FRENZIED FICTION

By Stephen Leacock

CONTENTS

 I. My Revelations as a Spy II. Father Knickerbocker: A Fantasy III. The Prophet in Our Midst IV. Personal Adventures in the Spirit World V. The Sorrows of a Summer Guest VI. To Nature and Back Again VII. The Cave-Man as He Is VIII. Ideal Interviews-- I. With a European Prince II. With Our Greatest Actor III. With Our Greatest Scientist IV. With Our Typical Novelists IX. The New Education X. The Errors of Santa Claus XI. Lost in New York XII. This Strenuous Age XIII. The Old, Old Story of How Five Men Went Fishing XIV. Back from the Land XV. The Perplexity Column as Done by the Jaded Journalist XVI. Simple Stories of Success, or How to Succeed in Life XVII. In Dry Toronto XVIII. Merry Christmas

I. My Revelations as a Spy

In many people the very name "Spy" excites a shudder of apprehension; weSpies, in fact, get quite used to being shuddered at. None of us Spiesmind it at all. Whenever I enter a hotel and register myself as a SpyI am quite accustomed to see a thrill of fear run round the clerks, orclerk, behind the desk. 

Us Spies or We Spies--for we call ourselves both--are thus a race apart. None know us. All fear us. Where do we live? Nowhere. Where are we?Everywhere. Frequently we don't know ourselves where we are. The secretorders that we receive come from so high up that it is often forbiddento us even to ask where we are. A friend of mine, or at least a FellowSpy--us Spies have no friends--one of the most brilliant men in theHungarian Secret Service, once spent a month in New York under theimpression that he was in Winnipeg. If this happened to the mostbrilliant, think of the others. 

All, I say, fear us. Because they know and have reason to know ourpower. Hence, in spite of the prejudice against us, we are able to moveeverywhere, to lodge in the best hotels, and enter any society that wewish to penetrate. 

Let me relate an incident to illustrate this: a month ago I entered oneof the largest of the New York hotels which I will merely call the B. Hotel without naming it: to do so might blast it. We Spies, in fact, never _name_ a hotel. At the most we indicate it by a number known onlyto ourselves, such as 1, 2, or 3. 

On my presenting myself at the desk the clerk informed me that he had noroom vacant. I knew this of course to be a mere subterfuge; whether ornot he suspected that I was a Spy I cannot say. I was muffled up, toavoid recognition, in a long overcoat with the collar turned up andreaching well above my ears, while the black beard and the moustache, that I had slipped on in entering the hotel, concealed my face. "Letme speak a moment to the manager, " I said. When he came I beckoned himaside and taking his ear in my hand I breathed two words into it. "Goodheavens!" he gasped, while his face turned as pale as ashes. "Is itenough?" I asked. "Can I have a room, or must I breathe again?" "No, no, " said the manager, still trembling. Then, turning to the clerk:"Give this gentleman a room, " he said, "and give him a bath. "

What these two words are that will get a room in New York at once I mustnot divulge. Even now, when the veil of secrecy is being lifted, theinternational interests involved are too complicated to permit it. Suffice it to say that if these two had failed I know a couple of othersstill better. 

I narrate this incident, otherwise trivial, as indicating the astoundingramifications and the ubiquity of the international spy system. Asimilar illustration occurs to me as I write. I was walking the otherday with another man, on upper B. Way between the T. Building and the W. Garden. 

"Do you see that man over there?" I said, pointing from the side ofthe street on which we were walking on the sidewalk to the other sideopposite to the side that we were on. 

"The man with the straw hat?" he asked. "Yes, what of him?"

"Oh, nothing, " I answered, "except that he's a Spy!"

"Great heavens!" exclaimed my acquaintance, leaning up against alamp-post for support. "A Spy! How do you know that? What does it mean?"

I gave a quiet laugh--we Spies learn to laugh very quietly. 

"Ha!" I said, "that is my secret, my friend. _Verbum sapientius! Chesara sara! Yodel doodle doo!_"

My acquaintance fell in a dead faint upon the street. I watched themtake him away in an ambulance. Will the reader be surprised to learnthat among the white-coated attendants who removed him I recognized noless a person than the famous Russian Spy, Poulispantzoff. What he wasdoing there I could not tell. No doubt his orders came from so high upthat he himself did not know. I had seen him only twice before--oncewhen we were both disguised as Zulus at Buluwayo, and once in theinterior of China, at the time when Poulispantzoff made his secret entryinto Thibet concealed in a tea-case. He was inside the tea-case when Isaw him; so at least I was informed by the coolies who carried it. YetI recognized him instantly. Neither he nor I, however, gave any sign ofrecognition other than an imperceptible movement of the outer eyelid. (We Spies learn to move the outer lid of the eye so imperceptibly thatit cannot be seen. ) Yet after meeting Poulispantzoff in this way I wasnot surprised to read in the evening papers a few hours afterwardthat the uncle of the young King of Siam had been assassinated. Theconnection between these two events I am unfortunately not at liberty toexplain; the consequences to the Vatican would be too serious. I doubtif it could remain top-side up. 

These, however, are but passing incidents in a life filled with dangerand excitement. They would have remained unrecorded and unrevealed, likethe rest of my revelations, were it not that certain recent events haveto some extent removed the seal of secrecy from my lips. The death ofa certain royal sovereign makes it possible for me to divulge thingshitherto undivulgeable. Even now I can only tell a part, a small part, of the terrific things that I know. When more sovereigns die I candivulge more. I hope to keep on divulging at intervals for years. But Iam compelled to be cautious. My relations with the Wilhelmstrasse, withDowning Street and the Quai d'Orsay, are so intimate, and my footingwith the Yildiz Kiosk and the Waldorf-Astoria and Childs' Restaurantsare so delicate, that a single _faux pas_ might prove to be a falsestep. 

It is now seventeen years since I entered the Secret Service of the G. Empire. During this time my activities have taken me into every quarterof the globe, at times even into every eighth or sixteenth of it. 

It was I who first brought back word to the Imperial Chancellor ofthe existence of an Entente between England and France. "Is there anEntente?" he asked me, trembling with excitement, on my arrival at theWilhelmstrasse. "Your Excellency, " I said, "there is. " He groaned. "Canyou stop it?" he asked. "Don't ask me, " I said sadly. "Where must westrike?" demanded the Chancellor. "Fetch me a map, " I said. They didso. I placed my finger on the map. "Quick, quick, " said the Chancellor, "look where his finger is. " They lifted it up. "Morocco!" they cried. Ihad meant it for Abyssinia but it was too late to change. That night thewarship Panther sailed under sealed orders. The rest is history, or atleast history and geography. 

In the same way it was I who brought word to the Wilhelmstrasse of the_rapprochement_ between England and Russia in Persia. "What did youfind?" asked the Chancellor as I laid aside the Russian disguise inwhich I had travelled. "A _Rapprochement!_" I said. He groaned. "Theyseem to get all the best words, " he said. 

I shall always feel, to my regret; that I am personally responsible forthe outbreak of the present war. It may have had ulterior causes. Butthere is no doubt that it was precipitated by the fact that, for thefirst time in seventeen years, I took a six weeks' vacation in June andJuly of 1914. The consequences of this careless step I ought to haveforeseen. Yet I took such precautions as I could. "Do you think, " Iasked, "that you can preserve the _status quo_ for six weeks, merely sixweeks, if I stop spying and take a rest?" "We'll try, " they answered. "Remember, " I said, as I packed my things, "keep the Dardanelles closed;have the Sandjak of Novi Bazaar properly patrolled, and let the Dobrudjaremain under a _modus vivendi_ till I come back. "

Two months later, while sitting sipping my coffee at a Kurhof in theSchwarzwald, I read in the newspapers that a German army had invadedFrance and was fighting the French, and that the English expeditionaryforce had crossed the Channel. "This, " I said to myself, "means war. " Asusual, I was right. 

It is needless for me to recount here the life of busy activity thatfalls to a Spy in wartime. It was necessary for me to be here, thereand everywhere, visiting all the best hotels, watering-places, summerresorts, theatres, and places of amusement. It was necessary, moreover, to act with the utmost caution and to assume an air of carelessindolence in order to lull suspicion asleep. With this end in view Imade a practice of never rising till ten in the morning. I breakfastedwith great leisure, and contented myself with passing the morning in aquiet stroll, taking care, however, to keep my ears open. After lunch Igenerally feigned a light sleep, keeping my ears shut. A _table d'hote_dinner, followed by a visit to the theatre, brought the strenuous day toa close. Few Spies, I venture to say, worked harder than I did. 

It was during the third year of the war that I received a peremptorysummons from the head of the Imperial Secret Service at Berlin, BaronFisch von Gestern. "I want to see you, " it read. Nothing more. In thelife of a Spy one learns to think quickly, and to think is to act. Igathered as soon as I received the despatch that for some reason orother Fisch von Gestern was anxious to see me, having, as I instantlyinferred, something to say to me. This conjecture proved correct. 

The Baron rose at my entrance with military correctness and shook hands. 

"Are you willing, " he inquired, "to undertake a mission to America?"

"I am, " I answered. 

"Very good. How soon can you start?"

"As soon as I have paid the few bills that I owe in Berlin, " I replied. 

"We can hardly wait for that, " said my chief, "and in case it mightexcite comment. You must start to-night!"

"Very good, " I said. 

"Such, " said the Baron, "are the Kaiser's orders. Here is an Americanpassport and a photograph that will answer the purpose. The likeness isnot great, but it is sufficient. "

"But, " I objected, abashed for a moment, "this photograph is of a manwith whiskers and I am, unfortunately, clean-shaven. "

"The orders are imperative, " said Gestern, with official hauteur. "Youmust start to-night. You can grow whiskers this afternoon. "

"Very good, " I replied. 

"And now to the business of your mission, " continued the Baron. "The United States, as you have perhaps heard, is making war againstGermany. "

"I have heard so, " I replied. 

"Yes, " continued Gestern. "The fact has leaked out--how, we do notknow--and is being widely reported. His Imperial Majesty has decided tostop the war with the United States. "

I bowed. 

"He intends to send over a secret treaty of the same nature as the onerecently made with his recent Highness the recent Czar of Russia. Underthis treaty Germany proposes to give to the United States the whole ofequatorial Africa and in return the United States is to give to Germanythe whole of China. There are other provisions, but I need not troubleyou with them. Your mission relates, not to the actual treaty, but tothe preparation of the ground. "

I bowed again. 

"You are aware, I presume, " continued the Baron, "that in all highinternational dealings, at least in Europe, the ground has to beprepared. A hundred threads must be unravelled. This the ImperialGovernment itself cannot stoop to do. The work must be done by agentslike yourself. You understand all this already, no doubt?"

I indicated my assent. 

"These, then, are your instructions, " said the Baron, speaking slowlyand distinctly, as if to impress his words upon my memory. "On yourarrival in the United States you will follow the accredited methods thatare known to be used by all the best Spies of the highest diplomacy. You have no doubt read some of the books, almost manuals of instruction, that they have written?"

"I have read many of them, " I said. 

"Very well. You will enter, that is to say, enter and move everywhere inthe best society. Mark specially, please, that you must not only _enter_it but you must _move_. You must, if I may put it so, get a move on. "

I bowed. 

"You must mix freely with the members of the Cabinet. You must dine withthem. This is a most necessary matter and one to be kept well in mind. Dine with them often in such a way as to make yourself familiar to them. Will you do this?"

"I will, " I said. 

"Very good. Remember also that in order to mask your purpose you mustconstantly be seen with the most fashionable and most beautiful women ofthe American capital. Can you do this?"

"Can I?" I said. 

"You must if need be"--and the Baron gave a most significant look whichwas not lost upon me--"carry on an intrigue with one or, better, withseveral of them. Are you ready for it?"

"More than ready, " I said. 

"Very good. But this is only a part. You are expected also tofamiliarize yourself with the leaders of the great financial interests. You are to put yourself on such a footing with them as to borrow largesums of money from them. Do you object to this?"

"No, " I said frankly, "I do not. "

"Good! You will also mingle freely in Ambassadorial and foreign circles. It would be well for you to dine, at least once a week, with the BritishAmbassador. And now one final word"--here Gestern spoke with singularimpressiveness--"as to the President of the United States. "

"Yes, " I said. 

"You must mix with him on a footing of the most open-handedfriendliness. Be at the White House continually. Make yourself in thefullest sense of the words the friend and adviser of the President. Allthis I think is clear. In fact, it is only what is done, as you know, byall the masters of international diplomacy. "

"Precisely, " I said. 

"Very good. And then, " continued the Baron, "as soon as you findyourself sufficiently _en rapport_ with everybody, or I should say, " headded in correction, for the Baron shares fully in the present Germanhorror of imported French words, "when you find yourself sufficientlyin enggeknupfterverwandtschaft with everybody, you may then proceed toadvance your peace terms. And now, my dear fellow, " said the Baron, with a touch of genuine cordiality, "one word more. Are you in need ofmoney?"

"Yes, " I said. 

"I thought so. But you will find that you need it less and less as yougo on. Meantime, good-bye, and best wishes for your mission. "

Such was, such is, in fact, the mission with which I am accredited. Iregard it as by far the most important mission with which I have beenaccredited by the Wilhelmstrasse. Yet I am compelled to admit that up tothe present it has proved unsuccessful. My attempts to carry it outhave been baffled. There is something perhaps in the atmosphere of thisrepublic which obstructs the working of high diplomacy. For over fivemonths now I have been waiting and willing to dine with the AmericanCabinet. They have not invited me. For four weeks I sat each nightwaiting in the J. Hotel in Washington with my suit on ready to be asked. They did not come near me. 

Nor have I yet received an invitation from the British Embassy invitingme to an informal lunch or to midnight supper with the Ambassador. Everybody who knows anything of the inside working of the internationalspy system will realize that without these invitations one can donothing. Nor has the President of the United States given any sign. Ihave sent ward to him, in cipher, that I am ready to dine with him onany day that may be convenient to both of us. He has made no move in thematter. 

Under these circumstances an intrigue with any of the leaders offashionable society has proved impossible. My attempts to approach themhave been misunderstood--in fact, have led to my being invited toleave the J. Hotel. The fact that I was compelled to leave it, owing toreasons that I cannot reveal, without paying my account, has occasionedunnecessary and dangerous comment. I connect it, in fact, with thesingular attitude adopted by the B. Hotel on my arrival in New York, towhich I have already referred. 

I have therefore been compelled to fall back on revelations anddisclosures. Here again I find the American atmosphere singularlyuncongenial. I have offered to reveal to the Secretary of State theentire family history of Ferdinand of Bulgaria for fifty dollars. Hesays it is not worth it. I have offered to the British Embassy theinside story of the Abdication of Constantine for five dollars. They saythey know it, and knew it before it happened. I have offered, for littlemore than a nominal sum, to blacken the character of every reigningfamily in Germany. I am told that it is not necessary. 

Meantime, as it is impossible to return to Central Europe, I expect toopen either a fruit store or a peanut stand very shortly in this greatmetropolis. I imagine that many of my former colleagues will soon bedoing the same!

II. Father Knickerbocker: A Fantasy

It happened quite recently--I think it must have been on April thesecond of 1917--that I was making the long pilgrimage on a day-trainfrom the remote place where I dwell to the city of New York. And as wedrew near the city, and day darkened into night, I had fallen to readingfrom a quaint old copy of Washington Irving's immortal sketches ofFather Knickerbocker and of the little town where once he dwelt. 

I had picked up the book I know not where. Very old it apparently wasand made in England. For there was pasted across the fly-leaf of it anextract from some ancient magazine or journal of a century ago, givingwhat was evidently a description of the New York of that day. 

From reading the book I turned--my head still filled with the visionof Father Knickerbocker and Sleepy Hollow and Tarrytown--to examinethe extract. I read it in a sort of half-doze, for the dark had fallenoutside, and the drowsy throbbing of the running train attuned one'smind to dreaming of the past. 

"The town of New York"--so ran the extract pasted in the littlebook--"is pleasantly situated at the lower extremity of the Islandof Manhattan. Its recent progress has been so amazing that it is nowreputed, on good authority, to harbour at least twenty thousand souls. Viewed from the sea, it presents, even at the distance of half a mile, astriking appearance owing to the number and beauty of its church spires, which rise high above the roofs and foliage and give to the place itscharacteristically religious aspect. The extreme end of the island isheavily fortified with cannon, commanding a range of a quarter of amile, and forbidding all access to the harbour. Behind this Battery aneat greensward affords a pleasant promenade, where the citizens areaccustomed to walk with their wives every morning after church. "

"How I should like to have seen it!" I murmured to myself as I laidthe book aside for a moment. "The Battery, the harbour and the citizenswalking with their wives, their own wives, on the greensward. "

Then I read on:

"From the town itself a wide thoroughfare, the Albany Post Road, runsmeandering northward through the fields. It is known for some distanceunder the name of the Broad Way, and is so wide that four movingvehicles are said to be able to pass abreast. The Broad Way, especiallyin the springtime when it is redolent with the scent of clover andapple-blossoms, is a favourite evening promenade for the citizens--withtheir wives--after church. Here they may be seen any evening strollingtoward the high ground overlooking the Hudson, their wives on one arm, a spyglass under the other, in order to view what they can see. Downthe Broad Way may be seen moving also droves of young lambs with theirshepherds, proceeding to the market, while here and there a goat standsquietly munching beside the road and gazing at the passers-by. "

"It seems, " I muttered to myself as I read, "in some ways but littlechanged after all. "

"The town"--so the extract continued--"is not without its amusements. Acommodious theatre presents with great success every Saturday night theplays of Shakespeare alternating with sacred concerts; the New Yorker, indeed, is celebrated throughout the provinces for his love of amusementand late hours. The theatres do not come out until long after nineo'clock, while for the gayer habitues two excellent restaurants servefish, macaroni, prunes and other delicacies till long past ten atnight. The dress of the New Yorker is correspondingly gay. In the otherprovinces the men wear nothing but plain suits of a rusty black, whereasin New York there are frequently seen suits of brown, snuff-colour andeven of pepper-and-salt. The costumes of the New York women are equallydaring, and differ notably from the quiet dress of New England. 

"In fine, it is commonly said in the provinces that a New Yorker can berecognized anywhere, with his wife, by their modish costumes, their easymanners and their willingness to spend money--two, three and even fivecents being paid for the smallest service. "

"Dear me, " I thought, as I paused a moment in my reading, "so they hadbegun it even then. "

"The whole spirit of the place"--the account continued--"has recentlybeen admirably embodied in literary form by an American writer, Mr. Washington Irving (not to be confounded with George Washington). Hiscreation of Father Knickerbocker is so lifelike that it may be said toembody the very spirit of New York. The accompanying woodcut--whichwas drawn on wood especially for this periodical--recalls at once thedelightful figure of Father Knickerbocker. The New Yorkers of to-dayare accustomed, indeed, to laugh at Mr. Irving's fancy and to say thatKnickerbocker belongs to a day long since past. Yet those who know tellus that the image of the amiable old gentleman, kindly but irascible, generous and yet frugal, loving his town and seeing little beyond it, may be held once and for all to typify the spirit of the place, withoutreference to any particular time or generation. "

"Father Knickerbocker!" I murmured, as I felt myself dozing off tosleep, rocked by the motion of the car. "Father Knickerbocker, howstrange if he could be here again and see the great city as we know itnow! How different from his day! How I should love to go round New Yorkand show it to him as it is. "

So I mused and dozed till the very rumble of the wheels seemed topiece together in little snatches. "Father Knickerbocker--FatherKnickerbocker--the Battery--the Battery--citizens walking with theirwives, with their wives--their own wives"--until presently, I imagine, Imust have fallen asleep altogether and knew no more till my journey wasover and I found myself among the roar and bustle of the concourse ofthe Grand Central. 

And there, lo and behold, waiting to meet me, was Father Knickerbockerhimself! I know not how it happened, by what queer freak ofhallucination or by what actual miracle--let those explain it who dealin such things--but there he stood before me, with an outstretched handand a smile of greeting, Father Knickerbocker himself, the EmbodiedSpirit of New York. 

"How strange, " I said. "I was just reading about you in a book on thetrain and imagining how much I should like actually to meet you and toshow you round New York. "

The old man laughed in a jaunty way. 

"Show _me_ round?" he said. "Why, my dear boy, _I live here_. "

"I know you did long ago, " I said. 

"I do still, " said Father Knickerbocker. "I've never left the place. I'll show _you_ around. But wait a bit--don't carry that handbag. I'llget a boy to call a porter to fetch a man to take it. "

"Oh, I can carry it, " I said. "It's a mere nothing. "

"My dear fellow, " said Father Knickerbocker, a little testily I thought, "I'm as democratic and as plain and simple as any man in this city. Butwhen it comes to carrying a handbag in full sight of all this crowd, why, as I said to Peter Stuyvesant about--about"--here a misty lookseemed to come over the old gentleman's face--"about two hundred yearsago, I'll be hanged if I will. It can't be done. It's not up to date. "

While he was saying this, Father Knickerbocker had beckoned to a groupof porters. 

"Take this gentleman's handbag, " he said, "and you carry his newspapers, and you take his umbrella. Here's a quarter for you and a quarter foryou and a quarter for you. One of you go in front and lead the way to ataxi. "

"Don't you know the way yourself?" I asked in a half-whisper. 

"Of course I do, but I generally like to walk with a boy in front of me. We all do. Only the cheap people nowadays find their own way. "

Father Knickerbocker had taken my arm and was walking along in a queer, excited fashion, senile and yet with a sort of forced youthfulness inhis gait and manner. 

"Now then, " he said, "get into this taxi. "

"Can't we _walk_?" I asked. 

"Impossible, " said the old gentleman. "It's five blocks to where we aregoing. "

As we took our seats I looked again at my companion; this time moreclosely. Father Knickerbocker he certainly was, yet somehow strangelytransformed from my pictured fancy of the Sleepy Hollow days. Hisantique coat with its wide skirt had, it seemed, assumed a modish cutas if in imitation of the bell-shaped spring overcoat of the young manabout town. His three-cornered hat was set at a rakish angle till itlooked almost like an up-to-date fedora. The great stick that he usedto carry had somehow changed itself into the curved walking-stick of aBroadway lounger. The solid old shoes with their wide buckles were gone. In their place he wore narrow slippers of patent leather of which heseemed inordinately proud, for he had stuck his feet up ostentatiouslyon the seat opposite. His eyes followed my glance toward his shoes. 

"For the fox-trot, " he said. "The old ones were no good. Have acigarette? These are Armenian, or would you prefer a Honolulan or aNigerian? Now, " he resumed, when we had lighted our cigarettes, "whatwould you like to do first? Dance the tango? Hear some Hawaiian music, drink cocktails, or what?"

"Why, what I should like most of all, Father Knickerbocker--"

But he interrupted me. 

"There's a devilish fine woman! Look, the tall blonde one! Give meblondes every time!" Here he smacked his lips. "By gad, sir, the womenin this town seem to get finer every century. What were you saying?"

"Why, Father Knickerbocker, " I began, but he interrupted me again. 

"My dear fellow, " he said. "May I ask you not to call me _Father_Knickerbocker?"

"But I thought you were so old, " I said humbly. 

"Old! Me _old_! Oh, I don't know. Why, dash it, there are plenty of menas old as I am dancing the tango here every night. Pray call me, if youdon't mind, just Knickerbocker, or simply Knicky--most of the other boyscall me Knicky. Now what's it to be?"

"Most of all, " I said, "I should like to go to some quiet place and havea talk about the old days. "

"Right, " he said. "We're going to just the place now--nice quiet dinner, a good quiet orchestra, Hawaiian, but quiet, and lots of women. " Herehe smacked his lips again, and nudged me with his elbow. "Lots of women, bunches of them. Do you like women?"

"Why, Mr. Knickerbocker, " I said hesitatingly, "I suppose--I--"

The old man sniggered as he poked me again in the ribs. 

"You bet you do, you dog!" he chuckled. "We _all_ do. For me, I confessit, sir, I can't sit down to dinner without plenty of women, stacks ofthem, all round me. "

Meantime the taxi had stopped. I was about to open the door and get out. 

"Wait, wait, " said Father Knickerbocker, his hand upon my arm, as helooked out of the window. "I'll see somebody in a minute who'll let usout for fifty cents. None of us here ever gets in or out of anything byourselves. It's bad form. Ah, here he is!"

A moment later we had passed through the portals of a great restaurant, and found ourselves surrounded with all the colour and tumult of a NewYork dinner _a la mode_. A burst of wild music, pounded and thrummedout on ukuleles by a group of yellow men in Hawaiian costume, filled theroom, helping to drown or perhaps only serving to accentuate the babelof talk and the clatter of dishes that arose on every side. Men inevening dress and women in all the colours of the rainbow, _decollete_to a degree, were seated at little tables, blowing blue smoke into theair, and drinking green and yellow drinks from glasses with thin stems. A troupe of _cabaret_ performers shouted and leaped on a little stage atthe side of the room, unheeded by the crowd. 

"Ha ha!" said Knickerbocker, as we drew in our chairs to a table. "Someplace, eh? There's a peach! Look at her! Or do you like better thatlazy-looking brunette next to her?"

Mr. Knickerbocker was staring about the room, gazing at the women withopen effrontery, and a senile leer upon his face. I felt ashamed of him. Yet, oddly enough, no one about us seemed in the least disturbed. 

"Now, what cocktail will you have?" said my companion. "There's a newone this week, the Fantan, fifty cents each, will you have that? Right?Two Fantans. Now to eat--what would you like?"

"May I have a slice of cold beef and a pint of ale?"

"Beef!" said Knickerbocker contemptuously. "My dear fellow, you can'thave that. Beef is only fifty cents. Do take something reasonable. TryLobster Newburg, or no, here's a more expensive thing--Filet Bourbona la something. I don't know what it is, but by gad, sir, it's threedollars a portion anyway. "

"All right, " I said. "You order the dinner. "

Mr. Knickerbocker proceeded to do so, the head-waiter obsequiously athis side, and his long finger indicating on the menu everything thatseemed most expensive and that carried the most incomprehensible name. When he had finished he turned to me again. 

"Now, " he said, "let's talk. "

"Tell me, " I said, "about the old days and the old times on Broadway. "

"Ah, yes, " he answered, "the old days--you mean ten years ago before theWinter Garden was opened. We've been going ahead, sir, going ahead. Why, ten years ago there was practically nothing, sir, above Times Square, and look at it now. "

I began to realize that Father Knickerbocker, old as he was, hadforgotten all the earlier times with which I associated his memory. There was nothing left but the _cabarets_, and the Gardens, the PalmRooms, and the ukuleles of to-day. Behind that his mind refused totravel. 

"Don't you remember, " I asked, "the apple orchards and the quiet grovesof trees that used to line Broadway long ago?"

"Groves!" he said. "I'll show you a grove, a coconut grove"--here hewinked over his wineglass in a senile fashion--"that has apple-treesbeaten from here to Honolulu. " Thus he babbled on. 

All through our meal his talk continued: of _cabarets_ and dances, orfox-trots and midnight suppers, of blondes and brunettes, "peaches" and"dreams, " and all the while his eye roved incessantly among the tables, resting on the women with a bold stare. At times he would indicate andpoint out for me some of what he called the "representative people"present. 

"Notice that man at the second table, " he would whisper across tome. "He's worth all the way to ten millions: made it in Governmentcontracts; they tried to send him to the penitentiary last fall butthey can't get him--he's too smart for them! I'll introduce you to himpresently. See the man with him? That's his lawyer, biggest crook inAmerica, they say; we'll meet him after dinner. " Then he would suddenlybreak off and exclaim: "Egad, sir, there's a fine bunch of them, " asanother bevy of girls came trooping out upon the stage. 

"I wonder, " I murmured, "if there is nothing left of him but this?Has all the fine old spirit gone? Is it all drowned out in wine andsuffocated in the foul atmosphere of luxury?"

Then suddenly I looked up at my companion, and I saw to my surprise thathis whole face and manner had altered. His hand was clenched tight onthe edge of the table. His eyes looked before him--through and beyondthe riotous crowd all about him--into vacancy, into the far past, back into memories that I thought forgotten. His face had altered. Thesenile, leering look was gone, and in its place the firm-set face of theKnickerbocker of a century ago. 

He was speaking in a strange voice, deep and strong. 

"Listen, " he said, "listen. Do you hear it--there--far out atsea--ships' guns--listen--they're calling for help--ships' guns--far outat sea!" He had clasped me by the arm. "Quick, to the Battery, they'llneed every man to-night, they'll--"

Then he sank back into his chair. His look changed again. The visiondied out of his eyes. 

"What was I saying?" he asked. "Ah, yes, this old brandy, a very specialbrand. They keep it for me here, a dollar a glass. They know me here, "he added in his fatuous way. "All the waiters know me. The headwaiteralways knows me the minute I come into the room--keeps a chair for me. Now try this brandy and then presently we'll move on and see what'sdoing at some of the shows. "

But somehow, in spite of himself, my companion seemed to be unable tobring himself fully back into the consciousness of the scene before him. The far-away look still lingered in his eyes. 

Presently he turned and spoke to me in a low, confidential tone. 

"Was I talking to myself a moment ago?" he asked. "Yes? Ah, I fearedI was. Do you know--I don't mind telling it to you--lately I've had astrange, queer feeling that comes over me at times, as if _somethingwere happening_--something, I don't know what. I suppose, " he continued, with a false attempt at resuming his fatuous manner, "I'm going thepace a little too hard, eh! Makes one fanciful. But the fact is, attimes"--he spoke gravely again--"I feel as if there were somethinghappening, something coming. "

"Knickerbocker, " I said earnestly, "Father Knickerbocker, don't you knowthat something _is_ happening, that this very evening as we are sittinghere in all this riot, the President of the United States is to comebefore Congress on the most solemn mission that ever--"

But my speech fell unheeded. Knickerbocker had picked up his glass againand was leering over it at a bevy of girls dancing upon the stage. 

"Look at that girl, " he interrupted quickly, "the one dancing at theend. What do you think of her, eh? Some peach!"

Knickerbocker broke off suddenly. For at this moment our ears caught thesound of a noise, a distant tumult, as it were, far down the street andgrowing nearer. The old man had drawn himself erect in his seat, hishand to his ear, listening as he caught the sound. 

"Out on the Broad Way, " he said, instinctively calling it by itsancient name as if a flood of memories were upon him. "Do you hear it?Listen--listen--what is it? I've heard that sound before--I've heardevery sound on the Broad Way these two centuries back--what is it? Iseem to know it!"

The sound and tumult as of running feet and of many voices crying camelouder from the street. The people at the tables had turned in theirseats to listen. The music of the orchestra had stopped. The waitershad thrown back the heavy curtains from the windows and the people werecrowding to them to look out into the street. Knickerbocker had risen inhis place, his eyes looked toward the windows, but his gaze was fixed onvacancy as with one who sees a vision passing. 

"I know the sound, " he cried. "I see it all again. Look, can't you seethem? It's Massachusetts soldiers marching South to the war--can't youhear the beating of the drums and the shrill calling of the fife--theregiments from the North, the first to come. I saw them pass, here wherewe are sitting, sixty years ago--"

Knickerbocker paused a moment, his hand still extended in the air, andthen with a great light upon his face he cried:

"I know it now! I know what it meant, the feeling that has hauntedme--the sounds I kept hearing--the guns of the ships at sea and thevoices calling in distress! I know now. It means, sir, it means--"

But as he spoke a great cry came up from the street and burst in at thedoors and windows, echoing in a single word:

WAR! WAR! The message of the President is for WAR!

"War!" cried Father Knickerbocker, rising to his full height, stern andmajestic and shouting in a stentorian tone that echoed through the greatroom. "War! War! To your places, every one of you! Be done with youridle luxury! Out with the glare of your lights! Begone you painted womenand worthless men! To your places every man of you! To the Battery! Manthe guns! Stand to it, every one of you for the defence of America--forour New York, New York--"

Then, with the sound "New York, New York" still echoing in my ears Iwoke up. The vision of my dream was gone. I was still on the seat ofthe car where I had dozed asleep, the book upon my knee. The train hadarrived at the depot and the porters were calling into the doorway ofthe car: "New York! New York!"

All about me was the stir and hubbub of the great depot. But loudover all it was heard the call of the newsboys crying "WAR! WAR! ThePresident's message is for WAR! Late extra! WAR! WAR!"

And I knew that a great nation had cast aside the bonds of slothand luxury, and was girding itself to join in the fight for the freedemocracy of all mankind. 

III. The Prophet in Our Midst

The Eminent Authority looked around at the little group of us seatedabout him at the club. He was telling us, or beginning to tell us, about the outcome of the war. It was a thing we wanted to know. We werelistening attentively. We felt that we were "getting something. "

"I doubt very much, " he said, "whether Downing Street realizes theenormous power which the Quai d'Orsay has over the Yildiz Kiosk. "

"So do I, " I said, "what is it?"

But he hardly noticed the interruption. 

"You've got to remember, " he went on, "that, from the point of view ofthe Yildiz, the Wilhelmstrasse is just a thing of yesterday. "

"Quite so, " I said. 

"Of course, " he added, "the Ballplatz is quite different. "

"Altogether different, " I admitted. 

"And mind you, " he said, "the Ballplatz itself can be largely moved fromthe Quirinal through the Vatican. "

"Why of course it can, " I agreed, with as much relief in my tone as Icould put into it. After all, what simpler way of moving the Ballplatzthan that?

The Eminent Authority took another sip at his tea, and looked round atus through his spectacles. 

It was I who was taking on myself to do most of the answering, becauseit was I who had brought him there and invited the other men to meethim. "He's coming round at five, " I had said, "do come and have a cupof tea and meet him. He knows more about the European situation andthe probable solution than any other man living. " Naturally they camegladly. They wanted to know--as everybody wants to know--how the warwill end. They were just ordinary plain men like myself. 

I could see that they were a little mystified, perhaps disappointed. They would have liked, just as I would, to ask a few plain questions, such as, can the Italians knock the stuff out of the Austrians? Are theRumanians getting licked or not? How many submarines has Germany got, anyway? Such questions, in fact, as we are accustomed to put up to oneanother every day at lunch and to answer out of the morning paper. As itwas, we didn't seem to be getting anywhere. 

No one spoke. The silence began to be even a little uncomfortable. Itwas broken by my friend Rapley, who is in wholesale hardware and who hasall the intellectual bravery that goes with it. He asked the Authoritystraight out the question that we all wanted to put. 

"Just what do you mean by the Ballplatz? What is the Ballplatz?"

The Authority smiled an engaging smile. 

"Precisely, " he said, "I see your drift exactly. You say what _is_ theBallplatz? I reply quite frankly that it is almost impossible to answer. Probably one could best define it as the driving power behind theAusgleich. "

"I see, " said Rapley. 

"Though the plain fact is that ever since the Herzegovinian embrogliothe Ballplatz is little more than a counterpoise to the Wilhelmstrasse. "

"Ah!" said Rapley. 

"Indeed, as everybody knows, the whole relationship of the Ballplatzwith the Nevski Prospekt has emanated from the Wilhelmstrasse. "

This was a thing which personally I had _not_ known. But I said nothing. Neither did the other men. They continued smoking, looking as innocentas they could. 

"Don't misunderstand me, " said the Authority, "when I speak of theNevski Prospekt. I am not referring in any way to the Tsarskoe Selo. "

"No, no, " we all agreed. 

"No doubt there were, as we see it plainly now, under currents in alldirections from the Tsarskoe Selo. "

We all seemed to suggest by our attitude that these undercurrents weresucking at our very feet. 

"But the Tsarskoe Selo, " said the Authority, "is now definitelyeliminated. "

We were glad of that; we shifted our feet back into attitudes of ease. 

I felt that it was time to ask a leading question. 

"Do you think, " I said, "that Germany will be broken up by the war?"

"You mean Germany in what sense? Are you thinking of Preuszenthum? Areyou referring to Junkerismus?"

"No, " I said, quite truthfully, "neither of them. "

"Ah, " said the Authority, "I see; you mean Germany as a Souverantatembodied in a Reichsland. "

"That's it, " I said. 

"Then it's rather hard, " said the Eminent Authority, "to answeryour question in plain terms. But I'll try. One thing, of course, is_absolutely_ certain, Mittel-Europa goes overboard. "

"It does, eh?"

"Oh, yes, absolutely. This is the end of Mittel-Europa. I mean tosay--here we've had Mittel-Europa, that is, the Mittel-Europa _idea_, asa sort of fantasmus in front of Teutonism ever since Koniggratz. "

The Authority looked all round us in that searching way he had. We alltried to look like men seeing a fantasmus and disgusted at it. 

"So you see, " he went on, "Mittel-Europa is done with. "

"I suppose it is, " I said. I didn't know just whether to speak withregret or not. I heard Rapley murmur, "I guess so. "

"And there is not a doubt, " continued the Authority, "that whenMittel-Europa goes, Grossdeutschthum goes with it. "

"Oh, sure to, " we all murmured. 

"Well, then, there you are--what is the result for Germany--why thething's as plain as a pikestaff--in fact you're driven to it by thesheer logic of the situation--there is only _one_ outcome--"

The Authority was speaking very deliberately. He even paused at thispoint and lighted a cigarette, while we all listened breathlessly. Wefelt that we had got the thing to a focus at last. 

"Only one outcome--a Staatenbund. "

"Great heavens, " I said, "not a Staatenbund!"

"Undoubtedly, " said the Authority, puffing quietly at his cigarette, asif personally he wouldn't lift a finger to stop the Staatenbund if hecould, "that's the end of it, a Staatenbund. In other words, we are backwhere we were before the Vienna Congress!"

At this he chuckled heartily to himself: so the rest of us laughed too:the thing was _too_ absurd. But the Authority, who was a man of nicedistinctions and genuinely anxious to instruct us, was evidently afraidthat he had overstated things a little. 

"Mind you, " he said, "there'll be _something_ left--certainly theZollverein and either the Ausgleich or something very like it. "

All of the men gave a sort of sigh of relief. It was certainly somethingto have at least a sort of resemblance or appearance of the Ausgleichamong us. We felt that we were getting on. One could see that a numberof the men were on the brink of asking questions. 

"What about Rumania, " asked Nelles--he is a banker and interested ingovernment bonds--"is this the end of it?"

"No, " said the Authority, "it's not the end of Rumania, but it _is_ theend of Rumanian Irridentismus. "

That settled Nelles. 

"What about the Turks?" asked Rapley. 

"The Turks, or rather, I suppose it would be more proper to say, theOsmanli, as that is no doubt what you mean?" Rapley nodded. "Well, speaking personally, I should say that there's no difficulty in apermanent settlement in that quarter. If I were drawing up the termsof a treaty of peace meant to be really lasting I should lay down threeabsolute bases; the rest needn't matter"--the Authority paused a momentand then proceeded to count off the three conditions of peace on hisfingers--"These would be, first, the evacuation of the Sandjak; second, an international guarantee for the Capitulations; and third, forinternal matters, an arrangement along the lines of the original firmanof Midhat Pasha. "

A murmur of complete satisfaction went round the group. 

"I don't say, " continued the Eminent Authority, "that there wouldn't beother minor matters to adjust; but they would be a mere detail. Youask me, for instance, for a _milice_, or at least a gendarmerie, in theAlbanian hinterland; very good, I grant it you at once. You retain, ifyou like, you abolish the Cypriotic suzerainty of the Porte--all right. These are matters of indifference. "

We all assumed a look of utter indifference. 

"But what about the Dardanelles? Would you have them fixed so that shipscould go through, or not?" asked Rapley. 

He is a plain man, not easily put down and liking a plain answer. He gotit. 

"The Dardanelles, " said the Authority, "could easily be denationalizedunder a quadrilateral guarantee to be made a pars materia of the pactumfoederis. "

"That ought to hold them, " I murmured. 

The Authority felt now that he had pretty well settled the map ofEurope. He rose and shook hands with us all around very cordially. Wedid not try to detain him. We felt that time like his was too valuableto be wasted on things like us. 

"Well, I tell you, " said Rapley, as we settled back into our chairs whenthe Great Authority had gone, "my own opinion, boys, is that the UnitedStates and England can trim Germany and Austria any day in the week andtwice on Sunday. "

After which somebody else said:

"I wonder how many of these submarines Germany has, anyway?"

And then we drifted back into the humbler kind of war talk that we havebeen carrying on for three years. 

But later, as we walked home together, Rapley said to me:

"That fellow threw a lot of light on things in Europe, didn't he?"

And I answered:

"Yes. "

What liars we all are!

IV. Personal Adventures in the Spirit World

I do not write what follows with the expectation of convincing orconverting anybody. We Spiritualists, or Spiritists--we call ourselvesboth, or either--never ask anybody to believe us. If they do, well andgood. If not, all right. Our attitude simply is that facts are facts. There they are; believe them or not as you like. As I said the othernight, in conversation with Aristotle and John Bunyan and GeorgeWashington and a few others, why should anybody believe us? Aristotle, I recollect, said that all that he wished was that everybody should knowhow happy he was; and Washington said that for his part, if peopleonly knew how bright and beautiful it all was where he was, they wouldwillingly, indeed gladly, pay the mere dollar--itself only a nominalfee--that it cost to talk to him. Bunyan, I remember, added that hehimself was quite happy. 

But, as I say, I never ask anybody to believe me; the more so as I wasonce an absolute sceptic myself. As I see it now, I was prejudiced. Themere fact that spiritual seances and the services of a medium involvedthe payment of money condemned the whole thing in my eyes. I did notrealize, as I do now, that these _medii_, like anybody else, have got tolive; otherwise they would die and become spirits. 

Nor would I now place these disclosures before the public eyes were ifnot that I think that in the present crisis they will prove of value tothe Allied cause. 

But let me begin at the beginning. My own conversion to spiritualismcame about, like that of so many others, through the more or less casualremark of a Friend. 

Noticing me one day gloomy and depressed, this Friend remarked to me:

"Have you any belief in Spiritualism?"

Had it come from anyone else, I should have turned the question asidewith a sneer. But it so happens that I owe a great deal of gratitude tothis particular Friend. It was he who, at a time when I was so afflictedwith rheumatism that I could scarcely leap five feet into the airwithout pain, said to me one day quite casually: "Have you ever triedpyro for your rheumatism?" One month later I could leap ten feet in theair--had I been able to--without the slightest malaise. The same man, I may add, hearing me one day exclaiming to myself: "Oh, if there wereanything that would remove the stains from my clothes!" said to me verysimply and quietly: "Have you ever washed them in luxo?" It was he, too, who, noticing a haggard look on my face after breakfast one morning, inquired immediately what I had been eating for breakfast; after which, with a simplicity and directness which I shall never forget, he said:"Why not eat humpo?"

Nor can I ever forget my feeling on another occasion when, hearing meexclaim aloud: "Oh, if there were only something invented for removingthe proteins and amygdaloids from a carbonized diet and leaving only thepure nitrogenous life-giving elements!" seized my hand in his, and saidin a voice thrilled with emotion: "There is! It has!"

The reader will understand, therefore, that a question, or query, from such a Friend was not to be put lightly aside. When he asked if Ibelieved in Spiritualism I answered with perfect courtesy:

"To be quite frank, I do not. "

There was silence between us for a time, and then my Friend said:

"Have you ever given it a trial?"

I paused a moment, as the idea was a novel one. 

"No, " I answered, "to be quite candid, I have not. "

Neither of us spoke for perhaps twenty minutes after this, when myFriend said:

"Have you anything against it?"

I thought awhile and then I said:

"Yes, I have. "

My Friend remained silent for perhaps half an hour. Then he asked:

"What?"

I meditated for some time. Then I said:

"This--it seems to me that the whole thing is done for money. Howutterly unnatural it is to call up the dead--one's great-grandfather, let us say--and pay money for talking to him. "

"Precisely, " said my Friend without a moment's pause. "I thought so. Nowsuppose I could bring you into contact with the spirit world through amedium, or through different _medii_, without there being any questionof money, other than a merely nominal fee, the money being, as it were, left out of count, and regarded as only, so to speak, nominal, somethinggiven merely _pro forma_ and _ad interim_. Under these circumstances, will you try the experiment?"

I rose and took my Friend's hand. 

"My dear fellow, " I said, "I not only will, but I shall. "

From this conversation dated my connection with Spiritualism, which hassince opened for me a new world. 

It would be out of place for me to indicate the particular addressor the particular methods employed by the agency to which my Friendintroduced me. I am anxious to avoid anything approaching a commercialtinge in what I write. Moreover, their advertisement can be seenalong with many others--all, I am sure, just as honourable and just astrustworthy--in the columns of any daily newspaper. As everybody knows, many methods are employed. The tapping of a table, the movement of aouija board, or the voice of a trance medium, are only a few among themany devices by which the spirits now enter into communication with us. But in my own case the method used was not only simplicity itself, butwas so framed as to carry with it the proof of its own genuineness. Onehad merely to speak into the receiver of a telephone, and the voice ofthe spirit was heard through the transmitter as in an ordinary telephoneconversation. 

It was only natural, after the scoffing remark that I had made, thatI should begin with my great-grandfather. Nor can I ever forget thepeculiar thrill that went through me when I was informed by the headof the agency that a tracer was being sent out for Great-grandfather tocall him to the phone. 

Great-grandfather--let me do him this justice--was prompt. He wasthere in three minutes. Whatever his line of business was in thespirit world--and I was never able to learn it--he must have left itimmediately and hurried to the telephone. Whatever later dissatisfactionI may have had with Great-grandfather, let me state it fairly andhonestly, he is at least a punctual man. Every time I called he cameright away without delay. Let those who are inclined to cavil at themethods of the Spiritualists reflect how impossible it would be tosecure such punctuality on anything but a basis of absolute honesty. 

In my first conversation with Great-grandfather, I found myself soabsurdly nervous at the thought of the vast gulf of space and timeacross which we were speaking that I perhaps framed my questionssomewhat too crudely. 

"How are you, great-grandfather?" I asked. 

His voice came back to me as distinctly as if he were in the next room:

"I am happy, very happy. Please tell everybody that I am _happy_. "

"Great-grandfather, " I said. "I will. I'll see that everybody knows it. Where are you, great-grandfather?"

"Here, " he answered, "beyond. "

"Beyond what?"

"Here on the other side. "

"Side of which?" I asked. 

"Of the great vastness, " he answered. "The other end of theIllimitable. "

"Oh, I see, " I said, "that's where you are. "

We were silent for some time. It is amazing how difficult it is to findthings to talk about with one's great-grandfather. For the life of me Icould think of nothing better than:

"What sort of weather have you been having?"

"There is no weather here, " said Great-grandfather. "It's all bright andbeautiful all the time. "

"You mean bright sunshine?" I said. 

"There is no sun here, " said Great-grandfather. 

"Then how do you mean--" I began. 

But at this moment the head of the agency tapped me on the shoulder toremind me that the two minutes' conversation for which I had deposited, as a nominal fee, five dollars, had expired. The agency was courteousenough to inform me that for five dollars more Great-grandfather wouldtalk another two minutes. 

But I thought it preferable to stop for the moment. 

Now I do not wish to say a word against my own great-grandfather. Yetin the conversations which followed on successive days I found him--howshall I put it?--unsatisfactory. He had been, when on this side--touse the term we Spiritualists prefer--a singularly able man, an Englishjudge; so at least I have always been given to understand. But somehowGreat-grandfather's brain, on the other side, seemed to have got badlydamaged. My own theory is that, living always in the bright sunshine, hehad got sunstroke. But I may wrong him. Perhaps it was locomotor ataxythat he had. That he was very, very happy where he was is beyondall doubt. He said so at every conversation. But I have noticed thatfeeble-minded people are often happy. He said, too, that he was glad tobe where he was; and on the whole I felt glad that he was too. Once ortwice I thought that possibly Great-grandfather felt so happy because hehad been drinking: his voice, even across the great gulf, seemed somehowto suggest it. But on being questioned he told me that where he wasthere was no drink and no thirst, because it was all so bright andbeautiful. I asked him if he meant that it was "bone-dry" like Kansas, or whether the rich could still get it? But he didn't answer. 

Our intercourse ended in a quarrel. No doubt it was my fault. Butit _did_ seem to me that Great-grandfather, who had been one of thegreatest English lawyers of his day, might have handed out an opinion. 

The matter came up thus: I had had an argument--it was in the middle oflast winter--with some men at my club about the legal interpretation ofthe Adamson Law. The dispute grew bitter. 

"I'm right, " I said, "and I'll prove it if you give me time to consultthe authorities. "

"Consult your great-grandfather!" sneered one of the men. 

"All right, " I said, "I will. "

I walked straight across the room to the telephone and called up theagency. 

"Give me my great-grandfather, " I said. "I want him right away. "

He was there. Good, punctual old soul, I'll say that for him. He wasthere. 

"Great-grandfather, " I said, "I'm in a discussion here about theconstitutionality of the Adamson Law, involving the power of Congressunder the Constitution. Now, you remember the Constitution when theymade it. Is the law all right?"

There was silence. 

"How does it stand, great-grandfather?" I said. "Will it hold water?"

Then he spoke. 

"Over here, " he said, "there are no laws, no members of Congress and noAdamsons; it's all bright and beautiful and--"

"Great-grandfather, " I said, as I hung up the receiver in disgust, "youare a Mutt!"

I never spoke to him again. Yet I feel sorry for him, feeble old soul, flitting about in the Illimitable, and always so punctual to hurry tothe telephone, so happy, so feeble-witted and courteous; a better man, perhaps, take it all in all, than he was in life; lonely, too, it maybe, out there in the Vastness. Yet I never called him up again. He ishappy. Let him stay. 

Indeed, my acquaintance with the spirit world might have ended at thatpoint but for the good offices, once more, of my Friend. 

"You find your great-grandfather a little slow, a little dull?" he said. "Well, then, if you want brains, power, energy, why not call up some ofthe spirits of the great men, some of the leading men, for instance, ofyour great-grandfather's time?"

"You've said it!" I exclaimed. "I'll call up Napoleon Bonaparte. "

I hurried to the agency. 

"Is it possible, " I asked, "for me to call up the Emperor Napoleon andtalk to him?"

Possible? Certainly. It appeared that nothing was easier. In the caseof Napoleon Bonaparte the nominal fee had to be ten dollars in place offive; but it seemed to me that, if Great-grandfather cost five, NapoleonBonaparte at ten was cheapness itself. 

"Will it take long to get him?" I asked anxiously. 

"We'll send out a tracer for him right away, " they said. 

Like Great-grandfather, Napoleon was punctual. That I will say for him. If in any way I think less of Napoleon Bonaparte now than I did, letme at least admit that a more punctual, obliging, willing man I nevertalked with. 

He came in two minutes. 

"He's on the line now, " they said. 

I took up the receiver, trembling. 

"Hello!" I called. "Est-ce que c'est l'Empereur Napoleon a qui j'ail'honneur de parler?"

"How's that?" said Napoleon. 

"Je demande si je suis en communication avec l'Empereur Napoleon--"

"Oh, " said Napoleon, "that's all right; speak English. "

"What!" I said in surprise. "You know English? I always thought youcouldn't speak a word of it. "

He was silent for a minute. Then he said:

"I picked it up over here. It's all right. Go right ahead. "

"Well, " I continued, "I've always admired you so much, your wonderfulbrain and genius, that I felt I wanted to speak to you and ask you howyou are. "

"Happy, " said Napoleon, "very happy. "

"That's good, " I said. "That's fine! And how is it out there? All brightand beautiful, eh?"

"Very beautiful, " said the Emperor. 

"And just where are you?" I continued. "Somewhere out in theUnspeakable, I suppose, eh?"

"Yes, " he answered, "out here beyond. "

"That's good, " I said. "Pretty happy, eh?"

"Very happy, " said Napoleon. "Tell everybody how happy I am. "

"I know, " I answered. "I'll tell them all. But just now I've aparticular thing to ask. We've got a big war on, pretty well the wholeworld in it, and I thought perhaps a few pointers from a man like you--"

But at this point the attendant touched me on the shoulder. "Your timeis up, " he said. 

I was about to offer to pay at once for two minutes more when a betteridea struck me. Talk with Napoleon? I'd do better than that. I'd call awhole War Council of great spirits, lay the war crisis before them andget the biggest brains that the world ever produced to work on how towin the war. 

Who should I have? Let me see! Napoleon himself, of course. I'd bringhim back. And for the sea business, the submarine problem, I'd haveNelson. George Washington, naturally, for the American end; forpolitics, say, good old Ben Franklin, the wisest old head that everwalked on American legs, and witty too; yes, Franklin certainly, if onlyfor his wit to keep the council from getting gloomy; Lincoln--honest oldAbe--him certainly I must have. Those and perhaps a few others. 

I reckoned that a consultation at ten dollars apiece with spirits ofthat class was cheap to the verge of the ludicrous. Their advice oughtto be worth millions--yes, billions--to the cause. 

The agency got them for me without trouble. There is no doubt they are apunctual crowd, over there beyond in the Unthinkable. 

I gathered them all in and talked to them, all and severally, thepayment, a merely nominal matter, being made, _pro forma_, in advance. 

I have in front of me in my rough notes the result of their advice. When properly drafted it will be, I feel sure, one of the most importantstate documents produced in the war. 

In the personal sense--I have to admit it--I found them just a trifledisappointing. Franklin, poor fellow, has apparently lost his wit. Thespirit of Lincoln seemed to me to have none of that homely wisdom thathe used to have. And it appears that we were quite mistaken in thinkingDisraeli a brilliant man; it is clear to me now that he was dull--justabout as dull as Great-grandfather, I should say. Washington, too, isnot at all the kind of man we thought him. 

Still, these are only personal impressions. They detract nothing fromthe extraordinary value of the advice given, which seems to me to settleonce and for ever any lingering doubt about the value of communicationswith the Other Side. 

My draft of their advice runs in part as follows:

The Spirit of Nelson, on being questioned on the submarine problem, holds that if all the men on the submarines were where he is everythingwould be bright and happy. This seems to me an invaluable hint. There isnothing needed now except to put them there. 

The advice of the Spirit of Napoleon about the campaign on land seemedto me, if possible, of lower value than that of Nelson on the campaignat sea. It is hardly conceivable that Napoleon has forgotten where theMarne is. But it may have changed since his day. At any rate, he saysthat, if ever the Russians cross the Marne, all is over. Coming fromsuch a master-strategist, this ought to be attended to. 

Franklin, on being asked whether the United States had done right ingoing into the war, said "Yes"; asked whether the country could withhonour have stayed out, he said "No. " There is guidance here forthinking men of all ranks. 

Lincoln is very happy where he is. So, too, I was amazed to find, isDisraeli. In fact, it was most gratifying to learn that all of the greatspirits consulted are very happy, and want everybody to know how happythey are. Where they are, I may say, it is all bright and beautiful. 

Fear of trespassing on their time prevented me from questioning each ofthem up to the full limit of the period contracted for. 

I understand that I have still to my credit at the agency five minutes'talk with Napoleon, available at any time, and similarly five minuteseach with Franklin and Washington, to say nothing of ten minutes'unexpired time with Great-grandfather. 

All of these opportunities I am willing to dispose of at a reduced rateto anyone still sceptical of the reality of the spirit world. 

V. The Sorrows of a Summer Guest

Let me admit, as I start to write, that the whole thing is my own fault. I should never have come. I knew better. I have known better for years. I have known that it is sheer madness to go and pay visits in otherpeople's houses. 

Yet in a moment of insanity I have let myself in for it and here I am. There is no hope, no outlet now till the first of September when myvisit is to terminate. Either that or death. I do not greatly carewhich. 

I write this, where no human eye can see me, down by the pond--they callit the lake--at the foot of Beverly-Jones's estate. It is six o'clockin the morning. No one is up. For a brief hour or so there is peace. But presently Miss Larkspur--the jolly English girl who arrived lastweek--will throw open her casement window and call across the lawn, "Hullo everybody! What a ripping morning!" And young Poppleson will callback in a Swiss yodel from somewhere in the shrubbery, and Beverly-Joneswill appear on the piazza with big towels round his neck andshout, "Who's coming for an early dip?" And so the day's fun andjollity--heaven help me--will begin again. 

Presently they will all come trooping in to breakfast, in colouredblazers and fancy blouses, laughing and grabbing at the food with mimicrudeness and bursts of hilarity. And to think that I might have beenbreakfasting at my club with the morning paper propped against thecoffee-pot, in a silent room in the quiet of the city. 

I repeat that it is my own fault that I am here. 

For many years it had been a principle of my life to visit nobody. I hadlong since learned that visiting only brings misery. If I got a card ortelegram that said, "Won't you run up to the Adirondacks and spend theweek-end with us?" I sent back word: "No, not unless the Adirondackscan run faster than I can, " or words to that effect. If the owner ofa country house wrote to me: "Our man will meet you with a trap anyafternoon that you care to name, " I answered, in spirit at least: "No, he won't, not unless he has a bear-trap or one of those traps in whichthey catch wild antelope. " If any fashionable lady friend wrote to mein the peculiar jargon that they use: "Can you give us from July thetwelfth at half-after-three till the fourteenth at four?" I replied:"Madam, take the whole month, take a year, but leave me in peace. "

Such at least was the spirit of my answers to invitations. In practiceI used to find it sufficient to send a telegram that read: "Crushed withwork impossible to get away, " and then stroll back into the reading-roomof the club and fall asleep again. 

But my coming here was my own fault. It resulted from one of thoseunhappy moments of expansiveness such as occur, I imagine, toeverybody--moments when one appears to be something quite differentfrom what one really is, when one feels oneself a thorough good fellow, sociable, merry, appreciative, and finds the people around one thesame. Such moods are known to all of us. Some people say that it is thesuper-self asserting itself. Others say it is from drinking. But letit pass. That at any rate was the kind of mood that I was in when I metBeverly-Jones and when he asked me here. 

It was in the afternoon, at the club. As I recall it, we were drinkingcocktails and I was thinking what a bright, genial fellow Beverly-Joneswas, and how completely I had mistaken him. For myself--I admit it--Iam a brighter, better man after drinking two cocktails than at any othertime--quicker, kindlier, more genial. And higher, morally. I had beentelling stories in that inimitable way that one has after two cocktails. In reality, I only know four stories, and a fifth that I don't quiteremember, but in moments of expansiveness they feel like a fund or flow. 

It was under such circumstances that I sat with Beverly-Jones. And itwas in shaking hands at leaving that he said: "I _do_ wish, old chap, that you could run up to our summer place and give us the whole ofAugust!" and I answered, as I shook him warmly by the hand: "My _dear_fellow, I'd simply _love_ to!" "By gad, then it's a go!" he said. "Youmust come up for August, and wake us all up!"

Wake them up! Ye gods! Me wake them up!

One hour later I was repenting of my folly, and wishing, when I thoughtof the two cocktails, that the prohibition wave could be hurried up soas to leave us all high and dry--bone-dry, silent and unsociable. 

Then I clung to the hope that Beverly-Jones would forget. But no. In duetime his wife wrote to me. They were looking forward so much, she said, to my visit; they felt--she repeated her husband's ominous phrase--thatI should wake them all up!

What sort of alarm-clock did they take me for, anyway!

Ah, well! They know better now. It was only yesterday afternoon thatBeverly-Jones found me standing here in the gloom of some cedar-treesbeside the edge of the pond and took me back so quietly to the housethat I realized he thought I meant to drown myself. So I did. 

I could have stood it better--my coming here, I mean--if they hadn'tcome down to the station in a body to meet me in one of those longvehicles with seats down the sides: silly-looking men in colouredblazers and girls with no hats, all making a hullabaloo of welcome. "Weare quite a small party, " Mrs. Beverly-Jones had written. Small! Greatheavens, what would they call a large one? And even those at the stationturned out to be only half of them. There were just as many more alllined up on the piazza of the house as we drove up, all waving a foolwelcome with tennis rackets and golf clubs. 

Small party, indeed! Why, after six days there are still some of theidiots whose names I haven't got straight! That fool with the fluffymoustache, which is he? And that jackass that made the salad at thepicnic yesterday, is he the brother of the woman with the guitar, orwho?

But what I mean is, there is something in that sort of noisy welcomethat puts me to the bad at the start. It always does. A group ofstrangers all laughing together, and with a set of catchwords and jokesall their own, always throws me into a fit of sadness, deeper thanwords. I had thought, when Mrs. Beverly-Jones said a _small_ party, she really meant small. I had had a mental picture of a few sad people, greeting me very quietly and gently, and of myself, quiet, too, butcheerful--somehow lifting them up, with no great effort, by my merepresence. 

Somehow from the very first I could feel that Beverly-Jones wasdisappointed in me. He said nothing. But I knew it. On that firstafternoon, between my arrival and dinner, he took me about his place, toshow it to me. I wish that at some proper time I had learned just whatit is that you say when a man shows you about his place. I neverknew before how deficient I am in it. I am all right to be shown aniron-and-steel plant, or a soda-water factory, or anything reallywonderful, but being shown a house and grounds and trees, things that Ihave seen all my life, leaves me absolutely silent. 

"These big gates, " said Beverly-Jones, "we only put up this year. "

"Oh, " I said. That was all. Why shouldn't they put them up this year? Ididn't care if they'd put them up this year or a thousand years ago. 

"We had quite a struggle, " he continued, "before we finally decided onsandstone. 

"You did, eh?" I said. There seemed nothing more to say; I didn'tknow what sort of struggle he meant, or who fought who; and personallysandstone or soapstone or any other stone is all the same to me. 

"This lawn, " said Beverly-Jones, "we laid down the first year we werehere. " I answered nothing. He looked me right in the face as he said itand I looked straight back at him, but I saw no reason to challenge hisstatement. "The geraniums along the border, " he went on, "are rather anexperiment. They're Dutch. "

I looked fixedly at the geraniums but never said a word. They wereDutch; all right, why not? They were an experiment. Very good; let thembe so. I know nothing in particular to say about a Dutch experiment. 

I could feel that Beverly-Jones grew depressed as he showed me round. I was sorry for him, but unable to help. I realized that there werecertain sections of my education that had been neglected. How to beshown things and make appropriate comments seems to be an art in itself. I don't possess it. It is not likely now, as I look at this pond, that Iever shall. 

Yet how simple a thing it seems when done by others. I saw thedifference at once the very next day, the second day of my visit, whenBeverly-Jones took round young Poppleton, the man that I mentioned abovewho will presently give a Swiss yodel from a clump of laurel bushes toindicate that the day's fun has begun. 

Poppleton I had known before slightly. I used to see him at the club. In club surroundings he always struck me as an ineffable young ass, loudand talkative and perpetually breaking the silence rules. Yet I haveto admit that in his summer flannels and with a straw hat on he can dothings that I can't. 

"These big gates, " began Beverly-Jones as he showed Poppleton round theplace with me trailing beside them, "we only put up this year. "

Poppleton, who has a summer place of his own, looked at the gates verycritically. 

"Now, do you know what _I'd_ have done with those gates, if they weremine?" he said. 

"No, " said Beverly-Jones. 

"I'd have set them two feet wider apart; they're too narrow, old chap, too narrow. " Poppleton shook his head sadly at the gates. 

"We had quite a struggle, " said Beverly-Jones, "before we finallydecided on sandstone. "

I realized that he had one and the same line of talk that he alwaysused. I resented it. No wonder it was easy for him. "Great mistake, "said Poppleton. "Too soft. Look at this"--here he picked up a big stoneand began pounding at the gate-post--"see how easily it chips! Smashesright off. Look at that, the whole corner knocks right off, see!"

Beverly-Jones entered no protest. I began to see that there is a sort ofunderstanding, a kind of freemasonry, among men who have summer places. One shows his things; the other runs them down, and smashes them. Thismakes the whole thing easy at once. Beverly-Jones showed his lawn. 

"Your turf is all wrong, old boy, " said Poppleton. "Look! it has no bodyto it. See, I can kick holes in it with my heel. Look at that, and that!If I had on stronger boots I could kick this lawn all to pieces. "

"These geraniums along the border, " said Beverly-Jones, "are rather anexperiment. They're Dutch. "

"But my dear fellow, " said Poppleton, "you've got them set in wrongly. They ought to slope _from_ the sun you know, never _to_ it. Wait abit"--here he picked up a spade that was lying where a gardener had beenworking--"I'll throw a few out. Notice how easily they come up. Ah, thatfellow broke! They're apt to. There, I won't bother to reset them, buttell your man to slope them over from the sun. That's the idea. "

Beverly-Jones showed his new boat-house next and Poppleton knocked ahole in the side with a hammer to show that the lumber was too thin. 

"If that were _my_ boat-house, " he said, "I'd rip the outside clean offit and use shingle and stucco. "

It was, I noticed, Poppleton's plan first to imagine Beverly-Jones'sthings his own, and then to smash them, and then give them back smashedto Beverly-Jones. This seemed to please them both. Apparently it is awell-understood method of entertaining a guest and being entertained. Beverly-Jones and Poppleton, after an hour or so of it, were delightedwith one another. 

Yet somehow, when I tried it myself, it failed to work. 

"Do you know what I would do with that cedar summer-house if it wasmine?" I asked my host the next day. 

"No, " he said. 

"I'd knock the thing down and burn it, " I answered. 

But I think I must have said it too fiercely. Beverly-Jones looked hurtand said nothing. 

Not that these people are not doing all they can for me. I know that. I admit it. If I _should_ meet my end here and if--to put the thingstraight out--_my_ lifeless body is found floating on the surface ofthis pond, I should like there to be documentary evidence of _that_much. They are trying their best. "This is Liberty Hall, " Mrs. Beverly-Jones said to me on the first day of my visit. "We want you tofeel that you are to do absolutely as you like!"

Absolutely as I like! How little they know me. I should like to haveanswered: "Madam, I have now reached a time of life when human societyat breakfast is impossible to me; when any conversation prior to elevena. M. Must be considered out of the question; when I prefer to eat mymeals in quiet, or with such mild hilarity as can be got from a comicpaper; when I can no longer wear nankeen pants and a coloured blazerwithout a sense of personal indignity; when I can no longer leap andplay in the water like a young fish; when I do not yodel, cannot singand, to my regret; dance even worse than I did when young; and when themood of mirth and hilarity comes to me only as a rare visitant--shallwe say at a burlesque performance--and never as a daily part of myexistence. Madam, I am unfit to be a summer guest. If this is LibertyHall indeed, let me, oh, let me go!"

Such is the speech that I would make if it were possible. As it is, Ican only rehearse it to myself. 

Indeed, the more I analyse it the more impossible it seems, for a man ofmy temperament at any rate, to be a summer guest. These people, and, I imagine, all other summer people, seem to be trying to live in aperpetual joke. Everything, all day, has to be taken in a mood ofuproarious fun. 

However, I can speak of it all now in quiet retrospect and withoutbitterness. It will soon be over now. Indeed, the reason why I have comedown at this early hour to this quiet water is that things have reacheda crisis. The situation has become extreme and I must end it. 

It happened last night. Beverly-Jones took me aside while the otherswere dancing the fox-trot to the victrola on the piazza. 

"We're planning to have some rather good fun to-morrow night, " he said, "something that will be a good deal more in your line than a lot of it, I'm afraid, has been up here. In fact, my wife says that this will bethe very thing for you. "

"Oh, " I said. 

"We're going to get all the people from the other houses over andthe girls"--this term Beverly-Jones uses to mean his wife and herfriends--"are going to get up a sort of entertainment with charades andthings, all impromptu, more or less, of course--"

"Oh, " I said. I saw already what was coming. 

"And they want you to act as a sort of master-of-ceremonies, to make upthe gags and introduce the different stunts and all that. I was tellingthe girls about that afternoon at the club, when you were simply killingus all with those funny stories of yours, and they're all wild over it. "

"Wild?" I repeated. 

"Yes, quite wild over it. They say it will be the hit of the summer. "

Beverly-Jones shook hands with great warmth as we parted for thenight. I knew that he was thinking that my character was about to betriumphantly vindicated, and that he was glad for my sake. 

Last night I did not sleep. I remained awake all night thinking of the"entertainment. " In my whole life I have done nothing in public exceptonce when I presented a walking-stick to the vice-president of our clubon the occasion of his taking a trip to Europe. Even for that I usedto rehearse to myself far into the night sentences that began: "Thiswalking-stick, gentleman, means far more than a mere walking-stick. "

And now they expect me to come out as a merry master-of-ceremoniesbefore an assembled crowd of summer guests. 

But never mind. It is nearly over now. I have come down to this quietwater in the early morning to throw myself in. They will find mefloating here among the lilies. Some few will understand. I can see itwritten, as it will be, in the newspapers. 

"What makes the sad fatality doubly poignant is that the unhappy victimhad just entered upon a holiday visit that was to have been prolongedthroughout the whole month. Needless to say, he was regarded as the lifeand soul of the pleasant party of holiday makers that had gathered atthe delightful country home of Mr. And Mrs. Beverly-Jones. Indeed, onthe very day of the tragedy, he was to have taken a leading part instaging a merry performance of charades and parlour entertainments--athing for which his genial talents and overflowing high spirits renderedhim specially fit. "

When they read that, those who know me best will understand how and whyI died. "He had still over three weeks to stay there, " they will say. "He was to act as the stage manager of charades. " They will shake theirheads. They will understand. 

But what is this? I raise my eyes from the paper and I see Beverly-Joneshurriedly approaching from the house. He is hastily dressed, withflannel trousers and a dressing-gown. His face looks grave. Somethinghas happened. Thank God, something has happened. Some accident! Sometragedy! Something to prevent the charades!

I write these few lines on a fast train that is carrying me back to NewYork, a cool, comfortable train, with a deserted club-car where I cansit in a leather arm-chair, with my feet up on another, smoking, silent, and at peace. 

Villages, farms and summer places are flying by. Let them fly. I, too, am flying--back to the rest and quiet of the city. 

"Old man, " Beverly-Jones said, as he laid his hand on mine verykindly--he is a decent fellow, after all, is Jones--"they're calling youby long-distance from New York. "

"What is it?" I asked, or tried to gasp. 

"It's bad news, old chap; fire in your office last evening. I'm afraida lot of your private papers were burned. Robinson--that's your seniorclerk, isn't it?--seems to have been on the spot trying to save things. He's badly singed about the face and hands. I'm afraid you must go atonce. "

"Yes, yes, " I said, "at once. "

"I know. I've told the man to get the trap ready right away. You've justtime to catch the seven-ten. Come along. "

"Right, " I said. I kept my face as well as I could, trying to hidemy exultation. The office burnt! Fine! Robinson's singed! Glorious!I hurriedly packed my things and whispered to Beverly-Jones farewellmessages for the sleeping household. I never felt so jolly and facetiousin my life. I could feel that Beverly-Jones was admiring the spirit andpluck with which I took my misfortune. Later on he would tell them allabout it. 

The trap ready! Hurrah! Good-bye, old man! Hurrah! All right. I'lltelegraph. Right you are, good-bye. Hip, hip, hurrah! Here we are! Trainright on time. Just these two bags, porter, and there's a dollar foryou. What merry, merry fellows these darky porters are, anyway!

And so here I am in the train, safe bound for home and the summer quietof my club. 

Well done for Robinson! I was afraid that it had missed fire, or that mymessage to him had gone wrong. It was on the second day of my visit thatI sent word to him to invent an accident--something, anything--to callme back. I thought the message had failed. I had lost hope. But it isall right now, though he certainly pitched the note pretty high. 

Of course I can't let the Beverly-Joneses know that it was a put-up job. I must set fire to the office as soon as I get back. But it's worth it. And I'll have to singe Robinson about the face and hands. But it's worththat too!

VI. To Nature and Back Again

It was probably owing to the fact that my place of lodgment in New Yorkoverlooked the waving trees of Central Park that I was consumed, all thesummer through, with a great longing for the woods. To me, as a lover ofNature, the waving of a tree conveys thoughts which are never conveyedto me except by seeing a tree wave. 

This longing grew upon me. I became restless with it. In the daytimeI dreamed over my work. At night my sleep was broken and restless. Attimes I would even wander forth, at night into the park, and there, deepin the night shadow of the trees, imagine myself alone in the recessesof the dark woods remote from the toil and fret of our distractedcivilization. 

This increasing feeling culminated in the resolve which becomes thesubject of this narrative. The thought came to me suddenly one night. Iwoke from my sleep with a plan fully matured in my mind. It was this:I would, for one month, cast off all the travail and cares of civilizedlife and become again the wild man of the woods that Nature made me. M woods, somewhere in New England, divest myself of my clothes--exceptonly my union suit--crawl into the woods, stay there a month and thencrawl out again. To a trained woodsman and crawler like myself the thingwas simplicity itself. For food I knew that I could rely on berries, roots, shoots, mosses, mushrooms, fungi, bungi--in fact the whole ofNature's ample storehouse; for my drink, the running brook and the quietpool; and for my companions the twittering chipmunk, the chickadee, the chocktaw, the choo-choo, the chow-chow, and the hundred and oneinhabitants of the forgotten glade and the tangled thicket. 

Fortunately for me, my resolve came to me upon the last day in August. The month of September was my vacation. My time was my own. I was freeto go. 

On my rising in the morning my preparations were soon made; or, rather, there were practically no preparations to make. I had but to supplymyself with a camera, my one necessity in the woods, and to say good-byeto my friends. Even this last ordeal I wished to make as brief aspossible. I had no wish to arouse their anxiety over the dangerous, perhaps foolhardy, project that I had in mind. I wished, as far aspossible, to say good-bye in such a way as to allay the very naturalfears which my undertaking would excite in the minds of my friends. 

From myself, although trained in the craft of the woods, I could notconceal the danger that I incurred. Yet the danger was almost forgottenin the extraordinary and novel interest that attached to the experiment. Would it prove possible for a man, unaided by our civilized arts andindustries, to maintain himself naked--except for his union suit--in theheart of the woods? Could he do it, or could he not? And if he couldn'twhat then?

But this last thought I put from me. Time alone could answer thequestion. 

As in duty bound, I went first to the place of business where I amemployed, to shake hands and say good-bye to my employer. 

"I am going, " I said, "to spend a month naked alone in the woods. "

He looked up from his desk with genial kindliness. 

"That's right, " he said, "get a good rest. "

"My plan is, " I added, "to live on berries and funguses. "

"Fine, " he answered. "Well, have a good time, old man--good-bye. "

Then I dropped in casually upon one of my friends. 

"Well, " I said, "I'm off to New England to spend a month naked. "

"Nantucket, " he said, "or Newport?"

"No, " I answered, speaking as lightly as I could. "I'm going into thewoods and stay there naked for a month. "

"Oh, yes, " he said. "I see. Well, good-bye, old chap--see you when youget back. "

After that I called upon two or three other men to say a brief word offarewell. I could not help feeling slightly nettled, I must confess, atthe very casual way in which they seemed to take my announcement. "Oh, yes, " they said, "naked in the woods, eh? Well, ta-ta till you getback. "

Here was a man about to risk his life--for there was no denyingthe fact--in a great sociological experiment, yet they received theannouncement with absolute unconcern. It offered one more assurance, hadI needed it, of the degenerate state of the civilization upon which Iwas turning my back. 

On my way to the train I happened to run into a newspaper reporter withwhom I have some acquaintance. 

"I'm just off, " I said, "to New England to spend a month naked--at leastnaked all but my union suit--in the woods; no doubt you'll like a fewdetails about it for your paper. "

"Thanks, old man, " he said, "we've pretty well given up running thatnature stuff. We couldn't do anything with it--unless, of course, anything happens to you. Then we'd be glad to give you some space. "

Several of my friends had at least the decency to see me off on thetrain. One, and one alone accompanied me on the long night-ride to NewEngland in order that he might bring back my clothes, my watch, andother possessions from the point where I should enter the woods, together with such few messages of farewell as I might scribble at thelast moment. 

It was early morning when we arrived at the wayside station where wewere to alight. From here we walked to the edge of the woods. Arrivedat this point we halted. I took off my clothes, with the exception ofmy union suit. Then, taking a pot of brown stain from my valise, Iproceeded to dye my face and hands and my union suit itself a deepbutternut brown. 

"What's that for?" asked my friend. 

"For protection, " I answered. "Don't you know that all animals areprotected by their peculiar markings that render them invisible? Thecaterpillar looks like the leaf it eats from; the scales of the fishcounterfeit the glistening water of the brook; the bear and the 'possumare coloured like the tree-trunks on which they climb. There!" I added, as I concluded my task. "I am now invisible. "

"Gee!" said my friend. 

I handed him back the valise and the empty paint-pot, dropped to myhands and knees--my camera slung about my neck--and proceeded to crawlinto the bush. My friend stood watching me. 

"Why don't you stand up and walk?" I heard him call. 

I turned half round and growled at him. Then I plunged deeper into thebush, growling as I went. 

After ten minutes' active crawling I found myself in the heart of theforest. It reached all about me on every side for hundreds of miles. Allaround me was the unbroken stillness of the woods. Not a sound reachedmy ear save the twittering of a squirrel, or squirl, in the brancheshigh above my head or the far-distant call of a loon hovering over somewoodland lake. 

I judged that I had reached a spot suitable for my habitation. 

My first care was to make a fire. Difficult though it might appear tothe degenerate dweller of the city to do this, to the trained woodsman, such as I had now become, it is nothing. I selected a dry stick, rubbedit vigorously against my hind leg, and in a few moments it broke into agenerous blaze. Half an hour later I was sitting beside a glowing fireof twigs discussing with great gusto an appetizing mess of boiled grassand fungi cooked in a hollow stone. 

I ate my fill, not pausing till I was full, careless, as the natural manever is, of the morrow. Then, stretched out upon the pine-needles at thefoot of a great tree, I lay in drowsy contentment listening to the songof the birds, the hum of the myriad insects and the strident note ofthe squirrel high above me. At times I would give utterance to the softanswering call, known to every woodsman, that is part of the freemasonryof animal speech. As I lay thus, I would not have exchanged places withthe pale dweller in the city for all the wealth in the world. Here I layremote from the world, happy, full of grass, listening to the crooningof the birds. 

But the mood of inaction and reflection cannot last, even with the loverof Nature. It was time to be up and doing. Much lay before me to be donebefore the setting of the sun should bring with it, as I fully expectedit would, darkness. Before night fell I must build a house, make myselfa suit of clothes, lay in a store of nuts, and in short prepare myselffor the oncoming of winter, which, in the bush, may come on at any timein the summer. 

I rose briskly from the ground to my hands and knees and set myself tothe building of my house. The method that I intended to follow here wasmerely that which Nature has long since taught to the beaver and which, moreover, is known and practised by the gauchos of the pampas, by thegoogoos of Rhodesia and by many other tribes. I had but to select asuitable growth of trees and gnaw them down with my teeth, taking careso to gnaw them that each should fall into the place appointed for itin the building. The sides, once erected in this fashion, another row oftrees, properly situated, is gnawed down to fall crosswise as the roof. 

I set myself briskly to work and in half an hour had already thesatisfaction of seeing my habitation rising into shape. I was stillgnawing with unabated energy when I was interrupted by a low growling inthe underbrush. With animal caution I shrank behind a tree, growling inreturn. I could see something moving in the bushes, evidently an animalof large size. From its snarl I judged it to be a bear. I could hear itmoving nearer to me. It was about to attack me. A savage joy thrilledthrough me at the thought, while my union suit bristled with rage fromhead to foot as I emitted growl after growl of defiance. I bared myteeth to the gums, snarling, and lashed my flank with my hind foot. Eagerly I watched for the onrush of the bear. In savage combat whostrikes first wins. It was my idea, as soon as the bear should appear, to bite off its front legs one after the other. This initial advantageonce gained, I had no doubt of ultimate victory. 

The brushes parted. I caught a glimpse of a long brown body and a hairyhead. Then the creature reared up, breasting itself against a log, fullin front of me. Great heavens! It was not a bear at all. It was a man. 

He was dressed, as I was, in a union suit, and his face and hands, likemine, were stained a butternut brown. His hair was long and matted andtwo weeks' stubble of beard was on his face. 

For a minute we both glared at one another, still growling. Then the manrose up to a standing position with a muttered exclamation of disgust. 

"Ah, cut it out, " he said. "Let's talk English. "

He walked over towards me and sat down upon a log in an attitude thatseemed to convey the same disgust as the expression of his features. Then he looked round about him. 

"What are you doing?" he said. 

"Building a house, " I answered. 

"I know, " he said with a nod. "What are you here for?"

"Why, " I explained, "my plan is this: I want to see whether a man cancome out here in the woods, naked, with no aid but that of his own handsand his own ingenuity and--"

"Yes, yes, I know, " interrupted the disconsolate man. "Earn himself alivelihood in the wilderness, live as the cave-man lived, carefree andfar from the curse of civilization!"

"That's it. That was my idea, " I said, my enthusiasm rekindling as Ispoke. "That's what I'm doing; my food is to be the rude grass and theroots that Nature furnishes for her children, and for my drink--"

"Yes, yes, " he interrupted again with impatience, "for your drink therunning rill, for your bed the sweet couch of hemlock, and for yourcanopy the open sky lit with the soft stars in the deep-purple vault ofthe dewy night. I know. "

"Great heavens, man!" I exclaimed. "That's my idea exactly. In fact, those are my very phrases. How could you have guessed it?"

He made a gesture with his hand to indicate weariness anddisillusionment. 

"Pshaw!" he said. "I know it because I've been doing it. I've been herea fortnight now on this open-air, life-in-the-woods game. Well, I'm sickof it! This last lets me out. "

"What last?" I asked. 

"Why, meeting you. Do you realize that you are the nineteenth manthat I've met in the last three days running about naked in the woods?They're all doing it. The woods are full of them. "

"You don't say so!" I gasped. 

"Fact. Wherever you go in the bush you find naked men all working outthis same blasted old experiment. Why, when you get a little farther inyou'll see signs up: NAKED MEN NOT ALLOWED IN THIS BUSH, and NAKED MENKEEP OFF, and GENTLEMEN WHO ARE NAKED WILL KINDLY KEEP TO THE HIGH ROAD, and a lot of things like that. You must have come in at a wrong place oryou'd have noticed the little shanties that they have now at the edge ofthe New England bush with signs up: UNION SUITS BOUGHT AND SOLD, CAMERASFOR SALE OR TO RENT, HIGHEST PRICE FOR CAST-OFF CLOTHING, and all thatsort of thing. "

"No, " I said. "I saw nothing. "

"Well, you look when you go back. As for me, I'm done with it. Thething's worked out. I'm going back to the city to see whether I can't, right there in the heart of the city, earn myself a livelihood with myunaided hands and brains. That's the real problem; no more bumming onthe animals for me. This bush business is too easy. Well, good-bye; I'moff. "

"But stop a minute, " I said. "How is it that, if what you say is true, Ihaven't seen or heard anybody in the bush, and I've been here since themiddle of the morning?"

"Nonsense, " the man answered. "They were probably all round you but youdidn't recognize them. "

"No, no, it's not possible. I lay here dreaming beneath a tree and therewasn't a sound, except the twittering of a squirrel and, far away, thecry of a lake-loon, nothing else. "

"Exactly, the twittering of a squirrel! That was some feller up the treetwittering to beat the band to let on that he was a squirrel, and nodoubt some other feller calling out like a loon over near the lake. Isuppose you gave them the answering cry?"

"I did, " I said. "I gave that low guttural note which--"

"Precisely--which is the universal greeting in the freemasonry of animalspeech. I see you've got it all down pat. Well, good-bye again. I'm off. Oh, don't bother to growl, please. I'm sick of that line of stuff. "

"Good-bye, " I said. 

He slid through the bushes and disappeared. I sat where I was, musing, my work interrupted, a mood of bitter disillusionment heavy upon me. SoI sat, it may have been for hours. 

In the far distance I could hear the faint cry of a bittern in somelonely marsh. 

"Now, who the deuce is making that noise?" I muttered. "Some silly fool, I suppose, trying to think he's a waterfowl. Cut it out!"

Long I lay, my dream of the woods shattered, wondering what to do. 

Then suddenly there came to my ear the loud sound of voices, humanvoices, strident and eager, with nothing of the animal growl in them. 

"He's in there. I seen him!" I heard some one call. 

Rapidly I dived sideways into the underbrush, my animal instinct strongupon me again, growling as I went. Instinctively I knew that it was Ithat they were after. All the animal joy of being hunted came over me. My union suit stood up on end with mingled fear and rage. 

As fast as I could I retreated into the wood. Yet somehow, as I moved, the wood, instead of growing denser, seemed to thin out. I crouched low, still growling and endeavouring to bury myself in the thicket. I wasfilled with a wild sense of exhilaration such as any lover of the wildlife would feel at the knowledge that he is being chased, that someone is after him, that some one is perhaps just a few feet behind him, waiting to stick a pitchfork into him as he runs. There is no ecstasylike this. 

Then I realized that my pursuers had closed in on me. I was surroundedon all sides. 

The woods had somehow grown thin. They were like the mere shrubbery of apark--it might be of Central Park itself. I could hear among the deepertones of men the shrill voices of boys. "There he is, " one cried, "goingthrough them bushes! Look at him humping himself!" "What is it, what'sthe sport?" another called. "Some crazy guy loose in the park in hisunderclothes and the cops after him. "

Then they closed in on me. I recognized the blue suits of the policeforce and their short clubs. In a few minutes I was dragged out ofthe shrubbery and stood in the open park in my pyjamas, wide awake, shivering in the chilly air of early morning. 

Fortunately for me, it was decided at the police-court thatsleep-walking is not an offence against the law. I was dismissed with acaution. 

My vacation is still before me, and I still propose to spend it naked. But I shall do so at Atlantic City. 

VII. The Cave-Man as He is

I think it likely that few people besides myself have ever actually seenand spoken with a "cave-man. "

Yet everybody nowadays knows all about the cave-man. The fifteen-centmagazines and the new fiction have made him a familiar figure. A fewyears ago, it is true, nobody had ever heard of him. But lately, for some reason or other, there has been a run on the cave-man. Noup-to-date story is complete without one or two references to him. Thehero, when the heroine slights him, is said to "feel for a moment thewild, primordial desire of the cave-man, the longing to seize her, todrag her with him, to carry her away, to make her his. " When he takesher in his arms it is recorded that "all the elemental passion of thecave-man surges through him. " When he fights, on her behalf against adray-man or a gun-man or an ice-man or any other compound that makes upa modern villain, he is said to "feel all the fierce fighting joy of thecave-man. " If they kick him in the ribs, he likes it. If they beathim over the head, he never feels it; because he is, for the moment, a cave-man. And the cave-man is, and is known to be, quite abovesensation. 

The heroine, too, shares the same point of view. "Take me, " she murmursas she falls into the hero's embrace, "be my cave-man. " As she says itthere is, so the writer assures us, something of the fierce light of thecave-woman in her eyes, the primordial woman to be wooed and won only byforce. 

So, like everybody else, I had, till I saw him, a great idea of thecave-man. I had a clear mental picture of him--huge, brawny, muscular, a wolfskin thrown about him and a great war-club in his hand. I knewhim as without fear with nerves untouched by our effete civilization, fighting, as the beasts fight, to the death, killing without pity andsuffering without a moan. 

It was a picture that I could not but admire. 

I liked, too--I am free to confess it--his peculiar way with women. Hissystem was, as I understood it, to take them by the neck and bring themalong with him. That was his fierce, primordial way of "wooing" them. And they liked it. So at least we are informed by a thousand credibleauthorities. They liked it. And the modern woman, so we are told, wouldstill like it if only one dared to try it on. There's the trouble; ifone only _dared_!

I see lots of them--I'll be frank about it--that I should like to grab, to sling over my shoulder and carry away with me; or, what is the samething, allowing for modern conditions, have an express man carry them. I notice them at Atlantic City, I see them in Fifth Avenue--yes, everywhere. But would they come? That's the _deuce_ of it. Would theycome right along, like the cave-woman, merely biting off my ear asthey came, or are they degenerate enough to bring an action against me, indicting the express company as a party of the second part?

Doubts such as these prevent me from taking active measures. But theyleave me, as they leave many another man, preoccupied and fascinatedwith the cave-man. 

One may imagine, then, my extraordinary interest in him when I actuallymet him in the flesh. Yet the thing came about quite simply, indeed moreby accident than by design, an adventure open to all. 

It so happened that I spent my vacation in Kentucky--the region, aseverybody knows, of the great caves. They extend--it is a matter ofcommon knowledge--for hundreds of miles; in some places dark and sunlesstunnels, the black silence broken only by the dripping of the water fromthe roof; in other places great vaults like subterranean temples, withvast stone arches sweeping to the dome, and with deep, still water ofunfathomed depth as the floor; and here and there again they are lightedfrom above through rifts in the surface of the earth, and are dry andsand strewn--fit for human habitation. 

In such caves as these--so has the obstinate legend run forcenturies--there still dwell cave-men, the dwindling remnant of theirrace. And here it was that I came across him. 

I had penetrated into the caves far beyond my guides. I carried arevolver and had with me an electric lantern, but the increasingsunlight in the cave as I went on had rendered the latter needless. 

There he sat, a huge figure, clad in a great wolfskin. Besides him laya great club. Across his knee was a spear round which he was bindingsinews that tightened under his muscular hand. His head was bent overhis task. His matted hair had fallen over his eyes. He did not see metill I was close beside him on the sanded floor of the cave. I gave aslight cough. 

"Excuse me!" I said. 

The Cave-man gave a startled jump. 

"My goodness, " he said, "you startled me!"

I could see that he was quite trembling. 

"You came along so suddenly, " he said, "it gave me the jumps. " Thenhe muttered, more to himself than to me, "Too much of this darnedcave-water! I must quit drinking it. "

I sat down near to the Caveman on a stone, taking care to place myrevolver carefully behind it. I don't mind admitting that a loadedrevolver, especially as I get older, makes me nervous. I was afraid thathe might start fooling with it. One can't be too careful. 

As a way of opening conversation I picked up the Cave-man's club. 

"Say, " I said, "that's a great club you have, eh? By gee! it's heavy!"

"Look out!" said the Cave-man with a certain agitation in his voice ashe reached out and took the club from me. "Don't fool with that club!It's loaded! You know you could easily drop the club on your toes, or onmine. A man can't be too careful with a loaded club. "

He rose as he said this and carried the club to the other side of thecave, where he leant it against the wall. Now that he stood up and Icould examine him he no longer looked so big. In fact he was not big atall. The effect of size must have come, I think, from the great wolfskinthat he wore. I have noticed the same thing in Grand Opera. I noticed, too, for the first time that the cave we were in seemed fitted up, in arude sort of way, like a dwelling-room. 

"This is a nice place you've got, " I said. 

"Dandy, isn't it?" he said, as he cast his eyes around. "_She_ fixedit up. She's got great taste. See that mud sideboard? That's the realthing, A-one mud! None of your cheap rock about that. We fetched thatmud for two miles to make that. And look at that wicker bucket. Isn'tit great? Hardly leaks at all except through the sides, and perhapsa little through the bottom. _She_ wove that. She's a humdinger atweaving. "

He was moving about as he spoke, showing me all his little belongings. He reminded me for all the world of a man in a Harlem flat, showing avisitor how convenient it all is. Somehow, too, the Cave-man had lostall appearance of size. He looked, in fact, quite little, and when hehad pushed his long hair back from his forehead he seemed to wear thatsame, worried, apologetic look that we all have. To a higher being, ifthere is such, our little faces one and all appear, no doubt, pathetic. 

I knew that he must be speaking about his wife. 

"Where is she?" I asked. 

"My wife?" he said. "Oh, she's gone out somewhere through the caves withthe kid. You didn't meet our kid as you came along, did you? No? Well, he's the greatest boy you even saw. He was only two this nineteenth ofAugust. And you should hear him say 'Pop' and 'Mom' just as if he wasgrown up. He is really, I think, about the brightest boy I've everknown--I mean quite apart from being his father, and speaking of him asif he were anyone else's boy. You didn't meet them?"

"No, " I said, "I didn't. "

"Oh, well, " the Cave-man went on, "there are lots of ways and passagesthrough. I guess they went in another direction. The wife generallylikes to take a stroll round in the morning and see some of theneighbours. But, say, " he interrupted, "I guess I'm forgetting mymanners. Let me get you a drink of cave-water. Here, take it in thisstone mug! There you are, say when! Where do we get it? Oh, we find itin parts of the cave where it filters through the soil above. Alcoholic?Oh, yes, about fifteen per cent, I think. Some say it soaks all throughthe soil of this State. Sit down and be comfortable, and, say if youhear the woman coming just slip your mug behind that stone out of sight. Do you mind? Now, try one of these elm-root cigars. Oh, pick a goodone--there are lots of them!"

We seated ourselves in some comfort on the soft sand, our backs againstthe boulders, sipping cave-water and smoking elm-root cigars. It seemedaltogether as if one were back in civilization, talking to a genialhost. 

"Yes, " said the Cave-man, and he spoke, as it were, in a large andpatronizing way. "I generally let my wife trot about as she likes inthe daytime. She and the other women nowadays are getting up all thesedifferent movements, and the way I look at it is that if it amusesher to run around and talk and attend meetings, why let her do it. Ofcourse, " he continued, assuming a look of great firmness, "if I liked toput my foot down--"

"Exactly, exactly, " I said. "It's the same way with us!"

"Is it now!" he questioned with interest. "I had imagined that it wasall different Outside. You're from the Outside, aren't you? I guessedyou must be from the skins you wear. "

"Have you never been Outside?" I asked. 

"No fear!" said the Cave-man. "Not for mine! Down here in the caves, clean underground and mostly in the dark, it's all right. It's nice andsafe. " He gave a sort of shudder. "Gee! You fellows out there musthave your nerve to go walking around like that on the outside rim ofeverything, where the stars might fall on you or a thousand thingshappen to you. But then you Outside Men have got a natural elementalfearlessness about you that we Cave-men have lost. I tell you, I waspretty scared when I looked up and saw you standing there. "

"Had you never seen any Outside Men?" I asked. 

"Why, yes, " he answered, "but never close. The most I've done is togo out to the edges of the cave sometimes and look out and see them, Outside Men and Women, in the distance. But of course, in one way oranother, we Cave-men know all about them. And the thing we envy mostin you Outside Men is the way you treat your women! By gee! You take nononsense from them--you fellows are the real primordial, primitive men. We've lost it somehow. "

"Why, my dear fellow--" I began. 

But the Cave-man, who had sat suddenly upright, interrupted. 

"Quick! quick!" he said. "Hide that infernal mug! She's coming. Don'tyou hear!"

As he spoke I caught the sound of a woman's voice somewhere in the outerpassages of the cave. 

"Now, Willie, " she was saying, speaking evidently to the Cave-child, "you come right along back with me, and if I ever catch you getting insuch a mess as that again I'll never take you anywhere, so there!"

Her voice had grown louder. She entered the cave as she spoke--abig-boned woman in a suit of skins leading by the hand a pathetic littlemite in a rabbit-skin, with blue eyes and a slobbered face. 

But as I was sitting the Cave-woman evidently couldn't see me; for sheturned at once to speak to her husband, unconscious of my presence. 

"Well, of all the idle creatures!" she exclaimed. "Loafing here in thesand"--she gave a sniff--"and smoking--"

"My dear, " began the Cave-man. 

"Don't you my-dear me!" she answered. "Look at this place! Nothingtidied up yet and the day half through! Did you put the alligator on toboil?"

"I was just going to say--" began the Cave-man. 

"_Going_ to say! Yes, I don't doubt you were going to say. You'd go onsaying all day if I'd let you. What I'm asking you is, is the alligatoron to boil for dinner or is it not--My gracious!" She broke off all ofa sudden, as she caught sight of me. "Why didn't you say there wascompany? Land sakes! And you sit there and never say there was agentleman here!"

She had hustled across the cave and was busily arranging her hair with apool of water as a mirror. 

"Gracious!" she said, "I'm a perfect fright! You must excuse me, " sheadded, looking round toward me, "for being in this state. I'd justslipped on this old fur blouse and run around to a neighbour's and I'dno idea that he was going to bring in company. Just like him! I'm afraidwe've nothing but a plain alligator stew to offer you, but I'm sure ifyou'll stay to dinner--"

She was hustling about already, good primitive housewife that she was, making the stone-plates rattle on the mud table. 

"Why, really--" I began. But I was interrupted by a sudden exclamationfrom both the Cave-man and the Cave-woman together:

"Willie! where's Willie!"

"Gracious!" cried the woman. "He's wandered out alone--oh, hurry, lookfor him! Something might get him! He may have fallen in the water! Oh, hurry!"

They were off in a moment, shouting into the dark passages of the outercave: "Willie! Willie!" There was agonized anxiety in their voices. 

And then in a moment, as it seemed, they were back again, with Willie intheir arms, blubbering, his rabbit-skin all wet. 

"Goodness gracious!" said the Cave-woman. "He'd fallen right in, thepoor little man. Hurry, dear, and get something dry to wrap him in!Goodness, what a fright! Quick, darling, give me something to rub himwith. "

Anxiously the Cave-parents moved about beside the child, all quarrelvanished. 

"But surely, " I said, as they calmed down a little, "just there whereWillie fell in, beside the passage that I came through, there is onlythree inches of water. "

"So there is, " they said, both together, "but just suppose it had beenthree feet!"

Later on, when Willie was restored, they both renewed their invitationto me to stay to dinner. 

"Didn't you say, " said the Cave-man, "that you wanted to make some noteson the difference between Cave-people and the people of your world ofto-day?"

"I thank you, " I answered, "I have already all the notes I want!"

VIII. Ideal Interviews

I. WITH A EUROPEAN PRINCE

With any European Prince, travelling in America

On receiving our card the Prince, to our great surprise and pleasure, sent down a most cordial message that he would be delighted to see us atonce. This thrilled us. 

"Take us, " we said to the elevator boy, "to the apartments of thePrince. " We were pleased to see him stagger and lean against his wheelto get his breath back. 

In a few moments we found ourselves crossing the threshold of thePrince's apartments. The Prince, who is a charming young man of fromtwenty-six to twenty-seven, came across the floor to meet us with anextended hand and a simple gesture of welcome. We have seldom seenanyone come across the floor more simply. 

The Prince, who is travelling incognito as the Count of Flim Flam, waswearing, when we saw him, the plain morning dress of a gentleman ofleisure. We learned that a little earlier he had appeared at breakfastin the costume of a Unitarian clergyman, under the incognito of theBishop of Bongee; while later on he appeared at lunch, as a delicatecompliment to our city, in the costume of a Columbia professor ofYiddish. 

The Prince greeted us with the greatest cordiality, seated himself, without the slightest affectation, and motioned to us, withindescribable bonhomie, his permission to remain standing. 

"Well, " said the Prince, "what is it?"

We need hardly say that the Prince, who is a consummate master of tenlanguages, speaks English quite as fluently as he does Chinese. Indeed, for a moment, we could scarcely tell which he was talking. 

"What are your impressions of the United States?" we asked as we tookout our notebook. 

"I am afraid, " answered the Prince, with the delightful smile which ischaracteristic of him, and which we noticed again and again during theinterview, "that I must scarcely tell you that. "

We realized immediately that we were in the presence not only of asoldier but of one of the most consummate diplomats of the present day. 

"May we ask then, " we resumed, correcting our obvious blunder, "what areyour impressions, Prince, of the Atlantic Ocean?"

"Ah, " said the Prince, with that peculiar thoughtfulness which is sonoticeable in him and which we observed not once but several times, "theAtlantic!"

Volumes could not have expressed his thought better. 

"Did you, " we asked, "see any ice during your passage across?"

"Ah, " said the Prince, "ice! Let me think. "

We did so. 

"Ice, " repeated the Prince thoughtfully. 

We realized that we were in the presence not only of a soldier, alinguist and a diplomat, but of a trained scientist accustomed to exactresearch. 

"Ice!" repeated the Prince. "Did I see any ice? No. "

Nothing could have been more decisive, more final than the clear, simplebrevity of the Prince's "No. " He had seen no ice. He knew he had seenno ice. He said he had seen no ice. Nothing could have been morestraightforward, more direct. We felt assured from that moment that thePrince had not seen any ice. 

The exquisite good taste with which the Prince had answered our questionserved to put us entirely at our ease, and we presently found ourselveschatting with His Highness with the greatest freedom and without theslightest _gene_ or _mauvaise honte_, or, in fact, _malvoisie_ of anykind. 

We realized, indeed, that we were in the presence not only of a trainedsoldier, a linguist and a diplomat, but also of a conversationalist ofthe highest order. 

His Highness, who has an exquisite sense of humour--indeed, it brokeout again and again during our talk with him--expressed himself as bothamused and perplexed over our American money. 

"It is very difficult, " he said, "with us it is so simple; six and ahalf groner are equal to one and a third gross-groner or the quarterpart of our Rigsdaler. Here it is so complicated. "

We ventured to show the Prince a fifty-cent piece and to explain itsvalue by putting two quarters beside it. 

"I see, " said the Prince, whose mathematical ability is quiteexceptional, "two twenty-five-cent pieces are equal to one fifty-centpiece. I must try to remember that. Meantime, " he added, with a gestureof royal condescension, putting the money in his pocket, "I will keepyour coins as instructors"--we murmured our thanks--"and now explain tome, please, your five-dollar gold piece and your ten-dollar eagle. "

We felt it proper, however, to shift the subject, and asked the Prince afew questions in regard to his views on American politics. We soon foundthat His Highness, although this is his first visit to this continent, is a keen student of our institutions and our political life. Indeed, His Altitude showed by his answers to our questions that he is as wellinformed about our politics as we are ourselves. On being asked what heviewed as the uppermost tendency in our political life of to-day, thePrince replied thoughtfully that he didn't know. To our inquiry as towhether in his opinion democracy was moving forward or backward, thePrince, after a moment of reflection, answered that he had no idea. Onour asking which of the generals of our Civil War was regarded in Europeas the greatest strategist, His Highness answered without hesitation, "George Washington. "

Before closing our interview the Prince, who, like his illustriousfather, is an enthusiastic sportsman, completely turned the tables on usby inquiring eagerly about the prospects for large game in America. 

We told him something--as much as we could recollect--of woodchuckhunting in our own section of the country. The Prince was interested atonce. His eye lighted up, and the peculiar air of fatigue, or languor, which we had thought to remark on his face during our interview, passedentirely off his features. He asked us a number of questions, quicklyand without pausing, with the air, in fact, of a man accustomed tocommand and not to listen. How was the woodchuck hunted? From horsebackor from an elephant? Or from an armoured car, or turret? How manybeaters did one use to beat up the woodchuck? What bearers was itnecessary to carry with one? How great a danger must one face of havingone's beaters killed? What percentage of risk must one be prepared toincur of accidentally shooting one's own beaters? What did a bearercost? and so on. 

All these questions we answered as best we could, the Prince apparentlyseizing the gist, or essential part of our answer, before we had saidit. 

In concluding the discussion we ventured to ask His Highness for hisautograph. The Prince, who has perhaps a more exquisite sense of humourthan any other sovereign of Europe, declared with a laugh that he had nopen. Still roaring over this inimitable drollery, we begged the Princeto honour us by using our own fountain-pen. 

"Is there any ink in it?" asked the Prince--which threw us into arenewed paroxysm of laughter. 

The Prince took the pen and very kindly autographed for us sevenphotographs of himself. He offered us more, but we felt that seven wasabout all we could use. We were still suffocated with laughter over thePrince's wit; His Highness was still signing photographs when an equerryappeared and whispered in the Prince's ear. His Highness, with theconsummate tact to be learned only at a court, turned quietly without aword and left the room. 

We never, in all our experience, remember seeing a prince--or a mere manfor the matter of that--leave a room with greater suavity, discretion, or aplomb. It was a revelation of breeding, of race, of long slavery tocaste. And yet, with it all, it seemed to have a touch of finality aboutit--a hint that the entire proceeding was deliberate, planned, not to bealtered by circumstance. He did not come back. 

We understand that he appeared later in the morning at a civic receptionin the costume of an Alpine Jaeger, and attended the matinee in thedress of a lieutenant of police. 

Meantime he has our pen. If he turns up in any costume that we can spotat sight, we shall ask him for it. 

II. WITH OUR GREATEST ACTOR

 That is to say, with Any One of our Sixteen Greatest Actors

It was within the privacy of his own library that we obtained--need wesay with infinite difficulty--our interview with the Great Actor. He wassitting in a deep arm-chair, so buried in his own thoughts that hewas oblivious of our approach. On his knee before him lay a cabinetphotograph of himself. His eyes seemed to be peering into it, as ifseeking to fathom its unfathomable mystery. We had time to note that abeautiful carbon photogravure of himself stood on a table at his elbow, while a magnificent half-tone pastel of himself was suspended on astring from the ceiling. It was only when we had seated ourself in achair and taken out our notebook that the Great Actor looked up. 

"An interview?" he said, and we noted with pain the weariness in histone. "Another interview!"

We bowed. 

"Publicity!" he murmured rather to himself than to us. "Publicity! Whymust one always be forced into publicity?"

It was not our intention, we explained apologetically, to publish or toprint a single word--

"Eh, what?" exclaimed the Great Actor. "Not print it? Not publish it?Then what in--"

Not, we explained, without his consent. 

"Ah, " he murmured wearily, "my consent. Yes, yes, I must give it. Theworld demands it. Print, publish anything you like. I am indifferent topraise, careless of fame. Posterity will judge me. But, " he added morebriskly, "let me see a proof of it in time to make any changes I mightcare to. "

We bowed our assent. 

"And now, " we began, "may we be permitted to ask a few questions aboutyour art? And first, in which branch of the drama do you consider thatyour genius chiefly lies, in tragedy or in comedy?"

"In both, " said the Great Actor. 

"You excel then, " we continued, "in neither the one nor the other?"

"Not at all, " he answered, "I excel in each of them. "

"Excuse us, " we said, "we haven't made our meaning quite clear. What wemeant to say is, stated very simply, that you do not consider yourselfbetter in either of them than in the other?"

"Not at all, " said the Actor, as he put out his arm with that splendidgesture that we have known and admired for years, at the same timethrowing back his leonine head so that his leonine hair fell back fromhis leonine forehead. "Not at all. I do better in both of them. Mygenius demands both tragedy and comedy at the same time. "

"Ah, " we said, as a light broke in upon us, "then that, we presume, isthe reason why you are about to appear in Shakespeare?"

The Great Actor frowned. 

"I would rather put it, " he said, "that Shakespeare is about to appearin me. "

"Of course, of course, " we murmured, ashamed of our own stupidity. 

"I appear, " went on the Great Actor, "in _Hamlet_. I expect to present, I may say, an entirely new Hamlet. "

"A new Hamlet!" we exclaimed, fascinated. "A new Hamlet! Is such a thingpossible?"

"Entirely, " said the Great Actor, throwing his leonine head forwardagain. "I have devoted years of study to the part. The whole conceptionof the part of Hamlet has been wrong. "

We sat stunned. 

"All actors hitherto, " continued the Great Actor, "or rather, I shouldsay, all so-called actors--I mean all those who tried to act beforeme--have been entirely mistaken in their presentation. They havepresented Hamlet as dressed in black velvet. "

"Yes, yes, " we interjected, "in black velvet, yes!"

"Very good. The thing is absurd, " continued the Great Actor, as hereached down two or three heavy volumes from the shelf beside him. "Haveyou ever studied the Elizabethan era?"

"The which?" we asked modestly. 

"The Elizabethan era?"

We were silent. 

"Or the pre-Shakespearean tragedy?"

We hung our head. 

"If you had, you would know that a Hamlet in black velvet is perfectlyridiculous. In Shakespeare's day--as I could prove in a moment if youhad the intelligence to understand it--there was no such thing as blackvelvet. It didn't exist. "

"And how then, " we asked, intrigued, puzzled and yet delighted, "do_you_ present Hamlet?"

"In _brown_ velvet, " said the Great Actor. 

"Great Heavens, " we exclaimed, "this is a revolution. "

"It is. But that is only one part of my conception. The main thing willbe my presentation of what I may call the psychology of Hamlet. "

"The psychology!" we said. 

"Yes, " resumed the Great Actor, "the psychology. To make Hamletunderstood, I want to show him as a man bowed down by a great burden. Heis overwhelmed with Weltschmerz. He carries in him the whole weight ofthe Zeitgeist; in fact, everlasting negation lies on him--"

"You mean, " we said, trying to speak as cheerfully as we could, "thatthings are a little bit too much for him. "

"His will, " went on the Great Actor, disregarding our interruption, "isparalysed. He seeks to move in one direction and is hurled in another. One moment he sinks into the abyss. The next, he rises above the clouds. His feet seek the ground, but find only the air--"

"Wonderful, " we said, "but will you not need a good deal of machinery?"

"Machinery!" exclaimed the Great Actor, with a leonine laugh. "Themachinery of _thought_, the mechanism of power, of magnetism--"

"Ah, " we said, "electricity. "

"Not at all, " said the Great Actor. "You fail to understand. It is alldone by my rendering. Take, for example, the famous soliloquy on death. You know it?"

"'To be or not to be, '" we began. 

"Stop, " said the Great Actor. "Now observe. It is a soliloquy. Precisely. That is the key to it. It is something that Hamlet _says tohimself_. Not a _word of it_, in my interpretation, is actually spoken. All is done in absolute, unbroken silence. "

"How on earth, " we began, "can you do that?"

"Entirely and solely _with my face_. "

Good heavens! Was it possible? We looked again, this time very closely, at the Great Actor's face. We realized with a thrill that it might bedone. 

"I come before the audience _so_, " he went on, "andsoliloquize--thus--follow my face, please--"

As the Great Actor spoke, he threw himself into a characteristic posewith folded arms, while gust after gust of emotion, of expression, ofalternate hope, doubt and despair, swept--we might say chased themselvesacross his features. 

"Wonderful!" we gasped. 

"Shakespeare's lines, " said the Great Actor, as his face subsided to itshabitual calm, "are not necessary; not, at least, with my acting. Thelines, indeed, are mere stage directions, nothing more. I leave themout. This happens again and again in the play. Take, for instance, thefamiliar scene where Hamlet holds the skull in his hand: Shakespearehere suggests the words 'Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him well--'"

"Yes, yes!" we interrupted, in spite of ourself, "'a fellow of infinitejest--'"

"Your intonation is awful, " said the Actor. "But listen. In myinterpretation I use no words at all. I merely carry the skull quietlyin my hand, very slowly, across the stage. There I lean against a pillarat the side, with the skull in the palm of my hand, and look at it insilence. "

"Wonderful!" we said. 

"I then cross over to the right of the stage, very impressively, andseat myself on a plain wooden bench, and remain for some time, lookingat the skull. "

"Marvellous!"

"I then pass to the back of the stage and lie down on my stomach, stillholding the skull before my eyes. After holding this posture for sometime, I crawl slowly forward, portraying by the movement of my legs andstomach the whole sad history of Yorick. Finally I turn my back on theaudience, still holding the skull, and convey through the spasmodicmovements of my back Hamlet's passionate grief at the loss of hisfriend. "

"Why!" we exclaimed, beside ourself with excitement, "this is not merelya revolution, it is a revelation. "

"Call it both, " said the Great Actor. 

"The meaning of it is, " we went on, "that you practically don't needShakespeare at all. "

"Exactly, I do not. I could do better without him. Shakespeare crampsme. What I really mean to convey is not Shakespeare, but somethinggreater, larger--how shall I express it--bigger. " The Great Actor pausedand we waited, our pencil poised in the air. Then he murmured, as hiseyes lifted in an expression of something like rapture. "In fact--ME. "

He remained thus, motionless, without moving. We slipped gently to ourhands and knees and crawled quietly to the door, and so down the stairs, our notebook in our teeth. 

III WITH OUR GREATEST SCIENTIST

As seen in any of our College Laboratories

It was among the retorts and test-tubes of his physical laboratorythat we were privileged to interview the Great Scientist. His back wastowards us when we entered. With characteristic modesty he kept it sofor some time after our entry. Even when he turned round and saw us hisface did not react off us as we should have expected. 

He seemed to look at us, if such a thing were possible, without seeingus, or, at least, without wishing to see us. 

We handed him our card. 

He took it, read it, dropped it in a bowlful of sulphuric acid and then, with a quiet gesture of satisfaction, turned again to his work. 

We sat for some time behind him. "This, then, " we thought to ourselves(we always think to ourselves when we are left alone), "is the man, orrather is the back of the man, who has done more" (here we consultedthe notes given us by our editor), "to revolutionize our conception ofatomic dynamics than the back of any other man. "

Presently the Great Scientist turned towards us with a sigh that seemedto our ears to have a note of weariness in it. Something, we felt, mustbe making him tired. 

"What can I do for you?" he said. 

"Professor, " we answered, "we have called upon you in response to anoverwhelming demand on the part of the public--"

The Great Scientist nodded. 

"To learn something of your new researches and discoveries in" (herewe consulted a minute card which we carried in our pocket) "inradio-active-emanations which are already becoming" (we consulted ourcard again) "a household word--"

The Professor raised his hand as if to check us. 

"I would rather say, " he murmured, "helio-radio-active--"

"So would we, " we admitted, "much rather--"

"After all, " said the Great Scientist, "helium shares in the mostintimate degree the properties of radium. So, too, for the matter ofthat, " he added in afterthought, "do thorium, and borium!"

"Even borium!" we exclaimed, delighted, and writing rapidly in ournotebook. Already we saw ourselves writing up as our headline _BoriumShares Properties of Thorium_. 

"Just what is it, " said the Great Scientist, "that you want to know?"

"Professor, " we answered, "what our journal wants is a plain and simpleexplanation, so clear that even our readers can understand it, of thenew scientific discoveries in radium. We understand that you possess, more than any other man, the gift of clear and lucid thought--"

The Professor nodded. 

"And that you are able to express yourself with greater simplicity thanany two men now lecturing. "

The Professor nodded again. 

"Now, then, " we said, spreading our notes on our knee, "go at it. Tellus, and, through us, tell a quarter of a million anxious readers justwhat all these new discoveries are about. "

"The whole thing, " said the Professor, warming up to his work ashe perceived from the motions of our face and ears our intelligentinterest, "is simplicity itself. I can give it to you in a word--"

"That's it, " we said. "Give it to us that way. "

"It amounts, if one may boil it down into a phrase--"

"Boil it, boil it, " we interrupted. 

"Amounts, if one takes the mere gist of it--"

"Take it, " we said, "take it. "

"Amounts to the resolution of the ultimate atom. "

"Ha!" we exclaimed. 

"I must ask you first to clear your mind, " the Professor continued, "ofall conception of ponderable magnitude. "

We nodded. We had already cleared our mind of this. 

"In fact, " added the Professor, with what we thought a quiet note ofwarning in his voice, "I need hardly tell you that what we are dealingwith must be regarded as altogether ultramicroscopic. "

We hastened to assure the Professor that, in accordance with the highstandards of honour represented by our journal, we should of courseregard anything that he might say as ultramicroscopic and treat itaccordingly. 

"You say, then, " we continued, "that the essence of the problem is theresolution of the atom. Do you think you can give us any idea of whatthe atom is?"

The Professor looked at us searchingly. 

We looked back at him, openly and frankly. The moment was critical forour interview. Could he do it? Were we the kind of person that he couldgive it to? Could we get it if he did?

"I think I can, " he said. "Let us begin with the assumption that theatom is an infinitesimal magnitude. Very good. Let us grant, then, that though it is imponderable and indivisible it must have a spacialcontent? You grant me this?"

"We do, " we said, "we do more than this, we _give_ it to you. "

"Very well. If spacial, it must have dimension: if dimension--form. Letus assume _ex hypothesi_ the form to be that of a spheroid and see whereit leads us. "

The Professor was now intensely interested. He walked to and fro in hislaboratory. His features worked with excitement. We worked ours, too, assympathetically as we could. 

"There is no other possible method in inductive science, " he added, "than to embrace some hypothesis, the most attractive that one can find, and remain with it--"

We nodded. Even in our own humble life after our day's work we had foundthis true. 

"Now, " said the Professor, planting himself squarely in front of us, "assuming a spherical form, and a spacial content, assuming the dynamicforces that are familiar to us and assuming--the thing is bold, Iadmit--"

We looked as bold as we could. 

"Assuming that the _ions_, or _nuclei_ of the atom--I know no betterword--"

"Neither do we, " we said. 

"That the nuclei move under the energy of such forces, what have wegot?"

"Ha!" we said. 

"What have we got? Why, the simplest matter conceivable. The forcesinside our atom--itself, mind you, the function of a circle--markthat--"

We did. 

"Becomes merely a function of pi!"

The Great Scientist paused with a laugh of triumph. 

"A function of pi!" we repeated in delight. 

"Precisely. Our conception of ultimate matter is reduced to that of anoblate spheroid described by the revolution of an ellipse on its ownminor axis!"

"Good heavens!" we said. "Merely that. "

"Nothing else. And in that case any further calculation becomes a merematter of the extraction of a root. "

"How simple, " we murmured. 

"Is it not, " said the Professor. "In fact, I am accustomed, in talkingto my class, to give them a very clear idea, by simply taking as ourroot F--F being any finite constant--"

He looked at us sharply. We nodded. 

"And raising F to the log of infinity. I find they apprehend it veryreadily. "

"Do they?" we murmured. Ourselves we felt as if the Log of Infinitycarried us to ground higher than what we commonly care to tread on. 

"Of course, " said the Professor, "the Log of Infinity is an Unknown. "

"Of course, " we said very gravely. We felt ourselves here in thepresence of something that demanded our reverence. 

"But still, " continued the Professor almost jauntily, "we can handle theUnknown just as easily as anything else. "

This puzzled us. We kept silent. We thought it wiser to move on to moregeneral ground. In any case, our notes were now nearly complete. 

"These discoveries, then, " we said, "are absolutely revolutionary. "

"They are, " said the Professor. 

"You have now, as we understand, got the atom--how shall we put it?--gotit where you want it. "

"Not exactly, " said the Professor with a sad smile. 

"What do you mean?" we asked. 

"Unfortunately our analysis, perfect though it is, stops short. We haveno synthesis. "

The Professor spoke as in deep sorrow. 

"No synthesis, " we moaned. We felt it was a cruel blow. But in any caseour notes were now elaborate enough. We felt that our readers could dowithout a synthesis. We rose to go. 

"Synthetic dynamics, " said the Professor, taking us by the coat, "isonly beginning--"

"In that case--" we murmured, disengaging his hand. 

"But, wait, wait, " he pleaded "wait for another fifty years--"

"We will, " we said very earnestly. "But meantime as our paper goes topress this afternoon we must go now. In fifty years we will come back. "

"Oh, I see, I see, " said the Professor, "you are writing all this for anewspaper. I see. "

"Yes, " we said, "we mentioned that at the beginning. "

"Ah, " said the Professor, "did you? Very possibly. Yes. "

"We propose, " we said, "to feature the article for next Saturday. "

"Will it be long?" he asked. 

"About two columns, " we answered. 

"And how much, " said the Professor in a hesitating way, "do I have topay you to put it in?"

"How much which?" we asked. 

"How much do I have to pay?"

"Why, Professor--" we began quickly. Then we checked ourselves. Afterall was it right to undeceive him, this quiet, absorbed man of sciencewith his ideals, his atoms and his emanations. No, a hundred times no. Let him pay a hundred times. 

"It will cost you, " we said very firmly, "ten dollars. "

The Professor began groping among his apparatus. We knew that he waslooking for his purse. 

"We should like also very much, " we said, "to insert your picture alongwith the article--"

"Would that cost much?" he asked. 

"No, that is only five dollars. "

The Professor had meantime found his purse. 

"Would it be all right, " he began, "that is, would you mind if I pay youthe money now? I am apt to forget. "

"Quite all right, " we answered. We said good-bye very gently and passedout. We felt somehow as if we had touched a higher life. "Such, "we murmured, as we looked about the ancient campus, "are the men ofscience: are there, perhaps, any others of them round this morning thatwe might interview?"

IV. WITH OUR TYPICAL NOVELISTS

Edwin and Ethelinda Afterthought--Husband and Wife--In their DelightfulHome Life. 

It was at their beautiful country place on the Woonagansett that we hadthe pleasure of interviewing the Afterthoughts. At their own cordialinvitation, we had walked over from the nearest railway station, adistance of some fourteen miles. Indeed, as soon as they heard of ourintention they invited us to walk. "We are so sorry not to bring you inthe motor, " they wrote, "but the roads are so frightfully dusty that wemight get dust on our chauffeur. " This little touch of thoughtfulness isthe keynote of their character. 

The house itself is a delightful old mansion giving on a wide garden, which gives in turn on a broad terrace giving on the river. 

The Eminent Novelist met us at the gate. We had expected to find theauthor of _Angela Rivers_ and _The Garden of Desire_ a pale aesthetictype (we have a way of expecting the wrong thing in our interviews). Wecould not resist a shock of surprise (indeed we seldom do) at findinghim a burly out-of-door man weighting, as he himself told us, a hundredstone in his stockinged feet (we think he said stone). 

He shook hands cordially. 

"Come and see my pigs, " he said. 

"We wanted to ask you, " we began, as we went down the walk, "somethingabout your books. "

"Let's look at the pigs first, " he said. "Are you anything of a pigman?"

We are always anxious in our interviews to be all things to all men. Butwe were compelled to admit that we were not much of a pig man. 

"Ah, " said the Great Novelist, "perhaps you are more of a dog man?"

"Not altogether a dog man, " we answered. 

"Anything of a bee man?" he asked. 

"Something, " we said (we were once stung by a bee). 

"Ah, " he said, "you shall have a go at the beehives, then, right away?"

We assured him that we were willing to postpone a go at the beehivestill later. 

"Come along, then, to the styes, " said the Great Novelist, and he added, "Perhaps you're not much of a breeder. "

We blushed. We thought of the five little faces around the table forwhich we provide food by writing our interviews. 

"No, " we said, "we were not much of a breeder. "

"Now then, " said the Great Novelist as we reached our goal, "how do youlike this stye?"

"Very much indeed, " we said. 

"I've put in a new tile draining--my own plan. You notice how sweet itkeeps the stye. "

We had not noticed this. 

"I am afraid, " said the Novelist, "that the pigs are all asleep inside. "

We begged him on no account to waken them. He offered to open the littledoor at the side and let us crawl in. We insisted that we could notthink of intruding. 

"What we would like, " we said, "is to hear something of your methodsof work in novel writing. " We said this with very peculiar conviction. Quite apart from the immediate purposes of our interview, we have alwaysbeen most anxious to know by what process novels are written. If wecould get to know this, we would write one ourselves. 

"Come and see my bulls first, " said the Novelist. "I've got a couple ofyoung bulls here in the paddock that will interest you. "

We felt sure that they would. 

He led us to a little green fence. Inside it were two ferocious lookinganimals, eating grain. They rolled their eyes upwards at us as they ate. 

"How do those strike you?" he asked. 

We assured him that they struck us as our beau ideal of bulls. 

"Like to walk in beside them?" said the Novelist, opening a little gate. 

We drew back. Was it fair to disturb these bulls?

The Great Novelist noticed our hesitation. 

"Don't be afraid, " he said. "They're not likely to harm you. I sendmy hired man right in beside them every morning, without the slightesthesitation. "

We looked at the Eminent Novelist with admiration. We realized that likeso many of our writers, actors, and even our thinkers, of to-day, he wasan open-air man in every sense of the word. 

But we shook our heads. 

Bulls, we explained, were not a department of research for which we wereequipped. What we wanted, we said, was to learn something of his methodsof work. 

"My methods of work?" he answered, as we turned up the path again. "Well, really, I hardly know that I have any. "

"What is your plan or method, " we asked, getting out our notebook andpencil, "of laying the beginning of a new novel?"

"My usual plan, " said the Novelist, "is to come out here and sit in thestye till I get my characters. "

"Does it take long?" we questioned. 

"Not very. I generally find that a quiet half-hour spent among the hogswill give me at least my leading character. "

"And what do you do next?"

"Oh, after that I generally light a pipe and go and sit among thebeehives looking for an incident. "

"Do you get it?" we asked. 

"Invariably. After that I make a few notes, then go off for a ten miletramp with my esquimaux dogs, and get back in time to have a go throughthe cattle sheds and take a romp with the young bulls. "

We sighed. We couldn't help it. Novel writing seemed further away thanever. 

"Have you also a goat on the premises?" we asked. 

"Oh, certainly. A ripping old fellow--come along and see him. "

We shook our heads. No doubt our disappointment showed in our face. Itoften does. We felt that it was altogether right and wholesome that ourgreat novels of to-day should be written in this fashion with the helpof goats, dogs, hogs and young bulls. But we felt, too, that it was notfor us. 

We permitted ourselves one further question. 

"At what time, " we said, "do you rise in the morning?"

"Oh anywhere between four and five, " said the Novelist. 

"Ah, and do you generally take a cold dip as soon as you are up--even inwinter?"

"I do. "

"You prefer, no doubt, " we said, with a dejection that we could notconceal, "to have water with a good coat of ice over it?"

"Oh, certainly!"

We said no more. We have long understood the reasons for our own failurein life, but it was painful to receive a renewed corroboration of it. This ice question has stood in our way for forty-seven years. 

The Great Novelist seemed to note our dejection. 

"Come to the house, " he said, "my wife will give you a cup of tea. "

In a few moments we had forgotten all our troubles in the presence ofone of the most charming chatelaines it has been our lot to meet. 

We sat on a low stool immediately beside Ethelinda Afterthought, whopresided in her own gracious fashion over the tea-urn. 

"So you want to know something of my methods of work?" she said, as shepoured hot tea over our leg. 

"We do, " we answered, taking out our little book and recoveringsomething of our enthusiasm. We do not mind hot tea being poured over usif people treat us as a human being. 

"Can you indicate, " we continued, "what method you follow in beginningone of your novels?"

"I always begin, " said Ethelinda Afterthought, "with a study. "

"A study?" we queried. 

"Yes. I mean a study of actual facts. Take, for example, my _Leaves fromthe Life of a Steam Laundrywoman_--more tea?"

"No, no, " we said. 

"Well, to make that book I first worked two years in a laundry. "

"Two years!" we exclaimed. "And why?"

"To get the atmosphere. "

"The steam?" we questioned. 

"Oh, no, " said Mrs. Afterthought, "I did that separately. I took acourse in steam at a technical school. "

"Is it possible?" we said, our heart beginning to sing again. "Was allthat necessary?"

"I don't see how one could do it otherwise. The story opens, as no doubtyou remember--tea?--in the boiler room of the laundry. "

"Yes, " we said, moving our leg--"no, thank you. "

"So you see the only possible _point d'appui_ was to begin with adescription of the inside of the boiler. "

We nodded. 

"A masterly thing, " we said. 

"My wife, " interrupted the Great Novelist, who was sitting with the headof a huge Danish hound in his lap, sharing his buttered toast with thedog while he adjusted a set of trout flies, "is a great worker. "

"Do you always work on that method?" we asked. 

"Always, " she answered. "For _Frederica of the Factory_ I spent sixmonths in a knitting mill. For _Marguerite of the Mud Flats_ I madespecial studies for months and months. "

"Of what sort?" we asked. 

"In mud. Learning to model it. You see for a story of that sort thefirst thing needed is a thorough knowledge of mud--all kinds of it. "

"And what are you doing next?" we inquired. 

"My next book, " said the Lady Novelist, "is to be a study--tea?--of thepickle industry--perfectly new ground. "

"A fascinating field, " we murmured. 

"And quite new. Several of our writers have done the slaughter-house, and in England a good deal has been done in jam. But so far no one hasdone pickles. I should like, if I could, " added Ethelinda Afterthought, with the graceful modesty that is characteristic of her, "to make it thefirst of a series of pickle novels, showing, don't you know, the wholepickle district, and perhaps following a family of pickle workers forfour or five generations. "

"Four or five!" we said enthusiastically. "Make it ten! And have you anyplan for work beyond that?"

"Oh, yes indeed, " laughed the Lady Novelist. "I am always planningahead. What I want to do after that is a study of the inside of apenitentiary. "

"Of the _inside_?" we said, with a shudder. 

"Yes. To do it, of course, I shall go to jail for two or three years!"

"But how can you get in?" we asked, thrilled at the quiet determinationof the frail woman before us. 

"I shall demand it as a right, " she answered quietly. "I shall go tothe authorities, at the head of a band of enthusiastic women, and demandthat I shall be sent to jail. Surely after the work I have done, thatmuch is coming to me. "

"It certainly is, " we said warmly. 

We rose to go. 

Both the novelists shook hands with us with great cordiality. Mr. Afterthought walked as far as the front door with us and showed us ashort cut past the beehives that could take us directly through the bullpasture to the main road. 

We walked away in the gathering darkness of evening very quietly. Wemade up our mind as we went that novel writing is not for us. We mustreach the penitentiary in some other way. 

But we thought it well to set down our interview as a guide to others. 

IX. The New Education

"So you're going back to college in a fortnight, " I said to the BrightYoung Thing on the veranda of the summer hotel. "Aren't you sorry?"

"In a way I am, " she said, "but in another sense I'm glad to go back. One can't loaf all the time. "

She looked up from her rocking-chair over her Red Cross knitting withgreat earnestness. 

How full of purpose these modern students are, I thought to myself. Inmy time we used to go back to college as to a treadmill. 

"I know that, " I said, "but what I mean is that college, after all, isa pretty hard grind. Things like mathematics and Greek are no joke, are they? In my day, as I remember it, we used to think sphericaltrigonometry about the hardest stuff of the lot. "

She looked dubious. 

"I didn't _elect_ mathematics, " she said. 

"Oh, " I said, "I see. So you don't have to take it. And what _have_ youelected?"

"For this coming half semester--that's six weeks, you know--I've electedSocial Endeavour. "

"Ah, " I said, "that's since my day, what is it?"

"Oh, it's _awfully_ interesting. It's the study of conditions. "

"What kind of conditions?" I asked. 

"All conditions. Perhaps I can't explain it properly. But I have theprospectus of it indoors if you'd like to see it. We take up Society. "

"And what do you do with it?"

"Analyse it, " she said. 

"But it must mean reading a tremendous lot of books. "

"No, " she answered. "We don't use books in this course. It's allLaboratory Work. "

"Now I _am_ mystified, " I said. "What do you mean by Laboratory Work?"

"Well, " answered the girl student with a thoughtful look upon her face, "you see, we are supposed to break society up into its elements. "

"In six weeks?"

"Some of the girls do it in six weeks. Some put in a whole semester andtake twelve weeks at it. "

"So as to break up pretty thoroughly?" I said. 

"Yes, " she assented. "But most of the girls think six weeks is enough. "

"That ought to pulverize it pretty completely. But how do you go at it?"

"Well, " the girl said, "it's all done with Laboratory Work. We take, forinstance, department stores. I think that is the first thing we do, wetake up the department store. "

"And what do you do with it?"

"We study it as a Social Germ. "

"Ah, " I said, "as a Social Germ. "

"Yes, " said the girl, delighted to see that I was beginning tounderstand, "as a Germ. All the work is done in the concrete. The classgoes down with the professor to the department store itself--"

"And then--"

"Then they walk all through it, observing. "

"But have none of them ever been in a departmental store before?"

"Oh, of course, but, you see, we go as Observers. "

"Ah, now, I understand. You mean you don't buy anything and so you areable to watch everything?"

"No, " she said, "it's not that. We do buy things. That's part of it. Most of the girls like to buy little knick-knacks, and anyway it givesthem a good chance to do their shopping while they're there. But whilethey _are_ there they are observing. Then afterwards they make charts. "

"Charts of what?" I asked. 

"Charts of the employes; they're used to show the brain movementinvolved. "

"Do you find much?"

"Well, " she said hesitatingly, "the idea is to reduce all the employesto a Curve. "

"To a Curve?" I exclaimed, "an In or an Out. "

"No, no, not exactly that. Didn't you use Curves when you were atcollege?"

"Never, " I said. 

"Oh, well, nowadays nearly everything, you know, is done into a Curve. We put them on the board. "

"And what is this particular Curve of the employe used for?" I asked. 

"Why, " said the student, "the idea is that from the Curve we can get theNorm of the employe. "

"Get his Norm?" I asked. 

"Yes, get the Norm. That stands for the Root Form of the employe as asocial factor. "

"And what can you do with that?"

"Oh, when we have that we can tell what the employe would do under anyand every circumstance. At least that's the idea--though I'm really onlyquoting, " she added, breaking off in a diffident way, "from what MissThinker, the professor of Social Endeavour, says. She's really fine. She's making a general chart of the female employes of one of thebiggest stores to show what percentage in case of fire would jump out ofthe window and what percentage would run to the fire escape. "

"It's a wonderful course, " I said. "We had nothing like it when I wentto college. And does it only take in departmental stores?"

"No, " said the girl, "the laboratory work includes for this semesterice-cream parlours as well. "

"What do you do with _them_?"

"We take them up as Social Cells, Nuclei, I think the professor callsthem. "

"And how do you go at them?" I asked. 

"Why, the girls go to them in little laboratory groups and study them. "

"They eat ice-cream in them?"

"They _have to_, " she said, "to make it concrete. But while they aredoing it they are considering the ice-cream parlour merely as a sectionof social protoplasm. "

"Does the professor go?" I asked. 

"Oh, yes, she heads each group. Professor Thinker never spares herselffrom work. "

"Dear me, " I said, "you must be kept very busy. And is Social Endeavourall that you are going to do?"

"No, " she answered, "I'm electing a half-course in Nature Work as well. "

"Nature Work? Well! Well! That, I suppose, means cramming up a lot ofbiology and zoology, does it not?"

"No, " said the girl, "it's not exactly done with books. I believe it isall done by Field Work. "

"Field Work?"

"Yes. Field Work four times a week and an Excursion every Saturday. "

"And what do you do in the Field Work?"

"The girls, " she answered, "go out in groups anywhere out of doors, andmake a Nature Study of anything they see. "

"How do they do that?" I asked. 

"Why, they look at it. Suppose, for example, they come to a stream or apond or anything--"

"Yes--"

"Well, they _look_ at it. "

"Had they never done that before?" I asked. 

"Ah, but they look at it as a Nature Unit. Each girl must take fortyunits in the course. I think we only do one unit each day we go out. "

"It must, " I said, "be pretty fatiguing work, and what about theExcursion?"

"That's every Saturday. We go out with Miss Stalk, the professor ofAmbulation. "

"And where do you go?"

"Oh, anywhere. One day we go perhaps for a trip on a steamer and anotherSaturday somewhere in motors, and so on. "

"Doing what?" I asked. 

"Field Work. The aim of the course--I'm afraid I'm quoting Miss Stalkbut I don't mind, she's really fine--is to break nature into itselements--"

"I see--"

"So as to view it as the external structure of Society and makedeductions from it. "

"Have you made any?" I asked. 

"Oh, no"--she laughed--"I'm only starting the work this term. But, ofcourse, I shall have to. Each girl makes at least one deduction at theend of the course. Some of the seniors make two or three. But you haveto make _one_. "

"It's a great course, " I said. "No wonder you are going to be busy; and, as you say, how much better than loafing round here doing nothing. "

"Isn't it?" said the girl student with enthusiasm in her eyes. "It givesone such a sense of purpose, such a feeling of doing something. "

"It must, " I answered. 

"Oh, goodness, " she exclaimed, "there's the lunch bell. I must skip andget ready. "

She was just vanishing from my side when the Burly Male Student, who wasalso staying in the hotel, came puffing up after his five-mile run. Hewas getting himself into trim for enlistment, so he told me. He notedthe retreating form of the college girl as he sat down. 

"I've just been talking to her, " I said, "about her college work. Sheseems to be studying a queer lot of stuff--Social Endeavour and allthat!"

"Awful piffle, " said the young man. "But the girls naturally run to allthat sort of rot, you know. "

"Now, your work, " I went on, "is no doubt very different. I mean whatyou were taking before the war came along. I suppose you fellows havean awful dose of mathematics and philology and so on just as I did in mycollege days?"

Something like a blush came across the face of the handsome youth. 

"Well, no, " he said, "I didn't co-opt mathematics. At our college, youknow, we co-opt two majors and two minors. "

"I see, " I said, "and what were you co-opting?"

"I co-opted Turkish, Music, and Religion, " he answered. 

"Oh, yes, " I said with a sort of reverential respect, "fitting yourselffor a position of choir-master in a Turkish cathedral, no doubt. "

"No, no, " he said, "I'm going into insurance; but, you see, thosesubjects fitted in better than anything else. "

"Fitted in?"

"Yes. Turkish comes at nine, music at ten and religion at eleven. Sothey make a good combination; they leave a man free to--"

"To develop his mind, " I said. "We used to find in my college days thatlectures interfered with it badly. But now, Turkish, that must be aninteresting language, eh?"

"Search me!" said the student. "All you have to do is answer the rolland go out. Forty roll-calls give you one Turkish unit--but, say, I mustget on, I've got to change. So long. "

I could not help reflecting, as the young man left me, on the greatchanges that have come over our college education. It was a relief tome later in the day to talk with a quiet, sombre man, himself a graduatestudent in philosophy, on this topic. He agreed with me that the oldstrenuous studies seem to be very largely abandoned. 

I looked at the sombre man with respect. 

"Now your work, " I said, "is very different from what these young peopleare doing--hard, solid, definite effort. What a relief it must be to youto get a brief vacation up here. I couldn't help thinking to-day, as Iwatched you moving round doing nothing, how fine it must feel for youto come up here after your hard work and put in a month of out-and-outloafing. "

"Loafing!" he said indignantly. "I'm not loafing. I'm putting in a halfsummer course in Introspection. That's why I'm here. I get credit fortwo majors for my time here. "

"Ah, " I said, as gently as I could, "you get credit here. "

He left me. I am still pondering over our new education. MeantimeI think I shall enter my little boy's name on the books of TuskegeeCollege where the education is still old-fashioned. 

X. The Errors of Santa Claus

It was Christmas Eve. 

The Browns, who lived in the adjoining house, had been dining with theJoneses. 

Brown and Jones were sitting over wine and walnuts at the table. Theothers had gone upstairs. 

"What are you giving to your boy for Christmas?" asked Brown. 

"A train, " said Jones, "new kind of thing--automatic. "

"Let's have a look at it, " said Brown. 

Jones fetched a parcel from the sideboard and began unwrapping it. 

"Ingenious thing, isn't it?" he said. "Goes on its own rails. Queer howkids love to play with trains, isn't it?"

"Yes, " assented Brown. "How are the rails fixed?"

"Wait, I'll show you, " said Jones. "Just help me to shove these dinnerthings aside and roll back the cloth. There! See! You lay the rails likethat and fasten them at the ends, so--"

"Oh, yes, I catch on, makes a grade, doesn't it? Just the thing to amusea child, isn't it? I got Willy a toy aeroplane. "

"I know, they're great. I got Edwin one on his birthday. But I thoughtI'd get him a train this time. I told him Santa Claus was going to bringhim something altogether new this time. Edwin, of course, believes inSanta Claus absolutely. Say, look at this locomotive, would you? It hasa spring coiled up inside the fire box. "

"Wind her up, " said Brown with great interest. "Let's see her go. "

"All right, " said Jones. "Just pile up two or three plates or somethingto lean the end of the rails on. There, notice the way it buzzes beforeit starts. Isn't that a great thing for a kid, eh?"

"Yes, " said Brown. "And say, see this little string to pull the whistle!By Gad, it toots, eh? Just like real?"

"Now then, Brown, " Jones went on, "you hitch on those cars and I'llstart her. I'll be engineer, eh!"

Half an hour later Brown and Jones were still playing trains on thedining-room table. 

But their wives upstairs in the drawing-room hardly noticed theirabsence. They were too much interested. 

"Oh, I think it's perfectly sweet, " said Mrs. Brown. "Just the loveliestdoll I've seen in years. I must get one like it for Ulvina. Won'tClarisse be perfectly enchanted?"

"Yes, " answered Mrs. Jones, "and then she'll have all the fun ofarranging the dresses. Children love that so much. Look, there are threelittle dresses with the doll, aren't they cute? All cut out and ready tostitch together. "

"Oh, how perfectly lovely!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown. "I think the mauve onewould suit the doll best, don't you, with such golden hair? Only don'tyou think it would make it much nicer to turn back the collar, so, andto put a little band--so?"

"_What_ a good idea!" said Mrs. Jones. "Do let's try it. Just wait, I'llget a needle in a minute. I'll tell Clarisse that Santa Claus sewed ithimself. The child believes in Santa Claus absolutely. "

And half an hour later Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Brown were so busy stitchingdolls' clothes that they could not hear the roaring of the little trainup and down the dining table, and had no idea what the four childrenwere doing. 

Nor did the children miss their mothers. 

"Dandy, aren't they?" Edwin Jones was saying to little Willie Brown, asthey sat in Edwin's bedroom. "A hundred in a box, with cork tips, andsee, an amber mouthpiece that fits into a little case at the side. Goodpresent for Dad, eh?"

"Fine!" said Willie appreciatively. "I'm giving Father cigars. "

"I know, I thought of cigars too. Men always like cigars and cigarettes. You can't go wrong on them. Say, would you like to try one or two ofthese cigarettes? We can take them from the bottom. You'll like them, they're Russian--away ahead of Egyptian. "

"Thanks, " answered Willie. "I'd like one immensely. I only startedsmoking last spring--on my twelfth birthday. I think a feller's a foolto begin smoking cigarettes too soon, don't you? It stunts him. I waitedtill I was twelve. "

"Me too, " said Edwin, as they lighted their cigarettes. "In fact, Iwouldn't buy them now if it weren't for Dad. I simply _had_ to give himsomething from Santa Claus. He believes in Santa Claus absolutely, youknow. "

And, while this was going on, Clarisse was showing little Ulvina theabsolutely lovely little bridge set that she got for her mother. 

"Aren't these markers perfectly charming?" said Ulvina. "And don't youlove this little Dutch design--or is it Flemish, darling?"

"Dutch, " said Clarisse. "Isn't it quaint? And aren't these the dearestlittle things, for putting the money in when you play. I needn't havegot them with it--they'd have sold the rest separately--but I think it'stoo utterly slow playing without money, don't you?"

"Oh, abominable, " shuddered Ulvina. "But your mamma never plays formoney, does she?"

"Mamma! Oh, gracious, no. Mamma's far too slow for that. But I shalltell her that Santa Claus insisted on putting in the little moneyboxes. "

"I suppose she believes in Santa Claus, just as my mamma does. "

"Oh, absolutely, " said Clarisse, and added, "What if we play a littlegame! With a double dummy, the French way, or Norwegian Skat, if youlike. That only needs two. "

"All right, " agreed Ulvina, and in a few minutes they were deep in agame of cards with a little pile of pocket money beside them. 

About half an hour later, all the members of the two families wereagain in the drawing-room. But of course nobody said anything about thepresents. In any case they were all too busy looking at the beautifulbig Bible, with maps in it, that the Joneses had brought to give toGrandfather. They all agreed that, with the help of it, Grandfathercould hunt up any place in Palestine in a moment, day or night. 

But upstairs, away upstairs in a sitting-room of his own GrandfatherJones was looking with an affectionate eye at the presents that stoodbeside him. There was a beautiful whisky decanter, with silver filigreeoutside (and whiskey inside) for Jones, and for the little boy a bignickel-plated Jew's harp. 

Later on, far in the night, the person, or the influence, or whateverit is called Santa Claus, took all the presents and placed them in thepeople's stockings. 

And, being blind as he always has been, he gave the wrong things to thewrong people--in fact, he gave them just as indicated above. 

But the next day, in the course of Christmas morning, the situationstraightened itself out, just as it always does. 

Indeed, by ten o'clock, Brown and Jones were playing with the train, andMrs. Brown and Mrs. Jones were making dolls' clothes, and the boys weresmoking cigarettes, and Clarisse and Ulvina were playing cards for theirpocket-money. 

And upstairs--away up--Grandfather was drinking whisky and playing theJew's harp. 

And so Christmas, just as it always does, turned out all right afterall. 

XI. Lost in New York

A VISITOR'S SOLILOQUY

Well! Well!

Whatever has been happening to this place, to New York? Changed? Changedsince I was here in '86? Well, I should say so. 

The hack-driver of the old days that I used to find waiting for me atthe station curb, with that impossible horse of his--the hack-driverwith his bulbous red face, and the nice smell of rye whisky all 'roundhim for yards--gone, so it seems, for ever. 

And in place of him this--what is it they call it?--taxi, with aclean-shaven cut-throat steering it. "Get in, " he says, Just that. Hedoesn't offer to help me or lift my satchel. All right, young man, I'mcrawling in. 

That's the machine that marks it, eh? I suppose they have them rigged upso they can punch up anything they like. I thought so--he hits it up tofifty cents before we start. But I saw him do it. Well, I can stand forit this time. I'll not be caught in one of these again. 

The hotel? All right, I'm getting out. My hotel? But what is it theyhave done to it? They must have added ten stories to it. It reachesto the sky. But I'll not try to look to the top of it. Not with thissatchel in my hand: no, sir! I'll wait till I'm safe inside. In thereI'll feel all right. They'll know me in there. They'll remember rightaway my visit in the fall of '86. They won't easily have forgottenthat big dinner I gave--nine people at a dollar fifty a plate, with thecigars extra. The clerk will remember _me_, all right. 

Know me? Not they. The _clerk_ know me! How could he? For it seems nowthere isn't any clerk, or not as there used to be. They have subdividedhim somehow into five or six. There is a man behind a desk, a majesticsort of man, waving his hand. It would be sheer madness to claimacquaintance with him. There is another with a great book, adjustingcards in it; and another, behind glass labelled "Cashier, " and busy asa bank; there are two with mail and telegrams. They are all too busy toknow me. 

Shall I sneak up near to them, keeping my satchel in my hand? I wonder, do they _see_ me? _Can_ they see me, a mere thing like me? I am withinten feet of them, but I am certain that they cannot see me. I am, and Ifeel it, absolutely invisible. 

Ha! One has seen me. He turns to me, or rather he rounds upon me, withthe words "Well, sir?" That, and nothing else, sharp and hard. There isnone of the ancient kindly pretence of knowing my name, no reachingout a welcome hand and calling me Mr. Er--Er--till he has read my nameupside down while I am writing it and can address me as a familiarfriend. No friendly questioning about the crops in my part of thecountry. The crops, forsooth! What do these young men know about crops?

A room? Had I any reservation? Any which? Any reservation. Oh, I see, had I written down from home to say that I was coming? No, I had notbecause the truth is I came at very short notice. I didn't know till aweek before that my brother-in-law--He is not listening. He has movedaway. I will stand and wait till he comes back. I am intruding here; Ihad no right to disturb these people like this. 

Oh, I can have a room at eleven o'clock. When it is which?--is vacated. Oh, yes, I see, when the man in it gets up and goes away. I didn't forthe minute catch on to what the word--He has stopped listening. 

Never mind, I can wait. From eight to eleven is only three hours, anyway. I will move about here and look at things. If I keep moving theywill notice me less. Ha! books and news papers and magazines--what astack of them! Like a regular book-store. I will stand here and takea look at some of them. Eh! what's that? Did I want to _buy_ anything?Well, no, I hadn't exactly--I was just--Oh, I see, they're on _sale_. All right, yes, give me this one--fifty cents--all right--and this andthese others. That's all right, miss, I'm not stingy. They always say ofme up in our town that when I--She has stopped listening. 

Never mind. I will walk up and down again with the magazines under myarm. That will make people think I live here. Better still if I couldput the magazines in my satchel. But how? There is no way to set it downand undo the straps. I wonder if I could dare put it for a minute onthat table, the polished one--? Or no, they wouldn't likely allow a manto put a bag _there_. 

Well, I can wait. Anyway, it's eight o'clock and soon, surely, breakfastwill be ready. As soon as I hear the gong I can go in there. I wonderif I could find out first where the dining-room is. It used always tobe marked across the door, but I don't seem to see it. Darn it, I'll askthat man in uniform. If I'm here prepared to spend my good money to getbreakfast I guess I'm not scared to ask a simple question of a man inuniform. Or no, I'll not ask _him_. I'll try this one--or no, he's busy. I'll ask this other boy. Say, would you mind, if you please, telling me, please, which way the dining-room--Eh, what? Do I want which? The grillroom or the palm room? Why, I tell you, young man, I just wanted toget some breakfast if it's--what? Do I want what? I didn't quite getthat--_a la carte_? No, thanks--and, what's that? table de what? in thepalm room? No, I just wanted--but it doesn't matter. I'll wait 'roundhere and look about till I hear the gong. Don't worry about me. 

What's that? What's that boy shouting out--that boy with the tray? Acall for Mr. Something or Other--say, must be something happened prettyserious! A call for Mr. --why, that's for me! Hullo! _Here I am! Here, it's Me! Here I am_--wanted at the desk? all right, I'm coming, I'mhurrying. I guess something's wrong at home, eh! _Here I am_. That's myname. I'm ready. 

Oh, a room. You've got a room for me. All right. The fifteenth floor!Good heavens! Away up there! Never mind, I'll take it. Can't give me abath? That's all right. I had one. 

Elevator over this way? All right, I'll come along. Thanks, I can carryit. But I don't see any elevator? Oh, this door in the wall? Well! I'mhanged. This the elevator! It certainly has changed. The elevator thatI remember had a rope in the middle of it, and you pulled the rope up asyou went, wheezing and clanking all the way to the fifth floor. But thislooks a queer sort of machine. How do you do--Oh, I beg your pardon. Iwas in the road of the door, I guess. Excuse me, I'm afraid I got in theway of your elbow. It's all right, you didn't hurt--or, not bad. 

Gee whiz! It goes fast. Are you sure you can stop it? Better be careful, young man. There was an elevator once in our town that--fifteenth floor?All right. 

This room, eh! Great Scott, it's high up. Say, better not go too nearthat window, boy. That would be a hell of a drop if a feller fell out. You needn't wait. Oh, I see. I beg your pardon. I suppose a quarter isenough, eh?

Well, it's a relief to be alone. But say, this is high up! And what anoise! What is it they're doing out there, away out in the air, with allthat clatter--building a steel building, I guess. Well, those fellershave their nerve, all right. I'll sit further back from the window. 

It's lonely up here. In the old days I could have rung a bell and had adrink sent up to the room; but away up here on the fifteenth floor!Oh, no, they'd never send a drink clean up to the fifteenth floor. Ofcourse, in the old days, I could have put on my canvas slippers andwalked down to the bar and had a drink and talked to the bar-tender. 

But of course they wouldn't have a bar in a place like this. I'd liketo go down and see, but I don't know that I'd care to ask, anyway. No, Iguess I'll just sit and wait. Some one will come for me, I guess, aftera while. 

If I were back right now in our town, I could walk into Ed Clancey'srestaurant and have ham and eggs, or steak and eggs, or anything, forthirty-five cents. 

Our town up home is a peach of a little town, anyway. 

Say, I just feel as if I'd like to take my satchel and jump clean out ofthat window. It would be a good rebuke to them. 

But, pshaw! what would _they_ care?

XII. This Strenuous Age

Something is happening, I regret to find, to the world in which we usedto live. The poor old thing is being "speeded up. " There is "efficiency"in the air. Offices open at eight o'clock. Millionaires lunch on a bakedapple. Bankers eat practically nothing. A college president has declaredthat there are more foot pounds of energy in a glass of peptonizedmilk than in--something else, I forget what. All this is very fine. Yetsomehow I feel out of it. 

My friends are failing me. They won't sit up after midnight. Theyhave taken to sleeping out of doors, on porches and pergolas. Some, Iunderstand, merely roost on plain wooden bars. They rise early. Theytake deep breathing. They bathe in ice water. They are no good. 

This change I am sure, is excellent. It is, I am certain, just as itought to be. I am merely saying, quietly and humbly, that I am not init. I am being left behind. Take, for example, the case of alcohol. That, at least, is what it is called now. There were days when we calledit Bourbon whisky and Tom Gin, and when the very name of it breathedromance. That time is past. 

The poor stuff is now called alcohol, and none so low that he has a goodword for it. Quite right, I am certain. I don't defend it. Alcohol, they are saying to-day, if taken in sufficient quantities, tears all theouter coating off the diaphragm. It leaves the epigastric tissue, so Iam informed, a useless wreck. 

This I don't deny. It gets, they tell me, into the brain. I don'tdispute it. It turns the prosencephalon into mere punk. I know it. I'vefelt it doing it. They tell me--and I believe it--that after evenone glass of alcohol, or shall we say Scotch whisky and soda, a man'sworking power is lowered by twenty per cent. This is a dreadful thing. After three glasses, so it is held, his capacity for sustained rigidthought is cut in two. And after about six glasses the man's workingpower is reduced by at least a hundred per cent. He merely sitsthere--in his arm-chair, at his club let us say--with all power, even all _desire_ to work gone out of him, not thinking rigidly, notsustaining his thought, a mere shapeless chunk of geniality, half hiddenin the blue smoke of his cigar. 

Very dreadful, not a doubt. Alcohol is doomed; it is going it is gone. Yet when I think of a hot Scotch on a winter evening, or a Tom Collinson a summer morning, or a gin Rickey beside a tennis-court, or a steinof beer on a bench beside a bowling-green--I wish somehow that we couldprohibit the use of alcohol and merely drink beer and whisky and gin aswe used to. But these things, it appears, interfere with work. They havegot to go. 

But turn to the broader and simpler question of _work_ itself. In mytime one hated it. It was viewed as the natural enemy of man. Now theworld has fallen in love with it. My friends, I find, take their deepbreathing and their porch sleeping because it makes them work better. They go for a week's vacation in Virginia not for its own sake, butbecause they say they can work better when they get back. I know aman who wears very loose boots because he can work better in them: andanother who wears only soft shirts because he can work better in a softshirt. There are plenty of men now who would wear dog-harness if theythought they could work more in it. I know another man who walks awayout into the country every Sunday: not that he likes the country--hewouldn't recognize a bumble bee if he saw it--but he claims that if hewalks on Sunday his head is as clear as a bell for work on Monday. 

Against work itself, I say nothing. But I sometimes wonder if I standalone in this thing. Am I the _only_ person left who hates it?

Nor is work all. Take food. I admit, here and now, that the lunch I likebest--I mean for an ordinary plain lunch, not a party--is a beef steakabout one foot square and two inches thick. Can I work on it? No, Ican't, but I can work in spite of it. That is as much as one used toask, twenty-five years ago. 

Yet now I find that all my friends boast ostentatiously about the meagrelunch they eat. One tells me that he finds a glass of milk and a pruneis quite as much as he cares to take. Another says that a dry biscuitand a glass of water is all that his brain will stand. One luncheson the white of an egg. Another eats merely the yolk. I have only twofriends left who can eat a whole egg at a time. 

I understand that the fear of these men is that if they eat more thanan egg or a biscuit they will feel heavy after lunch. Why they objectto feeling heavy, I do not know. Personally, I enjoy it. I like nothingbetter than to sit round after a heavy lunch with half a dozen heavyfriends, smoking heavy cigars. I am well aware that that is wicked. Imerely confess the fact. I do not palliate it. 

Nor is food all, nor drink, nor work, nor open air. There has spreadabroad along with the so-called physical efficiency a perfect passionfor _information_. Somehow if a man's stomach is empty and his headclear as a bell, and if he won't drink and won't smoke, he reaches outfor information. He wants facts. He reads the newspapers all though, instead of only reading the headings. He clamours for articles filledwith statistics about illiteracy and alien immigration and the number ofbattleships in the Japanese navy. 

I know quite a lot of men who have actually bought the new_Encyclopaedia Britannica_. What is more, they _read_ the thing. Theysit in their apartments at night with a glass of water at their elbowreading the encyclopaedia. They say that it is literally filled withfacts. Other men spend their time reading the Statistical Abstract ofthe United States (they say the figures in it are great) and the Actsof Congress, and the list of Presidents since Washington (or was itWashington?). 

Spending their evenings thus, and topping it off with a cold bakedapple, and sleeping out in the snow, they go to work in the morning, so they tell me, with a positive sense of exhilaration. I have no doubtthat they do. But, for me, I confess that once and for all I am out ofit. I am left behind. 

Add to it all such rising dangers as total prohibition, and the femalefranchise, the daylight saving, and eugenic marriage, together withproportional representation, the initiative and the referendum, and theduty of the citizen to take an intelligent interest in politics--and Iadmit that I shall not be sorry to go away from here. 

But before I _do_ go, I have one hope. I understand that down in Haytithings are very different. Bull fights, cock fights, dog fights, areopenly permitted. Business never begins till eleven in the morning. Everybody sleeps after lunch, and the bars remain open all night. Marriage is but a casual relation. In fact, the general condition ofmorality, so they tell me, is lower in Hayti than it has been anywheresince the time of Nero. Me for Hayti. 

XIII. The Old, Old Story of How Five Men Went Fishing

This is a plain account of a fishing party. It is not a story. Thereis no plot. Nothing happens in it and nobody is hurt. The only point ofthis narrative is its peculiar truth. It not only tells what happenedto us--the five people concerned in it--but what has happened and ishappening to all the other fishing parties that at the season of theyear, from Halifax to Idaho, go gliding out on the unruffled surfaceof our Canadian and American lakes in the still cool of early summermorning. 

We decided to go in the early morning because there is a popular beliefthat the early morning is the right time for bass fishing. The bass issaid to bite in the early morning. Perhaps it does. In fact the thingis almost capable of scientific proof. The bass does _not_ bite betweeneight and twelve. It does _not_ bite between twelve and six in theafternoon. Nor does it bite between six o'clock and midnight. All thesethings are known facts. The inference is that the bass bites furiouslyat about daybreak. 

At any rate our party were unanimous about starting early. "Bettermake an early start, " said the Colonel, when the idea of the party wassuggested. "Oh, yes, " said George Popley, the bank manager, "we want toget right out on the shoal while the fish are biting. "

When he said this all our eyes glistened. Everybody's do. There's athrill in the words. To "get right out on the shoal at daybreak when thefish are biting, " is an idea that goes to any man's brain. 

If you listen to the men talking in a Pullman car, or an hotel corridor, or, better still, at the little tables in a first-class bar, you willnot listen long before you hear one say: "Well, we got out early, justafter sunrise, right on the shoal. " And presently, even if you can'thear him, you will see him reach out his two hands and hold them abouttwo feet apart for the other man to admire. He is measuring the fish. No, not the fish they caught; this was the big one that they lost. Butthey had him right up to the top of the water. Oh, yes, he was up tothe top of the water all right. The number of huge fish that have beenheaved up to the top of the water in our lakes is almost incredible. Orat least it used to be when we still had bar rooms and little tablesfor serving that vile stuff Scotch whisky and such foul things as ginRickeys and John Collinses. It makes one sick to think of it, doesn'tit? But there was good fishing in the bars, all the winter. 

But, as I say, we decided to go early in the morning. Charlie Jones, the railroad man, said that he remembered how when he was a boy, up inWisconsin, they used to get out at five in the morning--not get upat five but be on the shoal at five. It appears that there is a shoalsomewhere in Wisconsin where the bass lie in thousands. Kernin, thelawyer, said that when he was a boy--this was on Lake Rosseau--they usedto get out at four. It seems there is a shoal in Lake Rosseau where youcan haul up the bass as fast as you can drop your line. The shoal ishard to find--very hard. Kernin can find it, but it is doubtful--so Igather--if any other living man can. The Wisconsin shoal, too, is verydifficult to find. Once you find it, you are all right; but it's hard tofind. Charlie Jones can find it. If you were in Wisconsin right now he'dtake you straight to it, but probably no other person now alive couldreach that shoal. In the same way Colonel Morse knows of a shoal inLake Simcoe where he used to fish years and years ago and which, Iunderstand, he can still find. 

I have mentioned that Kernin is a lawyer, and Jones a railroad manand Popley a banker. But I needn't have. Any reader would take it forgranted. In any fishing party there is always a lawyer. You can tell himat sight. He is the one of the party that has a landing net and a steelrod in sections with a wheel that is used to wind the fish to the top ofthe water. 

And there is always a banker. You can tell him by his good clothes. Popley, in the bank, wears his banking suit. When he goes fishing hewears his fishing suit. It is much the better of the two, because hisbanking suit has ink marks on it, and his fishing suit has no fish markson it. 

As for the railroad man--quite so, the reader knows it as well as Ido--you can tell him because he carries a pole that he cut in the bushhimself, with a ten-cent line wrapped round the end of it. Jones sayshe can catch as many fish with this kind of line as Kernin can with hispatent rod and wheel. So he can too. Just the same number. 

But Kernin says that with his patent apparatus if you get a fish on youcan _play_ him. Jones says to Hades with _playing_ him: give him a fishon his line and he'll haul him in all right. Kernin says he'd lose him. But Jones says _he_ wouldn't. In fact he _guarantees_ to haul the fishin. Kernin says that more than once--in Lake Rosseau--he has played afish for over half an hour. I forget now why he stopped; I think thefish quit playing. 

I have heard Kernin and Jones argue this question of their two rods, as to which rod can best pull in the fish, for half an hour. Others mayhave heard the same question debated. I know no way by which it could besettled. 

Our arrangement to go fishing was made at the little golf club of oursummer town on the veranda where we sit in the evening. Oh, it's justa little place, nothing pretentious: the links are not much good for_golf_; in fact we don't play much _golf_ there, so far as golf goes, and of course, we don't serve meals at the club, it's not like that--andno, we've nothing to drink there because of prohibition. But we go and_sit_ there. It is a good place to _sit_, and, after all, what else canyou do in the present state of the law?

So it was there that we arranged the party. 

The thing somehow seemed to fall into the mood of each of us. Jones saidhe had been hoping that some of the boys would get up a fishing party. It was apparently the one kind of pleasure that he really cared for. Formyself I was delighted to get in with a crowd of regular fishermenlike these four, especially as I hadn't been out fishing for nearly tenyears, though fishing is a thing I am passionately fond of. I know nopleasure in life like the sensation of getting a four-pound bass on thehook and hauling him up to the top of the water, to weigh him. But, asI say, I hadn't been out for ten years. Oh, yes, I live right besidethe water every summer, and yes, certainly--I am saying so--I ampassionately fond of fishing, but still somehow I hadn't been _out_. Every fisherman knows just how that happens. The years have a way ofslipping by. Yet I must say I was surprised to find that so keen a sportas Jones hadn't been out--so it presently appeared--for eight years. Ihad imagined he practically lived on the water. And Colonel Morse andKernin, I was amazed to find, hadn't been out for twelve years, notsince the day--so it came out in conversation--when they went outtogether in Lake Rosseau and Kernin landed a perfect monster, a regularcorker, five pounds and a half, they said; or no, I don't think he_landed_ him. No, I remember, he didn't _land_ him. He caught him--andhe _could_ have landed him, he should have landed him--but he _didn't_land him. That was it. Yes, I remember Kernin and Morse had a slightdiscussion about it--oh, perfectly amicable--as to whether Morse hadfumbled with the net or whether Kernin--the whole argument was perfectlyfriendly--had made an ass of himself by not "striking" soon enough. Ofcourse the whole thing was so long ago that both of them could lookback on it without any bitterness or ill nature. In fact it amused them. Kernin said it was the most laughable thing he ever saw in his life tosee poor old Jack--that's Morse's name--shoving away with the landingnet wrong side up. And Morse said he'd never forget seeing poor oldKernin yanking his line first this way and then that and not knowingwhere to try to haul it. It made him laugh to look back at it. 

They might have gone on laughing for quite a time, but Charlie Jonesinterrupted by saying that in his opinion a landing net is a piece ofdarned foolishness. Here Popley agrees with him. Kernin objects that ifyou don't use a net you'll lose your fish at the side of the boat. Jonessays no: give him a hook well through the fish and a stout line in hishand and that fish has _got_ to come in. Popley says so too. He says lethim have his hook fast through the fish's head with a short stout line, and put him (Popley) at the other end of that line and that fish willcome in. It's _got_ to. Otherwise Popley will know why. That's thealternative. Either the fish must come in or Popley must know why. There's no escape from the logic of it. 

But perhaps some of my readers have heard the thing discussed before. 

So, as I say, we decided to go the next morning and to make an earlystart. All of the boys were at one about that. When I say "boys, " I usethe word, as it is used in fishing, to mean people from say forty-fiveto sixty-five. There is something about fishing that keeps men young. Ifa fellow gets out for a good morning's fishing, forgetting all businessworries, once in a while--say, once in ten years--it keeps him fresh. 

We agreed to go in a launch, a large launch--to be exact, the largestin the town. We could have gone in row boats, but a row boat is a poorthing to fish from. Kernin said that in a row boat it is impossibleproperly to "_play_" your fish. The side of the boat is so low thatthe fish is apt to leap over the side into the boat when half "played. "Popley said that there is no comfort in a row boat. In a launch a mancan reach out his feet and take it easy. Charlie Jones said that in alaunch a man could rest his back against something, and Morse said thatin a launch a man could rest his neck. Young inexperienced boys, in thesmall sense of the word, never think of these things. So they go outand after a few hours their necks get tired; whereas a group of expertfishers in a launch can rest their backs and necks and even fall asleepduring the pauses when the fish stop biting. 

Anyway all the "boys" agreed that the great advantage of a launch wouldbe that we could get a _man_ to take us. By that means the man could seeto getting the worms, and the man would be sure to have spare lines, andthe man could come along to our different places--we were all beside thewater--and pick us up. In fact the more we thought about the advantageof having a "man" to take us the better we liked it. As a boy gets oldhe likes to have a man around to do the work. 

Anyway Frank Rolls, the man we decided to get, not only has the biggestlaunch in town but what is more Frank _knows_ the lake. We called him upat his boat-house over the phone and said we'd give him five dollars totake us out first thing in the morning provided that he knew the shoal. He said he knew it. 

I don't know, to be quite candid about it, who mentioned whisky first. In these days everybody has to be a little careful. I imagine we had allbeen _thinking_ whisky for some time before anybody said it. But thereis a sort of convention that when men go fishing they must have whisky. Each man makes the pretence that one thing he needs at six o'clock inthe morning is cold raw whisky. It is spoken of in terms of affection. One man says the first thing you need if you're going fishing is a good"snort" of whisky; another says that a good "snifter" is the very thing;and the others agree that no man can fish properly without "a horn, " ora "bracer" or an "eye-opener. " Each man really decides that he himselfwon't take any. But he feels that, in a collective sense, the "boys"need it. 

So it was with us. The Colonel said he'd bring along "a bottle ofbooze. " Popley said, no, let _him_ bring it; Kernin said let him; andCharlie Jones said no, he'd bring it. It turned out that the Colonel hadsome very good Scotch at his house that he'd like to bring; oddly enoughPopley had some good Scotch in _his_ house too; and, queer though it is, each of the boys had Scotch in his house. When the discussion closedwe knew that each of the five of us was intending to bring a bottle ofwhisky. Each of the five of us expected the other to drink one and aquarter bottles in the course of the morning. 

I suppose we must have talked on that veranda till long after one in themorning. It was probably nearer two than one when we broke up. But weagreed that that made no difference. Popley said that for him threehours' sleep, the right kind of sleep, was far more refreshing than ten. Kernin said that a lawyer learns to snatch his sleep when he can, andJones said that in railroad work a man pretty well cuts out sleep. 

So we had no alarms whatever about not being ready by five. Our plan wassimplicity itself. Men like ourselves in responsible positions learn toorganize things easily. In fact Popley says it is that faculty that hasput us where we are. So the plan simply was that Frank Rolls should comealong at five o'clock and blow his whistle in front of our places, andat that signal each man would come down to his wharf with his rod andkit and so we'd be off to the shoal without a moment's delay. 

The weather we ruled out. It was decided that even if it rained thatmade no difference. Kernin said that fish bite better in the rain. Andeverybody agreed that man with a couple of snorts in him need have nofear of a little rain water. 

So we parted, all keen on the enterprise. Nor do I think even now thatthere was anything faulty or imperfect in that party as we planned it. 

I heard Frank Rolls blowing his infernal whistle opposite my summercottage at some ghastly hour in the morning. Even without getting out ofbed, I could see from the window that it was no day for fishing. No, notraining exactly. I don't mean that, but one of those peculiar days--Idon't mean _wind_--there was no wind, but a sort of feeling in the airthat showed anybody who understands bass fishing that it was a perfectlyrotten day for going out. The fish, I seemed to know it, wouldn't bite. 

When I was still fretting over the annoyance of the disappointment Iheard Frank Rolls blowing his whistle in front of the other cottages. Icounted thirty whistles altogether. Then I fell into a light doze--notexactly sleep, but a sort of _doze_--I can find no other word for it. Itwas clear to me that the other "boys" had thrown the thing over. Therewas no use in my trying to go out alone. I stayed where I was, my dozelasting till ten o'clock. 

When I walked up town later in the morning I couldn't help being struckby the signs in the butcher's shops and the restaurants, FISH, FRESHFISH, FRESH LAKE FISH. 

Where in blazes do they get those fish anyway?

XIV. Back from the Land

I have just come back now with the closing in of autumn--to the city. Ihave hung up my hoe in my study; my spade is put away behind the piano. I have with me seven pounds of Paris Green that I had over. Anybody whowants it may have it. I didn't like to bury it for fear of its poisoningthe ground. I didn't like to throw it away for fear of its destroyingcattle. I was afraid to leave it in my summer place for fear that itmight poison the tramps who generally break in in November. I have itwith me now. I move it from room to room, as I hate to turn my back uponit. Anybody who wants it, I repeat, can have it. 

I should like also to give away, either to the Red Cross or to anythingelse, ten packets of radish seed (the early curled variety, I think), fifteen packets of cucumber seed (the long succulent variety, Ibelieve it says), and twenty packets of onion seed (the Yellow Danvers, distinguished, I understand, for its edible flavour and its nutritiousproperties). It is not likely that I shall ever, on this side of thegrave, plant onion seed again. All these things I have with me. Myvegetables are to come after me by freight. They are booked from SimcoeCounty to Montreal; at present they are, I believe, passing throughSchenectady. But they will arrive later all right. They were seen goingthrough Detroit last week, moving west. It is the first time that Iever sent anything by freight anywhere. I never understood before thewonderful organization of the railroads. But they tell me that there isa bad congestion of freight down South this month. If my vegetables gettangled up in that there is no telling when they will arrive. 

In other words, I am one of the legion of men--quiet, determined, resolute men--who went out last spring to plant the land, and who arenow back. 

With me--and I am sure that I speak for all the others as well--it wasnot a question of mere pleasure; it was no love of gardening for itsown sake that inspired us. It was a plain national duty. What we said toourselves was: "This war has got to stop. The men in the trenches thusfar have failed to stop it. Now let _us_ try. The whole thing, " weargued, "is a plain matter of food production. "

"If we raise enough food the Germans are bound to starve. Very good. Letus kill them. "

I suppose there was never a more grimly determined set of men went outfrom the cities than those who went out last May, as I did, to conquerthe food problem. I don't mean to say that each and every one of usactually left the city. But we all "went forth" in the metaphoricalsense. Some of the men cultivated back gardens; others took vacant lots;some went out into the suburbs; and others, like myself, went right outinto the country. 

We are now back. Each of us has with him his Paris Green, his hoe andthe rest of his radish seed. 

The time has, therefore, come for a plain, clear statement of ourexperience. We have, as everybody knows, failed. We have been beatenhack all along the line. Our potatoes are buried in a jungle of autumnburdocks. Our radishes stand seven feet high, uneatable. Our tomatoes, when last seen, were greener than they were at the beginning of August, and getting greener every week. Our celery looked as delicate as amaidenhair fern. Our Indian corn was nine feet high with a tall featheryspike on top of that, but no sign of anything eatable about it from topto bottom. 

I look back with a sigh of regret at those bright, early days in Aprilwhen we were all buying hoes, and talking soil and waiting for the snowto be off the ground. The street cars, as we went up and down toour offices, were a busy babel of garden talk. There was a sort offarmer-like geniality in the air. One spoke freely to strangers. Everyman with a hoe was a friend. Men chewed straws in their offices, andkept looking out of windows to pretend to themselves that they wereafraid it might blow up rain. "Got your tomatoes in?" one man would askanother as they went up in the elevator. "Yes, I got mine in yesterday, "the other would answer, "But I'm just a little afraid that this eastwind may blow up a little frost. What we need now is growing weather. "And the two men would drift off together from the elevator door alongthe corridor, their heads together in friendly colloquy. 

I have always regarded a lawyer as a man without a soul. There is onewho lives next door to me to whom I have not spoken in five years. Yetwhen I saw him one day last spring heading for the suburbs in a pair ofold trousers with a hoe in one hand and a box of celery plants in theother I felt that I loved the man. I used to think that stock-brokerswere mere sordid calculating machines. Now that I have seen whole firmsof them busy at the hoe, wearing old trousers that reached to theirarmpits and were tied about the waist with a polka dot necktie, I knowthat they are men. I know that there are warm hearts beating behindthose trousers. 

Old trousers, I say. Where on earth did they all come from in such asudden fashion last spring? Everybody had them. Who would suspect thata man drawing a salary of ten thousand a year was keeping in reserve apair of pepper-and-salt breeches, four sizes too large for him, justin case a war should break out against Germany! Talk of Germanmobilization! I doubt whether the organizing power was all on their sideafter all. At any rate it is estimated that fifty thousand pairs of oldtrousers were mobilized in Montreal in one week. 

But perhaps it was not a case of mobilization, or deliberatepreparedness. It was rather an illustration of the primitive instinctthat is in all of us and that will out in "war time. " Any man worth thename would wear old breeches all the time if the world would let him. Any man will wind a polka dot tie round his waist in preference towearing patent braces. The makers of the ties know this. That iswhy they make the tie four feet long. And in the same way if anymanufacturer of hats will put on the market an old fedora, with a limprim and a mark where the ribbon used to be but is not--a hat guaranteedto be six years old, well weathered, well rained on, and certifiedto have been walked over by a herd of cattle--that man will make anddeserve a fortune. 

These at least were the fashions of last May. Alas, where are they now?The men that wore them have relapsed again into tailor-made tweeds. Theyhave put on hard new hats. They are shining their boots again. They areshaving again, not merely on Saturday night, but every day. They aresinking back into civilization. 

Yet those were bright times and I cannot forbear to linger on them. Nor the least pleasant feature was our rediscovery of the morning. Myneighbour on the right was always up at five. My neighbour on theleft was out and about by four. With the earliest light of day, littlecolumns of smoke rose along our street from the kitchen ranges whereour wives were making coffee for us before the servants got up. By sixo'clock the street was alive and busy with friendly salutations. Themilkman seemed a late comer, a poor, sluggish fellow who failed toappreciate the early hours of the day. A man, we found, might livethrough quite a little Iliad of adventure before going to his nineo'clock office. 

"How will you possibly get time to put in a garden?" I asked of one ofmy neighbours during this glad period of early spring before I left forthe country. "Time!" he exclaimed. "Why, my dear fellow, I don't have tobe down at the warehouse till eight-thirty. "

Later in the summer I saw the wreck of his garden, choked withweeds. "Your garden, " I said, "is in poor shape. " "Garden!" he saidindignantly. "How on earth can I find time for a garden? Do you realizethat I have to be down at the warehouse at eight-thirty?"

When I look back to our bright beginnings our failure seems hard indeedto understand. It is only when I survey the whole garden movement inmelancholy retrospect that I am able to see some of the reasons for it. 

The principal one, I think, is the question of the season. It appearsthat the right time to begin gardening is last year. For many things itis well to begin the year before last. For good results one must begineven sooner. Here, for example, are the directions, as I interpretthem, for growing asparagus. Having secured a suitable piece of ground, preferably a deep friable loam rich in nitrogen, go out three years agoand plough or dig deeply. Remain a year inactive, thinking. Two yearsago pulverize the soil thoroughly. Wait a year. As soon as last yearcomes set out the young shoots. Then spend a quiet winter doing nothing. The asparagus will then be ready to work at _this_ year. 

This is the rock on which we were wrecked. Few of us were men ofsufficient means to spend several years in quiet thought waiting tobegin gardening. Yet that is, it seems, the only way to begin. Asparagusdemands a preparation of four years. To fit oneself to grow strawberriesrequires three years. Even for such humble things as peas, beans, andlettuce the instructions inevitably read, "plough the soil deeply in thepreceeding autumn. " This sets up a dilemma. _Which_ is the preceedingautumn? If a man begins gardening in the spring he is too late for lastautumn and too early for this. On the other hand if he begins in theautumn he is again too late; he has missed this summer's crop. It is, therefore, ridiculous to begin in the autumn and impossible to begin inthe spring. 

This was our first difficulty. But the second arose from the questionof the soil itself. All the books and instructions insist that theselection of the soil is the most important part of gardening. No doubtit is. But, if a man has already selected his own backyard before heopens the book, what remedy is there? All the books lay stress on theneed of "a deep, friable loam full of nitrogen. " This I have never seen. My own plot of land I found on examination to contain nothing but earth. I could see no trace of nitrogen. I do not deny the existence of loam. There may be such a thing. But I am admitting now in all humility ofmind that I don't know what loam is. Last spring my fellow gardeners andI all talked freely of the desirability of "a loam. " My own opinion isthat none of them had any clearer ideas about it than I had. Speakingfrom experience, I should say that the only soils are earth, mud anddirt. There are no others. 

But I leave out the soil. In any case we were mostly forced to disregardit. Perhaps a more fruitful source of failure even than the lack of loamwas the attempt to apply calculation and mathematics to gardening. Thus, if one cabbage will grow in one square foot of ground, how many cabbageswill grow in ten square feet of ground? Ten? Not at all. The answer is_one_. You will find as a matter of practical experience that howevermany cabbages you plant in a garden plot there will be only _one_ thatwill really grow. This you will presently come to speak of as _the_cabbage. Beside it all the others (till the caterpillars finally finishtheir existence) will look but poor, lean things. But _the_ cabbage willbe a source of pride and an object of display to visitors; in fact itwould ultimately have grown to be a _real_ cabbage, such as you buy forten cents at any market, were it not that you inevitably cut it and eatit when it is still only half-grown. 

This always happens to the one cabbage that is of decent size, and tothe one tomato that shows signs of turning red (it is really a feeblegreen-pink), and to the only melon that might have lived to ripen. Theyget eaten. No one but a practised professional gardener can live andsleep beside a melon three-quarters ripe and a cabbage two-thirds grownwithout going out and tearing it off the stem. 

Even at that it is not a bad plan to eat the stuff while you can. Themost peculiar thing about gardening is that all of a sudden everythingis too old to eat. Radishes change over night from delicate young shootsnot large enough to put on the table into huge plants seven feet highwith a root like an Irish shillelagh. If you take your eyes off alettuce bed for a week the lettuces, not ready to eat when you lastlooked at them, have changed into a tall jungle of hollyhocks. Greenpeas are only really green for about two hours. Before that they areyoung peas; after that they are old peas. Cucumbers are the worst caseof all. They change overnight, from delicate little bulbs obviously tooslight and dainty to pick, to old cases of yellow leather filled withseeds. 

If I were ever to garden again, a thing which is out of the bounds ofpossibility, I should wait until a certain day and hour when all theplants were ripe, and then go out with a gun and shoot them all dead, sothat they could grow no more. 

But calculation, I repeat, is the bane of gardening. I knew, among ourgroup of food producers, a party of young engineers, college men, who took an empty farm north of the city as the scene of their summeroperations. They took their coats off and applied college methods. Theyran out, first, a base line AB, and measured off from it lateralspurs MN, OP, QR, and so on. From these they took side angles with atheodolite so as to get the edges of each of the separate plots oftheir land absolutely correct. I saw them working at it all through oneSaturday afternoon in May. They talked as they did it of the peculiarignorance of the so-called practical farmer. He never--so theyagreed--uses his head. He never--I think I have their phrasecorrect--stops to think. In laying out his ground for use, it neveroccurs to him to try to get the maximum result from a given space. Ifa farmer would only realize that the contents of a circle represent themaximum of space enclosable in a given perimeter, and that a circle ismerely a function of its own radius, what a lot of time he would save. 

These young men that I speak of laid out their field engineer-fashionwith little white posts at even distances. They made a blueprint of thewhole thing as they planted it. Every corner of it was charted out. Theyield was calculated to a nicety. They had allowed for the fact thatsome of the stuff might fail to grow by introducing what they called "acoefficient of error. " By means of this and by reducing the variation ofautumn prices to a mathematical curve, those men not only knew alreadyin the middle of May the exact yield of their farm to within half abushel (they allowed, they said, a variation of half a bushel per fiftyacres), but they knew beforehand within a few cents the market valuethat they would receive. The figures, as I remember them, were simplyamazing. It seemed incredible that fifty acres could produce so much. Yet there were the plain facts in front of one, calculated out. Thething amounted practically to a revolution in farming. At least it oughtto have. And it would have if those young men had come again to hoetheir field. But it turned out, most unfortunately, that they were busy. To their great regret they were too busy to come. They had been workingunder a free-and-easy arrangement. Each man was to give what time hecould every Saturday. It was left to every man's honour to do what hecould. There was no compulsion. Each man trusted the others to be there. In fact the thing was not only an experiment in food production, it wasalso a new departure in social co-operation. The first Saturday thatthose young men worked there were, so I have been told, seventy-five ofthem driving in white stakes and running lines. The next Saturday therewere fifteen of them planting potatoes. The rest were busy. The weekafter that there was one man hoeing weeds. After that silence fell uponthe deserted garden, broken only by the cry of the chick-a-dee and thechoo-choo feeding on the waving heads of the thistles. 

But I have indicated only two or three of the ways of failing at foodproduction. There are ever so many more. What amazes me, in returningto the city, is to find the enormous quantities of produce of all sortsoffered for sale in the markets. It is an odd thing that last spring, by a queer oversight, we never thought, any of us, of this process ofincreasing the supply. If every patriotic man would simply take a largebasket and go to the market every day and buy all that he could carryaway there need be no further fear of a food famine. 

And, meantime, my own vegetables are on their way. They are in a soapbox with bars across the top, coming by freight. They weigh forty-sixpounds, including the box. They represent the result of four months'arduous toil in sun, wind, and storm. Yet it is pleasant to think that Ishall be able to feed with them some poor family of refugees during therigour of the winter. Either that or give them to the hens. I certainlywon't eat the rotten things myself. 

XV. The Perplexity Column as Done by the Jaded Journalist

INSTANTANEOUS ANSWERS TO ALL QUESTIONS

(All questions written out legibly with the name and address of thesender and accompanied by one dollar, answered immediately and withoutcharge. )

Harvard Student asks:

Can you tell me the date at which, or on which, Oliver Cromwell's fatherdied?

Answer: No, I can't. 

Student of Mathematics asks:

Will you kindly settle a matter involving a wager between myself anda friend? A. Bet B. That a pedestrian in walking downhill over a givenspace and alternately stepping with either foot, covers more ground thana man coasting over the same road on a bicycle. Which of us wins?

Answer: I don't understand the question, and I don't know which of youis A. 

Chess-player asks:

Is the Knight's gambit recognized now as a permissible opening in chess?

Answer: I don't play chess. 

Reuben Boob asks:

For some time past I have been calling upon a young lady friend at herhouse evenings and going out with her to friends' nights. I should liketo know if it would be all right to ask to take her alone with me to thetheatre?

Answer: Certainly not. This column is very strict about these things. Not alone. Not for a moment. It is better taste to bring your fatherwith you. 

Auction asks:

In playing bridge please tell me whether the third or the second playerought to discard from weakness on a long suit when trumps have beentwice round and the lead is with dummy. 

Answer: Certainly. 

Lady of Society asks:

Can you tell me whether the widow of a marquis is entitled to go in todinner before the eldest daughter of an earl?

Answer: Ha! ha! This is a thing we know--something that we _do_ know. You put your foot in it when you asked us that. We have _lived_ thissort of thing too long ever to make any error. The widow of a marquis, whom you should by rights call a marchioness dowager (but we overlookit--you meant no harm) is entitled (in any hotel that we know orfrequent) to go in to dinner whenever, and as often, as she likes. On adining-car the rule is the other way. 

Vassar Girl asks:

What is the date of the birth of Caracalla?

Answer: I couldn't say. 

Lexicographer asks:

Can you tell me the proper way to spell "dog"?

Answer: Certainly. "Dog" should be spelt, properly and precisely, "dog. "When it is used in the sense to mean not "_a_ dog" or "_one_ dog" buttwo or more dogs--in other words what we grammarians are accustomedto call the plural--it is proper to add to it the diphthong, _s_, pronounced with a hiss like _z_ in soup. 

But for all these questions of spelling your best plan is to buy a copyof Our Standard Dictionary, published in ten volumes, by this newspaper, at forty dollars. 

Ignoramus asks:

Can you tell me how to spell "cat"?

Answer: Didn't you hear what we just said about how to spell "dog"? Buythe Dictionary. 

Careworn Mother asks:

I am most anxious to find out the relation of the earth's diameter toits circumference. Can you, or any of your readers, assist me in it?

Answer: The earth's circumference is estimated to be three decimal onefour one five nine of its diameter, a fixed relation indicated by theGreek letter _pi_. If you like we will tell you what _pi_ is. Shall we?

"Brink of Suicide" writes:

Can you, will you, tell me what is the Sanjak of Novi Bazar?

Answer. The Sanjak of Novi Bazar is bounded on the north by its northernfrontier, cold and cheerless, and covered during the winter with deepsnow. The east of the Sanjak occupies a more easterly position. Here thesun rises--at first slowly, but gathering speed as it goes. After havingtraversed the entire width of the whole Sanjak, the magnificent orb, slowly and regretfully, sinks into the west. On the south, where thesoil is more fertile and where the land begins to be worth occupying, the Sanjak is, or will be, bounded by the British Empire. 

XVI. Simple Stories of Success, or How to Succeed in Life

Let me begin with a sort of parable. Many years ago when I was on thestaff of a great public school, we engaged a new swimming master. 

He was the most successful man in that capacity that we had had foryears. 

Then one day it was discovered that he couldn't swim. 

He was standing at the edge of the swimming tank explaining the breaststroke to the boys in the water. 

He lost his balance and fell in. He was drowned. 

Or no, he wasn't drowned, I remember, --he was rescued by some of thepupils whom he had taught to swim. 

After he was resuscitated by the boys--it was one of the things he hadtaught them--the school dismissed him. 

Then some of the boys who were sorry for him taught him how to swim, andhe got a new job as a swimming master in another place. 

But this time he was an utter failure. He swam well, but they said hecouldn't _teach_. 

So his friends looked about to get him a new job. This was just at thetime when the bicycle craze came in. They soon found the man a positionas an instructor in bicycle riding. As he had never been on a bicycle inhis life, he made an admirable teacher. He stood fast on the ground andsaid, "Now then, all you need is confidence. "

Then one day he got afraid that he might be found out. So he went out toa quiet place and got on a bicycle, at the top of a slope, to learn toride it. The bicycle ran away with him. But for the skill and daring ofone of his pupils, who saw him and rode after him, he would have beenkilled. 

This story, as the reader sees, is endless. Suffice it to say that theman I speak of is now in an aviation school teaching people to fly. Theysay he is one of the best aviators that ever walked. 

According to all the legends and story books, the principal factor insuccess is perseverance. Personally, I think there is nothing in it. Ifanything, the truth lies the other way. 

There is an old motto that runs, "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. " This is nonsense. It ought to read, "If at first you don'tsucceed, quit, quit, at once. "

If you can't do a thing, more or less, the first time you try, you willnever do it. Try something else while there is yet time. 

Let me illustrate this with a story. 

I remember, long years ago, at a little school that I attended in thecountry, we had a schoolmaster, who used perpetually to write on theblackboard, in a copperplate hand, the motto that I have just quoted:

 "If at first you don't succeed, Try, try, again. "

He wore plain clothes and had a hard, determined face. He was studyingfor some sort of preliminary medical examination, and was saving moneyfor a medical course. Every now and then he went away to the city andtried the examination: and he always failed. Each time he came back, hewould write up on the blackboard:

 "Try, try again. "

And always he looked grimmer and more determined than before. Thestrange thing was that, with all his industry and determination, hewould break out every now and then into drunkenness, and lie round thetavern at the crossroads, and the school would be shut for two days. Then he came back, more fiercely resolute than ever. Even children couldsee that the man's life was a fight. It was like the battle between Goodand Evil in Milton's epics. 

Well, after he had tried it four times, the schoolmaster at lastpassed the examination; and he went away to the city in a suit of storeclothes, with eight hundred dollars that he had saved up, to studymedicine. Now it happened that he had a brother who was not a bit likehimself, but was a sort of ne'er-do-well, always hard-up and sponging onother people, and never working. 

And when the schoolmaster came to the city and his brother knew thathe had eight hundred dollars, he came to him and got him drinking andpersuaded him to hand over the eight hundred dollars and to let him putit into the Louisiana State lottery. In those days the Louisiana Lotteryhad not yet been forbidden the use of the mails, and you could buy aticket for anything from one dollar up. The Grand Prize was two hundredthousand dollars, and the Seconds were a hundred thousand each. 

So the brother persuaded the schoolmaster to put the money in. He saidhe had a system for buying only the tickets with prime numbers, thatwon't divide by anything, and that it must win. He said it was amathematical certainty, and he figured it out with the schoolmaster inthe back room of a saloon, with a box of dominoes on the table to showthe plan of it. He told the schoolmaster that he himself would only taketen per cent of what they made, as a commission for showing the system, and the schoolmaster could have the rest. 

So, in a mad moment, the schoolmaster handed over his roll of money, andthat was the last he ever saw of it. 

The next morning when he was up he was fierce with rage and remorsefor what he had done. He could not go back to the school, and he had nomoney to go forward. So he stayed where he was in the little hotel wherehe had got drunk, and went on drinking. He looked so fierce and unkemptthat in the hotel they were afraid of him, and the bar-tenders watchedhim out of the corners of their eyes wondering what he would do; becausethey knew that there was only one end possible, and they waited for itto come. And presently it came. One of the bar-tenders went up to theschoolmaster's room to bring up a letter, and he found him lying on thebed with his face grey as ashes, and his eyes looking up at the ceiling. He was stone dead. Life had beaten him. 

And the strange thing was that the letter that the bartender carriedup that morning was from the management of the Louisiana Lottery. Itcontained a draft on New York, signed by the treasurer of the State ofLouisiana, for two hundred thousand dollars. The schoolmaster had wonthe Grand Prize. 

The above story, I am afraid, is a little gloomy. I put it down merelyfor the moral it contained, and I became so absorbed in telling it thatI almost forgot what the moral was that it was meant to convey. But Ithink the idea is that if the schoolmaster had long before abandoned thestudy of medicine, for which he was not fitted, and gone in, let us say, for playing the banjo, he might have become end-man in a minstrel show. Yes, that was it. 

Let me pass on to other elements in success. 

I suppose that anybody will admit that the peculiar quality thatis called initiative--the ability to act promptly on one's ownjudgement--is a factor of the highest importance. 

I have seen this illustrated two or three times in a very strikingfashion. 

I knew, in Toronto--it is long years ago--a singularly bright young manwhose name was Robinson. He had had some training in the iron and steelbusiness, and when I knew him was on the look out for an opening. 

I met him one day in a great hurry, with a valise in his hand. 

"Where are you going?" I asked. 

"Over to England, " he said. "There is a firm in Liverpool that haveadvertised that they want an agent here, and I'm going over to apply forthe job. "

"Can't you do it by letter?" I asked. 

"That's just it, " said Robinson, with a chuckle, "all the other menwill apply by letter. I'll go right over myself and get there as soon orsooner than the letters. I'll be the man on the spot, and I'll get thejob. "

He was quite right. He went over to Liverpool, and was back in afortnight with English clothes and a big salary. 

But I cannot recommend his story to my friends. In fact, it should notbe told too freely. It is apt to be dangerous. 

I remember once telling this story of Robinson to a young man calledTomlinson who was out of a job. Tomlinson had a head two sizes too big, and a face like a bun. He had lost three jobs in a bank and two in abroker's office, but he knew his work, and on paper he looked a goodman. 

I told him about Robinson, to encourage him, and the story made a greatimpression. 

"Say, that was a great scheme, eh?" he kept repeating. He had no commandof words, and always said the same thing over and over. 

A few days later I met Tomlinson in the street with a valise in hishand. 

"Where are you going?" I asked. 

"I'm off to Mexico, " he answered. "They're advertising for a Canadianteller for a bank in Tuscapulco. I've sent my credentials down, andI'm going to follow them right up in person. In a thing like this, thepersonal element is everything. "

So Tomlinson went down to Mexico and he travelled by sea to MexicoCity, and then with a mule train to Tuscapulco. But the mails, with hiscredentials, went by land and got there two days ahead of him. 

When Tomlinson got to Tuscapulco he went into the bank and he spoke tothe junior manager and told him what he came for. "I'm awfully sorry, "the junior manager said, "I'm afraid that this post has just beenfilled. " Then he went into an inner room to talk with the manager. "Thetellership that you wanted a Canadian for, " he asked, "didn't you saythat you have a man already?"

"Yes, " said the manager, "a brilliant young fellow from Toronto; hisname is Tomlinson, I have his credentials here--a first-class man. I'vewired him to come right along, at our expense, and we'll keep the jobopen for him ten days. "

"There's a young man outside, " said the junior, "who wants to apply forthe job. "

"Outside?" exclaimed the manager. "How did he get here?"

"Came in on the mule train this morning: says he can do the work andwants the job. "

"What's he like?" asked the manager. 

The junior shook his head. 

"Pretty dusty looking customer, " he said. "Shifty looking. "

"Same old story, " murmured the manager. "It's odd how these fellowsdrift down here, isn't it? Up to something crooked at home, I suppose. Understands the working of a bank, eh? I guess he understands it alittle too well for my taste. No, no, " he continued, tapping the papersthat lay on the table, "now that we've got a first-class man likeTomlinson, let's hang on to him. We can easily wait ten days, and thecost of the journey is nothing to the bank as compared with getting aman of Tomlinson's stamp. And, by the way, you might telephone to theChief of Police and get him to see to it that this loafer gets out oftown straight off. "

So the Chief of Police shut up Tomlinson in the calaboose and then senthim down to Mexico City under a guard. By the time the police were donewith him he was dead broke, and it took him four months to get back toToronto; when he got there, the place in Mexico had been filled longago. 

But I can imagine that some of my readers might suggest that I havehitherto been dealing only with success in a very limited way, and thatmore interest would lie in discussing how the really great fortunes aremade. 

Everybody feels an instinctive interest in knowing how our greatcaptains of industry, our financiers and railroad magnates made theirmoney. 

Here the explanation is really a very simple one. There is, in fact, only one way to amass a huge fortune in business or railway management. One must begin at the bottom. One must mount the ladder from the lowestrung. But this lowest rung is everything. Any man who can stand upon itwith his foot well poised, his head erect, his arms braced and his eyedirected upward, will inevitably mount to the top. 

But after all--I say this as a kind of afterthought in conclusion--whybother with success at all? I have observed that the successful peopleget very little real enjoyment out of life. In fact the contrary istrue. If I had to choose--with an eye to having a really pleasantlife--between success and ruin, I should prefer ruin every time. I haveseveral friends who are completely ruined--some two or three times--ina large way of course; and I find that if I want to get a reallygood dinner, where the champagne is just as it ought to be, and wherehospitality is unhindered by mean thoughts of expense, I can get it bestat the house of a ruined man. 

XVII. In Dry Toronto

A LOCAL STUDY OF A UNIVERSAL TOPIC

Note. --Our readers--our numerous readers--who live in Equatorial Africa, may read this under the title "In Dry Timbucto"; those who live inCentral America will kindly call it "In Dry Tehauntepec. "

It may have been, for aught I know, the change from a wet to a dryatmosphere. I am told that, biologically, such things profoundly affectthe human system. 

At any rate I found it impossible that night--I was on the train fromMontreal to Toronto--to fall asleep. 

A peculiar wakefulness seemed to have seized upon me, which appeared, moreover, to afflict the other passengers as well. In the darkness ofthe car I could distinctly hear them groaning at intervals. 

"Are they ill?" I asked, through the curtains, of the porter as hepassed. 

"No, sir, " he said, "they're not ill. Those is the Toronto passengers. "

"All in this car?" I asked. 

"All except that gen'lman you may have heard singing in the smokingcompartment. He's booked through to Chicago. "

But, as is usual in such cases, sleep came at last with unusualheaviness. I seemed obliterated from the world till, all of a sudden, Ifound myself, as it were, up and dressed and seated in the observationcar at the back of the train, awaiting my arrival. 

"Is this Toronto?" I asked of the Pullman conductor, as I peered throughthe window of the car. 

The conductor rubbed the pane with his finger and looked out. 

"I think so, " he said. 

"Do we stop here?" I asked. 

"I think we do this morning, " he answered. "I think I heard theconductor say that they have a lot of milk cans to put off here thismorning. I'll just go and find out, sir. "

"Stop here!" broke in an irascible-looking gentleman in a grey tweedsuit who was sitting in the next chair to mine. "Do they _stop_ here?I should say they did indeed. Don't you know, " he added, turning to thePullman conductor, "that any train is _compelled_ to stop here. There'sa by-law, a municipal by-law of the City of Toronto, _compelling_ everytrain to stop?"

"I didn't know it, " said the conductor humbly. 

"Do you mean to say, " continued the irascible gentleman, "that you havenever read the by-laws of the City of Toronto?"

"No, sir, " said the conductor. 

"The ignorance of these fellows, " said the man in grey tweed, swinginghis chair round again towards me. "We ought to have a by-law to compelthem to read the by-laws. I must start an agitation for it at once. "Here he took out a little red notebook and wrote something in it, murmuring, "We need a new agitation anyway. "

Presently he shut the book up with a snap. I noticed that there was asort of peculiar alacrity in everything he did. 

"You, sir, " he said, "have, of course, read our municipal by-laws?"

"Oh, yes, " I answered. "Splendid, aren't they? They read like aromance. "

"You are most flattering to our city, " said the irascible gentleman witha bow. "Yet you, sir, I take it, are not from Toronto. "

"No, " I answered, as humbly as I could. "I'm from Montreal. "

"Ah!" said the gentleman, as he sat back and took a thorough look at me. "From Montreal? Are you drunk?"

"No, " I replied. "I don't think so. "

"But you are _suffering_ for a drink, " said my new acquaintance eagerly. "You need it, eh? You feel already a kind of craving, eh what?"

"No, " I answered. "The fact is it's rather early in the morning--"

"Quite so, " broke in the irascible gentleman, "but I understand that inMontreal all the saloons are open at seven, and even at that hour arecrowded, sir, crowded. "

I shook my head. 

"I think that has been exaggerated, " I said. "In fact, we always tryto avoid crowding and jostling as far as possible. It is generallyunderstood, as a matter of politeness, that the first place in theline is given to the clergy, the Board of Trade, and the heads of theuniversities. "

"Is it conceivable!" said the gentleman in grey. "One moment, please, till I make a note. 'All clergy--I think you said _all_, did younot?--drunk at seven in the morning. ' Deplorable! But here we are at theUnion Station--commodious, is it not? Justly admired, in fact, all overthe known world. Observe, " he continued as we alighted from the trainand made our way into the station, "the upstairs and the downstairs, connected by flights of stairs; quite unique and most convenient: ifyou don't meet your friends downstairs all you have to do is to lookupstairs. If they are not there, you simply come down again. But stop, you are going to walk up the street? I'll go with you. "

At the outer door of the station--just as I had remembered it--stood agroup of hotel bus-men and porters. 

But how changed!

They were like men blasted by a great sorrow. One, with his back turned, was leaning against a post, his head buried on his arm. 

"Prince George Hotel, " he groaned at intervals. "Prince George Hotel. "

Another was bending over a little handrail, his head sunk, his armsalmost trailing to the ground. 

"_King Edward_, " he sobbed, "_King Edward_. "

A third, seated on a stool, looked feebly up, with tears visible in hiseyes. 

"Walker House, " he moaned. "First-class accommodation for--" then hebroke down and cried. 

"Take this handbag, " I said to one of the men, "to the _Prince George_. "

The man ceased his groaning for a moment and turned to me with somethinglike passion. 

"Why do you come to _us_?" he protested. "Why not go to one of theothers. Go to _him_, " he added, as he stirred with his foot a miserablebeing who lay huddled on the ground and murmured at intervals, "_Queen's_! Queen's Hotel. "

But my new friend, who stood at my elbow, came to my rescue. 

"Take his bags, " he said, "you've got to. You know the by-law. Take itor I'll call a policeman. You know _me_. My name's Narrowpath. I'm onthe council. "

The man touched his hat and took the bag with a murmured apology. 

"Come along, " said my companion, whom I now perceived to be a person ofdignity and civic importance. "I'll walk up with you, and show you thecity as we go. "

We had hardly got well upon the street before I realized the enormouschange that total prohibition had effected. Everywhere were the brightsmiling faces of working people, laughing and singing at their tasks, and, early though it was, cracking jokes and asking one another riddlesas they worked. 

I noticed one man, evidently a city employe, in a rough white suit, busily cleaning the street with a broom and singing to himself: "Howdoes the little busy bee improve the shining hour. " Another employe, whowas handling a little hose, was singing, "Little drops of water, littlegrains of sand, Tra, la, la, la, _la_ la, Prohibition's grand. "

"Why do they sing?" I asked. "Are they crazy?"

"Sing?" said Mr Narrowpath. "They can't help it. They haven't had adrink of whisky for four months. "

A coal cart went by with a driver, no longer grimy and smudged, butneatly dressed with a high white collar and a white silk tie. 

My companion pointed at him as he passed. 

"Hasn't had a glass of beer for four months, " he said. 

"Notice the difference. That man's work is now a pleasure to him. Heused to spend all his evenings sitting round in the back parlours of thesaloons beside the stove. Now what do you think he does?"

"I have no idea. "

"Loads up his cart with coal and goes for a drive--out in the country. Ah, sir, you who live still under the curse of the whisky traffic littleknow what a pleasure work itself becomes when drink and all that goeswith it is eliminated. Do you see that man, on the other side of thestreet, with the tool bag?"

"Yes, " I said, "a plumber, is he not?"

"Exactly, a plumber. Used to drink heavily--couldn't keep a job morethan a week. Now, you can't drag him from his work. Came to my house tofix a pipe under the kitchen sink--wouldn't quit at six o'clock. Gotin under the sink and begged to be allowed to stay--said he hated togo home. We had to drag him out with a rope. But here we are at yourhotel. "

We entered. 

But how changed the place seemed. 

Our feet echoed on the flagstones of the deserted rotunda. 

At the office desk sat a clerk, silent and melancholy, reading theBible. He put a marker in the book and closed it, murmuring "LeviticusTwo. "

Then he turned to us. 

"Can I have a room, " I asked, "on the first floor?"

A tear welled up into the clerk's eye. 

"You can have the whole first floor, " he said, and he added, with a halfsob, "and the second, too, if you like. "

I could not help contrasting his manner with what it was in the olddays, when the mere mention of a room used to throw him into a fit ofpassion, and when he used to tell me that I could have a cot on the rooftill Tuesday, and after that, perhaps, a bed in the stable. 

Things had changed indeed. 

"Can I get breakfast in the grill room?" I inquired of the melancholyclerk. 

He shook his head sadly. 

"There is no grill room, " he answered. "What would you like?"

"Oh, some sort of eggs, " I said, "and--"

The clerk reached down below his desk and handed me a hard-boiled eggwith the shell off. 

"Here's your egg, " he said. "And there's ice water there at the end ofthe desk. "

He sat back in his chair and went on reading. 

"You don't understand, " said Mr Narrowpath, who still stood at my elbow. "All that elaborate grill room breakfast business was just a mere relicof the drinking days--sheer waste of time and loss of efficiency. Go onand eat your egg. Eaten it? Now, don't you feel efficient? What more doyou want? Comfort, you say? My dear sir! more men have been ruined bycomfort--Great heavens, comfort! The most dangerous, deadly drug thatever undermined the human race. But, here, drink your water. Now you'reready to go and do your business, if you have any. "

"But, " I protested, "it's still only half-past seven in the morning--nooffices will be open--"

"Open!" exclaimed Mr. Narrowpath. "Why! they all open at daybreak now. "

I had, it is true, a certain amount of business before me, though ofno very intricate or elaborate kind--a few simple arrangements with thehead of a publishing house such as it falls to my lot to make every nowand then. Yet in the old and unregenerate days it used to take all dayto do it: the wicked thing that we used to call a comfortable breakfastin the hotel grill room somehow carried one on to about ten o'clockin the morning. Breakfast brought with it the need of a cigar fordigestion's sake and with that, for very restfulness, a certain perusalof the _Toronto Globe_, properly corrected and rectified by a lookthrough the _Toronto Mail_. After that it had been my practice to strollalong to my publishers' office at about eleven-thirty, transact mybusiness, over a cigar, with the genial gentleman at the head of it, andthen accept his invitation to lunch, with the feeling that a man who hasput in a hard and strenuous morning's work is entitled to a few hours ofrelaxation. 

I am inclined to think that in those reprehensible bygone times, manyother people did their business in this same way. 

"I don't think, " I said to Mr. Narrowpath musingly, "that my publisherwill be up as early as this. He's a comfortable sort of man. "

"Nonsense!" said Mr. Narrowpath. "Not at work at half-past seven! InToronto! The thing's absurd. Where is the office? Richmond Street? Comealong, I'll go with you. I've always a great liking for attending toother people's business. "

"I see you have, " I said. 

"It's our way here, " said Mr. Narrowpath with a wave of his hand. "Everyman's business, as we see it, is everybody else's business. Come along, you'll be surprised how quickly your business will be done. "

Mr. Narrowpath was right. 

My publishers' office, as we entered it, seemed a changed place. Activity and efficiency were stamped all over it. My good friend thepublisher was not only there, but there with his coat off, inordinatelybusy, bawling orders--evidently meant for a printing room--througha speaking tube. "Yes, " he was shouting, "put WHISKY in black lettercapitals, old English, double size, set it up to look attractive, withthe legend MADE IN TORONTO in long clear type underneath--"

"Excuse me, " he said, as he broke off for a moment. "We've a lot ofstuff going through the press this morning--a big distillery cataloguethat we are rushing through. We're doing all we can, Mr. Narrowpath, "he continued, speaking with the deference due to a member of the CityCouncil, "to boom Toronto as a Whisky Centre. "

"Quite right, quite right!" said my companion, rubbing his hands. 

"And now, professor, " added the publisher, speaking with rapidity, "yourcontract is all here--only needs signing. I won't keep you more than amoment--write your name here. Miss Sniggins will you please witness thisso help you God how's everything in Montreal good morning. "

"Pretty quick, wasn't it?" said Mr. Narrowpath, as we stood in thestreet again. 

"Wonderful!" I said, feeling almost dazed. "Why, I shall be able tocatch the morning train back again to Montreal--"

"Precisely. Just what everybody finds. Business done in no time. Men whoused to spend whole days here clear out now in fifteen minutes. I knew aman whose business efficiency has so increased under our new regime thathe says he wouldn't spend more than five minutes in Toronto if he werepaid to. "

"But what is this?" I asked as we were brought to a pause in our walkat a street crossing by a great block of vehicles. "What are all thesedrays? Surely, those look like barrels of whisky!"

"So they are, " said Mr. Narrowpath proudly. "_Export_ whisky. Finesight, isn't it? Must be what?--twenty--twenty-five--loads of it. Thisplace, sir, mark my words, is going to prove, with its new energy andenterprise, one of the greatest seats of the distillery business, infact, _the_ whisky capital of the North--"

"But I thought, " I interrupted, much puzzled, "that whisky wasprohibited here since last September?"

"Export whisky--_export_, my dear sir, " corrected Mr. Narrowpath. "Wedon't interfere, we have never, so far as I know, proposed to interferewith any man's right to make and export whisky. That, sir, is a plainmatter of business; morality doesn't enter into it. "

"I see, " I answered. "But will you please tell me what is the meaningof this other crowd of drays coming in the opposite direction? Surely, those are beer barrels, are they not?"

"In a sense they are, " admitted Mr. Narrowpath. "That is, they are_import_ beer. It comes in from some other province. It was, I imagine, made in this city (our breweries, sir, are second to none), but the sinof _selling_ it"--here Mr. Narrowpath raised his hat from his head andstood for a moment in a reverential attitude--"rests on the heads ofothers. "

The press of vehicles had now thinned out and we moved on, my guidestill explaining in some detail the distinction between businessprinciples and moral principles, between whisky as a curse and whisky asa source of profit, which I found myself unable to comprehend. 

At length I ventured to interrupt. 

"Yet it seems almost a pity, " I said, "that with all this beer andwhisky around an unregenerate sinner like myself should be prohibitedfrom getting a drink. "

"A drink!" exclaimed Mr. Narrowpath. "Well, I should say so. Come rightin here. You can have anything you want. "

We stepped through a street door into a large, long room. 

"Why, " I exclaimed in surprise, "this is a bar!"

"Nonsense!" said my friend. "The _bar_ in this province is forbidden. We've done with the foul thing for ever. This is an Import ShippingCompany's Delivery Office. "

"But this long counter--"

"It's not a counter, it's a desk. "

"And that bar-tender in his white jacket--"

"Tut! Tut! He's not a bar-tender. He's an Import Goods Delivery Clerk. "

"What'll you have, gentlemen, " said the Import Clerk, polishing a glassas he spoke. 

"Two whisky and sodas, " said my friend, "long ones. "

The Import Clerk mixed the drinks and set them on the desk. 

I was about to take one, but he interrupted. 

"One minute, sir, " he said. 

Then he took up a desk telephone that stood beside him and I heard himcalling up Montreal. "Hullo, Montreal! Is that Montreal? Well, say, I'vejust received an offer here for two whisky and sodas at sixty cents, shall I close with it? All right, gentlemen, Montreal has effected thesale. There you are. "

"Dreadful, isn't it?" said Mr. Narrowpath. "The sunken, depravedcondition of your City of Montreal; actually _selling_ whisky. Deplorable!" and with that he buried his face in the bubbles of thewhisky and soda. 

"Mr. Narrowpath, " I said, "would you mind telling me something? I fearI am a little confused, after what I have seen here, as to what your newlegislation has been. You have not then, I understand, prohibited themaking of whisky?"

"Oh, no, we see no harm in that. "

"Nor the sale of it?"

"Certainly not, " said Mr. Narrowpath, "not if sold _properly_. "

"Nor the drinking of it?"

"Oh, no, that least of all. We attach no harm whatever, under our law, to the mere drinking of whisky. "

"Would you tell me then, " I asked, "since you have not forbidden themaking, nor the selling, nor the buying, nor the drinking of whisky, just what it is that you have prohibited? What is the difference betweenMontreal and Toronto?"

Mr. Narrowpath put down his glass on the "desk" in front of him. Hegazed at me with open-mouthed astonishment. 

"Toronto?" he gasped. "Montreal and Toronto! The difference betweenMontreal and Toronto! My dear sir--Toronto--Toronto--"

I stood waiting for him to explain. But as I did so I seemed to becomeaware that a voice, not Mr. Narrowpath's but a voice close at my ear, was repeating "Toronto--Toronto--Toronto--"

I sat up with a start--still in my berth in the Pullman car--with thevoice of the porter calling through the curtains "Toronto! Toronto!"

So! It had only been a dream. I pulled up the blind and looked outof the window and there was the good old city, with the bright sunsparkling on its church spires and on the bay spread out at its feet. Itlooked quite unchanged: just the same pleasant old place, as cheerful, as self-conceited, as kindly, as hospitable, as quarrelsome, aswholesome, as moral and as loyal and as disagreeable as it always was. 

"Porter, " I said, "is it true that there is prohibition here now?"

The porter shook his head. 

"I ain't heard of it, " he said. 

XVIII. Merry Christmas

"My Dear Young Friend, " said Father Time, as he laid his hand gentlyupon my shoulder, "you are entirely wrong. "

Then I looked up over my shoulder from the table at which I was sittingand I saw him. 

But I had known, or felt, for at least the last half-hour that he wasstanding somewhere near me. 

You have had, I do not doubt, good reader, more than once that strangeuncanny feeling that there is some one unseen standing beside you, in adarkened room, let us say, with a dying fire, when the night has grownlate, and the October wind sounds low outside, and when, through thethin curtain that we call Reality, the Unseen World starts for a momentclear upon our dreaming sense. 

You _have_ had it? Yes, I know you have. Never mind telling me about it. Stop. I don't want to hear about that strange presentiment you had thenight your Aunt Eliza broke her leg. Don't let's bother with _your_experience. I want to tell mine. 

"You are quite mistaken, my dear young friend, " repeated Father Time, "quite wrong. "

"_Young_ friend?" I said, my mind, as one's mind is apt to in such acase, running to an unimportant detail. "Why do you call me young?"

"Your pardon, " he answered gently--he had a gentle way with him, hadFather Time. "The fault is in my failing eyes. I took you at first sightfor something under a hundred. "

"Under a hundred?" I expostulated. "Well, I should think so!"

"Your pardon again, " said Time, "the fault is in my failing memory. Iforgot. You seldom pass that nowadays, do you? Your life is very shortof late. "

I heard him breathe a wistful hollow sigh. Very ancient and dim heseemed as he stood beside me. But I did not turn to look upon him. I hadno need to. I knew his form, in the inner and clearer sight of things, as well as every human being knows by innate instinct, the Unseen faceand form of Father Time. 

I could hear him murmuring beside me, "Short--short, your life isshort"; till the sound of it seemed to mingle with the measured tickingof a clock somewhere in the silent house. 

Then I remembered what he had said. 

"How do you know that I am wrong?" I asked. "And how can you tell what Iwas thinking?"

"You said it out loud, " answered Father Time. "But it wouldn't havemattered, anyway. You said that Christmas was all played out and donewith. "

"Yes, " I admitted, "that's what I said. "

"And what makes you think that?" he questioned, stooping, so it seemedto me, still further over my shoulder. 

"Why, " I answered, "the trouble is this. I've been sitting here forhours, sitting till goodness only knows how far into the night, tryingto think out something to write for a Christmas story. And it won't go. It can't be done--not in these awful days. "

"A Christmas Story?"

"Yes. You see, Father Time, " I explained, glad with a foolish littlevanity of my trade to be able to tell him something that I thoughtenlightening, "all the Christmas stuff--stories and jokes andpictures--is all done, you know, in October. "

I thought it would have surprised him, but I was mistaken. 

"Dear me, " he said, "not till October! What a rush! How well I rememberin Ancient Egypt--as I think you call it--seeing them getting out theirChristmas things, all cut in hieroglyphics, always two or three yearsahead. "

"Two or three years!" I exclaimed. 

"Pooh, " said Time, "that was nothing. Why in Babylon they used to gettheir Christmas jokes ready--all baked in clay--a whole Solar eclipseahead of Christmas. They said, I think, that the public preferred themso. "

"Egypt?" I said. "Babylon? But surely, Father Time, there was noChristmas in those days. I thought--"

"My dear boy, " he interrupted gravely, "don't you know that there hasalways been Christmas?"

I was silent. Father Time had moved across the room and stood beside thefireplace, leaning on the mantelpiece. The little wreaths of smoke fromthe fading fire seemed to mingle with his shadowy outline. 

"Well, " he said presently, "what is it that is wrong with Christmas?"

"Why, " I answered, "all the romance, the joy, the beauty of it has gone, crushed and killed by the greed of commerce and the horrors of war. I amnot, as you thought I was, a hundred years old, but I can conjure up, as anybody can, a picture of Christmas in the good old days of a hundredyears ago: the quaint old-fashioned houses, standing deep among theevergreens, with the light twinkling from the windows on the snow; thewarmth and comfort within; the great fire roaring on the hearth; themerry guests grouped about its blaze and the little children with theireyes dancing in the Christmas fire-light, waiting for Father Christmasin his fine mummery of red and white and cotton wool to hand thepresents from the yule-tide tree. I can see it, " I added, "as if it wereyesterday. "

"It was but yesterday, " said Father Time, and his voice seemed to softenwith the memory of bygone years. "I remember it well. "

"Ah, " I continued, "that was Christmas indeed. Give me back such daysas those, with the old good cheer, the old stage coaches and the gabledinns and the warm red wine, the snapdragon and the Christmas-tree, andI'll believe again in Christmas, yes, in Father Christmas himself. "

"Believe in him?" said Time quietly. "You may well do that. He happensto be standing outside in the street at this moment. "

"Outside?" I exclaimed. "Why don't he come in?"

"He's afraid to, " said Father Time. "He's frightened and he daren't comein unless you ask him. May I call him in?"

I signified assent, and Father Time went to the window for a moment andbeckoned into the darkened street. Then I heard footsteps, clumsy andhesitant they seemed, upon the stairs. And in a moment a figurestood framed in the doorway--the figure of Father Christmas. He stoodshuffling his feet, a timid, apologetic look upon his face. 

How changed he was!

I had known in my mind's eye, from childhood up, the face and form ofFather Christmas as well as that of Old Time himself. Everybody knows, or once knew him--a jolly little rounded man, with a great muffler woundabout him, a packet of toys upon his back and with such merry, twinklingeyes and rosy cheeks as are only given by the touch of the driving snowand the rude fun of the North Wind. Why, there was once a time, notyet so long ago, when the very sound of his sleigh-bells sent the bloodrunning warm to the heart. 

But now how changed. 

All draggled with the mud and rain he stood, as if no house hadsheltered him these three years past. His old red jersey was tattered ina dozen places, his muffler frayed and ravelled. 

The bundle of toys that he dragged with him in a net seemed wet and worntill the cardboard boxes gaped asunder. There were boxes among them, Ivow, that he must have been carrying these three past years. 

But most of all I noted the change that had come over the face of FatherChristmas. The old brave look of cheery confidence was gone. The smilethat had beamed responsive to the laughing eyes of countless childrenaround unnumbered Christmas-trees was there no more. And in the place ofit there showed a look of timid apology, of apprehensiveness, as of onewho has asked in vain the warmth and shelter of a human home--such alook as the harsh cruelty of this world has stamped upon the faces ofits outcasts. 

So stood Father Christmas shuffling upon the threshold, fumbling hispoor tattered hat in his hand. 

"Shall I come in?" he said, his eyes appealingly on Father Time. 

"Come, " said Time. He turned to speak to me, "Your room is dark. Turn upthe lights. He's used to light, bright light and plenty of it. The darkhas frightened him these three years past. "

I turned up the lights and the bright glare revealed all the morecruelly the tattered figure before us. 

Father Christmas advanced a timid step across the floor. Then he paused, as if in sudden fear. 

"Is this floor mined?" he said. 

"No, no, " said Time soothingly. And to me he added in a murmuredwhisper, "He's afraid. He was blown up in a mine in No Man's Landbetween the trenches at Christmas-time in 1914. It broke his nerve. "

"May I put my toys on that machine gun?" asked Father Christmas timidly. "It will help to keep them dry. "

"It is not a machine gun, " said Time gently. "See, it is only a pile ofbooks upon the sofa. " And to me he whispered, "They turned a machine gunon him in the streets of Warsaw. He thinks he sees them everywhere sincethen. "

"It's all right, Father Christmas, " I said, speaking as cheerily as Icould, while I rose and stirred the fire into a blaze. "There are nomachine guns here and there are no mines. This is but the house of apoor writer. "

"Ah, " said Father Christmas, lowering his tattered hat still further andattempting something of a humble bow, "a writer? Are you Hans Andersen, perhaps?"

"Not quite, " I answered. 

"But a great writer, I do not doubt, " said the old man, with a humblecourtesy that he had learned, it well may be, centuries ago in theyule-tide season of his northern home. "The world owes much to its greatbooks. I carry some of the greatest with me always. I have them here--"

He began fumbling among the limp and tattered packages that he carried. "Look! _The House that Jack Built_--a marvellous, deep thing, sir--andthis, _The Babes in the Wood_. Will you take it, sir? A poor present, but a present still--not so long ago I gave them in thousands everyChristmas-time. None seem to want them now. "

He looked appealingly towards Father Time, as the weak may look towardsthe strong, for help and guidance. 

"None want them now, " he repeated, and I could see the tears start inhis eyes. "Why is it so? Has the world forgotten its sympathy with thelost children wandering in the wood?"

"All the world, " I heard Time murmur with a sigh, "is wandering in thewood. " But out loud he spoke to Father Christmas in cheery admonition, "Tut, tut, good Christmas, " he said, "you must cheer up. Here, sit inthis chair the biggest one; so--beside the fire. Let us stir it to ablaze; more wood, that's better. And listen, good old Friend, to thewind outside--almost a Christmas wind, is it not? Merry and boisterousenough, for all the evil times it stirs among. "

Old Christmas seated himself beside the fire, his hands outstretchedtowards the flames. Something of his old-time cheeriness seemed toflicker across his features as he warmed himself at the blaze. 

"That's better, " he murmured. "I was cold, sir, cold, chilled to thebone. Of old I never felt it so; no matter what the wind, the worldseemed warm about me. Why is it not so now?"

"You see, " said Time, speaking low in a whisper for my ear alone, "howsunk and broken he is? Will you not help?"

"Gladly, " I answered, "if I can. "

"All can, " said Father Time, "every one of us. "

Meantime Christmas had turned towards me a questioning eye, in which, however, there seemed to revive some little gleam of merriment. 

"Have you, perhaps, " he asked half timidly, "schnapps?"

"Schnapps?" I repeated. 

"Ay, schnapps. A glass of it to drink your health might warm my heartagain, I think. "

"Ah, " I said, "something to drink?"

"His one failing, " whispered Time, "if it is one. Forgive it him. He wasused to it for centuries. Give it him if you have it. "

"I keep a little in the house, " I said reluctantly perhaps, "in case ofillness. "

"Tut, tut, " said Father Time, as something as near as could be to asmile passed over his shadowy face. "In case of illness! They used tosay that in ancient Babylon. Here, let me pour it for him. Drink, FatherChristmas, drink!"

Marvellous it was to see the old man smack his lips as he drank hisglass of liquor neat after the fashion of old Norway. 

Marvellous, too, to see the way in which, with the warmth of the fireand the generous glow of the spirits, his face changed and brightenedtill the old-time cheerfulness beamed again upon it. 

He looked about him, as it were, with a new and growing interest. 

"A pleasant room, " he said. "And what better, sir, than the wind withoutand a brave fire within!"

Then his eye fell upon the mantelpiece, where lay among the litter ofbooks and pipes a little toy horse. 

"Ah, " said Father Christmas almost gayly, "children in the house!"

"One, " I answered, "the sweetest boy in all the world. "

"I'll be bound he is!" said Father Christmas and he broke now into amerry laugh that did one's heart good to hear. "They all are! Lord blessme! The number that I have seen, and each and every one--and quite righttoo--the sweetest child in all the world. And how old, do you say? Twoand a half all but two months except a week? The very sweetest age ofall, I'll bet you say, eh, what? They all do!"

And the old man broke again into such a jolly chuckling of laughter thathis snow-white locks shook upon his head. 

"But stop a bit, " he added. "This horse is broken. Tut, tut, a hind legnearly off. This won't do!"

He had the toy in his lap in a moment, mending it. It was wonderful tosee, for all his age, how deft his fingers were. 

"Time, " he said, and it was amusing to note that his voice had assumedalmost an authoritative tone, "reach me that piece of string. That'sright. Here, hold your finger across the knot. There! Now, then, a bitof beeswax. What? No beeswax? Tut, tut, how ill-supplied your housesare to-day. How can you mend toys, sir, without beeswax? Still, it willstand up now. "

I tried to murmur by best thanks. 

But Father Christmas waved my gratitude aside. 

"Nonsense, " he said, "that's nothing. That's my life. Perhaps the littleboy would like a book too. I have them here in the packet. Here, sir, _Jack and the Bean Stalk_, most profound thing. I read it to myselfoften still. How damp it is! Pray, sir, will you let me dry my booksbefore your fire?"

"Only too willingly, " I said. "How wet and torn they are!"

Father Christmas had risen from his chair and was fumbling among histattered packages, taking from them his children's books, all limp anddraggled from the rain and wind. 

"All wet and torn!" he murmured, and his voice sank again into sadness. "I have carried them these three years past. Look! These were for littlechildren in Belgium and in Serbia. Can I get them to them, think you?"

Time gently shook his head. 

"But presently, perhaps, " said Father Christmas, "if I dry and mendthem. Look, some of them were inscribed already! This one, see you, waswritten '_With father's love_. ' Why has it never come to him? Is it rainor tears upon the page?"

He stood bowed over his little books, his hands trembling as he turnedthe pages. Then he looked up, the old fear upon his face again. 

"That sound!" he said. "Listen! It is guns--I hear them. "

"No, no, " I said, "it is nothing. Only a car passing in the streetbelow. "

"Listen, " he said. "Hear that again--voices crying!"

"No, no, " I answered, "not voices, only the night wind among the trees. "

"My children's voices!" he exclaimed. "I hear them everywhere--theycome to me in every wind--and I see them as I wander in the night andstorm--my children--torn and dying in the trenches--beaten into theground--I hear them crying from the hospitals--each one to me, still asI knew him once, a little child. Time, Time, " he cried, reaching out hisarms in appeal, "give me back my children!"

"They do not die in vain, " Time murmured gently. 

But Christmas only moaned in answer:

"Give me back my children!"

Then he sank down upon his pile of books and toys, his head buried inhis arms. 

"You see, " said Time, "his heart is breaking, and will you not help himif you can?"

"Only too gladly, " I replied. "But what is there to do?"

"This, " said Father Time, "listen. "

He stood before me grave and solemn, a shadowy figure but half seenthough he was close beside me. The fire-light had died down, and throughthe curtained windows there came already the first dim brightening ofdawn. 

"The world that once you knew, " said Father Time, "seems broken anddestroyed about you. You must not let them know--the children. Thecruelty and the horror and the hate that racks the world to-day--keep itfrom them. Some day _he_ will know"--here Time pointed to the prostrateform of Father Christmas--"that his children, that once were, have notdied in vain: that from their sacrifice shall come a nobler, betterworld for all to live in, a world where countless happy children shallhold bright their memory for ever. But for the children of To-day, saveand spare them all you can from the evil hate and horror of the war. Later they will know and understand. Not yet. Give them back their MerryChristmas and its kind thoughts, and its Christmas charity, till lateron there shall be with it again Peace upon Earth Good Will towards Men. "

His voice ceased. It seemed to vanish, as it were, in the sighing of thewind. 

I looked up. Father Time and Christmas had vanished from the room. Thefire was low and the day was breaking visibly outside. 

"Let us begin, " I murmured. "I will mend this broken horse. "

END