SIXES AND SEVENS

by

O. HENRY

CONTENTS

 I. THE LAST OF THE TROUBADOURS II. THE SLEUTHS III. WITCHES' LOAVES IV. THE PRIDE OF THE CITIES V. HOLDING UP A TRAIN VI. ULYSSES AND THE DOGMAN VII. THE CHAMPION OF THE WEATHER VIII. MAKES THE WHOLE WORLD KIN IX. AT ARMS WITH MORPHEUS X. A GHOST OF A CHANCE XI. JIMMY HAYES AND MURIEL XII. THE DOOR OF UNREST XIII. THE DUPLICITY OF HARGRAVES XIV. LET ME FEEL YOUR PULSE XV. OCTOBER AND JUNE XVI. THE CHURCH WITH AN OVERSHOT-WHEEL XVII. NEW YORK BY CAMP FIRE LIGHT XVIII. THE ADVENTURES OF SHAMROCK JOLNES XIX. THE LADY HIGHER UP XX. THE GREATER CONEY XXI. LAW AND ORDER XXII. TRANSFORMATION OF MARTIN BURNEY XXIII. THE CALIPH AND THE CAD XXIV. THE DIAMOND OF KALI XXV. THE DAY WE CELEBRATE

I

THE LAST OF THE TROUBADOURS

Inexorably Sam Galloway saddled his pony. He was going away from theRancho Altito at the end of a three-months' visit. It is not to beexpected that a guest should put up with wheat coffee and biscuitsyellow-streaked with saleratus for longer than that. Nick Napoleon, the big Negro man cook, had never been able to make good biscuits. Once before, when Nick was cooking at the Willow Ranch, Sam had beenforced to fly from his _cuisine_, after only a six-weeks' sojourn. 

On Sam's face was an expression of sorrow, deepened with regret andslightly tempered by the patient forgiveness of a connoisseur whocannot be understood. But very firmly and inexorably he buckled hissaddle-cinches, looped his stake-rope and hung it to his saddle-horn, tied his slicker and coat on the cantle, and looped his quirt on hisright wrist. The Merrydews (householders of the Rancho Altito), men, women, children, and servants, vassals, visitors, employés, dogs, andcasual callers were grouped in the "gallery" of the ranch house, allwith faces set to the tune of melancholy and grief. For, as the comingof Sam Galloway to any ranch, camp, or cabin between the rivers Frioor Bravo del Norte aroused joy, so his departure caused mourning anddistress. 

And then, during absolute silence, except for the bumping of a hindelbow of a hound dog as he pursued a wicked flea, Sam tenderly andcarefully tied his guitar across his saddle on top of his slicker andcoat. The guitar was in a green duck bag; and if you catch thesignificance of it, it explains Sam. 

Sam Galloway was the Last of the Troubadours. Of course you know aboutthe troubadours. The encyclopædia says they flourished between theeleventh and the thirteenth centuries. What they flourished doesn'tseem clear--you may be pretty sure it wasn't a sword: maybe it was afiddlebow, or a forkful of spaghetti, or a lady's scarf. Anyhow, SamGalloway was one of 'em. 

Sam put on a martyred expression as he mounted his pony. But theexpression on his face was hilarious compared with the one on hispony's. You see, a pony gets to know his rider mighty well, and it isnot unlikely that cow ponies in pastures and at hitching racks hadoften guyed Sam's pony for being ridden by a guitar player instead ofby a rollicking, cussing, all-wool cowboy. No man is a hero to hissaddle-horse. And even an escalator in a department store might beexcused for tripping up a troubadour. 

Oh, I know I'm one; and so are you. You remember the stories youmemorize and the card tricks you study and that little piece on thepiano--how does it go?--ti-tum-te-tum-ti-tum--those little Arabian TenMinute Entertainments that you furnish when you go up to call on yourrich Aunt Jane. You should know that _omnæ personæ in tres partesdivisæ sunt_. Namely: Barons, Troubadours, and Workers. Barons have noinclination to read such folderol as this; and Workers have no time:so I know you must be a Troubadour, and that you will understand SamGalloway. Whether we sing, act, dance, write, lecture, or paint, weare only troubadours; so let us make the worst of it. 

The pony with the Dante Alighieri face, guided by the pressure ofSam's knees, bore that wandering minstrel sixteen miles southeastward. Nature was in her most benignant mood. League after league ofdelicate, sweet flowerets made fragrant the gently undulatingprairie. The east wind tempered the spring warmth; wool-white cloudsflying in from the Mexican Gulf hindered the direct rays of the Aprilsun. Sam sang songs as he rode. Under his pony's bridle he had tuckedsome sprigs of chaparral to keep away the deer flies. Thus crowned, the long-faced quadruped looked more Dantesque than before, and, judging by his countenance, seemed to think of Beatrice. 

Straight as topography permitted, Sam rode to the sheep ranch of oldman Ellison. A visit to a sheep ranch seemed to him desirable justthen. There had been too many people, too much noise, argument, competition, confusion, at Rancho Altito. He had never conferred uponold man Ellison the favour of sojourning at his ranch; but he knew hewould be welcome. The troubadour is his own passport everywhere. TheWorkers in the castle let down the drawbridge to him, and the Baronsets him at his left hand at table in the banquet hall. There ladiessmile upon him and applaud his songs and stories, while the Workersbring boars' heads and flagons. If the Baron nods once or twice in hiscarved oaken chair, he does not do it maliciously. 

Old man Ellison welcomed the troubadour flatteringly. He had oftenheard praises of Sam Galloway from other ranchmen who had beencomplimented by his visits, but had never aspired to such an honourfor his own humble barony. I say barony because old man Ellisonwas the Last of the Barons. Of course, Mr. Bulwer-Lytton lived tooearly to know him, or he wouldn't have conferred that sobriquetupon Warwick. In life it is the duty and the function of the Baronto provide work for the Workers and lodging and shelter for theTroubadours. 

Old man Ellison was a shrunken old man, with a short, yellow-whitebeard and a face lined and seamed by past-and-gone smiles. His ranchwas a little two-room box house in a grove of hackberry trees in thelonesomest part of the sheep country. His household consisted of aKiowa Indian man cook, four hounds, a pet sheep, and a half-tamedcoyote chained to a fence-post. He owned 3, 000 sheep, which he ranon two sections of leased land and many thousands of acres neitherleased nor owned. Three or four times a year some one who spoke hislanguage would ride up to his gate and exchange a few bald ideas withhim. Those were red-letter days to old man Ellison. Then in whatilluminated, embossed, and gorgeously decorated capitals must havebeen written the day on which a troubadour--a troubadour who, according to the encyclopædia, should have flourished between theeleventh and the thirteenth centuries--drew rein at the gates of hisbaronial castle!

Old man Ellison's smiles came back and filled his wrinkles when hesaw Sam. He hurried out of the house in his shuffling, limping way togreet him. 

"Hello, Mr. Ellison, " called Sam cheerfully. "Thought I'd drop overand see you a while. Notice you've had fine rains on your range. Theyought to make good grazing for your spring lambs. "

"Well, well, well, " said old man Ellison. "I'm mighty glad to seeyou, Sam. I never thought you'd take the trouble to ride over toas out-of-the-way an old ranch as this. But you're mighty welcome. 'Light. I've got a sack of new oats in the kitchen--shall I bring outa feed for your hoss?"

"Oats for him?" said Sam, derisively. "No, sir-ee. He's as fat as apig now on grass. He don't get rode enough to keep him in condition. I'll just turn him in the horse pasture with a drag rope on if youdon't mind. "

I am positive that never during the eleventh and thirteenth centuriesdid Baron, Troubadour, and Worker amalgamate as harmoniously as theirparallels did that evening at old man Ellison's sheep ranch. TheKiowa's biscuits were light and tasty and his coffee strong. Ineradicable hospitality and appreciation glowed on old man Ellison'sweather-tanned face. As for the troubadour, he said to himself thathe had stumbled upon pleasant places indeed. A well-cooked, abundantmeal, a host whom his lightest attempt to entertain seemed to delightfar beyond the merits of the exertion, and the reposeful atmospherethat his sensitive soul at that time craved united to confer upon hima satisfaction and luxurious ease that he had seldom found on histours of the ranches. 

After the delectable supper, Sam untied the green duck bag and tookout his guitar. Not by way of payment, mind you--neither Sam Gallowaynor any other of the true troubadours are lineal descendants of thelate Tommy Tucker. You have read of Tommy Tucker in the works of theesteemed but often obscure Mother Goose. Tommy Tucker sang for hissupper. No true troubadour would do that. He would have his supper, and then sing for Art's sake. 

Sam Galloway's repertoire comprised about fifty funny stories andbetween thirty and forty songs. He by no means stopped there. He couldtalk through twenty cigarettes on any topic that you brought up. Andhe never sat up when he could lie down; and never stood when he couldsit. I am strongly disposed to linger with him, for I am drawing aportrait as well as a blunt pencil and a tattered thesaurus willallow. 

I wish you could have seen him: he was small and tough andinactive beyond the power of imagination to conceive. He wore anultramarine-blue woollen shirt laced down the front with a pearl-gray, exaggerated sort of shoestring, indestructible brown duck clothes, inevitable high-heeled boots with Mexican spurs, and a Mexican strawsombrero. 

That evening Sam and old man Ellison dragged their chairs out underthe hackberry trees. They lighted cigarettes; and the troubadourgaily touched his guitar. Many of the songs he sang were the weird, melancholy, minor-keyed _canciones_ that he had learned from theMexican sheep herders and _vaqueros_. One, in particular, charmed andsoothed the soul of the lonely baron. It was a favourite song of thesheep herders, beginning: "_Huile, huile, palomita_, " which beingtranslated means, "Fly, fly, little dove. " Sam sang it for old manEllison many times that evening. 

The troubadour stayed on at the old man's ranch. There was peace andquiet and appreciation there, such as he had not found in the noisycamps of the cattle kings. No audience in the world could have crownedthe work of poet, musician, or artist with more worshipful andunflagging approval than that bestowed upon his efforts by old manEllison. No visit by a royal personage to a humble woodchopper orpeasant could have been received with more flattering thankfulness andjoy. 

On a cool, canvas-covered cot in the shade of the hackberry trees SamGalloway passed the greater part of his time. There he rolled hisbrown paper cigarettes, read such tedious literature as the ranchafforded, and added to his repertoire of improvisations that he playedso expertly on his guitar. To him, as a slave ministering to a greatlord, the Kiowa brought cool water from the red jar hanging under thebrush shelter, and food when he called for it. The prairie zephyrsfanned him mildly; mocking-birds at morn and eve competed with butscarce equalled the sweet melodies of his lyre; a perfumed stillnessseemed to fill all his world. While old man Ellison was potteringamong his flocks of sheep on his mile-an-hour pony, and while theKiowa took his siesta in the burning sunshine at the end of thekitchen, Sam would lie on his cot thinking what a happy world he livedin, and how kind it is to the ones whose mission in life it is to giveentertainment and pleasure. Here he had food and lodging as good ashe had ever longed for; absolute immunity from care or exertion orstrife; an endless welcome, and a host whose delight at the sixteenthrepetition of a song or a story was as keen as at its initial giving. Was there ever a troubadour of old who struck upon as royal a castlein his wanderings? While he lay thus, meditating upon his blessings, little brown cottontails would shyly frolic through the yard; a coveyof white-topknotted blue quail would run past, in single file, twentyyards away; a _paisano_ bird, out hunting for tarantulas, would hopupon the fence and salute him with sweeping flourishes of its longtail. In the eighty-acre horse pasture the pony with the Dantesqueface grew fat and almost smiling. The troubadour was at the end of hiswanderings. 

Old man Ellison was his own _vaciero_. That means that he supplied hissheep camps with wood, water, and rations by his own labours insteadof hiring a _vaciero_. On small ranches it is often done. 

One morning he started for the camp of Incarnación Felipe de la Cruz yMonte Piedras (one of his sheep herders) with the week's usual rationsof brown beans, coffee, meal, and sugar. Two miles away on the trailfrom old Fort Ewing he met, face to face, a terrible being called KingJames, mounted on a fiery, prancing, Kentucky-bred horse. 

King James's real name was James King; but people reversed it becauseit seemed to fit him better, and also because it seemed to please hismajesty. King James was the biggest cattleman between the Alamo plazain San Antone and Bill Hopper's saloon in Brownsville. Also he was theloudest and most offensive bully and braggart and bad man in southwestTexas. And he always made good whenever he bragged; and the more noisehe made the more dangerous he was. In the story papers it is alwaysthe quiet, mild-mannered man with light blue eyes and a low voice whoturns out to be really dangerous; but in real life and in this storysuch is not the case. Give me my choice between assaulting a large, loudmouthed rough-houser and an inoffensive stranger with blue eyessitting quietly in a corner, and you will see something doing in thecorner every time. 

King James, as I intended to say earlier, was a fierce, two-hundred-pound, sunburned, blond man, as pink as an Octoberstrawberry, and with two horizontal slits under shaggy red eyebrowsfor eyes. On that day he wore a flannel shirt that was tan-coloured, with the exception of certain large areas which were darkened bytransudations due to the summer sun. There seemed to be other clothingand garnishings about him, such as brown duck trousers stuffed intoimmense boots, and red handkerchiefs and revolvers; and a shotgunlaid across his saddle and a leather belt with millions of cartridgesshining in it--but your mind skidded off such accessories; what heldyour gaze was just the two little horizontal slits that he used foreyes. 

This was the man that old man Ellison met on the trail; and when youcount up in the baron's favour that he was sixty-five and weighedninety-eight pounds and had heard of King James's record and that he(the baron) had a hankering for the _vita simplex_ and had no gun withhim and wouldn't have used it if he had, you can't censure him if Itell you that the smiles with which the troubadour had filled hiswrinkles went out of them and left them plain wrinkles again. But hewas not the kind of baron that flies from danger. He reined in themile-an-hour pony (no difficult feat), and saluted the formidablemonarch. 

King James expressed himself with royal directness. "You're that oldsnoozer that's running sheep on this range, ain't you?" said he. "Whatright have you got to do it? Do you own any land, or lease any?"

"I have two sections leased from the state, " said old man Ellison, mildly. 

"Not by no means you haven't, " said King James. "Your lease expiredyesterday; and I had a man at the land office on the minute to take itup. You don't control a foot of grass in Texas. You sheep men have gotto git. Your time's up. It's a cattle country, and there ain't anyroom in it for snoozers. This range you've got your sheep on is mine. I'm putting up a wire fence, forty by sixty miles; and if there's asheep inside of it when it's done it'll be a dead one. I'll give you aweek to move yours away. If they ain't gone by then, I'll send six menover here with Winchesters to make mutton out of the whole lot. And ifI find you here at the same time this is what you'll get. "

King James patted the breech of his shot-gun warningly. 

Old man Ellison rode on to the camp of Incarnación. He sighed manytimes, and the wrinkles in his face grew deeper. Rumours that theold order was about to change had reached him before. The end ofFree Grass was in sight. Other troubles, too, had been accumulatingupon his shoulders. His flocks were decreasing instead of growing;the price of wool was declining at every clip; even Bradshaw, thestorekeeper at Frio City, at whose store he bought his ranch supplies, was dunning him for his last six months' bill and threatening to cuthim off. And so this last greatest calamity suddenly dealt out to himby the terrible King James was a crusher. 

When the old man got back to the ranch at sunset he found Sam Gallowaylying on his cot, propped against a roll of blankets and wool sacks, fingering his guitar. 

"Hello, Uncle Ben, " the troubadour called, cheerfully. "You rolled inearly this evening. I been trying a new twist on the Spanish Fandangoto-day. I just about got it. Here's how she goes--listen. "

"That's fine, that's mighty fine, " said old man Ellison, sitting onthe kitchen step and rubbing his white, Scotch-terrier whiskers. "Ireckon you've got all the musicians beat east and west, Sam, as faras the roads are cut out. "

"Oh, I don't know, " said Sam, reflectively. "But I certainly do getthere on variations. I guess I can handle anything in five flatsabout as well as any of 'em. But you look kind of fagged out, UncleBen--ain't you feeling right well this evening?"

"Little tired; that's all, Sam. If you ain't played yourself out, let's have that Mexican piece that starts off with: '_Huile, huile, palomita_. ' It seems that that song always kind of soothes andcomforts me after I've been riding far or anything bothers me. "

"Why, _seguramente, señor_, " said Sam. "I'll hit her up for you asoften as you like. And before I forget about it, Uncle Ben, you wantto jerk Bradshaw up about them last hams he sent us. They're just alittle bit strong. "

A man sixty-five years old, living on a sheep ranch and beset bya complication of disasters, cannot successfully and continuouslydissemble. Moreover, a troubadour has eyes quick to see unhappiness inothers around him--because it disturbs his own ease. So, on the nextday, Sam again questioned the old man about his air of sadness andabstraction. Then old man Ellison told him the story of King James'sthreats and orders and that pale melancholy and red ruin appearedto have marked him for their own. The troubadour took the newsthoughtfully. He had heard much about King James. 

On the third day of the seven days of grace allowed him by theautocrat of the range, old man Ellison drove his buckboard to FrioCity to fetch some necessary supplies for the ranch. Bradshaw was hardbut not implacable. He divided the old man's order by two, and let himhave a little more time. One article secured was a new, fine ham forthe pleasure of the troubadour. 

Five miles out of Frio City on his way home the old man met King Jamesriding into town. His majesty could never look anything but fierce andmenacing, but to-day his slits of eyes appeared to be a little widerthan they usually were. 

"Good day, " said the king, gruffly. "I've been wanting to see you. I hear it said by a cowman from Sandy yesterday that you was fromJackson County, Mississippi, originally. I want to know if that's afact. "

"Born there, " said old man Ellison, "and raised there till I wastwenty-one. "

"This man says, " went on King James, "that he thinks you was relatedto the Jackson County Reeveses. Was he right?"

"Aunt Caroline Reeves, " said the old man, "was my half-sister. "

"She was my aunt, " said King James. "I run away from home when I wassixteen. Now, let's re-talk over some things that we discussed a fewdays ago. They call me a bad man; and they're only half right. There'splenty of room in my pasture for your bunch of sheep and theirincrease for a long time to come. Aunt Caroline used to cut out sheepin cake dough and bake 'em for me. You keep your sheep where they are, and use all the range you want. How's your finances?"

The old man related his woes in detail, dignifiedly, with restraintand candour. 

"She used to smuggle extra grub into my school basket--I'm speaking ofAunt Caroline, " said King James. "I'm going over to Frio City to-day, and I'll ride back by your ranch to-morrow. I'll draw $2, 000 out ofthe bank there and bring it over to you; and I'll tell Bradshaw to letyou have everything you want on credit. You are bound to have heardthe old saying at home, that the Jackson County Reeveses and Kingswould stick closer by each other than chestnut burrs. Well, I'm aKing yet whenever I run across a Reeves. So you look out for me alongabout sundown to-morrow, and don't worry about nothing. Shouldn'twonder if the dry spell don't kill out the young grass. "

Old man Ellison drove happily ranchward. Once more the smiles filledout his wrinkles. Very suddenly, by the magic of kinship and the goodthat lies somewhere in all hearts, his troubles had been removed. 

On reaching the ranch he found that Sam Galloway was not there. Hisguitar hung by its buckskin string to a hackberry limb, moaning as thegulf breeze blew across its masterless strings. 

The Kiowa endeavoured to explain. 

"Sam, he catch pony, " said he, "and say he ride to Frio City. What forno can damn sabe. Say he come back to-night. Maybe so. That all. "

As the first stars came out the troubadour rode back to his haven. Hepastured his pony and went into the house, his spurs jinglingmartially. 

Old man Ellison sat at the kitchen table, having a tin cup ofbefore-supper coffee. He looked contented and pleased. 

"Hello, Sam, " said he. "I'm darned glad to see ye back. I don't knowhow I managed to get along on this ranch, anyhow, before ye dropped into cheer things up. I'll bet ye've been skylarking around with some ofthem Frio City gals, now, that's kept ye so late. "

And then old man Ellison took another look at Sam's face and saw thatthe minstrel had changed to the man of action. 

And while Sam is unbuckling from his waist old man Ellison'ssix-shooter, that the latter had left behind when he drove to town, wemay well pause to remark that anywhere and whenever a troubadour laysdown the guitar and takes up the sword trouble is sure to follow. Itis not the expert thrust of Athos nor the cold skill of Aramis northe iron wrist of Porthos that we have to fear--it is the Gascon'sfury--the wild and unacademic attack of the troubadour--the sword ofD'Artagnan. 

"I done it, " said Sam. "I went over to Frio City to do it. I couldn'tlet him put the skibunk on you, Uncle Ben. I met him in Summers'ssaloon. I knowed what to do. I said a few things to him that nobodyelse heard. He reached for his gun first--half a dozen fellows saw himdo it--but I got mine unlimbered first. Three doses I gave him--rightaround the lungs, and a saucer could have covered up all of 'em. Hewon't bother you no more. "

"This--is--King--James--you speak--of?" asked old man Ellison, whilehe sipped his coffee. 

"You bet it was. And they took me before the county judge; and thewitnesses what saw him draw his gun first was all there. Well, ofcourse, they put me under $300 bond to appear before the court, butthere was four or five boys on the spot ready to sign the bail. Hewon't bother you no more, Uncle Ben. You ought to have seen how closethem bullet holes was together. I reckon playing a guitar as much asI do must kind of limber a fellow's trigger finger up a little, don'tyou think, Uncle Ben?"

Then there was a little silence in the castle except for thespluttering of a venison steak that the Kiowa was cooking. 

"Sam, " said old man Ellison, stroking his white whiskers with atremulous hand, "would you mind getting the guitar and playing that'_Huile, huile, palomita_' piece once or twice? It always seems to bekind of soothing and comforting when a man's tired and fagged out. "

There is no more to be said, except that the title of the story iswrong. It should have been called "The Last of the Barons. " Therenever will be an end to the troubadours; and now and then it does seemthat the jingle of their guitars will drown the sound of the muffledblows of the pickaxes and trip hammers of all the Workers in theworld. 

II

THE SLEUTHS

In The Big City a man will disappear with the suddenness andcompleteness of the flame of a candle that is blown out. All theagencies of inquisition--the hounds of the trail, the sleuths of thecity's labyrinths, the closet detectives of theory and induction--willbe invoked to the search. Most often the man's face will be seen nomore. Sometimes he will reappear in Sheboygan or in the wilds of TerreHaute, calling himself one of the synonyms of "Smith, " and withoutmemory of events up to a certain time, including his grocer's bill. Sometimes it will be found, after dragging the rivers, and polling therestaurants to see if he may be waiting for a well-done sirloin, thathe has moved next door. 

This snuffing out of a human being like the erasure of a chalk manfrom a blackboard is one of the most impressive themes in dramaturgy. 

The case of Mary Snyder, in point, should not be without interest. 

A man of middle age, of the name of Meeks, came from the West to NewYork to find his sister, Mrs. Mary Snyder, a widow, aged fifty-two, who had been living for a year in a tenement house in a crowdedneighbourhood. 

At her address he was told that Mary Snyder had moved away longer thana month before. No one could tell him her new address. 

On coming out Mr. Meeks addressed a policeman who was standing on thecorner, and explained his dilemma. 

"My sister is very poor, " he said, "and I am anxious to find her. Ihave recently made quite a lot of money in a lead mine, and I want herto share my prosperity. There is no use in advertising her, becauseshe cannot read. "

The policeman pulled his moustache and looked so thoughtful and mightythat Meeks could almost feel the joyful tears of his sister Marydropping upon his bright blue tie. 

"You go down in the Canal Street neighbourhood, " said the policeman, "and get a job drivin' the biggest dray you can find. There's oldwomen always gettin' knocked over by drays down there. You might see'er among 'em. If you don't want to do that you better go 'round toheadquarters and get 'em to put a fly cop onto the dame. "

At police headquarters, Meeks received ready assistance. A generalalarm was sent out, and copies of a photograph of Mary Snyder that herbrother had were distributed among the stations. In Mulberry Streetthe chief assigned Detective Mullins to the case. 

The detective took Meeks aside and said:

"This is not a very difficult case to unravel. Shave off yourwhiskers, fill your pockets with good cigars, and meet me in the caféof the Waldorf at three o'clock this afternoon. "

Meeks obeyed. He found Mullins there. They had a bottle of wine, whilethe detective asked questions concerning the missing woman. 

"Now, " said Mullins, "New York is a big city, but we've got thedetective business systematized. There are two ways we can go aboutfinding your sister. We will try one of 'em first. You say she'sfifty-two?"

"A little past, " said Meeks. 

The detective conducted the Westerner to a branch advertising officeof one of the largest dailies. There he wrote the following "ad" andsubmitted it to Meeks:

"Wanted, at once--one hundred attractive chorus girls for a newmusical comedy. Apply all day at No. ---- Broadway. "

Meeks was indignant. 

"My sister, " said he, "is a poor, hard-working, elderly woman. I donot see what aid an advertisement of this kind would be toward findingher. "

"All right, " said the detective. "I guess you don't know New York. Butif you've got a grouch against this scheme we'll try the other one. It's a sure thing. But it'll cost you more. "

"Never mind the expense, " said Meeks; "we'll try it. "

The sleuth led him back to the Waldorf. "Engage a couple of bedroomsand a parlour, " he advised, "and let's go up. "

This was done, and the two were shown to a superb suite on the fourthfloor. Meeks looked puzzled. The detective sank into a velvetarmchair, and pulled out his cigar case. 

"I forgot to suggest, old man, " he said, "that you should have takenthe rooms by the month. They wouldn't have stuck you so much for 'em. 

"By the month!" exclaimed Meeks. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, it'll take time to work the game this way. I told you it wouldcost you more. We'll have to wait till spring. There'll be a new citydirectory out then. Very likely your sister's name and address will bein it. "

Meeks rid himself of the city detective at once. On the next day someone advised him to consult Shamrock Jolnes, New York's famous privatedetective, who demanded fabulous fees, but performed miracles in theway of solving mysteries and crimes. 

After waiting for two hours in the anteroom of the great detective'sapartment, Meeks was shown into his presence. Jolnes sat in a purpledressing-gown at an inlaid ivory chess table, with a magazine beforehim, trying to solve the mystery of "They. " The famous sleuth's thin, intellectual face, piercing eyes, and rate per word are too well knownto need description. 

Meeks set forth his errand. "My fee, if successful, will be $500, "said Shamrock Jolnes. 

Meeks bowed his agreement to the price. 

"I will undertake your case, Mr. Meeks, " said Jolnes, finally. "Thedisappearance of people in this city has always been an interestingproblem to me. I remember a case that I brought to a successfuloutcome a year ago. A family bearing the name of Clark disappearedsuddenly from a small flat in which they were living. I watched theflat building for two months for a clue. One day it struck me that acertain milkman and a grocer's boy always walked backward when theycarried their wares upstairs. Following out by induction the idea thatthis observation gave me, I at once located the missing family. Theyhad moved into the flat across the hall and changed their name toKralc. "

Shamrock Jolnes and his client went to the tenement house where MarySnyder had lived, and the detective demanded to be shown the room inwhich she had lived. It had been occupied by no tenant since herdisappearance. 

The room was small, dingy, and poorly furnished. Meeks seated himselfdejectedly on a broken chair, while the great detective searched thewalls and floor and the few sticks of old, rickety furniture for aclue. 

At the end of half an hour Jolnes had collected a few seeminglyunintelligible articles--a cheap black hat pin, a piece torn off atheatre programme, and the end of a small torn card on which was theword "left" and the characters "C 12. "

Shamrock Jolnes leaned against the mantel for ten minutes, with hishead resting upon his hand, and an absorbed look upon his intellectualface. At the end of that time he exclaimed, with animation:

"Come, Mr. Meeks; the problem is solved. I can take you directly tothe house where your sister is living. And you may have no fearsconcerning her welfare, for she is amply provided with funds--for thepresent at least. "

Meeks felt joy and wonder in equal proportions. 

"How did you manage it?" he asked, with admiration in his tones. 

Perhaps Jolnes's only weakness was a professional pride in hiswonderful achievements in induction. He was ever ready to astound andcharm his listeners by describing his methods. 

"By elimination, " said Jolnes, spreading his clues upon a littletable, "I got rid of certain parts of the city to which Mrs. Snydermight have removed. You see this hatpin? That eliminates Brooklyn. Nowoman attempts to board a car at the Brooklyn Bridge without beingsure that she carries a hatpin with which to fight her way into aseat. And now I will demonstrate to you that she could not have goneto Harlem. Behind this door are two hooks in the wall. Upon one ofthese Mrs. Snyder has hung her bonnet, and upon the other her shawl. You will observe that the bottom of the hanging shawl has graduallymade a soiled streak against the plastered wall. The mark isclean-cut, proving that there is no fringe on the shawl. Now, wasthere ever a case where a middle-aged woman, wearing a shawl, boardeda Harlem train without there being a fringe on the shawl to catch inthe gate and delay the passengers behind her? So we eliminate Harlem. 

"Therefore I conclude that Mrs. Snyder has not moved very far away. On this torn piece of card you see the word 'Left, ' the letter 'C, 'and the number '12. ' Now, I happen to know that No. 12 Avenue C isa first-class boarding house, far beyond your sister's means--as wesuppose. But then I find this piece of a theatre programme, crumpledinto an odd shape. What meaning does it convey. None to you, verylikely, Mr. Meeks; but it is eloquent to one whose habits and trainingtake cognizance of the smallest things. 

"You have told me that your sister was a scrub woman. She scrubbed thefloors of offices and hallways. Let us assume that she procured suchwork to perform in a theatre. Where is valuable jewellery lost theoftenest, Mr. Meeks? In the theatres, of course. Look at that piece ofprogramme, Mr. Meeks. Observe the round impression in it. It has beenwrapped around a ring--perhaps a ring of great value. Mrs. Snyderfound the ring while at work in the theatre. She hastily tore off apiece of a programme, wrapped the ring carefully, and thrust it intoher bosom. The next day she disposed of it, and, with her increasedmeans, looked about her for a more comfortable place in which to live. When I reach thus far in the chain I see nothing impossible about No. 12 Avenue C. It is there we will find your sister, Mr. Meeks. "

Shamrock Jolnes concluded his convincing speech with the smile ofa successful artist. Meeks's admiration was too great for words. Together they went to No. 12 Avenue C. It was an old-fashionedbrownstone house in a prosperous and respectable neighbourhood. 

They rang the bell, and on inquiring were told that no Mrs. Snyder wasknown there, and that not within six months had a new occupant come tothe house. 

When they reached the sidewalk again, Meeks examined the clues whichhe had brought away from his sister's old room. 

"I am no detective, " he remarked to Jolnes as he raised the piece oftheatre programme to his nose, "but it seems to me that instead ofa ring having been wrapped in this paper it was one of those roundpeppermint drops. And this piece with the address on it looks to melike the end of a seat coupon--No. 12, row C, left aisle. "

Shamrock Jolnes had a far-away look in his eyes. 

"I think you would do well to consult Juggins, " said he. 

"Who is Juggins?" asked Meeks. 

"He is the leader, " said Jolnes, "of a new modern school ofdetectives. Their methods are different from ours, but it is said thatJuggins has solved some extremely puzzling cases. I will take you tohim. "

They found the greater Juggins in his office. He was a small man withlight hair, deeply absorbed in reading one of the bourgeois works ofNathaniel Hawthorne. 

The two great detectives of different schools shook hands withceremony, and Meeks was introduced. 

"State the facts, " said Juggins, going on with his reading. 

When Meeks ceased, the greater one closed his book and said:

"Do I understand that your sister is fifty-two years of age, with alarge mole on the side of her nose, and that she is a very poor widow, making a scanty living by scrubbing, and with a very homely face andfigure?"

"That describes her exactly, " admitted Meeks. Juggins rose and put onhis hat. 

"In fifteen minutes, " he said, "I will return, bringing you herpresent address. "

Shamrock Jolnes turned pale, but forced a smile. 

Within the specified time Juggins returned and consulted a little slipof paper held in his hand. 

"Your sister, Mary Snyder, " he announced calmly, "will be found atNo. 162 Chilton street. She is living in the back hall bedroom, fiveflights up. The house is only four blocks from here, " he continued, addressing Meeks. "Suppose you go and verify the statement and thenreturn here. Mr. Jolnes will await you, I dare say. "

Meeks hurried away. In twenty minutes he was back again, with abeaming face. 

"She is there and well!" he cried. "Name your fee!"

"Two dollars, " said Juggins. 

When Meeks had settled his bill and departed, Shamrock Jolnes stoodwith his hat in his hand before Juggins. 

"If it would not be asking too much, " he stammered--"if you wouldfavour me so far--would you object to--"

"Certainly not, " said Juggins pleasantly. "I will tell you how I didit. You remember the description of Mrs. Snyder? Did you ever know awoman like that who wasn't paying weekly instalments on an enlargedcrayon portrait of herself? The biggest factory of that kind in thecountry is just around the corner. I went there and got her addressoff the books. That's all. "

III

WITCHES' LOAVES

Miss Martha Meacham kept the little bakery on the corner (the onewhere you go up three steps, and the bell tinkles when you open thedoor). 

Miss Martha was forty, her bank-book showed a credit of two thousanddollars, and she possessed two false teeth and a sympathetic heart. Many people have married whose chances to do so were much inferior toMiss Martha's. 

Two or three times a week a customer came in in whom she began to takean interest. He was a middle-aged man, wearing spectacles and a brownbeard trimmed to a careful point. 

He spoke English with a strong German accent. His clothes were wornand darned in places, and wrinkled and baggy in others. But he lookedneat, and had very good manners. 

He always bought two loaves of stale bread. Fresh bread was five centsa loaf. Stale ones were two for five. Never did he call for anythingbut stale bread. 

Once Miss Martha saw a red and brown stain on his fingers. She wassure then that he was an artist and very poor. No doubt he lived in agarret, where he painted pictures and ate stale bread and thought ofthe good things to eat in Miss Martha's bakery. 

Often when Miss Martha sat down to her chops and light rolls and jamand tea she would sigh, and wish that the gentle-mannered artist mightshare her tasty meal instead of eating his dry crust in that draughtyattic. Miss Martha's heart, as you have been told, was a sympatheticone. 

In order to test her theory as to his occupation, she brought fromher room one day a painting that she had bought at a sale, and set itagainst the shelves behind the bread counter. 

It was a Venetian scene. A splendid marble palazzio (so it said on thepicture) stood in the foreground--or rather forewater. For the restthere were gondolas (with the lady trailing her hand in the water), clouds, sky, and chiaro-oscuro in plenty. No artist could fail tonotice it. 

Two days afterward the customer came in. 

"Two loafs of stale bread, if you blease. 

"You haf here a fine bicture, madame, " he said while she was wrappingup the bread. 

"Yes?" says Miss Martha, revelling in her own cunning. "I do so admireart and" (no, it would not do to say "artists" thus early) "andpaintings, " she substituted. "You think it is a good picture?"

"Der balance, " said the customer, "is not in good drawing. Derbairspective of it is not true. Goot morning, madame. "

He took his bread, bowed, and hurried out. 

Yes, he must be an artist. Miss Martha took the picture back to herroom. 

How gentle and kindly his eyes shone behind his spectacles! What abroad brow he had! To be able to judge perspective at a glance--andto live on stale bread! But genius often has to struggle before it isrecognized. 

What a thing it would be for art and perspective if genius were backedby two thousand dollars in bank, a bakery, and a sympathetic heartto-- But these were day-dreams, Miss Martha. 

Often now when he came he would chat for a while across the showcase. He seemed to crave Miss Martha's cheerful words. 

He kept on buying stale bread. Never a cake, never a pie, never one ofher delicious Sally Lunns. 

She thought he began to look thinner and discouraged. Her heart achedto add something good to eat to his meagre purchase, but her couragefailed at the act. She did not dare affront him. She knew the pride ofartists. 

Miss Martha took to wearing her blue-dotted silk waist behind thecounter. In the back room she cooked a mysterious compound of quinceseeds and borax. Ever so many people use it for the complexion. 

One day the customer came in as usual, laid his nickel on theshowcase, and called for his stale loaves. While Miss Martha wasreaching for them there was a great tooting and clanging, and afire-engine came lumbering past. 

The customer hurried to the door to look, as any one will. Suddenlyinspired, Miss Martha seized the opportunity. 

On the bottom shelf behind the counter was a pound of fresh butterthat the dairyman had left ten minutes before. With a bread knifeMiss Martha made a deep slash in each of the stale loaves, inserteda generous quantity of butter, and pressed the loaves tight again. 

When the customer turned once more she was tying the paper aroundthem. 

When he had gone, after an unusually pleasant little chat, Miss Marthasmiled to herself, but not without a slight fluttering of the heart. 

Had she been too bold? Would he take offense? But surely not. Therewas no language of edibles. Butter was no emblem of unmaidenlyforwardness. 

For a long time that day her mind dwelt on the subject. She imaginedthe scene when he should discover her little deception. 

He would lay down his brushes and palette. There would stand his easelwith the picture he was painting in which the perspective was beyondcriticism. 

He would prepare for his luncheon of dry bread and water. He wouldslice into a loaf--ah!

Miss Martha blushed. Would he think of the hand that placed it thereas he ate? Would he--

The front door bell jangled viciously. Somebody was coming in, makinga great deal of noise. 

Miss Martha hurried to the front. Two men were there. One was a youngman smoking a pipe--a man she had never seen before. The other was herartist. 

His face was very red, his hat was on the back of his head, hishair was wildly rumpled. He clinched his two fists and shook themferociously at Miss Martha. _At Miss Martha_. 

"_Dummkopf!_" he shouted with extreme loudness; and then"_Tausendonfer!_" or something like it in German. 

The young man tried to draw him away. 

"I vill not go, " he said angrily, "else I shall told her. "

He made a bass drum of Miss Martha's counter. 

"You haf shpoilt me, " he cried, his blue eyes blazing behind hisspectacles. "I vill tell you. You vas von _meddingsome old cat!_"

Miss Martha leaned weakly against the shelves and laid one hand on herblue-dotted silk waist. The young man took the other by the collar. 

"Come on, " he said, "you've said enough. " He dragged the angry one outat the door to the sidewalk, and then came back. 

"Guess you ought to be told, ma'am, " he said, "what the row is about. That's Blumberger. He's an architectural draftsman. I work in the sameoffice with him. 

"He's been working hard for three months drawing a plan for a newcity hall. It was a prize competition. He finished inking the linesyesterday. You know, a draftsman always makes his drawing in pencilfirst. When it's done he rubs out the pencil lines with handfuls ofstale bread crumbs. That's better than India rubber. 

"Blumberger's been buying the bread here. Well, to-day--well, youknow, ma'am, that butter isn't--well, Blumberger's plan isn't good foranything now except to cut up into railroad sandwiches. "

Miss Martha went into the back room. She took off the blue-dotted silkwaist and put on the old brown serge she used to wear. Then she pouredthe quince seed and borax mixture out of the window into the ash can. 

IV

THE PRIDE OF THE CITIES

Said Mr. Kipling, "The cities are full of pride, challenging each toeach. " Even so. 

New York was empty. Two hundred thousand of its people were awayfor the summer. Three million eight hundred thousand remained ascaretakers and to pay the bills of the absentees. But the two hundredthousand are an expensive lot. 

The New Yorker sat at a roof-garden table, ingesting solace through astraw. His panama lay upon a chair. The July audience was scatteredamong vacant seats as widely as outfielders when the champion battersteps to the plate. Vaudeville happened at intervals. The breezewas cool from the bay; around and above--everywhere except on thestage--were stars. Glimpses were to be had of waiters, alwaysdisappearing, like startled chamois. Prudent visitors who had orderedrefreshments by 'phone in the morning were now being served. The NewYorker was aware of certain drawbacks to his comfort, but contentbeamed softly from his rimless eyeglasses. His family was out of town. The drinks were warm; the ballet was suffering from lack of both tuneand talcum--but his family would not return until September. 

Then up into the garden stumbled the man from Topaz City, Nevada. Thegloom of the solitary sightseer enwrapped him. Bereft of joy throughloneliness, he stalked with a widower's face through the halls ofpleasure. Thirst for human companionship possessed him as he pantedin the metropolitan draught. Straight to the New Yorker's table hesteered. 

The New Yorker, disarmed and made reckless by the lawless atmosphereof a roof garden, decided upon utter abandonment of his life'straditions. He resolved to shatter with one rash, dare-devil, impulsive, hair-brained act the conventions that had hitherto beenwoven into his existence. Carrying out this radical and precipitousinspiration he nodded slightly to the stranger as he drew nearer thetable. 

The next moment found the man from Topaz City in the list of the NewYorker's closest friends. He took a chair at the table, he gatheredtwo others for his feet, he tossed his broad-brimmed hat upon afourth, and told his life's history to his new-found pard. 

The New Yorker warmed a little, as an apartment-house furnace warmswhen the strawberry season begins. A waiter who came within hail in anunguarded moment was captured and paroled on an errand to the DoctorWiley experimental station. The ballet was now in the midst of amusical vagary, and danced upon the stage programmed as Bolivianpeasants, clothed in some portions of its anatomy as Norwegianfisher maidens, in others as ladies-in-waiting of Marie Antoinette, historically denuded in other portions so as to represent sea nymphs, and presenting the _tout ensemble_ of a social club of Central ParkWest housemaids at a fish fry. 

"Been in the city long?" inquired the New Yorker, getting ready theexact tip against the waiter's coming with large change from the bill. 

"Me?" said the man from Topaz City. "Four days. Never in Topaz City, was you?"

"I!" said the New Yorker. "I was never farther west than EighthAvenue. I had a brother who died on Ninth, but I met the cortege atEighth. There was a bunch of violets on the hearse, and the undertakermentioned the incident to avoid mistake. I cannot say that I amfamiliar with the West. "

"Topaz City, " said the man who occupied four chairs, "is one of thefinest towns in the world. "

"I presume that you have seen the sights of the metropolis, " said theNew Yorker, "Four days is not a sufficient length of time in which toview even our most salient points of interest, but one can possiblyform a general impression. Our architectural supremacy is whatgenerally strikes visitors to our city most forcibly. Of course youhave seen our Flatiron Building. It is considered--"

"Saw it, " said the man from Topaz City. "But you ought to come out ourway. It's mountainous, you know, and the ladies all wear short skirtsfor climbing and--"

"Excuse me, " said the New Yorker, "but that isn't exactly the point. New York must be a wonderful revelation to a visitor from the West. Now, as to our hotels--"

"Say, " said the man from Topaz City, "that reminds me--there weresixteen stage robbers shot last year within twenty miles of--"

"I was speaking of hotels, " said the New Yorker. "We lead Europe inthat respect. And as far as our leisure class is concerned we arefar--"

"Oh, I don't know, " interrupted the man from Topaz City. "There weretwelve tramps in our jail when I left home. I guess New York isn'tso--"

"Beg pardon, you seem to misapprehend the idea. Of course, you visitedthe Stock Exchange and Wall Street, where the--"

"Oh, yes, " said the man from Topaz City, as he lighted a Pennsylvaniastogie, "and I want to tell you that we've got the finest town marshalwest of the Rockies. Bill Rainer he took in five pickpockets out ofthe crowd when Red Nose Thompson laid the cornerstone of his newsaloon. Topaz City don't allow--"

"Have another Rhine wine and seltzer, " suggested the New Yorker. "I'venever been West, as I said; but there can't be any place out there tocompare with New York. As to the claims of Chicago I--"

"One man, " said the Topazite--"one man only has been murdered androbbed in Topaz City in the last three--"

"Oh, I know what Chicago is, " interposed the New Yorker. "Have youbeen up Fifth Avenue to see the magnificent residences of our mil--"

"Seen 'em all. You ought to know Reub Stegall, the assessor of Topaz. When old man Tilbury, that owns the only two-story house in town, tried to swear his taxes from $6, 000 down to $450. 75, Reub buckled onhis forty-five and went down to see--"

"Yes, yes, but speaking of our great city--one of its greatestfeatures is our superb police department. There is no body of men inthe world that can equal it for--"

"That waiter gets around like a Langley flying machine, " remarked theman from Topaz City, thirstily. "We've got men in our town, too, worth$400, 000. There's old Bill Withers and Colonel Metcalf and--"

"Have you seen Broadway at night?" asked the New Yorker, courteously. "There are few streets in the world that can compare with it. When theelectrics are shining and the pavements are alive with two hurryingstreams of elegantly clothed men and beautiful women attired inthe costliest costumes that wind in and out in a close maze ofexpensively--"

"Never knew but one case in Topaz City, " said the man from the West. "Jim Bailey, our mayor, had his watch and chain and $235 in cash takenfrom his pocket while--"

"That's another matter, " said the New Yorker. "While you are inour city you should avail yourself of every opportunity to see itswonders. Our rapid transit system--"

"If you was out in Topaz, " broke in the man from there, "I could showyou a whole cemetery full of people that got killed accidentally. Talking about mangling folks up! why, when Berry Rogers turned loosethat old double-barrelled shot-gun of his loaded with slugs atanybody--"

"Here, waiter!" called the New Yorker. "Two more of the same. Itis acknowledged by every one that our city is the centre of art, and literature, and learning. Take, for instance, our after-dinnerspeakers. Where else in the country would you find such wit andeloquence as emanate from Depew and Ford, and--"

"If you take the papers, " interrupted the Westerner, "you must haveread of Pete Webster's daughter. The Websters live two blocks north ofthe court-house in Topaz City. Miss Tillie Webster, she slept fortydays and nights without waking up. The doctors said that--"

"Pass the matches, please, " said the New Yorker. "Have you observedthe expedition with which new buildings are being run up in New York?Improved inventions in steel framework and--"

"I noticed, " said the Nevadian, "that the statistics of Topaz Cityshowed only one carpenter crushed by falling timbers last year and hewas caught in a cyclone. "

"They abuse our sky line, " continued the New Yorker, "and it is likelythat we are not yet artistic in the construction of our buildings. ButI can safely assert that we lead in pictorial and decorative art. Insome of our houses can be found masterpieces in the way of paintingsand sculpture. One who has the entree to our best galleries willfind--"

"Back up, " exclaimed the man from Topaz City. "There was a game lastmonth in our town in which $90, 000 changed hands on a pair of--"

"Ta-romt-tara!" went the orchestra. The stage curtain, blushing pinkat the name "Asbestos" inscribed upon it, came down with a slowmidsummer movement. The audience trickled leisurely down the elevatorand stairs. 

On the sidewalk below, the New Yorker and the man from Topaz Cityshook hands with alcoholic gravity. The elevated crashed raucously, surface cars hummed and clanged, cabmen swore, newsboys shrieked, wheels clattered ear-piercingly. The New Yorker conceived a happythought, with which he aspired to clinch the pre-eminence of his city. 

"You must admit, " said he, "that in the way of noise New York is farahead of any other--"

"Back to the everglades!" said the man from Topaz City. "In 1900, whenSousa's band and the repeating candidate were in our town youcouldn't--"

The rattle of an express wagon drowned the rest of the words. 

V

HOLDING UP A TRAIN

 Note. The man who told me these things was for several years an outlaw in the Southwest and a follower of the pursuit he so frankly describes. His description of the _modus operandi_ should prove interesting, his counsel of value to the potential passenger in some future "hold-up, " while his estimate of the pleasures of train robbing will hardly induce any one to adopt it as a profession. I give the story in almost exactly his own words. O. H. 

Most people would say, if their opinion was asked for, that holdingup a train would be a hard job. Well, it isn't; it's easy. I havecontributed some to the uneasiness of railroads and the insomnia ofexpress companies, and the most trouble I ever had about a hold-up wasin being swindled by unscrupulous people while spending the money Igot. The danger wasn't anything to speak of, and we didn't mind thetrouble. 

One man has come pretty near robbing a train by himself; two havesucceeded a few times; three can do it if they are hustlers, but fiveis about the right number. The time to do it and the place depend uponseveral things. 

The first "stick-up" I was ever in happened in 1890. Maybe the way Igot into it will explain how most train robbers start in the business. Five out of six Western outlaws are just cowboys out of a job and gonewrong. The sixth is a tough from the East who dresses up like a badman and plays some low-down trick that gives the boys a bad name. Wirefences and "nesters" made five of them; a bad heart made the sixth. 

Jim S---- and I were working on the 101 Ranch in Colorado. The nestershad the cowman on the go. They had taken up the land and electedofficers who were hard to get along with. Jim and I rode into La Juntaone day, going south from a round-up. We were having a little funwithout malice toward anybody when a farmer administration cut inand tried to harvest us. Jim shot a deputy marshal, and I kind ofcorroborated his side of the argument. We skirmished up and down themain street, the boomers having bad luck all the time. After a whilewe leaned forward and shoved for the ranch down on the Ceriso. We wereriding a couple of horses that couldn't fly, but they could catchbirds. 

A few days after that, a gang of the La Junta boomers came to theranch and wanted us to go back with them. Naturally, we declined. Wehad the house on them, and before we were done refusing, that old'dobe was plumb full of lead. When dark came we fagged 'em a batch ofbullets and shoved out the back door for the rocks. They sure smokedus as we went. We had to drift, which we did, and rounded up down inOklahoma. 

Well, there wasn't anything we could get there, and, being mightyhard up, we decided to transact a little business with the railroads. Jim and I joined forces with Tom and Ike Moore--two brothers who hadplenty of sand they were willing to convert into dust. I can calltheir names, for both of them are dead. Tom was shot while robbing abank in Arkansas; Ike was killed during the more dangerous pastime ofattending a dance in the Creek Nation. 

We selected a place on the Santa Fé where there was a bridge across adeep creek surrounded by heavy timber. All passenger trains took waterat the tank close to one end of the bridge. It was a quiet place, thenearest house being five miles away. The day before it happened, werested our horses and "made medicine" as to how we should get aboutit. Our plans were not at all elaborate, as none of us had everengaged in a hold-up before. 

The Santa Fé flyer was due at the tank at 11. 15 P. M. At eleven, Tomand I lay down on one side of the track, and Jim and Ike took theother. As the train rolled up, the headlight flashing far down thetrack and the steam hissing from the engine, I turned weak all over. I would have worked a whole year on the ranch for nothing to havebeen out of that affair right then. Some of the nerviest men in thebusiness have told me that they felt the same way the first time. 

The engine had hardly stopped when I jumped on the running-board onone side, while Jim mounted the other. As soon as the engineer andfireman saw our guns they threw up their hands without being told, andbegged us not to shoot, saying they would do anything we wanted themto. 

"Hit the ground, " I ordered, and they both jumped off. We drove thembefore us down the side of the train. While this was happening, Tomand Ike had been blazing away, one on each side of the train, yellinglike Apaches, so as to keep the passengers herded in the cars. Somefellow stuck a little twenty-two calibre out one of the coach windowsand fired it straight up in the air. I let drive and smashed the glassjust over his head. That settled everything like resistance from thatdirection. 

By this time all my nervousness was gone. I felt a kind of pleasantexcitement as if I were at a dance or a frolic of some sort. Thelights were all out in the coaches, and, as Tom and Ike gradually quitfiring and yelling, it got to be almost as still as a graveyard. Iremember hearing a little bird chirping in a bush at the side of thetrack, as if it were complaining at being waked up. 

I made the fireman get a lantern, and then I went to the express carand yelled to the messenger to open up or get perforated. He slid thedoor back and stood in it with his hands up. "Jump overboard, son, " Isaid, and he hit the dirt like a lump of lead. There were two safesin the car--a big one and a little one. By the way, I first locatedthe messenger's arsenal--a double-barrelled shot-gun with buckshotcartridges and a thirty-eight in a drawer. I drew the cartridges fromthe shot-gun, pocketed the pistol, and called the messenger inside. Ishoved my gun against his nose and put him to work. He couldn't openthe big safe, but he did the little one. There was only nine hundreddollars in it. That was mighty small winnings for our trouble, so wedecided to go through the passengers. We took our prisoners to thesmoking-car, and from there sent the engineer through the train tolight up the coaches. Beginning with the first one, we placed a man ateach door and ordered the passengers to stand between the seats withtheir hands up. 

If you want to find out what cowards the majority of men are, all youhave to do is rob a passenger train. I don't mean because they don'tresist--I'll tell you later on why they can't do that--but it makesa man feel sorry for them the way they lose their heads. Big, burlydrummers and farmers and ex-soldiers and high-collared dudes andsports that, a few moments before, were filling the car with noise andbragging, get so scared that their ears flop. 

There were very few people in the day coaches at that time of night, so we made a slim haul until we got to the sleeper. The Pullmanconductor met me at one door while Jim was going round to the otherone. He very politely informed me that I could not go into that car, as it did not belong to the railroad company, and, besides, thepassengers had already been greatly disturbed by the shouting andfiring. Never in all my life have I met with a finer instance ofofficial dignity and reliance upon the power of Mr. Pullman's greatname. I jabbed my six-shooter so hard against Mr. Conductor's frontthat I afterward found one of his vest buttons so firmly wedged in theend of the barrel that I had to shoot it out. He just shut up like aweak-springed knife and rolled down the car steps. 

I opened the door of the sleeper and stepped inside. A big, fatold man came wabbling up to me, puffing and blowing. He had onecoat-sleeve on and was trying to put his vest on over that. I don'tknow who he thought I was. 

"Young man, young man, " says he, "you must keep cool and not getexcited. Above everything, keep cool. "

"I can't, " says I. "Excitement's just eating me up. " And then I letout a yell and turned loose my forty-five through the skylight. 

That old man tried to dive into one of the lower berths, but a screechcame out of it and a bare foot that took him in the bread-basket andlanded him on the floor. I saw Jim coming in the other door, and Ihollered for everybody to climb out and line up. 

They commenced to scramble down, and for a while we had a three-ringedcircus. The men looked as frightened and tame as a lot of rabbits ina deep snow. They had on, on an average, about a quarter of a suit ofclothes and one shoe apiece. One chap was sitting on the floor of theaisle, looking as if he were working a hard sum in arithmetic. He wastrying, very solemn, to pull a lady's number two shoe on his numbernine foot. 

The ladies didn't stop to dress. They were so curious to see a real, live train robber, bless 'em, that they just wrapped blankets andsheets around themselves and came out, squeaky and fidgety looking. They always show more curiosity and sand than the men do. 

We got them all lined up and pretty quiet, and I went through thebunch. I found very little on them--I mean in the way of valuables. One man in the line was a sight. He was one of those big, overgrown, solemn snoozers that sit on the platform at lectures and look wise. Before crawling out he had managed to put on his long, frock-tailedcoat and his high silk hat. The rest of him was nothing but pajamasand bunions. When I dug into that Prince Albert, I expected to dragout at least a block of gold mine stock or an armful of Governmentbonds, but all I found was a little boy's French harp about fourinches long. What it was there for, I don't know. I felt a little madbecause he had fooled me so. I stuck the harp up against his mouth. 

"If you can't pay--play, " I says. 

"I can't play, " says he. 

"Then learn right off quick, " says I, letting him smell the end of mygun-barrel. 

He caught hold of the harp, turned red as a beet, and commenced toblow. He blew a dinky little tune I remembered hearing when I was akid:

 Prettiest little gal in the country--oh! Mammy and Daddy told me so. 

I made him keep on playing it all the time we were in the car. Now andthen he'd get weak and off the key, and I'd turn my gun on him andask what was the matter with that little gal, and whether he had anyintention of going back on her, which would make him start up againlike sixty. I think that old boy standing there in his silk hat andbare feet, playing his little French harp, was the funniest sight Iever saw. One little red-headed woman in the line broke out laughingat him. You could have heard her in the next car. 

Then Jim held them steady while I searched the berths. I grappledaround in those beds and filled a pillow-case with the strangestassortment of stuff you ever saw. Now and then I'd come across alittle pop-gun pistol, just about right for plugging teeth with, which I'd throw out the window. When I finished with the collection, I dumped the pillow-case load in the middle of the aisle. Therewere a good many watches, bracelets, rings, and pocket-books, witha sprinkling of false teeth, whiskey flasks, face-powder boxes, chocolate caramels, and heads of hair of various colours and lengths. There were also about a dozen ladies' stockings into which jewellery, watches, and rolls of bills had been stuffed and then wadded up tightand stuck under the mattresses. I offered to return what I called the"scalps, " saying that we were not Indians on the war-path, but none ofthe ladies seemed to know to whom the hair belonged. 

One of the women--and a good-looker she was--wrapped in a stripedblanket, saw me pick up one of the stockings that was pretty chunkyand heavy about the toe, and she snapped out:

"That's mine, sir. You're not in the business of robbing women, areyou?"

Now, as this was our first hold-up, we hadn't agreed upon any codeof ethics, so I hardly knew what to answer. But, anyway, I replied:"Well, not as a specialty. If this contains your personal property youcan have it back. "

"It just does, " she declared eagerly, and reached out her hand for it. 

"You'll excuse my taking a look at the contents, " I said, holding thestocking up by the toe. Out dumped a big gent's gold watch, worthtwo hundred, a gent's leather pocket-book that we afterward foundto contain six hundred dollars, a 32-calibre revolver; and the onlything of the lot that could have been a lady's personal property wasa silver bracelet worth about fifty cents. 

I said: "Madame, here's your property, " and handed her the bracelet. "Now, " I went on, "how can you expect us to act square with you whenyou try to deceive us in this manner? I'm surprised at such conduct. "

The young woman flushed up as if she had been caught doing somethingdishonest. Some other woman down the line called out: "The meanthing!" I never knew whether she meant the other lady or me. 

When we finished our job we ordered everybody back to bed, told 'emgood night very politely at the door, and left. We rode forty milesbefore daylight and then divided the stuff. Each one of us got$1, 752. 85 in money. We lumped the jewellery around. Then we scattered, each man for himself. 

That was my first train robbery, and it was about as easily done asany of the ones that followed. But that was the last and only timeI ever went through the passengers. I don't like that part of thebusiness. Afterward I stuck strictly to the express car. During thenext eight years I handled a good deal of money. 

The best haul I made was just seven years after the first one. Wefound out about a train that was going to bring out a lot of moneyto pay off the soldiers at a Government post. We stuck that train upin broad daylight. Five of us lay in the sand hills near a littlestation. Ten soldiers were guarding the money on the train, but theymight just as well have been at home on a furlough. We didn't evenallow them to stick their heads out the windows to see the fun. Wehad no trouble at all in getting the money, which was all in gold. Ofcourse, a big howl was raised at the time about the robbery. It wasGovernment stuff, and the Government got sarcastic and wanted to knowwhat the convoy of soldiers went along for. The only excuse given wasthat nobody was expecting an attack among those bare sand hills indaytime. I don't know what the Government thought about the excuse, but I know that it was a good one. The surprise--that is the keynoteof the train-robbing business. The papers published all kinds ofstories about the loss, finally agreeing that it was between ninethousand and ten thousand dollars. The Government sawed wood. Here arethe correct figures, printed for the first time--forty-eight thousanddollars. If anybody will take the trouble to look over Uncle Sam'sprivate accounts for that little debit to profit and loss, he willfind that I am right to a cent. 

By that time we were expert enough to know what to do. We rode duewest twenty miles, making a trail that a Broadway policeman could havefollowed, and then we doubled back, hiding our tracks. On the secondnight after the hold-up, while posses were scouring the country inevery direction, Jim and I were eating supper in the second story ofa friend's house in the town where the alarm started from. Our friendpointed out to us, in an office across the street, a printing press atwork striking off handbills offering a reward for our capture. 

I have been asked what we do with the money we get. Well, I nevercould account for a tenth part of it after it was spent. It goesfast and freely. An outlaw has to have a good many friends. A highlyrespected citizen may, and often does, get along with very few, but aman on the dodge has got to have "sidekickers. " With angry posses andreward-hungry officers cutting out a hot trail for him, he must havea few places scattered about the country where he can stop and feedhimself and his horse and get a few hours' sleep without having tokeep both eyes open. When he makes a haul he feels like dropping someof the coin with these friends, and he does it liberally. Sometimes Ihave, at the end of a hasty visit at one of these havens of refuge, flung a handful of gold and bills into the laps of the kids playingon the floor, without knowing whether my contribution was a hundreddollars or a thousand. 

When old-timers make a big haul they generally go far away to one ofthe big cities to spend their money. Green hands, however successful ahold-up they make, nearly always give themselves away by showing toomuch money near the place where they got it. 

I was in a job in '94 where we got twenty thousand dollars. Wefollowed our favourite plan for a get-away--that is, doubled on ourtrail--and laid low for a time near the scene of the train's bad luck. One morning I picked up a newspaper and read an article with bigheadlines stating that the marshal, with eight deputies and a posse ofthirty armed citizens, had the train robbers surrounded in a mesquitethicket on the Cimarron, and that it was a question of only a fewhours when they would be dead men or prisoners. While I was readingthat article I was sitting at breakfast in one of the most elegantprivate residences in Washington City, with a flunky in knee pantsstanding behind my chair. Jim was sitting across the table talking tohis half-uncle, a retired naval officer, whose name you have oftenseen in the accounts of doings in the capital. We had gone there andbought rattling outfits of good clothes, and were resting from ourlabours among the nabobs. We must have been killed in that mesquitethicket, for I can make an affidavit that we didn't surrender. 

Now I propose to tell why it is easy to hold up a train, and, then, why no one should ever do it. 

In the first place, the attacking party has all the advantage. Thatis, of course, supposing that they are old-timers with the necessaryexperience and courage. They have the outside and are protected bythe darkness, while the others are in the light, hemmed into a smallspace, and exposed, the moment they show a head at a window or door, to the aim of a man who is a dead shot and who won't hesitate toshoot. 

But, in my opinion, the main condition that makes train robbing easyis the element of surprise in connection with the imagination of thepassengers. If you have ever seen a horse that has eaten loco weed youwill understand what I mean when I say that the passengers get locoed. That horse gets the awfullest imagination on him in the world. Youcan't coax him to cross a little branch stream two feet wide. It looksas big to him as the Mississippi River. That's just the way with thepassenger. He thinks there are a hundred men yelling and shootingoutside, when maybe there are only two or three. And the muzzle of aforty-five looks like the entrance to a tunnel. The passenger is allright, although he may do mean little tricks, like hiding a wad ofmoney in his shoe and forgetting to dig-up until you jostle his ribssome with the end of your six-shooter; but there's no harm in him. 

As to the train crew, we never had any more trouble with them thanif they had been so many sheep. I don't mean that they are cowards;I mean that they have got sense. They know they're not up against abluff. It's the same way with the officers. I've seen secret servicemen, marshals, and railroad detectives fork over their change as meekas Moses. I saw one of the bravest marshals I ever knew hide his gununder his seat and dig up along with the rest while I was taking toll. He wasn't afraid; he simply knew that we had the drop on the wholeoutfit. Besides, many of those officers have families and they feelthat they oughtn't to take chances; whereas death has no terrors forthe man who holds up a train. He expects to get killed some day, and he generally does. My advice to you, if you should ever be in ahold-up, is to line up with the cowards and save your bravery for anoccasion when it may be of some benefit to you. Another reason whyofficers are backward about mixing things with a train robber is afinancial one. Every time there is a scrimmage and somebody getskilled, the officers lose money. If the train robber gets away theyswear out a warrant against John Doe et al. And travel hundreds ofmiles and sign vouchers for thousands on the trail of the fugitives, and the Government foots the bills. So, with them, it is a question ofmileage rather than courage. 

I will give one instance to support my statement that the surprise isthe best card in playing for a hold-up. 

Along in '92 the Daltons were cutting out a hot trail for the officersdown in the Cherokee Nation, Those were their lucky days, and they gotso reckless and sandy, that they used to announce before hand whatjob they were going to undertake. Once they gave it out that theywere going to hold up the M. K. & T. Flyer on a certain night at thestation of Pryor Creek, in Indian Territory. 

That night the railroad company got fifteen deputy marshals inMuscogee and put them on the train. Beside them they had fifty armedmen hid in the depot at Pryor Creek. 

When the Katy Flyer pulled in not a Dalton showed up. The next stationwas Adair, six miles away. When the train reached there, and thedeputies were having a good time explaining what they would have doneto the Dalton gang if they had turned up, all at once it sounded likean army firing outside. The conductor and brakeman came running intothe car yelling, "Train robbers!"

Some of those deputies lit out of the door, hit the ground, and kepton running. Some of them hid their Winchesters under the seats. Two ofthem made a fight and were both killed. 

It took the Daltons just ten minutes to capture the train and whipthe escort. In twenty minutes more they robbed the express car oftwenty-seven thousand dollars and made a clean get-away. 

My opinion is that those deputies would have put up a stiff fight atPryor Creek, where they were expecting trouble, but they were taken bysurprise and "locoed" at Adair, just as the Daltons, who knew theirbusiness, expected they would. 

I don't think I ought to close without giving some deductions frommy experience of eight years "on the dodge. " It doesn't pay to robtrains. Leaving out the question of right and morals, which I don'tthink I ought to tackle, there is very little to envy in the life ofan outlaw. After a while money ceases to have any value in his eyes. He gets to looking upon the railroads and express companies as hisbankers, and his six-shooter as a cheque book good for any amount. Hethrows away money right and left. Most of the time he is on the jump, riding day and night, and he lives so hard between times that hedoesn't enjoy the taste of high life when he gets it. He knows thathis time is bound to come to lose his life or liberty, and that theaccuracy of his aim, the speed of his horse, and the fidelity of his"sider, " are all that postpone the inevitable. 

It isn't that he loses any sleep over danger from the officers of thelaw. In all my experience I never knew officers to attack a band ofoutlaws unless they outnumbered them at least three to one. 

But the outlaw carries one thought constantly in his mind--and that iswhat makes him so sore against life, more than anything else--he knowswhere the marshals get their recruits of deputies. He knows that themajority of these upholders of the law were once lawbreakers, horsethieves, rustlers, highwaymen, and outlaws like himself, and that theygained their positions and immunity by turning state's evidence, byturning traitor and delivering up their comrades to imprisonment anddeath. He knows that some day--unless he is shot first--his Judas willset to work, the trap will be laid, and he will be the surprisedinstead of a surpriser at a stick-up. 

That is why the man who holds up trains picks his company witha thousand times the care with which a careful girl chooses asweetheart. That is why he raises himself from his blanket of nightsand listens to the tread of every horse's hoofs on the distant road. That is why he broods suspiciously for days upon a jesting remark oran unusual movement of a tried comrade, or the broken mutterings ofhis closest friend, sleeping by his side. 

And it is one of the reasons why the train-robbing profession is notso pleasant a one as either of its collateral branches--politics orcornering the market. 

VI

ULYSSES AND THE DOGMAN

Do you know the time of the dogmen?

When the forefinger of twilight begins to smudge the clear-drawn linesof the Big City there is inaugurated an hour devoted to one of themost melancholy sights of urban life. 

Out from the towering flat crags and apartment peaks of the cliffdwellers of New York steals an army of beings that were once men. Evenyet they go upright upon two limbs and retain human form and speech;but you will observe that they are behind animals in progress. Each ofthese beings follows a dog, to which he is fastened by an artificialligament. 

These men are all victims to Circe. Not willingly do they becomeflunkeys to Fido, bell boys to bull terriers, and toddlers afterTowzer. Modern Circe, instead of turning them into animals, has kindlyleft the difference of a six-foot leash between them. Every one ofthose dogmen has been either cajoled, bribed, or commanded by his ownparticular Circe to take the dear household pet out for an airing. 

By their faces and manner you can tell that the dogmen are bound in ahopeless enchantment. Never will there come even a dog-catcher Ulyssesto remove the spell. 

The faces of some are stonily set. They are past the commiseration, the curiosity, or the jeers of their fellow-beings. Years ofmatrimony, of continuous compulsory canine constitutionals, havemade them callous. They unwind their beasts from lamp posts, or theensnared legs of profane pedestrians, with the stolidity of mandarinsmanipulating the strings of their kites. 

Others, more recently reduced to the ranks of Rover's retinue, taketheir medicine sulkily and fiercely. They play the dog on the end oftheir line with the pleasure felt by the girl out fishing when shecatches a sea-robin on her hook. They glare at you threateningly ifyou look at them, as if it would be their delight to let slip the dogsof war. These are half-mutinous dogmen, not quite Circe-ized, and youwill do well not to kick their charges, should they sniff around yourankles. 

Others of the tribe do not seem to feel so keenly. They are mostlyunfresh youths, with gold caps and drooping cigarettes, who do notharmonize with their dogs. The animals they attend wear satin bows intheir collars; and the young men steer them so assiduously that youare tempted to the theory that some personal advantage, contingentupon satisfactory service, waits upon the execution of their duties. 

The dogs thus personally conducted are of many varieties; but theyare one in fatness, in pampered, diseased vileness of temper, ininsolent, snarling capriciousness of behaviour. They tug at the leashfractiously, they make leisurely nasal inventory of every door step, railing, and post. They sit down to rest when they choose; they wheezelike the winner of a Third Avenue beefsteak-eating contest; theyblunder clumsily into open cellars and coal holes; they lead thedogmen a merry dance. 

These unfortunate dry nurses of dogdom, the cur cuddlers, mongrel managers, Spitz stalkers, poodle pullers, Skye scrapers, dachshund dandlers, terrier trailers and Pomeranian pushers of thecliff-dwelling Circes follow their charges meekly. The doggies neitherfear nor respect them. Masters of the house these men whom they holdin leash may be, but they are not masters of them. From cosey cornerto fire escape, from divan to dumbwaiter, doggy's snarl easily drivesthis two-legged being who is commissioned to walk at the other end ofhis string during his outing. 

One twilight the dogmen came forth as usual at their Circes' pleading, guerdon, or crack of the whip. One among them was a strong man, apparently of too solid virtues for this airy vocation. His expressionwas melancholic, his manner depressed. He was leashed to a vile whitedog, loathsomely fat, fiendishly ill-natured, gloatingly intractabletoward his despised conductor. 

At a corner nearest to his apartment house the dogman turned down aside street, hoping for fewer witnesses to his ignominy. The surfeitedbeast waddled before him, panting with spleen and the labour ofmotion. 

Suddenly the dog stopped. A tall, brown, long-coated, wide-brimmed manstood like a Colossus blocking the sidewalk and declaring:

"Well, I'm a son of a gun!"

"Jim Berry!" breathed the dogman, with exclamation points in hisvoice. 

"Sam Telfair, " cried Wide-Brim again, "you ding-basted oldwilly-walloo, give us your hoof!"

Their hands clasped in the brief, tight greeting of the West that isdeath to the hand-shake microbe. 

"You old fat rascal!" continued Wide-Brim, with a wrinkled brownsmile; "it's been five years since I seen you. I been in this town aweek, but you can't find nobody in such a place. Well, you dinged oldmarried man, how are they coming?"

Something mushy and heavily soft like raised dough leaned againstJim's leg and chewed his trousers with a yeasty growl. 

"Get to work, " said Jim, "and explain this yard-wide hydrophobiayearling you've throwed your lasso over. Are you the pound-master ofthis burg? Do you call that a dog or what?"

"I need a drink, " said the dogman, dejected at the reminder of his olddog of the sea. "Come on. "

Hard by was a café. 'Tis ever so in the big city. 

They sat at a table, and the bloated monster yelped and scrambled atthe end of his leash to get at the café cat. 

"Whiskey, " said Jim to the waiter. 

"Make it two, " said the dogman. 

"You're fatter, " said Jim, "and you look subjugated. I don't knowabout the East agreeing with you. All the boys asked me to hunt you upwhen I started. Sandy King, he went to the Klondike. Watson Burrel, hemarried the oldest Peters girl. I made some money buying beeves, andI bought a lot of wild land up on the Little Powder. Going to fencenext fall. Bill Rawlins, he's gone to farming. You remember Bill, ofcourse--he was courting Marcella--excuse me, Sam--I mean the lady youmarried, while she was teaching school at Prairie View. But you wasthe lucky man. How is Missis Telfair?"

"S-h-h-h!" said the dogman, signalling the waiter; "give it a name. "

"Whiskey, " said Jim. 

"Make it two, " said the dogman. 

"She's well, " he continued, after his chaser. "She refused to liveanywhere but in New York, where she came from. We live in a flat. Every evening at six I take that dog out for a walk. It's Marcella'spet. There never were two animals on earth, Jim, that hated oneanother like me and that dog does. His name's Lovekins. Marcelladresses for dinner while we're out. We eat tabble dote. Ever try oneof them, Jim?"

"No, I never, " said Jim. "I seen the signs, but I thought they said'table de hole. ' I thought it was French for pool tables. How does ittaste?"

"If you're going to be in the city for awhile we will--"

"No, sir-ee. I'm starting for home this evening on the 7. 25. Like tostay longer, but I can't. "

"I'll walk down to the ferry with you, " said the dogman. 

The dog had bound a leg each of Jim and the chair together, and hadsunk into a comatose slumber. Jim stumbled, and the leash was slightlywrenched. The shrieks of the awakened beast rang for a block around. 

"If that's your dog, " said Jim, when they were on the street again, "what's to hinder you from running that habeas corpus you've gotaround his neck over a limb and walking off and forgetting him?"

"I'd never dare to, " said the dogman, awed at the bold proposition. "He sleeps in the bed, I sleep on a lounge. He runs howling toMarcella if I look at him. Some night, Jim, I'm going to get even withthat dog. I've made up my mind to do it. I'm going to creep over witha knife and cut a hole in his mosquito bar so they can get in to him. See if I don't do it!"

"You ain't yourself, Sam Telfair. You ain't what you was once. I don'tknow about these cities and flats over here. With my own eyes I seenyou stand off both the Tillotson boys in Prairie View with the brassfaucet out of a molasses barrel. And I seen you rope and tie thewildest steer on Little Powder in 39 1-2. "

"I did, didn't I?" said the other, with a temporary gleam in his eye. "But that was before I was dogmatized. "

"Does Misses Telfair--" began Jim. 

"Hush!" said the dogman. "Here's another café. "

They lined up at the bar. The dog fell asleep at their feet. 

"Whiskey, " said Jim. 

"Make it two, " said the dogman. 

"I thought about you, " said Jim, "when I bought that wild land. Iwished you was out there to help me with the stock. "

"Last Tuesday, " said the dogman, "he bit me on the ankle because Iasked for cream in my coffee. He always gets the cream. "

"You'd like Prairie View now, " said Jim. "The boys from the round-upsfor fifty miles around ride in there. One corner of my pasture is insixteen miles of the town. There's a straight forty miles of wire onone side of it. "

"You pass through the kitchen to get to the bedroom, " said the dogman, "and you pass through the parlour to get to the bath room, and youback out through the dining-room to get into the bedroom so you canturn around and leave by the kitchen. And he snores and barks in hissleep, and I have to smoke in the park on account of his asthma. "

"Don't Missis Telfair--" began Jim. 

"Oh, shut up!" said the dogman. "What is it this time?"

"Whiskey, " said Jim. 

"Make it two, " said the dogman. 

"Well, I'll be racking along down toward the ferry, " said the other. 

"Come on, there, you mangy, turtle-backed, snake-headed, bench-leggedton-and-a-half of soap-grease!" shouted the dogman, with a new note inhis voice and a new hand on the leash. The dog scrambled after them, with an angry whine at such unusual language from his guardian. 

At the foot of Twenty-third Street the dogman led the way throughswinging doors. 

"Last chance, " said he. "Speak up. "

"Whiskey, " said Jim. 

"Make it two, " said the dogman. 

"I don't know, " said the ranchman, "where I'll find the man I wantto take charge of the Little Powder outfit. I want somebody I knowsomething about. Finest stretch of prairie and timber you eversquinted your eye over, Sam. Now if you was--"

"Speaking of hydrophobia, " said the dogman, "the other night he cheweda piece out of my leg because I knocked a fly off of Marcella's arm. 'It ought to be cauterized, ' says Marcella, and I was thinking somyself. I telephones for the doctor, and when he comes Marcella saysto me: 'Help me hold the poor dear while the doctor fixes his mouth. Oh, I hope he got no virus on any of his toofies when he bit you. ' Nowwhat do you think of that?"

"Does Missis Telfair--" began Jim. 

"Oh, drop it, " said the dogman. "Come again!"

"Whiskey, " said Jim. 

"Make it two, " said the dogman. 

They walked on to the ferry. The ranchman stepped to the ticketwindow. 

Suddenly the swift landing of three or four heavy kicks was heard, the air was rent by piercing canine shrieks, and a pained, outraged, lubberly, bow-legged pudding of a dog ran frenziedly up the streetalone. 

"Ticket to Denver, " said Jim. 

"Make it two, " shouted the ex-dogman, reaching for his inside pocket. 

VII

THE CHAMPION OF THE WEATHER

If you should speak of the Kiowa Reservation to the average NewYorker he probably wouldn't know whether you were referring to a newpolitical dodge at Albany or a leitmotif from "Parsifal. " But outin the Kiowa Reservation advices have been received concerning theexistence of New York. 

A party of us were on a hunting trip in the Reservation. BudKingsbury, our guide, philosopher, and friend, was broiling antelopesteaks in camp one night. One of the party, a pinkish-haired young manin a correct hunting costume, sauntered over to the fire to light acigarette, and remarked carelessly to Bud:

"Nice night!"

"Why, yes, " said Bud, "as nice as any night could be that ain'treceived the Broadway stamp of approval. "

Now, the young man was from New York, but the rest of us wondered howBud guessed it. So, when the steaks were done, we besought him tolay bare his system of ratiocination. And as Bud was something of aTerritorial talking machine he made oration as follows:

"How did I know he was from New York? Well, I figured it out as soonas he sprung them two words on me. I was in New York myself a coupleof years ago, and I noticed some of the earmarks and hoof tracks ofthe Rancho Manhattan. "

"Found New York rather different from the Panhandle, didn't you, Bud?"asked one of the hunters. 

"Can't say that I did, " answered Bud; "anyways, not more than some. The main trail in that town which they call Broadway is plentytravelled, but they're about the same brand of bipeds that tramparound in Cheyenne and Amarillo, At first I was sort of rattled by thecrowds, but I soon says to myself, 'Here, now, Bud; they're just plainfolks like you and Geronimo and Grover Cleveland and the Watson boys, so don't get all flustered up with consternation under your saddleblanket, ' and then I feels calm and peaceful, like I was back in theNation again at a ghost dance or a green corn pow-wow. 

"I'd been saving up for a year to give this New York a whirl. I knewa man named Summers that lived there, but I couldn't find him; soI played a lone hand at enjoying the intoxicating pleasures of thecorn-fed metropolis. 

"For a while I was so frivolous and locoed by the electric lightsand the noises of the phonographs and the second-story railroadsthat I forgot one of the crying needs of my Western system of naturalrequirements. I never was no hand to deny myself the pleasures ofsociable vocal intercourse with friends and strangers. Out in theTerritories when I meet a man I never saw before, inside of nineminutes I know his income, religion, size of collar, and his wife'stemper, and how much he pays for clothes, alimony, and chewingtobacco. It's a gift with me not to be penurious with my conversation. 

"But this here New York was inaugurated on the idea of abstemiousnessin regard to the parts of speech. At the end of three weeks nobody inthe city had fired even a blank syllable in my direction except thewaiter in the grub emporium where I fed. And as his outpourings ofsyntax wasn't nothing but plagiarisms from the bill of fare, he neversatisfied my yearnings, which was to have somebody hit. If I stoodnext to a man at a bar he'd edge off and give a Baldwin-Ziegler lookas if he suspected me of having the North Pole concealed on my person. I began to wish that I'd gone to Abilene or Waco for my _paseado_; forthe mayor of them places will drink with you, and the first citizenyou meet will tell you his middle name and ask you to take a chancein a raffle for a music box. 

"Well, one day when I was particular hankering for to be gregariouswith something more loquacious than a lamp post, a fellow in a caffysays to me, says he:

"'Nice day!'

"He was a kind of a manager of the place, and I reckon he'd seen mein there a good many times. He had a face like a fish and an eye likeJudas, but I got up and put one arm around his neck. 

"'Pardner, ' I says, 'sure it's a nice day. You're the first gentlemanin all New York to observe that the intricacies of human speech mightnot be altogether wasted on William Kingsbury. But don't you think, 'says I, 'that 'twas a little cool early in the morning; and ain'tthere a feeling of rain in the air to-night? But along about noon itsure was gallupsious weather. How's all up to the house? You doingright well with the caffy, now?'

"Well, sir, that galoot just turns his back and walks off stiff, without a word, after all my trying to be agreeable! I didn't knowwhat to make of it. That night I finds a note from Summers, who'dbeen away from town, giving the address of his camp. I goes up tohis house and has a good, old-time talk with his folks. And I tellsSummers about the actions of this coyote in the caffy, and desiresinterpretation. 

"'Oh, ' says Summers, 'he wasn't intending to strike up a conversationwith you. That's just the New York style. He'd seen you was a regularcustomer and he spoke a word or two just to show you he appreciatedyour custom. You oughtn't to have followed it up. That's about as faras we care to go with a stranger. A word or so about the weather maybe ventured, but we don't generally make it the basis of anacquaintance. '

"'Billy, ' says I, 'the weather and its ramifications is a solemnsubject with me. Meteorology is one of my sore points. No man canopen up the question of temperature or humidity or the glad sunshinewith me, and then turn tail on it without its leading to a fallingbarometer. I'm going down to see that man again and give him a lessonin the art of continuous conversation. You say New York etiquetteallows him two words and no answer. Well, he's going to turn himselfinto a weather bureau and finish what he begun with me, besidesindulging in neighbourly remarks on other subjects. '

"Summers talked agin it, but I was irritated some and I went on thestreet car back to that caffy. 

"The same fellow was there yet, walking round in a sort of back corralwhere there was tables and chairs. A few people was sitting aroundhaving drinks and sneering at one another. 

"I called that man to one side and herded him into a corner. Iunbuttoned enough to show him a thirty-eight I carried stuck under myvest. 

"'Pardner, ' I says, 'a brief space ago I was in here and you seizedthe opportunity to say it was a nice day. When I attempted tocorroborate your weather signal, you turned your back and walked off. Now, ' says I, 'you frog-hearted, language-shy, stiff-necked crossbetween a Spitzbergen sea cook and a muzzled oyster, you resume whereyou left off in your discourse on the weather. '

"The fellow looks at me and tries to grin, but he sees I don't and hecomes around serious. 

"'Well, ' says he, eyeing the handle of my gun, 'it was rather a niceday; some warmish, though. '

"'Particulars, you mealy-mouthed snoozer, ' I says--'let's have thespecifications--expatiate--fill in the outlines. When you startanything with me in short-hand it's bound to turn out a storm signal. '

"'Looked like rain yesterday, ' says the man, 'but it cleared off finein the forenoon. I hear the farmers are needing rain right badlyup-State. '

"'That's the kind of a canter, ' says I. 'Shake the New York dust offyour hoofs and be a real agreeable kind of a centaur. You broke theice, you know, and we're getting better acquainted every minute. Seemsto me I asked you about your family?'

"'They're all well, thanks, ' says he. 'We--we have a new piano. '

"'Now you're coming it, ' I says. 'This cold reserve is breaking upat last. That little touch about the piano almost makes us brothers. What's the youngest kid's name?' I asks him. 

"'Thomas, ' says he. 'He's just getting well from the measles. '

"'I feel like I'd known you always, ' says I. 'Now there was just onemore--are you doing right well with the caffy, now?'

"'Pretty well, ' he says. 'I'm putting away a little money. '

"'Glad to hear it, ' says I. 'Now go back to your work and getcivilized. Keep your hands off the weather unless you're ready tofollow it up in a personal manner, It's a subject that naturallybelongs to sociability and the forming of new ties, and I hate to seeit handed out in small change in a town like this. '

"So the next day I rolls up my blankets and hits the trail away fromNew York City. "

For many minutes after Bud ceased talking we lingered around the fire, and then all hands began to disperse for bed. 

As I was unrolling my bedding I heard the pinkish-haired young mansaying to Bud, with something like anxiety in his voice:

"As I say, Mr. Kingsbury, there is something really beautiful aboutthis night. The delightful breeze and the bright stars and the clearair unite in making it wonderfully attractive. "

"Yes, " said Bud, "it's a nice night. "

VIII

MAKES THE WHOLE WORLD KIN

The burglar stepped inside the window quickly, and then he took histime. A burglar who respects his art always takes his time beforetaking anything else. 

The house was a private residence. By its boarded front door anduntrimmed Boston ivy the burglar knew that the mistress of it wassitting on some oceanside piazza telling a sympathetic man in ayachting cap that no one had ever understood her sensitive, lonelyheart. He knew by the light in the third-story front windows, and bythe lateness of the season, that the master of the house had comehome, and would soon extinguish his light and retire. For it wasSeptember of the year and of the soul, in which season the house'sgood man comes to consider roof gardens and stenographers as vanities, and to desire the return of his mate and the more durable blessings ofdecorum and the moral excellencies. 

The burglar lighted a cigarette. The guarded glow of the matchilluminated his salient points for a moment. He belonged to the thirdtype of burglars. 

This third type has not yet been recognized and accepted. The policehave made us familiar with the first and second. Their classificationis simple. The collar is the distinguishing mark. 

When a burglar is caught who does not wear a collar he is described asa degenerate of the lowest type, singularly vicious and depraved, andis suspected of being the desperate criminal who stole the handcuffsout of Patrolman Hennessy's pocket in 1878 and walked away to escapearrest. 

The other well-known type is the burglar who wears a collar. He isalways referred to as a Raffles in real life. He is invariably agentleman by daylight, breakfasting in a dress suit, and posing as apaperhanger, while after dark he plies his nefarious occupation ofburglary. His mother is an extremely wealthy and respected residentof Ocean Grove, and when he is conducted to his cell he asks at oncefor a nail file and the _Police Gazette_. He always has a wife inevery State in the Union and fiancées in all the Territories, and thenewspapers print his matrimonial gallery out of their stock of cuts ofthe ladies who were cured by only one bottle after having been givenup by five doctors, experiencing great relief after the first dose. 

The burglar wore a blue sweater. He was neither a Raffles nor one ofthe chefs from Hell's Kitchen. The police would have been baffledhad they attempted to classify him. They have not yet heard of therespectable, unassuming burglar who is neither above nor below hisstation. 

This burglar of the third class began to prowl. He wore no masks, dark lanterns, or gum shoes. He carried a 38-calibre revolver in hispocket, and he chewed peppermint gum thoughtfully. 

The furniture of the house was swathed in its summer dust protectors. The silver was far away in safe-deposit vaults. The burglar expectedno remarkable "haul. " His objective point was that dimly lightedroom where the master of the house should be sleeping heavilyafter whatever solace he had sought to lighten the burden ofhis loneliness. A "touch" might be made there to the extent oflegitimate, fair professional profits--loose money, a watch, ajewelled stick-pin--nothing exorbitant or beyond reason. He had seenthe window left open and had taken the chance. 

The burglar softly opened the door of the lighted room. The gas wasturned low. A man lay in the bed asleep. On the dresser lay manythings in confusion--a crumpled roll of bills, a watch, keys, threepoker chips, crushed cigars, a pink silk hair bow, and an unopenedbottle of bromo-seltzer for a bulwark in the morning. 

The burglar took three steps toward the dresser. The man in the bedsuddenly uttered a squeaky groan and opened his eyes. His right handslid under his pillow, but remained there. 

"Lay still, " said the burglar in conversational tone. Burglars of thethird type do not hiss. The citizen in the bed looked at the round endof the burglar's pistol and lay still. 

"Now hold up both your hands, " commanded the burglar. 

The citizen had a little, pointed, brown-and-gray beard, like thatof a painless dentist. He looked solid, esteemed, irritable, anddisgusted. He sat up in bed and raised his right hand above his head. 

"Up with the other one, " ordered the burglar. "You might be amphibiousand shoot with your left. You can count two, can't you? Hurry up, now. "

"Can't raise the other one, " said the citizen, with a contortion ofhis lineaments. 

"What's the matter with it?"

"Rheumatism in the shoulder. "

"Inflammatory?"

"Was. The inflammation has gone down. " The burglar stood for a momentor two, holding his gun on the afflicted one. He glanced at theplunder on the dresser and then, with a half-embarrassed air, back atthe man in the bed. Then he, too, made a sudden grimace. 

"Don't stand there making faces, " snapped the citizen, bad-humouredly. "If you've come to burgle why don't you do it? There's some stufflying around. "

"'Scuse me, " said the burglar, with a grin; "but it just socked meone, too. It's good for you that rheumatism and me happens to be oldpals. I got it in my left arm, too. Most anybody but me would havepopped you when you wouldn't hoist that left claw of yours. "

"How long have you had it?" inquired the citizen. 

"Four years. I guess that ain't all. Once you've got it, it's you fora rheumatic life--that's my judgment. "

"Ever try rattlesnake oil?" asked the citizen, interestedly. 

"Gallons, " said the burglar. "If all the snakes I've used the oil ofwas strung out in a row they'd reach eight times as far as Saturn, andthe rattles could be heard at Valparaiso, Indiana, and back. "

"Some use Chiselum's Pills, " remarked the citizen. 

"Fudge!" said the burglar. "Took 'em five months. No good. I had somerelief the year I tried Finkelham's Extract, Balm of Gilead poulticesand Potts's Pain Pulverizer; but I think it was the buckeye I carriedin my pocket what done the trick. "

"Is yours worse in the morning or at night?" asked the citizen. 

"Night, " said the burglar; "just when I'm busiest. Say, take down thatarm of yours--I guess you won't--Say! did you ever try Blickerstaff'sBlood Builder?"

"I never did. Does yours come in paroxysms or is it a steady pain?"

The burglar sat down on the foot of the bed and rested his gun on hiscrossed knee. 

"It jumps, " said he. "It strikes me when I ain't looking for it. I hadto give up second-story work because I got stuck sometimes half-wayup. Tell you what--I don't believe the bloomin' doctors know what isgood for it. "

"Same here. I've spent a thousand dollars without getting any relief. Yours swell any?"

"Of mornings. And when it's goin' to rain--great Christopher!"

"Me, too, " said the citizen. "I can tell when a streak of humidity thesize of a table-cloth starts from Florida on its way to New York. Andif I pass a theatre where there's an 'East Lynne' matinee going on, the moisture starts my left arm jumping like a toothache. "

"It's undiluted--hades!" said the burglar. 

"You're dead right, " said the citizen. 

The burglar looked down at his pistol and thrust it into his pocketwith an awkward attempt at ease. 

"Say, old man, " he said, constrainedly, "ever try opodeldoc?"

"Slop!" said the citizen angrily. "Might as well rub on restaurantbutter. "

"Sure, " concurred the burglar. "It's a salve suitable for littleMinnie when the kitty scratches her finger. I'll tell you what! We'reup against it. I only find one thing that eases her up. Hey? Littleold sanitary, ameliorating, lest-we-forget Booze. Say--this job'soff--'scuse me--get on your clothes and let's go out and have some. 'Scuse the liberty, but--ouch! There she goes again!"

"For a week, " said the citizen. "I haven't been able to dress myselfwithout help. I'm afraid Thomas is in bed, and--"

"Climb out, " said the burglar, "I'll help you get into your duds. "

The conventional returned as a tidal wave and flooded the citizen. Hestroked his brown-and-gray beard. 

"It's very unusual--" he began. 

"Here's your shirt, " said the burglar, "fall out. I knew a man whosaid Omberry's Ointment fixed him in two weeks so he could use bothhands in tying his four-in-hand. "

As they were going out the door the citizen turned and started back. 

"'Liked to forgot my money, " he explained; "laid it on the dresserlast night. "

The burglar caught him by the right sleeve. 

"Come on, " he said bluffly. "I ask you. Leave it alone. I've got theprice. Ever try witch hazel and oil of wintergreen?"

IX

AT ARMS WITH MORPHEUS

I never could quite understand how Tom Hopkins came to make thatblunder, for he had been through a whole term at a medicalcollege--before he inherited his aunt's fortune--and had beenconsidered strong in therapeutics. 

We had been making a call together that evening, and afterward Tomran up to my rooms for a pipe and a chat before going on to his ownluxurious apartments. I had stepped into the other room for a momentwhen I heard Tom sing out:

"Oh, Billy, I'm going to take about four grains of quinine, if youdon't mind-- I'm feeling all blue and shivery. Guess I'm taking cold. "

"All right, " I called back. "The bottle is on the second shelf. Takeit in a spoonful of that elixir of eucalyptus. It knocks the bitterout. "

After I came back we sat by the fire and got our briars going. Inabout eight minutes Tom sank back into a gentle collapse. 

I went straight to the medicine cabinet and looked. 

"You unmitigated hayseed!" I growled. "See what money will do for aman's brains!"

There stood the morphine bottle with the stopple out, just as Tom hadleft it. 

I routed out another young M. D. Who roomed on the floor above, andsent him for old Doctor Gales, two squares away. Tom Hopkins has toomuch money to be attended by rising young practitioners alone. 

When Gales came we put Tom through as expensive a course of treatmentas the resources of the profession permit. After the more drasticremedies we gave him citrate of caffeine in frequent doses and strongcoffee, and walked him up and down the floor between two of us. OldGales pinched him and slapped his face and worked hard for the bigcheck he could see in the distance. The young M. D. From the next floorgave Tom a most hearty, rousing kick, and then apologized to me. 

"Couldn't help it, " he said. "I never kicked a millionaire before inmy life. I may never have another opportunity. "

"Now, " said Doctor Gales, after a couple of hours, "he'll do. But keephim awake for another hour. You can do that by talking to him andshaking him up occasionally. When his pulse and respiration are normalthen let him sleep. I'll leave him with you now. "

I was left alone with Tom, whom we had laid on a couch. He lay verystill, and his eyes were half closed. I began my work of keeping himawake. 

"Well, old man, " I said, "you've had a narrow squeak, but we've pulledyou through. When you were attending lectures, Tom, didn't any ofthe professors ever casually remark that m-o-r-p-h-i-a never spells'quinia, ' especially in four-grain doses? But I won't pile it up onyou until you get on your feet. But you ought to have been a druggist, Tom; you're splendidly qualified to fill prescriptions. "

Tom looked at me with a faint and foolish smile. 

"B'ly, " he murmured, "I feel jus' like a hum'n bird flyin' around ajolly lot of most 'shpensive roses. Don' bozzer me. Goin' sleep now. "

And he went to sleep in two seconds. I shook him by the shoulder. 

"Now, Tom, " I said, severely, "this won't do. The big doctor said youmust stay awake for at least an hour. Open your eyes. You're notentirely safe yet, you know. Wake up. "

Tom Hopkins weighs one hundred and ninety-eight. He gave me anothersomnolent grin, and fell into deeper slumber. I would have made himmove about, but I might as well have tried to make Cleopatra's needlewaltz around the room with me. Tom's breathing became stertorous, andthat, in connection with morphia poisoning, means danger. 

Then I began to think. I could not rouse his body; I must strive toexcite his mind. "Make him angry, " was an idea that suggested itself. "Good!" I thought; but how? There was not a joint in Tom's armour. Dear old fellow! He was good nature itself, and a gallant gentleman, fine and true and clean as sunlight. He came from somewhere downSouth, where they still have ideals and a code. New York had charmed, but had not spoiled, him. He had that old-fashioned chivalrousreverence for women, that--Eureka!--there was my idea! I worked thething up for a minute or two in my imagination. I chuckled to myselfat the thought of springing a thing like that on old Tom Hopkins. ThenI took him by the shoulder and shook him till his ears flopped. Heopened his eyes lazily. I assumed an expression of scorn and contempt, and pointed my finger within two inches of his nose. 

"Listen to me, Hopkins, " I said, in cutting and distinct tones, "youand I have been good friends, but I want you to understand that in thefuture my doors are closed against any man who acts as much like ascoundrel as you have. "

Tom looked the least bit interested. 

"What's the matter, Billy?" he muttered, composedly. "Don't yourclothes fit you?"

"If I were in your place, " I went on, "which, thank God, I am not, Ithink I would be afraid to close my eyes. How about that girl you leftwaiting for you down among those lonesome Southern pines--the girlthat you've forgotten since you came into your confounded money? Oh, I know what I'm talking about. While you were a poor medical studentshe was good enough for you. But now, since you are a millionaire, it's different. I wonder what she thinks of the performances of thatpeculiar class of people which she has been taught to worship--theSouthern gentlemen? I'm sorry, Hopkins, that I was forced to speakabout these matters, but you've covered it up so well and played yourpart so nicely that I would have sworn you were above such unmanlytricks. "

Poor Tom. I could scarcely keep from laughing outright to see himstruggling against the effects of the opiate. He was distinctly angry, and I didn't blame him. Tom had a Southern temper. His eyes wereopen now, and they showed a gleam or two of fire. But the drug stillclouded his mind and bound his tongue. 

"C-c-confound you, " he stammered, "I'll s-smash you. "

He tried to rise from the couch. With all his size he was very weaknow. I thrust him back with one arm. He lay there glaring like a lionin a trap. 

"That will hold you for a while, you old loony, " I said to myself. Igot up and lit my pipe, for I was needing a smoke. I walked around abit, congratulating myself on my brilliant idea. 

I heard a snore. I looked around. Tom was asleep again. I walked overand punched him on the jaw. He looked at me as pleasant and ungrudgingas an idiot. I chewed my pipe and gave it to him hard. 

"I want you to recover yourself and get out of my rooms as soon asyou can, " I said, insultingly. "I've told you what I think of you. Ifyou have any honour or honesty left you will think twice before youattempt again to associate with gentlemen. She's a poor girl, isn'tshe?" I sneered. "Somewhat too plain and unfashionable for us since wegot our money. Be ashamed to walk on Fifth Avenue with her, wouldn'tyou? Hopkins, you're forty-seven times worse than a cad. Who caresfor your money? I don't. I'll bet that girl don't. Perhaps if youdidn't have it you'd be more of a man. As it is you've made a curof yourself, and"--I thought that quite dramatic--"perhaps broken afaithful heart. " (Old Tom Hopkins breaking a faithful heart!) "Let mebe rid of you as soon as possible. "

I turned my back on Tom, and winked at myself in a mirror. I heardhim moving, and I turned again quickly. I didn't want a hundred andninety-eight pounds falling on me from the rear. But Tom had onlyturned partly over, and laid one arm across his face. He spoke a fewwords rather more distinctly than before. 

"I couldn't have--talked this way--to you, Billy, even if I'd heardpeople--lyin' 'bout you. But jus' soon's I can s-stand up--I'll breakyour neck--don' f'get it. "

I did feel a little ashamed then. But it was to save Tom. In themorning, when I explained it, we would have a good laugh over ittogether. 

In about twenty minutes Tom dropped into a sound, easy slumber. I felthis pulse, listened to his respiration, and let him sleep. Everythingwas normal, and Tom was safe. I went into the other room and tumbledinto bed. 

I found Tom up and dressed when I awoke the next morning. He wasentirely himself again with the exception of shaky nerves and a tonguelike a white-oak chip. 

"What an idiot I was, " he said, thoughtfully. "I remember thinkingthat quinine bottle looked queer while I was taking the dose. Havemuch trouble in bringing me 'round?"

I told him no. His memory seemed bad about the entire affair. Iconcluded that he had no recollection of my efforts to keep him awake, and decided not to enlighten him. Some other time, I thought, when hewas feeling better, we would have some fun over it. 

When Tom was ready to go he stopped, with the door open, and shook myhand. 

"Much obliged, old fellow, " he said, quietly, "for taking so muchtrouble with me--and for what you said. I'm going down now totelegraph to the little girl. "

X

A GHOST OF A CHANCE

"Actually, a _hod_!" repeated Mrs. Kinsolving, pathetically. 

Mrs. Bellamy Bellmore arched a sympathetic eyebrow. Thus she expressedcondolence and a generous amount of apparent surprise. 

"Fancy her telling everywhere, " recapitulated Mrs. Kinsolving, "thatshe saw a ghost in the apartment she occupied here--our choicestguest-room--a ghost, carrying a hod on its shoulder--the ghost ofan old man in overalls, smoking a pipe and carrying a hod! The veryabsurdity of the thing shows her malicious intent. There never was aKinsolving that carried a hod. Every one knows that Mr. Kinsolving'sfather accumulated his money by large building contracts, but he neverworked a day with his own hands. He had this house built from his ownplans; but--oh, a hod! Why need she have been so cruel and malicious?"

"It is really too bad, " murmured Mrs. Bellmore, with an approvingglance of her fine eyes about the vast chamber done in lilac and oldgold. "And it was in this room she saw it! Oh, no, I'm not afraid ofghosts. Don't have the least fear on my account. I'm glad you put mein here. I think family ghosts so interesting! But, really, the storydoes sound a little inconsistent. I should have expected somethingbetter from Mrs. Fischer-Suympkins. Don't they carry bricks in hods?Why should a ghost bring bricks into a villa built of marble andstone? I'm so sorry, but it makes me think that age is beginning totell upon Mrs. Fischer-Suympkins. "

"This house, " continued Mrs. Kinsolving, "was built upon the site ofan old one used by the family during the Revolution. There wouldn'tbe anything strange in its having a ghost. And there was a CaptainKinsolving who fought in General Greene's army, though we've neverbeen able to secure any papers to vouch for it. If there is to be afamily ghost, why couldn't it have been his, instead of abricklayer's?"

"The ghost of a Revolutionary ancestor wouldn't be a bad idea, " agreedMrs. Bellmore; "but you know how arbitrary and inconsiderate ghostscan be. Maybe, like love, they are 'engendered in the eye. ' Oneadvantage of those who see ghosts is that their stories can't bedisproved. By a spiteful eye, a Revolutionary knapsack might easily beconstrued to be a hod. Dear Mrs. Kinsolving, think no more of it. I amsure it was a knapsack. "

"But she told everybody!" mourned Mrs. Kinsolving, inconsolable. "Sheinsisted upon the details. There is the pipe. And how are you going toget out of the overalls?"

"Shan't get into them, " said Mrs. Bellmore, with a prettily suppressedyawn; "too stiff and wrinkly. Is that you, Felice? Prepare my bath, please. Do you dine at seven at Clifftop, Mrs. Kinsolving? So kind ofyou to run in for a chat before dinner! I love those little touches ofinformality with a guest. They give such a home flavour to a visit. Sosorry; I must be dressing. I am so indolent I always postpone it untilthe last moment. "

Mrs. Fischer-Suympkins had been the first large plum that theKinsolvings had drawn from the social pie. For a long time, thepie itself had been out of reach on a top shelf. But the purse andthe pursuit had at last lowered it. Mrs. Fischer-Suympkins was theheliograph of the smart society parading corps. The glitter of her witand actions passed along the line, transmitting whatever was latestand most daring in the game of peep-show. Formerly, her fame andleadership had been secure enough not to need the support of suchartifices as handing around live frogs for favours at a cotillon. But, now, these things were necessary to the holding of her throne. Beside, middle age had come to preside, incongruous, at her capers. Thesensational papers had cut her space from a page to two columns. Her wit developed a sting; her manners became more rough andinconsiderate, as if she felt the royal necessity of establishingher autocracy by scorning the conventionalities that bound lesserpotentates. 

To some pressure at the command of the Kinsolvings, she had yieldedso far as to honour their house by her presence, for an evening andnight. She had her revenge upon her hostess by relating, with grimenjoyment and sarcastic humour, her story of the vision carryingthe hod. To that lady, in raptures at having penetrated thus fartoward the coveted inner circle, the result came as a crushingdisappointment. Everybody either sympathized or laughed, and therewas little to choose between the two modes of expression. 

But, later on, Mrs. Kinsolving's hopes and spirits were revived by thecapture of a second and greater prize. 

Mrs. Bellamy Bellmore had accepted an invitation to visit at Clifftop, and would remain for three days. Mrs. Bellmore was one of the youngermatrons, whose beauty, descent, and wealth gave her a reserved seatin the holy of holies that required no strenuous bolstering. She wasgenerous enough thus to give Mrs. Kinsolving the accolade that was sopoignantly desired; and, at the same time, she thought how much itwould please Terence. Perhaps it would end by solving him. 

Terence was Mrs. Kinsolving's son, aged twenty-nine, quitegood-looking enough, and with two or three attractive and mysterioustraits. For one, he was very devoted to his mother, and that wassufficiently odd to deserve notice. For others, he talked so littlethat it was irritating, and he seemed either very shy or very deep. Terence interested Mrs. Bellmore, because she was not sure which itwas. She intended to study him a little longer, unless she forgotthe matter. If he was only shy, she would abandon him, for shynessis a bore. If he was deep, she would also abandon him, for depth isprecarious. 

On the afternoon of the third day of her visit, Terence hunted up Mrs. Bellmore, and found her in a nook actually looking at an album. 

"It's so good of you, " said he, "to come down here and retrieve theday for us. I suppose you have heard that Mrs. Fischer-Suympkinsscuttled the ship before she left. She knocked a whole plank out ofthe bottom with a hod. My mother is grieving herself ill about it. Can't you manage to see a ghost for us while you are here, Mrs. Bellmore--a bang-up, swell ghost, with a coronet on his head and acheque book under his arm?"

"That was a naughty old lady, Terence, " said Mrs. Bellmore, "to tellsuch stories. Perhaps you gave her too much supper. Your motherdoesn't really take it seriously, does she?"

"I think she does, " answered Terence. "One would think every brickin the hod had dropped on her. It's a good mammy, and I don't liketo see her worried. It's to be hoped that the ghost belongs to thehod-carriers' union, and will go out on a strike. If he doesn't, therewill be no peace in this family. "

"I'm sleeping in the ghost-chamber, " said Mrs. Bellmore, pensively. "But it's so nice I wouldn't change it, even if I were afraid, which I'm not. It wouldn't do for me to submit a counter story of adesirable, aristocratic shade, would it? I would do so, with pleasure, but it seems to me it would be too obviously an antidote for the othernarrative to be effective. "

"True, " said Terence, running two fingers thoughtfully into his crisp, brown hair; "that would never do. How would it work to see the sameghost again, minus the overalls, and have gold bricks in the hod? Thatwould elevate the spectre from degrading toil to a financial plane. Don't you think that would be respectable enough?"

"There was an ancestor who fought against the Britishers, wasn'tthere? Your mother said something to that effect. "

"I believe so; one of those old chaps in raglan vests and golftrousers. I don't care a continental for a Continental, myself. Butthe mother has set her heart on pomp and heraldry and pyrotechnics, and I want her to be happy. "

"You are a good boy, Terence, " said Mrs. Bellmore, sweeping her silksclose to one side of her, "not to beat your mother. Sit here by me, and let's look at the album, just as people used to do twenty yearsago. Now, tell me about every one of them. Who is this tall, dignifiedgentleman leaning against the horizon, with one arm on the Corinthiancolumn?"

"That old chap with the big feet?" inquired Terence, craning his neck. "That's great-uncle O'Brannigan. He used to keep a rathskeller on theBowery. "

"I asked you to sit down, Terence. If you are not going to amuse, orobey, me, I shall report in the morning that I saw a ghost wearing anapron and carrying schooners of beer. Now, that is better. To be shy, at your age, Terence, is a thing that you should blush toacknowledge. "

At breakfast on the last morning of her visit, Mrs. Bellmore startledand entranced every one present by announcing positively that she hadseen the ghost. 

"Did it have a--a--a--?" Mrs. Kinsolving, in her suspense andagitation, could not bring out the word. 

"No, indeed--far from it. "

There was a chorus of questions from others at the table. "Weren'tyou frightened?" "What did it do?" "How did it look?" "How was itdressed?" "Did it say anything?" "Didn't you scream?"

"I'll try to answer everything at once, " said Mrs. Bellmore, heroically, "although I'm frightfully hungry. Something awakenedme--I'm not sure whether it was a noise or a touch--and there stoodthe phantom. I never burn a light at night, so the room was quitedark, but I saw it plainly. I wasn't dreaming. It was a tall man, all misty white from head to foot. It wore the full dress of the oldColonial days--powdered hair, baggy coat skirts, lace ruffles, anda sword. It looked intangible and luminous in the dark, and movedwithout a sound. Yes, I was a little frightened at first--or startled, I should say. It was the first ghost I had ever seen. No, it didn'tsay anything. I didn't scream. I raised up on my elbow, and then itglided silently away, and disappeared when it reached the door. "

Mrs. Kinsolving was in the seventh heaven. "The description is that ofCaptain Kinsolving, of General Greene's army, one of our ancestors, "she said, in a voice that trembled with pride and relief. "I reallythink I must apologize for our ghostly relative, Mrs. Bellmore. I amafraid he must have badly disturbed your rest. "

Terence sent a smile of pleased congratulation toward his mother. Attainment was Mrs. Kinsolving's, at last, and he loved to see herhappy. 

"I suppose I ought to be ashamed to confess, " said Mrs. Bellmore, whowas now enjoying her breakfast, "that I wasn't very much disturbed. I presume it would have been the customary thing to scream and faint, and have all of you running about in picturesque costumes. But, afterthe first alarm was over, I really couldn't work myself up to a panic. The ghost retired from the stage quietly and peacefully, after doingits little turn, and I went to sleep again. "

Nearly all listened, politely accepted Mrs. Bellmore s story as amade-up affair, charitably offered as an offset to the unkind visionseen by Mrs. Fischer-Suympkins. But one or two present perceived thather assertions bore the genuine stamp of her own convictions. Truthand candour seemed to attend upon every word. Even a scoffer atghosts--if he were very observant--would have been forced to admitthat she had, at least in a very vivid dream, been honestly aware ofthe weird visitor. '

Soon Mrs. Bellmore's maid was packing. In two hours the auto wouldcome to convey her to the station. As Terence was strolling upon theeast piazza, Mrs. Bellmore came up to him, with a confidential sparklein her eye. 

"I didn't wish to tell the others all of it, " she said, "but I willtell you. In a way, I think you should be held responsible. Can youguess in what manner that ghost awakened me last night?"

"Rattled chains, " suggested Terence, after some thought, "or groaned?They usually do one or the other. "

"Do you happen to know, " continued Mrs. Bellmore, with suddenirrelevancy, "if I resemble any one of the female relatives of yourrestless ancestor, Captain Kinsolving?"

"Don't think so, " said Terence, with an extremely puzzled air. "Neverheard of any of them being noted beauties. "

"Then, why, " said Mrs. Bellmore, looking the young man gravely in theeye, "should that ghost have kissed me, as I'm sure it did?"

"Heavens!" exclaimed Terence, in wide-eyed amazement; "you don't meanthat, Mrs. Bellmore! Did he actually kiss you?"

"I said _it_, " corrected Mrs. Bellmore. "I hope the impersonal pronounis correctly used. "

"But why did you say I was responsible?"

"Because you are the only living male relative of the ghost. "

"I see. 'Unto the third and fourth generation. ' But, seriously, didhe--did it--how do you--?"

"Know? How does any one know? I was asleep, and that is what awakenedme, I'm almost certain. "

"Almost?"

"Well, I awoke just as--oh, can't you understand what I mean? Whenanything arouses you suddenly, you are not positive whether youdreamed, or--and yet you know that-- Dear me, Terence, must I dissectthe most elementary sensations in order to accommodate your extremelypractical intelligence?"

"But, about kissing ghosts, you know, " said Terence, humbly, "Irequire the most primary instruction. I never kissed a ghost. Isit--is it--?"

"The sensation, " said Mrs. Bellmore, with deliberate, but slightlysmiling, emphasis, "since you are seeking instruction, is a minglingof the material and the spiritual. "

"Of course, " said Terence, suddenly growing serious, "it was a dreamor some kind of an hallucination. Nobody believes in spirits, thesedays. If you told the tale out of kindness of heart, Mrs. Bellmore, I can't express how grateful I am to you. It has made my mothersupremely happy. That Revolutionary ancestor was a stunning idea. "

Mrs. Bellmore sighed. "The usual fate of ghost-seers is mine, " shesaid, resignedly. "My privileged encounter with a spirit is attributedto lobster salad or mendacity. Well, I have, at least, one memory leftfrom the wreck--a kiss from the unseen world. Was Captain Kinsolving avery brave man, do you know, Terence?"

"He was licked at Yorktown, I believe, " said Terence, reflecting. "They say he skedaddled with his company, after the first battlethere. "

"I thought he must have been timid, " said Mrs. Bellmore, absently. "Hemight have had another. "

"Another battle?" asked Terence, dully. 

"What else could I mean? I must go and get ready now; the auto willbe here in an hour. I've enjoyed Clifftop immensely. Such a lovelymorning, isn't it, Terence?"

On her way to the station, Mrs. Bellmore took from her bag a silkhandkerchief, and looked at it with a little peculiar smile. Then shetied it in several very hard knots, and threw it, at a convenientmoment, over the edge of the cliff along which the road ran. 

In his room, Terence was giving some directions to his man, Brooks. "Have this stuff done up in a parcel, " he said, "and ship it to theaddress on that card. "

The card was that of a New York costumer. The "stuff" was agentleman's costume of the days of '76, made of white satin, withsilver buckles, white silk stockings, and white kid shoes. A powderedwig and a sword completed the dress. 

"And look about, Brooks, " added Terence, a little anxiously, "for asilk handkerchief with my initials in one corner. I must have droppedit somewhere. "

It was a month later when Mrs. Bellmore and one or two others ofthe smart crowd were making up a list of names for a coaching tripthrough the Catskills. Mrs. Bellmore looked over the list for a finalcensoring. The name of Terence Kinsolving was there. Mrs. Bellmore ranher prohibitive pencil lightly through the name. 

"Too shy!" she murmured, sweetly, in explanation. 

XI

JIMMY HAYES AND MURIEL

I

Supper was over, and there had fallen upon the camp the silence thataccompanies the rolling of corn-husk cigarettes. The water hole shonefrom the dark earth like a patch of fallen sky. Coyotes yelped. Dullthumps indicated the rocking-horse movements of the hobbled ponies asthey moved to fresh grass. A half-troop of the Frontier Battalion ofTexas Rangers were distributed about the fire. 

A well-known sound--the fluttering and scraping of chaparral againstwooden stirrups--came from the thick brush above the camp. The rangerslistened cautiously. They heard a loud and cheerful voice call outreassuringly:

"Brace up, Muriel, old girl, we're 'most there now! Been a longride for ye, ain't it, ye old antediluvian handful of animatedcarpet-tacks? Hey, now, quit a tryin' to kiss me! Don't hold on to myneck so tight--this here paint hoss ain't any too shore-footed, let metell ye. He's liable to dump us both off if we don't watch out. "

Two minutes of waiting brought a tired "paint" pony single-footinginto camp. A gangling youth of twenty lolled in the saddle. Of the"Muriel" whom he had been addressing, nothing was to be seen. 

"Hi, fellows!" shouted the rider cheerfully. "This here's a letter ferLieutenant Manning. "

He dismounted, unsaddled, dropped the coils of his stake-rope, andgot his hobbles from the saddle-horn. While Lieutenant Manning, incommand, was reading the letter, the newcomer, rubbed solicitously atsome dried mud in the loops of the hobbles, showing a considerationfor the forelegs of his mount. 

"Boys, " said the lieutenant, waving his hand to the rangers, "thisis Mr. James Hayes. He's a new member of the company. Captain McLeansends him down from El Paso. The boys will see that you have somesupper, Hayes, as soon as you get your pony hobbled. "

The recruit was received cordially by the rangers. Still, theyobserved him shrewdly and with suspended judgment. Picking a comradeon the border is done with ten times the care and discretion withwhich a girl chooses a sweetheart. On your "side-kicker's" nerve, loyalty, aim, and coolness your own life may depend many times. 

After a hearty supper Hayes joined the smokers about the fire. His appearance did not settle all the questions in the minds ofhis brother rangers. They saw simply a loose, lank youth withtow-coloured, sun-burned hair and a berry-brown, ingenuous face thatwore a quizzical, good-natured smile. 

"Fellows, " said the new ranger, "I'm goin' to interduce to you a ladyfriend of mine. Ain't ever heard anybody call her a beauty, but you'llall admit she's got some fine points about her. Come along, Muriel!"

He held open the front of his blue flannel shirt. Out of it crawled ahorned frog. A bright red ribbon was tied jauntily around its spikyneck. It crawled to its owner's knee and sat there, motionless. 

"This here Muriel, " said Hayes, with an oratorical wave of his hand, "has got qualities. She never talks back, she always stays at home, and she's satisfied with one red dress for every day and Sunday, too. "

"Look at that blame insect!" said one of the rangers with a grin. "I've seen plenty of them horny frogs, but I never knew anybody tohave one for a side-partner. Does the blame thing know you fromanybody else?"

"Take it over there and see, " said Hayes. 

The stumpy little lizard known as the horned frog is harmless. He hasthe hideousness of the prehistoric monsters whose reduced descendanthe is, but he is gentler than the dove. 

The ranger took Muriel from Hayes's knee and went back to his seaton a roll of blankets. The captive twisted and clawed and struggledvigorously in his hand. After holding it for a moment or two, theranger set it upon the ground. Awkwardly, but swiftly the frog workedits four oddly moving legs until it stopped close by Hayes's foot. 

"Well, dang my hide!" said the other ranger. "The little cuss knowsyou. Never thought them insects had that much sense!"

II

Jimmy Hayes became a favourite in the ranger camp. He had an endlessstore of good-nature, and a mild, perennial quality of humour that iswell adapted to camp life. He was never without his horned frog. Inthe bosom of his shirt during rides, on his knee or shoulder in camp, under his blankets at night, the ugly little beast never left him. 

Jimmy was a humourist of a type that prevails in the rural Southand West. Unskilled in originating methods of amusing or in wittyconceptions, he had hit upon a comical idea and clung to itreverently. It had seemed to Jimmy a very funny thing to have abouthis person, with which to amuse his friends, a tame horned frog with ared ribbon around its neck. As it was a happy idea, why not perpetuateit?

The sentiments existing between Jimmy and the frog cannot be exactlydetermined. The capability of the horned frog for lasting affectionis a subject upon which we have had no symposiums. It is easier toguess Jimmy's feelings. Muriel was his _chef d'oeuvre_ of wit, and assuch he cherished her. He caught flies for her, and shielded her fromsudden northers. Yet his care was half selfish, and when the time cameshe repaid him a thousand fold. Other Muriels have thus overbalancedthe light attentions of other Jimmies. 

Not at once did Jimmy Hayes attain full brotherhood with his comrades. They loved him for his simplicity and drollness, but there hung abovehim a great sword of suspended judgment. To make merry in camp is notall of a ranger's life. There are horse-thieves to trail, desperatecriminals to run down, bravos to battle with, bandits to rout out ofthe chaparral, peace and order to be compelled at the muzzle of asix-shooter. Jimmy had been "'most generally a cow-puncher, " he said;he was inexperienced in ranger methods of warfare. Therefore therangers speculated apart and solemnly as to how he would stand fire. For, let it be known, the honour and pride of each ranger company isthe individual bravery of its members. 

For two months the border was quiet. The rangers lolled, listless, in camp. And then--bringing joy to the rusting guardians of thefrontier--Sebastiano Saldar, an eminent Mexican desperado andcattle-thief, crossed the Rio Grande with his gang and began to laywaste the Texas side. There were indications that Jimmy Hayes wouldsoon have the opportunity to show his mettle. The rangers patrolledwith alacrity, but Saldar's men were mounted like Lochinvar, and werehard to catch. 

One evening, about sundown, the rangers halted for supper after along ride. Their horses stood panting, with their saddles on. Themen were frying bacon and boiling coffee. Suddenly, out of thebrush, Sebastiano Saldar and his gang dashed upon them with blazingsix-shooters and high-voiced yells. It was a neat surprise. Therangers swore in annoyed tones, and got their Winchesters busy; butthe attack was only a spectacular dash of the purest Mexican type. After the florid demonstration the raiders galloped away, yelling, down the river. The rangers mounted and pursued; but in less than twomiles the fagged ponies laboured so that Lieutenant Manning gave theword to abandon the chase and return to the camp. 

Then it was discovered that Jimmy Hayes was missing. Some oneremembered having seen him run for his pony when the attack began, butno one had set eyes on him since. Morning came, but no Jimmy. Theysearched the country around, on the theory that he had been killed orwounded, but without success. Then they followed after Saldar's gang, but it seemed to have disappeared. Manning concluded that the wilyMexican had recrossed the river after his theatric farewell. And, indeed, no further depredations from him were reported. 

This gave the rangers time to nurse a soreness they had. As has beensaid, the pride and honour of the company is the individual bravery ofits members. And now they believed that Jimmy Hayes had turned cowardat the whiz of Mexican bullets. There was no other deduction. BuckDavis pointed out that not a shot was fired by Saldar's gang afterJimmy was seen running for his horse. There was no way for him tohave been shot. No, he had fled from his first fight, and afterwardhe would not return, aware that the scorn of his comrades would be aworse thing to face than the muzzles of many rifles. 

So Manning's detachment of McLean's company, Frontier Battalion, wasgloomy. It was the first blot on its escutcheon. Never before in thehistory of the service had a ranger shown the white feather. All ofthem had liked Jimmy Hayes, and that made it worse. 

Days, weeks, and months went by, and still that little cloud ofunforgotten cowardice hung above the camp. 

III

Nearly a year afterward--after many camping grounds and many hundredsof miles guarded and defended--Lieutenant Manning, with almost thesame detachment of men, was sent to a point only a few miles belowtheir old camp on the river to look after some smuggling there. Oneafternoon, while they were riding through a dense mesquite flat, theycame upon a patch of open hog-wallow prairie. There they rode upon thescene of an unwritten tragedy. 

In a big hog-wallow lay the skeletons of three Mexicans. Theirclothing alone served to identify them. The largest of the figures hadonce been Sebastiano Saldar. His great, costly sombrero, heavy withgold ornamentation--a hat famous all along the Rio Grande--lay therepierced by three bullets. Along the ridge of the hog-wallow restedthe rusting Winchesters of the Mexicans--all pointing in the samedirection. 

The rangers rode in that direction for fifty yards. There, in a littledepression of the ground, with his rifle still bearing upon the three, lay another skeleton. It had been a battle of extermination. There wasnothing to identify the solitary defender. His clothing--such as theelements had left distinguishable--seemed to be of the kind that anyranchman or cowboy might have worn. 

"Some cow-puncher, " said Manning, "that they caught out alone. Goodboy! He put up a dandy scrap before they got him. So that's why wedidn't hear from Don Sebastiano any more!"

And then, from beneath the weather-beaten rags of the dead man, therewriggled out a horned frog with a faded red ribbon around its neck, and sat upon the shoulder of its long quiet master. Mutely it told thestory of the untried youth and the swift "paint" pony--how they hadoutstripped all their comrades that day in the pursuit of the Mexicanraiders, and how the boy had gone down upholding the honour of thecompany. 

The ranger troop herded close, and a simultaneous wild yell arose fromtheir lips. The outburst was at once a dirge, an apology, an epitaph, and a pæan of triumph. A strange requiem, you may say, over the bodyof a fallen, comrade; but if Jimmy Hayes could have heard it he wouldhave understood. 

XII

THE DOOR OF UNREST

I sat an hour by sun, in the editor's room of the Montopolis _WeeklyBugle_. I was the editor. 

The saffron rays of the declining sunlight filtered through thecornstalks in Micajah Widdup's garden-patch, and cast an amber gloryupon my paste-pot. I sat at the editorial desk in my non-rotaryrevolving chair, and prepared my editorial against the oligarchies. The room, with its one window, was already a prey to the twilight. One by one, with my trenchant sentences, I lopped off the heads ofthe political hydra, while I listened, full of kindly peace, to thehome-coming cow-bells and wondered what Mrs. Flanagan was going tohave for supper. 

Then in from the dusky, quiet street there drifted and perched himselfupon a corner of my desk old Father Time's younger brother. Hisface was beardless and as gnarled as an English walnut. I never sawclothes such as he wore. They would have reduced Joseph's coat to amonochrome. But the colours were not the dyer's. Stains and patchesand the work of sun and rust were responsible for the diversity. Onhis coarse shoes was the dust, conceivably, of a thousand leagues. I can describe him no further, except to say that he was little andweird and old--old I began to estimate in centuries when I saw him. Yes, and I remember that there was an odour, a faint odour like aloes, or possibly like myrrh or leather; and I thought of museums. 

And then I reached for a pad and pencil, for business is business, andvisits of the oldest inhabitants are sacred and honourable, requiringto be chronicled. 

"I am glad to see you, sir, " I said. "I would offer you a chair, but--you see, sir, " I went on, "I have lived in Montopolis only threeweeks, and I have not met many of our citizens. " I turned a doubtfuleye upon his dust-stained shoes, and concluded with a newspaperphrase, "I suppose that you reside in our midst?"

My visitor fumbled in his raiment, drew forth a soiled card, andhanded it to me. Upon it was written, in plain but unsteadily formedcharacters, the name "Michob Ader. "

"I am glad you called, Mr. Ader, " I said. "As one of our oldercitizens, you must view with pride the recent growth and enterprise ofMontopolis. Among other improvements, I think I can promise that thetown will now be provided with a live, enterprising newspa--"

"Do ye know the name on that card?" asked my caller, interrupting me. 

"It is not a familiar one to me, " I said. 

Again he visited the depths of his ancient vestments. This time hebrought out a torn leaf of some book or journal, brown and flimsy withage. The heading of the page was the _Turkish Spy_ in old-style type;the printing upon it was this:

"There is a man come to Paris in this year 1643 who pretends to havelived these sixteen hundred years. He says of himself that he was ashoemaker in Jerusalem at the time of the Crucifixion; that his nameis Michob Ader; and that when Jesus, the Christian Messias, wascondemned by Pontius Pilate, the Roman president, he paused to restwhile bearing his cross to the place of crucifixion before the door ofMichob Ader. The shoemaker struck Jesus with his fist, saying: 'Go;why tarriest thou?' The Messias answered him: 'I indeed am going; butthou shalt tarry until I come'; thereby condemning him to live untilthe day of judgment. He lives forever, but at the end of every hundredyears he falls into a fit or trance, on recovering from which he findshimself in the same state of youth in which he was when Jesussuffered, being then about thirty years of age. 

"Such is the story of the Wandering Jew, as told by Michob Ader, whorelates--" Here the printing ended. 

I must have muttered aloud something to myself about the WanderingJew, for the old man spake up, bitterly and loudly. 

"'Tis a lie, " said he, "like nine tenths of what ye call history. 'Tisa Gentile I am, and no Jew. I am after footing it out of Jerusalem, my son; but if that makes me a Jew, then everything that comes out ofa bottle is babies' milk. Ye have my name on the card ye hold; and yehave read the bit of paper they call the _Turkish Spy_ that printedthe news when I stepped into their office on the 12th day of June, inthe year 1643, just as I have called upon ye to-day. "

I laid down my pencil and pad. Clearly it would not do. Here was anitem for the local column of the _Bugle_ that--but it would not do. Still, fragments of the impossible "personal" began to flit throughmy conventionalized brain. "Uncle Michob is as spry on his legs as ayoung chap of only a thousand or so. " "Our venerable caller relateswith pride that George Wash--no, Ptolemy the Great--once dandled himon his knee at his father's house. " "Uncle Michob says that our wetspring was nothing in comparison with the dampness that ruined thecrops around Mount Ararat when he was a boy--" But no, no--it wouldnot do. 

I was trying to think of some conversational subject with which tointerest my visitor, and was hesitating between walking matches andthe Pliocene age, when the old man suddenly began to weep poignantlyand distressfully. 

"Cheer up, Mr. Ader, " I said, a little awkwardly; "this matter mayblow over in a few hundred years more. There has already been adecided reaction in favour of Judas Iscariot and Colonel Burr and thecelebrated violinist, Signor Nero. This is the age of whitewash. Youmust not allow yourself to become down-hearted. "

Unknowingly, I had struck a chord. The old man blinked belligerentlythrough his senile tears. 

"'Tis time, " he said, "that the liars be doin' justice to somebody. Yer historians are no more than a pack of old women gabblin' at awake. A finer man than the Imperor Nero niver wore sandals. Man, I wasat the burnin' of Rome. I knowed the Imperor well, for in them days Iwas a well-known char-acter. In thim days they had rayspect for a manthat lived forever. 

"But 'twas of the Imperor Nero I was goin' to tell ye. I struck intoRome, up the Appian Way, on the night of July the 16th, the year 64. Ihad just stepped down by way of Siberia and Afghanistan; and one footof me had a frost-bite, and the other a blister burned by the sand ofthe desert; and I was feelin' a bit blue from doin' patrol duty fromthe North Pole down to the Last Chance corner in Patagonia, and bein'miscalled a Jew in the bargain. Well, I'm tellin' ye I was passin'the Circus Maximus, and it was dark as pitch over the way, and then Iheard somebody sing out, 'Is that you, Michob?'

"Over ag'inst the wall, hid out amongst a pile of barrels and olddry-goods boxes, was the Imperor Nero wid his togy wrapped around histoes, smokin' a long, black segar. 

"'Have one, Michob?' says he. 

"'None of the weeds for me, ' says I--'nayther pipe nor segar. What'sthe use, ' says I, 'of smokin' when ye've not got the ghost of a chanceof killin' yeself by doin' it?'

"'True for ye, Michob Ader, my perpetual Jew, ' says the Imperor;'ye're not always wandering. Sure, 'tis danger gives the spice of ourpleasures--next to their bein' forbidden. '

"'And for what, ' says I, 'do ye smoke be night in dark places widouteven a cinturion in plain clothes to attend ye?'

"'Have ye ever heard, Michob, ' says the Imperor, 'ofpredestinarianism?'

"'I've had the cousin of it, ' says I. 'I've been on the trot withpedestrianism for many a year, and more to come, as ye well know. '

"'The longer word, ' says me friend Nero, 'is the tachin' of this newsect of people they call the Christians. 'Tis them that's raysponsiblefor me smokin' be night in holes and corners of the dark. '

"And then I sets down and takes off a shoe and rubs me foot that isfrosted, and the Imperor tells me about it. It seems that since Ipassed that way before, the Imperor had mandamused the Impress wida divorce suit, and Misses Poppæa, a cilibrated lady, was ingaged, widout riferences, as housekeeper at the palace. 'All in one day, 'says the Imperor, 'she puts up new lace windy-curtains in the palaceand joins the anti-tobacco society, and whin I feels the need of asmoke I must be after sneakin' out to these piles of lumber in thedark. ' So there in the dark me and the Imperor sat, and I told him ofme travels. And when they say the Imperor was an incindiary, they lie. 'Twas that night the fire started that burnt the city. 'Tis my opinionthat it began from a stump of segar that he threw down among theboxes. And 'tis a lie that he fiddled. He did all he could for sixdays to stop it, sir. "

And now I detected a new flavour to Mr. Michob Ader. It had not beenmyrrh or balm or hyssop that I had smelled. The emanation was theodour of bad whiskey--and, worse still, of low comedy--the sort thatsmall humorists manufacture by clothing the grave and reverend thingsof legend and history in the vulgar, topical frippery that passes fora certain kind of wit. Michob Ader as an impostor, claiming nineteenhundred years, and playing his part with the decency of respectablelunacy, I could endure; but as a tedious wag, cheapening his egregiousstory with song-book levity, his importance as an entertainer grewless. 

And then, as if he suspected my thoughts, he suddenly shifted his key. 

"You'll excuse me, sir, " he whined, "but sometimes I get a littlemixed in my head. I am a very old man; and it is hard to remembereverything. "

I knew that he was right, and that I should not try to reconcile himwith Roman history; so I asked for news concerning other ancients withwhom he had walked familiar. 

Above my desk hung an engraving of Raphael's cherubs. You could yetmake out their forms, though the dust blurred their outlinesstrangely. 

"Ye calls them 'cher-rubs', " cackled the old man. "Babes, yefancy they are, with wings. And there's one wid legs and a bowand arrow that ye call Cupid--I know where they was found. Thegreat-great-great-grandfather of thim all was a billy-goat. Bein' aneditor, sir, do ye happen to know where Solomon s Temple stood?"

I fancied that it was in--in Persia? Well, I did not know. 

"'Tis not in history nor in the Bible where it was. But I saw it, meself. The first pictures of cher-rubs and cupids was sculptured uponthim walls and pillars. Two of the biggest, sir, stood in the adytumto form the baldachin over the Ark. But the wings of thim sculptureswas intindid for horns. And the faces was the faces of goats. Tenthousand goats there was in and about the temple. And your cher-rubswas billy-goats in the days of King Solomon, but the paintersmisconstrued the horns into wings. 

"And I knew Tamerlane, the lame Timour, sir, very well. I saw him atKeghut and at Zaranj. He was a little man no larger than yerself, withhair the colour of an amber pipe stem. They buried him at Samarkand. I was at the wake, sir. Oh, he was a fine-built man in his coffin, six feet long, with black whiskers to his face. And I see 'em throwturnips at the Imperor Vispacian in Africa. All over the world Ihave tramped, sir, without the body of me findin' any rest. 'Twasso commanded. I saw Jerusalem destroyed, and Pompeii go up in thefireworks; and I was at the coronation of Charlemagne and the lynchin'of Joan of Arc. And everywhere I go there comes storms and revolutionsand plagues and fires. 'Twas so commanded. Ye have heard of theWandering Jew. 'Tis all so, except that divil a bit am I a Jew. Buthistory lies, as I have told ye. Are ye quite sure, sir, that yehaven't a drop of whiskey convenient? Ye well know that I have manymiles of walking before me. "

"I have none, " said I, "and, if you please, I am about to leave for mysupper. "

I pushed my chair back creakingly. This ancient landlubber wasbecoming as great an affliction as any cross-bowed mariner. He shook amusty effluvium from his piebald clothes, overturned my inkstand, andwent on with his insufferable nonsense. 

"I wouldn't mind it so much, " he complained, "if it wasn't for thework I must do on Good Fridays. Ye know about Pontius Pilate, sir, ofcourse. His body, whin he killed himself, was pitched into a lake onthe Alps mountains. Now, listen to the job that 'tis mine to performon the night of ivery Good Friday. The ould divil goes down in thepool and drags up Pontius, and the water is bilin' and spewin' like awash pot. And the ould divil sets the body on top of a throne on therocks, and thin comes me share of the job. Oh, sir, ye would pity methin--ye would pray for the poor Wandering Jew that niver was a Jew ifye could see the horror of the thing that I must do. 'Tis I that mustfetch a bowl of water and kneel down before it till it washes itshands. I declare to ye that Pontius Pilate, a man dead two hundredyears, dragged up with the lake slime coverin' him and fisheswrigglin' inside of him widout eyes, and in the discomposition of thebody, sits there, sir, and washes his hands in the bowl I hold for himon Good Fridays. 'Twas so commanded. "

Clearly, the matter had progressed far beyond the scope of the_Bugle's_ local column. There might have been employment here for thealienist or for those who circulate the pledge; but I had had enoughof it. I got up, and repeated that I must go. 

At this he seized my coat, grovelled upon my desk, and burst againinto distressful weeping. Whatever it was about, I said to myself thathis grief was genuine. 

"Come now, Mr. Ader, " I said, soothingly; "what is the matter?"

The answer came brokenly through his racking sobs:

"Because I would not . . . Let the poor Christ . . . Rest . . . Uponthe step. "

His hallucination seemed beyond all reasonable answer; yet the effectof it upon him scarcely merited disrespect. But I knew nothing thatmight assuage it; and I told him once more that both of us should beleaving the office at once. 

Obedient at last, he raised himself from my dishevelled desk, andpermitted me to half lift him to the floor. The gale of his grief hadblown away his words; his freshet of tears had soaked away the crustof his grief. Reminiscence died in him--at least, the coherent part ofit. 

"'Twas me that did it, " he muttered, as I led him toward thedoor--"me, the shoemaker of Jerusalem. "

I got him to the sidewalk, and in the augmented light I saw that hisface was seared and lined and warped by a sadness almost incrediblythe product of a single lifetime. 

And then high up in the firmamental darkness we heard the clamantcries of some great, passing birds. My Wandering Jew lifted his hand, with side-tilted head. 

"The Seven Whistlers!" he said, as one introduces well-known friends. 

"Wild geese, " said I; "but I confess that their number is beyond me. "

"They follow me everywhere, " he said. "'Twas so commanded. What yehear is the souls of the seven Jews that helped with the Crucifixion. Sometimes they're plovers and sometimes geese, but ye'll find themalways flyin' where I go. "

I stood, uncertain how to take my leave. I looked down the street, shuffled my feet, looked back again--and felt my hair rise. The oldman had disappeared. 

And then my capillaries relaxed, for I dimly saw him footing it awaythrough the darkness. But he walked so swiftly and silently andcontrary to the gait promised by his age that my composure was not allrestored, though I knew not why. 

That night I was foolish enough to take down some dust-coveredvolumes from my modest shelves. I searched "Hermippus Redivvus" and"Salathiel" and the "Pepys Collection" in vain. And then in a bookcalled "The Citizen of the World, " and in one two centuries old, Icame upon what I desired. Michob Ader had indeed come to Paris in theyear 1643, and related to the _Turkish Spy_ an extraordinary story. Heclaimed to be the Wandering Jew, and that--

But here I fell asleep, for my editorial duties had not been lightthat day. 

Judge Hoover was the _Bugle's_ candidate for congress. Having toconfer with him, I sought his home early the next morning; and wewalked together down town through a little street with which I wasunfamiliar. 

"Did you ever hear of Michob Ader?" I asked him, smiling. 

"Why, yes, " said the judge. "And that reminds me of my shoes he hasfor mending. Here is his shop now. "

Judge Hoover stepped into a dingy, small shop. I looked up at thesign, and saw "Mike O'Bader, Boot and Shoe Maker, " on it. Some wildgeese passed above, honking clearly. I scratched my ear and frowned, and then trailed into the shop. 

There sat my Wandering Jew on his shoemaker's bench, trimming ahalf-sole. He was drabbled with dew, grass-stained, unkempt, andmiserable; and on his face was still the unexplained wretchedness, theproblematic sorrow, the esoteric woe, that had been written there bynothing less, it seemed, than the stylus of the centuries. 

Judge Hoover inquired kindly concerning his shoes. The old shoemakerlooked up, and spoke sanely enough. He had been ill, he said, for afew days. The next day the shoes would be ready. He looked at me, andI could see that I had no place in his memory. So out we went, and onour way. 

"Old Mike, " remarked the candidate, "has been on one of his sprees. Hegets crazy drunk regularly once a month. But he's a good shoemaker. "

"What is his history?" I inquired. 

"Whiskey, " epitomized Judge Hoover. "That explains him. "

I was silent, but I did not accept the explanation. And so, when I hadthe chance, I asked old man Sellers, who browsed daily on myexchanges. 

"Mike O'Bader, " said he, "was makin' shoes in Montopolis when I comehere goin' on fifteen year ago. I guess whiskey's his trouble. Once amonth he gets off the track, and stays so a week. He's got a rigmarolesomethin' about his bein' a Jew pedler that he tells ev'rybody. Nobody won't listen to him any more. When he's sober he ain't sich afool--he's got a sight of books in the back room of his shop that hereads. I guess you can lay all his trouble to whiskey. "

But again I would not. Not yet was my Wandering Jew rightly construedfor me. I trust that women may not be allowed a title to all thecuriosity in the world. So when Montopolis's oldest inhabitant(some ninety score years younger than Michob Ader) dropped in toacquire promulgation in print, I siphoned his perpetual trickle ofreminiscence in the direction of the uninterpreted maker of shoes. 

Uncle Abner was the Complete History of Montopolis, bound inbutternut. 

"O'Bader, " he quavered, "come here in '69. He was the first shoemakerin the place. Folks generally considers him crazy at times now. Buthe don't harm nobody. I s'pose drinkin' upset his mind--yes, drinkin'very likely done it. It's a powerful bad thing, drinkin'. I'm an old, old man, sir, and I never see no good in drinkin'. "

I felt disappointment. I was willing to admit drink in the case of myshoemaker, but I preferred it as a recourse instead of a cause. Whyhad he pitched upon his perpetual, strange note of the WanderingJew? Why his unutterable grief during his aberration? I could not yetaccept whiskey as an explanation. 

"Did Mike O'Bader ever have a great loss or trouble of any kind?" Iasked. 

"Lemme see! About thirty year ago there was somethin' of the kind, Irecollect. Montopolis, sir, in them days used to be a mighty strictplace. 

"Well, Mike O'Bader had a daughter then--a right pretty girl. She wastoo gay a sort for Montopolis, so one day she slips off to anothertown and runs away with a circus. It was two years before she comesback, all fixed up in fine clothes and rings and jewellery, to seeMike. He wouldn't have nothin' to do with her, so she stays aroundtown awhile, anyway. I reckon the men folks wouldn't have raised noobjections, but the women egged 'em on to order her to leave town. Butshe had plenty of spunk, and told 'em to mind their own business. 

"So one night they decided to run her away. A crowd of men and womendrove her out of her house, and chased her with sticks and stones. Sherun to her father's door, callin' for help. Mike opens it, and when hesees who it is he hits her with his fist and knocks her down and shutsthe door. 

"And then the crowd kept on chunkin' her till she run clear out oftown. And the next day they finds her drowned dead in Hunter's millpond. I mind it all now. That was thirty year ago. "

I leaned back in my non-rotary revolving chair and nodded gently, likea mandarin, at my paste-pot. 

"When old Mike has a spell, " went on Uncle Abner, tepidly garrulous, "he thinks he's the Wanderin' Jew. "

"He is, " said I, nodding away. 

And Uncle Abner cackled insinuatingly at the editor's remark, for hewas expecting at least a "stickful" in the "Personal Notes" of the_Bugle_. 

XIII

THE DUPLICITY OF HARGRAVES

When Major Pendleton Talbot, of Mobile, sir, and his daughter, MissLydia Talbot, came to Washington to reside, they selected for aboarding place a house that stood fifty yards back from one of thequietest avenues. It was an old-fashioned brick building, with aportico upheld by tall white pillars. The yard was shaded by statelylocusts and elms, and a catalpa tree in season rained its pink andwhite blossoms upon the grass. Rows of high box bushes lined the fenceand walks. It was the Southern style and aspect of the place thatpleased the eyes of the Talbots. 

In this pleasant, private boarding house they engaged rooms, includinga study for Major Talbot, who was adding the finishing chapters to hisbook, "Anecdotes and Reminiscences of the Alabama Army, Bench, andBar. "

Major Talbot was of the old, old South. The present day had littleinterest or excellence in his eyes. His mind lived in that periodbefore the Civil War, when the Talbots owned thousands of acres offine cotton land and the slaves to till them; when the family mansionwas the scene of princely hospitality, and drew its guests from thearistocracy of the South. Out of that period he had brought all itsold pride and scruples of honour, an antiquated and punctiliouspoliteness, and (you would think) its wardrobe. 

Such clothes were surely never made within fifty years. The major wastall, but whenever he made that wonderful, archaic genuflexion hecalled a bow, the corners of his frock coat swept the floor. Thatgarment was a surprise even to Washington, which has long ago ceasedto shy at the frocks and broadbrimmed hats of Southern congressmen. One of the boarders christened it a "Father Hubbard, " and it certainlywas high in the waist and full in the skirt. 

But the major, with all his queer clothes, his immense area ofplaited, ravelling shirt bosom, and the little black string tie withthe bow always slipping on one side, both was smiled at and liked inMrs. Vardeman' s select boarding house. Some of the young departmentclerks would often "string him, " as they called it, getting himstarted upon the subject dearest to him--the traditions and history ofhis beloved Southland. During his talks he would quote freely from the"Anecdotes and Reminiscences. " But they were very careful not to lethim see their designs, for in spite of his sixty-eight years, he couldmake the boldest of them uncomfortable under the steady regard of hispiercing gray eyes. 

Miss Lydia was a plump, little old maid of thirty-five, with smoothlydrawn, tightly twisted hair that made her look still older. Oldfashioned, too, she was; but ante-bellum glory did not radiate fromher as it did from the major. She possessed a thrifty common sense;and it was she who handled the finances of the family, and met allcomers when there were bills to pay. The major regarded board billsand wash bills as contemptible nuisances. They kept coming in sopersistently and so often. Why, the major wanted to know, could theynot be filed and paid in a lump sum at some convenient period--saywhen the "Anecdotes and Reminiscences" had been published and paidfor? Miss Lydia would calmly go on with her sewing and say, "We'll payas we go as long as the money lasts, and then perhaps they'll have tolump it. "

Most of Mrs. Vardeman's boarders were away during the day, beingnearly all department clerks and business men; but there was one ofthem who was about the house a great deal from morning to night. Thiswas a young man named Henry Hopkins Hargraves--every one in the houseaddressed him by his full name--who was engaged at one of the popularvaudeville theatres. Vaudeville has risen to such a respectableplane in the last few years, and Mr. Hargraves was such a modest andwell-mannered person, that Mrs. Vardeman could find no objection toenrolling him upon her list of boarders. 

At the theatre Hargraves was known as an all-round dialect comedian, having a large repertoire of German, Irish, Swede, and black-facespecialties. But Mr. Hargraves was ambitious, and often spoke of hisgreat desire to succeed in legitimate comedy. 

This young man appeared to conceive a strong fancy for Major Talbot. Whenever that gentleman would begin his Southern reminiscences, orrepeat some of the liveliest of the anecdotes, Hargraves could alwaysbe found, the most attentive among his listeners. 

For a time the major showed an inclination to discourage the advancesof the "play actor, " as he privately termed him; but soon the youngman's agreeable manner and indubitable appreciation of the oldgentleman's stories completely won him over. 

It was not long before the two were like old chums. The major setapart each afternoon to read to him the manuscript of his book. Duringthe anecdotes Hargraves never failed to laugh at exactly the rightpoint. The major was moved to declare to Miss Lydia one day that youngHargraves possessed remarkable perception and a gratifying respectfor the old regime. And when it came to talking of those old days--ifMajor Talbot liked to talk, Mr. Hargraves was entranced to listen. 

Like almost all old people who talk of the past, the major loved tolinger over details. In describing the splendid, almost royal, daysof the old planters, he would hesitate until he had recalled the nameof the Negro who held his horse, or the exact date of certain minorhappenings, or the number of bales of cotton raised in such a year;but Hargraves never grew impatient or lost interest. On the contrary, he would advance questions on a variety of subjects connected with thelife of that time, and he never failed to extract ready replies. 

The fox hunts, the 'possum suppers, the hoe downs and jubilees inthe Negro quarters, the banquets in the plantation-house hall, wheninvitations went for fifty miles around; the occasional feuds with theneighbouring gentry; the major's duel with Rathbone Culbertson aboutKitty Chalmers, who afterward married a Thwaite of South Carolina;and private yacht races for fabulous sums on Mobile Bay; the quaintbeliefs, improvident habits, and loyal virtues of the old slaves--allthese were subjects that held both the major and Hargraves absorbedfor hours at a time. 

Sometimes, at night, when the young man would be coming upstairs tohis room after his turn at the theatre was over, the major wouldappear at the door of his study and beckon archly to him. Going in, Hargraves would find a little table set with a decanter, sugar bowl, fruit, and a big bunch of fresh green mint. 

"It occurred to me, " the major would begin--he was alwaysceremonious--"that perhaps you might have found your duties at the--atyour place of occupation--sufficiently arduous to enable you, Mr. Hargraves, to appreciate what the poet might well have had in his mindwhen he wrote, 'tired Nature's sweet restorer, '--one of our Southernjuleps. "

It was a fascination to Hargraves to watch him make it. He took rankamong artists when he began, and he never varied the process. Withwhat delicacy he bruised the mint; with what exquisite nicety heestimated the ingredients; with what solicitous care he capped thecompound with the scarlet fruit glowing against the dark green fringe!And then the hospitality and grace with which he offered it, after theselected oat straws had been plunged into its tinkling depths!

After about four months in Washington, Miss Lydia discovered onemorning that they were almost without money. The "Anecdotes andReminiscences" was completed, but publishers had not jumped at thecollected gems of Alabama sense and wit. The rental of a small housewhich they still owned in Mobile was two months in arrears. Theirboard money for the month would be due in three days. Miss Lydiacalled her father to a consultation. 

"No money?" said he with a surprised look. "It is quite annoying to becalled on so frequently for these petty sums. Really, I--"

The major searched his pockets. He found only a two-dollar bill, whichhe returned to his vest pocket. 

"I must attend to this at once, Lydia, " he said. "Kindly get me myumbrella and I will go down town immediately. The congressman from ourdistrict, General Fulghum, assured me some days ago that he would usehis influence to get my book published at an early date. I will go tohis hotel at once and see what arrangement has been made. "

With a sad little smile Miss Lydia watched him button his "FatherHubbard" and depart, pausing at the door, as he always did, to bowprofoundly. 

That evening, at dark, he returned. It seemed that Congressman Fulghumhad seen the publisher who had the major's manuscript for reading. That person had said that if the anecdotes, etc. , were carefullypruned down about one half, in order to eliminate the sectional andclass prejudice with which the book was dyed from end to end, he mightconsider its publication. 

The major was in a white heat of anger, but regained his equanimity, according to his code of manners, as soon as he was in Miss Lydia'spresence. 

"We must have money, " said Miss Lydia, with a little wrinkle above hernose. "Give me the two dollars, and I will telegraph to Uncle Ralphfor some to-night. "

The major drew a small envelope from his upper vest pocket and tossedit on the table. 

"Perhaps it was injudicious, " he said mildly, "but the sum was somerely nominal that I bought tickets to the theatre to-night. It's anew war drama, Lydia. I thought you would be pleased to witness itsfirst production in Washington. I am told that the South has very fairtreatment in the play. I confess I should like to see the performancemyself. "

Miss Lydia threw up her hands in silent despair. 

Still, as the tickets were bought, they might as well be used. So thatevening, as they sat in the theatre listening to the lively overture, even Miss Lydia was minded to relegate their troubles, for the hour, to second place. The major, in spotless linen, with his extraordinarycoat showing only where it was closely buttoned, and his white hairsmoothly roached, looked really fine and distinguished. The curtainwent up on the first act of "A Magnolia Flower, " revealing a typicalSouthern plantation scene. Major Talbot betrayed some interest. 

"Oh, see!" exclaimed Miss Lydia, nudging his arm, and pointing to herprogramme. 

The major put on his glasses and read the line in the cast ofcharacters that her finger indicated. 

 Col. Webster Calhoun . . . . H. Hopkins Hargraves. 

"It's our Mr. Hargraves, " said Miss Lydia. "It must be his firstappearance in what he calls 'the legitimate. ' I'm so glad for him. "

Not until the second act did Col. Webster Calhoun appear upon thestage. When he made his entry Major Talbot gave an audible sniff, glared at him, and seemed to freeze solid. Miss Lydia uttered alittle, ambiguous squeak and crumpled her programme in her hand. ForColonel Calhoun was made up as nearly resembling Major Talbot as onepea does another. The long, thin white hair, curly at the ends, thearistocratic beak of a nose, the crumpled, wide, ravelling shirtfront, the string tie, with the bow nearly under one ear, were almostexactly duplicated. And then, to clinch the imitation, he wore thetwin to the major's supposed to be unparalleled coat. High-collared, baggy, empire-waisted, ample-skirted, hanging a foot lower in frontthan behind, the garment could have been designed from no otherpattern. From then on, the major and Miss Lydia sat bewitched, andsaw the counterfeit presentment of a haughty Talbot "dragged, " asthe major afterward expressed it, "through the slanderous mire of acorrupt stage. "

Mr. Hargraves had used his opportunities well. He had caught themajor's little idiosyncrasies of speech, accent, and intonationand his pompous courtliness to perfection--exaggerating all to thepurposes of the stage. When he performed that marvellous bow that themajor fondly imagined to be the pink of all salutations, the audiencesent forth a sudden round of hearty applause. 

Miss Lydia sat immovable, not daring to glance toward her father. Sometimes her hand next to him would be laid against her cheek, as ifto conceal the smile which, in spite of her disapproval, she could notentirely suppress. 

The culmination of Hargraves's audacious imitation took place in thethird act. The scene is where Colonel Calhoun entertains a few of theneighbouring planters in his "den. "

Standing at a table in the centre of the stage, with his friendsgrouped about him, he delivers that inimitable, rambling, charactermonologue so famous in "A Magnolia Flower, " at the same time that hedeftly makes juleps for the party. 

Major Talbot, sitting quietly, but white with indignation, heardhis best stories retold, his pet theories and hobbies advanced andexpanded, and the dream of the "Anecdotes and Reminiscences" served, exaggerated and garbled. His favourite narrative--that of his duelwith Rathbone Culbertson--was not omitted, and it was delivered withmore fire, egotism, and gusto than the major himself put into it. 

The monologue concluded with a quaint, delicious, witty littlelecture on the art of concocting a julep, illustrated by the act. Here Major Talbot's delicate but showy science was reproduced to ahair's breadth--from his dainty handling of the fragrant weed--"theone-thousandth part of a grain too much pressure, gentlemen, and youextract the bitterness, instead of the aroma, of this heaven-bestowedplant"--to his solicitous selection of the oaten straws. 

At the close of the scene the audience raised a tumultuous roar ofappreciation. The portrayal of the type was so exact, so sure andthorough, that the leading characters in the play were forgotten. After repeated calls, Hargraves came before the curtain and bowed, hisrather boyish face bright and flushed with the knowledge of success. 

At last Miss Lydia turned and looked at the major. His thin nostrilswere working like the gills of a fish. He laid both shaking hands uponthe arms of his chair to rise. 

"We will go, Lydia, " he said chokingly. "This is anabominable--desecration. "

Before he could rise, she pulled him back into his seat. "We willstay it out, " she declared. "Do you want to advertise the copy byexhibiting the original coat?" So they remained to the end. 

Hargraves's success must have kept him up late that night, for neitherat the breakfast nor at the dinner table did he appear. 

About three in the afternoon he tapped at the door of Major Talbot'sstudy. The major opened it, and Hargraves walked in with his handsfull of the morning papers--too full of his triumph to notice anythingunusual in the major's demeanour. 

"I put it all over 'em last night, major, " he began exultantly. "I hadmy inning, and, I think, scored. Here's what the _Post_ says:

 His conception and portrayal of the old-time Southern colonel, with his absurd grandiloquence, his eccentric garb, his quaint idioms and phrases, his moth-eaten pride of family, and his really kind heart, fastidious sense of honour, and lovable simplicity, is the best delineation of a character role on the boards to-day. The coat worn by Colonel Calhoun is itself nothing less than an evolution of genius. Mr. Hargraves has captured his public. 

"How does that sound, major, for a first nighter?"

"I had the honour"--the major's voice sounded ominously frigid--"ofwitnessing your very remarkable performance, sir, last night. "

Hargraves looked disconcerted. 

"You were there? I didn't know you ever--I didn't know you cared forthe theatre. Oh, I say, Major Talbot, " he exclaimed frankly, "don'tyou be offended. I admit I did get a lot of pointers from you thathelped me out wonderfully in the part. But it's a type, you know--notindividual. The way the audience caught on shows that. Half thepatrons of that theatre are Southerners. They recognized it. "

"Mr. Hargraves, " said the major, who had remained standing, "you haveput upon me an unpardonable insult. You have burlesqued my person, grossly betrayed my confidence, and misused my hospitality. If Ithought you possessed the faintest conception of what is the signmanual of a gentleman, or what is due one, I would call you out, sir, old as I am. I will ask you to leave the room, sir. "

The actor appeared to be slightly bewildered, and seemed hardly totake in the full meaning of the old gentleman's words. 

"I am truly sorry you took offence, " he said regretfully. "Up here wedon't look at things just as you people do. I know men who would buyout half the house to have their personality put on the stage so thepublic would recognize it. "

"They are not from Alabama, sir, " said the major haughtily. 

"Perhaps not. I have a pretty good memory, major; let me quote afew lines from your book. In response to a toast at a banquet givenin--Milledgeville, I believe--you uttered, and intend to have printed, these words:

 The Northern man is utterly without sentiment or warmth except in so far as the feelings may be turned to his own commercial profit. He will suffer without resentment any imputation cast upon the honour of himself or his loved ones that does not bear with it the consequence of pecuniary loss. In his charity, he gives with a liberal hand; but it must be heralded with the trumpet and chronicled in brass. 

"Do you think that picture is fairer than the one you saw of ColonelCalhoun last night?"

"The description, " said the major frowning, "is--not without grounds. Some exag--latitude must be allowed in public speaking. "

"And in public acting, " replied Hargraves. 

"That is not the point, " persisted the major, unrelenting. "It was apersonal caricature. I positively decline to overlook it, sir. "

"Major Talbot, " said Hargraves, with a winning smile, "I wish youwould understand me. I want you to know that I never dreamed ofinsulting you. In my profession, all life belongs to me. I take what Iwant, and what I can, and return it over the footlights. Now, if youwill, let's let it go at that. I came in to see you about somethingelse. We've been pretty good friends for some months, and I'm goingto take the risk of offending you again. I know you are hard up formoney--never mind how I found out; a boarding house is no place tokeep such matters secret--and I want you to let me help you out of thepinch. I've been there often enough myself. I've been getting a fairsalary all the season, and I've saved some money. You're welcome to acouple hundred--or even more--until you get--"

"Stop!" commanded the major, with his arm outstretched. "It seems thatmy book didn't lie, after all. You think your money salve will healall the hurts of honour. Under no circumstances would I accept a loanfrom a casual acquaintance; and as to you, sir, I would starve beforeI would consider your insulting offer of a financial adjustment of thecircumstances we have discussed. I beg to repeat my request relativeto your quitting the apartment. "

Hargraves took his departure without another word. He also left thehouse the same day, moving, as Mrs. Vardeman explained at the suppertable, nearer the vicinity of the down-town theatre, where "A MagnoliaFlower" was booked for a week's run. 

Critical was the situation with Major Talbot and Miss Lydia. There wasno one in Washington to whom the major's scruples allowed him to applyfor a loan. Miss Lydia wrote a letter to Uncle Ralph, but it wasdoubtful whether that relative's constricted affairs would permit himto furnish help. The major was forced to make an apologetic address toMrs. Vardeman regarding the delayed payment for board, referring to"delinquent rentals" and "delayed remittances" in a rather confusedstrain. 

Deliverance came from an entirely unexpected source. 

Late one afternoon the door maid came up and announced an old colouredman who wanted to see Major Talbot. The major asked that he be sentup to his study. Soon an old darkey appeared in the doorway, with hishat in hand, bowing, and scraping with one clumsy foot. He was quitedecently dressed in a baggy suit of black. His big, coarse shoes shonewith a metallic lustre suggestive of stove polish. His bushy wool wasgray--almost white. After middle life, it is difficult to estimate theage of a Negro. This one might have seen as many years as had MajorTalbot. 

"I be bound you don't know me, Mars' Pendleton, " were his first words. 

The major rose and came forward at the old, familiar style of address. It was one of the old plantation darkeys without a doubt; but they hadbeen widely scattered, and he could not recall the voice or face. 

"I don't believe I do, " he said kindly--"unless you will assist mymemory. "

"Don't you 'member Cindy's Mose, Mars' Pendleton, what 'migrated'mediately after de war?"

"Wait a moment, " said the major, rubbing his forehead with the tipsof his fingers. He loved to recall everything connected with thosebeloved days. "Cindy's Mose, " he reflected. "You worked among thehorses--breaking the colts. Yes, I remember now. After the surrender, you took the name of--don't prompt me--Mitchell, and went to theWest--to Nebraska. "

"Yassir, yassir, "--the old man's face stretched with a delightedgrin--"dat's him, dat's it. Newbraska. Dat's me--Mose Mitchell. OldUncle Mose Mitchell, dey calls me now. Old mars', your pa, gimme a pahof dem mule colts when I lef' fur to staht me goin' with. You 'memberdem colts, Mars' Pendleton?"

"I don't seem to recall the colts, " said the major. "You know I wasmarried the first year of the war and living at the old Follinsbeeplace. But sit down, sit down, Uncle Mose. I'm glad to see you. I hopeyou have prospered. "

Uncle Mose took a chair and laid his hat carefully on the floor besideit. 

"Yassir; of late I done mouty famous. When I first got to Newbraska, dey folks come all roun' me to see dem mule colts. Dey ain't seeno mules like dem in Newbraska. I sold dem mules for three hundreddollars. Yassir--three hundred. 

"Den I open a blacksmith shop, suh, and made some money and boughtsome lan'. Me and my old 'oman done raised up seb'm chillun, andall doin' well 'cept two of 'em what died. Fo' year ago a railroadcome along and staht a town slam ag'inst my lan', and, suh, Mars'Pendleton, Uncle Mose am worth leb'm thousand dollars in money, property, and lan'. "

"I'm glad to hear it, " said the major heartily. "Glad to hear it. "

"And dat little baby of yo'n, Mars' Pendleton--one what you name MissLyddy--I be bound dat little tad done growed up tell nobody wouldn'tknow her. "

The major stepped to the door and called: "Lydia, dear, will youcome?"

Miss Lydia, looking quite grown up and a little worried, came in fromher room. 

"Dar, now! What'd I tell you? I knowed dat baby done be plum growedup. You don't 'member Uncle Mose, child?"

"This is Aunt Cindy's Mose, Lydia, " explained the major. "He leftSunnymead for the West when you were two years old. "

"Well, " said Miss Lydia, "I can hardly be expected to remember you, Uncle Mose, at that age. And, as you say, I'm 'plum growed up, ' andwas a blessed long time ago. But I'm glad to see you, even if I can'tremember you. "

And she was. And so was the major. Something alive and tangible hadcome to link them with the happy past. The three sat and talked overthe olden times, the major and Uncle Mose correcting or prompting eachother as they reviewed the plantation scenes and days. 

The major inquired what the old man was doing so far from his home. 

"Uncle Mose am a delicate, " he explained, "to de grand Baptis'convention in dis city. I never preached none, but bein' a residin'elder in de church, and able fur to pay my own expenses, dey sent mealong. "

"And how did you know we were in Washington?" inquired Miss Lydia. 

"Dey's a cullud man works in de hotel whar I stops, what comes fromMobile. He told me he seen Mars' Pendleton comin' outen dish herehouse one mawnin'. 

"What I come fur, " continued Uncle Mose, reaching into hispocket--"besides de sight of home folks--was to pay Mars' Pendletonwhat I owes him. "

"Owe me?" said the major, in surprise. 

"Yassir--three hundred dollars. " He handed the major a roll of bills. "When I lef' old mars' says: 'Take dem mule colts, Mose, and, if it beso you gits able, pay fur 'em'. Yassir--dem was his words. De war haddone lef' old mars' po' hisself. Old mars' bein' 'long ago dead, dedebt descends to Mars' Pendleton. Three hundred dollars. Uncle Mose isplenty able to pay now. When dat railroad buy my lan' I laid off topay fur dem mules. Count de money, Mars' Pendleton. Dat's what I solddem mules fur. Yassir. "

Tears were in Major Talbot's eyes. He took Uncle Mose's hand and laidhis other upon his shoulder. 

"Dear, faithful, old servitor, " he said in an unsteady voice, "I don'tmind saying to you that 'Mars' Pendleton' spent his last dollar in theworld a week ago. We will accept this money, Uncle Mose, since, in away, it is a sort of payment, as well as a token of the loyalty anddevotion of the old regime. Lydia, my dear, take the money. You arebetter fitted than I to manage its expenditure. "

"Take it, honey, " said Uncle Mose. "Hit belongs to you. Hit's Talbotmoney. "

After Uncle Mose had gone, Miss Lydia had a good cry--for joy; and themajor turned his face to a corner, and smoked his clay pipevolcanically. 

The succeeding days saw the Talbots restored to peace and ease. MissLydia's face lost its worried look. The major appeared in a new frockcoat, in which he looked like a wax figure personifying the memoryof his golden age. Another publisher who read the manuscript of the"Anecdotes and Reminiscences" thought that, with a little retouchingand toning down of the high lights, he could make a really brightand salable volume of it. Altogether, the situation was comfortable, and not without the touch of hope that is often sweeter than arrivedblessings. 

One day, about a week after their piece of good luck, a maid broughta letter for Miss Lydia to her room. The postmark showed that itwas from New York. Not knowing any one there, Miss Lydia, in a mildflutter of wonder, sat down by her table and opened the letter withher scissors. This was what she read:

 DEAR MISS TALBOT:

 I thought you might be glad to learn of my good fortune. I have received and accepted an offer of two hundred dollars per week by a New York stock company to play Colonel Calhoun in "A Magnolia Flower. "

 There is something else I wanted you to know. I guess you'd better not tell Major Talbot. I was anxious to make him some amends for the great help he was to me in studying the part, and for the bad humour he was in about it. He refused to let me, so I did it anyhow. I could easily spare the three hundred. 

 Sincerely yours, H. HOPKINS HARGRAVES, P. S. How did I play Uncle Mose?

Major Talbot, passing through the hall, saw Miss Lydia's door openand stopped. 

"Any mail for us this morning, Lydia, dear?" he asked. 

Miss Lydia slid the letter beneath a fold of her dress. 

"The _Mobile Chronicle_ came, " she said promptly. "It's on the tablein your study. "

XIV

LET ME FEEL YOUR PULSE

So I went to a doctor. 

"How long has it been since you took any alcohol into your system?" heasked. 

Turning my head sidewise, I answered, "Oh, quite awhile. "

He was a young doctor, somewhere between twenty and forty. He woreheliotrope socks, but he looked like Napoleon. I liked him immensely. 

"Now, " said he, "I am going to show you the effect of alcohol uponyour circulation. " I think it was "circulation" he said; though it mayhave been "advertising. "

He bared my left arm to the elbow, brought out a bottle of whiskey, and gave me a drink. He began to look more like Napoleon. I began tolike him better. 

Then he put a tight compress on my upper arm, stopped my pulse withhis fingers, and squeezed a rubber bulb connected with an apparatus ona stand that looked like a thermometer. The mercury jumped up and downwithout seeming to stop anywhere; but the doctor said it registeredtwo hundred and thirty-seven or one hundred and sixty-five or somesuch number. 

"Now, " said he, "you see what alcohol does to the blood-pressure. "

"It's marvellous, " said I, "but do you think it a sufficient test?Have one on me, and let's try the other arm. " But, no!

Then he grasped my hand. I thought I was doomed and he was sayinggood-bye. But all he wanted to do was to jab a needle into the end ofa finger and compare the red drop with a lot of fifty-cent poker chipsthat he had fastened to a card. 

"It's the hæmoglobin test, " he explained. "The colour of your bloodis wrong. "

"Well, " said I, "I know it should be blue; but this is a country ofmix-ups. Some of my ancestors were cavaliers; but they got thick withsome people on Nantucket Island, so--"

"I mean, " said the doctor, "that the shade of red is too light. "

"Oh, " said I, "it's a case of matching instead of matches. "

The doctor then pounded me severely in the region of the chest. Whenhe did that I don't know whether he reminded me most of Napoleon orBattling or Lord Nelson. Then he looked grave and mentioned a stringof grievances that the flesh is heir to--mostly ending in "itis. " Iimmediately paid him fifteen dollars on account. 

"Is or are it or some or any of them necessarily fatal?" I asked. I thought my connection with the matter justified my manifesting acertain amount of interest. 

"All of them, " he answered cheerfully. "But their progress may bearrested. With care and proper continuous treatment you may live to beeighty-five or ninety. "

I began to think of the doctor's bill. "Eighty-five would besufficient, I am sure, " was my comment. I paid him ten dollars more onaccount. 

"The first thing to do, " he said, with renewed animation, "is to finda sanitarium where you will get a complete rest for a while, and allowyour nerves to get into a better condition. I myself will go with youand select a suitable one. "

So he took me to a mad-house in the Catskills. It was on a baremountain frequented only by infrequent frequenters. You could seenothing but stones and boulders, some patches of snow, and scatteredpine trees. The young physician in charge was most agreeable. He gaveme a stimulant without applying a compress to the arm. It was luncheontime, and we were invited to partake. There were about twenty inmatesat little tables in the dining room. The young physician in chargecame to our table and said: "It is a custom with our guests notto regard themselves as patients, but merely as tired ladies andgentlemen taking a rest. Whatever slight maladies they may have arenever alluded to in conversation. "

My doctor called loudly to a waitress to bring some phosphoglycerateof lime hash, dog-bread, bromo-seltzer pancakes, and nux vomica teafor my repast. Then a sound arose like a sudden wind storm among pinetrees. It was produced by every guest in the room whispering loudly, "Neurasthenia!"--except one man with a nose, whom I distinctly heardsay, "Chronic alcoholism. " I hope to meet him again. The physician incharge turned and walked away. 

An hour or so after luncheon he conducted us to the workshop--sayfifty yards from the house. Thither the guests had been conducted bythe physician in charge's understudy and sponge-holder--a man withfeet and a blue sweater. He was so tall that I was not sure he had aface; but the Armour Packing Company would have been delighted withhis hands. 

"Here, " said the physician in charge, "our guests find relaxationfrom past mental worries by devoting themselves to physicallabour--recreation, in reality. "

There were turning-lathes, carpenters' outfits, clay-modellingtools, spinning-wheels, weaving-frames, treadmills, bass drums, enlarged-crayon-portrait apparatuses, blacksmith forges, andeverything, seemingly, that could interest the paying lunatic guestsof a first-rate sanitarium. 

"The lady making mud pies in the corner, " whispered the physician incharge, "is no other than--Lula Lulington, the authoress of the novelentitled 'Why Love Loves. ' What she is doing now is simply to rest hermind after performing that piece of work. "

I had seen the book. "Why doesn't she do it by writing another oneinstead?" I asked. 

As you see, I wasn't as far gone as they thought I was. 

"The gentleman pouring water through the funnel, " continued thephysician in charge, "is a Wall Street broker broken down fromoverwork. "

I buttoned my coat. 

Others he pointed out were architects playing with Noah's arks, ministers reading Darwin's "Theory of Evolution, " lawyers sawingwood, tired-out society ladies talking Ibsen to the blue-sweateredsponge-holder, a neurotic millionaire lying asleep on the floor, anda prominent artist drawing a little red wagon around the room. 

"You look pretty strong, " said the physician in charge to me. "I thinkthe best mental relaxation for you would be throwing small bouldersover the mountainside and then bringing them up again. "

I was a hundred yards away before my doctor overtook me. 

"What's the matter?" he asked. 

"The matter is, " said I, "that there are no aeroplanes handy. So I amgoing to merrily and hastily jog the foot-pathway to yon station andcatch the first unlimited-soft-coal express back to town. "

"Well, " said the doctor, "perhaps you are right. This seems hardly thesuitable place for you. But what you need is rest--absolute rest andexercise. "

That night I went to a hotel in the city, and said to the clerk: "WhatI need is absolute rest and exercise. Can you give me a room with oneof those tall folding beds in it, and a relay of bellboys to work itup and down while I rest?"

The clerk rubbed a speck off one of his finger nails and glancedsidewise at a tall man in a white hat sitting in the lobby. That mancame over and asked me politely if I had seen the shrubbery at thewest entrance. I had not, so he showed it to me and then looked meover. 

"I thought you had 'em, " he said, not unkindly, "but I guess you'reall right. You'd better go see a doctor, old man. "

A week afterward my doctor tested my blood pressure again without thepreliminary stimulant. He looked to me a little less like Napoleon. And his socks were of a shade of tan that did not appeal to me. 

"What you need, " he decided, "is sea air and companionship. "

"Would a mermaid--" I began; but he slipped on his professionalmanner. 

"I myself, " he said, "will take you to the Hotel Bonair off the coastof Long Island and see that you get in good shape. It is a quiet, comfortable resort where you will soon recuperate. "

The Hotel Bonair proved to be a nine-hundred-room fashionable hostelryon an island off the main shore. Everybody who did not dress fordinner was shoved into a side dining-room and given only a terrapinand champagne table d'hôte. The bay was a great stamping ground forwealthy yachtsmen. The _Corsair_ anchored there the day we arrived. I saw Mr. Morgan standing on deck eating a cheese sandwich and gazinglongingly at the hotel. Still, it was a very inexpensive place. Nobodycould afford to pay their prices. When you went away you simply leftyour baggage, stole a skiff, and beat it for the mainland in thenight. 

When I had been there one day I got a pad of monogrammed telegraphblanks at the clerk's desk and began to wire to all my friends forget-away money. My doctor and I played one game of croquet on the golflinks and went to sleep on the lawn. 

When we got back to town a thought seemed to occur to him suddenly. "By the way, " he asked, "how do you feel?"

"Relieved of very much, " I replied. 

Now a consulting physician is different. He isn't exactly sure whetherhe is to be paid or not, and this uncertainty insures you either themost careful or the most careless attention. My doctor took me tosee a consulting physician. He made a poor guess and gave me carefulattention. I liked him immensely. He put me through some coördinationexercises. 

"Have you a pain in the back of your head?" he asked. I told him I hadnot. 

"Shut your eyes, " he ordered, "put your feet close together, and jumpbackward as far as you can. "

I always was a good backward jumper with my eyes shut, so I obeyed. My head struck the edge of the bathroom door, which had been leftopen and was only three feet away. The doctor was very sorry. He hadoverlooked the fact that the door was open. He closed it. 

"Now touch your nose with your right forefinger, " he said. 

"Where is it?" I asked. 

"On your face, " said he. 

"I mean my right forefinger, " I explained. 

"Oh, excuse me, " said he. He reopened the bathroom door, and I took myfinger out of the crack of it. After I had performed the marvellousdigito-nasal feat I said:

"I do not wish to deceive you as to symptoms, Doctor; Ireally have something like a pain in the back of my head. " Heignored the symptom and examined my heart carefully with alatest-popular-air-penny-in-the-slot ear-trumpet. I felt like aballad. 

"Now, " he said, "gallop like a horse for about five minutes around theroom. "

I gave the best imitation I could of a disqualified Percheron beingled out of Madison Square Garden. Then, without dropping in a penny, he listened to my chest again. 

"No glanders in our family, Doc, " I said. 

The consulting physician held up his forefinger within three inches ofmy nose. "Look at my finger, " he commanded. 

"Did you ever try Pears'--" I began; but he went on with his testrapidly. 

"Now look across the bay. At my finger. Across the bay. At my finger. At my finger. Across the bay. Across the bay. At my finger. Across thebay. " This for about three minutes. 

He explained that this was a test of the action of the brain. Itseemed easy to me. I never once mistook his finger for the bay. I'llbet that if he had used the phrases: "Gaze, as it were, unpreoccupied, outward--or rather laterally--in the direction of the horizon, underlaid, so to speak, with the adjacent fluid inlet, " and "Now, returning--or rather, in a manner, withdrawing your attention, bestowit upon my upraised digit"--I'll bet, I say, that Henry James himselfcould have passed the examination. 

After asking me if I had ever had a grand uncle with curvature of thespine or a cousin with swelled ankles, the two doctors retired to thebathroom and sat on the edge of the bath tub for their consultation. Iate an apple, and gazed first at my finger and then across the bay. 

The doctors came out looking grave. More: they looked tombstones andTennessee-papers-please-copy. They wrote out a diet list to which Iwas to be restricted. It had everything that I had ever heard of toeat on it, except snails. And I never eat a snail unless it overtakesme and bites me first. 

"You must follow this diet strictly, " said the doctors. 

"I'd follow it a mile if I could get one-tenth of what's on it, " Ianswered. 

"Of next importance, " they went on, "is outdoor air and exercise. Andhere is a prescription that will be of great benefit to you. "

Then all of us took something. They took their hats, and I took mydeparture. 

I went to a druggist and showed him the prescription. 

"It will be $2. 87 for an ounce bottle, " he said. 

"Will you give me a piece of your wrapping cord?" said I. 

I made a hole in the prescription, ran the cord through it, tied itaround my neck, and tucked it inside. All of us have a littlesuperstition, and mine runs to a confidence in amulets. 

Of course there was nothing the matter with me, but I was very ill. I couldn't work, sleep, eat, or bowl. The only way I could get anysympathy was to go without shaving for four days. Even then somebodywould say: "Old man, you look as hardy as a pine knot. Been up for ajaunt in the Maine woods, eh?"

Then, suddenly, I remembered that I must have outdoor air andexercise. So I went down South to John's. John is an approximaterelative by verdict of a preacher standing with a little book in hishands in a bower of chrysanthemums while a hundred thousand peoplelooked on. John has a country house seven miles from Pineville. Itis at an altitude and on the Blue Ridge Mountains in a state toodignified to be dragged into this controversy. John is mica, which ismore valuable and clearer than gold. 

He met me at Pineville, and we took the trolley car to his home. Itis a big, neighbourless cottage on a hill surrounded by a hundredmountains. We got off at his little private station, where John'sfamily and Amaryllis met and greeted us. Amaryllis looked at me atrifle anxiously. 

A rabbit came bounding across the hill between us and the house. I threw down my suit-case and pursued it hotfoot. After I had runtwenty yards and seen it disappear, I sat down on the grass and weptdisconsolately. 

"I can't catch a rabbit any more, " I sobbed. "I'm of no further use inthe world. I may as well be dead. "

"Oh, what is it--what is it, Brother John?" I heard Amaryllis say. 

"Nerves a little unstrung, " said John, in his calm way. "Don't worry. Get up, you rabbit-chaser, and come on to the house before thebiscuits get cold. " It was about twilight, and the mountains came upnobly to Miss Murfree's descriptions of them. 

Soon after dinner I announced that I believed I could sleep for a yearor two, including legal holidays. So I was shown to a room as big andcool as a flower garden, where there was a bed as broad as a lawn. Soon afterward the remainder of the household retired, and then therefell upon the land a silence. 

I had not heard a silence before in years. It was absolute. I raisedmyself on my elbow and listened to it. Sleep! I thought that if I onlycould hear a star twinkle or a blade of grass sharpen itself I couldcompose myself to rest. I thought once that I heard a sound likethe sail of a catboat flapping as it veered about in a breeze, butI decided that it was probably only a tack in the carpet. Still Ilistened. 

Suddenly some belated little bird alighted upon the window-sill, and, in what he no doubt considered sleepy tones, enunciated the noisegenerally translated as "cheep!"

I leaped into the air. 

"Hey! what's the matter down there?" called John from his room abovemine. 

"Oh, nothing, " I answered, "except that I accidentally bumped my headagainst the ceiling. "

The next morning I went out on the porch and looked at the mountains. There were forty-seven of them in sight. I shuddered, went into thebig hall sitting room of the house, selected "Pancoast's FamilyPractice of Medicine" from a bookcase, and began to read. John camein, took the book away from me, and led me outside. He has a farm ofthree hundred acres furnished with the usual complement of barns, mules, peasantry, and harrows with three front teeth broken off. I hadseen such things in my childhood, and my heart began to sink. 

Then John spoke of alfalfa, and I brightened at once. "Oh, yes, " saidI, "wasn't she in the chorus of--let's see--"

"Green, you know, " said John, "and tender, and you plow it under afterthe first season. "

"I know, " said I, "and the grass grows over her. "

"Right, " said John. "You know something about farming, after all. "

"I know something of some farmers, " said I, "and a sure scythe willmow them down some day. "

On the way back to the house a beautiful and inexplicable creaturewalked across our path. I stopped irresistibly fascinated, gazingat it. John waited patiently, smoking his cigarette. He is a modernfarmer. After ten minutes he said: "Are you going to stand therelooking at that chicken all day? Breakfast is nearly ready. "

"A chicken?" said I. 

"A White Orpington hen, if you want to particularize. "

"A White Orpington hen?" I repeated, with intense interest. The fowlwalked slowly away with graceful dignity, and I followed like a childafter the Pied Piper. Five minutes more were allowed me by John, andthen he took me by the sleeve and conducted me to breakfast. 

After I had been there a week I began to grow alarmed. I was sleepingand eating well and actually beginning to enjoy life. For a man inmy desperate condition that would never do. So I sneaked down to thetrolley-car station, took the car for Pineville, and went to see oneof the best physicians in town. By this time I knew exactly what to dowhen I needed medical treatment. I hung my hat on the back of a chair, and said rapidly:

"Doctor, I have cirrhosis of the heart, indurated arteries, neurasthenia, neuritis, acute indigestion, and convalescence. I amgoing to live on a strict diet. I shall also take a tepid bath atnight and a cold one in the morning. I shall endeavour to be cheerful, and fix my mind on pleasant subjects. In the way of drugs I intend totake a phosphorous pill three times a day, preferably after meals, anda tonic composed of the tinctures of gentian, cinchona, calisaya, andcardamon compound. Into each teaspoonful of this I shall mix tinctureof nux vomica, beginning with one drop and increasing it a drop eachday until the maximum dose is reached. I shall drop this with amedicine-dropper, which can be procured at a trifling cost at anypharmacy. Good morning. "

I took my hat and walked out. After I had closed the door I rememberedsomething that I had forgotten to say. I opened it again. The doctorhad not moved from where he had been sitting, but he gave a slightlynervous start when he saw me again. 

"I forgot to mention, " said I, "that I shall also take absolute restand exercise. "

After this consultation I felt much better. The reëstablishingin my mind of the fact that I was hopelessly ill gave me so muchsatisfaction that I almost became gloomy again. There is nothing morealarming to a neurasthenic than to feel himself growing well andcheerful. 

John looked after me carefully. After I had evinced so much interestin his White Orpington chicken he tried his best to divert my mind, and was particular to lock his hen house of nights. Gradually thetonic mountain air, the wholesome food, and the daily walks amongthe hills so alleviated my malady that I became utterly wretched anddespondent. I heard of a country doctor who lived in the mountainsnearby. I went to see him and told him the whole story. He was agray-bearded man with clear, blue, wrinkled eyes, in a home-made suitof gray jeans. 

In order to save time I diagnosed my case, touched my nose with myright forefinger, struck myself below the knee to make my foot kick, sounded my chest, stuck out my tongue, and asked him the price ofcemetery lots in Pineville. 

He lit his pipe and looked at me for about three minutes. "Brother, "he said, after a while, "you are in a mighty bad way. There's a chancefor you to pull through, but it's a mighty slim one. "

"What can it be?" I asked eagerly. "I have taken arsenic and gold, phosphorus, exercise, nux vomica, hydrotherapeutic baths, rest, excitement, codein, and aromatic spirits of ammonia. Is there anythingleft in the pharmacopoeia?"

"Somewhere in these mountains, " said the doctor, "there's a plantgrowing--a flowering plant that'll cure you, and it's about the onlything that will. It's of a kind that's as old as the world; but oflate it's powerful scarce and hard to find. You and I will have tohunt it up. I'm not engaged in active practice now: I'm getting alongin years; but I'll take your case. You'll have to come every day inthe afternoon and help me hunt for this plant till we find it. Thecity doctors may know a lot about new scientific things, but theydon't know much about the cures that nature carries around in hersaddlebags. "

So every day the old doctor and I hunted the cure-all plant among themountains and valleys of the Blue Ridge. Together we toiled up steepheights so slippery with fallen autumn leaves that we had to catchevery sapling and branch within our reach to save us from falling. Wewaded through gorges and chasms, breast-deep with laurel and ferns;we followed the banks of mountain streams for miles; we wound our waylike Indians through brakes of pine--road side, hill side, river side, mountain side we explored in our search for the miraculous plant. 

As the old doctor said, it must have grown scarce and hard to find. But we followed our quest. Day by day we plumbed the valleys, scaledthe heights, and tramped the plateaus in search of the miraculousplant. Mountain-bred, he never seemed to tire. I often reached hometoo fatigued to do anything except fall into bed and sleep untilmorning. This we kept up for a month. 

One evening after I had returned from a six-mile tramp with the olddoctor, Amaryllis and I took a little walk under the trees near theroad. We looked at the mountains drawing their royal-purple robesaround them for their night's repose. 

"I'm glad you're well again, " she said. "When you first came youfrightened me. I thought you were really ill. "

"Well again!" I almost shrieked. "Do you know that I have only onechance in a thousand to live?"

Amaryllis looked at me in surprise. "Why, " said she, "you are asstrong as one of the plough-mules, you sleep ten or twelve hours everynight, and you are eating us out of house and home. What more do youwant?"

"I tell you, " said I, "that unless we find the magic--that is, theplant we are looking for--in time, nothing can save me. The doctortells me so. "

"What doctor?"

"Doctor Tatum--the old doctor who lives halfway up Black Oak Mountain. Do you know him?"

"I have known him since I was able to talk. And is that where you goevery day--is it he who takes you on these long walks and climbs thathave brought back your health and strength? God bless the old doctor. "

Just then the old doctor himself drove slowly down the road in hisrickety old buggy. I waved my hand at him and shouted that I wouldbe on hand the next day at the usual time. He stopped his horse andcalled to Amaryllis to come out to him. They talked for five minuteswhile I waited. Then the old doctor drove on. 

When we got to the house Amaryllis lugged out an encyclopædia andsought a word in it. "The doctor said, " she told me, "that you needn'tcall any more as a patient, but he'd be glad to see you any time asa friend. And then he told me to look up my name in the encyclopædiaand tell you what it means. It seems to be the name of a genus offlowering plants, and also the name of a country girl in Theocritusand Virgil. What do you suppose the doctor meant by that?"

"I know what he meant, " said I. "I know now. "

A word to a brother who may have come under the spell of the unquietLady Neurasthenia. 

The formula was true. Even though gropingly at times, the physiciansof the walled cities had put their fingers upon the specificmedicament. 

And so for the exercise one is referred to good Doctor Tatum on BlackOak Mountain--take the road to your right at the Methodist meetinghouse in the pine-grove. 

Absolute rest and exercise!

What rest more remedial than to sit with Amaryllis in the shade, and, with a sixth sense, read the wordless Theocritan idyl of thegold-bannered blue mountains marching orderly into the dormitories ofthe night?

XV

OCTOBER AND JUNE

The Captain gazed gloomily at his sword that hung upon the wall. Inthe closet near by was stored his faded uniform, stained and worn byweather and service. What a long, long time it seemed since those olddays of war's alarms!

And now, veteran that he was of his country's strenuous times, he hadbeen reduced to abject surrender by a woman's soft eyes and smilinglips. As he sat in his quiet room he held in his hand the letter hehad just received from her--the letter that had caused him to wearthat look of gloom. He re-read the fatal paragraph that had destroyedhis hope. 

 In declining the honour you have done me in asking me to be your wife, I feel that I ought to speak frankly. The reason I have for so doing is the great difference between our ages. I like you very, very much, but I am sure that our marriage would not be a happy one. I am sorry to have to refer to this, but I believe that you will appreciate my honesty in giving you the true reason. 

The Captain sighed, and leaned his head upon his hand. Yes, there weremany years between their ages. But he was strong and rugged, he hadposition and wealth. Would not his love, his tender care, and theadvantages he could bestow upon her make her forget the question ofage? Besides, he was almost sure that she cared for him. 

The Captain was a man of prompt action. In the field he had beendistinguished for his decisiveness and energy. He would see her andplead his cause again in person. Age!--what was it to come between himand the one he loved?

In two hours he stood ready, in light marching order, for his greatestbattle. He took the train for the old Southern town in Tennessee whereshe lived. 

Theodora Deming was on the steps of the handsome, porticoed oldmansion, enjoying the summer twilight, when the Captain entered thegate and came up the gravelled walk. She met him with a smile that wasfree from embarrassment. As the Captain stood on the step below her, the difference in their ages did not appear so great. He was tall andstraight and clear-eyed and browned. She was in the bloom of lovelywomanhood. 

"I wasn't expecting you, " said Theodora; "but now that you've come youmay sit on the step. Didn't you get my letter?"

"I did, " said the Captain; "and that's why I came. I say, now, Theo, reconsider your answer, won't you?"

Theodora smiled softly upon him. He carried his years well. She was really fond of his strength, his wholesome looks, hismanliness--perhaps, if--

"No, no, " she said, shaking her head, positively; "it's out of thequestion. I like you a whole lot, but marrying won't do. My age andyours are--but don't make me say it again--I told you in my letter. "

The Captain flushed a little through the bronze on his face. He wassilent for a while, gazing sadly into the twilight. Beyond a line ofwoods that he could see was a field where the boys in blue had oncebivouacked on their march toward the sea. How long ago it seemed now!Truly, Fate and Father Time had tricked him sorely. Just a few yearsinterposed between himself and happiness!

Theodora's hand crept down and rested in the clasp of his firm, brownone. She felt, at least, that sentiment that is akin to love. 

"Don't take it so hard, please, " she said, gently. "It's all for thebest. I've reasoned it out very wisely all by myself. Some day you'llbe glad I didn't marry you. It would be very nice and lovely for awhile--but, just think! In only a few short years what differenttastes we would have! One of us would want to sit by the fireside andread, and maybe nurse neuralgia or rheumatism of evenings, while theother would be crazy for balls and theatres and late suppers. No, mydear friend. While it isn't exactly January and May, it's a clear caseof October and pretty early in June. "

"I'd always do what you wanted me to do, Theo. If you wanted to--"

"No, you wouldn't. You think now that you would, but you wouldn't. Please don't ask me any more. "

The Captain had lost his battle. But he was a gallant warrior, andwhen he rose to make his final adieu his mouth was grimly set and hisshoulders were squared. 

He took the train for the North that night. On the next evening he wasback in his room, where his sword was hanging against the wall. He wasdressing for dinner, tying his white tie into a very careful bow. Andat the same time he was indulging in a pensive soliloquy. 

"'Pon my honour, I believe Theo was right, after all. Nobody can denythat she's a peach, but she must be twenty-eight, at the very kindestcalculation. "

For you see, the Captain was only nineteen, and his sword had neverbeen drawn except on the parade ground at Chattanooga, which was asnear as he ever got to the Spanish-American War. 

XVI

THE CHURCH WITH AN OVERSHOT-WHEEL

Lakelands is not to be found in the catalogues of fashionable summerresorts. It lies on a low spur of the Cumberland range of mountainson a little tributary of the Clinch River. Lakelands proper isa contented village of two dozen houses situated on a forlorn, narrow-gauge railroad line. You wonder whether the railroad lostitself in the pine woods and ran into Lakelands from fright andloneliness, or whether Lakelands got lost and huddled itself alongthe railroad to wait for the cars to carry it home. 

You wonder again why it was named Lakelands. There are no lakes, andthe lands about are too poor to be worth mentioning. 

Half a mile from the village stands the Eagle House, a big, roomyold mansion run by Josiah Rankin for the accommodation of visitorswho desire the mountain air at inexpensive rates. The Eagle Houseis delightfully mismanaged. It is full of ancient instead of modernimprovements, and it is altogether as comfortably neglected andpleasingly disarranged as your own home. But you are furnished withclean rooms and good and abundant fare: yourself and the piny woodsmust do the rest. Nature has provided a mineral spring, grape-vineswings, and croquet--even the wickets are wooden. You have Art tothank only for the fiddle-and-guitar music twice a week at the hop inthe rustic pavilion. 

The patrons of the Eagle House are those who seek recreation as anecessity, as well as a pleasure. They are busy people, who may belikened to clocks that need a fortnight's winding to insure a year'srunning of their wheels. You will find students there from the lowertowns, now and then an artist, or a geologist absorbed in construingthe ancient strata of the hills. A few quiet families spend thesummers there; and often one or two tired members of that patientsisterhood known to Lakelands as "schoolmarms. "

A quarter of a mile from the Eagle House was what would have beendescribed to its guests as "an object of interest" in the catalogue, had the Eagle House issued a catalogue. This was an old, old mill thatwas no longer a mill. In the words of Josiah Rankin, it was "the onlychurch in the United States, sah, with an overshot-wheel; and the onlymill in the world, sah, with pews and a pipe organ. " The guests ofthe Eagle House attended the old mill church each Sabbath, and heardthe preacher liken the purified Christian to bolted flour ground tousefulness between the millstones of experience and suffering. 

Every year about the beginning of autumn there came to the Eagle Houseone Abram Strong, who remained for a time an honoured and belovedguest. In Lakelands he was called "Father Abram, " because his hair wasso white, his face so strong and kind and florid, his laugh so merry, and his black clothes and broad hat so priestly in appearance. Evennew guests after three or four days' acquaintance gave him thisfamiliar title. 

Father Abram came a long way to Lakelands. He lived in a big, roaringtown in the Northwest where he owned mills, not little mills with pewsand an organ in them, but great, ugly, mountain-like mills that thefreight trains crawled around all day like ants around an ant-heap. And now you must be told about Father Abram and the mill that was achurch, for their stories run together. 

In the days when the church was a mill, Mr. Strong was the miller. There was no jollier, dustier, busier, happier miller in all the landthan he. He lived in a little cottage across the road from the mill. His hand was heavy, but his toll was light, and the mountaineersbrought their grain to him across many weary miles of rocky roads. 

The delight of the miller's life was his little daughter, Aglaia. That was a brave name, truly, for a flaxen-haired toddler; butthe mountaineers love sonorous and stately names. The mother hadencountered it somewhere in a book, and the deed was done. In herbabyhood Aglaia herself repudiated the name, as far as common usewent, and persisted in calling herself "Dums. " The miller and his wifeoften tried to coax from Aglaia the source of this mysterious name, but without results. At last they arrived at a theory. In the littlegarden behind the cottage was a bed of rhododendrons in which thechild took a peculiar delight and interest. It may have been that sheperceived in "Dums" a kinship to the formidable name of her favouriteflowers. 

When Aglaia was four years old she and her father used to go througha little performance in the mill every afternoon, that never failedto come off, the weather permitting. When supper was ready her motherwould brush her hair and put on a clean apron and send her across tothe mill to bring her father home. When the miller saw her coming inthe mill door he would come forward, all white with the flour dust, and wave his hand and sing an old miller's song that was familiar inthose parts and ran something like this:

 "The wheel goes round, The grist is ground, The dusty miller's merry. He sings all day, His work is play, While thinking of his dearie. "

Then Aglaia would run to him laughing, and call:

"Da-da, come take Dums home;" and the miller would swing her to hisshoulder and march over to supper, singing the miller's song. Everyevening this would take place. 

One day, only a week after her fourth birthday, Aglaia disappeared. When last seen she was plucking wild flowers by the side of the roadin front of the cottage. A little while later her mother went out tosee that she did not stray too far away, and she was already gone. 

Of course every effort was made to find her. The neighbours gatheredand searched the woods and the mountains for miles around. Theydragged every foot of the mill race and the creek for a long distancebelow the dam. Never a trace of her did they find. A night or twobefore there had been a family of wanderers camped in a grove near by. It was conjectured that they might have stolen the child; but whentheir wagon was overtaken and searched she could not be found. 

The miller remained at the mill for nearly two years; and then hishope of finding her died out. He and his wife moved to the Northwest. In a few years he was the owner of a modern mill in one of theimportant milling cities in that region. Mrs. Strong never recoveredfrom the shock caused by the loss of Aglaia, and two years after theymoved away the miller was left to bear his sorrow alone. 

When Abram Strong became prosperous he paid a visit to Lakelands andthe old mill. The scene was a sad one for him, but he was a strongman, and always appeared cheery and kindly. It was then that he wasinspired to convert the old mill into a church. Lakelands was toopoor to build one; and the still poorer mountaineers could not assist. There was no place of worship nearer than twenty miles. 

The miller altered the appearance of the mill as little as possible. The big overshot-wheel was left in its place. The young people whocame to the church used to cut their initials in its soft and slowlydecaying wood. The dam was partly destroyed, and the clear mountainstream rippled unchecked down its rocky bed. Inside the mill thechanges were greater. The shafts and millstones and belts and pulleyswere, of course, all removed. There were two rows of benches withaisles between, and a little raised platform and pulpit at one end. On three sides overhead was a gallery containing seats, and reachedby a stairway inside. There was also an organ--a real pipe organ--inthe gallery, that was the pride of the congregation of the Old MillChurch. Miss Phoebe Summers was the organist. The Lakelands boysproudly took turns at pumping it for her at each Sunday's service. The Rev. Mr. Banbridge was the preacher, and rode down from SquirrelGap on his old white horse without ever missing a service. And AbramStrong paid for everything. He paid the preacher five hundred dollarsa year; and Miss Phoebe two hundred dollars. 

Thus, in memory of Aglaia, the old mill was converted into a blessingfor the community in which she had once lived. It seemed that thebrief life of the child had brought about more good than the threescore years and ten of many. But Abram Strong set up yet anothermonument to her memory. 

Out from his mills in the Northwest came the "Aglaia" flour, made fromthe hardest and finest wheat that could be raised. The country soonfound out that the "Aglaia" flour had two prices. One was the highestmarket price, and the other was--nothing. 

Wherever there happened a calamity that left people destitute--a fire, a flood, a tornado, a strike, or a famine, there would go hurrying agenerous consignment of the "Aglaia" at its "nothing" price. It wasgiven away cautiously and judiciously, but it was freely given, andnot a penny could the hungry ones pay for it. There got to be a sayingthat whenever there was a disastrous fire in the poor districts of acity the fire chief's buggy reached the scene first, next the "Aglaia"flour wagon, and then the fire engines. 

So this was Abram Strong's other monument to Aglaia. Perhaps to a poetthe theme may seem too utilitarian for beauty; but to some the fancywill seem sweet and fine that the pure, white, virgin flour, flying onits mission of love and charity, might be likened to the spirit of thelost child whose memory it signalized. 

There came a year that brought hard times to the Cumberlands. Graincrops everywhere were light, and there were no local crops at all. Mountain floods had done much damage to property. Even game in thewoods was so scarce that the hunters brought hardly enough home tokeep their folk alive. Especially about Lakelands was the rigour felt. 

As soon as Abram Strong heard of this his messages flew; and thelittle narrow-gauge cars began to unload "Aglaia" flour there. Themiller's orders were to store the flour in the gallery of the Old MillChurch; and that every one who attended the church was to carry home asack of it. 

Two weeks after that Abram Strong came for his yearly visit to theEagle House, and became "Father Abram" again. 

That season the Eagle House had fewer guests than usual. Among themwas Rose Chester. Miss Chester came to Lakelands from Atlanta, whereshe worked in a department store. This was the first vacation outingof her life. The wife of the store manager had once spent a summer atthe Eagle House. She had taken a fancy to Rose, and had persuaded herto go there for her three weeks' holiday. The manager's wife gave hera letter to Mrs. Rankin, who gladly received her in her own charge andcare. 

Miss Chester was not very strong. She was about twenty, and pale anddelicate from an indoor life. But one week of Lakelands gave her abrightness and spirit that changed her wonderfully. The time was earlySeptember when the Cumberlands are at their greatest beauty. Themountain foliage was growing brilliant with autumnal colours; onebreathed aerial champagne, the nights were deliciously cool, causingone to snuggle cosily under the warm blankets of the Eagle House. 

Father Abram and Miss Chester became great friends. The old millerlearned her story from Mrs. Rankin, and his interest went out quicklyto the slender lonely girl who was making her own way in the world. 

The mountain country was new to Miss Chester. She had lived many yearsin the warm, flat town of Atlanta; and the grandeur and variety of theCumberlands delighted her. She was determined to enjoy every moment ofher stay. Her little hoard of savings had been estimated so carefullyin connection with her expenses that she knew almost to a penny whather very small surplus would be when she returned to work. 

Miss Chester was fortunate in gaining Father Abram for a friend andcompanion. He knew every road and peak and slope of the mountains nearLakelands. Through him she became acquainted with the solemn delightof the shadowy, tilted aisles of the pine forests, the dignity of thebare crags, the crystal, tonic mornings, the dreamy, golden afternoonsfull of mysterious sadness. So her health improved, and her spiritsgrew light. She had a laugh as genial and hearty in its feminineway as the famous laugh of Father Abram. Both of them were naturaloptimists; and both knew how to present a serene and cheerful face tothe world. 

One day Miss Chester learned from one of the guests the history ofFather Abram's lost child. Quickly she hurried away and found themiller seated on his favourite rustic bench near the chalybeatespring. He was surprised when his little friend slipped her hand intohis, and looked at him with tears in her eyes. 

"Oh, Father Abram, " she said, "I'm so sorry! I didn't know untilto-day about your little daughter. You will find her yet some day--Oh, I hope you will. "

The miller looked down at her with his strong, ready smile. 

"Thank you, Miss Rose, " he said, in his usual cheery tones. "But I donot expect to find Aglaia. For a few years I hoped that she had beenstolen by vagrants, and that she still lived; but I have lost thathope. I believe that she was drowned. "

"I can understand, " said Miss Chester, "how the doubt must have madeit so hard to bear. And yet you are so cheerful and so ready to makeother people's burdens light. Good Father Abram!"

"Good Miss Rose!" mimicked the miller, smiling. "Who thinks of othersmore than you do?"

A whimsical mood seemed to strike Miss Chester. 

"Oh, Father Abram, " she cried, "wouldn't it be grand if I should proveto be your daughter? Wouldn't it be romantic? And wouldn't you like tohave me for a daughter?"

"Indeed, I would, " said the miller, heartily. "If Aglaia had lived Icould wish for nothing better than for her to have grown up to be justsuch a little woman as you are. Maybe you are Aglaia, " he continued, falling in with her playful mood; "can't you remember when we lived atthe mill?"

Miss Chester fell swiftly into serious meditation. Her large eyes werefixed vaguely upon something in the distance. Father Abram was amusedat her quick return to seriousness. She sat thus for a long timebefore she spoke. 

"No, " she said at length, with a long sigh, "I can't remember anythingat all about a mill. I don't think that I ever saw a flour mill in mylife until I saw your funny little church. And if I were your littlegirl I would remember it, wouldn't I? I'm so sorry, Father Abram. "

"So am I, " said Father Abram, humouring her. "But if you cannotremember that you are my little girl, Miss Rose, surely you canrecollect being some one else's. You remember your own parents, ofcourse. "

"Oh, yes; I remember them very well--especially my father. He wasn't abit like you, Father Abram. Oh, I was only making believe: Come, now, you've rested long enough. You promised to show me the pool where youcan see the trout playing, this afternoon. I never saw a trout. "

Late one afternoon Father Abram set out for the old mill alone. Heoften went to sit and think of the old days when he lived in thecottage across the road. Time had smoothed away the sharpness of hisgrief until he no longer found the memory of those times painful. Butwhenever Abram Strong sat in the melancholy September afternoons onthe spot where "Dums" used to run in every day with her yellow curlsflying, the smile that Lakelands always saw upon his face was notthere. 

The miller made his way slowly up the winding, steep road. The treescrowded so close to the edge of it that he walked in their shade, withhis hat in his hand. Squirrels ran playfully upon the old rail fenceat his right. Quails were calling to their young broods in the wheatstubble. The low sun sent a torrent of pale gold up the ravine thatopened to the west. Early September!--it was within a few days only ofthe anniversary of Aglaia's disappearance. 

The old overshot-wheel, half covered with mountain ivy, caught patchesof the warm sunlight filtering through the trees. The cottage acrossthe road was still standing, but it would doubtless go down before thenext winter's mountain blasts. It was overrun with morning glory andwild gourd vines, and the door hung by one hinge. 

Father Abram pushed open the mill door, and entered softly. And thenhe stood still, wondering. He heard the sound of some one within, weeping inconsolably. He looked, and saw Miss Chester sitting in a dimpew, with her head bowed upon an open letter that her hands held. 

Father Abram went to her, and laid one of his strong hands firmly uponhers. She looked up, breathed his name, and tried to speak further. 

"Not yet, Miss Rose, " said the miller, kindly. "Don't try to talk yet. There's nothing as good for you as a nice, quiet little cry when youare feeling blue. "

It seemed that the old miller, who had known so much sorrow himself, was a magician in driving it away from others. Miss Chester's sobsgrew easier. Presently she took her little plain-bordered handkerchiefand wiped away a drop or two that had fallen from her eyes upon FatherAbram's big hand. Then she looked up and smiled through her tears. Miss Chester could always smile before her tears had dried, just asFather Abram could smile through his own grief. In that way the twowere very much alike. 

The miller asked her no questions; but by and by Miss Chester began totell him. 

It was the old story that always seems so big and important to theyoung, and that brings reminiscent smiles to their elders. Love wasthe theme, as may be supposed. There was a young man in Atlanta, fullof all goodness and the graces, who had discovered that Miss Chesteralso possessed these qualities above all other people in Atlanta oranywhere else from Greenland to Patagonia. She showed Father Abram theletter over which she had been weeping. It was a manly, tender letter, a little superlative and urgent, after the style of love letterswritten by young men full of goodness and the graces. He proposed forMiss Chester's hand in marriage at once. Life, he said, since herdeparture for a three-weeks' visit, was not to be endured. He beggedfor an immediate answer; and if it were favourable he promised to fly, ignoring the narrow-gauge railroad, at once to Lakelands. 

"And now where does the trouble come in?" asked the miller when he hadread the letter. 

"I cannot marry him, " said Miss Chester. 

"Do you want to marry him?" asked Father Abram. 

"Oh, I love him, " she answered, "but--" Down went her head and shesobbed again. 

"Come, Miss Rose, " said the miller; "you can give me your confidence. I do not question you, but I think you can trust me. "

"I do trust you, " said the girl. "I will tell you why I must refuseRalph. I am nobody; I haven't even a name; the name I call myself isa lie. Ralph is a noble man. I love him with all my heart, but I cannever be his. "

"What talk is this?" said Father Abram. "You said that you rememberyour parents. Why do you say you have no name? I do not understand. "

"I do remember them, " said Miss Chester. "I remember them too well. My first recollections are of our life somewhere in the far South. Wemoved many times to different towns and states. I have picked cotton, and worked in factories, and have often gone without enough food andclothes. My mother was sometimes good to me; my father was alwayscruel, and beat me. I think they were both idle and unsettled. 

"One night when we were living in a little town on a river nearAtlanta they had a great quarrel. It was while they were abusing andtaunting each other that I learned--oh, Father Abram, I learned that Ididn't even have the right to be--don't you understand? I had no righteven to a name; I was nobody. 

"I ran away that night. I walked to Atlanta and found work. I gavemyself the name of Rose Chester, and have earned my own living eversince. Now you know why I cannot marry Ralph--and, oh, I can nevertell him why. "

Better than any sympathy, more helpful than pity, was Father Abram'sdepreciation of her woes. 

"Why, dear, dear! is that all?" he said. "Fie, fie! I thoughtsomething was in the way. If this perfect young man is a man at all hewill not care a pinch of bran for your family tree. Dear Miss Rose, take my word for it, it is yourself he cares for. Tell him frankly, just as you have told me, and I'll warrant that he will laugh at yourstory, and think all the more of you for it. "

"I shall never tell him, " said Miss Chester, sadly. "And I shall nevermarry him nor any one else. I have not the right. "

But they saw a long shadow come bobbing up the sunlit road. And thencame a shorter one bobbing by its side; and presently two strangefigures approached the church. The long shadow was made by Miss PhoebeSummers, the organist, come to practise. Tommy Teague, aged twelve, was responsible for the shorter shadow. It was Tommy's day to pump theorgan for Miss Phoebe, and his bare toes proudly spurned the dust ofthe road. 

Miss Phoebe, in her lilac-spray chintz dress, with her accurate littlecurls hanging over each ear, courtesied low to Father Abram, and shookher curls ceremoniously at Miss Chester. Then she and her assistantclimbed the steep stairway to the organ loft. 

In the gathering shadows below, Father Abram and Miss Chesterlingered. They were silent; and it is likely that they were busy withtheir memories. Miss Chester sat, leaning her head on her hand, withher eyes fixed far away. Father Abram stood in the next pew, lookingthoughtfully out of the door at the road and the ruined cottage. 

Suddenly the scene was transformed for him back almost a score ofyears into the past. For, as Tommy pumped away, Miss Phoebe strucka low bass note on the organ and held it to test the volume of airthat it contained. The church ceased to exist, so far as Father Abramwas concerned. The deep, booming vibration that shook the littleframe building was no note from an organ, but the humming of the millmachinery. He felt sure that the old overshot-wheel was turning; thathe was back again, a dusty, merry miller in the old mountain mill. Andnow evening was come, and soon would come Aglaia with flying colours, toddling across the road to take him home to supper. Father Abram'seyes were fixed upon the broken door of the cottage. 

And then came another wonder. In the gallery overhead the sacks offlour were stacked in long rows. Perhaps a mouse had been at one ofthem; anyway the jar of the deep organ note shook down between thecracks of the gallery floor a stream of flour, covering Father Abramfrom head to foot with the white dust. And then the old miller steppedinto the aisle, and waved his arms and began to sing the miller'ssong:

 "The wheel goes round, The grist is ground, The dusty miller's merry. "

--and then the rest of the miracle happened. Miss Chester was leaningforward from her pew, as pale as the flour itself, her wide-open eyesstaring at Father Abram like one in a waking dream. When he began thesong she stretched out her arms to him; her lips moved; she called tohim in dreamy tones: "Da-da, come take Dums home!"

Miss Phoebe released the low key of the organ. But her work had beenwell done. The note that she struck had beaten down the doors of aclosed memory; and Father Abram held his lost Aglaia close in hisarms. 

When you visit Lakelands they will tell you more of this story. Theywill tell you how the lines of it were afterward traced, and thehistory of the miller's daughter revealed after the gipsy wanderershad stolen her on that September day, attracted by her childishbeauty. But you should wait until you sit comfortably on the shadedporch of the Eagle House, and then you can have the story at yourease. It seems best that our part of it should close while MissPhoebe's deep bass note was yet reverberating softly. 

And yet, to my mind, the finest thing of it all happened while FatherAbram and his daughter were walking back to the Eagle House in thelong twilight, almost too glad to speak. 

"Father, " she said, somewhat timidly and doubtfully, "have you a greatdeal of money?"

"A great deal?" said the miller. "Well, that depends. There is plentyunless you want to buy the moon or something equally expensive. "

"Would it cost very, very much, " asked Aglaia, who had always countedher dimes so carefully, "to send a telegram to Atlanta?"

"Ah, " said Father Abram, with a little sigh, "I see. You want to askRalph to come. "

Aglaia looked up at him with a tender smile. 

"I want to ask him to wait, " she said. "I have just found my father, and I want it to be just we two for a while. I want to tell him hewill have to wait. "

XVII

NEW YORK BY CAMP FIRE LIGHT

Away out in the Creek Nation we learned things about New York. 

We were on a hunting trip, and were camped one night on the bank of alittle stream. Bud Kingsbury was our skilled hunter and guide, and itwas from his lips that we had explanations of Manhattan and the queerfolks that inhabit it. Bud had once spent a month in the metropolis, and a week or two at other times, and he was pleased to discourse tous of what he had seen. 

Fifty yards away from our camp was pitched the teepee of a wanderingfamily of Indians that had come up and settled there for the night. Anold, old Indian woman was trying to build a fire under an iron pothung upon three sticks. 

Bud went over to her assistance, and soon had her fire going. When hecame back we complimented him playfully upon his gallantry. 

"Oh, " said Bud, "don't mention it. It's a way I have. Whenever I see alady trying to cook things in a pot and having trouble I always go tothe rescue. I done the same thing once in a high-toned house in. NewYork City. Heap big society teepee on Fifth Avenue. That Injun ladykind of recalled it to my mind. Yes, I endeavours to be polite andhelp the ladies out. "

The camp demanded the particulars. 

"I was manager of the Triangle B Ranch in the Panhandle, " said Bud. "It was owned at that time by old man Sterling, of New York. He wantedto sell out, and he wrote for me to come on to New York and explainthe ranch to the syndicate that wanted to buy. So I sends to FortWorth and has a forty dollar suit of clothes made, and hits the trailfor the big village. 

"Well, when I got there, old man Sterling and his outfit certainlylaid themselves out to be agreeable. We had business and pleasure somixed up that you couldn't tell whether it was a treat or a trade halfthe time. We had trolley rides, and cigars, and theatre round-ups, andrubber parties. "

"Rubber parties?" said a listener, inquiringly. 

"Sure, " said Bud. "Didn't you never attend 'em? You walk around andtry to look at the tops of the skyscrapers. Well, we sold the ranch, and old man Sterling asks me 'round to his house to take grub on thenight before I started back. It wasn't any high-collared affair--justme and the old man and his wife and daughter. But they was afine-haired outfit all right, and the lilies of the field wasn't init. They made my Fort Worth clothes carpenter look like a dealer inhorse blankets and gee strings. And then the table was all pompouswith flowers, and there was a whole kit of tools laid out besideeverybody's plate. You'd have thought you was fixed out to burglarizea restaurant before you could get your grub. But I'd been in New Yorkover a week then, and I was getting on to stylish ways. I kind oftrailed behind and watched the others use the hardware supplies, andthen I tackled the chuck with the same weapons. It ain't much troubleto travel with the high-flyers after you find out their gait. I gotalong fine. I was feeling cool and agreeable, and pretty soon I wastalking away fluent as you please, all about the ranch and the West, and telling 'em how the Indians eat grasshopper stew and snakes, andyou never saw people so interested. 

"But the real joy of that feast was that Miss Sterling. Just a littletrick she was, not bigger than two bits' worth of chewing plug; butshe had a way about her that seemed to say she was the people, and youbelieved it. And yet, she never put on any airs, and she smiled at methe same as if I was a millionaire while I was telling about a Creekdog feast and listened like it was news from home. 

"By and by, after we had eat oysters and some watery soup and truckthat never was in my repertory, a Methodist preacher brings in a kindof camp stove arrangement, all silver, on long legs, with a lamp underit. 

"Miss Sterling lights up and begins to do some cooking right on thesupper table. I wondered why old man Sterling didn't hire a cook, withall the money he had. Pretty soon she dished out some cheesy tastingtruck that she said was rabbit, but I swear there had never been aMolly cotton tail in a mile of it. 

"The last thing on the programme was lemonade. It was brought aroundin little flat glass bowls and set by your plate. I was prettythirsty, and I picked up mine and took a big swig of it. Right therewas where the little lady had made a mistake. She had put in the lemonall right, but she'd forgot the sugar. The best housekeepers slip upsometimes. I thought maybe Miss Sterling was just learning to keephouse and cook--that rabbit would surely make you think so--and I saysto myself, 'Little lady, sugar or no sugar I'll stand by you, ' and Iraises up my bowl again and drinks the last drop of the lemonade. Andthen all the balance of 'em picks up their bowls and does the same. And then I gives Miss Sterling the laugh proper, just to carry it offlike a joke, so she wouldn't feel bad about the mistake. 

"After we all went into the sitting room she sat down and talked to mequite awhile. 

"'It was so kind of you, Mr. Kingsbury, ' says she, 'to bring myblunder off so nicely. It was so stupid of me to forget the sugar. '

"'Never you mind, ' says I, 'some lucky man will throw his rope over amighty elegant little housekeeper some day, not far from here. '

"'If you mean me, Mr. Kingsbury, ' says she, laughing out loud, 'I hopehe will be as lenient with my poor housekeeping as you have been. '

"'Don't mention it, ' says I. 'Anything to oblige the ladies. '"

Bud ceased his reminiscences. And then some one asked him what heconsidered the most striking and prominent trait of New Yorkers. 

"The most visible and peculiar trait of New York folks, " answered Bud, "is New York. Most of 'em has New York on the brain. They have heardof other places, such as Waco, and Paris, and Hot Springs, and London;but they don't believe in 'em. They think that town is all Merino. Nowto show you how much they care for their village I'll tell you aboutone of 'em that strayed out as far as the Triangle B while I wasworking there. 

"This New Yorker come out there looking for a job on the ranch. Hesaid he was a good horseback rider, and there was pieces of tanbarkhanging on his clothes yet from his riding school. 

"Well, for a while they put him to keeping books in the ranch store, for he was a devil at figures. But he got tired of that, and asked forsomething more in the line of activity. The boys on the ranch likedhim all right, but he made us tired shouting New York all the time. Every night he'd tell us about East River and J. P. Morgan and theEden Musee and Hetty Green and Central Park till we used to throw tinplates and branding irons at him. 

"One day this chap gets on a pitching pony, and the pony kind ofsidled up his back and went to eating grass while the New Yorker wascoming down. 

"He come down on his head on a chunk of mesquit wood, and he didn'tshow any designs toward getting up again. We laid him out in a tent, and he begun to look pretty dead. So Gideon Pease saddles up andburns the wind for old Doc Sleeper's residence in Dogtown, thirtymiles away. 

"The doctor comes over and he investigates the patient. 

"'Boys, ' says he, 'you might as well go to playing seven-up for hissaddle and clothes, for his head's fractured and if he lives tenminutes it will be a remarkable case of longevity. '

"Of course we didn't gamble for the poor rooster's saddle--that wasone of Doc's jokes. But we stood around feeling solemn, and all of usforgive him for having talked us to death about New York. 

"I never saw anybody about to hand in his checks act more peacefulthan this fellow. His eyes were fixed 'way up in the air, and he wasusing rambling words to himself all about sweet music and beautifulstreets and white-robed forms, and he was smiling like dying was apleasure. 

"'He's about gone now, ' said Doc. 'Whenever they begin to think theysee heaven it's all off. '

"Blamed if that New York man didn't sit right up when he heard the Docsay that. 

"'Say, ' says he, kind of disappointed, 'was that heaven? Confound itall, I thought it was Broadway. Some of you fellows get my clothes. I'm going to get up. '

"And I'll be blamed, " concluded Bud, "if he wasn't on the train with aticket for New York in his pocket four days afterward!"

XVIII

THE ADVENTURES OF SHAMROCK JOLNES

I am so fortunate as to count Shamrock Jolnes, the great New Yorkdetective, among my muster of friends. Jolnes is what is called the"inside man" of the city detective force. He is an expert in the useof the typewriter, and it is his duty, whenever there is a "murdermystery" to be solved, to sit at a desk telephone at headquarters andtake down the messages of "cranks" who 'phone in their confessions tohaving committed the crime. 

But on certain "off" days when confessions are coming in slowly andthree or four newspapers have run to earth as many different guiltypersons, Jolnes will knock about the town with me, exhibiting, to mygreat delight and instruction, his marvellous powers of observationand deduction. 

The other day I dropped in at Headquarters and found the greatdetective gazing thoughtfully at a string that was tied tightly aroundhis little finger. 

"Good morning, Whatsup, " he said, without turning his head. "I'm gladto notice that you've had your house fitted up with electric lights atlast. "

"Will you please tell me, " I said, in surprise, "how you knew that? Iam sure that I never mentioned the fact to any one, and the wiring wasa rush order not completed until this morning. "

"Nothing easier, " said Jolnes, genially. "As you came in I caught theodour of the cigar you are smoking. I know an expensive cigar; andI know that not more than three men in New York can afford to smokecigars and pay gas bills too at the present time. That was an easyone. But I am working just now on a little problem of my own. "

"Why have you that string on your finger?" I asked. 

"That's the problem, " said Jolnes. "My wife tied that on this morningto remind me of something I was to send up to the house. Sit down, Whatsup, and excuse me for a few moments. "

The distinguished detective went to a wall telephone, and stood withthe receiver to his ear for probably ten minutes. 

"Were you listening to a confession?" I asked, when he had returned tohis chair. 

"Perhaps, " said Jolnes, with a smile, "it might be called something ofthe sort. To be frank with you, Whatsup, I've cut out the dope. I'vebeen increasing the quantity for so long that morphine doesn't havemuch effect on me any more. I've got to have something more powerful. That telephone I just went to is connected with a room in the Waldorfwhere there's an author's reading in progress. Now, to get at thesolution of this string. "

After five minutes of silent pondering, Jolnes looked at me, with asmile, and nodded his head. 

"Wonderful man!" I exclaimed; "already?"

"It is quite simple, " he said, holding up his finger. "You seethat knot? That is to prevent my forgetting. It is, therefore, aforget-me-knot. A forget-me-not is a flower. It was a sack of flourthat I was to send home!"

"Beautiful!" I could not help crying out in admiration. 

"Suppose we go out for a ramble, " suggested Jolnes. 

"There is only one case of importance on hand just now. Old manMcCarty, one hundred and four years old, died from eating too manybananas. The evidence points so strongly to the Mafia that the policehave surrounded the Second Avenue Katzenjammer Gambrinus Club No. 2, and the capture of the assassin is only the matter of a few hours. Thedetective force has not yet been called on for assistance. "

Jolnes and I went out and up the street toward the corner, where wewere to catch a surface car. 

Half-way up the block we met Rheingelder, an acquaintance of ours, whoheld a City Hall position. 

"Good morning, Rheingelder, " said Jolnes, halting. 

"Nice breakfast that was you had this morning. "

Always on the lookout for the detective's remarkable feats ofdeduction, I saw Jolnes's eye flash for an instant upon a longyellow splash on the shirt bosom and a smaller one upon the chin ofRheingelder--both undoubtedly made by the yolk of an egg. 

"Oh, dot is some of your detectiveness, " said Rheingelder, shaking allover with a smile. "Vell, I pet you trinks und cigars all round dotyou cannot tell vot I haf eaten for breakfast. "

"Done, " said Jolnes. "Sausage, pumpernickel and coffee. "

Rheingelder admitted the correctness of the surmise and paid the bet. When we had proceeded on our way I said to Jolnes:

"I thought you looked at the egg spilled on his chin and shirt front. "

"I did, " said Jolnes. "That is where I began my deduction. Rheingelderis a very economical, saving man. Yesterday eggs dropped in the marketto twenty-eight cents per dozen. To-day they are quoted at forty-two. Rheingelder ate eggs yesterday, and to-day he went back to his usualfare. A little thing like this isn't anything, Whatsup; it belongs tothe primary arithmetic class. "

When we boarded the street car we found the seats alloccupied--principally by ladies. Jolnes and I stood on the rearplatform. 

About the middle of the car there sat an elderly man with a short, gray beard, who looked to be the typical, well-dressed New Yorker. Atsuccessive corners other ladies climbed aboard, and soon three or fourof them were standing over the man, clinging to straps and glaringmeaningly at the man who occupied the coveted seat. But he resolutelyretained his place. 

"We New Yorkers, " I remarked to Jolnes, "have about lost our manners, as far as the exercise of them in public goes. "

"Perhaps so, " said Jolnes, lightly; "but the man you evidently referto happens to be a very chivalrous and courteous gentleman from OldVirginia. He is spending a few days in New York with his wife and twodaughters, and he leaves for the South to-night. "

"You know him, then?" I said, in amazement. 

"I never saw him before we stepped on the car, " declared thedetective, smilingly. 

"By the gold tooth of the Witch of Endor!" I cried, "if you canconstrue all that from his appearance you are dealing in nothing elsethan black art. "

"The habit of observation--nothing more, " said Jolnes. "If the oldgentleman gets off the car before we do, I think I can demonstrate toyou the accuracy of my deduction. "

Three blocks farther along the gentleman rose to leave the car. Jolnesaddressed him at the door:

"Pardon me, sir, but are you not Colonel Hunter, of Norfolk, Virginia?"

"No, suh, " was the extremely courteous answer. "My name, suh, isEllison--Major Winfield R. Ellison, from Fairfax County, in the samestate. I know a good many people, suh, in Norfolk--the Goodriches, theTollivers, and the Crabtrees, suh, but I never had the pleasure ofmeeting yo' friend, Colonel Hunter. I am happy to say, suh, that I amgoing back to Virginia to-night, after having spent a week in yo' citywith my wife and three daughters. I shall be in Norfolk in about tendays, and if you will give me yo' name, suh, I will take pleasure inlooking up Colonel Hunter and telling him that you inquired after him, suh. "

"Thank you, " said Jolnes; "tell him that Reynolds sent his regards, ifyou will be so kind. "

I glanced at the great New York detective and saw that a look ofintense chagrin had come upon his clear-cut features. Failure in theslightest point always galled Shamrock Jolnes. 

"Did you say your _three_ daughters?" he asked of the Virginiagentleman. 

"Yes, suh, my three daughters, all as fine girls as there are inFairfax County, " was the answer. 

With that Major Ellison stopped the car and began to descend the step. 

Shamrock Jolnes clutched his arm. 

"One moment, sir, " he begged, in an urbane voice in which I alonedetected the anxiety--"am I not right in believing that one of theyoung ladies is an _adopted_ daughter?"

"You are, suh, " admitted the major, from the ground, "but how thedevil you knew it, suh, is mo' than I can tell. "

"And mo' than I can tell, too, " I said, as the car went on. 

Jolnes was restored to his calm, observant serenity by having wrestedvictory from his apparent failure; so after we got off the car heinvited me into a café, promising to reveal the process of his latestwonderful feat. 

"In the first place, " he began after we were comfortably seated, "Iknew the gentleman was no New Yorker because he was flushed and uneasyand restless on account of the ladies that were standing, although hedid not rise and give them his seat. I decided from his appearancethat he was a Southerner rather than a Westerner. 

"Next I began to figure out his reason for not relinquishing his seatto a lady when he evidently felt strongly, but not overpoweringly, impelled to do so. I very quickly decided upon that. I noticed thatone of his eyes had received a severe jab in one corner, which was redand inflamed, and that all over his face were tiny round marks aboutthe size of the end of an uncut lead pencil. Also upon both of hispatent leather shoes were a number of deep imprints shaped like ovalscut off square at one end. 

"Now, there is only one district in New York City where a man is boundto receive scars and wounds and indentations of that sort--and thatis along the sidewalks of Twenty-third Street and a portion of SixthAvenue south of there. I knew from the imprints of trampling Frenchheels on his feet and the marks of countless jabs in the face fromumbrellas and parasols carried by women in the shopping district thathe had been in conflict with the amazonian troops. And as he was aman of intelligent appearance, I knew he would not have braved suchdangers unless he had been dragged thither by his own women folk. Therefore, when he got on the car his anger at the treatment he hadreceived was sufficient to make him keep his seat in spite of histraditions of Southern chivalry. "

"That is all very well, " I said, "but why did you insist upondaughters--and especially two daughters? Why couldn't a wife alonehave taken him shopping?"

"There had to be daughters, " said Jolnes, calmly. "If he had only awife, and she near his own age, he could have bluffed her into goingalone. If he had a young wife she would prefer to go alone. So thereyou are. "

"I'll admit that, " I said; "but, now, why two daughters? And how, inthe name of all the prophets, did you guess that one was adopted whenhe told you he had three?"

"Don't say guess, " said Jolnes, with a touch of pride in his air;"there is no such word in the lexicon of ratiocination. In MajorEllison's buttonhole there was a carnation and a rosebud backed by ageranium leaf. No woman ever combined a carnation and a rosebud intoa boutonniere. Close your eyes, Whatsup, and give the logic of yourimagination a chance. Cannot you see the lovely Adele fastening thecarnation to the lapel so that papa may be gay upon the street? Andthen the romping Edith May dancing up with sisterly jealousy to addher rosebud to the adornment?"

"And then, " I cried, beginning to feel enthusiasm, "when he declaredthat he had three daughters--"

"I could see, " said Jolnes, "one in the background who added noflower; and I knew that she must be--"

"Adopted!" I broke in. "I give you every credit; but how did you knowhe was leaving for the South to-night?"

"In his breast pocket, " said the great detective, "something large andoval made a protuberance. Good liquor is scarce on trains, and it is along journey from New York to Fairfax County. "

"Again, I must bow to you, " I said. "And tell me this, so that my lastshred of doubt will be cleared away; why did you decide that he wasfrom Virginia?"

"It was very faint, I admit, " answered Shamrock Jolnes, "but notrained observer could have failed to detect the odour of mint in thecar. "

XIX

THE LADY HIGHER UP

New York City, they said, was deserted; and that accounted, doubtless, for the sounds carrying so far in the tranquil summer air. The breezewas south-by-southwest; the hour was midnight; the theme was a bit offeminine gossip by wireless mythology. Three hundred and sixty-fivefeet above the heated asphalt the tiptoeing symbolic deity onManhattan pointed her vacillating arrow straight, for the time, inthe direction of her exalted sister on Liberty Island. The lights ofthe great Garden were out; the benches in the Square were filled withsleepers in postures so strange that beside them the writhing figuresin Dore's illustrations of the Inferno would have straightened intotailor's dummies. The statue of Diana on the tower of the Garden--itsconstancy shown by its weathercock ways, its innocence by the coatingof gold that it has acquired, its devotion to style by its single, graceful flying scarf, its candour and artlessness by its habit ofever drawing the long bow, its metropolitanism by its posture of swiftflight to catch a Harlem train--remained poised with its arrow pointedacross the upper bay. Had that arrow sped truly and horizontally itwould have passed fifty feet above the head of the heroic matron whoseduty it is to offer a cast-ironical welcome to the oppressed of otherlands. 

Seaward this lady gazed, and the furrows between steamship lines beganto cut steerage rates. The translators, too, have put an extra burdenupon her. "Liberty Lighting the World" (as her creator christenedher) would have had a no more responsible duty, except for the sizeof it, than that of an electrician or a Standard Oil magnate. But to"enlighten" the world (as our learned civic guardians "Englished" it)requires abler qualities. And so poor Liberty, instead of having asinecure as a mere illuminator, must be converted into a Chautauquaschoolma'am, with the oceans for her field instead of the placid, classic lake. With a fireless torch and an empty head must she dispelthe shadows of the world and teach it its A, B, C's. 

"Ah, there, Mrs. Liberty!" called a clear, rollicking soprano voicethrough the still, midnight air. 

"Is that you, Miss Diana? Excuse my not turning my head. I'm not asflighty and whirly-whirly as some. And 'tis so hoarse I am I canhardly talk on account of the peanut-hulls left on the stairs in methroat by that last boatload of tourists from Marietta, Ohio. 'Tisafter being a fine evening, miss. "

"If you don't mind my asking, " came the bell-like tones of the goldenstatue, "I'd like to know where you got that City Hall brogue. Ididn't know that Liberty was necessarily Irish. "

"If ye'd studied the history of art in its foreign complicationsye'd not need to ask, " replied the offshore statue. "If ye wasn'tso light-headed and giddy ye'd know that I was made by a Dago andpresented to the American people on behalf of the French Governmentfor the purpose of welcomin' Irish immigrants into the Dutch city ofNew York. 'Tis that I've been doing night and day since I was erected. Ye must know, Miss Diana, that 'tis with statues the same as withpeople--'tis not their makers nor the purposes for which they werecreated that influence the operations of their tongues at all--it'sthe associations with which they become associated, I'm telling ye. "

"You're dead right, " agreed Diana. "I notice it on myself. If any ofthe old guys from Olympus were to come along and hand me any hot airin the ancient Greek I couldn't tell it from a conversation between aConey Island car conductor and a five-cent fare. "

"I'm right glad ye've made up your mind to be sociable, Miss Diana, "said Mrs. Liberty. "'Tis a lonesome life I have down here. Is thereanything doin' up in the city, Miss Diana, dear?"

"Oh, la, la, la!--no, " said Diana. "Notice that 'la, la, la, ' AuntLiberty? Got that from 'Paris by Night' on the roof garden under me. You'll hear that 'la, la, la' at the Café McCann now, along with'garsong. ' The bohemian crowd there have become tired of 'garsong'since O'Rafferty, the head waiter, punched three of them for callinghim it. Oh, no; the town's strickly on the bum these nights. Everybody's away. Saw a downtown merchant on a roof garden thisevening with his stenographer. Show was so dull he went to sleep. Awaiter biting on a dime tip to see if it was good half woke him up. He looks around and sees his little pothooks perpetrator. 'H'm!' sayshe, 'will you take a letter, Miss De St. Montmorency?' 'Sure, in aminute, ' says she, 'if you'll make it an X. '

"That was the best thing happened on the roof. So you see how dull itis. La, la, la!"

"'Tis fine ye have it up there in society, Miss Diana. Ye have thecat show and the horse show and the military tournaments where theprivates look grand as generals and the generals try to look grandas floor-walkers. And ye have the Sportsmen's Show, where the girlthat measures 36, 19, 45 cooks breakfast food in a birch-bark wigwamon the banks of the Grand Canal of Venice conducted by one of theVanderbilts, Bernard McFadden, and the Reverends Dowie and Duss. Andye have the French ball, where the original Cohens and the RobertEmmet-Sangerbund Society dance the Highland fling one with another. And ye have the grand O'Ryan ball, which is the most beautiful pageantin the world, where the French students vie with the Tyrolean warblersin doin' the cake walk. Ye have the best job for a statue in the wholetown, Miss Diana. 

"'Tis weary work, " sighed the island statue, "disseminatin' thescience of liberty in New York Bay. Sometimes when I take a peep downat Ellis Island and see the gang of immigrants I'm supposed to lightup, 'tis tempted I am to blow out the gas and let the coroner writeout their naturalization papers. "

"Say, it's a shame, ain't it, to give you the worst end of it?" camethe sympathetic antiphony of the steeplechase goddess. "It must beawfully lonesome down there with so much water around you. I don't seehow you ever keep your hair in curl. And that Mother Hubbard you arewearing went out ten years ago. I think those sculptor guys ought tobe held for damages for putting iron or marble clothes on a lady. That's where Mr. St. Gaudens was wise. I'm always a little ahead ofthe styles; but they're coming my way pretty fast. Excuse my back amoment--I caught a puff of wind from the north--shouldn't wonder ifthings had loosened up in Esopus. There, now! it's in the West--Ishould think that gold plank would have calmed the air out in thatdirection. What were you saying, Mrs. Liberty?"

"A fine chat I've had with ye, Miss Diana, ma'am, but I see oneof them European steamers a-sailin' up the Narrows, and I must beattendin' to me duties. 'Tis me job to extend aloft the torch ofLiberty to welcome all them that survive the kicks that the steeragestewards give 'em while landin. ' Sure 'tis a great country ye can cometo for $8. 50, and the doctor waitin' to send ye back home free if hesees yer eyes red from cryin' for it. "

The golden statue veered in the changing breeze, menacing many pointson the horizon with its aureate arrow. 

"So long, Aunt Liberty, " sweetly called Diana of the Tower. "Somenight, when the wind's right. I'll call you up again. But--say! youhaven't got such a fierce kick coming about your job. I've kept apretty good watch on the island of Manhattan since I've been up here. That's a pretty sick-looking bunch of liberty chasers they dump downat your end of it; but they don't all stay that way. Every littlewhile up here I see guys signing checks and voting the right ticket, and encouraging the arts and taking a bath every morning, that wasshoved ashore by a dock labourer born in the United States who neverearned over forty dollars a month. Don't run down your job, AuntLiberty; you're all right, all right. "

XX

THE GREATER CONEY

"Next Sunday, " said Dennis Carnahan, "I'll be after going down to seethe new Coney Island that's risen like a phoenix bird from the ashesof the old resort. I'm going with Norah Flynn, and we'll fall victimsto all the dry goods deceptions, from the red-flannel eruption ofMount Vesuvius to the pink silk ribbons on the race-suicide problemsin the incubator kiosk. 

"Was I there before? I was. I was there last Tuesday. Did I see thesights? I did not. 

"Last Monday I amalgamated myself with the Bricklayers' Union, and inaccordance with the rules I was ordered to quit work the same day onaccount of a sympathy strike with the Lady Salmon Canners' Lodge No. 2, of Tacoma, Washington. 

"'Twas disturbed I was in mind and proclivities by losing me job, bein' already harassed in me soul on account of havin' quarrelledwith Norah Flynn a week before by reason of hard words spoken at theDairymen and Street-Sprinkler Drivers' semi-annual ball, caused byjealousy and prickly heat and that divil, Andy Coghlin. 

"So, I says, it will be Coney for Tuesday; and if the chutes and theshort change and the green-corn silk between the teeth don't creatediversions and get me feeling better, then I don't know at all. 

"Ye will have heard that Coney has received moral reconstruction. Theold Bowery, where they used to take your tintype by force and give yeknockout drops before having your palm read, is now called the WallStreet of the island. The wienerwurst stands are required by law tokeep a news ticker in 'em; and the doughnuts are examined every fouryears by a retired steamboat inspector. The nigger man's head thatwas used by the old patrons to throw baseballs at is now illegal;and, by order of the Police Commissioner the image of a man drivin'an automobile has been substituted. I hear that the old immoralamusements have been suppressed. People who used to go down from NewYork to sit in the sand and dabble in the surf now give up theirquarters to squeeze through turnstiles and see imitations of cityfires and floods painted on canvas. The reprehensible and degradin'resorts that disgraced old Coney are said to be wiped out. Thewipin'-out process consists of raisin' the price from 10 cents to 25cents, and hirin' a blonde named Maudie to sell tickets instead ofMicky, the Bowery Bite. That's what they say--I don't know. 

"But to Coney I goes a-Tuesday. I gets off the 'L' and starts for theglitterin' show. 'Twas a fine sight. The Babylonian towers and theHindoo roof gardens was blazin' with thousands of electric lights, andthe streets was thick with people. 'Tis a true thing they say thatConey levels all rank. I see millionaires eatin' popcorn and trampin'along with the crowd; and I see eight-dollar-a-week clothin'-storeclerks in red automobiles fightin' one another for who'd squeeze thehorn when they come to a corner. 

"'I made a mistake, ' I says to myself. 'Twas not Coney I needed. When a man's sad 'tis not scenes of hilarity he wants. 'Twould befar better for him to meditate in a graveyard or to attend servicesat the Paradise Roof Gardens. 'Tis no consolation when a man's losthis sweetheart to order hot corn and have the waiter bring him thepowdered sugar cruet instead of salt and then conceal himself, or tohave Zozookum, the gipsy palmist, tell him that he has three childrenand to look out for another serious calamity; price twenty-five cents. 

"I walked far away down on the beach, to the ruins of an old pavilionnear one corner of this new private park, Dreamland. A year ago thatold pavilion was standin' up straight and the old-style waiters wasslammin' a week's supply of clam chowder down in front of you for anickel and callin' you 'cully' friendly, and vice was rampant, and yougot back to New York with enough change to take a car at the bridge. Now they tell me that they serve Welsh rabbits on Surf Avenue, and youget the right change back in the movin'-picture joints. 

"I sat down at one side of the old pavilion and looked at the surfspreadin' itself on the beach, and thought about the time me and NorahFlynn sat on that spot last summer. 'Twas before reform struck theisland; and we was happy. We had tintypes and chowder in the ribalddives, and the Egyptian Sorceress of the Nile told Norah out of herhand, while I was waitin' in the door, that 'twould be the luck ofher to marry a red-headed gossoon with two crooked legs, and I wasoverrunnin' with joy on account of the allusion. And 'twas there thatNorah Flynn put her two hands in mine a year before and we talked offlats and the things she could cook and the love business that goeswith such episodes. And that was Coney as we loved it, and as the handof Satan was upon it, friendly and noisy and your money's worth, withno fence around the ocean and not too many electric lights to show thesleeve of a black serge coat against a white shirtwaist. 

"I sat with my back to the parks where they had the moon and thedreams and the steeples corralled, and longed for the old Coney. Therewasn't many people on the beach. Lots of them was feedin' pennies intothe slot machines to see the 'Interrupted Courtship' in the movin'pictures; and a good many was takin' the sea air in the Canals ofVenice and some was breathin' the smoke of the sea battle by actualwarships in a tank filled with real water. A few was down on the sandsenjoyin' the moonlight and the water. And the heart of me was heavyfor the new morals of the old island, while the bands behind me playedand the sea pounded on the bass drum in front. 

"And directly I got up and walked along the old pavilion, and thereon the other side of, half in the dark, was a slip of a girl sittin'on the tumble-down timbers, and unless I'm a liar she was cryin' byherself there, all alone. 

"'Is it trouble you are in, now, Miss, ' says I; 'and what's to be doneabout it?'

"''Tis none of your business at all, Denny Carnahan, ' says she, sittin' up straight. And it was the voice of no other than NorahFlynn. 

"'Then it's not, ' says I, 'and we're after having a pleasant evening, Miss Flynn. Have ye seen the sights of this new Coney Island, then? Ipresume ye have come here for that purpose, ' says I. 

"'I have, ' says she. 'Me mother and Uncle Tim they are waiting beyond. 'Tis an elegant evening I've had. I've seen all the attractions thatbe. '

"'Right ye are, ' says I to Norah; and I don't know when I've beenthat amused. After disportin' me-self among the most laughable moralimprovements of the revised shell games I took meself to the shorefor the benefit of the cool air. 'And did ye observe the Durbar, MissFlynn?'

"'I did, ' says she, reflectin'; 'but 'tis not safe, I'm thinkin', toride down them slantin' things into the water. '

"'How did ye fancy the shoot the chutes?' I asks. 

"'True, then, I'm afraid of guns, ' says Norah. 'They make such noisein my ears. But Uncle Tim, he shot them, he did, and won cigars. 'Tisa fine time we had this day, Mr. Carnahan. '

"'I'm glad you've enjoyed yerself, ' I says. 'I suppose you've had aroarin' fine time seein' the sights. And how did the incubators andthe helter-skelter and the midgets suit the taste of ye?'

"'I--I wasn't hungry, ' says Norah, faint. 'But mother ate a quantityof all of 'em. I'm that pleased with the fine things in the new ConeyIsland, ' says she, 'that it's the happiest day I've seen in a longtime, at all. '

"'Did you see Venice?' says I. 

"'We did, ' says she. 'She was a beauty. She was all dressed in red, she was, with--'

"I listened no more to Norah Flynn. I stepped up and I gathered herin my arms. 

"''Tis a story-teller ye are, Norah Flynn', says I. 'Ye've seen nomore of the greater Coney Island than I have meself. Come, now, tellthe truth--ye came to sit by the old pavilion by the waves where yousat last summer and made Dennis Carnahan a happy man. Speak up, andtell the truth. '

"Norah stuck her nose against me vest. 

"'I despise it, Denny, ' she says, half cryin'. 'Mother and UncleTim went to see the shows, but I came down here to think of you. Icouldn't bear the lights and the crowd. Are you forgivin' me, Denny, for the words we had?'

"''Twas me fault, ' says I. 'I came here for the same reason meself. Look at the lights, Norah, ' I says, turning my back to the sea--'ain'tthey pretty?'

"'They are, ' says Norah, with her eyes shinin'; 'and do ye hear thebands playin'? Oh, Denny, I think I'd like to see it all. '

"'The old Coney is gone, darlin', ' I says to her. 'Everything moves. When a man's glad it's not scenes of sadness he wants. 'Tis a greaterConey we have here, but we couldn't see it till we got in the humourfor it. Next Sunday, Norah darlin', we'll see the new place from endto end. "

XXI

LAW AND ORDER

I found myself in Texas recently, revisiting old places and vistas. Ata sheep ranch where I had sojourned many years ago, I stopped for aweek. And, as all visitors do, I heartily plunged into the business athand, which happened to be that of dipping the sheep. 

Now, this process is so different from ordinary human baptism that itdeserves a word of itself. A vast iron cauldron with half the firesof Avernus beneath it is partly filled with water that soon boilsfuriously. Into that is cast concentrated lye, lime, and sulphur, which is allowed to stew and fume until the witches' broth is strongenough to scorch the third arm of Palladino herself. 

Then this concentrated brew is mixed in a long, deep vat with cubicgallons of hot water, and the sheep are caught by their hind legs andflung into the compound. After being thoroughly ducked by means of aforked pole in the hands of a gentleman detailed for that purpose, they are allowed to clamber up an incline into a corral and dry ordie, as the state of their constitutions may decree. If you evercaught an able-bodied, two-year-old mutton by the hind legs and feltthe 750 volts of kicking that he can send though your arm seventeentimes before you can hurl him into the vat, you will, of course, hopethat he may die instead of dry. 

But this is merely to explain why Bud Oakley and I gladly stretchedourselves on the bank of the nearby _charco_ after the dipping, gladfor the welcome inanition and pure contact with the earth after ourmuscle-racking labours. The flock was a small one, and we finished atthree in the afternoon; so Bud brought from the _morral_ on his saddlehorn, coffee and a coffeepot and a big hunk of bread and some sidebacon. Mr. Mills, the ranch owner and my old friend, rode away to theranch with his force of Mexican _trabajadores_. 

While the bacon was frizzling nicely, there was the sound of horses'hoofs behind us. Bud's six-shooter lay in its scabbard ten feet awayfrom his hand. He paid not the slightest heed to the approachinghorseman. This attitude of a Texas ranchman was so different from theold-time custom that I marvelled. Instinctively I turned to inspectthe possible foe that menaced us in the rear. I saw a horseman dressedin black, who might have been a lawyer or a parson or an undertaker, trotting peaceably along the road by the _arroyo_. 

Bud noticed my precautionary movement and smiled sarcastically andsorrowfully. 

"You've been away too long, " said he. "You don't need to look aroundany more when anybody gallops up behind you in this state, unlesssomething hits you in the back; and even then it's liable to be onlya bunch of tracts or a petition to sign against the trusts. I neverlooked at that _hombre_ that rode by; but I'll bet a quart of sheepdip that he's some double-dyed son of a popgun out rounding upprohibition votes. "

"Times have changed, Bud, " said I, oracularly. "Law and order is therule now in the South and the Southwest. "

I caught a cold gleam from Bud's pale blue eyes. 

"Not that I--" I began, hastily. 

"Of course you don't, " said Bud warmly. "You know better. You'velived here before. Law and order, you say? Twenty years ago we had'em here. We only had two or three laws, such as against murder beforewitnesses, and being caught stealing horses, and voting the Republicanticket. But how is it now? All we get is orders; and the laws go outof the state. Them legislators set up there at Austin and don't donothing but make laws against kerosene oil and schoolbooks beingbrought into the state. I reckon they was afraid some man would gohome some evening after work and light up and get an education and goto work and make laws to repeal aforesaid laws. Me, I'm for the olddays when law and order meant what they said. A law was a law, and aorder was a order. "

"But--" I began. 

"I was going on, " continued Bud, "while this coffee is boiling, todescribe to you a case of genuine law and order that I knew of oncein the times when cases was decided in the chambers of a six-shooterinstead of a supreme court. 

"You've heard of old Ben Kirkman, the cattle king? His ranch runfrom the Nueces to the Rio Grande. In them days, as you know, therewas cattle barons and cattle kings. The difference was this: whena cattleman went to San Antone and bought beer for the newspaperreporters and only give them the number of cattle he actually owned, they wrote him up for a baron. When he bought 'em champagne wine andadded in the amount of cattle he had stole, they called him a king. 

"Luke Summers was one of his range bosses. And down to the king'sranch comes one day a bunch of these Oriental people from New Yorkor Kansas City or thereabouts. Luke was detailed with a squad toride about with 'em, and see that the rattlesnakes got fair warningwhen they was coming, and drive the deer out of their way. Among thebunch was a black-eyed girl that wore a number two shoe. That's all Inoticed about her. But Luke must have seen more, for he married herone day before the _caballard_ started back, and went over on CanadaVerde and set up a ranch of his own. I'm skipping over the sentimentalstuff on purpose, because I never saw or wanted to see any of it. AndLuke takes me along with him because we was old friends and I handledcattle to suit him. 

"I'm skipping over much what followed, because I never saw or wantedto see any of it--but three years afterward there was a boy kidstumbling and blubbering around the galleries and floors of Luke'sranch. I never had no use for kids; but it seems they did. And I'mskipping over much what followed until one day out to the ranch drivesin hacks and buckboards a lot of Mrs. Summers's friends from theEast--a sister or so and two or three men. One looked like an uncleto somebody; and one looked like nothing; and the other one had oncorkscrew pants and spoke in a tone of voice. I never liked a man whospoke in a tone of voice. 

"I'm skipping over much what followed; but one afternoon when I ridesup to the ranch house to get some orders about a drove of beeves thatwas to be shipped, I hears something like a popgun go off. I waitsat the hitching rack, not wishing to intrude on private affairs. Ina little while Luke comes out and gives some orders to some of hisMexican hands, and they go and hitch up sundry and divers vehicles;and mighty soon out comes one of the sisters or so and some of the twoor three men. But two of the two or three men carries between 'em thecorkscrew man who spoke in a tone of voice, and lays him flat down inone of the wagons. And they all might have been seen wending their wayaway. 

"'Bud, ' says Luke to me, 'I want you to fix up a little and go up toSan Antone with me. '

"'Let me get on my Mexican spurs, ' says I, 'and I'm your company. '

"One of the sisters or so seems to have stayed at the ranch withMrs. Summers and the kid. We rides to Encinal and catches theInternational, and hits San Antone in the morning. After breakfastLuke steers me straight to the office of a lawyer. They go in a roomand talk and then come out. 

"'Oh, there won't be any trouble, Mr. Summers, ' says the lawyer. 'I'llacquaint Judge Simmons with the facts to-day; and the matter will beput through as promptly as possible. Law and order reigns in thisstate as swift and sure as any in the country. '

"'I'll wait for the decree if it won't take over half an hour, ' saysLuke. 

"'Tut, tut, ' says the lawyer man. 'Law must take its course. Come backday after to-morrow at half-past nine. '

"At that time me and Luke shows up, and the lawyer hands him a foldeddocument. And Luke writes him out a check. 

"On the sidewalk Luke holds up the paper to me and puts a finger thesize of a kitchen door latch on it and says:

"'Decree of ab-so-lute divorce with cus-to-dy of the child. '

"'Skipping over much what has happened of which I know nothing, ' saysI, 'it looks to me like a split. Couldn't the lawyer man have made ita strike for you?'

"'Bud, ' says he, in a pained style, 'that child is the one thing Ihave to live for. _She_ may go; but the boy is mine!--think of it--Ihave cus-to-dy of the child. '

"'All right, ' says I. 'If it's the law, let's abide by it. But Ithink, ' says I, 'that Judge Simmons might have used exemplaryclemency, or whatever is the legal term, in our case. '

"You see, I wasn't inveigled much into the desirableness of havinginfants around a ranch, except the kind that feed themselves and sellfor so much on the hoof when they grow up. But Luke was struck withthat sort of parental foolishness that I never could understand. Allthe way riding from the station back to the ranch, he kept pullingthat decree out of his pocket and laying his finger on the back of itand reading off to me the sum and substance of it. 'Cus-to-dy of thechild, Bud, ' says he. 'Don't forget it--cus-to-dy of the child. '

"But when we hits the ranch we finds our decree of court obviated, _nolle prossed_, and remanded for trial. Mrs. Summers and the kidwas gone. They tell us that an hour after me and Luke had started forSan Antone she had a team hitched and lit out for the nearest stationwith her trunks and the youngster. 

"Luke takes out his decree once more and reads off its emoluments. 

"'It ain't possible, Bud, ' says he, 'for this to be. It's contraryto law and order. It's wrote as plain as day here--"Cus-to-dy of thechild. "'

"'There is what you might call a human leaning, ' says I, 'towardsmashing 'em both--not to mention the child. '

"'Judge Simmons, ' goes on Luke, 'is a incorporated officer of the law. She can't take the boy away. He belongs to me by statutes passed andapproved by the state of Texas. '

"'And he's removed from the jurisdiction of mundane mandamuses, ' saysI, 'by the unearthly statutes of female partiality. Let us praise theLord and be thankful for whatever small mercies--' I begins; but I seeLuke don't listen to me. Tired as he was, he calls for a fresh horseand starts back again for the station. 

"He come back two weeks afterward, not saying much. 

"'We can't get the trail, ' says he; 'but we've done all thetelegraphing that the wires'll stand, and we've got these city rangersthey call detectives on the lookout. In the meantime, Bud, ' says he, 'we'll round up them cows on Brush Creek, and wait for the law to takeits course. '"

"And after that we never alluded to allusions, as you might say. 

"Skipping over much what happened in the next twelve years, Luke wasmade sheriff of Mojada County. He made me his office deputy. Now, don't get in your mind no wrong apparitions of a office deputy doingsums in a book or mashing letters in a cider press. In them days hisjob was to watch the back windows so nobody didn't plug the sheriffin the rear while he was adding up mileage at his desk in front. Andin them days I had qualifications for the job. And there was lawand order in Mojada County, and schoolbooks, and all the whiskeyyou wanted, and the Government built its own battleships instead ofcollecting nickels from the school children to do it with. And, as Isay, there was law and order instead of enactments and restrictionssuch as disfigure our umpire state to-day. We had our office atBildad, the county seat, from which we emerged forth on necessaryoccasions to soothe whatever fracases and unrest that might occur inour jurisdiction. 

"Skipping over much what happened while me and Luke was sheriff, Iwant to give you an idea of how the law was respected in them days. Luke was what you would call one of the most conscious men in theworld. He never knew much book law, but he had the inner emoluments ofjustice and mercy inculcated into his system. If a respectable citizenshot a Mexican or held up a train and cleaned out the safe in theexpress car, and Luke ever got hold of him, he'd give the guilty partysuch a reprimand and a cussin' out that he'd probable never do itagain. But once let somebody steal a horse (unless it was a Spanishpony), or cut a wire fence, or otherwise impair the peace andindignity of Mojada County, Luke and me would be on 'em with habeascorpuses and smokeless powder and all the modern inventions of equityand etiquette. 

"We certainly had our county on a basis of lawfulness. I've knownpersons of Eastern classification with little spotted caps andbuttoned-up shoes to get off the train at Bildad and eat sandwichesat the railroad station without being shot at or even roped and drugabout by the citizens of the town. 

"Luke had his own ideas of legality and justice. He was kind oftraining me to succeed him when he went out of office. He was alwayslooking ahead to the time when he'd quit sheriffing. What he wantedto do was to build a yellow house with lattice-work under the porchand have hens scratching in the yard. The one main thing in his mindseemed to be the yard. 

"'Bud, ' he says to me, 'by instinct and sentiment I'm a contractor. I want to be a contractor. That's what I'll be when I get out ofoffice. '

"'What kind of a contractor?' says I. 'It sounds like a kind of abusiness to me. You ain't going to haul cement or establish branchesor work on a railroad, are you?'

"'You don't understand, ' says Luke. 'I'm tired of space and horizonsand territory and distances and things like that. What I want isreasonable contraction. I want a yard with a fence around it that youcan go out and set on after supper and listen to whip-poor-wills, 'says Luke. 

"That's the kind of a man he was. He was home-like, although he'd hadbad luck in such investments. But he never talked about them times onthe ranch. It seemed like he'd forgotten about it. I wondered how, with his ideas of yards and chickens and notions of lattice-work, he'dseemed to have got out of his mind that kid of his that had been takenaway from him, unlawful, in spite of his decree of court. But hewasn't a man you could ask about such things as he didn't refer to inhis own conversation. 

"I reckon he'd put all his emotions and ideas into being sheriff. I've read in books about men that was disappointed in these poeticand fine-haired and high-collared affairs with ladies renouncingtruck of that kind and wrapping themselves up into some occupationlike painting pictures, or herding sheep, or science, or teachingschool--something to make 'em forget. Well, I guess that was the waywith Luke. But, as he couldn't paint pictures, he took it out inrounding up horse thieves and in making Mojada County a safe placeto sleep in if you was well armed and not afraid of requisitions ortarantulas. 

"One day there passes through Bildad a bunch of these money investorsfrom the East, and they stopped off there, Bildad being the dinnerstation on the I. & G. N. They was just coming back from Mexicolooking after mines and such. There was five of 'em--four solidparties, with gold watch chains, that would grade up over two hundredpounds on the hoof, and one kid about seventeen or eighteen. 

"This youngster had on one of them cowboy suits such as tenderfootsbring West with 'em; and you could see he was aching to wing a coupleof Indians or bag a grizzly or two with the little pearl-handled gunhe had buckled around his waist. 

"I walked down to the depot to keep an eye on the outfit and see thatthey didn't locate any land or scare the cow ponies hitched in frontof Murchison's store or act otherwise unseemly. Luke was away after agang of cattle thieves down on the Frio, and I always looked after thelaw and order when he wasn't there. 

"After dinner this boy comes out of the dining-room while the trainwas waiting, and prances up and down the platform ready to shoot allantelope, lions, or private citizens that might endeavour to molestor come too near him. He was a good-looking kid; only he was like allthem tenderfoots--he didn't know a law-and-order town when he saw it. 

"By and by along comes Pedro Johnson, the proprietor of the CrystalPalace _chili-con-carne_ stand in Bildad. Pedro was a man who liked toamuse himself; so he kind of herd rides this youngster, laughing athim, tickled to death. I was too far away to hear, but the kid seemsto mention some remarks to Pedro, and Pedro goes up and slaps himabout nine feet away, and laughs harder than ever. And then the boygets up quicker than he fell and jerks out his little pearl-handle, and--bing! bing! bing! Pedro gets it three times in special andtreasured portions of his carcass. I saw the dust fly off his clothesevery time the bullets hit. Sometimes them little thirty-twos causeworry at close range. 

"The engine bell was ringing, and the train starting off slow. I goesup to the kid and places him under arrest, and takes away his gun. Butthe first thing I knew that _caballard_ of capitalists makes a breakfor the train. One of 'em hesitates in front of me for a second, andkind of smiles and shoves his hand up against my chin, and I sort oflaid down on the platform and took a nap. I never was afraid of guns;but I don't want any person except a barber to take liberties likethat with my face again. When I woke up, the whole outfit--train, boy, and all--was gone. I asked about Pedro, and they told me the doctorsaid he would recover provided his wounds didn't turn out to be fatal. 

"When Luke got back three days later, and I told him about it, he wasmad all over. 

"'Why'n't you telegraph to San Antone, ' he asks, 'and have the buncharrested there?'

"'Oh, well, ' says I, 'I always did admire telegraphy; but astronomywas what I had took up just then. ' That capitalist sure knew how togesticulate with his hands. 

"Luke got madder and madder. He investigates and finds in the depota card one of the men had dropped that gives the address of some_hombre_ called Scudder in New York City. 

"'Bud, ' says Luke, 'I'm going after that bunch. I'm going there andget the man or boy, as you say he was, and bring him back. I'm sheriffof Mojada County, and I shall keep law and order in its precinctswhile I'm able to draw a gun. And I want you to go with me. No EasternYankee can shoot up a respectable and well-known citizen of Bildad, 'specially with a thirty-two calibre, and escape the law. PedroJohnson, ' says Luke, 'is one of our most prominent citizens andbusiness men. I'll appoint Sam Bell acting sheriff with penitentiarypowers while I'm away, and you and me will take the six forty-fivenorthbound to-morrow evening and follow up this trail. '

"'I'm your company, ' says I. 'I never see this New York, but I'd liketo. But, Luke, ' says I, 'don't you have to have a dispensation or ahabeas corpus or something from the state, when you reach out that farfor rich men and malefactors?'

"'Did I have a requisition, ' says Luke, 'when I went over into theBrazos bottoms and brought back Bill Grimes and two more for holdingup the International? Did me and you have a search warrant or a possecomitatus when we rounded up them six Mexican cow thieves down inHidalgo? It's my business to keep order in Mojada County. '

"'And it's my business as office deputy, ' says I, 'to see thatbusiness is carried on according to law. Between us both we ought tokeep things pretty well cleaned up. '

"So, the next day, Luke packs a blanket and some collars and hismileage book in a haversack, and him and me hits the breeze for NewYork. It was a powerful long ride. The seats in the cars was too shortfor six-footers like us to sleep comfortable on; and the conductor hadto keep us from getting off at every town that had five-story housesin it. But we got there finally; and we seemed to see right away thathe was right about it. 

"'Luke, ' says I, 'as office deputy and from a law standpoint, it don'tlook to me like this place is properly and legally in the jurisdictionof Mojada County, Texas. '

"'From the standpoint of order, ' says he, 'it's amenable to answerfor its sins to the properly appointed authorities from Bildad toJerusalem. '

"'Amen, ' says I. 'But let's turn our trick sudden, and ride. I don'tlike the looks of this place. '

"'Think of Pedro Johnson, ' says Luke, 'a friend of mine and yours shotdown by one of these gilded abolitionists at his very door!'

"'It was at the door of the freight depot, ' says I. 'But the law willnot be balked at a quibble like that. '

"We put up at one of them big hotels on Broadway. The next morning Igoes down about two miles of stairsteps to the bottom and hunts forLuke. It ain't no use. It looks like San Jacinto day in San Antone. There's a thousand folks milling around in a kind of a roofed-overplaza with marble pavements and trees growing right out of 'em, and Isee no more chance of finding Luke than if we was hunting each otherin the big pear flat down below Old Fort Ewell. But soon Luke and meruns together in one of the turns of them marble alleys. 

"'It ain't no use, Bud, ' says he. 'I can't find no place to eat at. I've been looking for restaurant signs and smelling for ham all overthe camp. But I'm used to going hungry when I have to. Now, ' says he, 'I'm going out and get a hack and ride down to the address on thisScudder card. You stay here and try to hustle some grub. But I doubtif you'll find it. I wish we'd brought along some cornmeal and baconand beans. I'll be back when I see this Scudder, if the trail ain'twiped out. '

"So I starts foraging for breakfast. For the honour of old MojadaCounty I didn't want to seem green to them abolitionists, so everytime I turned a corner in them marble halls I went up to the firstdesk or counter I see and looks around for grub. If I didn't see whatI wanted I asked for something else. In about half an hour I hada dozen cigars, five story magazines, and seven or eight railroadtime-tables in my pockets, and never a smell of coffee or bacon topoint out the trail. 

"Once a lady sitting at a table and playing a game kind of likepushpin told me to go into a closet that she called Number 3. I wentin and shut the door, and the blamed thing lit itself up. I set downon a stool before a shelf and waited. Thinks I, 'This is a privatedining-room. ' But no waiter never came. When I got to sweating goodand hard, I goes out again. 

"'Did you get what you wanted?' says she. 

"'No, ma'am, ' says I. 'Not a bite. '

"'Then there's no charge, ' says she. 

"'Thanky, ma'am, ' says I, and I takes up the trail again. 

"By and by I thinks I'll shed etiquette; and I picks up one of themboys with blue clothes and yellow buttons in front, and he leads me towhat he calls the caffay breakfast room. And the first thing I lays myeyes on when I go in is that boy that had shot Pedro Johnson. He wassetting all alone at a little table, hitting a egg with a spoon likehe was afraid he'd break it. 

"I takes the chair across the table from him; and he looks insultedand makes a move like he was going to get up. 

"'Keep still, son, ' says I. 'You're apprehended, arrested, and incharge of the Texas authorities. Go on and hammer that egg somemore if it's the inside of it you want. Now, what did you shoot Mr. Johnson, of Bildad, for?'

"And may I ask who you are?' says he. 

"'You may, ' says I. 'Go ahead. '

"'I suppose you're on, ' says this kid, without batting his eyes. 'Butwhat are you eating? Here, waiter!' he calls out, raising his finger. 'Take this gentleman's order. 

"'A beefsteak, ' says I, 'and some fried eggs and a can of peaches anda quart of coffee will about suffice. '

"We talk awhile about the sundries of life and then he says:

"'What are you going to do about that shooting? I had a right to shootthat man, ' says he. 'He called me names that I couldn't overlook, andthen he struck me. He carried a gun, too. What else could I do?'

"'We'll have to take you back to Texas, ' says I. 

"'I'd like to go back, ' says the boy, with a kind of a grin--'if itwasn't on an occasion of this kind. It's the life I like. I've alwayswanted to ride and shoot and live in the open air ever since I canremember. '

"'Who was this gang of stout parties you took this trip with?' I asks. 

"'My stepfather, ' says he, 'and some business partners of his in someMexican mining and land schemes. '

"'I saw you shoot Pedro Johnson, ' says I, 'and I took that littlepopgun away from you that you did it with. And when I did so I noticedthree or four little scars in a row over your right eyebrow. You'vebeen in rookus before, haven't you?'

"'I've had these scars ever since I can remember, ' says he. 'I don'tknow how they came there. '

"'Was you ever in Texas before?' says I. 

"'Not that I remember of, ' says he. 'But I thought I had when westruck the prairie country. But I guess I hadn't. '

"'Have you got a mother?' I asks. 

"'She died five years ago, ' says he. 

"Skipping over the most of what followed--when Luke came back I turnedthe kid over to him. He had seen Scudder and told him what he wanted;and it seems that Scudder got active with one of these telephones assoon as he left. For in about an hour afterward there comes to ourhotel some of these city rangers in everyday clothes that they calldetectives, and marches the whole outfit of us to what they call amagistrate's court. They accuse Luke of attempted kidnapping, and askhim what he has to say. 

"'This snipe, ' says Luke to the judge, 'shot and wilfully puncturedwith malice and forethought one of the most respected and prominentcitizens of the town of Bildad, Texas, Your Honor. And in so doinglaid himself liable to the penitence of law and order. And I herebymake claim and demand restitution of the State of New York City forthe said alleged criminal; and I know he done it. '

"'Have you the usual and necessary requisition papers from thegovernor of your state?' asks the judge. 

"'My usual papers, ' says Luke, 'was taken away from me at the hotel bythese gentlemen who represent law and order in your city. They was twoColt's . 45's that I've packed for nine years; and if I don't get 'emback, there'll be more trouble. You can ask anybody in Mojada Countyabout Luke Summers. I don't usually need any other kind of papers forwhat I do. '

"I see the judge looks mad, so I steps up and says:

"'Your Honor, the aforesaid defendant, Mr. Luke Summers, sheriff ofMojada County, Texas, is as fine a man as ever threw a rope or upheldthe statutes and codicils of the greatest state in the Union. Buthe--'

"The judge hits his table with a wooden hammer and asks who I am. 

"Bud Oakley, ' says I. 'Office deputy of the sheriff's office of MojadaCounty, Texas. Representing, ' says I, 'the Law. Luke Summers, ' Igoes on, 'represents Order. And if Your Honor will give me about tenminutes in private talk, I'll explain the whole thing to you, and showyou the equitable and legal requisition papers which I carry in mypocket. '

"The judge kind of half smiles and says he will talk with me inhis private room. In there I put the whole thing up to him in suchlanguage as I had, and when we goes outside, he announces theverdict that the young man is delivered into the hands of the Texasauthorities; and calls the next case. 

"Skipping over much of what happened on the way back, I'll tell youhow the thing wound up in Bildad. 

"When we got the prisoner in the sheriff's office, I says to Luke:

"'You, remember that kid of yours--that two-year old that they stoleaway from you when the bust-up come?'

"Luke looks black and angry. He'd never let anybody talk to him aboutthat business, and he never mentioned it himself. 

"'Toe the mark, ' says I. 'Do you remember when he was toddling aroundon the porch and fell down on a pair of Mexican spurs and cut fourlittle holes over his right eye? Look at the prisoner, ' says I, 'lookat his nose and the shape of his head and--why, you old fool, don'tyou know your own son?--I knew him, ' says I, 'when he perforated Mr. Johnson at the depot. '

"Luke comes over to me shaking all over. I never saw him lose hisnerve before. 

"'Bud, ' says he. 'I've never had that boy out of my mind one day orone night since he was took away. But I never let on. But can we holdhim?-- Can we make him stay?-- I'll make the best man of him that everput his foot in a stirrup. Wait a minute, ' says he, all excited andout of his mind--'I've got some-thing here in my desk--I reckon it'llhold legal yet--I've looked at it a thousand times--"Cus-to-dy of thechild, "' says Luke--'"Cus-to-dy of the child. " We can hold him onthat, can't we? Le'me see if I can find that decree. '

"Luke begins to tear his desk to pieces. 

"'Hold on, ' says I. 'You are Order and I'm Law. You needn't look forthat paper, Luke. It ain't a decree any more. It's requisition papers. It's on file in that Magistrate's office in New York. I took it alongwhen we went, because I was office deputy and knew the law. '

"'I've got him back, ' says Luke. 'He's mine again. I never thought--'

"'Wait a minute, ' says I. 'We've got to have law and order. You and mehave got to preserve 'em both in Mojada County according to our oathand conscience. The kid shot Pedro Johnson, one of Bildad's mostprominent and--'

"'Oh, hell!' says Luke. 'That don't amount to anything. That fellowwas half Mexican, anyhow. '"

XXII

TRANSFORMATION OF MARTIN BURNEY

In behalf of Sir Walter's soothing plant let us look into the case ofMartin Burney. 

They were constructing the Speedway along the west bank of the HarlemRiver. The grub-boat of Dennis Corrigan, sub-contractor, was mooredto a tree on the bank. Twenty-two men belonging to the little greenisland toiled there at the sinew-cracking labour. One among them, whowrought in the kitchen of the grub-boat was of the race of the Goths. Over them all stood the exorbitant Corrigan, harrying them like thecaptain of a galley crew. He paid them so little that most of thegang, work as they might, earned little more than food and tobacco;many of them were in debt to him. Corrigan boarded them all in thegrub-boat, and gave them good grub, for he got it back in work. 

Martin Burney was furthest behind of all. He was a little man, allmuscles and hands and feet, with a gray-red, stubbly beard. He was toolight for the work, which would have glutted the capacity of a steamshovel. 

The work was hard. Besides that, the banks of the river were hummingwith mosquitoes. As a child in a dark room fixes his regard on thepale light of a comforting window, these toilers watched the sun thatbrought around the one hour of the day that tasted less bitter. Afterthe sundown supper they would huddle together on the river bank, andsend the mosquitoes whining and eddying back from the malignant puffsof twenty-three reeking pipes. Thus socially banded against the foe, they wrenched out of the hour a few well-smoked drops from the cup ofjoy. 

Each week Burney grew deeper in debt. Corrigan kept a small stock ofgoods on the boat, which he sold to the men at prices that broughthim no loss. Burney was a good customer at the tobacco counter. Onesack when he went to work in the morning and one when he came in atnight, so much was his account swelled daily. Burney was somethingof a smoker. Yet it was not true that he ate his meals with a pipein his mouth, which had been said of him. The little man was notdiscontented. He had plenty to eat, plenty of tobacco, and a tyrantto curse; so why should not he, an Irishman, be well satisfied?

One morning as he was starting with the others for work he stopped atthe pine counter for his usual sack of tobacco. 

"There's no more for ye, " said Corrigan. "Your account's closed. Yeare a losing investment. No, not even tobaccy, my son. No more tobaccyon account. If ye want to work on and eat, do so, but the smoke of yehas all ascended. 'Tis my advice that ye hunt a new job. "

"I have no tobaccy to smoke in my pipe this day, Mr. Corrigan, " saidBurney, not quite understanding that such a thing could happen to him. 

"Earn it, " said Corrigan, "and then buy it. "

Burney stayed on. He knew of no other job. At first he did not realizethat tobacco had got to be his father and mother, his confessor andsweetheart, and wife and child. 

For three days he managed to fill his pipe from the other men's sacks, and then they shut him off, one and all. They told him, rough butfriendly, that of all things in the world tobacco must be quickestforthcoming to a fellow-man desiring it, but that beyond the immediatetemporary need requisition upon the store of a comrade is pressed withgreat danger to friendship. 

Then the blackness of the pit arose and filled the heart of Burney. Sucking the corpse of his deceased dudheen, he staggered through hisduties with his barrowful of stones and dirt, feeling for the firsttime that the curse of Adam was upon him. Other men bereft of apleasure might have recourse to other delights, but Burney had onlytwo comforts in life. One was his pipe, the other was an ecstatic hopethat there would be no Speedways to build on the other side of Jordan. 

At meal times he would let the other men go first into the grub-boat, and then he would go down on his hands and knees, grovelling fiercelyupon the ground where they had been sitting, trying to find some straycrumbs of tobacco. Once he sneaked down the river bank and filled hispipe with dead willow leaves. At the first whiff of the smoke he spatin the direction of the boat and put the finest curse he knew onCorrigan--one that began with the first Corrigans born on earth andended with the Corrigans that shall hear the trumpet of Gabriel blow. He began to hate Corrigan with all his shaking nerves and soul. Evenmurder occurred to him in a vague sort of way. Five days he wentwithout the taste of tobacco--he who had smoked all day and thoughtthe night misspent in which he had not awakened for a pipeful or twounder the bedclothes. 

One day a man stopped at the boat to say that there was work to be hadin the Bronx Park, where a large number of labourers were required inmaking some improvements. 

After dinner Burney walked thirty yards down the river bank away fromthe maddening smell of the others' pipes. He sat down upon a stone. Hewas thinking he would set out for the Bronx. At least he could earntobacco there. What if the books did say he owed Corrigan? Any man'swork was worth his keep. But then he hated to go without getting evenwith the hard-hearted screw who had put his pipe out. Was there anyway to do it?

Softly stepping among the clods came Tony, he of the race of Goths, who worked in the kitchen. He grinned at Burney's elbow, and thatunhappy man, full of race animosity and holding urbanity in contempt, growled at him: "What d'ye want, ye--Dago?"

Tony also contained a grievance--and a plot. He, too, was a Corriganhater, and had been primed to see it in others. 

"How you like-a Mr. Corrigan?" he asked. "You think-a him a nice-aman?"

"To hell with 'm, " he said. "May his liver turn to water, and thebones of him crack in the cold of his heart. May dog fennel grow uponhis ancestors' graves, and the grandsons of his children be bornwithout eyes. May whiskey turn to clabber in his mouth, and every timehe sneezes may he blister the soles of his feet. And the smoke of hispipe--may it make his eyes water, and the drops fall on the grass thathis cows eat and poison the butter that he spreads on his bread. "

Though Tony remained a stranger to the beauties of this imagery, hegathered from it the conviction that it was sufficiently anti-Corriganin its tendency. So, with the confidence of a fellow-conspirator, hesat by Burney upon the stone and unfolded his plot. 

It was very simple in design. Every day after dinner it was Corrigan'shabit to sleep for an hour in his bunk. At such times it was the dutyof the cook and his helper, Tony, to leave the boat so that no noisemight disturb the autocrat. The cook always spent this hour in walkingexercise. Tony's plan was this: After Corrigan should be asleep he(Tony) and Burney would cut the mooring ropes that held the boatto the shore. Tony lacked the nerve to do the deed alone. Then theawkward boat would swing out into a swift current and surely overturnagainst a rock there was below. 

"Come on and do it, " said Burney. "If the back of ye aches from thelick he gave ye as the pit of me stomach does for the taste of a bitof smoke, we can't cut the ropes too quick. "

"All a-right, " said Tony. "But better wait 'bout-a ten minute more. Give-a Corrigan plenty time get good-a sleep. "

They waited, sitting upon the stone. The rest of the men were at workout of sight around a bend in the road. Everything would have gonewell--except, perhaps, with Corrigan, had not Tony been moved todecorate the plot with its conventional accompaniment. He was ofdramatic blood, and perhaps he intuitively divined the appendage tovillainous machinations as prescribed by the stage. He pulled from hisshirt bosom a long, black, beautiful, venomous cigar, and handed it toBurney. 

"You like-a smoke while we wait?" he asked. 

Burney clutched it and snapped off the end as a terrier bites at arat. He laid it to his lips like a long-lost sweetheart. When thesmoke began to draw he gave a long, deep sigh, and the bristles of hisgray-red moustache curled down over the cigar like the talons of aneagle. Slowly the red faded from the whites of his eyes. He fixed hisgaze dreamily upon the hills across the river. The minutes came andwent. 

"'Bout time to go now, " said Tony. "That damn-a Corrigan he be in thereever very quick. "

Burney started out of his trance with a grunt. He turned his head andgazed with a surprised and pained severity at his accomplice. He tookthe cigar partly from his mouth, but sucked it back again immediately, chewed it lovingly once or twice, and spoke, in virulent puffs, fromthe corner of his mouth:

"What is it, ye yaller haythen? Would ye lay contrivances against theenlightened races of the earth, ye instigator of illegal crimes? Wouldye seek to persuade Martin Burney into the dirty tricks of an indecentDago? Would ye be for murderin' your benefactor, the good man thatgives ye food and work? Take that, ye punkin-coloured assassin!"

The torrent of Burney's indignation carried with it bodily assault. The toe of his shoe sent the would-be cutter of ropes tumbling fromhis seat. 

Tony arose and fled. His vendetta he again relegated to the files ofthings that might have been. Beyond the boat he fled and away-away; hewas afraid to remain. 

Burney, with expanded chest, watched his late co-plotter disappear. Then he, too, departed, setting his face in the direction of theBronx. 

In his wake was a rank and pernicious trail of noisome smoke thatbrought peace to his heart and drove the birds from the roadside intothe deepest thickets. 

XXIII

THE CALIPH AND THE CAD

Surely there is no pastime more diverting than that of mingling, incognito, with persons of wealth and station. Where else but in thosecircles can one see life in its primitive, crude state unhampered bythe conventions that bind the dwellers in a lower sphere?

There was a certain Caliph of Bagdad who was accustomed to go downamong the poor and lowly for the solace obtained from the relationof their tales and histories. Is it not strange that the humble andpoverty-stricken have not availed themselves of the pleasure theymight glean by donning diamonds and silks and playing Caliph amongthe haunts of the upper world?

There was one who saw the possibilities of thus turning the tables onHaroun al Raschid. His name was Corny Brannigan, and he was a truckdriver for a Canal Street importing firm. And if you read furtheryou will learn how he turned upper Broadway into Bagdad and learnedsomething about himself that he did not know before. 

Many people would have called Corny a snob--preferably by means ofa telephone. His chief interest in life, his chosen amusement, andhis sole diversion after working hours, was to place himself injuxtaposition--since he could not hope to mingle--with people offashion and means. 

Every evening after Corny had put up his team and dined at alunch-counter that made immediateness a specialty, he would clothehimself in evening raiment as correct as any you will see in the palmrooms. Then he would betake himself to that ravishing, radiant roadwaydevoted to Thespis, Thais, and Bacchus. 

For a time he would stroll about the lobbies of the best hotels, hissoul steeped in blissful content. Beautiful women, cooing like doves, but feathered like birds of Paradise, flicked him with their robes asthey passed. Courtly gentlemen attended them, gallant and assiduous. And Corny's heart within him swelled like Sir Lancelot's, for themirror spoke to him as he passed and said: "Corny, lad, there's nota guy among 'em that looks a bit the sweller than yerself. And youdrivin' of a truck and them swearin' off their taxes and playin' thered in art galleries with the best in the land!"

And the mirrors spake the truth. Mr. Corny Brannigan had acquired theoutward polish, if nothing more. Long and keen observation of politesociety had gained for him its manner, its genteel air, and--mostdifficult of acquirement--its repose and ease. 

Now and then in the hotels Corny had managed conversation andtemporary acquaintance with substantial, if not distinguished, guests. With many of these he had exchanged cards, and the ones he received hecarefully treasured for his own use later. Leaving the hotel lobbies, Corny would stroll leisurely about, lingering at the theatre entrance, dropping into the fashionable restaurants as if seeking some friend. He rarely patronized any of these places; he was no bee come to suckhoney, but a butterfly flashing his wings among the flowers whosecalyces held no sweets for him. His wages were not large enough tofurnish him with more than the outside garb of the gentleman. To havebeen one of the beings he so cunningly imitated, Corny Brannigan wouldhave given his right hand. 

One night Corny had an adventure. After absorbing the delights of anhour's lounging in the principal hotels along Broadway, he passed upinto the stronghold of Thespis. Cab drivers hailed him as a likelyfare, to his prideful content. Languishing eyes were turned upon himas a hopeful source of lobsters and the delectable, ascendant globulesof effervescence. These overtures and unconscious compliments Cornyswallowed as manna, and hoped Bill, the off horse, would be less lamein the left forefoot in the morning. 

Beneath a cluster of milky globes of electric light Corny paused toadmire the sheen of his low-cut patent leather shoes. The buildingoccupying the angle was a pretentious _café_. Out of this came acouple, a lady in a white, cobwebby evening gown, with a lace wraplike a wreath of mist thrown over it, and a man, tall, faultless, assured--too assured. They moved to the edge of the sidewalk andhalted. Corny's eye, ever alert for "pointers" in "swell" behaviour, took them in with a sidelong glance. 

"The carriage is not here, " said the lady. "You ordered it to wait?"

"I ordered it for nine-thirty, " said the man. "It should be here now. "

A familiar note in the lady's voice drew a more especial attentionfrom Corny. It was pitched in a key well known to him. The softelectric shone upon her face. Sisters of sorrow have no quarters fixedfor them. In the index to the book of breaking hearts you will findthat Broadway follows very soon after the Bowery. This lady's face wassad, and her voice was attuned with it. They waited, as if for thecarriage. Corny waited too, for it was out of doors, and he was nevertired of accumulating and profiting by knowledge of gentlemanlyconduct. 

"Jack, " said the lady, "don't be angry. I've done everything I couldto please you this evening. Why do you act so?"

"Oh, you're an angel, " said the man. "Depend upon woman to throw theblame upon a man. "

"I'm not blaming you. I'm only trying to make you happy. "

"You go about it in a very peculiar way. "

"You have been cross with me all the evening without any cause. "

"Oh, there isn't any cause except--you make me tired. "

Corny took out his card case and looked over his collection. Heselected one that read: "Mr. R. Lionel Whyte-Melville, BloomsburySquare, London. " This card he had inveigled from a tourist at the KingEdward Hotel. Corny stepped up to the man and presented it with acorrectly formal air. 

"May I ask why I am selected for the honour?" asked the lady's escort. 

Now, Mr. Corny Brannigan had a very wise habit of saying littleduring his imitations of the Caliph of Bagdad. The advice of LordChesterfield: "Wear a black coat and hold your tongue, " he believed inwithout having heard. But now speech was demanded and required of him. 

"No gent, " said Corny, "would talk to a lady like you done. Fie uponyou, Willie! Even if she happens to be your wife you ought to havemore respect for your clothes than to chin her back that way. Maybe itain't my butt-in, but it goes, anyhow--you strike me as bein' a wholelot to the wrong. "

The lady's escort indulged in more elegantly expressed but fetchingrepartee. Corny, eschewing his truck driver's vocabulary, retorted asnearly as he could in polite phrases. Then diplomatic relations weresevered; there was a brief but lively set-to with other than oralweapons, from which Corny came forth easily victor. 

A carriage dashed up, driven by a tardy and solicitous coachman. 

"Will you kindly open the door for me?" asked the lady. Corny assistedher to enter, and took off his hat. The escort was beginning toscramble up from the sidewalk. 

"I beg your pardon, ma'am, " said Corny, "if he's your man. "

"He's no man of mine, " said the lady. "Perhaps he--but there's nochance of his being now. Drive home, Michael. If you care to takethis--with my thanks. "

Three red roses were thrust out through the carriage window intoCorny's hand. He took them, and the hand for an instant; and then thecarriage sped away. 

Corny gathered his foe's hat and began to brush the dust from hisclothes. 

"Come along, " said Corny, taking the other man by the arm. 

His late opponent was yet a little dazed by the hard knocks he hadreceived. Corny led him carefully into a saloon three doors away. 

"The drinks for us, " said Corny, "me and my friend. "

"You're a queer feller, " said the lady's late escort--"lick a man andthen want to set 'em up. "

"You're my best friend, " said Corny exultantly. "You don't understand?Well, listen. You just put me wise to somethin'. I been playin' gent along time, thinkin' it was just the glad rags I had and nothin' else. Say--you're a swell, ain't you? Well, you trot in that class, I guess. I don't; but I found out one thing--I'm a gentleman, by--and I know itnow. What'll you have to drink?"

XXIV

THE DIAMOND OF KALI

The original news item concerning the diamond of the goddess Kali washanded in to the city editor. He smiled and held it for a moment abovethe wastebasket. Then he laid it back on his desk and said: "Try theSunday people; they might work something out of it. "

The Sunday editor glanced the item over and said: "H'm!" Afterward hesent for a reporter and expanded his comment. 

"You might see General Ludlow, " he said, "and make a story out of thisif you can. Diamond stories are a drug; but this one is big enoughto be found by a scrubwoman wrapped up in a piece of newspaper andtucked under the corner of the hall linoleum. Find out first ifthe General has a daughter who intends to go on the stage. If not, you can go ahead with the story. Run cuts of the Kohinoor and J. P. Morgan's collection, and work in pictures of the Kimberley mines andBarney Barnato. Fill in with a tabulated comparison of the values ofdiamonds, radium, and veal cutlets since the meat strike; and let itrun to a half page. "

On the following day the reporter turned in his story. The Sundayeditor let his eye sprint along its lines. "H'm!" he said again. Thistime the copy went into the waste-basket with scarcely a flutter. 

The reporter stiffened a little around the lips; but he was whistlingsoftly and contentedly between his teeth when I went over to talk withhim about it an hour later. 

"I don't blame the 'old man', " said he, magnanimously, "for cutting itout. It did sound like funny business; but it happened exactly as Iwrote it. Say, why don't you fish that story out of the w. -b. And useit? Seems to me it's as good as the tommyrot you write. "

I accepted the tip, and if you read further you will learn the factsabout the diamond of the goddess Kali as vouched for by one of themost reliable reporters on the staff. 

Gen. Marcellus B. Ludlow lives in one of those decaying butvenerated old red-brick mansions in the West Twenties. The Generalis a member of an old New York family that does not advertise. He isa globe-trotter by birth, a gentleman by predilection, a millionaireby the mercy of Heaven, and a connoisseur of precious stones byoccupation. 

The reporter was admitted promptly when he made himself known at theGeneral's residence at about eight thirty on the evening that hereceived the assignment. In the magnificent library he was greeted bythe distinguished traveller and connoisseur, a tall, erect gentlemanin the early fifties, with a nearly white moustache, and a bearing sosoldierly that one perceived in him scarcely a trace of the NationalGuardsman. His weather-beaten countenance lit up with a charming smileof interest when the reporter made known his errand. 

"Ah, you have heard of my latest find. I shall be glad to show youwhat I conceive to be one of the six most valuable blue diamonds inexistence. "

The General opened a small safe in a corner of the library and broughtforth a plush-covered box. Opening this, he exposed to the reporter'sbewildered gaze a huge and brilliant diamond--nearly as large as ahailstone. 

"This stone, " said the General, "is something more than a mere jewel. It once formed the central eye of the three-eyed goddess Kali, who isworshipped by one of the fiercest and most fanatical tribes of India. If you will arrange yourself comfortably I will give you a briefhistory of it for your paper. "

General Ludlow brought a decanter of whiskey and glasses from acabinet, and set a comfortable armchair for the lucky scribe. 

"The Phansigars, or Thugs, of India, " began the General, "are themost dangerous and dreaded of the tribes of North India. They areextremists in religion, and worship the horrid goddess Kali in theform of images. Their rites are interesting and bloody. The robbingand murdering of travellers are taught as a worthy and obligatorydeed by their strange religious code. Their worship of the three-eyedgoddess Kali is conducted so secretly that no traveller has everheretofore had the honour of witnessing the ceremonies. Thatdistinction was reserved for myself. 

"While at Sakaranpur, between Delhi and Khelat, I used to explore thejungle in every direction in the hope of learning something new aboutthese mysterious Phansigars. 

"One evening at twilight I was making my way through a teakwoodforest, when I came upon a deep circular depression in an open space, in the centre of which was a rude stone temple. I was sure that thiswas one of the temples of the Thugs, so I concealed myself in theundergrowth to watch. 

"When the moon rose the depression in the clearing was suddenly filledwith hundreds of shadowy, swiftly gliding forms. Then a door opened inthe temple, exposing a brightly illuminated image of the goddess Kali, before which a white-robed priest began a barbarous incantation, whilethe tribe of worshippers prostrated themselves upon the earth. 

"But what interested me most was the central eye of the huge woodenidol. I could see by its flashing brilliancy that it was an immensediamond of the purest water. 

"After the rites were concluded the Thugs slipped away into the forestas silently as they had come. The priest stood for a few minutes inthe door of the temple enjoying the cool of the night before closinghis rather warm quarters. Suddenly a dark, lithe shadow slipped downinto the hollow, leaped upon the priest; and struck him down with aglittering knife. Then the murderer sprang at the image of the goddesslike a cat and pried out the glowing central eye of Kali with hisweapon. Straight toward me he ran with his royal prize. When he waswithin two paces I rose to my feet and struck him with all my forcebetween the eyes. He rolled over senseless and the magnificent jewelfell from his hand. That is the splendid blue diamond you have justseen--a stone worthy of a monarch's crown. "

"That's a corking story, " said the reporter. "That decanter is exactlylike the one that John W. Gates always sets out during an interview. "

"Pardon me, " said General Ludlow, "for forgetting hospitality in theexcitement of my narrative. Help yourself. "

"Here's looking at you, " said the reporter. 

"What I am afraid of now, " said the General, lowering his voice, "isthat I may be robbed of the diamond. The jewel that formed an eye oftheir goddess is their most sacred symbol. Somehow the tribe suspectedme of having it; and members of the band have followed me half aroundthe earth. They are the most cunning and cruel fanatics in theworld, and their religious vows would compel them to assassinate theunbeliever who has desecrated their sacred treasure. 

"Once in Lucknow three of their agents, disguised as servants in ahotel, endeavoured to strangle me with a twisted cloth. Again, inLondon, two Thugs, made up as street musicians, climbed into my windowat night and attacked me. They have even tracked me to this country. My life is never safe. A month ago, while I was at a hotel in theBerkshires, three of them sprang upon me from the roadside weeds. Isaved myself then by my knowledge of their customs. "

"How was that, General?" asked the reporter. 

"There was a cow grazing near by, " said General Ludlow, "a gentleJersey cow. I ran to her side and stood. The three Thugs ceased theirattack, knelt and struck the ground thrice with their foreheads. Then, after many respectful salaams, they departed. "

"Afraid the cow would hook?" asked the reporter. 

"No; the cow is a sacred animal to the Phansigars. Next to theirgoddess they worship the cow. They have never been known to commit anydeed of violence in the presence of the animal they reverence. "

"It's a mighty interesting story, " said the reporter. "If you don'tmind I'll take another drink, and then a few notes. "

"I will join you, " said General Ludlow, with a courteous wave of hishand. 

"If I were you, " advised the reporter, "I'd take that sparkler toTexas. Get on a cow ranch there, and the Pharisees--"

"Phansigars, " corrected the General. 

"Oh, yes; the fancy guys would run up against a long horn every timethey made a break. "

General Ludlow closed the diamond case and thrust it into his bosom. 

"The spies of the tribe have found me out in New York, " he said, straightening his tall figure. "I'm familiar with the East Indian castof countenance, and I know that my every movement is watched. Theywill undoubtedly attempt to rob and murder me here. "

"Here?" exclaimed the reporter, seizing the decanter and pouring out aliberal amount of its contents. 

"At any moment, " said the General. "But as a soldier and a connoisseurI shall sell my life and my diamond as dearly as I can. "

At this point of the reporter's story there is a certain vagueness, but it can be gathered that there was a loud crashing noise at therear of the house they were in. General Ludlow buttoned his coatclosely and sprang for the door. But the reporter clutched him firmlywith one hand, while he held the decanter with the other. 

"Tell me before we fly, " he urged, in a voice thick with some inwardturmoil, "do any of your daughters contemplate going on the stage?"

"I have no daughters--fly for your life--the Phansigars are upon us!"cried the General. 

The two men dashed out of the front door of the house. 

The hour was late. As their feet struck the side-walk strange men ofdark and forbidding appearance seemed to rise up out of the earth andencompass them. One with Asiatic features pressed close to the Generaland droned in a terrible voice:

"Buy cast clo'!"

Another, dark-whiskered and sinister, sped lithely to his side andbegan in a whining voice:

"Say, mister, have yer got a dime fer a poor feller what--"

They hurried on, but only into the arms of a black-eyed, dusky-browedbeing, who held out his hat under their noses, while a confederate ofOriental hue turned the handle of a street organ near by. 

Twenty steps farther on General Ludlow and the reporter foundthemselves in the midst of half a dozen villainous-looking men withhigh-turned coat collars and faces bristling with unshaven beards. 

"Run for it!" hissed the General. "They have discovered the possessorof the diamond of the goddess Kali. "

The two men took to their heels. The avengers of the goddess pursued. 

"Oh, Lordy!" groaned the reporter, "there isn't a cow this side ofBrooklyn. We're lost!"

When near the corner they both fell over an iron object that rose fromthe sidewalk close to the gutter. Clinging to it desperately, theyawaited their fate. 

"If I only had a cow!" moaned the reporter--"or another nip from thatdecanter, General!"

As soon as the pursuers observed where their victims had found refugethey suddenly fell back and retreated to a considerable distance. 

"They are waiting for reinforcements in order to attack us, " saidGeneral Ludlow. 

But the reporter emitted a ringing laugh, and hurled his hattriumphantly into the air. 

"Guess again, " he shouted, and leaned heavily upon the iron object. "Your old fancy guys or thugs, whatever you call 'em, are up to date. Dear General, this is a pump we've stranded upon--same as a cow in NewYork (hic!) see? Thas'h why the 'nfuriated smoked guys don't attackus--see? Sacred an'mal, the pump in N' York, my dear General!"

But further down in the shadows of Twenty-eighth Street the marauderswere holding a parley. 

"Come on, Reddy, " said one. "Let's go frisk the old 'un. He's beenshowin' a sparkler as big as a hen egg all around Eighth Avenue fortwo weeks past. "

"Not on your silhouette, " decided Reddy. "You see 'em rallyin' roundThe Pump? They're friends of Bill's. Bill won't stand for nothin' ofthis kind in his district since he got that bid to Esopus. "

This exhausts the facts concerning the Kali diamond. But it is deemednot inconsequent to close with the following brief (paid) item thatappeared two days later in a morning paper. 

"It is rumored that a niece of Gen. Marcellus B. Ludlow, of New YorkCity, will appear on the stage next season. 

"Her diamonds are said to be extremely valuable and of much historicinterest. "

XXV

THE DAY WE CELEBRATE

"In the tropics" ("Hop-along" Bibb, the bird fancier, was saying tome) "the seasons, months, fortnights, week-ends, holidays, dog-days, Sundays, and yesterdays get so jumbled together in the shuffle thatyou never know when a year has gone by until you're in the middle ofthe next one. "

"Hop-along" Bibb kept his bird store on lower Fourth Avenue. He was anex-seaman and beachcomber who made regular voyages to southern portsand imported personally conducted invoices of talking parrots anddialectic paroquets. He had a stiff knee, neck, and nerve. I had goneto him to buy a parrot to present, at Christmas, to my Aunt Joanna. 

"This one, " said I, disregarding his homily on the subdivisions oftime--"this one that seems all red, white, and blue--to what genus ofbeasts does he belong? He appeals at once to my patriotism and to mylove of discord in colour schemes. "

"That's a cockatoo from Ecuador, " said Bibb. "All he has been taughtto say is 'Merry Christmas. ' A seasonable bird. He's only sevendollars; and I'll bet many a human has stuck you for more money bymaking the same speech to you. "

And then Bibb laughed suddenly and loudly. 

"That bird, " he explained, "reminds me. He's got his dates mixed. He ought to be saying '_E pluribus unum_, ' to match his feathers, instead of trying to work the Santa Claus graft. It reminds me of thetime me and Liverpool Sam got our ideas of things tangled up on thecoast of Costa Rica on account of the weather and other phenomena tobe met with in the tropics. 

"We were, as it were, stranded on that section of the Spanish mainwith no money to speak of and no friends that should be talked abouteither. We had stoked and second-cooked ourselves down there on afruit steamer from New Orleans to try our luck, which was discharged, after we got there, for lack of evidence. There was no work suitableto our instincts; so me and Liverpool began to subsist on the red rumof the country and such fruit as we could reap where we had not sown. It was an alluvial town, called Soledad, where there was no harbouror future or recourse. Between steamers the town slept and drank rum. It only woke up when there were bananas to ship. It was like a mansleeping through dinner until the dessert. 

"When me and Liverpool got so low down that the American consulwouldn't speak to us we knew we'd struck bed rock. 

"We boarded with a snuff-brown lady named Chica, who kept a rum-shopand a ladies' and gents' restaurant in a street called the _callede los_ Forty-seven Inconsolable Saints. When our credit playedout there, Liverpool, whose stomach overshadowed his sensations of_noblesse oblige_, married Chica. This kept us in rice and friedplantain for a month; and then Chica pounded Liverpool one morningsadly and earnestly for fifteen minutes with a casserole handed downfrom the stone age, and we knew that we had out-welcomed our liver. That night we signed an engagement with Don Jaime McSpinosa, a hybridbanana fancier of the place, to work on his fruit preserves nine milesout of town. We had to do it or be reduced to sea water and brokendoses of feed and slumber. 

"Now, speaking of Liverpool Sam, I don't malign or inexculpate himto you any more than I would to his face. But in my opinion, when anEnglishman gets as low as he can he's got to dodge so that the dregsof other nations don't drop ballast on him out of their balloons. Andif he's a Liverpool Englishman, why, fire-damp is what he's got tolook out for. Being a natural American, that's my personal view. ButLiverpool and me had much in common. We were without decorous clothesor ways and means of existence; and, as the saying goes, miserycertainly does enjoy the society of accomplices. 

"Our job on old McSpinosa's plantation was chopping down banana stalksand loading the bunches of fruit on the backs of horses. Then a nativedressed up in an alligator hide belt, a machete, and a pair of AAsheeting pajamas, drives 'em over to the coast and piles 'em up on thebeach. 

"You ever been in a banana grove? It's as solemn as a rathskeller atseven A. M. It's like being lost behind the scenes at one of thesemushroom musical shows. You can't see the sky for the foliage aboveyou; and the ground is knee deep in rotten leaves; and it's so stillthat you can hear the stalks growing again after you chop 'em down. 

"At night me and Liverpool herded in a lot of grass huts on the edgeof a lagoon with the red, yellow, and black employés of Don Jaime. There we lay fighting mosquitoes and listening to the monkeyssqualling and the alligators grunting and splashing in the lagoonuntil daylight with only snatches of sleep between times. 

"We soon lost all idea of what time of the year it was. It's justabout eighty degrees there in December and June and on Fridays and atmidnight and election day and any other old time. Sometimes it rainsmore than at others, and that's all the difference you notice. Aman is liable to live along there without noticing any fugiting oftempus until some day the undertaker calls in for him just when he'sbeginning to think about cutting out the gang and saving up a littleto invest in real estate. 

"I don't know how long we worked for Don Jaime; but it was through twoor three rainy spells, eight or ten hair cuts, and the life of threepairs of sail-cloth trousers. All the money we earned went for rum andtobacco; but we ate, and that was something. 

"All of a sudden one day me and Liverpool find the trade of committingsurgical operations on banana stalks turning to aloes and quinine inour mouths. It's a seizure that often comes upon white men in Latinand geographical countries. We wanted to be addressed again inlanguage and see the smoke of a steamer and read the real estatetransfers and gents' outfitting ads in an old newspaper. Even Soledadseemed like a centre of civilization to us, so that evening we putour thumbs on our nose at Don Jaime's fruit stand and shook his grassburrs off our feet. 

"It was only twelve miles to Soledad, but it took me and Liverpool twodays to get there. It was banana grove nearly all the way; and we gottwisted time and again. It was like paging the palm room of a New Yorkhotel for a man named Smith. 

"When we saw the houses of Soledad between the trees all mydisinclination toward this Liverpool Sam rose up in me. I stood himwhile we were two white men against the banana brindles; but now, whenthere were prospects of my exchanging even cuss words with an Americancitizen, I put him back in his proper place. And he was a sight, too, with his rum-painted nose and his red whiskers and elephant feet withleather sandals strapped to them. I suppose I looked about the same. 

"'It looks to me, ' says I, 'like Great Britain ought to be made tokeep such gin-swilling, scurvy, unbecoming mud larks as you at homeinstead of sending 'em over here to degrade and taint foreign lands. We kicked you out of America once and we ought to put on rubber bootsand do it again. '

"'Oh, you go to 'ell, ' says Liverpool, which was about all therepartee he ever had. 

"Well, Soledad, looked fine to me after Don Jaime 's plantation. Liverpool and me walked into it side by side, from force of habit, past the calabosa and the Hotel Grande, down across the plaza towardChica's hut, where we hoped that Liverpool, being a husband of hers, might work his luck for a meal. 

"As we passed the two-story little frame house occupied by theAmerican Club, we noticed that the balcony had been decorated allaround with wreaths of evergreens and flowers, and the flag wasflying from the pole on the roof. Stanzey, the consul, and Arkright, a gold-mine owner, were smoking on the balcony. Me and Liverpoolwaved our dirty hands toward 'em and smiled real society smiles; butthey turned their backs to us and went on talking. And we had playedwhist once with the two of 'em up to the time when Liverpool held allthirteen trumps for four hands in succession. It was some holiday, weknew; but we didn't know the day nor the year. 

"A little further along we saw a reverend man named Pendergast, whohad come to Soledad to build a church, standing under a cocoanut palmwith his little black alpaca coat and green umbrella. 

"'Boys, boys!' says he, through his blue spectacles, 'is it as bad asthis? Are you so far reduced?'

"'We're reduced, ' says I, 'to very vulgar fractions. '

"'It is indeed sad, ' says Pendergast, 'to see my countrymen in suchcircumstances. '

"'Cut 'arf of that out, old party, ' says Liverpool. 'Cawn't you tella member of the British upper classes when you see one?'

"'Shut up, ' I told Liverpool. 'You're on foreign soil now, or thatportion of it that's not on you. '

"'And on this day, too!' goes on Pendergast, grievous--'on this mostglorious day of the year when we should all be celebrating the dawn ofChristian civilization and the downfall of the wicked. '

"'I did notice bunting and bouquets decorating the town, reverend, 'says I, 'but I didn't know what it was for. We've been so long out oftouch with calendars that we didn't know whether it was summer time orSaturday afternoon. '

"'Here is two dollars, ' says Pendergast digging up two Chili silverwheels and handing 'em to me. 'Go, my men, and observe the rest of theday in a befitting manner. '

"Me and Liverpool thanked him kindly, and walked away. 

"'Shall we eat?' I asks. 

"'Oh, 'ell!' says Liverpool. 'What's money for?'

"'Very well, then, ' I says, 'since you insist upon it, we'll drink. '

"So we pull up in a rum shop and get a quart of it and go down on thebeach under a cocoanut tree and celebrate. 

"Not having eaten anything but oranges in two days, the rum hasimmediate effect; and once more I conjure up great repugnance towardthe British nation. 

"'Stand up here, ' I says to Liverpool, 'you scum of a despot limitedmonarchy, and have another dose of Bunker Hill. That good man, Mr. Pendergast, ' says I, 'said we were to observe the day in a befittingmanner, and I'm not going to see his money misapplied. '

"'Oh, you go to 'ell!' says Liverpool, and I started in with a fineleft-hander on his right eye. 

"Liverpool had been a fighter once, but dissipation and bad companyhad taken the nerve out of him. In ten minutes I had him lying on thesand waving the white flag. 

"'Get up, ' says I, kicking him in the ribs, 'and come along with me. '

"Liverpool got up and followed behind me because it was his habit, wiping the red off his face and nose. I led him to ReverendPendergast's shack and called him out. 

"'Look at this, sir, ' says I--'look at this thing that was once aproud Britisher. You gave us two dollars and told us to celebrate theday. The star-spangled banner still waves. Hurrah for the stars andeagles!'

"'Dear me, ' says Pendergast, holding up his hands. 'Fighting on thisday of all days! On Christmas day, when peace on--'

"'Christmas, hell!' says I. 'I thought it was the Fourth of July. '"

"Merry Christmas!" said the red, white, and blue cockatoo. 

"Take him for six dollars, " said Hop-along Bibb. "He's got his datesand colours mixed. "