THE PRINCE AND BETTY

by P. G. WODEHOUSE

[American edition]1912

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I THE CABLE FROM MERVO

II MERVO AND ITS OWNER

III JOHN

IV VIVE LE ROI

V MR. SCOBELL HAS ANOTHER IDEA

VI YOUNG ADAM CUPID

VII MR. SCOBELL IS FRANK

VIII AN ULTIMATUM FROM THE THRONE

IX MERVO CHANGES ITS CONSTITUTION

X MRS. OAKLEY

XI A LETTER OP INTRODUCTION

XII "PEACEFUL MOMENTS"

XIII BETTY MAKES A FRIEND

XIV A CHANGE OF POLICY

XV THE HONEYED WORD

XVI TWO VISITORS TO THE OFFICE

XVII THE MAN AT THE ASTOR

XVIII THE HIGHFIELD

XIX THE FIRST BATTLE

XX BETTY AT LARGE

XXI CHANGES IN THE STAFF

XXII A GATHERING OF CAT SPECIALISTS

XXIII THE RETIREMENT OF SMITH

XXIV THE CAMPAIGN QUICKENS

XXV CORNERED

XXVI JOURNEY'S END

XXVII A LEMON

XXVIII THE FINAL ATTEMPT

XXIX A REPRESENTATIVE GATHERING

XXX CONCLUSION

THE PRINCE AND BETTY

CHAPTER I

THE CABLE PROM MERVO

A pretty girl in a blue dress came out of the house, and began to walkslowly across the terrace to where Elsa Keith sat with Marvin Rossiterin the shade of the big sycamore. Elsa and Marvin had become engagedsome few days before, and were generally to be found at this timesitting together in some shaded spot in the grounds of the Keith's LongIsland home. 

"What's troubling Betty, I wonder, " said Elsa. "She looks worried. "

Marvin turned his head. 

"Is that your friend, Miss Silver?"

"That's Betty. We were at college together. I want you to like Betty. "

"Then I will. When did she arrive?"

"Last night. She's here for a month. What's the matter, Betty? This isMarvin. I want you to like Marvin. "

Betty Silver smiled. Her face, in repose, was rather wistful, but itlighted up when she smiled, and an unsuspected dimple came into beingon her chin. 

"Of course I shall, " she said. 

Her big gray eyes seemed to search Marvin's for an instant and Marvinhad, almost subconsciously, a comfortable feeling that he had beentested and found worthy. 

"What were you scowling at so ferociously, Betty?" asked Elsa. 

"Was I scowling? I hope you didn't think it was at you. Oh, Elsa, I'mmiserable! I shall have to leave this heavenly place. "

"Betty!"

"At once. And I was meaning to have the most lovely time. See what hascome!"

She held out some flimsy sheets of paper. 

"A cable!" said Elsa. 

"Great Scott! it looks like the scenario of a four-act play, " saidMarvin. "That's not all one cable, surely? Whoever sent it must be amillionaire. "

"He is. It's from my stepfather. Read it out, Elsa. I want Mr. Rossiterto hear it. He may be able to tell me where Mervo is. Did you ever hearof Mervo, Mr. Rossiter?"

"Never. What is it?"

"It's a place where my stepfather is, and where I've got to go. I docall it hard. Go on, Elsa. "

Elsa, who had been skimming the document with raised eyebrows, now readit out in its spacious entirety. 

 _On receipt of this come instantly Mervo without moment delay vital importance presence urgently required come wherever you are cancel engagements urgent necessity hustle have advised bank allow you draw any money you need expenses have booked stateroom Mauretania sailing Wednesday don't fail catch arrive Fishguard Monday train London sleep London catch first train Tuesday Dover now mind first train no taking root in London and spending a week shopping mid-day boat Dover Calais arrive Paris Tuesday evening Dine Paris catch train de luxe nine-fifteen Tuesday night for Marseilles have engaged sleeping coupe now mind Tuesday night no cutting loose around Paris stores you can do all that later on just now you want to get here right quick arrive Marseilles Wednesday morning boat Mervo Wednesday night will meet you Mervo now do you follow all that because if not cable at once and say which part of journey you don't understand now mind special points to be remembered firstly come instantly secondly no cutting loose around London Paris stores see. _

 _SCOBELL. _

"_Well!_" said Elsa, breathless. 

"By George!" said Marvin. "He certainly seems to want you badly enough. He hasn't spared expense. He has put in about everything you could putinto a cable. "

"Except why he wants me, " said Betty. 

"Yes, " said Elsa. "Why does he want you? And in such a desperate hurry, too!"

Marvin was re-reading the message. 

"It isn't a mere invitation, " he said. "There's nocome-right-along-you'll-like-this-place-it's-fine about it. He seems tolook on your company more as a necessity than a luxury. It's a sort ofimperious C. Q. D. "

"That's what makes it so strange. We have hardly met for years. Why, hedidn't even know where I was. The cable was sent to the bank andforwarded on. And I don't know where he is!"

"Which brings us back, " said Marvin, "to mysterious Mervo. Let usreason inductively. If you get to the place by taking a boat fromMarseilles, it can't be far from the French coast. I should say at aventure that Mervo is an island in the Mediterranean. And a smallisland for if it had been a big one we should have heard of it. "

"Marvin!" cried Elsa, her face beaming with proud affection. "Howclever you are!"

"A mere gift, " he said modestly. "I have been like that from a boy. " Hegot up from his chair. "Isn't there an encyclopaedia in the library, Elsa?"

"Yes, but it's an old edition. "

"It will probably touch on Mervo. I'll go and fetch it. "

As he crossed the terrace, Elsa turned quickly to Betty. 

"Well?" she said. 

Betty smiled at her. 

"He's a dear. Are you very happy, Elsa?"

Elsa's eyes danced. She drew in her breath softly. Betty looked at herin silence for a moment. The wistful expression was back on her face. 

"Elsa, " she said, suddenly. "What is it like? How does it feel, knowingthat there's someone who is fonder of you than anything--?"

Elsa closed her eyes. 

"It's like eating berries and cream in a new dress by moonlight on asummer night while somebody plays the violin far away in the distanceso that you can just hear it, " she said. 

Her eyes opened again. 

"And it's like coming along on a winter evening and seeing the windowslit up and knowing you've reached home. "

Betty was clenching her hands, and breathing quickly. 

"And it's like--"

"Elsa, don't! I can't bear it!"

"Betty! What's the matter?"

Betty smiled again, but painfully. 

"It's stupid of me. I'm just jealous, that's all. I haven't got aMarvin, you see. You have. "

"Well, there are plenty who would like to be your Marvin. "

Betty's face grew cold. 

"There are plenty who would like to be Benjamin Scobell's son-in-law, "she said. 

"Betty!" Elsa's voice was serious. "We've been friends for a good longtime, so you'll let me say something, won't you? I think you're gettingjust the least bit hard. Now turn and rend me, " she addedgood-humoredly. 

"I'm not going to rend you, " said Betty. "You're perfectly right. I amgetting hard. How can I help it? Do you know how many men have asked meto marry them since I saw you last? Five. "

"Betty!"

"And not one of them cared the slightest bit about me. "

"But, Betty, dear, that's just what I mean. Why should you say that?How can you know?"

"How do I know? Well, I do know. Instinct, I suppose. The instinct ofself-preservation which nature gives hunted animals. I can't think of asingle man in the world--except your Marvin, of course--who wouldn'tdo anything for money. " She stopped. "Well, yes, one. "

Elsa leaned forward eagerly. 

"Who, Betty?"

"You don't know him. "

"But what's his name?"

Betty hesitated. 

"Well, if I am on the witness-stand--Maude. "

"Maude? I thought you said a man?"

"It's his name. John Maude. "

"But, Betty! Why didn't you tell me before? This is tremendouslyinteresting. "

Betty laughed shortly. 

"Not so very, really. I only met him two or three times, and I haven'tseen him for years, and I don't suppose I shall ever see him again. Hewas a friend of Alice Beecher's brother, who was at Harvard. Alice tookme over to meet her brother, and Mr. Maude was there. That's all. "

Elsa was plainly disappointed. 

"But how do you know, then--? What makes you think that he--?"

"Instinct, again, I suppose. I do know. "

"And you've never met him since?"

Betty shook her head. Elsa relapsed into silence. She had a sense ofpathos. 

At the further end of the terrace Marvin Rossiter appeared, carrying alarge volume. 

"Here we are, " he said. "Scared it up at the first attempt. Now then. "

He sat down, and opened the book. 

"You don't want to hear all about how Jason went there in search of theGolden Fleece, and how Ulysses is supposed to have taken it in on hisround-trip? You want something more modern. Well, it's an island in theMediterranean, as I said, and I'm surprised that you've never heard ofit, Elsa, because it's celebrated in its way. It's the smallestindependent state in the world. Smaller than Monaco, even. Here aresome facts. Its population when this encyclopaedia was printed--theremay be more now--was eleven thousand and sixteen. It was ruled over upto 1886 by a prince. But in that year the populace appear to have saidto themselves, 'When in the course of human events.... ' Anyway, theyfired the prince, and the place is now a republic. So that's whereyou're going, Miss Silver. I don't know if it's any consolation to you, but the island, according to this gentleman, is celebrated for theunspoilt beauty of its scenery. He also gives a list of the fish thatcan be caught there. It takes up about three lines. "

"But what can my stepfather be doing there? I last heard of him inLondon. Well, I suppose I shall have to go. "

"I suppose you will, " said Elsa mournfully. "But, oh, Betty, what ashame!"

CHAPTER II

MERVO AND ITS OWNER

"By heck!" cried Mr. Benjamin Scobell. 

He wheeled round from the window, and transferred his gaze from theview to his sister Marion; losing by the action, for the view was a joyto the eye, which his sister Marion was not. 

Mervo was looking its best under the hot morning sun. Mr. Scobell'svilla stood near the summit of the only hill the island possessed, andfrom the window of the morning-room, where he had just finishedbreakfast, he had an uninterrupted view of valley, town, and harbor--atwo-mile riot of green, gold and white, and beyond the white the bluesatin of the Mediterranean. Mr. Scobell did not read poetry except thatwhich advertised certain breakfast foods in which he was interested, orhe might have been reminded of the Island of Flowers in Tennyson's"Voyage of Maeldive. " Violets, pinks, crocuses, yellow and purplemesembryanthemum, lavender, myrtle, and rosemary ... His two-mile viewcontained them all. The hillside below him was all aglow with theyellow fire of the mimosa. But his was not one of those emotionalnatures to which the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts thatdo often lie too deep for tears. A primrose by the river's brim asimple primrose was to him--or not so much a simple primrose, perhaps, as a basis for a possible Primrosina, the Soap that Really Cleans You. 

He was a nasty little man to hold despotic sway over such a Paradise: agoblin in Fairyland. Somewhat below the middle height, he was lean ofbody and vulturine of face. He had a greedy mouth, a hooked nose, liquid green eyes and a sallow complexion. He was rarely seen without ahalf-smoked cigar between his lips. This at intervals he would relight, only to allow it to go out again; and when, after numerous freshstarts, it had dwindled beyond the limits of convenience, he wouldsubstitute another from the reserve supply that protruded from hisvest-pocket. 

 * * * * *

How Benjamin Scobell had discovered the existence of Mervo is notknown. It lay well outside the sphere of the ordinary financier. ButMr. Scobell took a pride in the versatility of his finance. Itdistinguished him from the uninspired who were content to concentratethemselves on steel, wheat and such-like things. It was Mr. Scobell'sway to consider nothing as lying outside his sphere. In a financialsense he might have taken Terence's _Nihil humanum alienum_ as hismotto. He was interested in innumerable enterprises, great and small. He was the power behind a company which was endeavoring, without muchsuccess, to extract gold from the mountains of North Wales, and anotherwhich was trying, without any success at all, to do the same by seawater. He owned a model farm in Indiana, and a weekly paper in NewYork. He had financed patent medicines, patent foods, patent corks, patent corkscrews, patent devices of all kinds, some profitable, somethe reverse. 

Also--outside the ordinary gains of finance--he had expectations. Hewas the only male relative of his aunt, the celebrated Mrs. JaneOakley, who lived in a cottage on Staten Island, and was reputed tospend five hundred dollars a year--some said less--out of her snugincome of eighteen million. She was an unusual old lady in many ways, and, unfortunately, unusually full of deep-rooted prejudices. The fearlest he might inadvertently fall foul of these rarely ceased to hauntMr. Scobell. 

This man of many projects had descended upon Mervo like a stone on thesurface of some quiet pool, bubbling over with modern enterprise ingeneral and, in particular, with a scheme. Before his arrival, Mervohad been an island of dreams and slow movement and putting things offtill to-morrow. The only really energetic thing it had ever done in itswhole history had been to expel his late highness, Prince Charles, andchange itself into a republic. And even that had been done with theminimum of fuss. The Prince was away at the time. Indeed, he had beenaway for nearly three years, the pleasures of Paris, London and Viennaappealing to him more keenly than life among his subjects. Mervo, having thought the matter over during these years, decided that it hadno further use for Prince Charles. Quite quietly, with none of thatvulgar brawling which its neighbor, France, had found necessary insimilar circumstances, it had struck his name off the pay-roll, anddeclared itself a republic. The royalist party, headed by GeneralPoineau, had been distracted but impotent. The army, one hundred andfifteen strong, had gone solid for the new regime, and that had settledit. Mervo had then gone to sleep again. It was asleep when Mr. Scobellfound it. 

The financier's scheme was first revealed to M. D'Orby, the Presidentof the Republic, a large, stout statesman with even more than theaverage Mervian instinct for slumber. He was asleep in a chair on theporch of his villa when Mr. Scobell paid his call, and it was not untilthe financier's secretary, who attended the seance in the capacity ofinterpreter, had rocked him vigorously from side to side for quite aminute that he displayed any signs of animation beyond a snore like thegrowling of distant thunder. When at length he opened his eyes, heperceived the nightmare-like form of Mr. Scobell standing before him, talking. The financier, impatient of delay, had begun to talk somemoments before the great awakening. 

"Sir, " Mr. Scobell was saying, "I gotta proposition to which I'd likeyou to give your complete attention. Shake him some more, Crump. Sir, there's big money in it for all of us, if you and your crowd'll sit in. Money. _Lar' monnay_. No, that means change. What's money, Crump?_Arjong_? There's _arjong_ in it, Squire. Get that? Oh, shucks!Hand it to him in French, Crump. "

Mr. Secretary Crump translated. The President blinked, and intimatedthat he would hear more. Mr. Scobell relighted his cigar-stump, andproceeded. 

"Say, you've heard of _Moosieer_ Blonk? Ask the old skeesicks ifhe's ever heard of _Mersyaw_ Blonk, Crump, the feller who startedthe gaming-tables at Monte Carlo. "

Filtered through Mr. Crump, the question became intelligible to thePresident. He said he had heard of M. Blanc. Mr. Crump caught the replyand sent it on to Mr. Scobell, as the man on first base catches theball and throws it to second. 

Mr. Scobell relighted his cigar. 

"Well, I'm in that line. I'm going to put this island on the map justlike old Doctor Blonk put Monte Carlo. I've been studying up all aboutthe old man, and I know just what he did and how he did it. Monte Carlowas just such another jerkwater little place as this is before he hitit. The government was down to its last bean and wondering where theHeck its next meal-ticket was coming from, when in blows Mr. Man, tucksup his shirt-sleeves, and starts the tables. And after that the placenever looked back. You and your crowd gotta get together and pass avote to give me a gambling concession here, same as they did him. Scobell's my name. Hand him that, Crump. "

Mr. Crump obliged once more. A gleam of intelligence came into thePresident's dull eye. He nodded once or twice. He talked volubly inFrench to Mr. Crump, who responded in the same tongue. 

"The idea seems to strike him, sir, " said Mr. Crump. 

"It ought to, if he isn't a clam, " replied Mr. Scobell. He started torelight his cigar, but after scorching the tip of his nose, bowed tothe inevitable and threw the relic away. 

"See here, " he said, having bitten the end off the next in order; "I'vethought this thing out from soup to nuts. There's heaps of room foranother Monte Carlo. Monte's a dandy place, but it's not perfect by along way. To start with, it's hilly. You have to take the elevator toget to the Casino, and when you've gotten to the end of your roll andwant to soak your pearl pin, where's the hock-shop? Half a mile away upthe side of a mountain. It ain't right. In my Casino there's going tobe a resident pawnbroker inside the building, just off the mainentrance. That's only one of a heap of improvements. Another is that myCasino's scheduled to be a home from home, a place you can be real cosyin. You'll look around you, and the only thing you'll miss will bemother's face. Yes, sir, there's no need for a gambling Casino to lookand feel and smell like the reading-room at the British Museum. Comfort, coziness and convenience. That's the ticket I'm running on. Slip that to the old gink, Crump. "

A further outburst of the French language from Mr. Crump, supplementedon the part of the "old gink" by gesticulations, interrupted theproceedings. 

"What's he saying now?" asked Mr. Scobell. 

"He wants to know--"

"Don't tell. Let me guess. He wants to know what sort of a rake-off heand the other somnambulists will get--the darned old pirate! Is thatit?"

Mr. Crump said that that was just it. 

"That'll be all right, " said Mr. Scobell. "Old man Blong's offer to thePrince of Monaco was five hundred thousand francs a year--that'ssomewhere around a hundred thousand dollars in real money--and half theprofits made by the Casino. That's my offer, too. See how that hitshim, Crump. "

Mr. Crump investigated. 

"He says he accepts gladly, on behalf of the Republic, sir, " heannounced. 

M. D'Orby confirmed the statement by rising, dodging the cigar, andkissing Mr. Scobell on both cheeks. 

"Cut it out, " said the financier austerely, breaking out of the clinch. "We'll take the Apache Dance as read. Good-by, Squire. Glad it'ssettled. Now I can get busy. "

He did. Workmen poured into Mervo, and in a very short time, dominatingthe town and reducing to insignificance the palace of the late Prince, once a passably imposing mansion, there rose beside the harbor amammoth Casino of shining stone. 

Imposing as was the exterior, it was on the interior that Mr. Scobellmore particularly prided himself, and not without reason. Certainly, aman with money to lose could lose it here under the most charmingconditions. It had been Mr. Scobell's object to avoid the cheerlessgrandeur of the rival institution down the coast. Instead of one largehall sprinkled with tables, each table had a room to itself, separatedfrom its neighbor by sound-proof folding-doors. And as the buildingprogressed, Mr. Scobell's active mind had soared above the originalidea of domestic coziness to far greater heights of ingenuity. Each ofthe rooms was furnished and arranged in a different style. The note ofindividuality extended even to the _croupiers_. Thus, a man withmoney at his command could wander from the Dutch room, where, in thepicturesque surroundings of a Dutch kitchen, _croupiers_ in thecostume of Holland ministered to his needs, to the Japanese room, wherehis coin would be raked in by quite passable imitations of the Samurai. If he had any left at this point, he was free to dispose of it underthe auspices of near-Hindoos in the Indian room, of merry Swisspeasants in the Swiss room, or in other appropriately furnishedapartments of red-shirted, Bret Harte miners, fur-clad Esquimaux, orlanguorous Spaniards. He could then, if a man of spirit, who did notknow when he was beaten, collect the family jewels, and proceed downthe main hall, accompanied by the strains of an excellent band, to theoffice of a gentlemanly pawnbroker, who spoke seven languages like anative and was prepared to advance money on reasonable security in allof them. 

It was a colossal venture, but it suffered from the defect from whichmost big things suffer; it moved slowly. That it also moved steadilywas to some extent a consolation to Mr. Scobell. Undoubtedly it wouldprogress quicker and quicker, as time went on, until at length theCasino became a permanent gold mine. But at present it was beingconducted at a loss. It was inevitable, but it irked Mr. Scobell. Hepaced the island and brooded. His mind dwelt incessantly on theproblem. Ideas for promoting the prosperity of his nursling came to himat all hours--at meals, in the night watches, when he was shaving, walking, washing, reading, brushing his hair. 

And now one had come to him as he stood looking at the view from thewindow of his morning-room, listening absently to his sister Marion asshe read stray items of interest from the columns of the _New YorkHerald_, and had caused him to utter the exclamation recorded at thebeginning of the chapter. 

 * * * * *

"By Heck!" he said. "Read that again, Marion. I gottan idea. "

Miss Scobell, deep in her paper, paid no attention. Few people wouldhave taken her for the sister of the financier. She was his exactopposite in almost every way. He was small, jerky and aggressive; she, tall, deliberate and negative. She was one of those women whom natureseems to have produced with the object of attaching them to some man ina peculiar position of independent dependence, and who defy theimagination to picture them in any other condition whatsoever. Onecould not see Miss Scobell doing anything but pour out her brother'scoffee, darn his socks, and sit placidly by while he talked. Yet itwould have been untrue to describe her as dependent upon him. She had adetached mind. Though her whole life had been devoted to his comfortand though she admired him intensely, she never appeared to give hisconversation any real attention. She listened to him much as she wouldhave listened to a barking Pomeranian. 

"Marion!" cried Mr. Scobell. 

"A five-legged rabbit has been born in Carbondale, Southern Illinois, "she announced. 

Mr. Scobell cursed the five-legged rabbit. 

"Never mind about your rabbits. I want to hear that piece you readbefore. The one about the Prince of Monaco. Will--you--listen, Marion!"

"The Prince of Monaco, dear? Yes. He has caught another fish orsomething of that sort, I think. Yes. A fish with 'telescope eyes, ' thepaper says. And very convenient too, I should imagine. "

Mr. Scobell thumped the table. 

"I've got it. I've found out what's the matter with this darned place. I see why the Casino hasn't struck its gait. "

"_I_ think it must be the _croupiers_, dear. I'm sure I neverheard of _croupiers_ in fancy costume before. It doesn't seemright. I'm sure people don't like those nasty Hindoos. I am quitenervous myself when I go into the Indian room. They look at me sooddly. "

"Nonsense! That's the whole idea of the place, that it should bedifferent. People are sick and tired of having their money gathered inby seedy-looking Dagoes in second-hand morning coats. We give 'emvariety. It's not the Casino that's wrong: it's the darned island. What's the use of a republic to a place like this? I'm not saying thatyou don't want a republic for a live country that's got its way to makein the world; but for a little runt of a sawn-off, hobo, one-nightstand like this you gotta have something picturesque, something that'lladvertise the place, something that'll give a jolt to folks' curiosity, and make 'em talk! There's this Monaco gook. He snoops around in hisyacht, digging up telescope-eyed fish, and people talk about it. 'Another darned fish, ' they say. 'That's the 'steenth bite the Prince ofMonaco has had this year. ' It's like a soap advertisement. It works bysuggestion. They get to thinking about the Prince and his pop-eyedfishes, and, first thing they know, they've packed their grips and comealong to Monaco to have a peek at him. And when they're there, it's asafe bet they aren't going back again without trying to get a mess ofeasy money from the Bank. That's what this place wants. Whoever heardof this blamed Republic doing anything except eat and sleep? They usedto have a prince here 'way back in eighty-something. Well, I'm going tohave him working at the old stand again, right away. "

Miss Scobell looked up from her paper, which she had been reading withabsorbed interest throughout tins harangue. 

"Dear?" she said enquiringly. 

"I say I'm going to have him back again, " said Mr. Scobell, a littledamped. "I wish you would listen. "

"I think you're quite right, dear. Who?"

"The Prince. Do listen, Marion. The Prince of this island, HisHighness, the Prince of Mervo. I'm going to send for him and put him onthe throne again. "

"You can't, dear. He's dead. "

"I know he's dead. You can't faze me on the history of this place. Hedied in ninety-one. But before he died he married an American girl, andthere's a son, who's in America now, living with his uncle. It's theson I'm going to send for. I got it all from General Poineau. He's aroyalist. He'll be tickled to pieces when Johnny comes marching homeagain. Old man Poineau told me all about it. The Prince married a girlcalled Westley, and then he was killed in an automobile accident, andhis widow went back to America with the kid, to live with her brother. Poineau says he could lay his hand on him any time he pleased. "

"I hope you won't do anything rash, dear, " said his sister comfortably. "I'm sure we don't want any horrid revolution here, with peopleshooting and stabbing each other. "

"Revolution?" cried Mr. Scobell. "Revolution! Well, I should say nix!Revolution nothing. I'm the man with the big stick in Mervo. Prettynear every adult on this island is dependent on my Casino for hisweekly envelope, and what I say goes--without argument. I want aprince, so I gotta have a prince, and if any gazook makes a noise likea man with a grouch, he'll find himself fired. "

Miss Scobell turned to her paper again. 

"Very well, dear, " she said. "Just as you please. I'm sure you knowbest. "

"Sure!" said her brother. "You're a good guesser. I'll go and beat upold man Poineau right away. "

CHAPTER III

JOHN

Ten days after Mr. Scobell's visit to General Poineau, John, Prince ofMervo, ignorant of the greatness so soon to be thrust upon him, wasstrolling thoughtfully along one of the main thoroughfares of thatoutpost of civilization, Jersey City. He was a big young man, tall andlarge of limb. His shoulders especially were of the massive typeexpressly designed by nature for driving wide gaps in the opposing lineon the gridiron. He looked like one of nature's center-rushes, and had, indeed, played in that position for Harvard during two strenuousseasons. His face wore an expression of invincible good-humor. He had awide, good-natured mouth, and a pair of friendly gray eyes. One feltthat he liked his follow men and would be surprised and pained if theydid not like him. 

As he passed along the street, he looked a little anxious. SherlockHolmes--and possibly even Doctor Watson--would have deduced that he hadsomething on his conscience. 

At the entrance to a large office building, he paused, and seemed tohesitate. Then, as if he had made up his mind to face an ordeal, hewent in and pressed the button of the elevator. 

Leaving the elevator at the third floor, he went down the passage, andpushed open a door on which was inscribed the legend, "Westley, Martin& Co. "

A stout youth, walking across the office with his hands full of papers, stopped in astonishment. 

"Hello, John Maude!" he cried. 

The young man grinned. 

"Say, where have you been? The old man's been as mad as a hornet sincehe found you had quit without leave. He was asking for you just now. "

"I guess I'm up against it, " admitted John cheerfully. 

"Where did you go yesterday?"

John put the thing to him candidly, as man to man. 

"See here, Spiller, suppose you got up one day and found it was aperfectly bully morning, and remembered that the Giants were playingthe Athletics, and looked at your mail, and saw that someone had sentyou a pass for the game--"

"Were you at the ball-game? You've got the nerve! Didn't you know therewould be trouble?"

"Old man, " said John frankly, "I could no more have turned down thatpass-- Oh, well, what's the use? It was just great. I suppose I'dbetter tackle the boss now. It's got to be done. "

It was not a task to which many would have looked forward. Most ofthose who came into contact with Andrew Westley were afraid of him. Hewas a capable rather than a lovable man, and too self-controlled to bequite human. There was no recoil in him, no reaction after anger, asthere would have been in a hotter-tempered man. He thought before heacted, but, when he acted, never yielded a step. 

John, in all the years of their connection, had never been able to makeanything of him. At first, he had been prepared to like him, as heliked nearly everybody. But Mr. Westley had discouraged all advances, and, as time went by, his nephew had come to look on him as somethingapart from the rest of the world, one of those things which no fellowcould understand. 

On Mr. Westley's side, there was something to be said in extenuation ofhis attitude. John reminded him of his father, and he had hated thelate Prince of Mervo with a cold hatred that had for a time been theruling passion of his life. He had loved his sister, and her marriedlife had been one long torture to him, a torture rendered keener by thefact that he was powerless to protect either her happiness or hermoney. Her money was her own, to use as she pleased, and the use whichpleased her most was to give it to her husband, who could always find away of spending it. As to her happiness, that was equally out of hiscontrol. It was bound up in her Prince, who, unfortunately, was a badcustodian for it. At last, an automobile accident put an end to HisHighness's hectic career (and, incidentally, to that of a blonde ladyfrom the _Folies Bergeres_), and the Princess had returned to herbrother's home, where, a year later, she died, leaving him in charge ofher infant son. 

Mr. Westley's desire from the first had been to eliminate as far aspossible all memory of the late Prince. He gave John his sister's name, Maude, and brought him up as an American, in total ignorance of hisfather's identity. During all the years they had spent together, he hadnever mentioned the Prince's name. 

He disliked John intensely. He fed him, clothed him, sent him tocollege, and gave him a place in his office, but he never for a momentrelaxed his bleakness of front toward him. John was not unlike hisfather in appearance, though built on a larger scale, and, as time wenton, little mannerisms, too, began to show themselves, that reminded Mr. Westley of the dead man, and killed any beginnings of affection. 

John, for his part, had the philosophy which goes with perfect health. He fitted his uncle into the scheme of things, or, rather, set himoutside them as an irreconcilable element, and went on his way enjoyinglife in his own good-humored fashion. 

It was only lately, since he had joined the firm, that he had beenconscious of any great strain. College had given him a glimpse of alarger life, and the office cramped him. He felt vaguely that therewere bigger things in the world which he might be doing. His bestfriends, of whom he now saw little, were all men of adventure andenterprise, who had tried their hand at many things; men like JimmyPitt, who had done nearly everything that could be done before cominginto an unexpected half-million; men like Rupert Smith, who had been atHarvard with him and was now a reporter on the _News_; men likeBaker, Faraday, Williams--he could name half-a-dozen, all men who were_doing_ something, who were out on the firing line. 

He was not a man who worried. He had not that temperament. Butsometimes he would wonder in rather a vague way whether he was notallowing life to slip by him a little too placidly. An occasionalyearning for something larger would attack him. There seemed to besomething in him that made for inaction. His soul was sleepy. 

If he had been told of the identity of his father, it is possible thathe might have understood. The Princes of Mervo had never taken readilyto action and enterprise. For generations back, if they had varied atall, son from father, it had been in the color of hair or eyes, not incharacter--a weak, shiftless procession, with nothing to distinguishthem from the common run of men except good looks and a talent forwasting money. 

John was the first of the line who had in him the seeds of betterthings. The Westley blood and the bracing nature of his education haddone much to counteract the Mervo strain. He did not know it, but theAmerican in him was winning. The desire for action was growing steadilyevery day. 

It had been Mervo that had sent him to the polo grounds on the previousday. That impulse had been purely Mervian. No prince of that island hadever resisted a temptation. But it was America that was sending him nowto meet his uncle with a quiet unconcern as to the outcome of theinterview. The spirit of adventure was in him. It was more thanpossible that Mr. Westley would sink the uncle in the employer anddismiss him as summarily as he would have dismissed any other clerk insimilar circumstances. If so, he was prepared to welcome dismissal. Other men fought an unsheltered fight with the world, so why not he?

He moved towards the door of the inner office with a certainexhilaration. 

As he approached, it flew open, disclosing Mr. Westley himself, a tall, thin man, at the sight of whom Spiller shot into his seat like arabbit. 

John went to meet him. 

"Ah, " said Mr. Westley; "come in here. I want to speak to you. "

John followed him into the room. 

"Sit down, " said his uncle. 

John waited while he dictated a letter. Neither spoke till thestenographer had left the room. John met the girl's eye as she passed. There was a compassionate look in it. John was popular with his fellowemployes. His absence had been the cause of discussion and speculationamong them, and the general verdict had been that there would betroublous times for him on the morrow. 

When the door closed, Mr. Westley leaned back in his chair, andregarded his nephew steadily from under a pair of bushy gray eyebrowswhich lent a sort of hypnotic keenness to his gaze. 

"You were at the ball-game yesterday?" he said. 

The unexpectedness of the question startled John into a sharp laugh. 

"Yes, " he said, recovering himself. 

"Without leave. "

"It didn't seem worth while asking for leave. "

"You mean that you relied so implicitly on our relationship to save youfrom the consequences?"

"No, I meant--"

"Well, we need not try and discover what you may have meant. What claimdo you put forward for special consideration? Why should I treat youdifferently from any other member of the staff?"

John had a feeling that the interview was being taken at too rapid apace. He felt confused. 

"I don't want you to treat me differently, " he said. 

Mr. Westley did not reply. John saw that he had taken a check-book fromits pigeonhole. 

"I think we understand each other, " said Mr. Westley. "There is no needfor any discussion. I am writing you a check for ten thousanddollars--"

"Ten thousand dollars!"

"It happens to be your own. It was left to me in trust for you by yourmother. By a miracle your father did not happen to spend it. "

John caught the bitter note which the other could not keep out of hisvoice, and made one last attempt to probe this mystery. As a boy he hadtried more than once before he realized that this was a forbiddentopic. 

"Who was my father?" he said. 

Mr. Westley blotted the check carefully. 

"Quite the worst blackguard I ever had the misfortune to know, " hereplied in an even tone. "Will you kindly give me a receipt for this?Then I need not detain you. You may return to the ball-game without anyfurther delay. Possibly, " he went on, "you may wonder why you have notreceived this money before. I persuaded your mother to let me use mydiscretion in choosing the time when it should be handed over to you. Idecided to wait until, in my opinion, you had sense enough to use itproperly. I do not think that time has arrived. I do not think it willever arrive. But as we are parting company and shall, I hope, nevermeet again, you had better have it now. "

John signed the receipt in silence. 

"Thank you, " said Mr. Westley. "Good-by. "

At the door John hesitated. He had looked forward to this moment as oneof excitement and adventure, but now that it had come it had left himin anything but an uplifted mood. He was naturally warm-hearted, andhis uncle's cold anger hurt him. It was so different from anythingsudden, so essentially not of the moment. He felt instinctively that ithad been smoldering for a long time, and realized with a shock that hisuncle had not been merely indifferent to him all these years, but hadactually hated him. It was as if he had caught a glimpse of somethingugly. He felt that this was the last scene of some long drawn-outtragedy. 

Something made him turn impulsively back towards the desk. 

"Uncle--" he cried. 

He stopped. The hopelessness of attempting any step towards a betterunderstanding overwhelmed him. Mr. Westley had begun to write. He musthave seen John's movement, but he continued to write as if he werealone in the room. 

John turned to the door again. 

"Good-by, " he said. 

Mr. Westley did not look up. 

CHAPTER IV

VIVE LE ROI!

When, an hour later, John landed in New York from the ferry, his moodhad changed. The sun and the breeze had done their work. He looked onlife once more with a cheerful and optimistic eye. 

His first act, on landing, was to proceed to the office of the_News_ and enquire for Rupert Smith. He felt that he had urgentneed of a few minutes' conversation with him. Now that the painter hadbeen definitely cut that bound him to the safe and conventional, and hehad set out on his own account to lead the life adventurous, he wasconscious of an absurd diffidence. New York looked different to him. Itmade him feel positively shy. A pressing need for a friendly native inthis strange land manifested itself. Smith would have ideas and adviceto bestow--he was notoriously prolific of both--and in this crisis bothwere highly necessary. 

Smith, however, was not at the office. He had gone out, John wasinformed, earlier in the morning to cover a threatened strike somewheredown on the East Side. John did not go in search of him. The chance offinding him in that maze of mean streets was remote. He decided to gouptown, select a hotel, and lunch. To the need for lunch he attributeda certain sinking sensation of which he was becoming more and moreaware, and which bore much too close a resemblance to dismay to bepleasant. The poet's statement that "the man who's square, his chancesalways are best; no circumstance can shoot a scare into the contents ofhis vest, " is only true within limits. The squarest men, depositedsuddenly in New York and faced with the prospect of earning his livingthere, is likely to quail for a moment. New York is not like othercities. London greets the stranger with a sleepy grunt. Paris giggles. New York howls. A gladiator, waiting in the center of the arena whilethe Colosseum officials fumbled with the bolts of the door behind whichpaced the noisy tiger he was to fight, must have had some of theemotions which John experienced during his first hour as a masterlessman in Gotham. 

A surface car carried him up Broadway. At Times Square the Astor Hotelloomed up on the left. It looked a pretty good hotel to John. Hedismounted. 

Half an hour later he decided that he was acclimated. He had secured abase of operations in the shape of a room on the seventh floor, hischeck was safely deposited in the hotel bank, and he was half-waythrough a lunch which had caused him already to look on New York notonly as the finest city in the world, but also, on the whole, as theone city of all others in which a young man might make a fortune withthe maximum of speed and the minimum of effort. 

After lunch, having telegraphed his address to his uncle in case ofmail, he took the latter's excellent advice and went to the pologrounds. Returning in time to dress, he dined at the hotel, after whichhe visited a near-by theater, and completed a pleasant and strenuousday at one of those friendly restaurants where the music is continuousand the waiters are apt to burst into song in the intervals of theirother duties. 

A second attempt to find Smith next morning failed, as the first haddone. The staff of the News were out of bed and at work ridiculouslyearly, and when John called up the office between eleven and twelveo'clock--nature's breakfast-hour--Smith was again down East, observingthe movements of those who were about to strike or who had alreadystruck. 

It hardly seemed worth while starting to lay the bed plates of hisfortune till he had consulted the expert. What would Rockefeller havedone? He would, John felt certain, have gone to the ball-game. 

He imitated the great financier. 

 * * * * *

It was while he was smoking a cigar after dinner that night, musing onthe fortunes of the day's game and, in particular, on the almostcriminal imbecility of the umpire, that he was dreamily aware that hewas being "paged. " A small boy in uniform was meandering through theroom, chanting his name. 

"Gent wants five minutes wit' you, " announced the boy, intercepted. "Hasn't got no card. Business, he says. "

This disposed of the idea that Rupert Smith had discovered his retreat. John was puzzled. He could not think of another person in New York whoknew of his presence at the Astor. But it was the unknown that he wasin search of, and he decided to see the mysterious stranger. 

"Send him along, " he said. 

The boy disappeared, and presently John observed him threading his wayback among the tables, followed by a young man of extraordinary gravityof countenance, who was looking about him with an intent gaze through apair of gold-rimmed spectacles. 

John got up to meet him. 

"My name is Maude, " he said. "Won't you sit down? Have you had dinner?"

"Thank you, yes, " said the spectacled young man. 

"You'll have a cigar and coffee, then?"

"Thank you, yes. "

The young man remained silent until the waiter had filled his cup. 

"My name is Crump, " he said. "I am Mr. Benjamin Scobell's privatesecretary. "

"Yes?" said John. "Snug job?"

The other seemed to miss something in his voice. 

"You have heard of Mr. Scobell?" he asked. 

"Not to my knowledge, " said John. 

"Ah! you have lost touch very much with Mervo, of course. "

John stared. 

"Mervo?"

It sounded like some patent medicine. 

"I have been instructed, " said Mr. Crump solemnly, "to inform YourHighness that the Republic has been dissolved, and that your subjectsoffer you the throne of your ancestors. "

John leaned back in his chair, and looked at the speaker in dumbamazement. The thought flashed across him that Mr. Crump had beenperfectly correct in saying that he had dined. 

His attitude appeared to astound Mr. Crump. He goggled through hisspectacles at John, who was reminded of some rare fish. 

"You are John Maude? You said you were. "

"I'm John Maude right enough. We're solid on that point. "

"And your mother was the only sister of Mr. Andrew Westley?"

"You're right there, too. "

"Then there is no mistake. I say the Republic--" He paused, as ifstruck with an idea. "Don't you know?" he said. "Your father--"

John became suddenly interested. 

"If you've got anything to tell me about my father, go right ahead. You'll be the only man I've ever met who has said a word about him. Whothe deuce was he, anyway?"

Mr. Crump's face cleared. 

"I understand. I had not expected this. You have been kept inignorance. Your father, Mr. Maude, was the late Prince Charles ofMervo. "

It was not easy to astonish John, but this announcement did so. Hedropped his cigar in a shower of gray ash on to his trousers, andretrieved it almost mechanically, his wide-open eyes fixed on theother's face. 

"What!" he cried. 

Mr. Crump nodded gravely. 

"You are Prince John of Mervo, and I am here--" he got into his strideas he reached the familiar phrase--"to inform Your Highness that theRepublic has been dissolved, and that your subjects offer you thethrone of your ancestors. "

A horrid doubt seized John. 

"You're stringing me. One of those Indians at the _News_, RupertSmith, or someone, has put you up to this. "

Mr. Crump appeared wounded. 

"If Your Highness would glance at these documents-- This is a copyof the register of the church in which your mother and father weremarried. "

John glanced at the document. It was perfectly lucid. 

"Then--then it's true!" he said. 

"Perfectly true, Your Highness. And I am here to inform--"

"But where the deuce is Mervo? I never heard of the place. "

"It is an island principality in the Mediterranean, Your High--"

"For goodness' sake, old man, don't keep calling me 'Your Highness. ' Itmay be fun to you, but it makes me feel a perfect ass. Let me get intothe thing gradually. "

Mr. Crump felt in his pocket. 

"Mr. Scobell, " he said, producing a roll of bills, "entrusted me withmoney to defray any expenses--"

More than any words, this spectacle removed any lingering doubt whichJohn might have had as to the possibility of this being some intricatepractical joke. 

"Are these for me?" he said. 

Mr. Crump passed them across to him. 

"There are a thousand dollars here, " he said. "I am also instructed tosay that you are at liberty to draw further against Mr. Scobell'saccount at the Wall Street office of the European and Asiatic Bank. "

The name Scobell had been recurring like a _leit-motif_ in Mr. Crump's conversation. This suddenly came home to John. 

"Before we go any further, " he said, "let's get one thing clear. Who isthis Mr. Scobell? How does he get mixed up in this?"

"He is the proprietor of the Casino at Mervo. "

"He seems to be one of those generous, open-handed fellows. Nothing ofthe tight wad about him. "

"He is deeply interested in Your High--in your return. "

John laid the roll of bills beside his coffee cup, and relighted hiscigar. 

"That's mighty good of him, " he said. "It strikes me, old man, that Iam not absolutely up-to-date as regards the internal affairs of thisimportant little kingdom of mine. How would it be if you were to put menext to one or two facts? Start at the beginning and go right on. "

When Mr. Crump had finished a condensed history of Mervo and Mervianpolitics, John smoked in silence for some minutes. 

"Life, Crump, " he said at last, "is certainly speeding up as far as Iam concerned. Up till now nothing in particular has ever happened tome. A couple of days ago I lost my job, was given ten thousand dollarsthat I didn't know existed, and now you tell me I'm a prince. Well, well! These are stirring times. When do we start for the oldhomestead?"

"Mr. Scobell was exceedingly anxious that we should return bySaturday's boat. "

"Saturday? What, to-morrow?"

"Perhaps it is too soon. You will not be able to settle your affairs?"

"I guess I can settle my affairs all right. I've only got to pack agrip and tip the bell hops. And as Scobell seems to be financing thisshow, perhaps it's up to me to step lively if he wants it. But it's apity. I was just beginning to like this place. There is generallysomething doing along the White Way after twilight, Crump. "

The gravity of Mr. Scobell's secretary broke up unexpectedly into aslow, wide smile. His eyes behind their glasses gleamed with a wistfullight. 

"Gee!" he murmured. 

John looked at him, amazed. 

"Crump, " he cried. "Crump, I believe you're a sport!"

Mr. Crump seemed completely to have forgotten his responsible positionas secretary to a millionaire and special messenger to a prince. Hesmirked. 

"I'd have liked a day or two in the old burg, " he said softly. "Ihaven't been to Rector's since Ponto was a pup. "

John reached across the table and seized the secretary's hand. 

"Crump, " he said, "you _are_ a sport. This is no time for delay. If we are to liven up this great city, we must get busy right away. Grab your hat, and come along. One doesn't become a prince every day. The occasion wants celebrating. Are you with me, Crump, old scout?"

"Sure thing, " said the envoy ecstatically. 

 * * * * *

At eight o'clock on the following morning, two young men, hatless and alittle rumpled, but obviously cheerful, entered the Astor Hotel, demanding breakfast. 

A bell boy who met them was addressed by the larger of the two, andasked his name. 

"Desmond Ryan, " he replied. 

The young man patted him on his shoulder. 

"I appoint you, Desmond Ryan, " he said, "Grand Hereditary Bell Hop tothe Court of Mervo. "

Thus did Prince John formally enter into his kingdom. 

CHAPTER V

MR. SCOBELL HAS ANOTHER IDEA

Owing to collaboration between Fate and Mr. Scobell, John's state entryinto Mervo was an interesting blend between a pageant and a vaudevillesketch. The pageant idea was Mr. Scobell's. Fate supplied thevaudeville. 

The reception at the quay, when the little steamer that plied betweenMarseilles and the island principality gave up its precious freight, was not on quite so impressive a scale as might have been given to themonarch of a more powerful kingdom; but John was not disappointed. During the voyage from New York, in the intervals of seasickness--forhe was a poor sailor--Mr. Crump had supplied him with certain factsabout Mervo, one of which was that its adult population numbered justunder thirteen thousand, and this had prepared him for any shortcomingsin the way of popular demonstration. 

As a matter of fact, Mr. Scobell was exceedingly pleased with the scaleof the reception, which to his mind amounted practically to pomp. ThePalace Guard, forty strong, lined the quay. Besides these, there werefour officers, a band, and sixteen mounted carbineers. The rest of thearmy was dotted along the streets. In addition to the military, therewas a gathering of a hundred and fifty civilians, mainly drawn fromfishing circles. The majority of these remained stolidly silentthroughout, but three, more emotional, cheered vigorously as a youngman was seen to step on to the gangway, carrying a grip, and make forthe shore. General Poineau, a white-haired warrior with a fiercemustache, strode forward and saluted. The Palace Guards presented arms. The band struck up the Mervian national anthem. General Poineau, lowering his hand, put on a pair of _pince-nez_ and began tounroll an address of welcome. 

It was then seen that the young man was Mr. Crump. General Poineauremoved his glasses and gave an impatient twirl to his mustache. Mr. Scobell, who for possibly the first time in his career was not smoking(though, as was afterward made manifest, he had the materials on hisperson), bustled to the front. 

"Where's his nibs, Crump?" he enquired. 

The secretary's reply was swept away in a flood of melody. To the bandMr. Crump's face was strange. They had no reason to suppose that he wasnot Prince John, and they acted accordingly. With a rattle of drumsthey burst once more into their spirited rendering of the nationalanthem. 

Mr. Scobell sawed the air with his arms, but was powerless to dam theflood. 

"His Highness is shaving, sir!" bawled Mr. Crump, depositing his gripon the quay and making a trumpet of his hands. 

"Shaving!"

"Yes, sir. I told him he ought to come along, but His Highness said hewasn't going to land looking like a tramp comedian. "

By this time General Poineau had explained matters to the band and theychecked the national anthem abruptly in the middle of a bar, with theexception of the cornet player, who continued gallantly by himself tilla feeling of loneliness brought the truth home to him. An awkward stagewait followed, which lasted until John was seen crossing the deck, whenthere were more cheers, and General Poineau, resuming his_pince-nez_, brought out the address of welcome again. 

At this point Mr. Scobell made his presence felt. 

"Glad to meet you, Prince, " he said, coming forward. "Scobell's myname. Shake hands with General Poineau. No, that's wrong. I guess hekisses your hand, don't he?"

"I'll swing on him if he does, " said John, cheerfully. 

Mr. Scobell eyed him doubtfully. His Highness did not appear to him tobe treating the inaugural ceremony with that reserved dignity which welike to see in princes on these occasions. Mr. Scobell was a businessman. He wanted his money's worth. His idea of a Prince of Mervo wassomething statuesquely aloof, something--he could not express itexactly--on the lines of the illustrations in the Zenda stories in themagazines--about eight feet high and shinily magnificent, somethingthat would give the place a tone. That was what he had had in his mindwhen he sent for John. He did not want a cheerful young man in a softhat and a flannel suit who looked as if at any moment he might burstinto a college yell. 

General Poineau, meanwhile, had embarked on the address of welcome. John regarded him thoughtfully. 

"I can see, " he said to Mr. Scobell, "that the gentleman is making agood speech, but what is he saying? That is what gets past me. "

"He is welcoming Your Highness, " said Mr. Crump, the linguist, "in thename of the people of Mervo. "

"Who, I notice, have had the bully good sense to stay in bed. I guessthey knew that the Boy Orator would do all that was necessary. Hehasn't said anything about a bite of breakfast, has he? Has his addresshappened to work around to the subject of shredded wheat and shirredeggs yet? That's the part that's going to make a hit with me. "

"There'll be breakfast at my villa, Your Highness, " said Mr. Scobell. "My automobile is waiting along there. "

The General reached his peroration, worked his way through it, andfinished with a military clash of heels and a salute. The band rattledoff the national anthem once more. 

"Now, what?" said John, turning to Mr. Scobell. "Breakfast?"

"I guess you'd better say a few words to them, Your Highness; they'llexpect it. "

"But I can't speak the language, and they can't understand English. Thething'll be a stand-off. "

"Crump will hand it to 'em. Here, Crump. "

"Sir?"

"Line up and shoot His Highness's remarks into 'em. "

"Yes, sir. 

"It's all very well for you, Crump, " said John. "You probably enjoythis sort of thing. I don't. I haven't felt such a fool since I sang'The Maiden's Prayer' on Tremont Street when I was joining the frat. Are you ready? No, it's no good. I don't know what to say. "

"Tell 'em you're tickled to death, " advised Mr. Scobell anxiously. 

John smiled in a friendly manner at the populace. Then he coughed. "Gentlemen, " he said--"and more particularly the sport on my left whohas just spoken his piece whose name I can't remember--I thank you forthe warm welcome you have given me. If it is any satisfaction to you toknow that it has made me feel like thirty cents, you may have thatsatisfaction. Thirty is a liberal estimate. "

"'His Highness is overwhelmed by your loyal welcome. He thanks youwarmly, '" translated Mr. Crump, tactfully. 

"I feel that we shall get along nicely together, " continued John. "Ifyou are chumps enough to turn out of your comfortable beds at this timeof the morning simply to see me, you can't be very hard to please. Weshall hit it off fine. "

_Mr. Crump:_ "His Highness hopes and believes that he will alwayscontinue to command the affection of his people. "

"I--" John paused. "That's the lot, " he said. "The flow of inspirationhas ceased. The magic fire has gone out. Break it to 'em, Crump. Forme, breakfast. "

During the early portion of the ride Mr. Scobell was silent andthoughtful. John's speech had impressed him neither as oratory nor asan index to his frame of mind. He had not interrupted him, because heknew that none of those present could understand what was being said, and that Mr. Crump was to be relied on as an editor. But he had notenjoyed it. He did not take the people of Mervo seriously himself, butin the Prince such an attitude struck him as unbecoming. Then hecheered up. After all, John had given evidence of having a certainamount of what he would have called "get-up" in him. For the purposesfor which he needed him, a tendency to make light of things was notamiss. It was essentially as a performing prince that he had engagedJohn. He wanted him to do unusual things, which would make peopletalk--aeroplaning was one that occurred to him. Perhaps a prince whotook a serious view of his position would try to raise the people'sminds and start reforms and generally be a nuisance. John could, at anyrate, be relied upon not to do that. 

His face cleared. 

"Have a good cigar, Prince?" he said, cordially, inserting two fingersin his vest-pocket. 

"Sure, Mike, " said His Highness affably. 

Breakfast over, Mr. Scobell replaced the remains of his cigar betweenhis lips, and turned to business. 

"Eh, Prince?" he said. 

"Yes!"

"I want you, Prince, " said Mr. Scobell, "to help boom this place. That's where you come in. "

"Sure, " said John. 

"As to ruling and all that, " continued Mr. Scobell, "there isn't any todo. The place runs itself. Some guy gave it a shove a thousand yearsago, and it's been rolling along ever since. What I want you to do isthe picturesque stunts. Get a yacht and catch rare fishes. Whoop it up. Entertain swell guys when they come here. Have a Court--see what Imean?--same as over in England. Go around in aeroplanes and that styleof thing. Don't worry about money. That'll be all right. You draw yoursteady hundred thousand a year and a good chunk more besides, when webegin to get a move on, so the dough proposition doesn't need to scareyou any. "

"Do I, by George!" said John. "It seems to me that I've fallen into apretty soft thing here. There'll be a joker in the deck somewhere, Iguess. There always is in these good things. But I don't see it yet. You can count me in all right. "

"Good boy, " said Mr. Scobell. "And now you'll be wanting to get to thePalace. I'll have them bring the automobile round. "

The council of state broke up. 

Having seen John off in the car, the financier proceeded to hissister's sitting-room. Miss Scobell had breakfasted apart that morning, by request, her brother giving her to understand that matters of state, unsuited to the ear of a third party, must be discussed at the meal. She was reading her _New York Herald_. 

"Well, " said Mr. Scobell, "he's come. "

"Yes, dear?"

"And just the sort I want. Saw the idea of the thing right away, and isready to go the limit. No nonsense about him. "

"Is he nice-looking, Bennie?"

"Sure. All these Mervo princes have been good-lookers, I hear, and thisone must be near the top of the list. You'll like him, Marion. All thegirls will be crazy about him in a week. "

Miss Scobell turned a page. 

"Is he married?"

Her brother started. 

"Married? I never thought of that. But no, I guess he's not. He'd havementioned it. He's not the sort to hush up a thing like that. I--"

He stopped short. His green eyes gleamed excitedly. 

"Marion!" he cried. "_Marion!_"

"Well, dear?"

"Listen. Gee, this thing is going to be the biggest ever. I gotta newidea. It just came to me. Your saying that put it into my head. Do youknow what I'm going to do? I'm going to cable over to Betty to comeright along here, and I'm going to have her marry this prince guy. Yes, sir!"

For once Miss Scobell showed signs that her brother's conversationreally interested her. She laid down her paper, and stared at him. 

"Betty!"

"Sure, Betty. Why not? She's a pretty girl. Clever too. The Prince'llbe lucky to get such a wife, for all his darned ancestors away back tothe flood. "

"But suppose Betty does not like him?"

"Like him? She's gotta like him. Say, can't you make your mind soar, orwon't you? Can't you see that a thing like this has gotta be fixeddifferent from a marriage between--between a ribbon-counter clerk andthe girl who takes the money at a twenty-five-cent hash restaurant inFlatbush? This is a royal alliance. Do you suppose that when a Europeanprincess is introduced to the prince she's going to marry, they let hersay: 'Nothing doing. I don't like the shape of his nose'?"

He gave a spirited imitation of a European princess objecting to theshape of her selected husband's nose. 

"It isn't very romantic, Bennie, " sighed Miss Scobell. She was aconfirmed reader of the more sentimental class of fiction, and thisbusiness-like treatment of love's young dream jarred upon her. 

"It's founding a dynasty. Isn't that romantic enough for you? You makeme tired, Marion. "

Miss Scobell sighed again. 

"Very well, dear. I suppose you know best. But perhaps the Prince won'tlike Betty. "

Mr. Scobell gave a snort of disgust. 

"Marion, " he said, "you've got a mind like a chunk of wet dough. Can'tyou understand that the Prince is just as much in my employment as theman who scrubs the Casino steps? I'm hiring him to be Prince of Mervo, and his first job as Prince of Mervo will be to marry Betty. I'd liketo see him kick!" He began to pace the room. "By Heck, it's going tomake this place boom to beat the band. It'll be the biggest kind ofadvertisement. Restoration of Royalty at Mervo. That'll make them takenotice by itself. Then, biff! right on top of that, RoyalRomance--Prince Weds American Girl--Love at First Sight--PicturesqueWedding! Gee, we'll wipe Monte Carlo clean off the map. We'll have 'emlicked to a splinter. We--It's the greatest scheme on earth. "

"I have no doubt you are right, Bennie, " said Miss Scobell, "but--" hervoice became dreamy again--"it's not very romantic. "

"Oh, shucks!" said the schemer impatiently. "Here, where's a cableform?"

CHAPTER VI

YOUNG ADAM CUPID

On a red sandstone rock at the edge of the water, where the islandcurved sharply out into the sea, Prince John of Mervo sat and broodedon first causes. For nearly an hour and a half he had been engaged inan earnest attempt to trace to its source the acute fit of depressionwhich had come--apparently from nowhere--to poison his existence thatmorning. 

It was his seventh day on the island, and he could remember everyincident of his brief reign. The only thing that eluded him was therecollection of the exact point when the shadow of discontent had begunto spread itself over his mind. Looking back, it seemed to him that hehad done nothing during that week but enjoy each new aspect of hisposition as it was introduced to his notice. Yet here he was, sittingon a lonely rock, consumed with an unquenchable restlessness, a kind oftrapped sensation. Exactly when and exactly how Fate, that king ofgold-brick men, had cheated him he could not say; but he knew, with acertainty that defied argument, that there had been sharp practise, andthat in an unguarded moment he had been induced to part with somethingof infinite value in exchange for a gilded fraud. 

The mystery baffled him. He sent his mind back to the first definiteentry of Mervo into the foreground of his life. He had come up from hisstateroom on to the deck of the little steamer, and there in thepearl-gray of the morning was the island, gradually taking definiteshape as the pink mists shredded away before the rays of the risingsun. As the ship rounded the point where the lighthouse still flashed aneedless warning from its cluster of jagged rocks, he had had his firstview of the town, nestling at the foot of the hill, gleaming whiteagainst the green, with the gold-domed Casino towering in its midst. Inall Southern Europe there was no view to match it for quiet beauty. Forall his thews and sinews there was poetry in John, and the sight hadstirred him like wine. 

It was not then that depression had begun, nor was it during thereception at the quay. 

The days that had followed had been peaceful and amusing. He could notdetect in any one of them a sign of the approaching shadow. They hadbeen lazy days. His duties had been much more simple than he hadanticipated. He had not known, before he tried it, that it was possibleto be a prince with so small an expenditure of mental energy. As Mr. Scobell had hinted, to all intents and purposes he was a mere ornament. His work began at eleven in the morning, and finished as a rule atabout a quarter after. At the hour named a report of the happenings ofthe previous day was brought to him. When he had read it the stateasked no more of him until the next morning. 

The report was made up of such items as "A fisherman named Lesieurcalled Carbineer Ferrier a fool in the market-place at eleven minutesafter two this afternoon; he has not been arrested, but is beingwatched, " and generally gave John a few minutes of mild enjoyment. Certainly he could not recollect that it had ever depressed him. 

No, it had been something else that had worked the mischief and inanother moment the thing stood revealed, beyond all question of doubt. What had unsettled him was that unexpected meeting with Betty Silverlast night at the Casino. 

He had been sitting at the Dutch table. He generally visited the Casinoafter dinner. The light and movement of the place interested him. As arule, he merely strolled through the rooms, watching the play; but lastnight he had slipped into a vacant seat. He had only just settledhimself when he was aware of a girl standing beside him. He got up. 

"Would you care--?" he had begun, and then he saw her face. 

It had all happened in an instant. Some chord in him, numbed till then, had begun to throb. It was as if he had awakened from a dream, orreturned to consciousness after being stunned. There was something inthe sight of her, standing there so cool and neat and composed, sotypically American, a sort of goddess of America, in the heat and stirof the Casino, that struck him like a blow. 

How long was it since he had seen her last? Not more than a couple ofyears. It seemed centuries. It all came back to him. It was during hislast winter at Harvard that they had met. A college friend of hers hadbeen the sister of a college friend of his. They had met several times, but he could not recollect having taken any particular notice of herthen, beyond recognizing that she was certainly pretty. The world hadbeen full of pretty American girls then. But now--

He looked at her. And, as he looked, he heard America calling to him. Mervo, by the appeal of its novelty, had caused him to forget. But now, quite suddenly, he knew that he was homesick--and it astonished him, the readiness with which he had permitted Mr. Crump to lead him awayinto bondage. It seemed incredible that he had not foreseen what musthappen. 

Love comes to some gently, imperceptibly, creeping in as the tide, through unsuspected creeks and inlets, creeps on a sleeping man, untilhe wakes to find himself surrounded. But to others it comes as a wave, breaking on them, beating them down, whirling them away. 

It was so with John. In that instant when their eyes met the miraclemust have happened. It seemed to him, as he recalled the scene now, that he had loved her before he had had time to frame his first remark. It amazed him that he could ever have been blind to the fact that heloved her, she was so obviously the only girl in the world. 

"You--you don't remember me, " he stammered. 

She was flushing a little under his stare, but her eyes were shining. 

"I remember you very well, Mr. Maude, " she said with a smile. "Ithought I knew your shoulders before you turned round. What are youdoing here?"

"I--"

There was a hush. The _croupier_ had set the ball rolling. Awizened little man and two ladies of determined aspect were looking updisapprovingly. John realized that he was the only person in the roomnot silent. It was impossible to tell her the story of the change inhis fortunes in the middle of this crowd. He stopped, and the momentpassed. 

The ball dropped with a rattle. The tension relaxed. 

"Won't you take this seat?" said John. 

"No, thank you. I'm not playing. I only just stopped to look on. Myaunt is in one of the rooms, and I want to make her come home. I'mtired. "

"Have you--?"

He caught the eye of the wizened man, and stopped again. 

"Have you been in Mervo long?" he said, as the ball fell. 

"I only arrived this morning. It seems lovely. I must exploreto-morrow. "

She was beginning to move off. 

"Er--" John coughed to remove what seemed to him a deposit of sawdustand unshelled nuts in his throat. "Er--may I--will you let me showyou--" prolonged struggle with the nuts and sawdust; thenrapidly--"some of the places to-morrow?"

He had hardly spoken the words when it was borne in upon him that hewas a vulgar, pushing bounder, presuming on a dead and buriedacquaintanceship to force his company on a girl who naturally did notwant it, and who would now proceed to snub him as he deserved. Hequailed. Though he had not had time to collect and examine and labelhis feelings, he was sufficiently in touch with them to know that asnub from her would be the most terrible thing that could possiblyhappen to him. 

She did not snub him. Indeed, if he had been in a state of mindcoherent enough to allow him to observe, he might have detected in hereyes and her voice signs of pleasure. 

"I should like it very much, " she said. 

John made his big effort. He attacked the nuts and sawdust which hadcome back and settled down again in company with a large lump of someunidentified material, as if he were bucking center. They broke beforehim as, long ago, the Yale line had done, and his voice rang out as ifthrough a megaphone, to the unconcealed disgust of the neighboringgamesters. 

"If you go along the path at the foot of the hill, " he bellowedrapidly, "and follow it down to the sea, you get a little bay full ofred sandstone rocks--you can't miss it--and there's a fine view of theisland from there. I'd like awfully well to show that to you. It'sgreat. "

She nodded. 

"Then shall we meet there?" she said. "When?"

John was in no mood to postpone the event. 

"As early as ever you like, " he roared. 

"At about ten, then. Good-night, Mr. Maude. "

 * * * * *

John had reached the bay at half-past eight, and had been on guardthere ever since. It was now past ten, but still there were no signs ofBetty. His depression increased. He told himself that she hadforgotten. Then, that she had remembered, but had changed her mind. Then, that she had never meant to come at all. He could not decidewhich of the three theories was the most distressing. 

His mood became morbidly introspective. He was weighed down by a senseof his own unworthiness. He submitted himself to a thoroughexamination, and the conclusion to which he came was that, as anaspirant to the regard, of a girl like Betty, he did not score a singlepoint. No wonder she had ignored the appointment. 

A cold sweat broke out on him. This was the snub! She had notadministered it in the Casino simply in order that, by being delayed, its force might be the more overwhelming. 

He looked at his watch again, and the world grew black. It was twelveminutes after ten. 

John, in his time, had thought and read a good deal about love. Eversince he had grown up, he had wanted to fall in love. He had imaginedlove as a perpetual exhilaration, something that flooded life with agolden glow as if by the pressing of a button or the pulling of aswitch, and automatically removed from it everything mean and hard anduncomfortable; a something that made a man feel grand and god-like, looking down (benevolently, of course) on his fellow men as from somelofty mountain. 

That it should make him feel a worm-like humility had not entered hiscalculations. He was beginning to see something of the possibilities oflove. His tentative excursions into the unknown emotion, while atcollege, had never really deceived him; even at the time a sort ofsecond self had looked on and sneered at the poor imitation. 

This was different. This had nothing to do with moonlight and softmusic. It was raw and hard. It hurt. It was a thing sharp and jagged, tearing at the roots of his soul. 

He turned his head, and looked up the path for the hundredth time, andthis time he sprang to his feet. Between the pines on the hillside hiseye had caught the flutter of a white dress. 

CHAPTER VII

MR. SCOBELL IS FRANK

Much may happen in these rapid times in the course of an hour and ahalf. While John was keeping his vigil on the sandstone rock, Betty washaving an interview with Mr. Scobell which was to produce far-reachingresults, and which, incidentally, was to leave her angrier and more atwar with the whole of her world than she could remember to have been inthe entire course of her life. 

The interview began, shortly after breakfast, in a gentle and tactfulmanner, with Aunt Marion at the helm. But Mr. Scobell was not the manto stand by silently while persons were being tactful. At the end ofthe second minute he had plunged through his sister's mild monologuelike a rhinoceros through a cobweb, and had stated definitely, with aneconomy of words, the exact part which Betty was to play in Mervianaffairs. 

"You say you want to know why you were cabled for. I'll tell you. There's no use talking for half a day before you get to the point. Iguess you've heard that there's a prince here instead of a republicnow? Well, that's where you come in. "

"Do you mean--?" she hesitated. 

"Yes, I do, " said Mr. Scobell. There was a touch of doggedness in hisvoice. He was not going to stand any nonsense, by Heck, but there wasno doubt that Betty's wide-open eyes were not very easy to meet. Hewent on rapidly. "Cut out any fool notions about romance. " MissScobell, who was knitting a sock, checked her needles for a moment inorder to sigh. Her brother eyed her morosely, then resumed his remarks. "This is a matter of state. That's it. You gotta cut out fool notionsand act for good of state. You gotta look at it in the proper spirit. Great honor--see what I mean? Princess and all that. Chance of alifetime--dynasty--you gotta look at it that way. "

Miss Scobell heaved another sigh, and dropped a stitch. 

"For the love of Mike, " said her brother, irritably, "don't snort likethat, Marion. "

"Very well, dear. "

Betty had not taken her eyes off him from his first word. An unbiasedobserver would have said that she made a pretty picture, standingthere, in her white dress, but in the matter of pictures, still lifewas evidently what Mr. Scobell preferred for his gaze never wanderedfrom the cigar stump which he had removed from his mouth in order toknock off the ash. 

Betty continued to regard him steadfastly. The shock of his words hadto some extent numbed her. At this moment she was merely thinking, quite dispassionately, what a singularly nasty little man he looked, and wondering--not for the first time--what strange quality, invisibleto everybody else, it had been in him that had made her mother hisadoring slave during the whole of their married life. 

Then her mind began to work actively once more. She was a Western girl, and an insistence on freedom was the first article in her creed. Agreat rush of anger filled her, that this man should set himself up todictate to her. 

"Do you mean that you want me to marry this Prince?" she said. 

"That's right. "

"I won't do anything of the sort. "

"Pshaw! Don't be foolish. You make me tired. "

Betty's eye shone mutinously. Her cheeks were flushed, and her slim, boyish figure quivered. Her chin, always determined, became a silentDeclaration of Independence. 

"I won't, " she said. 

Aunt Marion, suspending operations on the sock, went on with tact atthe point where her brother's interruption had forced her to leave off. 

"I'm sure he's a very nice young man. I have not seen him, buteverybody says so. You like him, Bennie, don't you?"

"Sure, I like him. He's a corker. Wait till you see him, Betty. Nobody's asking you to marry him before lunch. You'll have plenty oftime to get acquainted. It beats me what you're kicking at. You give mea pain in the neck. Be reasonable. "

Betty sought for arguments to clinch her refusal. 

"It's ridiculous, " she said. "You talk as if you had just to wave yourhand. Why should your prince want to marry a girl he has never seen?"

"He will, " said Mr. Scobell confidently. 

"How do you know?"

"Because I know he's a sensible young skeesicks. That's how. See here, Betty, you've gotten hold of wrong ideas about this place. You don'tunderstand the position of affairs. Your aunt didn't till I put herwise. "

"He bit my head off, my dear, " murmured Miss Scobell, knittingplacidly. 

"You're thinking that Mervo is an ordinary state, and that the Princeis one of those independent, all-wool, off-with-his-darned-head rulerslike you read about in the best sellers. Well, you've got another guesscoming. If you want to know who's the big noise here, it's me--me! ThisPrince guy is my hired man. See? Who sent for him? I did. Who put himon the throne? I did. Who pays him his salary? I do, from the profitsof the Casino. Now do you understand? He knows his job. He knows whichside his bread's buttered. When I tell him about this marriage, do youknow what he'll say? He'll say 'Thank you, sir!' That's how things arein this island. "

Betty shuddered. Her face was white with humiliation. She half-raisedher hands with an impulsive movement to hide it. 

"I won't. I won't. I won't!" she gasped. 

Mr. Scobell was pacing the room in an ecstasy of triumphant rhetoric. 

"There's another thing, " he said, swinging round suddenly and causinghis sister to drop another stitch. "Maybe you think he's some kind of aDago, this guy? Maybe that's what's biting you. Let me tell you thathe's an American--pretty near as much an American as you are yourself. "

Betty stared at him. 

"An American!"

"Don't believe it, eh? Well, let me tell you that his mother was bornand raised in Jersey, and that he has lived all his life in the States. He's no little runt of a Dago. No, sir. He's a Harvard man, six-foothigh and weighs two hundred pounds. That's the sort of man he is. Iguess that's not American enough for you, maybe? No?"

"You do shout so, Bennie!" murmured Miss Scobell. "I'm sure there's noneed. "

Betty uttered a cry. Something had told her who he was, this Harvardman who had sold himself. That species of sixth sense which liesundeveloped at the back of our minds during the ordinary happenings oflife wakes sometimes in moments of keen emotion. At its highest, it isprophecy; at its lowest, a vague presentiment. It woke in Betty now. There was no particular reason why she should have connected herstepfather's words with John. The term he had used was an elastic one. Among the visitors to the island there were probably several Harvardmen. But somehow she knew. 

"Who is he?" she cried. "What was his name before he--when he--?"

"His name?" said Mr. Scobell. "John Maude. Maude was his mother's name. She was a Miss Westley. Here, where are you going?"

Betty was walking slowly toward the door. Something in her face checkedMr. Scobell. 

"I want to think, " she said quietly. "I'm going out. "

 * * * * *

In days of old, in the age of legend, omens warned heroes of impendingdoom. But to-day the gods have grown weary, and we rush unsuspecting onour fate. No owl hooted, no thunder rolled from the blue sky as Johnwent up the path to meet the white dress that gleamed between thetrees. 

His heart was singing within him. She had come. She had not forgotten, or changed her mind, or willfully abandoned him. His mood lightenedswiftly. Humility vanished. He was not such an outcast, after all. Hewas someone. He was the man Betty Silver had come to meet. 

But with the sight of her face came reaction. 

Her face was pale and cold and hard. She did not speak or smile. As shedrew near she looked at him, and there was that in her look which set achill wind blowing through the world and cast a veil across the sun. 

And in this bleak world they stood silent and motionless while eonsrolled by. 

Betty was the first to speak. 

"I'm late, " she said. 

John searched in his brain for words, and came empty away. He shook hishead dumbly. 

"Shall we sit down?" said Betty. 

John indicated silently the sandstone rock on which he had beencommuning with himself. 

They sat down. A sense of being preposterously and indecently bigobsessed John. There seemed no end to him. Wherever he looked, therewere hands and feet and legs. He was a vast blot on the face of theearth. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Betty. She was gazingout to sea. 

He dived into his brain again. It was absurd! There must be somethingto say. 

And then he realized that a worse thing had befallen. He had no voice. It had gone. He knew that, try he never so hard to speak, he would notbe able to utter a word. A nightmare feeling of unreality came uponhim. Had he ever spoken? Had he ever done anything but sit dumbly onthat rock, looking at those sea gulls out in the water?

He shot another swift glance at Betty, and a thrill went through him. There were tears in her eyes. 

The next moment--the action was almost automatic--his left hand wasclasping her right, and he was moving along the rock to her side. 

She snatched her hand away. 

His brain, ransacked for the third time, yielded a single word. 

"Betty!"

She got up quickly. 

In the confused state of his mind, John found it necessary if he wereto speak at all, to say the essential thing in the shortest possibleway. Polished periods are not for the man who is feeling deeply. 

He blurted out, huskily, "I love you!" and finding that this was allthat he could say, was silent. 

Even to himself the words, as he spoke them, sounded bald andmeaningless. To Betty, shaken by her encounter with Mr. Scobell, theysounded artificial, as if he were forcing himself to repeat a lesson. They jarred upon her. 

"Don't!" she said sharply. "Oh, don't!"

Her voice stabbed him. It could not have stirred him more if she haduttered a cry of physical pain. 

"Don't! I know. I've been told. "

"Been told?"

She went on quickly. 

"I know all about it. My stepfather has just told me. He said--he saidyou were his--" she choked--"his hired man; that he paid you to stayhere and advertise the Casino. Oh, it's too horrible! That it should beyou! You, who have been--you can't understand what you--have been tome--ever since we met; you couldn't understand. I can't tell you--asort of help--something--something that--I can't put it into words. Only it used to help me just to think of you. It was almost impersonal. I didn't mind if I never saw you again. I didn't expect ever to see youagain. It was just being able to think of you. It helped--you weresomething I could trust. Something strong--solid. " She laughedbitterly. "I suppose I made a hero of you. Girls are fools. But ithelped me to feel that there was one man alive who--who put his honorabove money--"

She broke off. John stood motionless, staring at the ground. For thefirst time in his easy-going life he knew shame. Even now he had notgrasped to the full the purport of her words. The scales were fallingfrom his eyes, but as yet he saw but dimly. 

She began to speak again, in a low, monotonous voice, almost as if shewere talking to herself. She was looking past him, at the gulls thatswooped and skimmed above the glittering water. 

"I'm so tired of money--money--money. Everything's money. Isn't there aman in the world who won't sell himself? I thought that you--I supposeI'm stupid. It's business, I suppose. One expects too much. "

She looked at him wearily. 

"Good-by, " she said. "I'm going. "

He did not move. 

She turned, and went slowly up the path. Still he made no movement. Aspell seemed to be on him. His eyes never left her as she passed intothe shadow of the trees. For a moment her white dress stood outclearly. She had stopped. With his whole soul he prayed that she wouldlook back. But she moved on once more, and was gone. And suddenly astrange weakness came upon John. He trembled. The hillside flickeredbefore his eyes for an instant, and he clutched at the sandstone rockto steady himself. 

Then his brain cleared, and he found himself thinking swiftly. He couldnot let her go like this. He must overtake her. He must stop her. Hemust speak to her. He must say--he did not know what it was that hewould say--anything, so that he spoke to her again. 

He raced up the path, calling her name. No answer came to his cries. Above him lay the hillside, dozing in the noonday sun; below, theMediterranean, sleek and blue, without a ripple. He stood alone in aland of silence and sleep. 

CHAPTER VIII

AN ULTIMATUM FROM THE THRONE

At half-past twelve that morning business took Mr. Benjamin Scobell tothe royal Palace. He was not a man who believed in letting the grassgrow under his feet. He prided himself on his briskness of attack. Every now and then Mr. Crump, searching the newspapers, would discoverand hand to him a paragraph alluding to his "hustling methods. " Whenthis happened, he would preserve the clipping and carry it about in hisvest-pocket with his cigars till time and friction wore it away. Heliked to think of himself as swift and sudden--the Human Thunderbolt. 

In this matter of the royal alliance, it was his intention to have atit and clear it up at once. Having put his views clearly before Betty, he now proposed to lay them with equal clarity before the Prince. Therewas no sense in putting the thing off. The sooner all parties concernedunderstood the position of affairs, the sooner the business would besettled. 

That Betty had not received his information with joy did not distresshim. He had a poor opinion of the feminine intelligence. Girls got theirminds full of nonsense from reading novels and seeing plays--like Betty. Betty objected to those who were wiser than herself providing a perfectlygood prince for her to marry. Some fool notion of romance, of course. Notthat he was angry. He did not blame her any more than the surgeon blamesa patient for the possession of an unsuitable appendix. There was noanimus in the matter. Her mind was suffering from foolish ideas, and hewas the surgeon whose task it was to operate upon it. That was all. Onehad to expect foolishness in women. It was their nature. The only thingto do was to tie a rope to them and let them run around till they weretired of it, then pull them in. He saw his way to managing Betty. 

Nor did he anticipate trouble with John. He had taken an estimate ofJohn's character, and it did not seem to him likely that it containedunsuspected depths. He set John down, as he had told Betty, as a youngman acute enough to know when he had a good job and sufficientlysensible to make concessions in order to retain it. Betty, after themanner of woman, might make a fuss before yielding to the inevitable, but from level-headed John he looked for placid acquiescence. 

His mood, as the automobile whirred its way down the hill toward thetown, was sunny. He looked on life benevolently and found it good. Theview appealed to him more than it had managed to do on other days. As arule, he was the man of blood and iron who had no time for admiringscenery, but to-day he vouchsafed it a not unkindly glance. It wascertainly a dandy little place, this island of his. A vineyard on theright caught his eye. He made a mental note to uproot it and run up ahotel in its place. Further down the hill, he selected a site for avilla, where the mimosa blazed, and another where at present there werea number of utterly useless violets. A certain practical element wasapt, perhaps, to color Mr. Scobell's half-hours with nature. 

The sight of the steamboat leaving the harbor on its journey toMarseilles gave him another idea. Now that Mervo was a going concern, areal live proposition, it was high time that it should have an adequateservice of boats. The present system of one a day was absurd. He made anote to look into the matter. These people wanted waking up. 

Arriving at the Palace, he was informed that His Highness had gone outshortly after breakfast, and had not returned. The majordomo gave theinformation with a tinkle of disapproval in his voice. Before taking uphis duties at Mervo, he had held a similar position in the household ofa German prince, where rigid ceremonial obtained, and John's cheerfuldisregard of the formalities frankly shocked him. To take the presentcase for instance: When His Highness of Swartzheim had felt inclined toenjoy the air of a morning, it had been a domestic event full of stirand pomp. He had not merely crammed a soft hat over his eyes andstrolled out with his hands in his pockets, but without a word to hishousehold staff as to where he was going or when he might be expectedto return. 

Mr. Scobell received the news equably, and directed his chauffeur toreturn to the villa. He could not have done better, for, on hisarrival, he was met with the information that His Highness had calledto see him shortly after he had left, and was now waiting in themorning-room. 

The sound of footsteps came to Mr. Scobell's ears as he approached theroom. His Highness appeared to be pacing the floor like a caged animalat the luncheon hour. The resemblance was heightened by the expressionin the royal eye as His Highness swung round at the opening of the doorand faced the financier. 

"Why, say, Prince, " said Mr. Scobell, "this is lucky. I been lookingfor you. I just been to the Palace, and the main guy there told me youhad gone out. "

"I did. And I met your stepdaughter. "

Mr. Scobell was astonished. Fate was certainly smoothing his way if itarranged meetings between Betty and the Prince before he had time to doit himself. There might be no need for the iron hand after all. 

"You did?" he said. "Say, how the Heck did you come to do that? Whatdid you know about Betty?"

"Miss Silver and I had met before, in America, when I was in college. "

Mr. Scobell slapped his thigh joyously. 

"Gee, it's all working out like a fiction story in the magazines!"

"Is it?" said John. "How? And, for the matter of that, what?"

Mr. Scobell answered question with question. "Say, Prince, you andBetty were pretty good friends in the old days, I guess?"

John looked at him coldly. 

"We won't discuss that, if you don't mind, " he said. 

His tone annoyed Mr. Scobell. Off came the velvet glove, and the ironhand displayed itself. His green eyes glowed dully and the tip of hisnose wriggled, as was its habit in times of emotion. 

"Is that so?" he cried, regarding John with disfavor. "Well, I guess!Won't discuss it! You gotta discuss it, Your Royal Texas LeagueHighness! You want making a head shorter, my bucko. You--"

John's demeanor had become so dangerous that he broke off abruptly, andwith an unostentatious movement, as of a man strolling carelessly abouthis private sanctum, put himself within easy reach of the door handle. 

He then became satirical. 

"Maybe Your Serene, Imperial Two-by-Fourness would care to suggest asubject we can discuss?"

John took a step forward. 

"Yes, I will, " he said between his teeth. "You were talking to MissSilver about me this morning. She told me one or two of the things yousaid, and they opened my eyes. Until I heard them, I had not quiteunderstood my position. I do now. You said, among other things, that Iwas your hired man. "

"It wasn't intended for you to hear, " said Mr. Scobell, slightlymollified, "and Betty shouldn't oughter have handed it to you. I don'twonder you feel raw. I wouldn't say that sort of thing to a guy's face. Sure, no. Tact's my middle name. But, since you have heard it, well--!"

"Don't apologize. You were quite right. I was a fool not to see itbefore. No description could have been fairer. You might have said muchmore. You might have added that I was nothing more than a steerer for agambling hell. "

"Oh, come, Prince!"

There was a knock at the door. A footman entered, bearing, with adetached air, as if he disclaimed all responsibility, a letter on asilver tray. 

Mr. Scobell slit the envelope, and began to read. As he did so his eyesgrew round, and his mouth slowly opened till his cigar stump, afterhanging for a moment from his lower lip, dropped off like an exhaustedbivalve and rolled along the carpet. 

"Prince, " he gasped, "she's gone. Betty!"

"Gone! What do you mean?"

"She's beaten it. She's half-way to Marseilles by now. Gee, and I sawthe darned boat going out!"

"She's gone!"

"This is from her. Listen what she says:

 "_By the time you read this I shall be gone. I am going back to America as quickly as I can. I am giving this to a boy to take to you directly the boat has started. Please do not try to bring me back. I would sooner die than marry the Prince. _"

John started violently. 

"What!" he cried. 

Mr. Scobell nodded sympathy. 

"That's what she says. She sure has it in bad for you. What does shemean? Seeing you and she are old friends--"

"I don't understand. Why does she say that to you? Why should she thinkthat you knew that I had asked her to marry me?"

"Eh?" cried Mr. Scobell. "You asked her to marry you? And she turnedyou down! Prince, this beats the band. Say, you and I must get togetherand do something. The girl's mad. See here, you aren't wise to what'sbeen happening. I been fixing this thing up. I fetched you over here, and then I fetched Betty, and I was going to have you two marry. I toldBetty all about it this morning. "

John cut through his explanations with a sudden sharp cry. A blindingblaze of understanding had flashed upon him. It was as if he had beengroping his way in a dark cavern and had stumbled unexpectedly intobrilliant sunlight. He understood everything now. Every word that Bettyhad spoken, every gesture that she had made, had become amazinglyclear. He saw now why she had shrunk back from him, why her eyes hadworn that look. He dared not face the picture of himself as he musthave appeared in those eyes, the man whom Mr. Benjamin Scobell's Casinowas paying to marry her, the hired man earning his wages by speakingwords of love. 

A feeling of physical sickness came over him. He held to the table forsupport as he had held to the sandstone rock. And then came rage, ragesuch as he had never felt before, rage that he had not thought himselfcapable of feeling. It swept over him in a wave, pouring through hisveins and blinding him, and he clung to the table till his knuckleswhitened under the strain, for he knew that he was very near to murder. 

A minute passed. He walked to the window, and stood there, looking out. Vaguely he heard Mr. Scobell's voice at his back, talking on, but thewords had no meaning for him. 

He had begun to think with a curious coolness. His detachment surprisedhim. It was one of those rare moments in a man's life when, from theoutside, through a breach in that wall of excuses and self-deceptionwhich he has been at such pains to build, he looks at himselfimpartially. 

The sight that John saw through the wall was not comforting. It was nota heroic soul that, stripped of its defenses, shivered beneath thescrutiny. In another mood he would have mended the breach, excusing andextenuating, but not now. He looked at himself without pity, and sawhimself weak, slothful, devoid of all that was clean and fine, and abitter contempt filled him. 

Outside the window, a blaze of color, Mervo smiled up at him, andsuddenly he found himself loathing its exotic beauty. He felt stifled. This was no place for a man. A vision of clean winds and wide spacescame to him. 

And just then, at the foot of the hill, the dome of the Casino caughtthe sun, and flashed out in a blaze of gold. 

He swung round and faced Mr. Scobell. He had made up his mind. 

The financier was still talking. 

"So that's how it stands, Prince, " he was saying, "and it's up to us toget busy. "

John looked at him. 

"I intend to, " he said. 

"Good boy!" said the financier. 

"To begin with, I shall run you out of this place, Mr. Scobell. "

The other gasped. 

"There is going to be a cleaning-up, " John went on. "I've thought itout. There will be no more gambling in Mervo. "

"You're crazy with the heat!" gasped Mr. Scobell. "Abolish gambling?You can't. "

"I can. That concession of yours isn't worth the paper it's written on. The Republic gave it to you. The Republic's finished. If you want toconduct a Casino in Mervo, there's only one man who can give youpermission, and that's myself. The acts of the Republic are not bindingon me. For a week you have been gambling on this island without aconcession and now it's going to stop. Do you understand?"

"But, Prince, talk sense. " Mr. Scobell's voice was almost tearful. "It's you who don't understand. Do, for the love of Mike, come down offthe roof and talk sense. Do you suppose that these guys here will standfor this? Not on your life. Not for a minute. See here. I'm not blamingyou. I know you don't know what you're saying. But listen here. Youmust cut out this kind of thing. You mustn't get these ideas in yourhead. You stick to your job, and don't butt in on other folks'. Do youknow how long you'd stay Prince of this joint if you started in tomonkey with my Casino? Just about long enough to let you pack acollar-stud and a toothbrush into your grip. And after that therewouldn't be any more Prince, sonnie. You stick to your job and I'llstick to mine. You're a mighty good Prince for all that's required ofyou. You're ornamental, and you've got get-up in you. You just keepright on being a good boy, and don't start trying stunts off your ownbeat, and you'll do fine. Don't forget that I'm the big noise here. I'mold Grayback from 'way back in Mervo. See! I've only to twiddle myfingers and there'll be a revolution and you for the Down-and-Out Club. Don't you forget it, sonnie. "

John shrugged his shoulders. 

"I've said all I have to say. You've had your notice to quit. Afterto-night the Casino is closed. "

"But don't I tell you the people won't stand for it?"

"That's for them to decide. They may have some self-respect. "

"They'll fire you!"

"Very well. That will prove that they have not. "

"Prince, talk sense! You can't mean that you'll throw away a hundredthousand dollars a year as if it was dirt!"

"It is dirt when it's made that way. We needn't discuss it any more. "

"But, Prince!"

"It's finished. "

"But, say--!"

John had left the room. 

He had been gone several minutes before the financier recovered fullpossession of his faculties. 

When he did, his remarks were brief and to the point. 

"Bug-house!" he gasped. "Abso-lutely bug-house!"

CHAPTER IX

MERVO CHANGES ITS CONSTITUTION

Humor, if one looks into it, is principally a matter of retrospect. Inafter years John was wont to look back with amusement on the revolutionwhich ejected him from the throne of his ancestors. But at the time itsmirthfulness did not appeal to him. He was in a frenzy of restlessness. He wanted Betty. He wanted to see her and explain. Explanations couldnot restore him to the place he had held in her mind, but at least theywould show her that he was not the thing he had appeared. 

Mervo had become a prison. He ached for America. But, before he couldgo, this matter of the Casino must be settled. It was obvious that itcould only be settled in one way. He did not credit his subjects withthe high-mindedness that puts ideals first and money after. Thatmilitary and civilians alike would rally to a man round Mr. Scobell andthe Casino he was well aware. But this did not affect his determinationto remain till the last. If he went now, he would be like a boy whomakes a runaway ring at the doorbell. Until he should receive formalnotice of dismissal, he must stay, although every day had forty-eighthours and every hour twice its complement of weary minutes. 

So he waited, chafing, while Mervo examined the situation, turned itover in its mind, discussed it, slept upon it, discussed it again, anddisplayed generally that ponderous leisureliness which is the Mervian'sbirthright. 

Indeed, the earliest demonstration was not Mervian at all. It came fromthe visitors to the island, and consisted of a deputation of four, headed by the wizened little man, who had frowned at John in the Dutchroom on the occasion of his meeting with Betty, and a stolid individualwith a bald forehead and a walrus mustache. 

The tone of the deputation was, from the first, querulous. The wizenedman had constituted himself spokesman. He introduced the party--thewalrus as Colonel Finch, the others as Herr von Mandelbaum and Mr. Archer-Cleeve. His own name was Pugh, and the whole party, like theother visitors whom they represented, had, it seemed, come to Mervo, atgreat trouble and expense, to patronize the tables, only to find thesesuddenly, without a word of warning, withdrawn from their patronage. And what the deputation wished to know was, What did it all mean?

"We were amazed, sir--Your Highness, " said Mr. Pugh. "We could not--wecannot--understand it. The entire thing is a baffling mystery to us. Weasked the soldiers at the door. They referred us to Mr. Scobell. Weasked Mr. Scobell. He referred us to you. And now we have come, as therepresentatives of our fellow visitors to this island, to ask YourHighness what it means!"

"Have a cigar, " said John, extending the box. Mr. Pugh waved aside thepreferred gift impatiently. Not so Herr von Mandelbaum, who slidforward after the manner of one in quest of second base and retiredwith his prize to the rear of the little army once more. 

Mr. Archer-Cleeve, a young man with carefully parted fair hair and theexpression of a strayed sheep, contributed a remark. 

"No, but I say, by Jove, you know, I mean really, you know, what?"

That was Mr. Archer-Cleeve upon the situation. 

"We have not come here for cigars, " said Mr. Pugh. "We have come here, Your Highness, for an explanation. "

"Of what?" said John. 

Mr. Pugh made an impatient gesture. 

"Do you question my right to rule this massive country as I think best, Mr. Pugh?"

"It is a high-handed proceeding, " said the wizened little man. 

The walrus spoke for the first time. 

"What say?" he murmured huskily. 

"I said, " repeated Mr. Pugh, raising his voice, "that it was ahigh-handed proceeding, Colonel. "

The walrus nodded heavily, in assent, with closed eyes. 

"Yah, " said Herr von Mandelbaum through the smoke. 

John looked at the spokesman. 

"You are from England, Mr. Pugh?"

"Yes, sir. I am a British citizen. "

"Suppose some enterprising person began to run a gambling hell inPiccadilly, would the authorities look on and smile?"

"That is an entirely different matter, sir. You are quibbling. InEngland gambling is forbidden by law. "

"So it is in Mervo, Mr. Pugh. "

"Tchah!"

"What say?" said the walrus. 

"I said 'Tchah!' Colonel. "

"Why?" said the walrus. 

"Because His Highness quibbled. "

The walrus nodded approvingly. 

"His Highness did nothing of the sort, " said John. "Gambling isforbidden in Mervo for the same reason that it is forbidden in England, because it demoralizes the people. "

"This is absurd, sir. Gambling has been permitted in Mervo for nearly ayear. "

"But not by me, Mr. Pugh. The Republic certainly granted Mr. Scobell aconcession. But, when I came to the throne, it became necessary for himto get a concession from me. I refused it. Hence the closed doors. "

Mr. Archer-Cleeve once more. "But--" He paused. "Forgotten what I wasgoing to say, " he said to the room at large. 

Herr von Mandelbaum made some remark at the back of his throat, but wasignored. 

John spoke again. 

"If you were a prince, Mr. Pugh, would you find it pleasant to be inthe pay of a gambling hell?"

"That is neither here nor--"

"On the contrary, it is, very much. I happen to have some self-respect. I've only just found it out, it's true, but it's there all right. Idon't want to be a prince--take it from me, it's a much overratedprofession--but if I've got to be one, I'll specialize. I won't combineit with being a bunco steerer on the side. As long as I am on thethrone, this high-toned crap-shooting will continue a back number. "

"What say?" said the walrus. 

"I said that, while I am on the throne here, people who feel itnecessary to chant 'Come, little seven!' must do it elsewhere. "

"I don't understand you, " said Mr. Pugh. "Your remarks are absolutelyunintelligible. "

"Never mind. My actions speak for themselves. It doesn't matter how Idescribe it--what it comes to is that the Casino is closed. You canfollow that? Mervo is no longer running wide open. The lid is on. "

"Then let me tell you, sir--" Mr. Pugh brought a bony fist down with athump on the table--"that you are playing with fire. Understand me, sir, we are not here to threaten. We are a peaceful deputation ofvisitors. But I have observed your people, sir. I have watched themnarrowly. And let me tell you that you are walking on a volcano. Already there are signs of grave discontent. "

"Already!" cried John. "Already's good. I guess they call it going somein this infernal country if they can keep awake long enough to takeaction within a year after a thing has happened. I don't know if youhave any influence with the populace, Mr. Pugh--you seem a pretty warmand important sort of person--but, if you have, do please ask them as afavor to me to get a move on. It's no good saying that I'm walking on avolcano. I'm from Missouri. I want to be shown. Let's see this volcano. Bring it out and make it trot around. "

"You may jest--"

"Who's jesting? I'm not. It's a mighty serious thing for me. I want toget away. The only thing that's keeping me in this forsaken place isthis delay. These people are obviously going to fire me sooner orlater. Why on earth can't they do it at once?"

"What say?" said the walrus. 

"You may well ask, Colonel, " said Mr. Pugh, staring amazed at John. "His Highness appears completely to have lost his senses. "

The walrus looked at John as if expecting some demonstration ofpractical insanity, but, finding him outwardly calm, closed his eyesand nodded heavily again. 

"I must say, don't you know, " said Mr. Archer-Cleeve, "it beats me, what?"

The entire deputation seemed to consider that John's last speech neededfootnotes. 

John was in no mood to supply them. His patience was exhausted. 

"I guess we'll call this conference finished, " he said. "You've beentold all you came to find out, --my reason for closing the Casino. If itdoesn't strike you as a satisfactory reason, that's up to you. Do whatyou like about it. The one thing you may take as a solid fact--and youcan spread it around the town as much as ever you please--is that it isclosed, and is not going to be reopened while I'm ruler here. "

The deputation then withdrew, reluctantly. 

 * * * * *

On the following morning there came a note from Mr. Scobell. It wasbrief. "Come on down before the shooting begins, " it ran. John tore itup. 

It was on the same evening that definite hostilities may be said tohave begun. 

Between the Palace and the market-place there was a narrow street offlagged stone, which was busy during the early part of the day butdeserted after sundown. Along this street, at about seven o'clock, Johnwas strolling with a cigarette, when he was aware of a man crouching, with his back toward him. So absorbed was the man in something which hewas writing on the stones that he did not hear John's approach, and thelatter, coming up from behind was enabled to see over his shoulder. Inlarge letters of chalk he read the words: _"Conspuez le Prince. "_

John's knowledge of French was not profound, but he could understandthis, and it annoyed him. 

As he looked, the man, squatting on his heels, bent forward to touchup one of the letters. If he had been deliberately posing, he couldnot have assumed a more convenient attitude. 

John had been a footballer before he was a prince. The temptation wastoo much for him. He drew back his foot--

There was a howl and a thud, and John resumed his stroll. The first gunfrom Fort Sumter had been fired. 

 * * * * *

Early next morning a window at the rear of the palace was broken by astone, and toward noon one of the soldiers on guard in front of theCasino was narrowly missed by an anonymous orange. For Mervo this waspractically equivalent to the attack on the Bastille, and John, whenthe report of the atrocities was brought to him, became hopeful. 

But the effort seemed temporarily to have exhausted the fury of themob. The rest of that day and the whole of the next passed withoutsensation. 

After breakfast on the following morning Mr. Crump paid a visit to thePalace. John was glad to see him. The staff of the Palace were loyal, but considered as cheery companions, they were handicapped by the factthat they spoke no English, while John spoke no French. 

Mr. Crump was the bearer of another note from Mr. Scobell. This timeJohn tore it up unread, and, turning to the secretary, invited him tosit down and make himself at home. 

Sipping a cocktail and smoking one of John's cigars, Mr. Crump becameconfidential. 

"This is a queer business, " he said. "Old Ben is chewing pieces out ofthe furniture up there. He's mad clean through. He's losing money allthe while the people are making up their minds about this thing, and itbeats him why they're so slow. "

"It beats me, too. I don't believe these hook-worm victims ever turnedmy father out. Or, if they did, somebody must have injected radium intothem first. I'll give them another couple of days, and, if they haven'tfixed it by then, I'll go, and leave them to do what they like aboutit. "

"Go! Do you want to go?"

"Of course I want to go! Do you think I like stringing along in thismusical comedy island? I'm crazy to get back to America. I don't blameyou, Crump, because it was not your fault, but, by George! if I hadknown what you were letting me in for when you carried me off here, I'dhave called up the police reserves. Hello! What's this?"

He rose to his feet as the sound of agitated voices came from the otherside of the door. The next moment it flew open, revealing GeneralPoineau and an assorted group of footmen and other domestics. Excitement seemed to be in the air. 

General Poineau rushed forward into the room, and flung his arms abovehis head. Then he dropped them to his side, and shrugged his shoulders, finishing in an attitude reminiscent of Plate 6 ("Despair") in "TheHome Reciter. "

"_Mon Prince!"_ he moaned. 

A perfect avalanche of French burst from the group outside the door. 

"Crump!" cried John. "Stand by me, Crump! Get busy! This is where youmake your big play. Never mind the chorus gentlemen in the passage. Concentrate yourself on Poineau. What's he talking about? I believehe's come to tell me the people have wakened up. Offer him a cocktail. What's the French for corpse-reviver? Get busy, Crump. "

The general had begun to speak rapidly, with a wealth of gestures. Itastonished John that Mr. Crump could follow the harangue as apparentlyhe did. 

"Well?" said John. 

Mr. Crump looked grave. 

"He says there is a large mob in the market-place. They are talking--"

"They would be!"

"--of moving in force on the Palace. The Palace Guards have gone overto the people. General Poineau urges you to disguise yourself andescape while there is time. You will be safe at his villa till theexcitement subsides, when you can be smuggled over to France during thenight--"

"Not for mine, " said John, shaking his head. "It's mighty good of you, General, and I appreciate it, but I can't wait till night. The boatleaves for Marseilles in another hour. I'll catch that. I can manage itcomfortably. I'll go up and pack my grip. Crump, entertain the Generalwhile I'm gone, will you? I won't be a moment. "

But as he left the room there came through the open window the mutterof a crowd. He stopped. General Poineau whipped out his sword, andbrought it to the salute. John patted him on the shoulder. 

"You're a sport, General, " he said, "but we sha'n't want it. Comealong, Crump. Come and help me address the multitude. "

The window of the room looked out on to a square. There was a smallbalcony with a stone parapet. As John stepped out, a howl of rage burstfrom the mob. 

John walked on to the balcony, and stood looking down on them, restinghis arms on the parapet. The howl was repeated, and from somewhere atthe back of the crowd came the sharp crack of a rifle, and a shot, thefirst and last of the campaign, clipped a strip of flannel from thecollar of his coat and splashed against the wall. 

A broad smile spread over his face. 

If he had studied for a year, he could not have hit on a swifter ormore effective method of quieting the mob. There was something soengaging and friendly in his smile that the howling died away and fiststhat has been shaken unclenched themselves and fell. There was anexpectant silence in the square. 

John beckoned to Crump, who came on to the balcony with somereluctance, being mistrustful of the unseen sportsman with the rifle. 

"Tell 'em it's all right, Crump, and that there's no call for any fuss. From their manner I gather that I am no longer needed on this throne. Ask them if that's right?"

A small man, who appeared to be in command of the crowd, steppedforward as the secretary finished speaking, and shouted some wordswhich drew a murmur of approval from his followers. 

"He wants to know, " interpreted Mr. Crump, "if you will allow theCasino to open again. "

"Tell him no, but add that I shall be tickled to death to abdicate, ifthat's what they want. Speed them up, old man. Tell them to make uptheir minds on the jump, because I want to catch that boat. Don't letthem get to discussing it, or they'll stand there talking till sunset. Yes or no. That's the idea. "

There was a moment's surprised silence when Mr. Crump had spoken. TheMervian mind was unused to being hustled in this way. Then a voiceshouted, as it were tentatively, "_Vive la Republique!"_ and atonce the cry was taken up on all sides. 

John beamed down on them. 

"That's right, " he said. "Bully! I knew you could get a move on asquick as anyone else, if you gave your minds to it. This is what I callsomething like a revolution. It's a model to every country in theworld. But I guess we must close down the entertainment now, or I shallbe missing the boat. Will you tell them, Crump, that any citizen whocares for a drink and a cigar will find it in the Palace. Tell thehousehold staff to stand by to pull corks. It's dry workrevolutionizing. And now I really must be going. I've run it mightyfine. Slip one of these fellows down there half a dollar and send himto fetch a cab. I must step lively. "

 * * * * *

Five minutes later the revolutionists, obviously embarrassed and ill atease, were sheepishly gulping down their refreshment beneath the stonyeye of the majordomo and his assistants, while upstairs in the statebedroom the deposed Prince was whistling "Dixie" and packing the royalpajamas into a suitcase. 

CHAPTER X

MRS. OAKLEY

Betty, when she stepped on board the boat for Marseilles, had had nodefinite plan of action. She had been caught up and swept away by anover-mastering desire for escape that left no room in her mind forthoughts of the morrow. It was not till the train was roaring its wayacross southern France that she found herself sufficiently composed toreview her position and make plans. 

She would not go back. She could not. The words she had used in herletter to Mr. Scobell were no melodramatic rhetoric. They were a plainand literal statement of the truth. Death would be infinitelypreferable to life at Mervo on her stepfather's conditions. 

But, that settled, what then? What was she to do? The gods arebusinesslike. They sell; they do not give. And for what they sell theydemand a heavy price. We may buy life of them in many ways: with ourhonor, our health, our independence, our happiness, with our brains orwith our hands. But somehow or other, in whatever currency we maychoose to pay it, the price must be paid. 

Betty faced the problem. What had she? What could she give? Herindependence? That, certainly. She saw now what a mockery that fanciedindependence had been. She had come and gone as she pleased, her pathsmoothed by her stepfather's money, and she had been accustomed toconsider herself free. She had learned wisdom now, and could understandthat it was only by sacrificing such artificial independence that shecould win through to freedom. The world was a market, and the onlyindependent people in it were those who had a market value. 

What was her market value? What could she do? She looked back at herlife, and saw that she had dabbled. She had a little of mostthings--enough of nothing. She could sketch a little, play a little, sing a little, write a little. Also--and, as she remembered it, shefelt for the first time a tremor of hope--she could use a typewriterreasonably well. That one accomplishment stood out in the welter of herthoughts, solid and comforting, like a rock in a quicksand. It wassomething definite, something marketable, something of value for whichpersons paid. 

The tremor of hope did not comfort her long. Her mood was critical, andshe saw that in this, her one accomplishment, she was, as in everythingelse, an amateur. She could not compete against professionals. Sheclosed her eyes, and had a momentary vision of those professionals, keen of face, leathern of finger, rattling out myriads of words at adizzy speed. And, at that, all her courage suddenly broke; she droopedforlornly, and, hiding her face on the cushioned arm-rest, she began tocry. 

Tears are the Turkish bath of the soul. Nature never intended woman topass dry-eyed through crises of emotion. A casual stranger, meetingBetty on her way to the boat, might have thought that she looked alittle worried, --nothing more. The same stranger, if he had happened toenter the compartment at this juncture, would have set her down atsight as broken-hearted beyond recovery. Yet such is the magic of tearsthat it was at this very moment that Betty was beginning to beconscious of a distinct change for the better. Her heart still ached, and to think of John even for an instant was to feel the knife turningin the wound, but her brain was clear; the panic fear had gone, and shefaced the future resolutely once more. For she had just remembered theexistence of Mrs. Oakley. 

 * * * * *

Only once in her life had Betty met her stepfather's celebrated aunt, and the meeting had taken place nearly twelve years ago. The figurethat remained in her memory was of a pale-eyed, grenadier-like oldlady, almost entirely surrounded by clocks. It was these clocks thathad impressed her most. She was too young to be awed by the knowledgethat the tall old woman who stared at her just like a sandy cat she hadonce possessed was one of the three richest women in the whole wideworld. She only remembered thinking that the finger which emerged fromthe plaid shawl and prodded her cheek was unpleasantly bony. But theclocks had absorbed her. It was as if all the clocks in the world hadbeen gathered together into that one room. There had been big clocks, with almost human faces; small, perky clocks; clocks of strange shape;and one dingy, medium-sized clock in particular which had made her cryout with delight. Her visit had chanced to begin shortly before elevenin the morning, and she had not been in the room ten minutes beforethere was a whirring, and the majority of the clocks began to announcethe hour, each after its own fashion--some with a slow bloom, some witha rapid, bell-like sound. But the medium-sized clock, unexpectedlybelying its appearance of being nothing of particular importance, hadperformed its task in a way quite distinct from the others. It hadsuddenly produced from its interior a shabby little gold man with atrumpet, who had blown eleven little blasts before sliding backwardinto his house and shutting the door after him. Betty had waited inrapt silence till he finished, and had then shouted eagerly for more. 

Just as the beginner at golf may effect a drive surpassing that of theexpert, so may a child unconsciously eclipse the practised courtier. There was no soft side to Mrs. Oakley's character, as thousands ofsuave would-be borrowers had discovered in their time, but there was asoft spot. To general praise of her collection of clocks she wasimpervious; it was unique, and she did not require you to tell her so, but exhibit admiration for the clock with the little trumpeter, and shemelted. It was the one oasis of sentiment in the Sahara of her mentaloutlook, the grain of radium in the pitchblende. Years ago it had stoodin a little New England farmhouse, and a child had clapped her handsand shouted, even as Betty had done, when the golden man slid from hishiding-place. Much water had flowed beneath the bridge since thosedays. Many things had happened to the child. But she still kept her oldlove for the trumpeter. The world knew nothing of this. The world, ifit had known, would have been delighted to stand before the clock andadmire it volubly, by the day. But it had no inkling of the trumpeter'simportance, and, when it came to visit Mrs. Oakley, was apt to wasteits time showering compliments on the obvious beauties of the queens ofthe collection. 

But Betty, ignoring these, jumped up and down before the dingy clock, demanding further trumpetings, and, turning to Mrs. Oakley, as onepossessing influence, she was aware of a curious, intent look in theold lady's eyes. 

"Do you like that clock, my dear?" said Mrs. Oakley. 

"Yes! Oh, yes!"

"Perhaps you shall have it some day, honey. "

Betty was probably the only person who had been admitted to that roomwho would not, on the strength of this remark, have steered theconversation gently to the subject of a small loan. Instead, she ran tothe old lady, and kissed her. And, as to what had happened after that, memory was vague. There had been some talk, she remembered, of a dollarto buy candy, but it had come to nothing, and now that she had grownolder and had read the frequent paragraphs and anecdotes that appearedin the papers about her stepfather's aunt, she could understand why. She knew now what everybody knew of Mrs. Oakley--her history, hereccentricities, and the miserliness of which the papers spoke with asatirical lightness that seemed somehow but a thin disguise for whatwas almost admiration. 

Mrs. Oakley was one of two children, a son and a daughter, of a Vermontfarmer. Of her early life no records remain. Her public history beginswhen she was twenty-two and came to New York. After two years'struggling, she found a position in the firm of one Redgrave. Those whoknew her then speak of her as a tall, handsome girl, hard and intenselyambitious. From contemporary accounts she seems to have out-NietzschedNietzsche. Nietzsche's vision stopped short at the superman. JaneScobell was a superwoman. She had all the titanic selfishness andindifference to the comfort of others which marks the superman, and, inaddition, undeniable good looks and a knowledge of the weaknesses ofmen. Poor Mr. Redgrave had not had a chance from the start. She marriedhim within a year. Two years later, catching the bulls in an unguardedmoment, Mr. Redgrave despoiled them of a trifle over three milliondollars, and died the same day of an apoplectic stroke caused by theexcitement of victory. His widow, after a tour in Europe, returned tothe United States and visited Pittsburg. Any sociologist will supportthe statement that it is difficult, almost impossible, for anattractive widow, visiting Pittsburg, not to marry a millionaire, evenif she is not particularly anxious to do so. If such an act is theprimary object of her visit, the thing becomes a certainty. Gropingthrough the smoke, Jane Redgrave seized and carried off no less aquarry than Alexander Baynes Oakley, a widower, whose income was one ofthe seven wonders of the world. In the fullness of time he, too, died, and Jane Oakley was left with the sole control of two vast fortunes. 

She did not marry again, though it was rumored that it took threesecretaries, working nine hours a day, to cope with the writtenproposals, and that butler after butler contracted clergyman's sorethroat through denying admittance to amorous callers. In the ten yearsafter Alexander Baynes' death, every impecunious aristocrat in thecivilized world must have made his dash for the matrimonial pole. Buther pale eyes looked them over, and dismissed them. 

During those early years she was tempted once or twice to speculation. A failure in a cotton deal not only cured her of this taste, but seemsto have marked the point in her career when her thoughts began to turnto parsimony. Until then she had lived in some state, but now, gradually at first, then swiftly, she began to cut down her expenses. Now we find her in an apartment in West Central Park, next in aWashington Square hotel, then in a Harlem flat, and finally--her last, fixed abiding-place--in a small cottage on Staten Island. 

It was a curious life that she led, this woman who could have boughtkingdoms if she had willed it. A Swedish maid-of-all-work was her onlycompanion. By day she would walk in her little garden, or dust, arrangeand wind up her clocks. At night, she would knit, or read one of thefrequent reports that arrived at the cottage from charity workers onthe East Side. Those were her two hobbies, and her onlyextravagances--clocks and charity. 

Her charity had its limitations. In actual money she expended little. She was a theoretical philanthropist. She lent her influence, her time, and her advice, but seldom her bank balance. Arrange an entertainmentfor the delectation of the poor, and you would find her on theplatform, but her name would not be on the list of subscribers to thefunds. She would deliver a lecture on thrift to an audience of factorygirls, and she would give them a practical example of what shepreached. 

Yet, with all its limitations, her charity was partly genuine. Her mindwas like a country in the grip of civil war. One-half of her sincerelypitied the poor, burned at any story of oppression, and cried "Give!"but the other cried "Halt!" and held her back, and between the two shefell. 

 * * * * *

It was to this somewhat unpromising haven of refuge that Betty's mindnow turned in her trouble. She did not expect great things. She couldnot have said exactly what she did expect. But, at least, the cottageon Staten Island offered a resting-place on her journey, even if itcould not be the journey's end. Her mad dash from Mervo ceased to beobjectless. It led somewhere. 

CHAPTER XI

A LETTER OF INTRODUCTION

New York, revisited, had much the same effect on Betty as it had had onJohn during his first morning of independence. As the liner came up thebay, and the great buildings stood out against the clear blue of thesky, she felt afraid and lonely. That terror which is said to attackimmigrants on their first sight of the New York sky-line came to her, as she leaned on the rail, and with it a feeling of utter misery. By acontinual effort during the voyage she had kept her thoughts fromturning to John, but now he rose up insistently before her, and sherealized all that had gone out of her life. 

She rebelled against the mad cruelty of the fate which had brought themtogether again. It seemed to her now that she must always have lovedhim, but it had been such a vague, gentle thing, this love, before thatlast meeting--hardly more than a pleasant accompaniment to her life, something to think about in idle moments, a help and a support whenthings were running crosswise. She had been so satisfied with it, socontent to keep him a mere memory. It seemed so needless and wanton todestroy her illusion. 

Of love as a wild-beast passion, tearing and torturing quite ordinarypersons like herself, she had always been a little sceptical. The greatlove poems of the world, when she read them, had always left her withthe feeling that their authors were of different clay from herself andhad no common meeting ground with her. She had seen her friends fall inlove, as they called it, and it had been very pretty and charming, butas far removed from the frenzies of the poets as an amateur's snapshotof Niagara from the cataract itself. Elsa Keith, for instance, wasobviously very fond and proud of Marvin, but she seemed perfectlyplacid about it. She loved, but she could still spare half an hour forthe discussion of a new frock. Her soul did not appear to have beenrevolutionized in any way. 

Gradually Betty had come to the conclusion that love, in the full senseof the word, was one of the things that did not happen. And now, as ifto punish her presumption, it had leaped from hiding and seized her. 

There was nothing exaggerated or unintelligible in the poets now. Theyceased to be inhabitants of another world, swayed by curiously complexemotions. They were her brothers--ordinary men with ordinary feelingsand a strange gift for expressing them. She knew now that it waspossible to hate the man you loved and to love the man you hated, toache for the sight of someone even while you fled from him. 

It did not take her long to pass the Customs. A small grip constitutedher entire baggage. Having left this in the keeping of the amiableproprietor of a near-by delicatessen store, she made her way to theferry. 

Her first enquiry brought her to the cottage. Mrs. Oakley was acelebrity on Staten Island. 

At the door she paused for a moment, then knocked. 

The Swede servant, she who had been there at her former visit, twelveyears ago, received her stolidly. Mrs. Oakley was dusting her clocks. 

"Ask her if she can see me, " said Betty. "I'm--" great step-niecesounded too ridiculous--"I'm her niece, " she said. 

The handmaid went and returned, stolid as ever. "Ay tal her vat yu sayabout niece, and she say she not knowing any niece, " she announced. 

Betty amended the description, and presently the Swede returned oncemore, and motioned her to enter. 

Like so many scenes of childhood, the room of the clocks was sharplystamped on Betty's memory, and, as she came into it now, it seemed toher that nothing had changed. There were the clocks, all round thewalls, of every shape and size, the big clocks with the human faces andthe small, perky clocks. There was the dingy, medium-sized clock thatheld the trumpeter. And there, looking at her with just the oldsandy-cat expression in her pale eyes, was Mrs. Oakley. 

Even the possession of an income of eighteen million dollars and aunique collection of clocks cannot place a woman above the making ofthe obvious remark. 

"How you have grown!" said Mrs. Oakley. 

The words seemed to melt the chill that had gathered around Betty'sheart. She had been prepared to enter into long explanations, and theknowledge that these would not be required was very comforting. 

"Do you remember me?" she exclaimed. 

"You are the little girl who clapped her hands at the trumpeter, butyou are not little now. "

"I'm not so very big, " said Betty, smiling. She felt curiously at home, and pity for the loneliness of this strange old woman caused her toforget her own troubles. 

"You look pretty when you smile, " said Mrs. Oakley thoughtfully. Shecontinued to look closely at her. "You are in trouble, " she said. 

Betty met her eyes frankly. 

"Yes, " she said. 

The old woman bent her head over a Sevres china clock, and stroked ittenderly with her feather duster. 

"Why did you run away?" she asked without looking up. 

Betty had a feeling that the ground was being cut from beneath herfeet. She had expected to have to explain who she was and why she hadcome, and behold, both were unnecessary. It was uncanny. And then theobvious explanation occurred to her. 

"Did my stepfather cable?" she asked. 

Mrs. Oakley laid down the feather duster and, opening a drawer, produced some sheets of paper--to the initiated eye plainly one of Mr. Scobell's lengthy messages. 

"A wickedly extravagant cable, " she said, frowning at it. "He couldhave expressed himself perfectly well at a quarter of the expense. "

Betty began to read. The dimple on her chin appeared for a moment asshe did so. The tone of the message was so obsequious. There was notrace of the old peremptory note in it. The words "dearest aunt"occurred no fewer than six times in the course of the essay, its authorbeing apparently reckless of the fact that it was costing him half adollar a time. Mrs. Oakley had been quite right in her criticism. Thegist of the cable was, "_Betty has run away to America dearest auntridiculous is sure to visit you please dearest aunt do not encourageher_. " The rest was pure padding. 

Mrs. Oakley watched her with a glowering eye. "If Bennie Scobell, " shesoliloquized, "imagines that he can dictate to me--" She ceased, leaving an impressive hiatus. Unhappy Mr. Scobell, convicted ofdictation even after three dollars' worth of "dearest aunt!"

Betty handed back the cable. Her chin, emblem of war, was tilted andadvanced. 

"I'll tell you why I ran away, Aunt, " she said. 

Mrs. Oakley listened to her story in silence. Betty did not relate itat great length, for with every word she spoke, the thought of Johnstabbed her afresh. She omitted much that has been told in thischronicle. But she disclosed the essential fact, that Napoleonic Mr. Scobell had tried to force her into a marriage with a man she didnot--she hesitated at the word--did not respect, she concluded. 

Mrs. Oakley regarded her inscrutably for a while before replying. 

"Respect!" she said at last. "I have never met a man in my life whom Icould respect. Harpies! Every one of them! Every one of them! Every oneof them!"

She was muttering to herself. It is possible that her thoughts wereback with those persevering young aristocrats of her second widowhood. Certainly, if she had sometimes displayed a touch of the pirate in herdealings with man, man, it must be said in fairness, had not alwaysshown his best side to her. 

"Respect!" she muttered again. "Did you like him, this Prince ofyours?"

Betty's eyes filled. She made no reply. 

"Well, never mind, " said Mrs. Oakley. "Don't cry, child! I'm not goingto press you. You must have hated him or else loved him very much, oryou would never have run away.... Dictate to me!" she broke off, half-aloud, her mind evidently once more on Mr. Scobell's unfortunatecable. 

Betty could bear it no longer. 

"I loved him!" she cried. "I loved him!"

She was shaking with dry sobs. She felt the old woman's eyes upon her, but she could not stop. 

A sudden whirr cut through the silence. One of the large clocks nearthe door was beginning to strike the hour. Instantly the rest began todo the same, till the room was full of the noise. And above the dinthere sounded sharp and clear the note of the little trumpet. 

The noise died away with metallic echoings. 

"Honey!"

It was a changed voice that spoke. Betty looked up, and saw that theeyes that met hers were very soft. She moved quickly to the old woman'sside. 

"Honey, I'm going to tell you something about myself that nobody dreamsof. Betty, when I was your age, _I_ ran away from a man because Iloved him. It was just a little village tragedy, my dear. I think hewas fond of me, but father was poor and her folks were the great peopleof the place, and he married her. And I ran away, like you, and went toNew York. "

Betty pressed her hand. It was trembling. 

"I'm so sorry, " she whispered. 

"I went to New York because I wanted to kill my heart. And I killed it. There's only one way. Work! Work! Work!" She was sitting bolt upright, and the soft look had gone out of her eyes. They were hard and fieryunder the drawn brows. "Work! Ah, I worked! I never rested. For twoyears. Two whole years. It fought back at me. It tore me to bits. But Iwouldn't stop. I worked on, I killed it. "

She stopped, quivering. Betty was cold with a nameless dismay. She feltas if she were standing in the dark on the brink of an abyss. 

The old woman began to speak again. 

"Child, it's the same with you. Your heart's tearing you. Don't let it!It will get worse and worse if you are afraid of it. Fight it! Kill it!Work!"

She stopped again, clenching and unclenching her fingers, as if shewere strangling some living thing. There was silence for a long moment. 

"What can you do?" she asked suddenly. 

Her voice was calm and unemotional again. The abruptness of thetransition from passion to the practical took Betty aback. She couldnot speak. 

"There must be something, " continued Mrs. Oakley. "When I was your ageI had taught myself bookkeeping, shorthand, and typewriting. What canyou do? Can you use a typewriter?"

Blessed word!

"Yes, " said Betty promptly. 

"Well?"

"Not very well?"

"H'm. Well, I expect you will do it well enough for Mr. Renshaw--on myrecommendation. I'll give you a letter to him. He is the editor of asmall weekly paper. I don't know how much he will offer you, but takeit and _work!_ You'll find him pleasant. I have met him at charityorganization meetings on the East Side. He's useful at theentertainments--does conjuring tricks--stupid, but they seem to amusepeople. You'll find him pleasant. There. "

She had been writing the letter of introduction during the course ofthese remarks. At the last word she blotted it, and placed it in anenvelope. 

"That's the address, " she said. "J. Brabazon Renshaw, Office of_Peaceful Moments_. Take it to him now. Good-by. "

It was as if she were ashamed of her late display of emotion. She spokeabruptly, and her pale eyes were expressionless. Betty thanked her andturned to go. 

"Tell me how you get on, " said Mrs. Oakley. 

"Yes, " said Betty. 

"And _work_. Keep on working!"

There was a momentary return of her former manner as she spoke thewords, and Betty wavered. She longed to say something comforting, something that would show that she understood. 

Mrs. Oakley had taken up the feather duster again. 

"Steena will show you out, " she said curtly. And Betty was aware of thestolid Swede in the doorway. The interview was plainly at an end. 

"Good-by, Aunt, " she said, "and thank you ever so much--foreverything. "

CHAPTER XII

"PEACEFUL MOMENTS"

The man in the street did not appear to know it, but a great crisis wasimminent in New York journalism. 

Everything seemed much as usual in the city. The cars ran blithely onBroadway. Newsboys shouted their mystic slogan, "Wuxtry!" withundiminished vim. Society thronged Fifth Avenue without a furrow on itsbrow. At a thousand street corners a thousand policemen preserved theirair of massive superiority to the things of this world. Of all the fourmillion not one showed the least sign of perturbation. 

Nevertheless, the crisis was at hand. Mr. J. Brabazon Renshaw, Editor-in-chief of _Peaceful Moments_, was about to leave his postand start on a three-months' vacation. 

_Peaceful Moments_, as its name (an inspiration of Mr. Renshaw'sown) was designed to imply, was a journal of the home. It was the sortof paper which the father of the family is expected to take back withhim from the office and read aloud to the chicks before bedtime underthe shade of the rubber plant. 

Circumstances had left the development of the paper almost entirely toMr. Renshaw. Its contents were varied. There was a "Moments in theNursery" page, conducted by Luella Granville Waterman and devotedmainly to anecdotes of the family canary, by Jane (aged six), andsimilar works of the younger set. There was a "Moments of Meditation"page, conducted by the Reverend Edwin T. Philpotts; a "Moments amongthe Masters" page, consisting of assorted chunks looted from theliterature of the past, when foreheads were bulged and thoughtsprofound, by Mr. Renshaw himself; one or two other special pages; ashort story; answers to correspondents on domestic matters; and a"Moments of Mirth" page, conducted by one B. Henderson Asher--a verypainful affair. 

The proprietor of this admirable journal was that Napoleon of finance, Mr. Benjamin Scobell. 

That this should have been so is but one proof of the many-sidedness ofthat great man. 

Mr. Scobell had founded _Peaceful Moments_ at an early stage inhis career, and it was only at very rare intervals nowadays that herecollected that he still owned it. He had so many irons in the firenow that he had no time to waste his brain tissues thinking about apaper like _Peaceful Moments_. It was one of his failures. Itcertainly paid its way and brought him a small sum each year, but tohim it was a failure, a bombshell that had fizzled. 

He had intended to do big things with _Peaceful Moments_. He hadmeant to start a new epoch in the literature of Manhattan. 

"I gottan idea, " he had said to Miss Scobell. "All this yellowjournalism--red blood and all that--folks are tired of it. They wantsomething milder. Wholesome, see what I mean? There's money in it. Guysmake a roll too big to lift by selling soft drinks, don't they? Well, I'm going to run a soft-drink paper. See?"

The enterprise had started well. To begin with, he had found the idealeditor. He had met Mr. Renshaw at a down-East gathering presided overby Mrs. Oakley, and his Napoleonic eye had seen in J. Brabazon theseeds of domestic greatness. Before they parted, he had come to termswith him. Nor had the latter failed to justify his intuition. He madean admirable editor. It was not Mr. Renshaw's fault that the new paperhad failed to electrify America. It was the public on whom theresponsibility for the failure must be laid. They spoiled the wholething. Certain of the faithful subscribed, it is true, and continued tosubscribe, but the great heart of the public remained untouched. Thegreat heart of the public declined to be interested in the meditationsof Mr. Philpotts and the humor of Mr. B. Henderson Asher, and continuedto spend its money along the bad old channels. The thing began to boreMr. Scobell. He left the conduct of the journal more and more to Mr. Renshaw, until finally--it was just after the idea for extracting goldfrom sea water had struck him--he put the whole business definitely outof his mind. (His actual words were that he never wanted to see or hearof the darned thing again, inasmuch as it gave him a pain in the neck. )Mr. Renshaw was given a free hand as to the editing, and all matters offinance connected with the enterprise were placed in the hands of Mr. Scobell's solicitors, who had instructions to sell the journal, if, asits owner crisply put it, they could find any chump who was enough of adarned chump to give real money for it. Up to the present the greatarmy of chumps had fallen short of this ideal standard of darnedchumphood. 

Ever since this parting of the ways, Mr. Renshaw had been in hiselement. Under his guidance _Peaceful Moments_ had reached a levelof domesticity which made other so-called domestic journals look likesporting supplements. But at last the work had told upon him. Whetherit was the effort of digging into the literature of the past everyweek, or the strain of reading B. Henderson Asher's "Moments of Mirth"is uncertain. At any rate, his labors had ended in wrecking his healthto such an extent that the doctor had ordered him three months'complete rest, in the woods or mountains, whichever he preferred; and, being a farseeing man, who went to the root of things, had absolutelydeclined to consent to Mr. Renshaw's suggestion that he keep in touchwith the paper during his vacation. He was adamant. He had seen copiesof _Peaceful Moments_ once or twice, and refused to permit a manin Mr. Renshaw's state of health to come in contact with LuellaGranville Waterman's "Moments in the Nursery" and B. Henderson Asher's"Moments of Mirth. "

"You must forget that such a paper exists, " he said. "You must dismissthe whole thing from your mind, live in the open, and develop someflesh and muscle. "

Mr. Renshaw had bowed before the sentence, howbeit gloomily, and now, on the morning of Betty's departure from Mrs. Oakley's house with theletter of introduction, was giving his final instructions to histemporary successor. 

This temporary successor in the editorship was none other than John'sfriend, Rupert Smith, late of the _News_. 

Smith, on leaving Harvard, had been attracted by newspaper work, andhad found his first billet on a Western journal of the type whosesociety column consists of such items as "Jim Thompson was to townyesterday with a bunch of other cheap skates. We take this opportunityof once more informing Jim that he is a liar and a skunk, " and whoseeditor works with a pistol on his desk and another in his hip-pocket. Graduating from this, he had proceeded to a reporter's post on a dailypaper in Kentucky, where there were blood feuds and other Southerndevices for preventing life from becoming dull. All this was good, buteven while he enjoyed these experiences, New York, the magnet, had beentugging at him, and at last, after two eventful years on the Kentuckypaper, he had come East, and eventually won through to the staff of the_News_. 

His presence in the office of _Peaceful Moments_ was due to theuncomfortable habit of most of the New York daily papers of cuttingdown their staff of reporters during the summer. The dismissed had, tosustain them, the knowledge that they would return, like the swallows, anon, and be received back into their old places; but in the meantimethey suffered the inconvenience of having to support themselves as bestthey could. Smith, when, in the company of half-a-dozen others, he hadhad to leave the _News_, had heard of the vacant post of assistanteditor on _Peaceful Moments_, and had applied for and received it. Whereby he was more fortunate than some of his late colleagues; though, as the character of his new work unrolled itself before him, he wasfrequently doubtful on that point. For the atmosphere of _PeacefulMoments_, however wholesome, was certainly not exciting, and hishappened to be essentially a nature that needed the stimulus ofexcitement. Even in Park Row, the denizens of which street are rarelyslaves to the conventional and safe, he had a well-establishedreputation in this matter. Others of his acquaintances welcomedexcitement when it came to them in the course of the day's work, but itwas Smith's practise to go in search of it. He was a young man ofspirit and resource. 

His appearance, to those who did not know him, hardly suggested this. He was very tall and thin, with a dark, solemn face. He was a purist inthe matter of clothes, and even in times of storm and stress presentedan immaculate appearance to the world. In his left eye, attached to acord, he wore a monocle. 

Through this, at the present moment, he was gazing benevolently at Mr. Renshaw, as the latter fussed about the office in the throes ofdeparture. To the editor's rapid fire of advice and warning he listenedwith the pleased and indulgent air of a father whose infant son frisksbefore him. Mr. Renshaw interested him. To Smith's mind Mr. Renshaw, put him in any show you pleased, would alone have been worth the priceof admission. 

"Well, " chirruped the holiday-maker--he was a little man with a longneck, and he always chirruped--"Well, I think that is all, Mr. Smith. Oh, ah, yes! The stenographer. You will need a new stenographer. "

The _Peaceful Moments_ stenographer had resigned her positionthree days before, in order to get married. 

"Unquestionably, Comrade Renshaw, " said Smith. "A blonde. "

Mr. Renshaw looked annoyed. 

"I have told you before, Mr. Smith, I object to your addressing me asComrade. It is not--it is not--er--fitting. "

Smith waved a deprecating hand. 

"Say no more, " he said. "I will correct the habit. I have been studyingthe principles of Socialism somewhat deeply of late, and I came to theconclusion that I must join the cause. It looked good to me. You workfor the equal distribution of property, and start in by swiping all youcan and sitting on it. A noble scheme. Me for it. But I am interruptingyou. "

Mr. Renshaw had to pause for a moment to reorganize his ideas. 

"I think--ah, yes. I think it would be best perhaps to wait for a dayor two in case Mrs. Oakley should recommend someone. I mentioned thevacancy in the office to her, and she said she would give the matterher attention. I should prefer, if possible, to give the place to hernominee. She--"

"--has eighteen million a year, " said Smith. "I understand. Scatterseeds of kindness. "

Mr. Renshaw looked at him sharply. Smith's face was solemn andthoughtful. 

"Nothing of the kind, " the editor said, after a pause. "I should preferMrs. Oakley's nominee because Mrs. Oakley is a shrewd, practical womanwho--er--who--who, in fact--"

"Just so, " said Smith, eying him gravely through the monocle. "Entirely. "

The scrutiny irritated Mr. Renshaw. 

"Do put that thing away, Mr. Smith, " he said. 

"That thing?"

"Yes, that ridiculous glass. Put it away. "

"Instantly, " said Smith, replacing the monocle in his vest-pocket. "Youobject to it? Well, well, many people do. We all have these curiouslikes and dislikes. It is these clashings of personal taste whichconstitute what we call life. Yes. You were saying?"

Mr. Renshaw wrinkled his forehead. 

"I have forgotten what I intended to say, " he said querulously. "Youhave driven it out of my head. "

Smith clicked his tongue sympathetically. Mr. Renshaw looked at hiswatch. 

"Dear me, " he said, "I must be going. I shall miss my train. But Ithink I have covered the ground quite thoroughly. You understandeverything?"

"Absolutely, " said Smith. "I look on myself as some engineercontrolling a machine with a light hand on the throttle. Or like somefaithful hound whose master--"

"Ah! There is just one thing. Mrs. Julia Burdett Parslow is a littleinclined to be unpunctual with her 'Moments with Budding Girlhood. ' Ifthis should happen while I am away, just write her a letter, quite apleasant letter, you understand, pointing out the necessity of being ingood time. She must realize that we are a machine. "

"Exactly, " murmured Smith. 

"The machinery of the paper cannot run smoothly unless contributors arein good time with their copy. "

"Precisely, " said Smith. "They are the janitors of the literary world. Let them turn off the steam heat, and where are we? If Mrs. JuliaBurdett Parslow is not up to time with the hot air, how shall our'Girlhood' escape being nipped in the bud?"

"And there is just one other thing. I wish you would correct a slighttendency I have noticed lately in Mr. Asher to be just a trifle--well, not precisely risky, but perhaps a shade broad in his humor. "

"Young blood!" sighed Smith. "Young blood!"

"Mr. Asher is a very sensible man, and he will understand. Well, thatis all, I think. Now, I really must be going. Good-by, Mr. Smith. "

"Good-by. "

At the door Mr. Renshaw paused with the air of an exile biddingfarewell to his native land, sighed and trotted out. 

Smith put his feet upon the table, flicked a speck of dust from hiscoat-sleeve, and resumed his task of reading the proofs of LuellaGranville Waterman's "Moments in the Nursery. "

 * * * * *

He had not been working long, when Pugsy Maloney, the office boy, entered. 

"Say!" said Pugsy. 

"Say on, Comrade Maloney. "

"Dere's a loidy out dere wit a letter for Mr. Renshaw. "

"Have you acquainted her with the fact that Mr. Renshaw has passed toother climes?"

"Huh?"

"Have you, in the course of your conversation with this lady, mentionedthat Mr. Renshaw has beaten it?"

"Sure, I did. And she says can she see you?"

Smith removed his feet from the table. 

"Certainly, " he said. "Who am I that I should deny people these littletreats? Ask her to come in, Comrade Maloney. "

CHAPTER XIII

BETTY MAKES A FRIEND

Betty had appealed to Master Maloney's esthetic sense of beautydirectly she appeared before him. It was with regret, therefore, ratherthan with the usual calm triumph of the office boy, that he informedher that the editor was not in. Also, seeing that she was evidentlyperturbed by the information, he had gone out of his way to suggestthat she lay her business, whatever it might be, before Mr. Renshaw'stemporary successor. 

Smith received her with Old-World courtesy. 

"Will you sit down?" he said. "Not to wait for Comrade Renshaw, ofcourse. He will not be back for another three months. Perhaps I canhelp you. I am acting editor. The work is not light, " he addedgratuitously. "Sometimes the cry goes round New York, 'Can Smith getthrough it all? Will his strength support his unquenchable spirit?' ButI stagger on. I do not repine. What was it that you wished to seeComrade Renshaw about?"

He swung his monocle lightly by its cord. For the first time since shehad entered the office Betty was rather glad that Mr. Renshaw was away. Conscious of her defects as a stenographer she had been looking forwardsomewhat apprehensively to the interview with her prospective employer. But this long, solemn youth put her at her ease. His manner suggestedin some indefinable way that the whole thing was a sort of round game. 

"I came about the typewriting, " she said. 

Smith looked at her with interest. 

"Are you the nominee?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Do you come from Mrs. Oakley?"

"Yes. "

"Then all is well. The decks have been cleared against your coming. Consider yourself engaged as our official typist. By the way, _can_ you type?"

Betty laughed. This was certainly not the awkward interview she hadbeen picturing in her mind. 

"Yes, " she said, "but I'm afraid I'm not very good at it. "

"Never mind, " said Smith. "I'm not very good at editing. Yet here I am. I foresee that we shall make an ideal team. Together, we will toilearly and late till we whoop up this domestic journal into a shiningmodel of what a domestic journal should be. What that is, at present, Ido not exactly know. Excursion trains will be run from the Middle Westto see this domestic journal. Visitors from Oshkosh will do it beforegoing on to Grant's tomb. What exactly is your name?"

Betty hesitated. Yes, perhaps it would be better. "Brown, " she said. 

"Mine is Smith. The smiling child in the outer office is Pugsy Maloney, one of our most prominent citizens. Homely in appearance, perhaps, butone of us. You will get to like Comrade Maloney. And now, to touch on apainful subject--work. Would you care to start in now, or have you anyother engagements? Perhaps you wish to see the sights of this beautifullittle city before beginning? You would prefer to start in now?Excellent. You could not have come at a more suitable time, for I wason the very point of sallying out to purchase about twenty-five cents'worth of lunch. We editors, Comrade Brown, find that our tissues needconstant restoration, such is the strenuous nature of our duties. Youwill find one or two letters on that table. Good-by, then, for thepresent. "

He picked up his hat, smoothed it carefully and with a courtlyinclination of his head, left the room. 

Betty sat down, and began to think. So she was really earning her ownliving! It was a stimulating thought. She felt a little bewildered. Shehad imagined something so different. Mrs. Oakley had certainly saidthat _Peaceful Moments_ was a small paper, but despite that, herimagination had conjured up visions of bustle and activity, and aperemptory, overdriven editor, snapping out words of command. Smith, with his careful speech and general air of calm detachment from thenoisy side of life, created an atmosphere of restfulness. If this was asample of life in the office, she thought, the paper had been wellnamed. She felt soothed and almost happy. 

Interesting and exciting things, New York things, began to happen atonce. To her, meditating, there entered Pugsy Maloney, the guardian ofthe gate of this shrine of Peace, a nonchalant youth of about fifteen, with a freckled, mask-like face, the expression of which never varied, bearing in his arms a cat. The cat was struggling violently, but heappeared quite unconscious of it. Its existence did not seem to occurto him. 

"Say!" said Pugsy. 

Betty was fond of cats. 

"Oh, don't hurt her!" she cried anxiously. 

Master Maloney eyed the cat as if he were seeing it for the first time. 

"I wasn't hoitin' her, " he said, without emotion. "Dere was two freshkids in the street sickin' a dawg on to her. And I comes up and says, 'G'wan! What do youse t'ink youse doin', fussin' de poor dumb animal?'An' one of de guys, he says, 'G'wan! Who do youse t'ink youse is?' An'I says, 'I'm de guy what's goin' to swat youse on de coco, smarty, ifyouse don't quit fussin' de poor dumb animal. ' So wit' dat he makes abreak at swattin' me one, but I swats him one, an' I swats de odderfeller one, an' den I swats dem bote some more, an' I gits de kitty, an' I brings her in here, cos I t'inks maybe youse'll look after her. Ican't be boddered myself. Cats is foolishness. "

And, having finished this Homeric narrative, Master Maloney fixed anexpressionless eye on the ceiling, and was silent. 

"How splendid of you, Pugsy!" cried Betty. "She might have been killed, poor thing. "

"She had it pretty fierce, " admitted Master Maloney, gazingdispassionately at the rescued animal, which had escaped from hisclutch and taken up a strong position on an upper shelf of thebookcase. 

"Will you go out and get her some milk, Pugsy? She's probably starving. Here's a quarter. Will you keep the change?"

"Sure thing, " assented Master Maloney. 

He strolled slowly out, while Betty, mounting a chair, proceeded tochirrup and snap her fingers in the effort to establish the foundationsof an _entente cordiale_ with the cat. 

By the time Pugsy returned, carrying a five-cent bottle of milk, theanimal had vacated the shelf, and was sitting on the table, polishingher face. The milk having been poured into the lid of a tobacco tin, inlieu of a saucer, she suspended her operations and adjourned forrefreshments, Pugsy, having no immediate duties on hand, concentratedhimself on the cat. 

"Say!" he said. 

"Well?"

"Dat kitty. Pipe de leather collar she's wearin'. "

Betty had noticed earlier in the proceedings that a narrow leathercollar encircled the animal's neck. 

"Guess I know where dat kitty belongs. Dey all has dose collars. Iguess she's one of Bat Jarvis's kitties. He's got twenty-t'ree of dem, and dey all has dose collars. "

"Bat Jarvis?"

"Sure. "

"Who is he?"

Pugsy looked at her incredulously. 

"Say! Ain't youse never heard of Bat Jarvis? He's--he's Bat Jarvis. "

"Do you know him?"

"Sure, I knows him. "

"Does he live near here?"

"Sure, he lives near here. "

"Then I think the best thing for you to do is to run round and tell himthat I am taking care of his cat, and that he had better come and fetchit. I must be getting on with my work, or I shall never finish it. "

She settled down to type the letters Smith had indicated. She attackedher task cautiously. She was one of those typists who are at their bestwhen they do not have to hurry. 

She was putting the finishing touches to the last of the batch, whenthere was a shuffling of feet in the outer room, followed by a knock onthe door. The next moment there entered a short, burly young man, around whom there hung, like an aroma, an indescribable air oftoughness, partly due, perhaps, to the fact that he wore his hair in awell-oiled fringe almost down to his eyebrows, thus presenting theappearance of having no forehead at all. His eyes were small and setclose together. His mouth was wide, his jaw prominent. Not, in short, the sort of man you would have picked out on sight as a model citizen. He blinked furtively, as his eyes met Betty's, and looked round theroom. His face lighted up as he saw the cat. 

"Say!" he said, stepping forward, and touching the cat's collar. "Ma'am, mine!"

"Are you Mr. Jarvis?" asked Betty. 

The visitor nodded, not without a touch of complacency, as of a monarchabandoning his incognito. 

For Mr. Jarvis was a celebrity. 

By profession he was a dealer in animals, birds, and snakes. He had afancier's shop on Groome Street, in the heart of the Bowery. This wason the ground floor. His living abode was in the upper story of thathouse, and it was there that he kept the twenty-three cats whose neckswere adorned with leather collars. 

But it was not the fact that he possessed twenty-three cats withleather collars that had made Mr. Jarvis a celebrity. A man may win alocal reputation, if only for eccentricity, by such means. Mr. Jarvis'reputation was far from being purely local. Broadway knew him, and theTenderloin. Tammany Hall knew him. Long Island City knew him. For BatJarvis was the leader of the famous Groome Street Gang, the largest andmost influential of the four big gangs of the East Side. 

To Betty, so little does the world often know of its greatest men, hewas merely a decidedly repellent-looking young man in unbecomingclothes. But his evident affection for the cat gave her a feeling offellowship toward him. She beamed upon him, and Mr. Jarvis, who waswont to face the glare of rivals without flinching, avoided her eye andshuffled with embarrassment. 

"I'm so glad she's safe!" said Betty. "There were two boys teasing herin the street. I've been giving her some milk. "

Mr. Jarvis nodded, with his eyes on the floor. 

There was a pause. Then he looked up, and, fixing his gaze some threefeet above her head, spoke. 

"Say!" he said, and paused again. Betty waited expectantly. 

He relaxed into silence again, apparently thinking. 

"Say!" he said. "Ma'am, obliged. Fond of de kit. I am. "

"She's a dear, " said Betty, tickling the cat under the ear. 

"Ma'am, " went on Mr. Jarvis, pursuing his theme, "obliged. Sha'n'tfergit it. Any time you're in bad, glad to be of service. Bat Jarvis. Groome Street. Anybody'll show youse where I live. "

He paused, and shuffled his feet; then, tucking the cat more firmlyunder his arm, left the room. Betty heard him shuffling downstairs. 

He had hardly gone, when the door opened again, and Smith came in. 

"So you have had company while I was away?" he said. "Who was thegrandee with the cat? An old childhood's friend? Was he trying to sellthe animal to us?"

"That was Mr. Bat Jarvis, " said Betty. 

Smith looked interested. 

"Bat! What was he doing here?"

Betty related the story of the cat. Smith nodded thoughtfully. 

"Well, " he said, "I don't know that Comrade Jarvis is precisely thesort of friend I would go out of my way to select. Still, you neverknow what might happen. He might come in useful. And now, let usconcentrate ourselves tensely on this very entertaining little journalof ours, and see if we cannot stagger humanity with it. "

CHAPTER XIV

A CHANGE OF POLICY

The feeling of tranquillity which had come to Betty on her firstacquaintance with _Peaceful Moments_ seemed to deepen as the dayswent by, and with each day she found the sharp pain at her heart lessvehement. It was still there, but it was dulled. The novelty of herlife and surroundings kept it in check. New York is an egotist. It willsuffer no divided attention. "Look at me!" says the voice of the cityimperiously, and its children obey. It snatches their thoughts fromtheir inner griefs, and concentrates them on the pageant that rollsunceasingly from one end of the island to the other. One may despair inNew York, but it is difficult to brood on the past; for New York is theCity of the Present, the City of Things that are Going On. 

To Betty everything was new and strange. Her previous acquaintance withthe metropolis had not been extensive. Mr. Scobell's home--or, rather, the house which he owned in America--was on the outskirts ofPhiladelphia, and it was there that she had lived when she was notpaying visits. Occasionally, during horse-show week, or at some othertime of festivity, she had spent a few days with friends who lived inMadison or upper Fifth Avenue, but beyond that, New York was a closedbook to her. 

It would have been a miracle in the circumstances, if John and Mervoand the whole of the events since the arrival of the great cable hadnot to some extent become a little dream-like. When she was alone atnight, and had leisure to think, the dream became a reality once more;but in her hours of work, or what passed for work in the office of_Peaceful Moments_, and in the hours she spent walking about thestreets and observing the ways of this new world of hers, it faded. Everything was so bright and busy! Every moment had its fresh interest. 

And, above all, there was the sense of adventure. She was twenty-four;she had health and an imagination; and almost unconsciously she wasstimulated by the thrill of being for the first time in her lifegenuinely at large. The child's love of hiding dies hard in us. ToBetty, to walk abroad in New York in the midst of hurrying crowds, justBetty Brown--one of four million and no longer the beautiful MissSilver of the society column, was to taste the romance of disguise, orinvisibility. 

During office hours she came near to complete contentment. To an expertstenographer the amount of work to be done would have seemedridiculously small, but Betty, who liked plenty of time for a task, generally managed to make it last comfortably through the day. 

This was partly owing to the fact that her editor, when not actually atwork himself, was accustomed to engage her in conversation, and to keepher so engaged until the entrance of Pugsy Maloney heralded the arrivalof some caller. 

Betty liked Smith. His odd ways, his conversation, and his extremesolicitude for his clothes amused her. She found his outlook on liferefreshing. Smith was an optimist. Whatever cataclysm might occur, henever doubted for a moment that he would be comfortably on the summitof the debris when all was over. He amazed Betty with his stories ofhis reportorial adventures. He told them for the most part as humorousstories at his own expense, but the fact remained that in aconsiderable proportion of them he had only escaped a sudden andviolent death by adroitness or pure good luck. His conversation openedup a new world to Betty. She began to see that in America, andespecially in New York, anything may happen to anybody. She looked onSmith with new eyes. 

"But surely all this, " she said one morning, after he had come to theend of the story of a highly delicate piece of interviewing work inconnection with some Cumberland Mountains feudists, "surely all this--"She looked round the room. 

"Domesticity?" suggested Smith. 

"Yes, " said Betty. "Surely it all seems rather tame to you?"

Smith sighed. 

"Comrade Brown, " he said, "you have touched the spot with an unerringfinger. "

Since Mr. Renshaw's departure, the flatness of life had come home toSmith with renewed emphasis. Before, there had always been the quietentertainment of watching the editor at work, but now he was feelingrestless. Like John at Mervo, he was practically nothing but anornament. _Peaceful Moments_, like Mervo, had been set rolling andhad continued to roll on almost automatically. The staff of regularcontributors sent in their various pages. There was nothing for the manin charge to do. Mr. Renshaw had been one of those men who have agenius for being as busy over nothing as if it were some colossal work, but Smith had not that gift. He liked something that he could grip andthat gripped him. He was becoming desperately bored. He felt like amarooned sailor on a barren rock of domesticity. 

A visitor who called at the office at this time did nothing to removethis sensation of being outside everything that made life worth living. Betty, returning to the office one afternoon, found Smith in thedoorway, just parting from a thickset young man. There was a rathergloomy expression on the thickset young man's face. 

Smith, too, she noted, when they were back in the inner office, seemedto have something on his mind. He was strangely silent. 

"Comrade Brown, " he said at last, "I wish this little journal of ourshad a sporting page. "

Betty laughed. 

"Less ribaldry, " protested Smith pained. "This is a sad affair. You sawthe man I was talking to? That was Kid Brady. I used to know him when Iwas out West. He wants to fight anyone in the country at a hundred andthirty-three pounds. We all have our hobbies. That is Comrade Brady's. "

"Is he a boxer?"

"He would like to be. Out West, nobody could touch him. He's in thechampionship class. But he has been pottering about New York for amonth without being able to get a fight. If we had a sporting page on_Peaceful Moments_ we could do him some good, but I don't see howwe can write him up, " said Smith, picking up a copy of the paper, andregarding it gloomily, "in 'Moments in the Nursery' or 'Moments withBudding Girlhood. '"

He put up his eyeglass, and stared at the offending journal with theair of a vegetarian who has found a caterpillar in his salad. Incredulity, dismay, and disgust fought for precedence in hisexpression. 

"B. Henderson Asher, " he said severely, "ought to be in some sort of ahome. Cain killed Abel for telling him that story. "

He turned to another page, and scrutinized it with deepening gloom. 

"Is Luella Granville Waterman by any chance a friend of yours, ComradeBrown? No? I am glad. For it seems to me that for sheer, concentratedpiffle, she is in a class by herself. "

He read on for a few moments in silence, then looked up and fixed Bettywith his monocle. There was righteous wrath in his eyes. 

"And people, " he said, "are paying money for this! _Money!_ Evennow they are sitting down and writing checks for a year's subscription. It isn't right! It's a skin game. I am assisting in a carefully plannedskin game!"

"But perhaps they like it, " suggested Betty. 

Smith shook his head. 

"It is kind of you to try and soothe my conscience, but it is useless. I see my position too clearly. Think of it, Comrade Brown! Thousands ofpoor, doddering, half-witted creatures in Brooklyn and Flatbush, whoought not really to have control of their own money at all, are gettingbuncoed out of whatever it is per annum in exchange for--how shall Iput it in a forcible yet refined and gentlemanly manner?--for cat'smeat of this description. Why, selling gold bricks is honest comparedwith it. And I am temporarily responsible for the black business!"

He extended a lean hand with melodramatic suddenness toward Betty. Theunexpectedness of the movement caused her to start back in her chairwith a little exclamation of surprise. Smith nodded with a kind ofmournful satisfaction. 

"Exactly!" he said. "As I expected! You shrink from me. You avoid mypolluted hand. How could it be otherwise? A conscientious green-goodsman would do the same. " He rose from his seat. "Your attitude, " hesaid, "confirms me in a decision that has been in my mind for somedays. I will no longer calmly accept this terrible position. I will tryto make amends. While I am in charge, I will give our public somethingworth reading. All these Watermans and Ashers and Parslows must go!"

"Go!"

"Go!" repeated Smith firmly. "I have been thinking it over for days. You cannot look me in the face, Comrade Brown, and say that there is asingle feature which would not be better away. I mean in the paper, notin my face. Every one of these punk pages must disappear. Letters mustbe despatched at once, informing Julia Burdett Parslow and the others, and in particular B. Henderson Asher, who, on brief acquaintance, strikes me as an ideal candidate for a lethal chamber--that, unlessthey cease their contributions instantly, we shall call up the policereserves. Then we can begin to move. "

Betty, like most of his acquaintances, seldom knew whether Smith wastalking seriously or not. She decided to assume, till he should dismissthe idea, that he meant what he said. 

"But you can't!" she exclaimed. 

"With your kind cooperation, nothing easier. You supply the mechanicalwork. I will compose the letters. First, B. Henderson Asher. 'DearSir'--"

"But--" she fell back on her original remark--"but you can't. What willMr. Renshaw say when he comes back?"

"Sufficient unto the day. I have a suspicion that he will be thefirst to approve. His vacation will have made him see thingsdifferently--purified him, as it were. His conscience will be aliveonce more. "

"But--"

"Why should we worry ourselves because the end of this venture iswrapped in obscurity? Why, Columbus didn't know where he was going towhen he set out. All he knew was some highly interesting fact about anegg. What that was, I do not at the moment recall, but I understand itacted on Columbus like a tonic. We are the Columbuses of thejournalistic world. Full steam ahead, and see what happens. If ComradeRenshaw is not pleased, why, I shall have been a martyr to a goodcause. It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done, so to speak. Why should I allow possible inconvenience to myself tostand in the way of the happiness which we propose to inject into thoseBrooklyn and Flatbush homes? Are you ready then, once more? 'DearSir--'"

Betty gave in. 

When the letters were finished, she made one more objection. 

"They are certain to call here and make a fuss, " she said, "Mr. Asherand the rest. "

"You think they will not bear the blow with manly fortitude?"

"I certainly do. And I think it's hard on them, too. Suppose theydepend for a living on what they make from _Peaceful Moments?_"

"They don't, " said Smith reassuringly. "I've looked into that. Have nopity for them. They are amateurs--degraded creatures of substance whotake the cocktails out of the mouths of deserving professionals. B. Henderson Asher, for instance, is largely interested in gents'haberdashery. And so with the others. We touch their pride, perhaps, but not their purses. "

Betty's soft heart was distinctly relieved by the information. 

"I see, " she said. "But suppose they do call, what will you do? It willbe very unpleasant. "

Smith pondered. 

"True, " he said. "True. I think you are right there. My nervous systemis so delicately attuned that anything in the shape of a brawl wouldreduce it to a frazzle. I think that, for this occasion only, we willpromote Comrade Maloney to the post of editor. He is a stern, hard, rugged man who does not care how unpopular he is. Yes, I think thatwould be best. "

He signed the letters with a firm hand, "per pro P. Maloney, editor. "

Then he lit a cigarette, and leaned back in his chair. 

"An excellent morning's work, " he said. "Already I begin to feel thedawnings of a new self-respect. "

Betty, thinking the thing over, a little dazed by the rapidity ofSmith's method of action, had found a fresh flaw in the scheme. 

"If you send Mr. Asher and the others away, how are you going to bringthe paper out at all? You can't write it all yourself. "

Smith looked at her with benevolent admiration. 

"She thinks of everything, " he murmured. "That busy brain is neverstill. No, Comrade Brown, I do not propose to write the whole papermyself. I do not shirk work when it gets me in a corner and I can'tside-step, but there are limits. I propose to apply to a few of my latecompanions of Park Row, bright boys who will be delighted to comeacross with red-hot stuff for a moderate fee. "

"And the proprietor of the paper? Won't he make any objection?"

Smith shook his head with a touch of reproof. 

"You seem determined to try to look on the dark side. Do you insinuatethat we are not acting in the proprietor's best interests? When he getshis check for the receipts, after I have handled the paper awhile, hewill go singing about the streets. His beaming smile will be a byword. Visitors will be shown it as one of the sights. His only doubt will bewhether to send his money to the bank or keep it in tubs and roll init. And anyway, " he added, "he's in Europe somewhere, and never seesthe paper, sensible man. "

He scratched a speck of dust off his coat-sleeve with his finger nail. 

"This is a big thing, " he resumed. "Wait till you see the first numberof the new series. My idea is that _Peaceful Moments_ shall becomea pretty warm proposition. Its tone shall be such that the public willwonder why we do not print it on asbestos. We shall comment on all thelive events of the week--murders, Wall Street scandals, glove fights, and the like, in a manner which will make our readers' spines thrill. Above all, we shall be the guardians of the people's rights. We shallbe a spot light, showing up the dark places and bringing intoprominence those who would endeavor in any way to put the people inDutch. We shall detect the wrongdoer, and hand him such a series ofresentful wallops that he will abandon his little games and become amodel citizen. In this way we shall produce a bright, readable littlesheet which will make our city sit up and take notice. I think so. Ithink so. And now I must be hustling about and seeing our newcontributors. There is no time to waste. "

CHAPTER XV

THE HONEYED WORD

The offices of Peaceful Moments were in a large building in a streetoff Madison Avenue. They consisted of a sort of outer lair, where PugsyMaloney spent his time reading tales of life on the prairies andheading off undesirable visitors; a small room, into which desirablebut premature visitors were loosed, to wait their turn for admissioninto the Presence; and a larger room beyond, which was the editorialsanctum. 

Smith, returning from luncheon on the day following his announcement ofthe great change, found both Betty and Pugsy waiting in the outer lair, evidently with news of import. 

"Mr. Smith, " began Betty. 

"Dey're in dere, " said Master Maloney with his customary terseness. 

"Who, exactly?" asked Smith. 

"De whole bunch of dem. "

Smith inspected Pugsy through his eyeglass. "Can you give me anyparticulars?" he asked patiently. "You are well-meaning, but vague, Comrade Maloney. Who are in there?"

"About 'steen of dem!" said Pugsy. 

"Mr. Asher, " said Betty, "and Mr. Philpotts, and all the rest of them. "She struggled for a moment, but, unable to resist the temptation, added, "I told you so. "

A faint smile appeared upon Smith's face. 

"Dey just butted in, " said Master Maloney, resuming his narrative. "Iwas sittin' here, readin' me book, when de foist of de guys blows in. 'Boy, ' says he, 'is de editor in?' 'Nope, ' I says. 'I'll go in andwait, ' says he. 'Nuttin' doin', ' says I. 'Nix on de goin'-in act. ' Imight as well have saved me breat! In he butts. In about t'ree minutesalong comes another gazebo. 'Boy, ' says he, 'is de editor in?' 'Nope, 'I says. 'I'll wait, ' says he, lightin' out for de door, and in hebutts. Wit' dat I sees de proposition's too fierce for muh. I can'tkeep dese big husky guys out if dey bucks center like dat. So when derest of de bunch comes along, I don't try to give dem de trun down. Isays, 'Well, gent, ' I says, 'it's up to youse. De editor ain't in, but, if you feels lonesome, push t'roo. Dere's plenty dere to keep yousecompany. I can't be boddered!'"

"And what more could you have said?" agreed Smith approvingly. "Tellme, did these gentlemen appear to be gay and light-hearted, or did theyseem to be looking for someone with a hatchet?"

"Dey was hoppin' mad, de whole bunch of dem. "

"Dreadfully, " attested Betty. 

"As I suspected, " said Smith, "but we must not repine. These triflingcontretemps are the penalties we pay for our high journalistic aims. Ifancy that with the aid of the diplomatic smile and the honeyed word Imay manage to win out. Will you come and give me your moral support, Comrade Brown?"

He opened the door of the inner room for Betty, and followed her in. 

Master Maloney's statement that "about 'steen" visitors had arrivedproved to be a little exaggerated. There were five men in the room. 

As Smith entered, every eye was turned upon him. To an outsidespectator he would have seemed rather like a very well-dressed Danielintroduced into a den of singularly irritable lions. Five pairs of eyeswere smoldering with a long-nursed resentment. Five brows werecorrugated with wrathful lines. Such, however, was the simple majestyof Smith's demeanor that for a moment there was dead silence. Not aword was spoken as he paced, wrapped in thought, to the editorialchair. Stillness brooded over the room as he carefully dusted thatpiece of furniture, and, having done so to his satisfaction, hitched upthe knees of his trousers and sank gracefully into a sitting position. 

This accomplished, he looked up and started. He gazed round the room. 

"Ha! I am observed!" he murmured. 

The words broke the spell. Instantly the five visitors burstsimultaneously into speech. 

"Are you the acting editor of this paper?"

"I wish to have a word with you, sir. "

"Mr. Maloney, I presume?"

"Pardon me!"

"I should like a few moments' conversation. "

The start was good and even, but the gentleman who said "Pardon me!"necessarily finished first, with the rest nowhere. 

Smith turned to him, bowed, and fixed him with a benevolent gazethrough his eyeglass. 

"Are you Mr. Maloney, may I ask?" enquired the favored one. 

The others paused for the reply. Smith shook his head. "My name isSmith. "

"Where is Mr. Maloney?"

Smith looked across at Betty, who had seated herself in her place bythe typewriter. 

"Where did you tell me Mr. Maloney had gone to, Miss Brown? Ah, well, never mind. Is there anything _I_ can do for you, gentlemen? I amon the editorial staff of this paper. "

"Then, maybe, " said a small, round gentleman who, so far, had done onlychorus work, "you can tell me what all this means? My name is Waterman, sir. I am here on behalf of my wife, whose name you doubtless know. "

"Correct me if I am wrong, " said Smith, "but I should say it, also, wasWaterman. "

"Luella Granville Waterman, sir!" said the little man proudly. "Mywife, " he went on, "has received this extraordinary communication froma man signing himself P. Maloney. We are both at a loss to make head ortail of it. "

"It seems reasonably clear to me, " said Smith, reading the letter. 

"It's an outrage. My wife has been a contributor to this journal sinceits foundation. We are both intimate friends of Mr. Renshaw, to whom mywife's work has always given complete satisfaction. And now, withoutthe slightest warning, comes this peremptory dismissal from P. Maloney. Who is P. Maloney? Where is Mr. Renshaw?"

The chorus burst forth. It seemed that that was what they all wanted toknow. Who was P. Maloney? Where was Mr. Renshaw?

"I am the Reverend Edwin T. Philpott, sir, " said a cadaverous-lookingman with light blue eyes and a melancholy face. "I have contributed'Moments of Meditation' to this journal for some considerable time. "

Smith nodded. 

"I know, yours has always seemed to me work which the world will notwillingly let die. "

The Reverend Edwin's frosty face thawed into a bleak smile. 

"And yet, " continued Smith, "I gather that P. Maloney, on the otherhand, actually wishes to hurry on its decease. Strange!"

A man in a serge suit, who had been lurking behind Betty, bobbed intothe open. 

"Where's this fellow Maloney? P. Maloney. That's the man we want tosee. I've been working for this paper without a break, except when Ihad the grip, for four years, and now up comes this Maloney fellow, ifyou please, and tells me in so many words that the paper's got no usefor me. "

"These are life's tragedies, " sighed Smith. 

"What does he mean by it? That's what I want to know. And that's whatthese gentlemen want to know. See here--"

"I am addressing--" said Smith. 

"Asher's my name. B. Henderson Asher. I write 'Moments of Mirth. '"

A look almost of excitement came into Smith's face, such a look as avisitor to a foreign land might wear when confronted with some greatnational monument. He stood up and shook Mr. Asher reverently by thehand. 

"Gentlemen, " he said, reseating himself, "this is a painful case. Thecircumstances, as you will admit when you have heard all, are peculiar. You have asked me where Mr. Renshaw is. I don't know. "

"You don't know!" exclaimed Mr. Asher. 

"Nobody knows. With luck you may find a black cat in a coal cellar on amoonless night, but not Mr. Renshaw. Shortly after I joined thisjournal, he started out on a vacation, by his doctor's orders, and leftno address. No letters were to be forwarded. He was to enjoy completerest. Who can say where he is now? Possibly racing down some ruggedslope in the Rockies with two grizzlies and a wildcat in earnestpursuit. Possibly in the midst of Florida Everglades, making a noiselike a piece of meat in order to snare alligators. Who can tell?"

Silent consternation prevailed among his audience. 

"Then, do you mean to say, " demanded Mr. Asher, "that this fellowMaloney's the boss here, and that what he says goes?"

Smith bowed. 

"Exactly. A man of intensely masterful character, he will brook noopposition. I am powerless to sway him. Suggestions from myself as tothe conduct of the paper would infuriate him. He believes that radicalchanges are necessary in the policy of _Peaceful Moments_, and hewill carry them through if it snows. Doubtless he would gladly consideryour work if it fitted in with his ideas. A rapid-fire impression of aglove fight, a spine-shaking word picture of a railway smash, orsomething on those lines, would be welcomed. But--"

"I have never heard of such a thing, " said Mr. Waterman indignantly. 

"In this life, " said Smith, shaking his head, "we must be prepared forevery emergency. We must distinguish between the unusual and theimpossible. It is unusual for the acting editor of a weekly paper torevolutionize its existing policy, and you have rashly ordered yourlife on the assumption that it is impossible. You are unprepared. Thething comes on you as a surprise. The cry goes round New York, 'Comrades Asher, Waterman, Philpotts, and others have been takenunawares. They cannot cope with the situation. '"

"But what is to be done?" cried Mr. Asher. 

"Nothing, I fear, except to wait. It may be that when Mr. Renshaw, having dodged the bears and eluded the wildcat, returns to his post, hewill decide not to continue the paper on the lines at present mappedout. He should be back in about ten weeks. "

"Ten weeks!"

"Till then, the only thing to do is to wait. You may rely on me to keepa watchful eye on your interests. When your thoughts tend to take agloomy turn say to yourselves, 'All is well. Smith is keeping awatchful eye on our interests. '"

"All the same, I should like to see this P. Maloney, " said Mr. Asher. 

"I shouldn't, " said Smith. "I speak in your best interests. P. Maloneyis a man of the fiercest passions. He cannot brook interference. If youshould argue with him, there is no knowing what might not happen. Hewould be the first to regret any violent action, when once he hadcooled off, but-- Of course, if you wish it I could arrange a meeting. No? I think you are wise. And now, gentlemen, as I have a good deal ofwork to get through--

"All very disturbing to the man of culture and refinement, " said Smith, as the door closed behind the last of the malcontents. "But I thinkthat we may now consider the line clear. I see no further obstacle inour path. I fear I have made Comrade Maloney perhaps a shade unpopularwith our late contributors, but these things must be. We must clenchour teeth and face them manfully. He suffers in an excellent cause. "

CHAPTER XVI

TWO VISITORS TO THE OFFICE

There was once an editor of a paper in the Far West who was sitting athis desk, musing pleasantly on life, when a bullet crashed through thewindow and imbedded itself in the wall at the back of his head. A happysmile lighted up the editor's face. "Ah!" he said complacently, "I knewthat personal column of ours would make a hit!"

What the bullet was to the Far West editor, the visit of Mr. MartinParker to the offices of _Peaceful Moments_ was to Smith. 

It occurred shortly after the publication of the second number of thenew series, and was directly due to Betty's first and only suggestionfor the welfare of the paper. 

If the first number of the series had not staggered humanity, it had atleast caused a certain amount of comment. The warm weather had begun, and there was nothing much going on in New York. The papers wereconsequently free to take notice of the change in the policy of_Peaceful Moments_. Through the agency of Smith's newspaperfriends, it received some very satisfactory free advertisement, and thesudden increase in the sales enabled Smith to bear up with fortitudeagainst the numerous letters of complaint from old subscribers who didnot know what was good for them. Visions of a large new public whichshould replace these Brooklyn and Flatbush ingrates filled his mind. 

The sporting section of the paper pleased him most. The personality ofKid Brady bulked large in it. A photograph of the ambitious pugilist, looking moody and important in an attitude of self-defense, filled halfa page, and under the photograph was the legend, "Jimmy Garvin mustmeet this boy. " Jimmy was the present holder of the light-weight title. He had won it a year before, and since then had confined himself tosmoking cigars as long as walking sticks and appearing nightly in avaudeville sketch entitled, "A Fight for Honor. " His reminiscences werebeing published in a Sunday paper. It was this that gave Smith the ideaof publishing Kid Brady's autobiography in _Peaceful Moments_, anidea which won the Kid's whole-hearted gratitude. Like most pugilistshe had a passion for bursting into print. Print is the fighter'saccolade. It signifies that he has arrived. He was grateful to Smith, too, for not editing his contributions. Jimmy Garvin groaned under thesupervision of a member of the staff of his Sunday paper, who deletedhis best passages and altered the rest into Addisonian English. Thereaders of _Peaceful Moments_ got their Brady raw. 

"Comrade Brady, " said Smith meditatively to Betty one morning, "has asingularly pure and pleasing style. It is bound to appeal powerfully tothe many-headed. Listen to this. Our hero is fighting one Benson in thelatter's home town, San Francisco, and the audience is rooting hard forthe native son. Here is Comrade Brady on the subject: 'I looked aroundthat house, and I seen I hadn't a friend in it. And then the gong goes, and I says to myself how I has one friend, my old mother down inIllinois, and I goes in and mixes it, and then I seen Benson losing hisgoat, so I gives him a half-scissor hook, and in the next round I picksup a sleep-producer from the floor and hands it to him, and he takesthe count. ' That is what the public wants. Crisp, lucid, and to thepoint. If that does not get him a fight with some eminent person, nothing will. "

He leaned back in his chair. 

"What we really need now, " he said thoughtfully, "is a good, honest, muck-raking series. That's the thing to put a paper on the map. Theworst of it is that everything seems to have been done. Have you by anychance a second 'Frenzied Finance' at the back of your mind? Or proofsthat nut sundaes are composed principally of ptomaine and outlyingportions of the American workingman? It would be the making of us. "

Now it happened that in the course of her rambles through the cityBetty had lost herself one morning in the slums. The experience hadimpressed itself on her mind with an extraordinary vividness. Her lothad always been cast in pleasant places, and she had never before beenbrought into close touch with this side of life. The sight of actualraw misery had come home to her with an added force from thatcircumstance. Wandering on, she had reached a street which eclipsed incheerlessness even its squalid neighbors. All the smells and noises ofthe East Side seemed to be penned up here in a sort of canyon. Themasses of dirty clothes hanging from the fire-escapes increased theatmosphere of depression. Groups of ragged children covered theroadway. 

It was these that had stamped the scene so indelibly on her memory. Sheloved children, and these seemed so draggled and uncared-for. 

Smith's words gave her an idea. 

"Do you know Broster Street, Mr. Smith?" she asked. 

"Down on the East Side? Yes, I went there once to get a story, onered-hot night in August, when I was on the _News_. The Ice Companyhad been putting up their prices, and trouble was expected down there. I was sent to cover it. "

He did not add that he had spent a week's salary that night, buying iceand distributing it among the denizens of Broster Street. 

"It's an awful place, " said Betty, her eyes filling with tears. "Thosepoor children!"

Smith nodded. 

"Some of those tenement houses are fierce, " he said thoughtfully. LikeBetty, he found himself with a singularly clear recollection of his onevisit to Broster Street. "But you can't do anything. "

"Why not?" cried Betty. "Oh, why not? Surely you couldn't have a bettersubject for your series? It's wicked. People only want to be told aboutthem to make them better. Why can't we draw attention to them?"

"It's been done already. Not about Broster Street, but about othertenements. Tenements as a subject are played out. The public isn'tinterested in them. Besides, it wouldn't be any use. You can't tree theman who is really responsible, unless you can spend thousands scaringup evidence. The land belongs in the first place to some corporation orother. They lease it to a lessee. When there's a fuss, they say theyaren't responsible, it's up to the lessee. And he, bright boy, lies solow you can't find out who it is. "

"But we could try, " urged Betty. 

Smith looked at her curiously. The cause was plainly one that lay nearto her heart. Her face was flushed and eager. He wavered, and, havingwavered, he did what no practical man should do. He allowed sentimentto interfere with business. He knew that a series of articles onBroster Street would probably be so much dead weight on the paper, something to be skipped by the average reader, but he put the thoughtaside. 

"Very well, " he said. "If you care to turn in a few crisp remarks onthe subject, I'll print them. "

Betty's first instalment was ready on the following morning. It was acurious composition. A critic might have classed it with Kid Brady'sreminiscences, for there was a complete absence of literary style. Itwas just a wail of pity, and a cry of indignation, straight from theheart and split up into paragraphs. 

Smith read it with interest, and sent it off to the printer unaltered. 

"Have another ready for next week, Comrade Brown, " he said. "It's along shot, but this might turn out to be just what we need. "

And when, two days after the publication of the number containing thearticle, Mr. Martin Parker called at the office, he felt that the longshot had won out. 

He was holding forth on life in general to Betty shortly before theluncheon hour when Pugsy Maloney entered bearing a card. 

"Martin Parker?" said Smith, taking it. "I don't know him. We make newfriends daily. "

"He's a guy wit' a tall-shaped hat, " volunteered Master Maloney, "an'he's wearing a dude suit an' shiny shoes. "

"Comrade Parker, " said Smith approvingly, "has evidently not been blindto the importance of a visit to _Peaceful Moments_. He has dressedhimself in his best. He has felt, rightly, that this is no occasion forthe flannel suit and the old straw hat. I would not have it otherwise. It is the right spirit. Show the guy in. We will give him audience. "

Pugsy withdrew. 

Mr. Martin Parker proved to be a man who might have been any agebetween thirty-five and forty-five. He had a dark face and a blackmustache. As Pugsy had stated, in effect, he wore a morning coat, trousers with a crease which brought a smile of kindly approval toSmith's face, and patent-leather shoes of pronounced shininess. 

"I want to see the editor, " he said. 

"Will you take a seat?" said Smith. 

He pushed a chair toward the visitor, who seated himself with the careinspired by a perfect trouser crease. There was a momentary silencewhile he selected a spot on the table on which to place his hat. 

"I have come about a private matter, " he said, looking meaningly atBetty, who got up and began to move toward the door. Smith nodded toher, and she went out. 

"Say, " said Mr. Parker, "hasn't something happened to this paper theselast few weeks? It used not to take such an interest in things, usedit?"

"You are very right, " responded Smith. "Comrade Renshaw's methods weregood in their way. I have no quarrel with Comrade Renshaw. But he didnot lead public thought. He catered exclusively to children with wateron the brain and men and women with solid ivory skulls. I feel thatthere are other and larger publics. I cannot content myself withladling out a weekly dole of predigested mental breakfast food. I--"

"Then you, I guess, " said Mr. Parker, "are responsible for this BrosterStreet thing?"

"At any rate, I approve of it and put it in the paper. If any huskyguy, as Comrade Maloney would put it, is anxious to aim a swift kick atthe author of that article, he can aim it at me. "

"I see, " said Mr. Parker. He paused. "It said 'Number one' in thepaper. Does that mean there are going to be more of them?"

"There is no flaw in your reasoning. There are to be several more. "

Mr. Parker looked at the door. It was closed. He bent forward. 

"See here, " he said, "I'm going to talk straight, if you'll let me. "

"Assuredly, Comrade Parker. There must be no secrets, no restraintbetween us. I would not have you go away and say to yourself, 'Did Imake my meaning clear? Was I too elusive?'"

Mr. Parker scratched the floor with the point of a gleaming shoe. Heseemed to be searching for words. 

"Say on, " urged Smith. "Have you come to point out some flaw in thatarticle? Does it fall short in any way of your standard for such work?"

Mr. Parker came to the point. 

"If I were you, " he said, "I should quit it. I shouldn't go on withthose articles. "

"Why?" enquired Smith. 

"Because, " said Mr. Parker. 

He looked at Smith, and smiled slowly, an ingratiating smile. Smith didnot respond. 

"I do not completely gather your meaning, " he said. "I fear I must askyou to hand it to me with still more breezy frankness. Do you speakfrom purely friendly motives? Are you advising me to discontinue theseries because you fear that it will damage the literary reputation ofthe paper? Do you speak solely as a literary connoisseur? Or are thereother reasons?"

Mr. Parker leaned forward. 

"The gentleman whom I represent--"

"Then this is no matter of your own personal taste? There is another?"

"See here, I'm representing a gentleman who shall be nameless, and I'vecome on his behalf to tip you off to quit this game. These articles ofyours are liable to cause him inconvenience. "

"Financial? Do you mean that he may possibly have to spend some of hisspare doubloons in making Broster Street fit to live in?"

"It's not so much the money. It's the publicity. There are reasons whyhe would prefer not to have it made too public that he's the owner ofthe tenements down there. "

"Well, he knows what to do. If he makes Broster Street fit for anot-too-fastidious pig to live in--"

Mr. Parker coughed. A tentative cough, suggesting that the situationwas now about to enter upon a more delicate phase. 

"Now, see here, sir, " he said, "I'm going to be frank. I'm going to putmy cards on the table, and see if we can't fix something up. Now, seehere. We don't want any unpleasantness. You aren't in this business foryour health, eh? You've got your living to make, same as everybodyelse, I guess. Well, this is how it stands. To a certain extent, Idon't mind owning, since we're being frank with one another, you've gotus--that's to say, this gentleman I'm speaking of--in a cleft stick. Frankly, that Broster Street story of yours has attracted attention--Isaw it myself in two Sunday papers--and if there's going to be any moreof them--Well, now, here's a square proposition. How much do you wantto stop those articles? That's straight. I've been frank with you, andI want you to be frank with me. What's your figure? Name it, and if youdon't want the earth I guess we needn't quarrel. "

He looked expectantly at Smith. Smith, gazing sadly at him through hismonocle, spoke quietly, with the restrained dignity of some old Romansenator dealing with the enemies of the Republic. 

"Comrade Parker, " he said, "I fear that you have allowed yourintercourse with this worldly city to undermine your moral sense. It isuseless to dangle rich bribes before the editorial eyes. _PeacefulMoments_ cannot be muzzled. You doubtless mean well, according toyour somewhat murky lights, but we are not for sale, except at fifteencents weekly. From the hills of Maine to the Everglades of Florida, from Portland, Oregon, to Melonsquashville, Tennessee, one sentence isin every man's mouth. And what is that sentence? I give you threeguesses. You give it up? It is this: '_Peaceful Moments_ cannot bemuzzled!'"

Mr. Parker rose. 

"Nothing doing, then?" he said. 

"Nothing. "

Mr. Parker picked up his hat. 

"See here, " he said, a grating note in his voice, hitherto smooth andconciliatory, "I've no time to fool away talking to you. I've given youyour chance. Those stories are going to be stopped. And if you've anysense in you at all, you'll stop them yourself before you get hurt. That's all I've got to say, and that goes. "

He went out, closing the door behind him with a bang that addedemphasis to his words. 

"All very painful and disturbing, " murmured Smith. "Comrade Brown!" hecalled. 

Betty came in. 

"Did our late visitor bite a piece out of you on his way out? He was inthe mood to do something of the sort. "

"He seemed angry, " said Betty. 

"He _was_ angry, " said Smith. "Do you know what has happened, Comrade Brown? With your very first contribution to the paper you havehit the bull's-eye. You have done the state some service. Friend Parkercame as the representative of the owner of those Broster Street houses. He wanted to buy us off. We've got them scared, or he wouldn't haveshown his hand with such refreshing candor. Have you any engagements atpresent?"

"I was just going out to lunch, if you could spare me. "

"Not alone. This lunch is on the office. As editor of this journal Iwill entertain you, if you will allow me, to a magnificent banquet. _Peaceful Moments_ is grateful to you. _Peaceful Moments, "_he added, with the contented look the Far West editor must have worn asthe bullet came through the window, "is, owing to you, going some now. "

 * * * * *

When they returned from lunch, and reentered the outer office, PugsyMaloney, raising his eyes for a moment from his book, met them with theinformation that another caller had arrived and was waiting in theinner room. 

"Dere's a guy in dere waitin' to see youse, " he said, jerking his headtowards the door. 

"Yet another guy? This is our busy day. Did he give a name?"

"Says his name's Maude, " said Master Maloney, turning a page. 

"Maude!" cried Betty, falling back. 

Smith beamed. 

"Old John Maude!" he said. "Great! I've been wondering what on earthhe's been doing with himself all this time. Good-old John! You'll likehim, " he said, turning, and stopped abruptly, for he was speaking tothe empty air. Betty had disappeared. 

"Where's Miss Brown, Pugsy?" he said. "Where did she go?"

Pugsy vouchsafed another jerk of the head, in the direction of theouter door. 

"She's beaten it, " he said. "I seen her make a break for de stairs. Guess she's forgotten to remember somet'ing, " he added indifferently, turning once more to his romance of prairie life. "Goils isbone-heads. "

CHAPTER XVII

THE MAN AT THE ASTOR

Refraining from discussing with Master Maloney the allegedbone-headedness of girls, Smith went through into the inner room, andfound John sitting in the editorial chair, glancing through the latestnumber of _Peaceful Moments_. 

"Why, John, friend of my youth, " he said, "where have you been hidingall this time? I called you up at your office weeks ago, and an acidvoice informed me that you were no longer there. Have you been fired?"

"Yes, " said John. "Why aren't you on the _News_ any more? Nobodyseemed to know where you were, till I met Faraday this morning, whotold me you were here. "

Smith was conscious of an impression that in some subtle way John hadchanged since their last meeting. For a moment he could not have saidwhat had given him this impression. Then it flashed upon him. Before, John had always been, like Mrs. Fezziwig in "The Christmas Carol, " onevast substantial smile. He had beamed cheerfully on what to him wasevidently the best of all possible worlds. Now, however, it would seemthat doubts had occurred to him as to the universal perfection ofthings. His face was graver. His eyes and his mouth alike gave evidenceof disturbing happenings. 

In the matter of confidences, Smith was not a believer in spade-work. If they were offered to him, he was invariably sympathetic, but henever dug for them. That John had something on his mind was obvious, but he intended to allow him, if he wished to reveal it, to select hisown time for the revelation. 

John, for his part, had no intention of sharing this particular troubleeven with Smith. It was too new and intimate for discussion. 

It was only since his return to New York that the futility of his questhad really come home to him. In the belief of having at last escapedfrom Mervo he had been inclined to overlook obstacles. It had seemed tohim, while he waited for his late subjects to dismiss him, that, oncehe could move, all would be simple. New York had dispelled that idea. Logically, he saw with perfect clearness, there was no reason why heand Betty should ever meet again. 

To retain a spark of hope beneath this knowledge was not easy and John, having been in New York now for nearly three weeks without anyencouragement from the fates, was near the breaking point. A grayapathy had succeeded the frenzied restlessness of the first few days. The necessity for some kind of work that would to some extent occupyhis mind was borne in upon him, and the thought of Smith had followednaturally. If anybody could supply distraction, it would be Smith. Faraday, another of the temporary exiles from the _News_, whom hehad met by chance in Washington Square, had informed him of Smith's newposition and of the renaissance of _Peaceful Moments_, and he hadhurried to the office to present himself as an unskilled but willingvolunteer to the cause. Inspection of the current number of the paperhad convinced him that the _Peaceful Moments_ atmosphere, if itcould not cure, would at least relieve. 

"Faraday told me all about what you had done to this paper, " he said. "I came to see if you would let me in on it. I want work. "

"Excellent!" said Smith. "Consider yourself one of us. "

"I've never done any newspaper work, of course, but--"

"Never!" cried Smith. "Is it so long since the deaf old college daysthat you forget the _Gridiron?"_

In their last year at Harvard, Smith and John, assisted by others of acongenial spirit, had published a small but lively magazine devoted tocollege topics, with such success--from one point of view--that on theappearance of the third number it was suppressed by the authorities. 

"You were the life and soul of the _Gridiron, "_ went on Smith. "You shall be the life and soul of _Peaceful Moments_. You havespecial qualifications for the post. A young man once called at theoffice of a certain newspaper, and asked for a job. 'Have you anyspecialty?' enquired the editor. 'Yes, ' replied the bright boy, 'I amrather good at invective. ' 'Any particular kind of invective?' queriedthe man up top. 'No, ' replied our hero, 'just general invective. ' Suchis your case, my son. You have a genius for general invective. You arethe man _Peaceful Moments_ has been waiting for. "

"If you think so--"

"I do think so. Let us consider it settled. And now, tell me, what doyou think of our little journal?"

"Well--aren't you asking for trouble? Isn't the proprietor--?"

Smith waved his hand airily. 

"Dismiss him from your mind, " he said. "He is a gentleman of the nameof Benjamin Scobell, who--"

"Benjamin Scobell!"

"Who lives in Europe and never sees the paper. I happen to know that heis anxious to get rid of it. His solicitors have instructions to acceptany reasonable offer. If only I could close in on a small roll, I wouldbuy it myself, for by the time we have finished our improvements, itwill be a sound investment for the young speculator. Have you read theBroster Street story? It has hit somebody already. Already some unknownindividual is grasping the lemon in his unwilling fingers. And--toremove any diffidence you may still have about lending your sympatheticaid--that was written by no hardened professional, but by ourstenographer. She'll be in soon, and I'll introduce you. You'll likeher. I do not despair, later on, of securing an epoch-makingcontribution from Comrade Maloney. "

As he spoke, that bulwark of the paper entered in person, bearing anenvelope. 

"Ah, Comrade Maloney, " said Smith. "Is that your contribution? What isthe subject? 'Mustangs I have Met?'"

"A kid brought dis, " said Pugsy. "Dere ain't no answer. "

Smith read the letter with raised eyebrows. 

"We shall have to get another stenographer, " he said. "The giftedauthor of our Broster Street series has quit. "

"Oh!" said John, not interested. 

"Quit at a moment's notice and without explanation. I can't understandit. "

"I guess she had some reason, " said John, absently. He was inclined tobe absent during these days. His mind was always stealing away tooccupy itself with the problem of the discovery of Betty. The motivesthat might have led a stenographer to resign her position had nointerest for him. 

Smith shrugged his shoulders. 

"Oh, Woman, Woman!" he said resignedly. 

"She says she will send in some more Broster Street stuff, though, which is a comfort. But I'm sorry she's quit. You would have likedher. "

"Yes?" said John. 

At this moment there came from the outer office a piercing squeal. Itpenetrated into the editorial sanctum, losing only a small part of itsstrength on the way. Smith looked up with patient sadness. 

"If Comrade Maloney, " he said, "is going to take to singing duringbusiness hours, I fear this journal must put up its shutters. Concentrated thought will be out of the question. "

He moved to the door and flung it open as a second squeal rent the air, and found Master Maloney writhing in the grip of a tough-looking personin patched trousers and a stained sweater. His left ear was firmlygrasped between the stranger's finger and thumb. 

The tough person released Pugsy, and, having eyed Smith keenly for amoment, made a dash for the stairs, leaving the guardian of the gaterubbing his ear resentfully. 

"He blows in, " said Master Maloney, aggrieved, "an' asks is de editorin. I tells him no, an' he nips me by the ear when I tries to stop himbuttin' t'roo. "

"Comrade Maloney, " said Smith, "you are a martyr. What would Horatiushave done if somebody had nipped him by the ear when he was holding thebridge? It might have made all the difference. Did the gentleman statehis business?"

"Nope. Just tried to butt t'roo. "

"One of these strong, silent men. The world is full of us. These arethe perils of the journalistic life. You will be safer and happier whenyou are a cowboy, Comrade Maloney. "

Smith was thoughtful as he returned to the inner room. 

"Things are warming up, John, " he said. "The sport who has just leftevidently came just to get a sight of me. Otherwise, why should he tearhimself away without stopping for a chat. I suppose he was sent to markme down for whichever gang Comrade Parker is employing. "

"What do you mean?" said John. "All this gets past me. Who is Parker?"

Smith related the events leading up to Mr. Parker's visit, anddescribed what had happened on that occasion. 

"So, before you throw in your lot with this journal, " he concluded, "itwould be well to think the matter over. You must weigh the pros andcons. Is your passion for literature such that you do not mind beingput out of business with a black-jack for the cause? Will the knowledgethat a low-browed gentleman is waiting round the corner for youstimulate or hinder you in your work? There's no doubt now that we areup against a tough crowd. "

"By Jove!" said John. "I hadn't a notion it was like that. "

"You feel, then, that on the whole--"

"I feel that on the whole this is just the business I've been huntingfor. You couldn't keep me out of it now with an ax. "

Smith looked at him curiously, but refrained from enquiries. That theremust be something at the back of this craving for adventure andexcitement, he knew. The easy-going John he had known of old wouldcertainly not have deserted the danger zone, but he would not havewelcomed entry to it so keenly. It was plain that he was hungry forwork that would keep him from thought. Smith was eminently a patientyoung man, and though the problem of what upheaval had happened tochange John to such an extent interested him greatly, he was preparedto wait for explanations. 

Of the imminence of the danger he was perfectly aware. He had knownfrom the first that Mr. Parker's concluding words were not an emptythreat. His experience as a reporter had given him the knowledge thatis only given in its entirety to police and newspaper men: that thereare two New Yorks--one, a modern, well-policed city, through which onemay walk from end to end without encountering adventure; the other, acity as full of sinister intrigue, of whisperings and conspiracies, ofbattle, murder, and sudden death in dark byways, as any town ofmediaeval Italy. Given certain conditions, anything may happen in NewYork. And Smith realized that these conditions now prevailed in his owncase. He had come into conflict with New York's underworld. Circumstances had placed him below the surface, where only his witscould help him. 

He would have been prepared to see the thing through by himself, butthere was no doubt that John as an ally would be a distinct comfort. 

Nevertheless, he felt compelled to give his friend a last chance ofwithdrawing. 

"You know, " he said, "there is really no reason why you should--"

"But I'm going to, " interrupted John. "That's all there is to it. What's going to happen, anyway? I don't know anything about thesegangs. I thought they spent all their time shooting each other up. "

"Not all, unfortunately, Comrade John. They are always charmed to takeon a small job like this on the side. "

"And what does it come to? Do we have an entire gang camping on ourtrail in a solid mass, or only one or two toughs?"

"Merely a section, I should imagine. Comrade Parker would go to themain boss of the gang--Bat Jarvis, if it was the Groome Street gang, orSpider Reilly and Dude Dawson if he wanted the Three Points or theTable Hill lot. The boss would chat over the matter with his ownspecial partners, and they would fix it up among themselves. The restof the gang would probably know nothing about it. The fewer in thegame, you see, the fewer to divide the Parker dollars. So what we haveto do is to keep a lookout for a dozen or so aristocrats of thatdignified deportment which comes from constant association with themain boss, and, if we can elude these, all will be well. "

 * * * * *

It was by Smith's suggestion that the editorial staff of _PeacefulMoments_ dined that night at the Astor roof-garden. 

"The tired brain, " he said, "needs to recuperate. To feed on such anight as this in some low-down hostelry on the level of the street, with German waiters breathing heavily down the back of one's neck andtwo fiddles and a piano hitting up ragtime about three feet from one'stympanum, would be false economy. Here, fanned by cool breezes andsurrounded by passably fair women and brave men, one may do a certainamount of tissue-restoring. Moreover, there is little danger up here ofbeing slugged by our moth-eaten acquaintance of this afternoon. Weshall probably find him waiting for us at the main entrance with ablack-jack, but till then--"

He turned with gentle grace to his soup. It was a warm night, and theroof-garden was full. From where they sat they could see the milliontwinkling lights of the city. John, watching them, as he smoked acigarette at the conclusion of the meal, had fallen into a dream. Hecame to himself with a start, to find Smith in conversation with awaiter. 

"Yes, my name is Smith, " he was saying. 

The waiter retired to one of the tables and spoke to a young mansitting there. John, recollected having seen this solitary dinerlooking in their direction once or twice during dinner, but the facthad not impressed him. 

"What's the matter?" he asked. 

"The man at that table sent over to ask if my name was Smith. It was. He is now coming along to chat in person. I wonder why. I don't knowhim from Adam. "

The stranger was threading his way between the tables. 

"Can I have a word with you, Mr. Smith?" he said. The waiter brought achair and he seated himself. 

"By the way, " said Smith, "my friend, Mr. Maude. Your own name willdoubtless come up in the course of general chitchat over thecoffee-cups. "

"Not on your tintype it won't, " said the stranger decidedly. "It won'tbe needed. Is Mr. Maude on your paper? That's all right, then. I can goahead. "

He turned to Smith. 

"It's about that Broster Street thing. "

"More fame!" murmured Smith. "We certainly are making a hit with thegreat public over Broster Street. "

"Well, you understand certain parties have got it in against you?"

"A charming conversationalist, one Comrade Parker, hinted at somethingof the sort in a recent conversation. We shall endeavor, however, tolook after ourselves. "

"You'll need to. The man behind is a big bug. "

"Who is he?"

The stranger shrugged his shoulders. 

"Search me. You wouldn't expect him to give that away. "

"Then on what system have you estimated the size of the gentleman'sbug-hood? What makes you think that he's a big bug?"

"By the number of dollars he was ready to put up to have you putthrough. "

Smith's eyes gleamed for an instant, but he spoke as coolly as ever. 

"Oh!" he said. "And which gang has he hired?"

"I couldn't say. He--his agent, that is--came to Bat Jarvis. Bat forsome reason turned the job down. "

"He did? Why?"

"Search me. Nobody knows. But just as soon as he heard who it was hewas being asked to lay for, he turned it down cold. Said none of hisfellows was going to put a finger on anyone who had anything to do withyour paper. I don't know what you've been doing to Bat, but he sure isthe long-lost brother to you. "

"A powerful argument in favor of kindness to animals!" said Smith. "Oneof his celebrated stud of cats came into the possession of ourstenographer. What did she do? Instead of having the animal made into anourishing soup, she restored it to its bereaved owner. Observe thesequel. We are very much obliged to Comrade Jarvis. "

"He sent me along, " went on the stranger, "to tell you to watch out, because one of the other gangs was dead sure to take on the job. And hesaid you were to know that he wasn't mixed up in it. Well, that's all. I'll be pushing along. I've a date. Glad to have met you, Mr. Maude. Good-night. "

For a few moments after he had gone, Smith and John sat smoking insilence. 

"What's the time?" asked Smith suddenly. "If it's not too late--Hello, here comes our friend once more. "

The stranger came up to the table, a light overcoat over his dressclothes. From the pocket of this he produced a watch. 

"Force of habit, " he said apologetically, handing it to John. "You'llpardon me. Good-night again. "

CHAPTER XVIII

THE HIGHFIELD

John looked after him, open-mouthed. The events of the evening hadbeen a revelation to him. He had not realized the ramifications of NewYork's underworld. That members of the gangs should appear in gorgeousraiment in the Astor roof-garden was a surprise. "And now, " said Smith, "that our friend has so sportingly returned your watch, take a look atit and see the time. Nine? Excellent. We shall do it comfortably. "

"What's that?" asked John. 

"Our visit to the Highfield. A young friend of mine who is fightingthere to-night sent me tickets a few days ago. In your perusal of_Peaceful Moments_ you may have chanced to see mention of one KidBrady. He is the man. I was intending to go in any case, but an ideahas just struck me that we might combine pleasure with business. Has itoccurred to you that these black-jack specialists may drop in on us atthe office? And, if so, that Comrade Maloney's statement that we arenot in may be insufficient to keep them out? Comrade Brady would be aninvaluable assistant. And as we are his pugilistic sponsors, withoutwhom he would not have got this fight at all, I think we may say thathe will do any little thing we may ask of him. "

It was certainly true that, from the moment the paper had taken up hiscause, Kid Brady's star had been in the ascendant. The sporting pagesof the big dailies had begun to notice him, until finally themanagement of the Highfield Club had signed him on for a ten-round boutwith a certain Cyclone Dick Fisher. 

"He should, " continued Smith, "if equipped in any degree with the finerfeelings, be bubbling over with gratitude toward us. At any rate, it isworth investigating. "

 * * * * *

Far away from the comfortable glare of Broadway, in a place ofdisheveled houses and insufficient street-lamps, there stands the oldwarehouse which modern enterprise has converted into the HighfieldAthletic and Gymnastic Club. The imagination, stimulated by the title, conjures up picture-covered walls, padded chairs, and seas of whiteshirt front. The Highfield differs in some respects from this fancypicture. Indeed, it would be hard to find a respect in which it doesnot differ. But these names are so misleading! The title under whichthe Highfield used to be known till a few years back was "SwiftyBob's. " It was a good, honest title. You knew what to export, and ifyou attended seances at Swifty Bob's you left your gold watch and yourlittle savings at home. But a wave of anti-pugilistic feeling sweptover the New York authorities. Promoters of boxing contests foundthemselves, to their acute disgust, raided by the police. The industrybegan to languish. Persons avoided places where at any moment thefestivities might be marred by an inrush of large men in blue uniforms, armed with locust sticks. 

And then some big-brained person suggested the club idea, which standsalone as an example of American dry humor. At once there were no boxingcontests in New York; Swifty Bob and his fellows would have beenshocked at the idea of such a thing. All that happened now wasexhibition sparring bouts between members of the club. It is true thatnext day the papers very tactlessly reported the friendly exhibitionspar as if it had been quite a serious affair, but that was not thefault of Swifty Bob. 

Kid Brady, the chosen of _Peaceful Moments_, was billed for a"ten-round exhibition contest, " to be the main event of the evening'sentertainment. 

 * * * * *

A long journey on the subway took them to the neighborhood, and afterconsiderable wandering they arrived at their destination. 

Smith's tickets were for a ring-side box, a species of sheep pen ofunpolished wood, with four hard chairs in it. The interior of theHighfield Athletic and Gymnastic Club was severely free from anythingin the shape of luxury and ornament. Along the four walls were raisedbenches in tiers. On these were seated as tough-looking a collection ofcitizens as one might wish to see. On chairs at the ringside were thereporters with tickers at their sides. In the center of the room, brilliantly lighted by half-a-dozen electric chandeliers, was the ring. 

There were preliminary bouts before the main event. A burly gentlemanin shirt-sleeves entered the ring, followed by two slim youths infighting costume and a massive person in a red jersey, blue sergetrousers, and yellow braces, who chewed gum with an abstracted airthroughout the proceedings. 

The burly gentleman gave tongue in a voice that cleft the air like acannon ball. 

"Ex-hibit-i-on four-round bout between Patsy Milligan and TommyGoodley, members of this club. Patsy on my right, Tommy on my left. Gentlemen will kindly stop smokin'. "

The audience did nothing of the sort. Possibly they did not apply thedescription to themselves. Possibly they considered the appeal a mereformula. Somewhere in the background a gong sounded, and Patsy, fromthe right, stepped briskly forward to meet Tommy, approaching from theleft. 

The contest was short but energetic. At intervals the combatants wouldcling affectionately to one another, and on these occasions thered-jerseyed man, still chewing gum and still wearing the same air ofbeing lost in abstract thought, would split up the mass by the simplemethod of ploughing his way between the pair. Toward the end of thefirst round Thomas, eluding a left swing, put Patrick neatly to thefloor, where the latter remained for the necessary ten seconds. 

The remaining preliminaries proved disappointing. So much so that inthe last of the series a soured sportsman on one of the benches nearthe roof began in satirical mood to whistle the "Merry Widow Waltz. " Itwas here that the red-jerseyed thinker for the first and last time cameout of his meditative trance. He leaned over the ropes, and spoke, without heat, but firmly:

"If that guy whistling back up yonder thinks he can do better thanthese boys, he can come right down into the ring. "

The whistling ceased. 

There was a distinct air of relief when the last preliminary wasfinished and preparations for the main bout began. It did not commenceat once. There were formalities to be gone through, introductions andthe like. The burly gentleman reappeared from nowhere, ushering intothe ring a sheepishly grinning youth in a flannel suit. 

"In-ter-_doo_-cin' Young Leary, " he bellowed impressively, "a noomember of this club, who will box some good boy here in September. "

He walked to the other side of the ring and repeated the remark. Araucous welcome was accorded to the new member. 

Two other notable performers were introduced in a similar manner, andthen the building became suddenly full of noise, for a tall youth in abath robe, attended by a little army of assistants, had entered thering. One of the army carried a bright green bucket, on which werepainted in white letters the words "Cyclone Dick Fisher. " A momentlater there was another, though a far less, uproar, as Kid Brady, hispleasant face wearing a self-conscious smirk, ducked under the ropesand sat down in the opposite corner. 

"Ex-hib-it-i-on ten-round bout, " thundered the burly gentleman, "between Cyclone Dick Fisher--"

Loud applause. Mr. Fisher was one of the famous, a fighter with areputation from New York to San Francisco. He was generally consideredthe most likely man to give the hitherto invincible Jimmy Garvin a hardbattle for the light-weight championship. 

"Oh, you Dick!" roared the crowd. 

Mr. Fisher bowed benevolently. 

"--and Kid Brady, member of this--"

There was noticeably less applause for the Kid. He was an unknown. Afew of those present had heard of his victories in the West, but thesewere but a small section of the crowd. When the faint applause hadceased, Smith rose to his feet. 

"Oh, you Kid!" he observed encouragingly. "I should not like ComradeBrady, " he said, reseating himself, "to think that he has no friend buthis poor old mother, as occurred on a previous occasion. "

The burly gentleman, followed by the two armies of assistants, droppeddown from the ring, and the gong sounded. 

Mr. Fisher sprang from his corner as if somebody had touched a spring. He seemed to be of the opinion that if you are a cyclone, it is nevertoo soon to begin behaving like one. He danced round the Kid with anindia-rubber agility. The _Peaceful Moments_ representativeexhibited more stolidity. Except for the fact that he was in fightingattitude, with one gloved hand moving slowly in the neighborhood of hisstocky chest, and the other pawing the air on a line with his squarejaw, one would have said that he did not realize the position ofaffairs. He wore the friendly smile of the good-natured guest who isled forward by his hostess to join in some game to amuse the children. 

Suddenly his opponent's long left shot out. The Kid, who had beenstrolling forward, received it under the chin, and continued to strollforward as if nothing of note had happened. He gave the impression ofbeing aware that Mr. Fisher had committed a breach of good taste and ofbeing resolved to pass it off with ready tact. 

The Cyclone, having executed a backward leap, a forward leap, and afeint, landed heavily with both hands. The Kid's genial smile did noteven quiver, but he continued to move forward. His opponent's leftflashed out again, but this time, instead of ignoring the matter, theKid replied with a heavy right swing, and Mr. Fisher leaping back, found himself against the ropes. By the time he had got out of thatuncongenial position, two more of the Kid's swings had found theirmark. Mr. Fisher, somewhat perturbed, scuttled out into the middle ofthe ring, the Kid following in his self-contained, stolid way. 

The Cyclone now became still more cyclonic. He had a left arm whichseemed to open out in joints like a telescope. Several times when theKid appeared well out of distance there was a thud as a brown gloveripped in over his guard and jerked his head back. But always he keptboring in, delivering an occasional right to the body with the pleasedsmile of an infant destroying a Noah's ark with a tack-hammer. Despitethese efforts, however, he was plainly getting all the worst of it. Energetic Mr. Fisher, relying on his long left, was putting in threeblows to his one. When the gong sounded, ending the first round, thehouse was practically solid for the Cyclone. Whoops and yells rose fromeverywhere. The building rang with shouts of, "Oh, you Dick!"

Smith turned sadly to John. 

"It seems to me, " he said, "that this merry meeting looks like doingComrade Brady no good. I should not be surprised at any moment to seehis head bounce off on to the floor. "

Rounds two and three were a repetition of round one. The Cyclone ragedalmost unchecked about the ring. In one lightning rally in the third hebrought his right across squarely on to the Kid's jaw. It was a blowwhich should have knocked any boxer out. The Kid merely staggeredslightly, and returned to business still smiling. 

With the opening of round four there came a subtle change. TheCyclone's fury was expending itself. That long left shot out lesssharply. Instead of being knocked back by it, the _PeacefulMoments_ champion now took the hits in his stride, and cameshuffling in with his damaging body-blows. There were cheers and "Oh, you Dick's!" at the sound of the gong, but there was an appealing notein them this time. The gallant sportsmen whose connection with boxingwas confined to watching other men fight and betting on what theyconsidered a certainty, and who would have expired promptly if anyonehad tapped them sharply on their well-filled vests, were beginning tofear that they might lose their money after all. 

In the fifth round the thing became a certainty. Like the month ofMarch, the Cyclone, who had come in like a lion, was going out like alamb. A slight decrease in the pleasantness of the Kid's smile wasnoticeable. His expression began to resemble more nearly the gloomyimportance of the _Peaceful Moments_ photographs. Yells of agonyfrom panic-stricken speculators around the ring began to smite therafters. The Cyclone, now but a gentle breeze, clutched repeatedly, hanging on like a leech till removed by the red-jerseyed referee. 

Suddenly a grisly silence fell upon the house. For the Kid, battered, but obviously content, was standing in the middle of the ring, while onthe ropes the Cyclone, drooping like a wet sock, was sliding slowly tothe floor. 

"_Peaceful Moments_ wins, " said Smith. "An omen, I fancy, ComradeJohn. "

Penetrating into the Kid's dressing-room some moments later, theeditorial staff found the winner of the ten-round exhibition boutbetween members of the club seated on a chair having his right legrubbed by a shock-headed man in a sweater, who had been one of hisseconds during the conflict. The Kid beamed as they entered. 

"Gents, " he said, "come right in. Mighty glad to see you. "

"It is a relief to me, Comrade Brady, " said Smith, "to find that youcan see us. I had expected to find that Comrade Fisher's purposefulwallops had completely closed your star-likes. "

"Sure, I never felt them. He's a good, quick boy, is Dick, but, "continued the Kid with powerful imagery "he couldn't hit a hole in ablock of ice-cream, not if he was to use a coke-hammer. "

"And yet at one period in the proceedings, " said Smith, "I fancied thatyour head would come unglued at the neck. But the fear was merelytransient. When you began to get going, why, then I felt like somewatcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken, or likestout Cortez when with eagle eyes he stared at the Pacific. "

The Kid blinked. 

"How's that?" he enquired. 

"And why did I feel like that, Comrade Brady? I will tell you. Becausemy faith in you was justified. Because there before me stood the idealfighting editor of _Peaceful Moments_. It is not a post that anyweakling can fill. Mere charm of manner cannot qualify a man for theposition. No one can hold down the job simply by having a kind heart orbeing good at comic songs. No. We want a man of thews and sinews, a manwho would rather be hit on the head with a half-brick than not. Andyou, Comrade Brady, are such a man. "

The shock-headed man, who during this conversation had beenconcentrating himself on his subject's left leg now announced that heguessed that would about do, and having advised the Kid not to stop andpick daisies, but to get into his clothes at once before he caught achill, bade the company goodnight and retired. 

Smith shut the door. 

"Comrade Brady, " he said, "you know those articles about the tenementswe've been having in the paper?"

"Sure. I read 'em. They're to the good. It was about time some strongjosher came and put it across 'em. "

"So we thought. Comrade Parker, however, totally disagreed with us. "

"Parker?"

"That's what I'm coming to, " said Smith. "The day before yesterday aman named Parker called at the office and tried to buy us off. "

"You gave him the hook, I guess?" queried the interested Kid. 

"To such an extent, Comrade Brady, " said Smith, "that he left breathingthreatenings and slaughter. And it is for that reason that we haveventured to call upon you. We're pretty sure by this time that ComradeParker has put one of the gangs on to us. "

"You don't say!" exclaimed the Kid. "Gee! They're tough propositions, those gangs. "

"So we've come along to you. We can look after ourselves out of theoffice, but what we want is someone to help in case they try to rush usthere. In brief, a fighting editor. At all costs we must have privacy. No writer can prune and polish his sentences to his satisfaction if heis compelled constantly to break off in order to eject boisteroustoughs. We therefore offer you the job of sitting in the outer room andintercepting these bravoes before they can reach us. The salary weleave to you. There are doubloons and to spare in the old oak chest. Take what you need and put the rest--if any--back. How does the offerstrike you, Comrade Brady?"

"Gents, " said the Kid, "it's this way. "

He slipped into his coat, and resumed. 

"Now that I've made good by licking Dick, they'll be giving me a chanceof a big fight. Maybe with Jimmy Garvin. Well, if that happens, seewhat I mean? I'll have to be going away somewhere and getting intotraining. I shouldn't be able to come and sit with you. But, if yougents feel like it, I'd be mighty glad to come in till I'm wanted to gointo training camp. "

"Great, " said Smith. "And touching salary--"

"Shucks!" said the Kid with emphasis. "Nix on the salary thing. Iwouldn't take a dime. If it hadn't 'a' been for you, I'd have beenwaiting still for a chance of lining up in the championship class. That's good enough for me. Any old thing you want me to do, I'll do it, and glad to. "

"Comrade Brady, " said Smith warmly, "you are, if I may say so, thegoods. You are, beyond a doubt, supremely the stuff. We three, then, hand-in-hand, will face the foe, and if the foe has good, sound sense, he will keep right away. You appear to be ready. Shall we meanderforth?"

The building was empty and the lights were out when they emerged fromthe dressing-room. They had to grope their way in darkness. It wasraining when they reached the street, and the only signs of life were amoist policeman and the distant glare of saloon lights down the road. 

They turned off to the left, and, after walking some hundred yards, found themselves in a blind alley. 

"Hello!" said John. "Where have we come to?"

Smith sighed. 

"In my trusting way, " he said, "I had imagined that either you orComrade Brady was in charge of this expedition and taking me by a knownroute to the nearest subway station. I did not think to ask. I placedmyself, without hesitation, wholly in your hands. "

"I thought the Kid knew the way, " said John. 

"I was just taggin' along with you gents, " protested the light-weight. "I thought you was taking me right. This is the first time I been uphere. "

"Next time we three go on a little jaunt anywhere, " said Smithresignedly, "it would be as well to take a map and a corps of guideswith us. Otherwise we shall start for Broadway and finish up atMinneapolis. "

They emerged from the blind alley and stood in the dark street, lookingdoubtfully up and down it. 

"Aha!" said Smith suddenly. "I perceive a native. Several natives, infact. Quite a little covey of them. We will put our case before them, concealing nothing, and rely on their advice to take us to our goal. "

A little knot of men was approaching from the left. In the darkness itwas impossible to say how many of them were there. Smith steppedforward, the Kid at his side. 

"Excuse me, sir, " he said to the leader, "but if you can spare me amoment of your valuable time--"

There was a sudden shuffle of feet on the pavement, a quick movement onthe part of the Kid, a chunky sound as of wood striking wood, and theman Smith had been addressing fell to the ground in a heap. 

As he fell, something dropped from his hand on to the pavement with abump and a rattle. Stooping swiftly, the Kid picked it up, and handedit to Smith. His fingers closed upon it. It was a short, wicked-lookinglittle bludgeon, the black-jack of the New York tough. 

"Get busy, " advised the Kid briefly. 

CHAPTER XIX

THE FIRST BATTLE

The promptitude and despatch with which the Kid had attended to thegentleman with the black-jack had not been without its effect on thefollowers of the stricken one. Physical courage is not an outstandingquality of the New York gangsman. His personal preference is forretreat when it is a question of unpleasantness with a stranger. And, in any case, even when warring among themselves, the gangs exhibit alively distaste for the hard knocks of hand-to-hand fighting. Theirchosen method of battling is to lie down on the ground and shoot. 

The Kid's rapid work on the present occasion created a good deal ofconfusion. There was no doubt that much had been hoped for from speedyattack. Also, the generalship of the expedition had been in the handsof the fallen warrior. His removal from the sphere of active influencehad left the party without a head. And, to add to their discomfiture, they could not account for the Kid. Smith they knew, and John was to beaccounted for, but who was this stranger with the square shoulders andthe uppercut that landed like a cannon ball? Something approaching apanic prevailed among the gang. 

It was not lessened by the behavior of the intended victims. John wasthe first to join issue. He had been a few paces behind the othersduring the black-jack incident, but, dark as it was, he had seen enoughto show him that the occasion was, as Smith would have said, one forthe shrewd blow rather than the prolonged parley. With a shout, he madea football rush into the confused mass of the enemy. A moment laterSmith and the Kid followed, and there raged over the body of the fallenleader a battle of Homeric type. 

It was not a long affair. The rules and conditions governing theencounter offended the delicate sensibilities of the gang. Like artistswho feel themselves trammeled by distasteful conventions, they weredamped and could not do themselves justice. Their forte was long-rangefighting with pistols. With that they felt en rapport. But this vulgarbrawling in the darkness with muscular opponents who hit hard and oftenwith the clenched fist was distasteful to them. They could not developany enthusiasm for it. They carried pistols, but it was too dark andthe combatants were too entangled to allow them to use these. 

There was but one thing to be done. Reluctant as they might be toabandon their fallen leader, it must be done. Already they weresuffering grievously from John, the black-jack, and the lightning blowsof the Kid. For a moment they hung, wavering, then stampeded inhalf-a-dozen different directions, melting into the night whence theyhad come. 

John, full of zeal, pursued one fugitive some fifty yards down thestreet, but his quarry, exhibiting a rare turn of speed, easilyoutstripped him. 

He came back, panting, to find Smith and the Kid examining the fallenleader of the departed ones with the aid of a match, which went outjust as John arrived. 

The Kid struck another. The head of it fell off and dropped upon theup-turned face. The victim stirred, shook himself, sat up, and began tomutter something in a foggy voice. 

"He's still woozy, " said the Kid. 

"Still--what exactly, Comrade Brady?"

"In the air, " explained the Kid. "Bats in the belfry. Dizzy. See what Imean? It's often like that when a feller puts one in with a bit ofweight behind it just where that one landed. Gee! I remember when Ifought Martin Kelly; I was only starting to learn the game then. Martinand me was mixing it good and hard all over the ring, when suddenly heputs over a stiff one right on the point. What do you think I done?Fall down and take the count? Not on your life. I just turns round andwalks straight out of the ring to my dressing-room. Willie Harvey, whowas seconding me, comes tearing in after me, and finds me getting intomy clothes. 'What's doing, Kid?' he asks. 'I'm going fishin', Willie, 'I says. 'It's a lovely day. ' 'You've lost the fight, ' he says. 'Fight?'says I. 'What fight?' See what I mean? I hadn't a notion of what hadhappened. It was half an hour and more before I could remember athing. "

During this reminiscence, the man on the ground had contrived to clearhis mind of the mistiness induced by the Kid's upper cut. The firstsign he showed of returning intelligence was a sudden dash for safetyup the road. But he had not gone five yards when he sat down limply. 

The Kid was inspired to further reminiscence. 

"Guess he's feeling pretty poor, " he said. "It's no good him trying torun for a while after he's put his chin in the way of a real live one. I remember when Joe Peterson put me out, way back when I was new to thegame--it was the same year I fought Martin Kelly. He had an awfulpunch, had old Joe, and he put me down and out in the eighth round. After the fight they found me on the fire-escape outside mydressing-room. 'Come in, Kid, ' says they. 'It's all right, chaps, ' Isays, 'I'm dying. ' Like that. 'It's all right, chaps, I'm dying. 'Same with this guy. See what I mean?"

They formed a group about the fallen black-jack expert. 

"Pardon us, " said Smith courteously, "for breaking in upon yourreverie, but if you could spare us a moment of your valuable time, there are one or two things which we would like to know. "

"Sure thing, " agreed the Kid. 

"In the first place, " continued Smith, "would it be betrayingprofessional secrets if you told us which particular bevy of energeticcutthroats it is to which you are attached?"

"Gent, " explained the Kid, "wants to know what's your gang. "

The man on the ground muttered something that to Smith and John wasunintelligible. 

"It would be a charity, " said the former, "if some philanthropist wouldgive this fellow elocution lessons. Can you interpret, Comrade Brady?"

"Says it's the Three Points, " said the Kid. 

"The Three Points? That's Spider Reilly's lot. Perhaps this _is_Spider Reilly?"

"Nope, " said the Kid. "I know the Spider. This ain't him. This is someother mutt. "

"Which other mutt in particular?" asked Smith. "Try and find out, Comrade Brady. You seem to be able to understand what he says. To me, personally, his remarks sound like the output of a gramophone with ahot potato in its mouth. "

"Says he's Jack Repetto, " announced the interpreter. 

There was another interruption at this moment. The bashful Mr. Repetto, plainly a man who was not happy in the society of strangers, madeanother attempt to withdraw. Reaching out a pair of lean hands, hepulled the Kid's legs from under him with a swift jerk, and, wrigglingto his feet, started off again down the road. Once more, however, desire outran performance. He got as far as the nearest street-lamp, but no further. The giddiness seemed to overcome him again, for hegrasped the lamp-post, and, sliding slowly to the ground, sat theremotionless. 

The Kid, whose fall had jolted and bruised him, was inclined to bewrathful and vindictive. He was the first of the three to reach theelusive Mr. Repetto, and if that worthy had happened to be standinginstead of sitting it might have gone hard with him. But the Kid wasnot the man to attack a fallen foe. He contented himself with brushingthe dust off his person and addressing a richly abusive flow of remarksto Mr. Repetto. 

Under the rays of the lamp it was possible to discern more closely thefeatures of the black-jack exponent. There was a subtle but noticeableresemblance to those of Mr. Bat Jarvis. Apparently the latter's oiledforelock, worn low over the forehead, was more a concession to thegeneral fashion prevailing in gang circles than an expression ofpersonal taste. Mr. Repetto had it, too. In his case it was almostwhite, for the fallen warrior was an albino. His eyes, which wereclosed, had white lashes and were set as near together as Nature hadbeen able to manage without actually running them into one another. Hisunderlip protruded and drooped. Looking at him, one felt instinctivelythat no judging committee of a beauty contest would hesitate a momentbefore him. 

It soon became apparent that the light of the lamp, though bestowingthe doubtful privilege of a clearer view of Mr. Repetto's face, heldcertain disadvantages. Scarcely had the staff of _PeacefulMoments_ reached the faint yellow pool of light, in the center ofwhich Mr. Repetto reclined, than, with a suddenness which caused themto leap into the air, there sounded from the darkness down the road thecrack-crack-crack of a revolver. Instantly from the opposite directioncame other shots. Three bullets cut grooves in the roadway almost atJohn's feet. The Kid gave a sudden howl. Smith's hat, suddenly imbuedwith life, sprang into the air and vanished, whirling into the night. 

The thought did not come to them consciously at the moment, there beinglittle time to think, but it was evident as soon as, diving out of thecircle of light into the sheltering darkness, they crouched down andwaited for the next move, that a somewhat skilful ambush had beeneffected. The other members of the gang, who had fled with suchremarkable speed, had by no means been eliminated altogether from thegame. While the questioning of Mr. Repetto had been in progress, theyhad crept back, unperceived except by Mr. Repetto himself. It being toodark for successful shooting, it had become Mr. Repetto's task to lurehis captors into the light, which he had accomplished with considerableskill. 

For some minutes the battle halted. There was dead silence. The circleof light was empty now. Mr. Repetto had vanished. A tentative shot fromnowhere ripped through the air close to where Smith lay flattened onthe pavement. And then the pavement began to vibrate and give out acurious resonant sound. Somewhere--it might be near or far--a policemanhad heard the shots, and was signaling for help to other policemenalong the line by beating on the flagstones with his night stick. Thenoise grew, filling the still air. Prom somewhere down the road soundedthe ring of running feet. 

"De cops!" cried a voice. "Beat it!"

Next moment the night was full of clatter. The gang was "beating it. "

Smith rose to his feet and felt his wet and muddy clothes ruefully. 

The rescue party was coming up at the gallop. 

"What's doing?" asked a voice. 

"Nothing now, " said the disgusted voice of the Kid from the shadows. "They've beaten it. "

The circle of lamplight became as if by mutual consent a generalrendezvous. Three gray-clad policemen, tough, clean-shaven men withkeen eyes and square jaws, stood there, revolvers in one hand, nightsticks in the other. Smith, hatless and muddy, joined them. John andthe Kid, the latter bleeding freely from his left ear, the lobe ofwhich had been chipped by a bullet, were the last to arrive. 

"What's been the rough-house?" inquired one of the policemen, mildlyinterested. 

"Do you know a sport of the name of Repetto?" enquired Smith. 

"Jack Repetto? Sure. "

"He belongs to the Three Points, " said another intelligent officer, asone naming some fashionable club. 

"When next you see him, " said Smith, "I should be obliged if you woulduse your authority to make him buy me a new hat. I could do withanother pair of trousers, too, but I will not press the trousers. A newhat is, however, essential. Mine has a six-inch hole in it. "

"Shot at you, did they?" said one of the policemen, as who should say, "Tut, tut!"

"Shot at us!" burst out the ruffled Kid. "What do you think's beenhappening? Think an aeroplane ran into my ear and took half of it off?Think the noise was somebody opening bottles of pop? Think those guysthat sneaked off down the road was just training for a Marathon?"

"Comrade Brady, " said Smith, "touches the spot. He--"

"Say, are you Kid Brady?" enquired one of the officers. For the firsttime the constabulary had begun to display real animation. 

"Reckoned I'd seen you somewhere!" said another. "You licked CycloneDick all right, Kid, I hear. "

"And who but a bone-head thought he wouldn't?" demanded the thirdwarmly. "He could whip a dozen Cyclone Dicks in the same evening withhis eyes shut. "

"He's the next champeen, " admitted the first speaker. 

"If he juts it over Jimmy Garvin, " argued the second. 

"Jimmy Garvin!" cried the third. "He can whip twenty Jimmy Garvins withhis feet tied. I tell you--"

"I am loath, " observed Smith, "to interrupt this very impressive brainbarbecue, but, trivial as it may seem to you, to me there is a certaininterest in this other little matter of my ruined hat. I know that itmay strike you as hypersensitive of us to protest against being riddledwith bullets, but--"

"Well, what's been doin'?" inquired the Force. It was a nuisance, thisperpetual harping on trifles when the deep question of the light-weightchampionship of the world was under discussion, but the sooner it wasattended to, the sooner it would be over. 

John undertook to explain. 

"The Three Points laid for us, " he said. "This man, Jack Repetto, wasbossing the crowd. The Kid put one over on to Jack Repetto's chin, andwe were asking him a few questions when the rest came back, and startedshooting. Then we got to cover quick, and you came up and they beatit. "

"That, " said Smith, nodding, "is a very fair _precis_ of theevening's events. We should like you, if you will be so good, to corralthis Comrade Repetto, and see that he buys me a new hat. "

"We'll round Jack up, " said one of the policemen indulgently. 

"Do it nicely, " urged Smith. "Don't go hurting his feelings. "

The second policeman gave it as his opinion that Jack was getting toogay. The third policeman conceded this. Jack, he said, had shown signsfor some time past of asking for it in the neck. It was an error onJack's part, he gave his hearers to understand, to assume that the lidwas completely off the great city of New York. 

"Too blamed fresh he's gettin', " the trio agreed. They seemed to thinkit was too bad of Jack. 

"The wrath of the Law, " said Smith, "is very terrible. We will leavethe matter, then, in your hands. In the meantime, we should be glad ifyou would direct us to the nearest subway station. Just at the moment, the cheerful lights of the Great White Way are what I seem chiefly toneed. "

 * * * * *

So ended the opening engagement of the campaign, in a satisfactory butfar from decisive victory for the _Peaceful Moments_' army. 

"The victory, " said Smith, "was not bloodless. Comrade Brady's ear, myhat--these are not slight casualties. On the other hand, theelimination of Comrade Repetto is pleasant. I know few men whom I wouldnot rather meet on a lonely road than Comrade Repetto. He is one ofnature's black-jackers. Probably the thing crept upon him slowly. Hestarted, possibly, in a merely tentative way by slugging one of thefamily circle. His aunt, let us say, or his small brother. But, oncestarted, he is unable to resist the craving. The thing grips him likedram-drinking. He black-jacks now not because he really wants to, butbecause he cannot help himself. There's something singularly consolingin the thought that Comrade Repetto will no longer be among thosepresent. "

"There are others, " said John. 

"As you justly remark, " said Smith, "there are others. I am glad wehave secured Comrade Brady's services. We may need them. "

CHAPTER XX

BETTY AT LARGE

It was not till Betty found herself many blocks distant from the officeof _Peaceful Moments_ that she checked her headlong flight. Shehad run down the stairs and out into the street blindly, filled onlywith that passion for escape which had swept her away from Mervo. Nottill she had dived into the human river of Broadway and reached TimesSquare did she feel secure. Then, with less haste, she walked on to thepark, and sat down on a bench, to think. 

Inevitably she had placed her own construction on John's suddenappearance in New York and at the spot where only one person in any wayconnected with Mervo knew her to be. She did not know that Smith and hewere friends, and did not, therefore, suspect that the former and notherself might be the object of his visit. Nor had any word reached herof what had happened at Mervo after her departure. She had taken it forgranted that things had continued as she had left them; and the onlypossible explanation to her of John's presence in New York was that, acting under orders from Mr. Scobell, he had come to try and bring herback. 

She shuddered as she conjured up the scene that must have taken placeif Pugsy had not mentioned his name and she had gone on into the innerroom. In itself the thought that, after what she had said that morningon the island, after she had forced on him, stripping it of theuttermost rag of disguise, the realization of how his position appearedto her, he should have come, under orders, to bring her back, waswell-nigh unendurable. But to have met him, to have seen the man sheloved plunging still deeper into shame, would have been pain beyondbearing. Better a thousand times than that this panic flight into theiron wilderness of New York. 

It was cool and soothing in the park. The roar of the city was hushed. It was pleasant to sit there and watch the squirrels playing on thegreen slopes or scampering up into the branches through which one couldsee the gleam of water. Her thoughts became less chaotic. The peace ofthe summer afternoon stole upon her. 

It did not take her long to make up her mind that the door of_Peaceful Moments_ was closed to her. John, not finding her, mightgo away, but he would return. Reluctantly, she abandoned the paper. Herheart was heavy when she had formed the decision. She had been as happyat _Peaceful Moments_ as it was possible for her to be now. Shewould miss Smith and the leisurely work and the feeling of being one ofa team, working in a good cause. And that, brought Broster Street backto her mind, and she thought of the children. No, she could not abandonthem. She had started the tenement articles, and she would go on withthem. But she must do it without ever venturing into the dangerousneighborhood of the office. 

A squirrel ran up and sat begging for a nut. Betty searched in thegrass in the hope of finding one, but came upon nothing but shells. Thesquirrel bounded away, with a disdainful flick of the tail. 

Betty laughed. 

"You think of nothing but food. You ought to be ashamed to be sogreedy. "

And then it came to her suddenly that it was no trifle, this sameproblem of food. 

The warm, green park seemed to grow chill and gray. Once again she mustdeal with life's material side. 

Her case was at the same time better and worse than it had been on thatother occasion when she had faced the future in the French train;better, because then New York had been to her something vague andterrifying, while now it was her city; worse, because she could nolonger seek help from Mrs. Oakley. 

That Mrs. Oakley had given John the information which had enabled himto discover her hiding-place, Betty felt certain. By what otherpossible means could he have found it? Why Mrs. Oakley, whom she hadconsidered an ally, should have done so, she did not know. Sheattributed it to a change of mind, a reconsideration of the case whenuninfluenced by sentiment. And yet it seemed strange. Perhaps John hadgone to her and the sight of him had won the old lady over to his side. It might be so. At any rate, it meant that the cottage on StatenIsland, like the office of _Peaceful Moments_, was closed to her. She must look elsewhere for help, or trust entirely to herself. 

She sat on, thinking, with grave, troubled eyes, while the shadowslengthened and the birds rustled sleepily in the branches overhead. 

 * * * * *

Among the good qualities, none too numerous, of Mr. Bat Jarvis, ofGroome Street in the Bowery, early rising was not included. It was hishabit to retire to rest at an advanced hour, and to balance accounts bylying abed on the following morning. This idiosyncrasy of his was wellknown in the neighborhood and respected, and it was generally bold tobe both bad taste and unsafe to visit Bat's shop until near thefashionable hour for luncheon, when the great one, shirt-sleeved andsmoking a short pipe, would appear in the doorway, looking out upon theworld and giving it to understand that he was now open to be approachedby deserving acquaintances. 

When, therefore, at ten o'clock in the morning his slumbers were cutshort by a sharp rapping at the front door, his first impression wasthat he had been dreaming. When, after a brief interval, the noise wasresumed, he rose in his might and, knuckling the sleep from his eyes, went down, tight-lipped, to interview this person. 

He had got as far as a preliminary "Say!" when speech was wiped fromhis lips as with a sponge, and he stood gaping and ashamed, for themurderer of sleep and untimely knocker on front doors was Betty. 

Mr. Jarvis had not forgotten Betty. His meeting with her at the officeof _Peaceful Moments_ had marked an epoch in his life. Neverbefore had anyone quite like her crossed his path, and at that momentromance had come to him. His was essentially a respectful admiration. He was content--indeed, he preferred to worship from afar. Of his owninitiative he would never have met her again. In her presence, withthose gray eyes of hers looking at him, tremors ran down his spine, andhis conscience, usually a battered and downtrodden wreck, becamefiercely aggressive. She filled him with novel emotions, and whetherthese were pleasant or painful was more than he could say. He had notthe gift of analysis where his feelings were concerned. To himself heput it, broadly, that she made him feel like a nickel with a hole init. But that was not entirely satisfactory. There were other andpleasanter emotions mixed in with this humility. The thought of hermade him feel, for instance, vaguely chivalrous. He wanted to do riskyand useful things for her. Thus, if any fresh guy should endeavor toget gay with her, it would, he felt, be a privilege to fix that sameguy. If she should be in bad, he would be more than ready to get busyon her behalf. 

But he had never expected to meet her again, certainly not on his owndoorstep at ten in the morning. To Bat ten in the morning was includedwith the small hours. 

Betty smiled at him, a little anxiously. She had no suspicion that sheplayed star to Mr. Jarvis' moth in the latter's life, and, as she eyedhim, standing there on the doorstep, her excuse for coming to him beganto seem terribly flimsy. Not being aware that he was in reality a toughBayard, keenly desirous of obeying her lightest word, she had stakedher all on the chance of his remembering the cat episode and beinggrateful on account of it; and in the cold light of the morning thisidea, born in the watches of the night, when things tend to lose theirproportion, struck her as less happy than she had fancied. Suppose hehad forgotten all about it! Suppose he should be violent! For a momenther heart sank. He certainly was not a pleasing and encouraging sight, as he stood there blinking at her. No man looks his best immediately onrising from bed, and Bat, even at his best, was not a hero of romance. His forelock drooped dankly over his brow; there was stubble on hischin; his eyes were red, like a dog's. He did not look like the FairyPrince who was to save her in her trouble. 

"I--I hope you remember me, Mr. Jarvis, " she faltered. "Your cat. I--"

He nodded speechlessly. Hideous things happened to his face. He wasreally trying to smile pleasantly, but it seemed a scowl to Betty, andher voice died away. 

Mr. Jarvis spoke. 

"Ma'am--sure!--step 'nside. "

Betty followed him into the shop. There were birds in cages on thewalls, and, patroling the floor, a great company of cats, each with itsleather collar. One rubbed itself against Betty's skirt. She picked itup, and began to stroke it. And, looking over its head at Mr. Jarvis, she was aware that he was beaming sheepishly. 

His eyes darted away the instant they met hers, but Betty had seenenough to show her that she had mistaken nervousness for truculence. Immediately, she was at her ease, and womanlike, had begun to controlthe situation. She made conversation pleasantly, praising the cats, admiring the birds, touching lightly on the general subject of domesticpets, until her woman's sixth sense told her that her host's panic hadpassed, and that she might now proceed to discuss business. 

"I hope you don't mind my coming to you, Mr. Jarvis, " she said. "Youknow you told me to if ever I were in trouble, so I've taken you atyour word. You don't mind?"

Mr. Jarvis gulped, and searched for words. 

"Glad, " he said at last. 

"I've left _Peaceful Moments_. You know I used to be stenographerthere. "

She was surprised and gratified to see a look of consternation spreaditself across Mr. Jarvis' face. It was a hopeful sign that he shouldtake her cause to heart to such an extent. 

But Mr. Jarvis' consternation was not due wholly to solicitude for her. His thoughts at that moment, put, after having been expurgated, intospeech, might have been summed up in the line: "Of all sad words oftongue or pen the saddest are these, 'It might have been'!"

"Ain't youse woikin' dere no more? Is dat right?" he gasped. "Gee! Iwisht I'd 'a' known it sooner. Why, a guy come to me and wants to giveme half a ton of the long green to go to dat poiper what youse waswoikin' on and fix de guy what's runnin' it. An' I truns him down 'cosI don't want you to be frown out of your job. Say, why youse quitwoikin' dere?" His eyes narrowed as an idea struck him. "Say, " he wenton, "you ain't bin fired? Has de boss give youse de trun-down? 'Cos ifhe has, say de woid and I'll fix him for youse, loidy. An' it won't setyou back a nickel, " he concluded handsomely. 

"No, no, " cried Betty, horrified. "Mr. Smith has been very kind to me. I left of my own free will. "

Mr. Jarvis looked disappointed. His demeanor was like that of somemediaeval knight called back on the eve of starting out to battle withthe Paynim for the honor of his lady. 

"What was that you said about the man who came to you and offered youmoney?" asked Betty. 

Her mind had flashed back to Mr. Parker's visit, and her heart wasbeating quickly. 

"Sure! He come to me all right an' wants de guy on de poiper fixed. An'I truns him down. "

"Oh! You won't dream of doing anything to hurt Mr. Smith, will you, Mr. Jarvis?" said Betty anxiously. 

"Not if you say so, loidy. "

"And your--friends? You won't let them do anything?"

"Nope. "

Betty breathed freely again. Her knowledge of the East Side was small, and that there might be those there who acted independently of Mr. Jarvis, disdainful of his influence, did not occur to her. She returnedto her own affairs, satisfied that danger no longer threatened. 

"Mr. Jarvis, I wonder if you can help me. I want to find some work todo, " she said. 

"Woik?"

"I have to earn my living, you see, and I'm afraid I don't know how tobegin. "

Mr. Jarvis pondered. "What sort of woik?"

"Any sort, " said Bettyvaliantly. "I don't care what it is. "

Mr. Jarvis knitted his brows in thought. He was not used to being anemployment agency. But Betty was Betty, and even at the cost of aheadache he must think of something. 

At the end of five minutes inspiration came to him. 

"Say, " he said, "what do youse call de guy dat sits an' takes de moneyat an eatin'-joint? Cashier? Well, say, could youse be dat?"

"It would be just the thing. Do you know a place?"

"Sure. Just around de corner. I'll take you dere. "

Betty waited while he put on his coat, and they started out. Bettychatted as they walked, but Mr. Jarvis, who appeared a littleself-conscious beneath the unconcealed interest of the neighbors, wassilent. At intervals he would turn and glare ferociously at the headsthat popped out of windows or protruded from doorways. Fame has itspenalties, and most of the population of that portion of the Bowery hadturned out to see their most prominent citizen so romantically employedas a squire of dames. 

After a short walk Bat halted the expedition before a dingy restaurant. The glass window bore in battered letters the name, Fontelli. 

"Dis is de joint, " he said. 

Inside the restaurant a dreamy-eyed Italian sat gazing at vacancy andtwirling a pointed mustache. In a far corner a solitary customer wasfinishing a late breakfast. 

Signor Fontelli, for the sad-eyed exile was he, sprang to his feet atthe sight of Mr. Jarvis' well-known figure. An ingratiating, butnervous, smile came into view behind the pointed mustache. 

"Hey, Tony, " said Mr. Jarvis, coming at once to the point, "I want youto know dis loidy. She's going to be cashier at dis joint. "

Signor Fontelli looked at Betty and shook his head. He smileddeprecatingly. His manner seemed to indicate that, while she met withthe approval of Fontelli, the slave of her sex, to Fontelli, theemployer, she appealed in vain. He gave his mustache a sorrowful twirl. 

"Ah, no, " he sighed. "Not da cashier do I need. I take-a myself damoney. "

Mr. Jarvis looked at him coldly. He continued to look at him coldly. His lower jaw began slowly to protrude, and his forehead retreatedfurther behind its zareba of forelock. 

There was a pause. The signor was plainly embarrassed. 

"Dis loidy, " repeated Mr. Jarvis, "is cashier at dis joint at sixper--" He paused. "Does dat go?" he added smoothly. 

Certainly there was magnetism about Mr. Jarvis. With a minimum of wordshe produced remarkable results. Something seemed to happen suddenly toSignor Fontelli's spine. He wilted like a tired flower. A gesture, inwhich were blended resignation, humility, and a desire to be at peacewith all men, particularly Mr. Jarvis, completed his capitulation. 

Mr. Jarvis waited while Betty was instructed in her simple duties, thendrew her aside. 

"Say, " he remarked confidentially, "youse'll be all right here. Six perain't all de dough dere is in de woild, but, bein' cashier, see, youcan swipe a whole heap more whenever you feel like it. And if Tonyregisters a kick, I'll come around and talk to him--see? Dat's right. Good-morning, loidy. "

And, having delivered these admirable hints to young cashiers in ahurry to get rich, Mr. Jarvis ducked his head in a species of bow, declined to be thanked, and shuffled out into the street, leaving Bettyto open her new career by taking thirty-seven cents from the latebreakfaster. 

CHAPTER XXI

CHANGES IN THE STAFF

Three days had elapsed since the battle which had opened the campaign, and there had been no further movement on the part of the enemy. Smithwas puzzled. A strange quiet seemed to be brooding over the other camp. He could not believe that a single defeat had crushed the foe, but itwas hard to think of any other explanation. 

It was Pugsy Maloney who, on the fourth morning, brought to the officethe inner history of the truce. His version was brief and unadorned, aswas the way with his narratives. Such things as first causes andpiquant details he avoided, as tending to prolong the tellingexcessively, thus keeping him from the perusal of his cowboy stories. He gave the thing out merely as an item of general interest, a bubbleon the surface of the life of a great city. He did not know how nearlyinterested were his employers in any matter touching that gang which isknown as the Three Points. 

Pugsy said: "Dere's been fuss'n going on down where I live. DudeDawson's mad at Spider Reilly, and now de Table Hills is layin' for deT'ree Points, to soak it to 'em. Dat's right. "

He then retired to his outer fastness, yielding further details jerkilyand with the distrait air of one whose mind is elsewhere. 

Skilfully extracted and pieced together, these details formedthemselves into the following typical narrative of East Side life. 

There were four really important gangs in New York at this time. Therewere other less important institutions besides, but these were littlemore than mere friendly gatherings of old boyhood chums for purposes ofmutual companionship. They might grow into formidable organizations intime, but for the moment the amount of ice which good judges declaredthem to cut was but small. They would "stick up" an occasional wayfarerfor his "cush, " and they carried "canisters" and sometimes fired themoff, but these things do not signify the cutting of ice. In matterspolitical there were only four gangs which counted, the East Side, theGroome Street, the Three Points and the Table Hill. Greatest of these, by virtue of their numbers, were the East Side and the Groome Street, the latter presided over at the time of this story by Mr. Bat Jarvis. These two were colossal, and, though they might fight each other, wereimmune from attack at the hands of the rest. 

But between the other gangs, and especially between the Table Hill andthe Three Points, which were much of a size, warfare raged asfrequently as among the Republics of South America. There had alwaysbeen bad blood between the Table Hill and the Three Points. Littleevents, trifling in themselves, had always occurred to shatter friendlyrelations just when there seemed a chance of their being formed. Thus, just as the Table Hillites were beginning to forgive the Three Pointsfor shooting the redoubtable Paul Horgan down at Coney Island, a ThreePointer injudiciously wiped out a Table Hillite near Canal Street. Hepleaded self-defense, and in any case it was probably merethoughtlessness, but nevertheless the Table Hillites were ruffled. 

That had been a month or so back. During that month things had beensimmering down, and peace was just preparing to brood when thereoccurred the incident alluded to by Pugsy, the regrettable falling outbetween Dude Dawson and Spider Reilly. 

To be as brief as possible, Dude Dawson had gone to spend a happyevening at a dancing saloon named Shamrock Hall, near Groome Street. Now, Shamrock Hall belonged to a Mr. Maginnis, a friend of Bat Jarvis, and was under the direct protection of that celebrity. It was, therefore, sacred ground, and Mr. Dawson visited it in a purely privateand peaceful capacity. The last thing he intended was to spoil theharmony of the evening. 

Alas for the best intentions! Two-stepping clumsily round the room--forhe was a poor, though enthusiastic, dancer--Dude Dawson collided withand upset a certain Reddy Davis and his partner. Reddy Davis was amember of the Three Points, and his temper was the temper of ared-headed man. He "slugged" Mr. Dawson. Mr. Dawson, more skilful atthe fray than at the dance, joined battle willingly, and they wereabsorbed in a stirring combat, when an interruption occurred. In thefar corner of the room, surrounded by admiring friends, sat SpiderReilly, monarch of the Three Points. He had noticed that there was aslight disturbance at the other side of the hall, but had given itlittle attention till the dancing ceasing suddenly and the flooremptying itself of its crowd, he had a plain view of Mr. Dawson and Mr. Davis squaring up at each other for the second round. 

We must assume that Mr. Reilly was not thinking of what he did, for hisaction was contrary to all rules of gang etiquette. In the street itwould have been perfectly legitimate, even praiseworthy, but in adance-hall under the protection of a neutral power it was unpardonable. 

What he did was to produce his revolver, and shoot the unsuspecting Mr. Dawson in the leg. Having done which, he left hurriedly, fearing thewrath of Bat Jarvis. 

Mr. Dawson, meanwhile, was attended to and helped home. Willinginformants gave him the name of his aggressor, and before morning theTable Hill camp was in a ferment. Shooting broke out in three places, though there were no casualties. 

When the day dawned there existed between the two gangs a state of warmore bitter than any in their record, for this time it was chieftainwho had assaulted chieftain, Royal blood had been spilt. 

Such was the explanation of the lull in the campaign against_Peaceful Moments_. The new war had taken the mind of SpiderReilly and his warriors off the paper and its affairs for the moment, much as the unexpected appearance of a mad bull would make a man forgetthat he had come out snipe-shooting. 

At present there had been no pitched battle. As was usual between thegangs, war had broken out in a somewhat tentative fashion at first. There had been skirmishes by the wayside, but nothing more. The twoarmies were sparring for an opening. 

 * * * * *

Smith was distinctly relieved at the respite, for necessitating carefulthought. This was the defection of Kid Brady. 

The Kid's easy defeat of Cyclone Dick Fisher had naturally created asensation in sporting circles. He had become famous in a night. It wasnot with surprise, therefore, that Smith received from his fightingeditor the information that he had been matched against one Eddie Wood, whose fame outshone even that of the late Cyclone. 

The Kid, a white man to the core, exhibited quite a feudal loyalty tothe paper which had raised him from the ruck and placed him on the roadto eminence. 

"Say the word, " he said, "and I'll call it off. If you feel you need mearound here, Mr. Smith, say so, and I'll side-step Eddie. "

"Comrade Brady, " said Smith with enthusiasm, "I have had occasionbefore to call you sport. I do so again. But I'm not going to stand inyour way. If you eliminate this Comrade Wood, they will have to giveyou a chance against Jimmy Garvin, won't they?"

"I guess that's right, " said the Kid. "Eddie stayed nineteen roundsagainst Jimmy, and, if I can put him away, it gets me clear into linewith Jim, and he'll have to meet me. "

"Then go in and win, Comrade Brady. We shall miss you. It will be as ifa ray of sunshine had been removed from the office. But you mustn'tthrow a chance away. "

"I'll train at White Plains, " said the Kid, "so I'll be pretty near incase I'm wanted. "

"Oh, we shall be all right, " said Smith, "and if you win, we'll bringout a special number. Good luck, Comrade Brady, and many thanks foryour help. "

 * * * * *

John, when he arrived at the office and learned the news, was forrelying on their own unaided efforts. 

"And, anyway, " he said, "I don't see who else there is to help us. Youcould tell the police, I suppose, " he went on doubtfully. 

Smith shook his head. 

"The New York policeman, Comrade John, is, like all great men, somewhatpeculiar. If you go to a New York policeman and exhibit a black eye, heis more likely to express admiration for the handiwork of the citizenresponsible for the same than sympathy. No; since coming to this city Ihave developed a habit of taking care of myself, or employing privatehelp. I do not want allies who will merely shake their heads at ComradeReilly and his merry men, however sternly. I want someone who, ifnecessary, will soak it to them good. "

"Sure, " said John. "But who is there now the Kid's gone?"

"Who else but Comrade Jarvis?" said Smith. 

"Jarvis? Bat Jarvis?"

"The same. I fancy that we shall find, on enquiry, that we are acehigh with him. At any rate, there is no harm in sounding him. It istrue that he may have forgotten, or it may be that it is to ComradeBrown alone that he is--"

"Who's Brown?" asked John. 

"Our late stenographer, " explained Smith. "A Miss Brown. Sheentertained Comrade Jarvis' cat, if you remember. I wonder what hasbecome of her. She has sent in three more corking efforts on thesubject of Broster Street, but she gives no address. I wish I knewwhere she was. I'd have liked for you to meet her. "

CHAPTER XXII

A GATHERING OF CAT SPECIALISTS

"It will probably be necessary, " said Smith, as they set out forGroome Street, "to allude to you, Comrade John, in the course of thisinterview, as one of our most eminent living cat-fanciers. You havenever met Comrade Jarvis, I believe? Well, he is a gentleman with justabout enough forehead to prevent his front hair getting inextricablyblended with his eyebrows, and he owns twenty-three cats, each with aleather collar round its neck. It is, I fancy, the cat note which weshall have to strike to-day. If only Comrade Brown were with us, wecould appeal to his finer feelings. But he has seen me only once andyou never, and I should not care to bet that he will feel the leastparticle of dismay at the idea of our occiputs getting all mussed upwith a black-jack. But when I inform him that you are an Englishcat-fancier, and that in your island home you have seventy-four finecats, mostly Angoras, that will be a different matter. I shall besurprised if he does not fall on your neck. "

They found Mr. Jarvis in his fancier's shop, engaged in theintellectual occupation of greasing a cat's paws with butter. He lookedup as they entered, and then resumed his task. 

"Comrade Jarvis, " said Smith, "we meet again. You remember me?"

"Nope, " said Mr. Jarvis promptly. 

Smith was not discouraged. 

"Ah!" he said tolerantly, "the fierce rush of New York life! How itwipes from the retina to-day the image impressed on it but yesterday. Is it not so, Comrade Jarvis?"

The cat-expert concentrated himself on his patient's paws withoutreplying. 

"A fine animal, " said Smith, adjusting his monocle. "To whatparticular family of the _Felis Domestica_ does that belong? Incolor it resembles a Neapolitan ice more than anything. "

Mr. Jarvis' manner became unfriendly. 

"Say, what do youse want? That's straight, ain't it? If youse want tobuy a boid or a snake, why don't youse say so?"

"I stand corrected, " said Smith; "I should have remembered that timeis money. I called in here partly in the hope that, though you only metme once--on the stairs of my office, you might retain pleasantrecollections of me, but principally in order that I might make twovery eminent cat-fanciers acquainted. This, " he said, with a wave ofhis hand in the direction of John, "is Comrade Maude, possibly thebest known of English cat-fanciers. Comrade Maude's stud of Angoras iscelebrated wherever the English language is spoken. "

Mr. Jarvis's expression changed. He rose, and, having inspected Johnwith silent admiration for a while, extended a well-buttered handtowards him. Smith looked on benevolently. 

"What Comrade Maude does not know about cats, " he said, "is notknowledge. His information on Angoras alone would fill a volume. "

"Say"--Mr. Jarvis was evidently touching on a point which had weigheddeeply upon him--"why's catnip called catnip?"

John looked at Smith helplessly. It sounded like a riddle, but it wasobvious that Mr. Jarvis's motive in putting the question was notfrivolous. He really wished to know. 

"The word, as Comrade Maude was just about to observe, " said Smith, "isa corruption of catmint. Why it should be so corrupted I do not know. But what of that? The subject is too deep to be gone fully into at themoment. I should recommend you to read Mr. Maude's little brochure onthe matter. Passing lightly on from that--"

"Did youse ever have a cat dat ate bettles?" enquired Mr. Jarvis. 

"There was a time when many of Comrade Maude's _Felidae_ supportedlife almost entirely on beetles. "

"Did they git thin?"

John felt it was time, if he were to preserve his reputation, to asserthimself. 

"No, " he replied firmly. 

Mr. Jarvis looked astonished. 

"English beetles, " said Smith, "don't make cats thin. Passinglightly--"

"I had a cat oncst, " said Mr. Jarvis, ignoring the remark and stickingto his point, "dat ate beetles and got thin and used to tie itselfinter knots. "

"A versatile animal, " agreed Smith. 

"Say, " Mr. Jarvis went on, now plainly on a subject near to his heart, "dem beetles is fierce. Sure! Can't keep de cats off of eatin' dem, Ican't. First t'ing you know dey've swallowed dem, and den dey gits thinand ties theirselves into knots. "

"You should put them into strait-waistcoats, " said Smith. "Passing, however, lightly--"

"Say, ever have a cross-eyed cat?"

"Comrade Maude's cats, " said Smith, "have happily been almost entirelyfree from strabismus. "

"Dey's lucky, cross-eyed cats is. You has a cross-eyed cat, and not'in'don't never go wrong. But, say, was dere ever a cat wit' one blue andone yaller one in your bunch? Gee! it's fierce when it's like dat. It'sa skidoo, is a cat wit' one blue eye and one yaller one. Puts you inbad, surest t'ing you know. Oncst a guy give me a cat like dat, andfirst t'ing you know I'm in bad all round. It wasn't till I give himaway to de cop on de corner and gets me one dat's cross-eyed dat Ilifts de skidoo off of me. "

"And what happened to the cop?" enquired Smith, interested. 

"Oh, he got in bad, sure enough, " said Mr. Jarvis without emotion. "Oneof de boys what he'd pinched and had sent up the road once lays forhim and puts one over on him wit a black-jack. Sure. Dat's what comesof havin' a cat wit' one blue and one yaller one. "

Mr. Jarvis relapsed into silence. He seemed to be meditating on theinscrutable workings of Fate. Smith took advantage of the pause toleave the cat topic and touch on matters of more vital import. 

"Tense and exhilarating as is this discussion of the opticalpeculiarities of cats, " he said, "there is another matter on which, ifyou will permit me, I should like to touch. I would hesitate to boreyou with my own private troubles, but this is a matter which concernsComrade Maude as well as myself, and I can see that your regard forComrade Maude is almost an obsession. "

"How's that?"

"I can see, " said Smith, "that Comrade Maude is a man to whom you givethe glad hand. "

Mr. Jarvis regarded John with respectful affection. 

"Sure! He's to the good, Mr. Maude is. "

"Exactly, " said Smith. "To resume, then. The fact is, Comrade Jarvis, we are much persecuted by scoundrels. How sad it is in this world! Welook to every side. We look to north, east, south, and west, and whatdo we see? Mainly scoundrels. I fancy you have heard a little about ourtroubles before this. In fact, I gather that the same scoundrelsactually approached you with a view to engaging your services to do usup, but that you very handsomely refused the contract. We are the staffof _Peaceful Moments_. "

"_Peaceful Moments_, " said Mr. Jarvis. "Sure, dat's right. A guycomes to me and says he wants you put through it, but I gives him detrundown. "

"So I was informed, " said Smith. "Well, failing you, they went to agentleman of the name of Reilly--"

"Spider Reilly?"

"Exactly. Spider Reilly, the lessee and manager of the Three Pointsgang. "

Mr. Jarvis frowned. 

"Dose T'ree Points, dey're to de bad. Dey're fresh. "

"It is too true, Comrade Jarvis. "

"Say, " went on Mr. Jarvis, waxing wrathful at the recollection, "whatdo youse t'ink dem fresh stiffs done de odder night? Started some roughwoik in me own dance-joint. "

"Shamrock Hall?" said Smith. "I heard about it. "

"Dat's right, Shamrock Hall. Got gay, dey did, wit' some of the TableHillers. Say, I got it in for dem gazebos, sure I have. Surest t'ingyou know. "

Smith beamed approval. 

"That, " he said, "is the right spirit. Nothing could be more admirable. We are bound together by our common desire to check the ever-growingspirit of freshness among the members of the Three Points. Add to thatthe fact that we are united by a sympathetic knowledge of the mannersand customs of cats, and especially that Comrade Maude, England'sgreatest fancier, is our mutual friend, and what more do we want?Nothing. "

"Mr. Maude's to de good, " assented Mr. Jarvis, eying John once more infriendly fashion. 

"We are all to the good, " said Smith. "Now, the thing I wished to askyou is this. The office of the paper was, until this morning, securelyguarded by Comrade Brady, whose name will be familiar to you. "

"De Kid?"

"On the bull's-eye, as usual. Kid Brady, the coming light-weightchampion of the world. Well, he has unfortunately been compelled toleave us, and the way into the office is consequently clear to anysand-bag specialist who cares to wander in. So what I came to ask was, will you take Comrade Brady's place for a few days?"

"How's that?"

"Will you come in and sit in the office for the next day or so and helphold the fort? I may mention that there is money attached to the job. We will pay for your services. "

Mr. Jarvis reflected but a brief moment. 

"Why, sure, " he said. "Me fer dat. "

"Excellent, Comrade Jarvis. Nothing could be better. We will see youto-morrow, then. I rather fancy that the gay band of Three Pointers whowill undoubtedly visit the offices of _Peaceful Moments_ in thenext few days is scheduled to run up against the surprise of theirlives. "

"Sure t'ing. I'll bring me canister. "

"Do, " said Smith. "In certain circumstances one canister is worth aflood of rhetoric. Till to-morrow, then, Comrade Jarvis. I am very muchobliged to you. "

 * * * * *

"Not at all a bad hour's work, " he said complacently, as they turnedout of Groome Street. "A vote of thanks to you, John, for yourinvaluable assistance. "

"I didn't do much, " said John, with a grin. 

"Apparently, no. In reality, yes. Your manner was exactly right. Reserved, yet not haughty. Just what an eminent cat-fancier's mannershould be. I could see that you made a pronounced hit with ComradeJarvis. By the way, as he is going to show up at the office to-morrow, perhaps it would be as well if you were to look up a few facts bearingon the feline world. There is no knowing what thirst for information anight's rest may not give Comrade Jarvis. I do not presume to dictate, but if you were to make yourself a thorough master of the subject ofcatnip, for instance, it might quite possibly come in useful. "

CHAPTER XXIII

THE RETIREMENT OF SMITH

The first member of the staff of _Peaceful Moments_ to arrive atthe office on the following morning was Master Maloney. This soundslike the beginning of a "Plod and Punctuality, " or "How Great Fortuneshave been Made" story, but, as a matter of fact, Master Maloney, likeMr. Bat Jarvis, was no early bird. Larks who rose in his neighborhood, rose alone. He did not get up with them. He was supposed to be at theoffice at nine o'clock. It was a point of honor with him, a sort ofdaily declaration of independence, never to put in an appearance beforenine-thirty. On this particular morning he was punctual to the minute, or half an hour late, whichever way you choose to look at it. 

He had only whistled a few bars of "My Little Irish Rose, " and hadbarely got into the first page of his story of life on the prairie, when Kid Brady appeared. The Kid had come to pay a farewell visit. Hehad not yet begun training, and he was making the best of the shorttime before such comforts should be forbidden by smoking a big blackcigar. Master Maloney eyed him admiringly. The Kid, unknown to thatgentleman himself, was Pugsy's ideal. He came from the Plains, and had, indeed, once actually been a cowboy; he was a coming champion; and hecould smoke big black cigars. There was no trace of his officialwell-what-is-it-now? air about Pugsy as he laid down his book andprepared to converse. 

"Say, Mr. Smith around anywhere, Pugsy?" asked the Kid. 

"Naw, Mr. Brady. He ain't came yet, " replied Master Maloneyrespectfully. 

"Late, ain't he?"

"Sure! He generally blows in before I do. "

"Wonder what's keepin' him?"

As he spoke, John appeared. "Hello, Kid, " he said. "Come to saygood-by?"

"Yep, " said the Kid. "Seen Mr. Smith around anywhere, Mr. Maude?"

"Hasn't he come yet? I guess he'll be here soon. Hello, who's this?"

A small boy was standing at the door, holding a note. 

"Mr. Maude?" he said. "Cop at Jefferson Market give me dis fer you. "

"What!" He took the letter, and gave the boy a dime. "Why, it's fromSmith. Great Scott!"

It was apparent that the Kid was politely endeavoring to veil hiscuriosity. Master Maloney had no such delicacy. 

"What's in de letter, boss?" he enquired. 

"The letter, " said John slowly, "is from Mr. Smith. And it says that hewas sentenced this morning to thirty days on the Island for resistingthe police. "

"He's de guy!" admitted Master Maloney approvingly. 

"What's that?" said the Kid. "Mr. Smith been slugging cops! What's hebeen doin' that for?"

"I must go and find out at once. It beats me. "

It did not take John long to reach Jefferson Market, and by thejudicious expenditure of a few dollars he was enabled to obtain aninterview with Smith in a back room. 

The editor of _Peaceful Moments_ was seated on a bench, lookingremarkably disheveled. There was a bruise on his forehead, just wherethe hair began. He was, however, cheerful. 

"Ah, John, " he said. "You got my note all right, then?" John looked athim, concerned. 

"What on earth does it all mean?"

Smith heaved a regretful sigh. 

"I fear, " he said, "I have made precisely the blamed fool of myselfthat Comrade Parker hoped I would. "

"Parker!"

Smith nodded. 

"I may be misjudging him, but I seem to see the hand of Comrade Parkerin this. We had a raid at my house last night, John. We were pulled. "

"What on earth--?"

"Somebody--if it was not Comrade Parker it was some other citizendripping with public spirit--tipped the police off that certain sportswere running a pool-room in the house where I live. "

On his departure from the _News_, Smith, from motives of economy, had moved from his hotel in Washington Square and taken a furnishedroom on Fourteenth Street. 

"There actually was a pool-room there, " he went on, "so possibly I amwronging Comrade Parker in thinking that this was a scheme of his forgetting me out of the way. At any rate, somebody gave the tip, and atabout three o'clock this morning I was aroused from a dreamless slumberby quite a considerable hammering at my door. There, standing on themat, were two policemen. Very cordially the honest fellows invited meto go with them. A conveyance, it seemed, waited in the street without. I disclaimed all connection with the bad gambling persons below, butthey replied that they were cleaning up the house, and, if I wished tomake any remarks, I had better make them to the magistrate. This seemedreasonable. I said I would put on some clothes and come along. Theydemurred. They said they couldn't wait about while I put on clothes. Ipointed out that sky-blue pajamas with old-rose frogs were not thecostume in which the editor of a great New York weekly paper should beseen abroad in one of the world's greatest cities, but they assuredme--more by their manner than their words--that my misgivings weregroundless, so I yielded. These men, I told myself, have lived longerin New York than I. They know what is done, and what is not done. Iwill bow to their views. So I was starting to go with them like a lamb, when one of them gave me a shove in the ribs with his night stick. Andit was here that I fancy I may have committed a slight error ofpolicy. "

He smiled dreamily for a moment, then went on. 

"I admit that the old Berserk blood of the Smiths boiled at thatjuncture. I picked up a sleep-producer from the floor, as Comrade Bradywould say, and handed it to the big-stick merchant. He went down like asack of coal over the bookcase, and at that moment I rather fancy theother gentleman must have got busy with his club. At any rate, somebodysuddenly loosed off some fifty thousand dollars' worth of fireworks, and the next thing I knew was that the curtain had risen for the nextact on me, discovered sitting in a prison cell, with an out-size inlumps on my forehead. "

He sighed again. 

"What _Peaceful Moments_ really needs, " he said, "is a_sitz-redacteur_. A _sitz-redacteur_, John, is a gentlemanemployed by German newspapers with a taste for _lese-majeste_ togo to prison whenever required in place of the real editor. The realeditor hints in his bright and snappy editorial, for instance, that theKaiser's mustache gives him bad dreams. The police force swoops downin a body on the office of the journal, and are met by the_sitz-redacteur_, who goes with them cheerfully, allowing theeditor to remain and sketch out plans for his next week's articleon the Crown Prince. We need a _sitz-redacteur_ on _PeacefulMoments_ almost as much as a fighting editor. Not now, of course. This has finished the thing. You'll have to close down the paper now. "

"Close it down!" cried John. "You bet I won't. "

"My dear old son, " said Smith seriously, "what earthly reason have youfor going on with it? You only came in to help me, and I am no more. Iam gone like some beautiful flower that withers in the night. Where'sthe sense of getting yourself beaten up then? Quit!"

John shook his head. 

"I wouldn't quit now if you paid me. "

"But--"

A policeman appeared at the door. 

"Say, pal, " he remarked to John, "you'll have to be fading away soon, Iguess. Give you three minutes more. Say it quick. "

He retired. Smith looked at John. 

"You won't quit?" he said. 

"No. "

Smith smiled. 

"You're an all-wool sport, John, " he said. "I don't suppose you knowhow to spell quit. Well, then, if you are determined to stand by theship like Comrade Casabianca, I'll tell you an idea that came to me inthe watches of the night. If ever you want to get ideas, John, youspend a night in one of these cells. They flock to you. I suppose I didmore profound thinking last night than I've ever done in my life. Well, here's the idea. Act on it or not, as you please. I was thinking overthe whole business from soup to nuts, and it struck me that thequeerest part of it all is that whoever owns these Broster Streettenements should care a Canadian dime whether we find out who he is ornot. "

"Well, there's the publicity, " began John. 

"Tush!" said Smith. "And possibly bah! Do you suppose that the sort ofman who runs Broster Street is likely to care a darn about publicity?What does it matter to him if the papers soak it to him for about twodays? He knows they'll drop him and go on to something else on thethird, and he knows he's broken no law. No, there's something more inthis business than that. Don't think that this bright boy wants to hushus up simply because he is a sensitive plant who can't bear to thinkthat people should be cross with him. He has got some private reasonfor wanting to lie low. "

"Well, but what difference--?"

"Comrade, I'll tell you. It makes this difference: that the rents arealmost certainly collected by some confidential person belonging to hisown crowd, not by an ordinary collector. In other words, the collectorknows the name of the man he's collecting for. But for this littlemisfortune of mine, I was going to suggest that we waylay thatcollector, administer the Third Degree, and ask him who his boss is. "

John uttered an exclamation. 

"You're right! I'll do it. "

"You think you can? Alone?"

"Sure! Don't you worry. I'll--"

The door opened and the policeman reappeared. 

"Time's up. Slide, sonny. "

John said good-by to Smith, and went out. He had a last glimpse of hislate editor, a sad smile on his face, telling the policeman what wasapparently a humorous story. Complete good will seemed to exist betweenthem. John consoled himself as he went away with the reflection thatSmith's was a temperament that would probably find a bright side evento a thirty-days' visit to Blackwell's Island. 

He walked thoughtfully back to the office. There was something lonely, and yet wonderfully exhilarating, in the realization that he was nowalone and in sole charge of the campaign. It braced him. For the firsttime in several weeks he felt positively light-hearted. 

CHAPTER XXIV

THE CAMPAIGN QUICKENS

Mr. Jarvis was as good as his word. Early in the afternoon he made hisappearance at the office of _Peaceful Moments_, his forelock morethan usually well oiled in honor of the occasion, and his rightcoat-pocket bulging in a manner that betrayed to the initiated eye thepresence of his trusty "canister. " With him, in addition, he brought along, thin young man who wore under his brown tweed coat a blue-and-redstriped sweater. Whether he brought him as an ally in case of need ormerely as a kindred soul with whom he might commune during his vigil, did not appear. 

Pugsy, startled out of his wonted calm by the arrival of thisdistinguished company, gazed after the pair, as they passed into theinner office, with protruding eyes. 

John greeted the allies warmly, and explained Smith's absence. Mr. Jarvis listened to the story with interest, and introduced hiscolleague. 

"T'ought I'd let him chase along. Long Otto's his monaker. "

"Sure!" said John. "The more the merrier. Take a seat. You'll findcigars over there. You won't mind my not talking for the moment?There's a wad of work to clear up. "

This was an overstatement. He was comparatively free of work, press dayhaving only just gone by; but he was keenly anxious to avoidconversation on the subject of cats, of his ignorance of which Mr. Jarvis's appearance had suddenly reminded him. He took up an old proofsheet and began to glance through it, frowning thoughtfully. 

Mr. Jarvis regarded the paraphernalia of literature on the table withinterest. So did Long Otto, who, however, being a man of silent habit, made no comment. Throughout the seance and the events which followed ithe confined himself to an occasional grunt. He seemed to lack othermodes of expression. 

"Is dis where youse writes up pieces fer de poiper?" enquired Mr. Jarvis. 

"This is the spot, " said John. "On busy mornings you could hear ourbrains buzzing in Madison Square Garden. Oh, one moment. "

He rose and went into the outer office. 

"Pugsy, " he said, "do you know Broster Street?"

"Sure. "

"Could you find out for me exactly when the man comes round collectingthe rents?"

"Surest t'ing you know. I knows a kid what knows anodder kid what livesdere. "

"Then go and do it now. And, after you've found out, you can take therest of the day off. "

"Me fer dat, " said Master Maloney with enthusiasm. "I'll take me goilto de Bronx Zoo. "

"Your girl? I didn't know you'd got a girl, Pugsy. I always imaginedyou as one of those strong, stern, blood-and-iron men who despisedgirls. Who is she?"

"Aw, she's a kid, " said Pugsy. "Her pa runs a delicatessen shop downour street. She ain't a bad mutt, " added the ardent swain. "I'm hersteady. "

"Well, mind you send me a card for the wedding. And if two dollarswould be a help--"

"Sure t'ing. T'anks, boss. You're all right. "

It had occurred to John that the less time Pugsy spent in the outeroffice during the next few days, the better. The lull in the warfarecould not last much longer, and at any moment a visit from SpiderReilly and his adherents might be expected. Their probable first movein such an event would be to knock Master Maloney on the head toprevent his giving warning of their approach. 

Events proved that he had not been mistaken. He had not been back inthe inner office for more than a quarter of an hour when there camefrom without the sound of stealthy movements. The handle of the doorbegan--to revolve slowly and quietly. The next moment three figurestumbled into the room. 

It was evident that they had not expected to find the door unlocked, and the absence of resistance when they applied their weight hadsurprising effects. Two of the three did not pause in their career tillthey cannoned against the table. The third checked himself by holdingthe handle. 

John got up coolly. 

"Come right in, " he said. "What can we do for you?" It had been toodark on the other occasion of his meeting with the Three Pointers totake note of their faces, though he fancied that he had seen the manholding the door-handle before. The others were strangers. They wereall exceedingly unprepossessing in appearance. 

There was a pause. The three marauders had become aware of the presenceof Mr. Jarvis and his colleague, and the meeting was causing themembarrassment, which may have been due in part to the fact that bothhad produced and were toying meditatively with ugly-looking pistols. 

Mr. Jarvis spoke. 

"Well, " he said, "what's doin'?"

The man to whom the question was directly addressed appeared to havesome difficulty in finding a reply. He shuffled his feet, and looked atthe floor. His two companions seemed equally at a loss. 

"Goin' to start anything?" enquired Mr. Jarvis, casually. 

The humor of the situation suddenly tickled John. The embarrassment ofthe uninvited guests was ludicrous. 

"You've just dropped in for a quiet chat, is that it?" he said. "Well, we're all delighted to see you. The cigars are on the table. Draw upyour chairs. "

Mr. Jarvis opposed the motion. He drew slow circles in the air with hisrevolver. 

"Say! Youse had best beat it. See?"

Long Otto grunted sympathy with the advice. 

"And youse had best go back to Spider Reilly, " continued Mr. Jarvis, "and tell him there ain't nothin' doing in the way of rough-house wit'dis gent here. And you can tell de Spider, " went on Bat with growingferocity, "dat next time he gits fresh and starts in to shootin' up mydance-joint, I'll bite de head off'n him. See? Dat goes. If he t'inkshis little two-by-four crowd can git way wit' de Groome Street, he'sgot anodder guess comin'. An' don't fergit dis gent here and me isfriends, and anyone dat starts anyt'ing wit' dis gent is going to findtrouble. Does dat go? Beat it. "

He jerked his shoulder in the direction of the door. 

The delegation then withdrew. 

"Thanks, " said John. "I'm much obliged to you both. You're certainlythere with the goods as fighting editors. I don't know what I shouldhave done without you. "

"Aw, Chee!" said Mr. Jarvis, handsomely dismissing the matter. LongOtto kicked the leg of a table, and grunted. 

Pugsy Maloney's report on the following morning was entirelysatisfactory. Rents were collected in Broster Street on Thursdays. Nothing could have been more convenient, for that very day happened tobe Thursday. 

"I rubbered around, " said Pugsy, "an' done de sleut' act, an' it's thisway. Dere's a feller blows in every T'ursday 'bout six o'clock, an' denit's up to de folks to dig down inter deir jeans for de stuff, or outdey goes before supper. I got dat from my kid frien' what knows a kidwhat lives dere. An' say, he has it pretty fierce, dat kid. De kid whatlives dere. He's a wop kid, an Italian, an' he's in bad 'cos his pacomes over from Italy to woik on de subway. "

"I don't see why that puts him in bad, " said John wonderingly. "Youdon't construct your stories well, Pugsy. You start at the end, then goback to any part which happens to appeal to you at the moment, andeventually wind up at the beginning. Why is this kid in bad because hisfather has come to work on the subway?"

"Why, sure, because his pa got fired an' swatted de foreman one on decoco, an' dey gives him t'oity days. So de kid's all alone, an' no oneto pay de rent. "

"I see, " said John. "Well, come along with me and introduce me, andI'll look after that. "

At half-past five John closed the office for the day, and, armed with abig stick and conducted by Master Maloney, made his way to BrosterStreet. To reach it, it was necessary to pass through a section of theenemy's country, but the perilous passage was safely negotiated. Theexpedition reached its unsavory goal intact. 

The wop kid inhabited a small room at the very top of a buildinghalf-way down the street. He was out when John and Pugsy arrived. 

It was not an abode of luxury, the tenement; they had to feel their wayup the stairs in almost pitch darkness. Most of the doors were shut, but one on the second floor was ajar. Through the opening John had aglimpse of a number of women sitting on up-turned boxes. The floor wascovered with little heaps of linen. All the women were sewing. Stumbling in the darkness, John almost fell against the door. None ofthe women looked up at the noise. In Broster Street time was evidentlymoney. 

On the top floor Pugsy halted before the open door of an empty room. The architect in this case had apparently given rein to a passion fororiginality, for he had constructed the apartment without a window ofany sort whatsoever. The entire stock of air used by the occupants camethrough a small opening over the door. 

It was a warm day, and John recoiled hastily. 

"Is this the kid's room?" he said. "I guess the corridor's good enoughfor me to wait in. What the owner of this place wants, " he went onreflectively, "is scalping. Well, we'll do it in the paper if we can'tin any other way. Is this your kid?"

A small boy had appeared. He seemed surprised to see visitors. Pugsyundertook to do the honors. Pugsy, as interpreter, was energetic, butnot wholly successful. He appeared to have a fixed idea that theItalian language was one easily mastered by the simple method of saying"da" instead of "the, " and adding a final "a" to any word that seemedto him to need one. 

"Say, kid, " he began, "has da rent-a-man come yet-a?"

The black eyes of the wop kid clouded. He gesticulated, and saidsomething in his native language. 

"He hasn't got next, " reported Master Maloney. "He can't git on to mecurves. Dese wop kids is all bone-heads. Say, kid, look-a here. " Hewalked to the door, rapped on it smartly, and, assuming a look ofextreme ferocity, stretched out his hand and thundered: "Unbelt-a!Slip-a me da stuff!"

The wop kid's puzzlement in the face of this address became pathetic. 

"This, " said John, deeply interested, "is getting exciting. Don't givein, Pugsy. I guess the trouble is that your too perfect Italian accentis making the kid homesick. "

Master Maloney made a gesture of disgust. 

"I'm t'roo. Dese Dagoes makes me tired. Dey don't know enough to goupstairs to take de elevated. Beat it, you mutt, " he observed withmoody displeasure, accompanying the words with a gesture which conveyedits own meaning. The wop kid, plainly glad to get away, slipped downthe stairs like a shadow. 

Pugsy shrugged his shoulders. 

"Boss, " he said resignedly, "it's up to youse. "

John reflected. 

"It's all right, " he said. "Of course, if the collector had been here, the kid wouldn't be. All I've got to do is to wait. "

He peered over the banisters into the darkness below. 

"Not that it's not enough, " he said; "for of all the poisonous places Iever met this is the worst. I wish whoever built it had thought to putin a few windows. His idea of ventilation was apparently to leave ahole about the size of a lima bean and let the thing go at that. "

"I guess there's a door on to de roof somewhere, " suggested Pugsy. "Atde joint where I lives dere is. "

His surmise proved correct. At the end of the passage a ladder, nailedagainst the wall, ended in a large square opening, through which wasvisible, if not "that narrow strip of blue which prisoners call thesky, " at any rate a tall brick chimney and a clothesline covered withgarments that waved lazily in the breeze. 

John stood beneath it, looking up. 

"Well, " he said, "this isn't much, but it's better than nothing. Isuppose the architect of this place was one of those fellows who don'tbegin to appreciate air till it's thick enough to scoop chunks out witha spoon. It's an acquired taste, I guess, like Limburger cheese. Andnow, Pugsy, old scout, you had better beat it. There may be arough-house here any minute now. "

Pugsy looked up, indignant. 

"Beat it?"

"While your shoe-leather's good, " said John firmly. "This is no placefor a minister's son. Take it from me. "

"I want to stop and pipe de fun, " objected Master Maloney. 

"What fun?"

"I guess you ain't here to play ball, " surmised Pugsy shrewdly, eyingthe big stick. 

"Never mind why I'm here, " said John. "Beat it. I'll tell you all aboutit to-morrow. "

Master Maloney prepared reluctantly to depart. As he did so there was asound of well-shod feet on the stairs, and a man in a snuff-coloredsuit, wearing a brown Homburg hat and carrying a small notebook in onehand, walked briskly up the stairs. His whole appearance proclaimed himto be the long-expected collector of rents. 

CHAPTER XXV

CORNERED

He did not see John for a moment, and had reached the door of the roomwhen he became aware of a presence. He turned in surprise. He was asmallish, pale-faced man with protruding eyes and teeth which gave hima certain resemblance to a rabbit. 

"Hello!" he said. 

"Welcome to our city, " said John, stepping unostentatiously between himand the stairs. 

Master Maloney, who had taken advantage of the interruption to edgeback into the center of things, now appeared to consider the questionof his departure permanently shelved. He sidled to a corner of thelanding, and sat down on an empty soap box with the air of a dramaticcritic at the opening night of a new play. The scene looked good tohim. It promised interesting developments. He was an earnest student ofthe drama, as exhibited in the theaters of the East Side, and few hadever applauded the hero of "Escaped from Sing Sing, " or hissed thevillain of "Nellie, the Beautiful Cloak-model" with more fervor. Heliked his drama to have plenty of action, and to his practised eye thisone promised well. There was a set expression on John's face whichsuggested great things. 

His pleasure was abruptly quenched. John, placing a firm hand on hiscollar, led him to the top of the stairs and pushed him down. 

"Beat it, " he said. 

The rent-collector watched these things with a puzzled eye. He nowturned to John. 

"Say, seen anything of the wops that live here?" he enquired. "Myname's Gooch. I've come to take the rent. "

John nodded. 

"I don't think there's much chance of your seeing them to-night, " hesaid. "The father, I hear, is in prison. You won't get any rent out ofhim. "

"Then it's outside for theirs, " said Mr. Gooch definitely. 

"What about the kid?" said John. "Where's he to go?"

"That's up to him. Nothing to do with me. I'm only acting under ordersfrom up top. "

"Whose orders?" enquired John. 

"The gent who owns this joint. "

"Who is he?"

Suspicion crept into the protruding eyes of the rent-collector. 

"Say!" he demanded. "Who are you anyway, and what do you think you'redoing here? That's what I'd like to know. What do you want with thename of the owner of this place? What business is it of yours?"

"I'm a newspaper man. "

"I guessed you were, " said Mr. Gooch with triumph. "You can't bluff me. Well, it's no good, sonny. I've nothing for you. You'd better chase offand try something else. "

He became more friendly. 

"Say, though, " he said, "I just guessed you were from some paper. I wishI could give you a story, but I can't. I guess it's this _PeacefulMoments_ business that's been and put your editor on to this joint, ain't it? Say, though, that's a queer thing, that paper. Why, only a fewweeks ago it used to be a sort of take-home-and-read-to-the-kids affair. A friend of mine used to buy it regular. And then suddenly it comes outwith a regular whoop, and starts knocking these tenements and boostingKid Brady, and all that. It gets past me. All I know is that it's begunto get this place talked about. Why, you see for yourself how it is. Here is your editor sending you down to get a story about it. But, say, those _Peaceful Moments_ guys are taking big risks. I tell youstraight they are, and I know. I happen to be wise to a thing or twoabout what's going on on the other side, and I tell you there's goingto be something doing if they don't cut it out quick. Mr. Qem, thefellow who owns this place isn't the man to sit still and smile. He'sgoing to get busy. Say, what paper do you come from?"

"_Peaceful Moments_, " said John. 

For a moment the inwardness of the information did not seem to comehome to Mr. Gooch. Then it hit him. He spun round. John was standingsquarely between him and the stairs. 

"Hey, what's all this?" demanded Mr. Gooch nervously. The light was dimin the passage, but it was sufficiently light to enable him to seeJohn's face, and it did not reassure him. 

"I'll soon tell you, " said John. "First, however, let's get thisbusiness of the kid's rent settled. Take it out of this and give me thereceipt. "

He pulled out a bill. 

"Curse his rent, " said Mr. Gooch. "Let me pass. "

"Soon, " said John. "Business before pleasure. How much does the kidhave to pay for the privilege of suffocating in this infernal place? Asmuch as that? Well, give me a receipt, and then we can get on to moreimportant things. "

"Let me pass. "

"Receipt, " said John laconically. 

Mr. Gooch looked at the big stick, then scribbled a few words in hisnotebook and tore out the page. John thanked him. 

"I will see that it reaches him, " he said. "And now will you kindlytell me the name of the man for whom you collected that money?"

"Let me pass, " bellowed Mr. Gooch. "I'll bring an action against youfor assault and battery. Playing a fool game like this! Get away fromthose stairs. "

"There has been no assault and battery--yet, " said John. "Well, are yougoing to tell me?"

Mr. Gooch shuffled restlessly. John leaned against the banisters. 

"As you said a moment ago, " he observed, "the staff of _PeacefulMoments_ is taking big risks. I knew it before you told me. I havehad practical demonstration of the fact. And that is why this BrosterStreet thing has got to be finished quick. We can't afford to wait. SoI am going to have you tell me this man's name right now. "

"Help!" yelled Mr. Gooch. 

The noise died away, echoing against the walls. No answering cry camefrom below. Custom had staled the piquancy of such cries in BrosterStreet. If anybody heard it, nobody thought the matter worthinvestigation. 

"If you do that again, " said John, "I'll break you in half. Now then! Ican't wait much longer. Get busy!"

He looked huge and sinister to Mr. Gooch, standing there in theuncertain light; it was very lonely on that top floor and the rest ofthe world seemed infinitely far away. Mr. Gooch wavered. He was loyalto his employer, but he was still more loyal to Mr. Gooch. 

"Well?" said John. 

There was a clatter on the stairs of one running swiftly, and PugsyMaloney burst into view. For the first time since John had known him, Pugsy was openly excited. 

"Say, boss, " he cried, "dey's coming!"

"What? Who?"

"Why, dem. I seen dem T'ree Pointers--Spider Reilly an'--"

He broke off with a yelp of surprise. Mr. Gooch had seized hisopportunity, and had made his dash for safety. With a rush he divedpast John, nearly upsetting Pugsy, who stood in his path, and sprangdown the stairs. Once he tripped, but recovered himself, and in anotherinstant only the faint sound of his hurrying footsteps reached them. 

John had made a movement as if to follow, but the full meaning ofPugsy's words came upon him and he stopped. 

"Spider Reilly?" he said. 

"I guess it was Spider Reilly, " said Pugsy, excitedly. "Dey called himSpider. I guess dey piped youse comin' in here. Gee! it's prettyfierce, boss, dis! What youse goin' to do?"

"Where did you see them, Pugsy?"

"On the street just outside. Dere was a bunch of dem spielin' togedder, and I hears dem say you was in here. Dere ain't no ways out but defront, so dey ain't hurryin'. Dey just reckon to pike along upstairs, peekin' inter each room till dey find you. An' dere's a bunch of demgoin' to wait on de street in case youse beat it past down de stairswhile de odder guys is rubberin' for youse. Gee, ain't dis de limit!"

John stood thinking. His mind was working rapidly. Suddenly he smiled. 

"It's all right, Pugsy, " he said. "It looks bad, but I see a way out. I'm going up that ladder there and through the trapdoor on to the roof. I shall be all right there. If they find me, they can only get at me oneat a time. And, while I'm there, here's what I want you to do. "

"Shall I go for de cops, boss?"

"No, not the cops. Do you know where Dude Dawson lives?"

The light of intelligence began to shine in Master Maloney's face. Hiseye glistened with approval. This was strategy of the right sort. 

"I can ask around, " he said. "I'll soon find him all right. "

"Do, and as quick as you can. And when you've found him tell him thathis old chum, Spider Reilly, is here, with the rest of his crowd. Andnow I'd better be getting up on to my perch. Off you go, Pugsy, my son, and don't take a week about it. Good-by. "

Pugsy vanished, and John, going to the ladder, climbed out on to theroof with his big stick. He looked about him. The examination wassatisfactory. The trapdoor appeared to be the only means of access tothe roof, and between this roof and that of the next building there wasa broad gulf. The position was practically impregnable. Only one thingcould undo him, and that was, if the enemy should mount to the nextroof and shoot from there. And even then he would have cover in theshape of the chimney. It was a pity that the trap opened downward, forhe had no means of securing it and was obliged to allow it to hangopen. But, except for that, his position could hardly have beenstronger. 

As yet there was no sound of the enemy's approach. Evidently, as Pugsyhad said, they were conducting the search, room by room, in a thoroughand leisurely way. He listened with his ear close to the open trapdoor, but could hear nothing. 

A startled exclamation directly behind him brought him to his feet in aflash, every muscle tense. He whirled his stick above his head as heturned, ready to strike, then let it fall with a clatter. For there, abare yard away, stood Betty. 

CHAPTER XXVI

JOURNEY'S END

The capacity of the human brain for surprise, like that of the humanbody for pain, is limited. For a single instant a sense of utterunreality struck John like a physical blow. The world flickered beforehis eyes and the air seemed full of strange noises. Then, quitesuddenly, these things passed, and he found himself looking at her witha total absence of astonishment, mildly amused in some remote corner ofhis brain at his own calm. It was absurd, he told himself, that heshould be feeling as if he had known of her presence there all thetime. Yet it was so. If this were a dream, he could not be taking themiracle more as a matter of course. Joy at the sight of her he felt, keen and almost painful, but no surprise. The shock had stunned hissense of wonder. 

She was wearing a calico apron over her dress, an apron that hadevidently been designed for a large woman. Swathed in its folds, shesuggested a child playing at being grown up. Her sleeves were rolledback to the elbow, and her slim arms dripped with water. Strands ofbrown hair were blowing loose in the evening breeze. To John she hadnever seemed so bewitchingly pretty. He stared at her till the pallorof her face gave way to a warm red glow. 

As they stood there, speechless, there came from the other side of thechimney, softly at first, then swelling, the sound of a child's voice, raised in a tentative wail. Betty started violently. The next momentshe was gone, and from the unseen parts beyond the chimney came thenoise of splashing water. 

And at the same instant, through the trap, came a trampling of feet andthe sound of whispering. The enemy had reached the top floor. 

John was conscious of a remarkable exhilaration. He felt insanelylight-hearted. He laughed aloud at the thought that until then he hadcompletely forgotten the very existence of these earnest seekers afterhis downfall. He threw back his head and shouted. There was somethingso ridiculous in their assumption that they mattered to a man who hadfound Betty again. 

He thrust his head down through the trap, to see what was going on. Thedark passage was full of indistinct forms, gathered together in puzzledgroups. The mystery of the vanished object of their pursuit was beingdiscussed in hoarse whispers. 

Suddenly there was an excited shout, then a rush of feet. John drewback his head, and waited, gripping his stick. 

Voices called to each other in the passage below. 

"De roof!"

"On top de roof!"

"He's beaten it for de roof!"

Feet shuffled on the stone floor. The voices ceased abruptly. And then, like a jack-in-the-box, there popped through the trap a head andshoulders. 

The new arrival was a young man with a shock of red hair, a brokennose, and a mouth from which force or the passage of time had removedthree front teeth. He held on to the edge of the trap, and stared up atJohn. 

John beamed down at him, and shifted his grip on the stick. 

"Who's here?" he cried. "Historic picture. 'Old Dr. Cook discovers theNorth Pole. '"

The red-headed young man blinked. The strong light of the open air wastrying to his eyes. 

"Youse had best come down, " he observed coldly. "We've got youse. "

"And, " continued John, unmoved, "is instantly handed a gum-drop by hisfaithful Eskimo. "

As he spoke, he brought the stick down on the knuckles which disfiguredthe edges of the trap. The intruder uttered a howl and dropped out ofsight. In the passage below there were whisperings and mutterings, growing gradually louder till something resembling coherentconversation came to John's ears, as he knelt by the trap makingmeditative billiard shots with the stick at a small pebble. 

"Aw g'wan! Don't be a quitter. "

"Who's a quitter?"

"Youse a quitter. Get on top de roof. He can't hoit youse. "

"De guy's gotten a big stick. "

John nodded appreciatively. 

"I and Theodore, " he murmured. 

A somewhat baffled silence on the part of the attacking force wasfollowed by further conversation. 

"Gee! Some guy's got to go up. "

Murmur of assent from the audience. 

A voice, in inspired tones: "Let Sam do it. "

The suggestion made a hit. There was no doubt about that. It was asuccess from the start. Quite a little chorus of voices expressedsincere approval of the very happy solution to what had seemed aninsoluble problem. John, listening from above, failed to detect in thechoir of glad voices one that might belong to Sam himself. Probablygratification had rendered the chosen one dumb. 

"Yes, let Sam do it, " cried the unseen chorus. The first speaker, unnecessarily, perhaps--for the motion had been carried almostunanimously--but possibly with the idea of convincing the one member ofthe party in whose bosom doubts might conceivably be harbored, went onto adduce reasons. 

"Sam bein' a coon, " he argued, "ain't goin' to git hoit by no stick. Youse can't hoit a coon by soakin' him on de coco, can you, Sam?"

John waited with some interest for the reply, but it did not come. Possibly Sam did not wish to generalize on insufficient experience. 

"We can but try, " said John softly, turning the stick round in hisfingers. 

A report like a cannon sounded in the passage below. It was merely arevolver shot, but in the confined space it was deafening. The bulletsang up into the sky. 

"Never hit me, " said John cheerfully. 

The noise was succeeded by a shuffling of feet. John grasped his stickmore firmly. This was evidently the real attack. The revolver shot hadbeen a mere demonstration of artillery to cover the infantry's advance. 

Sure enough, the next moment a woolly head popped through the opening, and a pair of rolling eyes gleamed up at him. 

"Why, Sam!" he said cordially, "this is great. Now for our interestingexperiment. My idea is that you _can_ hurt a coon's head with astick if you hit it hard enough. Keep quite still. Now. What, are youcoming up? Sam, I hate to do it, but--"

A yell rang out. John's theory had been tested and proved correct. 

By this time the affair had begun to attract spectators. The noise ofthe revolver had proved a fine advertisement. The roof of the housenext door began to fill up. Only a few of the occupants could get aclear view of the proceedings, for the chimney intervened. There wasconsiderable speculation as to what was passing in the Three Pointscamp. John was the popular favorite. The early comers had seen hisinterview with Sam, and were relating it with gusto to their friends. Their attitude toward John was that of a group of men watching a dog ata rat hole. They looked to him to provide entertainment for them, butthey realized that the first move must be with the attackers. They werefair-minded men, and they did not expect John to make any aggressivemove. 

Their indignation, when the proceedings began to grow slow, wasdirected entirely at the dilatory Three Pointers. They hooted the ThreePointers. They urged them to go home and tuck themselves up in bed. Thespectators were mostly Irishmen, and it offended them to see whatshould have been a spirited fight so grossly bungled. 

"G'wan away home, ye quitters!" roared one. 

A second member of the audience alluded to them as "stiffs. "

It was evident that the besieging army was beginning to grow a littleunpopular. More action was needed if they were to retain the esteem ofBroster Street. 

Suddenly there came another and a longer explosion from below, and morebullets wasted themselves on air. John sighed. 

"You make me tired, " he said. 

The Irish neighbors expressed the same sentiment in different and moreforcible words. There was no doubt about it--as warriors, the ThreePointers were failing to give satisfaction. 

A voice from the passage called to John. 

"Say!"

"Well?" said John. 

"Are youse comin' down off out of dat roof?"

"Would you mind repeating that remark?"

"Are youse goin' to quit off out of dat roof?"

"Go away and learn some grammar, " said John severely. 

"Hey!"

"Well?"

"Are youse--?"

"No, my son, " said John, "since you ask it, I am not. I like being uphere. How is Sam?"

There was silence below. The time began to pass slowly. The Irishmen onthe other roof, now definitely abandoning hope of furtherentertainment, proceeded with hoots of derision to climb down one byone into the recesses of their own house. 

And then from the street far below there came a fusillade of shots anda babel of shouts and counter-shouts. The roof of the house next doorfilled again with a magical swiftness, and the low wall facing thestreet became black with the backs of those craning over. Thereappeared to be great doings in the street. 

John smiled comfortably. 

In the army of the corridor confusion had arisen. A scout, clatteringupstairs, had brought the news of the Table Hillites' advent, and therewas doubt as to the proper course to pursue. Certain voices urged goingdown to help the main body. Others pointed out that this would meanabandoning the siege of the roof. The scout who had brought the newswas eloquent in favor of the first course. 

"Gee!" he cried, "don't I keep tellin' youse dat de Table Hills ishere? Sure, dere's a whole bunch of dem, and unless youse come on downdey'll bite de hull head off of us lot. Leave dat stiff on de roof. LetSam wait here wit' his canister, and den he can't get down, 'cos Sam'llpump him full of lead while he's beatin' it t'roo de trapdoor. Sure!"

John nodded reflectively. 

"There is certainly something in that, " he murmured. "I guess the grandrescue scene in the third act has sprung a leak. This will wantthinking over. "

In the street the disturbance had now become terrible. Both sides werehard at it, and the Irishmen on the roof, rewarded at last for theirlong vigil, were yelling encouragement promiscuously and whooping withthe unfettered ecstasy of men who are getting the treat of their liveswithout having paid a penny for it. 

The behavior of the New York policeman in affairs of this kind is basedon principles of the soundest practical wisdom. The unthinking manwould rush in and attempt to crush the combat in its earliest andfiercest stages. The New York policeman, knowing the importance of hissafety, and the insignificance of the gangsman's, permits the opposingforces to hammer each other into a certain distaste for battle, andthen, when both sides have begun to have enough of it, rushes inhimself and clubs everything in sight. It is an admirable process inits results, but it is sure rather than swift. 

Proceedings in the affair below had not yet reached thepolice-interference stage. The noise, what with the shots and yellsfrom the street and the ear-piercing approval of the roof audience, wasjust working up to a climax. 

John rose. He was tired of kneeling by the trap, and there was nolikelihood of Sam making another attempt to climb through. He got upand stretched himself. 

And then he saw that Betty was standing beside him, holding with eachhand a small and--by Broster Street standards--uncannily clean child. The children were scared and whimpering, and she stooped to soothethem. Then she turned to John, her eyes wide with anxiety. 

"Are you hurt?" she cried. "What has been happening? Are you hurt?"

John's heart leaped at the anxious break in her voice. 

"It's all right, " he said soothingly. "It's absolutely all right. Everything's over. "

As if to give him the lie, the noise in the street swelled to acrescendo of yells and shots. 

"What's that?" cried Betty, starting. 

"I fancy, " said John, "the police must be taking a hand. It's allright. There's a little trouble down below there between two of thegangs. It won't last long now. "

"Who were those men?"

"My friends in the passage?" he said lightly. "Those were some of theThree Points gang. We were holding the concluding exercise of a ratherlively campaign that's been--"

Betty leaned weakly against the chimney. There was silence now in thestreet. Only the distant rumble of an elevated train broke thestillness. She drew her hands from the children's grasp, and coveredher face. As she lowered them again, John saw that the blood had lefther cheeks. She was white and shaking. He moved forward impulsively. 

"Betty!"

She tottered, reaching blindly for the chimney for support, and withoutfurther words he gathered her into his arms as if she had been thechild she looked, and held her there, clutching her to him fiercely, kissing the brown hair that brushed against his face, and soothing herwith vague murmurings. 

Her breath came in broken gasps. She laughed hysterically. 

"I thought they were killing you--killing you--and I couldn't leave mybabies--they were so frightened, poor little mites--I thought they werekilling you. "

"Betty!"

Her arms about his neck tightened their grip convulsively, forcing hishead down until his face rested against hers. And so they stood, rigid, while the two children stared with round eyes and whimperedunheeded. 

Her grip relaxed. Her hands dropped slowly to her side. She leaned backagainst the circle of his arms, and looked up at him--a strange look, full of a sweet humility. 

"I thought I was strong, " she said quietly. "I'm weak--but I don'tcare. "

He looked at her with glowing eyes, not understanding, but content thatthe journey was ended, that she was there, in his arms, speaking tohim. 

"I always loved you, dear, " she went on. "You knew that, didn't you?But I thought I was strong enough to give you up for--for aprinciple--but I was wrong. I can't do without you--I knew it just nowwhen I saw--" She stopped, and shuddered. "I can't do without you, " sherepented. 

She felt the muscles of his arms quiver, and pressed more closelyagainst them. They were strong arms, protecting arms, restful to leanagainst at the journey's end. 

CHAPTER XXVII

A LEMON

That bulwark of _Peaceful Moments_, Pugsy Maloney, was rather theman of action than the man of tact. Otherwise, when, a moment later, hethrust his head up through the trap, he would have withdrawndelicately, and not split the silence with a raucous "Hey!" which actedon John and Betty like an electric shock. 

John glowered at him. Betty was pink, but composed. Pugsy climbedleisurely on to the roof, and surveyed the group. 

"Why, hello!" he said, as he saw Betty more closely. 

"Well, Pugsy, " said Betty. "How are you?"

John turned in surprise. 

"Do you know Pugsy?"

Betty looked at him, puzzled. 

"Why, of course I do. "

"Sure, " said Pugsy. "Miss Brown was stenographer on de poiper till shebeat it. "

"Miss Brown!"

There was utter bewilderment in John's face. 

"I changed my name when I went to _Peaceful Moments_. "

"Then are you--did you--?"

"Yes, I wrote those articles. That's how I happen to be here now. Icome down every day and help look after the babies. Poor little souls, there seems to be nobody else here who has time to do it. It'sdreadful. Some of them--you wouldn't believe--I don't think they couldever have had a real bath in their lives. "

"Baths is foolishness, " commented Master Maloney austerely, eying thescoured infants with a touch of disfavor. 

John was reminded of a second mystery that needed solution. 

"How on earth did you get up here, Pugsy?" he asked. "How did you getpast Sam?"

"Sam? I didn't see no Sam. Who's Sam?"

"One of those fellows. A coon. They left him on guard with a gun, sothat I shouldn't get down. "

"Ah, I met a coon beating it down de stairs. I guess dat was him. Iguess he got cold feet. "

"Then there's nothing to stop us from getting down. "

"Nope. Dat's right. Dere ain't a T'ree Pointer wit'in a mile. De copshave been loadin' dem into de patrol-wagon by de dozen. "

John turned to Betty. 

"We'll go and have dinner somewhere. You haven't begun to explainthings yet. "

Betty shook her head with a smile. 

"I haven't got time to go out to dinners, " she said. "I'm aworking-girl. I'm cashier at Fontelli's Italian Restaurant. I shall beon duty in another half-hour. "

John was aghast. 

"You!"

"It's a very good situation, " said Betty demurely. "Six dollars a weekand what I steal. I haven't stolen anything yet, and I think Mr. Jarvisis a little disappointed in me. But of course I haven't settled downproperly. "

"Jarvis? Bat Jarvis?"

"Yes. He has been very good to me. He got me this place, and has lookedafter me all the time. "

"I'll buy him a thousand cats, " said John fervently. "But, Betty, youmustn't go there any more. You must quit. You--"

"If _Peaceful Moments_ would reengage me?" said Betty. 

She spoke lightly, but her face was serious. 

"Dear, " she said quickly, "I can't be away from you now, while there'sdanger. I couldn't bear it. Will you let me come?"

He hesitated. 

"You will. You must. " Her manner changed again. "That's settled, then. Pugsy, I'm coming back to the paper. Are you glad?"

"Sure t'ing, " said Pugsy. "You're to de good. "

"And now, " she went on, "I must give these babies back to theirmothers, and then I'll come with you. "

She lowered herself through the trap, and John handed the children downto her. Pugsy looked on, smoking a thoughtful cigarette. 

John drew a deep breath. Pugsy, removing the cigarette from his mouth, delivered himself of a stately word of praise. 

"She's a boid, " he said. 

"Pugsy, " said John, feeling in his pocket, and producing a roll ofbills, "a dollar a word is our rate for contributions like that. "

 * * * * *

John pushed back his chair slightly, stretched out his legs, andlighted a cigarette, watching Betty fondly through the smoke. Theresources of the Knickerbocker Hotel had proved equal to supplying thestaff of _Peaceful Moments_ with an excellent dinner, and John hadstoutly declined to give or listen to any explanations until the coffeearrived. 

"Thousands of promising careers, " he said, "have been ruined by thefatal practise of talking seriously at dinner. But now we might begin. "

Betty looked at him across the table with shining eyes. It was good tobe together again. 

"My explanations won't take long, " she said. "I ran away from you. And, when you found me, I ran away again. "

"But I didn't find you, " objected John. "That was my trouble. "

"But my aunt told you I was at _Peaceful Moments_!"

"On the contrary, I didn't even know you had an aunt. "

"Well, she's not exactly that. She's my stepfather's aunt--Mrs. Oakley. I was certain you had gone straight to her, and that she had told youwhere I was. "

"The Mrs. Oakley? The--er--philanthropist?"

"Don't laugh at her, " said Betty quickly. "She was so good to me!"

"She passes, " said John decidedly. 

"And now, " said Betty, "it's your turn. "

John lighted another cigarette. 

"My story, " he said, "is rather longer. When they threw me out ofMervo--"

"What!"

"I'm afraid you don't keep abreast of European history, " he said. "Haven't you heard of the great revolution in Mervo and the overthrowof the dynasty? Bloodless, but invigorating. The populace rose againstme as one man--except good old General Poineau. He was for me, andCrump was neutral, but apart from them my subjects were unanimous. There's a republic again in Mervo now. "

"But why? What had you done?"

"Well, I abolished the gaming-tables. But, more probably, " he went onquickly, "they saw what a perfect dub I was in every--"

She interrupted him. 

"Do you mean to say that, just because of me--?"

"Well, " he said awkwardly, "as a matter of fact what you said did makeme think over my position, and, of course, directly I thought overit--oh, well, anyway, I closed down gambling in Mervo, and then--"

"John!"

He was aware of a small hand creeping round the table under cover ofthe cloth. He pressed it swiftly, and, looking round, caught the eye ofa hovering waiter, who swooped like a respectful hawk. 

"Did you want anything, sir?"

"I've got it, thanks, " said John. 

The waiter moved away. 

"Well, directly they had fired me, I came over here. I don't know whatI expected to do. I suppose I thought I might find you by chance. Ipretty soon saw how hopeless it was, and it struck me that, if I didn'tget some work to do mighty quick, I shouldn't be much good to anyoneexcept the alienists. "

"Dear!"

The waiter stared, but John's eyes stopped him in mid-swoop. 

"Then I found Smith--"

"Where is Mr. Smith?"

"In prison, " said John with a chuckle. 

"In prison!"

"He resisted and assaulted the police. I'll tell you about it later. Well, Smith told me of the alterations in _Peaceful Moments_, andI saw that it was just the thing for me. And it has occupied my mindquite some. To think of you being the writer of those Broster Streetarticles! You certainly have started something, Betty! Goodness knowswhere it will end. I hoped to have brought off a coup this afternoon, but the arrival of Sam and his friends just spoiled it. "

"This afternoon? Yes, why were you there? What were you doing?"

"I was interviewing the collector of rents and trying to dig hisemployer's name out of him. It was Smith's idea. Smith's theory wasthat the owner of the tenements must have some special private reasonfor lying low, and that he would employ some special fellow, whom hecould trust, as a rent-collector. And I'm pretty certain he was right. I cornered the collector, a little, rabbit-faced man named Gooch, and Ibelieve he was on the point of--What's the matter?"

Betty's forehead was wrinkled. Her eyes wore a far-away expression. 

"I'm trying to remember something. I seem to know the name, Gooch. AndI seem to associate it with a little, rabbit-faced man. And--quick, tell me some more about him. He's just hovering about on the edge of mymemory. Quick! Push him in!"

John threw his mind back to the interview in the dark passage, tryingto reconstruct it. 

"He's small, " he said slowly. "His eyes protrude--so do histeeth--He--he--yes, I remember now--he has a curious red mark--"

"On his right cheek, " said Betty triumphantly. 

"By Jove!" cried John. "You've got him?"

"I remember him perfectly. He was--" She stopped with a little gasp. 

"Yes?"

"John, he was one of my stepfather's secretaries, " she said. 

They looked at each other in silence. 

"It can't be, " said John at length. 

"It can. It is. He must be. He has scores of interests everywhere. Heprides himself on it. It's the most natural thing. "

John shook his head doubtfully. 

"But why all the fuss? Your stepfather isn't the man to mind publicopinion--"

"But don't you see? It's as Mr. Smith said. The private reason. It's asclear as daylight. Naturally he would do anything rather than be foundout. Don't you see? Because of Mrs. Oakley. "

"Because of Mrs. Oakley?"

"You don't know her as I do. She is a curious mixture. She'sdouble-natured. You called her the philanthropist just now. Well, shewould be one, if--if she could bear to part with money. Yes, I know itsounds ridiculous. But it's so. She is mean about money, but shehonestly hates to hear of anybody treating poor people badly. If mystepfather were really the owner of those tenements, and she shouldfind it out, she would have nothing more to do with him. It's true. Iknow her. "

The smile passed away from John's face. 

"By George!" he said. "It certainly begins to hang together. "

"I know I'm right. "

"I think you are. "

He sat meditating for a moment. 

"Well?" he said at last. 

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what are we to do? Do we go on with this?"

"Go on with it? I don't understand. "

"I mean--well, it has become rather a family matter, you see. Do youfeel as--warlike against Mr. Scobell as you did against an unknownlessee?"

Betty's eyes sparkled. 

"I don't think I should feel any different if--if it was you, " shesaid. "I've been spending days and days in those houses, John dear, andI've seen such utter squalor and misery, where there needn't be any atall if only the owner would do his duty, and--and--"

She stopped. Her eyes were misty. 

"Thumbs down, in fact, " said John, nodding. "I'm with you. "

As he spoke, two men came down the broad staircase into the grill-room. Betty's back was towards them, but John saw them, and stared. 

"What are you looking at?" asked Betty. 

"Will you count ten before looking round?"

"What is it?"

"Your stepfather has just come in. "

"What!"

"He's sitting at the other side of the room, directly behind you. Countten!"

But Betty had twisted round in her chair. 

"Where? Where?"

"Just where you're looking. Don't let him see you. "

"I don't-- Oh!"

"Got him?"

He leaned back in his chair. 

"The plot thickens, eh?" he said. "What is Mr. Scobell doing in NewYork, I wonder, if he has not come to keep an eye on his interests?"

Betty had whipped round again. Her face was white with excitement. 

"It's true, " she whispered. "I was right. Do you see who that is withhim? The man?"

"Do you know him? He's a stranger to me. "

"It's Mr. Parker, " said Betty. 

John drew in his breath sharply. 

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. "

John laughed quietly. He thought for a moment, then beckoned to thehovering waiter. 

"What are you going to do?" asked Betty. 

"Bring me a small lemon, " said John. 

"Lemon squash, sir?"

"Not a lemon squash. A plain lemon. The fruit of that name. The commonor garden citron, which is sharp to the taste and not pleasant to havehanded to one. Also a piece of note paper, a little tissue paper, andan envelope. 

"What are you going to do?" asked Betty again. 

John beamed. 

"Did you ever read the Sherlock Holmes story entitled 'The Five OrangePips'? Well, when a man in that story received a mysterious envelopecontaining five orange pips, it was a sign that he was due to get his. It was all over, as far as he was concerned, except 'phoning for theundertaker. I propose to treat Mr. Scobell better than that. He shallhave a whole lemon. "

The waiter returned. John wrapped up the lemon carefully, wrote on thenote paper the words, "To B. Scobell, Esq. , Property Owner, BrosterStreet, from Prince John of _Peaceful Moments_, this gift, " andenclosed it in the envelope. 

"Do you see that gentleman at the table by the pillar?" he said. "Givehim these. Just say a gentleman sent them. "

The waiter smiled doubtfully. John added a two-dollar bill to thecollection in his hand. 

"You needn't give him that, " he said. 

The waiter smiled again, but this time not doubtfully. 

"And now, " said John as the messenger ambled off, "perhaps it would bejust as well if we retired. "

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE FINAL ATTEMPT

Proof that his shot had not missed its mark was supplied to Johnimmediately upon his arrival at the office on the following morning, when he was met by Pugsy Maloney with the information that a gentlemanhad called to see him. 

"With or without a black-jack?" enquired John. "Did he give any name?"

"Sure. Parker's his name. He blew in oncst before when Mr. Smith washere. I loosed him into de odder room. "

John walked through. The man he had seen with Mr. Scobell at theKnickerbocker was standing at the window. 

"Mr. Parker?"

The other turned, as the door opened, and looked at him keenly. 

"Are you Mr. Maude?"

"I am, " said John. 

"I guess you don't need to be told what I've come about?"

"No. "

"See here, " said Mr. Parker. "I don't know how you've found things out, but you've done it, and we're through. We quit. "

"I'm glad of that, " said John. "Would you mind informing Spider Reillyof that fact? It will make life pleasanter for all of us. "

"Mr. Scobell sent me along here to ask you to come and talk over thisthing with him. He's at the Knickerbocker. I've a cab waiting outside. Can you come along?"

"I'd rather he came here. "

"And I bet he'd rather come here than be where he is. That littlesurprise packet of yours last night put him down and out. Gave him astroke of some sort. He's in bed now, with half-a-dozen doctors workingon him. "

John thought for a moment. 

"Oh, " he said slowly, "if it's that--very well. "

He could not help feeling a touch of remorse. He had no reason to befond of Mr. Scobell, but he was sorry that this should have happened. 

They went out on the street. A taximeter cab was standing by thesidewalk. They got in. Neither spoke. John was thoughtful andpreoccupied. Mr. Parker, too, appeared to be absorbed in his ownthoughts. He sat with folded arms and lowered head. 

The cab buzzed up Fifth Avenue. Suddenly something, half-seen throughthe window, brought John to himself with a jerk. It was the great whitemass of the Plaza Hotel. The next moment he saw that they were abreastof the park, and for the first time an icy wave of suspicion swept overhim. 

"Here, what's this?" he cried. "Where are you taking me?"

Mr. Parker's right hand came swiftly out of ambush, and somethinggleamed in the sun. 

"Don't move, " said Mr. Parker. The hard nozzle of a pistol pressedagainst John's chest. "Keep that hand still. "

John dropped his hand. Mr. Parker leaned back, with the pistol restingeasily on his knee. The cab began to move more quickly. 

John's mind was in a whirl. His chief emotion was not fear, but disgustthat he should have allowed himself to be trapped, with such absurdease. He blushed for himself. Mr. Parker's face was expressionless, butwho could say what tumults of silent laughter were not going on insidehim? John bit his lip. 

"Well?" he said at last. 

Mr. Parker did not reply. 

"Well?" said John again. "What's the next move?"

It flashed across his mind that, unless driven to it by an attack, hiscaptor would do nothing for the moment without running grave riskshimself. To shoot now would be to attract attention. The cab would beovertaken at once by bicycle police, and stopped. There would be noescape. No, nothing could happen till they reached open country. Atleast he would have time to think this matter over in all its bearings. 

Mr. Parker ignored the question. He was sitting in the same attitude ofwatchfulness, the revolver resting on his knee. He seemed mistrustfulof John's right hand, which was hanging limply at his side. It was fromthis quarter that he appeared to expect attack. The cab was bowlingeasily up the broad street, past rows and rows of high houses eachlooking exactly the same as the last. Occasionally, to the right, through a break in the line of buildings, a glimpse of the river couldbe seen. 

A faint hope occurred to John that, by talking, he might put the otheroff his guard for just that instant which was all he asked. He exertedhimself to find material for conversation. 

"Tell me, " he said, "what you said about Mr. Scobell, was that true?About his being ill in bed?"

Mr. Parker did not answer, but a wintry smile flittered across hisface. 

"It was not?" said John. "Well, I'm glad of that. I don't wish Mr. Scobell any harm. "

Mr. Parker looked at him doubtfully. 

"Say, why are you in this game at all?" he said. "What made you buttin?"

"One must do something, " said John. "It's interesting work. "

"If you'll quit--"

John shook his head. 

"I own it's a tempting proposition, things being as they are, but Iwon't give up yet. You never know what may happen. "

"Well, you can make a mighty near guess this trip. "

"You can't do a thing yet, that's sure, " said John confidently. "If youshot me now, the cab would be stopped, and you would be lynched by thepopulace. I seem to see them tearing you limb from limb. 'She lovesme!' Off comes an arm. 'She loves me not!' A leg joins the little heapon the ground. That is what would happen, Mr. Parker. "

The other shrugged his shoulders, and relapsed into silence once more. 

"What are you going to do with me, Mr. Parker?" asked John. 

Mr. Parker did not reply. 

 * * * * *

The cab moved swiftly on. Now they had reached the open country. Anoccasional wooden shack was passed, but that was all. At any moment, John felt, the climax of the drama might be reached, and he got ready. His muscles stiffened for a spring. There was little chance of itsbeing effective, but at least it would be good to put up some kind of afight. And he had a faint hope that the suddenness of his movementmight upset the other's aim. He was bound to be hit somewhere. That wascertain. But quickness might save him to some extent. He braced his legagainst the back of the cab. And, as he did so, its smooth speedchanged to a series of jarring jumps, each more emphatic than the last. It slowed down, then came to a halt. There was a thud, as the chauffeurjumped down. John heard him fumbling in the tool box. Presently thebody of the machine was raised slightly as he got to work with thejack. John's muscles relaxed. He leaned back. Surely something could bemade of this new development. But the hand that held the revolver neverwavered. He paused, irresolute. And at the moment somebody spoke in theroad outside. 

"Had a breakdown?" enquired the voice. 

John recognized it. It was the voice of Kid Brady. 

 * * * * *

The Kid, as he had stated that he intended to do, had begun histraining for his match with Eddie Wood at White Plains. It was hispractise to open a course of training with a little gentle road-work, and it was while jogging along the highway a couple of miles from histraining camp, in company with the two thick-necked gentlemen who actedas his sparring partners, that he had come upon the broken-downtaxicab. 

If this had happened after his training had begun in real earnest, hewould have averted his eyes from the spectacle, however alluring, andcontinued on his way without a pause. But now, as he had not yetsettled down to genuine hard work, he felt justified in turning asideand looking into the matter. The fact that the chauffeur, who seemed tobe a taciturn man, lacking the conversational graces, manifestlyobjected to an audience, deterred him not at all. One cannot haveeverything in this world, and the Kid and his attendant thick-neckswere content to watch the process of mending the tire, withoutdemanding the additional joy of sparkling small talk from the man incharge of the operations. 

"Guy's had a breakdown, sure, " said the first of the thick-necks. 

"Surest thing you know, " agreed his colleague. 

"Seems to me the tire's punctured, " said the Kid. 

All three concentrated their gaze on the machine. 

"Kid's right, " said thick-neck number one. "Guy's been an' bust atire. "

"Surest thing you know, " said thick-neck number two. 

They observed the perspiring chauffeur in silence for a while. 

"Wonder how he did that, now?" speculated the Kid. 

"Ran over a nail, I guess, " said thick-neck number one. 

"Surest thing you know, " said the other, who, while perhaps somewhatdeficient in the matter of original thought, was a most useful fellowto have by one--a sort of Boswell. 

"Did you run over a nail?" the Kid enquired of the chauffeur. 

The chauffeur worked on, unheeding. 

"This is his busy day, " said the first thick-neck, with satire. "Guy'stoo full of work to talk to us. "

"Deaf, shouldn't wonder, " surmised the Kid. "Say, wonder what's hedoing with a taxi so far out of the city. "

"Some guy tells him to drive him out here, I guess. Say, it'll cost himsomething, too. He'll have to strip off a few from his roll to pay forthis. "

John glanced at Mr. Parker, quivering with excitement. It was his lastchance. Would the Kid think to look inside the cab, or would he moveon? Could he risk a shout?

Mr. Parker leaned forward, and thrust the muzzle of the pistol againsthis body. The possibilities of the situation had evidently not beenlost upon him. 

"Keep quiet, " he whispered. 

Outside, the conversation had begun again, and the Kid had made hisdecision. 

"Pretty rich guy inside, " he said, following up his companion's trainof thought. "I'm going to rubber through the window. "

John met Mr. Parker's eye, and smiled. 

There came the sound of the Kid's feet grating on the road, as heturned, and, as he heard it, Mr. Parker for the first time lost hishead. With a vague idea of screening John, he half-rose. The pistolwavered. It was the chance John had prayed for. His left hand shot out, grasped the other's wrist, and gave it a sharp wrench. The pistol wentoff with a deafening report, the bullet passing through the back of thecab, then fell to the floor, as the fingers lost their hold. And thenext moment John's right fist, darting upward, crashed home. 

The effect was instantaneous. John had risen from his seat as hedelivered the blow, and it got the full benefit of his weight. Mr. Parker literally crumpled up. His head jerked, then fell limply forward. John pushed him on to the seat as he slid toward the floor. 

The interested face of the Kid appeared at the window. Behind him couldbe seen portions of the faces of the two thick-necks. 

"Hello, Kid, " said John. "I heard your voice. I hoped you might look infor a chat. "

The Kid stared, amazed. 

"What's doin'?" he queried. 

"A good deal. I'll explain later. First, will you kindly knock thatchauffeur down and sit on his head?"

"De guy's beat it, " volunteered the first thick-neck. 

"Surest thing you know, " said the other. 

"What's been doin'?" asked the Kid. "What are you going to do with thisguy?"

John inspected the prostrate Mr. Parker, who had begun to stirslightly. 

"I guess we'll leave him here, " he said. "I've had all of his companythat I need for to-day. Show me the nearest station, Kid. I must begetting back to New York. I'll tell you all about it as we go. A walkwill do me good. Riding in a taxi is pleasant, but, believe me, you canhave too much of it. "

CHAPTER XXIX

A REPRESENTATIVE GATHERING

When John returned to the office, he found that his absence had beencausing Betty an anxious hour's waiting. She had been informed by Pugsythat he had gone out in the company of Mr. Parker, and she felt uneasy. She turned white at his story of the ride, but he minimized thedangers. 

"I don't think he ever meant to shoot. I think he was going to shut meup somewhere out there, and keep me till I promised to be good. "

"Do you think my stepfather told him to do it?"

"I doubt it. I fancy Parker is a man who acts a good deal on his owninspirations. But we'll ask him, when he calls to-day. "

"Is he going to call?"

"I have an idea he will, " said John. "I sent him a note just now, asking if he could manage a visit. "

It was unfortunate, in the light of subsequent events, that Mr. Jarvisshould have seen fit to bring with him to the office that afternoon twoof his collection of cats, and that Long Otto, who, as before, accompanied him, should have been fired by his example to the extent ofintroducing a large yellow dog For before the afternoon was ended, space in the office was destined to be at premium. 

Mr. Jarvis, when he had recovered from the surprise of seeing Betty andlearning that she had returned to her old situation, explained:

"T'ought I'd bring de kits along, " he said. "Dey starts fuss'n' wit'each odder yesterday, so I brings dem along. "

John inspected the menagerie without resentment. 

"Sure!" he said. "They add a kind of peaceful touch to the scene. "

The atmosphere was, indeed, one of peace. The dog, after an inquisitivejourney round the room, lay down and went to sleep. The cats settledthemselves comfortably, one on each of Mr. Jarvis' knees. Long Otto, surveying the ceiling with his customary glassy stare, smoked a longcigar. And Bat, scratching one of the cats under the ear, began toentertain John with some reminiscences of fits and kittens. 

But the peace did not last. Ten minutes had barely elapsed when thedog, sitting up with a start, uttered a whine. The door burst open anda little man dashed in. He was brown in the face, and had evidentlybeen living recently in the open air. Behind him was a crowd ofuncertain numbers. They were all strangers to John. 

"Yes?" he said. 

The little man glared speechlessly at the occupants of the room. Thetwo Bowery boys rose awkwardly. The cats fell to the floor. 

The rest of the party had entered. Betty recognized the Reverend EdwinT. Philpotts and Mr. B. Henderson Asher. 

"My name is Renshaw, " said the little man, having found speech. 

"What can I do for you?" asked John. 

The question appeared to astound the other. 

"What can you--! Of all--!"

"Mr. Renshaw is the editor of _Peaceful Moments_, " she said. "Mr. Smith was only acting for him. "

Mr. Renshaw caught the name. 

"Yes. Mr. Smith. I want to see Mr. Smith. Where is he?"

"In prison, " said John. 

"In prison!"

John nodded. 

"A good many things have happened since you left for your vacation. Smith assaulted a policeman, and is now on Blackwell's Island. "

Mr. Renshaw gasped. Mr. B. Henderson Asher stared, and stumbled overthe cat. 

"And who are you?" asked the editor. 

"My name is Maude. I--"

He broke off, to turn his attention to Mr. Jarvis and Mr. Asher, between whom unpleasantness seemed to have arisen. Mr. Jarvis, holdinga cat in his arms, was scowling at Mr. Asher, who had backed away andappeared apprehensive. 

"What is the trouble?" asked John. 

"Dis guy here wit' two left feet, " said Bat querulously, "treads on dekit. "

Mr. Renshaw, eying Bat and the silent Otto with disgust, intervened. 

"Who are these persons?" he enquired. 

"Poison yourself, " rejoined Bat, justly incensed. "Who's de littlesquirt, Mr. Maude?"

John waved his hands. 

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, " he said, "why descend to mere personalities? Iought to have introduced you. This is Mr. Renshaw, our editor. These, Mr. Renshaw, are Bat Jarvis and Long Otto, our acting fighting editors, vice Kid Brady, absent on unavoidable business. "

The name stung Mr. Renshaw to indignation, as Smith's had done. 

"Brady!" he shrilled. "I insist that you give me a full explanation. Igo away by my doctor's orders for a vacation, leaving Mr. Smith toconduct the paper on certain clearly defined lines. By mere chance, while on my vacation, I saw a copy of the paper. It had been ruined. "

"Ruined?" said John. "On the contrary. The circulation has been goingup every week. "

"Who is this person, Brady? With Mr. Philpotts I have been goingcarefully over the numbers which have been issued since my departure--"

"An intellectual treat, " murmured John. 

"--and in each there is a picture of this young man in a costume whichI will not particularize--"

"There is hardly enough of it to particularize. "

"--together with a page of disgusting autobiographical matter. "

John held up his hand. 

"I protest, " he said. "We court criticism, but this is mere abuse. Iappeal to these gentlemen to say whether this, for instance, is notbright and interesting. "

He picked up the current number of _Peaceful Moments_, and turnedto the Kid's page. 

"This, " he said, "describes a certain ten-round unpleasantness with oneMexican Joe. 'Joe comes up for the second round and he gives me a nastylook, but I thinks of my mother and swats him one in the lower ribs. Hegives me another nasty look. "All right, Kid, " he says; "now I'll knockyou up into the gallery. " And with that he cuts loose with a rightswing, but I falls into the clinch, and then--'"

"Pah!" exclaimed Mr. Renshaw. 

"Go on, boss, " urged Mr. Jarvis approvingly. "It's to de good, datstuff. "

"There!" said John triumphantly. "You heard? Mr. Jarvis, one of themost firmly established critics east of Fifth Avenue stamps Kid Brady'sreminiscences with the hall-mark of his approval. "

"I falls fer de Kid every time, " assented Mr. Jarvis. 

"Sure! You know a good thing when you see one. Why, " he went on warmly, "there is stuff in these reminiscences which would stir the blood of ajellyfish. Let me quote you another passage, to show that they are notonly enthralling, but helpful as well. Let me see, where is it? Ah, Ihave it. 'A bully good way of putting a guy out of business is this. You don't want to use it in the ring, because rightly speaking it's afoul, but you will find it mighty useful if any thick-neck comes up toyou in the street and tries to start anything. It's this way. Whilehe's setting himself for a punch, just place the tips of the fingers ofyour left hand on the right side of the chest. Then bring down the heelof your left hand. There isn't a guy living that could stand up againstthat. The fingers give you a leverage to beat the band. The guy doublesup, and you upper-cut him with your right, and out he goes. ' Now, I betyou never knew that before, Mr. Philpotts. Try it on yourparishioners. "

_"Peaceful Moments_, " said Mr. Renshaw irately, "is no medium forexploiting low prize-fighters. "

"Low prize-fighters! No, no! The Kid is as decent a little chap asyou'd meet anywhere. And right up in the championship class, too! He'smatched against Eddie Wood at this very moment. And Mr. Waterman willsupport me in my statement that a victory over Eddie Wood means that hegets a cast-iron claim to meet Jimmy Garvin for the championship. "

"It is abominable, " burst forth Mr. Renshaw. "It is disgraceful. Thepaper is ruined. "

"You keep saying that. It really isn't so. The returns are excellent. Prosperity beams on us like a sun. The proprietor is more thansatisfied. "

"Indeed!" said Mr. Renshaw sardonically. 

"Sure, " said John. 

Mr. Renshaw laughed an acid laugh. 

"You may not know it, " he said, "but Mr. Scobell is in New York at thisvery moment. We arrived together yesterday on the _Mauretania_. Iwas spending my vacation in England when I happened to see the copy ofthe paper. I instantly communicated with Mr. Scobell, who was at Mervo, an island in the Mediterranean--"

"I seem to know the name--"

"--and received in reply a long cable desiring me to return to New Yorkimmediately. I sailed on the _Mauretania_, and found that he wasone of the passengers. He was extremely agitated, let me tell you. Sothat your impudent assertion that the proprietor is pleased--"

John raised his eyebrows. 

"I don't quite understand, " he said. "From what you say, one wouldalmost imagine that you thought Mr. Scobell was the proprietor of thispaper. "

Mr. Renshaw stared. Everyone stared, except Mr. Jarvis, who, since thereadings from the Kid's reminiscences had ceased, had lost interest inthe proceedings, and was now entertaining the cats with a ball of papertied to a string. 

"Thought that Mr. Scobell--?" repeated Mr. Renshaw. "Who is, if he isnot?"

"I am, " said John. 

There was a moment's absolute silence. 

"You!" cried Mr. Renshaw. 

"You!" exclaimed Mr. Waterman, Mr. Asher, and the Reverend Edwin T. Philpotts. 

"Sure thing, " said John. 

Mr. Renshaw groped for a chair, and sat down. 

"Am I going mad?" he demanded feebly. "Do I understand you to say thatyou own this paper?"

"I do. "

"Since when?"

"Roughly speaking, about three days. "

Among his audience (still excepting Mr. Jarvis, who was tickling one ofthe cats and whistling a plaintive melody) there was a tendency towardawkward silence. To start assailing a seeming nonentity and then todiscover he is the proprietor of the paper to which you wish tocontribute is like kicking an apparently empty hat and finding yourrich uncle inside it. Mr. Renshaw in particular was disturbed. Editorships of the kind to which he aspired are not easy to get. If hewere to be removed from _Peaceful Moments_ he would find it hardto place himself anywhere else. Editors, like manuscripts, are rejectedfrom want of space. 

"I had a little money to invest, " continued John. "And it seemed to methat I couldn't do better than put it into _Peaceful Moments_. Ifit did nothing else, it would give me a free hand in pursuing a policyin which I was interested. Smith told me that Mr. Scobell'srepresentatives had instructions to accept any offer, so I made anoffer, and they jumped at it. "

Pugsy Maloney entered, bearing a card. 

"Ask him to wait just one moment, " said John, reading it. 

He turned to Mr. Renshaw. 

"Mr. Renshaw, " he said, "if you took hold of the paper again, helped bythese other gentlemen, do you think you could gather in our oldsubscribers and generally make the thing a live proposition on the oldlines? Because, if so, I should be glad if you would start in with thenext number. I am through with the present policy. At least, I hope tobe in a few minutes. Do you think you can undertake that?"

Mr. Renshaw, with a sigh of relief, intimated that he could. 

"Good, " said John. "And now I'm afraid I must ask you to go. A ratherprivate and delicate interview is in the offing. Bat, I'm very muchobliged to you and Otto for your help. I don't know what we should havedone without it. "

"Aw, Chee!" said Mr. Jarvis. 

"Then good-by for the present. "

"Good-by, boss. Good-by, loidy. "

Long Otto pulled his forelock, and, accompanied by the cats and thedog, they left the room. 

When Mr. Renshaw and the others had followed them, John rang the bellfor Pugsy. 

"Ask Mr. Scobell to step in, " he said. 

The man of many enterprises entered. His appearance had deterioratedsince John had last met him. He had the air of one who has been caughtin the machinery. His face was even sallower than of yore, and therewas no gleam in his dull green eyes. 

He started at the sight of Betty, but he was evidently too absorbed inthe business in hand to be surprised at seeing her. He sank into achair, and stared gloomily at John. 

"Well?" he said. 

"Well?" said John. 

"This, " observed Mr. Scobell simply, "is hell. " He drew a cigar stumpmechanically from his vest pocket and lighted it. 

"What are you going to do about it?" he asked. 

"What are you?" said John. "It's up to you. "

Mr. Scobell gazed heavily into vacancy. 

"Ever since I started in to monkey with that darned Mervo, " he saidsadly, "there ain't a thing gone right. I haven't been able to turnaround without bumping into myself. Everything I touch turns to mud. Iguess I can still breathe, but I'm not betting on that lasting long. Ofall the darned hoodoos that island was the worst. Say, I gotta closedown that Casino. What do you know about that! Sure thing. The old ladywon't stand for it. I had a letter from her. " He turned to Betty. "Yougot her all worked up, Betty. I'm not blaming you. It's just my jinx. She took it into her head I'd been treating you mean, and she kicked atthe Casino. I gotta close it down or nix on the heir thing. That wasenough for me. I'm going to turn it into a hotel. "

He relighted his cigar. 

"And now, just as I got her smoothed down, along comes this darnedtenement business. Say, Prince, for the love of Mike cut it out. Ifthose houses are as bad as you say they are, and the old lady finds outthat I own them, it'll be Katie bar the door for me. She wouldn't standfor it for a moment. I guess I didn't treat you good, Prince, but let'sforget it. Ease up on this rough stuff. I'll do anything you want. "

Betty spoke. 

"We only want you to make the houses fit to live in, " she said. "Idon't believe you know what they're like. "

"Why, no. I left Parker in charge. It was up to him to do what waswanted. Say, Prince, I want to talk to you about that guy, Parker. Iunderstand he's been rather rough with you and your crowd. That wasn'tmy doing. I didn't know anything about it till he told me. It's thedarned Wild West strain in him coming out. He used to do those sort ofthings out there, and he's forgotten his manners. I pay him well, and Iguess he thinks that's the way it's up to him to earn it. You mustn'tmind Parker. "

"Oh, well! So long as he means well--!" said John. "I've no grudgeagainst Parker. I've settled with him. "

"Well, then, what about this Broster Street thing? You want me to fixsome improvements, is that it?"

"That's it. "

"Why, say, I'll do that. Sure. And then you'll quit handing out thenewspaper stories? That goes. I'll start right in. "

He rose. 

"That's taken a heap off my mind, " he said. 

"There's just one other thing, " said John. "Have you by any chance sucha thing as a stepfather's blessing on you?"

"Eh?"

John took Betty's hand. 

"We've come round to your views, Mr. Scobell, " he said. "That scheme ofyours for our future looks good to us. "

Mr. Scobell bit through his cigar in his emotion. 

"Now, why the Heck, " he moaned, "couldn't you have had the sense to dothat before, and save all this trouble?"

CHAPTER XXX

CONCLUSION

Smith drew thoughtfully at his cigar, and shifted himself morecomfortably into his chair. It was long since he had visited the West, and he had found all the old magic in the still, scented darkness ofthe prairie night. He gave a little sigh of content. When John, a yearbefore, had announced his intention of buying this ranch, and, as itseemed to Smith, burying himself alive a thousand miles from anywhere, he had disapproved. He had pointed out that John was not doing whatFate expected of him. A miracle, in the shape of a six-figure weddingpresent from Mrs. Oakley, who had never been known before, in thememory of man, to give away a millionth of that sum, had happened tohim. Fate, argued Smith, plainly intended him to stay in New York andspend his money in a civilized way. 

John had had only one reply, but it was clinching. 

"Betty likes the idea, " he said, and Smith ceased to argue. 

Now, as he sat smoking on the porch on the first night of his inauguralvisit to the ranch, a conviction was creeping over him that John hadchosen wisely. 

A door opened behind him. Betty came out on to the porch, and droppedinto a chair close to where John's cigar glowed redly in the darkness. They sat there without speaking. The stirring of unseen cattle in thecorral made a soothing accompaniment to thought. 

"It is very pleasant for an old jail bird like myself, " said Smith atlast, "to sit here at my ease. I wish all our absent friends could bewith us to-night. Or perhaps not quite all. Let us say, Comrade Parkerhere, Comrades Brady and Maloney over there by you, and our old friendRenshaw sharing the floor with B. Henderson Asher, Bat Jarvis, and thecats. By the way, I was round at Broster Street before I left New York. There is certainly an improvement. Millionaires now stop there insteadof going on to the Plaza. Are you asleep, John?"

"No. "

"Excellent. I also saw Comrade Brady before I left. He has definitelygot on his match with Jimmy Garvin. "

"Good. He'll win. "

"The papers seem to think so. _Peaceful Moments_, however, I amsorry to say, is silent on the subject. It was not like this in thegood old days. How is the paper going now, John? Are the receiptssatisfactory?"

"Pretty fair. Renshaw is rather a marvel in his way. He seems to haveroped in nearly all the old subscribers. They eat out of his hand. "

Smith stretched himself. 

"These, " he said, "are the moments in life to which we look back withthat wistful pleasure. This peaceful scene, John, will remain with mewhen I have forgotten that such a man as Spider Reilly ever existed. These are the real Peaceful Moments. "

He closed his eyes. The cigar dropped from his fingers. There was along silence. 

"Mr. Smith, " said Betty. 

There was no answer. 

"He's asleep, " said John. "He had a long journey to-day. "

Betty drew her chair closer. From somewhere out in the darkness, fromthe direction of the men's quarters, came the soft tinkle of a guitarand a voice droning a Mexican love-song. 

Her hand stole out and found his. They began to talk in whispers. 

THE END