THE VEILED LADY

And Other Men And Women

By

F. Hopkinson Smith

CONTENTS

 THE VEILED LADY OF STAMBOUL LORETTA OF THE SHIPYARDS A COAT OF RED LEAD MISS MURDOCK, --"SPECIAL" THE BEGUILING OF PETER GRIGGS MISS JENNINGS'S COMPANION SAM JOPLIN'S EPIGASTRIC NERVE MISS BUFFUM'S NEW BOARDER CAPTAIN JOE AND THE SUSIE ANN "AGAINST ORDERS" MUGGLES'S SUPREME MOMENT

To my Readers:

This collection of stories has been labelled "The Veiled Lady" as beingthe easiest way out of a dilemma; and yet the title may be misleading. While, beyond doubt, there is between these covers a most charming andlovable Houri, to whom the nightingales sing lullabies, there can alsobe found a surpassingly beautiful Venetian whose love affairs upset aQuarter, a common-sense, motherly nurse whose heart warmed toward hercompanion in the adjoining berth, a plucky New England girl with thecourage of her convictions, and a prim spinster whose only consolationwas the boarder who sat opposite. 

Nor does the list by any means end here. Rough sea-dogs, with friendlyfeelings toward other dogs, crop up, as well as brave Titans who makederricks of their arms and fender-piles of their bodies. Here, too, areskinny, sun-dried Excellencies with a taste for revolutions, well-groomed club swells with a taste for adventure and cocktails, notto mention half a dozen gay, rollicking Bohemians with a taste foreverything that came their way. 

Perhaps it might have been best to enclose each story in a separatecover, and then to dump the unassorted lot upon the table, where thosewho wished could make their choice. And yet, as I turn the leaves, Imust admit that, after all, the present form is best, since each andevery incident, situation, and bit of local color has either passedbefore or was poured into the wide-open eyes and willing ears of yourmost humble and obedient servant

A Staid Old Painter. 

 150 East 34th Street, New York, March 13, 1907. 

THE VEILED LADY OF STAMBOUL

Joe Hornstog told me this story--the first part of it; the last part ofit came to me in a way which proves how small the world is. 

Joe belongs to that conglomerate mass of heterogeneous nationalitiesfound around the Golden Horn, whose ancestry is as difficult to traceas a gypsy's. He says he is a "Jew gentleman from Germany, " but hecan't prove it, and he knows he can't. 

There is no question about his being part Jew, and there is a strongprobability of his being part German, and, strange to say, there is notthe slightest doubt of his being part gentleman--in his own estimation;and I must say in mine, when I look back over an acquaintance coveringmany years and remember how completely my bank account was at hisdisposal and how little of its contents he appropriated. 

And yet, were I required to hold up my hand in open court, I would haveto affirm that Joe, whatever his other strains might be, was, afterall, ninety-nine per cent. Levantine--which is another way of sayingthat he is part of every nationality about him. 

As to his honesty and loyalty, is he not the chosen dragoman of kingsand princes when they journey into far distant lands (he speaks sevenlanguages and many tribal dialects), and is he not today wearing in hisbuttonhole the ribbon of the order of the Mejidieh, bestowed upon himby his Imperial Highness the Sultan, in reward for his ability andfaithfulness?

I must admit that I myself have been his debtor--not once, but manytimes. It was this same quick-sighted, quick-witted Levantine wholifted me from my sketching stool and stood me on my feet in the plazaof the Hippodrome one morning just in time to prevent my being troddenunder foot by six Turks carrying the body of their friend to thecemetery--in time, too, to save me from the unforgivable sin amongOrientals, of want of reverence for their dead. I had heard the trampof the pall-bearers, and supposing it to be that of the Turkish patrol, had kept at work. They were prowling everywhere, day and night, andduring those days they passed every ten minutes--nine soldiers incharge of an officer of police--all owing to the fact that some fivethousand Armenians, anxious to establish a new form of government, hadbeen wiped out of existence only the week before. 

Once on my feet (Joe accomplished his purpose with the help of mysuspenders) and the situation clear, I had sense enough left to uncovermy head and stand in an attitude of profound reverence until theprocession had passed. I can see them now--the coffin wrapped in acamel's-hair shawl, the dead man's fez and turban resting on top. ThenI replaced my hat and finished the last of the six minarets of themosque gleaming like opals in the soft light of the morning. 

This act of courtesy, due so little to my own initiative, and solargely to Joe's, gained for me many friends in and about themosque--not only those of the dead man, one of whom rowed a caique, butamong the priests who formed the funeral cortege--a fact unknown to meuntil Joe imparted it. "Turk-man say you good man, effendi, " was theway he put it. "You stoop over yourselluf humble for their dead. "

On another occasion Joe again stood by my side when, with hat off andwith body in a half kotow, I sat before the Pasha, who was acting chiefof police after that stormy Armenian week--it was over really in fivedays. 

"Most High Potentate, " Joe began, translating my plain Anglo-Saxon"Please, sir, " into Eastern hyperbolics, "I again seek yourExcellency's presence to make my obeisance and to crave your permissionto transfer to cheap paper some of the glories of this City ofTurquoise and Ivory. This, if your Highness will deign to remember, isnot the first time I have trespassed. Twice before have I prostratedmyself, and twice has your Sublimity granted my request. "

"These be troublous times, " puffed his Swarthiness through hismustache, his tobacco-stained fingers meanwhile rolling a cigarette; adark-skinned, heavily-bearded Oriental, this Pasha, with an eye thatburned holes in you. "You should await a more peaceful season, effendi, for your art. "

"On account of the Armenians, your Excellency?" I ventured to inquirewith a smile. 

"Yes. " This, in translation by Joe, came with a whistling sound, likethe escaping steam of a radiator. 

"But why should I fear these disturbers of the peace, your SupremeHighness? The Turk is my friend, and has been for years. They know meand my pure and unblemished life. They also know by this time that Ihave been one of the chosen few among nations who have enjoyed yourHighness's confidence, and to whom you have given protection. " Here myspine took the form of a horseshoe curve--Moorish pattern. "As to thesedogs of Armenians" (this last was Joe's, given with a growl to show hisdeep detestation of the race--part of his own, if he would butacknowledge it), "your Excellency will look out for them. " He WASlooking out for them at the rate of one hundred a day and no questionsasked or answered so far as the poor fellows were concerned. 

At this the distinguished Oriental finished rolling his cigarette, looked at me blandly--it is astonishing how sweet a smile canoverspread the face of a Turk when he is granting you a favor orsigning the death warrant of an infidel--clapped his hands, summoningan attendant who came in on all fours, and whispered an order in theleft ear of the almost prostrate man. This done, the Pasha rose fromhis seat, straightened his shoulders (no handsomer men the world overthan these high-class Turks), shook my hand warmly, gave me the Turkishsalute--heart, mouth, and forehead touched with the tips of flyingfingers--and bowed me out. 

Once through the flat leather curtain that hid the exit door of thePasha's office, and into the bare corridor, I led Joe to a corner outof the hearing of the ever-present spy, and, nailing him to the wall, propounded this query:

"What did the High-Pan-Jam say, Joe?"

Hornstog raised his shoulders level with his ears, fanned out hisfingers, crooked his elbows, and in his best conglomerate answered:

"He say, effendi, that a guard of ein men, Yusuf, his name--I knowhim--he is in the Secret Service--oh, we will have no trouble withhim--" Here Joe chafed his thumb and forefinger with the movement of apaying teller counting a roll. "He come every morning to Galata Bridgefor you me. He say, too, if any trouble while you paint I go him--ah, effendi, it is only Joe Hornstog can do these things. The Pasha, heknow me--all good Turk-men know me. Where we paint now, subito? In theplaza, or in the patio of the Valedee, like last year?"

"Neither. We go first to the Mosque of Suleiman. I want the viewthrough the gate of the court-yard, with the mosque in the background. Best place is below the cafe. Pick up those traps and come along. "

Thus it was that on this particular summer afternoon Joe and I foundourselves on the shadow side of a wall up a crooked, break-neck streetpaved with rocks, each as big as a dress-suit case, from which I got afull view of the wonderful mosque tossing its splendors into the stillair, its cresting of minarets so much frozen spray against the blue. 

The little comedy--or shall I say tragedy?--began a few minutes after Ihad opened my easel--I sitting crouched in the shadow, my elbowtouching the plastered wall. Only Joe and I were present. Yusuf, theguard, a skinny, half-fed Turk in fez and European dress, had as usualbetaken himself to the cafe fronting the same sidewalk on which I sat, but half a block away; far enough to be out of hearing, but near enoughto miss my presence should I decamp suddenly without notifying him. There he drank some fifty cups of coffee, each one the size of athimble, and smoked as many cigarettes, their burned stubs locating hisseat under the cafe awning as clearly as peanut-shells mark a boy's atthe circus. I, of course, paid for both. 

So absorbed was I in my work--the mosque never was so beautiful as onthat day--I gave no thought to the fact that in my eagerness to hide mycanvas from the prying sun I had really backed myself into a smallwooden gate, its lintel level with the sidewalk--a dry, dusty, sun-blistered gate, without lock or hasp on the outside, and evidentlylong closed. Even then I would not have noticed it, had not my earscaught the sound of a voice--two voices, in fact--low, gurglingvoices--as if a fountain had just been turned on, spattering the leavesabout it. Then my eye lighted, not only on the gate, but upon a seam orsplit in the wood, half-way up its height, showing where a panel wassometimes pushed back, perhaps for surer identification, before theinside wooden beam would be loosened. 

So potent was the spell of the mosque's witchery that the next instantI should have forgotten both door and panel had not Joe touched the toeof my boot with his own--he was sitting close to me--and in explanationlifted his eyebrow a hair's breadth, his eyes fixed on the slowlysliding panel--sliding noiselessly, an inch at a time. Only then did mymind act. 

What I saw was first a glow of yellow green, then a mass of blossoms, then a throat, chin and face, one after another, all veiled in agossamer thin as a spider's web, and last--and these I shall neverforget--a pair of eyes shining clear below and above the veil, andwhich gazed into mine with the same steady, full, unfrightened look onesometimes sees on the face of a summer moon when it bursts through arift in the clouds. 

"Don't move and don't look, " whispered Joe in my ear, a tone in hisvoice of one who had just seen a ghost. "Allah! Ekber! Yuleima!"

"Who is she?" I answered, craning my neck to see the closer. 

"No speak now--keep still, " he mumbled under his breath. 

It may have been the gossamer veil shading a rose skin, making pinkpearls of the cheeks and chin and lending its charm to the otherfeatures; or it may have been the wonderful eyes that made me obliviousof Joe's warning, for I did look--looked with all my eyes, and kept onlooking. 

Men have died for just such eyes. Even now, staid old painter as I am, the very remembrance of their wondrous size--big as a young doe's andas pleading, their lids fringed by long feathery lashes that opened andshut with the movement of a tired butterfly--sends little thrills ofdelight scampering up and down my spine. Bulbuls, timid gazelles, perfumed narghilehs, anklets of beaten gold strung with turquoise, tinkling cymbals, tiny turned-up slippers with silk tassels on theirtoes--everything that told of the intoxicating life of the East weremirrored in their unfathomed depths. 

Most of these qualities, I am aware, are found in many another pair oflambent, dreamy eyes half-hidden by the soft folds of a yashmak--eyeswhich these houris often flash on some poor devil of a giaour, knowinghow safe they are and how slim his chance for further acquaintance. Strange tales are told of their seductive power and strangedisappearances take place because of them. And yet I saw at a glancethat there was nothing of all this in her wondering gaze. Her eyes, infact, were fixed neither on Joseph nor on me, nor did they linger forone instant on the beautiful mosque. It was my canvas that held theirgaze. Men and mosques were old stories; pictures of either asastounding as a glimpse into heaven. 

Again Joe bent his head and whispered to me, his glance this time onthe mosque, on the hill, on the cafe, where Yusuf sat sipping hiscoffee, talking to me all the time out of the corner of his mouth. 

"Remember, effendi, if Yusuf come we go way chabouk. You look at yourpicture all time--paint--no look at her. If Yusuf come and catch us itmake trouble for her--make trouble for you--make more trouble for me. Police Pasha don't know she come to this garden--I think somebody musthelp her. You better stop now and go cafe. I find Yusuf. I no like thisplace. "

With this Hornstog rose to his feet and began packing the trap, stillwhispering, his eyes on the ground. Never once did he look in thedirection of the houri peering through the sliding panel. 

The clatter of a horse's hoofs now resounded through the still air. Amounted officer was approaching. Joe looked up, turned a lightpea-green, backed his body into the gate with the movement of an eel, put his cheek close to the sliding panel, and whispered some words inTurkish. The girl leaned a little forward, glanced at the officer as ifin confirmation of Joseph's warning, and smothering a low cry, sprangback from the opening. The next instant my eye caught the thumb andforefinger of a black hand noiselessly closing the panel. Joestraightened up, pulled himself into the position of a sentinel onguard, saluted the officer, who passed without looking to the right orleft, drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and began mopping his head. 

"What the devil is it all about, Joe? Why, you look as if you had hadthe wind knocked out of you. "

"Oh, awful close, awful close! I tell you--but not here. Come, we go'way--we go now--not stay here any more. If that officer see the ladywith us the Pasha send me to black mosque for five year and you findyourself board ship on way to Tripoli. Here come Yusuf--damn him! Youtell him you no like view of mosque from here--say you find anotherplace to-morrow--you do this quick. Hornstog never lie. "

On my way across the Galata Bridge to my quarters in Pera that sameafternoon Joe followed until Yusuf had made his kotow and we had madeours, the three ending in a triple flight of fingers--waited until theguard was well on his way back to the Pasha's office--it was but ashort way from the Stamboul end of the Galata--and drawing me into oneof the small cafes overlooking the waters of the Golden Horn, seated meat the far end near a window where we could talk without beingoverheard. Here Joe ordered coffee and laid a package of cigarettes onthe table. 

"My! but that was like the razor at the throat--not for all the hairson my head would I had her look out the small hole in the door whenSerim come along. Somebody must be take care of you, you Joe Hornstog, that you don't make damn big fool of yourselluf. Ha! but it make mecreep like a spider crawl. "

I had pulled up a chair by this time and was facing him. 

"Now what is it? Who is the girl? Who was the chap on horseback?"

"That man on the horse is Serim Pasha, chief of the palace police. Hehas eyes around twice; one in the forehead, one in each ear, one in thebehind of his head. He did not see her--if he did--well, we would notbe talk now together--sure not after to-morrow night. "

"But what has he got to do with it? What did you say her name was?Yuleima?"

"Yes, Yuleima. What has Serim to do with her? Well, I tell you. If sheget away off go Serim's head. Listen! I speak something you never hearanywhere 'cept in Turk-man's land. I know it all--everything. I knowher prince--he knows me. I meet him Damascus once--he told me somethings then--the tears run his cheeks down like a baby's when hetalk--and Serim know I know somethings! Ah! that's why he not believeme if he catch me talk to her. Afterward I find more out from my friendin Yuleima's house--he is the gardener. Put your head close, effendi. "

I drew my chair nearer and listened. 

"Yuleima, " began Joe, "is one womans like no other womans in all--"

But I shall not attempt the dragoman's halting, broken jargoninterspersed with Italian and German words--it will grate on you as itgrated on me. I will assume for the moment--and Joe would be mostthankful to have me do so--that the learned Hornstog, the friend ofkings and princes, is as fluent in English as he is in Turkish, Arabic, and Greek. 

It all began in a caique--or rather in two caiques. One was on its wayto a little white house that nestles among the firs at the foot of thebare brown hill overlooking the village of Beicos. The other was boundfor the Fountain Beautiful, where the women and their slaves take theair in the soft summer mornings. 

In the first caique, rowed by two caique-jis gorgeously dressed influffy trousers and blouses embroidered in gold, sat the daughter ofthe rich Bagdad merchant. 

In the second caique, cigarette in hand, lounged the nephew of theKhedive, Mahmoud Bey; scarce twenty, slight, oval face with full lips, hair black as sealskin and as soft, and eyes that smouldered underheavy lids. Four rowers in blue and silver attended his Highness, theamber-colored boat skimming the waters as a tropical bird skims alagoon. 

The two had passed each other the week before on the day of theSelamlik (the Turkish holiday) while paddling up the Sweet Waters ofAsia--a little brook running into the Bosphorus and deep enough forcaiques to float, and every day since that blissful moment my lady hadspent the morning under the wide-spreading plane-trees shading theFountain Beautiful--the Chesmegazell--attended by her faithful slaveMultif, her beautiful body stretched on a Damascus rug of pricelessvalue, her eager eyes searching the blue waters of the Bosphorus. 

On this particular morning--my lady had just stepped into her boat--theyoung man was seen to raise himself on his elbow, lift his eyelids, anda slight flush suffused his swarthy cheeks. Then came an order in a lowvoice, and the caique swerved in its course and headed for the dot ofwhite and gold in which sat Multif and my lady. The Spanish caballerohaunts the sidewalk and watches all day beneath his Dulcinea's balcony;or he talks to her across the opera-house or bull-ring with cigarette, fingers, and cane, she replying with studied movements of her fan. Inthe empire of Mohammed, with a hundred eyes on watch--eyes of eunuchs, spies, and parents--love-making is reduced to a passing glance, briefas a flash of light, and sometimes as blinding. 

That was all that took place when the two caiques passed--just athinning of the silken veil, with only one fold of the yashmak slippedover the eyes, softening the fire of their beauty; then a quick, all-enfolding, all-absorbing look, as if she would drink into her verysoul the man she loved, and the two tiny boats kept each on its way. 

The second act of the comedy opens in a small cove, an indent of theBosphorus, out of sight of passing boat-patrols--out of sight, too, ofinquisitive wayfarers passing along the highroad from Beicos toDanikeui. Above the cove, running from the very beach, sweeps a garden, shaded by great trees and tangles of underbrush; one bunch smothering asummer-house. This is connected by a sheltered path with the littlewhite house that nestles among the firs half-way up the steep brownhill that overlooks the village of Beicos. 

The water-patrol may have been friendly, or my lady's favorite slaveresourceful, but almost every night for weeks the first caique and thesecond caique had lain side by side in the boat-house in the cove, bothempty, except for one trusty man who loved Mahmoud and who did hisbidding without murmur or question, no matter what the danger. Higherup, her loose white robes splashed with the molten silver of the moonfiltering through overhanging leaves, where even the nightingalestopped to listen, could be heard the cooing of two voices. Then wouldcome a warning cry, and a figure closely veiled would speed up thepath. Next could be heard the splash of oars of the first caiquehomeward bound. 

Locksmiths are bunglers in the East compared to patrols and eunuchs. Lovers may smile, but they never laugh at them. There is always a dayof reckoning. A whisper goes around; some disgruntled servant shakeshis head; and an old fellow with baggy trousers and fez, says: "Mydaughter, I am surprised" or "pained" or "outraged, " or whatever hedoes say in polite Turkish, Arabic, or Greek, and my lady is locked upon bread and water, or fig-paste, or Turkish Delight, and all is over. Sometimes the young Lothario is ordered back to his regiment, or sentto Van or Trebizond or Egypt for the good of his morals, or his healthor the community in which he lives. Sometimes everybody accepts thesituation and the banns are called and they live happy ever after. 

What complicated this situation was that the girl, although asbeautiful as a dream--any number of dreams, for that matter, and all ofparadise--was a plebeian and the young man of royal blood. Furthermore, any number of parents, her own two and twice as many uncles and aunts, might get together and give, not only their blessing, but lands andpalaces--two on the Bosphorus, one in Bagdad and another at Smyrna, andnothing would avail unless his Imperial Highness the Sultan gave hisconsent. Fruthermore, again, should it come to the ears of his AugustPresence that any such scandalous alliance was in contemplation, several yards of additional bow-strings would be purchased and thewhole coterie experience a choking sensation which would last them thebalance of their lives. 

Thus it was that, after that most blissful night in the arbor--theirlast--in which she had clung to him as if knowing he was about to slipforever from her arms, both caiques were laid up for the season; thefirst tight locked and guarded in the palace of the young man's father, five miles along the blue Bosphorus as the bird flies, and the secondin the little boat-house in the small indent of a cove under the gardenholding the beloved arbor, the little white house, and My Lady of thediaphanous veil and the all-absorbing eyes. 

With the lifting of the curtain on the third act, the scene shifts. Nomore Sweet Waters, no more caiques nor stolen interviews, the music ofhot kisses drowned in the splash of the listening fountain. Instead, there is seen a sumptuously furnished interior the walls wainscoted inMoorish mosaics and lined by broad divans covered with silken rugs. Small tables stand about holding trays of cigarettes and sweets. Overagainst a window overlooking a garden lounges a group of women--someyoung, some old, one or two of them black as coal. It is the harem ofthe Pasha, the father of Mahmoud, Prince of the Rising Sun, Chosen ofthe Faithful, Governor of a province, and of forty other thingsbeside--most of which Joe had forgotten. 

Months had passed since that night in the arbor. Yuleima had cried hereyes out, and Mahmoud had shaken his fists and belabored his head, swearing by the beard of the Prophet that come what might Yuleimashould be his. 

Then came the death of the paternal potentate, and the young lover wasfree--free to come and go, to love, to hate; free to follow thecarriage of his imperial master in his race up the hill after theceremony of the Selamlik; free to choose any number of Yuleimas for hissolace; free to do whatever pleased him--except to make the beautifulYuleima his spouse. This the High-Mightinesses forbade. There were nopersonal grounds for their objection. The daughter of the rich Bagdadmerchant was as gentle as a doe, beautiful as a star seen through thesoft mists of the morning, and of stainless virtue. Her father had everbeen a loyal subject, giving of his substance to both church and state, but there were other things to consider, among them a spouse especiallyselected by a council of High Pan-Jams, whose decision, having beenapproved by their imperial master, was not only binding, but final--sofinal that death awaited any one who would dare oppose it. At the feastof Ramazan the two should wed. Yuleima might take second, third, orfortieth place--but not first. 

The young prince gritted his row of white teeth and flashed hisslumbering eyes--and they could flash--blaze sometimes--with a firethat scorched. Yuleima would be his, unsullied in his own eyes and theworld's, or she should remain in the little white house on the brownhill and continue to blur her beautiful eyes with the tears of hergrief. 

Then the favorite slave and the faithful caique-ji--the one who foundthe little cove even on the darkest night--put their headstogether--two very cunning and wise heads, one black and wrinkled andthe other sun-tanned and yellow--with the result that one night a newodalisque, a dark-skinned, black-haired houri, the exact opposite ofthe fair-skinned, fair-haired Yuleima, joined the coterie in the haremof the palace of the prince. She had been bought with a great price andsmuggled into Stamboul, the story ran, a present from a distinguishedfriend of his father, little courtesies like this being common inOriental countries, as one would send a bottle of old Madeira from hiscellar or a choice cut of venison from his estate, such customs as iswell known being purely a matter of geography. 

The chief blackamoor, a shambling, knock-kneed, round-shouldered, swollen-paunched apology for a man, with blistered, cracked lips, jaundiced pig eyes, and the skin of a terrapin, looked her all over, grunted his approval, and with a side-lunge of his fat empty head, indicated the divan which was to be hers during the years of herimprisonment. 

One night some words passed between the two over the division ofbonbons, perhaps, or whose turn it was to take afternoon tea with theprince--it had generally been the new houri's, resulting inconsiderable jealousy and consequent discord--or some trifle of thatsort (Joe had never been in a harem, and was therefore indefinite), when the blackamoor, to punctuate his remarks, slashed the odalisqueacross her thinly covered shoulders with a knout--a not uncommon modeof enforcing discipline, so Joe assured me. 

Then came the great scene of the third act--always the place for it, sodramatists say. 

The dark-skinned houri sprang up, rose to her full height, her eyesblazing, and facing her tormentor, cried:

"You blackguard"--a true statement--"do you know who I am?"

"Yes, perfectly; you are Yuleima, the daughter of the Bagdad merchant. "

The fourth act takes place on the outskirts of Stamboul, in a smallhouse surrounded by a high wall which connects with the garden of amosque. The exposure by the eunuch had resulted in an investigation bythe palace clique, which extended to the Bagdad merchant and hisfamily, who, in explanation, not only denounced her as an ungratefulchild, cursing her for her opposition to her sovereign's will, butdenied all knowledge of her whereabouts. They supposed, they pleaded, that she had thrown herself into the Bosphorus at the loss of herlover. Then followed the bundling up of Yuleima in the still watches ofthe night; her bestowal at the bottom of a caique, her transfer toStamboul, and her incarceration in charge of an attendant in a desertedhouse belonging to the mosque. The rumor was then set on foot that itwas unlawful to look steadily into the waters of the Bosphorus or toattempt the salvage of any derelict body floating by. 

The prince made another assault on his hair and tightened his fingers, this time with a movement as if he was twisting them round somebody'sthroat, but he made no outcry. It is hard to kick against the pricks insome lands. 

He did not believe the bow-string pillow-case and solid-shot story, buthe knew that he should never look upon her face again. What he didbelieve was that she had been taken to some distant city and there sold. 

For days he shut himself up in his palace. Then, having overheard aconversation in his garden between two eunuchs--placed there for thatpurpose--he got together a few belongings, took his faithful caique-ji, and travelled a-field. If what he had heard was true she was in or nearDamascus. Here would he go. If, after searching every nook and cranny, he failed to find her, he would return and carry out his sovereign'scommands and marry the princess--a woman he had never laid his eyes onand who might be as ugly as sin and as misshapen as Yuleima wasbeautiful. It was while engaged in this fruitless search that he metJoseph, to whom he had poured out his heart (so Joe assured me, withhis hand on his shirt-front), hoping to enlist his sympathies and thusgain his assistance. 

All this time the heartbroken girl, rudely awakened from her dream ofbliss, was a prisoner in the deserted house next the mosque. As thedreary months went by her skin regained its pinkness and her beautifulhair its golden tint, --walnut shells and cosmetics not being found inthe private toilet of the priests and their companions. When the summercame a greater privilege was given her. She could never speak to anyone and no one could speak to her--even the priests knew this--but agate opening into the high-walled garden was left unlocked now and thenby one of the kind-hearted Mohammedans, and often she would wander asfar as the end of the wall overlooking the Mosque of Suleiman, herattendant always with her--a black woman appointed by Chief-of-PoliceSelim, and responsible for her safety, and who would pay forfeit withher head if Yuleima escaped. 

"And you think now, effendi, " concluded Joe, as he drained his last cupof coffee (Hornstog's limit was twenty cups at intervals of threeminutes each), "that Joe be big damn fool to put his foots inthis--what you call--steel trap? No, no, we keep away. To-morrow, don'tit, we take Yusuf and go Scutari? One beautiful fountain at Scutarilike you never see!"

"But can't her father help?" I asked, ignoring his suggestion. Hiscaution did not interest me. It was the imprisoned girl and hersuffering that occupied my thoughts. 

"Yes, perhaps, but not yet. I somethings hear one day from the gardenerwho live with her father, but maybe it all lie. He say Serim come andsay--" Again Joe chafed his thumb and forefinger, after the manner ofthe paying teller. "Maybe ten thousand piastres--maybe twenty. Herfather would pay, of course, only the Sultan might not like--then worsetrouble--nothing will be done anyhow until the wedding is over. Then, perhaps, some time. "

I did not go to Scutari the next day. I opened my easel in the patio ofthe Pigeon Mosque and started in to paint the plaza with Cleopatra'sNeedle in the distance. This would occupy the morning. In the afternoonI would finish my sketch of Suleiman. Should Joe have a fresh attack ofague he could join Yusuf at the cafe and forget it in the thimblefulthat cheers but does not inebriate. 

With the setting up of my tripod and umbrella and the opening of mycolor-box a crowd began to gather--market people, fruit-sellers, peddlers, scribes, and soldiers. Then a shrill voice rang out from oneof the minarets calling the people to prayer. A group of priests nowjoined the throng about me watched me for a moment, consulted together, and then one of them, an old man in a silken robe of corn-yellow boundabout with a broad sash of baby blue, a majestic old man, with acertain rhythmic movement about him which was enchanting, laid his handon Joseph's shoulder and looking into his eyes, begged him to say tohis master that the making of pictures of any living or dead thing, especially mosques, was contrary to their religion, and that theeffendi must fold his tent. 

All this time another priest, an old patriarch with a fez and greenturban and Nile-green robe overlaid with another of rose-pink, wasscrutinizing my face. Then the corn-yellow fellow and the rose-pinkpatriarch put their heads together, consulted for a moment, made me alow bow, performed the flying-fingers act, and floated off toward themosque. 

"You no go 'way, effendi, " explained Joe. "The priest in green turbansay he remember you; he say you holy man who bow yourselluf humble whendead man go by. No stop paint. "

The protests of the priests, followed by their consultation and quietwithdrawal, packed the crowd the closer. One young man in citizen'sdress and fez stood on the edge of the throng trying to understand thecause of the excitement. 

Joe, who was sitting by me assisting with the water-cup, gazed into theintruder's face a moment, then closed upon my arm with a grip as ifhe'd break it. 

"Allah! Mahmoud Bey!" he whispered. "Yuleima's prince. That's him withthe smooth face. "

The next instant the young man stood by my side. 

"The people are only curious, monsieur, " he said in French. "If theydisturb you I will have them sent away. So few painters come--you arethe first I have seen in many years. If it will not annoy you, I'd liketo watch you a while. "

"Annoy me, my dear sir!" I was on my feet now, hat in hand. (If he hadbeen my long-lost brother, stolen by the Indians or left on a desertisland to starve--or any or all of those picturesque and dramaticthings--I could not have been more glad to see him. I fairly huggedmyself--it seemed too good to be true. ) "I will be more than delightedif you will take my dragoman's stool. Get up, Joe, and give--"

The request had already been forestalled. Joe was not only up, but wasbowing with the regularity and precision of the arms of a windmill, hisfingers, with every rise, fluttering between his shirt-stud and hiseyebrows. On his second upsweep the young prince got a view of hisface--then his hand went out. 

"Why, it is Hornstog! We know each other. We met in Damascus. You couldnot, monsieur, find a better dragoman in all Constantinople. "

Only three pairs of eyes now followed the movements of my brush, thecrowd having fallen back out of respect for the young man's rank, Yusufhaving communicated that fact to those who had not recognized him. 

When the light changed--and it changed unusually early that morning, about two hours ahead of time (I helped)--I said to the prince:

"It may interest you to see me finish a sketch in color. Come with meas far as Suleiman. We can sit quite out of the sun up a little backstreet under a wall, and away from everybody. I began the drawingyesterday. See!" and I uncovered the canvas. 

"Ah, Suleimanyeh! The most beautiful of all our mosques. Yes, certainlyI'll go. "

Joe dug his knuckles into my thigh, under pretence of steadyinghimself--he was squatting beside me like a frog, helping with thewater-cups--and gasped: "No; don't take him--please, effendi! No--no--"

I brushed Joe aside and continued: "We can send for coffee and spendthe afternoon. I'll have some chairs brought from the cafe. Pick upeverything, Joe, and come along. "

On the way to the crooked, break-neck street my thoughts went racingthrough my head. On one side, perhaps, a tap on the shoulder in themiddle of the night; half a yard of catgut in the hands of aBashi-Bazouk; an appeal to our consul, with the consciousness of havingmeddled with something that did not concern me. On the other a pair oftear-stained, pleading eyes. Not my eyes--not the eyes of anybody thatI knew--but the kind that raise the devil even in the heart of a staidold painter like myself. 

Joe followed, with downcast gaze. He, too, was scheming. He could notprotest before the prince, nor before Yusuf. That would imply previousknowledge of the danger lurking in the vicinity of the old wall. Hiswas the devil and the deep sea. Not to tell the prince of Yuleima'swhereabouts, after their combined search for her, and the fees theprince had paid him, would be as cruel as it was disloyal. To assist inMahmoud's finding her would bring down upon his own head--if it wasstill on his shoulders--the wrath of the chief of police, as well asthe power behind him. 

Once under the shadow of the wall, the trap unpacked, easel andumbrella up, and water-bottle filled, Joe started his windmill, pausedat the third kotow, looked me straight in the eye, and, with a tone inhis voice, as if he had at last come to some conclusion, made thisrequest:

"I have no eat breakfast, effendi--very hungry--you please permit Joego cafe with Yusuf--we stay ONE hour, no more. Then I bring coffee. Yousee me when I come--I bring the coffee myselluf. "

He could not have pleased me more. How to get rid of them both was whathad been bothering me. 

I painted on, both of us backed into the low gate with the slidingpanel, my eyes on the mosque, my ears open for the slightest sound. Wetalked of the wonderful architecture of the East, of the taper of theminarets, of the grace and dignity of the priests, of the social lifeof the people, I leading and he following, until I had brought theconversation down to the question:

"And when you young men decide to marry are you free to choose, as weEuropeans are?" I was feeling about, wondering how much of hisconfidence he would give me. 

"No; that's why, sometimes, I wish I was like one of the white gullsthat fly over the water. "

"I don't understand. "

"I would be out at sea with my mate--that's what I mean. "

"Have you a mate?"

"I had. She is lost. "

"Dead?"

"Worse. "

I kept at work. White clouds sailed over the mosque; a flurry ofpigeons swept by; the air blew fresh. With the exception of mycompanion and myself the street was deserted. I dared not go anyfurther in my inquiries. If I betrayed any more interest or previousknowledge he might think I was in league against him. 

"The girl, then, suffers equally with the man?" I said, tightening oneof the legs of my easel. 

"More. He can keep his body clean; she must often barter hers inexchange for her life. A woman doesn't count much in Turkey. This isone of the things we young men who have seen something of the outsideworld--I lived a year in Paris--will improve when we get the power, "and his eyes flashed. 

"And yet it is dangerous to help one of them to escape, is it not?"

"Yes. "

The hour was nearly up. Joe, I knew, had fixed it, consulting his watchand comparing it with mine so that I might know the coast was clearduring that brief period should anything happen. 

"I was tempted to help one yesterday, " I answered. "I saw a woman'sface that has haunted me ever since. She may not have been in trouble, but she looked so. " Then quietly, and as if it was only one of the manyincidents that cross a painter's path, I described in minute detail thegate, the sliding panel, the veiled face and wondrous eyes, theapproach of the officer, the smothered cry of terror, the black fingerand thumb that reached out, and the noiseless closing of the panel. What I omitted was all reference to Joe or his knowledge of the girl. 

Mahmoud was staring into my eyes now. 

"Where was this?"

"Just behind you. Lift your head--that seam marks the sliding panel. She may come again when she sees the top of my umbrella over the wall. Listen! That's her step. She has some one with her--crouch down close. There's only room for her head. You may see her then without herattendant knowing you are here. Quick! she is sliding the panel!"

Outside of Paris, overlooking the Seine, high up on a hill, stands theBellevue--a restaurant known to half the world. Sweeping down from theperfectly appointed tables lining the rail of the broad piazza;skimming the tree-tops, the plain below, the twisting river, rose-goldin the twilight, the dots of parks and villas, the eye is lost in thedistant city and the haze beyond--the whole a-twinkle with myriads ofelectric lights. 

There, one night, from my seat against the opposite wall (I was diningalone), I was amusing myself watching a table being set with more thanusual care; some rich American, perhaps, with the world in a sling, orsome young Russian running the gauntlet of the dressing-rooms. Staidold painters like myself take an interest in these things. They serveto fill his note-book, and sometimes help to keep him young. 

When I looked again the waiter was drawing out a chair for a woman withher back to me. In the half-light, her figure, in silhouette againstthe cluster of candles lighting the table, I could see that she wasyoung and, from the way she took her seat, wonderfully graceful. Opposite her, drawing out his own chair, stood a young man in eveningdress, his head outlined against the low, twilight sky. It was Mahmoud!

I sprang from my seat and walked straight toward them. There came a lowcry of joy, and then four outstretched arms--two of them tight-lockedabout my neck. 

"Tell me, " I asked, when we had seated ourselves, Yuleima's hands stillclinging to mine. "After I left you that last night in the garden, wasthe boat where we hid it?"

"Yes. "

"Who rowed you to the steamer?"

"My old caique-ji. "

"And who got the tickets and passports?"

"Hornstog. "

LORETTA OF THE SHIPYARDS

I

For centuries the painters of Venice have seized and made their own theobjects they loved most in this wondrous City by the Sea. Canaletto, ignoring every other beautiful thing, laid hold of quays backed bylines of palaces bordering the Grand Canal, dotted with queer gondolasrowed by gondoliers, in queerer hoods of red or black, depending on theguild to which they belonged. Turner stamped his ownership on sunsetskies, silver dawns, illuminations, fetes, and once in a while on asweep down the canal past the Salute, its dome a huge incandescentpearl. Ziem tied up to the long wall and water steps of the PublicGarden, aflame with sails of red and gold: he is still there--was thelast I heard of him, octogenarian as he is. Rico tacks his card togarden walls splashed with the cool shadows of rose-pink oleandersdropping their blossoms into white and green ripples, melting intoblue. As for me--I have laid hands on a canal--the Rio Giuseppe--all ofit--from the beginning of the red wall where the sailors land, alongits crookednesses to the side entrance of the Public Garden, and sopast the rookeries to the lagoon, where the tower of Castello is readyto topple into the sea. 

Not much of a canal--not much of a painting ground really, to themasters who have gone before and are still at work, but a trulylovable, lovely, and most enchanting possession to me their humbledisciple. Once you get into it you never want to get out, and, onceout, you are miserable until you get back again. On one side stretchesa row of rookeries--a maze of hanging clothes, fish-nets, balconieshooded by awnings and topped by nondescript chimneys of all sizes andpatterns, with here and there a dab of vermilion and light red, thewhole brilliant against a china-blue sky. On the other runs the longbrick wall of the garden, --soggy, begrimed; streaked with moss andlichen in bands of black-green and yellow ochre, over which mass andsway the great sycamores that Ziem loves, their lower branchesinterwoven with zinnober cedars gleaming in spots where the prying sundrips gold. 

Only wide enough for a barca and two gondolas to pass--this canal ofmine. Only deep enough to let a wine barge through; so narrow you mustgo all the way back to the lagoon if you would turn your gondola; soshort you can row through it in five minutes; every inch of its watersurface part of everything about it, so clear are the reflections; fullof moods, whims, and fancies, this wave space--one moment in a broadlaugh coquetting with a bit of blue sky peeping from behind a cloud, its cheeks dimpled with sly undercurrents, the next swept by flurriesof little winds, soft as the breath of a child on a mirror; then, whenaroused by a passing boat, breaking out into ribbons of color--swirlsof twisted doorways, flags, awnings, flower-laden balconies, black-shawled Venetian beauties all upside down, interwoven with stripsof turquoise sky and green waters--a bewildering, intoxicating jumbleof tatters and tangles, maddening in detail, brilliant in color, harmonious in tone: the whole scintillating with a picturesquenessbeyond the ken or brush of any painter living or dead. 

On summer days--none other for me in Venice (the other fellow can haveit in winter)--everybody living in the rookeries camps out on the quay, the women sitting in groups stringing beads, the men flat on thepavement mending their nets. On its edge, hanging over the water, reaching down, holding on by a foot or an arm to the iron rail, aremassed the children--millions of children--I never counted them, butstill I say millions of children. This has gone on since I first stakedout my claim--was a part of the inducement, in fact, that decided me tomove in and take possession--boats, children, still water, androokeries being the ingredients from which I concoct color combinationsthat some misguided people take home and say they feel better for. 

If you ask me for how many years I have been sole owner of this stretchof water I must refer you to Loretta, who had lived just five summerswhen my big gondolier, Luigi, pulled her dripping wet from the canal, and who had lived eleven more--sixteen, in all--when what I have totell you happened. 

And yet, Loretta's little mishap, now I come to think of it, does notgo back far enough. My claim was really staked out before she was born(I am still in possession--that is--I was last year, and hope to bethis), and her becoming part of its record is but the sticking of twopins along a chart, --the first marking her entrance at five and thesecond her exit at sixteen. All the other years of my occupation--thosebefore her coming and since her going--were, of course, full of thekind of joy that comes to a painter, but these eleven years--well, these had all of this joy and then, too, they had--Loretta. 

I was in the bow of the gondola when the first of these two pins foundits place on the chart, working away like mad, trying to get the exactshadow tones on a sun-flecked wall. Luigi was aft, fast asleep, hiselbow under his head: I never object, for then he doesn't shake theboat. Suddenly from out the hum of the children's voices there came ascream vibrant with terror. Then a splash! Then the gondola swayed asif a barca had bumped it, and the next thing I knew Luigi's body made acurve through the air, struck the water, with an enormous souse, and upcame Loretta, her plump, wet little body resting as easily on Luigi'shand, as a tray rests on a waiter's. Another sweep with his free arm, and he passed me the dripping child and clambered up beside her. Thewhole affair had not occupied two minutes. 

That was a great day for me!

Heretofore I had been looked upon as a squatter: possessing certainrights, of course, and more or less welcome because of sundry lireexpended for the temporary use of fishing boats with sails up, --butstill an interloper. Now I became one of the thousand families and themillion children. These were all in evidence in less than ten seconds;the peculiar quality of that scream had done it; not only from the topstory of the highest rookery did they swarm, but from every near-bycampo, and way back to the shipyards. 

Luigi pushed the gondola to the quay and I lifted out the water-soaked, blue-lipped little tot, her hair flattened against her cheeks (she waslaughing now, --"It was nothing, " she said, "my foot slipped, ") andplaced her in the hands of the longest-armed fishwife; and then Luigidisappeared into a door, level with the quay, from which he reappearedten minutes later in a suit of dry clothes, the property of afisherman, and of so grotesque a fit, the trousers reaching to hisknees and the cuffs of the coat to his elbows, that he set thepopulation in a roar. My Luigi, you might as well know, is six feet andan inch, with the torso of a Greek god and a face that is twin toColleone's, and, furthermore, is quite as distinguished looking as thatgentleman on horseback, even if he does wear a straw hat instead of acopper helmet. After this Loretta became part of my establishment, especially at luncheon time, Luigi hunting her up and bringing heraboard in his arms, she clinging to his grizzled, sunburned neck. Oftenshe would spend the rest of the day watching me paint. 

All I knew of her antecedents and life outside of these visits was whatLuigi told me. She was born, he said, in the shipyards, and at themoment lived in the top of the rookery nearest the bridge. She had anonly sister, who was ten years older; the mother was the wife of a crabfisherman who had died some years before; the two children and motherwere cared for by a brother crab fisherman. His son Francesco, ifreport were true, was to marry the sister when she turned fifteen, Francesco being four years older. This last reference to Francesco camewith a shake of the head and a certain expression in Luigi's eyes whichtold me at once that his opinion of the prospective groom was not forpublication--a way he has when he dislikes somebody and is too politeto express it. 

"Fishes for crabs, like his father?" I asked. 

"Yes, crabs and young girls, " he answered with a frown. "A poor lot, these crab catchers, Signore. Was it the charcoal or a brush youwanted?"

Francesco did not interest me, --nor did the grownup sister; nor themother, over whom Luigi also shrugged his shoulders. It was Loretta'schubbiness that delighted my soul. 

Even at five she was a delightful little body, and full of entrancingpossibilities. One can always tell what the blossom will be from thebud. In her case, all the essentials of beauty were in evidence: dark, lustrous velvety eyes; dazzling teeth--not one missing; jet-blackhair--and such a wealth of it, almost to her shoulders; a slenderfigure, small hands and feet; neat, well-turned ankles and wrists, androunded plump arms above the elbows. 

"What do you intend to do, little one, when you grow up?" I asked herone morning. She was sitting beside me, her eyes following everymovement of my brush. 

"Oh, what everybody does. I shall string beads and then when I get biglike my sister I shall go to the priest and get married, and have aring and new shoes and a beautiful, beautiful veil all over my hair. "

"So! And have you picked him out yet?"

"Oh, no, Signore! Why, I am only a little girl. But he will surelycome, --they always come. "

These mornings in the gondola continued until she was ten years old. Sometimes it was a melon held high in the air that tempted her; or abasket of figs, or some huge bunches of grapes; or a roll and a broiledfish from a passing cook-boat: but the bait always sufficed. With alittle cry of joy the beads would be dropped, or the neighbor's childpassed to another or whatever else occupied her busy head and smallhands, and away she would run to the water steps and hold out her armsuntil Luigi rowed over and lifted her in. She had changed, of course, in these five years, and was still changing, but only as an expandingbud changes. The eyes were the same and so were the teeth--if any haddropped out, newer and better ones had taken their places; the hairthough was richer, fuller, longer, more like coils of liquid jet, witha blue sheen where the sky lights touched its folds. The tight, trimlittle figure, too, had loosened out in certain places--especiallyabout the chest and hips. Before many years she would flower into thepurest type of the Venetian--the most beautiful woman the world knows. 

At sixteen she burst into bloom. 

I have never seen a black tulip, not a real velvet-black, but if insideits shroud of glossy enfoldings--so like Loretta's hair--there liesenshrined a mouth red as a pomegranate and as enticing, and if above itthere burn two eyes that would make a holy man clutch his rosary; andif the flower sways on its stalk with the movement of a saplingcaressed by a summer breeze;--then the black tulip is precisely thekind of flower that Loretta bloomed into. 

And here the real trouble began, --just as it begins for every otherpretty Venetian, and here, too, must I place the second pin in my chart. 

It all came through Francesco. The older sister had died with the firstchild, and this crab catcher had begun to stretch out his claws forLoretta. She and her mother still lived with Francesco's father, whowas a widower. The mother kept the house for all, --had done so forFrancesco and her daughter during their brief married life. 

In her persecution Loretta would pour out her heart to Luigi, tellinghow they bothered her, --her mother the most of all. She hatedFrancesco, --hated his father, --hated everybody who wanted her to marrythe fisherman. (Luigi, poor fellow, had lost his only daughter when shewas five years of age, which accounted, I always thought, for hisinterest in the girl. )

One morning she called to him and waited on the quay until he couldhail a passing barca and step from the gondola to its deck and soashore. Then the two disappeared through the gate of the garden. 

"She is too pretty to go alone, " he explained on his return. "Every dayshe must pay a boy two soldi, Signore, to escort her to the lacefactory--the boy is sick today and so I went with her. But theirfoolishness will stop after this;--these rats know Luigi. "

From this day on Loretta had the Riva to herself. 

II

So far there has been introduced into this story the bad man, Francesco, with crab-like tendencies, who has just lost his wife; theravishingly beautiful Loretta; the girl's mother, of whom all sorts ofstories were told--none to her credit; big tender-hearted LuigiZanaletto, prince of gondoliers, and last, and this time least, a staidold painter who works in a gondola up a crooked canal which issmothered in trees, choked by patched-up boats and flanked by tatteredrookeries so shaky that the slightest earth quiver would tumble theminto kindling wood. 

There enters now another and much more important character, --oneinfinitely more interesting to my beautiful Lady of the Shipyards thanany grandfather gondolier or staid old painter who ever lived. Thisyoung gentleman is twenty-one; has a head like the Hermes, a body likethe fauns, and winsome, languishing eyes with a light in their depthswhich have set the heart of every girl along his native Giudeccapitapatting morning, noon, and night. He enjoys the distinguished nameof Vittorio Borodini, and is the descendant of a family ofgondoliers--of the guild of the Castellani--who can trace theirancestral calling back some two hundred years (so can Luigi; but thenLuigi never speaks of it, and the Borodinis always do). Beingaristocrats, the Zanalettos and Borodinis naturally fraternize, and asthey live in the same quarter--away up on the Giudecca--two miles frommy canal--the fathers of Vittorio and Luigi have become intimatefriends. Anything, therefore, touching the welfare of any one of thedescendants of so honorable a guild is more or less vital to themembers of both families. 

At the moment something HAD touched a Borodino--and in the most vitalof spots. This was nothing less than the heart of young Vittorio, thepride and hope of his father. He had seen the "Rose of the Shipyards, "as she was now called, pass the traghetto of the Molo, off which layhis gondola awaiting custom, --it was on one of the days when thetwo-soldi boy acted as chaperon, --and his end had come. 

It had only been a flash from out the lower corner of the left eye ofLoretta as she floated along past the big columns of the Palazzo of theDoges, but it had gone through the young gondolier and out on the otherside, leaving a wound that nothing would heal. She had not intended tohurt him, or even to attract him;--he only happened to be in the waywhen her search-light illumined his path. 

Vittorio knew at a glance that she came from the rookeries and that he, the scion of a noble family, should look higher for his mate, but thatmade no difference. She was built for him and he was built for her, andthat was the end of it: not for an intrigue--he was not constructedalong those lines--but with a ring and a priest and all the rest of it. The main difficulty was to find some one who knew her. He wouldnot, --could not, confront her; nor would he follow her home; butsomething must be done, and at once: a conclusion, it will be admitted, than an incalculable number of young Vittorios have reached, sooner orlater, the world over. 

When, therefore, a rumor came to his ears that Luigi the Primo wasprotecting her--the kind of protection that could never bemisunderstood in Luigi's case--a piece of news which his informer wasconvinced would end the projected intrigue of the young gondolier, thenand there and for all time, Vittorio laughed so loud and so long, andso merrily, that he lost, in consequence, two fares to San Giorgio, andcame near being reprimanded by the Gastaldo for his carelessness. 

That was why late one afternoon (I was painting the sunset glow) justas Loretta reached the edge of the quay on her way home, a youngfellow, in white duck with a sash of dark red silk binding and hangingfrom his waist and a rakish straw hat tipped over his handsome face, shot his gondola alongside mine and leaned over to whisper something inLuigi's ear. And that was why the girl in her long black shawl stopped, and why Luigi immediately changed gondolas and made for the quay, andwhy they all talked together for a moment, the girl flashing and theboy beaming, and that was why, too, they all three disappeared a momentlater in the direction of the high rookery where lived the baffled, love-sick Francesco, his anxious father, the much-talked-about mother, and the Rose of the Shipyards. 

In a garden where the soil is so rich that a seedling of five--a mereslip--blooms into flower before a foolish old painter can exhaust thesubjects along the canal, it is not surprising that a love affairreaches its full growth between two suns. Not since the day she hadtumbled into the canal had she gone so headover-heels--both of them. Nor did Luigi pull them out. He helped in the drowning, really. 

He was talking to himself when he came back--a soft light in his eyes, a smile lingering around the corners of his up-turned, grizzledmustache. 

"It is good to be young, Signore, is it not?" was all he said, and atonce began bundling up my traps. 

Before the week was out, --nay, before the setting of two suns--everygossip along the Riva--and they about covered the population--hadbecome convinced that Loretta was lost to the Quarter. Unless a weddingring was to end it all Vittorio would never be so bold in hisattentions to Loretta, as to walk home with her nights and wait for hermornings. 

Luigi shook his head, but he did not help the gossips solve theproblem. He had had trouble enough already with Vittorio's father. 

"A common wench from the yards, I hear, Luigi!" he had blazed out--"andyou, I understand, brought them together--you, --who have been my friendfor--"

"Stop, Borodini! Not another word! You are angry, and when you areangry you are stupid. I carried that girl in my arms when she was ababy! I have watched over her ever since. A wench! Not one of your owndaughters has a heart so white. If Vittorio is so great a coward as tolisten to their talk I'll keep her for his betters. "

All this snapped out of Luigi's eyes and rolled from under his crispmustache as he repeated the outbreak to me. What the end might beneither the Giudecca nor San Giuseppe could decide. The Borodinis wereproud; Vittorio's father was one of the gondoliers belonging to thepalace and always rowed the good Queen Margherita when she cameincognito to Venice, --a post which greatly enhanced his social station. Vittorio was the only son, and already a member of the traghetto, youngas he was. But then, were there any girls better than Loretta, or asgood? She helped her mother; she paid her share of the rent toFrancesco's father; she gave to the poor box. That she was the sunshineof the Quarter every one knew who heard her sweet, cheery voice. As toher family, it was true that her mother was a Sicilian who boiled oversometimes in a tempest of rage, like Vesuvius, --but her father had beenone of them. And then again, was she not the chosen friend of Luigi, the Primo, and of the crazy painter who haunted the canal? The boy andhis father might be glad, etc. , etc. 

The only persons who were oblivious to the talk were the two lovers. Their minds were made up. Father Garola had promised, and they knewexactly what to do, and when and where to do it. In the meantime theRiva was a pathway of rose-tinted clouds constructed for the especialuse of two angels, one of whom wore a straw hat with a red ribboncanted over his sunburnt face, and the other a black shawl with silkenfringe, whose every movement suggested a caress. 

The one disgruntled person was Francesco. 

He had supposed at first that, like the others, Vittorio would find outhis mistake;--certainly when he looked closely into the pure eyes ofthe girl, and that then, like the others, he would give up thechase;--he not being the first gay Lothario who had been taught justsuch a lesson. 

Loretta's answer to the schemer, given with a toss of her head and acurl of her lips, closed Francesco's mouth and set his brain in awhirl. In his astonishment he had long talks with his father, the twoseated in their boat against the Garden wall so no one could overhear. 

Once he approached Luigi and began a tale, first about Vittorio and hisescapades and then about Loretta and her coquetry, which Luigistrangled with a look, and which he did not discuss or repeat to me, except to remark--"They have started in to bite, Signore, " the meaningof which I could but guess at. At another time he and his associatesconcocted a scheme by which Vittorio's foot was to slip as he wasleaving Loretta at the door, and he be fished out of the canal with hispretty clothes begrimed with mud;--a scheme which was checked when theybegan to examine the young gondolier the closer, and which was entirelyabandoned when they learned that his father was often employed aboutthe palace of the king. In these projected attacks, strange to say, thegirl's mother took part. Her hope in keeping her home was in Loretta'smarrying Francesco. 

Then, dog as he was, he tried the other plan--all this I got fromLuigi, he sitting beside me, sharpening charcoal points, handing me afresh brush, squeezing out a tube of color on my palette: nothing likea romance to a staid old painter; and then, were not both of us in theconspiracy as abettors, and up to our eyes in the plot?

This other plan was to traduce the girl. So the gondoliers on thetraghetto began to talk, --behind their hands, at first: She had livedin Francesco's house; she had had a dozen young fishermen trapesingafter her; her mother, too, was none too good. Then again, you couldnever trust these Neapolitans, --the kitten might be like the cat, etc. , etc. 

Still the lovers floated up and down the Riva, their feet on clouds, their heads in the heavens. Never a day did he miss, and always with awave of her hand to me as they passed: down to Malamocco on Sundayswith another girl as chaperon, or over to Mestre by boat for the festa, coming home in the moonlight, the tip of his cigarette alone lightingher face. 

One morning--the lovers had only been waiting for their month'spay--Luigi came sailing down the canal to my lodgings, his gondola ingala attire, --bunches of flowers tied at each corner of the tenda; amass of blossoms in the lamp socket; he himself in his best white suit, a new red sash around his waist--his own colors--and off we went to SanRosario up the Giudecca. And the Borodinis turned out in great force, and so did all the other 'inis, and 'olas, and 'ninos--dozens ofthem--and in came Loretta, so beautiful that everybody held his breath;and we all gathered about the altar, and good Father Garola steppeddown and took their hands; and two candles were lighted and a littlebell rang; and then somebody signed a book--somebody with the bearingof a prince--Borodini, I think--and then Luigi, his rich, sunburnedface and throat in contrast with his white shirt, moved up and affixedhis name to the register; and then a door opened on the side and theyall went out into the sunlight. 

I followed and watched the gay procession on its way to the waitingboats. As I neared the corner of the church a heavily-built youngfellow ran past me, crouched to the pavement, and hid himself behindone of the tall columns. Something in his dress and movement made mestop. Not being sure, I edged nearer and waited until he turned hishead. It was Francesco. 

III

The skies were never more beautiful that May, the blossoms of theoleanders and the almond trees never more lovely. Not only was my owncanal alive with the stir and fragrance of the coming summer, but allVenice bore the look of a bride who had risen from her bath, drawnaside the misty curtain of the morning, and stood revealed in all herloveliness. 

The sun shone everywhere, I say, but to me its brightest rays fell on agarden full of fig trees and flat arbors interwoven with grapevines, running down to the water where there was a dock and a gondola--two, sometimes, --our own and Vittorio's--and particularly on a low, two-story, flat-roofed house, --a kaleidoscope of color--pink, yellow, and green, with three rooms and a portico, in which lived Vittorio, abird in a cage, a kitten-cat and the Rose of the Shipyards. 

It is a long way round to my canal through San Trovaso to the Zattereand across the Giudecca to Ponte Lungo, and then along the edge of thelagoon to this garden and dovecote, but that is the precise routeLuigi, who lived within a stone's throw of the couple, selected morningafter morning. He always had an excuse:--he had forgotten the bigbucket for my water cups, or the sail, or the extra chair; and wouldthe Signore mind going back for his other oar? Then again the tide wasbad, and after all we might as well row down the lagoon; it was easierand really shorter with the wind against us--all nonsense, of course, but I never objected. 

"Ah, the Signore and dear Luigi!" she would cry when she caught sightof our gondola rounding into the landing. Then down the path she wouldskip, the joyous embodiment of beauty and grace, and help me out, Luigifollowing; and we would stroll up under the fig trees, and she wouldbegin showing me this and that new piece of furniture, or pot, orkettle, or new bread knife, or scissors, or spoon, which Vittorio hadadded to their store since my last visit. Or I would find them bothbusy over the gondola, --he polishing his brasses and ferro, and sherehanging the curtains of the tenda which she had washed and ironedwith her own hands. 

In truth it was a very happy little nest that was tucked away in onecorner of that old abandoned garden with its outlook on the broad waterand its connecting link with the row of neighbors' houses flanking theside canal, --and no birds in or out of any nest in all Venice ever sangso long and so continuously nor were there any others so genuinelyhappy the livelong day and night as these two. 

Did I not know something of the curious mixture of love, jealousy, andsuspicion which goes into the making-up of an Italian, it would be hardfor me to believe that so lovely a structure as this dovecote, onebuilt with so much hope and alight with so much real happiness, couldever come tumbling to the ground. We Anglo-Saxons flame up indignantlywhen those we love are attacked, and we demand proofs. "Critica, " thatbane of Venetian life--what this, that, or the other neighbor tattlesto this, that, and the other listener, we dismiss with a wave of thehand, or with fingers tight clenched close to the offender's lips, orby a blow in the face. Not so the Italian. He also blazes, but he willstop and wonder when his anger has cooled; think of this and that; puttwo and two together, and make ten of what is really only four. This iswhat happened to the nest under the grapevines. 

I was in my own garden at the Britannia leaning over the marblebalcony, wondering what kept Luigi--it was past ten o'clock--when thenews reached me. I had caught sight of his white shirt and straw hat ashe swung out behind the Salute and headed straight toward me, and sawfrom the way he gripped his oar and stretched his long body flat withthe force of each thrust, that he had a message of importance, evenbefore I saw his face. 

"A Dio, Signore!" he cried. "What do you think? Vittorio has cursedLoretta, torn her wedding ring from her finger, and thrown it in herface!"

"Vittorio!"

"Yes, --he will listen to nothing! He is a crazy fool and I have doneall I could. He believes every one of the lies that crab-catching bruteof a Francesco is telling. It would be over by to-night, but Lorettadoes not take it like the others: she says nothing. You know hereyes--they are not like our Giudecca girls. They are burning now liketwo coals of fire, and her cheeks are like chalk. "

I had stepped into the gondola by this time, my first thought being howbest to straighten out the quarrel. 

"Now tell me, Luigi--speak slowly, so I do not miss a word. First, where is Loretta?"

"She was putting on her best clothes when I left--those she boughtherself. She will touch nothing Vittorio gave her. She is going back toher mother in an hour. "

"But what happened? Has Francesco--?"

"Francesco has not stopped one minute since the wedding. He has beentalking to the fish-people, --to everybody on the side street, sayingthat Loretta was his old shoes that he left at his door, and the foolVittorio found them and put them on--that sort of talk. "

"And Vittorio believes it?"

"He did not at first, --but twice Francesco came to see Loretta withmessages from her mother, and went sneaking off when Vittorio came upin his boat, and then that night some one would tell him--'that fellowmeets Loretta every day;' that he was her old lover. These people onthe Giudecca do not like the San Giuseppe people, and there is alwaysjealousy. If Vittorio had married any one from his own quarter it wouldhave been different. You don't know these people, Signore, --howdevilish they can be and how stupid. "

"That was why he threw the ring in her face?"

"No and yes. Yesterday was Sunday, and some people came to see her fromSan Giuseppe, and they began to talk. I was not there; I did not getthere until it was all over, but my wife heard it. They were all in thegarden, and one word led to another, and he taunted her with seeingFrancesco, and she laughed, and that made him furious; and then he saidhe had heard her mother was a nobody; and then some one spoke up andsaid that was true--fools all. And then Loretta, she drew herself upstraight and asked who it was had said so, and a woman's voicecame--'Francesco, --he told me--' and then Vittorio cried--'And you meethim here. Don't deny it! And you love him, too!--' and then the foolsprang at her and caught her hand and tore the ring from her finger andspat on it and threw it on the ground. He is now at his father's house. "

"And she said nothing, Luigi?" The story seemed like some horribledream. 

"No, nor shed a tear. All she did was to keep repeating--'Francesco!Francesco! Francesco!' I got there at daylight this morning and havebeen there ever since. I told her I was coming for you. She was sittingin a chair when I went in, --bolt up; she had not been in her bed. Sheseems like one in a trance--looked at me and held out her hand. I triedto talk to her and tell her it was all a lie, but she onlyanswered--'Ask Francesco, --it is all Francesco, --ask Francesco. ' Hurry, Signore, --we will miss her if we go to her house. We will go at once toour canal and wait for her. They have heard nothing down there at SanGiuseppe, and you can talk to her without being interrupted, and thenI'll get hold of Vittorio. This way, Signore. "

I had hardly reached the water landing of my canal ten minutes laterwhen I caught sight of her, coming directly toward me, head up, herlips tight-set, her black shawl curving and floating with everymovement of her body--(nothing so wonderfully graceful and nothing soexpressive of the wearer's moods as these black shawls of theVenetians). She wore her gala dress--the one in which she wasmarried--white muslin with ribbons of scarlet, her wonderful hair in aheap above her forehead, her long gold earrings glinting in thesunshine. All the lovelight had died out of her eyes. In its place weretwo deep hollows rimmed about by dark lines, from out which flashed twopoints of cold steel light. 

I sprang from my gondola and held out my hand:

"Sit down, Loretta, and let me talk to you. "

She stopped, looked at me in a dazed sort of way, as if she was tryingto focus my face so as to recall me to her memory, and said in adetermined way:

"No, let me pass. It's too late for all that, Signore. I am--"

"But wait until you hear me. "

"I will hear nothing until I find Francesco. "

"You must not go near him. Get into the gondola and let Luigi and metake you home. "

A dry laugh rose to her lips. "Home! There is no home any more. See! Myring is gone! Francesco is the one I want--now---NOW! He knows I amcoming, --I sent him word. Don't hold me, Signore, --don't touch me!"

She was gone before I could stop her, her long, striding walkincreasing almost to a run, her black shawl swaying about her limbs asshe hurried toward her old home at the end of the quay. Luigi startedafter her, but I called him back. Nothing could be done until her fury, or her agony, had spent itself. These volcanoes are often short-lived. We looked after her until she had reached the door and had flungherself across the threshold. Then I sent Luigi for my easel and beganwork. 

The events that have made the greatest impression upon me all my lifehave been those which have dropped out of the sky, --the unexpected, theincomprehensible, --the unnecessary--the fool things--the damnablyidiotic things. 

First we heard a cry that caused Luigi to drop canvas and easel, andsent us both flying down the quay toward the rookery. It came fromLoretta's mother;--she was out on the sidewalk tearing her hair;calling on God; uttering shriek after shriek. The quay and bridge werea mass of people--some looking with staring eyes, the children huggingtheir mothers' skirts. Two brawny fishermen were clearing the way tothe door. Luigi and I sprang in behind them, and entered the house. 

On the stone floor of the room lay the body of Francesco, his headstretched back, one hand clutching the bosom of his shirt. Against thewall stood Loretta; not a quiver on her lips; ghastly white; calm, --theleast excited person in the room. 

"And you killed him!" I cried. 

"Yes, --he thought I came to kiss him--I did, WITH THIS!" and she tosseda knife on the table. 

The days that followed were gray days for Luigi and me. All the lightand loveliness were gone from my canal. 

They took Loretta to the prison next the Bridge of Sighs and locked herup in one of the mouldy cells below the water line--dark, dismalpockets where, in the old days, men died of terror. 

Vittorio, Luigi, and I met there the next morning. I knew the chiefofficer, and he had promised me an interview. Vittorio wascrying, --rubbing his knuckles in his eyes, --utterly broken up andexhausted. He and Luigi had spent the night together. An hour before, the two had stood at Francesco's bedside in the hospital of San Paulo. Francesco was still alive, and with Father Garola bending over him hadrepeated his confession to them both. He was madly in love with her, hemoaned, and had spread the report hoping that Vittorio would cast heroff, and, having no other place to go, Loretta would come back to him. At this Vittorio broke into a rage and would have strangled the dyingman had not the attendant interfered. All this I learned from Luigi aswe waited for the official. 

"This is a frightful ending to a happy life--" I began when the officerappeared. "Let them talk to each other for just a few moments. It cando no harm. "

The official shook his head. "It is against orders, Signore, I cannot. He can see her when she is brought up for examination. "

"They will both have lost their senses by that time, " I pleaded. "Can'tyou think of some way? I have known her from a child. Perhaps an orderfrom headquarters might be of some use. " We were standing, at the time, in a long corridor ending in a door protected by an iron grating. Thisled to the underground cells. 

The chief fastened his eyes on me for an instant, turned abruptly, called to an attendant, gave an order in a low voice and, with thewords to Vittorio--"You are not to speak to her, remember, " motionedthe sobbing man toward the grating. Luigi and I followed. 

She came slowly out of the shadows, first the drawn face peering ahead, as if wondering why she had been sent for, then the white crumpleddress, and then the dark eyes searching the gloom of the corridor. Vittorio had caught sight of her and was clinging to the grating, hisbody shaking, his tears blinding him. 

The girl gave a half-smothered cry, darted forward and coveredVittorio's hands with her own. Some whispered word must have followed, for the old light broke over her face and she would have cried out forjoy had not Luigi cautioned her. For a moment the two stood withfingers intertwined, their bowed foreheads kept apart by the coldgrating. Then the boy, straining his face between the bars, as if toreach her lips, loosened one hand, took something from his pocket andslipped it over her finger. 

It was her wedding ring. 

IV

Summer has faded, the gold of autumn has turned to brown, and the raw, cold winds of winter have whirled the dead leaves over rookeries, quay, and garden. The boats rock at their tethers and now and then a sea gulldarts through the canal and sweeps on to the lagoon. In the narrowopening fronting the broad waters lawless waves quarrel and clash, forcing their way among the frightened ripples of San Giuseppe, ashygray under the lowering sky. 

All these months a girl has clung to an iron grating or has lain on apallet in one corner of her cell. Once in a while she presses her lipsto a ring on her left hand, her face lighting up. Sometimes she breaksout into a song, continuing until the keeper checks her. 

Then spring comes. 

And with it the painter from over the sea. 

All the way from Milan as far as Verona, and beyond, there have beennothing but blossoms, --masses of blossoms, --oleander, peach, and almond. 

When the train reaches Mestre and the cool salt air fans his cheek, hecan no longer keep his seat, so eager is he to catch the first glimpseof his beloved city, --now a string of pearls on the bosom of the lagoon. 

Luigi has the painter's hand before his feet can touch the platform. 

"Good news, Signore!" he laughs, patting my shoulder. "She is free!"

"Loretta!"

"Yes, --she and Vittorio are back in their garden. Borodini told thewhole story to the good Queen Mother when she came at Easter, and theking pardoned her. "

"Pardoned her! And Francesco dead!"

"Dead! No such good luck, Signore, --that brute of a crab-fisher gotwell!"

A COAT OF RED LEAD

I

My offices are on the top floor of a high building overlooking the EastRiver and the harbor beyond--not one of those skyscrapers puncturedwith windows all of the same size, looking from a distance like hugewaffles set up on end--note the water-line of New York the next timeyou cross the ferry and see if you don't find the waffles--but anold-fashioned sort of a high building of twenty years ago--old as thePyramids now, with a friendly janitor who comes to me when I send forhim instead of my going to his "Office" when he sends for me; friendlyelevator boys who poke their heads from out their iron cages and waitfive seconds until I reach them, and an obliging landlord who lets meuse his telephone. 

Mawkum, my chief draftsman--when you have only one it is best to labelhim "Chief" to your clients; they think the others are off buildingbridges for foreign governments, or lunching at Delmonico's withrailroad presidents--my chief draftsman, I say, occupies the roomopening into mine. His outlook is a brick wall decorated with windows, behind which can be seen various clerks poring over huge ledgers, asection of the roof topped with a chimney, and in the blue perspectivethe square, squat tower of the Produce Exchange in which hangs a clock. Both of these connecting rooms open on the same corridor, a convenientarrangement when clients wish to escape without being seen, or for theconcealing of bidders who are getting plans and specifications for thesame tenders, especially when two of them happen to turn up at the samemoment. 

Mawkum manages this, and with such adroitness that I have often seenclients, under the impression that the drafting-room was full, sitpatiently in my office and take their turn while he quietly munches hissandwich behind closed panels--an illusion sustained by a loud"Good-morning" from my chief addressed to the circumambient air, followed by the slamming of the corridor door. When I remonstrate withMawkum, insisting that such subterfuges are beneath the dignity of theoffice, he contends that they help business, and in proof quotes theold story of the unknown dentist who compelled a suffering prince tocall the next day at noon, claiming that his list was full, whenneither man, woman nor child had been in his chair for over aweek--fame and fortune being his ever after. 

When Mawkum gets tired of inspecting the brick wall and the industriousclerks and the face of the clock, he strolls leisurely into my room, plants himself at my window--this occurs during one of those calms thatso often come to an office between contracts--and spends hours incontemplating the view. 

To me the stretch of sky and water, with its dividing band of roof, tower and wharf, stretching from the loop of steel--that spider-web ofthe mighty--to the straight line of the sea, is a never-ending delight. In the early morning its broken outline is softened by a veil of silvermist embroidered with puffs of steam; at midday the glare of lightflashing from the river's surface makes silhouettes of theferry-shuttles threading back and forth weaving the city's life; attwilight the background of purple is bathed in the glory of the sunset, while at night myriads of fireflies swarm and settle, tracing inpencillings of fire the plan of the distant town. 

Mawkum, being commercially disposed, sees none of these things; hisgaze is fixed on the panting tugs towing chains of canal boats; on thegreat floats loaded with cars and the stately steamers slowing downopposite their docks. Today he develops an especial interest. 

"That's the Tampico in from Caracas and the Coast, " he says, leaningacross my desk, his fat hand resting on my letter file. "She's loadedpretty deep. Hides and tallow, I guess. 'Bout time we heard from thatMoccador Lighthouse, isn't it? Lawton's last letter said we could lookfor his friend in a month--about due now. Wish he'd come. " And heyawned wearily. 

Mawkum's yawn indicated the state of his mind. He had spent theprevious three weeks in elaborating the plans and specifications for acaisson to be used under a bridge pier--our client assuring him that hehad, to use his own words, "a dead sure thing on the award. " When thebids were opened, Mawkum congratulated him on his foresight and offeredto attend the funeral in a body, the client's bid being some thirty percent too high. Little episodes like this add a touch of gayety to thehours spent in the top of the high building. 

Mawkum's yawn over--it is generally in three sections, but cansometimes be curtailed--I interrupted hurriedly with:

"What sort of a structure is it?" I knew, but I wanted some otheremployment for his mouth. 

"First order, screw pile, about a hundred and twenty feet high, stuckon a coral reef at the mouth of the harbor. 'Bout like our Fowey Rocks, off the Florida coast. She's backing in. " His eyes were still on theTampico, the floes of North River ice hemming her in on all sides. "Passengers'll be off in an hour. Wonder how they like ourclimate--little chilly for pajamas. "

Here Mawkum strolled into his room and began overhauling the contentsof a rack of drawings piled one on top of the other like cordwood, labelled: "Screw Pile Structures. "

The next morning there came a timid knock at Mawkum's door--the knockof a child with matches to sell, or of one of those dear sisters whocollect for the poor. At a second summons, a little louder than thefirst, the chief, with an impatient air, slid from the high stoolfacing his drawing board, and threw wide the door. 

I craned my head and discovered a small, ivory-tinted individual in aPanama hat, duck trousers and patent-leather shoes. Wrapped about hisshrivelled frame, one red-lined end tossed gallantly over his shoulder, was an enormous Spanish capa. This hid every part of his body from hischin to the knees of his cotton ducks. From where I sat he looked likea conspirator in the play, or the assassin who lies in wait up the darkalley. Once inside he wrinkled his shoulders with the shiveringmovement of a horse dislocating a fly, dropped the red-lined end of thecapa, removed his Panama and began a series of genuflections whichshowed me at once that he had been born among a people who imbibedcourtesy with their mother's, or their cocoanut's, milk. 

"I am look' for the Grandioso Engineer, " said the visitor. "I am SenorGarlicho--" Then a shade of uncertainty crossed his face: Mawkum wasstill staring at him. "It is a mistake then, perhaps? I have a letterfrom Senor Law-TON. Is it not to the great designer of lighthouse whichI speak?" This came with more bows--one almost to the floor. 

The mention of Lawton's name brought Mawkum to his senses. He placedhis fat hand on his vest, crooked his back, and without the slightestallusion to the fact that the original and only Grandioso occupied theadjoining room, motioned the visitor to a seat and opened the letter. 

I thought now it was about time I should assert my rights. Pushing backmy chair, I walked rapidly through my own and Mawkum's room and heldout my hand. 

"Ah, Senor, I am delighted to meet you, " I broke out in Spanish. (HereI had Mawkum--he did not understand a word. ) "We have been expectingyou; our mutual friend, Mr. Lawton, has given me notice of yourcoming--and how is the Senor and his family?" And in a few minutes wethree were seated at my desk with Mawkum unrolling plans, makingsketches on a pad, figuring the cost of this and that and the otherthing; I translating for Mawkum such statements as I thought he oughtto know, thus restoring the discipline and dignity of the office--itnever being wise to have more than one head to a concern. 

This partial victory was made complete when his ivory-tinted Excellencyloosened his waistcoat, dived into his inside pocket and, producing apackage of letters tied with a string, the envelopes emblazoned withthe arms and seal of the Republic of Moccador, asked if we might bealone. I immediately answered, both in Spanish and English, that I hadno secrets from Senor Mawkum, but this did not prove satisfactory andso Mawkum, with a wink to me, withdrew. 

Mawkum gone, the little man--it is inconceivable how small and witheredhe was; how yellow, how spidery in many of his motions, especially withhis fingers stained with cigarettes, how punctilious, how polite, howsoft and insinuating his voice, and how treacherous his smile--a smilethat smiled all alone by itself, while the cunning, glittering eyesrecorded an entirely different brain suggestion--Mawkum gone, I say, the little man examined the door to see that it was tight shut, glancedfurtively about the room, resumed his seat, slowly opened the largestand most flaringly decorated envelope and produced a document signedwith a name and titles that covered half the page. Then he began totalk at the rate of fifty words to the second; like the rattle of aticker in a panic: of Alvarez, the saviour of his country--hisfriend!--his partner; of the future of Moccador under his wise andbeneficent influence, the Lighthouse being one of the firstimprovements; of its being given to him to erect because of his loyaltyto the cause, and to the part he had taken in overturning that despot, the Tyrant Paramba, who had ruled the republic with a rod of iron. Nowit was all over--Paramba was living in the swamps, hunted like a dog. When he was caught--and they expected it every day--he would be broughtto the capital, San Juan, in chains--yes, Senor, in chains--and put towork on the roads, so that everybody could spit upon him--traitor!Beast, that he was! And there would be other lighthouses--the wholecoast was to be as light as day. Senor Law-TON had said he could speakwith perfect confidence--he was doing so, trusting to the honor of theGrandiose--the most distinguished--etc. , etc. And now--this in asumming-up voice with a slower movement, about twenty words to thesecond--would the Grandioso go in as a partner in these ventures? Theincome he could assure me would be so fixed that the light dues alonewould pay for the structure in two years--think of it, Senor, in twoyears--perhaps less!--and forever after we could both sit down andreceive a small fortune, I by the Tampico in drafts signed by hisExcellency, and he in his own hacienda surrounded by the patriots whohonored him and the wife and children he adored. 

At mention of the partnership a vague, cloudy expression crossed myface; my companion caught it, and continued:

Or (again the voice slowed down) I would be paid for the structure onits erection by me on the reef. 

Again my eyes wandered, and again he took the cue:

Or--if that was not satisfactory--he would be willing to pay for theironwork alone as soon as it arrived in the harbor of San Juan. 

My Spanish is more like an old uniform that is rubbed up for a paradeand then put away in camphor. Much of his talk was therefore lost onme; but the last sentences were as clear as if they had dropped fromthe lips of my old teacher, Senor Morales. 

Half-rising from my chair, I placed my hand over my shirt-front andthanked his Excellency for his confidence--really one of the greatestcompliments that had ever been paid me in all my professional career. To be at once the partner of two such distinguished caballeros asGeneral Alvarez, the saviour of his country, and my distinguishedguest, was an honor that few men could resist, but--BUT--here I pickedup a lead pencil and a pad--BUT--the only way I could permit myself torob him of his just desserts would be--here I traced a few lines on thepad--would be--my voice now became impressive--to receive one-thirdwhen it was erected in the yard in Brooklyn, and the balance ondelivery of the bills of lading to his agent; payments to be made byhis distinguished Excellency's bankers in New York. 

If the modification of terms in any way disappointed the gentleman fromSan Juan, my closest observation of his smile and glance failed todetect it. He merely quivered his shoulders--a sort of pluralshrug--rolled his cigarette tighter between his thumb and forefinger, remarked that the memoranda were entirely satisfactory, and folding thepaper slid it carefully into his pocket; then with a series of salaamsthat reminded me of a Mohammedan spreading a prayer rug, and an "ADios, Senor, " the ivory-tinted individual withdrew. 

A week later Mawkum, carrying a tin case addressed to his sun-driedExcellency, passed up the gangplank of the Tampico; this he placed inthat gentleman's hands. Inside its soldered top were the plans andspecifications of a First Order Light, to be made of iron, to beproperly packed, and to have three coats of red lead beforeshipment--together with a cross-section of foundation to be placed onthe reef known as "La Garra de Lobo"--The Claw of the Wolf--outside theharbor of San Juan--all at the risk of his Supreme Excellency, SenorTomas Correntes Garlicho, of the Republic of Moccador, SouthAmerica--the price of the ironwork to hold good for three months. 

On his return to the office Mawkum took up his position once more at mywindow, waited until the Tampico, the case and his Excellency were wellon their way to Sandy Hook and started in on other work. The next daythe incident, like so many similar ventures--his racks were full ofjust such estimates--was forgotten. If any of the bread thus cast uponthe waters came back, the chief would be glad, and so would theGrandioso; if not, we were both willing to cut a fresh slice to keep itcompany. 

II

Four months passed. The ice was out of the river; the steam heat hadbeen turned off in the high building and the two time-worn awnings hadbeen fixed to my windows by the obliging janitor. The Tampico had comeand gone, and had come again. Its arrivals, and departures were, asusual, always commented upon by Mawkum, generally in connection with"That Bunch of Dried Garlic, " that being the irreverent way in which hespoke of his ivory-tinted Excellency. Otherwise the lighthouse, and allthat pertained to it, had become ancient history. 

One lovely spring morning--one of those warm mornings when every windowand door is wide open to get the breeze from Sandy Hook andbeyond--another visitor stepped into Mawkum's room. He brought noletters of introduction, nor did he confine himself to his mothertongue, although his nationality was as apparent as that of hispredecessor. Neither did he possess a trace of Garlicho's affability orpolish. On the contrary, he conducted himself like a muleteer, andspoke with the same sort of brutal authority. 

And the differences did not stop here. Garlicho was shrivelled andsun-dried. This man was round and plump--plump as a stuffed olivefished from a jar of oil, and as shiny; dark-skinned, with a pair ofheavy eyebrows that met over a stub of a nose ending in a knob; twokeen rat eyes, a mouth hidden by a lump of a mustache black as tar, anda sagging, flabby chin which slunk into his collar. Next came ashirt-front soiled and crumpled, and then the rest of him in a suit ofbombazine. 

"You designed a lighthouse some months ago for Mr. Garlicho, of SanJuan, " he blurted out with hardly an accent. "I arrived this morning bythe Tampico. My name is Carlos Onativia. " And he laid a thin, elongatedpiece of cardboard on Mawkum's desk. 

Only the arrival of a South American fresh from the Republic ofMoccador, with a spade designed to dig up a long-buried treasure couldhave robbed Mawkum of his habitual caution of always guarding plans andestimates from outsiders--a custom which was really one of thefundamental laws of the office. The indiscretion was no doubt helped bythe discovery that the owner of the spade spoke English, a fact whichfreed him at once of all dependence on the superior lingual attainmentspossessed by the Grandioso in the adjoining room. 

Down came the duplicate blue-prints without a word of protest or anyfurther inquiry, and before I could reach the inquirer's side and beproperly introduced--I did not want to interfere too abruptly--Mawkumhad not only unrolled the elevation and cross-sections, but had handedout a memorandum showing the estimate of cost. 

Onativia acknowledged my presence with a slight bob of his head, loosened the upper button of his coat, fished up a pair of glasses, stuck them on the knob end of his nose, and began devouring the plansin a way that showed both of us that it was not the first time he hadlooked over a set of blue-prints. 

"This estimate is for the ironwork alone, " the stranger said, "and is, as you see, good for three months. The time, as you will note, hasexpired. Do you now ask for an additional sum, or will the pricestand?" All this in the tone of a Tombs lawyer cross-examining awitness. 

Mawkum murmured that, as there had been no advance in the cost of theraw material, the price would stand. 

"Very well. And now, what, in your judgment, should be added for thecost of erection?"

"Can't say, " answered Mawkum; "don't know the coast or kind of labor, or the bottom of the reef--may be coral, may be hard-pan, may be sand. Do YOU know?"

"Yes--the coast is an ugly one, except four months in the year. Site istwelve miles from San Juan, exposed to the rake of the sea; bottomcoral, I understand; labor cheap and good for nothing, and appliancesnone--except what can be shipped from here. " This came with the air ofone who knew. 

I now took charge of the negotiations:

"We have refused to erect the structure or be responsible for it afterit leaves our dock. We told Senor Garlicho so. "

Onativia lowered his chin, arched his eyebrows and looked at me overhis glasses. 

"I don't want you to erect it, " he said in a purring tone with apatronizing strain through it. "I'll do that. What I want to know iswhat it would cost HERE? That's what I came to New York to find out. "

"Has Senor Garlicho been awarded the contract?" I asked. It was uselessto distribute any more bread upon the waters; certainly not on theripples washing the shores of Moccador. If there were any business insight I could very easily give either one of them an approximate cost;if there were none the bakery was closed. 

"No, Senor Garlicho has NOT been awarded the contract. I am here tokeep the affair alive. If I had thought it necessary I would havebrought a certified check with me drawn to your order, which I wouldhave handed you with my card. The standing of your firm prevented mydoing so. This is business, and I want to get back home as quick aspossible. Our coast is a dangerous one and the loss of life increasesevery year. Do you want this matter hung up for six weeks until we cancommunicate with Mr. Garlicho? Every hour's delay in putting the lighton the Lobo means that many more deaths. " As he spoke a peculiar smilestruggled from under his black dab of a mustache, got as far as thebase of his nose and there collapsed. 

My duty was now clear. Senor Garlicho, for some reason unknown to me, had waited until his option had expired and had then sent Onativia inhis place. This wiped out the past and made a new deal necessary--onewhich included the price of erection on the reef, a point which had notbeen raised in the former negotiation. 

"All right, " I said, "you shall have the estimate. What you want is thecost of erecting a structure like the one here in the plans. Well, ifit was to be put on our Florida coast, where I think the conditions aresomewhat similar to those you describe, I would advise you to add aboutone hundred thousand dollars to the cost of the ironwork. "

"Is that safe?" Again the smile worked itself loose. 

"Yes, " I replied, "if you don't lose your plant too often by badweather. We have warnings of our coast storms and can provide againstthem. I don't know anything about yours--what are they like?"

"They come suddenly and without warning, " he rejoined; "typhoons, generally, with the tiles rattling off the roofs and the nativeshugging the cocoanut trees. " With this he turned to the plans again. "Better add another twenty thousand--I want to be safe, " he said, in atone that showed me he had at last made up his mind. 

I added it, marking the sum on the memorandum which Mawkum had givenhim. 

"Now, please put that in writing over your signature. I'll callto-morrow at ten for the document. Good-day. "

When he was well down the corridor--we waited really until we heard thedown-chug of the elevator--Mawkum looked at me and gave a low whistle. 

"Add another twenty! What do you think is up? That Bunch of Garlic isworking some funny business, or he wouldn't have sent that brigand uphere. "

I ruminated for a moment, walked to the window and took in the brickwall, the clerks and the clock tower. Frankly, I did not know whatGarlicho was up to. It was the first time that any passenger by theTampico, or any other steamer, from any quarter of the globe, had askedeither Mawkum or myself to add one penny to the cost of anything. Theeffort heretofore had been to cut down each item to the last cent. Wasthe ivory-tinted gentleman going to build the lighthouse at his ownexpense out of loyalty to President Alvarez, the saviour of hiscountry, and then donate it to the Government, using our estimate toprove the extent of his generosity? Or was there a trick somewhere? Idecided to sound Senor Onativia the next morning, and find out. 

I had not long to wait. He arrived on the minute, bobbed to Mawkum, drew a chair to my desk and squared, or rather rounded, his body infront of me. 

"I will now tell you what I omitted to say yesterday, " he began. "Whenan order comes for this lighthouse--and it will arrive by the nextsteamer--it will not be signed by Senor Garlicho, but by me. I havereasons for this which I cannot explain, and which are not necessaryfor you to know. The ironwork--all you will have to furnish--will alsobe shipped in my name. With the order will be sent a letter introducingmy bankers, who will call upon you at your convenience, and who willpay the amounts in the way you desire--one-third on the signing of thecontract (one of the firm will act as my agent), one-third on erectionand inspection of the ironwork properly put together in the yard, andthe balance on delivery to them of the bills of lading. Is that quitesatisfactory?"

I bowed my head in answer. 

"And have you signed your estimate showing what you consider to be afair price for both the lighthouse itself and for the cost of itserection on the Lobo Reef?"

"Yes; there it is, " and I pointed to the document lying on my desk. "And now one word, please. When did you last see Mr. Lawton? He's ouragent, you know, and you must have met him in connection with thismatter. When Senor Garlicho arrived he brought us a letter from him. "

Onativia's lips curled slightly as he recognized the hidden meaning ofthe inquiry, but his expression never changed. 

"I have never seen him. If I had I should not have wasted my time ingetting a letter from him or from anybody else. As to Senor Garlicho, his time has expired; he has not asked for its renewal, and so far asthis deal is concerned he does not count. I am here, as I told you, tokeep the affair alive. I would have come sooner, but I have been awayfrom the city of San Juan for months. Most of us who have opinions ofour own have been away from San Juan--some for years. San Juan has notbeen a healthy place for men who believe in Paramba. "

"And do you?"

"Absolutely. So do thousands of our citizens. "

"You don't seem to agree with Senor Garlicho, then. He thought yourformer president, Paramba, a tyrant. As for President Alvarez, helooked upon him as the saviour of his country. "

The lips had full play now, the smile of contempt wrinkling up to hiseyelids. 

"Saviour of his country! Saviour of his pocket! Pardon me; I am nothere to discuss the polities of our people. Is this your estimate?" Andhe reached over and picked it from my desk. "Ah, yes: forty thousanddollars for the ironwork; one hundred and twenty thousand for theerection on the Lobo Reef; one hundred and sixty thousand in all. Thankyou. " Here he tucked the paper in his pocket and rose from his seat. "You will hear from me in a month, perhaps earlier. Good-day. " And hewaddled out. 

The return of the Tampico six weeks later brought another SouthAmerican consignment. This was a roll of plans concealed in a tincase--the identical package which Mawkum had handed the "Bunch of DriedGarlic" months before, together with a document stamped, restamped andstamped again, containing an order in due form, signed "CarlosOnativia, " for a lighthouse to be erected on the "Garra de Lobo"--thislast was in red ink--with shipping directions, etc. , etc. 

With it came the clerk of the bankers (he had the case under his arm), a reputable concern within a stone's throw of my office, who signed thecontract and paid the first instalment. 

Then followed the erection of the ironwork in the Brooklyn yard; itsinspection by the engineer appointed by the bankers; its dismembermentand final coat of red lead--each tie-rod and beam red as sticks ofsealing-wax--its delivery, properly bundled and packed, aboard asailing vessel bound for San Juan, and the payment of the lastinstalment. 

This closed the transaction, so far as we were concerned. 

A year passed--two of them, in fact--during which time no news of anykind reached us of the lighthouse. Mawkum kept the duplicate blue-printof the elevation tacked on the wall over his desk to show our clientsthe wide range of our business, and I would now and then try totranslate the newspapers which Lawton sent by every mail. These wouldgenerally refer to the dissatisfaction felt by many of the Moccadoriansover the present government, one editorial, as near as I could makeout, going so far as to hint that a secret movement was on foot to oustthe "Usurper" Alvarez and restore the old government under Paramba. Noreference was ever made to the lighthouse. We knew, of course, that ithad arrived, for the freight had been paid: this we learned from thebrokers who shipped it; but whether it was still in storage at San Juanor was flashing red and white--a credit to Onativia's energy and agodsend to incoming shipping--was still a mystery. 

Mawkum would often laugh whenever Garlicho's or Onativia's name wasmentioned, and once in a while we would discuss the difficulties theymust have encountered in the erection of the structure in the open sea. One part of the transaction we could never understand, and that was whyGarlicho had allowed the matter to lapse if the lighthouse was neededso badly, and what were his reasons for sending Onativia to renew thenegotiations instead of coming himself. 

All doubts on this and every other point were set at rest one finemorning by the arrival of a sunburned gentleman with grayside-whiskers, a man I had not seen for years. 

"Why, Lawton!" I cried, grasping his hand. "This is a surprise. Came bythe Tampico, did you? Oh, but I am glad to see you! Here, draw up achair. But stop--not a word until I ask you some questions about thatlighthouse. "

The genial Scotchman broke out into a loud laugh. 

"Don't laugh! Listen!" I said to him. "Tell me, why didn't Garlicho goon with the work, and what do you know about Onativia?"

Lawton leaned back in his chair and closed one eye in merriment. 

"Garlicho did not go on with the work, my dear friend, because he wasbreaking stone in the streets of San Juan with a ball and chain aroundhis ankle. When Paramba came back to power he was tried for hightreason and condemned to be shot. He saved his neck by turning over thelighthouse papers to Onativia. As to Carlos Onativia, he is a productof the soil. Started life as a coolie boss in a copper mine, becamemanager and owner, built the bridge over the Quitos River and therailroad up the Andes; is the brightest man in Moccador and the brainsof the Paramba Government. One part of his duty is to keep the peoplesatisfied, and he does it every single time; another is to divide withParamba every dollar he makes. "

"But the lighthouse!" I interrupted. "Is it up? You must have passed iton your way out of the harbor. "

"Up? Yes, and lighted every night--up in the public garden in San Juanamong the palms and bananas. The people eat ice-cream on the firstplatform and the band plays Sundays in the balcony under the boatdavits. The people are wild about it--especially the women. It was thelast coat of red lead that did it. "

And again the office rang with Lawton's laugh. 

MISS MURDOCK, --"SPECIAL"

A row of gas jets hooded by green paper shades lighting a long table atwhich sit half a dozen men in their shirt sleeves writing like mad;against the wall other men, --one drawing Easter lilies, anotherblocking in the background around a photograph, a third pastingclippings on sheets of brown paper. Every few minutes a bare-headed boyin a dirty apron, with smudged face and ink-stained fingers, boundsinto the stifling, smoke-laden room, skirts the long table, divesthrough a door labelled "City Editor, " remains an instant and boundsout again, his hands filled with long streamers of proof. 

In the opening and shutting of the swinging door a round-bodied, round-headed man in his shirt sleeves comes into view. Covering hisforehead, shielding his eyes from the glare of the overhead gas jet, isa half-moon of green leather held in place by strings tied behind hisears. The line of shadow caused by this shade makes a blank space abouthis eyes and brings into relief his pale, flabby cheeks, hard, straightmouth, and coarse chin. Only when he lifts his head to give some order, or holds the receiver of the telephone to his ear, can his eyes beexactly located. Then they shine like a cat's in a cellar, --gray, white, gray again, with a glint of metallic green, --always the samedistance apart, never wavering, never blinking. Overstrung, overworked, nervous men, working at high pressure, spurred by the merciless lash ofpassing minutes, have these eyes. So do cornered beasts fighting forair and space. Eleven-thirty had just been tolled by the neighboringclock; deliverance would come when the last form of the morning editionwas made up. Until then safety could only be found in constant attack. 

Outside the city editor's office, sprawled over a pile of mail sacks, between the long table and the swinging door, lay Joe Quinn, man-of-all-work, --boy, in fact, for he was but nineteen, big for hisage, with arms and legs like cordwood and a back straight and hard as aplank. Joe's duty was to keep his eyes peeled, his ears open, and hislegs in working order. If a reporter wanted a fresh pad, a cup ofwater, or a file of papers, Joe brought them; sometimes he foraged forsandwiches and beer, --down four pair of stairs, across the street intoa cellar and up again; sometimes he carried messages; oftener he madean elevator of himself, running between the presses in the basement andthe desk behind the swinging door. Fifty trips in a single night hadnot been an unusual tally. 

To the inmates of the room the boy was known as "Joe" or "Quinn" or"Sonny. " To the man with the half-moon shade over his eyes he was "Say"or "That Damned Kid. " High-strung, high-pressure editors omit theunnecessary, condensation being part of their creed. 

Up in the Franconia Notch, in a little hollow under White Face andbelow Bog Eddy, Joe had been known as "Jonathan's boy, " Jonathan beingthe name his father went by, the last half never being used, --therebeing but one "Jonathan"--the one whom everybody loved. 

The cabin was still standing, where Joe was born, --a slant of logs witha stone chimney and some out-buildings; and his old father was stillalive, and so was his mother and his little "Sis. " Summer mornings thesmoke would curl straight up from the rude stone chimney, catch acurrent of air from the valley, and stretch its blue arms toward thetall hemlocks covering the slope of the mountain. Winter mornings itlay flat, buffeted by the winds, hiding itself later on among thetrees. Joe knew these hemlocks, --loved them, --had hugged them many atime, laying his plump, ruddy cheek against the patches of cool mossvelveting their sides. "Nothin' like trees, " his old father had toldhim, --"real human when ye know 'em. "

To-night, as he lay stretched out on the mail sacks, his earsunlatched, listening for the sound of the night city editor's bell, orhis gruff "Say, you!" his mind kept reverting to their bigness andwide, all embracing, protecting arms. A letter from Jonathan receivedthat morning, and still tucked away in his inside pocket, had revivedthese memories. 

"They've started to cut roads, son, " it read. "I was out gummin'yesterday and got up under White Face. Won't be nothing left if theykeep on. Cy Hawkins sold his timber land to them last winter andthey've histed up a biler on wheels and a succular saw, and hev clearedoff purty nigh every tree clean from the big windslash down to the EastBranch. It ain't going into building stuff; they're sending it down toPlymouth to a pulp mill and grinding it up to print newspapers on, sothe head man told me. Guess you know all about it, but it was news tome. I told him it was a gol-darn-shame to serve a tree so, being as howtrees had feelings same as men, but he laughed and said it warn't noneof my bizness, and I guess it ain't. Beats all what some folks will dofor money. "

Joe thought so too, --had been thinking so ever since he broke the sealof the letter that the postmaster at Woodstock had directed for hisfather. "Dad's right; trees have feelings, " he kept repeating tohimself. And, as to being human, he could recall a dozen that he hadtalked to and that had talked back to him ever since he could remember. His father had taught him their language on the long days when he hadtrailed behind carrying the gum bag or had hidden in the bushes whilethe old man wormed himself along, his rifle in the hollow of his arm, or when the two lay stretched out before their camp fire. 

"Dogs and trees, my son, will never go back on ye like some folks I'vehearn tell of. Allers find 'em the same. See that yaller birch overthar?--Well, I've knowed that birch over forty-two year and he ain'taltered a mite, 'cept his clothes ain't as decent as they was, and hisshoes is give out 'round the roots. You kin see whar the bark's busted'long 'round his toes, --but his heart's all right and he's alive andpeart, too. You'll find him fust tree out in the spring, --sometimes'fore the sugar sap's done runnin'. Purty soon, if you watch him same'sme, ye'll see him begin to shake all over, --kind o' shivery with someinside fun; then comes the buds and, fust thing ye know, he gives alittle see-saw or two in the warm air and out busts the leaves, and hea laughin' fit to kill. Maybe the birds ain't glad, and maybe themsquirrels that's been snowed up all winter with their noses out o' thatcrotch, ain't jes' holdin' their sides, and maybe, too, them littlesunbeams don't like to sneak in and go to sleep on the bark all silveryand shinin' like the ribbons on Sis's hat! They're human, them treesis, I tell ye, son, --real human!

"And ye want to treat 'em with some perliteness, too they're older'nanything 'round here 'cept the rocks; and they've been holdin' up thedignity of this valley, too, --kind o' 'sponsible for things. That'sanother thing ye mustn't forgit. The fust folks that come travellin'through this notch--'bout time the Injins quit, --took notice on 'em, Itell ye. That's what they come for. Bald Top and White Face was allright, but it was the trees that knocked 'em silly. That's what you kinread in the book school-teacher has, and that's true. And see how theytreat their brothers that git toppled over, --by a windslash, maybe, orlightnin' or a landslide, or some such cussed thing, givin' 'em ashoulder to lean on same as you would help a cripple. When they'reclean down and done for it ain't more'n a year or two 'fore they got'em kivered all over with leaves, and then they git tergether and hev aquiltin' party and purty soon they're all over blankets o' green moss, and the others jes stand 'round solemn and straight like's if they wasmountin' guard over their graves. 

"It's wicked to kill most anything 'less ye got some use--and a goodone, too, --for the meat, but it's a durned sight meaner to cut down atree that took so long to grow and that's been so decent all its life, 'less ye can't do without the stuff ye git out'n it. "

Joe had listened and had drunk it all in, and his love for the tallgiants away back in the deep wilderness had never left him. It wasthese dear old friends more than anything else that had kept him athome, under plea of helping his father, months after he knew he oughtto be up and doing if he would ever be of any use to the old man in hislater years. 

It was Plymouth first, as stable boy, and then down to Nashua andBoston as teamster and freight handler, and then, by what he consideredat the time a lucky chance--(Katie Murdock, from his own town, and nowa reporter in the same newspaper office with himself, had helped), manof all work in this whirl where he felt like a fly clinging to adriving wheel. 

Stretching out his stout saw-log legs and settling his big shouldersinto the soft cushions made by the sacks, his mind went back to the oldsawmill, --Baker's Mill, --and the dam backed up alongside the EastBranch. An old kingfisher used to sit on a limb over the still waterand watch for minnows, --a blue and white fellow with a sharp beak. Hehad frightened him away many a time. And there was a hole where two bigtrout lived. He remembered the willows, too, and the bunch of logspiled as high as the mill. These would be rolled down and cant-hookedunder its saw when the spring opened, but Baker never ground any one ofthem up into wood pulp. It went into clapboards to keep out the cold, and shingles to keep off the rain, and the "waste" went under thekettles of the neighbors, the light of the jolly flames dancing roundthe room. He had carried many a bundle home himself that the old manhad sent to Jonathan. Most everybody sent Jonathan something, especially if they thought he needed it. 

Then his mind reverted to his own share in the whirl about him. Itwasn't a job he liked, but there wasn't anything else offering, andthen Katie might want somebody to look after her, and so it was just aswell he had the job. He and Katie had been schoolmates together not solong ago, in the wooden schoolhouse near the crossroads. She had goneto college, and had come home with a diploma. She was two or threeyears older than he was, but that didn't make any difference to a boyand girl from the same village when they had grown up alongside of eachother. He wondered how long it was to July, when he was promised aweek, --and so was Katie. He knew just what they'd do; he could get twopasses to Plymouth, --his old friend the freight boss had promised himthat, --then about daylight, the time the train arrived, he'd findMarvin, who drove the stage up the valley and past his old home, andhelp him curry his team and hitch up, and Marvin would give them a ridefree. He could feel the fresh air on his cheeks as he rattled out ofthe village, across the railroad track and out into the open. TimShekles, the blacksmith, would be at work, and old Mother Crawportwould be digging in her garden, early as it was; and out in the fieldsthe crows would be hunting corn; and pretty soon down would go thewheels into the soft, clean gravel of the brook that crossed theturnpike and out again on the other side dripping puddles in the dirt;and soon the big trees would begin, and keep on and on and on, --away upto the tops of the mountains, the morning sun silvering the mistssweeping up their sides, --and--

"Say! you! Wake up! He's been hollering at you for five minutes. GIT!"

Joe sat up and rubbed his eyes. The fresh air of the morning hadvanished. 

"Yes, sir. " He was on his feet now, alert as a terrier that had sniffeda rat. 

"YES, SIR, eh! How many times do you want me to call you? Go and findMiss Murdock, and send her here on the run. Tell her to get her hat andcloak and show up in two minutes. I've got an assignment for her on theEast Side, --just come over the 'phone. Hurry now! That damned kid oughtto be--"

But Joe was already out of the room and down two pair of stairs. Beforethe minutes were up he was back again, Katie Murdock with him. She wassliding her arm into the sleeve of her jacket as she entered. 

"Forty-third and First Avenue, Miss Murdock, " said the night cityeditor, lifting his head so that the cat eyes had full play. "Girloverboard from one of the ferry boats, --lives at 117. --Drowned, theysay, --some fellow mixed up in it. Take your snapshot along and geteverything. Find the mother if she's got one and--"

But the girl had gone. She knew the value of time, --especially at thathour, even if she had been but a week in her new department of"Special. " Her chief knew it, too, or he wouldn't have sent her at thathour. There was time--plenty of time if everything went right, --thirtyminutes, perhaps an hour, --to spare, but they were not hers to waste. 

"Wait for me, Joe, " she said, as she hurried past him. "We'll go uptown together, soon as the presses start. "

Joe threw himself again on the pile of sacks and kept his ears open fororders. It was a bad night for Katie to go out. She was plucky andcould hold her own, --had done so a dozen times, --once in a street carwhen some fellow tried to be familiar, --but he didn't like her to go, all the same. Nobody who looked into her face and then down into herblue eyes would ever make any mistake, but then some men mightn't takethe trouble to look. He'd wait for her, no matter how late it might be. When she came in she would be out of breath, and perhaps hungry, --thenhe'd take her over to Cobb's for a cup of coffee. 

During the interim Joe's legs had been kept busy. Not only had herushed downstairs and up again half a dozen times, springing to thenight city editor's curse, or pound, or shout, whichever had comehandiest, but he had also been twice to the corner for frankfurters forreporters who hadn't had a crumb to eat for hours. He was unwrappingthe second one when Katie burst in. 

Her hat and coat were dripping wet and her hair hung in disorder abouther pale face. Her notes were nearly completed; she had worked them outon the elevated on her way downtown. Joe absorbed her with a look, andslid to her side. Something in her face told him of her errand;something of the suffering, and perhaps horror, --and he wanted to getclose to her. The girl had reached the editor's desk now, and waswaiting until he had finished the paragraph his pen was inditing. 

"Well, " he said, laying down his pen, --"What have you got?" He wasrunning his cat eyes over the girl's notes as he spoke, --taking in at aglance the "meat" of her report. Then he added, --"Get any snaps?"

"No, sir, I--"

"Didn't I tell you I must have 'em?"

"Yes, but I couldn't do it. The mother was half crazy and the twolittle children would have broken your heart. She was the only one whocould earn anything--"

"And you got into the house and had the whole bunch right in your fistand never snapped a shutter! See here, Miss Murdock I ain't running aBible class and you're not working in the slums, --you can keep thatgush for some other place. You had your camera and flash, --I saw you goout with them. I wanted everything: corpse of girl, the mother, children; where she was hauled out, --who hauled her out, --herlover, --she went overboard for some fellow, you remember, --I told youall that. Well, you're the limit!"

Joe had moved up closer, now. He was formulating in his mind what wouldhappen to Katie if he caught the night city editor under his chin andslammed his head against the wall. He knew what would happen to theeditor and to himself, but it was Katie's fate that kept his hands flatto his sides. 

"I would rather throw up my position than have done it, sir, " Katiepleaded. "There are some things never ought to be printed. This drownedgirl--"

The night city editor sprang from his chair, brushed the pile of notesaside with his hand, and shouted

"Say, you! Find that damned boy, somebody, if he isn't asleep!"

Joe, who was not ten feet away, stepped up and faced him, --stepped soquickly that the man backed away as if for more room. 

"Get a move on and send Miss Parker here. Hunt for her, --if she isn'tdownstairs she may be at Cobb's getting something to eat. Quick, now!"Then he turned to Katie

"You better go home, Miss Murdock. You're tired, maybe: anyhow, you'reway off. Miss Parker'll get what we want, --she isn't so thin-skinned. Here, take that stuff with you, --it's no use to me. "

The girl reached across the desk, gathered up the scattered notes, andwithout a word left the room. On the way downstairs she met Miss Parkercoming up, Joe at her heels. She was older than Katie, --and harder; awoman of thirty-five, whose experience had ranged from nurse in areformatory to a night reporter on a "Yellow. " The two women passedeach other without even a nod. Joe turned and followed Katie Murdockdownstairs and into the night air. Miss Parker kept on her way. As sheglided through the room to the city editor's office, she had the air ofa sleuth tracking a criminal. 

Once outside in the night air, Joe drew Katie from under the glare ofthe street lamp. Her eyes were running tears, --at the man's cruelty andinjustice, she who had worked to any hour of the night to please him. 

Joe was boiling. 

"I'll go back and punch him, if you'll let me. I heard it all. "

"No, it'll do no good, --both of us would get into trouble, then. "

"Well, then, I'll chuck my job. This ain't no place for any decent girlnor man. Was it pretty bad where you went, Katie?"

"Bad! Oh, Joe, you don't know. I said, last week, when I forced my wayinto the room of that poor mother whose son was arrested, that I'dnever report another case like it. But you ought to have seen what Isaw to-night. The poor girl worked in a box factory, they told me, andthis man hounded her, and in despair she threw herself overboard. Theroom was full when I got there, --policemen, --one or two otherreporters, --no woman but me. They had brought her in dripping wet and Ifound her on the floor, --just a child, Joe, --hardly sixteen, --her hairfilled with dirt from the water, --the old mother wringing her hands. Oh, it was pitiful! I could have flashed a picture, --nobody would havecared nor stopped me, --but I couldn't. Don't you see I couldn't, Joe?He has no right to ask me to do these things, --nobody has, --it's awful. It's horrible! What would that poor mother have said when she saw it inthe paper? I'll go home now. No, you needn't come, --they'll want you. Go back upstairs. Good-night. "

Joe watched her until she caught an uptown car, and then turned intothe side door opening on the narrow street. A truck had arrived whilethey were talking, and the men were unloading some great rolls ofpaper, --enormous spools. "What would dad say if he saw what his treeshad come to?" Joe thought, as he stood for a moment looking themover, --his mind going back to his father's letter. One roll of woodpulp had already been jacked up and was now feeding the mighty press. The world would be devouring it in the morning; the drowned girl wouldhave her place in its columns, --so would every other item that told ofthe roar and crash, the crime, infamy, and cruelty of the precedinghours. Then the issues would be thrown away to make room for a fresherrecord;--some to stop a hole in a broken window; some to be trampledunder foot of horse and man; many to light the fires the city over. 

"My poor trees!" sighed Joe, as he slowly mounted the steps to the topfloor. "There ain't no common sense in it, I know. Got to make sumpin'out o' the timber once they're cut down, but it gits me hot all thesame when I think what they've come to. Gol-darn-shame to serve ye so!Trees has feelin's, same's men, --that's what dad says, and that's true!"

Miss Parker had done her work. Joe saw that when he opened the paperthe next morning: saw it at a glance, and with a big lump in his throatand a tightening of his huge fists. Flaring headlines marked the firstpage; under them was a picture of the girl in a sailor hat, --she hadfound the original on the mantel and had slipped it in her pocket. Thenfollowed a flash photo of the dead girl lying on the floor, --her poor, thin, battered and bruised body straight out, the knees and feetstretching the wet drapery, --nothing had been left out. Most of thedetails were untrue, --the story of the lover being a pure invention, but the effect was all right. Then, again, no other morning journal hadmore than a few lines. 

Everybody congratulated her. "Square beat, " one man said, at which hergray, cold face lightened up. 

"Glad you liked it, " she answered with a nod of her head, --"I generally'get there. '"

When the night city editor arrived--the city editor was ill and he hadtaken his place for the day--he reached out and caught her hand. Thenhe drew her inside the office. When she passed Joe again on her wayout, her smile had broadened. 

"Got her pay shoved up, " one of the younger men whispered to another. 

When Katie came in an hour later, no one in the room but Joe caught thedark lines under her eyes and the reddened lids, --as if she had passeda sleepless night, --one full of terror. She walked straight to wherethe boy stood at work. 

"I've just seen that poor mother, Joe. I saw the paper and what MissParker had said and I went straight to her. I did not want her to thinkI had been so cruel. When I got to her house this morning there was apatrol wagon at the door and all the neighbors outside. A woman told meshe was all right until somebody showed her the morning paper with thepicture of her drowned daughter; then she began to scream and wentstark mad, and they were getting ready to take her to Ward's Islandwhen I walked in. You've seen the picture, haven't you?"

Joe nodded. He had seen the picture, --had it in his hand. He dare nottrust himself to speak, --everybody was around and he didn't want toappear green and countrified. Then again, he didn't want to make itharder for Katie. She had had nothing to do with it, thank God!

The door of the office swung open. The editor this time caught sight ofKatie, called her by name, and, with a "Like to see you about a littlematter, " beckoned her inside and shut the door upon them both. 

A moment later she was out again, a blue envelope in her hand. 

"He's got me discharged, Joe. Here's a note from the city editor, " shesaid. Her voice quivered and the tears stood in her eyes. 

"Fired you!"

"Yes, --he says I'm too thin-skinned. "

Joe stood for a moment with the front page of the paper still in hishand. Something of Jonathan came into his face, --the same firm linesabout his mouth that his father had when he crawled under the floortimbers of the mill to save Baker's girl, pinned down and drowning, thenight of the freshet. 

Crushing the sheet in his hand Joe walked straight into the cityeditor's office, a swing in his movement and a look in his eye thatroused everybody in the room. 

"You've got Katie Murdock fired, she says, " he hissed between histeeth. "What fur?" He was standing over the night city editor now, hiseyes blazing, his fists tightly closed. 

"What business have you to ask?" growled the editor. 

"Every business!" There was something in the boy's face that made theman move his hand toward a paper weight. 

"She's fired because she wouldn't do your dirty work. Look atthis!"--he had straightened out the crumpled sheet now: "Look at it!That's your work!--ain't a dog would a-done it, let alone a man. Do youknow what's happened? That girl's mother went crazy when she saw thatpicture! You sent that catamount, Miss Parker, to do it, and she doneit fine, and filled it full o' lies and dirt! Ye didn't care who yehurt, you--"

The man sprang to his feet. 

"Here!--put yourself outside that door! Get out or I'll--"

"Git out, will I!--ME!--I'll git out when you eat yer words, --and youWILL eat 'em. Down they go--"

Joe had him by the throat now, his fingers tight under his chin, hishead flattened against the wooden partition. In his powerful grasp theman was as helpless as a child. 

"Eat it, --swallow it!--MORE--MORE--all of it! damn ye!"

He was cramming the wad between the editor's lips, one hand forcingopen his teeth, the other holding his head firm against the wall. 

Then flinging the half strangled man from him he turned, and facing thecrowd of reporters and employes--Miss Parker among them, --shouted:--

"And ye're no better, --none o' ye. Ye all hunt dirt, --live on dirt andeat dirt. Ye're like a lot o' buzzards stuck up on a fence rail waitin'fur an old horse to die. Ain't one o' you reporters wouldn't been gladto do what that catamount over there done last night, and ain't one o'ye wouldn't take pay fur it. Katie Murdock's fired? Yes, --two of us isfired, --me and her. We'll go back whar we come from. We mayn't be soalmighty smart as some o' you city folks be, but we're a blamed sightdecenter. Up in my country dead girls is sumpin' to be sorry fur, notsumpin' to make money out'er, and settin' a poor mother crazy isworse'n murder. Git out o' my way thar, or I'll hurt some o' ye! Come, Katie!"

THE BEGUILING OF PETER GRIGGS

Peter was in his room when I knocked--up two flights of stairs offWashington Square--Eighth Street really--in one of those houses with apast--of mahogany, open wood fires, old Madeira in silver coasterspushed across hand-polished tables, --that kind of a past. 

None of all this could be seen in its present. The marble steps outsidewere worn down like the teeth of an old horse, and as yellow; the ironrailings were bent and cankered by rust; the front door was inblisters; the halls bare, steps uncarpeted, and the spindling mahoganybalusters showed here and there substitutes of pine. 

Nor did the occupants revive any of its old-time charm. The basementheld a grocery--a kindling-wood, ice and potato sort of grocery; theparlor boasted a merchant tailor--much pressing and repairing, with nowand then a whole suit; the second floor front was given over to awig-maker and the second story back to a manicure. Here the tide of thecommercial and the commonplace stopped--stopped just short of the thirdfloor where old Peter Griggs lived. 

You would understand why if you knew the man. 

Just as this particular old house possessed two distinctpersonalities--one of the past and the other of the present--so did theoccupant of the third floor. 

Downtown in the custom house, where he was employed (he had somethingto do with invoices), he was just plain Mr. Griggs--a short, crisp, "Yes and so" little man--exact, precise and absurdly correct: never, inall his life, had he made a mistake. 

Up in these rooms on the third floor he was dear old Peter--or Pete--orGriggsy--or whatever his many friends loved best to call him. Up here, too, he was the merriest companion possible; giving out as much as heabsorbed, and always with his heart turned inside out. That he had beenfor more than thirty years fastened to a high stool facing his deskbespoke neither political influence nor the backing of rich friends. Nobody, really, had ever wanted his place. If they did they never daredask for it--not above their breath. They would as soon have thought ofousting the old clock from its perch in the rotunda, or moving one ofthe great columns that faced the street. So he just stayed on tickingaway at his post, quite like the old clock itself, and getting stifferand stiffer in the line of his duty--quite like the columns--andgetting more and more covered with the dust of long habit--quite likeboth of them. 

This dust, being outside dust, and never sinking the thousandth part ofan inch below the surface, left its mark on the man beneath as a livecoal fading and whitening leaves its covering of ashes on the spark. 

These two--the ashes and the spark--made up the sum of Peter'sindividuality. The ash part was what he offered to the world ofroutine--the world he hated. The spark part--cheery, warm, enthusiastic, full of dreams, of imaginings, with an absorbing love forlittle bits of beauty, such as old Satsuma, Cloisonne, quaintminiatures and the like--all good, and yet within reach of hispurse--this part he gave to his friends. 

I am inside his room now, standing behind him taking in the glow of thefire and the red damask curtains shielding the door that leads to hisbedroom; my eye roving over the bookcases crammed with books, thetables littered with curios and the mantel covered with miniatures andivories. I invariably do this to discover his newest "find" before hecalls my attention to it. As he has not yet moved or given me any othersign of recognition than a gruff "Draw up a chair, " in a voice thatdoes not sound a bit like him--his eyes all the time on the smoulderingfire, there is yet a chance to look him over before he begins to talk. (We shall all be busy enough listening when he does begin. )

I say "ALL, " for there is a second visitor close behind me, and thesound of still another footstep can already be heard in the hall below. 

It is the back of Peter's head now that interests me, and the droop ofhis shoulders. They always remind me of Leech's sketch of Old Scroogewaiting for Marly's ghost, whenever I come upon him thus unobserved. To-night he not only wears his calico dressing-gown--unheard-of garmentin these days--but a red velvet cap pulled over his scalp. Most baldmen would have the cap black--but then most bald men have not Peter'seye for color. 

It's a queer head--this head of Peter Griggs. Not at all like any otherhead I know. If I should attempt to describe it, I should merely haveto say bluntly that it was more like an enlarged hickory-nut than anyother object I can think of. It is of the same texture, too, and almostas devoid of hair. Except on his temples, and close down where hiscollar binds his thin neck, there is really very little hair left; andthis is so near the color of the shrivelled skin beneath that I neverknow where one begins and the other ends. 

When I face him--and by this time I am facing him--I must admit thatthe hickory-nut simile still holds. There are no particular features, no decided bumps, no decided hollows; the nose is only an enlargedridge, the cheeks and eye-sockets only seams. But the eyes count--yes, the eyes count--count so that you see at once that they are the livepoints of the live coal smouldering beneath. 

Here the hickory-nut as a simile goes all to pieces. These eyes are theflash from some distant lighthouse, burning dull when the commonplaceof life passes before him, and bursting into effulgence when somethingtouches his heart or stirs his imagination. Downtown in the Dismal Tombeven the lighthouse goes to smash. Here the eyes set so far back in hishead that they look for all the world like two wary foxes peeping outof a hole, losing nothing of what is going on outside--never beingfooled, never being wheedled or coaxed out of their retreat. "Can'tfool Mr. Griggs, " some broker says, as he tries to get his paperssigned out of his turn. Uptown these same foxes are running aroundloose in an abandonment of jollity, frisking here and there, allrestraint cast aside--trusting everybody--and glad to. That's why Icouldn't understand his tone of voice when I opened his door. 

"Not sick, old fellow?" I cried. He had not yet lifted his head orvouchsafed a single word of welcome. 

"Yes, sick at heart. My old carcass is all right, but inside--way downwhere a man lives--I'm sick unto death. Take a look at the mantelpiece. You see my best miniature's gone, don't you?"

"Not the Cosway?"

"Yes, the Cosway!"

"Stolen?"

"Worse than stolen! Oh, my boy, such mean people live in the world! Icouldn't believe it possible. I've read in the papers something likeit, but that I should have been--oh, I can't get over it! It haunts melike a ghost. It isn't the value--it's the way it was done; and I wasso helpless, and I meant only to be kind. "

The other men had arrived now and the three of us were ranged aroundPeter in a circle, wondering with wide-opened eyes at his tone ofvoice, his dismal expression, and especially at the air of dejectionwhich seemed to ooze through every square inch of his calicodressing-gown. 

"Sit down, all of you, " he continued "and listen. And it's all yourfault. If only one of you had come up to see me! I waited and waited; Iknew most of you would be off somewhere eating your Thanksgivingturkey, but that every mother's son of you should have forgottenme--that's what I won't forgive you for. "

We, with one accord, began to make excuses, but he waved us intosilence. 

"After a while I got so lonely I couldn't stand it any longer. So aboutsix o'clock I started out to dine alone somewhere--some place where Ihad no associations with any one of you. I hadn't gone as far asBroadway when along came two men and a woman. You'd have said 'twogentlemen and a lady'--I say two men and a woman. I looked at them andthey looked at me. I saw they were from out of town, and right awaycame the thought, they must be lonely, too. Everybody is lonesome onThanksgiving if he's away from home, or, like me, has no place to goto. The Large Man stopped and nudged the Small Man, and the Womanturned and looked at me earnestly, then all three talked together for aminute, then I heard the Small Man say, 'I'll go you a ten on it, 'which conveyed no meaning to me. Then all three of them walked back towhere I stood and the Large Man asked me where Foscari's restaurant was. 

"Well, of course, that was in the next street, so I volunteered to showthem the place. On the way over the Small Man and the Woman laggedbehind and I overheard them say that it would never do--that is, theWoman said so; at which the Small Man laughed and said they couldn'tfind a better. All this time the Large Man held me by the arm in afriendly sort of way, as if he were afraid I would stub my toe and fallif he didn't help me over the gutters; telling me all the time that hedidn't know the ropes around New York and how much obliged he was to mefor taking all this trouble to show him. Pretty soon we arrived atFoscari's. I never dined there--never had been inside the place. Cheapsort of a restaurant--down two steps from the sidewalk, but they askedfor Foscari's, and that's where I took them. 

"'Here's the place, ' I said, and I lifted my hat to the Woman andturned to go back. 

"'No, don't go, ' said the Large Man, still holding on to my arm. 'You've been white and decent to us; we're all stranded here. This isThanksgiving--come in and have dinner with us. '

"Then I began by thanking them and ended by saying I couldn't. Then theSmall Man began to urge me, saying that out in his country, near theRockies, everybody was willing to sit down at anybody's table when hewas invited; and the Large Man kept on squeezing my arm in a friendlysort of way, so I finally said I didn't care if I did, and in we allwent. When we got inside the place was practically empty--only oneguest, really--and he was over by the wall in a corner. There were onlytwo waiters--one an Irishman who said his name was Mike, with a veryred head and an enormous mouth--a queer kind of a servant for that kindof a restaurant, I thought--and the other a young Italian, who wasprobably the cook. 

"'You order, ' said the Large Man. 'You know what's good in New York. '

"So I ordered. 

"And I want to tell you that the dinner was a particularly goodone--well cooked and well served. We had soup and fish and an Italianragout, macaroni, peppers and two bottles of red wine. Before the soupwas over I was glad I'd come; glad, not only because the dinner was allright, but because the people were human kind of people--no foolishnessabout them--no pretension. They were not our kind of people, ofcourse--couldn't find them in New York if you looked everywhere--notborn and brought up here. The Woman was gentle and kindly, saying verylittle, but the Large Man was a hearty, breezy sort of fellow--even ifhis language at times was rough and uncouth--at least I thought so. Bigbones and a well-fed body; quick in his movements, yet slow in histalk, showing force and determination in everything he said. The SmallMan was as tough physically and as alert mentally, but there wasn't somuch of him. He talked, however, twice as fast as the Large Man, andsaid less. 

"He talked of the city--how smart the people were, how stuck up some ofthem, thinking they knew it all, and how, if they but thought about it, they must see after all that the West was the only thing that kept thecountry alive. That kind of talk--not in an offensive way--just as allof us talk when we believe in our section of the country. 

"All this time the solitary guest sat against the wall listening. Nearas I could make out he only had one dish and a small bottle of wine. Presently he made a remark--not to us--not to the room--more as if tohimself. 

"'West is the only thing, is it? And every man Jack of them from NewEngland stock!'

"This, too, didn't come in any offensive spirit--just as an aside, asif to keep himself company, being lonely, of course. 

"But the Large Man caught it before all the words were out of his mouth. 

"'Dead right, pard, ' he said--I only quote his words, gentlemen. 'Myfather came from Boston, left there in '58. Where're you from?'

"'Boston, ' answered the man looking at him over the prongs of his fork. 

"'That so? Well, why ain't you eatin' your turkey with your folks? Gotany?'

"'Yes, got a lot of them, but I was short of a ticket. '

"Here the Large Man got up and went over to the Man from Boston. 

"'Shake for Boston, ' he said, holding out his big hand. 'And now bringthat bottle over here and chip in with us. ' Then he opened hispocketbook and took out a square slip of paper. 

"'Here, tuck that in your clothes. ' Again I must remark, gentlemen, that I am only quoting their language so that you can get a better ideaof what sort of people I was with. 'That's a pass to your 'burg. I'mgoing South and I won't use it. '

"There were five of us at the table now, the Bostonian bringing overhis plate without a word except 'Thank you, ' and taking his share ofthe different dishes. 

"The talk now became very interesting. The Large Man told stories ofhis early life on a farm and the Bostonian recited verses, and recitedthem very well, and the Woman laughed in the right place, and when thecigars were brought and the coffee and the cognac, I was sorry it wasall over. That, when I look back upon it, is the most extraordinarything of all. How a man of my experience could have--Well, I won'tstop, I'll just keep on. 

"With the coffee, and before the red-headed Irishman had brought thebill--oh, you should go round to Foscari's and look at that Irishmanjust to see how coarse and vulgar a man can be who spends his wholelife feeding animals who--no I WILL go on, for the most interestingpart is to come. When the coffee was served, I say, the Large Man askedthe waiter where he could send a telephone message to his hotel--wantedthe porter to get his trunks down. The Irishman answered: 'Out in thehall, to the right o' where ye come in. ' 'I'll go with you, ' said theWoman; so the two got up and I opened the door for her, and we threesat down again--that is, the Small Man, the Bostonian and myself. 

"We talked on, not noticing the time; then the Small Man looked at hiswatch, jumped up and called out to the waiter: 'Where did you say thattelephone place was?'

"'In the hall--on the other side of that dure; ye kin see it from whereye're sittin'. '

"'Well, he's taking a devil of a time to do his telephoning' said theSmall Man. 'Hold on to my coffee till I go and punch him up. '

"The Bostonian and I kept on talking. He was a draughtsman in anarchitect's office, so he told me, and was promised a place thefollowing week, and I was very much interested in what he told me ofhis walking the streets looking for work. 

"Mike, the waiter, now laid the bill on the table. I didn't want toknow the amount; my hosts wouldn't want me to see it, of course, and soI didn't look at it. The Bostonian craned his head, but I forestalledhis glance and turned a plate over it before he could read the total. 

"Mike now approached. 

"'Ye'd better pay now, ' he said, 'before any more o' ye skip. It's ninedollars and sixty cints. '

"'They'll all be back in a minute, ' I said. 'Wait till they come. I'monly an invited guest. '

"'I'll wait nothin'. The boss is out and I'm in charge. H'ist out yermoney. '

"The Bostonian had risen from the table now and was looking at me as ifI'd just been detected in picking his pocket. 

"'But I'm an invited guest, ' I protested. 

"'Invited guest, are ye?' continued the Irishman. 'And ye ordered thegrub yersilf! You heard him!' This to the Bostonian. 'Didn't he orderthe stuff? Let's see yer wad. No more o' ye's goin' to l'ave this room'till I gits nine dollars and sixty cints. Here, Macaroni'--and hecalled the Italian--'ring up the station-house and till thim to sindsomebody 'round. Ye can't play that game on me!"

"'My dear fellow, ' I said--I had now to be as courteous as I could--'Idon't want to play anything on you. You may be right in your views thatthese people have served me a scurvy trick, but I don't believe it. '

"'Well, thin, pull yer wad out, or I'll call the perlice. '

"'Don't do anything of the kind, ' I urged. 'My name is Peter Griggs andI live quite near here. Lived there for twenty years. You can find outall about me from any of the neighbors; I haven't enough money with me, but I'll go to my room and get it. '

"'No ye don't; none o' that guff for me!' You can't think how coarse hewas. Then he walked deliberately over to the door and stood with hisback against it. 

"The Bostonian now joined in. 

"'It looks as if you had been buncoed, my friend, ' he said. 'It's anold dodge, this, of getting somebody to pay for your dinner, especiallyon holidays, and yet I can't see how anybody would pick you out as agreenhorn. I'd divide the bill with you, but really, as you know, Ihaven't the money. ' I saw from his tone that he was thinking better ofme. 

"'No, I'll pay it myself. You, certainly, were not to blame. Will yougo to my room with me, Mike?' I called him Mike because it seemed thebest way to conciliate the man. 

"'How far is it?' he asked, softening a little. 

"'Two blocks. '

"'And ye'll pay if I go?'

"'Of course I will pay. Do I look like a man who would cheat you?'

"'All right, come on. '

"I bade the Bostonian good-by, and we started. 

"Mike didn't speak a word on the way, nor did I. I felt like asuspected thief that a policeman was taking to the station-house; I'vepassed them many times in the street, and I've often wondered what waspassing in the thief's mind. I knew now. I knew, too, what theBostonian thought of me, and the Italian, and Mike. 

"Then a shiver went through me, and the next moment I broke out into acold sweat. I suddenly remembered that I hadn't any money in my room. Ihad given every cent, except two dollars of the amount I had broughtuptown with me, to my washerwoman the night before. The bill was notdue, but Mrs. Jones wanted it for Thanksgiving and so I let her haveit. And yet, gentlemen--would you believe it!--I walked on, trying tothink if there mightn't be some bills in the vest I'd worn the daybefore, or in the top drawer of my desk or in a china cup on themantel. Really, it was an awful, awful position! I couldn't run! Icouldn't explain. I just had to keep on. 

"When I got here I turned up the light and asked him to sit down whileI searched my clothes--you can see what disgrace does for a man--askeda common, low, vulgar waiter to sit down in my room. He didn't sitdown--he just kept walking round and round, peering into the bookcases, handling the little things on the mantel, feeling the quality of thecurtain that hangs there at the door--like a pawnbroker making up aninventory. 

"Finally he said: 'Ye got a nice place here'--the first words that hadcome from his lips since we left the restaurant. 'The boss likes thesejimcracks; he's got a lot o' thim up where he lives. I seen him paytwinty dollars to a Jew-dago for one o' THIM. ' And he pointed to my rowof miniatures. 

"By this time I was face to face with the awful truth. There wasnothing in the vest-pocket, nor in the cup, and there was nothing inthe drawer. The only money I had was the two-dollar bill which had beenleft over after paying Mrs. Jones. I spread it out before him andlooked him straight in the eye--fearlessly--that he might know I wasn'ttelling him an untruth. 

"'My good man, ' I said in my kindest voice, 'I was mistaken. I find Ihave no money. I have paid away every cent except these two dollars;take this bill and let me come in to-morrow and pay the balance. '

"'Good man be damned!' he said. 'I don't want yer two dollars. I'lltake this and call it square. ' Then he put my precious Cosway in hispocket and without another word walked out of the room. "

"But wouldn't they give it back to you when you went for it?" I blurtedout. 

Peter leaned back in his chair and drummed on the arm with his fingers. 

"To tell the truth, I have been ashamed to go. I suppose they will giveit back when I ask them. And every day I intended going and paying themthe money, and every day I shun the street as if a plague was there. Iwill go some time, but not now. Please don't ask me. "

"Have you seen none of them since?" inquired another of his visitors. 

"Only the Bostonian. He walked up to me while I was having my lunch inNassau Street yesterday. 

"'I came out better than you did, ' he said. 'The pass was good. I usedit the next day. Just home from the Hub. '"

"Accomplice, maybe, " remarked Peter's third visitor, "just fooling youwith that architect yarn. "

"Buncoed that pass out of somebody else, " suggested the second visitor. 

"Perhaps, " Peter continued. "I give it up. It's one of the things thatcan never be explained. The Bostonian was polite, but he still thinksme a cheat. He let me down as easy as he could, being a gentleman, butI can never forget that he saw me come in with them and order thedinner, and that then I tried to sneak out of paying for it. Oh, it'sdreadful! Dreadful!"

Peter settled in his seat until only the top of his red skull capshowed above the back of his easy chair. For some minutes he did notspeak, then he said slowly, and as if talking to himself:

"Mean, mean people to serve me so!"

Some days later I again knocked at Peter's door. I had determined, withor without his consent, to go myself to Foscari's, redeem the miniatureand explain the circumstances, and let them know exactly who Peter was. My hand had hardly touched the panel when his cheery voice rang out:

"Whoever you are, come in!"

He had sprung from his chair now and had advanced to greet me. 

"Oh, is it you! So glad--come over here before you get your coat off. Look!"

"The Cosway! You paid the bill and redeemed it?"

"Didn't cost me a cent. "

"They sent it to you, then, and apologized?"

"Nothing of the kind. Give me your hat and coat and plump yourself downon that chair by the fire. I've got the most extraordinary story totell you you've ever heard in your whole life. "

He was himself again--the same bubbling spirit, the same warmth in hismanner, foxes out frolicking, lighthouse flashing, everything let loose. 

"Last night I was sitting here at my desk writing, about nine o'clock, as near as I can remember"--his voice dropped now to a tragic whisper, as if an encounter with a burglar was tofollow--"WHEN-_I_-HEARD-A-HEAVY-TREAD-ON-THE-STAIRS, getting louder andlouder as it reached my door. Then came a knock strong enough to crackthe panels. I got up at once and turned the knob. In the corridor stoodthe Large Man. He was inside before I could stop him--I couldn't havestopped him. You have no idea, my dear friend, how big and strong thatman is. What he expected to see I don't know, but it evidently was notwhat he found. 

"'I had a hell of a time finding you, ' he began, looking about him inastonishment. 'Been up and down everywhere inquiring. Only got yournumber from that red-headed plate-shover half an hour ago. '"

Peter's voice had now regained its customary volume:

"I had backed to the fireplace by this time and had picked up thepoker, as if to punch the fire, but I really intended to strike him ifhe advanced too close or tried to help himself to any of my things. Henever took the slightest notice of my movements, or waited for anyanswer to his outburst--just kept right on talking. 

"'You were so dead easy there warn't no fun in it. I dropped to thatthe first time you opened your head, but Sam had picked you out and ithad to go at that. My wife saw his mistake as soon as she got her eyeson you, but Sam, like a fool, wouldn't listen. He was to do thepicking, and so I couldn't say a word. When we all got outside, clear, we took a turn around Washington Square so I could have my laugh out onSam, and when we got back you were gone and so was the fellow fromBoston who chipped in, and so was that red-headed Irish waiter. Thatknocked us silly--wife gave us rats, and I felt like a yellow dog. Beena-feeling so ever since. The Dago couldn't or wouldn't understand. Saidwe'd better come in when the boss was there. We had to take the eleveno'clock to Boston that night and had only time to catch the train. WhenI got back at six-ten to-night I drove to Foscari's, found the Irishmanand the boss, heard how he'd pulled your leg--paid the bill--$9. 60, wasn't it?--that's what he said it was, anyhow--and here's yourpicture!'

"I had dropped the poker now and was motioning him to a chair. 

"'No, thank you, I won't sit down; ain't got time. Got to take theeleven forty-five for Chicago. Well, we had a lot of fun out of it, anyhow, only I didn't intend it should end up the way it did. Justwanted to get even with Sam and win my bet. '

"'Bet? I asked. I was still in the dark as to what he meant. 

"'Yes--bet Sam I'd bunco any New York man he'd pick out, and youhappened to be the one. You see, wife and I and Sam were here for a fewdays and we struck Thanksgiving and wanted some fun, and we HAD it. You're white, old man all the way through--white as cotton and ourkind--never flunked once, or turned a hair. Sally took an awful shineto you. Shake! Next time I'm in New York I'll look you up and if youever come out our way we'll open a keg o' nails, and make it red-hotfor you, and don't you forget it. Here's my card, so you can remember. '"

Peter picked up the card from the table, threw up his chin, and brokeinto one of his infectious laughs. I reached over and took it from hishand. It bore this inscription:

 J. C. MURPHY General Travelling Agent C. S. & Q. R. R. 

 OGDEN, UTAH

MISS JENNINGS'S COMPANION

The big Liner slowed down and dropped anchor inside the Breakwater. Sweeping toward her, pushing the white foam in long lines from her bow, her flag of black smoke trailing behind, came the company's tender--outfrom Cherbourg with passengers. 

Under the big Liner's upper deck, along its top rail, was strung a rowof heads watching the tender's approach--old heads--youngheads--middle-aged heads--Miss Jennings's among these last--their eyestaking in the grim Breakwater with its beacon light, the frowningcasemates specked with sentinels, and the line of the distant cityblurred with masts and spent steam. They saw, too, from their height(they could look down the tender's smokestack) the sturdy figure of herCaptain, his white cap in relief against the green sea, and below himthe flat mass of people, their upturned faces so many pats of color ona dark canvas. 

With the hauling taut and making fast of the fore and aft hawsers, agroup of sailors broke away from the flat mass and began tugging at thegangplank, lifting it into position, the boatswain's orders ringingclear. Another group stripped off the tarpaulins from the piles ofluggage, and a third--the gangplank in place--swarmed about the heapsof trunks, shouldering the separate pieces as ants shoulder grains ofsand, then scurrying toward the tender's rail, where other ants reacheddown and relieved them of their loads. 

The mass of people below now took on the shape of a funnel, its spoutresting on the edge of the gangplank, from out which poured a steadystream of people up and over the Liner's side. 

Two decks below where Miss Jennings and her fellow-travellers wereleaning over the steamer's rail craning their necks, other sights cameinto view. Here not only the funnel-shaped mass could be seen, but thefaces of the individuals composing it, as well as their nationality andclass; whether first, second or steerage. There, too, was the line ofstewards reaching out with open hands, relieving the passengers oftheir small belongings; here too stood the First Officer in whitegloves and gold lace bowing to those he knew and smiling at others; andhere too was a smooth-shaven, closely-knit young man in dark clothesand derby hat, who had taken up his position just behind the FirstOfficer, and whose steady steel gray eyes followed the movements ofeach and every one of the passengers from the moment their feet touchedthe gangplank until they had disappeared in charge of the stewards. 

These passengers made a motley group: first came a stout American withtwo pretty daughters; then a young Frenchman and his valet; then aSister of Charity draped in black, her close-fitting, white, starchedcap and broad white collar framing her face, one hand clutching therope rail as she stepped feebly toward the steamer, the other graspinga bandbox, her only luggage; next wriggled some college boys in twosand threes, and then the rest of the hurrying mass, followed close by aherd of emigrants crowding and stumbling like sheep, the men withpillow-case bundles over their backs, the women with babies muffled inshawls. 

When the last passenger was aboard, the closely-knit young man with thesteel gray eyes leaned forward and said in a low voice to the FirstOfficer:

"He's not in this bunch. "

"Sure?"

"Yes--dead sure. "

"Where will you look for him now, Hobson?" continued the officer. 

"Paris, maybe. I told the Chief we wouldn't get anywhere on this lead. Well, so long"--and the closely-knit young man swung himself down thegangplank and disappeared into the cabin of the tender. 

The scenes on the gangplank were now repeated on the steamer. The oldtravellers, whose hand luggage had been properly numbered, gavethemselves no concern--the stewards would look after their belongings. The new travellers--the Sister of Charity among them--wandered aboutasking questions that for the moment no one had time to answer. She, poor soul, had spent her life in restful places, and the in-rush ofpassengers and their proper bestowal seemed to have completely dazedher. 

"Can I help you?" asked the First Officer--everybody is ready to help aSister, no matter what his rank or how pressing his duties. 

"Yes, please--I want to know where my room is. It is Number 49, so myticket says. "

Here the Purser came up--he, too, would help a Sister. 

"Sister Teresa, is it not--from the Convent of the Sacred Heart? Yes, we knew you would get on at Cherbourg. You are on the lower deck in thesame stateroom with Miss Jennings. Steward--take the Sister to--"

"With whom?" she cried, with a look of blank amazement "But I thought Iwas alone! They told me so at the office. Oh, I cannot share my roomwith anybody. Please let--"

"Yes, but we had to double up. We would willingly give you a roomalone, but there isn't an empty berth on board. " He was telling thetruth and showed it in his voice. 

"But I have the money to pay for a whole room. I would have paid for itat the office in Paris, but they told me it was not necessary. "

"I know, Sister, and I'm very sorry, but it can't be helped now. Steward, take Sister Teresa to Number 49. " This last came as an order, and ended the discussion. 

When the Steward pushed open the door Miss Jennings was sitting on thesofa berth reading, a long gray cloak about her shoulders. She had aquiet, calm face and steady eyes framed in gold spectacles. She lookedto be a woman of fifty who had seen life and understood it. 

"The officer says I am to share your room, " began Sister Teresa in atrembling voice. "Don't think me rude, please, but I don't want toshare your room. I want to be alone, and so do you. Can't you help me?"

"But I don't mind it, and you won't after you get used to it. " Thevoice was poised and well modulated--evidently a woman withoutnerves--a direct, masterful sort of woman, who looked you straight inthe eyes, was without guile, hated a lie and believed in human nature. "And we ought to get on together, " she continued simply, as if it werea matter of course. "You are a Sister, and from one of the Frenchinstitutions--I recognize your dress. I'm a nurse from the LondonHospital. The First Officer told me you had the other berth and I waslooking for you aboard the Cherbourg tender, but I couldn't see you forthe smoke, you were so far below me. We'll get on together, never fear. Which bed will you have--this one or the one curtained off?"

"Oh, do you take the one curtained off, " she answered in a hopelesstone, as if further resistance was useless. "The sofa is easier perhapsfor me, for I always undress in the dark. "

"No, turn on the light. It won't wake me--I'm used to sleepinganywhere--sometimes bolt upright in my chair with my hand on mypatient. "

"But it is one of the rules of our order to dress and undress in thedark, " the Sister pleaded; "candles are luxuries only used for thesick, and so we do without them. "

"All right--just as you say, " rejoined Miss Jennings cheerily. "My onlydesire was to make you comfortable. "

That night at dinner Sister Teresa and Nurse Jennings found themselvesseated next to each other, the Chief Steward, who had special ordersfrom the First Officer to show Miss Jennings and her companion everycourtesy, having conducted them to their seats. 

Before the repast was half over, the two had attracted the attention ofall about them. What was particularly noticed was the abstemiousself-denying life of the Sister so plainly shown in the lines of hergrave, almost hard, face, framed close in the tight bands of whitelinen concealing every vestige of her hair, the whole in strongcontrast to the kind, sympathetic face of the Nurse, whose soft graylocks hung loosely about her temples. Their history, gleaned at theFirst Officer's table had also become public property. Nurse Jenningshad served two years in South Africa, where she had charge of a ward inone of the largest field hospitals outside of Pretoria; on her returnto England, she had been placed over an important case in one of theLondon hospitals--that of a gallant Canadian officer who had beenshipped home convalescent, and who had now sent for her to come to himin Montreal. The good Sister was one of those unfortunate women who hadbeen expelled from France under the new law, and who was now on her wayto Quebec, there to take up her life-work again. This had been thefifth refugee, the officer added, whom the Line had cared for. 

When the hour for retiring came, Sister Teresa, with the remark thatshe would wait until Miss Jennings was in bed before she sought her ownberth, followed her companion to the stateroom, bade her good-night, and then, with her hand on the knob, lingered for a moment as if therewas still some further word on her lips. 

"What is it?" asked the Nurse, with one of her direct, searchingglances. "Speak out--I'm a woman like yourself, and can understand. "

"Well, it's about the Hour of Silence. I must have one hour every daywhen I can be alone. It has been the custom of my life and I cannotomit it. It will be many days before we reach the land, and there is noother place for me to pray except in here. Would you object if I--"

"Object! Of course not! I will help you to keep it, and I will see, too, that the Stewardess does not disturb you. Now, is there anythingelse? Tell me--I love people who speak right out what they mean. "

"No--except that I always rise at dawn, and will be gone when you wake. Good-night. "

The morning after this first night the two lay in their steamer chairson the upper deck. The First Officer, noticing them together, pausedfor a moment on his way to the bridge:

"You knew, of course, Miss Jennings, that Hobson went back to Cherbourgon the tender. He left good-by for you. "

"Hunting for somebody, as usual, I suppose?" she rejoined. 

"Yes"--and he passed on. 

"A wretched life, isn't it, " said Nurse Jennings, "this hunting forcriminals? This same man, Mr. Hobson, after a hunt of months, found onein my ward with a bullet through his chest. "

"You know him then?" asked Sister Teresa, with a tremor in her voice. 

"Yes--he's a Scotland Yard man. "

"And you say he was looking for some one on board and didn't find him?"

"No, not yet, but he will find him, he always does; that's the pity ofit. Some of these poor hunted people would lead a different life ifthey had another chance. I tried to save the one Hobson found in myward. He was quite frank with me, and told me everything. When peopletrust me my heart always goes out to them--so much so that I often dovery foolish things that are apt to get me into trouble. It's when theylie to me--and so many do--making one excuse after another for theirbeing in the ward--that I lose all interest in them. I pleaded withHobson to give the man another chance, but I could do nothing. Thief ashe was, he had told the truth. He had that quality left, and I likedhim for it. If I had known Hobson was on his track I'd have helped himin some way to get off. He stole to help his old mother, and wasn't acriminal in any sense--only weak-hearted. The law is cruel--it nevermakes allowances--that's where it is wrong. "

"Cruel!--it's brutal. It is more brutal often than the crime, " answeredSister Teresa in a voice full of emotion. "Do you think the man yourfriend was looking for here on board will escape?"

"No, I'm afraid not. There is very little chance of any criminalescaping when they once get on his track, so Mr. Hobson has told me. Ifhe is on this steamer he must run another gauntlet in New York, even ifhe is among the emigrants. You know we have over a thousand on board. If he is not aboard they will track him down. Dreadful, isn't it?"

"Poor fellow, " said Sister Teresa, a sob in her voice, "how sorry I amfor him. If men only knew how much wiser mercy is than justice in theredemption of the world. " Here she rose from her chair, and gatheringher black cloak about her crossed to the rail and looked out to sea. Ina few minutes she returned. "Let us walk out to the bow where we cantalk undisturbed, " she said. "The constant movement of the passengerson deck, passing backward and forward, disturbs my head. I see so fewpeople, you know. "

When they reached the bow, she made a place beside her for the Nurse. 

"Don't misunderstand what I said about the brutality of the law, " shebegan. "There must be laws, and brutal men who commit brutal crimesmust be punished. But there are so many men who are not brutal, although the crimes may be. I knew of one once. We had educated hislittle daughter--such a sweet child! The man himself was ascene-painter and worked in the theatres in London. Sometimes he wouldtake part in the play himself, making up for the minor characters, although most of his time was spent in painting scenery. He had marrieda woman who was on the stage, and she had deserted him for one of theactors, and left her child behind. Her faithlessness nearly broke hisheart. Through one of our own people in London he found us and sent thechild to the convent where we have a school for just such cases. Whenthe girl got to be seventeen years old he sent for her and she went toLondon to see him. He remembered her mother's career, and guarded herlike a little plant. He never allowed her to come to the theatre exceptin the middle of the day. Then she would come where he was at work upon the top of the painting platform high above the stage. There he andshe would be alone. One morning while he was at work one of thescene-shifters--a man with whom he had had some difficulty--met thegirl as she was crossing the high platform. He had never seen herbefore and, thinking she was one of the chorus girls, threw his armabout her. The girl screamed, the scene-painter dropped his brushes, ran to her side, hit the man in the face--the scene-shifter lost hisbalance and fell to the stage. Before he died in the hospital he toldwho had struck him; he told why, too; that the scene-painter hated him;and that the two had had an altercation the day before--about somecolors; which was not true, there only having been a difference ofopinion. The man fled to Paris with his daughter. The girl today is atone of our institutions at Rouen. The detectives, suspecting that hewould try to see her, have been watching that place for the last fivemonths. All that time he has been employed in the garden of a conventout of Paris. Last week we heard from a Sister in London that some onehad recognized him, although he had shaved off his beard--some visitoror parent of one of the children, perhaps, who had come upon himsuddenly while at work in the garden beds. He is now a fugitive, huntedlike an animal. He never intended to harm this man--he only tried tosave his daughter--and yet he knew that because of the difficulty thathe had had with the dead man and the fact that his daughter's testimonywould not help him--she being an interested person--he would be made tosuffer for a crime he had not intended to commit. Now, would you handthis poor father over to the police? In a year his daughter must leavethe convent. She then has no earthly protection. "

Miss Jennings gazed out over the sea, her brow knit in deep thought. Her mind went back to the wounded criminal in the hospital cot and tothe look of fear and agony that came into his eyes when Hobson stoodover him and called him by name. Sister Teresa sat watching hercompanion's face. Her whole life had been one of mercy and she neverlost an opportunity to plead its cause. 

The Nurse's answer came slowly:

"No, I would not. There is misery enough in the world without my addingto it. "

"Would you help him to escape?"

"Yes, if what you tell me is true and he trusted me. "

Sister Teresa rose to her feet, crossed herself, and said in a voicethat seemed to come through pent-up tears:

"Thank God! I go now to pray. It is my Hour of Silence. "

When she returned, Nurse Jennings was still in her seat in the bow. Thesun shone bright and warm, and the sea had become calm. 

"You look rested, Sister, " she said, looking up into her face. "Yourcolor is fresher and the dark rings have gone from your eyes. Did yousleep?"

"No, I wait for the night to sleep. It is hard enough then. "

"What did you do?"

"I prayed for you and for myself. Come to the stateroom--I havesomething to tell you. "

"Tell it here, " said Nurse Jennings in a more positive tone. 

"No, it might hurt you, and others will notice. Come quick, please, ormy courage will fail. "

"Can't I hear it to-night--" She was comfortable where she was andremembered the narrow, steep steps to the lower deck. 

"No! come now--and QUICK. "

At the tone of agony in the Sister's voice Miss Jennings scrutinizedher companion's face. Her trained ear had caught an indrawn, flutteringsob which she recognized as belonging to a certain form of hysteria. Brooding over her troubles, combined with the effects of the sea air, had unstrung the dear Sister's nerves. 

"Yes, certainly, " assented Miss Jennings. "Let me take your arm--stepcarefully, and lean on me. "

On reaching the stateroom, Sister Teresa waited until Miss Jennings hadentered, then she locked the door and pulled the curtains close. 

"Listen, Miss Jennings, before you judge me. You remember yesterday howI pleaded with you to help me find a bedroom where I could be alone. You would not, and I could do nothing but let matters take theircourse. Fate has placed me in your hands. When you said that you wereon the lookout for me and that you knew Hobson, the detective, I knewthat all was lost unless your heart went out to me. I know him, too. Ifaced his eyes when I came aboard. I staggered with fright and caughtat the ropes, but he did not suspect--I saw in his face that he didnot. He may still trace me and arrest me when I land. If anybody comesfor me, say you met me in the hospital where you work. "

Nurse Jennings stood staring into the woman's eyes. Her first impulsewas to ring the bell for the Steward and send for the ship's doctor. Sudden insanity, the result of acute hysteria, was not uncommon inwomen leading sedentary lives who had gone through a heavy strain, andthe troubles of this poor Sister had, she saw, unseated her reason. 

"Don't talk so--calm yourself. No one is seeking you. You ought to liedown. Come--"

"Yes, I know you think I am crazy--I am crazy--crazy from a horriblefear that stares me in the face--from a spectre that--"

"Sister, you MUST lie down! I'll ring for the Doctor and he--"

Sister Teresa sprang forward and caught the hand of the Nurse before ittouched the bell. 

"Stop! STOP!--or all will be lost! I am not a Sister--I am thescene-painter--the father of that girl! See!" He threw back his hood, uncovering his head and exposed his short-cropped hair. 

Nurse Jennings turned quickly and looked her companion searchingly inthe face. The surprise had been so great that for an instant her breathleft her. Then slowly the whole situation rushed over and upon her. This man had made use of her privacy--had imposed upon her--tricked her. 

"And you--you have dared to come into this room, making me believe youwere a woman--and lied to me about your Hour of Silence and all the--"

"It was the only way I could be safe. You and everybody else woulddetect me if I did not shave and fix up my face. You said a minute agothe dark rings had gone from my eyes--it is this paint-box that did it. Think of what it would mean to me to be taken--and my little girl!Don't--don't judge me wrongly. When I get to New York I promise neverto see you again--no one will ever know. If you had been my own sisterI could not have treated you with more respect since I have been in theroom. I will do anything you wish--to-night I will sleep on thefloor--anything, if--"

"To-night! Not another hour will you stay here. I will go to the Purserat once and--"

"You mean to turn me out?"

"Yes. "

"Oh, merciful God! Don't! Listen--you MUST listen. Let me stay! Whatdifference should it make to you. You have nursed hundreds of men. Youhave saved many lives. Save mine--give me back my little girl! She cancome to me in Quebec and then we can get away somewhere in America andbe safe. I can still pass as a Sister and she as a child in my chargeuntil I can find some place where I can throw off my disguise. See howgood the real Sisters are to me; they do not condemn me. Here is aletter from the Mother Superior in Paris to the Mother Superior of aconvent in Quebec. It is not forged--it is genuine. If they believe inme, why cannot you? Let me stay here, and you stay, too. You would ifyou could see my child. "

The sound of a heavy step was heard outside in the corridor. 

Then came a quick, commanding voice: "Miss Jennings, open the door, please. "

The Nurse turned quickly and made a step toward the door. The fugitivesank upon the sofa and drew the hood over his face. 

Again her name rang out--this time in a way that showed them both thatfurther delay was out of the question. 

Nurse Jennings shot back the bolt. 

Outside stood the First Officer. 

"There has been a bad accident in the steerage. I hate to ask you, MissJennings, knowing how tired you are--but one of the emigrants hasfallen down the forecastle hatch. The Doctor wants you to come at once. "

During the rest of the voyage Nurse Jennings slept in the steerage; shewould send to Number 49 during the day for her several belongings, butshe never passed the night there, nor did she see her companion. Thecase was serious, she told the Stewardess, who came in search of her, and she dared not leave. 

The fugitive rarely left the stateroom. Some days he pleaded illnessand had his meals brought to him; often he ate nothing. 

As the day approached for the vessel to arrive in New York a shiveringnervousness took possession of him. He would stand behind the door bythe hour listening for her lightest footfall, hoping against hope that, after all, her heart would soften toward him. One thought absorbed him:would she betray him, and if so, when and where? Would it be to theFirst Officer--the friend of Hobson--or would she wait until theyreached New York and then hand him over to the authorities?

Only one gleam of hope shone out illumining his doubt, and that wasthat she never sent to the stateroom during the Hour of Silence, thusgiving him a chance to continue his disguise. Even this ray was dimmedwhen he began to realize as they approached their destination that shehad steadily avoided him, even choosing another deck for a breath offresh air whenever she left her patient. That she had welcomed theaccident to the emigrant as an excuse for remaining away from herstateroom was evident. What he could not understand was, if she reallypitied and justified him, as she had done his prototype, why she shouldnow treat him with such suspicion. At her request he had opened hisheart and had trusted her; why then could she not forgive him for thedeceit of that first night--one for which he was not responsible?

Then a new thought chilled him like an icy wind: her avoidance of himwas only an evidence of her purpose! Thus far she had not exposed him, because then it would be known aboard that they had shared thestateroom together. He saw it all now. She was waiting until theyreached the dock. Then no one would be the wiser. 

When the steamer entered her New York slip and the gangplank washoisted aboard, another thick-set, closely-knit man pushed his waythrough the crowd at the rail, walked straight to the Purser andwhispered something in his ear. The next moment he had glided to wherethe Nurse and fugitive were standing. 

"This is Miss Jennings, isn't it? I'm from the Central Office, " and heopened his coat and displayed the gold shield. "We've just got a cablefrom Hobson. He said you were on board and might help. I'm looking fora man. We've got no clew--don't know that he's on board, but I thoughtwe'd look the list over. The Purser tells me that you helped the Doctorin the steerage--says somebody had been smashed up. Got anything tosuggest?--anybody that would fit this description: 'Small man, onlyfive-feet-six; blue eyes'"--and he read from a paper in his hand. 

"No, I don't think so. I was in the steerage, of course, four or fivedays, and helped on a bad case, but I didn't notice anybody but the fewpeople immediately about me. "

"Perhaps, then, among the first-class passengers? Anybody peculiarthere? He's a slick one, we hear, and may be working a stunt indisguise. "

"No. To tell you the truth, I was so tired when I came aboard that Ihardly spoke to any one--no one, really, except my dear Sister Teresahere, who shared my stateroom. They have driven her out of France andshe is on her way to a convent in Quebec. I go with her as far asMontreal. "

SAM JOPLIN'S EPIGASTRIC NERVE

I

"You eat too much, Marny. " It was Joplin, of Boston, who wasspeaking--Samuel Epigastric Joplin, his brother painters called him. "You treat your stomach as if it were a scrap-basket and you dump intoit everything you--"

"I do? You caricature of a codfish ball!"

"Yes, you do. You open your mouth, pin back your ears and in gopickles, red cabbage, Dutch cheese. It's insanity, Marny, and it'svulgar. No man's epigastric can stand it. It wouldn't make anydifference if you were a kangaroo with your pouch on the outside, butyou're a full-grown man and ought to have some common-sense. "

"And you think that if I followed your idiotic theory it would keep meout of my coffin, do you? What you want, Joppy, is a square meal. Younever had one, so far as I can find out, since you were born. You dranksterilized milk at blood temperature until you were five; chewedpatent, unhulled wheat bread until you were ten, and since that timeyou've filled your stomach with husks--proteids, and carbohydrates, anda lot of such truck--isn't that what he calls em, Pudfut?"

The Englishman nodded in assent. 

"And now just look at you, Joppy, instead of a forty-inch chest--"

"And a sixty-inch waist, " interjected Joplin with a laugh, pointing atMarny's waistcoat. 

"I acknowledge it, old man, and I'm proud of it, " retorted Marny, patting his rotundity. "Instead, I say, of a decent chest yourshoulders crowd your breast-bone; your epigastric, as you call it--it'syour solar plexus, Joppy--but that's a trifle to an anatomist likeyou--your epigastric scrapes your back-bone, so lonely is it forsomething warm and digestible to rub up against, and your-- Why, Joppy, do you know when I look at you and think over your wasted life, my eyesfill with tears? Eat something solid, old man, and give your stomach asurprise. Begin now. Dinner's coming up--I smell it. Open your portnostril, you shrivelled New England bean, and take in the aroma ofbeatific pork and greens. Doesn't that put new life into you? Puddy, you and Schonholz help Joppy to his feet and one or two of you fellowswalk behind to pick up the pieces in case he falls apart before we canfeed him. There's Tine's dinner-bell!"

White-capped, rosy-checked, bare-armed Tine had rung that bell for thisgroup of painters for two years past--ever since Mynheer Boudier of theBellevue over the way, who once claimed her services, had reprovedJohann, the porter, for blocking up with the hotel trunks that part ofthe sidewalk over which the steamboat captain slid his gangplank. Thereupon Tine slipped her pretty little feet into her whitesabots--she and Johann have been called in church since--and walkedstraight over to the Holland Arms. Johann now fights the steamboatcaptain, backed not only by the landlord of the Arms, who rubs hishands in glee over the possession of two of his competitor's bestservants, but by the whole coterie of painters whose boots Johannblacks, whose kits be packs and unpacks, whose errands he runs; whileTine, no less loyal and obliging, darns their stockings, mends theirclothes, sews on buttons, washes brushes, stretches canvases, waits ontable, rings the dinner-bell, and with her own hands scrubs everysquare inch of visible surface inside and out of this quaint old inn inthis sleepy old town of Dort-on-the-Maas--side-walks, windows, cobbles--clear to the middle of the street, her ruddy arms bare to theelbow, her sturdy, blue-yarn-stockinged legs thrust into snow-whitesabots to keep her trim feet from the wet and slop. 

Built in 1620, this inn of the Holland Arms--so the mildewed brick inthe keystone over the arch of the doorway says--and once the home of aDutchman made rich by the China trade, whose ships cast anchor whereFop Smit's steamboats now tie up (I have no interest in the Line); agrimy, green-moulded, lean-over front and moss-covered, sloping-roofsort of an inn, with big beams supporting the ceilings of the bedrooms;lumbering furniture blackened with the smoke of a thousand pipesflanking the walls of the coffee-room; bits of Delft a century oldlining the mantel; tiny panes of glass with here and there a bull's-eyeillumining the squat windows; rows of mugs with pewter tops crowdingthe narrow shelves beside the fireplace, and last, and by no meansleast, a big, bulky sun-moon-and-stars clock, with one eye always open, which strikes the hours as if it meant to beat the very life out ofthem. 

But there is something more in this coffee-room--something that neitherMynheer Boudier of the Bellevue nor any other landlord in any otherhostelry, great or small, up and down the Maas, can boast. This is thecoffee-room picture gallery--free to whoever comes. 

It began with a contribution from the first impecunious painter inpayment of an overdue board-bill, his painting being hung on a nailbeside the clock. Now; all over the walls--above the sideboard with itspewter plates and queer mugs; over the mantel holding the Delft, andbetween the squat windows--are pinned, tacked, pasted and hung--singlyand in groups--sketches in oil, pastel, water color, pencil andcharcoal, many without frames and most of them bearing the signature ofsome poor, stranded painter, preceded by the suggestive line, "To mydear friend, the landlord"--silent reminders all of a small cashbalance which circumstances quite beyond their control had preventedtheir liquidating at the precise hour of their departure. 

Mynheer had bowed and smiled as each new contribution was handed himand straightway had found a hammer and a nail and up it went beside itsfellows. He never made objection: the more the merrier. The ice windwould soon blow across the Maas from Papendrecht, the tall grasses inthe marshes turn pale with fright, and the lace-frost with busy fingerspattern the tiny panes, and then Johann would pack the kits one afteranother, and the last good-byes take place. But the sketches wouldremain. Oh! yes, the sketches would remain and tell the story of thesummer and every night new mugs would be filled around the coal-fire, and new pipes lighted--mugs and pipes of the TOWNSPEOPLE this time, whocame to feast their eyes, --and, although the summer was gone, the longwinter would still be his. No, Mynheer never objected!

And this simple form of settlement--a note of hand (in color), payablein yearly patronage--has not been confined to modern times. Many an innowes its survival to a square of canvas--the head of a child, a copperpot, or stretch of dune; and more than one collector now boasts of amasterpiece which had hung for years on some taproom wall, a sure butsilent witness of the poverty of a Franz Hals, Wouverman or Van derHelst. 

Each year had brought new additions to the impecunious group aboutMynheer's table. 

Dear old Marny, with his big boiler amidships, his round, sunburnedface shaded by a wide-brimmed, slouch hat--the one he wore when helived with the Sioux Indians--loose red tie tossed over one shoulder, and rusty velveteen coat, was an old habitue. And so was dry, crustyMalone, "the man from Dublin, " rough outside as a potato and whiteinside as its meal. And so, too, was Stebbins, the silent man of theparty, and the only listener in the group. All these came with theearliest birds and stayed until the boys got out their skates. 

But there were others this year who were new. Pudfut, the Englishman, first--in from Norway, where he had been sketching on board some lord'syacht--he of the grizzly brown beard, brown ulster reaching to histoes, gray-checked steamer-cap and brierwood pipe--an outfit which henever changed--"slept in them, " Marny insisted. 

"Me name's Pudfut, " he began, holding out his hand to Marny. "I've gota letter in my clothes for ye from a chap in Paris. "

"Don't pull it out, " had come the answer. "Put it there!" and within anhour the breezy fellow, his arm through the Englishman's, had trottedhim all over Dort from the Groote Kerk to the old Gate of William ofOrange, introducing him to every painter he met on the way, first asPudfut, then as Puddy, then as Pretty-foot, then as Tootsie-Wootsie, and last as Toots--a name by which he is known in the Quartier to thisday. This done, he had taken him up to his own room and had dumped himinto an extra cot--his for the rest of the summer. 

Then Schonholz wandered in--five gulden a week board was the magnet--acheese-faced, good-natured German lad with forehead so high that whenhe raised his hat Marny declared, with a cry of alarm, that his scalphad slipped, and only regained his peace of mind when he had twistedhis fat fingers in the lad's forelock to make sure that it was stillfast. Schonholz had passed a year at Heidelberg and carried his diplomaon his cheek--two crisscross slashes that had never healed--spokebattered English, wore a green flat-topped cap, and gray bobtailed coatwith two rows of horn buttons ("Come to shoot chamois, have you?" Marnyhad asked when he presented his credentials. )--laughed three-quartersof the time he was awake, and never opened his kit or set a palettewhile he was in Dort. "Too vet and too fodgy all dime, " was the way heaccounted for his laziness. 

Last came Joplin--a man of thirty-five; bald as an egg and as shiny. ("Dangerous to have a hen around, " Marny would say, rubbing the pateafter the manner of a phrenologist. ) Gaunt, wiry; jerky in hismovements as a Yankee clock and as regular in his habits: hot waterwhen he got up--two glasses, sipped slowly; cold water when he went tobed, head first, feet next, then the rest of him; window open all nightno matter how hard it blew or rained; ate three meals a day and nomore; chewed every mouthful of food thirty times--coffee, soup, evenhis drinking-water (Gladstone had taught him that, he boasted)--awalking laboratory of a man, who knew it all, took no layman's advice, and was as set in his ways as a chunk of concrete. 

And his fads did not stop with his food; they extended to hisclothes--everything he used, in fact. His baggy knickerbockers ended inleather leggins to protect his pipe-stem shanks; his shirts buttonedall the way down in front and went on like a coat; he wore healthflannels by day and a health shirt at night ("Just like my old AuntMargaret's wrapper, " whispered Marny in a stage voice to Pudfut);sported a ninety-nine-cent silver watch fastened to a leather strap(sometimes to a piece of twine); stuck a five-hundred-dollar scarab pinin his necktie--"Nothing finer in the Boston Museum, " he maintained, and told the truth--and ever and always enunciated an English so pureand so undefiled that Stebbins, after listening to it for a fewminutes, proposed, with an irreverence born of good-fellowship, that asubscription be started to have Joplin's dialect phonographed so thatit might be handed down to posterity as the only real and correct thing. 

"Are you noticing, gentlemen, the way in which Joplin handles hismother tongue?" Stebbins had shouted across the table: "never drops his'g's, ' never slights his first syllable; says 'HUmor' with an accent onthe 'HU. ' But for the fact that he pronounces 'bonnet' 'BUNNIT' and'admires' a thing when he really ought only to 'like' it, you couldnever discover his codfish bringing up. Out with your wallets--how muchdo you chip in?"

These peculiarities soon made Joplin the storm-centre of everydiscussion. Not only were his views on nutrition ridiculed, but all hisfads were treated with equal disrespect. "Impressionism, " "plein air, "the old "line engraving" in contrast to the modern "half-tone"methods--any opinion of Joplin's, no matter how sane or logical, wasjostled, sat on, punched in the ribs and otherwise maltreated untilevery man was breathless or black in the face with assumed rage--everyman except the man jostled, who never lost his temper no matter whatthe provocation, and who always came up smiling with some such remarkas: "Smite away, you Pharisees; harmony is heavenly--but stupid. Keepit up--here's the other cheek!"

On this particular night Joplin, as I have said, had broken out ondiet. Some movement of Marny's connected with the temporary relief ofthe lower button of his waistcoat had excited the great Bostonian'swrath. The men were seated at dinner inside the coffee-room, Johann andTine serving. 

"Yes, Marny, I'm sorry to say it, but the fact is you eat too much andyou eat the wrong things. If you knew anything of the kinds of foodnecessary to nourish the human body, you would know that it shouldcombine in proper proportions proteid, fats, carbohydrates and a smallpercentage of inorganic salts--these are constantly undergoingoxidation and at the same time are liberating energy in the form ofheat. "

"Hear the bloody bounder!" bawled Pudfut from the other end of thetable. 

"Silence!" called Marny, with his ear cupped in his fingers, anexpression of the farthest-away-boy-in-the-class on his face. 

Joplin waved his hand in protest and continued, without heeding theinterruption: "Now, if you're stupid enough to stuff your epigastriumwith pork, you, of course, get an excess of non-nitrogenous fats, andin order to digest anything properly you must necessarily cram in anadditional quantity of carbohydrates--greens, potatoes, cabbage--whatever Tine shoves under your nose. Consult any scientistand see if I am not right--especially the German doctors who have madea specialty of nutrition. Such men as Fugel, Beenheim and--"

Here a slice of Tine's freshly-cut bread made a line-shot, struck thetop of Joplin's scalp, caromed on Schonholz's shirt-front and fell intoStebbins's lap, followed instantly by "Order, gentlemen!" from Marny. "Don't waste that slab of proteid. The learned Bean is most interestingand should not be interrupted. "

"Better out than in, " continued Joplin, brushing the crumbs from hisplate. "Bread--fresh bread particularly--is the very worst thing a mancan put into his stomach. "

"And how about pertaties?" shouted Malone. "I s'pose ye'd rob us of theonly thing that's kep' us alive as a nation, wouldn't ye?"

"I certainly would, 'Loney, except in very small quantities. Rawpotatoes contain twenty-two per cent. Of the worst form ofnon-nitrogenous food, and seventy-eight per cent. Of water. You, Malone, with your sedentary habits, should never touch an ounce ofpotato. It excites the epigastric nerve and induces dyspepsia. You'reas lazy as the devil and should only eat nitrogenous food and never inexcess. What you require is about one hundred grams of protein, givingyou a fuel value of twenty-seven hundred calories, and to produce thisfifty-five ounces of food a day is enough. When you exceed this you runto flesh--unhealthy bloat really--and in the wrong places. You've onlyto look at Marny's sixty-inch waist-line to prove the truth of thistheory. Now look at me--I keep my figure, don't I? Not a bad one for alight-weight, is it? I'm in perfect health, can run, jump, eat, sleep, paint, and but for a slight organic weakness with my heart, which ishereditary in my family and which kills most of us off at about seventyyears of age, I'm as sound as a nut. And all--all, let me tell you, dueto my observing a few scientific laws regarding hygiene which you mennever seem to have heard of. "

Malone now rose to his feet, pewter mug in hand, and swept his eyearound the table. 

"Bedad, you're right, Joppy, " he said with a wink at Marny--"food's theruination of us all; drink is what we want. On yer feet, gintlemen--every mother's son of ye! Here's to the learned, livin'skeleton from Boston! Five per cint. Man and ninety-five per cint. Crank!"

II

The next morning the group of painters--all except Joplin, who wasdoing a head in "smears" behind the Groote Kerk a mile away--were atwork in the old shipyard across the Maas at Papendrecht. Marny waspainting a Dutch lugger with a brown-madder hull and an emerald-greenstern, up on the ways for repairs. Pudfut had the children of theCaptain posed against a broken windlass rotting in the tall grass nearthe dock, and Malone and Schonholz, pipe in mouth, were on their backssmoking. "It wasn't their kind of a mornin', " Malone had said. 

Joplin's discourse the night before was evidently lingering in theirminds, for Pudfut broke out with: "Got to sit on Joppy some way orwe'll be talked to death, " and he squeezed a tube of color on hispalette. "Getting to be a bloody nuisance. "

"Only one way to fix him, " remarked Stebbins, picking up his mahlstickfrom the grass beside him. 

"How?" came a chorus. 

"Scare him to death. "

The painters laid down their brushes. Stebbins rarely expressed anopinion; any utterance from him, therefore, carried weight. 

"Go for him about his health, I tell you, " continued Stebbins, dragginga brush from the sheaf in his hand. 

"But there's nothing the matter with him, " answered Marny. "He's asskinny as a coal-mine mule, but he's got plenty of kick in him yet. "

"You're dead right, Marny, " answered Stebbins, "but he doesn't thinkso. He's as big a fool over every little pain as he is over histheories. "

"Niver cracked his jaw to me about it, " sputtered Malone from betweenthe puffs of his pipe. 

"No, and he won't. I don't jump on him as you fellows do and so I gethis confidence. He's in my room two or three times every night goingover his symptoms. When his foot's asleep he thinks he's got creepingparalysis. Every time his breath comes short, his heart's giving out. "

"That's hereditary!" said Marny; "he said so. "

"Hereditary be hanged! Same with everything else. Last night he dug meout of bed and wanted me to count his pulse--thought it intermitted. He's hipped, I tell you, on his health!"

"That's because he lives on nothing, " rejoined Marny. "Tine puts thetoast in the oven over night so it will be dry enough for him in themorning--she told me so yesterday. Now he's running on sour milk andvinegar--'blood too alkaline, ' he says--got a chalky taste in hismouth!"

"Well, whatever it is, he's a rum-nuisance, " said Pudfut, "and he oughtto be jumped on. "

"Yes, " retorted Stebbins, "but not about his food. Jump on him abouthis health, then he'll kick back and in pure obstinacy begin to thinkhe's well--that's his nature. "

"Don't you do anything of the kind, " protested Marny. "Joppy's allright--best lad I know. Let him talk; doesn't hurt anybody and keepseverything alive. A little hot air now and then helps his epigastric. "

Malone and Schonholz had raised themselves on their elbows, twistedtheir shoulders and had put their heads together--literally--withoutlifting their lazy bodies from the warm, dry grass--so close that oneslouch hat instead of two might have covered their conspiring brains. From under the rims of these thatches came smothered laughs and suchunintelligible mutterings as:

"Dot's de vay, by chimminy, 'Loney! And den I--"

"No, begorra! Let me have a crack at him fu'st!"

"No, I vill before go and you come--"

"Not a word to Marny, remimber; he'd give it away--"

"Yes, but we vill tell Poodfut und Sthebbins, eh?"

That afternoon the diabolical plot was put in motion. The men hadfinished for the day; had crossed the ferry and had found Joplinwandering around the dock looking for a new subject. The Groote Kerk"smear" was under his arm. 

Pudfut, under pretence of inspecting the smear--a portrait of the oldSacristan on a bench in front of the main entrance--started back insurprise on seeing the Bostonian, and asked with an anxious tone in hisvoice:

"Aren't you well, old man? Look awfully yellow about the gills. Workedtoo hard, haven't you? No use overdoing it. "

"Well? Of course I'm well! Sound as a nut. Little bilious, maybe, butthat's nothing. Why?"

"Oh, nothing! Must say, though, you gave me a twist when I came on yousuddenly. Maybe it's your epigastric nerve; maybe it's your liver andwill pass off, but I'd knock off work for a day or two if I were you. "

Malone now took a hand. 

"Let me carry yer kit, Joppy, ye look done up. What's happened to ye, man, since mornin'?"

"Never felt better in my life, " protested Joplin. "No, I'll carryit--not heavy--"

Then he quickened his pace--they were all on their way back to theinn--and overtook Stebbins and Schonholz. 

"Stebbins, old man--"

"Yes, Joppy. "

"What I told you last night is turning out just as I expected. Heart'sbeen acting queer all morning and my epigastric nerve is verysensitive. Puddy says I look awful. Do you see it?"

Stebbins looked into the Bostonian's face, hesitated, and said with anapologetic tone in his voice:

"Well, everybody looks better one time than another. You've beenworking too hard, maybe. "

"But do I look yellow?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, Joppy, you do--yellow as a gourd--notalways, just now and then when you walk fast or run upstairs. "

"I've been afraid of that. Was my pulse all right when you counted itlast night?"

"Yes, certainly--skipped a beat now and then, but that's nothing. I hadan uncle once who had a pulse that wobbled like that. He, of course, went off suddenly; some said it was apoplexy; some said it was hisheart--these doctors never agree. I wouldn't worry about it, old man. Hold on, Pudfut, don't walk so fast. "

Pudfut held on, and so did Schonholz and Malone, and then the fourslipped behind a pile of oil barrels and concentrated their slouch hatsand Schonholz slapped his thigh and said with a smothered laugh that itwas "sphlendeed!" and Malone and Pudfut agreed, and then the threelocked arms and went singing up the street, their eyes on Joplin'spipe-stem legs as he trotted beside Marny on his way to the inn. 

When the party reached the coffee-room Marny called Tine to his side, spread out the fingers and thumb of one hand, and that rosy-cheekedlass without the loss of a second, clattered over to the little shelf, gathered up five empty mugs and disappeared down the cellar steps. Thisdone the coterie drew their chairs to one of Tine's hand-scrubbedtables and sat down, all but Joplin, who kept on his way to his room. There the Bostonian remained, gazing out of the window until Johann hadbanged twice on his door in announcement of dinner. Then he joined theothers. 

When all were seated Schonholz made a statement which was followed withresults more astounding to the peace of the coterie than anything whichhad occurred since the men came together. 

"I haf bad news, boys, " he began, "offle bad news. Mine fader has wrotedat home I must. Nod anuder mark he say vill he gif me. Eef I couldsell somedings--but dat ees very seldom. No, Marny, you don't can lendme noddings. What vill yourselluf do? Starve!"

"Where do you live, Schonholz?" asked Joplin. 

"By Fizzenbad. "

"What kind of a place is it--baths?"

"Yes. "

"What are they good for?" continued Joplin in a subdued tone. 

"Noddings, but blenty peoples go. "

"I can tell you, Joppy, " said Pudfut gravely, with a wink at Malone. "There are two spas, both highly celebrated. Lord Ellenboro spent amonth there and came back looking like another man. One is for theliver and the other for something or other, I can't recollect what. "

"Heart?" asked Joplin. 

"I don't know. "

He didn't, --had never heard the place mentioned until Schonholz hadcalled its name a moment before. 

Joplin played with his knife and made an attempt to nibble a slice ofTine's toast, but he made no reply. All the fight of every kind seemedto have been knocked out of him. 

"Better take Fizzenbad in, Joppy, " remarked Pudfut in an undertone. "May do you a lot of good. "

"How far is it, Schonholz?" asked Joplin, ignoring the Englishman'ssuggestion. 

"Oh, you leafe in de morgen and you come by Fizzenbad in a day more asdo one you go oud mid. "

"No--can't afford it. "

Here Joplin pushed back his chair, and with the remark that he thoughthe would go downtown for some colors, left the room. 

"It's working like a dose of salts, " cried Pudfut when the Bostonianwas out of hearing. "Hasn't said 'epigastric nerve, ' 'gram' or'proteids' once. Got real human in an hour. Stebbins, you're a wonder. "

The next morning everybody was up bright and early to see Schonholzoff. One of Fop Smit's packets was to leave for Rotterdam at seven andSchonholz was a passenger. He could go by rail, but the boat wascheaper. No deceptions had been practised and no illusions indulged inas to the cause of his departure. He had had his supplies cut off, wasflat broke and as helpless as a plant without water. They had all, atone time or another, passed through a similar crisis and knew exactlywhat it meant. A purse, of course, could have been made up--Marny eveninsisted on sharing his last hundred francs with him--and Mynheer wouldhave allowed the board-bill to run on indefinitely with or without anaddition to his collection, but the lad was not built along those lines. 

"No--I go home and help mine fader once a leetle, den maybe I comeback, don't it?" was the way he put it. 

The next morning, when the procession formed to escort him through theOld Gate, every man answered to his name except Joplin--he had eitheroverslept himself or was taking an extra soak in his portable tub. 

"Run, Tine, and call Mr. Joplin, " cried Marny--"we'll go ahead. Tellhim to come to the dock. "

Away clattered the sabots up the steep stairs, and away they scurrieddown the bare corridor to Joplin's room. There Tine knocked. Hearing noresponse she pushed open the door and looked in. The room was empty!Then she noticed that the bed had not been slept in, nor had anythingon the washstand been used. Stepping in softly for some explanation ofthe unusual occurrence--no such thing had ever happened in herexperience, not unless she had been notified in advance--her eye restedon a letter addressed to Stebbins propped up in full view against abook on Joplin's table. Catching it up as offering the only explanationof his unaccountable disappearance, she raced downstairs and, crossingthe cobbles on a run, laid the letter in Stebbins's hand. 

"For me, Tine?"

The girl nodded, her eyes on the painter's. 

The painter broke the seal and his face grew serious. Then he beckonedto Marny and read the contents aloud, the others crowding close:

Dear Stebbins:

Keep my things until I send for them. I take the night train forRotterdam. Tell Schonholz I'll join him there and go on with him toFizzenbad. Sorry to leave this way, but I could not bear to bid you allgood-by. Joplin. 

III

That night the table was one prolonged uproar. The conspirators hadowned up frankly to their share of the villany, and were hard at workconcocting plans for its undoing. Marny was the one man in the groupthat would not be pacified; nothing that either Pudfut, Stebbins orMalone had said or could say changed his mind--and the discussion, which had lasted all day, brought him no peace. 

"Drove him out!--that's what you did, you bull-headed Englishman--youand Malone and Stebbins ought to be ashamed of yourselves. If I hadknown what you fellows were up to I'd have pitched you all over thedike. Cost Joppy a lot of money and break up all his summer work! Whatdid you want to guy him like that for and send him off to be scaldedand squirted on in a damned Dutch--"

"But we didn't think he'd take it as hard as that. "

"You didn't, didn't you! What DID you think he'd do? Didn't you see howsensitive and nervous he was? The matter with you fellows is that Joppyis a thoroughbred and you never saw one of his kind in your life. Eversince he got here you've done nothing but jump all over him and try torile him, and he never squawked once--came up smiling every time. He'sa thoroughbred--that's what he is!"

The days that followed were burdened with a sadness the coterie couldnot shake off. Whatever they had laughed at and derided in Joplin theynow longed for. The Bostonian may have been a nuisance in one way, buthe had kept the ball of conversation rolling--had started it manytimes--and none of the others could fill his place. Certain of hisviews became respected. "As dear old Joppy used to say, " was a commonexpression, and "By Jove, he was right!" not an uncommon opinion. Inconformity with his teachings, Marny reduced his girth measure an inchand his weight two pounds--not much for Marny, but extraordinary allthe same when his appetite was considered. 

Pudfut, in contrition of his offence, wrote his English friend LordSomething-or-other, who owned the yacht, and who was at Carlsbad, begging him to run up and see the "best ever" and "one of us"--andMalone never lost an opportunity to say how quick he was in repartee, or how he missed him. Stebbins kept his mouth shut. 

He had started the crusade, he knew, and was personally responsible forthe result. He had tried to arouse Joplin's obstinacy and had onlyaroused his fears. All he could do in reparation was to keep in touchwith the exile and pave the way for his homecoming. If Joppy was ill, which he doubted, some of the German experts in whom the Bostonianbelieved would find the cause and the remedy. If he was "sound as anut, " to quote Joplin's own words, certainty of that fact, after anexhaustive examination by men he trusted, would relieve his nervousmind and make him all the happier. 

The first letter came from Schonholz. Liberally translated, with theassistance of Mynheer, who spoke a little German, it conveyed theinformation that the Bostonian, after being put on a strict diet, hadbeen douched, pounded and rubbed; was then on his second week oftreatment; had one more to serve; was at the moment feeling like afighting-cock, and after a fifth week at Stuckbad, in the mountains, where he was to take the after-cure, would be as strong as athree-year-old, and as frisky. 

The second letter was from Joplin himself and was addressed toStebbins. This last was authentic, and greatly relieved the situation. It read:

Nothing like a thoroughly trained expert, my dear Stebbins. TheseGerman savants fill me with wonder. The moment Dr. Stuffen fixed hiseyes upon me he read my case like an open book. No nitrogenous food ofany kind, was his first verdict; hot douches and complete rest packedin wet compresses, the next. I am losing flesh, of course, but it isonly the "deadwood" of the body, so to speak. This Dr. Stuffen expectsto replace with new shoots--predicts I will weigh forty pounds more--acharming and, to me, a most sane theory. You will be delighted also tohear that my epigastric nerve hasn't troubled me since I arrived. Loveto the boys, whom I expect to see before the month is out. Joppy. 

"Forty pounds heavier!" cried Marny from his end of the table. "He'lllook like a toy balloon in knee pants. Bully for Joppy! I wouldn't letany Schweizerkase with a hot douche get within a hundred yards of me, but then I'm not a bunch of nerves like Joppy. Anyhow, boys, we'll givethe lad a welcome that will raise the roof. Joppy thin was pretty goodfun, but Joppy fat will be a roaring farce. "

And so it was decided, and at once all sorts and kinds of welcomes werediscussed, modified, rearranged and discussed again. Pudfut suggestedmeeting him in Rotterdam and having a night of it. Malone thought ofchartering a steam launch, hiring a band and bringing him past thetowns with flags flying. Stebbins and Marny favored some demonstrationnearer home, where everybody could join in. 

The programme finally agreed upon included a pathway of boughs strewnwith wild flowers from the steamboat landing, across the planking, overthe cobbles, under the old Gate of William of Orange, and so on to thedoor of the inn; the appointment of Tine, dressed in a Zeeland costumebelonging to her grand-mother, as special envoy, to meet him with awreath of laurel, and Johann in short clothes--also heirlooms--was towalk by his side as First Groom of the Bed Chamber. 

The real Reception Committee, consisting of Mynheer in a burgomastersuit borrowed from a friend, and the four painters--Marny as a DutchFalstaff, Pudfut as a Spanish Cavalier, Stebbins got up as a NightWatch, and Malone in the costume of a Man-at-Arms--all costumes loanedfor the occasion by the antiquary in the next street--were to awaitJoplin's coming in the privacy of the Gate--almost a tunnel--and soclose to the door of the inn that it might have passed for a part ofthe establishment itself. 

Meantime the four painters were to collect material for the decorationof the coffee-room--wreaths of greens over the mantel and festoons ofivy hanging down the back of Joplin's chair being prominent features;while Mynheer, Tine and Johann were to concentrate their energies inpreparing a dinner the like of which had never been eaten since thesluiceways in the dikes drowned out the Spanish duke. Not a word of allthis, of course, had reached the ears of the Bostonian. Half, three-quarters, if not all, the enjoyment of the occasion would berealized when they looked on Joplin's face and read his surprise. 

IV

The eventful day at last arrived. Stebbins, as prearranged, had beggedthe exile to telegraph the exact hour of his departure and mode oftravel from Rotterdam, suggesting the boat as being by far the best, and Joplin had answered in return that Fop Smit's packet, due atsundown the following day, would count him among its passengers. 

The deep tones of the whistle off Papendrecht sent every man to hispost, the villagers standing back in amazement at the extraordinaryspectacle, especially at Tine and Johann in their queer clothes, who, being instantly recognized, were plied with questions. 

The boat slowed down; made fast; out came the gangplank; ashore wentthe little two-wheel carts drawn by the sleepy, tired dogs; then thebaskets of onions were rolled off, and the few barrels of freight, andthen two or three passengers--among them a small, feeble man, in a longcoat reaching to his heels--made their way to the dock. 

NO JOPPY!!

"That's the last man to come ashore here, " said Marny. "What's becomeof the lad?"

"Maybe he's gone aft, " cried Stebbins; "maybe--"

Here Tine gave a little scream, dropped her wreath and running towardthe small, feeble man, threw her arms around his neck. Marny and theothers bounded over the cobbles, tossing the bystanders out of the wayas they forged ahead. When they reached Joplin he was still clinging toTine, his sunken cheeks and hollow deep-set eyes telling only tooplainly how great an effort he was making to keep on his legs. The fourpainters formed a close bodyguard and escorted their long-lost brotherto the inn. 

Mynheer, in his burgomaster suit, met the party at the door, conductedthem inside and silently drew out the chairs at the coffee-room table. He was too overcome to speak. 

Joplin dropped into the one hung with ivy and rested his hands on thetable. 

"Lord! how good it is to get here!" he said, gazing about him, atremble in his voice. "You don't know what I've gone through, boys. "

"Why, we thought you were getting fat, Joppy, " burst out Marny at last. Up to this time his voice, like that of the others, seemed to have lefthim, so great was his surprise and anxiety. 

Joplin waved his forefinger toward Marny in a deprecatory way, as ifthe memory of his experience was too serious for discussion, playedwith his fork a moment, and said slowly:

"Will you lay it up against me, fellows, if I tell you the truth? I'mnot as strong as I was and a good deal of the old fight is out of me. "

"Lay up nothin'!" cried Malone. "And when it comes to fightin' ye kincount on me every--"

"Dry up!" broke in Marny. "You're way off, Malone. No, Joppy, not a manhere will open his head: say the rest. "

"Well, then, listen, " continued the Bostonian. "I did everything theytold me: got up at daylight; walked around the spring seven times;sipped the water; ate what they prescribed; lay in wet sheets two hoursevery day; was kneaded by a man with a chest as hairy as a satyr's andarms like a blacksmith's; stood up and was squirted at; had everythingabout me looked into--even stuck needles in my arm for a sample of myblood; and at the end of three weeks was so thin that my trousers hadto be lapped over in the back under a leather strap to keep them abovemy hips, and my coat hung down as if it were ashamed of me. DoctorStuffen then handed me a certificate and his bill. This done he stoodme up and repeated this formula--has it printed--all languages:

"'You have now thrown from your system every particle of foul tissues, Mr. --, ah, yes--Mr. Joblin, I believe. ' And he looked at the paper. 'You thought you were reasonably fat, Mr. Joblin. You were not fat, youwere merely bloated. Go now to Stuckbad for two weeks. There you willtake the after-cure; keep strictly to the diet, a list of which I nowhand you. At the expiration of that time you will be a strong man. Thank you--my secretary will send you a receipt. '

"Well, I went to Stuckbad--crawled really--put up at the hotel and sentfor the resident doctor, Professor Ozzenbach, Member of the Board ofPharmacy of Berlin, Specialist on Nutrition, Fellow of the RoyalSociety of Bacteriologists, President of the Vienna Association ofPhysiological Research--that kind of man. He looked me all over andshook his head. He spoke broken English--badly. 

"'Who has dreated you, may I ask, Meester Boblin?'

"'Doctor Stuffen, at Fizzenbad. '

"'Ah, yes, a fery goot man, but a leedle de times behindt. Vat did youeat?'

"I handed him the list. 

"'No vonder dot you are thin, my frent--yoost as I oxpected--dis ees deolt deory of broteids. Dot is all oxbloded now. Eef you haf stay anudermont you vould be dead. Everyting dot he has dold you vas yoost deudder way; no bread, no meelk, no vegebubbles--noddings of dis, not vonleedle bit. I vill make von leest--come to-morrow. '"

"Did you go, Joppy?" inquired Stebbins. 

"DID _I_ GO? Yes, back to the depot and on to Cologne. That night I atetwo plates of sauerkraut, a slice of pork and a piece of cheese thesize of my hand; slept like a top. "

"So the proteids and carbohydrates didn't do your epigastric any good, old chap, " remarked Pudfut in an effort to relieve the gloom. 

"Proteids, carbohydrates and my epigastric be damned, " exploded Joplin. "On your feet, boys, all of you. Here's to the food of our fathers, with every man a full plate. And here's to dear old Marny, the humankangaroo. May his appetite never fail and his paunch never shrink!"

MISS BUFFUM'S NEW BOARDER

I

He was seated near the top end of Miss Buffum's table when I first sawhis good-natured face with its twinkling eyes, high cheekbones andbroad, white forehead in strong contrast to the wizened, almost sour, visage of our landlady. Up to the time of his coming every one hadavoided that end, or had gradually shifted his seat, gravitating slowlytoward the bottom, where the bank clerk, the college professor and Ihobnobbed over our soup and boiled mutton. 

It was his laugh that attracted my attention--the first that had comefrom the upper end of the table in the memory of the oldest boarder. Men talk of the first kiss, the first baby, the first bluebird in thespring, but to me, who have suffered and know, the first, sincere, hearty laugh, untrammelled and unlimited, that rings down thehide-bound table of a dismal boarding-house, carries with it a surpriseand charm that outclasses them all. The effect on this occasion waslike the opening of a window letting in a gust of pure air. Some of themore sensitive shivered at its freshness, and one woman raised hereyeglasses in astonishment, but all the rest craned their heads in thenew boarder's direction, their faces expressing their enjoyment. As forMiss Buffum and the schoolmistress, they so far forgot themselves as tojoin audibly in the merriment. 

What the secret of the man's power, or why the schoolteacher--who saton Miss Buffum's right--should have become suddenly hilarious, or howMiss Buffum herself could be prodded or beguiled into smiles, no one atmy end of the table could understand; and yet, as the days went by, itbecame more and more evident that not only were these two cold, brittleexteriors being slowly thawed out, but that every one else within thesound of his seductive voice was yielding to his influence. Storiesthat had lain quiet in our minds for months for lack of a willing orappreciative ear, or had been told behind our hands, --small pipingsmost of them of club and social gossip, now became public property, some being bowled along the table straight at the new boarder, who senthis own rolling back in exchange, his big, sonorous voice filling theroom as he replied with accounts of his life in Poland among thepeasants; of his experiences in the desert; of a shipwreck off thecoast of Ceylon in which he was given up for lost; of a trip he madeacross the Russian steppes in a sleigh--each adventure ending in somestrangely humorous situation which put the table in a roar. 

None of these narratives, however, solved the mystery of his identityor of his occupation. All our good landlady knew was that he had drivenup in a hack one afternoon, bearing a short letter of introduction froma former lodger--a man who had lived abroad for the previous tenyears--introducing Mr. Norvic Bing; that after its perusal she hadgiven him the second-story front room, at that moment empty--a factthat had greatly influenced her--and that he had at once moved in. Histrunks--there were two of them--had, she remembered, been covered withforeign labels (and still were)--all of which could be verified by anyone who had a right to know and who would take the trouble to inspecthis room when he was out, which occurred every day between ten in themorning and six in the afternoon, and more often between six in theafternoon and ten the next morning. The slight additional informationshe possessed came from the former lodger's letter, which stated thatthe bearer, Mr. Norvic Bing, was a native of Denmark, that he wasvisiting America for the first time, and that, desiring a place wherehe could live in complete retirement, the writer had recommended MissBuffum's house. 

As to who he was in his own country--and he certainly must have beensome one of importance, judging from his appearance--and what thenature of his business, these things did not concern the dear lady inthe least. He was courteous, treated her with marked respect, wasexceedingly agreeable, and had insisted--and this she stated was theone particular thing that endeared him to her--had insisted on payinghis board a MONTH IN ADVANCE, instead of waiting until the thirty dayshad elapsed. His excuse for this unheard-of idiosyncrasy was that hemight some day be suddenly called away, too suddenly even to notify herof his departure, and that he did not want either his belongings or hislandlady's mind disturbed during his absence. 

Miss Buffum's summing up of Bing's courtesy and affability was sharedby every one at my end of the table, although some of them differed asregarded his origin and occupation. 

"Looks more like an Englishman than a Dane, " said the bank clerk;"although I don't know any Danes. But he's a daisy, anyhow, and oughtto have his salary raised for being so jolly. "

"I don't agree with you, " rejoined the professor. "He is unquestionablya Scandinavian--you can see that in the high cheekbones and flat nose. He is evidently studying our people with a view of writing a book. Nothing else would persuade a man of his parts to live here. I lived injust such a place the winter I spent in Dresden. You want to get closeto the people when you study their peculiarities. But whoever he is, orwherever he comes from, he is a most delightful gentleman--perfectlysimple, and so sincere that it is a pleasure to hear him talk. "

As for myself, I am ashamed to say that I did not agree with either thebank clerk or the professor. Although I admitted Mr. Bing's wideexperience of men and affairs, and his marvellous powers ofconversation, I could not divest myself of the conviction thatunderneath it all there lay something more than a mere desire to beeither kindly or entertaining; in fact, that his geniality, thoughoutwardly spontaneous, was really a cloak to hide another side of hisnature--a fog into which he retreated--and that some day the real manwould be revealed. 

I made no mention of my misgivings to any of my fellow-boarders. Myknowledge of men of his class--brilliant conversationalists with aworld-wide experience to draw upon--was slight, and my grounds fordoubting his sincerity were so devoid of proof that few persons wouldhave considered them anything but the product of a disordered mind. 

And yet I still held to my opinion. 

I had caught something, I fancied, that the others had missed. Itoccurred one night after he had told a story and was waiting for thelaugh to subside. Soon a strange, weary expression crept over hisface--the same look that comes into the face of a clown who has beenhurt in a tumble and who, while wrestling with the pain, still keepshis face a-grin. Suddenly, from out of his merry, smooth-shaven face, there came a flash from his eyes so searching, so keen, so suspicious, so entirely unlike the man we knew, so foreign to his mood at themoment, that I instantly thought of the burglar peering through thepainted spectacles of the family portrait while he watched hisunconscious victim counting his gold. 

This conviction so possessed me that I found myself for days afterpeering into Bing's face, watching for its repetition--so much so thatthe professor asked me with a laugh:

"Has Mr. Bing hypnotized you as badly as he has the ladies? They hangon his every word. Curious study of the effect of mind on matter, isn'tit?"

The second time I caught the strange flash was BEFORE he had told hisstory--when his admonitory glance--his polite way of compellingattention--was sweeping the table. In its course his eyes rested for aninstant on mine, kindled with suspicion, and then there flashed fromtheir depths a light that seemed to illuminate every corner of mybrain. When I looked again his face was wreathed in smiles, his eyessparkling with merriment. Instantly my doubts returned with redoubledforce. What had he found in that instantaneous flash, I wondered? Hadhe read my thoughts, or had he, from his place behind the paintedcanvas, caught some expression on some victim's face which had rousedhis fears?

Then a delightful thing happened to me. I was but a young fellow tryingto get a foothold in literature, who had never been out of his owncountry, and who spoke no tongue but his own; he was a man of theworld, a traveller over the globe and speaking five languages. 

"If you're not going out, " he said, that same night, "come and have asmoke with me. " This in his heartiest manner, laying his hand on myshoulder as he spoke. "You'll find me in my room. I've some books thatmay interest you, and we can continue our talk by my coal-fire. Comewith me now. "

We had had no special talk--none that I could remember. I recalled thatI had asked him an irrelevant question after the flash had vanished, and that he had answered me in return--but no talk followed. 

"I never invite any one up here, " he began when we reached his room;"the place is so small" Here he closed the door, drew up the onlyarmchair in the room and placed me in it--"but it is large enough for aplace to crawl into and sleep--much larger, I can tell you, than I havehad in many other parts of the world. I can write here, too, withoutinterruption. What else do we want, really?--To be warm, to be fed andthen to have some congenial spirits about us! I am quite happy, Iassure you, with all those dear, good people downstairs. They are sokind, and they are so human, and they are all honest, each in his way, which is always refreshing to me. Most people, you know, are nothonest. " And he looked me over curiously. 

I made no answer except to nod my assent. My eyes were wandering overthe room in the endeavor to find something to confirm mysuspicions--over the two trunks with their labels; over a desklittered, piled, crammed with papers; over the mantel, on which wasspread a row of photographs, among them the portrait of adistinguished-looking woman with a child resting in her lap, and nextto it that of a man in uniform. 

"Yes--some of my friends across the sea. " I had not asked him--he hadread my mind. "This one you did not see--I keep it behind theothers--three of them, like a little pair of steps--all I have left. The oldest is named Olga, and that little one in the middle, with thecap on her head--that is Pauline. "

"Your children?"

"Yes. "

"Where are they?"

"Oh, many thousand miles from here! But we won't talk about it. Theyare well and happy. And this one"--here he took down the photograph ofthe man in full uniform--"is the Grand Duke Vladimir. Yes, asoldierly-looking man--none of the others are like him. But come now, tell me of yourself--you have some one at home, too?"

I nodded my head and mentioned my mother and the others at home. 

"No sweetheart yet? No?--You needn't answer--we all have sweethearts atyour age--at mine it is all over. But why did you leave her? It is sohard to do that. Ah, yes, I see--to make your bread. And how do you doit?"

"I write. "

He lowered his brows and looked at me under his lids. 

"What sort of writing? Books? What is called a novel?"

"No--not yet. I work on special articles for the newspapers, and nowand then I get a short story or an essay into one of the magazines. "

He was replacing the pictures as I talked, his back to me. He turnedsuddenly and again sought my eye. 

"Don't waste your time on essays or statistics. You will not succeed asa machine. You have imagination, which is a real gift. You also dream, which is another way of saying that you can invent. If you can addconstruction to your invention, you will come quite close to what theycall genius. I saw all this in your face to-night; that is why I wantedto talk to you. So many young men go astray for want of a word droppedinto their minds at the right time. As for me, all I know isstatistics, and so I will never be a genius. " And a light laugh brokefrom his lips. "Worse luck, too. I must exchange them for money. Lookat this--I have been all day correcting the proofs. "

With this he walked to his table--he had not yet taken a seat, althougha chair was next to my own--and laid in my lap a roll of galley-proofs. 

"It is the new encyclopaedia. I do the biographies, yousee--principally of men and the different towns and countries. I havegot down now to the R's--Richelieu--Rochambeau--" his fingers were nowtracing the lines. "Here is Romulus, and here is Russia--I gave thathalf a column, and--dry work, isn't it? But I like it, for I can writehere by my fire if I please, and all my other time is my own. You seethey are signed 'Norvic Bing. ' I insisted on that. These publishers areselfish sometimes, and want to efface a writer's personality, but Iwould not permit it, and so finally they gave in. But no more ofthat--one must eat, and to eat one must work, so why quarrel with thespade or the ground? See that you raise good crops--that is the best ofall. "

Then he branched off into a description of a ball he had attended someyears before at the Tuileries--of the splendor of the interior; therich costumes of the women; the blaze of decorations worn by the men;the graciousness of the Empress and the charm of her beauty--then of avisit he had made to the Exile a few months after he had reachedChiselhurst. Throwing up his hands he said: "A feeble old man withhollow eyes and a cracked voice. Oh, such a pity! For he wasroyal--although all Europe laughed. "

When the time came for me to go--it was near midnight, to myastonishment--he followed me to the door, bidding me good-night withboth hands over mine, saying I should come again when he was atleisure, as he had been that night--which I promised to do, adding mythanks for what I declared was the most delightful evening I had everspent in my life. 

And it had been--and with it there had oozed out of my mind every dropof my former suspicion. There was another side that he was hiding fromus, but it was the side of tenderness for his children--for those heloved and from whom he was parted. I had boasted to myself of myintuition and had looked, as I supposed, deep into his heart, and all Ifound were three little faces. With this came a certain feeling ofshame that I had been stupid enough to allow my imagination to run awaywith my judgment. Hereafter I would have more sense. 

All that winter Bing was the life of the house. The days on which hisseat was empty--off getting statistics for the encyclopaedia, Iexplained to my fellow-boarders, I being looked upon now as havingspecial information owing to my supposed intimacy, although I had neverentered his room since that night--on these days, I say, the tablerelapsed into its old-time dullness. 

One night I found his card on my pin-cushion. I always locked my doormyself when I left my room--had done so that night, I thought, but Imust have forgotten it. Under his name was written: "Say good-by to theothers. "

I concluded, of course, that it was but for a few days and that hewould return as usual, and hold out his two big generous hands to eachone down the table, leaving a warmth behind him which they had notknown since he last pressed their palms--and so on down until hereached Miss Buffum and the school-teacher, who would both rise intheir seats to welcome him. 

With the passing of the first week the good lady became uneasy; theboard, as usual, had been paid in advance, but it was the man shemissed. No one else could add the drop of oil to the machinery of thehouse, nor would it run smoothly without him. 

At the end of the second week she rapped at my door and with tremblingsteps led me to Bing's room. She had opened it with her own pass-key--aliberty she never allowed any one to take except herself, and neverthen unless some emergency arose. It was empty of everything thatbelonged to him--had been for days. The room had been set in order andthe bed had been made up by the maid the day he left and had not beenslept in since. Trunks, books, manuscripts, photographs--all weregone--not a vestige of anything belonging to him was visible. 

I stooped down and examined the grate. On the top of the dead coals laya little heap of ashes--all that was left of a package of letters. 

II

Five years passed. Times had changed with me. I had long since left myhumble quarters at Miss Buffum's and now had two rooms in an uptownapartment-house. My field of work, too, had become enlarged. I hadceased to write for the Sunday papers and was employed on specialarticles for the magazines. This had widened my acquaintance with menand with life. Heretofore I had known the dark alleys and slums, theinside of station-houses, bringing me in contact with the police andwith some of the detectives, among them Alcorn of the Central Office, aman who had sought me out of his own accord. Many of these trusted meand from them I gathered much of my material. Now I explored otherfields. With the backing of the editor I often claimed seats at theopening of important conventions--not so much political as social andscientific; so, too, at many of the public dinners given to our own anddistinguished foreign guests, would a seat be reserved for me, myobject being the study of men when they were off their guard--readingtheir minds, finding out the man behind the mask, a habit I had neveryet thrown off. Most men have some mental fad--this was mine. Sometimesmy articles found an echo in a note written to me by the gueststhemselves; this would fill me with joy. Often I was criticised for theabsurdity of my views. 

On this occasion a great banquet was to be given to Prince Polinski, anephew of the Czar and possible heir to the throne. The press had beenfilled with the detail of his daily life--of the dinners, teas andfunctions given by society in his honor; of his reception by the mayor, of his audience at the White House; of the men who guarded his person;of his "opinions, " "impressions" and "views" on this, that and theother thing, but so far no one had dissected the man himself. 

What our editor wanted was a minute analysis of the mind of a youngRussian studied at close range. The occasion of the banquet wasselected because I could then examine him at my leisure. The resultswere to be used by the editor in an article of his own, my memorandabeing only so much padding. 

When I entered and took up a position near the door where I could lookhim over, Delmonico's largest reception-room was crowded with guests:bankers, railroad presidents, politicians, officers of the army andnavy, judges, doctors, and the usual collection of white shirt-frontsthat fill the seats at a public dinner of this kind. The Prince was inthe uniform of an officer of the Imperial Navy. He was heavily builtand tall, with a swarthy face enlivened by a pointed mustache. TheRussian Ambassador at his side was in full dress and wore a number ofdecorations: these two needed no pointing out. Some of the others wereless distinguishable-among them a heavily-built man in evening-dress, with a full beard and mustache which covered his face almost to hiseyes--soft and bushy as the hair on a Spitz dog and as black. With aleather apron and a broad-axe he would have passed at a masquerade foran executioner of the olden time. Despite this big beard, there was acertain bearing about the man--a certain elegance both of manner andgesture--talking with his hands, accentuating his sentences withoutstretched fingers, lifting his shoulders in a shrug (I saw all thisfrom across the room where I stood)--that showed clearly not only hishigh position, but his breeding. What position he held under the PrinceI was, of course, unaware, but it must have been very close, for thebig Russian kept him constantly at the royal side. I noted, too, thatthe Prince was careful to introduce him to many who were brought up toshake his hand. 

When the procession was formed to march into the dining-hall, Polinskicame first on the arm of the mayor; then followed a group ofdignitaries, including the Ambassadors, the black-bearded man walkingby the side of the Prince, who would now and then turn and address him. 

My seat was against the wall opposite the dais, and knowing that Ishould have scant opportunity to study the Prince's face from where Isat, I edged my way along the side of the corridor, the crowd makingprogress difficult for him, but easy for me, as I crept close to thewall. When I reached the door opening into the banquet hall I took up aposition just inside the jamb, so that I could get a full view of thePrince as he passed. 

At this instant I became aware that a pair of broad shoulders weretouching mine. Turning quickly, I found myself looking into the face ofthe bearded Russian. His eyes were fastened on mine, an inquiring, rather surprised look on his face, as if he was wondering at the badmanners of a man who would thrust himself ahead of a royal personage. For an instant the features were calm and impassive, then as hecontinued to look at me there flashed out of his eyes a search-lightglance that shot straight through me. 

It was Bing!

Bearded like a Cossack; more heavily built, solemn, dignified, elegantin carriage and demeanor, with not a trace of jollity about him--butBing all the same! I could have sworn to it!

The flash burned for an instant; the eyes behind the canvas dodgedback, then with a graceful wave of the hand he turned to the Ambassadorwho was now abreast of him and said in a voice so low that I caught thewords but not the full tone:

"Isn't it a charming sight, your Excellency? There is nothing like thehospitality of these wonderful Americans. " And the two passed into thebrilliantly-lighted hall. 

I made my way to my seat and sat thinking it over. That he hadrecognized me was without question; that he had ignored me was equallytrue--why, I could not tell. 

For years I had made him one of my heroes. He had stood forcheerfulness, for contentment with one's lot, for consideration foranother--and always a weaker brother. When his abrupt departure hadbeen criticised by my fellow-boarders, I had stemmed the tide againsthim, dilating on his love for his children, on his loneliness away fromthem; on his simplicity, his common-sense, his desire to help even ayoung fellow like me who had no claim upon him. In return he had seenfit to treat me with contempt--I who would have been so proud to tellhim how his advice had helped me and what progress I had made byfollowing it. 

The incident took such hold upon me that I found myself dissecting hismentality instead of that of the Great Personage in the public eye. AsI analyzed my feelings I found that he had hurt my heart more than mypride. I would have been so glad to shake his hand--so glad to rejoicewith him over his changed conditions--once the occupant of a front roomin a cheap boarding-house, supporting himself by filling space in thecolumns of an encyclopaedia, and now the bosom friend of Princes andAmbassadors!

Then a doubt arose in my mind. WAS it Bing? Had I not made a mistake?How could a smooth-shaven Dane with blond hair transform himself into aswarthy Russian with the beard of a Cossack? There was, it is true, nochange in the eyes or in the round head--in the whiteness and width ofthe forehead, or the breadth of the shoulders. All these I went overone by one as I watched him every now and then lean across the tableand speak to some of the distinguished guests that surrounded him. Thething which puzzled me was his grave, sedate demeanor, dignified, almost austere at times. A man, I thought, might grow a beard and dyeit, but how could he grow a different set of manners, how smother hisjollity, how wipe out his spontaneous buoyancy?

No, it was not Bing! It was only my stupid self. I was always ready tofind the mysterious and unnatural. I turned to the guest next me. 

"Do you know who that man is on the dais, " I asked; "the one all blackand white, with the big beard?"

"Yes, one of the Prince's suite; some jaw-breaking name with an'-usski' on the end of it. He brought him with him; looks like a bullpup chewing a muff, doesn't he?"

I smiled at the comparison, but I was still in doubt. 

When the banquet broke up I hurried out ahead of the others and postedmyself at the top of the staircase leading down to the side door of thestreet. The Prince's carriage--an ordinary cab--was ordered to thisdoor to escape the crowd and to avoid any delay. This I learned from myold friend Alcorn of the Central Office, who was in charge of thedetectives at the dinner, and who in answer to my request said:

"Certainly I'll let you through. Come alone, and don't speak to me asyou go by. I'll say you're one of us. The crowd thinks he's going outby the other door, and you can get pretty close to him. "

The Prince came first, wrapped in furs--the black-bearded Russian athis side in overcoat, silk hat and white gloves. The Ambassador and theothers had bidden them good-night at the top of the staircase. 

Under Alcorn's direction I had placed myself just inside the streetdoor where I could slip out behind the Prince and his black-beardedcompanion. As a last resort I determined to walk straight up to him andsay: "You haven't forgotten me, Mr. Bing, have you?" If I had changedso as to need proof of my identity Alcorn would furnish it. Whateverhis answer, his voice would solve my mystery. 

He walked down the stairs with an easy, swinging movement, keeping alittle behind the Prince; waited until Alcorn had opened the streetdoor and with a nod of thanks followed Polinski out into the night. Once outside I shrank back into the shadow of the doorway and held mybreath to catch his first spoken word--to the coachman--to thePrince--to any one who came in his way. 

At this moment a man in a slouch hat and poorly dressed, a light caneunder his arm, evidently a tramp, hurried across the street to hold thecab door. I edged nearer, straining my ears. 

The Prince bent his head and stooped to enter the cab. The tramp leanedforward, shot up his right arm; there came a flash of steel, and thenext instant the tramp lay writhing on the sidewalk, one hand twistedunder his back, the other held in the viselike grip of theblack-bearded man. Alcorn rushed past me, threw himself on theprostrate tramp, slipped a pair of handcuffs over his wrists, draggedhim to his feet, and with one hand on his throat backed him into theshadow of the side door. 

The Prince smiled and stepped into his carriage. The black-bearded mandusted his white gloves one on the other, gave an order in a low toneto the coachman, took his place beside his companion and the two droveoff. 

I stood out in the rain and tried to pull myself together. The rapidityof the attack; the poise and strength of the black-bearded Russian; thequickness with which Alcorn had risen to the occasion; the absence ofall outcry or noise of any kind--no one but ourselves witnessing theoccurrence--had taken my breath away. That an attack had been made onthe life of the Prince, and that it had been frustrated by his friend, was evident. It was also evident that accosting a Prince on thesidewalk at night without previous acquaintance was a dangerousexperiment. When I recovered my wits both Alcorn and the would-beassassin had disappeared. So had the cab. 

Only two morning journals had an account of the affair; one dismissedit with a fling at the police for not protecting our guests fromannoyance, and the other stated that a drunken tramp had demanded theprice of a night's lodging from the Prince as he was leavingDelmonico's, and that a member of the Prince's suite had held thefellow until a policeman came along and took him to the station-house. Not a word of the murderous lunge, the flash of steel, the viselikegrip of the black-bearded man or the click of the handcuffs. 

That night I found Alcorn. 

"Did that fellow try to stab the Prince?" I asked. 

"Yes. "

"With a knife?"

"No, a sword cane. "

"The papers didn't say so. "

"No, I didn't intend they should. Wouldn't have been pleasant readingfor his folks in St. Petersburg. Besides, we haven't rounded up hisgang yet. "

"The Prince didn't seem to lose his nerve?" I asked. 

"No, he isn't built that way. "

"You know him, then?"

"Yes--been with him every day since he arrived. "

"Who is the black-bearded man with him?"

"He is his intimate friend, Count Lovusski. Been all over the worldtogether. "

"Is Lovusski his ONLY name?" This seemed to be my chance. 

Alcorn turned quickly and looked into my face. 

"On the dead quiet, is it?"

"Yes, Alcorn, you can trust me. "

"No--he's got half a dozen of 'em. In Paris in '70 he was BaronGermunde with estates in Hungary. Lived like a fighting-cock; kneweverybody at the Palace and everybody knew him--stayed there allthrough the Franco-Prussian War. In London in '75 he was plain Mr. Loring, trying to raise money for a mine somewhere in Portugal--knewnobody but stockbrokers and bank presidents. In New York five years agohe was Mr. Norvic Bing, and worked on some kind of a dictionary; livedin a boarding-house on Union Square. "

I could not conceal my delight. 

"I knew I was right!" I cried, laying my hand on his arm. "I lived withhim there a whole winter. "

"Yes, he told me so. That's why I am telling you the rest of it. "Alcorn was smiling, a curious expression lighting his face. 

"And how came he to be such a friend of the Prince's?" I asked. 

"He isn't his friend--isn't anybody's friend. He's a special agent ofthe Russian Secret Service. "

CAPTAIN JOE AND THE SUSIE ANN

Wide of beam, stout of mast, short-bowspritted, her boom clewed up toclear her deck load of rough stone; drawing ten feet aft and nine feetfor'ard; a twelve-horse hoisting engine and boiler in her forecastle;at the tiller a wabbly-jointed, halibut-shaped, moon-faced (partiallyeclipsed, owing to a fringe of dark whiskers), sleepy-eyed skippernamed Baxter, --such was the sloop Susie Ann, and her outfit and hercommander, as she lay alongside the dock in New London Harbor, ready todischarge her cargo at the site of Shark Ledge Lighthouse, eight milesseaward. 

On the dock itself, over a wharf post sprawled her owner, old AbramMarrows, a thin, long, badly put together man, awkward as a stepladderand as rickety, who, after trying everything from farming to selling apatent churn, had at last become a shipowner, the Susie Ann, comprisinghis entire fleet. Marrows had come to see her off; this being thesloop's first trip for the season. 

Lying outside the Susie Ann--her lines fast to an off-shore spile, wasthe construction tug of the lighthouse gang, the deck strewn withdiving gear, water casks and the like, --all needed in the furthering ofthe work at the ledge. On the tug's forward deck, hat off and jacketswinging loose, stood Captain Joe Bell in charge of the submarine workat the site, glorious old Captain Joe, with the body of a capstan, legsstiff as wharf posts, arms and hands tough as cant hooks and hearttwice as big as all of them put together. 

Each and every piece of stone, --some of them weighed seventons, --stowed aboard the Susie Ann, was, when she arrived alongside thefoundation of the lighthouse, to be lowered over her side and sent downto Captain Joe to place in thirty feet of water. This fact made himparticular both as to the kind of vessel engaged and the ability of theskipper. Bad seamanship might not only endanger the security of thework but his own life as well, --a diver not being as quick as a crab orblackfish in getting from under a seven-ton stone dropped from tripdogsat the signal to "lower away. "

Captain Joe's inspection of the Susie Ann's skipper was anything butsatisfactory, judging from the way he opened his battery of protest. 

"Baxter ain't fittin', I tell ye, Abram Marrows, " he exploded. "Heain't fittin' and never will be. Baxter don't know most nothin'. Sethim to grubbin' clams, Abram, but don't let him fool 'round the Ledge. He'll git the sloop ashore, I tell ye, or drop a stone and hurtsomebody. Go and git a MAN som'ers and put him in charge, --not ahalf-baked--" here he lowered his muzzle and fired point-blank at theobject of his wrath, --"Yes, and I'll say it to your face, CaptainBaxter. You take my advice and lay off for this v'yage, --it ain't nopicnic out to the Ledge. You ain't seen it since we got the stone 'bovehigh water. Reg'lar mill tail! You go ashore, I tell ye, --or ye'll losethe sloop. "

Many of the men ranged along the top of the cabin of the tug, orperched on its rail, wondered at the vehemence of the captain's attack, "Moon-faced Baxter, " as he was called, having a fair reputation as aseaman. They knew, too, that Captain Joe was aware of the condition ofMarrows's affairs, for it had been common talk that the bank had loanedAbram several hundred dollars with the sloop as security on thecaptain's own personal inspection. Some of them had even been presentwhen Mrs. Marrows, --a faded old woman with bleached eyes and apursed-up mouth, her shawl hooding her head and pinned close under herchin with her thumb and forefinger, --had begged Captain Joe to try theSusie Ann for a few loads until Abram could "ketch up, " and had heardhis promise to help her. 

But they made no protest. Such outbursts on the captain's part were butthe escaping steam from the overcharged boiler of his indignation. Underneath lay the firebox of his heart, chock full of red-hot coalsglowing with sympathy for every soul who needed his help. If his safetyvalve let go once in a while it was to escape from greater danger. 

His long range ammunition exhausted, Captain Joe turned on his heel andwalked aft to where his diving gear was piled, venting his indignationat every step. This time the outburst was directed to me, --(it was myweekly inspection at the Ledge). 

"Can't jam nothin' into his head, sir. Stubbornest mule 'round thisharbor. Warn't for that wife o' his Abe Marrows would a-been high anddry long ago. Every time he gits something purty good he goes and foolsit away;--sold his farm and bought that sloop; then he clapped aplaster on it in the bank to start a cook shop. But the wife's allright;--only last week she come to me lookin' like she'd bu'st outcryin', --sayin' the sloop was all they had, and I promised her then I'duse the Susie, but she never said nothin' 'bout Baxter being in charge, or I'd stopped him 'fore he loaded her. Well, there ain't no tellin'what nat'ral born fools like Abe Marrows'll do, but it's somethingornery and criss-cross if Abe Marrows does it. That woman's worked herfingers off for him, but he'll git her in the poor-house yit, --see ifhe don't. "

Marrows had heard every word of Captain Joe's outburst, but he made noanswer except to lift his thin elbows and spread his fingers in adeprecatory way, as if in protest. Baxter maintained a doggedsilence;--the least said in answer the better. Captain Joe Bell was nota man either to contradict or oppose;--better let him blow it all out. Both owner and skipper determined to take the risk. The Susie Ann hadbeen laid up all winter awaiting the opening of the spring work, andthe successful carrying out of the present venture was Marrows's onlyescape from financial ruin, and Baxter's only chance of getting hisback wages. There was an unpaid bill, too, for caulking, then a yearold, lying in Abram's bureau drawer, together with an account at MikeLavin's machine shop for a new set of grate bars, now almost worn out. Worse than all the bank's lien on the sloop was due in a few weeks. What money the sloop earned, therefore, must be earned quickly. 

And then again, Abram ruminated, Shark Ledge wasn't the worst place onthe coast, --despite Captain Joe's warning, --especially on thisparticular morning, when a light wind was blowing off shore. Plenty ofother sloops had delivered stone over their rails to the divers below. Marrows remembered that he had been out to the Ledge himself when theScreamer came up into the wind and crawled slowly up until her forefootwas within a biscuit toss of the stone pile. 

What Marrows forgot was that Captain Bob Brandt of Cape Ann had thenheld the spokes of the Screamer's wheel, --a man who knew every twistand turn of the treacherous tide. 

So Baxter shook out the sloop's jib and mainsail and started on hisjourney eight miles seaward, with orders to make fast on arrival to thespar buoy which lay within a few hundred yards of the Ledge, and therewait until the tide turned, when she could drop into position tounload. The tug with all of us on board would follow when we had takenon fresh water and coal. 

On the run out Captain Joe watched the sloop until she had made herfirst tack, then he turned to his work and again busied himself inoverhauling his diving dress; tightening the set-screws in his coppercollar, re-cording his breastplate and putting new leather thongs inhis leaden shoes. There was some stone on the sloop's deck which wasneeded to complete a level down among the black fish and torncod, --twenty-two feet down, --where the sea kelp streamed up in longblades above the top of his helmet and the rock crabs scurried out ofhis way. If Baxter didn't make a "tarnel fool of himself and git intoone o' them swirl-holes, " he intended to get these stones into placebefore night. 

He knew these "holes, " as he did every other swirl around the ledge andwhat they could do and what they couldn't. They were his swirls, really, --for he had placed every individual fragment of theobstructions that caused them with his own hands, in thirty feet ofwater. 

Some three years before the site had been marked by a spindle bearingan iron cage and fastened to a huge boulder known as Shark Ledge Rock, and covered at low water. The unloading of various sloops and schoonersunder his orders had enlarged this submerged rock to a miniatureisland, its ragged crest thrust above the sea. This obstruction to thewill of the wind and tide, and the ever-present six-mile current, caused by the narrowing of Long Island Sound in its onrush to the sea, acted as a fallen log that blocks a mountain stream, or a boulder thatplugs a torrent. That which for centuries had been a steady "set" everysix hours east and west, had now become a "back-and-in suck" fringed bya series of swirling undercurrents dealing death and destruction to theignorant and unwary. 

Not been long since a schooner loaded with concrete had been saved fromdestruction by the merest chance, and later on a big scow caught in theswirl had parted her buoy lines and would have landed high and dry onthe stone pile had not Captain Joe run a hawser to her, twisted itsbight around the drum of his engine and warped her off just in time tosave her bones from sea worms. 

As the tug approached, the Ledge, looming up on the dim horizon line, looked like a huge whale spouting derricks, a barnacle of a shantyclinging to its back. Soon there rose into relief the little knot ofmen gathered about one of the whale's fins--our landing stage, --andthen, as we came alongside, the welcome curl of the smoke, telling offried pork and saleratus biscuit. 

Captain Joe's orders now came thick and fast. 

"Hurry dinner, Nichols, "--this to the shanty cook, who was leaning outof the galley window, --"And here, --three or four o' ye, git this divin'stuff ashore, and then all hands to dinner. The wind's ag'inBaxter, --he won't git here for an hour. Startin' on one o' them longlegs o' his'n now, "--and the captain's eye rested on the sloop beatingup Fisher's Island way. 

"And, Billy, --'fore ye go ashore, jump into the yawl and take a look atthat snatch block on the spar buoy, --that clam digger may want it 'forenight. "

This spar buoy lay a few hundred yards off the Whale's Snout. Loadedvessels were moored to this quill bob, held in place by a five-tonsinker, until they were ready to drop into the eddy and there dischargetheir stone. 

Dinner over the men fell to work, each to his job. The derrick gang wasset to shifting a boom on to the larger derrick, the concrete mixerspicked up their shovels, and I went to work on the pay-roll of theweek. This I always figured up in the little dry-goods box of a roomopening out of the galley in the end of our board shanty, its windowlooking toward Montauk. 

As I leaned my arms on the sill for a glimpse of the wide expanse ofblue and silver, the cotton rag that served as a curtain flapped in myface. I pushed it aside and craned my neck north and south. The curtainhad acted as a weather vane, --the wind had hauled to the east. 

The sky, too, had dulled. Little lumpy clouds showed near the horizonline, and, sailing above these, hung a dirt spot of vapor, while aloftglowed some prismatic sundogs, shimmering like opals. Etched againstthe distance, with a tether line fastened to the spar buoy, lay theSusie Ann. She had that moment arrived and had made fast. Her sailswere furled, her boom swinging loose and ready, the smoke from herhoister curling from the end of her smoke pipe thrust up out of theforward hatch. 

Then I looked closer in. 

Below me, on the concrete platform, rested our big air pump, and besideit stood Captain Joe. He had slipped into his diving dress and was atthe moment adjusting the breastplates of lead, weighing twenty-fivepounds each, to his chest and back. His leaden shoes were already onhis feet. With the exception of his copper helmet, the signal linearound his wrist, and the life line about his waist, he was ready to gounder water. 

Pretty soon he would don his helmet, and, with a last word to Jimmy, his tender, would tuck his chin whisker inside the round opening, waituntil the face plate was screwed on, and then, with a cheerful nodbehind the glass, denoting that his air was coming all right, wouldstep down his rude ladder into the sea, --down, --down, --down to hisplace among the crabs and the seaweed. 

Suddenly my ears became conscious of a conversation carried on in a lowtone around the corner of the shanty. 

"Old Moon-face'll have to git up and git in a minute, " said a derrickman to a shoveller, --born sailors, these, --"there'll be a red-hot time'round here 'fore night. "

"Well, there ain't no wind. "

"Ain't no wind, --ain't there? See that bobble waltzin' in?"

I looked seaward, and my eyes rested on a ragged line of silver edgingthe horizon toward Montauk. 

"Does look soapy, don't it?" answered the shoveller. "Wonder if Cap'nJoe sees it. "

Cap'n Joe had seen it--fifteen minutes ahead of anybody else, --had beenwatching it to the exclusion of any other object. He knew thesea, --knew every move of the merciless, cunning beast; had watched itmany a time, lying in wait for its chance to tear and strangle. Morethan once had he held on to the rigging when, with a lash of its tail, it had swept a deck clean, or had stuck to the pumps for days while itsucked through opening seams the life-blood of his helpless craft. Thegame here would be to lift its victim on the back of a smoothunder-roller and with mighty effort hurl it like a battering ramagainst the shore rocks, shattering its timbers into drift wood. 

"Billy, " said Captain Joe to the shoveller, "go down to the edge of thestone pile and holler to the sloop to cast off and make for home. Hurry, now! And, Jimmy, "--this to his pump tender, --"unhook thisbreastplate, --there won't be no divin', today. I've been mistrustin'the wind would haul ever since I got up this mornin'. "

The shoveller sprang from the platform and began clambering over theslippery, slimy rocks like a crab, his red shirt marked with the white"X" of his suspenders in relief against the blue water. When he reachedthe outermost edge of the stone pile, where the ten-ton blocks lay, hemade a megaphone of his fingers and repeated the captain's orders tothe Susie Ann. 

Baxter listened with his hands cupped to his ears. 

"Who says so?" came back the reply. 

"Cap'n Joe. "

"What fur?"

"Goin' to blow, --don't ye see it?"

Baxter stepped gingerly along the sloop's rail. Obeying the order meanttwenty-four hour's delay in making sure of his wages, --perhaps a week, spring weather being uncertain. He didn't "see no blow. " Besides, ifthere was one coming, it wasn't his sloop or his stone. When he reachedthe foot of the bowsprit Moon-face sent this answer over the water:

"Let her blow and be d--! This sloop's chartered to deliver this stone. We've got steam up and the stuff's goin' over outside. Get your diversready. I ain't shovin' no baby carriage and don't you forgit it. I'mcomin' on! Cast off that buoy line, you, "--this to one of his men. 

Captain Joe continued stripping off his leaden breastplate. He hadheard his order repeated and knew that it had been givencorrectly, --Baxter's subsequent proceedings did not interest him. If hehad anything to say in answer it was of no moment to him. His word waslaw on the Ledge; first, because the men daily trusted their lives tohis guidance, and, second, because they all loved him with a love hardfor a landsman to understand, especially today, when the boss and thegang never, by any possibility, pull together. 

"Baxter says he's comin' on, sir, " said Billy, when he reached thecaptain's side, the grin on his sunburnt face widening until its twoends hooked over his ears. Billy had heard nothing so funny for weeks. 

"Comin' on?"

"That's what he hollered. Wants you to git ready to take his stuff, sir. "

I was out of the shanty now. I came in two jumps. With that squallrushing from the eastward and the tide making flood, any man who wouldleave the protection of the spar buoy for the purpose of unloading wasfit for a lunatic asylum. 

Captain Joe had straightened up and was screening his eyes with hishand when I reached his side, his gaze rivetted on the loosened sloop, which had now hauled in her tether line and was drifting clear of thebuoy. The captain was still incredulous. 

"No, he ain't comin', " he said to me. "He's all right, --he'll port hishelm in a minute, --but he'd better send up his jib"--and he swept hiseye around, --"and that quick, too. "

At this instant the sloop wavered and lurched heavily. The outer edgeof the insuck had caught her bow. 

Men's minds work quickly in times of great danger, --minds like CaptainJoe's. In a flash he had taken in the fast-approaching roller, froth-capped by the sudden squall; the surging vessel and the scaredface of Baxter, who, having realized his mistake was now clutchingwildly at the tiller and shouting orders to his men, none of whichcould be carried out. Captain Joe knew what would happen, --what hadhappened before, and what would happen again with fools likeBaxter, --now, --in a minute, --before he could reach the edge of thestone pile, hampered as he was in a rubber suit that bound his arms andtied his great legs together. And he understood too the sea's game, andthat the only way to outwit it would be to use the beast's own tactics. When it gathered itself for the thrust and started in to hurl thedoomed vessel the full length of its mighty arms, the sloop's onlysafety lay in widening the space. A cushion of backwater would thenreceive the sloop's forefoot in place of the snarling teeth of lowcrunching rocks. 

He had kicked off both shoes by this time and was shouting outdirections to Baxter, who was slowly and surely being sucked into theswirl:--

"Up with your jib! No, --NO! Let that mainsail alone! UP! Do ye want togit her on the stone pile, you? Port your helm! PORT! O GOD!--Look athim!!"

Captain Joe had slid from the platform now and was flopping his greatbody over the slimy, slippery rocks like a seal, falling into waterholes every other step, crawling out on his belly, rolling from oneslanting stone to another, shouting to his men, every time he had thebreath:--

"Man that yawl and run a line as quick as God'll let ye--out to thebuoy! Do ye hear? Pull that fall off the drum of the h'ister and gitthe end of a line on it! She'll be on top of us in a minute and themast out of her! QUICK!"

Jimmy sprang for a coil of rope; Billy and the others threw themselvesafter him; while half a dozen men working around the small eddy in thelee of the diminutive island caught up the oars and made a dash for theyawl. 

All this time the sloop, under the uplift of the first big Montaukroller, --the skirmish line of the attack, --surged, bow on, todestruction. Baxter, although shaking with fear, had sense enough leftto keep her nose pointed to the stone pile. The mast might come out ofher, but that was better than being gashed amidships and sunk in thirtyfeet of water. 

Captain Joe, his rubber suit wet and glistening as a shiny porpoise, his hair matted to his head, had now reached the outermost rockopposite the doomed craft, and stood near enough to catch everyexpression that crossed Baxter's face, who, white as chalk, was holdingthe tiller with all his strength, cap off, his blousy hair flying inthe increasing gale, his mouth tight shut. Go ashore she must. It wouldbe every man for himself then. No help would come, --no help COULD come. Captain Joe and his men would run for shelter as soon as the blow fell, and leave them to their fate. Men like Baxter are built to think thisway. 

All these minutes--seconds, really, --Captain Joe stood bending forward, watching where the sloop would strike, his hands outstretched in theattitude of a ball-player awaiting a ball. If her nose should hit thesharp, square edges of one of the ten-ton blocks, God help her! Shewould split wide open like a melon. If by any chance her forefootshould be thrust into one of the many gaps between the enrockmentblocks, --spaces from two to three feet wide, --and her bow timbers thustake the shock, there was a living chance to save her. 

A cry from Baxter, who had dropped the tiller and was scrambling overthe stone-covered deck to the bowsprit, reached the captain's ears, buthe never altered his position. What he was to do must be done surely. Baxter didn't count, --wasn't in the back of his head. There were plentyof willing hands to pick up Baxter and his men. 

Then a thing happened which, if I had not seen it, I would never havebelieved possible. The water cushion of the outsuck helped, --so did thehuge roller which, in its blind rage, had underestimated the distancebetween its lift and the wide-open jaws of the rock, --as a maddenedbull often underestimates the length of its thrust, its horns fallingshort of the matador. 

Whatever the cause, Captain Joe watched his chance, sprang to theoutermost rock, and, bracing his great snubbing posts of legs againstits edge, reversed his body, caught the wavering sloop on his broadshoulders, close under her bowsprit chains, and pushed back with allhis might. 

Then began a struggle between the strength of the man and the lunge ofthe sea. With every succeeding onslaught, and before the savage rollercould fully lift the staggering craft to hurl her to destruction, Captain Joe, with the help of the outsuck, would shove her back fromthe waiting rocks. This was repeated again and again, --the men in therescuing yawl meanwhile bending every muscle to carry out the captain'scommands. 

Sometimes his head was free enough to shout his orders, and sometimesboth man and bow were smothered in suds. 

"Keep that fall clear!" would come his order "Stand ready to catch theyawl! Shut that--" here a souse would stop his breath, --"shut thatfurnace door! Do ye want the steam out of the b'iler?"--etc. , etc. 

That the slightest misstep on the slimy rocks on which his feet werebraced meant sending him under the sloop's bow where he would be caughtbetween her forefoot and the rocks and ground into pulp concerned himas little as did the fact that Baxter and his men had crawled along thebowsprit over his head and had dropped to the island without wettingtheir shoes. That his diving suit was full of water and he soaking wetto the skin, made not the slightest difference to him--no more than itwould to a Newfoundland dog saving a child. His thoughts were on otherthings, --on the rescuing yawl speeding toward the spar buoy, on thestout hands and knowing ones who were pulling for all they were worthto that anchor of safety;--on two of his own men who, seeing Baxter'scowardly desertion, had sprung like cats at the bowsprit of the sloopin one of her dives, and were then on the stern ready to pay out a lineto the yawl when she reached the goal. No, --he'd hold on "till hellfroze over. "

A hawser now ripped itself clear from out the crest of a roller. Thismeant that the two cats, despite the increasing gale and thrash of theonrushing sea had succeeded in paying out a stern line to the men inthe yawl, who had slipped it through the snatch block fastened in thebuoy. It meant, too, that this line had been connected with the linethey had brought with them from the island, its far end being aroundthe drum of our hoister. 

A shrill cry now came from one of the crew in the yawl alongside thespar buoy, followed instantly by the clear, ringing order, "GO AHEAD!"

Now a burst of feathery steam plumed skyward, and then the slow"chuggity-chug" of our drum cogs rose in the air. The stern linestraightened until it was as rigid as a bar of iron, sagged for aninstant under the slump of the staggering sloop, straightened again, and remained rigid. The sloop, held by the stern line, crept slowlyback to safety. 

Captain Joe looked over his shoulder, noted the widening distance, andleaped back to the inshore rocks. 

Late that afternoon, when the tug, with Captain Joe and me on board, reached the tug's moorings in New London harbor, the dock was crowdedwith anxious faces, --Abram Marrows and his wife among them. It had beenan anxious day along the shore road. The squall, which had blown forhalf an hour and had then slunk away toward Little Gull, grumbling asit went, had sent everything that could seek shelter bowling into NewLondon Harbor under close reefs. It had also started Marrows and hiswife on a run to the dock, where they had stood for hours strainingtheir eyes seaward, each incoming vessel, as she swooped past the dockinto the inner basin, adding to their anxiety. 

"Wouldn't give a keg o' sp'ilt fish for her. Ain't a livin' chance o'savin' her, " had bellowed the captain of a fishing smack, as he sweptby, within biscuit-toss of the dock, his boom submerged, the watercurling over the rail. 

"She went slap ag'in them chunks o' cut stone!" shouted the mate of atug through the window of a pilot house. 

"Got her off with her bow split open, but they can't keep her free!Sunk by now, I guess, " had yelled one of the crew of a dory making forthe shipyard. 

As each bulletin was shouted back over the water in answer to theanxious inquiries of Marrows, the wife would clasp her fingers thetighter. She made no moan or outburst. Abram would blame her and say itwas her fault, --everything was her fault that went wrong. 

When the tug had made fast to a wharf spile Captain Joe cleared thestringpiece, and walked straight to Marrows. He was still soaking wetunderneath his clothes, only his outer garments being dry, --a conditionwhich never affected him in the least, "salt water bein' healthy, " hewould say. 

"What did I tell ye, Abram Marrows?" he exploded, in a voice that couldbe heard to the turnpike. "Didn't I say Baxter warn't fittin', and thathe ought ter be grubbin' clams? Go and dig a hole some'er's and coverhim up head and ears, --and dig it quick, too, and I'll lend ye ashovel. "

"Well, but, Captain Joe, "--protested Marrows. 

"Don't you 'well' me. Well, nothin'. You're bad as him. Go and dig ahole and BOTH on ye git in it!"--and he pushed through the crowd on hisway to his house, I close at his heels. 

The wife, who but that moment had heard the glad news of the rescuefrom the lips of a deck hand, now hurried after the captain and laidher hand on his arm. Her eyes were red from weeping; strands of grayhair strayed over her forehead and cheeks; her lips were tightly drawn;the anxiety of the last few hours had left its mark. 

"Don't go, Captain Joe, till I kin speak to ye, " she pleaded, in atrembling voice, --speaking through fingers pressed close to her lips. 

"No, --I don't want to hear nothin'. She's all right, I tellye, --tighter 'n a drum and not a drop of water in her. Got some of mymen aboard and we'll unload her to-morrow. You go home, old woman; youneedn't worry. "

"Yes, but you must listen, --PLEASE listen. "

She had followed him up the dock and the two stood apart from the crowd. 

"Well, what is it?"

"I want to thank ye, --and I want--"

"No, you don't want to thank nothin'. She's all right, I tell ye. "

She had tight hold of his arm now and was looking up into his face, allher gratitude in her eyes. 

"But I do, --I must, --please listen. You've helped us so. It's all wehave. If we'd lost the sloop I'd 'a' give up. "

The captain's rough, hard hand went out and caught the woman's thinfingers. A peculiar cadence came into his voice. 

"All ye have? Do you think I don't know it? That's why I was under herbowsprit. "

"AGAINST ORDERS"

"Here comes Captain Bogart--we'll ask him, " said the talkative man. 

His listeners were grouped about one of the small tables in thesmoking-room of the Moldavia, five days out. The question was when themaster of a vessel should leave his ship. In the incident discussedevery man had gone ashore--even the life-saving crew had given her up:the master had stuck to his post. 

The captain listened gravely. 

"Yes--if there's one chance in a thousand of saving her. Regulationsare pretty plain; can't forget 'em unless you want to, " and he walkedon. 

That night at dinner I received a message to come to the captain'scabin. He had some coffee that an old Brazilian had sent him. Hissteward hailed from Rio, and knew how to grind and boil it. 

Over the making the talk veered to the inquiry in the smoking-room. 

"When ought a commander to abandon his ship, Captain?" I asked. 

"When his passengers need him. Passengers first, ship next, are theorders. They're clear and exact--can't mistake 'em. "

"You speak as if you had had some experience. " A leaf from out thenote-book of a live man doing live things is as refreshing as a bucketof cool water from a deep well. 

"Experience! Been forty years at sea. "

"Some of them pretty exciting, I suppose. "

"Yes. Half a dozen of 'em. "

He emptied his cup, rose from his seat, and pushing back his chair, began pacing the floor, stepping into the connecting chart-room, bending for an instant over the map, and stepping back again, peeringthrough the small window a-grime with the spray of a north-easter. 

My question, I could see, had either revived some unpleasant memory orthe anxiety due to the sudden shift of wind--it had been blowingsouth-west all day--had made him restless. 

As my eyes followed his movements I began to realize the enormous sizeof the man. Walking the deck, head up, body erect, his broad shoulderspulled back, his round, solid girth tightly confined in his simpleuniform, he looked the brawny, dominant, forceful commander that hewas--big among the biggest passengers. Here, pacing the small cabin, his head almost touching the ceiling, his great frame filled the smallnarrow room as an elephant would fill a boudoir. Everything seemed toosmall for him--the table, even the chair which he had now regained, thetiny egg-shell cup which he was still grasping. 

Looking closer--his head in full profile against the glow of theelectric light--I caught the straight line of the ruddy, seamed neck--abull's neck in strength, a Greek athlete's in refinement ofline--sweeping up into the close-cropped, iron-gray hair. Then came theround of the head; the massive forehead, strong, straight nose; thin, compressed lips, moulded thin and kept compressed by a life ofdetermined effort; square-cut chin and the iron jaw that held the lipsand chin in place. 

When he rose to his feet again I had another surprise. To myastonishment he was not a Colossus at all--not in pounds and inches. Onthe contrary, he was but little above the average size. What hadimpressed me had not been his bulk, but his reserve force. Tigersstretched out in cages produce this effect; so do powerful machinesthat dig, crunch, or pound--dormant until their life-steam sets themgoing. 

The gale increased in violence. We got now the lift of the steamer'sbow, staggering under tons of water, and the whir of the screw inmid-air. The captain glanced at the barometer, drew his body to itsfull height, reached for his storm-coat, slipped it on, and was aboutto swing back the door opening on the deck, when the chirp of a canaryrang through the room. At the sound he turned quickly and walked backto where the cage hung. 

"Ho, little man!" he cried in the same tone of voice in which he wouldhave addressed a child; "woke you up, did we? Sorry, old fellow; tuckyour head down again and take another nap. "

The bird stretched out its bill, fluttered its wings, pecked at thecaptain's outstretched finger, and burst into song. 

"Yours, captain?" I had not noticed the bird before. 

"Yes; had him for years. "

Instantly the absurdity of the companionship broke upon me. Whatpossible comfort, I thought, could a man like the captain take in sotiny a creature? It was the lion and the mouse over again--the eagleand the tom-tit--the bear and the rabbit. He must have noticed mysurprise and amusement, for he added with a smile:

"Must have something. Gets pretty lonesome sometimes when you have nowife nor children, and there are none anywheres for me. " He hadwithdrawn his fingers now, and was buttoning his coat close about hisbroad chest, his eyes still on the bird that was splitting its littlethroat in a burst of song. 

"But he's so small, " I laughed. "I should think you'd have a dog--seemsnearer your size. "

I once saw a man struck by a spent bullet. I remember the suddenpallor, the half gasp, and the expression of pain that followed. Thenthe man uttered a cry. The same expression crossed the captain's face, but there was no gasp and no cry; only a straightening of the lips anda tightening-up of the iron jaw. Then, without a word of any kind inanswer, he caught up his cap, swung back the door, and with the windfull on his chest, breasted his way to the bridge. 

When the door swung open a moment later it closed on the firstofficer--a square, thick-set, round-headed man, with mild blue eyes setin a face framed by a half-circle of reddish-brown whiskers, the facetanned by twenty-five years of sea service, fifteen of them withCaptain Bogart. 

"Getting soapy, " he said; "wind haulin' to the east'ard. Goin' to havea nasty night. " As he spoke he stripped off his tarpaulins, hung themto a hook in the chart-room, and wiping the salt grime from his facewith his coat cuff, took the captain's empty seat at the table. 

I knew by the captain's silent departure that I had made a break ofsome kind, but I could not locate it. Perhaps the first officer mightexplain. 

"Captain lost his wife, didn't he?" I asked, moving my chair to makeroom. 

"No--never had one. " He leaned forward and filled one of the emptycups. "Why did you think so?"

"Well, more from the tone of his voice than anything else. Some troubleabout it, wasn't there?"

"There was. His sweetheart was burned to death ten years ago--lamp gotupset. " These men are direct in their speech. It comes from theirlife-long habit of giving short, crisp, meaning orders. He had reachedfor the sugar now, and was dropping the lumps slowly into his cup. 

"That explains it, then, " I answered. "We were talking about the birdover there, and he said a man must have something to love, beingwithout wife or children, and then I told him a big man like himself, Ishould think, would rather have a dog--"

The first officer put down his cup, jerked his body around, and said, his blue eyes looking into mine:

"You didn't say that, did you?"

I nodded my head. 

"Mighty sorry. Don't any of us talk to him of his dog. What did he say?"

"Nothing. Turned a little pale, got up, and went out. "

"Too bad! You didn't know, of course--wish I'd posted you. "

"Then he DID have a dog?"

"Yes, belonged to that poor girl. "

"What became of him?"

The first officer leaned over the table and rested his elbows on thecloth, his chin in the palms of his hands. For some time he did notspeak. Outside I could hear the thrash of the sea and the slosh ofspent waves coursing through the deck gutters. 

"You want to hear about that dog, do you?" he asked, straightening up. "Well, I can tell you if any man can, but you're to keep mum about itto the captain. "

Again I nodded. 

He fumbled in his outside pocket, drew forth a short pipe, rapped outthe dead ashes, refilled it slowly from a pouch on the table, lightedit, and settled himself in his chair. 

"I'll begin at the beginning, for then you'll understand how I came tobe mixed up in it. I saw that dog when he first came aboard, and I wantto say right here that the sight of him raised a lump in my throat bigas your fist, for he was just the mate of the one I owned when I usedto look after my father's sheep on the hills where we lived. Then, again, I took to him because he wasn't the kind of a pet I'd ever seenat sea before--we'd had monkeys and parrots and a bobtail cat, butnever a dog--not a real, human dog. 

"He was one of those brown-and-white combed-out collies we have up inmy country, with a long, pointed nose that could smell a mile and eyeslike your mother's--they were so soft and tender. One of those dogsthat when he put his cold nose alongside your cheek and snuffed aroundyour whiskers you loved him--you couldn't help it--and you knew heloved you. As for the captain--the dog was never three feet from hisheels. Night or day, it was just the same--up on the bridge, followin'him with his eyes every time he turned, or stretched out beside hisberth when he was asleep. Hard to understand how such a man can love adog until you saw that one. Then, again, this dog had another hold uponthe captain, for the girl had loved him just the same way. 

"And he had the best nose in a fog--seemed as if he could sniff thingsas they went by or came on dead ahead. After a while the captain wouldsend him out with the bow-watch in thick weather, and there he'dcrouch, his nose restin' on the rail, his eyes peerin' ahead. Once hegot on to a brigantine comin' bow on minutes before the lookout couldsee her--smelt her, the men said, just as he used to smell the sheeplost on the hillside at home. It was thick as mud--one of those pastyfogs that choke you like hot steam. We had three men in the cro'nestand two for'ard hangin' over her bow-rail. The dog began to growrestless. Then his ears went up and his tail straightened out, and hebegan to growl as if he had seen another dog. The captain was listenin'from the bridge, and he suspected somethin' was wrong and rang 'Slowdown!' just in time to save us from smashing bow on into thatbrigantine. Another time he rose on his hind legs and 'let out' a yelpthat peeled everybody's eyes. Then the slippery, barnacle-coveredbottom of a water-logged derelict went scootin' by a few yards off ourstarboard quarter. After that the men got to dependin' on him--'Oughtto have a first mate's pay, ' I used to tell the captain, at which hewould laugh and pat the dog on the head. 

"One morning about eight bells, some two hundred miles off Rio--we were'board the Zampa, one of our South American line, with eighteenfirst-class passengers, half of 'em women, and ten or twelveemigrants--when word came to the bridge that a fire had started in thecargo. We had a lot of light freight on board and some explosives whichwere to be used in the mines in the mountains off the coast, so firewas the last thing we wanted. Bayard--did I tell you the dog's name wasBayard?--that's what the girl called him--was on the bridge withCaptain Bogart. I was asleep in my bunk. First thing I knew I felt thedog's cold nose in my face, and the next thing I was on the dead runfor the after-hatch. I've had it big and ugly a good many times in mylife; was washed upon a pile of rocks once stickin' up about a cable'slength off our coast, and hung to the cracks until I dropped into alifeboat; and another time I was picked up for dead off Natal androlled on a barrel till I came to. But that racket aboard the Zampa wasthe worst yet. 

"When I jumped in among the men the smoke was creepin' out between thelids of the hatch. We ripped that off and began diggin' up thecargo--crates of chairs, rolls of mattin', some sprucescantling--runnin' the nozzle of the hose down as far as we could getit. There were no water-tight compartments which we could have floodedin those days as there are now, or we could have smothered it firstoff. What we had to do was to fight it inch by inch. I knew where theexplosives were, and so did the captain and purser, but the crewdidn't--didn't even know they were aboard, and I was glad they didn't. We had picked most of 'em up at Rio--or they'd made a rush maybe forthe boats, and then we'd had to shoot one or two of 'em to teach theothers manners. In addition to every foot of hose we had 'board Istarted a line of buckets and then rushed a gang below to cut throughthe bulkhead to see if we could get at the stuff better. 

"The men fell to with a will. Fire ain't so bad when you take hold ofit in time, and as long as there is plenty of steam pressure--and therewas--you can almost always get on top of it, unless something turns upyou don't count on. 

"That's what happened here. I was standin' on the coamings of the hatchat the time, peerin' down into the smoke and steam, thinking the firewas nearly out, directing the men what to h'ist out and what to leave, when first thing I knew there came a dull, heavy thump, as if we'dstruck a rock amidships, and up puffed a cloud of smoke and sparks thatkeeled me over on my back and nearly blinded me. 

"I knew then that the fire had just begun to take hold; that thumpmight have been a cask of rum or it might have been a box ofnitro-glycerine. Whatever it was, there was no time to waste instoppin' the blaze before it reached the rest of the cargo. 

"Captain Bogart had felt the shock and now came runnin' down the deckwith the dog at his heels. He knew I'd take care of the fire and hehadn't left the bridge, but the way she shook and heaved under theexplosion was another thing. 

"By this time the passengers were huddled together on the upper deck, frightened to death, as they always are, the women the coolest in thecrowd. All except two little old women, sisters, who lived out of Rioand who had been with us before. Fire was one of the things that scaredthem to death, and they certainly were scared. They hung to the rail, their arms around each other--the two together didn't weigh a hundredand fifty pounds; always reminded me of two shiverin' little monkeys, these two old women, although maybe it ain't nice for me to say it--andlooked down over the rail into the sea, and said they never could godown the ladder, and did all the things badly scared women do, short ofpitching themselves overboard, which sometimes occurs. The captainstopped and talked to 'em--told 'em there was no danger--his ears openall the time for another let-go, and the dog nosed round and put outhis paw as if to make good what the captain had promised. 

"The water was goin' in now pretty lively--all the pumps at work--thelight stuff bein' heaved overboard as fast as it came out. By dark we'dgot the fire under so that we had steam where before we'd had smoke andflame. The passengers had quieted down and some of 'em had gone back totheir staterooms to get their things together, and everything was goingquiet and peaceable--this was about nine o'clock--when there cameanother half-smothered explosion and the stokers began crawlin' up likerats. Then the chief engineer stumbled out--no hat nor coat, his headall blood where a flying bolt had gashed him. Some of her bilge plateswas loose, he said, and the water half up to the fire-boxes. Next acolumn of flame came pouring out of her companionway, which crisped upfour of our boats and drove everybody for'ard. We knew then it was allup with us. 

"The captain now sent every man to the boats--those that wouldfloat--and we began to get the passengers and crew together--aboutsixty, all told. That's pretty nasty business at any time. They're likea flock of sheep, huddlin' together, some wantin' to stay and somecrazy to go; or they are shiverin' with fright and ready to knife eachother--anything to get ahead or back or wherever they think it issafest. This time most of 'em had got on to the explosives; they knewsomething was up, either with the boilers or the cargo, and every oneof them expected to be blown up any minute. 

"I stood by the rail, of course, and had told off the men I couldtrust, puttin' 'em in two lines to let 'em through one at a time, womenfirst, then the old men, and so on--same old story; you've seen it, nodoubt--and had got four boats overboard and filled--the sea was prettycalm--and three of 'em away and out of range of fallin' pieces if shedid take a notion to let go suddenly, when the dog sprang out of thedoor at the top of the stairs leading down to the main deck, barkin'like mad, runnin' up to the captain, who stood just behind me, pullin'at his trousers, and runnin' back again. Then a yell came from the boatbelow that one of the old women was missing: it was her sister. Onehalf-crazy man said she'd jumped overboard--he was crowdin' up to therail and didn't want to stop for anything--and another said she hadgone off in the first boat, which I knew was a lie. 

"'Have you sent them both down?' asked Captain Bogart. 

"'No, sir; only one, ' I said--and I hadn't. 

"Just then a steward stepped up with a bundle of clothing in his hand. 

"'I tried to get her out, but she'd locked herself in the stateroom, sir. It was all afire when I come up. '

"It took about two seconds for Captain Bogart to jump clear of thecrowd, run half the length of the deck and plunge through the doorleadin' to the main deck, the dog boundin' after him. 

"I've been through a good many anxious minutes in my life, but thosewere the worst I'd had up to date. He and I had been pretty close eversince I went to sea. He's ten years older than I am, but he gave me myfirst chance. Yes; that kind of thing takes the heart out of you, andthey were both in it. Hadn't been for the dog we wouldn't have missedher, maybe, although the captain was keeping tally of the passengersand crew. 

"Three minutes, they said it was--more like three hours to me--I heldthe crowd back, wondering how long I ought to wait if he didn't comeup, knowing my duty was to stay where I was, when the dog sprang out ofthe door, half his hair singed off him, barkin' and jumpin' as if hehad been let out for a romp; and then came the captain staggerin'along, his face scorched, his coat half burned off him, the woman inhis arms in a dead faint and pretty nigh smothered. The old fool hadlocked herself in her stateroom--he had to break down the door to getat her--cryin' she'd rather die there than be separated from her sister. 

"We made room for the two--the half-crazy man fallin' back--and thecaptain lowered her himself into the boat alongside her sister, andthen he sent me down the ladder behind her to catch the others whenthey came down and see that everything was ready to cast off. 

"I could see the captain now from my position in the boat, up againstthe sky--he was the last man on the ship--holding the dog close to him. Once I thought he was going to bring him down in his arms, he held himso tight. 

"Next time I looked he was coming down the ladder slowly, one foot at atime, the dog looking down at him, his big, human eyes peering into thecaptain's face, his long, pointed nose thrust out, his ears bentforward. If he could have spoken--and he looked as if he wasspeaking--he would be telling him how glad he felt at savin' the oldwoman, and how happy he was that they'd all three got clear. My owncollie used to talk to me like that--had a kind of low whine when he'dget that way; tell me about his sheep stuck in the snow, and the waythe--"

The first officer stopped, cleared his throat, shook the ashes from hispipe and laid it on the table. After a while he went on. His words cameslower now, as if they hurt him. 

"When the captain got half-way down the ladder I saw him stand stillfor a moment and look straight tip into the dog's eyes. Then I heardhim say:

"'Down, Bayard! Stay where you are. '

"The dog crouched and lay with his paws on the edge of the rail. That'swhat he'd done all his life--just obeyed orders without question. AgainI saw the captain stop. This time he slipped his hand into hisside-pocket, half drew out his revolver, put it back again, and kept onhis way down the ladder to the boat. 

"Then the captain's order rang out:

"'Get ready to shove off!'

"Hardly had the words left his lips when there came another dull, muffled roar, and a sheet of flame licked the whole length of the deck. Then she fell over on her beam. 

"'My God!' I cried; 'left that dog to die!'"

For a moment the first officer did not answer. Then he raised his eyesto mine and said in a voice full of emotion:

"Yes; there was nothin' else to do. It's against orders to take animalsinto life-boats. They take room and must be fed, and we hadn't a footof space or an ounce of grub and water to spare, and we had two hundredmiles to go. I begged the captain. 'I'll give Bayard my place, ' I said. I knew he was right; but I couldn't help it. 'Let me go back and gethim. ' I know now it would have been foolish; but I'd have done it allthe same. So would you, maybe, if you'd known that dog and seen histrusting eyes lookin' out of his scorched face and remembered what he'djust done. 

"The captain never looked at me when he answered. He couldn't; his eyeswere too full. 

"'Your place is where you are, sir, ' he said, short and crisp. 'Shoveoff, men. '

"He will never get over it. That dog stood for the girl he'd lost, somehow. That's the captain's bell. I'm wanted on the bridge. Good-night. "

Again the cabin door swung free, letting in a blast of raw ice-houseair, the kind that chills you to the bone. The gale had increased. Through the opening I could hear the combers sweeping the bow and thedown-swash of the overflow striking the deck below. 

With the outside roar came the captain, his tarpaulins glistening withspray, his cap pulled tight down to his ears, his storm-beaten faceruddy with the dash and cut of the wind. He looked like a sea Titanthat had stepped aboard from the crest of a wave. 

If he saw me--I was stretched out on the sofa by this time--he gave nosign. Opening his tarpaulins and thrashing the water from his cap, hewalked straight to the cage, peered in, and said softly:

"Ah, my little man! Asleep, are you? I just came down to take a look atthe chart and see how you were getting on. We're having some weather onthe bridge. "

MUGGLES'S SUPREME MOMENT

I

A most estimable young man was Muggles: a clean-shaven, spick-and-span, well-mannered young man--particular as to the brushing of his hat, thetying of his scarf and the cut of his clothes; more than particular asto their puttings-on and puttings-off--sack-coat and derby formornings; top hat and frock for afternoons; bobtail and black tie forstags, and full regalia of white choker, white waistcoat andswallowtail for smart dinners and the opera. 

He knew, too, all the little niceties of social life--which arm to giveto his hostess in escorting her out to dinner; on which side of ahansom to place a lady; the proper hours for calling; the correct thingin canes, umbrellas, stick-pins and cigar-cases; the way to balance acup of afternoon tea on one knee while he toyed with a lettuce sandwichteetering on the other--all the delicate observances so vital to theinitiated and so unimportant to the untutored and ignorant. ThenMuggles was a kind and considerate young man--extremely kind andintrusively considerate; always interesting himself in everybody'saffairs and taking no end of trouble to straighten them out whetherimportuned or not--and he seldom was. 

This idiosyncrasy had gained for him during his college days the titleof "Mixey. " This in succeeding years had been merged into "Muddles" andfinally to "Muggles, " as being more euphonious and less insulting. Oflate among his intimates he had been known as "The Goat, " due to hisconstant habit of butting in at any and all times, a sobriquet whichclings to him to this day. 

His real name--the one he inherited from his progenitors and now borneby his family--was one that stood high in the fashionable world: afamily that answered to the more dignified and aristocratic patronymicof Maxwell--a name dating back to the time of Cromwell, with directlineage from the Earl of Clanworthy--john, Duke of Essex, LordBeverston--that sort of lineage. No one of the later Maxwells, it istrue, had ever been able to fill the gap of a hundred years or morebetween the Clanworthys and the Maxwells, but a little thing like thatnever made any difference to Muggles or his immediate connections. Wasnot the family note-paper emblazoned with the counterfeit presentmentof a Stork Rampant caught by the legs and flopping its wings over aflattened fish-basket; and did not Muggles's cigarette-case, cuff-buttons and seal ring bear a similar design? And the wooden mantelin the great locked library, and which was opened and dusted twice ayear--the books, not the mantel--did it not support a life-sizedportrait of the family bird done in wood, with three diminutivestorklets clamoring to be fed, their open mouths out-thrust betweentheir mother's breast and the top edge of the fish-basket, enwreathedby a more than graceful ribbon bearing the inscription, "We feed thehungry"--or words to that effect?

None of these evidences of wealth and ancestry, it must be said, everimpressed the group of scoffers gathered about the wood fire of the"Ivy" in his college days, or about the smart tables at the "MagnoliaClub" in his post-graduate life. To them he was still "Mixey, " or"Muddles, " or "Muggles, " or "The Goat, " depending entirely upon thepeculiar circumstances connected with the mixing up or the butting in. 

To his credit be it said the descendant of earls and high-daddies neverlost his temper at these onslaughts. If Bender, or Podvine, or littleBilly Salters pitched into him for some act of stupidity--due entirelyto his misguided efforts to serve some mutual friend--Muggles wouldargue, defend and protest, but the discussion would always end with alaugh and his signing the waiter's check and ordering another one foreverybody. 

"Why the devil, Muggles, did you insist last night on that Bostongirl's riding home from the theatre in the omnibus, you goat?"thundered Podvine one morning at the club, "instead of letting her--"

"My dear fellow, " protested Muggles, "it was much more comfortable inthe omnibus, and--"

"--And broke up her walk home with Bobby, you idiot! He had to take theowl train home, and she won't see him for a month. Didn't you know theywere engaged?"

"No--"

"Of course you didn't, Muggles, but you could have seen it in her faceif you'd looked. You always put your foot in it clean up to your pants'pocket!"

"You've been at it again, have you, Muggles?" burst out Bender thatsame night "Listen to the Goat's last, boys. Jerry wanted to buy thatswamp meadow next his place on Long Island and had been dickering withthe old fellow who owns it all winter, telling him it would be a goodplace to raise cranberries if it was dug out and drained, and they hadalmost agreed on the price--about twice what it was worth--when downgoes Muggles to spend the night and Jerry blabs it all out, and justwhy he wanted it, and the next morning Muggles, to clinch the deal andhelp Jerry, slips over to the hayseed and tells him how the SunnybrookClub are going to buy Jerry's place, and how they wanted the swamp fora hatchery--all true--and that the hayseed oughtn't to wait a moment, but send word by HIM that the deal was closed, because the club-housebeing near by would make all the rest of his land twice as valuable;and the old Skeezicks winked his eye and shifted his tobacco and saidhe'd think about it, and now you can't buy that sink-hole for twentytimes what it's worth, and the Sunnybrook is looking for another sitenearer Woodvale. Regular clown you are, Muggles. Exactly like thatfellow at the circus who holds up one end of the tent and then, beforethe supes can reach it, drops it for the other end. "

When the results of this last well-intentioned effort with itsdisastrous consequences became clear to the Goat, that spotlessgentleman leaned back in his chair, threw hick his shoulders, shot outhis cuffs, readjusted his scarfpin and replied in an offended tone:

"All owing, my dear fellow, to the stupidity of the agricultural class. I told the farmer he would regret it, and he will. As for myself, I wasawfully disappointed. I had planned to run all the way back to Jerry'sand tell him the good news before he went to sleep that night, and--"

"Disappointed, were you? How do you think Jerry felt? Made a lot ofdifference to him, I tell you, not selling his place to the club. Beena whole year working it up. It's smothered now under a blanket--aboutninety per cent of its value--and the Sunnybrook scheme would havepulled him out with a margin! Now it's deader than last year's shad. What the club wanted was a hatchery built over a spring, and that's whythat swamp was necessary to the deal. Oh, you're the limit, Muggles!"

It was while smarting under these criticisms that the steward onemorning in June brought him his letters. One was from Monteith--Classof '9l--a senior when Muggles was a freshman--and was postmarked"Wabacog, Canada, " where Monteith owned a lumber mill--and where he ranit himself and everything connected with it from stumpage to scantling. "There is a broad stream that runs into the lake, ... And above themill there are bass weighing ten pounds, ... And back in the primevalforest bears, ... And now and then a moose--" So ran the letter. Muggles had spread it wide open by this time and was reading italoud--everybody knowing Monteith--and the group never having anysecrets of this kind from each other. 

"Come up, old chap, " the letter continued, "and stay a week--two, ifyou can work it--and bring Bender, and little Billy and Poddy, andthree or four more. The bungalow holds ten. Wire when--I'm now puttingthings on ice. "

Muggles looked around the circle and sent interrogatory Marconigramswith his eyebrows. In response Podvine said he'd go, and so did BillySalters. Bender thought he could come a day or two later--the earningof their daily bread was not an absorbing task with these younggentlemen--their fathers had done that years before. 

Muggles ran over in his mind the list of his engagements: he was due atGravesend on the tenth for a week, to play golf; at his aunt'scountry-seat in Westchester on the eleventh for the same length oftime, and on the twelfth he was expected to meet a yacht at Cold SpringHarbor for a cruise up the coast. He had accepted these invitations andhad fully intended to keep each and every one. Monteith's letter, however, seemed to come at a time when he really needed a more virileand bracing life than was offered by the others. Here was a chance toredeem his reputation. Lumber camps meant big men doing bigthings--things reeking with danger, such as falling trees, forest firesand log jams. There might also be hair-breadth escapes in the huntingof big game and the tramping of the vast wilderness. This dressingthree times a day and spending the intermediate hours hitting woodenballs, or lounging in a straw chair under a deck awning, had becometiresome. What he needed was to get down to Nature and hug the sod, andif there wasn't any sod then he would grapple with whatever took itsplace. 

Muggles dropped his legs to the floor, straightened his back, beckonedto a servant, motioned for a telegraph blank--exertion is tabooed atthe Magnolia--untelescoped a gold pencil hooked to his watch-chain andwrote as follows:

"Thanks. Coming Tuesday. "

II

Wabacog covers a shaved place in a primeval forest which slopes to alake of the same name. Covering this bare spot are huge piles of sawedlumber--Monteith's axe-razors did the shaving--surrounding an enormousmill surmounted by a smokestack of wrought iron topped with a bird-cagespark arrester, the whole flanked by a runway emerging from the lake, up which climb in mournful procession the stately bodies of fallenmonarchs awaiting the cutting irony of the saw. Farther along, onanother clearing, stands a square building labelled "Office, " and stillfarther on, guarded by sentinel trees and encircled by wide piazzas, sprawls a low-roofed bungalow, its main entrance level with a boardwalkending in the lake. This was Monteith's home. Here during the winter'slogging he housed himself in complete seclusion, and here in summer hekept open house for whoever would answer in person his welcomingletters. 

Anything so rude and primeval, or so comforting and inviting, wasbeyond the experience of Muggles and his friends. This became apparentbefore they had shed their coats and unpacked their bags. There was adarky who answered to the name of Jackson who could not only crisptrout to a turn, but who could compound cocktails, rub down muscularbacks shivering from morning plunges in the lake, make beds, cleanguns, wait on the table, and in an emergency row a canoe. There wereeasy chairs and low-pitched divans overspread with Turkey rugs andheaped with piles of silk cushions; there were wooden lockers, allopen, and each one filled with drinkables and smokables--drinkableswith white labels, and smokables six inches long with cuffs halfwaydown their length; there was an ice-chest sampling a larger house inthe rear; there was a big, wide, all-embracing fireplace that burst itssides laughing over the good time it was having (the air was cool atnight), and outside, redolent with perfume and glistening in thesunshine, there was a bed of mint protected by a curbing of plank whichrivalled in its sweet freshness those covering the last resting-placesof the most hospitable of Virginians. 

And there was Monteith!

Some men are born rich; some inherit a pair of scissors fitted tostrong thumbs and forefingers, some have to lie awake nights wonderingwhat they will do next to help their surplus run to waste, and somepass sleepless hours devising plans by which they can catch in theirempty pockets the clippings and drippings of all three. Muggles's hostwas none of these. What he possessed he had worked for--early, late andall the time. His father had stood by and seen the old homestead in hisnative Southern State topple into ashes, Only the gaunt chimney left;the son had worked his way through college, and then with diploma inone hand and his courage in the other--all he owned--had shaken thedust of civilization from his shoes and had struck out for the Northernwilds: Wabacog was the result. 

All these years he had kept in touch with his college chums, and whenthe day of his success arrived, and he was his own master, with theinborn good-fellowship that marked his race, he had unbuttoned hispocket, shaken out his heart and let loose a hospitality that not onlyrevived the memories of his childhood, but created a new kind of joy inthe hearts of his guests. Hence the bungalow--hence Jackson--hence thelockers and the ice-chest, and hence the bed quilt of mint. 

"This is your room, Muggles--and, Bender, old man, yours is nextPodvine, you are across the hall, " was his welcome. "Breakfast is anytime you want it; dinner at six. Now come here! See that line oflockers and that ice-chest? Don't forget 'em, please! Step up, Jackson--take a look at him, boys. That darky can mix anything known toman. He never sleeps, and he's never tired. If you don't call on himfor every blessed thing you want day or night, there'll be trouble. "

They fished and canoed; they hunted bears--a fact known to the bear, who kept out of their way--never was in it, Bender insisted; they wentoverboard every morning, one after another, in the almost ice-coldwater of the lake, out again red as lobsters, back on a run, whoopingwith the cold to the blazing fire of the bungalow which Jackson hadreplenished with bundles of dried balsam that cracked and snapped witha roar while it toasted the bare backs and scorched the bare legs ofeach one in turn (the balsam was gathered the year before for this verypurpose). They roamed the woods, getting a crack once in a while at apartridge or a squirrel; they strolled about the mill, listening to thewhir of the saws and watching the "cut" as it was rolled away and wasmade to feed the huge piles of lumber and timber flanking the runwayand far enough away from the huge stack to be out of the way oftreacherous sparks; and at night they sat around Jackson's constantlyreplenished fire and told stories of their college days or revived thecurrent gossip of the club and the Street. 

Muggles ruminated over each and every experience--all new to him--andkept his eyes open for the psychological moment when he would burstasunder the bonds of conventionality and rise to the full measure ofhis abilities. The Clanworthys had swung battle-axes and riddenmilk-white chargers into the thickest of the fray. His turn would come;he felt it in his knee: then these unbelievers would be silenced. 

His host interested him enormously, especially his masterful way ofhandling his men. He himself had been elected foreman of Hose CarriageNo. 1 in the village near his father's country seat, and still heldthat important office. His cape and fire-boots fitted him to a nicety, and so did his helmet. No. 1 had been called out but once in itshistory, and then to the relief of a barn which, having lost heartbefore the rescuers reached it, had sunk to the ground in despair andthere covered itself with ashes. He had been criticised, he remembered, much to his chagrin, for the way he had conducted the rescue party; butit would never happen again. After this he would pattern his conductafter Monteith, who seemed to accomplish by a nod and a wave of thehand what he had split his throat in trying to enforce. He did not putthese thoughts into words; neither did he whisper them even in the earsof Podvine or Monteith--the two men who understood him best and whoguyed him the least--especially Monteith, who never forgot that hiscollege chum was his guest. He confided them instead to Monteith's big, red-faced foreman--half Canadian, part French, and the rest of himIrish--who was another source of wonder. Muggles's inherent good humorand willingness to oblige had made an impression on the lumber-boss andhe was always willing to answer any fool question the young New Yorkerasked--a privilege which he never extended to his comrades. 

"What do I do when somepin' catches fire?" the boss replied to one ofMuggles's inquiries--they were sitting in the office alone, Bender andlittle Billy having gone fishing with Jackson. "I'd blow that bigwhistle ye see hooked to the safety, first. Ye never heard it?--well, don't! It'll scare the life out o' ye. If the mill catches before wecan get the pumps to work it's all up with us. If the piles of lumbergit afire we kin save some of 'em if the wind's right; that's why westack up the sawed stuff in separate piles. "

"What do you do first--squirt water on it?"

"No, we ain't got no squirts that'll reach. Best way to handle thepiles o' lumber is to start a line of bucket-men from the lake andcover the piles with anything you can catch up--blankets, old carpets, quilts; keep 'em soaked and ye kin fight it for a while; that's whenone pile's afire, and ye're tryin' to save the pile next t'it. Lightstuff is all over in half an hour--no matter how big the pile is--keepthe rags soaked--that's my way. "

That night before the blazing coals Muggles broke out on some theoriesof putting out a conflagration that made Bender sit up straight andlittle Billy Salters cup his ears in attention. Monteith also cranedhis neck to listen. 

"Who the devil taught you that, Mixey?" asked Bender. "You talk as ifyou were Chief of the Big Six. "

"Why, any fireman knows that. I've been running with a machine foryears. " The calm way with which Muggles said this, shaking the ashesfrom his cigar as he spoke, showed a certain self-reliance. "Out in ourvillage I'm foreman of the Hose Company. "

The sudden roar that followed this announcement shook the big glassesand bottles on the low table. 

"So you'd keep the blankets soaked, would you?" remarked Billy, winkingat the others. 

"I certainly would. " This came with a certain triumphant tone in hisvoice. 

"Learned that practising on his head, " whispered Podvine. 

"Right you are, Poddy; but Muggles, suppose the mill caught first, "chipped in Monteith. The mill was the apple of his eye. Fire was whathe dreaded--he never could insure the mill fully against fire. "Whatwould you protect first--the mill or the piles of lumber?"

"The lumber, of course--the mill can use its pumps if the engine-roomescapes. "

"Better save the mill, " rejoined Monteith thoughtfully. "Trade ispretty dull. " Then he rose from his seat, reached for his hat andstrolled out on the portico to take a look around before he turned in. 

Muggles's masterful grasp of a science of which his companions knew aslittle as they did of the Patagonian dialects came as a distinctsurprise. What else had the beggar been picking up in the way ofknowledge? Maybe Muggles wasn't such a goat, after all. That Monteithhad approved of his tactics only increased their respect for theircompanion. Muggles caught the meaning of the look in their faces andhis waistcoat began to pinch him across his chest. This life was whathe needed, he said to himself. Here were big men--the lumber-boss wasone--and he was another--doing big things. Nothing like getting down toprimeval Nature for an inspiration! "Hugging the sod, " as he named it, had had its effect not only on himself, but on his fellows. They wouldnever have felt that way toward him at the Magnolia. The week atWabacog had widened their horizon--widened everybody's horizon--as forhimself he felt like a Western prairie with limitless possibilitiesending in mountains of accomplishment. 

That night, an hour after midnight, Muggles found himself sitting boltupright in bed. Outside, filling the air of the wilderness, bellowedand roared the deep tones of the steam siren. Then came a babel ofvoices gaining in distinctness and volume:

"Fire, FIRE, FIRE!"

Muggles sprang through the door and ran full tilt into Jackson andBender, who had vaulted from their beds but a second before. The nextinstant every man in the bungalow, Monteith at their head, cametumbling out, one after the other. 

"Fire! Fire! Fire!" rang the cry, repeated by a hundred mill handsrushing toward the mill. A spark had worked its way through thearrester, some one said, had fallen into the sawed stuff, been nursedinto a blaze by the night wind, and a roaring flame was in full chargeof one pile of lumber and likely to take possession of another. 

Muggles looked about him. 

HIS SUPREME MOMENT HAD COME!

The blood of the Clanworthys rose in his veins. The Pass lay beforehim--so did the Bridge. A full suit of dove-colored pajamas and a pairof turned-up Turkish slippers was not exactly the kind of uniform thateither Leonidas or Horatius would have chosen to fight his way toglory, but there was no time to change them. 

With a whoop to Bender, who had really begun to believe in him, and acommanding order to Jackson, the three stripped the costly Turkish rugsfrom the lounges, and blankets from the beds, and, following his lead, dashed through the woods to the relief of the endangered pile oflumber. On the way they passed a gang of Canucks, carrying buckets. Itwas but the work of a moment to arrange these into a posse of relayswith Bender on the lake end of the line and Jackson next the pile, thegang passing the buckets from hand to hand. 

This done Muggles snatched a ladder from an adjacent building, threw itagainst the threatened lumber, skipped up its rungs like a squirrel andstood in silhouette against the flaring blaze, his dove-gray flannelsflapping about his thin legs, his attenuated arms gyrating orders tothe relief party, who had spread the rugs and blankets on thefire-endangered side of the pile of lumber and who were now soakingthem with water under Muggles's direction. Now and then, as some partof the burning mass would collapse, a shower of sparks and smoke wouldobscure Muggles; then he could be seen brushing the live coals from hispajamas, darting here and there, shouting: "More water! More water!Here, on this end! All together now!" fighting his way with hand raisedto keep the heat from blistering his face, a very Casabianca on theburning deck. 

Soon the tongues of flame mounting skyward grew less in number; columnsof black smoke took the place of the shower of sparks; the lightflickering on the frightened tree-trunks began to pale; from the rugsand blankets the hot steam no longer rose in clouds. The crisis hadpassed! The pile was saved! Muggles had won!

During all this time neither Monteith nor the big lumber-boss had putin an appearance; nor had Podvine nor little Billy Salters lent a hand. Bender had stuck to his post and so had Jackson, oblivious of thewhereabouts of any other member of the coterie except Muggles, whoseclothespin of a figure came into relief now and then against the flareof the flames. Then Bender made his way back to the bungalow. 

The last man to leave the deck was Muggles. 

Backing slowly down the ladder one rung at a time, his face blistered, his pajamas burnt into holes, he examined the surrounding lumber; sawthat all his orders had been carried out, gave some partinginstructions to the men to watch out for sparks, especially thosearound the edge of the saved pile, and then slowly, and with greatdignity, made his way to the bungalow--his destiny fulfilled, his honormaintained and his position assured among his fellows. He had now onlyto await the plaudits of his comrades!

As he pushed open the door and looked about him the color rose in hischeeks and a kind of a hotness came from inside his pajamas. Groupedabout the low table, heaped with specimens of cut glass, a squattybottle, a siphon and a bowl of cracked ice, sat every member of thecoterie--Bender among them--Monteith in the easy chair at their head. If any other occupation had engrossed their attention since the alarmsounded there was no evidence of it either in their appearance or inthe tones of their voices. 

"Lo, the Conquering Hero, " broke out Podvine. "Get up Billy and put awreath of laurel over his scorched and blistered brow. "

Muggles, for a moment, did not reply. The shock had taken his breathaway. He supposed every man had worked himself into exhaustion. Theonly thing that had really dimmed his own triumph was the fear that onreaching the bungalow he might find the blackened remains of one ormore of his comrades stretched out on the floor. 

"Didn't you fellows try to save anything?" he exploded. 

"Wasn't anything to save--mill was in no danger. "

"Why, the whole place would have gone if I hadn't--"

"You're quite right, Muggles, " said Monteith. "Let up on him, boys. Youworked like a beaver, old man. Sorry about the rugs--one was an oldBokhara--but that's all right--of course you didn't stop to think. "

"Well, but, Monteith--what's a rug or two when you have to save a pileof--what's the lumber worth, anyhow?"

"Oh, well, never mind--let it go, old man. "

Bender, who was still soaking wet from splashing buckets, and since hisreturn to the bungalow had been boiling mad clear through, sprang tohis feet. 

"I'll tell you--I've just found out. As the pile now stands it's worthfour thousand dollars. If it had burned up it would have been worthsix. It's insured, you goat!"

The End