VAN BIBBER AND OTHERS

By

Richard Harding Davis

1892, 1920

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 TO

 MY FATHER L. CLARKE DAVIS

 WHO HAS BEEN MY KINDEST AND MY SEVEREST CRITIC

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 CONTENTS

 HER FIRST APPEARANCE VAN BIBBER'S MAN-SERVANT THE HUNGRY MAN WAS FED VAN BIBBER AT THE RACES AN EXPERIMENT IN ECONOMY MR. TRAVERS'S FIRST HUNT LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG ELEANORE CUYLER A RECRUIT AT CHRISTMAS A PATRON OF ART ANDY M'GEE'S CHORUS GIRL A LEANDER OF THE EAST RIVER HOW HEFTY BURKE GOT EVEN OUTSIDE THE PRISON AN UNFINISHED STORY

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HER FIRST APPEARANCE

It was at the end of the first act of the first night of "TheSultana, " and every member of the Lester Comic Opera Company, fromLester himself down to the wardrobe woman's son, who would have had towork if his mother lost her place, was sick with anxiety. 

There is perhaps only one other place as feverish as it is behind thescenes on the first night of a comic opera, and that is a newspaperoffice on the last night of a Presidential campaign, when the returnsare being flashed on the canvas outside, and the mob is howling, andthe editor-in-chief is expecting to go to the Court of St. James ifthe election comes his way, and the office-boy is betting his wagesthat it won't. 

Such nights as these try men's souls; but Van Bibber passed thestage-door man with as calmly polite a nod as though the piece hadbeen running a hundred nights, and the manager was thinking upsouvenirs for the one hundred and fiftieth, and the prima donna had, as usual, began to hint for a new set of costumes. The stage-doorkeeper hesitated and was lost, and Van Bibber stepped into theunsuppressed excitement of the place with a pleased sniff at thefamiliar smell of paint and burning gas, and the dusty odor that camefrom the scene-lofts above. 

For a moment he hesitated in the cross-lights and confusion about him, failing to recognize in their new costumes his old acquaintances ofthe company; but he saw Kripps, the stage-manager, in the centre ofthe stage, perspiring and in his shirt-sleeves as always, wildlywaving an arm to some one in the flies, and beckoning with the otherto the gas-man in the front entrance. The stage hands were strikingthe scene for the first act, and fighting with the set for the second, and dragging out a canvas floor of tessellated marble, and running athrone and a practical pair of steps over it, and aiming the highquaking walls of a palace and abuse at whoever came in their way. 

"Now then, Van Bibber, " shouted Kripps, with a wild glance ofrecognition, as the white-and-black figure came towards him, "you knowyou're the only man in New York who gets behind here to-night. But youcan't stay. Lower it, lower it, can't you?" This to the man in theflies. "Any other night goes, but not this night. I can't have it. I--Where is the backing for the centre entrance? Didn't I tell youmen--"

Van Bibber dodged two stage hands who were steering a scene at him, stepped over the carpet as it unrolled, and brushed through a group ofanxious, whispering chorus people into the quiet of the star'sdressing-room. 

The star saw him in the long mirror before which he sat, while hisdresser tugged at his boots, and threw up his hands desperately. 

"Well, " he cried, in mock resignation, "are we in it or are we not?Are they in their seats still or have they fled?"

"How are you, John?" said Van Bibber to the dresser. Then he droppedinto a big arm-chair in the corner, and got up again with a protestingsigh to light his cigar between the wires around the gas-burner. "Oh, it's going very well. I wouldn't have come around if it wasn't. If therest of it is as good as the first act, you needn't worry. "

Van Bibber's unchallenged freedom behind the scenes had been a sourceof much comment and perplexity to the members of the Lester ComicOpera Company. He had made his first appearance there during one hotnight of the long run of the previous summer, and had continued to bean almost nightly visitor for several weeks. At first it was supposedthat he was backing the piece, that he was the "Angel, " as those weakand wealthy individuals are called who allow themselves to be led intosupplying the finances for theatrical experiments. But as he neverpeered through the curtain-hole to count the house, nor made frequenttrips to the front of it to look at the box sheet, but was, on thecontrary, just as undisturbed on a rainy night as on those when the"standing room only" sign blocked the front entrance, this suppositionwas discarded as untenable. Nor did he show the least interest in theprima donna, or in any of the other pretty women of the company; hedid not know them, nor did he make any effort to know them, and it wasnot until they inquired concerning him outside of the theatre thatthey learned what a figure in the social life of the city he reallywas. He spent most of his time in Lester's dressing-room smoking, listening to the reminiscences of Lester's dresser when Lester was onthe stage; and this seclusion and his clerical attire of evening dressled the second comedian to call him Lester's father confessor, and tosuggest that he came to the theatre only to take the star to task forhis sins. And in this the second comedian was unknowingly not so veryfar wrong. Lester, the comedian, and young Van Bibber had known eachother at the university, when Lester's voice and gift of mimicry hadmade him the leader in the college theatricals; and later, when he hadgone upon the stage, and had been cut off by his family even after hehad become famous, or on account of it, Van Bibber had gone to visithim, and had found him as simple and sincere and boyish as he had beenin the days of his Hasty-Pudding successes. And Lester, for his part, had found Van Bibber as likable as did every one else, and welcomedhis quiet voice and youthful knowledge of the world as a gratefulrelief to the boisterous _camaraderie_ of his professionalacquaintances. And he allowed Van Bibber to scold him, and to remindhim of what he owed to himself, and to touch, even whether it hurt ornot, upon his better side. And in time he admitted to finding hisfriend's occasional comments on stage matters of value as coming fromthe point of view of those who look on at the game; and even Kripps, the veteran, regarded him with respect after he had told him that hecould turn a set of purple costumes black by throwing a red light onthem. To the company, after he came to know them, he was gravelypolite, and, to those who knew him if they had overheard, amusinglycommonplace in his conversation. He understood them better than theydid themselves, and made no mistakes. The women smiled on him, but themen were suspicious and shy of him until they saw that he was quite asshy of the women; and then they made him a confidant, and told him alltheir woes and troubles, and exhibited all their little jealousies andambitions, in the innocent hope that he would repeat what they said toLester. They were simple, unconventional, light-hearted folk, and VanBibber found them vastly more entertaining and preferable to thesilence of the deserted club, where the matting was down, and fromwhence the regular _habitués_ had departed to the other side or toNewport. He liked the swing of the light, bright music as it came tohim through the open door of the dressing-room, and the glimpse hegot of the chorus people crowding and pushing for a quick charge upthe iron stairway, and the feverish smell of oxygen in the air, andthe picturesque disorder of Lester's wardrobe, and the wigs andswords, and the mysterious articles of make-up, all mixed together ona tray with half-finished cigars and autograph books and newspaper"notices. "

And he often wished he was clever enough to be an artist with thetalent to paint the unconsciously graceful groups in the sharplydivided light and shadow of the wings as he saw them. The brilliantlycolored, fantastically clothed girls leaning against the bare brickwall of the theatre, or whispering together in circles, with theirarms close about one another, or reading apart and solitary, orworking at some piece of fancy-work as soberly as though they were ina rocking-chair in their own flat, and not leaning against a scenebrace, with the glare of the stage and the applause of the house justbehind them. He liked to watch them coquetting with the big firemandetailed from the precinct engine-house, and clinging desperately tothe curtain wire, or with one of the chorus men on the stairs, orteasing the phlegmatic scene-shifters as they tried to catch aminute's sleep on a pile of canvas. He even forgave the prima donna'ssmiling at him from the stage, as he stood watching her from thewings, and smiled back at her with polite cynicism, as though he didnot know and she did not know that her smiles were not for him, butto disturb some more interested one in the front row. And so, in time, the company became so well accustomed to him that he moved in andabout as unnoticed as the stage-manager himself, who prowled aroundhissing "hush" on principle, even though he was the only person whocould fairly be said to be making a noise. 

The second act was on, and Lester came off the stage and ran to thedressing-room and beckoned violently. "Come here, " he said; "you oughtto see this; the children are doing their turn. You want to hear them. They're great!"

Van Bibber put his cigar into a tumbler and stepped out into thewings. They were crowded on both sides of the stage with the membersof the company; the girls were tiptoeing, with their hands on theshoulders of the men, and making futile little leaps into the air toget a better view, and others were resting on one knee that thosebehind might see over their shoulders. There were over a dozenchildren before the footlights, with the prima donna in the centre. She was singing the verses of a song, and they were following hermovements, and joining in the chorus with high piping voices. Theyseemed entirely too much at home and too self-conscious to please VanBibber; but there was one exception. The one exception was thesmallest of them, a very, very little girl, with long auburn hair andblack eyes; such a very little girl that every one in the houselooked at her first, and then looked at no one else. She wasapparently as unconcerned to all about her, excepting the pretty primadonna, as though she were by a piano at home practising a singinglesson. She seemed to think it was some new sort of a game. When theprima donna raised her arms, the child raised hers; when the primadonna courtesied, she stumbled into one, and straightened herself justin time to get the curls out of her eyes, and to see that the primadonna was laughing at her, and to smile cheerfully back, as if to say, "_We_ are doing our best anyway, aren't we?" She had big, gentle eyesand two wonderful dimples, and in the excitement of the dancing andthe singing her eyes laughed and flashed, and the dimples deepened anddisappeared and reappeared again. She was as happy and innocentlooking as though it were nine in the morning and she were playingschool at a kindergarten. From all over the house the women weremurmuring their delight, and the men were laughing and pulling theirmustaches and nudging each other to "look at the littlest one. "

The girls in the wings were rapturous in their enthusiasm, and werecalling her absurdly extravagant titles of endearment, and making somuch noise that Kripps stopped grinning at her from the entrance, andlooked back over his shoulder as he looked when he threatened finesand calls for early rehearsal. And when she had finished finally, andthe prima donna and the children ran off together, there was a roarfrom the house that went to Lester's head like wine, and seemed toleap clear across the footlights and drag the children back again. 

"That settles it!" cried Lester, in a suppressed roar of triumph. "Iknew that child would catch them. "

There were four encores, and then the children and Elise Broughten, the pretty prima donna, came off jubilant and happy, with the LittlestGirl's arms full of flowers, which the management had with kindlyforethought prepared for the prima donna, but which that delightfulyoung person and the delighted leader of the orchestra had passed overto the little girl. 

"Well, " gasped Miss Broughten, as she came up to Van Bibber laughing, and with one hand on her side and breathing very quickly, "will youkindly tell me who is the leading woman now? Am I the prima donna, oram I not? I wasn't in it, was I?"

"You were not, " said Van Bibber. 

He turned from the pretty prima donna and hunted up the wardrobewoman, and told her he wanted to meet the Littlest Girl. And thewardrobe woman, who was fluttering wildly about, and as delighted asthough they were all her own children, told him to come into theproperty-room, where the children were, and which had been changedinto a dressing-room that they might be by themselves. The six littlegirls were in six different states of dishabille, but they were toolittle to mind that, and Van Bibber was too polite to observe it. 

"This is the little girl, sir, " said the wardrobe woman, excitedly, proud at being the means of bringing together two such prominentpeople. "Her name is Madeline. Speak to the gentleman, Madeline; hewants to tell you what a great big hit youse made. "

The little girl was seated on one of the cushions of a double throneso high from the ground that the young woman who was pulling off thechild's silk stockings and putting woollen ones on in their place didso without stooping. The young woman looked at Van Bibber and noddedsomewhat doubtfully and ungraciously, and Van Bibber turned to thelittle girl in preference. The young woman's face was one of a typethat was too familiar to be pleasant. 

He took the Littlest Girl's small hand in his and shook it solemnly, and said, "I am very glad to know you. Can I sit up here beside you, or do you rule alone?"

"Yes, ma'am--yes, sir, " answered the little girl. 

Van Bibber put his hands on the arms of the throne and vaulted upbeside the girl, and pulled out the flower in his button-hole and gaveit to her. 

"Now, " prompted the wardrobe woman, "what do you say to thegentleman?"

"Thank you, sir, " stammered the little girl. 

"She is not much used to gentlemen's society, " explained the woman whowas pulling on the stockings. 

"I see, " said Van Bibber. He did not know exactly what to say next. And yet he wanted to talk to the child very much, so much more than hegenerally wanted to talk to most young women, who showed no hesitationin talking to him. With them he had no difficulty whatsoever. Therewas a doll lying on the top of a chest near them, and he picked thisup and surveyed it critically. "Is this your doll?" he asked. 

"No, " said Madeline, pointing to one of the children, who was muchtaller than herself; "it's 'at 'ittle durl's. My doll he's dead. "

"Dear me!" said Van Bibber. He made a mental note to get a live one inthe morning, and then he said: "That's very sad. But dead dolls docome to life. "

The little girl looked up at him, and surveyed him intently andcritically, and then smiled, with the dimples showing, as much as tosay that she understood him and approved of him entirely. Van Bibberanswered this sign language by taking Madeline's hand in his andasking her how she liked being a great actress, and how soon she wouldbegin to storm because _that_ photographer hadn't sent the proofs. Theyoung woman understood this, and deigned to smile at it, but Madelineyawned a very polite and sleepy yawn, and closed her eyes. Van Bibbermoved up closer, and she leaned over until her bare shoulder touchedhis arm, and while the woman buttoned on her absurdly small shoes, shelet her curly head fall on his elbow and rest there. Any number ofpeople had shown confidence in Van Bibber--not in that form exactly, but in the same spirit--and though he was used to being trusted, hefelt a sharp thrill of pleasure at the touch of the child's head onhis arm, and in the warm clasp of her fingers around his. And he wasconscious of a keen sense of pity and sorrow for her rising in him, which he crushed by thinking that it was entirely wasted, and that thechild was probably perfectly and ignorantly happy. 

"Look at that, now, " said the wardrobe woman, catching sight of thechild's closed eyelids; "just look at the rest of the little dears, all that excited they can't stand still to get their hats on, and shejust as unconcerned as you please, and after making the hit of thepiece, too. "

"She's not used to it, you see, " said the young woman, knowingly; "shedon't know what it means. It's just that much play to her. "

This last was said with a questioning glance at Van Bibber, in whomshe still feared to find the disguised agent of a Children's AidSociety. Van Bibber only nodded in reply, and did not answer her, because he found he could not very well, for he was looking a long wayahead at what the future was to bring to the confiding little being athis side, and of the evil knowledge and temptations that would marthe beauty of her quaintly sweet face, and its strange mark ofgentleness and refinement. Outside he could bear his friend Lestershouting the refrain of his new topical song, and the laughter and thehand-clapping came in through the wings and open door, broken buttumultuous. 

"Does she come of professional people?" Van Bibber asked, droppinginto the vernacular. He spoke softly, not so much that he might notdisturb the child, but that she might not understand what he said. 

"Yes, " the woman answered, shortly, and bent her head to smooth outthe child's stage dress across her knees. 

Van Bibber touched the little girl's head with his hand and found thatshe was asleep, and so let his hand rest there, with the curls betweenhis fingers. "Are--are you her mother?" he asked, with a slightinclination of his head. He felt quite confident she was not; atleast, he hoped not. 

The woman shook her head. "No, " she said. 

"Who is her mother?"

The woman looked at the sleeping child and then up at him almostdefiantly. "Ida Clare was her mother, " she said. 

Van Bibber's protecting hand left the child as suddenly as thoughsomething had burned it, and he drew back so quickly that her headslipped from his arm, and she awoke and raised her eyes and looked upat him questioningly. He looked back at her with a glance of thestrangest concern and of the deepest pity. Then he stooped and drewher towards him very tenderly, put her head back in the corner of hisarm, and watched her in silence while she smiled drowsily and went tosleep again. 

"And who takes care of her now?" he asked. 

The woman straightened herself and seemed relieved. She saw that thestranger had recognized the child's pedigree and knew her story, andthat he was not going to comment on it. "I do, " she said. "After thedivorce Ida came to me, " she said, speaking more freely. "I used to bein her company when she was doing 'Aladdin, ' and then when I left thestage and started to keep an actors' boarding-house, she came to me. She lived on with us a year, until she died, and she made me theguardian of the child. I train children for the stage, you know, meand my sister, Ada Dyer; you've heard of her, I guess. The courts payus for her keep, but it isn't much, and I'm expecting to get what Ispent on her from what she makes on the stage. Two of them otherchildren are my pupils; but they can't touch Madie. She is a betterdancer an' singer than any of them. If it hadn't been for the Societykeeping her back, she would have been on the stage two years ago. She's great, she is. She'll be just as good as her mother was. "

Van Bibber gave a little start, and winced visibly, but turned it offinto a cough. "And her father, " he said, hesitatingly, "does he--"

"Her father, " said the woman, tossing back her head, "he looks afterhimself, he does. We don't ask no favors of _him_. She'll get alongwithout him or his folks, thank you. Call him a gentleman? Nicegentleman he is!" Then she stopped abruptly. "I guess, though, youknow him, " she added. "Perhaps he's a friend of yourn?"

"I just know him, " said Van Bibber, wearily. 

He sat with the child asleep beside him while the woman turned to theothers and dressed them for the third act. She explained that Madiewould not appear in the last act, only the two larger girls, so shelet her sleep, with the cape of Van Bibber's cloak around her. 

Van Bibber sat there for several long minutes thinking, and thenlooked up quickly, and dropped his eyes again as quickly, and said, with an effort to speak quietly and unconcernedly: "If the little girlis not on in this act, would you mind if I took her home? I have a cabat the stage-door, and she's so sleepy it seems a pity to keep her up. The sister you spoke of or some one could put her to bed. "

"Yes, " the woman said, doubtfully, "Ada's home. Yes, you can take heraround, if you want to. "

She gave him the address, and he sprang down to the floor, andgathered the child up in his arms and stepped out on the stage. Theprima donna had the centre of it to herself at that moment, and allthe rest of the company were waiting to go on; but when they saw thelittle girl in Van Bibber's arms they made a rush at her, and thegirls leaned over and kissed her with a great show of rapture and withmany gasps of delight. 

"Don't, " said Van Bibber, he could not tell just why. "Don't. "

"Why not?" asked one of the girls, looking up at him sharply. 

"She was asleep; you've wakened her, " he said, gently. 

But he knew that was not the reason. He stepped into the cab at thestage entrance, and put the child carefully down in one corner. Thenhe looked back over his shoulder to see that there was no one nearenough to hear him, and said to the driver, "To the Berkeley Flats, onFifth Avenue. " He picked the child up gently in his arms as thecarriage started, and sat looking out thoughtfully and anxiously asthey flashed past the lighted shop-windows on Broadway. He was farfrom certain of this errand, and nervous with doubt, but he reassuredhimself that he was acting on impulse, and that his impulses were sooften good. The hall-boy at the Berkeley said, yes, Mr. Caruthers wasin, and Van Bibber gave a quick sigh of relief. He took this as anomen that his impulse was a good one. The young English servant whoopened the hall door to Mr. Caruthers's apartment suppressed hissurprise with an effort, and watched Van Bibber with alarm as he laidthe child on the divan in the hall, and pulled a covert coat from therack to throw over her. 

"Just say Mr. Van Bibber would like to see him, " he said, "and youneed not speak of the little girl having come with me. "

She was still sleeping, and Van Bibber turned down the light in thehall, and stood looking down at her gravely while the servant went tospeak to his master. 

"Will you come this way, please, sir?" he said. 

"You had better stay out here, " said Van Bibber, "and come and tell meif she wakes. "

Mr. Caruthers was standing by the mantel over the empty fireplace, wrapped in a long, loose dressing-gown which he was tying around himas Van Bibber entered. He was partly undressed, and had been just onthe point of getting into bed. Mr. Caruthers was a tall, handsome man, with dark reddish hair, turning below the temples into gray; hismoustache was quite white, and his eyes and face showed the signs ofeither dissipation or of great trouble, or of both. But even in theformless dressing-gown he had the look and the confident bearing of agentleman, or, at least, of the man of the world. The room was veryrich-looking, and was filled with the medley of a man's choice of goodpaintings and fine china, and papered with irregular rows of originaldrawings and signed etchings. The windows were open, and the lightswere turned very low, so that Van Bibber could see the many gas lampsand the dark roofs of Broadway and the Avenue where they crossed a fewblocks off, and the bunches of light on the Madison Square Garden, andto the lights on the boats of the East River. From below in thestreets came the rattle of hurrying omnibuses and the rush of thehansom cabs. If Mr. Caruthers was surprised at this late visit, he hidit, and came forward to receive his caller as if his presence wereexpected. 

"Excuse my costume, will you?" he said. "I turned in rather earlyto-night, it was so hot. " He pointed to a decanter and some sodabottles on the table and a bowl of ice, and asked, "Will you have someof this?" And while he opened one of the bottles, he watched VanBibber's face as though he were curious to have him explain the objectof his visit. 

"No, I think not, thank you, " said the younger man. He touched hisforehead with his handkerchief nervously. "Yes, it is hot, " he said. 

Mr. Caruthers filled a glass with ice and brandy and soda, and walkedback to his place by the mantel, on which he rested his arm, while heclinked the ice in the glass and looked down into it. 

"I was at the first night of 'The Sultana' this evening, " said VanBibber, slowly and uncertainly. 

"Oh, yes, " assented the elder man, politely, and tasting his drink. "Lester's new piece. Was it any good?"

"I don't know, " said Van Bibber. "Yes, I think it was. I didn't see itfrom the front. There were a lot of children in it--little ones; theydanced and sang, and made a great hit. One of them had never been onthe stage before. It was her first appearance. "

He was turning one of the glasses around between his fingers as hespoke. He stopped, and poured out some of the soda, and drank it downin a gulp, and then continued turning the empty glass between the tipsof his fingers. 

"It seems to me, " he said, "that it is a great pity. " He looked upinterrogatively at the other man, but Mr. Caruthers met his glancewithout any returning show of interest. "I say, " repeated VanBibber--"I say it seems a pity that a child like that should beallowed to go on in that business. A grown woman can go into it withher eyes open, or a girl who has had decent training can too. But it'sdifferent with a child. She has no choice in the matter; they don'task her permission; and she isn't old enough to know what it means;and she gets used to it and fond of it before she grows to know whatthe danger is. And then it's too late. It seemed to me that if therewas any one who had a right to stop it, it would be a very good thingto let that person know about her--about this child, I mean; the onewho made the hit--before it was too late. It seems to me aresponsibility I wouldn't care to take myself. I wouldn't care tothink that I had the chance to stop it, and had let the chance go by. You know what the life is, and what the temptation a woman--" VanBibber stopped with a gasp of concern, and added, hurriedly, "I meanwe all know--every man knows. "

Mr. Caruthers was looking at him with his lips pressed closelytogether, and his eyebrows drawn into the shape of the letter V. Heleaned forward, and looked at Van Bibber intently. 

"What is all this about?" he asked. "Did you come here, Mr. VanBibber, simply to tell me this? What have you to do with it? What haveI to do with it? Why did you come?"

"Because of the child. "

"What child?"

"Your child. " said Van Bibber. 

Young Van Bibber was quite prepared for an outbreak of some sort, andmentally braced himself to receive it. He rapidly assured himself thatthis man had every reason to be angry, and that he, if he meant toaccomplish anything, had every reason to be considerate and patient. So he faced Mr. Caruthers with shoulders squared, as though it were aphysical shock he had to stand against, and in consequence he wasquite unprepared for what followed. For Mr. Caruthers raised his facewithout a trace of feeling in it, and, with his eyes still fixed onthe glass in his hand, set it carefully down on the mantel besidehim, and girded himself about with the rope of his robe. When hespoke, it was in a tone of quiet politeness. 

"Mr. Van Bibber, " he began, "you are a very brave young man. You havedared to say to me what those who are my best friends--what even myown family would not care to say. They are afraid it might hurt me, Isuppose. They have some absurd regard for my feelings; they hesitateto touch upon a subject which in no way concerns them, and which theyknow must be very painful to me. But you have the courage of yourconvictions; you have no compunctions about tearing open old wounds;and you come here, unasked and uninvited, to let me know what youthink of my conduct, to let me understand that it does not agree withyour own ideas of what I ought to do, and to tell me how I, who am oldenough to be your father, should behave. You have rushed in whereangels fear to tread, Mr. Van Bibber, to show me the error of my ways. I suppose I ought to thank you for it; but I have always said that itis not the wicked people who are to be feared in this world, or who dothe most harm. We know them; we can prepare for them, and checkmatethem. It is the well-meaning fool who makes all the trouble. For noone knows him until he discloses himself, and the mischief is donebefore he can be stopped. I think, if you will allow me to say so, that you have demonstrated my theory pretty thoroughly and have doneabout as much needless harm for one evening as you can possibly wish. And so, if you will excuse me, " he continued, sternly, and moving fromhis place, "I will ask to say good-night, and will request of you thatyou grow older and wiser and much more considerate before you come tosee me again. "

Van Bibber had flushed at Mr. Caruthers's first words, and had thengrown somewhat pale, and straightened himself visibly. He did not movewhen the elder man had finished, but cleared his throat, and thenspoke with some little difficulty. "It is very easy to call a man afool, " he said, slowly, "but it is much harder to be called a fool andnot to throw the other man out of the window. But that, you see, wouldnot do any good, and I have something to say to you first. I am quiteclear in my own mind as to my position, and I am not going to allowanything you have said or can say to annoy me much until I am through. There will be time enough to resent it then. I am quite well awarethat I did an unconventional thing in coming here--a bold thing or afoolish thing, as you choose--but the situation is pretty bad, and Idid as I would have wished to be done by if I had had a child going tothe devil and didn't know it. I should have been glad to learn of iteven from a stranger. However, " he said, smiling grimly, and pullinghis cape about him, "there are other kindly disposed people in theworld besides fathers. There is an aunt, perhaps, or an uncle or two;and sometimes, even to-day, there is the chance Samaritan. "

Van Bibber picked up his high hat from the table, looked into itcritically, and settled it on his head. "Good-night, " he said, andwalked slowly towards the door. He had his hand on the knob, when Mr. Caruthers raised his head. 

"Wait just one minute, please, Mr. Van Bibber?" asked Mr. Caruthers. 

Van Bibber stopped with a prompt obedience which would have led one toconclude that be might have put on his hat only to precipitatematters. 

"Before you go, " said Mr. Caruthers, grudgingly, "I want to say--Iwant you to understand my position. "

"Oh, that's all right, " said Van Bibber, lightly, opening the door. 

"No, it is not all right. One moment, please. I do not intend that youshall go away from here with the idea that you have tried to do me aservice, and that I have been unable to appreciate it, and that youare a much-abused and much-misunderstood young man. Since you havedone me the honor to make my affairs your business, I would preferthat you should understand them fully. I do not care to have youdiscuss my conduct at clubs and afternoon teas with young women untilyou--"

Van Bibber drew in his breath sharply, with a peculiar whistlingsound, and opened and shut his hands. "Oh, I wouldn't say that if Iwere you, " he said, simply. 

"I beg your pardon, " the older man said, quickly. "That was a mistake. I was wrong. I beg your pardon. But you have tried me very sorely. Youhave intruded upon a private trouble that you ought to know must bevery painful to me. But I believe you meant well. I know you to be agentleman, and I am willing to think you acted on impulse, and thatyou will see to-morrow what a mistake you have made. It is not a thingI talk about; I do not speak of it to my friends, and they are far tooconsiderate to speak of it to me. But you have put me on thedefensive. You have made me out more or less of a brute, and I don'tintend to be so far misunderstood. There are two sides to every story, and there is something to be said about this, even for me. "

He walked back to his place beside the mantel, and put his shouldersagainst it, and faced Van Bibber, with his fingers twisted in the cordaround his waist. 

"When I married, " said Mr. Caruthers, "I did so against the wishes ofmy people and the advice of all my friends. You know all about that. God help us! who doesn't?" he added, bitterly. "It was very rich, rarereading for you and for every one else who saw the daily papers, andwe gave them all they wanted of it. I took her out of that life andmarried her because I believed she was as good a woman as any of thosewho had never had to work for their living, and I was bound that myfriends and your friends should recognize her and respect her as mywife had a right to be respected; and I took her abroad that I mightgive all you sensitive, fine people a chance to get used to the ideaof being polite to a woman who had once been a burlesque actress. Itbegan over there in Paris. What I went through then no one knows; butwhen I came back--and I would never have come back if she had not mademe--it was my friends I had to consider, and not her. It was in theblood; it was in the life she had led, and in the life men like youand me had taught her to live. And it had to come out. "

The muscles of Mr. Caruthers's face were moving, and beyond hiscontrol; but Van Bibber did not see this, for he was looking intentlyout of the window, over the roofs of the city. 

"She had every chance when she married me that a woman ever had, "continued the older man. "It only depended on herself. I didn't try tomake a housewife of her or a drudge. She had all the healthyexcitement and all the money she wanted, and she had a home here readyfor her whenever she was tired of travelling about and wished tosettle down. And I was--and a husband that loved her as--she hadeverything. Everything that a man's whole thought and love and moneycould bring to her. And you know what she did. "

He looked at Van Bibber, but Van Bibber's eyes were still turnedtowards the open window and the night. 

"And after the divorce--and she was free to go where she pleased, andto live as she pleased and with whom she pleased, without bringingdisgrace on a husband who honestly loved her--I swore to my God that Iwould never see her nor her child again. And I never saw her again, not even when she died. I loved the mother, and she deceived me anddisgraced me and broke my heart, and I only wish she had killed me;and I was beginning to love her child, and I vowed she should not liveto trick me too. I had suffered as no man I know had suffered; in away a boy like you cannot understand, and that no one can understandwho has not gone to hell and been forced to live after it. And was Ito go through that again? Was I to love and care for and worship thischild, and have her grow up with all her mother's vanity and animalnature, and have her turn on me some day and show me that what is bredin the bone must tell, and that I was a fool again--a pitiful fondfool? I could not trust her. I can never trust any woman or childagain, and least of all that woman's child. She is as dead to me asthough she were buried with her mother, and it is nothing to me whatshe is or what her life is. I know in time what it will be. She hasbegun earlier than I had supposed, that is all; but she is nothing tome. " The man stopped and turned his back to Van Bibber, and hid hishead in his hands, with his elbows on the mantel-piece. "I care toomuch, " he said. "I cannot let it mean anything to me; when I do care, it means so much more to me than to other men. They may pretend tolaugh and to forget and to outgrow it, but it is not so with me. Itmeans too much. " He took a quick stride towards one of the arm-chairs, and threw himself into it. "Why, man, " he cried, "I loved that child'smother to the day of her death. I loved that woman then, and, God helpme! I love that woman still. "

He covered his face with his hands, and sat leaning forward andbreathing heavily as he rocked himself to and fro. Van Bibber stillstood looking gravely out at the lights that picketed the blacksurface of the city. He was to all appearances as unmoved by theoutburst of feeling into which the older man had been surprised asthough it had been something in a play. There was an unbroken silencefor a moment, and then it was Van Bibber who was the first to speak. 

"I came here, as you say, on impulse, " he said; "but I am glad I came, for I have your decisive answer now about the little girl. I havebeen thinking, " he continued, slowly, "since you have been speaking, and before, when I first saw her dancing in front of the footlights, when I did not know who she was, that I could give up a horse ortwo, if necessary, and support this child instead. Children areworth more than horses, and a man who saves a soul, as it says"--heflushed slightly, and looked up with a hesitating, deprecatorysmile--"somewhere, wipes out a multitude of sins. And it may be I'dlike to try and get rid of some of mine. I know just where to sendher; I know the very place. It's down in Evergreen Bay, on LongIsland. They are tenants of mine there, and very nice farm sort ofpeople, who will be very good to her. They wouldn't know anythingabout her, and she'd forget what little she knows of this present lifevery soon, and grow up with the other children to be one of them; andthen, when she gets older and becomes a young lady, she could go tosome school--but that's a bit too far ahead to plan for the present;but that's what I am going to do, though, " said the young man, confidently, and as though speaking to himself. "That theatricalboarding-house person could be bought off easily enough, " he went on, quickly, "and Lester won't mind letting her go if I ask it, and--andthat's what I'll do. As you say, it's a good deal of an experiment, but I think I'll run the risk. "

He walked quickly to the door and disappeared in the hall, and thencame back, kicking the door open as he returned, and holding the childin his arms. 

"This is she, " he said, quietly. He did not look at or notice thefather, but stood, with the child asleep in the bend of his left arm, gazing down at her. "This is she, " he repeated; "this is your child. "

There was something cold and satisfied in Van Bibber's tone andmanner, as though he were congratulating himself upon the engaging ofa new groom; something that placed the father entirely outside of it. He might have been a disinterested looker-on. 

"She will need to be fed a bit, " Van Bibber ran on, cheerfully. "Theydid not treat her very well, I fancy. She is thin and peaked andtired-looking. " He drew up the loose sleeve of her jacket, and showedthe bare forearm to the light. He put his thumb and little fingerabout it, and closed them on it gently. "It is very thin, " he said. "And under her eyes, if it were not for the paint, " he went on, mercilessly, "you could see how deep the lines are. This red spot onher cheek, " he said, gravely, "is where Mary Vane kissed her to-night, and this is where Alma Stantley kissed her, and that Lee girl. Youhave heard of them, perhaps. They will never kiss her again. She isgoing to grow up a sweet, fine, beautiful woman--are you not?" hesaid, gently drawing the child higher up on his shoulder, until herface touched his, and still keeping his eyes from the face of theolder man. "She does not look like her mother, " he said; "she has herfather's auburn hair and straight nose and finer-cut lips and chin. She looks very much like her father. It seems a pity, " he added, abruptly. "She will grow up, " he went on, "without knowing him, orwho he is--or was, if he should die. She will never speak with him, orsee him, or take his hand. She may pass him some day on the street andwill not know him, and he will not know her, but she will grow to bevery fond and to be very grateful to the simple, kind-hearted oldpeople who will have cared for her when she was a little girl. "

The child in his arms stirred, shivered slightly, and awoke. The twomen watched her breathlessly, with silent intentness. She raised herhead and stared around the unfamiliar room doubtfully, then turned towhere her father stood, looking at him a moment, and passed him by;and then, looking up into Van Bibber's face, recognized him, and gavea gentle, sleepy smile, and, with a sigh of content and confidence, drew her arm up closer around his neck, and let her head fall backupon his breast. 

The father sprang to his feet with a quick, jealous gasp of pain. "Give her to me!" he said, fiercely, under his breath, snatching herout of Van Bibber's arms. "She is mine; give her to me!"

Van Bibber closed the door gently behind him, and went jumping downthe winding stairs of the Berkeley three steps at a time. 

And an hour later, when the English servant came to his master's door, he found him still awake and sitting in the dark by the open window, holding something in his arms and looking out over the sleeping city. 

"James, " he said, "you can make up a place for me here on the lounge. Miss Caruthers, my daughter, will sleep in my room to-night. "

VAN BIBBER'S MAN-SERVANT

Van Bibber's man Walters was the envy and admiration of his friends. He was English, of course, and he had been trained in the household ofthe Marquis Bendinot, and had travelled, in his younger days, as thevalet of young Lord Upton. He was now rather well on in years, although it would have been impossible to say just how old he was. Walters had a dignified and repellent air about him, and he brushedhis hair in such a way as to conceal his baldness. 

And when a smirking, slavish youth with red cheeks and awkwardgestures turned up in Van Bibber's livery, his friends were naturallysurprised, and asked how he had come to lose Walters. Van Bibber couldnot say exactly, at least he could not rightly tell whether he haddismissed Walters or Walters had dismissed himself. The facts of theunfortunate separation were like this:

Van Bibber gave a great many dinners during the course of the seasonat Delmonico's, dinners hardly formal enough to require a privateroom, and yet too important to allow of his running the risk ofkeeping his guests standing in the hall waiting for a vacant table. So he conceived the idea of sending Walters over about half-past sixto keep a table for him. As everybody knows, you can hold a tableyourself at Delmonico's for any length of time until the other guestsarrive, but the rule is very strict about servants. Because, as thehead waiter will tell you, if servants were allowed to reserve a tableduring the big rush at seven o'clock, why not messenger boys? And itwould certainly never do to have half a dozen large tables securelyheld by minute messengers while the hungry and impatient waited theirturn at the door. 

But Walters looked as much like a gentleman as did many of the diners;and when he seated himself at the largest table and told the waiter toserve for a party of eight or ten; he did it with such an air that thehead waiter came over himself and took the orders. Walters knew quiteas much about ordering a dinner as did his master; and when Van Bibberwas too tired to make out the menu, Walters would look over the cardhimself and order the proper wines and side dishes; and with such acarelessly severe air and in such a masterly manner did he dischargethis high function that the waiters looked upon him with much respect. 

But respect even from your equals and the satisfaction of having yourfellow-servants mistake you for a member of the Few Hundred are notenough. Walters wanted more. He wanted the further satisfaction ofenjoying the delicious dishes he had ordered; of sitting as a coequalwith the people for whom he had kept a place; of completing thedeception he practised only up to the point where it became mostinteresting. 

It certainly was trying to have to rise with a subservient andunobtrusive bow and glide out unnoticed by the real guests when theyarrived; to have to relinquish the feast just when the feast shouldbegin. It would not be pleasant, certainly, to sit for an hour at abig empty table, ordering dishes fit only for epicures, and then, justas the waiters bore down with the Little Neck clams, so nicely icedand so cool and bitter-looking, to have to rise and go out into thestreet to a _table d'hôte_ around the corner. 

This was Walters's state of mind when Mr. Van Bibber told him for thehundredth time to keep a table for him for three at Delmonico's. Walters wrapped his severe figure in a frock-coat and brushed hishair, and allowed himself the dignity of a walking-stick. He wouldhave liked to act as a substitute in an evening dress-suit, but VanBibber would not have allowed it. So Walters walked over toDelmonico's and took a table near a window, and said that the othergentlemen would arrive later. Then he looked at his watch and orderedthe dinner. It was just the sort of dinner he would have ordered hadhe ordered it for himself at some one else's expense. He suggestedLittle Neck clams first, with chablis, and pea-soup, and caviare ontoast, before the oyster crabs, with Johannisberger Cabinet; then an_entrée_ of calves' brains and rice; then no roast, but a bird, coldasparagus with French dressing, Camembert cheese, and Turkish coffee. As there were to be no women, he omitted the sweets and added threeother wines to follow the white wine. It struck him as a particularlywell-chosen dinner, and the longer he sat and thought about it themore he wished he were to test its excellence. And then the people allaround him were so bright and happy, and seemed to be enjoying whatthey had ordered with such a refinement of zest that he felt he wouldgive a great deal could he just sit there as one of them for a briefhour. 

At that moment the servant deferentially handed him a note which amessenger boy had brought. It said:

 "Dinner off called out town send clothes and things after me to Young's Boston. VAN BIBBER. "

Walter rose involuntarily, and then sat still to think about it. Hewould have to countermand the dinner which he had ordered over half anhour before, and he would have to explain who he was to those otherservants who had always regarded him as such a great gentleman. It wasvery hard. 

And then Walters was tempted. He was a very good servant, and he knewhis place as only an English servant can, and he had always acceptedit, but to-night he was tempted--and he fell. He met the waiter'sanxious look with a grave smile. 

"The other gentlemen will not be with me to-night, " he said, glancingat the note. "But I will dine here as I intended. You can serve forone. "

That was perhaps the proudest night in the history of Walters. He hadalways felt that he was born out of his proper sphere, and to-night hewas assured of it. He was a little nervous at first, lest some of VanBibber's friends should come in and recognize him; but as the dinnerprogressed and the warm odor of the dishes touched his sense, and therich wines ran through his veins, and the women around him smiled andbent and moved like beautiful birds of beautiful plumage, he becamecontent, grandly content; and he half closed his eyes and imagined hewas giving a dinner to everybody in the place. Vain and idle thoughtscame to him and went again, and he eyed the others about him calmlyand with polite courtesy, as they did him, and he felt that if he mustlater pay for this moment it was worth the paying. 

Then he gave the waiter a couple of dollars out of his own pocket andwrote Van Bibber's name on the check, and walked in state into the_café_, where he ordered a green mint and a heavy, black, andexpensive cigar, and seated himself at the window, where he felt thathe should always have sat if the fates had been just. The smoke hungin light clouds about him, and the lights shone and glistened on thewhite cloths and the broad shirt-fronts of the smart young men anddistinguished foreign-looking older men at the surrounding tables. 

And then, in the midst of his dreamings, he heard the soft, carelessdrawl of his master, which sounded at that time and in that place likethe awful voice of a condemning judge. Van Bibber pulled out a chairand dropped into it. His side was towards Walters, so that he did notsee him. He had some men with him, and he was explaining how he hadmissed his train and had come back to find that one of the party hadeaten the dinner without him, and he wondered who it could be; andthen turning easily in his seat he saw Walters with the green mint andthe cigar, trembling behind a copy of the London _Graphic_. 

"Walters!" said Van Bibber, "what are you doing here?"

Walters looked his guilt and rose stiffly. He began with a feeble "Ifyou please, sir--"

"Go back to my rooms and wait for me there, " said Van Bibber, who wastoo decent a fellow to scold a servant in public. 

Walters rose and left the half-finished cigar and the mint with theice melting in it on the table. His one evening of sublimity was over, and he walked away, bending before the glance of his young master andthe smiles of his master's friends. 

When Van Bibber came back he found on his dressing-table a note fromWalters stating that he could not, of course, expect to remain longerin his service, and that he left behind him the twenty-eight dollarswhich the dinner had cost. 

"If he had only gone off with all my waistcoats and scarf-pins, I'dhave liked it better, " said Van Bibber, "than his leaving me cashfor infernal dinner. Why, a servant like Walters is worthtwenty-eight-dollar dinners--twice a day. "

THE HUNGRY MAN WAS FED

Young Van Bibber broke one of his rules of life one day and camedown-town. This unusual journey into the marts of trade and financewas in response to a call from his lawyer, who wanted his signature tosome papers. It was five years since Van Bibber had been south of thenorth side of Washington Square, except as a transient traveller tothe ferries on the elevated road. And as he walked through the CityHall Square he looked about him at the new buildings in the air, andthe bustle and confusion of the streets, with as much interest as alately arrived immigrant. 

He rather enjoyed the novelty of the situation, and after he hadcompleted his business at the lawyer's office he tried to stroll alonglower Broadway as he did on the Avenue. 

But people bumped against him, and carts and drays tried to run himdown when he crossed the side streets, and those young men whom heknew seemed to be in a great hurry, and expressed such amused surpriseat seeing him that he felt very much out of place indeed. And so hedecided to get back to his club window and its quiet as soon aspossible. 

"Hello, Van Bibber, " said one of the young men who were speeding by, "what brings you here? Have you lost your way?"

"I think I have, " said Van Bibber. "If you'll kindly tell me how I canget back to civilization again, be obliged to you. "

"Take the elevated from Park Place, " said his friend from over hisshoulder, as he nodded and dived into the crowd. 

The visitor from up-town had not a very distinct idea as to where ParkPlace was, but he struck off Broadway and followed the line of theelevated road along Church Street. It was at the corner of VeseyStreet that a miserable-looking, dirty, and red-eyed object stoodstill in his tracks and begged Van Bibber for a few cents to buy food. "I've come all the way from Chicago, " said the Object, "and I haven'ttasted food for twenty-four hours. "

Van Bibber drew away as though the Object had a contagious disease inhis rags, and handed him a quarter without waiting to receive theman's blessing. 

"Poor devil!" said Van Bibber. "Fancy going without dinner all day!"He could not fancy this, though he tried, and the impossibility of itimpressed him so much that he amiably determined to go back and huntup the Object and give him more money. Van Bibber's ideas of a dinnerwere rather exalted. He did not know of places where a quarter wasgood for a "square meal, " including "one roast, three vegetables, andpie. " He hardly considered a quarter a sufficiently large tip for thewaiter who served the dinner, and decidedly not enough for the dinneritself. He did not see his man at first, and when he did the man didnot see him. Van Bibber watched him stop three gentlemen, two of whomgave him some money, and then the Object approached Van Bibber andrepeated his sad tale in a monotone. He evidently did not recognizeVan Bibber, and the clubman gave him a half-dollar and walked away, feeling that the man must surely have enough by this time with whichto get something to eat, if only a luncheon. 

This retracing of his footsteps had confused Van Bibber, and he made acomplete circuit of the block before he discovered that he had losthis bearings. He was standing just where he had started, and gazingalong the line of the elevated road, looking for a station, when thefamiliar accents of the Object again saluted him. 

When Van Bibber faced him the beggar looked uneasy. He was not surewhether or not he had approached this particular gentleman before, butVan Bibber conceived an idea of much subtlety, and deceived the Objectby again putting his hand in his pocket. 

"Nothing to eat for twenty-four hours! Dear me!" drawled the clubman, sympathetically. "Haven't you any money, either?"

"Not a cent, " groaned the Object, "an' I'm just faint for food, sir. S'help me. I hate to beg, sir. It isn't the money I want, it's jestfood. I'm starvin', sir. "

"Well, " said Van Bibber, suddenly, "if it is just something to eat youwant, come in here with me and I'll give you your breakfast. " But theman held back and began to whine and complain that they wouldn't letthe likes of him in such a fine place. 

"Oh, yes, they will, " said Van Bibber, glancing at the bill of fare infront of the place. "It seems to be extremely cheap. Beefsteak fifteencents, for instance. Go in, " he added, and there was something in histone which made the Object move ungraciously into the eating-house. 

It was a very queer place, Van Bibber thought, and the people staredvery hard at him and his gloves and the gardenia in his coat and atthe tramp accompanying him. 

"You ain't going to eat two breakfasts, are yer?" asked one of thevery tough-looking waiters of the Object. The Object looked uneasy, and Van Bibber, who stood beside his chair, smiled in triumph. 

"You're mistaken, " he said to the waiter. "This gentleman is starving;he has not tasted food for twenty-four hours. Give him whatever heasks for!"

The Object scowled and the waiter grinned behind his tin tray, andhad the impudence to wink at Van Bibber, who recovered from this intime to give the man a half-dollar and so to make of him a friend forlife. The Object ordered milk, but Van Bibber protested and orderedtwo beefsteaks and fried potatoes, hot rolls and two omelettes, coffee, and ham with bacon. 

"Holy smoke! watcher think I am?" yelled the Object, in desperation. 

"Hungry, " said Van Bibber, very gently. "Or else an impostor. And, youknow, if you should happen to be the latter I should have to hand youover to the police. "

Van Bibber leaned easily against the wall and read the signs abouthim, and kept one eye on a policeman across the street. The Object waschoking and cursing through his breakfast. It did not seem to agreewith him. Whenever he stopped Van Bibber would point with his stick toa still unfinished dish, and the Object, after a husky protest, wouldattack it as though it were poison. The people sitting about werelaughing, and the proprietor behind the desk smiling grimly. 

"There, darn ye!" said the Object at last. "I've eat all I can eat fora year. You think you're mighty smart, don't ye? But if you choose topay that high for your fun, I s'pose you can afford it. Only don't letme catch you around these streets after dark, that's all. "

And the Object started off, shaking his fist. 

"Wait a minute, " said Van Bibber. "You haven't paid them for yourbreakfast. "

"Haven't what?" shouted the Object. "Paid 'em! How could I pay him?Youse asked me to come in here and eat. I didn't want no breakfast, did I? Youse'll have to pay for your fun yerself, or they'll throw yerout. Don't try to be too smart. "

"I gave you, " said Van Bibber, slowly, "seventy-five cents with whichto buy a breakfast. This check calls for eighty-five cents, andextremely cheap it is, " he added, with a bow to the fat proprietor. "Several other gentlemen, on your representation that you werestarving, gave you other sums to be expended on a breakfast. You havethe money with you now. So pay what you owe at once, or I'll call thatofficer across the street and tell him what I know, and have you putwhere you belong. "

"I'll see you blowed first!" gasped the Object. 

Van Bibber turned to the waiter. "Kindly beckon to that officer, " saidhe. 

The waiter ran to the door and the Object ran too, but the toughwaiter grabbed him by the back of his neck and held him. 

"Lemme go!" yelled the Object. "Lemme go an' I'll pay you. "

Everybody in the place came up now and formed a circle around thegroup and watched the Object count out eighty-five cents into thewaiter's hand, which left him just one dime to himself. 

"You have forgotten the waiter who served you, " said Van Bibber, severely pointing with his stick at the dime. 

"No, you don't, " groaned the Object. 

"Oh, yes, " said Van Bibber, "do the decent thing now, or I'll--"

The Object dropped the dime in the waiter's hand, and Van Bibber, smiling and easy, made his way through the admiring crowd and out intothe street. 

"I suspect, " said Mr. Van Bibber later in the day, when recounting hisadventure to a fellow-clubman, "that, after I left, fellow tried toget tip back from waiter, for I saw him come out of place verysuddenly, you see, and without touching pavement till he lit on backof his head in gutter. He was most remarkable waiter. "

VAN BIBBER AT THE RACES

Young Van Bibber had never spent a Fourth of July in the city, as hehad always understood it was given over to armies of small boys onthat day, who sat on all the curbstones and set off fire-crackers, andthat the thermometer always showed ninety degrees in the shade, andcannon boomed and bells rang from daybreak to midnight. He had refusedall invitations to join any Fourth-of-July parties at the seashore oron the Sound or at Tuxedo, because he expected his people home fromEurope, and had to be in New York to meet them. He was accordinglygreatly annoyed when he received a telegram saying they would sail ina boat a week later. 

He finished his coffee at the club on the morning of the Fourth aboutten o'clock, in absolute solitude, and with no one to expect andnothing to anticipate; so he asked for a morning paper and looked upthe amusements offered for the Fourth. There were plenty of excursionswith brass bands, and refreshments served on board, baseball matchesby the hundred, athletic meetings and picnics by the dozen, butnothing that seemed to exactly please him. 

The races sounded attractive, but then he always lost such a lot ofmoney, and the crowd pushed so, and the sun and the excitement madehis head ache between the eyes and spoiled his appetite for dinner. Hehad vowed again and again that he would not go to the races; but asthe day wore on and the solitude of the club became oppressive and thesilence of the Avenue began to tell on him, he changed his mind, andmade his preparations accordingly. 

First, he sent out after all the morning papers and read their tips onthe probable winners. Very few of them agreed, so he took the horsewhich most of them seemed to think was best, and determined to backit, no matter what might happen or what new tips he might get later. Then he put two hundred dollars in his pocket-book to bet with, andtwenty dollars for expenses, and sent around for his field-glasses. 

He was rather late in starting, and he made up his mind on the way toMorris Park that he would be true to the list of winners he hadwritten out, and not make any side bets on any suggestions or insideinformation given him by others. He vowed a solemn vow on the rail ofthe boat to plunge on each of the six horses he had selected from thenewspaper tips, and on no others. He hoped in this way to winsomething. He did not care so much to win, but he hated to lose. Healways felt so flat and silly after it was over; and when ithappened, as it often did, that he had paid several hundred dollarsfor the afternoon's sport, his sentiments did him credit. 

"I shall probably, or rather certainly, be tramped on and shoved, "soliloquized Van Bibber. 

"I shall smoke more cigars than are good for me, and drink more than Iwant, owing to the unnatural excitement and heat, and I shall be latefor my dinner. And for all this I shall probably pay two hundreddollars. It really seems as if I were a young man of little intellect, and yet thousands of others are going to do exactly the same thing. "

The train was very late. One of the men in front said they wouldprobably just be able to get their money up in time for the firstrace. A horse named Firefly was Van Bibber's choice, and he took onehundred dollars of his two hundred to put up on her. He had it alreadyin his hand when the train reached the track, and he hurried with therest towards the bookmakers to get his one hundred on as quickly aspossible. But while he was crossing the lawn back of the stand, heheard cheers and wild yells that told him they were running the raceat that moment. 

"Raceland!" "Raceland!" "Raceland by a length!" shouted the crowd. 

"Who's second?" a fat man shouted at another fat man. 

"Firefly, " called back the second, joyously, "and I've got her for aplace and I win eight dollars. "

"Ah!" said Van Bibber, as he slipped his one hundred dollars back inhis pocket, "good thing I got here a bit late. "

"What'd you win, Van Bibber?" asked a friend who rushed past him, clutching his tickets as though they were precious stones. 

"I win one hundred dollars, " answered Van Bibber, calmly, as he walkedon up into the boxes. It was delightfully cool up there, and to hissatisfaction and surprise he found several people there whom he knew. He went into Her box and accepted some _pâté_ sandwiches and icedchampagne, and chatted and laughed with Her so industriously, and somuch to the exclusion of all else, that the horses were at thestarting-post before he was aware of it, and he had to excuse himselfhurriedly and run to put up his money on Bugler, the second on hislist. He decided that as he had won one hundred dollars on the firstrace he could afford to plunge on this one, so he counted out fiftymore, and putting this with the original one hundred dollars, crowdedinto the betting-ring and said, "A hundred and fifty on Buglerstraight. "

"Bugler's just been scratched, " said the bookie, leaning over VanBibber's shoulder for a greasy five-dollar bill. 

"Will you play anything else?" he asked, as the young gentleman stoodthere irresolute. 

"No, thank you, " said Van Bibber, remembering his vow, and turninghastily away. "Well, " he mused, "I'm one hundred and fifty dollarsbetter off than I might have been if Bugler hadn't been scratched andhadn't won. One hundred and fifty dollars added to one hundred makestwo hundred and fifty dollars. That puts me 'way ahead of the game. Iam fifty dollars better off than when I left New York. I'm playing ingreat luck. " So, on the strength of this, he bought out the man whosells bouquets, and ordered more champagne to be sent up to the boxwhere She was sitting, and they all congratulated him on his winnings, which were suggested by his generous and sudden expenditures. 

"You must have a great eye for picking a winner, " said one of theolder men, grudgingly. 

"Y-e-s, " said Van Bibber, modestly. "I know a horse when I see it, Ithink; and, " he added to himself, "that's about all. "

His horse for the third race was Rover, and the odds were five to oneagainst him. Van Bibber wanted very much to bet on Pirate Kinginstead, but he remembered his vow to keep to the list he hadoriginally prepared, whether he lost or won. This running afterstrange gods was always a losing business. He took one hundred dollarsin five-dollar bills, and went down to the ring and put the hundred upon Rover and returned to the box. The horses had been weighed in andthe bugle had sounded, and three of the racers were making their wayup the track, when one of them plunged suddenly forward and went downon his knees and then stretched out dead. Van Bibber was confident itwas Rover, although he had no idea which the horse was, but he knewhis horse would not run. There was a great deal of excitement, andpeople who did not know the rule, which requires the return of allmoney if any accident happens to a horse on the race-track between thetime of weighing in and arriving at the post, were needlessly alarmed. Van Bibber walked down to the ring and received his money back with asmile. 

"I'm just one hundred dollars better off than I was three minutesago, " he said. "I've really had a most remarkable day. "

Mayfair was his choice for the fourth race, and she was selling atthree to one. Van Bibber determined to put one hundred andseventy-five dollars up on her, for, as he said, he had not lost onany one race yet. The girl in the box was very interesting, though, and Van Bibber found a great deal to say to her. He interruptedhimself once to call to one of the messenger-boys who ran with bets, and gave him one hundred and seventy-five dollars to put on Mayfair. 

Several other gentlemen gave the boy large sums as well, and VanBibber continued to talk earnestly with the girl. He raised his headto see Mayfair straggle in a bad second, and shrugged his shoulders. "How much did you lose?" she asked. 

"Oh, 'bout two hundred dollars, " said Van Bibber; "but it's the firsttime I've lost to-day, so I'm still ahead. " He bent over to continuewhat he was saying, when a rude commotion and loud talking causedthose in the boxes to raise their heads and look around. Severalgentlemen were pointing out Van Bibber to one of the Pinkertondetectives, who had a struggling messenger-boy in his grasp. 

"These gentlemen say you gave this boy some money, sir, " said thedetective. "He tried to do a welsh with it, and I caught him just ashe was getting over the fence. How much and on what horse, sir?"

Van Bibber showed his memoranda, and the officer handed him over onehundred and seventy-five dollars. 

"Now, let me see, " said Van Bibber, shutting one eye and calculatingintently, "one hundred and seventy-five to three hundred and fiftydollars makes me a winner by five hundred and twenty-five dollars. That's purty good, isn't it? I'll have a great dinner at Delmonico'sto-night. You'd better all come back with me!"

But She said he had much better come back with her and her party ontop of the coach and take dinner in the cool country instead of thehot, close city, and Van Bibber said he would like to, only he didwish to get his one hundred dollars up on at least one race. But theysaid "no, " they must be off at once, for the ride was a long one, andVan Bibber looked at his list and saw that his choice was Jack Frost, a very likely winner, indeed; but, nevertheless, he walked out to theenclosure with them and mounted the coach beside the girl on the backseat, with only the two coachmen behind to hear what he chose to say. 

And just as they finally were all harnessed up and the horn sounded, the crowd yelled, "They're off, " and Van Bibber and all of them turnedon their high seats to look back. 

"Magpie wins, " said the whip. 

"And Jack Frost's last, " said another. 

"And I win my one hundred dollars, " said Van Bibber. "It's really verycurious, " he added, turning to the girl. "I started out with twohundred dollars to-day, I spent only twenty-five dollars on flowers, Iwon six hundred and twenty-five dollars, and I have only one hundredand seventy-five dollars to show for it, and yet I've had a verypleasant Fourth. "

AN EXPERIMENT IN ECONOMY

Of course, Van Bibber lost all the money he saved at the races on theFourth of July. He went to the track the next day, and he saw thewhole sum melt away, and in his vexation tried to "get back, " with theusual result. He plunged desperately, and when he had reached hisrooms and run over his losses, he found he was a financial wreck, andthat he, as his sporting friends expressed it, "would have to smoke apipe" for several years to come, instead of indulging in Regalias. Hecould not conceive how he had come to make such a fool of himself, andhe wondered if he would have enough confidence to spend a dollar onluxuries again. 

It was awful to contemplate the amount he had lost. He felt as if itwere sinful extravagance to even pay his car-fare up-town, and hecontemplated giving his landlord the rent with keen distress. Italmost hurt him to part with five cents to the conductor, and as helooked at the hansoms dashing by with lucky winners inside he groanedaudibly. 

"I've got to economize, " he soliloquized. "No use talking; musteconomize. I'll begin to-morrow morning and keep it up for a month. Then I'll be on my feet again. Then I can stop economizing, and enjoymyself. But no more races; never, never again. "

He was delighted with this idea of economizing. He liked the idea ofself-punishment that it involved, and as he had never denied himselfanything in his life, the novelty of the idea charmed him. He rolledover to sleep, feeling very much happier in his mind than he had beenbefore his determination was taken, and quite eager to begin on themorrow. He arose very early, about ten o'clock, and recalled his ideaof economy for a month, as a saving clause to his having lost amonth's spending money. 

He was in the habit of taking his coffee and rolls and a parsleyomelette, at Delmonico's every morning. He decided that he would startout on his road of economy by omitting the omelette and ordering onlya pot of coffee. By some rare intuition he guessed that there wereplaces up-town where things were cheaper than at his usual haunt, onlyhe did not know where they were. He stumbled into a restaurant on aside street finally, and ordered a cup of coffee and some rolls. 

The waiter seemed to think that was a very poor sort of breakfast, andsuggested some nice chops or a bit of steak or "ham and eggs, sah, "all of which made Van Bibber shudder. The waiter finally concludedthat Van Bibber was poor and couldn't afford any more, which, as ithappened to be more or less true, worried that young gentleman; somuch so, indeed, that when the waiter brought him a check for fifteencents, Van Bibber handed him a half-dollar and told him to "keep thechange. "

The satisfaction he felt in this wore off very soon when heappreciated that, while he had economized in his breakfast, his vanityhad been very extravagantly pampered, and he felt how absurd it waswhen he remembered he would not have spent more if he had gone toDelmonico's in the first place. He wanted one of those large blackRegalias very much, but they cost entirely too much. He went carefullythrough his pockets to see if he had one with him, but he had not, andhe determined to get a pipe. Pipes are always cheap. 

"What sort of a pipe, sir?" said the man behind the counter. 

"A cheap pipe, " said Van Bibber. 

"But what sort?" persisted the man. 

Van Bibber thought a brier pipe, with an amber mouth-piece and asilver band, would about suit his fancy. The man had just such a pipe, with trade-marks on the brier and hall-marks and "Sterling" on thesilver band. It lay in a very pretty silk box, and there was anothermouth-piece you could screw in, and a cleaner and top piece with whichto press the tobacco down. It was most complete, and only fivedollars. "Isn't that a good deal for a pipe?" asked Van Bibber. Theman said, being entirely unprejudiced, that he thought not. It wascheaper, he said, to get a good thing at the start. It lasted longer. And cheap pipes bite your tongue. This seemed to Van Bibber mostexcellent reasoning. Some Oxford-Cambridge mixture attracted VanBibber on account of its name. This cost one dollar more. As he leftthe shop he saw a lot of pipes, brier and corn-cob and SallieMichaels, in the window marked, "Any of these for a quarter. " Thismade him feel badly, and he was conscious he was not making a successof his economy. He started back to the club, but it was so hot that hethought he would faint before he got there; so he called a hansom, onthe principle that it was cheaper to ride and keep well than to walkand have a sunstroke. 

He saw some people that he knew going by in a cab with a pile oftrunks on the top of it, and that reminded him that they had asked himto come down and see them off when the steamer left that afternoon. Sohe waved his hand when they passed, and bowed to them, and cried, "Seeyou later, " before he counted the consequences. He did not wish toarrive empty-handed, so he stopped in at a florist's and got a bigbasket of flowers and another of fruit, and piled them into thehansom. 

When be came to pay the driver he found the trip from Thirty-fifthStreet to the foot of Liberty was two dollars and a half, and thefruit and flowers came to twenty-two dollars. He was greatlydistressed over this, and could not see how it had happened. He rodeback in the elevated for five cents and felt much better. Then somemen just back from a yachting trip joined him at the club and ordereda great many things to drink, and of course he had to do the same, andseven dollars were added to his economy fund. He argued that this didnot matter, because he signed a check for it, and that he would nothave to pay for it until the end of the month, when the necessity ofeconomizing would be over. 

Still, his conscience did not seem convinced, and he grew verydesperate. He felt he was not doing it at all properly, and hedetermined that he would spend next to nothing on his dinner. Heremembered with a shudder the place he had taken the tramp to dinner, and he vowed that before he would economize as rigidly as that hewould starve; but he had heard of the _table d'hôte_ places on SixthAvenue, so he went there and wandered along the street until he foundone that looked clean and nice. He began with a heavy soup, shoved arich, fat, fried fish over his plate, and followed it with a queer_entrée_ of spaghetti with a tomato dressing that satisfied his hungerand killed his appetite as if with the blow of a lead pipe. But hewent through with the rest of it, for he felt it was the truesteconomy to get his money's worth, and the limp salad in bad oil andthe ice-cream of sour milk made him feel that eating was a positivepain rather than a pleasure; and in this state of mind and body, drugged and disgusted, he lighted his pipe and walked slowly towardsthe club along Twenty-sixth Street. 

He looked in at the _café_ at Delmonico's with envy and disgust, and, going disheartenedly on, passed the dining-room windows that were wideopen and showed the heavy white linen, the silver, and the womencoolly dressed and everybody happy. 

And then there was a wild waving of arms inside, and white handsbeckoning him, and he saw with mingled feelings of regret that thewhole party of the Fourth of July were inside and motioning to him. They made room for him, and the captain's daughter helped him toolives, and the chaperon told how they had come into town for the day, and had been telegraphing for him and Edgar and Fred and "dear Bill, "and the rest said they were so glad to see him because they knew hecould appreciate a good dinner if any one could. 

But Van Bibber only groaned, and the awful memories of the lead-likespaghetti and the bad oil and the queer cheese made him shudder, andturned things before him into a Tantalus feast of rare cruelty. Therewere Little Neck clams, delicious cold consommé, and white fish, andFrench chops with a dressing of truffles, and Roman punch and woodcockto follow, and crisp lettuce and toasted crackers-and-cheese, with amost remarkable combination of fruits and ices; and Van Bibber couldeat nothing, and sat unhappily looking at his plate and shaking hishead when the waiter urged him gently. "Economy!" he said, withdisgusted solemnity. "It's all tommy rot. It wouldn't have cost me acent to have eaten this dinner, and yet I've paid half a dollar tomake myself ill so that I can't. If you know how to economize, it maybe all right; but if you don't understand it, you must leave it alone. It's dangerous. I'll economize no more. "

And he accordingly broke his vow by taking the whole party up to seethe lady who would not be photographed in tights, and put them in abox where they were gagged by the comedian, and where the soubrettesmiled on them and all went well. 

MR. TRAVERS'S FIRST HUNT

Young Travers, who had been engaged to a girl down on Long Island forthe last three months, only met her father and brother a few weeksbefore the day set for the wedding. The brother is a master of houndsnear Southampton, and shared the expense of importing a pack fromEngland with Van Bibber. The father and son talked horse all day anduntil one in the morning; for they owned fast thoroughbreds, andentered them at the Sheepshead Bay and other race-tracks. Old Mr. Paddock, the father of the girl to whom Travers was engaged, had oftensaid that when a young man asked him for his daughter's hand he wouldask him in return, not if he had lived straight, but if he could ridestraight. And on his answering this question in the affirmativedepended his gaining her parent's consent. Travers had met MissPaddock and her mother in Europe, while the men of the family were athome. He was invited to their place in the fall when the huntingseason opened, and spent the evening most pleasantly andsatisfactorily with his _fiancée_ in a corner of the drawing-room. But as soon as the women had gone, young Paddock joined him and said, "You ride, of course?" Travers had never ridden; but he had beenprompted how to answer by Miss Paddock, and so said there was nothinghe liked better. As he expressed it, he would rather ride than sleep. 

"That's good, " said Paddock. "I'll give you a mount on Satan to-morrowmorning at the meet. He is a bit nasty at the start of the season; andever since he killed Wallis, the second groom, last year, none of uscare much to ride him. But you can manage him, no doubt. He'll justcarry your weight. "

Mr. Travers dreamed that night of taking large, desperate leaps intospace on a wild horse that snorted forth flames, and that rose atsolid stone walls as though they were hayricks. 

He was tempted to say he was ill in the morning--which was, considering his state of mind, more or less true--but concluded that, as he would have to ride sooner or later during his visit, and that ifhe did break his neck it would be in a good cause, he determined to dohis best. He did not want to ride at all, for two excellentreasons--first, because he wanted to live for Miss Paddock's sake, and, second, because he wanted to live for his own. 

The next morning was a most forbidding and doleful-looking morning, and young Travers had great hopes that the meet would be declared off;but, just as he lay in doubt, the servant knocked at his door withhis riding things and his hot water. 

He came down-stairs looking very miserable indeed. Satan had beentaken to the place where they were to meet, and Travers viewed him onhis arrival there with a sickening sense of fear as he saw him pullingthree grooms off their feet. 

Travers decided that he would stay with his feet on solid earth justas long as he could, and when the hounds were thrown off and the resthad started at a gallop he waited, under the pretence of adjusting hisgaiters, until they were all well away. Then he clenched his teeth, crammed his hat down over his ears, and scrambled up on to the saddle. His feet fell quite by accident into the stirrups, and the nextinstant he was off after the others, with an indistinct feeling thathe was on a locomotive that was jumping the ties. Satan was in amongand had passed the other horses in less than five minutes, and was soclose on the hounds that the whippers-in gave a cry of warning. ButTravers could as soon have pulled a boat back from going over theNiagara Falls as Satan, and it was only because the hounds were wellahead that saved them from having Satan ride them down. Travers hadtaken hold of the saddle with his left hand to keep himself down, andsawed and swayed on the reins with his right. He shut his eyeswhenever Satan jumped, and never knew how he happened to stick on; buthe did stick on, and was so far ahead that no one could see in themisty morning just how badly he rode. As it was, for daring and speedhe led the field, and not even young Paddock was near him from thestart. There was a broad stream in front of him, and a hill just onits other side. No one had ever tried to take this at a jump. It wasconsidered more of a swim than anything else, and the hunters alwayscrossed it by the bridge, towards the left. Travers saw the bridge andtried to jerk Satan's head in that direction; but Satan kept right onas straight as an express train over the prairie. Fences and trees andfurrows passed by and under Travers like a panorama run byelectricity, and he only breathed by accident. They went on at thestream and the hill beyond as though they were riding at a stretch ofturf, and, though the whole field set up a shout of warning anddismay, Travers could only gasp and shut his eyes. He remembered thefate of the second groom and shivered. Then the horse rose like arocket, lifting Travers so high in the air that he thought Satan wouldnever come down again; but he did come down, with his feet bunched, onthe opposite side of the stream. The next instant he was up and overthe hill, and had stopped panting in the very centre of the pack thatwere snarling and snapping around the fox. And then Travers showedthat he was a thoroughbred, even though he could not ride, for hehastily fumbled for his cigar-case, and when the field came poundingup over the bridge and around the hill, they saw him seatednonchalantly on his saddle, puffing critically at a cigar and givingSatan patronizing pats on the head. 

"My dear girl, " said old Mr. Paddock to his daughter as they rodeback, "if you love that young man of yours and want to keep him, makehim promise to give up riding. A more reckless and more brillianthorseman I have never seen. He took that double jump at the gate andthat stream like a centaur. But he will break his neck sooner orlater, and he ought to be stopped. " Young Paddock was so delightedwith his prospective brother-in-law's great riding that that night inthe smoking-room he made him a present of Satan before all the men. 

"No, " said Travers, gloomily, "I can't take him. Your sister has askedme to give up what is dearer to me than anything next to herself, andthat is my riding. You see, she is absurdly anxious for my safety, andshe has asked me to promise never to ride again, and I have given myword. "

A chorus of sympathetic remonstrance rose from the men. 

"Yes, I know, " said Travers to her brother, "it is rough, but it justshows what sacrifices a man will make for the woman he loves. "

LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG

Young Van Bibber had been staying with some people at Southampton, L. I. , where, the fall before, his friend Travers made his reputationas a cross-country rider. He did this, it may be remembered, byshutting his eyes and holding on by the horse's mane and letting thehorse go as it pleased. His recklessness and courage are still spokenof with awe; and the place where he cleared the water jump that everyone else avoided is pointed out as Travers's Leap to visitinghorsemen, who look at it gloomily and shake their heads. Miss Arnett, whose mother was giving the house-party, was an attractive youngwoman, with an admiring retinue of youths who gave attention withoutintention, and for none of whom Miss Arnett showed particularpreference. Her whole interest, indeed, was centred in a dog, a Scotchcollie called Duncan. She allowed this dog every liberty, and made adecided nuisance of him for every one around her. He always went withher when she walked, or trotted beside her horse when she rode. Hestretched himself before the fire in the dining-room, and startledpeople at table by placing his cold nose against their hands orputting his paws on their gowns. He was generally voted a mostannoying adjunct to the Arnett household; but no one dared hint so toMiss Arnett, as she only loved those who loved the dog, or pretendedto do it. On the morning of the afternoon on which Van Bibber and hisbag arrived, the dog disappeared and could not be recovered. VanBibber found the household in a state of much excitement inconsequence, and his welcome was necessarily brief. The arriving guestwas not to be considered at all with the departed dog. The men toldVan Bibber, in confidence, that the general relief among the guestswas something ecstatic, but this was marred later by the gloom of MissArnett and her inability to think of anything else but the finding ofthe lost collie. Things became so feverish that for the sake of restand peace the house-party proposed to contribute to a joint purse forthe return of the dog, as even, nuisance as it was, it was not so badas having their visit spoiled by Miss Arnett's abandonment to griefand crossness. 

"I think, " said the young woman, after luncheon, "that some of you menmight be civil enough to offer to look for him. I'm sure he can't havegone far, or, if he has been stolen, the men who took him couldn'thave gone very far away either. Now which of you will volunteer? I'msure you'll do it to please me. Mr. Van Bibber, now: you say you're soclever. We're all the time hearing of your adventures. Why don't youshow how full of expedients you are and rise to the occasion?" Thesuggestion of scorn in this speech nettled Van Bibber. 

"I'm sure I never posed as being clever, " he said, "and finding a lostdog with all Long Island to pick and choose from isn't a particularlyeasy thing to pull off successfully, I should think. "

"I didn't suppose you'd take a dare like that, Van Bibber, " said oneof the men. "Why, it's just the sort of thing you do so well. "

"Yes, " said another, "I'll back you to find him if you try. "

"Thanks, " said Van Bibber, dryly. "There seems to be a disposition onthe part of the young men present to turn me into a dog-catcher. Idoubt whether this is altogether unselfish. I do not say that theywould rather remain indoors and teach the girls how to play billiards, but I quite appreciate their reasons for not wishing to roam about inthe snow and whistle for a dog. However, to oblige the despondentmistress of this valuable member of the household, I will riskpneumonia, and I will, at the same time, in order to make the eventinteresting to all concerned, back myself to bring that dog back byeight o'clock. Now, then, if any of you unselfish youths have anysporting blood, you will just name the sum. "

They named one hundred dollars, and arranged that Van Bibber was tohave the dog back by eight o'clock, or just in time for dinner; forVan Bibber said he wouldn't miss his dinner for all the dogs in thetwo hemispheres, unless the dogs happened to be his own. 

Van Bibber put on his great-coat and told the man to bring around thedog-cart; then he filled his pockets with cigars and placed a flask ofbrandy under the seat, and wrapped the robes around his knees. 

"I feel just like a relief expedition to the North Pole. I think Iought to have some lieutenants, " he suggested. 

"Well, " cried one of the men, "suppose we make a pool and each chip infifty dollars, and the man who brings the dog back in time gets thewhole of it?"

"That bet of mine stands, doesn't it?" asked Van Bibber. 

The men said it did, and went off to put on their riding things, andfour horses were saddled and brought around from the stable. Each ofthe four explorers was furnished with a long rope to tie to Duncan'scollar, and with which he was to be led back if they found him. Theywere cheered ironically by the maidens they had deserted oncompulsion, and were smiled upon severally by Miss Arnett. Then theyseparated and took different roads. It was snowing gently, and wasvery cold. Van Bibber drove aimlessly ahead, looking to the right andleft and scanning each back yard and side street. Every now and thenhe hailed some passing farm wagon and asked the driver if he had seena stray collie dog, but the answer was invariably in the negative. Hesoon left the village in the rear, and plunged out over the downs. Thewind was bitter cold, and swept from the water with a chill that cutthrough his clothes. 

"Oh, this is great, " said Van Bibber to the patient horse in front ofhim; "this _is_ sport, this is. The next time I come to this part ofthe world I'll be dragged here with a rope. Nice, hospitable peoplethose Arnetts, aren't they? Ask you to make yourself at home chasingdogs over an ice fjord. Don't know when I've enjoyed myself so much. "Every now and then he stood up and looked all over the hills andvalleys to see if he could not distinguish a black object running overthe white surface of the snow, but he saw nothing like a dog, not eventhe track of one. 

Twice he came across one of the other men, shivering and swearing fromhis saddle, and with teeth chattering. 

"Well, " said one of them, shuddering, "you haven't found that dog yet, I see. "

"No, " said Van Bibber. "Oh, no. I've given up looking for the dog. I'mjust driving around enjoying myself. The air's so invigorating, and Ilike to feel the snow settling between my collar and the back of myneck. "

At four o'clock Van Bibber was about as nearly frozen as a man couldbe after he had swallowed half a bottle of brandy. It was so cold thatthe ice formed on his cigar when he took it from his lips, and hisfeet and the dashboard seemed to have become stuck together. 

"I think I'll give it up, " he said, finally, as he turned the horse'shead towards Southampton. "I hate to lose three hundred and fiftydollars as much as any man; but I love my fair young life, and I'm notgoing to turn into an equestrian statue in ice for anybody's colliedog. "

He drove the cart to the stable and unharnessed the horse himself, asall the grooms were out scouring the country, and then went upstairsunobserved and locked himself in his room, for he did not care to havethe others know that he had given out so early in the chase. There wasa big open fire in his room, and he put on his warm things andstretched out before it in a great easy-chair, and smoked and sippedthe brandy and chuckled with delight as he thought of the four othermen racing around in the snow. 

"They may have more nerve than I, " he soliloquized, "and I don't saythey have not; but they can have all the credit and rewards they want, and I'll be satisfied to stay just where I am. "

At seven he saw the four riders coming back dejectedly, and withoutthe dog. As they passed his room he heard one of the men ask if VanBibber had got back yet, and another say yes, he had, as he had leftthe cart in the stable, but that one of the servants had said that hehad started out again on foot. 

"He has, has he?" said the voice. "Well, he's got sporting blood, andhe'll need to keep it at fever heat if he expects to live. I'm frozenso that I can't bend my fingers. "

Van Bibber smiled, and moved comfortably in the big chair; he haddozed a little, and was feeling very contented. At half-past seven hebegan to dress, and at five minutes to eight he was ready for dinnerand stood looking out of the window at the moonlight on the white lawnbelow. The snow had stopped falling, and everything lay quiet andstill as though it were cut in marble. And then suddenly, across thelawn, came a black, bedraggled object on four legs, limping painfully, and lifting its feet as though there were lead on them. 

"Great heavens!" cried Van Bibber, "it's the dog!" He was out of theroom in a moment and down into the hall. He heard the murmur of voicesin the drawing-room, and the sympathetic tones of the women who werepitying the men. Van Bibber pulled on his overshoes and a great-coatthat covered him from his ears to his ankles, and dashed out into thesnow. The dog had just enough spirit left to try and dodge him, andwith a leap to one side went off again across the lawn. It was, as VanBibber knew, but three minutes to eight o'clock, and have the dog hemust and would. The collie sprang first to one side and then to theother, and snarled and snapped; but Van Bibber was keen with theexcitement of the chase, so he plunged forward recklessly and tackledthe dog around the body, and they both rolled over and over together. Then Van Bibber scrambled to his feet and dashed up the steps and intothe drawing-room just as the people were in line for dinner, and whilethe minute-hand stood at a minute to eight o'clock. 

"How is this?" shouted Van Bibber, holding up one hand and claspingthe dog under his other arm. 

Miss Arnett flew at the collie and embraced it, wet as it was, andruined her gown, and all the men glanced instinctively at the clockand said:

"You've won, Van. "

"But you must be frozen to death, " said Miss Arnett, looking up at himwith gratitude in her eyes. 

"Yes, yes, " said Van Bibber, beginning to shiver. "I've had a terriblelong walk, and I had to carry him all the way. If you'll excuse me, I'll go change my things. "

He reappeared again in a suspiciously short time for one who had tochange outright, and the men admired his endurance and paid up thebet. 

"Where did you find him, Van?" one of them asked. 

"Oh, yes, " they all chorused. "Where was he?"

"That, " said Mr. Van Bibber, "is a thing known to only two beings, Duncan and myself. Duncan can't tell, and I won't. If I did, you'd sayI was trying to make myself out clever, and I never boast about thethings I do. "

ELEANORE CUYLER

Miss Eleanore Cuyler had dined alone with her mother that night, andshe was now sitting in the drawing-room, near the open fire, with hergloves and fan on the divan beside her, for she was going out later toa dance. 

She was reading a somewhat weighty German review, and the contrastwhich the smartness of her gown presented to the seriousness of heroccupation made her smile slightly as she paused for a moment to cutthe leaves. 

And when the bell sounded in the hall she put the book away from heraltogether, and wondered who it might be. 

It might be young Wainwright, with the proof-sheets of the new storyhe had promised to let her see, or flowers for the dance fromBruce-Brice, of the English Legation at Washington, who for the timebeing was practising diplomatic moves in New York, or some of herworking-girls with a new perplexity for her to unravel, or only one ofthe men from the stable to tell her how her hunter was getting onafter his fall. It might be any of these and more. The possibilitieswere diverse and all of interest, and she acknowledged this toherself, with a little sigh of content that it was so. For she foundher pleasure in doing many things, and in the fact that there were somany. She rejoiced daily that she was free, and her own mistress ineverything; free to do these many things denied to other young women, and that she had the health and position and cleverness to carry themon and through to success. She did them all, and equally well andgracefully, whether it was the rejection of a too ambitious devoteewho dared to want to have her all to himself, or the planning of awoman's luncheon, or the pushing of a bill to provide kindergartens inthe public schools. But it was rather a relief when the man opened thecurtains and said, "Mr. Wainwright, " and Wainwright walked quicklytowards her, tugging at his glove. 

"You are very good to see me so late, " he said, speaking as heentered, "but I had to see you to-night, and I wasn't asked to thatdance. I'm going away, " he went on, taking his place by the fire, withhis arm resting on the mantel. He had a trick of standing there whenhe had something of interest to say, and he was tall and well-lookingenough to appear best in that position, and she was used to it. He wasthe most frequent of her visitors. 

"Going away, " she repeated, smiling up at him; "not for long, I hope. Where are you going now?"

"I'm going to London, " he said. "They cabled me this morning. Itseems they've taken the play, and are going to put it on at once. " Hesmiled, and blushed slightly at her exclamation of pleasure. "Yes, itis rather nice. It seems 'Jilted' was a failure, and they've taken itoff, and are going to put on 'School, ' with the old cast, until theycan get my play rehearsed, and they want me to come over and suggestthings. "

She stopped him with another little cry of delight that was very sweetto him, and full of moment. 

"Oh, how glad I am!" she said. "How proud you must be! Now, why do youpretend you are not? And I suppose Tree and the rest of them will bein the cast, and all that dreadful American colony in the stalls, andyou will make a speech--and I won't be there to hear it. " She rosesuddenly with a quick, graceful movement, and held out her hand tohim, which he took, laughing and conscious-looking with pleasure. 

She sank back on the divan, and shook her head doubtfully at him. "When will you stop?" she said. "Don't tell me you mean to be anAdmirable Crichton. You are too fine for that. "

He looked down at the fire, and said, slowly, "It is not as if I weretrying my hand at an entirely different kind of work. No, I don'tthink I did wrong in dramatizing it. The papers all said, when thebook first came out, that it would make a good play; and then so manymen wrote to me for permission to dramatize it that I thought I mightas well try to do it myself. No, I think it is in line with my otherwork. I don't think I am straying after strange gods. "

"You should not, " she said, softly. "The old ones have been so kind toyou. But you took me too seriously, " she added. 

"I am afraid sometimes, " he answered, "that you do not know howseriously I do take you. "

"Yes, I do, " she said, quickly. "And when I am serious, that is allvery well; but to-night I only want to laugh. I am very happy, it issuch good news. And after the New York managers refusing it, too. Theywill _have_ to take it _now_, now that it is a London success. "

"Well, it isn't a London success yet, " he said, dryly. "The books wentwell over there because the kind of Western things I wrote about mettheir ideas of this country--cowboys and prairies and Indian maidensand all that. And so I rather hope the play will suit them for thesame reason. "

"And you will go out a great deal, I hope, " she said. "Oh, you willhave to! You will find so many people to like, almost friends already. They were talking about you even when I was there, and I used to shinein reflected glory because I knew you. "

"Yes, I can fancy it, " he said. "But I should like to see something ofthem if I have time. Lowes wants me to stay with them, and I suppose Iwill. He would feel hurt if I didn't. He has a most absurd idea ofwhat I did for him on the ranche when he had the fever that time, andever since he went back to enjoy his ill-gotten gains and his titleand all that, he has kept writing to me to come out. Yes, I suppose Iwill stay with them. They are in town now. "

Miss Cuyler's face was still lit with pleasure at his good fortune, but her smile was less spontaneous than it had been. "That will bevery nice. I quite envy you, " she said. "I suppose you know about hissister?"

"The Honorable Evelyn?" he asked. "Yes; he used to have a photographof her, and I saw some others the other day in a shop-window onBroadway. "

"She is a very nice girl, " Miss Cuyler said, thoughtfully. "I wonderhow you two will get along?" and then she added, as if with suddencompunction, "but I am sure you will like her very much. She is veryclever, besides. "

"I don't know how a professional beauty will wear if one sees herevery day at breakfast, " he said. "One always associates them withfunctions and varnishing days and lawn-parties. You will write to me, will you not?" he added. 

"That sounds, " she said, "as though you meant to be gone such a verylong time. "

He turned one of the ornaments on the mantel with his fingers, andlooked at it curiously. "It depends, " he said, slowly--"it depends onso many things. No, " he went on, looking at her; "it does not dependon many things; just on one. "

Miss Cuyler looked up at him questioningly, and then down again veryquickly, and reached meaninglessly for the book beside her. She sawsomething in his face and in the rigidity of his position that madeher breathe more rapidly. She had not been afraid of this from him, because she had always taken the attitude towards him of a very dearfriend and of one who was older, not in years, but in experience ofthe world, for she had lived abroad while he had gone from theuniversity to the West, which he had made his own, in books. They wereboth very young. 

She did not want him to say anything. She could only answer him in oneway, and in a way that would hurt and give pain to them both. She hadhoped he could remain just as he was, a very dear friend, with asuggestion sometimes in the background of his becoming something more. She was, of course, too experienced to believe in a long platonicfriendship. 

Uppermost in her mind was the thought that, no matter what he urged, she must remember that she wanted to be free, to live her own life, tofill her own sphere of usefulness, and she must not let him tempt herto forget this. She had next to consider him, and that she must behard and keep him from speaking at all; and this was very difficult, for she cared for him very dearly. She strengthened her determinationby thinking of his going away, and of how glad she would be when hehad gone that she had committed herself to nothing. This absence wouldbe a test for both of them; it could not have been better had it beenarranged on purpose. She had ideas of what she could best do for thosearound her, and she must not be controlled and curbed, no matter howstrongly she might think she wished it. She must not give way to thetemptation of the moment, or to a passing mood. And then there wereother men. She had their photographs on her dressing-table, and likedeach for some qualities the others did not possess in such a degree;but she liked them all because no one of them had the right to say"must" or even "you might" to her, and she fancied that the moment shegave one of them this right she would hate him cordially, and wouldfly to the others for sympathy; and she was not a young woman whothought that matrimony meant freedom to fly to any one but her husbandfor that. But this one of the men was a little the worst; he made itharder for her to be quite herself. She noticed that when she was withhim she talked more about her feelings than with the other men, withwhom she was satisfied to discuss the play, or what girl they wantedto take into dinner. She had touches of remorse after theseconfidences to Wainwright, and wrote him brisk, friendly notes thenext morning, in which the words "your friend" were always sure toappear, either markedly at the beginning or at the end, or tuckedaway in the middle. She thought by this to unravel the web she mighthave woven the day before. But she had apparently failed. She stood upsuddenly from pure nervousness, and crossed the room as though shemeant to go to the piano, which was a very unfortunate move, as sheseldom played, and never for him. She sat down before it, nevertheless, rather hopelessly, and crossed her hands in front ofher. He had turned, and followed her with his eyes; they were verybright and eager, and her own faltered as she looked at them. 

"You do not show much interest in the one thing that will bring meback, " he said. He spoke reproachfully and yet a little haughtily, asthough he had already half suspected she had guessed what he meant tosay. 

"Ah, you cannot tell how long you will be there, " she said, lightly. "You will like it much more than you think. I--" she stoppedhopelessly, and glanced, without meaning to do so, at the clock-faceon the mantel beside him. 

"Oh, " he said, with quick misunderstanding, "I beg your pardon, I amkeeping you, I forgot how late it was, and you are going out. " He cametowards her as though he meant to go. She stood up and made a quick, impatient gesture with her hands. He was making it very hard for her. 

"Fancy!" she said. "You know I want to talk to you; what does thedance matter? Why are you so unlike yourself?" she went on, gently. "And it is our last night, too. "

The tone of her words seemed to reassure him, for he came nearer andrested his elbow beside her on the piano and said, "Then you are sorrythat I am going?"

It was very hard to be unyielding to him when he spoke and looked ashe did then; but she repeated to herself, "He will be gone to-morrow, and then I shall be so thankful that I did not bind myself--that I amstill free. He will be gone, and I shall be so glad. It will only be aminute now before he goes, and if I am strong I will rejoice atleisure. " So she looked up at him without a sign of the effort it costher, frankly and openly, and said, "Sorry? Of course I am sorry. Onedoes not have so many friends that one can spare them for long, evento have them grow famous. I think it is very selfish of you to go, foryou are famous enough already. "

As he looked at her and heard her words running on smoothly andmeaninglessly, he knew that it was quite useless to speak, and he grewsuddenly colder, and sick, and furious at once with a confused angerand bitterness. And then, for he was quite young, so young that hethought it was the manly thing to do to carry his grief off lightlyinstead of rather being proud of his love, however she might holdit, --he drew himself up and began pulling carefully at his glove. 

"Yes, " he said, slowly, "I fancy the change will be very pleasant. "He was not thinking of his words or of how thoughtless they mustsound. He was only anxious to get away without showing how deeply hewas hurt. If he had not done this; if he had let her see how miserablehe was, and that plays and books and such things were nothing to himnow, and that she was just all there was in the whole world to him, itmight have ended differently. But he was untried, and young. So hebuttoned the left glove with careful scrutiny and said, "They alwaysstart those boats at such absurd hours; the tides never seem to suitone; you have to go on board without breakfast, or else stay on boardthe night before, and that's so unpleasant. Well, I hope you willenjoy the dance, and tell them I was very much hurt that I wasn'tasked. "

He held out his hand quite steadily. "I will write you if you will letme, " he went on, "and send you word where I am as soon as I know. " Shetook his hand and said, "Good-by, and I hope it will be a grandsuccess: I know it will. And come back soon; and, yes, do write to me. I hope you will have a very pleasant voyage. "

He had reached the door and stopped uncertainly at the curtains. "Thank you, " he said; and "Oh, " he added, politely, "will you saygood-by to your mother for me, please?"

She nodded her head and smiled and said, "Yes; I will not forget. Good-by. "

She did not move until she heard the door close upon him, and thenshe turned towards the window as though she could still follow himthrough the closed blinds, and then she walked over to the divan andpicked up her fan and gloves and remained looking down at them in herhand. The room seemed very empty. She glanced at the place where hehad stood and at the darkened windows again, and sank down very slowlyagainst the cushions of the divan, and pressed her hands against hercheeks. 

She did not hear the rustle of her mother's dress as she came down thestairs and parted the curtains. 

"Are you ready, Eleanore?" she said, briskly. "Tell me, how does thislace look? I think there is entirely too much of it. "

 * * * * *

It was a month after this, simultaneously with the announcements bycable of the instant success in London of "A Western Idyl, " that MissCuyler retired from the world she knew, and disappeared into darkestNew York by the way of Rivington Street. She had discovered onemorning that she was not ill nor run down nor overtaxed, but justmentally tired of all things, and that what she needed was change ofair and environment, and unselfish work for the good of others, andless thought of herself. Her mother's physician suggested to her, after a secret and hasty interview with Mrs. Cuyler, that change ofair was good, but that the air of Rivington Street was not of thebest; and her friends, both men and women, assured her that theyappreciated her much more than the people of the east side possiblycould do, and that they were much more worthy of her consideration, and in a fair way of improvement yet if she would only continue toshine upon and before them. But she was determined in her purpose, andregarded the College Settlement as the one opening and refuge for theenergies which had too long been given to the arrangement of paperchases across country, and the routine of society, and dilettanteinterest in kindergartens. Life had become for her real and earnest, and she rejected Bruce-Brice of the British Legation with the sad andhopeless kindness of one who almost contemplates taking the veil, andto whom the things of this world outside of tenements are hollow andunprofitable. She found a cruel disappointment at first, for the womenof the College Settlement had rules and ideas of their own, and hadseen enthusiasts like herself come into Rivington Street before, anddepart again. She had thought she would nurse the sick and visit theprisoners on the Island, and bring cleanliness and hope into miserablelives, but she found that this was the work of women tried in theservice, who understood it, and who made her first serve herapprenticeship by reading the German Bible to old women whose eyeswere dim, but who were as hopelessly clean and quite asself-respecting in their way as herself. The heroism and theself-sacrifice of a Father Damien or a Florence Nightingale were notfor her; older and wiser young women saw to that work with a quietmatter-of-fact cheerfulness and a common-sense that bewildered her. And they treated her kindly, but indulgently, as an outsider. It tookher some time to understand this, and she did not confess to herselfwithout a struggle that she was disappointed in her own usefulness;but she brought herself to confess it to her friends "uptown, " whenshe visited that delightful country from which she was self-exiled. She went there occasionally for an afternoon's rest or to a luncheonor a particularly attractive dinner, but she always returned to theSettlement at night, and this threw an additional interest about herto her friends--an interest of which she was ashamed, for she knew howlittle she was really doing, and that her sacrifice was one ofdiscomfort merely. The good she did now, it was humiliating toacknowledge, was in no way proportionate to that which her influencehad wrought among people of her own class. 

And what made it very hard was that wherever she went they seemed totalk of him. Now it would be a girl just from the other side who hadmet him on the terrace of the Lower House, "where he seemed to knowevery one, " and another had driven with him to Ascot, where he hadheld the reins, and had shown them what a man who had guided amail-coach one whole winter over the mountains for a living could dowith a coach for pleasure. And many of the men had met him at theclubs and at house parties in the country, and they declared withenthusiastic envy that he was no end of a success. Her English friendsall wrote of him, and wanted to know all manner of little thingsconcerning him, and hinted that they understood they were very greatfriends. The papers seemed to be always having him doing something, and there was apparently no one else in London who could so properlyrespond to the toasts of America at all the public dinners. She hadhad letters from him herself--of course bright, clever ones--thatsuggested what a wonderfully full and happy life his was, but with noreference to his return. He was living with his young friend LordLowes, and went everywhere with him and his people; and then as afinal touch, which she had already anticipated, people began to speakof him and the Honorable Evelyn. What could be more natural? theysaid. He had saved her brother's life while out West half a dozentimes at least, from all accounts; and he was rich, and well-looking, and well-born, and rapidly becoming famous. 

A young married woman announced it at a girls' luncheon. She had itfrom her friend the Marchioness of Pelby, who was Evelyn'sfirst-cousin. So far, only the family had been told; but all Londonknew it, and it was said that Lord Lowes was very much pleased. Oneof the girls at the table said you never could tell about thosethings; she had no doubt the Marchioness of Pelby was an authority, but she would wait until she got their wedding-cards before shebelieved it. For some reason this girl did not look at Miss Cuyler, and Miss Cuyler felt grateful to her, and thought she was a nice, bright little thing; and then another girl said it was only turnabout. The Englishmen had taken all the attractive American girls, and it was only fair that the English girls should get some of thenice American men. This girl was an old friend of Eleanore's; but shewas surprised at her making such a speech, and wondered why she hadnot noticed in her before similar exhibitions of bad taste. She walkedback to Rivington Street from the luncheon; composing the letter shewould write to him, congratulating him on his engagement. She composedseveral. Some of them were very short and cheery, and others ratherlonger and full of reminiscences. She wondered with sudden fiercebitterness how he could so soon forget certain walks and afternoonsthey had spent together; and the last note, which she composed in bed, was a very sad and scornful one, and so pathetic as a work ofcomposition that she cried a little over it, and went to sleep full ofindignation that she had cried. 

She told herself the next morning that she had cried because she wasfrankly sorry to lose the companionship of so old and good a friend, and because now that she had been given much more important work todo, she was naturally saddened by the life she saw around her, andweakened by the foul air of the courts and streets, and the drearyenvironments of the tenements. As for him, she was happy in hishappiness; and she pictured how some day, when he proudly brought hisyoung bride to this country to show her to his friends, he would askafter her. And they would say: "Who! Eleanore Cuyler? Why, don't youknow? While you were on your honeymoon she was in the slums, where shetook typhoid fever nursing a child, and died!" Or else some day, whenshe had grown into a beautiful sweet-faced old lady, with white hair, his wife would die, and he would return to her, never having been veryhappy with his first wife, but having nobly hidden from her and fromthe world his true feelings. He would find her working among the poor, and would ask her forgiveness, and she could not quite determinewhether she would forgive him or not. These pictures comforted hereven while they saddened her, and she went about her work, feelingthat it was now her life's work, and that she was in reality an old, old woman. The rest, she was sure, was but a weary waiting for theend. 

 * * * * *

It was about six months after this, in the early spring, while MissCuyler was still in Rivington Street, that young Van Bibber invitedhis friend Travers to dine with him, and go on later to the People'sTheatre, on the Bowery, where Irving Willis, the Boy Actor, wasplaying "Nick of the Woods. " Travers despatched a hasty and joyousnote in reply to this to the effect that he would be on hand. He thenwent off with a man to try a horse at a riding academy, and easily andpromptly forgot all about it. He did remember, as he was dressing fordinner, that he had an appointment somewhere, and took someconsolation out of this fact, for he considered it a decided step inadvance when he could remember that he had an engagement, even if hecould not recall what it was. The stern mental discipline necessary todo this latter would, he hoped, come in time. So he dined unwarily athome, and was, in consequence, seized upon by his father, who sent himto the opera, as a substitute for himself, with his mother andsisters, while he went off delightedly to his club to play whist. 

Travers did not care for the opera, and sat in the back of the box anddozed, and wondered moodily what so many nice men saw in his sistersto make them want to talk to them. It was midnight, and just as he hadtumbled into bed, when the nature of his original engagement came backto him, and his anger and disappointment were so intense that hekicked the clothes over the foot of his bedstead. 

As for Van Bibber, he knew his friend too well to wait for him, andoccupied a box at the People's Theatre in solitary state, and from itsdepths gurgled with delight whenever the Boy Actor escaped being runover by a real locomotive, or in turn rescued the stout heroine fromsix red shirted cowboys. There were quite as many sudden deaths andlofty sentiments as he had expected, and he left the theatre with thepleased satisfaction of an evening well spent and with a pityingsympathy for Travers who had missed it. The night was pleasant andfilled with the softness of early spring, and Van Bibber turned downthe Bowery with a cigar between his teeth and no determined purposeexcept the one that he did not intend to go to bed. The streets werestill crowded, and the lights showed the many types of this "Thieves'Highway" with which Van Bibber, in his many excursions in search ofmild adventure, had become familiar. They were so familiar that theunfamiliarity of the hurrying figure of a girl of his own class whopassed in front of him down Grand Street brought him, abruptlywondering, to a halt. She had passed directly under an electric light, and her dress, and walk, and bearing he seemed to recognize, but asbelonging to another place. What a girl, well-born and well-dressed, could be doing at such an hour in such a neighborhood aroused hiscuriosity; but it was rather with a feeling of _noblesse oblige_, anda hope of being of use to one of his own people, that he crossed tothe opposite side of the street and followed her. She was evidentlygoing somewhere; that was written in every movement of her regularquick walk and her steadfast look ahead. Her veil hid the upper partof her face, and the passing crowd shut her sometimes entirely fromview; but Van Bibber, himself unnoticed, succeeded in keeping her insight, while he speculated as to the nature of her errand and herpersonality. At Eldridge Street she turned sharply to the north, and, without a change in her hurrying gait, passed on quickly, and turnedagain at Rivington. "Oh, " said Van Bibber, with relieved curiosity, "one of the College Settlement, " and stopped satisfied. But the streethad now become deserted, and though he disliked the idea of followinga woman, even though she might not be aware of his doing so, hedisliked even more the idea of leaving her to make her way in such aplace alone. And so he started on again, and as there was now morelikelihood of her seeing him in the empty street, he dropped fartherto the rear and kept in the shadow; and as he did so, he saw a man, whom he had before noticed on the opposite side of the street, quickenhis pace and draw nearer to the girl. It seemed impossible to VanBibber that any man could mistake the standing of this woman and theevident purpose of her haste; but the man was apparently settling hispace to match hers, as if only waiting an opportunity to approach her. Van Bibber tucked his stick under his arm and moved forward morequickly. It was midnight, and the street was utterly strange to him. From the light of the lamps he could see signs in Hebrew and thedouble eagle of Russia painted on the windows of the saloons. Longrows of trucks and drays stood ranged along the pavements for thenight, and on some of the stoops and fire-escapes of the tenements afew dwarfish specimens of the Polish Jew sat squabbling in theirnative tongue. 

But it was not until they had reached Orchard Street, and whenRivington Street was quite empty, that the man drew up uncertainlybeside the girl, and, bending over, stared up in her face, and then, walking on at her side, surveyed her deliberately from head to foot. For a few steps the girl moved on as apparently unmindful of his nearpresence as though he were a stray dog running at her side; but whenhe stepped directly in front of her, she stopped and backed away fromhim fearfully. The man hesitated for an instant, and then came onafter her, laughing. 

Van Bibber had been some distance in the rear. He reached the curbbeside them just as the girl turned back, with the man still followingher, and stepped in between them. He had come so suddenly from out ofthe darkness that they both started. Van Bibber did not look at theman. He turned to the girl, and raised his hat slightly, andrecognized Eleanore Cuyler instantly as he did so; but as she did notseem to remember him he did not call her by name, but simply said, with a jerk of his head, "Is this man annoying you?"

Miss Cuyler seemed to wish before everything else to avoid a scene. 

"He--he just spoke to me, that is all, " she said. "I live only ablock below here; if you will please let me go on alone, I would bevery much obliged. "

"Certainly, do go on, " said Van Bibber, "but I shall have to followyou until you get in-doors. You needn't be alarmed, no one will speakto you. " Then he turned to the man, and said, in a lower tone, "Youwait here till I get back, will you? I want to talk to you. "

The man paid no attention to him whatsoever. He was so far misled byVan Bibber's appearance as to misunderstand the situation entirely. "Oh, come now, " he said, smiling knowingly at the girl, "you can'tshake me for no dude. "

He put out his hand as he spoke as though he meant to touch her. VanBibber pulled his stick from under his arm and tossed it out of hisway, and struck the man twice heavily in the face. He was very cooland determined about it, and punished him, in consequence, much moreeffectively than if his indignation had made him excited. The man gavea howl of pain, and stumbled backwards over one of the stoops, wherehe dropped moaning and swearing, with his fingers pressed against hisface. 

"_Please_, now, " begged Van Bibber, quickly turning to Miss Cuyler, "Iam very sorry, but if you had _only_ gone when I asked you to. " Hemotioned impatiently with his hand. "Will you please go?"

But the girl, to his surprise, stood still and looked past him overhis shoulder. Van Bibber motioned again for her to pass on, and then, as she still hesitated, turned and glanced behind him. The street hadthe blue-black look of a New York street at night. There was not alighted window in the block. It seemed to have grown suddenly moresilent and dirty and desolate-looking. He could see the glow of theelevated station at Allen Street, and it seemed fully a half-mileaway. Save for the girl and the groaning fool on the stoop, and thethree figures closing in on him, he was quite alone. The foremost ofthe three men stopped running, and came up briskly with his fingerheld interrogatively in front of him. He stopped when it was within afoot of Van Bibber's face. 

"Are you looking for a fight?" he asked. 

There was enough of the element of the sport in Van Bibber to enablehim to recognize the same element in the young man before him. He knewthat this was no whimpering blackguard who followed women into sidestreets to insult them; this was one of the purest specimens of thetough of the East-Side water-front, and he and his companions wouldfight as readily as Van Bibber would smoke--and they would not fightfair. The adventure had taken on a grim and serious turn, and VanBibber gave an imperceptible shrug and a barely audible exclamation ofdisgust as he accepted it. 

"Because, " continued his new opponent with business-like briskness, "if you're looking for a fight, you can set right to me. You needn'tthink you can come down here and run things--you--" He followed thiswith an easy roll of oaths, intended to goad his victim into action. 

A reformed prize-fighter had once told Van Bibber that there were sixrules to observe in a street fight. He said he had forgotten the firstfive, but the sixth one was to strike first. Van Bibber turned hishead towards Miss Cuyler. "You had better run, " he said, over hisshoulder; and then, turning quickly, he brought his left fist, withall the strength and weight of his arm and body back of it, againstthe end of the new-comer's chin. 

This is a most effective blow. This is so because the lower jaw isanatomically loose; and when it is struck heavily, it turns and jarsthe brain, and the man who is struck feels as though the man whostruck him had opened the top of his skull and taken his brains in hishand and wrenched them as a brakeman wrenches a brake. If you shutyour teeth hard, and rap the tip of your chin sharply with yourknuckles, you can get an idea of how effective this is when multipliedby an arm and all the muscles of a shoulder. 

The man threw up his arms and went over backwards, groping blindlywith his hands. 

Van Bibber heard a sharp rapping behind him frequently repeated; hecould not turn to see what it was, for one of the remaining men wasengaging him in front, and the other was kicking at his knee-cap, andstriking at his head from behind. He was no longer cool; he wasgrandly and viciously excited; and, rushing past his opponent, hecaught him over his hip with his left arm across his breast, and sotossed him, using his hip for a lever. 

A man in this position can be thrown so that he will either fall aslightly as a baby falls from his pillow to the bed, or with sufficientforce to break his ribs. Van Bibber, being excited, threw him thelatter way. Seeing this, the second man, who had so far failed to findVan Bibber's knee-cap, backed rapidly away, with his hands in front ofhim. 

"Here, " he cried, "lem'me alone; I'm not in this. "

"Oh yes, you are, " cried Van Bibber, gasping, but with fiercepoliteness. "Excuse me, but you are. Put up your hands; I'm going tokill _you_. "

He had a throbbing feeling in the back of his head, and his breathingwas difficult. He could still hear the heavy, irregular rapping behindhim, but it had become confused with the throbbing in his head. "Putup your hands, " he panted. 

The third man, still backing away, placed his arms in a position ofdefence, and Van Bibber beat them down savagely, and caught him by thethroat and pounded him until his arm was tired, and he had to drop himat his feet. 

As he turned dizzily, he heard a sharp answering rap down the street, and saw coming towards him the burly figure of a policeman runningheavily and throwing his night-stick in front of him by its leatherthong, so that it struck reverberating echoes out of the pavement. 

And then he saw to his amazement that Miss Cuyler was still with him, standing by the curb and beating it with his heavy walking-stick ascalmly as though she were playing golf, and looking keenly up and downthe street for possible aid. Van Bibber gazed at her with breathlessadmiration. 

"Good heavens!" he panted, "didn't I ask you _please_ to go home?"

The policeman passed them and dived uncertainly down a dark area-wayas one departing figure disappeared into the open doorway of atenement, on his way to the roof, and the legs of another dodgedbetween the line of drays. 

"Where'd them fellows go?" gasped the officer, instantly reappearingup the steps of the basement. 

"How should I know?" answered Van Bibber, and added, with ill-timedlightness, "they didn't leave any address. " The officer stared at himwith severe suspicion, and then disappeared again under one of thetrucks. 

"I am very, very much obliged to you, Miss Cuyler, " Van Bibber said. He tried to raise his hat, but the efforts of the gentleman who hadstruck him from behind had been successful and the hat came off onlyafter a wrench that made him wince. 

"You were very brave, " he went on. "And it was very good of you tostand by me. You won't mind my saying so, now, will you? But you gavethe wrong rap. I hadn't time to tell you to change it. " He mopped theback of his head tenderly with his handkerchief, and tried to smilecheerfully. "You see, you were giving the rap, " he explained politely, "for a fire-engine; but it's of no consequence. " Miss Cuyler camecloser to him, and he saw that her face showed sudden anxiety. 

"Mr. Van Bibber!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I didn't know it was you! Ididn't know it was any one who knew me. What will you think?"

"I beg your pardon, " said Van Bibber, blankly. 

"You must not believe, " she went on, quickly, "that I am subject tothis sort of thing. Please do not imagine I am annoyed down here likethis. It has never happened before. I was nursing a woman, and herson, who generally goes home with me, was kept at the works, and Ithought I could risk getting back alone. You see, " she explained, asVan Bibber's face showed he was still puzzled, "my people do not fancymy living down here; and if they should hear of this they would neverconsent to my remaining another day, and it means so much to me now. "

"They need not hear of it, " Van Bibber answered, sympathetically. "They certainly won't from me, if that's what you mean. "

The officer had returned, and interrupted them brusquely. It seemedto him that he was not receiving proper attention. 

"Say, what's wrong here?" he demanded. "Did that gang take anythingoff'n you. "

"They did not, " said Van Bibber. "They held me up, but they didn'ttake nothin' off'n of me. "

The officer flushed uncomfortably, and was certain now that he wasbeing undervalued. He surveyed the blood running down over VanBibber's collar with a smile of malicious satisfaction. 

"They done you up, any way, " he suggested. 

"Yes, they done me up, " assented Van Bibber, cheerfully, "and if you'dcome a little sooner they'd done you up too. "

He stepped to Miss Cuyler's side, and they walked on down the streetto the College Settlement in silence, the policeman followinguncertainly in the rear. 

"I haven't thanked you, Mr. Van Bibber, " said Miss Cuyler. "It wasreally fine of you, and most exciting. You must be very strong. Ican't imagine how you happened to be there, but it was most fortunatefor me that you were. If you had not, I--"

"Oh, that's all right, " said Van Bibber, hurriedly. "I haven't had somuch fun without paying for it for a long time. Fun, " he added, meditatively, "costs so much. "

"And you will be so good, then, as not to speak of it, " she said, asshe gave him her hand at the door. 

"Of course not. Why should I?" said Van Bibber, and then his facebeamed and clouded again instantly. "But, oh, " he begged, "I'm afraidI'll have to tell Travers! Oh, please let me tell Travers! I'll makehim promise not to mention it, but it's too good a joke on him, whenyou think what he missed. You see, " he added, hastily, "we were tohave gone out together, and he forgot, as usual, and missed the wholething, and he wasn't _in it_, and it will just about break his heart. He's always getting grinds on me, " he went on, persuasively, "and nowI've got this on him. You will really have to let me tell Travers. "

Miss Cuyler looked puzzled and said "Certainly, " though she failed tosee why Mr. Travers should want his head broken, and then she thankedVan Bibber again and nodded to the officer and went in-doors. 

The policeman, who had listened to the closing speeches, looked at VanBibber with dawning admiration. 

"Now then, officer, " said Van Bibber, briskly, "which of the saloonsaround here break the law by keeping open after one? You probablyknow, and if you don't I'll have to take your number. " And peace beingin this way restored, the two disappeared together into the darknessto break the law. 

Van Bibber told Travers about it the next morning, and Travers forgothe was not to mention it, and told the next man he met. By one o'clockthe story had grown in his telling, and Van Bibber's reputation hadgrown with it. 

Travers found three men breakfasting together at the club, and drew upa chair. "Have you heard the joke Van Bibber's got on me?" he asked, sadly, by way of introduction. 

Wainwright was sitting at the next table with his back to them. He hadjust left the customs officers, and his wonder at the dirtiness of thestreets and height of the buildings had given way to the pleasure ofbeing home again, and before the knowledge that "old friends arebest. " He had meant to return again immediately as soon as he hadarranged for the production of his play in New York; his second playwas to be brought out in London in a month. But the heartiness of hisfriends' greetings, and the anxiety of men to be recognized who hadbeen mere acquaintances hitherto, had touched and amused him. He wastoo young to be cynical over it, and he was glad, on the whole, thathe had come back. 

His mind was wide awake, and shifting from one pleasant thought toanother, when he heard Travers's voice behind him raised impressively. "And they both went at Van hammer and tongs, " he heard Travers say, "one in front and the other behind, kicking and striking all over theshop. And, " continued Travers, interrupting himself suddenly with ashrill and anxious tone of interrogation, "where was I while this wasgoing on? That's the pathetic part of it--where was I?" His voice roseto almost a shriek of disappointment. "_I_ was sitting in a red-silkbox listening to a red-silk opera with a lot of _girls_--that's what_I_ was doing. I wasn't in it; I wasn't. I--"

"Well, never mind what you were doing, " said one of the men, soothingly; "you weren't in it, as you say. Return to the libretto. "

"Well, " continued Travers, meekly, "let me see; where was I?"

"You were in a red-silk box, " suggested one of the men, reaching forthe coffee. 

"Go on, Travers, " said the first man. "The two men were kicking VanBibber. "

"Oh, yes, " cried Travers. "Well, Van just threw the first fellow overhis head, and threw him _hard_. He must have broken his ribs, for thesecond fellow tried to get away, and begged off, but Van wouldn't haveit, and rushed him. He got the tough's head under his arm, andpummelled it till his arm ached, and then he threw him into thestreet, and asked if any other gentleman would like to try his luck. That's what Van did, and he told me not to tell any one, so I hope youwill not mention it. But I had to tell you, because I want to know ifyou have ever met a harder case of hard luck than that. Think of it, will you? Think of me sitting there in a red-silk box listening toa--"

"What did the girl do?" interrupted one of the men. 

"Oh, yes, " said Travers, hastily; "that's the best part of it; that'sthe plot--the girl. Now, who do you think the girl was?" He lookedaround the table proudly, with the air of a man who is sure of hisclimax. 

"How should I know?" one man said. "Some actress going home from thetheatre, maybe--"

"No, " said Travers. "It's a girl you all know. " He pausedimpressively. "What would you say now, " he went on, dropping hisvoice, "if I was to tell you it was Eleanore Cuyler?"

The three men looked up suddenly and at each other with seriousconcern. There was a moment's silence. "Well, " said one of them, softly, "that _is_ rather nasty. "

"Now, what I want to know is, " Travers ran on, elated at the sensationhis narrative had made--"what I want to know is, where is that girl'smother, or sister, or brother? Have they anything to say? Has any oneanything to say? Why, one of Eleanore Cuyler's little fingers is worthmore than all the East and West Side put together; and she is to beallowed to run risks like--"

Wainwright pushed his chair back, and walked out of the room. 

"See that fellow, quick, " said Travers; "that's Wainwright who writesplays and things. He's a thoroughbred sport, too, and he just got backfrom London. It's in the afternoon papers. "

Miss Cuyler was reading to Mrs. Lockmuller, who was old and bedriddenand cross. Under the influence of Eleanore's low voice she frequentlywent to sleep, only to wake and demand ungratefully why the readinghad stopped. 

Miss Cuyler was very tired. It was close and hot, and her head ached alittle, and the prospect across the roofs of the other tenements wasnot cheerful. Neither was the thought that she was to spend her summermaking working-girls happy on a farm on Long Island. 

She had grown sceptical as to working-girls, and of the good she didthem--or any one else. It was all terribly dreary and forlorn, and shewished she could end it by putting her head on some broad shoulder andby being told that it didn't matter, and that she was not to blame ifthe world would be wicked and its people unrepentant and ungrateful. Corrigan, on the third floor, was drunk again and promised trouble. His voice ascended to the room in which she sat, and made her nervous, for she was feeling the reaction from the excitement of the nightbefore. There were heavy footsteps on the stairs, and a child's shrillvoice cried, "She's in there, " and, suspecting it might be Corrigan, she looked up fearfully, and then the door opened and she saw the mostmagnificent and the handsomest being in the world. His magnificencewas due to a Bond Street tailor, who had shown how very small a waistwill go with very broad shoulders, and if he was handsome, that wasthe tan of a week at sea. But it was not the tan, nor the unusuallength of his coat, that Eleanore saw, but the eager, confident lookin his face--and all she could say was, "Oh, Mr. Wainwright, " feebly. 

Wainwright waved away all such trifling barriers as "Mister" and"Miss. " He came towards her with his face stern and determined. "Eleanore, " he said, "I have a hansom at the door, and I want you tocome down and get into it. "

Was this the young man she had been used to scold and advise andcriticise? She looked at him wondering and happy. It seemed to resther eyes just to see him, and she loved his ordering her so, until aflash of miserable doubt came over her that if he was confident, itwas because he was not only sure of himself, but of some one else onthe other side of the sea. 

And all her pride came to her, and thankfulness that she had not shownhim what his coming meant, and she said, "Did my mother send you? Howdid you come? Is anything wrong?"

He took her hand in one of his and put his other on top of it firmly. "Yes, " he said. "Everything is wrong. But we'll fix all that. "

He did not seem able to go on immediately, but just looked at her. "Eleanore, " he said, "I have been a fool, all sorts of a fool. I cameover here to go back again at once, and I am going back, but notalone. I have been alone too long. I had begun to fancy there was onlyone woman in the world until I came back, and then--something someman said proved to me there was another one, and that she was the onlyone, and that I--had come near losing her. I had tried to forgetabout her. I had tried to harden myself to her by thinking she hadbeen hard to me. I said--she does not care for you as the woman youlove must care for you, but it doesn't matter now whether she cares ornot, for I love _her_ so. I want her to come to me and scold me again, and tell me how unworthy I am, and make me good and true like herself, and happy. The rest doesn't count without her, it means nothing to meunless she takes it and keeps it in trust for me, and shares it withme. " He had both her hands now, and was pressing them against theflowers in the breast of the long coat. 

"Eleanore, " he said, "I tried to tell you once of the one thing thatwould bring me back and you stopped me. Will you stop me now?"

She tried to look up at him, but she would not let him see thehappiness in her face just then, and lowered it and gently said, "No, no. "

It must have taken him a long time to tell it, for after he had driventhem twice around the Park the driver of the hansom decided that hecould ask eight dollars at the regular rates, and might even ventureon ten, and the result showed that as a judge of human nature he was asuccess. 

They were married in May, and Lord Lowes acted as best man, and hissister sent her warmest congratulations and a pair of silvercandlesticks for the dinner-table, which Wainwright thought were veryhandsome indeed, but which Miss Cuyler considered a little showy. VanBibber and Travers were ushers, and, indeed, it was Van Bibber himselfwho closed the door of the carriage upon them as they were startingforth after the wedding. Mrs. Wainwright said something to herhusband, and he laughed and said, "Van, Mrs. Wainwright says she'smuch obliged. "

"Yes?" said Van Bibber, pleased and eager, putting his head throughthe window of the carriage. "What for, Mrs. Wainwright--thechafing-dish? Travers gave half, you know. "

And then Mrs. Wainwright said, "No; not for the chafing-dish. "

And they drove off, laughing. 

"Look at 'em, " said Travers, morosely. "_They_ don't think the wheelsare going around, do they? _They_ think it is just the earth revolvingwith them on top of it, and nobody else. We don't have to say 'please'to no one, not much! We can do just what we jolly well please, anddine when we please and wherever we please. You say to me, Travers, let's go to Pastor's to-night, and I say, I won't, and you say I won'tgo to the Casino, because I don't want to, and there you are, and allwe have to do is to agree to go somewhere else. "

"I wonder, " said Van Bibber, dreamily, as he watched the carriagedisappear down the avenue, "what brings a man to the proposing point?"

"Some other man, " said Travers, promptly. "Some man he thinks hasmore to do for the girl than he likes. "

"Who, " persisted Van Bibber, innocently, "do you think was the man inthat case?"

"How should I know?" exclaimed Travers, impatiently, waving away suchunprofitable discussion with a sweep of his stick, and coming down tothe serious affairs of life. "What I want to know is to what theatrewe are going--that's what I want to know. "

A RECRUIT AT CHRISTMAS

Young Lieutenant Claflin left the Brooklyn Navy-yard at an early hour, and arrived at the recruiting-office at ten o'clock. It was the daybefore Christmas, and even the Bowery, "the thieves' highway, " hadtaken on the emblems and spirit of the season, and the young officersmiled grimly as he saw a hard-faced proprietor of a saloon directingthe hanging of wreaths and crosses over the door of his palace andtelling the assistant barkeeper to make the red holly berries "showup" better. 

The cheap lodging-houses had trailed the green over their illuminatedtransoms, and even on Mott Street the Chinamen had hung up strings ofevergreen over the doors of the joss-house and the gambling-house nextdoor. And the tramps and good-for-nothings, just back from the Island, had an animated, expectant look, as though something certainly wasgoing to happen. 

Lieutenant Claflin nodded to Corporal Goddard at the door of therecruiting-office, and startled that veteran's rigidity, and kept hiscotton-gloved hand at his visor longer than the Regulations required, by saying, "Wish you merry Christmas, " as he jumped up the stairs. 

The recruiting-office was a dull, blank-looking place, the view fromthe windows was not inspiring, and the sight of the plump andblack-eyed Jewess in front of the pawn-shop across the street, who wasa vision of delight to Corporal Goddard, had no attractions to theofficer upstairs. He put on his blue jacket, with the black braid downthe front, lighted a cigar, and wrote letters on every other thanofficial matters, and forgot about recruits. He was to have leave ofabsence on Christmas, and though the others had denounced him forleaving the mess-table on that day, they had forgiven him when heexplained that he was going to spend it with his people at home. Theothers had homes as far away as San Francisco and as far inland asMilwaukee, and some called the big ship of war home; but Claflin'speople lived up in Connecticut, and he could reach them in a fewhours. He was a very lucky man, the others said, and he felt verycheerful over it, and forgot the blank-looking office with its Rulesand Regulations, and colored prints of uniforms, and models of oldwar-ships, and tin boxes of official documents which were to be filledout and sent to "the Honorable, the Secretary of the Navy. "

Corporal Goddard on the stoop below shifted from one foot to theother, and chafed his gloved hands softly together to keep them warm. He had no time to write letters on unofficial writing-paper, nor tosmoke cigars or read novels with his feet on a chair, with the choiceof looking out at the queer stream of human life moving by below thewindow on the opposite side of the Bowery. He had to stand straight, which came easily to him now, and to answer questions and urgedoubtful minds to join the ranks of the government's marines. 

A drunken man gazed at Ogden's colored pictures of the Americaninfantry, cavalry, and marine uniforms that hung before the door, andplaced an unsteady finger on the cavalry-man's picture, and said hechose to be one of those. Corporal Goddard told him severely to be offand get sober and grow six inches before he thought of such a thing, and frowned him off the stoop. 

Then two boys from the country asked about the service, and went offvery quickly when they found they would have to remain in it for threeyears at least. A great many more stopped in front of the gay picturesand gazed admiringly at Corporal Goddard's bright brass buttons andbrilliant complexion, which they innocently attributed to exposure tothe sun on long, weary marches. But no one came to offer himself inearnest. At one o'clock Lieutenant Claflin changed his coat and wentdown-town to luncheon, and came back still more content and in feelingwith the season, and lighted another cigar. 

But just as he had settled himself comfortably he heard CorporalGoddard's step on the stairs and a less determined step behind him. He took his feet down from the rung of the other chair, pulled hisundress jacket into place, and took up a pen. 

Corporal Goddard saluted at the door and introduced with a wave of hishand the latest applicant for Uncle Sam's service. The applicant wasas young as Lieutenant Claflin, and as good-looking; but he was dirtyand unshaven, and his eyes were set back in the sockets, and hisfingers twitched at his side. Lieutenant Claflin had seen manyapplicants in this stage. He called it the remorseful stage, and wasused to it. 

"Name?" said Lieutenant Claflin, as he pulled a printed sheet of papertowards him. 

The applicant hesitated, then he said, "Walker--John Walker. "

The Lieutenant noticed the hesitation, but he merely remarked tohimself, "It's none of my business, " and added, aloud, "Nationality?"and wrote United States before the applicant answered. 

The applicant said he was unmarried, was twenty three years old, andhad been born in New York City. Even Corporal Goddard knew this lastwas not so, but it was none of his business, either. He moved theapplicant up against the wall under the measuring-rod, and brought itdown on his head. 

So he measured and weighed the applicant, and tested his eyesight withprinted letters and bits of colored yarn, and the lieutenant kepttally on the sheet, and bit the end of his pen and watched theapplicant's face. There were a great many applicants, and few werechosen, but none of them had quite the air about him which this onehad. Lieutenant Claflin thought Corporal Goddard was just a bit toocallous in the way he handled the applicant, and too peremptory in hisquestions; but he could not tell why Corporal Goddard treated them allin that way. Then the young officer noticed that the applicant's whiteface was flushing, and that he bit his lips when Corporal Goddardpushed him towards the weighing-machine as he would have moved abarrel of flour. 

"You'll answer, " said Lieutenant Claflin, glancing at the sheet. "Youraverage is very good. All you've got to do now is to sign this, andthen it will be over. " But he did not let go of the sheet in his hand, as he would have done had he wanted it over. Neither did the applicantmove forward to sign. 

"After you have signed this, " said the young officer, keeping his eyesdown on the paper before him, "you will have become a servant of theUnited States; you will sit in that other room until the office isclosed for to-day, and then you will be led over to the Navy-yard andput into a uniform, and from that time on for three years you willhave a number, the same number as the one on your musket. You and themusket will both belong to the government. You will clean and loadthe musket, and fight with it if God ever gives us the chance; and thegovernment will feed you and keep you clean, and fight with you ifneedful. "

The lieutenant looked up at the corporal and said, "You can go, Goddard, " and the corporal turned on his heel and walked downstairs, wondering. 

"You may spend the three years, " continued the officer, still withoutlooking at the applicant, "which are the best years of a young man'slife, on the sea, visiting foreign ports, or you may spend it marchingup and down the Brooklyn Navy-yard and cleaning brass-work. There aresome men who are meant to clean brass-work and to march up and down infront of a stone arsenal, and who are fitted for nothing else. But toevery man is given something which should tell him that he is put hereto make the best of himself. Every man has that, even the men who areonly fit to clean brass rods; but some men kill it, or try to kill it, in different ways, generally by rum. And they are as generallysuccessful, if they keep the process up long enough. The government, of which I am a very humble representative, is always glad to get goodmen to serve her, but it seems to me (and I may be wrong, and I'mquite sure that I am speaking contrary to Regulations) that some ofher men can serve her better in other ways than swabbing down decks. Now, you know yourself best. It may be that you are just the sort ofman to stand up and salute the ladies when they come on board to seethe ship, and to watch them from for'ard as they walk about with theofficers. You won't be allowed to speak to them; you will be number329 or 328, and whatever benefits a good woman can give a man will beshut off from you, more or less, for three years. 

"And, on the other hand, it may be that there are some good women whocould keep you on shore, and help you to do something more withyourself than to carry a musket. And, again, it may be that if youstayed on shore you would drink yourself more or less comfortably todeath, and break somebody's heart. I can't tell. But if I were not acommissioned officer of the United States, and a thing of Rules andRegulations who can dance and wear a uniform, and a youth generallyunfit to pose as an example, I would advise you not to sign this, butto go home and brace up and leave whiskey alone. 

"Now, what shall we do?" said the young lieutenant, smiling; "shall wetear this up, or will you sign it?"

The applicant's lips were twitching as well as his hands now, and herubbed his cuff over his face and smiled back. 

"I'm much obliged to you, " he said, nervously. "That sounds a ratherflat thing to say, I know, but if you knew all I meant by it, though, it would mean enough. I've made a damned fool of myself in this city, but nothing worse. And it was a choice of the navy, where they'd keepme straight, or going to the devil my own way. But it won't be my ownway now, thanks to you. I don't know how you saw how it was soquickly; but, you see, I have got a home back in Connecticut, andwomen that can help me there, and I'll go back to them and ask them tolet me start in again where I was when I went away. "

"That's good, " said the young officer, cheerfully; "that's the way totalk. Tell me where you live in Connecticut, and I'll lend you thecar-fare to get there. I'll expect it back with interest, you know, "he said, laughing. 

"Thank you, " said the rejected applicant. "It's not so far but that Ican walk, and I don't think you'd believe in me if I took money. "

"Oh, yes, I would, " said the lieutenant. "How much do you want?"

"Thank you, but I'd rather walk, " said the other. "I can get thereeasily enough by to-morrow. I'll be a nice Christmas present, won'tI?" he added, grimly. 

"You'll do, " said the young officer. "I fancy you'll be about aswelcome a one as they'll get. " He held out his hand and the othershook it, and walked out with his shoulders as stiff as those ofCorporal Goddard. 

Then he came back and looked into the room shyly. "I say, " he said, hesitatingly. The lieutenant ran his hand down into his pocket. "You've changed your mind?" he asked, eagerly. "That's good. How muchwill you want?"

The rejected applicant flushed. "No, not that, " he said. "I just cameback to say--wish you a merry Christmas. "

A PATRON OF ART

Young Carstairs and his wife had a studio at Fifty-seventh Street andSixth Avenue, where Carstairs painted pictures and Mrs. Carstairsmended stockings and wrote letters home to her people in Vermont. Young Carstairs had had a picture in the Salon, and was getting oneready for the Academy, which he hoped to have accepted if he livedlong enough to finish it. They were very poor. Not so poor that therewas any thought of Carstairs starving to death, but there was at leasta possibility that he would not be able to finish his picture in thestudio, for which he could not pay the rent. He was very young and hadno business to marry; but she was willing, and her people had an ideait would come out all right. They had only three hundred dollars left, and it was mid-winter. 

Carstairs went out to sketch Broadway at One Hundred and Fifty-ninthStreet, where it is more of a country road than anything else, and hishands almost froze while he was getting down the black lines of thebare trees, and the deep, irregular ruts in the road, where the mudshowed through the snow. He intended to put a yellow sky behind this, and a house with smoke coming out of the chimney, and with red lightshining through the window, and call it _Winter_. 

A horse and buggy stopped just back of him, and he was conscious fromthe shadows on the snow that the driver was looking down from hisperch. 

Carstairs paid no attention to his spectator. He was used to workingwith Park policemen and nursery-maids looking over his shoulder andmaking audible criticisms or giggling hysterically. So he sketched onand became unconscious of the shadow falling on the snow in front ofhim; and when he looked up about a quarter of an hour later andnoticed that the shadow was still there, he smiled at the tribute suchmute attention paid his work. When the sketch was finished he leanedback and closed one eye, and moved his head from side to side andsurveyed it critically. Then he heard a voice over his shoulder say, in sympathetic tones, "Purty good, isn't it?" He turned and smiled athis critic, and found him to be a fat, red-faced old gentleman, wrapped in a great fur coat with fur driving-gloves and fur cap. 

"You didn't mind my watching you, did you?" asked the old gentleman. 

Carstairs said no, he did not mind. The other said that it must berather cold drawing in such weather, and Carstairs said yes, it was;but that you couldn't get winter and snow in June. 

"Exactly, " said the driver; "you've got to take it as it comes. Howare you going back?"

Carstairs said he would walk to One Hundred and Fifty-fifth Street andtake the elevated. 

"You'd better get in here, " said the older man. "Do you know anythingabout trotting?" Carstairs got in, and showed that he did knowsomething about trotting by his comments on the mare in front of him. This seemed to please the old gentleman, and he beamed on Carstairsapprovingly. He asked him a great many questions about his work, andtold him that he owned several good pictures himself, but admittedthat it was at his wife's and daughter's suggestion that he hadpurchased them. "They made me get 'em when we were in Paris, " he said, "and they cost a lot of money, and a heap more before I got 'emthrough the Custom-house. " He mentioned the names of the artists whohad painted them, and asked Carstairs if he had ever heard of them, and Carstairs said yes, that he knew of them all, and had studiedunder some of them. 

"They're purty high up, I guess, " suggested the driver, tentatively. 

"Oh, yes, " Carstairs answered, lending himself to the other's point ofview, "you needn't be afraid of ever losing on your investment. Thosepictures will be worth more every year. "

This seemed to strike the older man as a very sensible way to take hisgallery, and he said, when they had reached the studio, that he wouldlike to see more of Mr. Carstairs and to look at his pictures. Hisname, he said, was Cole. Carstairs smilingly asked him if he was anyrelation to the railroad king, of whom the papers spoke as King Cole, and was somewhat embarrassed when the old gentleman replied, gravely, that he was that King Cole himself. Carstairs had a humorous desire toimprison him in his studio and keep him for ransom. Some one held thehorse, and the two men went up to the sixth floor and into Carstairs'sstudio, where they discovered pretty Mrs. Carstairs in the act ofsewing a new collar-band on one of her husband's old shirts. She wenton at this while the railroad king, who seemed a very simple, kindlyold gentleman, wandered around the studio and turned over thepictures, but made no comment. It had been a very cold drive, andCarstairs felt chilled, so he took the hot water his wife had for hertea and some Scotch whiskey and a bit of lemon, and filled a glasswith it for his guest and for himself. Mrs. Carstairs rose and putsome sugar in King Cole's glass and stirred it for him, and tasted itout of the spoon and coughed, which made the old gentleman laugh. Thenhe lighted a cigar, and sat back in a big arm-chair and asked manyquestions, until, before they knew it, the young people had told him agreat deal about themselves--almost everything except that they werepoor. He could never guess that, they thought, because the studio wasso handsomely furnished and in such a proper neighborhood. It waslate in the afternoon, and quite dark, when their guest departed, without having made any comment on the paintings he had seen, andcertainly without expressing any desire to purchase one. 

Mrs. Carstairs said, when her husband told her who their guest hadbeen, that they ought to have held a pistol to his head and made himmake out a few checks for them while they had him about. "Billionairesdon't drop in like that every day, " said she. "I really don't think weappreciated our opportunity. "

They were very much surprised a few days later when the railroad kingrang at the door, and begged to be allowed to come in and get warm, and to have another glass of hot Scotch. He did this very often, andthey got to like him very much. He said he did not care for his club, and his room at home was too strongly suggestive of the shop, onaccount of the big things he had thought over there, but that theirstudio was so bright and warm; and they reminded him, he said, of thedays when he was first married, before he was rich. They tried toimagine what he was like when he was first married, and failedutterly. Mrs. Carstairs was quite sure he was not at all like herhusband. 

 * * * * *

There was a youth who came to call on the Misses Cole, who had a greatdeal of money, and who was a dilettante in art. He had had a studioin Paris, where he had spent the last two years, and he wanted one, so he said at dinner one day, in New York. 

Old Mr. Cole was seated but one place away from him, and was wonderingwhen the courses would stop and he could get upstairs. He did not carefor the dinners his wife gave, but she always made him come to them. He never could remember whether the roast came before or after thebird, and he was trying to guess how much longer it would be before hewould be allowed to go, when he overheard the young man at hisdaughter's side speaking. 

"The only studio in the building that I would care to have, " said theyoung man, "is occupied at present. A young fellow named Carstairs hasit, but he is going to give it up next week, when I will move in. Hehas not been successful in getting rid of his pictures, and he and hiswife are going back to Vermont to live. I feel rather sorry for thechap, for he is really very clever and only needs a start. It isalmost impossible for a young artist to get on here, I imagine, unlesshe knows people, or unless some one who is known buys his work. "

"Yes, " said Miss Cole, politely. "Didn't you say you met the Whelengirls before you left Paris? Were they really such a success atHomburg?"

Mr. Cole did not eat any more dinner, but sat thoughtfully until hewas allowed to go. Then he went out into the hall, and put on hisovercoat and hat. 

The Carstairses were dismantling the studio. They had been at it allday, and they were very tired. It seemed so much harder work to takethe things down and pack them away than it did to unpack them and putthem up in appropriate corners and where they would show to the bestadvantage. 

The studio looked very bare indeed, for the rugs and altar cloths andold curtains had been stripped from the walls, and the pictures andarms and plaques lay scattered all over the floor. It was only a weekbefore Christmas, and it seemed a most inappropriate time to evictone's self. "And it's hardest, " said Carstairs, as he rolled up agreat Daghestan rug and sat on it, "to go back and own up that you'rea failure. "

"A what!" cried young Mrs. Carstairs, indignantly. "Aren't you ashamedof yourself? You're not a failure. It's the New Yorkers who don't knowwhat's good when it's shown them. They'll buy all those nasty Frenchpictures because they're expensive and showy, and they can'tunderstand what's true and good. They're not educated up to it, andthey won't be for fifty years yet. "

"Fifty years is a long time to wait, " said her husband, resignedly, "but if necessary we can give them that much time. And we were to havegone abroad, and taken dinner at Bignon's, and had a studio inMontmartre. "

"Well, you needn't talk about that just now, " said Mrs. Carstairs, asshe shook out an old shawl. "It's not cheerful. "

There came a knock at the door, and the railroad king walked in, covered with snow. "Goodness me!" exclaimed King Cole, "what are youdoing?"

They told him they were going back to Vermont to spend Christmas andthe rest of the winter. 

"You might have let me know you were going, " said the king. "I hadsomething most important to say to you, and you almost gave me theslip. "

He seated himself very comfortably and lighted a fat, black cigar, which he chewed as he smoked. "You know, " he said, "that I was broughtup in Connecticut. I own the old homestead there still, and a tenantof mine lives in it. I've got a place in London, or, I mean, my wifehas, and one in Scotland, and one in Brittany, a château, and onein--well, I've a good many here and there. I keep 'em closed till Iwant 'em. I've never been to the shooting-place in Scotland--my sonsgo there--nor to the London house, but I have to the French place, andI like it next best to only one other place on earth. Because it'samong big trees and on a cliff, where you can see the ships all day, and the girls in colored petticoats catching those little fish you eatwith brown bread. I go there in the summer and sit on the cliff, andsmoke and feel just as good as though I owned the whole coast and allthe sea in sight. I bought a number of pictures of Brittany, and thegirls had the place photographed by a fellow from Paris, with thetraps in the front yard, and themselves and their friends on the frontterrace in groups. But it never seemed to me to be just what Iremembered of the place. And so what I want to ask is, if you'll go upto my old place in Connecticut and paint me a picture of it as I usedto know it when I was a boy, so that I can have it by me in my room. Apicture with the cow-path leading up from the pool at the foot of thehill, and the stone walls, and the corn piled on the fields, and thepumpkins lying around, and the sun setting behind the house. Paint iton one of these cold, snappy afternoons, when your blood tingles andyou feel good that you're alive. And when you get through with that, I'd like you to paint me a picture to match it of the château, and asmany little sketches of the fishermen, and the girls with the bigwhite hats and bare legs and red petticoats, as you choose. You canlive in the homestead till that picture's done, and then you can crossover and live in the château. 

"I don't see that there is anything wrong in painting a picture toorder, is there? You paint a portrait to order, why shouldn't youpaint an old house, or a beautiful castle on a cliff, with the seabeyond it? If you wish, I'll close with you now and call it abargain. "

Mrs. Carstairs had been standing all this time with an unframedpicture in one hand, and a dust brush in the other, and her husbandhad been sitting on the rolled-up Turkish rug and trying not to lookat her. 

"I'd like to do it very well, " he said, simply. 

"Well, that's good, " replied the railroad king, heartily. "You'll needa retaining fee, I suppose, like lawyers do; and you put your bestwork on the two pictures and remember what they mean to _me_, and putthe spirit of home into them. It's my home you're painting, do youunderstand? I think you do. That's why I asked you instead of askingany of the others. Now, you know how I feel about it, and you put thefeeling into the picture; and as to the price, you ask whatever youplease, and you live at my houses and at my expense until the work isdone. If I don't see you again, " he said, as he laid a check down onthe table among the brushes and paint tubes and cigars, "I will wishyou a merry Christmas. " Then he hurried out and banged the door behindhim and escaped their thanks, and left them alone together. 

The pictures of Breton life and landscape were exhibited a year laterin Paris, and in the winter in New York, and, as they bore thesignificant numerals of the Salon on the frame, they were immediatelyappreciated, and many people asked the price. But the attendant saidthey were already sold to Mr. Cole, the railroad king, who hadpurchased also the great artistic success of the exhibition--an oldfarm-house with a wintry landscape, and the word "Home" printedbeneath it. 

ANDY M'GEE'S CHORUS GIRL

Andy M'Gee was a fireman, and was detailed every evening to theatreduty at the Grand Opera House, where the Ada Howard Burlesque andComic Opera Company was playing "Pocahontas. " He had nothing to do butto stand in the first entrance and watch the border lights and seethat the stand lights in the wings did not set fire to the canvas. Hewas a quiet, shy young man, very strong-looking and with a handsomeboyish face. Miss Agnes Carroll was the third girl from the right inthe first semi-circle of amazons, and very beautiful. By rights sheshould have been on the end, but she was so proud and haughty that shewould smile but seldom, and never at the men in front. Brady, thestage manager, who was also the second comedian, said that a girl onthe end should at least look as though she were enjoying herself, andthough he did not expect her to talk across the footlights, she mightat least look over them once in a while, just to show there was no illfeeling. Miss Carroll did not agree with him in this, and so she wasrelegated to the third place, and another girl who was moreinterested in the audience and less in the play took her position. When Miss Carroll was not on the stage she used to sit on the carpetedsteps of the throne, which were not in use after the opening scene, and read novels by the Duchess, or knit on a pair of blue woollenwristlets, which she kept wrapped up in a towel and gave to thewardrobe woman to hold when she went on. One night there was a quickercall than usual, owing to Ada Howard's failing to get her usual encorefor her waltz song, and Brady hurried them. The wardrobe woman was notin sight, so Agnes handed her novel and her knitting to M'Gee andsaid: "Will you hold these for me until I come off?" She looked at himfor the first time as she handed him the things, and he felt, as hehad felt several times before, that her beauty was of a distinctlydisturbing quality. There was something so shy about her face when shewas not on the stage, and something so kindly, that he stood holdingthe pieces of blue wool, still warm from her hands, without movingfrom the position he had held when she gave them to him. When she cameoff he gave them back to her and touched the visor of his cap as shethanked him. One of the other beautiful amazons laughed and whispered, "Agnes has a mash on the fire laddie, " which made the retiring Mr. M'Gee turn very red. He did not dare to look and see what effect ithad on Miss Carroll. But the next evening he took off his hat to her, and she said "Good-evening, " quite boldly. After that he watched her agreat deal. He thought he did it in such a way that she did not seehim, but that was only because he was a man; for the other womennoticed it at once, and made humorous comments on it when they were inthe dressing-rooms. 

Old man Sanders, who had been in the chorus of different comic-operacompanies since he was twenty years old, and who was something of apessimist, used to take great pleasure in abusing the other members ofthe company to Andy M'Gee, and in telling anecdotes concerning themwhich were extremely detrimental to their characters. He could notfind anything good to say of any of them, and M'Gee began to believethat the stage was a very terrible place indeed. He was more sorry forthis, and he could not at first understand why, until he discoveredthat he was very much interested in Miss Agnes Carroll, and hercharacter was to him a thing of great and poignant importance. Heoften wished to ask old Sanders about her, but he was afraid to do so, partly because he thought he ought to take it for granted that she wasa good girl, and partly because he was afraid Sanders would tell himshe was not. But one night as she passed them, as proud and haughtylooking as ever, old Sanders grunted scornfully, and M'Gee felt thathe was growing very red. 

"Now, there is a girl, " said the old man, "who ought to be out ofthis business. She's too good for it, and she'll never get on in it. Not that she couldn't keep straight and get on, but because she is toolittle interested in it, and shows no heart in the little she has todo. She can sing a little bit, but she can't do the steps. "

"Then why does she stay in it?" said Andy M'Gee. 

"Well, they tell me she's got a brother to support. He's too young ortoo lazy to work, or a cripple or something. She tried giving singinglessons, but she couldn't get any pupils, and now she supports herselfand her brother with this. "

Andy M'Gee felt a great load lifted off his mind. He became more andmore interested in Miss Agnes Carroll, and he began to think up littlespeeches to make to her, which were intended to show how great hisrespect for her was, and what an agreeable young person he might be ifyou only grew to know him. But she never grew to know him. She alwaysanswered him very quietly and very kindly, but never with any show offriendliness or with any approach to it, and he felt that he wouldnever know her any better than he did on the first night she spoke tohim. But three or four times he found her watching him, and he tookheart at this and from something he believed he saw in her manner andin the very reticence she showed. He counted up how much of his pay hehad saved, and concluded that with it and with what he receivedmonthly he could very well afford to marry. When he decided on thishe became more devoted to her, and even the girls stopped laughingabout it now. They saw it was growing very serious indeed. 

One afternoon there was a great fire, and he and three others fellfrom the roof and were burned a bit, and the boy ambulance surgeonlost his head and said they were seriously injured, which fact gotinto the afternoon papers, and when Andy turned up as usual at theOpera House there was great surprise and much rejoicing. And the nextday one of the wounded firemen who had had to remain in the hospitalovernight told Andy that a most beautiful lady had come there andasked to see him and had then said: "This is not the man; the paperssaid Mr. M'Gee was hurt. " She had refused to tell her name, but hadgone away greatly relieved. 

Andy dared to think that this had been Agnes Carroll, and that nighthe tried to see her to speak to her, but she avoided him and went atonce to her dressing-room whenever she was off the stage. But Andy wasdetermined to speak to her, and waited for her at the stage door, instead of going back at once to the engine house to make out hisreport, which was entirely wrong, and which cost him a day's pay. Itwas Tuesday night, and salaries had just been given all around, andthe men and girls left the stage door with the envelopes in theirhands and discussing the different restaurants at which they wouldfitly celebrate the weekly walk of the ghost. Agnes came out among thelast, veiled, and moving quickly through the crowd of half-grown boys, and men about town, and poor relations who lay in wait and hoveredaround the lamp over the stage door like moths about a candle. Andystepped forward quickly to follow her, but before he could reach herside a man stepped up to her, and she stopped and spoke to him in alow tone and retreated as she spoke. Andy heard him, with a sharp, jealous doubt in his heart, and stood still. Then the man reached forthe envelope in the girl's hand and said, "Give it to me, do youhear?" and she drew back and started to run, but he seized her arm. Then Andy jumped at him and knocked him down, and picked him up againby the collar and beat him over the head. "Stop!" the girl cried. "Stop!"

"Stop like--, " said Andy. 

"Stop! do you hear?" cried the woman again "He has a right to themoney. He is my husband. "

Andy asked to be taken off theatre duty, and the captain did what heasked. After that he grew very morose and unhappy, and was as crossand disagreeable as he could be; so that the other men said they wouldlike to thrash him just once. But when there was a fire he acted likeanother man, and was so reckless that the captain, mistakingfoolhardiness for bravery, handed in his name for promotion, and ashis political backing was very strong, he was given the white helmetand became foreman of another engine-house. But he did not seem toenjoy life any the more, and he was most unpopular. The winter passedaway and the summer came, and one day on Fifth Avenue Andy met old manSanders, whom he tried to avoid, because the recollections he broughtup were bitter ones; but Sanders buttonholed him and told him he hadbeen reading about his getting the Bennett medal, and insisted on histaking a drink with him. 

"And, by the way, " said Sanders, just as Andy thought he had finallysucceeded in shaking him off, "do you remember Agnes Carroll? It seemsshe was married to a drunken, good-for-nothing lout, who beat her. Well, he took a glass too much one night, and walked off a ferry-boatinto the East River. Drink is a terrible thing, isn't it? They say thepaddle-wheels knocked the--"

"And his wife?" gasped Andy. 

"She's with us yet, " said Sanders. "We're at the Bijou this week. Comein and see the piece. "

Brady, the stage manager, waved a letter at the acting manager. 

"Letter from Carroll, " he said. "Sends in her notice. Going to leavethe stage, she says; going to get married again. She was a good girl, "he added with a sigh, "and she sang well enough, but she couldn't dothe dance steps a little bit. "

A LEANDER OF THE EAST RIVER

"Hefty" Burke was one of the best swimmers in the East River. Therewas no regular way open for him to prove this, as the gentlemen of theHarlem boat-clubs, under whose auspices the annual races were given, called him a professional, and would not swim against him. "They won'tkeep company with me on land, " Hefty complained, bitterly, "and theycan't keep company with me in the water; so I lose both ways. " YoungBurke held these gentlemen of the rowing clubs in great contempt, andtheir outriggers and low-necked and picturesque rowing clothes aswell. They were fond of lying out of the current, with the oars pulledacross at their backs for support, smoking and commenting audibly uponthe other oarsmen who passed them by perspiring uncomfortably, andconscious that they were being criticised. Hefty said that theseamateur oarsmen and swimmers were only pretty boys, and that he couldgive them two hundred yards start in a mile of rough or smooth waterand pass them as easily as a tug passes a lighter. 

He was quite right in this latter boast; but, as they would call hima professional and would not swim against him, there was no way forhim to prove it. His idea of a race and their idea of a race differed. They had a committee to select prizes and open a book for entries, andwhen the day of the races came they had a judges' boat with gaybunting all over it, and a badly frightened referee and a host ofreporters, and police boats to keep order. But when Hefty swam, histwo backers, who had challenged some other young man through asporting paper, rowed in a boat behind him and yelled and sworedirections, advice, warnings, and encouragement at him, and in theirexcitement drank all of the whiskey that had been intended for him. And the other young man's backers, who had put up ten dollars on him, and a tugboat filled with other rough young men, kegs of beer, andthree Italians with two fiddles and one harp, followed close in thewake of the swimmers. It was most exciting, and though Hefty never hadany prizes to show for it, he always came in first, and so won a greatdeal of local reputation. He also gained renown as a life-saver; forif it had not been for him many a venturesome lad would have ended hisyoung life in the waters of the East River. 

For this he received ornate and very thin gold medals, with verylittle gold spread over a large extent of medal, from grateful parentsand admiring friends. These were real medals, and given to him, andnot paid for by himself as were "Rags" Raegan's, who always boughthimself a medal whenever he assaulted a reputable citizen and the casewas up before the Court of General Sessions. It was the habit of Mr. Raegan's friends to fall overboard for him whenever he was indifficulty of this sort, and allow themselves to be saved, and topresent Raegan with the medal he had prepared; and this act of heroismwould get into the papers, and Raegan's lawyer would make the most ofit before the judges. Rags had been Hefty's foremost rival among theswimmers of the East Side, but since the retirement of the former intoreputable and private life Hefty was the acknowledged champion of theriver front. 

Hefty was not at all a bad young man--that is, he did not expect hispeople to support him--and he worked occasionally, especially aboutelection time, and what he made in bets and in backing himself to swimsupplied him with small change. Then he fell in love with Miss Casey, and the trouble and happiness of his life came to him hand and handtogether; and as this human feeling does away with class distinctions, I need not feel I must apologize for him any longer, but just tell hisstory. 

He met her at the Hon. P. C. McGovern's Fourth Ward Association'sexcursion and picnic, at which he was one of the twenty-fivevice-presidents. On this occasion Hefty had jumped overboard after oneof the Rag Gang whom the members of the Half-Hose Social Club had, ina spirit of merriment, dropped over the side of the boat. This actionand the subsequent rescue and ensuing intoxication of the half-drownedmember of the Rag Gang had filled Miss Casey's heart with admiration, and she told Hefty he was a good one and ought to be proud of himself. 

On the following Sunday he walked out Avenue A to Tompkins Square withMary, and he also spent a great deal of time every day on her stoopwhen he was not working, for he was working now and making ten dollarsa week as an assistant to an ice-driver. They had promised to give himfifteen dollars a week and a seat on the box if he proved steady. Hehad even dreamed of wedding Mary in the spring. But Casey was aparticularly objectionable man for a father-in-law, and his objectionsto Hefty were equally strong. He honestly thought the young man no fitmatch for his daughter, and would only promise to allow him to "keepcompany" with Mary on the condition of his living steadily. 

So it became Hefty's duty to behave himself. He found this a littlehard to do at first, but he confessed that it grew easier as he sawmore of Miss Casey. He attributed his reform to her entirely. She hadmade the semi-political, semi-social organizations to which hebelonged appear stupid, and especially so when he lost his moneyplaying poker in the club-room (for the club had only one room), whenhe might have put it away for her. He liked to talk with her about theneighbors in the tenement, and his chance of political advancement tothe position of a watchman at the Custom-house Wharf, and hear herplay "Mary and John" on the melodeon. He boasted that she could makeit sound as well as it did on the barrel-organ. 

He was very polite to her father and very much afraid of him, for hewas a most particular old man from the North of Ireland, and objectedto Hefty because he was a good Catholic and fond of street fights. Healso asked pertinently how Hefty expected to support a wife byswimming from one pier to another on the chance of winning tendollars, and pointed out that even this precarious means of livelihoodwould be shut off when the winter came. He much preferred "Patsy"Moffat as a prospective son-in-law, because Moffat was one of theproprietors in a local express company with a capital stock of threewagons and two horses. Miss Casey herself, so it seemed to Hefty, wasrather fond of Moffat; but he could not tell for whom she reallycared, for she was very shy, and would as soon have thought ofspeaking a word of encouragement as of speaking with unkindness. 

There was to be a ball at the Palace Garden on Wednesday night, andHefty had promised to call for Mary at nine o'clock. She told him tobe on time, and threatened to go with her old love, Patsy Moffat, ifhe were late. 

On Monday night the foreman at the livery stable of the ice companyappointed Hefty a driver, and, as his wages would now be fifteendollars a week, he concluded to ask Mary to marry him on Wednesdaynight at the dance. 

He was very much elated and very happy. 

His fellow-workmen heard of his promotion and insisted on his standingtreat, which he did several times, until the others became flippant intheir remarks and careless in their conduct. In this innocent butsomewhat noisy state they started home, and on the way wereinjudicious enough to say, "Ah there!" to a policeman as he issuedfrom the side door of a saloon. The policeman naturally pounded thenearest of them on the head with his club, and as Hefty happened to bethat one, and as he objected, he was arrested. He gave a false name, and next morning pleaded not guilty to the charge of "assaulting anofficer and causing a crowd to collect. "

His sentence was thirty days in default of three hundred dollars, andby two o'clock he was on the boat to the Island, and by three he haddiscarded the blue shirt and red suspenders of an iceman for the graystiff cloth of a prisoner. He took the whole trouble terribly toheart. He knew that if Old Man Casey, as he called him, heard of itthere would be no winning his daughter with his consent, and he fearedthat the girl herself would have grave doubts concerning him. He wasespecially cast down when he thought of the dance on Wednesday night, and of how she would go off with Patsy Moffat. And what made it worsewas the thought that if he did not return he would lose his positionat the ice company's stable, and then marriage with Mary would bequite impossible. He grieved over this all day, and speculated as towhat his family would think of him. His circle of friends was so wellknown to other mutual friends that he did not dare to ask any of themto bail him out, for this would have certainly come to Casey's ears. 

He could do nothing but wait. And yet thirty days was a significantnumber to his friends, and an absence of that duration would be hardto explain. On Wednesday morning, two days after his arrest, he wasput to work with a gang of twenty men breaking stone on the roadwaythat leads from the insane quarters to the penitentiary. It was awarm, sunny day, and the city, lying just across the narrow channel, never looked more beautiful. It seemed near enough for him to reachout his hand and touch it. And the private yachts and bigexcursion-boats that passed, banging out popular airs and alive withbunting, made Hefty feel very bitter. He determined that when he gotback he would go look up the policeman who had assaulted him and breakhis head with a brick in a stocking. This plan cheered him somewhat, until he thought again of Mary Casey at the dance that night withPatsy Moffat, and this excited him so that he determined madly tobreak away and escape. His first impulse was to drop his crowbar andjump into the river on the instant, but his cooler judgment decidedhim to wait. 

At the northern end of the Island the grass runs high, and there areno houses of any sort upon it. It reaches out into a rocky point, where it touches the still terribly swift eddies of Hell Gate, and itssharp front divides the water and directs it towards Astoria on theeast and the city on the west. Hefty determined to walk off from thegang of workmen until he could drop into this grass and to lie thereuntil night. This would be easy, as there was only one man to watchthem, for they were all there for only ten days or one month, and theidea that they should try to escape was hardly considered. So Heftyedged off farther from the gang, and then, while the guard was busylighting his pipe, dropped into the long grass and lay there quietly, after first ridding himself of his shoes and jacket. At six o'clock abell tolled and the guard marched away, with his gang shambling afterhim. Hefty guessed they would not miss him until they came to countheads at supper-time; but even now it was already dark, and lightswere showing on the opposite bank. He had selected the place he meantto swim for--a green bank below a row of new tenements, a place wherea few bushes still stood, and where the boys of Harlem hid theirclothes when they went in swimming. 

 * * * * *

At half-past seven it was quite dark, so dark, in fact, that thethree lanterns which came tossing towards him told Hefty that hisabsence had been discovered. He rose quickly and stepped cautiously, instead of diving, into the river, for he was fearful of hidden rocks. The current was much stronger than he had imagined, and he hesitatedfor a moment, with the water pulling at his knees, but only for amoment; for the men were hunting for him in the grass. 

He drew the gray cotton shirt from his shoulders, and threw it back ofhim with an exclamation of disgust, and of relief at being a free managain, and struck his broad, bare chest and the biceps of his armswith a little gasp of pleasure in their perfect strength, and thenbent forward and slid into the river. 

The current from the opening at Hell Gate caught him up as though hehad been a plank. It tossed him and twisted him and sucked him down. He beat his way for a second to the surface and gasped for breath andwas drawn down again, striking savagely at the eddies which seemed totwist his limbs into useless, heavy masses of flesh and muscle. Thenhe dived down and down, seeking a possibly less rapid current at themuddy bottom of the river; but the current drew him up again until hereached the top, just in time, so it seemed to him, to breathe thepure air before his lungs split with the awful pressure. He wasgloriously and fiercely excited by the unexpected strength of hisopponent and the probably fatal outcome of his adventure. He stoppedstruggling, that he might gain fresh strength, and let the currentbear him where it would, until he saw that it was carrying him swiftlyto the shore and to the rocks of the Island. And then he dived againand beat his way along the bottom, clutching with his hands at thesoft, thick mud, and rising only to gasp for breath and sink again. His eyes were smarting hotly, and his head and breast ached withpressure that seemed to come from the inside and threatened to burstits way out. His arms had grown like lead and had lost their strength, and his legs were swept and twisted away from his control and werenumb and useless. He assured himself fiercely that he could not havebeen in the water for more than five minutes at the longest, andreminded himself that he had often before lived in it for hours, andthat this power, which was so much greater than his own, could notoutlast him. But there was no sign of abatement in the swift, crueluncertainty of its movement, and it bore him on and down or up as itpleased. The lights on the shore became indistinct, and he finallyconfused the two shores, and gave up hope of reaching the New Yorkside, except by accident, and hoped only to reach some solid landalive. He did not go over all of his past life, but the vision of MaryCasey did come to him, and how she would not know that he had beeninnocent. It was a little thing to distress himself about at such atime, but it hurt him keenly. And then the lights grew blurred, andhe felt that he was making heavy mechanical strokes that barely kepthis lips above the water-line. He felt the current slackenperceptibly, but he was too much exhausted to take advantage of it, and drifted forward with it, splashing feebly like a dog, and holdinghis head back with a desperate effort. A huge, black shadow, only ashade blacker than the water around him, loomed up suddenly on hisright, and he saw a man's face appear in the light of a hatchway anddisappear again. 

"Help!" he cried, "help!" but his voice sounded far away and barelyaudible. He struck out desperately against the current, and turned onhis back and tried to keep himself afloat where he was. "Help!" hecalled again, feebly, grudging the strength it took to call even that. "Help! Quick, for God's sake! help me!"

Something heavy, black, and wet struck him sharply in the face andfell with a splash on the water beside him. He clutched for itquickly, and clasped it with both hands and felt it grow taut; andthen gave up thinking, and they pulled him on board. 

When he came to himself, the captain of the canal-boat stooped andtook a fold of the gray trousers between his thumb and finger. Then heraised his head and glanced across at the big black Island, wherelights were still moving about on the shore, and whistled softly. ButHefty looked at him so beseechingly that he arose and came back witha pair of old boots and a suit of blue jeans. 

"Will you send these back to me to-morrow?" he asked. 

"Sure, " said Hefty. 

"And what'll I do with these?" said the captain, holding up the graytrousers. 

"Anything you want, except to wear 'em, " said Mr. Burke, feebly, witha grin. 

 * * * * *

One hour later Miss Casey was standing up with Mr. Patsy Moffat forthe grand march of the grand ball of the Jolly Fellows' Pleasure Clubof the Fourteenth Ward, held at the Palace Garden. The band was juststarting the "Boulanger March, " and Mr. Moffat was saying wittily thatit was warm enough to eat ice, when Mr. Hefty Burke shouldered inbetween him and Miss Casey. He was dressed in his best suit ofclothes, and his hair was conspicuously damp. 

"Excuse me, Patsy, " said Mr. Burke, as he took Miss Casey's arm, inhis, "but this march is promised to me. I'm sorry I was late, and I'msorry to disappoint you; but you're like the lad that drives thehansom cab, see?--you're not in it. "

"But indeed, " said Miss Casey, later, "you shouldn't have kept mea-waiting. It wasn't civil. "

"I know, " assented Hefty, gloomily, "but I came as soon as I could. Ieven went widout me supper so's to get here; an' they wuz expectin' meto stay to supper, too. "

HOW HEFTY BURKE GOT EVEN

Hefty Burke was once clubbed by a policeman named McCluire, whoexcused the clubbing to his Honor by swearing that Hefty had beendrunk and disorderly, which was not true. Hefty got away from theIsland by swimming the East River, and swore to get even with thepoliceman. This story tells how he got even. 

Mr. Carstairs was an artist who had made his first great success bypainting figures and landscapes in Brittany. He had a studio atFifty-eighth Street and Sixth Avenue, and was engaged on an historicalsubject in which there were three figures. One was a knight in fullarmor, and the other was a Moor, and the third was the figure of awoman. The suit of armor had been purchased by Mr. Carstairs in Paris, and was believed to have been worn by a brave nobleman, one of whoseextravagant descendants had sold everything belonging to his family inorder to get money with which to play baccarat. Carstairs was at thesale and paid a large price for the suit of armor which the Marquis deNeuville had worn, and set it up in a corner of his studio. It was ineight or a dozen pieces, and quite heavy, but was wonderfully carvedand inlaid with silver, and there were dents on it that showed where aSaracen's scimetar had been dulled and many a brave knight's spear hadstruck. Mr. Carstairs had paid so much for it that he thought he oughtto make a better use of it, if possible, than simply to keep it dustedand show it off to his friends. So he began this historical picture, and engaged Hefty Burke to pose as the knight and wear the armor. Hefty's features were not exactly the sort of features you wouldimagine a Marquis de Neuville would have; but as his visor was down inthe picture, it did not make much material difference; and as hisfigure was superb, he answered very well. Hefty drove an ice-wagonduring business hours, and, as a personal favor to Mr. Carstairs, agreed to pose for him, for a consideration, two afternoons of eachweek, and to sleep in the studio at night, for it was filled withvaluable things. 

The armor was a never-ending source of amazement and bewilderment toHefty. He could not understand why a man would wear such a suit, andespecially when he went out to fight. It was the last thing in theworld he would individually have selected in which to make war. 

"Ef I was goin' to scrap wid anybody, " he said to Mr. Carstairs, "I'das lief tie meself up wid dumb-bells as take to carry all this stuffon me. A man wid a baseball bat and swimmin' tights on could danceall around youse and knock spots out of one of these things. The otherlad wouldn't be in it. Why, before he could lift his legs or get hishands up you cud hit him on his helmet, and he wouldn't know whatkilled him. They must hev sat down to fight in them days. "

Mr. Carstairs painted on in silence and smiled grimly. 

"I'd like to have seen a go with the parties fixed out in a pair ofthese things, " continued Hefty. "I'd bet on the lad that got in thefirst whack. He wouldn't have to do nothing but shove the other oneover on his back and fall on him. Why, I guess this weighs half a tonif it weighs an ounce!"

For all his contempt, Hefty had a secret admiration for the ancientmarquis who had worn this suit, and had been strong enough to carryits weight and demolish his enemies besides. The marks on the armorinterested him greatly, and he was very much impressed one day when hefound what he declared to be blood-stains on the lining of the helmet. 

"I guess the old feller that wore this was a sport, eh?" he said, proudly, shaking the pieces on his arms until they rattled. "I guesshe done 'em up pretty well for all these handicaps. I'll bet when hegot to falling around on 'em and butting 'em with this fire helmet hemade 'em purty tired. Don't youse think so?"

Young Carstairs said he didn't doubt it for a moment. 

The Small Hours Social Club was to give a prize masquerade ball at thePalace Garden on New Year's Night, and Hefty had decided to go. Everygentleman dancer was to get a white silk badge with a gold tassel, andevery committeeman received a blue badge with "Committee" written acrossit in brass letters. It cost three dollars to be a committeeman, but onlyone dollar "for self and lady. " There were three prizes. One of asilver water-pitcher for the "handsomest-costumed lady dancer, " anaccordion for the "best-dressed gent, " and a cake for the mostoriginal idea in costume, whether worn by "gent or lady. " Hefty, aswell as many others, made up his mind to get the accordion, if it costhim as much as seven dollars, which was half of his week's wages. Itwasn't the prize he wanted so much, but he thought of the impressionit would make on Miss Casey, whose father was the well-known janitorof that name. They had been engaged for some time, but the engagementhung fire, and Hefty thought that a becoming and appropriate costumemight hasten matters a little. He was undecided as to whether heshould go as an Indian or as a courtier of the time of Charles II. Auchmuty Stein, of the Bowery, who supplies costumes and wigs atreasonable rates, was of the opinion that a neat sailor suit of lightblue silk and decorated with white anchors was about the "brettiestthing in the shop, and sheap at fife dollars;" but Hefty said henever saw a sailor in silk yet, and he didn't think they ever wore it. He couldn't see how they could keep the tar and salt-water fromruining it. 

The Charles II. Court suit was very handsome, and consisted of redcotton tights, blue velveteen doublet, and a blue cloak lined withpale pink silk. A yellow wig went with this, and a jewelled swordwhich would not come out of the scabbard. It could be had for sevendollars a night. Hefty was still in doubt about it and was muchperplexed. Auchmuty Stein told him Charlie Macklin, the Third Avenueticket-chopper, was after the same suit, and that he had better takeit while he could get it. But Hefty said he'd think about it. The nextday was his day for posing, and as he stood arrayed in the Marquis deNeuville's suit of mail he chanced to see himself in one of the longmirrors, and was for the first time so struck with the ferocity of hisappearance that he determined to see if old man Stein had not a suitof imitation armor, which would not be so heavy and would look aswell. But the more Hefty thought of it, the more he believed that onlythe real suit would do. Its associations, its blood-stains, and thereal silver tracings haunted him, and he half decided to ask Mr. Carstairs to lend it to him. 

But then he remembered overhearing Carstairs tell a brother-artistthat he had paid two thousand francs for it, and, though he did notknow how much a franc might be, two thousand of anything was too muchto wear around at a masquerade ball. But the thing haunted him. He wassure if Miss Casey saw him in that suit she would never look atCharlie Macklin again. 

"They wouldn't be in the same town with me, " said Hefty. "And I'd gettwo of the prizes, sure. "

He was in great perplexity, when good luck or bad luck settled it forhim. 

"Burke, " said Mr. Carstairs, "Mrs. Carstairs and I are going out oftown for New Year's Day, and will be gone until Sunday. Take a turnthrough the rooms each night, will you? as well as the studio, and seethat everything is all right. " That clinched the matter for Hefty. Hedetermined to go as far as the Palace Garden as the Marquis deNeuville, and say nothing whatever to Mr. Carstairs about it. 

Stuff McGovern, who drove a night-hawk and who was a particularadmirer of Hefty's, even though as a cabman he was in a higher socialscale than the driver of an ice-cart, agreed to carry Hefty and hishalf-ton of armor to the Garden, and call for him when the ball wasover. 

"Holee smoke!" gasped Mr. McGovern, as Hefty stumbled heavily acrossthe pavement with an overcoat over his armor and his helmet under hisarm. "Do you expect to do much dancing in that sheet-iron?"

"It's the looks of the thing I'm gambling on, " said Hefty. "I looklike a locomoteeve when I get this stovepipe on me head. "

Hefty put on his helmet in the cab and pulled down the visor, and whenhe alighted the crowd around the door was too greatly awed to jeer, but stood silent with breathless admiration. He had great difficultyin mounting the somewhat steep flight of stairs which led to thedancing-room, and considered gloomily that in the event of a fire hewould have a very small chance of getting out alive. He made so muchnoise coming up that the committeemen thought some one was rollingsome one else down the stairs, and came out to see the fight. Theyobserved Hefty's approach with whispered awe and amazement. 

"Wot are you?" asked the man at the door. "Youse needn't give yourreal name, " he explained, politely. "But you've got to give somethingif youse are trying for a prize, see?"

"I'm the Black Knight, " said Hefty in a hoarse voice, "the Marquis deNewveal; and when it comes to scrappin' wid der perlice, I'm de bestin der business. "

This last statement was entirely impromptu, and inspired by thepresence of Policeman McCluire, who, with several others, had beendetailed to keep order. McCluire took this challenge calmly, andlooked down and smiled at Hefty's feet. 

"He looks like a stove on two legs, " he said to the crowd. The crowd, as a matter of policy, laughed. 

"You'll look like a fool standing on his head in a snow-bank if youtalk impudent to me, " said Hefty, epigrammatically, from behind thebarrier of his iron mask. What might have happened next did nothappen, because at that moment the music sounded for the grand march, and Hefty and the policeman were swept apart by the crowd of Indians, Mexicans, courtiers, negro minstrels, and clowns. Hefty stamped acrossthe waxed floor about as lightly as a safe could do it if a safe couldwalk. He found Miss Casey after the march and disclosed his identity. She promised not to tell, and was plainly delighted and flattered atbeing seen with the distinct sensation of the ball. "Say, Hefty, " shesaid, "they just ain't in it with you. You'll take the two prizessure. How do I look?"

"Out o' sight, " said Hefty. "Never saw you lookin' better. "

"That's good, " said Miss Casey, simply, and with a sigh ofsatisfaction. 

Hefty was undoubtedly a great success. The men came around him andpawed him, and felt the dents in the armor, and tried the weight of itby holding up one of his arms, and handled him generally as though hewere a freak in a museum. "Let 'em alone, " said Hefty to Miss Casey, "I'm not sayin' a word. Let the judges get on to the sensation I'ma-makin, ' and I'll walk off with the prizes. The crowd is wid mesure. "

At midnight the judges pounded on a table for order, and announcedthat after much debate they gave the first prize to Miss LizzieCannon, of Hester Street, for "having the most handsomest costume onthe floor, that of Columbia. " The fact that Mr. "Buck" Masters, whowas one of the judges, and who was engaged to Miss Cannon, had saidthat he would pound things out of the other judges if they gave theprize elsewhere was not known, but the decision met with as generalsatisfaction as could well be expected. 

"The second prize, " said the judges, "goes to the gent calling himselfthe Black Knight--him in the iron leggings--and the other prize forthe most original costume goes to him, too. " Half the crowd cheered atthis, and only one man hissed. Hefty, filled with joy and with theanticipation of the elegance the ice-pitcher would lend to his flatwhen he married Miss Casey, and how conveniently he could fill it, turned on this gentleman and told him that only geese hissed. 

The gentleman, who had spent much time on his costume, and who hadbeen assured by each judge on each occasion that evening when he hadtreated him to beer that he would get the prize, told Hefty to go liedown. It has never been explained just what horrible insult lies backof this advice, but it is a very dangerous thing to tell a gentlemanto do. Hefty lifted one foot heavily and bore down on the disappointedmasker like an ironclad in a heavy sea. But before he could reach himPoliceman McCluire, mindful of the insult put upon him by thisstranger, sprang between them and said: "Here, now, no scrapping here;get out of this, " and shoved Hefty back with his hand. Hefty uttered amighty howl of wrath and long-cherished anger, and lurched forward, but before he could reach his old-time enemy three policemen had himaround the arms and by the leg, and he was as effectually stopped asthough he had been chained to the floor. 

"Let go o' me, " said Hefty, wildly. "You're smotherin' me. Give me afair chance at him. "

But they would not give him any sort of a chance. They rushed him downthe steep stairs, and while McCluire ran ahead two more pushed backthe crowd that had surged uncertainly forward to the rescue. If Heftyhad declared his identity the police would have had a very sad time ofit; but that he must not get Mr. Carstairs's two-thousand-franc suitinto trouble was all that filled Hefty's mind, and all that he wantedwas to escape. Three policemen walked with him down the street. Theysaid they knew where he lived, and that they were only going to takehim home. They said this because they were afraid the crowd wouldinterfere if it imagined Hefty was being led to the precinctstation-house. 

But Hefty knew where he was going as soon as he turned the next cornerand was started off in the direction of the station-house. There wasstill quite a small crowd at his heels, and Stuff McGovern wasdriving along at the side anxious to help, but fearful to do anything, as Hefty had told him not to let any one know who his fare had beenand that his incognito must be preserved. 

The blood rushed to Hefty's head like hot liquor. To be arrested fornothing, and by that thing McCluire, and to have the noblecoat-of-mail of the Marquis de Neuville locked up in a dirty cell andprobably ruined, and to lose his position with Carstairs, who hadalways treated him so well, it was terrible! It could not be! Helooked through his visor; to the right and to the left a policemanwalked on each side of him with his hand on his iron sleeve, andMcCluire marched proudly before. The dim lamps of McGovern'snight-hawk shone at the side of the procession and showed the crowdtrailing on behind. Suddenly Hefty threw up his visor "Stuff, " hecried, "are youse with me?"

He did not wait for any answer, but swung back his two iron arms andthen brought them forward with a sweep on to the back of the necks ofthe two policemen. They went down and forward as if a lamp-post hadfallen on them, but were up again in a second. But before they couldrise Hefty set his teeth, and with a gurgle of joy butted his ironhelmet into McCluire's back and sent him flying forward into asnow-bank. Then he threw himself on him and buried him under threehundred pounds of iron and flesh and blood, and beat him with hismailed hand over the head and choked the snow and ice down into histhroat and nostrils. 

"You'll club me again, will you?" he cried. "You'll send me to theIsland?" The two policemen were pounding him with their night-sticksas effectually as though they were rapping on a door-step; and thecrowd, seeing this, fell on them from behind, led by Stuff McGovernwith his whip, and rolled them in the snow and tried to tear off theircoat-tails, which means money out of the policeman's own pocket forrepairs, and hurts more than broken ribs, as the Police BenefitSociety pays for them. 

"Now then, boys, get me into a cab, " cried Hefty. They lifted him inand obligingly blew out the lights so that the police could not seeits number, and Stuff drove Hefty proudly home. "I guess I'm even withthat cop now, " said Hefty as he stood at the door of the studiobuilding perspiring and happy; "but if them cops ever find out who theBlack Knight was, I'll go away for six months on the Island. I guess, "he added, thoughtfully, "I'll have to give them two prizes up. "

OUTSIDE THE PRISON

It was about ten o'clock on the night before Christmas, and very cold. Christmas Eve is a very-much-occupied evening everywhere, in anewspaper office especially so, and all of the twenty and oddreporters were out that night on assignments, and Conway and Bronsonwere the only two remaining in the local room. They were the very bestof friends, in the office and out of it; but as the city editor hadgiven Conway the Christmas-eve story to write instead of Bronson, thelatter was jealous, and their relations were strained. I use the word"story" in the newspaper sense, where everything written for the paperis a story, whether it is an obituary, or a reading notice, or adramatic criticism, or a descriptive account of the crowded streetsand the lighted shop-windows of a Christmas Eve. Conway had finishedhis story quite half an hour before, and should have sent it out to bemutilated by the blue pencil of a copy editor; but as the city editorhad twice appeared at the door of the local room, as though lookingfor some one to send out on another assignment, both Conway andBronson kept on steadily writing against time, to keep him off untilsome one else came in. Conway had written his concluding paragraph adozen times, and Bronson had conscientiously polished and repolished athree-line "personal" he was writing, concerning a gentleman unknownto fame, and who would remain unknown to fame until that paragraphappeared in print. 

The city editor blocked the door for the third time, and looked atBronson with a faint smile of sceptical appreciation. 

"Is that very important?" he asked. 

Bronson said, "Not very, " doubtfully, as though he did not think hisopinion should be trusted on such a matter, and eyed the paragraphwith critical interest. Conway rushed his pencil over his paper, withthe tip of his tongue showing between his teeth, and became suddenlyabsorbed. 

"Well, then, if you are not _very_ busy, " said the city editor, "Iwish you would go down to Moyamensing. They release that bank-robberQuinn to-night, and it ought to make a good story. He was sentencedfor six years, I think, but he has been commuted for good conduct andbad health. There was a preliminary story about it in the paper thismorning, and you can get all the facts from that. It's Christmas Eve, and all that sort of thing, and you ought to be able to make somethingof it. "

There are certain stories written for a Philadelphia newspaper thatcircle into print with the regularity of the seasons. There is the"First Sunday in the Park, " for example, which comes on the first warmSunday in the spring, and which is made up of a talk with a parkpoliceman who guesses at the number of people who have passed throughthe gates that day, and announcements of the re-painting of theboat-houses and the near approach of the open-air concerts. You endthis story with an allusion to the presence in the park of the"wan-faced children of the tenement, " and the worthy workingmen (if itis a one-cent paper which the workingmen are likely to read), and tellhow they worshipped nature in the open air, instead of saying that inplace of going properly to church, they sat around in theirshirt-sleeves and scattered egg-shells and empty beer bottles andgreasy Sunday newspapers over the green grass for which the worthy menwho do not work pay taxes. Then there is the "Hottest Sunday in thePark, " which comes up a month later, when you increase the parkpoliceman's former guess by fifteen thousand, and give it a news valueby adding a list of the small boys drowned in bathing. 

The "First Haul of Shad" in the Delaware is another reliable story, asis also the first ice fit for skating in the park; and then there isalways the Thanksgiving story, when you ask the theatrical managerswhat they have to be thankful for, and have them tell you, "For thebest season that this theatre has ever known, sir, " and offer you apass for two; and there is the New Year's story when you interviewthe local celebrities as to what they most want for the new year, andturn their commonplace replies into something clever. There is also astory on Christmas Day, and the one Conway had just written on thestreet scenes of Christmas Eve. After you have written one of thesestories two or three times, you find it just as easy to write it inthe office as anywhere else. One gentleman of my acquaintance did thismost unsuccessfully. He wrote his Christmas-day story with the aid ofa directory and the file of a last year's paper. From the year-oldfile he obtained the names of all the charitable institutions whichmade a practice of giving their charges presents and Christmas trees, and from the directory he drew the names of their presidents andboards of directors; but as he was unfortunately lacking in religiousknowledge and a sense of humor, he included all the Jewishinstitutions on the list, and they wrote to the paper and ratherobjected to being represented as decorating Christmas trees, or in anyway celebrating that particular day. But of all stale, flat, andunprofitable stories, this releasing of prisoners from Moyamensing wasthe worst. It seemed to Bronson that they were always releasingprisoners; he wondered how they possibly left themselves enough tomake a county prison worth while. And the city editor for some reasonalways chose him to go down and see them come out. As they werereleased at midnight, and never did anything of moment when they werereleased but to immediately cross over to the nearest saloon with alltheir disreputable friends who had gathered to meet them, it wastrying to one whose regard for the truth was at first unshaken, andwhose imagination at the last became exhausted. So, when Bronson heardhe had to release another prisoner in pathetic descriptive prose, helost heart and patience, and rebelled. 

"Andy, " he said, sadly and impressively, "if I have written that storyonce, I have written it twenty times. I have described Moyamensingwith the moonlight falling on its walls; I have described it with thewalls shining in the rain; I have described it covered with the purewhite snow that falls on the just as well as on the criminal; and Ihave made the bloodhounds in the jail-yard howl dismally--and thereare no bloodhounds, as you very well know; and I have made releasedconvicts declare their intention to lead a better and a purer life, when they only said, 'If youse put anything in the paper about me, I'll lay for you;' and I have made them fall on the necks of theirweeping wives, when they only asked, 'Did you bring me some tobacco?I'm sick for a pipe;' and I will not write any more about it; and if Ido, I will do it here in the office, and that is all there is to it. "

"Oh yes, I think you will, " said the city editor, easily. 

"Let some one else do it, " Bronson pleaded--"some one who hasn't donethe thing to death, who will get a new point of view--" Conway, whohad stopped writing, and had been grinning at Bronson over the cityeditor's back, grew suddenly grave and absorbed, and began to writeagain with feverish industry. "Conway, now, he's great at that sort ofthing. He's--"

The city editor laid a clipping from the morning paper on the desk, and took a roll of bills from his pocket. 

"There's the preliminary story, " he said. "Conway wrote it, and itmoved several good people to stop at the business office on their waydown-town and leave something for the released convict's Christmasdinner. The story is a very good story, and impressed them, " he wenton, counting out the bills as he spoke, "to the extent of fifty fivedollars. You take that and give it to him, and tell him to forget thepast, and keep to the narrow road, and leave jointed jimmies alone. That money will give you an excuse for talking to him, and he may saysomething grateful to the paper, and comment on its enterprise. Come, now, get up. I've spoiled you two boys. You've been sulking all theevening because Conway got that story, and now you are sulking becauseyou have got a better one. Think of it--getting out of prison afterfour years, and on Christmas Eve! It's a beautiful story just as itis. But, " he added, grimly, "you'll try to improve on it, and growmaudlin. I believe sometimes you'd turn a red light on the dyinggladiator. "

The conscientiously industrious Conway, now that his fear of beingsent out again was at rest, laughed at this with conciliatory mirth, and Bronson smiled sheepishly, and peace was restored between them. 

But as Bronson capitulated, he tried to make conditions. "Can I take acab?" he asked. 

The city editor looked at his watch. "Yes, " he said; "you'd better;it's late, and we go to press early to-night, remember. "

"And can I send my stuff down by the driver and go home?" Bronson wenton. "I can write it up there, and leave the cab at Fifteenth Street, near our house. I don't want to come all the way down-town again. "

"No, " said the chief; "the driver might lose it, or get drunk, orsomething. "

"Then can I take Gallegher with me to bring it back?" asked Bronson. Gallegher was one of the office-boys. 

The city editor stared at him grimly. "Wouldn't you like atype-writer, and Conway to write the story for you, and a hot suppersent after you?" he asked. 

"No; Gallegher will do, " Bronson said. 

Gallegher had his overcoat on and a night-hawk at the door whenBronson came down the stairs and stopped to light a cigar in thehallway. 

"Go to Moyamensing, " said Gallegher to the driver. 

Gallegher looked at the man to see if he would show himselfsufficiently human to express surprise at their visiting such a placeon such a night, but the man only gathered up his reins impassively, and Gallegher stepped into the cab, with a feeling of disappointmentat having missed a point. He rubbed the frosted panes and looked outwith boyish interest at the passing holiday-makers. The pavements werefull of them and their bundles, and the street as well, with waveringlines of medical students and clerks blowing joyfully on the horns, and pushing through the crowd with one hand on the shoulder of the manin front. The Christmas greens hung in long lines, and only stoppedwhere a street crossed, and the shop fronts were so brilliant that thestreet was as light as day. 

It was so light that Bronson could read the clipping the city editorhad given him. 

"What is it we are going on?" asked Gallegher. 

Gallegher enjoyed many privileges; they were given him principally, Ithink, because if they had not been given him he would have takenthem. He was very young and small, but sturdily built, and he had ageneral knowledge which was entertaining, except when he happened toknow more about anything than you did. It was impossible to force himto respect your years, for he knew all about you, from the number oflines that had been cut off your last story to the amount of yourvery small salary; and there was an awful simplicity about him, and acertain sympathy, or it may have been merely curiosity, which showeditself towards every one with whom he came in contact. So when heasked Bronson what he was going to do, Bronson read the clipping inhis hand aloud. 

"'Henry Quinn, '" Bronson read, "'who was sentenced to six years inMoyamensing Prison for the robbery of the Second National Bank atTacony, will be liberated to-night. His sentence has been commuted, owing to good conduct and to the fact that for the last year he hasbeen in very ill health. Quinn was night watchman at the Tacony bankat the time of the robbery, and, as was shown at the trial, was inreality merely the tool of the robbers. He confessed to complicity inthe robbery, but disclaimed having any knowledge of the laterwhereabouts of the money, which has never been recovered. This was hisfirst offence, and he had, up to the time of the robbery, borne a veryexcellent reputation. Although but lately married, his married lifehad been a most unhappy one, his friends claiming that his wife andher mother were the most to blame. Quinn took to spending his eveningsaway from home, and saw a great deal of a young woman who was supposedto have been the direct cause of his dishonesty. He admitted, in fact, that it was to get money to enable him to leave the country with herthat he agreed to assist the bank-robbers. The paper acknowledges thereceipt of ten dollars from M. J. C. To be given to Quinn on hisrelease, also two dollars from Cash and three from Mary. "

Gallegher's comment on this was one of disdain. "There isn't much inthat, " he said, "is there? Just a man that's done time once, andthey're letting him out. Now, if it was Kid McCoy, or Billy Porter, orsome one like that--eh?" Gallegher had as high a regard for a stringof aliases after a name as others have for a double line of K. C. B. 'sand C. S. L. 's, and a man who had offended but once was not worthy ofhis consideration. "And you will work in those bloodhounds again, too, I suppose, " he said, gloomily. 

The reporter pretended not to hear this, and to doze in the corner, and Gallegher whistled softly to himself and twisted luxuriously onthe cushions. It was a half-hour later when Bronson awoke to find hehad dozed in all seriousness, as a sudden current of cold air cut inhis face, and he saw Gallegher standing with his hand on the opendoor, with the gray wall of the prison rising behind him. 

Moyamensing looks like a prison. It is solidly, awfully suggestive ofthe sternness of its duty and of the hopelessness of its failing init. It stands like a great fortress of the Middle Ages in a quadrangleof cheap brick and white dwelling-houses, and a few mean shops andtawdry saloons. It has the towers of a fortress, the pillars of anEgyptian temple; but more impressive than either of these is theawful simplicity of the bare, uncompromising wall that shuts out theprying eyes of the world and encloses those who are no longer of theworld. It is hard to imagine what effect it has on those who remain inthe houses about it. One would think they would sooner liveoverlooking a graveyard than such a place, with its mystery andhopelessness and unending silence, its hundreds of human inmates whomno one can see or hear, but who, one feels, are there. 

Bronson, as he looked up at the prison, familiar as it was to him, admitted that he felt all this, by a frown and a slight shrug of theshoulders. "You are to wait here until twelve, " he said to the driverof the nighthawk. "Don't go far away. "

Bronson and the boy walked to an oyster-saloon that made one of theline of houses facing the gates of the prison on the opposite side ofthe street, and seated themselves at one of the tables from whichBronson could see out towards the northern entrance of the jail. Hetold Gallegher to eat something, so that the saloon-keeper would makethem welcome and allow them to remain, and Gallegher climbed up on ahigh chair, and heard the man shout back his order to the kitchen witha faint smile of anticipation. It was eleven o'clock, but it was eventhen necessary to begin to watch, as there was a tradition in theoffice that prisoners with influence were sometimes released beforetheir sentence was quite fulfilled, and Bronson eyed the "releasedprisoners' gate" from across the top of his paper. The electric lightsbefore the prison showed every stone in its wall, and turned the icypavements into black mirrors of light. On a church steeple a blockaway a round clock-face told the minutes, and Bronson wondered, ifthey dragged so slowly to him, how tardily they must follow oneanother to the men in the prison, who could not see the clock's face. The office-boy finished his supper, and went out to explore theneighborhood, and came back later to say that it was growing colder, and that he had found the driver in a saloon, but that he was, to allappearances, still sober. Bronson suggested that he had bettersacrifice himself once again and eat something for the good of thehouse, and Gallegher assented listlessly, with the comment that one"might as well be eatin' as doin' nothin'. " He went out againrestlessly, and was gone for a quarter of an hour, and Bronson hadre-read the day's paper and the signs on the wall and the clipping hehad read before, and was thinking of going out to find him, whenGallegher put his head and arm through the door and beckoned to himfrom the outside. Bronson wrapped his coat up around his throat andfollowed him leisurely to the street. Gallegher halted at the curb, and pointed across to the figure of a woman pacing up and down in theglare of the electric lights, and making a conspicuous shadow on thewhite surface of the snow. 

"That lady, " said Gallegher, "asked me what door they let thereleased prisoners out of, an' I said I didn't know, but that I knew ayoung fellow who did. "

Bronson stood considering the possible value of this for a moment, andthen crossed the street slowly. The woman looked up sharply as heapproached, but stood still. 

"If you are waiting to see Quinn, " Bronson said, abruptly, "he willcome out of that upper gate, the green one with the iron spikes overit. "

The woman stood motionless, and looked at him doubtfully. She wasquite young and pretty, but her face was drawn and wearied-looking, asthough she were a convalescent or one who was in trouble. She was ofthe working class. 

"I am waiting for him myself, " Bronson said, to reassure her. 

"Are you?" the girl answered, vaguely. "Did you try to see him?" Shedid not wait for an answer, but went on, nervously: "They wouldn't letme see him. I have been here since noon. I thought maybe he might getout before that, and I'd be too late. You are sure that is the gate, are you? Some of them told me there was another, and I was afraid I'dmiss him. I've waited so long, " she added. Then she asked, "You're afriend of his, ain't you?"

"Yes, I suppose so, " Bronson said. "I am waiting to give him somemoney. "

"Yes? I have some money, too, " the girl said, slowly. "Not much. "Then she looked at Bronson eagerly and with a touch of suspicion, andtook a step backward. "You're no friend of hern, are you?" she asked, sharply. 

"Her? Whom do you mean?" asked Bronson. 

But Gallegher interrupted him. "Certainly not, " he said. "Of coursenot. "

The girl gave a satisfied nod, and then turned to retrace her stepsover the beat she had laid out for herself. 

"Whom do you think she means?" asked Bronson, in a whisper. 

"His wife, I suppose, " Gallegher answered, impatiently. 

The girl came back, as if finding some comfort in their presence. "_She's_ inside now, " with a nod of her head towards the prison. "Herand her mother. They come in a cab, " she added, as if thatcircumstance made it a little harder to bear. "And when I asked if Icould see him, the man at the gate said he had orders not. I supposeshe gave him them orders. Don't you think so?" She did not wait for areply, but went on as though she had been watching alone so long thatit was a relief to speak to some one. "How much money have you got?"she asked. 

Bronson told her. 

"Fifty-five dollars!" The girl laughed, sadly. "I only got fifteendollars. That ain't much, is it? That's all I could make--I've beensick--that and the fifteen I sent the paper. "

"Was it you that--did you send any money to a paper?" asked Bronson. 

"Yes; I sent fifteen dollars. I thought maybe I wouldn't get to speakto him if she came out with him, and I wanted him to have the money, so I sent it to the paper, and asked them to see he got it. I give itunder three names: I give my initials, and 'Cash, ' and just my name--'Mary. ' I wanted him to know it was me give it. I suppose they'll sendit all right. Fifteen dollars don't look like much against fifty-fivedollars, does it?" She took a small roll of bills from her pocket andsmiled down at them. Her hands were bare, and Bronson saw that theywere chapped and rough. She rubbed them one over the other, and smiledat him wearily. 

Bronson could not place her in the story he was about to write; it wasa new and unlooked-for element, and one that promised to be of moment. He took the roll of bills from his pocket and handed them to her. "Youmight as well give him this too, " he said. "I will be here until hecomes out, and it makes no difference who gives him the money, so longas he gets it. "

The girl smiled confusedly. The show of confidence seemed to pleaseher. But she said, "No, I'd rather not. You see, it isn't mine, and I_did_ work for this, " holding out her own roll of money. She looked upat him steadily, and paused for a moment, and then said, almostdefiantly, "Do you know who I am?"

"I can guess, " Bronson said. 

"Yes, I suppose you can, " the girl answered. "Well, you can believe itor not, just as you please"--as though he had accused her ofsomething--"but, before God, it wasn't my doings. " She pointed with awave of her hand towards the prison wall. "I did not know it was for_me_ he helped them get the money until he said so on the stand. Ididn't know he was thinking of running off with me at all. I guess I'dhave gone if he had asked me. But I didn't put him up to it as theysaid I'd done. I knew he cared for me a lot, but I didn't think hecared as much as that. His wife"--she stopped, and seemed to considerher words carefully, as if to be quite fair in what she said--"hiswife, I guess, didn't know just how to treat him. She was too fond ofgoing out, and having company at the house, when he was away nightswatching at the bank. When they was first married she used to go downto the bank and sit up with him to keep him company; but it waslonesome there in the dark, and she give it up. She was always fond ofcompany and having men around. Her and her mother are a good dealalike. Henry used to grumble about it, and then she'd get mad, andthat's how it begun. And then the neighbors talked too. It was afterthat that he got to coming to see me. I was living out in servicethen, and he used to stop in to see me on his way back from the bank, about seven in the morning, when I was up in the kitchen gettingbreakfast. I'd give him a cup of coffee or something, and that's howwe got acquainted. "

She turned her face away, and looked at the lights farther down thestreet. "They said a good deal about me and him that wasn't true. "There was a pause, and then she looked at Bronson again. "I told himhe ought to stop coming to see me, and to make it up with his wife, but he said he liked me best. I couldn't help his saying that, couldI, if he did? Then he--then this come, " she nodded to the jail, "andthey blamed _me_ for it. They said that I stood in with thebank-robbers, and was working with them; they said they used me for toget him to help them. " She lifted her face to the boy and the man, andthey saw that her eyes were wet and that her face was quivering. "That's likely, isn't it?" she demanded, with a sob. She stood for amoment looking at the great iron gate, and then at the clock-faceglowing dully through the falling snow: it showed a quarter to twelve. "When he was put away, " she went on, sadly, "I started in to wait forhim, and to save something against his coming out. I only got threedollars a week and my keep, but I had saved one hundred and thirtydollars up to last April, and then I took sick, and it all went to thedoctor and for medicines. I didn't want to spend it that way, but Icouldn't die and not see him. Sometimes I thought it would be betterif I did die and save the money for him, and then there wouldn't beany more trouble, anyway. But I couldn't make up my mind to do it. Idid go without taking medicines they laid out for me for three days;but I had to live--I just _had_ to. Sometimes I think I ought to havegiven up, and not tried to get well. What do you think?"

Bronson shook his head, and cleared his throat as if he were going tospeak, but said nothing. Gallegher was looking up at the girl withlarge, open eyes. Bronson wondered if any woman would ever love him asmuch as that, or if he would ever love any woman so. It made him feellonesome, and he shook his head. "Well?" he said, impatiently. 

"Well, that's all; that's how it is, " she said. "She's been living onthere at Tacony with her mother. She kept seeing as many men asbefore, and kept getting pitied all the time; everybody was so sorryfor her. When he was took so bad that time a year ago with his lungs, they said in Tacony that if he died she'd marry Charley Oakes, theconductor. He's always going to see her. Them that knew her knew me, and I got word about how Henry was getting on. I couldn't see him, because she told lies about me to the warden, and they wouldn't letme. But I got word about him. He's been fearful sick just lately. Hecaught a cold walking in the yard, and it got down to his lungs. That's why they are letting him out. They say he's changed so. Iwonder if I'm changed much?" she said. "I've fallen off since I wasill. " She passed her hands slowly over her face, with a touch ofvanity that hurt Bronson somehow, and he wished he might tell her howpretty she still was. "Do you think he'll know me?" she asked. "Do youthink she'll let me speak to him?"

"I don't know. How can I tell?" said the reporter, sharply. He wasstrangely nervous and upset. He could see no way out of it. The girlseemed to be telling the truth, and yet the man's wife was with himand by his side, as she should be, and this woman had no place on thescene, and could mean nothing but trouble to herself and to every oneelse. "Come, " he said, abruptly, "we had better be getting up there. It's only five minutes of twelve. "

The girl turned with a quick start, and walked on ahead of them up thedrive leading between the snow-covered grass-plots that stretched fromthe pavement to the wall of the prison. She moved unsteadily andslowly, and Bronson saw that she was shivering, either from excitementor the cold. 

"I guess, " said Gallegher, in an awed whisper, "that there's going tobe a scrap. "

"Shut up, " said Bronson. 

They stopped a few yards before the great green double gate, with asmaller door cut in one of its halves, and with the light from a biglantern shining down on them. They could not see the clock-face fromwhere they stood, and when Bronson took out his watch and looked atit, the girl turned her face to his appealingly, but did not speak. 

"It will be only a little while now, " he said, gently. He thought hehad never seen so much trouble and fear and anxiety in so young aface, and he moved towards her and said, in a whisper, as though thoseinside could hear him, "Control yourself if you can, " and then added, doubtfully, and still in a whisper, "You can take my arm if you needit. " The girl shook her head dumbly, but took a step nearer him, as iffor protection, and turned her eyes fearfully towards the gate. Theminutes passed on slowly but with intense significance, and they stoodso still that they could hear the wind playing through the wires ofthe electric light back of them, and the clicking of the icicles asthey dropped from the edge of the prison wall to the stones at theirfeet. 

And then slowly and laboriously, and like a knell, the great gong ofthe prison sounded the first stroke of twelve; but before it hadcounted three there came suddenly from all the city about them a greatchorus of clanging bells and the shrieks and tooting of whistles andthe booming of cannon. From far down town the big bell of theState-house, with its prestige and historic dignity back of it, triedto give the time, but the other bells raced past it, and beat out onthe cold crisp air joyously and uproariously from Kensington to theSchuylkill; and from far across the Neck, over the marshes and frozenponds, came the dull roar of the guns at the navy-yard, and from theDelaware the hoarse tootings of the ferry-boats, and the sharp shrieksof the tugs, until the heavens seemed to rock and swing with the greatwelcome. 

Gallegher looked up quickly with a queer, awed smile. 

"It's Christmas, " he said, and then he nodded doubtfully towardsBronson and said, "Merry Christmas, sir. "

It had come to the waiting holiday crowd down-town around theState-house, to the captain of the tug, fog-bound on the river, to theengineer sweeping across the white fields and sounding his welcomewith his hand on the bell-cord, to the prisoners beyond the walls, andto the children all over the land, watching their stockings at thefoot of their beds. 

And then the three were instantly drawn down to earth again by thenear, sharp click of opening bolts and locks, and the green gatesswung heavily in before them. The jail-yard was light with whitewash, and two great lamps in front of round reflectors shone with blindingforce in their faces, and made them start suddenly backward, as thoughthey had been caught in the act and held in the circle of apoliceman's lantern. In the middle of the yard was the carriage inwhich the prisoner's wife and her mother had come, and around it stoodthe wardens and turnkeys in their blue and gold uniforms. They sawthem, dimly from behind the glare of the carriage lamps that shone intheir faces, and saw the horses moving slowly towards them, and thedriver holding up their heads as they slipped and slid on the icystones. The girl put her hand on Bronson's arm and clinched it withher fingers, but her eyes were on the advancing carriage. The horsesslipped nearer to them and passed them, and the lights from the lampsnow showed their backs and the paving stones beyond them, and left thecab in partial darkness. It was a four-seated carriage with a movabletop, opening into two halves at the centre. It had been closed whenthe cab first entered the prison, a few hours before, but now its topwas thrown back, and they could see that it held the two women, whosat facing each other on the farther side, and on the side nearerthem, stretching from the forward seat to the top of the back, was aplain board coffin, prison-made and painted black. 

The girl at Bronson's side gave something between a cry and a shriekthat turned him sick for an instant, and that made the office-boy drophis head between his shoulders as though some one had struck at himfrom above. Even the horses shied with sudden panic towards oneanother, and the driver pulled them in with an oath of consternation, and threw himself forward to look beneath their hoofs. And as thecarriage stopped the girl sprang in between the wheels and threw herarms across the lid of the coffin, and laid her face down upon theboards that were already damp with the falling snow. 

"Henry! Henry! Henry!" she moaned. 

The surgeon who attended the prisoner through the sickness that hadcheated the country of three hours of his sentence ran out from thehurrying crowd of wardens and drew the girl slowly and gently away, and the two women moved on triumphantly with their sorry victory. 

 * * * * *

Bronson gave his copy to Gallegher to take to the office, andGallegher laid it and the roll of money on the city editor's desk, andthen, so the chief related afterwards, moved off quickly to the door. The chief looked up from his proofs and touched the roll of money withhis pencil. "Here! what's this?" he asked. "Wouldn't he take it?"

Gallegher stopped and straightened himself as though about to tellwith proper dramatic effect the story of the night's adventure, andthen, as though the awe of it still hung upon him, backed slowly tothe door, and said, confusedly, "No, sir; he was--he didn't need it. "

AN UNFINISHED STORY

Mrs. Trevelyan, as she took her seat, shot a quick glance down thelength of her table and at the arrangement of her guests, and tried tolearn if her lord and master approved. But he was listening tosomething Lady Arbuthnot, who sat on his right, was saying, and, beinga man, failed to catch her meaning, and only smiled unconcernedly andcheerfully back at her. But the wife of the Austrian Minister, who washer very dearest friend, saw and appreciated, and gave her a quicklittle smile over her fan, which said that the table was perfect, thepeople most interesting, and that she could possess her soul in peace. So Mrs. Trevelyan pulled at the tips of her gloves and smiled upon herguests. Mrs. Trevelyan was not used to questioning her powers, butthis dinner had been almost impromptu, and she had been in doubt. Itwas quite unnecessary, for her dinner carried with it the added virtueof being the last of the season, an encore to all that had gonebefore--a special number by request on the social programme. It wasnot one of many others stretching on for weeks, for the summer'schange and leisure began on the morrow, and there was nothing hangingover her guests that they must go on to later. They knew that theirluggage stood ready locked and strapped at home; they could lookbefore them to the whole summer's pleasure, and they were relaxed andready to be pleased, and broke simultaneously into a low murmur oftalk and laughter. The windows of the dining-room stood open from thefloor, and from the tiny garden that surrounded the house, even in thegreat mass of stucco and brick of encircling London, came the odor offlowers and of fresh turf. A soft summer-night wind moved the candlesunder their red shades; and gently as though they rose from afar, andnot only from across the top of the high wall before the house, camethe rumble of the omnibuses passing farther into the suburbs, and theoccasional quick rush of a hansom over the smooth asphalt. It was amost delightful choice of people, gathered at short notice and to dohonor to no one in particular, but to give each a chance to saygood-by before he or she met the yacht at Southampton or took the clubtrain to Homburg. They all knew each other very well; and if there wasa guest of the evening, it was one of the two Americans--either MissEgerton, the girl who was to marry Lord Arbuthnot, whose mother sat onTrevelyan's right, or young Gordon, the explorer, who has just comeout of Africa. Miss Egerton was a most strikingly beautiful girl, with a strong, fine face, and an earnest, interested way when shespoke, which the English found most attractive. In appearance she hadbeen variously likened by Trevelyan, who was painting her portrait, toa druidess, a vestal virgin, and a Greek goddess; and Lady Arbuthnot'sfriends, who thought to please the girl, assured her that no one wouldever suppose her to be an American--their ideas of the American youngwoman having been gathered from those who pick out tunes with onefinger on the pianos in the public parlors of the Métropole. MissEgerton was said to be intensely interested in her lover's career, andwas as ambitious for his success in the House as he was himself. Theywere both very much in love, and showed it to others as little aspeople of their class do. The others at the table were General SirHenry Kent; Phillips, the novelist; the Austrian Minister and hisyoung wife; and Trevelyan, who painted portraits for large sums ofmoney and figure pieces for art; and some simply fashionable smartpeople who were good listeners, and who were rather disappointed thatthe American explorer was no more sun-burned than other young men whohad stayed at home, and who had gone in for tennis or yachting. 

The worst of Gordon was that he made it next to impossible for one tolionize him. He had been back in civilization and London only twoweeks, unless Cairo and Shepheard's Hotel are civilization, and hehad been asked everywhere, and for the first week had gone everywhere. But whenever his hostess looked for him, to present another and not sorecent a lion, he was generally found either humbly carrying an ice tosome neglected dowager, or talking big game or international yachtingor tailors to a circle of younger sons in the smoking-room, just asthough several hundred attractive and distinguished people were notwaiting to fling the speeches they had prepared on Africa at him, inthe drawing-room above. He had suddenly disappeared during the secondweek of his stay in London, which was also the last week of the Londonseason, and managers of lecture tours and publishers and lion-hunters, and even friends who cared for him for himself, had failed to find himat his lodgings. Trevelyan, who had known him when he was a travellingcorrespondent and artist for one of the great weeklies, had found himat the club the night before, and had asked him to his wife'simpromptu dinner, from which he had at first begged off, but, onlearning who was to be there, had changed his mind and accepted. Mrs. Trevelyan was very glad he had come; she had always spoken of him as anice boy, and now that he had become famous she liked him none theless, but did not show it before people as much as she had been usedto do. She forgot to ask him whether he knew his beautiful compatriotor not; but she took it for granted that they had met, if not athome, at least in London, as they had both been made so much of, andat the same houses. 

The dinner was well on its way towards its end, and the women hadbegun to talk across the table, and to exchange bankers' addresses, and to say "Be sure and look us up in Paris, " and "When do you expectto sail from Cowes?" They were enlivened and interested, and thepresent odors of the food and flowers and wine, and the sense ofleisure before them, made it seem almost a pity that such awell-suited gathering should have to separate for even a summer'spleasure. 

The Austrian Minister was saying this to his hostess, when Sir HenryKent, who had been talking across to Phillips, the novelist, leanedback in his place and said, as though to challenge the attention ofevery one, "I can't agree with you, Phillips. I am sure no one elsewill. "

"Dear me, " complained Mrs. Trevelyan, plaintively, "what have you beensaying now, Mr. Phillips? He always has such debatable theories, " sheexplained. 

"On the contrary, Mrs. Trevelyan, " answered the novelist, "it is theother way. It is Sir Henry who is making all the trouble. He isattacking one of the oldest and dearest platitudes I know. " He pausedfor the general to speak, but the older man nodded his head for him togo on. "He has just said that fiction is stranger than truth, "continued the novelist. "He says that I--that people who write couldnever interest people who read if they wrote of things as they reallyare. They select, he says--they take the critical moment in a man'slife and the crises, and want others to believe that that is whathappens every day. Which it is not, so the general says. He thinksthat life is commonplace and uneventful--that is, uneventful in apicturesque or dramatic way. He admits that women's lives are savedfrom drowning, but that they are not saved by their lovers, but by alongshoreman with a wife and six children, who accepts five pounds fordoing it. That's it, is it not?" he asked. 

The general nodded and smiled. "What I said to Phillips was, " heexplained, "that if things were related just as they happen, theywould not be interesting. People do not say the dramatic things theysay on the stage or in novels; in real life they are commonplace orsordid--or disappointing. I have seen men die on the battle-field, for instance, and they never cried, 'I die that my country may live, 'or 'I have got my promotion at last;' they just stared up at thesurgeon and said, 'Have I got to lose that arm?' or 'I am killed, Ithink. ' You see, when men are dying around you, and horses areplunging, and the batteries are firing, one doesn't have time to thinkup the appropriate remark for the occasion. I don't believe, now, thatPitt's last words were, 'Roll up the map of Europe. ' A man who couldchange the face of a continent would not use his dying breath inmaking epigrams. It was one of his secretaries or one of the doctorswho said that. And the man who was capable of writing home, 'All islost but honor, ' was just the sort of a man who would lose morebattles than he would win. No; you, Phillips, " said the general, raising his voice as he became more confident and conscious that beheld the centre of the stage, "and you, Trevelyan, don't write andpaint every-day things as they are. You introduce something for acontrast or for an effect; a red coat in a landscape for the bit ofcolor you want, when in real life the red coat would not be withinmiles; or you have a band of music playing a popular air in the streetwhen a murder is going on inside the house. You do it because it iseffective; but it isn't true. Now Mr. Caithness was telling us theother night at the club, on this very matter--"

"Oh, that's hardly fair, " laughed Trevelyan; "you've rehearsed allthis before. You've come prepared. "

"No, not at all, " frowned the general, sweeping on. "He said thatbefore he was raised to the bench, when he practised criminal law, hehad brought word to a man that he was to be reprieved, and to anotherthat he was to die. Now, you know, " exclaimed the general, with ashrug, and appealing to the table, "how that would be done on thestage or in a novel, with the prisoner bound ready for execution, anda galloping horse, and a fluttering piece of white paper, and allthat. Well, now, Caithness told us that he went into the man's celland said, 'You have been reprieved, John, ' or William, or whatever thefellow's name was. And the man looked at him and said: 'Is that so?That's good--that's good;' and that was all he said. And then, again, he told one man whose life he had tried very hard to save: 'The HomeSecretary has refused to intercede for you. I saw him at his houselast night at nine o'clock. ' And the murderer, instead of saying, 'MyGod! what will my wife and children do?' looked at him, and repeated, 'At nine o'clock last night!' just as though that were the importantpart of the message. "

"Well, but, general, " said Phillips, smiling, "that's dramatic enoughas it is, I think. Why--"

"Yes, " interrupted the general, quickly and triumphantly. "But that isnot what you would have made him say, is it? That's my point. "

"There was a man told me once, " Lord Arbuthnot began, leisurely--"hewas a great chum of mine, and it illustrates what Sir Henry has said, I think--he was engaged to a girl, and he had a misunderstanding or anunderstanding with her that opened both their eyes, at a dance, andthe next afternoon he called, and they talked it over in thedrawing-room, with the tea-tray between them, and agreed to end it. Onthe stage he would have risen and said, 'Well, the comedy is over, thetragedy begins, or the curtain falls;' and she would have gone to thepiano and played Chopin sadly while he made his exit. Instead ofwhich he got up to go without saying anything, and as he rose he upseta cup and saucer on the tea-table, and said, 'Oh, I beg your pardon;'and she said, 'It isn't broken;' and he went out. You see, " the youngman added, smiling, "there were two young people whose hearts werebreaking, and yet they talked of teacups, not because they did notfeel, but because custom is too strong on us and too much for us. Wedo not say dramatic things or do theatrical ones. It does not makeinteresting reading, but it is the truth. "

"Exactly, " cut in the Austrian Minister, eagerly. "And then there isthe prerogative of the author and of the playwright to drop a curtainwhenever he wants to, or to put a stop to everything by ending thechapter. That isn't fair. That is an advantage over nature. When someone accuses some one else of doing something dreadful at the play, down comes the curtain quick and keeps things at fever point, or thechapter ends with a lot of stars, and the next page begins with adescription of a sunset two weeks later. To be true, we ought to betold what the man who is accused said in the reply, or what happenedduring those two weeks before the sunset. The author really has noright to choose only the critical moments, and to shut out thecommonplace, every-day life by a sort of literary closure. That is, ifhe claims to tell the truth. "

Phillips raised his eyebrows and looked carefully around the table. "Does any one else feel called upon to testify?" he asked. 

"It's awful, isn't it, Phillips, " laughed Trevelyan, comfortably, "tofind that the photographer is the only artist, after all? I feel veryguilty. "

"You ought to, " pronounced the general, gayly. He was very wellsatisfied with himself at having held his own against these cleverpeople. "And I am sure Mr. Gordon will agree with me, too, " he wenton, confidently, with a bow towards the younger man. "He has seen moreof the world than any of us, and he will tell you, I am sure, thatwhat happens only suggests the story; it is not complete in itself. That it always needs the author's touch, just as the rough diamond--"

"Oh, thanks, thanks, general, " laughed Phillips. "My feelings are nothurt as badly as that. "

Gordon had been turning the stem of a wineglass slowly between histhumb and his finger while the others were talking, and looking downat it smiling. Now he raised his eyes as though he meant to speak, andthen dropped them again. "I am afraid, Sir Henry, " he said, "that Idon't agree with you at all. "

Those who had said nothing felt a certain satisfaction that they hadnot committed themselves. The Austrian Minister tried to remember whatit was he had said, and whether it was too late to retreat, and thegeneral looked blankly at Gordon and said, "Indeed?"

"You shouldn't have called on that last witness, Sir Henry, " saidPhillips, smiling. "Your case was very good as it was. "

"I am quite sure, " said Gordon, seriously, "that the story Phillipswill never write is a true story, but he will not write it becausepeople would say it is impossible, just as you have all seen sunsetssometimes that you knew would be laughed at if any one tried to paintthem. We all know such a story, something in our own lives, or in thelives of our friends. Not ghost stories, or stories of adventure, butof ambitions that come to nothing, of people who were rewarded orpunished in this world instead of in the next, and love stories. "

Phillips looked at the young man keenly and smiled. "Especially lovestories, " he said. 

Gordon looked back at him as if he did not understand. 

"Tell it, Gordon, " said Mr. Trevelyan. 

"Yes, " said Gordon, nodding his head in assent, "I was thinking of aparticular story. It is as complete, I think, and as dramatic as anyof those we read. It is about a man I met in Africa. It is not a longstory, " he said, looking around the table tentatively, "but it endsbadly. "

There was a silence much more appreciated than a polite murmur ofinvitation would have been, and the simply smart people settledthemselves rigidly to catch every word for future use. They realizedthat this would be a story which had not as yet appeared in thenewspapers, and which would not make a part of Gordon's book. Mrs. Trevelyan smiled encouragingly upon her former protégé; she was surehe was going to do himself credit; but the American girl chose thischance, when all the other eyes were turned expectantly towards theexplorer, to look at her lover. 

"We were on our return march from Lake Tchad to the Mobangi, " saidGordon. "We had been travelling over a month, sometimes by water andsometimes through the forest, and we did not expect to see any otherwhite men besides those of our own party for several months to come. In the middle of a jungle late one afternoon I found this man lying atthe foot of a tree. He had been cut and beaten and left for dead. Itwas as much of a surprise to me, you understand, as it would be to youif you were driving through Trafalgar Square in a hansom, and anAfrican lion should spring up on your horses' haunches. We believed wewere the only white men that had ever succeeded in getting that farsouth. Crampel had tried it, and no one knows yet whether he is deador alive; Doctor Schlemen had been eaten by cannibals, and MajorBethume had turned back two hundred miles farther north; and we couldno more account for this man's presence than if he had been droppedfrom the clouds. Lieutenant Royce, my surgeon, went to work at him, and we halted where we were for the night. In about an hour the manmoved and opened his eyes. He looked up at us and said, 'ThankGod!'--because we were white, I suppose--and went off intounconsciousness again. When he came to the next time, he asked Royce, in a whisper, how long he had to live. He wasn't the sort of a man youhad to lie to about a thing like that, and Royce told him he did notthink he could live for more than an hour or two. The man moved hishead to show that he understood, and raised his hand to his throat andbegan pulling at his shirt, but the effort sent him off into afainting-fit again. I opened his collar for him as gently as I could, and found that his fingers had clinched around a silver necklace thathe wore about his neck, and from which there hung a gold locket shapedlike a heart. "

Gordon raised his eyes slowly from the observation of his finger-tipsas they rested on the edge of the table before him to those of theAmerican girl who sat opposite. She had heard his story so far withoutany show of attention, and had been watching, rather with a touch offondness in her eyes, the clever, earnest face of Arbuthnot, who wasfollowing Gordon's story with polite interest. But now, at Gordon'slast words, she turned her eyes to him with a look of awfulindignation, which was followed, when she met his calmly polite lookof inquiry, by one of fear and almost of entreaty. 

"When the man came to, " continued Gordon, in the same conventionalmonotone, "he begged me to take the chain and locket to a girl whomhe said I would find either in London or in New York. He gave me theaddress of her banker. He said: 'Take it off my neck before you buryme; tell her I wore it ever since she gave it to me. That it has beena charm and loadstone to me. That when the locket rose and fellagainst my breast, it was as if her heart were pressing against mineand answering the beating and throbbing of the blood in my veins. '"

Gordon paused, and returned to the thoughtful scrutiny of hisfinger-tips. 

"The man did not die, " he said, raising his head. "Royce brought himback into such form again that in about a week we were able to takehim along with us on a litter. But he was very weak, and would lie forhours sleeping when we rested, or mumbling and raving in a fever. Welearned from him at odd times that he had been trying to reach LakeTchad, to do what we had done, without any means of doing it. He hadhad not more than a couple of dozen porters and a corporal's guard ofSenegalese soldiers. He was the only white man in the party, and hismen had turned on him, and left him as we found him, carrying off withthem his stock of provisions and arms. He had undertaken theexpedition on a promise from the French government to make himgovernor of the territory he opened up if he succeeded, but he had hadno official help. If he failed, he got nothing; if he succeeded, hedid so at his own expense and by his own endeavors. It was only awonder he had been able to get as far as he did. He did not seem tofeel the failure of his expedition. All that was lost in the happinessof getting back alive to this woman with whom he was in love. He hadbeen three days alone before we found him, and in those three days, while he waited for death, he had thought of nothing but that he wouldnever see her again. He had resigned himself to this, had given up allhope, and our coming seemed like a miracle to him. I have read aboutmen in love, I have seen it on the stage, I have seen it in real life, but I never saw a man so grateful to God and so happy and so insaneover a woman as this man was. He raved about her when he was feverish, and he talked and talked to me about her when he was in his senses. The porters could not understand him, and he found me sympathetic, Isuppose, or else he did not care, and only wanted to speak of her tosome one, and so he told me the story over and over again as I walkedbeside the litter, or as we sat by the fire at night. She must havebeen a very remarkable girl. He had met her first the year before, onone of the Italian steamers that ply from New York to Gibraltar. Shewas travelling with her father, who was an invalid going to Tangierfor his health; from Tangier they were to go on up to Nice and Cannes, and in the spring to Paris and on to London for this season just over. The man was going from Gibraltar to Zanzibar, and then on into theCongo. They had met the first night out; they had separated thirteendays later at Gibraltar, and in that time the girl had fallen in lovewith him, and had promised to marry him if he would let her, for hewas very proud. He had to be. He had absolutely nothing to offer her. She is very well known at home. I mean her family is: they have livedin New York from its first days, and they are very rich. The girl hadlived a life as different from his as the life of a girl in societymust be from that of a vagabond. He had been an engineer, a newspapercorrespondent, an officer in a Chinese army, and had built bridges inSouth America, and led their little revolutions there, and had seenservice on the desert in the French army of Algiers. He had no home ornationality even, for he had left America when he was sixteen; he hadno family, had saved no money, and was trusting everything to thesuccess of this expedition into Africa to make him known and to givehim position. It was the story of Othello and Desdemona over again. His blackness lay from her point of view, or rather would have lainfrom the point of view of her friends, in the fact that he was ashelplessly ineligible a young man as a cowboy. And he really had liveda life of which he had no great reason to be proud. He had existedentirely for excitement, as other men live to drink until they killthemselves by it; nothing he had done had counted for much except hisbridges. They are still standing. But the things he had written arelost in the columns of the daily papers. The soldiers he had foughtwith knew him only as a man who cared more for the fighting than forwhat the fighting was about, and he had been as ready to write on oneside as to fight on the other. He was a rolling stone, and had been arolling stone from the time he was sixteen and had run away to sea, upto the day he had met this girl, when he was just thirty. Yet you cansee how such a man would attract a young, impressionable girl, who hadmet only those men whose actions are bounded by the courts of law orWall Street, or the younger set who drive coaches and who live thelife of the clubs. She had gone through life as some people go throughpicture-galleries, with their catalogues marked at the best pictures. She knew nothing of the little fellows whose work was skied, who weretrying to be known, who were not of her world, but who toiled andprayed and hoped to be famous. This man came into her life suddenlywith his stories of adventure and strange people and strange places, of things done for the love of doing them and not for the reward orreputation, and he bewildered her at first, I suppose, and thenfascinated, and then won her. You can imagine how it was, these twowalking the deck together during the day, or sitting side by side whenthe night came on, the ocean stretched before them. The daring of hispresent undertaking, the absurd glamour that is thrown over those whohave gone into that strange country from which some travellersreturn, and the picturesqueness of his past life. It is no wonder thegirl made too much of him. I do not think he knew what was coming. Hedid not pose before her. I am quite sure, from what I knew of him, that he did not. Indeed, I believed him when he said that he hadfought against the more than interest she had begun to show for him. He was the sort of man women care for, but they had not been of thiswoman's class or calibre. It came to him like a sign from the heavens. It was as if a goddess had stooped to him. He told her when theyseparated that if he succeeded--if he opened this unknown country, ifhe was rewarded as they had promised to reward him--he might dare tocome to her; and she called him her knight-errant, and gave him herchain and locket to wear, and told him, whether he failed or succeededit meant nothing to her, and that her life was his while it lasted, and her soul as well. 

"I think, " Gordon said, stopping abruptly, with an air of carefulconsideration, "that those were her words as he repeated them to me. "

He raised his eyes thoughtfully towards the face of the girl opposite, and then glanced past her, as if he were trying to recall the wordsthe man had used. The fine, beautiful face of the woman was white anddrawn around the lips, and she gave a quick, appealing glance at herhostess, as if she would beg to be allowed to go. But Mrs. Trevelyanand her guests were watching Gordon or toying with the things in frontof them. The dinner had been served, and not even the soft movementsof the servants interrupted the young man's story. 

"You can imagine a man, " Gordon went on, more lightly, "finding ahansom cab slow when he is riding from the station to see the woman heloves; but imagine this man urging himself and the rest of us to hurrywhen we were in the heart of Africa, with six months' travel in frontof us before we could reach the first limits of civilization. That iswhat this man did. When he was still on his litter he used to toss andturn, and abuse the bearers and porters and myself because we moved soslowly. When we stopped for the night he would chafe and fret at thedelay; and when the morning came he was the first to wake, if he sleptat all, and eager to push on. When at last he was able to walk, heworked himself into a fever again, and it was only when Royce warnedhim that he would kill himself if he kept on that he submitted to becarried, and forced himself to be patient. And all the time the poordevil kept saying how unworthy he was of her, how miserably he hadwasted his years, how unfitted he was for the great happiness whichhad come into his life. I suppose every man says that when he is inlove; very properly, too; but the worst of it was, in this man's case, that it was so very true. He was unworthy of her in everything but hislove for her. It used to frighten me to see how much he cared. Well, we got out of it at last, and reached Alexandria, and saw white facesonce more, and heard women's voices, and the strain and fear offailure were over, and we could breathe again. I was quite readyenough to push on to London, but we had to wait a week for thesteamer, and during that time that man made my life miserable. He haddone so well, and would have done so much more if he had had myequipment, that I tried to see that he received all the credit duehim. But he would have none of the public receptions, and the audiencewith the khedive, or any of the fuss they made over us. He only wantedto get back to her. He spent the days on the quay watching them loadthe steamer, and counting the hours until she was to sail; and even atnight he would leave the first bed he had slept in for six months, andwould come into my room and ask me if I would not sit up and talk withhim until daylight. You see, after he had given up all thought of her, and believed himself about to die without seeing her again, it madeher all the dearer, I suppose, and made him all the more fearful oflosing her again. 

"He became very quiet as soon as we were really under way, and Royceand I hardly knew him for the same man. He would sit in silence in hissteamer-chair for hours, looking out at the sea and smiling tohimself, and sometimes, for he was still very weak and feverish, thetears would come to his eyes and run down his cheeks. 'This is theway we would sit, ' he said to me one night, 'with the dark purple skyand the strange Southern stars over our heads, and the rail of theboat rising and sinking below the line of the horizon. And I can hearher voice, and I try to imagine she is still sitting there, as she didthe last night out, when I held her hands between mine. '" Gordonpaused a moment, and then went on more slowly: "I do not know whetherit was that the excitement of the journey overland had kept him up ornot, but as we went on he became much weaker and slept more, untilRoyce became anxious and alarmed about him. But he did not know ithimself; he had grown so sure of his recovery then that he did notunderstand what the weakness meant. He fell off into long spells ofsleep or unconsciousness, and woke only to be fed, and would then fallback to sleep again. And in one of these spells of unconsciousness hedied. He died within two days of land. He had no home and no countryand no family, as I told you, and we buried him at sea. He leftnothing behind him, for the very clothes he wore were those we hadgiven him--nothing but the locket and the chain which he had told meto take from his neck when he died. "

Gordon's voice had grown very cold and hard. He stopped and ran hisfingers down into his pocket and pulled out a little leather bag. Thepeople at the table watched him in silence as he opened it and tookout a dull silver chain with a gold heart hanging from it. 

"This is it, " he said, gently. He leaned across the table, with hiseyes fixed on those of the American girl, and dropped the chain infront of her. "Would you like to see it?" he said. 

The rest moved curiously forward to look at the little heap of goldand silver as it lay on the white cloth. But the girl, with her eyeshalf closed and her lips pressed together, pushed it on with her handto the man who sat next her, and bowed her head slightly, as though itwas an effort for her to move at all. The wife of the AustrianMinister gave a little sigh of relief. 

"I should say your story did end badly, Mr. Gordon, " she said. "It isterribly sad, and so unnecessarily so. "

"I don't know, " said Lady Arbuthnot, thoughtfully--"I don't know; itseems to me it was better. As Mr. Gordon says, the man was hardlyworthy of her. A man should have something more to offer a woman thanlove; it is a woman's prerogative to be loved. Any number of men maylove her; it is nothing to their credit: they cannot help themselves. "

"Well, " said General Kent, "if all true stories turn out as badly asthat one does, I will take back what I said against those thestory-writers tell. I prefer the ones Anstey and Jerome make up. Icall it a most unpleasant story. "

"But it isn't finished yet, " said Gordon, as he leaned over andpicked up the chain and locket. "There is still a little more. "

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" said the wife of the Austrian Minister, eagerly. "But then, " she added, "you can't make it any better. Youcannot bring the man back to life. "

"No, " said Gordon, "but I can make it a little worse. "

"Ah, I see, " said Phillips, with a story-teller's intuition--"thegirl. "

"The first day I reached London I went to her banker's and got heraddress, " continued Gordon. "And I wrote, saying I wanted to see her, but before I could get an answer I met her the next afternoon at agarden-party. At least I did not meet her; she was pointed out to me. I saw a very beautiful girl surrounded by a lot of men, and asked whoshe was, and found out it was the woman I had written to, the owner ofthe chain and locket; and I was also told that her engagement had justbeen announced to a young Englishman of family and position, who hadknown her only a few months, and with whom she was very much in love. So you see, " he went on, smiling, "that it was better that he died, believing in her and in her love for him. Mr. Phillips, now, wouldhave let him live to return and find her married; but Nature is kinderthan writers of fiction, and quite as dramatic. "

Phillips did not reply to this, and the general only shook his headdoubtfully and said nothing. So Mrs. Trevelyan looked at LadyArbuthnot, and the ladies rose and left the room. When the men hadleft them, a young girl went to the piano, and the other women seatedthemselves to listen; but Miss Egerton, saying that it was warm, stepped out through one of the high windows on to the little balconythat overhung the garden. It was dark out there and cool, and therumbling of the encircling city sounded as distant and as far off asthe reflection seemed that its million lights threw up to the skyabove. The girl leaned her face and bare shoulder against the roughstone wall of the house, and pressed her hands together, with herfingers locking and unlocking and her rings cutting through hergloves. She was trembling slightly, and the blood in her veins was hotand tingling. She heard the voices of the men as they entered thedrawing-room, the momentary cessation of the music at the piano, andits renewal, and then a figure blocked the light from the window, andGordon stepped out of it and stood in front of her with the chain andlocket in his hand. He held it towards her, and they faced each otherfor a moment in silence. 

"Will you take it now?" he said. 

The girl raised her head, and drew herself up until she stood straightand tall before him. "Have you not punished me enough?" she asked, ina whisper. "Are you not satisfied? Was it brave? Was it manly? Is thatwhat you have learned among your savages--to torture a woman?" Shestopped with a quick sob of pain, and pressed her hands against herbreast. 

Gordon observed her, curiously, with cold consideration. "What of thesufferings of the man to whom you gave this?" he asked. "Why notconsider him? What was your bad quarter of an hour at the table, withyour friends around you, to the year he suffered danger and physicalpain for you--for you, remember?"

The girl hid her face for a moment in her hands, and when she loweredthem again her cheeks were wet and her voice was changed and softer. "They told me he was dead, " she said. "Then it was denied, and thenthe French papers told of it again, and with horrible detail, and howit happened. "

Gordon took a step nearer her. "And does your love come and go withthe editions of the daily papers?" he asked, fiercely. "If they sayto-morrow morning that Arbuthnot is false to his principles or hisparty, that he is a bribe-taker, a man who sells his vote, will youbelieve them and stop loving him?" He gave a sharp exclamation ofdisdain. "Or will you wait, " he went on, bitterly, "until the Liberalorgans have had time to deny it? Is that the love, the life, and thesoul you promised the man who--"

There was a soft step on the floor of the drawing-room, and the tallfigure of young Arbuthnot appeared in the opening of the window as helooked doubtfully out into the darkness. Gordon took a step back intothe light of the window, where he could be seen, and leaned easilyagainst the railing of the balcony. His eyes were turned towards thestreet, and he noticed over the wall the top of a passing omnibus andthe glow of the men's pipes who sat on it. 

"Miss Egerton?" asked Arbuthnot, his eyes still blinded by the lightsof the room he had left. "Is she here? Oh, is that you?" he said, ashe saw the movement of the white dress. "I was sent to look for you, "he said. "They were afraid something was wrong. " He turned to Gordon, as if in explanation of his lover-like solicitude. "It has been rathera hard week, and it has kept one pretty well on the go all the time, and I thought Miss Egerton looked tired at dinner. "

The moment he had spoken, the girl came towards him quickly, and puther arm inside of his, and took his hand. 

He looked down at her wonderingly at this show of affection, and thendrew her nearer, and said, gently, "You are tired, aren't you? I cameto tell you that Lady Arbuthnot is going. She is waiting for you. "

It struck Gordon, as they stood there, how handsome they were and howwell suited. They took a step towards the window, and then the youngnobleman turned and looked out at the pretty garden and up at the sky, where the moon was struggling against the glare of the city. 

"It is very pretty and peaceful out here, " he said, "is it not? Itseems a pity to leave it. Good-night, Gordon, and thank you for yourstory. " He stopped, with one foot on the threshold, and smiled. "Andyet, do you know, " he said, "I cannot help thinking you were guilty ofdoing just what you accused Phillips of doing. I somehow thought youhelped the true story out a little. Now didn't you? Was it all just asyou told it? Or am I wrong?"

"No, " Gordon answered; "you are right. I did change it a little, inone particular. "

"And what was that, may I ask?" said Arbuthnot. 

"The man did not die, " Gordon answered. 

Arbuthnot gave a quick little sigh of sympathy. "Poor devil!" he said, softly; "poor chap!" He moved his left hand over and touched the handof the girl, as though to reassure himself of his own good fortune. Then he raised his eyes to Gordon's with a curious, puzzled look inthem. "But then, " he said, doubtfully, "if he is not dead, how did youcome to get the chain?"

The girl's arm within his own moved slightly, and her fingerstightened their hold upon his hand. 

"Oh, " said Gordon, indifferently, "it did not mean anything to him, you see, when he found he had lost her, and it could not mean anythingto her. It is of no value. It means nothing to any one--except, perhaps, to me. "

THE END.