THE TURTLES OF TASMAN

BY

JACK LONDON

AUTHOR OF THE CALL OF THE WILD, TERRY, ADVENTURE, ETC. 

NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS

Published by Arrangement with The Macmillan Company

Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1916. Reprinted October, November, 1916; February, 1917, December, 1919. 

TABLE OF CONTENTS

BY THE TURTLES OF TASMAN

THE ETERNITY OF FORMS

TOLD IN THE DROOLING WARD

THE HOBO AND THE FAIRY

THE PRODIGAL FATHER

THE FIRST POET

FINIS

THE END OF THE STORY

THE TURTLES OF TASMAN

BY THE TURTLES OF TASMAN

I

Law, order, and restraint had carved Frederick Travers' face. It was thestrong, firm face of one used to power and who had used power withwisdom and discretion. Clean living had made the healthy skin, and thelines graved in it were honest lines. Hard and devoted work had left itswholesome handiwork, that was all. Every feature of the man told thesame story, from the clear blue of the eyes to the full head of hair, light brown, touched with grey, and smoothly parted and drawn straightacross above the strong-domed forehead. He was a seriously groomed man, and the light summer business suit no more than befitted his alertyears, while it did not shout aloud that its possessor was likewise thepossessor of numerous millions of dollars and property. 

For Frederick Travers hated ostentation. The machine that waited outsidefor him under the porte-cochčre was sober black. It was the mostexpensive machine in the county, yet he did not care to flaunt its priceor horse-power in a red flare across the landscape, which also wasmostly his, from the sand dunes and the everlasting beat of the Pacificbreakers, across the fat bottomlands and upland pastures, to the farsummits clad with redwood forest and wreathed in fog and cloud. 

A rustle of skirts caused him to look over his shoulder. Just thefaintest hint of irritation showed in his manner. Not that his daughterwas the object, however. Whatever it was, it seemed to lie on the deskbefore him. 

"What is that outlandish name again?" she asked. "I know I shall neverremember it. See, I've brought a pad to write it down. "

Her voice was low and cool, and she was a tall, well-formed, clear-skinned young woman. In her voice and complacence she, too, showed the drill-marks of order and restraint. 

Frederick Travers scanned the signature of one of two letters on thedesk. "Bronislawa Plaskoweitzkaia Travers, " he read; then spelled thedifficult first portion, letter by letter, while his daughter wrote itdown. 

"Now, Mary, " he added, "remember Tom was always harum scarum, and youmust make allowances for this daughter of his. Her very nameis--ah--disconcerting. I haven't seen him for years, and as for her. .. . "A shrug epitomised his apprehension. He smiled with an effort at wit. "Just the same, they're as much your family as mine. If he _is_ mybrother, he is your uncle. And if she's my niece, you're both cousins. "

Mary nodded. "Don't worry, father. I'll be nice to her, poor thing. Whatnationality was her mother?--to get such an awful name. "

"I don't know. Russian, or Polish, or Spanish, or something. It was justlike Tom. She was an actress or singer--I don't remember. They met inBuenos Ayres. It was an elopement. Her husband--"

"Then she was already married!"

Mary's dismay was unfeigned and spontaneous, and her father's irritationgrew more pronounced. He had not meant that. It had slipped out. 

"There was a divorce afterward, of course. I never knew the details. Hermother died out in China--no; in Tasmania. It was in China that Tom--"His lips shut with almost a snap. He was not going to make any moreslips. Mary waited, then turned to the door, where she paused. 

"I've given her the rooms over the rose court, " she said. "And I'm goingnow to take a last look. "

Frederick Travers turned back to the desk, as if to put the lettersaway, changed his mind, and slowly and ponderingly reread them. 

 "Dear Fred:

 "It's been a long time since I was so near to the old home, and I'd like to take a run up. Unfortunately, I played ducks and drakes with my Yucatan project--I think I wrote about it--and I'm broke as usual. Could you advance me funds for the run? I'd like to arrive first class. Polly is with me, you know. I wonder how you two will get along. 

 "Tom. 

 "P. S. If it doesn't bother you too much, send it along next mail. "

 _"Dear Uncle Fred":_

the other letter ran, in what seemed to him a strange, foreign-taught, yet distinctly feminine hand. 

 "Dad doesn't know I am writing this. He told me what he said to you. It is not true. He is coming home to die. He doesn't know it, but I've talked with the doctors. And he'll have to come home, for we have no money. We're in a stuffy little boarding house, and it is not the place for Dad. He's helped other persons all his life, and now is the time to help him. He didn't play ducks and drakes in Yucatan. I was with him, and I know. He dropped all he had there, and he was robbed. He can't play the business game against New Yorkers. That explains it all, and I am proud he can't. 

 "He always laughs and says I'll never be able to get along with you. But I don't agree with him. Besides, I've never seen a really, truly blood relative in my life, and there's your daughter. Think of it!--a real live cousin!

 "In anticipation, "Your niece, "BRONISLAWA PLASKOWEITZKAIA TRAVERS. 

 "P. S. You'd better telegraph the money, or you won't see Dad at all. He doesn't know how sick he is, and if he meets any of his old friends he'll be off and away on some wild goose chase. He's beginning to talk Alaska. Says it will get the fever out of his bones. Please know that we must pay the boarding house, or else we'll arrive without luggage. 

 "B. P. T. "

Frederick Travers opened the door of a large, built-in safe andmethodically put the letters away in a compartment labelled "ThomasTravers. "

"Poor Tom! Poor Tom!" he sighed aloud. 

II

The big motor car waited at the station, and Frederick Travers thrilledas he always thrilled to the distant locomotive whistle of the trainplunging down the valley of Isaac Travers River. First of all westeringwhite-men, had Isaac Travers gazed on that splendid valley, itssalmon-laden waters, its rich bottoms, and its virgin forest slopes. Having seen, he had grasped and never let go. "Land-poor, " they hadcalled him in the mid-settler period. But that had been in the days whenthe placers petered out, when there were no wagon roads nor tugs to drawin sailing vessels across the perilous bar, and when his lonely gristmill had been run under armed guards to keep the marauding Klamaths offwhile wheat was ground. Like father, like son, and what Isaac Travershad grasped, Frederick Travers had held. It had been the same tenacityof hold. Both had been far-visioned. Both had foreseen thetransformation of the utter West, the coming of the railroad, and thebuilding of the new empire on the Pacific shore. 

Frederick Travers thrilled, too, at the locomotive whistle, because, more than any man's, it was his railroad. His father had died stillstriving to bring the railroad in across the mountains that averaged ahundred thousand dollars to the mile. He, Frederick, had brought it in. He had sat up nights over that railroad; bought newspapers, enteredpolitics, and subsidised party machines; and he had made pilgrimages, more than once, at his own expense, to the railroad chiefs of the East. While all the county knew how many miles of his land were crossed by theright of way, none of the county guessed nor dreamed the number of hisdollars which had gone into guaranties and railroad bonds. He had donemuch for his county, and the railroad was his last and greatestachievement, the capstone of the Travers' effort, the momentous andmarvellous thing that had been brought about just yesterday. It hadbeen running two years, and, highest proof of all of his judgment, dividends were in sight. And farther reaching reward was in sight. Itwas written in the books that the next Governor of California was to bespelled, Frederick A. Travers. 

Twenty years had passed since he had seen his elder brother, and then ithad been after a gap of ten years. He remembered that night well. Tomwas the only man who dared run the bar in the dark, and that last time, between nightfall and the dawn, with a southeaster breezing up, he hadsailed his schooner in and out again. There had been no warning of hiscoming--a clatter of hoofs at midnight, a lathered horse in the stable, and Tom had appeared, the salt of the sea on his face as his motherattested. An hour only he remained, and on a fresh horse was gone, whilerain squalls rattled upon the windows and the rising wind moaned throughthe redwoods, the memory of his visit a whiff, sharp and strong, fromthe wild outer world. A week later, sea-hammered and bar-bound for thattime, had arrived the revenue cutter _Bear_, and there had been acolumn of conjecture in the local paper, hints of a heavy landing ofopium and of a vain quest for the mysterious schooner _Halcyon_. OnlyFred and his mother, and the several house Indians, knew of thestiffened horse in the barn and of the devious way it was afterwardsmuggled back to the fishing village on the beach. 

Despite those twenty years, it was the same old Tom Travers thatalighted from the Pullman. To his brother's eyes, he did not look sick. Older he was of course. The Panama hat did not hide the grey hair, andthough indefinably hinting of shrunkenness, the broad shoulders werestill broad and erect. As for the young woman with him, FrederickTravers experienced an immediate shock of distaste. He felt it vitally, yet vaguely. It was a challenge and a mock, yet he could not name norplace the source of it. It might have been the dress, of tailored linenand foreign cut, the shirtwaist, with its daring stripe, the blackwilfulness of the hair, or the flaunt of poppies on the large straw hator it might have been the flash and colour of her--the black eyes andbrows, the flame of rose in the cheeks, the white of the even teeth thatshowed too readily. "A spoiled child, " was his thought, but he had notime to analyse, for his brother's hand was in his and he was making hisniece's acquaintance. 

There it was again. She flashed and talked like her colour, and shetalked with her hands as well. He could not avoid noting the smallnessof them. They were absurdly small, and his eyes went to her feet to makethe same discovery. Quite oblivious of the curious crowd on the stationplatform, she had intercepted his attempt to lead to the motor car andhad ranged the brothers side by side. Tom had been laughinglyacquiescent, but his younger brother was ill at ease, too conscious ofthe many eyes of his townspeople. He knew only the old Puritan way. Family displays were for the privacy of the family, not for the public. He was glad she had not attempted to kiss him. It was remarkable she hadnot. Already he apprehended anything of her. 

She embraced them and penetrated them with sun-warm eyes that seemed tosee through them, and over them, and all about them. 

"You're really brothers, " she cried, her hands flashing with her eyes. "Anybody can see it. And yet there is a difference--I don't know. Ican't explain. "

In truth, with a tact that exceeded Frederick Travers' farthestdisciplined forbearance, she did not dare explain. Her wide artist-eyeshad seen and sensed the whole trenchant and essential difference. Alikethey looked, of the unmistakable same stock, their features reminiscentof a common origin; and there resemblance ceased. Tom was three inchestaller, and well-greyed was the long, Viking moustache. His was the sameeagle-like nose as his brother's, save that it was more eagle-like, while the blue eyes were pronouncedly so. The lines of the face weredeeper, the cheek-bones higher, the hollows larger, the weather-beatdarker. It was a volcanic face. There had been fire there, and the firestill lingered. Around the corners of the eyes were morelaughter-wrinkles and in the eyes themselves a promise of deadlierseriousness than the younger brother possessed. Frederick was bourgeoisin his carriage, but in Tom's was a certain careless ease anddistinction. It was the same pioneer blood of Isaac Travers in both men, but it had been retorted in widely different crucibles. Frederickrepresented the straight and expected line of descent. His brotherexpressed a vast and intangible something that was unknown in theTravers stock. And it was all this that the black-eyed girl saw and knewon the instant. All that had been inexplicable in the two men and theirrelationship cleared up in the moment she saw them side by side. 

"Wake me up, " Tom was saying. "I can't believe I arrived on a train. Andthe population? There were only four thousand thirty years ago. "

"Sixty thousand now, " was the other's answer. "And increasing by leapsand bounds. Want to spin around for a look at the city? There's plentyof time. "

As they sped along the broad, well-paved streets, Tom persisted in hisRip Van Winkle pose. The waterfront perplexed him. Where he had onceanchored his sloop in a dozen feet of water, he found solid land andrailroad yards, with wharves and shipping still farther out. 

"Hold on! Stop!" he cried, a few blocks on, looking up at a solidbusiness block. "Where is this, Fred?"

"Fourth and Travers--don't you remember?"

Tom stood up and gazed around, trying to discern the anciently familiarconfiguration of the land under its clutter of buildings. 

"I . .. I think. .. . " he began hesitantly. "No; by George, I'm sure of it. We used to hunt cottontails over that ground, and shoot blackbirds inthe brush. And there, where the bank building is, was a pond. " He turnedto Polly. "I built my first raft there, and got my first taste of thesea. "

"Heaven knows how many gallons of it, " Frederick laughed, nodding to thechauffeur. "They rolled you on a barrel, I remember. "

"Oh! More!" Polly cried, clapping her hands. 

"There's the park, " Frederick pointed out a little later, indicating amass of virgin redwoods on the first dip of the bigger hills. 

"Father shot three grizzlies there one afternoon, " was Tom's remark. 

"I presented forty acres of it to the city, " Frederick went on. "Fatherbought the quarter section for a dollar an acre from Leroy. "

Tom nodded, and the sparkle and flash in his eyes, like that of hisdaughter, were unlike anything that ever appeared in his brother's eyes. 

"Yes, " he affirmed, "Leroy, the negro squawman. I remember the time hecarried you and me on his back to Alliance, the night the Indians burnedthe ranch. Father stayed behind and fought. "

"But he couldn't save the grist mill. It was a serious setback to him. "

"Just the same he nailed four Indians. "

In Polly's eyes now appeared the flash and sparkle. 

"An Indian-fighter!" she cried. "Tell me about him. "

"Tell her about Travers Ferry, " Tom said. 

"That's a ferry on the Klamath River on the way to Orleans Bar andSiskiyou. There was great packing into the diggings in those days, and, among other things, father had made a location there. There was richbench farming land, too. He built a suspension bridge--wove the cableson the spot with sailors and materials freighted in from the coast. Itcost him twenty thousand dollars. The first day it was open, eighthundred mules crossed at a dollar a head, to say nothing of the toll forfoot and horse. That night the river rose. The bridge was one hundredand forty feet above low water mark. Yet the freshet rose higher thanthat, and swept the bridge away. He'd have made a fortune thereotherwise. "

"That wasn't it at all, " Tom blurted out impatiently. "It was at TraversFerry that father and old Jacob Vance were caught by a war party of MadRiver Indians. Old Jacob was killed right outside the door of the logcabin. Father dragged the body inside and stood the Indians off for aweek. Father was some shot. He buried Jacob under the cabin floor. "

"I still run the ferry, " Frederick went on, "though there isn't so muchtravel as in the old days. I freight by wagon-road to the Reservation, and then mule-back on up the Klamath and clear in to the forks of LittleSalmon. I have twelve stores on that chain now, a stage-line to theReservation, and a hotel there. Quite a tourist trade is beginning topick up. "

And the girl, with curious brooding eyes, looked from brother to brotheras they so differently voiced themselves and life. 

"Ay, he was some man, father was, " Tom murmured. 

There was a drowsy note in his speech that drew a quick glance ofanxiety from her. The machine had turned into the cemetery, and nowhalted before a substantial vault on the crest of the hill. 

"I thought you'd like to see it, " Frederick was saying. "I built thatmausoleum myself, most of it with my own hands. Mother wanted it. Theestate was dreadfully encumbered. The best bid I could get out of thecontractors was eleven thousand. I did it myself for a little overeight. "

"Must have worked nights, " Tom murmured admiringly and more sleepilythan before. 

"I did, Tom, I did. Many a night by lantern-light. I was so busy. I wasreconstructing the water works then--the artesian wells had failed--andmother's eyes were troubling her. You remember--cataract--I wrote you. She was too weak to travel, and I brought the specialists up from SanFrancisco. Oh, my hands were full. I was just winding up the disastrousaffairs of the steamer line father had established to San Francisco, andI was keeping up the interest on mortgages to the tune of one hundredand eighty thousand dollars. "

A soft stertorous breathing interrupted him. Tom, chin on chest, wasasleep. Polly, with a significant look, caught her uncle's eye. Thenher father, after an uneasy restless movement, lifted drowsy lids. 

"Deuced warm day, " he said with a bright apologetic laugh. "I've beenactually asleep. Aren't we near home?"

Frederick nodded to the chauffeur, and the car rolled on. 

III

The house that Frederick Travers had built when his prosperity came, waslarge and costly, sober and comfortable, and with no more pretence thanwas naturally attendant on the finest country home in the county. Itsatmosphere was just the sort that he and his daughter would create. Butin the days that followed his brother's home-coming, all this waschanged. Gone was the subdued and ordered repose. Frederick was neithercomfortable nor happy. There was an unwonted flurry of life andviolation of sanctions and traditions. Meals were irregular andprotracted, and there were midnight chafing-dish suppers and bursts oflaughter at the most inappropriate hours. 

Frederick was abstemious. A glass of wine at dinner was his wildestexcess. Three cigars a day he permitted himself, and these he smokedeither on the broad veranda or in the smoking room. What else was asmoking room for? Cigarettes he detested. Yet his brother was everrolling thin, brown-paper cigarettes and smoking them wherever he mighthappen to be. A litter of tobacco crumbs was always to be found in thebig easy chair he frequented and among the cushions of the window-seats. Then there were the cocktails. Brought up under the stern tutelage ofIsaac and Eliza Travers, Frederick looked upon liquor in the house as anabomination. Ancient cities had been smitten by God's wrath for justsuch practices. Before lunch and dinner, Tom, aided and abetted byPolly, mixed an endless variety of drinks, she being particularly adeptwith strange swivel-stick concoctions learned at the ends of the earth. To Frederick, at such times, it seemed that his butler's pantry anddining room had been turned into bar-rooms. When he suggested this, under a facetious show, Tom proclaimed that when he made his pile hewould build a liquor cabinet in every living room of his house. 

And there were more young men at the house than formerly, and theyhelped in disposing of the cocktails. Frederick would have liked toaccount in that manner for their presence, but he knew better. Hisbrother and his brother's daughter did what he and Mary had failed todo. They were the magnets. Youth and joy and laughter drew to them. Thehouse was lively with young life. Ever, day and night, the motor carshonked up and down the gravelled drives. There were picnics andexpeditions in the summer weather, moonlight sails on the bay, startsbefore dawn or home-comings at midnight, and often, of nights, the manybedrooms were filled as they had never been before. Tom must cover allhis boyhood ramblings, catch trout again on Bull Creek, shoot quail overWalcott's Prairie, get a deer on Round Mountain. That deer was a causeof pain and shame to Frederick. What if it was closed season? Tom hadtriumphantly brought home the buck and gleefully called itsidehill-salmon when it was served and eaten at Frederick's own table. 

They had clambakes at the head of the bay and musselbakes down by theroaring surf; and Tom told shamelessly of the _Halcyon_, and of the runof contraband, and asked Frederick before them all how he had managed tosmuggle the horse back to the fishermen without discovery. All the youngmen were in the conspiracy with Polly to pamper Tom to his heart'sdesire. And Frederick heard the true inwardness of the killing of thedeer; of its purchase from the overstocked Golden Gate Park; of itscrated carriage by train, horse-team and mule-back to the fastnesses ofRound Mountain; of Tom falling asleep beside the deer-run the first timeit was driven by; of the pursuit by the young men, the jaded saddlehorses, the scrambles and the falls, and the roping of it at Burnt RanchClearing; and, finally, of the triumphant culmination, when it wasdriven past a second time and Tom had dropped it at fifty yards. ToFrederick there was a vague hurt in it all. When had such considerationbeen shown him?

There were days when Tom could not go out, postponements of outdoorfrolics, when, still the centre, he sat and drowsed in the big chair, waking, at times, in that unexpected queer, bright way of his, to rolla cigarette and call for his _ukulele_--a sort of miniature guitar ofPortuguese invention. Then, with strumming and tumtuming, the livecigarette laid aside to the imminent peril of polished wood, his fullbaritone would roll out in South Sea _hulas_ and sprightly French andSpanish songs. 

One, in particular, had pleased Frederick at first. The favourite songof a Tahitian king, Tom explained--the last of the Pomares, who hadhimself composed it and was wont to lie on his mats by the hour singingit. It consisted of the repetition of a few syllables. "_E meu ru ru avau_, " it ran, and that was all of it, sung in a stately, endless, ever-varying chant, accompanied by solemn chords from the _ukelele_. Polly took great joy in teaching it to her uncle, but when, himselfquesting for some of this genial flood of life that bathed about hisbrother, Frederick essayed the song, he noted suppressed glee on thepart of his listeners, which increased, through giggles and snickers, toa great outburst of laughter. To his disgust and dismay, he learnedthat the simple phrase he had repeated and repeated was nothing elsethan "I am so drunk. " He had been made a fool of. Over and over, solemnly and gloriously, he, Frederick Travers, had announced how drunkhe was. After that, he slipped quietly out of the room whenever it wassung. Nor could Polly's later explanation that the last word was"happy, " and not "drunk, " reconcile him; for she had been compelled toadmit that the old king was a toper, and that he was always in his cupswhen he struck up the chant. 

Frederick was constantly oppressed by the feeling of being out of itall. He was a social being, and he liked fun, even if it were of a morewholesome and dignified brand than that to which his brother wasaddicted. He could not understand why in the past the young people hadvoted his house a bore and come no more, save on state and formaloccasions, until now, when they flocked to it and to his brother, butnot to him. Nor could he like the way the young women petted hisbrother, and called him Tom, while it was intolerable to see them twistand pull his buccaneer moustache in mock punishment when his sometimestoo-jolly banter sank home to them. 

Such conduct was a profanation to the memory of Isaac and Eliza Travers. There was too much an air of revelry in the house. The long table wasnever shortened, while there was extra help in the kitchen. Breakfastextended from four until eleven, and the midnight suppers, entailingraids on the pantry and complaints from the servants, were a vexation toFrederick. The house had become a restaurant, a hotel, he sneeredbitterly to himself; and there were times when he was sorely tempted toput his foot down and reassert the old ways. But somehow the ancientsorcery of his masterful brother was too strong upon him; and at timeshe gazed upon him with a sense almost of awe, groping to fathom thealchemy of charm, baffled by the strange lights and fires in hisbrother's eyes, and by the wisdom of far places and of wild nights anddays written in his face. What was it? What lordly vision had the otherglimpsed?--he, the irresponsible and careless one? Frederick remembereda line of an old song--"Along the shining ways he came. " Why did hisbrother remind him of that line? Had he, who in boyhood had known nolaw, who in manhood had exalted himself above law, in truth found theshining ways?

There was an unfairness about it that perplexed Frederick, until hefound solace in dwelling upon the failure Tom had made of life. Then itwas, in quiet intervals, that he got some comfort and stiffened his ownpride by showing Tom over the estate. 

"You have done well, Fred, " Tom would say. "You have done very well. "

He said it often, and often he drowsed in the big smooth-runningmachine. 

"Everything orderly and sanitary and spick and span--not a blade ofgrass out of place, " was Polly's comment. "How do you ever manage it? Ishould not like to be a blade of grass on your land, " she concluded, with a little shivery shudder. 

"You have worked hard, " Tom said. 

"Yes, I have worked hard, " Frederick affirmed. "It was worth it. "

He was going to say more, but the strange flash in the girl's eyesbrought him to an uncomfortable pause. He felt that she measured him, challenged him. For the first time his honourable career of building acounty commonwealth had been questioned--and by a chit of a girl, thedaughter of a wastrel, herself but a flighty, fly-away, foreigncreature. 

Conflict between them was inevitable. He had disliked her from the firstmoment of meeting. She did not have to speak. Her mere presence made himuncomfortable. He felt her unspoken disapproval, though there were timeswhen she did not stop at that. Nor did she mince language. She spokeforthright, like a man, and as no man had ever dared to speak to him. 

"I wonder if you ever miss what you've missed, " she told him. "Did youever, once in your life, turn yourself loose and rip things up by theroots? Did you ever once get drunk? Or smoke yourself black in theface? Or dance a hoe-down on the ten commandments? Or stand up on yourhind legs and wink like a good fellow at God?"

"Isn't she a rare one!" Tom gurgled. "Her mother over again. "

Outwardly smiling and calm, there was a chill of horror at Frederick'sheart. It was incredible. 

"I think it is the English, " she continued, "who have a saying that aman has not lived until he has kissed his woman and struck his man. Iwonder--confess up, now--if you ever struck a man. "

"Have you?" he countered. 

She nodded, an angry reminiscent flash in her eyes, and waited. 

"No, I have never had that pleasure, " he answered slowly. "I earlylearned control. "

Later, irritated by his self-satisfied complacence and after listeningto a recital of how he had cornered the Klamath salmon-packing, plantedthe first oysters on the bay and established that lucrative monopoly, and of how, after exhausting litigation and a campaign of years he hadcaptured the water front of Williamsport and thereby won to control ofthe Lumber Combine, she returned to the charge. 

"You seem to value life in terms of profit and loss, " she said. "Iwonder if you have ever known love. "

The shaft went home. He had not kissed his woman. His marriage had beenone of policy. It had saved the estate in the days when he had beenalmost beaten in the struggle to disencumber the vast holdings IsaacTravers' wide hands had grasped. The girl was a witch. She had probed anold wound and made it hurt again. He had never had time to love. He hadworked hard. He had been president of the chamber of commerce, mayor ofthe city, state senator, but he had missed love. At chance moments hehad come upon Polly, openly and shamelessly in her father's arms, and hehad noted the warmth and tenderness in their eyes. Again he knew that hehad missed love. Wanton as was the display, not even in private did heand Mary so behave. Normal, formal, and colourless, she was what was tobe expected of a loveless marriage. He even puzzled to decide whetherthe feeling he felt for her was love. Was he himself loveless as well?

In the moment following Polly's remark, he was aware of a greatemptiness. It seemed that his hands had grasped ashes, until, glancinginto the other room, he saw Tom asleep in the big chair, very grey andaged and tired. He remembered all that he had done, all that hepossessed. Well, what did Tom possess? What had Tom done?--save playducks and drakes with life and wear it out until all that remained wasthat dimly flickering spark in a dying body. 

What bothered Frederick in Polly was that she attracted him as well asrepelled him. His own daughter had never interested him in that way. Mary moved along frictionless grooves, and to forecast her actions wasso effortless that it was automatic. But Polly! many-hued, protean-natured, he never knew what she was going to do next. 

"Keeps you guessing, eh?" Tom chuckled. 

She was irresistible. She had her way with Frederick in ways that inMary would have been impossible. She took liberties with him, cosenedhim or hurt him, and compelled always in him a sharp awareness of herexistence. 

Once, after one of their clashes, she devilled him at the piano, playinga mad damned thing that stirred and irritated him and set his pulsepounding wild and undisciplined fancies in the ordered chamber of hisbrain. The worst of it was she saw and knew just what she was doing. Shewas aware before he was, and she made him aware, her face turned to lookat him, on her lips a mocking, contemplative smile that was almost asuperior sneer. It was this that shocked him into consciousness of theorgy his imagination had been playing him. From the wall above her, thestiff portraits of Isaac and Eliza Travers looked down like reproachfulspectres. Infuriated, he left the room. He had never dreamed suchpotencies resided in music. And then, and he remembered it with shame, he had stolen back outside to listen, and she had known, and once moreshe had devilled him. 

When Mary asked him what he thought of Polly's playing, an unbiddencontrast leaped to his mind. Mary's music reminded him of church. It wascold and bare as a Methodist meeting house. But Polly's was like the madand lawless ceremonial of some heathen temple where incense arose andnautch girls writhed. 

"She plays like a foreigner, " he answered, pleased with the success andoppositeness of his evasion. 

"She is an artist, " Mary affirmed solemnly. "She is a genius. When doesshe ever practise? When did she ever practise? You know how I have. Mybest is like a five-finger exercise compared with the foolishest thingshe ripples off. Her music tells me things--oh, things wonderful andunutterable. Mine tells me, 'one-two-three, one-two-three. ' Oh, it ismaddening! I work and work and get nowhere. It is unfair. Why should shebe born that way, and not I?"

"Love, " was Frederick's immediate and secret thought; but before hecould dwell upon the conclusion, the unprecedented had happened and Marywas sobbing in a break-down of tears. He would have liked to take her inhis arms, after Tom's fashion, but he did not know how. He tried, andfound Mary as unschooled as himself. It resulted only in an embarrassedawkwardness for both of them. 

The contrasting of the two girls was inevitable. Like father likedaughter. Mary was no more than a pale camp-follower of a gorgeous, conquering general. Frederick's thrift had been sorely educated in thematter of clothes. He knew just how expensive Mary's clothes were, yethe could not blind himself to the fact that Polly's vagabond makeshifts, cheap and apparently haphazard, were always all right and far moresuccessful. Her taste was unerring. Her ways with a shawl wereinimitable. With a scarf she performed miracles. 

"She just throws things together, " Mary complained. "She doesn't eventry. She can dress in fifteen minutes, and when she goes swimming shebeats the boys out of the dressing rooms. " Mary was honest andincredulous in her admiration. "I can't see how she does it. No onecould dare those colours, but they look just right on her. "

"She's always threatened that when I became finally flat broke she'd setup dressmaking and take care of both of us, " Tom contributed. 

Frederick, looking over the top of a newspaper, was witness to anilluminating scene; Mary, to his certain knowledge, had been primpingfor an hour ere she appeared. 

"Oh! How lovely!" was Polly's ready appreciation. Her eyes and faceglowed with honest pleasure, and her hands wove their delight in theair. "But why not wear that bow so and thus?"

Her hands flashed to the task, and in a moment the miracle of taste anddifference achieved by her touch was apparent even to Frederick. 

Polly was like her father, generous to the point of absurdity with hermeagre possessions. Mary admired a Spanish fan--a Mexican treasure thathad come down from one of the grand ladies of the Court of the EmperorMaximilian. Polly's delight flamed like wild-fire. Mary found herselfthe immediate owner of the fan, almost labouring under the fictitiousimpression that she had conferred an obligation by accepting it. Only aforeign woman could do such things, and Polly was guilty of similargifts to all the young women. It was her way. It might be a lacehandkerchief, a pink Paumotan pearl, or a comb of hawksbill turtle. Itwas all the same. Whatever their eyes rested on in joy was theirs. Towomen, as to men, she was irresistible. 

"I don't dare admire anything any more, " was Mary's plaint. "If I do shealways gives it to me. "

Frederick had never dreamed such a creature could exist. The women ofhis own race and place had never adumbrated such a possibility. He knewthat whatever she did--her quick generosities, her hot enthusiasms orangers, her birdlike caressing ways--was unbelievably sincere. Herextravagant moods at the same time shocked and fascinated him. Her voicewas as mercurial as her feelings. There were no even tones, and shetalked with her hands. Yet, in her mouth, English was a new andbeautiful language, softly limpid, with an audacity of phrase andtellingness of expression that conveyed subtleties and nuances asunambiguous and direct as they were unexpected from one of suchchildlikeness and simplicity. He woke up of nights and on his darkenedeyelids saw bright memory-pictures of the backward turn of her vivid, laughing face. 

IV

Like daughter like father. Tom, too, had been irresistible. All theworld still called to him, and strange men came from time to time withits messages. Never had there been such visitors to the Travers home. Some came with the reminiscent roll of the sea in their gait. Otherswere black-browed ruffians; still others were fever-burnt and sallow;and about all of them was something bizarre and outlandish. Their talkwas likewise bizarre and outlandish, of things to Frederick unguessedand undreamed, though he recognised the men for what they were--soldiersof fortune, adventurers, free lances of the world. But the big patentthing was the love and loyalty they bore their leader. They named himvariously?--Black Tom, Blondine, Husky Travers, Malemute Tom, Swiftwater Tom--but most of all he was Captain Tom. Their projects andpropositions were equally various, from the South Sea trader with thediscovery of a new guano island and the Latin-American with a nascentrevolution on his hands, on through Siberian gold chases and theprospecting of the placer benches of the upper Kuskokeem, to darkerthings that were mentioned only in whispers. And Captain Tom regrettedthe temporary indisposition that prevented immediate departure withthem, and continued to sit and drowse more and more in the big chair. Itwas Polly, with a camaraderie distasteful to her uncle, who got thesemen aside and broke the news that Captain Tom would never go out on theshining ways again. But not all of them came with projects. Many madelove-calls on their leader of old and unforgetable days, and Fredericksometimes was a witness to their meeting, and he marvelled anew at themysterious charm in his brother that drew all men to him. 

"By the turtles of Tasman!" cried one, "when I heard you was inCalifornia, Captain Tom, I just had to come and shake hands. I reckonyou ain't forgot Tasman, eh?--nor the scrap at Thursday Island. Say--old Tasman was killed by his niggers only last year up German NewGuinea way. Remember his cook-boy?--Ngani-Ngani? He was the ringleader. Tasman swore by him, but Ngani-Ngani hatcheted him just the same. "

"Shake hands with Captain Carlsen, Fred, " was Tom's introduction of hisbrother to another visitor. "He pulled me out of a tight place on theWest Coast once. I'd have cashed in, Carlsen, if you hadn't happenedalong. "

Captain Carlsen was a giant hulk of a man, with gimlet eyes of palestblue, a slash-scarred mouth that a blazing red beard could not quitehide, and a grip in his hand that made Frederick squirm. 

A few minutes later, Tom had his brother aside. 

"Say, Fred, do you think it will bother to advance me a thousand?"

"Of course, " Frederick answered splendidly. "You know half of that Ihave is yours, Tom. "

And when Captain Carlsen departed, Frederick was morally certain thatthe thousand dollars departed with him. 

Small wonder Tom had made a failure of life--and come home to die. Frederick sat at his own orderly desk taking stock of the differencebetween him and his brother. Yes, and if it hadn't been for him, therewould have been no home for Tom to die in. 

Frederick cast back for solace through their joint history. It was hewho had always been the mainstay, the dependable one. Tom had laughedand rollicked, played hooky from school, disobeyed Isaac's commandments. To the mountains or the sea, or in hot water with the neighbours and thetown authorities--it was all the same; he was everywhere save where thedull plod of work obtained. And work was work in those backwoods days, and he, Frederick, had done the work. Early and late and all days he hadbeen at it. He remembered the season when Isaac's wide plans had takenone of their smashes, when food had been scarce on the table of a manwho owned a hundred thousand acres, when there had been no money tohire harvesters for the hay, and when Isaac would not let go his grip ona single one of his acres. He, Frederick, had pitched the hay, whileIsaac mowed and raked. Tom had lain in bed and run up a doctor bill witha broken leg, gained by falling off the ridge-pole of the barn--whichplace was the last in the world to which any one would expect to go topitch hay. About the only work Tom had ever done, it seemed to him, wasto fetch in venison and bear-oil, to break colts, and to raise a din inthe valley pastures and wooded canyons with his bear-hounds. 

Tom was the elder, yet when Isaac died, the estate, with all its vastpossibilities would have gone to ruin, had not he, Frederick, buckleddown to it and put the burden on his back. Work! He remembered theenlargement of the town water-system--how he had manoeuvred andfinanced, persuaded small loans at ruinous interest, and laid pipe andmade joints by lantern light while the workmen slept, and then been upahead of them to outline and direct and rack his brains over theraising of the next week-end wages. For he had carried on old Isaac'spolicy. He would not let go. The future would vindicate. 

And Tom!--with a bigger pack of bear dogs ranging the mountains andsleeping out a week at a time. Frederick remembered the final conferencein the kitchen--Tom, and he, and Eliza Travers, who still cooked andbaked and washed dishes on an estate that carried a hundred and eightythousand dollars in mortgages. 

"Don't divide, " Eliza Travers had pleaded, resting her soap-flecked, parboiled arms. "Isaac was right. It will be worth millions. The countryis opening up. We must all pull together. "

"I don't want the estate, " Tom cried. "Let Frederick have it. What Iwant. .. . "

He never completed the sentence, but all the vision of the world burnedin his eyes. 

"I can't wait, " he went on. "You can have the millions when they come. In the meantime let me have ten thousand. I'll sign off quitclaim toeverything. And give me the old schooner, and some day I'll be back witha pot of money to help you out. "

Frederick could see himself, in that far past day, throwing up his armsin horror and crying:

"Ten thousand!--when I'm strained to the breaking point to raise thisquarter's interest!"

"There's the block of land next to the court house, " Tom had urged. "Iknow the bank has a standing offer for ten thousand. "

"But it will be worth a hundred thousand in ten years, " Frederick hadobjected. 

"Call it so. Say I quitclaim everything for a hundred thousand. Sell itfor ten and let me have it. It's all I want, and I want it now. You canhave the rest. "

And Tom had had his will as usual (the block had been mortgaged insteadof sold), and sailed away in the old schooner, the benediction of thetown upon his head, for he had carried away in his crew half theriff-raff of the beach. 

The bones of the schooner had been left on the coast of Java. That hadbeen when Eliza Travers was being operated on for her eyes, andFrederick had kept it from her until indubitable proof came that Tom wasstill alive. 

Frederick went over to his files and drew out a drawer labelled "ThomasTravers. " In it were packets, methodically arranged. He went over theletters. They were from everywhere--China, Rangoon, Australia, SouthAfrica, the Gold Coast, Patagonia, Armenia, Alaska. Briefly andinfrequently written, they epitomised the wanderer's life. Frederick ranover in his mind a few of the glimpsed highlights of Tom's career. Hehad fought in some sort of foreign troubles in Armenia. He had been anofficer in the Chinese army, and it was a certainty that the trade helater drove in the China Seas was illicit. He had been caught runningarms into Cuba. It seemed he had always been running something somewherethat it ought not to have been run. And he had never outgrown it. Oneletter, on crinkly tissue paper, showed that as late as theJapanese-Russian War he had been caught running coal into Port Arthurand been taken to the prize court at Sasebo, where his steamer wasconfiscated and he remained a prisoner until the end of the war. 

Frederick smiled as he read a paragraph: "_How do you prosper? Let meknow any time a few thousands will help you_. " He looked at the date, April 18, 1883, and opened another packet. "_May 5th_, " 1883, was thedated sheet he drew out. "_Five thousand will put me on my feet again. If you can, and love me, send it along pronto--that's Spanish forrush_. "

He glanced again at the two dates. It was evident that somewhere betweenApril 18th and May 5th Tom had come a cropper. With a smile, halfbitter, Frederick skimmed on through the correspondence: "_There's awreck on Midway Island. A fortune in it, salvage you know. Auction intwo days. Cable me four thousand_. " The last he examined, ran: "_A dealI can swing with a little cash. It's big, I tell you. It's so big Idon't dare tell you_. " He remembered that deal--a Latin-Americanrevolution. He had sent the cash, and Tom had swung it, and himself aswell, into a prison cell and a death sentence. 

Tom had meant well, there was no denying that. And he had alwaysreligiously forwarded his I O U's. Frederick musingly weighed the packetof them in his hand, as though to determine if any relation existedbetween the weight of paper and the sums of money represented on it. 

He put the drawer back in the cabinet and passed out. Glancing in at thebig chair he saw Polly just tiptoeing from the room. Tom's head layback, and his breathing was softly heavy, the sickness pronouncedlyapparent on his relaxed face. 

V

"I have worked hard, " Frederick explained to Polly that evening on theveranda, unaware that when a man explains it is a sign his situation isgrowing parlous. "I have done what came to my hand--how creditably it isfor others to say. And I have been paid for it. I have taken care ofothers and taken care of myself. The doctors say they have never seensuch a constitution in a man of my years. Why, almost half my life isyet before me, and we Travers are a long-lived stock. I took care ofmyself, you see, and I have myself to show for it. I was not a waster. Iconserved my heart and my arteries, and yet there are few men who canboast having done as much work as I have done. Look at that hand. Steady, eh? It will be as steady twenty years from now. There is nothingin playing fast and loose with oneself. "

And all the while Polly had been following the invidious comparison thatlurked behind his words. 

"You can write 'Honourable' before your name, " she flashed up proudly. "But my father has been a king. He has lived. Have you lived? What haveyou got to show for it? Stocks and bonds, and houses and servants--pouf!Heart and arteries and a steady hand--is that all? Have you lived merelyto live? Were you afraid to die? I'd rather sing one wild song and burstmy heart with it, than live a thousand years watching my digestion andbeing afraid of the wet. When you are dust, my father will be ashes. That is the difference. "

"But my dear child--" he began. 

"What have you got to show for it?" she flamed on. "Listen!"

From within, through the open window, came the tinkling of Tom's_ukulele_ and the rollicking lilt of his voice in an Hawaiian _hula_. Itended in a throbbing, primitive love-call from the sensuous tropic nightthat no one could mistake. There was a burst of young voices, and aclamour for more. Frederick did not speak. He had sensed something vagueand significant. 

Turning, he glanced through the window at Tom, flushed and royal, surrounded by the young men and women, under his Viking moustachelighting a cigarette from a match held to him by one of the girls. Itabruptly struck Frederick that never had he lighted a cigar at a matchheld in a woman's hand. 

"Doctor Tyler says he oughtn't to smoke--it only aggravates, " he said;and it was all he could say. 

As the fall of the year came on, a new type of men began to frequent thehouse. They proudly called themselves "sour-doughs, " and they werearriving in San Francisco on the winter's furlough from thegold-diggings of Alaska. More and more of them came, and they pre-empteda large portion of one of the down-town hotels. Captain Tom was fadingwith the season, and almost lived in the big chair. He drowsed oftenerand longer, but whenever he awoke he was surrounded by his court ofyoung people, or there was some comrade waiting to sit and yarn aboutthe old gold days and plan for the new gold days. 

For Tom--Husky Travers, the Yukoners named him--never thought that theend approached. A temporary illness, he called it, the naturalenfeeblement following upon a prolonged bout with Yucatan fever. In thespring he would be right and fit again. Cold weather was what he needed. His blood had been cooked. In the meantime it was a case of take it easyand make the most of the rest. 

And no one undeceived him--not even the Yukoners, who smoked pipes andblack cigars and chewed tobacco on Frederick's broad verandas until hefelt like an intruder in his own house. There was no touch with them. They regarded him as a stranger to be tolerated. They came to see Tom. And their manner of seeing him was provocative of innocent envy pangs toFrederick. Day after day he watched them. He would see the Yukonersmeet, perhaps one just leaving the sick room and one just going in. Theywould clasp hands, solemnly and silently, outside the door. Thenewcomer would question with his eyes, and the other would shake hishead. And more than once Frederick noted the moisture in their eyes. Then the newcomer would enter and draw his chair up to Tom's, and withjovial voice proceed to plan the outfitting for the exploration of theupper Kuskokeem; for it was there Tom was bound in the spring. Dogscould be had at Larabee's--a clean breed, too, with no taint of the softSouthland strains. It was rough country, it was reported, but ifsour-doughs couldn't make the traverse from Larabee's in forty daysthey'd like to see a _chechako_ do it in sixty. 

And so it went, until Frederick wondered, when he came to die, if therewas one man in the county, much less in the adjoining county, who wouldcome to him at his bedside. 

Seated at his desk, through the open windows would drift whiffs ofstrong tobacco and rumbling voices, and he could not help catchingsnatches of what the Yukoners talked. 

"D'ye recollect that Koyokuk rush in the early nineties?" he would hearone say. "Well, him an' me was pardners then, tradin' an' such. We hada dinky little steamboat, the _Blatterbat_. He named her that, an' itstuck. He was a caution. Well, sir, as I was sayin', him an' me loadedthe little _Blatterbat_ to the guards an' started up the Koyokuk, mefirin' an' engineerin' an' him steerin', an' both of us deck-handin'. Once in a while we'd tie to the bank an' cut firewood. It was the fall, an' mush-ice was comin' down, an' everything gettin' ready for thefreeze up. You see, we was north of the Arctic Circle then an' stillheadin' north. But they was two hundred miners in there needin' grub ifthey wintered, an' we had the grub. 

"Well, sir, pretty soon they begun to pass us, driftin' down the riverin canoes an' rafts. They was pullin' out. We kept track of them. When ahundred an' ninety-four had passed, we didn't see no reason for keepin'on. So we turned tail and started down. A cold snap had come, an' thewater was fallin' fast, an' dang me if we didn't ground on abar--up-stream side. The _Blatterbat_ hung up solid. Couldn't budgeher. 'It's a shame to waste all that grub, ' says I, just as we waspullin' out in a canoe. 'Let's stay an' eat it, ' says he. An' dang me ifwe didn't. We wintered right there on the _Blatterbat_, huntin' andtradin' with the Indians, an' when the river broke next year we brungdown eight thousand dollars' worth of skins. Now a whole winter, justtwo of us, is goin' some. But never a cross word out of him. Best-tempered pardner I ever seen. But fight!"

"Huh!" came the other voice. "I remember the winter Oily Jones allowedhe'd clean out Forty Mile. Only he didn't, for about the second yap helet off he ran afoul of Husky Travers. It was in the White Caribou. 'I'ma wolf!' yaps Jones. You know his style, a gun in his belt, fringes onhis moccasins, and long hair down his back. 'I'm a wolf, ' he yaps, 'an'this is my night to howl. Hear me, you long lean makeshift of a humancritter?'--an' this to Husky Travers. "

"Well?" the other voice queried, after a pause. 

"In about a second an' a half Oily Jones was on the floor an' Husky ontop askin' somebody kindly to pass him a butcher knife. What's he do butplumb hack off all of Oily Jones' long hair. 'Now howl, damn you, howl, 'says Husky, gettin' up. "

"He was a cool one, for a wild one, " the first voice took up. "I seenhim buck roulette in the Little Wolverine, drop nine thousand in twohours, borrow some more, win it back in fifteen minutes, buy the drinks, an' cash in--dang me, all in fifteen minutes. "

One evening Tom was unusually brightly awake, and Frederick, joining therapt young circle, sat and listened to his brother's serio-comicnarrative of the night of wreck on the island of Blang; of the swimthrough the sharks where half the crew was lost; of the great pearlwhich Desay brought ashore with him; of the head-decorated palisade thatsurrounded the grass palace wherein dwelt the Malay queen with her royalconsort, a shipwrecked Chinese Eurasian; of the intrigue for the pearlof Desay; of mad feasts and dances in the barbaric night, and quickdangers and sudden deaths; of the queen's love-making to Desay, ofDesay's love-making to the queen's daughter, and of Desay, every jointcrushed, still alive, staked out on the reef at low tide to be eaten bythe sharks; of the coming of the plague; of the beating of tom-toms andthe exorcising of the devil-devil doctors; of the flight over theman-trapped, wild-pig runs of the mountain bush-men; and of the finalrescue by Tasman, he who was hatcheted only last year and whose headreposed in some Melanesian stronghold--and all breathing of the warmthand abandon and savagery of the burning islands of the sun. 

And despite himself, Frederick sat entranced; and when all the tale wastold, he was aware of a queer emptiness. He remembered back to hisboyhood, when he had pored over the illustrations in the old-fashionedgeography. He, too, had dreamed of amazing adventure in far places anddesired to go out on the shining ways. And he had planned to go; yet hehad known only work and duty. Perhaps that was the difference. Perhapsthat was the secret of the strange wisdom in his brother's eyes. Forthe moment, faint and far, vicariously, he glimpsed the lordly visionhis brother had seen. He remembered a sharp saying of Polly's. "You havemissed romance. You traded it for dividends. " She was right, and yet, not fair. He had wanted romance, but the work had been placed ready tohis hand. He had toiled and moiled, day and night, and been faithful tohis trust. Yet he had missed love and the world-living that was forevera-whisper in his brother. And what had Tom done to deserve it?--awastrel and an idle singer of songs. 

His place was high. He was going to be the next governor of California. But what man would come to him and lie to him out of love? The thoughtof all his property seemed to put a dry and gritty taste in his mouth. Property! Now that he looked at it, one thousand dollars was like anyother thousand dollars; and one day (of his days) was like any otherday. He had never made the pictures in the geography come true. He hadnot struck his man, nor lighted his cigar at a match held in a woman'shand. A man could sleep in only one bed at a time--Tom had said that. Heshuddered as he strove to estimate how many beds he owned, how manyblankets he had bought. And all the beds and blankets would not buy oneman to come from the end of the earth, and grip his hand, and cry, "Bythe turtles of Tasman!"

Something of all this he told Polly, an undercurrent of complaint at theunfairness of things in his tale. And she had answered:

"It couldn't have been otherwise. Father bought it. He never drovebargains. It was a royal thing, and he paid for it royally. You grudgedthe price, don't you see. You saved your arteries and your money andkept your feet dry. "

VI

On an afternoon in the late fall all were gathered about the big chairand Captain Tom. Though he did not know it, he had drowsed the whole daythrough and only just awakened to call for his _ukulele_ and light acigarette at Polly's hand. But the _ukulele_ lay idle on his arm, andthough the pine logs crackled in the huge fireplace he shivered and tooknote of the cold. 

"It's a good sign, " he said, unaware that the faintness of his voicedrew the heads of his listeners closer. "The cold weather will be atonic. It's a hard job to work the tropics out of one's blood. But I'mbeginning to shape up now for the Kuskokeem. In the spring, Polly, westart with the dogs, and you'll see the midnight sun. How your motherwould have liked the trip. She was a game one. Forty sleeps with thedogs, and we'll be shaking out yellow nuggets from the moss-roots. Larabee has some fine animals. I know the breed. They're timber wolves, that's what they are, big grey timber wolves, though they sport brownabout one in a litter--isn't that right, Bennington?"

"One in a litter, that's just about the average, " Bennington, theYukoner, replied promptly, but in a voice hoarsely unrecognisable. 

"And you must never travel alone with them, " Captain Tom went on. "Forif you fall down they'll jump you. Larabee's brutes only respect a manwhen he stands upright on his legs. When he goes down, he's meat. Iremember coming over the divide from Tanana to Circle City. That wasbefore the Klondike strike. It was in '94 . .. No, '95, and the bottomhad dropped out of the thermometer. There was a young Canadian with theoutfit. His name was it was . .. A peculiar one . .. Wait a minute it willcome to me. .. . "

His voice ceased utterly, though his lips still moved. A look ofunbelief and vast surprise dawned on his face. Followed a sharp, convulsive shudder. And in that moment, without warning, he saw Death. He looked clear-eyed and steady, as if pondering, then turned to Polly. His hand moved impotently, as if to reach hers, and when he found it, his fingers could not close. He gazed at her with a great smile thatslowly faded. The eyes drooped as the life went out, and remained a faceof quietude and repose. The _ukulele_ clattered to the floor. One by onethey went softly from the room, leaving Polly alone. 

From the veranda, Frederick watched a man coming up the driveway. By theroll of the sea in his walk, Frederick could guess for whom the strangercame. The face was swarthy with sun and wrinkled with age that was giventhe lie by the briskness of his movements and the alertness in the keenblack eyes. In the lobe of each ear was a tiny circlet of gold. 

"How do you do, sir, " the man said, and it was patent that English wasnot the tongue he had learned at his mother's knee. "How's Captain Tom?They told me in the town that he was sick. "

"My brother is dead, " Frederick answered. 

The stranger turned his head and gazed out over the park-like groundsand up to the distant redwood peaks, and Frederick noted that heswallowed with an effort. 

"By the turtles of Tasman, he was a man, " he said, in a deep, changedvoice. 

"By the turtles of Tasman, he was a man, " Frederick repeated; nor did hestumble over the unaccustomed oath. 

THE ETERNITY OF FORMS

A strange life has come to an end in the death of Mr. Sedley Crayden, ofCrayden Hill. 

Mild, harmless, he was the victim of a strange delusion that kept himpinned, night and day, in his chair for the last two years of his life. The mysterious death, or, rather, disappearance, of his elder brother, James Crayden, seems to have preyed upon his mind, for it was shortlyafter that event that his delusion began to manifest itself. 

Mr. Crayden never vouchsafed any explanation of his strange conduct. There was nothing the matter with him physically; and, mentally, thealienists found him normal in every way save for his one remarkableidiosyncrasy. His remaining in his chair was purely voluntary, an act ofhis own will. And now he is dead, and the mystery remains unsolved. 

--_Extract from the Newton Courier-Times. _

Briefly, I was Mr. Sedley Crayden's confidential servant and valet forthe last eight months of his life. During that time he wrote a greatdeal in a manuscript that he kept always beside him, except when hedrowsed or slept, at which times he invariably locked it in a deskdrawer close to his hand. 

I was curious to read what the old gentleman wrote, but he was toocautious and cunning. I never got a peep at the manuscript. If he wereengaged upon it when I attended on him, he covered the top sheet with alarge blotter. It was I who found him dead in his chair, and it was thenthat I took the liberty of abstracting the manuscript. I was verycurious to read it, and I have no excuses to offer. 

After retaining it in my secret possession for several years, and afterascertaining that Mr. Crayden left no surviving relatives, I havedecided to make the nature of the manuscript known. It is very long, andI have omitted nearly all of it, giving only the more lucid fragments. It bears all the earmarks of a disordered mind, and various experiencesare repeated over and over, while much is so vague and incoherent as todefy comprehension. Nevertheless, from reading it myself, I venture topredict that if an excavation is made in the main basement, somewhere inthe vicinity of the foundation of the great chimney, a collection ofbones will be found which should very closely resemble those which JamesCrayden once clothed in mortal flesh. 

--_Statement of Rudolph Heckler. _

Here follows the excerpts from the manuscript, made and arranged byRudolph Heckler:

I never killed my brother. Let this be my first word and my last. Whyshould I kill him? We lived together in unbroken harmony for twentyyears. We were old men, and the fires and tempers of youth had longsince burned out. We never disagreed even over the most trivial things. Never was there such amity as ours. We were scholars. We cared nothingfor the outside world. Our companionship and our books wereall-satisfying. Never were there such talks as we held. Many a night wehave sat up till two and three in the morning, conversing, weighingopinions and judgments, referring to authorities--in short, we lived athigh and friendly intellectual altitudes. 

 * * * * *

He disappeared. I suffered a great shock. Why should he havedisappeared? Where could he have gone? It was very strange. I wasstunned. They say I was very sick for weeks. It was brain fever. Thiswas caused by his inexplicable disappearance. It was at the beginning ofthe experience I hope here to relate, that he disappeared. 

How I have endeavoured to find him. I am not an excessively rich man, yet have I offered continually increasing rewards. I have advertised inall the papers, and sought the aid of all the detective bureaus. At thepresent moment, the rewards I have out aggregate over fifty thousanddollars. 

 * * * * *

They say he was murdered. They also say murder will out. Then I say, whydoes not his murder come out? Who did it? Where is he? Where is Jim? MyJim?

 * * * * *

We were so happy together. He had a remarkable mind, a most remarkablemind, so firmly founded, so widely informed, so rigidly logical, that itwas not at all strange that we agreed in all things. Dissension wasunknown between us. Jim was the most truthful man I have ever met. Inthis, too, we were similar, as we were similar in our intellectualhonesty. We never sacrificed truth to make a point. We had no points tomake, we so thoroughly agreed. It is absurd to think that we coulddisagree on anything under the sun. 

 * * * * *

I wish he would come back. Why did he go? Who can ever explain it? I amlonely now, and depressed with grave forebodings--frightened by terrorsthat are of the mind and that put at naught all that my mind has everconceived. Form is mutable. This is the last word of positive science. The dead do not come back. This is incontrovertible. The dead are dead, and that is the end of it, and of them. And yet I have had experienceshere--here, in this very room, at this very desk, that--But wait. Let meput it down in black and white, in words simple and unmistakable. Let meask some questions. Who mislays my pen? That is what I desire to know. Who uses up my ink so rapidly? Not I. And yet the ink goes. 

The answer to these questions would settle all the enigmas of theuniverse. I know the answer. I am not a fool. And some day, if I amplagued too desperately, I shall give the answer myself. I shall givethe name of him who mislays my pen and uses up my ink. It is so silly tothink that I could use such a quantity of ink. The servant lies. I know. 

 * * * * *

I have got me a fountain pen. I have always disliked the device, but myold stub had to go. I burned it in the fireplace. The ink I keep underlock and key. I shall see if I cannot put a stop to these lies that arebeing written about me. And I have other plans. It is not true that Ihave recanted. I still believe that I live in a mechanical universe. Ithas not been proved otherwise to me, for all that I have peered over hisshoulder and read his malicious statement to the contrary. He gives mecredit for no less than average stupidity. He thinks I think he is real. How silly. I know he is a brain-figment, nothing more. 

There are such things as hallucinations. Even as I looked over hisshoulder and read, I knew that this was such a thing. If I were onlywell it would be interesting. All my life I have wanted to experiencesuch phenomena. And now it has come to me. I shall make the most of it. What is imagination? It can make something where there is nothing. Howcan anything be something where there is nothing? How can anything besomething and nothing at the same time? I leave it for themetaphysicians to ponder. I know better. No scholastics for me. This isa real world, and everything in it is real. What is not real, is not. Therefore he is not. Yet he tries to fool me into believing that heis . .. When all the time I know he has no existence outside of my ownbrain cells. 

 * * * * *

I saw him to-day, seated at the desk, writing. It gave me quite a shock, because I had thought he was quite dispelled. Nevertheless, on lookingsteadily, I found that he was not there--the old familiar trick of thebrain. I have dwelt too long on what has happened. I am becomingmorbid, and my old indigestion is hinting and muttering. I shall takeexercise. Each day I shall walk for two hours. 

 * * * * *

It is impossible. I cannot exercise. Each time I return from my walk, heis sitting in my chair at the desk. It grows more difficult to drive himaway. It is my chair. Upon this I insist. It _was_ his, but he is deadand it is no longer his. How one can be befooled by the phantoms of hisown imagining! There is nothing real in this apparition. I know it. I amfirmly grounded with my fifty years of study. The dead are dead. 

 * * * * *

And yet, explain one thing. To-day, before going for my walk, Icarefully put the fountain pen in my pocket before leaving the room. Iremember it distinctly. I looked at the clock at the time. It was twentyminutes past ten. Yet on my return there was the pen lying on the desk. Some one had been using it. There was very little ink left. I wish hewould not write so much. It is disconcerting. 

 * * * * *

There was one thing upon which Jim and I were not quite agreed. Hebelieved in the eternity of the forms of things. Therefore, entered inimmediately the consequent belief in immortality, and all the othernotions of the metaphysical philosophers. I had little patience with himin this. Painstakingly I have traced to him the evolution of his beliefin the eternity of forms, showing him how it has arisen out of his earlyinfatuation with logic and mathematics. Of course, from that warped, squinting, abstract view-point, it is very easy to believe in theeternity of forms. 

I laughed at the unseen world. Only the real was real, I contended, andwhat one did not perceive, was not, could not be. I believed in amechanical universe. Chemistry and physics explained everything. "Can nobeing be?" he demanded in reply. I said that his question was but themajor promise of a fallacious Christian Science syllogism. Oh, believeme, I know my logic, too. But he was very stubborn. I never had anypatience with philosophic idealists. 

 * * * * *

Once, I made to him my confession of faith. It was simple, brief, unanswerable. Even as I write it now I know that it is unanswerable. Here it is. I told him: "I assert, with Hobbes, that it is impossible toseparate thought from matter that thinks. I assert, with Bacon, that allhuman understanding arises from the world of sensations. I assert, withLocke, that all human ideas are due to the functions of the senses. Iassert, with Kant, the mechanical origin of the universe, and thatcreation is a natural and historical process. I assert, with Laplace, that there is no need of the hypothesis of a creator. And, finally, Iassert, because of all the foregoing, that form is ephemeral. Formpasses. Therefore we pass. "

I repeat, it was unanswerable. Yet did he answer with Paley's notoriousfallacy of the watch. Also, he talked about radium, and all but assertedthat the very existence of matter had been exploded by these later-daylaboratory researches. It was childish. I had not dreamed he could be soimmature. 

How could one argue with such a man? I then asserted the reasonablenessof all that is. To this he agreed, reserving, however, one exception. Helooked at me, as he said it, in a way I could not mistake. The inferencewas obvious. That he should be guilty of so cheap a quip in the midst ofa serious discussion, astounded me. 

 * * * * *

The eternity of forms. It is ridiculous. Yet is there a strange magic inthe words. If it be true, then has he not ceased to exist. Then does heexist. This is impossible. 

 * * * * *

I have ceased exercising. As long as I remain in the room, thehallucination does not bother me. But when I return to the room after anabsence, he is always there, sitting at the desk, writing. Yet I darenot confide in a physician. I must fight this out by myself. 

 * * * * *

He grows more importunate. To-day, consulting a book on the shelf, Iturned and found him again in the chair. This is the first time he hasdared do this in my presence. Nevertheless, by looking at him steadilyand sternly for several minutes, I compelled him to vanish. This provesmy contention. He does not exist. If he were an eternal form I could notmake him vanish by a mere effort of my will. 

 * * * * *

This is getting damnable. To-day I gazed at him for an entire hourbefore I could make him leave. Yet it is so simple. What I see is amemory picture. For twenty years I was accustomed to seeing him there atthe desk. The present phenomenon is merely a recrudescence of thatmemory picture--a picture which was impressed countless times on myconsciousness. 

 * * * * *

I gave up to-day. He exhausted me, and still he would not go. I sat andwatched him hour after hour. He takes no notice of me, but continuallywrites. I know what he writes, for I read it over his shoulder. It isnot true. He is taking an unfair advantage. 

 * * * * *

Query: He is a product of my consciousness; is it possible, then, thatentities may be created by consciousness?

 * * * * *

We did not quarrel. To this day I do not know how it happened. Let metell you. Then you will see. We sat up late that never-to-be-forgottenlast night of his existence. It was the old, old discussion--theeternity of forms. How many hours and how many nights we had consumedover it!

On this night he had been particularly irritating, and all my nerveswere screaming. He had been maintaining that the human soul was itself aform, an eternal form, and that the light within his brain would go onforever and always. I took up the poker. 

"Suppose, " I said, "I should strike you dead with this?"

"I would go on, " he answered. 

"As a conscious entity?" I demanded. 

"Yes, as a conscious entity, " was his reply. "I should go on, fromplane to plane of higher existence, remembering my earth-life, you, thisvery argument--ay, and continuing the argument with you. "

It was only argument[1]. I swear it was only argument. I never lifted ahand. How could I? He was my brother, my elder brother, Jim. 

I cannot remember. I was very exasperated. He had always been soobstinate in this metaphysical belief of his. The next I knew, he waslying on the hearth. Blood was running. It was terrible. He did notspeak. He did not move. He must have fallen in a fit and struck hishead. I noticed there was blood on the poker. In falling he must havestruck upon it with his head. And yet I fail to see how this can be, forI held it in my hand all the time. I was still holding it in my hand asI looked at it. 

[Footnote 1: (Forcible--ha! ha!--comment of Rudolph Heckler on margin. )]

 * * * * *

It is an hallucination. That is a conclusion of common sense. I havewatched the growth of it. At first it was only in the dimmest lightthat I could see him sitting in the chair. But as the time passed, andthe hallucination, by repetition, strengthened, he was able to appear inthe chair under the strongest lights. That is the explanation. It isquite satisfactory. 

 * * * * *

I shall never forget the first time I saw it. I had dined alonedownstairs. I never drink wine, so that what happened was eminentlynormal. It was in the summer twilight that I returned to the study. Iglanced at the desk. There he was, sitting. So natural was it, thatbefore I knew I cried out "Jim!" Then I remembered all that hadhappened. Of course it was an hallucination. I knew that. I took thepoker and went over to it. He did not move nor vanish. The poker cleavedthrough the non-existent substance of the thing and struck the back ofthe chair. Fabric of fancy, that is all it was. The mark is there on thechair now where the poker struck. I pause from my writing and turn andlook at it--press the tips of my fingers into the indentation. 

 * * * * *

He _did_ continue the argument. I stole up to-day and looked over hisshoulder. He was writing the history of our discussion. It was the sameold nonsense about the eternity of forms. But as I continued to read, hewrote down the practical test I had made with the poker. Now this isunfair and untrue. I made no test. In falling he struck his head on thepoker. 

 * * * * *

Some day, somebody will find and read what he writes. This will beterrible. I am suspicious of the servant, who is always peeping andpeering, trying to see what I write. I must do something. Every servantI have had is curious about what I write. 

 * * * * *

Fabric of fancy. That is all it is. There is no Jim who sits in thechair. I know that. Last night, when the house was asleep, I went downinto the cellar and looked carefully at the soil around the chimney. Itwas untampered with. The dead do not rise up. 

 * * * * *

Yesterday morning, when I entered the study, there he was in the chair. When I had dispelled him, I sat in the chair myself all day. I had mymeals brought to me. And thus I escaped the sight of him for many hours, for he appears only in the chair. I was weary, but I sat late, untileleven o'clock. Yet, when I stood up to go to bed, I looked around, andthere he was. He had slipped into the chair on the instant. Being onlyfabric of fancy, all day he had resided in my brain. The moment it wasunoccupied, he took up his residence in the chair. Are these his boastedhigher planes of existence--his brother's brain and a chair? After all, was he not right? Has his eternal form become so attenuated as to be anhallucination? Are hallucinations real entities? Why not? There is foodfor thought here. Some day I shall come to a conclusion upon it. 

 * * * * *

He was very much disturbed to-day. He could not write, for I had madethe servant carry the pen out of the room in his pocket But neithercould I write. 

 * * * * *

The servant never sees him. This is strange. Have I developed a keenersight for the unseen? Or rather does it not prove the phantom to be whatit is--a product of my own morbid consciousness?

 * * * * *

He has stolen my pen again. Hallucinations cannot steal pens. This isunanswerable. And yet I cannot keep the pen always out of the room. Iwant to write myself. 

 * * * * *

I have had three different servants since my trouble came upon me, andnot one has seen him. Is the verdict of their senses right? And is thatof mine wrong? Nevertheless, the ink goes too rapidly. I fill my penmore often than is necessary. And furthermore, only to-day I found mypen out of order. I did not break it. 

 * * * * *

I have spoken to him many times, but he never answers. I sat and watchedhim all morning. Frequently he looked at me, and it was patent that heknew me. 

 * * * * *

By striking the side of my head violently with the heel of my hand, Ican shake the vision of him out of my eyes. Then I can get into thechair; but I have learned that I must move very quickly in order toaccomplish this. Often he fools me and is back again before I can sitdown. 

 * * * * *

It is getting unbearable. He is a jack-in-the-box the way he pops intothe chair. He does not assume form slowly. He pops. That is the only wayto describe it. I cannot stand looking at him much more. That way liesmadness, for it compels me almost to believe in the reality of what Iknow is not. Besides, hallucinations do not pop. 

 * * * * *

Thank God he only manifests himself in the chair. As long as I occupythe chair I am quit of him. 

 * * * * *

My device for dislodging him from the chair by striking my head, isfailing. I have to hit much more violently, and I do not succeed perhapsmore than once in a dozen trials. My head is quite sore where I have sorepeatedly struck it. I must use the other hand. 

 * * * * *

My brother was right. There is an unseen world. Do I not see it? Am Inot cursed with the seeing of it all the time? Call it a thought, anidea, anything you will, still it is there. It is unescapable. Thoughtsare entities. We create with every act of thinking. I have created thisphantom that sits in my chair and uses my ink. Because I have createdhim is no reason that he is any the less real. He is an idea; he is anentity: ergo, ideas are entities, and an entity is a reality. 

 * * * * *

Query: If a man, with the whole historical process behind him, cancreate an entity, a real thing, then is not the hypothesis of a Creatormade substantial? If the stuff of life can create, then it is fair toassume that there can be a He who created the stuff of life. It ismerely a difference of degree. I have not yet made a mountain nor asolar system, but I have made a something that sits in my chair. Thisbeing so, may I not some day be able to make a mountain or a solarsystem?

 * * * * *

All his days, down to to-day, man has lived in a maze. He has never seenthe light. I am convinced that I am beginning to see the light--not asmy brother saw it, by stumbling upon it accidentally, but deliberatelyand rationally. My brother is dead. He has ceased. There is no doubtabout it, for I have made another journey down into the cellar to see. The ground was untouched. I broke it myself to make sure, and I saw whatmade me sure. My brother has ceased, yet have I recreated him. This isnot my old brother, yet it is something as nearly resembling him as Icould fashion it. I am unlike other men. I am a god. I have created. 

 * * * * *

Whenever I leave the room to go to bed, I look back, and there is mybrother sitting in the chair. And then I cannot sleep because ofthinking of him sitting through all the long night-hours. And in themorning, when I open the study door, there he is, and I know he has satthere the night long. 

 * * * * *

I am becoming desperate from lack of sleep. I wish I could confide in aphysician. 

 * * * * *

Blessed sleep! I have won to it at last. Let me tell you. Last night Iwas so worn that I found myself dozing in my chair. I rang for theservant and ordered him to bring blankets. I slept. All night was hebanished from my thoughts as he was banished from my chair. I shallremain in it all day. It is a wonderful relief. 

 * * * * *

It is uncomfortable to sleep in a chair. But it is more uncomfortable tolie in bed, hour after hour, and not sleep, and to know that he issitting there in the cold darkness. 

 * * * * *

It is no use. I shall never be able to sleep in a bed again. I havetried it now, numerous times, and every such night is a horror. If Icould but only persuade him to go to bed! But no. He sits there, andsits there--I know he does--while I stare and stare up into theblackness and think and think, continually think, of him sitting there. I wish I had never heard of the eternity of forms. 

 * * * * *

The servants think I am crazy. That is but to be expected, and it is whyI have never called in a physician. 

 * * * * *

I am resolved. Henceforth this hallucination ceases. From now on I shallremain in the chair. I shall never leave it. I shall remain in it nightand day and always. 

 * * * * *

I have succeeded. For two weeks I have not seen him. Nor shall I eversee him again. I have at last attained the equanimity of mind necessaryfor philosophic thought. I wrote a complete chapter to-day. 

 * * * * *

It is very wearisome, sitting in a chair. The weeks pass, the monthscome and go, the seasons change, the servants replace each other, whileI remain. I only remain. It is a strange life I lead, but at least I amat peace. 

 * * * * *

He comes no more. There is no eternity of forms. I have proved it. Fornearly two years now, I have remained in this chair, and I have not seenhim once. True, I was severely tried for a time. But it is clear thatwhat I thought I saw was merely hallucination. He never was. Yet I donot leave the chair. I am afraid to leave the chair. 

TOLD IN THE DROOLING WARD

Me? I'm not a drooler. I'm the assistant, I don't know what Miss Jonesor Miss Kelsey could do without me. There are fifty-five low-gradedroolers in this ward, and how could they ever all be fed if I wasn'taround? I like to feed droolers. They don't make trouble. They can't. Something's wrong with most of their legs and arms, and they can't talk. They're very low-grade. I can walk, and talk, and do things. You must becareful with the droolers and not feed them too fast. Then they choke. Miss Jones says I'm an expert. When a new nurse comes I show her how todo it. It's funny watching a new nurse try to feed them. She goes at itso slow and careful that supper time would be around before she finishedshoving down their breakfast. Then I show her, because I'm an expert. Dr. Dalrymple says I am, and he ought to know. A drooler can eat twiceas fast if you know how to make him. 

My name's Tom. I'm twenty-eight years old. Everybody knows me in theinstitution. This is an institution, you know. It belongs to the Stateof California and is run by politics. I know. I've been here a longtime. Everybody trusts me. I run errands all over the place, when I'mnot busy with the droolers. I like droolers. It makes me think how luckyI am that I ain't a drooler. 

I like it here in the Home. I don't like the outside. I know. I've beenaround a bit, and run away, and adopted. Me for the Home, and for thedrooling ward best of all. I don't look like a drooler, do I? You cantell the difference soon as you look at me. I'm an assistant, expertassistant. That's going some for a feeb. Feeb? Oh, that's feeble-minded. I thought you knew. We're all feebs in here. 

But I'm a high-grade feeb. Dr. Dalrymple says I'm too smart to be in theHome, but I never let on. It's a pretty good place. And I don't throwfits like lots of the feebs. You see that house up there through thetrees. The high-grade epilecs all live in it by themselves. They'restuck up because they ain't just ordinary feebs. They call it the clubhouse, and they say they're just as good as anybody outside, onlythey're sick. I don't like them much. They laugh at me, when they ain'tbusy throwing fits. But I don't care. I never have to be scared aboutfalling down and busting my head. Sometimes they run around in circlestrying to find a place to sit down quick, only they don't. Low-gradeepilecs are disgusting, and high-grade epilecs put on airs. I'm glad Iain't an epilec. There ain't anything to them. They just talk big, that's all. 

Miss Kelsey says I talk too much. But I talk sense, and that's more thanthe other feebs do. Dr. Dalrymple says I have the gift of language. Iknow it. You ought to hear me talk when I'm by myself, or when I've gota drooler to listen. Sometimes I think I'd like to be a politician, onlyit's too much trouble. They're all great talkers; that's how they holdtheir jobs. 

Nobody's crazy in this institution. They're just feeble in their minds. Let me tell you something funny. There's about a dozen high-grade girlsthat set the tables in the big dining room. Sometimes when they're doneahead of time, they all sit down in chairs in a circle and talk. I sneakup to the door and listen, and I nearly die to keep from laughing. Doyou want to know what they talk? It's like this. They don't say a wordfor a long time. And then one says, "Thank God I'm not feeble-minded. "And all the rest nod their heads and look pleased. And then nobody saysanything for a time. After which the next girl in the circle says, "Thank God I'm not feeble-minded, " and they nod their heads all overagain. And it goes on around the circle, and they never say anythingelse. Now they're real feebs, ain't they? I leave it to you. I'm notthat kind of a feeb, thank God. 

Sometimes I don't think I'm a feeb at all. I play in the band and readmusic. We're all supposed to be feebs in the band except the leader. He's crazy. We know it, but we never talk about it except amongstourselves. His job is politics, too, and we don't want him to lose it. Iplay the drum. They can't get along without me in this institution. Iwas sick once, so I know. It's a wonder the drooling ward didn't breakdown while I was in hospital. 

I could get out of here if I wanted to. I'm not so feeble as some mightthink. But I don't let on. I have too good a time. Besides, everythingwould run down if I went away. I'm afraid some time they'll find out I'mnot a feeb and send me out into the world to earn my own living. I knowthe world, and I don't like it. The Home is fine enough for me. 

You see how I grin sometimes. I can't help that. But I can put it on alot. I'm not bad, though. I look at myself in the glass. My mouth isfunny, I know that, and it lops down, and my teeth are bad. You can tella feeb anywhere by looking at his mouth and teeth. But that doesn'tprove I'm a feeb. It's just because I'm lucky that I look like one. 

I know a lot. If I told you all I know, you'd be surprised. But when Idon't want to know, or when they want me to do something I don't wantto do, I just let my mouth lop down and laugh and make foolish noises. Iwatch the foolish noises made by the low-grades, and I can fool anybody. And I know a lot of foolish noises. Miss Kelsey called me a fool theother day. She was very angry, and that was where I fooled her. 

Miss Kelsey asked me once why I don't write a book about feebs. I wastelling her what was the matter with little Albert. He's a drooler, youknow, and I can always tell the way he twists his left eye what's thematter with him. So I was explaining it to Miss Kelsey, and, because shedidn't know, it made her mad. But some day, mebbe, I'll write that book. Only it's so much trouble. Besides, I'd sooner talk. 

Do you know what a micro is? It's the kind with the little heads nobigger than your fist. They're usually droolers, and they live a longtime. The hydros don't drool. They have the big heads, and they'resmarter. But they never grow up. They always die. I never look at onewithout thinking he's going to die. Sometimes, when I'm feeling lazy, orthe nurse is mad at me, I wish I was a drooler with nothing to do andsomebody to feed me. But I guess I'd sooner talk and be what I am. 

Only yesterday Doctor Dalrymple said to me, "Tom, " he said, "I justdon't know what I'd do without you. " And he ought to know, seeing ashe's had the bossing of a thousand feebs for going on two years. Dr. Whatcomb was before him. They get appointed, you know. It's politics. I've seen a whole lot of doctors here in my time. I was here before anyof them. I've been in this institution twenty-five years. No, I've gotno complaints. The institution couldn't be run better. 

It's a snap to be a high-grade feeb. Just look at Doctor Dalrymple. Hehas troubles. He holds his job by politics. You bet we high-graders talkpolitics. We know all about it, and it's bad. An institution like thisoughtn't to be run on politics. Look at Doctor Dalrymple. He's been heretwo years and learned a lot. Then politics will come along and throwhim out and send a new doctor who don't know anything about feebs. 

I've been acquainted with just thousands of nurses in my time. Some ofthem are nice. But they come and go. Most of the women get married. Sometimes I think I'd like to get married. I spoke to Dr. Whatcomb aboutit once, but he told me he was very sorry, because feebs ain't allowedto get married. I've been in love. She was a nurse. I won't tell you hername. She had blue eyes, and yellow hair, and a kind voice, and sheliked me. She told me so. And she always told me to be a good boy. And Iwas, too, until afterward, and then I ran away. You see, she went offand got married, and she didn't tell me about it. 

I guess being married ain't what it's cracked up to be. Dr. Anglin andhis wife used to fight. I've seen them. And once I heard her call him afeeb. Now nobody has a right to call anybody a feeb that ain't. Dr. Anglin got awful mad when she called him that. But he didn't last long. Politics drove him out, and Doctor Mandeville came. He didn't have awife. I heard him talking one time with the engineer. The engineer andhis wife fought like cats and dogs, and that day Doctor Mandeville toldhim he was damn glad he wasn't tied to no petticoats. A petticoat is askirt. I knew what he meant, if I was a feeb. But I never let on. Youhear lots when you don't let on. 

I've seen a lot in my time. Once I was adopted, and went away on therailroad over forty miles to live with a man named Peter Bopp and hiswife. They had a ranch. Doctor Anglin said I was strong and bright, andI said I was, too. That was because I wanted to be adopted. And PeterBopp said he'd give me a good home, and the lawyers fixed up the papers. 

But I soon made up my mind that a ranch was no place for me. Mrs. Boppwas scared to death of me and wouldn't let me sleep in the house. Theyfixed up the woodshed and made me sleep there. I had to get up at fouro'clock and feed the horses, and milk cows, and carry the milk to theneighbours. They called it chores, but it kept me going all day. Ichopped wood, and cleaned chicken houses, and weeded vegetables, anddid most everything on the place. I never had any fun. I hadn't no time. 

Let me tell you one thing. I'd sooner feed mush and milk to feebs thanmilk cows with the frost on the ground. Mrs. Bopp was scared to let meplay with her children. And I was scared, too. They used to make facesat me when nobody was looking, and call me "Looney. " Everybody called meLooney Tom. And the other boys in the neighbourhood threw rocks at me. You never see anything like that in the Home here. The feebs are betterbehaved. 

Mrs. Bopp used to pinch me and pull my hair when she thought I was tooslow, and I only made foolish noises and went slower. She said I'd bethe death of her some day. I left the boards off the old well in thepasture, and the pretty new calf fell in and got drowned. Then PeterBopp said he was going to give me a licking. He did, too. He took astrap halter and went at me. It was awful. I'd never had a licking in mylife. They don't do such things in the Home, which is why I say theHome is the place for me. 

I know the law, and I knew he had no right to lick me with a straphalter. That was being cruel, and the guardianship papers said hemustn't be cruel. I didn't say anything. I just waited, which shows youwhat kind of a feeb I am. I waited a long time, and got slower, and mademore foolish noises; but he wouldn't, send me back to the Home, whichwas what I wanted. But one day, it was the first of the month, Mrs. Brown gave me three dollars, which was for her milk bill with PeterBopp. That was in the morning. When I brought the milk in the evening Iwas to bring back the receipt. But I didn't. I just walked down to thestation, bought a ticket like any one, and rode on the train back to theHome. That's the kind of a feeb I am. 

Doctor Anglin was gone then, and Doctor Mandeville had his place. Iwalked right into his office. He didn't know me. "Hello, " he said, "thisain't visiting day. " "I ain't a visitor, " I said. "I'm Tom. I belonghere. " Then he whistled and showed he was surprised. I told him allabout it, and showed him the marks of the strap halter, and he gotmadder and madder all the time and said he'd attend to Mr. Peter Bopp'scase. 

And mebbe you think some of them little droolers weren't glad to see me. 

I walked right into the ward. There was a new nurse feeding littleAlbert. "Hold on, " I said. "That ain't the way. Don't you see how he'stwisting that left eye? Let me show you. " Mebbe she thought I was a newdoctor, for she just gave me the spoon, and I guess I filled littleAlbert up with the most comfortable meal he'd had since I went away. Droolers ain't bad when you understand them. I heard Miss Jones tellMiss Kelsey once that I had an amazing gift in handling droolers. 

Some day, mebbe, I'm going to talk with Doctor Dalrymple and get him togive me a declaration that I ain't a feeb. Then I'll get him to make mea real assistant in the drooling ward, with forty dollars a month and myboard. And then I'll marry Miss Jones and live right on here. And ifshe won't have me, I'll marry Miss Kelsey or some other nurse. There'slots of them that want to get married. And I won't care if my wife getsmad and calls me a feeb. What's the good? And I guess when one's learnedto put up with droolers a wife won't be much worse. 

I didn't tell you about when I ran away. I hadn't no idea of such athing, and it was Charley and Joe who put me up to it. They'rehigh-grade epilecs, you know. I'd been up to Doctor Wilson's office witha message, and was going back to the drooling ward, when I saw Charleyand Joe hiding around the corner of the gymnasium and making motions tome. I went over to them. 

"Hello, " Joe said. "How's droolers?"

"Fine, " I said. "Had any fits lately?"

That made them mad, and I was going on, when Joe said, "We're runningaway. Come on. "

"What for?" I said. 

"We're going up over the top of the mountain, " Joe said. 

"And find a gold mine, " said Charley. "We don't have fits any more. We're cured. "

"All right, " I said. And we sneaked around back of the gymnasium and inamong the trees. Mebbe we walked along about ten minutes, when Istopped. 

"What's the matter?" said Joe. 

"Wait, " I said. "I got to go back. "

"What for?" said Joe. 

And I said, "To get little Albert. "

And they said I couldn't, and got mad. But I didn't care. I knew they'dwait. You see, I've been here twenty-five years, and I know the backtrails that lead up the mountain, and Charley and Joe didn't know thosetrails. That's why they wanted me to come. 

So I went back and got little Albert. He can't walk, or talk, or doanything except drool, and I had to carry him in my arms. We went onpast the last hayfield, which was as far as I'd ever gone. Then thewoods and brush got so thick, and me not finding any more trail, wefollowed the cow-path down to a big creek and crawled through the fencewhich showed where the Home land stopped. 

We climbed up the big hill on the other side of the creek. It was allbig trees, and no brush, but it was so steep and slippery with deadleaves we could hardly walk. By and by we came to a real bad place. Itwas forty feet across, and if you slipped you'd fall a thousand feet, ormebbe a hundred. Anyway, you wouldn't fall--just slide. I went acrossfirst, carrying little Albert. Joe came next. But Charley got scaredright in the middle and sat down. 

"I'm going to have a fit, " he said. 

"No, you're not, " said Joe. "Because if you was you wouldn't 'a' satdown. You take all your fits standing. "

"This is a different kind of a fit, " said Charley, beginning to cry. 

He shook and shook, but just because he wanted to he couldn't scare upthe least kind of a fit. 

Joe got mad and used awful language. But that didn't help none. So Italked soft and kind to Charley. That's the way to handle feebs. If youget mad, they get worse. I know. I'm that way myself. That's why I wasalmost the death of Mrs. Bopp. She got mad. 

It was getting along in the afternoon, and I knew we had to be on ourway, so I said to Joe:

"Here, stop your cussing and hold Albert. I'll go back and get him. "

And I did, too; but he was so scared and dizzy he crawled along on handsand knees while I helped him. When I got him across and took Albert backin my arms, I heard somebody laugh and looked down. And there was a manand woman on horseback looking up at us. He had a gun on his saddle, andit was her who was laughing. 

"Who in hell's that?" said Joe, getting scared. "Somebody to catch us?"

"Shut up your cussing, " I said to him. "That is the man who owns thisranch and writes books. "

"How do you do, Mr. Endicott, " I said down to him. 

"Hello, " he said. "What are you doing here?"

"We're running away, " I said. 

And he said, "Good luck. But be sure and get back before dark. "

"But this is a real running away, " I said. 

And then both he and his wife laughed. 

"All right, " he said. "Good luck just the same. But watch out the bearsand mountain lions don't get you when it gets dark. "

Then they rode away laughing, pleasant like; but I wished he hadn't saidthat about the bears and mountain lions. 

After we got around the hill, I found a trail, and we went much faster. Charley didn't have any more signs of fits, and began laughing andtalking about gold mines. The trouble was with little Albert. He wasalmost as big as me. You see, all the time I'd been calling him littleAlbert, he'd been growing up. He was so heavy I couldn't keep up withJoe and Charley. I was all out of breath. So I told them they'd have totake turns in carrying him, which they said they wouldn't. Then I saidI'd leave them and they'd get lost, and the mountain lions and bearswould eat them. Charley looked like he was going to have a fit rightthere, and Joe said, "Give him to me. " And after that we carried him inturn. 

We kept right on up that mountain. I don't think there was any goldmine, but we might 'a' got to the top and found it, if we hadn't lostthe trail, and if it hadn't got dark, and if little Albert hadn't tiredus all out carrying him. Lots of feebs are scared of the dark, and Joesaid he was going to have a fit right there. Only he didn't. I never sawsuch an unlucky boy. He never could throw a fit when he wanted to. Someof the feebs can throw fits as quick as a wink. 

By and by it got real black, and we were hungry, and we didn't have nofire. You see, they don't let feebs carry matches, and all we could dowas just shiver. And we'd never thought about being hungry. You see, feebs always have their food ready for them, and that's why it's betterto be a feeb than earning your living in the world. 

And worse than everything was the quiet. There was only one thing worse, and it was the noises. There was all kinds of noises every once in awhile, with quiet spells in between. I reckon they were rabbits, butthey made noises in the brush like wild animals--you know, rustlerustle, thump, bump, crackle crackle, just like that. First Charley gota fit, a real one, and Joe threw a terrible one. I don't mind fits inthe Home with everybody around. But out in the woods on a dark night isdifferent. You listen to me, and never go hunting gold mines withepilecs, even if they are high-grade. 

I never had such an awful night. When Joe and Charley weren't throwingfits they were making believe, and in the darkness the shivers from thecold which I couldn't see seemed like fits, too. And I shivered so hardI thought I was getting fits myself. And little Albert, with nothing toeat, just drooled and drooled. I never seen him as bad as that before. Why, he twisted that left eye of his until it ought to have dropped out. I couldn't see it, but I could tell from the movements he made. And Joejust lay and cussed and cussed, and Charley cried and wished he wasback in the Home. 

We didn't die, and next morning we went right back the way we'd come. And little Albert got awful heavy. Doctor Wilson was mad as could be, and said I was the worst feeb in the institution, along with Joe andCharley. But Miss Striker, who was a nurse in the drooling ward then, just put her arms around me and cried, she was that happy I'd got back. I thought right there that mebbe I'd marry her. But only a monthafterward she got married to the plumber that came up from the city tofix the gutter-pipes of the new hospital. And little Albert nevertwisted his eye for two days, it was that tired. 

Next time I run away I'm going right over that mountain. But I ain'tgoing to take epilecs along. They ain't never cured, and when they getscared or excited they throw fits to beat the band. But I'll take littleAlbert. Somehow I can't get along without him. And anyway, I ain't goingto run away. The drooling ward's a better snap than gold mines, and Ihear there's a new nurse coming. Besides, little Albert's bigger than Iam now, and I could never carry him over a mountain. And he's growingbigger every day. It's astonishing. 

THE HOBO AND THE FAIRY

He lay on his back. So heavy was his sleep that the stamp of hoofs andcries of the drivers from the bridge that crossed the creek did notrouse him. Wagon after wagon, loaded high with grapes, passed the bridgeon the way up the valley to the winery, and the coming of each wagon waslike an explosion of sound and commotion in the lazy quiet of theafternoon. 

But the man was undisturbed. His head had slipped from the foldednewspaper, and the straggling unkempt hair was matted with the foxtailsand burrs of the dry grass on which it lay. He was not a pretty sight. His mouth was open, disclosing a gap in the upper row where severalteeth at some time had been knocked out. He breathed stertorously, attimes grunting and moaning with the pain of his sleep. Also, he was veryrestless, tossing his arms about, making jerky, half-convulsivemovements, and at times rolling his head from side to side in the burrs. This restlessness seemed occasioned partly by some internal discomfort, and partly by the sun that streamed down on his face and by the fliesthat buzzed and lighted and crawled upon the nose and cheeks andeyelids. There was no other place for them to crawl, for the rest of theface was covered with matted beard, slightly grizzled, but greatlydirt-stained and weather-discoloured. 

The cheek-bones were blotched with the blood congested by the debauchthat was evidently being slept off. This, too, accounted for thepersistence with which the flies clustered around the mouth, lured bythe alcohol-laden exhalations. He was a powerfully built man, thick-necked, broad-shouldered, with sinewy wrists and toil-distortedhands. Yet the distortion was not due to recent toil, nor were thecallouses other than ancient that showed under the dirt of the one palmupturned. From time to time this hand clenched tightly and spasmodicallyinto a fist, large, heavy-boned and wicked-looking. 

The man lay in the dry grass of a tiny glade that ran down to thetree-fringed bank of the stream. On either side of the glade was afence, of the old stake-and-rider type, though little of it was to beseen, so thickly was it overgrown by wild blackberry bushes, scrubbyoaks and young madrono trees. In the rear, a gate through a low palingfence led to a snug, squat bungalow, built in the California Spanishstyle and seeming to have been compounded directly from the landscape ofwhich it was so justly a part. Neat and trim and modestly sweet was thebungalow, redolent of comfort and repose, telling with quiet certitudeof some one that knew, and that had sought and found. 

Through the gate and into the glade came as dainty a little maiden asever stepped out of an illustration made especially to show how daintylittle maidens may be. Eight years she might have been, and, possibly, atrifle more, or less. Her little waist and little black-stockingedcalves showed how delicately fragile she was; but the fragility was ofmould only. There was no hint of anęmia in the clear, healthy complexionnor in the quick, tripping step. She was a little, delicious blond, with hair spun of gossamer gold and wide blue eyes that were butslightly veiled by the long lashes. Her expression was of sweetness andhappiness; it belonged by right to any face that sheltered in thebungalow. 

She carried a child's parasol, which she was careful not to tear againstthe scrubby branches and bramble bushes as she sought for wild poppiesalong the edge of the fence. They were late poppies, a third generation, which had been unable to resist the call of the warm October sun. 

Having gathered along one fence, she turned to cross to the oppositefence. Midway in the glade she came upon the tramp. Her startle wasmerely a startle. There was no fear in it. She stood and looked long andcuriously at the forbidding spectacle, and was about to turn back whenthe sleeper moved restlessly and rolled his hand among the burrs. Shenoted the sun on his face, and the buzzing flies; her face grewsolicitous, and for a moment she debated with herself. Then she tiptoedto his side, interposed the parasol between him and the sun, andbrushed away the flies. After a time, for greater ease, she sat downbeside him. 

An hour passed, during which she occasionally shifted the parasol fromone tired hand to the other. At first the sleeper had been restless, but, shielded from the flies and the sun, his breathing became gentlerand his movements ceased. Several times, however, he really frightenedher. The first was the worst, coming abruptly and without warning. "Christ! How deep! How deep!" the man murmured from some profound ofdream. The parasol was agitated; but the little girl controlled herselfand continued her self-appointed ministrations. 

Another time it was a gritting of teeth, as of some intolerable agony. So terribly did the teeth crunch and grind together that it seemed theymust crash into fragments. A little later he suddenly stiffened out. Thehands clenched and the face set with the savage resolution of the dream. The eyelids trembled from the shock of the fantasy, seemed about toopen, but did not. Instead, the lips muttered:

"No; by God, no. And once more no. I won't peach. " The lips paused, thenwent on. "You might as well tie me up, warden, and cut me to pieces. That's all you can get outa me--blood. That's all any of you-uns hasever got outa me in this hole. "

After this outburst the man slept gently on, while the little girl stillheld the parasol aloft and looked down with a great wonder at thefrowsy, unkempt creature, trying to reconcile it with the little part oflife that she knew. To her ears came the cries of men, the stamp ofhoofs on the bridge, and the creak and groan of wagons heavy-laden. Itwas a breathless California Indian summer day. Light fleeces of clouddrifted in the azure sky, but to the west heavy cloud banks threatenedwith rain. A bee droned lazily by. From farther thickets came the callsof quail, and from the fields the songs of meadow larks. And obliviousto it all slept Ross Shanklin--Ross Shanklin, the tramp and outcast, ex-convict 4379, the bitter and unbreakable one who had defied allkeepers and survived all brutalities. 

Texas-born, of the old pioneer stock that was always tough and stubborn, he had been unfortunate. At seventeen years of age he had beenapprehended for horse-stealing. Also, he had been convicted of stealingseven horses which he had not stolen, and he had been sentenced tofourteen years' imprisonment. This was severe under any circumstances, but with him it had been especially severe, because there had been noprior convictions against him. The sentiment of the people who believedhim guilty had been that two years was adequate punishment for theyouth, but the county attorney, paid according to the convictions hesecured, had made seven charges against him and earned seven fees. Whichgoes to show that the county attorney valued twelve years of RossShanklin's life at less than a few dollars. 

Young Ross Shanklin had toiled in hell; he had escaped, more than once;and he had been caught and sent back to toil in other and various hells. He had been triced up and lashed till he fainted, had been revived andlashed again. He had been in the dungeon ninety days at a time. He hadexperienced the torment of the straightjacket. He knew what the hummingbird was. He had been farmed out as a chattel by the state to thecontractors. He had been trailed through swamps by blood hounds. Twicehe had been shot. For six years on end he had cut a cord and a half ofwood each day in a convict lumber camp. Sick or well, he had cut thatcord and a half or paid for it under a whip-lash knotted and pickled. 

And Ross Shanklin had not sweetened under the treatment. He had sneered, and cursed, and defied. He had seen convicts, after the guards hadmanhandled them, crippled in body for life, or left to maunder in mindto the end of their days. He had seen convicts, even his own cell-mate, goaded to murder by their keepers, go to the gallows cursing God. He hadbeen in a break in which eleven of his kind were shot down. He had beenthrough a mutiny, where, in the prison yard, with gatling guns trainedupon them, three hundred convicts had been disciplined withpick-handles wielded by brawny guards. 

He had known every infamy of human cruelty, and through it all he hadnever been broken. He had resented and fought to the last, until, embittered and bestial, the day came when he was discharged. Fivedollars were given him in payment for the years of his labour and theflower of his manhood. And he had worked little in the years thatfollowed. Work he hated and despised. He tramped, begged and stole, liedor threatened as the case might warrant, and drank to besottednesswhenever he got the chance. 

The little girl was looking at him when he awoke. Like a wild animal, all of him was awake the instant he opened his eyes. The first he sawwas the parasol, strangely obtruded between him and the sky. He did notstart nor move, though his whole body seemed slightly to tense. His eyesfollowed down the parasol handle to the tight-clutched little fingers, and along the arm to the child's face. Straight and unblinking, helooked into her eyes, and she, returning the look, was chilled andfrightened by his glittering eyes, cold and harsh, withal bloodshot, andwith no hint in them of the warm humanness she had been accustomed tosee and feel in human eyes. They were the true prison eyes--the eyes ofa man who had learned to talk little, who had forgotten almost how totalk. 

"Hello, " he said finally, making no effort to change his position. "Whatgame are you up to?"

His voice was gruff and husky, and at first it had been harsh; but ithad softened queerly in a feeble attempt at forgotten kindliness. 

"How do you do?" she said. "I'm not playing. The sun was on your face, and mamma says one oughtn't to sleep in the sun. "

The sweet clearness of her child's voice was pleasant to him, and hewondered why he had never noticed it in children's voices before. He satup slowly and stared at her. He felt that he ought to say something, butspeech with him was a reluctant thing. 

"I hope you slept well, " she said gravely. 

"I sure did, " he answered, never taking his eyes from her, amazed at thefairness and delicacy of her. "How long was you holdin' that contraptionup over me?"

"O-oh, " she debated with herself, "a long, long time. I thought youwould never wake up. "

"And I thought you was a fairy when I first seen you. "

He felt elated at his contribution to the conversation. 

"No, not a fairy, " she smiled. 

He thrilled in a strange, numb way at the immaculate whiteness of hersmall even teeth. 

"I was just the good Samaritan, " she added. 

"I reckon I never heard of that party. "

He was cudgelling his brains to keep the conversation going. Neverhaving been at close quarters with a child since he was man-grown, hefound it difficult. 

"What a funny man not to know about the good Samaritan. Don't youremember? A certain man went down to Jericho--"

"I reckon I've been there, " he interrupted. 

"I knew you were a traveller!" she cried, clapping her hands. "Maybe yousaw the exact spot. "

"What spot?"

"Why, where he fell among thieves and was left half dead. And then thegood Samaritan went to him, and bound up his wounds, and poured in oiland wine--was that olive oil, do you think?"

He shook his head slowly. 

"I reckon you got me there. Olive oil is something the dagoes cookswith. I never heard of it for busted heads. "

She considered his statement for a moment. 

"Well, " she announced, "we use olive oil in our cooking, so we must bedagoes. I never knew what they were before. I thought it was slang. "

"And the Samaritan dumped oil on his head, " the tramp mutteredreminiscently. "Seems to me I recollect a sky pilot sayin' somethingabout that old gent. D'ye know, I've been looking for him off'n' on allmy life, and never scared up hide or hair of him. They ain't no moreSamaritans. "

"Wasn't I one?" she asked quickly. 

He looked at her steadily, with a great curiosity and wonder. Her ear, by a movement exposed to the sun, was transparent. It seemed he couldalmost see through it. He was amazed at the delicacy of her colouring, at the blue of her eyes, at the dazzle of the sun-touched golden hair. And he was astounded by her fragility. It came to him that she waseasily broken. His eye went quickly from his huge, gnarled paw to hertiny hand in which it seemed to him he could almost see the bloodcirculate. He knew the power in his muscles, and he knew the tricks andturns by which men use their bodies to ill-treat men. In fact, he knewlittle else, and his mind for the time ran in its customary channel. Itwas his way of measuring the beautiful strangeness of her. He calculateda grip, and not a strong one, that could grind her little fingers topulp. He thought of fist-blows he had given to men's heads, andreceived on his own head, and felt that the least of them could shatterhers like an eggshell. He scanned her little shoulders and slim waist, and knew in all certitude that with his two hands he could rend her topieces. 

"Wasn't I one?" she insisted again. 

He came back to himself with a shock--or away from himself, as the casehappened. He was loth that the conversation should cease. 

"What?" he answered. "Oh, yes; you bet you was a Samaritan, even if youdidn't have no olive oil. " He remembered what his mind had been dwellingon, and asked, "But ain't you afraid?"

She looked at him uncomprehendingly. 

"Of . .. Of me?" he added lamely. 

She laughed merrily. 

"Mamma says never to be afraid of anything. She says that if you'regood, and you think good of other people, they'll be good, too. "

"And you was thinkin' good of me when you kept the sun off, " hemarvelled. 

"But it's hard to think good of bees and nasty crawly things, " sheconfessed. 

"But there's men that is nasty and crawly things, " he argued. 

"Mamma says no. She says there's good in every one. "

"I bet you she locks the house up tight at night just the same, " heproclaimed triumphantly. 

"But she doesn't. Mamma isn't afraid of anything. That's why she lets meplay out here alone when I want. Why, we had a robber once. Mamma gotright up and found him. And what do you think! He was only a poor hungryman. And she got him plenty to eat from the pantry, and afterward shegot him work to do. "

Ross Shanklin was stunned. The vista shown him of human nature wasunthinkable. It had been his lot to live in a world of suspicion andhatred, of evil-believing and evil-doing. It had been his experience, slouching along village streets at nightfall, to see little children, screaming with fear, run from him to their mothers. He had even seengrown women shrink aside from him as he passed along the sidewalk. 

He was aroused by the girl clapping her hands as she cried out. 

"I know what you are! You're an open air crank. That's why you weresleeping here in the grass. "

He felt a grim desire to laugh, but repressed it. 

"And that's what tramps are--open air cranks, " she continued. "I oftenwondered. Mamma believes in the open air. I sleep on the porch at night. So does she. This is our land. You must have climbed the fence. Mammalets me when I put on my climbers--they're bloomers, you know. But youought to be told something. A person doesn't know when they snorebecause they're asleep. But you do worse than that. You grit your teeth. That's bad. Whenever you are going to sleep you must think to yourself, 'I won't grit my teeth, I won't grit my teeth, ' over and over, just likethat, and by and by you'll get out of the habit. 

"All bad things are habits. And so are all good things. And it dependson us what kind our habits are going to be. I used to pucker myeyebrows--wrinkle them all up, but mamma said I must overcome thathabit. She said that when my eyebrows were wrinkled it was anadvertisement that my brain was wrinkled inside, and that it wasn't goodto have wrinkles in the brain. And then she smoothed my eyebrows withher hand and said I must always think _smooth_--_smooth_ inside, and_smooth_ outside. And do you know, it was easy. I haven't wrinkled mybrows for ever so long. I've heard about filling teeth by thinking. ButI don't believe that. Neither does mamma. "

She paused, rather out of breath. Nor did he speak. Her flow of talk hadbeen too much for him. Also, sleeping drunkenly, with open mouth, hadmade him very thirsty. But, rather than lose one precious moment, heendured the torment of his scorching throat and mouth. He licked his drylips and struggled for speech. 

"What is your name?" he managed at last. 

"Joan. "

She looked her own question at him, and it was not necessary to voiceit. 

"Mine is Ross Shanklin, " he volunteered, for the first time in forgottenyears giving his real name. 

"I suppose you've travelled a lot. "

"I sure have, but not as much as I might have wanted to. "

"Papa always wanted to travel, but he was too busy at the office. Henever could get much time. He went to Europe once with mamma. That wasbefore I was born. It takes money to travel. "

Ross Shanklin did not know whether to agree with this statement or not. 

"But it doesn't cost tramps much for expenses, " she took the thoughtaway from him. "Is that why you tramp?"

He nodded and licked his lips. 

"Mamma says it's too bad that men must tramp to look for work. Butthere's lots of work now in the country. All the farmers in the valleyare trying to get men. Have you been working?"

He shook his head, angry with himself that he should feel shame at theconfession when his savage reasoning told him he was right in despisingwork. But this was followed by another thought. This beautiful littlecreature was some man's child. She was one of the rewards of work. 

"I wish I had a little girl like you, " he blurted out, stirred by asudden consciousness of passion for paternity. "I'd work my hands off. I . .. I'd do anything. "

She considered his case with fitting gravity. 

"Then you aren't married?"

"Nobody would have me. "

"Yes they would, if. .. . "

She did not turn up her nose, but she favoured his dirt and rags with alook of disapprobation he could not mistake. 

"Go on, " he half-shouted. "Shoot it into me. If I was washed--if I woregood clothes--if I was respectable--if I had a job and workedregular--if I wasn't what I am. "

To each statement she nodded. 

"Well, I ain't that kind, " he rushed on. 

"I'm no good. I'm a tramp. I don't want to work, that's what. And I likedirt. "

Her face was eloquent with reproach as she said, "Then you were onlymaking believe when you wished you had a little girl like me?"

This left him speechless, for he knew, in all the deeps of his new-foundpassion, that that was just what he did want. 

With ready tact, noting his discomfort, she sought to change thesubject. 

"What do you think of God?" she asked. 

"I ain't never met him. What do you think about him?"

His reply was evidently angry, and she was frank in her disapproval. 

"You are very strange, " she said. "You get angry so easily. I never sawanybody before that got angry about God, or work, or being clean. "

"He never done anything for me, " he muttered resentfully. He cast backin quick review of the long years of toil in the convict camps andmines. "And work never done anything for me neither. "

An embarrassing silence fell. 

He looked at her, numb and hungry with the stir of the father-love, sorry for his ill temper, puzzling his brain for something to say. Shewas looking off and away at the clouds, and he devoured her with hiseyes. He reached out stealthily and rested one grimy hand on the veryedge of her little dress. It seemed to him that she was the mostwonderful thing in the world. The quail still called from the coverts, and the harvest sounds seemed abruptly to become very loud. A greatloneliness oppressed him. 

"I'm . .. I'm no good, " he murmured huskily and repentantly. 

But, beyond a glance from her blue eyes, she took no notice. The silencewas more embarrassing than ever. He felt that he could give the worldjust to touch with his lips that hem of her dress where his hand rested. But he was afraid of frightening her. He fought to find something tosay, licking his parched lips and vainly attempting to articulatesomething, anything. 

"This ain't Sonoma Valley, " he declared finally. "This is fairy land, and you're a fairy. Mebbe I'm asleep and dreaming. I don't know. You andme don't know how to talk together, because, you see, you're a fairy anddon't know nothing but good things, and I'm a man from the bad, wickedworld. "

Having achieved this much, he was left gasping for ideas like a strandedfish. 

"And you're going to tell me about the bad, wicked world, " she cried, clapping her hands. "I'm just dying to know. "

He looked at her, startled, remembering the wreckage of womanhood he hadencountered on the sunken ways of life. She was no fairy. She was fleshand blood, and the possibilities of wreckage were in her as they hadbeen in him even when he lay at his mother's breast. And there was inher eagerness to know. 

"Nope, " he said lightly, "this man from the bad, wicked world ain'tgoing to tell you nothing of the kind. He's going to tell you of thegood things in that world. He's going to tell you how he loved hosseswhen he was a shaver, and about the first hoss he straddled, and thefirst hoss he owned. Hosses ain't like men. They're better. They'reclean--clean all the way through and back again. And, little fairy, Iwant to tell you one thing--there sure ain't nothing in the world likewhen you're settin' a tired hoss at the end of a long day, and when youjust speak, and that tired animal lifts under you willing and hustlesalong. Hosses! They're my long suit. I sure dote on hosses. Yep. I usedto be a cowboy once. "

She clapped her hands in the way that tore so delightfully to his heart, and her eyes were dancing, as she exclaimed:

"A Texas cowboy! I always wanted to see one! I heard papa say once thatcowboys are bow-legged. Are you?"

"I sure was a Texas cowboy, " he answered. "But it was a long time ago. And I'm sure bow-legged. You see, you can't ride much when you're youngand soft without getting the legs bent some. Why, I was only athree-year-old when I begun. He was a three-year-old, too, fresh-broken. I led him up alongside the fence, clumb to the top rail, and droppedon. He was a pinto, and a real devil at bucking, but I could doanything with him. I reckon he knowed I was only a little shaver. Somehosses knows lots more 'n' you think. "

For half an hour Ross Shanklin rambled on with his horse reminiscences, never unconscious for a moment of the supreme joy that was his throughthe touch of his hand on the hem of her dress. The sun dropped slowlyinto the cloud bank, the quail called more insistently, and empty wagonafter empty wagon rumbled back across the bridge. Then came a woman'svoice. 

"Joan! Joan!" it called. "Where are you, dear?"

The little girl answered, and Ross Shanklin saw a woman, clad in a soft, clinging gown, come through the gate from the bungalow. She was aslender, graceful woman, and to his charmed eyes she seemed rather tofloat along than walk like ordinary flesh and blood. 

"What have you been doing all afternoon?" the woman asked, as she cameup. 

"Talking, mamma, " the little girl replied "I've had a very interestingtime. "

Ross Shanklin scrambled to his feet and stood watchfully and awkwardly. The little girl took the mother's hand, and she, in turn, looked at himfrankly and pleasantly, with a recognition of his humanness that was anew thing to him. In his mind ran the thought: _the woman who ain'tafraid_. Not a hint was there of the timidity he was accustomed toseeing in women's eyes. And he was quite aware, and never more so, ofhis bleary-eyed, forbidding appearance. 

"How do you do?" she greeted him sweetly and naturally. 

"How do you do, ma'am, " he responded, unpleasantly conscious of thehuskiness and rawness of his voice. 

"And did you have an interesting time, too?" she smiled. 

"Yes, ma'am. I sure did. I was just telling your little girl abouthosses. "

"He was a cowboy, once, mamma, " she cried. 

The mother smiled her acknowledgment to him, and looked fondly down atthe little girl. The thought that came into Ross Shanklin's mind was theawfulness of the crime if any one should harm either of the wonderfulpair. This was followed by the wish that some terrible danger shouldthreaten, so that he could fight, as he well knew how, with all hisstrength and life, to defend them. 

"You'll have to come along, dear, " the mother said. "It's growing late. "She looked at Ross Shanklin hesitantly. "Would you care to havesomething to eat?"

"No, ma'am, thanking you kindly just the same. I . .. I ain't hungry. "

"Then say good-bye, Joan, " she counselled. 

"Good-bye. " The little girl held out her hand, and her eyes lightedroguishly. "Good-bye, Mr. Man from the bad, wicked world. "

To him, the touch of her hand as he pressed it in his was the capstoneof the whole adventure. 

"Good-bye, little fairy, " he mumbled. "I reckon I got to be pullin'along. "

But he did not pull along. He stood staring after his vision until itvanished through the gate. The day seemed suddenly empty. He lookedabout him irresolutely, then climbed the fence, crossed the bridge, andslouched along the road. He was in a dream. He did not note his feet northe way they led him. At times he stumbled in the dust-filled ruts. 

A mile farther on, he aroused at the crossroads. Before him stood thesaloon. He came to a stop and stared at it, licking his lips. He sankhis hand into his pants pocket and fumbled a solitary dime. "God!" hemuttered. "God!" Then, with dragging, reluctant feet, went on along theroad. 

He came to a big farm. He knew it must be big, because of the bigness ofthe house and the size and number of the barns and outbuildings. On theporch, in shirt sleeves, smoking a cigar, keen-eyed and middle-aged, wasthe farmer. 

"What's the chance for a job?" Ross Shanklin asked. 

The keen eyes scarcely glanced at him. 

"A dollar a day and grub, " was the answer. 

Ross Shanklin swallowed and braced himself. 

"I'll pick grapes all right, or anything. But what's the chance for asteady job? You've got a big ranch here. I know hosses. I was born onone. I can drive team, ride, plough, break, do anything that anybodyever done with hosses. "

The other looked him over with an appraising, incredulous eye. 

"You don't look it, " was the judgment. 

"I know I don't. Give me a chance. That's all. I'll prove it. "

The farmer considered, casting an anxious glance at the cloud bank intowhich the sun had sunk. 

"I'm short a teamster, and I'll give you the chance to make good. Go andget supper with the hands. "

Ross Shanklin's voice was very husky, and be spoke with an effort. 

"All right. I'll make good. Where can I get a drink of water and washup?"

THE PRODIGAL FATHER

I

Josiah Childs was ordinarily an ordinary-appearing, prosperous businessman. He wore a sixty-dollar, business-man's suit, his shoes werecomfortable and seemly and made from the current last, his tie, collarsand cuffs were just what all prosperous business men wore, and anup-to-date, business-man's derby was his wildest adventure in head-gear. Oakland, California, is no sleepy country town, and Josiah Childs, asthe leading grocer of a rushing Western metropolis of three hundredthousand, appropriately lived, acted, and dressed the part. 

But on this morning, before the rush of custom began, his appearance atthe store, while it did not cause a riot, was sufficiently startling toimpair for half an hour the staff's working efficiency. He noddedpleasantly to the two delivery drivers loading their wagons for thefirst trip of the morning, and cast upward the inevitable, complacentglance at the sign that ran across the front of the building--CHILDS'CASH STORE. The lettering, not too large, was of dignified black andgold, suggestive of noble spices, aristocratic condiments, andeverything of the best (which was no more than to be expected of a scaleof prices ten per cent. Higher than any other grocery in town). But whatJosiah Childs did not see as he turned his back on the drivers andentered, was the helpless and mutual fall of surprise those two worthiesperpetrated on each other's necks. They clung together for support. 

"Did you catch the kicks, Bill?" one moaned. 

"Did you pipe the head-piece?" Bill moaned back. 

"Now if he was goin' to a masquerade ball. .. . "

"Or attendin' a reunion of the Rough Riders. .. . "

"Or goin' huntin' bear. .. . "

"Or swearin' off his taxes. .. . "

"Instead of goin' all the way to the effete East--Monkton says he'sgoing clear to Boston. .. . "

The two drivers held each other apart at arm's length, and fell limplytogether again. 

For Josiah Childs' outfit was all their actions connotated. His hat wasa light fawn, stiff-rimmed John B. Stetson, circled by a band of Mexicanstamped leather. Over a blue flannel shirt, set off by a droopingWindsor tie, was a rough-and-ready coat of large-ribbed corduroy. Pantsof the same material were thrust into high-laced shoes of the sort wornby surveyors, explorers, and linemen. 

A clerk at a near counter almost petrified at sight of his employer'sbizarre rig. Monkton, recently elevated to the managership, gasped, swallowed, and maintained his imperturbable attentiveness. The ladybookkeeper, glancing down from her glass eyrie on the inside balcony, took one look and buried her giggles in the day book. Josiah Childs sawmost of all this, but he did not mind. He was starting on his vacation, and his head and heart were buzzing with plans and anticipations of themost adventurous vacation he had taken in ten years. Under his eyelidsburned visions of East Falls, Connecticut, and of all the home scenes hehad been born to and brought up in. Oakland, he was thoroughly aware, was more modern than East Falls, and the excitement caused by his garbwas only to be expected. Undisturbed by the sensation he knew he wascreating among his employés, he moved about, accompanied by his manager, making last suggestions, giving final instructions, and radiating fond, farewell glances at all the loved details of the business he had builtout of nothing. 

He had a right to be proud of Childs' Cash Store. Twelve years before hehad landed in Oakland with fourteen dollars and forty-three cents. Centsdid not circulate so far West, and after the fourteen dollars were gone, he continued to carry the three pennies in his pocket for a weary while. Later, when he had got a job clerking in a small grocery for elevendollars a week, and had begun sending a small monthly postal order toone, Agatha Childs, East Falls, Connecticut, he invested the threecoppers in postage stamps. Uncle Sam could not reject his own lawfulcoin of the realm. 

Having spent all his life in cramped New England, where sharpness andshrewdness had been whetted to razor-edge on the harsh stone of meagrecircumstance, he had found himself abruptly in the loose andfree-and-easy West, where men thought in thousand-dollar bills andnewsboys dropped dead at sight of copper cents. Josiah Childs bit likefresh acid into the new industrial and business conditions. He hadvision. He saw so many ways of making money all at once, that at firsthis brain was in a whirl. 

At the same time, being sane and conservative, he had resolutely avoidedspeculation. The solid and substantial called to him. Clerking at elevendollars a week, he took note of the lost opportunities, of the openingsfor safe enterprise, of the countless leaks in the business. If, despiteall this, the boss could make a good living, what couldn't he, JosiahChilds, do with his Connecticut training? It was like a bottle of wineto a thirsty hermit, this coming to the active, generous-spending Westafter thirty-five years in East Falls, the last fifteen of which hadbeen spent in humdrum clerking in the humdrum East Falls general store. Josiah Childs' head buzzed with the easy possibilities he saw. But hedid not lose his head. No detail was overlooked. He spent his sparehours in studying Oakland, its people, how they made their money, andwhy they spent it and where. He walked the central streets, watching thedrift of the buying crowds, even counting them and compiling thestatistics in various notebooks. He studied the general credit system ofthe trade, and the particular credit systems of the different districts. He could tell to a dot the average wage or salary earned by thehouseholders of any locality, and he made it a point of thoroughness toknow every locality from the waterfront slums to the aristocratic LakeMerritt and Piedmont sections, from West Oakland, where dwelt therailroad employés, to the semi-farmers of Fruitvale at the opposite endof the city. 

Broadway, on the main street and in the very heart of the shoppingdistrict, where no grocer had ever been insane enough to dream ofestablishing a business, was his ultimate selection. But that requiredmoney, while he had to start from the smallest of beginnings. His firststore was on lower Filbert, where lived the nail-workers. In half ayear, three other little corner groceries went out of business while hewas compelled to enlarge his premises. He understood the principle oflarge sales at small profits, of stable qualities of goods, and of asquare deal. He had glimpsed, also, the secret of advertising. Each weekhe set forth one article that sold at a loss to him. This was not anadvertised loss, but an absolute loss. His one clerk prophesiedimpending bankruptcy when butter, that cost Childs thirty cents, wassold for twenty-five cents, when twenty-two-cent coffee was passedacross the counter at eighteen cents. The neighbourhood housewives camefor these bargains and remained to buy other articles that sold at aprofit. Moreover, the whole neighbourhood came quickly to know JosiahChilds, and the busy crowd of buyers in his store was an attraction initself. 

But Josiah Childs made no mistake. He knew the ultimate foundation onwhich his prosperity rested. He studied the nail works until he came toknow as much about them as the managing directors. Before the firstwhisper had stirred abroad, he sold his store, and with a modest sum ofready cash went in search of a new location. Six months later the nailworks closed down, and closed down forever. 

His next store was established on Adeline Street, where lived acomfortable, salaried class. Here, his shelves carried a higher-gradeand a more diversified stock. By the same old method, he drew his crowd. He established a delicatessen counter. He dealt directly with thefarmers, so that his butter and eggs were not only always dependable butwere a shade better than those sold by the finest groceries in the city. One of his specialties was Boston baked beans, and so popular did itbecome that the Twin Cabin Bakery paid him better than handsomely forthe privilege of taking it over. He made time to study the farmers, thevery apples they grew, and certain farmers he taught how properly tomake cider. As a side-line, his New England apple cider proved hisgreatest success, and before long, after he had invaded San Francisco, Berkeley, and Alameda, he ran it as an independent business. 

But always his eyes were fixed on Broadway. Only one other intermediatemove did he make, which was to as near as he could get to the AshlandPark Tract, where every purchaser of land was legally pledged to put upno home that should cost less than four thousand dollars. After thatcame Broadway. A strange swirl had come in the tide of the crowd. Thedrift was to Washington Street, where real estate promptly soared whileon Broadway it was as if the bottom had fallen out. One big store afteranother, as the leases expired, moved to Washington. 

The crowd will come back, Josiah Childs said, but he said it to himself. He knew the crowd. Oakland was growing, and he knew why it was growing. Washington Street was too narrow to carry the increasing traffic. AlongBroadway, in the physical nature of things, the electric cars, ever ingreater numbers, would have to run. The realty dealers said that thecrowd would never come back, while the leading merchants followed thecrowd. And then it was, at a ridiculously low figure, that Josiah Childsgot a long lease on a modern, Class A building on Broadway, with abuying option at a fixed price. It was the beginning of the end forBroadway, said the realty dealers, when a grocery was established in itserstwhile sacred midst. Later, when the crowd did come back, they saidJosiah Childs was lucky. Also, they whispered among themselves that hehad cleared at least fifty thousand on the transaction. 

It was an entirely different store from his previous ones. There were nomore bargains. Everything was of the superlative best, and superlativebest prices were charged. He catered to the most expensive trade intown. Only those who could carelessly afford to pay ten per cent. Morethan anywhere else, patronised him, and so excellent was his servicethat they could not afford to go elsewhere. His horses and deliverywagons were more expensive and finer than any one else's in town. Hepaid his drivers, and clerks, and bookkeepers higher wages than anyother store could dream of paying. As a result, he got more efficientmen, and they rendered him and his patrons a more satisfying service. Inshort, to deal at Childs' Cash Store became almost the infallible indexof social status. 

To cap everything, came the great San Francisco earthquake and fire, which caused one hundred thousand people abruptly to come across the Bayand live in Oakland. Not least to profit from so extraordinary a boom, was Josiah Childs. And now, after twelve years' absence, he wasdeparting on a visit to East Falls, Connecticut. In the twelve years hehad not received a letter from Agatha, nor had he seen even a photographof his and Agatha's boy. 

Agatha and he had never got along together. Agatha was masterful. Agathahad a tongue. She was strong on old-fashioned morality. She wasunlovely in her rectitude. Josiah never could quite make out how he hadhappened to marry her. She was two years his senior, and had long rankedas an old maid She had taught school, and was known by the younggeneration as the sternest disciplinarian in its experience. She hadbecome set in her ways, and when she married it was merely an exchangeof a number of pupils for one. Josiah had to stand the hectoring andnagging that thitherto had been distributed among many. As to how themarriage came about, his Uncle Isaac nearly hit it off one day when hesaid in confidence: "Josiah, when Agatha married you it was a case ofmarrying a struggling young man. I reckon you was overpowered. Or maybeyou broke your leg and couldn't get away. "

"Uncle Isaac, " Josiah answered, "I didn't break my leg. I ran mydangdest, but she just plum run me down and out of breath. "

"Strong in the wind, eh?" Uncle Isaac chuckled. 

"We've ben married five years now, " Josiah agreed, "and I've never knownher to lose it. "

"And never will, " Uncle Isaac added. 

This conversation had taken place in the last days, and so dismal anoutlook proved too much for Josiah Childs. Meek he was, under Agatha'sfirm tuition, but he was very healthy, and his promise of life was toolong for his patience. He was only thirty-three, and he came of along-lived stock. Thirty-three more years with Agatha and Agatha'snagging was too hideous to contemplate. So, between a sunset and arising, Josiah Childs disappeared from East Falls. And from that day, for twelve years, he had received no letter from her. Not that it washer fault. He had carefully avoided letting her have his address. Hisfirst postal money orders were sent to her from Oakland, but in theyears that followed he had arranged his remittances so that they borethe scattered postmarks of most of the states west of the Rockies. 

But twelve years, and the confidence born of deserved success, hadsoftened his memories. After all, she was the mother of his boy, and itwas incontestable that she had always meant well. Besides, he was notworking so hard now, and he had more time to think of things besides hisbusiness. He wanted to see the boy, whom he had never seen and who hadturned three before his father ever learned he was a father. Then, too, homesickness had begun to crawl in him. In a dozen years he had not seensnow, and he was always wondering if New England fruits and berries hadnot a finer tang than those of California. Through hazy vistas he sawthe old New England life, and he wanted to see it again in the fleshbefore he died. 

And, finally, there was duty. Agatha was his wife. He would bring herback with him to the West. He felt that he could stand it. He was a man, now, in the world of men. He ran things, instead of being run, andAgatha would quickly find it out. Nevertheless, he wanted Agatha to cometo him for his own sake. So it was that he had put on his frontier rig. He would be the prodigal father, returning as penniless as when heleft, and it would be up to her whether or not she killed the fattedcalf. Empty of hand, and looking it, he would come back wondering if hecould get his old job in the general store. Whatever followed would beAgatha's affair. 

By the time he said good-bye to his staff and emerged on the sidewalk, five more of his delivery wagons were backed up and loading. 

He ran his eye proudly over them, took a last fond glance at theblack-and-gold letters, and signalled the electric car at the corner. 

II

He ran up to East Falls from New York. In the Pullman smoker he becameacquainted with several business men. The conversation, turning on theWest, was quickly led by him. As president of the Oakland Chamber ofCommerce, he was an authority. His words carried weight, and he knewwhat he was talking about, whether it was Asiatic trade, the PanamaCanal, or the Japanese coolie question. It was very exhilarating, thisstimulus of respectful attention accorded him by these prosperousEastern men, and before he knew it he was at East Falls. 

He was the only person who alighted, and the station was deserted. Nobody was there expecting anybody. The long twilight of a Januaryevening was beginning, and the bite of the keen air made him suddenlyconscious that his clothing was saturated with tobacco smoke. Heshuddered involuntarily. Agatha did not tolerate tobacco. He half-movedto toss the fresh-lighted cigar away, then it was borne in upon him thatthis was the old East Falls atmosphere overpowering him, and he resolvedto combat it, thrusting the cigar between his teeth and gripping it withthe firmness of a dozen years of Western resolution. 

A few steps brought him into the little main street. The chilly, stiltedaspect of it shocked him. Everything seemed frosty and pinched, just asthe cutting air did after the warm balminess of California. Only severalpersons, strangers to his recollection, were abroad, and they favouredhim with incurious glances. They were wrapped in an uncongenial andfrosty imperviousness. His first impression was surprise at hissurprise. Through the wide perspective of twelve years of Western life, he had consistently and steadily discounted the size and importance ofEast Falls; but this was worse than all discounting. Things were moremeagre than he had dreamed. The general store took his breath away. Countless myriads of times he had contrasted it with his own spaciousemporium, but now he saw that in justice he had overdone it. He feltcertain that it could not accommodate two of his delicatessen counters, and he knew that he could lose all of it in one of his storerooms. 

He took the familiar turning to the right at the head of the street, andas he plodded along the slippery walk he decided that one of the firstthings he must do was to buy sealskin cap and gloves. The thought ofsleighing cheered him for a moment, until, now on the outskirts of thevillage, he was sanitarily perturbed by the adjacency of dwelling housesand barns. Some were even connected. Cruel memories of bitter morningchores oppressed him. The thought of chapped hands and chilblains wasalmost terrifying, and his heart sank at sight of the doublestorm-windows, which he knew were solidly fastened and unraisable, whilethe small ventilating panes, the size of ladies' handkerchiefs, smotehim with sensations of suffocation. Agatha'll like California, hethought, calling to his mind visions of roses in dazzling sunshine andthe wealth of flowers that bloomed the twelve months round. 

And then, quite illogically, the years were bridged and the whole leadenweight of East Falls descended upon him like a damp sea fog. He foughtit from him, thrusting it off and aside by sentimental thoughts on the"honest snow, " the "fine elms, " the "sturdy New England spirit, " and the"great homecoming. " But at sight of Agatha's house he wilted. Before heknew it, with a recrudescent guilty pang, he had tossed the half-smokedcigar away and slackened his pace until his feet dragged in the oldlifeless, East Falls manner. He tried to remember that he was the ownerof Childs' Cash Store, accustomed to command, whose words were listenedto with respect in the Employers' Association, and who wielded the gavelat the meetings of the Chamber of Commerce. He strove to conjure visionsof the letters in black and gold, and of the string of delivery wagonsbacked up to the sidewalk. But Agatha's New England spirit was as sharpas the frost, and it travelled to him through solid house-walls andacross the intervening hundred yards. 

Then he became aware that despite his will he had thrown the cigar away. This brought him an awful vision. He saw himself going out in the frostto the woodshed to smoke. His memory of Agatha he found less softened bythe lapse of years than it had been when three thousand milesintervened. It was unthinkable. No; he couldn't do it. He was too old, too used to smoking all over the house, to do the woodshed stunt now. And everything depended on how he began. He would put his foot down. Hewould smoke in the house that very night . .. In the kitchen, he feeblyamended. No, by George, he would smoke now. He would arrive smoking. Mentally imprecating the cold, he exposed his bare hands and lightedanother cigar. His manhood seemed to flare up with the match. He wouldshow her who was boss. Right from the drop of the hat he would show her. 

Josiah Childs had been born in this house. And it was long before hewas born that his father had built it. Across the low stone fence, Josiah could see the kitchen porch and door, the connected woodshed, andthe several outbuildings. Fresh from the West, where everything was newand in constant flux, he was astonished at the lack of change. Everything was as it had always been. He could almost see himself, aboy, doing the chores. There, in the woodshed, how many cords of woodhad he bucksawed and split! Well, thank the Lord, that was past. 

The walk to the kitchen showed signs of recent snow-shovelling. That hadbeen one of his tasks. He wondered who did it now, and suddenlyremembered that his own son must be twelve. In another moment he wouldhave knocked at the kitchen door, but the _skreek_ of a bucksaw from thewoodshed led him aside. He looked in and saw a boy hard at work. Evidently, this was his son. Impelled by the wave of warm emotion thatswept over him, he all but rushed in upon the lad. He controlled himselfwith an effort. 

"Father here?" he asked curtly, though from under the stiff brim of hisJohn B. Stetson he studied the boy closely. 

Sizable for his age, he thought. A mite spare in the ribs maybe, andthat possibly due to rapid growth. But the face strong and pleasing andthe eyes like Uncle Isaac's. When all was said, a darn good sample. 

"No, sir, " the boy answered, resting on the saw-buck. 

"Where is he?"

"At sea, " was the answer. 

Josiah Childs felt a something very akin to relief and joy tinglethrough him. Agatha had married again--evidently a seafaring man. Next, came an ominous, creepy sensation. Agatha had committed bigamy. Heremembered Enoch Arden, read aloud to the class by the teacher in theold schoolhouse, and began to think of himself as a hero. He would dothe heroic. By George, he would. He would sneak away and get the firsttrain for California. She would never know. 

But there was Agatha's New England morality, and her New Englandconscience. She received a regular remittance. She knew he was alive. Itwas impossible that she could have done this thing. He groped wildly fora solution. Perhaps she had sold the old home, and this boy was somebodyelse's boy. 

"What is your name?" Josiah asked. 

"Johnnie, " came the reply. 

"Last name I mean?"

"Childs, Johnnie Childs. "

"And your father's name?--first name?"

"Josiah Childs. "

"And he's away at sea, you say?"

"Yes, sir. "

This set Josiah wondering again. 

"What kind of a man is he?"

"Oh, he's all right--a good provider, Mom says. And he is. He alwayssends his money home, and he works hard for it, too, Mom says. She sayshe always was a good worker, and he's better'n other men she ever saw. He don't smoke, or drink, or swear, or do anything he oughtn't. And henever did. He was always that way, Mom says, and she knew him all herlife before ever they got married. He's a very kind man, and never hurtsanybody's feelings. Mom says he's the most considerate man she everknew. "

Josiah's heart went weak. Agatha had done it after all--had taken asecond husband when she knew her first was still alive. Well, he hadlearned charity in the West, and he could be charitable. He would goquietly away. Nobody would ever know. Though it was rather mean of her, the thought flashed through him, that she should go on cashing hisremittances when she was married to so model and steady-working aseafaring husband who brought his wages home. He cudgelled his brains inan effort to remember such a man out of all the East Falls men he hadknown. 

"What's he look like?"

"Don't know. Never saw him. He's at sea all the time. But I know howtall he is. Mom says I'm goin' to be bigger'n him, and he was five feeteleven. There's a picture of him in the album. His face is thin, and hehas whiskers. "

A great illumination came to Josiah. He was himself five feet eleven. Hehad worn whiskers, and his face had been thin in those days. And Johnniehad said his father's name was Josiah Childs. He, Josiah, was this modelhusband who neither smoked, swore, nor drank. He was this seafaring manwhose memory had been so carefully shielded by Agatha's forgivingfiction. He warmed toward her. She must have changed mightily since heleft. He glowed with penitence. Then his heart sank as he thought oftrying to live up to this reputation Agatha had made for him. This boywith the trusting blue eyes would expect it of him. Well, he'd have todo it. Agatha had been almighty square with him. He hadn't thought shehad it in her. 

The resolve he might there and then have taken was doomed never to be, for he heard the kitchen door open to give vent to a woman's nagging, irritable voice. 

"Johnnie!--you!" it cried. 

How often had he heard it in the old days: "Josiah!--you!" A shiver wentthrough him. Involuntarily, automatically, with a guilty start, heturned his hand back upward so that the cigar was hidden. He felthimself shrinking and shrivelling as she stepped out on the stoop. Itwas his unchanged wife, the same shrew wrinkles, with the samesour-drooping corners to the thin-lipped mouth. But there was moresourness, an added droop, the lips were thinner, and the shrew wrinkleswere deeper. She swept Josiah with a hostile, withering stare. 

"Do you think your father would stop work to talk to tramps?" shedemanded of the boy, who visibly quailed, even as Josiah. 

"I was only answering his questions, " Johnnie pleaded doggedly buthopelessly. "He wanted to know--"

"And I suppose you told him, " she snapped. "What business is it of hisprying around? No, and he gets nothing to eat. As for you, get to workat once. I'll teach you, idling at your chores. Your father wa'n't likethat. Can't I ever make you like him?"

Johnnie bent his back, and the bucksaw resumed its protesting skreek. Agatha surveyed Josiah sourly. It was patent she did not recognise him. 

"You be off, " she commanded harshly. "None of your snooping aroundhere. "

Josiah felt the numbness of paralysis creeping over him. He moistenedhis lips and tried to say something, but found himself bereft of speech. 

"You be off, I say, " she rasped in her high-keyed voice, "or I'll putthe constable after you. "

Josiah turned obediently. He heard the door slam as he went down thewalk. As in a nightmare he opened the gate he had opened ten thousandtimes and stepped out on the sidewalk. He felt dazed. Surely it was adream. Very soon he would wake up with a sigh of relief. He rubbed hisforehead and paused indecisively. The monotonous complaint of thebucksaw came to his ears. If that boy had any of the old Childs spiritin him, sooner or later he'd run away. Agatha was beyond the enduranceof human flesh. She had not changed, unless for the worse, if such athing were possible. That boy would surely run for it, maybe soon. Maybenow. 

Josiah Childs straightened up and threw his shoulders back. Thegreat-spirited West, with its daring and its carelessness ofconsequences when mere obstacles stand in the way of its desire, flamedup in him. He looked at his watch, remembered the time table, and spoketo himself, solemnly, aloud. It was an affirmation of faith:

"I don't care a hang about the law. That boy can't be crucified. I'llgive her a double allowance, four times, anything, but he goes with me. She can follow on to California if she wants, but I'll draw up anagreement, in which what's what, and she'll sign it, and live up to it, by George, if she wants to stay. And she will, " he added grimly. "She'sgot to have somebody to nag. "

He opened the gate and strode back to the woodshed door. Johnnie lookedup, but kept on sawing. 

"What'd you like to do most of anything in the world?" Josiah demandedin a tense, low voice. 

Johnnie hesitated, and almost stopped sawing. Josiah made signs for himto keep it up. 

"Go to sea, " Johnnie answered. "Along with my father. "

Josiah felt himself trembling. 

"Would you?" he asked eagerly. 

"Would I!"

The look of joy on Johnnie's face decided everything. 

"Come here, then. Listen. I'm your father. I'm Josiah Childs. Did youever want to run away?"

Johnnie nodded emphatically. 

"That's what I did, " Josiah went on. "I ran away. " He fumbled for hiswatch hurriedly. "We've just time to catch the train for California. Ilive there now. Maybe Agatha, your mother, will come along afterward. I'll tell you all about it on the train. Come on. "

He gathered the half-frightened, half-trusting boy into his arms for amoment, then, hand in hand, they fled across the yard, out of the gate, and down the street. They heard the kitchen door open, and the last theyheard was:

"Johnnie!--you! Why ain't you sawing? I'll attend to your casedirectly!"

THE FIRST POET

SCENE: _A summer plain, the eastern side of which is bounded by grassyhills of limestone, the other sides by a forest. The hill nearest to theplain terminates in a cliff, in the face of which, nearly at the levelof the ground, are four caves, with low, narrow entrances. Before thecaves, and distant from them less than one hundred feet, is a broad, flat rock, on which are laid several sharp slivers of flint, which, likethe rock, are blood-stained. Between the rock and the cave-entrances, ona low pile of stones, is squatted a man, stout and hairy. Across hisknees is a thick club, and behind him crouches a woman. At his right andleft are two men somewhat resembling him, and like him, bearing woodenclubs. These four face the west, and between them and the bloody rocksquat some threescore of cave-folk, talking loudly among themselves. Itis late afternoon. The name of him on the pile of stones is Uk, thename of his mate, Ala; and of those at his right and left, Ok and Un. _

_Uk:_

Be still!

(_Turning to the woman behind him_)

Thou seest that they become still. None save me can make his kind bestill, except perhaps the chief of the apes, when in the night he deemshe hears a serpent. .. . At whom dost thou stare so long? At Oan? Oan, come to me!

_Oan:_

I am thy cub. 

_Uk:_

Oan, thou art a fool!

_Ok and Un:_

Ho! ho! Oan is a fool!

_All the Tribe:_

Ho! ho! Oan is a fool!

_Oan:_

Why am I a fool?

_Uk:_

Dost thou not chant strange words? Last night I heard thee chant strangewords at the mouth of thy cave. 

_Oan:_

Ay! they are marvellous words; they were born within me in the dark. 

_Uk:_

Art thou a woman, that thou shouldst bring forth? Why dost thou notsleep when it is dark?

_Oan:_

I did half sleep; perhaps I dreamed. 

_Uk:_

And why shouldst thou dream, not having had more than thy portion offlesh? Hast thou slain a deer in the forest and brought it not to theStone?

_All the Tribe:_

Wa! Wa! He hath slain in the forest, and brought not the meat to theStone!

_Uk:_

Be still, ye!

(_To Ala_)

Thou seest that they become still. .. . Oan, hast thou slain and kept tothyself?

_Oan:_

Nay, thou knowest that I am not apt at the chase. Also it irks me tosquat on a branch all day above a path, bearing a rock upon my thighs. Those words did but awaken within me when I was peaceless in the night. 

_Uk:_

And why wast thou peaceless in the night?

_Oan:_

Thy mate wept, for that thou didst heat her. 

_Uk:_

Ay! she lamented loudly. But thou shalt make thy half-sleep henceforthat the mouth of the cave, so that when Gurr the tiger cometh, thoushalt hear him sniff between the boulders, and shalt strike the flints, whose stare he hatest. Gurr cometh nightly to the caves. 

_One of the Tribe:_

Ay! Gurr smelleth the Stone!

_Uk:_

Be still!

(_To Ala_)

Had he not become still, Ok and Un would have beaten him with theirclubs. .. . But, Oan, tell us those words that were born to thee when Aladid weep. 

_Oan (arising):_

They are wonderful words. They are such:

 The bright day is gone--

_Uk:_

Now I see thou art liar as well as fool: behold, the day is not gone!

_Oan:_

But the day was gone in that hour when my song was born to me. 

_Uk:_

Then shouldst thou have sung it only at that time, and not when it isyet day. But beware lest thou awaken me in the night. Make thou manystars, that they fly in the whiskers of Gurr. 

_Oan:_

My song is even of stars. 

_Uk:_

It was Ul, thy father's wont, ere I slew him with four great stones, toclimb to the tops of the tallest trees and reach forth his hand, to seeif he might not pluck a star. But I said: "Perhaps they be aschestnut-burs. " And all the tribe did laugh. Ul was also a fool. Butwhat dost thou sing of stars?

_Oan:_

I will begin again:

 The bright day is gone. The night maketh me sad, sad, sad--

_Uk:_

Nay, the night maketh thee sad; not sad, sad, sad. For when I say toAla, "Gather thou dried leaves, " I say not, "Gather thou dried leaves, leaves, leaves. " Thou art a fool!

_Ok and Un:_

Thou art a fool!

_All the Tribe:_

Thou art a fool!

_Uk:_

Yea, he is a fool. But say on, Oan, and tell us of thy chestnut-burs. 

_Oan:_

I will begin again:

 The bright day is gone--

_Uk:_

Thou dost not say, "gone, gone, gone!"

_Oan:_

I am thy cub. Suffer that I speak: so shall the tribe admire greatly. 

_Uk:_

Speak on!

_Oan:_

I will begin once more:

 The bright day is gone. The night maketh me sad, sad--

_Uk:_

Said I not that "sad" should be spoken but once? Shall I set Ok and Unupon thee with their branches?

_Oan:_

But it was so born within me--even "sad, sad--"

_Uk:_

If again thou twice or thrice say "sad, " thou shalt be dragged to theStone. 

_Oan:_

Owl Ow! I am thy cub! Yet listen:

 The bright day is gone. The night maketh me sad--

Ow! Ow! thou makest me more sad than the night doth! The song--

_Uk:_

Ok! Un! Be prepared!

_Oan (hastily):_

Nay! have mercy! I will begin afresh:

 The bright day is gone. The night maketh me sad. The--the--the--

_Uk:_

Thou hast forgotten, and art a fool! See, Ala, he is a fool!

_Ok and Un:_

He is a fool!

_All the Tribe:_

He is a fool!

_Oan:_

I am not a fool! This is a new thing. In the past, when ye did chant, Omen, ye did leap about the Stone, beating your breasts and crying, "Hai, hai, hai!" Or, if the moon was great, "Hai, hai! hai, hai, hai!" Butthis song is made even with such words as ye do speak, and is a greatwonder. One may sit at the cave's mouth, and moan it many times as thelight goeth out of the sky. 

_One of the Tribe:_

Ay! even thus doth he sit at the mouth of our cave, making us marvel, and more especially the women. 

_Uk:_

Be still!. .. When I would make women marvel, I do show them a wolf'sbrains upon my club, or the great stone that I cast, or perhaps do whirlmy arms mightily, or bring home much meat. How should a man dootherwise? I will have no songs in this place. 

_Oan:_

Yet suffer that I sing my song unto the tribe. Such things have not beenbefore. It may be that they shall praise thee, seeing that I who do makethis song am thy cub. 

_Uk:_

Well, let us have the song. 

_Oan (facing the tribe):_

 The bright day is gone. The night maketh me sa--sad. But the stars are very white. They whisper that the day shall return. O stars; little pieces of the day!

_Uk:_

This is indeed madness. Hast thou heard a star whisper? Did Ul, thyfather, tell thee that he heard the stars whisper when he was in thetree-top? And of what moment is it that a star be a piece of the day, seeing that its light is of no value? Thou art a fool!

_Ok and Un:_

Thou art a fool!

_All the Tribe:_

Thou art a fool!

_Oan:_

But it was so born unto me. And at that birth it was as though I wouldweep, yet had not been stricken; I was moreover glad, yet none had givenme a gift of meat. 

_Uk:_

It is a madness. How shall the stars profit us? Will they lead us to abear's den, or where the deer foregather, or break for us great bonesthat we come at their marrow? Will they tell us anything at all? Waitthou until the night, and we shall peer forth from between the boulders, and all men shall take note that the stars cannot whisper. .. . Yet it maybe that they are pieces of the day. This is a deep matter. 

_Oan:_

Ay! they are pieces of the moon!

_Uk:_

What further madness is this? How shall they be pieces of two thingsthat are not the same? Also it was not thus in the song. 

_Oan:_

I will make me a new song. We do change the shape of wood and stone, buta song is made out of nothing. Ho! ho! I can fashion things fromnothing! Also I say that the stars come down at morning and become thedew. 

_Uk:_

Let us have no more of these stars. It may be that a song is a goodthing, if it be of what a man knoweth. Thus, if thou singest of my club, or of the bear that I slew, of the stain on the Stone, or the cave andthe warm leaves in the cave, it might be well. 

_Oan:_

I will make thee a song of Ala!

_Uk (furiously):_

Thou shalt make me no such song! Thou shalt make me a song of thedeer-liver that thou hast eaten! Did I not give to thee of the liver ofthe she-deer, because thou didst bring me crawfish?

_Oan:_

Truly I did eat of the liver of the she-deer; but to sing thereof isanother matter. 

_Uk:_

It was no labour for thee to sing of the stars. See now our clubs andcasting-stones, with which we slay flesh to eat; also the caves in whichwe dwell, and the Stone whereon we make sacrifice; wilt thou sing nosong of those?

_Oan:_

It may be that I shall sing thee songs of them. But now, as I strivehere to sing of the doe's liver, no words are born unto me: I can butsing, "O liver! O red liver!"

_Uk:_

That is a good song: thou seest that the liver is red. It is red asblood. 

_Oan:_

But I love not the liver, save to eat of it. 

_Uk:_

Yet the song of it is good. When the moon is full we shall sing it aboutthe Stone. We shall beat upon our breasts and sing, "O liver! O redliver!" And all the women in the caves shall be affrightened. 

_Oan:_

I will not have that song of the liver! It shall be Ok's song; the tribemust say, "Ok hath made the song!"

_Ok:_

Ay! I shall be a great singer; I shall sing of a wolf's heart, and say, "Behold, it is red!"

_Uk:_

Thou art a fool, and shalt sing only, "Hai, hai!" as thy father beforethee. But Oan shall make me a song of my club, for the women listen tohis songs. 

_Oan:_

I will make thee no songs, neither of thy club, nor thy cave, nor thydoe's-liver. Yea! though thou give me no more flesh, yet will I livealone in the forest, and eat the seed of grasses, and likewise rabbits, that are easily snared. And I will sleep in a tree-top, and I will singnightly:

 The bright day is gone. The night maketh me sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad--

_Uk:_

Ok and Un, arise and slay!

(_Ok and Un rush upon Oan, who stoops and picks up two casting-stones, with one of which he strikes Ok between the eyes, and with the othermashes the hand of Un, so that he drops his club. Uk arises. _)

_Uk:_

Behold! Gurr cometh! he cometh swiftly from the wood!

(_The Tribe, including Oan and Ala, rush for the cave-mouths. As Oanpasses Uk, the latter runs behind Oan and crushes his skull with a blowof his club. _)

_Uk:_

O men! O men with the heart of hyenas! Behold, Gurr cometh not! I didbut strive to deceive you, that I might the more easily slay thissinger, who is very swift of foot. .. . Gather ye before me, for I wouldspeak wisdom. .. . It is not well that there be any song among us otherthan what our fathers sang in the past, or, if there be songs, let thembe of such matters as are of common understanding. If a man sing of adeer, so shall he be drawn, it may be, to go forth and slay a deer, oreven a moose. And if he sing of his casting-stones, it may be that hebecome more apt in the use thereof. And if he sing of his cave, it maybe that he shall defend it more stoutly when Gurr teareth at theboulders. But it is a vain thing to make songs of the stars, that seemscornful even of me; or of the moon, which is never two nights the same;or of the day, which goeth about its business and will not linger thoughone pierce a she-babe with a flint. But as for me, I would have none ofthese songs. For if I sing of such in the council, how shall I keep mywits? And if I think thereof, when at the chase, it may be that I babbleit forth, and the meat hear and escape. And ere it be time to eat, I dogive my mind solely to the care of my hunting-gear. And if one sing wheneating, he may fall short of his just portion. And when, one hath eaten, doth not he go straightway to sleep? So where shall men find a space forsinging? But do ye as ye will: as for me, I will have none of thesesongs and stars. 

Be it also known to all the women that if, remembering these wild wordsof Oan, they do sing them to themselves, or teach them to the youngones, they shall be beaten with brambles. Cause swiftly that the wife ofOk cease from her wailing, and bring hither the horses that were slainyesterday, that I may apportion them. Had Oan wisdom, he might haveeaten thereof; and had a mammoth fallen into our pit, he might havefeasted many days. But Oan was a fool!

_Un:_

Oan was a fool!

_All the Tribe:_

Oan was a fool!

FINIS

It was the last of Morganson's bacon. In all his life he had neverpampered his stomach. In fact, his stomach had been a sort of negligiblequantity that bothered him little, and about which he thought less. Butnow, in the long absence of wonted delights, the keen yearning of hisstomach was tickled hugely by the sharp, salty bacon. 

His face had a wistful, hungry expression. The cheeks were hollow, andthe skin seemed stretched a trifle tightly across the cheek-bones. Hispale blue eyes were troubled. There was that in them that showed thehaunting imminence of something terrible. Doubt was in them, and anxietyand foreboding. The thin lips were thinner than they were made to be, and they seemed to hunger towards the polished frying-pan. 

He sat back and drew forth a pipe. He looked into it with sharpscrutiny, and tapped it emptily on his open palm. He turned thehair-seal tobacco pouch inside out and dusted the lining, treasuringcarefully each flake and mite of tobacco that his efforts gleaned. Theresult was scarce a thimbleful. He searched in his pockets, and broughtforward, between thumb and forefinger, tiny pinches of rubbish. Here andthere in this rubbish were crumbs of tobacco. These he segregated withmicroscopic care, though he occasionally permitted small particles offoreign substance to accompany the crumbs to the hoard in his palm. Heeven deliberately added small, semi-hard woolly fluffs, that had comeoriginally from the coat lining, and that had lain for long months inthe bottoms of the pockets. 

At the end of fifteen minutes he had the pipe part filled. He lighted itfrom the camp fire, and sat forward on the blankets, toasting hismoccasined feet and smoking parsimoniously. When the pipe was finishedhe sat on, brooding into the dying flame of the fire. Slowly the worrywent out of his eyes and resolve came in. Out of the chaos of hisfortunes he had finally achieved a way. But it was not a pretty way. His face had become stern and wolfish, and the thin lips were drawn verytightly. 

With resolve came action. He pulled himself stiffly to his feet andproceeded to break camp. He packed the rolled blankets, the frying-pan, rifle, and axe on the sled, and passed a lashing around the load. Thenhe warmed his hands at the fire and pulled on his mittens. He wasfoot-sore, and limped noticeably as he took his place at the head of thesled. When he put the looped haul-rope over his shoulder, and leant hisweight against it to start the sled, he winced. His flesh was galled bymany days of contact with the haul-rope. 

The trail led along the frozen breast of the Yukon. At the end of fourhours he came around a bend and entered the town of Minto. It wasperched on top of a high earth bank in the midst of a clearing, andconsisted of a road house, a saloon, and several cabins. He left hissled at the door and entered the saloon. 

"Enough for a drink?" he asked, laying an apparently empty gold sackupon the bar. 

The barkeeper looked sharply at it and him, then set out a bottle and aglass. 

"Never mind the dust, " he said. 

"Go on and take it, " Morganson insisted. 

The barkeeper held the sack mouth downward over the scales and shook it, and a few flakes of gold dust fell out. Morganson took the sack fromhim, turned it inside out, and dusted it carefully. 

"I thought there was half-a-dollar in it, " he said. 

"Not quite, " answered the other, "but near enough. I'll get it back withthe down weight on the next comer. "

Morganson shyly poured the whisky into the glass, partly filling it. 

"Go on, make it a man's drink, " the barkeeper encouraged. 

Morganson tilted the bottle and filled the glass to the brim. He drankthe liquor slowly, pleasuring in the fire of it that bit his tongue, sank hotly down his throat, and with warm, gentle caresses permeated hisstomach. 

"Scurvy, eh?" the barkeeper asked. 

"A touch of it, " he answered. "But I haven't begun to swell yet. Maybe Ican get to Dyea and fresh vegetables, and beat it out. "

"Kind of all in, I'd say, " the other laughed sympathetically. "No dogs, no money, and the scurvy. I'd try spruce tea if I was you. "

At the end of half-an-hour, Morganson said good-bye and left the saloon. He put his galled shoulder to the haul-rope and took the river-trailsouth. An hour later he halted. An inviting swale left the river and ledoff to the right at an acute angle. He left his sled and limped up theswale for half a mile. Between him and the river was three hundred yardsof flat ground covered with cottonwoods. He crossed the cottonwoods tothe bank of the Yukon. The trail went by just beneath, but he did notdescend to it. South toward Selkirk he could see the trail widen itssunken length through the snow for over a mile. But to the north, in thedirection of Minto, a tree-covered out-jut in the bank a quarter of amile away screened the trail from him. 

He seemed satisfied with the view and returned to the sled the way hehad come. He put the haul-rope over his shoulder and dragged the sled upthe swale. The snow was unpacked and soft, and it was hard work. Therunners clogged and stuck, and he was panting severely ere he hadcovered the half-mile. Night had come on by the time he had pitched hissmall tent, set up the sheet-iron stove, and chopped a supply offirewood. He had no candles, and contented himself with a pot of teabefore crawling into his blankets. 

In the morning, as soon as he got up, he drew on his mittens, pulled theflaps of his cap down over his ears, and crossed through the cottonwoodsto the Yukon. He took his rifle with him. As before, he did not descendthe bank. He watched the empty trail for an hour, beating his hands andstamping his feet to keep up the circulation, then returned to the tentfor breakfast. There was little tea left in the canister--half a dozendrawings at most; but so meagre a pinch did he put in the teapot that hebade fair to extend the lifetime of the tea indefinitely. His entirefood supply consisted of half-a-sack of flour and a part-full can ofbaking powder. He made biscuits, and ate them slowly, chewing eachmouthful with infinite relish. When he had had three he called a halt. He debated a while, reached for another biscuit, then hesitated. Heturned to the part sack of flour, lifted it, and judged its weight. 

"I'm good for a couple of weeks, " he spoke aloud. 

"Maybe three, " he added, as he put the biscuits away. 

Again he drew on his mittens, pulled down his ear-flaps, took the rifle, and went out to his station on the river bank. He crouched in the snow, himself unseen, and watched. After a few minutes of inaction, the frostbegan to bite in, and he rested the rifle across his knees and beat hishands back and forth. Then the sting in his feet became intolerable, andhe stepped back from the bank and tramped heavily up and down among thetrees. But he did not tramp long at a time. Every several minutes hecame to the edge of the bank and peered up and down the trail, as thoughby sheer will he could materialise the form of a man upon it. The shortmorning passed, though it had seemed century-long to him, and the trailremained empty. 

It was easier in the afternoon, watching by the bank. The temperaturerose, and soon the snow began to fall--dry and fine and crystalline. There was no wind, and it fell straight down, in quiet monotony. Hecrouched with eyes closed, his head upon his knees, keeping his watchupon the trail with his ears. But no whining of dogs, churning of sleds, nor cries of drivers broke the silence. With twilight he returned to thetent, cut a supply of firewood, ate two biscuits, and crawled into hisblankets. He slept restlessly, tossing about and groaning; and atmidnight he got up and ate another biscuit. 

Each day grew colder. Four biscuits could not keep up the heat of hisbody, despite the quantities of hot spruce tea he drank, and heincreased his allowance, morning and evening, to three biscuits. In themiddle of the day he ate nothing, contenting himself with several cupsof excessively weak real tea. This programme became routine. In themorning three biscuits, at noon real tea, and at night three biscuits. In between he drank spruce tea for his scurvy. He caught himself makinglarger biscuits, and after a severe struggle with himself went back tothe old size. 

On the fifth day the trail returned to life. To the south a dark objectappeared, and grew larger. Morganson became alert. He worked his rifle, ejecting a loaded cartridge from the chamber, by the same actionreplacing it with another, and returning the ejected cartridge into themagazine. He lowered the trigger to half-cock, and drew on his mitten tokeep the trigger-hand warm. As the dark object came nearer he made itout to be a man, without dogs or sled, travelling light. He grewnervous, cocked the trigger, then put it back to half-cock again. Theman developed into an Indian, and Morganson, with a sigh ofdisappointment, dropped the rifle across his knees. The Indian went onpast and disappeared towards Minto behind the out-jutting clump oftrees. 

But Morganson conceived an idea. He changed his crouching spot to aplace where cottonwood limbs projected on either side of him. Into thesewith his axe he chopped two broad notches. Then in one of the notches herested the barrel of his rifle and glanced along the sights. He coveredthe trail thoroughly in that direction. He turned about, rested therifle in the other notch, and, looking along the sights, swept the trailto the clump of trees behind which it disappeared. 

He never descended to the trail. A man travelling the trail could haveno knowledge of his lurking presence on the bank above. The snow surfacewas unbroken. There was no place where his tracks left the main trail. 

As the nights grew longer, his periods of daylight watching of the trailgrew shorter. Once a sled went by with jingling bells in the darkness, and with sullen resentment he chewed his biscuits and listened to thesounds. Chance conspired against him. Faithfully he had watched thetrail for ten days, suffering from the cold all the prolonged torment ofthe damned, and nothing had happened. Only an Indian, travelling light, had passed in. Now, in the night, when it was impossible for him towatch, men and dogs and a sled loaded with life, passed out, bound southto the sea and the sun and civilisation. 

So it was that he conceived of the sled for which he waited. It wasloaded with life, his life. His life was fading, fainting, gasping awayin the tent in the snow. He was weak from lack of food, and could nottravel of himself. But on the sled for which he waited were dogs thatwould drag him, food that would fan up the flame of his life, money thatwould furnish sea and sun and civilisation. Sea and sun and civilisationbecame terms interchangeable with life, his life, and they were loadedthere on the sled for which he waited. The idea became an obsession, andhe grew to think of himself as the rightful and deprived owner of thesled-load of life. 

His flour was running short, and he went back to two biscuits in themorning and two biscuits at night. Because, of this his weaknessincreased and the cold bit in more savagely, and day by day he watchedby the dead trail that would not live for him. At last the scurvyentered upon its next stage. The skin was unable longer to cast off theimpurity of the blood, and the result was that the body began to swell. His ankles grew puffy, and the ache in them kept him awake long hours atnight. Next, the swelling jumped to his knees, and the sum of his painwas more than doubled. 

Then there came a cold snap. The temperature went down and down--forty, fifty, sixty degrees below zero. He had no thermometer, but this he knewby the signs and natural phenomena understood by all men in thatcountry--the crackling of water thrown on the snow, the swift sharpnessof the bite of the frost, and the rapidity with which his breath frozeand coated the canvas walls and roof of the tent. Vainly he fought thecold and strove to maintain his watch on the bank. In his weak conditionhe was an easy prey, and the frost sank its teeth deep into him beforehe fled away to the tent and crouched by the fire. His nose and cheekswere frozen and turned black, and his left thumb had frozen inside themitten. He concluded that he would escape with the loss of the firstjoint. 

Then it was, beaten into the tent by the frost, that the trail, withmonstrous irony, suddenly teemed with life. Three sleds went by thefirst day, and two the second. Once, during each day, he fought his wayout to the bank only to succumb and retreat, and each of the two times, within half-an-hour after he retreated, a sled went by. 

The cold snap broke, and he was able to remain by the bank once more, and the trail died again. For a week he crouched and watched, and neverlife stirred along it, not a soul passed in or out. He had cut down toone biscuit night and morning, and somehow he did not seem to notice it. Sometimes he marvelled at the way life remained in him. He never wouldhave thought it possible to endure so much. 

When the trail fluttered anew with life it was life with which he couldnot cope. A detachment of the North-West police went by, a score ofthem, with many sleds and dogs; and he cowered down on the bank above, and they were unaware of the menace of death that lurked in the form ofa dying man beside the trail. 

His frozen thumb gave him a great deal of trouble. While watching by thebank he got into the habit of taking his mitten off and thrusting thehand inside his shirt so as to rest the thumb in the warmth of hisarm-pit. A mail carrier came over the trail, and Morganson let him pass. A mail carrier was an important person, and was sure to be missedimmediately. 

On the first day after his last flour had gone it snowed. It was alwayswarm when the snow fell, and he sat out the whole eight hours ofdaylight on the bank, without movement, terribly hungry and terriblypatient, for all the world like a monstrous spider waiting for its prey. But the prey did not come, and he hobbled back to the tent through thedarkness, drank quarts of spruce tea and hot water, and went to bed. 

The next morning circumstance eased its grip on him. As he started tocome out of the tent he saw a huge bull-moose crossing the swale somefour hundred yards away. Morganson felt a surge and bound of the bloodin him, and then went unaccountably weak. A nausea overpowered him, andhe was compelled to sit down a moment to recover. Then he reached forhis rifle and took careful aim. The first shot was a hit: he knew it;but the moose turned and broke for the wooded hillside that came down tothe swale. Morganson pumped bullets wildly among the trees and brush atthe fleeing animal, until it dawned upon him that he was exhausting theammunition he needed for the sled-load of life for which he waited. 

He stopped shooting, and watched. He noted the direction of the animal'sflight, and, high up on the hillside in an opening among the trees, sawthe trunk of a fallen pine. Continuing the moose's flight in his mind hesaw that it must pass the trunk. He resolved on one more shot, and inthe empty air above the trunk he aimed and steadied his wavering rifle. The animal sprang into his field of vision, with lifted fore-legs as ittook the leap. He pulled the trigger. With the explosion the mooseseemed to somersault in the air. It crashed down to earth in the snowbeyond and flurried the snow into dust. 

Morganson dashed up the hillside--at least he started to dash up. Thenext he knew he was coming out of a faint and dragging himself to hisfeet. He went up more slowly, pausing from time to time to breathe andto steady his reeling senses. At last he crawled over the trunk. Themoose lay before him. He sat down heavily upon the carcase and laughed. He buried his face in his mittened hands and laughed some more. 

He shook the hysteria from him. He drew his hunting knife and worked asrapidly as his injured thumb and weakness would permit him. He did notstop to skin the moose, but quartered it with its hide on. It was aKlondike of meat. 

When he had finished he selected a piece of meat weighing a hundredpounds, and started to drag it down to the tent. But the snow was soft, and it was too much for him. He exchanged it for a twenty-pound piece, and, with many pauses to rest, succeeded in getting it to the tent. Hefried some of the meat, but ate sparingly. Then, and automatically, hewent out to his crouching place on the bank. There were sled-tracks inthe fresh snow on the trail. The sled-load of life had passed by whilehe had been cutting up the moose. 

But he did not mind. He was glad that the sled had not passed before thecoming of the moose. The moose had changed his plans. Its meat was worthfifty cents a pound, and he was but little more than three miles fromMinto. He need no longer wait for the sled-load of life. The moose wasthe sled-load of life. He would sell it. He would buy a couple of dogsat Minto, some food and some tobacco, and the dogs would haul him southalong the trail to the sea, the sun, and civilisation. 

He felt hungry. The dull, monotonous ache of hunger had now become asharp and insistent pang. He hobbled back to the tent and fried a sliceof meat. After that he smoked two whole pipefuls of dried tea leaves. Then he fried another slice of moose. He was aware of an unwonted glowof strength, and went out and chopped some firewood. He followed that upwith a slice of meat. Teased on by the food, his hunger grew into aninflammation. It became imperative every little while to fry a slice ofmeat. He tried smaller slices and found himself frying oftener. 

In the middle of the day he thought of the wild animals that might eathis meat, and he climbed the hill, carrying along his axe, the haulrope, and a sled lashing. In his weak state the making of the cache andstoring of the meat was an all-afternoon task. He cut young saplings, trimmed them, and tied them together into a tall scaffold. It was not sostrong a cache as he would have desired to make, but he had done hisbest. To hoist the meat to the top was heart-breaking. The larger piecesdefied him until he passed the rope over a limb above, and, with one endfast to a piece of meat, put all his weight on the other end. 

Once in the tent, he proceeded to indulge in a prolonged and solitaryorgy. He did not need friends. His stomach and he were company. Sliceafter slice and many slices of meat he fried and ate. He ate pounds ofthe meat. He brewed real tea, and brewed it strong. He brewed the lasthe had. It did not matter. On the morrow he would be buying tea inMinto. When it seemed he could eat no more, he smoked. He smoked all hisstock of dried tea leaves. What of it? On the morrow he would be smokingtobacco. He knocked out his pipe, fried a final slice, and went to bed. He had eaten so much he seemed bursting, yet he got out of his blanketsand had just one more mouthful of meat. 

In the morning he awoke as from the sleep of death. In his ears werestrange sounds. He did not know where he was, and looked about himstupidly until he caught sight of the frying-pan with the last piece ofmeat in it, partly eaten. Then he remembered all, and with a quick startturned his attention to the strange sounds. He sprang from the blanketswith an oath. His scurvy-ravaged legs gave under him and he winced withthe pain. He proceeded more slowly to put on his moccasins and leavethe tent. 

From the cache up the hillside arose a confused noise of snapping andsnarling, punctuated by occasional short, sharp yelps. He increased hisspeed at much expense of pain, and cried loudly and threateningly. Hesaw the wolves hurrying away through the snow and underbrush, many ofthem, and he saw the scaffold down on the ground. The animals were heavywith the meat they had eaten, and they were content to slink away andleave the wreckage. 

The way of the disaster was clear to him. The wolves had scented hiscache. One of them had leapt from the trunk of the fallen tree to thetop of the cache. He could see marks of the brute's paws in the snowthat covered the trunk. He had not dreamt a wolf could leap so far. Asecond had followed the first, and a third and fourth, until the flimsyscaffold had gone down under their weight and movement. 

His eyes were hard and savage for a moment as he contemplated the extentof the calamity; then the old look of patience returned into them, andhe began to gather together the bones well picked and gnawed. There wasmarrow in them, he knew; and also, here and there, as he sifted thesnow, he found scraps of meat that had escaped the maws of the brutesmade careless by plenty. 

He spent the rest of the morning dragging the wreckage of the moose downthe hillside. In addition, he had at least ten pounds left of the chunkof meat he had dragged down the previous day. 

"I'm good for weeks yet, " was his comment as he surveyed the heap. 

He had learnt how to starve and live. He cleaned his rifle and countedthe cartridges that remained to him. There were seven. He loaded theweapon and hobbled out to his crouching-place on the bank. All day hewatched the dead trail. He watched all the week, but no life passed overit. 

Thanks to the meat he felt stronger, though his scurvy was worse andmore painful. He now lived upon soup, drinking endless gallons of thethin product of the boiling of the moose bones. The soup grew thinnerand thinner as he cracked the bones and boiled them over and over; butthe hot water with the essence of the meat in it was good for him, andhe was more vigorous than he had been previous to the shooting of themoose. 

It was in the next week that a new factor entered into Morganson's life. He wanted to know the date. It became an obsession. He pondered andcalculated, but his conclusions were rarely twice the same. The firstthing in the morning and the last thing at night, and all day as well, watching by the trail, he worried about it. He awoke at night and layawake for hours over the problem. To have known the date would have beenof no value to him; but his curiosity grew until it equalled his hungerand his desire to live. Finally it mastered him, and he resolved to goto Minto and find out. 

It was dark when he arrived at Minto, but this served him. No one sawhim arrive. Besides, he knew he would have moonlight by which to return. He climbed the bank and pushed open the saloon door. The light dazzledhim. The source of it was several candles, but he had been living forlong in an unlighted tent. As his eyes adjusted themselves, he saw threemen sitting around the stove. They were trail-travellers--he knew it atonce; and since they had not passed in, they were evidently bound out. They would go by his tent next morning. 

The barkeeper emitted a long and marvelling whistle. 

"I thought you was dead, " he said. 

"Why?" Morganson asked in a faltering voice. 

He had become unused to talking, and he was not acquainted with thesound of his own voice. It seemed hoarse and strange. 

"You've been dead for more'n two months, now, " the barkeeper explained. "You left here going south, and you never arrived at Selkirk. Where haveyou been?"

"Chopping wood for the steamboat company, " Morganson lied unsteadily. 

He was still trying to become acquainted with his own voice. He hobbledacross the floor and leant against the bar. He knew he must lieconsistently; and while he maintained an appearance of carelessindifference, his heart was beating and pounding furiously andirregularly, and he could not help looking hungrily at the three men bythe stove. They were the possessors of life--his life. 

"But where in hell you been keeping yourself all this time?" thebarkeeper demanded. 

"I located across the river, " he answered. "I've got a mighty big stackof wood chopped. "

The barkeeper nodded. His face beamed with understanding. 

"I heard sounds of chopping several times, " he said. "So that was you, eh? Have a drink?"

Morganson clutched the bar tightly. A drink! He could have thrown hisarms around the man's legs and kissed his feet. He tried vainly to utterhis acceptance; but the barkeeper had not waited and was already passingout the bottle. 

"But what did you do for grub?" the latter asked. "You don't look as ifyou could chop wood to keep yourself warm. You look terribly bad, friend. "

Morganson yearned towards the delayed bottle and gulped dryly. 

"I did the chopping before the scurvy got bad, " he said. "Then I got amoose right at the start. I've been living high all right. It's thescurvy that's run me down. "

He filled the glass, and added, "But the spruce tea's knocking it, Ithink. "

"Have another, " the barkeeper said. 

The action of the two glasses of whisky on Morganson's empty stomach andweak condition was rapid. The next he knew he was sitting by the stoveon a box, and it seemed as though ages had passed. A tall, broad-shouldered, black-whiskered man was paying for drinks. Morganson'sswimming eyes saw him drawing a greenback from a fat roll, andMorganson's swimming eyes cleared on the instant. They werehundred-dollar bills. It was life! His life! He felt an almostirresistible impulse to snatch the money and dash madly out into thenight. 

The black-whiskered man and one of his companions arose. 

"Come on, Oleson, " the former said to the third one of the party, afair-haired, ruddy-faced giant. 

Oleson came to his feet, yawning and stretching. 

"What are you going to bed so soon for?" the barkeeper askedplaintively. "It's early yet. "

"Got to make Selkirk to-morrow, " said he of the black whiskers. 

"On Christmas Day!" the barkeeper cried. 

"The better the day the better the deed, " the other laughed. 

As the three men passed out of the door it came dimly to Morganson thatit was Christmas Eve. That was the date. That was what he had come toMinto for. But it was overshadowed now by the three men themselves, andthe fat roll of hundred-dollar bills. 

The door slammed. 

"That's Jack Thompson, " the barkeeper said. "Made two millions onBonanza and Sulphur, and got more coming. I'm going to bed. Haveanother drink first. "

Morganson hesitated. 

"A Christmas drink, " the other urged. "It's all right. I'll get it backwhen you sell your wood. "

Morganson mastered his drunkenness long enough to swallow the whisky, say good night, and get out on the trail. It was moonlight, and hehobbled along through the bright, silvery quiet, with a vision of lifebefore him that took the form of a roll of hundred-dollar bills. 

He awoke. It was dark, and he was in his blankets. He had gone to bed inhis moccasins and mittens, with the flaps of his cap pulled down overhis ears. He got up as quickly as his crippled condition would permit, and built the fire and boiled some water. As he put the spruce-twigsinto the teapot he noted the first glimmer of the pale morning light. Hecaught up his rifle and hobbled in a panic out to the bank. As hecrouched and waited, it came to him that he had forgotten to drink hisspruce tea. The only other thought in his mind was the possibility ofJohn Thompson changing his mind and not travelling Christmas Day. 

Dawn broke and merged into day. It was cold and clear. Sixty below zerowas Morganson's estimate of the frost. Not a breath stirred the chillArctic quiet. He sat up suddenly, his muscular tensity increasing thehurt of the scurvy. He had heard the far sound of a man's voice and thefaint whining of dogs. He began beating his hands back and forth againsthis sides. It was a serious matter to bare the trigger hand to sixtydegrees below zero, and against that time he needed to develop all thewarmth of which his flesh was capable. 

They came into view around the outjutting clump of trees. To the forewas the third man whose name he had not learnt. Then came eight dogsdrawing the sled. At the front of the sled, guiding it by the gee-pole, walked John Thompson. The rear was brought up by Oleson, the Swede. Hewas certainly a fine man, Morganson thought, as he looked at the bulk ofhim in his squirrel-skin _parka_. The men and dogs were silhouettedsharply against the white of the landscape. They had the seeming of twodimension, cardboard figures that worked mechanically. 

Morganson rested his cocked rifle in the notch in the tree. He becameabruptly aware that his fingers were cold, and discovered that his righthand was bare. He did not know that he had taken off the mitten. Heslipped it on again hastily. The men and dogs drew closer, and he couldsee their breaths spouting into visibility in the cold air. When thefirst man was fifty yards away, Morganson slipped the mitten from hisright hand. He placed the first finger on the trigger and aimed low. When he fired the first man whirled half around and went down on thetrail. 

In the instant of surprise, Morganson pulled the trigger on JohnThompson--too low, for the latter staggered and sat down suddenly on thesled. Morganson raised his aim and fired again. John Thompson sank downbackward along the top of the loaded sled. 

Morganson turned his attention to Oleson. At the same time that he notedthe latter running away towards Minto he noted that the dogs, coming towhere the first man's body blocked the trail, had halted. Morgansonfired at the fleeing man and missed, and Oleson swerved. He continued toswerve back and forth, while Morganson fired twice in rapid successionand missed both shots. Morganson stopped himself just as he was pullingthe trigger again. He had fired six shots. Only one more cartridgeremained, and it was in the chamber. It was imperative that he shouldnot miss his last shot. 

He held his fire and desperately studied Oleson's flight. The giant wasgrotesquely curving and twisting and running at top speed along thetrail, the tail of his _parka_ flapping smartly behind. Morgansontrained his rifle on the man and with a swaying action followed hiserratic flight. Morganson's finger was getting numb. He could scarcelyfeel the trigger. "God help me, " he breathed a prayer aloud, and pulledthe trigger. The running man pitched forward on his face, rebounded fromthe hard trail, and slid along, rolling over and over. He threshed fora moment with his arms and then lay quiet. 

Morganson dropped his rifle (worthless now that the last cartridge wasgone) and slid down the bank through the soft snow. Now that he hadsprung the trap, concealment of his lurking-place was no longernecessary. He hobbled along the trail to the sled, his fingers makinginvoluntary gripping and clutching movements inside the mittens. 

The snarling of the dogs halted him. The leader, a heavy dog, halfNewfoundland and half Hudson Bay, stood over the body of the man thatlay on the trail, and menaced Morganson with bristling hair and baredfangs. The other seven dogs of the team were likewise bristling andsnarling. Morganson approached tentatively, and the team surged towardshim. He stopped again and talked to the animals, threatening andcajoling by turns. He noticed the face of the man under the leader'sfeet, and was surprised at how quickly it had turned white with the ebbof life and the entrance of the frost. John Thompson lay back along thetop of the loaded sled, his head sunk in a space between two sacks andhis chin tilted upwards, so that all Morganson could see was the blackbeard pointing skyward. 

Finding it impossible to face the dogs Morganson stepped off the trailinto the deep snow and floundered in a wide circle to the rear of thesled. Under the initiative of the leader, the team swung around in itstangled harness. Because of his crippled condition, Morganson could moveonly slowly. He saw the animals circling around on him and tried toretreat. He almost made it, but the big leader, with a savage lunge, sank its teeth into the calf of his leg. The flesh was slashed and torn, but Morganson managed to drag himself clear. 

He cursed the brutes fiercely, but could not cow them. They replied withneck-bristling and snarling, and with quick lunges against theirbreastbands. He remembered Oleson, and turned his back upon them andwent along the trail. He scarcely took notice of his lacerated leg. Itwas bleeding freely; the main artery had been torn, but he did not knowit. 

Especially remarkable to Morganson was the extreme pallor of the Swede, who the preceding night had been so ruddy-faced. Now his face was likewhite marble. What with his fair hair and lashes he looked like a carvedstatue rather than something that had been a man a few minutes before. Morganson pulled off his mittens and searched the body. There was nomoney-belt around the waist next to the skin, nor did he find agold-sack. In a breast pocket he lit on a small wallet. With fingersthat swiftly went numb with the frost, he hurried through the contentsof the wallet. There were letters with foreign stamps and postmarks onthem, and several receipts and memorandum accounts, and a letter ofcredit for eight hundred dollars. That was all. There was no money. 

He made a movement to start back toward the sled, but found his footrooted to the trail. He glanced down and saw that he stood in a freshdeposit of frozen red. There was red ice on his torn pants leg and onthe moccasin beneath. With a quick effort he broke the frozen clutch ofhis blood and hobbled along the trail to the sled. The big leader thathad bitten him began snarling and lunging, and was followed in thisconduct by the whole team. 

Morganson wept weakly for a space, and weakly swayed from one side tothe other. Then he brushed away the frozen tears that gemmed his lashes. It was a joke. Malicious chance was having its laugh at him. Even JohnThompson, with his heaven-aspiring whiskers, was laughing at him. 

He prowled around the sled demented, at times weeping and pleading withthe brutes for his life there on the sled, at other times ragingimpotently against them. Then calmness came upon him. He had been makinga fool of himself. All he had to do was to go to the tent, get the axe, and return and brain the dogs. He'd show them. 

In order to get to the tent he had to go wide of the sled and the savageanimals. He stepped off the trail into the soft snow. Then he feltsuddenly giddy and stood still. He was afraid to go on for fear he wouldfall down. He stood still for a long time, balancing himself on hiscrippled legs that were trembling violently from weakness. He lookeddown and saw the snow reddening at his feet. The blood flowed freely asever. He had not thought the bite was so severe. He controlled hisgiddiness and stooped to examine the wound. The snow seemed rushing upto meet him, and he recoiled from it as from a blow. He had a panic fearthat he might fall down, and after a struggle he managed to standupright again. He was afraid of that snow that had rushed up to him. 

Then the white glimmer turned black, and the next he knew he wasawakening in the snow where he had fallen. He was no longer giddy. Thecobwebs were gone. But he could not get up. There was no strength in hislimbs. His body seemed lifeless. By a desperate effort he managed toroll over on his side. In this position he caught a glimpse of the sledand of John Thompson's black beard pointing skyward. Also he saw thelead dog licking the face of the man who lay on the trail. Morgansonwatched curiously. The dog was nervous and eager. Sometimes it utteredshort, sharp yelps, as though to arouse the man, and surveyed him withears cocked forward and wagging tail. At last it sat down, pointed itsnose upward, and began to howl. Soon all the team was howling. 

Now that he was down, Morganson was no longer afraid. He had a vision ofhimself being found dead in the snow, and for a while he wept inself-pity. But he was not afraid. The struggle had gone out of him. Whenhe tried to open his eyes he found that the wet tears had frozen themshut. He did not try to brush the ice away. It did not matter. He hadnot dreamed death was so easy. He was even angry that he had struggledand suffered through so many weary weeks. He had been bullied andcheated by the fear of death. Death did not hurt. Every torment he hadendured had been a torment of life. Life had defamed death. It was acruel thing. 

But his anger passed. The lies and frauds of life were of no consequencenow that he was coming to his own. He became aware of drowsiness, andfelt a sweet sleep stealing upon him, balmy with promises of easementand rest. He heard faintly the howling of the dogs, and had a fleetingthought that in the mastering of his flesh the frost no longer bit. Thenthe light and the thought ceased to pulse beneath the tear-gemmedeyelids, and with a tired sigh of comfort he sank into sleep. 

THE END OF THE STORY

I

The table was of hand-hewn spruce boards, and the men who played whisthad frequent difficulties in drawing home their tricks across the unevensurface. Though they sat in their undershirts, the sweat noduled andoozed on their faces; yet their feet, heavily moccasined andwoollen-socked, tingled with the bite of the frost. Such was thedifference of temperature in the small cabin between the floor level anda yard or more above it. The sheet-iron Yukon Stove roared red-hot, yet, eight feet away, on the meat-shelf, placed low and beside the door, laychunks of solidly frozen moose and bacon. The door, a third of the wayup from the bottom, was a thick rime. In the chinking between the logsat the back of the bunks the frost showed white and glistening. A windowof oiled paper furnished light. The lower portion of the paper, on theinside, was coated an inch deep with the frozen moisture of the men'sbreath. 

They played a momentous rubber of whist, for the pair that lost was todig a fishing hole through the seven feet of ice and snow that coveredthe Yukon. 

"It's mighty unusual, a cold snap like this in March, " remarked the manwho shuffled. "What would you call it, Bob?"

"Oh, fifty-five or sixty below--all of that. What do you make it, Doc?"

Doc turned his head and glanced at the lower part of the door with ameasuring eye. 

"Not a bit worse than fifty. If anything, slightly under--sayforty-nine. See the ice on the door. It's just about the fifty mark, butyou'll notice the upper edge is ragged. The time she went seventy theice climbed a full four inches higher. " He picked up his hand, andwithout ceasing from sorting called "Come in, " to a knock on the door. 

The man who entered was a big, broad-shouldered Swede, though hisnationality was not discernible until he had removed his ear-flapped capand thawed away the ice which had formed on beard and moustache andwhich served to mask his face. While engaged in this, the men at thetable played out the hand. 

"I hear one doctor faller stop this camp, " the Swede said inquiringly, looking anxiously from face to face, his own face haggard and drawn fromsevere and long endured pain. "I come long way. North fork of the Whyo. "

"I'm the doctor. What's the matter?"

In response, the man held up his left hand, the second finger of whichwas monstrously swollen. At the same time he began a rambling, disjointed history of the coming and growth of his affliction. 

"Let me look at it, " the doctor broke in impatiently. "Lay it on thetable. There, like that. "

Tenderly, as if it were a great boil, the man obeyed. 

"Humph, " the doctor grumbled. "A weeping sinew. And travelled a hundredmiles to have it fixed. I'll fix it in a jiffy. You watch me, and nexttime you can do it yourself. "

Without warning, squarely and at right angles, and savagely, the doctorbrought the edge of his hand down on the swollen crooked finger. The manyelled with consternation and agony. It was more like the cry of a wildbeast, and his face was a wild beast's as he was about to spring on theman who had perpetrated the joke. 

"That's all right, " the doctor placated sharply and authoritatively. "How do you feel? Better, eh? Of course. Next time you can do ityourself--Go on and deal, Strothers. I think we've got you. "

Slow and ox-like, on the face of the Swede dawned relief andcomprehension. The pang over, the finger felt better. The pain was gone. He examined the finger curiously, with wondering eyes, slowly crookingit back and forth. He reached into his pocket and pulled out agold-sack. 

"How much?"

The doctor shook his head impatiently. "Nothing. I'm notpractising--Your play, Bob. "

The Swede moved heavily on his feet, re-examined the finger, then turnedan admiring gaze on the doctor. 

"You are good man. What your name?"

"Linday, Doctor Linday, " Strothers answered, as if solicitous to savehis opponent from further irritation. 

"The day's half done, " Linday said to the Swede, at the end of the hand, while he shuffled. "Better rest over to-night. It's too cold fortravelling. There's a spare bunk. "

He was a slender brunette of a man, lean-cheeked, thin-lipped, andstrong. The smooth-shaven face was a healthy sallow. All his movementswere quick and precise. He did not fumble his cards. The eyes wereblack, direct, and piercing, with the trick of seeming to look beneaththe surfaces of things. His hands, slender, fine and nervous, appearedmade for delicate work, and to the most casual eye they conveyed animpression of strength. 

"Our game, " he announced, drawing in the last trick. "Now for the ruband who digs the fishing hole. "

A knock at the door brought a quick exclamation from him. 

"Seems we just can't finish this rubber, " he complained, as the dooropened. "What's the matter with _you_?"--this last to the stranger whoentered. 

The newcomer vainly strove to move his icebound jaws and jowls. That hehad been on trail for long hours and days was patent. The skin acrossthe cheekbones was black with repeated frost-bite. From nose to chin wasa mass of solid ice perforated by the hole through which he breathed. Through this he had also spat tobacco juice, which had frozen, as ittrickled, into an amber-coloured icicle, pointed like a Van Dyke beard. 

He shook his head dumbly, grinned with his eyes, and drew near to thestove to thaw his mouth to speech. He assisted the process with hisfingers, clawing off fragments of melting ice which rattled and sizzledon the stove. 

"Nothing the matter with me, " he finally announced. "But if they's adoctor in the outfit he's sure needed. They's a man up the Little Pecothat's had a ruction with a panther, an' the way he's clawed issomething scand'lous. "

"How far up?" Doctor Linday demanded. 

"A matter of a hundred miles. "

"How long since?"

"I've ben three days comin' down. "

"Bad?"

"Shoulder dislocated. Some ribs broke for sure. Right arm broke. An'clawed clean to the bone most all over but the face. We sewed up two orthree bad places temporary, and tied arteries with twine. "

"That settles it, " Linday sneered. "Where were they?"

"Stomach. "

"He's a sight by now. "

"Not on your life. Washed clean with bug-killin' dope before westitched. Only temporary anyway. Had nothin' but linen thread, butwashed that, too. "

"He's as good as dead, " was Linday's judgment, as he angrily fingeredthe cards. 

"Nope. That man ain't goin' to die. He knows I've come for a doctor, an'he'll make out to live until you get there. He won't let himself die. Iknow him. "

"Christian Science and gangrene, eh?" came the sneer. "Well, I'm notpractising. Nor can I see myself travelling a hundred miles at fiftybelow for a dead man. "

"I can see you, an' for a man a long ways from dead. "

Linday shook his head. "Sorry you had your trip for nothing. Better stopover for the night. "

"Nope. We'll be pullin' out in ten minutes. "

"What makes you so cocksure?" Linday demanded testily. 

Then it was that Tom Daw made the speech of his life. 

"Because he's just goin' on livin' till you get there, if it takes you aweek to make up your mind. Besides, his wife's with him, not sheddin' atear, or nothin', an' she's helpin' him live till you come. They think aalmighty heap of each other, an' she's got a will like hisn. If heweakened, she'd just put her immortal soul into hisn an' make him live. Though he ain't weakenin' none, you can stack on that. I'll stack on it. I'll lay you three to one, in ounces, he's alive when you get there. Igot a team of dawgs down the bank. You ought to allow to start in tenminutes, an' we ought to make it back in less'n three days because thetrail's broke. I'm goin' down to the dawgs now, an' I'll look for you inten minutes. "

Tom Daw pulled down his earflaps, drew on his mittens, and passed out. 

"Damn him!" Linday cried, glaring vindictively at the closed door. 

II

That night, long after dark, with twenty-five miles behind them, Lindayand Tom Daw went into camp. It was a simple but adequate affair: a firebuilt in the snow; alongside, their sleeping-furs spread in a single bedon a mat of spruce boughs; behind the bed an oblong of canvas stretchedto refract the heat. Daw fed the dogs and chopped ice and firewood. Linday's cheeks burned with frost-bite as he squatted over the cooking. They ate heavily, smoked a pipe and talked while they dried theirmoccasins before the fire, and turned in to sleep the dead sleep offatigue and health. 

Morning found the unprecedented cold snap broken. Linday estimated thetemperature at fifteen below and rising. Daw was worried. That day wouldsee them in the canyon, he explained, and if the spring thaw set in thecanyon would run open water. The walls of the canyon were hundreds tothousands of feet high. They could be climbed, but the going would beslow. 

Camped well in the dark and forbidding gorge, over their pipe thatevening they complained of the heat, and both agreed that thethermometer must be above zero--the first time in six months. 

"Nobody ever heard tell of a panther this far north, " Daw was saying. "Rocky called it a cougar. But I shot a-many of 'em down in CurryCounty, Oregon, where I come from, an' we called 'em panther. Anyway, itwas a bigger cat than ever I seen. It was sure a monster cat. Now how'dit ever stray to such out of the way huntin' range?--that's thequestion. "

Linday made no comment. He was nodding. Propped on sticks, his moccasinssteamed unheeded and unturned. The dogs, curled in furry balls, slept inthe snow. The crackle of an ember accentuated the profound of silencethat reigned. He awoke with a start and gazed at Daw, who nodded andreturned the gaze. Both listened. From far off came a vague disturbancethat increased to a vast and sombre roaring. As it neared, ever-increasing, riding the mountain tops as well as the canyon depths, bowing the forest before it, bending the meagre, crevice-rooted pines onthe walls of the gorge, they knew it for what it was. A wind, strong andwarm, a balmy gale, drove past them, flinging a rocket-shower of sparksfrom the fire. The dogs, aroused, sat on their haunches, bleak nosespointed upward, and raised the long wolf howl. 

"It's the Chinook, " Daw said. 

"It means the river trail, I suppose?"

"Sure thing. And ten miles of it is easier than one over the tops. " Dawsurveyed Linday for a long, considering minute. "We've just had fifteenhours of trail, " he shouted above the wind, tentatively, and againwaited. "Doc, " he said finally, "are you game?"

For answer, Linday knocked out his pipe and began to pull on his dampmoccasins. Between them, and in few minutes, bending to the force of thewind, the dogs were harnessed, camp broken, and the cooking outfit andunused sleeping furs lashed on the sled. Then, through the darkness, fora night of travel, they churned out on the trail Daw had broken nearly aweek before. And all through the night the Chinook roared and they urgedthe weary dogs and spurred their own jaded muscles. Twelve hours of itthey made, and stopped for breakfast after twenty-seven hours on trail. 

"An hour's sleep, " said Daw, when they had wolfed pounds of straightmoose-meat fried with bacon. 

Two hours he let his companion sleep, afraid himself to close his eyes. He occupied himself with making marks upon the soft-surfaced, shrinkingsnow. Visibly it shrank. In two hours the snow level sank three inches. From every side, faintly heard and near, under the voice of the springwind, came the trickling of hidden waters. The Little Peco, strengthenedby the multitudinous streamlets, rose against the manacles of winter, riving the ice with crashings and snappings. 

Daw touched Linday on the shoulder; touched him again; shook, and shookviolently. 

"Doc, " he murmured admiringly. "You can sure go some. "

The weary black eyes, under heavy lids, acknowledged the compliment. 

"But that ain't the question. Rocky is clawed something scand'lous. As Isaid before, I helped sew up his in'ards. Doc. .. . " He shook the man, whose eyes had again closed. "I say, Doc! The question is: can you gosome more?--hear me? I say, can you go some more?"

The weary dogs snapped and whimpered when kicked from their sleep. Thegoing was slow, not more than two miles an hour, and the animals tookevery opportunity to lie down in the wet snow. 

"Twenty miles of it, and we'll be through the gorge, " Daw encouraged. "After that the ice can go to blazes, for we can take to the bank, andit's only ten more miles to camp. Why, Doc, we're almost there. And whenyou get Rocky fixed up, you can come down in a canoe in one day. "

But the ice grew more uneasy under them, breaking loose from theshore-line and rising steadily inch by inch. In places where it stillheld to the shore, the water overran and they waded and slushed across. The Little Peco growled and muttered. Cracks and fissures were formingeverywhere as they battled on for the miles that each one of which meantten along the tops. 

"Get on the sled, Doc, an' take a snooze, " Daw invited. 

The glare from the black eyes prevented him from repeating thesuggestion. 

As early as midday they received definite warning of the beginning ofthe end. Cakes of ice, borne downward in the rapid current, began tothunder beneath the ice on which they stood. The dogs whimperedanxiously and yearned for the bank. 

"That means open water above, " Daw explained. "Pretty soon she'll jamsomewheres, an' the river'll raise a hundred feet in a hundred minutes. It's us for the tops if we can find a way to climb out. Come on! Hit herup I! An' just to think, the Yukon'll stick solid for weeks. "

Unusually narrow at this point, the great walls of the canyon were tooprecipitous to scale. Daw and Linday had to keep on; and they kept ontill the disaster happened. With a loud explosion, the ice broke asundermidway under the team. The two animals in the middle of the string wentinto the fissure, and the grip of the current on their bodies draggedthe lead-dog backward and in. Swept downstream under the ice, thesethree bodies began to drag to the edge the two whining dogs thatremained. The men held back frantically on the sled, but were slowlydrawn along with it. It was all over in the space of seconds. Dawslashed the wheel-dog's traces with his sheath-knife, and the animalwhipped over the ice-edge and was gone. The ice on which they stood, broke into a large and pivoting cake that ground and splintered againstthe shore ice and rocks. Between them they got the sled ashore and upinto a crevice in time to see the ice-cake up-edge, sink, anddown-shelve from view. 

Meat and sleeping furs were made into packs, and the sled was abandoned. Linday resented Daw's taking the heavier pack, but Daw had his will. 

"You got to work as soon as you get there. Come on. "

It was one in the afternoon when they started to climb. At eight thatevening they cleared the rim and for half an hour lay where they hadfallen. Then came the fire, a pot of coffee, and an enormous feed ofmoosemeat. But first Linday hefted the two packs, and found his ownlighter by half. 

"You're an iron man, Daw, " he admired. 

"Who? Me? Oh, pshaw! You ought to see Rocky. He's made out of platinum, an' armour plate, an' pure gold, an' all strong things. I'm mountaineer, but he plumb beats me out. Down in Curry County I used to 'most kill theboys when we run bear. So when I hooks up with Rocky on our first hunt Ihad a mean idea to show 'm a few. I let out the links good an' generous, 'most nigh keepin' up with the dawgs, an' along comes Rocky a-treadin'on my heels. I knowed he couldn't last that way, and I just laid downan' did my dangdest. An' there he was, at the end of another hour, a-treadin' steady an' regular on my heels. I was some huffed. 'Mebbeyou'd like to come to the front an' show me how to travel, ' I says. 'Sure, ' says he. An' he done it! I stayed with 'm, but let me tell you Iwas plumb tuckered by the time the bear tree'd. 

"They ain't no stoppin' that man. He ain't afraid of nothin'. Last fall, before the freeze-up, him an' me was headin' for camp about twilight. Iwas clean shot out--ptarmigan--an' he had one cartridge left. An' thedawgs tree'd a she grizzly. Small one. Only weighed about three hundred, but you know what grizzlies is. 'Don't do it, ' says I, when he ups withhis rifle. 'You only got that one shot, an' it's too dark to see thesights. '

"'Climb a tree, ' says he. I didn't climb no tree, but when that bearcome down a-cussin' among the dawgs, an' only creased, I want to tellyou I was sure hankerin' for a tree. It was some ruction. Then thingscome on real bad. The bear slid down a hollow against a big log. Downside, that log was four feet up an' down. Dawgs couldn't get at bearthat way. Upside was steep gravel, an' the dawgs'd just naturally slidedown into the bear. They was no jumpin' back, an' the bear wasa-manglin' 'em fast as they come. All underbrush, gettin' pretty dark, no cartridges, nothin'. 

"What's Rocky up an' do? He goes downside of log, reaches over with hisknife, an' begins slashin'. But he can only reach bear's rump, an' dawgsbein' ruined fast, one-two-three time. Rocky gets desperate. He don'tlike to lose his dawgs. He jumps on top log, grabs bear by the slack ofthe rump, an' heaves over back'ard right over top of that log. Down theygo, kit an' kaboodle, twenty feet, bear, dawgs, an' Rocky, slidin', cussin', an' scratchin', ker-plump into ten feet of water in the bed ofstream. They all swum out different ways. Nope, he didn't get the bear, but he saved the dawgs. That's Rocky. They's no stoppin' him when hismind's set. "

It was at the next camp that Linday heard how Rocky had come to beinjured. 

"I'd ben up the draw, about a mile from the cabin, lookin' for a pieceof birch likely enough for an axe-handle. Comin' back I heard thedarndest goings-on where we had a bear trap set. Some trapper had leftthe trap in an old cache an' Rocky'd fixed it up. But the goings-on. Itwas Rocky an' his brother Harry. First I'd hear one yell and laugh, an'then the other, like it was some game. An' what do you think the foolgame was? I've saw some pretty nervy cusses down in Curry County, butthey beat all. They'd got a whoppin' big panther in the trap an' wastakin' turns rappin' it on the nose with a light stick. But that wa'n'tthe point. I just come out of the brush in time to see Harry rap it. Then he chops six inches off the stick an' passes it to Rocky. You see, that stick was growin' shorter all the time. It ain't as easy as youthink. The panther'd slack back an' hunch down an' spit, an' it wasmighty lively in duckin' the stick. An' you never knowed when it'd jump. It was caught by the hind leg, which was curious, too, an' it had someslack I'm tellin' you. 

"It was just a game of dare they was playin', an' the stick gettin'shorter an' shorter an' the panther madder 'n madder. Bimeby they wa'n'tno stick left--only a nubbin, about four inches long, an' it was Rocky'sturn. 'Better quit now, ' says Harry. 'What for?' says Rocky. 'Because ifyou rap him again they won't be no stick left for me, ' Harry answers. 'Then you'll quit an' I win, ' says Rocky with a laugh, an' goes to it. 

"An' I don't want to see anything like it again. That cat'd bunched backan' down till it had all of six feet slack in its body. An' Rocky'sstick four inches long. The cat got him. You couldn't see one fromt'other. No chance to shoot. It was Harry, in the end, that got hisknife into the panther's jugular. "

"If I'd known how he got it I'd never have come, " was Linday's comment. 

Daw nodded concurrence. 

"That's what she said. She told me sure not to whisper how ithappened. "

"Is he crazy?" Linday demanded in his wrath. 

"They're all crazy. Him an' his brother are all the time devilin' eachother to tom-fool things. I seen them swim the riffle last fall, badwater an' mush-ice runnin'--on a dare. They ain't nothin' they won'ttackle. An' she's 'most as bad. Not afraid some herself. She'll doanything Rocky'll let her. But he's almighty careful with her. Treatsher like a queen. No camp-work or such for her. That's why another manan' me are hired on good wages. They've got slathers of money an'they're sure dippy on each other. 'Looks like good huntin', ' says Rocky, when they struck that section last fall. 'Let's make a camp then, ' saysHarry. An' me all the time thinkin' they was lookin' for gold. Ain't bena prospect pan washed the whole winter. "

Linday's anger mounted. "I haven't any patience with fools. For twocents I'd turn back. "

"No you wouldn't, " Daw assured him confidently. "They ain't enough grubto turn back, an' we'll be there to-morrow. Just got to cross that lastdivide an' drop down to the cabin. An' they's a better reason. You'retoo far from home, an' I just naturally wouldn't let you turn back. "

Exhausted as Linday was, the flash in his black eyes warned Daw that hehad overreached himself. His hand went out. 

"My mistake, Doc. Forget it. I reckon I'm gettin' some cranky what oflosin' them dawgs. "

III

Not one day, but three days later, the two men, after being snowed in onthe summit by a spring blizzard, staggered up to a cabin that stood in afat bottom beside the roaring Little Peco. Coming in from the brightsunshine to the dark cabin, Linday observed little of its occupants. Hewas no more than aware of two men and a woman. But he was not interestedin them. He went directly to the bunk where lay the injured man. Thelatter was lying on his back, with eyes closed, and Linday noted theslender stencilling of the brows and the kinky silkiness of the brownhair. Thin and wan, the face seemed too small for the muscular neck, yetthe delicate features, despite their waste, were firmly moulded. 

"What dressings have you been using?" Linday asked of the woman. 

"Corrosive, sublimate, regular solution, " came the answer. 

He glanced quickly at her, shot an even quicker glance at the face ofthe injured man, and stood erect. She breathed sharply, abruptly bitingoff the respiration with an effort of will. Linday turned to the men. 

"You clear out--chop wood or something. Clear out. "

One of them demurred. 

"This is a serious case, " Linday went on. "I want to talk to his wife. "

"I'm his brother, " said the other. 

To him the woman looked, praying him with her eyes. He noddedreluctantly and turned toward the door. 

"Me, too?" Daw queried from the bench where he had flung himself down. 

"You, too. "

Linday busied himself with a superficial examination of the patientwhile the cabin was emptying. 

"So?" he said. "So that's your Rex Strang. "

She dropped her eyes to the man in the bunk as if to reassure herself ofhis identity, and then in silence returned Linday's gaze. 

"Why don't you speak?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "What is the use? You know it is RexStrang. "

"Thank you. Though I might remind you that it is the first time I haveever seen him. Sit down. " He waved her to a stool, himself taking thebench. "I'm really about all in, you know. There's no turnpike from theYukon here. "

He drew a penknife and began extracting a thorn from his thumb. 

"What are you going to do?" she asked, after a minute's wait. 

"Eat and rest up before I start back. "

"What are you going to do about. .. . " She inclined her head toward theunconscious man. 

"Nothing. "

She went over to the bunk and rested her fingers lightly on thetight-curled hair. 

"You mean you will kill him, " she said slowly. "Kill him by doingnothing, for you can save him if you will. "

"Take it that way. " He considered a moment, and stated his thought witha harsh little laugh. "From time immemorial in this weary old world ithas been a not uncommon custom so to dispose of wife-stealers. "

"You are unfair, Grant, " she answered gently. "You forget that I waswilling and that I desired. I was a free agent. Rex never stole me. Itwas you who lost me. I went with him, willing and eager, with song on mylips. As well accuse me of stealing him. We went together. "

"A good way of looking at it, " Linday conceded. "I see you are as keen athinker as ever, Madge. That must have bothered him. "

"A keen thinker can be a good lover--"

"And not so foolish, " he broke in. 

"Then you admit the wisdom of my course?"

He threw up his hands. "That's the devil of it, talking with cleverwomen. A man always forgets and traps himself. I wouldn't wonder if youwon him with a syllogism. "

Her reply was the hint of a smile in her straight-looking blue eyes anda seeming emanation of sex pride from all the physical being of her. 

"No, I take that back, Madge. If you'd been a numbskull you'd have wonhim, or any one else, on your looks, and form, and carriage. I ought toknow. I've been through that particular mill, and, the devil take me, I'm not through it yet. "

His speech was quick and nervous and irritable, as it always was, and, as she knew, it was always candid. She took her cue from his lastremark. 

"Do you remember Lake Geneva?"

"I ought to. I was rather absurdly happy. "

She nodded, and her eyes were luminous. "There is such a thing as oldsake. Won't you, Grant, please, just remember back . .. A little . .. Oh, so little . .. Of what we were to each other . .. Then?"

"Now you're taking advantage, " he smiled, and returned to the attack onhis thumb. He drew the thorn out, inspected it critically, thenconcluded. "No, thank you. I'm not playing the Good Samaritan. "

"Yet you made this hard journey for an unknown man, " she urged. 

His impatience was sharply manifest. "Do you fancy I'd have moved a stephad I known he was my wife's lover?"

"But you are here . .. Now. And there he lies. What are you going to do?"

"Nothing. Why should I? I am not at the man's service. He pilfered me. "

She was about to speak, when a knock came on the door. 

"Get out!" he shouted. 

"If you want any assistance--"

"Get out! Get a bucket of water! Set it down outside!"

"You are going to. .. ?" she began tremulously. 

"Wash up. "

She recoiled from the brutality, and her lips tightened. 

"Listen, Grant, " she said steadily. "I shall tell his brother. I knowthe Strang breed. If you can forget old sake, so can I. If you don't dosomething, he'll kill you. Why, even Tom Daw would if I asked. "

"You should know me better than to threaten, " he reproved gravely, thenadded, with a sneer: "Besides, I don't see how killing me will help yourRex Strang. "

She gave a low gasp, closed her lips tightly, and watched his quick eyestake note of the trembling that had beset her. 

"It's not hysteria, Grant, " she cried hastily and anxiously, withclicking teeth. "You never saw me with hysteria. I've never had it. Idon't know what it is, but I'll control it. I am merely beside myself. It's partly anger--with you. And it's apprehension and fear. I don'twant to lose him. I do love him, Grant. He is my king, my lover. And Ihave sat here beside him so many dreadful days now. Oh, Grant, please, please. "

"Just nerves, " he commented drily. "Stay with it. You can best it. Ifyou were a man I'd say take a smoke. "

She went unsteadily back to the stool, where she watched him and foughtfor control. From the rough fireplace came the singing of a cricket. Outside two wolf-dogs bickered. The injured man's chest rose and fellperceptibly under the fur robes. She saw a smile, not altogetherpleasant, form on Linday's lips. 

"How much do you love him?" he asked. 

Her breast filled and rose, and her eyes shone with a light unashamedand proud. He nodded in token that he was answered. 

"Do you mind if I take a little time?" He stopped, casting about for theway to begin. "I remember reading a story--Herbert Shaw wrote it, Ithink. I want to tell you about it. There was a woman, young andbeautiful; a man magnificent, a lover of beauty and a wanderer. I don'tknow how much like your Rex Strang he was, but I fancy a sort ofresemblance. Well, this man was a painter, a bohemian, a vagabond. Hekissed--oh, several times and for several weeks--and rode away. Shepossessed for him what I thought you possessed for me . .. At LakeGeneva. In ten years she wept the beauty out of her face. Some womenturn yellow, you know, when grief upsets their natural juices. 

"Now it happened that the man went blind, and ten years afterward, ledas a child by the hand, he stumbled back to her. There was nothing left. He could no longer paint. And she was very happy, and glad he could notsee her face. Remember, he worshipped beauty. And he continued to holdher in his arms and believe in her beauty. The memory of it was vivid inhim. He never ceased to talk about it, and to lament that he could notbehold it. 

"One day he told her of five great pictures he wished to paint. If onlyhis sight could be restored to paint them, he could write _finis_ and becontent. And then, no matter how, there came into her hands an elixir. Anointed on his eyes, the sight would surely and fully return. "

Linday shrugged his shoulders. 

"You see her struggle. With sight, he could paint his five pictures. Also, he would leave her. Beauty was his religion. It was impossiblethat he could abide her ruined face. Five days she struggled. Then sheanointed his eyes. "

Linday broke off and searched her with his eyes, the high lights focusedsharply in the brilliant black. 

"The question is, do you love Rex Strang as much as that?"

"And if I do?" she countered. 

"Do you?"

"Yes. "

"You can sacrifice? You can give him up?"

Slow and reluctant was her "Yes. "

"And you will come with me?"

"Yes. " This time her voice was a whisper. "When he is well--yes. "

"You understand. It must be Lake Geneva over again. You will be mywife. "

She seemed to shrink and droop, but her head nodded. 

"Very well. " He stood up briskly, went to his pack, and beganunstrapping. "I shall need help. Bring his brother in. Bring them allin. Boiling water--let there be lots of it. I've brought bandages, butlet me see what you have in that line. --Here, Daw, build up that fireand start boiling all the water you can. --Here you, " to the other man, "get that table out and under the window there. Clean it; scrub it;scald it. Clean, man, clean, as you never cleaned a thing before. You, Mrs. Strang, will be my helper. No sheets, I suppose. Well, we'll managesomehow. --You're his brother, sir. I'll give the anęsthetic, but youmust keep it going afterward. Now listen, while I instruct you. In thefirst place--but before that, can you take a pulse?. .. "

IV

Noted for his daring and success as a surgeon, through the days andweeks that followed Linday exceeded himself in daring and success. Never, because of the frightful mangling and breakage, and because ofthe long delay, had he encountered so terrible a case. But he had neverhad a healthier specimen of human wreck to work upon. Even then he wouldhave failed, had it not been for the patient's catlike vitality andalmost uncanny physical and mental grip on life. 

There were days of high temperature and delirium; days of heart-sinkingwhen Strang's pulse was barely perceptible; days when he lay conscious, eyes weary and drawn, the sweat of pain on his face. Linday wasindefatigable, cruelly efficient, audacious and fortunate, daring hazardafter hazard and winning. He was not content to make the man live. Hedevoted himself to the intricate and perilous problem of making himwhole and strong again. 

"He will be a cripple?" Madge queried. 

"He will not merely walk and talk and be a limping caricature of hisformer self, " Linday told her. "He shall run and leap, swim riffles, ride bears, fight panthers, and do all things to the top of his fooldesire. And, I warn you, he will fascinate women just as of old. Willyou like that? Are you content? Remember, you will not be with him. "

"Go on, go on, " she breathed. "Make him whole. Make him what he was. "

More than once, whenever Strang's recuperation permitted, Linday put himunder the anęsthetic and did terrible things, cutting and sewing, rewiring and connecting up the disrupted organism. Later, developed ahitch in the left arm. Strang could lift it so far, and no farther. Linday applied himself to the problem. It was a case of more wires, shrunken, twisted, disconnected. Again it was cut and switch and easeand disentangle. And all that saved Strang was his tremendous vitalityand the health of his flesh. 

"You will kill him, " his brother complained. "Let him be. For God's sakelet him be. A live and crippled man is better than a whole and deadone. "

Linday flamed in wrath. "You get out! Out of this cabin with you tillyou can come back and say that I make him live. Pull--by God, man, you've got to pull with me with all your soul. Your brother's travellinga hairline razor-edge. Do you understand? A thought can topple him off. Now get out, and come back sweet and wholesome, convinced beyond allabsoluteness that he will live and be what he was before you and heplayed the fool together. Get out, I say. "

The brother, with clenched hands and threatening eyes, looked to Madgefor counsel. 

"Go, go, please, " she begged. "He is right. I know he is right. "

Another time, when Strang's condition seemed more promising, the brothersaid:

"Doc, you're a wonder, and all this time I've forgotten to ask yourname. "

"None of your damn business. Don't bother me. Get out. "

The mangled right arm ceased from its healing, burst open again in afrightful wound. 

"Necrosis, " said Linday. 

"That does settle it, " groaned the brother. 

"Shut up!" Linday snarled. "Get out! Take Daw with you. Take Bill, too. Get rabbits--alive--healthy ones. Trap them. Trap everywhere. "

"How many?" the brother asked. 

"Forty of them--four thousand--forty thousand--all you can get. You'llhelp me, Mrs. Strang. I'm going to dig into that arm and size up thedamage. Get out, you fellows. You for the rabbits. "

And he dug in, swiftly, unerringly, scraping away disintegrating bone, ascertaining the extent of the active decay. 

"It never would have happened, " he told Madge, "if he hadn't had so manyother things needing vitality first. Even he didn't have vitalityenough to go around. I was watching it, but I had to wait and chance it. That piece must go. He could manage without it, but rabbit-bone willmake it what it was. "

From the hundreds of rabbits brought in, he weeded out, rejected, selected, tested, selected and tested again, until he made his finalchoice. He used the last of his chloroform and achieved thebone-graft--living bone to living bone, living man and living rabbitimmovable and indissolubly bandaged and bound together, their mutualprocesses uniting and reconstructing a perfect arm. 

And through the whole trying period, especially as Strang mended, occurred passages of talk between Linday and Madge. Nor was he kind, norshe rebellious. 

"It's a nuisance, " he told her. "But the law is the law, and you'll needa divorce before we can marry again. What do you say? Shall we go toLake Geneva?"

"As you will, " she said. 

And he, another time: "What the deuce did you see in him anyway? I knowhe had money. But you and I were managing to get along with some sortof comfort. My practice was averaging around forty thousand a yearthen--I went over the books afterward. Palaces and steam yachts wereabout all that was denied you. "

"Perhaps you've explained it, " she answered. "Perhaps you were toointerested in your practice. Maybe you forgot me. "

"Humph, " he sneered. "And may not your Rex be too interested in panthersand short sticks?"

He continually girded her to explain what he chose to call herinfatuation for the other man. 

"There is no explanation, " she replied. And, finally, she retorted, "Noone can explain love, I least of all. I only knew love, the divine andirrefragable fact, that is all. There was once, at Fort Vancouver, abaron of the Hudson Bay Company who chided the resident Church ofEngland parson. The dominie had written home to England complaining thatthe Company folk, from the head factor down, were addicted to Indianwives. 'Why didn't you explain the extenuating circumstances?' demandedthe baron. Replied the dominie: 'A cow's tail grows downward. I do notattempt to explain why the cow's tail grows downward. I merely cite thefact. '"

"Damn clever women!" cried Linday, his eyes flashing his irritation. 

"What brought you, of all places, into the Klondike?" she asked once. 

"Too much money. No wife to spend it. Wanted a rest. Possibly overwork. I tried Colorado, but their telegrams followed me, and some of them didthemselves. I went on to Seattle. Same thing. Ransom ran his wife out tome in a special train. There was no escaping it. Operation successful. Local newspapers got wind of it. You can imagine the rest. I had tohide, so I ran away to Klondike. And--well, Tom Daw found me playingwhist in a cabin down on the Yukon. "

Came the day when Strang's bed was carried out of doors and into thesunshine. 

"Let me tell him now, " she said to Linday. 

"No; wait, " he answered. 

Later, Strang was able to sit up on the edge of the bed, able to walkhis first giddy steps, supported on either side. 

"Let me tell him now, " she said. 

"No. I'm making a complete job of this. I want no set-backs. There's aslight hitch still in that left arm. It's a little thing, but I am goingto remake him as God made him. Tomorrow I've planned to get into thatarm and take out the kink. It will mean a couple of days on his back. I'm sorry there's no more chloroform. He'll just have to bite his teethon a spike and hang on. He can do it. He's got grit for a dozen men. "

Summer came on. The snow disappeared, save on the far peaks of theRockies to the east. The days lengthened till there was no darkness, thesun dipping at midnight, due north, for a few minutes beneath thehorizon. Linday never let up on Strang. He studied his walk, his bodymovements, stripped him again and again and for the thousandth time madehim flex all his muscles. Massage was given him without end, untilLinday declared that Tom Daw, Bill, and the brother were properlyqualified for Turkish bath and osteopathic hospital attendants. ButLinday was not yet satisfied. He put Strang through his whole repertoireof physical feats, searching him the while for hidden weaknesses. He puthim on his back again for a week, opened up his leg, played a deft trickor two with the smaller veins, scraped a spot of bone no larger than acoffee grain till naught but a surface of healthy pink remained to besewed over with the living flesh. 

"Let me tell him, " Madge begged. 

"Not yet, " was the answer. "You will tell him only when I am ready. "

July passed, and August neared its end, when he ordered Strang out ontrail to get a moose. Linday kept at his heels, watching him, studyinghim. He was slender, a cat in the strength of his muscles, and he walkedas Linday had seen no man walk, effortlessly, with all his body, seemingto lift the legs with supple muscles clear to the shoulders. But it waswithout heaviness, so easy that it invested him with a peculiar grace, so easy that to the eye the speed was deceptive. It was the killingpace of which Tom Daw had complained. Linday toiled behind, sweating andpanting; from time to time, when the ground favoured, making short runsto keep up. At the end of ten miles he called a halt and threw himselfdown on the moss. 

"Enough!" he cried. "I can't keep up with you. "

He mopped his heated face, and Strang sat down on a spruce log, smilingat the doctor, and, with the camaraderie of a pantheist, at all thelandscape. 

"Any twinges, or hurts, or aches, or hints of aches?" Linday demanded. 

Strang shook his curly head and stretched his lithe body, living andjoying in every fibre of it. 

"You'll do, Strang. For a winter or two you may expect to feel the coldand damp in the old wounds. But that will pass, and perhaps you mayescape it altogether. "

"God, Doctor, you have performed miracles with me. I don't know how tothank you. I don't even know your name. "

"Which doesn't matter. I've pulled you through, and that's the mainthing. "

"But it's a name men must know out in the world, " Strang persisted. "I'll wager I'd recognise it if I heard it. "

"I think you would, " was Linday's answer. "But it's beside the matter. Iwant one final test, and then I'm done with you. Over the divide at thehead of this creek is a tributary of the Big Windy. Daw tells me thatlast year you went over, down to the middle fork, and back again, inthree days. He said you nearly killed him, too. You are to wait here andcamp to-night. I'll send Daw along with the camp outfit. Then it's up toyou to go to the middle fork and back in the same time as last year. "

V

"Now, " Linday said to Madge. "You have an hour in which to pack. I'll goand get the canoe ready. Bill's bringing in the moose and won't get backtill dark. We'll make my cabin to-day, and in a week we'll be inDawson. "

"I was in hope. .. . " She broke off proudly. 

"That I'd forego the fee?"

"Oh, a compact is a compact, but you needn't have been so hateful in thecollecting. You have not been fair. You have sent him away for threedays, and robbed me of my last words to him. "

"Leave a letter. "

"I shall tell him all. "

"Anything less than all would be unfair to the three of us, " wasLinday's answer. 

When he returned from the canoe, her outfit was packed, the letterwritten. 

"Let me read it, " he said, "if you don't mind. "

Her hesitation was momentary, then she passed it over. 

"Pretty straight, " he said, when he had finished it. "Now, are youready?"

He carried her pack down to the bank, and, kneeling, steadied the canoewith one hand while he extended the other to help her in. He watched herclosely, but without a tremor she held out her hand to his and preparedto step on board. 

"Wait, " he said. "One moment. You remember the story I told you of theelixir. I failed to tell you the end. And when she had anointed his eyesand was about to depart, it chanced she saw in the mirror that herbeauty had been restored to her. And he opened his eyes, and cried outwith joy at the sight of her beauty, and folded her in his arms. "

She waited, tense but controlled, for him to continue, a dawn of wonderfaintly beginning to show in her face and eyes. 

"You are very beautiful, Madge. " He paused, then added drily, "The restis obvious. I fancy Rex Strang's arms won't remain long empty. Good-bye. "

"Grant. .. . " she said, almost whispered, and in her voice was all thespeech that needs not words for understanding. 

He gave a nasty little laugh. "I just wanted to show you I wasn't such abad sort. Coals of fire, you know. "

"Grant. .. . "

He stepped into the canoe and put out a slender, nervous hand. 

"Good-bye, " he said. 

She folded both her own hands about his. 

"Dear, strong hand, " she murmured, and bent and kissed it. 

He jerked it away, thrust the canoe out from the bank, dipped the paddlein the swift rush of the current, and entered the head of the rifflewhere the water poured glassily ere it burst into a white madness offoam. 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

ZANE GREY'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list

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THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS

A New York society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center offrontier warfare. Her loyal superintendent rescues her when she iscaptured by bandits. A surprising climax brings the story to adelightful close. 

THE RAINBOW TRAIL

The story of a young clergyman who becomes a wanderer in the greatwestern uplands--until at last love and faith awake. 

DESERT GOLD

The story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends withthe finding of the gold which two prospectors had willed to the girl whois the story's heroine. 

RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE

A picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormonauthority ruled. The prosecution of Jane Withersteen is the theme of thestory. 

THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN

This is the record of a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones, known as the preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desertand of a hunt in "that wonderful country of deep canons and giantpines. "

THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT

A lovely girl, who has been reared among Mormons, learns to love a youngNew Englander. The Mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shallbecome the second wife of one of the Mormons--Well, that's the problemof this great story. 

THE SHORT STOP

The young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame andfortune as a professional ball player. His hard knocks at the start arefollowed by such success as clean sportsmanship, courage and honestyought to win. 

BETTY ZANE

This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautifulyoung sister of old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers. 

THE LONE STAR RANGER

After killing a man in self defense, Buck Duane becomes an outlaw alongthe Texas border. In a camp on the Mexican side of the river, he finds ayoung girl held prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings downupon himself the wrath of her captors and henceforth is hunted on oneside by honest men, on the other by outlaws. 

THE BORDER LEGION

Joan Randle, in a spirit of anger, sent Jim Cleve out to a lawlessWestern mining camp, to prove his mettle. Then realizing that she lovedhim--she followed him out. On her way, she is captured by a bandit band, and trouble begins when she shoots Kells, the leader--and nurses him tohealth again. Here enters another romance--when Joan, disguised as anoutlaw, observes Jim, in the throes of dissipation. A gold strike, athrilling robbery--gambling and gun play carry you along breathlessly. 

THE LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS, by Helen Cody Wetmore and Zane Grey

The life story of Colonel William F. Cody, "Buffalo Bill, " as told byhis sister and Zane Grey. It begins with his boyhood in Iowa and hisfirst encounter with an Indian. We see "Bill" as a pony express rider, then near Fort Sumter as Chief of the Scouts, and later engaged in themost dangerous Indian campaigns. There is also a very interestingaccount of the travels of "The Wild West" Show. No character in publiclife makes a stronger appeal to the imagination of America than "BuffaloBill, " whose daring and bravery made him famous. 

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STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER

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MICHAEL O'HALLORAN, Illustrated by Frances Rogers. 

Michael is a quick-witted little Irish newsboy, living in NorthernIndiana. He adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. He also assumesthe responsibility of leading the entire rural community upward andonward. 

LADDIE. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer. 

This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The storyis told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, but itis concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairsof older members of the family. Chief among them is that of Laddie andthe Princess, an English girl who has come to live in the neighborhoodand about whose family there hangs a mystery. 

THE HARVESTER. Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs. 

"The Harvester, " is a man of the woods and fields, and if the book hadnothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable. But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods, " there begins a romanceof the rarest idyllic quality. 

FRECKLES. Illustrated. 

Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which hetakes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the greatLimberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs tothe charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "TheAngel" are full of real sentiment. 

A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. Illustrated. 

The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, loveable type ofthe self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindnesstowards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty ofher soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren andunpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage. 

AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. Illustrations in colors. 

The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. Thestory is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing one. Thenovel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and itspathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. 

THE SONG OF THE CARDINAL. Profusely illustrated. 

A love ideal of the Cardinal bird and his mate, told with delicacy andhumor. 

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MYRTLE REED'S NOVELS

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LAVENDER AND OLD LACE. 

A charming story of a quaint corner of New England, where bygone romancefinds a modern parallel. The story centers round the coming of love tothe young people on the staff of a newspaper--and it is one of theprettiest, sweetest and quaintest of old-fashioned Love stories. 

MASTER OF THE VINEYARD. 

A pathetic love story of a young girl, Rosemary. The teacher of thecountry school, who is also master of the vineyard, comes to know herthrough her desire for books. She is happy in his love till anotherwoman comes into his life. But happiness and emancipation from her manytrials come to Rosemary at last. The book has a touch of humor andpathos that will appeal to every reader. 

OLD ROSE AND SILVER. 

A love story, --sentimental and humorous, --with the plot subordinate tothe character delineation of its quaint people and to the exquisitedescriptions of picturesque spots and of lovely, old, rare treasures. 

A WEAVER OF DREAMS. 

This story tells of the love-affairs of three young people, with anold-fashioned romance in the background. A tiny dog plays an importantrole in serving as a foil for the heroine's talking ingeniousness. Thereis poetry, as well as tenderness and charm, in this tale of a weaver ofdreams. 

A SPINNER IN THE SUN. 

An old-fashioned love story, of a veiled lady who lives in solitude andwhose features her neighbors have never seen. There is a mystery at theheart of the book that throws over it the glamour of romance. 

THE MASTER'S VIOLIN. 

A love story in a musical atmosphere. A picturesque, old German virtuosoconsents to take for his pupil a handsome youth who proves to have anaptitude for technique, but not the soul of an artist. The youth cannotexpress the love, the passion and the tragedies of life as can themaster. But a girl comes into his life, and through his passionate lovefor her, he learns the lessons that life has to give--and his soulawakes. 

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KATHLEEN NORRIS' STORIES

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MOTHER. Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. 

This book has a fairy-story touch, counterbalanced by the sturdy realityof struggle, sacrifice, and resulting peace and power of a mother'sexperiences. 

SATURDAY'S CHILD. 

Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes. 

Out on the Pacific coast a normal girl, obscure and lovely, makes aquest for happiness. She passes through three stages--poverty, wealthand service--and works out a creditable salvation. 

THE RICH MRS. BURGOYNE. 

Illustrated by Lucius H. Hitchcock. 

The story of a sensible woman who keeps within her means, refuses to beswamped by social engagements, lives a normal human life of variedinterests, and has her own romance. 

THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE. 

Frontispiece by Allan Gilbert. 

How Julia Page, reared in rather unpromising surroundings, liftedherself through sheer determination to a higher plane of life. 

THE HEART OF RACHAEL. 

Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers. 

Rachael is called upon to solve many problems, and is working out these, there is shown the beauty and strength of soul of one of fiction's mostappealing characters. 

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THE NOVELS OF MARY ROBERTS RINEHART

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"K. " Illustrated. 

K. LeMoyne, famous surgeon, drops out of the world that has known him, and goes to live in a little town where beautiful Sidney Page lives. Sheis in training to become a nurse. The joys and troubles of their younglove are told with that keen and sympathetic appreciation which has madethe author famous. 

THE MAN IN LOWER TEN. 

Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy. 

An absorbing detective story woven around the mysterious death of the"Man in Lower Ten. " The strongest elements of Mrs. Rinehart's successare found in this book. 

WHEN A MAN MARRIES. 

Illustrated by Harrison fisher and Mayo Bunker. 

A young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him; finds that hisaunt is soon to visit him. The aunt, who contributes to the familyincome and who has never seen the wife, knows nothing of the domesticupheaval. How the young man met the situation is humorously and mostentertainingly told. 

THE CIRCULAR STAIRCASE. Illus. By Lester Ralph

The summer occupants of "Sunnyside" find the dead body of ArnoldArmstrong, the son of the owner, on the circular staircase. Followingthe murder a bank failure is announced. Around these two events is wovena plot of absorbing interest. 

THE STREET OF SEVEN STARS. 

Illustrated (Photo Play Edition. )

Harmony Wells, studying in Vienna to be a great violinist, suddenlyrealizes that her money is almost gone. She meets a young ambitiousdoctor who offers her chivalry and sympathy, and together withworld-worn Dr. Anna and Jimmie, the waif, they share their love andslender means. 

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SEWELL FORD'S STORIES

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SHORTY McCABE. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. 

A very humorous story. The hero, an independent and vigorous thinker, sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way. 

SIDE-STEPPING WITH SHORTY. 

Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. 

Twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles. Sympathy with humannature and an abounding sense of humor are the requisites for"side-stepping with Shorty. "

SHORTY McCABE ON THE JOB. 

Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. 

Shorty McCabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped right up tothe minute. He aids in the right distribution of a "conscience fund, "and gives joy to all concerned. 

SHORTY McCABE'S ODD NUMBERS

Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. 

These further chronicles of Shorty McCabe tell of his studio forphysical culture, and of his experiences both on the East side and atswell yachting parties. 

TORCHY. Illus. By Geo. Biehm and Jas. Montgomery Flagg. 

A red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom peculiar to theyouths reared on the sidewalks of New York, tells the story of hisexperiences. 

TRYING OUT TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. 

Torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was in theprevious book. 

ON WITH TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. 

Torchy falls desperately in love with "the only girl that ever was, " butthat young society woman's aunt tries to keep the young people apart, which brings about many hilariously funny situations. 

TORCHY, PRIVATE SEC. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. 

Torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary forthe Corrugated Iron Company. The story is full of humor and infectiousAmerican slang. 

WILT THOU TORCHY. Illus. By F. Snapp and A. W. Brown. 

Torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the Florida West Coast, in company with a group of friends of the Corrugated Trust and with hisfriend's aunt, on which trip Torchy wins the aunt's permission to placean engagement ring on Vee's finger. 

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THE NOVELS OF CLARA LOUISE BURNHAM

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JEWEL: A Chapter in Her Life. 

Illustrated by Maude and Genevieve Cowles. 

A story breathing the doctrine of love and patience as exemplified inthe life of a child. Jewel will never grow old because of theimmortality of her love. 

JEWEL'S STORY BOOK. Illustrated by Albert Schmitt. 

A sequel to "Jewel, " in which the same characteristics of love andcheerfulness touch and uplift the reader. 

THE INNER FLAME. Frontispiece in color. 

A young mining engineer, whose chief ambition is to become an artist, but who has no friends with whom to realize his hopes, has a way openedto him to try his powers, and, of course, he is successful. 

THE RIGHT PRINCESS. 

At a fashionable Long Island resort, a stately English woman employs aforcible New England housekeeper to serve in her interesting home. Manyhumorous situations result. A delightful love affair runs through itall. 

THE OPENED SHUTTERS. 

Illustrated with Scenes from the Photo Play. 

A beautiful woman, at discord with life, is brought to realize, by hernew friends, that she may open the shutters of her soul to the blessedsunlight of joy by casting aside self love. 

THE RIGHT TRACK. 

Frontispiece in color by Greene Blumenschien. 

A story of a young girl who marries for money so that she can enjoythings intellectual. Neglect of her husband and of her two step childrenmakes an unhappy home till a friend brings a new philosophy of happinessinto the household. 

CLEVER BETSY. Illustrated by Rose O'Neill. 

The "Clever Betsy" was a boat--named for the unyielding spinster whomthe captain hoped to marry. Through the two Betsy's a delightful groupof people are introduced. 

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B. M. BOWER'S NOVELS

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CHIP OF THE FLYING U. 

Wherein the love affairs of Chip and Delia Whitman are charmingly andhumorously told. 

THE HAPPY FAMILY. 

A lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteenjovial, big hearted Montana cowboys. 

HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT. 

Describing a gay party of Easterners who exchange a cottage at Newportfor a Montana ranch-house. 

THE RANGE DWELLERS. 

Spirited action, a range feud between two families, and a Romeo andJuliet courtship make this a bright, jolly story. 

THE LURE OF THE DIM TRAILS. 

A vivid portrayal of the experience of an Eastern author among thecowboys. 

THE LONESOME TRAIL. 

A little branch of sage brush and the recollection of a pair of largebrown eyes upset "Weary" Davidson's plans. 

THE LONG SHADOW. 

A vigorous Western story, sparkling with the free outdoor life of amountain ranch. It is a fine love story. 

GOOD INDIAN. 

A stirring romance of life on an Idaho ranch. 

FLYING U RANCH. 

Another delightful story about Chip and his pals. 

THE FLYING U'S LAST STAND. 

An amusing account of Chip and the other boys opposing a party of schoolteachers. 

THE UPHILL CLIMB. 

A story of a mountain ranch and of a man's hard fight on the uphill roadto manliness. 

THE PHANTOM HERD. 

The title of a moving-picture staged it New Mexico by the "Flying U"boys. 

THE HERITAGE OF THE SIOUX. 

The "Flying U" boys stage a fake bank robbery for film purposes whichprecedes a real one for lust of gold. 

THE GRINGOS. 

A story of love and adventure on a ranch in California. 

STARR OF THE DESERT. 

A New Mexico ranch story of mystery and adventure. 

THE LOOKOUT MAN. 

A Northern California story full of action, excitement and love. 

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THE NOVELS OF WINSTON CHURCHILL

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THE INSIDE OF THE CUP. Illustrated by Howard Giles. 

The Reverend John Hodder is called to a fashionable church in amiddle-western city. He knows little of modern problems and in histheology is as orthodox as the rich men who control his church coulddesire. But the facts of modern life are thrust upon him; an awakeningfollows and in the end he works out a solution. 

A FAR COUNTRY. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer. 

This novel is concerned with big problems of the day. As _The Inside ofthe Cup_ gets down to the essentials in its discussion of religion, so_A Far Country_ deals in a story that is intense and dramatic, withother vital issues confronting the twentieth century. 

A MODERN CHRONICLE. Illustrated by J. H. Gardner Soper. 

This, Mr. Churchill's first great presentation of the Eternal Feminine, is throughout a profound study of a fascinating young American woman. Itis frankly a modern love story. 

MR. CREWE'S CAREER. Illus. By A. I. Keller and Kinneys. 

A new England state is under the political domination of a railway andMr. Crewe, a millionaire, seizes a moment when the cause of the peopleis being espoused by an ardent young attorney, to further his owninterest in a political way. The daughter of the railway president playsno small part in the situation. 

THE CROSSING. Illustrated by S. Adamson and L. Baylis. 

Describing the battle of Fort Moultrie, the blazing of the Kentuckywilderness, the expedition of Clark and his handful of followers inIllinois, the beginning of civilization along the Ohio and Mississippi, and the treasonable schemes against Washington. 

CONISTON. Illustrated by Florence Scovel Shinn. 

A deft blending of love and politics. A New Englander is the hero, acrude man who rose to political prominence by his own powers, and thensurrendered all for the love of a woman. 

THE CELEBRITY. An episode. 

An inimitable bit of comedy describing an interchange of personalitiesbetween a celebrated author and a bicycle salesman. It is the purest, keenest fun--and is American to the core. 

THE CRISIS. Illustrated with scenes from the Photo-Play. 

A book that presents the great crisis in our national life with splendidpower and with a sympathy, a sincerity, and a patriotism that areinspiring. 

RICHARD CARVEL. Illustrated by Malcolm Frazer. 

An historical novel which gives a real and vivid picture of Colonialtimes, and is good, clean, spirited reading in all its phases andinteresting throughout. 

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JOHN FOX, JR'S. STORIES OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS

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[Illustration]

THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE. 

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. 

The "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall treethat stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. The fame of the pinelured a young engineer through Kentucky to catch the trail, and when hefinally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the_foot-prints of a girl_. And the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, andthe trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madderchase than "the trail of the lonesome pine. "

THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. 

This is a story of Kentucky, in a settlement known as "Kingdom Come. " Itis a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which oftensprings the flower of civilization. 

"Chad, " the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence hecame--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood, seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered andmothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming waif, by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in themountains. 

A KNIGHT OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. 

The scenes are laid along the waters of the Cumberland, the lair ofmoonshiner and of feudsman. The knight is a moonshiner's son, and theheroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "The Blight. " Twoimpetuous young Southerners' fall under the spell of "The Blight's"charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in thelove making of the mountaineers. 

Included in this volume is "Hell fer-Sartain" and other stories, some ofMr. Fox's most entertaining Cumberland valley narratives. 

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BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS

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SEVENTEEN. Illustrated by Arthur William Brown. 

No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal youngpeople of this story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of thetime when the reader was Seventeen. 

PENROD. Illustrated by Gordon Grant. 

This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous, tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is afinished, exquisite work. 

PENROD AND SAM. Illustrated by Worth Brehm. 

Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen, " this book contains some remarkable phasesof real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishnessthat have ever been written. 

THE TURMOIL. Illustrated by C. E. Chambers. 

Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against hisfather's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of afine girl turns Bibb's life from failure to success. 

THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA. Frontispiece. 

A story of love and politics, --more especially a picture of a countryeditor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the loveinterest. 

THE FLIRT. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood. 

The "Flirt, " the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement, drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads anotherto lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromisingsuitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister. 

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NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE

HANDSOMELY BOUND IN CLOTH. ILLUSTRATED. 

May be had wherever books are sold Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list. 

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MAVERICKS. 

A tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler, " whose depredationsare so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. Oneof the sweetest love stories ever told. 

A TEXAS RANGER. 

How a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law intothe mesquit, saved the life of an innocent man after a series ofthrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to Wyoming, and then passedthrough deadly peril to ultimate happiness. 

WYOMING. 

In this vivid story of the outdoor West the author has captured thebreezy charm of "cattleland, " and brings out the turbid life of thefrontier with all its engaging dash and vigor. 

RIDGWAY OF MONTANA. 

The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where politics andmining industries are the religion of the country. The politicalcontest, the love scene, and the fine character drawing give this storygreat strength and charm. . 

BUCKY O'CONNOR. 

Every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete withthe dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbingfascination of style and plot. 

CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT. 

A story of Arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitterfeud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. The heroine is a most unusualwoman and her love story reaches a culmination that is fittinglycharacteristic of the great free West. 

BRAND BLOTTERS. 

A story of the Cattle Range. This story brings out the turbid life ofthe frontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charming loveinterest running through its 320 pages. 

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