A THOUSAND AND ONE AFTERNOONS IN CHICAGO

by

Ben Hecht

Preface

It was a day in the spring of 1921. Dismal shadows, really Hechtianshadows, filled the editorial "coop" in _The Chicago Daily News_building. Outside the rain was slanting down in the way that Hecht's ownrain always slants. In walked Hecht. He had been divorced from our stafffor some weeks, and had married an overdressed, blatant creature calledPublicity. Well, and how did he like Publicity? The answer was written inhis sullen eyes; it was written on his furrowed brow, and in the savageway he stabbed the costly furniture with his cane. The alliance withPublicity was an unhappy one. Good pay? Oh yes, preposterous pay. Luncheons with prominent persons? Limitless luncheons. Easy work, shorthours, plenteous taxis, hustling associates, glittering results. But--buthe couldn't stand it, that was all. He just unaccountably, illogically, and damnably couldn't stand it. If he had to attend another luncheon andeat sweet-breads and peach melba and listen to some orator pronounce aspeech he, Hecht, had written, and hear some Magnate outline a campaignwhich he, Hecht, had invented . .. And that wasn't all, either. .. . Gentlemen, he just couldn't stand it. 

Well, the old job was open. 

Ben shuddered. It wasn't the old job that he was thinking about. He had anew idea. Something different. Maybe impossible. 

And here followed specifications for "One Thousand and One Afternoons. "The title, I believe, came later, along with details like the salary. Hangthe salary! I doubt if Ben even heard the figure that was named. He merelysaid "Uh-huh!" and proceeded to embellish his dream--his dream of adepartment more brilliant, more artistic, truer (I think he said truer), broader and better than anything in the American press; a literarythriller, a knock-out . .. And so on. 

So much for the mercenary spirit in which "One Thousand and OneAfternoons" was conceived. 

A week or so later Ben came in again, bringing actual manuscript for eightor ten stories. He was haggard but very happy. It was clear that he hadsat up nights with those stories. He thumbed them over as though he hatedto let them go. They were the first fruits of his Big Idea--the idea thatjust under the edge of the news as commonly understood, the news oftenflatly and unimaginatively told, lay life; that in this urban life theredwelt the stuff of literature, not hidden in remote places, either, butwalking the downtown streets, peering from the windows of sky scrapers, sunning itself in parks and boulevards. He was going to be itsinterpreter. His was to be the lens throwing city life into new colors, his the microscope revealing its contortions in life and death. It was nonewspaper dream at all, in fact. It was an artist's dream. And it hadbegun to come true. Here were the stories. .. . Hoped I'd like 'em. 

"One Thousand and One Afternoons" were launched in June, 1921. They werepresented to the public as journalism extraordinary; journalism thatinvaded the realm of literature, where in large part, journalism reallydwells. They went out backed by confidence in the genius of Ben Hecht. This, if you please, took place three months before the publication of"Erik Dorn, " when not a few critics "discovered" Hecht. It is not too muchto say that the first full release of Hecht's literary powers was in "OneThousand and One Afternoons. " The sketches themselves reveal his creativedelight in them; they ring with the happiness of a spirit at last free totell what it feels; they teem with thought and impressions long treasured;they are a recital of songs echoing the voices of Ben's own city andperformed with a virtuosity granted to him alone. They announced to aChicago audience which only half understood them the arrival of a prodigywhose precise significance is still unmeasured. 

"Erik Dorn" was published. "Gargoyles" took form. Hecht wrote a play ineight days. He experimented with a long manuscript to be begun andfinished within eighteen hours. "One Thousand and One Afternoons"continued to pour out of him. His letter-box became too small for hismail. He was bombarded with eulogies, complaints, arguments, "tips, " andsolicitations. His clipping bureau rained upon him violent reviews of"Dorn. " His publishers submerged him with appeals for manuscript. Syndicates wired him, with "name your own terms. " New York editors triedto steal him. He continued to write "One Thousand and One Afternoons. " Hebecame weary, nervous and bilious; he spent four days in bed, and gave uptobacco. Nothing stopped "One Thousand and One Afternoons. " One a day, onea day! Did the flesh fail, and topics give out, and the typewriter becamean enemy? No matter. The venturesome undertaking of writing good newspapersketches, one per diem, had to be carried out. We wondered how he did it. We saw him in moods when he almost surrendered, when the strain ofjuggling with novels, plays and with contracts, revises, adblurbs, sketches, nearly finished "One Thousand and One Afternoon. " But a yearwent by, and through all that year there had not been an issue of _TheChicago Daily News_ without a Ben Hecht sketch. And still themanuscripts dropped down regularly on the editor's desk. Comedies, dialogues, homilies, one-act tragedies, storiettes, sepia panels, word-etchings, satires, tone-poems, fuges, bourrees, --something differentevery day. Rarely anything hopelessly out of key. Stories seemingly bornout of nothing, and written--to judge by the typing--in ten minutes, butin reality, as a rule, based upon actual incident, developed by a periodof soaking in the peculiar chemicals of Ben's nature, and written withmuch sophistication in the choice of words. There were dramatic studiesoften intensely subjective, lit with the moods of Ben himself, not of thethings dramatized. There were self-revelations characteristically frankand provokingly debonaire. There was comment upon everything under thesun; assaults upon all the idols of antiquity, of mediaevalism, ofneo-boobism. There were raw chunks of philosophy, delivered with gusto andsometimes with inaccuracy. There were subtle jabs at well-establishedBabbitry. And besides, of the thousand and one Hechts visible in thesketches, there were several that appear rarely, if at all, in his novels:The whimsical Hecht, sailing jocosely on the surface of life; the wittyHecht, flinging out novel word-combinations, slang and snappy endings;Hecht the child-lover and animal-lover, with a special tenderness fordogs; Hecht the sympathetic, betraying his pity for the aged, theforgotten, the forlorn. In the novels he is one of his selves, in thesketches he is many of them. Perhaps this is why he officially spokeslightingly of them at times, why he walked in some days, flung down amanuscript, and said: "Here's a rotten story. " Yet it must be that hefound pleasure in playing the whole scale, in hopping from the G-string tothe E-, in surprising his public each day with a new whim or a recentlydiscovered broken image. I suspect, anyhow, that he delighted in makinghis editor stare and fumble in the Dictionary of Taboos. 

Ben will deny most of this. He denies everything. It doesn't matter. Itdoesn't even matter much, Ben, that your typing was sometimes so blind orthat your spelling was occasionally atrocious, or that it took threeproof-readers and a Library of Universal Knowledge to check up yourhistorical allusions. 

 * * * * *

The preface is proving horribly inadequate. It is not at all what Benwants. It does not seem possible to support his theory that "One Thousandand One Afternoons, " springing from a literary passion so authentic andcontinuing so long with a fervor and variety unmatched in newspaperwriting, are hack-work, done for a meal ticket. They must have had themomentum of a strictly artistic inspiration and gained further momentumfrom the need of expression, from pride in the subtle use of words, froman ardent interest in the city and its human types. Yes, they arenewspaper work; they are the writings of a reporter emancipated from theassignment book and the copy-desk; a reporter gone to the heaven ofreporters, where they write what they jolly well please and get it printedtoo! But the sketches are also literature of which I think Ben cannot bealtogether ashamed; else why does he print them in a book, and how couldMr. Rosse be moved to make the striking designs with which the book isembellished? Quite enough has been said. The author, the newspaper editor, the proof-readers and revisers have done their utmost with "One Thousandand One Afternoons. " The prefacer confesses failure. It is the turn of thereader. He may welcome the sketches in book form; he may turn scornfullyfrom them and leave them to moulder in the stock-room of Messrs. Covici-McGee. To paraphrase an old comic opera lyric:

 "You never can tell about a reader; Perhaps that's why we think them all so nice. You never find two alike at any one time And you never find one alike twice. You're never very certain that they read you, And you're often very certain that they don't. Though an author fancy still that he has the strongest will It's the reader has the strongest won't. "

Yet I think that the book will succeed. It may succeed so far that Mr. Hecht will hear some brazen idiots remarking: "I like it better than'Dorn' or 'Gargoyles'. " Yes, just that ruinous thing may happen. But if itdoes Ben cannot blame his editor. 

HENRY JUSTIN SMITH. 

Chicago, July 1, 1922

CONTENTS

A Self-Made Man

An Iowa Humoresque

An Old Audience Speaks

Clocks and Owl Cars

Confessions

Coral, Amber and Jade

Coeur De Lion and The Soup and Fish

Dapper Pete and The Sucker Play

Dead Warrior

Don Quixote and His Last Windmill

"Fa'n Ta Mig!"

Fanny

Fantastic Lollypops

Fog Patterns

Grass Figures

Ill-Humoresque

Jazz Band Impressions

Letters

Meditation in E Minor

Michigan Avenue

Mishkin's Minyon

Mottka

Mr. Winkelberg

Mrs. Rodjezke's Last Job

Mrs. Sardotopolis' Evening Off

Night Diary

Nirvana

Notes For A Tragedy

On A Day Like This

Ornaments

Pandora's Box

Pitzela's Son

Queen Bess Feast

Ripples

Satraps At Play

Schopenhauer's Son

Sergt. Kuzick's Waterloo

Sociable Gamblers

Ten-Cent Wedding Rings

The Auctioneer's Wife

The Dagger Venus

The Exile

The Great Traveler The Indestructible Masterpiece

The Lake

The Little Fop

The Man From Yesterday

The Man Hunt

The Man With A Question

The Mother

The Pig

The Snob

The Soul of Sing Lee

The Sybarite

The Tattooer

The Thing In The Dark

The Watch Fixer

The Way Home

Thumbnail Lotharios

Thumbs Up and Down

To Bert Williams

Vagabondia

Waterfront Fancies

Where The "Blues" Sound

World Conquerors

FANNY

Why did Fanny do this? The judge would like to know. The judge would liketo help her. The judge says: "Now, Fanny, tell me all about it. "

All about it, all about it! Fanny's stoical face stares at the floor. IfFanny had words. But Fanny has no words. Something heavy in her heart, something vague and heavy in her thought--these are all that Fanny has. 

Let the policewoman's records show. Three years ago Fanny came to Chicagofrom a place called Plano. Red-cheeked and black-haired, vivid-eyed andlike an ear of ripe corn dropped in the middle of State and Madisonstreets, Fanny came to the city. 

Ah, the lonely city, with its crowds and its lonely lights. The lonelybuildings busy with a thousand lonelinesses. People laughing and hurryingalong, people eager-eyed for something; summer parks and streets whitewith snow, the city moon like a distant window, pretty gewgaws in thestores--these are a part of Fanny's story. 

The judge wants to know. Fanny's eyes look up. A dog takes a kick likethis, with eyes like this, large, dumb and brimming with pathos. The dog'smaster is a mysterious and inexplicable dispenser of joys and sorrows. Hiscaresses and his beatings are alike mysterious; their reasons seldom to bediscerned, never fully understood. 

Sometimes in this court where the sinners are haled, where "poised andprim and particular, society stately sits, " his honor has a moment ofconfusion. Eyes lift themselves to him, eyes dumb and brimming withpathos. Eyes stare out of sordid faces, evil faces, wasted faces and saysomething not admissible as evidence. Eyes say: "I don't know, I don'tknow. What is it all about?"

These are not to be confused with the eyes that plead shrewdly for mercy, with eyes that feign dramatic naïvetés and offer themselves like primpinglittle penitents to his honor. His honor knows them fairly well. Andunderstands them. They are eyes still bargaining with life. 

But Fanny's eyes. Yes, the judge would like to know. A vagueness comesinto his precise mind. He half-hears the familiar accusation that thepoliceman drones, a terribly matter-of-fact drone. 

Another raid on a suspected flat. Routine, routine. Evil has its eternalroot in the cities. A tireless Satan, bored with the monotony of his rôle;a tireless Justice, bored with the routine of tears and pleadings, liesand guilt. 

There is no story in all this. Once his honor, walking home from abanquet, looked up and noticed the stars. Meaningless, immutable stars. There was nothing to be seen by looking at them. They were mysteries to bedismissed. Like the mystery of Fanny's eyes. Meaningless, immutable eyes. They do not bargain. Yet the world stares out of them. The face looksdumbly up at a judge. 

No defense. The policeman's drone has ended and Fanny says nothing. Thisis difficult. Because his honor knows suddenly there is a defense. Amonstrous defense. Since there are always two sides to everything. Yes, what is the other side? His honor would like to know. Tell it, Fanny. About the crowds, streets, buildings, lights, about the whirligig ofloneliness, about the humpty-dumpty clutter of longings. And then explainabout the summer parks and the white snow and the moon window in the sky. Throw in a poignantly ironical dissertation on life, on its unchartedaimlessness, and speak like Sherwood Anderson about the desires that stirin the heart. Speak like Remy de Gourmont and Dostoevsky and Stevie Crane, like Schopenhauer and Dreiser and Isaiah; speak like all the greatquestioners whose tongues have wagged and whose hearts have burned withquestions. His honor will listen bewilderedly and, perhaps, only perhaps, understand for a moment the dumb pathos of your eyes. 

As it is, you were found, as the copper who reads the newspapers puts it, in a suspected flat. A violation of section 2012 of the City Code. Thirtydays in the Bastile, Fanny. Unless his honor is feeling good. 

These eyes lifted to him will ask him questions on his way home from abanquet some night. 

"How old are you?"

"Twenty. "

"Make it twenty-two, " his honor smiles. "And you have nothing to say?About how you happened to get into this sort of thing? You look like agood girl. Although looks are often deceiving. "

"I went there with him, " says Fanny. And she points to a beetle-browedcitizen with an unshaven face. A quaint Don Juan, indeed. 

"Ever see him before?"

A shake of the head. Plain case. And yet his honor hesitates. His honorfeels something expand in his breast. Perhaps he would like to rise andholding forth his hand utter a famous plagiarism--"Go and sin no more. " Hechews a pen and sighs, instead. 

"I'll give you another chance, " he says. "The next time it'll be jail. Keep this in mind. If you're brought in again, no excuses will go. Callthe next case. "

Now one can follow Fanny. She walks out of the courtroom. The streetswallows her. Nobody in the crowds knows what has happened. Fanny isanybody now. Still, one may follow. Perhaps something will reveal itself, something will add an illuminating touch to the incident of the courtroom. 

There is only this. Fanny pauses in front of a drug-store window. Thecrowds clutter by. Fanny stands looking, without interest, into thewindow. There is a little mirror inside. The city tumbles by. The city isinterested in something vastly complicated. 

Staring into the little mirror, Fanny sighs and--powders her nose. 

THE AUCTIONEER'S WIFE

An auctioneer must have a compelling manner. He must be gabby andstentorian, witheringly sarcastic and plaintively cajoling. He must beable to detect the faintest symptoms of avarice and desire in the blink ofan eyelid, in the tilt of a head. Behind his sing-song of patter as heknocks down a piece of useless bric-a-brac he must be able to remain cool, remain calculating, remain like a hawk prepared to pounce upon his prey. Passion for him must be no more than a mask; anger, sorrow, despair, ecstasy no more than the devices of salesmanship. 

But more than all this, an auctioneer must know the magic password intothe heart of the professional or amateur collector. He must know theglittering phrases that are the keys to their hobbies. The words thatbring a gleam to the eye of the Oriental rug collector. The words thatfire the china collector. The stamp collector. The period furniturecollector. The tapestry enthusiast. The first edition fan. And so on. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, I desire your expert attention for a moment. I havehere a curious little thing of exquisite workmanship said to be from thefamous collection of Count Valentine of Florence. This delicately molded, beautifully painted candelabra has illuminated the feasts of the oldFlorentines, twinkled amid the gay, courtly rioting of a time that is nomore. Before the bidding for this priceless souvenir is opened I desire, ladies and gentlemen, to state briefly----"

 * * * * *

Nathan Ludlow is an auctioneer who knows all the things an auctioneer mustknow. His eye is piercing. His tongue can roll and rattle for twelve hoursat a stretch. His voice is the voice of the tempter, myriad-toned andirresistible. 

It was evening. An auspicious evening. It was the evening of Mr. Ludlow'sdivorce. And Mr. Ludlow sat in his room at the Morrison Hotel, a decanterof juniper juice at his elbow. And while he sat he talked. The subjectsvaried. There were tales of Ming vases and Satsuma bargains, of porcelainsand rugs. And finally Mr. Ludlow arrived at the subject of audiences. Andfrom this subject he progressed with the aid of the juniper juice to thesubject of wives. And from the subject of wives he stepped casually intothe sad story of his life. 

"I'll tell you, " said Mr. Ludlow. "Tonight I'm a free man. Judge Pam gaveme, or gave her, rather, the divorce. I guess he did well. Maybe she wasentitled to it. Desertion and cruelty were the charges. But they don'tmean anything. The chief complaint she had against me was that I was anauctioneer. "

Mr. Ludlow sighed and ran his long, artist's fingers over his eaglefeatures and brushed back a Byronic lock of hair from his forehead. 

"It was four years ago we met, " he resumed, "in the Wabash Avenue place. Inoticed her when the bidding on a rocking chair started. A pretty girl. And as is often the case among women who attend auctions--a bug, a fan, afish. You know, the kind that stiffen up when they get excited. The kindthat hang on your words and breathe hard while you cut loose with thepatter, and lose their heads when you swing into the going-going-gonefinale. 

"Well, she didn't get the rocking chair. But she was game and came back ona Chinese rug. I began to notice her considerably. My words seemed to havean unusual effect on her. Then I could see that she was not only the kindof fish that lose their heads at auctions, but the terrible kind thatbelieve everything the auctioneer says. You know, they believe that theOriental rugs really came from the harem of the caliph and that theantique bed really was the one in which DuBarry slept and that theElizabethan tablecloth really was an Elizabethan tablecloth. They are kindof goofily romantic and they fall hard for everything and they spend theirlast penny on a lot of truck, you know. Not bad stuff and probably a gooddeal more useful and lasting than the originals would have been. "

 * * * * *

Mr. Ludlow smiled a bit apologetically. "I'm not confessing anything youdon't know, I hope, " he said. "Well, to go on about the missus. I knew Ihad her from that first day. I wasn't vitally interested, but when shereturned six days in succession it got kind of flattering. And the way shelooked at me and listened to me when I pulled my stuff--say, I could haveknocked down a bouquet of paper roses for the original wreath worn byVenus, I felt so good. That's how I began to think that she was aninspiration to me and how I figured that if I could have somebody like heraround I'd soon have them all pocketed as auctioneers. 

"I forget just how it was we met, but we did. And I swear, the way sheflattered me would have been enough to turn the head of a guy ten timessmarter than me and forty times as old. So we got married. That's skippinga lot. But, you know, what's it all amount to, the courting and the thingsyou say and do before you get married? So we got married and then the funstarted. 

"At first I could hardly believe what the drift of it was. But I hope todie if she wasn't sincere in her ideas about me as an auctioneer. I didn'tget it, as I say, and that's where I made my big mistake. I let her cometo the auctions and told her not to bid. But when I'd start my patter onsome useless piece of 5-and l0-cent store bric-a-brac and give it anidentity and hint at Count Rudolph's collection and so on, she was offlike a two-year-old down a morning track. 

"I didn't know how to fix it or how to head her out of it. For a month Ididn't have the heart to disillusion her. I let her buy. Damn it, I neversaw such an absolute boob as she was. She'd pick out the most worthlessjunk I was knocking down and go mad over it and buy it with my good money. It got so that I realized I was slipping. I'd get a promise from her thatshe wouldn't come into the auction, but I never could be sure. And if Ifelt like cutting loose on some piece of junk and knocking it down with alot of flourishes I knew sure as fate that the missus would be there andthat she would be the fish that caught fire first and most and that I'd beselling the thing to myself. 

"Well, after the first two months of my married life I realized that I'dhave to talk turkey to the missus. She was costing me my last nickel atthese auctions and the better auctioneer I was the more money I lost, onaccount of her being so susceptible to my line of stuff. It sounds funny, but it's a fact. So I told her. I made a clean breast. I told her what aliar I was and how all the stuff I pulled from the auction stand was thebunk and how she was a boob for falling for it. And so on and so on. Say, I sold myself to her as the world's greatest, all around, low down, hideous liar that ever walked in shoe leather. And that's how it started. This divorce today is kind of an anti-climax. We ain't had much to do witheach other ever since that confession. "

Mr. Ludlow stared sorrowfully into the remains of a glass of juniperjuice. 

"I'll never marry again, " he moaned. "I ain't the kind that makes a goodhusband. A good husband is a man who is just an ordinary liar. And me?Well, I'm an auctioneer. "

FOG PATTERNS

The fog tiptoes into the streets. It walks like a great cat through theair and slowly devours the city. 

The office buildings vanish, leaving behind thin pencil lines and smokeblurs. The pavements become isolated, low-roofed corridors. Overhead theelectric signs whisper enigmatically and the window lights dissolve. 

The fog thickens till the city disappears. High up, where the mists thininto a dark, sulphurous glow, roof bubbles float. The great cat's work isdone. It stands balancing itself on the heads of people and arches itsback against the vanished buildings. 

 * * * * *

I walk along thinking about the way the streets look and arrangingadjectives in my mind. In the heavy mist people appear detached. They nolonger seem to belong to a pursuit in common. Usually the busy part of thecity is like the exposed mechanism of some monstrous clock. And peoplescurry about losing themselves in cogs and springs and levers. 

But now the monstrous clock is almost hidden. The stores and offices andfactories that form the mechanism of this clock are buried behind the fog. The cat has eaten them up. Hidden within the mist the cogs still turn andthe springs unwind. But for the moment they seem non-existent. And thepeople drifting hurriedly by in the fog seem as if they were not going andcoming from stores, offices and factories. As if they were solitarieshunting something in the labyrinths of the fog. 

Yes, we are all lost and wandering in the thick mists. We have nodestinations. The city is without outlines. And the drift of figures is ameaningless thing. Figures that are going nowhere and coming from nowhere. A swarm of supernumeraries who are not in the play. Who saunter, dash, scurry, hesitate in search of a part in the play. 

This is a curious illusion. I stop and listen to music. Overhead a pianois playing and a voice singing. A song-boosting shop above Monroe andState streets. A ballad of the cheap cabarets. Yet, because it is music, it has a mystery in it. 

The fog pictures grow charming. There is an idea in them now. People aredetached little decorations etched upon a mist. The cat has eaten up themonstrous clock and people have rid themselves of their routine, which wasto tumble and scurry among its cogs and levers. They are done with life, with buying and selling and with the perpetual errand. And they havebecome a swarm of little ornaments. Men and women denuded of the city. Their outlines posture quaintly in the mist. Their little faces say, "Theclock is gone. There is nothing any more to make us alive. So we havebecome our unconnected selves. "

 * * * * *

Beside me in the fog a man stands next to a tall paper rack. I rememberthat this is the rack where the out-of-town papers are on sale. The papersare rolled up and thrust like rows of little white dolls in the rack. Iwonder that this should be a newspaper stand. It looks like almostanything else in the fog. 

A pretty girl emerges from the background of fog. She talks to the mannext to the rack. 

"Have you a Des Moines newspaper?" she asks. 

The man is very businesslike. He fishes out a newspaper and sells it. Atthe sight of its headlines the girl's eyes light up. It is as if she hadmet a very close friend. She will walk along feeling comforted now. Chicago is a stranger. Its fog-hidden buildings and streets are strangersand its crowds criss-crossing everywhere are worse than strangers. But nowshe has Des Moines under her arm. Des Moines is a companion that will makethe fog seem less lonely. Later she will sit down in a hotel room and readof what has happened in Des Moines buildings and Des Moines streets. Thesewill seem like real happenings, whereas the happenings that the Chicagopapers print seem like unrealities. 

This is Dearborn Street now. Dark and cozy. People are no longerdecorations but intimate friends. When it is light and one can see thecogs of the monstrous clock go round and the springs unwind one thinks ofpeople as a part of this mechanism. And so people grow vague in one's mindand unhuman or only half-human. 

But now that the mechanism is gone, people stand out with an insistenthumanness. People sitting on lunch-counter stools, leaning over coffeecups. People standing behind store counters. People buying cigars andpeople walking in and out of office buildings. They are very friendly. Their tired faces smile, or at least look somewhat amused and interested. They are interested in the fog and in the fact that one cannot see threefeet ahead. And their faces say to each other, "Here we are, all alike. The city is only a make-believe. It can go away but we still remain. Weare much more important than the big buildings. "

 * * * * *

I hear an odd tapping sound on the pavement. It is faint but growingnearer. In another moment a man tapping on the pavement with a canepasses. A blind man. And I think of a plot for a fiction story. If aterrible murder were committed in a marvelous fog that hid everything thechief of police would summon a blind man. And the blind man could trackthe murderer down in the fog because he alone would be able to move in thethick, obliterating mists. And so the blind man, with his cane tapping, tapping over the pavements and able by long practice to move withoutsight, would slowly close in on the murderer hemmed in by darkness. 

A newsboy cries from the depth of nowhere: "Paper here. Trains crash infog. Paper. "

 * * * * *

A friend and I sat in an office. He has been dictating letters, but hestops and stares out of the window. His eyes grow speculative. He says:

"Wouldn't it be odd if it were always like this? I think I'd like itbetter, wouldn't you? But I suppose they'd invent lights able to penetratemist and the town would be as garish as ever in a few years. But I likethe fog because it slows things up. Things are too damn fast to suit me. Ilike 'em slow. Like they used to be a century ago. "

We talk and my friend becomes reminiscent on the subject of stage coachesand prairie schooners and the days before there were railroads, telephones, electricity and crowds. He has never known such a time, butfrom what he has read and imagined about it--yes, it would be better. 

 * * * * *

When I come out it is mid-afternoon. The fog has gone. The city has poppedback and sprawls triumphantly into space. For a moment it seems as if thecity had sprung up in an hour. Then its sturdy walls and business windowsbegin to mock at the memory of the fog in my mind. "Fogs do not devourus, " they say. "We are the ones who do the devouring. We devour fogs andpeople and days. " Marvelous buildings. 

Overhead the sky floats like a gray and white balloon, as if it were a toybelonging to the city. 

DON QUIXOTE AND HIS LAST WINDMILL

Sherwood Anderson, the writer, and I were eating lunch in the back room ofa saloon. Against the opposite wall sat a red-faced little man with anelaborate mustache and a bald head and a happy grin. He sat alone at atilted round table and played with a plate of soup. 

"Say, that old boy over there is trying to wigwag me, " said Anderson. "Hekeeps winking and making signs. Do you know him?"

I looked and said no. The waiter appeared with a box of cigars. 

"Mr. Sklarz presents his compliments, " said the waiter, smiling. 

"Who's Sklarz?" Anderson asked, helping himself to a cigar. The waiterindicated the red-faced little man. "Him, " he whispered. 

We continued our meal. Both of us watched Mr. Sklarz casually. He seemedto have lost interest in his soup. He sat beaming happily at the walls, acontagious elation about him. We smiled and nodded our thanks for thecigars. Whereupon after a short lapse, the waiter appeared again. 

"What'll you have to drink, gentlemen?" the waiter inquired. 

"Nothing, " said Anderson, knowing I was broke. The waiter raised hiscontinental eyebrows understandingly. 

"Mr. Sklarz invites you, gentlemen, to drink his health--at his expense. "

"Two glasses, " Anderson ordered. They were brought. We raised them insilent toast to the little red-faced man. He arose and bowed as we drank. 

"We'll probably have him on our hands now for an hour, " Anderson frowned. I feared the same. But Mr. Sklarz reseated himself and, with many headbowings in our direction, returned to his soup. 

"What do you make of our magnanimous friend?" I asked. Anderson shruggedhis shoulders. 

"He's probably celebrating something, " he said. "A queer old boy, isn'the?"

 * * * * *

The waiter appeared a third time. 

"What'll it be, gentlemen?" he inquired, smiling. "Mr. Sklarz is buyingfor the house. "

For the house. There were some fifteen men eating in the place. Then ourfriend, despite his unassuming appearance, was evidently a creature ofwealth! Well, this was growing interesting. We ordered wine again. 

"Ask Mr. Sklarz if he will favor us by joining us at our table for thisdrink, " I told the waiter. The message was delivered. Mr. Sklarz arose andbowed, but sat down again. Anderson and I beckoned in pantomime. Mr. Sklarz arose once more, bowed and hesitated. Then he came over. 

As he approached a veritable carnival spirit seemed to deepen around us. The face of this little man with the elaborate black mustache was violentwith suppressed good will and mirth. He beamed, bowed, shook hands and satdown. We drank one another's health and, as politely as we could, pressedhim to tell us the cause for his celebration and good spirits. He began totalk. 

He was a Russian Jew. His name was Sklarz. He had been in the Russian armyyears ago. In Persia. From a mountain in Persia you could see three greatcountries. In Turkey he had fought with baggy-trousered soldiers and atnight joined them when they played their flutes outside the coffee-housesand sang songs about women and war. Then he had come to America and openeda box factory. He was very prosperous and the factory in which he madeboxes grew too small. 

So what did he do but take a walk one day to look for a larger factory. And he found a beautiful building just as he wanted. But the building wastoo beautiful to use for a factory. It should be used for something muchnicer. So what did he do then but decide to open a dance-hall, amagnificent dance-hall, where young men and women of refined, fun-lovingtemperaments could come to dance and have fun. 

 * * * * *

"When does this dance-hall open?" Anderson asked. Ah, in a little while. There were fittings to buy and put up first. But he would send us specialinvitations to the opening. In the meantime would we drink his healthagain? Mr. Sklarz chuckled. The amazing thing was that he wasn't drunk. Hewas sober. 

"So you're celebrating, " I said. Yes, he was celebrating. He laughed andleaned over the table toward us. His eyes danced and his elaboratemustache made a grotesque halo for his smile. He didn't want to intrude onus with his story, but in Persia and Turkey and the Urals he had foundlife very nice. And here in Chicago he had found life also very nice. Lifewas very nice wherever you went. And Anderson quoted, rather imperfectly, I thought:

 Oh, but life went gayly, gayly In the house of Idah Dally; There were always throats to sing Down the river bank with spring. 

Mr. Sklarz beamed. 

"Yes, yes, " he said, "down the river benk mit spring. " And he stood up andbowed and summoned the waiter. "See vat all the gentlemen vant, " heordered, "and give them vat they vant mit my compliments. " He laughed, or, rather, chuckled. "I must be going. Excuse me, " he exclaimed with a quicklittle bow. "I have other places to call on. Good-by. Remember me--SamSklarz. Be good--and don't forget Sam Sklarz when there are throats tozing down the river benk mit spring. "

We watched him walk out. His shoulders seemed to dance, his short legsmoved with a sprightly lift. 

"A queer old boy, " said Anderson. We talked about him for a half hour andthen left the place. 

 * * * * *

Anderson called me up the next morning to ask if I had read about it inthe paper. I told him I had. A clipping on the desk in front of me ran:

"Sam Sklarz, 46 years old and owner of a box factory on the West Side, committed suicide early this morning by jumping into the drainage canal. Financial reverses are believed to have caused him to end his life. According to friends he was on the verge of bankruptcy. His liabilitieswere $8, 000. Yesterday morning Sklarz cashed a check for $700, whichrepresented the remains of his bank account, and disappeared. It isbelieved that he used the money to pay a few personal debts and thenwandered around in a daze until the end. He left no word of explanationbehind. "

THE MAN HUNT

They were hunting him. Squads of coppers with rifles, detectives, stoolpigeons were hunting him. And the people who had read the story in thenewspapers and looked at his picture, they too, were hunting him. 

Tommy O'Connor looked out of the smeared window of the room in which hesat and stared at the snow. A drift of snow across the roofs. A scribbleof snow over the pavement. 

There were automobiles racing through the streets loaded with armed men. There were crowds looking for a telltale face in their own midst. Guards, deputies, coppers were surrounding houses and peering into alleys, raidingsaloons, ringing doorbells. The whole city was on his heels. The city waslike a pack of dogs sniffing wildly for his trail. And when they found itthey would come whooping toward him for a leap at his throat. 

Well, here he was--waiting. It was snowing outside. There was no noise inthe street. A man was passing. One of the pack? No. Just a man. The manlooked up. Tommy O'Connor took his face slowly away from the window. Hehad a gun in his pocket and his hand was holding it. But the man waswalking away. Huh! If the guy knew that Lucky Tommy O'Connor was watchinghim from a window he'd walk a little faster. If the guy knew that LuckyO'Connor, who had busted his way out of jail and was being hunted by amillion people with guns, was sitting up here behind the window, he'dthrow a fit. But he didn't know. He was like the walls and the windows andthe snow outside--quiet and peaceful. 

"Nice boy, " grinned Tommy O'Connor. Then he began to fidget. He ought togo out and buy a paper. See what was doing. See what became of Mac and therest of the boys. Maybe they'd all been nabbed. But they couldn't do himharm. On account nobody knew where he was. No pal. No dame. Nobody knew hewas sitting here in the room looking at the snow and just thinking. Thepapers were probably full of cock-and-bull stories about his racing acrossthe country and hiding in haystacks and behind barns. Kid stuff. Maybe heshould ought to of left town. But it felt better in town. Some rube wasalways sure to pick out a stranger beating it down a empty road. And therewas no place to hide. Long, empty stretches, where anybody could see youfor a mile. 

Better in town. Lots of walls, alleys, roofs. Lots of things like that. Nohare-and-hounds effect like in the country. But the papers were probablyfull of a lot of bunk. He'd take a walk later and buy a few. Better sitstill now. There was nothing harder to find than a man sitting still. 

 * * * * *

Tommy O'Connor yawned. Not much sleep the night before. Well, he'd sleeptonight. Worrying wasn't going to help matters. What if they did come? Letthem come. Fill up the street and begin their damn shooting. They didn'tthink Lucky Tommy was sucker enough to let them march him up on a scaffoldand break his neck on the end of a rope. Fat chance. Not him. That sort ofstuff happened to other guys, not to Lucky Tommy. 

Snowing outside. And quiet. Everybody at work. Funny about that. TommyO'Connor was the only free man in the city. There was nobody felt like himright now--nobody. Where would he be exactly this time a week from now? Ifhe could only look ahead and see himself at four o'clock next Mondayafternoon. But he was free now. No breaking his neck on the end of a rope. If worst came to worst--if worst came to worst--O'Connor's fingers took agrip on the gun in his pocket. They were hunting him. Up and down thestreets everywhere. Racing around in taxis, with rifles sticking out ofthe windows. Well, why didn't they come into this street? All they had todo was figure out: Here's the street Tommy O'Connor is hiding in. And thatlooks like the house. And then somebody would yell out: "There he is!Behind that window! That's him!" Why didn't this happen?

 * * * * *

Christmas, maybe, he'd call on the folks. No. Rube stuff. A millioncoppers would be watching the house. But he might drop them a letter. Toobad he didn't have any paper, or he might write a lot of letters. To thechief of police and all the head hunters. Some more rube stuff, that. Theycould tell by the postmark what part of the city he was hiding in andthey'd be on him with a whoop. 

Funny how he had landed in this room. No plans, no place in particular tohead for. That was the best way. Like he'd figured it out and it turnedout perfect. Grab the first auto and ride like hell and keep on changingautos and riding around and around in the streets and crawling deeper intothe city until the trail was all twisted and he was buried. But he oughtto shave his mustache off. Hell. What for? If they came whooping into thestreet they'd find him, mustache or no mustache. But what if he wanted tobuy some papers?

It was getting darker now. The snow was letting up. Just dribbling. Betterif it would snow a lot. Then he could sit and have something towatch--snow falling on the street and turning things white. That was onaccount of his headache he was thinking that way. Eats might help, but hewasn't hungry. Scared? No. Just waiting. Hunters winding in and out likethe snow that was falling. People were funny. They got a big thrill out ofhunting a live man who was free in the streets. 

He'd be walking some day. Strolling around the streets free as any ofthem. Maybe not in town. Some other town. Take a walk down State Street. Drop in at a movie. Kid stuff. Walk over to Mac's saloon and kind ofcasually say "Hello, fellows. " And walk out again. God, they'd never hanghim. If the worst came to the worst--if the worst came to the worst--butthey'd never hang him. 

 * * * * *

Dark now. But the guys hunting him weren't going to sleep. Lights weregoing on in the windows. Better light up the room. People might notice adark window. But a lighted one would look all right. It was not snowingany more. Just cold. 

Well, he'd go out in a while. Stretch his legs and buy the papers and givethem a reading. And then take a walk. Just walk around and take in thestreets and see if there was anybody he knew. No. Rube stuff, that. Betterstick where he was. 

Lucky Tommy walked around in the room. The drawn window blind held hiseye. Wagons were passing. What for? Yes, and there was a noise. Likepeople coming. Turn out the light, then. He'd take a look. 

Tommy O'Connor peeled back the blind carefully. Dark. Lights in windows. Some guys on the corner. Hunting him? Sure. And they were coming his way. Straight down the street. They were looking up. What for? A gun crept outof Tommy O'Connor's pocket. He pressed himself carefully against the wall. He waited. The minutes grew long. But this was the hunt closing in. Theywere coming. Black figures of men floating casually down the street. Allright--let them come. 

Lucky Tommy O'Connor's eyes stared rigidly out of the smeared window at avague flurry of figures that seemed to be coming, coming his way. 

MR. WINKELBERG

There was never a man as irritating as Winkelberg. He was an encyclopediaof misfortune. Everything which can happen to a man had happened to him. He had lost his family, his money and his health. He was, in short, a mancompletely broken--tall, thin, with a cadaverous face, out of which shonetwo huge, lusterless eyes. He walked with an angular crawl that remindedone of the emaciated flies one sees at the beginning of winter draggingthemselves perversely along as if struggling across an illimitable expanseof flypaper. 

It was one of Winkelberg's worst habits to appear at unexpected moments. But perhaps any appearances poor Winkelberg might have made would have hadthis irritating quality of unexpectedness. One was never looking forwardto Winkelberg, and thus the sight of his wan, determined smile, hislusterless eyes and his tenacious crawl was invariably an uncomfortablesurprise. 

 * * * * *

I will be frank. It was Winkelberg's misfortune which first attracted me. I listened to his story avidly. He talked in slow words and there wasintelligence in the man. He was able to perceive himself not only as apain-racked, starving human, but he glimpsed with his large, tired eyeshis relation to things outside himself. I remember he said, and withoutemotion: "There is nobody to blame. Not even myself. And if I cannot blamemyself how can I blame the world? The city is like that. I am no good. Iam done. Something worn out and useless. People try to take care of theuseless ones and they would like to. There are institutions. I was kickedout of two of them. They said I was a faker. Somehow I don't appeal tocharitably inclined people. "

Later I understood why. It was because of the man's smile--a feeble, tenacious grimace that seemed to be offering a sardonic reproof. It couldnever have been mistaken for a courageous smile. The secret of itsaggravating quality was this: In it Winkelberg accused himself of hisuselessness, his feebleness, his poverty. It was as if he were regardinghimself continually through the annoyed eyes of others and addressinghimself with the words of others: "You, Winkelberg, get out of here. You're a nuisance. You make me uncomfortable because you're poor anddiseased and full of gloom. Get out. I don't want you around. Why thedevil don't you die?"

And the aggravating thing was that people looked at Winkelberg's smile asinto a mirror. They saw in it a reflection of their own attitude towardthe man. They felt that Winkelberg understood what they thought of him. And they didn't like that. They didn't like to feel that Winkelberg wasaware that deep inside their minds they were always asking: "Why doesn'tthis Winkelberg die and have it over with?" Because that made them out ascruel, heartless people, not much different in their attitude toward theirfellow men from predatory animals in their attitude toward fellowpredatory animals. And somehow, although they really felt that way towardWinkelberg, they preferred not to believe it. But Winkelberg's smile was amirror which would not let them escape this truth. And eventuallyWinkelberg's smile became for them one of those curious mirrors whichexaggerate images grotesquely. Charitably inclined people, as well as allother kinds of inclined people, prefer their Winkelbergs more egoistic. They prefer that unfortunate ones be engrossed in their misfortunes andnot go around wearing sardonic, philosophical smiles. 

 * * * * *

Winkelberg dragged along for a year. He was past fifty. Each time I sawhim I was certain I would never see him again. I was certain he woulddie--drop dead while crawling across his flypaper. But he would appear. Iwould pretend to be vastly busy. He would sit and wait. He never askedalms. I would have been relieved if he had. Instead he sat and smiled, andhis smile said: "You are afraid I am going to ask you for money. Don'tworry. I won't ask you for money. I won't bother you at all. Yes, I agreewith you, I ought to be dead. It would be better for everybody. "

We would talk little. He would throw out a hint now and then that perhapsI could use some of his misfortunes for material. For instance, the timehis two children had been burned to death. Or the time he had fallen offthe street car while in a sick daze and injured his spine for life, andhow he had settled with the street car company for $500 and how he hadbeen robbed on the way to the bank with the money two weeks later. 

I refused consistently this offer of "material. " This offended Winkelberg. He would shake his head and then he would nod his head understandingly andhis smile would say:

"Yes, yes. I understand. You don't want to get involved with me. Becauseyou don't want me to have any more claims on your sympathy than I've got. I'm sorry. "

Toward the end Winkelberg's visits grew more frequent. And he becamesuddenly garrulous. He wished to discuss things. The city. The variousinstitutions. Politics. Art. This phase of Winkelberg was the mostunbearable. He was willing to admit himself a social outcast. He wasreconciled to the fact that he would starve to death and that everybodywho had ever seen him would feel it had been a good thing that he hadfinally died. But this final plea came from him. He wanted nothing exceptto talk and hear words in order to relieve the loneliness of his days. Hewould like abstract discussions that had nothing to do with Winkelberg andthe Winkelberg misfortunes. His smile now said: "I am useless, worn outand better off dead. But never mind me. My mind is still alive. It stillthinks. I wish it didn't. I wish it crawled around like my body. Butseeing that it does, talk to me as if it were a mind belonging to somebodyelse and not to the insufferable Winkelberg. "

I grew suspicious finally. I began to think there was something vitallyspurious about this whole Winkelberg business. And I said to myself: "Theman's a downright fake. If anybody were as pathetic and impossible anduseless as this Winkelberg is he would shoot himself. Winkelberg doesn'tshoot himself. So he becomes illogical. Unreal. "

 * * * * *

A woman I know belongs to the type that becomes charitable aroundChristmas time. She makes a glowing pretense of aiding the poor. As amatter of fact, she really does aid them, although she regards the poor asa sort of social and spiritual asset. They afford her the doubleopportunity of appearing in the eyes of her neighbors as a magnanimoussoul and of doing something which reflects great credit upon hercharacter. But, anyway, she "does good, " and we'll let it go at that. 

I told this woman about Winkelberg. I became poignant and moving on thesubject of Winkelberg's misfortunes, his trials, sufferings and, aboveall, his Spartan stoicism. It pleased me to do this. I felt that I wasmaking some amends and that the thing reflected credit upon my character. 

So she went to the room on the South Side where Winkelberg sleeps. Andthey told her there that Winkelberg was dead. He had died last week. Shewas upset when she told me about it. She had come too late. She might havesaved him. 

It was a curious thing--but when she told me that Winkelberg was dead Ifelt combatively that it was untrue. And now since I know certainly thatWinkelberg is dead and buried I have developed a curious state of mind. Ilook up from my desk every once in a while expecting to see him. In thestreets I sometimes find myself actually thinking: "I'll bump into himwhen I turn the corner. "

I have managed to discover the secret of this feeling. It is Winkelberg'ssmile. Winkelberg's smile was the interpretation of the world's attitudetoward him, including my own. And thus whenever his name comes to mind hissmile appears as if it were the thought in my head. And in Winkelberg'ssmile I hear myself saying: "He is better off dead. "

A SELF-MADE MAN

"Over there, " said Judge Sabath, "is a man who has been a juror incriminal cases at least a dozen times. "

His honor pointed to a short, thin man with a derby on the back of hishead and a startling mustache, concealing almost half of his wizened face. The man was sitting a bit childishly on a window ledge in the hall of theCriminal Court building swinging his legs and chewing rhythmically on aplug of tobacco. 

"They let him go this morning while picking a jury for a robbery casebefore me, " said the judge. "He tried to stay on, but neither side wantedhim. You might get a story out of him. I think he's broken-hearted. "

 * * * * *

The short, thin man with the derby, swinging his legs from the windowledge said his name was Martin. 

"That's true, " he said, "what the judge said. I been a juror fourteentimes. I was on five murders and four big robberies and then I was on fivedifferent assorted kinds of crimes. "

"How do you like being a juror, Mr. Martin?"

"Well, sir, I like it a lot. I can say that out of the fourteen times Ibeen a juror I never lost a case. "

Mr. Martin aimed at the new cuspidor--and missed. 

"There's some jurors as loses nearly every case they're on. They give infirst crack. But take the Whitely murder trial I was on. That was as nearas I ever come to losing a case. But I managed to hang the jury and theverdict was one of disagreement. Whitely was innocent. Anybody could havetold that with half an eye. "

"How long have you been serving on juries, Mr. Martin?"

"Going nigh on twenty-three years. I had my first case when I was a youngman. It was a minor case--a robbery. I won that despite my youth andinexperience. In those days the cases were much harder than now on accountof the lawyers. The old-fashioned lawyer was the talkingest kind of anuisance I ever had to deal with. He always reminded me of somebodytalking at a mark for two dollars a week. 

"I don't refer to the orators. I mean the ones who talk during the caseitself and who slow things up generally by bothering the witnesses todeath with a lot of unnecessary questions. Although the orators are prettybad, too. There's many a lawyer who has lost out with me on account of theway he made faces in the windup. One of my rules as a juror, a successfulone, I might say, is, 'Always mistrust a lawyer who talks too fancy. '"

 * * * * *

"Judge Sabath just said that they let you go in his court this morning. "

"H'm, " snorted Mr. Martin. "That was the lawyer. He's mad at me because helost a case two years ago that I was on. I won it and he holds a grudge. That's like some lawyers. They don't like the man who licks them. 

"But you were asking about the qualifications of an all-around juryman. I'll give 'em to you. First and foremost you want a man of wide experiencein human nature. I spend most of my time in the courts when I ain'tserving as juror studyin' human nature. You might say that all humannature is the same. But it's my experience that some is more so thanothers. 

"Well, when you know human nature the next step is to figure out aboutlawyers. Lawyers as a whole is the hardest nut the juror has to crack. Tobegin with, they're deceivin', and if you let them they'll take advantageof your credulity. There's Mr. Erbstein, for instance, the criminallawyer. He's a pretty smart one, but I won a case from him only four yearsago and he's never forgiven me. I was juror in a manslaughter trial he wastrying to run. He thought himself pretty foxy, but when it came to ashowdown I put it all over him. There was a guy who was foreman of thejury that time who said I had it all over Mr. Erbstein as an argufier andthat my arguments made his look like ten cents. I won easily on fiveballots and Mr. Erbstein has never forgave me. 

 * * * * *

"But I'll go on about the qualifications. First of all, I never readnewspapers. Never. No juror should ought to know anything about anythingthat's going on. I found that out in my youth when I first started in. Thefirst question they ask you is, 'What have you heard about this case andwhat have you read or said about it?' That's the first one. Well, theright answer is 'nothing. '

"If you can say nothing and prove you're right they'll gobble you up as ajuror. For that reason I avoid all newspapers, and right now I don't knowwhat big crimes or cases have been committed at all. I have a clean, unprejudiced mind and I keep it that way. 

"Nextly, " said Mr. Martin, trying a new sight on the cuspidor, "I don'tbelong to any lodges whatsoever. They're a handicap. Because if thedefendant is a Mason and you are a Elk he would rather have a brotherMason be juror than a strange Elk. So I don't belong to any of them and Idon't go to church. I also have no convictions whatsoever about politicsand have no favorites of any kind in the matter of authors or statesmen oranything. What I try to do is to keep my mind clean and unprejudiced onall subjects. "

"Why do you like serving as a juror?"

Mr. Martin stared. 

"Why?" he repeated. "Because it's every man's duty, naturally. Andbesides, " he went on, narrowing his eyes into shrewd slits, "I've justbeen luckier than most people. Most people only get called a few timesduring their life. But I get called regularly every year and sometimestwice a year and sometimes four and five times a year for service. Ofcourse, I ain't boasting, but the city has recognized my merits, no doubt, as a juror, knowing all the cases I've won, and it perhaps shows a littlepartiality to me for that reason. But I feel that I have earned it and Iwould like nothing said about it or any scandal started. "

"What do you think of this Taylor death mystery in Los Angeles, Mr. Martin?"

"Ha, ha, " said Mr. Martin, "there you're tryin' to catch me. You thoughtyou could put that over on me without my seein' through it, didn't you?That's just the way the lawyers try to trap me when I'm sittin' on one ofmy cases. I ain't ever heard of this Taylor death mystery, not reading thepapers, you see. "

"That's too bad, Mr. Martin. It's quite a story. " Mr. Martin sighed andslipped from the window ledge, shaking down his wrinkled, high-waterpants. 

"Yes, " he sighed, a sudden wistfulness coming into his rheumy eyes. "Things have been pretty slow around here. Chicago used to be the placefor a juror--none better. But I been thinkin' of going west. Not that Iheard anything, mind you, about any of these cases. " Mr. Martin gloweredvirtuously. "I never read the papers, sir, and have no prejudiceswhatsoever. 

"But I've just been feelin' lately that there are wider opportunities inthe west for a man of my experience and record than are left around here. "

TO BERT WILLIAMS

"Well, " said Mr. Bert Williams, in his best "Under the Bamboo Tree"dialect, "If you like mah singin' and actin' so much, how come, you bein'a writer, you don't write somethin' about youah convictions on thissubjeck? Oh! It's not youah depahtment! Hm! Tha's jes' mah luck. I wasalways the mos' unluckiest puhson who ever trifled with misfohtune. Nothis depahtment! Tha'--tha's jes' it. I never seems to fall jes' exactly inthe ri-right depahtment. 

"May I ask, without meanin' to be puhsonal, jes' what is your depahtment?Murder! Oh, you is the one who writes about murders and murderuhs foh thepaper! Nothin' else? Is tha' so? Jes' murders and murderuhs and--andthings like tha'? Well, tha' jes' shows how deceivin' looks is, fo' whenyou came in heah I says to mahself, I says, 'this gen'le-man is a criticof the drama. ' And when I sees you have on a pair o' gloves I addedquickly to mahself, 'Yes, suh, chances are he is not only a critic of thedrama, but likewise even possuhbly a musical critic. ' Yes, suh, all mahlife I have had the desire to be interviewed by a musical critic, but nomatter how hard I sing or how frequently, no musical critic has yet takencognizance o' me. No, suh, I get no cognizance whatsoever. 

"Not meanin' to disparage you, suh, or your valuable depahtment. Foh ifyou is in charge o' the murder and murderuh's depahtment o' yo' paperpossuhbly some time you may refer to me lightly between stabbin's orshootin's in such wise as to say, foh instance, 'the doomed man waslistenin' to Mr. Williams' latest song on the phonograph when he receivedthe bullet wound. Death was instantaneous, the doomed man dyin' with asmile on his lips. Mr. Williams' singin' makes death easy--an' desirable. '

"What, suh? You is! Sam, fetch the gen'leman some o' the firewater, thenon-company brand, Sam. All right, say when. Aw, shucks, that ain't enoughto wet a cat's whiskers. Say when again. There, tha's better. Here, Sam. You got to help drink this. It's important. The gen'leman says if I willwait a little while, jes' a little while, he is goin' to alter hisdepahtment on the newspaper. Wasn't that it? Oh, I see. In the magazine. Very well. Here's to what you says about me some day in the magazine. An'when you writes it don't forget to mention somewhere along in it how whenI was playin' in San Francisco and Sarah Bernhardt was playin' there, andthis was years ago, don' forget to mention along with what you write aboutmah singin' and actin' that I come to mah dressing room one evenin', inFrisco, and there's the hugest box o' flowers you ever saw with mah nameon it. An' I open it up and, boy! There plain as the nose on your face isa card among the flowers readin', 'to a fellow artist, from SarahBernhardt. ' And--whilst we are, so to speak, on the subjeck--you can putin likewise what Eleanora Duse said o' me. You know who she is, I suppose, the very most superlative genius o' the stage, suh. Yes, suh, the verymost. An' she says o' me when she went back to Italy, how I was the bestartist on the American stage. 

"Artist! Tha' always makes Sam laugh, don't it, Sam, when he heahs merefuhed to as artist. An'--have another beaker o' firewater, suh. It'sstrictly non-company brand. An' here's how again to tha' day you speak ofwhen you write this article about me. An', boy, make it soon, 'cause thislife, this sinful theat'ical life, is killin' me fast. But I'll try an'wait. Here's howdy. "

 * * * * *

He didn't wait. And today a lazy, crooked grin and a dolorous-eyed blackface drift among the shades in the Valhalla where the Great Actors sitreading their press notices to one another. The Great Actors who have diedsince the day of Euripides--they sit around in their favorite make-ups inthe Valhalla reserved for all good and glorious Thespians. 

A company of ladies and gentlemen that would make Mr. Belasco's heart stopbeating! The Booths and Barretts from antiquity down, the Mrs. Siddonsesand Pattis, the Cyranos, Hamlets, buffoons and heroes. All of them intheir favorite make-ups, in their favorite cap and bells, their favoriteswords, their favorite doublet and hose--all of them sit around in thespecial Valhalla of the Great Actors reading their press notices to oneanother and listening to the hosannas of such critics as have managed topry into the anterior heaven. 

And today Bert Williams makes his entrance. Yes, suh, it took that long tofind just the right make-up. To get just the right kind of ill-fittingwhite gloves and floppy shoes and nondescript pants. But it's an importantentrance. The lazy crooked grin is a bit nervous. The dolorous eyes peersadly through the opening door of this new theater. 

Lawdy, man, this is got a Broadway first night backed off the boards. Rejane, Caruso, Coquelin, Garrick and a thousand others sittin' againstthe towering walls, sittin' with their eyes on the huge door within' tosee who's a-comin' in now. 

All right, professor, jes' a little music. Nothin' much. Anything kind o'sad and fidgetylike. Tha's it, that-a-boy. There's no use worryin'--much. 'Member what Duse said as I was the greatest artist, an 'member how SarahBernhardt sent me roses in Frisco an' says, 'To a fellow artist'? Yes, suh, they can't do mo' than walk out on me. An' ah's been walked out onbefo'. 

All right, professor. Tha's it. Now I'll stick my hand inside the door andwiggle mah fingers kind o' slow like. Jes' like that. An' I'll come onslow. Nothin' to worry about--much. 

 * * * * *

A wrinkled white-gloved hand moving slowly inside the door of theValhalla. Sad, fidgety music. Silence in the great hall. This is anotherone coming on--another entrance. A lazy, crooked grin and a dolorous-eyedblack face. Floppy shoes and woebegone pants. 

Bravo, Mr. Williams! The great hall rings with hand-clapping. The greathall begins to fill with chuckles. There it is--the same curious grin, thelugubrious apology of a grin, the weary, pessimistic child of a grin. 

The Great Actors, eager-eyed and silent, sit back on their thrones. Thedoor of the Valhalla of Great Actors swings slowly shut. No Flo Ziegfeldlighting this time, but a great shoot of sunshine for a "garden. " And themusic different, easier to sing to, somehow. Music of harps and flutes. And a deep voice rises. 

Yes, I would have liked to have been there in the Valhalla of the GreatActors, when Bert Williams came shuffling through the towering doors andstood singing his entrance song to the silent, eager-eyed throng ofRejanes, Barretts and Coquelins--

 Ah ain't ever done nothin' to nobody, Ah ain't ever got nothin' from nobody--no time, nohow. Ah ain't ever goin' t' do nothin' for nobody-- Till somebody--

MICHIGAN AVENUE

This is a deplorable street, a luxurious couch of a street in which theafternoon lolls like a gaudy sybarite. Overhead the sky stretches itselflike a holiday awning. The sun lays harlequin stripes across the buildingfaces. The smoke plumes from the I. C. Engines scribble gray, white andlavender fantasies against the shining air. 

A deplorable street--a cement and plate glass Circe. We walk--a longprocession of us. It is curious to note how we adjust ourselves tobackgrounds. In other streets we are hurried, flurried, worried. We summonportentous frowns to our faces. Our arms swinging at our sides proclaim, "Make way, make way! We are launched upon activities vital to thecommonwealth!"

But here--the sun bursts a shower of little golden balloons from the highwindows. The green of a park makes a cool salaam to the beetle-toppedtraffic of automobiles. Rubber tires roll down the wide avenue and make asound like the drawn-out striking of a match. Marble columns, fountains, incompleted architectural elegancies, two sculptured lions and thebaffling effulgence of a cinder-veiled museum offer themselves likepensively anonymous guests. And we walk like Pierrots and Pierrettes, likeJohn Drews and Jack Barrymores and Leo Ditrichsteins; like Nazimovas, Patricia Collinges and Messalinas on parole. 

 * * * * *

I have squandered an afternoon seduced from labors by this Pied Piper of astreet. And not only I but everybody I ever knew or heard of was in thisstreet, strutting up and down as if there were no vital projects demandingtheir attention, as if life were not a stern and productive routine. Andwhere was the Rotary Club? Not a sign of the Rotary Club. One billboardwould have saved me; the admonitions that "work is man's duty to hisnation, " that my country needed me as much in peace as in war, would havescattered the insidious spell of this street and sent me back to thetypewriter with at least a story of some waiter in a loop beanery who wasonce a reigning prince of Patagonia. 

But there was no sign, no billboard to inspire me with a sense of duty. Sowe strutted--the long procession of us--a masquerade of leisure andcomplacency. Here was a street in which a shave and a haircut, a shine anda clean collar exhilarated a man with a feeling of power and virtue. As ifthere were nothing else to the day than to decorate himself for theamusement of others. 

There were beggars in the street but they only add by way of contrast tothe effulgence of our procession. And, besides, are they beggars? AugustusCaesar attired himself in beggar's clothes one day each year and askedalms in the highways of Rome. 

 * * * * *

I begin to notice something. An expression in our faces as we drift by thefastidious ballyhoos of the shop windows. We are waiting forsomething--actors walking up and down in the wings waiting for their cuesto go on. This is intelligible. This magician of a street has created theillusion in our heads that there are adventure and romance around us. 

Fauns, Pierrots, Launcelots, Leanders--we walk, expectantly waiting forour scenes to materialize. Here the little steno in the green tarn is Laïsof Corinth, the dowager alighting from the electric is Zenobia. Illusionsdress the entire procession. Semiramis, Leda, and tailored nymphs; dryadeyes gleam from powder-white masks. Or, if the classics bore you, Watteauand the rococo pertness of the Grand Monarch. And there are Gothic noses, Moorish eyebrows, Byzantine slippers. Take your pick, walk up and down andwait for your cue. 

There are two lives that people lead. One is the real life of business, mating, plans, bankruptcies and gas bills. The other is an unreal life--alife of secret grandeurs which compensate for the monotony of the days. Sitting at our desks, hanging on to straps in the street cars, waiting forthe dentist, eating in silence in our homes--we give ourselves to thesesecret grandeurs. Day-dreams in which we figure as heroes and Napoleonsand Don Juans, in which we triumph sensationally over the stupidities andarrogances of our enemies--we think them out detail by detail. Sometimeswe like to be alone because we have a particularly thrilling incident totell ourselves, and when our friends say good-by we sigh with relief andwrap ourselves with a shiver of delight in the mantles of imagination. Andwe live for a charming hour through a fascinating fiction in which thingsare as they should be and we startle the world with our superiorities. 

 * * * * *

This street, I begin to understand, is consecrated to the unrealities soprecious to us. We come here and for a little while allow our dreams topeer timorously at life. In the streets west of here we are what weare--browbeaten, weary-eyed, terribly optimistic units of the boobilariat. Our secret characterizations we hide desperately from the frowns ofwindows and the squeal of "L" trains. 

But here in this Circe of streets the sun warms us, the sky and the spacesof shining air lure us and we step furtively out of ourselves. And give usten minutes. Observe--a street of heroes and heroines. Actors all. Greatand irresistible egoists. Do we want riches? Then we have only to raiseour finger. Slaves will attend with sesterces and dinars. A street ofjoyous Caligulas and Neros, with here and there a Ghengis Khan, an Attila. 

The high buildings waver like gray and golden ferns in the sun. The skystretches itself in a holiday awning over our heads. A breeze coming fromthe lake brings an odorous spice into our noses. Adventure and romance!Yes--and observe how unnecessary are plots. Here in this Circe of streetsare all the plots. All the great triumphs, assassinations, amorousconquests of history unravel themselves within a distance of five blocks. The great moments of the world live themselves over again in a silentmake-believe. 

Here is one who has just swum the Hellespont, one who has subduedCleopatra; here one whose eyes are just launching a thousand ships. What astreet!

The afternoon wanes. Our procession turns toward home. For a few minutesthe elation of our make-believes in the Avenue lingers. But the "L" trainscrowd up, the street cars crowd up. It is difficult to remain a Caesar ora Don Quixote. So we withdraw and our faces become alike as turtle backs. 

And see, the afternoon has been squandered. There were things which shouldhave been done. I blush indignantly at the memory of my thoughts duringthe shining hours in the Avenue. For I spent the valuable momentsconversing with the devil. I imagined him coming for me and for two hoursI elaborated a dialogue between him and myself in which I gave him myimmortal soul and he in turn promised to write all the stories, novels andplays I wanted. All I would have to do was furnish the paper and leave itin a certain place and call for it the next morning and it would becompleted--anything I asked for, a story, novel or play; a poem, aworld-shattering manifesto--anything. 

Alas, I am still in possession of my immortal soul!

COEUR DE LION AND THE SOUP AND FISH

 For they're hangin' Danny Deever--

The voice of Capt. MacVeigh of the British army rose defiantly in theNorth La Salle Street hall bedroom. The herculean captain, attired in atattered bathrobe, underwear, socks and one slipper, patted the bottom ofthe iron with his finger and then carefully applied it to a trouser legstretched on an ironing board in front of him. 

Again the voice:

 For they're hangin' Danny Deever; You can hear the death march play, And they're ta ta ta da They're taking him away, Ta da ta ta--

The captain was on the rocks. _Sic transit gloria mundi_. Or howsaith the poet, "The lion and the lizard keep the courts where Jamshidgloried and drank deep. " Bust, was the captain. "Dying, Egypt, dying, ebbsthe crimson life blood fast. " Flatter than a hoecake was the captain. 

"Farewell, my bluebell, farewell to thee, " sang the captain as the ironcrept cautiously over the great trouser leg of his Gargantuan full-dresssuit. African mines blown up. Two inheritances shot. A last remittanceblah. Rent bills, club bills, grocery bills, tailor bills, gambling bills. "Ho, Britons never will be slaves, " sang the intrepid captain. Fought thebloody Boers, fought the Irawadi, fought the bloody Huns, and what was itLady B. Said at the dinner in his honor only two years ago? Ah, yes, here's to our British Tartarin, Capt. MacVeagh. But who the devil wasTartarin?

Never mind. "There's a long, long trail a-windin' and ta da ta ta ta tum, "sang Capt. MacVeagh and he took up the other trouser leg. Egad, what alife! Not a sou markee left. Not a thin copper, not a farthing! "Strike meblind, me wife's confined and I'm a blooming father, " sang Capt. MacVeagh, "For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the death march play----"

 * * * * *

This was the last phalanx. This thing on the ironing board was Horatius atthe bridge holding in check the hordes of false Tarquin. Everything gonebut this. Not even a pair of pants or a smoking coat. Not a blooming thingleft but this--a full-dress suit beginning to shine a bit in the rear. 

"The shades of night were falling fast when through an Alpine villagepassed"--egad, what a primitive existence. Like an Irunti in theAustralian bush. Telling time by the sun. It must be approachin' six, thought the captain as his voice trailed off. 

Beautiful thought. "Mabel, little Mabel, with her face against the pane, sits beside the window, looking at the rain. " That was Capt. MacVeagh ofthe British army, prisoner in a La Salle Street hall bedroom. No clothesto wear, nothing but the soup and fish. So he must sit and wait tillevening came, till a gentleman could put on his best bib and tucker, andthen--_allons!_ Freshly shaved, pink jowled, swinging his ebonystick, his pumps gleaming with a new coat of vaseline, off for the BritishOfficers' Club!

All day long the herculean captain sulked in his tent--an Achilles with asliver in his heel. But come evening, come the gentle shades of darkness, and presto! Like a lily of the field, who spun not nor toiled; like aknight of the boulevards, this servant of the king leaped forth in all hisglory. The landlady was beginning to lose her awe of the dress suit, thebooming barytone and the large aristocratic pink face of her mysteriousboarder. And she was pressing for back rent. But the club was stilltolerant. 

"A soldier o' the legion lay dyin' in Algiers, " chanted the captain, andwith his shoulders back he strode into the wide world. A meal at the club, and gadzooks but his stomach was in arms! Not a bite since the last clubmeal. God bless the club!

"Get a job?" repeated the captain to one of the members, "I would but thedevil take it, how can a man go around asking for a job in a dress suit?And I'm so rotten big that none of my friends can loan me a suit. And mycredit is gone with at least twelve different tailors. I'm sort o' tabooas a borrower. Barry, old top, if you will chase the blighter afteranother highball, I'll drink your excellent health. "

"There's a job if you want it that you can do in your dress suit, " saidhis friend Barry. "If you don't mind night work. "

"Not at all, " growled Capt. MacVeagh. 

"Well, " said the friend, "there's a circus in town and they want a man todrive the chariot in the chariot race. It's only a little circus. Andthere's only three chariots in the race. You get $10 for driving and $25 anight if you win the race. And they give you a bloomin' toga to put onover your suit, you know, and a ribbon to tie around your head. And thereyou are. "

"Righto !" cried the captain, "and where is this rendezvous of skill anddaring? I'm off. I'll drive that chariot out of breath. "

Capt. MacVeagh got the job. Capt. MacVeagh won the first race. Clad in aflapping toga, a ribbon round his forehead, the hero of the British armywent Berserker on the home stretch and, lashing his four ponies into apanic, came gloriously down the last lap, two lengths ahead andtwenty-five marvelous coins of the realm to the good. 

That night at the club Capt. MacVeagh stood treat. British wassail andwhat not. The twenty-five dollars melted pleasantly and the captain felloff in a happy doze as rosy fingered Aurora touched the city roof-tops. 

But, alas, the wages of sin! For the captain was not so good when hemounted his chariot the second night. A beehive buzzed in his head andhuge, globular disturbances seemed to fill the air. And, standingwaveringly on his feet as the giddy chariot bounced down the track, thecaptain let forth a sudden yell and sailed off into space. The chariotponies and hero of the British army had gone crashing into the side lines. 

 * * * * *

"When they brought him to the hospital in the ambulance, " explained thecaptain's friend, "they had taken the toga off him, of course, and the oldboy was in his dress clothes. This kind o' knocked their eyes out, so whatdo they do but give him the most expensive suite in the place and theprettiest nurse and the star surgeon. And they mend and feed him up fortwo weeks. We all called on him and brought him a few flowers. The lad wassurely in clover. 

"The hospital authorities had nothing to go on but this dress suit asevidence. And when the nurse asked him what he wanted done with the suit, saying it was a bit torn from the accident, MacVeagh waves his hand andanswers, 'Oh, throw the blasted thing out of the window or give it to thejanitor. ' And she did. I always thought it quite a story. "

"But how did it end? What became of the captain when they found out hecouldn't pay his bill and all that? And where's he now?"

"You'll have to end the thing to suit yourself, " said the captain'sfriend. "All I know is that after almost forgetting about MacVeagh I got aletter from him from London yesterday. A rather mysterious letter on LadySomebody's stationery. It read something like this: 'The paths of glorylead but to the grave. Thanks for the flowers. And three cheers, me lad, for the British Empire. '"

THE SYBARITE

They had been poor all their lives. The neighbors said: "It's a wonder howthe Sikoras get along. "

They lived in a rear flat. Four rooms that were dark and three childrenthat were noisy. The three children used Wabansia Avenue as a playground. Dodging wagons and trucks was a diversion which played havoc with theirshoes, but increased their skill in dodging wagons and trucks. 

The neighbors said: "Old man Sikora is pretty sick. It's a wonder wherethey'll get money to pay the doctor. "

Then old man Sikora, who wasn't so old (but poverty and hard work with apick give a man an aged look), was taken to the county hospital. TheSikora children continued to dodge wagons and trucks and Mrs. Sikora wentout three days a week to do washing. And the milkman and the grocer camearound regularly and explained to Mrs. Sikora that they, too, had to liveand she must pay her bills. 

Then the neighbors said: "Did you hear about it? Old man Sikora died lastnight in the hospital. What will poor Mrs. Sikora do now? They ain't got athing. "

And old man Sikora was brought home because his widow insisted upon it. The neighbors came in and looked at the body and wept with Mrs. Sikora, and the children sat around after school and looked uncomfortably at thewalls. And some one asked: "How you going to bury him, Mrs. Sikora?"

"Oh, " said Mrs. Sikora, "I'm going to have a good funeral. "

 * * * * *

There was an insurance policy for $500. The Sikoras had kept it up, scraping together the $10 premiums when the time came. Mrs. Sikora tookthe policy to the husband of a woman whose washing she had done. Thehusband was in the real estate business. 

"I need money to bury my man, " she said. "He died last night in thehospital. "

She was red-eyed and dressed in black and the real estate man said: "Whatdo you want?"

When Mrs. Sikora explained he gave her $400 for the policy and she went toan undertaker. Her eyes were still red with crying. They stared at theluxurious fittings of the undertaker's parlors. There were magnificentpalms in magnificent jardinières, and plush chairs and large, invitingsofas and an imposing mahogany desk and a cuspidor of shining brass. Mrs. Sikora felt thrilled at the sight of these luxuries. 

Then the undertaker came in and she explained to him. 

The neighbors said: "Are you going to Mr. Sikora's funeral? It's going tobe a big funeral. I got invited yesterday. "

Wabansia Avenue was alive with automobiles. Innumerable relatives of Mr. And Mrs. Sikora arrived in automobiles, their faces staring with surpriseout of the limousine windows as if they were seeing the world from a newangle. There were also neighbors. These were dressed even moreimpressively than the relatives. But everybody, neighbors and relatives, had on their Sunday clothes. And the unlucky ones who hadn't been invitedleaned out of the windows of Wabansia Avenue and looked enviously at theentourage. 

There was a band--fifteen pieces. And there was one open automobile filledwith flowers, filled to overflowing. The band stopped in front of theSikora flat, or rather in front of the building, for the Sikora flat wasin the rear and Mrs. Sikora didn't want the band to stop in the alley. Then the envious ones leaning out of the windows couldn't see the band andthat would be a drawback. 

The band played, great, sad songs. The cornets and trombones sent a mutedshiver through the street. The band stopped playing and the people leaningout of the windows sighed. Ah, it was a nice funeral!

Inside the Sikora house four men stood up beside the handsome black coffinand sang. Mrs. Sikora in a voluminous black veil listened with tearsrunning from her face. Never had she heard such beautiful singingbefore--all in time and all the notes sweet and inspiring. She wept somemore and solicitous arms raised her to her feet. Solicitous arms guidedher out of the flower-filled room as six men lifted the black coffin andcarried it into the street. 

 * * * * *

Slowly the automobiles rolled away. And behind the open car heaped withflowers rode Mrs. Sikora. The dolorous music of the band filled her with agentle ecstasy. The flower scents drifted to her and when her eyes glancedfurtively out of the back window of the limousine she could see theprocession reaching for almost a half block. All black limousines filledwith faces staring in surprise at the street. 

And in front of the flower car in an ornamental hearse rode Mr. Sikora. The wheels of the hearse were heavily tired. They made no sound and thechauffeur was careful that his precious burden should not be joggled. 

Slowly through the loop the procession picked its way. Crowds of peoplepaused to stare back at the staring ones in the automobiles and to listento the--fine music that rose above the clamor of the "L" trains and thestreet cars and the trucks. 

The sun lay over the cemetery. The handsome black coffin went out ofsight. The fifteen musicians began to play once more and Mrs. Sikora, weeping anew, allowed solicitous arms to help her back into the limousineand with a sigh she leaned back and closed her eyes and let herself weepwhile the music played, while the limousine rolled smoothly along. It waslike a dream, a strange thing imagined or read about somewhere. 

 * * * * *

The neighbors sniffed indignantly. "Did you hear about Mrs. Sikora?" theysaid. These were the same ones who had leaned enviously out of theWabansia Avenue windows. 

"She spent all her insurance money on a crazy funeral, " the neighborssaid, "and did you hear about it? The Juvenile Court is going to take herchildren away because she can't support them. The officer was out to seeher yesterday and she's got no money to pay her bills. She spent the wholemoney--it was something like $2, 000--on the funeral. Huh!"

Mrs. Sikora, weeping, explained to the Juvenile Court officer. 

"My man died, " she said, "and--and I spent the money for the funeral. Itwas not for myself, but for him I spent the money. "

It will turn out all right, some day. And in the meantime Mrs. Sikora, when she is washing clothes for someone, will be able when her back achestoo much to remember the day she rode in the black limousine and the bandplayed and the air was filled with the smell of flowers. 

DAPPER PETE AND THE SUCKER PLAY

Dapper Pete Handley, the veteran con man, shook hands all around with hisold friends in the detective bureau and followed his captors into thebasement. Another pinch for Dapper Pete; another jam to pry out of. Thecell door closed and Pete composed his lean, gambler's face, eyed hismanicured nails and with a sigh sat down on the wooden cell bench to waitfor his lawyer. 

"Whether I'm guilty of this or not, " said Dapper Pete, "it goes to showwhat a sucker a guy is--even a smart guy. This ain't no sermon against alife of crime I'm pulling, mind you. I'm too old to do that and my senseof humor is workin' too good. I'm only sayin' what a sucker a guyis--sometimes. Take me. "

Dapper Pete registered mock woe. 

"Not that I'm guilty, mind you, or anything like that. But on generalprinciples I usually keep out of the way of the coppers. Especially whenthere's been a misunderstanding concerning some deal or other. Well, how Ihappen to be here just goes to show what a sucker a guy is--even me. "

 * * * * *

Pressed for the key to his self-accusation, Dapper Pete continued:

"I come straight here from Grand Island, Neb. I had a deal on in GrandIsland and worked it for a couple of months. And after I finished therewas trouble and I left. I knew there would be warrants and commotion, thedeal having flopped and a lot of prominent citizens feeling as if they hadbeen bilked. You know how them get-rich-quick investors are. If they don'tmake 3, 000 per cent profit over night they raise a squawk right away. Andwanna arrest you. 

"So I lit out and came to Chicago and when I got here some friends of minetipped me off that there was considerable hunt for me. Well, I figuredthat the Nebraska coppers had let out a big holler and I thought it bestto lay kind of low and keep out of trouble. That was only last week, yousee. 

"So I get the bright idea. Layin' around town with nothin' to do but keepout of sight ain't the cinch it sounds. You get so sick and tired of yourown company that you're almost ready to throw your arms around the firstharness bull you meet. 

"But, " smiled Dapper Pete, "I restrained myself. "

There was time out while Pete discussed the irresponsibility, cruelty andselfishness of policemen in general. After which he continued with hisoriginal narrative:

"It was like this, " he said. "I made up my mind that I would take in a fewof the points of interest in the city I ain't ever got around to. Being aChicagoan, like most Chicagoans I ain't ever seen any of our naturalwonders at all. So first day out I figured that the place no copper wouldever look for me would be like the Field Museum and in the zoo and on thebeach and like that. 

"So, first of all, I join a rubberneck crowd in one of the carryalls witha megaphone guy in charge. And I ride around all day. I got kind ofnervous owing to the many coppers we kept passing and exchangingcourtesies with. But I stuck all day, knowing that no sleuth was goinglooking for Dapper Pete on a rubberneck wagon. 

"Well, then I spent three days in the Field Museum, eyeing the exhibits. Can you beat it? I walk around and walk around rubbering at mummies andbones and--well, I ain't kiddin', but they was among the three mostinteresting days I ever put in. And I felt pretty good, too, knowin' thatno copper would be thinking of Dapper Pete as being in the museums. 

"Then after that I went to the zoo and, rubbered at the animals and birds. And I sat in the park and watched comical ball games and golf games andthe like. And then I went on some of those boats that run between no placeand nowhere--you get on at a pier and ride for a half hour and get off ata pier and have to call a taxi in order to find your way back to anywhere. You get me?

"I'm tellin' you all this, " said Dapper Pete cautiously, "with noreference to the charges involved and for which I am pinched andincarcerated for, see? But I thought you might make a story out of the waya guy like me with all my experience dogin' coppers can play himself for asucker. 

"Well, pretty soon I pretty near run out of rube spots to take in. Andthen I think suddenly of the observation towers like on the Masonic Templeand the Wrigley Building. I headed for them right away, figuring to take asandwich or so along and spend the day leisurely giving the city the onceover from my eerie perch. 

"And when I come home that night and told my friends about it they was allexcited. They all agreed that I had made the discovery of the age and allclaimed to feel sorry they wasn't hiding out from the coppers, just forthe sake of bein' able to lay low on top of a loop building. It does soundpretty good, even now. 

"I was on my fifth day and was just walking in on the Masonic Templeobservation platform when things began to happen. You know how the citylooks from high up. Like a lot of toys crawling around. And it's nice andcool and on the whole as good a place to lay low in as you want. Andthere's always kind of comical company, see? Rubes on their honeymoon andsightseers and old maids and finicky old parties afraid of fallin' off, and gals and their Johns lookin' for some quiet place to spoon. "

 * * * * *

Dapper Pete sighed in memory. 

"I am sitting there nibbling a sandwich, " he went on, "when a hick comesalong and looks at me. "

"'Hello, pardner, ' he says. 'How's the gas mine business?'

"And I look at him and pretend I don't savvy at all. But this terriblelooking rube grins and walks up to me, so help me God, and pulls back hislapel and shows me the big star. 

"'You better come along peaceabul, ' he says. 'I know you, Pete Handley, 'just like that. So I get up and follow this hick down the elevator and heturns me over to a cop on State Street and I am given the ride to thehoosegow. Can you beat it?"

"But who was the party with the star and why the pinch?" I asked DapperPete. That gentleman screwed his lean, gambler's face into a ludicrousfrown. 

"Him, " he sighed, "that was Jim Sloan, constable from Grand Island, Neb. And they sent him here about two weeks ago to find me. See? And all thisrube does is ride around in rubberneck wagons and take in the museums andparks, having no idee where I was. He figured merely on enjoyin' himselfat Nebraska's expense. 

"And he was just on the observation tower lookin' over the city in hisrube way when I have to walk into him. Yes, sir, Pete Handley, and thereain't no slicker guy in the country, walkin' like a prize sucker rightinto the arms of a Grand Island, Neb. , constable. It all goes to show, "sighed Dapper Pete, "what a small world it is after all. "

WATERFRONT FANCIES

Man's capacity for faith is infinite. He is able to believe with passionin things invisible. He can achieve a fantastic confidence in theUnknowable. Here he sits on the breakwater near the Municipal Pier, afishpole in his hand, staring patiently into the agate-colored water. Hecan see nothing. The lake is enormous. It contains thousands of squaremiles of water. 

And yet this man is possessed of an unshakable faith that by somemysterious legerdemain of chance a fish, with ten thousand square miles ofwater to swim in safely, will seek out the little minnow less than an inchin length which he has lowered beside the breakwater. And so, the victimof preposterous conviction, he sits and eyes the tip of his fishpole withunflagging hope. 

It is warm. The sun spreads a brightly colored but uncomfortable woolenblanket over their heads. A tepid breeze, reminiscent of cinders, whirlidly over the warm cement. Strung along the pier are a hundred figures, all in identical postures. They sit in defiance of all logic, allmathematics. For it is easy to calculate that if there are a half millionfish in Lake Michigan and each fish displaces less than five cubic inchesof water there would be only two and a half million cubic inches of fishaltogether lost in an expanse containing at least eight hundred billioncubic inches of water. Therefore, the chance of one fish being at any oneparticular spot are one in four hundred thousand. In other words, the oddsagainst each of these strangely patient men watching the ends of theirfishpoles--the odds against their catching a fish--are four hundredthousand to one. 

 * * * * *

It is therefore somewhat amazing to stand and watch what happens along thesunny breakwater. Every three minutes one of the poles jerks out of thewater with a wriggling prize on the hook. 

"How are they coming?" we ask. 

"Oh, so, so, " answers one of the fishermen and points mutely to a stringof several dozen perch floating under his feet in the water. 

Thus does man, by virtue of his faith, rise above the science ofmathematics and the barriers of logic. Thus is his fantastic belief inthings unseen and easily disproved vindicated. He catches fish where bythe law of probabilities there should be no fish. With the whole lakestretching mockingly before him he sits consumed with a preposterous, afanatical faith in the little half-inch minnow dangling at the end of hisline. 

The hours pass. The sun grows hotter. The piles of stone and steel alongthe lake front seem to waver. From the distant streets come faint noises. On a hot day the city is as appealing as a half-cooled cinder patch. Poordevils in factories, poor devils in stores, in offices. One must sighthinking of them. Life is even vaster than the lake in which thesefishermen fish. And happiness is mathematically elusive as the fish forwhich the fishermen wait. And yet--

An old man with a battered face. A young man with a battered face. Silent, stoical, battered-looking men with fishpoles. A hundred, two hundred, theysit staring into the water of the lake as if they were looking forsomething. For fish? Incredible. One does not sit like this watching forsomething to become visible. Why? Because then there would be an air ofsuspense about the watcher. He would grow nervous after an hour, when thething remained still invisible, and finally he would fall into hystericsand unquestionably shriek. 

And these men grow calmer. Then what are they looking at, hour after hour, under the hot sun? Nothing. They are letting the rhythm of water and skylull them into a sleep--a surcease from living. This is a very poeticalthing for a hundred battered-looking men to attempt. Yet life may be asintimidating to honest, unimaginative ones as to their self-styledsuperiors. 

There are many types fishing. But all of them look soiled. Idlers, workers, unhappy ones--they come to forget, to let the agate eye of thelake stare them into a few hours of oblivion. 

But there is something else. Long ago men hunted and fished to keep alive. They fought with animals and sat with empty stomachs staring at the water, not in quest of Nirvanas but of fish. So now, after ages and ages havepassed, there is left a vague memory of this in the minds of thesefishermen. This memory makes them still feel a certain thrill in thebusiness of pursuit. Even as they sit, stoical and inanimate, forgetful ofunpaid bills, unfinished and never-to-be-finished plans--there comes thiscurious thrill. A mouth tugs at the little minnow. The pole jerkselectrically in the hand. Something alive is on the hook. And thefisherman for an instant recovers his past. He is Ab, fighting with anevening meal off the coast of Wales, two glacial periods ago. His bodyquivers, his muscles set, his eyes flash. 

Zip! The line leaps out of the water. Another monster of the deep, whoseconquest is necessary for the survival of the race of man, has beenovercome. There he hangs, writhing on a hook! There he swings toward histriumphant foe, and the hand of the fisherman on the municipal breakwater, trembling with mysterious elation, closes about the wet, firm body of anoutraged perch. 

 * * * * *

A make-believe hunt that now bears the name of sport. Yes, but not always. Here is one with a red, battered face and a curiously practical air abouthim. He is putting his fish in a basket and counting them. Two dozenperch. 

"Want to sell them?"

He shakes his head. 

"What are you going to do with them?"

He looks up and grins slowly. Then he points to his lips with his fingersand makes signs. This means he is dumb. He places his hand over hisstomach and grins again. He is going to eat them. It is time to go homeand do this, so he puts up his fishpole and packs his primitiveparaphernalia--a tin can, a rusty spike, a bamboo pole. 

Here is one, then, who, in the heart of the steel forest calledcivilization, still seeks out long forgotten ways of keeping life in hisbody. He hunts for fish. 

The sun slides down the sky. The fishermen begin to pack up. They walkwith their heads down and bent forward like number 7s. They raise theireyes occasionally to the piles of stone and steel that mark the cityfront. Back to their troubles and their cinder patch, but--and this is acurious fact--their eyes gleam with hope and curiosity. 

THE SNOB

We happen to be on the same street car. A drizzle softens the windows. Shesits with her pasty face and her dull, little eyes looking out at thedripping street. Her cotton suit curls at the lapels. The ends of hershoes curl like a pair of burlesque Oriental slippers. She holds her handsin her lap. Red, thick fingers that whisper tiredly, "We have worked, " liein her lap. 

A slavey on her day off. There is no mistaking this. Nineteen or twentyyears old, homely as a mud fence; ungraceful, doltish, she sits staringout of the window and her eyes blink at the rain. A peasant fromsoutheastern Europe, a field hand who fell into the steerage of atransatlantic liner and fell out again. Now she has a day off and she goesriding into the country on a street car. 

She will get off and slosh with her heavy feet through wet grass. She willwalk down the muddied roads and drink in the odor of fields and trees oncemore. These are romantic conjectures. The car jolts along. It is goingwest. The rain continues. It runs diagonal dots across the window. 

Everybody out. This is the end of the line. I have gone farther thannecessary. But there is the slavey. We have been talking. At least Italked. She listened, her doltish face opening its mouth, her little eyesblinking. She has pimples, her skin is muddied. A distressful-lookingcreature. Yet there is something. This is her day off--a day free fromthe sweat of labor--and she goes on a street car into the country. So itwould seem that under this blinking, frowzy exterior desire spreads itswings. She has memories, this blousy one. She has dreams. 

The drizzle flies softly through the air. The city has disappeared. Wewalk down an incongruous stretch of pavement. It leads toward a forest orwhat looks like a forest. There are no houses. The sky asserts itself. Ilook up, but the shambling one whose clothes become active under waterkeeps her eyes to the pavement. This is disillusioning! "Here, slavey, isthe sky, " I think; "it becomes romantic for the moment because to you itis the symbol of lost dreams, or happy hours in fields. To me it isnothing but a sky. I have no interest in skies. But I am looking at it foryou and enjoying it through your romantic eyes. "

But her romantic eyes are oblivious. They consult the rain-washed pavementbefore her and nothing else. Very well, there are other and nicer skies inher heart that she contemplates. This is an inferior sky overhead. We walkon. 

You see, I have been wrong. It is not green fields that lured the heavyfeet of this slavey. She is not a peasant Cinderella. Grief, yes, hiddensorrow, has led her here. This is a cemetery. 

It rains over the cemetery. There is silence. The white stones glisten. They stand like beggars asking alms of the winding paths. And this blousyone has come to be close to one of the white stones. Under one of themlies somebody whose image still lives in her heart. 

She will kneel in the wet grass and her pasty little face will blink itsdull eyes over a grave. Like a little clown in her curling cotton suit, her lumpy shoes, her idiotic hat, she will offer her tears to the pitilesssilence of trees, wind, rain and white stones. 

"Do you like them there?" She asks. She points to a cluster of fancyheadstones. 

"Do you?" I ask. 

She smiles. 

"Oh yes, " she says. And she stops. She is admiring the tombstones. We walkon. 

It is incredible. This blousy one, this dull-eyed one has come to thecemetery on her day off--to admire the tombstones. Ah, here is drama of apoignant kind. Let us pray God there is nothing pathologic here and thatthis is an idyl of despair, that the lumpish little slavey sits on therain-washed bench dreaming of fine tombstones as a flapper might dream offine dresses. 

Yes, at last we are on the track. We talk. These are very pretty, shesays. Life is dull. The days are drab. The place where she works is likean oven. There is nothing pretty to look at--even in mirrors there isnothing cool and pretty. Clothes grow lumpy when she puts them on. Boysgiggle and call names when she goes out. And so, outcast, she comes hereto the cemetery to dream of a day when something cool and pretty willbelong to her. A headstone, perhaps a stately one with a figure above it. It will stand over her. She will be dead then and unable to enjoy it. Butnow she is alive. Now she can think of how pretty the stone will look andthus enjoy it in advance. This, after all, is the technique of all dreams. 

We grow confidential. I have asked what sort she likes best, what sort itpleases her most to think about as standing over her grave when she dies. And she has pointed some out. It rains. The trees shake water and the windhurries past the white stones. 

"I will tell you something, " she says. "Here, look at this. " From one ofher curled pockets she removes a piece of paper. It is crumpled. I open itand read:

"In Case of Accident please notify Misses Burbley, --Sheridan Road, andhave body removed to Home of Parents who are residants of CorlissWisconsin where they have resided for twenty Years and the diseased is aonly Daughter named Clara. Age nineteen and educated in Corliss publicSchools where she Graduated as a girl but came to Chicago in serch ofemployment and in case of accident funeral was held from Home of theParents, many Frends attending and please Omit flours. .. . "

"I got lot of them writ out, " said Clara, blinking. "You wanna read more?Why I write them out? Oh, because, you can't tell, maybe you get run overand in accident and how they going to know who you are or what to do withthe diseased if they don't find something?"

Her thick red hands grew excited. She produced further obituaries. Fromher pocketbook, from her bosom, from her pockets and one from under herhat. I read them. They were all alike, couched in vaguely bombastic terms. We sat in the rain and I thought:

"Alas, Clara is a bounder. A snob. She writes her own obituaries. Aliveshe can think of herself only as Clara, the slavey at whom the boys giggleand call names. But dead, she is the 'deseased'--the stately corpsecommanding unprecedented attention. The prospect stirs a certainsnobbishness in her. And she sits and writes her death notices out--usinglanguage she tries to remember from reading the funeral accounts of richand powerful people. "

Clara, her hat awry, her doltish body sagging in the rain--shuffled downthe dirt road once more. Her outing is over. Cinderella returns to theashes of life. 

THE WAY HOME

He shuffles around in front of the Clinton Street employment agency. Thesigns say: "Pick men wanted, section hands wanted, farm laborers wanted. "

A Mexican stands woodenly against the window front. His eyes are open butasleep. He has the air of one come from a far country who lives uponmemories. 

There are others--roughly dressed exiles. Their eyes occasionally studythe signs, deciphering with difficulty the crudely chalked words on thebulletin boards. Slav, Swede, Pole, Italian, Greek--they read in alanguage foreign to them that men are wanted on the farms in the Dakotas, in the lumber camps, on the roadbeds in Montana. Hard-handed men withdull, seamed faces and glittering eyes--the spike-haired proletaire from adozen lands looking for jobs. 

But this one who shuffles about in a tattered mackinaw, huge baggytrousers frayed at the feet, this one whose giant's body swings looselyback and forth under the signs, is a more curious exile. His Mexicanbrother leaning woodenly against the window has a slow dream in his eyes. Life is simple to his thought. It was hard for him in Mexico. Andadventure and avarice sent him northward in quest of easier ways and morenumerous comforts. Now he hunts a job on a chilly spring morning. When theproper job is chalked up on the bulletin board he will go in and ask forit. He stands and waits and thinks how happy he was in the country heabandoned and what a fool he was to leave the white dust of its roads, itshills and blazing suns. And some day, he thinks, he will go back, althoughthere is nothing to go back for. Yet it is pleasant to stand and dream ofa place one has known and whither one may return. 

But this one who shuffles, this giant in a tattered mackinaw who slouchesalong under the bulletin signs asking for section hands and laborers, there is no dream of remembered places in his eyes. Dull, blue eyes thatpeer bewilderedly out of a powerful and empty face. The forehead ispuckered as if in thought. The heavy jaws protrude with a hint of ferocityin their set. There is a reddish cast to his hair and face and the backsof his great hands, hanging limply almost to his knees, are covered withred hair. 

The nose of this shuffling one is larger than the noses in the citystreets. His fingers are larger, his neck is larger. There is a curiousearthy look to this shuffling one seldom to be seen about men in streets. He is a huge creature with great thighs and Laocoön sinews and he towers ahead above his brothers in front of the employment office. He is of adifferent mold from the men in the street. Strength ripples under histattered mackinaw and his stiff looking hands could break the heads of twomen against each other like eggshells while they rained puny blows on hisdull face. 

And yet of all the men moving about on the pavement in front of theClinton Street bulletin boards it is this shuffling one who is the mostimpotent seeming. His figure is the most helpless. It slouches as under afinal defeat. His eyes are the dullest. 

He stops at the corner and stands waiting, his head lowered, his shouldershunched in and he looks like a man weighed down by a harness. 

 * * * * *

A curious exile from whose blood has vanished all memory of the country towhich he belongs. A faraway land, ages beyond the sun-warmed roads ofwhich his Mexican brother dreams as he stands under the bulletin boards. Aland which the ingenuity of the world has left forever behind. This is aland that once reached over all the seas. 

For it was like this that men once looked in an age before the myths ofthe Persians and Hindus began to fertilize the animal soul of the race. Inthe forests north of the earliest cities of Greece, along the wild coaststapering from the Tatar lands to the peninsula of the Basques, men likethis shuffling one once ranged alone and in tribes. Huge, powerful menwhose foreheads sloped back and whose jaws sloped forward and whose stiffhands reached an inch nearer their knees than today. 

This giant in the tattered mackinaw is an exile from this land and thereis no dream of it left in his blood. The body of his fathers has returnedto him. Their long, loose arms, their thick muscles and heavy poundingveins are his, but their voices are buried too deep to rise again in him. The mutterings of warrior councils, the shouts of terrible hunts are lostsomewhere in him and he shuffles along, his sloping forehead in a puckerof thought as if he were trying to remember. But no memories come. Insteada bewilderment. The swarming streets bewilder him. The towering buildings, the noises of traffic and people dull his eyes and bring his shoulderstogether like the shoulders of some helpless captive. 

 * * * * *

He returns to the employment office and raises his eyes to the bulletinboards. He reads slowly, his large lips moving as they form words. Inanother day or another week he will be riding somewhere, his dull eyesgazing out of the train window. They will call him Ole or Pat or Jim insome camp in the Dakotas or along some roadbed in Montana. He will standwith a puny pick handle in his huge hands and his arms will rise and fallmechanically as he hews away along a deserted track. And his forehead willstill be puckered in a frown of bewilderment. The thing held in his fistswill seem like a strange toy. 

"Farm laborers in Kansas, " says the bulletin board as the clerk with hispiece of chalk re-enters the office. The Mexican slowly removes himselffrom the window and the contemplation of memories. Kansas lies to thesouth and to the south is the way home. He goes in and talks to the manbehind the long desk. 

An hour later the clerk and his piece of chalk emerge. The exiles arestill mooching around on the pavement and the shuffling one stands on thecurb staring dully at the street under him. 

"Section hands, Alberta, Canada, transportation, " says the new bulletin. There is no stir among the exiles. This is to the north. It is still coldin the north. But the shuffling one has turned. His eyes again trace thecrudely chalked letters of the bulletin board. His lips move as he tellshimself what is written. 

And then as if unconsciously he moves toward the door. Alberta is to thenorth and the voices that lie buried deep under the giant's mackinawwhisper darkly that to the north--to the north is the way home. 

THE PIG

"Sofie Popapovitch versus Anton Popapovitch, " cries the clerk. A number ofbroken-hearted matrons awaiting their turn before the bar of justice inthe Domestic Relations Court find time to giggle at the name Popapovitch. 

"Silence, " cries the clerk. Very well, silence. Anton steps out. What'sthe matter with Anton? An indignant face, its chin raised, its eyesmarching defiantly to the bar of justice. Sofie too, but weeping. And alawyer, Sofie's lawyer. 

Well, what's up? Why should the Popapovitches take up valuable time. Thinkof the taxpayers supporting this court and two Popapovitches marching upto have an argument on the taxpayers' money. Well, that's civilization. 

Ah, ah! It appears that Anton, the rogue, went to a grand ball and rafflegiven by his lodge. What's wrong with that? Why must Sofie weep over that?Women are incredible. He went to the grand ball with his wife, as a manshould. A very fine citizen, Anton. He belongs to a lodge that gives grandballs and he takes his wife. 

Go on, says the judge, what happened? What's the complaint? Time isprecious. Let's have it in a nutshell. 

This is a good idea. People spend a frightful lot of unnecessary timeweeping and mumbling in the courts. Mrs. Popapovitch will please stopweeping and get down to brass tacks. Very well, the complaint is, yourhonor, that Mr. Popapovitch got drunk at the grand ball. But that wasn'tthe end of it. There's some more. A paragraph of tears and then, yourhonor, listen to this: Mr. Popapovitch not only got drunk but he took achance on the raffle which cost one dollar and he won. 

But what did he win! Oh, oh! He won a pig. A live pig. That was the prize. A small, live pig with a ribbon round its neck. And, says Mrs. Popapovitch(there's humor in a long foreign-sounding name because it conjures upvisions of bewildered, flat-faced people and bewildered, flat-faced peopleare always humorous), and, says she, they had been married ten years. Happily married. She washed, scrubbed, tended house. There were nochildren. Well, what of that? Lots of people had no children. 

Anyway, Anton worked, brought home his pay envelope O. K. And then he winsthis pig. And what does he do? He takes it home. He won't leave itanywhere. 

"What!" he says, "I leave this pig anywhere? Are you crazy? It's my pig. Iwin him. I take him home with me. "

And then? Well, it's midnight, your honor. And Anton carries the pigupstairs into the flat. But there's no place to put him. Where can one puta pig in a flat, your honor? No place. The pig don't like to stand oncarpets. And what pig likes to sleep on hard wood floors? A pig's a pig. And what's good for a pig? Aha! a pig pen. 

So, your honor, Anton puts him in the bathtub. And he starts down stairswith a basket and all night long he keeps bringing up basketfuls of dirtdug up from the alley. Dirt, cinders, more dirt. And he puts it in thebathtub. And what does the pig do? He squeals, grunts and wants to gohome. He fights to get out of the bathtub. There's such a noise nobody cansleep. But Anton says, "Nice little pig. I fix you up fine. Nice littlepig. "

And so he fills the bathtub up with dirt. Then he turns on the water. Andwhat does he say? He says, "Now, little pig, we have fine mud for you. Nice fine mud. " Yes, your honor, a whole bathtub full of mud. And when thepig sees this he gets happy and lies down and goes to sleep. And Antonsits in the bathroom and looks at the pig all night and says, "See. He'sasleep. It's like home for him. "

But the next day Anton must go to work. All right, he'll go to work. Butfirst, understand everybody, he don't want this pig touched. The pig staysin the bathtub and he must be there when he comes home. 

All right. The pig stays in the bathtub, your honor. Anton wants it. Tomorrow the pig will be killed and that'll be an end for the pig. 

Anton comes home and he goes in the bathroom and he sits and looks at thepig and complains the mud is dried up and why don't somebody take care ofhis pig. His damn pig. He brings up more dirt and makes more mud. And thepig tries to climb out and throws mud all over the bathroom. 

That's one day. And then there's another day. And finally a third day. Will Anton let anybody kill his pig? Aha! He'll break somebody's neck ifhe does. But, your honor, Mrs. Popapovitch killed the pig. A terriblething, isn't it, to kill a pig that keeps squealing in the bathtub andsplashing mud all day?

But what does Anton do when he comes home and finds his pig killed? MyGod! He hits her, your honor. He hits her on the head. His own wife whomhe loves and lives with for ten years. He throws her down and hollers, "You killed my little pig! You good for nothing. I'll show you. "

What a disgrace for the neighbors! Lucky there are no children, yourhonor. Married ten years but no children. And it's lucky now. Because thedisgrace would have been worse. The neighbors come. They pull him awayfrom his wife. Her eye is black and blue. Her nose is bleeding. That'sall, your honor. 

A very bad case for Anton Popapovitch. A decidedly bad case. Step forward, Anton Popapovitch, and explain it, if you can. Did you beat her up? Didyou do this thing? And are you ashamed and willing to apologize and kissand make up?

Anton, step forward and tell his honor. But be careful. Mrs. Popapovitchhas a lawyer and it will go bad with you if you don't talk carefully. 

All right. Here's Anton. He nods and keeps on nodding. What is this?What's he nodding about? Did this happen as your wife says, Anton? Antonblows out his cheeks and rubs his workingman's hand over his mouth. Tothink that you should beat your wife who has always been good to you, Anton. Who has cooked and been true to you! And there are no children toworry you. Not one. And you beat her. Bah, is that a man? Don't you loveyour wife? Yes. All right, then why did you do it?

Anton looks up surprised. "Because, " says Anton, still surprised, "likeshe say. She kill my pig. You hear yourself, your honor. She say she killhim. And I put him in the bathtub and give him mud. And she kill him. "

But is that a reason to beat your wife and nearly kill her? It is, saysAnton. Well, then, why? Tell the judge, why you were so fond of this pig, Anton. 

Ah, yes, Anton Popapovitch, tell the judge why you loved this little pigso much and made a home for him with mud in the bathtub. Why you dreamedof him as you stood working in the factory? Why you ran home to him andfed him and sat and looked at him and whispered "Nice little pig?" Why?

God knows. But Anton Popapovitch can't explain it. It must remain one ofthe mysteries of our city, your honor. Call the next case. Put AntonPopapovitch on parole. Perhaps it was because. .. , well, the matter isended. Anton Popapovitch sighs and looks with accusing eyes at his wifeSofie, with accusing eyes that hint at evidence unheard. 

THE LITTLE FOP

This little caricature of a fop, loitering in the hotel lobby, enthralledby his own fastidiousness, gazing furtively at the glisten of his newlymanicured nails and shuddering with awe at the memory of the puckeredwhite silk lining inside his Prince of Wales derby--I've watched him formore than a month now. Here he comes, his pointed button shoes, hisrazor-edged trousers, his natty tan overcoat with its high waist band andits amazing lapels that stick up over his shoulders like the ears of ajackass, here he comes embroidered and scented and looking like a crossbetween a soft-shoe dancer and a somnambulist. And here he takes hisposition, holding his gloves in his hand, his Prince of Wales derby jammeddown on his patent-leather hair. 

Observe him. This is a pose. He is living up to a fashion illustration inone of the magazines. Or perhaps he is duplicating an attitude of some onestudied in a Michigan Avenue club entrance. His right arm is crooked as ifhe were about to place his hand over his heart and bow. His left arm hangswith a slight curve at his side. His feet should be together, but theyshift nervously. His head is turned to the left and slightly raised--likea movie actor posing for a cigarette advertisement. 

And there he stands, a dead ringer for one of the waxen dummies to be seenin a Halsted Street Men's Snappy Furnishings Store. 

 * * * * *

I've watched him for a month, off and on. And his face still says nothing. His eyes are curiously emotionless. They appear suddenly in his face. Heis undersized. His nose, despite the recent massage and powder, has aslight oleaginous gleam to it. The cheek bones are a bit high, the mouth atrifle wide and the chin slightly bulbous. As he blinks about him with hissmall, almost Mongolian eyes he looks like some honest little immigrantfrom Bohemia or Poland whom a malignant sorcerer has changed into acaricature fashion plate. This is, indeed, the legend of Cinderella andthe fairy godmother with an ending of pathos. 

Yet, though his face says nothing, there is a provoking air to this littlefop. His studied inanimation, his crudely self-conscious pose, his dull, little, peasant eyes staring at the faces that drift by in thelobby--these ask for translation. Why is he here? What does he want? Whydoes he come every evening and stand and watch the little hotel parade?Ah, one never sees him in the dining room or on the dance floor. One nevermeets him between the acts in the theater lobby. And one never sees himtalking to anybody. He is always alone. People pass him with a curiousglance and think to themselves, "Ah, a young man about town! What a shameto dissipate like that!" They sometimes notice the masterly way in whichhe sizes up a fur-coated "chicken" stalking thin-leggedly through thelobby and think to themselves: "The scoundrel! He's the kind of creaturethat makes a big city dangerous. A carefully combed and scented vulturewaiting to swoop down from the side lines. "

Evening after evening between 6 o'clock and midnight he drifts in and outof the lobby, up and down Randolph Street and takes up his position atvarious points of vantage where crowds pass, where women pass. I'vewatched him. No one ever talks to him. There are no salutations. He isunknown and worse. For the women, the rouged and ornamental ones, know hima bit too well. They know the carefully counted nickels in his trouserspocket, the transfers he is saving for the three-cent rebate that may comesome day, the various newspaper coupons through which he hopes to make akilling. 

All this they know and through a sixth sense, a curious instinct of sexdivination, they know the necktie counter or information desk behind whichhe works during the day, the stuffy bedroom to which he will go home tosleep, the vacuity of his mind and gaudy emptiness of his spirit. Theyknow all this and pass him up with never a smile. Yes, even the manicuregirls in the barber shop give him the out-and-out sneer and the hat-checkgirls and even the floor girls--the chambermaids--all of whom he has triedto date up--they all respond with an identical raspberry to hisinvitations. 

But he asks for translation--this determined little caricature of thehotel lobby. A little peasant masquerading as a dazzled moth around thebright lights. Not entirely. There is something else. There is somethingof a great dream behind the ridiculous pathos of this over-dressed littlefool. There is something in him that desires expression, that will neverachieve expression, and that will always leave him just such an absurdlittle clown of a fop. 

 * * * * *

When the manicure girls read this they will snort. Because they know himtoo well. "Of all the half-witted dumbbells I ever saw in my life, " theywill say, "he wins the cement earmuffs. Nobody home, honest to Gawd, he'snothin' but a nasty little fourflusher. We know him and his kind. "

Fortunately I don't know him as well as the manicure girls do, so there isroom for this speculation as I watch him in the evening now and then. Isee him standing under the blaze of lobby lights, in the thick of passingfur coats and dinner jackets, in the midst of laughter, escorts, intrigues, actors, famous names. 

He stands perfectly still, with his right arm crooked as if he were goingto place his hand over his heart and bow, with his left arm slightlycurved at his side. Grace. This is a pose denoting grace. He got itsomewhere from an illustration. And he holds it. Here is life. The realstuff. The real thing. Lights and laughter. Glories, coiffures, swelldames, great actors, guys loaded with coin. His little Mongolian eyesblink through his amusing aplomb. Here are gilded pillars and marbledwalls, great rugs and marvelous furniture. Here music is playing somewhereand people are eating off gold-edged dishes. 

 * * * * *

And now you will smile at me, not him. Because watching him of evenings, on and off, a curious notion takes hold of my thoughts. I have noticed therace oddities of his face, the Mongolian eyes, the Slavic cheek bones, theItalian hair. A mixed breed, this little fop. Mixed through a dozencenturies. Fathers and mothers that came from a hundred parts of theearth. But down the centuries they had one thing in common. Servitude. TheCarlovingian courts, the courts of the De Medici, the Valois, and longbefore that, the great houses that lay around the Roman hills. Draggedfrom their villages, east, west, north and south, they flitted in thetrappings of servitude through the vast halls of tyrants, barons, Caesars, sybarites, debauchees. They were the torchbearers, the caitiffs, thevarlets, the bathkeepers, the inanimate figures whose faces watched fromthe shadows the great orgies of Tiberius, the bacchanals of satraps, kings, captains and squires. 

And here their little great-great-grandson stands as they stood, the ghostof their servitude in his sluggish blood. He is content with his role ofwatcher as his people were content. These slightly grotesque trappings ofhis are a disguise. He wishes to disguise the fact that he is of thetorchbearers, the varlets, the bathkeepers who produced him. So heimitates servilely what he fancies to be the distinguishing marks of hisbetters--their clothes, their manners, their aplomb. This accomplished, heis content to yield himself to the mysterious impulses and dreams thatmove silently through him. 

And so he takes his position beside his people--the mixed breeds draggedfrom their scattered villages--so he stands as they stood through thecenturies, their faces watching from the shadows the gorgeousness andtumult of the great aristocrats. 

MOTTKA

Since most of the great minds that have weighed the subject have arrivedat the opinion that between poverty and crime there is an inevitableaffinity, the suspicion with which the eye of Policeman Billings restedupon Mottka, the vender of roasted chestnuts, reflected creditably uponthat good officer's grasp of the higher philosophies. 

Policeman Billings, sworn to uphold the law and assist in the protectionof property, viewed the complications and mysteries of the social systemwith a simple and penetrating logic. The rich are not dangerous, reasonedPoliceman Billings, because they have what they want. But the poor whohave not what they want are, despite paradox and precedent, always to bewatched closely. A raggedly dressed man walking in a dark, lonely streetmay be honesty itself. Yet rags, even when worn for virtue's sake, are adubious assurance of virtue. They are always ominous to one sworn toprotect property and uphold the law. 

There is a maxim by Chateaubriand, or perhaps it was Stendhal--maxims havea way of leaving home--which claims that the equilibrium of society restsupon the acquiescence of its oppressed and unfortunate. 

 * * * * *

In passing the battered chestnut roaster of the unfortunate Mottka, Policeman Billings was aware in his own way of the foregoing elements ofsocial philosophy. Mottka had chosen for his little shop an old soapboxwhich a wastrel providence had deposited in the alley on Twenty-secondStreet, a few feet west of State Street. Here Mottka sat, nursing the fireof his chestnut roaster with odd bits of refuse which seldom reached thedignity of coal or even wood. 

He was an old man and the world had used him poorly. He was, in fact, oneof those upon whom the equilibrium of the social system rests. He wasunfortunate, oppressed and acquiescent. Arriving early in the forenoon heset up his shop, lighted his fire and took his place on the soapbox. Whenthe lights began to wink out along this highway of evil ghosts Mottka wasstill to be seen hunched over his chestnut roaster and waiting. 

Policeman Billings strolling over his beat was wont to observe Mottka. There were many things demanding the philosophical attention of PolicemanBillings. Not so long ago the neighborhood which he policed had beenrenowned to the four corners of the earth as the rendezvous of moretemptations than even St. Anthony enumerated in his interesting brochureon the subject. And Policeman Billings felt the presence of much of thisevil lingering in the brick walls, broken windows and sagging pavements ofthe district. 

It was after a number of days on the beat that Policeman Billings began totake Mottka seriously. There was something curious about the chestnutvender, and the eye of the good officer grew narrow with suspicion. "Thisman, " reasoned Policeman Billings, "makes pretense of being a vender ofroasted chestnuts. He sits all day in the alley between two saloons. Ihave never noticed him sell any chestnuts. And come to think of it, I havenever seen more than a half-dozen chestnuts on his roasting pan. I beginto suspect that this old man is a fraud and that his roasting chestnuts isa blind. He is very likely a lookout for some bootlegger gang or criminalmob. And I will keep an eye on him. "

 * * * * *

Mottka remained unaware of Policeman Billing's attention. He continued tosit hunched over his roaster, nursing the little fire under it as best hecould--and waiting. But finally Policeman Billings called himself to hisattention in no uncertain way. 

"What's your name?" asked the good officer, stopping before the chestnutvender. 

"Mottka, " answered Mottka. 

"And what are you doing here?" asked Policeman Billings, frowning. 

"I roast chestnuts and sell them, " said Mottka. 

"Hm!" said Policeman Billings, "you do, eh? Well, we'll see about that. Come along. "

Mottka rose without question. One does not ask questions of an officer ofthe law. Mottka stood up and put the fire out and put the handful ofchestnuts in his pocket and picked up his roaster and followed theofficer. A half-hour later Mottka stood before the sergeant in theTwenty-second street station. 

"What's the trouble?" asked the sergeant. 

And Policeman Billings explained. 

"He claims to be selling chestnuts and roasting them. But I never see himsell any, much less do I see him roasting any. He's got about a dozenchestnuts altogether and I think he may bear looking into. "

"What about it, Mottka?" asked the sergeant. 

Mottka shrugged his shoulders, shook his head and smiled deprecatingly. 

"Nothing, " he said, "I got a chestnut roaster I got from a friend on theWest Side. And I try to make business. I got a license. "

"But the officer says you never roast any chestnuts and he thinks you're afake. "

"Yes, yes, " smiled Mottka; "I don't have so many chestnuts. I can't affordonly a little bit at a time. Some time I buy a basket of chestnuts. "

"Where do you live, Mottka?"

"Oh, on the West Side. On the West Side. "

"And what did you do before you roasted chestnuts?"

"Me? Oh, I was in a business. Yes, in a business. And it failed. So I gotthe chestnut roaster. I got a license. "

"It seems to me I've seen you before, Mottka. "

"Yes, yes. A policeman bring me here before when I was on Wabash Avenuewith my chestnuts. "

"What did he bring you in for?"

"Oh, because he thinks I am a crook, because I don't have enough chestnutsto sell. He says I am a lookout for crooks and he brings me in. "

Mottka laughed softly and shrugged his shoulders. 

"I am no crook. Only I am too poor to buy more chestnuts. "

Policeman Billings frowned, but not at Mottka. 

"Here, " said the good officer, and he handed Mottka a dollar. Three otherupholders of the law were present and they too handed Mottka money. 

"Go and buy yourself some chestnuts, Mottka, " said the sergeant, "so theofficers won't be runnin' you in on suspicion of bein' a criminal. "

Now Mottka's chestnut roaster in the alley off State Street is full ofchestnuts. A bright fire burns under the pan and Mottka sits watching thechestnuts brown and peel as they roast. And if you were to ask him aboutthings he would say:

"Tell something? What is there to tell? Nothing. "

"FA'N TA MIG!"

Avast and belay there! Take in the topgallants, wind up the mizzenmast andreef the cleets! This is Tobias Wooden-Leg plowing his way through a highsea in Grand Avenue. 

Aye, what a night, what a night! The devil astride the jib boom, his taillashing in the wind. "Pokker!" says Tobias, "fa'n ta mig. Hold tight andhere we go!"

The boys in the Elite poolroom stand grinning in the doorway. Old NorskeTobias is on a tear again, his red face shining with the memory ofStavanger storms, his beard bristling like a north cat's back. An Odin incaricature. 

They watch him pass. Drunker than a fiddler's wench. Drunker than abootlegger's pal. Drunk as the devil himself and roaring at the top of hisvoice: "Belay, there! Hold tight and here we go!" Poor Tobias Wooden-Leg, the years keep plucking out his hairs and twisting his fingers intotalons. Seventy years have squeezed him. And they have brought him pietyand wisdom. They have taught him virtue and holiness. 

But the wind suddenly rises and comes blowing out of Stavanger again. Thegreat sea suddenly lifts under his one good leg. And Tobias with hisBibles and his prayer books struggles in the dark of his Grand Avenuebedroom. The devil comes and sits on his window sill, a devil with longlocks and bronze wings beside his ears and a three-pronged pitchfork inhis hand. 

"Ho, ho!" cries this one on the window sill. "What are you doing here, Tobias? With the north wind blowing and the gray seas standing on theirheads? Grown old, Tobias, eh? Sitting in a corner and mumbling overlitanies. "

And it has always been like that since he came to Grand Avenue ten yearsago. It has always turned out that Tobias takes off his white shirt andputs on his sailor's black sweater and fastens on his old wooden leg andfollows the one on the window sill. 

 * * * * *

Avast and belay! The night is still young and a sailor man's abroad. Thesergeant going off duty at the Chicago Avenue station passes and winks andcalls: "Hello, Tobias. Pretty rough tonight. "

"Fa'n ta mig!" roars Tobias. "Hold tight. " And he steers for Clark Street. And now the one on the window sill is gone and the storm grows quiet. Andpoor Tobias Wooden-Leg, the venerable and pious, who has won the grace ofGod through a terrific fight, finds himself again lost and strayed. 

Of what good were the prayers and the night after night readings in theold sea captain's Bible stolen forty years ago? Of what good the promisesand tears of repentance, when this thing that seemed to rise out offorgotten seas could come and jump up on his window sill and bewitch himas if he were a heedless boy? When it could sit laughing at him until inits laugh he heard the sounds of old winds roaring and old seas standingon their heads, and he put on his black sweater--the moth-eaten badge ofhis sinfulness--and he put on his wooden leg and lifted out the handful ofmoney from under the corner of the carpet?

What good were the prayers if they couldn't keep him pious? Yes, that wasit. And here the habitués along North Clark Street grin. For TobiasWooden-Leg is coming down the pavement, his head hanging low, his beard nolonger bristling and his soul on a hunt for a new God. A strong God. Apowerful and commanding God, stronger than the long-locked, bronze-wingedone of the window sill. 

They grin because this is an old story. Tobias is an old character. Onceevery two or three months for ten years Tobias has come like this with hishead lowered searching for a new and powerful God that would keep himpious and that would kill the devil that seemed never to die inside hisold Norske soul. 

So he had taken them all--a jumble of gods, a patchwork of religions. Every soapbox apostle in the district had at one time converted him. HolyRoller, Methodist, Jumper, Yogi, Swami, Zionite--he had bowed his headbefore their and a dozen other varied gods. And the missions in thedistrict had come to know him as "the convert. " He had been faithful toeach of the creeds as long as he remained sober and as long as he sat inhis room of nights reading in his Bible. 

But come a storm out of Stavanger, come a whistling under the eaves and athumping of wind on the window pane and Tobias was off again. "He is not agood God!" Tobias would cry in his new "repentance. " "His religion is tooweak. The devil is stronger than Him. I want a stronger religion. Pagh, Iwant somebody big enough to kill this fanden inside me. "

The crowd around the soapbox evangelist is rather slight. The night iscold. The wind bites and the street has a dismal air. The evangeliststands around the corner from the old book store in whose windowsthousands of musty volumes are piled like the bones of hermits. The manwho owns this curious book store is a sun-worshipper. And the evangeliston the soapbox is a friend of his. 

The slight crowd listens. Peace comes from the sun. The sun is the sourceof light and of health. It is the eye of God. Terrible by day and watchingby night. It is the fire of life. The slight crowd grins and theevangelist, his mind bubbling with a cabalistic jargon remembered out ofmusty books, tries to explain something that seems vivid in his heart butvague to his tongue. 

They will drop away soon because the night is cold and the evangelist abit too nutty for serious attention. But here comes Tobias Wooden-Leg andsome of the listeners grin and nudge one another. Tobias, with his voicehoarse and his blue eyes shining with wrath--wrath at himself and wrath atthe God who had abandoned him, unable to cope with the one on the windowsill. 

Tobias listens. Terrible by day and ever watchful by night. The King ofKings, the Great Majesty and secret symbol of the absolute. Tobias drinksin the jargon of the soapbox man and then shouts: "I'll join, I'll join! Iwant a strong God!"

 * * * * *

So now Tobias Wooden-Leg is a sun-worshipper. The boys in the Elitepoolroom will tell you all about it. How he walks the street at dawn withhis head raised and bows every seven steps. And how in the evening he isto be seen standing at his window bowing to the sun going down. And how hehas been around saying: "Well, I have found the big God at last. No moremonkey business for me. Listen to what it says in the book about him. " Andhow he will quote from the sea captain's Bible stolen forty years ago. 

But the boys also say: "Just wait. "

And they wink, meaning that another storm will blow up out of Stavanger inNorway and old Tobias will come plowing down the street again howling thatfa'n ta mig the devil has him and that old Thor leaped on his window silland tossed the all-powerful sun out of the sky with his hammer. 

FANTASTIC LOLLYPOPS

They will never start. No, they will never start. In another two minutesMr. Prokofieff will go mad. They should have started at eleven. It is nowten minutes after eleven. And they have not yet started. Ah, Mr. Prokofieff has gone mad. 

But Mr. Prokofieff is a modernist; so nobody pays much attention. Musicians are all mad. And a modernist musician, du lieber Gott! A Russianmodernist musician!

The medieval face of Mr. Boris Anisfeld pops over the rows of empty seats. It is very likely that Mr. Anisfeld will also go mad. For Mr. Anisfeld is, in a way, a collaborator of Mr. Prokofieff. It is the full dress rehearsalof "The Love for Three Oranges. " Mr. Prokofieff wrote the words and music. Mr. Anisfeld painted the scenery. 

"Mees Garden weel be hear in a meenute, " the medieval face of Boriswhispers into the Muscovite ears of Serge. 

 * * * * *

Eleven-fifteen, and Miss Garden has arrived. She is armed, having broughtalong her heaviest shillalah. Mr. Prokofieff is on his feet. He takes offhis coat. The medieval face of Mr. Anisfeld vanishes. Tap, tap, on theconductor's stand. Lights out. A fanfare from the orchestra's right. 

Last rehearsal for the world premier of a modernist opera! One wintermorning years ago the music critics of Paris sat and laughed themselvesgreen in the face over the incomprehensible banalities of an impossiblemodernist opera called "Tannhäuser. " And who will say that critics havelost their sense of humor. There will unquestionably be laughter beforethis morning is over. 

 * * * * *

Music like this has never come from the orchestra pit of the Auditorium. Strange combinations of sounds that seem to come from street pianos, NewYear's eve horns, harmonicas and old-fashioned musical beer steins thatplay when you lift them up. Mr. Prokofieff waves his shirt-sleeved armsand the sounds increase. 

There is nothing difficult about this music--that is, unless you areunfortunate enough to be a music critic. But to the untutored ear there isa charming capriciousness about the sounds from the orchestra. Cadenzaspirouette in the treble. Largos toboggan in the bass. It sounds like thepicture of a crazy Christmas tree drawn by a happy child. Which is a mostpeculiar way for music to sound. 

But, attention! The curtain is up. Bottle greens and fantastic reds. Hereis a scene as if the music Mr. Prokofieff were waving out of the orchestrahad come to life. Lines that look like the music sounds. Colors thatembrace one another in tender dissonances. Yes, like that. 

And here, galubcheck (I think it's galubcheck), are the actors. What is itall about? Ah, Mr. Prokofieff knows and Boris knows and maybe the actorsknow. But all it is necessary for us to know is that music and color and aquaint, almost gargoylian, caprice are tumbling around in front of oureyes and ears. 

And there is M. Jacques Coini. He will not participate in the worldpremier. Except in spirit. Now M. Coini is present in the flesh. He wearsa business suit, spats of tan and a gray fedora. M. Coini is the stagedirector. He instructs the actors how to act. He tells the choruses whereto chorus and what to do with their hands, masks, feet, voices, eyes andnoses. 

The hobgoblin extravaganza Mr. Prokofieff wrote unfolds itself withrapidity. Theater habitués eavesdropping on the rehearsal mumble in thehalf-dark that there was never anything like this seen on earth or inheaven. Mr. Anisfeld's scenery explodes like a succession of medievalskyrockets. A phantasmagoria of sound, color and action crowds thestartled proscenium. For there is no question but that the proscenium, with the names of Verdi, Bach, Haydn and Beethoven chiseled on it, isconsiderably startled. 

Through this business of skyrockets and crescendos and hobgoblins M. Coinistands out like a lighthouse in a cubist storm. However bewildering theplot, however humpty-dumpty the music, M. Coini is intelligible drama. Hisbrisk little figure in its pressed pants, spats and fedora, bounces aroundamid the apoplectic disturbances like some busybody Alice in an operaticWonderland. 

The opus mounts. The music mounts. Singers attired as singers were neverattired before crawl on, bounce on, tumble on. And M. Coini, asundisturbed as a traffic cop or a loop pigeon, commands his stage. Hetells the singers where to stand while they sing, and when they don't singto suit him he sings himself. He leads the chorus on and tells it where todance, and when they don't dance to suit him he dances himself. He movesthe scenery himself. He fights with Mr. Prokofieff while the musicsplashes and roars around him. He fights with Boris. He fights withelectricians and wigmakers. 

 * * * * *

It is admirable. M. Coini, in his tan spats and gray fedora, is morefantastic than the entire cast of devils and Christmas trees andlollypops, who seem to be the leading actors in the play. Mr. Prokofieffand Miss Garden have made a mistake. They should have let M. Coini play"The Love for Three Oranges" all by himself. They should have let him bethe dream-towers and the weird chorus, the enchantress and the melancholyprince. M. Coini is the greatest opera I have ever seen. All he needed wasM. Prokofieff's music and the superbly childish visions of the medievalBoris for a background. 

The music leaps into a gaudy balloon and sails away in marvelous zigzags, way over the heads of the hobgoblins on the stage and the music criticsoff the stage. Miss Garden beckons with her shillalah. Mr. Prokofieffarrives panting at her side. He bows, kisses the back of her hand andstands at attention. Also the medieval face of Mr. Anisfeld drifts gentlythrough the gloom and joins the two. 

The first act of "The Oranges" is over. Two critics exchanging opinionsglower at Mr. Prokofieff. One says: "What a shame! What a shame! Nobodywill understand it. " The other agrees. But perhaps they only mean thatmusic critics will fail to understand it and that untutored ones likeourselves will find in the hurdy-gurdy rhythms and contortions of Mr. Prokofieff and Mr. Anisfeld a strange delight. As if some one had given usa musical lollypop to suck and rub in our hair. 

 * * * * *

I have an interview with Mr. Prokofieff to add. The interview came firstand doesn't sit well at the end of these notes. Because Mr. Prokofieff, sighing a bit nervously in expectation of the world's premier, said: "I ama classicist. I derive from the classical composers. "

This may be true, but the critics will question it. Instead of quoting Mr. Prokofieff at this time, it may be more apropos merely to say that I wouldrather see and listen to his opera than to the entire repertoire of thecompany put together. This is not criticism, but a prejudice in favor offantastic lolly-pops. 

NOTES FOR A TRAGEDY

Jan Pedlowski came home yesterday and found that his wife had run away. There was supper on the table. And under the soup plate was a letteraddressed to Jan. It read, in Polish:

"I am sick and tired. You keep on nagging me all the time and I can'tstand it any more. You will be better off without me. 

"Paula. "

Jan ate his supper and then put his hat and coat on and went over to seethe sergeant at the West Chicago Avenue police station. The sergeantappeared to be busy, so Jan waited. Then he stepped forward and said:

"My wife has run away. I want to catch her. "

The sergeant was lacking in sympathy. He told Jan to go home and wait andthat the missus would probably come back. And that if she didn't he couldget a divorce. 

"I don't want a divorce, " said Jan. "I want to catch her. "

 * * * * *

But Jan went home. It was no use running around looking for her and losingsleep. And, besides, he had to be in court tomorrow. The landlord had lefta notice that the Pedlowskis must get out of their flat because theydidn't pay their rent. 

Before coming home Jan had arranged with the foreman at the plating worksfor two hours off, to be taken out of his pay. He could come to work atseven and work until half-past nine, then go to court and be back, maybe, by half-past eleven. 

So Jan went to bed. He put the letter his wife had left in his coatpocket, because he had a vague idea it might be evidence. He might show itto somebody and maybe it would help. 

It was snowing when Jan left the plating works in the morning to come tocourt. He arrived at the City Hall and wandered around, confused by thecrowd of people pouring in and out of the elevators. But it was growinglate and he only had two hours off. So Jan made inquiries. Where was thecourt where he should go?

"Judge Barasa on the eighth floor, " said the starter. Jan went there. 

A lot of people were in the court room. Jan sat down among them and lookedlike them--blank, uninterested, as if waiting for a train in the railroadstation. 

One thing worried Jan. The two hours off. If they didn't call him he'd belate and the foreman would be mad. He might lose his job, and jobs werehard to get. It took five weeks to get this one. It would take longer now. 

But they called Jan Pedlowski and he came forward to where the judge sat. At first Jan had felt confused and frightened. He had worried about comingto court and standing before the judge. Now it seemed all right. Everybodywas nice and businesslike. A lawyer said:

"There's almost two months' rent due now. Eighteen dollars for theNovember rent and $27. 50 for December. "

"Can you pay the rent?" the judge asked of Jan. 

Jan looked and blinked and tried to think of something to say. He couldonly think of "My wife Paula ran away last night. Here, she wrote thisletter left me on the table when I come home last night. "

"I see, " said the judge. "But what about the rent? If I give you untilJanuary 10, do you think you can pay it?"

"I don't know, " said Jan, rubbing his eyes. "I got job now, but they goingto layoff after new year. If I have job I pay it all. I can pay $10 now. "

"Have you got it with you, " asked the judge. 

"Yes, " said Jan. "I was going to buy Christmas present for Paula, but sheran away. "

 * * * * *

Jan handed over the $10 and listened to the judge explain that he would beallowed to stay where he was until January 10 and have till then to payhis rent. When this was over he walked out, putting his hat on too soon, so that the bailiff cried: "Hats off in the courtroom. " Jan grabbed hishat and grew red. 

Now he had almost a full hour and a half before going to the factory. Ithad taken less time than he thought. Jan started to walk. It was cold andthe streets were slippery. He walked along with his hands in the frayedpockets of his overcoat and his breath congealing over his walrusmustache. 

His eyes were set and his face serious. Jan's thoughts were simple. Rent--Paula--jobs. Christmas, perhaps, too. But he walked along likeanybody else in the loop. 

 * * * * *

Jan wandered as far as Quincy and La Salle streets. Here he stopped andlooked around. It was beginning to snow heavier now. He stood still like aman waiting. And having nothing to do he took the letter his wife had leftunder the soup plate and read it again. 

When Jan had folded the letter up and started to walk once more his eyessuddenly lighted up. He turned and started to run and as he ran he cried:"Paula, Paula!" Some of the crowd moving on paused and looked at a stockyman with a heavy mustache running across the street and shouting a woman'sname. 

The cabs were thick at the moment and it was hard running across. But Jankept on, his overcoat flapping behind him and his short legs jumping upand down as he moved. A young woman with a cheap fur around her neck hadstopped. There were others who paused to watch Jan. But this young womanwas one of the few who didn't smile. 

She waited as if puzzled for a moment and then started to lose herself inthe crowd. She walked swiftly ahead, her eyes anxiously on the corner. Andin the meantime Jan came galumphing toward the curbing still crying:"Paula, Paula!" At the curbing, however, Jan came to a full stop. His toehad caught the cement and he shot forward, landing on his hands and chin. 

A crowd gathered around Jan and some one helped him to his feet. His chinwas bleeding and his hands were scraped from hitting the cold pavement. Hemade no sign, however, of injury, but stood blinking in the direction theyoung woman with the cheap fur had gone. 

A policeman arrived and inquired sympathetically what was wrong. Janbrushed himself mechanically as the policeman spoke. Then he answered:"Nothing, I fell down. " The policeman went away and Jan turned back tocatch a Milwaukee Avenue street car. 

He stood on the corner waiting and fingering his bruised chin. He seemedto be getting impatient as the car failed to appear. Finally he thrust hishand inside his pocket and drew out the letter again. He held it withoutreading for an instant and then tore it up. 

When the car came Jan was still tearing up the letter, his thick fingerstrying vainly to divide it into tinier bits. 

CORAL, AMBER AND JADE

There are no gold and scarlet lanterns bobbing like fat little orientalPierrots over this street. No firecracker colors daub its sad walls. Walkthe whole length and not a dragon or a thumbnail balcony or a pigtail willyou see. 

Instead, a very efficient, very conservative Chinatown and a colony ofvery efficient and very matter-of-fact Chinamen who have gradually takenpossession of a small district around Twenty-second Street and WentworthAvenue. A rather famous district in its way, where once the city'stenderloin put forth its red shadows. 

But now as you walk, the night stares evilly out of wooden ruins. Stretches of sagging, empty buildings, whose windows and doors seem tohave been chewed away, an intimidating silence, a graveyard of crumblinglittle houses--these remain. And you see Venus, grown old and toothless, snoozing amid the debris of another day. 

Then the Chinamen begin. Lights twinkle. Clean-looking interiors andcarefully washed store windows. Roofs have been hammered back in place, stairways nailed together again. The sagging walls and lopsided cottageshave taken a new lease on life. Another of the innumerable little businessdistricts that dot the city has fought its way into evidence. 

There are few oddities. Through the glass of the store fronts you seecuriously immobile groups, men seated in chairs, smoking long pipes andwaiting in silence. Strange fruits, foods, herbs, cloths, trinkets, lie onthe orderly shelves around them. The floors look scrubbed and there is anabsence of litter. It is all very efficient and very natural except forthe immobility of the men in the chairs and the silence that seems to havedescended on them. 

 * * * * *

A Chinese silence. And if you linger in the neighborhood you begin to feelthat this is more Chinese than the gaudy dragons and the firecracker daubsand the bobbing paper lanterns of fiction. 

This night I am looking for Billy Lee. No. 2209 Wentworth Avenue, says Mr. Lee's card. We are to talk over some matters, one of which has alreadybeen made public, others of which may never be. 

He sits in his inner office, attired like a very efficient Americanbusiness man, does Mr. Lee. We say hello and start the talk. In the roomsoutside the inner office are a dozen Chinese. But there is no sound. Theyare sitting in chairs or standing up. All smoking. All silent. A sense ofstrange preoccupation lies over the place. Yet one feels that the twelvesilent men are preoccupied with nothing except, possibly, the fact thatthey are Chinese. 

Mr. Lee himself is none too garrulous. We have been talking for severalminutes when he becomes totally silent and after a long pause hands me acablegram. The cablegram reads: "Hongkong--Ying Yan: Bandits captured FooWing and wife. Send $5, 000 immediately. Signed: Taichow. "

 * * * * *

"I just received this, " says Mr. Lee. "Ying Yan is my father. Foo Wing ismy brother. His American name is Andrew Lee. He went to Hongkong tenmonths ago and was married. This is terrible. I am worried to death. "

Mr. Lee appears to sink into a studious calm. His eyes regard thecablegram stolidly. He remarks at length: "Bad news. This is very badnews. "

From outside comes a sudden singsong of Chinese. One of the twelve men hassaid something. He finishes. Silence resumes. There seems to be no answer. Mr. Lee puts the cablegram back in his pocket and some one knocks on thedoor. 

"Come in, " says Mr. Lee. A Chinese youth enters. He carries a bundle. 

"Meet Mr. Tang, " says Billy Lee. We shake hands and Mr. Tang beginstalking in Chinese. Mr. Lee listens, nods his head and then holds out hishand for the bundle. 

"This is a very interesting event, " says Mr. Lee in English. "Mr. Tang isjust over from the Orient. He comes from north of China, from Wu Chang, where the revolution started, you know. He has with him a very interestingmatter. "

Mr. Lee unwraps the bundle. He removes a long necklace made of curiouslycarved wooden beads, large balls of jade and pendants of silk andsemi-precious stones. 

Next he removes a second necklace somewhat longer than the first. It ismade of marvelously matched amber beads, balls of jade and pendants ofcoral. 

"A very interesting matter, " says Mr. Lee. "Mr. Tang is son of a formerlyvery wealthy and high-born mandarin family. But his family has losteverything and Mr. Tang is here seeking an education in modern business. He has left of his family's wealth only these two things here. They arenecklaces such as only mandarins could wear when they appeared before theemperor in court in the old days. 

"You see these have three pendants, so they show the mandarin was agentleman of the third class under the emperor. They have been in Mr. Tang's family's possession for generations. You will notice this one ofcarved beads is made of beads which are formed from the pits of theChinese olive. There are two hundred beads and on each is carved somefigure or scene which in all represent the history of China. "

 * * * * *

Mr. Lee holds the two necklaces in his hand. Mr. Tang stands by silently. His eyes gaze at the beads. 

"Your father wore them at court?" inquires Mr. Lee in the manner of ahost. 

Mr. Tang nods his head slowly and adds a word in Chinese. 

"He says his family wore them for generations, " explains Mr. Lee. "Now thefamily is vanished and all that is left are these insignia of theirnobility. And Mr. Tang wishes me to dispose of them for him so he may havemoney to go to school. "

Mr. Lee and Mr. Tang are then both silent. Mr. Lee slips one of thenecklaces over his head. It hangs down over his American coat and Americansilk shirt in a rather incongruous way. But there seems to be nothingincongruous in the matter for Lee and Tang. Billy Lee with the necklacearound his neck, the three mandarin pendants against his belt, looks atMr. Tang and Mr. Tang bows and leaves. 

Our matters have been fully discussed and I follow a half-hour later. There are still twelve men in the room. They stand and sit and smoke. Nonespeaks. I notice in the group the immobile figure of Mr. Tang. He issmoking an American cigarette--one of the twelve silently preoccupiedresidents of Chinatown who have gathered in Billy Lee's place to wait forsomething. 

MEDITATION IN E MINOR

Well, well, well. The lady pianist will now oblige with something veryrefined. When in the name of 750, 000 gods of reason will I ever learnenough to stay at home and go to bed instead of searching kittenishly fordiversion in neighborhood movie and vaudeville houses?

No. Wrong. The lady is not a pianist. She is merely an accompanist. She isgoing to accompany something on cares? They are no more than the rippleswhich one's ego a face! Two hundred and eighty-five years old, if a day. 

Aha! His nobs. A fiddler. "Silver Threads Among the Gold, " and somethingfancy from the opera. And all dressed up in his wedding suit. The whitetie is a bit soiled and the white vest longs mutely for the laundryman. And if he's going to wear a dress suit, if he insists upon wearing a dresssuit, why doesn't he press his pants?

But how did a man with a face like this ever happen to think he couldfiddle? An English nobleman. Or maybe a Swedish nobleman. Hm! A veryinteresting face. A little bit touched with flabbiness. And somewhatsoiled, intangibly soiled. Like an English nobleman or a Swedish noblemanwho has stayed up all night drinking. 

And he holds his fiddle in an odd way. Like what? Well, like a fiddler. Like a marvelous fiddler. It hangs limply from his hand as if it werenonexistent. Kreisler holds his fiddle like that. A close-cropped blondmustache and the beginnings of a paunch. Nevertheless a very refinedgentleman, a baron somewhat the worse for a night of bourbon. 

The idiotic orchestra, the idiotic orchestra! Did anybody ever hear suchan idiotic orchestra? Three violins, one cello, one cornet, one flute anda drum all out of tune, all out of time. The prelude. And his nobs grins. Poor fellow. But who taught him how to hold a fiddle like that?

We're off. An E minor chord from our friend at the piano. Hm, somethingclassical. Ho, ho! Viotti. Well, well, here's a howdeedo. His nobs isgoing to play the concerto. Good-by, good luck and God bless him. If I wasin bed, if I was in bed, I wouldn't have to listen to a refined gentlemanwith his swell pants unpressed murdering poor Viotti. A swell gentlemanwith his eyes carefully made up. I didn't notice his eyes before. All set, Paganini. Your turn. Let's go. 

Ah, that was a note! Well, well, well, his nobs can play. Hm! A cadenza indouble stops! And the E minor scale in harmonics! Listen to the baron inthe dirty white vest. The man's a violinist. Observe--calisthenics on theG string and in the second position. A very difficult position and easilyfaked. And when did Heifetz ever take a run like that? Up, down and thefingers hammering like thoroughbreds on a fast track. Pizzicato with theleft hand and obbligato glissando!

Hoopla! The fellow's showing off! And it isn't a Drdla souvenir or avaudeville Brahms arrangement. But twenty years of practice. Yes, sir, there are twenty years and eight hours a day, every day for twenty years, in these acrobatics. There are twenty years, twenty years, behind thistechnique. And well-spent years. 

But tell me, Cyril, for whom is our baron showing off--for whom? Our baronwith the soiled tie and the made-up eyes, fiddling coldly, elaborately fora handful of annoyed flappers, amused shoe clerks and bored home loverssitting stolidly in the dark, waiting stolidly and defiantly to bediverted?

Bravo! Five of us applaud. No, six. A gentleman in an upper box applaudswith some degree of violence. And there is the orchestra leader--adark-skinned, black-eyed, curly-headed youth, nodding and smiling. 

Next on the program? Ah, a ballad. A thing the cabaret ladies sing, "DoYou Think of Me?" A faint smile on our baron's face. But the fiddle leapsinto position as if for another cold, elaborate attack. It takes twentyyears, twenty well-spent years to learn to hold a bow like that. Firmly, casually, indifferently as one holds a pencil between one's fingers. 

Admission 33 cents, including war tax. But this is worth--well, it is whatthe novelists call an illuminating experience. This gentleman of musicwhose fingers have for twenty years absorbed the souls of Beethoven andSarasate, Liszt and Moussorgski, this aristocrat of the catgut isposturing sardonically before the three bored fates. He is pouring twentyyears, twenty well-spent years, into a tawdry little ballad. Ah, how ourbaron's fiddle sings! And the darkened faces in front hum to themselves:"When you're flirt-ing with another, do you ever think--of--me. "

Yes, my tired-faced baron, there's a question. Do you? We, out front, allhave our little underworlds in which we live sometimes while music playsand beautiful things come to our eyes. And yours? This tin-pan alleyballad throbbing liquidly from the strings of your fiddle--"When you'reflirt-ing with another do you ever think--of--me?" Of the twenty years, the twenty well-spent years? Of the soul that your fingers captured? Ofthe dream that took form in your firm wrist?

And now the chorus once more. In double stops. In harmonics. Witharpeggios thrown in. And once more, largo. Sure and full. Sobbing organnotes, whimpering grace notes. Superb, baron! And done with a half smileat the darkened faces out front. The tired faces that blinked stolidly atViotti. A smile at the orchestra leader who stands with his mouth openwaiting as if the song were still in the air. 

Applause. All of us this time. More applause. Say this guy can fiddle, hecan. Come on, baron, another tune. The tired faces yammer for anotherditty. "Träumerei. " All right, let her go, Paganini. And after that the"Missouri Waltz. "

 * * * * *

I will stay for the next show. I will stay for the three shows. And eachtime this magnifico will come out and make music. But better than that. Iwill go back stage and talk with him. I will ask him: "How does it happen, sir, that a man who can fiddle like you, a man who could play a duet withKreisler--how does it happen you're fiddling in a neighborhood movie andvaudeville house?"

And he will unfold a story. Yes, there's a story there. Something happenedto this nobleman of the soiled white vest and the marvelous fingers. Therewas an occurrence in this man's life which would make a good climax for asecond act. 

No, that would spoil the picture. To find out, to learn the clumsymechanism behind this charming spectacle would take away. Better likethis. The lady at the piano. Ah, indeed, the lady at the piano, a veryelderly lady with a thin nose and hair that was once extremely beautiful, perhaps she had something to do with it? The orchestra pounds and scrapesaway. And the movie jumps around and the heroine weeps, but somebody savesher. "Where there is no faith there cannot be true love, " confesses thehero, folding her in his well-pressed arms. And that's that. 

Now our friend, the baron, again. No, better to leave. He has left hissmile in the wings this time. He is very serious or perhaps very tired. Two times tonight to play. Too much--too much. 

My hat, and I will walk out on his nobs. And, anyway, Huneker wrote thestory long ago. About a piano player in Coney Island that he called--whatwas it? Oh, yes, "A Chopin of the Gutter. "

TEN-CENT WEDDING RINGS

A gloomy day and the loop streets grimace behind a mist. The electricsigns are lighted. The buildings open like great fans in the half dark. 

The streets invite a mood of melodrama. Windows glint evilly. Doorwaysgrin with rows of electric teeth. This, _Jonnerrvetter_! is the GreatCity of the old-time ten-twenty-thirty thrillers. The devourer ofinnocence, the strumpet of stone. 

I walk along humming a bar of villainous music, the "skeeter scale" thatthe orchestra used to turn turn turn taaaa-tum in the old Alhambra as thetwo dockwallopers and the leering Chinaman were climbing in through littleMabel's hall bedroom window to abduct her. 

Those were happy days for the drama, when a scoundrel was a scoundrel andwore a silk hat to prove it, and a hero was a two-fisted man, as anybodycould tell by a glance at his marcelled hair and his open-at-the-throatshirt. 

Tum tum tum tum taaaa-tum. Pizzicato pianissimo, says the direction on thescore. So we are all set for a melodrama. Here is the Great Cityback-drop. Here are the grim-faced crowds shuffling by under the jaundiceglare of electric signs. And Christmas is coming. A vague gray snowtrickles out of the gloom. 

A proper time for melodrama. All we need is a plot. Come, come now--a plotalive with villains and weeping maidens. Halto! The window of the 5--and10-cent store! a tumble of gewgaws and candies and kitchen utensils. Christmas tree tinsel and salted peanuts, jazz music and mittens. 

The curtain is up. Egad, what a masterly scene. A kitchen Coney Island. Apuzzle picture of isles, signs, smells, noises. Cinderella wanderingwistfully in the glass-bead section looking for a fairy godmother. 

A clinking obbligato by the cash registers. The poor are buying gifts. This garish froth of merchandise is the back ground of their luxuries. This noisy puzzle-picture store is their horn of plenty. A sad thought andwe'll dismiss it. What we want is plot. 

Perhaps the jazz-song booster singing out of the side of his mouth withtired eyes leering at the crowd of girls: "Won't You Let Me Love You If IPromise to Be Good?" And "Love Me, Turtle Dove. " And "Lovin' Looie. " And"The Lovin' Blues. "

All lovin'. Jazz songs, ballads, sad, silly, boobish nut songs--all aboutlove me--love me. All about stars and kisses, moonlight and "she took myman away. " There are telephones all over the walls and the song booster'svoice pops out over the salted-peanut section, over the safety-pin andbrassware section. A tinny, nasal voice with a whine and a hoarsenessalmost hiding the words. 

The cash registers clink, clink. "Are you waited on, madam? Five cents apackage, madam. " The crowds, tired eyed, shabbily dressed, bundle-laden, young, old--the crowds shuffle up and down, staring at gewgaws, and thelove-me love songs follow them around. Follow them to the loose-beadcounter where Madge with her Japanese puffs of hair, her wad of gum andher black shirtwaist that she keeps straightening out continually bydrawing up her bosom and pressing down on her hips with her hands--whereMadge holds forth. 

Tum tum tum tum taaaa-tum--halto! Here is our plot. Outside the pizzicatoof the crowds, the Great City, shining, dragon-eyed, through the mist--theCity That Has No Heart. And here under our nose, twinkling up at our eyes, a huge tray full of 10-cent wedding rings. End of Act One. 

Act Two, now--Madge, the sharp-tongued, weary-eyed young woman behind thecounter. Love-me love songs in her ear and people unraveling, facesunraveling before her. Who buys these wedding rings, Madge? And did youever notice anything odd about your customers? And why do you suppose theybuy ten-cent wedding rings, Madge?

"Just a moment, " says Madge. "What is it, miss? A ring? What kind? Oh, yes. Ten cents. Gold or platinum just the same. Yes. "

Two giggling girls move off. And Madge, chewing gently on her wad of gumand smoothing her huge hair puffs out with the coyly stiffened palms ofher hands, talks. 

"Sure, I get you. About the wedding rings. Sure, that's easy. We sellabout twenty or thirty of them every day. Oh, mostly to kids--girls andboys. Sometimes an old Johnny comes in with a moth-eaten fur collar andblows a dime for a wedding ring. But mostly girls. 

"I sometimes take a second look at them. They usually giggle when they askfor the ring. And they usually pretend it's for somebody as a joke they'rebuying it. Or sometimes they walk around the counter for a half hour andget me nervous as a cat. 'Cause I know what they want and they can't gettheir gall up to come and ask for it. But finally they make the break andcome up and pick out a ring without saying a word and hand over ten cents. 

"There was one girl no more than sixteen just this morning. She come hereall full of pep and kidded about things and said wasn't them platinumwedding rings just too grand for words, and so on. Then she said shewanted a half-dozen of them, and was there a discount when bought in suchquantity? I started wrapping them up when I looked at her and she wascrying. And she dropped her sixty cents on the counter and said: 'Nevermind, never mind. I don't want them. I can't wear them. They'll only makeit worse. '"

A middle-aged-looking man interrupts. "What is it, sir?" asks Madge. "Anything in rings? What kind?" "Oh, just plain rings, " says the man witha great show of indifference, while his eyes ferret among the trinkets onthe counter. And then, very calmly: "Oh, these will do, I guess. " Twowedding rings, and he spent twenty cents. Madge follows him with her eyes. "That's it, " she whispers, "usually the men buy two. One for themselvesand one for the girl. Or if it's the girl that's buying them it's one forherself and one for her girl chum who's going with her and the two fellason the party. Say, take it from me, these rings don't ever hear no weddingmarches. "

 * * * * *

Back into the gloomy street again. A plot in our head, but who's thevillain and who's the heroine and the hero? An easy answer to that. Thecrowd here--sad faced, tired-walking, bundle-laden. The crowd continuallydissolving amid street cars and autos is the villain. 

A crowd of shoppers buying slippers for uncle and shawls for mother andmufflers for brother and some bars of soap for the bathroom. Buyingeverything and anything that fill the fan-shaped buildings with theirglinting windows. Buying carpet sweepers and window curtains and linoleum. 

Pizzicato, pianissimo, professor--little-girl gigglers and hard-faced dockwallopers and slick-haired lounge lizards and broken-hearted ones--twentya day they sidle up to Madge's counter, where the love me, love me songsrazz the heavy air, and shoot a dime for a wedding ring. 

WHERE THE "BLUES" SOUND

 "That St. Louis woman Wid her diahmond rings, Pulls mah man 'round By her apron strings--"

A voice screeches above the boom and hurrah of the black and white 35thStreet cabaret. The round tables rock. Waiters careen. Balanced traysfloat at crazy angles through the tobacco smoke. Hats flash. Firecrackervoices explode. A guffaw dances across a smear of faces. Congo gleams, college boy pallors, the smiles of black and white men and womeninterlace. A spotlight shoots its long hypotenuse upon the floor. In itsdrifting oval the entertainer, her shoulders back, her elbows out, herfists clenched and her body twisting into slow patterns, bawls in aterrifying soprano--

 "If it waren't foh her powdah And her stohe bought hair. The man Ah love Would not have gone nowhere--"

Listen for the tom-tom behind the hurrah. Watch for the torches of Kyprisand Corinth behind the glare of the tungstens. This is the immemorialbacchanal lurching through the kaleidoscope of the centuries. Pan with abootlegger's grin and a checked suit. Dionysius with a saxophone to hislips. And the dance of Paphos called now the shimmie. 

Listen and watch and through the tumult, rising like a strange incensefrom the smear of bodies, tables and waiters, will come the curious thingthat is never contained in the vice reports. The gleam of the devilhimself--the echo of some mystic cymbal note. 

Later the music will let out a tinny blaze of sound. Men and women willpress together and a pack of bodies will sway on the dance floor. Thetungstens will go out and the spotlight will throw colors--green, purple, lavender, blue, violet--and as the scene grows darker and the colorsrevolve a howl will fill the place. But on the dance floor a silence willfasten itself over the swaying bodies and there will be only the sound offeet pushing. The silence of a ritual--faces stiffened, eyes rolling--arigid embrace of men and women creeping cunningly among the revolvingcolors and the whiplike rhythms of the jazz band. 

 * * * * *

"Lost souls, " says the vice reports, and the vice reports speak with acalm and knowing voice. Women whose bodies and faces are like shells ofevil; vicious seeming men with a rasp in their laughter. These are amongthose present. Aphrodite is a blousy wench in the 35th and State streetsneighborhood. And her votaries, although they offer an impressiveensemble, are a sorry lot taken face by face. 

Izzy, who is an old timer, sits at a table and takes it in. Izzy's eyesand ears have learned to pick details in a bedlam. He can talk softly andlisten easily through the height of the cabaret racket. The scene hitsIzzy as water hits a duck's back. 

"Well, " he says, "it's a good night tonight. The slummers are out in fullforce rubberin' at each other. Well, this is a funny world, take it fromme. Me? Huh, I come here every night or so to have a little drink and look'em over for a while. Ain't nothing to see but a lot o' molls and a lot ofsucker guys. Them? Say, they never learn no better. Tough guys ain't nodifferent from soft guys, see? They all fall for the dames just as hardand just as worse. There's many a good guy in this place that's been gavea tumble by them, see?

"There, I got an idee he'd blow in tonight. He ain't missed a Saturdaynight for months. And he usu'lly makes it four or five times a week. Thatguy over there wit' the mop o' gray hair. Yeah, that's him. Well, he's theprofessor. I spotted him in the district a year or so ago. He had a damewit' him who I know, see? A terrible broad. Say, maybe you've heard ofhim. His name is Weintraub. I picked it up from the dame he's goin' wit', see? He ought to be in your line. He was a reg'lar music professor beforehe come down. The leader of a swell orchestra somewhere in the east or inEurope, I guess. The dame don't know for sure, but she told me he was somebaby on music. 

"Well, that's him there, see? He comes in like this and sits down near theband. Look at him. Do you make him? The way he's movin' his hands? See, he's leadin' the band. Sure"--Izzy laughed mirthlessly--"that's what theguy's doin'. Nuts, see? Daffy. He comes in here like that and I alwayswatch him. He sits still and when the music starts up he begins wit' hishands. Ain't he the berries?

"Now keep your eye on him. You'll see somethin' pretty quick. He's alonetonight. I guess the dame has shook him for the evenin'. Look, he's stillconductin'. Ain't he rich? But he's got a good face, you might say. Class, eh? You'd know he was a musician. 

"I tell you I begin to watch him the first time I saw him. And from thebeginnin' he's always conductin' when the band starts in. The dame isusu'lly wit' him and she don't like it. She tries to stop him, but hedon't see her for sour apples. He keeps right on like now, beatin' timewit' his hands. Look, the poor nut's growin' excited. Daffy. Can you beatit? There he goes. See? That's on account of Jerry. Jerry's the black oneon the end wit' the saxophone. Ha, Jerry always does it. 

"I told Jerry about this guy and Jerry tried it on him the first night. Hepulled a sour one, you know, blew a mean one through the horn and his nobsnearly fell out of his seat. Like now. See, he's through. He won't conductthe band any more tonight. He's sore. No sir, he won't conduct such a lotof no-good boilermakers like Jerry. Can you beat it?"

 * * * * *

Izzy's eyes follow a stoop-shouldered gray-haired man from one of thetables. A thin-faced man with bloodshot eyes. He walks as if he were halfasleep. The crowd swallows him and Izzy laughs again without mirth. 

"He's done for the night. That's low down of Jerry. But Jerry says it getshis goat to see this daffy guy comin' in here night after night andleadin' the band from the table. So the smoke blows that sour note everytime his nobs gets started on his conductin' and it always knocks his nobsfor a gool. He never stays another minute, but lights out right away. 

"Look, there's his dame. The one wit' the green hat, sittin' wit' the guywith the cheaters over there. Yeah, that's her. I don't know why she ain'twit' him tonight. Prob'ly a lovers' quarrel. " And Izzy grinned. "She's atough one, take it from me. I don't know how she hooked the professor, butshe did. She used to be swelled up about him. And once she got him a jobin Buxbaum's old place, she told me, to work in the orchestra. But hisnobs kicked. Said he'd cut his throat before playin' in a roughneckorchestra and who did she think he was to do such a thing? He says to her:I'm Weintraub--Weintraub, d'ye understand?' And he hauls off and wallopsher one and she guve up tryin' to get him a job. It makes her sore towatch him sittin' around like tonight and conductin' the orchestra. Shesays it ain't because he's daffy, but on account of his bein' stuck up. "

The woman with the green hat had left her table. Izzy's shrewd eyes pickedher out again--this time standing against a far wall talking to theprofessor, and the professor was rubbing his forehead and saying "No, no, "with his hands. 

And now the entertainer was singing again:

 "Got de St. Louis Blues, jes' as blue as Ah can be, Dat man has a heart like a rock ca-ast in de sea, Or else he would not have gone so far away from me. "

VAGABONDIA

Here they come. Five merry travelers in a snorting, dust-caked automobile. Wanderers, egad! Bowling rakishly across the country. Dusters and gogglesand sunburn. Prairie nights have sung to them. Little towns have grinnedat them. Mountains, valleys, forests and stars have danced across theirwindshield. 

The newspaper man stood watching them haul up to the Adams Street curb. His heart was tired of tall buildings and the endless grimace of windows. Here was a chariot out of another world. Motor vagabonds. Scooting into acity with a swagger to their dust-caked wheels. And scooting out again. 

The newspaper man thought, "The world isn't buried yet. There's still arestlessness left. Things change from triremes to motor boats, fromRosinante to automobiles. But adventure merely mounts a new seat and goeson. Dick Hovey sang it once:

 "I am fevered with the sunset, I am fretful with the bay, For the wander thirst is on me And my soul is in Cathay. "

The five merry travelers crawled out and stretched themselves. They doffedtheir goggles and slipped off their linen dusters and changed forthwithfrom a group of flying gnomes into five tired-looking citizens ofCalifornia. Two middle aged women. Two middle-aged men and a son. 

One of the men said, "Well, we'll lay up here for awhile, I got a blisteron my hand from the wheel. "

One of the women answered, "I must buy some hairpins, Martin. "

The newspaper man said to himself, "What ho! I'll give them a ring. Whynot? A story of the modern wanderlust. Anyway, they're not averse topublicity seeing they've got two 'coast to coast' pennants on the back oftheir machine. What they've seen. Why they've journeyed. A tirade againstthe monotony of business. And I'll stick in one of Hovey's stanzas, theone that goes:

 "There's a schooner in the offing With her topsails shot with fire. And my heart has gone aboard her For the Islands of Desire. "

"You can say, " said the spokesman of the wanderers, "that this is MartinS. Stevers and party. I am Mr. Stevers of the Stevers Linseed Oil Companyin San Francisco. Here's my card. "

"Thanks, " said the newspaper man, taking the card. 

"And now, " spake on the spokesman of the wanderers, "what can I do foryou?"

Newspaper men are perhaps the only creatures who as a type never learn howto ask questions. An embarrassment caused by the stupidity of the gabbygreat whom they interrogate daily puts a crimp into their tongues. Theirquestions wince in anticipation of the banalities they are doomed toelicit. Their curiosity collapses under the shadow of the inevitable, impending bromide. 

Thus the newspaper man, wearily certain that regardless of what he asks orhow he asks it, he will hear for answers only the clumsy asininitiesbehind which the personalities, leaders and sacred white cows pompouslyattitudinize, gets so that he mumbles a bit incoherently. 

But here was a different case. Here were merry travelers with memories ofwind-swept valleys and star-capped mountains to chatter on. So thenewspaper man unearthed his vocabulary, tilted his hat a trifle and smiledinvitingly. 

"Well, " said he to the spokesman of the wanderers, "The kind of story I'dlike to get would be a story about five people wandering across thecountry. You know. Hills, sunsets, trees and how those things drive awaythe monotony that fills up the hearts of city folk. What you enjoyed onthe trip and the advantages of a rover over a swivel-chair statistician. "

An eloquence was beginning to skip around on the newspaper man's tongue. His heart, weary of tall buildings and the endless grimace of citywindows, began to warm under the visions his phrases aroused. 

Then he paused. One of the women had interrupted. "Go on Martin, you cantell him all that. And don't forget about the lovely hotel breakfast roomin Des Moines. "

Martin, however, hesitated. He was a heavy-set, large-faced man withexpansive features almost devoid of expression. Suddenly his face lightedup. His hands jumped together and he rubbed their palms enthusiastically. 

"I see, " he said with profundity. "I see. "

"Yes, " breathed the newspaper man. 

"Well, " said Mr. Stevers, "the first thing I'd like to tell you, youngman, is about the car. You won't believe this, but we've been makingtwenty miles on a gallon, that is, averaging twenty miles on each andevery gallon, sir, since we left San Francisco. Pretty good, eh?"

On a piece of scratch paper the newspaper man obediently wrote, "twentymiles, gallon. "

"And then, " went on the spokesman for the wanderers, "Our speed, eh? You'dlike to know that? Well, without stretching the thing at all, and you canverify it from any of my party, we've averaged twenty-six miles an hourall the time out. I tell you the old boat had to travel some to do that. "

'"Twenty-six miles, " scribbled the newspaper man, adding after it, "Theman's an idiot. "

Mr. Stevers, unmindful, loosened up. The price of gasoline. The price ofbreakfasts. The condition of the roads. How long a stretch they had beenable to do without a halt. How many hours a day he himself had stuck atthe wheel. When he had finished the newspaper man bowed and walkedabruptly away. 

 * * * * *

The newspaper man's thoughts form a conclusion. 

"It's true, then, " he thought, "the world's becoming as stupid as itlooks. People are drying up inside with facts, figures, dollar signs. Thisman and his party would have got as much out of their cross-country tripif they'd all been blindfolded and shot through a tunnel two thousand feetunder the ground. Man is like an audience and he has walked out on mysteryand adventure. The show kind of tired him. And got his goat. It would havebeen a good yarn otherwise, the motor vagabonds. I'd have ended withHovey's verse:

 "I must forth again tomorrow, With the sunset I must be Hull down on the trail of rapture In the wonder of the sea. "

Mumbling the lines to himself, the newspaper man strode on through thecrowded loop with a sudden swagger in his eyes. 

NIRVANA

The newspaper man felt a bit pensive. He sat in his bedroom frowning athis typewriter. About eight years ago he had decided to write a novel. Notthat he had anything particular in his mind to write about. But the citywas such a razzle-dazzle of dreams, tragedies, fantasies; such a crazymonotone of streets and windows that it filled the newspaper man's thoughtfrom day to day with an irritating blur. 

And for eight years or so the newspaper man had been fumbling aroundtrying to get it down on paper. But no novel had grown out of the blur inhis head. 

 * * * * *

The newspaper man put on his last year's straw hat and went into thestreet, taking his pensiveness with him. Warm. Rows of arc lights. Ashifting crowd. There are some streets that draw aimless feet. The blazingstore fronts, clothes shops, candy shops, drug-stores, Victrola shops, movie theatres invite with the promise of a saturnalia in suspense. 

At Wilson Avenue and Sheridan Road the newspaper man paused. Here theloneliness he had felt in his bedroom seemed to grow more acute. Not onlyhis own aimlessness, but the aimlessness of the staring, smiling crowdafflicted him. 

Then out of the babble of faces he heard his name called. A rouged youngflapper, high heeled, short skirted and a jaunty green hat. One of theimpudent little swaggering boulevard promenaders who talk like simpletonsand dance like Salomes, who laugh like parrots and ogle like Pierettes. The birdlike strut of her silkened legs, the brazen lure of her stenciledchild face, the lithe grimace of her adolescent body under the stiffcoloring of her clothes were a part of the blur in the newspaper man'smind. 

She was one of the things he fumbled for on the typewriter--one of thecity products born of the tinpan bacchanal of the cabarets. A sort offrontispiece for an Irving Berlin ballad. The caricature of savagery thatdanced to the caricature of music from the jazz bands. The newspaper mansmiled. Looking at her he understood her. But she would not fit into thetypewritten phrases. 

"Wilson Avenue, " he thought, as he walked beside her chatter. "The wise, brazen little virgins who shimmy and toddle, but never pay the fiddler. She's it. Selling her ankles for a glass of pop and her eyes for a foxtrot. Unhuman little piece. A cross between a macaw and a marionette. "

 * * * * *

Thus, the newspaper man thinking and the flapper flapping, they cametogether to a cabaret in the neighborhood. The orchestra filled the placewith confetti of sound. Laughter, shouts, a leap of voices, blazinglights, perspiring waiters, faces and hats thrusting vivid stencilsthrough the uncoiling tinsel of tobacco smoke. 

On the dance floor bodies hugging, toddling, shimmying; faces fastenedtogether; eyes glassy with incongruous ecstasies. 

The newspaper man ordered two drinks of moonshine and let the scene blurbefore him like a colored picture puzzle out of focus. Above the music heheard the childishly strident voice of the flapper:

"Where you been hiding yourself? I thought you and I were cookies. Well, that's the way with you Johns. But there's enough to go around, you canbet. Say boy! I met the classiest John the other evening in front of theHopper. Did he have class, boy! You know there are some of these fancyJohns who look like they were the class. But are they? Ask me. Nix. Anddon't I give them the berries, quick? Say, I don't let any John get moldyon me. Soon as I see they're heading for a dumb time I say 'razzberry. 'And off your little sugar toddles. "

"How old are you?" inquired the newspaper man abstractedly. 

"Eighteen, nosey. Why the insult? I got a new job yesterday with thetelephone company. That makes my sixth job this year. Tell me that ain'tgoing good? One of the Johns I met in front of the Edgewater steered me toit. He turned out kind of moldy, and say! he was dumb. But I played alongand got the job. 

"Say, I bet you never noticed my swell kicks. " The flapper thrust forthher legs and twirled her feet. "Classy, eh? They go with the lid prettynice. Say, you're kind of dumb yourself. You've got moldy since I saw youlast. "

"How'd you remember my name?" inquired the newspaper man. 

"Oh, there are some Johns who tip over the oil can right from the start. And you never forget them. Nobody could forget you, handsome. Never nomore, never. What do you say to another shot of hootch? The stuff'sgetting rottener and rottener, don't you think? Come on, swallow. Here'show. Oh, ain't we got fun!"

 * * * * *

The orchestra paused. It resumed. The crowd thickened. Shouts, laughter, swaying bodies. A tinkle of glassware, snort of trombones, whang ofbanjos. The newspaper man looked on and listened through a film. 

The brazen patter of his young friend rippled on. A growing gamincoarseness in her talk with a nervous, restless twitter underneath. Herdark child eyes, perverse under their touch of black paint, swung eagerlythrough the crowd. Her talk of Johns, of dumb times and moldy times, ofclassy times and classy memories varied only slightly. She liked dancingand amusement parks. Automobile riding not so good. And besides you had tobe careful. There were some Johns who thought it cute to play caveman. Yes, she'd had a lot of close times, but they wouldn't get her. Never, no, never no more. Anyway, not while there was music and dancing and awhoop-de-da-da in the amusement parks. 

The newspaper man, listening, thought, "An infant gone mad with her dolls. Or no, vice has lost its humanness. She's the symbol of new sin--theunhuman, passionless whirligig of baby girls and baby boys through thecabarets. "

 * * * * *

They came back from a dance and continued to sit. The din was stillmounting. Entertainers fighting against the racket. Music fighting againstthe racket. Bored men and women finally achieving a bedlam and forgettingthemselves in the artifice of confusion. 

The newspaper man looking at his young friend saw her taking it in. Therewas something he had been trying to fathom about her during her breathlesschattering. She talked, danced, whirled, laughed, let loose gigglingcries. And yet her eyes, the part that the rouge pot or the bead stickcouldn't reach, seemed to grow deader and deader. 

The jazz band let out the crash of a new melody. The voices of the crowdrose in an "ah-ah-ah. " Waiters were shoving fresh tables into the place, squeezing fresh arrivals around them. 

The flapper had paused in her breathless rigmarole of Johns and memories. Leaning forward suddenly she cried into the newspaper man's ear above theracket:

"Say this is a dumb place. "

The newspaper man smiled. 

"Ain't it, though?" she went on. There was a pause and then the breathlessvoice sighed. She spoke. 

"Gee!"--with a laugh that still seemed breathless--"gee, but it's lonelyhere!"

THE INDESTRUCTIBLE MASTERPIECE

"You come with me to the Art Institute today, " said Max Kramm. "My friendBroun has an exhibition. You know Broun? Ah, I think he is today thegreatest living artist. No, we will walk. It is only four or five blocks. And I tell you a story. "

A story from Max Kramm is worth attention even though it is hot and thoughthe Boul Mich pavement feels like a stove griddle through the leather ofone's shoes. For the Dante-faced Max, in addition to being one of theleading piano professors of the country, the billiard champion of theChicago Athletic Club and the most erudite porcelain connoisseur in HarperAvenue, is one of the survivors of the race of raconteurs that flourishedin the time of nickel cigars and the free lunch. 

"I have eight more lessons to administer today, " sighed Max with a partingglower at the premises of the Chicago Musical College, "But when my oldfriend Broun has an exhibition I go. "

 * * * * *

"It was when we lived together in a studio in North Avenue, " said Max. "JoDavidson, Walter Goldbeck and the bunch, we all roomed together in thesame neighborhood and we were poor, I can tell you. But young. And thatmakes up for a lot of things. 

"Broun and I, we room together in a little attic where I have a piano andhe paints. Even in those days we all knew Frank Broun would be a greatpainter if he didn't starve to death first. And the chances looked even. 

"Well, there was Schneider, of course. You never heard of him, I'll betyou. No, he don't paint. And he don't sing and he don't play the piano. Hewas somebody much more important than such things. Schneider was theproprietor of a beer saloon in North Avenue. Where is he now, I wonder?Well, in those days he saved our life twice a day regularly. 

"Broun and I we keep alive for one whole year on Schneider's free lunch. Herring, pickles, rye bread, pepper beef, boiled ham, onions, pretzels, roast beef and a big jar full of fine cheese. And, I forgot, a jar full ofolives and a dish of crackers. Oh, there was food fit for a king inSchneider's. You buy one glass beer, for five cents, and then you eat tillyou bust--for nothing. 

"You can't imagine what that meant to us in those days. Broun and I, wesometimes have so much as ten cents a day between us and on this we mustlive. So at noon we both go into Schneider's. Broun says, 'You want adrink, Max? I say, 'No, Frank. ' Then I engage Schneider in talk whileBroun makes away with a meal. Then Broun does the talking and it is myturn. 

"Well, it got so that the good Schneider finally points out to us one day. 'Max, ' he says, 'and Frank, I tell you something. You boys owe me threedollars and you come in here and eat all your meals and you don't even payfor the one glass beer you buy any more. I am sorry, but your credit isexhausted. '

"So you can imagine what Broun and I feel when we get home. No moreSchneider's, no more food, and eventually we see ourselves both starvingto death. 

"'Max' says Broun, 'I have an idea. ' And he did. 

"Like all great ideas, it was simple. Broun figures that what we need todo is to convince Schneider we have wonderful prospects and so Schneiderwill give us back our credit. So Broun sits down that day and all day andmost of the night he paints. I think it was the last canvas he had in thestudio, too. And a big one. You know all of Broun's landscapes are big. 

"Well, he paints and paints, and when he is finished we take the pictureto Schneider, the two of us carrying it. I tell Schneider that it is oneof the old masters which we just received from Berlin from my father'sstudio. Then Broun says that Schneider must keep it in his place. It istoo valuable to hang in our attic. Schneider looks at the picture and, itbeing so big, he half believes it. 

"Then Broun and I go to the bank and draw out our $10 which we have savedup for a rainy day. And we go down town and get the picture insured for$2, 000. You can imagine Schneider. We bring the insurance gink out thereand when he gives us the policy and we show it to Schneider--well, ourcredit is re-established. Herring, rye bread, roast beef, pickles andcheese once more. We eat. 

"Schneider is more proud of that picture than a peacock. And every day wedrop in to see if it is all right and Broun always goes behind the bar anddusts it off a little and draws himself another drink. There is never anyquestion any more of our credit. Don't we own a picture insured for$2, 000? The good Schneider is glad to have such affluent customers, youcan believe me. 

 * * * * *

"Well, things go on like this for some months. Then I am coming home onenight with Broun and the fire engines pass us. So Frank and I we go to thefire. 

"It is Schneider's beer saloon. We see it a block off. Frank turns paleand he holds my arm and he whispers, 'Max, the picture! It is burning up!'

"I look at Broun and I suppose I tremble a little myself. Who wouldn't?Two thousand dollars! 'Max, ' says Broun, 'We go around the world together. And I saw a suit today and a cane I must have. '

"But we couldn't talk. We walk slowly to the beer saloon. We walk alreadylike plutocrats, arm in arm, and our faces with a faraway look. We arespending the two thousand, you can imagine. 

"The saloon is burning fine. Everything is going up in smoke. Broun and I, we hold on to each other. We see Jo Davidson running to the fire and wenod at him politely. Money makes a big difference, you know. 

"And then we hear a cry. I recognize Schneider and I see him break loosefrom the crowd. He runs back into the burning saloon, a fireman after him. Broun and I, we stand and watch. He is probably gone after one of hiskids. But I count the kids who are all in the street and they are allthere. 

"Then Schneider comes out and the fireman, too. And they are carryingsomething. Broun falls against the delicatessen store window and groans. And I close my eyes. Yes, it is the picture. 

"Schneider sees us and comes rushing. He is half burned up. But thepicture is not touched. He and the fireman hand us the picture. As for me, I turn away and I lose command of the English language. 

"'You boys trusted me, ' says Schneider, 'and I remembered just in time. Iremembered your picture. I may not be an artist, but I don't let amasterpiece burn up. Not in my saloon. So I save it. It is the only thingI save out of the whole saloon. ' And he wrings Broun's hand, and I say, 'thanks. ' That night, all night long, I played Beethoven. The NinthSymphony is good for feelings such as mine and Broun's. "

 * * * * *

It is cooler in the Art Institute and Max, smiling in memory of otherdays, looks at the Broun exhibition. 

"I could finish the story by telling you excitedly that this landscapehere is the picture Schneider saved, " he went on, pointing to one of thelarge canvases. "But no. It wouldn't be the truth. I have the picturehome. It is not yet worth $2, 000, but in a few years more, who knows?Maybe I have cause to thank Schneider yet. "

SATRAPS AT PLAY

The elfin-faced danseuse puts it over. Her voice sounds like a run-downfifteen-cent harmonica. But that doesn't matter. Not at two a. M. In anall-night cabaret. You don't need a voice to knock us out of our seats. You need something else--pep. 

"I wanna be--in Tennuhsee, " the elfin-faced one squeaks. And the ladies ofthe chorus grin vacuously and kick their pink tights. One, two, kick! One, two, kick! I wanna be--in Tennuhsee. One, two, kick! The third one on theother side looks all right. No, too fat. There's one. The one at the end. Pretty, ain't she? Who? You mean the one with the long nose? No, whatsamatter with you? The one with the eyes. See. She's bending over now. Some kid. 

Two a. M. Outside. Dark streets. Sleepy chauffeurs dreaming of $10 tips. All-night Greek restaurants. Twenty-second Street has gone to bed. But wesit in the warm cabaret, devilishly proud of ourselves. We're a part ofthe gang that stays awake when the stars are out. 

And the elfin-faced one cuts loose. Attaboy, girlie! Legs shooting throughthe tobacco smoke. Eyes like drunken birds. A banjo body playing jazzcapers on the air. It ain't art. But who the devil wants art? What we wantare conniption fits. This is the way the soul of Franz Liszt looked whenhe was writing music. Mumba Jumba had a dream that looked like this onenight when the jungle moon arched its back and spat at his black linenface. 

All right. Three a. M. Bring out the lions and the Christians now. Themaster of ceremonies is a fat man with little, ineffectual hands and avoice that bows and genuflects and throws itself politely worshipful atour feet. 

Amateur night, says the voice, and some ladies and gentlemen will seek toentertain us with a few specialties for our amusement. And will the ladiesand gentlemen of the audience applaud according to the merit of eachperformer? For the one who gets the most applause, he or she will win thegrand first prize of fifty bones. 

Attaboy! Will we applaud? Say, bring 'em out I Bring 'em out! Ah, here sheis. A pale, trembling little morsel with frightened eyes and a worn blueserge skirt. The floor is slippery. "Miss Waghwoughblngsz, " says thevoice, "will sing for your entertainment. "

A terrified little squeak. A Mae Marsh grimace of courage. Good! Say, she's great! Look at her try to swing her body. And her arms have losttheir joints. And she's forgotten the words. Poor little tyke. Throw hersomething. Pennies. While she's singing. See who can hit her. 

So we throw her pennies and nickels and dimes. They land on her head andone takes her on the nose. And her voice dies away like a baby birdfalling out of a nest. And she stands still--jerking her mouth and thepennies falling all around her. And a cynical-looking youth bounces outand picks them up. Bravo! She tried to bow and slipped. Another round ofapplause for that. All right, take her away. What did she sing? What wasthe song that mumbled itself through the laughter and the rain of pennies?

 * * * * *

Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Sghsgbrszsg will endeavor to entertain you witha ballad for your amusement. That's fine. After three a. M. Outside. Coldand dark. But nothing cold or dark about us. We're just getting started. Bring 'em out. Bring out the ballad singer. 

Ah, there's a lad for you. His shoes all shined and a clean collar on andhis face carefully shaved at home. But his hands wouldn't wash clean. Theshop grime lingers on his hands and in his broken nails. But his eyes areblue and he's going to sing. The boys at the shop know his songs. The noonhour knows them. 

But his voice sounds different here under the beating tungstens. Itquavers. Something about Ireland. A little bit of heaven. He can't sing. If he was in his shirt sleeves and the collar was off and his face didn'thurt from the dull safety razor blade--it would sound better. But--penniesfor him. Hit the singing boy in the eye and win the hand-painted cazaza. 

"A little bit of heaven called Ireland, " is what he's singing. And thenoises start. The pennies and nickels rain. Finis! Not so good. He sang itall the way through and his voice grew better and better. Take him away. We didn't like the way his eyes blazed back at us when the pennies fell. Not so good. Not so good. 

Here she is. Little Bertha, the Sewing Machine Girl. In the flesh. Andwalking across the slippery dance floor with her French heeled patentleathers wiggling under her. Bertha's the doodles. This is the way shestood at the piano at Sadie's party. This is the way she smiled at theerrand boys and counter jumpers at Sadie's party. This is the way shebowed and this is the song she sang to them that they applauded so much. 

And this is too good to be true. Bravo six times. Dimes and quarters and amajestic half dollar that takes Bertha on the ear. Bravo eleven times. Bertha stands smirking and moving her shoulders and singing in a pipinglittle shop-girl voice. Encore, _cherie!_ Encore! And it goes toBertha's head. The applause and laughter, the lights and the pounding ofthe pennies falling out of heaven around her feet--these are too much forBertha. She ends. Her arms make a gesture, a weak little gesture as if shewere embracing one of the errand boys in a vestibule, saying good-night. Avague radiance comes over Bertha's face. Bravo twenty-nine times. Thegrand prize of fifty bones is hers. Wait and see if it ain't. 

More lions and more Christians. Bring 'em out. The sad-looking boy withthe harmonica. He forgets the tune all the time and we laugh and hit himwith pennies. The clerk with the shock of black hair who does an Apachedance, and does it well. Too well. And the female impersonator who does acan-can female dance very well. Much too well. 

Nobody wants them. We want Bertha, the Sewing Machine Girl. There was athrill to her. The way she looked when the applause grew loud. The way hergirl arms reached out toward something. As if we at the tables rollingaround in our seats and laughing our heads off and all dressed up andguzzling sandwiches and ginger ale, as if we were something at a rainbowend. 

Bring her on again. Line 'em up. Now we'll applaud the one we liked thebest. For his nobs who gargled the Irish ballad, two bravos. If he hadn'tgot mad at us. Or if he'd got madder and spat a little more behind themusic that came from him. But he didn't. The first gal who died on thefloor. Whose heart collapsed. Whose eyes went blank with terror. Ninebravos for her. There was a thrill to her. Bravos for the rest of them, too. But Bertha wins the hand-painted cazaza. Fifty bucks for Bertha. Hereyou are, Bertha. You win. 

Look, she's crying. That's all right, li'l girl. That's all right. Don'tcry. We just gave you the prize because you gave us a thrill. That's fairenough. Because of all the geniuses who performed for our amusement andwhom we bombarded with pennies you were the only one who threw out yourarms and your eyes to us as if we were rainbow's end. 

MRS. SARDOTOPOLIS' EVENING OFF

Mrs. Sardotopolis hurried along without looking into the store window. Shewas carrying her baby home from the doctor's office. The doctor said, "Hurry on. Get him home and don't buy him any ice cream on the way. " Mrs. Sardotopolis lived in a place above a candy, book and notion store at 608South Halsted street. 

It was late afternoon. Greeks, Jews, Russians, Italians, Czechs, were busyin the street. They sat outside their stores in old chairs, hoveredprotectingly over the outdoor knick-knack counters, walked lazily insearch of iced drinks or stood with their noses close together arguing. 

The store windows glittered with crude colors and careless peasants'clothes. It was at such times as this, hurrying home from a doctor'soffice or a grocery store, that Mrs. Sardotopolis enjoyed herself. Herlittle eyes would take in the gleaming arrays of tin pans, calicoremnants, picture books, hair combs and things like that with which themerchants of Halsted Street fill their windows. 

But this time Mrs. Sardotopolis had seven blocks to go to her home andthere was no time for looking at things. Despite the heat she hadcarefully wrapped the baby in her arms in a shawl. 

 * * * * *

When Mrs. Sardotopolis got home there would be eight other children totake care of. But that was a simple matter. None of them was sick. Whenthe eight children weren't sick they tumbled, shrieked and squealed in thedark hallway or in the street. Anywhere. Mrs. Sardotopolis only listenedwith half an ear. As long as they made noise they were healthy. So fromday to day she listened not for their noise but to hear if any of themgrew quiet. 

Joe had grown quiet. Joe was the baby, a year and a half, and quite acitizen. After several days Mrs. Sardotopolis couldn't stand Joe's quietany more. His skin, too, made her feel sad. His skin was hot and dry. Soshe had hurried off to the doctor. 

There was hardly time in her day for such an errand. Now she must get homequickly. Mr. Sardotopolis and his three brothers would be home before itgot dark. In the kitchen in the big pot she had left three chickenscooking. 

 * * * * *

A gypsy leaned out of a doorway. She was dressed in many red, blue andyellow petticoats and waists. Beads hung from her neck and her witheredarms were alive with copper bracelets. 

"Tell your fortune, missus, " she called. 

Mrs. Sardotopolis hurried by with no more than a look. Some day she wouldlet the gypsy tell her fortune. It cost only twenty-five cents. But nowthere was no time. Too much to do. Her arms--heavy, tireless arms thatknew how to work for fifteen hours each day--clung to the bundle Joe madein his shawl. 

But the doctor was a fool. What harm could ice cream do? When anybody wassick ice cream could make them well. So Mrs. Sardotopolis lifted Joe upand turned her eyes toward an ice cream stand. She stopped. If Joe said, "Wanna, " she would buy him some. But Joe didn't seem to know what she wasoffering, although usually he was quite a citizen. So she said aloud, "Wanna ice cream, Joe?"

To this Joe made no answer except to let his head fall back. Mrs. Sardotopolis grew frightened and walked fast. 

As she came near her home Mrs. Sardotopolis was leaning over the bundle inher arms, crying, "Joe! Joe! Do you hear, Joe?"

The streets swarmed with the early evening crowds of men and women goinghome. In the cars the people stood packed as if they were sardines. 

A few feet from her door beside the candy and notion store Mrs. Sardotopolis stopped. Her heavy face had grown white. She raised thebundle closer to her eyes and looked at it. 

"Joe!" she repeated. "What's a matter, Joe?"

The bundle was silent. So Mrs. Sardotopolis pinched it. Then she stared atthe closed eyes. Then she seized the bundle and crushed it desperately inher heavy arms, against her heavy bosom. 

"Joe!" she repeated. "What's a matter, Joe?"

The glazier sitting in front of his glassware store stood up and blinked. 

"Whatsamatter?" he asked. 

Mrs. Sardotopolis didn't answer, but stood in front of her house, holdingthe bundle in her arms and repeating its name. A small crowd gathered. Sheaddressed herself to several women of her race. 

"I knew, before it come, " she said. "He didn't want no ice cream. "

Mrs. Sardotopolis walked upstairs and laid the bundle down on the table. It lay without moving and Mrs. Sardotopolis stood over it without moving. Then she sat down in a chair beside it and began to cry. 

 * * * * *

When Mr. Sardotopolis and his three brothers came home from driving thewagon they found her still crying. 

"Joe is dead, " she said. 

The other children were all properly noisy. Mr. Sardotopolis said, "I willcall my sisters and mother. " He went over, looked at the child that laydead on the table and stroked its head. 

The sisters and mothers arrived. They took charge of the big pot with thethree chickens in it, of the eight squalling little ones and of the silentbundle on the table. There were four sisters. As it grew dark Mrs. Sardotopolis found that she was sitting alone in a corner of the room. Shefelt tired. There was no use hugging the baby any more. Joe was dead. In afew days he would be buried. Tears. Yes, particularly since in a fewmonths he would have had a smaller brother. Now Mrs. Sardotopolis wasfrightened. Joe was the first to die. 

She walked out of the house, down the dark hallway into the street. "Itwill do her good, " said her mother-in-law, who watched her. 

In the street there was nothing to do. There were no errands to make. Shecould just walk. People were just walking. Young people arm in arm. It wasa summer night in Halsted Street. Mrs. Sardotopolis walked until her eyesgrew clearer. She took a deep breath and looked about her nervously. Therewas a gypsy leaning out of the doorway. Mrs. Sardotopolis stared at her. 

"Tell your fortune, missus, " called the gypsy. 

Mrs. Sardotopolis nodded and entered the hallway. Her head felt dizzy. Butthere was nothing to do until tomorrow, when they buried Joe. With acurious thrill under her heavy bosom, Mrs. Sardotopolis held out herwork-coarsened palm to the gypsy. 

THE GREAT TRAVELER

Alexander Ginkel has been around the world. A week ago he came to Chicagoand, after looking around for a few days, located in one of the lessexpensive hotels and started to work as a porter in a well-knowndepartment store downtown. 

A friend said, "There's a man living in my hotel who should make a goodstory. He's been around the world. Worked in England, Bulgaria, Russia, Siberia, China and everywhere. Was cook on a tramp steamer in the southseas. A remarkable fellow, really. "

In this way I came to call on Ginkel. I found him after work in his room. He was a short man, over 30, and looked uninteresting. I told him that weshould be able to get some sort of story out of his travels andexperiences. He nodded. 

"Yes, " he said, "I've been all around the world. "

Then he became silent and looked at me hopefully. 

I explained, "People like to read about travelers. They sit at homethemselves and wonder what it would be like to travel. You probably had alot of experiences that would give people a vicarious thrill. I understandyou were a cook on a tramp steamer in the south seas. "

"Oh, yes, " said Ginkel, "I've been all over. I've been around the world. "

 * * * * *

We lighted pipes and Ginkel removed a book from a drawer in the dresser. He opened it and I saw it was a book of photographs--mostly pictures takenwith a small camera. 

"Here are some things you could use, " he said. "You wanna look at them. "

We went through the pictures together. 

"This one here, " said Ginkel, "is me in Vladivostok. It was taken on thecorner there. "

The photograph showed Ginkel dressed just as he was in the hotel room, standing near a lamp post on a street corner. There was visible a part ofa store window. 

"This one is interesting, " said Ginkel, warming up. "It was taken in thearchipelago. You know where. I forget the name of the town. But it was inthe south seas. "

We both studied it for a space. It showed Ginkel standing underneathsomething that looked like a palm tree. But the tree was slightly out offocus. So were Ginkel's feet. 

"It is interesting, " said Ginkel, "But it ain't such a good picture. Thelower part is kind of blurred, you notice. "

We looked through the album in silence for a while. Then Ginkel suddenlyremembered something. 

"Oh, I almost forgot, " he said. "There's one I think you'll like. It wastaken in Calcutta. You know where. Here it is. "

He pointed proudly toward the end of the book. We studied it through thetobacco smoke. It was a photograph of Ginkel dressed in the same clothesas before and standing under a store awning. 

"There was a good light on this, " said Ginkel, "and you see how plain itcomes out. "

Then we continued without comment to study other photographs. There wereat least several hundred. They were all of Ginkel. Most of them wereblurred and showed odds and ends of backgrounds out of focus, such astrees, street cars, buildings, telephone poles. There was one that finallyaroused Ginkel to comment:

"This would have been a good one, but it got light struck, " he said. "Itwas taken in Bagdad. "

 * * * * *

When we had exhausted the album Ginkel felt more at ease. He offered mesome tobacco from his pouch. I resumed the original line of questioning. 

"Did you have any unusual adventures during your travels or did you getany ideas that we could fix up for a story, " I asked. 

"Well, " said Ginkel, "I was always a camera bug, you know. I guess that'swhat gave me the bug for travelling. To take pictures, you know. I got alot more than these, but I ain't mounted them yet. "

"Are they like the ones in the book. "

"Not quite so good, most of them, " Ginkel answered. "They were taken whenI hadn't had much experience. "

"You must have been in Russia while the revolution was going on, weren'tyou?"

"Oh, yes. I got one there. " He opened the book again. "Here, " he said. "This was in Moscow. I was in Moscow when this was taken. "

It was another picture of Ginkel slightly out of focus and standingagainst a store front. I asked him suddenly who had taken all thepictures. 

"Oh, that was easy, " he said. "I can always find somebody to do that. Itake a picture of them first and then they take one of me. I always givethem the one I take of them and keep the one they take of me. "

"Did you see any of the revolution, Ginkel?"

"A lot of monkey business, " said Ginkel. "I seen some of it. Not much. "

The last thing I said was, "You must have come in for a lot of sights. Wemight fix up a story about that if you could give me a line on them. " Andthe last thing Ginkel said was:

"Oh, yes, I've been around the world. "

THUMBS UP AND DOWN

Later the art jury will sit on them. The art jury will discuss tone andmodelling, rhythm and chiaroscuro and perspective. And in the light ofthese discussions and decisions the art jury will sort out themasterpieces that are to be hung in the Chicago artists' exhibition andthe masterpieces that are not to be hung. 

Right now, however, Louis and Mike are unwrapping them. Every day betweennine and five Louis and Mike assemble in the basement of the ArtInstitute. The masterpieces arrive by the bushel, the truckload, thebasketful. Louis unwraps them. Mike stacks them up. Louis then calls offtheir names and the names of geniuses responsible for them. Mike writesthis vital information down in a book. 

 * * * * *

Art is a contagious business. Perfectly normal and marvelouslywholesome-minded people are as likely to succumb to it as anybody else. Itis significant that the Purity League meeting in the city a few weeks agodiscussed the dangers which lay in exposing even decent, law-abidingpeople to art, any kind of art. 

The insidious influence of art cannot, as a matter of fact, beexaggerated. I personally know of a number of very fine and highlyrespected citizens who have been lured away from their very business byart. 

However, this is no place to sound the alarm. I will some day talk on thesubject before the Rotary Club. To return to Louis and Mike. After Mikewrites the vital information down in a book Louis carts the canvas over toa truck and it is ready for the jury room. 

When they started on the job Louis and Mike were frankly indifferent. Theymight just as well have been unwrapping herring cases. And they wereexceedingly efficient. They unwrapped them and catalogued them as fast asthey came. 

In three days, however, the workmanlike morale with which Louis and Mikestarted on the job has been undermined. They have grown more leisurely. They no longer bundle the pictures around like herring cases. Instead theylook at them, try them this way and that way until they find out which wayis right side up. Then they pass judgment. 

Louis unwraps them. I was standing by in the basement with Bert Elliott, who has submitted a modernistic picture of Michigan Avenue, the WrigleyBuilding and the sky, called "Up, Straight and Across. "

"'The Home of the Muskrat, '" Louis called. Mike wrote it down. "Wanna lookat it, Mike?"

"Yeah, let's see. " Time out for critical inspection. "Say, this guy neversaw a muskrat house. That ain't the way. "

"'Isle of Dreams, '" called Louis. "Hm! You can't tell which is right sideup. I guess it goes like this. "

"No. The other, " said Mike. "Try it on its side. There, I told you so. 'Isle of Dreams. ' I don't see no isle. "

"Here's a cuckoo, " called Louis, suddenly. "'Mist. '"

"What?"

"'Mist, ' it says, only 'Mist, ' Mike. I'll say he missed. It ain't nopicture at all. That's a swell idee. Draw a picture in a fog and have thefog so heavy you can't see nothing, then you don't have to put any picturein. Can you beat it?"

"Go on. Try another. "

"All right. Here's one. 'The Faithful Friend. ' Now there's what I call apicture. I knowed a guy who owned a dog that looked just like this. Asetter or something. "

"Go on. That ain't a setter. It's a spaniel. "

"You're cuckoo, Mike. Tell me it's a spaniel! Let's put it up ahead. It'sprobably one of the prize winners. Here's a daffy one. 'At Play. ' What'sat play? I don't see nothin' at play. Take a look, Mike. "

"It's a sea picture. There's the sea, the gray part. "

"You're nuts. Hennessey has a sea picture over the bar with some gals onthe rocks. You know the one I mean. And if this is a sea picture I'm aorang-outang. "

"Well, Louis, it's probably a different sea. Can you imagine anybodysending a thing like that in? It ain't hardly worth the work of unwrappingit. Hurry up, Louis, we're way behind. "

"Well, take this, then. 'Children of the Ice. ' Hm, I don't see no kids. Isuppose this stuff here is the ice. But where's the kids?"

"He probably means the birds over there, Louis. "

"If he means the birds why don't he say birds instead of children? Whydon't he say 'birds of the ice'? What's the sense of saying 'children ofthe ice' when he means birds?"

"Go on, Louis. Don't argue with me. Hurry up. "

"Here's some photographs. "

"Them ain't photographs, you nut. They're portraits. "

"Well, they look almost as good as photographs. 'My Favorite Pupil. ' It'spretty good, Mike. See, there's the violin. He's a violin pupil. You cantell. Got it?"

"Yeah. Bring on the next. "

 * * * * *

A silence came over Louis. He stood for several minutes staring atsomething. 

"Hurry up, " called Mike. "It's getting late. "

"This is a mistake, " called Louis. "Here's one that's a mistake. "

"How come, Louis?"

"Well, look at it. You can see for yourself. The guy made a mistake. "

"What does it read on the back? Hurry, we can't waste no more time. "

"It reads 'Up, Down and Across' or something. It's a mistake though. "Louis remained eyeing the canvas raptly. "It ain't finished, Mike. Weought to send it back. "

"Let's see, Louis. " Time out for critical inspection. "You're right. It isa mistake. 'Up, Down and Across, ' you said. Well, we'll let it ride. It'snot our fault. What's the name of the guy?"

"Bert Elliott, " called Louis. A laugh followed. Louis turned to me and myfriend. 

"You see this?" he said. "I get it now. That's the Wrigley Building overthere. What do you know about that?"

Louis seized his sides and doubled up. Mr. Elliott, beside me, cleared histhroat and glanced apprehensively at his canvas. 

"I'll say it's the first one he laughed at, " said Mr. Elliott, pensively. "He didn't laugh at any of the others. Look, he's still looking at it. That's longer than he looked at any of the others. "

"All right, Louis, " from Mike. "Come on. "

"Ho, ho, " Louis went on, "I'd like to see this guy Elliott. Anybody whowould draw a picture like that. Hold your horses, Mike, here's another. 'The Faun. " What's a faun, Mike? I guess he means fern. It looks like afern. "

"It does that, Louis. But we'll have to let it go as a faun. It's probablya foreign word. Most of these artists are foreigners, anyway. "

Mr. Elliott and I left, Mr. Elliott remarking on the way down theInstitute steps, "Ho, hum. "

ORNAMENTS

Ornaments change, and perhaps not for the best. The scherzo architectureof Villon's Paris, the gabled caprice of Shakespeare's London, the Rip VanWinkle jauntiness of a vanished New York, these are ghosts that wanderamong the skyscrapers and dynamo beltings of modernity. 

One by one the charming blunders of the past have been set to rights. Highways are no longer the casual folderols of adventure, but thereposeful and efficient arteries of traffic. The roofs of the town are nolonger a rumble of idiotic hats cocked at a devil-may-care angle. Windowsno longer wink lopsidedly at one another. Doorways and chimneys, railingsand lanterns have changed. Cobblestones and dirt have vanished, at leastofficially. 

Towns once were like improvised little melodramas. Men once wore theirbackgrounds as they wore their clothes--to fit their moods. A cap andfeather, a gable and a latticed window for romance. A glove and rapier, aturret and a postern gate for adventure. And for our immemorial friendRoutine a humpty-dumpty jumble of alleys, feather pens, cobblestones, echoing stairways and bouncing milk carts. 

 * * * * *

These things have all been properly corrected. Today the city frowns fromone end to the other like a highly efficient and insanely practicalplatitude. Mood has given way to mode. An essential evolution, alas!D'Artagnan wore his Paris as a cloak. And perhaps Mr. Insull wears hisChicago as a shirt front. But most of us have parted company with thetown. It is a background designed and marvelously executed for ourconveniences. The great metronomes of the loop with their million windows, the deft crisscross of streets, the utilitarian miracles of plumbing, doorways, heating systems and passenger carriers--these are monuments toour collective sanity. 

But if one is insane, if one has inherited one's grandfather'scharacteristics as idler, loafer, lounger, dreamer, lover or picaroon, what then? Eh, one stays at home and tells it to the typewriter or, morelikely, one gets run down, chewed up and bespattered while darting acrossState Street in quest of an invigorating vanilla phosphate. 

 * * * * *

Nevertheless--there's a word that speaks innate optimism, nevertheless, there are things which do not change as logically as do ornaments. Men andwomen, for instance. And although the town wears its mask of deplorablesanity and though Sunnyside Avenue seems suavely reminiscent of VonBissing's troops goose-stepping through Belgium--there are men and women. 

One naturally inquires, where? Quite so, where are there men and women inthe city? One sees crowds. But men and women are lost. One observes crowdsanswering the advertisements. The advertisements say, come here, go there. And one sees men and women devotedly bent upon rewarding the advertisers. 

Again, nevertheless, there are other observations to make. There are thetaxicabs. Here in the taxicabs one may still observe men and women. Villon's Paris, Shakespeare's London and vanished New York, these arecrowded into the taxicabs. In the taxicabs men and women still wear thefurtive, illogical, questing, mysterious devil-may-care, wastereladventure masks of their grandfathers' yesterdays. 

 * * * * *

What ho! A devilishly involved argument, that, when the taxicab ownersplume themselves upon being the last word in the matter of deplorableefficiency, the ultimate gasp in the business of convenience!Nevertheless, although Mr. Hertz points with proper scorn to the sedanchair, the palanquin, the ox cart and the Ringling Brothers' racingchariots, we sweep a three-dollar fedora across the ground, raise oureyebrows and smile mysteriously to ourselves. 

For on the days when our insanities grow somewhat persistent there is asolace in the spectacle of taxicabs that none of the advertisements of Mr. Hertz or his; contemporaries can take away. For odds bodkins! gaze youthrough the little windows of these taxicabs. Pretty gals leaning forwardeager-eyed, lips parted, with an air of piquing rendezvous to the parasolsclutched in their dainty hands. Plump, heavy-jowled dandies reclining liketailored paladins in the leather cushions. Keen-eyed youths surroundedwith heaps of bags and cases on a carefully linened quest. Nervous oldwomen, mysteriously ragged creatures, rakish silk hats, bundles ofchildren with staring fingers, strangely mustachioed and ribald-neckedgentry. 

 * * * * *

A goodly company. A teasing procession for the eye and the thought. Thecabs shoot by, caracoling through the orderly lines of traffic; zigzags ofyellow, green, blue, lavender, black and white snorting along with a finedisdain. They speak of destinations reminiscent of the postern gate andthe latticed window; of the waiting barque and the glowing tavern. 

Of the crowds on the pavements; of the crowds in the passenger cars, elevators, lobbies, one wonders little where they are going. Answeringadvertisements, forsooth. Vertebrate brothers of the codfish. But theseothers! Ah, one stands on the curb with the vanilla phosphate playinghavoc with one's blood and wonders a hatful. 

These sybarites of the taxis are going somewhere. Make no doubt of that. These insanely assorted creatures bouncing on the leather cushions arelaunched upon mysterious and important enterprises. And these bold-lookingjehus, black eyed, hard mouthed--a fetching tribe! A cross betweenAcroceraunian bandits and Samaritans. One may stare at a taxi scooting byand think with no incongruity of Carlyle's "Night of Spurs"--with Louisand his harried Antoinette flying the guillotine. And of other thingswhich our inefficient memory prevents us from jotting down at this moment. But of other things. 

Journalism is incomplete without its moral or at least its overtones ofmorals. And we come to that now as an honest reporter should. Our moral isvery simple. Any good platitudinarian will already have forestalled it. Itis that the goodly company riding about in these taxicabs upon which wehave been speculating are none other than these codfish of the pavements. The same, messieurs. A fact which gives us hope; briefly, hope for thefact that the world is not as sane as it looks and that, despite all thefine strivings of construction engineers, plumbers, advertisers and thelike, men and women still preserve the quaint spirit of disorder andmelodrama which once lived in the ornaments of the town. 

THE WATCH FIXER

The wooden counter in front of Gustave is littered with tiny pieces ofspring, tiny keys, almost invisible screws and odd-looking tools. Gustavehimself is a large man with ponderous eyebrows and a thick nose. He standsbehind his counter in the North Wells Street repair shop looking much toolarge for the store itself and grotesquely out of proportion with thesprings, keys, screws and miniature tools before him. 

Attached to Gustave's right eye is a microscope. It is fastened on by aidof straps round his large head. When he works he moves the instrument overhis eye and when he rests he raises it so that it sticks out of hiseyebrow. 

Gustave is a watchmaker. When he was young he made watches of curiousdesign. But for years he has had to content himself with repairingwatches. Incased in his old-fashioned leather apron that hangs from hisshoulders, the venerable and somewhat Gargantuan Gustave stands most ofthe day peering into the tiny mechanisms of watches brought into the oldfurniture shop. Gustave's partner is responsible for the furniture end ofthe business. As Gustave grows older he seems to lose interest in thingsthat do not pertain to the delicate intricacies of watches. 

 * * * * *

I had a watch that was being fixed. Gustave said it would be ready in ahalf-hour. He slipped the microscope over his eye and, bending in hisheavy round-shouldered way above the small watch, began to pry with histhick fingers. A pair of tiny pincers, a fragile-looking screwdriver and aset of things that looked like dolls' tools occupied him. 

We talked, Gustave answering and evading questions and offering commentsas he worked. 

"Not zo hard ven you ged used to it, " he said. "Und I am used to it. Vatches are my friends. I like to look into dem und make dem go. Yes, Ihave been vorking on vatches for a long time. Years und years. 

"No, I vas vunce in the manufagturing business. Long ago. It vas ven I vasmarried und had children. I come over from the old country den und I startin. Preddy soon ve had money to spare. Ve came oud here to Chicago und gota house. A very nice house. 

"My vife was a danzer in the old country. Maybe you have heard of her. Butnever mind. I had dis vatch factory over here by the river. Dat vas thirtyyears ago. Und we had a barn und horses. 

"But you know how it is! Vat you have today you don't have tomorrow. Notso? My vife first. The nice house und the children vasn't enough for her. She must danze also. I vas younger und my head vas harder den. Und I said, 'No. ' Alzo she vent avay. Yes, she vent avay. Und der vas two kids. Myyoungest a girl und my oldest a boy. "

The microscope fastened itself closely to the inanimate springs and keysand screws. Gustave's thick fingers reached for a pair of baby pincers. And he continued now without the aid of questions in a low, gutteralvoice:

"Vell, business got bad und I gave up the factory. Und I starded insomeding else. Den my youngest she died. Yes, dat's how it goes. First vunding und den anoder ding. Und preddy soon you have nodings. 

"I tried to find my vife, but she vas hiding from me. Perhaps I vas hardheaded in dem days. Ven you are young you are like dat. Now id isdiff'rend. She iss dead und I am alive. Und if she had been my vife righdalong she vould still be dead now. Alzo vat matter does it make?

"Dat vas maybe tventy years ago or maybe more. Maybe tventy-five yearsago. Dings got all mixed up and my businesses got vorse und vorse. Und denmy son ran avay und wrides me he become a sailor. So I vas alone. "

"Dis vatch, " sighed Gustave, "is very hard to figx. It iss an old vatchund not much good to begin vit. But I figx him. Vat vas ve talking aboud?Oh, my business. Yes, yes. It goes like dat. I don't hear from my vife undI don't hear from my son. Und my liddle vun iss dead. Und so I lose myfine house und the horses und everyding. 

"Preddy soon I got no job even und preddy soon I am almost a bum. I hangaround saloons und drink beer und do noding but spend a little money Ipick up now un den by doing liddle jobs. Ah, now I have it. It vas deliddle spring. See? Zo. Most of dese vatches iss no good vatsoever. Deymake vatches diff'rend now as dey used to. Chust vun minute or two moreund I have him figxed so he don'd break no more for a vile. Und vat vas wetalking aboud?

"Ah, yes. Aboud how I drink beer und vas a bum. Dat's how it goes. Ven youare young you have less sense den ven you are old. Und I used to go aroundthinking I vould commit suicide. Yes, at night ven I vas all alone I usedto think like dat. Everyding vas so oopside down und so inside oud. Vat'sde use of living und vy go on drinking beer und becoming a vorse undbigger bum?

"Yes, it goes like dat. Ven I vas rich und happy und had my factory und myvife und children und horses und fine house I used to think vat a fineplace the vorld vas und how simple it vas to be happy. Und den veneveryding vent avay I vas chust as big a fool und I used to think howterrible the vorld vas und how unhappiness vas all you could get. 

 * * * * *

"Yes, ten years ago, it vas. I started in again. I started in on vatchesagain. I got a job figxing vatches und a friend says he vould give me achance. Und here I am. Still figxing vatches. Dey are my friends. Insidedey are all broken. Dey have liddle tings wrong vid dem und are inside oudund oopside down und I figx dem. 

"I don' know vy, but figxing vatches made a new man from me. I don' thinkno more aboud my troubles und how oopside down and impozzible everydingis. But I look all de time into vatches und make dem go again. Yes, it isslike you say, a delicate business, und my fingers iss getting old for it, maybe. But I like dese liddle tools und all dese liddle things aboud avatch I like to look at und hold und figx up. 

"Because it iss so simple. Ezpecially ven you get acquainted vid how deyrun und vy dey stop. Und der are zo many busted vatches. Zo nice outsideund zo busted inside. I can'd explain maybe how it iss. But it iss likedat. Ven I hold de busted vatches under the micgrozcope, I feel happy Idon' know. Some time maybe somebody pick me up like I vas a busted vatchund hold me under a micgrozcope und figx me up until I go tick tick again. Maybe dat's vy. Here. All done. "

Gustave shifted the microscope up over his eyebrow and smiled ponderouslyacross the counter. 

"Put it on, " he said, "but be careful. Dat's how vatches iss bustedalvays. By bumping und paying no attention to dem. "

SCHOPENHAUER'S SON

Life, alas, is an intricate illusion. God is a pack of lies under whichman staggers to his grave. And man--ah, here we have Nature's onlymountebank; here we have Nature's humorous and ingenuous experiment intragedy. And thought--ah, the tissue-paper chimera that seeks forever todevour life. 

It is the cult of the pessimist, the gentle malice of disillusion. And, like all other cults, it sustains its advocates. Thus, the city has nomore debonairly-mannered, smiling-souled citizen to offer than ClarenceDarrow. For years and years Mr. Darrow has been gently disproving theintelligence of man, the importance of life, and the necessity of thought. For years and years Mr. Darrow has been whimsically deflating theillusions in which man hides from the purposelessness of the cosmos. God, heaven, politics, philosophies, ambition, love--Mr. Darrow has deflatedthem time and again--charging from $1 to $2 a seat for the spectacle. 

This is nothing against Mr. Darrow--that he charges money sometimes. Foryears and years Mr. Darrow has been enlivening the intellectual purlieusof the city with his debates. And Mr. Darrow's debates have been alwaysworth $1, $2 and even $5--for various reasons. It is worth at least $5 toobserve at first hand what a cheering and invigorating effect Mr. Darrow'spessimism has had upon Mr. Darrow after these innumerable years. 

 * * * * *

The story concerns itself with a funeral Mr. Darrow attended a few yearsago. It is at funerals that Mr. Darrow's gentle malice finds itselfcrowned by circumstances. For to this son of Schopenhauer death is a wearysmile that is proof of all his arguments. 

This time, however, Mr. Darrow was curiously stirred. For there lay deadin the coffin a man for whom he had held a deep affection. It was Prof. George B. Foster, the brilliant theologian of the University of Chicago. 

During his life Prof. Foster had been a man worthy the steel of Mr. Darrow. Not that Prof. Foster was an unscrupulous optimist. He was merelyan intellectual whose congenital tendencies were idealistic, just as Mr. Darrow's psychic and subconscious tendencies were anti-idealistic. Andapart from this divergence of congenital tendencies Mr. Darrow and Prof. Foster had a great deal in common. They both loved argument. They bothdoted upon seizing an idea and energizing it with their egoism. They were, in short, ideal debaters. 

Whenever Mr. Darrow and Prof. Foster debated on one of the major issues ofreason a flutter made itself felt in the city--even among citizensindifferent to debate. Indifferent or not, one felt that a debate betweenProf. Foster and Mr. Darrow was a matter of considerable importance. Things might be disproved or proved on such an occasion. 

 * * * * *

They were to have debated on "Is There Immortality?" when Prof. Foster'sdeath canceled the engagement. This was one of the favorite differences ofopinion between the two friends. Mr. Darrow, of course, bent all hisefforts on disproving immortality. Prof. Foster bent all his on provingit. Considerable excitement had been stirred by the coming debate. Thedeath of the brilliant theologian put an end to it. 

Instead of the debate there was a funeral. Thousands of people who hadadmired the intellect, kindness and humanitarianism of Prof. Foster cameto the memorial services held in one of the large theaters of the loop. Mr. Darrow came, his head bowed and grief in his heart. Friends likeGeorge Foster never replace themselves. Death becomes not a triumphantargument--an aloof clincher for pessimism, but a robber. 

There were speakers who talked of the dead man's virtues, his love forpeople, scholarship and the arts, his keen brain and his genius. Mr. Darrow sat listening to the eulogy of his dead friend and tears filled hiseyes. Poor George Foster--gone, in a coffin; to be buried out of sight ina few hours. Then some one whispered to Mr. Darrow that a few words wereexpected of him. 

 * * * * *

It was Mr. Darrow's good-bye to his dear friend. He stood up and his loosefigure and slyly malicious face wore an unaccustomed seriousness. Theaudience waited, but the facile Mr. Darrow was having difficulty locatinghis voice, his words. His eyes, blurred with tears, were still staring atthe coffin. Finally Mr. Darrow began. His dear friend. Dead. So charming aman. So brilliant a mind. Dead now. He had been so amazingly alive itseemed incredible that he should be dead. It was as if part ofhimself--Mr. Darrow--lay in the coffin. 

The eulogy continued, quiet, sincere, stirring tears in the audience andfilling their hearts with a realization of the grief that lay in Mr. Darrow's heart. Then slowly the phrases grew clearer. 

"We were old friends and we fought many battles of the mind, " said Mr. Darrow. "And we were to have debated once more next week--on 'Is ThereImmortality?' It was his contention, " whispered Mr. Darrow, "that there isimmortality. He is gone now, but he speaks more eloquently on the subjectthan if he were still with us. There lies all that remains of my friendGeorge Burman Foster--in a coffin. And had he lived he would have arguedwith me on the subject. But he is dead and he knows now, in the negationand darkness of death, that he was wrong--that there is no immortality--"

Mr. Darrow paused. He had after many years won his argument with Prof. Foster. But the victory brought no elation. Mr. Darrow's eyes filled againand he turned to walk from the stage. But before he left the mournerssitting around him heard him murmur:

"I wish poor George Foster had been right. There would be nobody happierthan I to realize that his soul had survived--that there was still aGeorge Foster. But--if he could come back now after the proof of death hewould admit--yes, admit that--that there is no immortality. "

And Mr. Darrow with his head bowed yielded the platform to hisinarticulate and vanquished friend and debater. 

WORLD CONQUERORS

The hall is upstairs. A non-committal sign has been tacked over the streetentrance. It discloses that there is to be a discussion this night on thesubject of the world revolution. The disclosure is made in English, Yiddish and Russian. 

A thousand people have arrived. They are mostly west siders, with asprinkling of north and south side residents. There seem to be two types. Shop workers and a type that classifies as the intelligentsia. The workerssit calmly and smoke. The intelligentsia are nervous. Dark-eyed women, bearded men, vivacious, exchanging greetings, cracking jokes. 

The first speaker is a very bad orator. He is a working-man. An intensityof manner holds the audience in lieu of phrases. He says nothing. Yetevery one listens. He says that workingmen have been slaves long enough. That there is injustice in the world. That the light of freedom hasappeared on the horizon. 

This, to the audience, is old stuff. Yet they watch the talker. He hassomething they one and all treasured in their own hearts. A faith insomething. The workingmen in the audience have stopped smoking. Theylisten with a faint skepticism in their eyes. The intelligentsia, however, are warming up. For the moment old emotions are stirring in them. Sincerity in others--the martyr spirit in others--is something whichthrills the insincerity of all intelligentsia. 

Suddenly there is a change in the hall. Our stuttering orator with theforceful manner has made a few startling remarks. He has said, "And whatwe must do, comrades, is to use force. We can get nowhere without force. We must uproot, overthrow and seize the government. "

Scandal! A murmur races around the hall. The residents from the north andsouth sides who have favored this discussion of world revolution withtheir uplifting presence are uneasy. Somebody should stop the man. It'sone thing to be sincere, and another thing to be too sincere and tell themthat they should use force. 

Now, what's the matter? The orator has grown violent. 

It is somebody in the back of the hall. Heads turn. A policeman! Theorator swings his arms, and in his foreign tongue, goes on. "They arestopping us. The bourgeoisie! They have sent the polizei! But we standfirm. The police are powerless against us. Even though they drive us fromthis hall. "

The orator is all alone in his excitement. The audience has, despite hisvalorous pronouncements, grown nervous. And the policeman walking down theaisle seems embarrassed. He arrives at the platform finally. He hands acard to the orator. The orator glances at the card and then waves it inthe air. Then he reads it slowly, his lips moving as he spells the wordsout. The audience is shifting around, acting as if it wanted to rise andbolt for the door. 

"Ah, " exclaims the orator, "the policeman says that an enemy of therevolution has smashed an automobile belonging to one of the audience thatwas standing in front of the hall. The number of the automobile is asfollows. " He recites the number slowly. And then: "If anybody has anautomobile by that number standing downstairs he better go and look afterit. "

A substantial looking north sider arises and walks hurriedly through thehall. The orator decides to subside. There is a wait for the chiefspeaker, who has not yet arrived. During the wait an incident develops. There are two lights burning at the rear of the stage. A young woman callsone of the officials of the meeting. 

"Look, " she says, "those lights make it impossible for us to see thespeaker who stands in front of them. They shine in our eyes. "

The official wears a red sash across the front of his coat. He is one ofthe minor leaders among the west side soviet radicals. He blinks. "What doyou want of me?" he inquires with indignation. "I should go and turn thelights out? You think I'm the janitor?"

"But can't you just turn the lights off?" persists the young woman. 

"The janitor, " announces our official with dignity, "turns the lights onand he will turn them off. " Wherewith the Tarquin of the proletairemarches off. Two minutes later a man in his short sleeves appears, following him. This man is the janitor. The audience which has observedthis little comedy begins to laugh as the janitor turns off the offendinglights. 

The chief speaker of the evening has arrived. He is a good orator. He isalso cynical of his audience. A short wiry man with a pugnacious face anda cocksure mustache. He begins by asking what they are all afraid of. Heaccuses them of being more social than revolutionary. As long asrevolution was the thing of the hour they were revolutionists. But nowthat it is no longer the thing of the hour, they have taken up otherhobbies. 

This appears to be rather the truth from the way the intelligentsia takeit. They nod approval. Self-indictment is one thing which distinguishesthe intelligentsia. They are able to recognize their faults, theirshortcomings. 

Now the speaker is on his real subject. Revolution. What we want, hecries, is for the same terrible misfortune to happen in this country thathappened in Russia. Yes, the same marvelous misfortune. And he is ready. He is working toward that end. And he wishes in all sincerity that theaudience would work with him. Start a reign of terror. Put the spirit ofthe masses into the day. The unconquerable will to overthrow the tyrantand govern themselves. He continues--an apostle of force. Of fighting. Ofshooting, stabbing and barricades that fly the red flag. He is sardonicand sarcastic and everything else. And the audience is disturbed. 

There are whispers of scandal. And half the faces of the intelligentsiafrown in disapproval. They came to hear economic argument, not a call toarms. The other half is stirred. 

It is almost eleven. The hall empties. The streets are alive. Peoplehurry, saunter, stand laughing. Street cars, store fronts, mean houses, shadows and a friendly moon. These are part of the system. Three hours agothey seemed a powerful, impregnable symbol. Now they can be overthrown. 

The security that pervades the street is an illusion. Force can knock itout. A strange force that lies in the masses who live in this street. 

The audience moves away. The intelligentsia will discuss the possibilityof a sudden uprising of the proletaire and gradually they will growcynical about it and say, "Well, he was a good talker. "

The orator finally emerges from the building. He is surrounded by friends, questioners. For two blocks he has company. Then he is alone. He standswaiting for a street car. Some of the audience pass by without recognizinghim. 

The street car comes and the orator gets on. He finds a seat. His headdrops against the window and his eyes close. And the car sweeps away, taking with it its load of sleepy men and women who have stayed up toolate--including a messiah of the proletaire who dreams of leading themasses out of bondage. 

THE MAN FROM YESTERDAY

"You'll not use my name, " he said, "because my family would be exceedinglygrieved over the notoriety the thing would bring them. "

Fifty or sixty or seventy--it was hard to tell how old he was. He lookedlike a panhandler and talked like a scholar. Life had knocked him out andwalked over him. There was no money in his pocket, no food in his stomach, no hope in his heart. He was asking for a job--some kind of writing job. His hands were trembling and his face twitched. Despair underlay hiswords, but he kept it under. Hunger made his body jerked and his eyesshine with an unmannerly eagerness. But his words remained suave. Heremoved a pair of cracked nose-glasses and held them between his thumb andforefinger and gestured politely with them. Hungry, dirty, hopeless, hislinen gone, his shoes torn, something inside his beaten frame remainedstill intact. There was no future. But he had a past to live up to. 

He was asking for a job. What kind of job he didn't know. But he couldwrite. He had been around the world. He was a cosmopolite and a rhymesterand a press agent and a journalist. He pulled himself together and hiseyes struggled hard to forget the hunger of his stomach. 

"In the old days, " he said, enunciating in the oracular manner of a daygone by--"ah, I was talking with Jack London about it before he died. DearJack! A great soul. A marvelous spirit. We were in the south seastogether. Yes, the old days were different. Erudition counted forsomething. I was Buffalo Bill's first press agent. Also I worked for dearP. T. Barnum. I was his publicity man. 

"Doesn't the world seem to have changed, to you?" he asked. "I was talkingto George Ade about this very thing. Strange, isn't it? George and I areold friends. Who? Dickie Davis of the Sun? Certainly--a charming fellow. Stephen Crane? Genius, my friend, genius was his. That was the day when O. Henry was in New York. There was quite a crowd of us. We used toforegather in some comfortable grog shop and discuss. Ah, life and letterswere talked about a great deal in those days. "

 * * * * *

His voice had the sound of a man casually relating incidents of his past. But his eyes continued to shine eagerly. And between sentences there werecurious pauses. The pauses asked something. 

"A most curious thing occurred the other evening, " he smiled. "I had topay for my oysters by writing a rhyme for the waiter. " An anecdote by adilettante, a gracefully turned plea worthy of M'sieur Bruinrmell. "Youknow, it grows more and more difficult to obtain employment. My wardrobeis practically gone. " He glanced with apparent amusement at hisweary-willie makeup. His hand moved tremblingly to his neck. "My collar issoiled, " he murmured, apologizing with eyes that managed to smile, "andthe other evening I lost my stick. "

Then the hunger and the hopelessness of the man broke through the shell ofhis manner. He needed a job, a job, a job! Something to do to get him foodand shelter. His fingers tried to place the cracked nose-glasses back inposition. 

"I would--pardon me for mentioning this--I would much rather sit with aman like you and discuss the phases of life and literature of interest toboth of us. But I would write almost anything. I have written a greatdeal. And I have managed money. There was a time--" A look of pain cameinto his eyes. This was being vulgar and not in line with the traditionthat his enunciation boasted. 

"I have known a great many people. I don't desire to bore you with talk ofcelebrities and all that. But I assure you, I have been somebody. Oh, nothing important or perhaps very worth while. I dislike this sort ofthing, you know. " Another smile twisted his lips. "But, when one is downto the last--er--to the last farthing, so to speak, one swallows a bit ofhis pride. That's more than an aphorism with me. To go on, I have handledgreat sums of money. I have traveled all over the world, I have eaten andspoken with men of genius all my life. My youth was a very interesting oneand--and perhaps we could go somewhere for dinner and--and I could tellyou things of writing men of the past that--that might appeal to you. Marvelous fellows. There was O. Henry and London and Davis and Phillipsand Stevie Crane. I dislike imposing myself on you this way, but--if Ididn't think you would be interested in a discussion with a man who--whoadmires the beautiful things of life and who has lived a rather variedexistence I would not--"

 * * * * *

The cracked nose-glasses were back in place and he had stopped short. Despair and hunger now were talking out of his eyes. They had come tooclose to his words. They must never come into his words. That would be theone defeat that would drive too deeply into him. Of the past, of theeasygoing, charmingly garrulous past, all that was left to this nomad ofletters was its manner. He could still sit in his rags as if he werelounging in the salon of an ocean liner, still gesture with hisnose-glasses as if he were fixing the attention of a Richard HardingDavis across a bottle of Chateau Yquem. 

So he remained silent. Let his eyes and the twitching of his face betrayhim. His words never would. His words would always be the well-groomed, carefully modulated, nicely considerate words of a gentleman. He resumed:

"So you have nothing. Ah, that's rather--rather disturbing. Just amoment--please. I don't mean to impose on you. Won't you sit down--so Iwill feel more at ease? Thank you, sir. Perhaps there is something in theway of a--of another kind of job. Anything about a theater, a newspaperoffice, a magazine, a circus, an hotel. I know them all. And if you couldonly keep an eye open for me. Thank you, sir. I am glad to see that men ofletters are still considerate of their fellow craftsmen. Ah, you wouldhave liked Jack London. Did you know him? You know, we live in an age ofjazz. Yes, sir, the tempo is fast. Life has lost its andante. Materialismhas triumphed. There is no longer room for the spirit to expand. Machinesare in the way. Noises invade the sanctity of meditative hours. "

 * * * * *

It was cold outside the cigar store. The man from yesterday stepped intothe street. He stood smiling for a moment and for the moment in thecourteous friendliness of his rheumy eyes, in the mannerly tilt of hishead there was the picture of a sophisticated gentleman of the worldnodding an adieu outside his favorite chophouse. Then he turned. Themannerly tilt vanished. There was to be seen a man--fifty, sixty orseventy, it was hard to tell how old--shuffling tiredly down the street, his body huddled together and his shoulders shivering. 

THUMBNAIL LOTHARIOS

Here's the low down, gentlemen. The Miserere of the manicurist. Peewee, the Titian-haired Aphrodite of the Thousand Nails has been inveigled intosubmitting her lipstick memoirs to the public eye. 

Peewee is the melting little lady with the vermilion mouth and the cooingeyes who manicures in a Rialto hotel barber shop. She is the one whosetouch is like the cool caress of a snowflake, whose face is as void ofguile as the face of the Blessed Damosel. 

There are others, scissor-Salomes and nail-file Dryads. Mr. Flo Ziegfeldhas nothing on George, the head barber, when it comes to an eye for colorand a sense for curve. But they are busy at the moment. The hair-tonicDons and the mud-pack Romeos are giving the girls a heavy play. Peeweealone is at leisure. Therefore let us gallop quickly to the memoirs. 

 * * * * *

"H'm, " says Peewee, "I'll tell you about men. Of course what I say doesn'tinclude all men. There may be exceptions to the rule. I say may be. I hopethere are. I'd hate to think there weren't. I'd get sad. "

Steady, gentlemen. Peewee's doll face has lost guilelessness. Peewee'sface has taken on a derisive and ominous air. 

"I'll give you the low down, " says she with a sniff. "Men? They're allalike. I don't care who they are or what their wives and pastors think ofthem or what their mothers think of them. I got them pegged regardless. Young and old, and some of them so old they've gone back to the milk diet, they all make the same play when they come in here. 

"And they're all cheap. Yes, sir, some are cheaper than others, of course. There's the patent-leather hair lounge-lizard. I hand him the fur-linedmedal for cheapness. But I got a lot of other medals and I give them allaway, too. 

"Well, sir, they come in here and you take hold of their hand and start indoing honest work and, blooey! they're off. They're strangers in town. Andlonesome! My God, how lonesome they are! And they don't know no place togo. That's the way they begin. And they give your hand a squeeze and rolla soft-boiled eye at you. 

"Say, it gets kind of tiring, you can imagine. Particularly after you'vebeen through what I have and know their middle names, which are all alike, they all answering to the name of cheap sport. Sometimes I give them thebaby stare and pretend I don't know what's on their so-called minds. Andsometimes when my nerves are a little ragged I freeze them. Then sometimesI take them up. I let them put it over. 

"You'd be surprised. Liars! They're all rich. The young ones are all bondsalesmen with wealthy fathers and going to inherit soon. The middle-agedones are great manufacturers. The old ones are retired financiers. Youshould ought to hear the lads when they're hitting on all six. "

 * * * * *

Peewee wagged a wise old head and her vermilion mouth registered scorn at105 degrees Fahrenheit. A very cold light, however, kindled in herbeautiful eyes. 

"Yes, yes, I've taken them up, " she went on. "I've let them stake me tothe swell time. Say, ten dollars to one that these manicured millionairesdon't mean any more than the Governor's pardon does to Carl Wanderer. Nota bit. I don't want to get personal, but, take it from me, they're allafter one thing. And they're a pack of selfish, mushy-headed tin hornswith fishhook pockets, the kind you can't pull anything out of. 

"Well, to get back. About the first minute you get the big, come-onsqueeze. Then next the big talk about being strangers in your town. Thennext they open with the big, hearty invitations. Will you be their littleguide? And ain't you the most beautiful thing they ever set eyes on! Andsay, if they'd only met you before they wouldn't be living around hotelsnow, lonesome bachelors without a friend. I forgot to tell you, they'reall single. No, never married. Even some of the most humpbacked marriedmen you ever saw, who come in here dragging leg irons and looking apicture of the Common People, they're single, too. I've seen them slipwedding rings off their fingers to make their racket stand up. 

"Then after they've got along and think they've got you biting they beginto get fresh. They tell you you shouldn't ought to work in a barber shop, a girl as beautiful as you. The surroundings ain't what they should be. And they'd like to fix you up. Yes, they begin handing out their castlesin Rome or Spain or whatever it is. Cheap! Say, they are so cheap theywouldn't go on the 5- and 10-cent store counter. 

"Sometimes you can shame them into making good in a small way. But it'stoo much work. Oh, yes, they give tips. Fifty cents is the usual tip. Sometimes they make it $2. 00. They think they're buying you, though, forthat. 

 * * * * *

"As I was saying, the patent-leather hair boys are the worst. They're theones who call themselves loop hounds. They know everybody by their firstname and sometimes they've got all of $6. 50 in their pocket at one time. And if you're out some evening with a friend--a regular fella, they pop inthe next day and say, 'Hello, Peewee, who was that street sweeper I seeyou palling with last night? Oh, he wasn't! Well, I had him pegged eitheras a street sweeper or a plumber!"

"That's their speed. And they come again and again. They never give up. They've got visions of making a conquest some day--on $1. 50. And when anew girl comes into the shop--boy, don't the buzzards buzz! I came heresix months ago and they started it on me. But I wasn't born yesterday. I'dbeen a manicure in Indianapolis. And they're just the same in Indianapolisas they are in Chicago. And they're just the same in Podunk. 

"Now, I'm not going to mention any names. But take your city directory andbegin with Ab Abner and go right on through to Zeke Zimbo and don't skipany. And you'll get a clear idea about the particular gentlemen I'mtalking about. "

 * * * * *

Peewee sighed and shook her head. 

"Are you busy?" inquired the head manicurist. 

"Not at all, " said Peewee, "not at all. "

Peewee's biographer asked a final question. To which she responded asfollows:

"Well, I'll get married. Maybe. When I find the exception I was tellingyou about--the gentleman who isn't a stranger in town and in need of alittle guide. There must be one of them somewhere. Unless they was allkilled in the war. "

THE SOUL OF SING LEE

The years have made a cartoon out of Sing Lee. A withered yellow face withmotionless black eyes. Thin fingers that move with lifeless precision. Slippered feet that shuffle as if Sing Lee were yawning. 

A smell of starch, wet linen and steam mingles with an aromatic mustiness. The day's work is done. Sing Lee sits in his chair behind the counter. Three walls look down upon him. Laundry packages--yellow paper, whitestring--crowd the wall shelves. Chinese letterings dance gayly on theyellow packages. 

Sing Lee, from behind the counter, stares out of the window. The Hyde Parkpolice station is across the way. People pass and glance up:

 Sing Lee, Hand Laundry, 5222 Lake Park Avenue. 

Come in. There is something immaculate about Sing Lee. Sing Lee has beenironing out collars and shirts for thirty-five years. And thirty-fiveyears have been ironing Sing Lee out. He is like one of the yellowpackages on the shelves. And there is a certain lettering across his faceas indecipherable and strange as the dance of the black hieroglyphs on theyellow laundry paper. 

Something enthralls Sing Lee. It can be seen plainly now as he sits behindthe counter. It can be seen, too, as he works during the day. Sing Leeworks like a man in an empty dream. It is the same to Sing Lee whether heworks or sits still. 

The world of collars, cuffs and shirt fronts does not contain Sing Lee. Itcontains merely an automaton. The laundry is owned by an automaton namedSing Lee, by nobody else. Now that the day's work is done he will sit likethis for an hour, two hours, five hours. Time is not a matter of hours toSing Lee. Or of days. Or even of years. 

The many wilted collars that come under the lifeless hands of Sing Leetell him an old story. The story has not varied for thirty-five years. Asolution of water, soap and starch makes the collars clean again andstiff. They go back and they return, always wilted and soiled. Sing Leeneeds no further corroboration of the fact that the crowds are at work. Doing what? Soiling their linen. That is as final as anything the crowdsdo. Sing Lee's curiosity does not venture beyond finalities. 

 * * * * *

Sing Lee is a resident of America. But this is a formal statistic andrefers only to the automaton that owns the hand laundry in Lake ParkAvenue. Observe a few more formal facts of Sing Lee's life. He has neverbeen to a movie or a theater play. He has never ridden in an automobile. He has never looked at the lake. 

Thus it becomes obvious that Sing Lee lives somewhere else. For a man mustgo somewhere in thirty-five years. Or do something. There is a story then, in Sing Lee. Not a particularly long story. Life stories are sometimes nolonger than a single line--a sentence, even a phrase. So if one could findout where Sing Lee lives one would have a story perhaps a whole sentencelong. 

"Mukee kai, Sing Lee. "

A nod of the thin head. 

"Business good?"

Another nod. 

"Pretty tired, washing, ironing all day, eh?"

A nod. 

"When are you going to put in a laundry machine?"

A shake of the thin head. 

"When are you going to quit, Sing Lee?"

Another shake of the thin head. 

"You're not very gabby tonight, Sing. "

A dignified answer to this: "I thinking. "

"What about, Sing Lee?"

A faint smile. The smile seems to set Sing Lee in motion. It comes frombehind the automaton. It is perhaps Sing Lee's first gesture of life inweeks. 

"You don't mind my sitting here and smoking a pipe, eh?"

 * * * * *

The minutes pass. Sing Lee stands up. He turns on a small electric light. This is a concession. This done, he opens a drawer behind the counter andremoves a little bronze casket. The casket is placed on the counter. Slowly as if in a deep dream Sing Lee lights a match and holds it insidethe casket. A thin spiral of lavender smoke unwinds from its mouth. 

Sing Lee watches the spiral of smoke. It wavers and unwinds. A fingerwriting; an idiot flower. Then it opens up into a large smoke eye. Smokeeyes drift casually away. An odor crawls into the air. Sing Lee's eyesclose gently and his thin body moves as he takes a deep breath. 

His eyes still closed, Sing Lee speaks. 

"You writer?" he murmurs. 

"Yes. "

"I too, " says Sing Lee. "I write poem. "

"Yes? When did you do that?"

"Oh, long ago. Mebbe year. Mebbe five years. "

Sing Lee reaches into the open drawer and takes out a large sheet of ricepaper. It is partly covered with Chinese letters up and down. 

"I read you in English, " says Sing Lee. His eyes remain almost shut. Hereads:

 The sky is young blue. Many fields wait. Many people look at young blue sky. Old people look at young blue sky. Many birds fly. At night moon comes and young blue sky is old. Many young people look at old sky. 

"Did you write that about Chicago, Sing Lee?"

"No, no, " says Sing Lee. His eyes open. The smoke eyes from the incensepot drift like miniature ghost clouds behind him and creep along the rowsof yellow laundry packages. 

"No, no, " says Sing Lee. "I write that about Canton. I born in Canton manyyears ago. Many, many years ago. "

MRS. RODJEZKE'S LAST JOB

Mrs. Rodjezke scrubbed the corridors of the Otis building after thelawyers, stenographers and financiers had gone home. During the day Mrs. Rodjezke found other means of occupying her time. Keeping the two Rodjezkechildren in order, keeping the three-room flat, near the corner ofTwenty-ninth and Wallace streets, in order and hiring herself for half-daycleaning, washing or minding-the-baby jobs filled this part of her day. Asfor the rest of the day, no fault could be found with the manner in whichMrs. Rodjezke used that part of her time. 

At five-thirty she reported for work in the janitor's quarters of theoffice building. She was given her pail, her scrub brush, mop and bar ofsoap and with eight other women who looked curiously like herself startedto work in the corridors. The feet of the lawyers, stenographers andfinanciers had left stains. Crawling inch by inch down the tiled flooring, Mrs. Rodjezke removed the stains one at a time. Eight years at this workhad taken away the necessity of her wearing knee pads. Mrs. Rodjezke'sknees did not bother her very much as she scrubbed. 

 * * * * *

In the evening Mrs. Rodjezke usually rode home in the street car. Therewere several odd items about Mrs. Rodjezke that one could observe as shesat motionless and staring in her seat waiting for the 2900 block toappear. First, there were her clothes. Mrs. Rodjezke was not of thelight-minded type of woman that changes styles with the season. Winter andsummer she wore the same. 

Then there were her hands. Mrs. Rodjezke's fingernails were a contrast tothe rest of her. The rest of her was somewhat vigorous and buxom looking. The fingernails, however, were pale--a colorless light blue. And the tipsof her fingers looked a trifle swollen. Also the tips of her fingers weredifferent in shade from the rest of her hands. 

Another item of note was her coiffure. Mrs. Rodjezke was alwaysindifferently dressed, her clothes looking as if they had been thrown onand pinned together. Yet her coiffure was almost a proud andcareful-looking thing. It proclaimed, alas, that the scrubwoman, despitethe sensible employment of her time, was not entirely free from thevanities of her sex. The deliberate coiling and arranging of her stringyblack hair must have taken a good fifteen minutes regularly out of Mrs. Rodjezke's otherwise industrious day. 

These items are given in order that Mrs. Rodjezke may be visualized for amoment as she rode home on a recent evening. It was very hot and thepapers carried news on the front page: "Hot Spell to Continue. "

Mrs. Rodjezke got off the car at 29th and Halsted streets and walked toher flat. Here the two Rodjezke children, who were 8 and 10 years oldrespectively, were demanding their supper. After the food was eaten Mrs. Rodjezke said, in Bohemian:

"We are going down to the beach to-night and go in swimming. "

Shouts from the younger Rodjezkes. 

 * * * * *

When the family appeared on the 51st Street beach it was alive with peoplefrom everywhere. They stood around cooling off in their bathing suits andtrying to forget how hot it was by covering themselves in the chill sand. 

Mrs. Rodjezke's bathing suit was of the kind that attracts attention thesedays. It was voluminous and hand made and it looked as if it might havefunctioned as a "wrapper" in its palmier days. For a long time nobodynoticed Mrs. Rodjezke. She sat on the sand. Her head felt dizzy. Her eyesburned. And there was a burn in the small of her back. Her knees alsoburned and the tips of her fingers throbbed. 

These symptoms failed to startle Mrs. Rodjezke. Their absence would havebeen more of a surprise. She sat staring at the lake and trying to keeptrack of her children. But their dark heads lost themselves in the noisycrowds in front of her and she gave that up. They would return in duetime. Mrs. Rodjezke must not be criticized for a maternal indifference. The children of scrubwomen always return in due time. 

 * * * * *

Mrs. Rodjezke had come to the lake to cool off. The idea of going for aswim had been in her head for at least three years. She had always beenable to overcome it, but this time somehow it had got the better of herand she had moved almost blindly toward the water front. 

"I will get a rest in the water, " she thought. 

But now on the beach Mrs. Rodjezke found it difficult to rest. The dishesweren't washed in the kitchen home. The clothes needed changing on thebeds. And other things. Lots of other things. 

Mrs. Rodjezke sighed as the shouts of the bathers floated by her ears. Thesun had almost gone down and the lake looked dull. Faintly colored cloudswere beginning to hide the water. It was no use. Mrs. Rodjezke couldn'trest. She sat and stared harder at the lake. Yes, there was something todo. Before it got too dark. Something very important to do. And it wasn'tright not to do it. The scrubwoman sighed again and put her hand againsther side. The burn had dropped to there. It had also gone into her head. But that was a thing which must be forgotten. Mrs. Rodjezke had learnedhow to forget it during the eight years. 

 * * * * *

A girl saw it first. She was laughing in a group of young men from thehotel. Then she exclaimed, suddenly:

"Heavens! Look at that woman!"

The group looked. They saw a middle-aged woman in a humorous bathingcostume crawling patiently down the beach on her hands and knees. Soonother people were looking. Nobody interfered at first. Perhaps this was acurious exercise. Some of them laughed. 

But the woman's actions grew stranger. She would stop as she crawled andlift up handfuls of water from the edge of the lake. Then she would startscratching in the sand. A crowd collected and the beach policeman arrived. The beach policeman looked down at the woman on her hands and knees. 

She had stopped and her face had grown sad. 

"What's the matter here?" the policeman asked of her. 

The woman began to cry. Her tears flooded her round worn face. 

"I can't finish it to-night, " she sobbed, "not now anyway. I'm too tired. I can't finish it to-night. And the soap has floated away. The soap isgone. "

 * * * * *

Mrs. Rodjezke was taken up by the policeman with the two Rodjezkechildren, who had, of course, returned in due time. They cried and criedand the group went to the police station. 

"I don't know what's wrong with the poor woman, " said the beach policemanto the Hyde Park police sergeant. "But she was moving up and down like shewas trying to scrub the beach. "

"I guess, " said the sergeant, "we'll have to turn her over to thepsychopathic hospital. "

There's a lot more to the story, but it has nothing to do with Mrs. Rodjezke's last job. 

QUEEN BESS' FEAST

Elizabeth Winslow, who was a short, fat woman with an amazing gift ofprofanity and "known to the police" as "Queen Bess, " is dead. According tothe coroner's report Queen Bess died suddenly in a Wabash Avenue roominghouse at the age of seventy. 

Twenty-five years ago Queen Bess rented rooms and sold drinks according tothe easy-going ideas of that day. But there was something untouched by thesordidness of her calling about this ample Rabelaisian woman. There was anoise about Queen Bess lacking in her harpy contemporaries. 

"Big-hearted Bess, " the coppers used to call her, and "Queenie" was thename her employees had for her. But to customers she was always QueenBess. In the district where Queen Bess functioned the gossip of the dayalways prophesied dismally concerning her. She didn't save her money, Queen Bess didn't. And the time would come when she'd realize what thatmeant. And the idea of Queen Bess blowing in $5, 000 for a tally-ho layoutto ride to the races in! Six horses and two drivers in yellow and bluelivery and girls all dressed like sore thumbs and the beribboned andpainted coach bouncing down the boulevard to Washington Park--a lot ofgood that would do her in her old age!

But Queen Bess went her way, throwing her tainted money back to the townas fast as the town threw it into her purse, roaring, swearing, laughing--a thumping sentimentalist, a clownish Samaritan, a MadamAphrodite by Rube Goldberg. There are many stories that used to go therounds. But when I read the coroner's report there was one tale inparticular that started up in my head again. A mawkish tale, perhaps, andif I write it with too maudlin a slant I know who will wince theworst--Queen Bess, of course, who will sit up in her grave and, fasteninga blazing eye on me, curse me out for every variety of fat-head andimbecile known to her exhaustive calendar of epithets. 

Nevertheless, in memory of the set of Oscar Wilde's works presented to myroommate twelve years ago one Christmas morning by Queen Bess, and inmemory of the six world-famous oaths this great lady invented--here goes. Let Bess roar in her grave. There's one thing she can't do and that's callme a liar. 

 * * * * *

It was Thanksgiving day and years ago and my roommate Ned and I werestaring glumly over the roofs of the town. 

"I've got an invitation for Thanksgiving dinner for both of us, " said Ned. "But I feel kind of doubtful about going. "

I inquired what kind of invitation. 

"An engraved invitation, " grinned Ned. "Here it is. I'll read it to you. "He read from a white card: "You are cordially invited to attend aThanksgiving dinner at the home of Queen Bess, ---- Street and WabashAvenue, at 3 o'clock. You may bring one gentleman friend. "

"Why not go?" I asked. 

"I'm a New Englander at heart, " smiled Ned, "and Thanksgiving is a sort ofmeaningful holiday. Particularly when you're alone in the great and wickedcity. I've inquired of some of the fellows about Queen Bess's dinner. Itseems that she gives one every Thanksgiving and that they're quite atradition or institution. I can't find out what sort they are, though. Isuspect some sort of an orgy on the order of the Black Mass. "

At 2 o'clock we left our room and headed for the house of Queen Bess. 

 * * * * *

A huge and ornamental chamber known as the ballroom, or the parlor, hadbeen converted into a dining-room. Ned and I were early. Six or seven menhad arrived. They stood around ill at ease, looking at the flamboyantpaintings on the wall as if they were inspecting the Titian room of somemuseum. Ned, who knew the town, pointed out two of the six as men ofmeans. One was manager of a store. One was a billiard champion in aMichigan Avenue club. 

Gradually the room filled up. A dozen more men arrived. Each was admittedby invitation as we had been. Sally, the colored mammy of the house, tookcharge and bade us be seated. Some twenty men took their places about thelong rectangular table. And then a pianist entered. I think it was Prof. Schultz. He played the piano in the ballrooms of the district. He came inin a brand-new frock coat and patent leather shoes and sat down at theivories. There was a pause and then the professor struck up, dolorosopianissimo, the tune of "Home, Sweet Home. "

As the first notes carrying the almost audible words, "Mid pleasures andpalaces" arose from the piano the folding doors at the end of the ballroomparted and there appeared Queen Bess, followed by fifteen of the girls whosold drinks for her. Queen Bess was dressed in black, her white haircoiffured like a hospital superintendent's. Her girls were dressed insimple afternoon frocks. Neither rouge nor beads were to be seen on them. And as the professor played "Home, Sweet Home" Queen Bess marched hercompanions solemnly down the length of the ballroom and seated them at thetable. 

I remember that before the numerous servitors started functioning QueenBess made a speech. She stood up at the head of the table, her red facebeaming under her white hair and her black eyes commanding the attentionof the men and women before her. 

"All of you know who I am, blankety blank, " said Queen Bess, "and, blankety blank, what a reputation I got. All of you know. But I've invitedyou to this blankety blank dinner, hoping you will humor me for theafternoon and pretend you forget. I would like to see you enjoy yourselvesat the banquet board, eat and drink what wine there is and laugh and bethankful, but without pulling any blankety blank rough stuff. I would liketo see you enjoy yourselves as if you were in--in your own homes. Which Itake it none of you gentlemen have got, seeing you are sitting here at theboard of Queen Bess. 

"Now, gentlemen, " she concluded, "if it's asking too much of you toforget, the fault is mine and not yours. And nobody will be penalized orbawled out, blankety blank him, for being unable to forget. But if you canforget, and if you can let us enjoy ourselves for an afternoon in ablankety blank decent and God-fearing way--God love you. "

And Queen Bess sat down. We ate and drank and laughed till seven o'clockthat evening. And I remember that not one of the twenty men present used aprofane word during this time; not one of them did or said anything thatwouldn't have passed muster in his own home, if he had one. And that noone got drunk except Queen Bess. Yes, Queen Bess in her black dress gotvery drunk and swore like a trooper and laughed like a crazy child. Andwhen the party was over Queen Bess stood at the door and we passed out, shaking hands with her and giving her our thanks. She stood, steadyingherself against the door beam, and saying to each of us as she shook ourhands:

"God love you. God love you for bringing happiness to a blankety blankblank like old Queen Bess. "

THE DAGGER VENUS

The great Gabriel Salvini, whose genius has electrified the populace of athousand vaudeville centers, sat in his suite at the Astor Hotel andlistened glumly to the strains from a phonograph. 

"What is the use?" growled the great Salvini. "It is no use. You listen toher. "

"New music for your act, signor?"

"No, no, no. My wife. You hear her? She lie on the floor. The phonographmusic play. The man call from the phonograph, 'one, two; one, two; one, higher; one, two. ' And my wife, she lie on the floor and she kick up. Shekick down. She roll over. She bend back. She bend forward. But it is nouse. "

"Madam is reducing, then, signor?"

"Bah! She kick. She roll. She jump. I say 'Lucia, what good for you tokick and jump when tonight you sit down and you eat; name of God, how youeat! Potatoes and more potatoes. Bread with butter on it. Meat, pie, cream, candy--ten thousand devils! She eat and eat until the eyes stickout. There is no more place to put. And I say, 'Lucia, you eat enough forsix weeks every time you set down to the table. ' I say, 'Lucia, look howthe MacSwiney of Ireland go for thirty weeks without eating one bite. 'Bah!"

"It is difficult to make a woman stop eating, signor. "

"Difficult! Aha, but she must stop, or what become of me, the greatSalvini, who have 200 medals? Look! I will show you from my book what theysay of me. They say, 'Salvini is the greatest in his line. ' They say, 'Here is genius; here is a man whose skill transcends the imagination. ' Sowhat I do if madam keep on growing fatter? Ah, you hear that music? Itdrive me crazy. I sit every day and listen. You hear her kick. Bang, bang!That's how she kick up she lie on the back. Ah, it is tragedy, tragedy!"

I nodded in silence as the great Salvini arose and moved across the room, a dapper figure in a scarlet dressing gown and green silk slippers. Hereturned with a fresh load of cigarettes. I noticed his hands--thin, gentle-looking fingers, like a woman's. They quivered perceptibly as helighted his smoke, and I marveled at this--that the wizard fingers of thegreat Gabriel Salvini should shake!

"I tell you my story, " he resumed. "I tell no one else. But you shall hearit. It is a story of--of this. " And he clapped his hand despairingly overhis heart. "I suffer. Name of God, I suffer every day, every night. Andwhy? because! You listen to her. She still kick and kick and kick. And Isit here and think 'Where will it all end?' Another five pounds and I amruined. 

"It is ten years ago I meet her. Ah, so beautiful, so sweet, solight--like this. " And the great Salvini traced the wavering elfinproportions of the Lucia of his youth in the air with his hands. 

"And I say to her, 'My beloved, my queen, you and I will be married and wewill work together and grow famous and rich. ' And she say, 'Yes. ' So wemarry and begin work at once. I am in Milan, in Italy. And all through thehoneymoon I study my Lucia. For my work is hard. All through the honeymoonI use only little stickers I throw at her. I begin that way. Five, six, seven hours a day we practice. Ah, so sweet and beautiful she is as shestand against the board and I throw the little stickers at her. She smileat me, 'Have courage, Salvini. ' And I see the love in her eyes and amhappy and my arm and wrist are sure. 

"Then I buy the knives to throw at her. I buy the best. Beautiful knives. I have them made for her special. For not a hair of my beloved's head mustbe touched. And we practice with the knives. I am then already famous. Everybody in Italy knows Salvini, the great knife thrower. They say, 'Never has there been a young man of such genius with the knives. ' But Iam only begin. 

 * * * * *

"Our début is a success. What do I say, 'Success!' Bah! It is likewildfire. They stand up and cheer. 'Salvini, Salvini!' they cry. And she, my beloved, stand against the board framed by the beautiful knives thatfit exactly around her--to an inch, to a quarter inch, to a hair from herears and neck. And she stand, and as they cheer for Salvini, the greatSalvini, I see her smile at me. Ah, how sweet she is! How happy I am!

"And so we go on. I train all the time. Soon I know the outline of myLucia so well I can close my eyes and throw knives at her, and always theycome with the point only a hair away from her body. I pin her dressagainst the board. Her arms she stretch out and I give her two sleeves ofknives. And for five years, no for eight years, everything go well. Neveronce I touch her. Always I watch her eyes when I throw and her eyes giveme courage. 

"But then what happen? Ah, ten thousand devils, she begin. She grow fat. One night I send a knife through the skin of her arm. I cannot go on withthe act. I must stop. I break down and weep. For I love her so much theblood that comes from her arm drive me crazy. But I say, 'How did thegreat Salvini make such a mistake? It is incredible. ' Then I look at herand I see something. She is getting fat. Name of God, I shudder. I say, 'Lucia, we are ruined. You get fat. I can only throw knives at you likeyou were, like we have studied together. You get fat. I must change mythrow. I cannot!"

 * * * * *

The great Salvini raised his shoulders in a despairing shrug. 

"Two years ago that was, " he whispered. "She weigh one hundred fiftypounds when we marry. So pretty, so light she is. But now she weighalready two hundred pounds, and she is going up. She will not listen tome. 

"It is the eat, the eat, the terrible eat which do this. And every nightwhen we perform I shiver, I grow cold. I stand looking at her as she takeher place on the board. And I see she have grow bigger. Perhaps it isnothing to you, a woman grown bigger. But to Salvini it is ruin. 

"I throw the knife. Zip it goes and I close my eyes each time. I no longerdare give her the beautiful frame as before. But I must throw away. Because for eight years I have thrown at a target of 150 pounds. And myart cannot change. 

"Some day she will be sorry. Yes, some day she will understand what she isdoing to me. She will eat, eat until she grow so fat that it is all mytarget that I mastered on the honeymoon. And I will throw the knife over. She will no longer be Lucia, and it will hit. Name of God, it will hit herand sink in. "

"Well, she will have learned a lesson then, signor. "

"She will have learned. But me, I will be ruined. They will laugh. Theywill say, 'Salvini, the great Salvini, is done. He cannot throw the knivesany more. Look, last night he hit his wife. Twice, three, times he threwthe knives into her. ' _Sapristi!_ It is the stubbornness ofwomankind. 

"I will tell you. Why does she eat, eat, eat? Why does she grow fat?Because she no longer loves me. No, she do it on purpose to ruin me. "

And the great Salvini covered his ears with his hands as the phonographcontinued relentlessly, "one, two, one, two, higher, two. "

LETTERS

One of the drawers in my desk is full of letters that people have sent in. Some of them are knocks or boosts, but most of them are tips. There areseveral hundred tips on stories in the drawer. 

Today, while looking them over I thought that these tips were a story inthemselves. To begin with, the different kinds of stationery and thedifferent kinds of handwriting. You would think that stationery andhandwriting so varied would contain varied suggestions and varied pointsof view. 

But from the top of the pile to the bottom--through 360 letters written on360 different kinds of paper--there runs only one tip. And in the 360different kinds of handwriting there runs only one story. 

 * * * * *

"There is a man I see almost every day on my way home from work, " writesone, "and I think he would make a good story. There is something queerabout him. He keeps mumbling to himself all the time. " This tip is onplain stationery. 

"--and I see the old woman frequently, " writes another. "Nobody knows whoshe is or what she does. She is sure a woman of mystery. You ought to beable to get a good story out of her. " This tip is on pink stationery. 

"I think you can find him around midnight walking through the city hall. He walks through the hall every midnight and whistles queer tunes. Nobodyhas ever talked to him and they don't know what he does there. There iscertainly a queer story in that man. " This tip is written on a businessletterhead. 

"She lives in a back room and so far as anybody knows has no occupation. There's something awfully queer about her and I've often wondered what themystery about her really was. Won't you look her up and write it out? Heraddress is--" This tip is on monogrammed paper. 

"I've been waiting for you to write about the queer old man who hangs outon the Dearborn Street bridge. I've passed him frequently and he's alwaysat the same place. I've wondered time and again what his history was andwhy he always stood in the same place. " This tip is on a broker'sstationery. 

"He sells hot beans in the loop and he's an old-timer. He's alwayslaughing and whenever I see him I think, 'There's a story in that old man. There's sure something odd about him. '" This tip is on scratch paper. 

"I saw her first several years ago. She was dressed all in black and wasrunning. As it was past midnight I thought it strange. But I've seen hersince and always late at night and she's always running. She must be aboutforty years old and from what I could see of her face a very curious kindof woman. In fact, we call her the woman of mystery in our neighborhood. Come out to Oakley Avenue some night and see for yourself. There's awonderful story in that running woman, I'm certain. " This tip is signed "AStenographer. "

They continue--tips on strange, weird, curious, odd, old, chuckling, mysterious men and women. Solitaries. Enigmatic figures moving silentlythrough the streets. Nameless ones; exiles from the free and easyconformity of the town. 

If you should read these letters all through at one sitting you would geta very strange impression of the city. You would see a procession ofmysterious figures flitting through the streets, an unending swarm of dimones, queer ones. And then as you kept on reading this procession wouldgradually focus into a single figure. This is because all the letters areso nearly alike and because the mysterious ones offered as tips aredescribed in almost identical terms. 

So the dim ones, the queer ones, would become a composite, and you wouldhave in your thought the image of a single one. A huge, nebulouscaricature--hooded, its head lowered, its eyes peering furtively fromunder shaggy brows, its thin fingers fumbling under a great black cloak, its feet moving in a soundless shuffle over the pavement. 

Sometimes I have gone out and found the "woman of mystery" given in aletter. Usually an embittered creature living in the memory of wrongs thatlife has done her. Or a psychopathic case suffering from hallucinations orat war with its own impulses. And each of them has said, "I hate people. Idon't like this neighborhood. And I keep to myself. "

The letters all ask, "Who is this one?"

But that doesn't begin to answer the question the letters ask, "Who isit?"

 * * * * *

The story of the odd ones is perhaps no more interesting than the storythat might be written of the letters that "tip them off. " A story here, ofthe harried, buried little figures that make up the swarm of the city andof the way they glimpse mystery out of the corners of their eyes. Of theway they pause for a moment on their treadmill to wonder about the silent, shuffling caricature with its hooded face and its thin fingers gropingunder its heavy black cloak. 

In another drawer I have stored away letters of another kind. Letters thatthe caricature sends me. Queer, marvelous scrawls that remind one ofspiders and bats swinging against white backgrounds. These letters areseldom signed. They are written almost invariably on cheap blue lined padpaper. 

There are at least two hundred of them. And if you should read them allthrough at one sitting you would get a strange sense that this caricatureof the hooded face was talking to you. That the Queer One who shufflesthrough the streets was sitting beside you and whispering marvelous thingsinto your ear. 

He writes of the stars, of inventions that will revolutionize man, ofdiscoveries he has made, of new continents to be visited, of trips to themoon and of buried races that live beneath the rivers and mountains. Hewrites of amazing crimes he has committed, of weird longings that will notlet him sleep. And, too, he writes of strange gods which man shouldworship. He pours out his soul in a fantastic scrawl. He says: "One isall. God looked down and saw ants. The wheel of life turns seven times andyou can see between. You will sometime understand this. But now you havecurtains on your eyes. "

Now that you have read all the letters the city becomes a picture. Anoffice in which sits a well-dressed business man dictating to a prettystenographer. They are hard at work, but as they work their eyes glancefurtively out of a tall, thin window. Some one is passing outside thewindow. A strange figure, hooded, head down, with his hands moving queerlyunder his great black cloak. 

THE MOTHER

She sat on one of the benches in the Morals Court. The years had made acoarse mask of her face. There was nothing to see in her eyes. Her handswere red and leathery, like a man's. They had done a man's work. 

A year-old child slept in her arms. It was bundled up, although thecourtroom itself was suffocating. She was waiting for Blanche's case tocome up. Blanche had been arrested by a policeman for--well, for what?Something about a man. So she would lose $2. 00 by not being at work at thestore today. Why did they arrest Blanche? She was in that room with thedoor closed. But the lawyer said not to worry. Yes, maybe it was amistake. Blanche never did nothing. Blanche worked at the store all day. 

At night Blanche went out. But she was a young girl. And she had lots offriends. Fine men. Sometimes they brought Blanche home late at night. Blanche was her daughter. 

 * * * * *

The woman with the sleeping child in her arms looked around. The room wasnice. A big room with a good ceiling. But the people looked bad. Maybethey had done something and had been arrested. There was one man with abad face. She watched him. He came quickly to where she was sitting. Whatwas he saying? A lawyer. 

"No, I don't want no lawyer, " the woman with the child mumbled. "No, no. "

The man went back. He kept pretty busy, talking to lots of people in theroom. So he was a lawyer. Blanche had a lawyer. She had paid him $10. Alot of money. 

"Shh, Paula!" the woman whispered. Paula was the name of the sleepingchild. It had stirred in the bundle. 

"Shh! Mus'n't. Da-ah-ah-ah--"

She rocked sideways with the bundle and crooned over it. Her heavycoarsened face seemed to grow surprised as she stared into the bundle. Thechild grew quiet. 

The judge took his place. Business started. From where she sat the womanwith the child couldn't hear anything. She watched little groups of menand women form in front of the judge. Then they went away and other groupscame. 

The lawyer had said not to worry. Just wait for Blanche's name and thencome right up. Not to worry. 

"Shh, Paula, shh! Da-ah-ah-ah--"

There was Blanche coming out of the door. She looked bad. Her face. Oh, yes, poor girl, she worked too hard. But what could she do? Only work. Andnow they arrested her. They arrested Blanche when the streets were full ofbums and loafers, they arrested Blanche who worked hard. 

Go up in front like the lawyer said. Sure. There was Blanche going now. And the lawyer, too. He had a better face than the other one who came andasked. 

"And is this the woman?"

The lawyer laughed because the judge asked this. 

"Oh, no, " he said; "no, your honor, that's her mother. Step up, Blanche. "

What did the policeman say?

"Shh! Paula, shh! Da-ah--" She couldn't hear on account of Paula moving somuch and crying. Paula was hungry. She'd have to stay hungry a littlewhile. What man? That one!

But the policeman was talking about the man, not about Blanche. 

"He said, your honor, that she'd been following him down Madison Streetfor a block, talking to him and finally he stopped and she asked him--"

"Shh! Paula, don't! Bad girl! Shh!"

That man with the black mustache. Who was he?

"Yes, your honor, I never saw her before. I walk in the street and shecome up and talk to me and say, 'You wanna come home with me?'"

"Blanche, how long has this been going on?"

Look, Blanche was crying. Shh, Paula, shh! The judge was speaking. ButBlanche didn't listen. The woman with the child was going to say, "Blanche, the judge, " but her tongue grew frightened. 

"Speak up, Blanche. " The judge said this. 

 * * * * *

She could hardly hear Blanche. It was funny to see her cry. Long ago sheused to cry when she was a baby like Paula. But since she went to work shenever cried. Never cried. 

"Oh, judge! Oh, judge! Please--"

"Shh, Paula! Da-ah-ah-ah--" Why was this? What would the judge do?

"Have you ever been arrested before, Blanche?"

No, no, no! She must tell the judge that. The woman with the child raisedher face. 

"Please, judge, " she said, "No! No! She never arrested before. She's agood girl. "

"I see, " said the judge. "Does she bring her money home?"

"Yes, yes, judge! Please, she brings all her money home. She's a goodgirl. "

"Ever seen her before, officer?"

"Well, your honor, I don't know. I've seen her in the street once ortwice, and from the way she was behavin', your honor, I thought she neededwatchin'. "

"Never caught her, though, officer?"

No, your honor, this is the first time. "

"Hm, " said his honor. 

Now the lawyer was talking. What was he saying? What was the matter?Blanche was a good girl. Why they arrest her?

"Shh, Paula, shh! Mus'n't. " She held the child closer to her heavy bosom. Hungry. But it must wait. Pretty soon. 

He was a nice judge. "All right, " he said, "you can go, Blanche. But ifthey bring you in again it'll be the House of the Good Shepherd. Rememberthat. I'll let you go on account of her. "

A nice judge. "Thank you, thank you, judge. Shh, Paula! Goo-by. "

Now she would find out. She would ask Blanche. They could talk aloud inthe hallway. 

"Blanche, come here. " A note of authority came into the woman's voice. Agirl of eighteen walking at her side turned a rouged, tear-stained face. 

"Aw, don't bother me, ma. I got enough trouble. "

"What was the matter with the policeman?"

"Aw, he's a boob. That's all. "

"But what they arrest you for, Blanche? I knew it was a mistake. But whatthey arrest you for, Blanche? I gave him $10. "

"Aw, shut up! Don't bother me. "

The woman shrugged her shoulders and turned to the child in her arms. 

"Da-ah-ah, Paula. Mamma feed you right away. Soon we find place to sitdown. Shh, Paula! Mus'n't. Da-ah-ah--"

When she looked up Blanche had vanished. She stood still for a while andthen, holding the year-old child closer to her, walked toward theelevator. There was nothing to see in her eyes. 

CLOCKS AND OWL CARS

As they say in the melodramas, the city sleeps. Windows have saidgood-night to one another. Rooftops have tucked themselves away. Thepavements are still. People have vanished. The darkness sweeping like agreat broom through the streets has emptied them. 

The clock in the window of a real estate office says "Two. " A few windowsdown another clock says "Ten minutes after two. "

The newspaper man waiting for a Sheffield Avenue owl car walks along tothe next corner, listening for the sound of car wheels and looking at theclocks. The clocks all disagree. They all hang ticking with seeminglyidentical and indisputable precision. Their white faces and their blacknumbers speak in the dark of the empty stores. "Tick-tock, Time neversleeps. Time keeps moving the hands of the city's clocks around andaround. "

Alas, when clocks disagree what hope is there for less methodicalmechanisms, particularly such humpty-dumpty mechanisms as tick away insidethe owners of clocks? The newspaper man must sigh. These clocks in thewindows of the empty stores along Sheffield Avenue seem to be arguing. They present their arguments calmly, like meticulous professors. They say:"Eight minutes of two. Three minutes of two. Two. Four minutes after two. Ten minutes after two. "

Thus the confusions of the day persist even after the darkness has sweptthe streets clean of people. There being nobody else to dispute, theclocks take it up and dispute the hour among themselves. 

The newspaper man pauses in front of one half-hidden clock. It says "Six. "Obviously here is a clock not running. Its hands have stopped and it nolonger ticks. But, thinks the newspaper man, it is not to be despised forthat. At least it is the only clock in the neighborhood that achievesperfect accuracy. Twice a day while all the other clocks in the street aredisputing and arguing, this particular clock says "Six" and of all theclocks it alone is precisely accurate. 

In the distance a yellow light swings like an idle lantern over the cartracks. So the newspaper man stops at the corner and waits. This is theowl car. It may not stop. Sometimes cars have a habit of roaring by withan insulting indifference to the people waiting for them to stop at thecorner. At such moments one feels a fine rage, as if life itself hadinsulted one. There have been instances of men throwing bricks through thewindows of cars that wouldn't stop and cheerfully going to jail for thecrime. 

But this car stops. It comes to a squealing halt that must contributegrotesquely to the dreams of the sleepers in Sheffield Avenue. The nightis cool. As the car stands silent for a moment it becomes, with itslighted windows and its gay paint, like some modernized version of thebarque in which Jason journeyed on his quest. 

 * * * * *

The seats are half filled. The newspaper man stands on the platform withthe conductor and stares at the passengers. The conductor is an elderlyman with an unusually mild face. 

The people in the car try to sleep. Their heads try to make use of thewindow panes for pillows. Or they prop their chins up in their palms orthey are content to nod. There are several young men whose eyes arereddened. A young woman in a cheap but fancy dress. And severalmiddle-aged men. All of them look bored and tired. And all of them presenta bit of mystery. 

Who are these passengers through the night? And what has kept them up? Andwhere are they going or coming from? The newspaper man has half a mind toinquire. Instead he picks on the conductor, and as the car bounces gaylythrough the dark, cavernous streets the mild-faced conductor lends himselfto a conversation. 

"I been on this line for six years. Always on the owl car, " he says. "Ilike it better than the day shift. I was married, but my wife died and Idon't find much to do with my evenings, anyway. 

"No, I don't know any of these people, except there's a couple ofworkingmen who I take home on the next trip. Mostly they're alwaysstrangers. They've been out having a good time, I suppose. It's funnyabout them. I always feel sorry for 'em. Yes, sir, you can't help it. 

"There's some that's been out drinking or hanging around with women andwhen they get on the car they sort of slide down in their seats and youfeel like there was nothing much to what they'd been doing. Pessimistic?No, I ain't pessimistic. If you was ridin' this car like I you'd see whatI mean. 

"It's like watchin' people afterwards. I mean after they've done things. They always seem worse off then. I suppose it's because they're allsleepy. But standin' here of nights I feel that it's more than that. They're tired sure enough but they're also feeling that things ain't whatthey're cracked up to be. 

"I seldom put anybody off. The drunks are pretty sad and I feel sorry forthem. They just flop over and I wake them up when it comes their time. Sometimes there's girls and they look pretty sad. And sometimes somethingreally interestin' comes off. Once there was a lady who was cryin' andholdin' a baby. On the third run it was. I could see she'd up and left herhouse all of a sudden on account of a quarrel with her husband, becauseshe was only half buttoned together. 

"And once there was a man whose pictures I see in the papers the next dayas having committed suicide. I remembered him in a minute. Well, no, hedidn't look like he was going to commit suicide. He looked just about likeall the other passengers--tired and sleepy and sort of down. "

The mild-faced conductor helped one of his passengers off. 

"Don't you ever wonder what keeps these people out or where they're goingat this time of night?" the newspaper man pursued as the car started upagain. 

"Well, " said the conductor, "not exactly. I've got it figured out there'snothing much to that and that they're all kind of alike. They've been toparties or callin' on their girls or just got restless or somethin'. What's the difference? All I can say about 'em is that you get so afteryears you feel sorry for 'em all. And they're all alike--people as ride onthe night run cars are just more tired than the people I remember used toride on the day run cars I was on before my wife died. "

The clock in a candy store window says "Three-twelve. " A few windows down, another clock says "Three-five. " The newspaper man walks to his homestudying the clocks. They all disagree as before. And yet their faces areall identical--as identical as the faces of the owl car passengers seem tothe conductor. And here is a clock that has stopped. It says "Twenty afterfour. " And the newspaper man thinks of the picture the conductoridentified in the papers the next morning. The picture said something like"Twenty after four" at the wrong time. It's all a bit mixed up. 

CONFESSIONS

The rain mutters in the night and the pavements like dark mirrors arealive with impressionistic cartoons of the city. The little, silent streetwith its darkened store windows and rain-veiled arc lamps is as lonely asa far-away train whistle. 

Over the darkened stores are stone and wooden flat buildings. Here, too, the lights have gone out. People sleep. The rain falls. The gleamingpavements amuse themselves with reflections. 

I have an hour to wait. From the musty smelling hallway where I stand thescene is like an old print--an old London print--that I have always meantto buy and put in a frame but have never found. 

 * * * * *

Writing about people when one is alone under an electric lamp, andthinking about people when one stands watching the rain in the darkstreets, are two different diversions. When one writes under an electriclamp one pompously marshals ideas; one remembers the things people say anddo and believe in, and slowly these things replace people in one's mind. One thinks (in the calm of one's study): "So-and-so is a Puritan . .. He isviciously afraid of anything which will disturb the idealized version ofhimself in which he believes--and wants other people to believe. .. . " Yes, one thinks So-and-so is this and So-and-so is that. And it all seems verysimple. People focus into clearly outlined ideas--definitions. And one cansit back and belabor them, hamstring them, pull their noses, expose theirabsurdities and derive a deal of satisfaction from the process. Iconoclasmis easy and warming under an electric light in one's study. 

But in the rain at night, in the dark street staring at darkened windows, watching the curious reflections in the pavements--it is different in therain. The night mutters and whispers. 

"People, " one thinks, "tired, silent people sleeping in the dark. "

Ideas do not come so easily or so clearly. The ennobling angers which arethe emotion of superiority in the iconoclast do not rise so spontaneously. And one does not say "People are this and people are that. .. . " No, onepauses and stares at the dark chatter of the rain and a curious silencesaddens one's mind. 

Life is apart from ideas. And the things that people say and believe inand for which they die and in behalf of which they invent laws andcodes--these have nothing to do with the insides of people. Puritan, hypocrite, criminal, dolt--these are paper-thin masks. It is diverting torip them in the calm of one's study. 

Life that warms the trees into green in the summer, that sends birdscircling through the air, that spreads a tender, passionate glow over eventhe most barren wastes--people are but one of its almost too manychildren. The dark, the rain, the lights, people asleep in bed, the wind, the snow that will fall tomorrow, the ice, flowers, sunlight, countryroads, pavements and stars--all these are the same. Through all of themlife sends its intimate and sacred breath. 

One becomes aware of such curious facts in the rain at night and one'siconoclasm, like a broken umbrella, hangs useless from one's hand. Tomorrow these people who are now asleep will be stirring, giving vent tooutrageous ideas, championing incredulous banalities, prostratingthemselves before imbecile superstitions. Tomorrow they will rise andbegin forthwith to lie, quibble, cheat, steal, fourflush and kill, eachand all inspired by the solacing monomania that every one of their wordsand gestures is a credible variant of perfection. Yes, tomorrow they willbe as they were yesterday. 

But in this rain at night they rest from their perfections, they lay asidefor a few hours their paper masks. And one can contemplate them with acurious absence of indignation or criticism. There is something warm andintimate about the vision of many people sleeping in the beds above thedarkened store fronts of this little street. Their bodies have been in theworld so long--almost as long as the stones out of which their houses aremade. So many things have happened to them, so many debacles and monstersand horrors have swept them off their feet . .. And always they have kepton--persisting through floods, volcanic eruptions, plagues and wars. 

Heroic and incredible people. Endlessly belaboring themselves with ideas, gods, taboos, and philosophies. Yet here they are, still in this silentlittle street. The world has grown old. Trees have decayed and races diedout. But here above the darkened store fronts lies the perpetualmiracle. .. . People in whom life streams as naïve and intimate as ever. 

 * * * * *

Yes, it is to life and not people one makes one's obeisance. Toward lifeno iconoclasm is possible, for even that which is in opposition to itsbeauty and horror must of necessity be a part of them. 

It rains. The arc lamps gleam through the monotonous downpour. One canonly stand and dream . .. How charming people are since they are alive . .. How charming the rain is and the night. .. . And how foolish arguments are. .. How banal are these cerebral monsters who pose as iconoclasts anddevote themselves grandiloquently and inanely to disturbing the papermasks. .. . 

 * * * * *

I walk away from the musty smelling hallway. A dog steps tranquilly out ofthe shadows nearby. He surveys the street and the rain with a proprietarycalm. 

It would be amusing to walk in the rain with a strange dog. I whistlesoftly and reassuringly to him. He pauses and turns his head toward me, surveying me with an air of vague discomfort. What do I want of him? . .. He thinks . .. Who am I? . .. Have I any authority? . .. What will happen tohim if he doesn't obey the whistle?

Thus he stands hestitating. Perhaps, too, I will give him shelter, akindness never to be despised. A moment ago, before I whistled, this dogwas tranquil and happy in the rain. Now he has changed. He turns fullyaround and approaches me, a slight cringe in his walk. The tranquillityhas left him. At the sound of my whistle he has grown suddenly tired andlonely and the night and rain no longer lure him. He has found anothercompanionship. 

And so together we walk for a distance, this dog and I, wondering abouteach other. .. . 

AN IOWA HUMORESQUE

In a room at the Auditorium Hotel a group of men and women connected withthe opera were having tea. As they drank out of the fragile cups andnibbled at the little cakes they boasted to each other of their loveaffairs. 

"And I had the devil of a time getting rid of her, " was the motif of themen's conversation. The women said, "And I just couldn't shake him. It wasawful. "

There was one--an American prima donna--who grew pensive as the amorousboasting increased. An opulent woman past 35, dark-haired, great-eyed; arobust enchantress with a sweep to her manner. Her beauty was anexaggeration. Exaggerated contours, colors, features that neededperspective to set them off. Diluted by distance and bathed by thefootlights she focused prettily into a Manon, a Thaïs, an Isolde. But inthe room drinking tea she had the effect of a too startling close-up--arococo siren cramped for space. 

The barytone leaned unctuously across the small table and said to her witha preposterous archness of manner:

"And how does it happen, my dear, that you have nothing to tell us?"

"Because she has too much, " said one of the orchestra men, laughingly. 

The prima donna smiled. 

"Oh, I can tell a story as well as anybody, " she said. "In fact, I wasjust thinking of one. You know I was in Iowa last month. And I visited thetown where I was born and lived as a girl--until I was nineteen. It'sfunny. "

Again the pensive stare out of the window at the chill-looking autumn skyand the sharp outlines of the city roofs. 

"Go on, " her hostess cried. To her guests she added, in the socialcurtain-raiser manner peculiar to rambunctious hostesses, "if Mugs tellsanything about herself you can be sure it'll be something immense. Go on, Mugs. " Mugs is one of the nicknames the prima donna is known by among herfriends. 

"We went to school together, " the prima donna smiled, "John and I. And Idon't think I've ever loved anybody as I loved him. He used to frighten meto death. You see, I was ambitious. I wanted to be somebody. And Johnwanted me to marry him. Somehow marriage wasn't what I wanted then. Therewere other things. I had started singing and at night I used to lie awake, not wanting to sleep. I was so taken up with my dreams and plans that Ihated to lose consciousness. That's a fact. 

"Well, John grew more and more insistent. And one evening he came to callon me. I was alone on the porch. John was about twenty-three then. Thatwas about twenty years ago. He was a tall, good-looking, sharp-faced youngman with lively eyes. I thought him marvelous at the time. And he stood onthe steps of the porch and talked to me. I never forgot a word he said. Ihave never heard anything so wonderful since. "

The barytone shrugged his shoulders politely and said "Hm!"

"Oh, I know, " smiled the prima donna, "you're the Great Lover and allthat. But you never could talk as John did that evening on the porch--inIowa. He stood there and said, 'Mugs, you're going to regret this momentfor the rest of your life. There'll be nights when you'll wake upshivering and crying and you'll want to kill yourself. Why? Because youdidn't marry me. Because you had your chance to marry me and turned itdown. Remember. Remember how I'm standing here talking to you--unknown--acountry boy. Remember that when you hear of me again. '

"'What are you going to do?' I asked. 

"I'm going to be president of the United States, ' he said. And he said itso that there was truth in it. As I looked at him standing on the steps Ifelt frightened to death. There he was, going to be president of theUnited States, and there was I, throwing the greatest chance in the worldaway. He knew I believed him and that made it worse. He went on talking ina sort of oracular singsong that drove me mad. 

"'I'm not asking you again. You've had your chance, Mugs. And you'vethrown it away. All right. It'll not be said afterward that John Marceymade a fool of himself. Good-bye. '"

 * * * * *

The prima donna sighed. "Yes, " she went on, looking into her empty teacup;"it was good-bye. He walked away, erect, his shoulders high, his bodyswinging. And I sat there shivering. I had turned down a president of theUnited States! Me, a gawky little Iowa girl. And, what was worse, I was inlove with him, too. Well, I remember sitting on the porch till the folkscame home from prayer meeting and I remember going to bed and lying awakeall night, crying and shivering. 

"I didn't see John Marcey again. I stayed only a week longer and then Icame to Chicago to study music. My folks were able to finance me for atime. But I never forgot him. It was John who had started me for Chicago. And it was John who kept me practicing eight hours a day, studying andpracticing until I thought I'd drop. 

"I was going to make good. When he became president I was going to besomebody. I wasn't going to do what he said I would, wake up cursingmyself and remembering my lost chance. So I went right on working my headoff and finally it was Paris and finally it was a job in London. And Inever stopped working. 

"But the funny part was that I gradually forgot about John Marcey. When Ihad arrived as an opera singer he was entirely dead for me. But last monthI visited my home town. I was passing through and couldn't resist gettingoff and looking up people I knew as a girl. My folks are dead, you know. 

"And when I walked down the street--the same old funny little MainStreet--I remembered John Marcey. And, would you believe it, that samefeeling of fear came back to me as I'd had that night on the porch when hemade his 'remember' speech. I got curious as the devil about John and feltafraid to inquire. But finally I was talking to an old, old man who runsthe drug-store on the corner of Main and Sixth streets there. I'drecognized him through the window and gone inside and shaken hands; and Iasked him:

"'Do you remember John Marcey?'

"'Marcey--Marcey?' he repeated. 'Oh, yes. Old Marse. Why, yes. Sure. ' Andhe kept nodding his head. Then I asked with my heart in my mouth, 'What'sbecome of him?' And the old druggist who was looking out of his storewindow adjusted his glasses and pointed with his finger. 'There he is. There he is. Wait a minute. I'll call him. '

"And there was John, my president of the United States, hunched over onthe seat of a garbage wagon driving a woebegone nag down the street. Igrabbed hold of the druggist and said, 'Don't, I'll see him later. '

"Well, I couldn't stay in that town another minute. I hurried to thestation and waited for the next train and kept thinking of John drivinghis garbage wagon, and his battered felt hat and his hangdog face until Ithought I'd go mad. 

"That's all, " laughed the prima donna, "That's my love story. " And shestared pensively into the empty teacup as the barytone moved a bit closerand began:

"I'll tell you about a Spanish girl I met in Prague that'll interestyou--"

THE EXILE

The newspaper man told the story apropos of nothing at all. There was apause in the talk among the well-dressed dinner guests. A verysatisfied-looking man said:

"Well, thank God, this radical excitement is over. "

Every one agreed it was fortunate and the newspaper man, an insufferablygarrulous person, interjected: "That reminds me of Bill Haywood. "

"Oh, yes, " said the hostess, "he was the leader of all that terriblething, wasn't he?"

"He was, " said the newspaper man. "I knew him fairly well. I covered theI. W. W. Trial in Judge Landis' court, where he and a hundred or so otherswere sent to prison. "

"What was the charge against them?" inquired the satisfied one. 

"I forget, " said the newspaper man, "but I remember Haywood. The trial, ofcourse, had something to do with the war. The war was going on then, youremember. "

"Oh, yes, indeed, " exclaimed the hostess. "It will take a long time toforget the war. " And her eyes brightened. 

 * * * * *

"You were going to tell us about the I. W. W. Trial, " pursued the hostess afew minutes later. 

"Oh, there's nothing much about that, " said the newspaper man. "I wasprincipally interested in Bill Haywood for a moment. You know they senthim to jail for twenty years or so. Anyway, that was his sentence. "

"The scoundrel ran away, " said the very satisfied one. "Funny they shouldlet a man as unprincipled and dangerous as Haywood slip through theirhands after sending him to jail. "

"Yes, they let him escape to Russia, of all places, " declared the hostesswith indignation. "Where he could do the most harm. Oh, the government isso stupid at times it simply drives one furious. Or makes you laugh. Doesn't it?"

"Yes, he skipped his bond or something, " said the newspaper man, "andbecame an exile. "

The satisfied one snorted. 

"Exile!" he derided. "You don't call a man an exile who runs away from acountry he has always despised and fought against?"

"The last time I saw him, " went on the newspaper man, as if he wereunruffled, "was about four or five days before he disappeared. I wassurprised to see him. I thought he was serving his time in jail. I hadn'tbeen following the ins and outs and I wasn't aware he had got appeals andthings and was still at large. "

"Yes, " said the satisfied one, "that's the trouble with this country. Toolenient toward these scoundrels. As if they were entitled to--"

"Justice, " murmured the newspaper man. "Quite so. Our enemies are notentitled to justice. It is one of my oldest notions. "

"But tell us about what this Haywood said, " pursued the hostess. "It musthave been funny meeting him. "

"It was, " said the newspaper man. "It was at the Columbia theater betweenacts in the evening. I had gone to see a burlesque show there. And betweenacts I was on the mezzanine floor. I went out to get a glass of water. 

"As I was coming back whom do I see leaning against the railing but oldBill Haywood. I hadn't seen him for about two years, I guess. But hehadn't changed an iota. The same crooked-lipped smile. And his one eyestaring ahead of him with a mildly amused light in it. A rather strikingperson was Bill. I suppose it was because he always seemed so calmoutside. 

"He remembered me and when I said hello to him he called me by name and Iwalked to his side. I started talking and said: 'Well, what are you doinghere? I thought you were serving time in six jails. '

"'Not yet, ' said Haywood, 'but in a few days. The sentence starts nextweek. '

"'Twenty years?'

"'Oh, something like that. '

 * * * * *

"Well, " said the newspaper man, "I suddenly remembered that he was in atheater and I got kind of curious. I asked what he was doing in thetheater and he looked at me and grinned. 

"'I'm all in, " he said. 'Been going the pace for about a month now. Outevery night. Taking in all the glad spots and high spots. '

"This was so curious coming from Big Bill that I looked surprised. And hewent on talking. Yes, sir, this Big Bill Haywood, the terror of organizedsociety, was saying goodbye to his native land as if he were a sentimentalplayboy. He wasn't going to jail because by that time he had all his plansmatured for his escape to Russia. 

"But he knew he was going to leave the country and perhaps never come backagain. So he was making the rounds. 

"'I've been to almost every show in town, ' he went on talking, 'all themusical comedies, all the dramas, all the west side melodramas. I've beento almost all the cafés, the swell ones with the monkey-suit waiters andthe old ones I've known myself for years. I drew up a list of all theseplaces in town about a month ago and I've been following a schedule eversince. '

 * * * * *

"I asked him, " said the newspaper man, "if he liked the plays he'd seen. Bill grinned at that. 

"'It ain't that, ' said Bill. 'No, it ain't that. It's only seeing them. You know, there's nothing like these kind of things anywhere else in theworld. '

"And then the theater got dark and we said good-bye casually and went toour different seats. I didn't see Haywood again. About a week or so laterI read the headline that he had fled the country. Nobody knew where hewas, but people suspected. And then two weeks after that there was thestory that he had reached Russia and was in Moscow. 

"Well, when I read that, " said the newspaper man, "I remembered all of asudden how he had stood leaning against the railing at the Columbiatheater saying good-bye to something. Making the rounds for a month sayinggood-bye in his own way to all the places he would never see again. Kindof odd, I thought, for Bill Haywood to do that. That isn't the wayNietzsche would have written a radical. But Dickens might have written itthat way, like Bill. 

"That's why whenever I see his name in print now, " pursued the newspaperman, "I always think of the burlesque chorus on the stage kicking theirlegs and yodeling jazzily and Big Bill Haywood staring with his one eye, saying good-bye with his one eye. 

"Tell me he's not an exile!" laughed the newspaper man suddenly. 

ON A DAY LIKE THIS

On a day like this, he says, on a day like this, when the wind plays cellomusic across the rooftops. .. . I think about things. The town is like afireless, dimly lighted room. Yesterday the windows sparkled withsunlight. To-day they stare like little coffin tops. 

On a day like this, he says, on this sort of a day I walk along smoking apipe and wonder what I was excited about yesterday. Then I remember, hesays, that once it rained yesterday and I waited under the awning till itended. I remember, he says, that once I walked swiftly down this streettoward a building on the corner. It was vastly important that I reach thisbuilding. I remember, he says, that there were days I hurried down ClarkStreet and days I ran down Monroe Street. Now it is windy again. There islong silence over the noises of the street. The sky looks empty and old. 

 * * * * *

There were people gathered around an automobile that had bumped into thecurbing. I stopped to watch them, he says. There was a man next to me witha heavy gray face, with loose lips and with intent eyes. There was anotherman and another--dozens of men--all of them people who had been hurryingin the street to get somewhere. And here they were standing and lookingintently at an automobile with a twisted wheel. 

I became aware that we were all looking with a strange intensity at thisautomobile; that we all stood as if waiting for something. Dozens of menhurrying somewhere suddenly stop and stand for ten, twenty, thirty minutesstaring at a broken automobile. There was a reason for this. Always wherethere is a machine at work, digging or hammering piles, where there is ahorse fallen, an auto crashed, a flapjack turner, a fountain pendemonstrator; where there is a magic clock that runs, nobody knows how, ora window puzzle that turns in a drug-store window or anything that movesbehind plate glass--always where there is any one of these things thereare people like us standing riveted, attentive, unwavering. 

People on artificial errands, hurrying like obedient automations throughthe streets; stern-faced people with dignified eyes, important-steppingpeople with grave decision stamped upon them; careless, innocuous-lookingpeople--all these people look as if they had something in their heads, asif there were things of import driving them through the streets. But thisis an error. Nothing in their heads. They are like the fish that swimbeneath the water--a piece of shining tin captures their eyes and theypause and stare at it. 

The broken automobile holds their eyes, holds them all rivetedbecause--because it is something unordinary to look at, to think about. And there is nothing unordinary to look at or think about in their heads. 

 * * * * *

And I too, he says, on this day when the wind played cello music acrossthe rooftops, stood in the crowd. We were all children, I noticed, morethan that--infants. Open-mouthed infantile wonder staring out of ourtired, gray faces. Men, without thought, men making a curious littleconfession in the busy street that they were not busy, that there isnothing in life at the moment that preoccupies them--that a brokenautomobile is a godsend, a diversion, a drama, a great happiness. 

I smoked my pipe, he says, and began to wonder again. Why did they starelike this? And at what? And who were these staring ones? And what was itin them that stared? I thought of this, he says. Dead dreams, andforgotten defeats stood staring from the curb at the broken automobile. Men who had survived themselves, who had become compliant and automaticlittle forces in the engine of the city--these were ourselves on the curb. 

And this is a weary thing to remember about the city. When I am tired, hesays, and the plot of which I am hero, villain and Greek chorus suddenlyvanish from my mind, I pause and look at something behind plate glass. Abauble catches my eye. Long minutes, half hours pass. There is a marvelousplentitude of baubles to look at. Machines digging, excavations, scaffoldings, advertisements, never are lacking. 

And at such times I begin to notice how many of us there are. The hurry ofthe streets is an illusion. The noises that rise in clouds, and thetoo-many suits of clothes and hats that sweep by--all these things arepart of an illusion. The fact drifts through my tired senses that there isan amazing silence in the street--the silence inside of people's heads. Everywhere I look I find these busy ones, these energetic ones stopped andstanding like myself before a bauble in a window, before a brokenautomobile. 

 * * * * *

Of people, authors always make great plots. Authors always write ofadventures and intrigues, of emotions and troubles and ideas which occupypeople. People fall in love, people suffer defeats, people experiencetragedies, happinesses, and there is no end to the action of people inbooks. 

But here is a curious plot, he says, on a day like this. Here is a crowdaround a broken automobile. The broken automobile has trapped them, betrayed them. They realize the broken automobile as a "practical" excuseto stop walking, to stop moving, to stop going anywhere or being anybody. Their serious concentration on the broken wheel enables them to pretendthat they are logically interested in practical matters. Without whichpretense it would be impossible for them to exist. Without which pretensethey would become consciously dead. They must always seem, to themselvesas well as to others, logically interested in something. Yes, alwayssomething. 

But the plot is--and do not misunderstand this, he cautions--that thepretense here around the broken automobile grows shallow enough to plumb. There is nothing here. Two dozen men standing dead on a curbing, trickedinto confessional by a little accident. 

So I will begin a book tomorrow, he says, and empties his pipe as hetalks, which will have to do with the make-believe of people instreets--the make-believe of being alive and being somebody and goingsomewhere. 

And saying this, this garrulous one walks off with a high whistle on hislips and a grave triumph sitting on his shoulders. 

JAZZ BAND IMPRESSIONS

The trombone player has a straight part. He umpah umps with theconventional trombone fatalism. Whatever the tune, whatever the harmonies, trombone umpah umps regardless. Umpah ump is the soul of all things. Cadenzas, glissandos, arpeggios, chromatics, syncopations, bluemelodies--these are the embroidery of sound. From year to year thesechange, these pass. Only the umpah ump remains. And tonight the tromboneplayer plays what he will play a thousand nights from tonight--umpah ump. 

The bassoon and the bull fiddle--they umpah ump along. Underneath thequaver and whine of the jazz they beat the time, they make the tunelessrhythm. The feet dancing on the crowded cabaret floor listen cautiouslyfor the trombone, the bassoon and the bull fiddle. They have a liaisonwith the umpah umps--the feet. Long ago they danced only to the umpahumps. There were no cadenzas, glissandos, arpeggios then. There was onlythe thumping of cedar wood on cedar wood, on ebony or taut deerskin. 

Civilizations have risen, fallen and risen again. Armies, gods, races havebeen chewed into mist by the years. But the thumping remains. The feet ofthe dancers on the cabaret floor keep a rendezvous with the ebony on thetaut deerskin, with the cedar wood beating on cedar wood. 

 * * * * *

The clarinet screeches, wails, moans and whistles. The clarinet flings anobbligato high over the heads of the dancers on the cabaret floor. Itmakes shrill sounds. It raves like a fireless Ophelia. It plays the clown, the tragedian, the acrobat. 

A whimsical insanity lurks in the music of the clarinet. It stuttersecstasies. It postures like Tristan and whimpers like a livery-stable nag. It grimaces like Peer Gynt and winks like a lounge lizard, a cake eater. 

It is not for the feet of the dancers on the crowded cabaret floor. Thefeet follow the umpah umps. The thoughts of the dancers follow theclarinet. The thoughts of the boobilariat dance easily to the tangledlyric of the clarinet. The thoughts tie themselves into crazy knots. Themusic of the clarinet becomes like crazily uncoiling whips. The thoughtsof the dancers shake themselves loose from words under the spur of thewhips. They begin to dance, not as the feet dance. There is another rhythmhere. The rhythm of little ecstasies whimpering. Thus the thoughts of thedancers dance--dead hopes, wearied ambitions, vanishing youth do aninarticulate can-can in the heads of the dancers on the cabaret floor. 

 * * * * *

The cornet wears a wooden gag in its mouth and a battered black derbyhangs over its end. Umpah ump from the trombone, the bull fiddle and thebassoon. Tangled lyrics from the clarinet. And the cornet cakewalks like ahoyden vampire, the cornet whinnies like an odalisque expiring in the armsof the Wizard of Oz. 

Lust giggles at a sly jest out of the cornet. Passion thumbs its nose atthe stars out of the cornet. The melody of jazz, the tin pan ghosts ofChopin, Tchaikowsky, Old Black Joe, Liszt and Mumbo Magumbo, jungletroubadour of the Congo, come whinnying out from under the pendant derby. 

The dancers on the cabaret floor close their eyes and grin to themselves. The cornet kids them along. When they grow sad it burlesques their sorrow. The cornet laughs at them. It leers like a satyr master of ceremonies atthem. It is Pan in a clown suit, Silenus on a trick mule, Eros in aPullman smoker. 

 * * * * *

Laugh, dance, jerk, wiggle and kid all you want--but the Lady of the SeaFoam whispers a secret. Aphrodite, become a female barytone, still takesherself very seriously. Aphrodite, alas, is always serious. She gurgles asonorous plaint out of the saxophone. The cornet sneers at her. Theclarinet sneaks up on her and tweaks her nose. The trombone, the bullfiddle and the bassoon ignore her altogether. And the dancers on thecabaret floor are too busy to dance to her simple wails. 

Yet there is no mistake. Aphrodite, the queen, abandoned by her courtiersand surrounded by this galaxy of mountebanks, is still Aphrodite. Big-bosomed, sleepy-eyed and sad lipped she walks invisible among thedancers on the cabaret floor and they listen to her voice out of thesaxophone. 

The drums, the piano and the violin give her a fluttering drape. But thereare things to be seen. This is not the Aphrodite of the Blue Danubewaltz--but a duskier, more mystical lady. There are no roses on hercheeks, no lilies in her skin. She is colored like a panther flower andher limbs are heavy with taboo magic. But she is still imperial. In vainthe mountebanks and burlesqueries of her court. Her lips place themselvesagainst the hearts of the dancers on the cabaret floor. And she croons herancient hymns. 

The hearts of the dancers give themselves to the saxophone. Their feetkeep a rendezvous with the umpah umps. Their thoughts dance on the slackwire of the clarinet. Their veins beat time to the whinny of the derbywreathed cornet. The fiddles and the drums are partners for their arms andtheir muscles. But their hearts embrace shyly the Mother Aphrodite. Theirhearts listen sadly and proudly and they almost forget to dance. 

 * * * * *

Midnight approaches. Enameled faces, stenciled smiles, painted eyes andslants of colored hats--these are the women. Careless, polite, suave, grinning--these are the men. The jazz band plays. The cabaret floor, jammed, seems to be moving around like a groaning turnstile. 

Bodies are hidden. The spotlight from the balcony begins to throw a seriesof colors. Melody is lost. The jazz band is hammering like a madblacksmith. Whang! Bam! Whang! Bam! Nobody hears the music of the band. Bodies together move on the turnstile floor. This is the part of the feastof Belshazzar that the authorities censored in a Griffith movie. This isthe description of Tiberius's court that the authorities suppressed. Hereare the poems that hide on the forbidden shelves of the public library. 

The pulp of figures dissolves. The hammering band has finished. Men andwomen, grown suddenly polite and social, return to their tables. Citizensof a neighborhood, toilers, clerks, fourflushers, wives, husbands, gropers, nobodies, less-than-nobodies--watch and see where they go. Intothe brick holes, into the apartment buildings. They pack themselves awaylike ants in an anthill. 

The nobodies--the gropers, husbands, wage-earners, fourflushers--but theymade a violent picture a moment ago. Under the revolving colors of thefloodlight and the hammering, whinnying music of the jazz band they becameagain the mask of Dionysus--the ancient satanical mask which nature slipsover her head when in quest of diversion. 

NIGHT DIARY

Where is the moon? Gone. This inferior luminary cannot compete with thecorset ad signs and the ice cream ad signs that blaze in the night sky. Westand on a bridge that connects State Street and look at the river. 

There are night shapes. But first we see the dark water of the river andsilver, gold and ruby reflections of the bridge lights. These hang likecarnival ribbons in the water. The "L" trains crawl over the Wells Streetbridge and the water below them becomes alive with a moving silver image. For a moment the reflection of the "L" trains in the river seems like aghostly waterfall. Then it changes and becomes something else. What? Thelight reflections in the dark water are baffling. It is a game to stand onthe bridge and make up similes about them. They look like this, like that, like something else. Like golden pillars, like Chinese writing, likemonotonous exclamation points. 

There are boat shapes. The river docks bulge with shadows. The boat shapesemerge slowly from the shadows. These shapes, unlike the riverreflections, do not suggest similes. They bulge in the darkness and theirvanished outlines remind one of something. What? Of boats, of ships, ofmen. 

Men and ships. Little lanterns hang like elfin watchmen from the sterns ofships. The bulldog noses of tugboats sleep against the docks. Highoverhead the corset ad and the ice cream ad blaze, wink and go out andturn on so as to attract the preoccupied eyes of people far away. Then thebridges count themselves to the west. First bridge, second bridge, thirdbridge. Street cars, auto lights and vague noises jerk eerily over thebridges. 

The sleeping tugboats, launches and lake craft remind one of nothing atall except that there are engines. But as one stares at them they becomesecret. There is something mysterious about abandoned engines. It isalmost as if one saw the bodies of men lying in shadows. Engines and menare inseparable. And these boats that sleep in the river shadows are partsof men. Amputations. 

The night shapes increase. There are buildings. They drift along the riverdocks. Dark windows and faded brick lines. Their rooftops are like thesteps of a giant stairway that has broken down. Where is the moon? Hereare windows to mirror its distant silver. Instead, the windows sleep. Thenervous electric signs that wink and do tricks throw an intermittent glareover the windows. 

Do you know the dark windows of the city, you gentlemen who writecontinually of temples and art? Come, forget your love for things younever saw, cathedrals and parthenons that exist in the yesterdays younever knew. Come, look at the fire escapes that are stamped like letterZ's against the mysterious rectangles; at the rhythmic flight of windowswhose black and silver wings are tipped with the yellow winkings of thecorset and ice cream signs. The windows over the dark river are like analphabet, like the keyboard of a typewriter. They are like anything youwant them to be. You have only to wish and the dark windows take newpatterns. 

Wall shapes arise. Warehouses that have no windows. Huge lines loom in theshadows. A vast panel of brick without windows rises, vanishes. Buildingsthat stand like playing blocks. The half-hidden shapes, the tracks ofwindows, the patterns of rooftops suggest things--fortresses, palaces, dungeons, wars, witches and cathedrals. 

But after watching them they lose these false significances. They suggestnothing. They are the amputations of men. Things, playthings men have leftbehind for the corset and the ice cream ads to wink at. And this is thereal secret of their beauty. The night devours their meaning and leavesbehind lines; angles, geometries, rhythms and lights. And these thingsthat have no meaning, that suggest nothing, that are not the symbols ofideas or events--these become beautiful. 

There are several people standing on this bridge--loiterers. Their elbowsrest on the railing, their faces are hidden in their hands. They stareinto the scene. A hoarse whistle toots at Wells Street. Bells clang faraway. There is a scurry of dim noises in the dark. Something huge movesthrough the air. It is a bridge opening. Its arms make a massive gestureupward. A boat is coming through, a heavy shape drifting among thecarnival ribbons that hang down in the black water. 

 * * * * *

Noises that have different tones. Boat whistles, bridge bells, electricalarm tinglings and the swish of water like the sound of wood tappingwood. Lights that have different colors. The yellow of electric signs. Around one of them that hoists its message in the air runs a green border. The electric lights quiver and run round the glaring frame like amysterious green water. Red, gold and silver pillars in the water. Gray, blue and black shadows; elfin lanterns, "L" trains like illuminatedcaterpillars creeping over Wells Street, waterfalls of silver, Chinesewriting in ruby; black, lead and silver windows and a thousand shades ofdarkness from bronze to strange greens. All these are things that theloitering ones leaning on the bridge rail know. 

 * * * * *

How nicely the hoods of automobiles hide the twisted lines of the gasengines under them. Smooth as chariots, curved and graceful as greyhounds, pigeons, rabbits--the State Street begins after one passes odors. This isSouth Water Street. A swept, dusted and wonderfully silent street. Whitewings have scrubbed its worn body. But the odors deepen with the night. Farm odors, food odors--an aroma of decay surrounds them. By their smellsone can almost detect the presence of chickens, eggs, oranges, cabbages, potatoes, plums and cantaloupes. 

A group of movie theaters holds carnival at the entrance to the loop. People hurry under electric canopies, dig in their pockets for dollarbills and buy tickets. The buildings sleep along the river. The boats waitin the shadows. Movie signs, crossing cops, window tracks and differentcolored suits of clothes; odors, noises, lights and a mysteriously tenderpattern of walls--these lie in the night like a reward. 

We walk away with memories. When we are traveling some day, riding overstrange places, these will be things we shall remember. Not words, butlines that mean nothing; and the scene from the bridge will bring a sadconfusion into our heads. And we shall sit staring at famous monuments, battlefields, antiquities, and whisper to ourselves:

". .. Wish I was back . .. Wish I was back. .. . "

THE LAKE

The lake asks an old question as you ride to work or come home from workon the I. C. Train. The train shoots along and out of the window the laketurns slowly like a great wheel. There is a curious optical illusion, asif the train were riding frantically on the rim of a great wheel and thewheel were turning in an opposite direction. 

Perhaps this illusion makes it seem as if the lake were asking an oldquestion as you ride along its edge--"Where you going?"

 * * * * *

People looking out of the train window seem to grow sad as they stare atthe lake. But this does not apply to train riders alone. In the summertime there are the revelers on the Municipal Pier and the beach loungersand all others who sit or take walks within sight of the water. 

During the summer day the beaches are lively and the vari-colored bathingsuits and parasols offer little carnival panels at the ends of the eastrunning streets. As you pass them on the north side bus or on the southside I. C. , the sun, the swarm of bathers smeared like bits of brightlycolored paint across the yellow sand and the obliterating sweep of waterremind you of the modernist artists whose pictures are usuallylithographic blurs. 

 * * * * *

Yet winter and summer, even when the thousands upon thousands of batherscover the sand like a shower of confetti and when there are shouts andcircus excitements along the beach, people who look at the lake seemalways to become sad. One wonders why. 

Perhaps it is because the inanimate sweep of the water, its hugeness andsilence, make one forget the petty things and the greedy trifles whichform the routine of one's day. And when one forgets these things oneremembers, alas, something they pleasantly obscured by their presence. Adream, perhaps, buried long ago. A hope, an emotion successfully interredunder the amiable rubbish the days have piled up. 

Then, too, there is the question, "Where you going?" And an answer to itthat seems to come out of the long reaches of water--"Come withme--somewhere--nowhere. "

These thoughts play in people's minds without words. They are almost morea part of the lake than of their thinking, as if they were, in fact, lakethoughts. 

Another reason why people grow sad when they look at the water of the lakeis perhaps that the lake offers them an escape from the tawdry, nagginglittle responsibilities of the day that go with being a citizen and abreadwinner. Not that it invites to suicide. Quite the reverse; it invitesto living. To doing something that has a sweep to it; that has a swaggerto it. To setting sail for strange ports where strange adventures wait. 

So, as the I. C. Trains rush their thousands to work and home again thecitizens and breadwinners let their imaginations gallop toward a farawayhorizon. And these imaginations came galloping back again and thebreadwinners are saddened--by a memory. Yes, they were for a momentrovers, egad! swashbucklers, gentlemen and ladies of fortune free of therigamarole burdens that keep them on the I. C. Treadmill. And now they areagain passengers. Going to work. Going home to go to work again tomorrow. 

It is easy to think that this is the secret of the sad little grimace thelake brings to the eyes of the train riders. 

 * * * * *

This discourse is becoming a bit dolorous. But the subject rather requiresan andante treatment. The city's press agents will tell you quite anotherstory about the lake--about the "city's playground" and how conducive itis to healthful sport and joyous recreation. But, on the other hand, thereis this other side, so to speak, of the lake. For the lake belongs tothose familiar things that surprise people into uncomfortable silences. 

One could as easily write about the sky in this vein, since the lake, likethe sky, challenges the monotony of people's lives with anothermonotony--the monotony of nature that seems to engulf, obliterate, reduceto puny proportions the routine by which people live and which, fortunately, they delude themselves into admiring. 

There is also the question of beauty. This is a delicate issue tointroduce into one's daily reading and the reader's pardon is solicitedwith proper humiliation. And yet, there is a question of beauty, of soulstates and aesthetic nuances involved in the consideration of the lake. 

Beauty by one definition is the sensatory excitement stirred in people bythe rhythm of line, the vibration of color, the play of motion and thesurprise of idea. It is usually a saddening effect that beauty producesand perhaps this is because beauty is something like an illumination thatwhile admirable in itself throws into pathetic evidence all the ugly andunbeautiful things of one's life. 

In this somewhat involved aesthetic principle there is probably anotherhint at the causes of the sadness people show when they look at the lake. 

 * * * * *

Today the lake wears its autumn aspect. Out of the train window one sees awedge of geese flying south or occasionally a lone bird circling like anendless note over the water. The waves look cold and their symmetricalcrisscross makes one think of the chill, lonely nights that beckon outsidethe coziness of one's home windows. 

On summer days the lake is sometimes like a huge lavender leaf veined withgold. Sometimes it becomes festive and wears the awning stripes of cloudand sun. Or it grows serene and reminds one of a superb domesticity--as itlies pointed like a grate, arched like a saucer or the back of a sleepingkitten. 

But today its autumn is a bit depressing. It no longer lures towardstrange adventure. Instead its grayness seems to say to one, "Stayaway--stay away. Hide away in warm houses and warm overcoats. Men arelittle things--puny things. "

It is when one leaves the city and goes to visit or to live in anotherplace where there is no lake that the lake grows y alive in one's mind. One becomes thirsty for it and dreams of it. One remembers it then assomething that was almost an essential part of life, like a thirddimension. In some way one associates one's day dreams with the lake andfalls into thinking that there is something unfinished, sterile aboutliving with no lake at one's elbow. 

 * * * * *

In a short while, a month or so, the lake will become a stage formelodrama. The people riding on its edge will stare into mists. They willwatch the huge mist shapes rolling back and forth over the hidden water. The blue of the sky, the cold sun, the fog and the freezing water willbecome actors in a great play and the train windows will be littleprosceniums inclosing the melodrama of winter. 

SERGT. KUZICK'S WATERLOO

"Offhand, " said Sergt. Kuzick of the first precinct, "offhand, I can'tthink of any stories for you. If you give me a little time, maybe I couldthink of one or two. What you want, I suppose, is some story as I knowabout from personal experience. Like the time, for instance, that thehalf-breed Indian busted out of the bridewell, where he was serving a sixmonths' sentence, and snuck home and killed his wife and went back againto the bridewell, and they didn't find out who killed her until he gotdrunk a year later and told a bartender about it. That's the kind youwant, ain't it?"

I said it was. 

"Well, " said Sergt. Kuzick, "I can't think of any offhand, like I said. There was a building over on West Monroe Street once where we found threebodies in the basement. They was all dead, but that wouldn't make a storyhardly, because nobody ever found out who killed them. Let me thinkawhile. "

Sergt. Kuzick thought. 

 * * * * *

"Do you remember the Leggett mystery?" he inquired doubtfully. "I guessthat was before your time. I was only a patrolman then. Old Leggett had atobacco jar made out of a human skull, and that's how they found out hekilled his wife. It was her skull. It come out one evening when he broughthis bride home. You know, he got married again after killin' the firstone. And they was having a party and the new bride said she didn't wantthat skull around in her house. Old Leggett got mad and said he wouldn'tpart with that skull for love or money. So when he was to work one day shethrew the skull into the ash can, and when old Leggett come home and sawthe skull missing he swore like the devil and come down to the station toswear out a warrant for his wife's arrest, chargin' her with disorderlyconduct. He carried on so that one of the boys got suspicious and went outto the house with him and they found the skull in the ash can, and oldLeggett began to weep over it. So one of the boys asked him, naturally, whose skull it was. He said it wasn't a skull no more, but a tobacco jar. And they asked him where he'd got it. And he begun to lie so hard thatthey tripped him up and finally he said it was his first wife's skull, andhe was hung shortly afterward. You see, if you give me time I couldremember something like that for a story. 

 * * * * *

"Offhand, though, " sighed Sergt. Kuzick, "it's difficult. I ain't got itclear in my head what you want either. Of course I know it's got to beinterestin' or the paper won't print it. But interestin' things is prettyhard to run into. I remember one night out to the old morgue. This was'way back when I started on the force thirty years ago and more. And theywas having trouble at the morgue owing to the stiffs vanishing and beingmutilated. They thought maybe it was students carryin' them off topractice medicine on. But it wasn't, because they found old Pete--that wasthe colored janitor they had out there--he wasn't an African, but itturned out a Fiji Islander afterward. They found him dead in the morgueone day and it turned out he was a cannibal. Or, anyway, his folks hadbeen cannibals in Fiji, and the old habit had come up in him so hecouldn't help himself, and he was makin' a diet off the bodies in themorgue. But he struck one that was embalmed, and the poison in the bodykilled him. The papers didn't carry much on it on account of it not bein'very important, but I always thought it was kind of interestin' at that. That's about what you want, I suppose--some story or other like that. Well, let's see. 

 * * * * *

"It's hard, " sighed Sergt. Kuzick, after a pause, "to put your finger on ayarn offhand. I remember a lot of things now, come to think of it, likethe case I was on where a fella named Zianow killed his wife by pouringlittle pieces of hot lead into her ear, and he would have escaped, but hesold the body to the old county hospital for practicin' purposes, andwhile they was monkeying with the skull they heard something rattle andwhen they investigated it was several pieces of lead inside rattlingaround. So they arrested Zianow and got him to confess the whole thing, and he was sent up for life, because it turned out his wife had stabbedhim four times the week before he poured the lead into her while sheslept, and frightened him so that he did it in self-defense, in a way. 

"I understand in a general way what you want, " murmured Sergt. Kuzick, "but so help me if I can think of a thing that you might call interestin'. Most of the things we have to deal with is chiefly murders and suicidesand highway robberies, like the time old Alderman McGuire, who is deadnow, was held up by two bandits while going home from a night session ofthe council, and he hypnotized one bandit. Yes, sir, you may wonder atthat, but you didn't know McGuire. He was a wonderful hypnotist, and hehypnotized the bandit, and just as the other one, who wasn't hypnotized, was searching his pockets McGuire said to the hypnotized bandit, 'You're apoliceman, shoot this highwayman. ' And the hypnotized one was the banditwho had the gun, and he turned around, as Alderman McGuire said, and shotthe other, unhypnotized bandit and killed him. But when he reported theentire incident to the station--I was on duty that night--the captainwouldn't believe it, and tried to argue McGuire into saying it was aaccident, and that the gun had gone off accidentally and killed theunhypnotized bandit. But the alderman stuck to his story, and it was true, because the hypnotized bandit told me privately all about it when I tookhim down to Joliet. 

 * * * * *

"I will try, " said Sergt. Kuzick, "to think of something for you in abouta week. I begin to get a pretty definite idea what you want, and I'll talkit over with old Jim, who used to travel beat with me. He's a great onefor stories, old Jim is. A man tan hardly think of them offhand like. Yougive me a week. " And the old sergeant sank into his wooden chair and gazedout of the dusty station window with a perplexed and baffled eye. 

DEAD WARRIOR

Do you want to see the dead warriors come back, the fallen army come back, crawling out of its million coffins and walking back across the sea andacross the prairie; the waxen face of youth come out of its million gravesand its uniform hanging from its limp frame? Do you want to see the wardead, the young ones ripped to pieces in the trenches standing like tiredbeggars at your back door, dead hands and dead eyes and wailing softly: "Iwas so young. I died so soon. All of us from all the countries who died sosoon, we grow lonely on the other side. Ah, my unlived days! My uneatenbread! My uncounted years! They lie in a little corner and nobody comes tothem!"

It's a Jewish play called "The Dead Man" and every night in Glickman'sPalace Theater on Blue Island Avenue a thousand men and women sit withstaring eyes and watch this figure in its grave-clothes come dragging backlike a tired beggar, come moaning back with the cry: "My unlived days! Myuneaten bread! My uncounted years!"

He stands between Hamlet and Peer Gynt, this strangely motionless one whohas thrown the west side into an uproar. There is no drama around him. Heis a dead young man in uniform walking slowly, limply through three acts. This is all one remembers--that his eyes were open and unseeing, that hisarms hung like a scarecrow's and that the fingers of his hands were curledin and motionless. 

 * * * * *

They talk to him in the play. The scene is a Jewish village in Poland. Thewar has ended. Famine, disease and poverty remain. Refugees, dying ones, starving ones, huddle together in the dismantled synagogue. No one knowswhat has happened. The armies have passed. Flame and blood brightened thesky for a time. Now the little village lies cut off from the world and itspeople clutch desperately to the hem of life. No news has come. Wanderersstagger down the torn roads with crazy tidings and the old men of thesynagogue sit shivering over their prayer books. A world has been blowninto fragments and this scene is one of the fragments. 

Sholom Ash, who wrote this play, spent a time in villages abroad as aJewish relief worker and he brought back this scene. A bedlam of despair, a merciless photograph that stares across the footlights for a half-hour. The story begins. There is a village leader in whose veins the will tolive still throbs. He exhorts the shivering ones. There will be a wedding. He will give his daughter in marriage. There will be feasting. The deadare dead. The duty of the living ones is to live. Let the old womenprepare food and the men will sing. Life will begin over and a new villagewill be built up. 

But the daughter hangs back. She talks of the young man whom she marriedand who went away to war. 

"He is dead, poor child, " the father says. 

"No, no, he isn't dead. I dreamed he was still alive, " she answers. 

But the festival starts. The starving ones sing in the broken synagogue. There will be a wedding. Life will begin. But there is something in theruined doorway. A uniform stands in the doorway. A dark, waxen-faced youngman who seems asleep, whose arms hang limp, whose fingers curl in. Hecomes forward and stands, a terribly idle figure. He is the young man. 

 * * * * *

They greet him. His bride weeps with joy. His aged mother presses hishands and weeps and murmurs in a whisper: "Oh, how changed he is!" Thesynagogue shouts and cries its welcome. But the young man's eyes stare andit would seem almost that he is dead. Then he talks. His voice has alifeless sound, his words are like a child reciting sleepily. There is agruesome oddity about him. But an old man explains. "They come back likethat, " he says. "There is one who came back who shrieks all night. Andanother who cannot remember anything. "

Yet how strangely he talks! Of a country from which he has come--on theother side, it lies. Hysterical questions arise. Is there food there, arethere houses there, is there milk for children and synagogues in which topray? There is everything one desires, he says. So the questions rise andthe answers come--curious child answers. But why is he so pale and worn ifthe country whence he comes is so remarkable? Ah, because he was lonely. All who are in this country are like him--lonely for the homes they leftso soon. For their people. All who are in the country whence he came sitand remember only the things of the past. Yes, that is all one does inthis marvelous country--remember the things of the past, over and overagain. 

 * * * * *

They will go with him. The miser who has hidden away his gold, the widowand her two orphans, the hungry ones and despairing ones--they will all goback with him. 

One comes out of the theater with a strange sense of understanding. Thedead have spoken to one. It is never to be forgotten. The youth that wasripped to pieces in the trenches reached out his limp arms across a row ofwest side footlights and left a cry echoing in one's heart: "My unliveddays! My uneaten bread! My uncounted years! They lie in a little cornerwaiting and no one comes to them. "

Propaganda? Yes, a curious undertone of propaganda. The war propaganda ofthe dead, older than the fall of Liege by a hundred centuries. Theprimitive propaganda of the world mourning for its lost ones. 

You will see the play, perhaps. Or you will wait until it is translatedsome day. But this month the west side is aglow with the genius of SholomAsh and with the interpretative genius of Aaron Teitelbaum, who plays thedead man in uniform and who directed the production. I know of noperformance today that rivals his. 

THE TATTOOER

Here the city kind of runs over at the heel and flaunts a seven-year-oldstraw hat. Babylon mooches wearily along with a red nose dreaming in thesun, and Gomorrah leans against an ash can. It is South State Street belowVan Buren. The ancient palaces of mirth and wonder blink with dustylithographs. 

"Long ago, " says Dutch, "yeh, long ago it was different. Then people waspeople. Then life was something. Then the tattooing business was abusiness. When the old London Musee was next door and everybody knew howto have a good time. "

The automatic piano in the penny arcade whangs dolorously into a forgottentango. The two errand boys stand with their eyes glued on the interiors ofthe picture slot machines--"An Artist's Model" and "On the Beach atAtlantic City. " A gun pops foolishly in the rear and the 3-inch bullseyeclangs. In a corner behind the Postal Card Photo Taken in a Minute gallerysits Dutch, the world's leading tattooer. Sample tattoo designs cover thetwo walls. Dragons, scorpions, bulbous nymphs, crossed flags, wreathedanchors, cupids, butterflies, daggers and quaint decorations that seem thegrotesque survivals of the mid-Victorian schools of fantasy. Photographsof famous men also cover the walls--Capt. Constantinus tattooed from headto foot, every inch of him; Barnum's favorites, ancient and forgottenkooch dancers, fire eaters, sword swallowers, magicians and museum freaks. And a two column article from the Chicago Chronicle of 1897, yellowed andframed and recounting in sonorous phrases ("pulchritudinous epidermis" isfeatured frequently) that the society folk of Chicago have taken uptattooing as a fad, following the lead of New York's Four Hundred, whofollowed the lead of London's most aristocratic circles; and that Prof. AlHerman, known from Madagascar to Sandy Hook as "Dutch, " was the leadingartist of the tattoo needle in the world. 

Here in his corner, surrounded by the molding symbols and slogans of adead world, Dutch is rounding out his career--a Silenus in exile, hiseyes still bright with the memory of hurdy-gurdy midnights. 

"Long ago, " says Dutch, and his sigh evokes a procession of marvelousghosts tattooed from head to toe and capering like a company of debonairtotem poles over the cobblestones of another South State Street. But themacabre days are gone. The Barnum bacchanal of the nineties lies in itsgrave with a fading lithograph for a tombstone. Along with the fall of theRussian empire, the collapse of the fourteen points and the generaldethronement of reason since the World's Fair, the honorable art oftattooing has come in for its share of vicissitudes. 

"Oh, we still do business, " says Dutch. "Human nature is slow to declineand there are people who still realize that if you got a handsome watchwhat do you want to do to it? Engrave it, ain't it? And if you got ahandsome skin, what then? Tattoo, naturally. And we tattoo in seven colorsnow where it used to be three, and use electricity. Do you think it'scrazy? Well, you should see who I used to tattoo in the old days. Read thearticle on the wall. As for being crazy, what do you say about the man whospends his last 50 cents to get into a baseball game, and gets excited andthrows his only hat in the air and loses it, and the man who sits all dayand all night with a fishpole on the pier and don't catch any fish? Yes, like I tell the judge who picked us up one day in Iowa, you know how theydo sometimes when you follow the carnival. And he asks me why I shouldn'tgo to jail, and if tattooing ain't crazy, and I says give me three minutesand I prove my case. And I begin with the Romans, and how they was thebrightest people we knew, and how they went in for tattooing, and howColumbus was tattooed, and all the sailors that was bright enough todiscover America was tattooed, also. Then I say, what if Charlie Ross wastattooed? Would he be lost to-day? And what if he had under his name theword Philadelphia? And in addition to that the date where he was born andhis address and so on. Would he be lost then? 'You see, ' I says, 'a mancan't be tattooed enough for his own good, ' and the judge says I win mycase. "

 * * * * *

The automatic piano plays "Over There" and the shooting gallery rifles poptoo insistently for a moment. Dutch contemplates a plug of fresh tobacco. Then he resumes. This time a more intimate tale--the story of hisromance--a weird, grotesque amour with a gaudy can-can obbligato. 

"Long ago, " Dutch whispers; "yeh, I knew all the girls. I tattoned themall. And I live in this street for thirty years now. But nobody isinterested any more in what used to be. How this street has becomedifferent! Ach, it is gone, all gone. Everything. Tattooing hangs on alittle. Human nature demand it. But human nature is dying likewise. Yeh, Iask you what would old Barnum say if he should come back and see mesitting here? Me, who was as good any day as Capt. Constantinus? I hate tothink what. In those days talent counted. If you could sing or dance ortattoo it meant something. Now what does it mean? Look at the dancers andsingers they have, and who is there that tattooes any more? It's all goneto smash, the whole world. "

 * * * * *

Now amid the popping of the rifles and the tinny whanging of the pianoDutch draws forth a final package. He unwraps a yellowed newspaper. Photographs. One by one he shuffles them out and arranges them on thebroken desk as if in some pensive game of solitaire. There is Dutch whenhe was a boy, when he was a sailor, when he grew up and became a worldfamous tattooer. There is Dutch surrounded by queens of the Midway, Dutchwith his arms debonairly thrown round the shoulders of snake charmers andother bizarre and vanished contemporaries. The photographs are yellowed. They make a curious collection. They make the soulless piano sound a bitsofter. A "where are the snows of yesteryear" motif played on a can-canfife. 

Finally a modern photo in a folder, unyellowed. A smiling, wholesome facedgirl. Here Dutch pauses in his game of solitaire and looks in silence. 

"My daughter, " he says finally. "I sent her through college. Yeh, she'sgraduated now and has a fine job. I help her all I can. What? Is shetattooed?"

The world's greatest tattoo artist bristles and glowers at the designs onthe walls, frowns at the cupids, nymphs, anchors, dragons and butterflies. 

"I should say not, " he mutters. "She don't belong in this street, nothere. She's got a different life, and I help her all I can and she likesme. No, sir, in this street belongs only those who have a long memory. Thenew ones should start somewhere else. Not, mind you, that tattooing ain'tgood enough for anybody. But times have changed. "

The piano obliges with "The Blue Danube. " A customer saunters in. Dutch isall business. The electricity is switched on. A blue spark crackles. Dutchclears his throat and slaps the customer proudly on the back. 

"Only a little more to go, " he explains, "all over. Two more ships at seaand three dragons will do the job, Heinie. And then, h'm, you will get ajob any day in any side show, I can guarantee you that. "

Heinie grins hopefully. 

THE THING IN THE DARK

It has the usual Huron street ending. Emergency case. Psychopathichospital. Dunning. But the landlady talked to the police sergeant. Thelandlady was curious. She wanted the police sergeant to tell hersomething. And the police sergeant, resting his chin on his elbow, leanedforward on his high stool and peered through the partition window at thelandlady--and said nothing. Or rather, he said: "don't know. That's theway with people sometimes. They get afraid. "

This man came to Mrs. Balmer's rooming-house in Huron Street when it wasspring. He was a short, stocky man with a leathery face and little eyes. He identified himself as Joseph Crawford, offered to pay $5 a week for a12 by 12 room on the third floor at the rear end of the long gloomyhallway and arrived the next day at Mrs. Balmer's faded tenement with anequally faded trunk. Nothing happened. 

But when Mrs. Balmer entered the room the following morning to straightenit up she found several innovations. There were four kerosene lamps in theroom. They stood on small rickety tables, one in each corner. And therewas a new electric light bulb in the central fixture. Mrs. Balmer tooknote of these things with a professional eye but said nothing. Idiosyncrasies are to be expected of the amputated folk who seek outlonely tenement bedrooms for a home. 

 * * * * *

A week later, however, Mrs. Balmer spoke to the man. "You burn your lightall night, " said Mrs. Balmer, "and while I have no objection to that, still it runs up the electric light bill. "

The man agreed that this was true and answered that he would pay $1 extraeach week for the privilege of continuing to burn the electric light allnight. 

Nothing happened. Yet Mrs. Balmer, when she had time for such things ascontemplation, grew curious about the man in the back room. In fact shetransferred her curiosity from the Japanese female impersonator on thesecond floor and the beautiful and remarkably gowned middle-aged woman onthe first floor to this man who kept four kerosene lamps and an electricbulb burning all night on the third floor. 

For some time Mrs. Balmer was worried over the thought that this man wasprobably an experimenter. He probably fussed around with things as an oldcrank does sometimes, and he would end by burning down the house orblowing it up--accidentally. 

But Mrs. Balmer's fears were removed one evening when she happened to lookdown the gloomy hallway and notice that this man's door was open. A gay, festive illumination streamed out of the opened doorway and Mrs. Balmerpaid a social call. She found her roomer sitting in a chair, reading. Around him blazed four large kerosene lamps. But there was nothing else tonotice. His eyes were probably bad, and Mrs. Balmer, after exchanging afew words on the subject of towels, transportation and the weather, saidgood-night. 

But always after that Mrs. Balmer noticed that the door remained open. Open doors are frequent in rooming-houses. People grow lonely and leavethe doors of their cubby holes open. There is nothing odd about that. Yetone evening while Mrs. Balmer stood gossiping with this man in the doorwayshe noticed something about him that disturbed her. She had noticed itfirst when she looked in the room before saying hello. Mr. Crawford wassitting facing the portieres that covered the folding doors thatpartitioned the room. The portieres were a very clever ruse of Mrs. Balmer. Behind them were screwed hooks and these hooks functioned as aclothes-closet. 

Mrs. Balmer noticed that Mr. Crawford, as she talked, kept staring at theportieres and watching them and that he seemed very nervous. The nextmorning, when she was straightening up the room, Mrs. Balmer looked behindthe portières. An old straw hat, an old coat, a few worn shirts hung fromthe hooks. There was nothing else but the folding-door and this was notonly locked but nailed up. 

When two months had passed Mrs. Balmer had made a discovery. It had to dowith the four kerosene lamps and the extra large electric bulb and theportières. But it was an irritating discovery, since it made everythingmore mysterious than ever in the landlady's mind. 

She had caught many glimpses of this man in the back room when he wasn'tlooking. Of evenings he sat with his door opened and his eyes fastened onthe portières. He would sit like that for hours and his leathery facewould become gray. His little eyes would widen and his body would hunch upas if he were stiffening. But nothing happened. 

Finally, however, Mrs. Balmer began to talk. She didn't like this manCrawford. It made her nervous to catch a glimpse of him in histoo-brightly lighted room, sitting hour after hour staring at theportières--as if there was something behind them, when there was nothingbehind them except an old hat and coat and shirt. She looked everymorning. 

But he paid his rent regularly. He left in the morning regularly andalways returned at eight o'clock. He was an ideal roomer--except thatthere never is an ideal roomer--but Mrs. Balmer couldn't stand his lightsand his watching the portières. It frightened her. 

 * * * * *

Screams sometimes sound in a rooming-house. One night--it was aftermidnight--Mrs. Balmer woke up. The darkened house seemed filled withnoises. A man was screaming. 

Mrs. Balmer got dressed and called the janitor. There was no doubt in hermind where the noises came from. Some of the roomers were awake andlooking sleepily and frightenedly out of their doorways. Mrs. Balmer andthe janitor hurried to the back room on the third floor. It was Crawfordscreaming. 

His door was closed, but it opened when the janitor turned the knob. Mr. Crawford was standing in front of the portières in the too-brightlylighted room and screaming. His arms, as if overcoming some awfulresistance, shot out, and his hands seized the portières. With the amazingscreams still coming from his throat, Mr. Crawford tore crazily at theportières until they ripped from the rod above the folding-door. They camedown and the man fell with them. Over him, hanging on the "clothes-closet"hooks, were revealed an old straw hat, an old coat and a worn shirt. 

 * * * * *

"You see, " said Mrs. Balmer to the police sergeant, "he was afraid ofsomething and he couldn't stand the dark. And the portières alwaysfrightened him. But the doctor wasn't able to do anything with him. Thedoctor says there was some secret about it and that Mr. Crawford wentcrazy because of this secret. The only thing they found out about him wasthat he used to be a sailor. "

AN OLD AUDIENCE SPEAKS

Tired, madam? That is nothing remarkable. So are we, whose faces you seefrom across the footlights, faces like rows of wilted plants in the gloomof this decrepit theater. We are all very tired. 

It is Saturday afternoon. For a little while yesterday there was spring inthe streets. But now it has grown cold again. The wind blows. Thebuildings wear a bald, cheerless look. 

What are we tired about? God knows. Perhaps because winter is so long inpassing. Or, perhaps, because spring will be so long in passing. Tired ofwaiting for tomorrow. 

So you dance for us. We have paid 50 cents each to see the show. Thisabominable orchestra is out of tune. The fiddles scrape, the piano makesclattering sounds. And you, madam, are tired. The gay purple tights, thegilded bodice, the sultana's toque, or whatever it is, do not deceive us. Your legs, madam, are not as shapely as they were once. And your body--ah, bodies grow old. 

Yes, we are not deceived, madam. You have come to us--last. There wereothers before us, others reaching far back, to whom you gave your youth. Others for whom you danced when your legs were, perhaps, like two springmornings, and when your body was, perhaps, like a pretty laugh. 

 * * * * *

Here are the tired ones. From the South Clark and South State streetsbed-houses. The kinds of faces that the smart movie directors hire as"types" for the underworld scenes or the slum scenes. 

It is Saturday afternoon and we walked up and down the street, looking atthe lithographs outside the decrepit theater fronts. And when it got toocold to walk any farther we dropped in, forking out four bits for theprivilege. 

And we expect nothing, madam. There will be no great music for us. Andwhat scenery there is behind the footlights will be faded and patched. Thejokes will be things that make no one laugh. And the dancers, madam, willbe like you. Tired, heavy-faced dancers, whose legs flop, whose bodiesbounce while the abominable orchestra plays. 

But it is warm where we sit. We half shut our eyes and tired little dreamscome to us. And you, madam, going wearily through your steps, are the Joyof Life. Your hoarse voice, singing indecipherable words about dearie andhoney and my jazz baby, your sagging shoulders layered with powder andjerking to the music, the rigid, lifeless grin of your cruelly paintedlips--these things and the torn, smeared papier-mâché ballroominterior--these are the Joy of Life. 

Tired little dreams, worth almost the four bits. Do you remember otheraudiences, madam? As we remember other dancers? Do you recall the gay, dark glow of ornate auditoriums, and do you remember when you were youngand there were many tomorrows? As we do? Oh, dearie, dearie, how mah heartgrows weary, waitin' for mah baby for to come back home. Very good, madam. Although the voice is a bit cracked. Now dance. Lumber across the stage inyour purple tights, wiggle around in your sultana's toque. That's thebaby. And kick your legs at us as you exit. Ah, what a kick! But nevermind. It is quite good enough for us. And--it reminds us. 

 * * * * *

We applaud. Does the noise sound ghastly? What is it we applaud? Godknows. But applause is a habit. One applauds in a theater. How does itsound in the wings to you, madam, our applause? Rather meaningless, eh?And not interesting at all? Ah, we forgive you for that, for not feeling agreat thrill at our applause. Nevertheless, it is a rather piquant thing, our applause. Considering how cold it is outside, how long winter is inpassing. Considering how cheerless the buildings look. 

Put on the red ball gown and come out and crack jokes with thehop-headed-looking juvenile lead. Greetings, madam. How marvelous you lookin this ball gown! Ah, indeed! You were walking down the street the otherday and chanced to meet. Hm, we've heard that joke, but we'll laugh again. Matrimony. I'll tell you what marriage is. A lottery. Yes, we've heardthat one, too. Accept our laughter, nevertheless. 

Your jokes, madam, are neither young nor refined. But--neither are we. Andyour wit is somewhat coarse and pointless. But so are we. And your voiceis a trifle tired and cracked and loud. But so is our laughter. We areeven, quite even, madam. If you were better once, so were we. If youremember sweeter laughter, why we remember more charming jests. Go on, Dolores, our lady of jokes, you're worth the four bits. 

 * * * * *

Now the street seems a bit colder because it was warmer in the theater. Where do we go from here? Up and down, up and down the old street. A verypleasant afternoon. Spent in laughter and applause. Once there was boozefor a nickel and a dime. But it was found necessary to improve the moralsof the nation. No booze today. 

That is quite a brave photograph of you outside the theater, madam. TheDancing Venus. If we had tears we would shed them. The Dancing Venus, indeed! We smile as you smiled yourself when you saw it for the firsttime. But--good-by. Master Francois Villon sang it all long ago. Yesterdays, yesterdays, here is a street of yesterdays. 

And we, the tired ones, the brutal-faced, bitter-eyed ones, the beatenones--we walk up and down the cold street, peering at the cheerlessbuildings. Life takes a long time to pass. But without changing ourbitter, brutal faces we bow this afternoon, madam, to the memory of you. 

We paid four bits to see you. Our Lady of Jokes, and in this cold, sunlessstreet we grin, we smirk, we leer a salutation to your photograph and thephrase beneath it that laughs mockingly back at us--Oh, Dancing Venus!

MISHKIN'S MINYON

We were discussing vacations and Sammy, who is eleven years old going ontwelve, listened nervously to his father. Finally Sammy spoke up:

"I won't go, " he bristled. "No, I won't if I gotta tell the conductor I'munder five. I ain't going. "

Sammy's father coughed with some embarrassment. 

"Sha!" said Feodor Mishkin, removing his attention from the bowl of fruit, "I see it takes more than naturalization papers to change a_landsmann_ from Kremetchuk. " And he fastened a humorous eye uponSammy's father. 

"It's like this, " continued the Falstaffian one from Roosevelt Road: "InRussia where my friend here, Hershela comes from, that is in Russia of thegood old days where there were pogroms and ghettos and _provocateurs_--ah, I grow homesick for that old Russia sometimes--the Jews were not always sohonest as they might be. Don't interrupt me, Hershela. My friend here Iwant to tell a story to is a journalist and he will understand I am no'antishemite' if I explain how it is that you want your son Sammy to tellthe conductor he is under five. "

 * * * * *

Turning to me Mishkin grinned and proceeded. 

"The Jews, as you know, are great travelers, " he said. "They have traveledmore than all the other peoples put together. And yet, they don't like topay car fare, in Russia, particular. I can remember my father, who was agood rabbi and a holy man. Yes, but when it came time to ride on the trainfrom one city to another he would fold up his long beard and crawl underthe seat. 

"It was only on such an occasion that my father would talk to a woman. Hewould actually rather cut off his right hand than talk to a woman inpublic that he didn't know. This was because Rabbi Mishkin, my father, wasa holy man. But he was not above asking a woman to spread out her skirtsso that the inspector coming through the train couldn't see him under theseat. 

"Of course, you had to pay the conductors. But a ruble was enough, not tenor twenty rubles like the fare called for. And the conductors were alwaysglad to have Jews ride on their train because it meant a private revenuefor them. I remember that the conductors on the line running throughKremetchuk had learned a few words of Yiddish. For instance, when thetrain would stop at a station the conductor would walk up and down theplatform and cry out a few times--_mu kennt_. This meant that theinspector wasn't on the train and you could jump on and hide under theseats. Or if the inspector was on the train the conductor would walk upand down and yell a few times, _Malchamovis_! This is a Hebrew wordthat means Evil Angel and it was the signal for nothing doing. 

"The story I remember is on a train going but of Kiev, " said Mishkin. "Years ago it was. I was sitting in the train reading some Russian paperswhen I heard three old Jews talking. They had long white beards and therewere marks on their foreheads from where they laid twillum. Yes, I sawthat they were holy men and pretty soon I heard that they were upset aboutsomething. You know what? I'll tell you. 

"For a religious Jew in the old country to pass an evening without aminyon is a sin. A minyon is a prayer that is said at evening. And to makea minyon there must be ten Jews. And they must stand up when they pray. Ofcourse, if you are somewhere where there are no ten Jews, then maybe it'sall right to say it with three or four Jews only. 

"So these holy men on the train were arguing if they should have a minyonor not because there were only three of them. But finally they decidedafter a theological discussion that it would be all right to have theminyon. It was dark already and the train was going fast and the threeJews stood up in their place at the end of the car and began the prayer. 

"And pretty soon I began to hear voices. Yes, from under nearly everyseat. Voices praying. A mumble-bumble that filled the car. I didn't knowwhat to make of it for a few minutes. But then I remembered. Of course, the car was full of rabbis or at least holy men and they were as usualriding with their beards folded up under the seats. 

 * * * * *

"So, " smiled Mishkin, "the prayer continued and some of the passengers whowere listening began to smile. You can imagine. But the three Jews paid noattention. They went on with the minyon. And now, listen, now comes thewhole story You will laugh. But it is true. I saw it with my own eyes. 

"The prayer, like I told you, must be said standing up. At least it is asin to say the last part of the prayer, particularly the 'amen, ' withoutstanding up. So as the prayer came towards its finish imagine whathappened. From under a dozen seats began to appear old Jews with whitebeards. They crawled out and without brushing themselves off stood up andwhen the 'amen' finally came there were eleven Jews standing up in a groupand praying. Under the seats it was completely vacant. 

"And just at this moment, when the 'amen' filled the car, who should comethrough but the inspector in his uniform with his lantern. When he sawthis whole car full of passengers he hadn't seen before he stopped insurprise. And the finish of it was that they all had to pay theirfare--extra fare, too. 

 * * * * *

"It is a nice story, don't you think, Hershela" Mishkin laughed. "It showsa lot of things, but principally it shows that a holy man is a holy manfirst and that he will sacrifice himself to an inquisition in Madrid or atrain inspector in Kiev for the simple sake of saying his 'amen' just ashe believed it should be said and just as he wants to say it. "

Sammy's father shrugged his shoulders. 

"I don't see how what you say has anything to do with what my son said, "he demurred. "Sammy looks user more than five and what harm is there insaving $15 if--"

Sammy interrupted with a wail. 

"I won't go, " he cried. "No, if I gotta tell the conductor I'm under fiveI better stay home. I don't wanna go. He'll know I'm 'leven going ontwelve. "

"All right, all right, " sighed Sammy's father. "But you see, " he added, turning to Mishkin, "it ain't on account of wanting to have a minyon thatmy son has such high ideas. "

SOCIABLE GAMBLERS

"Yes, it do interfere with their game, " said Bill Cochran, the deputysheriff from Tom Freeman's office. He cut himself a slice of chewingtobacco and glanced meditatively out of the window of the Dearborn Streetbastile. Whereat he repeated with gentle emphasis, "It do. "

A long rain was leaning against the walls of the county jail. A dismalyellowish gloom drifted up and down the street. Deputy Cochran, with aneffort, detached his eye from the lugubrious scene of the rain and theday-dark and spoke up brightly. 

"But at that, " said he, "I don't think their being doomed for to hang canbe held entirely responsible for their losing. You see, I've made quite astudy of the game o' rhummy, not to mention pinochle and other such gamesof chance, and if I do say so myself I doubt there's the man in Chicago, doomed for to hang or otherwise, who would find me an easy mark. Still, asI say, in the case of these gentlemen who you refer to--to wit, the doomedmen as I have acted as death watch for--it do interfere with their game. There's no denying that. "

 * * * * *

Now the rain chattered darkly on the grated windows of the Dearborn Streetbastile and Deputy Cochran tilted back in his chair and thought pensivelyand in silence of life and death and high, low, jack and the game. 

"They pick me out for the death watch on account I have a way with doomedmen, " he remarked at last, his voice modestly self-conscious. "Some of thedeputies is inclined to get a bit sad, you know. Or to let their nerves goaway with them. But me, I feel as the best thing to do in the crisis towhich I refer is to make the best of it. 

"So when I sit in on the death watch I faces myself with the truth. I saysto myself right away: 'Bill, this young feller here is to be hanged by theneck until dead, in a few hours. Which being the case, there's no usewasting any more time or thought on the matter. ' So after thisself-communication, I usually says to the young feller under observationby the death watch, 'Cheerio, m'lad. Is there anything in particular asyou'd like to discuss. '

"I was a bit thick with the Abyssinian prince, Grover Redding, you recall. The man spent the whole time we were with him praying at the top of hisvoice and singing hymns. Not that I begrudged the fellow this privilege. But if you've ever heard a man who's going to be hanged in a few hours tryto pass the time in continual prayers shouted at the top of his voiceyou'll understand our predicament. 

"Then there was Antonio Lopez. I was death watch on him and a difficulttask that was. The lad kept up his pretense that he fancied himself arooster to the very end. He crouched on the chair on his feet and flappedhis elbows like as they were wings and emitted rooster calls all nightlong. I tried to dissuade him and offered to play him any game he wishedfor any stake. But the only way he could reconcile himself to theapproaching fatal dawn was to crow like a rooster. I thought to cheer himup toward the end by congratulating him on his excellent imitations, as Ibore him no ill will despite he gave us all a terrible headache before thedeath march took him away. "

 * * * * *

Now the rain dropped in long, quick lines outside the window and thepavements below glowed like dark mirrors. Deputy Cochran, however, hadbecome oblivious to the scene. His eyes withdrew themselves from therain-dark and casually traced themselves over the memories his calling hadleft him. 

"There was Blacky Weed some years ago, " he went on. "And Viana, the choirboy. And to come down to more recent incidents, Harry Ward, the 'LoneWolf. ' I played cards with them all and can truthfully say I won most ofthe games played to which I refer, with the exception of those played withthe 'Lone Wolf, ' hanged recently, if you recall. 

"I will say that the chief trouble with the doomed men as I have engagedin games of chance with is their inability to concentrate. Now cards, tobe properly played, requires above all a gift of the ability toconcentrate. Recognizing this I have always refused to play for money withthe doomed as I have been watch over, saying to them when they pressed thematter, 'No, m'lad. Let's make it just a sociable game for the fun there'sin it rather than play for money. '

"There are others not so scrupulous, " hinted Deputy Cochran. "Take forinstance, the example of the newspaper man as was Eddie Brislane's friendand comforter. He was with him in the cell most of the time before thehanging, and two days before the aforesaid he paid Brislane $50 for astory to be printed exclusively in his paper. Then this newspaper man, which I consider unethical under the circumstances, played Brislane poker, and what with the doomed man's lack of concentration and his inability totake advantage of the turns of the game, therefore, this newspaper man wonback his $50 and some few dollars besides. 

"As for me, I doubt whether all my card playing with these doomed men, successful though it has been, has ever brought me as much as a halfdollar. No, as I said, sociability is the object of these games and all Iaim for is to put the doomed man at his ease for the time being. "

 * * * * *

Deputy Cochian suddenly smiled, although before an impersonal air hadmarked his discourse. 

"There was the 'Lone Wolf, ' as I mentioned, " he continued. "A cold-bloodedfeller and a sinner to the end. But he was the best rhummy player as Ihave ever had the pleasure of matching skill with. Yes, sir, it was hisability for to concentrate. As I said, that is, the prime abilitynecessary and the 'Lone Wolf' had more concentration than any one I havematched skill with in or out of the jail. 

"That was an interesting evening we spent on the death watch for the 'LoneWolf. ' He regaled us for an hour or so telling us how he used to stealmotor cars. Yes, sir, whenever the 'Lone Wolf' wanted a new car he justwent out and took it. A cold-blooded feller, as I say. 

"Then he asked if I would mind playing him a game of rhummy and Ianswered, 'No, Harry. As you are aware, I am here to oblige. So we got outthe deck and Harry insisted upon gambling. 'Make it a dollar a hand, ' hesaid. But I would listen to none of that. We played eight games in all andhe beat me six of them. Perhaps I was not at my best that night. But Inever played against such a cold-blooded feller. He took a positive joy inwinning his games and on the whole acted like a bum winner, making themost of his unusual good luck. I hold no grudge for that, however. But Ifeel that if we could have continued the play some other time I'd easilyhave finished him off. "

Now the sun was slowly recovering its place and the rain had become alight mist. Deputy Cochran seemed to regard this as a signal for aconclusion. 

"Summing the matter all up, pro and con, " he offered, "it do interferewith their game a lot. But I lay this to the fact that they all fancythey're going to be reprieved and they keep waiting and listening for anannouncement which will save them from the gallows. I've known some ofthem to lead a deuce thinking it was an ace and vice versa. But at that Ican fully recommend a good, sociable game of cards as the best way for adoomed man to pass the few hours before the arrival of the fatal moment. "

RIPPLES

It rains. People carry umbrellas. A great financier has promised me aninterview. The windows of his club look out on a thousand umbrellas. Theybob along like drunken beetles. 

Once in a blue moon one becomes aware of people. Usually the crowds andtheir endless faces are a background. They circle around one the wayripples circle around a stone that has fallen into the water. Thetorments, elation of others; the ambitions, defeats of others; the bedlamof others--who the piano. A cornet, probably. Or a ukulele. _Parbleu_, what creates in the plunge from youth to age. 

Here, then, under the umbrellas outside the great financier's club, arepeople. One must marvel. They pass one another without so much as aglance. To each of them all the others--the bedlam of others--are ripplesemanating from themselves. The great quests and struggles going on and themillion agonies and tumults beating in the veins of the world--ripples. Yes, vague and vaguer ripples which surround the fact that one is going tobuy a pair of suspenders; which circle the fact that one is invited outfor dinner this evening. 

 * * * * *

Ah, the smug and oblivious ones under umbrellas! It rains, but theumbrellas keep off the rain. The world pours its distinctions and elationsover their souls, but other umbrellas, invisible, keep off distractionsand elations. And each of them, scurrying along outside the window of thegreat financier's club, is an omniscient world center to himself. Thegreat play was written around him, a blur of disasters and ecstasies, asort of vast and inarticulate Greek chorus mumbling an obbligato to theleitmotif which is at the moment the purchase of a pair of suspenders or adinner invitation for the evening. 

None so small under these umbrellas outside the window but fancies himselfthe center of the cosmos. None so stupid but regards himself as the oracleof the times. And they scurry along without a glance at one another, eachinnately convinced that his ideas, his prejudices, his ambitions, histastes are the Great Standard, the Normal Criterion. Puritan, paranoiac, sybarite, katatoniac, hardhead, dreamer, coward, desperado, beaten ones, striving ones, successful ones--all flaunt their umbrellas in the rain, all unfurl their invisible umbrellas to the world. Let it rain, let itrain--calamities and ecstasies tipped with fire and roaring withthunder--nothing can disturb the terrible preoccupation of the plunge fromyouth to age. 

 * * * * *

The pavements gleam like dark mirrors. The office window lights chatter inthe gloom. An umbrella pauses. The great financier is giving directions tohis chauffeur. The directions given, the great financier stands in therain for a moment. His eyes look up and down the street. What does he see?Ripples, vague and vaguer ripples, that mark his passage from thelimousine into the club. 

He is wet. A servant helps him remove his coat. Then he comes to thewindow and sinks into a leather chair and stares at the rain and theumbrellas outside. The great financier has been abroad. His highlyspecialized mind has been, poking among columns of figures, columns ofreports. He desired to find out if possible what conditions abroad were. For six months the great financier closeted himself daily with other greatfinanciers and talked and talked and discussed and talked. 

But he says nothing. It is curious. The whole world and all its marvelousdistractions seem to have resolved themselves into the curt sentence, "Itrains. " And somehow the great financier's faculty for the glibmanipulation of platitudes which has earned him a reputation as a powerfuleconomist seems for the moment to have abandoned him. His eyes remind oneof a boy standing on tiptoe and staring over a fence at a baseball game. 

 * * * * *

The conversation finally begins. It runs something like this. It is thegreat financier talking. "Europe. Oh, yes. Quite a mess. Things will pickup, however. " A long pause. The umbrellas bob along. One, two, three, four, five--the financier counts up to thirty. Then he rubs his handstogether as if he were taking charge of a situation freshly arisen at aboard of directors' meeting and says in a jovial voice: "Where were we?Oh, yes. The European situation. Well, now, what do you want to know inparticular?"

Ah, this great financier has columns of figures, columns of reports andcolumns of phrases in his head. Press a button and they will pop out. "Have a cigar?" the financier asks. Cigars are lighted. "A rotten day, " hesays. "Doesn't look as if it will clear up, either, does it?" Then hesays, "I guess this is an off day for me. No energy at all. I swear Ican't think of a thing to tell you about the European situation. "

He sits smoking, his eyes fastened on the scene outside the window. Hiseyes seem to be searching as if for meanings that withhold themselves. Yetobviously there is no thought in his head. A mood has wormed its waythrough the columns of figures, columns of reports, and taken possessionof him. This is bad for a financier. It is obvious that the umbrellasoutside are for the moment something other than ripples; that the greatplay of life outside is something other than an inarticulate Greek chorusmumbled as an obbligato for him alone. 

The great financier is aware of something. Of what? He shakes his head, asif to question himself. Of nothing he can tell. Of the fact that a greatfinancier is an atom like other atoms dancing in a chaos of atoms. Of thefact that each of the umbrellas crawling past under his window is asimportant as himself. The great financier's ego is taking a rest anddreams naked of words crowd in to distract him. 

"We have in Europe a peculiar situation, " he says. "England and France, although hitched to the same wagon, pull in different directions. Englandmust build up her trade. France must build up her morale. These involvedifferent efforts. To build up her trade England must re-establishGermany. To build up her morale France must see that Germany is notre-established and that it remains forever a beaten enemy. "

The great financier looks at his watch suddenly. "By Jove!" he says. "ByJove!" He has to go. He is sorry the interview was a failure. But a rottenday for thinking. Back into his raincoat. A limousine has drawn up. Aservant helps him to dress. In a moment another umbrella has joined thecrawl of umbrellas over the pavement. 

It rains. And a great financier is riding home to dinner. 

PITZELA'S SON

"His name?" said Feodor Mishkin. "Hm! Always you want names. Is life amatter of names and addresses or is it something else?"

"But the story would be better, Feodor, with names in it. "

The rotund and omniscient journalist from the west side muttered tohimself in Russian. 

"Better!" he repeated. "And why better? If I tell you his name is Yankelor Berella or Chaim Duvit do you know any more than if I tell you his nameis Pitzela?"

"No. We will drop the matter. I will call him Chaim Yankel. "

"You will call him Chaim Yankel! And what for? His name is Pitzela and notChaim Yankel. "

"Thanks. "

"You can go anywhere on Maxwell Street and ask anybody you meet do theyknow Pitzela and they will say: 'Do we know Pitzela? We know Pitzela allright. ' So what is there to be gained by calling him Chaim Yankel?"

"Nothing, Feodor. It was a mistake even to think of it. "

"It was. Well, as I was telling you before you began this interruptionabout names, he is exactly 110 years old. Can you imagine a man 110 yearsold? A man 110 years old is an unusual thing, isn't it?"

"It is, Feodor. But I once knew a man 113 years old. "

"Ha! And what kind of a man was he? Did he dance jigs? Did he crack nutswith his teeth? Did he drink like a fish?"

"No, he was an old man and very sad. "

"You see! He was sad. So what has he to do with Pitzela? Nothing. Pitzelalaughs all day long. And he dances jigs. And he cracks nuts with histeeth. Mind you, a man 110 years old cracks nuts with his teeth! Can youimagine such a thing?"

"No Feodor. It is amazing. "

"Amazing? Why amazing? Everything that happens different from what youknow is amazing to you! You are very naïve. You know what naïve means? Itis French. "

"I know what naïve means, Feodor. Go on about Pitzela. "

"Naïve means to be childish late in life. In a way you are like Pitzela, despite the difference in your ages. He is naïve. You know what he wants?"

"What?"

"This Pitzela wants to show everybody how young he is. That's his centralambition. He don't talk English much, but when you ask him, 'Pitzela, howdo you feel today?' he says to you right back, 'Oi, me? I'm full o' pep. 'Then if you ask him, 'How old are you, Pitzela?' he says: 'Old? What doesit matter how old I am? I am just beginning to enjoy myself. And when youtalk about my dying don't laugh too much. Because, you know, I will attendall your funerals. When I am 300 years old I will be burying yourgrandchildren. ' And he will laugh. Do you like the story?"

"Yes, Feodor. But it isn't long enough. I will have to go out and seePitzela and describe him and that will make the story long enough. "

"It isn't long enough? What do you mean? I just begun. The story ain'tabout Pitzela at all. So why should you go see Pitzela?"

"But I thought it was about Pitzela. "

"You thought! Hm! Well, you see what good it does you to think. Foraccording to your thinking the story is already finished. Whereasaccording to me the story is only just beginning. "

"But you said it was about Pitzela, Feodor. So I believed you. "

"I said nothing of the sort. I merely asked you if you knew Pitzela. Thestory is entirely about Pitzela's son. "

"Aha! This Pitzela has a son. That's interesting. "

"Of course it is. Pitzela's son is a man 87 years old. Ask anybody onMaxwell street do they know Pitzela's son and they will tell you: 'Do weknow Pitzela's son? Hm! It's a scandal. "

"The editor, Feodor, forbids me to write about scandals. So be careful. "

"This scandal is one you can write about. This Pitzela's son is such apoor old man that he can hardly walk. He has a long white beard and wearsa yamulka and he has no teeth and one foot is already deep in the grave. If you saw Pitzela's son you would say: 'Why don't this dying man go homeand sit down instead of running around like this?'

"And why don't he?"

"Why don't he? Such a question! He don't because Pitzela don't let him. Pitzela is his father and he has to mind his father. And Pitzela says:'What! You want to hang around the house like you were an old man? You arecrazy. Look at me, I'm your father. And you a young man, my son, act likeyou were my father. It's a scandal. Come, we will go to the banquet. '

"What banquet, Feodor?"

"Oh, any banquet. He drags him. He don't let him rest. And he says: 'Youmust shave off your beard. For fifteen years you been letting it grow andnow it's altogether too long. How does it look for me to go around with ason who not only can't walk, but has a beard that makes him look likeFather Abraham himself?'"

"And what does Pitzela's son say?"

"What can he say? Nothing. The doctor comes and tells him: 'You got tostay in the house. You are going out too much. How old are you?' AndPitzela's son shakes his tired head and says: 'Eighty-seven years old, doctor. ' And the doctor gives strict orders. But Pitzela comes in andlaughs. Imagine. "

"Yes, it's a good story, Feodor. "

"A good story! How do you know? I ain't come to the point yet. But nevermind, if you like it so much you don't need any point. "

"The point, Feodor. Excuse me. "

"Well, the point is that Pitzela and the way he treats his son is ascandal. You know why? Because he uses his son as an advertisement. Pitzela's son, mind you, is so weak and old that he can hardly walk and hecarries a heavy cane and his hands shake like leaves. And Pitzela dragshim around all over. To banquets. To political meetings. To the Yiddishtheater. All over. He holds him by the arm and brings him into the halland sits him down in a chair. And Pitzela's son sits so tired and almostdead he can't move. And then Pitzela jumps up and gets excited and says:'Look at him. A fine son, for you! Look, he's almost dead. Tell me if youwouldn't think he was my father and I was his son? Instead of the otherway around? I ask you. '"

"And what does Pitzela's son say, Feodor?"

"Say? What can he say? He looks up and shakes his head some more. He canhardly see. And when the banquet talking begins he falls asleep andPitzela has to hold him up from falling out of the chair. And when thefood is done and the dessert comes Pitzela leans over and says to his son:'Listen. I got a treat for you. Here. ' And he reaches into his pocket andbrings out a handful of hickory nuts. 'Crack them with your teeth, ' hesays, 'like your father. ' And when his son looks at him and strokes hiswhite beard and sighs, Pitzela jumps up and laughs so you can hear him allover the banquet hall. But the point of the story is that two weeks agoPitzela went to his grandson's funeral. It was Pitzela's son's son and hewas a man almost 70 years old. And it was a scandal at the funeral. Why?Because Pitzela laughed and coming back from the grave he said: 'Look atme, my grandson dies and I go to his funeral and if he had a son I wouldgo to his, too, and I would dance jigs both times. '"

PANDORA'S BOX

A dark afternoon with summer thunder in the sky. The fan-shapedskyscrapers spread a checkerboard of window lights through the gloom. Itrains. People seem to grow vaguely elate on the dark wet pavements. Theyhurry along, their eyes saying to one another, "We have something incommon. We are all getting wet in the rain. " The crowd is no longer quiteso enigmatic a stranger to itself. An errand boy from Market Streetadvances with leaps through the downpour, a high chant on his lips, "It'sraining . .. It's raining. " The rain mutters and the pavements, likedarkened mirrors, grow alive with impressionistic cartoons of the city. 

Inside the Washington Street book store of Covici-McGee the electriclights gleam cozily. New books and old books--the high shelves stuffedwith books vanish in the ceiling shadows. On a rainy day the dusty army ofbooks peers coaxingly from the shelves. Old tales, old myths, old wars, old dreams begin to chatter softly in the shadows--or it may be thechatter of the rain on the pavement outside. The Great Philosophersunbend, the Bearded Classics sigh, the Pontifical Critics of Life murmur"ahem. " Yes, even the forbidding works of Standard Authors grow lonely onthe high shelves on a rainy day. As for the rag-tag, ruffle-snuffle crowdin motley--the bulged, spavined, sniffling crew of mountebanks, troubadours, swashbucklers, bleary philosophers, phantasts andadventurers--they set up a veritable witches' chorus. Or it may be therain again lashing against the streaming windows of the book store. 

 * * * * *

People come in out of the rain. A girl without an umbrella, her face wet. Who? Perhaps a stenographer hunting a job and halted by the rain. And thena matron with an old-fashioned knitted shopping bag. And a spinster with akeen, kindly face. Others, too. They stand nervously idle, feeling thatthey are taking up valuable space in an industrial establishment andshould perhaps make a purchase. So they permit their eyes to driftpolitely toward the wares. And then the chatter of the books has them. Oldbooks, new books, live books, dead books--but they move carelessly awayand toward the bargain tables--"All Books 30 Cents. " Broken down bestsellers here--pausing in their gavotte toward oblivion. The next step isthe junk man--$1 a hundred. Pembertons, Wrights, Farnols, Websters, Johnstones, Porters, Wards and a hundred other names reminiscent more of apage in the telephone book than a page out of a literary yesterday. Thelittle gavotte is an old dance in the second-hand book store. The$2-shelf. The $1-rack. The 75-cent table. The 30-cent grab counter. Andfinis. New scribblings crowd for place, old scribblings exeunt. 

The girl without an umbrella studies titles. A love story, of course, andonly thirty cents. An opened page reads, "he took her in his arms. .. . " Whowould not buy such a book on a rainy day?

 * * * * *

It rains and other people come in. A middle-aged man in a curious coat, acurious hat and a curious face. Slate-colored skin, slate-colored eyesbehind silver spectacles. A scholar in caricature, an Old Clothes Dealerout of Alice in Wonderland. The rain runs from his stringy, slate-coloredhair. He approaches the high shelves, thrusts the silver spectaclesfarther down on his nose. In front of him a curious row of literarygargoyles--"The Astral Light, " "What and Where Is God?", "Man" by Dohonyof Texas, "The Star of the Magi. "

Thin slate-colored fingers fumble nervously over the title backs. A secondman, figure short, squat, red-faced, crowds the erratic scholar. A third. The rain is bringing them in in numbers. These are the basement studentsof the gargoyle philosophies, the gargoyle sciences, the gargoylereligions. Perpetual motion machine inventors, alchemists with staring, nervous-eyed medieval faces, fourth dimensionists, sun worshippers, cabalistic researchers, voodoo authorities--the old-book store is suddenlyalive with them. They move about furtively with no word for one another, lost in their grotesque dreamings. 

 * * * * *

On a rainy day the city gives them up and they come puttering excitedlyinto the loop on a quest. The world is a garish unreality to them. Thestreets and the crowds of automatic-faced men and women, the upward rushof buildings and the horizontal rush of traffic are no more than vaguegrimacings. Life is something of which the streets are oblivious. But hereon the gargoyle shelves, the high, shadowed shelves of the old bookstore--truth stands in all its terrible reality, wrapped in its authentichabiliments. Dr. Hickson of the psychopathic laboratory would give thesecurious rainy day phantasts identities as weird as the volumes theycaress. But the old book store clerk is more kind. He lets them rummage. Before the rain ends they will buy "The Cradle of the Giants, " "The Key toSatanism, " Cornelius Agrippa's "Natural Magic, " "The Astral Chord, ""Occultism and Its Usages. " They will buy books by Jacob Boehme, WilliamLaw, Sadler, Hyslop, Ramachaska. And they will go hurrying home with theirtreasures pressed close to them. Stuffy bedrooms lined with hints ofSabbatical horror, strewn with bizarre refuse; musty smelling books out ofwhose pages fantastic shapes rear themselves against the gaslights, macabre worlds in which unreason rides like a headless D'Artagnan;evenings in the park arguing suddenly with startled strangers on theexistence of the philosophers' stone or the astrological causes ofinfluenza--these form a background for the curious men whom the rain hasdrifted into the old book store and who stand with their eyes haunting thegargoyle titles. 

The rain brings in another tribesman--a famed though somewhat raggedbibliomaniac. His casual gestures hide the sudden fever old books kindlein his thought. Old books--old books, a magical phrase to him. His eyestravel like a lover's back and forth, up and down. He knows them all--thesets, the first editions, the bargains, the riff-raff. A democratic loveris here. But the clerk watches him. For this lover is an antagonist. Yes, this somewhat ragged, gleaming-eyed gentleman with the casual manner is aterrible person to have around in a second-hand book store on a rainy day. Only six months ago one of his horrible tribe pounced upon Sander's"Indian Wars, " price 30 cents; value, alas, $150. 00. Only two months agoanother of his kidney fell upon a copy of Jean Jacques Rosseau's "Emile"with Jean's own dedication on the title page to "His Majesty, the King ofFrance. " Price 75 cents; value, gadzooks, $200. 

There will be nothing today, however. Merely an hour's caress of oldfriends on the high shelves while the rain beats outside. Unless--unlessthis Stevenson happens by any chance to be a "first. " A furtive glance atthe title page. No. The clerk sighs with relief as the Stevenson goes backon the shelf. It might have been something overlooked. 

 * * * * *

The rain ends. The old book store slowly empties. A troop of men and womensaunter out, pausing to say farewell to the gaudily ragged tomes in theold book store. The sky has grown lighter. The buildings shake the lastdrops of rain from their spatula tops. There is a different-looking, well-linened gentleman thrusts his head into the old book store andinquires, "Have you a copy of 'The Investors' Guide'?"

ILL-HUMORESQUE

The beggar in the street, sitting on the pavement against the buildingwith his pleading face raised and his arm outstretched--I don't like him. I don't like the way he tucks his one good leg under him in order toconvey the impression that he is entirely legless. I don't like the way hethrusts his arm stump at me, the way his eyes plead his weakness andsorrow. 

He is a presumptuous and calculating scoundrel, this beggar. He is adiabolical psychologist. Why will people drop coins into his hat? Ah, because when they look at him and his misfortunes, by a common mental rusethey see themselves in his place, and they hurriedly fling a coin to thisfugitive image of themselves. And because in back of this beggar has grownup an insidious propaganda that power is wrong, that strength is evil, that riches are vile. A strong, rich and powerful man cannot get intoheaven. Thus this beggar becomes for an instant an intimidating symbol ofperfections. One feels that one should apologize for the fact that one hastwo legs, money in one's pocket and hope in one's heart. One flings him acoin, thus buying momentary absolution for not being an unfortunate--i. E. , as noble and non-predatory--as the beggar. 

 * * * * *

I do not like the way this beggar pleads. And yet after I pass him andremember his calculating expression, his mountebank tricks, I grow fond ofhim--theoretically. My thought warms to him as a creature of intelligence, of straightforward and amusing cynicisms. 

For this beggar is aware of me and the innumerable lies to which I lamelysubmit. I am the public to him--one of a herd of identical faces driftingby. And this beggar has perfected a technique of attack. It is his duty tosit on the pavement and lay for me and hit me with a slapstick labeledplatitude and soak me over the head with a bladder labeled in stern whiteletters: "The Poor Shall Inherit the Kingdom of Heaven. "

And this he does, the scoundrel, grinning to himself as the blows fall andslyly concealing his enthusiasm as the coins jingle into his hat. I am oneof those who labor proudly at the immemorial task of idealizations. I amthe public who passes laws proclaiming things wrong, immoral, contrary tomy "best instincts. " Thus I have after many centuries succeeded increating a beautiful conception--a marvelous person. This marvelous personrepresents what I might be if I had neither ambition nor corpuscles, prejudices nor ecstasties, greeds, lusts, illusions or curiosity. Thismarvelous person is the beautiful image, the noble and flattering image ofitself that the public rapturously beholds when it stares into the mirrorof laws, conventions, adages, platitudes and constitutions that it hascreated. 

A charming image to contemplate. Learned men wax full of stern joy whenthey gaze upon this image. Kind-hearted folk thrill with pride at thethought that life is at last a carefully policed force which flowspolitely and properly through the catalogued veins of this marvelousperson. 

But my beggar in the street--ah, my beggar in the street knows better. Mybeggar in the street, maimed and vicious, sits against the building andwields his bladder and his slapstick on me. Whang! A platitude on therear. Bam! A bromide on the bean! And I shell out a dime and hurry on. Ido not like this beggar. 

 * * * * *

But I grow warm with fellowship toward him after I have left him behind. There is something comradely about his amazing cynicism. People, thinksthis beggar, are ashamed of themselves for being strong, for having twolegs, for not being poor, brow-beaten, cheek-turning humble mendicants. People, thinks this beggar, are secretly ashamed of themselves for beingpart of success. And their shame is inspired by fear. When they see methey suddenly feel uncertain about themselves. When they see me they thinkthat reverses and misfortunes and calamities might overtake them andreduce them to my condition. Thinking this, they grow indignant for aninstant with a society that produces beggars. Not because it produced me. But perhaps it might produce them--as beggars. And then remembering thatthey are responsible for my plight--they being society--they beg mypardon by giving me money and a pleading look. Oho! You should see thepleading looks they give me. Men and women pass and plead with me not tohit them too hard with my slapstick and bladder. They plead with me tospare them, not to look at them. And when they give me a dime it is agesture intended to annihilate me. The dime obliterates my misfortunes. Itannihilates my poverty. For an instant, having annihilated poverty andmisfortune with a dime, the man or woman is happy. An instant of securitystrengthens his wavering spirit. 

 * * * * *

Thus my beggar whom I have grown quite fond of as I write. I would writemore of him and of the marvelous person in me whom he is continuallybelaboring with his slapstick and bladder. But I remember suddenly a manin a wheel chair. A pale man with drawn features and paralyzed legs. Itwas at night in North Clark Street. Lights streamed over the pavements. People moved in and out of doorways. 

And this man sat in his wheel chair, a board on his lap. The board wasladen with wares. Trinkets, pencils, shoestrings, candies, tacks, neckties, socks. And from the front of the board hung a sign reading, "Jim's Store--Stop and Shop. "

I remember this creature with a sudden excitement. I passed by and boughtnothing. But after five days his face has caught up with me. A sallow, drawn face, burning eyes, bloodless lips and skinny hands that fumbledamong the wares on his board. He was young. Heroic sentences come to me. "Jim's Store--" Good hokum, effective advertising. And a strange pathos, apathos that my beggar with one leg and a pleading face never had. 

I do not like cynics. I like Jim better. I like Jim and his burning eyes, his skinny hands, his dying body--and his store. Fighting--with the lightsgoing out. Sitting in a wheel chair with death at his back and despaircrying from his eyes--"Come buy from me--a little while longer--I don'tgive up . .. Another week . .. Another month . .. But I don't give up. I'mstill on the turf. .. . Never mind my dying body . .. Business as usual . .. Business as usual. .. . Come buy from me . .. Little while longer . .. A. .. . "

But I never gave a nickel to Jim. I passed up his store. I took him at hisword. He was selling wares and I didn't want any. But my beggar with theone leg and the inward grin was selling absolutions. .. . And I patronizedhim. 

THE MAN WITH A QUESTION

Late afternoon. An hour more and the city will be emptying itself out ofthe high buildings. Now the shoppers are hurrying home to get dinner onthe table. 

A man stands on the corner of Michigan Avenue and Adams Street. Unwittingly he invites attention. A poorly dressed man, with a work-heavyface and coarsened hands. But he stands motionless. More than that, he isnot looking at anything. His deep-set eyes seem to withhold themselvesfrom the active street. 

In the sauve spectacle of the avenue his motionless figure is like anawkward faux pas in a parlor conversation. The newspaper man on his way tothe I. C. Station pauses to light his pipe and his eyes take in the figureof this motionless one. 

The newspaper man notices that the man stands like one who is bracedagainst something that may come suddenly and that his deep-set eyes say, "We know what we know. " There are other impressions that interest thenewspaper man. For a moment the motionless one seems a blurred little unitof the hurrying crowd. Then for a moment he seems to grow large and hisfigure becomes commanding and it is as if he were surveying the blurredlittle faces of the hurrying crowd. This is undoubtedly because he isstanding still and not looking at anything. 

 * * * * *

"Can I have a light, please?"

The man's voice is low. A bit hoarse. He has a pipe and the newspaper mangives him a match. Ah, the amiable, meaningless curiosity of newspapermen! This one must ask questions. It is after work, but, like thepoliceman who goes to the movies with his club still at his side, he isstill asking questions. 

"Taking in the sights?"

The man, lighting his pipe, nods slowly. Much too slowly, as if his answerwere fraught with a vast significance. 

"I like it myself, " insinuates the newspaper man. "I was reading JuniusWood's article on Bill Shatov, who is running things now in Siberia. Hequotes Bill as saying what he misses most in life now is the music ofcrowds in Chicago streets. Did you read that?"

This is a brazen lead. But the man looks like a "red. " And Bill Shatovwould then open the talk. But the man only shakes his head. He says, "No, I don't read the papers much. "

Now there is something contradictory about this man and his curtnessinvites. He seems to have accepted the presence of the newspaper man in anodd way, an uncity way. After a pause he gestures slightly with his pipein his hand and says:

"Quite a crowd, eh?"

The newspaper man nods. The other goes on:

"Where are they going?"

This is more than a question. There is indignation in it. The deepset eyesgleam. 

"I wonder, " says the newspaper man. His companion remains staring in hisodd, unseeing way. Then he says:

"They don't look at anything, eh? In a terrible hurry, ain't they? Yeah, in a rotten hurry. "

The newspaper man nods. "Which way you going?" he asks. 

"No way, " his companion answers. "No way at all. I'm standin' here, see?"

There is a silence. The motionless one has become something queer in theeyes of the newspaper man. He has become grim, definite, taunting. Here isa man who questions the people of the street with unseeing eyes. Why? Hereis one who is going "no way. " Yet, look at him closely and there is nosneer in his eyes. His lips hold no contempt. 

There you have it. He is a questioning man. He is questioning things thatno one questions--buildings, crowds, windows. And there is some sort ofanswer inside him. 

 * * * * *

"What you talking to me for?"

The newspaper man smiles disarmingly at this sudden inquiry. 

"Oh, I don't know, " he says. "Saw you standing still. You lookeddifferent. Wondered, you know. Just kind of thought to say hello. "

"Funny, " says the motionless one. 

"I got a hunch you're a stranger in town. "

This question the companion answers. "Yeah, a stranger. A stranger. That'swhat I am, all right. I'm a stranger, all right. You got me right. "

Now the motionless one smiles. This makes his face look uncomfortable. This makes it seem as if he had been frowning savagely before. 

"What do you think of this town?" pursues the newspaper man. 

"Think of this town? Think? Say, I ain't thinking. I don't think anythingof it. I'm just looking at it, see? A stranger don't ever think, now, doeshe? There, that's one for you. "

"When'd you come here?"

"When'd I come here? When? Well, I come here this noon. On the noon train. Say, don't make me gabby. I never gab any. "

Nothing to be got out of this motionless one. Nothing but a question. Apause, however, and he went on:

"Have you ever seen such a crowd like this? Hurrying? Hm! Some town! Thereused to be a hotel over here west a bit. "

"The Wellington?"

"Yeah. I don't see it when I pass. "

"Torn down. "

"Hm!" The deep-set eyes narrow for an instant. Then the motionless onesighs and his shoulders loosen. His face grows alive and he looks this wayand that. He starts to walk and walks quickly, leaving the newspaper manstanding alone. 

 * * * * *

The newspaper man watched him. As he stood looking after him some onetapped him on the shoulder. He turned. "Specs" McLaughlin of the detectivebureau. "Specs" rubbed his chin contemplatively and smiled. 

"Know that guy?"

"Who?"

"No; just bumped into him. How come?"

"You might have got a story out of him, " "Specs" grinned. "That's GeorgeCook. Just let out of the Joliet pen this morning. Served fourteen years. Quite a yarn at the time. For killing a pal in the Wellington hotel oversome dame. I guess that was before your time, though. He just landed intown this noon. "

The detective rubbered into the moving crowd. 

"I'm sort of keeping an eye on him, " he said, and hurried on. 

GRASS FIGURES

You will sometimes notice when you sit on the back porch after dinner thatthere are other back porches with people on them. And when you sit on thefront steps, that there are other front steps similarly occupied. In thepark when you lie down on the grass you will see there are others lying onthe grass. And when you look out of your window you can observe otherpeople looking out of their windows. 

In the streets when you walk casually and have time to look around youwill see others walking casually and looking around, too. And in thetheater or church or where you work there are always the inevitableothers, always reflecting yourself. You might get to thinking about thisas the newspaper reporter did. The newspaper reporter got an idea one daythat the city was nothing more nor less than a vast, broken mirror givinghim back garbled images of himself. 

The newspaper reporter was trying to write fiction stories on the side andhe thought: "If I can figure out something for a background, some idea orsomething that will explain about people, and then have the plot of thestory sort of prove this general idea by a specific incident, that wouldbe the way to work it. "

Thus, when the reporter had figured it out that the city was a mirrorreflecting himself, he grew excited. That was the kind of idea he hadalways been looking for. But at night in his bedroom when he started towrite he hit a snag. He had thought he held in his mind the secret of thecity. Yet when he came to write about it the secret slipped away and lefthim with nothing. He sat looking out of his bedroom window, noticing thatthe telephone poles in the dark alley looked like huge, inverted musicnotes. Then he thought: "It doesn't do any good to get an idea thatdoesn't tell you anything. Just figuring out that the city is a mirrorthat reflects me all the time doesn't give me the secret of streets andcrowds. Because the question then arises: 'Who am I that the mirrorreflects, and what am I? What in Sam Hill is my motif?'"

 * * * * *

So the newspaper reporter decided to wait awhile before he wrote hisstory--wait, at least, until he had found out something. But the next day, while he was walking in Michigan Avenue, the idea he had had about themirror trotted along beside him like some homeless Hector pup that hecouldn't shake. He looked up eagerly into the faces of the crowd on thestreet, searching the many different eyes that moved by him for a "lead. "

What the newspaper reporter wanted was to be able to begin his fictionstory by saying something like this: "People are so and so. The city is soand so. Everybody feels this and this. No matter who they are or wherethey live, or what their jobs are they can't escape the mark of the citythat is on them. "

It was after 7 o'clock and the people in Michigan Avenue were going homeor sauntering back and forth, looking into the shop windows, with nothingmuch to do. The street was still light, although the sun had gone. Hiddenbehind the buildings of the city, the sun flattened itself out on aninvisible horizon and spread a vast peacock tail of color across the sky. In Grant Park, opposite the Public Library, men lay on their backs withtheir hands folded under their heads and stared up into the colors of thesky. The newspaper reporter stood abstractedly on the corner counting theautomobiles that purred by to see if more taxicabs than privately ownedcars passed a given point in Michigan Avenue. Then he walked across thestreet for no other reason than that there were for the moment no moreautomobiles to count. He stopped on the opposite pavement and stoodlooking at the figures that lay on the grass in Grant Park. 

 * * * * *

The newspaper reporter had been lying for ten minutes on his back in thegrass when he sat up suddenly and muttered: "Here it is. Right in front ofme. " He sat, looking intently, at the men who were lying on the grass ashe had been a moment before. And his idea about the city's being a mirrorgiving him back images of himself started up again in his mind. But now hecould find out what these images of himself were. In fact, what he was. Whereupon he would have his story. 

Being a newspaper reporter there was nothing unusual in his mind aboutwalking up to one of the figures and talking to it. For years and years hehad done just that for a living--walked up to strangers and asked themquestions. So now he would ask the men lying on their backs what they werelying on their backs for. He would ask them why they came to Grant Park, what they were thinking about and how it happened that they all lookedalike and lay on their backs like a chorus of figures in a pastoralmusical comedy. 

The first figure the newspaper reporter approached listened to thequestions in surprise. Then he answered: "Well I dunno. I just came intothe park and lay down. " The second figure looked blank and shook its head. The reporter tried a third. The third figure grinned and answered: "Oh, well, nothing much to do and the grass rests you a bit. "

The reporter kept on for a few minutes, asking his questions and gettinganswers that didn't quite mean anything. Then he grew tired of the job andreturned to his original place on the grass and lay down again and staredup into the colors of the sky. After a half-hour, during which he hadthought of nothing in particular, he arose, shook his legs free of dirtand grass and walked away. As he walked he looked at the figures thatremained. The arc lamps on the park shafts and on the Greek-like fountainwere popping on and the avenue was lighting up like a theater with thefootlights going on. 

"Funny about them, " the newspaper reporter thought, eyeing the figures ashe moved away; "they lie there on their backs all in the same position, all looking at the same clouds. So they must all be thinking thoughtsabout the same thing. Let's see; what was I thinking about? Nothing, "

An excited light came suddenly into the newspaper reporter's eyes. 

"I was just waiting, " he muttered to himself. "And so are they. "

 * * * * *

The newspaper reporter looked eagerly at the street and the peoplepassing. That was it. He had found the word. "Waiting. " Everybody waswaiting. On the back porches at night, on the front steps, in the parks, in the theaters, churches, streets and stores--men and women waited. Justas the men on the grass in Grant Park were waiting. The only differencebetween the men lying on their backs and people elsewhere was that the menin the grass had grown tired for the moment of pretending they were doinganything else. So they had stretched themselves out in an attitude ofwaiting, in a deliberate posture of waiting. And with their eyes on thesky, they waited. 

The newspaper reporter felt thrilled as he thought all this. He feltthrilled when he looked closely at the people in Michigan Avenue and sawthat they fitted snugly into his theory. He said to himself: "I'vediscovered a theory about life. A theory that fits them all. That makesthe background I'm looking for. Waiting. Yes, the whole pack of them arewaiting all the time. That's why we all look alike. That's why one houselooks like another and one man walking looks like another man walking, andwhy figures lying in the grass look like twins--scores of twins. "

 * * * * *

The newspaper man returned to his bedroom and started to write again. Buthe had been writing only a few minutes when he stopped. Again, as it hadbefore, the secret had slipped out of his mind. For he had come to aparagraph that was to tell what the people were waiting for and hecouldn't think of any answer to that. What were the men in the grasswaiting for? In the street? On the porches and stone steps? They wereimages of himself--all "waiting images" of himself. Therefore the answerlay in the question: "What had he been waiting for?"

The newspaper reporter bit into his pencil. "Nothing, nothing, " hemuttered. "Yes, that's it. They aren't waiting for anything. That's thesecret. Life is a few years of suspended animation. But there's no storyin that. Better forget it. "

So he looked glumly out of his bedroom window, and, being asentimentalist, the huge inverted music notes the telephone poles madeagainst the dark played a long, sad tune in his mind.