zis, if monsieur will for one moment attend, will be stupidextraordinaire. I have made ze investigation, and discover zat ze postdépart from Cancale in one hour. How simple zen to affeex ze stamps, --onlyfive sous, --and in ze morning, even before Mme. Bäader is out of ze bed, it is in Paris--a souvenir from Cancale. How charmante ze surprise!"

I discovered afterward that since he had joined us Bäader's own domesticlarder had been almost daily enriched with crumbs like these from Dives'stable. 

The _fête, _ despite Bäader's assurances, lacked one necessary feature. There was no music. The band was away with the boats, the triangleprobably cooking, the French horn and clarinet hauling seines. 

But Bäader, not to be outdone by any _contretemps_, started off to find anold blind fellow who played an accordeon, collecting five francs of me inadvance for his pay, under the plea that it was quite horrible that theyoung people could not dance. "While one is young, monsieur, music is zelife of ze heart. "

He brought the old man back, and with a certain care and tenderness sethim down on a stone bench, the sightless eyes of the poor peasant turningup to the stars as he swayed the primitive instrument back and forth. Theyoung girls clung to Bäader's arm, and blessed him for his goodness. Iforgave him his duplicity, his delight in their happiness was so genuine. Perhaps it was even better than a _fête_. 

When, later in the evening, we arrived at Mme. Flamand's, we found her inthe doorway, her brown face smiling, her white cap and apron in fullrelief under the glare of an old-fashioned ship's light, which hung from arafter of the porch. Bäader inscribed my name in a much-thumbed, ink--stained register, which looked like a neglected ship's log, and thenadded his own. This, by the by, Bäader never neglected. Neither did heneglect a certain little ceremony always connected with it. 

After it was all over and "Moritz Bäader Courrier et Interprète" was dulyinscribed, --and in justice it must be confessed it was always clearlywritten with a flourish at the end that lent it additionaldignity, --Bäader would pause for a moment, carefully balance the pen, trying it first on his thumb-nail, and then place two little dots of inkover the first _a_, saying, with a certain wave of his hand, as he did so, "For ze honor of my families, monsieur. " This peculiarity gained for himfrom the governor the sobriquet of "old fly-specks. "

The inn of Mme. Flamand, although less pretentious than many others thathad sheltered us, was clean and comfortable, the lower deck andcompanionway were freshly sanded, --the whole house had a decidedlynautical air about it, --and the captain's state-room on the upper deck, asecond-floor room, was large and well-lighted, although the ceiling mighthave been a trifle too low for the governor, and the bed a few inches tooshort. 

I ascended to the upper deck, preceded by the hostess carrying the ship'slantern, now that the last guest had been housed for the night. Bäaderfollowed with a brass candlestick and a tallow dip about the size of alead pencil. With the swinging open of the bedroom door, I made a mentalinventory of all the conveniences: bed, two pillows, plenty of windows, washstand, towels. Then the all-important question recurred to me, Wherehad they hidden the portable tub?

I opened the door of the locker, looked behind a sea-chest, then out ofone window, expecting to see the green-painted luxury hanging by a hook ordrying on a convenient roof. In some surprise I said:--

"And the bath, Bäader?"

"Does monsieur expect to bathe at ze night?" inquired Bäader with alifting of his eyebrows, his face expressing a certain alarm for mysafety. 

"No, certainly not; but to-morrow, when I get up. "

"Ah, to-morrow!" with a sigh of relief. "I do assure you, monsieur, zat itwill be complete. At ze moment of ze déflexion of monsieur le gouverneurzare was not ze time. Of course it is imposseeble in Cancale to have zegrand bain of Paris, but then zare is still something, --a bath quitespécial, simple, and of ze people. Remember, monsieur, it is Bäader. "

And so, with a cheery "Bon soir" from madame, and a profound bow fromBäader, I fell asleep. 

The next morning I was awakened by a rumbling in the lower hold, as if thecargo was being shifted. Then came a noise like the moving of heavybarrels on the upper deck forward of the companionway. The next instant mydoor was burst open, and in stalked two brawny, big-armed fish-girls, yarn-stockinged to their knees, and with white sabots and caps. They weretrundling the lower half of a huge hogshead. 

"Pour le bain, monsieur, " they both called out, bursting into laughter, asthey rolled the mammoth tub behind my bed, grounded it with a revolvingwhirl, as a juggler would spin a plate, and disappeared, slamming the doorbehind them, their merriment growing fainter as they dropped down thecompanionway. 

I peered over the head-board, and discovered the larger half of anenormous storage-barrel used for packing fish, with fresh saw-marksindenting its upper rim. Then I shouted for Bäader. 

Before anybody answered, there came another onslaught, and in burst thesame girls, carrying a great iron beach-kettle filled with water. This, with renewed fits of laughter, they dashed into the tub, and in a flashwere off again, their wooden sabots clattering down the steps. 

There was no mistaking the indications; Bäader's bath had arrived. 

I climbed up, and, dropping in with both feet, avoiding the splinters andthe nails, sat on the sawed edge, ready for total immersion. Before Icould adjust myself to its conditions there came another rush along thecompanionway, accompanied by the same clatter of sabots and splashing ofwater. There was no time to reach the bed, and it was equally evident thatI could not vault out and throw myself against the door. So I simplyducked down, held on, and shouted, in French, Normandy patois, English:--

"Don't come in! Don't open the door! Leave the water outside!" and thelike. I might as well have ruined my throat on a Cancale lugger drivingbefore a gale. In burst the door, and in swept the Amazons, letting goanother kettleful, this time over my upper half, my lower half beingsqueezed down into the tub. 

When the girls had emptied the contents of this last kettle over theedge, and caught sight of my face, --they evidently thought I was stillbehind the head-board, --both gave one prolonged shriek that literallyroused the house. The brawnier of the two, --a magnificent creature, withher corsets outside of her dress, --after holding her sides with laughteruntil I thought she would suffocate, sank upon the sea-chest, from whichher companion rescued her just as Mme. Flamand and Bäader opened the door. All this time my chin was resting on the jagged rim of the tub, and myteeth were chattering. 

"Bäader, where in thunder have you been? Drag that chest against that doorquick, and come in. Is this what you call a bath?"

"Monsieur, if you will pardon. I arouse myself at ze daylight; I rely uponMme. Flamand that ze Englishman who is dead had left one behind; I searcheverywhere. Zen I make inquiry of ze mother of ze two demoiselles who havejust gone. She was much insulted; she make ze bad face. She say with muchindignation: 'Monsieur, since I was a baby ze water has not touched mybody. ' At ze supreme moment, when all hope was gone, I discover near zehouse of ze same madame this grand arrangement. Immediately I am on fire, and say to myself, 'Bäader, all is not lost. Even if zare was still zebath of ze Englishman, it would not compare. ' In ze quickness of an eye Ibring a saw, and ze demoiselles are on zare knees making ze arrangement, one part big, one small. I say to myself, 'Bäader, monsieur is an artist, and of enthusiasm, and will appreciate zis utensile agréable of zefisherman. ' If monsieur will consider, it is, of course, not ze grand bainof Paris, but it is simple, and quite of ze people. "

 * * * * *

Some two months later, the governor and I happened to be strolling throughthe flower-market of the Madeleine. He had been selecting plants for thewindows of his apartment, and needed a reliable man to arrange them insuitable boxes. 

"That fellow Bäader lives down here somewhere; perhaps he might know ofsome one, " he said, consulting his notebook. "Yes; No. 21 Rue Chambord. Let us look him up. "

In five minutes we stood before a small, two-story house, with its doorand wide basement-window protected by an awning. Beneath this, upon lowshelves, was arranged a collection of wicker baskets, containing theseveral varieties of oysters from Normandy and Brittany coasts greatlybeloved by Parisian epicures of Paris. On the top of each lid lay a tinsign bearing the name of the exact locality from which each toothsomebivalve was supposed to be shipped. These signs were all of one size. 

The governor is a great lover of oysters, especially his own Chesapeakes, and his eye ran rapidly over the tempting exhibit as he read aloud, perhaps, unconsciously, to himself, the several labels: "Dinard, Paramé, Dieppe petite, Cancale spéciale. " Then a new light seemed to break in uponhim. 

"Dieppe petite, Cancale spéciale, "--here his face was a study, --"why, that's what Bäader always called Cancale. By thunder! I believe that'swhere that fellow got his names. I don't believe the rascal was ever inNormandy in his life until I took him. Here, landlord!" A smallshop-keeper, wearing an apron, ran out smiling, uncovering the baskets ashe approached. "Do you happen to know a courier by the name of Bäader?"

"Never as courier, messieurs--always as commissionaire; he sells wood andcharcoal to ze hotels. See! zare is his sign. "

"Where does he live?"

"Upstairs. "

THE LADY OF LUCERNE

I

Above the Schweizerhof Hotel, and at the end of the long walk fronting thelake at Lucerne, --the walk studded with the round, dumpy, Noah's-arktrees, --stands a great building surrounded by flowers and palms, and atnight ablaze with hundreds of lamps hung in festoons of blue, yellow, andred. This is the Casino. On each side of the wide entrance is abill-board, announcing that some world-renowned Tyrolean warbler, famousacrobat, or marvelous juggler will sing or tumble or bewilder, the priceof admission remaining the same, despite the enormous sum paid for theappearance of the performer. 

Inside this everybody's club is a café, with hurrying waiters and a solidbrass band, and opening from its smoke and absinthe laden interior blazesa small theatre, with stage footlights and scenery, where the severalworld-renowned artists redeem at a very considerable discount thepromissory notes of the bill-boards outside. 

During the performance the audience smoke and sip. Between the acts mostof them swarm out into the adjacent corridors leading to thegaming-rooms, --licensed rooms these, with toy-horses ridden by tinjockeys, and another equally delusive and tempting device of the devil--agame of tipsy marbles, rolling about in search of sunken saucersemblazoned with the arms of the nations of the earth. These whirligigs ofamateur crime are constantly surrounded by eager-eyed men and women, whotry their luck for the amusement of the moment, or by broken-down, seedygamblers, hazarding their last coin for a turn of fortune. Now and then, too, some sweet-faced girl, her arm in her father's, wins a louis with afranc, her childish laughter ringing out in the stifling atmosphere. 

 * * * * *

The Tyrolean warbler had just finished her high-keyed falsetto, bowingbackward in her short skirts and stout shoes with silver buckles, and Ihad just reached the long corridor on my way to the garden, to escape theblare and pound of the band, when a man leaned out of a half-opened doorand touched my shoulder. 

"Pardon, monsieur. May I speak to you a moment?"

He was a short, thick-set, smooth-shaven, greasy man, dressed plainly inblack, with a huge emerald pin in his shirt front. I have never had anyparticular use for a man with an emerald pin in his shirt front. 

"There will be a game of baccarat, " he continued in a low voice, his eyesglancing about furtively, "at eleven o'clock precisely. Knock twice atthis door. "

Old habitués of Lucerne--habitués of years, men who never cross the Alpswithout at least a day's stroll under the Noah's-ark trees, --will tell youover their coffee that since the opening of the St. Gotthard Tunnel thishalf-way house of Lucerne--this oasis between Paris and Rome--hassheltered most of the adventurers of Europe; that under these same trees, and on these very benches, nihilists have sat and plotted, refugees andoutlaws have talked in whispers, and adventuresses, with jeweled stilettostucked in their bosoms, have lain in wait for fresher victims. 

I had never in my wanderings met any of these mysterious and delightfulpeople. And, strange to say, I had never seen a game of baccarat. Thismight be my opportunity. I would see the game and perhaps run across someof these curious individuals. I consulted my watch; there was half an houryet. The man was a runner, of course, for this underground, unlicensedgaming-house, who had picked me out as a possible victim. 

When the moment arrived I knocked at the door. 

It was opened, not by the greasy Jack-in-the-box with the emerald pin, butby a deferential old man, who looked at me for a moment, holding the doorwith his foot. Then gently closing it, he preceded me across a hall and upa long staircase. At the top was a passageway and another door, and behindthis a large room paneled in dark wood. On one side of this apartment wasa high desk. Here sat the cashier counting money, and arranging littlepiles of chips of various colors. In the centre stood a table covered withblack cloth: I had always supposed such tables to be green. About it wereseated ten people, the croupier in the middle. The game had already begun. I moved up a chair, saying that I would look on, but not play. 

Had the occasion been a clinic, the game a corpse, and the croupier theoperating surgeon, the group about the table could not have been moreabsorbed or more silent; a cold, death-like, ominous stillness that seemedto saturate the very air. The only sounds were the occasional clickings ofthe ivory chips, like the chattering of teeth, and the monotones of thecroupier announcing the results of the play:--

"Faites vos jeux. Le jeu est fait; rien ne va plus. "

I began to study the _personnel_ of this clinic of chance. 

Two Englishmen in evening dress sat side by side, never speaking, scarcelymoving, their eyes riveted on the falling cards flipped from thecroupier's hands. A coarse-featured, oily-skinned woman--a Russian, Ithought--looked on calmly, resting her head on her palm. A man in a graysuit, with waxy face and watery, yellow eyes, made paper pills, rollingthem slowly between thumb and forefinger--his features as immobile as adeath-mask. A blue-eyed, blond German officer, with a decoration on thelapel of his coat, nonchalantly twirled his mustache, his shouldersstraining in tension. A Parisienne, with bleached hair and penciledeyebrows, leaned over her companion's arm. There was also a flashilydressed negro, evidently a Haytian, who sat motionless at the far end, asstolid as a boiler, only the steam-gauge of his eyes denoting the pressurebeneath. 

No one spoke, no one laughed. 

Two of the group interested me at once, --the croupier and a woman who satwithin three feet of me. 

The croupier, who was in evening dress, might have been of any age fromthirty to fifty. His eyes were deep-set and glassy, like those of aconsumptive. His hair was jet-black, his face clean-shaven; the skin, notivory, but a dirty white, and flabby, like the belly of a toad. His thinand bloodless lips were flattened over a row of pure white teeth withglistening specks of gold that opened when he smiled; closing again slowlylike an automaton's. His shrunken, colorless hands lay on the black clothlike huge white spiders; their long, thin legs of fingers turned up at thetips--stealthy, creeping fingers. Sometimes, too, in their nervousworkings, they drooped together like a bunch of skeleton keys. On one ofthese lock picks he wore a ring studded alternately with diamonds andrubies. 

The cards seemed to know these fingers, fluttering about them, orlighting noiselessly at their bidding on the cloth. 

When the bank won, the croupier permitted a slight shade of disappointmentto flash over his face, fading into an expression of apology for takingthe stakes. When the bank lost, the lips parted slowly, showing the teeth, in a half smile. Such delicate outward consideration for the feelings ofhis victims seemed a part of his education, an index to his naturalrefinement. 

The woman was of another type. Although she sat with her back to me, Icould catch her profile when she pushed her long veil from her face. Shewas dressed entirely in black. She had been, and was still, a woman ofmarked beauty, with an air of high breeding which was unmistakable. Herfeatures were clean-cut and refined, her mouth and nose delicately shaped. Her forehead was shaded by waves of brown hair which half covered herears. The eyes were large and softened by long lashes, the lids red as ifwith recent weeping. Her only ornament was a plain gold ring, worn on herleft hand. Outwardly, she was the only person in the room who betrayed byher manner any vital interest in the game. 

There are some faces that once seen haunt you forever afterward--faceswith masks so thinly worn that you look through into the heart below. Herswas one of these. Every light and shadow of hope and disappointment thatcrossed it showed only the clearer the intensity of her mental strain, andthe bitterness of her anxiety. 

Once when she lost she bit her lips so deeply that a speck of blood tingedher handkerchief. The next instant she was clutching her winnings withalmost the ferocity of a hungry animal. Then she leaned back a momentlater exhausted in her chair, her face thrown up, her eyes closingwearily. 

In her hand she held a small chamois bag filled with gold; when her chipswere exhausted she would rise silently, float like a shadow to the desk, lay a handful of gold from the bag upon the counter, sweep the ivoriesinto her hand, and noiselessly regain her seat. She seemed to know no one, and no one to know her, unless it might have been the croupier, who, Ithought, watched her closely when he pushed over her winnings, parting hislips a little wider, his smile a trifle more cringing and devilish. 

At twelve o'clock she was still playing, her face like chalk, her eyesbloodshot, her teeth clenched fast, her hair disheveled across her face. 

The game went on. 

When the clock reached the half-hour the man in gray pushed back hischair, gathered up his winnings, and moved to the door, an attendanthanding him his hat. With the exception of the Parisienne, who had gonesome time before, taking her companion with her, the devotees were thesame, --the two Englishmen still exchanging clean, white Bank of Englandnotes, the German and Haytian losing, but calm as mummies, the fat, oilywoman, melting like a red candle, the perspiration streaming down herface. 

Suddenly I heard a convulsive gasp. The woman in black was on her feetleaning over the table. Her eyes blazed in a frenzy of delight. She wassweeping into her open hands the piles of gold before her. By somemarvelous stroke of luck, and with almost her last louis, she had wonevery franc on the cloth!

Then she drew herself up defiantly, covered her face with her veil, huggedthe money to her breast, and staggered from the room. 

II

So deep an impression had the gambling scene of the night before made uponme that the next morning I loitered under the Noah's-ark trees, hoping Imight identify the woman, and in some impossible, improbable way know moreof her history. I even lounged into the Casino, tried the door at which Ihad knocked the night before, and, finding it locked and the scrubwomansuspicious, strolled out carelessly into the garden, and, sitting downunder the palms, tried to pick out the windows that opened into thegaming-room. But they were all alike, with pots of flowers blooming ineach. 

Still burdened with these memories, I entered the church, --the old churchwith square towers and deep-receding entrance, that stands on the crest ofa steep hill overlooking the Casino, and within a short distance of theNoah's-ark trees. Every afternoon, near the hour of twilight, when theshadows reach down Mount Pilatus, and the mists gather in the valley, abroken procession of strollers, in twos and threes and larger groups, slowly climb its path. They are on their way to hear the great organplayed. 

The audience was already seated. It was at the moment of that profoundhush which precedes the recital. Even my footfall, light as it was, reëchoed to the groined arches. The church was ghostly dark, --so dark thatthe hundreds of heads melted into the mass of pews, and they into thegloom of column and wall. The only distinguishable gleam was the soft glowof the dying day struggling through the lower panes of the dust-begrimedwindows. Against these hung long chains holding unlighted lamps. 

I felt my way to an empty pew on a side aisle, and sat down. The silencecontinued. Now and again there was a slight cough, instantly checked. Oncea child dropped a book, the echoes lasting apparently for minutes. Thedarkness became almost black night. Only the clean, new panes of glassused in repairing some break in the begrimed windows showed clear. Theseseemed to hang out like small square lanterns. 

Suddenly I was aware that the stillness was broken by a sound faint as asigh, delicate as the first breath of a storm. Then came a great sweepgrowing louder, the sweep of deep thunder tones with the roar of thetempest, the rush of the mighty rain, the fury of the avalanche, thevoices of the birds singing in the sunlight, the gurgle of the brooks, and the soft cadence of the angelus calling the peasants to prayers. Then, a pause and another burst of melody, ending in profound silence, as if the door of heaven had been opened and as quickly shut. Then aclear voice springing into life, singing like a lark, rising, swelling--up--up--filling the church--the roof--the sky! Then the heavenlydoor thrown wide, and the melody pouring out in a torrent, drowning thevoice. Then above it all, while I sat quivering, there soared like a birdin the air, singing as it flew, one great, superb, vibrating, resolutenote, pure, clear, full, sensuous, untrammeled, dominating the heavens:not human, not divine; like no woman's, like no man's, like no angel'sever dreamed of, --the vox humana. 

It did not awaken in me any feeling of reverence or religious ecstasy. Ionly remember that the music took possession of my soul. That beneath andthrough it all I felt the vibrations of all the tragic things that come tomen and women in their lives. Scenes from out an irrelevant past sweptacross my mind. I heard again the long winding note of the bugle echoingthrough the pines, the dead in uneven rows, the moon lighting their faces. I caught once more the cry of the girl my friend loved, he who died andnever knew. I saw the quick plunge of the strong swimmer, white armsclinging to his neck, and heard once more that joyous shout from a hundredthroats. And I could still hear the hoarse voice of the captain withdrenched book and flickering lantern, and shivered again as I caught thedull splash of the sheeted body dropping into the sea. 

The vox humana stopped, not gradually, but abruptly, as if the heart hadbroken and its life had gone out in the one supreme effort. Thensilence, --a silence so profound that a low sob from the pew across theaisle startled me. I strained my eyes, and caught the outlines of a womanheavily veiled. I could see, too, a child beside her, his head on hershoulder. The boy was bare-headed, his curls splashed over her blackdress. Then another sob, half smothered, as if the woman were strangling. 

No other sound broke the stillness; only the feeling everywhere ofpent-up, smothered sighs. 

In this intense moment a faint footfall was heard approaching from thechurch door, walking in the gloom. It proved to be that of an old man, bent and trembling. He came slowly down the sombre church, with unsteady, shambling gait, holding in one hand a burning taper, --a mere speck. In theother he carried a rude lantern, its wavering light hovering about hisfeet. As he passed in his long brown cloak, the swaying light encircledhis white beard and hair with a fluffy halo. He moved slowly, the spark hecarried no larger than a firefly. The sacristan had come to light thecandles. 

He stopped half way down the middle aisle, opposite a pew, the faint flushof his lantern falling on the nearest upturned face. A long thin candlewas fastened to this pew. The firefly of a taper, held aloft in histrembling hand, flickered uncertainly like a moth, and rested on the topof this candle. Then the wick kindled and burned. As its rays felt theirway over the vast interior, struggling up into the dark roof, reaching thegilded ornaments on the side altar enshrouded in gloom, glinting on thesilver of the hanging lamps, a plaintive note fluttered softly, swelledinto an ecstasy of sound, and was lost in a chorus of angel voices. 

The sacristan moved down the aisle, kindled two other candles on thedistant altar, and was lost in the shadows. 

The woman in the pew across the aisle bent forward, resting her head onthe back of the seat in front, drawing the child to her. The boy cuddledcloser. As she turned, a spark of light trickled down her cheek. I caughtsight of the falling tear, but could not see the face. 

The music ceased; the last anthem had been played; a gas-jet flared in theorgan-loft; the people began to rise from their seats. The sacristanappeared again from behind the altar, and walked slowly down the sideaisle, carrying only his lantern. As he neared my seat the woman stooderect, and passed out of the pew, her hand caressing the child. Surely Icould not be mistaken about that movement, the slow, undulating, rhythmicwalk, the floating shadow of the night before. Certainly not with thelight of the sacristan's lantern now full on her face. Yes: the samefinely chiseled features, the same waves of brown hair, the same eyes, thesame drooping eyelids, like blossoms wet with dew! At last I had foundher. 

I walked behind, --so close that I could have laid my hand on her boy'shead, or touched her hand as it lay buried in his curls. The old, bentsacristan stepped in front, swinging his lantern, the ghostly shadowswavering about his feet. Then he halted to let the crowd clear the mainaisle. 

As he stood still, the woman drew suddenly back as if stunned by a blow, clutched the boy to her side, and fixed her eyes on the lantern's ghostlyshadows. I leaned over quickly. The glow of the rude lamp, with itssquares of waving light flecking the stone flagging, traced inunmistakable outlines the form of a cross!

For some minutes she stood as if in a trance, her eyes fastened upon thefloating shadow, her whole form trembling, bent, her body swaying. Onlywhen the sacristan moved a few paces ahead to hold open the swinging door, and the shadow of the cross faded, did she awake from the spell. 

Then, recovering herself slowly, she bowed reverently, crossed herself, drew the boy closer, and, with his hand in hers, passed out into the coolstarlit night. 

III

The following morning I was sitting under the Noah's-ark trees, watchingthe people pass and repass, when a man in a suit of white flannel, carrying a light cane, and wearing a straw hat with a red band, and anecktie to match, stopped a flower-girl immediately in front of me, andaffixed an additional dot of blood-color to his buttonhole. 

In the glare of the daylight he was even more yellow than when under theblaze of the gas-jets. His eyes were still glassy and brilliant, but therims showed red, as if for want of sleep, and beneath the lower lids laysunken half-circles of black. He moved with his wonted precision, butwithout that extreme gravity of manner which had characterized him thenight of the game. Looked at as a mere passer-by, he would have impressedyou as a rather debonair, overdressed habitué, who was enjoying hismorning stroll under the trees, without other purpose in life than thebreathing of the cool air and enjoyment of the attendant exercise. Hisspider-ship had doubtless seen me when he entered the walk, --I was stillan untrapped fly, --and had picked out this particular flower-girl besideme as a safe anchorage for one end of his web. I turned away my head; butit was too late. 

"Monsieur did not play last night?" the croupier asked deferentially. 

"No; I did not know the game. " Then an idea struck me. "Sit down; I wantto talk to you. " He touched the edge of his hat with one finger, opened agold cigarette-case studded with jewels, offered me its contents, and tookthe seat beside me. 

"Pardon the abruptness of the inquiry, but who was the woman in black?" Iasked. 

He looked at me curiously. 

"Ah, you mean madame with the bag?"

"Yes. "

"She was once the Baroness Frontignac. "

"Was once! What is she now?"

"Now? Ah, that is quite a story. " He stopped, shut the gold case with aclick, and leaned forward, flicking the pebbles with the point of hiscane. "If madame had had a larger bag she might have broken the bank. Isit not so?"

"You know her, then?" I persisted. 

"Monsieur, men of my profession know everybody. Sooner or later they allcome to us--when they are young, and their francs have wings; when theyare gray-haired and cautious; when they are old and foolish. "

"But she did not look like a gambler, " I replied stiffly. 

He smiled his old cynical, treacherous smile. 

"Monsieur is pleased to be very pronounced in his language. A gambler!Monsieur no doubt means to say that madame has not the appearance of beingunder the intoxication of the play. " Then with a positive tone, stillflicking the pebbles, "The baroness played for love. "

"Of the cards?" I asked persistently. I was determined to drive the nailto the head. 

The croupier looked at me fixedly, shrugged his shoulders, laughed betweenhis teeth, a little, hissing laugh that sounded like escaping steam, andsaid slowly:--

"No; of a man. "

Then, noticing my increasing interest, "Monsieur would know something ofmadame?"

He held up his hand, and began crooking one finger after another as herecounted her history. These bent keys, it seemed, unlocked secrets aswell. 

"Le voilà! the drama of Madame la Baronne! The play opens when she isfirst a novice in the convent of Saint Ursula, devoted to good works andthe church. Next you find her a grand dame and rich, the wife of BaronAlphonse de Frontignac, first secretary of legation at Vienna. Then amother with one child, --a boy, now six or seven years old, who is hardlyever out of her arms. " He stopped, toyed for a moment with his match-safe, slipped it into his pocket, and said carelessly, "So much for Act I. "

Then, after a pause during which he traced again little diagrams in thegravel, he said suddenly:--

"Does this really interest you, monsieur?"

"Unquestionably. "

"You know her, then?" This with a glance of suspicion as keen as it wasunexpected by me. 

"Never saw her in my life before, " I answered frankly, "and never shallagain. I leave for Paris to-day, and sail from Havre on Saturday. "

He drew in the point of his cane, looked me all over with one of thosecomprehensive sweeps of the eye, as if he would read my inmost thought, and then, with an expression of confidence born doubtless of my evidentsincerity, continued:--

"In the next act Frontignac gets mixed up in some banking scandals, --hewould, like a fool, play roulette--baccarat was always his stronggame, --disappears from Vienna, is arrested at the frontier, escapes, andis found the next morning under a brush-heap with a bullet through hishead. This ends the search. Two years later--this is now Act III. --Madamela Baronne, without a sou to her name, is hard at work in the hospitals ofMetz. The child is pensioned out near by. 

"Now comes the grand romance. An officer attached to the 13thCuirassiers--a regiment with not men enough left after Metz to muster acompany--is picked up for dead, with one arm torn off, and a sabre-slashover his head, and brought to her ward. She nurses him back to life, inchby inch, and in six months he joins his regiment. Now please follow theplot. It is quite interesting. Is it not easy to see what will happen?Tender and beautiful, young and brave! Vive le bel amour! It is the oldstory, but it is also une affaire de coeur--la grande passion. In a fewmonths they are married, and he takes her to his home in Rouen. There helistens to her entreaties, and resigns his commission. 

"This was five years ago. To-day he is a broken-down man, starving on hispension; a poor devil about the streets, instead of a general commanding adepartment; and all for love of her. Some, of course, said it was thesabre-cut; some that he could no longer hold his command, he was so badlyslashed. But it is as I tell you. You can see him here any day, sittingunder the trees, playing with the child, or along the lake front, leaningon her arm. "

Here the croupier rose from the bench, looked critically over his case ofcigarettes, selected one carefully, and began buttoning his coat as if togo. 

By this time I had determined to know the end. I felt that he had told methe truth as far as he had gone; but I felt, also, that he had stopped atthe most critical point of her career. I saw, too, that he was familiarwith its details. 

"Go on, please. Here, try a cigar. " My interest in my heroine had evenmade me courteous. My aversion to him, too, was wearing off. Perhaps, after all, croupiers were no worse than other people. "Now, one thingmore. Why was she in your gambling-house?"

He lighted the cigar, touched his hat with his forefinger, and againseated himself. 

"Well, then, monsieur, as you will. I always trust you Americans. When youlose, you pay; when you win, you keep your mouths shut. Besides, "--thiswas spoken more to himself, --"you have never seen him, and never will. Levoilà. One night, --this only a year ago, remember, --in one of the gardensat Baden, a hand touched the baroness's shoulder. 

"It was _Frontignac's_. 

"The body under the brush-heap had been that of another man dressed inFrontignac's clothes. The bullet-hole in his head was made by a ball fromFrontignac's pistol. Since then he had been hiding in exile. 

"He threatened exposure. She pleaded for her boy and her crippled husband. She could, of course, have handed him over to the nearest gendarme; butthat meant arrest, and arrest meant exposure. At their home in Vienna, letme tell you, baccarat had been played nightly as a pastime for theirguests. So great was her luck that 'As lucky as the Baronne Frontignac'was a byword. Frontignac's price was this: she must take his fifty louisand play that stake at the Casino that night; when she brought him tenthousand francs he would vanish. 

"That night at Baden--I was dealing, and know--she won twelve thousandfrancs in as many minutes. Here her slavery began. It will continue untilFrontignac is discovered and captured; then he will put a second bulletinto his own head. When I saw her enter my room I knew he had turned upagain. As she staggered out, one of my men shadowed her. I was right;Frontignac was skulking in the garden. "

All my disgust for the croupier returned in an instant. He was still thesame bloodless spider of the night before. I could hardly keep my handsoff him. 

"And you permit this, and let this woman suffer these tortures, her lifemade miserable by this scoundrel, when a word, even a look, from you wouldsend him out of the country and"--

"Softly, monsieur, softly. Why blame me? What business is it of mine. Do Ilove the cripple? Have I robbed the bank and murdered my double? This isnot my game; it is Frontignac's. Would you have me kick over his chessboard?"

JONATHAN

He was so ugly, --outside, I mean: long and lank, flat-chested, shrunken, round-shouldered, stooping when he walked; body like a plank, arms andlegs like split rails, feet immense, hands like paddles, head set on aneck scrawny as a picked chicken's, hair badly put on and in patches, someabout his head, some around his jaws, some under his chin in a halfmoon, --a good deal on the back of his hands and on his chest. Nature hadhewn him in the rough and had left him with every axe mark showing. 

He wore big shoes tied with deer hide strings and nondescript breechesthat wrinkled along his knotted legs like old gun covers. These werepatched and repatched with various hues and textures, --parts of anotherpair, --bits of a coat and fragments of tailor's cuttings. Sewed in theirseat was half of a cobbler's apron, --for greater safety in sliding overledges and logs, he would tell you. Next came a leather belt polishedwith use, and then a woolen shirt, --any kind of a shirt, --cross-barred orstriped, --whatever the store had cheapest, and over that a waistcoat witha cotton back and some kind of a front, looking like a state map, it hadso many colored patches. There was never any coat, --none that I remember. When he wore a coat he was another kind of a Jonathan, --a store-dealingJonathan, or a church-going Jonathan, or a town-meeting Jonathan, --not the"go-a-fishin', " or "bee-huntin', " or "deer-stalkin'" Jonathan whom I knew. 

There was a wide straw hat, too, that crowned his head and canted with thewind and flopped about his neck, and would have sailed away down many amountain brook but for a faithful leather strap that lay buried in thehalf-moon whiskers and held on for dear life. And from under the rim ofthis thatch, and half hidden in the matted masses of badly adjusted hair, was a thin, peaked nose, bridged by a pair of big spectacles, andsomewhere below these, again, a pitfall of a mouth covered with twigs ofhair and an underbrush of beard, while deep-set in the whole tangle, likestill pools reflecting the blue and white of the sweet heavens above, layhis eyes, --eyes that won you, kindly, twinkling, merry, trustful, andtrusting eyes. Beneath these pools of light, way down below, way downwhere his heart beat warm, lived Jonathan. 

I know a fruit in Mexico, delicious in flavor, called Timburici, coveredby a skin as rough and hairy as a cocoanut; and a flower that bristleswith thorns before it blooms into waxen beauty; and there are agatesencrusted with clay and pearls that lie hidden in oysters. All thesethings, somehow, remind me of Jonathan. 

His cabin was the last bit of shingle and brick chimney on that side ofthe Franconia Notch. There were others, farther on in the forest, withbark slants for shelter, and forked sticks for swinging kettles; butcivilization ended with Jonathan's store-stove and the square of oil-cloththat covered his sitting-room floor. Upstairs, under the rafters, therewas a guest-chamber smelling of pine boards and drying herbs, andsheltering a bed gridironed with bed-cord and softened by a thin layer offeathers encased in a ticking and covered with a cotton quilt. This bedalways made a deep impression upon me mentally and bodily. Mentally, because I always slept so soundly in it whenever I visitedJonathan, --even with the rain pattering on the roof and the wind soughingthrough the big pine-trees; and bodily, because--well, because of thecords. Beside this bed was a chair for my candle, and on the floor a smallsquare plank, laid loosely over the stovepipe hole which, in winter, heldthe pipe. 

In summer mornings Jonathan made an alarm clock of this plank, flopping itabout with the end of a fishing-rod poked up from below, never stoppinguntil he saw my sleepy face peering down into his own. There was nobureau, only a nail or so in the scantling, and no washstand, of course;the tin basin at the well outside was better. 

Then there was an old wife that lived in the cabin, --an old wife made ofsole leather, with yellow-white hair and a thin, pinched face and a bodyall angles, --chest, arms, everywhere, --outlined through her straight upand down calico dress. When she spoke, however, you stopped to listen, --itwas like a wood sound, low and far away, --soft as a bird call. Peopleliving alone in the forests often have these voices. 

Last there was a dog, --a mean, sniveling, stump-tailed dog, of noparticular breed or kidney. One of those dogs whose ancestry went to thebad many generations before he was born. A dog part fox, --he got all hisslyness here; and part wolf, this made him ravenous; and partbull-terrier, this made him ill-tempered; and all the rest poodle, thatmade him too lazy to move. 

The wife knew this dog, and hung the bacon on a high nail out of hisreach, and covered with a big dish the pies cooling on the bench; and theneighbors down the road knew him and chased him out of their dairy-cellarswhen he nosed into the milk-pans and cheese-pots; and even the littlechildren found out what a coward he was, and sent him howling home to hishole under the porch, where he grumbled and pouted all day like a spoiledchild that had been half whipped. Everybody knew him, and everybodydespised him for a low-down, thieving, lazy cur, --everybody exceptJonathan. Jonathan loved him, --loved his weepy, smeary eyes, and hisrough, black hair, and his fat round body, short stumpy legs, and shorterstumpy tail, --especially the tail. Everything else that the dog lackedcould be traced back to the peccadillos of his ancestors, --Jonathan wasresponsible for the tail. 

"Ketched in a b'ar-trap I hed sot up back in thet green timber on LoonPond Maountin' six year ago last fall, when he wuz a pup, " he would say, holding the dog in his lap, --his favorite seat. "I swan, ef it warn't toobad! Thinks I, when I sot it, I'll tell the leetle cuss whar it wuz;then--I must hev forgot it. It warn't a week afore he wuz runnin' a rabbetand run right into it. Wall, sir, them iron jaws took thet tail er his'noff julluk a knife. He's allus been kinder sore ag'in me sence, and Idunno but he's right, fur it wuz mighty keerless in me. Wall, sir, he comeyowlin' hum, and when he see me he did look saour, --no use talkin', --jestez ef he wuz a-sayin', 'Yer think you're paowerful cunnin' with yerb'ar-traps, don't ye? Jest see what it's done to my tail. It's kindersp'ilt me for a dog. ' All my fault, warn't it, George?" patting his head. (Only Jonathan would call a dog George. )

Here the dog would look up out of one eye as he spoke, --he hadn'tforgotten the bear-trap, and never intended to let Jonathan forget iteither. Then Jonathan would admire ruefully the end of the stump, strokingthe dog all the while with his big, hairy, paddle-like hands, Georgerooting his head under the flap of the party-colored waistcoat. 

One night, I remember, we had waited supper, --the wife and I, --we wereobliged to wait, the trout being in Jonathan's creel, --when Jonathanwalked in, looking tired and worried. 

"Hez George come home, Marthy?" he asked, resting his long bamboo rodagainst the porch rail and handing the creel of trout to the wife. "No?Wall, I'm beat ef thet ain't cur'us. Guess I got ter look him up. " And hedisappeared hurriedly into the darkening forest, his anxious, whistlingcall growing fainter and fainter as he was lost in its depths. Marthy wasnot uneasy, --not about the dog; it was the supper that troubled her. Sheknew Jonathan's ways, and she knew George. This was a favorite trick ofthe dog's, --this of losing Jonathan. 

The trout were about burnt to a crisp and the corn-bread stone cold whenJonathan came trudging back, George in his arms, --a limp, soggy, half-deaddog, apparently. Marthy said nothing. It was an old story. Half the timeJonathan carried him home. 

"Supper's ready, " she said quietly, and we went in. 

George slid out of Jonathan's arms, smelt about for a soft plank, and fellin a heap on the porch, his chin on his paws, his mean little eyeswatching lazily, --speaking to nobody, noticing nobody, sulking all tohimself. There he stayed until he caught a whiff of the fragrant, pungentodor of fried trout. Then he cocked one eye and lifted an ear. He must notcarry things too far. Next, I heard a single thump of his six-inch tail. George was beginning to get pleased; he always did when there were thingsto eat. 

All this time Jonathan, tired out, sat in his big splint chair at thesupper-table. He had been thrashing the brook since daylight, --over hisknees sometimes. I could still see the high-water mark on his patchedtrousers. Another whiff of the frying-pan, and George got up. He dared notpoke his nose into Marthy's lap, --there were too many chunks of woodwithin easy reach of her hand. So he sidled up to Jonathan, rubbing hisnose against his big knees, whining hungrily, looking up into his face. 

"I tell ye, " said Jonathan, smiling at me, patting the dog as he spoke, "this yere George hez got more sense'n most men. He knows what's become ofthem trout we ketched. I guess he's gittin' over the way I treated himto-day. Ye see, we wuz up the East Branch when he run a fox south. ThinksI, the fox'll take a whirl back and cross the big runway; and, sureenough, it warn't long afore I heard George a-comin' back, yippin' alongup through Hank Simons' holler. So I whistled to him and steered off uponto the maountin' to take a look at Bog-eddy and try and git a pickerel. When I come daown ag'in, I see George warn't whar I left him, so Ihollered and whistled ag'in. Then, thinks I, you're mad 'cause I left ye, an' won't let on ye _kin_ hear; so I come along hum without him. When Iwent back a while ago a-lookin' for him, would yer believe it, thar he wuza-layin' in the road, about forty rod this side of Hank Simons' sugarmaples, flat onto his stummick an' disgusted an' put out awful. It wuzabout all I could do ter git him hum. I knowed the minute I come in fusttime an' see he warn't here thet his feelin's wuz hurt 'cause I left him. I presaume mebbe I oughter hollered ag'in afore I got so fer off. Then Ithought, of course, he knowed I'd gone to Bog-eddy. Beats all, what sensesome dogs hez. "

I never knew Jonathan to lose patience with George but once: that was whenthe dog tried to burrow into the hole of a pair of chipmunks whom Jonathanloved. They lived in a tree blanketed with moss and lying across the woodroad. George had tried to scrape an acquaintance by crawling inuninvited, nearly scaring the little fellows to death, and Jonathan hadflattened him into the dry leaves with his big, paddle-like hands. Thatwas before the bear-trap had nipped his tail, but George never forgot it. 

He was particularly polite to chipmunks after that. He would lie still bythe hour and hear Jonathan talk to them without even a whine ofdiscontent. I watched the old man one morning up beneath the ledges, groping, on his hands and knees, filling his pockets with nuts, and whenhe reached the wood road, emptying them in a pile near the chipmunk'stree, George looking on good-naturedly. 

"Guess you leetle cunnin's better hurry up, " he said, while he poured outthe nuts on the ground, his knees sticking up as he sat, like some hugegrasshopper's. "Guess ye ain't got more 'n time to fill yercubbud, --winter's a-comin'! Them leetle birches on Bog-eddy is turnin'yeller, --that's the fust sign. 'Fore ye knows it snow'll be flyin'. Thenwhar'll ye be with everything froze tighter'n Sampson bound the heathen, you cunnin' leetle skitterin' pups. Then I presaume likely ye'll comea-drulin' raound an' want me an' George should gin ye suthin to gitthrough th' winter on, --won't they, George?"

"Beats all, " he said to me that night, "how thoughtful some dogs is. Hadn't been fer George to-day, I'd clean forgot them leetle folks. I seehim scratching raound in the leaves an' I knowed right away what he wuzthinkin' of. "

Often when I was sketching in the dense forest, Jonathan would lie downbeside me, the old flop of a hat under his head, his talk rambling on. 

"I don't wonder ye like to paint 'em. Thar hain't nothin' so human astrees. Take thet big hemlock right in front er yer. Hain't he led a prettydecent life? See how praoud an' tall he's growed, with them arms of his'nstraight aout an' them leetle chillen of his'n spraouting up raound him. Itell ye them hemlocks is pretty decent people. Now take a look at them twowhite birches down by thet big rock. Ain't it a shame the way them fellershez been goin' on sence they wuz leetle saplin's, makin' it so nothin'could grow raound 'em, --with their jackets all ragged an' tore liketramps, an' their toes all out of their shoes whar ther roots is stickin'clear of the bark, --ain't they a-ketchin' it in their ole age? An' thenfoller on daown whar thet leetle bunch er silver maples is dancin' in thesunlight, so slender an' cunnin', --all aout in their summer dresses, julluk a bevy er young gals, --ain't they human like? I tell ye, trees isthe humanest things thet is. "

These talks with me made George restless. He was never happy unlessJonathan had _him_ on his mind. 

But it was a cluster of daisies that first lifted the inner lid ofJonathan's heart for me. I was away up the side of the Notch overlookingthe valley, my easel and canvas lashed to a tree, the wind blew so, whenJonathan came toiling up the slope, a precipice in fact, with a tin canstrapped to his back, filled with hot corn and some doughnuts, and threwhimself beside me, the sweat running down his weather-tanned neck. 

"So long ez we know whar you're settin' at work it ain't nat'ral to let yestarve, be it?" throwing himself beside me. George had started ahead ofhim and had been picked up and carried as usual. 

When Jonathan sat upright, after a breathing spell, his eye fell on a tuftof limp, bruised daisies, flattened to the earth by the heel of his clumsyshoe. There were acres of others in sight. 

"Gosh hang!" he said, catching his breath suddenly, as if something hadstung him, and reaching down with his horny, bent fingers, "ef thet ain'ttoo bad. " Then to himself in a tone barely audible, --he had entirelyforgotten my presence, --"You never had no sense, Jonathan, nohow, stumblin' raound like er bull calf tramplin' everything. Jes' see whatye've gone an' done with them big feet er yourn, " bending over the bruisedplant and tenderly adjusting the leaves. "Them daisies hez got jest ezgood a right ter live ez you hev. "

 * * * * *

I was almost sure when I began that I had a story to tell. I had thoughtof that one about Luke Pollard, --the day Luke broke his leg behind LoonMountain, and Jonathan carried him down the gorge on his back, crossingledges that would have scared a goat. It was snowing at the time, theysaid, and blowing a gale. When they got half way down White Face, Jonathan's foot slipped and he fell into the ravine, breaking his wrist. Only the drifts saved his life. Luke caught a sapling and held on. Thedoctor set Jonathan's wrist last, and Luke never knew it had been brokenuntil the next day. It is one of the stories they tell you around thestove winter evenings. 

"Julluk the night Jonathan carried aout Luke, " they say, listening to thewind howling over the ledges. 

And then I thought of that other story that Hank Simons told me, --the oneabout the mill back of Woodstock caving in from the freshet and buryingthe miller's girl. No one dared lift the timbers until Jonathan crawledin. The child was pinned down between the beams, and the water rose sofast they feared the wreckage would sweep the mill. Jonathan clung to thesills waist-deep in the torrent, crept under the floor timbers, and thenbracing his back held the beam until he dragged her clear. It happened agood many years ago, but Hank always claimed it had bent Jonathan's back. 

But, after all, they are not the things I love best to remember ofJonathan. 

It is always the old man's voice, crooning his tuneless song as he trudgeshome in the twilight, his well-filled creel at his side, --thegood-for-nothing dog in his arms; or it is that look of sweet contentmenton his face, --the deep and thoughtful eyes, filled with the calm serenityof his soul. And then the ease and freedom of his life! Plenty of air andspace, and plenty of time to breathe and move! Having nothing, possessingall things! No bonds to guard, --no cares to stifle, --no trains tocatch, --no appointments to keep, --no fashions to follow, --no follies toshun! Only the old wife and worthless, lazy dog, and the rod and thecreel! Only the blessed sunshine and fresh, sweet air, and the cool touchof deep woods. 

No, there is no story--only Jonathan. 

ALONG THE BRONX

Hidden in our memories there are quaint, quiet nooks tucked away at theend of leafy lanes; still streams overhung with feathery foliage; grayrocks lichen-covered; low-ground meadows, knee-deep in lush grass;restful, lazy lakes dotted with pond-lilies; great, wide-spreading trees, their arms uplifted in song, their leaves quivering with the melody. 

I say there are all these delights of leaf, moss, ripple, and shade storedaway somewhere in our memories, --dry bulbs of a preceding summer's bloom, that need only the first touch of spring, the first glorious day in June, to break out into flower. When they do break out, they are generallychilled in the blooming by the thousand and one difficulties of prolongedtravel, time of getting there and time of getting back again, expense, andlack of accommodations. 

If you live in New York--and really you should not live anywhereelse!--there are a few buttons a tired man can touch that will revive forhim all these delights in half an hour's walk, costing but a car-fare, androbbing no man or woman of time, even without the benefits of theeight-hour law. 

You touch one of these buttons when you plan to spend an afternoon alongthe Bronx. 

There are other buttons, of course. You can call up the edges of thePalisades, with their great sweep of river below, the seething, steamingcity beyond; or, you can say "Hello!" to the Upper Harlem, with itshouse-boats and floating restaurants; or you can ring up Westchester andits picturesque waterline. But you cannot get them all together in half anhour except in one place, and that is along the Bronx. 

The Bronx is the forgotten, the overlooked, the "disremembered, " as theprovincial puts it. Somebody may know where it begins--I do not. I onlyknow where it ends. What its early life may be, away up near White Plains, what farms it waters, what dairies it cools, what herds it refreshes, Iknow not. I only know that when I get off at Woodlawn--that City of theSilent--it comes down from somewhere up above the railroad station, andthat it "takes a header, " as the boys say, under an old mill, abandonedlong since, and then, like another idler, goes singing along through openmeadows, and around big trees in clumps, their roots washed bare, and thenover sandy stretches reflecting the flurries of yellow butterflies, andthen around a great hill, and so on down to Laguerre's. 

Of course, when it gets to Laguerre's I know all about it. I know the oldrotting landing-wharf where Monsieur moors his boats, --the one with thelittle seat is still there; and Lucette's big eyes are just as brown, andher hair just as black, and her stockings and slippers just as dainty onSundays as when first I knew her. And the wooden bench is still there, where the lovers used to sit; only Monsieur, her father, tells me thatFrançois works very late in the big city, --three mouths to feed now, yousee, --and only when le petit François is tucked away in his crib in thelong summer nights, and Lucette has washed the dishes and put on her bestapron, and the Bronx stops still in a quiet pool to listen, is the benchused as in the old time when Monsieur discovered the lovers by the flashof his lantern. 

Then I know where it floats along below Laguerre's, and pulls itselftogether in a very dignified way as it sails under the brand-newbridge, --the old one, propped up on poles, has long since paid tribute toa spring freshet, --and quickens its pace below the old Dye-house, --also awreck now (they say it is haunted), --and then goes slopping along in andout of the marshes, sousing the sunken willow roots, oozing through bedsof weeds and tangled vines. 

But only a very little while ago did I know where it began to leave offall its idle ways and took really to the serious side of life; when itbegan rushing down long, stony ravines, plunging over respectable, well-to-do masonry dams, skirting once costly villas, whispering betweendark defiles of rock, and otherwise disporting itself as becomes awell-ordered, conventional, self-respecting mountain stream, uncontaminated by the encroachments and frivolities of civilized life. 

All this begins at Fordham. Not exactly at Fordham, for you must walk dueeast from the station for half a mile, climb a fence, and strike throughthe woods before you hear its voice and catch the gleam of its tumblingcurrent. 

They will all be there when you go--all the quaint nooks, all the delightsof leaf, moss, ripple, and shade, of your early memories. And in thehalf-hour, too, --less if you are quick-footed, --from your desk or shop inthe great city. 

No, you never heard of it. I knew that before you said a word. You thoughtit was the dumping-ground of half the cast-off tinware of the earth; thatonly the shanty, the hen-coop, and the stable overhung its sluggishwaters, and only the carpet shaker, the sod gatherer, and the trampinfested its banks. 

I tell you that in all my wanderings in search of the picturesque, nothingwithin a day's journey is half as charming. That its stretches of meadow, willow clumps, and tangled densities are as lovely, fresh, and enticing ascan be found--yes, within a thousand miles of your door. That the rocksare encrusted with the thickest of moss and lichen, gray, green, black, and brilliant emerald. That the trees are superb, the solitude and restcomplete. That it is finer, more subtle, more exquisite than its sisterbrooks in the denser forest, because that here and there it shows thetrace of some human touch, --and nature is never truly picturesque withoutit, --the broken-down fence, the sagging bridge, and vine-covered roof. 

But you must go _now_. 

Now, before the grip of the great city has been fastened upon it; beforethe axe of the "dago" clears out the wilderness of underbrush; before thelandscape gardener, the sanitary engineer, and the contractor pounce uponit and strangle it; before the crimes of the cast-iron fountain, thevarnished grapevine arbor, with seats to match, the bronze statuespresented by admiring groups of citizens, the rambles, malls, andcement-lined caverns, are consummated; before the gravel walk confinesyour steps, and the granite curbing imprisons the flowers, as if they, too, would escape. 

Now, when the tree lies as it falls; when the violets bloom and are therefor the picking; when the dogwood sprinkles the bare branches with whitestars, and the scent of the laurel fills the air. 

Touch the button some day soon for an hour along the Bronx. 

ANOTHER DOG

Do not tell me dogs cannot talk. I know better. I saw it all myself. Itwas at Sterzing, that most picturesque of all the Tyrolean villages on theItalian slope of the Brenner, with its long, single street, zigzagged likea straggling path in the snow, --perhaps it was laid out in that way, --andits little open square, with shrine and rude stone fountain, surrounded bywomen in short skirts and hobnailed shoes, dipping their buckets. On bothsides of this street ran queer arcades sheltering shops, their doorwayspiled with cheap stuffs, fruit, farm implements, and the like, and at thefar end, it was almost the last house in the town, stood the old inn, where you breakfast. Such an old, old inn! with swinging sign framed byfantastic iron work, and decorated with overflows of foaming ale in greenmugs, crossed clay pipes, and little round dabs of yellow-brown cakes. There was a great archway, too, wide and high, with enormous, barn-likedoors fronting on this straggling, zigzag, sabot-trodden street. Underthis a cobble-stone pavement led to the door of the coffee-room and out tothe stable beyond. These barn-like doors keep out the driving snows andthe whirls of sleet and rain, and are slammed to behind horse, sleigh, andall, if not in the face, certainly in the very teeth of the winter gale, while the traveler disentangles his half-frozen legs at his leisure, almost within sight of the blazing fire of the coffee-room within. 

Under this great archway, then, against one of these doors, his big pawsjust inside the shadow line, --for it was not winter, but a brilliantsummer morning, the grass all dusted with powdered diamonds, the sky aturquoise, the air a joy, --under this archway, I say, sat a big St. Bernard dog, squat on his haunches, his head well up, like a grenadier onguard. His eyes commanded the approaches down the road, up the road, andacross the street; taking in the passing peddler with the tinware, and thegirl with a basket strapped to her back, her fingers knitting for dearlife, not to mention so unimportant an object as myself swinging down theroad, my iron-shod alpenstock hammering the cobbles. 

He made no objection to my entering, neither did he receive me with anyshow of welcome. There was no bounding forward, no wagging of the tail, noaimless walking around for a moment, and settling down in another spot;nor was there any sudden growl or forbidding look in the eye. None ofthese things occurred to him, for none of these things was part of hisduty. The landlord would do the welcoming, the blue-shirted porter take myknapsack and show me the way to the coffee-room. His business was to sitstill and guard that archway. Paying guests, and those known to thefamily, --yes! But stray mountain goats, chickens, inquisitive, pushingpeddlers, pigs, and wandering dogs, --well, he would look out for these. 

While the cutlets and coffee were being fried and boiled, I dragged achair across the road and tilted it back out of the sun against the wallof a house. I, too, commanded a view down past the blacksmith shop, wherethey were heating a huge iron tire to clap on the hind wheel of adiligence, and up the street as far as the little square where the womenwere still clattering about on the cobbles, their buckets on theirshoulders. This is how I happened to be watching the dog. 

The more I looked at him, the more strongly did his personality impressme. The exceeding gravity of his demeanor! The dignified attitude! Thequiet, silent reserve! The way he looked at you from under his eyebrows, not eagerly, nor furtively, but with a self-possessed, competent air, quite like a captain of a Cunarder scanning a horizon from the bridge, ora French gendarme, watching the shifting crowds from one of the littlestone circles anchored out in the rush of the boulevards, --a look ofauthority backed by a sense of unlimited power. Then, too, there was sucha dignified cut to his hairy chops as they drooped over his teeth beneathhis black, stubby nose. His ears rose and fell easily, without undue hasteor excitement when the sound of horses' hoofs put him on his guard, or agoat wandered too near. Yet one could see that he was not a meddlesomedog, nor a snarler, no running out and giving tongue at each passingobject, not that kind of a dog at all! He was just a plain, substantial, well-mannered, dignified, self-respecting St. Bernard dog, who knew hisplace and kept it, who knew his duty and did it, and who would no morechase a cat than he would bite your legs in the dark. Put a cap with agold band on his head and he would really have made an ideal concierge. Even without the band, he concentrated in his person all the superiority, the repose, and exasperating reticence of that necessary concomitant ofContinental hotel life. 

Suddenly I noticed a more eager expression on his face. One ear wasunfurled, like a flag, and almost run to the masthead; the head was turnedquickly down the road. A sound of wheels was heard below the shop. Hisdogship straightened himself and stood on four legs, his tail waggingslowly. 

Another dog was coming. 

A great Danish hound, with white eyes, black-and-tan ears, and tail aslong and smooth as a policeman's night-club;--one of those sleek andshining dogs with powerful chest and knotted legs, a little bowed infront, black lips, and dazzling, fang-like teeth. He was spattered withbrown spots, and sported a single white foot. Altogether, he was a dog ofquality, of ancestry, of a certain position in his own land, --one who hadclearly followed his master's mountain wagon to-day as much for love ofadventure as anything else. A dog of parts, too, who could perhaps, huntthe wild boar, or give chase to the agile deer. He was certainly not aninn dog. He was rather a palace dog, a chateau, or a shooting-box dog, who, in his off moments, trotted behind hunting carts filled with guns, sportsmen in knee-breeches, or in front of landaus when my lady wentan-airing. 

And with all this, and quite naturally, he was a dog of breeding, who, while he insisted on his own rights, respected those of others. I saw thisbefore he had spoken ten words to the concierge, --the St. Bernard dog, Imean. For he did talk to him, and the conversation was just as plain tome, tilted back against the wall, out of the sun, waiting for my cutletsand coffee, as if I had been a dog myself, and understood each word of it. 

First, he walked up sideways, his tail wagging and straight out, like apatent towel-rack. Then he walked round the concierge, who followed hismovements with becoming interest, wagging his own tail, straightening hisforelegs, and sidling around him kindly, as befitted the stranger's rankand quality, but with a certain dog-independence of manner, preserving hisown dignities while courteously passing the time of day, and intimating, by certain twists of his tail, that he felt quite sure his excellencywould like the air and scenery the farther he got up the pass, --allstrange dogs did. 

During this interchange of canine civilities, the landlord was helping outthe two men, the companions of the dog. One was round and pudgy, the otherlank and scrawny. Both were in knickerbockers, with green hats decoratedwith cock feathers and edelweiss. The blue-shirted porter carried in thebags and alpenstocks, closing the coffee-room door behind them. 

Suddenly the strange dog, who had been beguiled by the courteous manner ofthe concierge, realized that his master had disappeared. The man had beenhungry, no doubt, and half blinded by the glare of the sun. After themanner of his kind, he had dived into this shelter without a word to thedumb beast who had tramped behind his wheels, swallowing the dust hishorses kicked up. 

When the strange dog realized this, --I saw the instant the idea enteredhis mind, as I caught the sudden toss of the head, --he glanced quicklyabout with that uneasy, anxious look that comes into the face of a dogwhen he discovers that he is adrift in a strange place without his master. What other face is so utterly miserable, and what eyes so pleading, thetears just under the lids, as the lost dog's?

Then it was beautiful to see the St. Bernard. With a sudden twist of thehead he reassured the strange dog, --telling him, as plainly as could be, not to worry, the gentlemen were only inside, and would be out afterbreakfast. There was no mistaking what he said. It was done with apeculiar curving of the neck, a reassuring wag of the tail, a glancetoward the coffee-room, and a few frolicsome, kittenish jumps, these lastplainly indicating that as for himself the occasion was one of greathilarity, with absolutely no cause in it for anxiety. Then, if you couldhave seen that anxious look fade away from the face of the strange dog, the responsive, reciprocal wag of the night-club of a tail. If you couldhave caught the sudden peace that came into his eyes, and have seen him ashe followed the concierge to the doorway, dropping his ears, and throwinghimself beside him, looking up into his face, his tongue out, pantingafter the habit of his race, the white saliva dropping upon his paws. 

Then followed a long talk, conducted in side glances, and punctuated withthe quiet laughs of more slappings of tails on the cobbles, as theconcierge listened to the adventures of the stranger, or matched them withfunny experiences of his own. 

Here a whistle from the coffee-room window startled them. Even so rude abeing as a man is sometimes mindful of his dog. In an instant bothconcierge and stranger were on their feet, the concierge ready forwhatever would turn up, the stranger trying to locate the sound and hismaster. Another whistle, and he was off, bounding down the road, lookingwistfully at the windows, and rushing back bewildered. Suddenly it came tohim that the short cut to his master lay through the archway. 

Just here there was a change in the manner of the concierge. It was notgruff, nor savage, nor severe, --it was only firm and decided. With histail still wagging, showing his kindness and willingness to oblige, butwith spine rigid and hair bristling, he explained clearly and succinctlyto that strange dog how absolutely impossible it would be for him topermit his crossing the archway. Up went the spine of the stranger, andout went his tail like a bar of steel, the feet braced, and the whole bodytaut as standing rigging. But the concierge kept on wagging his tail, though his hair still bristled, --saying as plainly as he could:--

"My dear sir, do not blame me. I assure you that nothing in the worldwould give me more pleasure than to throw the whole house open to you; butconsider for a moment. My master puts me here to see that nobody entersthe inn but those whom he wishes to see, and that all other live-stock, especially dogs, shall on no account be admitted. " (This with head bent onone side and neck arched. ) "Now, while I have the most distinguishedconsideration for your dogship" (tail wagging violently), "and wouldgladly oblige you, you must see that my honor is at stake" (spine morerigid), "and I feel assured that under the circumstances you will notpress a request (low growl) which you must know would be impossible for meto grant. "

And the strange dog, gentleman as he was, expressed himself as entirelysatisfied with the very free and generous explanation. With tail waggingmore violently than ever, he assured the concierge that he understood hisposition exactly. Then wheeling suddenly, he bounded down the road. Thoughconvinced, he was still anxious. 

Then the concierge gravely settled himself once more on his haunches inhis customary place, his eyes commanding the view up and down and acrossthe road, where I sat still tilted back in my chair waiting for mycutlets, his whole body at rest, his face expressive of that quiet contentwhich comes from a sense of duties performed and honor untarnished. 

But the stranger had duties, too; he must answer the whistle, and find hismaster. His search down the road being fruitless, he rushed back to theconcierge, looking up into his face, his eyes restless and anxious. 

"If it were inconsistent with his honor to permit him to cross thethreshold, was there any other way he could get into the coffee-room?"This last with a low whine of uneasiness, and a toss of head. 

"Yes, certainly, " jumping to his feet, "why had he not mentioned itbefore? It would give him very great pleasure to show him the way to theside entrance. " And the St. Bernard, everything wagging now, walked withthe stranger to the corner, stopping stock still to point with his nose tothe closed door. 

Then the stranger bounded down with a scurry and plunge, nervously edgingup to the door, wagging his tail, and with a low, anxious whine springingone side and another, his paws now on the sill, his nose at the crack, until the door was finally opened, and he dashed inside. 

What happened in the coffee-room I do not know, for I could not see. I amwilling, however, to wager that a dog of his loyalty, dignity, and senseof duty did just what a dog of quality would do. No awkward springing athis master's chest with his dusty paws leaving marks on his vest front; norushing around chairs and tables in mad joy at being let in, alarmingwaitresses and children. Only a low whine and gurgle of delight, a rubbingof his cold nose against his master's hand, a low, earnest look up intohis face, so frank, so trustful, a look that carried no reproach for beingshut out, and only gratitude for being let in. 

A moment more, and he was outside again, head in air, looking for hisfriend. Then a dash, and he was around by the archway, licking theconcierge in the face, biting his neck, rubbing his nose under hisforelegs, saying over and over again how deeply he thanked him, --how gladand proud he was of his acquaintance, and how delighted he would be if hecame down to Vienna, or Milan, or wherever he did come from, so that hemight return his courtesies in some way, and make his stay pleasant. 

Just here the landlord called out that the cutlets and coffee were ready, and, man-like, I went in to breakfast. 

BROCKWAY'S HULK

I first saw Brockway's towards the close of a cold October day. Sinceearly morning I had been tramping and sketching about the northern suburbsof New York, and it was late in the afternoon when I reached the edge ofthat high ground overlooking the two rivers. I could see through anopening in the woods the outline of the great aqueduct, --a huge stonecentipede stepping across on its sturdy legs; the broad Hudson, with itssheer walls of rock, and the busy Harlem crowded with boats and bracedwith bridges. A raw wind was blowing, and a gray mist blurred the edges ofthe Palisades where they cut against the sky. 

As the darkness fell the wind increased, and scattered drops of rain, piloting the coming storm, warned me to seek a shelter. Shouldering mytrap and hurrying forward, I descended the hill, followed the road to theEast River, and, finding no boat, walked along the shore hoping to hail afisherman or some belated oarsman, and reach the station opposite. 

My search led me around a secluded cove edged with white sand and yellowmarsh grass, ending in a low, jutting point. Here I came upon a curioussort of dwelling, --half house, half boat. It might have passed for anabandoned barge, or wharf boat, too rotten to float and too worthless tobreak up, --the relic and record of some by-gone tide of phenomenal height. When I approached nearer it proved to be an old-fashioned canal-boat, sunkto the water line in the grass, its deck covered by a low-hipped roof. Midway its length was cut a small door, opening upon a short staging orportico which supported one end of a narrow, rambling bridge leading tothe shore. This bridge was built of driftwood propped up on shad poles. Over the door itself flapped a scrap of a tattered sail which served as anawning. Some pots of belated flowers bloomed on the sills of theill-shaped windows, and a wind-beaten vine, rooted in a fish basket, crowded into the door, as if to escape the coming winter. Nothing couldhave been more dilapidated or more picturesque. 

The only outward sign of life about the dwelling was a curl of bluesmoke. Without this signal of good cheer it had a menacing look, as itlay in its bed of mud glaring at me from under its eaves of eyebrows, shading eyes of windows a-glint in the fading light. 

I crossed the small beach strewn with oyster shells, ascended thetottering bridge, and knocked. The door was opened by a gray-bearded oldman in a rough jacket. He was bare-footed, his trousers rolled up abovehis ankles, like a boy's. 

"Can you help me across the river?" I asked. 

"Yes, perhaps I can. Come into the Hulk, " he replied, holding the dooragainst the gusts of wind. 

The room was small and low, with doors leading into two others. In itscentre, before a square stove, stood a young child cooking the eveningmeal. I saw no other inmates. 

"You are wet, " said the old man, laying his hand on my shoulder, feelingme over carefully; "come nearer the stove. "

The child brought a chair. As I dropped into it I caught his eye fixedupon me intently. 

"What are you?" he said abruptly, noting my glance, --"a peddler. " He saidthis standing over me, --his arms akimbo, his bare feet spread apart. 

"No, a painter, " I answered smiling; my trap had evidently misled him. 

He mused a little, rubbing his beard with his thumb and forefinger; then, making a mental inventory of my exterior, beginning with my slouch hat andtaking in each article down to my tramping shoes, he said slowly, --

"And poor?"

"Yes, we all are. " And I laughed; his manner made me a littleuncomfortable. 

My reply, however, seemed to reassure him. His features relaxed and a morekindly expression overspread his countenance. 

"And now, what are _you_?" I asked, offering him a cigarette as I spoke. 

"Me? Nothing, " he replied curtly, refusing it with a wave of his hand. "Only Brockway, --just Brockway, --that's all, --just Brockway. " He keptrepeating this in an abstracted way, as if the remark was addressed tohimself, the words dying in his throat. 

Then he moved to the door, took down an oilskin from a peg, and sayingthat he would get the boat ready, went out into the night, shutting thedoor behind him, his bare feet flapping like wet fish as he walked. 

I was not sorry I was going away so soon. The man and the place seemeduncanny. 

I roused myself and crossed the room, attracted by the contents of acupboard filled with cheap pottery and some bits of fine old Englishlustre. Then I examined the furniture of the curious interior, --thehigh-backed chairs, mahogany table, --one leg replaced with pine, --the hairsofa and tall clock in the corner by the door. They were all old and oncecostly, and all of a pattern of by-gone days. Everything was scrupulouslyclean, even to the strip of unbleached muslin hung at the small windows. 

The door blew in with a whirl of wind, and Brockway entered shaking thewet from his sou'wester. 

"You must wait, " he said. "Dan the brakeman has taken my boat to theRailroad Dock. He will return in an hour. If you are hungry, you can supwith us. Emily, set a place for the painter. "

His manner was more frank. He seemed less uncanny too. Perhaps he had beenin some special ill humor when I entered. Perhaps, too, he had beensuspicious of me; I had not thought of that before. 

The child spread the cloth and busied herself with the dishes and plates. She was about twelve years old, slightly built and neatly dressed. Hereyes were singularly large and expressive. The light brown hair about hershoulders held a tinge of gold when the lamplight shone upon it. 

Despite the evident poverty of the interior, a certain air of refinementpervaded everything. Even the old man's bare feet did not detract from it. These, by the way, he never referred to; it was evidently a habit withhim. I felt this refinement not only in the relics of what seemed todenote better days, but in the arrangement of the table, the placing ofthe tea tray and the providing of a separate pot for the hot water. Theirvoices, too, were low, characteristic of people who live alone and inpeace, --especially the old man's. 

Brockway resumed his seat and continued talking, asking about the city asif it were a thousand miles away instead of being almost at his door; ofthe artists, --their mode of life, their successes, etc. As he talked hiseye brightened and his manner became more gentle. It was only his outsidethat seemed to belong to an old boatman, roughened by the open air, withhands hard and brown. Yet these were well shaped, with tapering fingers. One bore a gold ring curiously marked and worn to a thread. 

I asked about the fishing, hoping the subject would lead him to talk ofhis own life, and so solve the doubt in my mind as to his class andantecedents. His replies showed his thorough knowledge of his trade. Hedeplored the scarcity of bass, now that the steamboats and factoriesfouled the river; the decrease of the oysters, of which he had severalbeds, all being injured by the same cause. Then he broke out against theencroachments of the real estate pirates, as he called them, staking outlots behind the Hulk and destroying his privacy. 

"But you own the marsh?" I asked carelessly. I saw instantly in his facethe change working in his mind. He looked at me searchingly, almostfiercely, and said, weighing each word, --

"Not one foot, young man, --do you hear?--not one foot! Own nothing butwhat you see. But this hulk is mine, --mine from the mud to the ridgepole, with every rotten timber in it. "

The outburst was so sudden that I rose from my chair. For a moment heseemed consumed with an inward rage, --not directed to me in anyway, --more as if the memory of some past wrong had angered him. 

Here the child, with an anxious face, rose quickly from her seat by thewindow, and laid her hand on his. 

The old man looked into her face for a moment, and then, as if her touchhad softened him, rose courteously, took her arm, seated her at the tableand then me. In a moment more he had regained his gentle manner. 

The meal was a frugal one, broiled fish and potatoes, a loaf of bread, andstewed apples served in a cut glass dish with broken handles. 

The meal over, the girl replaced the cotton cloth with a red one, retrimmed the lamps, and disappeared into an adjoining room, carrying thedishes. The old man lighted his pipe and seated himself in a large chair, smoking on in silence. I opened my portfolio and began retouching thesketches of the morning. 

Outside the weather grew more boisterous. The wind increased; the rainthrashed against the small windows, the leakage dropping on the floor likethe slow ticking of a clock. 

As the evening wore on I began to be uneasy, speculating as to thepossibility of my reaching home that night. To be entirely frank, I didnot altogether like my surroundings or my host. One moment he was like achild; the next there came into his face an expression of uncontrollablehate that sent a shiver through me. But for the clear, steady gaze of hiseye I should have doubted his sanity. 

There was no sign of the return of the boat. The old man became restlesshimself. He said nothing, but every now and then he would peer through thewindow and raise his hand to his ear as if listening. It was evident thathe did not want me over night if he could help it. This partly reassuredme. 

Finally, he laid down his pipe, put on his oilskin again, lighted alantern, and pulled the door behind him, the wind struggling to force anentrance. 

In a few minutes he returned with lantern out, the rain glistening on hiswhite, bushy beard. Without a word, he hung up his dripping garments, placed the lantern on the floor, and called the child into the adjoiningroom. When he came back, he laid his hand on my shoulder and said, with atone in his voice that was unmistakable in its sincerity:--

"I am sorry, friend, but the boat cannot get back to-night. You seem likea decent man, and I believe you are. I knew some of your kind once, and Ialways liked them. You must stay where you are to-night, and have Emily'sroom. "

I thanked him, but hoped the weather would clear. As to taking Emily'sroom, this I could not do. I would not, of course, disturb the child. Ifthere was no chance of my getting away, I said, I preferred taking thefloor, with my trap for a pillow. But he would not hear of it. He was notaccustomed, he said, to have people stay with him, especially of lateyears; but when they did, they could not sleep on the floor. 

The child's room proved to be the old cabin of the canal-boat, with thethree steps leading down from the decks. The little slanting windows werestill there, and so were the bunks, --or, rather, the lower one. The upperone had been altered into a sort of closet. On one side hung a row ofshelves on which were such small knickknacks as a child always loves, --aChristmas card or two, some books, a pin-cushion backed with shells, adoll's bonnet, besides some trinkets and strings of beads. Next to thisran a row of hooks covered by a curtain of cheap calico, half concealingher few simple dresses, with her muddy little shoes and frayed straw hatin the farther corner. 

Above the head-board hung the likeness of a woman with large eyes, herhair pushed back from a wide, high forehead. It was framed in anold-fashioned black frame with a gold mat. Not a beautiful face, but sointeresting and so expressive that I looked at it half a dozen timesbefore I could return it to its place. 

Everything was as clean and fresh as care could make it. When I dropped tosleep, the tide was swashing the floor beneath me, the rain still sousingand drenching the little windows and the roof. 

 * * * * *

The following week, one crisp, fresh morning, I was again at the Hulk. Myexperience the night of the storm had given me more confidence inBrockway, although the mystery of his life was still impenetrable. As Irounded the point, the old man and little Emily were just pushing off inthe boat. He was on his way to his oyster beds a short distance off, hisgrappling-tongs and basket beside him. In his quick, almost gruff way, hewelcomed me heartily and insisted on my staying to dinner. He would beback in an hour with a mess of oysters to help out. "Somebody has beenraking my beds and I must look after them, " he called to me as he rowedaway. 

I drew my own boat well up on the gravel, out of reach of the making tide, and put my easel close to the water's edge. I wanted to paint the Hulk andthe river with the bluffs beyond. Before I had blocked in my sky, I caughtsight of Brockway rowing hurriedly back, followed by a shell holding halfa dozen oarsmen from one of the boating clubs down the river. The crewwere out for a spin in their striped shirts and caps; the coxswain wascalling to him, but he made no reply. 

"Say, Mr. Brockway! will you please fill our water-keg? We have come offfrom the boat-house without a drop, " I heard one call out. 

"No; not to save your lives, I wouldn't!" he shouted back, his boatstriking the beach. Springing out and catching Emily by the shoulder, pushing her before him, --"Go into the Hulk, child. " Then, lowering hisvoice to me, "They are all alike, d--- them, all alike. Just such a gang!I know 'em, I know 'em. Get you a drink? I'll see you dead first, d---you. See you dead first; do you hear?"

His face was livid, his eyes blazing with anger. The crew turned and shotup the river, grumbling as they went. Brockway unloaded his boat, clutching the tongs as if they were weapons; then, tying the painter to astake, sat down and watched me at work. Soon Emily crept back and slippedone hand around her grandfather's neck. 

"Do you think you can ever do that, little Frowsy-head?" he said, pointingto my sketch. I looked up. His face was as serene and sunny as that of thechild beside him. 

Gradually I came to know these people better. I never could tell why, ourtastes being so dissimilar. I fancied, sometimes, from a remark the oldman once made, that he had perhaps known some one who had been a painter, and that I reminded him of his friend, and on that account he trusted me;for I often detected him examining my brushes, spreading the bristles onhis palm, or holding them to the light with a critical air. I could see, too, that their touch was not new to him. 

As for me, the picturesqueness of the Hulk, the simple mode of life of theinmates, their innate refinement, the unselfish devotion of little Emilyto the old man, the conflicting elements in his character, hisfierceness--almost brutality--at times, his extreme gentleness at others, his rough treatment of every stranger who attempted to land on his shore, his tenderness over the child, all combined to pique my curiosity to knowsomething of his earlier life. 

Moreover, I constantly saw new beauties in the old Hulk. It always seemedto adapt itself to the changing moods of the weather, --being grave or gayas the skies lowered or smiled. In the dull November days, when the cloudsdrifted in straight lines of slaty gray, it assumed a weird, forbiddinglook. When the wind blew a gale from the northeast, and the back water ofthe river overflowed the marsh, --submerging the withered grass andbreaking high upon the foot-bridge, --it seemed for all the world like theoriginal tenement of old Noah himself, derelict ever since hisdisembarkation, and stranded here after centuries of buffetings. On otherdays it had a sullen air, settling back in its bed of mud as if tired outwith all these miseries, glaring at you with its one eye of a windowaflame with the setting sun. 

As the autumn lost itself in the winter, I continued my excursions to theHulk, sketching in the neighborhood, gathering nuts with little Emily, orhelping the old man with his nets. 

On one of these days a woman, plainly but neatly dressed, met me at theedge of the wood, inquired if I had seen a child pass my way, and quicklydisappeared in the bushes. I noticed her anxious face and the pathos ofher eyes when I answered. Then the incident passed out of my mind. A fewdays later I saw her again, sitting on a pile of stones as if waiting forsome one. Little Emily had seen her too, and stopped to talk to her. Icould follow their movements over my easel. As soon as the child caught myeye she started up and ran towards the Hulk, the woman darting again intothe bushes. When I questioned Emily about it she hesitated, and said itwas a poor woman who had lost her little girl and who was very sad. 

Brockway himself became more and more a mystery. I sought everyopportunity to coax from him something of his earlier life, but he neverreferred to it but once, and then in a way that left the subject moreimpenetrable than ever. 

I was speaking of a recent trip abroad, when he turned abruptly andsaid:--

"Is the Milo still in that little room in the Louvre?"

"Yes, " I answered, surprised. 

"I am glad of that. Against that red curtain she is the most beautifulthing I know. "

"When did you see the Venus?" I asked, as quietly as my astonishment wouldallow. 

"Oh, some years ago, when I was abroad. "

He was bending over and putting some new teeth in his oyster tongs at thetime, riveting them on a flat-iron with a small hammer. 

I agreed with him and asked carelessly what year that was and what he wasdoing in Paris, but he affected not to hear me and went on with hishammering, remarking that the oysters were running so small that someslipped through his tongs and he was getting too old to rake for themtwice. It was only a glimpse of some part of his past, but it was all Icould get. He never referred to it again. 

December of that year was unusually severe. The snow fell early and theriver was closed before Christmas. This shut off all communication withthe Brockways except by the roundabout way I had first followed, over thehills from the west. So my weekly tramps ceased. 

Late in the following February I heard, through Dan the brakeman, that theold man was greatly broken and had not been out of the Hulk for weeks. Istarted at once to see him. The ice was adrift and running with the tide, and the passage across was made doubly difficult by the floating cakesshelved one upon the other. When I reached the Hulk, the only sign of lifewas the thin curl of smoke from the rusty pipe. Even the snow of the nightbefore lay unbroken on the bridge, showing that no foot had crossed itthat morning. I knocked, and Emily opened the door. 

"Oh, it's the painter, grandpa! We thought it might be the doctor. "

He was sitting in an armchair by the fire, wrapped in a blanket. Holdingout his hand, he motioned to a chair and said feebly:--

"How did you hear?"

"The brakeman told me. "

"Yes, Dan knows. He comes over Sundays. "

He was greatly changed, --his skin drawn and shrunken, --his grizzled beard, once so great a contrast to his ruddy skin, only added to the pallor ofhis face. He had had a slight "stroke, " he thought. It had passed off, butleft him very weak. 

I sat down and, to change the current of his thoughts, told him of theriver outside, and the shelving ice, of my life since I had seen him, andwhatever I thought would interest him. He made no reply, except inmonosyllables, his head buried in his hands. Soon the afternoon lightfaded, and I rose to go. Then he roused himself, threw the blanket fromhis shoulders and said in something of his old voice:--

"Don't leave me. Do you hear? Don't leave me!" this was with anauthoritative gesture. Then, his voice faltering and with almost a tendertone, "Please help me through this. My strength is almost gone. "

Later, when the night closed in, he called Emily to him, pushed her hairback and, kissing her forehead, said:--

"Now go to bed, little Frowsy-head. The painter will stay with me. "

I filled his pipe, threw some dry driftwood in the stove, and drew mychair nearer. He tried to smoke for a moment, but laid his pipe down. Forsome minutes he kept his eyes on the crackling wood; then, reaching hishand out, laid it on my arm and said slowly:--

"If it were not for the child, I would be glad that the end was near. "

"Has she no one to care for her?" I asked. 

"Only her mother. When I am gone, she will come. "

"Her mother? Why, Brockway! I did not know Emily's mother was alive. Whynot send for her now, " I said, looking into his shrunken face. "You need awoman's care at once. "

His grasp tightened on my arm as he half rose from the chair, his eyesblazing as I had seen them that morning when he cursed the boat's crew. 

"But not that woman! Never, while I live!" and he bent down his eyes onmine. "Look at me. Men sometimes cut you to the quick, and now and then awoman can leave a scar that never heals; but your own child, --do youhear?--your little girl, the only one you ever had, the one you laid storeby and loved and dreamed dreams of, --_she can tear your heart out_. That'swhat Emily's mother did for me. Oh, a fine gentleman, with his yachts, andboats, and horses, --a fine young aristocrat! He was a thief, I tell you, ablackguard, a beast, to steal my girl. Damn him! Damn him! Damn him!" andhe fell back in his chair exhausted. 

"Where is she now?" I asked cautiously, trying to change his thoughts. Iwas afraid of the result if the outburst continued. 

"God knows! Somewhere in the city. She comes here every now and then, " ina weaker voice. "Emily meets her and they go off together when I am outraking my beds. Not long ago I met her outside on the foot-bridge; she didnot look up; her hair is gray now, and her face is thin and old, and sosad, --not as it once was. God forgive me, --not as it once was!" He leanedforward, his face buried in his hands. 

Then he staggered to his feet, took the lamp from the table, and broughtme the picture I had seen in Emily's room the night of the storm. 

"You can see what she was like. It was taken the year before his death andcame with Emily's clothes. She found it in her box. "

I held it to the light. The large, dreamy eyes seemed even more pleadingthan when I first had seen the picture; and the smooth hair pushed backfrom the high forehead, I now saw, marked all the more clearly the linesof anxious care which were then beginning to creep over the sweet youngface. It seemed to speak to me in an earnest, pleading way, as if forhelp. 

"She is your daughter, Brockway, don't forget that. "

He made no reply. After a pause, I went on, "And a girl's heart is not herown. Was it all her fault?"

He pushed his chair back and stood erect, one hand raised above theother, clutching the blanket around his throat, the end trailing on thefloor. By the flickering light of the dying fire he looked like some gauntspectre towering above me, the blackness of the shadows only intensifyingthe whiteness of his face. 

"Go on, go on. I know what you would say. You would have me wipe out thepast and forget. Forget the home she ruined and the dead mother's heartshe broke. Forget the weary months abroad, the tramping of London'sstreets looking into every woman's face, afraid it was she. Forget theseyears of exile and poverty, living here in this hulk like a dog, my veryname unknown. When I am dead, they will say I have been cruel to her. Godknows, perhaps I have; listen!" Then, glancing cautiously towards Emily'sroom and lowering his voice, he stooped down, his white sunken face closeto mine, his eyes burning, gazed long and steadily into my face as ifreading my very thoughts, and then, gathering himself up, said slowly:"No, no. I will not Let it all be buried with me. I cannot, --cannot!" andsank into his chair. 

After a while he raised his head, picked up the portrait from the tableand looked into its eyes eagerly, holding it in both hands; and mutteringto himself, crossed the room, and threw himself on his bed. I stirred thefire, wrapped my coat about me and fell asleep on the lounge. Later, Iawoke and crept into his room. He was lying on his back, the picture stillclasped in his hands. 

 * * * * *

A week later, I reached the landing opposite the Hulk. There I met Dan'swife. Dan himself had been away for several days. She told me that twonights before she had been roused by a woman who had come up on the nightexpress and wanted to be rowed over to the Hulk at once. She was in greatdistress, and did not mind the danger. Dan was against taking her, the icebeing heavy and the night dark; but she begged so hard he had not theheart to refuse her. She seemed to be expected, for Emily was waiting witha lantern on the bridge and put her arms around her and led her into theHulk. 

Dan being away, I found another boatman, and we pushed out into the river. I stood up in the boat and looked over the waste of ice and snow. Underthe leaden sky lay the lifeless Hulk. About the entrance and on the bridgewere black dots of figures, standing out in clear relief like crows onthe unbroken snow. 

As I drew nearer, the dots increased in size and fell into line, theprocession slowly creeping along the tottering bridge, crunching the snowunder foot. Then I made out little Emily and a neatly-dressed womanheavily veiled. 

When the shore was reached, I joined some fishermen who stood about on thebeach, uncovering their heads as the coffin passed. An open wagon waitednear the propped-up foot-bridge of the Hulk, the horse covered with ablack blanket. Two men, carrying the body, crouched down and pushed thebox into the wagon. The blanket was then taken from the horse and wrappedover the pine casket. 

The woman drew nearer and tenderly smoothed its folds. Then she turned, lifted her veil, and in a low voice thanked the few bystanders for theirkindness. 

It was the same face I had seen with Emily in the woods, --the same thatlay upon his heart the last night I saw him alive.