[Illustration: During the trip he sat in the far corner of the car. ]

THE UNDER DOG

BY

F. HOPKINSON SMITH

ILLUSTRATED

1903

_To my Readers_:

In the strife of life some men lose place through physical weakness orlost opportunities or impaired abilities; struggle on as they may, theymust always be the Under Dog in the fight. 

Others are misjudged--often by their fellows; sometimes by the law. Ifyou are one of the fellows, you pass the man with a nod. If you are thelaw, you crush out his life with a sentence. 

Still others lose place from being misunderstood; from being out oftouch with their surroundings; out of reach of those who, if they knew, would help; men with hearts chilled by neglect, whose smoulderingcoals--coals deep hidden in their nature--need only the warm breath ofsome other man's sympathy to be fanned back into life. 

Once in a while there can be met another kind, one whose poverty oruncouthness makes us shun him at sight; and yet one, if we did but knowit, with a joyous melody in his heart, ofttimes in tune with our ownharmonies. This kind is rare, and when found adds another ripple to ourscanty stock of laughter. 

These Under Dogs--grave and gay--have always appealed to me. Theirstories are printed here in the hope that they may also appeal to you. 

F. H. S. 

NEW YORK. 

CONTENTS

_No Respecter of Persons I. The Crime of Samanthy North II. Bud Tilden, Mail-Thief III. "Eleven Months and Ten Days"Cap'n Bob of the ScreamerA Procession of Umbrellas"Doc" Shipman's FeePlain Fin--Paper-HangerLong JimCompartment Number Four--Cologne to ParisSammyMarny's ShadowMuffles--The Bar-KeepHis Last Cent_

ILLUSTRATIONS

_During the trip he sat in the far corner of the car

"I threw him in the bushes and got the letter"

"I git so tired, so tired; please let me go"

I saw the point of a tiny shoe

Everybody was excited and everybody was mad

I hardly knew him, he was so changed_

NO RESPECTER OF PERSONS

I

THE CRIME OF SAMANTHY NORTH

I have been requested to tell this story, and exactly as it happened. The moral any man may draw for himself. I only want to ask my readersthe question I have been asking myself ever since I saw the girl: Whyshould such things be among us?

 * * * * *

Marny's studio is over the Art Club. 

He was at work on a picture of a cañon with some Sioux Indians in theforeground, while I sat beside him, watching the play of hismasterly brush. 

Dear old Aunt Chloe, in white apron and red bandanna, her round blackface dimpled with smiles, was busying herself about the room, straightening the rugs, puffing up the cushions of the divan, pushingback the easels to get at the burnt ends of abandoned cigarettes, doingher best, indeed, to bring some kind of domestic order out of Marny'sBohemian chaos. 

Now and then she interpolated her efforts with such remarks as:

"No, doan' move. De Colonel"--her sobriquet for Marny--"doan' keer wharhe drap his seegars. But doan' you move, honey"--sobriquet for me. "Ikin git 'em. " Or "Clar to goodness, you pillows look like a passel o'hogs done tromple ye, yo're dat mussed. " Critical remarks like theselast were given in a low tone, and, although addressed to the offendingarticles themselves, accompanied by sundry cuffs of her big hand, werereally intended to convey Aunt Chloe's private opinion of the habits ofher master and his friends. 

The talk had drifted from men of the old frontier to border scouts, andthen to the Kentucky mountaineers, whom Marny knows as thoroughly as hedoes the red men. 

"They are a great race, these mountaineers, " he said to me, as he tossedthe end of another cigarette on Aunt Chloe's now clean-swept floor. Marny spoke in crisp, detached sentences between the pats of his brush. "Big, strong, whalebone-and-steel kind of fellows; rather fight thaneat. Quick as lightning with a gun; dead shots. Built just like ourborder men. See that scout astride of his horse?"--and he pointed withhis mahl-stick to a sketch on the wall behind him--"looks like the realthing, don't he? Well, I painted him from an up-country moonshiner. Found him one morning across the river, leaning up against a telegraphpole, dead broke. Been arrested on a false charge of making whiskeywithout a license, and had just been discharged from the jail. Hadn'tmoney enough to cross the bridge, and was half-starved. So I braced himup a little, and brought him here and painted him. "

We all know with what heartiness Marny can "brace. " It doubtless tookthree cups of coffee, half a ham, and a loaf of bread to get him on hisfeet, Marny watching him with the utmost satisfaction until the processwas complete. 

"You ought to look these fellows over; they're worth it. Savage lot, some of 'em. Remind me of the people who live about the foothills of theBalkans. Mountaineers are the same the world over, anyway. But you don'twant to hunt for these Kentuckians in their own homes unless you sendword you are coming, or you may run up against the end of a rifle beforeyou know it. I don't blame them. " Marny leaned back in his chair andturned toward me. "The Government is always hunting them as if they werewild beasts, instead of treating them as human beings. They can'tunderstand why they shouldn't get the best prices they can for theircorn. They work hard enough to get it to grow. Their theory is that theIllinois farmer feeds the corn to his hogs and sells the product aspork, while the mountaineer feeds it to his still and sells the productto his neighbors as whiskey. That a lot of Congressmen who never hoed arow of corn in their lives, nor ran a furrow, or knew what it was tostarve on the proceeds, should make laws sending a man to jail becausehe wants to supply his friends with liquor, is what riles them, and Idon't blame them for that, either. "

I arose from my chair and examined the sketch of the starvingmountaineer. It was a careful study of a man with clear-cut features, slim and of wiry build, and was painted with that mastery of detailwhich distinguishes Marny's work over that of every other figure-painterof his time. 

The painter squeezed a tube of white on his palette, relit hiscigarette, fumbled over his sheaf of brushes and continued:

"The first of every month--just about now, by the way--they bring twentyor thirty of these poor devils down from the mountains and lock them upin Covington jail. They pass Aunt Chloe's house. Oh, Aunt Chloe!"--andhe turned to the old woman--"did you see any of those 'wild people' thelast two or three days?--that's what she calls 'em, " and he laughed. 

"Dat I did, Colonel--hull drove on 'em. 'Nough to make a body sick tosee 'em. Two on 'em was chained together. Dat ain't no way to treatpeople, if dey is ornery. I wouldn't treat a dog dat way. "

Aunt Chloe, sole dependence of the Art Club below-stairs: day or nightnurse--every student in the place knows the touch of her hand when hishead splits with fever or his bones ache with cold; provider of buttons, suspender loops and buckles; go-between in most secret and confidentialaffairs; mail-carrier--the dainty note wrapped up in her handkerchief soas not to "spile it!"--no, _she_ wouldn't treat a dog that way, noranything else that lives and breathes or has feeling, human or brute. 

"If there's a new 'drove' of them, as Aunt Chloe says, " remarked Marny, tossing aside his brushes, "let's take a look at them. They are worthyour study. You may never have another chance. "

This was why it happened that within the hour Marny and I crossed thebridge and left his studio and the city behind us. 

The river below was alive with boats, the clouds of steam from theirfunnels wreathed about the spans. Street-cars blocked the roadway;tugging horses, sweating under the lash of their drivers' whips, strained under heavy loads. The air was heavy with coal-smoke. Throughthe gloom of the haze, close to the opposite bank, rose a grim, squarebuilding of granite and brick, its grimy windows blinking through ironbars. Behind these, shut out from summer clouds and winter snows, bereftof air and sunshine, deaf to the song of happy birds and the low hum ofwandering bees, languished the outcast and the innocent, the vicious andthe cruel. Hells like these are the infernos civilization builds inwhich to hide its mistakes. 

Marny turned toward me as we reached the prison. "Keep close, " hewhispered. "I know the Warden and can get in without a permit, " and hemounted the steps and entered a big door opening into a cold, bare hallwith a sanded floor. To the right of the hall swung another doorlabelled "Chief of Police. " Behind this door was a high railing closedwith a wooden gate. Over this scowled an officer in uniform. 

"My friend Sergeant Cram, " said Marny, as he introduced us. The officerand I shook hands. The hand was thick and hard, the knotted knucklesleaving an unpleasant impression behind them as they fell frommy fingers. 

A second door immediately behind this one was now reached, the Sergeantacting as guide. This door was of solid wood, with a square panel cutfrom its centre, the opening barred like a birdcage. Peering throughthese bars was the face of another attendant. This third door, at amumbled word from the Sergeant, was opened wide enough to admit us intoa room in which half a dozen deputies were seated at cards. In theopposite wall hung a fourth door, of steel and heavily barred, throughwhich, level with the eyes, was cut a peep-hole concealed by a swingingsteel disk. 

The Sergeant moved rapidly across the room, pushed aside the disk andbrought to view the nose and eyes of a prison guard. 

As our guide shot back a bolt, a click like the cocking of a gun soundedthrough the room, followed by the jangle of a huge iron ring strung withkeys. Selecting one from the number, he pushed it into the key-hole andthrew his weight against the door. At its touch the mass of steel swunginward noiselessly as the door of a bank-vault. With the swinging of thedoor there reached us the hot, stuffy smell of unwashed bodies understeam-heat--the unmistakable odor that one sometimes meets in acourt-room. 

Marny and I stepped inside. The Sergeant closed the slab of steel, locking us inside, and then, nodding to us through the peep-hole, returned to his post in the office. 

We stood now on the rim of the crater, looking straight into theinferno. By means of the dull light that struggled through the grimy, grated windows, I discovered that we were in a corridor having an ironfloor that sprang up and down under our feet. This was flanked by a lineof steel cages--huge beast-dens really--reaching to the ceiling. In eachof these cages was a small, double-barred gate. 

These dens were filled with men and boys; some with faces thrust throughthe bars, some with hands and arms stretched out as if for air; one hunghalf-way up the bars, clinging with hands and feet apart, as if to geta better hold and better view. I had seen dens like these before: theman-eating Bengal tiger at the London Zoo lives in one of them. 

The Warden, who was standing immediately behind the attendant, steppedforward and shook Marny's hand. I discharged my obligations with a nod. I had never been in a place like this before, and the horror of itssurroundings overcame me. I misjudged the Warden, no doubt. That thisman might have a wife who loved him and little children who clung to hisneck, and that underneath his hard, forbidding exterior a heart couldbeat with any tenderness, never occurred to me. As I looked him overwith a half-shrinking glance, I became aware of a slash indenting hispock-marked cheek that might have been made by a sabre cut--was, probably, for it takes a brave man to be a warden; a massive head set onbig shoulders; a square chin, the jaw hinged like a burglar's jimmy; andtwo keen, restless, elephant eyes. 

But it was his right ear that absorbed my attention--or rather, what wasleft of his right ear. Only the point of it stuck up; the rest wasclipped as clean as a rat-terrier's. Some fight to a finish, I thought;some quick upper-cut of the razor of a frenzied negro writhing under theviselike grasp of this man-gorilla with arms and hands of steel; or somesudden whirl of a stiletto, perhaps, which had missed his heart andtaken his ear. I did not ask then, and I do not know now. It was a badgeof courage, whatever it was--a badge which thrilled and horrified me. AsI looked at the terrible mutilation, I could but recall the hideousfascination that overcame Josiane, the heroine of Hugo's great novel, "The Man Who Laughs, " when she first caught sight of Gwynplaine'smouth--slit from ear to ear by the Comprachicos. The outrage on theWarden was not so grotesque, but the effect was the same. 

I moved along the corridor and stood before the beasts. One, an old manin a long white beard, leathery, sun-tanned face and hooked nose, clasped the bars with both hands, gazing at us intently. I recognizedhis kind the moment I looked at him. He was like my Jonathan Gordon, myold fisherman who lived up in the Franconia Notch. His coarse, homespunclothes, dyed brown with walnut-shells, slouch hat crowning his shock ofgray hair, and hickory shirt open at the throat, only heightened theresemblance; especially the hat canted over one eye. Why he wore the hatin such a place I could not understand, unless to be ready for departurewhen his summons came. 

There were eight other beasts besides this old man in the same cage, onea boy of twenty, who leaned against the iron wall with his hands in hispockets, his eyes following my every movement. I noticed a new bluepatch on one of his knees, which his mother, doubtless, had sewn withher own hands, her big-rimmed spectacles on her nose, the tallow diplighting the log cabin. I recognized the touch. And the boy. I used togo swimming with one just like him, forty years ago, in an oldswimming-hole in the back pasture, and hunt for honey that thebumblebees had stored under the bank. 

The old man with the beard and the canting hat looked into my eyeskeenly, but he did not speak. He had nothing to say, perhaps. Somethinghuman had moved before him, that was all; something that could come andgo at its pleasure and break the monotony of endless hours. 

"How long have you been here?" I asked, lowering my voice and steppingcloser to the bars. 

Somehow I did not want the others to hear. It was almost as though Iwere talking to Jonathan--my dear Jonathan--and he behind bars!

"Eleven months and three days. Reckon I be the oldest"--and he lookedabout him as if for confirmation. "Yes, reckon I be. "

"What for?"

"Sellin'. "

The answer came without the slightest hesitation and without theslightest trace in his voice of anything that betokened either sorrowfor his act or shame for the crime. 

"Eleven months and three days of this!" I repeated to myself. Instinctively my mind went back to all I had done, seen, and enjoyed inthese eleven months and three days. Certain individual incidents moredelightful than others stood out clear and distinct: that day under thetrees at Cookham, the Thames slipping past, the white-sailed cloudsabove my tent of leaves; a morning at Dort, when Peter and I watched theDutch luggers anchor off the quay, and the big storm came up; a nightbeyond San Giorgio, when Luigi steered the gondola in mid-air over a seaof mirrored stars and beneath a million incandescent lamps. 

I passed on to the next cage, Marny watching me but saying nothing. Thescout was in this one, the "type" in Marny's sketch. There were three ofthem--tall, hickory-sapling sort of young fellows, with straight legs, flat stomachs, and thin necks, like that of a race-horse. One had thelook of an eagle, with his beak-nose and deep-set, uncowed eyes. Anotherwore his yellow hair long on his neck, Custer-fashion. The third sat onthe iron floor, his knees level with his chin, his head in his hand. Hehad a sweetheart, perhaps, who loved him, or an old mother who waswringing her hands at home. This one, I learned afterward, had come withthe last batch and was not yet accustomed to his surroundings; theothers had been awaiting trial for months. All of them wore homespunclothes--not the ready-made clothes sold at the stores, but those thatsome woman at home had cut, basted, and sewn. 

Marny asked them what they were up for. Their answers differed slightlyfrom that of the old man, but the crime and its penalty were the same. 

"Makin', " they severally replied. 

There was no lowering of the eyelids when they confessed; no hangdoglook about the mouth. They would do it again when they got out, and theyintended to, only they would shoot the quicker next time. The earth wastheirs and the fulness thereof, that part of it which they owned. Theirgrandfathers before them had turned their corn into whiskey and no manhad said nay, and so would they. Not the corn that they had stolen, butthe corn that they had ploughed and shucked. It was their corn, not theGovernment's. Men who live in the wilderness, and feed and clothethemselves on the things they raise with their own hands, have nofine-spun theories about the laws that provide revenue for a Governmentthey never saw, don't want to see, and couldn't understand if they did. 

Marny and I stood before the grating, looking each man over separately. Strange to say, the artistic possibilities of my visit faded out of mymind. The picturesqueness of their attire, the browns and graysaccentuated here and there by a dash of red around a hat-band orshirt-collar--all material for my own or my friend's brush--made notthe slightest impression upon me. It was the close smell, the dim, horrible light, the quick gleam of a pair of eyes looking out from undershocks of matted hair--the eyes of a panther watching his prey; the dullstare of some boyish face with all hope crushed out of it; these werethe things that possessed me. 

As I stood there absorbed in the terrors before me, I was startled bythe click of the catch and the clink of keys, followed by the noiselessswing of the steel door as it closed again. 

I turned and looked down the corridor. 

Into the gloom of this inferno, this foul-smelling cavern, thisassemblage of beasts, stepped a girl of twenty. A baby wrapped aboutwith a coarse shawl lay in her arms. 

She passed me with eyes averted, and stood before the gate of the laststeel cage--the woman's end of the prison--the turnkey following slowly. Cries of "Howdy, gal! What did ye git?" wore hurled after her, but shemade no answer. The ominous sound of drawn bolts and the click of a key, and the girl and baby were inside the bars of the cage. These bars, foreshortened from where I stood, looked like a row of gun-barrels in anarmory rack. 

"That girl a prisoner?" I asked the Warden. 

I didn't believe it. I knew, of course, that it couldn't be. I instantlydivined that she had come to comfort some brother or father, or lover, perhaps, and had brought the baby with her because there was no place toleave it at home. I only asked the question of the Warden so he coulddeny it, and deny it, too, with some show of feeling--this man with thesliced ear and the gorilla hands. 

"Yes, she's been here some time. Judge suspended sentence a while ago. She's gone after her things. "

There was no joy over her release in his tones, nor pity for hercondition. 

He spoke exactly, it seemed to me, as he would have done had he been incharge of the iron-barred gate of the Colosseum two thousand years ago. All that had saved the girl then from the jaws of his hungriest lion wasthe twist of Nero's thumb. All that saved her now was the nod of theJudge's head--both had the giving of life and death. 

A thin mist swam before my eyes, and a great lump started from my heartand stuck fast in my throat, but I did not answer him; it would havedone no good--might have enraged him, in fact. I walked straight to thegate through which she had entered and peered in. I could see betweenthe gun-barrels now. 

It was like the other cages, with barred walls and sheet-iron floors. Built in one corner of the far end was a strong box of steel, six feetby four by the height of the ceiling, fitted with a low door. This boxwas lined with a row of bunks, one above the other. From one was thrusta small foot covered with a stocking and part of a skirt; some womanprisoner was ill, perhaps. Against the wall of this main cage sat twonegro women; one, I learned afterward, had stabbed a man the weekbefore; the other was charged with theft. The older--the murderess--cameforward when she caught sight of me, thrust out her hands between thebars, and begged for tobacco. 

In the corner of the same cage was another steel box. I saw the stoopingfigure of the young girl come out of it as a dog comes out of a kennel. She walked toward the centre of the cage--she still had the baby in herarms--laid the child on the sheet-iron floor, where the light from thegrimy windows fell the clearer, and returned to the steel box. The childwore but one garment--a short red-flannel shirt that held the stomachtight and left the shrivelled legs and arms bare. It lay flat on itsback, its eyes gazing up at the ceiling, its pinched face in high lightagainst the dull background. Now and then it would fight the air withits little fists or kick its toes above its head. 

The girl took from the kennel a broken paper box and, returning with it, knelt beside the child and began arranging its wardrobe, the twonegresses watching her listlessly. Not much of a wardrobe--only aragged shawl, some socks, a worsted cap, a pair of tiny shoes, and aCanton-flannel wrapper, once white. This last had little arms and ashort waist. The skirt was long enough to tuck around her baby's feetwhen she carried it. 

I steadied myself by one of the musket-barrels, watched her while shefolded the few pitiful garments, waited until she had guided theshrunken arms into the sleeves of the soiled wrapper and had buttoned itover the baby's chest. Then, when the lump in my throat was about tostop my breathing, I said:

"Will you come here, please, to the grating? I want to speak to you. "

She raised her head slowly, looked at me in a tired, hopeless way, laidher baby back on the sheet-iron floor, and walked toward me. As she cameinto the glow of the overhead light, I saw that she was even youngerthan I had first supposed--nearer seventeen than twenty--a girl withsomething of the curious look of a young heifer in a face drawn andlined but with anxiety. Parted over a low forehead, and tucked behindher ears, streamed two braids of straight yellow hair in two unkemptstrands over her shoulders. Across her bosom and about her slenderfigure was hooked a yellow-brown dress made in one piece. The hooks andeyes showed wherever the strain came, disclosing the coarse chemise andthe brown of the neck beneath. This strain, the strain of anill-fitting garment, accentuated all the clearer, in the wrinkles aboutthe shoulders and around the hips, the fulness of her delicatelymodelled lines; quite as would a jacket buttoned over the Milo. On thethird finger of one hand was a flat silver ring, such as is sold by thecountry peddlers. 

She stood quite close to the bars, patiently awaiting my next question. She had obeyed my summons like a dog who remembered a former discipline. No curiosity, not the slightest interest; nothing but blind obedience. The tightened grasp of these four walls had taught her this. 

"Where do you come from?" I asked. 

I had to begin in some way. 

"From Pineyville. " The voice was that of a child, with a hard, dry notein it. 

"How old is the baby?"

"Three months and ten days. " She had counted the child's age. She hadthought enough for that. 

"How far is Pineyville?"

"I doan' know. It took mos' all night to git here. " There was no changein the listless monotone. 

"Are you going out now?"

"Yes, soon's I kin git ready. "

"How are you going to get home?"

"Walk, I reckon. " There was no complaint in her tone, no suddenexhibition of any suffering. She was only stating facts. 

"Have you no money?"

"No. " Same bald statement, and in the same hopeless tone. She had notmoved--not even to look at the child. 

"What's the fare?"

"Six dollars and sixty-five cents. " This was stated with greatexactness. It was the amount of this appalling sum that had, no doubt, crushed out her last ray of hope. 

"Did you sell any whiskey?"

"Yes, I tol' the Judge so. " Still no break in her voice. It was onlyanother statement. 

"Oh! you kept a saloon?"

"No. "

"How did you sell it, then?"

"Jest out of a kag--in a cup. "

"Had you ever sold any before?"

"No. "

"Why did you sell it, then?"

She had been looking into my face all this time, one thin, begrimedhand--the one with the ring on it--tight around the steel bar of thegate that divided us. With the question, her eyes dropped until theyseemed to rest on this hand. The answer came slowly:

"The baby come, and the store wouldn't chalk nothin' for us no more. "Then she added, quickly, as if in defence of the humiliating position, "Our corn-crib was sot afire last fall and we got behind. "

For a brief instant she leaned heavily against the bars as if forsupport, then her eyes sought her child. I waited until she hadreassured herself of its safety, and continued my questions, myfinger-nails sinking deeper all the time into the palms of my hands. 

"Did you make the whiskey?"

"No, it was Martin Young's whiskey. My husband works for him. Martinsent the kag down one day, and I sold it to the men. I give the moneyall to Martin 'cept the dollar he was to gimme for sellin' it. "

"How came you to be arrested?"

"One o' the men tol' on me 'cause I wouldn't trust him. Martin tol' menot to let 'em have it 'thout they paid. "

"How long have you been here?"

"Three months next Tuesday. "

"That baby only two weeks old when they arrested you?" My blood ran hotand cold, and my collar seemed five sizes too small, but I still held onto myself. 

"Yes. " The answer was given in the same monotonous, listless voice--nota trace of indignation over the outrage. Women with suckling babies hadno rights that anybody was bound to respect--not up in Pineyville;certainly not the gentlemen with brass shields under the lapels oftheir coats and Uncle Sam's commissions in their pockets. It was thelaw of the land--why find fault with it?

I leaned closer so that I could touch her hand if need be. 

"What's your name?"

"Samanthy North. "

"What's your husband's name?"

"His name's North. " There was a trace of surprise now in the generalmonotone Then she added, as if to leave no doubt in my mind, "Leslie North. "

"Where is he?" I determined now to round up every fact. 

"He's home. We've got another child, and he's takin' care of it till Igit back. He'd be to the railroad for me if he knowed I was coming; butI couldn't tell him when to start 'cause I didn't know how longthey'd keep me. "

"Is your home near the railroad?"

"No, it's thirty-six miles furder. "

"How will you get from the railroad?"

"Ain't no way 'cept walkin'. "

I had it now, the whole damnable, pitiful story, every fact clear-cut tothe bone. I could see it all: the look of terror when the deputy wokeher from her sleep and laid his hand upon her; the parting with theother child; the fright of the helpless husband; the midnight ride, shehardly able to stand, the pitiful scrap of her own flesh and bloodtight in her arms; the procession to the jail, the men in front chainedtogether, she bringing up the rear, walking beside the last guard; thefirst horrible night in jail, the walls falling upon her, the darknessoverwhelming her, the puny infant resting on her breast; the staring, brutal faces when the dawn came, followed by the coarse jest. No wonderthat she hung limp and hopeless to the bars of her cage, all the springand buoyancy, all the youth and lightness, crushed out of her. 

I put my hand through the bars and laid it on her wrist. 

"No, you won't walk; not if I can help it. " This outburst got past thelump slowly, one word at a time, each syllable exploding hot like ballsfrom a Roman candle. "You get your things together quick as you can, andwait here until I come back, " and I turned abruptly and motioned to theturnkey to open the gate. 

In the office of the Chief of Police outside I found Marny talking toSergeant Cram. He was waiting until I finished. It was all an old storywith Marny--every month a new batch came to Covington jail. 

"What about that girl, Sergeant--the one with the baby?" I demanded, ina tone that made them both turn quickly. 

"Oh, she's all right. She told the Judge a straight story this morning, and he let her go on 'spended sentence. They tried to make her plead'Not guilty, ' but she wouldn't lie about it, she said. She can go whenshe gets ready. What are you drivin' at? Are you goin' to put up forher?"--and a curious look overspread his face. 

"I'm going to get her a ticket and give her some money to get home. Locking up a seventeen-year-old girl, two hundred miles from home, in aden like that, with a baby two weeks old, may be justice, but I call itbrutality! Our Government can pay its expenses without that kind ofrevenue. " The whole bundle of Roman candles was popping now. Inconsequent, wholly illogical, utterly indefensible explosions. Butonly my heart was working. 

The Sergeant looked at Marny, relaxed the scowl about his eyebrows, andsmiled; such "softies" seemed rare to him. 

"Well, if you're stuck on her--and I'm damned if I don't believe youare--let me give you a piece of advice. Don't give her no money till shegets on the train, and whatever you do, don't leave her here over night. There's a gang around here"--and he jerked his thumb in the direction ofthe door--"that might--" and he winked knowingly. 

"You don't mean--" A cold chill suddenly developed near the roots of myhair and trickled to my spine. 

"Well, she's too good-lookin' to be wanderin' round huntin' for aboardin'-house. You see her on the train, that's all. Starts at eightto-night. That's the one they all go by--those who git out and can raisethe money. She ought to leave now, 'cordin' to the regulations, but aslong as you're a friend of Mr. Marny's I'll keep her here in the officetill I go home at seven o'clock. Then you'd better have someone to lookafter her. No, you needn't go back and see her"--this in answer to amovement I made toward the prison door. "I'll fix everything. Mr. Marnyknows me. "

I thanked the Sergeant, and we started for the air outside--something wecould breathe, something with a sky overhead and the dear earthunderfoot, something the sun warmed and the free wind cooled. 

Only one thing troubled me now. I could not take the girl to the trainmyself, neither could Marny, for I had promised to lecture that samenight for the Art Club at eight o'clock, and Marny was to introduce me. The railroad station was three miles away. 

"I've got it!" cried Marny, when we touched the sidewalk, elbowing ourway among the crowd of loafers who always swarm about a place of thiskind. (He was as much absorbed in the girl's future, when he heard herstory, as I was. ) "Aunt Chloe lives within two blocks of us--let's hunther up. She ought to be at home by this time. "

The old woman was just entering her street door when she heard Marny'svoice, her basket on her arm, a rabbit-skin tippet about her neck. 

"Dat I will, honey, " she answered, positively, when the case was laidbefore her. "_Dat I will_; 'deed an' double I will. "

She stepped into the house, left her basket, joined us again on thesidewalk, and walked with us back to the Sheriff's office. 

"All right, " said the Sergeant, when we brought her in. "Yes, I know theold woman; the gal will be ready for her when she comes, but I guess I'dbetter send one of my men along with 'em both far as the depot. Ain't nouse takin' no chances. "

The dear old woman followed us again until we found a clerk in a branchticket-office, who picked out a long green slip from a library oftickets, punched it with the greatest care with a pair of steel nippers, and slipped it into an official envelope labelled: "K. C. Pineyville, Ky. 8 P. M. "

With this tightly grasped in her wrinkled brown hand, together withanother package of Marny's many times in excess of the stage fare ofthirty-six miles and which she slipped into her capacious bosom, AuntChloe "made her manners" with the slightest dip of a courtesy and leftus with the remark:

"Sha'n't nothin' tech her, honey; gwinter stick right close to her tillde steam-cars git to movin', I'll be over early in de mawnin' an' let yeknow. Doan' worry, honey; ain't nothin' gwinter happen to her arter Igits my han's on her. "

When I came down to breakfast, Aunt Chloe was waiting for me in thehall. She looked like the old woman in the fairy-tale in her short blackdress that came to her shoe-tops, snow-white apron and headkerchief, covered by a close-fitting nun-like hood--only the edge of thehandkerchief showed--making her seem the old black saint that she was. It not being one of her cleaning-days, she had "kind o' spruced herselfup a li'l mite, " she said. She carried her basket, covered now with awhite starched napkin instead of the red-and-yellow bandanna ofwork-days. No one ever knew what this basket contained. "Her luncheon, "some of the art-students said; but if it did, no one had ever seen hereat it. "Someone else's luncheon, " Marny added; "some sick body whom shelooks after. There are dozens of them. "

"Larrovers fur meddlins, " Aunt Chloe invariably answered those whosecuriosity got the better of their discretion--an explanation which onlydeepened the mystery, no one being able to translate it. 

"She's safe, honey!" Aunt Chloe cried, when she caught sight of me. "Itoted de baby, an' she toted de box. Po' li'l chinkapin! Mos' break abody's heart to see it! 'Clar to goodness, dat chile's leg warn'tbigger'n a drumstick picked to de bone. De man de Sheriff sent wid usdidn't go no furder dan de gate, an' when he lef us dey all sneaked inan' did dere bes' ter git her from me. Wuss-lookin' harum-scarums youever see. Kep' a-tellin' her de ticket was good for ten days an' dey'dgo wid her back to town; an' dat if she'd stay dey'd take her 'cross deribber to see de city. I seed she wanted ter git home to her husban', an' she tol' 'em so. Den dey tried to make her believe he was comin' forher, an' dey pestered her so an' got her so mixed up wid deir lies dat Iwas feared she was gwine to give in, arter all. She warn't nothin' but apo' weak thing noways. Den I riz up an' tol' 'em dat I'd call apleeceman an' take dat ticket from her an' de money I gin her beside, ifshe didn't stay on dat car. I didn't give her de 'velope; I had dat inmy han' to show de conductor when he come, so he could see whar she waster git off. Here it is"--and she handed me the ticket-seller'senvelope. "Warn't nothin' else saved me but _dat_. When dey see'd it, dey knowed den somebody was a-lookin' arter her an' dey give in. Po'critter! I reckon she's purty nigh home by dis time!"

The story is told. It is all true, every sickening detail. Other storiesjust like it, some of them infinitely more pitiful, can be written dailyby anyone who will peer into the cages of Covington jail. There isnothing to be done; nothing _can_ be done. 

It is the law of the land--the just, holy, beneficent law, which is norespecter of persons. 

II

BUD TILDEN, MAIL-THIEF

"That's Bud Tilden, the worst of the bunch, " said the jail Warden--thewarden with the sliced ear and the gorilla hands. "Reminds me of acat'mount I tried to tame once, only he's twice as ugly. "

As he spoke, he pointed to a prisoner in a slouch hat clinging half-wayup the steel bars of his cage, his head thrust through as far as hischeeks would permit, his legs spread apart like the letter A. 

"What's he here for?" I asked. 

"Bobbin' the U-nited States mail. "

"Where?"

"Up in the Kentucky mountains, back o' Bug Holler. Laid for the carrierone night, held him up with a gun, pulled him off his horse, slashed thebottom out o' the mail-bag with his knife, took what letters he wanted, and lit off in the woods, cool as a chunk o' ice. Oh! I tell ye, he's nosardine; you kin see that without my tellin' ye. They'll railroadhim, sure. "

"When was he arrested?"

"Last month--come down in the November batch. The dep'ties had a circus'fore they got the irons on him. Caught him in a clearin' 'bout twomiles back o' the Holler. He was up in a corn-crib with a Winchesterwhen they opened on him. Nobody was hurted, but they would a-been ifthey'd showed the top o' their heads, for he's strong as a bull and kinscalp a squirrel at fifty yards. They never would a-got him if theyhadn't waited till dark and smoked him out, so one on 'em told me. "He spoke as if the prisoner had been a rattlesnake or asheep-stealing wolf. 

The mail-thief evidently overheard, for he dropped, with a cat-likemovement, to the steel floor and stood looking at us through the barsfrom under his knit eyebrows, his eyes watching our every movement. 

There was no question about his strength. As he stood in the glare ofthe overhead light I could trace the muscles through his roughhomespun--for he was a mountaineer, pure and simple, and not a city-bredthief in ready-made clothes. I saw that the bulging muscles of hiscalves had driven the wrinkles of his butternut trousers close up underthe knee-joint and that those of his thighs had rounded out the coarsecloth from the knee to the hip. The spread of his shoulders hadperformed a like service for his shirt, which was stretched out of shapeover the chest and back. This was crossed by but one suspender, and wasopen at the throat--a tree-trunk of a throat, with all the cordssupporting the head firmly planted in the shoulders. The arms were longand had the curved movement of the tentacles of a devil-fish. The handswere big and bony, the fingers knotted together with knuckles of iron. He wore no collar nor any coat; nor did he bring one with him, so theWarden said. 

I had begun my inventory at his feet as he stood gazing sullenly at us, his great red hands tightly clasped around the bars. When in myinspection I passed from his open collar up his tree-trunk of a throatto his chin, and then to his face, half-shaded by a big slouch hat, which rested on his flaring ears, and at last looked into his eyes, aslight shock of surprise went through me. I had been examining this wildbeast with my judgment already warped by the Warden; that's why I beganat his feet and worked up. If I had started in on an unknown subject, prepared to rely entirely upon my own judgment, I would have begun athis eyes and worked down. My shock of surprise was the result of thisupward process of inspection. An awakening of this kind, the awakeningto an injustice done a man we have half-understood, often comes afteryears of such prejudice and misunderstanding. With me this awakeningcame with my first glimpse of his eyes. 

There was nothing of the Warden's estimate in these eyes; nothing ofcruelty nor deceit nor greed. Those I looked into were a light blue--awashed-out china blue; eyes that shone out of a good heart rather thanout of a bad brain; not very deep eyes; not very expressive eyes; dull, perhaps, but kindly. The features were none the less attractive; themouth was large, well-shaped, and filled with big white teeth, not onemissing; the nose straight, with wide, well-turned nostrils; the browlow, but not cunning nor revengeful; the chin strong and well-modelled, the cheeks full and of good color. A boy of twenty I should havesaid--perhaps twenty-five; abnormally strong, a big animal with smallbrain-power, perfect digestion, and with every function of his bodyworking like a clock. Photograph his head and come upon it suddenly in acollection of others, and you would have said: "A big country bumpkinwho ploughs all day and milks the cows at night. " He might be thebloodthirsty ruffian, the human wild beast, the Warden had described, but he certainly did not look it. I would like to have had just such aman on any one of my gangs with old Captain Joe over him. He would havefought the sea with the best of them and made the work of the surf-mentwice as easy if he had taken a hand at the watch-tackles. 

I turned to the Warden again. My own summing up differed materially fromhis estimate, but I did not thrust mine upon him. He had had, of course, a much wider experience among criminals--I, in fact, had had none atall--and could not be deceived by outward appearances. 

"You say they are going to try him to-day?" I asked. 

"Yes, at two o'clock. Nearly that now, " and he glanced at his watch. "All the witnesses are down, I hear. They claim there's something elsemixed up in it besides robbing the mail, but I don't remember what. Somany of these cases comin' and goin' all the time! His old father was into see him yesterday, and a girl. Some o' the men said she was hissweetheart, but he don't look like that kind. You oughter seen hisfather, though. Greatest jay you ever see. Looked like afly-up-the-creek. Girl warn't much better lookin'. They make 'em out o'brick-clay and ham fat up in them mountains. Ain't human, half on 'em. Better go over and see the trial. "

I waited in the Warden's office until the deputies came for theprisoner. When they had formed in line on the sidewalk I followed behindthe posse, crossing the street with them to the Court-house. Theprisoner walked ahead, handcuffed to a deputy who was a head shorterthan he and half his size. A second officer walked behind; I kept closeto this rear deputy and could see every movement he made. I noticed thathis fingers never left his hip pocket and that his eye never waveredfrom the slouch hat on the prisoner's head. He evidently intended totake no chances with a man who could have made mince-meat of both ofthem had his hands been free. 

We parted at the main entrance, the prisoner, with head erect and acertain fearless, uncowed look on his boyish face, preceding thedeputies down a short flight of stone steps, closely followed bythe officer. 

The trial, I could see, had evidently excited unusual interest. When Imounted the main flight to the corridor opening into the trial chamberand entered the great hallway, it was crowded with mountaineers--wild, shaggy, unkempt-looking fellows, most of them. All were dressed in thegarb of their locality: coarse, rawhide shoes, deerskin waistcoats, rough, butternut-dyed trousers and coats, and a coon-skin or army slouchhat worn over one eye. Many of them had their saddle-bags with them. There being no benches, those who were not standing were squatting ontheir haunches, their shoulders against the bare wall. Others werehuddled close to the radiators. The smell of escaping steam from theseradiators, mingling with the fumes of tobacco and the effluvia from somany closely packed human bodies, made the air stifling. 

I edged my way through the crowd and pushed through the court-room door. The Judge was just taking his seat--a dull, heavy-looking man with abald head, a pair of flabby, clean-shaven cheeks, and two small eyesthat looked from under white eyebrows. Half-way up his forehead rested apair of gold spectacles. The jury had evidently been out for luncheon, for they were picking their teeth and settling themselves comfortably intheir chairs. 

The court-room--a new one--outraged, as usual, in its construction everyknown law of proportion, the ceiling being twice too high for the walls, and the big, uncurtained windows (they were all on one side) letting ina glare of light that made silhouettes of every object seen against it. Only by the closest attention could one hear or see in a room like this. 

The seating of the Judge was the signal for the admission of the crowdin the corridor, who filed in through the door, some forgetting toremove their hats, others passing the doorkeeper in a defiant way. Eachman, as soon as his eyes became accustomed to the glare from thewindows, looked furtively toward the prisoners' box. Bud Tilden wasalready in his seat between the two deputies, his hands unshackled, hisblue eyes searching the Judge's face, his big slouch hat on the floor athis feet. What was yet in store for him would drop from the lips ofthis face. 

The crier of the court, a young negro, made his announcements. 

I found a seat between the prisoner and the bench, so that I could hearand see the better. The Government prosecutor occupied a seat at a tableto my right, between me and the three staring Gothic windows. When herose from his chair his body came in silhouette against their light. With his goat-beard, beak-nose, heavy eyebrows, long, black hairresting on the back of his coat-collar, bent body, loose-jointed arms, his coat-tails swaying about his thin legs, he looked (I did not see himin any other light) like a hungry buzzard flapping his wings beforetaking flight. 

He opened the case with a statement of facts. He would prove, he said, that this mountain-ruffian was the terror of the neighborhood, in whichlife was none too safe; that although this was the first time he hadbeen arrested, there were many other crimes which could be laid at hisdoor, had his neighbors not been afraid to inform upon him. 

Warming up to the subject, flapping his arms aloft like a pair of wings, he recounted, with some dramatic fervor, what he called the "lonely rideof the tried servant of the Government over the rude passes of themountains, " recounting the risks which these faithful men ran; then hereferred to the sanctity of the United States mails, reminding the juryand the audience--particularly the audience--of the chaos which wouldensue if these sacred mail-bags were tampered with; "the stricken, tear-stained face of the mother, " for instance, who had been waiting fordays and weeks for news of her dying son, or "the anxious merchantbrought to ruin for want of a remittance which was to tide him over somefinancial distress, " neither of them knowing that at that very momentsome highwayman like the prisoner "was fattening off the result of histheft. " This last was uttered with a slapping of both hands on histhighs, his coat-tails swaying in unison. He then went on in a gravertone to recount the heavy penalties the Government imposed forviolations of the laws made to protect this service and its agents, andwound up by assuring the jury of his entire confidence in theirintelligence and integrity, knowing, as he did, how just would be theirverdict, irrespective of the sympathy they might feel for one who hadpreferred "the hidden walks of crime to the broad open highway of anhonest life. " Altering his tone again and speaking in measured accents, he admitted that, although the Government's witnesses had not been ableto identify the prisoner by his face, he having concealed himself in thebushes while the rifling of the pouch was in progress, yet so full aview was gotten of his enormous back and shoulders as to leave no doubtin his mind that the prisoner before them had committed the assault, since it would not be possible to find two such men, even in themountains of Kentucky. As his first witness he would call themail-carrier. 

Bud had sat perfectly stolid during the harangue. Once he reached downwith one long arm and scratched his bare ankle with his forefinger, hiseyes, with the gentle light in them that had first attracted me, glancing aimlessly about the room; then he settled back again in hischair, its back creaking to the strain of his shoulders. Whenever helooked at the speaker, which was seldom, a slight curl, expressing morecontempt than anxiety, crept along his lips. He was, no doubt, comparinghis own muscles to those of the buzzard and wondering what he would doto him if he ever caught him out alone. Men of enormous strengthgenerally measure the abilities of others by their own standards. 

"Mr. Bowditch will take the chair!" cried the prosecutor. 

At the summons, a thin, wizen-faced, stubbly-bearded man of fifty, hisshirt-front stained with tobacco-juice, rose from his seat and took thestand. The struggle for possession of the bag must have been a briefone, for he was but a dwarf compared to the prisoner. In a low, constrained voice--the awful hush of the court-room had evidentlyimpressed him--and in plain, simple words, in strong contrast to theflowery opening of the prosecutor, he recounted the facts as he knewthem. He told of the sudden command to halt; of the attack in the rearand the quick jerking of the mail-bags from beneath his saddle, upsetting him into the road; of the disappearance of the robber in thebushes, his head and shoulders only outlined against the dim light ofthe stars; of the flight of the robber, and of his finding the bag a fewyards away from the place of assault with the bottom cut. None of theletters was found opened; which ones were missing tie couldn't say. Ofone thing he was sure--none were left behind by him on the ground, whenhe refilled the bag. 

The bag, with a slash in the bottom as big as its mouth, was then passedaround the jury-box, each juror in his inspection of the cut seeming tobe more interested in the way in which the bag was manufactured (some ofthem, I should judge, had never examined one before) than in the way inwhich it was mutilated. The bag was then put in evidence and hung overthe back of a chair, mouth down, the gash in its bottom in full view ofthe jury. This gash, from where I sat, looked like one inflicted on anold-fashioned rubber football by a high kicker. 

Hank Halliday, in a deerskin waistcoat and dust-stained slouch hat, which he crumpled up in his hand and held under his chin, was thenext witness. 

In a jerky, strained voice he told of his mailing a letter, from avillage within a short distance of Bug Hollow, to a girl friend of hison the afternoon of the night of the robbery. He swore positively thatthis letter was in this same mail-bag, because he had handed it to thecarrier himself before he got on his horse, and added, with equalpositiveness, that it had never reached its destination. The value orpurpose of this last testimony, the non-receipt of the letter, was notclear to me, except upon the theory that the charge of robbery mightfail if it could be proved by the defence that no letter was missing. 

Bud fastened his eyes on Halliday and smiled as he made this laststatement about the undelivered letter, the first smile I had seenacross his face, but gave no other sign indicating that Halliday'stestimony affected his chances in any way. 

Then followed the usual bad-character witnesses--both friends ofHalliday, I could see; two this time--one charging Bud with all thecrimes in the decalogue, and the other, under the lead of theprosecutor, launching forth into an account of a turkey-shoot in whichBud had wrongfully claimed the turkey--an account which was at last cutshort by the Judge in the midst of its most interesting part, as havingno particular bearing on the case. 

Up to this time no one had appeared for the accused, nor had anyobjection been made to any part of the testimony except by the Judge. Neither had any one of the prosecutor's witnesses been asked a singlequestion in rebuttal. 

With the resting of the Government's case a dead silence fell upon theroom. 

The Judge waited a few moments, the tap of his lead-pencil soundingthrough the stillness, and then asked if the attorney for the defencewas ready. 

No one answered. Again the Judge put the question, this time with someimpatience. 

Then he addressed the prisoner. 

"Is your lawyer present?"

Bud bent forward in his chair, put his hands on his knees, and answeredslowly, without a tremor in his voice:

"I ain't got none. One come yisterday to the jail, but he didn't likewhat I tol' him and he ain't showed up since. "

A spectator sitting by the door, between an old man and a young girl, both evidently from the mountains, rose to his feet and walked brisklyto the open space before the Judge. He had sharp, restless eyes, woregloves, and carried a silk hat in one hand. 

"In the absence of the prisoner's counsel, your Honor, " he said, "I amwilling to go on with this case. I was here when it opened and haveheard all the testimony. I have also conferred with some of thewitnesses for the defence. "

"Did I not appoint counsel in this case yesterday?" said the Judge, turning to the clerk. 

There was a hurried conference between the two, the Judge listeningwearily, cupping his ear with his hand and the clerk rising on his toesso that he could reach his Honor's hearing the easier. 

"It seems, " said the Judge, resuming his position, and addressing theroom at large, "that the counsel already appointed has been called outof town on urgent business. If the prisoner has no objection, and ifyou, sir--" looking straight at the would-be attorney--"have heard allthe testimony so far offered, the Court sees no objection to youracting in his place. "

The deputy on the right side of the prisoner leaned over, whisperedsomething to Tilden, who stared at the Judge and shook his head. It wasevident that Bud had no objection to this nor to anything else, for thatmatter. Of all the men in the room he seemed the least interested. 

I turned in my seat and touched the arm of my neighbor. 

"Who is that man who wants to go on with the case?"

"Oh, that's Bill Cartwright, one of the cheap, shyster lawyers alwayshanging around here looking for a job. His boast is he never lost asuit. Guess the other fellow skipped because he thought he had a betterscoop somewhere else. These poor devils from the mountains never haveany money to pay a lawyer. Court appoints 'em. "

With the appointment of the prisoner's attorney the crowd in thecourt-room craned their necks in closer attention, one man standing onhis chair for a better view until a deputy ordered him down. They knewwhat the charge was. It was the defence they all wanted to hear. Thathad been the topic of conversation around the tavern stoves of BugHollow for months past. 

Cartwright began by asking that the mail-carrier be recalled. The littleman again took the stand. 

The methods of these police-court lawyers always interest me. They aregamblers in evidence, most of them. They take their chances as the casesgo on; some of them know the jury--one or two is enough; some arelearned in the law--more learned, often, than the prosecutor, who is aGovernment appointee with political backers, and now and then one ofthem knows the Judge, who is also a political appointee and occasionallyhas his party to care for. All are valuable in an election, and a few ofthem are honest. This one, my neighbor told me, had held office as apolice justice and was a leader in his district. 

Cartwright drew his gloves carefully from his hands, laid his silk haton a chair, dropped into it a package of legal papers tied with a redstring, and, adjusting his glasses, fixed his eyes on the mail-carrier. The expression on his face was bland and seductive. 

"At what hour do you say the attempted robbery took place, Mr. Bowditch?"

"About eleven o'clock. "

"Did you have a watch?"

"No. "

"How do you know, then?" The question was asked in a mild way as if heintended to help the carrier's memory. 

"I don't know exactly; it may have been half-past ten or eleven. "

"You, of course, saw the man's face?"

"No. "

"Then you heard him speak?" Same tone as if trying his best to encouragethe witness in his statements. 

"No. " This was said with some positiveness. The mail-carrier evidentlyintended to tell the truth. 

Cartwright turned quickly with a snarl like that of a dog suddenlygoaded into a fight. 

"How can you swear, then, that the prisoner made the assault?"

The little man changed color and stammered out in excuse:

"He was as big as him, anyway, and there ain't no other like him nowherein them parts. "

"Oh, he was as _big_ as him, was he?" This retort came with undisguisedcontempt. "And there are no others like him, eh? Do you know _everybody_in Bell County, Mr. Bowditch?"

The mail-carrier did not answer. 

Cartwright waited until the discomfiture of the witness could be felt bythe jury, dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and, looking over theroom, beckoned to an old man seated by a girl--the same couple he hadbeen talking to before his appointment by the Court--and said in aloud voice:

"Will Mr. Perkins Tilden take-the stand?"

At the mention of his father's name, Bud, who had maintained throughouthis indifferent attitude, straightened himself erect in his chair withso quick a movement that the deputy edged a foot nearer andinstinctively slid his hand to his hip-pocket. 

A lean, cadaverous, painfully thin old man in answer to his name rose tohis feet and edged his way through the crowd to the witness-chair. Hewas an inch taller than his son, though only half his weight, and wasdressed in a suit of cheap cloth of the fashion of long ago, the coattoo small for him, even for his shrunken shoulders, and the sleevesreaching only to his wrists. As he took his seat, drawing in his longlegs toward his chair, his knee-bones, under the strain, seemed to be onthe point of coming through his trousers. His shoulders were bowed, theincurve of his thin stomach following the line of his back. As hesettled back in his chair he passed his hand nervously over his mouth, as if his lips were dry. 

Cartwright's manner to this witness was the manner of a lackey who hangson every syllable that falls from his master's lips. 

"At what time, Mr. Tilden, did your son Bud reach your house on thenight of the robbery?"

The old man cleared his throat and said, as if weighing each word:

"At ten minutes past ten o'clock. "

"How do you fix the time?"

"I had just wound the clock when Bud come in. "

"How, Mr. Tilden, how far is it to the cross-roads where themail-carrier says he was robbed?"

"About a mile and a half from my place. "

"And how long would it take an able-bodied man to walk it?"

"'Bout fifteen minutes. "

"Not more?"

"No, sir. "

The Government's attorney had no questions to ask, and said so with acertain assumed nonchalance. 

Cartwright bowed smilingly, dismissed Bud's father with a satisfiedgesture of the hand, looked over the court-room with the air of a manwho was unable at the moment to find what he wanted, and in a low voicecalled: "Jennetta Mooro!"

The girl, who sat within three feet of Cartwright, having followed theold man almost to the witness-stand, rose timidly, drew her shawl closerabout her shoulders, and took the seat vacated by Bud's father. She hadthat half-fed look in her face which one sometimes finds in the women ofthe mountain-districts. She was frightened and very pale. As she pushedher poke-bonnet back from her ears her unkempt brown hair fell abouther neck. 

But Tilden, at mention of her name, half-started from his chair andwould have risen to his feet had not the officer laid his hand upon him. 

He seemed on the point of making some protest which the action of theofficer alone restrained. 

Cartwright, after the oath had been administered, began in a voice solow that the jury stretched their necks to listen:

"Miss Moore, do you know the prisoner?"

"Yes, sir, I know Bud. " She had one end of the shawl between her fingersand was twisting it aimlessly. Every eye in the room was fastenedupon her. 

"How long have you known him?"

There was a pause, and then she said in a faint voice:

"Ever since he and me growed up. "

"Ever since you and he grew up, eh?" This repetition was in a loudvoice, so that any juryman dull of hearing might catch it. "Was he atyour house on the night of the robbery?"

"Yes, sir. "

"At what time?"

"'Bout ten o'clock. " This was again repeated. 

"How long did he stay?"

"Not more'n ten minutes. "

"Where did he go then?"

"He said he was goin' home. "

"How far is it to his home from your house?"

"'Bout ten minutes' walk. "

"That will do, Miss Moore, " said Cartwright, and took his seat. 

The Government prosecutor, who had sat with shoulders hunched up, hiswings pulled in, rose to his feet with the aid of a chair-back, stretched his long arms above his head, and then, lowering one handlevel with the girl's face, said, as he thrust one sharp, skinny fingertoward her:

"Did anybody else come to see you the next night after the robbery?"

There was a pause, during which Cartwright busied himself with hispapers. One of his methods was never to seem interested in thecross-examination of any one of his witnesses. 

The girl's face flushed, and she began to fumble the shawl nervouslywith her fingers. 

"Yes, Hank Halliday, " she murmured, in a low voice. 

"Mr. Halliday, who has testified here?"

"Yes, sir. "

"What did he want?"

"He wanted to know if I'd got a letter he'd writ me day before. And Itol' him I hadn't. Then he 'lowed he'd a-brought it to me himself ifhe'd knowed Bud was goin' to turn thief and hold up the mail-man. Ihadn't heard nothin' 'bout it and nobody else had till he began to talk. I opened the door then and tol' him to walk out; that I wouldn't hearnobody speak that way 'bout Bud Tilden. That was 'fore they'd'rested Bud. "

"Have you got that letter now?"

"No, sir. "

"Did you ever get it?"

"No, sir. "

"Did you ever see it?"

"No, and I don't think it was ever writ. "

"But he _has_ written you letters before?"

"He used to; he don't now. "

"That will do. "

The girl took her place again behind the old man. 

Cartwright rose to his feet with great dignity, walked to the chair onwhich rested his hat, took from it the package of papers to serve as anorator's roll--he did not open it, and they evidently had no bearing onthe case--and addressed the Judge, the package held aloft in his hand:

"Your Honor, there's not been a particle of evidence so far produced inthis court to convict this man of this crime. I have not conferred withhim, and therefore do not know what answers he has to make to thisinfamous charge. I am convinced, however, that his own statement underoath will clear up at once any doubt remaining in the minds of thishonorable jury of his innocence. "

This was said with a certain ill-concealed triumph in his voice. I sawnow why he had taken the case, and saw, too, the drift of hisdefence--everything thus far pointed to the old hackneyed plea of analibi. He had evidently determined on this course of action when he satlistening to the stories Bud's father and the girl had told him as hesat beside them on the bench near the door. Their testimony, taken inconnection with the uncertain testimony of the Government's principalwitness, the mail-carrier, as to the exact time of the assault, togetherwith the prisoner's testimony stoutly denying the crime, would insureeither an acquittal or a disagreement. The first would result in hisfees being paid by the court, the second would add to this amountwhatever Bud's friends could scrape together to induce him to go on withthe second trial. In either case his masterly defence was good for anadditional number of clients and perhaps--of votes. It is humiliating tothink that any successor of Choate, Webster, or Evarts should earn hisbread in this way, but it is true all the same. 

"The prisoner will take the stand!" cried Cartwright, in a firm voice. 

As the words left his mouth, the noise of shuffling feet and theshifting of positions for a bettor view of the prisoner became so loudthat the Judge rapped for order, the clerk repeating it with the end ofhis ruler. 

Bud lifted himself to his feet slowly (his being called was evidently asmuch of a surprise to him as it was to the crowded room), looked abouthim carelessly, his glance resting first on the girl's face and then onthe deputy beside him. He stepped clumsily down from the raised platformand shouldered his way to the witness-chair. The prosecuting attorneyhad evidently been amazed at the flank movement of his opponent, for hemoved his position so he could look squarely in Bud's face. As theprisoner sank into his seat, the room became hushed in silence. 

Bud kissed the book mechanically, hooked his feet together and, claspinghis big hands across his waist-line, settled his great body between thearms of the chair, with his chin resting on his shirt-front. Cartwright, in his most impressive manner, stepped a foot closer to Bud's chair. 

"Mr. Tilden, you have heard the testimony of the mail-carrier; now begood enough to tell the jury where you were on the night of therobbery--how many miles from this _mail-sack_?" and he waved his handcontemptuously toward the bag. It was probably the first time in all hislife that Bud had heard any man dignify his personality with anysuch title. 

In recognition of the compliment, Bud raised his chin slightly and fixedhis eyes more intently on his questioner. Up to this time he had nottaken the slightest notice of him. 

"'Bout as close's I could git to it--'bout three feet, I shouldsay--maybe less. "

Cartwright gave a slight start and bit his lip. Evidently the prisonerhad misunderstood him. The silence continued. 

"I don't mean _here_, Mr. Tilden;" and he pointed to the bag. "I meanthe night of the so-called robbery. "

"That's what I said; 'bout as close's I could git. "

"Well, did you rob the mail?" This was asked uneasily, but with ahalf-concealed laugh in his voice as if the joke would appear ina minute. 

"No. "

"No, of course not. " The tone of relief was apparent. 

"Well, do you know anything about the cutting of the bag?"

"Yes. "

"Who did it?"

"Me. "

"_You?"_ The surprise was now an angry one. 

"Yes, me. "

At this unexpected reply the Judge pushed his glasses high up on hisforehead with a quick motion and leaned over his bench, his eyes on theprisoner. The jury looked at each other with amazement; such scenes wererare in their experience. The prosecuting attorney smiled grimly. Cartwright looked as if someone had struck him a sudden blow inthe face. 

"What for?" he stammered. It was evidently the only question left forhim to ask. All his self-control was gone now, his face livid, an angrylook in his eyes. That any man with State's prison yawning before himcould make such a fool of himself seemed to astound him. 

Bud turned slowly and, pointing his finger at Halliday, said betweenhis closed teeth:

"Ask Hank Halliday; he knows. "

The buzzard sprang to his feet. There was the scent of carrion in theair now; I saw it in his eyes. 

"We don't want to ask Mr. Halliday; we want to ask you. Mr. Halliday isnot on trial, and we want the truth if you can tell it. "

The irregularity of the proceeding was unnoticed in the tenseexcitement. 

Bud looked at him as a big mastiff looks at a snarling cur with a lookmore of pity than contempt. Then he said slowly, accentuating each word:

"Keep yer shirt on. You'll git the truth--git the whole of it. Git whatyou ain't lookin' for. There ain't no liars up in our mountains 'ceptthem skunks in Gov'ment pay you fellers send up to us, and things likeHank Halliday. He's wuss nor any skunk. A skunk's a varmint that don'tstink tell ye meddle with him, but Hank Halliday stinks all the time. He's one o' them fellers that goes 'round with books in their pocketswith picters in 'em that no girl oughter see and no white man oughterread. He gits 'em down to Louisville. There ain't a man in Pondvillewon't tell ye it's true. He shoved one in my outside pocket over toPondville when I warn't lookin', the day 'fore I held up this manBowditch, and went and told the fellers 'round the tavern that I hadit. They come and pulled it out and had the laugh on me, and then hebegan to talk and said he'd write to Jennetta and send her one o' thepicters by mail and tell her he'd got it out o' my coat, and he did. SamKellers seen Halliday with the letter and told me after Bowditch had gotit in his bag. I laid for Bowditch at Pondville Corners, but he got pastsomehow, and I struck in behind Bill Somers's mill, and crossed themountain and caught up with him as he was ridin' through the piece o'woods near the clearin'. I didn't know but he'd try to shoot, and Ididn't want to hurt him, so I crep' up behind and threw him in thebushes, cut a hole in the bag, and got the letter. That's the only one Iwanted and that's the only one I took. I didn't rob no mail, but Iwarn't goin' to hev an honest, decent girl like Jennetta git thatletter, and there warn't no other way. "

The stillness that followed was broken only by the Judge's voice. 

"What became of that letter?"

"I got it. Want to see it?"

"Yes. "

Bud felt in his pockets as if looking for something, and then, with anexpression as if he had suddenly remembered, remarked:

"No, I ain't got none. They stole my knife when they 'rested me. " Thenfacing the courtroom, he added: "Somebody lend me a knife, and pass memy hat over there 'longside them sheriffs. "

[Illustration: "I threw him in the bushes and got the letter. "]

The court-crier took the hat from one of the deputies, and the clerk, inanswer to a nod of assent from the Judge, passed Bud an ink-eraser witha steel blade in one end. 

The audience now had the appearance of one watching a juggler perform atrick. Bud grasped the hat in one hand, turned back the brim, insertedthe point of the knife between the hat lining and the hat itself anddrew out a yellow envelope stained with dirt and perspiration. 

"Here it is. I ain't opened it, and what's more, they didn't find itwhen they searched me;" and he looked again toward the deputies. 

The Judge leaned forward in his seat and said:

"Hand me the letter. "

The letter was passed up by the court-crier, every eye following it. HisHonor examined the envelope, and, beckoning to Halliday, said:

"Is this your letter?"

Halliday stepped to the side of the Judge, fingered the letter closely, and said: "Looks like my writin'. "

"Open it and see. "

Halliday broke the seal with his thumb-nail, and took out half a sheetof note-paper closely written on one side, wrapped about a smallpicture-card. 

"Yes, it's my letter;" and he glanced sheepishly around the room andhung his head, his face scarlet. 

The Judge leaned back in his chair, raised his hand impressively, andsaid gravely:

"This case is adjourned until ten o'clock tomorrow. "

Two days later I again met the Warden as he was entering the main doorof the jail. He had been over to the Court-house, he said, helping thedeputy along with a new "batch of moonshiners. "

"What became of Bud Tilden?" I asked. 

"Oh, he got it in the neck for robbin' the mails, just's I told you hewould. Peached on himself like a d---- fool and give everything deadaway. He left for Kansas this morning. Judge give him twenty years. "

He is still in the lock-step at Leavenworth prison. He has kept it upnow for two years. His hair is short, his figure bent, his stepsluggish. The law is slowly making an animal of him--that wise, righteous law which is no respecter of persons. 

III

"ELEVEN MONTHS AND TEN DAYS"

It was a feeble old man of seventy-two this time who sat facing thejury, an old man with bent back, scant gray hair, and wistful, pleading eyes. 

He had been arrested in the mountains of Kentucky and had been broughtto Covington for trial, chained to another outlaw, one of those"moonshiners" who rob the great distilleries of part of their profitsand the richest and most humane Government on earth of part ofits revenue. 

For eleven months and ten days he had been penned up in one of the steelcages of Covington jail. 

I recognized him the moment I saw him. 

He was the old fellow who spoke to me from between the bars of his denon my visit the week before to the inferno--the day I found SamanthyNorth and her baby--and who told me then he was charged with "sellin'"and that he "reckoned" he was the oldest of all the prisoners about him. He had on the same suit of coarse, homespun clothes--the trousers hikedup toward one shoulder from the strain of a single suspender; thewaistcoat held by one button; the shirt open at the neck, showing thewrinkled throat, wrinkled as an old saddle-bag, and brown, hairy chest. 

Pie still carried his big slouch hat, dust-begrimed and frayed at theedges. It hung over one knee now, a red cotton handkerchief tucked underits brim. He was superstitious about it, no doubt; he would wear it whenhe walked out a free man, and wanted it always within reach. Hooked inits band was a trout-fly, a red ibis, some souvenir, perhaps, of thecool woods that he loved, and which brought back to him the clearer thehappy, careless days which might never be his again. 

The trout-fly settled all doubts in my mind as to his origin and hisidentity. He was not a "moonshiner"; he was my old trout fisherman, Jonathan Gordon, come back to life, even to his streaming, unkemptbeard, leathery skin, thin, peaked nose, and deep, searching eyes. Thatthe daisies which Jonathan loved were at that very moment blooming overhis grave up in his New Hampshire hills, and had been for years back, made no difference to me. I could not be mistaken. The feeble old mansitting within ten feet of me, fidgeting about in his chair, the glareof the big windows flooding his face with light, his long legs tuckedunder him, his bony hands clasped together, the scanty gray hair adriftover his forehead, his slouch hat hooked over his knee, was my ownJonathan come back to life. His dog, George, too, was somewhere withinreach, and so were his fishing-pole and creel, with its leathershoulder-band polished like a razor-strop. You who read this never sawJonathan, perhaps, but you can easily carry his picture in your mind byremembering some one of the other old fellows you used to see on Sundaymornings hitching their horses to the fence outside of the countrychurch, or sauntering through the woods with a fish-pole over theirshoulders and a creel by their sides, or with their heads together onthe porch of some cross-roads store, bartering eggs and butter forcotton cloth and brown sugar. All these simple-minded, open-aired, out-of-doors old fellows, with the bark on them, are very much alike. 

The only difference between the two men lay in the expression of the twofaces. Jonathan always looked straight at you when he talked, so thatyou could fathom his eyes as you would fathom a deep pool that mirroredthe stars. This old man's eyes wavered from one to another, lightingfirst on the jury, then on the buzzard of a District Attorney, and thenon the Judge, with whom rested the freedom which meant life or whichmeant imprisonment: at his age--death. This wavering look was the lookof a dog who had been an outcast for weeks, or who had been shut up witha chain about his throat; one who had received only kicks and cuffs forpats of tenderness--a cringing, pleading look ready to crouch beneathsome fresh cruelty. 

This look, as the trial went on and the buzzard of an attorney flappedout his denunciations, deepened to an expression of abject fear. Intrying to answer the questions hurled at him, he would stroke hisparched throat mechanically with his long fingers as if to help thesyllables free themselves. In listening to the witnesses he would curvehis body forward, one skinny hand cupped behind his ear, his jawdropping slowly, revealing the white line of the lips above thestraggling beard. Now and then as he searched the eyes of the jury therewould flash out from his own the same baffled, anxious look that comesinto dear old Joe Jefferson's face when he stops half-way up themountain and peers anxiously into the eyes of the gnomes who have stolenout of the darkness and are grouping themselves silently about him--alook expressing one moment his desire to please and the next his anxietyto escape. 

There was no doubt about the old man's crime, not the slightest. It hadbeen only the tweedledum and tweedledee of the law that had saved himthe first time. They would not serve him now. The evidence was tooconclusive, the facts too plain. The "deadwood, " as such evidence iscalled by the initiated, lay in heaps--more than enough to send him toState prison for the balance of his natural life. The buzzard of aDistrict Attorney who had first scented out his body with an indictment, and who all these eleven months and ten days had sat with folded wingsand hunched-up shoulders, waiting for his final meal--I had begun todislike him in the Bud Tilden trial, but I hated him now (a foolish, illogical prejudice, for he was only doing his duty as he saw it)--hadfull control of all the "deadwood"; had it with him, in fact. There werenot only some teaspoonfuls of the identical whiskey which thislaw-breaker had sold, all in an eight-ounce vial properly corked andlabelled, but there was also the identical silver dime which had beenpaid for it. One of the jury was smelling this whiskey when I enteredthe court-room; another was fingering the dime. It was a good dime, andbore the stamp of the best and greatest nation on the earth. On one sidewas the head of the Goddess of Liberty and on the other was the wreathof plenty: some stalks of corn and the bursting heads of wheat, with oneor two ivy leaves twisted together, suggesting honor and glory andachievement. The "deadwood"--the evidence--was all right. All thatremained was for the buzzard to flap his wings once or twice in aspeech; then the jury would hold a short consultation, a few words wouldfollow from the presiding Judge, and the carcass would be ready for theofficial undertaker, the prison Warden. 

How wonderful the system, how mighty the results!

One is often filled with admiration and astonishment at the perfectworking of this mighty engine, the law. Properly adjusted, it rests onthe bedplate of equal rights to all men; is set in motion by the hotbreath of the people--superheated often by popular clamor; is kept safeby the valve of a grand jury; is governed in its speed by the wise andprudent Judge, and regulated in its output by a jury of twelve men. 

Sometimes in the application of its force this machine, being man-made, like all machines, and thus without a soul, gets out of order, loosens acog or bolt perhaps, throwing the mechanism "out of gear, " as it iscalled. When this happens, the engine resting on its bed-plate stillkeeps its foundation, but some lesser part, the loom or lathe ordriving-wheel, which is another way of saying the arrest, the trial orthe conviction, goes awry. Sometimes the power-belt is purposely thrownoff, the machinery stopped, and a consultation takes place, resulting ina disagreement or a new trial. When the machine is started again, it isstarted more carefully, with the first experience remembered. Sometimesthe rightful material--the criminal, or the material from which thecriminal is made--to feed this loom or lathe or driving-wheel, isreplaced by some unsuitable material like the girl whose hair becameentangled in a flying-belt and whose body was snatched up and whirledmercilessly about. Only then is the engine working on its bed-platebrought to a standstill. The steam of the boiler, the breath of thepeople, keeps up, but it is withheld from the engine until the mistakecan be rectified and the girl rescued. The law of mercy, the divine law, now asserts itself. This law, being the law of God, is higher than thelaw of man. Some of those who believe in the man-law and who stand overthe mangled body of the victim, or who sit beside her bed, bringing herslowly back to life, affirm that the girl was careless and deserved herfate. Others, who believe in the God-law, maintain that the engine isrun not to kill but to protect, not to maim but to educate, and that thefault lies in the wrong application of the force, not in theforce itself. 

So it was with this old man. Eleven months and ten days before this dayof his second trial (eleven months and three days when I first saw him), a flying-belt set in motion up in his own mountain-home had caught andcrushed him. To-day he was still in the maw of the machinery, hiscourage gone, his spirit broken, his heart torn. The group about hisbody, not being a sympathetic group, were insisting that the enginecould do no wrong; that the victim was not a victim at all, but lawfulmaterial to be ground up. This theory was sustained by the DistrictAttorney. Every day he must have fresh materials. The engine must run. The machinery must be fed. 

And his record?

Ah, how often is this so in the law!--his record must be kept good. 

 * * * * *

After the whiskey had been held up to the light and the dime fingered, the old man's attorney--a young lawyer from the old man's own town, asmooth-faced young fellow who had the gentle look of a hospital nurseand who was doing his best to bring the broken body back to life andfreedom--put the victim on the stand. 

"Tell the jury exactly how it all happened, " he said, "and in your ownway, just as you told it to me. "

"I'll try, sir; I'll do my best. " It was Rip's voice, only fainter. Hetugged at his collar as if to breathe the easier, cleared his throat andbegan again. "I ain't never been in a place like this but once before, and I hope you'll forgive me if I make any mistakes, " and he lookedabout the room, a flickering, half-burnt-out smile trembling onhis lips. 

"Well, I got a piece of land 'bout two miles back of my place thatbelongs to my wife, and I ain't never fenced it in, for I ain't neverhad no time somehow to cut the timber to do it, she's been so sicklylately. 'Bout a year ago I was goin' 'long toward Hi Stephens's milla-lookin' for muskrats when I heard some feller's axe a-workin' away, and I says to Hi, 'Hi, ain't that choppin' goin' on on the wife's land?'and he said it was, and that Luke Shanders and his boys had beendrawin' out cross-ties for the new railroad; thought I knowed it. 

"Well, I kep' 'long up and come on Luke jes's he was throwin' the las'stick onto his wagon. He kinder started when he see me, jumped on andbegin to drive off. I says to him, 'Luke, ' I says, 'I ain't got noobjection to you havin' a load of wood; there's plenty of it; but itdon't seem right for you to take it 'thout askin', 'specially since thewife's kind o' peaked and it's her land and not yourn. ' He hauled theteam back on their hind legs, and he says:

"'When I see fit to ask you or your old woman's leave to cut timber onmy own land, I will. Me and Lawyer Fillmore has been a-lookin' into themdeeds, and this timber is mine;' and he driv off. 

"I come along home and studied 'bout it a bit, and me and the wifetalked it over. We didn't want to make no fuss, but we knowed he wasalyin', but that ain't no unusual thing for Luke Shanders. 

"Well, the nex' mornin' I got into Pondville 'bout eight o'clock and seta-waitin' till Lawyer Fillmore come in. He looked kind o' shamefacedwhen he see me, and I says, 'What's this Luke Shanders's been a-tellin'me 'bout your sayin' my wife's timberland is hisn?'

"Then he began 'splainin' that the 'riginal lines was drawed wrong andthat old man Shanders's land, Luke's father, run to the brook and tookin all the white oak on the wife's lot and----"

The buzzard sprang to his feet and shrieked out:

"Your Honor, I object to this rigmarole. Tell the jury right away"--andhe faced the prisoner--"what you know about this glass of whiskey. Getright down to the facts; we're not cutting cross-ties in this court. "

The old man caught his breath, placed his fingers suddenly to his lipsas if to choke back the forbidden words, and, in an apologeticvoice, murmured:

"I'm gettin' there's fast's I kin, sir, 'deed I am; I ain't hidin'nothin'. "

He wasn't. Anyone could see it in his face. 

"Better let him go on in his own way, " remarked the Judge, indifferently. His Honor was looking over some papers, and themonotonous tones of the witness diverted attention. Most of the jury, too, had already lost interest in the story. One of the younger membershad settled himself in his chair, thrust his hands into his pockets, stretched out his legs, and had shut his eyes as if to take a nap. Nothing so far had implicated either the whiskey or the dime; when itdid he would wake up. 

The old man turned a grateful glance toward the Judge, leaned forward inhis chair, and with bent head looked about him on the floor as if tryingto pick up the lost end of his story. The young attorney, in anencouraging tone, helped him find it with a question:

"When did you next see Mr. Fillmore and Luke Shanders?"

"When the trial come off, " answered the old man, raising his head again. "Course we couldn't lose the land. 'Twarn't worth much till the newrailroad come through; then the oak come handy for cross-ties. That'swhat set Fillmore and Luke Shanders onto it. 

"When the case was tried, the Judge seed they couldn't bring no 'riginaldeed 'cept one showin' that Luke Shanders and Fillmore was partners inthe steal, and the Judge 'lowed they'd have to pay for the timber theycut and hauled away. 

"They went round then a-sayin' they'd get even, though wife and I 'lowedwe'd take anything reasonable for what hurt they done us. And that wenton till one day 'bout a year ago Luke come into my place and said he andLawyer Fillmore would he over the next day; that they was tired o'fightin', and that if I was willin' to settle they was. 

"One o' the new Gov'ment dep'ties was sittin' in my room at the time. Hewas goin' 'long up to town-court, he said, and had jest drapped in topass the time o' day. There he is sittin' over there, " and he pointed tohis captor. 

"I hadn't never seen him before, though I know a good many of 'em, buthe showed me his badge, and I knowed who he was. 

"The nex' mornin' Lawyer Fillmore and Luke stopped outside and holleredfor me to come out. I wanted 'em to come in. Wife had baked some biscuitand we was determined to be sociable-like, now that they was willin' todo what was fair, and I 'lowed they must drive up and git out. They saidthat that's what they come for, only that they had to go a piece downthe road, and they'd be back agin in a half-hour with the money. 

"Then Luke Shanders 'lowed he was cold, and asked if I had a drap o'whiskey. "

At mention of the all-important word a visible stir took place in thecourt-room. The young man with the closed eyes opened them and sat up inhis chair. The jury ceased whispering to one another; the Judge pushedhis spectacles back on his forehead and moved his papers aside; thebuzzard stretched his long neck an inch farther out of his shirt-collarand lowered his head in attention. The spigot, which up to this time hadrun only "emptyings, " was now giving out the clear juice of thewine-vat. Each man bent his tin cup of an ear to catch it. The old mannoticed the movement and looked about him anxiously, as if dreadinganother rebuff. He started to speak, cleared his throat, pullednervously at his beard for a moment, glancing furtively about the room, and in a lower tone repeated the words:

"Asked if I had a drap o' whiskey. Well, I always take a dram when Iwant it, and I had some prime stuff my son Ned had sent me over fromFrankfort, so I went hack and poured out 'bout four fingers in a glass, and took it out to him. 

"After he drunk it he handed me back the glass and driv off, sayin' he'dbe round later. I took the glass into the house agin and sot it'longside the bottle on the mantel, and when I turned round there sotthe Gov'ment dep'ty. He'd come in, wife said, while I was talkin' withLuke in the road. When he see the glass he asked if I had a license, andI told him I didn't sell no liquor, and he asked me what that was, and Itold him it was whiskey, and then he got the bottle and took a smell ofit, and then he held up the glass and turned it upside down and outdrapped a ten-cent piece. Then he 'rested me!"

The jury was all attention now; the several exhibits were coming intoview. One fat, red-faced juror, who had a dyed mustache and looked likea sporting man, would have laughed outright had not the Judge checkedhim with a stern look. 

"You didn't put the dime there, did you?" the young attorney asked, in atone that implied a negative answer. 

"No, sir; I don't take no money for what I give a man. " This came with aslight touch of indignation. 

"Do you know who put it there?"

"Well, there warn't nobody but Luke Shanders could 'a' done it, 'causenobody had the glass but him. I heard since that it was all a put-upjob, that they had swore I kep' a roadside, and they had sot the dep'tyonto me; but I don't like to think men kin be so mean, and I ain'ta-sayin' it now. If they knew what I've suffered for what they done tome, they couldn't help but feel sorry for me if they're human. "

He stopped and passed his hands wearily over his forehead. The jury satstill, their eyes riveted on the speaker. Even the red-faced man waslistening now. 

For an instant there was a pause. Then the old man reached forward inhis seat, his elbows on his knees, his hands held out as if in appeal, and in a low, pleading tone addressed the jury. Strange to say, neitherthe buzzard nor the Judge interrupted the unusual proceeding:

"Men, I hope you will let me go home now; won't you, please? I ain'tnever been 'customed all my life to bein' shut up, and it comes purtyhard, not bein' so young as I was. I ain't findin' no fault, but itdon't seem to me I ever done anythin' to deserve all that's come to melately. I got 'long best way I could over there"--and he pointed inthe direction of the steel cages--"till las' week, when Sam Jelliff comedown to see his boy and told me the wife was took sick bad, worse thanshe's been yet. She ain't used to bein' alone; you'd know that if youcould see her. The neighbors is purty good to her, I hear, but nobodydon't understand her like me, she and me bein' so long together--mos'fifty years now. You'll let me go home, won't you, men? I git so tired, so tired; please let me go. "

[Illustration: "I git so tired, so tired; please let me go. "]

The buzzard was on his feet now, his arms sawing the air, his stridentvoice filling the courtroom. 

He pleaded for the machine--for the safety of the community, for themajesty of the law. He demanded instant conviction for this trickster, this Fagin among men, this hoary-headed old scoundrel who had insultedthe intelligence of twelve of the most upright men he had ever seen in ajury-box, insulted them with a tale that even a child would laugh at. When at last he folded his wings, hunched up his shoulders and sat down, and the echoes of his harsh voice had died away, it seemed to me that Icould hear vibrating through the room, as one hears the murmur of abrook after a storm, the tender tones of the old man pleading as iffor his life. 

The jury had listened to the buzzard's harangue, with their eyes, notwith their ears. Down in their hearts there still rang the piteouswords. The man-made machine was breaking down; its mechanism out of"gear"; the law that governed it defective. The God-law, the law ofmercy, was being set in motion. 

The voice of the Judge trembled a little as he delivered his charge, asif somehow a stray tear had clogged the passage from his heart to hislips. In low, earnest tones that every man strained his ear to catch, hereviewed the testimony of the witnesses, those I had not heard; took upthe uncontradicted statement of the Deputy Marshal as evidenced by theexhibits before them; passed to the motive behind the allegedconspiracy; dwelt for a moment on the age and long confinement of theaccused, and ended with the remark that if they believed his story to bean explanation of the facts, they must acquit him. 

They never left their seats. Even the red-faced man voted out of turn inhis eagerness. The God-law had triumphed! The old man was free. 

The throng in the court-room rose and made their way to the doors, theold man going first, escorted by an officer to see him safely outside. The Judge disappeared through a door; the clerk lifted the lid of hisdesk and stowed beneath it the greasy, ragged Bible, stained with thelies of a thousand lips. The buzzard crammed his hat over his eyes, turned, and without a word to anyone, stalked out of the room. 

I mingled with the motley throng, my ears alert for any spoken opinions. I had seen the flying-belt thrown from the machine and the stoppage ofthe engine. I wanted now to learn something of the hot breath of thepeople who had set it in motion eleven months and ten days before. 

"Reckon he'll cut a blue streak for home now, " muttered a court-lounger, buttoning up his coat; "that is, if he's got one. You'll never catch himsellin' any more moonshine. "

"Been me, I'd soaked him, " blurted out a corner-loafer. "If you can'tconvict one of these clay-eaters when you've got him dead to rights, ain't no use havin' no justice. "

"I thought Tom [the buzzard] would land him, " said a stout, gray-whiskered lawyer who was gathering up his papers. "First case Tom'slost this week. Goes pretty hard with him, you know, when he losesa case. "

"It would have been an outrage, sir, if he had won it, " broke in astranger. "The arrest of an old man like that on such a charge, and hisconfinement for nearly a year in a hole like that one across the street, is a disgrace. Something is rotten in the way the laws are administeredin the mountains of Kentucky, or outrages like this couldn't occur. "

"He wouldn't thank you, sir, for interfering, " remarked a bystander. "Being shut up isn't to him what it is to you and me. He's been takencare of for a year, hasn't he? Warmed and fed, and got his three meals aday. That's a blamed sight more than he gets at home. They're onlyhalf-human, these mountaineers, anyway. Don't worry; he's all right. "

"You've struck it first time, " retorted the Deputy Marshal who hadsmelled the whiskey, found the dime, and slipped the handcuffs on theold man's withered wrists. "Go slow, will you?" and he faced thestranger. "We got to do our duty, ain't we? That's the law, and thereain't no way gittin' round it. And if we make mistakes, what of it?We've got to make mistakes sometimes, or we wouldn't catch half of 'em. The old skeesiks ought to be glad to git free. See?"

Suddenly there came to my mind the realization of the days that were tofollow and all that they would bring to him of shame. I thought of thecold glance of his neighbors, the frightened stare of the children readyto run at the approach of the old jail-bird, the coarse familiarity ofthe tavern lounger. Then the cruelty of it all rose before me. Who wouldrecompense him for the indignities he had suffered--the deadly chill ofthe steel clamps; the long days of suspense; the bitterness of the firstdisagreement; the foul air of the inferno, made doubly foul by closecrowding of filthy bodies, inexpressibly horrible to one who hadbreathed all his life the cool, pure air of the open with only the bigclean trees for his comrades?

And if at last his neighbors should take pity upon him and drive out themen who had wrecked his old age, and he should wander once more up thebrook with his rod over his shoulder, the faithful dog at his heels, anda line of the old song still alive in his heart, what about those elevenmonths and ten days of which the man-law had robbed him?

O mighty machine! O benign, munificent law! Law of a people who boast ofmercy and truth and equal rights and justice to all. Law of a land withrivers of gold and mountains of silver, the sum of its wealth astoundingthe world. 

What's to be done about it?

Nothing. 

Better drag a dozen helpless Samanthy Norths from their homes, theirsuckling babes in their arms, and any number of gray-haired old men fromtheir cabins, than waive one jot or tittle of so just a code; andlose--the tax on whiskey. 

CAP'N BOB OF THE SCREAMER

Captain Bob Brandt dropped in to-day, looking brown and ruddy, andfilling my office with, a breeze and freshness that seemed to havefollowed him all the way in from the sea. 

"Just in, Captain?" I cried, springing to my feet, my fingers closinground his--no more welcome visitor than Captain Bob ever pushes open myoffice door. 

"Yes--Teutonic. "

"Where did you pick her up--Fire Island?"

"No; 'bout hundred miles off Montauk. "

Captain Bob has been a Sandy Hook pilot for some years back. 

"How was the weather?" I had a chair ready for him now and was liftingthe lid of my desk in search of a box of cigars. 

"Pretty dirty. Nasty swell on, and so thick you could hack holes in it. Come pretty nigh missin' her"--and the Captain opened his bigstorm-coat, hooked his cloth cap with its ear-tabs on one prong of theback of one office-chair, stretched his length in another, and, bendingforward, reached out his long, brawny arm for the cigar I was extendingtoward him. 

I have described this sea-dog before--as a younger sea-dog--twentyyears younger, in fact, he was in my employ then--he and his sloopScreamer. Every big foundation stone that Caleb set in Shark LedgeLight--the one off Keyport harbor--can tell you about them both. 

In those light-house days this Captain Bob was "a tall, straight, blue-eyed young fellow of twenty-two, with a face like an open book--oneof those perfectly simple, absolutely fearless, alert men found so oftenon the New England coast, with legs and arms of steel, body of hickory, and hands of whalebone; cabin boy at twelve, common sailor at sixteen, first mate at twenty, and full captain the year he voted. "

He is precisely the same kind of man to-day, plus twenty years ofexperience. The figure is still the figure of his youth, the hickory alittle better seasoned, perhaps, and the steel and whalebone a littleharder, but they have lost none of their spring and vitality. The ratioof promotion has also been kept up. That he should now rank as the mostexpert pilot on the station was quite to be expected. He could havefilled as well a commander's place on the bridge, had he chosen to workalong those lines. 

And the modesty of the man!

Nothing that he has done, or can still do, has ever stretched his hatmeasure or swelled any part of his thinking apparatus. The old pilot-capis still number seven, and the sensible head beneath it number seven, too. It could be number eight, or nine, or even ten, if it had expandedin proportion to the heroic quality of many of his deeds. During thelight-house days, for instance, when some sudden, shift of wind wouldchurn the long rollers into bobbles and then into frenzied seas thatsmothered the Ledge in white suds, if a life-boat was to be launched inthe boiling surf, the last man to jump aboard, after a mighty push withhis long hindmost leg, was sure to be this same bundle of whalebone andhickory. And should this boat, a few minutes later, go whirling along inthe "Race, " bottom side up, with every worker safe astride her keel, principally because of Captain Bob's coolness and skill in hauling themout of the water, again the last man to crawl beside the rescued crewwould be this same long-legged, long armed skipper. 

Or should a guy-rope snap with a sound like a pistol-shot, and a greatstone swung to a boom and weighing tons should begin running amuckthrough piles of cement, machinery, and men, and some one of the workinggang, seeing the danger, should, with the quickness and sureness of amountain-goat, spring straight for the stone, clutching the end of theguy and bounding off again, twisting the bight round some improvisedsnubbing-post thus checking its mad career, you would not have had toask his name twice. 

"Cap'n Bob stopped it, sir, " was sure to have been the proffered reply. 

So, too, in his present occupation of pilot. It was only a few years agothat I stood on the deck of an incoming steamer, straining my eyesacross a heaving sea, the horizon lost in the dull haze of countlessfroth-caps; we had slowed for a pilot, so the word came down the deck. Suddenly, against the murky sky-line, with mainsail double-reefed andjib close-hauled, loomed a light craft plunging bows under at everylurch. Then a chip the size of your hand broke away from the frailvessel, and a big wave lying around for such prey, sprang upon it withwide-open mouth. The tiny bit dodged and slipped out of sight into amighty ravine, then mounted high in air, upborne in the teeth of anothergreat monster, and again was lost to view. Soon the chip became a bit ofdriftwood manned by two toy men working two toy oars like mad andbearing at one end a yellow dot. 

Then the first officer walked down the deck to where I stood, followedby a huddle of seamen who began unrolling a rope ladder. 

"You're right, " I heard an officer answer a passenger. "It's no fitweather to take a pilot. Captain wouldn't have stopped for any otherboat but No. 11. But those fellows out there don't know whatweather is. "

The bit of driftwood now developed into a yawl. The yellow dot broadenedand lengthened to the semblance of a man standing erect and unbuttoninghis oil-skins as he looked straight at the steamer rolling port-holesunder, the rope ladder flopping against her side. Then came a quicktwist of the oars, a sudden lull as the yawl shot within a boat's lengthof the rope ladder, and with the spring of a cat the man in oil-skinslanded with both feet on its lower rung, and the next instant he wasover the steamer's rail and on her deck beside me. 

I thought I knew that spring, even before I saw his face or got hold ofhis hand. 

It was Captain Bob. 

As I look at him now, sitting in my office-chair, the smoke of the cigarcurling about his bronzed, weather-tanned face, my eye taking in hisslim waist, slender thighs, and long, sinewy arms and hands that haveserved him so well all his life, I can hardly believe that twenty yearshave passed over his head since we worked together on Shark Ledge. Butfor the marks chalked on his temples by the Old Man with the Hour-glassand the few tally-scores of hard work crossing the corners of his mouthand eyes, he has the same external appearance as in the old days. Eventhese indexes of advancing years are lost when he throws his head up andlaughs one of his spontaneous, ringing laughs that fills my office fullof sunshine, illumining it for hours after he has gone. 

"This pilotin' 's pretty rough sometimes, " Captain Bob continued betweenthe puffs of smoke, "but it ain't nothin' to the old days. When I lookback on it all, seems to me as if we was out o' our heads most o' thetime. I didn't know it then, but 'twas true all the same. Think now o'layin' the Screamer broadside on that stone pile at Shark Ledge, unloadin' them stone with nothin' but a couple o' spar buoys to keep 'eroff. Wonder I didn't leave 'er bones there. Would if I hadn't knowedevery stick o' timber in 'er and jest what she could stagger under. "

"But she was a good sea-boat, " I interpolated. "The Screamer was alwaysthe pride of the work. "

"None better. You'd a-thought so if you'd been with us that night offHatteras; we layin' to, hatches battened down. I never see it blow wuss. It came out o' the nor'west 'bout dark, and 'fore mornin' I tell ye itwas a-humpin' things. We started with a pretty decent set o' sails, neweyelets rove in and new clew lines, but, Lord love ye, we hadn't takenold Hatteras into consideration. Bill Nevins, my engineer, and alandsman who was to work the h'istin' engine, looked kind 'er peakedwhen what was left of the jib come rattlin' down on his fo'c's'le hatch, but I says to him, 'the Screamer's all right, Billy, so she don't strikenothin' and so long's we can keep the water out 'er. Can't sink 'er anymore'n an empty five-gallon ker'sene can with the cork in. We'll lay'round here till mornin' and then set a signal. Something'll come alongpretty soon. ' Sure 'nough, 'long come a coaler bound for Charleston. She see us a-wallowin' in the trough and our mast thrashin' for all itwas worth. 

"'What d'ye want?' the skipper says, when he got within hail. 

"'Some sail-needles and a ball o' twine, ' I hollered back; 'we goteverything else. ' You should just a-heard him cuss--" and one of CaptainBob's laughs rang through the room. "Them's two things I'dforgot--didn't think o' them in fact till the mainsheet give 'way. 

"Well, he chucked 'em aboard with another cuss. I hadn't no money to payno salvage. All we wanted was them needles and a little elbow-grease andgumption. So we started in, and 'fore night, she still a-thrashin', I'dfixed up the sails, patched the eyelets with a pair o' boot-legs, andwas off again. "

"What were you doing off Hatteras, Captain Bob?" I asked. I was leadinghim on, professing ignorance of minor details, so that I could againenjoy the delight of hearing him tell it. 

"Oh, that was another one o' them crazy jobs I used to take when Ididn't know no better. Why, I guess you remember 'bout that wreckin' joboff Hamilton, Bermuda?"

He was settled in his chair now, his legs crossed, his head down betweenhis shoulders. 

"You see, after I quit work on the 'ledge, ' I was put to 't for a job, and there come along a feller by the name of Lamson--the agent of aninsurance company, who wanted me to go to Bermuda and git up someforty-two pieces o' white I-talian marble that had been wrecked threeyears before off the harbor of Hamilton. They ran from three totwenty-one tons each, he said. So off I started with the Screamer. Hedidn't say, though, that the wreck lay on a coral reef eight miles fromland, or I'd stayed to home in New Bedford. 

"When I got to where the wreck lay you couldn't see a thing 'bove water. So I got into an old divin' dress we had aboard--one we used on theLedge--oiled up the pump and went down to look her over, and by JimmyCriminy, not a scrap o' that wreck was left 'cept the rusty iron workand that part o' the bottom plankin' of the vessel that lay under thestones! Everything else was eaten up with the worms! Funniest-lookin'place you ever see. The water was just as clear as air, and I could seeevery one o' them stone plain as daylight--looked like so many big lumpso' white sugar scattered 'round--and they _were_ big! One of 'em weighedtwenty-one tons, and none on 'em weighed less'n five. Of course I knewhow big they were 'fore I started, and I'd fitted up the Screamerspecial to h'ist 'em, but I didn't know I'd have to handle 'em twice;once from where they laid on that coral reef in twenty-eight feet o'water and then unload 'em on the Navy Yard dock, above Hamilton, andthen pick 'em up agin, load 'em 'board the Screamer, and unload 'emonce more 'board a Boston brig they'd sent down for 'em--one o' themhigh-waisted things 'bout sixteen feet from the water-line to the rail. That was the wust part of it. "

Captain Bob stopped, felt in his pocket for a match, found it empty, rose from his chair, picked one from a match-safe on my desk, lightedhis cigar, and resumed his seat again. I have found it wisest to let himhave his own way in times like these. If I interrupt the flow of histalk it may stop for the day, and I lose the best part of the enjoymentof having him with me. 

"Pretty decent chaps, them Englishmen"--puff-puff--the volume of smokewas all right once more. "One Monday morning I ran out of the Navy Yarddock within sight of the wreck. I had been layin' up over Sunday to getout of the way of a norther, when I luffed a little too soon, and bangwent my bowsprit and scraped off about three feet of red paint from theend of the dock. One of the watchmen was on the string-piece, and sawthe whole thing. 'Come ashore, ' he says, 'and go and see the Admiral;you can't scrape no paint off this dock with _my_ permission. '

"Well, I waited four hours for his nibs. When he come to his officequarters he was 'bout up to my arms, red as a can-buoy, and white hairstickin' up straight as a shoe-brush on his head. He looked cross enoughto bite a tenpenny nail in two. 

"'Ran into the dock, did ye--ran into Her Majesty's dock, and ye hadroom enough to turn a fleet in! Do you think we paint these docks forthe fun of havin' you lubbers scrape it off? You'll pay for paintin' itover, sir--that's what you'll do, or I'll libel your boat, and send afile of marines down and tie her up, ' and away he went up the dock tohis office again. 

"'Gosh!' I said to myself. 'Guess I'm in a fix, ' The boys stood aroundand heard every word, and I tell ye it warn't no joke. As to money, there warn't a ten-dollar bill in the crew. I'd spent every cent I couldrake and scrape to fit the Screamer out, and the boys were workin' onshares, and nobody was to get any money until the last stone--that bigtwenty-one-ton feller--was 'board the brig. Then I could go to theagents in Hamilton and draw two-thirds of my contract. Thattwenty-one-ton chunk, I forgot to tell ye, I had picked up the daybefore, and it was then aboard the Screamer, and we was on our way downto Hamilton, where the brig lay, when her nose scraped off theAdmiral's paint. 

"It did look kind o' nasty for us, and no mistake. One day more, andwe'd 'a' been through and had our money. 

"'Go up and see him, ' said the watchman. 'He gits cool sometimes assudden as he gits hot. ' So Bill Nevins, my engineer, who was workin' theh'ister, and I went up. The old feller was sittin' on the piazza in abig rattan chair. 

"'Come aboard, ' he hollered, soon's he see Bill and me a-standin' inthe garden-path with our hats off, lookin' like two jailbirds about tobe sentenced. Well, we got up on the porch, and he looked us allover, and said:

"'Have you got that money with you?' 'No, ' I said, 'I haven't, ' and Iups and tells him just how we was fixed, and how we had worked, and howshort we was of grub and clothes and money, and then I said, 'an' now Icome to tell ye that I hit the dock fair and square, and it was all myfault, and that I'll pay whatever you say is right when I put this stone'board and get my pay. '

"He looked me all over--I tell you I was pretty ragged; nothin' but ashirt and pants on, and they was almighty tore up, especially where mosteverybody wants to be covered--and Bill was no better. We'd 'bout usedup our clo'es so that sail-needles nor nothin' else wouldn't a-done usno good, and we had no time nor no spare cash to go ashore andget others. 

"While I was a-talkin', the old feller's eyes was a-borin' intomine--then he roared out, 'No, sir; you won't!--you won't pay one d--dshillin', sir. You'll go back to your work, and if there's anything youwant in the way of grub or supplies send here for it and you shall haveit. Good-day. ' I tell ye he was a rum one. "

"Was that the last time you saw him?" I asked. 

"Not much. When we got 'longside the brig the next day, her Cap'n seethat twenty-one-ton stone settin' up on the deck of the Screamer, lookin' like a big white church, and he got so scared he went ashore andstarted a yarn that we couldn't lift that stone sixteen feet in the air, and over her rail and down into the hold, and that we'd smash his brig, and it got to the Admiral's ears, and down come two English engineers, in cork helmets and white jackets and gold buttons, spic' an' span as ifthey'd stepped out of the chart-room of a yacht. One was a colonel andthe other was a major. They were both just back from India, andnatty-lookin' chaps as you ever saw. And clear stuff all the waythrough--you could tell that before they opened their mouths. 

"I was on the deck of the Screamer, overhaulin' the fall, surrounded bymost of the crew, gettin' ready to h'ist the stone, when I first saw'em. They and the Cap'n were away up above me, leanin' over the rail, lookin' at the stone church that some o' the boys was puttin' the chains'round. Bill Nevins was down in the fo'c's'le, firin' up, with thesafety-valve set at 125 pounds. He had half a keg o' rosin and a can o'kerosene to help out with in case we wanted a few pounds extry in themiddle of the tea-party. Pretty soon I heard one of 'em holler:

"'Ahoy! Is the Captain aboard?'

"'He is, ' I said, steppin' out. 'Who wants him?'

"'Colonel Throckmorton, ' he says, 'and Major Severn. '

"'Come aboard, gentlemen, ' I says. 

"So down they come, the Colonel first, one foot at a time touchin' theladder, the Major following. When he reached the deck and wheeled aroundto look at me you just ought to have seen his face. 

"'Are you the Captain?' he says, and he looked me over 'bout as theadmiral had done. 

"'I be, ' I said, 'Captain Robert Brandt, of Pigeon Cove, Cape Ann, master and owner of the sloop Screamer, at your service'--I kep' frontside to him. 'What can I do for you?'

"'Well, Captain, ' he began, 'perhaps it is none of our business, but theCaptain of the brig here, ' and he pointed up above him, 'has asked us tolook over your tackle and see whether it is safe enough to lift thisstone. He's afraid you'll drop it and smash his deck in. Since I've seenit, and what you propose to lift it with, I've told him there's nodanger, for you'll never get it off the deck. We are both officers ofthe Engineering Corps, and it is our business to know aboutsuch things. '

"'What makes you think the Screamer won't lift it?' I asked. 

"'Well, ' says the Colonel, looking aloft, 'her boom ain't big enough, and that Manila rope is too light. I should think it wasn't over threeand three-quarter-inch rope. We all know fifteen tons is enough weightfor that size rope, even with a fourfold purchase, and we understandyou say this stone weighs twenty-one. '

"'I'm sorry, gentlemen, ' I said, 'and if you are worried about it you'dbetter go 'board the brig, for I'm about ready to pick the stone up andland her. '

"Well, the Major said he guessed he would, if I was determined to pullthe mast out of my sloop, but the Colonel said he'd stay by and seeit out. 

"Just then Bill Nevins stuck his head out of the fo'c's'le. He wasblacker than I was; all smeared with grease and stripped to his waist. It was hot enough anywhere, but it was sizzlin' down where he was. 

"'All ready, Cap'n, ' he says. 'She's got every pound she can carry. '

"I looked everything over--saw the butt of the boom was playin' free inthe wooden socket, chucked in a lot of tallow so it could move easy, give an extra twist to the end of the guy, and hollered to Bill to goahead. She went chuckety-chuck, chuckety-chuck for half a dozen turns;then she slowed down soon as she struck the full weight, and began topant like an old horse climbin' a hill. All this time the Colonel wascallin' out from where he stood near the tiller: 'She'll never lift it, Captain--she'll never lift it. '

"Next come a scrapin' 'long the deck, and the big stone swung clear witha foot o' daylight 'tween it and the deck. Then up she went, crawlin'slowly inch by inch, till she reached the height of the brig's rail. 

"Now come the wust part. I knew that when I gave orders to slack awaythe guy-rope so as to swing the stone aboard the brig, the Screamerwould list over and dip her rail in the water. So I made a jump for therope ladder and shinned up the brig's side so as to take a hand inlandin' the stone properly on the brig's deck so as to save her beamsand break the jar when I lowered the stone down. I had one eye now onthe stone and the other on the water, which was curling over theScreamer's rail and makin' for the fo'c's'le hatch. Should the waterpour down this hatch, out would go my fires and maybe up would comeher b'iler. 

"'Ease away on that guy and lower away easy, ' I hollered to Bill. Thestone dropped to within two feet of the brig's deck and swung back andfor'ards. Then I heard Bill yell. I was expectin' it. 

"'Water's comin' in!'

"I leaned over the brig's rail and could see the slop of the sea combin'over the Screamer's fo'c's'le hatch. Bill's fires _would_ be out thenext minute. There was just two feet now 'tween the stone and the deckwhere I stood--too much to drop; but there was nothing else to do, andI hollered:

"'All gone. '

"Down she come with a run, struck the big timbers on the deck, and byJiminy! ye could a-heard that old brig groan from stem to stern. 

"I jumped on top of the stone and threw off the shackles, and theScreamer came up on an even keel as easy as a duck ridin' the water. 

"You just oughter seen the Colonel when the old boat righted herself, and he had climbed up and stood 'longside the Major a-talkin' it over. 

"Pretty soon he came up to where I was a-gettin' the tackle ready tolower the stone in the hold, and he says:

"'Well, you made your word good, Cap'n, but I want to tell you thatnobody but an American could a-done it. It would cost me my commissionif I should try to do what you have done. '

"'Well, gentlemen, ' I says, 'what was wrong about it? What's the matterwith the Screamer's rig?'

"'Well, the size of the rope for one thing, ' says the Colonel, 'and theboom. '

"'Well, p'haps you ain't looked it over, ' I says, and I beganunravelling an end that stuck out near the shackle. 'If you'll lookclose here'--and I held the end of the rope up--'you'll see that everystran' of that rope is made of the best Manila yarn, and laid as smoothas silk. I stood over that rope myself when it was put together. Old SamHanson of New Bedford laid up that rope, and there ain't no betternowhere. I knew what it had to do, and I warn't goin' to take no chancesof its not doin' it right. As to that boom, I want to tell ye that Ipicked that boom out o' about two hundred sticks in Tom Carlin'sshipyard, in Stonington, and had it scraped and ironed just to pleaseme. There ain't a rotten knot in it from butt to finish, and mighty fewof any other kind. That stick's _growed right_--that's what's the matterwith it; and it bellies out in the middle, just where it ought to bethickest. '

"Well, they didn't say nothin' for a while, 'cept to walk round thestone once or twice and slap it with their hands, as if they wanted tomake sure it was all there. My men were all over it now, and we wasgettin' things in shape to finish up. I tell ye the boys were mightyglad, and so was I. It had been a long pull of six months' work, and wewere out of most everything, and as soon as the big stone was down inthe brig's hold, and warped back and stowed with the others--and thatwouldn't take but a day or two more--we would clean up, get our money, and light out for home. 

"All this time the Colonel and the Major were buzzin' each other off bythe other rail. Pretty soon they both come over to where I stood, andthe Colonel reached out his hand. 

"'Cap'n Brandt, ' he says--and he had a look in his face as if he meantit--and he did, every word of it--'it would give Major Severn and myselfgreat pleasure if you would dine with us to-night at the Canteen. TheAdmiral is coming, and some brother officers who would be pleased toknow you. '

"Well, I was struck all of a heap for a minute, knowing what kind ofclo'es I had to go in, and so I says:

"'Well, gentlemen, that's very nice of you, and I see you mean it, andif I had anything fittin' to wear there's nothin' I would like better;but ye see how I'm fixed, ' and I lifted my arms so he could see a fewholes that he might a-missed before, and I motioned to some other partsof my get-up that needed repairs. 

"'That don't make no difference, Cap'n, what kind of clo'es you come in. We dine at eight o'clock. '

"Of course I knew I couldn't go, and I didn't want 'em to think Iintended to go when I didn't, so I says, rather positive-like:

"'Very much obliged, gentlemen, but I guess I'll have to get you tocount me out this time. ' I knowed I warn't fittin' to sit at anybody'stable, especially if that old Admiral was comin'. 

"The Colonel see I was in earnest, and he stepped up, quick-like, andlaid his hand on my shoulder. 

"'Captain Brandt, ' he says, 'we ain't worryin' 'bout your clo'es, anddon't you worry. You can come in your shirt, you can come in your socks, or you can come without one damned rag--only come!'"

The Captain stopped, shook the ashes from his cigar, slowly raisedhimself to his feet, and reached for his hat. 

"Did you go, Captain?" I asked. 

The Captain looked at me for a moment with one of those quizzicalglances which so often light up his face when something amuses him, andsaid, as he blew a cloud of smoke to the ceiling:

"Well, I didn't forget my manners. When it got dark--dark, mind ye--Iwent up and sat on the piazza and had a smoke with 'em--Admiral and all. But I didn't go to dinner--not in them pants. "

A PROCESSION OF UMBRELLAS

I

This all happened on the banks of the Seine, above St. Cloud--aboveSuresne, in fact, or rather its bridge--the new one that has pieced outthe old one with the quaint stone arches that we love. 

A silver-gray haze, a pure French gray, hung over the river, softeningthe sky-line of the near-by hills, and making ghosts of a row ofgendarme poplars guarding the opposite bank. 

On my side of the stream wandered a path close to the water's edge--soclose that I could fill my water-cups without leaving mysketching-stool. Over this path, striped with shadows, big treestowered, their gnarled branches interlaced above my head. On my right, rising out of a green sward cleared of all underbrush, towered othertrees, their black trunks sharp-cut against the haze. In the distance, side by side with the path, wound the river, still asleep, save where itflashed into waves of silver laughter at the touch of some frolicsomepuff of wind. Elsewhere, although the sun was now hours high, it dozedaway, nestling under the overhanging branches making their morningtoilet in its depths. But for these long, straight flashes of silverlight glinting between the tree-trunks, one could not tell where thehaze ended and the river began. 

As I worked on, my white umbrella tilted at the exact angle so that mypalette, hand, and canvas would be hidden from the inquisitive sun, agroup of figures emerged from a clump of low trees, and made their wayacross the green sward--the man in an ivory-black coat, evidently apriest, even at that distance; the woman in a burnt-umber dress with adot of Chinese white for a head--probably a cap; and the third, a girlof six or eight in a brown madder dress and yellow-ochre hat. 

An out-door painter, while at work, tumbles everything that crosses hispath or comes within range of his vision into the crucible of hispalette. The most majestic of mountains and the softest of summer cloudsare to him but flat washes of cobalt, and the loveliest of dimples onthe fairest of cheeks but a shadow-tone, and a high light made real bypats of indigo and vermilion. 

So in the three figures went among my trees, the priest in thebackground against a mass of yellow light--black against yellow isalways a safe contrast; the burnt-umber woman breaking the straight lineof a trunk, and the child--red on green--intensifying a slash of zinoberthat illumined my own grassy sward. 

Then my interest in the group ceased. The priest, no doubt, was takinghis sister, or his aunt, or his mother, with their own or somebodyelse's little girl, out for an airing, and they had come at the precisemoment when I had begun to long for just such a collection of people;and now they could take themselves off and out of my perspective, particularly the reddish-brown girl who kept on dancing in the sunniestplaces, running ahead of the priest and the woman, lighting up andaccentuating half a dozen other corners of the wood interior before mein as many minutes, and making me regret before the paint was half dryon her own little figure that I had not waited for a better composition. 

Then she caught sight of my umbrella. 

She came straight toward me with that slowing of pace as she approachedthe nearer, her curiosity getting the better of her timidity--quite as afawn or a little calf would have done, attracted by some bit of color ormovement which was new to it. The brown madder dress I now saw wasdotted with little spots of red, like sprays of berries; theyellow-ochre hat was wound with a blue ribbon, and tied with a bow onone side. I could see, too, that she wore slippers, and that her hairwas platted in two pig-tails, and hung down her back, the ends fastenedwith a ribbon that matched the one on her hat. 

She stood quite still, her face perfectly impassive, her little handsclasped together, the brim of her hat shading her eyes, which lookedstraight at my canvas. 

I gave no sign of her presence. It is dangerous to break down thereserve of silence, which is often the only barrier between an out-doorpainter and the crowds that surround him. Persisted in, it not onlycompels their respect, even to the lowering of their voices and thetip-toeing in and out of the circle about you, but shortens the time oftheir visits, a consummation devoutly to be wished. So I worked on insilence, never turning toward this embodiment of one of Boutet doMonvel's drawings, whose absorbed face I could see out of one cornerof my eye. 

Then a ripple of laughter broke the stillness, and a little finger wasthrust out, stopping within a hair's-breadth of the dot of Chinesewhite, still wet, which topped my burnt-umber figure. 

"Très drôle, Monsieur!"

The voice was sweeter than the laugh. One of those flute-like, bird-throated voices that children often have who live in the open alltheir lives, chasing butterflies or gathering wild flowers. 

Then came a halloo from the greensward. The priest was coming toward us, calling out, as he walked:

"Susette! Susette!"

He, too, underwent a change. The long, ivory-black cassock, sounmistakable in the atmospheric perspective, became an ordinaryfrock-coat; the white band of a collar developed into the regulationsecular pattern, and the silk hat, although of last year's shape, conformed less closely in its lines to one belonging exclusively to theclergy. The face, though, as I could see in my hurried glance, and evenat that distance, was the smooth, clean-shaven face of a priest--theface of a man of fifty, I should think, who had spent all his life inthe service of others. 

Again came the voice, this time quite near. 

"Susette! Susette!"

The child, without turning her head, waved her hand in reply, lookedearnestly into my face, and with a quick bending of one knee incourtesy, and a "Merci, M'sieu; merci, " ran with all her speed towardthe priest, who stretched wide his arms, half-lifting her from theground in the embrace. Then a smile broke over his face, so joyous, sofull of love and tenderness, so much the unconscious index of the heartthat prompted it, that I laid down my palette to watch them. 

I have known many priests in my time, and I have never ceased to marvelat the beauty of the tie which binds them to the little ones of theirflocks. I have never been in a land where priests and children were notcompanions. These long-frocked guardians sit beside their playgrounds, with noses in their breviaries, or they head processions of boys andgirls on the way to chapel, or they follow, two by two, behind a longstring of blue-checked aprons and severe felt hats, the uniform of themotherless; or they teach the little vagrants by the hour--often it isthe only schooling that these children get. 

But I never remember one of them carrying such a waif about in his arms, nor one irradiated by such a flash of heavenly joy when some child, in amad frolic, saw fit to scrape her muddy shoes down the front of hisclean, black cassock. 

The beatific smile itself was not altogether new to me. Anyone else cansee it who wanders into the Gallery of the Prado. It irradiates the faceof an old saint by Ribera--a study for one of his large canvases, and ishung above the line. I used to stand before it for hours, studying thetechnique. The high lights on the face are cracked in places, and theshadows are blackened by time, but the expression is that of one wholooks straight up into heaven. And there is another--a Correggio, inthe Hermitage, a St. Simon or St. Timothy, or some other oldfellow--whose eyes run tears of joy, and whose upturned face reflectsthe light of the sun. Yet there was something in the face of the priestbefore me that neither of the others had--a peculiar human quality, which shone out of his eyes, as he stood bareheaded in the sunshine, thelittle girl in his arms. If the child had been his daughter--his veryown and all he had, and if he had caught her safe from some danger thatthreatened her life, it could not have expressed more clearly thejoyousness of gratitude or the bliss inspired by the sense of possessingsomething so priceless that every other emotion was absorbed. 

It was all over in a moment. He did not continue to beam irradiatingbeatitudes, as the old Ribera and the older Correggio have done forhundreds of years. He simply touched his hat to me, tucked the child'shand into his own, and led her off to her mother. 

I kept at my work. For me the incident, delightful as it was, wasclosed. All I remembered, as I squeezed the contents of another tube onto my palette, was the smile on the face of the priest. 

The weather now began to take part in the general agitation. The lazyhaze, roused by the joyous sun, had gathered its skirts together and hadslipped over the hills. The sun in its turn had been effaced by a bigcloud with scalloped edges which had overspread the distant line of theriver, blotting out the flashes of silver laughter, and so frighteningthe little waves that they scurried off to the banks, some even tryingto climb up the stone coping out of the way of the rising wind. A coolgust of air, out on a lark, now swept down the path, and, with lance inrest, toppled over my white umbrella. Big drops of rain fell about me, spitting the dust like spent balls. Growls of thunder were heardoverhead. One of those rollicking, two-faced thunder-squalls, with thesun on one side and the blackness of the night on the other, wasapproaching. 

The priest had seen it, for he had the child pickaback and was runningacross the sward. The woman had seen it, too, for she was alreadycollecting her baskets, preparing to follow, and I was not far behind. Before she had reached the edge of the woods I had overtaken her, mytraps under my arm, my white umbrella over my head. 

"The Châlet Cycle is the nearest, " she volunteered, grasping thesituation, and pointing to a path opening to the right as she spoke. 

"Is that where he has taken the child?" I asked, hurriedly. 

"No, Monsieur--Susette has gone home. It is only a little way. "

I plunged on through the wet grass, my eyes on the opening through thetrees, the rain pouring from my umbrella. Before I had reached the endof the path the rain ceased and the sun broke through, flooding the wetleaves with dazzling light. 

These two, the clouds and the sun, were evidently bent on mischief, frightening little waves and painters and bright-eyed children and goodpriests who loved them!

A PROCESSION OF UMBRELLAS

II

Do you happen to know the Châlet Cycle?

If you are a staid old painter who takes life as he finds it, and wholoves to watch the procession from the sidewalk without any desire tocarry one of the banners or to blow one of the horns--one of yourthree-meals-a-day, no heel-taps, and go-to-bed-at-ten-o'clock kind of aman, then make a note of the Cycle. The melons are excellent; theomelets are wonders, and the salads something to be remembered. But, ifyou are two-and-twenty, with the world in a sling and both ends of thesling in your hand, and if this is your first real outing since yourcollege days, it would be just as well for you to pass it by and takeyour coffee and rolls at the little restaurant over the bridge, or theone farther down the street. 

Believe me, a most seductive place is this Châlet Cycle, with its tablesset out under the trees!

A place, at night, all hanging lanterns and shaded candles on_tête-à-tête_ tables, and close-drawn curtains about the kiosks. Aplace, by day, where you lunch under giant red and white umbrellas, withseats for two, and these half-hidden by Japanese screens, so high thateven the waiters cannot look over. A place with a great music-standsmothered in palms and shady walks and cosey seats, out of sight ofanybody, and with deaf, dumb, and blind waiters. A place with a bigopen gateway where everybody can enter and--ah! there is where thedanger lies--a little by-path all hedged about with lilac bushes, whereanybody can escape to the woods by the river--an ever-present refuge intime of trouble and in constant use--more's the pity--for it is the_unexpected_ that always happens at the Châlet Cycle. 

The prettiest girls in Paris, in bewitching bicycle costumes, lingerabout the music-stand, losing themselves in the arbors and shrubberies. The kiosks are almost all occupied: charming little Chinese pagodasthese--eight-sided, with lattice screens on all sides--screens sotightly woven that no curious idler can see in, and yet so loosely puttogether that each hidden inmate can see out. Even the trees overheadhave a hand in the villany, spreading their leaves thickly, so that thesun itself has a hard time to find out what is going on beneath theirbranches. All this you become aware of as you enter the big, wide gate. 

Of course, being quite alone, with only my battered old umbrella forcompany, I did not want a whole kiosk to myself, or even half of a giantumbrella. Any quiet corner would do for me, I told the Maître d'Hôtel, who relieved me of my sketch-trap--anywhere out of the rain when itshould again break loose, which it was evidently about to do, judgingfrom the appearance of the clouds--anywhere, in fact, where I could eata filet smothered in mushrooms, and drink a pint of _vin ordinaire_in peace. 

"No, I expected no one. " This in answer to a peculiar lifting of theeyebrows and slight wave of his hand as he drew out a chair in anunoccupied kiosk commanding a view of the grounds. Then, in rather apositive tone, I added:

"Send me a waiter to take my order--orders for _one_, remember. " Iwanted to put a stop to his insinuations at once. Nothing is so annoyingwhen one's hair is growing gray as being misunderstood--especiallyby a waiter. 

Affairs overhead now took a serious turn. The clouds evidentlydisapproving of the hilarious goings-on of the sun--poking its head outjust as the cloud was raining its prettiest--had, in retaliation, stopped up all the holes the sun could peer through, and had started into rain harder than ever. The waiters caught the angry frown on thecloud's face, and took it at its spoken word--it had begun to thunderagain--and began piling up the chairs to protect their seats, coveringup the serving-tables, and getting every perishable article undershelter. The huge mushroom-umbrellas were collapsed and rushed into thekiosks--some of them into the one where I sat, it being the largest;small tables were turned upside down, and tilted against thetree-trunks, and the storm-curtains of all the little kiosks let downand buttoned tight to the frames. Waiters ran hither and thither, withnapkins and aprons over their heads, carrying fresh courses for theseveral tables or escaping with their empty dishes. 

In the midst of this mêlée a cab dashed up to the next kiosk to mine, the wheels cutting into the soft gravel; the curtains were quickly drawnwide by a half-drowned waiter, and a young man with jet-black hair andan Oriental type of face slipped in between them. 

Another carriage now dashed up, following the grooves of the firstwheels--not a cab this time, but a perfectly appointed coupé, with twomen in livery on the box, and the front windows banked with whitechrysanthemums. I could not see her face from where I sat--she was tooquick for that--but I saw the point of a tiny shoe as it rested for aninstant on the carriage-step and a whirl of lace about a silk stocking. I caught also the movement of four hands--two outstretched from thecurtains of the kiosk and two from the door of the coupé. 

Of course, if I had been a very inquisitive and very censorious oldpainter, with a tendency to poke my nose into and criticise otherpeople's business, I would at once have put two and two together andasked myself innumerable questions. Why, for instance, the charmingcouple did not arrive at the same moment, and in the same cab? or whythey came all the way out to Suresne in the rain, when there were somany cosey little tables at Laurent's or at the Voisin, on the RueCambon, or in the Café Anglais on the Boulevard. Whether, too, eitherone were married, and if so which one, and if so again, what the otherfellow and the other woman would do if he or she found it all out; andwhether, after all, it was worth the candle when it did all come out, which it was bound to do some day sooner or later. Or I could haveindulged in the customary homilies, and decried the tendencies of thetimes, and said to myself how the world was going to the dogs because ofsuch goings-on; quite forgetting the days when I, too, had the world ina sling, and was whirling it around my head with all the impetuosity andabandon of youth. 

[Illustration: I saw the point of a tiny shoe. ]

But I did none of these things--that is, nothing Paul Pryish orpresuming. I merely beckoned to the Maître d'Hôtel, as he stood poisedon the edge of the couple's kiosk, with the order for their breakfast inhis hands, and, when he had reached my half-way station on his wayacross the garden to the kitchen, stopped him with a question. Not withmy lips--that is quite unnecessary with an old-time Maître d'Hôtel--butwith my two eyebrows, one thumb, and a part of one shoulder. 

"The nephew of the Sultan, Monsieur--" he answered, instantly. 

"And the lady?"

"Ah, that is Mademoiselle Ernestine Béraud of the Variété. She comesquite often. For Monsieur, it is his first time this season. "

He evidently took me for an old _habitué_. There are somecompensations, after all, in the life of a staid old painter. 

With these solid facts in my possession I breathed a little easier. Mademoiselle Ernestine Béraud, from the little I had seen of her, wasquite capable of managing her own affairs without my own or anybodyelse's advice, even if I had been disposed to give it. She no doubtloved the lambent-eyed gentleman to distraction; the kiosk was theironly refuge, and the whole affair was being so discreetly managed thatneither the lambent-eyed gentleman nor his houri would be obliged toescape by means of the lilac-bordered path in the rear on this or anyother morning. 

And if they should, what did it matter to me? The little row in thecloud overhead would soon end in further torrents of tears, as all suchrows do; the sun would have its way after all and dry every one of themup; the hungry part of me would have its filet and pint of St. Julien, and the painter part of me would go back to the little path by the riverand finish its sketch. 

Again I tried to signal the Maître d'Hôtel as he dashed past on his wayto the kiosk. This time he was under one of the huge umbrellas which an"omnibus" was holding over him, Rajah-fashion. He had a plump melon, half-smothered in ice, in his hands, to protect it from the downpour, the rain making gargoyles of the points of the ribs of the umbrella. Evidently the breakfast was too important and the expected fee too largeto intrust it to an underling. He must serve it himself. 

Up to this Moment no portion of my order had materialized. No cover forone, nor filet, nor _vin ordinaire_, nor waiter had appeared. Thepainter was growing impatient. The man inside was becoming hungry. 

I waited until he emerged with an empty dish, watched him grasp thegiant umbrella, teeter on the edge of the kiosk for a moment, and plungethrough the gravel, now rivers of water, toward my kiosk, the "omnibus"following as best he could. 

"A thousand pardons, Monsieur--" he cried from beneath his shelter, ashe read my face. "It will not be long now. It is coming--here, you cansee for yourself--" and he pointed across the garden, and tramped on, the water spattering his ankles. 

I looked and saw a solemn procession of huge umbrellas, the ones usedover the _tête-à-tête_ tables beneath the trees, slowly wending its waytoward where I sat, with all the measured movement and dignity of a fileof Eastern potentates out for an airing. 

Under each umbrella were two waiters, one carrying the umbrella and theother a portion of my breakfast. The potentate under the first umbrella, who carried the wine, proved to be a waiter-in-chief; the othersbearing the filet, plates, dishes, and glasses were ordinary"omnibuses, " pressed into service as palanquin-bearers by reason ofthe storm. 

The waiter-in-chief, with the bottle, dodged from under his bungalow, leaving it outside and still open, like a stranded circus-tent, steppedinto my kiosk, mopped the rain from his coat-sleeves and hands with anapkin, and, bowing solemnly, pointed to the label on the bottle. Thismeeting my approval, he relieved the rear-guard of the dishes, arrangedthe table, drew the cork of the St. Julien, filled my glass, dismissedthe assistants and took his place behind my chair. 

The closeness of the quarters, the protection it afforded from theraging elements, the perils my companion had gone through to serve me, made possible a common level on which we could stand. We discussed thestorm, the prospect of its clearing, the number of unfortunates in theadjacent Bois who were soaked to the skin, especially the poor littlebicycle-girls in their cotton bloomers, now collapsed and bedraggled. Wetalked of the great six-day cross-country bicycle-race, and how thewinner, tired out, had wabbled over the Bridge that same morning, withthe whole pack behind him, having won by less than five minutes. Wetalked of the people who came and went, and who they were, and how oftenthey dined, and what they spent, and ate and drank, and of the richAmerican who had given the waiter a gold Louis for a silver franc, andwho was too proud to take it back when his attention was called to themistake (which my companion could not but admit was quite foolish ofhim); and, finally, of the dark-skinned Oriental with the lambent eyes, and the adorable Ernestine with the pointed shoes and open-work silkstockings and fluffy skirts, who occupied the kiosk within ten feet ofwhere I sat and he stood. 

During the conversation I was busy with my knife and fork, my eyes atintervals taking in the scene before me; the comings and goings of thehuge umbrellas--one, two, or three, as the serving of the dishesdemanded, the rain streaming from their sides; now the fish, now thesalad, now a second bottle of wine in a cooler, and now the last courseof all on an empty plate, which my companion said was the bill, andwhich he characterized as the most important part of the procession, except the _pour boire_. Each time the procession came to a full stopoutside the kiosk until the sentinel waiter relieved them of theirburdens. My sympathies constantly went out to this man. There was noroom for him inside, and certainly no wish for his company, and so hemust, perforce, balance himself under his umbrella, first on one leg andthen on the other, in his effort to escape the spatter which now reachedhis knees, quite as would a wet chicken seeking shelter under acart-body. 

I say my companion and I "talked" of these several sights and incidentsas I ate my luncheon. And yet, really, up to this time I had not oncelooked into his face, quite a necessary thing in conducting aconversation of any duration. But then one rarely does in talking to awaiter when he is serving you. My remarks had generally been addressedto the dish in front of me, or to the door opposite, through which Ilooked, and his rejoinders to the back of my shirt-collar. If he had satopposite, or had moved into the perspective, I might once in a whilehave caught a glimpse, over my glass or spoon, of his smileless, mask-like face, a thing impossible, of course, with him constantlybehind my chair. 

When, however, in the course of his monotone, he mentioned the name ofMademoiselle Ernestine Béraud and that of the distinguished kinsman ofHis Serene Highness, the Grand Pan-Jam of the Orient, I turned my headin his direction. 

"You know the Mademoiselle, then?"

My waiter shrugged his shoulders, his face still impenetrable. 

"Monsieur, I know everybody in Paris. Why not? Twenty-three years awaiter. Twenty years at the Café de la Paix in Paris, and three yearshere. Do you wonder?"

There are in my experience but four kinds of waiters the world over. First, the thin, nervous waiter, with a set smile, who is alwaysbrushing away imaginary crumbs, adjusting the glasses--an inch this way, an inch that way, and then back again to their first position, talkingall the time, whether spoken to or not, and losing interest the momentyou pay him his fee. Then the stolid, half-asleep waiter, fat andperpetually moist, who considers his duties over when he has placed yourorder on the cloth and moved the wine within reach of your hand. Nextthe apprentice waiter, promoted from assistant cook or scullion-boy, whocarries on a conversation in signs behind your back with the waiteropposite him, smothering his laughter at intervals in the same napkinwith which he wipes your plate, and who, when he changes a course, slants the dishes up his sleeve, keeping the top one in place with hischin, replacing the plates again with a wavy motion, as if they were somany quoits, each one circling into its place--a trick of which he isimmensely proud. 

And last--and this is by no means a large class--the grave, dignified, self-possessed, well-mannered waiter; smooth-shaven, spotlessly clean, noiseless, smug and attentive. He generally walks with a slight limp, aninfirmity due to his sedentary habits and his long acquaintance with hisseveral employers' decanters. He is never under fifty, is round of form, short in the legs, broad of shoulder, and wears his gray hair cut close. He has had a long and varied experience; he has been buttons, valet, second man, first man, lord high butler, and then down the scale againto plain waiter. This has not been his fault but his misfortune--thesettling of an estate, it may be, or the death of a master. He has, withunerring judgment, summed you up in his mind before you have taken yourseat, and has gauged your intelligence and breeding with the first dishyou ordered. Intimate knowledge of the world and of men and ofwomen--especially the last--has developed in him a distrust of allthings human. He alone has seen the pressure of the jewelled hands asthey lay on the cloth or under it, the lawful partner opposite. He alonehas caught the last whispered word as the opera-cloak fell about hershoulders, and knows just where they dined the next day, and who paidfor it and why. Being looked upon as part of the appointments of theplace, like the chandeliers or the mirrors or the electric bell thatanswers when spoken to but never talks back, he has, unconsciously tothose he serves, become the custodian of their closest secrets. These hekeeps to himself. Were he to open his mouth he could not only break up ascore or more of highly respectable families, but might possibly upseta ministry. 

My waiter belonged to this last group. 

I saw it in every deferential gesture of his body, and every modulatedtone of his voice. Whether his moral nature had become warped andcracked and twisted out of all shape by constant daily and nightlycontact--especially the last--with the sort of life he had led, orwhether some of the old-time refinement of his better days still clungto him, was a question I could not decide from the exhibits beforeme--certainly not from the calm eyes which never wavered, nor the setmouth which never for a moment relaxed, the only important features inthe face so far as character-reading is concerned. 

I determined to draw him out; not that he interested me in any way, butsimply because such studies are instructive. Then, again, his account ofhis experiences might be still more instructive. When should I have abetter opportunity? Here was a man steeped in the life of Paris up tohis very eyelids, one thoroughly conversant with the peccadilloes ofinnumerable _viveurs_--peccadilloes interesting even to staid oldpainters, simply as object-lessons, especially those committed by theother gay Lothario: the fellow, for instance, who did not know she wasdangerous until his letter of credit collapsed; or the peccadilloes ofthe beautiful moth who believed the candle lighting her path to be anincandescent bulb of joy, until her scorched wings hung about her bareshoulders: That kind of peccadillo. 

So I pushed back my chair, opened my cigar-case, and proceeded to adjustthe end of my mental probe. There was really nothing better to do, evenif I had no such surgical operation in view. It was still raining, andneither I nor the waiter could leave our Chinese-junk of an island untilthe downpour ceased or we were rescued by a lifeboat or an umbrella. 

"And this nephew of the Sultan, " I began again between puffs, addressingmy remark to the match in my companion's hand, which was now burningitself out at the extreme end of my cigar. "Is he a new admirer?"

"Quite new--only ten days or so, I think. "

"And the one before--the old one--what does he think?" I asked thisquestion with one of those cold, hollow, heartless laughs, such ascroupiers are supposed to indulge in when they toss a five-franc pieceback to a poor devil who has just lost his last hundred Napoleons atbaccarat--I have never seen this done and have never heard the laugh, but that is the way the storybooks put it--particularly theblood-curdling part of the laugh. 

"You mean Pierre Channet, the painter, Monsieur?"

I had, of course, never heard of Pierre Channet, the painter, in mylife, but I nodded as knowingly as if I had been on the most intimaterelations with him for years. Then, again, this was my only way ofgetting down to his personal level, the only way I could draw him outand get at his real character. By taking his side of the question, hewould unbosom himself the more freely, and, perhaps, incidentally, someof the peccadilloes--some of the most wicked. 

"He will _not think_, Monsieur. They pulled him out of the river lastmonth. "

"Drowned?"

His answer gave me a little start, but I did not betray myself. 

"So they said. The water trickled along his nose for two days as he layon the slab, before they found out who he was. "

"In the morgue?" I inquired in a tone of surprise. I spoke as if thispart of the story had not reached me. 

"In the morgue, Monsieur. "

The repeated words came as cold and merciless as the drops of water thatfell on poor Channet as he lay under the gas-jets. 

"Drowned himself for love of Mademoiselle Béraud, you say?"

"Quite true, Monsieur. He is not the only one. I know four. "

"And she began to love another in a week?" My indignation nearly got thebetter of me this time, but I do not think he noticed it. 

"Why not, Monsieur? One must live. "

As he spoke he moved an ash-tray deliberately within reach of my hand, and poured the balance of the St. Julien into my glass without a quiver. 

I smoked on in silence. Every spark of human feeling had evidently beenstifled in him. The Juggernaut of Paris, in rolling over him, had brokenevery generous impulse, flattening him into a pulp of brutalselfishness. That is why his face was so smooth and cold, his eyes sodull and his voice so monotonous. I understood it all now. I changed thesubject. I did not know where it would lead if I kept on. Drowned loverswere not what I was looking for. 

"You say you have only been two years in Suresne?" I resumed, carelessly, flicking the ashes from my cigar. 

"But two years, Monsieur. "

"Why did you leave Paris?"

"Ah, when one is over fifty it is quite done. Is it not so, Monsieur?"--this made with a little deferential wave of his hand. Inoted the tribute to the staid painter, and nodded approvingly. He wasevidently climbing up to my level. Perhaps this plank, slender as itwas, might take him out of the slough and land him on higher andbetter ground. 

"Yes, you are right. And so you came to Suresne to be quiet. "

"Not altogether, Monsieur. I came to be near--Well! we are never too oldfor that--Is it not so?" He said it quite simply, quite as a matter ofcourse, the tones of his voice as monotonous as any he had yetused--just as he had spoken of poor Channet in the morgue with thewater trickling over his dead face. 

"Oh, then, even at fifty you have a sweetheart!" I blurted out with asudden twist of my probe. I felt now that I might as well follow theiniquity to the end. 

"It is true, Monsieur. "

"Is she pretty?" As long as I was dissecting I might at least discoverthe root of the disease. This remark, however, was not addressed to hisface, but to a crumb of ashes on the cloth, which I was trying to removewith the point of a knife. He might not have answered, or liked it, hadI fired the question at him point-blank. 

"Very pretty--" still the same monotone. 

"And you love her!" It was up to the hilt now. 

"She is the only thing I have left to love, Monsieur, " he answered, calmly. 

Then, bending over me, he added:

"Monsieur, I do not think I am mistaken. Were you not painting along theriver this morning?"

"Yes. "

"And a little child stood beside you while you worked?" Something in hisvoice as he spoke made me raise my head. To my intense amazement thelistless eyes were alight with a tenderness that seemed to permeate hiswhole being, and a smile of infinite sweetness was playing about hismouth--the smile of the old saint--the Ribera of the Prado!

"Yes, of course; the one playing with the priest, " I answered, quickly. "But--"

"No; that was me, Monsieur. I have often been taken for a priest, especially when I am off duty. It is the smooth face that misled you--"and he passed his hand over his cheeks and chin. 

"You the priest!" This came as a distinct surprise. "Ah, yes, I do seethe resemblance now. And so your sweetheart is the woman in the whitecap. " At last I had reached his tender spot. 

"No, you are wrong again, Monsieur. The woman in the white cap is mysister. My sweetheart is the little girl--my granddaughter, Susette. "

 * * * * *

I raised my own white umbrella over my head, picked up my sketch-trap, and took the path back to the river. The rain had ceased, the sun wasshining--brilliant, radiant sunshine; all the leaves studded withdiamonds; all the grasses strung with opals, every stone beneath myfeet a gem. 

I didn't know when I left what became of Mademoiselle Ernestine Béraud, with her last lover under the sod, and the new one shut up in the kiosk, and I didn't care. I saw only a little girl--a little girl in abrown-madder dress and yellow-ochre hat; with big, blue eyes, a tinypug-nose, a wee, kissable mouth, and two long pig-tails down her back. Looking down into her bonny face from its place, high up on the walls ofthe Prado, was an old cracked saint, his human eyes aglow with a lightthat came straight from heaven. 

"DOC" SHIPMAN'S FEE

It was in the Doctor's own office that he told me this story. He hastold me a dozen more, all pulled from the rag-bag of his experience, like strands of worsted from an old-fashioned reticule. Some werebright-colored, some were gray and dull--some black; most of them, infact, sombre in tone, for the Doctor has spent much of his life climbingup the rickety stairs of gloomy tenements. Now and then there comes outa thread of gold which he weaves into the mesh of his talk--some gleamof pathos or heroism or unselfishness, lightening the whole fabric. Thiskind of story he loves best to tell. 

The Doctor is not one of your new-fashioned doctors quartered in abrownstone house off the Avenue, with a butler opening the door; a pairof bob-tailed grays; a coupé with a note-book tucked away in its pocketbearing the names of various millionnaires; an office panelled in oak; awaiting-room lined with patients reading last month's magazines until heshould send for them. He has no such abode nor belongings. He lives allalone by himself in an old-fashioned house on Bedford Place--oh, Such aqueer, hunched-up old house and such a quaint old neighborhood pokedaway behind Jefferson Market--and he opens the door himself and seeseverybody who comes--there are not a great many of them nowadays, more's the pity. 

There are only a few such houses left up the queer old-fashioned streetwhere he lives. The others were pulled down long ago, or pushed out tothe line of the sidewalk and three or four stories piled on top of them. Some of these modern ones have big, carved marble porticos, made ofpainted zinc and fastened to the new brickwork. Inside these portals area row of bronze bells and a line of speaking tubes with cards belowbearing the names of those who dwell above. 

The Doctor's house is not like one of these. It would have been had itnot belonged to his old mother, who died long ago and who begged himnever to sell it while he lived. He was thirty years younger then, buthe is still there and so is the old house. It looks a little ashamed ofits shabbiness when you come upon it suddenly hiding behind its pushingneighbors. First comes an iron fence with a gate never shut, and then aflagged path dividing a grass-plot, and then an old-fashioned woodenstoop with two steps, guarded by a wooden railing (many a day sincethese were painted); and over these railings and up the supports whichcarry the roof of the portico straggles a honeysuckle that does its bestto hide the shabbiness of the shingles and the old waterspout andsagging gutter, and fails miserably when it gets to the farther cornice, which has rotted away, showing under its dismal paint the black andbrown rust of decaying wood. 

Then way in under the portico comes the door with the name-plate, andnext to it, level with the floor of the piazza or portico--either youplease, for it is a combination of both--are two long French windows, always open in summer evenings and a-light on winter nights with thereflection of the Doctor's soft-coal fire, telling of the warmth andcheer within. 

For it is a cheery place. It doesn't look like a doctor's office. Thereare dingy haircloth sofas, it is true, and a row of shelves withbottles, and funny-looking boxes on the mantel--one an electricbattery--and rows and rows of books on the walls. But there are nodreadful instruments about. If there are, you don't see them. 

The big chair he sits in would swallow up a smaller man. It is coveredwith Turkey red and has a roll cushion for his head. There are two ofthese chairs--one for you, or me; this last has big arms that come outand catch you under the elbows, a mighty help to a man when he has justlearned that his liver or lungs or heart or some other part of him hasgone wrong and needs overhauling. 

Then there is a canary that sings all the time, and a small dog--oh, such a low-down, ill-bred, tousled dog; kind of a dog that might havebeen raised around a lumber-yard--was, probably--one ear gone, half ofhis tail missing; and there are some pots of flowers, and on the wallnear the window where everybody can see is a case of butterflies impaledon pins and covered by a glass. No, you wouldn't think the Doctor'soffice a grewsome place, and you certainly wouldn't think the Doctor wasa grewsome person--not when you come to know him. 

If you met him out on Sunday afternoon in his black clothes, whiteneck-cloth, and well-brushed hat, his gray hair straggling over hiscoat-collar, pounding his cane on the pavement as he walked, you wouldsay he had a Sunday-school class somewhere. If you should come upon himsuddenly, seated before his fire, his gold spectacles clinging to hisfinely chiselled nose, his thoughtful face bending over his book, youwould conclude that you had interrupted some savant, and bowyourself out. 

But you must ring his bell at night--say two o'clock A. M. ; catch hischeery voice calling through the tube from his bedroom in therear--"Yes; coming right away--be there soon as I get my clotheson"--feel the strength and sympathy and readiness to help in the man, and try to keep step with him as he hurries on, and then watch him whenhe enters the sick-room, diffusing hope and cheer and confidence, andlisten to the soft, soothing tones of his voice, before you really getat the inside lining of "Doc" Shipman. 

All this brings me to the story. Of course, I could have told you thebare facts without giving you an idea of the man and his surroundings, but that wouldn't be fair to you, for you would have missed knowing theDoctor, and I the opportunity of introducing him to you. 

We were sitting in the old-fashioned office, then, one snowy night inJanuary, the Doctor leaning back in his chair, his meerschaum pipe inhis mouth--the one with the gold cap that a long-ago patient gavehim--when he straightened his back and tugged at his fob, bringing tothe surface a small gold watch--one I had not seen before. 

"Where's the silver one?" I asked, referring to an old silver-backedwatch I had seen him wear. 

The Doctor looked up and smiled. 

"That's in the drawer. I don't wear it any more--not since I got thisone back. "

"What happened? Was it broken?"

"No, stolen. "

"When?"

"Oh, some time ago. Help yourself to a cigar and I'll tell you about it. 

"One night last summer I came in late, took off my coat and vest, hungthem on a chair by the window and went to bed, leaving the sashes ajar, for it was terribly hot and I wanted a draught of air through frommy bedroom. "

(I must tell my reader here that the Doctor is a born story-teller andsomething of an actor as well. He seldom explains his characters orsituations as he goes on by putting in "I said" and "he said" andsimilar expressions. You know by the tones of his voice who is speaking, and his gestures supply the rest. )

"I always carried this watch in my vest-pocket. I carry it now inside mywaistband so they will have to pull me to pieces to get it. 

"Well, about three o'clock in the morning--I had just heard the oldclock in the tower strike, and was dozing off to sleep again--a footstepawoke me to consciousness. I looked through these doors"--here theDoctor was pointing to the folding doors of the office where wesat--"and through my bedroom saw the dim outline of a man moving aboutthis room. He had my vest and trousers over his arm. I sprang up, but hewas too quick for me, and before I could reach him he had slippedthrough the windows out on to the porch, down the yard, through thegate, and was gone. 

"With him went my mother's watch, which was in the upper vest-pocket, and some fifty dollars in money. I didn't mind the money, but I did thewatch. It was my mother's, a present from my father when they were firstmarried, and had the initials '_E. M. S. From J. H. S_. ' engraved on theunder side of the case. When she died I pasted the dear old lady'sphotograph inside the upper lid. I know almost everybody around here, and they all know me; they come in here with broken heads for me to sewup, and stab wounds, and such-like misfortunes, and when they heard whathad happened to me they all did what they could. 

"The Captain of the precinct came around, and everybody was very sorry, and they hunted the pawnshops, and I offered a reward--in fact, did allthe foolish things you do when you have lost something you think a heapof. But no trace of the watch could be found, and so I gave it up andtried to forget it and couldn't. That's why I bought that cheap silverone. My only clew to the thief was the glimpse I had of a scar on hischeek and a slight dragging of his foot as he stepped about my room. 

"One night last autumn there came a ring at the bell, and I let in a manwith a slouch hat pulled over his eyes and the collar of his coat turnedup. He was soaking wet, the water oozing from his shoes and slopping theoilcloth in the hall where he stood. I had never seen him before. 

"'Doc, ' he said, 'I want you. ' They all call me 'Doc' aroundhere--especially this kind of a man--and I saw right away wherehe belonged. 

"'What for?'

"'My pal's sick. '

"'What's the matter with him?'

"'Well, he's sick--took bad. He'll die if he don't git help. '

"'Where is he?'

"'Down in Washington Street. '

"'Queer, ' I said to myself, 'his wanting me to go two miles from here, when there are plenty of doctors nearer by, ' and so I said to him:

"'You can get a doctor nearer than me. I'm waiting for a woman case andmay be sent for any minute. Try the Dispensary on Canal Street; they'vealways a doctor there. '

"'No--we don't want no Dispensary sharp. We want you. Pal's sent me foryou--he knows you, but you mightn't remember him. '

"'I'll go. ' These are the people I can never refuse. They are on thehunted side of life and don't have many friends. I slipped on my rubbersand coat, picked up my umbrella and my bag with my instruments in it;hung a card in the window so the hall-light would strike it, marked'Back in an hour'--in case the woman sent for me; locked my door andstarted after him. 

"It was an awful night. The streets were running rivers, the windrattling the shutters and flattening the umbrellas of everybody whotried to carry one--one of those storms that drives straight at thefront of the house, drenching it from chimney to sidewalk. We waitedunder the gas-lamp, boarded a Sixth Avenue car, and got out at a signalfrom my companion. During the trip he sat in the far corner of the car, his hat slouched over his eyes, his coat-collar covering his ears. Heevidently did not want to be recognized. 

"If you know the neighborhood about Washington Street you know it's thelast resort of the hunted. When they want to hide, they burrow under oneof these rookeries. That's where the police look for them, only they'vegot so many holes they can't stop them all. Captain Packett of the NinthPrecinct told me the other day that he'd rather hunt a rattlesnake in atiger's cage than go open-handed into some of the rookeries aroundWashington Street. I am never afraid in these places; a doctor's like aSister of Charity or a hospital nurse--they're safe anywhere. I don'tbelieve that other fellow would have stolen my watch if he had known Iwas a doctor. 

"When we left the car at Canal Street, my companion whispered to me tofollow him, no matter where he went. We kept along close to the houses, past the dives--the streets, even here, were almost deserted; then I sawhim drop down a cellarway. I followed, through long passages, up acreaking pair of stairs, along a deserted corridor--only one gas-jetburning--up a second flight of stairs and into an empty room, the doorof which he opened with a key which he held in his hand. He waited untilI passed in, locked the door behind us, felt his way to a window, theglow of some lights in the tenements opposite giving the only light inthe room, and raised the sash. Then down a fire-escape, across a woodenbridge, which was evidently used to connect the two buildings; throughan open door, and up another stairs. At the end of this last corridor mycompanion pushed open a door. 

"'Here's the "Doc, "' I heard him say. 

"I looked into a room about as big as this we sit in. It was filled withmen, most of them on the floor with their backs to the wall. There was acot in one corner, and a pine table on which stood a cheap kerosenelamp, and one or two chairs. The only other furniture were aflour-barrel and a dry-goods box. On top of the barrel was a tincoffeepot, a china cup, and half a loaf of bread. Against thewindow--there was but one--was tacked a ragged calico quilt, shuttingout air and light. Flat on the floor, where the light of the lamp fellon his face, lay a man dressed only in his trousers and undershirt. Theshirt was clotted with blood; so were the mattress under him andthe floor. 

"'Shot?' I asked of the man nearest me. 

"'Yes. '

"I knelt down on the floor beside him and opened his shirt. The woundwas just above the heart; the bullet had struck a rib, missed the lungs, and gone out at the back. Dangerows, but not necessarily fatal. 

"The man turned his head and opened his eyes. He was a stockily builtfellow of thirty with a clean-shaven face. 

"'Is that you, "Doc"?'

"'Yes, where does it hurt?'

"'"Doc" Shipman--who used to be at Bellevue five or six years ago?'

"'Yes--now tell me where the pain is. '

"'Let me look at you. Yes--that's him. That's the "Doc, " boys. Wheredoes it hurt?--Oh, all around here--back worst'--and he passed his handover his side. 

"I looked him over again, put in a few stitches, and fixed him up forthe night. When I had finished he said:

"'Come closer, "Doc"; am I going to die?'

"'No, not this time; you'll pull through. Close shave, but you'llweather it. But you want some air. Here, you fellows'--and I motionedto two men leaning against the quilt tacked over the window--'rip thatoff and open that window. He's got to breathe--too many of you inhere, anyway, '

"One of the men moved the lidless dry-goods box against the wall, pickedup the kerosene lamp and placed it inside, smothering its light; theother tore the lower end of the quilt from the sash, letting in thefresh, wet night-air. 

"I turned to the wounded man again. 

"'You say you've seen me before?'

"'Yes, once. You sewed this up'--and he held up his arm showing ahealed scar. 'You've forgot it, but I haven't. '

"'Where?'

"'Bellevue. They took me in there. You treated me white. That's why mypal hunted you up. Say, Bill'--and he called to my companion with theslouch hat--'pay the "Doc. "'

"Half a dozen men dove instantly into their pockets, but my companionalready had his roll of bills in his hand. He bent over so that the glowof the half-smothered lamp could fall upon his hand, unrolled atwenty-dollar bill and handed it to me. 

"I passed it back to him. 'I don't want this. Five dollars is my fee. Ifyou haven't anything smaller, wait till I come to-morrow, then you cangive me a ten. I'm ready to go now; lead the way out. '

"Next morning I went to see him again. Bill, by arrangement, met me atthe corner of the street and took me to the wounded man's room, in andout, by the same route we had taken the night before. I found he hadpassed a good night, had no fever, and was all right. I left somemedicine and directions, got my ten dollars, and never went again. 

"Last month, some two days before Christmas, I was sitting herereading--it was after twelve o'clock--when I heard a tap on thewindow-pane. I pushed aside the shade and looked out a thick-set manmotioned me to open the door. When he got inside the hall he said:

"'Ain't forgot me again, have you, "Doc"!'

"'No, you're the man I fixed up in Washington Street last fall. '

"'Yea, that's right, "Doc"; that's me. Can I come in? I got somethingfor you. '

"I brought him in and he sat down on that sofa. Then he pulled out apackage from his inside pocket. 

"'"Doc, "' he began, 'I was thinking to-night of what you done for me andhow you did it, and how decent you've been about it always, and Ithought maybe you wouldn't feel offended if I brought you this bunch ofscarfpins to take your pick from'--and he unwrapped the bundle. 'There'sa pearl one--that might please you--and here's another thatsparkles--take your pick, "Doc. " It would please me a heap if youwould'--and he handed me half a dozen scarfpins stuck in a flannelrag--some of them of great value. 

"I didn't know what to say at first. I couldn't get mad. I saw he was indead earnest, and I saw, too, that it was pure gratitude on his partthat prompted him to do it. That's a kind of human feeling you don'twant to crush out in a man. When he's got that, no matter what else helacks, you've got something to build on. I pulled out the pearl pin fromthe others. I wanted to get time to make up my mind as to what I reallyought to do. 

"'Very nice pin, ' I said. 

"'Yes, I thought so. I got it on a Sixth Avenue car. Maybe you'll likethe gold one better; take your pick, it's all the same to me. That oneyou've got in your hand is a good one. ' I was slowly looking them over, making up my mind how I would refuse them and not hurt his feelings. 

"'How did you get this one?' I asked, holding up the pearl pin. 

"'I picked it up outside Cooper Union. '

"'On the sidewalk?'

"'No, from a feller's scarf. I held the cab door for him. ' He spokeexactly as if he had been a collector who had been roaming the world forcurios. 'Take 'em both, "Doc"--or all of 'em--I mean it. '

"I laid the bundle on the table and said: 'Well, that's very kind of youand I don't want you to think I don't appreciate it--but you see I don'twear scarfpins, and if I did I don't think I ought to take these. Yousee we have two different professions--you've got yours and I've gotmine. I saw off men's legs, or I help them through a spell of sickness. They pay me for it in money. You've got another way of making yourliving. Your patients are whoever you happen to meet. I mightn't likeyour way of doing, and you mightn't like mine. That's a matter ofopinion, or, perhaps, of education. You've got your risks to run, andI've got mine. If I cut too deep and kill a man they can shut meup--just as they can if you get into trouble. But I don't think we oughtto mix up the proceeds. You wouldn't want me to give you thisfive-dollar Bill--and I held up a note a patient had just paid me--'andtherefore I don't see how I ought to take one of your pins. I may nothave made it plain to you--but it strikes me that way. '

"'Then you ain't mad 'cause I brought 'em?'--and he looked at mesearchingly from under his dark eyebrows, his lips firmly set. 

"'No, I'm very grateful to you for wanting to give them to me--only Idon't see my way clear to take them. '

"He settled back on the sofa and began twirling his hat with his hand. Then he rose from his seat, a shade of disappointment on his face, andsaid, slowly:

"'Well, "Doc, " ain't there something else I can do for you? Man like youmust have _something_ you want--something you can't get withoutsomebody's help. Think now--you mightn't see me again. '

"Instantly I thought of my mother's watch. 

"'Yes, there is. Somebody came along one night when I was asleep andborrowed my vest hanging over that chair by the window, and mytrousers, and my mother's watch was in the vest pocket. If you couldhelp me get that back you would do me a real service--one Iwouldn't forget. '

"'What kind of a watch?'

"I described it closely, its inscription, the portrait of my mother inthe case, and showed him a copy of her photograph--like the one here. Then I gave him as close a description of the man as I could. 

"When I had described the scar on his face he looked at me in surprise. When I added that he had a slight limp, he said, quickly:

"'Short man--with close-cropped hair--and a swipe across his chin. Losta toe, and stumbles when he walks. I'll see what I can do. He ain't oneof our men. He comes from Chicago. He never stays more'n a day or two inany town. Don't none of 'em know him round here. Leave it to me; maytake some time--see you in a day or two'--and he went out. 

"I didn't see him for a month--not until two nights ago. He didn't ringthe bell this time. He came in through the window. I thought the catchwas down, but it wasn't. Funny how quick these fellows can see a thing. As soon as he shut the glass sash behind him he drew the curtains close;then he turned down the gas. All this, mind you, before he had openedhis mouth. Then he said:

"'Anybody here but you?'

"'No. '

"'Sure?'

"'Yee, very sure. '

"He spoke in a husky, rasping voice, like a man who had caught hisbreath again after a long run. 

"He turned his back to the window, slipped his hand in his hip-pocketand pulled out my mother's watch. 

"'Is that it, "Doc"?'

"The light was pretty low, but I'd have known it in the dark. 

"'Yes, of course it is--' and I opened the lid in search of the oldlady's photo. 'Where did you get it?'

"'Look again. There ain't no likeness. '

"'No, but here are the marks where they scraped it off'--and I held itclose to his eyes. 'Where did you get it?'

"'Don't ask no questions, "Doc. " I had some trouble gittin' next thegoods, and maybe it ain't over yet. I'll know in the morning. If anybodyasks you anything about it, you ain't lost no watch--see? Last time youseen me I was goin' West, see--don't forget that. That's all, "Doc. " Ifyou're pleased, I'm satisfied. '

"He held out his hand to say good-by, but I wouldn't take it. Hisappearance, the tone of his voice, and his hunted look made me alittle nervous. 

"'Sit down. You'll let me pay you for it, won't you? Wait until I goback in my bedroom for some money. '

"'No, "Doc, " you can't pay me a cent. I'm sorry they got the mother'spicture, but I couldn't catch up with the goods before. That would havebeen the best part of it for me. Mothers is scarce now--kind you and mehad--dead or alive. You won't mind if I turn out the gas while I slipout, do you, and you won't mind either if I ask you to sit still here. Somebody might see you--' and he shook my hand and started for thewindow. As his hand neared the latch I could see in the dim light thathis movements were unsteady. Once he stumbled and clutched at thebookcase for support----

"'Hold on, ' I said--and I walked rapidly toward him--'don't go yet--youare not well. '

"He leaned against the bookcase and put his hand to his side. 

"I was alongside of him now, my arm under his, guiding him into a chair. 

"'Are you faint?'

"'Yes--got a drop of anything, "Doc"? That's all I want. It ain'tnothing. '

"I opened my closet, took out a bottle of brandy and poured some into ameasuring-glass. He drank it, leaned his head for an instant against myarm and, with the help of my hand slipped under his armpit, againstruggled to his feet. 

"When I withdrew my hand it was covered with blood. It was too dark tosee the color, but I knew from the sticky feeling of it just whatit was. 

"'My God! man, ' I cried; 'you are hurt, your shirt's all bloody. Comeback here until I can see what's the matter. '

"'No, "Doc"--_no!_ I tell you. It's stopped bleeding now. It would betough for you if they pinched me here. Keep away, I tell you--I ain'tgot a minute to lose. I didn't want to hurt him even after he gave methis one in my back, but his girl was wearing it and there warn't noother way. Git behind them curtains, "Doc. " So! Good-by. '

"And he was gone. "

PLAIN FIN--PAPER-HANGER

I

The man was a little sawed-off, red-headed Irishman, with twinkling, gimlet eyes, two up-curved lips always in a broad smile, and a pair ofthin, caliper-shaped legs. 

His name was as brief as his stature. 

"Fin, your honor, by the grace of God. F-i-n, Fin. There was a 'Mac' infront of it once, and an 'n' to the tail of it in the old times, so memother says, but some of me ancisters--bad cess to 'em!--wiped 'em out. Plain Fin, if you plase, sor. "

The punt was the ordinary Thames boat: a long, narrow, flat-bottomed, shallow craft with tapering ends decked over to serve as seats, thewhole propelled by a pole the size of a tight-rope dancer's and about asdifficult to handle. 

Chartering the punt had been easy. All I had had to do was to strolldown the path bordering the river, run my eye over a group of boatslying side by side like a school of trout with their noses up-stream, pick out the widest, flattest, and least upsettable craft in the fleet, decorate it with a pair of Turkey-red cushions from a pile in theboathouse, and a short mattress, also Turkey-red--a good thing atluncheon-hour for a tired back is a mattress--slip the key of thepadlock of the mooring-chain in my pocket and stroll back again. 

The hiring of the man for days after my arrival at Sonning-on-Thames, was more difficult, well-nigh impossible, except at a price per diemwhich no staid old painter--they are all an impecunious lot--couldafford. There were boys, of course, for the asking; sunburnt, freckle-faced, tousle-headed, barefooted little devils who, when my backwas turned, would do handsprings over my cushions, landing on themattress, or break the pole the first day out, leaving me high and dryon some island out of calling distance; but full-grown, sober-minded, steady men, who could pole all day or sit beside me patiently while Iworked, hand me the right brush or tube of color, or palette, or open abottle of soda without spilling half of it--that kind of man was scarce. 

Landlord Hull, of the White Hart Inn--what an ideal Boniface is thissame Hull, and what an ideal inn--promised a boatman to pole the puntand look after my traps when the Henley regatta was over; and the ownerof my own craft, and of fifty other punts besides, went so far as to saythat he expected a man as soon as Lord Somebody-or-Other left for theContinent, when His Lordship's waterman would be free, adding, meaningly:

"Just at present, zur, when we do be 'avin' sich a mob lot from Lunnon, 'specially at week's-end, zur, we ain't got men enough to do our ownpolin'. It's the war, zur, as has took 'em off. Maybe for a few day, zur, ye might take a 'and yerself if ye didn't mind. "

I waved the hand referred to--the forefinger part of it--in adeprecating manner. I couldn't pole the lightest and most tractable puntten yards in a straight line to save my own or anybody else's life. Thenagain, if I should impair the precision of my five fingers by any suchviolent exercise, my brush would wabble as nervously over my canvas as arecording needle across a steam-gauge. Poling a rudderless, keellessskiff up a crooked stream by means of a fifteen-foot balancing pole isan art only to be classed with that of rowing a gondola. Gondoliers andpunters, like poets, are born, not made. My own Luigi comes of a race ofgondoliers dating back two hundred years, and punters must spring fromjust such ancestors. No, if I had to do the poling myself, I shouldrather get out and walk. 

Fin solved the problem--not from any special training (rowing inregattas and the like), but rather from that universal adaptability ofthe Irishman which fits him for filling any situation in life, from aseat on a dirt-cart to a chair in an aldermanic chamber. 

"I am a paper-hanger by trade, sor, " he began, "but I was brought up onthe river and can put a punt wid the best. Try me, sor, at four bob aday; I'm out of a job. "

I looked him over, from his illuminated head down to his parentheticallegs, caught the merry twinkle in his eyes, and a sigh of relief escapedme. Here was not only a seafaring man, accustomed to battling with theelements, skilled in the handling of poles, and acquainted with swiftand ofttimes dangerous currents, but a brother brush, a man conversantwith design and pigments; an artist, keenly sensitive to straight lines, harmony of tints, and delicate manipulation of surfaces. 

I handed him the key at once. Thenceforward I was simply a passengerdepending on his strong right arm for guidance, and at luncheon-hourupon his alert and nimble, though slightly incurved, legs forsustenance, the inn being often a mile away from my subject. 

And the inns!--or rather my own particular inn--the White Hart atSonning. 

There are others, of course--the Red Lion at Henley; the old Warboyshostelry at Cookham; the Angler at Marlowe; the French Horn across theblack water and within rifle-shot of the White Hart--a most pretentiousplace, designed for millionnaires and spendthrifts, where even chops andtomato-sauce, English pickles, chowchow and the like, ales in the woodand other like commodities and comforts, are dispensed at prices thatcompel all impecunious, staid painters like myself to content themselveswith a sandwich and a pint of bitter--and a hundred other inns along theriver, good, bad, and indifferent. But yet with all their charms I amstill loyal to my own White Hart. 

Mine is an inn that sets back from the river with a rose-garden in frontthe like of which you never saw nor smelt of: millions of roses in anever-ending bloom. An inn with low ceilings, a cubby-hole of a bar nextthe side entrance on the village street; two barmaids--three onholidays; old furniture; a big fireplace in the hall; red-shaded lampsat night; plenty of easy-chairs and cushions. An inn all dimity andcretonne and brass bedsteads upstairs and unlimited tubs--one fastenedto the wall painted white, and about eight feet long, to fit the largestpattern of Englishman. Out under the portico facing the rose-garden andthe river stand tables for two or four, with snow-white cloths made gaywith field-flowers, and the whole shaded by big, movable Japaneseumbrellas, regular circus-tent umbrellas, their staffs stuck in theground wherever they are needed. Along the sides of this garden on thegravel-walk loll go-to-sleep straw chairs, with little wicker tableswithin reach of your hand for B. & S. , or tea and toast, or a pint in amug, and down at the water's edge seafaring men like Fin and me find aboathouse with half a score of punts, skiffs, and rowboats, togetherwith a steam-launch with fires banked ready for instant service. 

And the people in and about this White Hart inn!

There are a bride and groom, of course. No well-regulated Thames inn canexist a week without a bride and groom. He is a handsome, well-knit, brown-skinned young fellow, who wears white flannel trousers, chalkedshoes, a shrimp-colored flannel jacket and a shrimp-colored cap(Leander's colors) during the day, and a faultlessly cut dress-suitat night. 

She has a collection of hats, some as big as small tea-tables; fluffygowns for mornings; short frocks for boating; and a gold belt, twoshoulder-straps, and a bunch of roses for dinner. They have three dogsbetween them--one four inches long--well, perhaps six, to beexact--another a bull terrier, and a third a St. Bernard as big as aSpanish burro. They have also a maid, a valet, and a dog-cart, besidesno end of blankets, whips, rugs, canes, umbrellas, golf-sticks, andtennis-bats. They have stolen up here, no doubt, to get away from theirfriends, and they are having the happiest hours of their lives. 

"Them two, sor, " volunteers Fin, as we pass them lying under the willowsnear my morning subject, "is as chuck-full of happiness as a hive's fullof bees. They was out in their boat yisterday, sor, in all that pour, and it rolled off 'em same as a duck sheds water, and they laughin' soye'd think they'd split. What's dresses to them, sor, and her father?Why, sor, he could buy and sell half Sonnin'. He's jist home from Africathat chap is--or he was the week he was married--wid more lead insidehim than would sink a corpse. You kin see for yerself that he's made forfightin'. Look at the eye on him!"

Then there is the solitary Englishman, who breakfasts by himself, andhas the morning paper laid beside his plate the moment the post-cartarrives. Fin and I find him half the time on a bench in a cool place onthe path to the Lock, his nose in his book, his tightly furled umbrellaby his side. No dogs nor punts nor spins up the river for him. He istaking his holiday and doesn't want to be meddled with or spoken to. 

There are, too, the customary maiden sisters--the unattended andforlorn--up for a week; and the young fellow down from London, allflannels and fishing-rods--three or four of them in fact, who sit roundin front of the little sliding wicket facing the row of bottles andpump-handles--divining-rods for the beer below, thesepump-handles--chaffing the barmaids and getting as good as they send;and always, at night, one or more of the country gentry in for theirpapers, and who can be found in the cosey hall discussing the crops, thecoming regatta, the chance of Leander's winning the race, or the latestreports of yesterday's cricket-match. 

Now and then the village doctor or miller--quite an important man is themiller--you would think so if you could see the mill--drops in, draws upa chair, and ventures an opinion on the price of wheat in the States orthe coal strike or some kindred topic, the coming country fair, orperhaps the sermon of the previous Sunday. 

"I hope you 'eard our Vicar, sir--No? Sorry you didn't, sir. I tell yer'e's a nailer. "

And so much for the company at the White Hart Inn. 

II

You perhaps think that you know the Thames. You have been at Henley, nodoubt, during regatta week, when both banks were flower-beds ofblossoming parasols and full-blown picture-hats, the river a stretch ofsilver, crowded with boats, their occupants cheering like mad. Or youknow Marlowe with its wide stream bordered with stately trees andstatelier mansions, and Oxford with its grim buildings, and Windsordominated by its huge pile of stone, the flag of the Empires floatingfrom its top; and Maidenhead with its boats and launches, and lovelyCookham with its back water and quaint mill and quainter lock. You haverowed down beside them all in a shell, or have had glimpses of themfrom the train, or sat under the awnings of the launch or regular packetand watched the procession go by. All very charming and interesting, and, if you had but forty-eight hours in which to see all England, aprofitable way of spending eight of them. And yet you have only skimmedthe beautiful river's surface as a swallow skims a lake. 

Try a punt once. 

Pole in and out of the little back waters, lying away from the river, smothered in trees; float over the shallows dotted with pond-lilies;creep under drooping branches swaying with the current; stop at any oneof a hundred landings, draw your boat up on the gravel, spring out andplunge into the thickets, flushing the blackbirds from their nests, orunpack your luncheon, spread your mattress, and watch the clouds sailover your head. Don't be in a hurry. Keep up this idling day in and dayout, up and down, over and across, for a month or more, and you will getsome faint idea of how picturesque, how lovely, and how restful thisrarest of all the sylvan streams of England can be. 

If, like me, you can't pole a punt its length without running into amud-bank or afoul of the bushes, then send for Fin. If he isn't atSonning you will hear of him at Cookham or Marlowe or London--but findhim wherever he is. He will prolong your life and loosen every button onyour waistcoat. Fin is the unexpected, the ever-bubbling, and theever-joyous; restless as a school-boy ten minutes before recess, quickas a grasshopper and lively as a cricket. He is, besides, brimful andspilling over with a quality of fun that is geyserlike in itsspontaneity and intermittent flow. When he laughs, which he does everyother minute, the man ploughing across the river, or the boy fishing, orthe girl driving the cow, turn their heads and smile. They can't helpit. In this respect he is better than a dozen farmers each with his twoblades of grass. Fin plants a whole acre of laughs at once. 

On one of my joyous days--they were all joyous days, this one most ofall--I was up the backwater, the "Mud Lark" (Fin's name for the punt)anchored in her element by two poles, one at each end, to keep hersteady, when Fin broke through a new aperture and became reminiscent. 

I had dotted in the outlines of the old footpath with the meadowsbeyond, the cotton-wool clouds sailing overhead--only in England do Ifind these clouds--and was calling to the restless Irishman to sit stillor I would send him ashore ... Wet, when he answered with one of hisbubbling outbreaks:

"I don't wonder yer hot, sor, but I git that fidgety. I been so longdoin' nothin'; two months now, sor, since I been on a box. "

I worked on for a minute without answering. Hanging wall-paper bystanding on a box was probably the way they did it in the country, theceilings being low. 

"No work?" I said, aimlessly. As long as he kept still I didn't carewhat he talked or laughed about. 

"Plinty, sor--an' summer's the time to do it. So many strangers comin'an' goin', but they won't let me at it. I'm laid off for a month yet;that's why your job come in handy, sor. "

"Row with your Union?" I remarked, listlessly, my mind still intent onwatching a sky tint above the foreground trees. 

"No--wid the perlice. A little bit of a scrimmage wan night in TrafalgarSquare. It was me own fault, sor, for I oughter a-knowed better. It wasabout three o'clock in the mornin', sor, and I was outside one o' themclubs just below Piccadilly, when one o' them young chaps come out widthree or four others, all b'ilin' drunk--one was Lord Bentig--jumps intoa four-wheeler standin' by the steps an' hollers out to the rest of us:'A guinea to the man that gits to Trafalgar Square fust; three minutes'start, ' and off he wint and we after him, leavin' wan of the othersbehind wid his watch in his hand. "

I laid down my palette and looked up. Paper-hanging evidently had itslively side. 

"Afoot?"

"All four of 'em, sor--lickety-split and hell's loose. I come nearrunnin' over a bobbie as I turned into Pall Mall, but I dodged him andkep' on and landed second, with the mare doubled up in a heap and therig a-top of her and one shaft broke. Lord Bentig and the other chapsthat was wid him was standin' waitin', and when we all fell in a heap henigh bu'st himself a-laughin'. He went bail for us, of course, and givethe three of us ten bob apiece, but I got laid off for three months, andcome up here, where me old mother lives and I kin pick up a job. "

"Hanging paper?" I suggested with a smile. 

"Yes, or anything else. Ye see, sor, I'm handy carpenterin', or puttin'on locks, or the likes o' that, or paintin', or paper-hangin', ormendin' stoves or tinware. So when they told me a painter chap wantedme, I looked over me perfessions and picked out the wan I tho't wouldsuit him best. But it's drivin' a cab I'm good at; been on the boxfourteen year come next Christmas. Ye don't mind, do ye, sor, my nottellin' ye before? Lord Bentig'll tell ye all about me next time ye seehim in Lunnon. " This touch was truly Finian. "He's cousin, ye know, sor, to this young chap what's here at the inn wid his bride. They wouldn'tknow me, sor, nor don't, but I've driv her father many a time. My rankused to be near his house on Bolton Terrace. I had a thing happen thereone night that--more water? Yes, sor--and the other brush--the big one?Yes, sor--thank ye, sor. I don't shake, do I, sor?"

"No, Fin; go on. "

"Well, I was tellin' ye about the night Sir Henry's man--that's thelady's father, sor--come to the rank where I sat on me box. It was aboutten o'clock--rainin' hard and bad goin', it was that slippery. 

"'His Lordship wants ye in a hurry, Fin, ' and he jumped inside. 

"When I got there I see something was goin' on--a party orsomething--the lights was lit clear up to the roof. 

"'His Lordship's waitin' in the hall for ye, ' said his man, and I jumpedoff me box and wint inside. 

"'Fin, ' said His Lordship, speakin' low, 'there's a lady dinin' wid meand the wine's gone to her head, and she's that full that if she waitsuntil her own carriage comes for her she won't git home at all! Go backand get on yer cab wid yer fingers to yer hat, and I'll bring her outand put her in meself. It's dark and she won't know the difference. Takeher down to Cadogan Square--I don't know the number, but ye can't missit, for it's the fust white house wid geraniums in the winders. When yegit there ye're to git down, help her up the steps, keepin' yer mouthshut, unlock the door, and set her down on the sofa. You'll find thesofa in the parlor on the right, and can't miss it. Then lay the key onthe mantel--here it is. After she's down, step out softly, close thedoor behind ye, ring the bell, and some of her servants will come andput her to bed. She's often took that way and they know what to do. 'Then he says, lookin' at me straight, 'I sent for you, Fin, for I know Ikin trust ye. Come here tomorrow and let me know how she got through andI'll give ye five bob. '

"Well, sor, in a few minutes out she come, leanin' on His Lordship'sarm, steppin' loike she had spring-halt, and takin' half the sidewalkto turn in. 

"'Good-night, Your Ladyship, ' says His Lordship. 

"'Good-night, Sir Henry, ' she called back, her head out of the winder, and off I driv. 

"I turned into the Square, found the white house wid the geraniums, helps her out of me cab and steadied her up the steps, pulled the keyout, and was just goin' to put it in the lock when she fell up agin thedoor and open it went. The gas was turned low in the hall, so that shewouldn't know me if she looked at me. 

"I found the parlor, but the lights were out; so widout lookin' for thesofa--I was afraid somebody'd come and catch me--I slid her into arockin'-chair, laid the key on the hall-table, shut the door softlike, rang the bell as if there was a fire next door, jumped on me box, and driv off. 

"The next mornin' I went to see His Lordship. 

"'Did ye land her all right, Fin?'

"'I did, sor, ' I says. 

"'Had ye any trouble wid the key?'

"'No, sor, ' I says, 'the door was open. '

"'That's queer, ' he says; 'maybe her husband came in earlier and forgotto shut it. And ye put her on the sofa----'

"'No, sor, in a big chair. '

"'In the parlor on the right?'

"'No, sor, in a little room on the left--down one step----'

"He stopped and looked at me. 

"'Te're sure ye put her in the fust white house?'

"'I am, sor. '

"'Wid geraniums in the winder?'

"'Yes, sor. '

"'Red?' he says. 

"'No, white, ' I says. 

"'On the north side of the Square?

"'No, ' I says, 'on the south. '

"'My God! Fin, ' he says, 'ye left her in the wrong house!'"

It was I who shook the boat this time. 

"Oh, ye needn't laugh, sor; it was no laughin' matter. I got me fivebob, but I lost His Lordship's custom, and I didn't dare go near CadoganSquare for a month. "

These disclosures opened up a new and wider horizon. Heretofore I hadassociated Fin with simple country life--as a cheery craftsman--aJack-of-all-trades: one day attired in overalls, with paste-pot, shears, and ladder, brightening the walls of the humble cottagers, and the nextin polo cap and ragged white sweater, the gift of some summer visitor(his invariable costume with me), adapting himself to the peaceful needsof the river. Here, on the contrary and to my great surprise, was acosmopolitan; a man versed in the dark and devious ways of a great city;familiar with life in its widest sense; one who had touched on manysides and who knew the cafés, the rear entrances to the theatres, andthe short cut to St. John's Wood with the best and worst of them. Thesediscoveries came with a certain shock, but they did not impair myinterest in my companion. They really endeared him to me all the more. 

After this I was no longer content with listening to his ramblingdissertations on whatever happened to rise in his memory and throat. Ibegan to direct the output. It was not a difficult task; any incident orobject, however small, served my purpose. 

The four-inch dog acted as valve this morning. 

Somebody had trodden on His Dogship; some unfortunate biped born toill-luck. In and about Sonning to tread on a dog or to cause any animalunnecessary pain is looked upon as an unforgiveable crime. Dogs are madeto be hugged and coddled and given the best cushion in the boat. "Aman, a girl, and a dog" is as common as "a man, a punt, and an inn. "

Instantly the four-inch morsel--four inches, now that I think of it, isabout right; six inches is too long--this morsel, I say, gave a yell asshrill as a launch-whistle and as fetching as a baby's cry. Instantlythree chambermaids, two barmaids, the two maiden sisters who werebreakfasting on the shady side of the inn gable, and the dog's owner, who, in a ravishing gown, was taking her coffee under one of theJapanese umbrellas, came rushing out of their respective hiding-places, impelled by an energy and accompanied by an impetuousness rarely seenexcept perhaps in some heroic attempt to save a drowning child sinkingfor the last time. 

"The darlin'"--this from Katy the barmaid, who reached him first--"who'sstomped on him?"

"How outrageous to be so cruel!"--this from the two maiden sisters. 

"Give him to me, Katy--oh, the brute of a man!"--this from the fairowner. 

The solitary Englishman with his book and his furled umbrella, who inhis absorption had committed the crime, strode on without even raisinghis hat in apology. 

"D----d little beast!" I heard him mutter as he neared the boat-housewhere Fin and I were stowing cargo. "Ought to be worn on a watch-chainor in her buttonhole. "

Fin had his hand on his lips keeping his laughing apparatus in orderuntil the solitary disappeared down the path to the trees, then heleaned my way. 

"I know him, sor, " he whispered. "He's a barrister down in Temple Bar. He don't remember me, sor, but I know him. He's always treadin' onsomething--something alive--always, sor, and wid both feet! He trod onme once. I thought it was him when I see him fust--but I wasn't suretill I asked Landlord Hull about him. "

"How came you to know him?"

"Well, sor, he had an old lady on his list two years ago that was alwaysdisputin' distances and goin' to law about her cab-fares. I picked herup one day in St. James Street and druv her to Kensington Gardens andcharged her the rates, and she kicked and had me up before themagistrate, and this old ink-bottle appeared for her. She's rich andalways in hot water. Well, we had it measured and I was right, and itcost her me fare and fifteen bob besides. When it was figured up sheowed me sixpence more measurement I hadn't charged her for the firsttime, and I summoned her and made her pay it and twelve bob more toteach her manners. What pay he got I don't know, but I got me sixpence. He was born back here about a mile--that's why he comes here forhis holiday. "

Fin stopped stowing cargo--two bottles of soda, a piece of ice in abucket, two canvases, my big easel and a lunch-basket--and moving hiscap back from his freckled forehead said, with as much gravity as hecould maintain:

"I ought to have been a barrister, sor; I started as one. "

The statement did not surprise me. Had he added that he had coached thewinning crew of the regatta the year before, laid the marquetry floorsof Cliveden (not far away), or led the band at the late Lord Mayor'sshow, I should have received his statements with equal equanimity. So Isimply remarked, "When was that, Fin"? quite as I should had I beengathering details for his biography--my only anxiety being to get thefacts chronologically correct. 

"When I was a gossoon of twenty, sor--maybe eighteen--I'm fifty now, soit's far back enough, God knows. And it all happened, too, not far fromthat old ink-bottle's place in Temple Bar. I was lookin' at it wan daylast winter when I had a fare down there that I took up in old BondStreet. I did the sweepin' out and startin' fires. Wan day wan of theclerks got fired because he couldn't serve a writ on another barristerchap who owed a bill that me boss was tryin' to collect. Nobody couldgit into his rooms, try every way they could. He had nigh broke the heado' wan o' the young fellers in the office who tried it the day before. He niver come out, but had his grub sent him. This had been goin' onfor a month. All kinds o' games had been put up on him and he beat'em all. 

"'I'll do it, ' I says, 'in a week's time or less. ' The manager was goin'through the office and heard the laugh they give me. 'What's this?' hesays, cross like. 'Fin says he kin serve the writ, ' the clerk says. 'Ikin, ' I says, startin' up, 'or I'll throw up me job. '

"'Give him the writ, ' he says, 'and give him two days off. It kin do noharm for him to try. '

"Well, I found the street, and went up the stairs and read the name onthe door and heard somebody walkin' around, and knew he was in. Then Ilay around on the other side o' the street to see what I could pick upin the way o' the habits o' the rat. I knew he couldn't starve for aweek at a time, and that something must be goin' in, and maybe I couldfollow up and git me foot in the door before he could close it; but Isoon found that wouldn't work. Pretty soon a can o' milk come and wentup in a basket that he let down from his winder. As he leaned out I sawhis head, and it was a worse carrot than me own. Then along come a manwith a bag o' coal on his back and a bit o' card in his hand with thecoal-yard on it and the rat's name underneath, a-lookin' up at the houseand scratchin' his head as to where he was goin'. 

"I crossed over and says, 'Who are ye lookin' for'? And he hands me thecard. 'I'm his man, ' I says, 'and I been waitin' for ye--me master'ssick and don't want no noise, and if ye make any I'll lose me place. I'll carry the bag up and dump it and bring ye the bag back and, shillin' for yer trouble. Wait here. Hold on, ' I says; 'take me hat andlet me have yours, for I don't git a good hat every day, and the bag'sthat dirty it'll spile it. '

"'Go on, ' he says; 'I've carried it all the way from the yard and meback's broke. ' Well, I pulled his hat ever me eyes and started up thestairs wid the bag on me shoulder. When I got to the fust landin' I runme hands over the bag, gittin' 'em good and black, then I smeared meface, and up I went another flight. 

"'Who's there?' he says, when I knocked. 

"'Coals, ' I says. 

"'Where from?' he says. 

"I told him the name on the card. He opened the door an inch and I couldsee a chain between the crack. 

"'Let me see yer face, ' he says. I twisted it out from under the edge ofthe bag. 'All right, ' he says, and he slipped back the chain and in Iwent, stoopin' down as if it weighed a ton. 

"'Where'll I put it?' I says. 

"'In the box, ' he says, walkin' toward the grate. 'Have ye brought thebill?'

"'I have, ' I says, still keepin' me head down. 'It's in me side pocket. Pull it out, please, me hand's that dirty'--and out come the writ!

"Ye ought to have seen his face when he read it. He made a jump for thedoor, but I got there fust and downstairs in a tumble, and fell in aheap at the foot with everything he could lay his hands on comin' afterme--tongs, shovel, and poker. 

"I got a raise of five bob when I went back and ten bob besides from theboss. 

"I ought to have stayed at the law, sor; I'd be a magistrate by nowa-sittin' on a sheepskin instead of ------

"Where'll I put this big canvas, sor--up agin the bow or laid flat? Thelast coat ain't dry yet, " he muttered to himself, touching my picturewith his finger in true paper-hanger style. "Oh, yes, I see--all ready, sor, ye kin step in. Same place we painted yesterday, sor?--up near themill? All right, sor. " And we pushed out into the stream. 

These talks with Fin are like telephone messages from the great cityhardly an hour away. They always take place in the open, while I amfloating among pond-lilies or drifting under wide-spreading trees, theirdrooping leaves dabbling in the silent current like children's fingers, or while I am sitting under skies as blue as any that bend above myBeloved City by the Sea; often, too, when the delicious silence aboutme is broken only by the lapping of the water around my punt, thesharpening of a bit of charcoal, or the splash of a fish. That hisstories are out of key with my surroundings, often reminding me ofthings I have come miles over the sea to forget, somehow adds totheir charm. 

There is no warning given. Suddenly, and apparently without anythingthat leads up to the subject in mind, this irrepressible Irishman breaksout, and before I am aware of the change, the glory of the morning andall that it holds for me of beauty has faded out of the slide of mymental camera and another has taken its place. Again I am followingFin's cab through the mazes of smoky, seething London, now waitingoutside a concert-hall for some young blood, or shopping along RegentStreet, or at full tilt to catch a Channel train at Charing Cross--eachpicture enriched by a running account of personal adventure that makesthem doubly interesting. 

"You wouldn't mind, sor, " he begins, "if I tell ye of a party of three Itook home from a grand ball--one of the toppy balls of the winter, inone o' them big halls on the Strand? Two o' them Was dressed like theRoyal family in satins that stuck out like a haystack and covered withdiamonds that would hurt your eyes to look at 'em--" And then in hisinimitable dialect--impossible to reproduce by any combination of vowelsat my command, and punctured every few minutes by ringing laughs thatcan be heard half a mile away--follows a description of how one of hisfares, Ikey by name, the son of the stoutest of the women, by a suddenlurch of his cab--Ikey rode outside--while rounding into a side street, was landed in the mud. 

"Oh, that was a great night, sor, " he rattles on. "Ye ought to 'a' seenhim when I picked him up. He looked as if they'd been a-swobbin' thecobbles wid him. 'Oh, me son! me son! it's kilt ye are!' she holleredout, clawin' him wid both hands, and up they hauled him all over themsatin dresses! And where do ye think I took 'em, sor? To Hanover Square, or out by St. James Park? No, sor, not a bit of it! Down in an alley inWhitechapel, sor, that ye'd be afraid to walk through after sundown, andinto a shop wid three balls over it. What do ye think o' that, sor?"

Or he launches forth into an account of how he helped to rescue awoman's child from the clutches of her brutal husband; and of the raceout King's Road followed by the husband in a hansom, and of the watchfulbobbie who, to relieve a threatened block in the street, held up thepursuing hansom at the critical moment, thus saving the escaping child, half-smothered in a blanket, tight locked in its mother's arms, andearning for Fin the biggest fare he ever got in his life. 

"Think of it, sor! Fifteen bob for goin' a mile, she a-hollerin' allthe time that she'd double the fare if I kep' ahead. But, Lord love ye, sor, she needn't 'a' worried; me old plug had run in the Derby wance, and for a short spurt like that he was game back to the stump ofhis tail. "

 * * * * *

When the last morning of his enforced exile arrived and Fin, before Iwas half-dressed, presented himself outside my bedroom door, an openletter in his hand, not a trace of the punt-poling Irishman was visiblein his make-up!

He wore a glazed white tile, a yellow-brown coat with three capes, cutpen-wiper fashion, and a pair of corduroy trousers whose fulnessconcealed in part the ellipse of his legs. 

"Here's a letter from me boss, sor, " he blurted out, holding it towardme. "He says I kin go to work in the mornin'. Ye don't mind, doye, sor?"

"Of course I mind, Fin; I'll have trouble to fill your place. Are yousorry to leave?"

"Am I sorry, sor? No!--savin' yer presence, I'm glad. What's the good ofthe country, anyhow, sor, except to make picters in? Of course, it'sdifferent wid you, sor, not knowin' the city, but for me--why God restyer soul, sor, I wouldn't give one cobble of the Strand no bigger'n mefist for the best farm in Surrey. 

"Call me, sor, next time ye're passin' my rank--any time after twelveat night, and I'll show ye fun enough to last ye yer life. "

Something dropped out of the landscape that day--something of itsbrilliancy, color, and charm. The water seemed sluggish, the sky-tonesdull, the meadows flat and commonplace. 

It must have been Fin's laugh!

LONG JIM

Jim met me at the station. I knew it was Jim when I caught sight of himloping along the platform, craning his neck, his head on one side as ifin search of someone. He had the same stoop in his shoulders; the samelong, disjointed, shambling body--six feet and more of it--that hadearned him his soubriquet. 

"Guess you be him, " he said, recognizing me as easily, his face breakingsuddenly into a broad smile as I stepped on to the platform. "Old man'lowed I'd know ye right away, but I kind o' mistrusted till I see yestop and look 'raound same's if ye'd lost the trail. I'll take themtraps and that bag if ye don't mind, " and he relieved me of mysketch-kit and bag. "Buck-board's right out here behind the freightshed, " and he pointed across the track. "Old mare's kinder skeery o' theengine, so I tied her a piece off. "

He was precisely the man I had expected to find--even to his shaggy grayhair matted close about his ears, wrinkled, leathery face, and long, scrawny neck. He wore the same rough, cowhide boots and the very hat Ihad seen so often reproduced--such a picturesque slouch of a hat withthat certain cant to the rim which betokens long usage and not a littlecomfort, especially on balsam boughs with the sky for a covering, andonly the stars to light one to bed. 

I had heard all these several details and appointments described ever sominutely by an enthusiastic brother brush who had spent the precedingsummer with old man Marvin--Jim's employer--but he had forgotten tomention, or had failed to notice, the peculiar softness of Jim's voiceand his timid, shrinking eyes--the eyes of a dog rather than those of aman--not cowardly eyes, nor sneaking eyes--more the eyes of one who hadsuffered constantly from sudden, unexpected blows, and who shrank fromyour gaze and dodged it as does a hound that misunderstands a gesture. 

"Old man's been 'spectin' ye for a week, " Jim rambled on as he led theway to the shed, hitching up his one leather suspender that kept thebrown overalls snug up under his armpits. "P'raps ye expected him tomeet ye, " he continued, "but ye don't know him. He ain't that kind. Hewon't go even for Ruby. "

"Who's Ruby?" The brother brush had not mentioned him. "Mr. Marvin'sson?"

"No, she's Mother Marvin's girl. She's away to Plymouth to school. Stand here a minute till I back up the buck-board. "

The buck-board is the only vehicle possible over these mountain-roads. It is the _volante_ of the Franconia range, and rides over everythingfrom a bowlder to a wind-slash. This particular example differed only inbeing a trifle more rickety and mud-bespattered than any I had seen; andthe mare had evidently been foaled to draw it--a fur-coated, moth-eaten, wisp-tailed beast, tied to the shafts with clothes-lines andscraps of deerhide--a quadruped that only an earthquake could haveshaken into nervousness. And yet Jim backed her into position ascarefully as if she had felt her harness for the first time, handing methe reins until he strapped my belongings to the hind axle, calling"Whoa, Bess!" every time she rested a tired muscle. Then he lifted onelong leg over the dash-board and took the seat beside me. 

It was my first draught of a long holiday; my breathing-spell; my timefor loose neckties and flannel shirts and a kit slung over my shouldercrammed with brushes and color-tubes; my time for loafing and invitingmy soul. It felt inexpressibly delightful to be once more out in theopen--out under the wide sweep of the sky; rid of the choke of narrowstreets; exempt of bens, mails, and telegrams, and free of him whoknocks, enters, and sits--and sits--and sits. And it was the Indiansummer of the year; when the air is spicy with the smoke of burningleaves and the mountains are lost in the haze; when the unshavencornfields are dotted with yellow pumpkins and under low-branched treesthe apples lie in heaps; when the leaves are aflame and the round sunshines pink through opalescent clouds. 

"Ain't it a hummer of a day?" Jim exclaimed, suddenly, looking towardthe valley swimming in a silver mist below us. "By Jiminy! it makes aman feel like livin', don't it?"

I turned to look at him. He, too, seemed to have caught the infection. His shoulders had straightened, his nostrils were dilated like a deer'sthat sniffs some distant scent; his face was aglow. I began to wonderif, with my usual luck, I had not found the companion I always lookedfor in my outings--that rare other fellow of the right kind, whoresponds to your slightest wish with all the enthusiasm and gusto of aboy, and so vagabondish in his tendencies that he is delighted to haveyou think for him and to follow your lead. 

I had not long to wait. Before we had gone a mile into the forest Jimjerked the mare back upon her haunches and, pointing to a great hemlockstanding sentinel over us, cried out with boyish enthusiasm:

"Take a look at him once. Ain't he a ring-tailed roarer? Seems to me atree big as him must be awful proud just o' bein' a tree. Ain't nothin''raound here kin see's fur as he kin, anyways. " "My luck again, " Ithought to myself. I knew I could not be mistaken in the outward signs. 

"You like trees, then?" I asked, watching the glow on his face. 

"Like 'em! Well, wouldn't you if ye'd lived 'mong 'em long's I have?Trees don't never go back on ye, and that's what ye can't say o'everything. " The analogy was obscure, but I attributed it to Jim'sslender stock of phrases. "I've knowed that hemlock ever since I comehere, and he's just the same to me as the fust day I see him. Ain'tnever no change in trees; once they're good to ye they're allus good toye. Birds is different--so is cattle--but trees and dogs ye kin tie to. Don't the woods smell nice? Do ye catch on to them spruces dead ahead ofus? Maybe ye can't smell 'em till ye git yer nose cleared out o' themcity nosegays, " he continued, with a kindly interest in his voice. "Butye will when ye've been here a spell. Folks that live in cities thinkthere ain't nothin' smells sweet but flowers and cologne. They ain'tnever slep' on balsam-boughs nor got a whiff o' a birchbark fire, nortramped a bed o' ferns at night. There's a cool, fresh smell for ye! Itell ye there's a heap o' perfumes 'raound that ye can't buy at aflower-store and cork up in a bottle. Well, I guess--Git up, Bess!" andhe flopped the reins once more along the ridges and hollows of themare's back while he encouraged her to renewed efforts with thatpeculiar clucking sound heeded only by certain beasts of burden. 

At the end of the tenth mile he stopped the mare suddenly. 

"Hold on, " he cried, excitedly, "there's that scraggy-tail. I missed himwhen I come down. See! there he is on that green log. I was feared he'dpassed in his chips. " I looked and saw a huge gray squirrel with a taillike a rabbit. "That's him. Durn mean on his tail, warn't it? And onepaw gone, too. The dog catched him one day last year and left him toreup that way. I found him limping along when I was a-sugaring here in thespring and kinder fixed him up, and he's sorter on the lookout for mewhen I come along. He's got a hole 'round here somewheres. "

Jim sprang out of the buck-board. Fumbling under the seat he brought outa bag of nuts. The squirrel took them from his hand, stuffing his mouthfull, five at a time, limping away to hide them, and back again for moreuntil the bag was empty, Jim, contented and unhurried, squatting on theground, his long knees bent under him. The way in which he did this gaveme infinite delight. No vagabond I had ever known ignored time and dutymore complacently. 

We drove on in silence, Jim taking in everything we passed. Thisshambling, slenderly educated, and clay-soiled man was fast looming upas a find of incalculable value--the most valuable of my experience. The most important thing, however, was still to be settled if a perfectharmony of interests was to be established between us--_would helike me_?

Marvin's cabin, in which I was to spend my holiday, lay on a clearinghalf a mile or more outside the woods and at the foot of a hill thathelped prop up the Knob. The stage road ran to the left. The house was asmall two-story affair built of logs and clapboards, and was joined tothe outlying stable by a covered passage which was lined with winterfirewood. Marvin, who met us at the pasture-gate, carried a lantern, theglow of the twilight having faded from the mountain-tops. He was asmall, thick-set man, smooth-shaven as far as the under side of his chinand jaws, with a whisk-broom beard spread over his shirt-front and halfof his waistcoat. His forehead was low, and his eyes set closetogether--sure sign of a close-fisted nature. 

To my great surprise his first words, after a limp handshake and aperfunctory "pleased to see you, " were devoted to an outbreak on Jim forhaving been so long on the road. "Been waitin' here an hour, " he said. "What in tarnation kep' ye, anyway? Them cows ain't milked yit!"

"Don't worry. I won't go back on them cows, " replied Jim, quietly, as hedrove through the gateway, following Marvin, who walked ahead swingingthe lantern to show the mare the road. 

Mrs. Marvin's manner was as abrupt as that of her husband. 

"Well, well!" she said, as I stepped upon the porch, "guess you must bebeat out comin' so fur. Come in and set by the stove, " and she resumedher work in the pantry without another word. 

I was not offended at her curtness. These denizens of the forest passtoo many hours alone and speak too seldom to understand the value ofpoliteness for politeness' sake. The wife, moreover, redeemed herselfthe next morning when I found her on the back porch feeding the birds. 

"Snow ain't fur off, " she remarked, in explanation, as she scattered thecrumbs about, "and I want 'em to larn early where they kin findsomething to eat. Ruby'd never forgive me if I didn't feed the birds. She loves 'em 'bout as much as Jim does. "

Neither she nor her husband became any more cordial as they knew mebetter. To them I was only the boarder whose weekly stipend helped todecrease the farm debt, and who had to be fed three times a day andgiven a bed at night. It was Jim who made me feel at home. He was thefellow I had longed for; the round peg of a chance acquaintance thatexactly fitted into the round hole of my holiday life, and he fulfilledmy every expectation. He would fish or hunt or carry a sketch-trap orwash brushes, or loaf, or go to sleep beside me--or get up atdaylight--whatever the one half of me wanted to do, Jim, the otherhalf, agreed to with instant cheerfulness. 

And yet, in spite of this constant companionship, I never crossed acertain line of reserve which he had set up between us. He would rambleon by the hour about the things around us; about the trees, the birds, and squirrels; of the way the muskrats lived by the sawmill dam, andtheir cleverness in avoiding his traps; about the deer that "yarded"back of Taft's Knob last winter, and their leanness in the spring. Sometimes he would speak of Mother Marvin, saying she "thought a heap ofRuby, and ought to, " and now and then he would speak of Ruby with acertain tender tone in his voice, telling me of the prizes she had wonat school, and how nobody could touch her in "'rithmetic and readin'. "But, to my surprise, he never discussed any of his private affairs withme. I say "surprise, " for until I met Jim I had found that men of hisclass talked of little else, especially when over campfires smoulderingfar into the night. 

This reticence also extended to Marvin's affairs. The relations betweenthem, I saw, were greatly strained, although Jim always discharged hisduties conscientiously, never failing to render a strict account of thetime he spent with me, which Marvin always itemized in the weekly bill. I used often to wonder if he were not under some obligation to hisemployer which he could not requite; it might be for food and shelterin his earlier days, or perhaps that he was weighted by a money debt hewas unable to pay. 

One morning, after a particularly ugly outbreak in which Jim had beendenounced for some supposed neglect of his duties, I asked him, thenlying beside me, his head cupped upon his saucer of a slouch hat, why hestayed on with a man like Marvin, so different from himself in everyway. I had often wondered why Jim stood it, and wished that he had thespirit to try his fortunes elsewhere. In my sympathy for him I had evengone so far as to hint once or twice at my finding him other employment. Indeed, I must confess that the only cloud between us dimming myconfidence in him was this very lack of independence. 

"Well, I got to git along with him for a spell yit, " Jim answered, slowly, his eyes turned up to the sky. "He _is_ ornery, and no mistake, and I git mad at him sometimes; but then ag'in I feel kinder sorry forhim somehow. He's a queer kind, ain't he, to be livin' up here all hislife with trees and mountains all 'round him, all doin' their best toplease him--and I don't know nothin' friendlier nor honester--and yethim bein' what he is? I'd 'a' thought they'd thawed him out 'fore this. And he's so dog-goned close, too, if I must say it. Why, if it warn'tfor Mother Marvin, some o' us 'raound here"--and he stopped and loweredhis voice--"would be out in the cold; some ye wouldn't suspect, too. "

This apparently studied reticence only incited my curiosity to learnsomething more of the man for whom I had begun to have a real affection. I wanted particularly to know something of his life before he came toMarvin's!--twelve years now. I could not, of course, ask Marvin or hiswife for any details--my intimacy with Jim forbade such an invasion ofhis privacy--and I met no one else in the forest. I saw plainly that hewas not a mountaineer by birth. Not only did his dialect differ fromthose about him, but his habits were not those of a woodsman. Forinstance, he would always carry his matches loose in his pocket, insteadof in a dry box; then, again, he would wear his trousers rolled up likea fireman's, as if to keep out the wet, instead of tucking them into hisboots to tramp the woods the better. Now and then, too, he would letfall some word or expression which would betray greater familiarity withthe ins and outs of the city than with the intricacies of the forest. 

"It was fixed up in a glass case like one Abe Condit used to have in hisplace in the Bowery, " he said once in describing a prize trout some cityfisherman had stuffed and framed. But when I asked him, with somesurprise, if he knew the Bowery, he looked at me quickly, with theslightest trace of offended dignity in his eyes, as if I had meant tooverstep the line between us, and answered quickly:

"I knowed Abe Condit, " and immediately changed the conversation. 

And yet I must admit that there was nothing in the way he answered thisand all my other questions that weakened my confidence in his sincerity. If there were any blackened pages in his past record that he did notwant to lay bare even to me, they were discolored, I felt sure, more byprivations and suffering than by any stains he was ashamed of. 

II

One morning at daybreak I was awakened by Jim swinging back my door. Hehad on his heavy overcoat and carried a lantern. His slouch hat wasflattened on the back of his head; the rim flared out, framing his face, which was wreathed in smiles. He seemed to be under some peculiarexcitement, for his breath came thick and fast. 

"Sorry to wake ye, but I'm goin' to Plymouth, " and he lowered his headand stepped inside my room. "Ruby's comin'. Feller brought me a lettershe'd sent on by the stage. The driver left it at the sawmill. I'd 'a'told ye las' night, but ye'd turned in. "

"When will you be back?" I called out from between the bedclothes. Wehad planned a trip to the Knob the next day, and were to camp out forthe night. He evidently saw my disappointment in my face, for heanswered quickly, as he bent over me:

"Oh, to-night, sure; and maybe Ruby'll go along. There ain't nothin' yekin teach her 'bout campin', and she'll go anywheres I'll takeher--leastways, she allus has. " This last was said with some hesitation, as if he had suddenly thought that my presence might make somedifference to her. "Leave yer brushes where I kin git 'em, " hecontinued, anxious to make up for my disappointment. "I'll wash 'em whenI git back, " and he clattered down the steep stairs and slammed the doorbehind him. 

I jumped from my bed, threw up the narrow, unpainted sash and watchedhis tall, awkward figure swinging the lantern as he hurried away towardthe shed where the gray mare lived in solitude. Then I crept back to bedagain to plan my day anew. 

When I joined Marvin at breakfast I found him in one of his ugliestmoods, with all his bristles out; not turned toward me, nor even towardhis wife, but toward the world in general. Strange to say, he made noallusion to his daughter's return nor to Jim's absence. 

Suddenly his wife blurted out, as if she could restrain her joy nolonger:

"You ain't never seen Ruby. She's comin' tonight. Jim's gone for her. The head teacher's sick and some o' the girls has got a holiday. "

"Yes, " I answered, quietly; "Jim told me. "

"Oh, he did!" And she put down her cup and leaned across the table. "Well, I'm awful glad she's comin', just so ye kin see her. Ye won'tnever forgit her when ye do. She's got six months more, then she'scomin' home for a spell until she goes teachin', " and a look of exultantpride and joy of which I had never believed her capable came intoher eyes. 

Marvin turned his head and in a half-angry way said:

"It's 'bout time. Little good ye've had o' her for the last four yearswith yer fool notions 'bout eddication. " And he put on his hat andwent out. 

"How old is your daughter?" I asked, more to soften the effect ofMarvin's brutal remark than anything else. 

"She's seventeen, I guess, but she's big for her age. "

The announcement came as a surprise. I had supposed from the way Jim hadalways spoken of her that she was a child of twelve. The possibilitiesof her camping out became all the more remote. 

"And has she been away from you long this time?"

"'Bout four months. I didn't 'spect her to come till Christmas, till shewrote Jim to come for her. He allus fetches her. They'll be 'long'bout dark. "

I instantly determined to extend the heartiest of welcomes to thislittle daughter, not alone because of the mother and Jim, but becausethe home-coming of a young girl had always appealed to me as one of themost satisfying of all family events. My memory instinctively went backto the return of my own little bird, and of the many marvellouspreparations begun weeks before in honor of the event. I saw again in mymind the wondrous curtains, stiff and starched, hung at the windows andabout the high posts of the quaint bedstead that had sheltered her fromchildhood; I remembered the special bakings and brewings and theinnumerable bundles, big and little, that were tucked away undersecretive sofas and the thousand other surprises that hung upon hercoming. This little wood-pigeon should have my best attention, howeversimple and plain might be her plumage. 

Moreover, I was more than curious to see what particular kind of afledgling could be born to these two parent birds--one so hard andunsympathetic and the other so kind and simple. Jim, I remembered, hadalways spoken enthusiastically of Ruby, but then Jim always spilled overthe edges whenever he spoke of the things he loved, whether they weredogs, trees, flowers, or brilliant young maidens. 

At nine o'clock that night my ear caught the sound of wheels; then cameJim's "Whoa! Bess, " and the mother threw wide the door and caught herdaughter in her arms. 

"Oh, mother!" the girl cried, "wasn't it good I could come?" and shekissed her again. Then she turned to me--I had followed out in thestarlight--"Uncle Jim sent me word you were here, and I was so glad. I've always wanted to see somebody paint, and Uncle Jim says he's sureyou will let me go sketching with you. I wasn't coming home with theother girls until I got his letter and knew that you were here. "

She said this frankly and simply, without the slightest embarrassment, and without a trace of any dialect in her speech. Jim evidently had notexaggerated her attainments. She had, too, unconsciously to herself, solved one of the mysteries that surrounded me. If Jim was her uncle itmust be on her mother's side; it certainly could not be on Marvin's. 

"And I'm glad, too, " I replied. "Of course you shall go, and Jim tellsme also that you are as good a woodsman as he is. And so Jim's youruncle, is he? He never told me that. "

"Oh, no, " she answered quickly, with a little deprecatory air. "He isn'tmy _real_ uncle. He's just Jim, but I've always called him Uncle Jimever since I was a little girl. And I love him dearly; don't I, UncleJim?" and she turned toward him as he entered the door carrying herbundle, followed by her father with the kerosene lamp, Marvin havingbrought it out to help Jim unload the buck-board. 

"That's what ye allus says, baby-girl, " answered Jim, "so I got tobelieve it. And if I didn't, there wouldn't be no use o' livin'--not amite. " There was a vibrating tenderness in the man's voice, and anindescribable pathos in its tone, as he spoke, that caused meinstinctively to turn my head and look into his face. 

The light shone full upon it--so full and direct that there were noshadows anywhere. Whether it was because of the lamp's direct rays orbecause of his long ride in the crisp November air, I could not decide, but certain it was that Jim's face was without a wrinkle, and that helooked twenty years younger. Even the hard, drawn lines about his mouthand nose had disappeared. 

With the light of the lamp came another revelation. While the girl'scheap woollen dress and jacket, of a pattern sold in the country stores, showed her to be the product of Marvin's home and the recipient of hisscanty bounty, her trim, well-rounded figure, soft, glossy hair--nowthat her hat was off--and small hands and feet, classed her as one offar gentler birth. There was, too, as she passed in and out of the roomhelping her mother with the supper-table, a certain grace and dignity, especially in the way in which she bent her head on one side to listen, a gesture often seen in a drawing-room, but never, in my experience, ina cabin. What astonished me most, however, were her hands--herexquisitely modelled hands, still ruddy from the fresh night air, but sowonderfully curved and dimpled. And then, too, the perfect graciousnessand simplicity of her manner and its absolute freedom from coquetry orself-consciousness. Her mother was right--I would not soon forget her. And yet, by what freak of Nature, I found myself continually repeating, had this flower been made to bloom on this soil? Through what ancestor'sveins had this blood trickled, and through what channels had it reachedthese humble occupants of a forest home?

But if her mother was the happier for her coming, Jim, radiant with joy, seemed to walk on air. His head was up, his arms were swinging free, andthere was a lightness and spring in his movements that made me forgetthe grotesqueness of his gait. Nor, as the days went by, did thisbuoyant happiness ever fail him. He and Ruby were inseparable from thetime she opened the rude door of her bedroom in the morning until shebade us all good-night and carried with her all the light and charm andjoyousness of the day. The camping-out, I may as well state, had beengiven up as soon as I had mentioned it, she saying to me with a littlestart, as if frightened at the proposition, that she thought she'dbetter stay home and help her mother. Then, seeing Jim's face fall, sheadded, "But we can be off all day, can't we?"

And Jim answered that it was all right, just as Ruby said--that we wouldgo fishing instead, and that he had spotted an old trout that lived in ahole down the East Branch that he'd been saving for her, and that he hadtied the day before the "very fly that will fix him"--all of which wastrue, for Ruby landed him the next day with all the skill of aprofessional, besides a dozen smaller ones whose haunts Jim knew. 

And so the weeks flew by, Ruby tramping the forest daily between us orsitting beside me as I painted, noting every stroke of my brush andasking me innumerable questions as to the choice of colors and themixing of the tints. At other times she would ply me with questions, making me tell her of the things I had seen abroad and of the cities andpeoples she had read of; or she would talk of the books she had studied, and of others she wanted to read. Jim would listen eagerly, with acertain pride in his eyes that she knew so much and could talk so well, and when we were alone he would comment on it:

"Nearly catched ye, didn't she? I see once or twice ye were stumpedclean out o' yer boots on them questions she fired. How her little headholds it all is what bothers me. But I always knowed how it would be; Itold the old man so ten year ago. Ain't one o' 'em 'raound here kintouch her. "

At night, under the kerosene lamp in the cabin, she would ask me to readaloud, she looking up into my face and drinking in every word, theothers listening, Jim watching every expression that crossed her face. 

Dear old Jim! I still see your tender, shrinking eyes peering at herfrom under your bushy eyebrows and still hear the low ripple of yourmerry laugh over her volleys of questions. You were so proud of her andso happy in those days! So tender in touch, so gentle of voice, soconstant in care!

One morning I had some letters to write, and Ruby and Jim took the rodsand went up the brook without me. They both begged me to go, Ruby beingparticularly urgent, I thought, but I had already delayed the mail toolong and so refused point-blank--too abruptly, perhaps, as I thoughtafterward, when I remembered the keen look of disappointment in herface. When she re-entered the cabin alone an hour later she passed mehurriedly, and calling out to her father that Jim was wanted at thesawmill to fix the wheel and would not be back until morning, shutherself into her room before I could offer myself in Jim's place--whichI would gladly have done, now that her morning's pleasure hadbeen spoiled. 

When she joined us at supper--she had kept her room all day--I saw thather eyes were red, as if she had been crying. I knew then that I hadoffended her. 

"Ruby, I really couldn't go, " I said. "You don't feel cross about it, doyou?"

"Oh, no, " she answered, with some earnestness. "And I knew you werebusy. "

"And about Jim--what's the matter with the wheel?" I asked, greatlyrelieved at the discovery that whatever troubled her, my staying at homehad not caused it. 

"One of the buckets is broken--Uncle Jim always fixes it, " and sheturned her head away to hide her tears. 

"Is Jim a carpenter, too?" I asked, with a smile. 

"Why, yes, " she replied. "Didn't you know that? They often send for himto fix the mill. There's no one else about here who can. " And shechanged the conversation and began talking of the beauty of that part ofthe brook where they had been to fish, and of the rich brown tint of thewater in the pools, and how lovely the red sumachs were reflected intheir depths. 

The next morning, and without any previous warning, Ruby appeared in hercloth dress and jacket and announced her intention of taking the stageback to Plymouth, adding that as Jim had not returned, Marvin must driveher over to the cross-roads. I offered my services, but she declinedthem graciously but firmly, bidding me good-by and saying with one ofher earnest looks, as she held my hand in hers, that she should neverforget my kindness to Jim, and that she would always remember me forwhat I had done for him, and then she added with peculiar tenderness:

"And dear Uncle Jim won't forget you, either. "

And so she had gone, and with her had faded all the light and joyousnessof the place. 

When Jim returned the next day I was at work in the pasture painting agroup of white birches. I hallooed to him as he shambled along within ahundred yards of me, swinging his arms, but he did not answer except toturn his head. 

That night at table he replied to my questions in monosyllables, explaining his not stopping when I had called in the morning by sayingthat he didn't want to "'sturb me, " and when I laughed and toldhim--using his own words--that Ruby "wouldn't pass a fellow and give himthe dead, cold shake, " he pushed back his chair with a sudden impatientgesture, said he had forgotten something, and left the table without aword or look in reply. 

I knew then that I had hurt him in some way. 

"What's the matter with Jim, Mr. Marvin? He seems put out aboutsomething. Did he say anything to you?" I asked, astonished at Jim'sbehavior, and anxious for some clew by which to solve its mystery. 

"Got one o' his spells on. Gits that way sometimes, and when he does yecan't git no good out o' him. I want them turnips dug, and he's got todo it or git out. I ain't hired him to loaf 'round all day with Ruby andto sulk when she's gone. I'm a-payin' him wages right along, ain't I?"he added with some fierceness as he stopped at the door. "What he gitsfor fixin' the mill ain't nothin' to me--I don't git a cent on it. "

III

When the morning came and Jim had not returned I started for the mill. Ifound him alone, sitting idly on a bench near the water-wheel. I hadheard the hum of the saw before I reached the dam and knew that he hadfinished his work. 

"Jim, " I said, walking up to him and extending my hand, "if I have doneanything to hurt your feelings, I'm sorry. If I had known you would havebeen put out by my not going with Ruby I would have let the mail wait. "

He took my hand mechanically, but he did not raise his eyes. The oldlook had returned to his face, as if he were afraid of some sudden blow. "I did all I could to make Ruby's visit a happy one--don't you know Idid?" I continued. 

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes still onthe ground. There was something infinitely pathetic in the attitude. "Ye ain't done nothin' to me, " he answered, slowly, "and ye ain't donenothin' to Ruby. I cottoned to ye fust time I see ye, and so did Ruby, and we still do. It ain't that. "

"Well, what is it, then? Why have you kept away from me?"

He arose wearily until his whole length was erect, hooked his long armsbehind his back, and began walking up and down the platform. He was nolonger my comrade of the woods. The spring and buoyancy of his step hadgone out of him. He seemed shrivelled and bent, as if some suddenweakness had overcome him. His face was white and drawn, and the eyelidsdrooped, as if he had not slept. 

At the second turn he stopped, gazed abstractedly at the boards underhis feet, as a man sometimes does when his mind is on other things. Mechanically he stooped to pick up a small iron nut that had slippedfrom one of the bolts used in repairing the wheel, and in the sameabstracted way, still ignoring me, raised it to his eye, looked throughthe hole for a moment, and then tossed it into the dam. The splash ofthe iron striking the water frightened a bird, which arose in the air, sang a clear, sweet note, and disappeared in the bushes on the oppositebank. Jim started, turned his head quickly, following the flight of thebird, and sank slowly back upon the bench, his face in his hands. 

"There it is again, " he cried out. "Every way I turn it's the samething. I can't even chuck nothin' overboard but I hear it. "

"Hear what?" The keen anguish expressed in his voice had alarmed me. 

"That song-sparrow--did ye hear it? I tell ye this thing'll drive mecrazy. I tell ye I can't stand it--I can't stand it. " And he turned hishead and covered his face with his sleeve. 

The outburst and gesture only intensified my anxiety. Was Jim's mindgiving away? I arose from my seat and bent over him, my hand on his arm. 

"Why, that's only a bird, Jim--I saw it--it's gone into the bushes. "

"Yes, I know it; I seen it; that's what hurts me; that's what's allusgoin' to hurt me. And 'tain't only goin' to be the birds. It's goin' tobe the trees and the gray-backs and the trout we catched, and everywhereI look and every place I go to it's goin' to be the same thing. And itain't never goin' to be no better--never--never--long as I live. Shesaid so. Them was her very words I ain't never goin' to forgit 'em. " Andhe leaned his head in a baffled, tired way against the planking ofthe mill. 

"Who said so, Jim?" I asked. 

Jim raised his head, looked me straight in the face and, with the tearsstarting in his eyes, answered in a low voice:

"Ruby. She loves 'em--loves every one o' 'em. Oh, what's goin' tobecome o' me now, anyhow?"

"Well, but I don't--" The revelation came to me before I could completethe sentence. Jim's face had told the story of his heart!

"Jim, " I said, laying my hand on his shoulder, "do you love Ruby?"

"Sit down here, " he said, in a hopeless, despondent voice, "and mebbeI'll git grit enough to tell ye. I ain't never told none o' the folksthat comes up here o' how things was, but I'm goin' to tell you. And I'mgoin' to tell it to ye plumb from the beginnin'. Too. " And a sigh likethe moan of one in pain escaped him. 

"Twelve years ago I come here from New York. I'd been cleaned out o'everything I had by a man I trusted, and I was flat broke. I didn't carewhere I went, so's I got away from the city and from people. I wanted togit somewheres out into the country, and so I got aboard the train andkep' on till I'd struck Plymouth. There my money gin out and I startedup the road into the mountains. I thought I'd hire out to some choppersfor the winter. When night come I see a light and knocked at the doorand Jed opened it. He warn't goin' to keep me, but he was a-buildin' theshed where the old mare is now, and he found out I was handy with thetools and didn't want no wages, only my board, so he let me stay. Thenext spring he hired me regular and give me wages every month. I kep'along, choppin' in the winter and helpin' 'round the place, and insummer goin' out with the parties that come up from the city, helpin. ''em fish and hunt. I liked that, for I loved the woods ever since I wasa boy, when I used to go off by myself and stay days and nights withnothin' but a tin can o' grub and a blanket. That's why I come here whenI went broke. 

"One summer there come a feller from Boston to fish. He brought his wifealong, and T used to go out with both o' 'em. The man's wife was puttin'up for some o' them children's homes, and she used to talk to MarmMarvin about takin' one o' the children and what a comfort it would beto the child to git out into the fresh air, and one mornin' 'fore sheleft she took Jed down in the woods and talked to him, and the weekafter she left for home Marm Marvin sent me over to the station--sameplace I fetched ye--and out she got with a tag sewed on her jacket andher name on it, and a bundle o' clothes no bigger'n your head. She was'bout seven or eight years old, and the cunnin'est young un ye ever see. Jus' the same eyes she's got now, only they looked bigger, 'cause hercheeks was caved in. "

"Not Ruby, Jim!" I cried, in astonishment. 

"Yes, Ruby. That's what was on the tag. "

"And she isn't Marvin's child?"

"No more'n she's yourn, nor mine. She ain't nobody's child that anybodyknows about. She's jus' Ruby, and that's all there is to her. 

"Well, by the time I'd got her out to the farm and had heared her talkand seen her clap her hands at the chippies, and laugh at the birds, andgo half wild over every little thing she'd see, I knowed I'd got hold o'something that filled up every crack o' my heart. And she didn't come aday too soon, for Jed had got so ugly there warn't no livin' with him, and I'd made up my mind to quit, and I would if he hadn't took a streakag'in Ruby at the start. Then I knowed where my trail led. And arterthat I never let her out o' my sight. Marm Marvin was different. Shenever had no child o' her own, and she warmed up to Ruby more'n moreevery day, and she loves her now much as she kin love anything. 

"That fust winter we had a good deal o' snow and I made a pair o'leggins for her out o' a deer's skin I'd killed, and rigged up a sled, and I'd haul her after me wherever I went, and when school opened downto the cross-roads I'd haul her down and bring her back if the snowwarn't too deep, and when summer come she'd go 'long jus' the same. Itaught her to fish and shoot, and often she'd stay out in camp with meall night when I was tendin' the sugar-maples--she sleepin' on thebalsams with my coat throwed over her. 

"Things went on this way till 'bout three years ago, when I see shewarn't gittin' ahead fast as she could, and I went for the old man tosend her to school down to Plymouth. Marm Marvin was willin', but Jedheld out, and at last he give in after my talkin' to him. So I hooked upthe buck-board and drove her down to Plymouth and left her, with herarms 'round my neck and the tears streamin' down her face. But she wasgame all the same, only she hated to have me leave her. 

"Every July and Christmas I'd go for her, and she'd allus be waitin' forme at the head o' the stairs or would come runnin' down with her armswide open, and she'd kiss me and hug me and call me dear Uncle Jim, andtell me how she loved me, and how there warn't nothin' in the world sheloved so much; and then when she'd git home we'd tramp the woodstogether every chance we got. "

Jim stopped and bent forward, his face in his hands, his elbows on hisknees. For a time he was silent; then he went on:

"This last time when I went for her she pretty nigh took my breath away. She seemed just as glad to see me, but she didn't git into my arms asshe ueeter, and she looked different, too. She had growed every waybigger, and wider, and older. I kep' a-lookin' at her, tryin' to findthe little girl I'd left some months afore, but she warn't there. Sheacted different, too--more quiet like and still, so that I was feared totouch her like I useter, and took it out in talkin' to her and listenin'to all she told me o' what she was larnin' and how this winter she wasgoin' to git through and git her certificate, and then she was goin' toteach and help her mother--she allus called Marm Marvin mother. Then shetold me o' how one o' the teachers--a young fellow from a college--wasgoin' to set up a school o' his own and goin' to git some o' thegraduates to help teach when he got started, and how he had asked her tobe one o' 'em, and how she was goin' with him. 

"Since you been here and us three been together and I begun to see howhappy she was a-talkin' to you and askin' you questions, I got worse'never over her. I begun to see that I warn't what I had been to her. Whenwe was trampin' and fishin' it was all right and she'd talk to me 'boutthe ways o' the birds and what flowers come up fust and all that, butwhen it got to geography and history I warn't in it with her, and youwas. That sickened me more'n ever. Pretty soon I began to feel as ifeverything I had in life war slippin' away from me. I didn't want her toshut me out from anything she had. I wanted to have half, same's weallus had--half for me and half for her. Why, lately, when I lay awakenights a-thinkin' it over, I've wished sometimes that she hadn't growedup at all, and that she'd allus be my baby-girl and I her Uncle Jim. 

"Yesterday mornin'--" Jim's voice broke, and he cleared his throat. "Yesterday mornin' we went down the branch, as ye know, and she wasa-settin' on a log throwin' her fly into the pool, when one o' themsong-sparrows lit on a bush and looked at her, and begin to sing likehe'd bust his little chest, and she sung back at him with her eyesa-laughin' and her hair a-flyin', and I stood lookin' at her and myheart choked up in my throat, and I leaned over and took the rod outo' her hand. 

"'Baby-girl, ' I says, 'there ain't a bird 'round here that ain't got amate; and that's what makes 'em so happy. I ain't got nobody but you, Ruby--don't go 'way from me, child--stay with me. ' And I told her. Shelooked at me startled like, same as a deer does when he hears a dogbark; then she jumped up and begin to cry. 

"'Oh, Jim--Jim--dear Jim!' she says. 'I love you so, and you've been sogood to me all my life, but don't--don't never say that to me again. That can never be--not so long as we live. ' And she dropped down on theground and cried till she couldn't git her breath. Then she got up andkissed my hands and went home, leavin' me there alone feelin' like I'dfell off a scaffoldin' and struck the sidewalk. "

Jim arose from his seat and began pacing the platform again. I had notspoken a word through his long story. 

"Jim, " I began, "how old are you?"

"Forty-two, " he said, in a patient, listless way. 

"More than twice as old as Ruby, aren't you? Old enough, really, to beher father. You love her, don't you--love her for herself--not yourself?You wouldn't let anything hurt her if you could help it. You were rightwhen you said every bird has its mate. That's true, Jim, and the way itought to be--but they mate with _this_ year's birds, not _last_ year's. When men get as old as you and I we forget these things sometimes, butthey are true all the same. "

"I know it, " he broke out, "I know it; you can't tell me nothin' aboutit. I thought it all over more'n a hundred times lately. I could bite mytongue off for sayin' what I did to her, and spilin' her visit, but it'sdone now and I can't help it, and I've got to stay here and bear it. "

"No, Jim, don't stay here. So long as she sees you around here she'll beunhappy, and you will be equally miserable. Go away from here; find worksomewhere else. "

"When?" he said, quietly. 

"Now; right away; before she comes back at Christmas. "

"No, I can't do it, and I won't. Not till she graduates and gits hercertificate. That'll be next June. "

"What's that got to do with it?"

"Got a good deal to do with it. If I should leave now jes's winter'scomin' on I mightn't git another job, and she'd have to come home andher eddication be sp'ilt. "

"What would bring her home?" I asked in surprise. 

"What would bring her home?" he repeated, with some irritation. "Whythey'd send her if the bills warn't paid--that's what Marm Marvincouldn't help her, and Jed wouldn't give her a cent. Them school-bills, you know, I've always paid out o' my wages--that's why Jed let her go. No; I'll stick it out here till she finishes, if it kills me. Baby-girlsha'n't miss nothin' through me. "

One beautiful spring day I swung back the gate of a garden on theoutskirts of the village of Plymouth and walked up a flower-borderedpath to a cottage porch smothered in vines. 

Ruby was standing in the door, her hands held out to me. I had not seenher for years. Her husband had not returned yet from their school, butshe expected him every minute. 

"And dear old Jim?" I asked. "What has become of him?"

"Look, " she said, pointing to a shambling, awkward figure stooping underthe apple-trees, which were in full bloom. "There he is, pickingblossoms with little Ruby. He never leaves her for a minute. "

COMPARTMENT NUMBER FOUR--COLOGNE TO PARIS

He was looking through a hole--a square hole, framed about with mahoganyand ground glass. His face was red, his eyes were black, hismustache--waxed to two needle-points--was a yellowish brown; his necktieblue and his uniform dark chocolate seamed with little threads ofvermilion and incrusted with silver poker-chip buttons emblazoned withthe initials of the corporation which he served. 

I knew I was all right when I read the initials. I had found the placeand the man. The place was the ticket-office of the InternationalSleeping-Car Company. The man was its agent. 

So I said, very politely and in my best French--it is a little frayedand worn at the edges, but it arrives--sometimes----

"A lower for Paris. "

The man in chocolate, with touches of the three primary colorsdistributed over his person, half-closed his eyes, lifted his shouldersin a tired way, loosened his fingers, and, without changing thelay-figure expression of his face, replied:

"There is nothing. "

"Not a berth?"

"Not a berth. "

"Are they all _paid_ for?" and I accented the word _paid_. I spendcountless nights on Pullmans in my own country and am familiar with manyuncanny devices. 

"All but one. "

"Why can't I have it? It is within an hour of train-time. Who orderedit?"

"The Director of the great circus. He is here now waiting for histroupe, which arrives from Berlin in a special car belonging to ourcompany. The other car--the one that starts from here--is full. We haveonly two cars on this train--Monsieur the Director has the last berth. "

He said this, of course, in his native language. I am merely translatingit. I would give it to you in the original, but it might embarrass you;it certainly would me. 

"What's the matter with putting the Circus Director in the special car?Your regulations say berths must be paid for one hour before train-time. It is now fifty-five minutes of eight. Your train goes at eight, doesn'tit? Here is a twenty-franc gold piece--never mind the change"--and Iflung a napoleon on the desk before him. 

The bunch of fingers disentangled themselves, the shoulders sank aninch, the waxed ends of the taffy-colored mustache vibrated slightly, and a smile widened in circles across the flat dulness of his faceuntil it engulfed his eyebrows, ears, and chin. The effect of thedropping of the coin had been like the dropping of a stone into thestill smoothness of a pool--the wrinkling wavelets had reached theuttermost shore-line. 

The smile over, he opened a book about the size of an atlas, dipped apen in an inkstand, recorded my point of departure--Cologne, and mypoint of arrival--Paris; dried the inscription with a pinch of blacksand filched from a saucer--same old black sand used in the lastcentury--cut a section of the page with a pair of shears, tossed thecoin in the air, listened to its ring on the desk with a satisfied look, slipped the whole twenty-franc piece into his pocket--regular fare, fifteen francs, irregular swindle, five francs--and handed me thebillet. Then he added, with a trace of humor in his voice:

"If Monsieur the Director of the Circus comes now he will go in thespecial car. "

I examined the billet. I had Compartment Number Four, upper berth, Car312. 

I lighted a cigarette, gave my small luggage-checks to a porter withdirections to deposit my traps in my berth when the train was ready--thecompany's office was in the depot--and strolled out to look atthe station. 

You know the Cologne station, of course. It is as big as the Coliseum, shaped like an old-fashioned hoop-skirt with a petticoat of glass, andconnects with one of the most beautiful bridges in the world. It hastwo immense waiting-rooms, with historical frescos on the walls and twohuge fireplaces supported on nudities shivering with the cold, for nostick of wood ever blazes on the well-swept hearths. It has also agorgeous restaurant, with panelled ceiling, across which skip bunches ofbutterfly Cupids in shameless costumes, and an inviting cafe withnever-dying palms in the windows, a portrait of the Kaiser over thecounter holding the coffee-urn, and a portrait of the Kaiserin over thecounter holding the little sticky cakes, the baby bottles of champagne, and the long lady-finger sandwiches with bits of red ham hanging fromtheir open ends like poodle-dogs' tongues. 

Outside these ponderous rooms, under the arching glass of the stationitself, is a broad platform protected from rushing trains and yardengines by a wrought-iron fence, twisted into most enchanting scrollsand pierced down its whole length by sliding wickets, before which standbe-capped and be-buttoned officials of the road. It is part of the dutyof these gatemen never to let you through these wickets until thearrival of the last possible moment compatible with the boarding ofyour car. 

So if you are wise--that is, if you have been left behind several timesdepending on the watchfulness of these Cerberi and their promises to letyou know when your train is ready--you hang about this gate and keep aneye out as to what is going on. I had been two nights on the sleeperthrough from Warsaw and beyond, and could take no chances. 

Then again, I wanted to watch the people coming and going--it is a habitof mine; nothing gives me greater pleasure. It has made me an expert injudging human nature. I flatter myself that I can tell the moment I setmy eyes on a man just what manner of life he leads, what language hespeaks, whether he be rich or poor, educated or ignorant. I can do allthis before he opens his mouth. I have never been proud of this faculty. I have regarded it more as a gift, as I would an acute sense of color, or a correct eye for drawing, or the ability to acquire a languagequickly. I was born that way, I suppose. 

The first man to approach the wicket was the Director of the Circus. Iknew him at once. There was no question as to _his_ identity. He wore afifty-candle-power stone in his shirt-front, a silk hat that shone likea new hansom cab, and a Prince Albert coat that came below his knees. Hehad taken off his ring boots, of course, and was without his whip, butotherwise he was completely equipped to raise his hat and say: "Ladiesand Gentlemen, the world-renowned, " etc. , etc. , "will now perform theblood-curdling act of, " etc. 

He was attended by a servant, was smooth-shaven, had an Orientalcomplexion as yellow as the back of an old law-book, black, jet-blackeyes, and jet-black hair. 

I listened for some outbreak, some explosion about his bed having beensold from under him, some protest about the rights of a citizen. Nonecame. The gateman merely touched his hat, slid back the gate, and theDirector of the Greatest Show on Earth, smiling haughtily, passed in, crossed the platform and stepped into a _wagon-lit_ standing on the nexttrack to me labelled "Paris 312, " and left me behind. The gateman hadhad free tickets, of course, or would have, for himself and familywhenever the troupe should be in Cologne. There was no doubt of it--Isaw it in the smile that permeated his face and the bow that bent hisback as the man passed him. This kind of petty bribery is, of course, abominable, and should never be countenanced. 

Some members of the troupe came next. The gentleman in chocolate with myfive francs in his pocket did not mention the name of any other memberof the troupe except the Director, but it was impossible for me to bemistaken about these people--I have seen too many of them. 

She was rather an imposing-looking woman--not young, not old--dressed ina long travelling-cloak trimmed with fur (how well we know thesenight-cloaks of the professional!), and was holding by a short leash anenormous Danish hound; one of those great hulking hounds--a hound whoseshoulders shake when he walks, with white, blinky eyes, smooth skin, andmottled spots--brown and gray--spattered along his back and ribs. Trickdog, evidently--one who springs at the throat of the assassin (theassassin has a thin slice of sausage tucked inside his collar-button), pulls him to the earth, and sucks his life's blood or chews his throat. She, too, went through with a sweep--the dog beside her, followed by amaid carrying two band-boxes, a fur boa, and a bunch of parasols closelyfurled and tied with a ribbon. I braced up, threw out my shoulders, andwalked boldly up to the wicket. The be-buttoned and be-capped man lookedat me coldly, waved me away with his hand, and said "Nein. "

Now, when a man of intelligence, speaking the language of the country, backed by the police, the gendarmerie, and the Imperial Army, says"Nein" to me, if I am away from home I generally bow to the will ofthe people. 

So I waited. 

Then I heard the low rumble of a train and a short high-keyed shriek--weused to make just such shrieking sounds by blowing into keys when wewere boys. The St. Petersburg express was approaching end foremost--thetrain with the special sleeping-car holding the balance of the circustroupe. The next moment it bumped gently into Car No. 312, holding theDirector (I wondered whether he had my berth), the woman with the dog, and her maid. 

The gateman paused until the train came to a dead standstill, waiteduntil the last arriving passenger had passed through an exit lower downalong the fence, slid back the gate, and I walked through--alone! Notanother passenger either before or behind me! And the chocolategentleman told me the car was full! The fraud!

When I reached the steps of Car No. 312 I found a second gentleman inchocolate and poker-chip buttons. He was scrutinizing a list of sold andunsold compartments by the aid of a conductor's lantern braceleted onhis elbow. He turned the glare of his lantern on my ticket, entered thecar and preceded me down its narrow aisle and slid back the door ofNumber Four. I stepped and discovered, to my relief, my small luggage, hat-box, shawl, and umbrella, safely deposited in the upper berth. Mynight's rest, at all events, was assured. 

I found also a bald-headed passenger, who was standing with his back tome stowing his small luggage into the lower berth. He looked at me overhis shoulder for a moment, moved his bag so that I could pass, and wenton with his work. My sharing his compartment had evidently produced anunpleasant impression. 

I slipped off my overcoat, found my travelling-cap, and was about tolight a fresh cigarette when there came a tap at the door. Outside inthe aisle stood a man with a silk hat in his hand. 

"Monsieur, I am the Manager of the Compagnie Internationale. It is mypleasure to ask whether you have everything for your comfort. I am goingon to Paris with this same train, so I shall be quite withinyour reach. "

I thanked him for his courtesy, assured him that now that all my trapswere in my berth and the conductor had shown me to my compartment, mywants were supplied, and watched him knock at the next door. Then Istepped out into the aisle. 

It was an ordinary European Pullman, some ten staterooms in a row, alavatory at one end and a three-foot sofa at the other. When you areunwilling to take your early morning coffee on the gritty, dust-covered, one-foot-square, propped-up-with-a-leg table in your stuffy compartment, you drink it sitting on this sofa. Three of these compartment doors wereopen. The woman with the dog was in Number One. The big dog and the maidin Number Two, and the Ring Master in Number Three (his original number, no doubt; the clerk had only lied)--I, of course, came next inNumber Four. 

Soon I became conscious that a discussion was going on in the newlyarrived circus-car whose platform touched ours. I could hear the voiceof a woman and then the gruff tones of a man. Then a babel of soundscame sifting down the aisle. I stepped over the dog, who had nowstretched himself at full length in the aisle, and out on tothe platform. 

A third gentleman in chocolate--the porter of the circus-car and aduplicate of our own--was being besieged by a group of people alltalking at once and all in different tongues. A mild-eyed, pink-cheekedyoung man in spectacles was speaking German; a richly dressed woman ofthirty-five, very stately and very beautiful, was interpolating inRussian, and a plump, rosy-cheeked, energetic little Englishwoman washurling English in a way as pointed as it was forcible. Everybody wasexcited and everybody was angry. Standing in the car-door listeningintently was a French maid and two round-faced, wide-collared boys, ofsay ten and twelve. The dispute was evidently over these two boys, asevery attack contained some direct allusion to "mes enfants" or "thesechildren" or "die Kinder, " ending in the forefinger of each speakerbeing thrust bayonet fashion toward the boys. 

While I was making up my mind as to the particular roles which theseseveral members of the Greatest Show on Earth played, I heard theEnglish girl say--in French, of course--English-French--with an accent:

"It is a shame to be treated in this way. We have paid for every one ofthese compartments, and you know it. The young masters will not go inthose vile-smelling staterooms for the night. It's no place for them. Iwill go to the office and complain. "

[Illustration: Everybody was excited and everybody was mad. ]

The third chocolate attendant, in reply, merely lifted his shoulders. Itwas the same old lift--a tired feeling seems to permeate thesegentlemen, as if they were bored to death. A hotel clerk on the Rivierasometimes has this lift when he tells you he has not a bed in the houseand you tell him he--prevaricates. I knew something of the lift--had already cost me five francs. I knew, too, what kind of medicine thatsort of tired feeling needed, and that until the bribe was paid theyoung woman and her party would be bedless. 

My own anger was now aroused. Here was a woman, rather a pretty woman, an Anglo-Saxon--my own race--in a strange city and under the power of aminion whose only object was plunder. That she jumped through hoops orrode bareback in absurdly short clothes, or sold pink lemonade inspangles, made no difference. She was in trouble, and needed assistance. I advanced with my best bow. 

"Madam, can I do anything for you?"

She turned, and, with a grateful smile, said:

"Oh, you speak English?"

I again inclined my head. 

"Well, sir, we have come from St. Petersburg by way of Berlin. We hadfive compartments through to Paris for our party when we started, allpaid for, and this man has the tickets. He says we must get out here andbuy new tickets or we must all go in two staterooms, which isimpossible--" and she swept her hand over the balance of the troupe. 

The chocolate gentleman again lifted his shoulders. He had been abusedin that way by passengers since the day of his birth. 

The richly dressed woman, another Leading Lady doubtless, now joined inthe conversation--she probably was the trained rabbit-woman or the girlwith the pigeons--pigeons most likely, for these stars are alwaysselected by the management for their beauty, and she certainly wasbeautiful. 

"And Monsieur"--this in French--again I spare the reader--"I have givenhim"--pointing to the chocolate gentleman--"pour boire all the time. Onehundred francs yesterday and two gold pieces this morning. My maid isquite right--it is abominable, such treatment----"

The personalities now seemed to weary the attendant. His elbows widened, his shoulders nearly touched his ears, and his fingers opened; then hewent into his closet and shut the door. So far as he was concerned thedebate was closed. 

The memory of my own five francs now loomed up, and with them therecollection of the trick by which they had been stolen from me. 

"Madam, " I said, gravely, "I will bring the manager. He is here andwill see that justice is done you. "

It was marvellous to watch what followed. The manager listened patientlyto the Pigeon Charmer's explanation of the outrage, started suddenlywhen she mentioned some details which I did not hear, bowed as low toher reply as if she had been a Duchess--his hat to the floor--slid backthe closet-door, beckoned me to step in, closed it again upon the threeof us, and in less than five minutes he had the third chocolategentleman out of his chocolate uniform and stripped to his underwear, with every pocket turned inside out, bringing to light theone-hundred-franc note, the gold pieces, and all five of the circusparties' tickets. 

Then he flung the astonished and humiliated man his trousers, waiteduntil he had pulled them on, grabbed him by his shirt-collar and marchedhim out of the car across the platform through the wicket gate, everypassenger on the train looking on in wonder. Five minutes later thewhole party--the stately Pigeon Charmer, her English maid, thespectacled German (performing sword-swallower or lightning calculatorprobably), and the two boys (tumblers unquestionably), with all theirbelongings--were transferred to my car, the Pigeon Charmer graciouslyaccepting my escort, the passengers, including the bald-headed man--myroom-mate--standing on one side to let us pass: all except the big dog, who had shifted his quarters, and was now stretched out at the sofa endof the car. 

Then another extraordinary thing happened--or rather a series ofextraordinary things. 

When I had deposited the Pigeon Charmer in her own compartment (NumberFive, next door), and had entered my own, I found my bald-headedroom-mate again inside. This time he was seated by the foot-square, dust-covered table assorting cigarettes. He had transferred my smallluggage--bag, coat, etc. --to the _lower_ berth, and had arranged his ownbelongings in the upper one. 

He sprang to his feet the instant he saw me. 

The bow of the Sleeping-Car Manager to the Pigeon Charmer was but a bendin a telegraph-pole to the sweep the bald-headed man now made me. Ithought his scalp would touch the car-floor. 

"No, your Highness, " he cried, "I insist"--this to my protest that I hadcome last--that he had prior right--besides, he was an older man, etc. , etc. --"I could not sleep if I thought you were not mostcomfortable--nothing can move me. Pardon me--will not your Highnessaccept one of my poor cigarettes? They, of course, are not like the onesyou use, but I always do my best. I have now a new cigarette-girl, andshe rolled them for me herself, and brought them to me just as I wasleaving St. Petersburg. Permit me"--and he handed me a little leatherbox filled with Russian cigarettes. 

Now, figuratively speaking, when you have been buncoed out of fivefrancs by a menial in a ticket-office, jumped upon and trampled underfoot by a gate-keeper who has kept you cooling your heels outside hiswicket while your inferiors have passed in ahead of you--to have even abald-headed man kotow to you, give you the choice berth in thecompartment, move your traps himself, and then apologize for offeringyou the best cigarette you ever smoked in your life--well! that is tohave myrrh, and frankincense, and oil of balsam, and balm of Gileadpoured on your tenderest wound. 

I accepted the cigarette. 

Not haughtily--not even condescendingly--just as a matter of course. Hehad evidently found out who and what I was. He had seen me address thePigeon Charmer, and had recognized instantly, from my speech andbearing--both, perhaps--that dominating vital force, that breezyindependence which envelops most Americans, and which makes them sopopular the world over. In thus kotowing he was only getting in linewith the citizens of most of the other effete monarchies of Europe. Every traveller is conscious of it. His bow showed it--so did the softpurring quality of his speech. Recollections of Manila, Santiago, andthe voyage of the Oregon around Cape Horn were in the bow, and Kansaswheat, Georgia cotton, and the Steel Trust in the dulcet tones of hisvoice. That he should have mistaken me for a great financial magnatecontrolling some one of these colossal industries, instead of locatingme instantly as a staid, gray-haired, and rather impecuniouslandscape-painter, was quite natural. Others before him have made thatsame mistake. Why, then, undeceive him? Let it go--he would leave in themorning and go his way, and I should never see him more. So I smoked on, chatting pleasantly and, as was my custom, summing him up. 

He was perhaps seventy--smooth-shaven--black--coal-black eyes. Dressedsimply in black clothes--not a jewel--no watch-chain even--no rings onhis hands but a plain gold one like a wedding-ring. His dressing-caseshowed the gentleman. Bottles with silver tops--brushes backed withinitials--soap in a silver cup. Red morocco Turkish slippers withpointed toes; embroidered smoking-cap--all appointments of a man ofrefinement and of means. Tucked beside his razor-case were some booksrichly bound, and some bundles tied with red tape. Like most educatedRussians, he spoke English with barely an accent. 

I was not long in arriving at a conclusion. No one would have been--noone of my experience. He was either a despatch-agent connected with theGovernment, or some lawyer of prominence, who was on his way to Paris tolook after the interests of some client of his in Russia. The latter, probably. The only man on the car he seemed to know, besides myself, wasthe Sleeping-Car Manager, who lifted his hat to him as he passed, andthe Ring Master, with whom he stood talking at the door of hiscompartment. This, however, was before I had brought the Pigeon Charmerinto the car. 

The cigarette smoked, I was again in the corridor, the bald-headed manholding the door for me to pass out first. 

It was now nine o'clock, and we had been under way an hour. I found thePigeon Charmer occupying the sofa. The two young Acrobats and theLightning Calculator were evidently in bed, and the maid, no doubt, busypreparing her mistress's couch for the night. She smiled quite franklywhen I approached, and motioned me to a seat beside her. All theseprofessional people the world over have unconventional manners, and anacquaintance is often easily made--at least, that has been myexperience. 

She began by thanking me in French for my share in getting her suchcomfortable quarters--dropped into German for a sentence or two, as iftrying to find out my nationality--and finally into English, saying, parenthetically:

"You are English, are you not?"

No financial magnate this time--rather queer, I thought--that she missedthat part of my personality. My room-mate had recognized it, even to theextent of calling me "Your Highness. "

"No, an American. "

"Oh, an American! Yes, I should have known--No, you are not English. Youare too kind to be English. An Englishman would not have taken even alittle bit of trouble to help us. " I noticed the race prejudice in hertone, but I did not comment on it. 

Then followed the customary conversation, I doing most of the talking. Ibegan by telling her how big our country was; how many people we had;how rich the land; how wealthy the citizens; how great the opportunitiesfor artists seeking distinction, etc. We all do that with foreigners. Then I tried to lead the conversation so as to find out something aboutherself--particularly where she could be seen in Paris. She was charmingin her travelling-costume--she would be superb in low neck and barearms, her pets snuggling under her chin, or alighting on her upraised, shapely hands. But either she did not understand, or she would not letme see she did--the last, probably, for most professional people dislikeall reference to their trade by non-professionals--they object to beeven mentally classed by themselves. 

While we talked on, the Dog Woman opened the door of her compartment, knocked at the Dog's door--his Dogship and the maid were inside--pattedthe brute on his head, and re-entered her compartment and shut the doorfor the night. 

I looked for some recognition between the two members of the sametroupe, but my companion gave not the slightest sign that the Dog Womanexisted. Jealous, of course, I said to myself. That's anotherprofessional trait. 

The Ring Master now passed, raised his hat and entered his compartment. No sign of recognition; rather a cold, frigid stare, I thought. 

The Sleeping-Car Manager next stepped through the car, lifted his hatwhen he caught sight of my companion, tiptoed deferentially until hereached the door, and went on to the next car. She acknowledged hishomage with a slight bend of her beautiful head, rose from her seat, gave an order in Russian to her English maid who was standing in thedoor of her compartment, held out her hand to me with a frankgood-night, and closed the door behind her. 

I looked in on the bald-headed man. He was tucked away in the upperberth sound asleep. 

 * * * * *

When the next morning I moved up the long platform of the Gare du Nordin search of a cab, I stepped immediately behind the big Danish hound. He was walking along, his shoulders shaking as he walked, his tonguehanging from his mouth. The Woman had him by a leash, her maid followingwith the band-boxes, the feather boa, and the parasols. In the crowdbehind me walked the bald-headed man, his arm, to my astonishment, through that of the King Master's. _They_ both kotowed as they switchedoff to the baggage-room, the Ring Master bowing even lower thanmy roommate. 

Then I became sensible of a line of lackeys in livery fringing the edgeof the platform, and at their head a most important-looking individualwith a decoration on the lapel of his coat. He was surrounded by half adozen young men, some in brilliant uniforms. They were greeting withgreat formality my fair companion of the night before! The two Acrobats, the German Calculator, and the English bareback-rider maid stood onone side. 

My thought was that it was all an advertising trick of the Circuspeople, arranged for spectacular effect to help the night's receipts. 

While I looked on in wonder, the Manager of the Sleeping-Car Companyjoined me. 

"I must thank you, sir, " he said, "for making known to me the outragecommitted by one of our porters on the Princess. She is travellingincognito, and I did not know she was on the train until she told melast night who she was. We get the best men we can, but we areconstantly having trouble of that kind with our porters. The trick is togive every passenger a whole compartment, and then keep packing themtogether unless they pay something handsome to be let alone. I shallmake an example of that fellow. He is a new one and didn't know me"--andhe laughed. 

"Do they call her the _Princess_?" I asked. They were certainlyreceiving her like one, I thought. 

"Why, certainly, I thought you knew her, " and he looked at me curiously, "the Princess Dolgorouki Sliniski. Her husband, the Prince, is attachedto the Emperor's household. She is travelling with her two boys andtheir German tutor. The old gentleman with the white mustache nowtalking to her is the Russian Ambassador. And you only met her on thetrain? Old Azarian told me you knew her intimately. "

"Azarian!" I was groping round in the fog now. 

"Yes--your room-mate. He is an Armenian and one of the richest bankersin Russia. He lends money to the Czar. His brother got on with you atCologne. There they go together to look after their luggage--they havean agency here, although their main bank is in St. Petersburg. Thebrother had the compartment next to that woman, with the big dog. She isthe wife of a rich brewer in Cologne, and just think--we must alwaysgive that brute a compartment when she travels. Is it not outrageous? Itis against the rules, but the orders come from up above"--and he jerkedhis finger meaningly over his shoulder. 

The fog was so thick now I could cut it with a knife. 

"One moment, please, " I said, and I laid my hand on his elbow andlooked him searchingly in the eye. I intended now to clear things up. "Was there a circus troupe on the train last night?"

"No. " The answer came quite simply, and I could see it was the truth. 

"Nor one expected?"

"No. There _was_ a circus, but it went through last week. "

SAMMY

It was on the Limited: 10. 30 Night Express out of Louisville, boundsouth to Nashville and beyond. 

I had lower Four. 

When I entered the sleeper the porter was making up the berths, thepassengers sitting about in each other's way until their bedswere ready. 

I laid my bag on an empty seat, threw my overcoat over its back, and satdown to face a newspaper within a foot of my nose. There was a manbehind it, but he was too intent on its columns to be aware of mypresence. I made an inspection of his arms and hands and right leg, theonly portions of his surface exposed to view. 

I noticed that the hands were strong and well-shaped, their backsspeckled with brown spots--too well kept to have guided a plough andtoo weather-tanned to have wielded a pen. The leg which was crossed, thefoot resting on the left knee, was full and sinewy, the muscles of thethigh well developed, and the round of the calf firmly modelled. Theankle was small and curved like an axe handle and looked as tough. 

There are times when the mind lapses into vacancy. Nothing interestsit. I find it so while waiting to have my berth made up; sleep is toonear to waste gray matter. 

A man's thighs, however, interest me in any mood and at any time. Whileyou may get a man's character from his face, you can, if you will, gethis past life from his thigh. It is the walking beam of his locomotion;controls his paddles and is developed in proportion to its uses. Itindicates, therefore, the man's habits and his mode of life. 

If he has sat all day with one leg lapped over the other, arm on chair, head on hand, listening or studying--preachers, professors, and all theother sedentaries sit like this--then the thigh shrinks, the musclesdroop, the bones of the ankle bulge, and the knee-joints push through. If he delivers mail, or collects bills, or drives a pack-mule, or walksa tow-path, the muscles of the thigh are hauled taut like cables, theknee-muscles keep their place, the calves are full of knots--one big onein a bunch just below the strap of his knickerbockers, should hewear them. 

If he carries big weights on his back--sacks of salt, as do the poorstevedores in Venice; or coal in gunnies, as do the coolies in Cuba; orwine in casks, or coffee in bags, then the calves swell abnormally, thethighs solidify; the lines of beauty are lost; but the lines ofstrength remain. 

If, however, he has spent his life in the saddle, rounding up cattle, chasing Indians, hunting bandits in Mexico, ankle and foot loose, hisknees clutched tightly, hugging that other part of him, the horse, thenthe muscles of the thigh round out their intended lines--the most subtlein the modulating curving of the body. The aboriginal bareback ridermust have been a beauty. 

I at once became interested then in the man before me, or rather in histhighs--the "Extra" hid the rest. 

I began to picture him to myself--young, blond hair, blue eyes, droopingmustache, slouch hat canted rakishly over one eye; not over twenty-fiveyears of age. I had thought forty, until a movement of the paperuncovered for a moment his waist-line which curved in instead of out. This settled it--not a day over twenty-five, of course!

The man's fingers tightened on the edges of the paper. He was stillreading, entirely unconscious that my knees were within two inchesof his own. 

Then I heard this exclamation--

"It's a damned outrage!"

My curiosity got the better of me--I coughed. 

The paper dropped instantly. 

"My dear sir, " he said, bending forward courteously and laying his handon my wrist, "I owe you an apology. I had no idea anyone wasopposite me. "

If I was a surprise to him, he was doubly so to me. 

My picture had vanished. 

He was sixty-five, if a day; gray, with bushy eyebrows, piercing browneyes, heavy, well-trimmed mustache, strong chin and nose, with finedetermined lines about the mouth. A man in perfect health, his fullthroat browned with many weathers showing above a low collar caughttogether by a loose black cravat--a handsome, rather dashing sort of aman for one so old. 

"I say it is a shame, sir, " he continued, "the way they are lynching thenegroes around here. Have you read the Extra?" passing it over to me--"Another this morning at Cramptown. It's an infernal outrage, sir!"

I had read the "Extra, " with all its sickening details, and so handed itback to him. 

"I quite agree with you, " I said; "but this man was a brute. "

"No doubt of it, sir. We've got brutal negroes among us, just as we'vegot brutal white men. But that's no reason why we should hang themwithout a trial; we still owe them that justice. When we dealt fairlywith them there was never any such trouble. There were hundreds ofplantations in the South during the war where the only men left werenegroes. We trusted our wives and children to them; and yet suchoutrages as these were unheard of and absolutely impossible. I don'texpect you to agree with me, of course; but I tell you, sir, thegreatest injustice the North over did the slave was in robbing him ofhis home. I am going to have a smoke before going to bed. Won't youjoin me?"

Acquaintances are quickly made and as quickly ended in a Pullman. Men'sways lie in such diverse directions, and the hours of contact are oftenso short, that no one can afford to be either ungracious or exclusive. The "buttoned-up" misses the best part of travelling. He is like acamera with the cap on--he never gets a new impression. The man with theshutters of his ears thrown wide and the lids of his eyes tied back getsa new one every hour. 

If, in addition to this, he wears the lens of his heart upon his sleeve, and will adjust it so as to focus the groups around him--it may be apair of lovers, or some tired mother, or happy child, or lonelywayfarer, or a waif--he will often get a picture of joy, or sorrow, orhope--life dramas all--which will not only enrich the dull hours oftravel, but will leave imprints on the mind which can be developed laterinto the richest and tenderest memories of his life. 

I have a way of arranging my own sensitized plates, and I get a certainamount of entertainment out of the process, and now and then a Rembrandteffect whose lights and darks often thrill me for days. 

So when this unknown man, with his young legs and his old face, askedme, on one minute's acquaintance, to smoke, I accepted at once. 

"I am right about it, my dear sir, " he continued, biting off the end ofa cigar and sharing with me the lighted match. "The negro is infinitelyworse off than in the slave days. We never had to hang any one of themthen to make the others behave themselves. "

"How do you account for it?" I asked, settling myself in my chair. (Wewere alone in the smoking compartment. )

"Account for what?"

"The change that has come over the South--to the negro, " I answered. 

"The negro has become a competitor, sir. The interests of the black manand the white man now lie apart. Once the white man was his friend; nowhe is his rival. "

His eyes were boring into mine; his teeth set tight. 

The doctrine was new to me, but I did not interrupt him. 

"It wasn't so in the old days. We shared what we had with them. One-third of the cabins of the South were filled with the old andhelpless. Now these unfortunates are out in the cold; their own peoplecan't help them, and the white man won't. "

"Were you a slave-owner?" I asked, not wishing to dispute the point. 

"No, sir; but my father was. He had fifty of them on our plantation. Henever whipped one of them, and he wouldn't let anybody else strike them, either. There wasn't one of them that wouldn't have come back if we hadhad a place to put him. The old ones are all dead now, thank God!--allexcept old Aleck; he's around yet. "

"One of your father's slaves, did you say?"

I was tapping away at the door of his recollections, camera all ready. 

"Yes; he carried me about on his back when I was so high, " and hemeasured the distance with his hand. "Aleck and I were boys together. Iwas about eight and he about fifteen when my father got him. "

My companion paused, drumming on the leather covering of his chair. Iwaited, hoping he would at least open his door wide enough to give me aglimpse inside. 

"Curiously enough, " he went on, "I've been thinking of Aleck all day. Iheard yesterday that he was sick again, and it has worried me a gooddeal. He's pretty feeble now, and I don't know how long he'll last. "

He flicked the ashes from his cigar, nursing his knee with the otherhand. The leg must have pained him, for I noticed that he lifted itcarefully and moved it on one side, as if for greater relief. 

"Rheumatism?" I ventured, sympathetically. 

"No; just _gets_ that way sometimes, " he replied, carelessly. "ButAleck's got it bad; can hardly walk. Last time I saw him he was aboutbent double. "

Again he relapsed into silence, smoking quietly. 

"And you tell me, " I said, "that this old slave was loyal to your familyafter his freedom?"

He hadn't told me anything of the kind; but I had found his key-holenow, and was determined to get inside his door, even if I picked thelock with a skeleton-key. 

"Aleck!" he cried, rousing himself with a laugh; "well, I should say so!Anybody would be loyal who'd been treated as my father treated Aleck. Hetook him out of jail and gave him a home, and would have looked afterhim till he died if the war hadn't broken out. Aleck wasn't raised onour plantation. He was a runaway from North Carolina. There were threeof them that got across the river--a man and his wife and Aleck. Theslave-driver had caught Aleck in our town and had locked him up in thecaboose for safe-keeping. Then he came to my father to help him catchthe other two. But my father wasn't that kind of a man. The oldgentleman had curious notions about a good many things. He believed whena slave ran away that the fault was oftener the master's than thenegro's. 'They are nothing but children, ' he would say, 'and you musttreat them like children. Whipping is a poor way to bring anybody up. '

"So when my father heard about the three runaways he refused to haveanything to do with the case. This made the driver anxious. 

"'Judge, ' he said--my father had been a Judge of the County Court foryears--'if you'll take the case I'll give you this boy Aleck as a fee. He's worth a thousand dollars. '

"'Send for him, ' said my father. 'I'll tell you when I see him. '

"So they brought him in. He was a big, strong boy, with powerfulshoulders, black as a chunk of coal, and had a look about him that madeyou trust him at first sight. My father believed in him the momenthe saw him. 

"'What did you run away for, Aleck?' he asked. 

"The boy held his head down. 

"'My mother died, Marster, an' I couldn't stay dar no mo'. '

"'I'll take him, ' said my father; 'but on condition that the boy wantsto live with me. '

"This was another one of the old gentleman's notions. He wouldn't have anegro on the place that he had to watch, nor one that wasn't happy. 

"The driver opened his eyes and laughed; but my father meant what hesaid, and the papers were made out on those terms. The boy was outsidein charge of the Sheriff while the papers were being drawn, and whenthey were signed the driver brought him in and said:

"'He's your property, Judge. '

"'Aleck, ' father said, 'you've heard?'

"'Yes, sah. '

"The boy stood with tears in his eyes. He thought he was going to get alife-sentence. He had never faced a judge before. 

"'Well, you're my property now, and I've got a proposition to make toyou. There's my horse outside hitched to that post. Get on him and rideout to my plantation, two miles from here; anybody'll tell you where itis. Talk to my negroes around the quarters, and then go over to Mr. Shandon's and talk to his negroes--find out from any one of them whatkind of a master I am, and then come back to me here before sundown andtell me if you want to live with me. If you don't want to live with meyou can go free. Do you understand?'

"My father said it all over again. Aleck looked at the driver, then atthe Sheriff, and then at my father. Then he crept out of the room, goton the mare, and rode up the pike. 

"'You've thrown your money away, ' said the driver, shrugging hisshoulders. 'You'll never see that nigger again. '

"The Sheriff laughed, and they both went out. Father said nothing andwaited. About an hour before sundown back came Aleck. Father alwayssaid he never saw a man change so in four hours. He went out crouchinglike a dog, his face over his shoulder, scared to death, and he cameback with his head up and a snap in his eye, looking as if he could whiphis weight in wildcats. 

"'I'll go wid ye, an' thank ye all my life, ' was all he said. 

"Well, it got out around the village, and that night the other tworunaways--the man and wife--they were hiding in the town--gavethemselves up, and one of our neighbors bought them both and set them towork on a plantation next to ours, and the driver went away happy. 

"I was a little fellow then, running around barefooted, but I remembermeeting Aleck just as if it were yesterday. He was holding the horsewhile my father and the overseer stood talking on one side. They wereplanning his work and where he should sleep. I crept up to look at him. I had heard he was coming and that he was a runaway slave. I thought hisback would be bloody and all cut to pieces, and that he'd have chains onhim, and I was disappointed because I couldn't see his skin through hisshirt and because his hands were free. I must have gotten too near themare, for before I knew it he had lifted me out of danger. 

"'What's your name?' I asked. 

"'Aleck, ' he said; 'an' what's your name, young marster?'

"'Sammy, ' I said. 

"That's the way it began between us, and it's kept on ever since. I callhim 'Aleck, ' and he calls me 'Sammy'--never anything else, even today. "

"He calls you 'Sammy'!" I said, in astonishment. The familiarity was newto me between master and slave. 

"Yes, always. There isn't another person in the world now that calls me'Sammy, '" he answered, with a tremor in his voice. 

My travelling-companion stopped for a moment, cleared his throat, drew asilver match-safe from his pocket, relighted his cigar, and continued. 

"The overseer put Aleck to ploughing the old orchard that lay betweenthe quarters and the house. I sneaked out to watch him as a curiouschild would, still intent on seeing his wounds. Soon as Aleck saw me, hegot a board and nailed it on the plough close to the handle for a seat, and tied up the old horse's tail so it wouldn't switch in my face, andput me on it, and I never left that plough till sundown. My father askedAleck where he had learned that trick, and Aleck told him he used totake his little brother that way before he died. 

"After the orchard was ploughed Aleck didn't do a thing but look afterme. We fished together and went swimming together; and we hunted eggsand trapped rabbits; and when I got older and had a gun Aleck would goalong to look after the dogs and cut down the trees when we were outfor coons. 

"Once I tumbled into a catfish-hole by the dam, and he fished me out;and once, while he had crawled in after a woodchuck, a rock slipped andpinned him down, and I ran two miles to get help, and fell in a faintbefore I could tell them where he was. What Aleck had in those days Ihad, and what I had he had; and there was no difference between us tillthe war broke out. 

"I was grown then, and Aleck was six or seven years older. We were onthe border-line, and one morning the Union soldiers opened fire, and allthat was left of the house, barns, outbuildings, and negro quarters wasa heap of ashes. 

"That sent me South, of course, feeling pretty ugly and bitter, and Idon't know that I've gotten over it since. My father was too old to go, and he and my mother moved into the village and lived in two rooms overmy father's office. The negroes, of course, had to shift for themselves, and hard shifting it was--the women and children herding in the townsand the men working as teamsters and doing what they could. 

"The night before I left home Aleck crawled out to see me. I was hiddenin a hayrick in the lower pasture. He begged me to let him go with me, but I knew father would want him, and he finally gave in and promisedto stay with him, and I left. But no one was his own master in thosedays, and in a few months they had drafted Aleck and carried him off. 

"Three years after that my mother fell ill, and I heard of it and cameback in disguise, and was arrested as a suspicious character as Ientered the town. I didn't blame them, for I looked like a tramp andintended to. The next day I was let out and went home to where my motherand father were living. As I was opening the garden-gate--it wasnight--Aleck laid his hand on my shoulder. He had on the uniform of aUnited States soldier. I couldn't believe my eyes at first. I had losttrack of him, and, as I found out afterward, so had my father. We stoodunder the street-lamp and he saw the look in my face and threw his handsup over his head as a negro does when some sudden shock comes to him. 

"'Don't turn away f'om me, Sammy, ' he cried; 'please don't, Sammy. 'Tain't my fault I got on dese clo'es, 'deed it ain't. Dey done fo'cedme. I heared you was here an' I been tryin' to git to ye all day. Oh, Iso glad to git hold ob ye, Sammy, so glad, so glad. ' He broke out intosobs of crying. I was near it myself, for he was the first one from homeI had seen, and there was something in his voice that went through me. 

"Then he unbuttoned his coat, felt in his pocket, pushed something intomy hand, and disappeared in the darkness. When I got inside and held itout to the light, he had given me two five-dollar greenbacks!

"I was sitting by my mother the next night about ten o'clock--shewouldn't let me out of her sight--when there came a rap at the door andAleck came in. I knew how my father would feel about seeing him in thoseclothes. I didn't know till afterward that they were all he had and thatthe poor fellow was as bad off as any of us. 

"Father opened upon Aleck right away, just as I knew he would, withoutgiving him a chance to speak. He upbraided him for going into the Army, told him to take his money back, and showed him the door. The oldgentleman could be pretty savage when he wanted to, and he didn't spareAleck a bit. Aleck never said a word--just listened to my father's abuseof him--his hands folded over his cap, his eyes on the two bills lyingon the table where my father had thrown them. Then he said, slowly:

"'Marse Henry, I done hearn ye every word. You don't want me here nomo', an' I'm gwine away. I ain't a-fightin' agin you an' Sammy an' neberwill--it's 'cause I couldn't help it dat I'm wearin' dese clo'es. As todis money dat you won't let Sammy take, it's mine to gib 'cause I savedit up. I gin it to Sammy 'cause I fotched him up an' 'cause he's as muchmine as he is your'n. He'll tell ye so same's me. If you say I got totake dat money back I got to do it 'cause I ain't neber dis'beyed ye an'I ain't gwine to begin now. But I don't want yer ter say it, MarseHenry--I don't want yer to say it. You is my marster I know, but Sammyis my _chile_. An' anudder thing, dey ain't gwine to let him stay in distown more'n a day. I found dat out yisterday when I heared he'd come. Dar ain't no money whar he's gwine, an' dis money ain't nothin' to me'cause I kin git mo' an' maybe Sammy can't. Please, Marse Henry, letSammy keep dis money. Dere didn't useter be no diff'ence 'tween us, anddere oughtn't to be none now. '

"My father didn't speak again--he hadn't the heart, and Aleck went out, leaving the money on the table. "

Again my companion stopped and fumbled over the matches in his safe, striking one or two nervously and relighting his cigar. It wasastonishing how often it went out. I sat with my eyes riveted on hisface. I could see now the lines of tenderness about his mouth and Icaught certain cadences in his voice which revealed to me but tooclearly why the negro loved him and why he must always be only a boy tothe old slave. The cigar a-light, he went on:

"When the war closed I came home and began to pick up my life again. Aleck had gone to Wisconsin and was living in the same town as youngCruger, one of my father's law-students. When my father died, Itelegraphed Cruger, inviting him to serve as one of the pall-bearers, and asked him to find Aleck and tell him. I knew he would be hurt if Ididn't let him know. 

"At two o'clock that night my niece, who was with my mother, rapped atmy door. I was sitting up with my father's body and would go down everyhour to see that everything was all right. 

"'There's a man trying to get in at the front door, ' she said. I got upat once and went downstairs. I could see the outlines of a man's figuremoving in the darkness, but I could not distinguish the features. 

"'Who is it?' I asked, throwing open the door and peering out. 

"'It's me, Sammy--it's Aleck. Take me to my ole marster. '

"He came in and stood where the light fell full upon him. I hardly knewhim, he was so changed--much older and bent, and his clothes hung onhim in rags. 

"I pointed to the parlor-door, and the old man went on tip-toe into theroom and stood looking at my father's dead face for a long time--thebody lay on a cot. Then he placed his hat on the floor and got down onhis knees. There was just light enough to see his figure black againstthe white of the sheet that covered the cot. For some minutes he kneltmotionless, as if in prayer, though no sound escaped him. Then hestretched out his big black hand and passed it over the body, smoothingit gently and patting it tenderly as one would a sleeping child. By andby he leaned closer to my father's face. 

"'Marse Henry, ' I heard him say, 'please, Marse Henry, listen. Disyere's Aleck. Ye'r wouldn't hear me the las' time but yer got ter hearme now. It's yo' Aleck, Marster, dat's who it is. I come soon's I could, Marse Henry, I didn't wait a minute. ' He stopped as if expecting ananswer, and went on. 'I ain't neber laid up nothin' agin ye though, Marse Henry. When ye turned me out dat night in the col' 'cause I haddem soger clo'es on an' didn't want me to gin dat money to Sammy, Iknowed how yer felt, but I didn't lay it up agin ye. I ain't neber lovednobody like I loved you, Marse Henry, you an' Sammy. Do yer 'member whenI fust come? 'Member how ye tuk me out o' jail, an' gin me a home?'Member how ye nussed me when I was sick, an' fed me when I was hongry, an' put clo'es on me when I was most naked? Nobody neber trusted me withnothin' till you trusted me, dey jus' beat me an' hunt me. An' don't yer'member, Marse Henry, de time ye gin me Sammy an' tol' me to take careon him? you ain't forgot dat day, is yer? He's here, Marster; Sammy'shere. He's settin' outside a-watch-in'. Him an' me togedder, same's weuseter was. '

"He got upon his feet, and looked earnestly into the dead face. Then hebent down and picked up one corner of the white sheet, and kissed itreverently. He did not touch the face. When he had tiptoed out of theroom, he laid his hand on my shoulder. The tears were streaming down hisface: 'It was jes' like ye, Sammy, to send fo' me. We knows one anudder, you an' me--' and he turned toward the front door. 

[Illustration: I hardly knew him, he was so changed. ]

"'Where are you going, Aleck?' I asked. 

"'I dunno, Sammy--some place whar I kin lay down. '

"'You don't leave here to-night, Aleck, ' I said. 'Go upstairs to thatroom next to mine--you know where it is--and get into that bed. ' He heldup his hand and began to say he couldn't, but I insisted. 

"The next morning was Sunday. I saw when he came downstairs that he haddone the best he could with his clothes, but they were still prettyragged. I asked him if he had brought any others, but he told me theywere all he had. I didn't say anything at the time, but that afternoon Itook him to a clothing store, had it opened as a favor to me and fittedhim out with a suit of black, and a shirt, and shoes and ahat--everything he wanted--and got him a carpet-bag, and told Abraham, the clothier, to put Aleck's old things into it, and he would call forthem the next day. 

"When we got outside, Aleck looked himself all over--along his sleeves, over his waistcoat, and down to his shoes. He seemed to be thinkingabout something. He would start to speak to me and stop and look overhis clothes again, testing the quality with his fingers. Finally he laidhis hand on my arm, and, with a curious, beseeching look, in hiseyes, said:

"'Sammy, all yesterday, when I was a-comin', I was a-studyin' about it, an' I couldn't git it out'n my mind. It come to me agin when I saw MarseHenry las' night, an' I wanted to tell him. But when I got up dismawnin' an' see myself I knowed I couldn't ask ye, Sammy, an' I didn't. Now I got dese clo'es, it's come to me agin. I kin ask ye now, an' Idon't want ye to 'fuse me. I want ye to let me drive my marster's bodyto de grave. '

"I held out my hand, and for an instant neither of us spoke. 

"'Thank ye, Sammy, ' was all he said. "

Again my companion's voice broke. Then he went on:

"When the carriages formed in line I saw Aleck leaning against thefence, and the undertaker's man was on the hearse. I caught Aleck's eyeand beckoned to him. 

"'What's the matter, Aleck? Why aren't you on the hearse?'

"'De undertaker man wouldn't let me, Sammy; an' I didn't like to 'sturbyou an' de mistis. '

"The tears stood in his eyes. 

"'Go find him and bring him to me, ' I said. 

"When he came I told him the funeral would stop where it was if hedidn't carry out my orders. 

"He said there was some mistake, though I didn't believe it, and wentoff with Aleck. As we turned out of the gate and into the road I caughtsight of the hearse, Aleck on the box. He sat bolt upright, head erect, the reins in one hand, the whip resting on his knee, as I had seen himdo so often when driving my father--grave, dignified, and thoughtful, speaking to the horses in low tones, the hearse moving and stopping aseach carriage would be filled and driven ah pad. 

"He wouldn't drive the hearse back; left it standing at the gate of thecemetery. I heard the discussion, but I couldn't leave my mother tosettle it. 

"'I ain't gwine to do it, ' I heard him say to the undertaker. 'It was mymarster I was 'tendin' on, not yo' horses. You can drive 'em homeyo'-self. '"

My companion settled himself in his chair, rested his head on his hand, and closed his eyes. I remained silent, watching him. His cigar had goneout; so had mine. Once or twice a slight quiver crossed his lips, thenhis teeth would close tight, and again his face would relapse into calmimpassiveness. 

At this instant the curtains of the smoking-room parted and the Pullmanporter entered. 

"Your berth's all ready, Major, " said the porter. 

My companion rose from his chair, straightened his leg, held out hisband, and said:

"You can understand now, sir, how I feel about these continued outrages. I don't mean to say that every man is like Aleck, but I do mean to saythat Aleck would never have been as loyal as he is but for the way myfather brought him up. Good-night, sir. "

He was gone before I could do more than express my thanks for hisconfidence. It was just as well--any further word of mine would havebeen superfluous. Even my thanks seemed out of place. 

In a few minutes the porter returned with, "Lower Four's all ready, sir. "

"All right, I'm coming. Oh, porter. "

"Yes, sir. "

"Porter, come closer. Who is that gentleman I've been talking to?"

"That's Major Sam Garnett, sir. "

"Was he in the war?"

"Yes, sir, he was, for a fact. He was in de Cavalry, sir, one o'Morgan's Raiders. Got more'n six bullets in him now. I jes' done helpedhim off wid his wooden leg. It was cut off below de knee. His old manAleck most generally takes care of dat leg. He didn't come wid him distrip. But he'll be on de platform in de mornin' a-waitin' for him. "

MARNY'S SHADOW

If you know the St. Nicholas--and if you don't you should make itsacquaintance at once--you won't breakfast upstairs in that gorgeous roomoverlooking the street where immaculate, smilelees waiters movenoiselessly about, limp palms droop in the corners, and the tables arelighted with imitation wax candles burning electric wicks hooded byruby-colored shades, but you will stumble down a dark, crooked staircaseto the left of the office-desk, push open a swinging, green baize doorstudded with brass tacks, pass a corner of the bar resplendent in cutglass, and with lowered head slip into a little box of a place builtunder the sidewalk. 

Here of an afternoon thirsty gentlemen sip their cocktails or sittalking by the hour, the smoke from their cigars drifting in long linesout the open door leading to the bar, and into the caffè beyond. Here inthe morning hungry habitues take their first meal--those whoselife-tickets are punched with much knowledge of the world, and who, therefore, know how much shorter is the distance from where they sit tothe chef's charcoal fire. 

Marny has one of these same ragged life-tickets bearing punch-marksmade the world over, and so whenever I journey his way we alwaysbreakfast together in this cool, restful retreat, especially of aSunday morning. 

On one of these mornings, the first course had been brought and eaten, the cucumbers and a' special mysterious dish served, and I was about tolight a cigarette--we were entirely alone--when a well-dressed manpushed open the door, leaned for a moment against the jamb, peered intothe room, retreated, appeared again, caught sight of Marny, and settledhimself in a chair with his eyes on the painter. 

I wondered if he were a friend of Marny's, or whether he had only beenattracted by that glow of geniality which seems to radiate fromMarny's pores. 

The intruder differed but little in his manner of approach from otherstrangers I had seen hovering about my friend, but to make sure of hisidentity--the painter had not yet noticed the man--I sent Marny aMarconi message of inquiry with my eyebrows, which he answered in thenegative with his shoulders. 

The stranger must have read its meaning, for he rose quickly, and, withan embarrassed look on his face, left the room. 

"Wanted a quarter, perhaps, " I suggested, laughing. 

"No, guess not. He's just a Diffendorfer. Always some of them roundSunday mornings. That's a new one, never saw him before. In town overnight, perhaps. "

"What's a Diffendorfer?"

"Did you never meet one?"

"No, never heard of one. "

"Oh, yes, you have; you've seen lots of them. "

"Do they belong to any sect?"

"No. "

"What are they, then?"

"Just Diffendorfers. Thought I'd told you about one whom I knew. No?Wait till I light my cigar; it's a long story. "

"Anything to do with the fellow who's just gone out?"

"Not a thing, though I'm sure he's one of them. You'll findDiffendorfers everywhere. First one I struck was in Venice, some yearsago. I can pick them out now at sight. " Marny struck a match and lightedhis cigar. I drew my cup of coffee toward me and settled myself in mychair to listen. 

"You remember that little smoking-room to the right as you enter theCaffè Quadri, " he began; "the one off the piazza? Well, a lot of usfellows used to dine there--Whistler, Rico, Old Ziem, Roscoff, Fildes, Blaas, and the rest of the gang. 

"Jimmy was making his marvellous pastels that year" (it is in thisirreverent way that Marny often speaks of the gods), "and we used tocrowd into the little room every night to look them over. We were anenthusiastic lot of Bohemians, each one with an opinion of his own aboutany subject he happened to be interested in, and ready to back it up ifit took all night. Whistler's pastels, however, took the wind out ofsome of us who thought we could paint, especially Roscoff, who pridedhimself on his pastels, and who has never forgiven Jimmy to this day. 

"Well, one night, Auguste, the headwaiter--you remember him, he used toget smuggled cigarettes for us; that made him suspicious; always thoughteverybody was a spy--pointed out a man sitting just outside the room onone of the leather-covered seats. Auguste said he came every evening andgot as close as he could to our table without attracting attention;close enough, however, to hear every word that was said. If I knew theman it was all right; if I didn't know him, he suggested that I keep aneye on him. 

"I looked around, and saw a heavy-featured, dull-looking man abouttwenty-five, dressed in a good suit of well-cut clothes, shinystove-pipe silk hat, high collar with a good deal of necktie, a bigpearl pin, and a long gold watch-chain which went all around his necklike an eye-glass ribbon. He had a smooth-shaven face, two keen eyes, aflat nose, square jaw, and a straight line of a mouth. 

"I didn't know the man, didn't want to know him, fellows in silk hatenot being popular with us, and I didn't keep an eye on him except longenough to satisfy myself that the man was only one of those hungrytravellers who was adding to his stock of information by picking up thecrumbs of conversation which fell from the tables, and not at all thekind of a person who would hold me or anybody else up in a _sottoportico_ or chuck me over a bridge. Then again, I was twenty poundsheavier than he was, and could take care of myself. 

"Some nights after this I was dining alone, none of the boys havingshown up owing to a heavy rain, when Auguste nudged me, and there satthis stranger within ten feet of my table. He dropped his eyes when hesaw me looking at him, and began turning the sheets of a letter he hadin his hand. I was smoking one of Auguste's cigarettes, and checking themènu with a lead-pencil, when it slipped from my hand and rolled betweenthe man's feet. He rose, picked up the pencil, laid it beside my plate, and without a word returned to his seat, that same curious, inquisitive, hungry look on his face you saw a moment ago on that fellow's who hasjust gone out. Auguste, of course, lost all interest in my dinner. If hewasn't after me then he was after him; both meant trouble for Auguste. 

"I shifted my chair, opened the 'Gazetta' to serve as a screen, andlooked the fellow over. If he were following me around to murder me, asAuguste concluded--he always had some cock-and-bull story to tell--hewas certainly very polite about it. I could see that he was not anItalian, neither was he a German nor a Frenchman. He looked more like awell-to-do Dutchman--like one of those young fellows you and I used tosee at the Harmonie Club in Dordrecht, or on the veranda of the Amstel, in Amsterdam. They look more like Americans than any other peoplein Europe. 

"The next night I was telling the fellows some stories, they crowdingabout to listen, when Auguste whispered in my ear. I turned, and therehe was again, his eyes watching every mouthful I swallowed, his earstaking in everything that was said. The other fellows had noticed himnow, and had christened him 'Marny's Shadow. ' One of them wanted to askhim his business, and fire him into the street if it wasn'tsatisfactory, but I wouldn't have it. He had said nothing to me oranybody else, nor had he, so far as I knew, followed me when I went out. He had a perfect right to dine where he pleased if he paid for it--andhe did--so Auguste admitted, and liberally, too. He could look at whomhe pleased. The fact is, that but for Auguste, who was scared white halfthe time, fearing the Government would get on to his cigarette game, noone would have noticed him. Besides, the fellow might have his ownreasons for remaining incog. , and if he did we all knew he wouldn't havebeen the first one. 

"A few days after this I was painting up the Zattere near SanRosario--I was making the sketch for that big Giudeeca picture--the onethat went to Munich that year--you remember it?--lot of figures around afruit-stand, with the church on the right and the Giudeeca and Lagoonbeyond--and had my gondolier Marco posing some twenty feet away with hisback turned toward me, when my mysterious friend walked out from alittle _calle_ tins side of the church, looked at Marco for a momentwithout turning his head--he didn't see me--and stopped at a door nextto old Pietro Varni's wine-shop. He hesitated a moment, looking up anddown the Zattere, opened the door with a key which he took from hispocket, and disappeared inside. I beckoned to Marco, and sent him to thewine-shop to find Pietro. When he came (Pietro was agent for thelodging-rooms above, and let them out to swell painters--we couldn'tafford them--fifty lira a week, some of them more) I said:

"'Pietro, did you see the chap that went upstairs a few moments ago?'

"'Yes, signore. '

"'Do you know who he is?'

"'Yes, he is one of my gentlemen. He has the top floor--the one thatSignore Almadi used to live in. The Signore Almadi is gone away. '

"'How long has he been here?'

"'About a month. '

"'Is he a painter?

"'No, I don't think so. '

"'What is he, then?'

"'Ah, Signore, who can tell? At first his letters were sent to me--nowhe gets them himself. The last were from Monte Carlo, from theHotel--Hotel--I forget the name. But why does the Signore want to know?He pays the rent on the day--that is much better. '

"'Where does he come from?'

"Pietro shrugged his shoulders. 

"'That will do, Pietro. '

"There was evidently nothing to be gotten out of him. 

"The next day we had another rainstorm--regular deluge. This time itcame down in sheets; campos running rivers; gondolas half full of water, everything soaked. I had a room in the top of the Palazzo da Mula on theGrand Canal just above the Salute and within a step of the traghetto ofSan Giglio. By going out of the rear door and keeping close to the wallof the houses skirting the Fondamenta San Zorzi, I could reach thetraghetto without getting wet. The Quadri was the nearest caffè, anyhow, and so I started. 

"When I stepped out of the gondola on the other side of the canal andwalked up the wooden steps to the level of the Campo, my mysteriousfriend moved out from under the shadow of the traghetto box and stoodwhere the light from the lantern hanging in front of the Madonna fellupon his face. His eyes, as usual, were fixed on mine. He had evidentlybeen waiting for me. 

"I thought I might just as well end the thing then as at any other time. There was no question now in my mind that the fellow meant business. 

"I turned on him squarely. 

"'You waiting for me?'

"'Yes. '

"'What for?'

"'I want you to go to dinner with me. '

"'Where?'

"'Anywhere you say. '

"'I don't know you. '

"'Yes, that's what I thought you would say. '

"'Do you know me?'

"'No. '

"'Know my name?'

"'Yes, your name's Marny. '

"'What's yours?'

"'Mine's Diffendorfer. '

"'Where do you want to dine?'

"'Anywhere you say. How will the Quadri do?'

"'In a private room?' I said this to see how he would take it. He stillstood in the full glare of the lantern. 

"'No, unless you prefer. I would rather dine downstairs--more peoplethere. '

"'All right--lead the way, I'll follow. '

"It was the worst night that you ever saw. Hardly a soul in thestreets. It had set in for a three days' storm, I knew; we always hadthem in Venice during December. My friend kept right on without lookingbehind him or speaking to me; over the bridge, through the Campo SanMoisè and so on to the _Piazza_ and the caffè. There were only half adozen fellows inside when we entered. These greeted me with the yell ofwelcome we always gave each other on entering, and which this time Ididn't return, I knew they would open their eyes when they saw us sitdown together, and I didn't want any complications by which I would beobliged to introduce him to anybody. I hated not to be decent, but yousee I didn't know but I'd have to hand him over to the police before Iwas through with him, and I wanted the responsibility of hisacquaintance to devolve on me alone. Roscoff either wouldn't or didn'ttake in the situation, for he came up when we were seated, leaned overmy chair, and put his arm around my neck. I saw a shade ofdisappointment cross my companion's face when I didn't present Roscoffto him, but he said nothing. But I couldn't help it--I didn't seeanything else to do. Then again, Roscoff was one of those fellows whowould never let you hear the end of it if anything went wrong. 

"The man looked at the bill of fare steadily for some minutes, pushed itover to me, and said: 'You order. '

"There was nothing gracious in the way he said it--more like a commandthan anything else. It nettled me for a moment. I don't like yourbuttoned-up kind of a man that gives you a word now and then asgrudgingly as if he were doling out pennies from a pocket-hook. But Ikept still. Then I was on a voyage of discovery. The tones of his voicejarred on me, I must admit, and I answered him in the same peremptoryway. Not that I had any animosity toward him, but so as to meet him onhis own ground. 

"'Then it will he the regular table d'hôte dinner with a pint of Chiantifor each, ' I snapped out. 'Will that suit you?'

"'Yes, if you like Chianti. '

"'I do when it's good. '

"'Do you like anything better?' he asked, as if he were crossquestioning me on the stand. 

"'Yes. '

"'What?'

"'Well, Valpocelli of '82. ' That was the best wine in their cellar, andcost ten lire a bottle. 

"'Is there anything better than that?' he demanded. 

"'Yes, Valpocelli of '71. _Thirty_ lire a bottle. They haven't a drop ofit here or anywhere else. '

"Auguste, who had been half-paralyzed when we sat down, and who, in hisbewilderment, had not heard the conversation, reached over and placedthe ordinary Chianti included in the price of the dinner at my elbow. 

"The man raised his eyes, looked at August with a peculiar expression, amounting almost to disgust, on his face, and said:

"'I didn't order that. Take that stuff away and bring me a bottle of'82--a quart, mind you--if you haven't the '71. '

"All through the dinner he talked in monosyllables, answering myquestions but offering few topics of his own; and although I did my bestto draw him out, he made no statement of any kind that would give me theslightest clew as to his antecedents or that would lead up either to hisoccupation or his purpose in seeking me out. He didn't seem to wish toconceal anything about himself, although of course I asked him nopersonal questions, nor did he pump me about my affairs. He was just oneof those dull, lifeless conversationalists who must be probed all thetime to get anything out of. Before I was half through the dinner Iwondered why I had bothered about him at all. 

"All this time the fellows were off in one corner watching the wholeaffair. When Auguste brought the '82, looking like a huge tear bottledug up from where it had rusted for two thousand years, Roscoff gave agasp and crossed the room to tell Billy Wood that I had struck amillionnaire who was going to buy everything I had painted, includingmy big picture for the Salon, all of which was about as close as thatidiot Roscoff ever got to anything. 

"When the bill was brought Diffendorfer turned his back to me, took outa roll of bills from his hip-pocket, and passed a new bank-note toAuguste with a contemptuous side wiggle of his forefinger and the remarkin English in a tone intended for Auguste's ear alone: 'No change. '

"Auguste laid the bill on his tray and walked up to the desk with a facestruggling between joy over the fee and terror for my safety. A fellowwho lived on ten-lire wine and who gave money away like water mustmurder people for a living and have a cemetery of his own in which tobury his dead. He evidently never expected to see me alive again. 

"Dinner over and paid for, my host put on his coat, said 'Good-night'with rather an embarrassed air, and without looking at anyone in theroom--not even Roscoff, who made a move as if to intercept him--Roscoffhad some pictures of his own to sell--walked dejectedly out of the caffeand disappeared in the night. 

"When I crossed the traghetto the following evening the storm had notabated. It was worse than on the previous night; the wind was blowing agale and whirling the fog into the narrow streets and choking up thearchways and _sotti portici_. 

"As my foot touched the nagging of the Campo, Diffendorfer steppedforward and laid his hand on my arm. 

"'You are late, ' he said. He spoke in the same crisp way he had thenight before. Whether it was an assumed air of bravado, or whether itwas his natural ugly disposition, I couldn't tell. It jarred on meagain, however, and I walked on. 

"He stepped quickly in front of me, as if to bar my way, and said, in agentler tone:

"'Don't go away. Come dine with me. '

"'But I dined with you yesterday. '

"'Yes, I know--and you hated me afterward. I'll be better this time. '

"'I didn't hate you, I only----'

"'Yes, you did, and you had reason to. I wasn't myself, somehow. Try meagain to-day. '

"There was something in his eyes--a troubled, disappointed expressionthat appealed to me--and so I said:

"'All right, but on one condition: it's my dinner this time. '

"'And my wine, ' he answered, and a satisfied look came into his face. 

"'Yes, your wine. Come along. '

"The fellow's blunt, jerky way of speaking had somehow made me speak inthe same way. Our talk sounded just like two boys who had had a fightand who were forced to shake hands and make up. My own curiosity as towho he might be, what he was doing in Venice, and why he was pursuingme, was now becoming aroused. That he should again throw himself in myway after the stupid dinner of the night before only deepenedthe mystery. 

"When we got inside, just as we were taking our seats at one of thesmall tables in that side room off the street, a shout of laughter camefrom the next room--the one we fellows always dined in. I had determinedto get inside of the fellow at this sitting, and thought the moreretired table better for the purpose. Diffendorfer jumped to his feet onhearing the laughter, peered into the room, and, picking up his wetumbrella, said:

"'Let's go in there--more people. ' I followed him, and drew out anotherchair from a table opposite one at which Roscoff, Woods, and two orthree of the boys were dining. They all nudged each other when we camein, and a wink went around, but they didn't speak. They behavedprecisely as if I had a girl in tow and wanted to be left alone. 

"This dinner was exactly like the first one. Diffendorfer ordered thesame wine--Valpocelli, '82, and ate each course that Auguste broughthim, with only a word now and then about the weather, the number ofpeople in Venice, and the dishes. The only time when his face lighted upwas when a chap named Cruthers, from Munich, who arrived that morningand who hadn't been in Venice for years, came up and slapped me on theback and hollered out as he dragged up a chair and sat down beside me:'Glad to see you, old man; what are you drinking?'

"I reached for the '82--there was only a glass left--and was moving thebottle within reach of my friend's hand when Diffendorfer saidto Auguste:

"'Bring another quart of '82;' then he turned and said to the Munichchap: 'Sorry, sir, it isn't the '71, but they haven't a bottle inthe house. '

"I was up a tree, and so I said:

"'Cruthers, let me present you to my friend, Mr. Diffendorfer. ' Mycompanion at mention of his name sprang up, seized Cruthers's fingers asif he had been a long-lost brother, and pretty nearly shook his handoff. Cruthers said in reply:

"'I'm very glad to meet you. If you're a friend of Marny's you're allright. You've got all you ought to have in this world. ' You must haveknown Cruthers--he was always saying that kind of frilly things to theboys. Then they both sat down again. 

"After this quite a different expression came into the man's face. Hisembarrassment, or ugliness of temper, or whatever it was, was gone. Hejumped up again, insisted upon filling Cruthers's glass himself, andwhen Cruthers tasted it and winked both of his eyes over it, and thengot up and shook Diffendorfer's hand a second time to let him know howgood he thought it was, and how proud he was of being his guest, Diffendorfer's face even broke out into a smile, and for a moment thefellow was as happy as anybody about him, and not the chump he had beenwith me. He was evidently pleased with Cruthers, for when Cruthersrefused a third glass he said to him: 'To-morrow, perhaps'--and, beckoning to Auguste, said, in a voice loud enough for us all to hear:'Put a cork in it and mark it; we'll finish it to-morrow. '

"Cruthers made no reply, not considering himself, of course, as one ofthe party, and, nodding pleasantly to my companion, joined Woods'stable again. 

"When dinner was over, Diffendorfer put on his hat and coat, handed memy umbrella, and said:

"'I'm going home now. Walk along with me?'

"It was still raining, the wind rattling the swinging doors of thecaffè. I did not answer for a moment. The dinner had left me as much inthe dark as ever, and I was trying to make up my mind what to do next. 

"'Why not stay here and smoke?' I asked. 

"'No, walk along with me as far as the traghetto, please, ' and he laidhis hand in a half-pleading way on my arm. 

"Again that same troubled look in his face that I had seen once beforemade me alter my mind. I threw on my coat, picked up my umbrella, noddedto the boys, who looked rather anxiously after me, and plunged throughthe door and out into the storm. 

"It was the kind of a night that I love, --a regular howler. Most peoplethink the sunshine makes Venice, but they wouldn't think so if theycould study it on one of these nights when a nor'easter whirls up out ofthe Adriatic and comes roaring across the lagoons as if it would swallowup the dear old girl and sweep her into the sea. She don't mind it. Shealways comes up smiling the next day, looking twice as pretty for herbath, and I'm always twice as happy, for I've seen a whole lot of thingsI never would have seen in the daylight. The Campanile, for one thing, upside down in the streaming piazza; slashes of colored light from theshop-windows soaking into the rain-pools; and great, black, gloomyshadows choking up alleys, with only a single taper peering out of thedarkness like a burglar's lantern. 

"When we turned to breast the gale--the rain had almost ceased--andstruggled on through the Ascensione, a sudden gust of wind whirled myumbrella inside out, and after that I walked on ahead of him, stoppingevery now and then to enjoy the grandeur of it all, until we reached thetraghetto. When we arrived, only one gondola was on duty, the gondoliermuffled to his eyes in glistening oilskins, his sou'wester hat tiedunder his chin. 

"Once on the other side of the Canal it started in to rain again, and soDiffendorfer held his own umbrella over me until we reached my gate onthe Fondamenta San Zorzi, in the rear of my quarters. He stood beside meunder the flare of the gas-jets while I fumbled in my pocket for mynight-key--I had about decided to invite him in and pump him dry--andthen said:

"'I live a little way from here; don't go in; come home with me. '

"A strange feeling now took possession of me, which I could not accountfor. The whole plot rushed over me with a force which I must confesssent a cold chill down my back. I began to think: This man had forcedhimself upon me not once, but twice; had set up the best bottle of winehe could buy, and was now about to steer me into a den. Then the thoughtrose in my mind--I could handle any two of him, and if I give way nowand he finds I am over-cautious or suspicious, it will only make itworse for me when I see him again. This was followed by a common-senseview of the whole situation. The mystery in it, after all, if there wasany mystery, was one of my own making. To ask a man who had been diningwith you to come to your lodging was neither a suspicious nor an unusualthing. Besides, while he had been often brusque, and at times curt, hehad shown me nothing but kindness, and had tried only to please me. 

"My mind was made up instantly. I determined to follow the affair to theend. 

"'Yes, I'll go, ' and I pulled my umbrella into shape, opened it with aflop, and stepped from the shelter of the doorway into the pelt of thedriving rain. 

"We kept on up the Fondamenta, crossed the bridge by the side of theCanal of San Vio as far as the Caffè Calcina, and then out on theZattero, which was being soused with the waves of the Giudecca breakingover the coping of its pavement. Hugging the low wall of ClaraMontalba's garden, he keeping out of the wind as best he could, wepassed the church of San Rosario and stopped at the same low dooropening into the building next to Pietro's wine-shop--the one I had seenhim enter when I was painting. The caffè was still open, for the glow ofits lights streamed out upon the night and was reflected in therain-drenched pavement. Then a thought struck me:

"'Come in here a moment, ' I said to him, and I pushed in Pietro's door. 

"'Pietro, ' I called out, so that everybody in the caffè could hear, 'I'mgoing up to Mr. Diffendorfer's room. Better get a fiasco of Chiantiready--the old kind you have in the cellar. When I want it I'll sendfor it. ' If I was going into a trap it was just as well to let somebodyknow whom I was last seen with. The boys had seen me go out with him, but nobody knew where he lived or where he had taken me. I was ashamedof it as soon as I had said it, but somehow I felt as if it were justas well to keep my eyes open. 

"Diffendorfer pushed past me and called out to Pietro, in a half-angrytone:

"'No, don't you send it. I've got all the wine we'll want, ' turned onhis heel, held his door open for me to pass in, and slammed itbehind us. 

"It was pitch-dark inside as we mounted the stairs one step at a timeuntil we reached the second flight, where the light from a smoulderingwick of a fiorentina set in a niche in the wall shed a dim glow. At thesound of our footsteps a door was opened in a passageway on our left, ahead thrust out, and as suddenly withdrawn. The same thing happened onthe third landing. Diffendorfer paid no attention to these intrusions, and kept on down a long corridor ending in a door. I didn't like theheads--it looked as if they were waiting for Diffendorfer to bringsomebody home, and so I slipped my umbrella along in my hand until Icould use it as a club, and waited in the dark until he had found thekey-hole, unlocked the door, and thrown it open. All I saw was the graylight of the windows opposite this door, which made a dim silhouette ofDiffendorfer's figure. Then I heard the scraping of a match, and agas-jet flashed. 

"'Come in, ' called Diffendorfer, in a cheery tone. 'Wait till I punch upthe fire. Here, take this seat, ' and he moved a great chair close tothe grate. 

"I have seen a good many rooms in my time, but I must say this one tookthe breath out of me for an instant. The walls were hung in oldtapestries, the furniture was of the rarest. There were three or fourold armchairs that looked as if they had been stolen out of theDoge's Palace. 

"Diffendorfer continued punching away at the fire until it burst into ablaze. 

"In another moment he was on his feet again, saying he had forgottensomething. Then he entered the next room--there were three in thesuite--unlocked a closet, brought back a mouldy-looking bottle and twoVenetian glasses, moved up a spider-legged, inlaid table, and said, ashe placed the bottle and glasses beside me:

"'That's the Valpocelli of '71. You needn't worry about helpingyourself; I've got a dozen bottles more. '

"I thought the game had gone far enough now, and I squared myself andfaced him. 

"'See here, Mr. Diffendorfer, ' I said, 'before I take your wine I've gotsome questions to ask you. I'm going to ask them pretty straight, too, and I want you to answer them exactly in the same way. You have followedme round now for two weeks. You invite me to dinner--a man you havenever seen before--and when I come you sit like a bump on a log, andhalf the time I can't get a word out of you. You spend your money on melike water--none of which I can return, and you know it--and when I tellyou I don't like that sort of thing you double the expense. Now, whatdoes it all mean? Who are you, anyway, and where do you come from? Ifyou're all right there's my hand, and you'll find it wide open. '

"He dropped into his chair, put his head into his hands for a moment, and said, in a greatly altered tone:

"'If I told you, you wouldn't understand. '

"'Yes, I would. '

"'No, you wouldn't--you couldn't. You've had everything you wanted allyour life--I haven't had anything. '

"'Me!--what rot! You've got a chair under you now that will sell formore money than I see in a year. '

"'Yes--and nobody to sit in it; not a man who knows me or wants to knowme. '

"'But why did you pick me out?'

"'Because you seemed to be the kind of a man who would understand mebest. I watched you for weeks, though you didn't know it. You've gotpeople who love you for yourself. You go into Florian's or the Quadriand you can't get a chance to swallow a mouthful for fellows who want toshake hands with you and slap you on the back. When I saw that, I got upcourage enough to speak to you. 

"'When that first night you wouldn't introduce me to your friendRoscoff, I saw how it was and how you suspected me, and I came neargiving it up. Then I thought I'd try again, and if you hadn't introducedMr. Cruthers to me, and if he hadn't drank my wine, I would have givenit up. But I don't want them to like me because I'm with _you_. I wantthem to like me for myself, so they'll be glad to see me when I come in, just as they are glad to see you. 

"'I come from Pennsylvania. My father owns the oil-wells at Stockville. He came over from Holland when he was a boy. He sent me over here sixmonths ago to learn something about the world, and told me not to comeback till I did. I got to Paris, and I couldn't find a soul to talk tobut the hotel porter; then I kept on to Lucerne, and it was no betterthere. When I got as far as Dresden I mustered up courage to speak to aman in the station, but he moved off, and I saw him afterward speakingto a policeman and pointing to me. Then I came on down here. I thoughtmaybe if I got some good rooms to live in where people could becomfortable, I could get somebody to come in and sit down. So I boughtthis lot of truck of an Italian named Almadi--a prince or something--andmoved in. I tried the fellows who lived here--you saw them stickingtheir heads out as we came up--but they don't speak English, so I was asbad off as I was before. Then I made up my mind I'd tackle you and keepat it till I got to know you. You might think it queer now that I didn'ttell you before who I was or how I came here, or how lonesome Iwas--just lonesome--but I just couldn't. I didn't want your pity, Iwanted your _friendship_. That's all. '

"He had straightened up now, and was leaning back in his chair. 

"'And it was just dead lonesomeness, then, was it?' and I held out myhand to him. 

"'Yes--the deadliest kind of lonesome. Kind makes you want to fall off adock. Now, please drink my wine'--and he pushed the bottle toward me--'Ihad a devil of a hunt for it, but I wanted to do something for you youcouldn't do for yourself. '

"We fellows, I tell you, took charge of Diffendorfer after that, and aripping good fellow he was. We got that high collar off of him, a slouchhat on his head instead of his stove-pipe, and a pipe in his mouth, andbefore the winter was over he had more friends than any fellow inVenice. It was only awkwardness that made him talk so queer and ugly. And maybe we didn't have some good times in those rooms of his onthe Zattere!"

Marny stopped, threw away the end of his cigar, laid a coin under hisplate for the waiter and another on top of it for Henri, the chef, reached for his hat, and said, as he rose from his seat, and fleckedthe ashes from his coat-sleeve:

"So now, whenever I see a poor devil haunting a place like this, lookingaround out of the corner of his eye, hoping somebody will speak to him, I say that's a Diffendorfer, and more than half the time I'm right. "

MUFFLES--THE BAR-KEEP

My friend Muffles has had a varied career. Muffles is not his baptismalname--if he were ever baptized, which I doubt. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, and the brewer--especially the brewer--knew himas Mr. Richard Mulford, proprietor of the Shady Side on the Bronx--andhis associates as Dick. Only his intimates knew him as Muffles. I am oneof his intimates. This last sobriquet he earned as a boy among hisfellow wharf-rats, by reason of an extreme lightness of foot attended byan equally noiseless step, particularly noticeable when escaping fromsome guardian of the peace who had suddenly detected him raiding anapple-stand not his own, or in depleting a heap of peanuts the propertyof some gentleman of foreign birth, or in making off with a just-emptiedash-barrel--Muffles did the emptying--on the eve of an election. 

If any member of his unknown and widely scattered family reached thedignity of being considered the flower of the clan, no stretch ofimagination or the truth on the part of his acquaintances--and theywere numerous--ever awarded that distinction to Muffles. He might havebeen a weed, but he was never a flower. A weed that grew up between thecobbles, crouching under the hoofs of horses and the tramp of men, andwho was pulled up and thrown aside and still lived on and flourished invarious ways, and all with that tenacity of purpose and buoyancy ofspirit which distinguishes all weeds and which never by any possibilitymarks a better quality of plant, vegetable or animal. 

The rise of this gamin from the dust-heap to his present lofty positionwas as interesting as it was instructive. Interesting because his careerwas a drama--instructive because it showed a grit, pluck, andself-denial which many of his contemporaries might have envied andimitated: wharf-rat, newsboy, dish-washer in a sailor's dive, bar-helper, bar-tender, bar-keeper, bar-owner, ward heeler, wardpolitician, clerk of a district committee--go-between, in shady deals, between those paid to uphold the law and those paid to break it--andnow, at this time of writing, or was a year or so ago, the husband of"the Missus, " as he always calls her, the father of two children, onethree and the other five, and the proprietor of the Shady Side Inn, above the Harlem River and within a stone's throw of the historic Bronx. 

The reaching of this final goal, the sum of all his hopes andambitions, was due to the same tenacity of purpose which hadcharacterized his earlier life, aided and abetted by a geniality ofdisposition which made him countless friends, a conscience whichoverlooked their faults, together with a total lack of perception as tothe legal ownership of whatever happened to be within his reach. As tothe keeping of the other commandments, including the one of doing untoothers as you would have them do unto you----

Well, Muffles had grown up between the cobbles of the Bowery, and hisearly education had consequently been neglected. 

The Shady Side Inn, over which Muffles presided, and in which he wasone-third owner--the Captain of the Precinct and a "Big Pipe" contractorowned the other two-thirds--was what was left of an old colonialmansion. There are dozens of them scattered up and down the Bronx, lyingback from the river; with porches falling into decay, their gardensoverrun with weeds, their spacious rooms echoing only the hum of thesewing-machine or the buzz of the loom. 

This one belonged to some one of the old Knickerbockers whose winterresidence was below Bleecker Street and who came up here to spend thesummer and so escape the heat of the dog-days. You can see it any dayyou drive up the Speedway. It has stood there for over a hundred yearsand is likely to continue. You know its history, too--or can, if youwill take the trouble to look up its record. Aaron Burr stopped here, ofcourse--he stopped about everywhere along here and slept in almost everyhouse; and Hamilton put his horse up in the stables--only the siteremains; and George Washington dined on the back porch, his sorrel maretied to one of the big trees. There is no question about these facts. They are all down in the books, and I would prove it to you if I couldlay my hand on the particular record. Everybody believes it--Mufflesmost of all. 

Many of the old-time fittings and appurtenances are still to be seen. Aknocker clings to the front door--a wobbly old knocker, it is true, withone screw gone and part of the plate broken--but still boasting itscolonial descent. And there is a half-moon window over the door aboveit, with little panes of glass held in place by a spidery parasol frame, and supported on spindling columns once painted white. And there is anold lantern in the hall and funny little banisters wreathed about aflight of stairs that twists itself up to the second floor. 

The relics--now that I come to think of it--stop here. There was a fineold mantel framing a great open fireplace in the front parlor, beforewhich the Father of His Country toasted his toes or sipped his grog, butit is gone now. Muffles's bar occupied the whole side of this frontroom, and the cavity once filled with big, generous logs, blazing awayto please the host's distinguished guests, held a collection of bottlesfrom Muffles's cellar--a moving cellar, it is true, for the beer-wagonand the grocer's cart replenished it daily. 

The great garden in the rear of the old mansion has also changed. Thelines of box and sweet syringa are known only by their roots. Therose-beds are no more, the paths that were woven into long stripesacross its grass-plats are overgrown and hardly traceable. Only onelichen-covered, weather-stained seat circling about an old locust-treeremains, and this is on its last legs and needs propping up--or did thelast time I saw it. The trees are still there. These old stand-bys reachup their arms so high, and their trunks are so big and straight andsmooth, that nothing can despoil them. They will stay there until theend--that is, until some merciless Commissioner runs the line of a citystreet through their roots. Then their fine old bodies will be drawn andquartered, and their sturdy arms and lesser branches go to feed thefires of some near-by factory. 

No ladies of high degree now sip their tea beneath their shade, withliveried servants about the slender-legged tables, as they did in theold days. There are tables, of course--a dozen in all, perhaps, some inwhite cloths and some in bare tops, bare of everything except the glassof beer--it depends very largely on what one orders, and who ordersit--but the servants are missing unless you count Muffles and hisstable-boy. Two of these old aristocrats--I am speaking of the old treesnow, not Muffles, and certainly not the stable-boy--two giant elms (thesame that Washington tied his mare to when they were little)--standguard on either side of the back porch, a wide veranda of a porch with ahoneysuckle, its stem, as thick as your arm, and its scraggy, half-deadtendrils plaited in and out of the palings and newly paintedlattice-work. 

On Sunday mornings--and this tale begins with a Sunday morning--Mufflesalways shaved himself on this back porch. On these occasions he wasattired in a pair of trousers, a pair of slippers, and a red flannelundershirt. 

I am aware that this is not an extraordinary thing for a man living inthe country to do on a Sunday morning, and it is not an extraordinarycostume in which to do it. It was neither the costume nor the occupationthat made the operation notable, but the distinguished company who sataround the operator while it went on. 

There was the ex-sheriff--a large, bulbous man with a jet-black mustachehung under his nose, a shirt-collar cut low enough to permit of hisbreathing, and a skin-tight waistcoat buttoned over a rotundity thatrested on his knees. He had restless, quick eyes, and, before his "ex"life began and his avoirdupois gained upon him, restless, quick fingerswith steel springs inside of them--good fingers for handling theparticular people he "wanted. "

Then there was the "Big Pipe" contractor--a lean man with half-moonwhiskers, a red, weather-beaten, knotted face, bushy gray eyebrows, anda clean-shaven mouth that looked when shut like a healed scar. On Sundaythis magnate wore a yellow diamond pin and sat in his shirt-sleeves. 

There could be found, too, now and then, tilted back on their chairs, two or three of the light-fingered gentry from the race-course nearby--pale, consumptive-looking men, with field-glasses hung over theirshoulders and looking like bank-clerks, they were so plainly and neatlydressed; as well as some of the less respectable neighbors, besides afew intimate personal friends like myself. 

While Muffles shaved and the group about him discussed the severalways--some of them rather shady, I'm afraid--in which they and theirconstituents earned their daily bread, the stable-boy--he was a streetwaif, picked up to keep him from starving--served the beverages. Muffleshad no Sunday license, of course, but a little thing like that neverdisturbed Muffles or his friends--not with the Captain of the Precinctas part owner. 

My intimacy with Muffles dated from a visit I had made him a yearbefore, when I stopped in one of my sketching-tramps to get somethingcooling. A young friend of mine--a musician--was with me. Muffles'sgarden was filled with visitors: some celebration or holiday had calledthe people out. Muffles, in expectation, had had the piano tuned and hadsent to town for an orchestra of three. The cornet and bass-viol had putin an appearance, but the pianist had been lost in the shuffle. 

"De bloke ain't showed up and we can't git nothin' out o' de fish-hornand de scrape--see?" was the way Muffles put it. 

My friend was a graduate of the Conservatoire, an ex-stroke, crew of'91, owned a pair of shears which he used twice a year in the vaults ofa downtown bank, and breakfasted every day at twelve--but none of thesethings had spoiled him. 

"Don't worry, " he said; "put a prop under your piano-lid and bring me achair. I'll work the ivories for you. "

He played till midnight, drank his free beers between each selection, his face as grave as a judge except when he would wink at me out of thecorner of his eye to show his intense enjoyment of the whole situation. You can judge of its effect on the audience when I tell you that oneyoung girl in a pink shirt-waist was so overcome with emotion and sosorry for the sad young man who had to earn his living in any such way, that she laid a ten-cent piece on the piano within reach of my friend'sfingers. The smile of intense gratitude which permeated his face--a"thank-God-you-have-saved-me-from-starvation" smile, was part of theevening's enjoyment. He wears the dime now on his watch-chain; he saysit is the only money he ever earned by his music; to which one of hisclub-friends added, "Or in your life. "

Since that time I have been _persona grata_ to Muffles. Since that time, too, I have studied him at close range: on snowy days--for I like mytramps in winter, with the Bronx a ribbon of white, even though it maybe too cold to paint--as well as my outings on Sunday summer morningswhen I sit down with his other friends to watch Muffles shave. 

On one of these days I found a thin, cadaverous, long-legged, long-armedyoung man behind the bar. He had yellow-white hair that rested on hishead like a window-mop, whitey blue eyes, and a pasty complexion. Whenhe craned his neck in his anxiety to get my order right, I felt that hisgiraffe throat reached down to his waist-line and that all of it wouldcome out of his collar if I didn't make up my mind at once "what itshould be. "

"Who's he, Muffles?" I asked. 

"Dat's me new bar-keep. I've chucked me job. "

"What's his name?"

"Bowser. "

"Where did you get him?"

"Blew in here one night las' month, purty nigh froze--out of a job andhungry. De Missus got soft on him--she's dat kind, ye know. Yer oughterseen him eat! Well, I guess! Been in a littingrapher's shop--ye kin tellby his fingers. Say, Bowser, show de gentleman yer fingers. "

Bowser held them up as quickly as if the order had come down the barrelof a Winchester. 

"And ye oughter see him draw. Gee! if I could draw like him I wouldn'tdo nothin' else. But I ain't never had nothin' in my head like that. Afeller's got to have sumpin' besides school-larnin' to draw like him. Now you're a sketch-artist, and know. Why, he drawed de Sheriff lastSunday sittin' in de porch huggin' his bitters, to de life. Say, Bowse, show de gentleman de picter ye drawed of de Sheriff. "

Bowser slipped his hand under the bar and brought out a charcoal sketchof a black mustache surrounded by a pair of cheeks, a treble chin, andtwo dots of eyes. 

"Kin hear him speak, can't ye? And dat ain't nothin' to de way he kinprint. Say, Bowse"--the intimacy grew as the young man's talents loomedup in Muffles's mind--"tell de gentleman what de boss said 'bout yerprintin'. "

"Said I could print all right, only there warn't no more work. " Therewas a modesty in Bowser's tone that gave me a better opinion of him. 

"Said ye could print all right, did he? Course he did--and no guff init, neither. Say, Missus"--and he turned to his wife, who had justcome in, the youngest child in her arms. She weighed twice as much asMuffles--one of those shapeless women with a kindly, Alderney face, andhair never in place, who lets everything go from collar to waist-line. 

"Say, Missus, didn't de Sheriff say dat was a perfec' likeness?" And hehanded it to her. 

The wife laughed, passed it back to Muffles and, with a friendly nod tome, kept on to the kitchen. 

"Bar-room ain't no place for women, " Muffles remarked in an undertonewhen his wife had disappeared. "Dat's why de Missus ain't never 'round. And when de kids grow up we're goin' to quit, see? Dat's what de Missussays, and what she says goes!"

All that summer the Shady Side prospered. More tables were set out underthe trees; Bowser got an assistant; Muffles wore better clothes; theMissus combed out her hair and managed to wear a tight-fitting dress, and it was easy to see that fame and fortune awaited Muffles--or what heconsidered its equivalent. Muffles entertained his friends as usual onthe back porch on Sunday mornings, but he shaved himself upstairs andwore an alpaca coat and boiled shirt over his red flannel underwear. Thequality of the company improved, too--or retrograded, according to thepoint of view. Now and then a pair of deer, with long tails and manes, hitched to a spider-web of a wagon, would drive up to the frontentrance and a gentleman wearing a watch-chain, a solitaire diamondring, a polished silk hat, and a white overcoat with big pearl buttons, would order "a pint of fiz" and talk in an undertone to Muffles while hedrank it. Often a number of these combinations would meet in Muffles'sback room and a quiet little game would last until daylight. The ordersthen were for quarts, not pints. On one of these nights the Captain ofthe Precinct was present in plain clothes. I learned this fromBowser--from behind his hand. 

One night Muffles was awakened by a stone thrown at his bedroom window. He went downstairs and found two men in slouch hats; one had a blackcarpet-bag. They talked some time together, and the three went down intothe cellar. When they came up the bag was empty. 

The next morning one of those spider-wheeled buggies, driven by one ofthe silk hat and pearl-buttoned gentlemen, accompanied by a friend, stopped at the main gate. When they drove away they carried the contentsof the black carpet-bag stowed away under the seat. 

The following day, about ten o'clock in the morning, a man in a derbyhat and with a pair of handcuffs in his outside pocket showed Muffles apaper he took from his coat, and the two went off to the city. WhenMuffles returned that same night--I had heard he was in trouble andwaited for his return--he nodded to me with a smile, and said:

"It's all right. Pipes went bail. "

He didn't stop, but walked through to the back room. There he put hisarms around his wife. She had sat all day at the window watching for hisreturn, so Bowser told me. 

II

One crisp, cool October day, when the maples blazed scarlet and theBronx was a band of polished silver and the hoar-frost glistened in themeadows, I turned into the road that led to the Shady Side. The outergate was shut, and all the blinds on the front of the house were closed. I put my hand on the old brass knocker and rapped softly. Bowser openedthe door. His eyes looked as if he had not slept for a week. 

"What's the matter--anybody sick?"

"No--dead!" and he burst into tears. 

"Not Muffles!"

"No--the Missus. "

"When?"

"Last night. De boss is inside, all broke up. "

I tiptoed across the hall and into the bar-room. He was sitting by atable, his head in his hands, his back toward me. 

"Muffles, this is terrible! How did it happen?"

He straightened up and held out his hand, guiding me to a seat besidehim. For some minutes he did not speak. Then he said, slowly, ignoringmy question, the tears streaming down his cheeks:

"Dis ends me. I ain't no good widout de Missus. You thought maybe whenye were 'round that I was a runnin' things; you thought maybe it was methat was lookin' after de kids and keepin' 'em clean; you thought maybewhen I got pinched and they come near jugging me that some of me palsgot me clear--you don't know nothin' 'bout it. De Missus did that, likeshe done everything. "

He stopped as if to get his breath, and put his head in his handsagain--rocking himself to and fro like a man in great physical pain. Isat silent beside him. It is difficult to decide what to do or say to aman under such circumstances. His reference to some former arrest arosein my mind, and so, in a perfunctory way--more for something to say thanfor any purpose of prying into his former life--I asked:

"Was that the time the Pipe Contractor went bail for you?"

He moved his head slightly and without raising it from his hands lookedat me from over his clasped fingers. 

"What, dat scrape a month ago, when I hid dem goods in de cellar? Naw!Dat was two pals o' mine. Dey was near pinched and I helped 'em out. Somebody give it away. But dat ain't noth-in'--Cap'n took care o' dat. Dis was one o' me own five year ago. What's goin' to become o' de kidsnow?" And he burst out crying again. 

III

A year passed. 

I had been painting along the Thames, lying in my punt, my face up tothe sky, or paddling in and out among the pond-lilies. I had idled, too, on the lagoons of my beloved Venice, listening to Luigi crooning thesongs he loves so well, the soft air about me, the plash of mygondolier's oar wrinkling the sheen of the silver sea. It had been avery happy summer; full of color and life. The brush had worked easily, the weather had lent a helping hand; all had been peace and quiet. Ofttimes, when I was happiest, somehow Muffles's solitary figure rosebefore me, the tears coursing down his cheeks, and with it that coldsilence--a silence which only a dead body brings to a house and whichends only with its burial. 

The week after I landed--it was in November, a day when the crows flewin long wavy lines and the heavy white and gray clouds pressed closeupon the blue vista of the hills--I turned and crossed through the wood, my feet sinking into the soft carpet of its dead leaves. Soon I caught aglimpse of the chimneys of Shady Side thrust above the evergreens; acurl of smoke was floating upward, filling the air with a filmy haze. Atthis sign of life within, my heart gave a bound. 

Muffles was still there!

When I swung back the gate and mounted the porch a feeling ofuncertainty came over me. The knocker was gone, and so was the sign. Theold-fashioned window-casings had been replaced by a modern door newlypainted and standing partly open. Perhaps Muffles had given up the barand was living here alone with his children. 

I pushed open the door and stepped into the old-fashioned hall. This, too, had undergone changes. The lantern was missing, and some modernfurniture stood against the walls. The bar where Bowser had dispensedhis beverages and from behind which he had brought his drawings had beenreplaced by a long mahogany counter with marble top, the sideboard beingfilled with cut glass and the more expensive appointments of a modernestablishment. The tables and chairs were also of mahogany; and a newred carpet covered the floor. The proprietor was leaning against thecounter playing with his watch-chain--a short man with a bald head. Afew guests were sitting about, reading or smoking. 

"What's become of Mulford, " I asked; "Dick Mulford, who used to behere?"

The man shook his head. 

"Why, yes, you must have known him--some of his friends called himMuffles. "

The man continued to shake his head. Then he answered, carelessly:

"I've only been here six months--another man had it before me. He putthese fixtures in. "

"Maybe you can tell me?"--and I turned to the bar-keeper. 

"Guess he means the feller who blew in here first month we come, " thebar-keeper answered, addressing his remark to the proprietor. "He saidhe'd been runnin' the place once. "

"Oh, you mean that guy! Yes, I got it now, " answered the proprietor, with some animation, as if suddenly interested. "He come in the week weopened--worst-lookin' bum you ever see--toes out of his shoes, coat alltorn. Said he had no money and asked for something to eat. Billy herewas goin' to fire him out when one of my customers said he knew him. Idon't let no man go hungry if I can help it, and so I sent himdownstairs and cook filled him up. After he had all he wanted to eat heasked Billy if he might go upstairs into the front bedroom. I don't wantnobody prowlin' 'round--not that kind, anyhow--but he begged so I sentBilly up with him. What did he do, Billy? You saw him. " And he turned tohis assistant. 

"Didn't do nothin' but just look in the door, he held on to the jamb andI thought he was goin' to fall. Then he said he was much obliged, andhe walked downstairs again and out the door cryin' like a baby, and Iain't seen him since. "

Another year passed. To the picture of the man sitting alone in thatsilent, desolate room was added the picture of the man leaning againstthe jamb of the door, the tears streaming down his face. After this Iconstantly caught myself peering into the faces of the tramps I wouldmeet in the street. Whenever I walked before the benches of Madison Parkor loitered along the shady paths of Union Square, I would stop, my eyerunning over the rows of idle men reading the advertisements in themorning papers or asleep on the seats. Often I would pause for a momentas some tousled vagabond would pass me, hoping that I had found myold-time friend, only to be disappointed. Once I met Bowser on his wayto his work, a roll of theatre-bills under his arm. He had gone back tohis trade and was working in a shop on Fourteenth Street. His account ofwhat had happened after the death of "the Missus" only confirmed myfears. Muffles had gone on from bad to worse; the place had been soldout by his partners; Muffles had become a drunkard, and, worse than all, the indictment against him had been pressed for trial despite theCaptain's efforts, and he had been sent to the Island for a year forreceiving and hiding stolen goods. He had been offered his freedom bythe District Attorney if he would give up the names of the two men whohad stolen the silverware, but he said he'd rather "serve time than givehis pals away, " and they sent him up. Some half-orphan asylum had takenthe children. One thing Bowser knew and he would "give it to mestraight, " and he didn't care who heard it, and that was that there was"a good many gospil sharps running church-mills that warn't half aswhite as Dick Mulford--not by a d---- sight. "

One morning I was trying to cross Broadway, dodging the trolleys thatswirled around the curves, when a man laid his hand on my arm with agrip that hurt me. 

It was Muffles!

Not a tramp; not a ragged, blear-eyed vagabond--older, more serious, thelaugh gone out of his eyes, the cheeks pale as if from long confinement. Dressed in dark clothes, his face cleanshaven; linen neat, a plain blacktie--the hat worn straight, not slouched over his eyes with a rakishcant as in the old days. 

"My God! but I'm glad to see ye, " he cried. "Come over in the Square andlet's sit down. "

He was too excited to let me ask him any questions. It all poured out ofhim in a torrent, his hand on my knee most of the time. 

"Oh, but I had it tough! Been up for a year. You remember about it, thetime Pipes went bail. I didn't git none o' the swag; it warn't my job, but I seed 'em through. But that warn't nothin'. It was de Missus whatkilled me. Hadn't been for de kids I'd been off the dock many a time. Fust month or two I didn't draw a sober breath. I couldn't stand it. Soon's I'd come to I'd git to thinkin' agin and then it was all up widme. Then Pipes and de Sheriff went back on me and I didn't care. Bowserstuck to me the longest. He got de kids took care of. He don't know I'mout, or he'd turn up. I tried to find him, but nobody don't know wherehe was a-workin'--none of de barrooms I've tried. Oh, but it was tough!But it's all right now, d'ye hear? All right! I got a job up in Harlem, see? I'm gittin' orders for coal. " And he touched a long book that stuckout of his breast-pocket. "And I've got a room near where I work. And Itell ye another thing, " and his hand sought mine, and a peculiar lightcame into his eyes, "I got de kids wid me. You just oughter see deboy--legs on him thick as your arm! I toll ye that's a comfort, anddon't you forgit it. And de little gal! Ain't like her mother?what!--well, I should smile!"

HIS LAST CENT<

Jack Waldo stood in his studio gazing up at the ceiling, or, to be moreexact, at a Venetian church-lamp--which he had just hung and to which hehad just attached a red silk tassel bought that morning of a bric-a-bracdealer whose shop was in the next street. There was a bare spot in thatcorner of his sumptuously appointed room which offended Waldo'ssensitive taste--a spot needing a touch of yellow brass and a note ofred--and the silk tassel completed the color-scheme. The result was acombination which delighted his soul; Jack had a passion for having hissoul delighted and an insatiable thirst for the things that did thedelighting, and could no more resist the temptation to possess them whenexposed for sale than a confirmed drunkard could resist a favoritebeverage held under his nose. That all of these precious objects ofbigotry and virtue were beyond his means, and that most of them thenenlivening his two perfectly appointed rooms were still unpaid for, never worried Jack. 

"That fellow's place, " he would say of some dealer, "is such a jumbleand so dark that nobody can see what he's got. Ought to be very gratefulto me that I put 'em where people could see 'em. If I can pay for 'em, all right, and if I can't, let him take 'em back. He always knows whereto find 'em. I'm not going to have an auction. "

This last course of "taking his purchases back" had been followed by agood many of Jack's creditors, who, at last, tired out, had driven up afurniture van and carted the missing articles home again. Others, morepatient, dunned persistently and continually--every morning some one ofthem--until Jack, roused to an extra effort, painted pot-boilers(portrait of a dog, or a child with a rabbit, or Uncle John's exactimage from a daguerrotype many years in the family) up to the time thedebt was discharged and the precious bit of old Spanish leather or theVenetian chest or Sixteenth Century chair became his very own for alltime to come. 

This "last-moment" act of Jack's--this reprieve habit of saving hisfinancial life, as the noose was being slipped over his bankruptneck--instead of strangling Jack's credit beyond repair, really improvedit. The dealer generally added an extra price for interest and thetrouble of collecting (including cartage both ways), knowing that hisproperty was perfectly safe as long as it stayed in Jack's admirablycared-for studio, and few of them ever refused the painter anything hewanted. When inquiries were made as to his financial standing the reportwas invariably, "Honest but slow--he'll pay some time and somehow, " andthe ghost of a bad debt was laid. 

The slower the better for Jack. The delay helped his judgment. Thethings he didn't want after living with them for months (Jack's test ofimmortality) he was quite willing they should cart away; the things heloved he would go hungry to hold on to. 

This weeding-out process had left a collection of curios, stuffs, hangings, brass, old furniture, pottery, china, costumes and the like, around Jack's rooms, some of which would have enriched a museum: a LouisXVI. Cabinet, for instance, that had been stolen from the Trianon (whata lot of successful thieves there were in those days); the identicalsofa that the Pompadour used in her afternoon naps, and the undeniablecurtain that covered her bed, and which now hung between Jack'stwo rooms. 

In addition to these ancient and veritable "antiques" there was acollection of equally veritable "moderns, " two of which had arrived thatmorning from an out-of-town exhibition and which were at this precisemoment leaning against the legs of an old Spanish chair. One had hadthree inches of gilt moulding knocked off its frame in transit, and bothbore Jack's signature in the lower left-hand corner. 

"Didn't want 'em, eh?" cried Jack, throwing himself on to the divan, temporarily exhausted with the labor of hanging the lamp and attachingthe tassel. "Wanted something painted with darning-needlebrushes--little tooty-wooty stuff that everybody can understand. 'Seethe barndoor and the nails in the planks and all them knots!'"--Jack wason his feet now, imitating the drawl of the country art-buyer--"'Ain'tthem natural! Why, Maria, if you look close ye can see jes' where theants crawl in and out. My, ain't that wonderful!'"

These remarks were not addressed to the offending canvas nor to theimaginary countryman, but to his chum, Sam Ruggles, who sat hunched upin a big armchair with gilt flambeaux on each corner of its highback--it being a holiday and Sam's time his own. Ruggles was entry clerkin a downtown store, lived on fifteen dollars a week, and was proud ofit. His daily fear--he being of an eminently economical and practicalturn of mind--was that Jack would one day find either himself tight shutin the lock-up in charge of the jailer or his belongings strewed looseon the sidewalk and in charge of the sheriff. They had been collegemates together--these two--and Sam loved Jack with an affection in whichpride in his genius and fear for his welfare were so closely interwoven, that Sam found himself most of the time in a constantly unhappy frame ofmind. Why Jack should continue to buy things he couldn't pay for, instead of painting pictures which one day somebody would want, and atfabulous prices, too, was one thing he could never get through his head. 

"Where have those pictures been, Jack?" inquired Sam, in a sympathetictone. 

"Oh, out in one of those God's-free-air towns where they are studyinghigh art and microbes and Browning--one of those towns where you canfind a woman's club on every corner and not a drop of anything to drinkoutside of a drug-store. Why aren't you a millionnaire, Sam, with agallery one hundred by fifty opening into your conservatory, and itscentre panels filled with the works of that distinguished impressionist, John Somerset Waldo, R. A. ?"

"I shall be a millionnaire before you get to be R. A. , " answered Sam, with some emphasis, "if you don't buckle down to work, old man, andbring out what's in you--and stop spending your allowance on a lot ofthings that you don't want any more than a cow wants two tails. Now, what in the name of common-sense did you buy that lamp for which youhave just hung? It doesn't light anything, and if it did, this is agarret, not a church. To my mind it's as much out of place here as thatbrass coal-hod you've got over there would be on a cathedral altar. "

"Samuel Ruggles!" cried Jack, striking a theatrical attitude, "you talklike a pig-sticker or a coal-baron. Your soul, Samuel, is steeped incommercialism; you know not the color that delights men's hearts northe line that entrances. The lamp, my boy, is meat and drink to me, andcompanionship and a joy unspeakable. Your dull soul, Samuel, is clay, your meat is figures, and your drink profit and loss; all of whichreminds me, Samuel, that it is now two o'clock and that the nerves of mystomach are on a strike. Let--me--see"--and he turned his back, felt inhis pocket, and counted out some bills and change--"Yes, Sam"--here hisdramatic manner changed--"the account is still good--we will now lunch. Not expensively, Samuel"--with another wave of the hand--"notriotously--simply, and within our means. Come, thou slave of thedesk--eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die--or bust, Samuel, which is very nearly the same thing!"

"Old John" at Solari's took their order--a porter-house steak withmushrooms, peas, cold asparagus, a pint of extra dry--in honor of theday, Jack insisted, although Sam protested to the verge ofdiscourtesy--together with the usual assortment of small drinkables andlong smokables--a Reina Victoria each. 

On the way back to the studio the two stopped to look in a shop-window, when Jack gave a cry of delight and pressed his nose against the glassto get a better view of a small picture by Monet resting on an easel. 

"By the gods, Sam!--isn't that a corker! See the way those trees arepainted! Look at the air and light in it--not a value out ofscale--perfectly charming!--_charming_, " and he dived into the shopbefore Sam. Could check him. 

In a moment he was out again, shaking his head, chewing his under-lip, and taking another devouring look at the canvas. 

"What do they want for it, Jack?" asked Sam--his standard of merit wasalways the cost of a thing. 

"About half what it's worth--six hundred dollars. "

"Whew!" burst out Sam; "that's nearly as much as I make in a year. Iwouldn't give five dollars for it. "

Jack's face was still pressed against the glass of the window, his eyesriveted on the canvas. He either did not hear or would not answer hisfriend's criticism. 

"Buy it, Jack, " Sam continued, with a laugh, the hopelessness of thepurchase making him the more insistent. "Hang it under the lamp, oldman--I'll pay for the candles. "

"I would, " said Jack, gravely and in perfect seriousness, "only thegovernor's allowance isn't due for a week, and the luncheon took mylast cent. "

The next day, after business hours, Sam, in the goodness of his heart, called to comfort Jack over the loss of the Monet--a loss as real to thepainter as if he had once possessed it--he _had_ in that first glancethrough the window-pane; every line and tone and brush-mark was his own. So great was Sam's sympathy for Jack, and his interest in the matter, that he had called upon a real millionaire and had made an appointmentfor him to come to Jack's studio that same afternoon, in the hope thathe would leave part of his wealth behind him in exchange for one ofJack's masterpieces. 

Sam found Jack flat on the floor, his back supported by a cushionpropped against the divan. He was gloating over a small picture, itsframe tilted back on the upright of his easel. It was the Monet!

"Did he loan it to you, old man?" Sam inquired. 

"Loan it to me, you quill-driver! No, I bought it!"

"For how much?"

"Full price--six hundred dollars. Do you suppose I'd insult Monet bydickering for it?"

"What have you got to pay it with?" This came in a hopeless tone. 

"Not a cent! What difference does that make? Samuel, you interest me. Why is it your soul never rises above dollars and cents?"

"But, Jack--you can't take his property and----"

"I can't--can't I? _His_ property! Do you suppose Monet painted it toplease that one-eyed, double-jointed dealer, who don't know a picturefrom a hole in the ground! Monet painted it for me--me, Samuel--ME--whogets more comfort out of it than a dozen dealers--ME--and that part ofthe human race who know a good thing when they see it. You don't belongto it, Samuel. What's six hundred or six millions to do with it? It'sgot no price, and never will have any price. It's a work of art, Samuel--a work of art. That's one thing you don't understand andnever will. "

"But he paid his money for it and it's not right----"

"Of course--that's the only good thing he has done--paid for it so thatit could get over here where I could just wallow in it. Get down here, you heathen, take off your shoes and bow three times to the floor andthen feast your eyes. You think you've seen landscapes before, but youhaven't. You've only seen fifty cents' worth of good canvas spoiled byten cents' worth of paint. I put it that way, Samuel, because that's theonly way you'll understand it. Look at it! Did you ever see such a sky?Why, it's like a slash of light across a mountain-pool! I tellyou--Samuel--that's a masterpiece!"

While they were discussing the merits of the landscape and the demeritsof the transaction there came a knock at the door and the Moneybagswalked in. Before he opened his lips Jack had taken his measure. He wasone of those connoisseurs who know it all. The town is full of them. 

A short connoisseur with a red face--red in spots--close-clipped grayhair that stood up on his head like a polishing brush, gold eyeglassesattached to a wide black ribbon, and a scissored mustache. He wasdressed in a faultlessly fitting serge suit enlivened by a nankeenwaistcoat supporting a gold watch-chain. The fingers of one handclutched a palm-leaf fan; the fingers of the other were extended towardJack. He had known Jack's governor for years, and so a too formalintroduction was unnecessary. 

"Show me what you've got, " he began, "the latest, understand. Wife wantssomething to hang over the sideboard. You've been doing some new things, I hear from Ruggles. "

The tone of the request grated on Jack, who had risen to his feet themoment "His Finance" (as he insisted on calling him afterward to Sam)had opened the door. He felt instantly that the atmosphere of hissanctum had, to a certain extent, been polluted. But that Sam's eyeswere upon him he would have denied point-blank that he had a singlecanvas of any kind for sale, and so closed the incident. 

Sam saw the wavering look in his friend's face and started in tooverhaul a rack of unframed pictures with their faces turned to thewall. These he placed one after the other on the ledge of the easel andimmediately above the Monet, which still kept its place on the floor, its sunny face gazing up at the shopkeeper, his clerk, andbin customer. 

"This the newest one you've got?" asked the millionnaire, in the sametone he would have used to his tailor, as he pointed to a picture of astrip of land between sea and sky--one of those uncertain landscapesthat a man is righteously excused for hanging upside down. 

"Yes, " said Jack, with a grave face, "right off the ice. "

Sam winced, but "His Finance" either did not hear it or supposed it wassome art-slang common to such a place. 

"This another?" he inquired, fixing his glasses in place and hendingdown closer to the Monet. 

"No--that's out of another refrigerator, " remarked Jack, carelessly--nota smile on his face. 

"Rather a neat thing, " continued the Moneybags. "Looks just like a placeup in Somesbury where I was born--same old pasture. What's the price?"

"It isn't for sale, " answered Jack, in a decided tone. 

"Not for sale?"

"No. "

"Well, I rather like it, " and he bent down closer, "and, if you can fixa figure, I might----"

"I can't fix a figure, for it isn't for sale. I didn't paint it--it'sone of Monet's. "

"Belongs to you--don't it?"

"Yes--belongs to me. "

"Well, how about a thousand dollars for it?"

Sam's heart leaped to his throat, but Jack's face never showed awrinkle. 

"Thanks; much obliged, but I'll hold on to it for a while. I'm notthrough with it yet. "

"If you decide to sell it will you let me know?"

"Yes, " said Jack, grimly, and picking up the canvas and carrying itacross the room, he turned its face to the wall. 

While Sam was bowing the millionnaire out (there was nothing but theMonet, of course, which he wanted now that he couldn't buy it), Jackoccupied the minutes in making a caricature of His Finance on afresh canvas. 

Sam's opening sentences on his return, out of breath with his run backup the three flights of stairs, were not complimentary. They began byimpeaching Jack's intelligence in terms more profane than polite, andended in the fervent hope that he make an instantaneous visit to HisSatanic Majesty. 

In the midst of this discussion--in which one side roared hisdispleasure and the other answered in pantomime between shouts of hisown laughter--there came another knock at the door, and the owner of theMonet walked in. He, too, was in a disturbed state of mind. He had heardsome things during the day bearing directly on Jack's credit, and hadbrought a bill with him for the value of the picture. 

He would like the money then and there. 

Jack's manner with the dealer was even more lordly and condescendingthan with the would-be buyer. 

"Want a check--when--now? My dear sir! when I bought that Monet wasthere anything said about my paying for it in twenty-four hours?To-morrow, when my argosies arrive laden with the spoils of the farEast, but not now. I never pay for anything immediately--it would injuremy credit. Sit down and let me offer you a cigar--my governor imports'em and so you can be assured they are good. By the way--what's becomeof that Ziem I saw in your window last week? The Metropolitan ought tohave that picture. "

The one-eyed dealer--Jack was right, he had but one eye--at once agreedwith Jack as to the proper ultimate destination of the Ziem, and underthe influence of the cigar which Jack had insisted on lighting for him, assisted by Jack's casual mention of his father--a name that was knownto be good for half a million--and encouraged--greatly encouragedindeed--by an aside from Sam that the painter had already been offeredmore than he paid for it by a man worth millions--under all theseinfluences, assistances, and encouragements, I say, the one-eyed dealerso modified his demands that an additional twenty-four hours wasgranted Jack in which to settle his account, the Monet to remain in hispossession. 

When Sam returned from this second bowing-out his language was moretemperate. "You're a Cracker-Jack, " was all he said, and closed the doorbehind him. 

During the ten days that followed, Jack gloated over the Monet andstaved off his various creditors until his father's semi-monthlyremittance arrived. Whenever the owner of the Monet mounted the stairsby appointment and pounded at Jack's door, Jack let him pound, tiptoeingabout his room until he heard the anxious dealer's footsteps echoingdown the stairs in retreat. 

On the day that the "governor's" remittance arrived--it came on thefifteenth and the first of every month--Sam found a furniture van backedup opposite Jack's studio street entrance. The gravity of the situationinstantly became apparent. The dealer had lost patience and had sent forthe picture; the van told the story. Had he not been sure of getting ithe would not have sent the van. 

Sam went up three steps at a time and burst into Jack's studio. He foundits owner directing two men where to place an inlaid cabinet. It was alarge cabinet of ebony, elaborately carved and decorated, and the twofurniture men--judging from the way they were breathing--had had theirhands full in getting it up the three flights of stairs. Jack waspushing back the easels and pictures to make room for it when Samentered. His first thought was for the unpaid-for picture. 

"Monet gone, Jack?" he asked, glancing around the room hurriedly in hisanxiety to find it. 

"Yea--last night. He came and took it away. Here, " (this to the two men)"shove it close to the wall, " pointing to the cabinet. "There--now godown and get the top, and look out you don't break those little drawers. What's the matter with you, Samuel? You look as if somebody had walkedover your grave. "

"And you had no trouble?"

"Trouble! What are you dilating about, Samuel? We never have any troubleup here. "

"Then it's because I've kept him quiet. I've been three times this weekand held him up--much as I could do to keep him from getting outa warrant. "

"Who?"

"Your one-eyed dealer, as you call him. "

"My one-eyed dealer isn't worrying, Samuel. Look at this, " and he pulledout a receipted bill. "His name, isn't it? 'Received in full payment--Six hundred dollars. ' Seems odd, Samuel, doesn't it?"

"Did your governor send the money?"

"Did my governor send the money! My governor isn't so obliging. Here--don't stand there with your eyes hanging out on your cheeks; lookon this--found it yesterday at Sighfor's. Isn't it a stunner? bottommodern except the feet, but the top is Sixteenth Century. See the waythe tortoise-shell is worked in--lots of secret drawers, too, allthrough it--going to keep my bills in one of 'em and lose the key. Whatare you staring at, anyhow, Sam?"

"Well--but Jack--I don't see----"

"Of course you don't see! You think I robbed a bank or waylaid yourMoneybags. I did--took twelve hundred dollars out of his clothes in acheck on the spot--wrote it right there at that desk--for the Monet, andsent it home to his Palazzo da Avenue. Then I took his dirty check, indorsed it over to that one-eyed skinflint, got the balance in bills, bought the cabinet for five hundred and eighty-two dollars cash--forgiveme, Samuel, but there was no other way--and here is just eighteendollars to the good"--and he pulled out some bank-notes--"or was beforeI gave those two poor devils a dollar apiece for carrying up thiscabinet. To-night, Samuel--to-night--we will dine at the Waldorf. "