THE TRIMMED LAMP

And Other Stories of the Four Million

By

O. HENRY

CONTENTS

THE TRIMMED LAMPA MADISON SQUARE ARABIAN NIGHTTHE RUBAIYAT OF A SCOTCH HIGHBALLTHE PENDULUMTWO THANKSGIVING DAY GENTLEMENTHE ASSESSOR OF SUCCESSTHE BUYER FROM CACTUS CITYTHE BADGE OF POLICEMAN O'ROONBRICKDUST ROWTHE MAKING OF A NEW YORKERVANITY AND SOME SABLESTHE SOCIAL TRIANGLETHE PURPLE DRESSTHE FOREIGN POLICY OF COMPANY 99THE LOST BLENDA HARLEM TRAGEDY"THE GUILTY PARTY"--AN EAST SIDE TRAGEDYACCORDING TO THEIR LIGHTSA MIDSUMMER KNIGHT'S DREAMTHE LAST LEAFTHE COUNT AND THE WEDDING GUESTTHE COUNTRY OF ELUSIONTHE FERRY OF UNFULFILMENTTHE TALE OF A TAINTED TENNERELSIE IN NEW YORK

THE TRIMMED LAMP

Of course there are two sides to the question. Let us look at theother. We often hear "shop-girls" spoken of. No such persons exist. There are girls who work in shops. They make their living thatway. But why turn their occupation into an adjective? Let us befair. We do not refer to the girls who live on Fifth Avenue as"marriage-girls. "

Lou and Nancy were chums. They came to the big city to find workbecause there was not enough to eat at their homes to go around. Nancy was nineteen; Lou was twenty. Both were pretty, active, country girls who had no ambition to go on the stage. 

The little cherub that sits up aloft guided them to a cheap andrespectable boarding-house. Both found positions and becamewage-earners. They remained chums. It is at the end of six monthsthat I would beg you to step forward and be introduced to them. Meddlesome Reader: My Lady friends, Miss Nancy and Miss Lou. While you are shaking hands please take notice--cautiously--oftheir attire. Yes, cautiously; for they are as quick to resent astare as a lady in a box at the horse show is. 

Lou is a piece-work ironer in a hand laundry. She is clothed in abadly-fitting purple dress, and her hat plume is four inches toolong; but her ermine muff and scarf cost $25, and its fellow beastswill be ticketed in the windows at $7. 98 before the season is over. Her cheeks are pink, and her light blue eyes bright. Contentmentradiates from her. 

Nancy you would call a shop-girl--because you have the habit. Thereis no type; but a perverse generation is always seeking a type; sothis is what the type should be. She has the high-ratted pompadour, and the exaggerated straight-front. Her skirt is shoddy, but has thecorrect flare. No furs protect her against the bitter spring air, but she wears her short broadcloth jacket as jauntily as thoughit were Persian lamb! On her face and in her eyes, remorselesstype-seeker, is the typical shop-girl expression. It is a look ofsilent but contemptuous revolt against cheated womanhood; of sadprophecy of the vengeance to come. When she laughs her loudest thelook is still there. The same look can be seen in the eyes of Russianpeasants; and those of us left will see it some day on Gabriel'sface when he comes to blow us up. It is a look that should witherand abash man; but he has been known to smirk at it and offerflowers--with a string tied to them. 

Now lift your hat and come away, while you receive Lou's cheery"See you again, " and the sardonic, sweet smile of Nancy that seems, somehow, to miss you and go fluttering like a white moth up over thehousetops to the stars. 

The two waited on the corner for Dan. Dan was Lou's steady company. Faithful? Well, he was on hand when Mary would have had to hire adozen subpoena servers to find her lamb. 

"Ain't you cold, Nance?" said Lou. "Say, what a chump you are forworking in that old store for $8. A week! I made $l8. 50 last week. Of course ironing ain't as swell work as selling lace behind acounter, but it pays. None of us ironers make less than $10. And Idon't know that it's any less respectful work, either. "

"You can have it, " said Nancy, with uplifted nose. "I'll take my eighta week and hall bedroom. I like to be among nice things and swellpeople. And look what a chance I've got! Why, one of our glove girlsmarried a Pittsburg--steel maker, or blacksmith or something--theother day worth a million dollars. I'll catch a swell myself sometime. I ain't bragging on my looks or anything; but I'll take mychances where there's big prizes offered. What show would a girlhave in a laundry?"

"Why, that's where I met Dan, " said Lou, triumphantly. "He came infor his Sunday shirt and collars and saw me at the first board, ironing. We all try to get to work at the first board. Ella Maginniswas sick that day, and I had her place. He said he noticed my armsfirst, how round and white they was. I had my sleeves rolled up. Some nice fellows come into laundries. You can tell 'em by theirbringing their clothes in suit cases; and turning in the door sharpand sudden. "

"How can you wear a waist like that, Lou?" said Nancy, gazing downat the offending article with sweet scorn in her heavy-lidded eyes. "It shows fierce taste. "

"This waist?" cried Lou, with wide-eyed indignation. "Why, I paid$16. For this waist. It's worth twenty-five. A woman left it to belaundered, and never called for it. The boss sold it to me. It's gotyards and yards of hand embroidery on it. Better talk about thatugly, plain thing you've got on. "

"This ugly, plain thing, " said Nancy, calmly, "was copied from onethat Mrs. Van Alstyne Fisher was wearing. The girls say her bill inthe store last year was $12, 000. I made mine, myself. It cost me$1. 50. Ten feet away you couldn't tell it from hers. "

"Oh, well, " said Lou, good-naturedly, "if you want to starve and puton airs, go ahead. But I'll take my job and good wages; and afterhours give me something as fancy and attractive to wear as I am ableto buy. "

But just then Dan came--a serious young man with a ready-made necktie, who had escaped the city's brand of frivolity--an electrician earning30 dollars per week who looked upon Lou with the sad eyes of Romeo, and thought her embroidered waist a web in which any fly shoulddelight to be caught. 

"My friend, Mr. Owens--shake hands with Miss Danforth, " said Lou. 

"I'm mighty glad to know you, Miss Danforth, " said Dan, withoutstretched hand. "I've heard Lou speak of you so often. "

"Thanks, " said Nancy, touching his fingers with the tips of her coolones, "I've heard her mention you--a few times. "

Lou giggled. 

"Did you get that handshake from Mrs. Van Alstyne Fisher, Nance?"she asked. 

"If I did, you can feel safe in copying it, " said Nancy. 

"Oh, I couldn't use it, at all. It's too stylish for me. It'sintended to set off diamond rings, that high shake is. Wait till Iget a few and then I'll try it. "

"Learn it first, " said Nancy wisely, "and you'll be more likely toget the rings. "

"Now, to settle this argument, " said Dan, with his ready, cheerfulsmile, "let me make a proposition. As I can't take both of you upto Tiffany's and do the right thing, what do you say to a littlevaudeville? I've got the rickets. How about looking at stagediamonds since we can't shake hands with the real sparklers?"

The faithful squire took his place close to the curb; Lou next, alittle peacocky in her bright and pretty clothes; Nancy on theinside, slender, and soberly clothed as the sparrow, but with thetrue Van Alstyne Fisher walk--thus they set out for their evening'smoderate diversion. 

I do not suppose that many look upon a great department store as aneducational institution. But the one in which Nancy worked wassomething like that to her. She was surrounded by beautiful thingsthat breathed of taste and refinement. If you live in an atmosphereof luxury, luxury is yours whether your money pays for it, oranother's. 

The people she served were mostly women whose dress, manners, andposition in the social world were quoted as criterions. From themNancy began to take toll--the best from each according to her view. 

From one she would copy and practice a gesture, from another aneloquent lifting of an eyebrow, from others, a manner of walking, ofcarrying a purse, of smiling, of greeting a friend, of addressing"inferiors in station. " From her best beloved model, Mrs. VanAlstyne Fisher, she made requisition for that excellent thing, asoft, low voice as clear as silver and as perfect in articulationas the notes of a thrush. Suffused in the aura of this high socialrefinement and good breeding, it was impossible for her to escape adeeper effect of it. As good habits are said to be better than goodprinciples, so, perhaps, good manners are better than good habits. The teachings of your parents may not keep alive your New Englandconscience; but if you sit on a straight-back chair and repeat thewords "prisms and pilgrims" forty times the devil will flee fromyou. And when Nancy spoke in the Van Alstyne Fisher tones she feltthe thrill of _noblesse oblige_ to her very bones. 

There was another source of learning in the great departmentalschool. Whenever you see three or four shop-girls gather in a bunchand jingle their wire bracelets as an accompaniment to apparentlyfrivolous conversation, do not think that they are there for thepurpose of criticizing the way Ethel does her back hair. The meetingmay lack the dignity of the deliberative bodies of man; but ithas all the importance of the occasion on which Eve and her firstdaughter first put their heads together to make Adam understand hisproper place in the household. It is Woman's Conference for CommonDefense and Exchange of Strategical Theories of Attack and Repulseupon and against the World, which is a Stage, and Man, its Audiencewho Persists in Throwing Bouquets Thereupon. Woman, the mosthelpless of the young of any animal--with the fawn's grace butwithout its fleetness; with the bird's beauty but without its powerof flight; with the honey-bee's burden of sweetness but withoutits--Oh, let's drop that simile--some of us may have been stung. 

During this council of war they pass weapons one to another, andexchange stratagems that each has devised and formulated out of thetactics of life. 

"I says to 'im, " says Sadie, "ain't you the fresh thing! Who do yousuppose I am, to be addressing such a remark to me? And what do youthink he says back to me?"

The heads, brown, black, flaxen, red, and yellow bob together; theanswer is given; and the parry to the thrust is decided upon, to beused by each thereafter in passages-at-arms with the common enemy, man. 

Thus Nancy learned the art of defense; and to women successfuldefense means victory. 

The curriculum of a department store is a wide one. Perhaps no othercollege could have fitted her as well for her life's ambition--thedrawing of a matrimonial prize. 

Her station in the store was a favored one. The music room was nearenough for her to hear and become familiar with the works of thebest composers--at least to acquire the familiarity that passed forappreciation in the social world in which she was vaguely tryingto set a tentative and aspiring foot. She absorbed the educatinginfluence of art wares, of costly and dainty fabrics, of adornmentsthat are almost culture to women. 

The other girls soon became aware of Nancy's ambition. "Here comesyour millionaire, Nancy, " they would call to her whenever any manwho looked the rôle approached her counter. It got to be a habit ofmen, who were hanging about while their women folk were shopping, tostroll over to the handkerchief counter and dawdle over the cambricsquares. Nancy's imitation high-bred air and genuine dainty beautywas what attracted. Many men thus came to display their gracesbefore her. Some of them may have been millionaires; others werecertainly no more than their sedulous apes. Nancy learned todiscriminate. There was a window at the end of the handkerchiefcounter; and she could see the rows of vehicles waiting for theshoppers in the street below. She looked and perceived thatautomobiles differ as well as do their owners. 

Once a fascinating gentleman bought four dozen handkerchiefs, andwooed her across the counter with a King Cophetua air. When he hadgone one of the girls said:

"What's wrong, Nance, that you didn't warm up to that fellow. Helooks the swell article, all right, to me. "

"Him?" said Nancy, with her coolest, sweetest, most impersonal, VanAlstyne Fisher smile; "not for mine. I saw him drive up outside. A12 H. P. Machine and an Irish chauffeur! And you saw what kind ofhandkerchiefs he bought--silk! And he's got dactylis on him. Give methe real thing or nothing, if you please. "

Two of the most "refined" women in the store--a forelady and acashier--had a few "swell gentlemen friends" with whom they now andthen dined. Once they included Nancy in an invitation. The dinnertook place in a spectacular café whose tables are engaged for NewYear's eve a year in advance. There were two "gentlemen friends"--onewithout any hair on his head--high living ungrew it; and we can proveit--the other a young man whose worth and sophistication he impressedupon you in two convincing ways--he swore that all the wine wascorked; and he wore diamond cuff buttons. This young man perceivedirresistible excellencies in Nancy. His taste ran to shop-girls; andhere was one that added the voice and manners of his high socialworld to the franker charms of her own caste. So, on the followingday, he appeared in the store and made her a serious proposal ofmarriage over a box of hem-stitched, grass-bleached Irish linens. Nancy declined. A brown pompadour ten feet away had been using hereyes and ears. When the rejected suitor had gone she heaped carboysof upbraidings and horror upon Nancy's head. 

"What a terrible little fool you are! That fellow's a millionaire--he'sa nephew of old Van Skittles himself. And he was talking on the level, too. Have you gone crazy, Nance?"

"Have I?" said Nancy. "I didn't take him, did I? He isn't a millionaireso hard that you could notice it, anyhow. His family only allows him$20, 000 a year to spend. The bald-headed fellow was guying him about itthe other night at supper. "

The brown pompadour came nearer and narrowed her eyes. 

"Say, what do you want?" she inquired, in a voice hoarse for lack ofchewing-gum. "Ain't that enough for you? Do you want to be a Mormon, and marry Rockefeller and Gladstone Dowie and the King of Spain andthe whole bunch? Ain't $20, 000 a year good enough for you?"

Nancy flushed a little under the level gaze of the black, shalloweyes. 

"It wasn't altogether the money, Carrie, " she explained. "His friendcaught him in a rank lie the other night at dinner. It was aboutsome girl he said he hadn't been to the theater with. Well, I can'tstand a liar. Put everything together--I don't like him; and thatsettles it. When I sell out it's not going to be on any bargain day. I've got to have something that sits up in a chair like a man, anyhow. Yes, I'm looking out for a catch; but it's got to be able todo something more than make a noise like a toy bank. "

"The physiopathic ward for yours!" said the brown pompadour, walkingaway. 

These high ideas, if not ideals--Nancy continued to cultivate on $8. Per week. She bivouacked on the trail of the great unknown "catch, "eating her dry bread and tightening her belt day by day. On herface was the faint, soldierly, sweet, grim smile of the preordainedman-hunter. The store was her forest; and many times she raised herrifle at game that seemed broad-antlered and big; but always somedeep unerring instinct--perhaps of the huntress, perhaps of thewoman--made her hold her fire and take up the trail again. 

Lou flourished in the laundry. Out of her $18. 50 per week she paid$6. For her room and board. The rest went mainly for clothes. Heropportunities for bettering her taste and manners were few comparedwith Nancy's. In the steaming laundry there was nothing but work, work and her thoughts of the evening pleasures to come. Many costlyand showy fabrics passed under her iron; and it may be that hergrowing fondness for dress was thus transmitted to her through theconducting metal. 

When the day's work was over Dan awaited her outside, her faithfulshadow in whatever light she stood. 

Sometimes he cast an honest and troubled glance at Lou's clothesthat increased in conspicuity rather than in style; but this was nodisloyalty; he deprecated the attention they called to her in thestreets. 

And Lou was no less faithful to her chum. There was a law that Nancyshould go with them on whatsoever outings they might take. Dan borethe extra burden heartily and in good cheer. It might be said thatLou furnished the color, Nancy the tone, and Dan the weight of thedistraction-seeking trio. The escort, in his neat but obviouslyready-made suit, his ready-made tie and unfailing, genial, ready-madewit never startled or clashed. He was of that good kind that you arelikely to forget while they are present, but remember distinctlyafter they are gone. 

To Nancy's superior taste the flavor of these ready-made pleasureswas sometimes a little bitter: but she was young; and youth is agourmand, when it cannot be a gourmet. 

"Dan is always wanting me to marry him right away, " Lou told heronce. "But why should I? I'm independent. I can do as I please withthe money I earn; and he never would agree for me to keep on workingafterward. And say, Nance, what do you want to stick to that oldstore for, and half starve and half dress yourself? I could get youa place in the laundry right now if you'd come. It seems to me thatyou could afford to be a little less stuck-up if you could make agood deal more money. "

"I don't think I'm stuck-up, Lou, " said Nancy, "but I'd rather liveon half rations and stay where I am. I suppose I've got the habit. It's the chance that I want. I don't expect to be always behind acounter. I'm learning something new every day. I'm right up againstrefined and rich people all the time--even if I do only wait onthem; and I'm not missing any pointers that I see passing around. "

"Caught your millionaire yet?" asked Lou with her teasing laugh. 

"I haven't selected one yet, " answered Nancy. "I've been lookingthem over. "

"Goodness! the idea of picking over 'em! Don't you ever let one getby you Nance--even if he's a few dollars shy. But of course you'rejoking--millionaires don't think about working girls like us. "

"It might be better for them if they did, " said Nancy, with coolwisdom. "Some of us could teach them how to take care of theirmoney. "

"If one was to speak to me, " laughed Lou, "I know I'd have aduck-fit. "

"That's because you don't know any. The only difference betweenswells and other people is you have to watch 'em closer. Don't youthink that red silk lining is just a little bit too bright for thatcoat, Lou?"

Lou looked at the plain, dull olive jacket of her friend. 

"Well, no I don't--but it may seem so beside that faded-lookingthing you've got on. "

"This jacket, " said Nancy, complacently, "has exactly the cut andfit of one that Mrs. Van Alstyne Fisher was wearing the other day. The material cost me $3. 98. I suppose hers cost about $100. More. "

"Oh, well, " said Lou lightly, "it don't strike me as millionairebait. Shouldn't wonder if I catch one before you do, anyway. "

Truly it would have taken a philosopher to decide upon the valuesof the theories held by the two friends. Lou, lacking that certainpride and fastidiousness that keeps stores and desks filled withgirls working for the barest living, thumped away gaily with heriron in the noisy and stifling laundry. Her wages supported hereven beyond the point of comfort; so that her dress profited untilsometimes she cast a sidelong glance of impatience at the neat butinelegant apparel of Dan--Dan the constant, the immutable, theundeviating. 

As for Nancy, her case was one of tens of thousands. Silk and jewelsand laces and ornaments and the perfume and music of the fine worldof good-breeding and taste--these were made for woman; they are herequitable portion. Let her keep near them if they are a part of lifeto her, and if she will. She is no traitor to herself, as Esau was;for she keeps he birthright and the pottage she earns is often veryscant. 

In this atmosphere Nancy belonged; and she throve in it and ate herfrugal meals and schemed over her cheap dresses with a determinedand contented mind. She already knew woman; and she was studyingman, the animal, both as to his habits and eligibility. Some day shewould bring down the game that she wanted; but she promised herselfit would be what seemed to her the biggest and the best, and nothingsmaller. 

Thus she kept her lamp trimmed and burning to receive the bridegroomwhen he should come. 

But, another lesson she learned, perhaps unconsciously. Her standardof values began to shift and change. Sometimes the dollar-mark grewblurred in her mind's eye, and shaped itself into letters thatspelled such words as "truth" and "honor" and now and then just"kindness. " Let us make a likeness of one who hunts the moose or elkin some mighty wood. He sees a little dell, mossy and embowered, where a rill trickles, babbling to him of rest and comfort. At thesetimes the spear of Nimrod himself grows blunt. 

So, Nancy wondered sometimes if Persian lamb was always quoted atits market value by the hearts that it covered. 

One Thursday evening Nancy left the store and turned across SixthAvenue westward to the laundry. She was expected to go with Lou andDan to a musical comedy. 

Dan was just coming out of the laundry when she arrived. There was aqueer, strained look on his face. 

"I thought I would drop around to see if they had heard from her, "he said. 

"Heard from who?" asked Nancy. "Isn't Lou there?"

"I thought you knew, " said Dan. "She hasn't been here or at thehouse where she lived since Monday. She moved all her things fromthere. She told one of the girls in the laundry she might be goingto Europe. "

"Hasn't anybody seen her anywhere?" asked Nancy. 

Dan looked at her with his jaws set grimly, and a steely gleam inhis steady gray eyes. 

"They told me in the laundry, " he said, harshly, "that they saw herpass yesterday--in an automobile. With one of the millionaires, Isuppose, that you and Lou were forever busying your brains about. "

For the first time Nancy quailed before a man. She laid her handthat trembled slightly on Dan's sleeve. 

"You've no right to say such a thing to me, Dan--as if I had anythingto do with it!"

"I didn't mean it that way, " said Dan, softening. He fumbled in hisvest pocket. 

"I've got the tickets for the show to-night, " he said, with agallant show of lightness. "If you--"

Nancy admired pluck whenever she saw it. 

"I'll go with you, Dan, " she said. 

Three months went by before Nancy saw Lou again. 

At twilight one evening the shop-girl was hurrying home along theborder of a little quiet park. She heard her name called, and wheeledabout in time to catch Lou rushing into her arms. 

After the first embrace they drew their heads back as serpents do, ready to attack or to charm, with a thousand questions trembling ontheir swift tongues. And then Nancy noticed that prosperity haddescended upon Lou, manifesting itself in costly furs, flashinggems, and creations of the tailors' art. 

"You little fool!" cried Lou, loudly and affectionately. "I see youare still working in that store, and as shabby as ever. And howabout that big catch you were going to make--nothing doing yet, Isuppose?"

And then Lou looked, and saw that something better than prosperityhad descended upon Nancy--something that shone brighter than gemsin her eyes and redder than a rose in her cheeks, and that dancedlike electricity anxious to be loosed from the tip of her tongue. 

"Yes, I'm still in the store, " said Nancy, "but I'm going to leave itnext week. I've made my catch--the biggest catch in the world. Youwon't mind now Lou, will you?--I'm going to be married to Dan--toDan!--he's my Dan now--why, Lou!"

Around the corner of the park strolled one of those new-crop, smooth-faced young policemen that are making the force moreendurable--at least to the eye. He saw a woman with an expensive furcoat, and diamond-ringed hands crouching down against the iron fenceof the park sobbing turbulently, while a slender, plainly-dressedworking girl leaned close, trying to console her. But the Gibsoniancop, being of the new order, passed on, pretending not to notice, for he was wise enough to know that these matters are beyond help sofar as the power he represents is concerned, though he rap thepavement with his nightstick till the sound goes up to thefurthermost stars. 

A MADISON SQUARE ARABIAN NIGHT

To Carson Chalmers, in his apartment near the square, Phillipsbrought the evening mail. Beside the routine correspondence therewere two items bearing the same foreign postmark. 

One of the incoming parcels contained a photograph of a woman. Theother contained an interminable letter, over which Chalmers hung, absorbed, for a long time. The letter was from another woman; andit contained poisoned barbs, sweetly dipped in honey, and featheredwith innuendoes concerning the photographed woman. 

Chalmers tore this letter into a thousand bits and began to wear outhis expensive rug by striding back and forth upon it. Thus an animalfrom the jungle acts when it is caged, and thus a caged man actswhen he is housed in a jungle of doubt. 

By and by the restless mood was overcome. The rug was not anenchanted one. For sixteen feet he could travel along it; threethousand miles was beyond its power to aid. 

Phillips appeared. He never entered; he invariably appeared, like awell-oiled genie. 

"Will you dine here, sir, or out?" he asked. 

"Here, " said Chalmers, "and in half an hour. " He listened glumly tothe January blasts making an Aeolian trombone of the empty street. 

"Wait, " he said to the disappearing genie. "As I came home acrossthe end of the square I saw many men standing there in rows. Therewas one mounted upon something, talking. Why do those men stand inrows, and why are they there?"

"They are homeless men, sir, " said Phillips. "The man standing onthe box tries to get lodging for them for the night. People comearound to listen and give him money. Then he sends as many as themoney will pay for to some lodging-house. That is why they stand inrows; they get sent to bed in order as they come. "

"By the time dinner is served, " said Chalmers, "have one of thosemen here. He will dine with me. "

"W-w-which--, " began Phillips, stammering for the first time duringhis service. 

"Choose one at random, " said Chalmers. "You might see that he isreasonably sober--and a certain amount of cleanliness will not beheld against him. That is all. "

It was an unusual thing for Carson Chalmers to play the Caliph. Buton that night he felt the inefficacy of conventional antidotes tomelancholy. Something wanton and egregious, something high-flavoredand Arabian, he must have to lighten his mood. 

On the half hour Phillips had finished his duties as slave of thelamp. The waiters from the restaurant below had whisked aloft thedelectable dinner. The dining table, laid for two, glowed cheerilyin the glow of the pink-shaded candles. 

And now Phillips, as though he ushered a cardinal--or held in chargea burglar--wafted in the shivering guest who had been haled from theline of mendicant lodgers. 

It is a common thing to call such men wrecks; if the comparison beused here it is the specific one of a derelict come to grief throughfire. Even yet some flickering combustion illuminated the driftinghulk. His face and hands had been recently washed--a rite insistedupon by Phillips as a memorial to the slaughtered conventions. Inthe candle-light he stood, a flaw in the decorous fittings of theapartment. His face was a sickly white, covered almost to the eyeswith a stubble the shade of a red Irish setter's coat. Phillips'scomb had failed to control the pale brown hair, long matted andconformed to the contour of a constantly worn hat. His eyes werefull of a hopeless, tricky defiance like that seen in a cur's thatis cornered by his tormentors. His shabby coat was buttoned high, but a quarter inch of redeeming collar showed above it. His mannerwas singularly free from embarrassment when Chalmers rose from hischair across the round dining table. 

"If you will oblige me, " said the host, "I will be glad to have yourcompany at dinner. "

"My name is Plumer, " said the highway guest, in harsh and aggressivetones. "If you're like me, you like to know the name of the partyyou're dining with. "

"I was going on to say, " continued Chalmers somewhat hastily, "thatmine is Chalmers. Will you sit opposite?"

Plumer, of the ruffled plumes, bent his knee for Phillips to slidethe chair beneath him. He had an air of having sat at attendedboards before. Phillips set out the anchovies and olives. 

"Good!" barked Plumer; "going to be in courses, is it? All right, my jovial ruler of Bagdad. I'm your Scheherezade all the way to thetoothpicks. You're the first Caliph with a genuine Oriental flavorI've struck since frost. What luck! And I was forty-third in line. Ifinished counting, just as your welcome emissary arrived to bid meto the feast. I had about as much chance of getting a bed to-nightas I have of being the next President. How will you have the sadstory of my life, Mr. Al Raschid--a chapter with each course or thewhole edition with the cigars and coffee?"

"The situation does not seem a novel one to you, " said Chalmers witha smile. 

"By the chin whiskers of the prophet--no!" answered the guest. "NowYork's as full of cheap Haroun al Raschids as Bagdad is of fleas. I've been held up for my story with a loaded meal pointed at myhead twenty times. Catch anybody in New York giving you somethingfor nothing! They spell curiosity and charity with the same set ofbuilding blocks. Lots of 'em will stake you to a dime and chop-suey;and a few of 'em will play Caliph to the tune of a top sirloin;but every one of 'em will stand over you till they screw yourautobiography out of you with foot notes, appendix and unpublishedfragments. Oh, I know what to do when I see victuals coming towardme in little old Bagdad-on-the-Subway. I strike the asphalt threetimes with my forehead and get ready to spiel yarns for my supper. I claim descent from the late Tommy Tucker, who was forced to handout vocal harmony for his pre-digested wheaterina and spoopju. "

"I do not ask your story, " said Chalmers. "I tell you frankly thatit was a sudden whim that prompted me to send for some stranger todine with me. I assure you you will not suffer through any curiosityof mine. "

"Oh, fudge!" exclaimed the guest, enthusiastically tackling hissoup; "I don't mind it a bit. I'm a regular Oriental magazinewith a red cover and the leaves cut when the Caliph walks abroad. In fact, we fellows in the bed line have a sort of union ratefor things of this sort. Somebody's always stopping and wantingto know what brought us down so low in the world. For asandwich and a glass of beer I tell 'em that drink did it. Forcorned beef and cabbage and a cup of coffee I give 'em thehard-hearted-landlord--six-months-in-the-hospital-lost-job story. A sirloin steak and a quarter for a bed gets the Wall Streettragedy of the swept-away fortune and the gradual descent. Thisis the first spread of this kind I've stumbled against. I haven'tgot a story to fit it. I'll tell you what, Mr. Chalmers, I'mgoing to tell you the truth for this, if you'll listen to it. It'll be harder for you to believe than the made-up ones. "

An hour later the Arabian guest lay back with a sigh of satisfactionwhile Phillips brought the coffee and cigars and cleared the table. 

"Did you ever hear of Sherrard Plumer?" he asked, with a strangesmile. 

"I remember the name, " said Chalmers. "He was a painter, I think, ofa good deal of prominence a few years ago. "

"Five years, " said the guest. "Then I went down like a chunk oflead. I'm Sherrard Plumer! I sold the last portrait I painted for$2, 000. After that I couldn't have found a sitter for a gratispicture. "

"What was the trouble?" Chalmers could not resist asking. 

"Funny thing, " answered Plumer, grimly. "Never quite understood itmyself. For a while I swam like a cork. I broke into the swell crowdand got commissions right and left. The newspapers called me afashionable painter. Then the funny things began to happen. WheneverI finished a picture people would come to see it, and whisper andlook queerly at one another. "

"I soon found out what the trouble was. I had a knack of bringingout in the face of a portrait the hidden character of the original. I don't know how I did it--I painted what I saw--but I know it didme. Some of my sitters were fearfully enraged and refused theirpictures. I painted the portrait of a very beautiful and popularsociety dame. When it was finished her husband looked at it with apeculiar expression on his face, and the next week he sued fordivorce. "

"I remember one case of a prominent banker who sat to me. While Ihad his portrait on exhibition in my studio an acquaintance of hiscame in to look at it. 'Bless me, ' says he, 'does he really looklike that?" I told him it was considered a faithful likeness. 'Inever noticed that expression about his eyes before, ' said he; 'Ithink I'll drop downtown and change my bank account. ' He did dropdown, but the bank account was gone and so was Mr. Banker. 

"It wasn't long till they put me out of business. People don'twant their secret meannesses shown up in a picture. They can smileand twist their own faces and deceive you, but the picture can't. I couldn't get an order for another picture, and I had to giveup. I worked as a newspaper artist for a while, and then for alithographer, but my work with them got me into the same trouble. IfI drew from a photograph my drawing showed up characteristics andexpressions that you couldn't find in the photo, but I guess theywere in the original, all right. The customers raised lively rows, especially the women, and I never could hold a job long. So I beganto rest my weary head upon the breast of Old Booze for comfort. Andpretty soon I was in the free-bed line and doing oral fiction forhand-outs among the food bazaars. Does the truthful statement wearythee, O Caliph? I can turn on the Wall Street disaster stop if youprefer, but that requires a tear, and I'm afraid I can't hustle oneup after that good dinner. "

"No, no, " said Chalmers, earnestly, "you interest me very much. Didall of your portraits reveal some unpleasant trait, or were theresome that did not suffer from the ordeal of your peculiar brush?"

"Some? Yes, " said Plumer. "Children generally, a good many women anda sufficient number of men. All people aren't bad, you know. Whenthey were all right the pictures were all right. As I said, I don'texplain it, but I'm telling you facts. "

On Chalmers's writing-table lay the photograph that he had receivedthat day in the foreign mail. Ten minutes later he had Plumer atwork making a sketch from it in pastels. At the end of an hour theartist rose and stretched wearily. 

"It's done, " he yawned. "You'll excuse me for being so long. I gotinterested in the job. Lordy! but I'm tired. No bed last night, youknow. Guess it'll have to be good night now, O Commander of theFaithful!"

Chalmers went as far as the door with him and slipped some billsinto his hand. 

"Oh! I'll take 'em, " said Plumer. "All that's included in the fall. Thanks. And for the very good dinner. I shall sleep on feathersto-night and dream of Bagdad. I hope it won't turn out to be a dreamin the morning. Farewell, most excellent Caliph!"

Again Chalmers paced restlessly upon his rug. But his beat lay asfar from the table whereon lay the pastel sketch as the room wouldpermit. Twice, thrice, he tried to approach it, but failed. He couldsee the dun and gold and brown of the colors, but there was a wallabout it built by his fears that kept him at a distance. He sat downand tried to calm himself. He sprang up and rang for Phillips. 

"There is a young artist in this building, " he said. "--a Mr. Reineman--do you know which is his apartment?"

"Top floor, front, sir, " said Phillips. 

"Go up and ask him to favor me with his presence here for a fewminutes. "

Reineman came at once. Chalmers introduced himself. 

"Mr. Reineman, " said he, "there is a little pastel sketch on yondertable. I would be glad if you will give me your opinion of it as toits artistic merits and as a picture. "

The young artist advanced to the table and took up the sketch. Chalmers half turned away, leaning upon the back of a chair. 

"How--do--you find it?" he asked, slowly. 

"As a drawing, " said the artist, "I can't praise it enough. It's thework of a master--bold and fine and true. It puzzles me a little; Ihaven't seen any pastel work near as good in years. "

"The face, man--the subject--the original--what would you say ofthat?"

"The face, " said Reineman, "is the face of one of God's own angels. May I ask who--"

"My wife!" shouted Chalmers, wheeling and pouncing upon theastonished artist, gripping his hand and pounding his back. "She istraveling in Europe. Take that sketch, boy, and paint the pictureof your life from it and leave the price to me. "

THE RUBAIYAT OF A SCOTCH HIGHBALL

This document is intended to strike somewhere between a temperancelecture and the "Bartender's Guide. " Relative to the latter, drinkshall swell the theme and be set forth in abundance. Agreeably tothe former, not an elbow shall be crooked. 

Bob Babbitt was "off the stuff. " Which means--as you will discoverby referring to the unabridged dictionary of Bohemia--that he had"cut out the booze;" that he was "on the water wagon. " The reasonfor Bob's sudden attitude of hostility toward the "demon rum"--asthe white ribboners miscall whiskey (see the "Bartender's Guide"), should be of interest to reformers and saloon-keepers. 

There is always hope for a man who, when sober, will not concede oracknowledge that he was ever drunk. But when a man will say (in theapt words of the phrase-distiller), "I had a beautiful skate on lastnight, " you will have to put stuff in his coffee as well as pray forhim. 

One evening on his way home Babbitt dropped in at the Broadway barthat he liked best. Always there were three or four fellows therefrom the downtown offices whom he knew. And then there would behigh-balls and stories, and he would hurry home to dinner a littlelate but feeling good, and a little sorry for the poor Standard OilCompany. On this evening as he entered he heard some one say:"Babbitt was in last night as full as a boiled owl. "

Babbitt walked to the bar, and saw in the mirror that his face wasas white as chalk. For the first time he had looked Truth in theeyes. Others had lied to him; he had dissembled with himself. He wasa drunkard, and had not known it. What he had fondly imagined was apleasant exhilaration had been maudlin intoxication. His fancied withad been drivel; his gay humors nothing but the noisy vagaries of asot. But, never again!

"A glass of seltzer, " he said to the bartender. 

A little silence fell upon the group of his cronies, who had beenexpecting him to join them. 

"Going off the stuff, Bob?" one of them asked politely and with moreformality than the highballs ever called forth. 

"Yes, " said Babbitt. 

Some one of the group took up the unwashed thread of a story he hadbeen telling; the bartender shoved over a dime and a nickel changefrom the quarter, ungarnished with his customary smile; and Babbittwalked out. 

Now, Babbitt had a home and a wife--but that is another story. And Iwill tell you that story, which will show you a better habit and aworse story than you could find in the man who invented the phrase. 

It began away up in Sullivan County, where so many rivers and somuch trouble begins--or begin; how would you say that? It was July, and Jessie was a summer boarder at the Mountain Squint Hotel, andBob, who was just out of college, saw her one day--and they weremarried in September. That's the tabloid novel--one swallow ofwater, and it's gone. 

But those July days!

Let the exclamation point expound it, for I shall not. Forparticulars you might read up on "Romeo and Juliet, " and AbrahamLincoln's thrilling sonnet about "You can fool some of the people, "&c. , and Darwin's works. 

But one thing I must tell you about. Both of them were mad overOmar's Rubaiyat. They knew every verse of the old bluffer byheart--not consecutively, but picking 'em out here and there as youfork the mushrooms in a fifty-cent steak à la Bordelaise. SullivanCounty is full of rocks and trees; and Jessie used to sit on them, and--please be good--used to sit on the rocks; and Bob had a way ofstanding behind her with his hands over her shoulders holding herhands, and his face close to hers, and they would repeat over andover their favorite verses of the old tent-maker. They saw only thepoetry and philosophy of the lines then--indeed, they agreed thatthe Wine was only an image, and that what was meant to be celebratedwas some divinity, or maybe Love or Life. However, at that timeneither of them had tasted the stuff that goes with a sixty-cent_table d'hote_. 

Where was I? Oh, they married and came to New York. Bob showed hiscollege diploma, and accepted a position filling inkstands in alawyer's office at $15 a week. At the end of two years he had workedup to $50, and gotten his first taste of Bohemia--the kind thatwon't stand the borax and formaldehyde tests. 

They had two furnished rooms and a little kitchen. To Jess, accustomed to the mild but beautiful savor of a country town, thedreggy Bohemia was sugar and spice. She hung fish seines on thewalls of her rooms, and bought a rakish-looking sideboard, andlearned to play the banjo. Twice or thrice a week they dined atFrench or Italian _tables d'hote_ in a cloud of smoke, and brag andunshorn hair. Jess learned to drink a cocktail in order to get thecherry. At home she smoked a cigarette after dinner. She learned topronounce Chianti, and leave her olive stones for the waiter to pickup. Once she essayed to say la, la, la! in a crowd but got only asfar as the second one. They met one or two couples while dining outand became friendly with them. The sideboard was stocked with Scotchand rye and a liqueur. They had their new friends in to dinner andall were laughing at nothing by 1 A. M. Some plastering fell in theroom below them, for which Bob had to pay $4. 50. Thus they footed itmerrily on the ragged frontiers of the country that has no boundarylines or government. 

And soon Bob fell in with his cronies and learned to keep his footon the little rail six inches above the floor for an hour or soevery afternoon before he went home. Drink always rubbed him theright way, and he would reach his rooms as jolly as a sandboy. Jessie would meet him at the door, and generally they would dancesome insane kind of a rigadoon about the floor by way of greeting. Once when Bob's feet became confused and he tumbled headlong over afoot-stool Jessie laughed so heartily and long that he had to throwall the couch pillows at her to make her hush. 

In such wise life was speeding for them on the day when Bob Babbittfirst felt the power that the giftie gi'ed him. 

But let us get back to our lamb and mint sauce. 

When Bob got home that evening he found Jessie in a long aproncutting up a lobster for the Newburg. Usually when Bob came inmellow from his hour at the bar his welcome was hilarious, thoughsomewhat tinctured with Scotch smoke. 

By screams and snatches of song and certain audible testimonials ofdomestic felicity was his advent proclaimed. When she heard his footon the stairs the old maid in the hall room always stuffed cottoninto her ears. At first Jessie had shrunk from the rudeness andfavor of these spiritual greetings, but as the fog of the falseBohemia gradually encompassed her she came to accept them as love'strue and proper greeting. 

Bob came in without a word, smiled, kissed her neatly butnoiselessly, took up a paper and sat down. In the hall room the oldmaid held her two plugs of cotton poised, filled with anxiety. 

Jessie dropped lobster and knife and ran to him with frightenedeyes. 

"What's the matter, Bob, are you ill?"

"Not at all, dear. "

"Then what's the matter with you?"

"Nothing. "

Hearken, brethren. When She-who-has-a-right-to-ask interrogates youconcerning a change she finds in your mood answer her thus: Tell herthat you, in a sudden rage, have murdered your grandmother; tell herthat you have robbed orphans and that remorse has stricken you; tellher your fortune is swept away; that you are beset by enemies, bybunions, by any kind of malevolent fate; but do not, if peace andhappiness are worth as much as a grain of mustard seed to you--donot answer her "Nothing. "

Jessie went back to the lobster in silence. She cast looks ofdarkest suspicion at Bob. He had never acted that way before. 

When dinner was on the table she set out the bottle of Scotch andthe glasses. Bob declined. 

"Tell you the truth, Jess, " he said. "I've cut out the drink. Helpyourself, of course. If you don't mind I'll try some of the seltzerstraight. "

"You've stopped drinking?" she said, looking at him steadily andunsmilingly. "What for?"

"It wasn't doing me any good, " said Bob. "Don't you approve of theidea?"

Jessie raised her eyebrows and one shoulder slightly. 

"Entirely, " she said with a sculptured smile. "I could notconscientiously advise any one to drink or smoke, or whistle onSunday. "

The meal was finished almost in silence. Bob tried to make talk, but his efforts lacked the stimulus of previous evenings. He feltmiserable, and once or twice his eye wandered toward the bottle, buteach time the scathing words of his bibulous friend sounded in hisear, and his mouth set with determination. 

Jessie felt the change deeply. The essence of their lives seemed tohave departed suddenly. The restless fever, the false gayety, theunnatural excitement of the shoddy Bohemia in which they had livedhad dropped away in the space of the popping of a cork. She stolecurious and forlorn glances at the dejected Bob, who bore the guiltylook of at least a wife-beater or a family tyrant. 

After dinner the colored maid who came in daily to perform suchchores cleared away the things. Jessie, with an unreadablecountenance, brought back the bottle of Scotch and the glasses anda bowl of cracked ice and set them on the table. 

"May I ask, " she said, with some of the ice in her tones, "whetherI am to be included in your sudden spasm of goodness? If not, I'llmake one for myself. It's rather chilly this evening, for somereason. "

"Oh, come now, Jess, " said Bob good-naturedly, "don't be too roughon me. Help yourself, by all means. There's no danger of youroverdoing it. But I thought there was with me; and that's why Iquit. Have yours, and then let's get out the banjo and try over thatnew quickstep. "

"I've heard, " said Jessie in the tones of the oracle, "that drinkingalone is a pernicious habit. No, I don't think I feel like playingthis evening. If we are going to reform we may as well abandon theevil habit of banjo-playing, too. "

She took up a book and sat in her little willow rocker on the otherside of the table. Neither of them spoke for half an hour. 

And then Bob laid down his paper and got up with a strange, absentlook on his face and went behind her chair and reached over hershoulders, taking her hands in his, and laid his face close to hers. 

In a moment to Jessie the walls of the seine-hung room vanished, andshe saw the Sullivan County hills and rills. Bob felt her handsquiver in his as he began the verse from old Omar:

 "Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring The Winter Garment of Repentance fling: The Bird of Time has but a little way To fly--and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing!"

And then he walked to the table and poured a stiff drink of Scotchinto a glass. 

But in that moment a mountain breeze had somehow found its way inand blown away the mist of the false Bohemia. 

Jessie leaped and with one fierce sweep of her hand sent the bottleand glasses crashing to the floor. The same motion of her armcarried it around Bob's neck, where it met its mate and fastenedtight. 

"Oh, my God, Bobbie--not that verse--I see now. I wasn't always sucha fool, was I? The other one, boy--the one that says: 'Remould it tothe Heart's Desire. ' Say that one--'to the Heart's Desire. '"

"I know that one, " said Bob. "It goes:

 "'Ah! Love, could you and I with Him conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire Would not we--'"

"Let me finish it, " said Jessie. 

 "'Would not we shatter it to bits--and then Remould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!'"

"It's shattered all right, " said Bob, crunching some glass under hisheel. 

In some dungeon below the accurate ear of Mrs. Pickens, the landlady, located the smash. 

"It's that wild Mr. Babbitt coming home soused again, " she said. "And he's got such a nice little wife, too!"

THE PENDULUM

"Eighty-first street--let 'em out, please, " yelled the shepherd inblue. 

A flock of citizen sheep scrambled out and another flock scrambledaboard. Ding-ding! The cattle cars of the Manhattan Elevated rattledaway, and John Perkins drifted down the stairway of the station withthe released flock. 

John walked slowly toward his flat. Slowly, because in the lexiconof his daily life there was no such word as "perhaps. " There are nosurprises awaiting a man who has been married two years and lives ina flat. As he walked John Perkins prophesied to himself with gloomyand downtrodden cynicism the foregone conclusions of the monotonousday. 

Katy would meet him at the door with a kiss flavored with cold creamand butter-scotch. He would remove his coat, sit upon a macadamizedlounge and read, in the evening paper, of Russians and Japsslaughtered by the deadly linotype. For dinner there would be potroast, a salad flavored with a dressing warranted not to crack orinjure the leather, stewed rhubarb and the bottle of strawberrymarmalade blushing at the certificate of chemical purity on itslabel. After dinner Katy would show him the new patch in her crazyquilt that the iceman had cut for her off the end of his four-in-hand. At half-past seven they would spread newspapers over the furnitureto catch the pieces of plastering that fell when the fat man in theflat overhead began to take his physical culture exercises. Exactlyat eight Hickey & Mooney, of the vaudeville team (unbooked) in theflat across the hall, would yield to the gentle influence of deliriumtremens and begin to overturn chairs under the delusion thatHammerstein was pursuing them with a five-hundred-dollar-a-weekcontract. Then the gent at the window across the air-shaft would getout his flute; the nightly gas leak would steal forth to frolic inthe highways; the dumbwaiter would slip off its trolley; the janitorwould drive Mrs. Zanowitski's five children once more across theYalu, the lady with the champagne shoes and the Skye terrier wouldtrip downstairs and paste her Thursday name over her bell andletter-box--and the evening routine of the Frogmore flats would beunder way. 

John Perkins knew these things would happen. And he knew that at aquarter past eight he would summon his nerve and reach for his hat, and that his wife would deliver this speech in a querulous tone:

"Now, where are you going, I'd like to know, John Perkins?"

"Thought I'd drop up to McCloskey's, " he would answer, "and play agame or two of pool with the fellows. "

Of late such had been John Perkins's habit. At ten or eleven hewould return. Sometimes Katy would be asleep; sometimes waiting up, ready to melt in the crucible of her ire a little more gold platingfrom the wrought steel chains of matrimony. For these things Cupidwill have to answer when he stands at the bar of justice with hisvictims from the Frogmore flats. 

To-night John Perkins encountered a tremendous upheaval of thecommonplace when he reached his door. No Katy was there with heraffectionate, confectionate kiss. The three rooms seemed inportentous disorder. All about lay her things in confusion. Shoes inthe middle of the floor, curling tongs, hair bows, kimonos, powderbox, jumbled together on dresser and chairs--this was not Katy'sway. With a sinking heart John saw the comb with a curling cloud ofher brown hair among its teeth. Some unusual hurry and perturbationmust have possessed her, for she always carefully placed thesecombings in the little blue vase on the mantel to be some day formedinto the coveted feminine "rat. "

Hanging conspicuously to the gas jet by a string was a folded paper. John seized it. It was a note from his wife running thus:

 "Dear John: I just had a telegram saying mother is very sick. I am going to take the 4. 30 train. Brother Sam is going to meet me at the depot there. There is cold mutton in the ice box. I hope it isn't her quinzy again. Pay the milkman 50 cents. She had it bad last spring. Don't forget to write to the company about the gas meter, and your good socks are in the top drawer. I will write to-morrow. Hastily, KATY. "

Never during their two years of matrimony had he and Katy beenseparated for a night. John read the note over and over in adumbfounded way. Here was a break in a routine that had nevervaried, and it left him dazed. 

There on the back of a chair hung, pathetically empty and formless, the red wrapper with black dots that she always wore while gettingthe meals. Her week-day clothes had been tossed here and there inher haste. A little paper bag of her favorite butter-scotch lay withits string yet unwound. A daily paper sprawled on the floor, gapingrectangularly where a railroad time-table had been clipped from it. Everything in the room spoke of a loss, of an essence gone, of itssoul and life departed. John Perkins stood among the dead remainswith a queer feeling of desolation in his heart. 

He began to set the rooms tidy as well as he could. When he touchedher clothes a thrill of something like terror went through him. Hehad never thought what existence would be without Katy. She hadbecome so thoroughly annealed into his life that she was like theair he breathed--necessary but scarcely noticed. Now, withoutwarning, she was gone, vanished, as completely absent as if she hadnever existed. Of course it would be only for a few days, or at mosta week or two, but it seemed to him as if the very hand of death hadpointed a finger at his secure and uneventful home. 

John dragged the cold mutton from the ice-box, made coffee and satdown to a lonely meal face to face with the strawberry marmalade'sshameless certificate of purity. Bright among withdrawn blessingsnow appeared to him the ghosts of pot roasts and the salad with tanpolish dressing. His home was dismantled. A quinzied mother-in-lawhad knocked his lares and penates sky-high. After his solitary mealJohn sat at a front window. 

He did not care to smoke. Outside the city roared to him to comejoin in its dance of folly and pleasure. The night was his. He mightgo forth unquestioned and thrum the strings of jollity as free asany gay bachelor there. He might carouse and wander and have hisfling until dawn if he liked; and there would be no wrathful Katywaiting for him, bearing the chalice that held the dregs of his joy. He might play pool at McCloskey's with his roistering friends untilAurora dimmed the electric bulbs if he chose. The hymeneal stringsthat had curbed him always when the Frogmore flats had palled uponhim were loosened. Katy was gone. 

John Perkins was not accustomed to analyzing his emotions. But ashe sat in his Katy-bereft 10x12 parlor he hit unerringly upon thekeynote of his discomfort. He knew now that Katy was necessary tohis happiness. His feeling for her, lulled into unconsciousness bythe dull round of domesticity, had been sharply stirred by the lossof her presence. Has it not been dinned into us by proverb andsermon and fable that we never prize the music till the sweet-voicedbird has flown--or in other no less florid and true utterances?

"I'm a double-dyed dub, " mused John Perkins, "the way I've beentreating Katy. Off every night playing pool and bumming with theboys instead of staying home with her. The poor girl here all alonewith nothing to amuse her, and me acting that way! John Perkins, you're the worst kind of a shine. I'm going to make it up for thelittle girl. I'll take her out and let her see some amusement. AndI'll cut out the McCloskey gang right from this minute. "

Yes, there was the city roaring outside for John Perkins to comedance in the train of Momus. And at McCloskey's the boys wereknocking the balls idly into the pockets against the hour for thenightly game. But no primrose way nor clicking cue could woo theremorseful soul of Perkins the bereft. The thing that was his, lightly held and half scorned, had been taken away from him, and hewanted it. Backward to a certain man named Adam, whom the cherubimbounced from the orchard, could Perkins, the remorseful, trace hisdescent. 

Near the right hand of John Perkins stood a chair. On the back ofit stood Katy's blue shirtwaist. It still retained something ofher contour. Midway of the sleeves were fine, individual wrinklesmade by the movements of her arms in working for his comfort andpleasure. A delicate but impelling odor of bluebells came fromit. John took it and looked long and soberly at the unresponsivegrenadine. Katy had never been unresponsive. Tears:--yes, tears--came into John Perkins's eyes. When she came back thingswould be different. He would make up for all his neglect. Whatwas life without her?

The door opened. Katy walked in carrying a little hand satchel. Johnstared at her stupidly. 

"My! I'm glad to get back, " said Katy. "Ma wasn't sick to amountto anything. Sam was at the depot, and said she just had a littlespell, and got all right soon after they telegraphed. So I took thenext train back. I'm just dying for a cup of coffee. "

Nobody heard the click and rattle of the cog-wheels as the third-floorfront of the Frogmore flats buzzed its machinery back into the Orderof Things. A band slipped, a spring was touched, the gear was adjustedand the wheels revolve in their old orbit. 

John Perkins looked at the clock. It was 8. 15. He reached for hishat and walked to the door. 

"Now, where are you going, I'd like to know, John Perkins?" askedKaty, in a querulous tone. 

"Thought I'd drop up to McCloskey's, " said John, "and play a game ortwo of pool with the fellows. "

TWO THANKSGIVING DAY GENTLEMEN

There is one day that is ours. There is one day when all weAmericans who are not self-made go back to the old home to eatsaleratus biscuits and marvel how much nearer to the porch the oldpump looks than it used to. Bless the day. President Roosevelt givesit to us. We hear some talk of the Puritans, but don't just rememberwho they were. Bet we can lick 'em, anyhow, if they try to landagain. Plymouth Rocks? Well, that sounds more familiar. Lots of ushave had to come down to hens since the Turkey Trust got its workin. But somebody in Washington is leaking out advance informationto 'em about these Thanksgiving proclamations. 

The big city east of the cranberry bogs has made Thanksgiving Day aninstitution. The last Thursday in November is the only day in theyear on which it recognizes the part of America lying across theferries. It is the one day that is purely American. Yes, a day ofcelebration, exclusively American. 

And now for the story which is to prove to you that we havetraditions on this side of the ocean that are becoming older at amuch rapider rate than those of England are--thanks to our git-upand enterprise. 

Stuffy Pete took his seat on the third bench to the right as youenter Union Square from the east, at the walk opposite the fountain. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had taken his seat therepromptly at 1 o'clock. For every time he had done so things hadhappened to him--Charles Dickensy things that swelled his waistcoatabove his heart, and equally on the other side. 

But to-day Stuffy Pete's appearance at the annual trysting placeseemed to have been rather the result of habit than of the yearlyhunger which, as the philanthropists seem to think, afflicts thepoor at such extended intervals. 

Certainly Pete was not hungry. He had just come from a feastthat had left him of his powers barely those of respiration andlocomotion. His eyes were like two pale gooseberries firmly imbeddedin a swollen and gravy-smeared mask of putty. His breath camein short wheezes; a senatorial roll of adipose tissue denied afashionable set to his upturned coat collar. Buttons that had beensewed upon his clothes by kind Salvation fingers a week before flewlike popcorn, strewing the earth around him. Ragged he was, with asplit shirt front open to the wishbone; but the November breeze, carrying fine snowflakes, brought him only a grateful coolness. For Stuffy Pete was overcharged with the caloric produced by asuper-bountiful dinner, beginning with oysters and ending with plumpudding, and including (it seemed to him) all the roast turkey andbaked potatoes and chicken salad and squash pie and ice cream inthe world. Wherefore he sat, gorged, and gazed upon the world withafter-dinner contempt. 

The meal had been an unexpected one. He was passing a red brickmansion near the beginning of Fifth avenue, in which lived two oldladies of ancient family and a reverence for traditions. They evendenied the existence of New York, and believed that Thanksgiving Daywas declared solely for Washington Square. One of their traditionalhabits was to station a servant at the postern gate with orders toadmit the first hungry wayfarer that came along after the hour ofnoon had struck, and banquet him to a finish. Stuffy Pete happenedto pass by on his way to the park, and the seneschals gathered himin and upheld the custom of the castle. 

After Stuffy Pete had gazed straight before him for ten minutes hewas conscious of a desire for a more varied field of vision. With atremendous effort he moved his head slowly to the left. And then hiseyes bulged out fearfully, and his breath ceased, and the rough-shodends of his short legs wriggled and rustled on the gravel. 

For the Old Gentleman was coming across Fourth avenue toward hisbench. 

Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years the Old Gentleman had comethere and found Stuffy Pete on his bench. That was a thing that theOld Gentleman was trying to make a tradition of. Every ThanksgivingDay for nine years he had found Stuffy there, and had led him to arestaurant and watched him eat a big dinner. They do those things inEngland unconsciously. But this is a young country, and nine yearsis not so bad. The Old Gentleman was a staunch American patriot, andconsidered himself a pioneer in American tradition. In order tobecome picturesque we must keep on doing one thing for a long timewithout ever letting it get away from us. Something like collectingthe weekly dimes in industrial insurance. Or cleaning the streets. 

The Old Gentleman moved, straight and stately, toward theInstitution that he was rearing. Truly, the annual feeding of StuffyPete was nothing national in its character, such as the Magna Chartaor jam for breakfast was in England. But it was a step. It wasalmost feudal. It showed, at least, that a Custom was not impossibleto New Y--ahem!--America. 

The Old Gentleman was thin and tall and sixty. He was dressed all inblack, and wore the old-fashioned kind of glasses that won't stayon your nose. His hair was whiter and thinner than it had been lastyear, and he seemed to make more use of his big, knobby cane withthe crooked handle. 

As his established benefactor came up Stuffy wheezed and shudderedlike some woman's over-fat pug when a street dog bristles up at him. He would have flown, but all the skill of Santos-Dumont could nothave separated him from his bench. Well had the myrmidons of the twoold ladies done their work. 

"Good morning, " said the Old Gentleman. "I am glad to perceive thatthe vicissitudes of another year have spared you to move in healthabout the beautiful world. For that blessing alone this day ofthanksgiving is well proclaimed to each of us. If you will come withme, my man, I will provide you with a dinner that should make yourphysical being accord with the mental. "

That is what the old Gentleman said every time. Every ThanksgivingDay for nine years. The words themselves almost formed anInstitution. Nothing could be compared with them except theDeclaration of Independence. Always before they had been music inStuffy's ears. But now he looked up at the Old Gentleman's face withtearful agony in his own. The fine snow almost sizzled when it fellupon his perspiring brow. But the Old Gentleman shivered a littleand turned his back to the wind. 

Stuffy had always wondered why the Old Gentleman spoke his speechrather sadly. He did not know that it was because he was wishingevery time that he had a son to succeed him. A son who would comethere after he was gone--a son who would stand proud and strongbefore some subsequent Stuffy, and say: "In memory of my father. "Then it would be an Institution. 

But the Old Gentleman had no relatives. He lived in rented roomsin one of the decayed old family brownstone mansions in one of thequiet streets east of the park. In the winter he raised fuchsias ina little conservatory the size of a steamer trunk. In the spring hewalked in the Easter parade. In the summer he lived at a farmhousein the New Jersey hills, and sat in a wicker armchair, speaking ofa butterfly, the ornithoptera amphrisius, that he hoped to findsome day. In the autumn he fed Stuffy a dinner. These were the OldGentleman's occupations. 

Stuffy Pete looked up at him for a half minute, stewing and helplessin his own self-pity. The Old Gentleman's eyes were bright with thegiving-pleasure. His face was getting more lined each year, but hislittle black necktie was in as jaunty a bow as ever, and the linenwas beautiful and white, and his gray mustache was curled carefullyat the ends. And then Stuffy made a noise that sounded like peasbubbling in a pot. Speech was intended; and as the Old Gentleman hadheard the sounds nine times before, he rightly construed them intoStuffy's old formula of acceptance. 

"Thankee, sir. I'll go with ye, and much obliged. I'm very hungry, sir. "

The coma of repletion had not prevented from entering Stuffy'smind the conviction that he was the basis of an Institution. HisThanksgiving appetite was not his own; it belonged by all the sacredrights of established custom, if not, by the actual Statute ofLimitations, to this kind old gentleman who bad preempted it. True, America is free; but in order to establish tradition some one mustbe a repetend--a repeating decimal. The heroes are not all heroes ofsteel and gold. See one here that wielded only weapons of iron, badly silvered, and tin. 

The Old Gentleman led his annual protege southward to the restaurant, and to the table where the feast had always occurred. They wererecognized. 

"Here comes de old guy, " said a waiter, "dat blows dat same bum to ameal every Thanksgiving. "

The Old Gentleman sat across the table glowing like a smoked pearlat his corner-stone of future ancient Tradition. The waiters heapedthe table with holiday food--and Stuffy, with a sigh that wasmistaken for hunger's expression, raised knife and fork and carvedfor himself a crown of imperishable bay. 

No more valiant hero ever fought his way through the ranks of anenemy. Turkey, chops, soups, vegetables, pies, disappeared beforehim as fast as they could be served. Gorged nearly to the uttermostwhen he entered the restaurant, the smell of food had almost causedhim to lose his honor as a gentleman, but he rallied like atrue knight. He saw the look of beneficent happiness on the OldGentleman's face--a happier look than even the fuchsias and theornithoptera amphrisius had ever brought to it--and he had not theheart to see it wane. 

In an hour Stuffy leaned back with a battle won. "Thankee kindly, sir, " he puffed like a leaky steam pipe; "thankee kindly for ahearty meal. " Then he arose heavily with glazed eyes and startedtoward the kitchen. A waiter turned him about like a top, andpointed him toward the door. The Old Gentleman carefully counted out$1. 30 in silver change, leaving three nickels for the waiter. 

They parted as they did each year at the door, the Old Gentlemangoing south, Stuffy north. 

Around the first corner Stuffy turned, and stood for one minute. Then he seemed to puff out his rags as an owl puffs out hisfeathers, and fell to the sidewalk like a sunstricken horse. 

When the ambulance came the young surgeon and the driver cursedsoftly at his weight. There was no smell of whiskey to justify atransfer to the patrol wagon, so Stuffy and his two dinners went tothe hospital. There they stretched him on a bed and began to testhim for strange diseases, with the hope of getting a chance at someproblem with the bare steel. 

And lo! an hour later another ambulance brought the Old Gentleman. And they laid him on another bed and spoke of appendicitis, for helooked good for the bill. 

But pretty soon one of the young doctors met one of the young nurseswhose eyes he liked, and stopped to chat with her about the cases. 

"That nice old gentleman over there, now, " he said, "you wouldn'tthink that was a case of almost starvation. Proud old family, Iguess. He told me he hadn't eaten a thing for three days. "

THE ASSESSOR OF SUCCESS

Hastings Beauchamp Morley sauntered across Union Square with apitying look at the hundreds that lolled upon the park benches. Theywere a motley lot, he thought; the men with stolid, animal, unshavenfaces; the women wriggling and self-conscious, twining and untwiningtheir feet that hung four inches above the gravelled walks. 

Were I Mr. Carnegie or Mr. Rockefeller I would put a few millionsin my inside pocket and make an appointment with all the ParkCommissioners (around the corner, if necessary), and arrangefor benches in all the parks of the world low enough for womento sit upon, and rest their feet upon the ground. After that Imight furnish libraries to towns that would pay for 'em, or buildsanitariums for crank professors, and call 'em colleges, if Iwanted to. 

Women's rights societies have been laboring for many years afterequality with man. With what result? When they sit on a bench theymust twist their ankles together and uncomfortably swing theirhighest French heels clear of earthly support. Begin at the bottom, ladies. Get your feet on the ground, and then rise to theories ofmental equality. 

Hastings Beauchamp Morley was carefully and neatly dressed. Thatwas the result of an instinct due to his birth and breeding. Itis denied us to look further into a man's bosom than the starch onhis shirt front; so it is left to us only to recount his walks andconversation. 

Morley had not a cent in his pockets; but he smiled pityingly at ahundred grimy, unfortunate ones who had no more, and who would haveno more when the sun's first rays yellowed the tall paper-cutterbuilding on the west side of the square. But Morley would haveenough by then. Sundown had seen his pockets empty before; butsunrise had always seen them lined. 

First he went to the house of a clergyman off Madison avenue andpresented a forged letter of introduction that holily purported toissue from a pastorate in Indiana. This netted him $5 when backedup by a realistic romance of a delayed remittance. 

On the sidewalk, twenty steps from the clergyman's door, apale-faced, fat man huskily enveloped him with a raised, red fistand the voice of a bell buoy, demanding payment of an old score. 

"Why, Bergman, man, " sang Morley, dulcetly, "is this you? I was juston my way up to your place to settle up. That remittance from myaunt arrived only this morning. Wrong address was the trouble. Comeup to the corner and I'll square up. Glad to see you. Saves me awalk. "

Four drinks placated the emotional Bergman. There was an air aboutMorley when he was backed by money in hand that would have stayedoff a call loan at Rothschilds'. When he was penniless his bluff waspitched half a tone lower, but few are competent to detect thedifference in the notes. 

"You gum to mine blace and bay me to-morrow, Mr. Morley, " saidBergman. "Oxcuse me dat I dun you on der street. But I haf not seenyou in dree mont'. Pros't!"

Morley walked away with a crooked smile on his pale, smooth face. The credulous, drink-softened German amused him. He would have toavoid Twenty-ninth street in the future. He had not been aware thatBergman ever went home by that route. 

At the door of a darkened house two squares to the north Morleyknocked with a peculiar sequence of raps. The door opened to thelength of a six-inch chain, and the pompous, important black face ofan African guardian imposed itself in the opening. Morley wasadmitted. 

In a third-story room, in an atmosphere opaque with smoke, he hungfor ten minutes above a roulette wheel. Then downstairs he crept, and was out-sped by the important negro, jingling in his pocket the40 cents in silver that remained to him of his five-dollar capital. At the corner he lingered, undecided. 

Across the street was a drug store, well lighted, sending forthgleams from the German silver and crystal of its soda fountain andglasses. Along came a youngster of five, headed for the dispensary, stepping high with the consequence of a big errand, possibly one towhich his advancing age had earned him promotion. In his hand heclutched something tightly, publicly, proudly, conspicuously. 

Morley stopped him with his winning smile and soft speech. 

"Me?" said the youngster. "I'm doin' to the drug 'tore for mamma. She dave me a dollar to buy a bottle of med'cin. "

"Now, now, now!" said Morley. "Such a big man you are to be doingerrands for mamma. I must go along with my little man to see thatthe cars don't run over him. And on the way we'll have somechocolates. Or would he rather have lemon drops?"

Morley entered the drug store leading the child by the hand. Hepresented the prescription that had been wrapped around the money. 

On his face was a smile, predatory, parental, politic, profound. 

"Aqua pura, one pint, " said he to the druggist. "Sodium chloride, ten grains. Fiat solution. And don't try to skin me, because I knowall about the number of gallons of H2O in the Croton reservoir, andI always use the other ingredient on my potatoes. "

"Fifteen cents, " said the druggist, with a wink after he hadcompounded the order. "I see you understand pharmacy. A dollar isthe regular price. "

"To gulls, " said Morley, smilingly. 

He settled the wrapped bottle carefully in the child's arms andescorted him to the corner. In his own pocket he dropped the 85cents accruing to him by virtue of his chemical knowledge. 

"Look out for the cars, sonny, " he said, cheerfully, to his smallvictim. 

Two street cars suddenly swooped in opposite directions upon theyoungster. Morley dashed between them and pinned the infantilemessenger by the neck, holding him in safety. Then from the cornerof his street he sent him on his way, swindled, happy, and stickywith vile, cheap candy from the Italian's fruit stand. 

Morley went to a restaurant and ordered a sirloin and a pint ofinexpensive Chateau Breuille. He laughed noiselessly, but sogenuinely that the waiter ventured to premise that good news hadcome his way. 

"Why, no, " said Morley, who seldom held conversation with any one. "It is not that. It is something else that amuses me. Do you knowwhat three divisions of people are easiest to over-reach intransactions of all kinds?"

"Sure, " said the waiter, calculating the size of the tip promised bythe careful knot of Morley's tie; "there's the buyers from the drygoods stores in the South during August, and honeymooners fromStaten Island, and"--

"Wrong!" said Morley, chuckling happily. "The answer is just--men, women and children. The world--well, say New York and as faras summer boarders can swim out from Long Island--is full ofgreenhorns. Two minutes longer on the broiler would have made thissteak fit to be eaten by a gentleman, Francois. "

"If yez t'inks it's on de bum, " said the waiter, "Oi'll"--

Morley lifted his hand in protest--slightly martyred protest. 

"It will do, " he said, magnanimously. "And now, green Chartreuse, frappe and a demi-tasse. "

Morley went out leisurely and stood on a corner where two tradefularteries of the city cross. With a solitary dime in his pocket, hestood on the curb watching with confident, cynical, smiling eyes thetides of people that flowed past him. Into that stream he must casthis net and draw fish for his further sustenance and need. GoodIzaak Walton had not the half of his self-reliance and bait-lore. 

A joyful party of four--two women and two men--fell upon him withcries of delight. There was a dinner party on--where had he been fora fortnight past?--what luck to thus run upon him! They surroundedand engulfed him--he must join them--tra la la--and the rest. 

One with a white hat plume curving to the shoulder touched hissleeve, and cast at the others a triumphant look that said: "Seewhat I can do with him?" and added her queen's command to theinvitations. 

"I leave you to imagine, " said Morley, pathetically, "how itdesolates me to forego the pleasure. But my friend Carruthers, ofthe New York Yacht Club, is to pick me up here in his motor car at8. "

The white plume tossed, and the quartet danced like midges around anarc light down the frolicsome way. 

Morley stood, turning over and over the dime in his pocket andlaughing gleefully to himself. "'Front, '" he chanted under hisbreath; "'front' does it. It is trumps in the game. How they take itin! Men, women and children--forgeries, water-and-salt lies--howthey all take it in!"

An old man with an ill-fitting suit, a straggling gray beard and acorpulent umbrella hopped from the conglomeration of cabs and streetcars to the sidewalk at Morley's side. 

"Stranger, " said he, "excuse me for troubling you, but do you knowanybody in this here town named Solomon Smothers? He's my son, andI've come down from Ellenville to visit him. Be darned if I knowwhat I done with his street and number. "

"I do not, sir, " said Morley, half closing his eyes to veil the joyin them. "You had better apply to the police. "

"The police!" said the old man. "I ain't done nothin' to call in thepolice about. I just come down to see Ben. He lives in a five-storyhouse, he writes me. If you know anybody by that name and could"--

"I told you I did not, " said Morley, coldly. "I know no one by thename of Smithers, and I advise you to"--

"Smothers not Smithers, " interrupted the old man hopefully. "Aheavy-sot man, sandy complected, about twenty-nine, two front teethout, about five foot"--

"Oh, 'Smothers!'" exclaimed Morley. "Sol Smothers? Why, he lives inthe next house to me. I thought you said 'Smithers. '"

Morley looked at his watch. You must have a watch. You can doit for a dollar. Better go hungry than forego a gunmetal or theninety-eight-cent one that the railroads--according to thesewatchmakers--are run by. 

"The Bishop of Long Island, " said Morley, "was to meet me hereat 8 to dine with me at the Kingfishers' Club. But I can't leavethe father of my friend Sol Smothers alone on the street. By St. Swithin, Mr. Smothers, we Wall street men have to work! Tired is noname for it! I was about to step across to the other corner and havea glass of ginger ale with a dash of sherry when you approached me. You must let me take you to Sol's house, Mr. Smothers. But, beforewe take the car I hope you will join me in"--

An hour later Morley seated himself on the end of a quiet benchin Madison Square, with a twenty-five-cent cigar between his lipsand $140 in deeply creased bills in his inside pocket. Content, light-hearted, ironical, keenly philosophic, he watched the moondrifting in and out amidst a maze of flying clouds. An old, raggedman with a low-bowed head sat at the other end of the bench. 

Presently the old man stirred and looked at his bench companion. InMorley's appearance he seemed to recognize something superior to theusual nightly occupants of the benches. 

"Kind sir, " he whined, "if you could spare a dime or even a fewpennies to one who"--

Morley cut short his stereotyped appeal by throwing him a dollar. 

"God bless you!" said the old man. "I've been trying to find workfor"--

"Work!" echoed Morley with his ringing laugh. "You are a fool, myfriend. The world is a rock to you, no doubt; but you must be anAaron and smite it with your rod. Then things better than water willgush out of it for you. That is what the world is for. It gives tome whatever I want from it. "

"God has blessed you, " said the old man. "It is only work that Ihave known. And now I can get no more. "

"I must go home, " said Morley, rising and buttoning his coat. "Istopped here only for a smoke. I hope you may find work. "

"May your kindness be rewarded this night, " said the old man. 

"Oh, " said Morley, "you have your wish already. I am satisfied. Ithink good luck follows me like a dog. I am for yonder bright hotelacross the square for the night. And what a moon that is lightingup the city to-night. I think no one enjoys the moonlight and suchlittle things as I do. Well, a good-night to you. "

Morley walked to the corner where he would cross to his hotel. Heblew slow streams of smoke from his cigar heavenward. A policemanpassing saluted to his benign nod. What a fine moon it was. 

The clock struck nine as a girl just entering womanhood stopped onthe corner waiting for the approaching car. She was hurrying as ifhomeward from employment or delay. Her eyes were clear and pure, shewas dressed in simple white, she looked eagerly for the car andneither to the right nor the left. 

Morley knew her. Eight years before he had sat on the same bench withher at school. There had been no sentiment between them--nothing butthe friendship of innocent days. 

But he turned down the side street to a quiet spot and laid hissuddenly burning face against the cool iron of a lamp-post, and saiddully:

"God! I wish I could die. "

THE BUYER FROM CACTUS CITY

It is well that hay fever and colds do not obtain in the healthfulvicinity of Cactus City, Texas, for the dry goods emporium ofNavarro & Platt, situated there, is not to be sneezed at. 

Twenty thousand people in Cactus City scatter their silver coin withliberal hands for the things that their hearts desire. The bulk ofthis semiprecious metal goes to Navarro & Platt. Their huge brickbuilding covers enough ground to graze a dozen head of sheep. Youcan buy of them a rattlesnake-skin necktie, an automobile or aneighty-five dollar, latest style, ladies' tan coat in twentydifferent shades. Navarro & Platt first introduced pennies west ofthe Colorado River. They had been ranchmen with business heads, whosaw that the world did not necessarily have to cease its revolutionsafter free grass went out. 

Every Spring, Navarro, senior partner, fifty-five, half Spanish, cosmopolitan, able, polished, had "gone on" to New York to buygoods. This year he shied at taking up the long trail. He wasundoubtedly growing older; and he looked at his watch several timesa day before the hour came for his siesta. 

"John, " he said, to his junior partner, "you shall go on this yearto buy the goods. "

Platt looked tired. 

"I'm told, " said he, "that New York is a plumb dead town; but I'llgo. I can take a whirl in San Antone for a few days on my way andhave some fun. "

Two weeks later a man in a Texas full dress suit--black frock coat, broad-brimmed soft white hat, and lay-down collar 3-4 inch high, with black, wrought iron necktie--entered the wholesale cloak andsuit establishment of Zizzbaum & Son, on lower Broadway. 

Old Zizzbaum had the eye of an osprey, the memory of an elephant anda mind that unfolded from him in three movements like the puzzle ofthe carpenter's rule. He rolled to the front like a brunette polarbear, and shook Platt's hand. 

"And how is the good Mr. Navarro in Texas?" he said. "The trip wastoo long for him this year, so? We welcome Mr. Platt instead. "

"A bull's eye, " said Platt, "and I'd give forty acres of unirrigatedPecos County land to know how you did it. "

"I knew, " grinned Zizzbaum, "just as I know that the rainfall in ElPaso for the year was 28. 5 inches, or an increase of 15 inches, andthat therefore Navarro & Platt will buy a $15, 000 stock of suitsthis spring instead of $10, 000, as in a dry year. But that will beto-morrow. There is first a cigar in my private office that willremove from your mouth the taste of the ones you smuggle across theRio Grande and like--because they are smuggled. "

It was late in the afternoon and business for the day had ended, Zizzbaum left Platt with a half-smoked cigar, and came out of theprivate office to Son, who was arranging his diamond scarfpin beforea mirror, ready to leave. 

"Abey, " he said, "you will have to take Mr. Platt around to-nightand show him things. They are customers for ten years. Mr. Navarroand I we played chess every moment of spare time when he came. Thatis good, but Mr. Platt is a young man and this is his first visit toNew York. He should amuse easily. "

"All right, " said Abey, screwing the guard tightly on his pin. "I'lltake him on. After he's seen the Flatiron and the head waiter at theHotel Astor and heard the phonograph play 'Under the Old Apple Tree'it'll be half past ten, and Mr. Texas will be ready to roll up inhis blanket. I've got a supper engagement at 11:30, but he'll be allto the Mrs. Winslow before then. "

The next morning at 10 Platt walked into the store ready to dobusiness. He had a bunch of hyacinths pinned on his lapel. Zizzbaumhimself waited on him. Navarro & Platt were good customers, and neverfailed to take their discount for cash. 

"And what did you think of our little town?" asked Zizzbaum, withthe fatuous smile of the Manhattanite. 

"I shouldn't care to live in it, " said the Texan. "Your son and Iknocked around quite a little last night. You've got good water, butCactus City is better lit up. "

"We've got a few lights on Broadway, don't you think, Mr. Platt?"

"And a good many shadows, " said Platt. "I think I like your horsesbest. I haven't seen a crow-bait since I've been in town. "

Zizzbaum led him up stairs to show the samples of suits. 

"Ask Miss Asher to come, " he said to a clerk. 

Miss Asher came, and Platt, of Navarro & Platt, felt for the firsttime the wonderful bright light of romance and glory descend uponhim. He stood still as a granite cliff above the cañon of theColorado, with his wide-open eyes fixed upon her. She noticed hislook and flushed a little, which was contrary to her custom. 

Miss Asher was the crack model of Zizzbaum & Son. She was of theblond type known as "medium, " and her measurements even wentthe required 38-25-42 standard a little better. She had been atZizzbaum's two years, and knew her business. Her eye was bright, butcool; and had she chosen to match her gaze against the optic of thefamed basilisk, that fabulous monster's gaze would have wavered andsoftened first. Incidentally, she knew buyers. 

"Now, Mr. Platt, " said Zizzbaum, "I want you to see these princessgowns in the light shades. They will be the thing in your climate. This first, if you please, Miss Asher. "

Swiftly in and out of the dressing-room the prize model flew, eachtime wearing a new costume and looking more stunning with everychange. She posed with absolute self-possession before the strickenbuyer, who stood, tongue-tied and motionless, while Zizzbaum oratedoilily of the styles. On the model's face was her faint, impersonalprofessional smile that seemed to cover something like weariness orcontempt. 

When the display was over Platt seemed to hesitate. Zizzbaum was alittle anxious, thinking that his customer might be inclined to tryelsewhere. But Platt was only looking over in his mind the bestbuilding sites in Cactus City, trying to select one on which tobuild a house for his wife-to-be--who was just then in thedressing-room taking off an evening gown of lavender and tulle. 

"Take your time, Mr. Platt, " said Zizzbaum. "Think it over to-night. You won't find anybody else meet our prices on goods like these. I'm afraid you're having a dull time in New York, Mr. Platt. Ayoung man like you--of course, you miss the society of the ladies. Wouldn't you like a nice young lady to take out to dinner thisevening? Miss Asher, now, is a very nice young lady; she will makeit agreeable for you. "

"Why, she doesn't know me, " said Platt, wonderingly. "She doesn'tknow anything about me. Would she go? I'm not acquainted with her. "

"Would she go?" repeated Zizzbaum, with uplifted eyebrows. "Sure, she would go. I will introduce you. Sure, she would go. "

He called Miss Asher loudly. 

She came, calm and slightly contemptuous, in her white shirt waistand plain black skirt. 

"Mr. Platt would like the pleasure of your company to dinner thisevening, " said Zizzbaum, walking away. 

"Sure, " said Miss Asher, looking at the ceiling. "I'd be muchpleased. Nine-eleven West Twentieth street. What time?"

"Say seven o'clock. "

"All right, but please don't come ahead of time. I room with aschool teacher, and she doesn't allow any gentlemen to call in theroom. There isn't any parlor, so you'll have to wait in the hall. I'll be ready. "

At half past seven Platt and Miss Asher sat at a table in a Broadwayrestaurant. She was dressed in a plain, filmy black. Platt didn'tknow that it was all a part of her day's work. 

With the unobtrusive aid of a good waiter he managed to order arespectable dinner, minus the usual Broadway preliminaries. 

Miss Asher flashed upon him a dazzling smile. 

"Mayn't I have something to drink?" she asked. 

"Why, certainly, " said Platt. "Anything you want. "

"A dry Martini, " she said to the waiter. 

When it was brought and set before her Platt reached over and tookit away. 

"What is this?" he asked. 

"A cocktail, of course. "

"I thought it was some kind of tea you ordered. This is liquor. Youcan't drink this. What is your first name?"

"To my intimate friends, " said Miss Asher, freezingly, "it is'Helen. '"

"Listen, Helen, " said Platt, leaning over the table. "For many yearsevery time the spring flowers blossomed out on the prairies I got tothinking of somebody that I'd never seen or heard of. I knew it wasyou the minute I saw you yesterday. I'm going back home to-morrow, and you're going with me. I know it, for I saw it in your eyes whenyou first looked at me. You needn't kick, for you've got to fallinto line. Here's a little trick I picked out for you on my wayover. "

He flicked a two-carat diamond solitaire ring across the table. MissAsher flipped it back to him with her fork. 

"Don't get fresh, " she said, severely. 

"I'm worth a hundred thousand dollars, " said Platt. "I'll build youthe finest house in West Texas. "

"You can't buy me, Mr. Buyer, " said Miss Asher, "if you had ahundred million. I didn't think I'd have to call you down. Youdidn't look like the others to me at first, but I see you're allalike. "

"All who?" asked Platt. 

"All you buyers. You think because we girls have to go out to dinnerwith you or lose our jobs that you're privileged to say what youplease. Well, forget it. I thought you were different from theothers, but I see I was mistaken. "

Platt struck his fingers on the table with a gesture of sudden, illuminating satisfaction. 

"I've got it!" he exclaimed, almost hilariously--"the Nicholsonplace, over on the north side. There's a big grove of live oaks anda natural lake. The old house can be pulled down and the new one setfurther back. "

"Put out your pipe, " said Miss Asher. "I'm sorry to wake you up, butyou fellows might as well get wise, once for all, to where you stand. I'm supposed to go to dinner with you and help jolly you along soyou'll trade with old Zizzy, but don't expect to find me in any ofthe suits you buy. "

"Do you mean to tell me, " said Platt, "that you go out this way withcustomers, and they all--they all talk to you like I have?"

"They all make plays, " said Miss Asher. "But I must say that you'vegot 'em beat in one respect. They generally talk diamonds, whileyou've actually dug one up. "

"How long have you been working, Helen?"

"Got my name pat, haven't you? I've been supporting myself for eightyears. I was a cash girl and a wrapper and then a shop girl until Iwas grown, and then I got to be a suit model. Mr. Texas Man, don'tyou think a little wine would make this dinner a little less dry?"

"You're not going to drink wine any more, dear. It's awful to thinkhow-- I'll come to the store to-morrow and get you. I want you topick out an automobile before we leave. That's all we need to buyhere. "

"Oh, cut that out. If you knew how sick I am of hearing such talk. "

After the dinner they walked down Broadway and came upon Diana'slittle wooded park. The trees caught Platt's eye at once, and hemust turn along under the winding walk beneath them. The lightsshone upon two bright tears in the model's eyes. 

"I don't like that, " said Platt. "What's the matter?"

"Don't you mind, " said Miss Asher. "Well, it's because--well, Ididn't think you were that kind when I first saw you. But you areall like. And now will you take me home, or will I have to call acop?"

Platt took her to the door of her boarding-house. They stood for aminute in the vestibule. She looked at him with such scorn in hereyes that even his heart of oak began to waver. His arm was half wayaround her waist, when she struck him a stinging blow on the facewith her open hand. 

As he stepped back a ring fell from somewhere and bounded on thetiled floor. Platt groped for it and found it. 

"Now, take your useless diamond and go, Mr. Buyer, " she said. 

"This was the other one--the wedding ring, " said the Texan, holdingthe smooth gold band on the palm of his hand. 

Miss Asher's eyes blazed upon him in the half darkness. 

"Was that what you meant?--did you"--

Somebody opened the door from inside the house. 

"Good-night, " said Platt. "I'll see you at the store to-morrow. "

Miss Asher ran up to her room and shook the school teacher until shesat up in bed ready to scream "Fire!"

"Where is it?" she cried. 

"That's what I want to know, " said the model. "You've studiedgeography, Emma, and you ought to know. Where is a town calledCac--Cac--Carac--Caracas City, I think, they called it?"

"How dare you wake me up for that?" said the school teacher. "Caracas is in Venezuela, of course. "

"What's it like?"

"Why, it's principally earthquakes and negroes and monkeys andmalarial fever and volcanoes. "

"I don't care, " said Miss Asher, blithely; "I'm going thereto-morrow. "

THE BADGE OF POLICEMAN O'ROON

It cannot be denied that men and women have looked upon one anotherfor the first time and become instantly enamored. It is a riskyprocess, this love at first sight, before she has seen him inBradstreet or he has seen her in curl papers. But these things dohappen; and one instance must form a theme for this story--thoughnot, thank Heaven, to the overshadowing of more vital and importantsubjects, such as drink, policemen, horses and earldoms. 

During a certain war a troop calling itself the Gentle Riders rodeinto history and one or two ambuscades. The Gentle Riders wererecruited from the aristocracy of the wild men of the West and thewild men of the aristocracy of the East. In khaki there is littletelling them one from another, so they became good friends andcomrades all around. 

Ellsworth Remsen, whose old Knickerbocker descent atoned for hismodest rating at only ten millions, ate his canned beef gayly by thecampfires of the Gentle Riders. The war was a great lark to him, sothat he scarcely regretted polo and planked shad. 

One of the troopers was a well set up, affable, cool young man, whocalled himself O'Roon. To this young man Remsen took an especialliking. The two rode side by side during the famous mooted up-hillcharge that was disputed so hotly at the time by the Spaniards andafterward by the Democrats. 

After the war Remsen came back to his polo and shad. One day a wellset up, affable, cool young man disturbed him at his club, and heand O'Roon were soon pounding each other and exchanging opprobriousepithets after the manner of long-lost friends. O'Roon looked seedyand out of luck and perfectly contented. But it seemed that hiscontent was only apparent. 

"Get me a job, Remsen, " he said. "I've just handed a barber my lastshilling. "

"No trouble at all, " said Remsen. "I know a lot of men who havebanks and stores and things downtown. Any particular line youfancy?"

"Yes, " said O'Roon, with a look of interest. "I took a walk in yourCentral Park this morning. I'd like to be one of those bobbies onhorseback. That would be about the ticket. Besides, it's the onlything I could do. I can ride a little and the fresh air suits me. Think you could land that for me?"

Remsen was sure that he could. And in a very short time he did. Andthey who were not above looking at mounted policemen might have seena well set up, affable, cool young man on a prancing chestnut steedattending to his duties along the driveways of the park. 

And now at the extreme risk of wearying old gentlemen who carryleather fob chains, and elderly ladies who--but no! grandmotherherself yet thrills at foolish, immortal Romeo--there must be a hintof love at first sight. 

It came just as Remsen was strolling into Fifth avenue from his cluba few doors away. 

A motor car was creeping along foot by foot, impeded by a freshetof vehicles that filled the street. In the car was a chauffeur andan old gentleman with snowy side whiskers and a Scotch plaid capwhich could not be worn while automobiling except by a personage. Not even a wine agent would dare do it. But these two were of noconsequence--except, perhaps, for the guiding of the machine andthe paying for it. At the old gentleman's side sat a young ladymore beautiful than pomegranate blossoms, more exquisite than thefirst quarter moon viewed at twilight through the tops of oleanders. Remsen saw her and knew his fate. He could have flung himself underthe very wheels that conveyed her, but he knew that would be the lastmeans of attracting the attention of those who ride in motor cars. Slowly the auto passed, and, if we place the poets above the autoists, carried the heart of Remsen with it. Here was a large city ofmillions, and many women who at a certain distance appear to resemblepomegranate blossoms. Yet he hoped to see her again; for each onefancies that his romance has its own tutelary guardian and divinity. 

Luckily for Remsen's peace of mind there came a diversion in theguise of a reunion of the Gentle Riders of the city. There werenot many of them--perhaps a score--and there was wassail andthings to eat, and speeches and the Spaniard was bearded again inrecapitulation. And when daylight threatened them the survivorsprepared to depart. But some remained upon the battlefield. One ofthese was Trooper O'Roon, who was not seasoned to potent liquids. His legs declined to fulfil the obligations they had sworn to thepolice department. 

"I'm stewed, Remsen, " said O'Roon to his friend. "Why do theybuild hotels that go round and round like catherine wheels?They'll take away my shield and break me. I can think and talkcon-con-consec-sec-secutively, but I s-s-stammer with my feet. I'vegot to go on duty in three hours. The jig is up, Remsen. The jig isup, I tell you. "

"Look at me, " said Remsen, who was his smiling self, pointing to hisown face; "whom do you see here?"

"Goo' fellow, " said O'Roon, dizzily, "Goo' old Remsen. "

"Not so, " said Remsen. "You see Mounted Policeman O'Roon. Look atyour face--no; you can't do that without a glass--but look at mine, and think of yours. How much alike are we? As two French _tabled'hote_ dinners. With your badge, on your horse, in your uniform, will I charm nurse-maids and prevent the grass from growing underpeople's feet in the Park this day. I will have your badge and yourhonor, besides having the jolliest lark I've been blessed with sincewe licked Spain. "

Promptly on time the counterfeit presentment of Mounted PolicemanO'Roon single-footed into the Park on his chestnut steed. In auniform two men who are unlike will look alike; two who somewhatresemble each other in feature and figure will appear as twinbrothers. So Remsen trotted down the bridle paths, enjoying himselfhugely, so few real pleasures do ten-millionaires have. 

Along the driveway in the early morning spun a victoria drawn by apair of fiery bays. There was something foreign about the affair, for the Park is rarely used in the morning except by unimportantpeople who love to be healthy, poor and wise. In the vehicle sat anold gentleman with snowy side-whiskers and a Scotch plaid cap whichcould not be worn while driving except by a personage. At his sidesat the lady of Remsen's heart--the lady who looked like pomegranateblossoms and the gibbous moon. 

Remsen met them coming. At the instant of their passing her eyeslooked into his, and but for the ever coward's heart of a true loverhe could have sworn that she flushed a faint pink. He trotted on fortwenty yards, and then wheeled his horse at the sound of runawayhoofs. The bays had bolted. 

Remsen sent his chestnut after the victoria like a shot. There waswork cut out for the impersonator of Policeman O'Roon. The chestnutranged alongside the off bay thirty seconds after the chase began, rolled his eye back at Remsen, and said in the only manner open topolicemen's horses:

"Well, you duffer, are you going to do your share? You're notO'Roon, but it seems to me if you'd lean to the right you couldreach the reins of that foolish slow-running bay--ah! you're allright; O'Roon couldn't have done it more neatly!"

The runaway team was tugged to an inglorious halt by Remsen'stough muscles. The driver released his hands from the wrappedreins, jumped from his seat and stood at the heads of the team. The chestnut, approving his new rider, danced and pranced, revilingequinely the subdued bays. Remsen, lingering, was dimly conscious ofa vague, impossible, unnecessary old gentleman in a Scotch cap whotalked incessantly about something. And he was acutely conscious ofa pair of violet eyes that would have drawn Saint Pyrites from hisiron pillar--or whatever the allusion is--and of the lady's smileand look--a little frightened, but a look that, with the ever cowardheart of a true lover, he could not yet construe. They were askinghis name and bestowing upon him wellbred thanks for his heroic deed, and the Scotch cap was especially babbling and insistent. But theeloquent appeal was in the eyes of the lady. 

A little thrill of satisfaction ran through Remsen, because he had aname to give which, without undue pride, was worthy of being spokenin high places, and a small fortune which, with due pride, he couldleave at his end without disgrace. 

He opened his lips to speak and closed them again. 

Who was he? Mounted Policeman O'Roon. The badge and the honor ofhis comrade were in his hands. If Ellsworth Remsen, ten-millionaireand Knickerbocker, had just rescued pomegranate blossoms and Scotchcap from possible death, where was Policeman O'Roon? Off his beat, exposed, disgraced, discharged. Love had come, but before that therehad been something that demanded precedence--the fellowship of menon battlefields fighting an alien foe. 

Remsen touched his cap, looked between the chestnut's ears, and tookrefuge in vernacularity. 

"Don't mention it, " he said stolidly. "We policemen are paid to dothese things. It's our duty. "

And he rode away--rode away cursing _noblesse oblige_, but knowing hecould never have done anything else. 

At the end of the day Remsen sent the chestnut to his stable andwent to O'Roon's room. The policeman was again a well set up, affable, cool young man who sat by the window smoking cigars. 

"I wish you and the rest of the police force and all badges, horses, brass buttons and men who can't drink two glasses of _brut_ withoutgetting upset were at the devil, " said Remsen feelingly. 

O'Roon smiled with evident satisfaction. 

"Good old Remsen, " he said, affably, "I know all about it. Theytrailed me down and cornered me here two hours ago. There was alittle row at home, you know, and I cut sticks just to show them. Idon't believe I told you that my Governor was the Earl of Ardsley. Funny you should bob against them in the Park. If you damaged thathorse of mine I'll never forgive you. I'm going to buy him and takehim back with me. Oh, yes, and I think my sister--Lady Angela, youknow--wants particularly for you to come up to the hotel with methis evening. Didn't lose my badge, did you, Remsen? I've got toturn that in at Headquarters when I resign. "

BRICKDUST ROW

Blinker was displeased. A man of less culture and poise and wealthwould have sworn. But Blinker always remembered that he was agentleman--a thing that no gentleman should do. So he merely lookedbored and sardonic while he rode in a hansom to the center ofdisturbance, which was the Broadway office of Lawyer Oldport, whowas agent for the Blinker estate. 

"I don't see, " said Blinker, "why I should be always signingconfounded papers. I am packed, and was to have left for the NorthWoods this morning. Now I must wait until to-morrow morning. I hatenight trains. My best razors are, of course, at the bottom of someunidentifiable trunk. It is a plot to drive me to bay rum and amonologueing, thumb-handed barber. Give me a pen that doesn'tscratch. I hate pens that scratch. "

"Sit down, " said double-chinned, gray Lawyer Oldport. "The worst hasnot been told you. Oh, the hardships of the rich! The papers are notyet ready to sign. They will be laid before you to-morrow at eleven. You will miss another day. Twice shall the barber tweak the helplessnose of a Blinker. Be thankful that your sorrows do not embrace ahaircut. "

"If, " said Blinker, rising, "the act did not involve more signing ofpapers I would take my business out of your hands at once. Give me acigar, please. "

"If, " said Lawyer Oldport, "I had cared to see an old friend's songulped down at one mouthful by sharks I would have ordered you totake it away long ago. Now, let's quit fooling, Alexander. Besidesthe grinding task of signing your name some thirty times to-morrow, I must impose upon you the consideration of a matter of business--ofbusiness, and I may say humanity or right. I spoke to you aboutthis five years ago, but you would not listen--you were in a hurryfor a coaching trip, I think. The subject has come up again. Theproperty--"

"Oh, property!" interrupted Blinker. "Dear Mr. Oldport, Ithink you mentioned to-morrow. Let's have it all at one doseto-morrow--signatures and property and snappy rubber bands and thatsmelly sealing-wax and all. Have luncheon with me? Well, I'll tryto remember to drop in at eleven to-morrow. Morning. "

The Blinker wealth was in lands, tenements and hereditaments, as thelegal phrase goes. Lawyer Oldport had once taken Alexander in hislittle pulmonary gasoline runabout to see the many buildings androws of buildings that he owned in the city. For Alexander wassole heir. They had amused Blinker very much. The houses looked soincapable of producing the big sums of money that Lawyer Oldportkept piling up in banks for him to spend. 

In the evening Blinker went to one of his clubs, intending to dine. Nobody was there except some old fogies playing whist who spoke tohim with grave politeness and glared at him with savage contempt. Everybody was out of town. But here he was kept in like a schoolboyto write his name over and over on pieces of paper. His wounds weredeep. 

Blinker turned his back on the fogies, and said to the club stewardwho had come forward with some nonsense about cold fresh salmon roe:

"Symons, I'm going to Coney Island. " He said it as one might say:"All's off; I'm going to jump into the river. "

The joke pleased Symons. He laughed within a sixteenth of a note ofthe audibility permitted by the laws governing employees. 

"Certainly, sir, " he tittered. "Of course, sir, I think I can seeyou at Coney, Mr. Blinker. "

Blinker got a pager and looked up the movements of Sundaysteamboats. Then he found a cab at the first corner and drove to aNorth River pier. He stood in line, as democratic as you or I, andbought a ticket, and was trampled upon and shoved forward until, at last, he found himself on the upper deck of the boat staringbrazenly at a girl who sat alone upon a camp stool. But Blinker didnot intend to be brazen; the girl was so wonderfully good lookingthat he forgot for one minute that he was the prince incog, andbehaved just as he did in society. 

She was looking at him, too, and not severely. A puff of windthreatened Blinker's straw hat. He caught it warily and settled itagain. The movement gave the effect of a bow. The girl nodded andsmiled, and in another instant he was seated at her side. She wasdressed all in white, she was paler than Blinker imagined milkmaidsand girls of humble stations to be, but she was as tidy as a cherryblossom, and her steady, supremely frank gray eyes looked out fromthe intrepid depths of an unshadowed and untroubled soul. 

"How dare you raise your hat to me?" she asked, with a smile-redeemedseverity. 

"I didn't, " Blinker said, but he quickly covered the mistake byextending it to "I didn't know how to keep from it after I saw you. "

"I do not allow gentlemen to sit by me to whom I have not beenintroduced, " she said, with a sudden haughtiness that deceived him. He rose reluctantly, but her clear, teasing laugh brought him downto his chair again. 

"I guess you weren't going far, " she declared, with beauty'smagnificent self-confidence. 

"Are you going to Coney Island?" asked Blinker. 

"Me?" She turned upon him wide-open eyes full of bantering surprise. "Why, what a question! Can't you see that I'm riding a bicycle inthe park?" Her drollery took the form of impertinence. 

"And I am laying brick on a tall factory chimney, " said Blinker. "Mayn't we see Coney together? I'm all alone and I've never beenthere before. " "It depends, " said the girl, "on how nicely youbehave. I'll consider your application until we get there. "

Blinker took pains to provide against the rejection of hisapplication. He strove to please. To adopt the metaphor of hisnonsensical phrase, he laid brick upon brick on the tall chimney ofhis devoirs until, at length, the structure was stable and complete. The manners of the best society come around finally to simplicity;and as the girl's way was that naturally, they were on a mutualplane of communication from the beginning. 

He learned that she was twenty, and her name was Florence; that shetrimmed hats in a millinery shop; that she lived in a furnished roomwith her best chum Ella, who was cashier in a shoe store; and thata glass of milk from the bottle on the window-sill and an egg thatboils itself while you twist up your hair makes a breakfast goodenough for any one. Florence laughed when she heard "Blinker. "

"Well, " she said. "It certainly slows that you have imagination. Itgives the 'Smiths' a chance for a little rest, anyhow. "

They landed at Coney, and were dashed on the crest of a great humanwave of mad pleasure-seekers into the walks and avenues of Fairylandgone into vaudeville. 

With a curious eye, a critical mind and a fairly withheld judgmentBlinker considered the temples, pagodas and kiosks of popularizeddelights. Hoi polloi trampled, hustled and crowded him. Basketparties bumped him; sticky children tumbled, howling, under hisfeet, candying his clothes. Insolent youths strolling among thebooths with hard-won canes under one arm and easily won girls onthe other, blew defiant smoke from cheap cigars into his face. Thepublicity gentlemen with megaphones, each before his own stupendousattraction, roared like Niagara in his ears. Music of all kinds thatcould be tortured from brass, reed, hide or string, fought in theair to grain space for its vibrations against its competitors. Butwhat held Blinker in awful fascination was the mob, the multitude, the proletariat shrieking, struggling, hurrying, panting, hurlingitself in incontinent frenzy, with unabashed abandon, into theridiculous sham palaces of trumpery and tinsel pleasures, Thevulgarity of it, its brutal overriding of all the tenets ofrepression and taste that were held by his caste, repelled himstrongly. 

In the midst of his disgust he turned and looked down at Florenceby his side. She was ready with her quick smile and upturned, happyeyes, as bright and clear as the water in trout pools. The eyes weresaying that they had the right to be shining and happy, for wastheir owner not with her (for the present) Man, her Gentleman Friendand holder of the keys to the enchanted city of fun?

Blinker did not read her look accurately, but by some miracle hesuddenly saw Coney aright. 

He no longer saw a mass of vulgarians seeking gross joys. He nowlooked clearly upon a hundred thousand true idealists. Theiroffenses were wiped out. Counterfeit and false though the garishjoys of these spangled temples were, he perceived that deepunder the gilt surface they offered saving and apposite balm andsatisfaction to the restless human heart. Here, at least, was thehusk of Romance, the empty but shining casque of Chivalry, thebreath-catching though safe-guarded dip and flight of Adventure, themagic carpet that transports you to the realms of fairyland, thoughits journey be through but a few poor yards of space. He no longersaw a rabble, but his brothers seeking the ideal. There was no magicof poesy here or of art; but the glamour of their imagination turnedyellow calico into cloth of gold and the megaphones into the silvertrumpets of joy's heralds. 

Almost humbled, Blinker rolled up the shirt sleeves of his mind andjoined the idealists. 

"You are the lady doctor, " he said to Florence. "How shall we goabout doing this jolly conglomeration of fairy tales, incorporated?"

"We will begin there, " said the Princess, pointing to a fun pagodaon the edge of the sea, "and we will take them all in, one by one. "

They caught the eight o'clock returning boat and sat, filled withpleasant fatigue, against the rail in the bow, listening to theItalians' fiddle and harp. Blinker had thrown off all care. TheNorth Woods seemed to him an uninhabitable wilderness. What a fusshe had made over signing his name--pooh! he could sign it a hundredtimes. And her name was as pretty as she was--"Florence, " he said itto himself a great many times. 

As the boat was nearing its pier in the North River a two-funnelled, drab, foreign-looking sea-going steamer was dropping down toward thebay. The boat turned its nose in toward its slip. The steamer veeredas if to seek midstream, and then yawed, seemed to increase itsspeed and struck the Coney boat on the side near the stern, cuttinginto it with a terrifying shock and crash. 

While the six hundred passengers on the boat were mostly tumblingabout the decks in a shrieking panic the captain was shouting at thesteamer that it should not back off and leave the rent exposed forthe water to enter. But the steamer tore its way out like a savagesawfish and cleaved its heartless way, full speed ahead. 

The boat began to sink at its stern, but moved slowly toward theslip. The passengers were a frantic mob, unpleasant to behold. 

Blinker held Florence tightly until the boat had righted itself. She made no sound or sign of fear. He stood on a camp stool, rippedoff the slats above his head and pulled down a number of the lifepreservers. He began to buckle one around Florence. The rottencanvas split and the fraudulent granulated cork came pouring out ina stream. Florence caught a handful of it and laughed gleefully. 

"It looks like breakfast food, " she said. "Take it off. They're nogood. "

She unbuckled it and threw it on the deck. She made Blinker sit downand sat by his side and put her hand in his. "What'll you bet wedon't reach the pier all right?" she said and began to hum a song. 

And now the captain moved among the passengers and compelled order. The boat would undoubtedly make her slip, he said, and ordered thewomen and children to the bow, where they could land first. Theboat, very low in the water at the stern, tried gallantly to makehis promise good. 

"Florence, " said Blinker, as she held him close by an arm and hand, "I love you. "

"That's what they all say, " she replied, lightly. 

"I am not one of 'they all, '" he persisted. "I never knew any one Icould love before. I could pass my life with you and be happy everyday. I am rich. I can make things all right for you. "

"That's what they all say, " said the girl again, weaving the wordsinto her little, reckless song. 

"Don't say that again, " said Blinker in a tone that made her look athim in frank surprise. 

"Why shouldn't I say it?" she asked calmly. "They all do. "

"Who are 'they'?" he asked, jealous for the first time in hisexistence. 

"Why, the fellows I know. "

"Do you know so many?"

"Oh, well, I'm not a wall flower, " she answered with modestcomplacency. 

"Where do you see these--these men? At your home?"

"Of course not. I meet them just as I did you. Sometimes on theboat, sometimes in the park, sometimes on the street. I'm a prettygood judge of a man. I can tell in a minute if a fellow is one whois likely to get fresh. "

"What do you mean by 'fresh?'"

"Why, try to kiss you--me, I mean. "

"Do any of them try that?" asked Blinker, clenching his teeth. 

"Sure. All men do. You know that. "

"Do you allow them?"

"Some. Not many. They won't take you out anywhere unless you do. "

She turned her head and looked searchingly at Blinker. Her eyeswere as innocent as a child's. There was a puzzled look in them, as though she did not understand him. 

"What's wrong about my meeting fellows?" she asked, wonderingly. 

"Everything, " he answered, almost savagely. "Why don't you entertainyour company in the house where you live? Is it necessary to pick upTom, Dick and Harry on the streets?"

She kept her absolutely ingenuous eyes upon his. "If you could seethe place where I live you wouldn't ask that. I live in BrickdustRow. They call it that because there's red dust from the brickscrumbling over everything. I've lived there for more than fouryears. There's no place to receive company. You can't have anybodycome to your room. What else is there to do? A girl has got to meetthe men, hasn't she?"

"Yes, " he said, hoarsely. "A girl has got to meet a--has got to meetthe men. "

"The first time one spoke to me on the street, " she continued, "Iran home and cried all night. But you get used to it. I meet a goodmany nice fellows at church. I go on rainy days and stand in thevestibule until one comes up with an umbrella. I wish there was aparlor, so I could ask you to call, Mr. Blinker--are you really sureit isn't 'Smith, ' now?"

The boat landed safely. Blinker had a confused impression of walkingwith the girl through quiet crosstown streets until she stopped at acorner and held out her hand. 

"I live just one more block over, " she said. "Thank you for a verypleasant afternoon. "

Blinker muttered something and plunged northward till he found acab. A big, gray church loomed slowly at his right. Blinker shookhis fist at it through the window. 

"I gave you a thousand dollars last, week, " he cried under hisbreath, "and she meets them in your very doors. There is somethingwrong; there is something wrong. "

At eleven the next day Blinker signed his name thirty times with anew pen provided by Lawyer Oldport. 

"Now let me go to the woods, " he said surlily. 

"You are not looking well, " said Lawyer Oldport. "The trip will doyou good. But listen, if you will, to that little matter of businessof which I spoke to you yesterday, and also five years ago. Thereare some buildings, fifteen in number, of which there are newfive-year leases to be signed. Your father contemplated a change inthe lease provisions, but never made it. He intended that the parlorsof these houses should not be sub-let, but that the tenants should beallowed to use them for reception rooms. These houses are in theshopping district, and are mainly tenanted by young working girls. As it is they are forced to seek companionship outside. This row ofred brick--"

Blinker interrupted him with a loud, discordant laugh. 

"Brickdust Row for an even hundred, " he cried. "And I own it. Have Iguessed right?"

"The tenants have some such name for it, " said Lawyer Oldport. 

Blinker arose and jammed his hat down to his eyes. 

"Do what you please with it, " he said harshly. "Remodel it, burn it, raze it to the ground. But, man, it's too late I tell you. It's toolate. It's too late. It's too late. "

THE MAKING OF A NEW YORKER

Besides many other things, Raggles was a poet. He was called atramp; but that was only an elliptical way of saying that he was aphilosopher, an artist, a traveller, a naturalist and a discoverer. But most of all he was a poet. In all his life he never wrote aline of verse; he lived his poetry. His Odyssey would have beena Limerick, had it been written. But, to linger with the primaryproposition, Raggles was a poet. 

Raggles's specialty, had he been driven to ink and paper, would havebeen sonnets to the cities. He studied cities as women study theirreflections in mirrors; as children study the glue and sawdust of adislocated doll; as the men who write about wild animals study thecages in the zoo. A city to Raggles was not merely a pile of bricksand mortar, peopled by a certain number of inhabitants; it wasa thing with a soul characteristic and distinct; an individualconglomeration of life, with its own peculiar essence, flavor andfeeling. Two thousand miles to the north and south, east and west, Raggles wandered in poetic fervor, taking the cities to his breast. He footed it on dusty roads, or sped magnificently in freight cars, counting time as of no account. And when he had found the heart of acity and listened to its secret confession, he strayed on, restless, to another. Fickle Raggles!--but perhaps he had not met the civiccorporation that could engage and hold his critical fancy. 

Through the ancient poets we have learned that the cities arefeminine. So they were to poet Raggles; and his mind carried aconcrete and clear conception of the figure that symbolized andtypified each one that he had wooed. 

Chicago seemed to swoop down upon him with a breezy suggestion ofMrs. Partington, plumes and patchouli, and to disturb his rest witha soaring and beautiful song of future promise. But Raggles wouldawake to a sense of shivering cold and a haunting impression ofideals lost in a depressing aura of potato salad and fish. 

Thus Chicago affected him. Perhaps there is a vagueness andinaccuracy in the description; but that is Raggles's fault. Heshould have recorded his sensations in magazine poems. 

Pittsburg impressed him as the play of "Othello" performed in theRussian language in a railroad station by Dockstader's minstrels. A royal and generous lady this Pittsburg, though--homely, hearty, with flushed face, washing the dishes in a silk dress and white kidslippers, and bidding Raggles sit before the roaring fireplace anddrink champagne with his pigs' feet and fried potatoes. 

New Orleans had simply gazed down upon him from a balcony. He couldsee her pensive, starry eyes and catch the flutter of her fan, andthat was all. Only once he came face to face with her. It was atdawn, when she was flushing the red bricks of the banquette witha pail of water. She laughed and hummed a chansonette and filledRaggles's shoes with ice-cold water. Allons!

Boston construed herself to the poetic Raggles in an erratic andsingular way. It seemed to him that he had drunk cold tea and thatthe city was a white, cold cloth that had been bound tightly aroundhis brow to spur him to some unknown but tremendous mental effort. And, after all, he came to shovel snow for a livelihood; and thecloth, becoming wet, tightened its knots and could not be removed. 

Indefinite and unintelligible ideas, you will say; but yourdisapprobation should be tempered with gratitude, for these arepoets' fancies--and suppose you had come upon them in verse!

One day Raggles came and laid siege to the heart of the great cityof Manhattan. She was the greatest of all; and he wanted to learnher note in the scale; to taste and appraise and classify and solveand label her and arrange her with the other cities that had givenhim up the secret of their individuality. And here we cease to beRaggles's translator and become his chronicler. 

Raggles landed from a ferry-boat one morning and walked into thecore of the town with the blasé air of a cosmopolite. He was dressedwith care to play the rôle of an "unidentified man. " No country, race, class, clique, union, party clan or bowling association couldhave claimed him. His clothing, which had been donated to himpiece-meal by citizens of different height, but same number of inchesaround the heart, was not yet as uncomfortable to his figure asthose speciments of raiment, self-measured, that are railroaded toyou by transcontinental tailors with a suit case, suspenders, silkhandkerchief and pearl studs as a bonus. Without money--as a poetshould be--but with the ardor of an astronomer discovering a newstar in the chorus of the milky way, or a man who has seen inksuddenly flow from his fountain pen, Raggles wandered into the greatcity. 

Late in the afternoon he drew out of the roar and commotionwith a look of dumb terror on his countenance. He was defeated, puzzled, discomfited, frightened. Other cities had been to himas long primer to read; as country maidens quickly to fathom; assend-price-of-subscription-with-answer rebuses to solve; as oystercocktails to swallow; but here was one as cold, glittering, serene, impossible as a four-carat diamond in a window to a lover outsidefingering damply in his pocket his ribbon-counter salary. 

The greetings of the other cities he had known--their homespunkindliness, their human gamut of rough charity, friendly curses, garrulous curiosity and easily estimated credulity or indifference. This city of Manhattan gave him no clue; it was walled against him. Like a river of adamant it flowed past him in the streets. Never aneye was turned upon him; no voice spoke to him. His heart yearnedfor the clap of Pittsburg's sooty hand on his shoulder; forChicago's menacing but social yawp in his ear; for the pale andeleemosynary stare through the Bostonian eyeglass--even for theprecipitate but unmalicious boot-toe of Louisville or St. Louis. 

On Broadway Raggles, successful suitor of many cities, stood, bashful, like any country swain. For the first time he experiencedthe poignant humiliation of being ignored. And when he tried toreduce this brilliant, swiftly changing, ice-cold city to a formulahe failed utterly. Poet though he was, it offered him no colorsimiles, no points of comparison, no flaw in its polished facets, no handle by which he could hold it up and view its shape andstructure, as he familiarly and often contemptuously had done withother towns. The houses were interminable ramparts loopholed fordefense; the people were bright but bloodless spectres passing insinister and selfish array. 

The thing that weighed heaviest on Raggles's soul and clogged hispoet's fancy was the spirit of absolute egotism that seemed tosaturate the people as toys are saturated with paint. Each one thathe considered appeared a monster of abominable and insolent conceit. Humanity was gone from them; they were toddling idols of stone andvarnish, worshipping themselves and greedy for though oblivious ofworship from their fellow graven images. Frozen, cruel, implacable, impervious, cut to an identical pattern, they hurried on their wayslike statues brought by some miracles to motion, while soul andfeeling lay unaroused in the reluctant marble. 

Gradually Raggles became conscious of certain types. One was anelderly gentleman with a snow-white, short beard, pink, unwrinkledface and stony, sharp blue eyes, attired in the fashion of a gildedyouth, who seemed to personify the city's wealth, ripeness andfrigid unconcern. Another type was a woman, tall, beautiful, clear as a steel engraving, goddess-like, calm, clothed like theprincesses of old, with eyes as coldly blue as the reflection ofsunlight on a glacier. And another was a by-product of this town ofmarionettes--a broad, swaggering, grim, threateningly sedate fellow, with a jowl as large as a harvested wheat field, the complexion ofa baptized infant and the knuckles of a prize-fighter. This typeleaned against cigar signs and viewed the world with frappédcontumely. 

A poet is a sensitive creature, and Raggles soon shrivelled inthe bleak embrace of the undecipherable. The chill, sphinx-like, ironical, illegible, unnatural, ruthless expression of the city lefthim downcast and bewildered. Had it no heart? Better the woodpile, the scolding of vinegar-faced housewives at back doors, the kindlyspleen of bartenders behind provincial free-lunch counters, theamiable truculence of rural constables, the kicks, arrests andhappy-go-lucky chances of the other vulgar, loud, crude cities thanthis freezing heartlessness. 

Raggles summoned his courage and sought alms from the populace. Unheeding, regardless, they passed on without the wink of an eyelashto testify that they were conscious of his existence. And then hesaid to himself that this fair but pitiless city of Manhattan waswithout a soul; that its inhabitants were manikins moved by wiresand springs, and that he was alone in a great wilderness. 

Raggles started to cross the street. There was a blast, a roar, ahissing and a crash as something struck him and hurled him over andover six yards from where he had been. As he was coming down likethe stick of a rocket the earth and all the cities thereof turned toa fractured dream. 

Raggles opened his eyes. First an odor made itself known to him--anodor of the earliest spring flowers of Paradise. And then a handsoft as a falling petal touched his brow. Bending over him was thewoman clothed like the princess of old, with blue eyes, now soft andhumid with human sympathy. Under his head on the pavement were silksand furs. With Raggles's hat in his hand and with his face pinkerthan ever from a vehement burst of oratory against reckless driving, stood the elderly gentleman who personified the city's wealth andripeness. From a nearby café hurried the by-product with the vastjowl and baby complexion, bearing a glass full of a crimson fluidthat suggested delightful possibilities. 

"Drink dis, sport, " said the by-product, holding the glass toRaggles's lips. 

Hundreds of people huddled around in a moment, their faces wearingthe deepest concern. Two flattering and gorgeous policemen got intothe circle and pressed back the overplus of Samaritans. An old ladyin a black shawl spoke loudly of camphor; a newsboy slipped oneof his papers beneath Raggles's elbow, where it lay on the muddypavement. A brisk young man with a notebook was asking for names. 

A bell clanged importantly, and the ambulance cleaned a lane throughthe crowd. A cool surgeon slipped into the midst of affairs. 

"How do you feel, old man?" asked the surgeon, stooping easily tohis task. The princess of silks and satins wiped a red drop or twofrom Raggles's brow with a fragrant cobweb. 

"Me?" said Raggles, with a seraphic smile, "I feel fine. "

He had found the heart of his new city. 

In three days they let him leave his cot for the convalescent wardin the hospital. He had been in there an hour when the attendantsheard sounds of conflict. Upon investigation they found that Raggleshad assaulted and damaged a brother convalescent--a gloweringtransient whom a freight train collision had sent in to be patchedup. 

"What's all this about?" inquired the head nurse. 

"He was runnin' down me town, " said Raggles. 

"What town?" asked the nurse. 

"Noo York, " said Raggles. 

VANITY AND SOME SABLES

When "Kid" Brady was sent to the rope by Molly McKeever's blue-blackeyes he withdrew from the Stovepipe Gang. So much for the power ofa colleen's blanderin' tongue and stubborn true-heartedness. If youare a man who read this, may such an influence be sent you before 2o'clock to-morrow; if you are a woman, may your Pomeranian greet youthis morning with a cold nose--a sign of doghealth and yourhappiness. 

The Stovepipe Gang borrowed its name from a sub-district of the citycalled the "Stovepipe, " which is a narrow and natural extension ofthe familiar district known as "Hell's Kitchen. " The "Stovepipe"strip of town runs along Eleventh and Twelfth avenues on the river, and bends a hard and sooty elbow around little, lost homeless DeWittClinton park. Consider that a stovepipe is an important factor inany kitchen and the situation is analyzed. The chefs in "Hell'sKitchen" are many, and the "Stovepipe" gang, wears the cordon blue. 

The members of this unchartered but widely known brotherhoodappeared to pass their time on street corners arrayed like thelilies of the conservatory and busy with nail files and penknives. Thus displayed as a guarantee of good faith, they carried on aninnocuous conversation in a 200-word vocabulary, to the casualobserver as innocent and immaterial as that heard in clubs sevenblocks to the east. 

But off exhibition the "Stovepipes" were not mere street cornerornaments addicted to posing and manicuring. Their seriousoccupation was the separating of citizens from their coin andvaluables. Preferably this was done by weird and singular trickswithout noise or bloodshed; but whenever the citizen honored bytheir attentions refused to impoverish himself gracefully hisobjections came to be spread finally upon some police stationblotter or hospital register. 

The police held the "Stovepipe" gang in perpetual suspicion andrespect. As the nightingale's liquid note is heard in the deepestshadows, so along the "Stovepipe's" dark and narrow confines thewhistle for reserves punctures the dull ear of night. Whenever therewas smoke in the "stovepipe" the tasselled men in blue knew therewas fire in "Hell's Kitchen. "

"Kid" Brady promised Molly to be good. "Kid" was the vainest, thestrongest, the wariest and the most successful plotter in the gang. Therefore, the boys were sorry to give him up. 

But they witnessed his fall to a virtuous life without protest. For, in the Kitchen it is considered neither unmanly nor improperfor a guy to do as his girl advises. 

Black her eye for love's sake, if you will; but it isall-to-the-good business to do a thing when she wants you to do it. 

"Turn off the hydrant, " said the Kid, one night when Molly, tearful, besought him to amend his ways. "I'm going to cut out the gang. Youfor mine, and the simple life on the side. I'll tell you, Moll--I'llget work; and in a year we'll get married. I'll do it for you. We'llget a flat and a flute, and a sewing machine and a rubber plant andlive as honest as we can. "

"Oh, Kid, " sighed Molly, wiping the powder off his shoulder with herhandkerchief, "I'd rather hear you say that than to own all of NewYork. And we can be happy on so little!"

The Kid looked down at his speckless cuffs and shining patentleathers with a suspicion of melancholy. 

"It'll hurt hardest in the rags department, " said he. "I've kindof always liked to rig out swell when I could. You know how I hatecheap things, Moll. This suit set me back sixty-five. Anything inthe wearing apparel line has got to be just so, or it's to themisfit parlors for it, for mine. If I work I won't have so much cointo hand over to the little man with the big shears. "

"Never mind, Kid. I'll like you just as much in a blue jumper as Iwould in a red automobile. "

Before the Kid had grown large enough to knock out his father hehad been compelled to learn the plumber's art. So now back to thishonorable and useful profession he returned. But it was as anassistant that he engaged himself; and it is the master plumber andnot the assistant, who wears diamonds as large as hailstones andlooks contemptuously upon the marble colonnades of Senator Clark'smansion. 

Eight months went by as smoothly and surely as though they had"elapsed" on a theater program. The Kid worked away at his pipes andsolder with no symptoms of backsliding. The Stovepipe gang continuedits piracy on the high avenues, cracked policemen's heads, held uplate travelers, invented new methods of peaceful plundering, copiedFifth avenue's cut of clothes and neckwear fancies and comporteditself according to its lawless bylaws. But the Kid stood firm andfaithful to his Molly, even though the polish was gone from hisfingernails and it took him 15 minutes to tie his purple silk ascotso that the worn places would not show. 

One evening he brought a mysterious bundle with him to Molly'shouse. 

"Open that, Moll!" he said in his large, quiet way. "It's for you. "

Molly's eager fingers tore off the wrappings. She shrieked aloud, and in rushed a sprinkling of little McKeevers, and Ma McKeever, dishwashy, but an undeniable relative of the late Mrs. Eve. 

Again Molly shrieked, and something dark and long and sinuous flewand enveloped her neck like an anaconda. 

"Russian sables, " said the Kid, pridefully, enjoying the sight ofMolly's round cheek against the clinging fur. "The real thing. Theydon't grow anything in Russia too good for you, Moll. "

Molly plunged her hands into the muff, overturned a row of thefamily infants and flew to the mirror. Hint for the beauty column. To make bright eyes, rosy checks and a bewitching smile: Recipe--oneset Russian sables. Apply. 

When they were alone Molly became aware of a small cake of the iceof common sense floating down the full tide of her happiness. 

"You're a bird, all right, Kid, " she admitted gratefully. "I neverhad any furs on before in my life. But ain't Russian sables awfulexpensive? Seems to me I've heard they were. "

"Have I ever chucked any bargain-sale stuff at you, Moll?" askedthe Kid, with calm dignity. "Did you ever notice me leaning on theremnant counter or peering in the window of the five-and-ten? Callthat scarf $250 and the muff $175 and you won't make any mistakeabout the price of Russian sables. The swell goods for me. Say, theylook fine on you, Moll. "

Molly hugged the sables to her bosom in rapture. And then her smilewent away little by little, and she looked the Kid straight in theeye sadly and steadily. 

He knew what every look of hers meant; and he laughed with a faintflush upon his face. 

"Cut it out, " he said, with affectionate roughness. "I told you Iwas done with that. I bought 'em and paid for 'em, all right, withmy own money. "

"Out of the money you worked for, Kid? Out of $75 a month?"

"Sure. I been saving up. "

"Let's see--saved $425 in eight months, Kid?"

"Ah, let up, " said the Kid, with some heat. "I had some money whenI went to work. Do you think I've been holding 'em up again? I toldyou I'd quit. They're paid for on the square. Put 'em on and comeout for a walk. "

Molly calmed her doubts. Sables are soothing. Proud as a queen shewent forth in the streets at the Kid's side. In all that region oflow-lying streets Russian sables had never been seen before. Theword sped, and doors and windows blossomed with heads eager to seethe swell furs Kid Brady had given his girl. All down the streetthere were "Oh's" and "Ah's" and the reported fabulous sum paid forthe sables was passed from lip to lip, increasing as it went. At herright elbow sauntered the Kid with the air of princes. Work had notdiminished his love of pomp and show and his passion for the costlyand genuine. On a corner they saw a group of the Stovepipe Gangloafing, immaculate. They raised their hats to the Kid's girl andwent on with their calm, unaccented palaver. 

Three blocks behind the admired couple strolled Detective Ransom, ofthe Central office. Ransom was the only detective on the force whocould walk abroad with safety in the Stovepipe district. He was fairdealing and unafraid and went there with the hypothesis that theinhabitants were human. Many liked him, and now and then one wouldtip off to him something that he was looking for. 

"What's the excitement down the street?" asked Ransom of a paleyouth in a red sweater. 

"Dey're out rubberin' at a set of buffalo robes Kid Brady staked hisgirl to, " answered the youth. "Some say he paid $900 for de skins. Dey're swell all right enough. "

"I hear Brady has been working at his old trade for nearly a year, "said the detective. "He doesn't travel with the gang any more, doeshe?"

"He's workin', all right, " said the red sweater, "but--say, sport, are you trailin' anything in the fur line? A job in a plumbin' shopdon' match wid dem skins de Kid's girl's got on. "

Ransom overtook the strolling couple on an empty street near theriver bank. He touched the Kid's arm from behind. 

"Let me see you a moment, Brady, " he said, quietly. His eye restedfor a second on the long fur scarf thrown stylishly back overMolly's left shoulder. The Kid, with his old-time police hatingfrown on his face, stepped a yard or two aside with the detective. 

"Did you go to Mrs. Hethcote's on West 7--th street yesterday to fixa leaky water pipe?" asked Ransom. 

"I did, " said the Kid. "What of it?"

"The lady's $1, 000 set of Russian sables went out of the house aboutthe same time you did. The description fits the ones this lady hason. "

"To h--Harlem with you, " cried the Kid, angrily. "You know I'vecut out that sort of thing, Ransom. I bought them sables yesterdayat--"

The Kid stopped short. 

"I know you've been working straight lately, " said Ransom. "I'llgive you every chance. I'll go with you where you say you bought thefurs and investigate. The lady can wear 'em along with us andnobody'll be on. That's fair, Brady. "

"Come on, " agreed the Kid, hotly. And then he stopped suddenly inhis tracks and looked with an odd smile at Molly's distressed andanxious face. 

"No use, " he said, grimly. "They're the Hethcote sables, all right. You'll have to turn 'em over, Moll, but they ain't too good for youif they cost a million. "

Molly, with anguish in her face, hung upon the Kid's arm. 

"Oh, Kiddy, you've broke my heart, " she said. "I was so proud ofyou--and now they'll do you--and where's our happiness gone?"

"Go home, " said the Kid, wildly. "Come on, Ransom--take the furs. Let's get away from here. Wait a minute--I've a good mind to--no, I'll be d---- if I can do it--run along, Moll--I'm ready, Ransom. "

Around the corner of a lumber-yard came Policeman Kohen on hisway to his beat along the river. The detective signed to him forassistance. Kohen joined the group. Ransom explained. 

"Sure, " said Kohen. "I hear about those saples dat vas stole. Yousay you have dem here?"

Policeman Kohen took the end of Molly's late scarf in his hands andlooked at it closely. 

"Once, " he said, "I sold furs in Sixth avenue. Yes, dese are saples. Dey come from Alaska. Dis scarf is vort $12 and dis muff--"

"Biff!" came the palm of the Kid's powerful hand upon the policeman'smouth. Kohen staggered and rallied. Molly screamed. The detectivethrew himself upon Brady and with Kohen's aid got the nippers on hiswrist. 

"The scarf is vort $12 and the muff is vort $9, " persisted thepoliceman. "Vot is dis talk about $1, 000 saples?"

The Kid sat upon a pile of lumber and his face turned dark red. 

"Correct, Solomonski!" he declared, viciously. "I paid $21. 50 forthe set. I'd rather have got six months and not have told it. Me, the swell guy that wouldn't look at anything cheap! I'm a plainbluffer. Moll--my salary couldn't spell sables in Russian. "

Molly cast herself upon his neck. 

"What do I care for all the sables and money in the world, " shecried. "It's my Kiddy I want. Oh, you dear, stuck-up, crazyblockhead!"

"You can take dose nippers off, " said Kohen to the detective. "Before I leaf de station de report come in dat de lady vind hersaples--hanging in her wardrobe. Young man, I excuse you dat punchin my vace--dis von time. "

Ransom handed Molly her furs. Her eyes were smiling upon the Kid. She wound the scarf and threw the end over her left shoulder with aduchess' grace. 

"A gouple of young vools, " said Policeman Kohen to Ransom; "come onaway. "

THE SOCIAL TRIANGLE

At the stroke of six Ikey Snigglefritz laid down his goose. Ikey wasa tailor's apprentice. Are there tailor's apprentices nowadays?

At any rate, Ikey toiled and snipped and basted and pressed andpatched and sponged all day in the steamy fetor of a tailor-shop. But when work was done Ikey hitched his wagon to such stars as hisfirmament let shine. 

It was Saturday night, and the boss laid twelve begrimed andbegrudged dollars in his hand. Ikey dabbled discreetly in water, donned coat, hat and collar with its frazzled tie and chalcedonypin, and set forth in pursuit of his ideals. 

For each of us, when our day's work is done, must seek our ideal, whether it be love or pinochle or lobster à la Newburg, or the sweetsilence of the musty bookshelves. 

Behold Ikey as he ambles up the street beneath the roaring "El"between the rows of reeking sweat-shops. Pallid, stooping, insignificant, squalid, doomed to exist forever in penury of bodyand mind, yet, as he swings his cheap cane and projects the noisomeinhalations from his cigarette you perceive that he nurtures in hisnarrow bosom the bacillus of society. 

Ikey's legs carried him to and into that famous place ofentertainment known as the Café Maginnis--famous because it was therendezvous of Billy McMahan, the greatest man, the most wonderfulman, Ikey thought, that the world had ever produced. 

Billy McMahan was the district leader. Upon him the Tiger purred, and his hand held manna to scatter. Now, as Ikey entered, McMahanstood, flushed and triumphant and mighty, the centre of a huzzaingconcourse of his lieutenants and constituents. It seems there hadbeen an election; a signal victory had been won; the city had beenswept back into line by a resistless besom of ballots. 

Ikey slunk along the bar and gazed, breath-quickened, at his idol. 

How magnificent was Billy McMahan, with his great, smooth, laughingface; his gray eye, shrewd as a chicken hawk's; his diamond ring, his voice like a bugle call, his prince's air, his plump and activeroll of money, his clarion call to friend and comrade--oh, what aking of men he was! How he obscured his lieutenants, though theythemselves loomed large and serious, blue of chin and importantof mien, with hands buried deep in the pockets of their shortovercoats! But Billy--oh, what small avail are words to paint foryou his glory as seen by Ikey Snigglefritz!

The Café Maginnis rang to the note of victory. The white-coatedbartenders threw themselves featfully upon bottle, cork and glass. From a score of clear Havanas the air received its paradox ofclouds. The leal and the hopeful shook Billy McMahan's hand. Andthere was born suddenly in the worshipful soul of Ikey Snigglefritzan audacious, thrilling impulse. 

He stepped forward into the little cleared space in which majestymoved, and held out his hand. 

Billy McMahan grasped it unhesitatingly, shook it and smiled. 

Made mad now by the gods who were about to destroy him, Ikey threwaway his scabbard and charged upon Olympus. 

"Have a drink with me, Billy, " he said familiarly, "you and yourfriends?"

"Don't mind if I do, old man, " said the great leader, "just to keepthe ball rolling. "

The last spark of Ikey's reason fled. 

"Wine, " he called to the bartender, waving a trembling hand. 

The corks of three bottles were drawn; the champagne bubbled inthe long row of glasses set upon the bar. Billy McMahan took hisand nodded, with his beaming smile, at Ikey. The lieutenants andsatellites took theirs and growled "Here's to you. " Ikey took hisnectar in delirium. All drank. 

Ikey threw his week's wages in a crumpled roll upon the bar. 

"C'rect, " said the bartender, smoothing the twelve one-dollar notes. The crowd surged around Billy McMahan again. Some one was tellinghow Brannigan fixed 'em over in the Eleventh. Ikey leaned againstthe bar a while, and then went out. 

He went down Hester street and up Chrystie, and down Delancey towhere he lived. And there his women folk, a bibulous mother andthree dingy sisters, pounced upon him for his wages. And at hisconfession they shrieked and objurgated him in the pithy rhetoricof the locality. 

But even as they plucked at him and struck him Ikey remained in hisecstatic trance of joy. His head was in the clouds; the star wasdrawing his wagon. Compared with what he had achieved the loss ofwages and the bray of women's tongues were slight affairs. 

He had shaken the hand of Billy McMahan. 

 * * * * * * *

Billy McMahan had a wife, and upon her visiting cards was engravedthe name "Mrs. William Darragh McMahan. " And there was a certainvexation attendant upon these cards; for, small as they were, therewere houses in which they could not be inserted. Billy McMahan wasa dictator in politics, a four-walled tower in business, a mogul, dreaded, loved and obeyed among his own people. He was growing rich;the daily papers had a dozen men on his trail to chronicle his everyword of wisdom; he had been honored in caricature holding the Tigercringing in leash. 

But the heart of Billy was sometimes sore within him. There was arace of men from which he stood apart but that he viewed with theeye of Moses looking over into the promised land. He, too, hadideals, even as had Ikey Snigglefritz; and sometimes, hopeless ofattaining them, his own solid success was as dust and ashes in hismouth. And Mrs. William Darragh McMahan wore a look of discontentupon her plump but pretty face, and the very rustle of her silksseemed a sigh. 

There was a brave and conspicuous assemblage in the dining saloonof a noted hostelry where Fashion loves to display her charms. Atone table sat Billy McMahan and his wife. Mostly silent they were, but the accessories they enjoyed little needed the indorsement ofspeech. Mrs. McMahan's diamonds were outshone by few in the room. The waiter bore the costliest brands of wine to their table. Inevening dress, with an expression of gloom upon his smooth andmassive countenance, you would look in vain for a more strikingfigure than Billy's. 

Four tables away sat alone a tall, slender man, about thirty, with thoughtful, melancholy eyes, a Van Dyke beard and peculiarlywhite, thin hands. He was dining on filet mignon, dry toast andapollinaris. That man was Cortlandt Van Duyckink, a man worth eightymillions, who inherited and held a sacred seat in the exclusiveinner circle of society. 

Billy McMahan spoke to no one around him, because he knew no one. Van Duyckink kept his eyes on his plate because he knew that everyone present was hungry to catch his. He could bestow knighthood andprestige by a nod, and he was chary of creating a too extensivenobility. 

And then Billy McMahan conceived and accomplished the most startlingand audacious act of his life. He rose deliberately and walked overto Cortlandt Van Duyckink's table and held out his hand. 

"Say, Mr. Van Duyckink, " he said, "I've heard you was talking aboutstarting some reforms among the poor people down in my district. I'mMcMahan, you know. Say, now, if that's straight I'll do all I can tohelp you. And what I says goes in that neck of the woods, don't it?Oh, say, I rather guess it does. "

Van Duyckink's rather sombre eyes lighted up. He rose to his lankheight and grasped Billy McMahan's hand. 

"Thank you, Mr. McMahan, " he said, in his deep, serious tones. "Ihave been thinking of doing some work of that sort. I shall be gladof your assistance. It pleases me to have become acquainted withyou. "

Billy walked back to his seat. His shoulder was tingling from theaccolade bestowed by royalty. A hundred eyes were now turned uponhim in envy and new admiration. Mrs. William Darragh McMahantrembled with ecstasy, so that her diamonds smote the eye almostwith pain. And now it was apparent that at many tables there werethose who suddenly remembered that they enjoyed Mr. McMahan'sacquaintance. He saw smiles and bows about him. He became envelopedin the aura of dizzy greatness. His campaign coolness deserted him. 

"Wine for that gang!" he commanded the waiter, pointing with hisfinger. "Wine over there. Wine to those three gents by that greenbush. Tell 'em it's on me. D----n it! Wine for everybody!"

The waiter ventured to whisper that it was perhaps inexpedient tocarry out the order, in consideration of the dignity of the houseand its custom. 

"All right, " said Billy, "if it's against the rules. I wonder if'twould do to send my friend Van Duyckink a bottle? No? Well, it'llflow all right at the caffy to-night, just the same. It'll be rubberboots for anybody who comes in there any time up to 2 A. M. "

Billy McMahan was happy. 

He had shaken the hand of Cortlandt Van Duyckink. 

 * * * * * * *

The big pale-gray auto with its shining metal work looked outof place moving slowly among the push carts and trash-heaps onthe lower east side. So did Cortlandt Van Duyckink, with hisaristocratic face and white, thin hands, as he steered carefullybetween the groups of ragged, scurrying youngsters in the streets. And so did Miss Constance Schuyler, with her dim, ascetic beauty, seated at his side. 

"Oh, Cortlandt, " she breathed, "isn't it sad that human beings haveto live in such wretchedness and poverty? And you--how noble it isof you to think of them, to give your time and money to improvetheir condition!"

Van Duyckink turned his solemn eyes upon her. 

"It is little, " he said, sadly, "that I can do. The question is alarge one, and belongs to society. But even individual effort isnot thrown away. Look, Constance! On this street I have arranged tobuild soup kitchens, where no one who is hungry will be turned away. And down this other street are the old buildings that I shall causeto be torn down and there erect others in place of those death-trapsof fire and disease. "

Down Delancey slowly crept the pale-gray auto. Away from it toddledcoveys of wondering, tangle-haired, barefooted, unwashed children. It stopped before a crazy brick structure, foul and awry. 

Van Duyckink alighted to examine at a better perspective one of theleaning walls. Down the steps of the building came a young man whoseemed to epitomize its degradation, squalor and infelicity--anarrow-chested, pale, unsavory young man, puffing at a cigarette. 

Obeying a sudden impulse, Van Duyckink stepped out and warmlygrasped the hand of what seemed to him a living rebuke. 

"I want to know you people, " he said, sincerely. "I am going to helpyou as much as I can. We shall be friends. "

As the auto crept carefully away Cortlandt Van Duyckink felt anunaccustomed glow about his heart. He was near to being a happy man. 

He had shaken the hand of Ikey Snigglefritz. 

THE PURPLE DRESS

We are to consider the shade known as purple. It is a color justlyin repute among the sons and daughters of man. Emperors claim itfor their especial dye. Good fellows everywhere seek to bring theirnoses to the genial hue that follows the commingling of the red andblue. We say of princes that they are born to the purple; and nodoubt they are, for the colic tinges their faces with the royal tintequally with the snub-nosed countenance of a woodchopper's brat. Allwomen love it--when it is the fashion. 

And now purple is being worn. You notice it on the streets. Of courseother colors are quite stylish as well--in fact, I saw a lovely thingthe other day in olive green albatross, with a triple-lapped flounceskirt trimmed with insert squares of silk, and a draped fichu of laceopening over a shirred vest and double puff sleeves with a lace bandholding two gathered frills--but you see lots of purple too. Oh, yes, you do; just take a walk down Twenty-third street any afternoon. 

Therefore Maida--the girl with the big brown eyes and cinnamon-coloredhair in the Bee-Hive Store--said to Grace--the girl with therhinestone brooch and peppermint-pepsin flavor to her speech--"I'mgoing to have a purple dress--a tailor-made purple dress--forThanksgiving. "

"Oh, are you, " said Grace, putting away some 7½ gloves into the6¾ box. "Well, it's me for red. You see more red on Fifth avenue. And the men all seem to like it. "

"I like purple best, " said Maida. "And old Schlegel has promised tomake it for $8. It's going to be lovely. I'm going to have a plaitedskirt and a blouse coat trimmed with a band of galloon under a whitecloth collar with two rows of--"

"Sly boots!" said Grace with an educated wink. 

"--soutache braid over a surpliced white vest; and a plaited basqueand--"

"Sly boots--sly boots!" repeated Grace. 

"--plaited gigot sleeves with a drawn velvet ribbon over an insidecuff. What do you mean by saying that?"

"You think Mr. Ramsay likes purple. I heard him say yesterday hethought some of the dark shades of red were stunning. "

"I don't care, " said Maida. "I prefer purple, and them that don'tlike it can just take the other side of the street. "

Which suggests the thought that after all, the followers of purplemay be subject to slight delusions. Danger is near when a maidenthinks she can wear purple regardless of complexions and opinions;and when Emperors think their purple robes will wear forever. 

Maida had saved $18 after eight months of economy; and this hadbought the goods for the purple dress and paid Schlegel $4 on themaking of it. On the day before Thanksgiving she would have justenough to pay the remaining $4. And then for a holiday in a newdress--can earth offer anything more enchanting?

Old Bachman, the proprietor of the Bee-Hive Store, always gave aThanksgiving dinner to his employees. On every one of the subsequent364 days, excusing Sundays, he would remind them of the joys of thepast banquet and the hopes of the coming ones, thus inciting themto increased enthusiasm in work. The dinner was given in the storeon one of the long tables in the middle of the room. They tackedwrapping paper over the front windows; and the turkeys and othergood things were brought in the back way from the restaurant on thecorner. You will perceive that the Bee-Hive was not a fashionabledepartment store, with escalators and pompadours. It was almostsmall enough to be called an emporium; and you could actually goin there and get waited on and walk out again. And always at theThanksgiving dinners Mr. Ramsay--

Oh, bother! I should have mentioned Mr. Ramsay first of all. He ismore important than purple or green, or even the red cranberrysauce. 

Mr. Ramsay was the head clerk; and as far as I am concerned I am forhim. He never pinched the girls' arms when he passed them in darkcorners of the store; and when he told them stories when businesswas dull and the girls giggled and said: "Oh, pshaw!" it wasn't G. Bernard they meant at all. Besides being a gentleman, Mr. Ramsaywas queer and original in other ways. He was a health crank, andbelieved that people should never eat anything that was good forthem. He was violently opposed to anybody being comfortable, andcoming in out of snow storms, or wearing overshoes, or takingmedicine, or coddling themselves in any way. Every one of the tengirls in the store had little pork-chop-and-fried-onion dreams everynight of becoming Mrs. Ramsay. For, next year old Bachman was goingto take him in for a partner. And each one of them knew that if sheshould catch him she would knock those cranky health notions of hissky high before the wedding cake indigestion was over. 

Mr. Ramsay was master of ceremonies at the dinners. Always they hadtwo Italians in to play a violin and harp and had a little dance inthe store. 

And here were two dresses being conceived to charm Ramsay--onepurple and the other red. Of course, the other eight girls weregoing to have dresses too, but they didn't count. Very likelythey'd wear some shirt-waist-and-black-skirt-affairs--nothing asresplendent as purple or red. 

Grace had saved her money, too. She was going to buy her dressready-made. Oh, what's the use of bothering with a tailor--whenyou've got a figger it's easy to get a fit--the ready-made areintended for a perfect figger--except I have to have 'em all takenin at the waist--the average figger is so large waisted. 

The night before Thanksgiving came. Maida hurried home, keen andbright with the thoughts of the blessed morrow. Her thoughts were ofpurple, but they were white themselves--the joyous enthusiasm of theyoung for the pleasures that youth must have or wither. She knewpurple would become her, and--for the thousandth time she tried toassure herself that it was purple Mr. Ramsay said he liked and notred. She was going home first to get the $4 wrapped in a piece oftissue paper in the bottom drawer of her dresser, and then she wasgoing to pay Schlegel and take the dress home herself. 

Grace lived in the same house. She occupied the hall room aboveMaida's. 

At home Maida found clamor and confusion. The landlady's tongueclattering sourly in the halls like a churn dasher dabbing inbuttermilk. And then Grace come down to her room crying with eyes asred as any dress. 

"She says I've got to get out, " said Grace. "The old beast. BecauseI owe her $4. She's put my trunk in the hall and locked the door. Ican't go anywhere else. I haven't got a cent of money. "

"You had some yesterday, " said Maida. 

"I paid it on my dress, " said Grace. "I thought she'd wait till nextweek for the rent. "

Sniffle, sniffle, sob, sniffle. 

Out came--out it had to come--Maida's $4. 

"You blessed darling, " cried Grace, now a rainbow instead of sunset. "I'll pay the mean old thing and then I'm going to try on my dress. I think it's heavenly. Come up and look at it. I'll pay the moneyback, a dollar a week--honest I will. "

Thanksgiving. 

The dinner was to be at noon. At a quarter to twelve Grace switchedinto Maida's room. Yes, she looked charming. Red was her color. Maida sat by the window in her old cheviot skirt and blue waistdarning a st--. Oh, doing fancy work. 

"Why, goodness me! ain't you dressed yet?" shrilled the red one. "How does it fit in the back? Don't you think these velvet tabs lookawful swell? Why ain't you dressed, Maida?"

"My dress didn't get finished in time, " said Maida. "I'm not goingto the dinner. "

"That's too bad. Why, I'm awfully sorry, Maida. Why don't you put onanything and come along--it's just the store folks, you know, andthey won't mind. "

"I was set on my purple, " said Maida. "If I can't have it I won't goat all. Don't bother about me. Run along or you'll be late. You lookawful nice in red. "

At her window Maida sat through the long morning and past the timeof the dinner at the store. In her mind she could hear the girlsshrieking over a pull-bone, could hear old Bachman's roar over hisown deeply-concealed jokes, could see the diamonds of fat Mrs. Bachman, who came to the store only on Thanksgiving days, could seeMr. Ramsay moving about, alert, kindly, looking to the comfort ofall. 

At four in the afternoon, with an expressionless face and a lifelessair she slowly made her way to Schlegel's shop and told him shecould not pay the $4 due on the dress. 

"Gott!" cried Schlegel, angrily. "For what do you look so glum? Takehim away. He is ready. Pay me some time. Haf I not seen you passmine shop every day in two years? If I make clothes is it that I donot know how to read beoples because? You will pay me some time whenyou can. Take him away. He is made goot; and if you look bretty inhim all right. So. Pay me when you can. "

Maida breathed a millionth part of the thanks in her heart, andhurried away with her dress. As she left the shop a smart dash ofrain struck upon her face. She smiled and did not feel it. 

Ladies who shop in carriages, you do not understand. Girls whosewardrobes are charged to the old man's account, you cannot begin tocomprehend--you could not understand why Maida did not feel the colddash of the Thanksgiving rain. 

At five o'clock she went out upon the street wearing her purpledress. The rain had increased, and it beat down upon her in asteady, wind-blown pour. People were scurrying home and to cars withclose-held umbrellas and tight buttoned raincoats. Many of themturned their heads to marvel at this beautiful, serene, happy-eyedgirl in the purple dress walking through the storm as though shewere strolling in a garden under summer skies. 

I say you do not understand it, ladies of the full purse and variedwardrobe. You do not know what it is to live with a perpetuallonging for pretty things--to starve eight months in order to bringa purple dress and a holiday together. What difference if it rained, hailed, blew, snowed, cycloned?

Maida had no umbrella nor overshoes. She had her purple dress andshe walked abroad. Let the elements do their worst. A starved heartmust have one crumb during a year. The rain ran down and drippedfrom her fingers. 

Some one turned a corner and blocked her way. She looked up into Mr. Ramsay's eyes, sparkling with admiration and interest. 

"Why, Miss Maida, " said he, "you look simply magnificent in yournew dress. I was greatly disappointed not to see you at our dinner. And of all the girls I ever knew, you show the greatest sense andintelligence. There is nothing more healthful and invigorating thanbraving the weather as you are doing. May I walk with you?"

And Maida blushed and sneezed. 

THE FOREIGN POLICY OF COMPANY 99

John Byrnes, hose-cart driver of Engine Company No. 99, wasafflicted with what his comrades called Japanitis. 

Byrnes had a war map spread permanently upon a table in the secondstory of the engine-house, and he could explain to you at any hourof the day or night the exact positions, conditions and intentionsof both the Russian and Japanese armies. He had little clusters ofpins stuck in the map which represented the opposing forces, andthese he moved about from day to day in conformity with the war newsin the daily papers. 

Wherever the Japs won a victory John Byrnes would shift his pins, and then he would execute a war dance of delight, and the otherfiremen would hear him yell: "Go it, you blamed little, sawed-off, huckleberry-eyed, monkey-faced hot tamales! Eat 'em up, you littlesleight-o'-hand, bow-legged bull terriers--give 'em another of themYalu looloos, and you'll eat rice in St. Petersburg. Talk about yourRussians--say, wouldn't they give you a painsky when it comes to ascrapovitch?"

Not even on the fair island of Nippon was there a more enthusiasticchampion of the Mikado's men. Supporters of the Russian cause didwell to keep clear of Engine-House No. 99. 

Sometimes all thoughts of the Japs left John Byrnes's head. Thatwas when the alarm of fire had sounded and he was strapped in hisdriver's seat on the swaying cart, guiding Erebus and Joe, thefinest team in the whole department--according to the crew of 99. 

Of all the codes adopted by man for regulating his actions towardhis fellow-mortals, the greatest are these--the code of KingArthur's Knights of the Round Table, the Constitution of the UnitedStates and the unwritten rules of the New York Fire Department. TheRound Table methods are no longer practicable since the inventionof street cars and breach-of-promise suits, and our Constitution isbeing found more and more unconstitutional every day, so the code ofour firemen must be considered in the lead, with the Golden Rule andJeffries's new punch trying for place and show. 

The Constitution says that one man is as good as another; but theFire Department says he is better. This is a too generous theory, but the law will not allow itself to be construed otherwise. All ofwhich comes perilously near to being a paradox, and commends itselfto the attention of the S. P. C. A. 

One of the transatlantic liners dumped out at Ellis Island a lump ofprotozoa which was expected to evolve into an American citizen. Asteward kicked him down the gangway, a doctor pounced upon his eyeslike a raven, seeking for trachoma or ophthalmia; he was hustledashore and ejected into the city in the name of Liberty--perhaps, theoretically, thus inoculating against kingocracy with a drop ofits own virus. This hypodermic injection of Europeanism wanderedhappily into the veins of the city with the broad grin of a pleasedchild. It was not burdened with baggage, cares or ambitions. Itsbody was lithely built and clothed in a sort of foreign fustian;its face was brightly vacant, with a small, flat nose, and wasmostly covered by a thick, ragged, curling beard like the coatof a spaniel. In the pocket of the imported Thing were a fewcoins--denarii--scudi--kopecks--pfennigs--pilasters--whatever thefinancial nomenclature of his unknown country may have been. 

Prattling to himself, always broadly grinning, pleased by the roarand movement of the barbarous city into which the steamship cut-rateshad shunted him, the alien strayed away from the, sea, which hehated, as far as the district covered by Engine Company No. 99. Light as a cork, he was kept bobbing along by the human tide, thecrudest atom in all the silt of the stream that emptied into thereservoir of Liberty. 

While crossing Third avenue he slowed his steps, enchanted by thethunder of the elevated trains above him and the soothing crash ofthe wheels on the cobbles. And then there was a new, delightfulchord in the uproar--the musical clanging of a gong and a greatshining juggernaut belching fire and smoke, that people werehurrying to see. 

This beautiful thing, entrancing to the eye, dashed past, and theprotoplasmic immigrant stepped into the wake of it with his broad, enraptured, uncomprehending grin. And so stepping, stepped into thepath of No. 99's flying hose-cart, with John Byrnes gripping, witharms of steel, the reins over the plunging backs of Erebus and Joe. 

The unwritten constitutional code of the fireman has no exceptionsor amendments. It is a simple thing--as simple as the rule of three. There was the heedless unit in the right of way; there was thehose-cart and the iron pillar of the elevated railroad. 

John Byrnes swung all his weight and muscle on the left rein. Theteam and cart swerved that way and crashed like a torpedo into thepillar. The men on the cart went flying like skittles. The driver'sstrap burst, the pillar rang with the shock, and John Byrnes fellon the car track with a broken shoulder twenty feet away, whileErebus--beautiful, raven-black, best-loved Erebus--lay whickeringin his harness with a broken leg. 

In consideration for the feelings of Engine Company No. 99 thedetails will be lightly touched. The company does not like to bereminded of that day. There was a great crowd, and hurry calls weresent in; and while the ambulance gong was clearing the way the menof No. 99 heard the crack of the S. P. C. A. Agent's pistol, andturned their heads away, not daring to look toward Erebus again. 

When the firemen got back to the engine-house they found that one ofthem was dragging by the collar the cause of their desolation andgrief. They set it in the middle of the floor and gathered grimlyabout it. Through its whiskers the calamitous object chatteredeffervescently and waved its hands. 

"Sounds like a seidlitz powder, " said Mike Dowling, disgustedly, "and it makes me sicker than one. Call that a man!--that hosswas worth a steamer full of such two-legged animals. It's aimmigrant--that's what it is. "

"Look at the doctor's chalk mark on its coat, " said Reilly, the deskman. "It's just landed. It must be a kind of a Dago or a Hun or oneof them Finns, I guess. That's the kind of truck that Europe unloadsonto us. "

"Think of a thing like that getting in the way and laying John upin hospital and spoiling the best fire team in the city, " groanedanother fireman. "It ought to be taken down to the dock and drowned. "

"Somebody go around and get Sloviski, " suggested the engine driver, "and let's see what nation is responsible for this conglomeration ofhair and head noises. "

Sloviski kept a delicatessen store around the corner on Third avenue, and was reputed to be a linguist. 

One of the men fetched him--a fat, cringing man, with a discursiveeye and the odors of many kinds of meats upon him. 

"Take a whirl at this importation with your jaw-breakers, Sloviski, "requested Mike Dowling. "We can't quite figure out whether he's fromthe Hackensack bottoms or Hongkong-on-the-Ganges. "

Sloviski addressed the stranger in several dialects that ranged inrhythm and cadence from the sounds produced by a tonsilitis gargleto the opening of a can of tomatoes with a pair of scissors. Theimmigrant replied in accents resembling the uncorking of a bottle ofginger ale. 

"I have you his name, " reported Sloviski. "You shall not pronounceit. Writing of it in paper is better. " They gave him paper, and hewrote, "Demetre Svangvsk. "

"Looks like short hand, " said the desk man. 

"He speaks some language, " continued the interpreter, wiping hisforehead, "of Austria and mixed with a little Turkish. And, den, he have some Magyar words and a Polish or two, and many like theRoumanian, but not without talk of one tribe in Bessarabia. I donot him quite understand. "

"Would you call him a Dago or a Polocker, or what?" asked Mike, frowning at the polyglot description. 

"He is a"--answered Sloviski--"he is a--I dink he come from--I dinkhe is a fool, " he concluded, impatient at his linguistic failure, "and if you pleases I will go back at mine delicatessen. "

"Whatever he is, he's a bird, " said Mike Dowling; "and you want towatch him fly. "

Taking by the wing the alien fowl that had fluttered into thenest of Liberty, Mike led him to the door of the engine-house andbestowed upon him a kick hearty enough to convey the entire animusof Company 99. Demetre Svangvsk hustled away down the sidewalk, turning once to show his ineradicable grin to the aggrieved firemen. 

In three weeks John Byrnes was back at his post from the hospital. With great gusto he proceeded to bring his war map up to date. "Mymoney on the Japs every time, " he declared. "Why, look at themRussians--they're nothing but wolves. Wipe 'em out, I say--and thelittle old jiu jitsu gang are just the cherry blossoms to do thetrick, and don't you forget it!"

The second day after Byrnes's reappearance came Demetre Svangvsk, the unidentified, to the engine-house, with a broader grin thanever. He managed to convey the idea that he wished to congratulatethe hose-cart driver on his recovery and to apologize for havingcaused the accident. This he accomplished by so many extravagantgestures and explosive noises that the company was diverted for halfan hour. Then they kicked him out again, and on the next day he cameback grinning. How or where he lived no one knew. And then JohnByrnes's nine-year-old son, Chris, who brought him convalescentdelicacies from home to eat, took a fancy to Svangvsk, and theyallowed him to loaf about the door of the engine-house occasionally. 

One afternoon the big drab automobile of the Deputy FireCommissioner buzzed up to the door of No. 99 and the Deputy steppedinside for an informal inspection. The men kicked Svangvsk out alittle harder than usual and proudly escorted the Deputy around 99, in which everything shone like my lady's mirror. 

The Deputy respected the sorrow of the company concerning the lossof Erebus, and he had come to promise it another mate for Joe thatwould do him credit. So they let Joe out of his stall and showedthe Deputy how deserving he was of the finest mate that could bein horsedom. 

While they were circling around Joe confabbing, Chris climbed intothe Deputy's auto and threw the power full on. The men heard amonster puffing and a shriek from the lad, and sprang out too late. The big auto shot away, luckily taking a straight course down thestreet. The boy knew nothing of its machinery; he sat clutching thecushions and howling. With the power on nothing could have stoppedthat auto except a brick house, and there was nothing for Chris togain by such a stoppage. 

Demetre Svangvsk was just coming in again with a grin for anotherkick when Chris played his merry little prank. While the otherssprang for the door Demetre sprang for Joe. He glided upon thehorse's bare back like a snake and shouted something at him likethe crack of a dozen whips. One of the firemen afterward swore thatJoe answered him back in the same language. Ten seconds after theauto started the big horse was eating up the asphalt behind it likea strip of macaroni. 

Some people two blocks and a half away saw the rescue. They saidthat the auto was nothing but a drab noise with a black speck in themiddle of it for Chris, when a big bay horse with a lizard lying onits back cantered up alongside of it, and the lizard reached overand picked the black speck out of the noise. 

Only fifteen minutes after Svangvsk's last kicking at the hands--orrather the feet--of Engine Company No. 99 he rode Joe back throughthe door with the boy safe, but acutely conscious of the licking hewas going to receive. 

Svangvsk slipped to the floor, leaned his head against Joe's andmade a noise like a clucking hen. Joe nodded and whistled loudlythrough his nostrils, putting to shame the knowledge of Sloviski, of the delicatessen. 

John Byrnes walked up to Svangvsk, who grinned, expecting to bekicked. Byrnes gripped the outlander so strongly by the hand thatDemetre grinned anyhow, conceiving it to be a new form ofpunishment. 

"The heathen rides like a Cossack, " remarked a fireman who had seena Wild West show--"they're the greatest riders in the world. "

The word seemed to electrify Svangvsk. He grinned wider than ever. 

"Yas--yas--me Cossack, " he spluttered, striking his chest. 

"Cossack!" repeated John Byrnes, thoughtfully, "ain't that a kind ofa Russian?"

"They're one of the Russian tribes, sure, " said the desk man, whoread books between fire alarms. 

Just then Alderman Foley, who was on his way home and did not knowof the runaway, stopped at the door of the engine-house and calledto Byrnes:

"Hello there, Jimmy, me boy--how's the war coming along? Japs stillgot the bear on the trot, have they?"

"Oh, I don't know, " said John Byrnes, argumentatively, "them Japshaven't got any walkover. You wait till Kuropatkin gets a good whackat 'em and they won't be knee-high to a puddle-ducksky. "

THE LOST BLEND

Since the bar has been blessed by the clergy, and cocktails open thedinners of the elect, one may speak of the saloon. Teetotalers neednot listen, if they choose; there is always the slot restaurant, where a dime dropped into the cold bouillon aperture will bringforth a dry Martini. 

Con Lantry worked on the sober side of the bar in Kenealy's café. You and I stood, one-legged like geese, on the other side and wentinto voluntary liquidation with our week's wages. Opposite dancedCon, clean, temperate, clear-headed, polite, white-jacketed, punctual, trustworthy, young, responsible, and took our money. 

The saloon (whether blessed or cursed) stood in one of those little"places" which are parallelograms instead of streets, and inhabitedby laundries, decayed Knickerbocker families and Bohemians who havenothing to do with either. 

Over the café lived Kenealy and his family. His daughter Katherinehad eyes of dark Irish--but why should you be told? Be content withyour Geraldine or your Eliza Ann. For Con dreamed of her; and whenshe called softly at the foot of the back stairs for the pitcher ofbeer for dinner, his heart went up and down like a milk punch in theshaker. Orderly and fit are the rules of Romance; and if you hurlthe last shilling of your fortune upon the bar for whiskey, thebartender shall take it, and marry his boss's daughter, and goodwill grow out of it. 

But not so Con. For in the presence of woman he was tongue-tied andscarlet. He who would quell with his eye the sonorous youth whomthe claret punch made loquacious, or smash with lemon squeezer theobstreperous, or hurl gutterward the cantankerous without a wrinklecoming to his white lawn tie, when he stood before woman he wasvoiceless, incoherent, stuttering, buried beneath a hot avalancheof bashfulness and misery. What then was he before Katherine? Atrembler, with no word to say for himself, a stone without blarney, the dumbest lover that ever babbled of the weather in the presenceof his divinity. 

There came to Kenealy's two sunburned men, Riley and McQuirk. Theyhad conference with Kenealy; and then they took possession of aback room which they filled with bottles and siphons and jugs anddruggist's measuring glasses. All the appurtenances and liquids ofa saloon were there, but they dispensed no drinks. All day longthe two sweltered in there pouring and mixing unknown brews anddecoctions from the liquors in their store. Riley had the education, and he figured on reams of paper, reducing gallons to ounces andquarts to fluid drams. McQuirk, a morose man with a red eye, dashedeach unsuccessful completed mixture into the waste pipes with cursesgentle, husky and deep. They labored heavily and untiringly toachieve some mysterious solution like two alchemists striving toresolve gold from the elements. 

Into this back room one evening when his watch was done saunteredCon. His professional curiosity had been stirred by these occultbartenders at whose bar none drank, and who daily drew uponKenealy's store of liquors to follow their consuming and fruitlessexperiments. 

Down the back stairs came Katherine with her smile like sunrise onGweebarra Bay. 

"Good evening, Mr. Lantry, " says she. "And what is the news to-day, if you please?"

"It looks like r-rain, " stammered the shy one, backing to the wall. 

"It couldn't do better, " said Katherine. "I'm thinking there'snothing the worse off for a little water. " In the back roomRiley and McQuirk toiled like bearded witches over their strangecompounds. From fifty bottles they drew liquids carefully measuredafter Riley's figures, and shook the whole together in a great glassvessel. Then McQuirk would dash it out, with gloomy profanity, andthey would begin again. 

"Sit down, " said Riley to Con, "and I'll tell you. 

"Last summer me and Tim concludes that an American bar in thisnation of Nicaragua would pay. There was a town on the coast wherethere's nothing to eat but quinine and nothing to drink but rum. Thenatives and foreigners lay down with chills and get up with fevers;and a good mixed drink is nature's remedy for all such tropicalinconveniences. 

"So we lays in a fine stock of wet goods in New York, and barfixtures and glassware, and we sails for that Santa Palma town ona lime steamer. On the way me and Tim sees flying fish and playsseven-up with the captain and steward, and already begins to feellike the high-ball kings of the tropics of Capricorn. 

"When we gets in five hours of the country that we was going tointroduce to long drinks and short change the captain calls us overto the starboard binnacle and recollects a few things. 

"'I forgot to tell you, boys, ' says he, 'that Nicaragua slapped animport duty of 48 per cent. Ad valorem on all bottled goods lastmonth. The President took a bottle of Cincinnati hair tonic bymistake for tobasco sauce, and he's getting even. Barrelled goods isfree. '

"'Sorry you didn't mention it sooner, ' says we. And we bought twoforty-two gallon casks from the captain, and opened every bottle wehad and dumped the stuff all together in the casks. That 48 per centwould have ruined us; so we took the chances on making that $1, 200cocktail rather than throw the stuff away. 

"Well, when we landed we tapped one of the barrels. The mixture wassomething heartrending. It was the color of a plate of Bowery peasoup, and it tasted like one of those coffee substitutes your auntmakes you take for the heart trouble you get by picking losers. Wegave a nigger four fingers of it to try it, and he lay under acocoanut tree three days beating the sand with his heels and refusedto sign a testimonial. 

"But the other barrel! Say, bartender, did you ever put on a strawhat with a yellow band around it and go up in a balloon with apretty girl with $8, 000, 000 in your pocket all at the same time?That's what thirty drops of it would make you feel like. With twofingers of it inside you you would bury your face in your hands andcry because there wasn't anything more worth while around for you tolick than little Jim Jeffries. Yes, sir, the stuff in that secondbarrel was distilled elixir of battle, money and high life. It wasthe color of gold and as clear as glass, and it shone after darklike the sunshine was still in it. A thousand years from now you'llget a drink like that across the bar. 

"Well, we started up business with that one line of drinks, and itwas enough. The piebald gentry of that country stuck to it like ahive of bees. If that barrel had lasted that country would havebecome the greatest on earth. When we opened up of mornings we had aline of Generals and Colonels and ex-Presidents and revolutionists ablock long waiting to be served. We started in at 50 cents silver adrink. The last ten gallons went easy at $5 a gulp. It was wonderfulstuff. It gave a man courage and ambition and nerve to do anything;at the same time he didn't care whether his money was tainted orfresh from the Ice Trust. When that barrel was half gone Nicaraguahad repudiated the National debt, removed the duty on cigarettes andwas about to declare war on the United States and England. 

"'Twas by accident we discovered this king of drinks, and 'twillbe by good luck if we strike it again. For ten months we've beentrying. Small lots at a time, we've mixed barrels of all the harmfulingredients known to the profession of drinking. Ye could havestocked ten bars with the whiskies, brandies, cordials, bitters, gins and wines me and Tim have wasted. A glorious drink like thatto be denied to the world! 'Tis a sorrow and a loss of money. TheUnited States as a nation would welcome a drink of that sort, andpay for it. "

All the while McQuirk lead been carefully measuring and pouringtogether small quantities of various spirits, as Riley called them, from his latest pencilled prescription. The completed mixture was ofa vile, mottled chocolate color. McQuirk tasted it, and hurled it, with appropriate epithets, into the waste sink. 

"'Tis a strange story, even if true, " said Con. "I'll be going nowalong to my supper. "

"Take a drink, " said Riley. "We've all kinds except the lost blend. "

"I never drink, " said Con, "anything stronger than water. I am justafter meeting Miss Katherine by the stairs. She said a true word. 'There's not anything, ' says she, 'but is better off for a littlewater. '"

When Con had left them Riley almost felled McQuirk by a blow on theback. 

"Did ye hear that?" he shouted. "Two fools are we. The six dozenbottles of 'pollinaris we had on the slip--ye opened themyourself--which barrel did ye pour them in--which barrel, yemudhead?"

"I mind, " said McQuirk, slowly, "'twas in the second barrel weopened. I mind the blue piece of paper pasted on the side of it. "

"We've got it now, " cried Riley. "'Twas that we lacked. 'Tis thewater that does the trick. Everything else we had right. Hurry, man, and get two bottles of 'pollinaris from the bar, while I figure outthe proportionments with me pencil. "

An hour later Con strolled down the sidewalk toward Kenealy's café. Thus faithful employees haunt, during their recreation hours, thevicinity where they labor, drawn by some mysterious attraction. 

A police patrol wagon stood at the side door. Three able cops werehalf carrying, half hustling Riley and McQuirk up its rear steps. The eyes and faces of each bore the bruises and cuts of sanguinaryand assiduous conflict. Yet they whooped with strange joy, anddirected upon the police the feeble remnants of their pugnaciousmadness. 

"Began fighting each other in the back room, " explained Kenealy toCon. "And singing! That was worse. Smashed everything pretty muchup. But they're good men. They'll pay for everything. Trying toinvent some new kind of cocktail, they was. I'll see they come outall right in the morning. "

Con sauntered into the back room to view the battlefield. As he wentthrough the hall Katherine was just coming down the stairs. 

"Good evening again, Mr. Lantry, " said she. "And is there no newsfrom the weather yet?"

"Still threatens r-rain, " said Con, slipping past with red in hissmooth, pale cheek. 

Riley and McQuirk had indeed waged a great and friendly battle. Broken bottles and glasses were everywhere. The room was full ofalcohol fumes; the floor was variegated with spirituous puddles. 

On the table stood a 32-ounce glass graduated measure. In the bottomof it were two tablespoonfuls of liquid--a bright golden liquid thatseemed to hold the sunshine a prisoner in its auriferous depths. 

Con smelled it. He tasted it. He drank it. 

As he returned through the hall Katherine was just going up thestairs. 

"No news yet, Mr. Lantry?" she asked with her teasing laugh. 

Con lifted her clear from the floor and held her there. 

"The news is, " he said, "that we're to be married. "

"Put me down, sir!" she cried indignantly, "or I will-- Oh, Con, where, oh, wherever did you get the nerve to say it?"

A HARLEM TRAGEDY

Harlem. 

Mrs. Fink had dropped into Mrs. Cassidy's flat one flight below. 

"Ain't it a beaut?" said Mrs. Cassidy. 

She turned her face proudly for her friend Mrs. Fink to see. One eyewas nearly closed, with a great, greenish-purple bruise around it. Her lip was cut and bleeding a little and there were red finger-markson each side of her neck. 

"My husband wouldn't ever think of doing that to me, " said Mrs. Fink, concealing her envy. 

"I wouldn't have a man, " declared Mrs. Cassidy, "that didn't beat meup at least once a week. Shows he thinks something of you. Say! butthat last dose Jack gave me wasn't no homeopathic one. I can seestars yet. But he'll be the sweetest man in town for the rest of theweek to make up for it. This eye is good for theater tickets and asilk shirt waist at the very least. "

"I should hope, " said Mrs. Fink, assuming complacency, "that Mr. Fink is too much of a gentleman ever to raise his hand against me. "

"Oh, go on, Maggie!" said Mrs. Cassidy, laughing and applying witchhazel, "you're only jealous. Your old man is too frappéd and slowto ever give you a punch. He just sits down and practises physicalculture with a newspaper when he comes home--now ain't that thetruth?"

"Mr. Fink certainly peruses of the papers when he comes home, "acknowledged Mrs. Fink, with a toss of her head; "but he certainlydon't ever make no Steve O'Donnell out of me just to amusehimself--that's a sure thing. "

Mrs. Cassidy laughed the contented laugh of the guarded and happymatron. With the air of Cornelia exhibiting her jewels, she drewdown the collar of her kimono and revealed another treasured bruise, maroon-colored, edged with olive and orange--a bruise now nearlywell, but still to memory dear. 

Mrs. Fink capitulated. The formal light in her eye softened toenvious admiration. She and Mrs. Cassidy had been chums in thedowntown paper-box factory before they had married, one year before. Now she and her man occupied the flat above Mame and her man. Therefore she could not put on airs with Mame. 

"Don't it hurt when he soaks you?" asked Mrs. Fink, curiously. 

"Hurt!"--Mrs. Cassidy gave a soprano scream of delight. "Well, say--did you ever have a brick house fall on you?--well, that's justthe way it feels--just like when they're digging you out of theruins. Jack's got a left that spells two matinees and a new pair ofOxfords--and his right!--well, it takes a trip to Coney and sixpairs of openwork, silk lisle threads to make that good. "

"But what does he beat you for?" inquired Mrs. Fink, with wide-openeyes. 

"Silly!" said Mrs. Cassidy, indulgently. "Why, because he's full. It's generally on Saturday nights. "

"But what cause do you give him?" persisted the seeker afterknowledge. 

"Why, didn't I marry him? Jack comes in tanked up; and I'm here, ain't I? Who else has he got a right to beat? I'd just like to catchhim once beating anybody else! Sometimes it's because supper ain'tready; and sometimes it's because it is. Jack ain't particular aboutcauses. He just lushes till he remembers he's married, and thenhe makes for home and does me up. Saturday nights I just move thefurniture with sharp corners out of the way, so I won't cut myhead when he gets his work in. He's got a left swing that jars you!Sometimes I take the count in the first round; but when I feel likehaving a good time during the week or want some new rags I come upagain for more punishment. That's what I done last night. Jack knowsI've been wanting a black silk waist for a month, and I didn't thinkjust one black eye would bring it. Tell you what, Mag, I'll bet youthe ice cream he brings it to-night. "

Mrs. Fink was thinking deeply. 

"My Mart, " she said, "never hit me a lick in his life. It's justlike you said, Mame; he comes in grouchy and ain't got a word tosay. He never takes me out anywhere. He's a chair-warmer at home forfair. He buys me things, but he looks so glum about it that I neverappreciate 'em. "

Mrs. Cassidy slipped an arm around her chum. "You poor thing!"she said. "But everybody can't have a husband like Jack. Marriagewouldn't be no failure if they was all like him. These discontentedwives you hear about--what they need is a man to come home and kicktheir slats in once a week, and then make it up in kisses, andchocolate creams. That'd give 'em some interest in life. What I wantis a masterful man that slugs you when he's jagged and hugs you whenhe ain't jagged. Preserve me from the man that ain't got the sand todo neither!"

Mrs. Fink sighed. 

The hallways were suddenly filled with sound. The door flew open atthe kick of Mr. Cassidy. His arms were occupied with bundles. Mameflew and hung about his neck. Her sound eye sparkled with the lovelight that shines in the eye of the Maori maid when she recoversconsciousness in the hut of the wooer who has stunned and draggedher there. 

"Hello, old girl!" shouted Mr. Cassidy. He shed his bundles andlifted her off her feet in a mighty hug. "I got tickets for Barnum& Bailey's, and if you'll bust the string of one of them bundles Iguess you'll find that silk waist--why, good evening, Mrs. Fink--Ididn't see you at first. How's old Mart coming along?"

"He's very well, Mr. Cassidy--thanks, " said Mrs. Fink. "I must begoing along up now. Mart'll be home for supper soon. I'll bring youdown that pattern you wanted to-morrow, Mame. "

Mrs. Fink went up to her flat and had a little cry. It was ameaningless cry, the kind of cry that only a woman knows about, acry from no particular cause, altogether an absurd cry; the mosttransient and the most hopeless cry in the repertory of grief. Whyhad Martin never thrashed her? He was as big and strong as JackCassidy. Did he not care for her at all? He never quarrelled; hecame home and lounged about, silent, glum, idle. He was a fairlygood provider, but he ignored the spices of life. 

Mrs. Fink's ship of dreams was becalmed. Her captain ranged betweenplum duff and his hammock. If only he would shiver his timbers orstamp his foot on the quarter-deck now and then! And she had thoughtto sail so merrily, touching at ports in the Delectable Isles! Butnow, to vary the figure, she was ready to throw up the sponge, tiredout, without a scratch to show for all those tame rounds with hersparring partner. For one moment she almost hated Mame--Mame, withher cuts and bruises, her salve of presents and kisses; her stormyvoyage with her fighting, brutal, loving mate. 

Mr. Fink came home at 7. He was permeated with the curse ofdomesticity. Beyond the portals of his cozy home he cared not toroam, to roam. He was the man who had caught the street car, theanaconda that had swallowed its prey, the tree that lay as it hadfallen. 

"Like the supper, Mart?" asked Mrs. Fink, who had striven over it. 

"M-m-m-yep, " grunted Mr. Fink. 

After supper he gathered his newspapers to read. He sat in hisstocking feet. 

Arise, some new Dante, and sing me the befitting corner of perditionfor the man who sitteth in the house in his stockinged feet. Sistersof Patience who by reason of ties or duty have endured it in silk, yarn, cotton, lisle thread or woollen--does not the new canto belong?

The next day was Labor Day. The occupations of Mr. Cassidy and Mr. Fink ceased for one passage of the sun. Labor, triumphant, wouldparade and otherwise disport itself. 

Mrs. Fink took Mrs. Cassidy's pattern down early. Mame had on hernew silk waist. Even her damaged eye managed to emit a holidaygleam. Jack was fruitfully penitent, and there was a hilariousscheme for the day afoot, with parks and picnics and Pilsener in it. 

A rising, indignant jealousy seized Mrs. Fink as she returned to herflat above. Oh, happy Mame, with her bruises and her quick-followingbalm! But was Mame to have a monopoly of happiness? Surely MartinFink was as good a man as Jack Cassidy. Was his wife to go alwaysunbelabored and uncaressed? A sudden, brilliant, breathless ideacame to Mrs. Fink. She would show Mame that there were husbands asable to use their fists and perhaps to be as tender afterward as anyJack. 

The holiday promised to be a nominal one with the Finks. Mrs. Finkhad the stationary washtubs in the kitchen filled with a two weeks'wash that had been soaking overnight. Mr. Fink sat in his stockingedfeet reading a newspaper. Thus Labor Day presaged to speed. 

Jealousy surged high in Mrs. Fink's heart, and higher still surgedan audacious resolve. If her man would not strike her--if he wouldnot so far prove his manhood, his prerogative and his interest inconjugal affairs, he must be prompted to his duty. 

Mr. Fink lit his pipe and peacefully rubbed an ankle with astockinged toe. He reposed in the state of matrimony like a lumpof unblended suet in a pudding. This was his level Elysium--to sitat ease vicariously girdling the world in print amid the wifelysplashing of suds and the agreeable smells of breakfast dishesdeparted and dinner ones to come. Many ideas were far from hismind; but the furthest one was the thought of beating his wife. 

Mrs. Fink turned on the hot water and set the washboards in thesuds. Up from the flat below came the gay laugh of Mrs. Cassidy. Itsounded like a taunt, a flaunting of her own happiness in the faceof the unslugged bride above. Now was Mrs. Fink's time. 

Suddenly she turned like a fury upon the man reading. 

"You lazy loafer!" she cried, "must I work my arms off washing andtoiling for the ugly likes of you? Are you a man or are you akitchen hound?"

Mr. Fink dropped his paper, motionless from surprise. She fearedthat he would not strike--that the provocation had been insufficient. She leaped at him and struck him fiercely in the face with herclenched hand. In that instant she felt a thrill of love for himsuch as she had not felt for many a day. Rise up, Martin Fink, andcome into your kingdom! Oh, she must feel the weight of his handnow--just to show that he cared--just to show that he cared!

Mr. Fink sprang to his feet--Maggie caught him again on the jaw witha wide swing of her other hand. She closed her eyes in that fearful, blissful moment before his blow should come--she whispered his nameto herself--she leaned to the expected shock, hungry for it. 

In the flat below Mr. Cassidy, with a shamed and contrite face waspowdering Mame's eye in preparation for their junket. From the flatabove came the sound of a woman's voice, high-raised, a bumping, astumbling and a shuffling, a chair overturned--unmistakable soundsof domestic conflict. 

"Mart and Mag scrapping?" postulated Mr. Cassidy. "Didn't know theyever indulged. Shall I trot up and see if they need a sponge holder?"

One of Mrs. Cassidy's eyes sparkled like a diamond. The othertwinkled at least like paste. 

"Oh, oh, " she said, softly and without apparent meaning, in thefeminine ejaculatory manner. "I wonder if--wonder if! Wait, Jack, till I go up and see. "

Up the stairs she sped. As her foot struck the hallway above outfrom the kitchen door of her flat wildly flounced Mrs. Fink. 

"Oh, Maggie, " cried Mrs. Cassidy, in a delighted whisper; "did he?Oh, did he?"

Mrs. Fink ran and laid her face upon her chum's shoulder and sobbedhopelessly. 

Mrs. Cassidy took Maggie's face between her hands and lifted itgently. Tear-stained it was, flushing and paling, but its velvety, pink-and-white, becomingly freckled surface was unscratched, unbruised, unmarred by the recreant fist of Mr. Fink. 

"Tell me, Maggie, " pleaded Mame, "or I'll go in there and find out. What was it? Did he hurt you--what did he do?"

Mrs. Fink's face went down again despairingly on the bosom of herfriend. 

"For God's sake don't open that door, Mame, " she sobbed. "And don'tever tell nobody--keep it under your hat. He--he never touched me, and--he's--oh, Gawd--he's washin' the clothes--he's washin' theclothes!"

"THE GUILTY PARTY"

A Red-haired, unshaven, untidy man sat in a rocking chair by awindow. He had just lighted a pipe, and was puffing blue clouds withgreat satisfaction. He had removed his shoes and donned a pair ofblue, faded carpet-slippers. With the morbid thirst of the confirmeddaily news drinker, he awkwardly folded back the pages of an eveningpaper, eagerly gulping down the strong, black headlines, to befollowed as a chaser by the milder details of the smaller type. 

In an adjoining room a woman was cooking supper. Odors from strongbacon and boiling coffee contended against the cut-plug fumes fromthe vespertine pipe. 

Outside was one of those crowded streets of the east side, in which, as twilight falls, Satan sets up his recruiting office. A mightyhost of children danced and ran and played in the street. Some inrags, some in clean white and beribboned, some wild and restless asyoung hawks, some gentle-faced and shrinking, some shrieking rudeand sinful words, some listening, awed, but soon, grown familiar, to embrace--here were the children playing in the corridors of theHouse of Sin. Above the playground forever hovered a great bird. Thebird was known to humorists as the stork. But the people of Chrystiestreet were better ornithologists. They called it a vulture. 

A little girl of twelve came up timidly to the man reading andresting by the window, and said:

"Papa, won't you play a game of checkers with me if you aren't tootired?"

The red-haired, unshaven, untidy man sitting shoeless by the windowanswered, with a frown. 

"Checkers. No, I won't. Can't a man who works hard all day have alittle rest when he comes home? Why don't you go out and play withthe other kids on the sidewalk?"

The woman who was cooking came to the door. 

"John, " she said, "I don't like for Lizzie to play in the street. They learn too much there that ain't good for 'em. She's been in thehouse all day long. It seems that you might give up a little of yourtime to amuse her when you come home. "

"Let her go out and play like the rest of 'em if she wants to beamused, " said the red-haired, unshaven, untidy man, "and don'tbother me. "

 * * * * * * *

"You're on, " said Kid Mullaly. "Fifty dollars to $25 I take Annie tothe dance. Put up. "

The Kid's black eyes were snapping with the fire of the baited andchallenged. He drew out his "roll" and slapped five tens upon thebar. The three or four young fellows who were thus "taken" moreslowly produced their stake. The bartender, ex-officio stakeholder, took the money, laboriously wrapped it, recorded the bet with aninch-long pencil and stuffed the whole into a corner of the cashregister. 

"And, oh, what'll be done to you'll be a plenty, " said a bettor, with anticipatory glee. 

"That's my lookout, " said the "Kid, " sternly. "Fill 'em up allaround, Mike. "

After the round Burke, the "Kid's" sponge, sponge-holder, pal, Mentor and Grand Vizier, drew him out to the bootblack stand at thesaloon corner where all the official and important matters of theSmall Hours Social Club were settled. As Tony polished the light tanshoes of the club's President and Secretary for the fifth time thatday, Burke spake words of wisdom to his chief. 

"Cut that blond out, 'Kid, '" was his advice, "or there'll betrouble. What do you want to throw down that girl of yours for?You'll never find one that'll freeze to you like Liz has. She'sworth a hallful of Annies. "

"I'm no Annie admirer!" said the "Kid, " dropping a cigarette ashon his polished toe, and wiping it off on Tony's shoulder. "But Iwant to teach Liz a lesson. She thinks I belong to her. She's beenbragging that I daren't speak to another girl. Liz is all right--insome ways. She's drinking a little too much lately. And she useslanguage that a lady oughtn't. "

"You're engaged, ain't you?" asked Burke. 

"Sure. We'll get married next year, maybe. "

"I saw you make her drink her first glass of beer, " said Burke. "That was two years ago, when she used to came down to the corner ofChrystie bare-headed to meet you after supper. She was a quiet sortof a kid then, and couldn't speak without blushing. "

"She's a little spitfire, sometimes, now, " said the Kid. "I hatejealousy. That's why I'm going to the dance with Annie. It'll teachher some sense. "

"Well, you better look a little out, " were Burke's last words. "IfLiz was my girl and I was to sneak out to a dance coupled up with anAnnie, I'd want a suit of chain armor on under my gladsome rags, allright. "

Through the land of the stork-vulture wandered Liz. Her black eyessearched the passing crowds fierily but vaguely. Now and then shehummed bars of foolish little songs. Between times she set hersmall, white teeth together, and spake crisp words that the eastside has added to language. 

Liz's skirt was green silk. Her waist was a large brown-and-pinkplaid, well-fitting and not without style. She wore a cluster ringof huge imitation rubies, and a locket that banged her knees at thebottom of a silver chain. Her shoes were run down over twisted highheels, and were strangers to polish. Her hat would scarcely havepassed into a flour barrel. 

The "Family Entrance" of the Blue Jay Café received her. At a tableshe sat, and punched the button with the air of milady ringing forher carriage. The waiter came with his large-chinned, low-voicedmanner of respectful familiarity. Liz smoothed her silken skirt witha satisfied wriggle. She made the most of it. Here she could orderand be waited upon. It was all that her world offered her of theprerogative of woman. 

"Whiskey, Tommy, " she said as her sisters further uptown murmur, "Champagne, James. "

"Sure, Miss Lizzie. What'll the chaser be?"

"Seltzer. And say, Tommy, has the Kid been around to-day?"

"Why, no, Miss Lizzie, I haven't saw him to-day. "

Fluently came the "Miss Lizzie, " for the Kid was known to be one whorequired rigid upholdment of the dignity of his fiancee. 

"I'm lookin' for 'm, " said Liz, after the chaser had sputtered underher nose. "It's got to me that he says he'll take Annie Karlson tothe dance. Let him. The pink-eyed white rat! I'm lookin' for 'm. Youknow me, Tommy. Two years me and the Kid's been engaged. Look atthat ring. Five hundred, he said it cost. Let him take her to thedance. What'll I do? I'll cut his heart out. Another whiskey, Tommy. "

"I wouldn't listen to no such reports, Miss Lizzie, " said the waitersmoothly, from the narrow opening above his chin. "Kid Mullaly's notthe guy to throw a lady like you down. Seltzer on the side?"

"Two years, " repeated Liz, softening a little to sentiment underthe magic of the distiller's art. "I always used to play out on thestreet of evenin's 'cause there was nothin' doin' for me at home. For a long time I just sat on doorsteps and looked at the lightsand the people goin' by. And then the Kid came along one evenin'and sized me up, and I was mashed on the spot for fair. The firstdrink he made me take I cried all night at home, and got a lickin'for makin' a noise. And now--say, Tommy, you ever see this AnnieKarlson? If it wasn't for peroxide the chloroform limit would haveput her out long ago. Oh, I'm lookin' for 'm. You tell the Kid ifhe comes in. Me? I'll cut his heart out. Leave it to me. Anotherwhiskey, Tommy. "

A little unsteadily, but with watchful and brilliant eyes, Lizwalked up the avenue. On the doorstep of a brick tenement acurly-haired child sat, puzzling over the convolutions of a tangledstring. Liz flopped down beside her, with a crooked, shifting smileon her flushed face. But her eyes had grown clear and artless of asudden. 

"Let me show you how to make a cat's-cradle, kid, " she said, tuckingher green silk skirt under her rusty shoes. 

And while they sat there the lights were being turned on for thedance in the hall of the Small Hours Social Club. It was thebi-monthly dance, a dress affair in which the members took greatpride and bestirred themselves huskily to further and adorn. 

At 9 o'clock the President, Kid Mullaly, paced upon the floor with alady on his arm. As the Loreley's was her hair golden. Her "yes" wassoftened to a "yah, " but its quality of assent was patent to themost Milesian ears. She stepped upon her own train and blushed, and--she smiled into the eyes of Kid Mullaly. 

And then, as the two stood in the middle of the waxed floor, thething happened to prevent which many lamps are burning nightly inmany studies and libraries. 

Out from the circle of spectators in the hall leaped Fate in a greensilk skirt, under the _nom de guerre_ of "Liz. " Her eyes were hardand blacker than jet. She did not scream or waver. Most unwomanly, she cried out one oath--the Kid's own favorite oath--and in hisown deep voice; and then while the Small Hours Social Club wentfrantically to pieces, she made good her boast to Tommy, thewaiter--made good as far as the length of her knife blade and thestrength of her arm permitted. 

And next came the primal instinct of self-preservation--or was itself-annihilation, the instinct that society has grafted on thenatural branch?

Liz ran out and down the street swift and true as a woodcock flyingthrough a grove of saplings at dusk. 

And then followed the big city's biggest shame, its most ancientand rotten surviving canker, its pollution and disgrace, its blightand perversion, its forever infamy and guilt, fostered, unreprovedand cherished, handed down from a long-ago century of the basestbarbarity--the Hue and Cry. Nowhere but in the big cities does itsurvive, and here most of all, where the ultimate perfection ofculture, citizenship and alleged superiority joins, bawling, in thechase. 

They pursued--a shrieking mob of fathers, mothers, lovers andmaidens--howling, yelling, calling, whistling, crying for blood. Well may the wolf in the big city stand outside the door. Well mayhis heart, the gentler, falter at the siege. 

Knowing her way, and hungry for her surcease, she darted down thefamiliar ways until at last her feet struck the dull solidity of therotting pier. And then it was but a few more panting steps--and goodmother East River took Liz to her bosom, soothed her muddily butquickly, and settled in five minutes the problem that keeps lightsburning o' nights in thousands of pastorates and colleges. 

 * * * * * * *

It's mighty funny what kind of dreams one has sometimes. Poets callthem visions, but a vision is only a dream in blank verse. I dreamedthe rest of this story. 

I thought I was in the next world. I don't know how I got there; Isuppose I had been riding on the Ninth avenue elevated or takingpatent medicine or trying to pull Jim Jeffries's nose, or doing somesuch little injudicious stunt. But, anyhow, there I was, and therewas a great crowd of us outside the courtroom where the judgmentswere going on. And every now and then a very beautiful and imposingcourt-officer angel would come outside the door and call anothercase. 

While I was considering my own worldly sins and wondering whetherthere would be any use of my trying to prove an alibi by claimingthat I lived in New Jersey, the bailiff angel came to the door andsang out:

"Case No. 99, 852, 743. "

Up stepped a plain-clothes man--there were lots of 'em there, dressed exactly like preachers and hustling us spirits around justlike cops do on earth--and by the arm he dragged--whom, do youthink? Why, Liz!

The court officer took her inside and closed the door. I went up toMr. Fly-Cop and inquired about the case. 

"A very sad one, " says he, laying the points of his manicuredfingers together. "An utterly incorrigible girl. I am SpecialTerrestrial Officer the Reverend Jones. The case was assigned tome. The girl murdered her fiance and committed suicide. She had nodefense. My report to the court relates the facts in detail, all ofwhich are substantiated by reliable witnesses. The wages of sin isdeath. Praise the Lord. "

The court officer opened the door and stepped out. 

"Poor girl, " said Special Terrestrial Officer the Reverend Jones, with a tear in his eye. "It was one of the saddest cases that I evermet with. Of course she was"--

"Discharged, " said the court officer. "Come here, Jonesy. Firstthing you know you'll be switched to the pot-pie squad. Howwould you like to be on the missionary force in the South SeaIslands--hey? Now, you quit making these false arrests, or you'llbe transferred--see? The guilty party you've not to look for inthis case is a red-haired, unshaven, untidy man, sitting by thewindow reading, in his stocking feet, while his children play inthe streets. Get a move on you. "

Now, wasn't that a silly dream?

ACCORDING TO THEIR LIGHTS

Somewhere in the depths of the big city, where the unquiet dregs areforever being shaken together, young Murray and the Captain had metand become friends. Both were at the lowest ebb possible to theirfortunes; both had fallen from at least an intermediate Heaven ofrespectability and importance, and both were typical products of themonstrous and peculiar social curriculum of their overweening andbumptious civic alma mater. 

The captain was no longer a captain. One of those sudden moralcataclysms that sometimes sweep the city had hurled him from a highand profitable position in the Police Department, ripping off hisbadge and buttons and washing into the hands of his lawyers thesolid pieces of real estate that his frugality had enabled him toaccumulate. The passing of the flood left him low and dry. One monthafter his dishabilitation a saloon-keeper plucked him by the neckfrom his free-lunch counter as a tabby plucks a strange kitten fromher nest, and cast him asphaltward. This seems low enough. But afterthat he acquired a pair of cloth top, button Congress gaiters andwrote complaining letters to the newspapers. And then he foughtthe attendant at the Municipal Lodging House who tried to givehim a bath. When Murray first saw him he was holding the hand ofan Italian woman who sold apples and garlic on Essex street, andquoting the words of a song book ballad. 

Murray's fall had been more Luciferian, if less spectacular. Allthe pretty, tiny little kickshaws of Gotham had once been his. Themegaphone man roars out at you to observe the house of his uncle ona grand and revered avenue. But there had been an awful row aboutsomething, and the prince had been escorted to the door by thebutler, which, in said avenue, is equivalent to the impact of theavuncular shoe. A weak Prince Hal, without inheritance or sword, hedrifted downward to meet his humorless Falstaff, and to pick thecrusts of the streets with him. 

One evening they sat on a bench in a little downtown park. The greatbulk of the Captain, which starvation seemed to increase--drawingirony instead of pity to his petitions for aid--was heaped againstthe arm of the bench in a shapeless mass. His red face, spotted bytufts of vermilion, week-old whiskers and topped by a sagging whitestraw hat, looked, in the gloom, like one of those structures thatyou may observe in a dark Third avenue window, challenging yourimagination to say whether it be something recent in the way ofladies' hats or a strawberry shortcake. A tight-drawn belt--lastrelic of his official spruceness--made a deep furrow in hiscircumference. The Captain's shoes were buttonless. In a smotheredbass he cursed his star of ill-luck. 

Murray, at his side, was shrunk into his dingy and ragged suit ofblue serge. His hat was pulled low; he sat quiet and a littleindistinct, like some ghost that had been dispossessed. 

"I'm hungry, " growled the Captain--"by the top sirloin of the Bullof Bashan, I'm starving to death. Right now I could eat a Boweryrestaurant clear through to the stovepipe in the alley. Can'tyou think of nothing, Murray? You sit there with your shouldersscrunched up, giving an imitation of Reginald Vanderbilt drivinghis coach--what good are them airs doing you now? Think of someplace we can get something to chew. "

"You forget, my dear Captain, " said Murray, without moving, "thatour last attempt at dining was at my suggestion. "

"You bet it was, " groaned the Captain, "you bet your life it was. Have you got any more like that to make--hey?"

"I admit we failed, " sighed Murray. "I was sure Malone would be goodfor one more free lunch after the way he talked baseball with me thelast time I spent a nickel in his establishment. "

"I had this hand, " said the Captain, extending the unfortunatemember--"I had this hand on the drumstick of a turkey and twosardine sandwiches when them waiters grabbed us. "

"I was within two inches of the olives, " said Murray. "Stuffedolives. I haven't tasted one in a year. "

"What'll we do?" grumbled the Captain. "We can't starve. "

"Can't we?" said Murray quietly. "I'm glad to hear that. I wasafraid we could. "

"You wait here, " said the Captain, rising, heavily and puffily tohis feet. "I'm going to try to make one more turn. You stay heretill I come back, Murray. I won't be over half an hour. If I turnthe trick I'll come back flush. "

He made some elephantine attempts at smartening his appearance. Hegave his fiery mustache a heavenward twist; he dragged into sight apair of black-edged cuffs, deepened the crease in his middle bytightening his belt another hole, and set off, jaunty as a zoorhinoceros, across the south end of the park. 

When he was out of sight Murray also left the park, hurrying swiftlyeastward. He stopped at a building whose steps were flanked by twogreen lights. 

"A police captain named Maroney, " he said to the desk sergeant, "wasdismissed from the force after being tried under charges three yearsago. I believe sentence was suspended. Is this man wanted now by thepolice?"

"Why are ye asking?" inquired the sergeant, with a frown. 

"I thought there might be a reward standing, " explained Murray, easily. "I know the man well. He seems to be keeping himself prettyshady at present. I could lay my hands on him at any time. If thereshould be a reward--"

"There's no reward, " interrupted the sergeant, shortly. "The man'snot wanted. And neither are ye. So, get out. Ye are frindly with um, and ye would be selling um. Out with ye quick, or I'll give ye astart. "

Murray gazed at the officer with serene and virtuous dignity. 

"I would be simply doing my duty as a citizen and gentleman, " hesaid, severely, "if I could assist the law in laying hold of one ofits offenders. "

Murray hurried back to the bench in the park. He folded his arms andshrank within his clothes to his ghost-like presentment. 

Ten minutes afterward the Captain arrived at the rendezvous, windyand thunderous as a dog-day in Kansas. His collar had been tornaway; his straw hat had been twisted and battered; his shirt withox-blood stripes split to the waist. And from head to knee hewas drenched with some vile and ignoble greasy fluid that loudlyproclaimed to the nose its component leaven of garlic and kitchenstuff. 

"For Heaven's sake, Captain, " sniffed Murray, "I doubt that I wouldhave waited for you if I had suspected you were so desperate as toresort to swill barrels. I"--

"Cheese it, " said the Captain, harshly. "I'm not hogging it yet. It's all on the outside. I went around on Essex and proposedmarriage to that Catrina that's got the fruit shop there. Now, thatbusiness could be built up. She's a peach as far as a Dago could be. I thought I had that senoreena mashed sure last week. But look whatshe done to me! I guess I got too fresh. Well there's another schemequeered. "

"You don't mean to say, " said Murray, with infinite contempt, "thatyou would have married that woman to help yourself out of yourdisgraceful troubles!"

"Me?" said the Captain. "I'd marry the Empress of China for one bowlof chop suey. I'd commit murder for a plate of beef stew. I'd steala wafer from a waif. I'd be a Mormon for a bowl of chowder. "

"I think, " said Murray, resting his head on his hands, "that I wouldplay Judas for the price of one drink of whiskey. For thirty piecesof silver I would"--

"Oh, come now!" exclaimed the Captain in dismay. "You wouldn't dothat, Murray! I always thought that Kike's squeal on his boss wasabout the lowest-down play that ever happened. A man that gives hisfriend away is worse than a pirate. "

Through the park stepped a large man scanning the benches where theelectric light fell. 

"Is that you, Mac?" he said, halting before the derelicts. Hisdiamond stickpin dazzled. His diamond-studded fob chain assisted. He was big and smooth and well fed. "Yes, I see it's you, " hecontinued. "They told me at Mike's that I might find you over here. Let me see you a few minutes, Mac. "

The Captain lifted himself with a grunt of alacrity. If CharlieFinnegan had come down in the bottomless pit to seek him there mustbe something doing. Charlie guided him by an arm into a patch ofshadow. 

"You know, Mac, " he said, "they're trying Inspector Pickering ongraft charges. "

"He was my inspector, " said the Captain. 

"O'Shea wants the job, " went on Finnegan. "He must have it. It's forthe good of the organization. Pickering must go under. Your testimonywill do it. He was your 'man higher up' when you were on the force. His share of the boodle passed through your hands. You must go on thestand and testify against him. "

"He was"--began the Captain. 

"Wait a minute, " said Finnegan. A bundle of yellowish stuff came outof his inside pocket. "Five hundred dollars in it for you. Two-fiftyon the spot, and the rest"--

"He was my friend, I say, " finished the Captain. "I'll see you andthe gang, and the city, and the party in the flames of Hades beforeI'll take the stand against Dan Pickering. I'm down and out; but I'mno traitor to a man that's been my friend. " The Captain's voice roseand boomed like a split trombone. "Get out of this park, CharlieFinnegan, where us thieves and tramps and boozers are your betters;and take your dirty money with you. "

Finnegan drifted out by another walk. The Captain returned to hisseat. 

"I couldn't avoid hearing, " said Murray, drearily. "I think you arethe biggest fool I ever saw. "

"What would you have done?" asked the Captain. 

"Nailed Pickering to the cross, " said Murray. 

"Sonny, " said the Captain, huskily and without heat. "You and me aredifferent. New York is divided into two parts--above Forty-secondstreet, and below Fourteenth. You come from the other part. We bothact according to our lights. "

An illuminated clock above the trees retailed the information thatit lacked the half hour of twelve. Both men rose from the bench andmoved away together as if seized by the same idea. They left thepark, struck through a narrow cross street, and came into Broadway, at this hour as dark, echoing and de-peopled as a byway in Pompeii. 

Northward they turned; and a policeman who glanced at their unkemptand slinking figures withheld the attention and suspicion that hewould have granted them at any other hour and place. For on everystreet in that part of the city other unkempt and slinking figureswere shuffling and hurrying toward a converging point--a point thatis marked by no monument save that groove on the pavement worn bytens of thousands of waiting feet. 

At Ninth street a tall man wearing an opera hat alighted from aBroadway car and turned his face westward. But he saw Murray, pounced upon him and dragged him under a street light. The Captainlumbered slowly to the corner, like a wounded bear, and waited, growling. 

"Jerry!" cried the hatted one. "How fortunate! I was to begin asearch for you to-morrow. The old gentleman has capitulated. You'reto be restored to favor. Congratulate you. Come to the office in themorning and get all the money you want. I've liberal instructions inthat respect. "

"And the little matrimonial arrangement?" said Murray, with his headturned sidewise. 

"Why. --er--well, of course, your uncle understands--expects thatthe engagement between you and Miss Vanderhurst shall be"--

"Good night, " said Murray, moving away. 

"You madman!" cried the other, catching his arm. "Would you give uptwo millions on account of"--

"Did you ever see her nose, old man?" asked Murray, solemnly. 

"But, listen to reason, Jerry. Miss Vanderhurst is an heiress, and"--

"Did you ever see it?"

"Yes, I admit that her nose isn't"--

"Good night!" said Murray. "My friend is waiting for me. I amquoting him when I authorize you to report that there is 'nothingdoing. ' Good night. "

A wriggling line of waiting men extended from a door in Tenth streetfar up Broadway, on the outer edge of the pavement. The Captain andMurray fell in at the tail of the quivering millipede. 

"Twenty feet longer than it was last night, " said Murray, looking upat his measuring angle of Grace Church. 

"Half an hour, " growled the Captain, "before we get our punk. "

The city clocks began to strike 12; the Bread Line moved forwardslowly, its leathern feet sliding on the stones with the sound of ahissing serpent, as they who had lived according to their lightsclosed up in the rear. 

A MIDSUMMER KNIGHT'S DREAM

 "The knights are dead; Their swords are rust. Except a few who have to hust- Le all the time To raise the dust. "

Dear Reader: It was summertime. The sun glared down upon the citywith pitiless ferocity. It is difficult for the sun to be ferociousand exhibit compunction simultaneously. The heat was--oh, botherthermometers!--who cares for standard measures, anyhow? It was sohot that--

The roof gardens put on so many extra waiters that you could hope toget your gin fizz now--as soon as all the other people got theirs. The hospitals were putting in extra cots for bystanders. For whenlittle, woolly dogs loll their tongues out and say "woof, woof!"at the fleas that bite 'em, and nervous old black bombazine ladiesscreech "Mad dog!" and policemen begin to shoot, somebody isgoing to get hurt. The man from Pompton, N. J. , who always wearsan overcoat in July, had turned up in a Broadway hotel drinkinghot Scotches and enjoying his annual ray from the calcium. Philanthropists were petitioning the Legislature to pass a billrequiring builders to make tenement fire-escapes more commodious, so that families might die all together of the heat instead of oneor two at a time. So many men were telling you about the number ofbaths they took each day that you wondered how they got along afterthe real lessee of the apartment came back to town and thanked 'emfor taking such good care of it. The young man who called loudly forcold beef and beer in the restaurant, protesting that roast pulletand Burgundy was really too heavy for such weather, blushed when hemet your eye, for you had heard him all winter calling, in modesttones, for the same ascetic viands. Soup, pocketbooks, shirt waists, actors and baseball excuses grew thinner. Yes, it was summertime. 

A man stood at Thirty-fourth street waiting for a downtown car. A man of forty, gray-haired, pink-faced, keen, nervous, plainlydressed, with a harassed look around the eyes. He wiped his foreheadand laughed loudly when a fat man with an outing look stopped andspoke with him. 

"No, siree, " he shouted with defiance and scorn. "None of your oldmosquito-haunted swamps and skyscraper mountains without elevatorsfor me. When I want to get away from hot weather I know how to doit. New York, sir, is the finest summer resort in the country. Keepin the shade and watch your diet, and don't get too far away froman electric fan. Talk about your Adirondacks and your Catskills!There's more solid comfort in the borough of Manhattan than inall the rest of the country together. No, siree! No tramping upperpendicular cliffs and being waked up at 4 in the morning by amillion flies, and eating canned goods straight from the city forme. Little old New York will take a few select summer boarders;comforts and conveniences of homes--that's the ad. That I answerevery time. "

"You need a vacation, " said the fat man, looking closely at theother. "You haven't been away from town in years. Better come withme for two weeks, anyhow. The trout in the Beaverkill are jumping atanything now that looks like a fly. Harding writes me that he landeda three-pound brown last week. "

"Nonsense!" cried the other man. "Go ahead, if you like, and bogglearound in rubber boots wearing yourself out trying to catch fish. When I want one I go to a cool restaurant and order it. I laugh atyou fellows whenever I think of you hustling around in the heatin the country thinking you are having a good time. For me FatherKnickerbocker's little improved farm with the big shady lane runningthrough the middle of it. "

The fat man sighed over his friend and went his way. The man whothought New York was the greatest summer resort in the countryboarded a car and went buzzing down to his office. On the way hethrew away his newspaper and looked up at a ragged patch of skyabove the housetops. 

"Three pounds!" he muttered, absently. "And Harding isn't a liar. I believe, if I could--but it's impossible--they've got to haveanother month--another month at least. "

In his office the upholder of urban midsummer joys dived, headforemost, into the swimming pool of business. Adkins, his clerk, came and added a spray of letters, memoranda and telegrams. 

At 5 o'clock in the afternoon the busy man leaned back in his officechair, put his feet on the desk and mused aloud:

"I wonder what kind of bait Harding used. "

 * * * * * * *

She was all in white that day; and thereby Compton lost a bet toGaines. Compton had wagered she would wear light blue, for she knewthat was his favorite color, and Compton was a millionaire's son, and that almost laid him open to the charge of betting on a surething. But white was her choice, and Gaines held up his head withtwenty-five's lordly air. 

The little summer hotel in the mountains had a lively crowd thatyear. There were two or three young college men and a couple ofartists and a young naval officer on one side. On the other therewere enough beauties among the young ladies for the correspondent ofa society paper to refer to them as a "bevy. " But the moon among thestars was Mary Sewell. Each one of the young men greatly desired toarrange matters so that he could pay her millinery bills, and fixthe furnace, and have her do away with the "Sewell" part of her nameforever. Those who could stay only a week or two went away hintingat pistols and blighted hearts. But Compton stayed like themountains themselves, for he could afford it. And Gaines stayedbecause he was a fighter and wasn't afraid of millionaire's sons, and--well, he adored the country. 

"What do you think, Miss Mary?" he said once. "I knew a duffer inNew York who claimed to like it in the summer time. Said you couldkeep cooler there than you could in the woods. Wasn't he an awfulsilly? I don't think I could breathe on Broadway after the 1st ofJune. "

"Mamma was thinking of going back week after next, " said Miss Marywith a lovely frown. 

"But when you think of it, " said Gaines, "there are lots of jollyplaces in town in the summer. The roof gardens, you know, andthe--er--the roof gardens. "

Deepest blue was the lake that day--the day when they had the mocktournament, and the men rode clumsy farm horses around in a glade inthe woods and caught curtain rings on the end of a lance. Such fun!

Cool and dry as the finest wine came the breath of the shadowedforest. The valley below was a vision seen through an opal haze. Awhite mist from hidden falls blurred the green of a hand's breadthof tree tops half-way down the gorge. Youth made merry hand-in-handwith young summer. Nothing on Broadway like that. 

The villagers gathered to see the city folks pursue their maddrollery. The woods rang with the laughter of pixies and naiads andsprites. Gaines caught most of the rings. His was the privilege tocrown the queen of the tournament. He was the conquering knight--asfar as the rings went. On his arm he wore a white scarf. Comptonwore light blue. She had declared her preference for blue, but shewore white that day. 

Gaines looked about for the queen to crown her. He heard her merrylaugh, as if from the clouds. She had slipped away and climbedChimney Rock, a little granite bluff, and stood there, a white fairyamong the laurels, fifty feet above their heads. 

Instantly he and Compton accepted the implied challenge. The bluffwas easily mounted at the rear, but the front offered small holdto hand or foot. Each man quickly selected his route and beganto climb, A crevice, a bush, a slight projection, a vine or treebranch--all of these were aids that counted in the race. It wasall foolery--there was no stake; but there was youth in it, crossreader, and light hearts, and something else that Miss Clay writesso charmingly about. 

Gaines gave a great tug at the root of a laurel and pulled himselfto Miss Mary's feet. On his arm he carried the wreath of roses; andwhile the villagers and summer boarders screamed and applauded belowhe placed it on the queen's brow. 

"You are a gallant knight, " said Miss Mary. 

"If I could be your true knight always, " began Gaines, but Miss Marylaughed him dumb, for Compton scrambled over the edge of the rockone minute behind time. 

What a twilight that was when they drove back to the hotel! The opalof the valley turned slowly to purple, the dark woods framed thelake as a mirror, the tonic air stirred the very soul in one. Thefirst pale stars came out over the mountain tops where yet a faintglow of--

 * * * * * * *

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Gaines, " said Adkins. 

The man who believed New York to be the finest summer resort in theworld opened his eyes and kicked over the mucilage bottle on hisdesk. 

"I--I believe I was asleep, " he said. 

"It's the heat, " said Adkins. "It's something awful in the citythese"--

"Nonsense!" said the other. "The city beats the country ten to onein summer. Fools go out tramping in muddy brooks and wear themselvesout trying to catch little fish as long as your finger. Stay in townand keep comfortable--that's my idea. "

"Some letters just came, " said Adkins. "I thought you might like toglance at them before you go. "

Let us look over his shoulder and read just a few lines of one ofthem:

 MY DEAR, DEAR HUSBAND: Just received your letter ordering us to stay another month . . . Rita's cough is almost gone . . . Johnny has simply gone wild like a little Indian . . . Will be the making of both children . . . Work so hard, and I know that your business can hardly afford to keep us here so long . . . Best man that ever . . . You always pretend that you like the city in summer . . . Trout fishing that you used to be so fond of . . . And all to keep us well and happy . . . Come to you if it were not doing the babies so much good . . . I stood last evening on Chimney Rock in exactly the same spot where I was when you put the wreath of roses on my head . . . Through all the world . . . When you said you would be my true knight . . . Fifteen years ago, dear, just think! . . . Have always been that to me . . . Ever and ever, MARY. 

The man who said he thought New York the finest summer resort in thecountry dropped into a café on his way home and had a glass of beerunder an electric fan. 

"Wonder what kind of a fly old Harding used, " he said to himself. 

THE LAST LEAF

In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have runcrazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places. " These"places" make strange angles and curves. One street crosses itselfa time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility inthis street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper andcanvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himselfcoming back, without a cent having been paid on account!

So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon cameprowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gablesand Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugsand a chafing dish or two from Sixth avenue, and became a "colony. "

At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had theirstudio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; theother from California. They had met at the _table d'hote_ of anEighth street "Delmonico's, " and found their tastes in art, chicorysalad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studioresulted. 

That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom thedoctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching onehere and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side thisravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feettrod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown "places. "

Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrswas hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her paintediron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at theblank side of the next brick house. 

One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with ashaggy, gray eyebrow. 

"She has one chance in--let us say, ten, " he said, as he shook downthe mercury in his clinical thermometer. "And that chance is for herto want to live. This way people have of lining-up on the side ofthe undertaker makes the entire pharmacopeia look silly. Your littlelady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has sheanything on her mind?"

"She--she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day, " said Sue. 

"Paint?--bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking abouttwice--a man, for instance?"

"A man?" said Sue, with a jew's-harp twang in her voice. "Is a manworth--but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind. "

"Well, it is the weakness, then, " said the doctor. "I will do allthat science, so far as it may filter through my efforts, canaccomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriagesin her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent. From the curativepower of medicines. If you will get her to ask one question aboutthe new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you aone-in-five chance for her, instead of one in ten. "

After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried aJapanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy's roomwith her drawing board, whistling ragtime. 

Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with herface toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she wasasleep. 

She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustratea magazine story. Young artists must pave their way to Art bydrawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write topave their way to Literature. 

As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers anda monocle on the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard alow sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside. 

Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window andcounting--counting backward. 

"Twelve, " she said, and a little later "eleven;" and then "ten, " and"nine;" and then "eight" and "seven, " almost together. 

Sue looked solicitously out the window. What was there to count?There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side ofthe brick house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy vine, gnarled anddecayed at the roots, climbed half way up the brick wall. The coldbreath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until itsskeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks. 

"What is it, dear?" asked Sue. 

"Six, " said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "They're falling fasternow. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my headache to count them. But now it's easy. There goes another one. Thereare only five left now. "

"Five what, dear. Tell your Sudie. "

"Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?"

"Oh, I never heard of such nonsense, " complained Sue, withmagnificent scorn. "What have old ivy leaves to do with your gettingwell? And you used to love that vine so, you naughty girl. Don't bea goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances forgetting well real soon were--let's see exactly what he said--he saidthe chances were ten to one! Why, that's almost as good a chance aswe have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past anew building. Try to take some broth now, and let Sudie go back toher drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy portwine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self. "

"You needn't get any more wine, " said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixedout the window. "There goes another. No, I don't want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before itgets dark. Then I'll go, too. "

"Johnsy, dear, " said Sue, bending over her, "will you promise me tokeep your eyes closed, and not look out the window until I am doneworking? I must hand those drawings in by to-morrow. I need thelight, or I would draw the shade down. "

"Couldn't you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsy, coldly. 

"I'd rather be here by you, " said Sue. "Besides I don't want you tokeep looking at those silly ivy leaves. "

"Tell me as soon as you have finished, " said Johnsy, closing hereyes, and lying white and still as a fallen statue, "because Iwant to see the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired ofthinking. I went to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailingdown, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves. "

"Try to sleep, " said Sue. "I must call Behrman up to be my model forthe old hermit miner. I'll not be gone a minute. Don't try to move'till I come back. "

Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneaththem. He was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo's Moses beardcurling down from the head of a satyr along the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brushwithout getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress's robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yetbegun it. For several years he had painted nothing except now andthen a daub in the line of commerce or advertising. He earned alittle by serving as a model to those young artists in the colonywho could not pay the price of a professional. He drank gin toexcess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest hewas a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness inany one, and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting toprotect the two young artists in the studio above. 

Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimlylighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel thathad been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the firstline of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy's fancy, and how shefeared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, floataway when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker. 

Old Behrman, with his red eyes, plainly streaming, shouted hiscontempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings. 

"Vass!" he cried. "Is dere people in de world mit der foolishnessto die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf notheard of such a thing. No, I will not bose as a model for your foolhermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in derprain of her? Ach, dot poor lettle Miss Johnsy. "

"She is very ill and weak, " said Sue, "and the fever has left hermind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, ifyou do not care to pose for me, you needn't. But I think you are ahorrid old--old flibbertigibbet. "

"You are just like a woman!" yelled Behrman. "Who said I will notbose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying tosay dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in whichone so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint amasterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes. "

Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shadedown to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. Apersistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, inhis old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit-miner on an upturnedkettle for a rock. 

When Sue awoke from an hour's sleep the next morning she foundJohnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade. 

"Pull it up; I want to see, " she ordered, in a whisper. 

Wearily Sue obeyed. 

But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that hadendured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against thebrick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last on the vine. Still darkgreen near its stem, but with its serrated edges tinted with theyellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from a branch sometwenty feet above the ground. 

"It is the last one, " said Johnsy. "I thought it would surely fallduring the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shalldie at the same time. "

"Dear, dear!" said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, "think of me, if you won't think of yourself. What would I do?"

But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world isa soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the tiesthat bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed. 

The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see thelone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, withthe coming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while therain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the lowDutch eaves. 

When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that theshade be raised. 

The ivy leaf was still there. 

Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called toSue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove. 

"I've been a bad girl, Sudie, " said Johnsy. "Something has made thatlast leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin towant to die. You may bring me a little broth now, and some milk witha little port in it, and--no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and thenpack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook. "

An hour later she said. 

"Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples. "

The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go intothe hallway as he left. 

"Even chances, " said the doctor, taking Sue's thin, shaking hand inhis. "With good nursing you'll win. And now I must see another caseI have downstairs. Behrman, his name is--some kind of an artist, Ibelieve. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack isacute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-dayto be made more comfortable. "

The next day the doctor said to Sue: "She's out of danger. You'vewon. Nutrition and care now--that's all. "

And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedlyknitting a very blue and very useless woolen shoulder scarf, and putone arm around her, pillows and all. 

"I have something to tell you, white mouse, " she said. "Mr. Behrmandied of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him on the morning of the first day in his roomdownstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wetthrough and icy cold. They couldn't imagine where he had beenon such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, stilllighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and somescattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colors mixedon it, and--look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on thewall. Didn't you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when thewind blew? Ah, darling, it's Behrman's masterpiece--he painted itthere the night that the last leaf fell. "

THE COUNT AND THE WEDDING GUEST

One evening when Andy Donovan went to dinner at his Second Avenueboarding-house, Mrs. Scott introduced him to a new boarder, a younglady, Miss Conway. Miss Conway was small and unobtrusive. She wore aplain, snuffy-brown dress, and bestowed her interest, which seemedlanguid, upon her plate. She lifted her diffident eyelids and shotone perspicuous, judicial glance at Mr. Donovan, politely murmuredhis name, and returned to her mutton. Mr. Donovan bowed with thegrace and beaming smile that were rapidly winning for him social, business and political advancement, and erased the snuffy-brown onefrom the tablets of his consideration. 

Two weeks later Andy was sitting on the front steps enjoying hiscigar. There was a soft rustle behind and above him, and Andy turnedhis head--and had his head turned. 

Just coming out the door was Miss Conway. She wore a night-blackdress of _crêpe de_--_crêpe de_--oh, this thin black goods. Her hatwas black, and from it drooped and fluttered an ebon veil, filmy asa spider's web. She stood on the top step and drew on black silkgloves. Not a speck of white or a spot of color about her dressanywhere. Her rich golden hair was drawn, with scarcely a ripple, into a shining, smooth knot low on her neck. Her face was plainrather than pretty, but it was now illuminated and made almostbeautiful by her large gray eyes that gazed above the houses acrossthe street into the sky with an expression of the most appealingsadness and melancholy. 

Gather the idea, girls--all black, you know, with the preference for_crêpe de_--oh, _crêpe de Chine_--that's it. All black, and thatsad, faraway look, and the hair shining under the black veil (youhave to be a blonde, of course), and try to look as if, althoughyour young life had been blighted just as it was about to give ahop-skip-and-a-jump over the threshold of life, a walk in the parkmight do you good, and be sure to happen out the door at the rightmoment, and--oh, it'll fetch 'em every time. But it's fierce, now, how cynical I am, ain't it?--to talk about mourning costumes thisway. 

Mr. Donovan suddenly reinscribed Miss Conway upon the tablets of hisconsideration. He threw away the remaining inch-and-a-quarter of hiscigar, that would have been good for eight minutes yet, and quicklyshifted his center of gravity to his low cut patent leathers. 

"It's a fine, clear evening, Miss Conway, " he said; and if theWeather Bureau could have heard the confident emphasis of his tonesit would have hoisted the square white signal, and nailed it to themast. 

"To them that has the heart to enjoy it, it is, Mr. Donovan, " saidMiss Conway, with a sigh. 

Mr. Donovan, in his heart, cursed fair weather. Heartless weather!It should hail and blow and snow to be consonant with the mood ofMiss Conway. 

"I hope none of your relatives--I hope you haven't sustained aloss?" ventured Mr. Donovan. 

"Death has claimed, " said Miss Conway, hesitating--"not a relative, but one who--but I will not intrude my grief upon you, Mr. Donovan. "

"Intrude?" protested Mr. Donovan. "Why, say, Miss Conway, I'd bedelighted, that is, I'd be sorry--I mean I'm sure nobody couldsympathize with you truer than I would. "

Miss Conway smiled a little smile. And oh, it was sadder than herexpression in repose. 

"'Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and they give you thelaugh, '" she quoted. "I have learned that, Mr. Donovan. I have nofriends or acquaintances in this city. But you have been kind to me. I appreciate it highly. "

He had passed her the pepper twice at the table. 

"It's tough to be alone in New York--that's a cinch, " said Mr. Donovan. "But, say--whenever this little old town does loosen up andget friendly it goes the limit. Say you took a little stroll in thepark, Miss Conway--don't you think it might chase away some of yourmullygrubs? And if you'd allow me--"

"Thanks, Mr. Donovan. I'd be pleased to accept of your escort if youthink the company of one whose heart is filled with gloom could beanyways agreeable to you. "

Through the open gates of the iron-railed, old, downtown park, wherethe elect once took the air, they strolled, and found a quiet bench. 

There is this difference between the grief of youth and that of oldage: youth's burden is lightened by as much of it as another shares;old age may give and give, but the sorrow remains the same. 

"He was my fiance, " confided Miss Conway, at the end of an hour. "Wewere going to be married next spring. I don't want you to think thatI am stringing you, Mr. Donovan, but he was a real Count. He had anestate and a castle in Italy. Count Fernando Mazzini was his name. I never saw the beat of him for elegance. Papa objected, of course, and once we eloped, but papa overtook us, and took us back. Ithought sure papa and Fernando would fight a duel. Papa has a liverybusiness--in P'kipsee, you know. "

"Finally, papa came 'round, all right, and said we might be marriednext spring. Fernando showed him proofs of his title and wealth, andthen went over to Italy to get the castle fixed up for us. Papa'svery proud, and when Fernando wanted to give me several thousanddollars for my trousseau he called him down something awful. Hewouldn't even let me take a ring or any presents from him. And whenFernando sailed I came to the city and got a position as cashier ina candy store. "

"Three days ago I got a letter from Italy, forwarded from P'kipsee, saying that Fernando had been killed in a gondola accident. "

"That is why I am in mourning. My heart, Mr. Donovan, will remainforever in his grave. I guess I am poor company, Mr. Donovan, but Icannot take any interest in no one. I should not care to keep youfrom gayety and your friends who can smile and entertain you. Perhaps you would prefer to walk back to the house?"

Now, girls, if you want to observe a young man hustle out after apick and shovel, just tell him that your heart is in some otherfellow's grave. Young men are grave-robbers by nature. Ask anywidow. Something must be done to restore that missing organ toweeping angels in _crêpe de Chine_. Dead men certainly get the worstof it from all sides. 

"I'm awfully sorry, " said Mr. Donovan, gently. "No, we won't walkback to the house just yet. And don't say you haven't no friends inthis city, Miss Conway. I'm awful sorry, and I want you to believeI'm your friend, and that I'm awful sorry. "

"I've got his picture here in my locket, " said Miss Conway, afterwiping her eyes with her handkerchief. "I never showed it toanybody; but I will to you, Mr. Donovan, because I believe you to bea true friend. "

Mr. Donovan gazed long and with much interest at the photographin the locket that Miss Conway opened for him. The face of CountMazzini was one to command interest. It was a smooth, intelligent, bright, almost a handsome face--the face of a strong, cheerful manwho might well be a leader among his fellows. 

"I have a larger one, framed, in my room, " said Miss Conway. "Whenwe return I will show you that. They are all I have to remind me ofFernando. But he ever will be present in my heart, that's a surething. "

A subtle task confronted Mr. Donovan, --that of supplanting theunfortunate Count in the heart of Miss Conway. This his admirationfor her determined him to do. But the magnitude of the undertakingdid not seem to weigh upon his spirits. The sympathetic but cheerfulfriend was the rôle he essayed; and he played it so successfullythat the next half-hour found them conversing pensively across twoplates of ice-cream, though yet there was no diminution of thesadness in Miss Conway's large gray eyes. 

Before they parted in the hall that evening she ran upstairs andbrought down the framed photograph wrapped lovingly in a white silkscarf. Mr. Donovan surveyed it with inscrutable eyes. 

"He gave me this the night he left for Italy, " said Miss Conway. "Ihad the one for the locket made from this. "

"A fine-looking man, " said Mr. Donovan, heartily. "How would it suityou, Miss Conway, to give me the pleasure of your company to Coneynext Sunday afternoon?"

A month later they announced their engagement to Mrs. Scott and theother boarders. Miss Conway continued to wear black. 

A week after the announcement the two sat on the same bench in thedowntown park, while the fluttering leaves of the trees made a dimkinetoscopic picture of them in the moonlight. But Donovan had worna look of abstracted gloom all day. He was so silent to-night thatlove's lips could not keep back any longer the questions that love'sheart propounded. 

"What's the matter, Andy, you are so solemn and grouchy to-night?"

"Nothing, Maggie. "

"I know better. Can't I tell? You never acted this way before. Whatis it?"

"It's nothing much, Maggie. "

"Yes it is; and I want to know. I'll bet it's some other girl youare thinking about. All right. Why don't you go get her if you wanther? Take your arm away, if you please. "

"I'll tell you then, " said Andy, wisely, "but I guess you won'tunderstand it exactly. You've heard of Mike Sullivan, haven't you?'Big Mike' Sullivan, everybody calls him. "

"No, I haven't, " said Maggie. "And I don't want to, if he makes youact like this. Who is he?"

"He's the biggest man in New York, " said Andy, almost reverently. "He can about do anything he wants to with Tammany or any other oldthing in the political line. He's a mile high and as broad as EastRiver. You say anything against Big Mike, and you'll have a millionmen on your collarbone in about two seconds. Why, he made a visitover to the old country awhile back, and the kings took to theirholes like rabbits. 

"Well, Big Mike's a friend of mine. I ain't more than deuce-high inthe district as far as influence goes, but Mike's as good a friendto a little man, or a poor man as he is to a big one. I met himto-day on the Bowery, and what do you think he does? Comes up andshakes hands. 'Andy, ' says he, 'I've been keeping cases on you. You've been putting in some good licks over on your side of thestreet, and I'm proud of you. What'll you take to drink?" He takes acigar, and I take a highball. I told him I was going to get marriedin two weeks. 'Andy, ' says he, 'send me an invitation, so I'll keepin mind of it, and I'll come to the wedding. ' That's what Big Mikesays to me; and he always does what he says. 

"You don't understand it, Maggie, but I'd have one of my handscut off to have Big Mike Sullivan at our wedding. It would be theproudest day of my life. When he goes to a man's wedding, there's aguy being married that's made for life. Now, that's why I'm maybelooking sore to-night. "

"Why don't you invite him, then, if he's so much to the mustard?"said Maggie, lightly. 

"There's a reason why I can't, " said Andy, sadly. "There's a reasonwhy he mustn't be there. Don't ask me what it is, for I can't tellyou. "

"Oh, I don't care, " said Maggie. "It's something about politics, ofcourse. But it's no reason why you can't smile at me. "

"Maggie, " said Andy, presently, "do you think as much of me as youdid of your--as you did of the Count Mazzini?"

He waited a long time, but Maggie did not reply. And then, suddenlyshe leaned against his shoulder and began to cry--to cry and shakewith sobs, holding his arm tightly, and wetting the _crêpe de Chine_with tears. 

"There, there, there!" soothed Andy, putting aside his own trouble. "And what is it, now?"

"Andy, " sobbed Maggie. "I've lied to you, and you'll never marry me, or love me any more. But I feel that I've got to tell. Andy, therenever was so much as the little finger of a count. I never had abeau in my life. But all the other girls had; and they talked about'em; and that seemed to make the fellows like 'em more. And, Andy, I look swell in black--you know I do. So I went out to a photographstore and bought that picture, and had a little one made for mylocket, and made up all that story about the Count, and about hisbeing killed, so I could wear black. And nobody can love a liar, andyou'll shake me, Andy, and I'll die for shame. Oh, there never wasanybody I liked but you--and that's all. "

But instead of being pushed away, she found Andy's arm folding hercloser. She looked up and saw his face cleared and smiling. 

"Could you--could you forgive me, Andy?"

"Sure, " said Andy. "It's all right about that. Back to the cemeteryfor the Count. You've straightened everything out, Maggie. I was inhopes you would before the wedding-day. Bully girl!"

"Andy, " said Maggie, with a somewhat shy smile, after she had beenthoroughly assured of forgiveness, "did you believe all that storyabout the Count?"

"Well, not to any large extent, " said Andy, reaching for his cigarcase, "because it's Big Mike Sullivan's picture you've got in thatlocket of yours. "

THE COUNTRY OF ELUSION

The cunning writer will choose an indefinable subject, for hecan then set down his theory of what it is; and next, at length, his conception of what it is not--and lo! his paper is covered. Therefore let us follow the prolix and unmapable trail into thatmooted country, Bohemia. 

Grainger, sub-editor of _Doc's Magazine_, closed his roll-top desk, put on his hat, walked into the hall, punched the "down" button, andwaited for the elevator. 

Grainger's day had been trying. The chief had tried to ruin themagazine a dozen times by going against Grainger's ideas for runningit. A lady whose grandfather had fought with McClellan had brought aportfolio of poems in person. 

Grainger was curator of the Lion's House of the magazine. That dayhe had "lunched" an Arctic explorer, a short-story writer, and thefamous conductor of a slaughter-house expose. Consequently his mindwas in a whirl of icebergs, Maupassant, and trichinosis. 

But there was a surcease and a recourse; there was Bohemia. He wouldseek distraction there; and, let's see--he would call by for MaryAdrian. 

Half an hour later he threaded his way like a Brazilian orchid-hunterthrough the palm forest in the tiled entrance hall of the "Idealia"apartment-house. One day the christeners of apartment-houses and thecognominators of sleeping-cars will meet, and there will be somejealous and sanguinary knifing. 

The clerk breathed Grainger's name so languidly into the housetelephone that it seemed it must surely drop, from sheer inertia, down to the janitor's regions. But, at length, it soared dilatorilyup to Miss Adrian's ear. Certainly, Mr. Grainger was to come upimmediately. 

A colored maid with an Eliza-crossing-the-ice expression openedthe door of the apartment for him. Grainger walked sideways downthe narrow hall. A bunch of burnt umber hair and a sea-green eyeappeared in the crack of a door. A long, white, undraped arm cameout, barring the way. 

"So glad you came, Ricky, instead of any of the others, " saidthe eye. "Light a cigarette and give it to me. Going to take meto dinner? Fine. Go into the front room till I finish dressing. But don't sit in your usual chair. There's pie in it--Meringue. Kappelman threw it at Reeves last evening while he was reciting. Sophy has just come to straighten up. Is it lit? Thanks. There'sScotch on the mantel--oh, no, it isn't, --that's chartreuse. AskSophy to find you some. I won't be long. "

Grainger escaped the meringue. As he waited his spirits sank stilllower. The atmosphere of the room was as vapid as a zephyr wanderingover a Vesuvian lava-bed. Relics of some feast lay about the room, scattered in places where even a prowling cat would have beensurprised to find them. A straggling cluster of deep red roses ina marmalade jar bowed their heads over tobacco ashes and unwashedgoblets. A chafing-dish stood on the piano; a leaf of sheet musicsupported a stack of sandwiches in a chair. 

Mary came in, dressed and radiant. Her gown was of that thin, blackfabric whose name through the change of a single vowel seems tosummon visions ranging between the extremes of man's experience. Spelled with an "ê" it belongs to Gallic witchery and diaphanousdreams; with an "a" it drapes lamentation and woe. 

That evening they went to the Café André. And, as people wouldconfide to you in a whisper that André's was the only truly Bohemianrestaurant in town, it may be well to follow them. 

André began his professional career as a waiter in a Bowery ten-centeating-house. Had you seen him there you would have called himtough--to yourself. Not aloud, for he would have "soaked" you asquickly as he would have soaked his thumb in your coffee. He savedmoney and started a basement _table d'hote_ in Eighth (or Ninth)Street. One afternoon André drank too much absinthe. He announced tohis startled family that he was the Grand Llama of Thibet, thereforerequiring an empty audience hall in which to be worshiped. He movedall the tables and chairs from the restaurant into the back yard, wrapped a red table-cloth around himself, and sat on a step-ladderfor a throne. When the diners began to arrive, madame, in a flurry ofdespair, laid cloths and ushered them, trembling, outside. Betweenthe tables clothes-lines were stretched, bearing the family wash. Aparty of Bohemia hunters greeted the artistic innovation with shrieksand acclamations of delight. That week's washing was not taken in fortwo years. When André came to his senses he had the menu printed onstiffly starched cuffs, and served the ices in little wooden tubs. Next he took down his sign and darkened the front of the house. When you went there to dine you fumbled for an electric button andpressed it. A lookout slid open a panel in the door, looked at yoususpiciously, and asked if you were acquainted with Senator HerodotusQ. McMilligan, of the Chickasaw Nation. If you were, you wereadmitted and allowed to dine. If you were not, you were admitted andallowed to dine. There you have one of the abiding principles ofBohemia. When André had accumulated $20, 000 he moved up-town, nearBroadway, in the fierce light that beats upon the thrown-down. There we find him and leave him, with customers in pearls andautomobile veils, striving to catch his excellently graduated nodof recognition. 

There is a large round table in the northeast corner of André's atwhich six can sit. To this table Grainger and Mary Adrian made theirway. Kappelman and Reeves were already there. And Miss Tooker, whodesigned the May cover for the _Ladies' Notathome Magazine_. And Mrs. Pothunter, who never drank anything but black and white highballs, being in mourning for her husband, who--oh, I've forgotten what hedid--died, like as not. 

Spaghetti-weary reader, wouldst take one penny-in-the-slot peep intothe fair land of Bohemia? Then look; and when you think you haveseen it you have not. And it is neither thimbleriggery norastigmatism. 

The walls of the Café André were covered with original sketches bythe artists who furnished much of the color and sound of the place. Fair woman furnished the theme for the bulk of the drawings. Whenyou say "sirens and siphons" you come near to estimating thealliterative atmosphere of André's. 

First, I want you to meet my friend, Miss Adrian. Miss Tooker andMrs. Pothunter you already know. While she tucks in the fingers ofher elbow gloves you shall have her daguerreotype. So faint anduncertain shall the portrait be:

Age, somewhere between twenty-seven and highneck evening dresses. Camaraderie in large bunches--whatever the fearful word may mean. Habitat--anywhere from Seattle to Terra del Fuego. Temperamentuncharted--she let Reeves squeeze her hand after he recited one ofhis poems; but she counted the change after sending him out with adollar to buy some pickled pig's feet. Deportment 75 out of apossible 100. Morals 100. 

Mary was one of the princesses of Bohemia. In the first place, itwas a royal and a daring thing to have been named Mary. There aretwenty Fifines and Heloises to one Mary in the Country of Elusion. 

Now her gloves are tucked in. Miss Tooker has assumed a June posterpose; Mrs. Pothunter has bitten her lips to make the red show;Reeves has several times felt his coat to make sure that his latestpoem is in the pocket. (It had been neatly typewritten; but he hascopied it on the backs of letters with a pencil. ) Kappelman isunderhandedly watching the clock. It is ten minutes to nine. Whenthe hour comes it is to remind him of a story. Synopsis: A Frenchgirl says to her suitor: "Did you ask my father for my hand at nineo'clock this morning, as you said you would?" "I did not, " he. Replies. "At nine o'clock I was fighting a duel with swords in theBois de Boulogne. " "Coward!" she hisses. 

The dinner was ordered. You know how the Bohemian feast of reasonkeeps up with the courses. Humor with the oysters; wit with thesoup; repartee with the entrée; brag with the roast; knocks forWhistler and Kipling with the salad; songs with the coffee; theslapsticks with the cordials. 

Between Miss Adrian's eyebrows was the pucker that shows the intensestrain it requires to be at ease in Bohemia. Pat must come eachsally, _mot_, and epigram. Every second of deliberation upon a replycosts you a bay leaf. Fine as a hair, a line began to curve from hernostrils to her mouth. To hold her own not a chance must be missed. A sentence addressed to her must be as a piccolo, each word of ita stop, which she must be prepared to seize upon and play. And shemust always be quicker than a Micmac Indian to paddle the lightcanoe of conversation away from the rocks in the rapids that flowfrom the Pierian spring. For, plodding reader, the handwriting onthe wall in the banquet hall of Bohemia is "_Laisser faire_. " Thegray ghost that sometimes peeps through the rings of smoke is thatof slain old King Convention. Freedom is the tyrant that holds themin slavery. 

As the dinner waned, hands reached for the pepper cruet ratherthan for the shaker of Attic salt. Miss Tooker, with an elbow tobusiness, leaned across the table toward Grainger, upsetting herglass of wine. 

"Now while you are fed and in good humor, " she said, "I want tomake a suggestion to you about a new cover. "

"A good idea, " said Grainger, mopping the tablecloth with hisnapkin. "I'll speak to the waiter about it. "

Kappelman, the painter, was the cut-up. As a piece of delicateAthenian wit he got up from his chair and waltzed down the roomwith a waiter. That dependent, no doubt an honest, pachydermatous, worthy, tax-paying, art-despising biped, released himself fromthe unequal encounter, carried his professional smile back to thedumb-waiter and dropped it down the shaft to eternal oblivion. Reeves began to make Keats turn in his grave. Mrs. Pothunter toldthe story of the man who met the widow on the train. Miss Adrianhummed what is still called a _chanson_ in the cafés of Bridgeport. Grainger edited each individual effort with his assistant editor'ssmile, which meant: "Great! but you'll have to send them in throughthe regular channels. If I were the chief now--but you know how itis. "

And soon the head waiter bowed before them, desolated to relate thatthe closing hour had already become chronologically historical; soout all trooped into the starry midnight, filling the street withgay laughter, to be barked at by hopeful cabmen and enviously eyedby the dull inhabitants of an uninspired world. 

Grainger left Mary at the elevator in the trackless palm forest ofthe Idealia. After he had gone she came down again carrying a smallhand-bag, 'phoned for a cab, drove to the Grand Central Station, boarded a 12. 55 commuter's train, rode four hours with herburnt-umber head bobbing against the red-plush back of the seat, and landed during a fresh, stinging, glorious sunrise at a desertedstation, the size of a peach crate, called Crocusville. 

She walked a mile and clicked the latch of a gate. A bare, browncottage stood twenty yards back; an old man with a pearl-white, Calvinistic face and clothes dyed blacker than a raven in acoal-mine was washing his hands in a tin basin on the front porch. 

"How are you, father?" said Mary timidly. 

"I am as well as Providence permits, Mary Ann. You will find yourmother in the kitchen. "

In the kitchen a cryptic, gray woman kissed her glacially on theforehead, and pointed out the potatoes which were not yet peeled forbreakfast. Mary sat in a wooden chair and decorticated spuds, with athrill in her heart. 

For breakfast there were grace, cold bread, potatoes, bacon, andtea. 

"You are pursuing the same avocation in the city concerning whichyou have advised us from time to time by letter, I trust, " said herfather. 

"Yes, " said Mary, "I am still reviewing books for the samepublication. "

After breakfast she helped wash the dishes, and then all three satin straight-back chairs in the bare-floored parlor. 

"It is my custom, " said the old man, "on the Sabbath day to readaloud from the great work entitled the 'Apology for Authorized andSet Forms of Liturgy, ' by the ecclesiastical philosopher and reveredtheologian, Jeremy Taylor. "

"I know it, " said Mary blissfully, folding her hands. 

For two hours the numbers of the great Jeremy rolled forth like thenotes of an oratorio played on the violoncello. Mary sat gloatingin the new sensation of racking physical discomfort that the woodenchair brought her. Perhaps there is no happiness in life so perfectas the martyr's. Jeremy's minor chords soothed her like the music ofa tom-tom. "Why, oh why, " she said to herself, "does some one notwrite words to it?"

At eleven they went to church in Crocusville. The back of the pinebench on which she sat had a penitential forward tilt that wouldhave brought St. Simeon down, in jealousy, from his pillar. Thepreacher singled her out, and thundered upon her vicarious headthe damnation of the world. At each side of her an adamant parentheld her rigidly to the bar of judgment. An ant crawled upon herneck, but she dared not move. She lowered her eyes before thecongregation--a hundred-eyed Cerberus that watched the gates throughwhich her sins were fast thrusting her. Her soul was filled with adelirious, almost a fanatic joy. For she was out of the clutch ofthe tyrant, Freedom. Dogma and creed pinioned her with beneficentcruelty, as steel braces bind the feet of a crippled child. She washedged, adjured, shackled, shored up, strait-jacketed, silenced, ordered. When they came out the minister stopped to greet them. Mary could only hang her head and answer "Yes, sir, " and "No, sir, "to his questions. When she saw that the other women carried theirhymn-books at their waists with their left hands, she blushed andmoved hers there, too, from her right. 

She took the three-o'clock train back to the city. At nine she satat the round table for dinner in the Café André. Nearly the samecrowd was there. 

"Where have you been to-day?" asked Mrs. Pothunter. "I 'phoned toyou at twelve. "

"I have been away in Bohemia, " answered Mary, with a mystic smile. 

There! Mary has given it away. She has spoiled my climax. For Iwas to have told you that Bohemia is nothing more than the littlecountry in which you do not live. If you try to obtain citizenshipin it, at once the court and retinue pack the royal archives andtreasure and move away beyond the hills. It is a hillside that youturn your head to peer at from the windows of the Through Express. 

At exactly half past eleven Kappelman, deceived by a new softnessand slowness of riposte and parry in Mary Adrian, tried to kiss her. Instantly she slapped his face with such strength and cold fury thathe shrank down, sobered, with the flaming red print of a hand acrosshis leering features. And all sounds ceased, as when the shadows ofgreat wings come upon a flock of chattering sparrows. One had brokenthe paramount law of sham-Bohemia--the law of "_Laisser faire_. " Theshock came not from the blow delivered, but from the blow received. With the effect of a schoolmaster entering the play-room of hispupils was that blow administered. Women pulled down their sleevesand laid prim hands against their ruffled side locks. Men looked attheir watches. There was nothing of the effect of a brawl about it;it was purely the still panic produced by the sound of the ax of thefly cop, Conscience hammering at the gambling-house doors of theHeart. 

With their punctilious putting on of cloaks, with their exaggeratedpretense of not having seen or heard, with their stammering exchangeof unaccustomed formalities, with their false show of a light-heartedexit I must take leave of my Bohemian party. Mary has robbed me of myclimax; and she may go. 

But I am not defeated. Somewhere there exists a great vault milesbroad and miles long--more capacious than the champagne caves ofFrance. In that vault are stored the anticlimaxes that should havebeen tagged to all the stories that have been told in the world. Ishall cheat that vault of one deposit. 

Minnie Brown, with her aunt, came from Crocusville down to the cityto see the sights. And because she had escorted me to fishless troutstreams and exhibited to me open-plumbed waterfalls and broken mycamera while I Julyed in her village, I must escort her to the hivescontaining the synthetic clover honey of town. 

Especially did the custom-made Bohemia charm her. The spaghettiwound its tendrils about her heart; the free red wine drowned herbelief in the existence of commercialism in the world; she wasdared and enchanted by the rugose wit that can be churned out ofCalifornia claret. 

But one evening I got her away from the smell of halibut andlinoleum long enough to read to her the manuscript of this story, which then ended before her entrance into it. I read it to herbecause I knew that all the printing-presses in the world wererunning to try to please her and some others. And I asked her aboutit. 

"I didn't quite catch the trains, " said she. "How long was Mary inCrocusville?"

"Ten hours and five minutes, " I replied. 

"Well, then, the story may do, " said Minnie. "But if she had stayedthere a week Kappelman would have got his kiss. "

THE FERRY OF UNFULFILMENT

At the street corner, as solid as granite in the "rush-hour" tideof humanity, stood the Man from Nome. The Arctic winds and sun hadstained him berry-brown. His eye still held the azure glint of theglaciers. 

He was as alert as a fox, as tough as a caribou cutlet and asbroad-gauged as the aurora borealis. He stood sprayed by a Niagaraof sound--the crash of the elevated trains, clanging cars, poundingof rubberless tires and the antiphony of the cab and truck-driversindulging in scarifying repartee. And so, with his gold dust cashedin to the merry air of a hundred thousand, and with the cakes andale of one week in Gotham turning bitter on his tongue, the Man fromNome sighed to set foot again in Chilkoot, the exit from the land ofstreet noises and Dead Sea apple pies. 

Up Sixth avenue, with the tripping, scurrying, chattering, bright-eyed, homing tide came the Girl from Sieber-Mason's. The Manfrom Nome looked and saw, first, that she was supremely beautifulafter his own conception of beauty; and next, that she moved withexactly the steady grace of a dog sled on a level crust of snow. Histhird sensation was an instantaneous conviction that he desired hergreatly for his own. This quickly do men from Nome make up theirminds. Besides, he was going back to the North in a short time, andto act quickly was no less necessary. 

A thousand girls from the great department store of Sieber-Masonflowed along the sidewalk, making navigation dangerous to men whosefeminine field of vision for three years has been chiefly limited toSiwash and Chilkat squaws. But the Man from Nome, loyal to her whohad resurrected his long cached heart, plunged into the stream ofpulchritude and followed her. 

Down Twenty-third street she glided swiftly, looking to neither side;no more flirtatious than the bronze Diana above the Garden. Her finebrown hair was neatly braided; her neat waist and unwrinkled blackskirt were eloquent of the double virtues--taste and economy. Tenyards behind followed the smitten Man from Nome. 

Miss Claribel Colby, the Girl from Sieber-Mason's, belonged tothat sad company of mariners known as Jersey commuters. She walkedinto the waiting-room of the ferry, and up the stairs, and by amarvellous swift, little run, caught the ferry-boat that was justgoing out. The Man from Nome closed up his ten yards in three jumpsand gained the deck close beside her. 

Miss Colby chose a rather lonely seat on the outside of theupper-cabin. The night was not cold, and she desired to be away fromthe curious eyes and tedious voices of the passengers. Besides, shewas extremely weary and drooping from lack of sleep. On the previousnight she had graced the annual ball and oyster fry of the West SideWholesale Fish Dealers' Assistants' Social Club No. 2, thus reducingher usual time of sleep to only three hours. 

And the day had been uncommonly troublous. Customers had beeninordinately trying; the buyer in her department had scolded herroundly for letting her stock run down; her best friend, MamieTuthill, had snubbed her by going to lunch with that Dockery girl. 

The Girl from Sieber-Mason's was in that relaxed, softened moodthat often comes to the independent feminine wage-earner. It is amood most propitious for the man who would woo her. Then she hasyearnings to be set in some home and heart; to be comforted, and tohide behind some strong arm and rest, rest. But Miss Claribel Colbywas also very sleepy. 

There came to her side a strong man, browned and dressed carelesslyin the best of clothes, with his hat in his hand. 

"Lady, " said the Man from Nome, respectfully, "excuse me forspeaking to you, but I--I--I saw you on the street, and--and--"

"Oh, gee!" remarked the Girl from Sieber-Mason's, glancing up withthe most capable coolness. "Ain't there any way to ever get ridof you mashers? I've tried everything from eating onions to usinghatpins. Be on your way, Freddie. "

"I'm not one of that kind, lady, " said the Man from Nome--"honest, I'm not. As I say, I saw you on the street, and I wanted to know youso bad I couldn't help followin' after you. I was afraid I wouldn'tever see you again in this big town unless I spoke; and that's why Idone so. "

Miss Colby looked once shrewdly at him in the dim light on theferry-boat. No; he did not have the perfidious smirk or the brazenswagger of the lady-killer. Sincerity and modesty shone through hisboreal tan. It seemed to her that it might be good to hear a littleof what he had to say. 

"You may sit down, " she said, laying her hand over a yawn withostentatious politness; "and--mind--don't get fresh or I'll call thesteward. "

The Man from Nome sat by her side. He admired her greatly. He morethan admired her. She had exactly the looks he had tried so long invain to find in a woman. Could she ever come to like him? Well, thatwas to be seen. He must do all in his power to stake his claim, anyhow. 

"My name's Blayden, " said he--"Henry Blayden. "

"Are you real sure it ain't Jones?" asked the girl, leaning towardhim, with delicious, knowing raillery. 

"I'm down from Nome, " he went on with anxious seriousness. "Iscraped together a pretty good lot of dust up there, and brought itdown with me. "

"Oh, say!" she rippled, pursuing persiflage with engaging lightness, "then you must be on the White Wings force. I thought I'd seen yousomewhere. "

"You didn't see me on the street to-day when I saw you. "

"I never look at fellows on the street. "

"Well, I looked at you; and I never looked at anything before that Ithought was half as pretty. "

"Shall I keep the change?"

"Yes, I reckon so. I reckon you could keep anything I've got. Ireckon I'm what you would call a rough man, but I could be awfulgood to anybody I liked. I've had a rough time of it up yonder, butI beat the game. Nearly 5, 000 ounces of dust was what I cleaned upwhile I was there. "

"Goodness!" exclaimed Miss Colby, obligingly sympathetic. "It mustbe an awful dirty place, wherever it is. "

And then her eyes closed. The voice of the Man from Nome had amonotony in its very earnestness. Besides, what dull talk was thisof brooms and sweeping and dust? She leaned her head back againstthe wall. 

"Miss, " said the Man from Nome, with deeper earnestness andmonotony, "I never saw anybody I liked as well as I do you. I knowyou can't think that way of me right yet; but can't you give me achance? Won't you let me know you, and see if I can't make you likeme?"

The head of the Girl from Sieber-Mason's slid over gently and restedupon his shoulder. Sweet sleep had won her, and she was dreamingrapturously of the Wholesale Fish Dealers' Assistants' ball. 

The gentleman from Nome kept his arms to himself. He did notsuspect sleep, and yet he was too wise to attribute the movement tosurrender. He was greatly and blissfully thrilled, but he ended byregarding the head upon his shoulder as an encouraging preliminary, merely advanced as a harbinger of his success, and not to be takenadvantage of. 

One small speck of alloy discounted the gold of his satisfaction. Had he spoken too freely of his wealth? He wanted to be liked forhimself. 

"I want to say, Miss, " he said, "that you can count on me. They knowme in the Klondike from Juneau to Circle City and down the wholelength of the Yukon. Many a night I've laid in the snow up therewhere I worked like a slave for three years, and wondered if I'dever have anybody to like me. I didn't want all that dust justmyself. I thought I'd meet just the right one some time, and I doneit to-day. Money's a mighty good thing to have, but to have the loveof the one you like best is better still. If you was ever to marry aman, Miss, which would you rather he'd have?"

"Cash!"

The word came sharply and loudly from Miss Colby's lips, givingevidence that in her dreams she was now behind her counter in thegreat department store of Sieber-Mason. 

Her head suddenly bobbed over sideways. She awoke, sat straight, andrubbed her eyes. The Man from Nome was gone. 

"Gee! I believe I've been asleep, " said Miss Colby "Wonder whatbecame of the White Wings!"

THE TALE OF A TAINTED TENNER

Money talks. But you may think that the conversation of a little oldten-dollar bill in New York would be nothing more than a whisper. Oh, very well! Pass up this _sotto voce_ autobiography of an X ifyou like. If you are one of the kind that prefers to listen to JohnD's checkbook roar at you through a megaphone as it passes by, allright. But don't forget that small change can say a word to thepoint now and then. The next time you tip your grocer's clerk asilver quarter to give you extra weight of his boss's goods read thefour words above the lady's head. How are they for repartee?

I am a ten-dollar Treasury note, series of 1901. You may have seenone in a friend's hand. On my face, in the centre, is a picture ofthe bison Americanus, miscalled a buffalo by fifty or sixty millionsof Americans. The heads of Capt. Lewis and Capt. Clark adorn theends. On my back is the graceful figure of Liberty or Ceres orMaxine Elliot standing in the centre of the stage on a conservatoryplant. My references is--or are--Section 3, 588, Revised Statutes. Ten cold, hard dollars--I don't say whether silver, gold, lead oriron--Uncle Sam will hand you over his counter if you want to cashme in. 

I beg you will excuse any conversational breaks that I make--thanks, I knew you would--got that sneaking little respect and agreeablefeeling toward even an X, haven't you? You see, a tainted billdoesn't have much chance to acquire a correct form of expression. Inever knew a really cultured and educated person that could affordto hold a ten-spot any longer than it would take to do an ArthurDuffy to the nearest That's All! sign or delicatessen store. 

For a six-year-old, I've had a lively and gorgeous circulation. Iguess I've paid as many debts as the man who dies. I've been ownedby a good many kinds of people. But a little old ragged, damp, dingyfive-dollar silver certificate gave me a jar one day. I was next toit in the fat and bad-smelling purse of a butcher. 

"Hey, you Sitting Bull, " says I, "don't scrouge so. Anyhow, don'tyou think it's about time you went in on a customs payment and gotreissued? For a series of 1899 you're a sight. "

"Oh, don't get crackly just because you're a Buffalo bill, " saysthe fiver. "You'd be limp, too, if you'd been stuffed down in athick cotton-and-lisle-thread under an elastic all day, and thethermometer not a degree under 85 in the store. "

"I never heard of a pocketbook like that, " says I. "Who carriedyou?"

"A shopgirl, " says the five-spot. 

"What's that?" I had to ask. 

"You'll never know till their millennium comes, " says the fiver. 

Just then a two-dollar bill behind me with a George Washington head, spoke up to the fiver:

"Aw, cut out yer kicks. Ain't lisle thread good enough for yer? Ifyou was under all cotton like I've been to-day, and choked up withfactory dust till the lady with the cornucopia on me sneezed half adozen times, you'd have some reason to complain. "

That was the next day after I arrived in New York. I came in a $500package of tens to a Brooklyn bank from one of its Pennsylvaniacorrespondents--and I haven't made the acquaintance of any of thefive and two spot's friends' pocketbooks yet. Silk for mine, everytime. 

I was lucky money. I kept on the move. Sometimes I changed handstwenty times a day. I saw the inside of every business; I fought formy owner's every pleasure. It seemed that on Saturday nights I nevermissed being slapped down on a bar. Tens were always slapped down, while ones and twos were slid over to the bartenders folded. I gotin the habit of looking for mine, and I managed to soak in a littlestraight or some spilled Martini or Manhattan whenever I could. Once I got tied up in a great greasy roll of bills in a pushcartpeddler's jeans. I thought I never would get in circulation again, for the future department store owner lived on eight cents' worthof dog meat and onions a day. But this peddler got into trouble oneday on account of having his cart too near a crossing, and I wasrescued. I always will feel grateful to the cop that got me. Hechanged me at a cigar store near the Bowery that was running a crapgame in the back room. So it was the Captain of the precinct, afterall, that did me the best turn, when he got his. He blew me for winethe next evening in a Broadway restaurant; and I really felt as gladto get back again as an Astor does when he sees the lights ofCharing Cross. 

A tainted ten certainly does get action on Broadway. I was alimonyonce, and got folded in a little dogskin purse among a lot of dimes. They were bragging about the busy times there were in Ossiningwhenever three girls got hold of one of them during the ice creamseason. But it's Slow Moving Vehicles Keep to the Right for thelittle Bok tips when you think of the way we bison plasters refuseto stick to anything during the rush lobster hour. 

The first I ever heard of tainted money was one night when a goodthing with a Van to his name threw me over with some other bills tobuy a stack of blues. 

About midnight a big, easy-going man with a fat face like a monk'sand the eye of a janitor with his wages raised took me and a lotof other notes and rolled us into what is termed a "wad" among themoney tainters. 

"Ticket me for five hundred, " said he to the banker, "and look outfor everything, Charlie. I'm going out for a stroll in the glenbefore the moonlight fades from the brow of the cliff. If anybodyfinds the roof in their way there's $60, 000 wrapped in a comicsupplement in the upper left-hand corner of the safe. Be bold;everywhere be bold, but be not bowled over. 'Night. "

I found myself between two $20 gold certificates. One of 'em says tome:

"Well, old shorthorn, you're in luck to-night. You'll see somethingof life. Old Jack's going to make the Tenderloin look like a hamburgsteak. "

"Explain, " says I. "I'm used to joints, but I don't care for filetmignon with the kind of sauce you serve. "

"'Xcuse me, " said the twenty. "Old Jack is the proprietor of thisgambling house. He's going on a whiz to-night because he offered$50, 000 to a church and it refused to accept it because they saidhis money was tainted. "

"What is a church?" I asked. 

"Oh, I forgot, " says the twenty, "that I was talking to a tenner. Ofcourse you don't know. You're too much to put into the contributionbasket, and not enough to buy anything at a bazaar. A church is--alarge building in which penwipers and tidies are sold at $20 each. "

I don't care much about chinning with gold certificates. There's astreak of yellow in 'em. All is not gold that's quitters. 

Old Jack certainly was a gild-edged sport. When it came his time toloosen up he never referred the waiter to an actuary. 

By and by it got around that he was smiting the rock in thewilderness; and all along Broadway things with cold noses and hotgullets fell in on our trail. The third Jungle Book was therewaiting for somebody to put covers on it. Old Jack's money may havehad a taint to it, but all the same he had orders for his Camembertpiling up on him every minute. First his friends rallied round him;and then the fellows that his friends knew by sight; and then afew of his enemies buried the hatchet; and finally he was buyingsouvenirs for so many Neapolitan fisher maidens and butterflyoctettes that the head waiters were 'phoning all over town forJulian Mitchell to please come around and get them into some kindof order. 

At last we floated into an uptown café that I knew by heart. When thehod-carriers' union in jackets and aprons saw us coming the chiefgoal kicker called out: "Six--eleven--forty-two--nineteen--twelve"to his men, and they put on nose guards till it was clear whether wemeant Port Arthur or Portsmouth. But old Jack wasn't working for thefurniture and glass factories that night. He sat down quiet and sang"Ramble" in a half-hearted way. His feelings had been hurt, so thetwenty told me, because his offer to the church had been refused. 

But the wassail went on; and Brady himself couldn't have hammeredthe thirst mob into a better imitation of the real penchant for thestuff that you screw out of a bottle with a napkin. 

Old Jack paid the twenty above me for a round, leaving me on theoutside of his roll. He laid the roll on the table and sent for theproprietor. 

"Mike, " says he, "here's money that the good people have refused. Will it buy of your wares in the name of the devil? They say it'stainted. "

"I will, " says Mike, "and I'll put it in the drawer next to thebills that was paid to the parson's daughter for kisses at thechurch fair to build a new parsonage for the parson's daughter tolive in. "

At 1 o'clock when the hod-carriers were making ready to close upthe front and keep the inside open, a woman slips in the door ofthe restaurant and comes up to Old Jack's table. You've seen thekind--black shawl, creepy hair, ragged skirt, white face, eyes across between Gabriel's and a sick kitten's--the kind of womanthat's always on the lookout for an automobile or the mendicancysquad--and she stands there without a word and looks at the money. 

Old Jack gets up, peels me off the roll and hands me to her with abow. 

"Madam, " says he, just like actors I've heard, "here is a taintedbill. I am a gambler. This bill came to me to-night from agentleman's son. Where he got it I do not know. If you will do methe favor to accept it, it is yours. "

The woman took me with a trembling hand. 

"Sir, " said she, "I counted thousands of this issue of bills intopackages when they were virgin from the presses. I was a clerk inthe Treasury Department. There was an official to whom I owed myposition. You say they are tainted now. If you only knew--butI won't say any more. Thank you with all my heart, sir--thankyou--thank you. "

Where do you suppose that woman carried me almost at a run? To abakery. Away from Old Jack and a sizzling good time to a bakery. And I get changed, and she does a Sheridan-twenty-miles-away witha dozen rolls and a section of jelly cake as big as a turbinewater-wheel. Of course I lost sight of her then, for I was snowedup in the bakery, wondering whether I'd get changed at the drugstore the next day in an alum deal or paid over to the cementworks. 

A week afterward I butted up against one of the one-dollar bills thebaker had given the woman for change. 

"Hallo, E35039669, " says I, "weren't you in the change for me in abakery last Saturday night?"

"Yep, " says the solitaire in his free and easy style. 

"How did the deal turn out?" I asked. 

"She blew E17051431 for mills and round steak, " says the one-spot. "She kept me till the rent man came. It was a bum room with a sickkid in it. But you ought to have seen him go for the bread andtincture of formaldehyde. Half-starved, I guess. Then she prayedsome. Don't get stuck up, tenner. We one-spots hear ten prayers, where you hear one. She said something about 'who giveth to thepoor. ' Oh, let's cut out the slum talk. I'm certainly tired of thecompany that keeps me. I wish I was big enough to move in societywith you tainted bills. "

"Shut up, " says I; "there's no such thing. I know the rest of it. There's a 'lendeth to the Lord' somewhere in it. Now look on my backand read what you see there. "

"This note is a legal tender at its face value for all debts publicand private. "

"This talk about tainted money makes me tired, " says I. 

ELSIE IN NEW YORK

No, bumptious reader, this story is not a continuation of the Elsieseries. But if your Elsie had lived over here in our big city theremight have been a chapter in her books not very different from this. 

Especially for the vagrant feet of youth are the roads of Manhattanbeset "with pitfall and with gin. " But the civic guardians of theyoung have made themselves acquainted with the snares of the wicked, and most of the dangerous paths are patrolled by their agents, whoseek to turn straying ones away from the peril that menaces them. And this will tell you how they guided my Elsie safely through allperil to the goal that she was seeking. 

Elsie's father had been a cutter for Fox & Otter, cloaks and furs, on lower Broadway. He was an old man, with a slow and limping gait, so a pot-hunter of a newly licensed chauffeur ran him down one daywhen livelier game was scarce. They took the old man home, where helay on his bed for a year and then died, leaving $2. 50 in cash anda letter from Mr. Otter offering to do anything he could to helphis faithful old employee. The old cutter regarded this letter as avaluable legacy to his daughter, and he put it into her hands withpride as the shears of the dread Cleaner and Repairer snipped offhis thread of life. 

That was the landlord's cue; and forth he came and did his part inthe great eviction scene. There was no snowstorm ready for Elsieto steal out into, drawing her little red woollen shawl about hershoulders, but she went out, regardless of the unities. And as forthe red shawl--back to Blaney with it! Elsie's fall tan coat wascheap, but it had the style and fit of the best at Fox & Otter's. And her lucky stars had given her good looks, and eyes as blue andinnocent as the new shade of note paper, and she had $1 left of the$2. 50. And the letter from Mr. Otter. Keep your eye on the letterfrom Mr. Otter. That is the clue. I desire that everything be madeplain as we go. Detective stories are so plentiful now that they donot sell. 

And so we find Elsie, thus equipped, starting out in the world toseek her fortune. One trouble about the letter from Mr. Otter wasthat it did not bear the new address of the firm, which had movedabout a month before. But Elsie thought she could find it. She hadheard that policemen, when politely addressed, or thumbscrewed by aninvestigation committee, will give up information and addresses. Soshe boarded a downtown car at One Hundred and Seventy-seventh streetand rode south to Forty-second, which she thought must surely be theend of the island. There she stood against the wall undecided, forthe city's roar and dash was new to her. Up where she had livedwas rural New York, so far out that the milkmen awaken you in themorning by the squeaking of pumps instead of the rattling of cans. 

A kind-faced, sunburned young man in a soft-brimmed hat went pastElsie into the Grand Central Depot. That was Hank Ross, of theSunflower Ranch, in Idaho, on his way home from a visit to the East. Hank's heart was heavy, for the Sunflower Ranch was a lonesomeplace, lacking the presence of a woman. He had hoped to find oneduring his visit who would congenially share his prosperity andhome, but the girls of Gotham had not pleased his fancy. But, ashe passed in, he noted, with a jumping of his pulses, the sweet, ingenuous face of Elsie and her pose of doubt and loneliness. Withtrue and honest Western impulse he said to himself that here was hismate. He could love her, he knew; and he would surround her with somuch comfort, and cherish her so carefully that she would be happy, and make two sunflowers grow on the ranch where there grew but onebefore. 

Hank turned and went back to her. Backed by his never beforequestioned honesty of purpose, he approached the girl and removedhis soft-brimmed hat. Elsie had but time to sum up his handsomefrank face with one shy look of modest admiration when a burly cophurled himself upon the ranchman, seized him by the collar andbacked him against the wall. Two blocks away a burglar was comingout of an apartment-house with a bag of silverware on his shoulder;but that is neither here nor there. 

"Carry on yez mashin' tricks right before me eyes, will yez?"shouted the cop. "I'll teach yez to speak to ladies on me beat thatye're not acquainted with. Come along. "

Elsie turned away with a sigh as the ranchman was dragged away. She had liked the effect of his light blue eyes against his tannedcomplexion. She walked southward, thinking herself already in thedistrict where her father used to work, and hoping to find some onewho could direct her to the firm of Fox & Otter. 

But did she want to find Mr. Otter? She had inherited much of theold cutter's independence. How much better it would be if she couldfind work and support herself without calling on him for aid!

Elsie saw a sign "Employment Agency" and went in. Many girls weresitting against the wall in chairs. Several well-dressed ladies werelooking them over. One white-haired, kind-faced old lady in rustlingblack silk hurried up to Elsie. 

"My dear, " she said in a sweet, gentle voice, "are you looking fora position? I like your face and appearance so much. I want a youngwoman who will be half maid and half companion to me. You will havea good home and I will pay you $30 a month. "

Before Elsie could stammer forth her gratified acceptance, a youngwoman with gold glasses on her bony nose and her hands in her jacketpockets seized her arm and drew her aside. 

"I am Miss Ticklebaum, " said she, "of the Association for thePrevention of Jobs Being Put Up on Working Girls Looking for Jobs. We prevented forty-seven girls from securing positions last week. Iam here to protect you. Beware of any one who offers you a job. Howdo you know that this woman does not want to make you work as abreaker-boy in a coal mine or murder you to get your teeth? If youaccept work of any kind without permission of our association youwill be arrested by one of our agents. "

"But what am I to do?" asked Elsie. "I have no home or money. I mustdo something. Why am I not allowed to accept this kind lady's offer?"

"I do not know, " said Miss Ticklebaum. "That is the affair of ourCommittee on the Abolishment of Employers. It is my duty simply tosee that you do not get work. You will give me your name and addressand report to our secretary every Thursday. We have 600 girls onthe waiting list who will in time be allowed to accept positionsas vacancies occur on our roll of Qualified Employers, which nowcomprises twenty-seven names. There is prayer, music and lemonadein our chapel the third Sunday of every month. "

Elsie hurried away after thanking Miss Ticklebaum for her timelywarning and advice. After all, it seemed that she must try to findMr. Otter. 

But after walking a few blocks she saw a sign, "Cashier wanted, " inthe window of a confectionery store. In she went and applied forthe place, after casting a quick glance over her shoulder to assureherself that the job-preventer was not on her trail. 

The proprietor of the confectionery was a benevolent old man witha peppermint flavor, who decided, after questioning Elsie prettyclosely, that she was the very girl he wanted. Her services wereneeded at once, so Elsie, with a thankful heart, drew off her tancoat and prepared to mount the cashier's stool. 

But before she could do so a gaunt lady wearing steel spectacles andblack mittens stood before her, with a long finger pointing, andexclaimed: "Young woman, hesitate!"

Elsie hesitated. 

"Do you know, " said the black-and-steel lady, "that in acceptingthis position you may this day cause the loss of a hundred lives inagonizing physical torture and the sending as many souls toperdition?"

"Why, no, " said Elsie, in frightened tones. "How could I do that?"

"Ruin, " said the lady--"the demon rum. Do you know why so many livesare lost when a theatre catches fire? Brandy balls. The demon rumlurking in brandy balls. Our society women while in theatres sitgrossly intoxicated from eating these candies filled with brandy. When the fire fiend sweeps down upon them they are unable to escape. The candy stores are the devil's distilleries. If you assist inthe distribution of these insidious confections you assist in thedestruction of the bodies and souls of your fellow-beings, and inthe filling of our jails, asylums and almshouses. Think, girl, ereyou touch the money for which brandy balls are sold. "

"Dear me, " said Elsie, bewildered. "I didn't know there was rum inbrandy balls. But I must live by some means. What shall I do?"

"Decline the position, " said the lady, "and come with me. I willtell you what to do. "

After Elsie had told the confectioner that she had changed her mindabout the cashiership she put on her coat and followed the lady tothe sidewalk, where awaited an elegant victoria. 

"Seek some other work, " said the black-and-steel lady, "and assistin crushing the hydra-headed demon rum. " And she got into thevictoria and drove away. 

"I guess that puts it up to Mr. Otter again, " said Elsie, ruefully, turning down the street. "And I'm sorry, too, for I'd much rathermake my way without help. "

Near Fourteenth street Elsie saw a placard tacked on the side of adoorway that read: "Fifty girls, neat sewers, wanted immediately ontheatrical costumes. Good pay. "

She was about to enter, when a solemn man, dressed all in black, laid his hand on her arm. 

"My dear girl, " he said, "I entreat you not to enter thatdressing-room of the devil. "

"Goodness me!" exclaimed Elsie, with some impatience. "The devilseems to have a cinch on all the business in New York. What's wrongabout the place?"

"It is here, " said the solemn man, "that the regalia of Satan--inother words, the costumes worn on the stage--are manufactured. Thestage is the road to ruin and destruction. Would you imperil yoursoul by lending the work of your hands to its support? Do you know, my dear girl, what the theatre leads to? Do you know where actorsand actresses go after the curtain of the playhouse has fallen uponthem for the last time?"

"Sure, " said Elsie. "Into vaudeville. But do you think it would bewicked for me to make a little money to live on by sewing? I mustget something to do pretty soon. "

"The flesh-pots of Egypt, " exclaimed the reverend gentleman, uplifting his hands. "I beseech you, my child, to turn away fromthis place of sin and iniquity. "

"But what will I do for a living?" asked Elsie. "I don't care to sewfor this musical comedy, if it's as rank as you say it is; but I'vegot to have a job. "

"The Lord will provide, " said the solemn man. "There is a free Bibleclass every Sunday afternoon in the basement of the cigar store nextto the church. Peace be with you. Amen. Farewell. "

Elsie went on her way. She was soon in the downtown district wherefactories abound. On a large brick building was a gilt sign, "Posey& Trimmer, Artificial Flowers. " Below it was hung a newly stretchedcanvas hearing the words, "Five hundred girls wanted to learn trade. Good wages from the start. Apply one flight up. "

Elsie started toward the door, near which were gathered in groupssome twenty or thirty girls. One big girl with a black straw hattipped down over her eyes stepped in front of her. 

"Say, you'se, " said the girl, "are you'se goin' in there after ajob?"

"Yes, " said Elsie; "I must have work. "

"Now don't do it, " said the girl. "I'm chairman of our ScabCommittee. There's 400 of us girls locked out just because wedemanded 50 cents a week raise in wages, and ice water, and for theforeman to shave off his mustache. You're too nice a looking girl tobe a scab. Wouldn't you please help us along by trying to find a jobsomewhere else, or would you'se rather have your face pushed in?"

"I'll try somewhere else, " said Elsie. 

She walked aimlessly eastward on Broadway, and there her heartleaped to see the sign, "Fox & Otter, " stretching entirely acrossthe front of a tall building. It was as though an unseen guide hadled her to it through the by-ways of her fruitless search for work. 

She hurried into the store and sent in to Mr. Otter by a clerk hername and the letter he had written her father. She was shown directlyinto his private office. 

Mr. Otter arose from his desk as Elsie entered and took both handswith a hearty smile of welcome. He was a slightly corpulent man ofnearly middle age, a little bald, gold spectacled, polite, welldressed, radiating. 

"Well, well, and so this is Beatty's little daughter! Your fatherwas one of our most efficient and valued employees. He left nothing?Well, well. I hope we have not forgotten his faithful services. Iam sure there is a vacancy now among our models. Oh, it is easywork--nothing easier. "

Mr. Otter struck a bell. A long-nosed clerk thrust a portion ofhimself inside the door. 

"Send Miss Hawkins in, " said Mr. Otter. Miss Hawkins came. 

"Miss Hawkins, " said Mr. Otter, "bring for Miss Beatty to try on oneof those Russian sable coats and--let's see--one of those latestmodel black tulle hats with white tips. "

Elsie stood before the full-length mirror with pink cheeks and quickbreath. Her eyes shone like faint stars. She was beautiful. Alas!she was beautiful. 

I wish I could stop this story here. Confound it! I will. No; it'sgot to run it out. I didn't make it up. I'm just repeating it. 

I'd like to throw bouquets at the wise cop, and the lady who rescuesGirls from Jobs, and the prohibitionist who is trying to crushbrandy balls, and the sky pilot who objects to costumes for stagepeople (there are others), and all the thousands of good people whoare at work protecting young people from the pitfalls of a greatcity; and then wind up by pointing out how they were the means ofElsie reaching her father's benefactor and her kind friend andrescuer from poverty. This would make a fine Elsie story of the oldsort. I'd like to do this; but there's just a word or two to follow. 

While Elsie was admiring herself in the mirror, Mr. Otter went tothe telephone booth and called up some number. Don't ask me what itwas. 

"Oscar, " said he, "I want you to reserve the same table for me thisevening. . . . What? Why, the one in the Moorish room to the leftof the shrubbery. . . . Yes; two. . . . Yes, the usual brand; andthe '85 Johannisburger with the roast. If it isn't the righttemperature I'll break your neck. No; not her . . . No, indeed . . . A new one--a peacherino, Oscar, a peacherino!"

Tired and tiresome reader, I will conclude, if you please, with aparaphrase of a few words that you will remember were written byhim--by him of Gad's Hill, before whom, if you doff not your hat, you shall stand with a covered pumpkin--aye, sir, a pumpkin. 

Lost, Your Excellency. Lost Associations and Societies. Lost, RightReverends and Wrong Reverends of every order. Lost, Reformers andLawmakers, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts, but withthe reverence of money in your souls. And lost thus around us everyday.