THE WRONG TWIN

BY HARRY LEON WILSON

1921

TO HELEN AND LEON

[Illustration: "THE GIRL NOW GLOWERED AT EACH OF THEM IN TURN. 'I DON'TCARE!' SHE MUTTERED. 'I WILL, TOO, RUN AWAY!'"]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

"The girl now glowered at each of them in turn. 'I don't care!' shemuttered. 'I will, too, run away!'"

"'I can always find a little time for bankers. I never kept one waitingyet and I won't begin now. '"

"The girl was already reading Wilbur's palm, disclosing to him that hehad a deep vein of cruelty in his nature. "

"The malign eye was worn so proudly that the wearer bubbledvaingloriously of how he had achieved the stigma. "

CHAPTER I

An establishment in Newbern Center, trading under the name of the FotoArt Shop, once displayed in its window a likeness of the twin sons ofDave Cowan. Side by side, on a lavishly fringed plush couch, theyconfronted the camera with differing aspects. One sat forward with adecently, even blandly, composed visage, nor had he meddled with hiscurls. His mate sat back, scowling, and fought the camera to the bitterend. His curls, at the last moment, had been mussed by a raging hand. 

This was in the days of an earlier Newbern, when the twins were four andWinona Penniman began to be their troubled mentor--troubled lest theyshould not grow up to be refined persons; a day when Dave Cowan, thewidely travelled printer, could rightly deride its citizenry assmall-towners; a day when the Whipples were Newbern's sole noblesse andthe Cowan twins not yet torn asunder. 

The little town lay along a small but potent river that turned a fewfactory wheels with its eager current, and it drew sustenance from thehill farms that encircled it for miles about. You had to take a dingyway train up to the main line if you were going the long day's journeyto New York, so that the Center of the name was often construedfacetiously by outlanders. 

Now Newbern Center is modern, and grows callous. Only the other day awandering biplane circled the second nine of its new golf course, and ofthe four players on the tenth green but one paid it the tribute of anupward glance. Even this was a glance of resentment, for his partner atthat instant eyed the alignment for a three-foot putt and might bedistracted. The annoyed player flung up a hostile arm at the thing andwaved it from the course. Seemingly abashed, the machine slunk off intoa cloud bank. 

Old Sharon Whipple, the player who putted, never knew that above him hadgone a thing he had very lately said could never be. Sharon has grownmodern with the town. Not so many years ago he scoffed at rumours of atelephone. He called it a contraption, and said it would be against thelaws of God and common sense. Later he proscribed the horseless carriageas an impracticable toy. Of flying he had affirmed that the fools whotried it would deservedly break their necks, and he had gustily raged atthe waste of a hundred and seventy-five acres of good pasture land whengolf was talked. 

Yet this very afternoon the inconsequent dotard had employed a telephoneto summon his car to transport him to the links, and had denied even aglance of acknowledgment at the wonder floating above him. Much likethat is growing Newbern. There was gasping aplenty when Winona Pennimanabandoned the higher life and bought a flagrant pair of satin dancingslippers, but now the town lets far more sensational doings go almostunremarked. 

The place tosses even with the modern fever of unrest. It has itsbourgeoisie, its proletariat, its radicals, but also a city-beautifulassociation and a rather captious sanitary league. Lately a visitingradical, on the occasion of a certain patriotic celebration, expressed aconventional wish to spit upon the abundantly displayed flag. A knowingfriend was quick to dissuade him. 

"Don't do it! Don't try it! Here, now, you got no freedom! Should youspit only on their sidewalk, they fine the heart's blood out of you. "

 * * * * *

Midway between these periods of very early and very late Newbern therewas once a shining summer morning on which the Cowan twins, being thennine years old, set out from the Penniman home to pick wildblackberries along certain wooded lanes that environed the town. Theywere bare-footed, wearing knee pants buttoned to calico waists, thesebeing patterned with small horseshoes which the twins had been told bytheir father would bring them good luck. They wore cloth caps, andcarried tin pails for their berries. These would be sold to thePennimans at an agreed price of five cents a quart, and it was Winona'shope that the money thus earned on a beautiful Saturday morning would onSunday be given to the visiting missionary lately returned from China. Winona had her doubts, however, chiefly of Wilbur Cowan's keenness forproselyting, on his own income, in foreign lands. Too often with moneyin hand, he had yielded to the grosser tyranny of the senses. 

The twins ran races in the soft dust of the highway until they reachedthe first outlying berry patch. Here they became absorbed in their work. They were finding well-laden bushes along the fence of what to-day isknown as the old graveyard. 

Newbern now has a sophisticated new cemetery, with carved marble andtall shafts of polished granite, trimmed shrubs, and garnished mounds, contrasting--as the newer town to the old--with the dingy inclosurewhere had very simply been inhumed the dead of that simpler day. In thenew cemetery blackberry bushes would not be permitted. Along the olderplot they flourished. The place itself is over-grown with rank grasses, with ivy run wild, with untended shrubs, often hiding the memorials, which are mostly of brown sandstone or gray slate. It lies in deepshadow under cypress and willow. It is very still under the gloom of itscareless growths--a place not reassuring to the imaginative. 

The bottoms of the tin pails had been covered with berries found outsidethe board fence, and now a hunt for other laden bushes led the twins toa trove of ripened fruit partly outside and partly inside that plotwhere those of old Newbern had been chested and laid unto their fathers. There was, of course, no question as to the ownership of that fruit outhere. It was any one's. There followed debate on a possible right tothat which grew abundantly beyond the fence. By some strange but notunprecedented twisting of the mature mind of authority, might it notbelong to those inside, or to those who had put them there? Further, would Mrs. Penniman care to make pies of blackberries--even the largestand ripest yet found--that had grown in a graveyard?

"They taste just the same, " announced the Wilbur twin, having, after acautious survey, furtively reached through two boards of the fence toretrieve a choice cluster. 

"I guess nobody would want 'em that owns 'em, " conceded Wilbur. 

"Well, you climb over first. "

"We better both go together at the same time. "

"No, one of us better try it first and see; then, if it's all right, I'll climb over, too. "

"Aw, I know a better patch up over West Hill in the Whipple woods. "

"What you afraid of? Nobody would care about a few old blackberries. "

"I ain't afraid. "

"You act like it, I must say. If you wasn't afraid you'd climb thatfence pretty quick, wouldn't you? Looky, the big ones!"

The Wilbur twin reflected on this. It sounded plausible. If he wasn'tafraid, of course he would climb that fence pretty quick. It stood toreason. It did not occur to him that any one else was afraid. He decidedthat neither was he. 

"Well, I'm afraid of things that ain't true that scare you in the dark, "he admitted, "but I ain't afraid like that now. Not one bit!"

"Well, I dare you to go. "

"Well, of course I'll go. I was just resting a minute. I got to rest alittle, haven't I?"

"Well, I guess you're rested. I guess you can climb a plain and simplefence, can't you? You can rest over there, can't you--just as well aswhat you can rest here?"

The resting one looked up and down the lane, then peered forward intothe shadowy tangle of green things with its rows of headstones. Then, inhaling deeply, he clambered to the top of the fence and leaped to theground beyond. 

"Gee, gosh!" he cried, for he had landed on a trailing branch ofblackberry vine. 

He sat down and extracted a thorn from the leathery sole of his barefoot. The prick of the thorn had cleaned his mind of any merely fancifulfears. A surpassing lot of berries was there for the bold to take. Hisbrother stared not too boldly through the fence at the pioneer. 

"Go on and try picking some, " he urged in the subdued tones of extremecaution. 

The other calmly set to work. The watcher awaited some mysteriouspunishment for this desecration. Presently, nothing having happened, heglowed with a boldness of his own and mounted to the top of the fence, where he again waited. He whistled, affecting to be at ease, but with afoot on the safe side of the fence. The busy worker inside paid him noattention. Presently Merle yawned. 

"Well, I guess I'll come in there myself and pick a few berries, " hesaid very loudly. 

He was giving fair notice to any malign power that might be waiting toblast him. After a fitting interval, he joined his brother and fell towork. 

"Well, I must say!" he chattered. "Who's afraid to come into a graveyardwhen they can get berries like this? We can fill the pails, and that'sthirty cents right here. "

The fruit fell swiftly. The Wilbur twin worked in silence. But Merleappeared rather to like the sound of a human voice. He was aimlesslyloquacious. His nerves were not entirely tranquil. 

"They're growing right over this old one, " announced Wilbur presently. Merle glanced up to see him despoiling a bush that embowered one of thebrown headstones and an all but obliterated mound. 

"You better be careful, " he warned. 

"I guess I'm careful enough for this old one, " retorted the boldertwin, and swept the trailing bush aside to scan the stone. It wasweather-worn and lichened, but the carving was still legible. 

"It says, 'Here lies Jonas Whipple, aged eighty-seven, ' and it says, 'hepassed to his reward April 23, 1828, ' and here's his picture. "

He pointed to the rounded top of the stone where was graven a circleinclosing primitive eyes, a nose, and mouth. From the bottom of thecircle on either side protruded wings. 

Merle drew near to scan the device. He was able to divine that theintention of the artist had not been one of portraiture. 

"That ain't either his picture, " he said, heatedly. "That's a cupid!"

"Ho, gee, gosh! Ain't cupids got legs? Where's its legs?"

"Then it's an angel. "

"Angels are longer. I know now--it's a goop. And here's some morereading. "

He ran his fingers along the worn lettering, then brought his eyes closeand read--glibly in the beginning:

 Behold this place as you pass by. As you are now, so once was I. As I am now, so you must be. Prepare for death, and follow me. 

The reader's voice lost in fullness and certainty as he neared the endof this strophe. 

"Say, we better get right out of here, " said Merle, stepping toward thefence. Even Wilbur was daunted by the blunt warning from beyond. 

"Here's another, " called Merle, pausing on his way toward the fence. Inhushed, fearful tones he declaimed:

 Dear companion in your bloom, Behold me moldering in the tomb, For Death is a debt to Nature due, Which I have paid, and so must you. 

"There, now, I must say!" called Merle. "We better hurry out!"

But the Wilbur twin lingered. Ripe berries still glistened about thestone of the departed Jonas Whipple. 

"Aw, gee, gosh, they're just old ones!" he declared. "It says this onepassed to his reward in 1828, and we wasn't born then, so he couldn't bemeaning us, could he? We ain't passed to our reward yet, have we? Isimply ain't going to pay the least attention to it. "

A bit nervously he fell again to picking the berries. The mere feel ofthem emboldened him. 

"Gee, gosh! We ain't followed him yet, have we?"

"'As I am now, so you must be!'" quoted the other in warning. 

"Well, my sakes, don't everyone in town know that? But it don't meanwe're going to be--be it--right off. "

"You better come just the samey!"

But the worker was stubborn. 

"Ho, I guess I ain't afraid of any old Whipple as old as what this oneis!"

"Well, anyway, " called Merle, still in hushed tones, "I guess I gotenough berries from this place. "

"Aw, come on!" urged the worker. 

In a rush of bravado he now extemporized a chant of defiance:

 Old Jonas Whipple Was an old cripple! Old Jonas Whipple Was an old cripple!

The Merle twin found this beyond endurance. He leaped for the fence andgained its top, looking back with a blanched face to see the offendersmitten. He wanted to go at once, but this might be worth waiting for. 

Wilbur continued to pick berries. Again he chanted loudly, mocking thesolemnities of eternity:

 Old Jonas Whipple Was an old cripple! Was an old--

The mockery died in his throat, and he froze to a statue of fear. Beyondthe headstone of Jonas Whipple, and toward the centre of the plot, aclump of syringa was plainly observed to sway with the movements of abeing unseen. 

"I told you!" came the hoarse whisper of Merle, but he, too, was chainedby fright to the fence top. 

They waited, breathless, in the presence of the king of terrors. Againthe bush swayed with a sinister motion. A deeper hush fell about them;the breeze died and song birds stilled their notes. A calamity wasimminent. Neither watcher now doubted that a mocked Jonas Whipple wouldterribly issue from the tangle of shrubbery. 

The bushes were again agitated; then at the breaking, point of fear forthe Cowan twins the emergent figure proved to be not Jonas but atrifling and immature female descendant of his, who now sped rapidlytoward them across the intervening glade, nor were the low mounds sacredto her in her progress. Her short shirt of a plaid gingham flopped aboveher thin, bony legs as she ran, and she grasped a wide-brimmed straw hatin one hand. 

 * * * * *

It should be said that this girl appalled the twins hardly less thanwould an avenging apparition of the outraged Jonas Whipple. Beings of abaser extraction, they had looked upon Whipples only from afar and withawe. Upon this particular Whipple they had looked with especial awe. Other known members of the tribe were inhumanly old and gray andwithered, not creatures with whom the most daring fancy could picturethe Cowan twins sustaining any sane human relationship. But this one wasyoung and moderately understandable. Observed from across the room ofthe Methodist Sunday-school, she was undoubtedly human like them; butalways so befurbished with rare and shining garments, with glisteningsilks and costly velvets and laces, with bonnets of pink rosebuds andgloves of kid, that the thought of any secular relationship had beenpreposterous. Yet she was young, an animal of their own age, whose wayscould be comprehended. 

She halted her mad flight when she discovered them, then turned tosurvey the way she had come. She was panting. The twins regarded herstonily, shaping defenses if she brought up anything regarding any onewho might have mocked Jonas Whipple. 

When again she could breathe evenly, she said: "It was Cousin Julianadriving by was why I dashed in here. I think I have foiled her. "

She was not now the creature of troubled elegance that Sabbaths hadrevealed her. The gingham dress was such as a daughter of the peoplemight have worn, and the straw hat, though beribboned, was notimpressive. She was a bony little girl, with quick, greenish eyes and ameagre pigtail of hair of the hue that will often cause a girl to becalled Carrots. Her thin, eager face was lavishly freckled; her nose wastrivial to the last extreme. Besides her hat, she carried and nownonchalantly drew refreshment from a stick of spirally striped candyinserted for half its length through the end of a lemon. The candy wasevidently of a porous texture, so that the juice of the fruit wouldreach the consumer's pursed lips charmingly modified by its passagealong the length of the sweet. One needed but to approximate a vacuum atthe upper end of the candy, and the mighty and mysterious laws ofatmospheric pressure completed the benign process. 

It should be said for the twins that they were not social climbers. Intheir instant infatuation for this novel device they quite lost thethrill that should have been theirs from the higher aspects of theencounter. They were not impressed at meeting a Whipple on terms ofseeming equality. They had eyes and desire solely for this delectablerefection. Again and again the owner enveloped the top of the candy withprehensile lips; deep cavities appeared in her profusely spangledcheeks. Her eyes would close in an ecstasy of concentration. The twinsstared, and at intervals were constrained to swallow. 

"Gee, gosh!" muttered the Wilbur twin, helpless in the sight of sofierce a joy. His brother descended briskly from the fence. 

"I bet that's good, " he said, genially, and taking the half-filled pailfrom his brother's unresisting grasp he approached the newcomer. "Trysome of these nice ripe blackberries, " he royally urged. 

"Thanks a lot!" said the girl, and did so. But the hospitality remainedone-sided. 

"I have to keep up my strength, " she explained. "I have a long, hardjourney before me. I'm running away. "

Blackberry juice now stained her chin, enriching a colour scheme alreadymade notable by dye from the candy. 

"Running away!" echoed the twins. This, also, was sane. 

"Where to?" demanded Wilbur. 

"Far, far off to the great city with all its pitfalls. "

"New York?" demanded Merle. "What's a pitfall?"

"The way Ben Blunt did when his cruel stepmother beat him because hewouldn't steal and bring it home. "

"Ben Blunt?" questioned both twins. 

"That's whom I am going to be. That's whom I am now--or just as soon asI change clothes with some unfortunate. It's in a book. 'Ben Blunt, theNewsboy; or, From Rags to Riches. ' He run off because his cruelstepmother beat him black and blue, and he become a mere street urchin, though his father, Mr. Blunt, was a gentleman in good circumstances; andwhile he was a mere street urchin he sold papers and blacked boots, andhe was an honest, manly lad and become adopted by a kind, rich oldgentleman named Mr. Pettigrew, that he saved from a gang of rowdies thatboded him no good, and was taken to his palatial mansion and given akind home and a new suit of clothes and a good Christian education, andthat's how he got from rags to riches. And I'm going to be it; I'm goingto be a mere street urchin and do everything he did. "

"Ho!" The Wilbur twin was brutal. "You're nothing but a girl!"

The runaway flashed him a hostile glance. 

"Don't be silly! What difference does it make? Haven't I a cruelstepmother that is constantly making scenes if I do the least littlething, especially since Miss Murtree went home because her mother hastyphoid in Buffalo. You wait till I get the right clothes. "

"Does she beat you something awful?" demanded the Merle twin unctuously. 

The victim hesitated. 

"Well, you might call it that. "

"What kind of right clothes?" asked his brother. 

"Boy's clothes; filthy rags of boy's clothes--like yours, " sheconcluded. Her appraising glance rested on the garments of thequestioning twin. Both became conscious of their mean attire, andsquirmed uneasily. 

"These are just everyday clothes, " muttered the Wilbur twin. 

"We have fine new Sunday suits at home, " boasted Merle. "Too fine towear every day. If you saw those clothes once I guess you'd talkdifferent. Shoes and stockings, too. "

The girl effaced his grandeur with a shrug. 

"That's nothing--everyone has mere Sunday clothes. "

"Is Miss Murtree that old lady that brings you to the Sunday-school?"demanded Wilbur. 

"Yes; she's my governess, and had to go to her dying mother, and I hopeshe gets a cruel stepmother that will be harsh to her childish sports, like that Mrs. Blunt was. But she isn't old. It's her beard makes herlook so mature. "

"Aw!" cried both twins, denoting incredulity. 

"She has, too, a beard! A little moustache and some growing on herchin. When I first got 'Ben Blunt, or from Rags to Riches, ' out of theSunday-school library I asked her how she made it grow, because I wantedone to grow on me, but she made a scene and never did tell me. I wish itwould come out on me that way. " She ran questing fingers along her briefupper lip and round her pointed chin. "But prob'ly I ain't old enough. "

"You're only a girl, " declared the Wilbur twin, "and you won't ever havea beard, and you couldn't be Ben Blunt. "

"Only a girl!" she flashed, momentarily stung into a defense of her sex. "Huh! I guess I'd rather be a girl than a nasty little boy with hishands simply covered with warts. "

The shamed hands of Wilbur Cowan sought the depths of his pockets, buthe came up from the blow. 

"Yes, you'd rather be a girl!" he retorted, with ponderous irony. "It'sa good thing you wasn't born in China. Do you know what? If you'd beenborn in China, when they seen what it was they'd simply have chucked youinto the river to drown'd. "

"The idea! They would not!"

"Ho! You're so smart! I guess you think you know more than thatmissionary that told us so at the meeting. I guess you think he wastelling lies. They'd have drownded you as soon as they seen it was agirl. But boys they keep. "

"I don't listen to gossip, " said the girl, loftily. 

"And besides, " continued the inquisitor, "if you think boys are such badones, what you trying to be one for, and be Ben Blunt and all likethat?"

"You're too young to understand if I told you, " she replied with asnappish dignity. 

The Merle twin was regretting these asperities. His eyes clungconstantly to the lemon and candy. 

"She can be Ben Blunt if she wants to, " he now declared in a voice ofauthority. "I bet she'll have a better moustache than that old MissMurphy's. "

"Murtree, " she corrected him, and spoke her thanks with a brighteningglance. "Here, " she added, proffering her treasure, "take a good longsuck if you want to. "

He did want to. His brother beheld him with anguished eyes. As Merledemonstrated the problem in hydraulics the girl studied him moreattentively, then gleamed with a sudden new radiance. 

"Oh, I'll tell you what let's do!" she exclaimed. "We'll change clotheswith each other, and then I'll be Ben Blunt without waiting till I getto the great city. Cousin Juliana could pass me right by on the streetand never know me. " She clapped her small brown hands. "Goody!" shefinished. 

But the twins stiffened. The problem was not so simple. 

"How do you mean--change clothes?" demanded Merle. 

"Why, just change! I'll put on your clothes and look like a mere streeturchin right away. "

"But what am I going to--"

"Put on my clothes, of course. I explained that. "

"Be dressed like a girl?"

"Only till you get home; then you can put on your Sunday clothes. "

"But they wouldn't be Sunday clothes if I had to wear 'em every day, andthen I wouldn't have any Sunday clothes. "

"Stupid! You can buy new ones, can't you?"

"Well, I don't know. "

"I'd give you a lot of money to buy some. "

"Let's see it. "

Surprisingly the girl stuck out a foot. Her ankle seemed badly swollen;she seemed even to reveal incipient elephantiasis. 

"Money!" she announced. "Busted my bank and took it all. And I put it inmy stocking the way Miss Murtree did when she went to Buffalo to visither dying mother. But hers was bills, and mine is nickels and dimes andquarters and all like that--thousands of dollars' worth of 'em, andthey're kind of disagreeable. They make me limp--kind of. I'll give youa lot of it to buy some new clothes. Let's change quick. " She turnedand backed up to the Merle twin. "Unbutton my waist, " she commanded. 

The Merle twin backed swiftly away. This was too summary a treatment ofa situation that still needed thought. 

"Let's see your money, " he demanded. 

"Very well!" She sat on the grassy low mound above her forebear, released the top of the long black stocking from the bite of a hiddengarter and lowered it to the bulky burden. "Give me your cap, " she said, and into Merle's cap spurted a torrent of coins. When this had becomereduced to a trickle, and then to odd pieces that had worked down aboutthe heel, the cap held a splendid treasure. Both twins bent excitedlyabove it. Never had either beheld so vast a sum. It was beyondcomprehension. The Wilbur twin plunged a hand thrillingly into the heap. 

"Gee, gosh!" he murmured from the sheer loveliness of it. Shiningsilver--thousands of dollars of it, the owner had declared. 

"Now I guess you'll change, " said the girl, observing the sensation shehad made. 

The twins regarded each other eloquently. It seemed to be acknowledgedbetween them that anything namable would be done to obtain a share ofthis hoard. Still it was a monstrous infamy, this thing she wanted. Merle filtered coins through his fingers for the wondrous feel of them. 

"Well, mebbe we better, " he said at last. 

"How much do we get?" demanded Wilbur, exalted but still sane. 

"Oh, a lot!" said the girl, carelessly. Plainly she was not one tohaggle. "Here, I'll give you two double handfuls--see, like that, " andshe measured the price into the other cap, not skimping. They weregenerous, heaping handfuls, and they reduced her horde by half. "Now!"she urged. "And hurry! I must be far by nightfall. I'll keep my shoesand stockings and not go barefoot till I reach the great city. But I'lltake your clothes and your cap. Unbutton my waist. "

Again she backed up to Merle. He turned to Wilbur. 

"I guess we better change with her for all that money. Get your pantsand waist off and I'll help button this thing on you. "

It was characteristic of their relations that there was no thought ofMerle being the victim of this barter. The Wilbur twin did not suggestit, but he protested miserably. 

"I don't want to wear a girl's clothes. "

"Silly!" said the girl. "It's for your own good. "

"You only put it on for a minute, and sneak home quick, " reminded hisbrother, "and look at all the money we'll have! Here, show him again allthat money we'll have!"

And the girl did even so, holding up to him riches beyond the dreams ofavarice. There was bitterness in the eyes of the Wilbur twin even asthey gloated on the bribe. The ordeal would be fearful. He was to becomea thing--not a girl and still not a boy--a thing somehow shameful. Atlast the alternative came to him. 

"You change with her, " he said, brightening. "My pants got a tear hereon the side, and my waist ain't so clean as yours. "

"Now don't begin that!" said his brother, firmly. "We don't want a lotof silly arguments about it, do we? Look at all the money we'll have!"

"Your clothes are the best, " said the girl. "I must be filthy andragged. Oh, please hurry!" Then to Merle: "Do unbutton my waist. Startit at the top and I can finish. "

Gingerly he undid the earliest buttons on that narrow back of checkedgingham, and swiftly the girl completed the process to her waist. Thenthe waist was off her meagre shoulders and she stepped from the hatedgarment. The Wilbur twin was aghast at her downright methods. He had afeeling that she should have retired for this change. How was he to knowthat an emergency had lifted her above prejudices sacred to the meanersouled? But now he raised a new objection, for beneath her gown the girlhad been still abundantly and intricately clad, girded, harnessed. 

"I can't ever put on all those other things, " he declared, indicatingthe elaborate underdressing. 

"Very well, I'll keep 'em on under the pants and waist till I get to thegreat city, " said the girl, obligingly. "But why don't you hurry?"

She tossed him the discarded dress. He was seized with fresh panic as hetook the thing. 

"I don't like to, " he said, sullenly. 

"Look at all the money we'll have!" urged the brother. 

"Here, " said the girl, beguilingly, "when you've done it I'll give youtwo long sucks of my lemon candy. "

She took the enticing combination from Merle and held it fair before hisyearning eyes; the last rite of a monstrous seduction was achieved. Thevictim wavered and was lost. He took the dress. 

"Whistle if any one comes, " he said, and withdrew behind the headstoneof the late Jonas Whipple. He--of the modest sex--would not disrobe inpublic. At least it was part modesty; in part the circumstance that hisvisible garments were precisely all he wore. He would not reveal to thischild of wealth that the Cowans had not the habit of multifariousunderwear. Over the headstone presently came the knee pants, the fadedcalico waist with bone buttons. The avid buyer seized and apparelledherself in them with a deft facility. The Merle twin was amazed that sheshould so soon look so much like a boy. From behind the headstone camethe now ambiguous and epicene figure of the Wilbur twin, contorted tohold together the back of his waist. 

"I can't button it, " he said in deepest gloom. 

"Here!" said the girl. 

"Not you!"

It seemed to him that this would somehow further degrade him. At leastanother male should fasten this infamous thing about him. When thebuttoning was done he demanded the promised candy and lemon. He gluttedhimself with the stimulant. He had sold his soul and was taking theprice. His wrists projected far from the gingham sleeves, and in truthhe looked little enough like a girl. The girl looked much more like aboy. The further price of his shame was paid in full. 

"I'd better take charge of it, " said Merle, and did so with an air oflarge benevolence. "I just don't know what all we'll spend it for, " headded. 

The Wilbur twin's look of anguish deepened. 

"I got a pocket in this dress to hold my money, " he suggested. 

"You might lose it, " objected Merle. "I better keep it for us. "

The girl had transferred her remaining money to the pockets which, as aboy, she now possessed. Then she tried on the cap. But it proved to bethe cap of Merle. 

"No; you must take Wilbur's cap, " he said, "because you got hisclothes. "

"And he can wear my hat, " said the girl. 

The Wilbur twin viciously affirmed that he would wear no girl's hat, yetwas presently persuaded that he would, at least when he sneaked home. Itwas agreed by all finally that this would render him fairly a girl inthe eyes of the world. But he would not yet wear it. He was beginning tohate this girl. He shot hostile glances at her as--with his cap on herhead, her hands deep in the money-laden pockets--she swaggered andswanked before them. 

"I'm Ben Blunt--I'm Ben Blunt, " she muttered, hoarsely, and swung hershoulders and brandished her thin legs to prove it. 

He laughed with scorn. 

"Yes, you are!" he gibed. "Look at your hair! I guess Ben Blunt didn'thave long girl's hair, did he--stringy old red hair?"

Her hands flew to her pigtail. 

"My hair is not red, " she told him. "It's just a decided blonde. " Thenshe faltered, knowing full well that Ben Blunt's hair was not worn in abraid. "Of course I'm going to cut it off, " she said. "Haven't you boysgot a knife?"

They had a knife. It was Wilbur's, but Merle quite naturally took itfrom him and assumed charge of the ensuing operation. Wilbur Cowan hadto stand by with no place to put his hands--a mere onlooker. Yet it washis practical mind that devised the method at last adopted, for theearly efforts of his brother to sever the braid evoked squeals of painfrom the patient. At Wilbur's suggestion she was backed up to the fenceand the braid brought against a board, where it could be severed strandby strand. It was not neatly done, but it seemed to suffice. When thecap was once more adjusted, rather far back on the shorn head, even thecynical Wilbur had to concede that the effect was not bad. The severedbraid, a bow of yellow ribbon at the end, now engaged the notice of itslate owner. 

"The officers of the law might trace me by it, " she said, "so we mustfoil them. "

"Tie a stone to it and sink it in the river, " urged Wilbur. 

"Hide it in those bushes, " suggested Merle. 

But the girl was inspired by her surroundings. 

"Bury it!" she ordered. 

The simple interment was performed. With the knife a shallow grave wasopened close to the stone whereon old Jonas Whipple taunted the livingthat they were but mortal, and in it they laid the pigtail to its lastrest, patting the earth above it and replacing the turf against possibleghouls. 

Again the girl swaggered broadly before them, swinging her shoulders, flaunting her emancipated legs in a stride she considered masculine. Then she halted, hands in pockets, rocked easily upon heel and toe, andspat expertly between her teeth. For the first time she impressed theWilbur twin, extorting his reluctant admiration. He had never been ableto spit between his teeth. Still, there must be things she couldn't do. 

"You got to smoke and chew and curse, " he warned her. 

"I won't, either! It says Ben Blunt was a sturdy lad of good habits. Besides, I could smoke if I wanted to. I already have. I smoked HarveyD. 's pipe. "

"Who's Harvey D. ?"

"My father. I smoked his pipe repeatedly. "

"Repeatedly?"

"Well, I smoked it twice. That's repeatedly, ain't it? I'd have done itmore repeatedly, but Miss Murtree sneaked in and made a scene. "

"Did you swallow the smoke through your nose?"

"I--I guess so. It tasted way down on my insides. "

Plainly there was something to the girl after all. The Wilbur twin hereextracted from the dress pocket, to which he had transferred his fewbelongings, the half of something known to Newbern as a pennygrab. Itwas a slender roll of quite inferior dark tobacco, and the originalpurchaser had probably discarded it gladly. The present owner displayedit to the girl. 

"I'll give you a part of this, and we'll light up. "

"Well, I don't know. It says Ben Blunt was a sturdy lad of good----"

"I bet you never did smoke repeatedly!"

Her manhood was challenged. 

"I'll show you!" she retorted, grim about the lips. 

With his knife he cut the evil thing in fair halves. The girl receivedher portion with calmness, if not with gratitude, and lighted it fromthe match he gallantly held for her. And so they smoked. The Merle twinnever smoked for two famous Puritan reasons--it was wrong for boys tosmoke and it made him sick. He eyed the present saturnalia with strongdisapproval. The admiration of the Wilbur twin--now forgetting hisignominy--was frankly worded. Plainly she was no common girl. 

"I bet you'll be all right in the big city, " he said. 

"Of course I will, " said the girl. 

She spat between her teeth with a fine artistry. In truth she wasspitting rather often, and had more than once seemed to strangle, butshe held her weed jauntily between the first and second fingers andcontrived an air of relish for it. 

"Anyway, " she went on, "it'll be better than here where I suffered soterribly with everybody making the vilest scenes about any little thingthat happened. After they find it's too late they'll begin to wishthey'd acted kinder. But I won't ever come back, not if they beg me towith tears streaming down their faces, after the vile way they acted;saying maybe I could have a baby brother after Harvey D. Got thatstepmother, but nothing was ever done about it, and just because I triedto hide Mrs. Wadley's baby that comes to wash, and then because I triedto get that gypsy woman's baby, because everyone knows they're alwaysstealing other people's babies, and she made a vile scene, too, andeveryone tortured me beyond endurance. "

This was interesting. It left the twins wishing to ask questions. 

"Did that stepmother beat you good?" again demanded Merle. 

"Well, not the way Ben Blunt's stepmother did, but she wanted to knowwhat I meant by it and all like that. Of course she's cruel. Don't youknow that all stepmothers are cruel? Did you ever read a story about onethat wasn't vile and cruel and often tried to leave the helplesschildren in the woods to be devoured by wolves? I should say not!"

"Where did you hide that Wadley baby?"

"Up in the storeroom in a nice big trunk, where I fixed a bed andeverything for it, while its mother was working down in the laundry, andI thought they'd look a while and give it up, but this Mrs. Wadley iskind of simple-minded or something. She took on so I had to say maybesomebody had put it in this trunk where it could have a nice time. Andthis stepmother taking on almost as bad. "

"Did you nearly get a gypsy woman's baby?"

"Nearly. They're camped in the woods up back of our place, and I wentround to see their wagons, and the man had some fighting roosters thatwould fight anybody else's roosters, and they had horses to race, andthe gypsy woman would tell the future lives of anybody and what wasgoing to happen to them, and so I saw this lovely, lovely baby asleepon a blanket under some bushes, and probably they had stole it from somegood family, so while they was busy I picked it up and run. "

"Did they chase you?"

Wilbur Cowan was by now almost abject in his admiration of this fearlessspirit. 

"Not at first; but when I got up to our fence I heard some of 'emyelling like very fiends, and they came after me through the woods, butI got inside our yard, and the baby woke up and yelled like a veryfiend, and Nathan Marwick came running out of our barn and says: 'Whatin time is all this?' And someone told folks in the house and out comesHarvey D. 's stepmother that he got married to, and Grandpa Gideon andCousin Juliana that happened to be there, and all the gypsies rushed upthe hill and everyone made the vilest scene and I had to give back thislovely baby to the gypsy woman that claimed it. You'd think it was theonly baby in the wide world, the way she made a scene, and not a singleone would listen to reason when I tried to explain. They acted simplycrazy, that's all. "

"Gee, gosh!" muttered the Wilbur twin. This was indeed a splendid anddesperate character, and he paid her the tribute of honest envy. Hewished he might have a cruel stepmother of his own, and so perhaps beraised to this eminence of infamy. "I bet they did something with you!"he said. 

The girl waved it aside with a gesture of repugnance, as if some thingswere too loathsome for telling. He perceived that she had, like so manyraconteurs, allowed her cigar to go out. 

"Here's a match, " he said, and courteously cupped his hands about itsflame. The pennygrab seemed to have become incombustible, and the matchdied futilely. "That's my last match, " he said. 

"Maybe I better keep this till I get to the great city. "

But he would not have it so. 

"You can light it from mine, " and he brought the ends of the two pennygrabs together. 

"First thing you know you'll be dizzy, " warned the moralist, Merle. 

"Ho, I will not!"

She laughed in scorn, and valiantly puffed on the noisome thing. Thusstood Ben Blunt and the Wilbur twin, their faces together about thisbusiness of lighting up; and thus stood the absorbed Merle, the moralperfectionist, earnestly hoping his words of warning would presentlybecome justified. It did not seem right to him that others should smokewhen it made him sick. 

At last smoke issued from the contorted face of Ben Blunt, and some ofthis being swallowed, strangulation ensued. When the paroxysm ofcoughing was past the hero revealed running eyes, but the tears were oftriumph, as was the stoic smile that accompanied them. 

And then, while the reformer Merle awaited the calamity he hadpredicted, while Wilbur surrendered anew to infatuation for thisintrepid soul that would dare any crime, while Ben Blunt rocked onspread feet, the glowing pennygrab cocked at a rakish angle, while, inshort, vice was crowned and virtue abased, there rang upon the still airthe other name of Ben Blunt in cold and fateful emphasis. The groupstiffened with terror. Again the name sounded along those quiet aislesof the happy dead. The voice was one of authority--cool, relentless, awful. 

"Patricia Whipple!" said the voice. 

The twins knew it for the voice of Miss Juliana Whipple, who hadremotely been a figure of terror to them even when voiceless. Julianawas thirty, tall, straight, with capable shoulders, above which rose hercapable face on a straight neck. She wore a gray skirt and a waist ofwhite, with a severely starched collar about her throat, and a black bowtie. Her straw hat was narrow of brim, banded with a black ribbon. Hersteely eyes flashed from beneath the hat. Once before the twins hadencountered her and her voice, and the results were blasting, thoughthe occasion was happier. Indeed, the intention of Juliana had beenwholly amiable, for it was at the picnic of the Methodist Sunday-school. 

She came upon the twins in a fair dell, where they watched otherchildren at a game, and she took very civil notice of them, saying, "Howdo you do, young gentlemen?" in deep, thrilling tones, and though theyhad been doing very well until that moment, neither of the twins hadrecovered strength to say so. To them she had been more formidable thana schoolteacher. Their throats had closed upon all utterance. Now as shefaced them, a dozen feet away, even though the words "Patricia Whipple"applied to but one of their number, the twins took the challenge tothemselves and quailed. They knew that deep and terrible voice menacedthemselves as well as the late Ben Blunt--for that mere street urchin, blown upon by the winds of desolation, had shrivelled and passed. In hisplace drooped a girl in absurd boy's clothes, her hair messily cut off, smoking something she plainly did not wish to smoke. The stricken lilyof vice drooped upon its stem. 

One by one the three heads turned to regard the orator. How had shecontrived that noiseless approach? How had she found them at all in thisseclusion? The heads having turned to regard her, turned back and bowedin stony glares at the rich Whipple-nourished turf. They felt her cometoward them; her shadow from the high sun blended with theirs. And againthe voice, that fearsome organ on which she managed such dread effects:

"Patricia Whipple, what does this mean?"

She confronted them, a spare, grim figure, tall, authoritative, seemingto be old as Time itself. How were they to know that Juliana was stillyouthful, even attired youthfully, though by no means frivolously, orthat her heart was gentle? She might, indeed, have danced to them asColumbine, and her voice would still have struck them with terror. Shebrought her deepest tones to those simple words, "What does this mean?"All at once it seemed to them that something had been meant, somethingabsurd, monstrous, lawless, deserving a ghastly punishment. 

The late Ben Blunt squirmed and bored a heel desperately into the turfabove a Whipple whose troubles had ceased in 1828. She made a roughnoise in her throat, but it was not informing. The Wilbur twin, forgetting his own plight, glanced warm encouragement to her. 

"I guess she's got aright to run away, " he declared, brazenly. 

But in this burst of bravado he had taken too little account of hisattire. He recalled it now, for the frosty gray eyes of Juliana ranabout him and came to rest upon his own eyes. For the taut moment thathe braved her glance it unaccountably seemed to him that the forbiddingmouth of the woman twitched nervously into the beginning of a smile. Itwas a fleeting effect, but it did seem as if she had almost laughed, then caught herself. And there was a tremolo defect in the organ tonewith which she now again demanded in blistering politeness, "May I askwhat this means?"

The quick-thinking Merle twin had by now devised an exit from anycomplicity in whatever was meant. He saw his way out. He spoke upbrightly and with no shadow of guilt upon his fair young face. 

"I told her it was wrong for the young to smoke; it stunts their growthand leads to evil companions. But she wouldn't listen to me. "

There was a nice regret in his tone. 

Miss Juliana ignored him. 

"Patricia!" she said, terribly. 

But the late Ben Blunt, after the first devastating shock, had beenrecovering vitality for this ordeal. 

"I don't care!" she announced. "I'll run away if I want to!" And again, bitterly, "I don't care!"

"Run away!"

Juliana fairly bayed the words. She made running away seem to besomething nice people never, never did. 

"I don't care!" repeated the fugitive, dully. 

There was a finality about it that gave Juliana pause. She had expecteda crumpling, but the offender did not crumple. It seemed another tackmust be taken. 

"Indeed?" she inquired, almost cooingly. "And may I ask if this absurdyoung creature was to accompany you on your--your travels?" Sheindicated the gowned Wilbur, who would then have gone joyously to hisreward, even as had Jonas Whipple. His look of dumb suffering would havestayed a judge less conscientious. "I presume this is some young lady ofyour acquaintance--one of your little girl friends, " she continued, though it was plain to all that she presumed nothing of the sort. 

"He is not!" The look of dumb suffering had stoutened one heart to newcourage. "He's a very nice little boy, and he gave me these raggedclothes to run away in, and now he'll have to wear his Sunday clothes. And you know he's a boy as well as I do!"

"She made him take a lot of money for it, " broke in the Merle twin. "Iwas afraid she wasn't doing right, but she wouldn't listen to me, so shegave him the money and I took charge of it for him. "

He beamed virtuously at Miss Juliana, who now rewarded him with ahurried glance of approval. It seemed to Miss Juliana and to him that hehad been on the side of law and order, condemning and seeking todissuade the offenders from their vicious proceedings. He felt that hewas a very good little boy, indeed, and that the tall lady wasunderstanding it. He had been an innocent bystander. 

Miss Juliana again eyed the skirted Wilbur, and the viewless wind of asmile's beginning blew across the lower half of her accusing face. Thenshe favoured the mere street urchin with a glance of extreme repugnance. 

"I shall have to ask all of you to come with me, " she said, terribly. 

"Where to?" demanded the chief culprit. 

"You know well enough. "

This was all too true. 

"Me?" demanded the upright Merle, as if there must have been somemistake. Surely no right-thinking person could implicate him in thisrowdy affair!

"You, if you please, " said Miss Juliana, but she smiled beautifully uponhim. He felt himself definitely aligned with the forces of justice. Heall at once wanted to go. He would go as an assistant prosecutingattorney. 

"Not--not me?" stammered the stricken Wilbur. 

"By all means--you!" Miss Juliana sharpened her tone She added, mysteriously: "It would be good without you--good, but not perfect. "

"Now I guess you'll learn how to behave yourself in future!" admonishedMerle, the preacher, and edged toward Miss Juliana as one withdrawingfrom contamination. 

"Oh, not me!" pleaded the voice of Wilbur. 

"I think you heard me, " said Miss Juliana. "Come!"

She uttered "come" so that not mountains would have dared stay, muchless a frightened little boy in a girl's dress. In his proper garb therehad been instant and contemptuous flight. But the dress debased all hismanly instincts. He came crawling, as the worm. The recent Ben Bluntpulled a cap over a shorn head and advanced stoically before the group. 

"One moment, " said Miss Juliana. "We seem to be forgetting something. "She indicated the hat of Patricia Whipple lying on the ground near wheresmouldered the two ends of the abandoned pennygrab. "I think you mightresume this, my dear, and restore the cap to its rightful owner. " It wasbut a further play of her debased fancy. The mere street urchin was nowdecked in a girl's hat and a presumable girl wore an incongruous cap. "Iwill ask you two rare specimens to precede me, " she said when the changewas made. They preceded her. 

"I don't care!" This was more bravado from the urchin. 

"Well, don't you care!" Juliana said it, soothingly. 

"I will, too, care!" retorted the urchin, betraying her sex. 

"Will she take us to the jail?" whispered the trembling Wilbur. 

"Worse!" said the girl. "She'll take us home!" Side by side theythreaded an aisle between rows of the carefree dead, whom no malignantMiss Juliana could torture. Behind them marched their captor, Merlestepping blithely beside her. 

"It's lovely weather for this time of year, " they heard him say. 

CHAPTER II

They came all too soon to a gate giving upon the public road and theworld of the living who make remarks about strange sights they witness. Still it was a quiet street, and they were accorded no immediatereception. There stood the pony cart of Miss Juliana, and this, she madeknown, they were to enter. It was a lovely vehicle, drawn by a lovelyfat pony, and the Wilbur twin had often envied those privileged to ridein it. Never had he dreamed so rich a treat could be his. Now it was tobe his, but the thing was no longer a lovely pony cart; it was atumbril--worse than a tumbril, for he was going to a fate worse thandeath. 

The shameful skirt flopped about his bare legs as he awkwardly clamberedinto the rear seat beside the sex-muddled creature in a boy's suit and agirl's hat. Miss Juliana and the godly Merle in the front seat had verydefinitely drawn aloof from the outcasts. They chatted on matters atlarge in the most polite and social manner. They quite appeared to haveforgotten that their equipage might attract the notice of the vulgar. When from time to time it actually did this the girl held her headbrazenly erect and shot back stare for stare, but the Wilbur twin bowedlow and suffered. 

Sometimes it would merely be astounded adults who paused to regard them, to point canes or fingers at them. But again it would be the young whohad never been disciplined to restrain their emotions in public. Some ofthese ran for a time beside the cart, with glad cries, their clear, ringing voices raised in comments of a professedly humorous character. Under Juliana's direction the cart did not progress too rapidly. At onecrossing she actually stopped the thing until Ellis Bristow, who wasblind, had with his knowing cane tapped a safe way across the street. The Wilbur twin at this moment frankly rejoiced in the infirmity of poorEllis Bristow. It was sweet relief not to have him stop and stare andpoint. If given the power at this juncture he would have summarilyblinded all the eyes of Newbern Center. 

Up shaded streets they progressed, leaving a wake of purest joy astern. But at last they began the ascent of West Hill, that led to the WhippleNew Place, leaving behind those streets that came alive at theirapproach. For the remainder of their dread progress they would elicitonly the startled regard of an occasional adult farmer. 

"What'll she do to us?" The Wilbur twin mumbled this under cover ofsprightly talk from the front seat. His brother at the moment wasboasting of his scholastic attainments. He had, it appeared, come onamazingly in long division. 

"She won't do a thing!" replied his companion in shame. "Don't you beafraid!"

"I am afraid. But I wouldn't be afraid if I had my pants on again, "explained the Wilbur twin, going accurately to the soul of his panic. 

"I'll do it next time, " said the girl. "I'll hurry. I won't stop at anyold graveyard. "

"Graveyard!" uttered the other, feelingly. "I should say not!" Neveragain was he to think of such places with any real pleasure. 

"All she wants, " explained the girl--"she wants to talk up in her noselike she was giving a lecture. She loves to. She'll make a vile scene. "

Now they were through an imposing gate of masonry, and the ponylanguidly drew them along a wide driveway toward the Whipple mansion, anexperience which neither of the twins had ever hoped to brave; but onlyone of them was deriving any pleasure from the social elevation. TheMerle twin looked blandly over the wide expanse of lawn and flower bedsand tenderly nursed shrubs, and then at the pile of red brick with itsmany windows under gay-striped awnings, and its surmounting whitecupola, which he had often admired from afar. He glowed with rectitude. True, he suffered a brother lost to all sense of decent human values, but this could not dim the lustre of his own virtue or his pleasantsuspicion that it was somehow going to be suitably rewarded. Was he notbeing driven by a grand-mannered lady up a beautiful roadway pastmillions of flowers and toward a wonderful house? It paid to be good. 

The Wilbur twin had ceased to regard his surroundings. He gazed stolidlybefore him, nor made the least note of what his eyes rested upon. He wasthere, helpless. They had him!

The cart drew up beside steps leading to a wide porch shaded by astriped awning. 

"Home at last, " cooed Miss Juliana with false welcome. 

A loutish person promptly abandoned a lawn mower in the near distanceand came to stand by the head of the languid pony. He grinned horribly, and winked as the two figures descended from the rear of the cart. For amoment, halting on the first of the steps, the Wilbur twin became awarethat just beyond him, almost to be grasped, was a veritable rainbowcurved above a whirling lawn sprinkler. And he had learned that arainbow is a thing of gracious promise. But probably they have to benatural rainbows; probably you don't get anything out of one you makeyourself. Even as he looked, the shining omen vanished, somewhere shutoff by an unseen power. 

"This way, please, " called Miss Juliana, cordially, and he followed herguiltily up the steps to the shaded porch. 

The girl had preceded her. The Merle twin lingered back of them, shocked, austere, deprecating, and yet somehow bland withal, as if theselittle affairs were not without their compensating features. 

The bowed Wilbur twin was startled by a gusty torrent of laughter. Withtorturing effort, he raised his eyes to a couple of elderly maleWhipples. One sat erect on a cushioned bench, and one had lain at easein a long, low thing of wicker. It was this one who made the ill-timedand tasteless demonstration that was still continuing. Ultimately thecreature lost all tone from his laughter. It went on, soundless butuncannily poignant. Such was the effect that the Wilbur twin wondered ifhis own ears had been suddenly deafened. This Whipple continued to shakesilently. The other, who had not laughed, whose face seemed ill-modelledfor laughing, nevertheless turned sparkling eyes from under shelvingbrows upon Juliana and said in words stressed with emotion: "My dear, you have brightened my whole day. "

The first Whipple, now recovered from his unseemly paroxysm, sat erectto study the newcomers in detail. He was a short, round-chested man witha round moon face marked by heavy brows like those of the other. He hadfat wrists and stout, blunt fingers. With a stubby thumb he now pushedup the outer ends of the heavy brows as if to heighten the power of hisvision for this cherished spectacle. 

"I seem to recognize the lad, " he murmured as if in privacy to his ownhairy ears. "Surely I've seen the rascal about the place, perhapshelping Nathan at the stable; but that lovely little girl--I've not hadthe pleasure of meeting her before. Come, sissy"--he held outblandishing arms--"come here, Totte, and give the old man a kiss. "

Could hate destroy, these had been the dying words of Sharon Whipple. But the Wilbur twin could manage only a sidelong glare insufficient toslay. His brother giggled until he saw that he made merry alone. 

"What? Bless my soul, the minx is sulky!" roared the wit. 

The other Whipple intervened. 

"What was our pride and our joy bent upon this time?" he suavelydemanded. "I take it you've thwarted her in some new plot against thepublic tranquillity. "

"The young person you indicate, " said Juliana, "was about to leave herhome forever--going out to live her own life away from these distastefulsurroundings. "

"So soon? We should be proud of her! At that tender age, going out tomake a name for herself!"

"I gather from this very intelligent young gentleman here that she hadmade the name for herself before even starting. "

"It was Ben Blunt, " remarked the young gentleman, helpfully. 

"Hey!" Sharon Whipple affected dismay. "Then what about this young girlat his side? Don't tell me she was luring him from his home here?"

"It will surprise you to know, " said Juliana in her best style, "thatthis young girl before you is not a girl. "

Both Whipples ably professed amazement. 

"Not a girl?" repeated the suave Whipple incredulously. "You do amazeme, Juliana! Not a girl, with those flower-like features, those starryeyes, that feminine allure? Preposterous! And yet, if he is not a girlhe is, I take it, a boy. "

"A boy who incited the light of our house to wayward courses by changingclothes with her. "

The harsher Whipple spoke here in a new tone. 

"Then she browbeat him into it. Scissors and white aprons--yes, I knowher!"

"He didn't seem browbeaten. They were smoking quite companionably when Ichanced upon them. "

"Smoking! Our angel child smoking!"

This from Sharon Whipple in tones that every child present knew as amere pretense of horror. Juliana shrugged cynically. 

"They always go to the bad after they leave their nice homes, " she said. 

"Children should never smoke till they are twenty-one, and then they geta gold watch for it, " interjected the orator, Merle. He had felt that hewas not being made enough of. "It's bad for their growing systems, " headded. 

"And this?" asked Gideon Whipple, indicating the moralist. 

"The brother of that"--Juliana pointed. "He did his best in the way ofadvice, I gather, but neither of the pair would listen to him. He seemsto be safely conservative, but not to have much influence over hisfellows. "

"Willing to talk about it, though, " said Sharon Whipple, pointedly. 

The girl now glowered at each of them in turn. 

"I don't care!" she muttered. "I will, too, run away! You see!"

"It's what they call a fixed idea, " explained Juliana. "She doesn't careand she will, too, run away. But where is Mrs. Harvey?"

"Poor soul!" murmured Sharon. "Think what a lot she's missed already! Docall her, my dear!"

Juliana stepped to the doorway and called musically into the dusky hall:"Mrs. Harvey! Mrs. Harvey! Come quickly, please! We have somethinglovely to show you!"

The offenders were still to be butchered to make a Whipple holiday. 

"Coming!" called a high voice from far within. 

The Wilbur twin sickeningly guessed this would be the cruel stepmother. Real cruelty would now begin. Beating, most likely. But when, a momentlater, she stood puzzling in the doorway, he felt an instant relief. Shedid not look cruel. She was not even bearded. She was a plump, meeklyprettyish woman with a quick, flustered manner and a soft voice. Shebrought something the culprits had not found in their other judges. 

"Why, you poor, dear, motherless thing!" she cried when she had assuredherself of the girl's identity, and with this she enfolded her. "I'dlike to know what they've been doing to my pet!" she declared, aggressively. 

"The pet did it all to herself, " explained Gideon Whipple. 

"I will, too, run away!" affirmed the girl, though some deeperconviction had faded from the threat. 

"Still talking huge high, " said Sharon. "But at your age, my youngfriend, running away is overchancy. " Mrs. Harvey Whipple ignored this. 

"Of course you will--run away all you like, " she soothed. "It's goodfor people to run away. " Then she turned amazingly to the Wilbur twinand spoke him fair as a fellow human. "And who is this dear little boy?I just know he was kind enough to change clothes with you so you couldrun away better! And here you're keeping him in that dress when youought to know it makes him uncomfortable--doesn't it, little boy?"

The little boy movingly ogled her with a sidelong glance of gratitudefor what at the moment seemed to be the first kind words he had everheard. 

"You have her give me back my pants!" said he. Then for the first timehe faced his inquisitors eye to eye. "I want my own pants!" he declared, stoutly. Man spoke to man there, and both the male Whipples stirredguiltily; feeling base, perhaps, that mere sex loyalty had not earlierrestrained them. 

"Indeed, you blessed thing, you shall have them this moment!" said thecruel stepmother. "You two march along with me. "

"And not keep them till Harvey D. Comes home?" It was the implacableJuliana. 

"Well"--Mrs. Harvey considered--"I'm sure he would adore to see thelittle imps, but really they can't stand it any longer, can you, dears?It would be bad for their nerves. We'll have to be satisfied withtelling him. Come along quickly!"

"I will, too, run away!"

The girl flung it over her shoulder as she swaggered into the hall. TheWilbur twin trod incessantly on her heels. 

"Wants his pants!" murmured Sharon Whipple. "Prunes and apricots! Wantshis pants!"

"Mistake ever to part with 'em, " observed Gideon. "Of course shebrowbeat him. "

"My young friend here tells me she bribed him, " explained Juliana. 

"She gave him a lot of money and I'm keeping it for him, " said herself-possessed young friend, and he indicated bulging pockets. 

"Looted her bank, " said Juliana. 

"Forehanded little tike, " said Sharon, admiringly. "And smart! She canoutsmart us all any day in the week!"

 * * * * *

In a dim upper bedroom in the big house Wilbur Cowan divested himself ofwoman's raiment for probably the last time in his life. He hurried morethan he might have, because the room was full of large, strange, terrifying furniture. It was a place to get out of as soon as he could. Two buttons at the back of the dress he was unable to reach, but thistrifling circumstance did not for more than a scant second delay hisrelease. Then his own clothes were thrust in to him by the stepmother, who embarrassingly lingered to help him button his own waist with thefaded horseshoes to the happily restored pants. 

"There, there!" she soothed when he was again clad as a man child, andamazingly she kissed him. 

Still tingling from this novel assault, he was led by the woman along adim corridor to a rear stairway. Down this they went, along anothercorridor to a far door. She brought him to rest in a small, meagrelyfurnished but delightfully scented room. It was scented with a generalaroma of cooked food, and there were many shelves behind glass doors onwhich dishes were piled. A drawer was opened, and almost instantly inhis ready hands was the largest segment of yellow cake he had everbeheld. He had not dreamed that pieces of cake for human consumptioncould be cut so large. And it was lavishly gemmed with fat raisins. Heheld it doubtfully. 

"Let's look again, " said the preposterous woman. She looked again, pushing by a loose-swinging door to do it, and returned with a vast areaof apple pie, its outer curve a full ninety degrees of the circle. "Noweat!" said the woman. 

She was, indeed, a remarkable woman. She had not first asked him if hewere hungry. 

"I'm much obliged for my pants and this cake and pie, " said the boy, sothe woman said, "Yes, yes, " and hugged him briefly as he ate. 

Not until he had consumed the last morsel of these provisions and eke abumper of milk did the woman lead him back to that shaded porch where hehad lately been put to the torture. But now he was another being, cladnot only as became a man among men but inwardly fortified by food. Ifstepmothers were like this he wished his own father would find one. Thegirl with her talk about cruelty--he still admired her, but she must bean awful liar. He faced the tormenting group on the porch with almostfaultless self-possession. He knew they could not hurt him. 

"Well, well, well!" roared Sharon Whipple, meaning again to be humorous. But the restored Wilbur eyed him coldly, with just a faint curiositythat withered the humorist in him. "Well, well!" he repeated, but indry, businesslike tones, as if he had not meant to be funny in the firstplace. 

"I guess we'll have to be going now, " said the Wilbur twin. "And we mustleave all that money. It wouldn't be honest to take it now. "

The Merle twin at this looked across at him with marked disfavour. 

"Nonsense!" said Miss Juliana. 

"Nonsense!" said Sharon Whipple. 

"Take it, of course!" said Gideon Whipple. 

"He's earned it fairly, " said Juliana. She turned to Merle. "Give it tohim, " she directed. 

This was not as Merle would have wished. If the money had been earned hewas still willing to take care of it, wasn't he?

"A beggarly pittance for what he did, " said Gideon Whipple, warmly. 

"Wouldn't do it myself for twice the amount, whatever it is, " saidSharon. 

Very slowly, under the Whipple regard, the Merle twin poured the priceof his brother's shame into his brother's cupped hands. The brother feltreligious at this moment. He remembered seriously those things theytold you in Sunday-school--about a power above that watches over us andmakes all come right. There must be something in that talk. 

The fiscal transaction was completed. The twins looked up to becomeaware that their late confederate surveyed them from the doorway. Hereyes hinted of a recent stormy past, but once more she was decorouslyapparelled. 

"Your little guests are leaving, " said the stepmother. "You must bidthem good-bye. "

Her little guests became statues as the girl approached them. 

"So glad you could come, " she said, and ceremoniously shook the hand ofeach. The twins wielded arms rigid from the shoulder, shaking twice downand twice up. "It has been so pleasant to have you, " said the girl. 

"We've had a delightful time, " said the Merle twin. 

The other tried to echo this, but again his teeth were tightly locked, and he made but a meaningless squeak far back in his throat. He usedthis for the beginning of a cough, which he finished with a decentaplomb. 

"You must come again, " said the girl, mechanically. 

"We shall be so glad to, " replied the Merle twin, glancing a brightfarewell to the group. 

The other twin was unable to glance intelligently at any one. His eyeswere now glazed. He stumbled against his well-mannered brother andheavily descended the steps. 

"You earned your money!" called Sharon Whipple. 

The Wilbur twin was in advance, and stayed so as they trudged down theroadway to the big gate. With his first free breath he had felt hisimportance as the lawful possessor of limitless wealth. 

"Bright little skeesicks, " said Sharon Whipple. 

"But the brother is really remarkable, " said Gideon--"so well-mannered, so sure of himself. He has quite a personality. "

"Other has the gumption, " declared Sharon. 

"I've decided to have one of them for my brother, " announced the girl. 

"Indeed?" said Gideon. 

"Well, everybody said I might have a brother, but nobody does anythingabout it. I will have one of those. I think the nice one that doesn'tsmoke. "

"Poor motherless pet!" murmured the stepmother, helplessly. 

"A brother is not what you need most at this time, " broke in Juliana. "It's a barber. "

 * * * * *

Down the dusty road over West Hill went the twins, Wilbur stillforcefully leading. His brother was becoming uneasy. There was a strangelight in the other's eyes, an unwonted look of power. When they were offthe hill and come to the upper end of shaded Fair Street, Merle advancedto keep pace beside his brother. The latter's rate of speed hadincreased as they neared the town. 

"Hadn't I better take care of our money for us?" he at last asked in avoice oily with solicitude. 

"No, sir!"

The "sir" was weighted with so heavy an emphasis that the tactful Merlemerely said "Oh!" in a hurt tone. 

"I can take care of my own money for me, " added the speeding capitalist, seeming to wish that any possible misconception as to the ownership ofthe hoard might be definitely removed. 

"Oh, " said Merle again, this being all that with any dignity he couldthink of to say. They were now passing the quiet acre that had been thescene of the morning's unpleasantness. Their pails, half filled withberries, were still there, but the strangely behaving Wilbur refused togo for them. He eyed the place with disrelish. He would not againwillingly approach that spot where he had gone down into the valley ofshame. Reminded that the pails were not theirs, he brutally asked whatdid he care, adding that he could buy a million pails if he took anotion to. But presently he listened to reason, and made reasonableproposals. The Merle twin was to go back to the evil place, salvage thepails, leave them at the Penniman house, and hasten to a certainconfectioner's at the heart of the town, where a lavish reward would beat once his. After troubled reflection he consented, and they went theirways. The Merle twin sped to the quiet nook where Jonas Whipple had beenput away in 1828, and sped away from there as soon as he had the pails. Not even did he bend a moment above the little new-made grave where laya part of all that was mortal of Patricia Whipple. He dislikedgraveyards on principle, and he wished his reward. 

Wilbur Cowan kept his quick way down Fair Street. He had been lifted topecuniary eminence, and incessantly the new wealth pressed upon hisconsciousness. The markets of the world were at his mercy. There wereshop windows outside which he had long been compelled to linger insterile choosing. Now he could enter and buy, and he was in a hurry tobe at it. Something warned him to seize his golden moment on the wing. The day was Saturday, and he was pleasantly thrilled by the unwontedcrowds on River Street, which he now entered. Farm horses were tetheredthickly along hitching racks and shoppers thronged the marts of trade. He threaded a way among them till he stood before the establishment ofSolly Gumble, confectioner. It brought him another thrill that thepeople all about should be unaware of his wealth--he, laden withunsuspected treasure that sagged cool and heavy on either thigh, whilethey could but suppose him to be a conventionally impoverished smallboy. 

He tried to be cool--to calculate sanely his first expenditure. But hecontrived an air of careless indecision as he sauntered through theportals of the Gumble place and lingered before the counter of choicestsweets, those so desirable that they must be guarded under glass from aloftily sampling public. 

"Two of those and two of those and one of them!"

It was his first order, and brought him, for five cents, two cocoanutcreams, two candied plums, and a chocolate mouse. He stood eating thesewhile he leisurely surveyed the neighbouring delicacies. Vaguely in hismind was the thought that he might buy the place and thereafter keepstore. His cheeks distended by the chocolate mouse and the last of thecocoanut creams, he now bartered for a candy cigar. It was of brownmaterial, at the blunt end a circle of white for the ash and at itscentre a brilliant square of scarlet paper for the glow, altogether acharming feat of simulation, perhaps the most delightful humoresque inall confectionery. It was priced at two cents, but what was money now?

Then, his eye roving to the loftier shelves, he spied remotely above hima stuffed blue jay mounted on a varnished branch of oak. This was notproperly a part of the Gumble stock; it was a fixture, technically, giving an air to the place from its niche between two mounting rows ofladen shelves. 

"How much for that beautiful bird for my father?" demanded the nouveauriche. 

His words were blurred by the still-resistant chocolate mouse, and hewas compelled to point before Solly Gumble divined his wish. Themerchant debated, removing his skullcap, smoothing his grizzled fringeof curls, fitting the cap on again deliberately. Then he turned tosurvey the bird, seemingly with an interest newly wakened. It was indeeda beautiful bird, brilliantly blue, with sparkling eyes; a bit dusty, but rarely desirable. The owner had not meant to part with it; still, trade was trade. He meditated, tapping his cheek with a pencil. 

"How much for that beautiful bird for my father?"

He had swallowed strenuously and this time got out the words cleanly. 

"Well, now, I don't hardly know. My Bertha had her cousin give her thatbird. It's a costly bird. I guess you couldn't pay such a price. I guessit would cost a full half dollar, mebbe. "

He had meant the price to be prohibitive, and it did shock thequestioner, opulent though he was. 

"Well, mebbe I will and mebbe I won't, " he said, importantly. "Say, youkeep him for me till I make my mind up. If anybody else comes along, don't you sell him to anybody else till I tell you, because prob'ly I'llsimply buy him. My father, he loves animals. "

Solly Gumble was impressed. 

"Well, he's a first-class animal. He's been in that one place goin' onfive years now. "

"Give me two of those and two of those and one of them, " said the Wilburtwin, pointing to new heart's desires. 

"Say, now, you got a lot of money for a little boy, " said Solly Gumble, not altogether at ease. This might be a case of embezzlement such as hehad before known among his younger patrons. "You sure it's yours--yes?"

"Ho!" The Wilbur twin scorned the imputation. He was not going to tellhow he had earned this wealth, but the ease of his simple retort wasenough for the practical psychologist before him. "I could buy all thethings in this store if I wanted to, " he continued, and waved apatronizing hand to the shelves. "Give me two of those and two of thoseand one of them. "

Solly Gumble put the latest purchase in a paper bag. Here was a patronworth conciliating. The patron sauntered to the open door to eat of hisprovender with lordly ease in the sight of an envious world. Calmlyelate, on the cushion of advantage, he scanned the going and coming oflesser folk who could not buy at will of Solly Gumble. His fortune hadgone to his head, as often it has overthrown the reason of the moremature indigent. It was thus his brother found him, and became instantlytroubled at what seemed to be the insane glitter of his eyes. 

He engulfed an entire chocolate mouse from his sticky left hand and withhis right proffered the bag containing two of those and two of those andone of them. Merle accepted the boon silently. He was thrilled, yetdistrustful. Until now his had been the leading mind, but his power wasgone. He resented this, yet was sensible that no resentment must beshown. His talent as a tactician was to be sorely tested. He gentlytried out this talent. 

"Winona says you ought to come home to dinner. "

The magnate replied as from another world. 

"I couldn't eat a mouthful, " he said, and crowded a cocoanut cream intoan oral cavity already distended by a chocolate mouse. 

"She says, now, you should save your money and buy some useful thingwith it, " again ventured the parasite. It was the sign of a nicelysensed acumen that he no longer called it "our" money. 

"Ho! Gee, gosh!" spluttered the rich one, and that was all. 

"What we going to have next?" demanded the wise one. 

"I'll have to think up something. " He did not invite suggestions andnone were offered. Merle nicely sensed the arrogance of the newly rich. "I know, " said the capitalist at length--"candy in a lemon. "

"One for each?"

"Of course!" It was no time for petty economies. 

Solly Gumble parted with two lemons and two sticks of spirally stripedcandy of porous fabric. Then the moneyed gourmet dared a new flight. 

"Two more sticks, " he commanded. "You suck one stick down, then you putanother in the same old lemon, " he explained. 

"I must say!" exclaimed Merle. It was a high moment, but he never usedstrong language. 

When the candy had been imbedded in the lemons they sauntered out to thestreet, Merle meekly in the rear, the master mind still coerced by brutewealth. They paused before other shop windows, cheeks hollowed above thesavory mechanism invented by Patricia Whipple. Down one side of RiverStreet to its last shop, and up the other, they progressed haltingly. Atmany of the windows the capitalist displayed interest only of the mostacademic character. At others he made sportive threats. Thus before thejewellery shop of Rapp Brothers he quite unnerved Merle by announcingthat he could buy everything in that window if he wanted to--necklacesand rings and pins and gold watches--and he might do this. If, say, hedid buy that black marble clock with the prancing gold horse on it, would Merle take it home for him? He had no intention of buying thisobject--he had never found clocks anything but a source ofannoyance--but he toyed with the suggestion when he saw that it agitatedhis brother. Thereafter at other windows he wilfully dismayed hisbrother by pretending to consider the purchase of objects in no sensedesirable to any one, such as boots, parasols, manicure sets, groceries, hardware. He played with the feel of his wealth, relishing the power itgave him over the moneyless. 

And then purely to intensify this thrill of power he actually purchasedat the hardware shop and carelessly bestowed upon the mendicant brotheran elaborate knife with five blades and a thing which the vender saidwas to use in digging stones out of horses' feet. Merle was quiteovercome by this gift, and neither of them suspected it to be the firststep in the downfall of the capitalist. The latter, be it remembered, had bought and bestowed the knife that he might feel more acutely hispower over this penniless brother, and this mean reward was abundantlyhis. Never before had he felt superior to the Merle twin. 

But the penalties of giving are manifold, and he now felt a novel glowof sheer beneficence. He was a victim to the craze for philanthropy. Tooyoung to realize its insidious character, he was to embark upon aruinous career. Ever it is the first step that costs. That carelesslygiven knife--with something to dig stones out of a horse's foot--was towipe out, ere night again shrouded Newbern Center, a fortune supposed tobe as lasting as the eternal hills that encircled it. 

They again crossed River Street, and stopped in front of the Cut-RatePharmacy. The windows of this establishment offered little to enticesave the two mammoth chalices of green and crimson liquor. But thesewere believed to be of fabulous value. Even the Cut-Rate Pharmacy itselfcould afford but one of each. Inside the door a soda fountain hissedprovocatively. They took lemon and vanilla respectively, and the lordlypurchaser did not take up his change from the wet marble until he haddrained his glass. He had become preoccupied. He was mapping out acareer of benevolence, splendid, glittering, ostentatious--ruinous. 

In a show case near the soda fountain his eye rested upon an object ofstriking beauty, a photograph album of scarlet plush with a silverclasp, and lest its purpose be misconstrued the word "Album" writ inpurest silver across its front. Negotiations resulting in its sale werebrief. The Merle twin was aghast, for the cost of this thing was adollar and forty-nine cents. Even the buyer trembled when he counted outthe price in small silver and coppers. But the result was a furtheruplift raising him beyond the loudest call of caution. The album wasplaced in the ornate box--itself no mean bibelot--and wrapped in paper. 

"It's for Winona, " the purchaser loftily explained to his white-facedbrother. 

"I must say!" exclaimed the latter, strongly moved. 

"I'm going to buy a beautiful present for every one, " added the nowfatuous giver. 

"Every one!" It was all Merle could manage, and even it caused him togulp. 

"Every one, " repeated the hopeless addict. 

And even as he said it he was snared again, this time by an immenseadvertising placard propped on the counter. It hymned the virtues of theAjax Invigorator. To the left sagged a tormented male victim of manyailments meticulously catalogued below, but in too fine print foroffhand reading by one in a hurry. The frame of the sufferer was bent, upheld by a cane, one hand poignantly resting on his back. The face wasdrawn with pain and despair. "For twenty years I suffered untoldagonies, " this person was made to confess in large print. It washeartrending. But opposite the moribund wretch was a figure of richhealth, erect, smartly dressed, with a full, smiling face and happyeyes. Surprisingly this was none other than the sufferer. One couldhardly have believed them the same, but so it was. "The Ajax Invigoratormade a new man of me, " continued the legend. There were further detailswhich seemed negligible to the philanthropist, because the pictured heroof the invigorator already suggested Judge Penniman, the ever-ailingfather of Winona. The likeness was not wholly fanciful. True, the judgewas not so abject as the first figure, but then he was not soobtrusively vigorous as the second. 

"A bottle of that, " said Wilbur, and pointed to the card. 

The druggist thrust out a bottle already wrapped in a printed cover, andthe price, as became a cut-rate pharmacy, proved to be ninety-eightcents. 

A wish was now expressed that the advertising placard might also betaken in order that Judge Penniman might see just what sort of new manthe invigorator would make of him. But this proved impracticable; theplacard must remain where it stood for the behoof of other invalids. Butthere were smaller portraits of the same sufferer, it seemed, in theliterature inclosing the bottle. It was the Merle twin who carried thepurchases as they issued from the pharmacy. This was fitting, inevitable. The sodden philanthropist must have his hands free to spendmore money. 

They rested again at the Gumble counter--and now they were not alone. The acoustics of the small town are faultless, and the activities ofthis spendthrift had been noised abroad. To the twins, as two of thoseand two of those and one of them were being ordered, came four otherboys to linger cordially by and assist in the selections. Hospitalitywas not gracefully avoidable. The four received candy cigars and becamemere hangers-on of the rich, lost to all self-respect, fawning, falselysolicitous, brightly expectant. Chocolate mice were next distributed. The four guests were now so much of the party as to manifest quickhostility to a fifth boy who had beamingly essayed to be numbered amongthem. They officiously snubbed and even covertly threatened this fifthboy, who none the less lingered very determinedly by the host, and waspresently rewarded with sticky largesse; whereupon he was accepted bythe four, and himself became hostile to another aspirant. 

But mere candy began to cloy--Solly Gumble had opened the second box ofchocolate mice--and the host even abandoned his reënforced lemon, whichwas promptly communized by the group. He tried to think of something toeat that wouldn't be candy, whereupon mounted in his mind the pyramid ofwatermelons a block down the street before the Bon Ton Grocery. 

"We'll have a watermelon, " he announced in tones of quiet authority, andhis cohorts gurgled applause. 

They pressed noisily about him as he went to the Bon Ton. Theyremembered a whale of a melon they had seen there, and said they wouldbet he never had enough money to buy that one. Maybe he could buy amedium-sized one, but not that. All of them kept a repellent manner forany passing boy who might be selfishly moved to join them. Thespendthrift let them babble, preserving a rather grim silence. The whaleof a melon was indeed a noble growth, and its price was thirty-fivecents. The announcement of this caused a solemn hush to fall upon thesycophants; a hush broken by the cool, masterful tones of their host. 

"I'll take her, " he said, and paid the fearful price from a stillweighty pocket. To the stoutest of the group went the honour of bearingoff the lordly burden. They turned into a cool alley that led to therear of the shops. Here in comparative solitude the whale of a meloncould be consumed and the function be unmarred by the presence ofvolunteer guests. 

"Open her, " ordered the host, and the new knife was used to open her. 

She proved to be but half ripe, but her size was held to atone for thisdefect. A small, unripe melon would have been returned to the dealerwith loud complaining, but it seemed to be held that you couldn't expecteverything from one of this magnitude. It was devoured to the rind, after which the convives reclined luxuriously upon a mound of excelsiorbeside an empty crate. 

"Penny grabs!" cried the host with a fresh inspiration, and they cheeredhim. 

One of the five volunteered to go for them and the money-drunken hostconfided the price of three of them to him. The messenger honorablyreturned, the pennygrabs were bisected with the new knife, and all ofthem but Merle smoked enjoyably. He, going back to his candy and lemon, admonished each and all that smoking would stunt their growth. It seemednot greatly to concern any of them. They believed Merle implicitly, butwhat cared they?

Now the messenger in buying the pennygrabs had gabbled wildly to anotherboy of the sensational expenditures under way, and this boy, thoughincredulous, now came to a point in the alley from which he could surveythe fed group. The remains of the whale of a melon were there toconvince him. They were trifling remains, but they sufficed, and the sixfuming halves of pennygrabs were confirmatory. The scout departedrapidly, to return a moment later with two other boys. One of the latterled a dog. 

The three newcomers, with a nice observance of etiquette, surveyed therevellers from a distance. Lacking decent provocation, they might notapproach a group so plainly engaged upon affairs of its own--unless theywent aggressively, and this it did not yet seem wise to do. Therevellers became self-conscious under this scrutiny. They were moved tonew displays of wealth. 

"I smelled 'em cookin' bologna in the back room of Hire's butcher shop, "remarked the bringer of the pennygrabs. "It smelt grand. "

The pliant host needed no more. He was tinder to such a spark. 

"Get a quarter's worth, Howard, " and the slave bounded off, to returnwith a splendid rosy garland of the stuff, still warm and odorous. 

Again the new knife of Merle was used. The now widely diffused scent ofbologna reached the three watchers, and appeared to madden one of thembeyond any restraint of good manners. He sauntered toward them, pretending not to notice the banquet until he was upon it. He was adesperate-appearing fellow--dark, saturnine, with a face of sullenmenace. 

"Give us a hunk, " he demanded. 

He should have put it more gently. He should have condescended a littleto the amenities, for his imperious tone at once dried a generous springof philanthropy. He was to regret this lack of a mere superficial polishthat would have cost him nothing. 

"Ho! Go buy it like we did!" retorted the host, crisply. 

"Is that so?" queried the newcomer with rising warmth. 

"Yes, sat's so!"

"Who says it's so?"

"I say it's so!"

This was seemingly futile; seemingly it got them nowhere, for thenewcomer again demanded: "Is that so?"

They seemed to have followed a vicious circle. But in reality they weremuch farther along, for the mendicant had carelessly worked himself to apoint where he could reach for the half circle of bologna stillundivided, and the treasure was now snatched from this fate by thewatchful legal owner. 

"Hold that!" he commanded one of his creatures, and rose quickly to hisfeet. 

"Is that so?" repeated the unimaginative newcomer. 

"Yes, that's so!" affirmed the Wilbur twin once again. 

"I guess I got as much right here as you got!"

This was a shifty attempt to cloud the issue. No one had faintlyquestioned his right to be there. 

"Ho! Gee, gosh!" snapped the Wilbur twin, feeling vaguely that this wasirrelevant talk. 

"Think you own this whole town, don't you?" demanded the aggressor. 

"Ho! I guess I own it as much as what you do!"

The Wilbur twin knew perfectly that this was not the true issue, yet hefelt compelled to accept it. 

"For two beans I'd punch you in the eye. "

"Oh, you would, would you?" Each of the disputants here took a stepbackward. 

"Yes, I would, would you!" This was a try at mockery. 

"Yes, you would not!"

"Yes, I would!"

"You're a big liar!"

The newcomer at this betrayed excessive rage. 

"What's that? You just say that again!" He seemed unable to believe hisshocked ears. 

"You heard what I said--you big liar, liar, liar!"

"You take that back!"

Here the newcomer flourished clinched fists and began to prance. TheWilbur twin crouched, but was otherwise motionless. The newcomercontinued to prance alarmingly and to wield his arms as if against aninvisible opponent. Secretly he had no mind to combat. His real purposebecame presently clear. It was to intimidate and confuse until he shouldbe near enough the desired delicacy to snatch it and run. He was anexcellent runner. His opponent perceived this--the evil glance of desireand intention under all the flourish of arms. Something had to be done. Without warning he leaped upon the invader and bore him to earth. Therehe punched, jabbed, gouged, and scratched as they writhed together. Amoment of this and the prostrate foe was heard to scream with the utmostsincerity. The Wilbur twin was startled, but did not relax his hold. 

"You let me up from here!" the foe was then heard to cry. 

The Wilbur twin watchfully rose from his mount, breathing heavily. Heseized his cap and drew it tightly over dishevelled locks. 

"I guess that'll teach you a good lesson!" he warned when he had breathfor it. 

The vanquished Hun got to his feet, one hand over an eye. He wasabundantly blemished and his nose bled. His sense of dignity had beenoutraged and his head hurt. 

"You get the hell and gone out of here!" shouted the Wilbur twin, quiteas if he did own the town. 

"I must say! Cursing and swearing!" shrilled the Merle twin, but noneheeded him. 

The repulsed enemy went slowly to the corner of the alley. Here heturned to recover a moment of dignity. 

"You just wait till I catch you out some day!" he roared back withgestures meant to terrify. But this was his last flash. He went on hisway, one hand still to the blighted eye. 

Now it developed that the two boys who had waited the Hun had profitedcunningly by the brawl. They had approached at its beginning--a fightwas anybody's to watch--they had applauded its dénouement with shrilland hearty cries, and they now felicitated the victor. 

"Aw, that old Tod McNeil thinks he can fight!" said one, and laughed inharsh derision. 

"I bet this kid could lick him any day in the week!" observed hiscompanion. 

This boy, it was now seen, led a dog on a rope, a half-grown dog thatwould one day be large. He was now heavily clad in silken wool of richlymixed colours--brown, yellow, and bluish gray--and his eyes were stillthe pale blue of puppyhood. 

Both newcomers had learned the unwisdom of abrupt methods of approachingthis wealthy group. They conducted themselves with modesty; they werepolite, even servile, saying much in praise of the warrior twin. The onewith the dog revealed genius for this sort of thing, and insisted onfeeling the warrior's muscle. The flexed bicep appeared to leave himaghast at its hardness and immensity. He insisted that his companionshould feel it, too. 

"Have some bologna?" asked the warrior. He would doubtless have pressedbologna now on Tod McNeil had that social cull stayed by. 

"Oh!" said the belated guests, surprised at the presence of bolognathereabouts. 

They uttered profuse thanks for sizable segments of the now diminishedcircle. It was then that the Wilbur twin took pleased notice of the dog. He was a responsive animal, grateful for notice from any one. Receivinga morsel of the bologna he instantly engulfed it and overwhelmed thegiver with rough but hearty attentions. 

"Knows me already, " said the now infatuated Wilbur. 

"Sure he does!" agreed the calculating owner. "He's a smart dog. He'sthe smartest dog ever I see, and I seen a good many dogs round thistown. "

"Have some more bologna, " said Wilbur. 

"Thanks, " said the dog owner, "just a mite. "

The dog, receiving another bit, gave further signs of knowing the donor. No cynic was present to intimate that the animal would instantly knowany giver of bologna. 

"What's his name?" demanded Wilbur. 

The owner hesitated. He had very casually acquired the animal but a fewhours before; he now attached no value to him, and was minded to be ridof him, nor had the dog to his knowledge any name whatever. 

"His name is Frank, " he said, his imagination being slow to start. 

"Here, Frank! Here, Frank!" called Wilbur, and the dog leaped for morebologna. 

"See, he knows his name all right, " observed the owner, pridefully. 

"I bet you wouldn't sell him for anything, " suggested Wilbur. 

"Sell good old Frank?" The owner was painfully shocked. "No, I couldn'thardly do that, " he said more gently. "He's too valuable. My littlesister just worships him. "

The other guests were bored at this hint of commerce. They had no wishto see good money spent for a dog that no one could eat. 

"He don't look to me like so much of a dog, " remarked one of these. "Helooks silly to me. "

The owner stared at the speaker unpleasantly. 

"Oh, he does, does he? I guess that shows what you know about dogs. Ifyou knew so much about 'em like you say I guess you'd know this kindalways does look that way. It's--it's the way they look, " he floundered, briefly, but recovered. "That's how you can tell 'em, " he concluded. 

The Wilbur twin was further impressed, though he had not thought the doglooked silly at all. 

"I'll give you a quarter for him, " he declared bluntly. 

There was a sensation among the guests. Some of them made noises to showthat they would regard this as a waste of money. But the owner was firm. 

"Huh! I bet they ain't money enough in this whole crowd to buy that dog, even if I was goin' to sell him!"

The wishful Wilbur jingled coins in both pockets. 

"I guess he wouldn't be much of a fighting dog, " he said. 

"Fight!" exploded the owner. "You talk about fight! Say, that's all heis--just a fighter! He eats 'em alive, that's all he does--eats 'em!"This was for some of them not easy at once to believe, for the dog'sexpression was one of simpering amiability. The owner seemed to perceivethis discrepancy. "He looks peaceful, but you git him mad once, that'sall! He's that kind--you got to git him mad first. " This soundedreasonable, at least to the dog's warmest admirer. 

"Yes, sir, " continued the owner, "you'll be goin' along the street withGeorge here--"

"George who?" demanded a skeptical guest. 

For a moment the owner was disconcerted. 

"Well, Frank is his right name, only my little sister calls him Georgesometimes, and I get mixed. Anyway, you'll be goin' along the streetwith Frank and another dog'll come up and he's afraid of Frank and mebbehe'll just kind of clear his throat or something on account of feelingnervous and not meaning anything, but Frank'll think he's growling, andthat settles it. Eats 'em alive! I seen some horrible sights, I want totell you!"

"Give you thirty-five cents for him, " said the impressed Wilbur. 

"For that there dog?" exploded the owner--"thirty-five cents?" He let itbe seen that this jesting was in poor taste. 

"I guess he wouldn't be much of a watchdog. "

"Watchdog! Say, that mutt watches all the time, day and night! You let aburglar come sneaking in, or a tramp or someone--wow! Grabs 'em by thethroat, that's all!"

"Fifty cents!" cried the snared Cowan twin. Something told the ownerthis would be the last raise. 

"Let's see the money!"

He saw it, and the prodigy, Frank, sometimes called George by theowner's little sister, had a new master. The Wilbur twin tingled throughall his being when the end of the rope leash was placed in his hand. 

A tradesman now descried them from the rear door of his shop. He sawsmoke from the relighted pennygrabs and noted the mound of excelsior. 

"Hi, there!" he called, harshly. "Beat it outa there! What you want todo--set the whole town afire?"

Of course nothing of this sort had occurred to them, but only Merleanswered very politely, "No, sir!" The others merely moved off, holdingthe question silly. Wilbur Cowan stalked ahead with his purchase. 

"I hate just terrible to part with him, " said the dog's late owner. 

"Come on to Solly Gumble's, " said Wilbur, significantly. He must dosomething to heal this hurt. 

The mob followed gleefully. The Wilbur twin was hoping they would meetno other dog. He didn't want good old Frank to eat another dog right onthe street. 

Back in Solly Gumble's he bought lavishly for his eight guests. Theguests were ideal; none of them spoke of having to leave early, thoughthe day was drawing in. And none of the guests noted that the almostcontinuous stream of small coin flowing to the Gumble till came now butfrom one pocket of the host. Yet hardly a guest but could eat fromeither hand as he chose. It was a scene of Babylonian profligacy--eventhe late owner of Frank joined in the revel full-spiritedly, and itendured to a certain moment of icy realization, suffered by the host. Itcame when Solly Gumble, in the midst of much serving, bethought him ofthe blue jay. 

"I managed to save him for you, " he told the Wilbur twin, and reacheddown the treasure. With a cloth he dusted the feathers and tenderlywiped the eyes. "A first-class animal for fifty cents, " he said--"anddurable. He'll last a lifetime if you be careful of him--keep him in theparlour just to be pretty. "

The munching revellers gathered about with interest. There seemed nolimit to the daring of this prodigal. Then there came upon the Wilburtwin a moment of sinister calculation. A hand sank swiftly into a pocketand brought up a scant few nickels and pennies. Amid a thickeningsilence he counted these remaining coins. 

Then in deadly tones he declared to Solly Gumble, "I only gotforty-eight cents left!"

"Oh, my! I must say! Spent all his money!" shrilled the Merle twin on anote of triumph that was yet bitter. 

"Spent all his money!" echoed the shocked courtiers, and looked upon himcoldly. Some of them withdrew across the store and in low tonespretended to discuss the merits of articles in another show case. 

"I guess you couldn't let me have him for forty-eight cents, " said theWilbur twin hopelessly. 

Solly Gumble removed his skullcap, fluffed his scanty ring of curls, anddrew on the cap again. His manner was judicial but not repellent. 

"Mebbe I could--mebbe I couldn't, " he said. "You sure you ain't got twocents more in that other pocket, hey?"

The Wilbur twin searched, but it was the most arid of formalities. 

"No, sir; I spent it all. "

"Spent all his money!" remarked the dog seller with a kind of pityingcontempt, and drew off toward the door. Two more of the courtiersfollowed as unerringly as if trained in palaces. Solly Gumble bent abovethe counter. 

"Well, now, you young man, you listen to me. You been a right goodcustomer, treating all your little friends so grand, so I tell youstraight--you take that fine bird for forty-eight cents. Not to manywould I come down, but to you--yes. "

Wilbur Cowan, overcome, mumbled his thanks. He was alone at the counternow, Merle having joined the withdrawn courtiers. 

"I'm a fair trader, " said Solly Gumble. "I can take--I give. Here now!"And amazingly he extended to the penniless wreck a large and goldenorange, perhaps one of the largest oranges ever grown. 

The recipient was again overcome. He blushed as he thanked thisopen-handed tradesman. Then with his blue jay, his orange, his dog, heturned away. Now he first became aware of the changed attitude of hislate dependents. It did not distress him. It seemed wholly natural, thisicy withdrawal of their fellowship. Why should they push about him anylonger? He was, instead, rather concerned to defend his spendthriftcourses. 

"Spent all his money!" came a barbed jeer from the Merle twin. 

The ruined one stalked by him with dignity, having remembered a finespeech he had once heard his father make. 

"Oh, well, " he said, lightly, "easy come, easy go!"

The Merle twin still bore the album and the potent invigorator that wasto make a new man of Judge Penniman. His impoverished brother carriedthe blue jay, looking alert and lifelike in the open, the mammothorange, gift for Mrs. Penniman--he had nearly forgotten her--andtenderly he led the dog, Frank. Not to have all his money again wouldhe have parted with his treasures and the memory of supreme delights. Not for all his squandered fortune would he have bartered Frank, thedog. Frank capered at his side, ever and again looking up brightly athis new master. Never had so much attention been shown him. Never beforehad he been confined by a leash, as if he were a desirable dog. 

Opposite the Mansion House, Newbern's chief hotel, Frank gave signalproof of his intelligence. From across River Street he had been espiedby Boodles, the Mansion House dog, a creature of dusty, pinkish white, of short neck and wide jaws, of a clouded but still definite bullancestry. Boodles was a dog about town, wearing many scars of combat, aswashbuckler of a dog, rough-mannered, raffish; if not actuallyquarrelsome, at least highly sensitive where his honour was concerned. He made it a point to know every dog in town, and as he rose from asitting posture, where he had been taking the air before his inn, itcould be observed that Frank was new to him--certainly new and perhapsobjectionable. He stepped lightly halfway across the now empty streetand stopped for a further look. He seemed to be saying, "Maybe it ain'ta dog, after all. " But the closer look and a lifted nose wrinkling intothe breeze set him right. He left for a still closer look at what wasunquestionably a dog. 

The Wilbur twin became concerned for Boodles. He regarded him highly. But he knew that Boodles was a fighter, and Frank ate them up. Hecommanded Boodles to go back, but though he had slowed his pace and nowhalted a dozen feet from Frank, the cannibal, Boodles showed that he wasnot going back until he had some better reason. Violence of thecruellest sort seemed forward. But perhaps Frank might be won from hisloathly practice. 

"You, Frank, be quiet, sir!" ordered Wilbur, though Frank had not beenunquiet. "Be still, sir!" he added, and threatened his pet with an openpalm. But Frank had attention only for Boodles, who now approached, little recking his fate. The clash was at hand. 

"Be still, sir!" again commanded Wilbur in anguished tones, whereuponthe obedient Frank tumbled to lie upon his back, four limp legs in air, turning his head to simper up at Boodles, who stood inquiringly abovehim. Boodles then sniffed an amiable contempt and ran back to his hotel. Frank strained at his leash to follow. His proud owner thought therecould be few dogs in all the world so biddable as this. 

The twins went on. Merle was watching his chance to recover thatspiritual supremacy over the other that had been his until the accidentof wealth had wrenched it from him. 

"You'll catch it for keeping us out so late, " he warned--"and cursingand fighting and spending all your money!"

The other scarce heard him. He walked through shining clouds far abovean earth where one catches it. 

CHAPTER III

The Penniman house, white, with green blinds, is set back from themaple-and-elm-shaded street, guarded by a white picket fence. Betweenthe house and gate a green lawn was crossed by a gravelled walk, withborders of phlox; beyond the borders, on either side, were floweringshrubs, and at equal distances from the walk, circular beds of scarlettulips and yellow daffodils. Detached from the Penniman house, but stillin the same yard, was a smaller, one-storied house, also white, withgreen blinds, tenanted by Dave Cowan and his twins, who--in Newbernvernacular--mealed with Mrs. Penniman. It had been the Cowan home whenDave married the Penniman cousin who had borne the twins. There was apath worn in the grass between the two houses. 

On the Penniman front porch the judge was throned in a wicker chair. Hewas a nobly fronted old gentleman, with imposing head, bald at the topbut tastefully hung with pale, fluffy side curls. His face was wide andfull, smoothly shaven, his cheeks pink, his eyes a pure, pale blue. Hewas clad in a rumpled linen suit the trousers of which were drawn wellup his plump legs above white socks and low black shoes, broad and loosefitting. As the shadows had lengthened and the day cooled he abandoned apalm-leaf fan he had been languidly waving. His face at the momentglowed with animation, for he played over the deciding game in thatday's match at checkers by which, at the harness shop, he had vanquishedan acclaimed rival from over Higgston way. The fellow had been skilledbeyond the average, but supremacy was still with the Newbern champion. So absorbed was he, achieving again that last bit of strategy by whichhe had gained the place to capture two men and reach the enemy's kingrow, that his soft-stepping daughter, who had come from the house, hadto address him twice. 

"Have you had a good day, father?"

The judge was momentarily confused. He had to recall that hisinvalidism, not his checker prowess, was in question. He regained hispresence of mind; he coughed feebly, reaching a hand tenderly back to apoint between his shoulder blades. 

"Not one of my real bad days, Winona. I can't really say I've suffered. Stuff that other cushion in back of me, will you? I got a new pain kindof in this left shoulder--neuralgia, mebbe. But my sciatica ain'ttroubled me--not too much. "

Winona adjusted the cushion. 

"You're so patient, father!"

"I try to be, Winona, " which was simple truth. 

A sufferer for years, debarred by obscure ailments from activeparticipation in our industrial strife, the judge, often for days at atime, would not complain unless pressed to--quite as if he had forgottenhis pains. The best doctors disagreed about his case, none of them ableto say precisely what his maladies were. True, one city doctor, avisiting friend of the Pennimans' family physician, had once gonecarefully over him, punching, prodding, listening, to announce thatnothing ailed the invalid; which showed, as the judge had said to hisface, that he was nothing but an impudent young squirt. He had neverrevealed this parody of a diagnosis to his anxious family, who alwaysbelieved the city doctor had found something deadly that might at anytime carry off the patient sufferer. 

The judge was also bitter about Christian Science, and could easily beled to expose its falsity. He would wittily say it wasn't Christian andwasn't science; merely the chuckleheadedness of a lot of women. Thisbecause a local adept of the cult had told him, and--what wasworse--told Mrs. Penniman and Winona, that if he didn't quit thinkinghe was an invalid pretty soon he would really have something the matterwith him. 

And he had incurred another offensive diagnosis: Old Doc Purdy, themedical examiner, whose sworn testimony had years before procured thejudge his pension as a Civil War veteran, became brutal about it. SaidPurdy: "I had to think up some things that would get the old cuss hismoney and dummed if he didn't take it all serious and think he did have'em!"

The judge had been obliged to abandon all thoughts of a career. Yearsbefore he had been Newbern's justice of the peace, until a gang ofpolitical tricksters defeated the sovereign will of the people. Andperhaps he would again have accepted political honours, but none hadbeen offered him. Still, the family was prosperous. For in addition tothe pension, Mrs. Penniman kept a neat card in one of the front windowspromising "Plain and Fancy Dressmaking Done Here, " and Winona now taughtschool. 

Having adjusted the cushion, Winona paused before the cage of a parroton a stand at the end of the porch. The bird sidled over to her on stifflegs, cocked upon her a leering, yellow eye and said in wheedling tones, "Pretty girl, pretty girl!" But then it harshly screeched, "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!" This laughter was discordant, cynical, derisive, as if the birdrelished a tasteless jest. 

Winona went to the hammock and resumed an open book. Its title was"Matthew Arnold--How to Know Him. " She was getting up in Matthew Arnoldfor a paper. Winona at twenty was old before she should have been. Shewas small and dark, with a thin nose and pinched features. Her darkhair, wound close to her small head, was pretty enough, and her darkeyes were good, but she seemed to carry almost the years of her mother. She was an earnest girl, severe in thought, concerned about her culture, seeking to subdue a nature which she profoundly distrusted to an idealshe would have described as one of elegance and refinement. The dressshe wore was one of her best--for an exemplary young man would callthat evening, bringing his choice silver flute upon which he would playjustly if not brilliantly to Winona's piano accompaniment--but it wasdull of tint, one of her mother's plain, not fancy, creations. StillWinona felt it was daring, because the collar was low and sported afichu of lace. This troubled her, even as she renewed the earnest effortto know Matthew Arnold. She doubtfully fingered at her throat a tinychain that supported a tiny pendant. She slipped the thing under theneck of her waist. She feared that with her low neck--she thought of itas low--the bauble would be flashy. 

Mrs. Penniman came from the kitchen and sat on the porch steps. She wasmuch like Winona, except that certain professional touches of colour atwaist, neck, and wrists made her appear, in spirit at least, the youngerwoman. There were times when Winona suffered herself to doubt hermother's seriousness; times when the woman appeared a slave to levity. She would laugh at things Winona considered no laughing matters, and hersympathy with her ailing husband had come to be callous and matter offact, almost perfunctory. She longed, moreover, to do fancy dressmakingfor her child; and there was the matter of the silk stockings. TheChristmas before the too downright Dave Cowan, in a low spirit ofbanter, had gifted Winona with these. They were of tan silk, and Davehad challenged her to wear them for the good of her soul. 

Winona had been quite unpleasantly shocked at Dave's indelicacy, but hermother had been frivolous throughout the affair. Her mother said, too, that she would like to wear silk stockings at all times. But Winona--shespoke of the gift as hose--put the sinister things away at the bottom ofher third bureau drawer. Once, indeed, she had nearly nerved herself toa public appearance in them, knowing that perfectly good women often didthis. That had been the day she was to read her paper on Early GreekSculpture at the Entre Nous Club. She had put them on with her new tanpumps, but the effect had been too daring. She felt the ogling eyes. The stockings had gone back to the third bureau drawer--to thebottom--and never had her ankles flashed a silken challenge to a publicthat might misunderstand. 

Yet--and this it was that was making Winona old before her time--alwaysin her secret heart of hearts she did long abjectly to wear silkstockings--all manner of sinful silken trifles. Evil yearnings like thiswould sweep her. But she took them to be fruits of a natural depravitythat good women must fight. Thus far she had triumphed. 

Mrs. Penniman now wielded the palm-leaf fan. She eyed her husband withan almost hardened glance, then ran a professional eye over the lines ofWinona. Her head moved with quick little birdlike turnings. Her darkhair was less orderly than Winona's, and--from her kitchen work--twospots of colour burned high on her cheeks. 

"Your locket's slipped inside your waist, " she said, not dreaming thatWinona had in shame brought this about. 

Winona, who would have been shamed again to explain this, withdrew thebauble. The fond mother now observed the book above which her daughterbent, twisting her neck to follow the title. 

"Is it interesting?" she asked; and then: "The way to know a man--cookfor him. "

Her daughter winced, suffering a swift picture of her too-light mother, cooking for Mr. Arnold. 

"I should think you'd pick out a good novel to read, " went on hermother. "That last one I got from the library--it's about a beautifulwoman that counted the world well lost for love. "

Winona murmured indistinctly. 

"She didn't--she didn't stop at anything, " added the mother, brightly. 

"Oh, Mother!"

"I don't care! The Reverend Mallett himself said that novels should beread for an understanding of life--ever novels with a wholesome sexinterest. The very words he said!"

"Mother, Mother!" protested Winona with a quick glance at her father. 

She doubted if any sex interest could be wholesome; and surely, withboth sexes present, the less said about such things the better. To herrelief the perilous topic was abandoned. 

"I suppose you both heard the big news today. "

Mrs. Penniman spoke ingenuously, but it was downright lying--no less. She supposed they had not heard the big news. She was certain they hadnot. Winona was attentive. Her mother's business of plain and fancydressmaking did not a little to make the acoustics of Newbern superior. From her clients she gleaned the freshest chronicles of Newbern's sociallife, many being such as one might safely repeat; many more, Winonauncomfortably recalled, the sort no good woman would let go any further. She hoped the imminent disclosure would not be of the latter class, yetsuddenly she wished to hear it even if it were. She affected to turnwith reluctance from her budding acquaintanceship with Matthew Arnold. 

"It's the twins, " began her mother with a look of pleased horror. "Youcouldn't guess in all day what they've been up to. "

"You may be sure Wilbur was the one to blame, " put in Winona, quick todefend the one most responsive to her lessons in faith, morals, etiquette. 

"Ought to be soundly trounced, " declared the judge. "That's what Ialways say. "

"This is the worst yet, " continued Mrs. Penniman. 

She liked the suspense she had created. With an unerring gift for oralnarrative, she toyed with this. She must first tell how she got it. 

"You know that georgette waist Mrs. Ed Seaver is having?"

"Have they done something awful?" Winona demanded. "I perfectly wellknow it wasn't Merle's fault. "

"Well, Mrs. Seaver came in about four o'clock for her final fitting, and what do you think?"

"For mercy's sake!" pleaded Winona. 

"And Ed Seaver had been to the barber shop to have his hair cut--healways gets it cut the fifteenth of each month--well, he found out allabout it from Don Paley, that they'd had to send for to come to theWhipple New Place to cut it neatly off after the way it had been sawedoff rough, and she told me word for word. Well, it's unbelievable, andevery one saying something ought to be done about it--you just neverwould be able to guess!"

Winona snapped shut the volume so rich in promise and leaned forward toface her mother desperately. Mrs. Penniman here coughed in a refined andartificial manner as a final preliminary. The parrot instantly coughedin the same manner, and--seeming to like it--again became Mrs. Pennimanin a series of mild, throaty preliminary coughs, as if it wouldpresently begin to tell something almost too good. The real tale had tobe suspended again for this. 

"Well, " resumed Mrs. Penniman, feeling that the last value had beenextracted from mere suspense, "anyway, it seems that this morning poorlittle Patricia Whipple was going by the old graveyard, and the twinsjumped out and knocked her down and dragged her in there away from theroad and simply tore every stitch of clothes off her back and made herdress up in Wilbur's clothes----"

"There!" gasped the horrified Winona. "Didn't I say it would be Wilbur?"

"And then what did they do but cut off her braid with a knife!"

"Wilbur's knife--Merle hasn't any. "

"And the Lord knows what the little fiends would have done next, butJuliana Whipple happened to be passing, and heard the poor child'sscreams and took her away from them. "

"That dreadful, dreadful Wilbur!" cried Winona. 

"Reform school, " spoke the judge, as if he uttered it from the bench. 

"But something queer, " went on Mrs. Penniman. "Juliana took the twinshome in the pony cart, with Wilbur wearing Patricia's dress--it's aplaid gingham I made myself--and someone gave him a lot of money and lethim go, and they didn't give Merle any because Ed Seaver saw them onRiver Street, and Wilbur had it all. And what did Patricia Whipple sayto Don Paley but that she was going to have one of the twins for herbrother, because no one else would get her a brother, and so she must. But what would she want one of those little cutthroats for? That's whatpuzzles me. "

"Merle is not a cutthroat, " said Winona with tightening lips. "He neverwill be a cutthroat. " She left all manner of permissible suspicionsabout his brother. 

"Well, it just beat me!" confessed her mother. "Maybe they've beenreading Wild West stories. "

"Wilbur, perhaps, " insisted Winona. "Merle is already very choice in hisreading. "

"A puzzle, anyway--why, there they come!"

And the manner of their coming brought more bewilderment to the house ofPenniman. For the criminal Wilbur did not come shamed and slinking, butwith rather an uplift. Behind him gloomily trod the Merle twin. Even ata distance he was disapproving, accusatory, put upon. It was to be seenthat he washed his hands of the evil. 

"Whatever in the world--" began Mrs. Penniman, for Wilbur in the hollowof his arm bore a forked branch upon which seemed to perch in allconfidence a free bird of the wilds. 

"A stuffed bird!" said the peering Winona, and dispelled this illusion. 

The twins entered the gate. Midway up the gravelled walk Wilbur Cowanbegan a gurgling oration. 

"I bet nobody can guess what I brought! Yes, sir--a beautiful presentfor every one--that will make a new man of poor old Judge Penniman, andthis lovely orange--that's for Mrs. Penniman--and I bet Winona can'tguess what's wrapped up in this box for her--it's the most beautifulalbum, and this first-class animal for my father, and it'll last alifetime if he takes care of it good; and I got me a dog to watch thehouse. " Breathless he paused. 

"Spent all his money!" intoned Merle. "And he bought me this knife, too. "

He displayed it, but merely as a count in the indictment for criminalextravagance. He had gone to the hammock to sit by Winona. He neededher. He had been too long unconsidered. 

The sputtering gift-bringer bestowed the orange upon Mrs. Penniman, thealbum upon Winona, and the invigorator upon the now embarrassed judge. 

"Thank you, Wilbur, dear!" Mrs. Penniman was first to recover her poise. 

"Thanks ever so much, " echoed Winona, doubtfully. 

She must first know that he had come by this money righteously. Thejudge adjusted spectacles to read the label on his gift. 

"Thank you, my boy. The stuff may give me temporary relief. "

He had felt affronted that any one could suppose one bottle of anythingwould make a new man of him; and--inconsistently enough--affronted thatany one should suppose he needed to be made a new man of. He had notliked the phrase at all. 

"And now perhaps you will tell us----" began Winona, her lips againtightening. But the Wilbur twin could not yet be brought down to merehistory. 

"This is an awful fighting dog, " he was saying. "He's called Frank, andhe eats them up. Yes, sir, he nearly et up that old Boodles dog justnow. He would of if I hadn't stopped him. He minds awful well. "

"Spent all _our_ money!" declaimed Merle in a public-school voice, using"our" for the first time since his defeat of the morning. Certain ofWinona's support, it had again become their money. "And cursing, swearing, fighting, smoking!"

"Oh, Wilbur!" exclaimed the shocked Winona; yet there was dismay morethan rebuke in her tone, for she had brought the album to view. "Ifyou've been a bad boy perhaps I should not accept this lovely gift fromyou. Remember--we don't yet know how you obtained all this money. "

"Ho! I earned that money good! That old fat Mr. Whipple said I earned itgood. He said he wouldn't of done what I done----"

"Did, dear!"

"--wouldn't of did what I did for twice the money. "

"And what was it you did?"

Winona spoke gently, as a friend. But Wilbur rubbed one bare footagainst and over the other. He was not going to tell that shamefulthing, even to these people. 

"Oh, I didn't do much of anything, " he muttered. 

"But what was it?"

The judge interrupted. 

"It says half a wineglassful before meals. Daughter, will you bring methe wineglass?"

The Pennimans kept a wineglass. The judge found a corkscrew attached tothe bottle, and sipped his draft under the absorbed regard of the group. "It feels like it might give some temporary relief, " he admitted, savoring the last drops. 

"You go right down to the drug store and look at that picture; you'llsee then what it'll do for you, " urged the donor. 

"What else did the Whipples say to you?" wheedled Winona. 

The Wilbur twin again hung embarrassed. 

"Well--well, there's a cruel stepmother, but now she wasn't cruel to me. She said I was a nice boy, and gave me back my pants. "

"Gave you back--"

Winona enacted surprise. 

"I had to have my pants, didn't I? I couldn't go out without any, couldI? And she took me to a pantry and give me a big hunk of cake withraisins in it, and a big slice of apple pie, and a big glass of milk. "

"I must say! And she never gave me a thing!" Merle's bitterness grew. 

"And she kissed me twice, and--and said I was a nice boy. "

"You already said that, " reminded the injured brother. 

"And she didn't act cruel to me once, even if she is a stepmother. "

"But how did you come to be without your----"

Wilbur was again reprieved from her grilling. The Penniman cat, Mouser, a tawny, tigerish beast, had leaped to the porch. With set eyes andquivering tail it advanced crouchingly, one slow step at a time, noiseless, sinister. Only when poised for its final spring upon thehelpless prey was it seen that Mouser stalked the blue jay on its perch. Wilbur, with a cry of alarm, snatched the treasure from peril. Mouserleaped to the porch railing to lick her lips in an evil manner. 

"You will, will you?" Wilbur stormed at her. Yet he was pleased, too, for Mouser's attempt was testimony to the bird's merit. "She thought itwas real, " he said, proudly. 

"But how did you come to have your clothes----" began Winona sweetlyonce more, and again the twin was saved from shuffling answers. 

The dog, Frank, sniffing up timidly at Mouser on the porch rail, displeased her. From her perch she leaned down to curse him hissingly, with arched back and swollen tail, a potent forearm with drawn clawscurving forward in menace. 

"You will, will you?" demanded Wilbur again, freeing his legs from theleash in which the dismayed dog had entwined them. 

Frank now fell on his back with limp paws in air and simpered girlishlyup at his envenomed critic on the railing. 

"We got to keep that old cat out the way. He eats 'em up--that's all hedoes, eats 'em! It's a good thing I was here to make him mind me. "

"But how did you come to have your clothes----" resumed Winona. 

This time it was Dave Cowan who thwarted her with a blithe hail fromthe gate. Winona gave it up. Merle had been striving to tell her whatshe wished to know. Later she would let him. 

 * * * * *

Dave swaggered up the walk, a gay and gallant figure in his blue cutawaycoat, his waistcoat of most legible plaid, fit ground for the watchchain of heavy golden links. He wore a derby hat and a fuming calabashpipe, removing both for a courtly bow to the ladies. His yellow hair hadbeen plastered low on his brow, to be swept back each side of the partin a gracious curve; his thick yellow moustache curled jauntily upward, to show white teeth as he smiled. At first glance he was smartlyapparelled, but below the waist Dave always diminished rapidly inelegance. His trousers were of another pattern from the coat, not tooaccurate of fit, and could have been pressed to advantage, while theonce superb yellow shoes were tarnished and sadly worn. The man wasrichly and variously scented. There were the basic and permanent aromasof printer's ink and pipe tobacco; above these like a mist were the rareunguents lately applied by Don Paley, the barber, and a spicy odour ofstrong drink. As was not unusual on a Saturday night, Dave would havepassed some relaxing moments at the liquor saloon of Herman Vielhaber. 

"I hope I see you well, duchess!"

This was for Mrs. Penniman, and caused her to bridle as she fancied asaluted duchess might. It was the humour of Dave to suppose this lady apeeress of the old régime, one who had led far too gay a life and, comenow to a dishonoured old age, was yet cynical and unrepentant. Winonaalso he affected to believe an ornament of the old noblesse, a creatureof maddening beauty, but without heart, so that despairing suitors slewthemselves for her. His debased fancy would at times further have itthat Judge Penniman was Louis XVIII, though at this moment, observingthat the ladies were preoccupied with one of his sons, he paused by theinvalid and expertly from a corner of his mouth whispered the coarsewords, "Hello, Old Flapdoodle!" From some remnant of sex loyalty hewould not address the sufferer thus when his womenfolk could overhear, but the judge could never be sure of the jester's discretion. Besides, Dave was from day to day earnestly tutoring the parrot to say the basewords, and the judge knew that Polly, once master of them, would use nodiscretion whatever. He glared at Dave Cowan in hearty but silent rage. Dave turned from him to kneel at the feet of Winona. 

"'A book of verses underneath the bow--'" he began. 

Winona shuddered. She knew what was coming; dreadful, licentious stufffrom a so-called poet--far, far different from dear Tennyson, thoughtWinona--who sang the joys of profligacy. Winona turned from therecitationist. 

"What? Repulsed again? Ah, well, there's always the river! Duchess, bearwitness, 'twas her coldness drove me to the rash act--she with herbeauty that maddens all be-holders!"

Winona was shocked, yet not unpleasantly, at these monstrousimplications. She dreaded to have him begin--and yet she would have him. She tried to sign to him now that matters were to the fore too grave forclumsy fooling, but he only took the book from her hand to read itstitle. 

"'Matthew Arnold--How to Know Him, '" he read. "Ah, yes! Ah, yes! But ishe worth knowing?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Winona, wincing. 

"No respect for God or man, " mumbled the judge, meaning that a creaturecapable of calling him Old Flapdoodle could be expected to ask ifMatthew Arnold were worth knowing. 

The Wilbur twin here thrust the blue jay upon his father with cordialwords. Dave professed to be entranced with the gift. It appeared that hehad always longed for a stuffed blue jay. He curled a finger to it andcalled, "Tweet! Tweet!" a bit of comedy poignantly relished by the donorof the bird. 

His father now ceremoniously conducted Mrs. Penniman to what he spokeof as the banqueting hall. He made almost a minuet of their progress. Under one arm he carried his bird to place it on the table, where laterduring the meal he would convulse the Wilbur twin by affecting to feedit bits of bread. Winona still hungered for details of the day'stragedy, but Dave must talk of other things. He talked far too much, thejudge believed. He had just made the invalid uncomfortable by disclosingthat the Ajax Invigorator had an alcoholic content of at leastfifty-five per cent. He said that for this reason it would affordtemporary relief to almost any one. He added that it would be cheapstuff, and harmful, and that if a man wished to drink he ought to gostraight to Vielhaber's, where they kept an excellent line of AjaxInvigorators and sold them under their right names. The judge said"Stuff and nonsense" to this, but the ladies believed, for despite hislevity Dave Cowan knew things. He read books and saw the world. Only theWilbur twin still had faith in the invigorator. He had seen the picture. You couldn't get round that picture. 

Having made the judge uncomfortable, Dave rendered Winona so by a brieflecture upon organic evolution, with the blue jay as his text. He saidit had taken four hundred and fifty million years for man to progressthus far from the blue-jay stage--if you could call it progress, thesuperiority of man's brain to the jay's being still inconsiderable. 

Winona was uncomfortable, because she had never been able to persuadeherself that we had come up from the animals, and in any event it wasnot talk for the ears of innocent children. She was relieved when thespeaker strayed into the comparatively blameless field of astronomy, telling of suns so vast that our own sun became to them but a pin pointof light, and of other worlds out in space peopled with beings like Mrs. Penniman and Winona and the judge, though even here Winona felt that thelecturer was too daring. The Bible said nothing about these other worldsout in space. But then Dave had once, in the post office, argued againstreligion itself in the most daring manner, with none other than theReverend Mallett. 

It was not until the meal ended and they were again on the porch in thesummer dusk that Winona made any progress in her criminalinvestigations. There, while Dave Cowan played his guitar and sangsentimental ballads to Mrs. Penniman--these being among the supposedinfirmities of the profligate duchess--Winona drew the twins aside andmanaged to gain a blurred impression of the day's tremendous events. Shenever did have the thing clearly. The Merle twin was eager to tell toomuch, the other determined to tell too little. But the affair hadplainly been less nefarious than reported by Don Paley to Ed Seaver. Thetwins persisted in ignoring the social aspects of their adventure. Tothem it was a thing of pure finance. 

Winona had to give it up at last, for Lyman Teaford came with his flutein its black case. Dave Cowan finished "In the Gloaming, " brazenly, though it was not thought music by either Lyman or Winona, who wouldpresently dash into the "Poet and Peasant" overture. The twins begged tobe let to see Lyman assemble his flute, and Dave overlooked the processwith them. Lyman deftly joined the various sections of shining metal. 

"He looks like a plumber, " said Dave. The twins giggled, but Winonafrowned. 

"No respect for God or man, " mumbled the judge from his wicker chair. 

CHAPTER IV

In the Penniman home it was not merely Sunday morning; it was Sabbathmorning. Throughout the house a subdued bustling, decorous and solemn; ahushed, religious hurry of preparation for church. In the bathroom JudgePenniman shaved his marbled countenance with tender solicitude, fittinghimself to adorn a sanctuary. In other rooms Mrs. Penniman and Winonaarrayed themselves in choice raiment for behoof of the godly; in eachwere hurried steppings, as from closet to mirror; shrill whisperings ofsilken drapery as it fell into place. In the parlour the Merle twin satreading an instructive book. With unfailing rectitude he had been thefirst to don Sabbath garments, and now lacked merely his shoes, whichwere being burnished by his brother in the more informal atmosphere ofthe woodshed, to which the Sabbath strain of preparation did notpenetrate. 

It was the Wilbur twin's weekly task to do the shoes of himself andbrother and those of the judge. No one could have told precisely why thetask fell to him, and he had never thought to question. The thing simplywas. Probably Winona, asked to wrestle with the problem, would haveurged that Merle was always the first one dressed, and should not beexpected to submit his Sunday suit to the hazards of this toil. Shewould have added, perhaps, that anyway it was more suitable work forWilbur, the latter being of a rougher spiritual texture. Also, Merlecould be trusted to behave himself in the Penniman parlour, not touchingthe many bibelots there displayed, or disarranging the furniture, whilethe Wilbur twin would not only touch and disarrange, but pry into andhandle and climb and altogether demoralize. In all the parlour therewas but one object for which he had a seemly respect--the vast paintingof a recumbent lion behind bars. It was not an ordinary picture, such asmay be seen in galleries, for the bars guarding the fierce beast werereal bars set into the frame, a splendid conceit that the Wilbur twinnever tired of regarding. If you were alone in the sacred room you couldgo right up to the frame and feel the actual bars and put your handthrillingly through them to touch the painted king of the jungle. Butthe Merle twin could sit alone in the presence of this prized arttreasure and never think of touching it. He would sit quietly and readhis instructive book and not occasion the absent Winona any anxiety. Wherefore the Wilbur twin each Sabbath morning in the woodshed polishedthree pairs of shoes, and not uncheerfully. He would, in truth, muchrather be there at his task than compelled to sit in the parlour withhis brother present to tell if he put inquiring fingers into the lion'scage. 

He had finished the shoes of his brother and himself, not taking toomuch pains about the heels, and now laboured at the more considerablefootgear of the judge. The judge's shoes were not only broad, but of asurface abounding in hills and valleys. As Dave Cowan said, the judge'sfeet were lumpy. But the Wilbur twin was conscientious here, and thejudge's heels would be as resplendent as the undulating toes. The taskhad been appreciably delayed by Frank, the dog, who, with a quaintrelish for shoe blacking, had licked a superb polish from one shoe whilethe other was under treatment. His new owner did not rebuke him. Heconceived that Frank had intelligently wished to aid in the work, andapplauded him even while securing the shined shoes from his furtherassistance. 

But one pagan marred this chastened Sabbath harmony of preparation. Inthe little house Dave Cowan lolled lordly in a disordered bed, smokedhis calabash pipe beside a disordered breakfast tray, fetched him by theWilbur twin, and luxuriated in the merely Sunday--and notSabbath--edition of a city paper shrieking with black headlines andspectacular with coloured pictures; a pleasing record of crimes anddisasters and secrets of the boudoir, the festal diversions of theopulent, the minor secrets of astronomy, woman's attire, baseball, highart, and facial creams. As a high priest of the most liberal of allarts, Dave scanned the noisy pages with a cynical and professional eye, knowing that none of the stuff had acquired any dignity or power tocoerce human belief until mere typesetters like himself had crystallizedit. Not for Dave Cowan was the printed word of sacred authority. He hadset up too much copy. But he was pleased, nevertheless, thus to whileand doze away a beautiful Sabbath morning that other people made rathera trial of. 

Having finished the last of the judge's shoes, the Wilbur twin took themand the shoes of Merle to their owners, then hastened with his own tothe little house where he must dress in his own Sunday clothes, wash hishands with due care--they would be doubtingly inspected by Winona--andput soap on his hair to make it lie down. Merle's hair would liepolitely as combed, but his own hair owned no master but soap. Lackingthis, it stood out and up in wicked disorder--like the hair of a rowdy, Winona said. 

The rebellious stuff was at last plastered deceitfully to his skull asif a mere brush had smoothed it, and with a final survey, to assurehimself that he had forgotten none of those niceties of the toilet thatWinona would insist upon, he took his new straw hat and went again tothe Penniman house. For the moment he was in flawless order, as neat, ascompactly and accurately accoutred as the Merle twin, to whom thiseffect came without effort. But it would be so only for a few fleetingmoments. He mournfully knew this, and so did Winona. Within five blocksfrom home and still five blocks from the edifice of worship, while Merleappeared as one born to Sunday clothes and shined shoes and a new hat, the Wilbur twin would be one to whom Sabbath finery was exotic andunwelcome. The flawless lustre of his shoes would be dulled, even thoughhe walked sedately the safe sidewalk; his broad collar and bluepolka-dotted cravat would be awry, one stocking would be down, hisjacket yawning, all his magnificence seeming unconquerably alien. Winonadid him the justice to recognize that this disarray was due to nowilfulness of its victim. He was helpless against a malign current ofhis being. 

He held himself stiff in the parlour until the Pennimans came rustlingdown the stairway. He could exult in a long look at the benignant lionback of real bars, but, of course, he could not now reach up to touchthe bars. It would do something to his clothes, even if the watchful andupright Merle had not been there to report a transgression of the rules. Merle also stood waiting, his hat nicely in one hand. 

The judge descended the stairs, monumental in black frock coat, graytrousers, and the lately polished shoes that were like shining reliefmaps of a hill country. He carried a lustrous silk hat, which he nowpaused to make more lustrous, his fingers clutching a sleeve of his coatand pulling it down to make a brush. The hat was the only item of thejudge's regal attire of which the Wilbur twin was honestly envious--itwas so beautiful, so splendid, so remote. He had never even dared totouch it. He could have been left alone in the room with it, and stillwould have surveyed it in all respect from a proper distance. 

Mrs. Penniman came next, rustling in black silk and under a flowered hatthat Winona secretly felt to be quite too girlish. Then Winona from thedoor of her room above called to the twins, and they ascended thestairway for a last rite before the start for church, the bestowal ofperfume upon each. Winona stood in the door of her room, as each Sundayshe stood at this crisis, the cut-glass perfume bottle in hand. Thetwins solemnly approached her, and upon the white handkerchief of eachshe briefly inverted the bottle. The scent enveloped them delectably asthe handkerchiefs were replaced in the upper left pockets, foldedcorners protruding correctly. As Wilbur turned away Winona swiftlymoistened a finger tip in the precious stuff and drew it across thepale brow of Merle. It was a furtive tribute to his inherent socialsuperiority. 

Winona, in her own silk--not black, but hardly less severe--and in a hatless girlish than her mother's, rustled down the stairs after them. Speech was brief and low-toned among the elders, as befitted the highmoment. The twins were solemnly silent. Amid the funereal gloom, brokenonly by a hushed word or two from Winona or her mother, the judgecompleted his fond stroking of the luminous hat, raised it slowly, andwith both hands adjusted it to his pale curls. Then he took up hisgold-headed ebony cane and stepped from the dusk of the parlour into thelight of day, walking uprightly in the pride of fine raiment andconscious dignity. Mrs. Penniman walked at his side, not unconsciousherself of the impressive mien of her consort. 

Followed Winona and Merle, the latter bearing her hymn book and at somepains keeping step with his companion. Behind them trailed the Wilburtwin, resolving, as was his weekly rule, to keep himself neat throughchurch and Sunday-school--yet knowing in his heart it could not be done. Already he could feel his hair stiffening as the coating of soap driedupon it. Pretty soon the shining surface would crack and disorder ensue. What was the use? As he walked carefully now he inhaled rich scent fromthe group--Winona's perfume combining but somehow not blending with apungent, almost vivid, aroma of moth balls from the judge's frock coat. 

They met or passed other family groups, stiffly armoured for the weeklypenance to a bewildering puzzle of mortality. Ceremonious greetings wereexchanged with these. The day was bright and the world all fair, butthere could be no levity, no social small talk, while this grim businesswas on. They reached the white house of worship, impressive under itsheaven-pointing steeple, and passed within its portals, stepping softlyto the accompaniment of those silken whisperings, with now and again thehigh squeak of new boots whose wearers, profaning the stillness, wouldappear self-conscious and annoyed, though as if silently protestingthat they were blameless. 

Thus began an hour of acute mental distress for the Wilbur twin. He sattightly between Mrs. Penniman and the judge. There was no free movementpossible. He couldn't even juggle one foot backward and forward withoutcorrection. The nervous energy thus suppressed rushed to all the surfaceof his body and made his skin tingle maddeningly. He felt each hair onhis head as it broke away from the confining soap. Something was insidehis collar, and he couldn't reach for it; there was a poignant itchingbetween his shoulder blades, and this could receive no proper treatment. He boiled with dumb, helpless rage, having to fight this wicked unrest. He never doubted its wickedness, and considered himself forever shut outfrom those rewards that would fall to the righteous who loved church andcould sit still there without jiggling or writhing or twisting orscratching. 

He was a little diverted from his tortures by the arrival of theWhipples. From the Penniman pew he could glance across to a side pew andobserve a line of repeated Whipple noses, upon which for some moments hewas enabled to speculate forgetfully. Once--years ago, it seemed tohim--he had heard talk of the Whipple nose. This one had the Whipplenose, or that one did not have the Whipple nose; and it had then beenhis understanding that the Whipple family possessed but one nose incommon; sometimes one Whipple had it; then another Whipple would haveit. At the time this had seemed curious, but in no way anomalous. He hadreadily pictured a Whipple nose being worn now by one and now by anotherof this family. He had visualized it as something that could be handedabout. Later had come the disappointing realization that each Whipplehad a complete nose at all times for his very own; that the phrase bywhich he had been misled denoted merely the possession of a certainbuild of nose by Whipples. 

But even this simple phenomenon offered some distraction from hispresent miseries. He could glance along the line of Whipple noses andobserve that they were, indeed, of a markedly similar pattern. It was, as one might say, a standardized nose, raised by careful selectionthrough past generations of Whipples to the highest point of efficiency;for ages yet to come the demands of environment, howsoever capricious, would probably dictate no change in its structural details. It sufficed. It was, moreover, a nose of good lines, according to conventionalcanons. It was shapely, and from its high bridge jutted forward withrather a noble sweep of line to the thin, curved nostrils. The highbridge was perhaps the detail that distinguished it from most goodnoses. It seemed to begin to be a nose almost from the base of the brow. In a world of all Whipple noses this family would have been remarked forits beauty. In one of less than Whipple noses--with other less claimantdesigns widely popularized--it might be said that the Whipple face wouldbe noted rather for distinction than beauty. 

In oblique profile the Wilbur twin could glance across the fronts inturn of Harvey D. Whipple, of Gideon Whipple, his father; of SharonWhipple, his uncle; and of Juliana Whipple, sole offspring of Sharon. The noses were alike. One had but to look at Miss Juliana to know thatin simple justice this should have been otherwise. She might have kept aWhipple nose--Whipple in all essentials--without too pressing aninsistence upon bulk. But it had not been so. Her nose was as utterlyWhipple as any. They might have been interchanged without detection. 

The Wilbur twin stared and speculated upon and mildly enjoyed thisdisplay, until a species of hypnotism overtook him, a mercifullydeadening inertia that made him slumberous and almost happy. He couldkeep still at last, and be free from the correcting hand of Mrs. Penniman or the warning prod of the judge's elbow. He dozed in a smotherof applied godliness. He was delighted presently to note with anawakening start that the sermon was well under way. He heard no word ofthis. He knew only that a frowning old gentleman stood in a high placeand scolded about something. The Wilbur twin had no notion what hisgrievance might be; was sensible only of his heated aspect, his activityin gesture, and the rhythm of his phrases. 

This influence again benumbed him to forgetfulness, so that during thefinal prayer he was dramatizing a scene in which three large and savagedogs leaped upon Frank and Frank destroyed them--ate them up. And whenhe stood at last for the doxology one of his feet had veritably gone tosleep, the one that had been cramped back under the seat, so that hestumbled and drew unwelcome attention to himself while the foot tingledto wakefulness. 

The ever-tractable Merle had been attentive to the sermon, had sungbeautifully, and was still immaculate of garb, while the Wilbur twinemerged from the ordeal in rank disorder, seeming to have survived ascuffle in which efforts had been made to wrench away his Sunday clothesand to choke him with his collar and cravat. And the coating of soap hadplayed his hair false. It stood out behind and stood up in front, notwith any system, but merely here and there. 

"You are a perfect sight, " muttered Winona to him. "I don't see how youdo it. " But neither did the offender. 

With a graciously relaxed tension the freed congregation made aleisurely progress to the doors of the church; many lingered here ingroups for greetings and light exchanges. It was here that the Pennimangroup coalesced with the Whipple group, a circumstance that the trailingWilbur noted with alarm. The families did not commonly affiliate, andthe circumstance boded ominously. It could surely not be withoutpurpose. The Wilbur twin's alarm was that the Whipple family hadregretted its prodigality of the day before and was about to demand itsmoney back. He lurked in the shadowy doorway. 

The Whipples were surrounding Merle with every sign of interest. Theyshook hands with him. They seemed to appraise him as if he weresomething choice on exhibition at a fair. Harvey D. Was showing the mostinterest, bending above the exhibit in apparently light converse. Butthe Wilbur twin knew all about Harvey D. He was the banker and wore abeard. He was to be seen on week days as one passed the First NationalBank, looking out through slender bars--exactly as the Penniman liondid--upon a world that wanted money, but couldn't have it without somegood reason. He had not been present when the Whipple money was sothoughtlessly loosened, and he would be just the man to make a fussabout it now. He would want to take it back and put it behind those barsin the bank where no one could get it. But he couldn't ever have itback, because it was spent. Still, he might do something with thespender. 

The Wilbur twin slunk farther into friendly shadows, and not until thegroups separated and the four Whipples were in their waiting carriagedid he venture into the revealing sunlight. But no one paid him anyattention. The judge and Mrs. Penniman walked up the shaded street, forthe Sunday dinner must be prepared. Winona and the Merle twin, bothflushed from the recent social episode, turned back to the church tomeet and ignore him. 

"Fortune knocks once at every one's door, " Winona was mysteriouslysaying. 

The Wilbur twin knew this well enough. The day before it had knocked athis door and found him in. 

There was still Sunday-school to be endured, but he did not regard thisas altogether odious. It was not so smothering. The atmosphere was lessstrained. One's personality could come a bit to the front withoutincurring penalties, and one met one's own kind on a socialplane--subject to discipline, it was true, but still mildly enjoyable. It was his custom to linger here until the classes gathered, but to-daythe Whipple pony cart was driven up by the Whipple stepmother and thegirl with her hair cut off. Apparently no one made these two go tochurch, but they had come to Sunday-school. And the Wilbur twin fledwithin at sight of them. The pony cart, vehicle in which he had beenmade a public mock, was now a sickening sight to him. 

Sunday-school was even less of a trial to him than usual. The twinswere in the class of Winona, and Winona taught her class to-day withunwonted unction; but the Wilbur twin was pestered with few questionsabout the lesson. She rather singled Merle out and made him aninstructive example to the rest of the class, asking Wilbur but twice, and then in sheerly perfunctory routine: "And what great lesson shouldwe learn from this?"

Neither time did he know what great lesson we should learn from this, and stammered his ignorance pitiably, but Winona, in the throes of somemysterious prepossession, forgot to reprove him, and merely allowed themore gifted Merle to purvey the desired information. So the Wilbur twinwas practically free to wriggle on his hard chair, to exchange noiselessgreetings with acquaintances in other classes, and to watch LymanTeaford, the superintendent, draw a pleasing cartoon of the lesson withcoloured chalk on a black-board, consisting chiefly of a rising yellowsun with red rays, which was the sun of divine forgiveness Once theWilbur twin caught the eye of the Whipple girl--whose bonnet hid hercropped hair--and she surprisingly winked at him. He did not wink back. Even to his liberal mind, it did not seem right to wink in aSunday-school. 

When at last they all sang "Bringing in the Sheaves, " and were ablydismissed by Lyman Teaford, who could be as solemn here as he was gay ina parlour with his flute, Winona took the Merle twin across the room togreet the Whipple stepmother and the Whipple girl. Wilbur regarded thescene from afar. Winona seemed to be showing off the Merle twin, causinghim to display all his perfect manners, including a bow lately acquired. 

The Wilbur twin felt no slight in this. He was glad enough to be leftout of Winona's manoeuvres, for he saw that they were manoeuvres andthat Winona was acting from some large purpose. Unless it wanted itsmoney back, the Whipple family had no meaning for him; it was merelypeople with the Whipple nose, though, of course, the stepmother did nothave this. He paused only to wonder if the girl would have it when shegrew up--she now boasted but the rudiments of any nose whatsoever--anddismissed the tribe from his mind. 

He waited for Winona and Merle a block up the street from the church. Winona was silent with importance, preoccupied, grave, and yet uplifted. Not until they reached the Penniman gate did she issue from thisabstraction to ask the Wilbur twin rather severely what lesson he hadlearned from the morning sermon. The Wilbur twin, with immensedifficulty, brought her to believe that he had not heard a word of thesermon. This was especially incredible, because it had dealt with theparable of the prodigal son who spent all his substance in riotousliving. One would have thought, said Winona, that this lesson would havecome home to one who had so lately followed the same bad course, and shesought now to enlighten the offender. 

"And he had to eat with the pigs when his money was all gone, " Merlesubmitted in an effort to aid Winona. 

But the Wilbur twin's perverse mind merely ran to the picture of fattedcalf, though without relish--he did not like fat meat. 

It was good to be back in a human atmosphere once more, where he couldhear his father's quips. The Penniman Sunday dinner was based notably onchicken, as were all other Sunday dinners in Newbern, and his father, when he entered the house, was already beginning the gayety by pledgingMrs. Penniman in a wineglass of the Ajax Invigorator. He called it rubyliquor and said that, taken in moderation, it would harm no one, thoughhe estimated that as few as three glasses would cause people to climbtrees like a monkey. 

The Wilbur twin was puzzled by this and would have preferred that hispresent be devoted solely to making a new man of Judge Penniman, but helaughed loyally with his father, and rejoiced when Mrs. Penniman, in thecharacter of the abandoned duchess, put her own lips to the glass at hisfather's urging. The judge did not enter into this spirit of foolery, resenting, indeed, that a sound medicinal compound should be thusimpugned. And Winona was even more severe. Not for her to-day were jestsabout Madame la Marquise and her heart of adamant. Dave Cowan tried afew of these without result. 

Winona was still silent with importance, or spoke cryptically, and shelavished upon the Merle twin such attention as she could give from herown mysterious calculations. One might have gathered that she wasbeholding the Merle twin in some high new light. The Wilbur twin atesilently and as unobtrusively as he could, for table manners wereespecially watched by Winona on Sunday. Not until the blackberry pie didhe break into speech, and even then, it appeared, not with the utmostfelicity. His information that these here blackberries had been pickedoff the grave of some old Jonas Whipple up in the burying ground causedhim to be regarded coldly by more than one of those about the table; andWinona wished to be told how many times she had asked him not to say"these here. " Of course he couldn't tell her. 

Dinner over, it appeared that Winona would take Merle with her to callupon poor old Mrs. Dodwell, who had been bedridden for twenty years, butwas so patient with it all. She loved to have Merle sit by her bedsideof a Sunday and tell of the morning's sermon. They would also take her acustard. The Wilbur twin was not invited upon this excursion, but hisfather winked at him when it was mentioned and he was happy. He could inno manner have edified the afflicted Mrs. Dodwell, and the wink meantthat he would go with his father for a walk over the hills--perhaps tothe gypsy camp. So he winked back at his father, being no longer inSunday-school, and was impatient to be off. 

In the little house he watched from a window until Winona and Merle hadgone on their errand of mercy--Merle carrying nicely the bowl of custardswathed in a napkin--and thereupon heartily divested himself of shoesand stockings. Winona, for some reason she could never make apparent tohim, believed that boys could not decently go barefoot on the Lord'sDay. He did not wish to affront her, but neither would he wear shoesand stockings with no one to make him. His bare feet rejoiced at thecool touch of the grass as he waited in the front yard for his father. He would have liked to change his Sunday clothes for the old ones of abetter feel, but this even he felt would be going too far. You had todraw the line somewhere. 

His father came out, lighting his calabash pipe. He wore a tweed cap nowin place of the formal derby, but he was otherwise attired as on theprevious evening, in the blue coal and vivid waistcoat, the inferiortrousers, and the undesirable shoes. As they went down the street undershading elms the dog, Frank, capered at the end of his taut leash. 

They went up Fair Street to reach the wooded hills beyond the town. Thestreet was still and vacant. The neat white houses with green blinds setback in their flowered yards would be at this hour sheltering people whohad eaten heavily of chicken for dinner and now dozed away its benigneffects. Even song birds had stilled their pipings, and made but briefflights through the sultry air. 

Dave Cowan sauntered through the silence in a glow of genial tolerancefor the small town, for Dave knew cities. In Newbern he was but a merrytransient; indeed, in all those strange cities he went off to he was buta transient. So frequent his flittings, none could claim him for itsown. He had the air of being in the world itself, but a transient, acheerful and observant explorer finding entertainment in the manners andcustoms of a curious tribe, its foibles, conceits, and quaint standardsof value--since the most of them curiously adhered to one spot eventhough the round earth invited them to wander. 

Sometimes Dave lingered in Newbern--to the benefit of the _WeeklyAdvance_--for as long as three months. Sometimes he declared he wouldstay but a day and stayed long; sometimes he declared he would stay along time and stayed but a day. He was a creature happily pliant to therule of all his whims. He never bothered to know why he dropped intoNewbern, nor bothered to know why he left. On some morning like othermornings, without plan, he would know he was going and go, stirred bysome vagrant longing for a strange city--and it was so easy to go. Hewas unencumbered with belongings. He had no troublesome packing to do, and took not even the smallest of bags in his farings forth. Unlike thetwins, Dave had no Sunday clothes. What clothes he had he wore, verysensibly, it seemed to him. He had but to go on and on, equipped withhis union card and his printer's steel rule, the sole machinery of histrade, and where he would linger he was welcome, for as long as he choseand at a wage ample for his few needs, to embalm the doings of a queerworld in type. Little wonder he should always obey the wander-bidding. 

They passed a place where the head of the clan, having dined, had beenovertaken with lethargy and in a hammock on his porch was asleep in apublic and noisy manner. 

"Small-town stuff!" murmured Dave, amiably contemptuous. 

The Wilbur twin could never understand why his father called Newbern asmall town. They came to the end of Fair Street, where the white housesdwindled into open country. The road led away from the river and climbedthe gentle slope of West Hill. The Wilbur twin had climbed that slopethe day before under auspices that he now recalled with disgust. Beyond, at the top of the hill, its chimneys lifted above the trees and its redwalls showing warmly through the cool green of its shading foliage, wasthe Whipple New Place. To the left, across the western end of the littletown and capping another hill, was the Whipple Old Place, where dweltSharon Whipple and his daughter, Juliana. The walls of the Whipple OldPlace were more weathered, of a duller red. The two places looked downupon the town quite as castles of old looked down upon theirfeudatories. 

"I was right inside that house yesterday, " said the Wilbur twin, pointing to the Whipple New Place and boasting a little--he would nothave to reveal the dreadful details of his entry. "Right inside of it, "he added to make sure that his father would get all his importance. Butthe father seemed not enough impressed. 

"You'll probably go into better houses than that some day, " he merelysaid, and added: "You learn a good trade like mine and you can always goanywhere; always make your good money and be more independent thanWhipples or even kings in their palaces. Remember that, Sputterboy. "

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. 

His father never addressed the Merle twin by any but his rightful name, nor did he ever address the other by the one the dead mother had affixedto him, miscalling him by a number of titles, among which wereSputterboy, Gig, Doctor, and Bill. 

Before ascending quite to the Whipple New Place they left the dusty roadfor a path that led over a lawnlike stretch of upland, starred withbuttercups and tiny anemones, and inhabited by a colony of gophers thatinstantly engaged Frank, the dog, now free of his leash, in futiledashes. They stood erect, with languidly drooped paws, until he was toonear; then they were inexplicably not there. Frank at length divinedthat they unfairly achieved these disappearances by descending intocaverns beneath the surface of the earth. At first, with frantic clawsand eager squeals, he tore at the entrances to these until the preyappeared at exits farther on, only to repeat the disappearance whendashed at. Frank presently saw the chase to be hopeless. It was no gooddigging for something that wouldn't be there. 

"There's life for you, Doctor, " said Dave Cowan. "Life has to live onlife, humans same as dogs. Life is something that keeps tearing itselfdown and building itself up again; everybody killing something else andeating it. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur, believing he did. Dogs killed gophers if theycaught them, and human beings killed chickens for Sunday dinners. 

"Humans are the best killers of all, " said Dave. "That's the reasonthey came up from monkeys, and got civilized so they wear neckties andhave religion and post offices and all such. "

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. 

They climbed to a green height and reclined on the cool sward in theshade of a beech tree. Here they could pick out the winding of the quicklittle river between its green banks far below, and look across theroofs of slumbrous Newbern. The Wilbur twin could almost pick out thePenniman house. Then he looked up, and low in the sky he surprisinglybeheld the moon, an orb of pale bronze dulled from its night shine. Never before had he seen the moon by day. He had supposed it was in thesky only at night. So his father lectured now on astronomy and thecosmos. It seemed that the moon was always there, or about there, alonesome old thing, because there was no life on it. Dave spokelearnedly, for his Sunday paper had devoted a page to something of thissort. 

"Everything is electricity or something, " said Dave, "and it cracklesand works on itself until it makes star dust, and it shakes thistogether till it makes lumps, and they float round, and pretty soonthey're big lumps like the moon and like this little ball of star dustwe're riding on--and there are millions of them out there all round andabout, some a million times bigger than this little one, and they allwhirl and whirl, the little ones whirling round the big ones and the bigones whirling round still bigger ones, dancing and swinging and goingoff to some place that no one knows anything about; and some are old andhave lost their people; and some are too young to have any people yet;but millions like this one have people, and on some they are a millionyears older than we are, and know everything that it'll take us amillion years to find out; but even they haven't begun to really knowanything--compared with what they don't know. They'll have to go onforever finding out things about what it all means. Do you understandthat, Bill?"

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. 

"Do you understand how people like us get on these whirling lumps?"

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. 

"How do they?"

"No, sir, " said Wilbur. 

"Well, it's simple enough. This star dust shakes together, and prettysoon some of it gets to be one chemical and some of it gets to beanother, like water and salt and lime and phosphorus and stuff likethat, and it gets together in little combinations and it makes littleanimals, so little you couldn't see them, and they get together and makebigger animals, and pretty soon they have brains and stomachs--and thereyou are. This electricity or something that shook the star dust togetherand made the chemicals, and shook the chemicals together and made theanimals--well, it's fierce stuff. It wants to find out all about itself. It keeps making animals with bigger brains all the time, so it canexamine itself and write books about itself--but the animals have to begood killers, or something else kills them. This electricity that makes'em don't care which kills which. It knows the best killer will have thebest brain in the long run; that's all it cares about. It's a goodsporty scheme, all right. Do you understand that, Doctor?"

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. 

"Everything's got a fair chance to kill; this power shows no favours toanything. If gophers could kill dogs it would rather have gophers; whenmicrobes kill us it will rather have microbes than people. It just wantsa winner and don't care a snap which it is. "

"Yes, sir. "

"Of course, now, you hear human people swell and brag and strut roundabout how they are different from the animals and have something theycall a soul that the animals haven't got, but that's just the naturalconceit of this electricity or something before it has found out muchabout itself. Not different from the animals, you ain't. This tree I'mleaning against is your second or third cousin. Only difference, youcan walk and talk and see. Understand?"

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. "Couldn't we go up to the gypsy camp now?"

Dave refilled the calabash pipe, lighted it, and held the match while itburned out. 

"That fire came from the sun, " he said. "We're only burning matchesourselves--burning with a little fire from the sun. Pretty soon itflickers out. "

"It's just over this next hill, and they got circus wagons and a firewhere they cook their dinners, right outdoors, and fighting roosters, and tell your fortune. "

Dave rose. 

"Of course I don't say I know it all yet. There's a catch in it Ihaven't figured out. But I'm right as far as I've gone. You can't gowrong if you take the facts and stay by 'em and don't read books thatleave the facts to one side, like most books do. "

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur, "and they sleep inside their wagons and I wishwe had a wagon like that and drove round the country and lived in it. "

"All right, " said his father. "Stir your stumps. "

They followed the path that led up over another little hill windingthrough clumps of hazel brush and a sparse growth of oak and beech. Fromthe summit of this they could see the gypsy camp below them, in an openglade by the roadside. It was as the Wilbur twin had said: there weregayly-painted wagons--houses on wheels--and a campfire and tetheredhorses and the lolling gypsies themselves. About the outskirts loafed adozen or so of the less socially eligible of Newbern. Above a fire atthe camp centre a kettle simmered on its pothook, being stirred at thismoment by a brown and aged crone in frivolous-patterned calico, who woregold hoops in her ears and bangles at her neck and bracelets of silveron her arms--bejewelled, indeed, most unbecomingly for a person of heryears. 

The Wilbur twin would have lingered on the edge of the glade with otherlocal visitors, a mere silent observer of this delightful life; he hadnot dreamed of being accepted as a social equal by such exalted beings. But his father stalked boldly through the outer ring of spectators tothe camp's centre and genially hailed the aged woman, who, on firstlooking up from her cookery, held out a withered palm for the silverthat should buy him secrets of his future. 

But Dave Cowan merely preened his beautiful yellow moustache at her andsaid, "How's business, Mother?" Whereupon she saw that Dave was not avillager to be wheedled by her patter. She recognized him, indeed, asbelonging like herself to the freemasonry of them that know men andcities, and she spoke to him as one human to another. 

"Business been pretty rotten here, " she said as she stirred the kettle'scontents. "Oh, we made two-three pretty good horse trades--nothing much. We go on to a bigger town to-morrow. "

A male gypsy in corduroy trousers and scarlet sash and calico shirt openon his brown throat came to the fire now, and the Wilbur twin admiringlynoted that his father greeted this rare being, too, as an equal. Thegypsy held beneath an arm a trim young gamecock feathered in rich brownsand reds, with a hint of black, and armed with needle-pointed spurs. Hestroked the neck of the bird and sat on his haunches with Dave beforethe fire to discuss affairs of the road; for he, too, divined at aglance that Dave was here but a gypsy transient, even though he spoke adifferent lingo. 

The Wilbur twin sat also on his haunches before the fire, and thrilledwith pride as his father spoke easily of distant strange cities that thegypsies also knew; cities of the North where summer found them, andcities of the South to which they fared in winter. He had always beenproud of his father, but never so proud as now, when he sat theretalking to real gypsies as if they were no greater than any one. He wasquite ashamed when the gypsies' dog, a gaunt, hungry-looking beast, narrowly escaped being eaten up by his own dog. But Frank, at the sheerverge of a deplorable offense, implicitly obeyed his master's commandand forbore to destroy the gypsy mongrel. Again he flopped to his backat the interested approach of the other dog, held four limp paws aloft, and simpered at the stranger. 

Other gypsies, male and female, came to the group about the fire, andlively chatter ensued, a continuous flashing of white teeth and shakingof golden ear hoops and rattling of silver bracelets. The Wilbur twinfondly noted that his father knew every city the gypsies knew, and eventold them the advantages of some to which they had not penetrated. Hegathered this much of the talk, though much was beyond him. He keptclose to his father's side when the latter took his leave of these newfriends. He wanted these people to realize that he belonged to theimportant strange gentleman who had for a moment come so knowingly amongthem. 

As they climbed out of the sheltering glade he was alive with a newdesign. Gypsies notoriously carried off desirable children; this wascommon knowledge in Newbern Center. So why wouldn't they carry off him, especially if he were right round there where they could find himeasily? He saw himself and his dog forcibly conveyed away with thecaravan--though he would not really resist--to a strange and charminglife beyond the very farthest hills. He did not confide this to hisfather, but he looked back often. They followed a path and were soon ona bare ridge above the camp. 

Dave Cowan was already talking of other things, seeming not to have beenever so little impressed with his reception by these wondrous people, but he had won a new measure of his son's respect. Wilbur would havelingered here where they could still observe through the lower trees thegroup about the campfire, but Dave Cowan seemed to have had enough ofgypsies for the moment, and sauntered on up the ridge, across an alderswale and out on a parklike space to rest against a fence that bounded apasture belonging to the Whipple New Place. Across this pasture, inwhich the fat sorrel pony grazed and from which it regarded them fromtime to time, there was another grove of beech and walnut and hickory, and beyond this dimly loomed the red bulk of the Whipple house andoutbuildings. There was a stile through the fence at the point wherethey reached it, and Dave Cowan idly lolled by this while the Wilburtwin sprawled in the scented grass at his feet. He well knew he shouldnot be on the ground in his Sunday clothes. On the other hand, if thegypsies stole him they would not be so fussy as Winona about hisclothes. None of them seemed to have Sunday clothes. 

He again broached the suggestion about a gypsy wagon for himself and hisfather--and Frank, the dog--in which they could go far away, seeing allthose strange cities and cooking their dinner over campfires. His fatherseemed to consider this not wholly impracticable, but there were certaindisadvantages of the life, and there were really better ways. It seemsyou could be a gypsy in all essentials, and still live in houses likeless adventurous people. 

"Trouble with them, they got no trade, " said the wise Dave, "and out inall kinds of weather, and small-town constables telling them to move on, and all such. You learn a good loose trade, then you can go where youwant to. " A loose trade seemed to be one that you could work at anyplace; they always wanted you if you knew a loose trade like theprinter's--or, "Now you take barbering, " said Dave. "There's a goodloose trade. A barber never has to look for work; he can go into any newtown and always find his job. I don't know but what I'd just as soon bea barber as a printer. Some ways I might like it better. You don't haveas much time to yourself, of course, but you meet a lot of men youwouldn't meet otherwise; most of 'em fools to be sure, but some of 'emwise that you can get new thoughts from. It's a cleaner trade thantypesetting and fussing round a small-town print shop. Maybe you'lllearn to be a good barber; then you can have just as good a time asthose gypsies, going about from time to time and seeing the world. "

"Yes, sir, " said the Wilbur twin, "and cutting people's hair withclippers like Don Paley clipped mine with. "

"New York, Boston, Buffalo, Chicago, Omaha, Kansas City, Denver, SanAntone, " murmured Dave, and there was unction in his tone as he recitedthese advantages of a loose trade--"any place you like the looks of, orplaces you've read about that sound good--just going along with yourlittle kit of razors, and not having to small-town it except when youwant a bit of quiet. "

They heard voices back of them. Dave turned about and Wilbur rose fromthe grass. Across the pasture came the girl, Patricia Whipple, followedat a little distance by Juliana. The latter was no longer in churchgarb, but in a gray tweed skirt, white blouse, and a soft straw hat witha flopping brim. There was a black ribbon about the hat and her stoutshoes were of tan leather. The girl was bare-headed, and Don Paley'srepair of yesterday's damage was noticeable. She came at a quickeningpace, while Juliana followed slowly. Juliana looked severe andformidable. Never had her nose looked more the Whipple nose then whenshe observed Dave Cowan and his son at the stile. Yet she smiledhumorously when she recognized the boy, and allowed the humour to reachhis father when she glanced at him. Dave and Miss Juliana had never beenformally presented. Dave had seen Juliana, but Juliana had had untilthis moment no sight of Dave, for though there was in Newbern no socialprejudice against a craftsman, and Dave might have moved in its highestcircles, he had chosen to consort with the frankly ineligible. He liftedhis cap in a flourishing salute as Juliana and Patricia came through thestile. 

"And how are you to-day, my young friend?" asked Juliana of Wilbur inher calm, deep voice. 

The Wilbur twin said, "Very well, I thank you, " striving instinctivelyto make his own voice as deep as Juliana's. 

The girl winked at him brazenly as they passed on. 

"Gypsies!" she called, exultantly, and Juliana swept him with a tolerantsmile. 

Dave Cowan watched them along the path to the ridge above the camp. Herethey paused in most intelligible pantomime. Patricia Whipple wished todescend to the very heart of the camp, while Juliana could be seeninforming the child that they were near enough. To make this definiteshe sat upon the bole of a felled oak beside the path while Patriciajiggled up and down in eloquent objection to the untimely halt. Daveread the scene and caressed his thick moustache with practiced thumb andfinger. His glance was sympathetic. 

"The poor old maid!" he murmured. "All that Whipple money, and she hasto be just a small-towner! Say, I bet no one has ever kissed that oldgirl since her mother died! None of these small-town hicks would everhave the nerve to. Yes, sir; any one's got a right to be sorry for thatdame. If she had a little enterprise she'd branch out from here and meeta few people. "

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. "But that girl wants to go down to the camp. "

This was plain. Patricia still danced, while Juliana remained firmlyseated. 

"I could go take her down, " he continued. 

"Why don't you?" said his father, again stroking the golden moustache insympathy for the unconscious Juliana. 

So it befell that the Wilbur twin shyly approached the group by thefelled tree, and the watching father saw the two children, after amoment's hesitancy on the part of Juliana, disappear from view over thecrest of the ridge. Dave continued to loll by the stile and to watch thewaiting Juliana, thinking of gypsies and the pure joy of wandering. Hebegan to repeat some verses he had lately happened upon, murmuring themto a little mass of white clouds far off against the blue of the summersky, where the pale bronze moon lonesomely hung. He liked the words andthe moon and gypsies joyously foot-loose, and he again grew sympatheticfor Juliana's small-town plight. He felt a large pagan tolerance forthose warped souls pent in small towns. 

After twenty minutes of this he faintly heard a call from Juliana, sentafter the children below her. He saw her stand to beckon commandinglyand watch to see if she were obeyed. Then she turned and came slowlyback up the path that would lead to the stile. Again Dave absentlymurmured his verses. Juliana approached the stile, walking briskly now. She was halted by surprising speech from this rather cheaply debonaircreature who looked so nearly like a gentleman and yet so plainly wasnot. 

"Wanted to be off with 'em, didn't you?" Dave was saying brightly; "offand over the edge of the world, all foot-loose and free as wind, goingover strange roads and lying by night under the stars. "

"What?" demanded Juliana sharply. 

She studied the fellow's face for the first time. He was preening hisyellow moustache and flashing a challenge to her from half-shut eyes. 

"Small-towners bound to feel it, " he continued, unconscious of anysharpness in Juliana's "What!" "They want to be off and over the edge ofthings, but they don't dare--haven't the nerve. You'd like to, but youdon't dare. You know you don't!"

Juliana almost smiled. The fellow's face, as she paused beside him atthe stile, was set with sheer impudence, yet this was not whollyunattractive. And amazingly he now broke into verse:

 We, too, shall steal upon the spring With amber sails flown wide; Shall drop, some day, behind the moon, Borne on a star-blue tide. 

He indicated the present moon with flourishing grace as he named it. Juliana did not gasp, but it might have been a gasp in one less than aWhipple. But the troubadour was not to be daunted. Juliana didn't knowDave Cowan as cities knew him. 

 Enchanted ports we, too, shall touch; Cadiz or Cameroon; Nor other pilot need beside A magic wisp of moon. 

Again he gracefully indicated our lunar satellite, and again Juliananearly gasped. 

"Of course, you felt it all, watching those people. I don't blame youfor feeling wild. "

Juliana lifted one of her stout tan boots toward the stile, and Davewith doffed cap extended a hand to assist her through. Juliana, dazedbeyond a Whipple calm for almost the first time in her thirty years, found her own hand perforce upon his. 

"You poor thing!" concluded Dave with a swift glance to the ridge wherethe children had not yet appeared. 

Then amazingly he enfolded the figure of the woman in his arms and uponher cold, appalled lips he imprinted a swift but accurate kiss. 

"There, poor thing!" he murmured. 

He lavished one look upon the still frozen Juliana, replaced the capupon his yellow hair, once more preened his moustache at her, and turnedaway to meet the oncoming children. And in his glance Juliana retainedstill the wit to read a gay, cherishing pity. As he turned away she sanklimply against the fence, her first sensation being all of wonder thatshe had not cried out at this monstrous assault. And very clearly sheknew at once that she had not cried out or made any protest because, though monstrous, it was even more absurd. A seasoned sense of humourhad not failed. 

The guilty man swaggered on to meet the children, not looking back. Forhim the incident was closed. Juliana, a hand supporting her capablechin, steadily regarded his swaying shoulders and the yellow hairbeneath his cap. In her nostrils was the scent of printer's ink and pipetobacco. She reflectively rubbed her chin, for it had been stung with aday-old beard that pricked like a nettle. Now she was recalling anotherwoodland adventure of a dozen years before here in this same forest. 

Dave Cowan had been wrong when he said that no one had kissed her sinceher mother died. Once on a winter's day, when she was sixteen, she hadcrossed here, bundled in a red cloak and hood, and a woodchopper, amerry, laughing foreigner who spoke no English, had hailed her gayly, and she had stopped and gayly tried to understand him, and knew onlythat he was telling her she was beautiful. She at least had thought itwas that, and was certain of it when he had seized and kissed her, laughing joyously the while. She had not told any one of that, but shehad never forgotten. And now this curious creature, whom she had notsupposed to be gallantly inclined--unshaven, smelling of printer's inkand tobacco!

"I'm coming on!" said Juliana aloud, and laughed rather grimly. 

She watched her prankling blade meet the children and go off down theridge with his son, still not looking back. She thought it queer he didnot look back at her just once. She soothed her chin again, sniffing theair. 

Patricia Whipple came leaping up the path, excited with an imminentquestion. She halted before the still-reflective Juliana and went atonce to the root of her matter. 

"Cousin Juliana, what did that funny man kiss you for?"

This time Juliana in truth did gasp. There was no suppressing it. 

"Patricia Whipple--and did that boy see it, too?"

"No, he was too far behind me. But I did. I saw it. I was looking rightat you, and that funny man--all at once he grabbed you round your waistand he--"

"Patricia, dear, listen! We must promise never to say anything aboutit--never to anybody in the world--won't we, dear?"

"Oh, I won't tell if you don't want me to, but what----"

"You promise me--never to tell a soul!"

"Of course! I promise--cross my heart and hope to die--but what did hedo it for?"

Juliana tried humorous evasion. 

"Men, my dear, are often tempted by women to such lengths--temptedbeyond their strength. Your question isn't worded with all the tact inthe world. Is it so strange that a man should want to kiss me?"

"Well, I don't know"--Patricia became judicial, scanning the now flushedcountenance of Juliana--"I don't see why not. But what did he do itfor?"

"My dear, you'll be honest with me, and never tell; so I'll be honestwith you. I don't know--I really don't know. But I have an awfulsuspicion that the creature meant to be kind to me. "

"He looks like a kind man. And he's the father of the boy that I worehis clothes yesterday when I was running away, and the father of thatother boy that was with him and that I'm going to have one of for myvery own brother, because Harvey D. And grandpa said something of thatkind would have to be done, so what relation will that make us to thisman that was so kind to you?"

"None whatever, " said Juliana, shortly. "And never forget your promisenot to tell. Come, we must go back. "

They went on through the pasture. The shadows had lengthened and themoon already glowed a warmer bronze. Juliana glanced at it and murmuredindistinctly. 

"What is it?" asked Patricia. 

"Nothing, " said Juliana. But she had been asking herself: "I wonderwhere he gets his verses?"

Her hand went again to her chin. 

CHAPTER V

Dave Cowan went down the ridge to the road, disregarding his gypsyfriends. He trod the earth with a ruffling bravado. The Wilbur twinlingered as far behind as he dared, loitering provocatively in the sightof the child stealers. If they meant to do anything about it now wastheir chance. But no violence was offered him, and presently, far beyondthe camp where the fire still burned, he was forced to conclude thatthey could not mean to carry him off. Certainly they were neglecting aprize who had persistently flaunted himself at them. They notably lackedenterprise. 

Down over the grassy slope of West Hill they went, the boy still well inthe rear; you never could tell what might happen; and so came to FairStreet across shadows that lay long to the east. Newbern was stillslumberous. Smoke issued from a chimney here and there, but mostly thetown would partake of a cold supper. The boy came beside his father, with Frank, the dog, again on his leash of frayed rope. Dave Cowan wasreciting to himself:

 Enchanted ports we, too, shall touch; Cadiz or Cameroon--

Then he became conscious of the silent boy at his side, steppingnoiselessly with bare feet. 

"Life is funny, " said Dave. 

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. 

"Of course there's a catch in it somewhere. "

"Yes, sir. "

"That old girl back there, that old maid, she'll have to small-town itall her life. I feel sorry for her, I do. "

"Yes, sir. "

But the sorrowing father now began to whistle cheerfully. His grief hadnot overborne him. A man who would call Judge Penniman Old Flapdoodleand question the worth of Matthew Arnold's acquaintance was not to belong downcast at the plight of one woman. And he had done what man couldfor her. 

They came to River Street, the street of shops, deserted and sleepingback of drawn curtains. Only the shop of Solly Gumble seemed to be openfor trade. This was but seeming, however, for another establishment nearby, though sealed and curtained as to front, suffered its rear portal toyawn most hospitably. This was the place of business of HermanVielhaber, and its street sign concisely said, "Lager Bier Saloon. "

Dave Cowan turned into the alley just beyond Solly Gumble's, then upanother alley that led back of the closed shops, and so came to the backdoor of this refectory. It stood open, and from the cool and shadowyinterior came a sourish smell of malt liquors and the hum of voices. They entered and were in Herman Vielhaber's pleasant back room, withsanded floor and a few round tables, at which sat half a dozen menconsuming beer from stone mugs or the pale wine of Herman's country fromtall glasses. 

Herman was a law-abiding citizen. Out of deference to a sacred andlong-established American custom he sealed the front of his saloon onthe Sabbath; out of deference to another American custom, equally longestablished, equally sacred, he received his Sabbath clientèle at therear--except for a brief morning interval when he and Minna, his wife, attended service at the Lutheran church. Herman's perhaps not too subtlemind had never solved this problem of American morals--why his beveragesshould be seemly to drink on all days of the week, yet on one of themseemly but if taken behind shut doors and shielding curtains. But headhered conscientiously to the American rule. His Lutheran pastor hadonce, in an effort to clear up the puzzle, explained to him that theContinental Sunday would never do at all in this land of his choice; butit left Herman still muddled, because fixed unalterably in his mind wasa conviction that the Continental Sunday was the best of all Sundays. Nor was there anything the least clandestine in this backdoor trade ofHerman's on the Sabbath. One had but to know the path to his door, andat this moment Newbern's mayor, old Doctor Purdy, sat at one of Herman'stables and sipped from a stone mug of beer and played a game of pinochlewith stout, red-bearded Herman himself, overlooked by Minna, who hadbrought them their drink. 

This was another thing about Herman's place that Newbern understood intime. When he had begun business some dozen years before, and it wasknown that Minna came downstairs from their living rooms above thesaloon and helped to serve his patrons, the scandal was high. It wassupposed that only a woman without character could, for any purposewhatever, enter a saloon. But Herman had made it plain that into thesort of saloon he conducted any woman, however exalted, could freelyenter. If they chose not to, that was their affair. And Minna had intime recovered a reputation so nearly lost at first news of her servicehere. 

Herman, indeed, ran a place of distinction, or at least of tone. He didsell the stronger drinks, it is true, but he sold them judiciously, andmuch preferred to sell the milder ones. He knew his patrons, and wouldstubbornly not sell drink, even beer or wine, to one he suspected ofabusing the stuff. As for rowdyism, it was known far and wide aboutNewbern that if you wanted to get thrown out of Herman's quick you hadonly to start some rough stuff, or even talk raw. It was said he juggledyou out the door like you were an empty beer keg. Down by the riversidewas another saloon for that sort of thing, kept by Pegleg McCarron, whowould sell whisky to any one that could buy, liked rough stuff and withhis crutch would participate in it. 

When Herman decided that a customer was spending too much money fordrink, that customer had to go to Pegleg's if he bought more. And nowthe mayor at the little table connived at a flagrant breach of the lawhe had sworn to uphold, quaffing beer from his mug and melding a hundredaces as casually as if it were a week-day. 

The other men at the little tables were also of the substantialcitizenry of Newbern, including the postmaster, the editor of the_Advance_, and Rapp, Senior, of Rapp Brothers, Jewellery. The last twowere arguing politics and the country's welfare. Rapp, Senior, believedand said that the country was going to the dogs, because the rich weregetting richer and the poor were getting poorer. The editor of the_Advance_ disputed this, and the postmaster intervened to ask if Rapp, Senior, had seen what our exports of wheat and cotton were lately. Rapp, Senior, said he didn't care anything about that--it was the interests hewas down on. Herman Vielhaber, melding eighty kings, said it was a goodrich-man's country, but also a good poor-man's country, because wherecould you find one half as good--not in all Europe--and he now laid downforty jacks, which he huskily called "yacks. "

Dave Cowan greeted the company and seated himself at a vacant table. 

"Pull up a chair, Buzzer, and we'll drink to the life force--oldelectricity or something. "

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur, and seated himself. 

Minna left the pinochle game to attend upon them. She was plump andpink-faced, with thick yellow hair neatly done. A broad white apronprotected her dress of light blue. 

"A stein of Pilsener, Minna, " said Dave, "and for the boy, let's see. How would you like, a nice cold bottle of pop, Doctor?"

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. "Strawberry pop. "

Herman looked up from his game, though in the midst of warm utterance inhis native tongue at the immediate perverse fall of the cards. 

"I guess you git the young one a big glass milk, mamma--yes? Better thanpop for young ones. Pop is belly wash. "

"Yes, ma'am, " said Wilbur to Minna, though he would have preferred thepop by reason of its colour and its vivacious prickling; and you couldhave milk at home. 

"And I tell you, Minna, " said Dave. "Bread and butter and cheese, lotsof it, rye bread and pumpernickel and Schweitzerkase and some picklesand radishes, _nicht wahr_?"

"Yes, " said Minna, "all!" and moved on to the bar. But Dave detainedher. 

"Minna!"

She stopped and turned back to him. 

"You will?"

"_Sprechen sie Deutsch_, Minna?"

"_Ja_--yes--why not? I should think I do. I always could. Why couldn'tI?"

She went on her mission, grumbling pettishly. Why shouldn't she speakher own language? What did the man think? He must be a joker!

"Mamma!" Herman called again. "Git also the young one some that _apfelkuchen_. You make it awful good. "

"Yes, " called Minna from the bar. "I git it. For why wouldn't I speak myown language, I like to know?"

Dave Cowan's jest was smouldering faintly within her. She returnedpresently with the stein of beer and a glass of milk, and went, stillmuttering, for the food that had been commanded. She returned with this, setting bread and butter and cheese before them, and a blue plate whoseextensive area was all but covered with apple cake, but now she nolonger muttered in bewilderment. She confronted the jester, hands uponhips, her doll eyes shining with triumph. 

"Hah! Now, mister, I ask you something good like you ask me. You gitready! _Sprechen sie English_?"

Dave Cowan affected to be overcome with confusion, while Minna laughedloud and long at her sally. Herman laughed with her, his head back andhuge red beard lifted from his chest. 

"She got you that time, mister!" he called to Dave. "Mamma's a brightone, give her a minute so she gits herself on the spot!"

"_Ja! Sprechen sie English_?" taunted Minna again, for a second relishof her repartee. Effusively, in her triumph, she patted the cheek of theWilbur twin. "_Ja_! I could easy enough give your poppa as good like hesent, yes? _Sprechen sie English, nicht wahr_?"

Again her bulk trembled with honest mirth, and while this endured shewent to the ice box and brought a bone for Frank, the dog. Frank fellupon it with noisy gurgles. 

Dave Cowan affected further confusion at each repetition of Minna'sstinging retort; acted it so convincingly that the victor at lengthrelented and brought a plate of cookies to the table. 

"I show you who is it should be foolish in the head!" she told himtriumphantly. 

"You got me, Minna--I admit it. "

The victim pretended to be downcast, and ate his bread and cheesedejectedly. Minna went to another table to tell over the choice bit. 

The Wilbur twin ate bread and cheese and looked with interest about theroom. The tables and woodwork were dark, the walls and ceiling also lowin tone. But there were some fine decorative notes that stood brightlyout. On one wall was a lovely gold-framed picture in which a young womanof great beauty held back a sumptuous curtain revealing a castle on theRhine set above a sunny terrace of grapevines. On the opposite wall wasa richly coloured picture of a superb brewery. It was many stories inheight; smoke issued from its chimneys, and before it stood a largetruck to which were hitched two splendid horses. The truck was beingloaded with the brewery's enlivening product. The brewery was red, thetruck yellow, the horses gray, and the workmen were clad in blue, andabove all was a flawless sky of blue. It was a spirited picture, and theWilbur twin was instantly enamoured of it. He wished he might have seenthis yesterday, when he was rich. Maybe Mr. Vielhaber would have soldit. He thought regretfully of Winona's delight at receiving thebeautiful thing to hang on the wall of the parlour, a fit companionpiece to the lion picture. But he had spent his money, and this lovelything could never be Winona's. 

Discussion of world affairs still went forward between Rapp, Senior, andthe _Advance_ editor. Even in that day the cost of living was said to beexcessive, and Rapp, Senior, though accounting for its rise by theiniquity of the interests, submitted that the cost of women's finery waswhat kept the world poor. 

"It's women's tomfool dressing keeps us all down. Look what they pay fortheir silks and satins and kickshaws and silly furbelows! That's wherethe bulk of our money goes: bonnets and high-heeled slippers and fancycloaks. Take the money spent for women's foolish truck and see whatyou'd have!" Rapp, Senior, gazed about him, looking for contradiction. 

"He's right, " said Dave Cowan. "He's got the truth of it. But, my Lord!Did you ever think what women would be without all that stuff? Look whatit does for 'em! Would you have 'em look like us? Would you have abeautiful woman wear a cheap suit of clothes like Rapp's got on, and ahat bought two years ago? Not in a thousand years! We dress 'em up thatway because we like 'em that way. "

Rapp, Senior, dusted the lapel of his coat, tugged at his waistcoat tostraighten it, and closely regarded a hat that he had supposed beyondcriticism. 

"That's all right, " he said, "but look where it gets us!"

Presently the discussion ended--Rapp, Senior, still on the note ofpessimism and in the fell clutch of the interests--for the debaters mustgo blamelessly home to their suppers. Only the mayor remained at hisgame with Herman, his gray, shaven old face bent above his cards whilehe muttered at them resentfully. Dave Cowan ate his bread and cheesewith relish and invoked another stein of beer from Minna, whovindictively flung her jest at him again as she brought it. 

The Wilbur twin had eaten his apple cake and was now eating the cookies, taking care to drop no crumbs on the sanded floor. After many cookiesdusk fell and he heard the church bells ring for evening worship. But noone heeded them. The game drew to an excited finish, while Dave Cowan, his pipe lighted, mused absently and from time to time quoted bits ofverse softly to himself:

 Enchanted ports we, too, shall touch; Cadiz or Cameroon--

The game ended with an explosion of rage from the mayor. The cards hadcontinued perverse for him. He pushed his soft black hat back from hisrumpled crest of gray hair and commanded Minna Vielhaber to break amunicipal ordinance which had received his official sanction. Hermancheerily combed his red beard and scoffed at his late opponent. 

"It makes dark, " Minna reminded him. "You should have light. "

Herman lighted two lamps suspended above the tables. Then he addressedthe Wilbur twin, now skillfully prolonging the last of his cookies. 

"Well, young one, you like your bread and cheese and milk and cookiesand apfel kuchen, so? Well, I tell you--come here. I show you somethingfine. "

He went to the front room, where the bar was, and the Wilbur twinexpectantly followed. He had learned that these good people produced allmanner of delights. But this was nothing to eat. The light from thelamps shone over the partition between back room and front, and there ina spacious cage beside the wall was a monkey, a small, sad-eyed creaturewith an aged, wrinkled face all but human. He crouched in a corner andhad been piling wisps of straw upon his reverend head. 

"Gee, gosh!" exclaimed the Wilbur twin, for he had expected nothing sorare as this. 

The monkey at sight of Herman became animated, leaping again and againthe length of the cage and thrusting between its bars a hairy forearmand a little, pinkish, human hand. 

"You like him, hey?" said Herman. 

"Gee, gosh!" again exclaimed the Wilbur twin in sheer delight. 

"It's Emil his name is, " said Herman. "You want out, Emil, hey?"

He unclasped the catch of a door, and Emil leaped to the crook of hisarm, where he nestled, one hand securely grasping a fold of Herman'sbeard. 

"Ouch, now, don't pull them whiskers!" warned Herman. "See how he knowshis good friend! But he shake hands like a gentleman. Emil, shake handsnicely with this young one. " The monkey timidly extended a paw and theentranced Wilbur shook it. "Come, " said Herman. "I let you give himsomething. "

They went to the back room, Emil still stoutly grasping the beard of hisprotector. 

"Now, " said Herman, "you give him a nice fat banana. Mamma, give theyoung one a banana to give to Emil. "

The banana was brought and the Wilbur twin cautiously extended it. Emil, at sight of the fruit, chattered madly and tried to leap for it. Heappeared to believe that this strange being meant to deprive him of it. He snatched it when it was thrust nearer, still regarding the boy withdark suspicion. Then he deftly peeled the fruit and hurriedly ate it, asif one could not be--with strangers about--too sure of one's supper. 

The monkey moved Dave Cowan to lecture again upon the mysteries oforganic evolution. 

"About three hundred million years difference between those two, " hesaid, indicating Herman and his pet with a wave of the calabash. "Andit's no good asking whether it's worth while, because we have to go onand on. That little beast is your second cousin, Herman. "

"I got a Cousin Emil in the old country, " said Minna, "but he ain'tlookin' like this last time I seen him. I guess you're foolish in thehead again. "

"He came out of the forest and learned to stand up, to walk withoutusing his hands, and he got a thumb, and pretty soon he was able to be asmall-town mayor or run a nice decent saloon and argue about politics. "

"Hah, that's a good one!" said Herman. "You hear what he says, Emil?"

The beast looked up from his banana, regarding them from eyesunutterably sad. 

"See?" said Dave. "That's the life force, and for a minute it'sconscious that it's only a monkey. "

They became silent under Emil's gaze of acute pathos--human life awareof its present frustration. Then suddenly Emil became once more ananimated and hungry monkey with no care but for his food. 

"There, " said Dave. "I ask you, isn't that the way we do? Don't we stopto think sometimes and get way down, and then don't we feel hungry andforget it all and go to eating?"

"Sure, Emil is sensible just like us, " said Minna. 

"But there's some catch about the whole thing, " said Dave. "Say, Doc, what do you think life is, anyway?"

Purdy scanned the monkey with shrewd eyes, and grinned. 

"I only know what it is physiologically, " he said. "Physiologically, life is a constant force rhythmically overcoming a constant resistance. "

"Pretty good, " said Dave, treasuring the phrase. "The catch must beright there--it always does overcome the constant resistance. "

"When it can't in one plant, " said Purdy, "it dismantles it and buildsanother, making improvements from time to time. "

"Think what it's had to do, " said Dave, "to build Herman from a simple, unimproved plant like Emil! Herman's a great improvement on Emil. "

"My Herman has got a soul, " said Minna, stoutly--"monkeys ain't. "

Dave Cowan and Purdy exchanged a tolerant smile. They were above arguingthat outworn thesis. Dave turned to his son. 

"Anyway, Buzzer, if you ever get discouraged, remember we were all likethat once, and cheer up. Remember your ancestry goes straight back toone of those, and still back of that--"

"To the single cell of protoplasm, " said Purdy. 

"Beyond that, " said Dave, "to star dust. "

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. 

"Foolish in the head, " said Minna. "You think you know things betterthan the reverent what preaches at the Lutheran church! He could easyenough tell you what you come from. My family was in Bavaria more thantwo hundred years, and was not any monkeys. "

"Maybe Emil he got a soul, too, like a human, " remarked Herman. 

"You bet he has, " said Dave Cowan, firmly--"just like a human. "

"You put him to bed, " directed Minna. "He listen to such talk and gofoolish also in the head. "

The Wilbur twin watched Emil put to bed, then followed his father outinto the quiet, starlit streets. He was living over again an eventfulafternoon. They reached the Penniman porch without further talk. DaveCowan sat with his guitar in the judge's chair and lazily sounded chordsand little fragments of melody. After a time the Pennimans and the Merletwin came from church. The Wilbur twin excitedly sought Winona, havingmuch to tell her. He drew her beside him into the hammock, and was tooeager for more than a moment's dismay when she discovered his bare feet, though he had meant to put on shoes and stockings again before she sawhim. 

"Barefooted on Sunday!" said Winona in tones of prim horror. 

"It was so hot, " he pleaded; "but listen, " and he rushed headlong intohis narrative. 

His father knew gypsies, and had been to Chicago and Omaha and--andCadiz and Cameroon--and he was sorry for Miss Juliana Whipple becauseshe was a small-towner and no one had ever kissed her since her motherdied; and if ever gypsies did carry him off he didn't want any one toworry about him or try to get him back; and the Vielhabers were verynice people that kept a nice saloon; and Mrs. Vielhaber had given himlots of apple cake that was almost like an apple pie, but without anytop on it; and they had a lovely picture that would look well beside thelion picture, but it would probably cost too much money; and they had amonkey, a German monkey, that was just like a little old man; and once, thousands of years ago, when the Bible was going on, we were all monkeysand lived in trees, but a constant force made us stand and walk likepeople. 

To Winona this was a shocking narrative, and she wished to tell DaveCowan that he was having a wretched influence upon the boy, but Dave wasnow singing "In the Gloaming, " and she knew he would merely call herMadame la Marquise, the toast of all the court, or something elseunsuitable to a Sabbath evening. She tried to convey to the Wilbur twinthat sitting in a low drinking saloon at any time was an evil thing. 

"Anyway, " said he, protestingly, "you say I should always learnsomething, and I learned about us coming up from the monkeys. "

"Why, Wilbur Cowan! How awful! Have you forgotten everything you everlearned at Sunday-school?"

"But I saw the monkey, " he persisted, "and my father said so, and DoctorPurdy said so. "

Winona considered. 

"Even so, " she warned him, "even if we did come up from the lowerorders, the less said about it the better. "

He had regarded his putative descent without prejudice; he was sorrythat Winona should find scandal in it. 

"Well, " he remarked to relieve her, "anyway, there's some catch in it. My father said so. "

CHAPTER VI

Wilber Cowan went off to bed, only a little concerned by this new-foundflaw in his ancestry. He would have thought it more important could hehave known that this same Cowan ancestry was under analysis at theWhipple New Place. 

There the three existing male Whipples sat about a long, magazine-littered table in the library and smoked and thought and atlong intervals favoured one another with fragmentary speech. Gideon saterect in his chair or stood before the fireplace, now banked with ferns;black-clad, tall and thin and straight in the comely pleasance of hissixty years, his face smoothly shaven, his cheekbones jutting abovedepressed cheeks that fell to his narrow, pointed chin, his blue eyescrackling far under the brow, high and narrow and shaded with rufflinggray hair, still plenteous. His ordinary aspect was severe, almostsaturnine; but he was wont to destroy this effect with his thin-lippedsmile that broke winningly over small white teeth and surprisinglyhinted an alert young man behind these flickering shadows of age. Whenhe sat he sat gracefully erect; when he stood to face the other two, orpaced the length of the table, he stood straight or moved with supplejoints. He was smoking a cigar with fastidious relish, and seemed tocommune more with it than with his son or his brother. Beside SharonWhipple his dress seemed foppish. 

Sharon, the round, stout man, two years younger than Gideon, had thesame blue eyes, but they looked from a face plump, florid, vivacious. There was a hint of the choleric in his glance. His hair had beenlighter than Gideon's, and though now not so plentiful, had grayed lessnoticeably. His fairer skin was bedizened with freckles; and when witha blunt thumb he pushed up the outer ends of his heavy eye-brows orcocked the thumb at a speaker whose views he did not share, it could beseen that he was the most aggressive of the three men. Sharonnotoriously lost his temper. Gideon had never been known to lose his. Sharon smoked and lolled carelessly in a Morris chair, one short, stoutarm laid along its side, the other carelessly wielding the cigar, heedless of falling ashes. Beside the careful Gideon he looked rustic. 

Harvey D. , son of Gideon, worriedly paced the length of the room. Hiseyes were large behind thick glasses. He smoked a cigarette gingerly, not inhaling its smoke, but ridding himself of it in little puffs ofdistaste. His brown beard was neatly trimmed, and above it shone hisforehead, pale and beautifully modelled under the carefully parted, already thinning, hair that was arranged in something almost likeringlets on either side. He was neat-faced. Of the three men he carriedthe Whipple nose most gracefully. His figure was slight, not so tall ashis father's, and he was garbed in a more dapper fashion. He wore anexpertly fitted frock coat of black, gray trousers faintly striped, apearl-gray cravat skewered by a pear-headed pin, and his small feet wereincased in shoes of patent leather. He was arrayed as befitted a Whipplewho had become a banker. 

Gideon, his father, achieved something of a dapper effect in anold-fashioned manner, but no observer would have read him for a banker;while Sharon, even on a Sunday evening, in loose tweeds and stout boots, was but a country gentleman who thought little about dress, so that onewould not have guessed him a banker--rather the sort that makes bankinga career of profit. 

Careful Harvey D. , holding a cigarette carefully between slender whitefingers, dressed with studious attention, neatly bearded, with shininghair curled flatly above his pale, wide forehead, was the one to lookout from behind a grille and appraise credits. He never acted hastily, and was finding more worry in this moment than ever his years of bankinghad cost him. He walked now to an ash tray and fastidiously trimmed theend of his cigarette. With the look of worry he regarded his father, nowbefore the fireplace after the manner of one enjoying its warmth, andhis Uncle Sharon, who was brushing cigar ash from his rumpled waistcoatto the rug below. 

"It's no light thing to do, " said Harvey D. In his precise syllables. 

The others smoked as if unhearing. Harvey D. Walked to the opposite walland straightened a picture, The Reading of Homer, shifting its frameprecisely one half an inch. 

"It is overchancy. " This from Gideon after a long silence. 

Harvey D. Paused in his walk, regarded the floor in front of himcritically, and stooped to pick up a tiny scrap of paper, which hebrought to the table and laid ceremoniously in the ash tray. 

"Overchancy, " he repeated. 

"Everything overchancy, " said Sharon Whipple after another silence, waving his cigar largely at life. "She's a self-headed little tike, " headded a moment later. 

"Self-headed!"

Harvey D. Here made loose-wristed gestures meaning despair, after whichhe detected and put in its proper place a burned match beside Sharon'schair. 

"A bright boy enough!" said Gideon after another silence, during whichHarvey D. Had twice paced the length of the room, taking care to bringeach of his patent-leather toes precisely across the repeated pattern inthe carpet. 

"Other one got the gumption, though, " said Sharon. 

"Oh, gumption!" said Harvey D. , as if this were no rare gift. All threesmoked again for a pregnant interval. 

"Has good points, " offered Gideon. "Got all the points, in fact. Goodbuild, good skin, good teeth, good eyes and wide between; nice manners, polite, lively mind. "

"Other one got the gumption, " mumbled Sharon, stubbornly. They ignoredhim. 

"Head on him for affairs, too, " said Harvey D. He went to a far cornerof the room and changed the position of an immense upholstered chair sothat it was equidistant from each wall. "Other one--hear he took all hissilver and spent it foolishly--must have been eight or ninedollars--this one wanted to save it. Got some idea about the value ofmoney. "

"Don't like to see it show too young, " submitted Sharon. 

"Can't show too young, " declared Harvey D. 

"Can't it?" asked Sharon, mildly. 

"Bright little chap--no denying that, " said Gideon. "Bright as a newpenny, smart as a whip. Talks right. Other chap mumbles. "

"Got the gumption, though. " Thus Sharon once more. 

Long silences intervened after each speech in this dialogue. 

"Head's good, " said Harvey D. "One of those long heads like father's. Other one's head is round. "

"My own head is round. " This was Sharon. His tone was plaintive. 

"Of course neither of them has a nose, " said Gideon. 

He meant that neither of the twins had a nose in the Whipple sense, butno comment on this lack seemed to be required. It would be unfair toexpect a true nose in any but born Whipples. 

Gideon Whipple from before the fireplace swayed forward on his toes andwaved his half-smoked cigar. 

"The long and short of it is--the Whipple stock has run low. We're dyingout. "

"Got to have new blood, that's sure, " said Sharon. "Build it up again. "

"I'd often thought of adopting, " said Harvey D. , "in the last twoyears, " he carefully added. 

"This youngster, " said Gideon; "of course we should never have heard ofhim but for Pat's mad adventure, starting off with God only knows whatvisions in her little head. "

"She'd have gone, too, " said Sharon, dusting ashes from his waistcoat tothe rug. "Self-headed!"

"She demands a brother, " resumed Gideon, "and the family sorely needsshe should have one, and this youngster seems eligible, and so--" Hewaved his cigar. 

"There really doesn't seem any other way, " said Harvey D. At the table, putting a disordered pile of magazines into neat alignment. 

"What about pedigree?" demanded Sharon. "Any one traced him back?"

"I believe _his_ father is here, " said Harvey D. 

"I know him, " said Sharon. "A mad, swearing, confident fellow, reckless, vagrant-like. A printer by trade. Looks healthy enough. Don't seemblemished. But what about his father?"

"Is the boy's mother known?" asked Harvey D. 

"Easy to find out, " said Gideon. "Ask Sarah Marwick, " and he went to thewall and pushed a button. "Sarah knows the history of every one, scandalous and otherwise. "

Sarah Marwick came presently to the door, an austere spinster in blackgown and white apron. Her nose, though not Whipple in any degree, wasstill eminent in a way of its own, and her lips shut beneath it in astraight line. She waited. 

"Sarah, " said Gideon, "do you know a person named Cowan? David Cowan, Ibelieve it is. "

Sarah's mien of professional reserve melted. 

"Do I know Dave Cowan?" she challenged. "Do I know him? I'd know hishide in a tanyard. "

"That would seem sufficient, " remarked Gideon. 

"A harum-scarum good-for-nothing--no harm in him. A great talker--makeyou think black is white if you listen. Don't stay here much--in andout, no one knows where to. Says the Center is slow. What do you thinkof that? I guess we're fast enough for most folks. "

"What about his father?" said the stock-breeding Sharon. "Know anythingabout who he was?"

"Lord, yes! Everybody round here used to know old Matthew Cowan. Livedup in Geneseo, where Dave was born, but used to come round herepreaching. Queer old customer with a big head. He wasn't a regularpreacher; he just took it up, being a carpenter by trade--like our LordJesus, he used to say in his preaching. He had some outlandish kind ofreligion that didn't take much. He said the world was coming to an endon a certain day, and folks had better prepare for it, but it didn't endwhen he said it would; and he went back to carpentering week-days andpreaching on the Lord's Day; and one time he fell off a roof and hit onhis head, and after that he was outlandisher than ever, and they had tolook after him. He never did get right again. They said he died writinga telegram to our Lord on the wall of his room. This Dave Cowan, heargued about religion with the Reverend Mallet right up in the postoffice one day. He'll argue about anything! He's audacious!"

"But the father was all right till he had the fall?" asked Harvey D. "Imean he was healthy and all that?"

"Oh, healthy enough--big, strong old codger. He used to say he couldcradle four acres of grain in a day when he was a boy on a farm, orsplit and lay up three hundred and fifty rails. Strong enough. "

"And this David Cowan, his son--he married someone from here?"

"Her that was Effie Freeman and her mother was a Penniman, cousin to oldJudge Penniman. A sweet, lovely little thing, Effie was, too, just asnice as you'd want to meet, and so--"

"Healthy?" demanded Sharon. 

"Healthy enough till she had them twins. Always puny after that. Took toher bed and passed on when they was four. Dropped off the tree of lifelike an overfruited branch, you might say. Winona and Mis' Penniman beenmothers to the twins ever since. "

"The record seems to be fairly clear, " said Gideon. 

"If he hasn't inherited that queer streak for religion, " said Harvey D. , foreseeing a possible inharmony with what Rapp, Senior, would havecalled the interests. 

"Thank you, Sarah--we were just asking, " said Gideon. 

"You're welcome, " said Sarah, withdrawing. She threw them a last bitover her shoulder. "That Dave Cowan's an awful reader--reads librarybooks and everything. Some say he knows more than the editor of the_Advance_ himself. "

They waited until they heard a door swing to upon Sarah. 

"Other has the gumption, " said Sharon. But this was going in a circle. Gideon and Harvey D. Ignored it as having already been answered. 

"Well, " said Harvey D. , "I suppose we should call it settled. "

"Overchancy, " said Gideon, "but so would any boy be. This one is anexcellent prospect, sound as a nut, bright, well-mannered. "

"He made an excellent impression on me after church to-day, " said HarveyD. "Quite refined. "

"Re-fined, " said Sharon, "is something any one can get to be. It'smanners you learn. " But again he was ignored. 

"Something clean and manly about him, " said Harvey D. "I should likehim--like him for my son. "

"Has it occurred to either of you, " asked Gideon, "that this absurdfather will have to be consulted in such a matter?"

"But naturally!" said Harvey D. "An arrangement would have to be madewith him. "

"But has it occurred to you, " persisted Gideon, "that he might be absurdenough not to want one of his children taken over by strangers?"

"Strangers?" said Harvey D. In mild surprise, as if Whipples could withany justice be thus described. 

Gideon, however, was able to reason upon this. 

"He might seem both at first, I dare say; but we can make plain to himthe advantages the boy would enjoy. I imagine they would appeal to him. I imagine he would consent readily. "

"Oh, but of course, " said Harvey D. "The father is a nobody, and theboy, left to himself, would probably become another nobody, withouttraining, without education, without advantages. The father would knowall this. "

[Illustration: "'I CAN ALWAYS FIND A LITTLE TIME FOR BANKERS. I NEVERKEPT ONE WAITING YET AND I WON'T BEGIN NOW. '"]

"Perhaps he doesn't even know he is a nobody, " suggested Sharon. 

"I think we can persuade him, " said Harvey D. , for once not meaningprecisely what his words would seem to mean. 

"I hope so, " said Gideon, "Pat will be pleased. "

"I shall like to have a son, " said Harvey D. , frankly wistful. 

"Other one has the gumption, " said Sharon, casting a final rain of cigarash upon the abused rug at his feet. 

"The sands of the Whipple family were running out--we renew them, " saidGideon, cheerily. 

CHAPTER VII

The ensuing week was marked for the Cowan-Penniman household bysensational developments. To Dave Cowan on Monday morning, standing athis case in the _Advance_ office, nimbly filling his stick with type, following the loosely written copy turned in by Sam Pickering, theeditor, had portentously come a messenger from the First National Bankto know if Mr. Cowan could find it convenient that day to give Harvey D. Whipple a few moments of his time. Dave's business life had hitherto notincluded any contact with bankers; he had simply never been in a bank. The message left him not a little disturbed. 

The messenger, Julius Farrow, a bookkeeper, could answer no questions. He knew only that Harvey D. Had been very polite about it, and if Davecouldn't find it convenient to-day he was to say when he might find itconvenient to have a conference. Dave felt relieved at hearing the word"conference. " A mere summons to a strange place like a bank might besinister, but a polite invitation to a conference at his convenience wasdifferent. He put down his half-filled stick. He had been at work on the_Advance_ locals for the Wednesday paper, two and three-line items totell of the trivial going and coming of nobodies which he was wont toset up with an accompaniment of satirical comment on small-townactivities. He had broken off in the midst of perpetuating in breviertype the circumstance that Adelia May Simsbury was home from normalschool over Sunday to visit her parents, Rufus G. Simsbury and wife, north of town. 

"I'll go with you, " Dave told Julius Farrow. "I can always find a littletime for bankers. I never kept one waiting yet, and I won't begin now. Ask any of em--they'll tell you I come when called. "

Julius looked puzzled, but offered no comment. Dave doffed his greeneye-shade and his apron of striped ticking, hastily dampened his handsin the tin washbasin and wiped them on a roller towel rich in historicassociations. He spent a moment upon his hair before a small, wavy, anddiagonally cracked mirror, put on his blue cutaway coat and his derbyhat and called, "Back in five minutes, Sam, " casually into the open doorof another room, where Sam Pickering wrestled with a fearless editorialon the need of better street lighting. It seemed to Dave that fiveminutes would amply suffice for any talk a banker might be needing withhim. 

In the back office of the First National Bank he was presently ensconcedat a shining table of mahogany across from Harvey D. Whipple and hisfather--the dubious trousers and worn shoes hidden beneath the table sothat visibly he was all but well dressed. 

"Smoke?" asked Gideon, and proffered an open cigar case. 

"Thanks, " said Dave, "I'll smoke it later. "

He placed a cigar in the upper left-hand pocket of the eminently plaidwaistcoat from whence already protruded the handle of a toothbrush and afountain pen. He preened his moustache, smoothed his hair, waited. 

Harvey D. Coughed in a promising manner, set a wire basket of paperssquare with the corners of the table, and began. 

"We have been thinking, Mr. Cowan, my father and I--you see--"

He talked on, but without appeasing Dave's curiosity. Something aboutDave's having boys, he gathered, and about the Whipples not having them;but it occurred to Dave again and again as Harvey wandered on that thiswas a discrepancy not in his power to correct. Once a monstroussuspicion startled him--this conference, so called, was shaping intonothing less than a proposal on behalf of the person he had socarelessly saluted the day before. It was terrifying; he grew cold withpure fright. But that was like some women--once show them a littleattention, they expected everything!

Gideon Whipple mercifully broke in while Harvey D. Floundered upon aninconclusive period. Gideon was not nervous, and saw little need forstrategy with this rather vagabondish fellow. 

"In short, Mr. Cowan, my son offers to adopt that boy of yours--make himhis own son in name--and opportunities and advantages--his own son. "

So it was only that! Dave drew a long, pleasant breath and wiped hisbrow. Then he took a pencil from the table and began to draw squares andtriangles and diamond patterns upon a pad of soft paper that lay athand. 

"Well--I don't know. " His eyes followed the pencil point. Nor did heknow until it presently developed that the desired adoption was of theMerle twin. He had supposed, without debate, that they would be meaningthe other. "You mean Merle, " he said at last on some leading ofGideon's. 

"To be sure!" said Harvey D. , as if there could have been no question ofanother. 

"Oh, him!" said Dave--there was relief in his tone. "You're sure youmean him?"

"But of course!" said Harvey D. , brightening. 

"All right, " said Dave. He felt they were taking the wrong twin, but hefelt also that he must not let them see this--they might then want theother. "All right, I'll agree to that. He's a bright boy; it ought to bea good thing for him. "

"Ought to be!" quoted Harvey D. With humorous warmth. "But, of course, it will be! You realize what it will mean for him--advantages, opportunities, education, travel, family, a future!--the Whippleestate--but, of course, we feel that under our training he will be acredit to us. He will be one of us--a Whipple in name and in fact. "

Dave Cowan ceased to draw angled designs on his pad; he now drewcircles, ovals, ellipses, things fluent with curves. 

"All right, " he said, "I'm willing, I want to do the best I can for theboy. I'm glad you feel he's the right one for you. Of course the otherboy--well, they're twins, but he's different. "

"We are certain you will never regret it, " said Harvey D. , warmly. 

"We feel that you are wise to agree, " said Gideon. "So then--"

"Papers to sign?" said Dave. 

"Our lawyer will have them to-morrow, " said Harvey D. 

"Good!" said Dave. 

He was presently back at his case, embalming for posterity the knowledgethat Grandma Milledge was able to be out again these sunny days after ahard tussle with her old enemy sciatica. But before passing to the nextitem he took Gideon's choice cigar from the upper waistcoat pocket, crumpled it, rubbed it to fine bits between the palms of his hands, andfilled the calabash pipe with its débris. As he smoked he looked out thewindow that gave on River Street. Across the way was the yellow brickstructure of the bank he had just left. He was seeing a future presidentof that sound institution, Merle Whipple, born Cowan. He was glad theyhadn't wanted the other one. The other one would want to be somethingmore interesting surely than a small-town bank president. Have him learna good loose trade and see the world--get into real life! But they'd hadhim going for a minute--when the only meaning he could get from HarveyD. 's roundabout talk was that the old girl of yesterday hadmisunderstood his attentions. That would have been a nice fix to findhimself in! But Merle was off his mind; he would become a real Whippleand some day be the head of the family. Funny thing for a Cowan to fallinto! He turned to his dusty case and set up the next item on his yellowcopy paper. 

"Rumour hath it that Sandy Seaver's Sunday trips out of town meanbusiness, and that a certain bright resident of Geneseo will shortlybecome Mrs. Sandy. "

He paused again. All at once it seemed to him that the Whipples had beenhasty. They would get to thinking the thing over and drop it; nevermention it to him again. Well, he was willing to let it drop. Hewouldn't mention it again if they didn't. He would tell no one. 

 * * * * *

Nor did he speak of it until the following evening, after the Whippleshad surprisingly not only mentioned it again but had operated in thelittle bank office, under the supervision of Squire Culbreth, a simplemechanism of the law which left him the legal father of but one son. Then he went to astonish the Pennimans with his news, only to find thatWinona had secretively nursed it even longer than he had. Mrs. Pennimanhad also been told of the probability of this great event, but, nevertheless, wept gently when Dave certified to her its irrevocableconsummation. Only Judge Penniman remained to be startled; and he, beingirritated that others had enjoyed a foreknowledge guiltily withheld fromhim, chose to pretend that he, too, had been mysteriously enlightened. He had, he said, seen the thing coming. He became at the supper table acreature of gnawing and baffled curiosity which he must hide by boastingan intimate acquaintance with Whipple motives and intentions. Heintimated that but for his advice and counsel the great event might nothave come about. The initiative had been his, though certain otherpeople might claim the credit. Of course he hadn't wanted to talk aboutit before. He guessed he could keep a close mouth as well as the nextone. 

The Merle twin at this momentous meal sat as one enthroned, receivingtribute from fawning subjects. His name was already Merle Whipple, andhe was going to have a pony to ride, and he would come sometimes to seethem. His cordial tolerance of them quite overcame Mrs. Penniman again. She had to feign an errand to the kitchen stove, and came back droppingthe edge of her apron from her eyes. Winona was exalted; she felt thather careful training of the child had raised him to this eminence, andshe rejoiced in it as a tribute to her capacity. Her labours had beenrichly rewarded. Dave Cowan alone seemed not to be enough impressed bythe honours heaped upon his son. He jestingly spoke of him as a crownprince. He said if you really had to stay in a small town you might aswell be adopted by the Whipples as any one else. 

The Wilbur twin was abashed and puzzled. The detail most impressing himseemed to be that, having no longer a brother, he would cease to be atwin. His life long he had been made intensely conscious of being atwin--he was one of a pair--and now suddenly, he gathered, he wassomething whole and complete in himself. He demanded assurance on thispoint. 

"Then I'm not going to be a twin any longer? I mean, I'm not going to beone of a twins? It won't change my name, too, will it?"

His father enlightened him. 

"No, there's still a couple of Cowans left to keep the name going. Wewon't have to be small-towners unless we want to, " he added. 

He suspected that the Wilbur twin felt slighted and hurt at being passedover, and would be needing comfort. But it appeared that the severedtwin felt nothing of that sort. He was merely curious--not wounded orenvious. 

"I wouldn't want to change to a new name, " he declared. "I'd forget andgo back to the old one. "

He wanted to add that maybe his new dog would not know him under anothername, but he was afraid of being laughed at for that. 

"Merle never forgets, " said Winona. "He will be a shining credit to hisnew name. " She helped the chosen one to more jelly, which he acceptedamiably. "And he will be a lovely little brother to Patricia Whipple, "she fondly added. 

This left the Wilbur twin cold. He would like to have a pony, but hewould not wish to be Patricia Whipple's brother. He now recalled herunpleasantly. She was a difficult person. 

"Give Merle another bit of the steak, Mother, " urged Judge Penniman. 

The judge had begun to dwell upon his own new importance. This thingmade him by law a connection of the Whipple family, didn't it? He, RufusTyler Penniman, had become at least a partial Whipple. He reflectedpleasantly upon the consequences. 

"Will he go home to-night?" suddenly demanded the Wilbur twin, pointingat his brother so there should be no mistake. The Merle twin seemedalready a stranger to him. 

"Not to-night, dear, but in a few days, I would suppose. " It sent Mrs. Penniman to the stove again. 

"I don't just know when I will go, " said the Merle twin, surveying areplenished plate. "But I guess I'll give you back that knife you boughtme; I probably won't need it up there. I'll probably have plenty ofbetter knives than that knife. "

The Wilbur twin questioned this, but hid his doubt. Surely there couldbe few better knives in the whole world than one with a thing to digstones out of horses' feet. Anyway, he would be glad to have it, and wasglad the promise had been made before witnesses. 

After supper on the porch Dave Cowan in the hammock picked chords andscraps of melody from his guitar, quite as if nothing had happened. Judge Penniman, in his wicker chair, continued to muse upon certainpleasant contingencies of this new situation. It had occurred to himthat Dave Cowan himself would be even more a Whipple than any Penniman, and would enjoy superior advantages inevitably rising from thiscircumstance. 

"That family will naturally want to do something for you, too, Dave, " hesaid at last. 

"Do something for me?" Dave's fingers hung waiting above the strings. 

"Why not? You're the boy's father, ain't you? Facts is facts, no matterwhat the law says. You're his absolute progenitor, ain't you? Well, youliving here in the same town, they'll naturally want you to be somebody, won't they?"

"Oh!" Dave struck the waiting chord. "Well, I am somebody, ain't I?"

The judge waved this aside with a fat, deprecating hand. 

"Oh, in that way! Of course, everybody's somebody--every living, breathing soul. But what I'm getting at--they'll naturally try to makesomething out of you, instead of just being kind of a no-account trampprinter. "

"Ha! Is that so, old small-towner?"

"Shouldn't wonder if they'd want to take you into the bank, mebbe--cashier or something, or manage one of the farms or factories, orset you up in business of some kind. You might git to be president ofthe First National. "

"They might make you a director, too, I suppose. "

"Well, you can snicker, but stranger things have happened. "

The judge reflected, seeing himself truly a bank director, wearing hissilk hat and frock coat every day--perhaps playing checkers with HarveyD. In the back office at quiet moments. Bank directing would surely be asuitable occupation for an invalid. Dave muted the vibrant strings witha hand. 

"Listen, Old Flapdoodle! I wouldn't tie myself up in this one-horsebunch of hovels, not if they'd give me the bank and all the money in itand all the Whipple farms and throw in the post office and the jail andthe depot. Get that?"

"Ho! Sour grapes!" returned the judge, stung to a biting wit by thecoarse form of address. But Dave played music above the taunt. 

 * * * * *

Nevertheless, he was not wholly surprised the following day when, politely invited to another conference at the bank, old Gideon Whipple, alone there, put the matter of his future somewhat after the manner ofJudge Penniman, though far less crudely. Old Gideon sat across thetable from him, and after Dave had put a cigar in his upper left-handwaistcoat pocket he became considerate but pointed. 

"My son and I have been talking, Mr. Cowan, and we agree that somethingis due you as the boy's father. We want to show you everyconsideration--show it liberally. You seem to have led rather an--shallwe say an unsettled life up to this time? Not that it's anything to becriticised; you follow your own tastes, as every man should. But itoccurred to us that you might care to feel more settled in some stableoccupation where you could look forward to a solid future--all that sortof thing. "

Dave nodded, waiting, trying to word the talk the old man and his sonwould have had about him. Harvey Whipple would have been troubled at thenear presence of the father of his new son as a mere journeyman printer. Undoubtedly the two would have used the phrase the judge had used--theywould want him to make something of himself. 

"So we've felt, " went on Gideon, "that you might care to engage in somebusiness here in Newbern--establish yourself, soundly and prosperously, as it were, so that your son, though maturing under differentcircumstances, would yet feel a pride in your standing in the community. Of course, this is tentative--I'm sounding you, only. You may have quiteother ideas. You may have laid out an entirely different future foryourself in some other field. But I wanted to let you know that we standready to finance liberally any business you would care to engage in, either here or elsewhere. It isn't that we are crudely offering youmoney. I wish you to understand that. But we offer you help, both inmoney and counsel and influence. In the event of your caring toestablish yourself here, we would see that your foundation wassubstantial. I think that says what I wanted to say. "

During much of this Dave Cowan had been musing in a lively manner uponthe other's supposition that he should have laid out a future forhimself. He was amused at the notion. Of course he had laid out afuture, but not the sort a Whipple would lay out. He was already livinghis future and found it good. Yet he felt the genuine good will of theold man, and sought words to reject his offer gracefully. He must notput it so bluntly as he had to Judge Penniman. The old man would not beable to understand that no bribe within human reach would tempt him toremain in Newbern Center; nor did he wish to be established on a soundbasis anywhere else. He did not wish to be established at all. 

"I'm much obliged, " he said at last, "but I guess I won't trouble youand your son in any way. You see, I kind of like to live round and seethings and go places--I don't know that I can explain it exactly. "

"We have even thought you might like to acquire the journal on which youare now employed, " said Gideon. "We understand it can be bought; westand ready to purchase it and make it over to you. "

"Any country newspaper can always be bought any time, " said Dave. "Theirowners always want to sell, and it's mighty kind of you and your son, but--well, I just couldn't settle down to be a country editor. I'd gocrazy, " he confessed in a sudden burst of frankness, and beaming uponGideon; "I'd as soon be shut in jail. "

"Or anything else you might think of, " said Gideon, cordially, "notnecessarily in this town. "

"Well, I'd rather not; I guess I'm not one to have responsibilities; Iwouldn't have an easy minute spending your money. I wouldn't ever beable to feel free with it, not the way I feel with my own. I guess Ijust better kind of go my own way; I like to work when I want to andstop when I want to, and no one having any right to ask me what I quitfor and why don't I keep on and make something of myself. I guess it'sno good your trying to help me in any way. Of course I appreciate it andall that. It was kindly thought of by you. But--I hope my boy will be acredit to you just the same. "

The conference closed upon this. Dave left it feeling that he had easedhis refusal into soft, ambiguous phrases; but old Gideon, reporting toHarvey D. , said: "That chap hates a small town. What he really wanted totell me was that he wouldn't settle down here for all the money in theworld. He really laughed at me inside for offering him the chance. Hepities us for having to stay here, I do believe. And he wouldn't talk oftaking money for any enterprise elsewhere, either. He's eitherindependent or shiftless--both, maybe. He said, " Gideon laughednoiselessly, "he said he wouldn't ever be able to feel free with ourmoney the way he does with his own. "

 * * * * *

The Whipples, it proved, would be in no indecent haste to remove theirnew member from his humbler environment. On Wednesday it was conveyed toWinona that they would come for Merle in a few days, which left thePenniman household and the twins variously concerned as to the precisemeaning of this phrase. It sounded elastic. But on Thursday Winona wasable to announce that the day would be Saturday. They would come forMerle Saturday afternoon. She had been told this distinctly by Mrs. Harvey D. Though her informant had set no hour, Winona thought it wouldbe three o'clock. She believed the importance of the affair demanded thesetting of an exact hour, and there was something about three o'clockthat commended itself to her. From this moment the atmosphere of thePenniman house was increasingly strained. There were preparations. Theslender wardrobe of the crown prince of the Whipple dynasty was put inperfect order, and two items newly added to it by the direction of DaveCowan. The boy must have a new hat and new shoes. The judge pointed outto the prodigal father that these purchases should rightly be made withWhipple money. Dave needn't buy shoes and hats for Merle Whipple anymore than he need buy them for any other Whipple, but Dave hadstubbornly squandered his own money. His boy wasn't going up to the bighouse like a ragamuffin. 

It came to the Wilbur twin that these days until Saturday were like thedays intervening in a house of death until the funeral. He becameincreasingly shy and uncomfortable. It seemed to him that his brotherhad passed on, as they said, his mortal remains to be disposed of onSaturday at three o'clock. Having led a good life he would go to heaven, where he would have a pony and a thousand knives if he wanted them. Thestrain in the house, the excitement of Winona, the periodic, furtiveweeping of Mrs. Penniman, the detached, uplifted manner of the chieffigure, all confirmed him in this impression. Even Judge Penniman, whohad been wont to speak of "them twins, " now spoke of "that boy, " meaningbut the Wilbur twin. 

By two o'clock of the momentous Saturday afternoon the tension was atits highest. Merle, dressed in his Sunday clothes, trod squeakily in thenew shoes, which were button shoes surpassing in elegance any he hadhitherto worn. As Dave Cowan had remarked, they were as good shoes asWhipple money would ever buy him. And the new hat, firm of line and richin texture, a hat such as no boy could possibly wear except on Sunday, unless he were a very rich boy, reposed on the centre table in theparlour. Winona, flushed and tightly dressed, nervously altered thearrangement of chairs in the parlour, or remembered some belonging ofthe deceased that should go into the suitcase containing his freshlystarched blouses. Mrs. Penniman, also flushed and tightly dressed, affected to busy herself likewise with minor preparations for thedeparture, but this chiefly afforded her opportunities for quiet weepingin secluded corners. After these moments of relief she would becomeelaborately cheerful, as if the occasion were festal. Even the judgegrew nervous with anticipation. In his frock coat and striped graytrousers he walked heavily from room to room, comparing the clock withhis watch, forgetting that he was not supposed to walk freely exceptwith acute suffering. Merle chattered blithely about how he would comeback to see them, with unfortunate effects upon Mrs. Penniman. 

The Wilbur twin knew this atmosphere. When little Georgie Finkboner haddied a few months before, had he not been taken to the house of mourningand compelled to stay through a distressing funeral? It was like thatnow, and he was uncomfortable beyond endurance. Twice Winona hadreminded him that he must go and put on his own Sunday clothes--nothingless than this would be thought suitable. He had said he would, but haddawdled skillfully and was still unfitly in bare feet and the shabbygarments of a weekday. He knew definitely now that he was not going tobe present at this terrible ceremony. 

He had no doubt there would be a ceremony--all the Whipples arriving intheir own Sunday clothes, maybe the preacher coming with them; and theywould sit silently in the parlour the way they did at the Finkbonerhouse, and maybe the preacher would talk, and maybe they would sing orpray or something, and then they would take Merle away. He was not to beblamed for this happily inaccurate picture; he was justified by thebehaviour of Winona and her mother. And he was not going to be there! Hewouldn't exactly run away; he felt a morbid wish to watch the thing ifhe could be apart from it; but he was going to be apart. He rememberedtoo well the scene at the Finkboner house--and the smell of tuberoses. Winona had unaccustomed flowers in the parlour now--not tuberoses, butalmost as bad. Until a quarter to three he expertly shuffled and dawdledand evaded. Then Winona took a stand with him. 

"Wilbur Cowan, go at once and dress yourself properly! Do you expect toappear before the Whipples that way?"

He vanished in a flurry of seeming obedience. He went openly through thefront door of the little house into the side yard, but paused not untilhe reached its back door, where he stood waiting. When he guessed he hadbeen there fifteen minutes he prepared to change his lurking place. Winona would be coming for him. He stepped out and looked round thecorner of the little house, feeling inconsequently the thrill of ascout among hostile red Indians as described in a favoured romance. 

The lawn between the little house and the big house was free ofsearchers. He drew a long breath and made a swift dash to furtherobscurity in the lee of the Penniman woodshed. He skirted the end ofthis structure and peered about its corner, estimating the distance tothe side door. But this was risky; it would bring him in view of akitchen window whence some busybody might observe him. But there was anopen window above him giving entrance to the woodshed. He leaped tocatch its sill and clambered up to look in. The woodshed was vacant ofPennimans, and its shadowy silence promised security. He dropped fromthe window ledge. There was no floor beneath, so that the drop wasgreater than he had counted on. He fell among loose kindling wood withmore noise than he would have desired, quickly rose, stumbled in thedusk against a bucket half filled with whitewash, and sprawled againinto a pile of soft coal. 

"Gee, gosh!" he muttered, heartily, as he rose a second time. 

Both the well-spread pallor of the whitewash and the sable sprinkling ofcoal dust put him beyond any chance of a felicitous public appearance. But he was safe in a dusky corner. He remained there, breathing heavily. At last he heard Winona call him from the Penniman porch. Twice shecalled; then he knew she would be crossing to the little house to knowwhat detained him. He heard her call again--knew that she would besearching the four rooms over there. She wouldn't think of the woodshed. He sat there a long while, steadily regarding the closed screen doorthat led to the kitchen, ready to mingle deceptively with the coalshould any one appear. 

At last he heard a bustle within the house. There were hurried steppingsto and fro by Winona and her mother, the heavy tread of the judge, amurmur of high voices. The Whipples must have come, and every one wouldbe at the front of the house. He crept from his corner, climbed to thefloor from where it had been opened for wood and coal, and went softlyto the kitchen door. He listened a moment through the screen, thenentered and went noiselessly up the back stairs. Coming to the head ofthe front stairway, he listened again. There were other voices in front, and he shrank to the wall. He gathered that only the Whipple stepmotherand Patricia had come--no other Whipples, no preacher. It might not havebeen so bad. Still he didn't want to be there. 

They were at the front door now, headed for the parlour. Someone pausedat the foot of the stairs, and in quick alarm he darted along the halland into an open door. He was in the neat bedroom of Winona, shortbreathed, made doubly nervous by boards that had creaked under histread. He stood listening. They were in the parlour, a babble of voicescoming up to him; excited voices, but not funeral voices. His eyes rovedthe chamber of Winona, where everything was precisely in its place. Hemapped out a dive under her bed if steps came up the stairs. He heardnow the piping voice of Patricia Whipple. 

"It's like in the book about Ben Blunt that was adopted by a kind oldgentleman and went up from rags to riches. "

This for some reason seemed to cause laughter below. 

He heard, from Winona: "Do try a piece of Mother's cake. Merle, dear, give Mrs. Whipple a plate and napkin. "

Cake! Certainly nothing like cake for this occasion had been intimatedto him! They hadn't had cake at the Finkboners. Things might have beendifferent, but they had kept still about cake. He listened intently, hearing laughing references to Merle in his new home. Then once moreWinona came to the front door and called him. 

"Wilbur--Wil-bur-r-r! Where can that child be!" he heard her demand. Shewent to the back of the house and more faintly he heard her again callhis name--"Wilbur, Wil-bur-r-r!" Then, with discernible impatience, moreshortly, "Wilbur Cowan!" He was intently regarding a printed placardthat hung on the wall beside Winona's bureau. It read:

 A gentleman makes no noise; a lady is serene. --Emerson. 

He remained silent. He was not going to make any noise. At length hecould hear preparations for departure. 

"Merle, dear, your hat is on the piano--Mother, hand him his hat--I'llbring his suitcase. "

"Well, I'll be sure to come back to see you all some day. "

"Yes, now don't forget us--no, we mustn't let him do that. "

They were out on the porch, going down the walk. The listener steppedlightly to a window and became also a watcher. Ahead walked PatriciaWhipple and her new brother. The stepmother and Mrs. Penniman followed. Then came Winona with the suitcase, which was of wicker. Judge Pennimanlumbered ponderously behind. At the hitching post in front was the ponycart and the fat pony of sickening memory. Merle was politely helpingthe step-mother to the driver's seat. It was over. But the watchersuddenly recalled something. 

In swift silence, descending the stairs, he entered the parlour. On astand beneath the powerful picture of the lion behind real bars was afrosted cake of rare beauty. Three pieces were gone and two more werecut. On top of each piece was the half of a walnut meat. He tenderlyseized one of these and stole through the deserted house, throughkitchen and woodshed, out to the free air again. Back of the woodshed hesat down on the hard bare ground, his back to its wall, looking into thegarden where Judge Penniman, in the intervals of his suffering, raised afew vegetables. It was safe seclusion for the pleasant task in hand. Hegloated rapturously over the cake, eating first the half of the walnutmeat, which he carefully removed. But he thought it didn't taste right. 

He now regarded the cake itself uncertainly. It was surely perfectcake. He broke a fragment from the thin edge and tasted it almostfearfully. It wasn't going right. He persisted with a larger fragment, but upon this he was like to choke; his mouth was dry and curiously noplace for even the choicest cake. He wondered about it in something likepanic, staring at it in puzzled consternation. There was the choicething and he couldn't eat it. Then he became aware that his eyes werehot, the lids burning; and there came a choking, even though he nolonger had any cake in his mouth. Suddenly he knew that he couldn't eatthe cake because he had lost his brother--his brother who had passed on. He gulped alarmingly as the full knowledge overwhelmed him. He waswishing that Merle had kept the knife, even if it wasn't such a goodknife, so he would have something to remember him by. Now he would havenothing. He, Wilbur, would always remember Merle, even if he was nolonger a twin, but Merle would surely forget him. He had passed on. 

Over by the little house he heard the bark of Frank, the dog. Frank'svoice was changing, and his bark was now a promising baritone. His ownertried to whistle, but made poor work of this, so he called, "Here, Frank! Here, Frank!" reckless of betraying his own whereabouts. Hisvoice was not clear, it still choked, but it carried; Frank camebounding to him. He had a dog left, anyway--a good fighting dog. Hiseyes still burned, but they were no longer dry, and his gulps wereperiodic, threatening a catastrophe of the most dreadful sort. 

Frank, the dog, swallowed the cake hungrily, eating it with a terribleease, as he was wont to eat enemy dogs. 

CHAPTER VIII

Midsummer faded into late summer, and Dave Cowan was still small-towningit. To the uninformed he might have seemed a staff, fixed and permanent, to Sam Pickering and the Newbern Center _Advance_. But Sam was notuninformed. He was wise in Dave's ways; he knew the longer Dave stayedthe more casually would he flit; an hour's warning and the _Advance_would be needing a printer. So Sam became aware on a day in earlySeptember that he would be wise to have a substitute ready. He knew thesigns. Dave would become abstracted, stand longer and oftener at thewindow overlooking the slow life of Newbern. His mind would already beoff and away. Then on an afternoon he would tell Sam that he must see aman in Seattle, and if Sam had taken forethought there would be a newprinter at the case next day. The present sojourn of Dave's had beenlonger than any Sam Pickering could remember, for the reason, it seemed, that Dave had been interested in teaching his remaining son a good loosetrade. 

Directly after the apotheosis of Merle his brother had been taken to the_Advance_ office where, perched upon a high stool, his bare legsintricately entwined among its rungs, he had been taught the surfacemysteries of typesetting. At first he was merely let to set up quads inhis stick, though putting leads between the lines and learning the useof his steel rule. Then he was taught the location of the boxes in thecase and was allowed to set real type. By the time Sam Pickering notedthe moving signs in Dave the boy was struggling with copy and winninghis father's praise for his aptitude. True, he too often neglected toreach to the upper case for capital letters, and the galley proofs ofhis takes were not as clean as they should have been, but he waslearning. His father said so. 

Every Wednesday he earned a real quarter by sitting against the wallback of the hand press and inking the forms while his father ran off theedition. This was better fun than typesetting. Before you was a longroller on two other long rollers, and at your right hand was a smallroller with which you picked up ink from a stone, rolling it across andacross with a spirited crackle; then you ran the small roller the lengthof the long roller; then you turned a crank that revolved the two lowerrollers, thus distributing the ink evenly over the upper one. After thatyou ran the upper roller out over the two forms of type on the pressbed. 

Dave Cowan, across the press, the sleeves of his pink-striped shirtrolled to his elbows, then let down a frame in which he had fixed avirgin sheet of paper, ran the bed of the press back under a weightedshelf, and pulled a mighty lever to make the imprint. Wilbur had heardthe phrase "power of the press. " He conceived that this was what thephrase meant--this pulling of the lever. Surmounting the framework ofthe press was a bronze eagle with wings out-spread for flight. Hisfather told him, the first day of his service, that this bird would flapits wings and scream three times when the last paper was run off. Thiswould be the signal for Terry Stamper, the devil, to go across toVielhaber's and fetch a pail of beer. Wilbur had waited for thisphenomenon, only to believe, after repeated disappointments, that it wasone of his father's jokes, though it was true that Terry Stamper broughtthe beer, which was drunk by Dave and Terry and Sam Pickering. Sam hadbeen folding the printed papers, while Terry Stamper operated a machinethat left upon each the name of a subscriber, dropping them into aclothes basket, which he later conveyed to the post office. Wilburenjoyed this work, running the long roller across the forms after eachimpression, spotting himself and his clothes with ink. After he hadlearned some more he would be a printer's devil like Terry, and fetchthe beer and run the job press and do other interesting things. Therewas a little thrill for him in knowing you could say devil in thisconnection without having people think you were using a bad word. 

But Dave's time had come. He "yearned over the skyline, where thestrange roads go down, " though he put it more sharply to Sam Pickeringone late afternoon:

"Well, Sam, I feel itchy-footed. "

"I knew it, " said Sam. "When are you leaving?"

"No train out till the six-fifty-eight. "

And Sam knew he would be meaning the six-fifty-eight of that same day. He never meant the day after, or the day after that. 

That evening Dave sauntered down to the depot, accompanied by his son. There was no strained air of expectancy about him, and no tediousmanagement of bags. He might have been seeking merely the refreshment ofwatching the six-fifty-eight come in and go out, as did a dozen or so ofthe more leisured class of Newbern. When the train came he greeted theconductor by his Christian name, and chatted with his son until itstarted. Then he stepped casually aboard and surrendered himself to itswill. He had wanted suddenly to go somewhere on a train, and now he wasgoing. "Got to see a man in San Diego, " he had told the boy. "I'll dropback some of these days. "

"Maybe you'll see the gypsies again, " said Wilbur a bit wistfully. 

But he was not cast down by his father's going; that was a thing thathappened or not, like bad weather. He had learned this about his father. And pretty soon, after he went to school a little more and learned tospell better, to use punctuation marks the way the copy said, andcapital letters even if you did have to reach for them, he, too, couldswing onto the smoking car of the six-fifty-eight--after she had reallystarted--and go off where gypsies went, and people that had learned goodloose trades. 

There was a new printer at the case in the _Advance_ office thefollowing morning, one of those who constantly drifted in and out ofthat exciting nowhere into which they so lightly disappeared by whim; agaunt, silent man, almost wholly deaf, who stood in Dave Cowan's placeand set type with machine-like accuracy or distributed it withloose-fingered nimbleness, seizing many types at a time and scatteringthem to their boxes with the apparent abandon of a sower strewing seed. He, too, was but a transient, wherever he might be found, but he had notalk of the outland where gypsies were, and to Wilbur he proved to be ofno human interest, so that the boy neglected the dusty office for themore attractive out-of-doors, though still inking the forms for theWednesday edition, because a quarter is a good thing to have. 

When Terry Stamper brought the pail of beer now the new printer drankabundantly of the frothy stuff, and for a time glowed gently with asuggestive radiance, as if he, too, were almost moved to tell of strangecities; but he never did. Nor did he talk instructively about thebeginnings of life and how humans were but slightly advanced simians. Hewould continue to set type, silent and detached, until an evening whenhe would want to go somewhere on a train--and go. He did not smoke, buthe chewed tobacco; and Wilbur, the apprentice, desiring to do all thingsthat printers did, strove to emulate him in this interesting vice; butit proved to offer only the weakest of appeals, so he presentlyabandoned the effort--especially after Winona had detected him with thestuff in his mouth, striving to spit like an elderly printer. Winona washorrified. Smoking was bad enough!

Winona was even opposed to his becoming a printer. Those advantages ofthe craft extolled by Dave Cowan were precisely what Winona deemedundesirable. A boy should rather be studious and of good habits andlearn to write a good hand so that he could become a bookkeeper, perhapseven in the First National Bank itself--and always stay in one place. Winona disapproved of gypsies and all their ways. Gypsies were rollingstones. She strove to entice the better nature of Wilbur with moralplacards bearing printed bits from the best authors. She gave him anentire calendar with an uplifting sentiment on each leaf. One payingproper attention could scarcely have lived the year of that calendarwithout being improved. Unfortunately, Wilbur Cowan never in the leastcared to know what day in the month it was, and whole weeks of thesehomilies went unread. Winona was watchful, however, and fertile ofresource. Aforetime she had devoted her efforts chiefly to Merle asbeing the better worth saving. Now that she had indeed saved him, madeand uplifted him beyond human expectation, she redoubled her attentionsto his less responsive, less plastic brother. Almost fiercely she wasbent upon making him the moral perfectionist she had made Merle. 

As one of the means to this end she regaled him often with tales of hisbrother's social and moral refulgence under his new name. The severanceof Merle from his former environment had been complete. Not yet had hecome back to see them. But Winona from church and Sunday-school broughtweekly reports of his progress in the esteem of the family which he nowadorned. Harvey D. Whipple was proud of his new son; had already come tofeel a real fatherhood for him, and could deny him nothing. He was sucha son as Harvey D. Had hoped to have. Old Gideon Whipple, too, was proudof his new grandson. The stepmother, for whom Fate had been circumventedby this device of adoption, looked up to the boy and rejoiced in herroundabout motherhood, and Miss Murtree declared that he was a perfectlittle gentleman. Also, by her account, he was studious, with a naturalfondness for the best in literature, and betrayed signs of an intellectsuch as, in her confidentially imparted opinion, the Whipple family, neither in root nor branch, had yet revealed. Patricia, the sister, hadabandoned all intention of running away from home to obtain the rightsort of companionship. 

Winona meant to pique and inspire Wilbur to new endeavour with thesetales, which, for a good purpose, she took the liberty of embellishingwhere they seemed to invite it--as how the Whipples were often heard towish that the other twin had been as good and well-mannered a boy asMerle--who did not use tobacco in any form--so they might have adoptedhim, too. Winona was perhaps never to understand that Wilbur could notpicture himself as despised and rejected. His assertion that he had notwished to be adopted by any Whipples she put down to envious bravado. Had he not from afar on more than one occasion beheld his brother ridingthe prophesied pony? But he would have felt embarrassed at meeting hisbrother now face to face. He liked to see him at a distance, on thewonderful pony, or being driven in the cart with other Whipples, and hefelt a great pride that he should have been thus exalted. But he wasshyly determined to have no contact with this splendid being. 

When school began in the fall he was again constrained to the halls oflearning. He would have preferred not to go to school, finding the freeouter life of superior interest; but he couldn't learn the good loosetrade without improving his knowledge of the printed word--though he hadnot been warned that printers must be informed about fractions, or evenlong division--but Winona being his teacher it was impracticable to beabsent on private affairs even for a day without annoying consequences. 

During the long summer every day but Sunday had been a Saturday in allessentials; now, though the hillsides blazed with autumn colour, ripenuts were dropping, the mornings sparkled a frosty invitation, and therewas a provocative tang of brush fires in the keen air, he must earn hisSaturdays, and might even of these earn but one in a long week. Sunday, to be sure, had the advantage of no school, but it had the disadvantageof church attendance, where one fell sleepy while the minister scolded;and Sunday afternoon, even if one might fare abroad, was clouded byreminders of the imminent Monday morning. It was rather a relief whensnow came to shroud the affable woods, bringing such cold that one mightas well be in a schoolroom as any place; when, as Winona put down inher journal, the vale of Newbern was "locked in winter's icy embrace, "and poor old Judge Penniman was compelled to while away the longforenoons with his feet on a stock of wood in the kitchen oven. 

From Dave Cowan came picture postcards addressed to his son, gay-coloured scenes of street life or public buildings, and on theseDave had written, "Having a good time, hope you are the same. " One ofthem portrayed a scene of revelry by night, and was entitled Sans SouciDance Hall, Denver, Colorado. Winona bribed this away from the recipientwith money. She wished Dave would use better judgment--choose thepicture of some good church or a public library. 

The Whipple family, including its latest recruit, continued remote. Wilbur would happily observe his one-time brother, muffled in robes offur, glide swiftly past in a sleigh of curved beauty, drawn by horsesthat showered music along the roadway from a hundred golden bells, butthere were no direct encounters save with old Sharon Whipple. Sharon, even before winter came, had formed a habit of stopping to speak toWilbur, pulling up the long-striding, gaunt roan horse and the buggywhich his weight caused to sag on one side to ask the boy idlequestions. Throughout the winter he continued these attentions, andonce, on a day sparkling with new snow, he took the rejected twin into acutter, enveloped him in the buffalo robe, and gave him a joyous rideout over West Hill along the icy road that wound through the sleeping, still woods. They were silent for the most of this drive. 

"You don't talk much, " said Sharon when the roan slowed for the ascentof West Hill and the music of the bells became only a silver murmur ofchords. The boy was silent, even at this, for while he was trying tothink of a suitable answer, trying to think what Winona would have himreply, Sharon flicked the roan and the music came loud again. There wasno more talk until Sharon pulled up in the village, the boy being tooshy to volunteer any speech while this splendid hospitality endured. 

"Have a good time?" demanded Sharon at parting. 

Wilbur tried earnestly to remember that he should reply in Winona'sformula, "I have had a delightful time and thank you so much for askingme, " but he stared at Sharon, muffled in a great fur coat and cap, holding the taut lines with enormous driving gloves, and could only say"Fine!" after which he stopped, merely looking his thanks. 

"Good!" said Sharon, and touching the outer tips of his frosted eyebrowswith a huge gloved thumb he clicked to the roan and was off to asprinkle of bell chimes. 

Wilbur resolved not to tell Winona of this ride, because he would haveto confess that he had awkwardly forgotten to say the proper words atthe end. Merle would not have forgotten. Probably Mr. Sharon Whipple, having found him wanting in polish, would never speak to him again. ButSharon did, for a week later, when Wilbur passed him where he hadstopped the cutter in River Street, the old man not only hailed him, butcalled him Buck. From his hearty manner of calling, "Hello, there, Buck!" it seemed that he had decided to overlook the past. 

 * * * * *

The advent of the following summer was marked by two events ofimportance; Mouser, the Penniman cat, after being repeatedly foiledthroughout the winter, had gained access to the little house on a daywhen windows and doors were open for cleaning, stalked the immobile bluejay, and falling upon his prey had rent the choice bird limb from limb, scattering over a wide space wings, feathers, cotton, and twisted wire. Mouser had apparently found it beyond belief that so beautiful a birdshould not be toothsome in any single part. But the discoverer of thissacrilege was not horrified as he would have been a year before. He hadeven the breadth of mind to feel an honest sympathy for poor Mouser, whohad come upon arsenic where it could not by any known law of Nature havebeen apprehended, and who for two days remained beneath the woodshedsick unto death, and was not his old self for weeks thereafter. Wilburwas growing up. 

Soon after this the other notable event transpired. Frank, the dog, became the proud but worried mother of five puppies, all multicolouredlike himself. It is these ordeals that mature the soul, and it was anolder Wilbur who went again to the _Advance_ office to learn the loosetrade, as his father had written him from New Orleans that he must besure to do. He had increased his knowledge of convention in the use ofcapital letters, and that summer, as a day's work, he set up a column ofleaded long primer which won him the difficult praise of Sam Pickering. Sam wrote a notice of the performance and printed it in the_Advance_--the budding craftsman feeling a double glow when he sat thisup, too. The item predicted that Wilbur Cowan, son of our fellowtownsman, Dave Cowan, would soon become one of the swiftest ofcompositors. 

This summer he not only inked the forms on Wednesday, but he waspermitted to operate the job press. You stood before this and turned alarge wheel at the left to start it, after which you kept it going withone foot on a treadle. Then rhythmically the press opened wide its mawand you took out the printed card or small bill and put in anotherbefore the jaws closed down. It was especially thrilling, because if youshould keep your hand in there until the jaws closed you wouldn't haveit any longer. 

But there was disquieting news about the loose trade he intended tofollow. A new printer brought this. He was the second since the deaf oneof the year before, the latter on an hour's notice having taken thesix-fifty-eight for Florida one night in early winter--like one of theidle rich, Sam Pickering said. The new printer, a sour, bald one ofmiddle age, reported bitterly that hand composition was getting to be nogood nowadays; you had to learn the linotype, a machine that was takingthe bread out of the mouths of honest typesetters. He had beheld one ofthese heinous mechanisms operated in a city office--by a slip of a girlthat wouldn't know how to hold a real stick in her hand--and things hadcome to a pretty pass. It was an intricate machine, with thousands ofparts, far more than seemed at all necessary. If you weren't right aboutmachinery, and too old to learn new tricks, what were you going to do?Get sent to the printer's home, that was all! The new printer drankheavily to assuage his gloom, even to a degree that caused HermanVielhaber to decline his custom, so that he must lean the gloomy hoursaway on the bar of Pegleg McCarron, where they didn't mind such things. Sam Pickering warned him that if this kept on there would no longer bejobs for hand compositors, even in country printing offices; that he, for one, would probably solve his own labour problem by installing amachine and running it himself. But the sad printer refused to be warnedand went from bad to worse. 

Wilbur Cowan partook of this pessimism about the craft, and wondered ifhis father had heard the news. If it had ceased to be important that abright boy should set up a column of long primer, leaded, in a day, hemight as well learn some other loose trade in which they couldn't inventa machine to take the bread out of your mouth. It was that summer hespent many forenoons on the steps of the ice wagon driven by his goodfriend, Bill Bardin. Bill said you made good-enough money deliveringice, and it was pleasant on a hot morning to rumble along the streets onthe back steps of the covered wagon, cooled by the great blocks of icestill in its sawdust. 

When they came to a house that took only twenty-five pounds Bill wouldlet him carry it in with the tongs--unless it was one where Bill, aknightly person, chanced to sustain more or less social relations withthe bondmaid. And you could chip off pieces of ice to hold in yourmouth, or cool your bare feet in the cold wet sawdust; and you didn'thave to be anywhere at a certain hour, but could just loaf along, givingpeople their ice when you happened to get there. He wondered, indeed, ifdelivering ice were not as loose a trade as typesetting had been, andwhether his father would approve of it. It was pleasanter than sittingin a dusty printing office, and the smells were less obtrusive. Also, Bill Bardin went about bareheaded and clad above the waist only in asleeveless jersey that was tight across his broad chest and gave his bigarms free play. He chewed tobacco, too, like a printer, but cautionedhis young helper against this habit in early youth. He said if indulgedin at too tender an age it turned your blood to water and you died ingreat suffering. Wilbur longed for the return of his father, so he couldtell him about the typesetting machine and about this other good loosetrade that had opened so opportunely. 

And there were other trades--seemingly loose enough--in which one drovethe most delightful wagons, and which endured the year round and not, aswith the ice trade, merely for the summer. There was, for example, driving an express wagon. Afternoons, when the ice chests of Newbern hadbeen replenished and Bill Bardin disappeared in the more obscureinterests of his craft, Wilbur would often ride with Rufus Paulding, Newbern's express agent. Rufus drove one excellent horse to a smartgreen wagon, and brought packages from the depot, which he deliveredabout the town. Being a companionable sort, he was not averse to WilburCowan's company on his cushioned seat. It was not as cool work asdelivering ice, and lacked a certain dash of romance present in theother trade, but it was lively and interesting in its own way, especially when Rufus would remain on his seat and let him carrypackages in to people with a book for them to sign. 

And there was the dray, driven by Trimble Cushman, drawn by two proudblack horses of great strength. This trade was a sort of elder, heavierbrother of the express trade, conveying huge cases of merchandise fromthe freight depot to the shops of the town. Progress was slower herethan with the express wagon, or even the ice wagon; you had to do lotsof backing, with much stern calling to the big horses, and often it tooka long time to ease the big boxes to the sidewalk--time and gruntingexclamations. Still it was not unattractive to the dilettante, and herode beside Trimble with profit to his knowledge of men and affairs. 

But better than all, for a good loose trade involving the direction ofhorses, was driving the bus from the Mansion House to the depot. Themajestic yellow vehicle with its cushioned, lavishly decorated interior, its thronelike seat above the world, was an exciting affair, even whenit rested in the stable yard. When the horses were hitched to it, andStarling Tucker from the high seat with whip and reins directed itsswift progress, with rattles and rumbles like a real circus wagon, itwas thrilling indeed. This summer marked the first admission of Wilburto an intimacy with the privileged driver which entitled him to mountdizzily to the high seat and rattle off to trains. He had patientlycourted Starling Tucker in the office of the Mansion House liverystable, sitting by him in silent admiration while he discoursedlearnedly of men and horses, helping to hitch up the dappled grays tothe bus, fetching his whip, holding his gloves, until it became a matterof course that he should mount to the high seat with him. 

This seemed really to be the best of all loose trades. On that highseat, one hand grasping an iron railing at the side, sitting bygrim-faced Starling Tucker in his battered hat, who drove carelesslywith one hand and tugged at his long red moustache with the other, itwas pleasantly appalling to reflect that he might be at any momentdashed to pieces on the road below; to remember that Starling himself, the daily associate of horses and a man of high adventure, had oncefallen from this very seat and broken bones--the most natural kind ofaccident, Starling averred, though gossip had blamed it on PeglegMcCarron's whisky. Not only was it delectable to ride in the high place, to watch trains come and go, to carry your load of travellers back tothe Mansion House, but there were interludes of relaxation when youcould sit about in the office of the stables and listen to agreeabletalk from the choice spirits of abundant leisure, with whom work seemedto be a tribal taboo, daily assembled there. The flow of anecdote wasoften of a pungent quality, and the amateur learned some words andphrases that would have caused Winona acute distress; but he learnedabout men and horses and dogs, and enlarged his knowledge of Newbern'sinner life, having peculiar angles of his own upon it from his othercontacts with its needs for ice and express packages and crates ofbulkier merchandise. 

His father had once said barbering was a good loose trade that enabledone to go freely about the world, but the boy had definitely eliminatedthis from the list of possible crafts, owing to unfortunate experienceswith none other than Judge Penniman, for the judge cut his hair. Atspaced intervals through the year Winona would give the order and thejudge would complainingly make his preparations. The victim was taken tothe woodshed and perched on a box which was set on a chair. The judgeswathed him with one of Mrs. Penniman's aprons, crowding folds of itinside his neckband. Then with stern orders to hold his head still therite was consummated with a pair of shears commandeered from plain andfancy dressmaking. Loath himself to begin the work, the judge alwayscame to feel, as it progressed, a fussy pride in his artistry; a pridenever in the least justified by results. To Wilbur, after these ordeals, his own mirrored head was a strange and fearsome apparition, the earsappearing to have been too carelessly affixed and the scanty remainderof his hair left in furrows, with pallid scalp showing through. Andthere were always hairs down his neck, despite the apron. Barbering wasnot for him--not when you could drive a bus to all trains, or even adray. 

There were also street encounters that summer with old Sharon Whipple, who called the boy Buck and jocularly asked him what he was doing tomake a man of himself, and whom he would vote for at the next election. One sunny morning, while Wilbur on River Street weighed the possibleattractions of the livery-stable office against the immediate certaintyof some pleasant hours with Rufus Paulding, off to the depot to get aload of express packages for people, Sharon in his sagging buggy pulledup to the curb before him and told him to jump in if he wanted a ride. So he had jumped in without further debate. 

Sharon's plump figure was loosely clad in gray, and his whimsical eyestwinkled under a wide-brimmed hat of soft straw. He paused to light acigar after the boy was at his side--the buggy continuing to sag asbefore--then he pushed up the ends of his eyebrows with the blunt thumb, clicked to the long-striding roan, and they were off at a telling trot. Out over West Hill they went, leaving a thick fog of summer dust intheir wake, and on through cool woods to a ridge from which the valleyopened, revealing a broad checker-board of ripening grain fields. 

"Got to make three of my farms, " volunteered Sharon after a silenthour's drive. 

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur, which seemed enough for them both until thefirst of the farms was reached. 

Sharon there descended, passing the reins to a proud Wilbur, for talkwith his tenant on the steps of the yellow frame farmhouse. Sharon benthis thick round leg to raise a foot to a rustic seat, and upon thecushion thus provided made figures in a notebook. After a time of this, while Wilbur excitingly held the roan horse, made nervous by a hive ofbees against the whitewashed fence, he came back to the buggy--whichsagged from habit even when disburdened of its owner--and they drove toanother farm--a red brick farmhouse, this time, with yellow rosesclimbing its front. Here Sharon tarried longer in consultation. Wilburstaunchly held the roan, listened to the high-keyed drone of a reaper ina neighbouring field, and watched the old man make more figures in hisblack notebook. He liked this one of the Whipples pretty well. He wasless talkative than Bill Bardin, and his speech was less picturesquethan Starling Tucker's or even Trimble Cushman's, who would oftenthreaten to do interesting and horrible things to his big dray horseswhen they didn't back properly; but Wilbur felt at ease with Sharon, even if he didn't say much or say it in startling words. 

When Sharon had done his business the farmer came to lead the roan tothe barn, and Sharon, taking a pasteboard box from the back of thebuggy, beckoned Wilbur to follow him. They went round the red farmhouse, along a grassy path carelessly bordered with flowers that grew as theywould, and at the back came to a little white spring house in which weremany pans of milk on shelves, and a big churn. The interior was cool anddim, and a stream of clear water trickled along a passage in the cementfloor. They sat on a bench, and Sharon opened his box to produce anastonishing number of sandwiches wrapped in tissue paper, a generousoblong of yellow cheese, and some segments of brown cake splendidlyenriched with raisins. 

"Pitch in!" said Sharon. 

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur, and did so with an admirable restraint, such asWinona would have applauded, nibbling politely at one of the sandwiches. 

"Ain't you got your health?" demanded the observant Sharon, capablyengulfing half a sandwich. 

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. 

"Eat like it then. "

So the boy became less conscious of his manners, and ate like it, toSharon's apparent satisfaction. Midway in the destruction of thesandwiches the old man drew from the churn a tin cup of what proved tobe buttermilk. His guest had not learned to like this, so for him heprocured another cup, and brought it brimming with sweet milk which hehad daringly taken from one of the many pans, quite as if he were athome in the place. 

"Milk's good for you, " said Sharon. 

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. 

"A regular food, as much as anything you want to name. "

"Yes, sir. " The boy agreed wholly, without wishing to name anything indisparagement of milk. 

They ate the sandwiches and cheese, and upon the guest was conferred thecake. There were three pieces, and he managed the first swiftly, but wascompelled to linger on the second, even with the lubricating help ofanother cup of milk. 

"Bring it along, " directed the host. So it was brought along to thebuggy, one piece in course of consumption and one carried to be eaten atsuperb leisure as the fed roan carried them down the hot road to stillanother farm. 

They drove back to Newbern in the late afternoon, still largely silent, though there was a little talk at the close on stretches of hill wherethe roan would consent to slacken his pace. 

"What you think of him?" Sharon demanded, nodding obliquely at the roan. 

"He's got good hocks and feet--good head and shoulders, too, " said theboy. 

"He has that, " affirmed Sharon. "Know horses?"

"Well, I--"

He faltered, but suddenly warmed to talk and betrayed an intimateknowledge of every prominent horse in Newbern. He knew Charley and Dick, the big dray horses; and Dexter, who drew the express wagon; he knew Boband George, who hauled the ice wagon; he knew the driving horses in theMansion stables by name and point, and especially the two dapple graysthat drew the bus. Not for nothing had he listened to the wise talk inthe stable office, or sat at the feet of Starling Tucker, who knewhorses so well he called them hawses. It was the first time he hadtalked to Sharon forgetfully. Sharon nodded his head from time to time, and the boy presently became shy at the consciousness that he had talkeda great deal. 

Then Sharon spoke of rumours that the new horseless carriage would soondo away with horses. He didn't believe the rumours, and he spokescornfully of the new machines as contraptions. Still he had seen somespecimens in Buffalo, and they might have something in them. They mightbe used in time in place of horse-drawn busses and ice wagons and drays. Wilbur was chilled by this prediction. He had more than half meant todrive horses to one of these useful affairs, but what if they were to berun by machinery? Linotypes to spoil typesetting by hand, and nowhorseless carriages to stop driving horses! He wondered if it would beany use to learn any trade. He would have liked to ask Sharon, buthardly dared. 

"Well, it's an age of progress, " said Sharon at last. "We got to expectchanges. "

Wilbur was at home on this topic. He became what Winona would havecalled informative. 

"We can't stop change, " he said in his father's manner. "First, therewas star dust, and electricity or something made it into the earth; andsome water and chemicals made life out of this electricity orsomething----"

"Hey?" said the startled Sharon, but the story of creation continued. 

"And there was just little animals first, but they got to be bigger, because they had to change; and pretty soon they become monkeys, andthen they changed some more, and stood up on their hind feet, and sothey got to be human beings like us--because--because they had tochange, " he concluded, lucidly. 

"My shining stars!" breathed Sharon. 

"And they lost their tails and got so they would wear neckties and havepost offices and depots and religions, " added the historian in a finalflash of memory. 

"Well, I'll be switched!" said Sharon. 

"It's electricity or something, " explained the lecturer. "My father saidso. "

"Oh!" said Sharon. 

"But he says there's a catch in it somewhere. "

"I should think there was, " said Sharon. "By gracious goodness, I shouldthink there was a catch in it somewhere! But you understand the wholething as easy as crack a nut, don't you?"

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. 

"Giddap there!" said Sharon. 

Wilbur did not tell Winona of this day's encounter with an authenticWhipple. He would have done so but for the dollar that Sharon absentlybestowed upon him from a crumple of bills when he left the buggy at theentrance to Whipple Old Place. Winona, he instantly knew, would counselhim to save the dollar, and he did not wish to save it. As fast as hisbare feet--with a stone bruise on one heel--would carry him he sped toSolly Gumble's. Yet not with wholly selfish intent. A section of plugtobacco, charmingly named Peach and Honey, was purchased for a quarteras a gift to Bill Bardin of the ice wagon. Another quarter secured threepale-brown cigars, with gay bands about their middles, to be lavishedupon the hero, Starling Tucker. 

CHAPTER IX

The colourful years sped. At fifteen Wilbur Cowan, suddenly alive tothis quick way of time, was looking back to the days of his heedlessyouth. That long aisle of years seemed unending, but it narrowed inperspective until earlier experiences were but queerly dissolvingshapes, wavering of outline, dimly discerned, piquant or sad in themind, but elusive when he would try to fix them. 

On a shining, full-starred night he stood before the little house in thePenniman side yard and bade farewell to this youth. A long time he gazedinto the arched splendour above. He had never noticed that the starswere so many and so bright; and they were always there, by day as wellas by night, so his father said. Many of them, on the same veraciousauthority, were peopled; some with people who were yet but monkeys likethe Vielhaber's Emil; some with people now come to be human likehimself; others with ineffable beings who had progressed in measurelessperiods of time beyond any human development that even Dave Cowan couldsurmise. 

The aging boy felt suddenly friendly with all those distant worlds, gladthey were there, so almost sociably near. On more than one of them, perhaps far off in that white streak they called the Milky Way, theremust be boys like himself, learning useful things about life, to readgood books and all about machinery, and have good habits, and so forth. Surely on one of those far worlds there was at least one boy likehimself, who was being a boy for the last time and would to-morrow be aman. For Wilbur Cowan, beneath this starry welter of creation--of worldsto be or in being, or lifeless hulks that had been worlds and wereoutworn--was on this June night uplifted to face the parting of theways. His last day had been lived as a boy with publicly bare feet. 

No more would he feel the soft run of new grass beneath his soles, orlonger need beware the chance nail or sharp stone in the way. On themorrow, presumably to be a day inviting to bare feet as had all theother days of his summers, remembered and forgotten, he would, when herose, put on stockings and stout shoes; and he would put them on worldwithout end through all the new mornings of his life, howsoever urgentlywith their clement airs they might solicit the older mode. It was asolemn thing to reflect upon, under a glittering heaven that held, ornot, those who might feel with him the bigness of the moment. Hesuffered a vision of the new shoes, stiffly formidable, side by side atthe foot of his bed in the little house. It left him feeling all hisyears. 

And he would wear long trousers! With tolerant amusement he saw himselfas of old, barefoot, bare-legged, the knee pants buttoned to the calicoblouse. It was all over. He scanned the stars a last time, dimly feelingthat the least curious of their inhabitants would be aware of thiscrisis. 

Perhaps on one of those blinking orbs people with a proper concern forother world events would be saying to one another: "Yes, he's grown upnow. Didn't you hear the big news? Why, to-morrow he's going to begindriving a truck for Trimble Cushman--got a job for the whole summer. "

If the announcement startled less than great news should, the speakercould surely produce a sensation by adding: "The first automobile truckin Newbern Center. "

And how had this immature being, capable out-of-doors boy though he was, come to be so exalted above his fellows? Sam Pickering's linotype hadfirst revealed his gift for machinery. For Sam had installed a linotype, and Wilbur Cowan had patiently mastered its distracting intricacies. Dave Cowan had informally reappeared one day, still attired withdecreasing elegance below the waist--his cloth-topped shoes but littlemore than distressing memories--and announced that he was now an ableoperator of this wondrous machine; and the harried editor of the_Advance_, stung to enterprise by flitting wastrels who tarried at hiscase only long enough to learn the name of the next town, had soughtrelief in machinery, even if it did take bread from the mouths of honesttypesetters. Their lack of preference as to where they earned therebread, their insouciant flights from town to town without notice, hadmade Sam brutal. He had ceased to care whether they had bread or not. SoDave for a summer had brought him surcease from help worries. 

The cynical journeyman printer of the moment, on a day when Dave triedout the new machine, had stood by and said she might set type but shecertainly couldn't justify it, because it took a human to do that, andhow would a paper look with unevenly ending lines? When Dave, seatedbefore the thing, proved that she uncannily could justify the lines oftype before casting them in metal, the dismayed printer had shuddered atthe mystery of it. 

Dave Cowan seized the moment to point out to his admiring son and otherbystanders that it was all the working of evolution. If you couldn'tchange when your environment demanded it Nature scrapped you. Handcompositors would have to learn to set type by machinery or go down inthe struggle for existence. Survival of the fittest--that was it. Thedoubting printer was not there to profit by this lecture. Though it wasbut five o'clock, he was down on the depot platform moodily waiting forthe six-fifty-eight. 

The next number of the _Advance_ was set by linotype, a circumstance ofwhich one of its columns spoke feelingly, and set, moreover, in thepresence of as many curious persons as could crowd about the operator. Among these none was so fascinated as Wilbur Cowan. He hung lovinglyabout the machine, his fingers itching to be at its parts. When work forthe day was over he stayed by it until the light grew dim in thelow-ceilinged, dusty office. He took liberties with its delicatestructure that would have alarmed its proud owner, playing upon it withwrench and screw driver, detaching parts from the whole for the purepleasure of putting them back. He thus came to an intimate knowledge ofthe contrivance. He knew what made it go. He early mastered its mereoperation. Sam Pickering felt fortified against the future. 

Then it developed that though Dave Cowan could perform ably upon theinstrument while it retained its health he was at a loss when itdeveloped ailments; and to these it was prone, being a machine oftemperament and airs, inclined to lose spirit, to sulk, even irritablyto refuse all response to Dave's fingering of the keyboard. Dave wassincerely startled when his son one day skillfully restored tone to thething after it had disconcertingly rebelled. Sam Pickering, on the pointof wiring for the mechanic who had installed his treasure, looked uponthe boy with awe as his sure hands wrought knowingly among the weirdestof its vitals. Dave was impressed to utter lack of speech, and resumedwork upon the again compliant affair without comment. Perhaps hereflected that the stern processes of his favourite evolution demandedmore knowledge of this machine than even he had acquired. 

 * * * * *

There ensued further profitable education for the young mechanic fromthe remarkable case of Sharon Whipple's first motor car. Sharon, thesummer before, after stoutly affirming for two years that he would neverhave one of the noisy things on the place, even though the Whipple NewPlace now boasted two--boasting likewise of their speed andconvenience--and even though Gideon Whipple jestingly called him afossilized barnacle on the ship of progress, had secretly bought a motorcar and secretly for three days taken instructions in its running fromthe city salesman who delivered it. His intention was to become daringlyexpert in its handling and flash upon the view of the discomfitedGideon, who had not yet driven a car. He would wheel carelessly up thedrive to the Whipple New Place in apparently contemptuous mastery of thething, and he would specifically deny ever having received any drivinglessons whatever, thus by falsehood overwhelming his brother withconfusion. 

In the stable, therefore, one afternoon he had taken his place at thewheel. Affecting a jovial ease of mind, he commanded the company of hisstableman, Elihu Titus, on the seat beside him. He wished a little toshow off to Elihu, but he wished even more to be not alone if somethinghappened. With set jaws and a tight grip of the wheel he had backed fromthe stable, and was rendered nervous in the very beginning by theapparent mad resolve of the car to continue backing long after it waswished not to. Elihu Titus was also rendered nervous, and was safely onthe ground before the car yielded to the invincible mass of a boxwoodhedge that had been forty years in growing. Sharon pointed his eyebrows. 

"It makes you feel like a helpless fool, " he confided to his hireling. 

"She's all right on this side, " said Elihu Titus, cannily peering at thenether mechanism in pretense that he had left his seat to do just that. 

The next start was happier in results. Down the broad driveway Sharonhad piloted the monster, and through the wide gate, though in a suddenshuddering wonder if it were really wide enough for his mount; then hehad driven acceptably if jerkily along back streets for an excitinghour. It wasn't so bad, except once when he met a load of hay andemerged with frayed nerves from the ordeal of passing it; and he hadbeen compelled to drive a long way until he could find space in which toturn round. The smarty that had sold the thing to him had turned in anarrow road, but not again that day would Sharon employ the whimsicallytreacherous gear of the retrograde. 

He came at last to a stretch of common that permitted a wide circle, andtook this without mishap. A block farther along he had picked up theCowan boy. He was not above prizing the admiration of this child for hismechanical genius. Wilbur exclaimed his delight at the car and lolledgingerly upon its luxurious back seat. He was taken full into thegrounds of the Whipple Old Place, because Sharon had suddenly conceivedthat he could not start the car again if he stopped it to let down hisguest. The car entered the wide gateway, which again seemed dangerouslynarrow to its driver, and purred on up the gravelled drive. When halfthe distance to the haven of the stable had been covered it betrayedsymptoms of some obscure distress, coughing poignantly. Sharon pretendednot to notice this. A dozen yards beyond it coughed again, feebly, plaintively, then it expired. There could be no doubt of its utterextinction. All was over. The end had come suddenly, almost painlessly. 

They got out and blankly eyed the lifeless hulk. After a moment of this, which was fruitless, Sharon spoke his mind concerning the car. For allthe trepidation it had caused him, the doubts and fears and panics, hetook his revenge in words of biting acidity--and he was through with thething. 

"Let's get it out of sight, " he said at last, and the three of thempushed it on along the drive to the shelter of the stable. 

Elihu Titus then breathed a long sigh and went silently to curry a horsein a neighbouring box stall. He knew when to talk and when not to. ButWilbur Cowan, wishing motor cars were in build more like linotypes, fearlessly opened the hood. 

"My shining stars!" murmured Sharon at this his first view of his car'smore intimate devices. "She's got innards like a human, ain't she?" Heinstantly beheld a vision of the man in the front of the almanac whoseenvelope is neatly drawn back to reveal his complicated structure inbehalf of the zodiacal symbols. "It's downright gruesome, " he added. Buthis guest was viewing the neat complexities of metal with real pleasureand with what seemed to the car's owner a practiced and knowing eye. 

"Understand 'em?" demanded Sharon. 

The boy hesitated. What he wished more than anything was freedom totake the thing apart, all that charming assemblage of still warm metaland pipes and wires. He wanted to know what was inside of things, whatmade them go, and--to be sure--what had made them stop. 

"Well, I could if I had a chance, " he said at last. 

"You got it, " said Sharon. "Spend all your born days on the old cadaverif you're so minded. " Already to Sharon it was an old car. He turnedaway from the ghastly sight, but stopped for a final warning: "But don'tyou ever tell anybody. I ain't wanting this to get out on me. "

"No, sir, " said Wilbur. 

"Maybe we ought to----" began Sharon, but broke off his speech with ahearty cough. He was embarrassed, because he had been on the point ofsuggesting that they call Doc Mumford. Doc Mumford was the veterinary. The old man withdrew. Elihu Titus appeared dimly in the background. 

"Ain't she one gosh-awful crazy hellion?" he called softly to Wilbur, and returned to the horse, whose mechanism was understandable. 

The boy was left sole physician to the ailing monster. He drew a longbreath of gloating and fell upon it. For three days he lived in grimed, greased, and oiled ecstasy, appeasing that sharp curiosity to know whatwas inside of things. The first day he took down the engine bit by bit. The clean-swept floor about the dismantled hulk was a spreading turmoilof parts. Sharon, on cool afterthought, had conceived that his purchasemight not have suffered beyond repair, but returning to survey thewreck, had thrown up his fat hands in a gesture of hopeless finality. 

"That does settle it, " he murmured. He pointed to the scattered members. "How in time did you ever find all them fiddlements in that littlespace?" Of course no one could ever put them back. 

He picked up the book that had come with the car, a book falselypretending to elucidate its mechanism, even to minor intelligences. Thebook was profuse in diagrams, and each diagram was profuse in lettersof the alphabet, but these he found uninforming. For the maker of thecar had unaccountably neglected to put A, B, or C on the partsthemselves, which rendered the diagrams but maddening puzzles. He threwdown the book, to watch the absorbed young mechanic who was franklypuzzled but still hopeful. 

"It's an autopsy, " said Sharon. He fled again, in the buggy drawn by theroan. "A fool and his money!" he called from the sagging seat. 

The second day passed with the parts still spread about the floor. ElihuTitus told Sharon the boy was only playing with them. Sharon said he wasglad they could furnish amusement, and mentally composed the beginningof what would be a letter of withering denunciation to the car's maker. 

But the third day the parts were unaccountably reassembled. Elihu Titusadmitted that every one of them was put back, though he hinted they wereprobably by no means where they had been. But Sharon, coming again tothe dissecting room at the day's end, was stricken with awe for theastounding genius that had put back all those parts. He felt a gleam ofhope. 

"She'd ought to go now, " said the proud mechanic. 

"You ought to know, " said Sharon. "You been plumb into her gizzard. "

"Only other thing I can think of, " continued the mechanic, "mebbe sheneeds more of that gasoline stuff. " He raised the cushion of the frontseat and unscrewed a cap. "We might try that, " he suggested, brightly. "This tank looks like she's empty. "

"Try it, " said Sharon, and the incredulous Elihu Titus was dispatched tothe village for a five-gallon tin of the gasoline stuff. Elihu wasincredulous, because in Newbern gasoline was until now something thatwomen cleaned white gloves with. But when the tank was replenished thecar came again to life, throbbing buoyantly. 

"I'll be switched!" said Sharon. 

A day later he was telling that his new car had broke down on him, butBuck Cowan had taken her all apart and found out the trouble in no time, and put her gizzard and lights and liver back as good as new. And BuckCowan himself came to feel quite unjustifiably a creator's pride in thecar. It was only his due that Sharon should let him operate it; perhapsnatural that Sharon should prefer him to. Sharon himself was never tobecome an accomplished chauffeur. He couldn't learn to relax at thewheel. 

So it was that the boy was tossed to public eminence on a day whenStarling Tucker, accomplished horseman, descended into the vale ofignominy by means of the Mansion House's new motor bus. Starling hadpermitted the selling agents to instruct him briefly in the operation ofthe new bus, though with lordly condescension, for it was his convictionthat a man who could tame wild horses and drive anything that wore haircould by no means fail to guide a bit of machinery that wouldn't r'arand run even if a newspaper blew across its face. He mounted the seat, on his first essay alone, with the jauntiness becoming a master ofvehicular propulsion. There may have been in his secret heart a bit oftrepidation, now that the instructor was not there. In fact, one of theassembled villagers who closely observed his demeanour related afterwardthat Star's face was froze and that he had hooked onto the wheel like hewas choking it to death. But the shining structure had glided off towardthe depot, its driver's head rigid, his glance strained upon the road'scentre. As it moved away Wilbur Cowan leaped to the rear steps and wascarried with it. He had almost asked Starling Tucker for the privilegeof a seat beside him, but the occasion was really too great. 

Five blocks down Geneseo Street Starling had turned out to permit thepassing of Trimble Cushman's loaded dray--and he had inexplicably, terribly, kept on turning out when there was no longer need for it. Frozen with horror, helpless in the fell clutch of circumstance, he satinert and beheld himself guide the new bus over the sidewalk and throughthe neat white picket fence of the Dodwell place. It demolished oneentire panel of this, made deep progress over a stretch of soft lawn, and came at last--after threatening a lawless invasion of the sanctityof domicile--to a grinding stop in a circular bed of pansies that wouldnever be the same again. There was commotion within the bus. Wild-eyedfaces peered from the polished windows. A second later, in the speech ofa bystander, "she was sweating passengers at every pore!"

Then came a full-throated scream of terror from the menaced house, andthere in the doorway, clad in a bed gown, but erect and defiant, was theperson of long-bedridden Grandma Dodwell herself. She brandished herlace cap at Starling Tucker and threatened to have him in jail if therewas any law left in the land. Excited citizens gathered to the scene, for the picket fence had not succumbed without protest, and the crashhad carried well. Even more than at the plight of Starling, theymarvelled at the miracle that had been wrought upon the agedsufferer--her that hadn't put foot to floor in twenty years. There wereoutcries of alarm and amazement, hasty suggestions, orders to StarlingTucker to do many things he was beyond doing; but above them all roseclear-toned, vigorous denunciation from the outraged owner of the latepansy bed, who now issued from the doorway, walked unsupported down theneat steps, and started with firm strides for the offender. StarlingTucker beheld her approach, and to him, as to others there assembled, itwas as if the dead walked. He climbed swiftly down upon the oppositeside of his juggernaut, pushed a silent way through the crowd, andstrode rapidly back to town. Starling's walk had commonly been aloose-jointed swagger, his head up in challenge, as befitted a hero ofmanifold adventure with wild horses. He now walked head down with noswagger. 

But the crowd ceased to regard him, for now a slight boyish figure--noneother than that of Wilbur Cowan--leaped to the seat, performed swiftmotions, grasped the fateful wheel, and made the bus roar. The smell ofburned gasoline affronted the pretty garden. Wheels revolved savagelyamong the bruised roots of innocent pansies. Grandma Dodwell screamedanew. Then slowly, implacably hesitant, ponderous but determined, thehuge bus backed along the track it had so cruelly worn in the sward--outthrough the gap in the fair fence, over the side-walk and into the road, rocking perilously, but settling level at last. Thereupon the young herohad done something else with mysterious handles, and the bus glidedswiftly on to the depot, making the twelve-two in ample time. 

Great moments are vouchsafed only to those souls fortified to survivethem. To one who had tamed the proud spirit of Sharon Whipple's hellionit was but lightsome child's play to guide this honest and amiable newbus. To the Mansion he returned in triumph with a load of passengers, driving with zest, and there receiving from villagers inflamed by talesof his prowess an ovation that embarrassed him with its heartiness. Hehastened to remove the refulgent edifice, steering it prudently to itsstation in the stable yard. Then he went to find the defeated StarlingTucker. That stricken veteran sat alone amid the ruins of his toppledempire in the little office, slumped and torpid before the cold, rustystove. He refused to be comforted by his devotee. He said he would nevertouch one of them things again, not for no man's money. The Darwinianhypothesis allows for no petty tact in the process of evolution. Starling Tucker was unfit to survive into the new age. Unable to adapthimself, he would see the Mansion's stable become a noisome garage, while he performed humble and gradually dwindling service to a fewremaining horses. 

Wilbur Cowan guided the Mansion's bus for two days. He longed for it asa life work, but school was on and he was not permitted to abandon this, even for a glorious life at the wheel. There came a youth in neatuniform to perform this service--described by Starling Tucker as a youngsquirt that wouldn't know one end of a hawse from the other. Only onSaturdays--on Saturdays openly and clandestinely on Sundays--was therepresent on the driver's seat a knowing amateur who could have sat thereevery day but for having unreasonably to learn about compound fractionsand geography. 

CHAPTER X

Now school was over for another summer and Trimble Cushman's dray couldbe driven at a good wage--by a boy overnight become a man. There werestill carpers who would regard him as a menace to life and limb. JudgePenniman was among these. A large truck in sole charge of a boy--stillin his teens, as the judge put it--was not conducive to publictranquillity. But this element was speedily silenced. The immatureWilbur drove the thing acceptably, though requiring help on the largerboxes of merchandise, and Trimble Cushman, still driving horses on hisother truck, was proud of his employee. Moreover, the boy became in highrepute for his knowledge of the inner mysteries of these new mechanisms. New cars appeared in Newbern every day now, and many of them, developingailments of a character more or less alarming to their purchasers, werebrought to his distinguished notice with results almost uniformlygratifying. He was looked up to, consulted as a specialist, sent for tominister to distant roadside failures, called in the night, respectedand rewarded. 

It was a new Newbern through whose thoroughfares the new motor truck ofTrimble Cushman was so expertly propelled. Farm horses still professedthe utmost dismay at sight of vehicles drawn by invisible horses, andtheir owners often sought to block industrial progress by agitation fora law against these things, but progress was triumphant. The chamber ofcommerce recorded immense gains in population. New factories and millshad gone up beside the little river. New people were on the streets orliving in their new houses. New merchants came to meet the new demandfor goods. 

The homy little town was putting on airs of a great city. There wasalready a Better Newbern club. The view down River Street from itsjunction with State, Masonic Hall on the left and the new five-storyWhipple block on the right, as preserved on the picture postcards soldby the Cut-Rate Pharmacy, impressed all purchasers with the town'svitality. The _Advance_ appeared twice a week, outdoing its rival, the_Star_, by one issue; and Sam Pickering, ever in the van of progress, was busy with plans for making his journal a daily. 

Newbern was coming on, even as boys were coming on from bare feet toshoes on week-days. Ever and again there were traffic jams on RiverStreet, a weaving turmoil of farmers' wagons, buggies, delivery carts, about a noisy, fuming centre of motor vehicles. High in the centre wouldbe the motor truck of Trimble Cushman, loaded with cases and nursedthrough the muddle by a cool, clear-eyed youth, who sat with delicate, sure hands on a potent wheel. Never did he kill or maim either citizenor child, to the secret chagrin of Judge Penniman. Traffic jams to himwere a part of the day's work. 

When he had performed for a little time this skilled labour for TrimbleCushman it was brought to him one day that he was old indeed. For heobserved, delivering a box to Rapp Brothers, jewellery, that from thesidewalk before that establishment he was being courted by a small boy;a shy boy with bare feet and freckles who permanently exposed two frontteeth, and who followed the truck to the next place of delivery. Here, when certain boxes had been left, he seated himself, as ifabsentmindedly, upon the remote rear of the truck and was borne toanother stopping place. The truck's driver glanced back savagely at him, but not too savagely; then pretended to ignore him. 

The newcomer for an hour hung to the truck leechlike, without winningfurther recognition. Then by insensible gradations, by standing on thetruck bed as it moved, by edging forward toward the high seat, bysilently helping with a weighty box, it seemed he had acquired the rightto mount to the high seat of honour itself. He did this without spokenwords, yet with an ingratiating manner. It was a manner that had beenused, ages back, by the lordly driver of the present truck, when he hadformed alliances with drivers of horse-drawn vehicles. He recognized itas such and turned to regard the courtier with feigned austerity. 

"Hello, kid!" he said, with permitting severity. But secretly herejoiced. Now he was really old. 

 * * * * *

Winona viewed the latest avocation of her charge with little enthusiasm. It compelled a certain measure of her difficult respect, especially whenshe beheld him worm his truck through crowded River Street with asupreme disregard for the imminent catastrophe--which somehow neverensued. But it lacked gentility. At twenty-eight Winona was not onlyperfected in the grammar of morals, more than ever alert for infractionsof the merely social code, but her ideals of refinement and elegance hadbecome more demanding. She would have had the boy engage in a pursuitthat would require clean hands and smart apparel and bring him incontact with people of the right sort. She stubbornly held out to himthe shining possibility that he might one day rise to the pinnacle of aclerical post in the First National Bank. 

True, he had never betrayed the faintest promise of qualifying for thiseminence, and his freely voiced preferences sweepingly excluded it fromthe catalogue of occupations in which he might consent to engage. ButWinona was now studying doctrines that put all power in the heart'sdesire. Out of the infinite your own would come to you if you held thethought, and she serenely held the better thought for Wilbur, even inthe moment of mechanical triumphs that brimmed his own cup of desire. She willed him to prefer choicer characters than the roughs he consortedwith, to aspire to genteel occupation that would not send him back atthe day's end grimed, reeking with low odours, and far too hungry. 

His exigent appetite, indeed, alarmed her beyond measure, because hecried out for meat, whereas Winona's new books said that meat eaterscould hope for little reward of the spirit. A few simple vegetables, fruits, and nuts--these permitted the soul to expand, to attain harmonywith the infinite, until one came to choose only the best among idealsand human associates. But she learned that she must in this casecompromise, for a boy demanding meat would get it in one place if notanother. If not at the guarded Penniman table, then at the low resortnext to Pegleg McCarron's of one T-bone Tommy, where they commonlydevoured the carcasses of murdered beasts and made no secret of it. 

He even rebelled at fabrications, highly extolled in the gospel of cleaneating, which were meant to placate the baser minded by theirresemblances to meat--things like nut turkey and mock veal loaf andleguminous chicken and synthetic beefsteak cooked in pure vegetableoils. These he scorned the more bitterly for their false pretense, demanding plain meat and a lot of it. The nations cited by Winona thathad thrived and grown strong on the produce of the fields left himunimpressed. He merely said, goaded to harshness, that he was not goingto be a Chinese laundryman for any one. 

Of what avail to read the lyrics of a great Hindu vegetarian poet tothis undeveloped being? Still Winona laboured unceasingly to bring lightto the dark place. Teaching a public school for eight years haddeveloped a substratum of granite determination in her character. Shewould never quit. She was still to the outer eye the slight, brownWinona of twenty--perky, birdlike, with the quick trimness of a wingingswallow, a little sharper featured perhaps, but superior in acuteness ofdesire and persistence, and with some furtive, irresponsible girlishnesslurking timorously back in her bright glance. 

She still secretly relished the jesting address of Dave Cowan, when atlong intervals he lingered in Newbern from cross-country flights. Itthrilled her naughtily to be addressed as La Marquise, to be accused ofgoings-on at the court of Louis XVIII, about which the less said thebetter. She had never brought herself to wear the tan silk stockings ofinvidious allure, and she still confined herself to her mother'splainest dressmaking, yearning secretly for the fancy kind, but neverwith enough daring. Lyman Teaford still came of an evening to play hisflute acceptably, while Winona accompanied him in many an amorousmorceau. Lyman, in the speech of Newbern, had for eight years been goingwith Winona. But as the romantically impatient and sometimes a bitsnappish Mrs. Penniman would say, he had never gone far. 

 * * * * *

Winona rejoiced a year later when golf promised, at least for a summer, to snatch Wilbur Cowan from the grimy indistinction of a mechanic'scareer. For thriving and aspiring Newbern had eased one of its growingpains with a veritable golf course, and the whilom machinery enthusiastbecame smitten with this strange new sport. Winona rejoiced, because itwould bring him into contact with people of the better sort, for ofcourse only these played the game. Her charge, it is true, engaged inthe sport as a business, and not as one seeking recreation, but thedesired social contact was indubitable. To carry over the course a bagor two of clubs for the elect of Newbern was bound to be improving. 

And it was true that he now consorted daily through a profitable summerwith people who had heretofore been but names to him. But Winona hadneglected to observe that he would meet them not as a social equal butas a hireling. This was excusable in her, because she had only thevaguest notions of golf or of the interrelations between caddie andplayer. One informed in the ways of the sport could have warned her thatcaddies inevitably become cynical toward all people of the sort onecares to meet. Compelled by a rigid etiquette to silent, unemotionalformality, they boil interiorly with contempt for people of the bettersort, not only because their golf is usually atrocious--such as everycaddie brilliantly surpasses in his leisure moments--but because thespeech provoked by their inveterate failures is commonly all too human. 

So the results of Wilbur Cowan's contact with people Winona wouldapprove, enduring for a mercifully brief summer and autumn, were notwhat Winona had fondly preconceived. He had first been attracted to thecourse--a sweet course, said the golf-architect who had laid it out overthe rolling land south of town--by the personality of one John KnoxMcTavish, an earnest Scotchman of youngish middle age, procured fromafar to tell the beginning golfers of Newbern to keep their heads downand follow through and not to press the ball. As John spoke, it was"Don't pr-r-r-r-ess th' ball. " He had been chosen from among othercandidates because of his accent. He richly endowed his words with r's, making more than one grow where only one had grown before. It was thisvocal burriness that drew the facile notice of Wilbur. He delighted tohear John McTavish talk, and hung about the new clubhouse, apparentlywithout purpose, until John not only sanctioned but besought hispresence, calling him Laddie and luring him with tales of the monstrousgains amassed by competent caddies. 

The boy lingered, though from motives other than mercenary. His cup wasfull when he could hear John's masterful voice addressed to Mrs. Rapp, Junior, or another aspirant. 

"R-r-remember, mum, th' ar-r-r-um close, th' head down--and don'tpr-r-r-ress th' ball. "

Yet he was presently allured by a charm even more imperious, the charmof the game itself. For John at odd moments would teach him the use ofthose strange weapons, so that he had the double thrill of standingunder the torrential r's addressed to himself and of feeling the sharp, clean impact of the club head upon a ball that flew a surprisingdistance. His obedient young muscles soon conformed to the few masterlaws of the game. He kept down, followed through and forebore, againstall human instinct, to press the ball. 

By the end of Newbern's golfing season he was able to do almostunerringly what so many of Newbern's better sort did erratically and atintervals. And the talk of John Knox McTavish about the wealth accruingto alert caddies had proved to be not all fanciful. In addition to thestipend earned for conventional work, there were lost balls in abundanceto be salvaged and resold. 

"Laddie, " said John McTavish, "if I but had the lost-ball pur-r-rivilegeof yon sweet courr-r-se and could insu-r-r-e deliver-r-r-y!"

For the better sort of Newbern, despite conscientious warnings for whichthey paid John McTavish huge sums, would insist upon pressing the ballin the face of constant proof that thus treated it would slice into therough to cuddle obscurely at the roots of tall grass. 

Wilbur Cowan became a shrewd hunter and a successful merchandiser ofgolf balls but slightly used. Newbern's better sort denounced thescandal of this, but bought of him clandestinely, for even in that farday, when golf balls in price were yet within reach of the commonpeople, few of them liked to buy a new ball and watch it vanish foreverafter one brilliant drive that would have taken it far down the fairwayexcept for the unaccountable slice. 

 * * * * *

On the whole his season was more profitable than that of the yearbefore, when he had nursed the truck of Trimble Cushman through thetraffic jams of River Street, and he was learning more about the worldof men if less about gas engines. Especially did the new sport put himinto closer contact with old Sharon Whipple. Having first denounced thegolf project as a criminal waste of one hundred and seventy-five acresof prime arable land, Sharon had loitered about the scene of the crimeto watch the offenders make a certain kind of fools of themselves. Fromthe white bench back of the first tee this cynic would rejoicemirthfully at topped or sliced drives or the wild swing that spends allits vicious intent upon the imponderable air. His presence came to be atrial to beginning players, who took no real pleasure in the game untilthey reached the second tee, beyond the ken of the scoffer. 

But this was perilous sport for Sharon Whipple. Day after day, lookinginto the whirlpool, he was--in a moment of madness--himself to leap overthe brink. On an afternoon had come his brother Gideon and Rapp, Senior, elated pupils of John McTavish, to play sportingly for half a ball ahole. They ignored certain preliminary and all-too-pointed comments ofthe watcher. They strode gallantly to the tee in turn and exhibited theadmirable form taught them by John. They took perfect practice swings. They addressed the ball ceremoniously, waggled the club at it, firstsoothingly, then with distinct menace, looked up to frown at a spot fardown the fairway, looked back, exhaled the breath, and drove. Rapp, Senior, sliced into the rough. Gideon Whipple hooked into the rough. 

Sharon Whipple mocked them injuriously. His ironic shouts attracted thenotice of arriving players. Gideon Whipple stayed placid, smilinggrimly, but Rapp, Senior, was nettled to retort. 

"Mebbe you could do a whole lot better!" he called to Sharon in tonesunnecessarily loud. 

Sharon's reply, in a voice eminently soothing and by that calculatedfurther to irritate the novice, was in effect that Rapp, Senior, mightsafely wager his available assets that Sharon Whipple could do better. 

"Well, come on and do it then if you're so smart!" urged Rapp, Senior. "Come on, once--I dare you!"

Sharon scorned--but rather weakly--the invitation. Secretly, through hishostile study of the game, he had convinced himself that he by divineright could do perfectly what these people did so clumsily. Again andagain his hands had itched for the club as he watched futile drives. Heknew he could hit the ball. He couldn't help hitting it, stuck up theway it was on a pinch of sand--stuck up like a sore thumb. How did theymiss it time after time? He had meant to test his conviction insolitude, but why not put it to trial now, and shame this doubting andinept Rapp, Senior?

"Oh, well, I don't mind, " he said, and waddled negligently to the tee. 

Rapp, Senior, voiced loud delight. Gideon Whipple merely stood safelyback without comment, though there was a malicious waiting gleam in hiseyes. 

"You folks make something out of nothing, " scolded Sharon, fussily. 

Grasping the proffered club he severely threatened with it the new ballwhich Rapp, Senior, had obligingly teed up for him. In that moment hefelt a quick strange fear, little twinges of doubt, a suspicion that allwas not well. Perhaps the sudden hush of those about him conduced tothis. Even newly arrived players in the background waited in silence. Then he recovered his confidence. There was the ball and there was theclub--it was easy, wasn't it? Make a mountain out of a mole hill, wouldthey? He'd show them!

Amid the hanging silence--like a portent it overhung him--he raised thestrange weapon and brought it gruntingly down with all the strength ofhis stout muscles. 

 * * * * *

In the fading light of seven o'clock on that fair summer's evening JohnMcTavish for the hundredth time seized the heavy arms of Sharon Whippleand bent them back and up in the right line. Then Sharon did the thingfaithfully in his own way, which was still, after an hour's trial, notthe way of John McTavish. 

"Mon, what have I told ye?" expostulated John. He had quit callingSharon Sir-r-r. Perhaps his r's were tired, and anyway, Sharon calledhim Sandy, being unable to believe that any Scotchman would not havethis for one or another of his names. "Again I tell ye, th' body mustbend between th' hips an' th' neck, but ye keep jer-r-rkin' the head tolook up. "

"But, Sandy, I've sprained my back trying to bend from the hips, "protested the plaintive Sharon. 

"Yer-r-r old car-r-r-cass is musclebound, to be sur-r-e, " concededJohn. "You can't hope to bend it the way yon laddie does. " He pointed toWilbur Cowan, who had been retrieving balls--from no great distance--hitout by the neophyte. 

"Can he do it?" questioned Sharon. 

"Show 'um!" ordered John. 

And Wilbur Cowan, coming up for the driver, lithely bent to send threeballs successively where good golf players should always send them. Sharon blinked at this performance, admiring, envious, and againhopeful. If a child could do this thing----

"Well, I ain't giving up, " he declared. "I'll show some people beforeI'm through. "

He paused, hearing again in his shamed ears the ironic laughter of Rapp, Senior, at the three wild swings he had made before--in an excess ofcaution--he had struck the ground back of the immune ball and raked it apitiful five feet to one side. He heard, too, the pleased laughter inthe background, high, musical peals of tactless women and thefull-throated roars of brutal men. He felt again the hot flush on hischeeks as he had slunk from the dreadful scene with a shamed effort tobrazen it out, followed by the amused stare of Gideon Whipple. And hehad slunk back when the course was cleared, to be told the simple secretof hitting a golf ball. He would condescend to that for the sake, on anear day, of publicly humiliating a certain vainglorious jewellerydealer. But apparently now, while the secret was simple enough totell--it took John McTavish hardly a score of burry words to tell itall--it was less simple to demonstrate. It might take him three or evenfour days. 

"Ye've done gr-r-rand f'r-r a beginnerr-r, " said John McTavish, wearily, perfunctorily. 

"I'll tell you, " said Sharon. "I ain't wanting this to get out on me, that I come sneaking back here to have you teach me the silly game. "

"Mon, mon!" protested the hurt McTavish. 

"So why can't Buck here come up and teach me in private? There's openspace back of the stables. "

"Ye cud do wor-r-rse, " said John. "And yer-r-r full hour-r-'s lesson nowwill be two dollar-r-rs. "

"Certainly, McTavish, " said Sharon, concealing his amazement. He couldno longer address as Sandy one who earned two dollars as lightly asthis. 

There was a spacious opening back of the stable on the Whipple OldPlace--space and the seclusion which Sharon Whipple consideredimperative. Even Elihu Titus was sent about his business when he came toobserve; threatened with an instant place in the ranks of the unemployedif he so much as breathed of the secret lessons to a town now said to becomposed of snickering busybodies. The open space immediately back ofthe stable gave on wider spaces of pasture and wood lot. 

CHAPTER XI

Archaeologists of a future age will doubtless, in their minuteexplorations of this region, come upon the petrified remains of golfballs in such number as will occasion learned dispute. Found soprofusely and yet so far from any known course, they will perhaps giverise to wholly erroneous surmises. Prefacing his paper with a referenceto lost secrets once possessed by other ancients, citing without doubtthat the old Egyptians knew how to temper the soft metal of copper, acertain scientist will profoundly deduce from this deposit of balls, farfrom the vestiges of the nearest course, that people of this remote daypossessed the secret of driving a golf ball three and a half miles, andhe will perhaps moralize upon the degeneracy of his own times, when thelongest drive will doubtless not exceed a scant mile. 

For three days Sharon sprayed out over the landscape, into idealgolf-ball covert, where many forever eluded even the keen eyes of WilburCowan, one hundred balls originally purchased by the selecter golfingset of Newbern. Hereupon he refused longer to regard the wooden driveras a possible instrument of precision, and forever renounced it. ElihuTitus heard him renounce it balefully in the harness room one lateafternoon, and later entering that apartment found the fragments of ashattered driver. 

It remained for Wilbur Cowan to bring Sharon into the game by anotheravenue. A new campaign was entered upon, doubtfully at first by Sharon, at length with dawning confidence. He was never to touch a wooden club. He was to drive with an iron, not far, but truly; to stay always in thecentre of the fairway and especially to cultivate the shorter approachshots and the use of the putter. The boy laboured patiently with hispupil, striving to persuade him that golf was more than a trial ofstrength. From secret lessons back of the stable they came at length tofurtive lessons over the course at hours when it was least played. JohnKnox McTavish figured at these times as consulting expert. 

"It's th' shor-r-t game that tells th' stor-r-r-y, " said John; andSharon, making his whole game a short game, was presently telling thestory understandably, to the vast pride of the middle man who providedendless balls for his lessons. 

It was a day of thrills for them both when Rapp, Senior, publiclychallenged and accepting with dreams of an easy conquest, bent downbefore the craft of Sharon Whipple. Sharon, with his competent iron in ashort half-arm swing--he could not, he said, trust the utensil beyondthe tail of his eye--sent the ball eighteen times not far but straight, and with other iron shots coaxed it to the green, where he sank it withquite respectable putting. Rapp, Senior, sliced his long drivesbrilliantly into shaded grassy dells and scented forest glades, where hetrampled scores of pretty wild flowers as he chopped his way out again. Rapp, Senior, made the course excitingly in one hundred andthirty-eight; Sharon Whipple, playing along safe and sane lines, camethrough with one hundred and thirty-five, and was a proud man, andlooked it, and was still so much prouder than he looked that heshuddered lest it get out on him. Later he vanquished, by the sametactics, other men who used the wooden driver with perfect form inpractice swings. 

Contests in which he engaged, however, were likely to be marred byregrettable asperities rising from Sharon's inability to grasp the nicersubtleties of golf. It seemed silly to him not to lift his ball out ofsome slight depression into which it had rolled quite by accident; notto amend an unhappy lie in a sand trap; and he never came to believethat a wild swing leaving the ball untouched should be counted as astroke. People who pettishly insisted upon these extremes of the game hesneeringly called golf lawyers. When he said that he made a hole innine, he meant nine or thereabouts--approximately nine; nice people, hethought, should let it go at that. So he became feared on the course, not only for his actual prowess but for his matchless optimism incasting up his score. He was a pleased man, and considered golf a goodgame; and he never forgot that Wilbur Cowan had made him the golfer hewas. More than ever was he believing that Harvey D. Whipple had chosenwrongly from available Cowans. On the day when he first made the Newberncourse in, approximately, one hundred and twenty--those short-arm ironshots were beginning to lengthen down the centre of the fairway--he wassure of it. 

 * * * * *

It must be said that Sharon was alone in this conviction. The othersmost concerned, had he allowed it to be known, would have been amazed byit--Winona Penniman most of all. Winona's conviction was that therejected Cowan twin conspicuously lacked those qualities that would makehim desirable for adoption by any family of note, certainly not byWhipples. He had gone from bad to worse. Driving a truck had been bad. There had been something to say in its favour in the early stages of hiscareer, until the neophyte had actually chosen to wear overalls like anycommon driver. In overalls he could not be mistaken for a gentlemanamateur moved by a keen love for the sport of truck driving--and golfwas worse. Glad at first of this change in his life work, Winona hadbeen shocked to learn that golf kept people from the churches. And theclothes, even if they did not include overalls, were not genteel. Wilburwore belted trousers of no distinction, rubber-soled sneakers of aneutral tint, and a sweater now so low in tone that the preciseintention of its original shade was no longer to be divined. A rowdyishcap completed the uniform. No competent bank president, surveying theensemble, would have for a moment considered making a bookkeeper out ofthe wearer. He was farther than ever before, Winona thought, from acareer of Christian gentility in which garments of a Sabbath grandeurare worn every day and proper care may be taken of the hands. 

It was late in this summer that she enforced briefly a demand forgenteel raiment, and kept the boy up until ten-thirty of a sleepyevening to manicure his nails. The occasion was nothing less than thesixteenth birthday of Merle Whipple, to be celebrated by an afternoonfestivity on the grounds of his home. The brothers had met briefly andcasually during Merle's years as a Whipple; but this was to be an affairof ceremony, and Winona was determined that the unworthy twin should--atleast briefly--appear as one not socially impossible. 

She browbeat him into buying a suit such as those that are worn byjaunty youths in advertisements, including haberdashery of supremeelegance, the first patent-leather shoes worn by this particular Cowan, and a hat of class. He murmured at the outlay upon useless finery. Itmaterially depleted his capital--stored with other treasure in a tin boxlabelled "Cake" across its front. But Winona was tenacious. He murmured, too, at the ordeal of manicuring, but Winona was insistent, and labouredto leave him with the finger tips of one who did not habitually engagein a low calling. 

He fell asleep at the final polishing, even after trying to fix his gazeupon the glittering nails of the hand Winona had relinquished, and whileshe sought to impress him with the importance of the approachingfunction. There would be present not only the Whipples, but theirguests, two girl friends of Patricia from afar and a school friend ofMerle's; there would be games and refreshment and social converse, andWinona hoped he would remember not to say "darn it" any time in such ofthe social converse as he provided; or forget to say, on leaving, what acharming time it was and how nice every one had been to ask him. Hedozed through much of this instruction. 

Yet Winona, the next day, felt repaid for her pains. Arrayed in the newsuit, with the modish collar and cravat, the luminous shoes and the hatof merit, the boy looked entirely like those careless youths in thepictures who so proudly proclaim the make of their garments. No oneregarding him would have dreamed that he was at heart but a golf caddieor a driver of trucks for hire. Winona insisted upon a final polish ofhis nails, leaving them with a dazzling pinkish glitter, and she sprayedand anointed him with precious unguents, taking especial pains that hisunruly brown hair should lie back close to his head, to show the wave. 

When he installed her beside him in Sharon Whipple's newest car, pressedupon the youth by its owner for this occasion, she almost wished thatshe had been a bit more daring in her own dress. It was white and neat, but not fancy dressmaking in any sense of the word. She regretted for amoment her decision against pink rosebuds for the hat, so warmly urgedby her mother, who kept saying nowadays that she would be a girl butonce. Winona was beginning to doubt this. At least you seemed to be agirl a long time. She had been a little daring, though. Her stockingswere white and of a material widely heralded as silkona. Still her skirtwas of a decent length, so that she apprehended no scandal from thisrecklessness. 

When her genteel escort started the car and guided it by an apparentlycareless winding of the wheel she felt a glow that was almost pride inhis appearance and nonchalant mastery of this abstruse mechanism. Shewas frightened at the speed and at the narrow margin by which he missedother vehicles and obtruding corners. When he flourished to animpressive halt under the Whipple porte-cochère she felt a new respectfor him. If only he could do such things at odd moments as a gentlemanshould, and not continuously for money, in clothes unlike those of theexpensive advertisements!

She descended from the car in a flutter of pretense that she habituallydescended from cars, and a moment later was overjoyed to note that herescort sustained the greetings of the assembled Whipples and theirguests with a practiced coolness, or what looked like it. He shook handswarmly with his brother and Patricia Whipple; was calm under the ordealof introductions to the little friends Winona had warned him of--twogirls of peerless beauty and a fair-haired, sleepy-looking boy with longeyelashes and dimples. 

[Illustration: "THE GIRL WAS ALREADY READING WILBUR'S PALM, DISCLOSINGTO HIM THAT HE HAD A DEEP VEIN OF CRUELTY IN HIS NATURE. PATRICIAWHIPPLE LISTENED IMPATIENTLY TO THIS AND OTHER SINISTER REVELATIONS. "]

These young people were dressed rather less formally than Winona hadexpected, being mostly in flannels and ducks and tennis shoes not toolately cleaned. She was instantly glad she had been particular as toWilbur's outfit. He looked ever so much more distinguished than eitherMerle or his friend. She watched him as he stood unconcerned under thechatter of the three girls. They had begun at once to employ upon himthe oldest arts known to woman, and he was not flustered or "gauche"--aword Winona had lately learned. Beyond her divining was the truth that hewould much rather have been talking to Starling Tucker. She thought he wasmerely trying to look bored, and was doing it very well. 

The little friends of Patricia, and Patricia herself, could have toldher better. They knew he was genuinely bored, and redoubled theirefforts to enslave him. Merle chatted brightly with Winona, with such aman-of-the-world air that she herself became flustered at the memorythat she had once been as a mother to him and drenched his handkerchiefwith perfume on a Sabbath morning. The little male friend of Merle stoodby in silent relief. Patricia and her little guests had for three daysbeen doing to him what they now tried doing to the new boy; he was gladthe new boy had come. He had grown sulky under the incessant onslaughts. 

The girl with black hair and the turquoise necklace was already readingWilbur's palm, disclosing to him that he had a deep vein of cruelty inhis nature. Patricia Whipple listened impatiently to this and othersinister revelations. She had not learned palm reading, but now resolvedto. Meantime, she could and did stem the flood of character portrayal bya suggestion of tennis. Patricia was still freckled, though not soobtrusively as in the days of her lawlessness. Her skirt and her hairwere longer, the latter being what Wilbur Cowan later called rusty. Shewas still active and still determined, however. No girl in her presencewas going to read interminably the palm of one upon whom she had, in away of speaking, a family claim, especially one of such distinguishedappearance and manners--apparently being bored to death by the attentionof mere girls. 

Tennis resulted in a set of doubles, Merle and his little friend playingPatricia and one of her little friends--the one with the necklace andthe dark eyes. The desirable new man was not dressed for tennis, andcould not have played it in any clothes whatever, and so had to watchfrom the back line, where he also retrieved balls. Both girls hadinsisted upon being at his end of the court. Their gentlemen opponentswere irritated by this arrangement, because the girls paid far moreattention to the new man than to the game itself. They delayed theirservice to catch his last remark; delayed the game seriously by pausingto chat with him. He retrieved balls for them, which also impededprogress. 

When he brought the balls to the dark-eyed girl she acknowledged hiscourtesy with a pretty little "Thanks a lot!" Patricia varied this. Shesaid "Thanks a heap!" And they both rather glared at the other girl--amere pinkish, big-eyed girl whose name was Florrie--who lingeredstanchly by the new man and often kept him in talk when he should havebeen watchful. Still this third girl had but little initiative. She didinsinuatingly ask Wilbur what his favourite flower was, but this got hernowhere, because it proved that he did not know. 

The gentlemen across the net presently became unruly, and would play nomore at a game which was merely intended, it seemed, to provide theiropponents with talk of a coquettish character. Wilbur ardently wishedthat Winona could have been there to hear this talk, because thepeerless young things freely used the expletive "Darn!" after ineptstrokes. Still they bored him. He would rather have been on the links. 

He confessed at last to his little court that he much preferred golf totennis. Patricia said that she had taken up golf, and that he must coachher over the Newbern course. The dark-eyed girl at once said that shewas about to take up golf, and would need even more coaching thanPatricia. Once they both searched him--while the game waited--for classpins, which they meant to appropriate. They found him singularly devoidof these. He never even knew definitely what they were looking for. 

He was glad when refreshments were served on the lawn, and atesandwiches in a wholehearted manner that disturbed Winona, who felt thatat these affairs one should eat daintily, absently, as if elevatedconverse were the sole object and food but an incident. Wilbur ate as ifhe were hungry--had come there for food. Even now he was not free fromthe annoying attentions of Patricia and her little friends. They notonly brought him other sandwiches and other cake and other lemonade, which he could have condoned, but they chattered so incessantly at himwhile he ate that only by an effort of concentration could he ignorethem for the food. Florrie said that he was brutal to women. She wasalso heard to say--Winona heard it--that he was an awfully stunningchap. Harvey D. Whipple was now a member of the party, beaming proudlyupon his son. And Sharon Whipple came presently to survey the group. Hewinked at Wilbur, who winked in return. 

After refreshments the young gentlemen withdrew to smoke. They withdrewunostentatiously, through a pergola, round a clump of shrubbery, and onto the stables, where Merle revealed a silver cigarette case, from whichhe bestowed cigarettes upon them. They lighted these and talked as menof the world. 

"Those chickens make me sick, " said the little friend of Merle quitefrankly. 

"Me, too!" said Wilbur. 

They talked of horses, Merle displaying his new thoroughbred in the boxstall, and of dogs and motor boats; and Merle and the other boy spokein a strange jargon of their prep school, where you could smoke if youhad the consent of your parents. Merle talked largely of his possessionsand gay plans. 

They were presently interrupted by the ladies, who, having withdrawnbeyond the shrubbery clump to powder their noses from Florrie's goldvanity box, had discovered the smokers, and now threatened to tell ifthe gentlemen did not instantly return. So Merle's little friend saidwearily that they must go back to the women, he supposed. And there wasmore tennis of a sort, more chatter. As Mrs. Harvey D. Said, everythingmoved off splendidly. 

Winona, when they left, felt that her charge had produced a favourableimpression, and was amazed that he professed to be unmoved by thiscircumstance, even after being told, as the noble car wheeled themhomeward, what the girl, Florrie, had said of him; and that Mrs. HarveyD. Whipple had said she had always known he was a sweet boy. He merelysniffed at the term and went on to disparage the little friends ofPatricia. 

"You told me not to say 'darn, '" he protested, "but those girls all saidit about every other word. "

"Not really?" said Winona, aghast. 

"Darn this and darn that! And darn that ball! And darned old thing!"insisted the witness, imitatively. 

"Oh, dear!" sighed Winona. 

She wondered if Patricia could be getting in with a fast set. She wasfurther worried about Patricia, because Miss Murtree, over the icecream, had confided to her that the girl was a brainless coquette; thather highest ambition, freely stated, was to have a black velvet eveninggown, a black picture hat, and a rope of pearls. Winona did not impartthis item to Wilbur. He was already too little impressed with theWhipple state. Nor did she confide to him the singular remark of SharonWhipple, delivered to her in hoarsely whispered confidence as Merlespoke at length to the group about his new horse. 

"Ain't he the most languageous critter!" had been Sharon's words. 

And Winona had thought Merle spoke so prettily and with such easyconfidence. Instead of regaling Wilbur with this gossip she insinuatedhis need for flannel trousers, sport shirts with rolling collars, tennisshoes of white. She found him adamant in his resolve to buy no furtherclothes which could have but a spectacular value. 

To no one that day, except to Wilbur Cowan himself, had it occurred thatMerle Whipple's birthday would also be the birthday of his twin brother. 

 * * * * *

Winona hoped that some trace of the day's new elegance would surviveinto Wilbur's professional life, but in this she suffereddisappointment. He refused to wear, save on state occasions, any of thebeautiful new garments, and again went forth in the cap and dingysneakers, the trousers without character, and the indeterminate sweaterwhich would persist in looking soiled even after relentless washing. 

Not even for golf with Patricia Whipple would he sound a higher note inapparel. Patricia came to the course, accompanied by the dark girl, whosaid she was mad about golf, and over the eighteen holes each strove forhis exclusive attention. They bored him vastly. He became mad about golfhimself, because they talked noisily of other subjects and forgot hisdirections, especially the dark girl, who was mad about a great manythings. She proved to be a trial. She was still so hopeless at the sportthat at each shot she had to have her hands placed for her in thecorrect grip. The other two were glad when she was called home, so thatPatricia could enjoy the undivided attention of the coach. The coach wasglad, but only because his boredom was diminished by half; and Patricia, after two mornings alone with him, decided that she knew all of golfthat was desirable. 

The coach was too stubbornly businesslike; regarded her, she detected, merely as someone who had a lot to learn about the game. And the goingof her little friend had taken a zest from the pursuit of thisdeterminedly golfing and unresponsive male. He was relieved when sheabandoned the sport and when he knew she had gone back to school. Sometimes on the course when he watched her wild swings a trick ofmemory brought her back to him as the bony little girl in his ownclothes--she was still bony, though longer--with her chopped-off hairand boyish swagger. Then for a moment he would feel friendly, and smileat her in comradeship, but she always spoiled this when she spoke in hergrand new manner of a grown-up lady. 

Only Winona grieved when these golf sessions were no more. She wonderedif Patricia had not been shocked by some unguarded expression fromWilbur. She had heard that speech becomes regrettably loose in the heatof this sport. He sought to reassure her. 

"I never said the least wrong thing, " he insisted. "But she did, youbet! 'Darn' and 'gosh' and everything like that, and you ought to haveheard her once when she missed an easy putt. She said worse than 'darn!'She blazed out and said--"

"Don't tell me!" protested shuddering Winona. She wondered if Patricia'speople shouldn't be warned. She was now persuaded that golf endangeredthe morals of the young. It had been bad enough when it seemed merely toencourage the wearing of nondescript clothes. But if it led tolanguage--?

Yet she was fated to discover that the world offered worse than golf, for Wilbur Cowan had not yet completed, in the process of his desultoryeducation, the out-of-doors curriculum offered by even the little worldof Newbern. He was to take up an entirely new study, with thewhole-hearted enthusiasm that had made him an adept at linotypes, gasengines, and the sport of kings. Not yet, in Winona's view, had heactually gone down into the depths of social obliquity; but she soonknew he had made the joyous descent. 

The dreadful secret was revealed when he appeared for his supper oneevening with a black eye. That is, it would have been known technicallyas a black eye--even Winona knew what to call it. Actually it was an eyeof many colours, shading delicately from pale yellow at the edge torichest variegated purple at the centre. The eye itself--it was theright--was all but closed by the gorgeously puffed tissue surroundingit, and of no practical use to its owner. The still capable left eye, instead of revealing concern for this ignominy, gleamed a lively pridein its overwhelming completeness. The malign eye was worn proudly as abadge of honour, so proudly that the wearer, after Winona's first outcryof horror, bubbled vaingloriously of how he had achieved the stigma bystepping into one of Spike Brennon's straight lefts. Nothing less thanthat!

Winona, conceiving that this talk was meant to describe an accident ofthe most innocent character, demanded further details; wishing to betold what a straight left was; why a person named Spike Brennon keptsuch things about; and how Wilbur had been so careless as to step intoone. She instinctively pictured a straight left to be something like anopen door into which the victim had stepped in the dark. Herenlightenment was appalling. When the boy had zestfully pictured withpantomime of the most informing sort she not only knew what a straightleft was, but she knew that Wilbur Cowan, in stepping into one--inplacing himself where by any chance he could step into one--had flungoff the ultimate restraint of decency. 

It amounted to nothing less, she gathered, than that her charge hadformed a sinister alliance with a degraded prize-fighter, a low bullywho for hire and amid the foulest surroundings pandered to the basestinstincts of his fellowmen by disgusting exhibitions of brute force. Asif that were not enough, this low creature had fallen lower in thesocial scale, if that were possible, by tending bar in the unspeakableden of Pegleg McCarron. It was of no use for Wilbur to explain to herthat his new hero chose this humble avocation because it afforded himleisure for training between his fights; that he didn't drink or smoke, but kept himself in good condition; that it was a fine chance to learnhow to box, because Spike needed sparring partners. 

"Oh, it's terrible!" cried Winona. "A debased creature like that!"

"You ought to see him stripped!" rejoined the boy in quick pride. 

This closed the interview. Later she refused more than a swift glance ofdismay at the photograph of the bully proudly displayed to her by therecipient. With one eye widened in admiration, he thrust it withoutwarning full into her gaze, whereupon she had gaspingly fled, not evennoting the inscription of which the boy was especially proud: "To myfriend, Mr. Wilbur Cowan, from his friend, Eddie--Spike--Brennon, 133lbs. Ringside. " It was a spirited likeness of the hero, though takensome years before, when he was in the prime of a ring career now, alas, tapering to obscurity. 

Spike stood with the left shoulder slightly raised, the left footadvanced, the slightly bent left arm with its clenched fist suggestivelyextended. His head was slanted to bring his chin down and in. The rightshoulder was depressed, and the praiseworthy right arm lay in watchfulrepose across his chest. The tense gaze expressed absolute singleness ofpurpose--a hostile purpose. These details were lost upon Winona. She hadnoted only that the creature's costume consisted of the flags of theUnited States and Ireland tastefully combined to form a simple loincloth. Had she raised the boy for this?

 * * * * *

The deplored intimacy had begun on a morning when Wilbur was earlyabroad salvaging golf balls from certain obscure nooks of the coursewhere Newbern's minor players were too likely to abandon the search forthem on account of tall grass, snakes, poison ivy, and other deterrents. Along the course at a brisk trot had come a sweatered figure, with cappulled low, a man of lined and battered visage, who seemed to trot witha purpose, and yet with a purpose not to be discerned, for nonepursued him and he appeared to pursue no one. 

[Illustration: "THE MALIGN EYE WAS WORN SO PROUDLY THAT THE WEARERBUBBLED VAINGLORIOUSLY OF HOW HE HAD ACHIEVED THE STIGMA BY STEPPINGINTO ONE OF SPIKE BRENNON'S STRAIGHT LEFTS. "]

He had stopped amiably to chat with the boy. He was sweating profusely, and chewed gum. It may be said that he was not the proud young SpikeBrennon of the photograph. He was all of twenty-five, and his lateryears had told. Where once had been the bridge of his nose was now asharp indentation. One ear was weirdly enlarged; and his mouth, thoughhe spoke through narrowly opened lips, glittered in the morning sun withthe sheen of purest gold. Wilbur Cowan was instantly enmeshed by thisnew personality. 

The runner wished to know what he was looking for. Being told golfballs, he demanded "What for?" It seemed never to have occurred to himthat there would be an object in looking for golf balls. He curiouslyhandled and weighed a ball in his brown and hairy hand. 

"So that's the little joker, is it? I often seen 'em knockin' up flieswith it, but I ain't never been close to one. Say, that pill could hurtyou if it come right!"

He was instructed briefly in the capacity of moving balls to inflictpain, and more particularly as to their market value. As the boy talkedthe sweating man looked him over with shrewd, half-shut eyes. 

"Ever had the gloves on, kid?" he demanded at last. 

It appeared in a moment that he meant boxing gloves; not gloves in whichto play golf. 

"No, sir, " said Wilbur. 

"You look good. Come down to the store at three o'clock. Mebbe you cangive me a work-out. "

Quite astonishingly it appeared then that when he said the store he wasmeaning the low saloon of Pegleg McCarron; that he did road work everymorning and wanted quick young lads to give him a work-out with thegloves in the afternoon, because even dubs was better than shadow boxingor just punching the bag all the time. If they couldn't box-fight theycould wrestle. 

So Wilbur had gone to the store that afternoon, and for many succeedingafternoons, to learn the fascinating new game in a shed that servedMcCarron as storeroom. The new hero had here certain paraphernalia ofhis delightful calling--a punching bag, small dumb-bells, a skippingrope, boxing gloves. Here the neophyte had been taught the niceties offeint and guard and lead, of the right cross, the uppercut, the straightleft, to duck, to side-step, to shift lightly on his feet, to stopprotruding his jaw in cordial invitation, to keep his stomach covered. He proved attentive and willing and quick. He was soon chewing gum asSpike Brennon chewed it, and had his hair clipped in Brennon manner. Helived his days and his nights in dreams of delivering or evading blows. Often while dressing of a morning he would stop to punish an invisibleopponent, doing an elaborate dance the while. It was better thanlinotypes or motor busses. 

In the early days of this new study he had been fearful of hurting SpikeBrennon. He felt that his blows were too powerful, especially that fromthe right fist when it should curve over Spike's left shoulder to stopon his jaw. But he learned that when his glove reached the right placeSpike's jaw had for some time not been there. Spike scorned his efforts. 

"Stop it, kid! You might as well send me a pitcher postcard that it'scomin'. You got to hit from where you are--you can't stop to draw back. Use your left more. G'wan now, mix it! Mix it!"

They would mix it until the boy was panting. Then while he sat on a beerkeg until he should be in breath again the unwinded Spike would skip therope--a girl's skipping rope--or shadow-box about the room withintricate dance steps, raining quick blows upon a ghostly boxer who wasinvariably beaten; or with smaller gloves he would cause the inflatedbag to play lively tunes upon the ceiling of its support. After an hourof this, when both were sweating, they would go to a sheltered spotbeyond the shed to play cold water upon each other's soaped forms. 

There had been six weeks of this before the boy's dreadful secret wasrevealed to Winona; six weeks before he appeared to startle her with oneeye radiating the rich hues of a ripened eggplant. It had been simpleenough. He had seen his chance to step in and punish Spike, and he hadstepped--and Spike's straight left had been there. 

"You handed yourself that one, kid, " Spike had said, applying raw beefto it after their rubdown. 

Wilbur had removed the beef after leaving the store. He didn't want thething to go down too soon. It was an honourable mark, wasn't it? Nothingto make the fuss about that Winona had made. Of course you had to go toPegleg McCarron's to do the boxing, but Spike had warned him never todrink if he expected to get anywhere in this particular trade; not evento smoke. That he had entirely abandoned the use of tobacco at Spike'scommand should--he considered--have commended his hero to Winona'sfavourable notice. He wore the eye proudly in the public gaze; regrettedits passing as it began to pale into merely rainbow tints. 

But Winona took steps. She was not going to see him die, perish morally, without an effort to save him. She decided that Sharon Whipple would bethe one to consult. Sharon liked the boy--had taken an interest in him. Perhaps words in time from him might avert the calamity, especiallyafter her father had refused to be concerned. 

"Prize fighting!" said the judge, scornfully. "What'll he be doing next?Never settles down to anything. Jack-of-all-trades and good at none. "

It was no use hoping for help from a man who thought fighting wasfoolish for the boy merely because he would not earnestly apply himselfto it. 

She went to Sharon Whipple, and Sharon listened even moresympathetically than she had hoped he would. He seemed genuinely shockedthat such things had been secretly going on in the life of his youngfriend. He clicked deprecatingly with his tongue as Winona becamedetailed in her narrative. 

"My great glory!" he exclaimed at last. "You mean to say they mix itdown there every afternoon?"

"Every single day, " confirmed Winona. "He's been going to that low divefor weeks and weeks. Think of the debasing associations!"

"Just think of it!" said Sharon, impatiently. "Every afternoon--and menot hearing a word of it!"

"If you could only say a word to him, " besought Winona. "Coming from youit might have an influence for good. "

"I will, I will!" promised Sharon, fervently, and there was a gleam ofhonest determination in his quick old eyes. 

That very afternoon, in Pegleg McCarron's shed, he said words to Wilburthat might have an influence for good. 

"Quit sticking your jaw out that way or he'll knock it off!" had beenhis first advice. And again: "Cover up that stomach--you want to getkilled?" He was sitting at one end of the arena, on a plank supported bythe ends of two beer kegs, and he held open a large, thick, respectablegold watch. "Time!" he called. 

Beside him sat the red-eyed and disreputable Pegleg McCarron, whowhacked the floor with the end of his crutch from time to time intestimony of his low pleasure. 

The round closed with one of Wilbur Cowan's right crosses--started fromnot too far back--landing upon the jaw of Spike Brennon with what seemedto be a shattering impact. Sharon Whipple yelled and Pegleg McCarronpounded the floor in applause. Spike merely shook his head once. 

"The kid's showing speed, " he admitted, cordially. "If he just hadsomething back of them punches!"

"It was a daisy!" exclaimed Sharon. "My suffering stars, what a daisy!"

"'Twas neatly placed!" said Pegleg. 

"I'm surprised at you!" said Sharon later to the panting apprentice. "I'm surprised and grieved! You boys mixing it here every day for weeksand never letting on!"

"I never thought you'd like it, " said Wilbur. 

"Like it!" said Sharon. He said it unctuously. "And say, don't you leton to Miss Penniman that I set here and held the watch for you. I ain'twanting that to get out on me. "

"No, sir, " said Wilbur. 

Later Sharon tried to avoid Winona one day on River Street, but when hesaw that she would not be avoided he met her like a man. 

"I've reasoned with the boy from time to time, " he confessed, gloomily, "but he's self-headed, talking huge high about being a good lightweightand all that. I don't know--mebbe I haven't taken just the right tackwith him yet. "

Winona thought him curiously evasive in manner. She believed that hefeared the worst for the boy, but was concealing it from her. 

"His eye is almost well where that cowardly bully struck him, " she toldSharon. "If only we could get him into something where he could hold hishead up. "

"He does that too much now, " began Sharon, impulsively, but stopped, floundering. "I mean he ain't enough ashamed, " he concluded feebly, andfeigned that someone had called him imperatively from the door of theFirst National Bank. 

From time to time Spike's boxing manner grew tense for a period of days. He tightened up, as Sharon put it, and left a sore and batteredapprentice while he went off to some distant larger town to fight, stepping nonchalantly aboard the six-fifty-eight with his fightingtrunks and shoes wrapped in a copy of the Newbern _Advance_, andshifting his gum as he said good-bye to Wilbur, who would come down tosee him off. 

Sometimes Spike returned from these sorties unscathed and with money. Oftener he came back without money and with a face--from abrasivethrusts--looking as if a careless golfer had gone over him and neglectedto replace the divots. After these times there were likely to followcomplicated episodes of dentistry at the office of Doctor Patten. Thesewould render the invincible smile of Spike more refulgent than ever. 

The next birthday of Merle Whipple was celebrated at a time when Spikehad been particularly painstaking in view of an approaching combat. Notonly did he leave his young friend with an eye that compelled thenotice, an eye lavishly displaying all the tints yet revealed byspectroscopic analysis, and which by itself would have rendered himsocially undesirable, but he bore a swollen nose and a split and puffylip; bore them proudly, it should be said, and was not enough cast down, in Winona's opinion, that his shameful wounds would deter him frommingling with decent folk. Indeed, Winona had to be outspoken before sheconvinced him that a birthday party was now no place for him. He wouldhave gone without misgiving, and would have pridefully recounted thesickening details of that last round in which Spike Brennon hadpermitted himself to fancy he faced a veritable antagonist. Still hecared little for the festivity. 

He saw Patricia from a distance in River Street, but pulled the dingycap lower and avoided her notice. She was still bony and animated andlooked quite capable of commanding his attendance over eighteen holes ofthe most utterly futile golf in all the world. His only real regret inthe matter of his facial blemishes was that Spike came back with themere loser's end of an inconsiderable purse, and had to suffer anotherinfliction of the most intricate bridge work at the hands of DoctorPatten before he could properly enjoy at the board of T-bone Tommy thatdiet so essential to active men of affairs. 

CHAPTER XII

Once more the aging Wilbur Cowan stood alone by night thrillingly towatch the arched splendour of stars above and muse upon the fleetingyears that carried off his youth. The moment marked another tremendousepoch, for he was done with school. Now for all the years to come hecould hear the bell sound its warning and feel no qualm; never againneed sit confined in a stuffy room, breathing chalk dust, and compel hiserrant mind to bookish abstractions. He had graduated from the NewbernHigh School, respectably if not with distinguished honour, and thesuperintendent had said, in conferring his rolled and neatly tieddiploma, that he was facing the battle of life and must acquit himselfwith credit to Newbern. 

The superintendent had seemed to believe it was a great moment; therehad been a tremor in his voice as he addressed the class, each in turn. He was a small, nervous, intent man whose daily worries showed plainlythrough the uplift of the moment, and Wilbur had wondered what he foundto be so thrilled about. His own battle with life--he must have gone outto the fight years ago under much the same circumstances--had apparentlybrought him none of the glory he was now urging his young charges tostrive for. He had to stay in a schoolroom and breathe chalk dust. 

Whatever the battle of life might be, he was going to fight itout-of-doors; not like imprisoned school-teachers and clerks andbookkeepers in First National banks. Only when alone under that splatterof stars did he feel the moment big with more than a mere release fromtextbooks. Then at last he knew that he had become a man and must putaway childish things, and his mind floated on the thought, off to thosedistant stars where other boys had that night, perhaps unwittingly, become men. 

He wished that people would not pester him with solemn questions aboutwhat he now meant to make of himself. They seemed to believe that heshould be concerned about this. Winona was especially insistent. Shesaid he stood at the parting of the ways; that all his future hung uponhis making a seemly choice; and she said it gloomily, with frankforeboding, as one more than half expecting him to choose amiss. 

Judge Penniman was another who warned him heavily that it was time toquit being a Jack-of-all-trades. The judge spoke as from a topless towerof achievement, relating anecdotes of his own persistence underdifficulties at the beginning of a career which he allowed his hearer toinfer had been of shining merit, hampered, it is true, by the mosttrying ill health. Even Mrs. Penniman said that they were expectinggreat things of him, now that he had become a man. 

The boy dimly felt that there was something false in all this urgency. The superintendent of schools and Winona and the judge and Mrs. Pennimanseemed to be tightly wound up with expectancy about him, yet lived theirown lives not too tensely. The superintendent of schools was notinspiring as a model; the judge, for all his talk, lived a life of fatidleness, with convenient maladies when the Penniman lawn needed mowing. Mrs. Penniman, it is true, fought the battle of life steadily with herplain and fancy dressmaking, but with no visible glory; and Winonaherself was becoming a drab, sedate spinster, troubled about manythings. He wondered why they should all conceive him to be meant for somuch more than they had achieved. Why couldn't he relax into a life suchas they led, without all this talk of effort and planning? It seemed tohim that people pretty much allowed life to make itself for them, andlived it as it came. He was not going to bother about it. Let it come. He would find a way to live it. People managed. Judge Penniman was neverso ailing that he couldn't reach the harness shop for his game ofcheckers. The only person he knew who had really worked hard to makesomething of himself was Spike Brennon. 

 * * * * *

So he resorted to the golf links that summer, heedless and happy. "Without ideals so far as one can read him, " wrote Winona in herjournal, underlining the indictment and closing it with three boldexclamation points. He was welcomed effusively to the golf course byJohn Knox McTavish. 

"Good!" said John on the morning of his appearance, which was effusivefor any McTavish. 

He liked the boy, not only because he drove a sweet ball, but becauseyou could talk to him in a way you couldn't to par-r-r-rties you wasteaching to hold a club proper-r-r-r and to quit callin' it a stick. 

He caddied that summer only for golfers of the better sort, and forSharon Whipple, choosing his employ with nice discrimination. John hadsaid golf was a grand game, because more than any other game it showedhow many kinds of fool a man could be betwixt his mind and his muscles. His apprentice was already sensitive to the grosser kinds. In additionto caddying he taught the secrets of the game when pupils came tooplenteously for John. But he lacked John's tried patience, and for theideal teacher was too likely to utter brutal truths instead of politeand meandering diplomacies. He had caught perhaps a bit too much ofSpike Brennon's manner of instruction, a certain strained brusquerie, out of pace with people who are willing to pay largely for instructionwhich they ignore in spite of its monotonous repetition. John warned himthat he must soften his clients--butter-r-r 'em up with nice words--orthey wouldn't come back. He must say they was doing gr-r-rand. He didsay it now and then, but with no ring of conviction. 

Still it was a good summer. Especially good, because all the time heknew he was waiting for that morning in early September when the schoolbell would ring and he would laugh carelessly at what had once been theimperious summons. He thought that after this high moment he might beable to plan his life at least a little--not too minutely. 

 * * * * *

Late that summer Merle and Patricia Whipple came by appointment to playthe course with him. Merle, too, had become a man--he would entercollege that fall. Apparently no one was bothering about the plan of hislife. And Patricia had become, if not a woman, at least less of a girl, though she was still bony and utterly freckled. They drove off, Patricianot far but straight, and Merle, after impressive preliminaries thatshould have intimidated any golf ball, far but not straight. After hisshot he lectured instructively upon its faults. When he had done theyknew why he had sliced into the miry fen on the right. Then with anexpert eye he studied his brother's stance and swing. The ball of Wilburwent low and straight and far, but the shot was prefaced, apparently, byno nice adjustment of the feet or by any preliminary waggles of theclub. 

"No form, " said Merle. "You ought to have form by this time, but youdon't show any; and you put no force into your swing. Now let me showyou just one little thing about your stance. "

With generous enthusiasm he showed his brother not only one littlething, but two or three that should be a buckler to him in time of need;and his brother thanked him, and so authoritative was the platformmanner of Merle that he nearly said "Yes, sir. " After which Patriciaplayed a brassy shot, and they all went to find Merle's ball among theoaks. After that they went on to Wilbur's ball, which--still without atrace of form--he dropped on the green with a mashie, in spite ofMerle's warning that he would need a mid-iron to reach it. 

They drove, and again Merle lectured upon the three reasons why his ballcame to rest in a sand trap that flanked the fairway. He seemed to feelthis information was expected from him, nor did he neglect a generousexposition of his brother's failure to exhibit form commensurate withhis far, straight drive. His brother was this time less effusive in histhanks, and in no danger whatever of replying "Yes, sir!" He merelyretorted, "Don't lunge--keep down!" advice which the lecturer receivedwith a frowning, "I know--I know!" as if he had lunged intentionally, with a secret purpose that would some day become known, to the confusionof so-called golf experts. Wilbur and Patricia waited while Merle wentto retrieve his ball. They saw repeated sand showers rise over the topof a bunker. From where they stood the player seemed to be inventing anew kind of golf, to be played without a ball. A pale mist hung over thescene. 

"I know just what he's saying, " Patricia told Wilbur. 

"Shame on you!" said he, and they both laughed, after which Patriciaglanced at him oftener. 

It should be said that he was now arrayed as Winona would have him, insummer sports attire of careless but expensive appearance, including asilk shirt alleged by the maker to be snappy, and a cap of realcharacter. The instinct of the male for noticeable plumage had at lastworked the reform that not all of Winona's pleading had sufficed for. Wilbur Cowan at the moment might, but for his excellent golf, have beenmistaken for a genuine Whipple. 

Merle's homilies continued after each shot. He subjected his own drivesto a masterly analysis, and strove to incite his brother to correctform, illustrating this for his instruction with practice swings thatwere marvels of nicety, and learnedly quoting Braid and Vardon. 

It was after one of these informative intervals, succeeding abrilliantly topped drive by the lecturer, that Patricia Whipple, full inthe flooding current of Merle's discourse, turned her speckled faceaside and flagrantly winked a greenish eye at Wilbur Cowan; whereuponWilbur Cowan winked his own left eye, that one being farthest from thespeaker. The latter, having concluded his remarks for the moment, wentto find his ball, and the two walked on. 

"He just ought to be taken down, " suggested Patricia, malevolently. 

"Think so?" demanded Wilbur. 

"Know so!" declared the girl. "'Tisn't only golf. He's that way abouteverything--telling people things--how to do it and everything. Only noone at our house dares come down on him. Harvey D. And Ella and evengrandfather--they all jump through hoops for him, the cowards! I givehim a jolt now and then, but I get talked to for it. "

"The boy needs some golf talk--he certainly does, " conceded the other. 

"Too bad you're afraid to do it, " Patricia said, resignedly. 

She looked sadly away, then quickly back at him to see if it had taken. She thought it hadn't. He was merely looking as if he also considered ittoo bad. But on the next tee he astonishingly asserted himselfas---comparatively--a golfing expert. He wasn't going to have thissplendid brother, truly his brother for all the change of name, making afool of himself before a girl. Full in the tide of Merle's jauntydiscourse he blazed out with an authority of his own, and in tones soarrogant that the importance of the other oozed almost pitiably fromhim. 

"Quit that! Listen! We've played ten holes, and you haven't made oneclean drive, and I've got off every one clean. I make this course inseventy-three, and you'd never make it in one hundred and twenty the wayyou're going. But every time you stand there and tell me things aboutyour drive and about mine as if you could really play golf. "

"Well, but my dear chap--" Merle paused, trying to regain some lostspiritual value--"I'm merely telling you some little things about form. "

"Forget it!" commanded the other. "You haven't any form yourself; youdon't have form until you can play the game, and then you don't thinkabout it. Maybe my form doesn't stick out, but you bet it must be tuckedin there somewhere or I couldn't hit the ball. You don't want to thinkI haven't any just because I don't stand there and make a long speech tothe ball before swatting it. "

"Well, I was only saying----" Merle began again, but in meekness such asPatricia had never observed in him. 

Hearing a sound in the background Wilbur turned. She was staging apantomime of excessive delight, noiselessly clapping her thin brownhands. He frowned at her--he was not going to have any girl laughing athis brother--and returned his attention to the late exponent of Braidand Vardon. 

"Here"--he teed a ball--"you do about every wrong thing you could. Youdon't overlook a single one. Now I'll show you. Take your stance, address the ball!"

He had forgotten, in the heat of his real affection, all the differencein their stations. He was talking crisply to this Whipple as if he weremerely a Cowan twin. Merle, silent, dazed, meek, did as he was directed. 

"Now take your back swing slower. You've been going up too quick--go upslow--stay there! Wait--bend that left wrist under your club--not outbut under--here"--he adjusted the limp wrist. "Now keep your weight onthe left foot and come down easy. Don't try to knock the ball a mile--itcan't be done. Now up again and swing--easy!"

Merle swung and the topped ball went a dozen feet. 

"There, now I suppose you're satisfied!" he said, sulkily, but hisinstructor was not, it seemed, satisfied. 

"Don't be silly! You lifted your head. You have to do more than onething right to hit that ball. You have to stay down to it. Here"--heteed another ball--"take your stance and see if you can't keep down. I'll hold you down. " In front of the player he grasped his own driverand rested it lightly upon the other's head. "Just think that clubweighs a hundred pounds, and you couldn't lift your head if you wantedto. Now swing again, turn the left wrist under, swing easy--there!"

They watched the ball go high and straight, even if not far. 

"A Texas leaguer, " said Wilbur, "but it's all right. It's the firsttime this afternoon you've stayed in the fairway. Now again!"

He teed another ball, and the threesomes had become a mere golf lesson, plus a clash of personalities. Wilbur Cowan did all the talking; he wasgrim, steely eyed, imperious. His splendid brother was mute andsubmissive, after a few feeble essays at assertion that were brutallystifled. Patricia danced disrespectfully in the background when neitherbrother observed her. She had no wish to incur again the tightly drawnscowl of Wilbur. The venom of that had made her uncomfortable. 

"See now how you hit 'em out when you do what I tell you!" said theinstructor at last, when Merle had a dozen clean drives to his credit. But the sun had fallen low and the lesson must end. 

"Awfully obliged, old chap--thanks a heap!" said Merle, recoveringslightly from his abjectness. "I dare say I shall be able to smack thelittle pill after this. "

The old chap hurled a last grenade. 

"You won't if you keep thinking about form, " he warned. "Best way toforget that--quit talking so much about it. After you make a shot, keepstill, or talk to yourself. "

"Awfully good of you, " Merle responded, graciously, for he was no longerswinging at a ball, but merely walking back to the clubhouse, where oneman was as good as another. "There may be something in what you say. "

"There is, " said Wilbur. 

He waved them a curt farewell as they entered the latest Whipple car. 

"But, you know, the poor kid after all hasn't any form, " theconvalescent Merle announced to Patricia when they were seated. 

"He has nice hair and teeth, " said the girl, looking far ahead as thecar moved off. 

"Oh, hair--teeth!" murmured Merle, loftily careless, as one possessinghair and teeth of his own. "I'm talking about golf. "

"He lines 'em out, " said Patricia, cattishly. 

"Too much like a professional. " Merle lifted a hand from the wheel towave deprecation. "That's what the poor kid gets for hanging about thatclubhouse all the time. "

"The poor kid!" murmured Patricia. "I never noticed him much before. "

"Beastly overbearing sort of chap, " said Merle. 

"Isn't he?" said Patricia. "I couldn't help but notice that. " Sheshifted her eyes sidewise at Merle. "I do wish some of the folks couldhave been there, " she added, listlessly. 

"Is that so?" he demanded, remembering then that this girl was never tobe trusted, even in moods seemingly honeyed. He spurted the new roadsterin rank defiance of Newbern's lately enacted ordinance regulating thespeed of motor vehicles. 

Yet the night must have brought him counsel, for he appeared the nextafternoon--though without Patricia--to beseech further instruction fromthe competent brother. He did this rather humbly for one of his station. 

"I know my game must be pretty rotten, " he said. "Maybe you can show meone or two more little things. "

"I'll show you the same old things over again, " said Wilbur, overjoyedat this friendly advance, and forthwith he did. 

For a week they played the course together, not only to the bettermentof Merle's technic, but to the promotion of a real friendliness betweenthis Whipple and a mere Cowan. They became as brothers again, seeming tohave leaped the span of years during which they had been alien. Duringthose years Wilbur had kept secret his pride in his brother, hisexultation that Merle should have been called for this high eminence andnot found wanting. There had been no one to whom he could reveal it, except to Winona, perhaps in little flashes. Now that they were alone ina curious renewal of their old intimacy, he permitted it to shine forthin all its fullness, and Merle became pleasantly aware that thissharp-speaking brother--where golf was concerned--felt for him somethingmuch like worship. The glow warmed them both as they loitered over thecourse, stopping at leisure to recall ancient happenings of theirboyhood together. Far apart now in their points of view, the expensivelynurtured Merle, and Wilbur, who had grown as he would, whose educationwas of the street and the open, they found a common ground and rejoicedin their contact. 

"I don't understand why we haven't seen more of each other all theseyears, " said Merle on a late day of this renewed companionship. "Ofcourse I've been away a lot--school and trips and all that. "

"And I'm still a small-towner, " said Wilbur, though delightedly. It wasworth being a small-towner to have a brother so splendid. 

"We must see a lot of each other from now on, " insisted Merle. "We mustget together this way every time I come back. "

"We must, " said Wilbur. "I hope we do, anyway, " he added, reflectingthat this would be one of those things too good to come true. 

"What I don't understand, " went on Merle, "you haven't had theadvantages I have, not gone off to school or met lots of people, as I'malways doing, not seen the world, you know, but you seem so much olderthan I am. I guess you seem at least ten years older. "

"Well, I don't know. " Wilbur pondered this. "You do seem younger someway. Maybe a small town makes people old quicker, knocking round one theway I have, bumping up against things here and there. I don't know atall. Sharon Whipple says the whole world is made up mostly of smalltowns; if you know one through and through you come pretty near knowingthe world. Maybe that's just his talk. "

"Surly old beggar. Somehow I never hit it off well with him. Toosarcastic, thinking he's funny all the time; uncouth, too. "

"Well, perhaps so. " Wilbur was willing to let this go. He did notconsider Sharon Whipple surly or uncouth or sarcastic, but he was notgoing to dispute with this curiously restored brother. "Try a brassy onthat, " he suggested, to drop the character of Sharon Whipple. 

Merle tried the brassy, and they played out the hole. Merle made aneight. 

"I should have had a six at most, " he protested, "after that lovely longbrassy shot. "

Wilbur grinned. 

"John McTavish says the should-have-had score for this course is amar-r-rvel. He says if these people could count their should-have-hadsthey'd all be playing under par. He's got a wicked tongue, that John. "

"Well, anyway, " insisted Merle, "you should have had a four, because youwere talking to me when you flubbed that approach shot; that cost you acouple. "

"John says the cards should have another column added to write inexcuses; after each hole you could put down just why you didn't get itin two less. He says that would be gr-r-r-and f'r th' dubs. "

"The hole is four hundred and eighty yards, and you were thirty yardsfrom the green in two, " said Merle. "You should have had--"

"I guess I should have had what I got. Sharon Whipple says that's theway with a lot of people in this life--make fine starts, and then flubtheir short game, fall down on easy putts and all that, after they geton the lawn. He calls the fair greens lawns. "

"Awful old liar when he counts his own score, " said Merle. "I playedwith him just once. "

Wilbur grinned again. He would cheerfully permit this one slander of hisfriend. 

"You certainly can't trust him out of sight in a sand trap, " heconceded. "You'll say, 'How many, Mr. Whipple?' and he'll say, 'Well, let me see--eight and a short tote--that's it, eight and a tote. ' Hemeans that he made eight, or about eight, by lifting it from the roughabout ten feet on to the fairway. "

"Rotten sportsmanship, " declared Merle. 

"No, no, he's a good sport, all right! He'd expect you to do the same, or tee up a little bit for a mid-iron shot. He says he won't read therules, because they're too fine print. I like the old boy a lot, " heconcluded, firmly. He wanted no misunderstanding about that, even ifMerle should esteem him less for it. 

They drove from the next tee. One hundred and fifty yards ahead thefairway was intersected by a ditch. It was deep, and its cruel mawyawned hungrily for golf balls. These it was fed in abundance daily. 

"Rottenly placed, that ditch!" complained Merle as he prepared to drive. 

"Only because you think so, " replied his brother. "Forget it's there, and you'll carry it every time. That's what Sharon Whipple does. It'swhat they call psychology. It's a mental hazard. Sharon Whipple saysthat's another thing about golf that's like real life. He says most allthings that scare us are just mental hazards. "

"Stuff!" said Merle. "Stuffy stuffness! The ditch is there, isn't it, psychology or no psychology? You might ignore a hungry tiger, butcalling him a mental hazard wouldn't stop him from eating you, would it?Sharon Whipple makes me tired. " He placed a drive neatly in the ditch. "There!" he exploded, triumphantly. "I guess that shows you what the oldgas bag knows about it. "

"Oh, you'll soon learn to carry that hole!" his brother soothed. "Nowlet's see what you can do with that niblick. " He grinned again as theywent on to the ditch. "Sharon Whipple calls his niblick his 'gitter'. "Merle, however, would not join in the grin. Sharon Whipple still madehim tired. 

In the course of their desultory playing they discussed the otherWhipples. 

"Of course they're awfully fond of me, " said Merle. 

"Of course, " said Wilbur. 

"I guess Harvey D. --Father--would give me anything in the world I askedfor, ever since I was a kid. Horses, dogs, guns, motor cars--notice theswell little roadster I'm driving? Birthday! You'd almost think he looksup to me. Says he expects great things of me. "

"Why wouldn't he?" demanded the other. 

"Oh, of course, of course!" Merle waved this aside. "And GrandfatherGideon, he's an old brick. College man himself--class of sixty-five. Think of that, way back in the last century! Sharon Whipple never got tocollege. Ran off to fight in the Civil War or something. That's why he'sso countrified, I s'pose. You take Gideon now--he's a gentleman. Any onecould see that. Not like Sharon. Polished old boy you'd meet in a club. And Mrs. Harvey D. --Mother--say, she can't do enough for me! Bores mestiff lots of times about whether I'm not going to be sick or something. And money--Lord! I'm supposed to have an allowance, but they all hand memoney and tell me not to say anything about it to the others. Of courseI don't. And Harvey D. Himself--he tries to let on he's very strictabout the allowance, then he'll pretend he didn't pay me the lastquarter and hand me two quarters at once. He knows he's a liar, and heknows I know it, too. I guess I couldn't have fallen in with a nicerbunch. Even that funny daughter of Sharon's, Cousin Juliana, she warmsup now and then--slips me a couple of twenties or so. You should haveseen the hit I made at prep! Fellows there owe me money now that I bet Inever do get paid back. But no matter, of course. "

"That Juliana always makes me kind of shiver, " admitted Wilbur. "Shelooks so kind of--well, kind of lemonish. "

"She's all of that, that old girl. She's the only one I never do getclose to. Soured old maid, I guess. Looks at you a lot, but doesn't saymuch, like she was sizing you up. That nose of hers certainly does standout like a peak or something. You wouldn't think it, either, but shereads poetry--mushiest kind--awful stuff. Say, I looked into a book ofhers one day over at the Old Place--Something-or-Other Love Lyrics wasthe title--murder! I caught two or three things--talk about rawstuff--you know, fellows and girls and all that! What she gets out ofit beats me, with that frozen face of hers. "

A little later he portrayed the character of Patricia Whipple in termsthat would have incensed her but that moved Wilbur to little but mildinterest. 

"You never know when you got your thumb on that kid, " he said. "She'sthe shifty one, all right. Talk along to you sweet as honey, but all thetime she's watching for some chance to throw the harpoon into you. Venomous--regular vixen. No sense of humour--laughs at almost anything afellow says or does. Trim you in a minute with that tongue of hers. Andmushy! Reads stories about a young girl falling in love with strange menthat come along when her car busts down on a lonely road. Got that bugnow. Drives round a whole lot all alone looking for the car to go blooeyand a lovely stranger to happen along and fix it for her that turns outto be a duke or something in disguise. Sickening!

"Two years ago she got confidential one night and told me she was goingto Italy some day and get carried off to a cave by a handsome bandit inspite of her struggles. Yes, she would struggle--not! Talk about mentalhazards, she's one, all right! She'll make it lively for that familysome day. With Harvey D. Depending on me a lot, I'm expecting to have noend of trouble with her when she gets to going good. Of course she'sonly a kid now, but you can plot her curve easy. One of these kindthat'll say one thing and mean another. And wild? Like that time whenshe started to run off and found us in the graveyard---remember?"

They laughed about this, rehearsing that far-off day with itsvicissitudes and sudden fall of wealth. 

"That was the first day the Whipples noticed me, " said Merle. "I madesuch a good impression on them they decided to take me. "

At another time they talked of their future. Wilbur was hazy about hisown. He was going to wait and see. Merle was happily definite. 

"I'll tell you, " said he when they had played out the last hole oneday, "it's like this. I feel the need to express my best thoughts inwriting, so I've decided to become a great writer--you know, take upliterature. I don't mean poetry or muck of that sort--seriousliterature. Of course Harvey D. Talks about my taking charge of theWhipple interests, but I'll work him round. Big writers aresomebody--not bankers and things like that. You could be the biggestkind of a banker, and people would never know it or think much about it. Writers are different. They get all kinds of notice. I don't know justwhat branch of writing I'll take up first, but I'll find out at college. Anyway, not mucky stories about a handsome stranger coming along justbecause a girl's car busts down. I'll pick out something dignified, youbet!"

"I bet you will, " said his admiring brother. "I bet you'll get a lot ofnotice. "

"Oh"--Merle waved an assenting hand--"naturally, after I get startedgood. "

CHAPTER XIII

On a certain morning in early September Wilbur Cowan idled on RiverStreet, awaiting a summons. The day was sunny and spacious, yet hardly, he thought, could it contain his new freedom. Despairing groups ofhalf-grown humans, still in slavery, hastened by him to their hatefultasks. He watched them pityingly, and when the dread bell rang, causingstragglers to bound forward in a saving burst of speed, he haltedleisurely in sheer exultation. The ecstasy endured a full five minutes, until a last tap of the bell tolled the knell of the tardy. It had beenworth waiting for. This much of his future he had found worth planning. He pictured the unfortunates back in the old room, breathing chalk dust, vexed with foolish problems, tormented by discipline. He was never againto pass a public school save with a sensation of shuddering relief. Hehad escaped into his future, and felt no concern about what it shouldoffer him. It was enough to have escaped. 

Having savoured freedom another ten minutes, he sauntered over to the_Advance_ office as a favour to Sam Pickering. A wastrel printer had thenight before been stricken with the wanderlust, deciding at five-thirtyto take the six-fifty-eight for other fields of endeavour, and WilburCowan had graciously consented to bridge a possible gap. 

He strolled into the dusty, disordered office and eased the worry fromSam Pickering's furrowed brow by attacking the linotype in spiritedfashion. That week he ran off the two editions of the paper. A spottedsmall boy sat across the press bed from him to ink the forms. Heconfided impressively to this boy that when the last paper was printedthe bronze eagle would flap its wings three times and scream as asignal for beer to be brought from Vielhaber's. The boy widened eyes ofutter belief upon him, and Wilbur Cowan once more felt all his years. But he was still lamentably indecisive about his future, and when a newprinter looked in upon the _Advance_ he stepped aside. Whatever he wasgoing to make of himself it wouldn't be someone who had to sit downindoors. He would be slave to no linotype until they were kept in theopen. He told Sam Pickering this in so many words. 

The former Mansion's stable at length engaged his wandering fancy. Thestable's old swinging sign--a carefully painted fop with flowing sidewhiskers and yellow topcoat swiftly driving a spirited horse to a neatred-wheeled run-about--had been replaced by First-Class Garage. Of itsformer activities remained only three or four sedate horses to be drivenby conservatives; and Starling Tucker, who lived, but lived in the past, dazed and unbelieving--becoming vivacious only in speech, beginning, "Iremember when--"

These memories dealt with a remote time, when a hawse was a hawse, andyou couldn't have it put all over you by a lot of slick young smartiesthat could do a few things with a monkey wrench. Starling, when he thusdiscoursed, sat chiefly in the little office before the rusty stove, idly flicking his memory with a buggy whip from the rack above his head, where reposed a dozen choice whips soon to become mere museum pieces. 

Wilbur's connection with this thriving establishment was both profitableand entertaining. Judge Penniman divined the truth of it. 

"He don't work--he just plays!"

He played with disordered motors and unerringly put them right. But heseemed to lack steadiness of purpose. He would leave an ailing car tohelp out Sam Pickering, or he would leave for a round of golf withSharon Whipple, Sharon complaining that other people were nothing butdoggoned golf lawyers; and he would insist upon time off at threeo'clock each afternoon to give Spike Brennon his work-out. Spike hadlaboured to develop other talent in Newbern, but with ill success. Whenyou got 'em learned a little about the game they acted like a lot ofsissies over a broken nose or a couple of front teeth out or something. What he wanted was lads that would get the beak straightened, prettynear as good as new, or proper gold ones put in, and come back lookingfor more trouble. Wilbur Cowan alone he had found dependable. 

Even so, the monotony of mere car repairing began to irk him. It wasthen he formed a pleasant alliance with old Porter Howgill, whose repairshop was across the street from the First-Class Garage. Porter'sswinging sign, weathered and ancient like that of the Mansion's stable, said in bold challenge, "Ask me! I do everything!" And once Porter haddone everything. Now there were a number of things he couldn't do, evenwhen asked. He was aging and knotted with rheumatism, and his failingeyes did not now suffice for many of the nicer jobs. 

Wilbur Cowan came to him and, even as had Porter in the days when thesign was bright, did everything. It was a distinct relief to puzzle overa sewing machine after labouring with too easily diagnosed motortroubles, or to restore a bit of marquetry in a table, or play at a featof locksmithing. The First-Class Garage urged him to quit fiddling roundand become its foreman, but this glittering offer he refused. It was toomuch like settling down to your future. 

"Got his father's vagabond blood in his veins, " declared Judge Penniman. "Crazy, too, like his father. You can't tell me Dave Cowan was in hisright mind when the Whipples offered, in so many words, to set him up inany business he wanted to name, and pay all expenses, and he spurned 'emlike so much dirt beneath his heel. Acted like a crazy loon is what Isay, and this Jack-of-all-trades is showing the strain. Mark my words, they'll both end their days in a madhouse!"

No one did mark his words. Not even Winona, to whom they were utteredwith the air of owlish, head-snapping wisdom which marked so many of theinvalid's best things. She was concerned only with the failure of Wilburto select a seemly occupation. His working dress was again careless; hereeked with oil, and his hands--hard, knotty hands--seemed to bepermanently grimed. Even Lyman Teaford managed his thriving flour andfeed business, with a butter and eggs and farm produce department, inthe garments of a gentleman. True, he often worked with his coat off, but he removed his cuffs and carefully protected the sleeves of hiswhite shirt with calico oversleeves held in place by neat elastics. Onceaway from the store he might have been anybody--even a banker. 

Winona sought to enlist Lyman's help in the matter of Wilbur's future. Lyman was flaccid in the matter. The boy had once stolen into thePenniman parlour while Lyman and Winona were out rifling the ice box ofdelicacies, and enticed by the glitter of Lyman's flute had thrillinglytaken it into his hands to see what made it go, dropping it in hispanic, from the centre table to the floor, when he heard their returningsteps. Lyman had never felt the same toward Wilbur after that. Now, evenunder the blandishments of Winona, he was none too certain that he wouldmake a capable flour and feed merchant. Wilbur himself, to whom thepossibility was broached, proved all too certain that he would engage inno mercantile pursuit whatever; surely none in which he might beassociated ever so remotely with Lyman Teaford, whom for no reason hehad always viewed with profound dislike. This incident closed almostbefore it opened. 

Winona again approached Sharon Whipple in Wilbur's behalf. But Sharonwas not enough depressed by the circumstance that Wilbur's work was hardon clothes, or that tasks were chosen at random and irregularly toiledat. 

"Let him alone, " advised Sharon. "Pretty soon he'll harden and settle. Besides, he's getting his education. He ain't educated yet. "

"Education?" demanded Winona, incredulous. "But he's left school!"

"He'll get it out of school. Only kind ever I got. He's educatinghimself every day. Never mind his clothes. Right clothes are only rightwhen they fit your job. Give the boy a chance to find himself. He'sstill young, Buck is--still in the gristle. "

Winona winced at "gristle. " It seemed so physiological--almost coarse. 

 * * * * *

A year went by in which Wilbur was perforce left to his self-education, working for Porter Howgill or at the garage or for Sam Pickering as helisted. "I'm making good money, " was his steady rejoinder to Winona'shectoring. 

"As if money were everything, " wrote Winona in her journal, where sheput the case against him. 

Then when she had ceased to hope better things for him Wilbur Cowanseemed to waken. There were signs and symptoms Winona thus construed. Hebecame careful in his attire, bought splendid new garments. His lean, bold jaw was almost daily smoothed by the razor of Don Paley, and Winonadiscovered a flask of perfume on his bureau in the little house. Thelabel was Heart of Flowers. It was perhaps a more florid essence thanWinona would have chosen, having a downright vigour of assertion thatleft one in no doubt of its presence; but it was infinitely superior tothe scent of machine oil or printer's ink which had far too oftenbetrayed the boy's vicinity. 

Now, too, he wore his young years with a new seriousness; was morerestrained of speech, with intervals of apparently lofty meditation. Winona rejoiced at these evidences of an awakening soul. The boy mightafter all some day become one of the better sort. She felt sure of thiswhen he sought her of his own free will and awkwardly invited her tobeautify his nails. He who had aforetime submitted to the ordeal underprotest; who had sworn she should never again so torture him! Surely hewas striving at last to be someone people would care to meet. 

Poor Winona did not dream that a great love had come into Wilbur Cowan'slife; a deep and abiding love that bathed all his world in colourfulradiance and moved him to those surface elegances for which all her ownpleading had been in vain. Not even when he asked her one night--whileshe worked with buffer and orange-wood stick--if she believed in love atfirst sight did she suspect the underlying dynamics, the trueinebriating factor of this reform. He put the query with elaborate anddeceiving casualness, having cleared a road to it with remarks upon acircumspect historical romance that Winona had read to him; and she hadmerely said that she supposed it often did happen that way, though itwere far better that true love come gently into one's life, based upon aprofound mutual respect and esteem which would endure through long yearsof wedded life. 

Wilbur had questioned this, but so cautiously and quite impersonallythat Winona could not suspect his interest in the theme to be more thanacademic. She believed she had convinced him that love at first sight, so-called, is not the love one reads about in the better sort ofliterature. She was not alarmed--not even curious. In her very presencethe boy had trifled with his great secret and she had not known!

So continuously had Winona dwelt in the loftier realms of social andspiritual endeavour, it is doubtful if she knew that an organizationknown as the Friday Night Social Club was doing a lot to make lifebrighter for those of Newbern's citizens who were young and sportive andyet not precisely people of the better sort. In the older days of thetown, when Winona was twenty, there was but one social set. Now she wasthirty, and there were two sets. She knew the town had grown; onenowadays saw strange people that one did not know, even many one wouldnot care to know. If she had been told that the Friday Night Social Clubmet weekly in Knights of Pythias Hall to dance those sinister new dancesthat the city papers were so outspoken about she would have consideredit an affair of the underworld, about which the less said the letter. Had it been disclosed to her that Wilbur Cowan, under the chaperonage ofEdward--Spike--Brennon, 133 lbs. , ringside, had become an addict ofthese affairs, a determined and efficient exponent of the weird newsteps--"a good thing for y'r footwork, " Spike had said--she would haveconsidered he had plumbed the profoundest depths of social ignominy. Yetso it was. Each Friday night he danced. He liked it, and while hedisported himself from the lightest of social motives love came to him;the world was suddenly a place of fixed rainbows, and dancing--withher--no longer a gladsome capering, but a holy rite. 

On a certain Friday evening unstarred by any portent she had burst uponhis yielding eyes. Instantly he could have told Winona more than shewould ever know about love at first sight. A creature of rounded beauty, peerlessly blonde, her mass of hair elaborately coifed and bound abouther pale brow with a fillet of sable velvet. He saw her first in thedance, sumptuously gowned, regal, yet blithe, yielding as might agoddess to the mortal embrace of Bill Bardin as they fox-trotted to theviol's surge. He was stricken dumb until the dance ended. Then hegripped an arm of Spike Brennon, who had stood by him against the wall, "looking 'em over, " as Spike had put it. 

"Look!" he urged in tones hushed to the wonder of her. Spike had looked. 

"Gee!" breathed the stricken one mechanically. He would not have chosenthe word, but it formed a vent for his emotion. 

"Bleached blonde, " said Spike after a sharper scrutiny of the fair one, who now coquetted with a circle of gallants. 

"Isn't she?" exclaimed the new lover, admiringly. 

With so golden a result to dazzle him, was he to quarrel pettishly withthe way it had been wrought?

"Do you suppose I could be introduced to her?" demanded Wilbur, timidly. 

This marked the depth of his passion. He was too good a dancer to talksuch nonsense ordinarily. 

"Surest thing you know, " said Spike. "Could you be introduced to her?In a split second! Come on!"

"But you don't know her yourself?" Wilbur hung back. 

"Stop your kiddin'!"

Spike half dragged his fearful charge across the floor, not too subtlyshouldered a way between Bill Bardin and Terry Stamper, bowed gracefullyto the strange beauty, and said, "Hello, sister! Shake hands with myfriend, Kid Cowan. "

"Pleased to meet you!" She smiled graciously upon Wilbur and extended arichly jewelled hand, which he timidly pressed. Then she turned to SpikeBrennon. "I know your name, all right, " she declared. "You're thatMister Fresh we hear so much about--giving introductions to parties youain't met yourself. "

Wilbur Cowan blushed for Spike's _faux pas_, looking to see him slinkoff abashed, but there were things he had yet to learn about his friend. 

"Just for that, " said Spike, "I'll take this dance with you. " Andbrazenly he encircled her waist as the music came anew. 

"It's hot to-night, " said Wilbur very simply to Terry Stamper and BillBardin as they moved off the floor to an open window. 

His dancing eyes followed Beauty in the dance, and he was at her sidewhen the music ceased. Until it came again he fanned by an open windowher flushed and lovely face. Her name was Pearl. 

"I wish this night would last forever, " he murmured to her. 

"Tut, tut!" said Pearl in humorous dismay, "and me having to be atbusiness at seven A. M. !"

Only then did he learn that she was not a mere social butterfly, but oneof the proletariat; that, in truth, she waited on table at the Mansion. Instantly he constructed their future together. He would free her fromthat life of toil. 

"You're too beautiful for work like that, " he told her. 

Pearl eyed him with sudden approval. 

"You're all right, kid. I often said the same thing myself, but no one'sfell for it up to date. "

They danced, and again they danced. 

"You're the nicest boy in the bunch, " murmured Pearl. 

"I never saw any one so beautiful, " said Wilbur. 

Pearl smiled graciously. "I love the sound of your voice, " she said. 

She was wrested from him by Bill Bardin. When he would have retrievedher Terry Stamper had secured her notice. So through another dance hestood aloof against the wall, moody now. It might be only social finessein Pearl but she was showing to others the same pleased vivacity she hadshown to him. Could it be she did not yet understand? Had she possiblynot divined that they two were now forever apart from the trivial world?They danced again. 

"Don't you feel as if we'd always known each other?" he demanded. 

"Sure, kid!" breathed Pearl. 

It was after still another dance--she had meantime floated in the armsof a mere mill foreman. This time he led her into the dusky hallway, where open windows brought the cool night to other low-voiced couples. He led her to the farthest window, where the shadow was deepest, andthey looked out-above the roof of Rapp Brothers, Jewellery-to a sky ofpale stars and a blond moon. 

"Ain't it great?" said Pearl. 

He stood close to her, trembling from the faintest contact with herloveliness. He wished to kiss her-he must kiss her. But he was afraid. Pearl was sympathetic. She divined his trouble, and in the deep shadowshe adroitly did it herself. Then she rebuked his boldness. 

"Say, but you're the quick little worker, seems to me!"

For a moment he was incapable of speech, standing mute, her warm hand inhis. 

"It's been a dream, " he managed at last. "Just like a dream! Now youbelong to me, don't you?"

"Sure, if you want to put it that way, " said Pearl "Come on! there's themusic again. "

At the door she was taken from him by the audacious mill foreman. Wilbur was chilled. Pearl had instantly recovered her public, orballroom, manner. Could it be that she had not been rightly uplifted bythe greatness of their moment? Did she realize all it would mean tothem? But she was meltingly tender when at last they swayed in the waltzto "Home, Sweet Home. " And it was he who bore her off under the witchingmoon to the side entrance of the Mansion. They lingered a moment in theprotecting shadows. Pearl was chatty--not sufficiently impressed, itseemed to him, with the sweet gravity of this crisis. 

"We're engaged now, " he reminded her. Pearl laughed lightly. 

"Have it your own way, kid! Wha'd you say your name was?"

She kissed him again. Then he wandered off in the mystic night, far overa world reeling through golden moonshine, to reach his dark but glowinglittle room at an hour that would have disquieted Winona. It was thefollowing day that he cheered her by displaying a new attention to hisapparel, and it was before the ensuing Friday night dance that he hadsubmitted his hands to her for embellishment--talking casually of loveat first sight. 

There followed for him a time of fearful delight, not unmarred by spellsof troubled wonder. Pearl was not exclusively enough his. She dancedwith other men; she chatted with them as with her peers. She seemed evento encourage their advances. He would have preferred that she foundthese repulsive, but she continued gay, even hard, under his chiding. 

"Tut, tut! I been told I got an awfully feminine nature. A girl of mytype is bound to have gentleman friends, " she protested. 

He aged under this strain. He saw now that he must abandon his easy viewabout his future. He must, indeed, plan his life. He must choose hisvocation, follow it grimly, with one end in view. Pearl must become hisin the sight abandon his easy view about his future. He must, indeed, plan his life. He must choose his vocation, follow it grimly, with oneend in view. Pearl must become his in the sight of God andman--especially man--with the least delay. He delighted Sam Pickering bycontinuing steadily at the linotype for five consecutive weeks, whilebusiness piled up at the First-Class Garage and old Porter Howgill wasasked vainly to do everything. 

Then on a fateful night Lyman Teaford assumed a new and disquietingvalue in his life. Lyman Teaford, who for a dozen years had gone withWinona Penniman faithfully if not spectacularly; Lyman Teaford, dignified and genteel, who belonged to Newbern's better set, had onenight appeared at an affair of the Friday Night Social Club. Perhapsbecause he had reached the perilous forties he had suddenly determinedto abandon the safe highway and seek adventure in miry bypaths. Perhapshe felt that he had austerely played the flute too long. At any rate, hecame and danced with the lower element of Newbern, not oftener withPearl than with others that first night. But he came again and dancedmuch oftener with Pearl. There was no quick, hot alarm in the breast ofWilbur Cowan. Lyman Teaford was an old man, chiefly notable, in Wilbur'sopinion, for the remarkable fluency of his Adam's apple while--with chinaloft--he played high notes on his silver flute. 

Yet dimly at last he felt discomfort at Lyman's crude persistence withPearl. He danced with others now only when Pearl was firm in refusals. Wilbur to her jested with venomous sarcasm at the expense of Lyman. Women were difficult to understand, he thought. What could her motivebe?

The drama, Greek in its severity, culminated with a hideous, a sickeningvelocity. On a Monday morning, in but moderate torment at Pearl'sinconsistency, Wilbur Cowan sat at the linotype in the _Advance_ office, swiftly causing type metal to become communicative about the week'sdoings in Newbern. He hung a finished sheet of Sam Pickering's pencilledcopy on a hook, and casually surveyed the sheet beneath. It was a socialitem, he saw--the notice of a marriage. Then names amazingly leaped fromit to sear his defenseless eyes. Lyman Teaford--Miss Pearl King! Hegasped and looked about him. The familiar routine of the office wasunder way. In his little room beyond he could see Sam Pickeringscribbling other items. He constrained himself to read the monstrousslander before him. 

"Lyman N. Teaford, one of our best-known business men, was last eveningunited in the bonds of holy wedlock to Miss Pearl King, for some monthsemployed at the Mansion House. The marriage service was performed by theReverend Mallett at the parsonage, and was attended by only a few chosenfriends. The happy pair left on the six-fifty-eight for a briefhoneymoon at Niagara Falls, and on their return will occupy the Latimermansion on North Oak Street, recently purchased by the groom in view ofhis approaching nuptials. A wide circle of friends wish them allhappiness. "

Wilbur Cowan again surveyed the office, and again peered sharply in atSam Pickering. His first wild thought was that Sam had descended to apractical joke. If so it was a tasteless proceeding. But he must begame. It was surely a joke, and Sam and the others in the office wouldbe watching him for signs of anguish. His machine steadily clicked offthe item. He struck not one wrong letter. He hung the sheet of copy onits hook and waited for the explosion of crude humour. He felt that hisimpassive demeanour had foiled the mean intention. But no one regardedhim. Sam Pickering wrote on. Terry Stamper stolidly ran off cards on thejob press. They were all indifferent. Something told him it was not ajoke. 

He finished the next sheet of copy. Then, when he was certain he had notbeen jested with, he rose from the torturing machine, put on his coat, and told Sam Pickering he had an engagement. Sam hoped it wouldn't keephim from work that afternoon. 

Wilbur said "Possibly not, " though he knew he would now loathe thelinotype forever. 

"By the way"--he managed it jauntily, as Sam bent again over his pad ofyellow copy paper--"I see Lyme Teaford's name is going to be in printthis week. "

Sam paused in his labour and chuckled. 

"Yes, the old hard-shell is landed. That blonde hasn't been bringing himhis three meals a day all this time for nothing. "

"She must have married him for his money, " Wilbur heard himself sayingin cold, cynical tones. The illumining thought had just come. Thatexplained it. 

"Sure, " agreed Sam. "Why wouldn't she?"

 * * * * *

Late that afternoon, in the humble gymnasium at the rear of PeglegMcCarron's, Spike Brennon emerged from a rally in which Wilbur Cowan haddisplayed unaccustomed spirit. Spike tenderly caressed his nose with aglove and tried to look down upon it. The swelling already showed to hisoblique gaze. 

"Say, kid, " he demanded, irritably, "what's the big idea? Is this murderor jest a friendly bout? You better behave or I'll stop pullin' mypunches. "

It could not be explained to the aggrieved Spike that his opponent hadfor the moment convinced himself that he faced one of Newbern'sbest-known business men. 

Later he contented himself with observing Lyman Teaford at NiagaraFalls. The fatuous groom stood heedlessly at the cataract's verge. Therewas a simple push, and the world was suddenly a better place to live in. As for his bereaved mate--he meditated her destruction, also, but thiswas too summary. It came to him that she had been a lovely and helplessvictim of circumstances. For he had stayed on with Spike through theevening, and in a dearth of custom Spike, back of the bar, had sung in awhining tenor, "For she's only a bird in a gilded cage----"

That was it. She had discarded him because he was penniless--had soldherself to be a rich man's toy. She would pay for it in bitter anguish. 

"Only a bird in a gilded cage, " sang Spike again. An encore had beenurged. 

At noon the following day Winona Penniman, a copy of the _Advance_before her, sat at the Penniman luncheon table staring dully into a dishof cold rice pudding. She had read again and again the unbelievableitem. At length she snapped her head, as Spike Brennon would when nowand again a clean blow reached his jaw, pushed the untouched dessertfrom her with a gesture of repugnance, and went aloft to her own littleroom. Here she sat at her neat desk of bird's eye maple, opened herjournal, and across a blank page wrote in her fine, firm hand, "WhatLife Means to Me. "

It had seemed to her that it meant much. She would fill many pages. Thename of Lyman Teaford would not there appear, yet his influence would becontinuously present. She was not stricken as had been another reader ofthat fateful bit of news. But she was startled, feeling herselfperilously cast afloat from old moorings. She began bravely and easily, with a choice literary flavour. 

"My sensations may be more readily imagined than described. "

This she found true. She could imagine them readily, but could not, intruth, describe them. She was shocked to discern that for the first timein her correct life there were distinctly imagined sensations which shecould not bring herself to word, even in a volume forever sacred to herown eyes. A long time she sat imagining. At last she wrote, but thewords seemed so petty. 

All apparently that life meant to her was "How did she do it?"

She stared long at this. Then followed, as if the fruit of her furthermeditation: "There is a horrid bit of slang I hear from time totime--can it be that I need more pepper?"

After this she took from the bottom drawer of her bureau thatlong-forgotten gift from the facetious Dave Cowan. She held thestockings of tan silk before her, testing their fineness, theirsheerness. She was still meditating. She snapped her dark head, perkedit as might a puzzled wren. 

"Certainly, more pepper!" she murmured. 

CHAPTER XIV

A world once considered of enduring stability had crashed fearsomelyabout the ears of Winona Penniman and Wilbur Cowan. After this nosupport was to be trusted, however seemingly stout. Old foundations hadcrumbled, old institutions perished, the walls of Time itself laywrecked. They stared across the appalling desolation with frightenedeyes. What next? In a world to be ruined at a touch, like a house ofcards, what vaster ruin would ensue?

It did not shock Wilbur Cowan that nations should plunge into anothermadness the very day after a certain fair one, mentioned in hismeditations as "My Pearl--My Pearl of great price, " and eke--from theperfume label--"My Heart of Flowers, " had revealed herself but a mortalwoman with an eye for the good provider. It occasioned Winona not evenmild surprise that the world should abandon itself to hideous war on thevery day after Lyman Teaford had wed beyond the purple. It was awful, yet somehow fitting. Anything less than a World War would have appearedinconsequent, anti-climactic, to these two so closely concerned in thepreliminary catastrophe, and yet so reticent that neither ever knew theother's wound. Wilbur Cowan may have supposed that the entire Pennimanfamily, Winona included, would rejoice that no more forever were they tohear the flute of Lyman Teaford. Certainly Winona never suspected that amere boy had been desolated by woman's perfidy and Lyman's madabandonment of all that people of the better sort most prize. 

Other people, close observers of world events, declared that no real warwould ensue; it would be done in a few days--a few weeks at most. ButWinona and Wilbur knew better. Now anything could happen--and would. Ofall Newbern's wise folk these two alone foresaw the malign dimensions ofthe inevitably approaching cataclysm. They would fall grimly silent inthe presence of conventional optimists. They knew the war was to beunparalleled for blood and tears, but they allowed themselves no morethan sinister, vague prophecies, for they could not tell how they knew. 

And they saw themselves active in war. They lost no time in doing that. The drama of each drew to a splendid climax with the arrival in Newbernof a French officer--probably a general--bound upon a grave mission. Wilbur's general came to seek out the wife of Lyman Teaford. 

To her he said in choice English: "Madame, I bring you sad news. Thisyoung man died gallantly on the field of battle--the flag of my countrywas about to be captured by the enemy when he leaped bravely forward, where no other would dare the storm of shot and shell, and brought theprecious emblem safely back to our battle line. But even as the cheersof his comrades rang in his ears an enemy bullet laid him low. I sprangto his side and raised his head. His voice was already weak, for thebullet had found rest in his noble heart. 

"'Tell her, ' he breathed, 'that she sent me to my death so that shemight become only a bird in a gilded cage. But tell her also that I wishher happiness in her new life. ' Madame, he died there, while weepingsoldiers clustered about with hats off and heads bowed--died with yourname on his pale lips---'My Pearl of great price, ' he whispered, and allwas over. I bring you this photograph, which to the last he wore abovehis heart. Observe the bullet hole and those dark stains that discolouryour proud features. "

Whereupon Mrs. Lyman Teaford would fall fainting to the floor and neveragain be the same woman, bearing to her grave a look of unutterablesadness, even amid the splendours of the newly furnished Latimerresidence on North Oak Street. 

Winona's drama was less depressing. Possibly Winona at thirty-two haddeveloped a resilience not yet achieved by Wilbur at twenty. She was notgoing to die upon a field of battle for any Lyman Teaford. She wouldbrave dangers, however. She saw herself in a neat uniform, searching abattlefield strewn with the dead and wounded. To the latter sheadministered reviving cordial from a minute cask suspended at her trimwaist by a cord. Shells burst about her, but to these she paid no heed. It was thus the French officer--a mere lieutenant, later promoted forgallantry under fire--first observed her. He called her an angel ofmercy, and his soldiers--rough chaps, but hearty and outspoken--cheeredher as La Belle Americaine. 

So much for the war. But the French officer--a general now, perhaps withone arm off--came to Newbern to claim his bride. He had been one of theimpetuous sort that simply would not take no for an answer. The weddingwas in the Methodist church, and was a glittering public function. Thegroom was not only splendidly handsome in a French way, but wore ashining uniform, and upon his breast sparkled a profusion of medals. Avast crowd outside the church waited to cheer the happy couple, andslinking at the rear of this was a drab Lyman Teaford--without medals, without uniform, dull, prosaic, enduring at this moment pangs of thekeenest remorse for his hasty act of a year before. He, too, would neverbe the same man again. 

In truth, the beginning Teaford ménage lay under the most unfavourableportents. Things looked dark for it. 

Yet despite the forebodings of Wilbur and Winona, it began to besuspected, even by them, that the war would wear itself out, as oldDoctor Purdy said, by first intention. And in spite of affectingindividual dramas they began to feel that it must wear itself out withno help from them. It seemed to have settled into a quarrel amongforeign nations with which we could rightfully have no concern. Winonalearned, too, that her picture of the nurse on a battlefieldadministering cordial to wounded combatants from the small keg at herwaist was based upon an ancient and doubtless always fanciful print. 

Wilbur, too, gathered from the newspapers that, though he might die upona battlefield, there was little chance that a French general would becommissioned to repeat his last words to Mrs. Lyman Teaford of NewbernCenter. He almost decided that he would not become a soldier. Some yearsbefore, it is true, he had been drawn to the life by a governmentposter, designed by one who must himself have been a capable dramatist. 

"Join the Army and See the World, " urged the large-lettered legend abovethe picture. 

The latter revealed an entrancing tropical scene with graceful palmsadorning the marge of a pinkly sun-kissed sea. At a table in thebackground two officers consulted with a private above animportant-looking map, while another pleased-looking private stood atattention near by. At the left foreground a rather obsequious-lookingold colonel seemed to be entreating a couple of spruce young privates todrop round for tea that afternoon and meet the ladies. 

Had Wilbur happened upon this poster in conjunction with the resolve ofMiss Pearl King to be sensible, it is possible his history might havebeen different. But its promise had faded from his memory ere his lifewas wrecked. He felt now merely that he ought to settle down tosomething. Even Sharon Whipple plainly told him so. He said it was allright to knock about from one thing to another while you were still inthe gristle. Up to twenty a boy's years were kind of yeasty anduncertain, and if he was any way self-headed he ought to be left to run. But after twenty he lost his pinfeathers and should begin to think aboutthings. 

So Wilbur began to think about things. He continued to do everythingthat old Porter Howgill was asked to do, to repair cars for the Mansiongarage, and to be a shield and buckler to Sam Pickering in time of need. The _Advance_ office became freshly attractive at this time, because Samhad installed a wonderful new power press to print the paper daily; forthe _Advance_, as Sam put it, could be found ever in the van ofprogress. 

The new press had innermost secrets of structure that were presentlybest known to Wilbur Cowan. No smeared small boy was required to ink itsforms and no surmounting bronze eagle was reported to scream for beerwhen the last paper was run off. Even Dave Cowan, drifting in from outof the nowhere--in shoes properly describable as only memories ofshoes--said she was a snappy little machine, and applauded his son'seasy mastery of it. 

So the days of Wilbur were busy days, even if he had not settled farenough down to suit either Sam Pickering, Porter Howgill--who dideverything, if asked--or the First-Class Garage. And the blight put uponhim by a creature as false as she was beautiful proved not to beenduring. He was able, indeed, to behold her without a tremor, save ofsympathy for one compelled to endure the daily proximity of LymanTeaford. 

But the war prolonged itself as only he and Winona had felt it would, and presently it began to be hinted that a great nation, apparentlyunconcerned with its beginning, might eventually be compelled to alivelier interest in it. Herman Vielhaber was a publicly exposedbarometer of this sentiment. At the beginning he beamed upon the worldand predicted the Fatherland's speedy triumph over all the treacherousfoes. When the triumph was unaccountably delayed he appeared mysterious, but not less confident. The Prussian system might involve delay, butPrussian might was none the less invincible. Herman would explain thePrussian system freely to all who cared to listen--and many didattentively--from high diplomacy to actual fighting. He left many of hishearers with a grateful relief that neutrality had been officiallyenjoined upon them. 

Later Herman beamed less brightly as he recounted tales of Germanprowess. He came to exhibit a sort of indignant pity for the Fatherland, into whose way so many obstacles were being inopportunely thrown. Hecompared Germany to a wounded deer that ravenous dogs were seeking tobring down, but his predictions of her ultimate victory were not lessconfident. Minna Vielhaber wept back of the bar at Herman's affectingpicture of the stricken deer with the arrow in her flank, and would becomforted only when he brought the war to a proper close. 

It was at this time that Winona wrote in her journal: "General Shermansaid that war is the bad place. He knew. "

It was also at this time that a certain phrase from a high sourcebriefly engaged the notice of Sharon Whipple. 

"Guinea pigs, " said he, "are also too proud to fight, but they ain'tever won the public respect on that account. They get treatedaccordingly. "

It was after this that Sharon was heard ominously to wish that he werethirty or forty years younger. And it was after this that Winona becameactive as a promoter of bazaars for ravaged Belgium and a pacifist whosewatchword was "Resist not evil!" She wrote again in her journal: "Ifonly someone would reason calmly with them!" She presently becameradiant with hope, for a whole boatload of earnest souls went over toreason calmly with the combatants. 

But the light she had seen proved deceiving. The earnest souls wentforward, but for some cause, never fully revealed to Winona, they hadbeen unable to reason calmly with those whose mad behaviour they hadmeant to correct. It was said that they had been unable to reason calmlyeven among themselves. It was merely a mark of Winona's earnestness thatshe felt things might have gone differently had the personnel of thisvaliant embassy been enlarged to include herself. Meantime, war wasbecoming more and more the bad place, just as General Sherman had said. She had little thought now for silk stockings or other abominations ofthe frivolous, for her own country seemed on the very verge ofcommitting a frightful error. 

Some time had elapsed since Wilbur Cowan definitely knew that he wouldnever go to war because of the mother of Lyman Teaford's infant son. Hebegan to believe, however, that he would relish a bit of fighting forits own sake. Winona reasoned with him as she would have reasoned withcertain high personages on the other side of the water, and perhaps withas little success. He replied cryptically that he was an out-and-outphagocyte, and getting more so every time he read a newspaper. Winonawinced at the term--it seemed to carry sinister implications. Where didthe boy hear such words?

This one he had heard on a late Sunday afternoon when he sat, contraryto a municipal ordinance of Newbern, in the back room of HermanVielhaber, with certain officials sworn to uphold that ordinance, whodrank beer and talked largely about what we should do; for it had thenbecome shockingly apparent that the phrase about our being too proud tofight had been, in its essential meaning, misleading. Dave Cowan, citizen of the world and student of its structure, physical and social, had proved that war, however regrettable, was perhaps never to beavoided; that in any event one of the best means to avoid it was to beknown for your fighting ways. Anyway, war was but an incident in humanprogress. 

Dave's hair had thinned in the years of his wandering to see a man atSeattle or New Orleans, and he now wore spectacles, without which hecould no longer have enlarged his comprehension of cosmic values, forhis latest Library of Universal Knowledge was printed in very smalltype. Dave said that since the chemicals had got together to form lifeeverything had lived on something else, and the best livers had alwaysbeen the best killers. He did not pretend to justify the plan, but thereit was; and it worked the same whether it was one microscopic organismpreying on another or a bird devouring a beetle or Germany trying toswallow the world. Rapp, Senior, said that was all very well, but thesepacifists would keep us out of war yet. Doctor Purdy, with whom he hadfinished a game of pinochle--Herman Vielhaber had lately been unable tokeep his mind on the game--set down his beer stein in an authoritativemanner, having exploded with rage even while he swallowed some of thelast decent beer to come to Newbern Center. He wiped froth from hiswaistcoat. 

"Pacifists!" he stormed. "Why don't they ever look into their ownbodies? They couldn't live a day on non-resistance to evil. Every one oftheir bodies is thronged with fighting soldiers. Every pacifist is aliving lie. Phagocytes, that's what they are--white corpuscles--and it'sall they're there for. They believe in preparedness hard enough. See 'emmarch up to fight when there's an invasion! And how they do fight! Thesepacifists belie their own construction. They're built on a fight fromthe cradle and before that. 

"I wish more of their own phagocytes would begin to preachnon-resistance and try to teach great moral lessons to invading germs. We wouldn't have to listen to so many of 'em. But phagocytes don't actthat way. They keep in training. They don't say, like that poor oldmaunderer I read this morning, that there's no use preparing--that amillion phagocytes will spring to arms overnight if their country'sinvaded. They keep in trim. They fight quick. If they didn't we wouldn'tbe here. "

"These phagocytes--is infantry, yes?" demanded Herman Vielhaber. "Inever hear 'em named before like that. "

"Infantry, and all the other branches, in a healthy body--and our ownbody is healthy. Watch our phagocytes come forward now, just as thosetiny white corpuscles rush through the blood to an invaded spot. You'llsee 'em come quick. Herman, your country has licked Belgium andSerbia--you can rightly claim that much. But she'll never get anotherdecision. Too many phagocytes. "

Dave Cowan, who always listened attentively to Doctor Purdy for newwords, was thus enabled to enlighten Winona about her own and otherpeople's phagocytes; and Winona, overwhelmed by his mass of detail--forDave had supplemented Purdy's lecture with fuller information from hisencyclopedia--had sighed and said: "Oh, dear! We seem to be living overa volcano!"

This had caused Dave to become more volubly instructive. 

"Of course! Didn't you know that? How thick do you suppose the crust ofthe earth is, anyway? All we humans are--we're plants that have grownout of the cooled crust of a floating volcano; plants that can walk andtalk, but plants just the same. We float round the sun, which is onlyanother big volcano that hasn't cooled yet--good thing for us ithasn't--and the sun and us are floating round some other volcano that noone has discovered yet because the circle is too big, and that one isprobably circling round another one--and there you are. That's plain, isn't it?"

"Not very, " said Winona. 

"Well, I admit there's a catch in it I haven't figured out yet, but thefacts are right, as far as I've gone. Anyway, here we are, and we gothere by fighting, and we'll have to keep on fighting, one way oranother, if we're to get any place else. "

"I don't know anything about all that, " said Winona; "but sometimes Ialmost think the Germans deserve a good beating. "

This was extreme for Winona, the arch pacifist. 

"You almost think so, eh? Well, that's a good specimen of almostthinking. Because the Germans don't deserve any such thing unlesssomeone can give it to them. If the bird can swallow the worm the birddeserves the worm. The most of us merely almost think. "

It was much later--an age later, it seemed to Winona--for her country, as she wrote in her journal, had crossed the Rubicon--that she went toattend a meeting of protest in a larger city than Newbern; a meeting ofmothers and potential mothers who were persuaded that war was neverexcusable. 

She had listened to much impassioned oratory, with a sickening surprisethat it should leave her half-hearted in the cause of peace at anyprice; and she had gone to take her train for home, troubled with amonstrous indecision. Never before had she suffered an instant'sbewilderment in detecting right from wrong. 

As she waited she had observed on a siding a long, dingy train, from thewindows of which looked the faces of boys. She was smitten with a quickcuriosity. There were tall boys and short boys; and a few of them wereplump, but mostly they were lean, with thin, browned faces, and theywere all ominously uniformed. Their keen young faces crowded the openwindows of the cars, and they thronged upon the platforms to make noisypurchases from younger boys who offered them pitiful confections frombaskets and trays. 

Winona stared at them with a sickened wonder. They were all so alive, soalert, so smiling, so eager to be on with the great adventure. In one ofthe cars a band of them roared a stirring chorus. It stirred Winonabeyond the calm that should mark people of the better sort. She forgotthat a gentleman should make no noise and that a lady is serene; forgotutterly. She waved a hand--timidly at first--to a cluster of young headsat a car window, and was a little dismayed when they waved heartily inreturn. She recovered and waved at another group--less timidly thistime. Again the response was instant, and a malign power against whichshe strove in vain carried Winona to the train's side. Heads were thrustforth and greetings followed, some shy and low-toned, some with feignedman-of-the-world jauntiness. 

Winona was no longer Winona. A freckled young vender with a baskethalted beside her. Winona searched for her purse and emptied its hoardinto one gloved hand. Coins spilled from this and ran about theplatform. Hands sprang from the window above her to point out theirresting places, and half a dozen of the creatures issued from the car torecover them for her. Flustered, eager, pleasantly shocked at her owndaring, Winona distributed gifts from the basket, seeing only the handsthat came forth to receive them. 

Chewing gum, candy, popcorn, figs--even cigarettes--and Winona the firstvice-president and recording secretary of Newbern's anti-tobaccoleague! War was assuredly what Sherman had so pithily described it, forshe now sent the vender back to replenish his stock of cigarettes, andbought and bestowed them upon immature boys so long as her coin lasted. Their laughter was noisy, their banter of one another and of Winona wascontinuous, and Winona laughed, even bantered. That she should banterstrangers in a public place! She felt rowdy, but liked it. 

There was a call from the front of the train, and the group about hersprang to the platform as the cars began to move, waving her gracious, almost condescending adieus, as happy people who go upon a wondrousjourney will wave to poor stay-at-homes. Winona waved wildly now, beinglost to all decorum; waved to the crowded platform and then to the cloudof heads at the window above her. 

From this window a hand reached down to her--a lean, hard, brownhand--and the shy, smiling eyes of the boy who reached it sought hers insomething like appeal. Winona clutched the hand and gripped it as shehad never gripped a human hand before. 

"Good-bye, sister!" said the boy, and Winona went a dozen steps with thetrain, still grasping the hand. 

"Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye--all of you!" she called, and was holdingthe hand with both her own when the train gathered speed and took itfrom her grasp. 

She stood then watching other windows thronged with young heads as thetrain bore them on; she still waved and was waved at. Faint strains ofthe resumed chorus drifted back to her. Her face was hurting with a setsmile. 

She stumbled back across the platform, avoiding other groups who hadcheered the passing train, and found sanctuary by a baggage truck loadedwith crates of live chickens. Here she wept unnoticed, and wondered whyshe was weeping. Later, in her own train, she looked down and observedthe white-ribboned badge which she had valiantly pinned above her heartthat very morning. She had forgotten the badge--and those boys must haveseen it. Savagely she tore it from its mooring, to the detriment of anew georgette waist, and dropped it from the open window. 

That night she turned back in her journal to an early entry: "If onlysomeone would reason calmly with them. Resist not evil!" She stared atthis a long time, then she dipped a new pen in red ink and full acrossit she wrote "What rotten piffle!" That is, she nearly wrote thosewords. What she actually put down was "What r-tt-n piffle!"

To Wilbur Cowan, in recounting her fall from the serene heights ofpacifism, she brazenly said: "Do you know--when that poor boy reacheddown to shake hands with me, if I could have got at him I just know Ishould have kissed him. "

"Gee whiz!" said Wilbur in amazed tribute. 

"I don't care!" persisted Winona. "That's the way I felt--he was such anice boy. He looked like you, as if he'd come from a good home and hadgood habits, and I did want to kiss him, and I would have if I couldhave reached him--and I'm not going to tell a falsehood about it for anyone, and I'm--I'm hostile. "

"Well, I guess pretty soon I'll be going, " said Wilbur. 

Winona gazed at him with strangely shining eyes. 

"You wouldn't be any good if you didn't!" she said, suddenly. 

It was perhaps the least ornate sentence she had ever spoken. 

"Gee whiz!" said Wilbur again. "You've changed!"

"Something came over me, " said Winona. 

CHAPTER XV

Wilbur Cowen had hesitated in the matter of war. He wanted to be in abattle--had glowed at the thought of fighting--but if the war was goingto be stopped in its beginning, what would be the use of starting? Andhe was assured and more than half believed that it would be stopped. Merle Whipple was his informant--Merle had found himself. The war wasto be stopped by the _New Dawn_, a magazine of which Merle had beenassociate editor since shortly after his release from college. 

Merle, on that afternoon of golf with Wilbur, had accurately forecasthis own future. Confessing then that he meant to become a great writer, he was now not only a great writer but a thinker, in the true sense ofthe word. He had taken up literature--"not muck like poetry, but seriousliterature"--and Whipple money had lavishly provided a smart littlecraft in which to embark. The money had not come without some bewilderedquestioning on the part of those supplying it. As old Sharon said, theWhipple chicken coop had hatched a gosling that wanted to swim instrange waters; but it was eventually decided that goslings were meantto swim and would one way or another find a pond. Indeed, Harvey Whipplewas prouder of his son by adoption than he cared to have known, andlistened to him with secret respect, covered with perfunctory businesshints. He felt that Merle was above and beyond him. The youth, indeed, made him feel that he was a mere country banker. 

In the city of New York, after his graduation, Merle had comeinto his own, forming a staunch alliance with a small circle ofintellectuals--intelligentzia, Merle said--consecrated to the cause ofAmerican culture. He had brought to Newbern and to the amazed HarveyWhipple the strange news that America had no native culture; that it wasraw, spiritually impoverished, without national self-consciousness; withbut the faintest traces of art in any true sense of the word. HarveyWhipple would have been less shocked by this disclosure, momentousthough it was, had not Merle betrayed a conviction that his life workwould now be to uphold the wavering touch of civilization. 

This brought the thing home to Harvey D. Merle, heading his valiantlittle band of thinkers, would light a pure white flame to flushAmerica's spiritual darkness. He would be a vital influence, teachingmen and women to cultivate life for its own sake. For the cheap andtawdry extravagance of our national boasting he would substitute achastening knowledge of our spiritual inferiority to the older nations. America was uncreative; he would release and nurse its raw creativeintelligence till it should be free to function, breaking newintellectual paths, setting up lofty ideals, enriching our common lifewith a new, self-conscious art. Much of this puzzled Harvey D. And hisfather, old Gideon. It was new talk in their world. But it impressedthem. Their boy was earnest, with a fine intelligence; he left themstirred. 

Sharon Whipple was a silent, uneasy listener at many of these talks. Hedeclared, later and to others, for Merle was not his son, that the youngman was highly languageous and highly crazy; that his talk was thecrackling of thorns under a pot; that he was a vain canter--"forevercanting, " said Sharon--"a buffle-headed fellow, talking, bragging. " Hewas equally intolerant of certain of Merle's little band offorward-looking intellectuals who came to stay week-ends at the WhippleNew Place. There was Emmanuel Schilsky, who talked more pithily thanMerle and who would be the editor-in-chief of the projected _New Dawn_. Emmanuel, too, had come from his far-off home to flush America'sspiritual darkness with a new light. He had written much about ourshortage of genuine spiritual values; about "the continual frustrationsand aridities of American life. " He was a member of various groups--theImagist group, the Egoist group, the Sphericists, other groups piquantlynamed; versed in the new psychology, playing upon the word "pragmatism"as upon a violin. 

Sharon Whipple, the Philistine, never quite knew whether pragmatism wasapproved or condemned by Schilsky, and once he asked the dark-facedyoung man what it meant. He was told that pragmatism was a method, andfelt obliged to pretend that this enlightened him. He felt a reluctantrespect for Schilsky, who could make him feel uncomfortable. 

And there was the colourful, youngish widow, Mrs. Truesdale, who wrotefree verse about the larger intimacies of life, and dressed noticeably. She would be a contributing editor of the _New Dawn_, having as herspecial department the release of woman from her age-long slavery tocertain restraints that now made her talked unpleasantly about if shedared give her soul free rein. This lady caused Sharon to wonder aboutthe departed Truesdale. 

"Was he carried away by sorrowing friends, " asked Sharon, "or did he gettired one day and move off under his own power?" No one ever enlightenedhim. 

Others of the younger intelligentzia came under his biased notice. Hespoke of them as "a rabble rout, " who lived in a mad world--"and Godbless us out of it. "

But Sharon timed his criticism discreetly, and the _New Dawn_ lit itspure white flame--a magazine to refresh the elect. Placed superblybeyond the need of catering to advertisers, it would adhere to rigorousstandards of the true, the beautiful. It would tell the truth as noother magazine founded on gross commercialism would dare to do. It saidso in well-arranged words. The commercial magazines full well knew thehideous truth, but stifled it for hire. The _New Dawn_ would be honest. 

The sinister truth about America as revealed in the initial number ofthe brave new venture was that America was crude, blatant, boastful, vulgar, and money-grubbing. We were without ideals beyond the dollar;without desires save those to be glutted by material wealth. It was thehigh aim of the _New Dawn_--said the associate editor, Merle DaltonWhipple--to dethrone the dollar, to hasten and to celebrate the passingof American greed. 

Not until the second number was it revealed that the arch criminals wereto be found in the exploiting class, a sinister combination, all-powerful, working to the detriment of the common people; anindustrial oligarchy under whose rule the cowed wage slave toiled forhis crust of bread. This number unflinchingly indicted the capitalisticruling class; fearlessly called upon the exploited masses to rise andthrow off the yoke put upon them by this nefarious plunderbund. Theworker's plight was depicted with no sparing of detail--"the slavesgroaning and wailing in the dark the song of mastered men, the sullen, satanic music of lost and despairing humanity. "

Succeeding numbers made it plain that the very republic itself had beenfounded upon this infamy. Our Revolutionary War had marked the triumphof the capitalistic state--the state that made property sovereign. TheRevolutionary fathers had first freed themselves from English creditors, then bound down as their own debtors an increasing mass of the Americanpopulation. The document known as the Constitution of the United Stateshad been cunningly and knowingly contrived to that end, thus thrustingupon us the commercial oligarchy which persisted to this day. It hadplaced the moneyed classes securely in the saddle, though with finephrases that seemed not to mean this. 

"A conscious minority of wealthy men and lawyers, guided by the geniusof Washington, Franklin, Hamilton, and Madison, " had worked their fulldesign upon the small farmer and the nascent proletariat; we had sincebeen "under the cult and control of wealth. "

After this ringing indictment it surprised no Whipple to read that wehad become intolerant, materialistic, unaesthetic. Nor was it any wonderthat we were "in no mood to brook religious or social dissension. " Withsuch a Constitution fraudulently foisted upon us by the money-lovingfathers of the Revolution, it was presumably not to be expected that weshould exhibit the religious tolerance of contemporary Spain or Italy orFrance. 

"Immersed in a life of crass material endeavour, " small wonder that theAmerican had remained in spiritual poverty of the most debasing sortuntil the _New Dawn_ should come to enrich him, to topple in ruins anexploiting social system. 

Now the keen eyes of young America, by aid of the magnifying lenssupplied by Emmanuel Schilsky, would detect the land of the free to bein fact a land of greedy and unscrupulous tyrants; the home of the bravea home of economic serfs. Young America, which fights for the sanctityof life, solid and alive with virile beauty, would revolt and destroythe walls of the capitalistic state, sweeping away the foul laws thatheld private property sacred. They would seek a cure for the falsehoodof modern life in a return to Nature, a return to the self where truthever is. They would war with the privilege and ascendancy of the groupover the individual conscience. Already the exploiting class, as itneared the term of its depleted life, was but a mass of purulence. Society was rotten, the state a pious criminal, the old truths tawdrylies. Everywhere the impotence of senility--except in young America. Wefaced the imminence of a vast breaking-up. The subtlest oligarchy ofmodern times was about to crumble. The revolution was at hand. 

 * * * * *

A succeeding number of the _New Dawn_ let out the horrid truth about thewar, telling it in simple words that even Wilbur Cowan could understand. Having sold munitions to the warring nations, we must go in to save ourmoney. In short, as the _New Dawn_ put it: "The capitalistic rulingclasses tricked the people into war. " It was to be a war waged forgreed. Young America, not yet perusing in large enough numbers the _NewDawn_, was to be sent to its death that capital might survive--thedollar be still enthroned. But the _New Dawn_ was going to see aboutthat. Young America would be told the truth. 

Two of the Whipples were vastly puzzled by these pronouncements, andnot a little disquieted. Old Gideon and Harvey D. Began to wonder if byany chance their boy, with his fine intellect, had not been misled. Sharon was enraged by the scandalous assertions about George Washington, whom he had always considered a high-minded patriot. He had neversuspected and could not now be persuaded that Washington had baselytricked the soldiers of the Revolution into war so that the capitalisticclass might prevail in the new states. Nor would he believe that theframers of the Constitution had consciously worded that document with aview to enslaving the common people. He was a stubborn old man, and notaware of his country's darkness. Perhaps it was too much to expect thatone of his years and mental habit should be hospitable to these newlyfound truths. 

He was not young America. He had thought too long the other way. Beingof a choleric cast, he would at times be warmed into regrettableoutbursts of opinion that were reactionary in the extreme. Thus when hediscussed with Gideon and Harvey D. The latest number of themagazine--containing the fearless exposure of Washington's chicanery--hespoke in terms most slighting of Emmanuel Schilsky. He meant his wordsto lap over to Merle Whipple, but as the others were still proud--if ina troubled way--of the boy's new eminence, he did not distinguish himtoo pointedly. He pretended to take it all out on Emmanuel, whom hedeclared to be no fair judge of American history. The other Whippleswere beginning to suspect this but were not prepared to admit it eitherto Sharon or to each other. For the present they would defend Emmanuelagainst the hot-headed aspersions of the other. 

"You said yourself, not a month ago, " expostulated Harvey D. , "that hewas a smart little Jew. "

Sharon considered briefly. 

"Well, " he replied, "I don't know as I'd change that--at least not much. I'd still say the same thing, or words to that effect. "

"Just how would you put it now?" demanded Gideon, suavely. 

Sharon brightened. He had hoped to be asked that. 

"The way I'd put it now--having read a lot more of his new-dawning--I'dsay he was a little Jew smarty. "

The other Whipples had winced at this. The _New Dawn_ was assuredly notthe simple light-bringer to America's spiritual darkness that they hadsupposed it would be; but they were not yet prepared to believe theworst. 

"If only they wouldn't be so extreme!" murmured the troubled Harvey D. "If only they wouldn't say the country has been tricked into war bycapital. "

"That's a short horse and soon curried, " said Sharon. "They can't say itif you quit paying for it. "

"There you are!" said Harvey D. "Merle would say that that's an exampleof capitalism suppressing the truth. Of course I don't know--maybe itis. "

"Sure! Anyway, it would be an example of capital suppressing something. Depends on what you call the truth. If you think the truth is thatGermany ought to rule the earth you got it right. That's what all thesepacifists and anti-militaries are arguing, though they don't let on tothat. Me, I don't think Germany ought to rule the earth. I think sheought to be soundly trounced, and my guess is she's goin' to be. Something tells me this _New Dawn_ ain't goin' to save her from hercome-uppance. I tell you both plain out, I ain't goin' to have amagazine under my roof that'll talk such stuff about George Washington, the Father of his Country. It's too scandalous. "

Thus the _New Dawn_ lost a subscriber, though not losing, it should besaid, a reader. For Sharon Whipple, having irately stopped hissubscription by a letter in which the editor was told he should beashamed of himself for calling George Washington a crook that way, thereafter bought the magazine hurriedly at the Cut-Rate Pharmacy andread every word of it in secret places not under his roof. 

Wilbur Cowan, though proud of the _New Dawn_ because his brother's nameadorned it, had nevertheless failed to profit by its teachings. He wasprepared to admit that America groped in spiritual darkness which the_New Dawn_ would flush with its pure white light; he could not havecontended with any authority that it was not a land of dollar hunters, basely materialistic, without ideals, artistically impoverished, anddevoid of national self-consciousness, whatever that meant. These thingswere choice words to him, nothing more; and he had no valid authority onwhich to deny that the country was being tricked into war by theInterests, something heinous that the _New Dawn_ spelled with a capitalletter. In a way he believed this, because his brother said so. Hisbrother had been educated. He even felt shame-faced and apologetic abouthis resolve to enter the fight. 

But this resolve was stanch; he wanted to fight, even if he had beentricked by Wall Street into feeling that way. The _New Dawn_ said he hadbeen tricked, and he supposed it was true, even if he couldn't clearlydetect how Wall Street had made Germany pursue the course that made himwant to fight. So far as his direct mental processes could inform him, the only trickery involved had been employed by Germany and SpikeBrennon. Germany's behaviour was more understandable than the _NewDawn_, and Spike Brennon was much simpler in his words. Spike said itwas a dandy chance to get into a real scrap, and all husky lads shouldbe there in a split second at the first call. Perhaps Wall Street hadtricked Spike into tricking Wilbur Cowan. Anyway, Spike was determined. 

Their decision was made one day after a brisk six rounds of mimicbattle. They soaped and bathed and dried their bodies. Then theyrested--sitting upon up-ended beer kegs in the storeroom of PeglegMcCarron--and talked a little of life. Spike for a week had beenlaconic, even for him, and had taken little trouble to pull his punches. To-day he revealed that the Interests had triumphed over his simplemind. He was going and going quick. He recovered a morsel of gum frombeneath the room's one chair, put it again into commission, and spokedecisively. 

"I'm goin' quick, " he said. 

"When do we leave?" demanded Wilbur. 

"I'm leavin' in two days. "

"We're leaving in two days. "

They chewed gum for an interval. 

"Way it is, " said Spike at length, "I'm nothing but about a fourth-raterin my game. I wasn't never a first-rater. I used to kid myself I was, but handier guys took it out of me. Never was better than a third-rater, I guess. But maybe in this other game I could git to be a first-rater. You can't tell. I still got the use of myself, ain't I? And I wouldn'tbe so much afraid as a guy who never fought no fights at all. It looksgood to me. Of course I don't know much about this here talk youread--makin' the world safe for Democrats, and so forth, but they'scertain parts of it had ought to be made unsafe for Germans. I got thatmuch straight. "

"Where do we go from here?" demanded Wilbur Cowan. 

"N'York, " said Spike. "Enlist there. I got a friend in Tamm'ny will seewe git treated right. "

"Treated right--how?"

"Sent over quick--not kept here. This guy is high up; he can get ussent. "

"Good!"

"Only thing worries me, " said Spike--"sleepin' out of doors. It ain'thealthy. They tell me you sleep any old place--on the ground or in achicken coop--makes no matter. I never did sleep out of doors, and Ihate to begin now; but I s'pose I got to. Mebbe, time we git there, they'll have decent beds. I admit I'm afraid of sleepin' out on theground. It ain't no way to keep your health. "

He ruminated busily with the gum. 

"Another thing, kid, you got to remember. In the box-fightin' gamesometimes even second money is good. I pulled down a few nice purses inmy time. But this here gun-fightin' stuff, it's winner take all everytime. In a gun fight second money is mud. Remember that. And we ain'tgot the education to be officers. We got to do plain fightin'. "

"Plain fighting!" echoed Wilbur. "And I'll tell you another thing. Fromwhat I hear they might put me to driving a car, but you bet I ain'tgoing to take that long trip and get seasick, probably, just to foolround with automobiles. I'm going to be out where you are--plainfighting. So remember this--I don't know a thing about cars or motors. Never saw one till I come into the Army. "

"You're on!" said Spike. "Now let's eat while we can. They tell me overin the war your meals is often late. "

They ate at T-bone Tommy's, consuming a vast quantity of red meat withbut a minor accompaniment of vegetables. They were already soldiers. They fought during the meal several sharp engagements, from which theyemerged without a scratch. 

"We'll be takin' a lot of long chances, kid, " cautioned Spike. "Firstthing we know--they might be saying it to us with flowers. "

"Let 'em talk!" said the buoyant Wilbur. "Of course we'll get intotrouble sooner or later. "

"Sure!" agreed Spike. "Way I look at it, I got about one good fight leftin me. All I hope is, it'll be a humdinger. "

Later they wandered along River Street, surveying the little town withnew eyes. They were far off---"over where the war was taking place, " asSpike neatly put it--surveying at that long range the well-rememberedscene; revisiting it from some remote spot where perhaps it had beensaid to them with flowers. 

"We'd ought to tell Herman Vielhaber, " said Spike. "Herman's a Heinie, but he's a good scout at that. "

"Sure!" agreed Wilbur. 

They found Herman alone at one of his tables staring morosely at anuntouched glass of beer. The Vielhaber establishment was alreadysuffering under the stigma of pro-Germanism put upon it by certain ofthe watchful towns-people. Judge Penniman, that hale old invalid, hadeven declared that Herman was a spy, and signalled each night to otherspies by flapping a curtain of his lighted room above the saloon. Thejudge had found believers, though it was difficult to explain just whatinformation Herman would be signalling and why he didn't go out and tellit to his evil confederates by word of mouth. Herman often found tradedull of an evening now, since many of his old clients would patronizehis rival, Pegleg McCarron; for Pegleg was a fervent patriot whodeclared that all Germans ought to be in hell. Herman greeted thenewcomers with troubled cordiality. 

"Sed down, you boys. What you have? Sasspriller? All right! Mamma, twosassprillers for these young men. "

Minna Vielhaber brought the drink from the bar. Minna had red eyes, andperformed her service in silence, after which she went moodily back toher post. 

They drank to Herman's health and to Minna's, and told of theirdecision. 

"Right!" said Herman. "I give you right. " He stared long at his beer. "Itell you, boys, " he said at last, "mamma and me we got in a hard place, yes. Me? I'm good American--true blue. I got my last papers twenty-twoyears ago. I been good American since before that. Mamma, too. Bothgood. Then war comes, and I remember the Fatherland--we don't neverfurgit that, mind you, even so we are good Americans. But I guess mebbeI talk a lot of foolishness about Germany whipping everybody she fightwith. I guess I was too proud of that country that used to be mine. Youknow how it is, you boys; you remember your home and your people kind ofnice, mebbe. "

"Sure!" said Spike. "Me? I was raised down back of the tracks inBuffalo--one swell place fur a kid to grow up--but honest, sometimes Igit waked up in the night, and find m'self homesick fur that rottendump. Sure, I know how you feel, Herman. "

Herman, cheered by this sympathy, drank of his beer. Putting down theglass, he listened intently. Minna, at the bar, was heard to be weeping. 

"Mamma, " he called, gruffly, "you keep still once. None of that!"

Minna audibly achieved the commanded silence. Herman listened untilsatisfied of this, then resumed:

"Well, so fur, so good. Then Germany don't act right, so my own countrygot to fight her. She's got to fight her! I'd get me another country ifshe didn't. But now people don't understand how I feel so. They say:'Yes, he praise Germany to the sky; now I guess he talk the other sideof his mouth purty good. ' They don't understand me. I want Germanyshould be punished good, and my country she's goin' to do it good. Thatis big in my heart. But shall I go out on the street and holler, 'Tohell with Germany?' Not! Because people would know I lied, and I wouldknow. I want Germany should be well whipped till all them sheep's headsis out of high places, but I can't hate Germans. I could punish someonegood and not hate 'em. I'm a German in my blood, but you bet I ain't apro-German. 

"Mamma, again I tell you keep still once--and now you boys goin' tofight. That's good! Me, I would go if I was not too old; not a betterGerman fighter would they have than me. I kill 'em all what come till Ifall over myself. You boys remember and fight hard, so we make the worldnice again. I bet you fight good--strong, husky boys like you. And Ihope you come back strong and hearty and live a long time in a world youhelped to put it right. I hope some day you have children will be proudbecause you was good Americans, like mine would be if we had a littleone. I hope you teach 'em to fight quick for their own good country. Now--_prosit_!"

They drank, and in the stillness Minna Vielhaber was again heard to belamenting. Herman addressed her harshly:

"Mamma, now again I beg you shall keep still once. "

Minna appeared from back of the bar and became coherent. 

"I wassn't cryin' no tears for Germans--wass cryin' fur them!" Shewaved a damp towel at Herman's guests. Herman soothed her. 

"Now, now--them boys take care of themselves. Likely they have a littletrouble here and there or some place, but they come back sound--I tellyou that. Now you dry up--you make some other people feel that way. Hearme?" Minna subsided. 

"You bet, " resumed Herman, "we're Americans good. Mebbe I can't tellpeople so now, like they believe me; it's hard to believe I want Germanswhipped good if I don't hate 'em, but it's true--and lots others besidesme. They come in my place, Dagoes, Wops, Hunnyacks, Swedes, Jews, everybreed, and what you think--they keep talkin' about what us Americans hadought to do to lick Germany. It's funny, yes? To hear 'em say usAmericans, but when you know them foreigners mean it so hard--well, itain't funny! It's good!

"And me? Say, I tell you something. If any one say I ain't good AmericanI tell you this: I stand by America like I was born here. I stand by herif she fight Germany just as if she fight France. I stand by her in war, and I do more than that. You listen! Now comes it they say the country'sgoin' to be dry and put me out of business. What you think of that, hey?So they will shut booze joints like that feller McCarron runs, and evena nice place like this. So you can't buy a glass beer or a schoppenRhine wine. What you think? Mebbe it's all talk, mebbe not. But listen!This is my country, no matter what she does; I stand by her if shefights Germany to death; and by God, I stand by her if she goes dry!Could I say more? _Prosit_!"

CHAPTER XVI

The next day Wilbur Cowan sought Sharon Whipple with the news that hemeant to do a bit of plain fighting overseas. He found the old man inthe stable, in troubled controversy with a rebellious car. He satstonily at the wheel and at intervals pressed a determined heel upon aself-starter that would whir but an impotent protest. He glared up atWilbur as the latter came to rest beside the car. 

"Well, what now?" He spoke impatiently. 

"I'm going to enlist; I thought I would tell you. "

Sharon pointed the heavy brows at him with a thumb and uttered adisparaging "Humph!" Then he appeared to forget the announcement, andpressed again on the self-starter, listening above its shrill song forthe deeper rumble of the engine. This did not ensue, and he shifted hisheel, turning a plaintive eye upon the young man. 

"She don't seem to excite, " he said. "I've tried and tried, and I can'texcite her. "

It was an old, old story to Wilbur Cowan. 

"Press her again, " he directed. Sharon pressed and the other raptlylistened. "Ignition, " he said. 

He lifted the hood on one side and with a pair of pliers manipulatedwhat Sharon was never to know as anything but her gizzard, though thesurgeon, as he delicately wrought, murmured something about platinumpoints. 

"Try her!" Sharon tried her. 

"Now she excites!" he exploded, gleefully, as the hum of the motor tookup the shrill whir of the self-starter. He stopped the thing and bent areproachful gaze upon Wilbur. 

"Every one else leaving me--even that Elihu Titus. I never thought youwould, after the way we've stood together in this town. I had a right toexpect something better from you. I'd like to know how I'm goin' to getalong without you. You show a lot of gratitude, I must say. "

"Well, I thought--"

"Oh, I knew you'd go--I expected that!"

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. 

"You wouldn't been any good if you hadn't. Even that Elihu Titus went. "

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. He had been waiting to ask Sharon's opinionabout the only troubling element in his decision. This seemed themoment. "You don't suppose--you don't think perhaps the war will bestopped or anything, just as I get over there?"

Sharon laboured with a choice bit of sarcasm. 

"No, I guess it'll take more'n you to stop it, even with that ElihuTitus going along. Of course, some spy may get the news to 'em thatyou've started, and they may say, 'Why keep up the struggle if thisCowan boy's goin' in against us?' But my guess is they'll brazen it outfor a month or so longer. Of course they'll be scared stiff. "

Wilbur grinned at him, then spoke gravely. 

"You know what I mean--Merle. He says the plain people will never allowthis war to go on, because they've been tricked into it by Wall Streetor something. I read it in his magazine. They're working against the warnight and day, he says. Well, all I mean, I'd hate to go over there andbe seasick and everything and then find they had stopped it. "

Intently, grimly, Sharon climbed from his car. His short, fat leg wentback and he accurately kicked an empty sprinkling can across the floor. It was a satisfying object to kick; it made a good noise and came to aclattering rest on its dented side. It was so satisfying that withanother kick he sent the can bounding through an open door. 

"Gave it the second barrel, didn't you?" said Wilbur. Sharon grinnednow. 

"Just a letter to your brother, " he explained. Then he became profanelyimpassioned. "Fudge! Fudge and double fudge! Scissors and white aprons!Prunes and apricots! No! That war won't be stopped by any magazine! Goon--fight your fool head off! Don't let any magazine keep you back!"

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. 

"They can't stop the war, because there are too many boys like you allover this land. Trick or no trick, that's what they're up against. You'll all fight--while they're writing their magazines. Your reactionsare different. That's a word I got from the dirty thing--and from thatbrother of yours. He gets a lot of use out of that word--always talkingabout his reactions. Just yesterday I said to him: 'Take care of youractions and your reactions will take care of themselves. ' He don'tcotton to me. I guess I never buttered him up with praise any too much. His languageousness gets on me. He's got Gideon and Harvey D. On a hotgriddle, too, though they ain't lettin' on. Here the Whipples havealways gone to war for their country--Revolutionary War and 1812, Mexican War, Civil War, Spanish-American--Harvey D. Was in that. Didn'tdo much fighting, but he was belligerent enough. And now this son of hissets back and talks about his reactions! What I say--he's a Whipple inname only. "

"He's educated, " protested Wilbur, quick to defend this brother, evenshould he cheat him out of the good plain fighting he meant to do. 

"Educated!" Sharon imitated a porpoise without knowing it. "Educated outof books! All any of that rabble rout of his knows is what they readsecondhand. They don't know people. Don't know capitalists. Don't evenknow these wage slaves they write about. That's why they can't stop thewar. They may be educated, but you're enlightened. They know more books, but you know more life in a minute than they'll ever know--you got abetter idea of the what-for in this world. Let 'em write! You fight! Ifit rests on that hairy bunch to stop the war you'll get a bellyful offighting. They're just a noisy fringe of buzzers round the real folks ofthis country. "

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. "I thought I'd ask. "

"Well, now you know. Shove off!"

"Yes, sir. " Sharon's tone changed to petulance. 

"That's right, and leave me here to farm twenty-five hundred acres allby myself, just when I was going to put in tractors. That's the kind youare--just a fool country-town boy, with a head full of grand notions. Well, somebody's got to raise food for the world. She's goin' shortpretty soon or I miss my guess. Somebody's got to raise bread and meat. All right, leave me here to do the dirty work while you flourish roundover there seein' the world and havin' a good time. I'm sick of thesight of you and your airs. Get out!"

"Yes, sir. "

"When you leaving?"

"To-morrow night--six-fifty-eight. "

"Sooner the better!"

"Yes, sir. "

Sharon turned back to the car, grumbling incoherent phrases. He affectedto busy himself with the mechanism that had just been readjusted, looking at it wisely, thumbing a valve, though with a care to leavethings precisely as they were. 

 * * * * *

That afternoon as Sharon made an absorbed progress along River Street hejostled Winona Penniman, who with even a surpassing absorption had beenstaring into the window of one of those smart shops marking Newbern'slater growth. Whereas boots and shoes had been purchased from anestablishment advertising simple Boots and Shoes, they were now soughtby people of the right sort from this new shop which was labelled theÉlite Bootery. 

Winona had halted with assumed carelessness before its attractivelydressed window displaying a colourful array of satin dancing slipperswith high heels and bejewelled toes. Winona's assumption of carelessnesshad been meant to deceive passers-by into believing that she looked uponthese gauds with a censorious eye, and not as one meaning flagrantly topurchase of them. Her actual dire intention was nothing to flaunt in thepublic gaze. Nor did she mean to voice her wishes before a shopful ofpeople who might consider them ambiguous. 

Four times she had passed the door of the shop, waiting for a dullmoment in its traffic. Now but two women were left, and they seemed tobe waiting only for change. Her resolution did not falter; she wasmerely practising a trained discretion. She was going to buy a pair ofsatin dancing slippers though the whole world should look upon her aslost. Too long, she felt, had she dwelt among the untrodden ways. As shehad confided to her journal, the placid serenity of her life had becomea sea of mad unrest. Old moorings had been wrenched loose; she floatedwith strange tides. And Wilbur Cowan, who was going to war, had invitedher to be present that evening at the opening of Newbern's new andgorgeous restaurant, where the diners, between courses and until lateafter dinner, would dance to the strains of exotic and jerky music, precisely as they did in the awful city. 

Winona had not even debated a refusal. The boy should be gratified. Nordid she try to convince herself that her motive was wholly altruistic. She had suddenly wished to mingle in what she was persuaded would be ascene of mad revelry. She had definitely abandoned the untrodden ways. She thought that reading about war might have unsettled her ideals. Anyway, they were unsettled. She was going to this place of the gaynight life--and she was going right!

It was while she still waited, perturbed but outwardly cool, that theabsorbed Sharon Whipple brushed her shoulder. She wondered if her secretpurpose had been divined. But Sharon apparently was engrossed by othermatters than the descent into frivolity of one who had long beenaustere. 

"Well, " he said, beaming on her, "our boy is going over. "

Winona was relieved. 

"Yes, he's off, but he'll come back safe. "

"Oh, I know that! Nothing could hurt him, but I'll miss the skeesicks. "He ruminated, then said pridefully: "That boy is what my son would havebeen if I'd had one. You can't tell me any son of my get and raisingwould have talked about his reactions when this time come!"

Winona winced ever so slightly at this way of putting it, but smiledvaliantly. 

"Publishing magazines full of slander about George Washington, and thisnew kind of stubby-ended poetry!"

"It is very different from Tennyson, " said Winona. 

"The other one's a man, " went on Sharon. "You remember when you wasworried because he wouldn't settle down to anything? Well, you watch himfrom now on! He hasn't got the book knowledge, but he's got a fineoutdoors education, and that's the kind we need most. Don't you see thatfine look in his eye--afraid of nothing, knowing how to do mostanything? His is the kind makes us a great country--outdoor boys fromthe little towns and farms. They're the real folks. I'm awful proud ofhim, though I ain't wanting that to get out on me. I been watching himsince he was in short pants. He's dependable--knows how. Say, I'm gladhe took to the outdoors and didn't want to dress up every day and be aclerk in a store or a bank or some place like that. Wasn't it good?"

"Wasn't it?" said Winona, bravely. 

"We need this kind in war, and we'll need it even more when the war isover--when he comes back. "

"When he comes back, " echoed Winona. And then with an irrelevance shecould not control: "I'm going to a dance with him to-night. " Her owneyes were dancing strangely as she declared it. 

"Good thing!" said Sharon. He looked her over shrewdly. "Seems to meyou're looking younger than you ought to, " he said. 

Winona pouted consciously for the first time in her hitherto honestlife. 

"You're looking almighty girlish, " added Sharon with almost a leer, andWinona suffered a fearful apprehension that her ribs were menaced by hisalert thumb. She positively could not be nudged in public. She must drawthe line somewhere, even if she had led him on by pouting. She steppedquickly to the door of the Elite Bootery. 

"He'll come back all right, " said Sharon. "Say, did I ever tell you howhe got me to shootin' a good round of golf? I tried it first with thewooden bludgeons, and couldn't ever make the little round lawns underseven or eight--parties snickering their fool heads off at me. So I saysI can never make the bludgeons hit right. I don't seem to do more'nharass the ball into 'em, so he says try an iron all the way. So I triedthe iron utensils, and now I get on the lawn every time in good shape, Ican tell you. Parties soon begun to snicker sour all at once, I want youto know. It ain't anything for me to make that course in ninety-eightor"--Sharon's conscience called aloud--"or a hundred and ten or fifteenor thereabouts, in round numbers. "

"I'm so glad, " said Winona. 

"I give him all the credit. And"--he turned after starting on--"he'llcome back--he'll come back to us!"

Winona drew a fortifying breath and plunged into the Elite Bootery. Shewas perhaps more tight-lipped than usual, but to the not-too-acuteobserver this would have betokened mere businesslike determinationinstead of the panic it was. She walked grimly to a long bench, seatedherself, and placed her right foot firmly upon a pedestal, full in thegaze of a clerk who was far too young, she instantly perceived, fornegotiations of this delicacy. 

"I wish to purchase, " she began through slightly relaxed lips, "a pairof satin dancing slippers like those in your window--high-heeled, onestrap, and possibly with those jewelled buckles. " She here paused foranother breath, then continued tremendously: "Something in a shade togo with--with these!"

With dainty brazenness the small hand at her knee obeyed an amazingcommand from her disordered brain and raised the neat brown skirt ofWinona a full two inches, to reveal a slim ankle between which and anogling world there gleamed but the thinnest veneer of tan silk. 

Winona waited breathless. She had tortured herself with the possibleconsequences of this adventure. She had even conceived a clerk offorbidding aspect who would now austerely reply: "Woman, how dare youcome in here and talk that way? You who have never worn anything butblack cotton stockings, or lisle at the worst, and whose most daringfootwear has been a neat Oxford tie with low heels, such as respectablewomen wear? Full well you know that a love for the sort of finery younow describe--and reveal--is why girls go wrong. And yet you comeshamelessly in here--no, it is too much! You forget yourself! Leave theplace at once!"

Sometimes this improvisation had concluded with a homily in kinderwords, in which she would be entreated to go forth and try to be abetter woman. And sometimes, but not often, she had decided that a shoeclerk, no matter his age, would take her request as a mere incident inthe day's trade. Other women wore such things, and perforce must buythem in a public manner. She had steeled her nerve to the ordeal, andnow she flushed with a fine new confidence, for the clerk merely said, "Certainly, madam"--in the later shops of Newbern they briefly calledyou madam--and with a kind of weary, professional politeness fell to thework of equipping her. A joyous relief succeeded her panic. She not onlydeclared a moment later that her instep was far too high, but fitted atlast in a slipper of suitable shade she raised her skirt again as sheposed before a mirror that reached the floor. Winona was coming on. Hadcome!

 * * * * *

Late that afternoon, while a last bit of chiffon was being tacked to adancing frock which her mother had been told to make as fancy as shepleased, Winona hastily scribbled in her journal: "Am I of a gaydisposition? Too gay, too volatile? No matter! It is an agreeable defectwhere one retains discretion sufficient for its regulation. This verynight I am one of a party avowedly formed for pleasure, something myreflective mind would once have viewed with disapprobation. But again nomatter. Perhaps I have been too analytical, too introspective. Perhapsthe war has confused my sense of spiritual values. War is such amistake!"

It was a flushed and sparkling Winona who later fluttered down the dullold stairs of the respectable Penniman home at the call of the waitingWilbur Cowan. Her dark hair was still plainly, though rathereffectively, drawn about her small head--she had definitely rebuffed thesuggestion of her mother that it be marcelled--but her wisp of a frockof bronze gossamer was revolutionary in the extreme. Mrs. Penniman hadat last been fancy in her dressmaking for her child, and now stood by toexclaim at her handiwork. Winona, with surprising _aplomb_, bore thescrutiny of the family while she pulled long white gloves along her barearms. A feathered fan dangled from one of them. 

"Now, I guess you believe me, " said Mrs. Penniman. "Haven't I alwayssaid what a few little touches would do for you?" Proudly she adjusted afilmy flounce to a better line. "And such lovely, lovely slippers!"

The slippers were indeed to be observed by one and all. The shortdancing frock was in that year. 

Wilbur Cowan was appreciative. 

"Some kid!" he cried; "an eyeful!"

Winona pouted for the second time that day, instead of rebuking him forthese low phrases of the street. Only Judge Penniman caviled. 

"Well, I'd like to know what we're coming to, " he grumbled. "The idee ofa mere chit like her goin' out to a place that's no better than asaloon, even if you do guzzle your drinks at a table--and in a dug-outdress!"

Winona, instead of feeling rebuked, was gratified to be called a merechit. She pouted at the invalid. 

"Poor father!" she loftily murmured, and stood while her mother threwthe evening cloak about her acceptable shoulders. 

It was true that at the La Bohême alcoholic stimulant would be served tothose who desired it, but this was not compulsory, and the place was inno sense a common saloon. Her father was old-fashioned, as he had shownhimself to be about the lawless new dance steps that Wilbur had beenteaching her. He had declared that if people performed such antics inpublic without music they'd mighty soon find themselves in the lockup, and Winona had not even shuddered. Now, as he continued to grumble atthis degeneracy, she gracefully tapped his arm with her fan. She hadread of this device being effectively employed by certain conquerors ofmen, and coolly she tried it upon her father. She performed the triflegracefully, and it seemed of value audacious and yet nothing to bemisunderstood by a really clean-minded man. She tapped the judge againas they left, with a minor variation of the technic. The judge littleknew that he but served as a dummy at target practice. 

The car in which Wilbur conveyed his guest to the scene of revelry wasnot of an elegance commensurate with Winona's. It was a mongrel of manymakes, small, battered, and of a complaining habit. He had acquired itas a gift from one who considered that he bestowed trash, and hadtransformed it into a thing of noisy life, knowing, as a mother knows ofher infant, what each of its squeaks and rattles implied. It wasdistressing, in truth, to look upon, but it went. Indeed, the proudowner had won a race with it from a too-outspoken critic who drove amuch superior car. It was Wilbur Cowan who first in Newbern discoveredthat you could speed up a car by dropping a few moth balls into thegasoline tank. He called his car the Can, but, unreasonably, was not toocordial to others using the name. 

The Can bore the pair to a fretful halt under the newest electriclights on River Street. "The La Bohême" read the dazzling sign. AndWinona passed into her new life. She was feeling strangely young as sherelinquished her cloak to a uniformed maid. She stood amid exoticsplendour, and was no longer herself but some regal creature in theSunday supplement of a great city paper. She had always wanted to be agirl, but had not known how--and now at thirty-five how easy it seemed!She preceded Wilbur to a table for two, impressive with crystal anddamask, and was seated by an obsequious foreigner who brought to the acta manner that had never before in Newbern distinguished thisservice--when it had been performed at all. 

Other tables about them were already filled with Newbern's elect, thrilled as was Winona, concealing it as ably as she, with the town'snew distinction. Hardly had food been ordered when a hidden orchestrablared and the oblong polished space of which their own table formedpart of the border was thronged with dancing couples. Winona glowinglysurrendered to the evil spell. Wilbur merely looked an invitation andshe was dancing as one who had always danced. She tapped him with herfan as he led her back to the table where their first course hadarrived. She trifled daintily with strange food, composing a sentencefor her journal: "The whole scene was of a gayety hitherto unparalleledin the annals of our little town. "

There was more food, interspersed with more dancing. Later Winona, aftermany sidewise perkings of her brown head, discovered Merle and PatriciaWhipple at a neighbouring table. She nodded and smiled effusively tothem. Patricia returned her greeting gayly; Merle removed a shiningcigarette holder of remarkable length and bowed, but did not smile. Heseemed to be aloof and gloomy. 

"He's got a lot on his mind, " said Wilbur, studying his brotherrespectfully. 

Merle's plenteous hair, like his cigarette holder, was longer than iscommonly worn by his sex, and marked by a certain not infelicitousdisorder. He had trouble with a luxuriant lock of it that persistentlyfell across his pale brow. With a weary, world-worn gesture he absentlybrushed this back into place from moment to moment. His thick eyeglasseswere suspended by a narrow ribbon of black satin. His collar was low andhis loosely tied cravat was flowing of line. 

"Out of condition, " said Wilbur, expertly. "Looks pasty. "

"But very, very distinguished, " supplemented Winona. 

Patricia Whipple now came to their table with something like a dancestep, though the music was stilled. She had been away from Newbern fortwo years. 

"Europe and Washington, " she hurriedly explained as Wilbur held a chairfor her, "and glad to get back--but I'm off again. Nurse! Begin thecourse next week in New York--learning how to soothe the bed of pain. Iknow I'm a rattlepate, but that's what I'm going to do. All of us madabout the war. "

Wilbur studied her as he had studied Merle. She was in better condition, he thought. She came only to his shoulder as he stood to seat her, butshe was no longer bony. Her bones were neatly submerged. Her hair wasstill rusty, the stain being deeper than he remembered, and the freckleswere but piquant memories. Here and there one shone faintly, like thefew faint stars showing widely apart through cloud crevices on a murkynight. Her nose, though no longer precisely trivial, would never be theWhipple nose. Its lines were now irrevocably set in a design far lessnoble. Her gown was shining, of an elusive shade that made Wilbur thinkof ripe fruits--chiefly apricots, he decided. She was unquestionablywhat she had confessed herself to be--a rattlepate. She rattled now, with a little waiting, half-tremulous smile to mark her pauses, as ifshe knew people would weigh and find her wanting, but hoped forjudgments tempered with mercy. 

"Mad about the war? I should think so! Grandpa Gideon mad, and HarveyD. --that dear thing's going to do something at Washington for a dollar ayear. You'd think it was the only honest money he'd ever earned if youheard Merle talk about bankers sucking the life blood of the people. Juliana taking charge of something and Mother Ella mad aboutknitting--always tangled in yarn. She'll be found strangled in her ownwork some day. And Uncle Sharon mad about the war, and fifty timesmadder about Merle. 

"D'you see Merle's picture in that New York paper yesterday?--all hairand eyeglasses, and leaning one temple on the two first fingers of theright hand--and guess what it said--'Young millionaire socialist whodenounces country's entrance into war!' Watch him--he's trying to looklike the picture now! Uncle Sharon read the 'millionaire socialist, ' andbarked like a mad dog. He says: 'Yes, he'd be a millionaire socialist ifhe was going to be any kind, and if he was going to be a burglar he'dhave to be one of these dress-suit burglars you always read about. '

"Of course he's awfully severe on Merle for not going to fight, but howcould he with his bad eyes? He couldn't see to shoot at people, poorthing; and besides, he's too clever to be wasted like a common soldier. He starts people to thinking--worth-while people. He says so himself. Mixed up with all sorts of clever things with the most wonderfulnames--garment workers and poet radicals and vorticists and new-artersand everything like that, who are working to lift us up so nobody willown anything and everybody can have what he wants. Of course I don'tunderstand everything they say, but it sounds good, so sympathetic, don't you think?"

She had paused often with the little smile that implored pity for herrattlepatedness. Now it prolonged itself as the orchestra became wildlyalive. 

Winona had but half listened to Patricia's chatter. She had been staringinstead at the girl's hair--staring and wondering lawlessly. She hadseen advertisements. Might her own hair be like that--"like tarnishedgold, " she put it? Of course you had to keep putting the stuff on at theroots as it grew out. But would her colour blend with that shade?Patricia's skin had the warm fairness of new milk, but Winona wasdusky. Perhaps a deeper tint of auburn----

She was recalled from this perilous musing by Rapp, Senior, who camepressing his handkerchief to a brow damp from the last dance. He bowedto Winona. 

"May I have this pleasure?" he said. Winona rose like a woman of theworld. 

"We're on the map at last, " said Rapp, Senior, referring to Newbern'snewest big-town feature. 

"I know I'm on the map at last, " said Winona, coyly, and tapped the armof Rapp, Senior, with her feathered trifle of a fan. 

"Dance?" said Wilbur to Patricia. 

"Thanks a heap! Merle won't. He says how can he dance when thinking offree Russia? But did you see those stunning Russian dancers? It doesn'tkeep them from dancing, does it? Poor old Merle is balmy--mice in hiswainscoting. "

They danced, and Patricia was still the rattlepate. 

"You're going over, Uncle Sharon told us. Merle says you're a victim ofmob reaction--what does that mean? No matter. Pretty soon he said you'dbe only a private. Grandpa Gideon looked as if he had bitten into alemon. He says, 'I believe privates form a very important arm of theservice'--just like that. He's not so keen on Merle, but he won't admitit. With him it's once a Whipple always a Whipple! When he saw Merle'spicture, leaning the beautiful head on the two long fingers and the hairkind of scrambly, he just said, 'Ah, you young scamp of a socialist!' asif he were saying, 'Oh, fie on you!' Merle can talk the whole bunch downwhen he gets to shooting on all six--sounds good, but I've no doubt it'sjust wise twaddle. 

"What a stunning dancer you are! Ask me quick again so I won't have togo back to free Russia. I'll promise to nurse you when you get woundedover there. I'll have learned to do everything by that time. Wouldn't itbe funny if you were brought in some day with a lot of wounds and I'dsay, 'Why, dear me, that's someone I know! You must let me nurse himback to health, ' and of course they would. Anyway, the family's keenabout my going. They think I ought to do my bit, especially as Merlecan't, because of his eyes. Be sure you ask me again. "

He asked her again and yet again. He liked dancing with her. Sometimeswhen she talked her eyes were like green flames. But she talked ofnothing long and the flames would die and her little waiting smile comeentreating consideration for her infirmities. 

"Now you be sure to come straight to me directly you're wounded, " sheagain cautioned him as they parted. 

He shook hands warmly with her. He liked the girl, but he hoped therewould be other nurses at hand if this thing occurred; that is, if itproved to be anything serious. 

"Anyway, I hope I'll see you, " he said. "I guess home faces will bescarce over there. "

She looked him over approvingly. 

"Be a good soldier, " she said. 

Again they shook hands. Then she fluttered off under the gloomy chargeof Merle, who had remained austerely aloof from the night's gayety. Wilbur had had but a few words with him, for Patricia claimed his time. 

"You seem a lot older than I do now, " he said, and Merle, brushing backthe errant lock, had replied: "Poor chap, you're a victim of the mobreaction. Of course I'm older now. I'm face to face with age-longproblems that you've never divined the existence of. It does age one. "

"I suppose so, " agreed Wilbur. 

He felt shamed, apologetic for his course. Still he would have someplain fighting, Wall Street or no Wall Street. 

He wrested a chattering Winona from Mrs. Henrietta Plunkett at the doorof the ladies' cloakroom. Mrs. Plunkett was Newbern's ablest exponent ofthe cause of woman, and she had been disquieted this night at observingsigns of an unaccustomed frivolity in one of her hitherto stanchestdisciples. 

"I can't think what has come over you!" she had complained to Winona. "You seem like a different girl!"

"I am a different girl!" boasted Winona. 

"You do look different--your gown is wonderfully becoming, and whatlovely slippers!" Mrs. Plunkett inspected the aged debutante with kindlyeyes. "But remember, my dear, we mustn't let frivolities like thisdivert our attention from the cause. A bit more of the good fight and weshall have come into our own. "

"All this wonderful mad evening I have forgotten the cause, " confessedWinona. 

"Mercy!" said Mrs. Plunkett. "Forgotten the cause? One hardly does that, does one, without a reason?"

"I have reasons enough, " said Winona, thinking of the new dancingslippers and the frock. 

"Surely, my dear, you who are so free and independent are not thinkingof marriage?"

Winona had not been thinking of marriage. But now she did. 

"Well"--she began--"of course, I----"

"Mercy! Not really! Why, Winona Penniman, would you barter yourindependence for a union that must be demeaning, at least politically, until our cause is won?"

"Well, of course----" Winona again faltered, tapping one minute toe of adancing slipper on the floor. 

"Do you actually wish, " continued Henrietta Plunkett, rising to thefoothills of her platform manner, "to become a parasite, a man's bondslave, his creature? Do you wish to be his toy, his plaything?"

"I do!" said Winona low and fervently, as if she had spoken the wordsunder far more solemn auspices. 

"Mercy me! Winona Penniman!"

And Wilbur Cowan had then come to bear her off to her room, that echoedwith strange broken music and light voices and the rhythmic scuffing offeet on a floor--and to the privacy of her journal. 

"I seem, " she wrote, "to have flung wisdom and prudence to the winds. Though well I know the fading nature of all sublunary enjoyments, yetwhen I retire shortly it will be but to protract the fierce pleasure ofthis night by recollection. Full well I know that Morpheus will wave hisebon wand in vain. "

Morpheus did just that. Long after Winona had protracted the fierceenjoyment of the night to a vanishing point she lay wakeful, revolvingher now fixed determination to take the nursing course that PatriciaWhipple would take, and go far overseas, where she could do a woman'swork; or, as she phrased it again and again, be a girl of some use in avexed world. 

In the morning she learned for the first time that Wilbur was to go towar in company with a common prize fighter. It chilled her for themoment, but she sought to make the best of it. 

"I hope, " she told Wilbur, "that war will make a better man of yourfriend. "

"What do you mean--a better man?" he quickly wanted to know. "Let metell you, Spike's a pretty good man right now for his weight. You oughtto see him in action once! Don't let any one fool you about that boy!What do you expect at a hundred and thirty-three--a heavyweight?"

After he had gone, late that afternoon, after she had said a solemnfarewell to him in the little room of the little house in the side yard, Winona became reckless. She picked up and scanned with shrewd eyes thephotograph of Spike that had been left: "To my friend Kid Cowan from hisfriend Eddie--Spike--Brennon, 133 lbs. Ringside. "

She studied without wincing the crouched figure of hostile eye, eventhough the costume was not such as she would have selected for a youngman. 

"After all, he's only a boy, " she murmured. She studied again the intentface. "And he looks as if he had an abundance of pepper. "

She hoped she would be there to nurse them both if anything happened. She had told Wilbur this, but he had not been encouraging. He seemed tobelieve that nothing would happen to either of them. 

"Of course we'll be shot at, " he admitted, "but like as not they'll missus. "

Winona sighed and replaced the photograph. Now they would be a couple ofheads clustered with other heads at a car window; smiling, small-townboys going lightly out to their ordeal. She must hurry and be over!

 * * * * *

Wilbur, with his wicker suitcase, paused last to say goodbye to Frank, the dog. Frank was now a very old dog, having reached a stage of yappingsenility, where he found his sole comfort in following the sun about thehouse and dozing in it, sometimes noisily dreaming of past adventures. These had been exclusively of a sentimental character, for Frank hadnever been the fighting dog his first owner had promised he would be. Hewas an arch sentimentalist and had followed a career of determinedmotherhood, bringing into the world litter after litter of puppies, exhibiting all the strains then current in Newbern. He had surveyed eachnew family with pride--families revealing tinges of setter, Airedale, Newfoundland, pointer, collie--with the hopeful air of saying that a dognever knew what he could do until he tried. Now he could only dream ofpast conquests, and merely complained when his master roused him. 

"I hope you'll be here when I get back--and I hope I'll be here, too, "said his master, and went on, sauntering up to the station a bit lateras nonchalantly as ever Dave Cowan himself had gone there to begin along journey on the six-fifty-eight. Spike Brennon lounged against abaggage truck. Spike's only token of departure was a small bundlecovered with that day's _Advance_. They waited in silence until thedingy way train rattled in. Then Sharon Whipple appeared from thefreight room of the station. He affected to be impatient with therailway company because of a delayed shipment which he took no troubleto specify definitely, and he affected to be surprised at the sight ofWilbur and Spike. 

"Hello! I thought you two boys went on the noon train, " he lied, carelessly. "Well, long as you're here you might as well take these--incase you get short. " He pressed a bill into the hand of each. "Good-byeand good luck! I had to come down about that shipment should have beenhere last Monday--it beats time what these railroads do with stuffnowadays. Five days between here and Buffalo!"

He continued to grumble as the train moved on, even as the two waved tohim from a platform. 

"A hundred berries!" breathed Spike, examining his bill. "Say, he shedsit easy, don't he?"

They watched him where he stood facing the train. He seemed to have quitgrumbling; his face was still. 

"Well, kid, here we go! Now it's up to the guy what examines us. You'llbreeze through--not a nick in you. Me--well, they're fussy about teeth, I'm told, and, of course, I had to have a swift poke in the mush thatdented my beak. They may try to put the smother on me. "

"Cheer up! You'll make the grade, " said Wilbur. 

Through the night he sat cramped and wakeful in the seat of a crowdedday coach, while Spike beside him slept noisily, perhaps owing to thedented beak. His head back, he looked out and up to a bow moon thatraced madly with the train, and to far, pale stars that were still. Hewondered if any one out there noted the big new adventure down here. 

CHAPTER XVII

Wilbur Cowan's fear that his brother might untimely stop the war provedbaseless. The war went on despite the _New Dawn's_ monthly exposure ofits motive and sinister aims; despite its masterly paraphrase of acelebrated document declaring that this Government had been "conceivedin chicanery and dedicated to the industrial slavery of the masses. " Noteven the new social democracy of Russia sufficed to inspire anynoticeable resistance. The common people of the United States hadrefused to follow the example of their brothers of Russia and destroy atyranny equally hateful, though the _New Dawn_ again and again set forththe advantages to accrue from such action. War prevailed. As theReverend Mallet said: "It gathered the vine of the earth and cast itinto the great wine press of the wrath of God. "

But the little cluster of intellectuals on the staff of the _New Dawn_persevered. Monthly it isolated the causative bacteria of unrest, to setthe results before those who could profit would they but read. Merle, the modernist, at the forefront of what was known as all the newmovements, tirelessly applied the new psychology to the mind of thecommon man and proved him a creature of mean submissions. He spoke of"our ranks" and "our brave comrades of Russia, " but a selective drafthad its way and an army went forward. 

In Newbern, which Merle frequented between issues of the magazine, hereceived perhaps less appreciation than was his due. Sharon Whipple wasblindly disparaging. Even Gideon was becoming less attentive when themodernist expounded the new freedom. Gideon was still puzzled. Hequoted, as to war: "The sign of a mad world. God bless us out of it!"But he was beginning to wonder if perhaps this newest Whipple had not, with all his education, missed something that other Whipples hadlearned. 

Harvey D. Had once or twice spoken with frank impatience of the _NewDawn's_ gospel. And one Kate Brophy, cook at the Whipple New Place, saidof its apostle that he was "a sahft piece of furniture. " Merle wassensitive to these little winds of captiousness. He was now convincedthat Newbern would never be a cultural centre. There was a spirit ofintolerance abroad. 

Sharon Whipple, becoming less and less restrained as the months went on, spoke of the staff of the _New Dawn_ in Merle's hearing. He called it acage of every unclean and hateful bird. Merle smiled tolerantly, andcalled Sharon a besotted reactionary, warning him further that such ashe could never stem the tide of revolution now gathering for its fullsweep. Sharon retorted that it hadn't swept anything yet. 

"Perhaps not yet--on the surface, " said Merle. "But now we shall showour teeth. "

Sharon fell to a low sort of wit in his retort. 

"Better not show your teeth to the Government!" he warned. "If you doyou want to have the address of a good dentist handy. "

And after another month--when the magazine of light urged resistance tothe draft--it became apparent not only that the _New Dawn_ would notstop the war, but that the war would incredibly stop the _New Dawn_. Thedespoilers of America actually plotted to destroy it, to smother itsmessage, to adjust new shackles about the limbs of labour. 

Sharon Whipple was the first of the privileged class to say thatsomething had got to be done by the family--unless they wanted to havethe police do it. Gideon was the second. These two despoilers of thepeople summoned Harvey D. From Washington, and the conspiracy againstspiritual and industrial liberty ripened late one night in the libraryof the Whipple New Place. It was agreed that the last number of the_New Dawn_ went pretty far--farther than any Whipple ought to go. But itwas not felt that the time had come for extreme measures. It wasbelieved that the newest Whipple should merely be reasoned with. To thisend they began to reason among themselves, and were presently wrangling. It developed that Sharon's idea of reasoning lacked subtlety. Itdeveloped that Gideon and Harvey D. Reasoned themselves into sheerbewilderment in an effort to find reasons that would commend themselvesto Merle; so that this first meeting of the conspirators was about tobreak up fruitlessly, when Sharon Whipple was inspired to a suggestionthat repelled yet pricked the other two until they desperately yieldedto it. This was that none other than Dave Cowan be called intoconsultation. 

"He'll know more about his own son than we do, " urged Sharon. 

Harvey D. 's feeling of true fatherhood was irritated by this way ofputting it, but in the end he succumbed. He felt that his son was nowfar removed from the sphere of Dave Cowan, yet the man might retain someinfluence over the boy that would be of benefit to all concerned. 

"He's in town, " said Sharon. "He's a world romper, but he's here now. Iheard him to-day in the post office telling someone how many stars thereare in the sky--or something like that. "

The following afternoon Dave Cowan, busy at the typesetting machine ofthe Newbern _Advance_, Daily and Weekly, was again begged to meet a fewWhipples in the dingy little office of the First National. The officewas unchanged; it had kept through the years since Dave had lastillumined its gloom an air of subdued, moneyed discretion. Nor had theWhipples changed much. Harvey D. Was still neat-faced and careful ofattire, still solicitous of many little things. Gideon, gaunt and dour, was still erect. His hair was white now, but the brows shot theirquestioning glance straight. Sharon was as he had been, round-chested, plump; perhaps a trifle readier to point the ends of the grizzled browsin choleric amaze. The Whipple nose on all three still jutted forwardboldly. It was a nose never to compromise with Time. 

Dave Cowan, at first glance, was much the same, even after he hadconcealed beneath the table that half of him which was never quite soscrupulously arrayed as the other. But a second glance revealed that theyellow hair was less abundant. It was now cunningly conserved from earto ear, above a forehead that had heightened. The face was thinner, andetched with new lines about the orator's mouth, but the eyes shone withthe same light as of old and the same willingness to shed its beamsthrough shadowed places such as first national banks. He no longeraccepted the cigar, to preserve in the upper left-hand waist coat pocketwith the fountain pen, the pencil, and the toothbrush. He craved ratherpermission to fill and light the calabash pipe. This was a mere bit ofform, for he was soon talking so continuously that the pipe was nolonger a going concern. 

Delay was occasioned at the beginning of the interview. It proved to bedifficult to convey to Dave exactly why he had been summoned. Itappeared that he did not expect a consultation--rather a lecture byDave Cowan upon life in its larger aspects. The Whipples, strangely, were all not a little embarrassed in his presence, and the mere mentionof his son caused him to be informative for ten minutes before any ofthem dared to confine the flow of his discourse within narrower banks. He dealt volubly with the doctrines espoused by Merle, whereas theywished to be told how to deal with Merle. As he talked he consulted fromtime to time a sheaf of clippings brought from a pocket. 

"A joke, " began Dave, "all this socialistic talk. Get this from theirplatform: They demand that the country and its wealth be redeemed fromthe control of private interests and turned over to the people to beadministered for the equal benefit of all. See what they mean? Going tohave a law that a short man can reach as high as a tall man. Good joke, yes? Here again: 'The Socialist Party desires the workers of America totake the economic and political power from the capitalistic class. 'Going to pull themselves off the ground by their boot straps, yes? Havea law to make the weak strong and the strong weak. Reads good, don't it?And here's the prize joke--one big union: Socialist Party does notinterfere in the internal affairs of labour unions, but supports them inall their struggles. In order, however, that such struggles might attainthe maximum of efficiency the socialists favour the closest organiccooperation of all unions as one organized working body. 

"Get that? Lovely, ain't it? And when we're all in one big union, whoare we going to strike against? Against ourselves, of course--like we donow. Bricklayers striking against shoemakers and both striking againstcarpenters, and all of 'em striking against the honest farmer and thefarmer striking back, because every one of 'em wants all he can get forhis labour and wants to pay as little as he has to for the otherfellow's labour. One big union, my eye! Socialists are jokes. You neversaw two of 'em yet that could agree on anything for ten minutes--exceptthat they want something for nothing. "

The speaker paused impressively. His listeners stirred with relief, butthe tide of his speech again washed in upon them. 

"They lack, " said he, pointing the calabash pipe at Gideon Whipple, sitting patiently across the table from him, "they lack the third eye ofwisdom. " He paused again, but only as if to await applause. There was nointimation that he had done. 

"Dear me!" murmured Gideon, politely. The other Whipples made littlesounds of amazement and approval. 

"You want to know what the third eye of wisdom is?" continued Dave, asone who had read their secret thought. "Well, it's the simple gift ofbeing able to look at facts as they are instead of twisting 'em about asthey ain't. The most of us, savages, uneducated people, simples, andthat sort, got this third eye of wisdom without knowing it; we followthe main current without knowing or asking why. But professors andphilosophers and preachers and teachers and all holy rollers likesocialists ain't got it. They want to reduce the whole blamed cosmos toa system, and she won't reduce. I forget now just how many billion cellsin your body"--he pointed the pipe at Sharon Whipple, who stirreduneasily--"but no matter. " Sharon looked relieved. 

"Anyway, we fought our way up to be a fish with lungs, and then wefought on till we got legs, and here we are. And the only way we gothere was by competition--some of us always beating others. Holy rollerslike socialists would have us back to one cell and keep us there withequal rewards for all. But she don't work that way. The pot's stilla-boiling, and competition is the eternal fire under it. 

"Look at all these imaginary Utopias they write about--good stories, too, about a man waking up three thousand years hence and findingeverything lovely. But every one of 'em, and I've read all, picture asociety that's froze into some certain condition--static. Nothing is!She won't freeze! They can spray the fire of competition with speechesall they like, but they can't put it out. Because why? Well, becausethis life thing is going on, and competition is the only way it can geton. Call it Nature if you want to. Nature built star dust out ofnothing, and built us out of star dust, but she ain't through; she'sstill building. Old Evolution is still evoluting, and her only tool iscompetition, the same under the earth and on the earth, the same out inthe sky as in these states. 

"Of course there's bound to be flaws and injustice in any scheme ofgovernment because of this same competition you can't get away from anymore than the planets can. There's flaws in evolution itself, only theseholy rollers don't see it, because they haven't got the third eye ofwisdom; they can't see that the shoemaker is always going to want all hecan get for a pair of shoes and always going to pay as little as he canfor his suit of clothes, socialism or no socialism. 

"What would their one big union be? Take these unions that are strikingnow all over the country. They think they're striking against somethingthey call capital. Well, they ain't. They're striking against eachother. Railroad men striking against bricklayers, shoemakers strikingagainst farmers, machinists striking against cabinetmakers, printersstriking against all of 'em--and the fools don't know it; think they'restriking against some common enemy, when all the time they're hittingagainst each other. Oh, she's a grand bit of cunning, this OldEvolution. "

"This is all very interesting, Mr. Cowan"--Harvey D. Had become uneasyin his chair, and had twice risen to put straight a photograph of theWhipple block that hung on the opposite wall--"but what we would like toget at--"

"I know, I know"--Dave silenced him with a wave of the calabash--"youwant to know what it's all about--what it's coming to, what we're herefor. Well, I can tell you a little. There used to be a catch in it thatbothered me, but I figured her out. Old Evolution is producing anorganism that will find the right balance and perpetuate itselfeternally. It's trying every way it knows to get these cells ofprotoplasm into some form that will change without dying. Simple enough, only it takes time. Think how long it took to get us this far out ofsomething you can't see without glasses! But forget about time. Our timedon't mean anything out there in the real world. Say we been produced inone second from nothing; well, think what we'll become in another tenseconds. We'll have our balance by that time. This protoplasm does whatit's told to do--that's how it made eyes for us to see, and ears tohear, and brains to think with--so by that time we'll be really living;we'll have a form that's plastic, and can change round to meet anychange of environment, so we won't have to die if it gets too cold ortoo hot. We want to live--we all want to live; by that time we'll beable to go on living. 

"Of course we won't be looking much like we are now, we're pretty clumsymachines so far. I suppose, for one thing, we'll be getting ournourishment straight from the elements instead of taking it throughplants and animals. We'll be as superior to what we are now as he is toa hoptoad. " The speaker indicated Sharon Whipple with the calabash. Sharon wriggled self-consciously. "And pretty soon people will forgetthat any one ever died; they won't believe it when they read it in oldbooks; they won't understand it. This time is coming, as near as I canfigure it, in seven hundred and fifty thousand years. That is, in roundnumbers, it might be an odd hundred thousand years more or less. Ofcourse I can't be precise in such a matter. "

"Of course not, " murmured Harvey D. , sympathetically; "but what we werewanting to get at--"

"Of course, " resumed the lecturer, "I know there's still a catch in it. You say, 'What does it mean after that?' Well, I'll be honest with you, I haven't been able to figure it out much farther. We'll go on and ontill this earth dries up, and then we'll move to another, or buildone--I can't tell which--and all the time we're moving round something, but I don't know what or why. I only know it's been going onforever--this life thing--and we're a little speck in the current, andit will keep going on forever. 

"But you can bet this: It will always go on by competition. There won'tever be any Utopia, like these holy rollers can lay out for you in fiveminutes. I been watching union labour long enough to know that. Butshe's a grand scheme. I'm glad I got this little look at it. I wouldn'tchange it in any detail, not if you come to me with full power. Icouldn't think of any better way than competition, not if I took alife-time to it. It's a sporty proposition. "

The speaker beamed modestly upon his hearers. Gideon was quick to clutchthe moment's pause. 

"What about this boy Merle?" he demanded before Dave could resume. 

"Oh, him?" said Dave. "Him and his holy rolling? Is that all you want toknow? Why didn't you say so? That's easy! You've raised him to be ahouse cat. So shut off his cream. "

"A house cat!" echoed Harvey D. , shocked. 

"No education, " resumed Dave. "No savvy about the world. Set him down inSpokane with three dollars in his jeans and needing to go to Atlanta. Would he know how? Would he know a simple thing like how to get thereand ride all the way in varnished cars?"

"Is it possible?" murmured Harvey D. 

The Whipples had been dazed by the cosmic torrent, but here wassomething specific;--and it was astounding. They regarded the speakerwith awe. They wanted to be told how one could perform the feat, butdreaded to incur a too-wordy exposition. 

"Not practical enough, I dare say, " ventured Harvey D. 

"You said it!" replied Dave. "That's why he's took this scarlet rash ofsocialism and holy rolling that's going the rounds. Of course there areplenty that are holy rollers through and through, but not this boy. It'sonly a skin disease with him. I know him. Shut off his cream. "

"I said the same!" declared Sharon Whipple, feeling firm ground beneathhis feet for the first time. 

"You said right!" approved Dave. "It would be a shock to him, " saidHarvey D. "He's bound up in the magazine. What would he say? What wouldhe do?"

"Something pretty, " explained Dave. "Something pretty and high-sounding. Like as not he'd cast you off. "

"Cast me off!" Harvey D. Was startled. 

"Tell you you are no longer a father of his. Don't I know that boy?He'll half mean it, too, but only half. The other half will be showingoff--showing off to himself and to you people. He likes to be noticed. "

Sharon Whipple now spoke. 

"I always said he wouldn't be a socialist if he couldn't be amillionaire socialist. "

"You got him!" declared Dave. 

"I shall hate to adopt extreme measures, " protested Harvey D. "He'salways been so sensitive. But we must consider his welfare. In a timelike this he might be sent to prison for things printed in thatmagazine. "

"Trust him!" said Dave. "He wouldn't like it in prison. He might getclose enough to it to be photographed with the cell door back ofhim--but not in front of him. "

"He'll tell us we're suppressing free speech, " said Harvey D. 

"Well, you will be, won't you?" said Dave. "We ain't so fussy about freespeech here as they are in that free Russia that he writes about, butwe're beginning to take notice. Naturally it's a poor time for freespeech when the Government's got a boil on the back of its neck and isfeeling irritable. Besides, no one ever did believe in free speech, andno government on earth ever allowed it. Free speakers have always had touse judgment. Up to now we've let 'em be free-speakinger than any othercountry has, but now they better watch out until the boat quits rocking. They attack the machinery and try to take it apart, and then cry whenthey're smacked. Maybe they might get this boy the other side of a celldoor. Wouldn't hurt him any. "

"Of course, " protested Harvey D. , "we can hardly expect you to have afather's feeling for him. "

"Well, I have!" retorted Dave. "I got just as much father's feeling forhim as you have. But you people are small-towners, and I been about inthe world. I know the times and I know that boy. I'm telling you what'sbest for him. No more cream! If it had been that other boy of mine youtook, and he was believing what this one thinks he believes, I'd betelling you something different. "

"Always said he had the gumption, " declared Sharon Whipple. 

"He's got the third eye, " said Dave Cowan. 

"We want to thank you for this talk, " interposed Gideon Whipple. "Muchof what you have said is very, very interesting. I think my son will nowknow what course to pursue. "

"Don't mention it!" said Dave, graciously. "Always glad to oblige. "

The consultation seemed about to end, but even at the door of thelittle room Dave paused to acquaint them with other interesting factsabout life. He informed them that we are all brothers of the earth, being composed of carbon and a few other elements, and grow from it asdo the trees; that we are but super-vegetables. He further instructedthem as to the constitution of a balanced diet--protein for building, starches or sugar for energy, and fats for heating and also for theirvitamine content. 

The Whipples, it is to be feared, were now inattentive. They appeared tolisten, but they were merely surveying with acute interest the nowrevealed lower half of Dave Cowan. The trousers were frayed, the shoeswere but wraiths of shoes. The speaker, quite unconscious of thisscrutiny, concluded by returning briefly to the problems of humanassociation. 

"We'll have socialism when every man is like every other man. So farNature hasn't made even two alike. Anyway, most of us got the third eyeof wisdom too wide open to take any stock in it. We may like it when weread it in a book, but we wouldn't submit to it. We're too inquiring. Ifa god leaned out of a cloud of fire and spoke to us to-day we'd put thespectroscope on his cloud, get a moving picture of him, and take hisvoice on a phonograph record; and we wouldn't believe him if he talkedagainst experience. "

Dave surveyed the obscure small-towners with a last tolerant smile andwithdrew. 

"My!" said Gideon, which for him was strong speech. 

"Talks like an atheist, " said Sharon. 

"Mustn't judge him harshly, " warned Harvey D. 

 * * * * *

So it came that Merle Dalton Whipple, born Cowan, was ratherperemptorily summoned to meet these older Whipples at anotherconference. It was politely termed a conference by Harvey D. , thoughSharon warmly urged a simpler description of the meeting, declaring thatMerle should be told he was to come home and behave himself. Harvey D. And Gideon, however, agreed upon the more tactful summons. Theydiscussed, indeed, the propriety of admitting Sharon to the conference. Each felt that he might heedlessly offend the young intellectual byputting things with a bluntness for which he had often been conspicuous. Yet they agreed at last that he might be present, for each secretlydistrusted his own firmness in the presence of one with so strong anappeal as their boy. They admonished Sharon to be gentle. But each hopedthat if the need rose he would cease to be gentle. 

Merle obeyed the call, and in the library of the Whipple New Place, where once he had been chosen to bear the name of the house, he listenedwith shocked amazement while Harvey D. , with much worried straighteningof pictures, rugs, and chairs, told him why Whipple money could nolonger meet the monthly deficit of the _New Dawn_. The most cogentreason that Harvey D. Could advance at first was that there were toomany Liberty Bonds to be bought. 

Merle, with his world-weary gesture, swept the impeding lock from hispale brow and set pained eyes upon his father by adoption. He was unableto believe this monstrous assertion. He stared his incredulity. HarveyD. Winced. He felt that he had struck some defenseless child a cruelblow. Gideon shot the second gun in this unhuman warfare. 

"My boy, it won't do. Harvey is glossing it a bit when he says the moneyis needed for bonds. You deserve the truth--we are not going to financeany longer a magazine that is against all our traditions and all oursincerest beliefs. "

"Ah, I see, " said Merle. His tone was grim. Then he broke into a dry, bitter laugh. "The interests prevail!"

"Looks like it, " said Sharon, and he, too, laughed dryly. 

"If you would only try to get our point of view, " broke in Harvey D. "Wefeel--"

He was superbly silenced by Merle, who in his best _New Dawn_ mannerexposed the real truth. The dollar trembled on its throne, the fatbourgeoisie--he spared a withering glance for Sharon, who was the onlyfat Whipple in the world--would resort to brutal force to silence thosewho saw the truth and were brave enough to speak it out. 

"It's the age-old story, " he went on, again sweeping the lock of hairfrom before his flashing glance. "Privilege throttles truth where itcan. I should have expected nothing else; I have long known there was nosoil here that would nourish our ideals. I couldn't long hope forsympathy from mere exploiters of labour. But the die is cast. Godhelping me, I must follow the light. "

The last was purely rhetorical, for no one on the staff of the _NewDawn_ believed that God helped any one. Indeed, it was rather felt thatGod was on the side of privilege. But the speaker glowed as he achievedhis period. 

"If you would only try to get our point of view, " again suggested HarveyD. , as he straightened the Reading From Homer. 

"I cannot turn aside. "

"Meaning?" inquired Sharon Whipple. 

"Meaning that we cannot accept another dollar of tainted money for ourgreat work, " said Merle, crisply. 

"Oh, " said Sharon, "but that's what your pa just told you! You acceptedit till he shut off on you. "

"Against my better judgment and with many misgivings, " returned theapostle of light. "Now we can go to the bitter end with no false senseof obligation. "

"But your magazine will have to stop, I fear, " interposed Gideon gently. 

Merle smiled wanly, shaking his head the while as one who contradictsfrom superior knowledge. 

"You little know us, " he retorted when the full effect of the silent, head-shaking smile had been had. "The people are at last roused. Moneywill pour in upon us. Money is the last detail we need think of. Ourmovement is solidly grounded. We have at our back"--he glanced defiantlyat each of the three Whipples--"an awakened proletariat. "

"My!" said Gideon. 

"You are out of the current here, " explained Merle, kindly. "You don'tsuspect how close we are to revolution. Yet that glorious rising of ourcomrades in Russia might have warned you. But your class, of course, never is warned. "

"Dear me!" broke in Harvey D. "You don't mean to say that conditions areas bad here as they were in Russia?"

"Worse--a thousand times worse, " replied Merle. "We have here anautocracy more hateful, more hideous in its injustices, than ever theRomanoffs dreamed of. And how much longer do you think these serfs ofours will suffer it? I tell you they are roused this instant! They awaitonly a word!"

"Are you going to speak it?" demanded Sharon. 

"Now, now!" soothed Harvey D. As Merle turned heatedly upon Sharon, whothus escaped blasting. 

"I am not here to be baited, " protested Merle. 

"Of course not, my boy, " said the distressed Harvey D. 

Merle faced the latter. 

"I need not say that this decision of yours--this abrupt withdrawal, ofyour cooperation--must make a profound difference in our relations. Ifeel the cause too deeply for it to be otherwise. You understand?"

"He's casting you off, " said Sharon, "like the other one said he would. "

"_Ssh_!" It was Gideon. 

"I shall stay no longer to listen to mere buffoonery, " and for the lasttime that night Merle swept back the ever-falling lock. He paused at thedoor. "The old spirit of intolerance, " he said. "You are the sort whowouldn't accept truth in France in 1789, or in Russia the other day. "And so he left them. 

"My!" exclaimed Gideon, forcefully. 

"Dear me!" exclaimed Harvey D. 

"Shucks!" exclaimed Sharon. 

"But the boy is goaded to desperation!" protested Harvey D. 

"Listen!" urged Sharon. "Remember what his own father said! He's onlyhalf goaded. The other half is showing off--to himself and us. That manknew his own flesh and blood. And listen again! You sit tight if youwant to get him back to reason!"

"Brother, I think you're right, " said Gideon. 

"Dear me!" said Harvey D. He straightened an etched cathedral, and thenwith a brush from the hearth swept cigar ashes deeper into the rug aboutthe chair of Sharon. "Dear me!" he sighed again. 

 * * * * *

Early the following morning Merle Whipple halted before the show windowof Newbern's chief establishment purveying ready-made clothing for men. He was about to undergo a novel experience and one that would haveprofoundly shocked his New York tailors. There were suits in the window, fitted to forms with glovelike accuracy. He studied thesedisapprovingly, then entered the shop. 

"I want, " he told the salesman, "something in a rough, coarse, common-looking suit--something such as a day labourer might wear. "

The salesman was momentarily puzzled, yet seemed to see light. 

"Yes, sir--right this way, sir, " and he led his customer back betweenthe lines of tables piled high with garments. He halted and spanned thechest of the customer with a tape measure. From halfway down a stack ofcoats he pulled one of the proper size. 

"Here's a snappy thing, sir, fitted in at the back--belted--cuffs onthe trousers, neat check----"

But the customer waved it aside impatiently. 

"No, no! I want something common--coarse cloth, roughly made, no style;it mustn't fit too well. "

The salesman deliberated sympathetically. 

"Ah, I see--masquerade, sir?"

The customer again manifested impatience. 

"No, no! A suit such as a day labourer might wear--a factory worker, oneof the poorer class. "

The salesman heightened his manifestation of sympathy. 

"Well, sir"--he deliberated, tapping his brow with a pencil, scanningthe long line of garments--"I'm afraid we're not stocked with what youwish. Best go to a costumer, sir, and rent one for the night perhaps. "

The customer firmly pushed back a pendent lock of hair and becameimpressive. 

"I tell you it is not for a masquerade or any foolishness of that sort. I wish a plain, roughly made, common-looking suit of clothes, not toowell fitting--the sort of things working people wear, don't youunderstand?"

"But certainly, sir; I understand perfectly. This coat here is what theworking people are buying; sold a dozen suits myself this week to someof the mill workers--very natty, sir, and only sixty-five dollars. Ifyou'll look closely at the workers about town you'll see the samesuits--right dressy, you'll notice. I'm afraid the other sort of thinghas gone a little out of style; in fact, I don't believe you'll be ableto find a suit such as you describe. They're not being made. Workers arebuying this sort of garment. " He picked up the snappy belted coat andfondled its nap affectionately. "Of course, for a fancy-dress party----"

"No, no, no! I tell you it isn't a masquerade!"

The salesman seemed at a loss for further suggestions. The customer'seye lighted upon a pile of coats farther down the line. 

"What are those?"

"Those? Corduroy, sir. Splendid garments--suitable for the woods, camping, hunting, fishing. We're well stocked with hunting equipment. Will you look at them?"

"I suppose so, " said the customer, desperately. 

 * * * * *

Late that afternoon the three older Whipples, on the piazza of theWhipple New Place, painfully discussed the scene of the previousevening. It was felt by two of them that some tragic event impended. Sharon alone was cheerful. From time to time he admonished the other twoto sit tight. 

"He'll tell you you ain't any longer a father of his, or a grandfather, either, but sit tight!"

He had said this when Merle appeared before them as a car drew up to thedoor. There was an immediate sensation from which even Sharon was notimmune. For Merle was garbed in corduroy, and the bagging trousers werestuffed into the tops of heavy, high-laced boots. The coat was beltedbut loose fitting. The exposed shirt was of brown flannel, and the grayfelt hat was low-crowned and broad of brim. The hat was firmly set onthe wearer's head, and about his neck was a wreath of colour--a knottedhandkerchief of flaming scarlet. 

The three men stared at him in silent stupefaction. He seemed about topass them on his way to the waiting car, but then paused and confrontedthem, his head back. He laughed his bitter laugh. 

"Does it seem strange to see me in the dress of a common workingman?" hedemanded. 

"Dress of a what?" demanded Sharon Whipple. The other ignored this. 

"You have consigned me to the ranks, " he continued, chiefly to Harvey D. "I must work with my hands for the simple fare that my comrades are ableto gain with their own toil. I must dress as one of them. It's absurdlysimple. "

"My!" exclaimed Gideon. 

Harvey D. Was suffering profoundly, but all at once his eyes flashedwith alarm. 

"Haven't those boots nails in them?" he suddenly demanded. 

"I dare say they have. "

"And you've been going across the hardwood floors?" demanded Harvey D. Again. 

"This is too absurd!" said Merle, grimly. 

Harvey D. Hesitated, then smiled, his alarm vanishing. 

"Of course I was absurd, " he admitted, contritely. "I know you must havekept on the rugs. "

"Oh, oh!" Again came the dry, bitter laugh of Merle. 

"Say, " broke in Sharon, "you want to take a good long look at the nextworkingman you see. "

Merle swept him with a glance of scorn. He stepped into the waiting car. 

"I could no longer brook this spirit of intolerance, but I'm takingnothing except the clothes I'm wearing, " he reminded Harvey D. "I go tomy comrades barehanded. " He adjusted the knot of crimson at his whitethroat. "But they will not be barehanded long, remember that!"

Nathan Marwick started the car along the driveway. Merle was seen toorder a halt. 

"Of course, for a time, at least, I shall keep the New York apartment. My address will be the same. "

The car went on. 

"Did that father know his own flesh and blood--I ask you?" demandedSharon. 

"Dear me, dear me!" sighed Harvey D. 

"Poor young thing!" said Gideon. 

Merle, on his way to the train, thought of his hat. He had not been ableto feel confidence in that hat. There was a trimness about it, anassertive glamour, an air of success, that should not stamp one of theoppressed. He had gone to the purchase of it with vague notions that alabouring man, at least while actually labouring, wears a square cap ofpaper which he has made himself. So he was crowned in all cartoons. But, of course, this paper thing would not do for street wear, and the hat henow wore was the least wealth-suggesting he had been able to find. Henow decided that a cap would be better. He seemed to remember that thetoiling masses wore a lot of caps. 

CHAPTER XVIII

A week later one of the New York evening papers printed an inspiringview of Merle Dalton Whipple in what was said to be the rough garb ofthe workingman. He stanchly fronted the world in a corduroy suit andhigh-laced boots, a handkerchief knotted at his throat above a flannelshirt, and a somewhat proletarian cap set upon his well-posed head. Thecaption ran: "Young Millionaire Socialist Leaves Life of Luxury to beSimple Toiler. "

A copy of this enterprising sheet, addressed in an unknown hand, arrivedat the Whipple New Place, to further distress the bereft family. OnlySharon Whipple was not distressed. He remarked that the toiler was notso simple as some people might think, and he urged that an inquiry beset on foot to discover the precise nature of the toil now being engagedin by this recruit to the ranks of labour. He added that he himselfwould be glad to pay ninety dollars a month and board to any toilerworth his salt, because Juliana was now his only reliable helper, and itdid seem as if she would never learn to run a tractor, she having nogift for machinery. If Merle Whipple was bent on toil, why should he notcome to the Home Farm, where plenty of it could be had for the asking?

Both Harvey D. And Gideon rebuked him for this levity, reminding himthat he did not take into account the extreme sensitiveness of Merle. 

Sharon merely said: "Mebbe so, mebbe not. "

There came another issue of the _New Dawn_. It was a live issue, andcontained a piece by the associate editor entitled, This Unpopular War, in which it was clearly shown that this war was unpopular. It wasunpopular with every one the writer had questioned; no one wanted it, every one condemned it, even those actually engaged in it at Washington. The marvel was that an army could continue to go forward with existingpublic sentiment as the _New Dawn_ revealed it. But a better day wassaid to be dawning. The time was at hand when an end would be put toorganized exploitation and murder, which was all that the world had thusfar been able to evolve in the way of a government. 

In a foreword to the readers of the _New Dawn_, however, a faintlyominous note was sounded. It appeared that the interests had heinouslyconspired to suppress the magazine because of its loyalty to the idealsof free thought and free speech. In short, its life was menaced. Supportwas withdrawn by those who had suddenly perceived that the _New Dawn_meant the death of privilege; that "this flowering of mature andseasoned personalities" threatened the supremacy of the old order ofindustrial slavery. The mature and seasoned personalities had soundedthe prelude to the revolution which "here bloodily, there peaceably, andbeginning with Russia, would sweep the earth. " Capital, affrighted, haddrawn back. It was therefore now necessary that the readers of the _NewDawn_ bear their own burden. If they would send in money in such sums asthey could spare--and it was felt that these would flow in abundantlyupon a hint--the magazine would continue and the revolution be a matterof days. It was better, after all, that the cause should no longer lookto capital for favours. Contributors were to sign on the dotted line. 

There were no more _New Dawns_. The forces of privilege had momentarilyprevailed, or the proletariat had been insufficiently roused to itsplight. The _New Dawn_ stopped, and in consequence the war went on. Fora time, at least, America must continue in that spiritual darkness whichthe _New Dawn_ had sought to illumine. 

Later it became known in Newbern that the staff of the _New Dawn_ wouldnow deliver its message by word of mouth. Specifically, Merle Whipplewas said to be addressing throngs of despairing toilers not only in NewYork, but in places as remote as Chicago. Sharon Whipple now called hima crimson rambler. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile, news of the other Cowan twin trickled into Newbern throughletters from Winona Penniman, a nurse with the forces overseas. Duringher months of training in New York the epistolary style of Winona hadmaintained its old leisurely elegance, but early in the year of 1918 itsuffered severely under the strain of active service and became blunt tothe point of crudeness. The morale of her nice phrases had beenshattered seemingly beyond restoration. 

"D--n this war!" began one letter to her mother. "We had influenzaaboard coming over and three nurses died and were buried at sea. Also, one of our convoy foundered in a storm; I saw men clinging to the wreckas she went down. 

"Can it be that I once lived in that funny little town where they make afuss about dead people--flowers and a casket and a clergyman and carefulburial? With us it's something to get out of the way at once. And lifehas always been this, and I never knew it, even if we did take thepapers at home. Ha, ha! Yes, I can laugh, even in the face of it. 'Lifeis real, life is earnest'--how that line comes back to me with newforce!"

A succeeding letter from a base hospital somewhere in France spelled infull certain words that had never before polluted Winona's pen. Brazenlyshe abandoned the seemly reticence of dashes. 

"Damn all the war!" she wrote; and again: "War is surely more hellishthan hell could be!"

"Mercy! Can the child be using such words in actual talk?", demandedMrs. Penniman of the judge, to whom she read the letter. 

"More'n likely, " declared the judge. "War makes 'em forget their hometraining. Wouldn't surprise me if she went from bad to worse. It's justa life of profligacy she's leadin'--you can't tell me. "

"Nonsense!" snapped the mother. 

"'And whom do you think I had a nice little visit with two days ago? Hewas on his way up to the front again, and it was our Wilbur. He's beenin hot fighting three times already, but so far unscathed. But oh, howold he looks, and so severe and grim and muddy! He says he is theworst-scared man in the whole Army, bar none. He thought at first hewould get over his fright, but each time he goes in he hates worse andworse to be shot at, and will positively never come to like it. He saysthe only way he can get over being frightened is to go on until hebecomes very, very angry, and then he can forget it for a time. You cantell by his face that it would be easy to anger him. 

"'But do not think he is cowardly, even if habitually frightened, because I also talked with his captain, who is an outspoken man, and hetells me that Wilbur is a regular fighting so-and-so. These were hisvery words. They are army slang, and mean that he is a brave soldier. Ayoung man, a Mr. Edward Brennon from Newbern, a sort of athlete, cameover with him, and they have been constantly together. I did not seethis Mr. Brennon, but I hear that he, too, is gallantly great, and alsoa regular fighting so-and-so, as these rough men put it in their slang. 

"'Wilbur spoke of Merle's writing about the war, and about America'sbeing rotten to the core because of capital that people want to keepfrom the workingman, and he says he now sees that Merle must have beenmisled; as he puts it in his crude, forceful way, this man's country hascome to stay. He says that is what he always says to himself when he hasto go over the top, while he is still scared and before he growsangry--"This man's country has come to stay. " He says this big AmericanArmy would laugh at many of Merle's speeches about America and the war. He says the country is greater than any magazine, even the best. Now myrest hour is over, and I must go in where they are doing terrible thingsto these poor men. For a week I have been on my feet eighteen hours outof each twenty-four. I have just time for another tiny cigarette beforegoing into that awful smell. '

"Mercy!" cried the amazed mother. 

"There you are!" retorted the judge. "Let her go into the Army and shetakes up smoking. War leads to dissipation--ask any one. "

"I must send her some, " declared Mrs. Penniman; "or I wonder if sherolls her own?"

"Yes, and pretty soon we'll have the whole house stenched up worse'nwhat Dave Cowan's pipe does it, " grumbled the judge. "The idee of a girlof her years taking up cigarettes! A good thing the country's going dry. Them that smoke usually drink. "

"High time the girl had some fun, " returned his wife, placidly. 

"Needn't be shameless about it, " grumbled the judge. "A good woman hasto draw the line somewhere. "

The unbending moralist later protested that Winona's letters should notbe read to her friends. But Mrs. Penniman proved stubborn. She softenedno word of Winona's strong language, and she betrayed something like aguilty pride in revealing that her child was now a hopeless tobaccoaddict. 

A month later Winona further harassed the judge. 

"'I think only about life and death, '" read Mrs. Penniman, "'and I'mthinking now that the real plan of things is something greater thaneither of them. It is not rounded out by our dying in the right faith. Somehow it must go on and on, always in struggle and defeat. I used tothink, of course, that our religious faith was the only true one, butnow I must tell you I don't know what I am. '"

"My Lord!" groaned the horrified judge. "The girl's an atheist! That'swhat people are when they don't know what they are. First swearing, thensmoking cigarettes, now forsaking her religion. Mark my words, she'scoming home an abandoned woman!"

"Stuff!" said Mrs. Penniman, crisply. "She's having a great experience. Listen! 'You should see them die here, in all faiths--Jews, Catholics, Protestants, and very, very many who have never enjoyed the consolationof any religious teachings whatsoever. But they all die alike, and youmay think me dreadful for saying it, but I know their reward will beequal. I don't know if I will come out of it myself, but I don't thinkabout that, because it seems unimportant. The scheme--you remember DaveCowan always talking about the scheme--the scheme is so big, that dyingdoesn't matter one bit if you die trying for something. I couldn't argueabout this, but I know it and these wonderful boys must know it whenthey go smiling straight into death. They know it without any one everhaving told them. Sometimes I get to thinking of my own little setbeliefs about a hereafter--those I used to hold--and they seem funny tome!'"

"There!" The judge waved triumphantly. "Now she's makin' fun of thechurch! That's what comes of gittin' in with that fast Army set. "

Mrs. Penniman ignored this. 

"'Patricia Whipple feels the same way I do about these matters; moreintensely if that were possible. I had a long talk with her yesterday. She has been doing a wonderful work in our section. She is one of usthat can stand anything, any sort of horrible operation, and neverfaint, as some of the nurses have done. She is apparently at such timesa thing of steel, a machine, but she feels intensely when it is over andshe lets down. 

"'You wouldn't know her. Thin and drawn, but can work twenty hours at astretch and be ready for twenty more next day. She is on her way up to afirst-aid station, which I myself would not be equal to. It is terribleenough at this base hospital. For one who has been brought up as shehas, gently nurtured, looked after every moment, she is amazing. And, asI say, she feels as I do about life and death and the absurd littlecompartments into which we used to pack religion. She says she expectsnever to get back home, because the world is coming to an end. Youwould not be surprised at her thinking this if you could see what shehas to face. She is a different girl. We are both different. We won'tever be the same again. '"

"Wha'd I tell you?" demanded the judge. 

"'The war increases in violence--dreadful sights, dreadful smells. I amso glad Merle's eyes kept him out of it. He would have been ill fittedfor this turmoil. Wilbur was the one for it. I saw him a few minutes theother day, on his way to some place I mustn't write down. He said: "Doyou know what I wish?" I said: "No; what do you wish?" He said: "I wishI was back in the front yard, squirting water on the lawn and flowerbeds, where no one would be shooting at me, and it was six o'clock andthere was going to be fried chicken for supper and one of thosedeep-dish apple pies without any bottom to it, that you turn upside downand pour maple sirup on. That's what I wish. "'"

"Always thinking of his stomach!" muttered the judge. 

"'But he has gone on, and I can't feel distressed, even though I know itis probable he will never come back. I know it won't make any differencein the real plan, and that it is only important that he keep on being afighting so-and-so, as they say in the Army. It is not that I amcallous, but I have come to get a larger view of death--mere death. Isaid good-bye to him for probably the last time with as little feelingas I would have said good-bye to Father on departing for a three-days'trip to the city. '"

"Naturally she'd forget her parents, " said the judge. "That's what itleads to. "

 * * * * *

Late in June of that year the shattered remains of a small townsomewhere in France, long peaceful with the peace of death, became noisywith a strange new life. Two opposing and frenzied lines of trafficclashed along the road that led through it and became a noisy jumble inthe little square at its centre, a disordered mass of camions, artillery, heavy supply wagons, field kitchens, ambulances, withmotorcycles at its edges like excited terriers, lending a staccatovivacity to its uproar. 

Artillery and soldiers went forward; supply wagons, empty, andambulances, not empty, poured back in unending succession; and only themarching men, gaunt shapes in the dust, were silent. They came from aroad to the south, an undulating double line of silent men indust-grayed khaki, bent under a burden of field equipment, steppingswiftly along the narrow, stone-paved street, heads down, unheeding thejagged ruin of small shops and dwellings that flanked the way. Reachingthe square, they turned to cross a makeshift bridge--beside one of stonethat had spanned the little river but now lay broken in its shallow bed. Beyond this stream they followed a white road that wound gently up asere hill between rows of blasted poplars. At the top of the rise twoshining lines of helmets undulated rhythmically below the view. 

At moments the undulations would cease and the lines dissolve. Theopposing streams of traffic would merge in a tangle beyond extricationuntil a halt enabled each to go its way. A sun-shot mist of fine dustsoftened all lines until from a little distance the figures of men andhorses and vehicles were but twisting, yellowish phantoms, strangelytroubled, strangely roaring. 

At these times the lines of marching men, halted by some clumsy clashingof war machines, instantly became mere huddles of fatigue by thewayside, falling to earth like rows of standing blocks sent over by achild's touch. 

Facing the square was a small stone church that had been mistreated. Itsfront was barred by tumbled masonry, but a well-placed shell had widelybreached its side wall. Through this timbered opening could be seen rowsof cots hovered over by nurses or white-clad surgeons. Their formsflashed with a subdued radiance far back in the shaded interior. Litterbearers came and went. 

From the opening now issued a red-faced private, bulky with fat. One ofhis eyes was hidden from the public by a bandage, but the othersurveyed the milling traffic with a humorous tolerance. Thoughpropelling himself with crutches, he had contrived to issue from theplace with an air of careless sauntering. Tenderly he eased his bulk toa flat stone, aforetime set in the church's façade, and dropped a crutchat either side. He now readjusted his hat, for the bandage going up overhis shock of reddish hair had affected its fit. Next he placed aninquiring but entirely respectful palm over the bandaged eye. 

"Never was such a hell of a good eye, anyhow, " he observed, and winkedthe unhidden eye in testimony of his wit. Then he plucked from back ofan ear a half-smoked cigarette, relighted this, and leered humorously atthe spreading tangle before him. 

"Naughty, naughtykins!" he called to a driver of four mules who hadrisen finely to an emergency demanding sheer language. "First chance Ihad to get a good look at the war, what with one thing and another, " heamiably explained to a sergeant of infantry who was passing. 

Neither of his sallies evoked a response, but he was not rebuffed. Hewished to engage in badinage, but he was one who could entertain himselfif need be. He looked about for other diversion. 

To the opening in the church wall came a nurse. She walked with short, uncertain steps and leaned against the ragged edge of the wall, with onearm along its stone for support. Her face was white and drawn, and for amoment she closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the dust-laden air. The fat private on the stone, a score of feet away, studied herapprovingly. She was slight of form and her hair beneath the cap was ofgold, a little tarnished. He waited for her eyes to open, then hailedher genially as he waved at a tangle of camions and ambulances nowblocking the bridge. 

"Worse'n fair week back home on Main Street, hey, sister?"

But she did not hear him, for a battered young second lieutenant withone arm in a sling had joined her from the dusk of the church. 

"Done up, nurse?" he demanded. 

"Only for a second. We just finished something pretty fierce. "

She pointed back of her, but without looking. 

"Why not sit down on that stone?"

He indicated a fallen slab at her feet. She looked at it with franklonging, but smiled a refusal. 

"Dassent, " she said. "I'd be asleep in no time. "

"Cheer up! We'll soon finish this man's job. "

The girl looked at him with eyes already freshened. 

"No, it won't ever be finished. It's going on forever. Nothing but warand that inside. "

Again she pointed back without turning her head. 

"Another jam!"

The second lieutenant waved toward the makeshift bridge. The girlwatched the muddle of wheeled things and stiffened with indignation. 

"That's why it'll last so long, " she said. "Because these officers ofours can't learn anything. Look at that muddle--while men are dying onbeyond. You'd think they were a lot of schoolboys. Haven't they beentold to keep one road for their up traffic and another road for theirdown traffic? But they wouldn't do it, because it was the British whotold 'em. But the British had found out, hadn't they? Catch them havinga senseless mix-up like that! But our men won't listen. They won't evenlisten to me. I've told one general and six or seven colonels only thismorning. Told the general to keep certain roads for troops and wagonsgoing to the front, and other roads of traffic coming back to camps anddepots, and all he could say was that he hoped to God there wouldn't beanother war until the women could staff it. "

"Hooray, hooray!" squeaked the listening private in a subdued falsettonot meant to be overheard. 

Then he turned to stare up the street of broken shop fronts. One ofthese diverted his attention from the nurse. Above its door protruded abush, its leaves long since withered. He knew this for the sign of awine shop, and with much effort regained his feet to hobble toward it. He went far enough to note that the bush broke its promise ofrefreshment, for back of it was but dry desolation. 

"_Napoo_!" he murmured in his best French, and turned to measure thedistance back to his stone seat. To this he again sauntered carelessly, as a gentleman walking abroad over his estate. 

The second lieutenant was leaving the nurse by the extemporized portalof the church, though she seemed not to have done with exposing theincompetence of certain staff officers. She still leaned wearily againstthe wall, vocal with irritation. 

"Bawl 'em out, sister! I think anything you think, " called the private. 

Then from his stone seat he turned to survey the double line of marchingmen that issued from the street into the square. They came now to ashuffling halt at a word of command relayed from some place beyond thebridge, where a new jumble of traffic could be dimly discerned. Thelines fell apart and the men sank to earth in the shade of the brokenbuildings across the square. The private waved them a careless hand, with the mild interest of one who has been permanently dissevered fromtheir activities. 

One of them slouched over, gave the private a new cigarette, andslouched back to his resting mates. In the act of lighting the cigarettethe fat private noted that another of these reclining figures had risenand was staring fixedly either at him or at something beyond him. Heturned and perceived that the nurse and not himself must be the objectof this regard. 

The risen private came on a dozen paces, halted hesitatingly, and staredonce more. The nurse, who had drooped again after the departure of thesecond lieutenant, now drew a long breath, threw up her shoulders, andhalf turned as if to reënter the church. The hesitating private, beholding the new angle of her face thus revealed to him, darted swiftlyforward with a cry that was formless but eloquent. The nurse stayedmotionless, but with eyes widened upon the approaching figure. Theadvancing private had risen wearily, and his first steps toward thechurch had been tired, dragging steps, but for the later distance hebecame agile and swift, running as one refreshed. The fat private on thestone observed the little play. 

The couple stood at last, tensely, face to face. The watcher beheld thegirl's eyes rest with wild wonder upon the newcomer, eyes that weresteady, questioning green flames. He saw her form stiffen, her shouldersgo back, her arms rise, her clenched hands spread apart in a gesturethat was something of fear but all of allure. The newcomer's own handswidened to meet hers, the girl's wrists writhed into his tightenedgrasp, her own hands clasped his arms and crept slowly, tightly alongthe dusty sleeves of his blouse. Still her eyes were eyes of wildwonder, searching his face. They had not spoken, but now the hands ofeach clutched the shoulders of the other for the briefest of seconds. Then came a swift enveloping manoeuvre, and the girl was held in a closeembrace. 

The watching private studied the mechanics of this engagement with anexpert eye. He saw the girl's arms run to tighten about the soldier'sneck. He saw her face lift. The soldier's helmet obscured much of whatensued, and the watcher called softly. "Hats off in front!" Thenfastidiously dusting the back of one hand, he kissed it audibly. Behindhim, across the square, a score of recumbent privates were roused toemulation. Dusting the backs of their hands they kissed them bothtenderly and audibly. 

The two by the church were oblivious of this applause. Their arms stillheld each other. Neither had spoken. The girl's face was set in wonder, in shining unbelief, yet a little persuaded. They were apart the reachof their arms. 

"As you were!" ordered the fat private in low tones, and with a littlerush they became as they were. Again the girl's arms ran to tightenabout the soldier's neck. The watcher noticed their earnestconstrictions. 

"I bet that lad never reads his dice wrong, " he murmured, admiringly. "Oh, lady, lady! Will you watch him June her!"

He here became annoyed to observe that his cigarette had been burningwastefully. He snapped off its long ash and drew tremendously upon it. The two were still close, but now they talked. He heard sounds ofamazement, of dismay, from the girl. 

"Put a comether on her before she knew it, " explained the private tohimself. 

There followed swift, broken murmurs, incoherent, annoyingly, to thelistener, but the soldier's arms had not relaxed and the arms of thegirl were visibly compressed about his neck. Then they fell half apartonce more. The watcher saw that the girl was weeping, convulsed withlong, dry, shuddering sobs. 

"As you were!" he again commanded, and the order was almost instantlyobeyed. 

Presently they talked again, quick, short speech, provokingly blurred tothe private's ears. 

"Louder!" he commanded. "We can't hear at the back of the hall. "

The muffled talk went on, one hand of the girl ceaselessly patting theshoulder where it had rested. 

Now a real command came. The line of men rose, its head by the bridgecoming up first. The pair by the church drew apart, blended againmomentarily. The soldier sped back to his place, leaving the girl erect, head up, her shining eyes upon him. He did not look back. The line wasmarking time. 

The fat private saw his moment. He reached for his crutches andlaboriously came to his feet. Hands belled before his mouth, hetrumpeted ringingly abroad: "Let the war go on!"

An officer, approaching from the bridge, seemed suddenly to be strickenwith blindness, deafness, and a curious facial paralysis. 

Once more the column undulated over the tawny crest of the hill. Thenurse stood watching, long after her soldier had becomeindistinguishable in the swinging, grayish-brown mass. 

"Hey, nurse!" the fat private, again seated, called to her. 

To his dismay she came to stand beside him, refreshed, radiant. 

"What you think of the war?" he asked. 

He was embarrassed by her nearness. He had proposed badinage at asuitable distance. 

"This war is nothing, " said the girl. 

"No?" The private was entertained. 

"Nothing! A bore, of course, but it will end in a minute. "

"Sure it will!" agreed the private. "Don't let no one tell youdifferent. "

"I should think not! This man's war won't bother me any more. "

"Not any more?" demanded the private with insinuating emphasis. 

"Not any more. "

The private felt emboldened. 

"Say, sister"--he grinned up at her--"that boy changed your view a lot, didn't he?"

"You mean to say you were here?" She flashed him a look of annoyance. 

"Was I here? Sister, we was all here! The whole works was here!"

She reflected, the upper lip drawn down. 

"Who cares?" she retorted. She turned away, then paused, debating withherself. "You--you needn't let it go any farther, but I've got to tellsomeone. It was a surprise. I was never so bumped in my whole life. "

The private grinned again. 

"Lady, that lad just naturally put a comether on you. "

She considered this, then shook her head. 

"No, it was more like--we must have put one on each other. It--it wasfierce!"

"Happy days!" cheered the private. She lighted him with the effulgenceof a knowing smile. 

"Thanks a lot, " she said. 

The war went on. 

 * * * * *

In her next letter Winona Penniman wrote: "We moved up to a stationnearer the front last Tuesday. I spent a night with Patricia Whipple. The child has come through it all wonderfully so far. A month ago shewas down and out; now she can't get enough work to do. Says the warbores her stiff. She means to stick it through, but all her talk is ofgoing home. By the way, she told me she had a little visit with WilburCowan the other day. She says she never saw him looking better. "

CHAPTER XIX

Two lines of helmeted men went over the crest of the hill. Private Cowanwas no longer conscious of aching feet and leaden legs or of the burdenthat bowed his shoulders. There was a pounding in his ears, and in hismind a verse of Scripture that had lingered inexplicably there sincetheir last billet at Comprey. His corporal, late a theological student, had read and expounded bits of the Bible to such as would listen. Forsaking beaten paths, he had one day explored Revelations. He hadexplained the giving unto seven angels of seven golden vials of thewrath of God, but later came upon a verse that gave him pause:

"And there appeared a great wonder in heaven; a woman clothed with thesun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelvestars. "

It seemed that everything in Revelations had a hidden meaning, and theexpert found this obscure. There had been artless speculation among thelisteners. A private with dice had professed to solve the riddle of theNumber Seven, and had even alleged that twelve might be easier to throwif one kept repeating the verse, but this by his fellows was held to berank superstition. No really acceptable exposition had been offered ofthe woman clothed with the sun, and under her feet the moon, and uponher head a crown of twelve stars. 

Wilbur Cowan, marching up the hill, now sounded the words to himself;they went with that pounding in his ears. At last he knew what theymeant--a great wonder in heaven, a woman clothed with the sun, and underher feet the moon. Over and over he chanted the words. 

So much was plain to him. But how had it come about? They had looked, then enveloped each other, not thinking, blindly groping. They had beenout of themselves, not on guard, not held by a thousand bands of oldhabit that back in Newbern would have restrained them. Lacking these, they had rushed to that wild contact like two charged clouds, andeverything was changed by that moment's surrender to some force beyondtheir relaxed wills. Something between them had not been, now it was;something compelling; something that had, for its victory, needed onlythat they confront each other, not considering, not resisting, biddable. 

In his arms she had cried: "But how did we know--how did we know?"

He had found no answer. Holding her fiercely as he did, it seemed enoughthat they did know. He had surrendered, but could not reason--was evenincurious. 

At the last she had said: "But if it shouldn't be true; if it's onlybecause we're both worn down and saw someone from home. Suppose it'smere--"

She had broken off to thump his shoulder in reassurance, to cling moreabjectly. It was then she had wept, shakingly, in a vast impatience withherself for trying to reason. 

"It is true! It is true--it's true, it's true!" she had told him withpiteous vehemence, then wilted again to his support, one hand strokinghis dusty cheek. 

When the command had come down the line she seemed about to fall, butbraced herself with new strength from some hidden source. When hereleased her she stood erect, regarding him with something of thetwisted, humorous quirk about her lips that for an instant brought herback to him as the little girl of long ago. Not until then had he beenable to picture her as Patricia Whipple. Then he saw. Her smile becamesurer. 

"You've gone and spoiled the whole war for me!" she called to him. 

 * * * * *

The war, too, had been spoiled for Private Cowan. He was unable to keephis mind on it. Of the Second Battle of the Marne he was to rememberlittle worth telling. 

Two nights later they came to rest in the woods back of St. Eugene, inthe little valley of the Surmelin, that gateway to Paris from thefarthest point of the second German drive. It was a valley shining withthe gold of little wheat fields, crimson-specked with poppies. Itrecalled to Private Cowan merely the farmland rolling away from that oldhouse of red brick where he had gone one day with SharonWhipple--yesterday it might have been. Even the winding creek--thoughthe French called theirs a river--was like the other creek, its coursemarked by a tangle of shrubs and small growths; and the sides of thevalley were flanked familiarly with stony ridges sparsely covered withsecond-growth timber. Newbern, he kept thinking, would lie four milesbeyond that longest ridge, and down that yellow road Sharon Whipplemight soon be driving his creaking, weathered buggy and the gaunt roan. The buggy would sag to one side and Sharon would be sitting"slaunchwise, " as he called it. Over the ridge, at Newbern's edge, wouldbe the bony little girl who was so funny and willful. 

They moved forward to the south bank of the Marne. Beyond thatfifty-yard stream lay the enemy, reported now to be stacking up driveimpedimenta. The reports bored Private Cowan. He wished they would hurrythe thing through. He had other matters in hand. A woman clothed withthe sun, and under her feet the moon, and upon her head a crown of--hecould not make the crown of stars seem right. She was crowned with anurse's cap, rusty hair showing beneath, and below this her wan, wistful, eager face, the eyes half shutting in vain attempts to reason. The face would be drawn by some inner torment; then its tortured linesmelt to a smile of sure conviction. But she was clothed with the sun, and the moon was under her feet. So much he could make seem true. 

The dark of a certain night fell on the waiting regiment. Cricketssounded their note, a few silent birds winged furtively overhead. Rolling kitchens brought up the one hot meal of the day, to be taken tothe front by carrying parties. Company commanders made a lastreconnaissance of their positions. For Private Cowan it was a moment ofdouble waiting. Waiting for battle was now secondary. In a tiny slittrench on the forward edge of a railway embankment Private Brennonremarked upon the locomotion of the foreign frog. 

"Will you look at 'em walk!" said Spike. "Just like an animal! Don'tthey ever learn to hop like regular gorfs?"

Said Private Cowan: "I suppose you saw that girl back there the otherday?"

"Me and the regiment, " said Spike, and chewed gum discreetly. 

"She's a girl from back home. Funny! I'd never taken much notice of herbefore. "

"You took a-plenty back there. You've raised your average awful high. I'll say it!"

"I hardly knew what I was doing. "

"Didn't you? We did!"

"Since then sometimes I forget what we're here for. "

"Don't worry, kid! You'll be told. "

"It's funny how things happen that you never expected, but afterward yousee it was natural as anything. "

 * * * * *

At midnight the quiet sky split redly asunder. German guns began to feela way to Paris. The earth rocked in a gentle rhythm under a rain ofshells. Shrapnel and gas lent vivacity to the assault. Guns to theirutmost reach swept the little valley like a Titan's sickle. PrivateCowan nestled his cheek against the earthen side of his little slittrench and tried to remember what she had worn that last night inNewbern. Something glistening, warm in colour, like ripe fruit; and arusty braid bound her head. She had watched, doubtfully, to see ifpeople were not impatient at her talk. A rattlepate, old Sharon calledher. She was something else now; some curious sort of woman, older, notafraid. She wouldn't care any more if people were impatient. 

At four o'clock of that morning the bombardment of the front line gaveway to a rolling barrage. Close behind this, hugging it, as the mensaid, came gray waves of the enemy. It was quieter after the barrage hadpassed: only the tack-tack of machine guns and the clash of meetingbayonets. 

"Going to have some rough stuff, " said Private Brennon. 

For a long time then Private Cowan was so engrossed with the routine ofhis present loose trade that the name of Whipple seemed to have no roomin his mind. For four hours he had held a cold rifle and thought. Nowthe gun was hot, its bayonet wet, and he thought not at all. When it wasover he was one of fifty-two men left of his company that had numberedtwo hundred and fifty-one. But his own uniform would still be clean ofwound chevrons. 

Two divisions of German shock troops had broken against a regiment ofAmerican fighting men. 

"I don't like fighting any more, " said Private Cowan. 

"Pushed 'em across the crick, " said Private Brennon. "Now we chase 'em!"

So they joined the chase and fought again at Jaulgonne, where it rainedfor three days and nights, and Private Cowan considered his life indanger because he caught cold; it might develop into pneumonia. Hedidn't want to get sick and die--not now. It had not, of late, occurredto him that he would be in any danger save from sickness. But he threwoff the menacing cold and was fit for the big battle at Fismes, stubbornly pronounced "Fissims" by Private Brennon, after repeatedcorrections. 

Private Cowan thought now, when not actually engaged at his loose trade, of his brother. He wished the boy could have been with him. He wouldhave learned something. He would have learned that you feel differentlyabout a country if once you fight for it. His country had been only aname; he had merely ached to fight. Now he hated fighting; words couldnever tell how he loathed it; but his country had become more than aname. He would fight again for that. He wished Merle could have had thisnew feeling about his country. 

It was before Fismes, being out where he had no call to be, and afterwinning a finish fight with a strangely staring spectacled foe, that hestumbled across the inert form of Private Brennon, who must also havegone where he had no call to go. He leaned over him. Spike's mask wasbroken, but half adjusted. He shouldered the burden, grunting as he didso, angered by the weight of it. He was irritated, too, by men who werefiring at him, but his greater resentment was for Spike's unreasonablemass. 

"You son of a gun--hog fat! Overweight, that's what you are! You'llnever make a hundred and thirty-three again, not you! Gee, gosh, a lightheavyweight, that's what you are!"

He complained to the unhearing Spike all the way back to a dressingstation, though twice refusing help to carry his load. 

"Mustard gas, " said the surgeon. 

He was back there when Spike on his stretcher came violently to life. 

"What a dark night!" said Spike between two of the spasms that wrenchedhim. "Can't see your hand before your face!"

"Say, you're hog fat!" grumbled Private Cowan. "You weigh a ton!"

"It's dark, but it feels light--it's warm. "

Private Cowan leaned to shield the sun from Spike's garbled face. 

"Sure it's dark!" said he. 

"Can't see your hand before your face!"

Spike was holding up a hand, thumb and fingers widely spread, moving itbefore his sightless eyes. 

"You got to go back. You're too fat to be up here. "

He rested his hand on Spike's forehead but withdrew it quickly whenSpike winced. 

He went on with the war; and the war went on. 

 * * * * *

"You would never guess, " wrote Winona, "who was brought to this basehospital last week. It was the Mr. Brennon I wrote you of, Mr. EdwardBrennon, the friend of Wilbur's who went with him from Newbern. He isblind from gas, poor thing! Our head surgeon knew him. It seems he isone of the prettiest lightweights the head surgeon ever saw in action, atwo-handed fighter with a good right and a good left. These are termsused in the sport of boxing. 

"Of course he knows he is blind, but at first he thought he wasonly in the dark. Wilbur had told him of me. The most curiousmisunderstanding--he is positive he once saw me at home. Says I am theprettiest thing he ever looked at, and don't I remember coming into thepost office one day in a white dress and white shoes and a blue parasoland getting some mail and going out to a motor where some people waitedfor me? The foolish thing insists I have blue eyes and light brown hairand I was smiling when I looked at him in passing; not smiling at him, of course, but from something the people in the car had said; and I hadone glove off and carried the other with the blue sunshade. And I thinkhe means a girl from Rochester that visited the Hendricks, those millpeople, summer before last. She was pretty enough, in a girlish way, butnot at all my type. But I can't convince Edward it was not I he saw. Ihave given up trying. What harm in letting him think so? He says, anyway, he would know I am beautiful, because he can feel it even if Icome into the room. Did you ever hear such talk? But I am looking a lotbetter, in spite of all I have been through. 

"I had a week in Paris last month, and bought some clothes, a real Parisdress and things. " You would not know me in the new outfit. The skirt isof rather a daring shortness, but such is the mode now, and I am told itbecomes me. Poor Edward, he is so patient, except for spells when heseems to go mad with realizing his plight. He is still a man. Hisexpression is forceful. He doesn't smoke, and warns me against it, though the few cigarettes I allow myself are a precious relief. But Ihave promised him to give up the habit when the war is over. He is astrong man, but helpless. He still believes I am the pretty thing he sawin the post office. The skirt is pleated, light summer stuff, and fallsin a straight line. Of course I have the shoes and stockings that gowith it. "

"There!" exploded the judge. "Taking up with prize fighters--traipsinground in a regular French dress, looking like something she's notsupposed to be!"

"Lysander!" rebuked his wife hotly. 

"He tells me lots about Wilbur, " continued the letter. "He hints thatthe boy is in love, but will say nothing definite. Men are soclose-mouthed. I hope our boy doesn't marry some little French anybody. His face is not exactly pleasant to look upon for the time being, but hehas a very winning personality. "

"Who's she mean that for?" demanded the Judge, truculently. "The Cowanboy?"

CHAPTER XX

On a day late in June of 1919 Wilbur Cowan dropped off the noon trainthat paused at Newbern Center. He carried the wicker suitcase he hadtaken away, and wore the same clothes. He had the casual, incurious lookof one who had been for a little trip down the line. No one about thestation heeded him, nor did he notice any one he knew. There was a newassemblage of station loafers, and none of these recognized him. Suitcase in hand, his soft hat pulled well down, he walked quickly roundthe crowd and took a roundabout way through quiet streets to thePenniman place. 

The town to his eye had shrunk; buildings were not so high as heremembered them, wide spaces narrower, streets shorter, less thronged. On his way he met old Mr. Dodwell, muffled about the throat, though theday was hot, walking feebly, planting a stout cane before him. Mr. Dodwell passed blinking eyes over him, went on, then turned to callback. 

"Ain't that Wilbur Cowan? How de do, Wilbur? Ain't you been away?"

"For a little while, " answered Wilbur. "Thought I hadn't seen you forsome time. Hot as blazes, ain't it?"

He came to the Penniman place at the rear. The vegetable garden, lyingbetween the red barn and the white house, was as he had known it, uncared for, sad, discouraged. The judge's health could be no better. Onbare earth at the corner of the woodshed Frank, the dog, slumberedfitfully in the shade. He merely grumbled, rising to change his posture, when greeted. Feebly he sniffed the newcomer. It could be seen that hismemory was stirred, but his eyes told him nothing; he had a complainingair of saying one met so many people. It was beyond one to place themall. He whimpered when his ears were rubbed, seeming to recall afamiliar touch. Then with a deep sigh he fell asleep once more. Hismaster took up the suitcase and gained, without further encounters, thelittle room in the side-yard house. Yet he did not linger here. He keptseeing a small, barefoot boy who rummaged in a treasure box labelled"Cake. " This boy made him uncomfortable. He went round to the front ofthe other house. On the porch, behind the morning-glory vine, JudgePenniman in his wicker chair languidly fanned himself, studying athermometer held in his other hand. He glanced up sharply. 

"Well, come back, did you?"

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur, and sat on the top step to fan himself with hishat. "Warm, isn't it?"

The judge brightened. 

"Warm? Warm ain't any name for it! We been having a hot spell nobodyremembers the like of, man nor boy, for twenty years. Why, day beforeyesterday--say, I wish you'd been here! Talk about suffering! I washaving one of my bad days, and the least little thing I'd do I'd bepanting like a tuckered hound. Say, how was the war?"

"Oh, so-so, " answered the returned private. 

"You tell it well. Seems to me if I'd been off skyhootin' round inforeign lands--say, how about them French women? Pretty bold lot, Iguess, if you can believe all you--"

The parrot in its cage at the end of the porch climbed to a perch withbeak and claw. 

"Flapdoodle, Flapdoodle, Flapdoodle!" it screeched. The judge glaredmurderously at it. 

"Wilbur Cowan, you bad, bad, bad child--not to let us know!" Mrs. Penniman threw back the screen door and rushed to embrace him. "Youregular fighting so-and-so!" she sobbed. 

"Where'd you get that talk?" he demanded. 

Mrs. Penniman wiped her eyes with a dish towel suspended from one arm. 

"Oh, we heard all about you!"

She was warm, and shed gracious aromas. The returned one sniffed these. 

"It's chops, " he said--"and--and hot biscuits. "

"And radishes from the garden, and buttermilk and clover honey andraspberries, and--let me see--"

"Let's go!" said the soldier. 

"Then you can tell us all about that war, " said the invalid as withgroans he raised his bulk from the wicker chair. 

"What war?" asked Wilbur. 

 * * * * *

He spent the afternoon in the little room, where he would glance up tofind the small, barefoot boy staring at him in wonder; and out in thePenniman front yard, where the summer flowers bloomed. Thesesurroundings presented every assurance of safety, yet his restless, wide-sweeping gaze was full of caution, especially after the aëroplanewent over. At the first ominous note of its droning he had broken forcover. After that, in spite of himself, he would be glancing uneasily atthe Plummer place across the road. This was fronted by a hedge ofcypress--ideal machine-gun cover. But not once during the long afternoonwas he shot at. He brought out and repaired the lawn mower, oiled itsrusted parts and ran it gayly over the grass. At suppertime, when DaveCowan came, he was wetting the shorn sward with spray from a hose. 

"Back?" said Dave, peering as at a bit of the far cosmos flung in hisway. 

"Back, " said his son. 

They shook hands. 

"You haven't changed any, " said Wilbur, scanning Dave's placid faceunder the straw hat and following the lines of his spare figure down tothe vestiges of a once noble pair of shoes. 

"You only been away two years, " said Dave. "I wouldn't change much inthat time. That's the way of the mind, though. We always forget howslowly evolution works its wonders. Anyhow, you know what they say inour trade--when a printer dies he turns into a white mule. I'm no whitemule yet. You've changed, though. "

"I didn't know it. "

"Face harder--about ten years older. Kind of set and sour looking. Everlaugh any more?"

"Of course I laugh. "

"You don't look it. Never forget how to laugh. It's a life-saver. Laugheven at wars and killings. Human life in each of us isn't much. It'slike that stream you're spreading over the ground. The drops fall backto earth, but the main stream is constant. That's all the life forcecares about--the main stream. Doesn't care about the drops; a few moreor less here and there make no difference. "

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. 

Dave Cowan scanned the front of the house. The judge was not in sight. He went softly to lean above the parrot's cage and in low, wheedlingtones, uttered words to it. 

"Flapdoodle, Flapdoodle, Flapdoodle!" screeched the parrot in return, and laughed harshly. The bird was a master of sarcastic inflection. 

Dave came back looking pleased and proud. 

"Almost human, " he declared. "Kept back a few million years byaccident--our little feathered brother. " He gestured toward the house. "Old Flapdoodle, in there, he's a rabid red these days. Got tired ofbeing a patriot. Worked hard for a year trying to prove that Vielhaberwas a German spy, flapping his curtain at night to the German ForeignOffice. But no one paid any attention to him except a few otherflapdoodles, so then he began to read your brother's precious words, andnow he's a violent comrade. Fact! expecting any day that the workerswill take things over and he'll come into money--money the interestshave kept him out of. He kind of licks his chops when he talks about it. Never heard him talk about his wife's share, though. Say, that brotherof yours is making a plumb fool of himself!"

"He didn't understand. "

"No--and he doesn't yet. "

"Where is he now?"

"Oh"--Dave circled a weary hand to the zenith--"off somewhereholy-rolling. Gets his name in the papers--young poet radical thatabandoned life of luxury to starve with toiling comrades. Say, do youknow what a toiling comrade gets per day now? No matter. Your brotherhasn't toiled any. Makes red-hot speeches. That Whipple bunch reared atlast and shut off his magazine money, so he said he couldn't takeanother cent wrung from the anguished sweat of serfs. But it ain't hishands he toils with, and he ain't a real one, either. Plenty of realones in his bunch that would stand the gaff, but not him. He's a shine. Of course they're useful, these reds. Keep things stirred up--humanyeast cakes, only they get to thinking they're the dough, too. Thatbrother of yours knows all the lines; says 'em hot, too, but that's onlyso he'll get more notice. Say, tell us about the war. 

"It was an awful big one, " said his son. 

 * * * * *

Soon after a novel breakfast the following morning--in that it was lateand leisurely and he ate from a chair at a table--he heard the squealingbrakes of a motor car and saw one brought to a difficult stop at thePenniman gate. Sharon Whipple, the driver, turned to look back at themachine indignantly, as if it had misbehaved. Wilbur Cowan met him atthe gate. 

It became Sharon's pretense that he was not hugging the boy, merelyfeeling the muscles in his shoulders and back to see if he were as gooda lightweight as ever. He pounded and thumped and punched and even madeas if to wrestle with the returned soldier, laughing awkwardly throughit; but his florid face had paled with the excitement. 

"I knew you'd come back! Old Sammy Dodwell happened to mention he'd seenyou; said he hadn't noticed you before for most a month, he thought. ButI knew you was coming, all right! Time and time again I told people youwould. Told every one that. I bet you had some narrow escapes, didn'tyou now?"

Wilbur Cowan considered. 

"Well, I had a pretty bad cold in the Argonne. "

"I want to know!" said Sharon, much concerned. He pranced heavy-footedlybefore the other, thumping his chest. "Well, I bet you threw it off! Ahard cold ain't any joke. But look here, come on for a ride!"

They entered the car and Sharon drove. But he continued to bubble withquestions, to turn his head and gesture with one hand or the other. Thepassenger applied imaginary brakes as they missed a motor truck. 

"Better let me take that, " he suggested, and they changed seats. 

"Out to the Home Farm, " directed Sharon. "You ain't altered a mite, " hewent on. "Little more peaked, mebbe--kind of more mature or judgmaticalor whatever you call it. Well, go on--tell about the war. "

But there proved to be little to tell, and Sharon gradually wearied fromthe effort of evoking this little. Yes, there had been fights. Big ones, lots of noise, you bet! The food was all right. The Germans were goodfighters. No; he had not been wounded; yes, that was strange. The Frenchwere good fighters. The British were good fighters. They were all goodfighters. 

"But didn't you have any close mix-ups at all?" persisted Sharon. 

"Oh, now and then; sometimes you couldn't get out of it. "

"Well, my shining stars! Can't you tell a fellow?"

"Oh, it wasn't much! You'd be out at night, maybe, and you'd meet one, and you'd trade a few punches, and then you'd tangle. "

"And you'd leave him there, eh?"

"Oh, sometimes!"

"Who did win the war, anyway?" Sharon was a little irritated by thisreticence. 

The other grinned. 

"The British say they won it, and the last I heard the French said itwas God Almighty. Take your choice. Of course you did hear other gossipgoing round--you know how things get started. "

Sharon grunted. 

"I should think as much. Great prunes and apricots! I should think therewould of been talk going round! Anyway, it was you boys that stopped thefight. I guess they'd admit that much--small-towners like you that wasready to fight for their country. Dear me, Suz! I should think as much!"

On the crest of a hill overlooking a wide sweep of valley farmland thedriver stopped the car in shade and scanned the fields of grain wherethe green was already fading. 

"There's the Home Farm, " said Sharon. "High mighty! Some change since mygrandad came in here and fit the Injins and catamounts off it. I wonderwhat he'd say if he could hear what I'm paying for farm help rightnow--and hard to get at that. I don't know how I've managed. See thatmower going down there in the south forty? Well, the best man I've hadfor two years is cutting that patch of timothy. Who do you guess? It'smy girl, Juliana. She not only took charge for me, but she jumped inherself and did two men's work. 

"Funny girl, that one. So quiet all these years, never saying much, never letting out. But she let out when the men went. I guess lots havebeen like her. You can see a woman doing anything nowadays. Why, theygot a woman burglar over to the county seat the other night! And I justread the speech of a silly-softy of a congressman telling why theyshouldn't have the vote. Hell! Excuse me for cursing so. "

Unconsciously Wilbur had been following with his eyes the course of thewillow-bordered creek. He half expected to hear the crisp little tackingof machine guns from its shelter, and he uneasily scanned the wood athis left. It was the valley of the Surmelin, and yonder was the Marne. 

"I keep thinking I'll be shot at, " he explained. 

"You won't be. Safe as a church here--just like being in God's pocket. Say, don't that house look good to you?" He cocked a thumb toward thedwelling of the Home Farm in a flat space beyond the creek. It was thehouse of dull red brick, broad, low, square fronted, with many windows, the house in a green setting to which they had gone so many yearsbefore. Heat waves made it shimmer. 

"Yes, it looks good, " conceded Wilbur. 

"Then listen, young man! You're to live there. It'll be yourheadquarters. You're going to manage the four other farms from there, and give me a chance to be seventy-three years old next Tuesday withouta thing on my mind. You ain't a farmer, but you're educated; you canlearn anything after you've seen it done; and farming is mostlycommonsense and machinery nowadays. So that's where you'll be, understand? No more dubbing round doing this and that, printing officeone day, garage the next, and nothing much the next. You're going tosettle down and take up your future, see?"

"Well, if you think I can. "

"I do! You're an enlightened young man. What I can't tell you Julianacan. I got a dozen tractors out of commission right now. Couldn't getany one to put 'em in shape. None of them dissipated noblemen round theMansion garage would look at a common tractor. You'll start on them. You're fixed--don't tell me no!"

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. 

"You done your bit in a fighting war; now you'll serve in a peacefulone. I don't know what the good Lord intends to come out of all thisrumpus, but I do know the world's going to need food. We'll raise it. "

"Yes, sir. "

Sharon glanced shrewdly at him sidewise. 

"You're a better Whipple than any one else of your name ever got to be. "

"He didn't understand; he was misled or something. "

"Or something, " echoed Sharon. "Listen! There's one little job you gotto do before you hole up out here. You heard about him, of course--theworry he's been to poor Harvey and the rest. Well, he's down there inNew York still acting squeamishy. I want you should go down and put thefear of God into him. "

"I understand he's mixed up with a lot of reds down there. "

"Red! Him? Humph!" Sharon here named an equally well-known primarycolour--not red. Wilbur protested. 

"You don't get him, " persisted the old man. "Listen, now! He cast offthe family like your father said he would. Couldn't accept another centof Whipple money. Going to work with his bare hands. Dressed up for itlike a hunter in one of these powder advertisements. All he needed was ashotgun and a setter dog with his tail up. And everybody in the houseworried he'd starve to death. Of course no one thought he'd work--thatwas one of his threats they didn't take seriously. But they promised tosit tight, each and all, and bring him to time the sooner. 

"Well, he didn't come to time. We learned he was getting money from someplace. He still had it. So I begun to get my suspicions up. Last night Igot the bunch together, Gid and Harvey D. And Ella and Juliana, and Itaxed 'em with duplicity, and every last one of 'em was guilty aspaint--every goshed last one! Every one sending him fat checksunbeknownst to the others. Even Juliana! I never did suspect her. 'I didit because it's all a romance to him, ' says she. 'I wanted him to go hisway, whatever it was, and find it bright. '

"Wha'd you think of that from a girl of forty-eight or so that cantinker a mowing machine as good as you can? I ask you! Of course I'dsuspected the rest. A set of mushheads. Maybe they didn't look shamedwhen I exposed 'em! Each one had pictured the poor boy down there alone, undergoing hardship with his toiling workers or whatever you call 'em, and, of course, I thought so myself. "

"How much did you send him?" demanded Wilbur, suddenly. 

"Not half as much as the others, " returned Sharon in indignant triumph. "If they'd just set tight like they promised and let me do the little Idone----"

"You were going to sit tight, too, weren't you?"

"Well, of course, that was different. Of course I was willing to shellout a few dollars now and then if he was going to be up against it for asquare meal. After all, he was Whipple by name. Of course he ain't gotWhipple stuff in him. That young man's talk always did have kind of anutty flavour. You come right down to it, he ain't a Whipple in hide norhair. Why, say, he ain't even two and seventy-five-hundredths per cent. Whipple!"

Sharon had cunningly gone away from his own failure to sit tight. He wasproving flexible-minded here, as on the links. 

They were silent, looking out over the spread of Home Farm. The redhouse still shimmered in the heat waves. The tall trees about it hungmotionless. The click of the reaper in the south forty sounded like adistant locust. 

"Put the fear of God into him, " said Sharon at last. "Let him know themchecks have gosh all truly stopped. "

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. 

"Now drive on and we'll look the house over. The last tenant let it rundown. But I'll fix it right for you. Why, like as not you'll be having amissis and young ones of your own there some day. "

"I might; you can't tell. "

"Well, I wish they was going to be Whipple stock. Ours is running down. I don't look for any prize-winners from your brother; he'll likely marrythat widow, or something, that wants to save America like Russia hasbeen. And Juliana, I guess she wasn't ever frivolous enough formarriage. And that Pat--she'll pick out one of them boys with a headlike a seal, that knows all the new dances and what fork to use. Trusther! Not that she didn't show Whipple stuff over there. But she's arattlepate in peacetime. "

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. 

He left a train at the Grand Central Station in New York early thefollowing evening. He had the address of Merle's apartment on lowerFifth Avenue, and made his way there on foot through streets crowdedwith the war's backwash. Men in uniform were plentiful, and he was manytimes hailed by them. Though out of uniform himself, they seemed toidentify him with ease. Something in his walk, the slant of hisshoulders, and the lean, browned, watchful face--the eyes set for widerhorizons than a mere street--served to mark him as one of them. 

The apartment of Merle proved to be in the first block above WashingtonSquare. While he scanned doors for the number he was seized and turnedabout by a playful creature in uniform. 

"Well, Buck Cowan, you old son of a gun!"

"Gee, gosh, Stevie! How's the boy?"

They shook hands, moving to the curb where they could talk. 

"What's the idea?" demanded ex-Private Cowan. "Why this dead part oftown for so many of the boys?"

Service men were constantly sauntering by them or chatting in littlegroups at the curb. 

"She's dead, right now, " Steve told him, "but she'll wake up pronto. Listen, Buck, we got the tip! A lot of them fur-faced boys that hurl themerry bombs are goin' to pull off a red-flag sashay up the Avenoo. Getit? Goin' to set America free!"

"I get it!" said Wilbur. 

"Dirty work at the crossroads, " added Steve. 

"Say, Steve, hold it for twenty minutes, can't you? I got to see a mandown here. Be good; don't hurt any one till I get back. "

"Do my best, " said Steve, "but they're down there in the Square nowstackin' up drive impedimenta and such, red banners, and so forth, tuning up to warble the hymn to free Russia. Hurry if you want to joinout with us!"

"I'll do that little thing, Steve. See you again. " He passed on, makinga way through the jostling throng of soldiers and civilians. "Just myluck, " he muttered. "I hope the kid isn't in. " Never before had hethought of his brother as "the kid. "

He passed presently through swinging glass doors, and in a hallway wastold by a profusely buttoned youth in spectacles that Mr. Whipple wasout. It was not known when he would be in. His movements were uncertain. 

"He might be in or he might be out, " said the boy. 

He was back in the street, edging through the crowd, his head up, searching for the eager face of Steve Kennedy, late his sergeant. Halfway up the next block he found him pausing to roll a cigarette. Steve was a scant five feet, and he was telling a private who was ascant six feet that there would be dirty work at the crossroads--whenthe fur-faces started. 

"We're too far away, " suggested Wilbur. "If they start from the Squarethey'll be mussed up before they get here. You can't expect peoplefarther down to save 'em just for you. Where's your tactics, Steve?"

They worked slowly back down the Avenue. It was nine o'clock now, andthe street was fairly free of vehicles. The night was clear and thestreet lights brought alert, lean profiles into sharp relief, faces ofmen in uniform sauntering carelessly or chatting in little groups at thecurb. A few unseeing policemen, also sauntering carelessly, were to beobserved. 

"Heard a fur-face speak last night, " said Steve. "It's a long story, mates, but it seems this is one rotten Government and everybody knows itbut a few cops. If someone would only call off the cops and let thefur-faces run it we might have a regular country. "

From the Square singing was now heard. 

"Oh, boy!" murmured the tall private, dreamily; "am I glad I'm here?"Stretching a long neck to peer toward the Square, he called in warm, urgent tones: "Oh, come on, you reds--come on, red!"

They came on. Out from the Square issued a valiant double line ofmarchers, men and women, their voices raised in the Internationale. Attheir head, bearing aloft a scarlet banner of protest, strode acommanding figure in corduroys, head up, his feet stepping a martialpace. 

"I choose that general, " said the tall private, and licked his lips. 

"Not if I get him first, " shouted Steve, and sprang from the walk intothe roadway. 

But ex-Private Cowan was ahead of them both. He had not waited forspeech. A crowd from each side of the Avenue had surged into the roadwayto greet the procession. The banner bearer was seen to hesitate, to losestep, but was urged from the rear by other banner bearers. He came onagain. Once more he stepped martially. The Internationale swelled involume. The crowd, instead of opening a way, condensed more solidlyabout the advance. There were jeers and shoving. The head of the lineagain wavered. Wilbur Cowan had jostled a way toward this leader. Helost no time in going into action. But the pushing crowd impaired hisaim, and it was only a glancing blow that met the jaw of the corduroyedstandard bearer. 

The standard toppled forward from his grasp, and its late bearer turnedquickly aside. As he turned Wilbur Cowan reached forward to close a handabout the corduroy collar. Then he pulled. The standard bearer came backeasily to a sitting posture on the asphalt. The crowd was close in, noisily depriving other bearers of their standards. The Internationalehad become blurred and discordant, like a bad phonograph record. Theparade still came to break and flow about the obstruction. 

Wilbur Cowan jerked his prize up and whirled him about. He contemplatedfurther atrocities. But the pallid face of his brother was now revealedto him. 

"Look out there!" he warned the crowd, and a way was opened. 

He drew back on the corduroy collar, then sent it forward with a mightyshove. His captive shot through the opening, fell again to the pavement, but was up and off before those nearest him could devise furtherentertainment. Among other accomplishments Merle had been noted incollege for his swiftness of foot. He ran well, heading for the north, skillfully avoiding those on the outskirts of the crowd who would havetackled him. Wilbur Cowan watched him out of sight, beyond the area ofcombat. Then he worked his own way from it and stood to watch thefurther disintegration of the now leaderless parade. 

The tumult died, the crowd melted away. Policemen became officious. Fromareaways up and down the Avenue forms emerged furtively, walkeddiscreetly to corners and skurried down side streets. Here and there acrimson banner flecked the asphalt. Steve and the tall private issuedfrom the last scrimmage, breathing hard. 

"Nothing to it!" said the tall private. "Only I skun my knuckles. "

"I was aimin' a wallop at that general, " complained Steve, "butsomething blew him right out of my hand. Come on up to Madison Avenoo. Iheard they was goin' to save America up there, too. "

"Can't, " said Wilbur. "Got to see a man. "

"Well, so long, Buck!"

He waved to them as they joined the northward moving crowd. 

"Gee, gosh!" he said. 

 * * * * *

"No, sir; Mr. Whipple hasn't come in yet. He just sent word he wouldn'tbe back at all to-night, " said the spectacled hall boy. But his mannerwas so little ingenuous that once again the hand of Wilbur Cowan closeditself eloquently about the collar of a jacket. 

"Get into that elevator and let me out at his floor. "

"You let me alone!" said the hall boy. "I was going to. "

He knocked a third time before he could hear a faint call. He opened thedoor. Beyond a dim entrance hall the light fell upon his brother seatedat a desk, frowning intently at work before him. The visible half of himwas no longer in corduroy. It was incased in a smoking jacket ofvelvet, and his neck was conventionally clad in collar and cravat. Thelatter had been hastily tied. 

"Why, Wilbur, old man!" cried Merle in pleased surprise. He half rosefrom the desk, revealing that below the waist he was still corduroy orproletarian. Along his left jaw was a contusion as from a glancing blow. He was still breathing harder than most men do who spend quiet eveningsat desks. 

Wilbur advanced into the room, but paused before reaching the desk. Itwas an invitingly furnished room of cushioned couches, paintings, tapestries, soft chairs, warmly toned rugs. The desk at which Merletoiled was ornate and shining. Ex-Private Cowan felt a sudden revulsion. He was back, knee-deep in trench bilge, tortured in all his being, looking at death from behind a sandbag. Vividly he recalled why he hadendured that torture. 

"You're all out of condition, " he announced in even tones to Merle. "Alittle sprint like that shouldn't get your wind. "

Merle's look of sunny welcome faded to one of chagrin. He fell back inhis chair. He was annoyed. 

"You saw that disgraceful outbreak, then?"

"I was in luck to-night. "

"Did you see that drunken rowdy strike at me, and then try to get medown where he and those other brutes could kick me?"

Wilbur's stare was cool. He was feeling the icy muck about his numbedlegs. 

"I was the one that struck at you. Too many elbows in the way and Iflubbed it. " He noted his brother start and stiffen in his chair. "And Ididn't try to get you down. When I saw it was you I got you up and shotyou out where you could run--if you wanted to. And I wasn't drunk, andI'm not a rowdy. "

Merle gazed with horror upon the apparently uncontrite fratricide. Twicehe essayed to speak before he found the words. 

"Do you think that was a brave thing to do?"

"No--but useful. I've been brave a lot of times where it didn't do asmuch good as that. "

"Useful!" breathed Merle, scathingly. "Useful to brutalize a lot ofbrave souls who merely sought--" he broke off with a new sense ofoutrage. "And not a policeman there to do his duty!" he finishedresentfully. 

Wilbur Cowan sat in a carven chair near a corner of the beautiful desk, hitching it forward to rest his arms on the desk's top. He was newlyappraising this white-faced brother. 

"Whining!" he suddenly snapped. "Get up and boast that you're outlaws, going to keel the Government off its pins. Then you get the gaff, andthe first thing you do is whine for help from that same Government! Yousay it's rotten, but you expect it to watch over you while you knock itdown. If you're going to be an outlaw, take an outlaw's chance. Don'tsqueal when you get caught. You say the rules are rotten, then you fallback on them. What kind of sportsmanship is that?"

Wearily but with a tolerant smile Merle pushed back the fallen lock withone white hand. 

"What could you understand of all this?" he asked, gently. "We merelyclaim the right of free speech. "

"And use it to tell other people to upset the Government! That crowdto-night did what you tell your people to do--went against the rules. But you can't take your own medicine. A fine bunch of spoiled childrenyou are! Been spoiled by too easy a Government at that!" He broke off tostudy Merle again. "You're pasty, out of condition, " he repeated, inconsequently. 

Again his brother's intolerant smile. 

"You have all the cant of the reactionary, " he retorted, again gently. "It's the spirit of intolerance one finds everywhere. You can't expectone of my--" he hesitated, showing a slight impatience. "I've been toolong where they are thinking, " he said. 

"Aren't you people intolerant? You want to break all the rules, andthose same rules have made us a pretty good big country. "

"Ah, yes, a big country--big! We can always boast of our size, can't we?I dare say you believe its bigness is a sign of our merit. " Merle hadrecovered his poise. He was at home in satire. "Besides, I've broken norules, as you call them. "

"Oh, I'll bet you haven't! You'd be careful not to. I see that much. Butyou try to get smaller children to. I'd have more patience with you ifyou'd taken a chance yourself. "

"Patience with me--you?" Merle relished this. His laugh was sincere. "You--would have more patience with--me!" But his irony went for littlewith a man still at the front. 

"Sure! If only you'd smashed a few rules yourself. Take that girl andher partner they arrested the other day. They don't whine. They'rebehind the bars, but still cussing the Government. You've got to respectfighters like that Liebknecht the Germans killed, and that RosaWhat's-Her-Name. They were game. But you people, you try to put on alltheir airs without taking their chances. That's why you make me sotired--always keeping your martyr's halo polished and handy where youcan slip it out of a pocket when you get just what you've been askingfor. "

"You're not too subtle, are you? But then one could hardly expectsubtlety--"

Merle was again almost annoyed. 

"Subtle be jiggered! Do you think you people are subtle? About as subtleas a ton of bricks. All your talk in that magazine about this being aland of the dollar, no ideals, no spirituality, a land ofmoney-grubbers--all that other stuff! Say, I want to tell you this isthe least money-grubbing land there is! You people would know that ifyou had any subtlety. Maybe you did know it. We went into that scrap foran ideal, and we're the only country that did. France might have gonefor an ideal, but France had to fight, anyway. 

"England? Do you think England went in only to save poor littleBelgium? She herself was the next dish on the bill of fare. But we wentin out of general damfoolishness--for an ideal--this country you saiddidn't have any. We don't care about money--less than any of thosepeople. Watch a Frenchman count his coppers, or an Englishman thatcarries his in a change purse and talks about pounds but really thinksin shillings. We carry our money loose and throw it away. 

"If this country had been what your sniveling little magazine called itwe'd never have gone into that fight. You're not even subtle enough toknow that much. We knew it would cost like hell, but we knew it was agreat thing to do. Not another nation on earth would have gone in forthat reason. That's the trouble with you poor little shut-ins; youdecide the country hasn't any ideals because someone runs a stockyardout in Chicago or a foundry in Pittsburgh. God help you people if you'dhad your way about the war! The Germans would be taking that nonsenseout of you by this time. And to think you had me kind of ashamed when Iwent over! I thought you knew something then. " He concluded on a notealmost plaintive. 

Merle had grown visibly impatient. 

"My dear fellow, really! Your point of view is interesting enough, evenif all too common. You are true to type, but so crude a type--so crude!"

"Sure, I'm crude! The country itself is crude, I guess. But it takes acrude country to have ideals--ideals with guts. Your type isn't crude, Isuppose, but it hasn't any ideals, either. "

"No ideals! No ideals! Ah, but that's the best thing you've said!"

He laughed masterfully, waving aside the monstrous accusation. 

"Well, maybe it is the best thing I've said. You haven't any ideals thatwould get any action out of you. You might tear down a house, but you'dnever build one. No two of you could agree on a plan. Every one of youis too conceited about himself. If you had the guts to upset theGovernment to-morrow you'd be fighting among yourselves before night, and you'd have a chief or a king over you the next day, just as surelyas they got one in Russia. It'll take them a hundred years over there toget back to as good a government as we have right now. 

"You folks haven't any ideals except to show yourselves off. That's myprivate opinion. The way you used to tell me I didn't have any form ingolf. You people are all gesture; you can get up on a platform and takeperfect practice swings at a government, but you can't hit the ball. Youused to take bully practice swings at golf, but you couldn't hit theball because you didn't have any ideal. You were a good shadow golfer, like a shadow boxer that can hit dandy blows when he's hitting atnothing. Shadow stuff, shadow ideals, shadow thinkers--that's what youpeople are--spoiled children pretending you're deep thinkers. "

Merle turned wearily to a sheaf of papers at his hand. 

"You'll see one day, " he said, quietly, "and it won't be a far day. Nothing now, not even the brute force of your type, can retard the sweepof the revolution. The wave is shaping, the crest is formed. Six monthsfrom now--a year at most----"

He gestured with a hand ominously. 

Wilbur briefly considered this prophecy. 

"Oh, I know things look exciting here, but why wouldn't they after theturnover they've had? And I know there's grafting and profiteering andhigh prices and rotten spots in the Government, but why not? That'sanother trouble with you people: you seem to think that some form ofgovernment will be perfect. You seem to expect a perfect government fromimperfect human beings. "

"Ah, " broke in Merle, "I recognize that! That's some of the dear oldDave Cowan talk. "

"Well, don't turn it down just on that account. Sometimes he isn't socrazy. He sees through you people. He knows you would take all youcould get in this world just as quick as the rest of us. He knows thatmuch. "

Merle waved it aside. 

"Six months from now--a year at the most! A thrill of freedom has runthrough the people!"

Wilbur had relaxed in his chair. He spoke more lightly, scanning theface of his brother with veiled curiosity. 

"By the way, speaking of revolutions, there's been kind of a one atNewbern; kind of a family revolution. A little one, but plenty of kickin it. They want you to come back and be a good boy. That's really whatI came down here to say for them. Will you come back with me?"

Merle drew himself up--injured. 

"Go back! Back to what? When my work is here, my heart, my life? I'velet you talk because you're my brother. And you're so naïvely honest inyour talk about our wonderful country and its idealism and thecontemptible defects of a few of us who have the long vision! But I'velet you talk, and now I must tell you that I am with this cause to theend. I can't expect your sympathy, or the sympathy of my people backthere, but I must go my own way without it, fight my own battle--"

He was interrupted in a tone he did not like. 

"Sympathy from the folks back there? Say, what do you mean--sympathy?Did I tell you what this revolution back there was all about? Did I tellyou they've shut down on you?"

"You didn't! I still don't get your meaning. "

"You cast them off, didn't you?"

"Oh!" A white hand deprecated this. "That's Sharon Whipple talk--hisfamous brand of horse humour. Surely, you won't say he's too subtle!"

"Well, anyway, you said you couldn't accept anything more from them whenyou left; you were going to work with your hands, and so forth. Youweren't going to take any more of their tainted money. "

"I've no doubt dear old Sharon would put it as delicately as that. "

"Well, did you work with your hands? Have you had to be a toiler?"

"Oh, naturally I had resources! But might I ask"--Merle said it withchill dignity--"may I inquire just what relation this might have----"

"You won't have resources any longer. "

"Eh?" Merle this time did not wave. He stared stonily at his informant. 

"That was the revolution. They called each other down and found thatevery last one of them had been sending you money, each thinking he wasthe only one and no one wanting you to starve. Even your dear old SharonWhipple kicked in every month. No wonder I didn't find you in atenement. "

"Preposterous!" expostulated Merle. 

"Wasn't it? Anyway, they all got mad at each other, and then they allgot mad at you; then they swore an oath or something. " He pausedimpressively. "No more checks!"

"Preposterous!" Merle again murmured. 

"But kind of plausible, wasn't it? Sharon wasn't any madder than theothers when they found each other out. Mrs. Harvey D. Is the only onethey think they can't trust now. They're going to watch that woman'sfunds. Say, anything she gets through the lines to you--won't keep youfrom toiling!"

"Poor Mother Ella!" murmured Merle, his gaze remotely upon the woman. "She has always been so fond of me. "

"They're all fond of you, for that matter, I think they're fonder of youthan if you'd been born there. But still they're rank Bolsheviks rightnow. They confiscated your estates. "

"I didn't need you to tell me they're fond of me, " retorted Merle withrecovered spirit. He sighed. "They must have missed me horribly thislast year. " There was contrition in his tone. "I suppose I should havetaken time to think of that, but you'll never know how my work here hasengrossed me. I suppose one always does sacrifice to ideals. Still, Iowed them something--I should have remembered that. " He closed on a noteof regret. 

"Well, you better go back with me. They'll be mighty glad to see you. "

"We can make that eleven-forty-eight if we hurry, " he said. "I'll haveto change a few things. "

He bustled cheerily into a bedroom. As he moved about there he whistledthe "Marseillaise. "

Ten minutes later he emerged with bag, hat, and stick. The last item ofcorduroy had vanished from his apparel. He was quietly dressed, as anexploiter of the masses or a mechanic. He set the bag on the desk, andgoing to a window peered from behind the curtain into the street. 

"Some of those rowdies are still prowling about, " he said, "but thereare cabs directly across the street. "

He pulled the soft hat well down over his brow. 

Wilbur had sat motionless in his chair while the dressing went on. Hegot up now. 

"Listen!" he said. "If you hear back home of my telling people you're adangerous radical, don't be worried. Even the Cowans have some familypride. And don't worry about the prowling rowdies out there. I'll getyou across the street to a cab. Give me the bag. "

As they crossed the street, Merle--at his brother's elbow--somewhatjauntily whistled, with fair accuracy, not the "Marseillaise, " but aninnocent popular ballad. Nor did he step aside for a torn strip of redcloth lying in their way. 

CHAPTER XXI

The next morning Wilbur found the Penniman household in turmoil. Thespirit of an outraged Judge Penniman pervaded it darkly, and his wifewept as she flurried noisily about the kitchen. Neither of them wouldregard him until he enforced their notice. The judge, indignantlyfanning himself in the wicker porch chair, put him off with vague blackmutters about Winona. The girl had gone from bad to worse. But hisskirts were clean. The mother was the one to blame. He'd talked all hecould. 

Then Wilbur, in the disordered kitchen, put himself squarely in the wayof the teary mother. He commanded details. The distraught woman, hairtumbling from beneath a cap set rakishly to one side, vigorously stirredyellow dough in an earthen mixing dish. 

"Stop this nonsense!" he gruffly ordered. 

Mrs. Penniman abandoned the long spoon and made a pitiful effort to dryher eyes with an insufficient apron. 

"Winona!" she sobbed. "Telegram--coming home tomorrow--nothing cookedup--trying to make chocolate cake--"

"Why take it so hard? You knew the blow had to fall some time. "

Mrs. Penniman broke down again. 

"It's not a joke!" she sobbed. Then with terrificeffort--"Mar--married!"

"Winona Penniman married?"

The stricken mother opened swimming eyes at him, nodding hopelessly. 

"Why, the little son of a gun!" said Wilbur, admiringly. "I didn't thinkshe'd be so reckless!"

"I'm so glad!" whimpered the mother. 

She seized the spoon and the bowl. Judge Penniman hovered at the opendoor of the kitchen. 

"I told her what would happen!" he stormed. "She'll listen to me nexttime! Always the way in this house!"

Mrs. Penniman relapsed. 

"We don't know the party. Don't know him from Adam. She don't even signher right name. "

Wilbur left the house of mourning and went out to the barn, where allthat day he worked at the Can, fretting it at last into a decentactivity. 

Dave Cowan that night became gay and tasteless on hearing the news. Hedid what he could to fan the judge's resentment. He said it wasprobably, knowing Winona's ways, that she had wed a dissolute Frenchnobleman, impoverished of all but his title. He hoped for the best, buthe had always known that the girl was a light-minded baggage. Hewondered how she could ever justify her course to Matthew Arnold if theneed rose. He said the old house would now be turned into a saloon, orsalong, as the French call it. He wished to be told if the right to beaddressed as Madame la Marquise could compensate the child for thosethings of simple but enduring worth she had cast aside. He somewhatcheered Mrs. Penniman, but left the judge puffing with scorn. 

 * * * * *

Wilbur Cowan met the noon train next day. The Can rattled far too muchfor its size, but it went. Then from the train issued Winona, bedeckedin alien gauds and fur-belows, her keen little face radiant under aParis trifle of brown velvet, her small feet active--under a skirt whosescant length would once have appalled her--in brown suede pumps andstockings notoriously of silken texture. Her quick eyes darting alongthe platform to where Wilbur stood, she rushed to embrace him. 

"Where's the other one?" he demanded. 

Astoundingly she tripped back to the still emptying car and led forwardnone other than Edward--Spike--Brennon. He was in the uniform of aprivate and his eyes were hidden by dark glasses. Wilbur fell upon him. Spike's left arm went up expertly to guard his face from the rush, butcame down when he recognized his assailant. Wilbur turned again toWinona. 

"But where's he?" he asked. "Where's the main squeeze?"

Winona looked proudly at Spike Brennon. 

"I'm him, " said Spike. 

"He's him, " said Winona, and laid an arm protectingly across hisshoulder. 

"You wild little son of a gun!" He stared incredulously at the bride, then kissed her. "You should say 'he's he, ' not 'he's him, '" he toldher. 

"Lay off that stuff!" ordered Winona. 

"You come on home to trouble, " directed Wilbur. He guided Spike to thecar. 

"It's like one of these dreams, " said Spike above the rattle of the Can. "How a pretty thing like her could look twice at me!"

Winona held up a gloved hand to engage the driver's eye. Then shewinked. 

"Say, " said Spike, "this is some car! When I get into one now'days Ilike to hear it go. I been in some lately you could hardly tell youmoved. "

The front of the house was vacant when the Can laboured to the gate, though the curtain of a second-floor front might have been seen to move. Winona led her husband up the gravelled walk. 

"It's lovely, " she told him, "this home of mine and yours. Here you gobetween borders all in bloom, phlox and peonies, and there are pansiesand some early dahlias, and there's a yellow rosebush out. "

"It smells beautiful, " said Spike. He sniffed the air on each side. 

"Sit here, " said Winona, nor in the flush of the moment was sheconscious of the enormity of what she did. She put Spike into a chairthat had for a score of years been sacred to the person of her invalidfather. Then she turned to greet her mother. Mrs. Penniman, arrayed infancy dress-making, was still damp-eyed but joyous. 

"Your son, mother, " said Winona. "Don't try to get up, Spike. "

Mrs. Penniman bent over to kiss him. Spike's left went up accurately. 

"He's so nervous, " explained Winona, "ever since that French generalsneaked up and kissed him on both cheeks when he pinned that medal onhim. "

"Mercy!" exclaimed Mrs. Penniman. 

"For distinguished service beyond the line of duty, " added the youngwife, casually. 

"I was so happy when I got your wire, " sputtered her mother. "Of course, I was flustered just at first--so sudden and all. "

"In the Army we do things suddenly, " said Winona. 

Heavy steps sounded within, and the judge paused at the open door. Hewas arrayed as for the Sabbath, a portentous figure in frock coat andgray trousers. A heavy scent of moth balls had preceded him. 

"What's that new one I get?" asked Spike, sniffing curiously. 

Winona pecked at her father's marbled cheeks, then led him to the chair. 

"Father, this is my husband. "

"How do you do, sir?" began the judge, heavily. 

Spike's left forearm shielded his face, while his right hand went tomeet the judge's. 

"It's all right, Spike. No one else is going to kiss you. "

"Spike?" queried the judge, uncertainly. 

"It's a sort of nickname for him, " explained Winona. 

She drew her mother through the doorway and they became murmurous in theparlour beyond. 

"This here is a peach of a chair, " said Spike. 

The judge started painfully. Until this moment he had not detected theoutrage. 

"Wouldn't you prefer this nice hammock?" he politely urged. 

"No, thanks, " replied Spike, firmly. "This chair kind of fits my frame. "

Wilbur Cowan, standing farther along the porch, winked at Spike beforehe remembered. 

"Say, ain't you French?" demanded the judge with a sudden qualm. 

He had taken no stock in that fool talk of Dave Cowan's about a Frenchnobleman; still, you never could tell. He had thought it as well to bedressed for it should he be required to meet even impoverished nobility. 

"Hell, no!" said Spike. "Irish!" He moved uneasily in the chair. "Excuseme, " he added. 

"Oh!" said the judge, regretting the superior comfort of his linen suit. He eyed the chair with covetous glance. "Well, I hope everything's allfor the best, " he said, doubtfully. 

"How beautiful it smells!" said Spike, sniffing away from the moth ballstoward the rosebush. "Everything's beautiful, and this peach of a chairand all. What gets me--how a beautiful girl like she is could ever takea second look at me. "

The judge regarded him sharply, with a new attention to the hidden eyes. 

"Say, are you blind?" he asked. 

"Blind as a bat! Can't see my hand before my face. "

The horrified judge stalked to the door. 

"You hear that?" he called in, but only the parrot heeded him. 

"Flapdoodle, Flapdoodle, Flapdoodle!" it screeched. 

Winona and her mother came to the door. They had been absent for a briefcry. 

"What she could ever see in me, " Spike was repeating--"a pretty girllike that!"

"Pretty girl, pretty girl, pretty girl! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!" screamedthe parrot. 

Its concluding laugh was evil with irony. Winona sped to the cage, regarding her old pet with dismay. She glanced back at Spike. 

"Smart birdie, all right, all right, " called Spike. "He knows her. "

"Pretty girl, pretty girl!" Again came the derisive guffaw. 

Never had Polly's sarcasm been so biting. Winona turned a murderousglance from it and looked uneasily back at her man. 

"Dinner's on, " called Mrs. Penniman. 

"I'm having one of my bad days, " groaned the judge. "Don't feel as if Icould eat a mouthful. "

But he was merely insuring that he could be the first to leave the tableplausibly. He intended that the apparent misunderstanding about thewicker chair should have been but a thing of the moment, quickly pastand forgotten. 

"Why, what's the trouble with you, Father?" asked Winona in the tone ofone actually seeking information. 

The judge shot her a hurt look. It was no way to address an invalid ofhis standing. 

"Chow, Spike, " said Wilbur, and would have guided him, but Winona waslightly before him. 

Dave Cowan followed them from the little house. 

"Present me to His Highness, " said he, after kneeling to kiss the handof Winona. 

 * * * * *

The mid-afternoon hours beheld Spike Brennon again strangely occupyingthe wicker porch chair. He even wielded the judge's very own palm-leaffan as he sat silent, sniffing at intervals toward the yellow rose. Oncehe was seen to be moving his hand, with outspread fingers, before hisface. 

Winona had maneuvered her father from the chair, nor had she the graceto veil her subterfuge after she lured him to the back of the house. Shemerely again had wished to know what, in plain terms, his ailment was;what, for that matter, had been the trouble with him for twenty years. The judge fell speechless with dismay. 

"You eat well and you sleep well, and you're well nourished" went on thedaughter, remorseless all at once. 

"Little you know, " began the judge at last. 

"But I shall know, Father. Remember, I've learned things. I'm going totake you in hand. I may even have to be severe with you but all for yourown good. "

She spoke with icy conviction. There was a new, cold gleam in her pryingeyes. The judge suffered genuinely. 

"I should think you had learned things!" he protested, miserably. "Forone thing, miss, that skirt ain't a respectable garment. "

Winona slid one foot toward him. 

"Pooh! Don't be silly!" Never before had Winona poohed her father. 

"Cigarette fiend, too, " accused the judge. 

"My husband got me to stop. "

"Strong drink, " added the judge. 

"Pooh!" again breathed Winona. "A little nip of something when you'redone up. "

"You talking that way!" admonished the twice-poohed parent. "You thatwas always so----"

"I'm not it any longer. " She did a dance step toward the front door, butcalled back to him: "Spike's set his heart on that chair. You'll have tofind something else for yourself. "

"'Twon't always be so, " retorted the judge, stung beyond reason at thecareless finality of her last words. "You wait--wait till the revolutionsweeps you high and mighty people out of your places! Wait till theworkers take over their rights--you wait!"

But Winona had not waited. She had gone to confer on Wilbur Cowan a fewprecious drops of that which had caused her father to put upon her thestigma of alcoholic intemperance. 

"It's real genuine dandelion wine, " she told him. "One of the nursesgot it for me when we left the boat in Boston. Her own mother made it, and she gave me the recipe, and it isn't a bit of trouble. I'm goingafter dandelions to-morrow, Spike and I. Of course we'll have to besecret about it. "

In the sacred precincts of the Penniman parlour Wilbur Cowan raised thewineglass to his lips and tasted doubtingly. After a second consideringsip he announced--"They can't arrest you for that. "

Winona looked a little relieved, but more than a little disappointed. 

"I thought it had a kick, " she mourned. 

"Here's to you and him, anyway! Didn't I always tell you he was one goodlittle man?"

"He's all of that, " said Winona, and tossed off her own glass of whatshe sincerely hoped was not a permitted beverage. 

"You've come on, " said Wilbur. 

"I haven't started, " said Winona. 

 * * * * *

Later that afternoon Winona sat in her own room in close consultationwith Juliana Whipple. Miss Whipple, driving her own car as no otherWhipple could have driven it, had hastened to felicitate the bride. Tall, gaunt, a little stooped now, her weathered face aglow, she hadascended the steps to greet the couple. Spike's tenancy of the chair hadbeen made doubly secure by Winona on the step at his feet. 

Juliana embraced Winona and took one of Spike's knotted hands to presswarmly between both her own. Then Winona had dragged her to privacy, andtheir talk had now come to a point. 

"It's that--that parrot!" exploded Winona, desperately. "I never used tonotice, but you know--that senseless gabble, 'pretty girl, pretty girl, 'and then the thing laughs like a fiend. It would be all right if hewouldn't laugh. You might think he meant it. And poor Spike is sosensitive; he gets things you wouldn't think he'd get. That awful birdmight set him to thinking. Now he believes I'm pretty. In spite ofeverything I've said to him, he believes it. Well, I'm not going to havethat bird putting any other notion into his mind, not if I have to--"

She broke off, but murder was in her tone. 

"I see, " said Miss Whipple. "You're right, of course--only you arepretty, Winona. I never used to think--think about it, I mean, butyou've changed. You needn't be afraid of any parrot. "

Winona patted the hand of Miss Whipple, an able hand suggesting that ofSpike in its texture and solidity. 

"That's ever so nice of you, but I know all about myself. Spike's eyesare gone, but that bird is going, too. "

"Why not let me take the poor old thing?" said Juliana. "It can say'pretty girl' to me and laugh its head off if it wants. " She hung amoment on this, searching Winona's face with clear eyes. "I have noblind husband, " she finished. 

"You're a dear, " said Winona. 

"I'm so glad for you, " said Juliana. 

"I must guard him in so many ways, " confided Winona. "He's happynow--he's forgotten for the moment. But sometimes it comes back on himterribly--what he is, you know. I've seen him over there losecontrol--want to kill himself. He says he can't help such times. It willseem to him that someone has shut him in a dark room and he must breakdown its walls--break out into the light. He would try to break thewalls down--like a caged beast. It wasn't pretty. And I'm his eyes andall his life, and no old bird is ever going to set him thinking I'm notperfectly beautiful. That's the plain truth. I may lie about it myselfto him pretty soon. I might as well. He only thinks I'm being flirtywhen I deny it. Oh, I know I've changed! Sometimes it seems to me now asif I used to be--well, almost prudish. "

"My dear, he knows better than you do, much better, how beautiful youare. But you're right about the bird. I'll take him gladly. " Shereflected a moment. "There's a fine place for the cage in my room--on myhope chest. "

"You dear!" said Winona. "Of course I couldn't have killed it. "

Downstairs ten minutes later Winona, the light of filial devotion in hereyes, was explaining to her father that she was giving the parrot awaybecause she had noticed that it annoyed him. 

The judge beamed gratitude. 

"Why, it's right thoughtful of you, Winona. It does annoy me, kind of. That miserable Dave Cowan's taught it some new rigmarole--no meaning toit, but bothersome when you want to be quiet. "

Even in the days of her white innocence Winona Penniman had not beenabove doing a thing for one reason while advancing another lesspersonal. She had always been a strange girl. 

Juliana took leave of Spike. 

"You have a lovely wife, " she told him. "It isn't going to be too hardfor you, this life. "

"Watch us!" said Winona. "I'll make his life more beautiful than I am. "Her hand fluttered to his shoulder. 

"Oh, me? I'll be all right, " said Spike. 

"And thank you for this wonderful bird, " said Juliana. 

She lifted the cage from its table and went slowly toward the gate. Theparrot divined that dirty work was afoot, but it had led a peaceful lifeand its repertoire comprised no call of alarm. 

"Pretty girl, pretty girl, pretty girl!" it shrieked. Then followed itsharshest laugh of scorn. 

Juliana did not quicken her pace to the car; she finished the littlejourney in all dignity, and placed her burden in the tonneau. 

"Pretty girl, pretty girl!" screamed the dismayed bird. The laugh waslong and eloquent of derision. 

Dave Cowan reached the Penniman gate, pausing a moment to watch the carleave. Juliana shot him one swift glance while the parrot laughed. 

"Who was that live-looking old girl?" he demanded as he came up thesteps. "Oh!" he said when Winona told him. 

He glanced sympathetically after the car. A block away it had slowed toturn a corner. The parrot's ironic laughter came back to them. 

"Yes, I remember her, " said Dave, musingly. He was glad to recall thathe had once shown the woman a little attention. 

CHAPTER XXII

Of all humans cumbering the earth Dave Cowan thought farmers the mostpitiable. To this tireless-winged bird of passage farming was not aloose trade, and the news that his son was pledged to agrarian pursuitsshocked him. To be mewed up for life on a few acres of land!

"It was the land tricked us first, " admonished Dave. "There we were, footloose and free, and some fool went and planted a patch of ground. Then he stayed like a fool to see what would happen. Pretty soon hefenced the patch to keep out prehistoric animals. First thing he knew hewas fond of it. Of course he had to stay there--he couldn't take if offwith him. That's how man was tricked. Most he could ever hope after thatwas to be a small-towner. You may think you can own land and still befree, but you can't. Before you know it you have that home feeling. Never owned a foot of it! That's all that saved me. "

Dave frowned at his son hopefully, as one saved might regard one whostill might be. 

"I'm not owning any land, " suggested his son. 

"No; but it's tricky stuff. You get round it, working at it, nursingit--pretty soon you'll want to own some, then you're dished. It's thefirst step that counts. After that you may crave to get out and seeplaces, but you can't; you have to plant the hay and the corn. You tofool round those Whipple farms--I don't care if it is a big job with bigmoney--it's playing with fire. Pretty soon you'll be as tight-fixed to apatch of soil as any yap that ever blew out the gas in a city hotel. You'll stick there and raise hogs _en masse_ for free people that cantake a trip when they happen to feel like it. " Dave had but latelylearned _en masse_ and was glad to find a use for it. He spoke with theuntroubled detachment of one saved, who could return at will to the gladlife of nomady. "You, with the good loose trades you know! Do you wantto take root in this hole like a willow branch that someone shoves intothe ground? Don't you ever want to move--on and on and on?"

His son at the time had denied stoutly that he felt this urge. Now, after a week of his new work, he would have been less positive. It was aSunday afternoon, and he sprawled face down on the farther shaded slopeof West Hill, confessing a lively fear that he might take root like thewillow. Late in that first week the old cry had begun to ring in hisears--Where do we go from here?--bringing the cold perception that hewould not go anywhere from here. 

Through all his early years in Newbern he had not once felt thewander-bidding; never, as Dave Cowan put it, had he been itchy-footedfor the road. Then, with the war, he had crept up to look over the topof the world, and now, unaccountably, in the midst of work he had lookedforward to with real pleasure, his whole body was tingling for newhorizons. 

It seemed to be so with a dozen of the boys he had come back with. Someof these were writing to him, wanting him to come here, to come there;to go on and on with them to inviting places they knew--and on againfrom there! Mining in South America, lumbering in the Northwest, ranching in the Southwest; one of his mates would be a sailor, and onewould be with a circus. Something within him beyond reason goaded him tobe up and off. He felt his hold slipping; his mind floated in an ecstasyof relaxation. 

His first days at the Home Farm had been good-enough days. SharonWhipple had told him a modern farmer must first be a mechanic, and hewas already that--and no one had shot at him. But the novelty ofapproaching good machine-gun cover without apprehension had worn off. 

"Ain't getting cold feet, are you?" asked Sharon one day, observing himhang idly above an abused tractor with the far-off look in his eyes. 

"Nothing like that, " he had protested almost too warmly. "No, sir; I'llslog on right here. "

Now for the first time in all their years of association he saw animmense gulf between himself and Sharon Whipple. Sharon was an old man, turning to look back as he went down a narrow way into a hidden valley. But he--Wilbur Cowan--was climbing a long slope into new light. Howcould they touch? How could this old man hold him to become another oldman on the same soil--when he could be up and off, a happy world romperlike his father before him?

"Funny, funny, funny!" he said aloud, and lazily rolled over to stareinto blue space. 

Probably it was quite as funny out there. The people like himself onthose other worlds would be the sport of confusing impulses, in the longrun obeying some deeper instinct whose source was in the parent stardust, wandering or taking root in their own strange soils. But why notwander when the object of it all was so obscure, so apparently trivial?Enough others would submit to rule from the hidden source, take rootlike the willow--mate! That was another chain upon them. Women held themback from wandering. That was how they were tricked into the deadly homefeeling his father warned him of. 

"Funny, funny, funny!" he said again. 

From an inner pocket he drew a sheet of note paper worn almost throughat the fold, stained with the ooze of trenches and his own sweat. It hadcome deviously to him in the front line a month after his meeting withPatricia Whipple. In that time the strange verse had still run in hismind--a crown of stars, and under her feet the moon! The tumult offighting had seemed to fix it there. He had rested on the memory of herand become fearless of death. But the time had changed so tremendously. He could hardly recall the verse, hardly recall that he had faced deathor the strange girl. 

"Wilbur, dear, " he read, "I am still holding you. Are you me? What doyou guess? Do you guess we were a couple of homesick ninnies, tired andweak and too combustible? Or do you guess it meant something about usfinding each other out all in one second, like a flash of something? Doyou guess we were frazzled up to the limit and not braced to hold backor anything, the way civilized people do? I mean, will we be the sameback home? If we will be, how funny! We shall have to find out, shan'twe? But let's be sporty, and give the thing a chance to be true if itcan. That's fair enough, isn't it? What I mean, let's not shatter itsmorale by some poky chance meeting with a lot of people round, whom itis none of their business what you and I do or don't do. That would befierce, would it not? So much might depend. 

"Anyway, here's what: The first night I am home--your intelligencedepartment must find out the day, because I'm not going to write to youagain if I never see you, I feel so unmaidenly--I shall be at our stileleading out to West Hill. You remember it--above the place where thosesplendid gypsies camped when we were such a funny little boy and girl. The first night as soon as I can sneak out from my proud family. Youcome there. We'll know!"

 * * * * *

"Funny, funny, funny--the whole game!" he said. 

He lost himself in a lazy wonder if it could be true. He didn't know. Once she had persisted terribly in his eyes; now she had faded. Herfigure before the broken church was blurred. 

Sharon Whipple found him the next afternoon teaching two new men the useand abuse of a tractor, and plainly bored by his task. Sharon seized themoment to talk pungently about the good old times when a farm handdidn't have to know how to disable a tractor, or anything much, andwould work fourteen hours a day for thirty dollars a month and his keep. He named the wage of the two pupils in a tone of disgruntled awe thatpiqued them pleasantly but did not otherwise impress. When they hadgone their expensive ways he turned to Wilbur. 

"Did you get over to that dry-fork place to-day?"

"No; too busy here with these highbinders. "

He spoke wearily, above a ripening suspicion that he would not muchlonger be annoyed in this manner. A new letter had that morning comefrom the intending adventurer into South America. 

"I'll bet you've had a time with this new help, " said Sharon. 

"I've put three men at work over on that clearing, though. "

"I'll get over there myself with you to-morrow; no, not tomorrow--nextday after. That girl of ours gets in to-morrow noon. Have to be there, of course. "

"Of course. "

"She trotted a smart mile over there. Everybody says so. Family tickledto death about her. Me, too, of course. "

"Of course. "

"Rattlepate, though. "

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. 

When the old man had gone he looked out over the yellowing fields with afrank distaste for the level immensity. Suddenly there rang in his earsthe harsh singing of many men: "Where do we go from here, boys, where dowe go from here?" Old Sharon was rooted in the soil; dying there. But hewas still free. He could wire Leach Belding he was starting--and start. 

 * * * * *

About eight o'clock the following night he parked the Can beside theridge road, and for the first time in his proud career of ownershipcursed its infirmities. It was competent, but no car for a tryst onemight not wish to advertise. When its clamour had been stilled he waitedsome moments, feeling that a startled countryside must rush to the spot. Yet no one came, so at last he went furtively through the thinned groveand about clumps of hazel brush, feeling his way, stepping softly, crouching low, until he could make out the stile where it broke thelines of the fence. The night was clear and the stile was cleanlyoutlined by starlight. Beyond the fence was a shadowed mass, first aclump of trees, the outbuildings of the Whipple New Place, the houseitself. There were lights at the back, and once voices came to him, thenthe thin shatter of glass on stone, followed by laughs from twodissonant throats. He stood under a tall pine, listening, but no othersound came. After a while he sat at the foot of the tree. Cricketschirped and a bat circled through the night. The scent of the pine fromits day-long baking was sharp in his nostrils. His back tired againstthe tree, and he eased himself to the cooled grass, face down, his handscrossed under his chin. He could look up now and see the stile againststars. 

He waited. He had expected to wait. The little night sounds thatcomposed the night's silence, his own stillness, his intent watching, put him back to nights when silence was ominous. Once he found he hadstopped breathing to listen to the breathing of the men on each side ofhim. He was waiting for the word, and felt for a rifle. He had to riseto shake off this oppression. On his feet he laughed softly, being againin Newbern on a fool's mission. He lay down hands under his chin, butagain the silent watching beset him with the old oppression. He must bestill and strain his eyes ahead. Presently the word would come, or hewould feel the touch of a groping foe. He half dozed at last from thememory of that other endless fatigue. He came to himself with a startand raised his head to scan the stile. The darkness had thickened butthe two posts at the ends of the fence were still outlined. He watchedand waited. 

After a long time the east began to lighten; a deepening glow rimmedWest Hill, picking out in silver the trees along its edge. If she meantto come she must come soon, he thought, but the rising moon distinctlyshowed the bare stile. She had written a long time ago. She wasnotoriously a rattlepate. Of course she would have forgotten. Then fora moment his straining eyes were puzzled. His gaze had not shifted evenfor an instant, yet the post at the left of the stile had unaccountablythickened. He considered it a trick of the advancing moonshine, andlooked more intently. It was motionless, like the other post, yet it hadthickened. Then he saw it was taller, but still it did not move. Itcould be no one. Mildly curious, he crept forward to make the post seemright in this confusing new glamour. But it broadened as he neared it, and still was taller than its neighbour, its lines not so sharp. 

He rose to his feet, with a dry laugh at his own credulity, taking someslow steps forward, expecting each stride to resolve the post to itstrue dimensions. He was within a dozen feet of it before he saw it couldnot be a post--anyway, not the same post. His scalp crept into minutewrinkles at the back of his head. He knew the feeling--fear! But, as inother times, he could not make his feet go back. Two other steps and hesaw she must be there. She had not stirred, but the rising light caughther wan face and a pale glint of eyes. 

All at once his fear was greater--greater than any he had known inbattle. His feet dragged protestingly, but he forced them on. He wantedher to speak or move to break that tension of fear. But not until hereached out stiffening fingers to touch her did she stir. Then she gavea little whispered cry and all at once it was no longer moonlight forhim, but full day. A girl in nurse's cap and a faded, much laundereddress of light blue stood before a battered church, beside a timberedbreach in its gray stone wall. He was holding her. 

The song was coming to him, harsh and full throated from many men:"Where do we go from here, boys, where do we go from here?"

"We don't go anywhere from here, " he heard himself say in anger. Theywere the only words he had spoken. 

The girl was shaking as she had shaken back at that church; utteringlittle shapeless cries from a throat that by turns fluttered andtightened. One clenched hand was fiercely thumping his shoulder. Theywere on strange land, as if they had the crust of the moon itselfbeneath their feet. They seemed to know it had been true. 

 * * * * *

They were sitting on a log in shadow. He rose and stepped into thelight, facing his watch to the moon, now gone so high it had paled fromgold to silver. He went to her again. 

"Do you know it's nearly one?"

"It must be that--I suppose so. "

"Shouldn't you be going?"

She leaned forward, shoulders drooping, a huddled bit of black in theloose cloak she wore. He waited. At length she drew her shoulders upwith a quick intake of breath. She held this a moment, her chin lifted. 

"There, now I've decided, " she said. 

"What?"

"I'm not going back. "

"No?"

"Not going through any more fuss. I'm too tired. It seemed as if I'dnever get here, never get out of that dreadful place, never get out ofParis, never get out of Brest, never get off the boat, never get home!I'm too tired for any more never gets. I'm not going to have talking andplanning and arguments and tearful relatives forever and a day more. Seeif I do! I'm here, and I'm not going to break it again. I'm not goingback!"

He reached down to pat her hand with a humouring air. 

"Where will you go?"

"That's up to you. "

"But what can I----"

"I'm going where you go. I tell you I'm too tired to have any talk. "

He sat down beside her. 

"Yes, you're a tired child, " he told her. 

She detected the humoring inflection. 

"None of that! I'm tired, but I'm stubborn. I'm not going back. I'msupposed to be sleeping soundly in my little bed. In the morning, beforeI'm supposed to be up, I'll issue a communique from--any old place; ortell 'em face to face. I won't mind that a little bit after everything'sover. It's telling what's going to be and listening to talk about itthat I won't have. I'm not up to it. Now you talk!"

"You're tired. Are you too tired to know your own mind?"

"No; just too tired to argue with it, fight it; and I'm free, white, andtwenty-one; and I've read about the self-determination of smallpeoples. "

"Say, aren't you afraid?"

"Don't be silly! Of course I'm afraid! What is that about perfect lovecasting out fear?--don't believe it! I'm scared to death--truly!"

"Go back till to-morrow. "

"I won't! I've gone over all that. "

"All right! Shove off!"

He led her to the ambushed Can, whose blemishes became all too apparentin the merciless light of the moon. 

"What a lot of wound chevrons it has!" she exclaimed. 

"Well, I didn't expect anything like this. I could have got----"

"It looks like a permanent casualty. Will it go?"

"It goes for me. You're sure you don't think it's better to----"

"On your way!" she gayly ordered, but her voice caught, and she clung tohim a moment before entering the car. "No; I'm not weakening--don't youthink it! But let me rest a second. "

She was in the car, again wearily gay. The Can hideously broke thequiet. 

"Home, James!" she commanded. 

 * * * * *

Dawn found the car at rest on the verge of a hill with a wide-sweepingview over and beyond the county seat of Newbern County. Patricia sleptwithin the fold of his arm. At least half of the slow forty miles shehad slept against his shoulder in spite of the car's resoundingprogress over a country road. Once in the darkness she had wakened longenough to tell him not to go away. 

The rising sun lighted the town of Halton below them, and sent levelrays across a wide expanse of farmland beyond it, flat meadows androlling upland. White mist shrouded the winding trail of a creek. It wasthe kind of landscape he had viewed yesterday with a rising distaste;land that had tricked people from their right to wander; to go places ona train when they would. 

He brought his eyes back from the treacherous vista and turned them downto the face of the sleeping girl. A pale scarf was wound about her head, and he could see but little beyond it but the tip of her nose, a fewscattered, minute freckles on one cheek. She was limp, one bare handfalling inertly over the edge of the seat between them. He looked outagain at the checkerboard of farms. He, too, had been tricked. 

"But what a fine trick!" he said aloud. "No wonder it works!"

He dozed himself presently, nodding till his forward-pitching head wouldwaken him. Afterward he heard Spike saying: "So dark you can't see yourhand before your face. " He came awake. His head was on Patricia'sshoulder, her arm supporting him. 

"You must have gone to sleep and let the car stop, " she told him. Hestared sleepily, believing it. "But I want my breakfast, " she remindedhim. He sat up, winking the sleep from his eyes, shaking it from hishead. 

"Of course, " he said. 

He looked again out over the land to which an old device had inveigledhim. A breeze had come with the dawn, stirring the grain fields intolong ripples. At the roadside was the tossing silver of birch leaves. 

"This is one whale of a day for us two, isn't it?" he demanded. 

"You said it!" she told him. 

"Breakfast and a license and--"

"You know it!" she declared. 

"Still afraid?"

"More than ever! It's a wonder and a wild desire, but it scares mestiff--you're so strange. "

"You know, it isn't too late. "

She began to thump him with a clenched fist up between his shoulders. 

"Carry on!" she ordered. "There isn't a slacker in the whole car!"

 * * * * *

A few hours later, in the dining room of the Whipple New Place, Gideon, Harvey D. , and Merle Whipple were breakfasting. To them entered SharonWhipple from his earlier breakfast, ruddy, fresh-shaven, bubbling. 

"On my way to the Home Farm, " he explained, "but I had to drop in for alook at the girl by daylight. She seemed too peaked last night. "

"Pat's still sleeping, " said her father over his egg cup. 

"That's good! I guess a rest was all she needed. Beats all, girlsnowadays seem to be made of wire rope. You take that one--"

A telephone bell rang in the hall beyond, and Merle Whipple went to it. 

"Hello, hello! Whipple New Place--Merle Whipple speaking. " He listened, standing in the doorway to turn a puzzled face to the group about thetable. "Hello! Who--who?" His bewilderment was apparent. "But it's Pattalking, " he said, "over long distance. "

"Calling from her room upstairs to fool you, " warned Sharon. "Don't Iknow her flummididdles?"

But the look of bewilderment on Merle's face had become a look of purefright. He raised a hand sternly to Sharon. 

"Once more, " he called, hoarsely, and again listened with widening eyes. He lifted his face to the group, the receiver still at his ear. "Shesays--good heaven! She says, 'I've gone A. W. O. L. , and now I'm safe andmarried--I'm married to Wilbur Cowan. '" He uttered his brother's namein the tone of a shocked true Whipple. 

"Good heaven!" echoed Harvey D. 

"I'm blest!" said Gideon. 

"I snum to goodness!" said the dazed Sharon. "The darned skeesicks!"

Merle still listened. Again he raised a now potent hand. 

"She says she doesn't know how she came to do it, except that he put acomether on her. "

He hung up the receiver and fell into a chair before the table that heldthe telephone. 

"Scissors and white aprons!" said Sharon. "Of all things you wouldn'texpect!"

Merle stood before the group with a tragic face. 

"It's hard, Father, but she says it's done. I suppose--I suppose we'llhave to make the best of it. "

Hereupon Sharon Whipple's eyes began to blink rapidly, his jaw dropped, and he slid forward in his chair to writhe in a spasm of what might beweirdly silent laughter. His face was purple, convulsed, but no soundcame from his moving lips. The others regarded him with alarm. 

"Not a stroke?" cried Harvey D. , and ran to his side. As he sought toloosen Sharon's collar the old man waved him off and became happilyvocal. 

"Oh, oh!" he gasped. "That Merle boy has brightened my whole day!"

Merle frowned. 

"Perhaps you may see something to laugh at, " he said, icily. 

Sharon controlled his seizure. Pointing his eyebrows severely, he cockeda presumably loaded thumb at Merle. 

"Let me tell you, young man, the best this family can make of thatmarriage will be a darned good best. Could you think of a betterbest--say, now?" Merle turned impatiently from the mocker. 

"Blest if I can--on the spur of the moment!" said Gideon. 

Harvey D. Looked almost sharply at the exigent Merle. 

"Pat's twenty-five and knows her own mind better than we do, " he said. 

"I never knew it at all!" said Gideon. 

"It's almost a distinct relief, " resumed Harvey D. "As I think of it Ilike it. " He went to straighten the painting of an opened watermelonbeside a copper kettle, that hung above the sideboard. "He's a fineyoung chap. " He looked again at Merle, fixing knife and fork in a justeralignment on his plate. "I dare say we needed him in the family. "

 * * * * *

Late the following afternoon Sharon triumphantly brought his car to astop before the gateway leading up to the red farmhouse. The front doorproving unresponsive, he puffed about to the rear. He found a perturbedPatricia Cowan, in cap and apron, tidying the big kitchen. Her hegreeted rapturously. 

"This kitchen--" began the new mistress. 

"So he put a comether on you!"

"Absolutely--when I wasn't looking!"

"Put one on me, too, " said Sharon; "years ago. "

"This kitchen, " began Patricia again, "is an unsanitary outrage. Itneeds a thousand things done to it. We'd never have put up with this inthe Army. That sink there"--she pointed it out--"must have something ofa carbolic nature straight off. "

"I know, I know!" Sharon was placating. "I'm going to put everythingright for you. "

"New paint for all the woodwork--white. "

"Sure thing--as white as you want it. "

"And blue velours curtains for the big room. I always dreamed I'd have ahouse with blue velours curtains. "

"Sure, sure! Anything you want you order. "

"And that fireplace in the big room--I burned some trash there thismorning, and it simply won't inhale. "

"Never did, " said Sharon. "We'll run the chimney up higher. Anythingelse?"

"Oh, lots! I've a long list somewhere. "

"I bet you have! But it's a good old house; don't build 'em like thisany more; not a nail in it; sound as a nut. Say, miss, did you knowthere was high old times in this house about seventy-three years ago?Fact! They thought I wasn't going to pull through. I was over two daysold before it looked like I'd come round. Say, I learned to walk out inthat side yard. That reminds me--" Sharon hesitated in mildembarrassment--"there's a place between them two wings--make a bullyplace for a sun room; spoil the architecture, mebbe, but who cares? Sunroom--big place to play round in--play room, or anything like that. "

Patricia had been searching among a stack of newspapers, but she hadcaught "sun room. "

"Stunning!" she said. "We need another big place right now, or when mythings get here. "

Sharon coughed. 

"Need it more later, I guess. "

But Patricia had found her paper. 

"Oh, here's something I put aside to ask you about! I want you tounderstand I'm going to be all the help I can here. This advertisementsays 'Raise Belgian hares, ' because meat is so high. Do you know--dopeople really make millions at it, and could I do the work?"

Sharon was shaking his head. 

"You could if you didn't have something else to do. And I suppose theysell for money, though I never did hear tell of a Belgian-haremillionaire. Heard of all other kinds, but not him. But you look here, young woman, I hope there'll be other things not sold by the poundthat'll keep you from rabbit raising. This family's depending a lot onyou. Didn't you hear my speech about that fine sun room?"

"Will you please not bother me at a time like this?" scolded Patricia. "Now out with you--he's outside somewhere! And can't you ever in theworld for five minutes get mere Whipples out of your mind?" She activelywaved him on from the open door. 

Sharon passed through a grape arbour, turning beyond it to study thesite of the sun room. All in a moment he built and peopled it. How hehoped they would be coming along to play in there; at least three beforehe was too old to play with them. He saw them now; saw them, moreover, upon the flimsiest of promises, all superbly gifted with the Whipplenose. Then he went hopefully off toward the stables. He came upon WilburCowan inspecting a new reaper under one of the sheds. This time the oldman feigned no pounding of the boy's back--made no pretense that he didnot hug him. 

"I'm so glad, so glad, so almighty glad!" he said as they stood apart. 

He did not speak with his wonted exuberance, saying the words veryquietly. But Sharon had not to be noisy to sound sincere. 

"Thanks, " said Wilbur. "Of course I couldn't be sure how her peoplewould----"

"Stuff!" said Sharon. "All tickled to death but one near-Whipple andhe's only annoyed. But you've been my boy--in my fool mind I always hadyou for my boy, when you was little and when you went to war. You couldof known that, and that was enough for you to know. Of course I neverdid think of you and Pat. That was too gosh-all perfect. Of course Icalled her a rattlepate, but she was my girl as much as you was my boy. "

The old eyes shone mistily upon Wilbur, then roved to the site of hisdream before he continued. 

"Me? I'm getting on--and on. Right fast, too. But you--you and that finegirl--why, you two are a new morning in a new world, so fresh and youngand proud of each other, the way you are!" He hesitated, his eyes comingback. "Only thing I hope for now--before I get bedfast orsomething--say, take a look at the space between them south wings--standover this way a mite. " Sharon now built there, with the warmestimplications, a perfect sun room. "That'll be one grand place, " heaffirmed of his work when all was done. 

"Yes, it sounds good, " replied Wilbur. 

"Oh, a grand place, big as outdoors, getting any sun there is--greatfor winter, great for rainy days!" Wistfully he searched the other'sface. "You know, Buck, a grand place to--play in, or anything likethat. "

"Yes, sir, " said Wilbur. 

THE END