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diff --git a/old/51957-0.txt b/old/51957-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8d8d7f5..0000000 --- a/old/51957-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6589 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Tales From a Rolltop Desk, by Christopher Morley - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Tales From a Rolltop Desk - -Author: Christopher Morley - -Illustrator: Walter Jack Duncan - -Release Date: May 2, 2016 [EBook #51957] -Last Updated: March 16, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - -TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK - -By Christopher Morley - -Illustrated By Walter Jack Duncan - -Garden City, N. Y., And Toronto - -Doubleday, Page & Company - -1921 - -[Illustration: 0001] - -[Illustration: 0008] - -[Illustration: 0009] - -A LETTER OF DEDICATION - -TO - -FRANK NELSON DOUBLEDAY - -Dear Effendi: - -I take the liberty of dedicating these little stories to you, with -affection and respect. They have all grown, in one mood or another, -out of the various life of Grub Street, suggested by adventures with -publishers, booksellers, magazine editors, newspaper men, theatrical -producers, commuters, and poets major and minor. If they have any appeal -at all, it must be as an honest (though perhaps sometimes too jocular) -picture of the excitements that gratify the career of young men -who embark upon the ocean of ink, and (let us not forget) those -much-enduring Titanias who consent to share their vicissitudes. You have -been the best of friends and counsellors to many such young men, and I -assure you that they look back upon the time spent under your shrewd and -humorous magistracy with special loyalty and regard. You will understand -that in these irresponsible stories no personal identifications are to -be presumed. - -I think you remember--I know you do, because you have often charitably -chuckled over the incident--that rather too eager young man who came to -call on you one day in September, 1913, saying that he simply must have -a job. And how you, in your inimitable way, said “Well, what kind of -a job would you like best to have around this place?” And he cried -“Yours!” And you justly punctured the creature by saying “All right, go -to work and get it.” (There was more youthful palpitation than intended -impertinence in the young man's outcry, so he has assured me.) And then, -still tremulous with ambition, this misguided freshman pulled out of his -pocket a bulky memorandum on which he had inscribed his pet scheme for -the regeneration and stimulus of the publishing business, and laid -it before you. How hospitably you considered his programme, and -how tenderly you must have smiled, inwardly, at his odd mixture of -earnestness and excitement! At any rate, you set him to work that -afternoon, with the assurance that he might have your job as soon as he -could qualify. - -Well, he did not get it; nor will he ever, for he knows (by this time) -what a rare complex of instincts and sagacities is needed in the head of -a great publishing house; and his own ambition has proved to be a little -different. But he can never be enough grateful for the patience and -humorous tolerance with which you brooded upon his various antics, -condoned his many absurdities, welcomed and encouraged his enthusiasms. -In nearly four years in your “shop” he learned (so he insists) more than -any college could ever teach: and how much he had to unlearn, too! And -the surprising part of it was, it was all such extraordinarily good fun. -The greatest moments of all, I suppose, were when this young man -was invited by one of your partners (on occasions that seemed so -interminably far apart!) to “walk in the garden,” that being the -cheerful tradition of the Country Life Press. There, after some -embarrassing chat about the peonies and the sun dial, the victim -meanwhile groaning to know whether it was, this time, hail or farewell, -there would come tidings of one of those five-dollar raises that were -so hotly desiderated. That paternal function (so this young man and his -fellow small fry observed) was rightly a little beneath the dignity -of the Effendi: you, they noted, only walked in the garden with paper -merchants and people like Booth Tarkington and Ellen Glasgow and good -Mr. Grosset of Grosset and Dunlap! - -Many young men (O Effendi), from Frank Norris down, have found your -house a wonderful training-school for writers and publishers and -booksellers. There are great names, of permanent honour in literature, -that owe much to your wisdom and patience. But among all those who know -you in your trebled capacity as employer, publisher, and friend, there -is none who has more reason to be grateful, or who has done less to -deserve it, than the young man I have described. And so you will forgive -him if he thus publicly and selfishly pleases himself by trying to -express his sense of gratitude, and signs himself - -Faithfully yours - -Christopher Morley. - -Roslyn, Long Island January, 1921. - -ACKNOWLEDGMENT - -The original responsibility for some of these stories--or at any rate -the original copyright--was allotted as follows: “The Prize Package,” - Collier's Weekly (1918); “Urn Burial,” Every Week (1918); “The -Climacteric,” The Smart Set (1918); “The Pert Little Hat,” The -Metropolitan (1919); “The Battle of Manila Envelopes,” The Bookman -(1920); “The Commutation Chop-house,” The New York Evening Post (1920); -“The Curious Case of Kenelm Digby,” The Bookman (1921); “Gloria and -the Garden of Sweden,” Munsey's (1921); “Punch and Judy,” The Outlook -(1921). - -All but one of these publications are still in existence. To their -editors and owners the author expresses his indebtedness and his -congratulation. - - - - - -TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK - - - - -THE PRIZE PACKAGE - - -LESTER VALIANT came back from Oxford with the degree of B. Litt., some -unpaid tailors' bills, and the conviction that the world owed him a -living because he had been suffered within the sacred precincts of -Balliol College for three years. A Rhodes scholarship is one of the most -bounteous gifts the world holds for a young man; but in Lester's case -Oxford piled upon Harvard left him with a perilous lot to unlearn. You -can tell a lot about a man when you know what he is proud of; and Lester -was really proud of having worn a wrist watch and a dinner jacket with -blue silk lapels three or four years before they became habitual in the -region of Herald Square. But let us be just: he was also proud of his -first editions of Conrad and George Moore; for he was much afflicted -with literature. - -Lester originated in the yonder part of Indiana, but when he returned -from Oxford he made up his mind to live in New York. He felt it -appropriate that he should be connected in some way with the production -of literature, and after hiring a bedroom on the fourth floor of an old -house on Madison Avenue, where two friends of his were living, he set -out to visit the publishers. - -There is a third-rate club in London called the Litterateurs' Club. -A few years ago it was in urgent need of funds, and a brilliant idea -struck the managing committee. Every writer listed in the American -“Who's Who” was circularized and received a very flattering letter -saying that, owing to the distinction of his contributions to -contemporary letters, the Litterateurs' Club of London would be very -much pleased to welcome him as a member, upon a nominal payment of -five guineas. About seven hundred guileless persons complied, and -transatlantic travel became appreciably denser on account of these men -of letters crossing to England to revel in their importance as members -of a club of which no one in London has ever heard. And by some fluke -the managing committee had got hold of the name of Lester Valiant, -then at Oxford--perhaps because he had once published a story in the -_Cantharides Magazine_. Probably they bought a mailing list from some -firm in Tottenham Court Road. - -Cecil Rhodes's executors paid his five guineas, and he had his cards -engraved: - -LESTER G. P. VALIANT - -The Litterateurs' Club, London - -The use of these pasteboards brought him ready entrée in the offices -of New York publishers. If he had not been so eager to impress the -gentlemen he interviewed with his literary connoisseurship, undoubtedly -he would have landed a job much sooner. But publishers are justly -suspicious of anything that savours of literature, and Lester's innocent -allusions to George Moore and Chelsea did much to alarm them. At length, -however, Mr. Arundel, the president of the Arundel Company, took pity -on the young man and gave him a desk in his editorial department -and fifteen dollars a week. Mr. Arundel had once walked through the -quadrangle of Balliol, and he was not disposed to be too severe toward -Lester's naïve mannerisms. - -To his amazement and dismay, Lester found his occupation not even -faintly flavoured with literature. He was set to work writing press -notes about authors of whom he had never heard at Oxford and whose books -he soon discovered to be amateurish or worse. He had been nourishing -himself upon the English conception of a publisher's office: a quaint, -dingy rookery somewhere in Clifford's Inn, where gentlemen in spats -and monocles discuss, over cups of tea and platters of anchovy toast, -realism and the latest freak of the Spasmodists. - -The Arundel office was a wilderness of light walnut desks and filing -cases, throbbing with typewriters, adding machines, and hoarse cries -from the shipping room at the rear. Here sat Lester, gloomily writing -blurbs for literary editors, and wondering how long it would be before -he would earn forty dollars a week. He reckoned that was what one ought -to get before incurring matrimony. - -***** - -Like all young men of twenty-three, Lester thought a good deal about -marriage, although he had not yet chosen his quarry. The feeling that -he could marry almost anybody was delicious to him. But this heavenly -eclecticism endures such a short time! For youth abhors generalities and -seeks the concrete instance. Also, much reading of George Moore sets the -mind brooding on these things. Lester used to stroll in Madison Square -at dusk before going back to his room, and his visions were often of a -dark-panelled apartment in the Gramercy Park neighbourhood where an open -fire would be burning and someone sitting in silk stockings to endear -him as he returned from the office. - -His arrival caused something of an upheaval in the placid breasts of the -two old college friends whose sitting room he shared on Madison Avenue. -They were sturdy and steady creatures, more familiar with Edward Earle -Purinton and Orison Swett Marden than with Swinburne and Crackanthorpe -and Mallarmé. To his secret annoyance, Lester learned that both Jack -Hulbert and Harry Hanover were earning more than thirty dollars a week, -and he even had an uneasy suspicion that they were saving some of -it. When he spoke about Beardsley or Will Rothenstein or the Grafton -Galleries they were apt to turn the talk upon Ty Cobb and Tris Speaker. -When he showed them his greatest treasure, a plaster life mask of -himself that a sculpturing friend in Chelsea had made, they were frankly -ribald. Jack was in the circulation department of a popular magazine, -and Harry performed some unexplained tasks in the office of a tea -importer. Lester was fond of them both, but it seemed to him a bitter -travesty that these simple-minded Philistines should possess so much -higher earning power than he. So he thought of taking a garret in -Greenwich Village, but in the Madison Avenue house he was sharing a big -sitting room at little expense. So he spread his books about, hung up -his framed letter from Przybyszewski, put his hammered brass tea caddy -on the reading table, and made the best of the situation. - -Even on fifteen dollars a week a young man may have a very amusing time -in New York. For his room and breakfast Lester paid six dollars a -week; for his other meals he used to hunt out the little table-d'hôte -restaurants of which there are so many in the crosstown streets between -the Avenue and Broadway. To come in from the snowy street on a winter -evening, sit down to a tureen of Moretti's hot minestrone, open a -new packet of ten-cent cigarettes, and prop up a copy of the _Oblique -Review_ against the cruet stand, seemed to Lester the prismatic fringe -of all that was _je ne sais quoi_ and _ne plus ultra_. The dandruffians -in the little orchestra under the stairs would hammer out some braying -operatic strains, and Lester would lean back in a swirl of acrid tobacco -smoke and survey his surroundings with great content. - -It was while he was conjugating the verb _to live_ in this manner, and -sowing (as someone has said) a notable crop of wild table d'hôtes, that -he first realized the importance of Pearl Denver. Miss Pearl was -Mr. Arundel's personal stenographer, a young woman remarkable in -her profession by the fact that she never exposed the details of her -camisole to the public gaze; also when the boss dictated she was able to -rescue his subordinate clauses from the airy vacancy in which they hung -suspended, and hook them up into new sentences capable of grammatical -analysis. As a stenog she was distinctly above par, but not above -parsing. - -Lester, of course, had a speaking acquaintance with Miss Denver, but -her existence had never really penetrated the warm aura of egocentric -thoughts that enhaloed him. He knew her simply as one of the contingents -of the office; and the office had proved a great disappointment to him. -Not one of the “firm” (he called them “directors”) wore spats; not one -of them had shown the faintest interest in his suggestion that they -publish a volume of Clara Tice's drawings. Lester must be pardoned for -having dismissed Miss Denver, if he had thought of her at all, as not -_generis._ - -***** - -We now proceed more rapidly. Entering the hallway of Moretti's on -Thirty-fifth Street, about half past one cocktail of a winter evening, -he found the cramped vestibule crowded by several persons taking -off their wraps. A copy of the _Oblique Review_, unmistakable in its -garlic-green cover, fell at his feet. Thinking it his own, he picked it -up and was about to pocket it when a red tarn o'shan-ter in front of him -turned round. He saw the bobbed brown hair and gray eyes of Miss Denver. -“Well, Mr. Valiant, what are you doing with my magazine?” - -“Oh--why--I beg your pardon! I thought it was mine! I'm awfully sorry!” - He was keenly embarrassed, and pulled his own copy out of his overcoat -pocket as an evidence of good faith. - -She laughed. “I don't wonder you made the mistake,” she said. “Probably -you thought you were the only person in New York reading the Oblique!” - -He felt the alarm that every shy or cautious youth experiences in the -presence of beauty, and, with a mumbled apology, fled hastily to a -little table in a corner. There, pretending to read some preposterous -farrago of free verse, he watched Miss Denver meet another girl who was -evidently waiting for her. The two chattered with such abandon, smoked -so many cigarettes, and seemed so thoroughly at home that Lester envied -them their savoir. Manoeuvring his spaghetti and parmesan, his gaze -passed as direct as the cartoonist's dotted line to the charming contour -of the stenographer's cheek and neck. His equanimity was quite overset. -Never before had he gazed with seeing eye upon the demure creature -sorting out Mr. Arundel's mind into paragraphs. Human nature is what it -is; let Lester's first thought be confessed: “I wonder if she knows what -my salary is?” - -At last, after smoking many cigarettes and skimming over the _Oblique -Review_, Lester felt it was his move. He walked down the room, looking -at his wrist watch with a slight frown as he passed her table. At the -door he saw by the reflection in a mirror that she had not even looked -up. He hurried back to Madison Avenue, pausing to sniff the crystal -frosty air. At the corner of Fifth he stood for a moment, inhaling the -miraculous clearness of the night and pondering on the relative values -of free verse and ordered rhythms as modes of self-expression. - -In spite of a certain bumptiousness among males, Lester was painfully -shy with nubile women, and it was several days before he had opportunity -for further speech with Miss Denver. Moretti's is a fifty-cent table -d'hôte, and his regimen was calculated on a forty-cent limit for dinner; -but after this meeting with the _Oblique Review's_ fairest _abonnée_ he -haunted the place for some evenings. Then one day, taking in some copy -for a book jacket to be approved by the sales manager, he encountered -Miss Denver in the sample room. During working hours she was “strictly -business,” and he admired the trim white blouse, the satin-smooth neck, -and the small, capable hands jotting pothooks in her notebook as she -took a long telephone call. She put down the receiver, and smiled -pleasantly at him. - -“Don't you go to Moretti's any more?” he asked, and then regretted the -brusqueness of the question. - -“Sometimes,” she said. “Usually when I buy the _Oblique_ I go to -a Hartford Lunch. I can sit there as long as I want and read, with -doughnuts and coffee.” - -Lester had a curious feeling of oscillation somewhere to the left of -his middle waistcoat button. As the little girl said on the Coney Island -switchback, he felt as though he had freckles on his stomach. - -“Will you come to Moretti's with me some night?” he asked. - -“I'd love to,” she said. “I must hurry now. Mr. Arundel's waiting for -this phone call.” - -A little later in the day, after a good deal of heartburning, Lester -called her up from his desk. “How about to-morrow night?” he said, and -she accepted. - -***** - -Coursing back to his chamber the next evening, Lester was a little -worried about the ceremonial demanded by the occasion. Should he put -on white linen and a dinner jacket, becoming the conquering male of the -upper classes? But the recollection of the _Oblique Review_ suggested -that a touch of négligée would be more appropriate. A clean, soft collar -and a bow tie of lavender silk were his concessions to unconvention. He -was about to scrub out a minute soup stain on the breast of his coat, -but concluded that as a badge of graceful carelessness this might -remain. At a tobacconist's he bought a package of cheap Russian -cigarettes, such as he imagined a Bolshevik might smoke. - -There she came, tripping along the street, with something of the quick, -alcaic motion of an Undersmith on high. He waved gayly. She depressed -her shift key and reversed the ribbon. He double-spaced, and they -entered the restaurant together. - -Lester felt an intellectual tremor as they sat down at a corner table. -Never had his mind seemed so relentlessly clear, so keen to leap upon -the problems of life and tessellate them. It was as though all his past -experience had cumulated and led up to this peak of existence. “Now for -a close analysis of Female Mind,” was his secret thought as he settled -in his chair. He felt almost sorry for this gay, defenceless little -shred of humanity who had cast herself under his domineering gaze. A -masculine awareness of size and power filled him. And yet--she seemed -quite unterrified. - -As they began on the antipasto he thought to himself: “I must start very -gently. Women like men to veil their power.” So he said: - -“That was funny, my picking up your magazine the other night, wasn't it? -You know I thought it was my copy.” - -“Oh, the dear old _Oblique!_ Isn't it a scream? I read myself to sleep -with it every night. We'll have to make the most of it while we can, -because Mr. Arundel says it can't pay its paper bill much longer.” - -This irreverence rather startled Lester, who was writing an article “On -the Art of Clara Tice” which he had been hoping the Oblique would -buy. In fact, he was startled quite out of the careful conversational -paradigm he had planned. He found himself getting a little ahead of his -barrage. “Does Mr. Arundel read it?” he asked. “Heavens, no!” cried Miss -Denver, and effervesced with laughter. “He would rather face a firing -squad than read that kind of stuff. But he has an interest in the -concern that supplies their paper.” The matter of paper had never -occurred to Lester before. Of course he knew a magazine had to have -something to print on, but he had never thought of the editors of a -radical review being embarrassed by such a paltry consideration. - -“Is Mr. Arundel literary?” he asked. - -Miss Denver found this very whimsical. “Say, are you kidding me?” she -said, with tilted eyebrows. “The chief says literature is the curse of -the publishing business. Every time somebody puts over some highbrow -stuff on him we lose money on it. The only kind of literature that gets -under his ribs is reports from the sales department.” - -“That's very Philistine, isn't it?” - -“Sure it is, but it puts the frogs in the pay envelopes, so what of it?” - -“Well, I should expect the head of a big publishing house to be at least -interested in some form of literary expression.” - -“You should worry! That's what we hires for. Besides he _has_ a literary -passion, too--Walt Mason. He thinks Walt is the greatest poet in the -world.” - -“Walter Mason?” murmured Lester. “I don't think I know his work.” - -“Hasn't Walt made Oxford yet?” asked Miss Denver. “He writes the prose -poems in the evening papers, syndicate stuff, you know. Printed to -look like prose, just the opposite of the free-verse gag.” She smiled -reminiscently, and quoted: - -_When I am as dry as a fish up a tree, then I to the hydrant repair, -and fill myself up, without ticket or fee, with the water that's eddying -there. I drink all I want--half a gallon or more--and then I lie down on -my couch; when I rise in the morning my head isn't sore and I don't wear -a dark brindle grouch----“_ - -“Is there any free-verse stuff that can cover that?” she asked. - -Lester was somewhat disconcerted. His assessment of Female Mind did not -seem to be proceeding methodically. He played for time. - -“I thought you enjoyed the _Oblique_?” - -“As a joke, yes: I laugh myself giddy over it. But I know darn well that -kind of junk won't last. By and by the ghost'll quit putting up and the -editors will get jobs as ticket choppers. I guess I'm a Philistine!” - -With this deliciously impudent creature beaming at him, Lester felt -himself cursedly at a disadvantage. Neither Harvard nor Balliol had -informed him about this Walter Mason, and though he had seven hundred -quips and anecdotes indexed in a scrapbook marked _Jocoseria_, none -of them seemed to bubble up just now. Darn the girl, her mind wouldn't -stand still long enough for him to take its temperature. It was like -trying to write captions for the movies while the film was running. He -blew a cloud of blue Russian vapour across the board, and smiled at her -in a tolerant, _veni-vidi-Bolsheviki_ kind of way. Behind his forehead -he was fighting desperately to catch up. - -As they wrestled with the spaghetti he remembered that someone had told -him that publishers usually depend on the literary judgment of their -wives. Perhaps that was the case with Mr. Arundel? But Miss Denver -laughed aloud at the suggestion. - -“Wrong again!” she said. “He's not married. Petunia Veal, the author of -'Sveltschmerz,' has been angling for him for years, and lots of other -lady authors, too. He's so sentimental, he's escaped 'em all so far.” - -She bubbled and chuckled and gurgled her way through the rest -of Moretti's menu, amazing him more and more by the spontaneity, -sophistication, and charm of her wit. He escorted her home, and then -stood under a lamp-post for three minutes removing the soup stain with -a handkerchief. “She's immense!” he said to himself. “Why she's--she's -a poem by William Butler Yeats!” As an afterthought, he made a mental -memorandum to visit the library and look up the work of Walter Mason. - -A few days later Mr. Arundel sent for Lester, who hurried to the private -office with visions of a raise in salary. The president was sitting at -his desk turning over some papers; he motioned Lester to a chair and -seemed curiously loath to begin conversation. At last he turned, saying: - -“Mr. Valiant, your life at Oxford did a great deal to mitigate your -literary sensibilities?” Lester hardly knew what to say, and murmured -some meaningless syllables. - -“I think that your abilities can be of very great service to us,” - continued Mr. Arundel, “and as an evidence of that I am asking the -cashier to raise your salary five dollars a week.” - -Lester bowed gently; he was not capable of articulate speech. - -“I want to ask you a rather delicate question,” pursued the president, -who seemed as much embarrassed as his visitor. “Do you ever write -poetry?” - -Lester's voice was amazingly hoarse and choky, but in a spasm of -puzzlement and gratification he ejaculated: “Sometimes!” - -“What I really mean,” said Mr. Arundel, “is this: do you ever write -verses of a sentimental nature--hum--what might be called endearments?” - -The young man sat speechless in surprise and embarrassment. As a matter -of fact, he had been trolling some amatory staves in secret, in honour -of Miss Denver; and he imagined they had come in some way under his -employer's eye. - -“Please do not be alarmed,” said Mr. Arundel, seeing his discomfiture. -“This is purely a matter of business. As it happens, I have a need for -some poems of an intimately sentimental character, and, being totally -unfitted to produce them myself, I wondered if you would sell me some? I -would be glad to pay market rates for them.” - -Still Lester could do no more than bow. - -“I shall have to be frank,” said Mr. Arundel, “and I must beg you to -keep this matter absolutely confidential. I have your word of honour in -that regard?” - -“Absolutely,” said Lester, quite vanquished by amazement. - -The president's sense of humour seemed to have mastered his diffidence. -A quaint smile lurked behind the furrows that years of royalties had -carved on his face. - -“I want to do some wooing in rhyme; and I want you to turn out some -verses for me of a superlatively lyric sort, it being understood that I -purchase all rights in these poems, including that of authorship. Would -you be willing to do me half a dozen, at say ten dollars each?” - -Lester, although staggered by the proposal, was still able to multiply -six by ten, and his answer was affirmative and speedy. - -“I do not wish to give you any specifications as to the object of your -vicarious amour,” said the president. “It is a lady, of course; young -and fair. How soon can you despoil the English language of half a dozen -songs of passion worthy of the best Oxford traditions?” - -Jack and Harry found Lester good company that evening. When they got -back to the sitting room on Madison Avenue he was lying on a couch, -nursing a large calabash and contemplating the ceiling with dreamy brow. -As they entered, stripping off their overcoats and chucking the night -extras across the room at him, he smiled the rich, tolerant smile of -Alexander at the Macedon polo grounds. - -“Well, Lester,” said Jack, “why the Cheshire-cat grin?” - -“I've sold sixty dollars' worth of verse,” said Lester, benignly; “also -I've had a raise.” - -“My God!” said Harry. “Think how many starving cubists you could endow -on that! There'll be a riot in Greenwich Village.” - -“Pity the poor bartenders on a night like this!” cried Jack. Then they -went to Browne's chop-house for dinner. After a three-finger steak and -several beakers of dog's nose, Lester was readily persuaded to enounce -the first number of his sonnet sequence, which had accreted or (as its -author expressed it) nucleolated, while he was walking home from the -office. - -“Sonnet, in the Petrarchan mode, item No. 1,” he proclaimed: - - - Upon a trellis, bending toward the south, - - I set my heart, a yearning rose, to climb; - - It pullulates and blooms in sultry rhyme, - - It spires and speeds aloft, in spite of drouth. - - And seeking for that sweeter rose, your mouth, - - That beckons from some balcony sublime, - - It heeds no whit the tick-tack-tock of Time - - And with its sweetness all the night endow'th. - - - O beauteous rose! O shrub without a thorn! - - O velvet petals unsmutched of the mire! - - For this my life was manifestly born, - - To climb toward thy lips, and never tire! - - Now ope thy shutter in the flood of mom-- - - Lean out, and smile, and pluck thy heart's desire. - - -“Seems strange,” said Harry, “that a man can buy a good meal with a -thing like that!” - -“What is a petrarch, anyway?” said Jack. “Gee, you'll have to brush your -hair to keep it out of your eyebrows,” said Harry. “Herod was petrarch -of Galilee, don't you remember? It's a kind of comptroller or efficiency -expert.” - -“Nonsense,” said Harry. “Herod was patriarch of Galilee, not petrarch.” - -At this moment Lester was busy multiplying twenty by fifty-two, and -adding sixty, and he did not attempt to put Laura's friend right in the -eyes of his companions. - -***** - -The next morning, at the office, Lester took occasion to stroll over to -the corner where Miss Denver was tickling the keys. Her delicious, able -fingers flashed like the boreal aurora; the incomparable smoothness of -her neck and throat fascinated him; her clear, blue-washed gray eyes -startled him with their merry archness. Wambling inwardly, he met her -gaze as coolly as he might. - -“Come to Moretti's to-night?” he asked. - -“I'm sorry; I've got a date to-night.” - -He ached in spirit. “To-morrow night?” - -She hesitated a moment, tapping the desk with a rosy finger nail. Then -her face brightened. “I'd love to.” - -As he returned to his desk and the dull routine of writing press notes -for Petunia Veal's latest novel, he uttered a phrase that he had caught -from Harry Hanover. It was the first sign of his emancipation from -Mallarmé and the Oxford Movement, for certainly that phrase had never -been heard on the quilted lawns of Balliol: “She's a prize package, all -right, all right!” - -Ten days elapsed. All six sonnets had been delivered and paid for, and -Mr. Arundel had bargained for a few extra rondeaux, at five dollars -each. - -Antipasto, minestrone, breadsticks, force-meat balls, and here we are -again at the spaghetti and Hackensack Chianti. Lester had mailed his -MS. on “Clara Tice and the Pleinaerists of Greenwich Village” to the -_Oblique Review_ that afternoon, and had calculated that the editors -could not in any decency offer him less than fifty--or perhaps -forty--dollars for it. This, added to 20 by 52 plus 60 plus the rondeaux -and other probable increments, would certainly support two in a garret -for some time. He also had hopes of selling some obscenarios for the -movies. Pearl would probably want to go on with her work, for a while at -any rate. She was so independent! But those clear eyes of hers, like -a March sky with teasings of April in it, how tender and laughing they -were! A few nights ago they had taken a long bus ride together, and she -had forgotten her muff. She let him warm her hands instead. He went -home that night feeling strong enough to bite lamp-posts in two, and had -waked up Jack and Harry to put them right about Petrarch. - -Pearl was teaching Lester to twirl up his spaghetti with fork and spoon, -instead of draping it out of his mouth like Spanish moss. Suddenly she -laughed. - -“What did I tell you!” she said. “The dear old _Oblique_ has gone -blooie! Mr. Arundel called up the editor to-day and told him the -Barmecide Company won't supply him with any more paper until he pays his -bills. Of course that means he'll have to quit.” - -Lester was touched in two vital spots: his own private hopes, and his -zeal for fly-specked literature. “Shades of Frank Harris!” he cried. -“If that isn't just like Arundel! Why, that man is pure and simple -_bourgeois!_ I never heard of such a thing. Has he no feeling at all for -art?” Pearl laughed--the pure, musical laugh of careless girlishness, -but the recording angel caught in the nimble chords a faint overtone of -something else--like the tinkle of ice in a misty tumbler. “Oh, he -has his own ideas about art,” she said. “He's taken to writing poetry -himself. You never heard such stuff--I've been meaning to tell you. What -does 'pullulate' mean?” - -Lester's valiant heart, Lester's manly hands that had acted as a muff -on a Riverside Drive bus, trembled and stiffened. “_It 'pullulates and -blooms in sultry rhyme_,” she quoted gayly. “Now what do you make -of that, as referring to Mr. Arundel's heart? Sultry is right, too!” - Lion-hearted Harvard, oak-bosomed Balliol, and all the mature essences -of manhood were needed to keep Lester calm. How had she seen these -secret strains? She must have been peeping into the chief's private -correspondence. He hesitated during six inches of spaghetti. “Search -me!” he said. “Is it in Walter Mason?” - -“No, it's his own stuff, I tell you. _O beauteous rose! O shrub without -a thorn!_” she chanted, and her laughter popped like a champagne cork. -The horrid truth burst upon him. The boss was courting the angel of the -office with the very ammunition that Lester himself had furnished, and -his vow of secrecy forbade him to disclose the truth. Oh, the paltry -meanness of fate, the villainy of circumstance! It is impossible to -describe the pangs it cost him to dissemble, cloak, disguise, and -conceal the anguish he felt. But dissemble, cloak, disguise, and conceal -he did, and though his heart glowed like an angry cigar stub, he reached -home at last. - -There he sat down at his table, and amid the healthy snores of his -roommates he concocted a fine piece of literary ordnance. Late and -grimly he toiled and contrived. At length he had fashioned a sonnet -which would be the golden sum and substance of the previous sequence; -a cry of the heart so splendidly forensic that Mr. Arundel would pounce -upon it, yielding his crisp steel engraving in return. But see, the -asp concealed in the basket of fruit, the adder in the woodpile! Read -Lester's sonnet as an acrostic: - - - Over that trellis where the moon distills - - My heart is climbing like a rambler rose: - - You lean and listen to the whippoorwills, - - Heedless of how the fragrant blossom grows! - - O beauteous rose! O shrub without a thorn! - - When wilt thou realize my love in sooth? - - I touch the windowsill with heart forlorn, - - Hoping the guerdon of thy bounteous youth. - - After the grief and teen of bitter days, - - Troubled by woes that cicatrize and burn, - - Ever at eventide I seek thy praise, - - Yearning thy maiden bliss--I yearn, I yearn! - - Over the rotten fruit of buried years - - Unbar the bolt--have pity on my tears! - - -The discerning reader will spot the glittering falchion of malice -lurking in the initial letters. Read them downward, they convey: _o my -how I hate you!_ Lester had but to convey this poisoned comfit to his -chief: then, playing upon the artless Pearl, persuade her to show it to -him--point out the murderous duplicity of the love token; and she would -recoil into his arms. Greenwich Village would sound the timbrel of joy, -and even the _Oblique_ might find a softer-hearted papyrus vendor. -_Vos plaudite!_ With such thoughts, amid the wailing matin song of -boarding-house steam pipes, our hero fell into a brief slumber. - -That morning Lester hastened to the office. He waited feverishly until -the hour when the chief usually arrived, then visited the private -office. There he found the vice-president going over the morning mail. -“Is--is Mr. Arundel in?” he stammered. - -“Mr. Arundel isn't here to-day,” said the vicepresident. “He will be -away two weeks.” - -Lester retired queasily, and hurried to the corner sacred to Miss -Denver. Here he found one of the other stenographers using Pearl's -machine. - -“Where's Miss Denver?” he asked. - -The young lady, of humorous turn, looked at her wrist watch. “Getting -ready to go over the top,” she said. - -“What do you mean?” - -“Haven't you heard? She marries the boss this morning.” - - - - - -ADVICE TO TO LOVELORN - - -I - -MISS ANN AUSTIN came briskly into her little cupboard of a room at -the back of the _Evening Planet_ office. She hung up her hat and coat, -opened her rolltop desk, put her small handbag carefully in a drawer, -and looked at herself in a greenish mirror that hung secretly on a hook -in the recess under the pigeonholes. She took the rubber hood off her -typewriter, poured three paper cupfuls of drinking water on the potted -geranium on the windowledge, wound up the cheap clock on top of the -desk, and moved it forward ten minutes to compensate for what it had -lost during the night. Now she was ready for work. As she wound up the -clock, the usual thought occurred to her--when would she be able to buy -herself the handsome little wrist watch she coveted? There were a lot -of them in the jeweller's shop on Park Row, and she admired them every -morning on her way to the office. But when one is supporting one's self -and an invalid mother in an uptown apartment, and has to pay for a woman -to come in during the day to lend a hand, all on fifty dollars a week, -in an era of post-bellum prices, wrist watches have to wait. However, -as Ann made the daily correction in her laggard clock she used to say to -herself: “There's a better time coming.” She was not devoid of humour, -you see. - -Then the office boy would bring in the big pile of morning mail, -grinning as he laid it on the pullout slide of her desk. He may be -excused for grinning, because Ann was the kind of creature who would -bring a smile to the surliest face. She was just a nice size, with a -face that was both charming and sensible, and merry brown eyes (when -it wasn't too close to the first of the month). Also, that pile of mail -_was_ rather amusing. Those letters, so many of them written on cheap -pink or blue stationery and addressed in unsophisticated handwriting, -were not directed to Miss Ann Austin, but to “Cynthia,” and the office -boy knew pretty well the kind of messages that were in them. For Ann, -under the pseudonym of “Cynthia,” conducted the _Planet's_ department of -Advice to the Lovelorn, and daily several score of puzzled or distracted -beings bared their hearts to her. The pile of letters was growing -bigger, too. The _Planet_, which was not a very flourishing paper just -at that time, had started the Advice to the Lovelorn department a few -months before, and had put Ann in charge of it because she had done so -well writing sob stories. It was beginning to “pull” quite surprisingly -as a circulation feature, especially since her smiling little picture, -vignetted in a cut with a border of tiny hearts, had been put at -the head of the column. Under the cut was the legend: “Cynthia, a -Sympathetic Adviser in Matters of the Heart.” Ann didn't know whether to -be pleased or not at the growing popularity of her feature. This was not -quite the kind of thing she had hoped for when she entered the newspaper -world. But--the more letters there were from the lovelorn, the sooner -she might get that needed raise. - -With a little sigh she got out her penknife, began slitting the -envelopes, ceased to be Ann Austin and became Cynthia, the sage and -gentle arbiter over her troubled parliament of love. - -It was a task that required no small discretion and tact, because -Cynthia, whatever her private misgivings, tried to perform it with some -honest idealism. In the first place, the letters that were obviously -merely humorous, or were amorous attempts to inveigle her into private -correspondence, were discarded. Then the letters to be used in the next -day's column had to be selected, and laid aside to be printed with her -comment on the ethical or sociological problems involved. The remaining -letters had all to be answered, and data noted down that would be useful -in compiling the pamphlet “1001 Problems of Courtship” that the managing -editor insisted on her preparing. He said it would be great circulation -dope. Ann didn't care much for the managing editor, Mr. Sikes. He had a -way of coming into her room, closing the door behind him, leaning over -her desk, and saying: “Well, how's little Miss Cupid?” If it hadn't been -for that habit of his, Ann would have spoken to him about a raise before -now. But she had an uneasy feeling that it would not be pleasing to put -herself in the position of asking him favours. She would have been still -more disturbed if she had known that some of the boys in the city room -used to talk about “Cupid and Sikey” when they saw him visit her room. -They said it angrily, because Ann was a general office favourite. Even -the coloured elevator man had brought his wooing problems to her one -day, wanting to be reassured as to his technique. - -It is all very well for you to scoff, superior reader, but letters -such as Ann had to read every morning bring an honest pang to an -understanding heart; particularly when that heart is in collaboration -with twenty-two years of bright, brown-eyed, high-spirited girlhood. -Perhaps you don't realize how many of us are young and ignorant and at -work in offices, and absorbed, out of working hours, in the universal -passion. A good many make shift to be cynical and worldly-wise in -public, but who knows how ravishingly sentimental we are in private? -Some say that Doctor Freud didn't tell the half of it. As that waggish -poet Keith Preston has remarked, - - Love, lay thy phobias to rest, - - Inhibit thy taboo! - - We twain shall share, forever blest, - - A complex built for two! - -A complex built for two was the ambition of most of Ann's -correspondents; but mainly her letters exhibited the seamy side of -Love's purple mantle. You see, when lovers are perfectly happy, they -don't write to the papers about it. And when she pondered gravely -over “Brokenhearted's” letter saying that she has just learned that a -perfectly splendid fellow she is so infatuated with has a wife and three -children in Detroit; or over “Puzzled's” inquiry as to whether she is -“a bum sport” because she wouldn't let the dark young man kiss her -good-night, she sometimes said to herself that Napoleon was right. -Napoleon, you remember, remarked that Love causes more unhappiness than -anything else in the world. And then she would turn to her typewriter, -and put under “Puzzled's” inquiry: - -_No, “Puzzled,” do not let him kiss you unless you are betrothed. If any -one is a “bum sport” it is he for wanting to do so. If he “always kisses -the girls good-night when he has had a good time,” he is not your sort. -A man that does not respect a girl before marriage will certainly not -respect her afterward._ - -After she had typed these replies she always hastily took the paper out -of her typewriter and tucked it away in her desk. She did not like the -idea of Mr. Sikes coming in and reading it over her shoulder, as he had -done once. That was the time she had used the quotation “Pains of Love -are sweeter far than all other pleasures are” in answering “Desolate.” - The managing editor had repeated the verse in a way that both angered -and alarmed her. - -This particular morning, among the other letters was one that interested -her both by the straightforward simplicity of its statement and by the -clear, vigorous handwriting on sensible plain notepaper. It ran thus: - -_Dear Cynthia:_ - -_I am a young business man, very much in love, and I need your help. I -have fallen in love with a girl who does not know me. I do not even know -her name but I know her by sight, and I know where she works. She looks -like the only one for me, but I don't want to do anything disrespectful. -Would it be a mistake for me to call at her office and try to get a -chance to meet her? Do you think she would be offended? She looks very -adorable. Please tell me honestly what you think._ - -_Respectfully yours,_ - -_Sincerity._ - -Wearied by the maunderings of many idiotic flappers and baby vamps, this -appeal attracted her. She put it into the column for the following day, -writing underneath it: - -_You never can tell, “Sincerity”! It all depends upon you. If you are -the right kind of man, she ought not to be offended. Why not take a -chance? Faint heart never won fair lady._ - -It was trying enough, Ann used to think, to have to pore over the -troubles of her lovelorn clients on paper; but the worst times were when -they came to call on her at the office. Fortunately this did not happen -very often, for the stricken maidens and young Lochinvars who make up -the chief support of such columns as hers are safely and busily shut up -among typewriters and filing cases during the daytime; their wounds do -not begin to burn intolerably until about five-thirty p.m. But now and -then some forlorn and baffled creature would find his or her way to -“Cynthia” and ask her advice. She would listen sympathetically, apply -such homely febrifuge as her inexperienced but wise heart suggested to -her, and after the patient had gone she would add the case to her list -of 1001 Problems. The material for the pamphlet was growing rapidly. - -One morning, while the managing editor was in her room asking her how -soon the booklet would be ready, the office boy brought in a card -neatly engraved _Mr. Arthur Caldwell_. Now as a rule Cynthia did not see -masculine visitors, because (after one or two trying experiences) she -had found that they were inclined to transfer to her the heart that -someone else had bruised. But in this case she welcomed the caller -because Mr. Sikes was being annoyingly facetious. He had looked over her -laboriously gathered data for the 1001 Problems, and had said: “Well, -you're getting to be quite an experienced little girl in these matters, -hey?” He had seemed disposed to linger on the topic with pleasure. -Therefore Cynthia told the office boy to send Mr. Caldwell in, though -the name meant nothing to her. Mr. Sikes went out, and the caller was -introduced. - -Mr. Caldwell proved to be a young man, quite as nice-looking as the -collar-advertising young men without being so desperately handsome. -Cynthia liked him from the first glance. There was something that seemed -very genuine about his soft collar and his candid, clean-shaven face and -the little brown brief-case he carried. He had on brown woollen socks, -too, she noticed, in one of those quick feminine observations. He seemed -very embarrassed, and his face suddenly went ruby red. - -“Is this Cynthia?” he said. - -“Yes,” said Ann, pushing aside a mass of lovelorn correspondence, and -wondering what the trouble could be. - -“My name's Caldwell,” he said. “Look here, I suppose you'll think me an -awful idiot, but I wanted to ask your advice. I--I wrote you a letter -the other day, and your answer in the column made me think that perhaps -you wouldn't mind giving me some help. I wrote that letter signed -'Sincerity'.” - -He was obviously ill at ease, and Ann tried to help him out. - -“I remember the letter perfectly,” she said. “Did you take my advice?” - -“Well, I'm a bit uncertain about it,” he said. - -“I just wanted to explain to you a little more fully, and see what -you think. You see I happened to see this girl one day, going into her -office. I suppose the idea about love at first sight is all exploded, -but I had a hunch as soon as I saw her that----Oh, well, that I would -like to know her. I've seen her going in and out of the building, but -she has never seen me, never even heard of me. I don't know any one who -can introduce me to her, and I can't just walk up to her and tell her -I'm crazy about her. They don't do that except in Shakespeare. I don't -know much about girls and I thought maybe you could suggest some way in -which I could meet her without frightening her.” - -Ann pondered. She liked the young man's way of putting his problem, and -it was plain from his genuine embarrassment that he was sincere. - -“I'd love to help you, if I could,” she said. “It seems to me that the -only way to go about it is to arrange some business with the firm she -works for, and try to meet her that way. Couldn't that be done?” - -“She's secretary to one of the big bugs in the Telephone Company,” he -said. “I'm in the publishing business. I don't see any way in which I -could fake up a business connection there. The worst of it is, there may -be a dozen fellows in love with her already, for all I know. I suppose I -might get a job with the Telephone Company, but by the time I had worked -up far enough to have an excuse for going into the vice-president's -office where she works, someone else might have married her.” He -laughed, a boyish, ingratiating chuckle. - -“It does seem pretty hard,” said Ann. “I don't know what to say.” She -had a mental picture of the unknown fair one, going in and out of the -big Telephone Company's building on Dey Street, unaware of the admiring -glances of this bashful admirer. “I'll bet the men she knows aren't half -as nice as he is,” she said to herself. - -“I happen to know that she reads your column,” said Caldwell. “I suppose -there isn't any way I could get in touch with her through that?” - -“If there's any legitimate way I can help,” Ann said, “I'll be glad to. -But I hardly see what I can do.” - -“Well, thanks awfully,” he said. “If I get a chance to meet her, will -you let me come in again and tell you about it? Perhaps you would let -me mention your name as a reference, in regard to my respectability I -mean?” - -“Surely you can give her better references than that? You see, I don't -know so very much about you, Mr. Caldwell.” - -“In matters like this,” he said, “I guess you're the Big Authority. And -by the way, do you ever do any book reviewing? I work for Fawcett and -Company, the publishers, and we'd like immensely to have your comment on -some of our love stories. Can I send you some books?” - -“I can't promise to review them,” said Ann, rather pleased, because this -seemed to her a way to earn a little extra money. “But I'll speak to the -literary editor, and we'll see.” - -“Suppose I send them to your home address,” said Caldwell. “I know what -a newspaper office is, if I send them here someone else might snitch -them. Give me your street number, and you'll be spared the trouble of -taking them home to read.” - -“That's very kind of you,” said Ann. “Miss Ann Austin, 527 West 150th -Street. Well, you let me know what happens about your fair lady. I wish -you all sorts of luck!” - -When Arthur Caldwell got outside the office, he looked down Park Row to -where the great Telephone Building rose up behind the brown silhouette -of St. Paul's. - -“Caldwell,” he said to himself, “you're an infernal liar! But it pays! -I'll figure out some way. While there's life there's dope.” - -He set out for the subway, but paused again to meditate. - -“Ann Austin!” he said. “By George, she's a queen.” - - - -II - -It is not the purpose of this tale to tell in detail how Arthur -Caldwell laid siege to Ann Austin. He was a cautious man, and for -some time he contented himself by presenting occasional reports of his -progress with the damsel of the Telephone Company. Ann, in her friendly -and unselfish way, was delighted to hear, a few days later, that he had -met his ideal. Then, averring that he needed further counsel, Arthur -persuaded her to have lunch with him one day; and Ann, convinced that -the young man was in love with someone else, saw no reason why this -should not be done. Perhaps it was a little odd that at their various -meetings they should have talked so much of themselves, their ambitions, -the books they had been reading, and so on; and so little of the -Telephone lady. But surely it was strictly a matter of business that -Arthur should send Miss Austin some of Fawcett's novels, for her to -review in the _Planet_; and equally a professional matter that he should -discuss with her her opinion of them. And then came the day when Arthur -called up to say that things were going so well with the Telephone -lady that he wanted Cynthia to meet her; and would she join them in St. -Paul's Churchyard at half-past twelve? Ann, with just a curious little -unanalyzed twinge in her heart, agreed to do so. - -But when she reached the bench in the graveyard, where a bright autumn -sunshine filled the clearing among those tremendous buildings, Arthur -was there alone. - -“Where's Alice?” said Ann, innocently--for such was the name Arthur had -always given the lady of the Telephone Company. - -“She couldn't come,” he said. “But I want to show you her picture.” - -They sat down on the bench, and he took out of his pocket a copy of -the noon edition of the _Planet_. He turned to the feature page, and -displayed the little cut of Cynthia at the head of the Lovelorn column. - -“There,” he said, stoutly (though his heart was tremulous within him), -“there, you adorable little thing, there she is.” - -It would be pleasant to linger over this scene, but, as I have just -said, this is not our _denouement,_ but only an incident. Ann, shot -through with delicious pangs of doubt and glory and anger, asked for -explanations. - -“And do you mean to say there never was any Alice, the beautiful -Telephone blonde?” she said. “What a fraud you are!” - -“Of course not,” he said. “You dear, delightful innocent, I just had -to cook up some excuse for coming up to see you. And you can't be angry -with me now, Ann, because in your own answer to Sincerity's letter you -said the girl ought not to be offended. You told me to take a chance! -Just think what self-control I had, that first time I came up to see -you, not to blurt out the truth.” And then he tore off a scrap of margin -from the newspaper and measured her finger for a ring. - - -III - -There were happy evenings that winter, when Ann, after finishing her -stint at the office, would hasten up their rendezvous at Piazza's little -Italian table d'hote. Here, over the minestrone soup and the spaghetti -and that strong Italian coffee that seems to have a greenish light round -the edges of the liquid (and an equally greenish taste), they would -discuss their plans and platitudes, just as lovers always have and -always will. As for Ann, the light of a mystical benevolence shone in -her as she conned her daily pile of broken hearts in the morning mail. -More than ever she felt that she, who had seen the true flame upon the -high altar, had a duty to all perplexed and random followers of the -gleam who had gone astray in their search. Aware more keenly that the -troubled appeals of “Tearful” and “Little Pal,” however absurd, were -the pains of genuine heartache, she became more and more tender in her -comments, and her correspondence grew apace. Now that she knew that her -job need not go on forever she tried honestly to run the column with all -her might. How stern she was with the flirt and the vamp and the jilt; -how sympathetic with the wounded on Love's great battle-field. “Great -stuff, great stuff!” Mr. Sikes would cry, in his coarse way, and -complimented her on the increasing “kick” of her department. Knowing -that he attributed the accelerated pulse of the Lovelorn column to mere -cynicism on her part, she did not dare wear her ring in the office for -fear of being joked about it. She used to think sadly that because she -had made sympathy with lovers a matter of trade, she herself, now -she was in love, could hope for no understanding. Although she hardly -admitted it, she longed for the day when she could drop the whole thing. - -One evening Arthur met her at Piazza's, radiant. He was going off on a -long business trip for his publishing house, and they had promised him a -substantial raise when he returned. They sat down to dinner together in -the highest spirits. Arthur, in particular, was in a triumphant mood: -the publishing world, it seemed, lay under his feet. - -“Great news, hey?” he said. “We'll be able to get married in the spring, -and you can kick out of that miserable job.” - -“But, Arthur,” she said, “you know I have to take care of Mother. Don't -you think it would be wiser if I went on with the work for a while, -until your next raise comes? It would help a good deal, and we'd be able -to put a little away for a rainy day.” - -“What?” he said. “Do you think I'm going to have my wife doing that -lovelorn stuff in the paper every day? It'd make me a laughing stock if -it ever got out. No, _sir!_ I haven't said much about it, because I knew -it couldn't be helped; but believe me, honey, that isn't the right kind -of job for you. I've often wondered you didn't feel that yourself.” - -Ann was a little nettled that he should put it that way. Whatever her -private distaste for the Lovelorn column, it had served her well in a -difficult time, and had paid the doctor's bills at home. And she knew -how much honest devotion she had put into the task of trying to give -helpful counsel. - -“At any rate,” she said, “it was through the column that we first met.” - -What evil divinity sat upon Arthur's tongue that he could not see this -was the moment for a word of tenderness? But a young man flushed with -his first vision of business success, the feeling that now nothing can -prevent him from “making good,” is likely to be obtuse to the finer -shades of intercourse. - -“Of course, dear, I could see you were different from the usual sob -sister of the press,” he said. “I could see you didn't really fall for -that stuff. It's because I love you so, I want to get you out of that -cheap, degrading sensational work. Most of those letters you get are -only fakes, anyway. I think Love ought to be sacred, not used as mere -circulation bait for a newspaper.” - -Ann was a high-spirited girl, and this blunt criticism touched her in -that vivid, quivering region of the mind where no woman stops to reason. -But she made an honest attempt to be patient. - -“But, Arthur,” she said; “there's nothing really cheap and degraded in -trying to help others who haven't had the same advantages we have. I -know a lot of the letters I print are silly and absurd, but not more so -than some of the books you publish.” - -“Now, listen,” he said, loftily, “we won't quarrel about this. I don't -want you to go on with the job, that's all. It isn't fair to you. You -may take the work seriously, and put all sorts of idealism into it, but -it's not the right kind of job for a refined girl. How about the men in -the office? I'll bet I know what _they_ think of it. They probably think -it's a devil of a good joke, and laugh about it among themselves. Don't -you think I've seen that managing editor leering at you? That sort of -thing cheapens a girl among decent men. Every Lovelace in town feels he -has a right to send you mash-notes, I guess.” - -Ann was furious. - -“Well, you're the only one I ever paid any attention to,” she said, -blazing at him. “I'm sorry you think I've cheapened myself. I guess I -have, by letting you interfere with my affairs.” - -She slipped the ring from her finger, and thrust it at him. Arthur saw, -too late, what he had done. She listened in scornful silence to his -miserable attempts to console her, which were doubly handicapped by the -old waiter hovering near. She was still adamant while he took her up -town. The only thing she said was when she reached the door of her -apartment. - -“I don't want you to cheapen yourself. You needn't come any more.” - -By this time Arthur also was thoroughly angry. The next morning he went -away on his business trip, realizing for the first time that he who has -the pass key to a human heart treads among dangerous explosives. - - -IV - -How different the little room in the Planet office looked to Ann -when she returned, with a sick heart, to her work the next morning. -Everything was just the same--the geranium on its windowledge, that -seemed to survive both the eddying hot air from the steampipes beneath -it and the daily douche of iced drinking water; the noisily ticking -inaccurate little clock; the dusty typewriter. All were the same, and -there was the pile of morning letters from Love's battered henchmen. -To office boy and casual reporter Ann herself seemed the usual cheerful -charmer with her crisp little white collar and dark, alluring hair. -Her swift, capable hands sped over the pile of letters, slitting the -envelopes and sorting the outcries into some classification of her own. -Outwardly nothing had altered, but everything seemed to have lost its -meaning. What a desolate emptiness gaped beneath the firm routine of her -daily life. She was struck by the irony of the fact that the only one -in the office who seemed to notice that something was amiss was the -one person whom she disliked--Mr. Sikes. He came in about something or -other, and then stayed, looking at her intently. - -“You look sick,” he said. “What's the matter, is the love feast getting -on your nerves?” - -With a queer twitching at the corners of her mouth, she forced herself -to say some trifling remark. He leaned over her and put his hand on -hers. She caught the strong cigarry whiff of his clothes, which sickened -her. - -“Too much love in the abstract,” he said, insinuatingly. “What you need -is a little love in the concrete.” - -If he--or any one--had spoken tenderly to her, she would have burst into -tears. But the boorishness of his words was just the tonic she needed. -She looked at him with flashing eyes, and was about to say: “Keep to -some topic you understand.” Then she dared not say it, for now she could -not run the risk of losing her job. She faced him steadily, in angry -silence. He left the room, and the little green-tarnished mirror under -the pigeonholes saw tears for the first time. - -The irony of her position moved her cruelly when she began her task of -dealing with the correspondents. Here she was, giving helpful, cheery -advice, posing as all-wise in these matters, when her own love affair -had come so miserably to grief. In the ill-written scrawls on scented -and scalloped paper she could hear an echo of her own suffering. -“Hopeless” and “Uncertain” and “Miss Eighteen” got very tender -replies that day. And how she laid the lash upon “Beau Brummel” and -“Disillusioned,” those self-assured young men, who had chosen that mail -to contribute their views on the flirtatious and unreliable qualities of -modern girls. - -The bitterness of her paradoxical task became dulled as the days went -on, but there were other troubles, too, to bother her. Her mother, -quick and querulous to detect unhappiness, fell into one of her nervous -spells, and the doctor had to be called in again. The woman-by-the-day -got blood-poisoning in her arm, and could not come. The landlord gave -notice of a coming raise in rent. A fat letter came from Arthur, and in -a flush of passion she destroyed it unread. If it hadn't been such a fat -letter, she said to herself, it wouldn't have annoyed her so to see it. -But she wasn't going to wade through pages of explanation of just what -he had meant. She was still cut to the quick when she remembered the -cavalier and easy way in which he had scoffed at her work. And then, as -time went by, she found herself moving into a new mood--no longer one of -exaggerated tenderness toward her clients, but a feeling almost cynical. -“They're all fools, just as I am,” she said. - -One morning she found on her desk a note from the managing editor: - -_Dear Miss Cupid:_ - -_We've made some changes in our budget, and I've been authorized to -fatten your envelope $15 a week. I'm glad to do this, because the -Lovelorn stuff is going big. Just keep kidding them along and everything -will be fine. Maybe some day we can syndicate it. Hope this will cheer -you up, don't look so blue at your friends._ - -_Sikes._ - -There had been a time when the tone and phrasing of this note might -have seemed offensive, but in the numbness of despondency Ann had felt -lately, it was a fine burst of rosy warmth. Thank God, she said to -herself, something has broken my way at last! She wondered if she had -been mistaken in Sikes, after all? Perhaps he was really a friend of -hers, and she had misunderstood his odd ways. - -That day at noon she went down to the cashier's department to cash -a small check. There was no one in the cage, but in the adjoining -compartment, behind a wall of filing cases, she could hear two girls -talking. One of them said: - -“I see Sikes has put through a raise for Lovelorn. Pretty soft for her, -hey?” - -“She'll have to give value received, I guess,” said the other. “Sikes -figures if he puts that over for her, she'll fall for him. She's been -stalling him for quite a while, but I suppose he's got her fixed now.” - -She fled, aghast, ran down to another floor so as not to be seen, and -took the elevator. Out on the street she walked mechanically along Park -Row and found herself opposite St. Paul's. She wandered in and sat down -on a bench. It was a chilly day, and the churchyard was nearly empty. - -So this was Sikes's friendliness; and she, utterly innocent even in -thought, was already the subject of vulgar office gossip. For the first -time there broke in upon her, with bitter force, the knowledge that no -matter how easy it may be to counsel others, few of us are wise in our -own affairs. - -Pitiable paradox: she, the “sympathetic adviser in matters of the -heart,” had made shipwreck of her own happiness. How right Arthur had -been, and how childish and mad she, to reject his just instinct. It was -true: she had made use of Love for mere newspaper circulation; and now -Love had died between her hands. Well, this was the end. No matter what -happened, she could not go on with the job. Cold and trembling with -nervousness, she returned to her desk, to finish her column for the next -day. - -On her typewriter lay some letters, which had come in while she was out. -She opened one, and read. - -_Dear Cynthia:_ - -_I am in great trouble, please help me. I am in love with a fellow -and know he is all right and we would be very happy together. We were -engaged to be married, and everything was lovely. But he objected to the -work I was doing, said it was not a good job for a girl and that I ought -to give it up. I knew he was right, but the way he said it made me mad. -I guess I am hot-tempered and stubborn--anyway, I told him to mind his -own business, and he went away. Now I am heart-broken, because I love -him and I know he loves me. Tell me what to do._ - -_Jessie._ - -Ann sat looking at the cheap blue paper with the initial J gaudily -embossed upon it in gilt. In the sprawling lines of unlettered -handwriting she saw an exact parallel to her own unhappy rupture with -Arthur. How much more clearly we can see the answer in others' tangles -than in our own! Jessie, with her pathetic pretentious gilt initial, -knew that she had been in the wrong, and was brave enough to want to -make amends. And she--had she not been less true to Love than Jessie? -Her false pride and obstinacy had brought their own punishment. Seeing -the situation through Jessie's eyes, she could read her duty plain. -Arthur, no doubt, was through with her forever, but she must play the -game no less. - -She put Jessie's letter at the head of the Lovelorn column for the next -day. Under it she wrote: - -_Certainly, dear Jessie, if you feel you were in the wrong, you ought -to take the first step toward making up. Probably he was tactless in -criticizing you, but I am sure he only did it because he had your true -interest at heart. So write him a nice letter and be happy together. -Your friend Cynthia hopes it will all come out all right, because she -has seen other cases like this where false pride caused great suffering. -If he is the right man, he will love you all the more after he gets your -letter._ - -Ann sent up her copy to the composing room, and then going to a -telephone booth she called up Fawcett and Company and asked for Mr. -Caldwell. - -“Mr. Caldwell's not here any longer,” said the girl. - -“Serves me right,” said Ann to herself. “Can you tell me where I can -find him?” she asked, wondering how it was that one so miserable could -still speak in such a pleasant and apparently unconcerned tone of voice. - -The Fawcett operator switched her to another wire. - -“I'm sorry,” said a stenographer, “Mr. Fawcett left here about two weeks -ago. He's got a job out of town--in Boston, I think. I can find out for -you in the morning if you'll call again.” - -“Never mind,” said Ann. - -She had a horror of facing Mr. Sikes in her present wretchedness, so -before she went home she wrote him a note, resigning her job, and asking -permission to leave as soon as possible. - -The next day she had to nerve herself to face his protests, and the -friendly remarks of all the staff when the news spread. It was a hideous -ordeal, but she managed to get through it smiling. But by evening -she was inwardly a wreck. In her present mood, she had an instinctive -longing to revisit the shabby little restaurant where she and -Arthur had spent so many happy hours. She knew it would give her pain; -but she felt that pain was what she needed--sharp, clean, insistent -pain to ease the oppression and disgust of what she had been through. -Remorse, she felt, is surgical in action: it cuts away foul tissues -of the mind. She could not, without preparatory discipline, face her -mother's outcry at hearing she had given up her job. - - -V - -In the crisp blue evening air the bright front of Piazza's café shone -with a warm and generous lustre. From sheer force of habit, her heart -lightened a little as she climbed the stairs and entered the familiar -place, where festoons of red and green paper decoration criss-crossed -above the warm, soup-flavoured, tobacco-fogged room. There was a clatter -of thick dishes and a clamour of talk. - -“One?” said the head waiter, his wiry black hair standing erect as -though in surprise. - -She nodded, and followed him down the narrow aisle. There was the little -table, in the corner under the stair, where they had always sat. A -man was there, reading a newspaper.... Her heart felt very strange, as -though it had dropped a long way below its usual place. It was -Arthur, and he was smiling at her as though nothing had happened. He was -getting up. . . he was shaking hands with her. . . how natural it all -seemed! - -Like all really great crises, it was over in a flash. She found herself -sitting at the little table, taking off her gloves in the most casual -fashion. Arthur was whispering outrageous things. How fine it is that -everybody talks so loud in Italian table d'hôtes, and the waiters crash -the dishes round so recklessly! - -Arthur's talk seemed to be in two different keys, partly for the benefit -of old Tonio, the waiter, and partly for her alone. - -“Well, here you are! I wondered how soon you'd get here.... _Have -you forgiven me, dearest?_. . . Do you want some minestrone?. . . _Why -didn't you answer my letters, brownest eyes?_ . . . Yes, and some of the -near-beer.. . . _Darling, it was all my fault. I wrote to tell you so. -Didn't you get my letter?_” - -After all, at such times there isn't much explaining done, A happy -reconciliation is the magic of a moment, and no explanations are -necessary. The trouble just drops away, and life begins again from the -last kind thing that was said. All Ann could do was whisper: - -“No, Arthur--it was I who was wrong. I--I've given up the Lovelorn.” - -And then, after a sudden moisture of eye on both sides, the steaming -minestrone came on in its battered leaden tureen from which the silver -plating disappeared long ago, and under pretense of serving her soup -Arthur stretched out his hand. She put out hers to meet it, and found -the ring slipped deftly back on her finger. - -“But, Arthur,” she said, presently, “I thought you were out of town.” - -“I was,” he said. “I've got a new job, with King and Company in Boston. -A good job, too, we can be married right away, and you don't need to -worry.” - -“Well, how did you happen to come here tonight? You didn't know I was -going to be here. I didn't know it myself until an hour or so ago.” - -“Perhaps I willed you to come, who knows?” he said, gaily. “Have you -been advising lovers all this while, and didn't know that they always -haunt the scenes of former felicity? I've been in town several days, and -came here every night.” - -He produced a copy of the _Evening Planet_ which he had been reading -when she came in. - -“I had a special reason for thinking you might come here to-night,” he -said. “This afternoon I read your column, and I saw Jessie's letter -and your answer. What you said made me think that perhaps you might be -willing to forgive me.” Ann, once more safely enthroned on the shining -glory of her happiness, felt that she could afford to tease him just a -little. - -“Ah,” she said, “so you admit that some of those letters people write me -_are_ genuine, and that the answers do some good?” - -He smiled at her and laid his hand over the ring, which outglittered -even the most newly nickeled of Piazza's cutlery. - -“Yes, honey,” he said. “I admit it. And I knew that Jessie's letter was -genuine, because I wrote it myself.” - - - - -THE CURIOUS CASE OF KENELM DIGBY - -WE HAD been dining together at the Hotel Ansonia, and as we walked up -the shining breezy channel of Broadwhat is the commonest phrase of the -detectives? To put two and two together. What else, I ask you, is the -poet doing all the time but putting two and two together--two rhymes, -and then two rhymes more, and making a quatrain. - -He swung his stick, puffed strongly at his cigar, and amorously surveyed -the deep blue of the night, against which the huge blocks of apartment -houses spread their random patterns of lighted windows. Between these -granolithic cliffs flowed a racing stream of bright motors, like the -rapids of a river of light hurrying downward to the whirlpool of Times -Square. - -My friend Dove Dulcet (the well-known poet and literary agent) -vigorously expounded a theorem which I afterward had occasion to -remember. - -“There is every reason,” he cried, “why a poet should be the best of -detectives! My boy, there is a rhyme in events as well as in words. When -you see two separate and apparently unconnected happenings that seem (as -one might say) to rhyme together, you begin to suspect one author behind -them both. It is the function of the poet to have a quick and tender -apprehension of similarities. The root of poetry is nothing else than -describing things as being like other apparently quite different things. -The lady who compared herself to a bird in a gilded cage was chaffed for -her opulent and spendthrift imagination; but in that lively simile she -showed an understanding of the poetic principle. Look here: - -“Either for a poet or for a detective,” he said, gaily, “this seems to -me the ideal region. I tell you, I walk about here suspecting the -most glorious crimes. When I see the number of banana splits that are -consumed in these glittering drugstores, I feel sure that somewhere, -in the purple silences of the night, hideous consequences must follow. -Those who feed so violently on that brutalizing mixture of banana, -chocolate ice cream, cherry syrup, and whipped marshmallow, must -certainly be gruesome at heart. I look out of my window late at night -toward the scattered lights of that vast pile of apartments, always -thinking to see them blaze some great golden symbol or letter into the -darkness, some terrible or obscene code that means death and terror.” - -“Your analogy seems to have some sense,” I said. “Certainly the minor -poet, like the law breaker, loves to linger about the scene of his -rhyme, or crime.” - -“You are an amateur of puns,” he replied. “Then let me tell you the -motto I have coined to express the spirit of this Little White Way--_Ein -feste bourgeois ist unser Gott_. This is the proud kingdom of the -triumphant middle class. It is a perilous country for a poet. If he were -found out, he would be martyred at the nearest subway station. But how -I love it! See how the quiet side streets cut across highways so richly -contrasting: West End Avenue, leafy, expensive, and genteel; Broadway, -so gloriously cruel and artificial; Amsterdam Avenue, so honestly and -poignantly real. My club is the Hartford Lunch Room, where they call an -omelet an _omulet_, and where the mystic word _Combo_ resounds through -the hatchway to the fat man in the kitchen. My church is the St. Agnes -branch of the Public Library, over on Amsterdam Avenue. In those -cool, quiet rooms, when I watch the pensive readers, I have a sense -of treading near an artery of fine human idealism. In all this various -neighbourhood I have a cheerful conviction that almost anything might -happen. In the late afternoons, when the crosswise streets end on a -glimpse of the Jersey bluffs that glow like smoky blue opals, and smell -like rotten apples, I feel myself on the very doorsill of the most -stunning outrages.” - -We both laughed, and turned off on Seventy-seventh Street to the small -apartment house where Dulcet had a comfortable suite of two rooms and -bath. In his book-lined sitting room we lit our pipes and sat down for a -gossip. - -We had been talking at dinner of the extraordinary number of grievous -deaths of well-known authors that had happened that year. As it is -almost unnecessary to remind you, there was Dunraven Bleak, the humorous -essayist, who was found stark (in both senses) in his bathtub; and -Cynthia Carboy, the famous writer of bedtime stories, who fell down the -elevator shaft. In the case of Mrs. Carboy, the police were distracted -because her body was found at the top of the building, and the detective -bureau insisted that in some unexplainable manner she must have fallen -_up_ the shaft; but as Dulcet pointed out at the time of the Authors' -League inquiry, the body might have been carried upstairs after the -accident. Then there was Andrew Baffle, the psychological novelist, -whose end was peculiarly atrocious and miserable, because it seemed that -he had contracted tetanus from handling a typewriter ribbon that showed -signs of having been poisoned. Frank Lebanon, the brilliant short-story -writer, was stabbed in the fulness of his powers; and there were others -whom I do not recall at the moment. Mr. Dulcet had suffered severely by -these sad occurrences, for a number of these authors were his clients, -and the loss of the commissions on the sale of their works was a serious -item. The secret of these tragedies had never been discovered, and there -had been something of a panic among members of the Authors' League. The -rumour of a pogrom among bestselling writers was tactfully hushed. - -“What is your friend Kenelm Digby writing nowadays?” I asked, as I -looked along Dulcet's shelves. Digby, the brilliant novelist, was -probably Dulcet's most distinguished client, an eccentric fellow who, in -spite of his excellent royalties, lived a solitary and modest existence -in a boardinghouse somewhere in that part of the West Side. Outside his -own circle of intimates Dulcet was almost the only man whom Digby saw -much of, and many of us, who admired the novelist's work, had our only -knowledge of his person from hearing the agent talk of him. - -“By George, I'm glad you reminded me,” said Dulcet. “Why, he has just -finished a story, and he telephoned me this afternoon asking me to stop -over at his house this evening to get the manuscript. He never has any -dealings with the editors on his own hook--likes me to attend to all -his business arrangements for him. I said I'd run over there about ten -o'clock.” - -“That last book of his was a great piece of work,” I said. “I've been -following his stuff for over ten years, and he looks to me about the -most promising fellow we've got. He has something of the Barrie touch, -it seems to me.” - -“Yes, he's the real thing,” said Dulcet, blowing a blue cloud of his -Cartesian Mixture. “I only wish he were not quite so eccentric. He lives -like a hermit-crab, over in a lodging-house near the Park. Even I, who -know him as well as most people, never feel like intruding on him except -when he asks me to. I can't help thinking it would be good for him to -get out more and see something of other men in his line of work. I tried -to get him to join The Snails, but he says that Amsterdam Avenue is his -only amusement. And Central Park seems to be his country club. I wonder -if you've noticed that in his tales whenever he wants to describe a bit -of country he takes it right out of the Park. I sometimes suspect that's -the only scenery he knows.” - -“He has attained a very unusual status among writers,” I said. “In my -rambles among bookshops I have noticed that his first editions bring -quite a good price. It's very seldom that a writer--at any rate an -American--gets 'collected' during his lifetime.” - -“Did you ever see any of his manuscript?” asked Dulcet; and on my -shaking my head, he took out a thick packet of foolscap from a cabinet. - -“This is the original of 'Girlhood',” he explained. “Digby gave it to -me. It'll be worth a lot some day.” - -I looked with interest at the neatly written sheets, thickly covered -with a small, beautiful, and rather crabbed penmanship. - -“Worth a lot!” I exclaimed. “Well, I should say so! Why the other day I -was browsing round in a bookshop and I found a lot of his first editions -marked at $15 each. It struck me as a very high price for I know I have -seen them listed for three or four dollars in catalogues.” - -“Exorbitantly high,” Dulcet said. “I'm afraid your bookseller is -profiteering. I admire Digby as much as any one, but that is an -artificial price. The firsts aren't rare enough to warrant any such -price as that. Still, I'm glad to know about it as it's a sign of -growing recognition. I remember the time when it was all I could do to -get any editors to look at his things. I'll have to tell him about that, -it will please him mightily.” - -We sat for a while chatting about this and that and then Dulcet got up -and put on his hat. - -“Look here, old man,” he said. “You squat here and be comfortable while -I run round to Digby. It won't take me more than a few minutes--he lives -on Eighty-second Street. I'll be back right speedily, and we can go on -with our talk.” I heard him go down in the elevator, and then I refit my -pipe, and picked out a book from one of his shelves. I remember that it -was Brillat-Savarin's amusing “Gastronomy as a Fine Art”. I smiled -at finding this in Dulcet's library, for I knew that the agent rather -prided himself on being something of a gourmet, and I was reading the -essays of the jovial French epicure with a good deal of relish when the -telephone rang. I went to it with that slight feeling of embarrassment -one always has in answering someone else's phone. - -To my surprise, it was Dulcet's voice. - -“Hullo?” he said. “That you, Ben? Listen, I want you to come round to -Digby's right away,” and he gave the address. - -Thinking he had arranged a chance for me to meet Digby (I had long -wanted to do so), I felt hesitant about intruding; but he repeated -his message rather sharply. “Please come at once,” he said. “It's -important.” Again he gave the street number, made me promise to come -immediately, and rang off. - -It was nearly half-past ten, and the streets were fairly quiet as I -walked briskly along. The house was one of a row of old cocoa-coloured -stone dwellings, and evidently someone was watching for me, for while I -was trying to read the numbers a door opened and from a dark hall an arm -beckoned to me. I went up the tall steps and a stout woman, who seemed -to be in some agitation, whispered my name interrogatively. “Is this Mr. -Trovato?” she murmured. - -“Yes,” I said, puzzled. - -“Third floor front,” she said, and I creaked quietly up the stairs. - -I tapped at the front room on the top floor, and Dulcet opened. - -“Thank goodness you're here, Ben,” he said. “Something has happened.” - -It was a large, comfortable room, crowded with books on three walls, -furnished with easy chairs and a couch in one corner. A brilliant blaze -of light from several bulbs under a frosted hood poured upon a reading -table in the middle of the room. Sitting at this table, in a Windsor -chair, slumped down into the seat, was a short stout man whose head -lolled sideways over his chest. He was wearing a tweed suit and a soft -shirt, and looked as though he had fallen asleep at his work. In front -of him were some books and a can of tobacco. I recognized him, of -course, from the photographs I had often seen. It was Digby. - -I looked at Dulcet, aghast. But, as always at such moments, what was -uppermost in my mind was something trivial and irrelevant. I had an -intense desire to open a window. The air in that room was thick and -foggy, a sort of close, strangling frowst of venomously strong tobacco -and furnace gas. After the clear elixir of the wintry night it was -loathsome. It was the typical smell that hangs about the rooms of -literary bachelors, who work all day long in a room without ever -thinking of airing it. - -“Yes,” he said. “He's dead. Pretty awful, isn't it? I found him like -this when I got here. No sign of injury as far as I can see.” - -There was something profoundly dreadful in this first sight, as mere -sagging clay, of the brilliant and powerful writer whose books I had -so long admired, and whom I had thought of as one of the strong and -fortunate few who shape human perplexities to their own ends. I looked -down at him with a miserable blackness in my spirit, and laid a hand on -Dulcet's shoulder in sympathy. - -“I've sent for a doctor,” he said. “Before he comes I want to get all -the information I can from the landlady. I wanted to have you here as a -witness. I haven't touched anything.” - -The woman had followed me upstairs, and stood crying quietly in the -doorway. - -“Come in, Mrs. Barlow,” said Dulcet. “Now please tell us everything -you can about where Mr. Digby went this evening, and anything that has -happened.” - -Mrs. Barlow, who seemed to be a good-hearted, simple-minded creature, -snuffled wretchedly. “Oh, dear, oh dear,” she said. “He was such a nice -gentleman, too. Let me see, he went out about seven, I suppose for his -supper, but he was always irregular about his meals, you never could -tell, sometimes he would eat in the middle of the afternoon, and -sometimes not till late at night. I always would urge him that he would -die of indigestion, but he was so kind-hearted.” - -“You don't know where he went?” said Dulcet. “Perhaps he went round to -the laundry,” she said, “for he had a parcel with him, which I took to -be his laundry because he usually took it out on Monday evenings because -by that time the clean shirt he put on on Sunday was ready to go to the -wash. I hate to think that in all the years he lived in this house his -laundry was the only thing we ever had a difference about, because I -used to have it done in the house for him but he said my washwoman tore -the buttons off his shirts or collars or something, so a little while -ago he started taking his things out to be done, but I don't know where -because he used to call for them himself.” - -“You haven't any idea where he used to eat?” insisted Dulcet. - -“Oh, no, sir, he liked to go different places, you know yourself how -he was always a bit queer and concentric and he never talked much about -where he went, but always so nice and considerate. Oh, he _was_ a fine -gentleman.” - -Mrs. Barlow, plainly much grieved, wept anew. “Please try to tell us -everything you can think of,” said Dulcet, gently. “What time did he -come in, and did you notice anything unusual?” - -“Nothing out of the way that I can think of, but then I was down in the -basement most of the evening, for I let my maid go to the movies and -I had a deal to do. I suppose he went along Amsterdam Avenue, he was -always strolling up and down Amsterdam or Columbus, poor man, getting -ideas for his literature I guess. He came back about nine o'clock I -should say, because I heard the door about then. Just a few minutes -before he came in there was a man came to the door with a tin of tobacco -for him, which he said Mr. Digby had ordered sent around, and I took -it up and put it on his table, there it is now, poor man, Carter's -Mixture.” - -Mrs. Barlow pointed to the tin of Cartesian Mixture that stood on the -table. Evidently it had only just been opened, for it was practically -full. - -“Yes,” said Dulcet. “Here's his pipe lying on the floor under his -chair.” He picked up the briar and glanced at it. “Only just begun to -smoke it, for the tobacco is hardly burned. He must have been smoking -when he.... There wasn't anything else you can think of?” - -The woman dried her eyes with her apron. “There was just one other thing -I noticed, but I suppose it's silly. But I took note of it special, -because I thought I had heard it before, lately. While he was out, and -a little before the man brought the tin of tobacco, I heard a sharp -tapping out on the street in front of the house. I noticed it special, -because I thought at first it was someone rapping on the door, and I -wondered if the bell was out of order again, but when I went I couldn't -see any one. But I wondered about it because I heard it two or three -times, a sharp kind of tapping, it sounded some way like hitting on -stone with a stick of some sort.” - -Dulcet and I looked at each other rather blankly. - -“And after that,” she went on, “I didn't think about anything one way or -another till you came in and I told you to go right up.” - -There was a clear peal from the front door bell. “That's the doctor,” - said Dulcet, and Mrs. Barlow hurried downstairs. - -I have never seen any one so brisk and matter of fact as that physician, -and after his arrival the affair seemed to pass out of Dulcet's hands -into the painful official machinery that takes charge in such events. -Dulcet, acting as the dead writer's literary representative, went into -the adjoining room, which was Digby's study, to look over the papers in -the desk for any manuscripts that he ought to take care of. He wrote out -a list of friends and relatives for me to send telegrams to and I went -out to attend to this. I don't know how they get wind of these affairs, -but the reporters were already beginning to arrive when I left. - -The next day, and for several days afterward, the papers all carried -long stories about poor Digby's brilliant career. Then the literary -weeklies took it up. At the libraries and bookshops everyone was asking -for his books, and I have never seen a more depressing illustration of -the familiar fact that a writer's real fame never comes until it is too -late to do him any good. Editors and people who had hardly been aware of -Digby's genius while he was alive now praised him fluently, speaking -of him as “America's most honest realist,” and all that sort of thing. -Moving-picture people began inquiring about the film rights of his -novels. Some of the sensational newspapers tried to play up his death as -a mystery story, but the physicians asserted heart failure as the cause, -and this aspect of the matter soon subsided. - -Except at the funeral, which was attended by a great many literary -people, I did not see Dulcet for some days. I gathered from what I read -in the news that Digby's will had appointed him executor of his literary -property, and I knew that he must have much to attend to. But one -afternoon the telephone rang, and Dulcet asked me if I could knock off -work and come round to see him. As I was living up town at that time, -it only took me a few minutes to go round to his apartment. I found him -smoking a pipe as usual, and looking pale and fagged. He welcomed me -with his affectionate cordiality, and I sat down to hear what was on his -mind. - -“You must excuse me if I'm a little upset,” he said. “I've just had an -interview with a ghoul. A fellow came in to see me who had heard that -I have a number of poor Digby's books and manuscripts. He wanted to buy -them from me, offered big prices for them. He said that since Digby's -death all his first editions and so on have gone up enormously in value. -Apparently he expected me to do trading over the dead body of a friend.” - -He smoked awhile in silence, and then said: “Sorry not to have seen you -sooner, but to tell the truth I've had my hands full. His brother, -who was the nearest kin, couldn't come from Ohio on account of serious -illness, and everything fell on me. I had to pack up all his things and -ship them, all that sort of business. But I've been wanting to talk to -you about it, because I'm convinced there was something queer about the -whole affair. I'm not satisfied with that heart-failure verdict. That's -absurd. There was nothing wrong with his heart that I ever heard of. -It's very unfortunate that for the first few days I was too occupied -with urgent matters to be able to follow up the various angles of the -affair. But I've been turning it over in my mind, and I've got some -ideas I'd like to share with you. You remember what I told you, with -unfortunate levity, about the secret of detective work being ability -to notice the unsuspected rhymes in events? Well, there are one or two -features of this affair that seem to me to rhyme together in a very -sinister fashion. Wait a minute until I put on my other coat, and we'll -go out.” - -He went into his bedroom. I had not liked to interrupt him, but I was -yearning for a smoke, for leaving my rooms in a hurry I had forgotten to -bring my pouch with me. On his mantelpiece I saw a tin of tobacco, and -began to fill my pipe. To my surprise, just as I was taking out a match -he darted out of the bedroom, uttered an exclamation, and snatched the -briar from my hand. - -“Sorry,” he said, bluntly, “but you mustn't smoke that. It's something -very special.” He opened his penknife, scraped out the weed I had put -in the bowl, and carefully put it back in the tin. He took the tin and -locked it in his desk. - -“Try some of this,” he said, handing his pouch. I concluded that the -tension of the past days had troubled his nerves. This rudeness was so -unlike him that I knew there must be some explanation, but he offered -none. As we went down in the elevator he said: “The question is, can you -make a rhyme out of tobacco and collar buttons?” - -“No,” I said, a little peevishly. “And I don't believe any one could, -except Edward Lear.” - -“Well,” he continued, “that's what we've got to do. And don't imagine -that it's merely a nonsense rhyme, any more than Lear's were. -Edward Lear was as great as King Lear, in his own way.” He led me to -Eighty-second Street. The December afternoon was already dark as we -approached Mrs. Barlow's house. At the foot of her front steps he halted -and turned to me. - -“Is your pipe going?” he said. - -“No,” I said, irritably. “It's out. And I haven't any tobacco.” - -“Don't be surly, old chap; I'll give you some if you'll tell me what you -do when your pipe goes out.” - -“Why, you idiot,” I cried, “I do this.” And I knocked out the ashes by -striking the bowl smartly against the palm of my hand. - -“Ah,” he said. “But some people do this.” - -He bent down and rapped his pipe against the stone ramp of the steps, -with a clear, sharp, hollow sound. - -“Yes, a good way to break a nice pipe,” I was remarking, when the -basement door of the house flew open, and Mrs. Barlow darted out -into the sunken area just below the pavement level. In the pale -lemon-coloured glare of a near-by street lamp we could see that she was -strongly excited. - -“Good gracious,” she panted. “Is it Mr. Dulcet? Oh, sir, you did give me -a turn. Oh, dear, that was just the tapping sound I heard the night poor -Mr. Digby died. What was it? Did you hear it?” - -“Like this?” said Dulcet, knocking his pipe again on the stone step. - -“That was it, exactly,” she said. “What a fright, to be sure! Was it -only someone knocking his pipe like that? Oh, dear, it did bring back -that horrid evening, just as plain.” - -“So much for the mysterious death rap,” said Dulcet as we walked -back toward Amsterdam Avenue. “I can't claim much ingenuity for that, -however. You see, the morning after Digby's death I went round to Mrs. -Barlow's early, before she had been out to sweep her pavement. The first -thing I noticed, by the lowest step, was a little dottle of tobacco such -as falls from a halfsmoked pipe when it is knocked out. That seemed to -me to make a perfect couplet with Mrs. Barlow's tale of the tapping she -had heard. She heard it several times, you remember, in a short space of -time. That suggests to me someone standing on the street, or walking up -and down, in a state of nervousness, because he didn't smoke any of his -pipes through. When they were only half smoked he knocked them out, in -sheer impatience. Was he waiting for someone?” - -“Perhaps it was Digby himself?” I suggested. “I don't think so,” he -said. “Because, in the first place, nervousness was the last thing I -would associate with his temperament, which was calm and collected in -the extreme. And also, he always smoked Brown Eyed Blend, and had done -so for years. That was the first thing that struck me as unusual the -night we were there--that tin of Cartesian on the table. He was a man of -fixed habits; why should he have made a change just that night? I picked -up the little wad of tobacco I found lying on the step, and took it -carefully home. It's Cartesian, or I'm a Dutchman. So item I in our -criminal rhyme-scheme is: Find me a nervous man smoking Cartesian.” - -“It's a bit fanciful,” I objected. - -“Of course it is,” he cried. “But crime is a fanciful thing. Ever let -the fancy roam, as Keats said. What the deuce is the line that follows? -Suppose we stroll down Amsterdam Avenue and find a new place to have -dinner.” - -“Poor old Digby,” he said, as we walked along admiring the lighted -caves of the shopwindows. “How he enjoyed all this. You know, there is a -certain honest simplicity about Amsterdam Avenue's merchandising that is -pleasant to contemplate after the shining sophistications of Broadway. -In a Broadway delicatessen window you'll see such horrid luxuries as -jars of cocks' combs in jelly; whereas along here the groceries show -candid and heartening signs such, as this: 'Coming Back to The Old -Times, 17c lb. Sugar.' Amsterdam Avenue shopkeepers speak with engaging -directness about their traffic; for instance, there's a barber at the -corner of Eighty-first Street who embosses on his window the legend: -'Yes, We Do Buster Brown Hair Cutting.' That sort of thing is very -humane and genuine, that's why Digby was so fond of it. There's a -laundry along here somewhere that I have often noticed; it calls itself -the Fastidious Laundry----” - -“Speaking of laundries,” I said, “what do you think of this?” We -stopped, and I pointed to a neatly lettered placard in a window which -had caught my eye. It said: - -_Notice to Artists and Authors_ - -_We Sew Buttons on Soft Collars Free of Charge_ - -“By Jove,” I said, “there's a laundry that has the right idea. I think -I'll bring my----” - -I broke off when I saw my companion's face. He was leaning forward -toward the pane, and his eyes were bright but curiously empty, as though -in some way the mechanism of sight had been reversed, and he was looking -inward rather than out. - -“That's very odd,” he said, presently. “I've been up and down this -street many times, but I never noticed that sign before.” - -He turned and marched into the shop, and I followed. In the soft steamy -air several girls were ironing shirts, and a plump, pink-cheeked Hebrew -stood behind a counter wrapping up bundles. - -“I noticed your sign in the window,” said Dulcet. “What do you charge -for laundering soft collars?” - -“Five cents each, but we mend them, too, and sew on the buttons.” - -“That's a good idea,” said Dulcet, genially. “I wish I'd known that -before; I'd have brought my collars round to you. How long have you been -doing that? I often go by here, but I never saw the sign before.” - -“Only about a week,” the man replied. “Let's see--a week ago last Monday -I put that sign up. You wouldn't believe how much new trade it has -brought in. I thought it would be a kind of a joke--the man next door -suggested it, and I put it in to please him. But 'most everybody wears -soft collars nowadays, and it seems good business.” - -“The man next door?” said Dulcet, in a casual tone. - -“Sure, the cigar store.” - -“Is his name Stork?” said Dulcet, reflectively. - -“Stork? Why, no, Basswood. What do you mean, Stork?” - -“I mean,” said Dulcet, slowly, “does he ever stand on one leg?” - -“Quit your kidding,” cried the laundryman, annoyed. - -“I assure you, I do not trifle,” said Dulcet, gravely. “I'll bring you -in some collars to fix up for me. Much obliged.” - -We went out again, and my companion stood for a moment in front of the -laundry window, looking thoughtfully at the sign. - -“While you ponder, old son,” I said, “I'll run into Mr. Stork-Basswood's -and get some tobacco.” - -He seized my arm in a firm and painful clutch and whispered, “Look at -the corner!” - -The laundry was the second shop from the corner. Under the lamp-post at -the angle of the street I saw, to my amazement, a man standing balanced -on one leg. Directly under the light, he was partly in shadow, and -I could only see him in silhouette, but the absurd profile of his -onelegged attitude afflicted me with a renewed sense of absurdity and -irritation. Dulcet, I thought, had evidently suffered some serious -stroke in the region of his wits. - -“Now,” he said, softly, “can you see any rhyme between soft collars and -standing on one leg?” - -As he spoke, we both started, for somewhere near us on the street there -sounded a sharp tapping, a ringing hollow wooden sound. Evidently it -came from the one-legged man. This was too much for my composure. -I broke away from Dulcet and ran to the corner. As I got there the -one-legged creature put down a concealed limb and stood solidly on two -feet, in a state of normalcy, as an eminent statesman would say. I was -confused, and said angrily to the man: - -“Here, you mustn't stand like that, on the public street you know, on -one leg. It's setting a bad example.” - -To my amazement he made no retort whatever, but turned and scuttled -hastily down the avenue, disappearing in the crowds that were doing -their evening marketing. - -“My dear fellow,” said Dulcet, calmly, coming up to me, “you shouldn't -have done that. You've very nearly spoilt it all. Come on, let's go in -and get your tobacco.” - -Basswood's proved to be one of those interesting combination tobacco, -stationery, toy, and bookshops which are so common on the upper West -Side. I have often noticed that these places are by no means unfruitful -as hunting ground for books, because the dealers are wholly ignorant of -literature and sometimes one may find on their shelves some forgotten -volume that has been there for years, and which they will gladly part -with for a song. A good many of these stores have, tucked away at the -back, a shabby stock of circulating library volumes that have come down -through many changes of proprietorship. Only the other day I saw in just -such a place first editions of Kenneth Grahame's “The Golden Age” - and Arthur Machen's “The Three Impostors,” which the storekeeper was -delighted to sell for fifteen cents each. - -A dark young man was behind the tobacco counter, and from him I got a -packet of my usual blend. - -“Mr. Basswood in?” said Dulcet. - -“Just stepped out,” said the young man. - -We lit our pipes and looked round the shop, glancing at the magazines -and the queer miscellany of books. As it was approaching Christmas time -there was a profuse assortment of those dreadful little bibelots that -go by the name of “gift books,” among which were the usual copies of -“Recessional” and “Vampire,” Thoreau's “Friendship,” and “Ballads of -a Cheechako,” bound in what the trade calls “padded ooze”. I was -particularly heartened to observe that one of these atrocities, called -“As a Man Thinketh,” was described on the box (for all such books come -in little cardboard cases) as being bound in antique yap. This pleased -me so much that I was about to call it to Dulcet's attention, when I saw -that he was looking at me from the rear of the store with a spark in -his eye. I approached and found that he was staring at a doorway partly -concealed by a pile of Christmas toys and novelties. Over this door was -a sign: J. Basswood, Rare Book Department. - -“Can we go in and look at the rare books?” said Dulcet. - -“Sure thing,” said the young man. “Help yourself. The boss'll be back -soon, if you want to buy anything.” - -Mr. Basswood was evidently a man of some literary discretion. To -our amazement we found, in a dark little room lined with shelves, a -judicious assortment of modern books, several hundred volumes, and all -first editions or autographed copies. The prices were marked in cipher, -so we could not tell whether there were any bargains among them, but I -know that I saw several particularly rare and desirable things which I -would have been glad to have. - -“Good heavens,” I said to Dulcet, “friend Basswood is a real collector. -There isn't a thing here that isn't of prime value.” - -He was staring at a shelf in the corner, and I went over to see what he -had found. - -“Upon my soul,” I cried, “look at the Digbies! Not merely one copy of -each, but three or four! This man must have specialized in Digbies.” - -“Not only that,” said Dulcet, “but he has three of 'The Autogenesis of -a Novelist', the first thing that Digby wrote. It was privately printed, -and afterward suppressed. It's devilish rare; even I haven't got a copy. -I wish I knew what prices he asks for these things.” - -“Look at this,” I said. “Perhaps this will tell us.” I picked up one of -a pile of pamphlets that were lying in a large sheet of wrapping -paper in a corner of the room. It was evidently a new catalogue of Mr. -Basswood's rare books, that had just come from the printer. - -“Here we are,” I said, turning over the leaves. “Look at this.” - -_Special Note_ - -_Fine Collection of Digbiana: J. Basswood wishes to call particular -attention to the Digbiana listed below. Anticipating the growing -interest in collectors' items of this great writer's work, J. Basswood -has taken pains to gather a stock of first editions and presentation -copies which is absolutely unique. The prices of these items, while -high, are a fair index of the appreciation in which this author's work -is held among connoisseurs. All are copies in good condition and their -authenticity is guaranteed._ - -_November 15, 19--_. - -Dulcet seized the catalogue and ran his eye down the pages. - -“'Girlhood,' first edition, Houghton Mifflin Company, 1901, $100,” he -read. “'The Nuisance of Being Loved,' first edition, $75. 'The Princess -Quarrelsome,' $90. 'The Anatomy of Cheerfulness,' autographed copy, -$150. 'Distemper,' acting copy, signed by the author and Richard -Mansfield, $200. - -“Why,” he cried, shrilly, “this is madness! I am in touch with all the -dealers in this sort of thing, and I know the proper prices. This man -has multiplied them by ten.” He thrust the catalogue into his pocket and -glared round at the musty shelves. - -“I suppose it's due to poor Digby's death,” I said. I saw that Dulcet -was overwrought, and suggested that we go out and get some supper. - -“Supper?” he said. “A good idea. I know a place on Broadway where we -can get some guinea pigs.” He strode out of the store and I followed, -wondering what next. He seized my arm and hurried me along Seventy-ninth -Street to Broadway. - -In the clarid blue of the evening that blazing gully of light seemed to -foam and bubble with preposterous fire. Chop suey restaurants threw out -crawling streamers of red and yellow brilliance; against the -peacock green of the western sky the queer church at the corner of -Seventy-ninth, with the oriental pinnacle and truncated belfry rising -above its solid Baptist wings, seemed like the offspring of some -reckless marriage of two infatuated architects, one Jewish and one -Calvinist. It was a fitting silhouette, I thought, congruent with an -evening of such wild humours. Guinea pigs for supper, how original and -enlivening! “Are guinea pigs properly kosher?” I asked, sarcastically. - -Dulcet paid no heed, but, holding my arm, urged me along the pavement to -an animal shop on the western side of Broadway. The window was full of -puppies and long-haired cats. All down the aisle of the establishment -were tiers of birdcages, covered with curtains while the birds slept. -In lucid bowls persevering goldfish pursued their glittering and -improfitable round. - -“Those guinea pigs I ordered,” said Dulcet to the man, “are they ready?” - -“All ready, sir,” he said, and took out a cage from under the counter. -“Very fine pigs, sir, strong and hearty; they will stand a great deal.” - -“Yes,” I said, with a wild desire to shout with laughter. “But will they -stand being eaten? They will find that rather trying, I fancy.” - -Dulcet tapped his forehead, and the dealer smiled indulgently. My -companion took the cage, paid some money, and sped outdoors again. - -I made no further comment and in a few minutes we were in Dulcet's -apartment. - -“You have no kitchenette here, have you?” I protested. “Or do we devour -them raw? Oh, I see, you have a camp oven. How ingenious!” - -He had put on the table a large tin box. With complete seriousness he -now produced a small spirit lamp, over which he fitted a little basket -of fine wire mesh. When the flame of the lamp was lit, it played upon -the basket, which was supported by legs at just the right height. He now -put the unsuspecting guinea pigs into the tin box, which was shaped like -a rural-free-delivery letter-box, with a hinged door opening at one -end. He took the spirit lamp with its attached basket and pushed the -contraption carefully into the box with the pigs. Then he opened both -windows in the room. - -“Admirable!” I exclaimed. “Like those much-advertised cigarettes, they -will be toasted. But won't it take a long time?” - -“Don't be an ass,” he said. - -He went to his desk, and took out the tin of Cartesian Mixture he had -snatched away from me earlier in the evening. - -“Your mention of those cigarettes is apt,” he said, “for in this case -also the fuel is tobacco. Please go over by the window, and stay there.” - -I watched, somewhat impressed by the gravity of his manner. From the tin -of tobacco he took a small pinch of mixture and carefully placed it in -the mesh basket above the lamp. Reaching into the box, he lit the wick -of the lamp with a match, and hastily clapped to the hinged lid. The -guinea pigs seemed to be awed by these proceedings, for they remained -quiet. Dulcet joined me at the window, and remarked that fresh air was a -fine thing. - -We waited for about five minutes, while the guinea-pig oven stood -quietly on the table. - -“Well,” said Dulcet, finally, “we ought to be able to see whether it -rhymes or not.” - -He snatched open the door of the tin box, and skipped away from it in -a way that seemed to me perfectly insane. He picked up a pair of tongs -from the fireplace, and standing at a distance, lifted out the lamp. The -tobacco was smoking strongly in its mesh basket. Holding the lamp away -from him with the tongs, he carried it into the bathroom, and I heard -him turn on the water. Then, coming back, he inserted the tongs into the -tin box, and gingerly withdrew first one guinea pig and then the other. -Both were calm as possible, quite dead. Looking over the sill to see -that the pavement was clear, he threw the tin box into the street, where -it fell with a crash. - -“Surely they're not cooked already?” I said. - -“I haven't heard from the doctor yet,” he said; “but he promised to ring -me up this evening. I'm awfully sorry to have delayed your dinner, old -man. Meet me at the Lucerne grill room, Seventy-ninth and Amsterdam -Avenue, to-morrow evening at seven o'clock and we'll eat together. -You've been a great help to me.” - -“I hope the doctor is a mental specialist,” I said; but he pushed me -gently out of the room. “We'll finish our rhyme at dinner to-morrow -evening.” - -I went out into the night, and sorrowfully visited a Hartford Lunch. - -The next evening I was at the Lucerne grill promptly. This modest chop -house was one of Dulcet's favourite resorts, and I found him already -sitting in one of the alcoves studying the menu. He was in fine spirits, -and his quizzical blue eyes shone with a healthy lustre. - -“Are you armed?” he said, mysteriously. - -“What,” I cried, “are we going to do some more guinea pigs to death? It -was cruel. I have scruples against taking innocent lives. Besides, your -experiment proved nothing. Those pigs would have died anyway, shut up in -an air-tight box like that.” - -“Stuff!” he said. “The box was not hermetic. I had left small apertures: -there was plenty of oxygen. No, it was not the confinement in the -tin box that killed them. After you had gone, the chemist whom I had -consulted called me up. My suspicions were sound. Have you ever heard of -fumacetic acid?” - -This is going to be terrible, I thought to myself, and ordered -tenderloin steak, well done, with a double order of hashed brown -potatoes. - -“Have you ever heard of fumacetic acid?” he repeated, relentlessly. - -“No,” I said, nervously. - -“It is a deadly and little-known drug,” he said, “which (so the chemist -tells me) possesses the property that when vaporized the slightest whiff -of it causes instant death if inhaled into the lungs. The tobacco in -that tin had been doctored with it. I sent the chemist the pipe that -poor Digby was smoking when he died, and he analyzed what was left in -the bowl. There is no doubt whatever. He was poisoned in that way. I -tell you, my professional duty as a literary agent requires that in my -clients' interest I should sift this thing to the bottom. It may explain -some of those earlier deaths that baffled the Authors' League.” - -“But Mrs. Carboy, surely, did not smoke,” I was about to say; but I -checked myself in time. - -“Dove,” I said, “you are superb. But I wish you would tell me how you -worked the thing out. What was it that first aroused your suspicions? If -it had not been for you, I should never have guessed anything wrong.” - -“Of course,” he said, grimly, “it was that murderous placard in the -laundry window, and that is to your credit, for you noticed it. That was -the one thing that made plain the whole complicated business. Naturally -I suspected the tobacco from the first, for (as I told you) it was a -mixture that Digby never smoked ordinarily. But when I heard that that -eccentric and damnable placard had been put there at the suggestion of -the tobacconist next door, and then found that the tobacconist was also -a bookseller, I knew the worst. I have spent to-day in rounding up the -threads, and I think I may say without vainglory that the miscreant is -in my power.” - -“But the man standing on one leg?” I said, puzzled. “What was he up to, -and why did he run?” Dulcet's face shone with quiet triumph. - -“I told you,” he said, “to look for a nervous man smoking Cartesian -Mixture. That tobacconist, Basswood, smokes Cartesian. It is a very -moist, sticky blend, as you know. It can only be shaken out of the pipe, -after smoking, by vigorously knocking the bowl on something hard. Very -well, and if there is no stone step or something of that sort handy, -what will a smoker tap his pipe on? Why, he will stand on one leg and -knock it out on the lifted heel of the other. And his running away when -you addressed him so whimsically, wasn't that a pretty good sign of -nervousness--and also of a guilty and doubtful spirit?” - -He finished his tumbler of the near-beer that has made Milwaukee -infamous, and leaned forward earnestly. - -“You know very well,” he said, “that that laundryman would never have -thought of his grotesque notice, addressed to 'Artists and Authors', if -someone hadn't suggested it to him. Obviously he was only a gull. That -card was intended as a decoy, to lure Digby away from his room, so that -Basswood could leave the poisoned tobacco for him. Basswood had studied -Digby's habits, and must have known that the notice about the collars -would be sure to catch his eye. Now we had better be going. The police -will be at Basswood's shop at eight o'clock.” - -I could have done with a little strong coffee, but he haled me out -of the restaurant, and we walked up Amsterdam Avenue. How little, I -reflected, did the passersby, hurrying about their kindly and innocent -concerns, suspect our dark and perilous errand. - -“The motive, of course,” said Dulcet, “was to profit by the increase -of value Digby's death would give to his literary work. You will see a -proof of that in a moment. Here we are. Come on, this is no time to hang -back!” - -He strode into the brightly lighted shop, and I followed with a clumsy -assumption of carelessness. I must confess that my eye wandered in -search of suitable cover in case there should be any gun play. - -Mr. Basswood was behind his counter, smoking a battered-looking briar. -One side of the bowl was worn down nearly half an inch (from repeated -knocking out on stone steps, I suppose). He was a fat, cross-looking -person, with a black jut of moustache and a small, vindictive eye. - -“A friend told me about your bookshop,” said Dulcet. “He said that you -sometimes buy books and manuscripts and that sort of thing.” - -“Yes, sometimes,” said Basswood, without enthusiasm. - -“I have an unpublished story of Kenelm Digby's,” said Dulcet. “It is -about forty pages of manuscript. What would you give for that?” - -The dealer's eyes brightened. He took his pipe from his mouth, and -knocked it out smartly on his heel, tramping on the glowing cinders. -Dulcet looked at me gravely. - -“Let me see it,” Basswood said, eagerly. - -“I haven't got it with me. But give me an idea what it would be worth to -you.” - -“If it is genuine, and characteristic of Digby's genius,” said Basswood, -slowly, “I would give you two hundred dollars for it.” - -“Nonsense!” said Dulcet. “It isn't worth half that. I would not dream of -selling it for more than seventy-five.” - -Basswood looked startled. - -“I guess you are not in touch with the market for such things,” he said. -“There is more interest among collectors in Digby's work than in any -other recent writer. Perhaps you don't realize what a difference his sad -death has made in the prices of his editions. It is very regrettable, -but the death of a writer of that kind always puts a premium on -collectors' items, because there will never be any more of them.” - -“Oh, I see,” said Dulcet, politely. “It is his death that has made the -difference, is it?” - -“Exactly.” - -“Well, then, I suppose this manuscript _is_ worth more than I thought. -By the way, I think the title of it will interest you. It is called 'The -Mystery of the Soft Collars' and deals with a murder that took place on -Eighty-second Street.” - -I couldn't help admiring the glorious nonchalance with which Dulcet made -this remark, gazing the dealer straight in the eye. Basswood's face was -a study, and his cheek was pale and greasy. But he, too, was a man of -considerable nerve. - -“I don't believe it's genuine,” he said. “That doesn't sound to me like -Digby's style.” His voice shook a little, and he added: “However, if -it's as interesting as it sounds, I might pay even more than two hundred -for it.” - -“You rascal!” shouted Dulcet. “Do you think you can buy me off? No! keep -your hands above the counter!” - -He had whipped out his revolver, and held it at the man's face. - -“Look here, Mr. Basswood,” he said. “Even the cleverest of us make -mistakes. Let me call your attention to one thing. If it was Digby's -death that made the difference in the values of his books, how is it -that this bill from your printer, for that new catalogue of yours, is -dated ten days before Digby died? I picked it up in your back room the -other day. Doesn't that seem to show that you knew, ten days before the -event, that there was going to be a sudden boom in Digbiana? Ten days -before he died you were multiplying the prices of the items you had -gathered. Now, you dog, can you explain that?” - -Basswood shook, but still he clung to his hope. - -“I'll give you a thousand for that manuscript,” he said. - -“Ben,” said Dulcet to me, “just slip around the corner and whistle three -times. The police are waiting on Eighty-fifth Street.” - -***** - -“There's still one thing that puzzles me,” I said to Dulcet late that -night as we sat in his room for a final smoke. “I remember that before -we discovered that sign in the laundry you said that what we needed to -do was to find a rhyme between tobacco and collar buttons. Now what the -deuce started you off on collar buttons?” - -He smiled patiently. - -“When I had to pack up poor old Digby's belongings,” he said, “I had -the sad task of going through his bureau drawers. You know the devilish -little buttons that the manufacturers insist on putting on soft collars. -They always come off after one or two washings, and then the collar -collapses round your neck into an object of slovenly reproach. Digby was -a bachelor, and there was no one to do any mending for him. And when I -found that every one of his soft collars had its little button neatly -sewed on, I knew there was something wrong. I ask you, wouldn't that -have aroused the alarm of the least suspicious?” - -Up to the present time, as far as I know, Basswood remains the only -bookseller who has ever been electrocuted. - - - - -GLORIA AND THE GARDEN OF SWEDEN - -IT WAS one of those gilded October days when the serene sunshine is as -soft and tawny as candle-light; when the air is thin and sharp in -the early mornings, but the noontime is as comfortably genial as the -radiance of a hearth reddened with hickory embers. Dove Dulcet and I -were strolling along Riverside Park, enjoying the blue elixir of the -afternoon, in which there was just a faint prick, a gently tangible barb -of the coming arrows of the North. - -“Winter sharpens her spearheads,” said Dulcet. “Aye,” was my reply. -Below us I saw the coaling-station at the Seventy-ninth Street pier. -“The merriest music the householder can hear nowadays is the roar of -coal going down the chute into the cellar.” - -He sighed, and seemed touched by a sudden melancholy. - -“Ben,” he said, “that coal-dump reminds me of Gloria Larsen. Did I ever -tell you about her?” - -“Never,” I said. “Coal, I presume, made you think of diamonds; and -diamonds, of Miss Larsen. Were you engaged to her?” - -“I might have been,” he said, sentimentally. Before us was an empty -bench, on a little knoll that looks out over the shining sweep of the -river. I drew him to it, and we filled our pipes. When you can get a -minor poet in an autobioloquacious mood, it is well to encourage him. -No one takes life so seriously as the minor poet, and consequently his -memoirs make fine sport for the disinterested bystander. - -“No,” he said, blowing a waft of tobacco smoke into the soft, -sun-brimmed air, and settling down into the curve of the bench. “The -association was even more obvious than that of coal and diamonds. I -always think of Gloria when winter begins to come in.” - -“Ah!” I said. “She was cold?” - -He meditated, ignoring my jocularity. - -***** - -“It was a good many years ago,” he said at last; “before you knew me. -When I first came to town, you know, I had a fine ambition to be a -writer. I had just a little money, so I shut myself up in a hall room -at the top of a cheap lodging-house on Seventy-fifth Street, hired a -typewriter, and set about to butt my bead against all the walls that hem -in the beginner. - -“It was one of those old four-story dwellings that are now mostly -boarding-houses, and it was run by a good-hearted widow who would let -her rooms only to men, because she said they were less trouble than -women. Her house was clean and incredibly cheap, and almost all the -lodgers were young fellows like myself--students, or starveling artists, -or chaps with literary ambitions. That was how I had heard of the place, -through another fellow who lived there and had built up a little sort of -coterie in the house. He was Black-more. You know his name; he gave up -art long ago. He's now the art editor of the _Mother, Home, and Heaven -Magazine_. - -“Mrs. Vesey, our landlady, was quite a character. I was always rather -a favourite with her, because the very first day I came to her house -I happened to find her cat, which had wandered away some days before, -leaving her disconsolate. The cat's name, I remember, was Nemo. She had -called it so because, with that admirable virginity of mind that one -finds only in a childless married woman, she was uncertain of the -animal's sex. Anyway, it was a fine big creature, and the apple of Mrs. -Vesey's pie. She talked so much about it that we used to chaff her a -good deal on the subject, and say that we thought it was going to have -kittens, and all that sort of thing. Blackmore used to say, remembering -the title of some idiotic melodrama he had seen, that it was 'Neither -Maid, Wife, nor Widow.' He was right, for it was the kind of cat that -is not likely to be either a father or a mother without a miracle. But I -don't want to be indelicate. I only mention Nemo because it was through -him that I first talked with Gloria. - -“The first day I was at Mrs. Vesey's I heard her groaning about the -vanished cat. That evening I went out to supper, feeling rather lonely, -and dropped in at an eccentric-looking little restaurant on Amsterdam -Avenue. It was called Larsen's Physical Culture Chophouse, and I have -never seen a more amusing place. Old man Larsen was a Swede, and all the -Scandinavian fads ran riot in his head--vegetarian food, for instance. -He didn't absolutely condemn meat, for he would serve it if you -insisted, but all his joy was in weird combinations of calory, protose, -and vitamine, or whatever those things are called. Bean “cutlets,” and -protose “steak” that turned out, on examination, to be made of chopped -walnuts and lentils, and the “Thousand-Calory Combination Dinner,” of -which he made a specialty. When you sat down, if you were a regular -customer, old Larsen would come round and look you over and diagnose -from your complexion the kind and quantity of calories you needed for -that meal, and would give you combinations of spinach croquettes and -lentil pie that he warranted would purge the blood and compose the mind. -On the walls were charts of Swedish exercises and systems of -calisthenics, and he sold a little pamphlet that he himself had written -telling how to be strong and merry and full of physique. - -“Well, to come back to my first visit to Larsen's restaurant. I hadn't -been in there many minutes before I noticed the girl at the cashier's -desk. My, my, what a girl! My table was close to her little throne, and -I couldn't help watching her out of the end of my eye. I wondered if -she was raised entirely on protose and lentils, for I have never seen -anything so gloriously and vitally physical in my life. Great, bold blue -eyes, and crisp, sparkling golden hair, and blood that spoke delicately -through her skin, and a figure--well, just our old friend of Melos -over again, that lively combination of grace and strength. She was just -curves and waves and athletic softness--the kind of creature that makes -your arms tingle, you know. No corset, I suppose. In the old man's -booklet on physical culture he defended the gymnastic doctrine that -women should develop what he called a muscle corset by bending and -swaying from the hips a thousand times a day. He said it must be -done--well, _au naturel_, in front of an open window in one's bedroom in -the morning. I'd be ashamed to admit that we fellows at Mrs. Vesey's -used to set our alarm clocks at half-past six to go round the corner to -Amsterdam Avenue----” - -Dulcet paused a while and watched the river pensively. - -“But about the cat,” I reminded him presently. - -“Yes,” he said. “Well, that first night I was at the chop-house I -noticed a very fine, fat cat browsing about under the tables. I was -amused at the corpulence of the animal. I said to myself that a cat -as large as that must surely get some meat somewhere, because, while -vegetarian protose food may be all right for Swedes, a cat is a realist -in the matter of carnal meals. And when I went to the desk to pay my -check, wanting some excuse to get into talk with the superb Gloria--who -was, of course, the old man's daughter--I remarked on the sleek, healthy -appearance of her cat. - -“'Oh, it's not ours,' she said. 'It came in here yesterday. I don't know -whose he is.' - -“I'll bet I know whose it is,” I said. - -I told her that Mrs. Vesey, who ran the bachelor lodging-house on -Seventy-Fifth Street, had lost her Nemo. She listened with interest, -those thrilling blue eyes sizing me up in a keen, humorous way. - -“'I shouldn't wonder it's hers,' she said. - -“Welcoming any pretext for prolonging the discussion, I borrowed the -phone at Gloria's elbow, and, studying the heart-rending curves of her -chin and cheek and throat, I called up Mrs. Vesey and told her I thought -I had found her pet. Mrs. Vesey hurried round to the restaurant, -and swept up the vagabond Nemo with cries of joy into her lean and -affectionate bosom. Nemo purred, and I escorted Mrs. Vesey home, -recapitulating in my mind the perfect contours of the girl's heavenly -form. My enthusiasm was even such that when the other men came in I -could not refrain from telling them all about her. I saw that I had made -a mistake, for instantly Blackmore swore he would get her to sit for -him. - -“Of course, from that time on, the Physical Culture Chophouse became the -nightly haunt of our little party. The other men had seen it many times, -but the vegetarian threats in the window had frightened them away. But -now, none of us dared to be absent very many dinners, for fear the -rest would gain some advantage with the girl. I cannot give you any -conception of the humorous glamour of that time unless I insist that she -was the most superbly luscious thing I have ever glimpsed; and one sees -a good many covetable creatures on the streets of New York. Some of them -said she was cold; that in spite of all the nutritious algebra printed -on old Larsen's menus (he used to put down all sorts of preposterous -formulas about starch, and albumen, and phosphorus, and proteids, and so -on)--she was lacking in calories. But I know that when we sat at table, -and she came round to ask if everything was all right, and leaned over -us with her clear eyes, as blue as a special-delivery stamp, and that -cream-white neck, and the faint glimmer of a blue ribbon shining through -the hilly slopes of her blouse-----Oh, well, Ben, we were young, and we -ate red meat for lunch, anyway. - -“I guess old man Larsen, who spent most of his time in the kitchen, -encouraged her to kid us along, for he never seemed to mind our open -admiration of his daughter. He probably saw that she was a bigger -business asset than any number of calory charts. Every now and then he -would come out and chin with us, for our party became a nightly event -in the café. Before long we had sampled every kind of vegetarian -combination on the list, and had him busy inventing new ones. We used to -ask him if he had raised a girl like that on nothing but vegetables, and -he would laugh and swear that Gloria had never tasted blood until she -was sixteen. It seemed queer to us that the restaurant wasn't full of -her suitors. I should have thought, with a girl like her, they'd have -been standing in line waiting for a look at her. I suppose that people -who feed on nothing but vegetables are rather puny in such matters. -It's an odd thing, but I've always noticed that most of the people who -frequent these crank physical-culture and dietetic eating-places are a -queer, sick-looking lot--youths with rolling Adam's apples, and sallow, -soup-stained girls. Certainly our little gang, so very jovial and -fancy-free, made a quaint contrast to most of the patrons of the house. -In a few days we felt as if we owned the place, and had the old man -slide two tables together just underneath Gloria's cash register, where -we met every evening for dinner. - -“As for Larsen, he was a crank on many subjects but he was no fool. -He was an athletic, erect fellow with a bristling gray moustache and -cropped hair and a forcible gray eye. On the wall was a huge photo -of him in a kind of Sandow pose, with a leopard-skin apron round his -middle, showing terrific knotty biceps and back muscles. Gloria told us -that at one time he had been a physical instructor in the Swedish army, -and the head of a _Turnverein_, or something of that sort. There was a -certain physical and gymnastic candour about him that amused us. He was -awfully proud of Gloria, whom he had raised himself (being a widower) -according to his own hygienic and athletic principles. After we had all -bought his booklets, and promised to take up his system of calisthenics, -he became quite chummy and showed us a lot of photographs of Gloria at -different ages, doing her gymnastic exercises, beginning as a little -plump Venus and ending as a stunning profile in tights. We tried to -maintain an attitude of merely scientific detachment toward those -pictures, admiring them only as connoisseurs of physical culture; but we -ended by begging him for copies, insisting that they would be a useful -guide to us in our own private exercising. But Larsen said he -was keeping them to illustrate a new enlarged edition of his -physical-culture book. We told him that it would sell a million copies, -and I think we all volunteered to act as selling-agents for the book. -Annette Kellermann and Susanna Cocroft, we cried, were scarecrows -compared to Gloria. - -“To all this banter Gloria would listen calmly and unembarrassed, for -she had a magnificent unconsciousness of her own superb allure. We would -each try to get a moment alone with her to describe the exercises we -were taking, and to ask her advice about our muscular development. -I remember that Blackmore, after secret practice that we had not -suspected, took the wind out of our sails one evening when some of us -were bragging of our accomplishment in bending and touching the floor -while standing on tiptoe. He jumped up and caught hold of the lintel of -the doorway, and chinned himself on it a dozen times or so. We were -all crestfallen by this feat until Gloria came forward--all the other -customers had gone home--and did the same thing about twenty times. She -went back to her counter with a heavenly flush of pride, while Blackmore -dashed to a table and did a little sketch of her from memory, with the -lovely lines of her figure silhouetted against the doorway. - -“But it was I who was first to think of the subtlest compliment that any -one could pay her, which was to ask the privilege of feeling her biceps. -And what an arm she had! Not a great, fleshy, flabby washerwoman's -limb, but the rippling marble of a Greek statue brought to warm life! -Blackmore used to sit at meal-times neglecting his protose steak and -making sketches of her while she wasn't looking. The best I could do was -write verses about her. And while she played no favourites, I think -she really gave me a little the inside track, because I talked physical -culture with her more seriously than the others, who tried to make love -to her a little too baldly. - -“By this time she had us all doing calisthenics. The creaky floors of -Mrs. Vesey's house used to resound night and morning with the agonies -of our gymnastics. There was one exercise that Gloria told us she found -particularly helpful. It was to lie down with the feet under a bureau or -any other heavy piece of furniture, extend the arms behind the head, and -then raise and lower the body a hundred times, pivoting from the waist. -This was only one of fifty or more laborious accomplishments that we -undertook for the sake of our goddess. No woman was ever wooed with -more honest pangs, or with more repeated genuflections. As we lay on -the floor before going to bed, raising our legs in the air two hundred -times, or groaned in some sinew-cracking, twisting contortion devised -by the pitiless Swede, it was the vision of Gloria's beauty of snow and -rose that gave us courage. If any passer-by ever looked up at the front -of Mrs. Vesey's house in the early mornings, he must have been startled -to see a white figure near every window, furiously going through the -Swedish manual. One of us, we fondly thought, would some day spend a -healthy Swedish honeymoon performing these motions in ecstatic company -with Gloria; and we did not want to be shamed by her incomparable -perfection. If she worshipped bodily symmetry, our goal was nothing -less. We wanted to be lithe, supple, very panthers of elasticity and -grace. The evening I was able to stand on one leg in the restaurant and -proudly raise my other foot to touch a gas-jet some six feet from the -floor, I felt that Gloria might some day be mine.” - -Dove paused again, and seemed to fall into a reminiscent reverie. -Unconsciously he stiffly extended one leg in front of him, and I divined -that he was inwardly rehearsing that act of calisthenic triumph. - -“By gracious!” he said, “I've never forgotten the night I got her -father's permission to take her to some gymnastic tournament, or -something of that sort, down at Madison Square Garden. How annoyed the -other men were when they went to the chop-house that night for their -evening penance of lentils, and found Gloria absent! Yes, it was an odd -wooing. I had found the measurements of the Venus de Milo in some Sunday -paper, and that night, when we became quite sentimental, I made her -promise to take her own dimensions, so that we could compare the -proportions of the two. And we had some very happy little jokes, quite -simple ones that she would understand, about her arms being much more -lovely than those of the statue, and that sort of thing. How deliciously -she blushed the next day when she gave me her list of measurements, -written out on a sheet of paper. Of course, I pretended not to -understand which was which. I wrote a little poem about them.” - -“It seems to me,” I said, “that you were getting on very well. What was -the trouble? You didn't marry her, did you?” - -“Old man Larsen,” he continued, gravely, “had a number of other hobbies -besides vegetarianism and physical culture. He was a mechanical -genius in his way. I remember once, after we had expressed exaggerated -admiration of some atrocious compound of lentils and nuts and -fruit, Gloria took us through the kitchen to show us an ingenious -sandwich-making machine her father had contrived. You fed in loaves of -pumpernickel bread and pats of nut butter on one side, hard-boiled eggs -and lettuce and dressing on the other, and out came egg-salad sandwiches -through a slot, as neat as you could want to see. But the best of his -stunts was a sort of miniature vacuum cleaner which the waitresses used -for taking the crumbs off the tables. You've seen those little hot-air -pistols they use at swell shoe-shining stands to dry the liquid cleanser -off your shoes before they put on the polishing paste? Well, Larsen's -decrumbing machine, as we used to call it, looked rather like those. You -screwed a plug into an electric light socket, ran the little gun over -the table, and in a jiffy it sucked up crumbs and cigarette ashes and -spilled lentils and matches, and left the cloth neat. Larsen was so -proud of it he said he was going to patent it. - -“I never cared so very much for the old man, he was a little too -eccentric; and I began to think, after a while, that he used his -daughter a little too crudely as a business bait; but he was full of -ideas. He had a big motor-truck that he used to cruise around town, -visiting the markets himself, to get the pick of the vegetables; and he -was always tinkering with that truck, planning new mechanical tricks of -some kind. He had an insatiable curiosity, too. He used to sit down -at the table with us sometimes, late in the evening, and ask about our -work, and where we lived, and what Mrs. Vesey was like, and what time of -day we were home, and all sorts of fool questions like that. - -“Well, the time went on, and it began to be cold weather. I noticed this -sooner than the other fellows, I think, because whereas most of them -went to offices during the daytime, I stayed home at Mrs. Vesey's, -trying to write in my narrow coop of a top bedroom. You know how -depressing an instrument a typewriter is when your hands are cold. I -haven't forgotten some dreary vigils I had up there, struggling to write -short stories. Sometimes I used to give it up weakly, and go round to -Larsen's, where it was always warm and cozy, to drink herb coffee and -eat those brittle Swedish biscuits and chat with Gloria. I used to -complain to her about the cold in my room, and she would laugh and say -that I just ought to try a winter in Sweden. - -“'Swedish exercises,' she would say. 'That's the thing to stir up your -blood! They'll keep you warm.' - -“And then, in her enchanting way, she would tell me a new one, and if -there were no customers (as there generally weren't in the middle of -the afternoon) she would illustrate how it should be done. Sometimes she -would even allow me what she called a Swedish kiss--a very fleeting -and provocative embrace. And then I would show her my new perfection in -doing the backward stoop or some such muscular oddity, and return to my -cold citadel. - -“But in spite of the fact that we were all busy much of the time going -through our manual of exercises, presently the chill of Mrs. Vesey's -lodgings became severe. Mrs. Vesey was a rather obstinate and frugal old -dear, and she herself dwelt down in the kitchen, where her big gas-range -kept her comfortable. When we complained of the cold, she had all sorts -of excuses for postponing lighting the furnace. There was a big coal -strike that year, and she was quite right in suspecting that once her -present supply was exhausted it would be very hard to get more. Also, -she said, her furnace man had quit, but she was hunting for another. On -one pretext or another, she kept on putting us off, until finally it was -mid-November, and we were doing our exercises in rooms where our breath -showed like clouds of fog. And then one day Mrs. Vesey came up in great -glee to say that a coal man had called that very morning, of his own -accord, and had offered to give her five tons. She had promptly snapped -at the chance, and he had put the coal in the cellar; so we should have -heat the very next day, when the new furnace man was expected. - -“Naturally we were all cheered by this good news. We sped round to -Larsen's restaurant in high spirits, and adored our divinity with even -more than usual abandon. - -“'Now my fingers will be warm again, Gloria,' I said, 'I'll be able to -write some more poems about you.' - -“'Yes,' cried Blackmore, 'and now it will be warm enough for you to -come and pose for me in my lovely attic at Mrs. Vesey's. If you had come -before, I should have called my painting “The Chilblain Venus.”' - -“'Silly boys!' said Gloria, with that delicious, soft Swedish accent -which I can't even try to imitate. 'You are hot-blooded enough as it is. -You don't need all that warming up. Look at us vegetarians; you make fun -of us, but our lentils keep our blood circulating. Try Brussels sprouts; -they are full of calories.' - -“'Ah!' we shouted. 'But you seem to keep this place warm enough.' - -“Old Larsen, who passed through the room just then, broke in crossly: - -“'We have to, for the sake of the customers,' he said. 'Gloria, stop -fooling with the gentlemen and attend to business.' He seemed in a bad -humour that night. - -“The next day must have been some sort of holiday, for I know we all -went out to see a football game. We got back about supper-time and found -the house perishing chill. With shouts and protests we called Mrs. Vesey -from her kitchen, but she explained that the expected furnace man had -not turned up. - -“'Well,' said Blackmore, 'this can't go on any longer, Mrs. Vesey. I'll -go down and light the fire myself. We'll take turns and keep it going -till your man comes.' - -“He ran down to the basement, but a minute later he was up again. - -“'Mrs. Vesey,' he shouted, 'what is all this nonsense? Are you kidding -us? There's no coal down there at all!' - -“'No coal?' she exclaimed. 'Why, there was a good three or four tons, -and the man said he put five tons more in yesterday. I heard him do -it--never heard such a noise in my life. I paid him ten dollars a ton. - -“'Impossible!' Blackmore cried, angrily. 'There's not enough down there -to fry Nemo with. About three shovelfuls, that's all. What is this--some -kind of a game to freeze us out?' - -“Mrs. Vesey wrung her hands, and we all ran down to the cellar. It was -as Blackmore had said. The bins were empty, save for a few lumps.” - -Dove gazed down thoughtfully at the coal office on the pier below us, -where a wagon was loading. - -“On a mellow afternoon like this,” he said, “coal doesn't seem quite -so pressing a concern; but I tell you, in a bleak boarding-house about -Thanksgiving time, with no heat of any sort available but a gas-jet, it -is a different matter. We were an angry and puzzled lot that night. Mrs. -Vesey protested so pitifully that there had been coal in the bins only -the day before, and asserted so repeatedly that she had heard the -noise of the new load going in, that we could not help believe her. She -promised to call up her coal man the first thing the next morning, and -we also agreed to go round and visit him in a body, to add our personal -appeals; but how on earth several tons of coal could have been stolen -out of the cellar without any one hearing it seemed to us a mystery. - -“The next morning we visited the coal-dealer _en masse_--in a coalition, -as Blackmore said--and by spirited imprecation and paying cash we -extracted a promise to have a couple of tons sent at once. His office -was some distance up on Columbus Avenue, and on our way back we passed -through one of the cross-streets--Eighty-Third, I think it was, because -one of us wanted to get some stamps at the post-office. As we came -along, we heard the rumble of coal passing down a chute, and saw a -coal-wagon in the distance. - -“'There's somebody in luck,' said one. - -“'But what an odd-looking coal-wagon,' said another, as we approached. - -“It was a large motor-truck with a hinged metal top, something like a -huge street-cleaning cart. The engine was throbbing, and the coal was -roaring noisily in the chute, which led down into the cellar window of -a brownstone dwelling. The chute, instead of being the customary shallow -trough, was a large circular pipe, so that we could not actually see the -coal pouring downward, but only hear it crashing through the metal -tube. That struck me as a good idea for preventing the coal-dust from -spreading over everything near. - -“But we were all interested not only in the odd appearance of the truck, -but in the extraordinary din it caused. Delivering coal is never a -silent job, naturally; but this racket was really terrific. The driver -seemed to have left his engine running full tilt, and the whole truck -quivered and shook with the power. We stood amazed at the furious rattle -and uproar. The noise was too great for spoken words to be caught, but I -pointed out the circular chute to Blackmore. It was made in telescoping -sections, to slide into itself, and was an interesting novelty. - -“It occurred to me that this dealer, whoever he might be--there was no -name on the truck--could perhaps let Mrs. Vesey have some coal. We could -see the feet of the driver, who was standing on the other side of the -truck, and I went round to speak to him. It was a stocky man with a -flowing bush of black beard and wearing a suit of very grimy overalls. -At the top of my voice I yelled: - -“'Got any coal to sell?' - -“He shook his head in a surly way and turned his back on me. - -“I could not tell from his gesture whether he had answered my question, -or was indicating that he could not hear; so I shouted at him again. - -“At the same time I noticed Blackmore and the others gathered at the -cellar window, looking in curiously over the slope of the delivery -pipe. The coal man seized a lever and shut off his power, for the engine -stopped, and after a little sliding and rumbling in the tube the racket -ceased. He picked up a shovel and ran to the group by the chute. - -“'Here, let that alone!' he cried, angrily. “'Keep your shirt on,' said -Blackmore. 'We're just looking at this outfit of yours. It makes a devil -of a noise. Regular public nuisance, I call it!' '“It's none of your -affair,' said the man. 'Keep out of what don't concern you.' - -“He returned to his truck, pulled a handle, and the roar of the coal -began again. I was standing near him, while the others were on the -opposite side of the wagon, so I was the only one to see a curious -thing. There were several revolving cogwheels at the side of the truck, -and in his irritation, I suppose the driver stooped over them too -closely. At any rate, his beard caught in the cogs, and I gave a cry of -dismay, thinking he would be cruelly hurt. To my amazement the beard was -whisked quickly from his face, and I saw that he was Larsen. He looked -at me with an expression of alarm and anger that was laughable. - -“'When did you turn coal-dealer?' I shouted. But at this moment -Blackmore, who was still bending over the chute, sprang up and ran round -to us. He, too, was staggered to see the identity of the driver. He -dragged me a few paces away and shouted in my ear. - -“'Damn queer business,' he said. 'That coal isn't going in. It's coming -out!' - -“'What the deuce do you mean?' I said. - -“'Just what I say. He's got some sort of a suction engine in that truck, -a kind of big vacuum cleaner, and he's simply siphoning the coal out of -somebody's cellar.' - -“Larsen ran at us with a big spanner in his hand, but we grappled with -him, and while three of us held him the others examined the truck. It -was perfectly true. By an ingenious gasoline pump installed in the wagon -he was drawing out the coal. Looking into the top of the wagon through a -little glass peephole, we could see the black nuggets coming swiftly up -out of the chute. By this time a little crowd had gathered, and the lady -of the house ran out to see what was happening. I think she thought we -were trying to seduce her coal supply. She explained angrily to us that -Larsen had driven up to her door half an hour before and offered to sell -her several tons of coal. Her cellar, like everyone else's, was none too -well stocked, and she had been delighted to agree. - -“While we were wondering just what to do, Larsen, who had been glaring -wickedly at us, broke away from our grasp and reversed his machinery -so that the coal began to thunder back honestly into the cellar. The -puzzled woman, not suspecting anything wrong, went back indoors after we -made some impromptu explanation for the fuss. Larsen's amputated black -beard whirled round and round, still adhering to the rolling cogs, as -we watched, while he stood by sullenly. We walked away down the block -to hold a council, and also to let the group of mystified onlookers -disperse. Of course, our first thought was to go for the police; but -then we thought of Gloria.” - -Dove sighed, and tapped out his long-expired pipe. - -“Well,” he said, “that's pretty near the end of the story. I'm afraid -association with Beauty blunts the sense of rectitude. No, we didn't do -anything about it, except see to it that Larsen put back that coal -in the cellar. I suppose we were really accessory to a misdemeanour, -because we gathered from some small paragraphs we saw in the papers that -a number of householders in that neighbourhood had been mysteriously -robbed of their coal. To tell you the truth, we couldn't bear the -thought of taking any action that would ruin Gloria's happiness. What -were a few tons of black, filthy coal compared to that serene and -golden-white beauty of hers, like some princess in a Norse fairy tale? -The old man was a lunatic, we supposed, and would come to grief sooner -or later. We were not going to be the ones to bring humiliation upon -him. - -“We walked back, stricken, to our lodgings; and as we passed the -Physical Culture Chophouse we looked furtively through the window. We -could see Gloria laying the tables for lunch, the tall, strong curve -of her back as she leaned over, her capable white hands smoothing the -cloth. None of us had the heart to go in. - -“We clubbed together to pay for Mrs. Vesey's new supply of coal, -although it broke our pocket-books for the next month or so. We were -too hard up, then, to go on eating at Larsen's. We had to patronize a -lunch-counter instead, where we gloomed over frankfurters and beans -and quarrelled with one another, in sheer misery, as to which one of us -Gloria had really liked best. We never saw her again, because about a -week later the Larsen café shut up, and they disappeared.” - -“And the calisthenics?” I said. “Did you go on with those?” - -“No,” he said; “we were too melancholy. Also, as soon as Mrs. Vesey's -coal arrived, we didn't need to. That was the terrible part of it. You -see, Gloria had simply egged us on to do those exercises so that we -wouldn't feel the chill when her father stole the coal. I'm afraid she -was as guilty as he was, but we tried to convince ourselves that she was -only a tool.” - -We got up from our bench, for the afternoon air was growing bleak. - -“Now you know,” he said, “why that coal-dump down there reminded me of -Gloria. Well, it was wonderful while it lasted--until, as you might say, -the serpent drove us out of our Garden of Sweden.” - - - - - -THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE - -IT WAS two days before Christmas, and Dove Dulcet had come down town -to have lunch with me. As he had arrived rather early, we were taking a -little stroll round the bright, windy streets before our meal, -enjoying the colour and movement of the scene. We stopped by St. Paul's -churchyard to note the curious contrast of the old chocolate spire -relieved against the huge glittering shaft of the Woolworth Building. At -the noon hour St. Paul's stands in the dark shadow of the great cliffs -to the south, while the Woolworth pinnacle leaps up like a spearhead -into the golden vacancy of day-long sunshine. - -“Saint Paul in the shadow, Saint Frank in the sun,” said Dove with -gentle irony. “It seems to prove that ten cents put in the cash register -gets nearer Heaven than ten cents dropped in the collection plate.” - -When Dove is philosophical, he is always full of quaint matter, but -I was hardly heeding what he said. My eye had been caught by a crowd -gathered at the corner of Church Street. Over the heads of the throng was -a winking spark of light that flashed this way and that as though spun -from a turning mirror. - -“Let's go and see what's doing,” I said. My poet friend is always -docile, and he followed me down Fulton Street. - -“It looks to me like a silk hat,” he said. - -And so it was. On the corner of the pavement stood a tall, stout, and -very well-nourished man with a ruddy face, wearing shabby but still -presentable cutaway coat and gray trousers, and crowned by a steep -and glittering stovepipe hat which twinkled like a heliograph in the -dazzling winter glare. But, most amazing, when we elbowed a passage -through the jocular crowd, we saw that this personable individual was -wearing, instead of an overcoat, two large sandwich boards vigorously -lettered as follows: - -THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE - -OPENS TO-DAY 59 Ann Street - -Celebrate the Merry Yuletide! - -One Prodigious Meal, - -$1 BUY A STRIP TICKET AND SAVE MONEY - -TO-DAY ONLY 100 meals for $10 - -This corpulent sandwich man was blithely answering the banter of those -who were not awed by the radiance of his headgear and the dignity of his -mien, and passing out printed cards to those nearest him. - -“Do all the hundred meals have to be eaten to-day?” asked Dulcet. “If -so, the task is beyond my powers.” - -“Like the man in the Bible,” I said, “he probably rented his garments. -But he couldn't rent that admirable abdomen that proclaims him a -well-fed man. It seems to me a very sound ad. for the chophouse.” - -“Unquestionably,” said my friend, gravely, “he is the man who put the ad -in adipose.” - -The sandwich man, unabashed by these remarks, handed me one of his -cards, which Dulcet and I read together: - -_K. Jefferson Gastric, the best-fed man south of 42nd Street, takes this -importunity of urging you to become a steakholder in the Commutation -Chophouse. Why pay for overhead expense? In the Commutation Chophouse -all unnecessaries are discarded and you pay only for food, not for -finger-bowls and a lovely female cashier. No tips. To-day Only, the -Opening Day, to celebrate the jovial Yule, the management will sell -Strip Tickets entitling you to 100 Glorious Meals, for $10._ - -At this point a policeman politely urged Mr. Gastric to move on, and he -passed genially down Church Street, his resplendent hat glowing above a -trail of followers. - -“Come on,” I said; “it's time to eat, anyway. Let's go over to Ann -Street and have a look at this philanthropic venture.” - -“Well,” said Dulcet, “since it's your turn to buy, far be it from me to -protest.” - -The narrow channel of Ann Street is always crowded at the lunch hour, -but on that occasion it was doubly congested with patrons of the amusing -toyshops. We pushed patiently along, and passing Nassau Street moved -into a darker and shabbier region. A sound of music rose upon the air. -To our surprise, at the entrance to an unsuspected alley stood a fiddler -playing a merry jig. Beside him was another sandwich man, also stout and -well-favoured and in Fifth-Avenue attire, carrying boards which read: - -ENTRANCE TO THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE - -Eat Drink and Be Merry For To-morrow We Die - -To-day Only, for the Jocund Yule, - -Strip Tickets for 100 Square Meals, $10 - -“This is highly diverting,” I said. “Apparently we go down this passage. -Come on, everyone seems bound the same way. We won't get a seat unless -we make haste.” - -Dulcet was gazing reflectively at the sandwich boards. His blue eyes had -a quizzical twinkle. - -“For God, for country, and for Yule,” he said. “Queer that this should -happen on Ann Street. I seem to remember----” - -“Queer that it should happen anywhere,” I interrupted him. “It's a -clever advertising stunt, anyway--100 meals for $10. It seems too good -to be true.” - -“The only thing I'm afraid of,” he said, “is that it is literally true.” - -“Walk in, gents, give us a try,” cried the sandwich man. “Try anything -once, gents.” - -“Come on, Dove,” I said, seeing that others were crowding ahead of us -down the alley. “None of your paradoxes!” - -The narrow passage turned into a courtyard overlooked by old grimy -warehouses with iron-shuttered windows. In one corner was a fine -substantial brick building with a rounded front, and a long flight of -wooden stairs that seemed to lead up to a marine junk shop, for old -sea-boots and ships' lanterns and fenders hung along the wall. In a -basement was an iron foundry where we could see the bright glow of a -forge. Halfway down the little area was a low door with a huge stone -lintel-piece over which was a large canvas sign: _the commutation -chophouse_. - -***** - -I must confess to an irrational affection for quaint eating places, and -having explored downtown New York's crowded cafés and lunchrooms rather -carefully in quest of a congenial tavern, the Commutation Chophouse -struck me as highly original and pleasing. We stepped down into a very -large and rather dark cellar that apparently had previously been used as -a carpenter's shop, for a good many traces of the earlier tenancy were -still visible. The furnishings were of the plainest, consisting simply -of heavy wooden tables and benches. There was no linen on the tables, -but the wood had been scrubbed scrupulously clean and there were piles -of tissue napkins. From a door at the back waiters came rushing with -trays of food. A glorious clatter of knives and forks filled the air, -and it looked at first as though we would find no place to sit. As Dove -expressed it, the room was loaded to the muzzle; and a continuous stream -of patrons was coming down the alley, allured by the sandwich man and -the absurd thin gayety of the fiddle. By the front door stood a dark -young man, behind a small counter, selling tickets. - -“One meal for a dollar,” he cried, repeatedly, as he took in money. “One -hundred meals for ten dollars. Get your commutation tickets here.” - -“We'll try two single meals to begin with,” I said, and put down a -ten-dollar bill. - -The young man rummaged in a drawer full of greasy notes to get the -change. “Better get a commutation,” he said. “Tremendous saving.” - -“I should think you'd need a cash register,” said Dulcet. “Handling all -that kale, it would be useful in keeping the accounts straight.” - -The young man looked up sharply. - -“Say,” he retorted, “what are you, mister? Cash-register salesman? Step -along please, don't block the gangway. Next! Seats in the rear! No, -commutation tickets not transferable. Good only to the purchaser. Ten -dollars, please. Next!” - -“They seem to be coining money,” said Dove, as we found places at last -in a rear corner. - -“Well,” I said, “this is just the kind of place I like. By Jove, this -building must be well over a hundred years old. Look at those beams -in the ceiling. All they need is a few sporting prints and an open -fireplace. Lit by candles, too, you see. Well, well, this is the real -alehouse atmosphere. Why, it's as good as the Cheshire Cheese. This is -the kind of place where I can imagine Doctor Johnson and Charles Lamb -sitting in a corner.” - -“You are an incurable sentimentalist,” he said. “Besides, Lamb would -have had to sit on Johnson's knee, I expect. If I remember rightly, Lamb -was a very small urchin when Doctor Johnson died.” - -“Why be so literal?” I protested. “Haven't you any sentiment for fine -antique flavour, and all that sort of thing?” - -“If there is one thing where sentiment plays no part with me,” he said, -“it is food. At meal times I am distinctly a realist. Fine antique -flavour is rather upsetting when you find it in your meat. But still,” - he continued, “I must admit this looks good.” He beamed approvingly at -the thick chop and baked potatoes and beans and coffee the waiter had -put down in front of us. - -“Evidently you don't order your food,” I said. “They give you the -standardized meal of the day. Fall to! These beans baked in cheese -strike me as excellent.” - -I have never seen waiters rush around with such speed as they did in -that crowded cellar, where flickering candle-gleams cast a tawny light -over the crowded tables of men packed shoulder to shoulder. They flashed -in and out through the rear door like men possessed. They careered in -with trays of steaming viands, crashed them down on the bare tables, and -fled out again, napkins streaming behind them like pennants. Once they -had delivered your food it seemed impossible to catch their gaze, for we -tried to hail one to ask for ketchup. It was no use. He flew hither and -yon with frantic and single-minded energy. - -“These waiters speed like dervishes,” I said. “Evidently the no-tip rule -does not lessen their zeal.” - -“Perhaps they get a share in the profits of the enterprise,” said -Dulcet, placidly. - -Just behind us was a small barred window looking out on a street. It -was at the ground level, and looking through the dusty pane I could see -horses' hoofs going by, and the feet of pedestrians. Suddenly there was -a great clang and crash outside, and I turned to look. - -“What's up?” said Dulcet, who was cheerfully disposing of his chop as -well as his neighbour's elbow would permit him. - -“They seem to have spilled some beans,” I said, peering through the -dusky aperture. “There's a truck delivering food or something at the -back door. They've tipped over a can, I think.” - -“Spilled some beans?” he said, with his first sign of real interest. -“That sounds symbolic. Let me have a look.” - -He stood up on the bench and gazed outward. Presently he sat down again -and went on calmly with his meal. Some excellent cheese cake was brought -us as dessert. - -“That alley behind us,” he said. “I suppose it communicates with Beekman -Street, doesn't it?” - -“I guess so. Why?” - -“Just wondering. Ben, I apologize for my skepticism. The food here is -jolly good. In fact, it's so good that I think I've tasted it before. I -am your debtor for a very enlarging experience. And now, as the crowd is -becoming almost oppressive, and I can see that there are others eager to -commute, suppose we smoke our cigars outdoors.” - -“Right you are,” I said. “And since the food is eatable, and I happen -to have the money with me, I think I'll invest in one of those strip -tickets. Everyone else seems to be doing it, and it looks to me a good -way to save money. A hundred lunches--why, that will see me through till -spring. I don't think I'll get tired of eating here, it's so amusing.” - -“No,” said Dove, as he picked up his hat, “I don't think you'll get -tired of eating here. Perhaps the money will be well spent.” - -I bought my commutation, and we stood in the shabby old courtyard for a -few minutes watching the crowd stream in. A good many, I noticed, though -unable to find seats, still took advantage of the opening-day offer and -bought the hundred meal tickets for future consumption. - -“The only drawback about this place is the crowd,” I said. “If this -keeps up, half of downtown New York will be eating here.” - -“Look here,” said Dove, “I think I shall be down this way again -to-morrow. It's my turn to buy. Will you lunch with me then? We'll -celebrate the jovial Yule together.” - -“Fine,” I said. “Meet you at the old red newspaper-box at the corner of -Broadway and Vesey to-morrow at 12 o'clock.” - -***** - -We were both there punctually. - -“Have you got your appetite with you?” asked Dove. “It's a bit early for -feasting, but it'll give us time for a stroll after lunch.” - -“Where do we eat?” I said. “Commutation again? It's all velvet to me, -anyway, all my lunches are paid for for the next three months.” - -“There's a little place on Beekman Street I used to know,” he said. -“Let's try that.” - -We found a corner table in an odd old eating house at the corner of -Beekman and Gold streets, which I had never seen before. - -“I'm a great believer in tit for tat, fair play, and all that sort -of thing,” said Dulcet when the waiter approached. “You gave me an -excellent lunch yesterday. I intend to give you the same lunch to-day, -if you can stand eating it again. Waiter! Mutton chop, baked potato, -baked beans, coffee, and cheese cake. For two.” - -When the beans came, baked with cheese in a little brown dish, just as -they were served the day before, I must confess that I was startled. - -“Why, these beans are done exactly like those we had at the -Commutation,” I said. “Are these people doing the cooking for the -chop-house?” - -“Perhaps you'll have to eat chop and beans for a hundred lunches,” - Dulcet said. “Well, it's a hearty diet. After all, the sandwich boards -simply said a hundred meals. They didn't guarantee that they would be -different.” - -I insisted that on our way back toward the office we should stop at the -Commutation Chophouse and find out from a customer what the bill of fare -had been on the second day. The vision of a hundred repetitions of any -meal, however good, is rather ghastly. - -“I don't hear the minstrel to-day,” Dove observed as we drew near the -alley. - -“Oh, well,” I said, “that was just to draw business for the opening.” - -We turned down the passage at No. 59. Quite a crowd of patrons were -waiting their turn, I saw. They were standing in the courtyard by the -chop-house door, talking busily. - -“You see,” I said, “it's still crowded.” - -We reached the entrance. The door was closed. The sign over the doorway -now had additional lettering painted on it, and read: - -THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE - -The Other 99 Meals Will Be Served In Augusta, Maine. - -“Come on, Ben,” said Dulcet. “No use trying to break through a window. -There's no one there. I wonder what the fare is to Augusta?” - -“You rascal!” I cried. “If you suspected this, why the devil did you -encourage me to squander my $10?” - -“I simply said it would probably be well spent,” he said, with a -clear blue humorous gaze. “If it helps to cauterize your magnificent -credulity, it will be.” - -We sat down on a bench in St. Paul's churchyard to smoke a pipe together -while I performed some mental obsequies over my vanished Federal Reserve -certificate. Dove looked up at the sparkling gilded turret of the -Woolworth. - -***** - -“I daresay Frank Woolworth would have fallen for it, too,” Dove said. -“The idea of a hundred meals for 10 cents each would have appealed to -him. But you know, old man, there are certain fixed and immutable laws -that the observant city dweller is accustomed to. My motto is, whenever -you find an apparent exception to those laws, look for an enigma in the -woodpile. I suspected something wrong when I saw that sandwich man -on Church Street. A man as fat as that doesn't generally take a job -sandwiching. Also I have doubts about people who insist on calling -Christmas 'Yule'. Moreover, a man doesn't generally take a job -sandwiching until his shirt is so ragged that he is ashamed to exhibit -it in public, when he is glad to cover it up with the boards. Those two -fat sandwicheers were members of the firm, I fear, for their linen was -O. K. And, secondly, what are the first things a man gets if he really -intends to start a restaurant? A cash register and a bunch of ketchup -bottles. There wasn't a cash register nor a ketchup bottle in sight in -the Commutation Chophouse. No, my dear; what you admired as carefully -arranged atmosphere of antiquity, the plain board tables and candles and -so on, was really stark cheapness. They weren't spending any money on -overhead; they said so themselves. - -“When you called my attention to the spilled beans, I was sure. For they -were not merely beans: they were baked beans; a far more significant -matter. When I looked out of the window I could see at once that there -was no kitchen attached to the Commutation Chophouse. The food was all -being delivered from that place on Beekman Street, whose name was on -the truck. A few ingenious rogues simply rented that old cellar, cheaply -enough I guess, put in a few tables, arranged to have grub shipped in -from near by, printed their commutation tickets, and sat down to collect -as many dollars as they could lure out of the open-handed Christmas -throng.” - -“Well, of all infernal liars,” I cried, “they certainly take the prize.” - -“Not so,” said Dulcet as we got up to go. “You should have read the -sandwich boards a little more carefully. Their ingenious author, -whom you chide as the Ann Street Ananias, really told the exact and -circumstantial truth.” - -We stood at the gateway of the graveyard, and gazed across the roaring -traffic of Broadway. Dove smiled and said he must be starting on his -Christmas shopping. - -“I tried to warn you,” he said, “but you wouldn't listen. As I was about -to say just before we visited the place, it was queer that it should -happen on Ann Street. Don't you remember that a certain famous gentleman -had his museum at the corner of Broadway and Ann? And it was he, I -think, who remarked that there's one born every minute. Well, Merry -Christmas!” - - - - - -THE PERT LITTLE HAT - -HEMMING had a home, and dearly he loved everything in it--with one -exception. He loved the furnace, and the kitchen range with its warm -ruddy glow, and the violet-coloured wafer of expensive aromatic soap -that always mysteriously appeared on the marble wash-basin when -visitors came. He loved the little glass towel racks, and the miniature -embroidered hand towels with Mrs. Hemming's maiden initials on them, -which also appeared, white and fragrant, whenever there was any special -festivity. Those little towels were to him a kind of symbol of the first -ecstatic days of their married life, and he could not bear to think of -the inevitable time when they would be frayed and discarded. He loved -the shelf over the fireplace where his brown-stained corncob pipe waited -for the after-supper smoke. He loved the little porch where the baby -carriage stood, and the tulip beds that he and Janet had planted -together, and the mission dining table, now blistered and scarred, that -had been their very first piece of furniture. - -But in the little den upstairs stood his desk, and how he hated it! - -Hemming, you see, had literary ambitions, and that desk meant to him -every circumstance, every long-drawn torment, of weariness and toil. It -had meant much pleasure, too, in hours when his writing had prospered; -but how the bitter outnumbered the sweet! How many hundred evenings he -had dragged himself to it, in lassitude and lethargy; had forced his -drowsy, unwilling mind to the task at hand. How many nights, nodding -over the typewriter, he had stumbled on and on. Over his desk he kept, -ironically, a letter he had once had from an editor, which said: _We -like stories. They have a joyous freshness. You write as though you -enjoyed it._ - -Hemming was no quick and easy composer. His stories emerged slowly, -painfully, hammered and wrenched from the stubborn tissues of a weary -brain. When his whole soul and body cried out for a comfortable stretch -on the couch, with pipe and book, and a gradual, blissful lapse into -slumber, he would throw off his coat, stick his head out of the window -for a dozen gulps of cool night air, and then sit down at the wheezy old -typewriter. - -Its yellow keys seemed a kind of doleful rosary on which he told long -petitions to whatever gods look down pityingly on young writers. He -would think how wonderful it would be if he could only do his writing -in the morning when he was fresh. To leap out of bed in the crisp early -air, to plunge into the cold bath where the water shimmered a pale green -by catching the tint of the big maple tree just outside the bathroom, to -swallow two cups of hot coffee, two slices of buttered toast, and then -sit down to his desk. In the zest and lustihood of the morning, how the -thoughts would throng, how the great empire of words would unroll before -him, far away to the blue hills where lived his unwritten poems! Such -was his daily thought as he hurried down the hill on bright mornings to -catch the 8.13 train to town. But to come back at night after a long day -at the office, and after helping Janet wash the dishes, and stoking the -furnace or mowing the lawn or planting bulbs in the garden--then to try -to write seemed tough indeed. - -Still, it had to be done, and Hemming threw his manhood into the task. -In his little den there was just space for a couch, his desk, and -his books, which were littered about the room. His only chance of -accomplishing anything was to get Janet safely installed on the couch, -for if he once lay down there work was impossible. She would curl up -under a steamer rug, tired out from a long day with the house and -the baby, reading a book or the evening paper. And then the stumbling -clatter of the typewriter would begin. - -After a while there always came what they humorously called “the -pathetic little moment.” This was the time when Janet's book or paper -would slip from her hand, she would turn away from the light, and coast -down the long, smooth toboggan of sleep. Then Hemming would switch off -the reading lamp above her head (with the secret economic satisfaction -young householders always feel when they switch off a light), touch the -soft cheek with a friendly finger, and climb the keys once more. His -writing always seemed to go better after the “pathetic little moment” - was past. There was a kind of subconscious satisfaction in the feeling -that Janet was there, asleep, and that he was working for her. And Janet -used to affirm that there was no lullaby like the irregular thumping of -those keys and levers. - -There was another catchword they had, which also moved stealthily in the -back passages of his mind as he mulled over his manuscripts. Janet badly -needed a new bonnet--a “pert little hat,” she liked to call it--and -Hemming had pledged himself to write something that would bring her the -saucy little ornament she craved in time for Christmas. She was a -slender, bright-faced creature, and no one could wear an innocently -tilted turban with more grace. But these had been hard days for small -incomes. Winter coal, and warm clothes for the Urchin, and the cook's -wages (when they had one), and Liberty Bonds--all these had taken -precedence over the pert little hat. It had been talked of so long, it -had become a kind of joyous legend, which Janet hardly expected to see -realized on her head. She used to say wistfully, as she coasted off to -sleep on the couch: “Would it be unpatriotic to think about the pert -little hat?” And her husband would vow that patriotism that excluded -pert little hats was no patriotism at all. So he had sworn that the -bonnet should be millinered on the clacking loom of his typewriter. They -used to laugh about it, and say that the little hat ought to be trimmed -with carbon typewriter ribbons. - -But Hemming did not know that Janet was not always asleep after the -so-called “pathetic moment” when she ostensibly gave up the struggle -with drowsiness. The twanging springs of the old couch made less noise -than the typewriter keys, but they, too, moved to a secret creative -refrain. There were times when Janet lay watching the lamplight on the -rows of books, and little pictures of stories that she would like -to write flashed into her head. They often used to come to her at -inopportune periods during the day, when the Urchin was in his bath or -when she was taking stock of the ice-box. Of course her husband was the -literary man of the family, and she had no thought of setting up her -simple imaginings against his more serious efforts. But one night, when -he was engrossed in some intractable plot, Janet slipped away into the -little guest room and shut herself in. With a stub pencil, on odd sheets -of notepaper, she began scribbling hotly. Two hours later, when Hemming -came back to earth and hunted her out, she was still at it. - -“What on earth are you up to, monk?” he asked. - -“Making out laundry lists,” she said. - -More observant husbands might have wondered what occasion there would be -for a laundry list on Thursday evening, but Hemming was always drowned -in his dreams of literary fame. - -His story, on which he had laboured at night for two months, and hers, -which had taken the spare hours of three days, were finished almost at -the same time. After dinner one night, when he had read the manuscript -of his story aloud, Janet handed him her venture, with some trepidation. -At first he seemed a little nettled that she should have done such a -thing. - -“Look here, monk,” he said, “you oughtn't to wear yourself out trying -to write. You have quite enough to do with the house and the baby. -Moreover, you don't know how discouraging it is. It takes years of -patient apprenticeship before one can get anything across with the -editors. This is my job, brownie.” - -“But I enjoyed doing it,” she said. - -“That's a bad sign. All really good stories take fearful effort. How -long did you spend on this?” - -“Oh, quite a while,” she said, vaguely. She did not like to admit that -her little story had involved no “patient apprenticeship.” - -He lit his pipe and began reading the sheets on which her quick pencil -had flashed with such enthusiasm. She sat with her sewing, watching him -shyly. - -“Very nice,” was his comment; but privately he wondered how he was to -avoid hurting her feelings. It seemed to him that the story had all the -faults of the amateur. - -“Would you submit it anywhere?” she asked, eagerly. “Do you think any -magazine would buy it?” - -He evaded the question. “Would you like me to type it for you?” he said. - -“Oh, _would_ you?” - -“I'll tell you what I'll do,” he said, “I'll be sending my manuscript to -Mr. Edwards to-morrow. I'll type yours and send it, too.” - -Janet was delighted, and she fell asleep that night with the sweet music -of the thumping keys in her ears. As she heard the staccato clicking, -she thought: “I wonder how far he has got now? How good of him to take -all that trouble to copy my poor little story.” - -Hemming sat up very late that night, copying Janet's manuscript and -planning what to say to Mr. Edwards, the editor of the _Colonial -Magazine_, who had been very cordial to him. He resisted the temptation -to alter Janet's naïve phrasing here and there, to improve her technique -by recasting some of the situations in her story. It was long past -midnight when both manuscripts were ready to go into the stout manila -envelope. Then, after some meditation, Hemming added the following note: - -_Dear Mr. Edwards:_ - -_I am sending you herewith my new story, and hope you may like it. I am -also enclosing a manuscript from my wife. Of course she is an untrained -writer--this is her first attempt--but I think her story has a certain -charm. Won't you, if you can, give her any encouragement you feel -proper? If you would write her a personal note of comment it would mean -a great deal to her. You know how tenderly one feels toward one's maiden -effort._ - -_Sincerely yours,_ - -_Godfrey Hemming._ - -It was very late when Hemming folded the carefully typed sheets and -placed them in the precious envelope. He was utterly weary, which must -be the explanation of a curious error he made. It was his custom to type -his name and address on a separate sheet of paper which was clipped to -the story he was submitting. He put his own name on one sheet, and his -wife's on another. But in arranging the manuscripts for the envelope -he inadvertently put his name-page with his wife's manuscript, and vice -versa. Then he went to bed with the satisfaction of well-earned fatigue, -and wondering how soon he would be able to order the “pert little hat”. - -It was two weeks later, and the Urchin had just murmured himself off -into his morning nap, when Janet heard the postman's whistle, and ran -down to receive an envelope with the name of the _Colonial Magazine_ -engraved upon it. Eagerly she tore it open. - -My Dear Mrs. Hemming: - -Your husband was good enough to send me the manuscript of your story, -which I have read with interest. It is an able piece of work, and shows -unusual technical skill for a beginner. But I must caution you not to -let your pen follow the track of your husband's method too closely. -Naturally enough, perhaps, your style seems to have modeled itself on -his: but this is a mistake, because it is quite evident that you have -ability enough to strike out on your own line. I wish you would study -carefully Mr. Hemming's last story, “Three Is Company,” which shows a -freshness and spontaneous originality better than anything he has done -before. It has a touch of charming humour which is new to his work. -If you can do us something of that sort, we shall be only too happy to -publish it. - -I am returning your manuscript with many thanks. - -Faithfully yours - -Theodore Edwards. - -Janet looked at the editor's flowing signature in amazement. “Three -Is Company” was her own story. And there, in the _Colonial Magazine's_ -envelope, lay the revered pages of Godfrey's masterpiece, returned. -The “fresh and spontaneous originality” was hers! A flush of exultation -thrilled her: she could almost feel the pert little hat on her head. -Instinctively she looked at herself in the mirror over the hall -mantelpiece. Was it possible that she was a literary genius, and had -never known it? - -But then a pang of horror chilled her. What dreadful mistake had -happened? Alas, it was only too plain--the two stories had been -confused. The editor had thought that her story was Godfrey's. He had -read it expecting to find the skill of Godfrey's trained hand. And -now how was she to spare her husband the mortification of having his -painstaking work rejected, while her prentice sketch had won favour by -some fluke? Her loyal heart, entirely devoid of selfish satisfaction, -could not bear the thought of this grotesque and unhappy climax for her -innocent venture. It was all her fault for meddling with what did not -concern her. What business had she to write a better story than Godfrey, -anyway? She knew that her husband would be honestly proud of her success -and would not grudge her the triumph for an instant, but she felt that -the poignance of the situation would be intolerable for her. Much better -do without all the pert little hats on Chestnut Street than win one at -the expense of Godfrey's feelings. - -How could she prevent the bad tidings from reaching him? Even now it -might be too late. She flew to the telephone, and with pricking pulses -asked for the office of the _Colonial_. One nervous hand unconsciously -flew to her hair, as though she were about to enter the august sanctum -of the editor. - -“Is this Mr. Edwards? - -“Oh, Mr. Edwards, this is Mrs. Hemming, Mrs. Godfrey Hemming, the wife -of one of your authors---- - -“Why, there's been a terrible mistake about our manuscripts, Mr. -Edwards, the stories that Mr. Hemming sent you. I've just had your -letter, and that story you sent back wasn't mine at all, it was -Godfrey's---- - -“I don't see how you can have made the mistake-- - -“Yes, the story called 'Three Is Company' is mine, I wrote it, but -really it can't possibly be better than the other one because I wrote it -in such a hurry, it's my first attempt---- - -“You want to publish it? But, Mr. Edwards, you simply mustn't, -because---- - -“I can't explain over the telephone. I know you only like it because you -thought---- - -“Will you promise not to do anything about it, and not to tell Mr. -Hemming anything, until you get a letter from me? - -“You _will_ promise? Oh, thank you so much! I'll write at once. - -“Good-bye!” - -She hurried to the little white enamelled desk, the same desk where the -ill-starred “Three Is Company” had been written. - -“This will cure me of trying to write,” she thought; “why, I never heard -of such a thing--to have one's first story accepted! Mr. Edwards must be -mad.” - -Luckily there was one sheet of her engraved stationery left--the paper -that Godfrey had given her, she thought remorsefully. All about her were -evidences of his loving care, and she had repaid him by undermining his -prestige with the one editor who had been nice to him. A fine way for an -author's wife to behave! She seized her pen and wrote: - -Dear Mr. Edwards: - -As I just told you over the phone, there has been some horrible mistake. -How it happened I can't guess. The manuscript you sent back to me is -Mr. Hemming's story. The one you say you like and want me to study as a -model is my own story, “Three Is Company”. I'm sorry you like it, I mean -I'm sorry you think it is better than Mr. Hemming's story, which can't -be so as it is the first story I ever tried to write. I have decided -to withdraw it, I don't want it published, so please send it back to -me instantly, and write me a letter saying how amateurish it is. I am -sending Mr. Hemming's story back to you, so that now you know who wrote -it you can reconsider it. Of course, if you thought it was by me, you -naturally considered it as the work of a beginner, and only a poor -imitation of Mr. Hemming's style. - -I don't want you ever to tell Mr. Hemming that I have written this -letter. Just tell him you sent my story back to me because it was not -good enough. - -Sincerely yours, - -Janet Colton Hemming. - -The importance Janet attached to this letter may be judged from the fact -that she left the baby alone in the house, asleep, while she hurried -down to the post-office to mail it, together with Godfrey's manuscript, -back to Mr. Edwards. And not even the sympathetic Mr. Edwards ever -guessed that on the first page, where Godfrey's careful typing ran in -neat lines, she had printed a good luck kiss. - -The editor was an honourable man, and though he chuckled a little over -Janet's breathless letter he really meant to keep the innocent secret. -We hope that no young wives will be lured to destruction by our telling -the truth, which was simply this, that Janet's little story was much -better than Godfrey's. It might not have happened again in a lifetime, -but the enthusiasm of her girlish zeal had carried her pen into a very -pretty and moving tale, which the _Colonial_ would have been glad to -print. But since she wanted it back, there was nothing for Mr. Edwards -to do but comply. Then, that very morning, while he was dictating a note -of polite refusal to accompany “Three Is Company” back to the suburbs, -who should call at the office but Godfrey, to know what the editor -thought of the two stories. The coincidence was too much for Edwards, -and thinking that it could do no harm to let Hemming know of his wife's -devotion--for young husbands are too likely to be selfish--he told him -the whole incident. And Godfrey, with a faint sensation of burning under -his eyelids, related the dream of a new bonnet that had inspired “Three -Is Company”. - -“Well, now, look here,” said Edwards, “I'm not so awfully keen on this -story of yours. It isn't anywhere near up to what you can do--or rather, -up to what Mrs. Hemming can do,” he added, chuckling. “But you go home -and write me a yarn about the pert little hat, and I'll put it in the -January number. It'll come out just before Christmas, and I hope you'll -get that wife of yours the best bonnet in town on the proceeds. If all -writers had wives like yours, perhaps the magazines would make better -reading. But for heaven's sake don't tell Mrs. Hemming I gave her away. -Wait until she sees the story in the magazine, it'll be a Christmas -surprise for her.” - -On the Saturday before Christmas Hemming took Janet to the city to -solemnize the purchase of the pert little hat. Any one who happened to -see her wearing it down Chestnut Street that bright winter afternoon -knew that the elated pink in her cheek was not all reflected from the -red bow on the bonnet's neat brim. As they sat down for a matinée and -Janet removed the precious creation, giving it to Godfrey to hold for a -moment, he said admiringly: - -“Well, the old typing bus isn't such a bad milliner after all, hey, -monk?” - -And Janet, who would then have denied that such a story as “Three Is -Company” ever existed, replied innocently: - -“I'm so glad Mr. Edwards turned down my story, grump. I like the pert -little hat ever so much better because it came all from you.” - -Even if the pert little hat should live to be a great-great-grandbonnet, -none of its descendants will ever give Janet such pleasure. - - - - - -URN BURIAL - -NEVER quarrel at breakfast is the first maxim for commuters and their -wives. Partings in anger mean day-long misery for both, and generally -involve telephone calls later in the day, and a box of chocolate-coated -maraschino cherries carried home on the 5.18. Marriage (say the -philosophers) is a subdivision of the penal code, dedicated to the -proposition that men and women are created equal. But the studious -observer of matrimonial feints and skirmishes sees very little to verify -that daring surmise. - -Harry Bennett sipped his breakfast coffee grimly. Its savour had -departed: for ninety seconds earlier Mrs. Bennett had fled upstairs in -a flush of anger and tears. In five minutes he would have to run for the -train; and what man can soothe an outraged wife in five minutes? He ate -his toast without relish, gazing sourly on the blue-and-white imitation -Copenhagen china, the pretty little porcelain marmalade pot, and the big -silver coffee-urn. - -The desperate inequality of married life pierced his heart. Why should -he have to accept in silence tart remarks uttered by his wife, while the -least savagery of his own was cause for tears? - -He rushed upstairs to say a few consoling words. The bedroom door was -locked. Compassion fled, and he growled furiously through the panels. -Then he ran hotly for the train. - -It seems unreasonable: but the lives of human beings are not guided by -reason. Harry had come to the conclusion that the silver coffee-urn was -at the bottom of all their squabbles. - -Before Elaine Addison surrendered herself into his capable hands, there -had been a competitor for the honour of surrounding her with sectional -bookcases, linen closets, potted hydrangeas, and the other authentic -trappings of a home. - -Aubrey Andrews was the rival warrior. He was the kind of man who always -has a lot of crisp greenbacks in a neat leather bill-fold. Harry's -hard-earned frogskins were always crumpled in a trousers pocket This may -seem trivial, but it distinguishes two totally different classes of men. -Aubrey was tall, dark, well groomed; he played billiards and belonged to -expensive clubs. It was supposed that his wife would be beyond the reach -of financial worries. He kept a horse and easy office hours. - -Harry--well, Harry was no aristocrat. He worked hard for what he got, -and didn't get much. He was neither tall, nor dark, nor well groomed. -But he was a fine, lovable, high-minded chap, and to everyone's -surprise, including his own, he got Elaine. - -Tennyson had a good deal to do with it, I think. Harry still read -Tennyson, although that excellent poet is no longer fashionable, and -kept on repeating what Tennyson said about Elaine. And finally Elaine -could not help saying, “My Lancelot!” and melting into his arms. - -Aubrey gave them a magnificent silver coffee-urn for a wedding present, -and presently enlisted for service, first on the Mexican border and then -in France, where he became a heroic and legendary figure, surrounded in -Elaine's mind by the prismatic glamour of girlhood days. - -That coffee-urn was a stunner! It was far the handsomest thing in the -little suburban house, except, of course, Elaine herself. Beneath its -shining caldron sat an alcohol lamp that rendered a blue flame and kept -the coffee hot. Elaine's initials--her maiden initials--were engraved -upon it, and those of the donor: E. A. A. A. The hand of the insidious -silversmith had twined the A's together very gracefully. - -Every time he looked at it, Harry felt subconsciously irritated, -although he hardly realized why. - -It stood on the little mission sideboard, outshining everything else in -the pretty dining room. It was Elaine's particular pride, and was used -only on special occasions. Often it was brought out for the little -celebrations that young married couples have every now and then. And, -curiously enough, these celebrations very often ended in tears. The -polished dazzle of those silver curves was only too apt to suggest to -Elaine's radiant little beauty-loving heart other handsome wares she -would like to have, or unlucky comparison of the relative beauty of the -wedding presents sent by _her_ friends and _his;_ or Harry would make -some blunt remark about his not being able to give her all that some -other husband might have. - -Alas! Something of the sardonic spirit of the black-browed Aubrey seemed -to radiate from his urn. Can a coffee-um hypnotize? Grotesque as it -appears, little by little they realized that the innocent piece of -silver was marring many an otherwise happy hour. - -***** - -All the way to town in the smoking car, Harry's mind rotated savagely -about their absurd tiff. - -Let's see, how was it? He had said: “I'm sorry, dearest; I shall have to -be rather late tonight. The head of my department is away, and I've -got an extra lot of work to do.” She said: “Oh, dear--oh, dear! Then -we sha'n't be able to go to the theatre, shall we?” He said: “We can go -next week, Brownie.” She said: “Something horrid always happens when we -have this coffee-urn on the table.” - -(N. B. Right here, when the danger topic was introduced, he should have -put on an extra soft pedal. But did he? Not a bit. As soon as the urn -was mentioned his eyes began to flash.) - -“Well,” he said, “don't let's have it on so often!” She said: “Any one -might think you were jealous of it. It's the only handsome piece of -silver I've got.” - -Here he did make one honest effort to steer away from danger: - -“I'm awfully sorry about to-night, honey, but the work's just got to be -done.” She said: “Why didn't you let me know sooner you were going to -work late? I could have arranged to go and see Mother.” He said: “Oh, -well, everything I do is always wrong, anyway! I suppose if I could buy -you a roomful of silver like that old tureen, you wouldn't mind.” - -And after that it was not far to the deluge. All conducted according -to the recognized technique of quarrelling, passing through the seven -stages of repartee outlined by Touchstone, which should never be -forgotten by those happily married: - - 1 The retort courteous - - 2 The quip modest - - 3 The reply churlish - - 4 The reproof valiant - - 5 The counter-check quarrelsome - - 6 The lie with circumstance - - 7 The lie direct - -All day both Mr. and Mrs. Bennett were unpleasantly conscious of their -undigested altercation lying black and gloomy in the back of their -minds. At lunch-time he tried to call her on the telephone; but the -wire did not answer. Indeed, she had gone to spend the day in town with -friends, and was to go to dinner and the theatre with them. She left no -message for Harry, and gave the cook permission to go out overnight. - -About nine o'clock he got home tired and eager to resume their usual -blissful companionship. The house was dark and untenanted. In a rage, he -threw away the box of candy he had brought, and got himself some bread -and cheese from the ice-box. - -In the dining room his eye fell upon the coffee-urn. He swore at it. -Just then Elaine called him up, and in a cool, distant voice told him -that she had decided to spend the night in town with her mother. - -The next morning Elaine came home about ten o'clock, humming a merry -little air as she walked down the quiet suburban street. She and Harry -had patched things up over the telephone at breakfast-time. - -The sun was shining brightly, and she was planning a specially nice -dinner for poor Harry that evening. After all, it wasn't the dear boy's -fault that he had to work so hard. It was horrible of her to run off and -desert him that way. Tonight she would show him how much she loved him. -They would have ice cream with hot chocolate sauce, and meringues and -chicken salad; and she would buy him a cigar and hide it in his napkin. -And the old coffee-um should go back in the glass cabinet. - -***** - -The cook, with a very grave face, opened the front door. - -“Heavens, Emily, what's the matter?” cried Mrs. Bennett. - -“Burgled!” said Emily, tragically. “Someone's been an' bruk in the -dining-room winder. Footpads, I guess.” - -Mrs. Bennett gave a little shriek of dismay She ran to the dining room. - -One window stood an inch or two open, and one of the panes was broken. -She glanced round the room. Nothing was disarranged, but her glance fell -on the sideboard. - -The coffee-urn was gone! - -“Well,” she said, “that's very extraordinary. Mr. Bennett slept here -last night, and he's a light sleeper. He always locks the windows before -he goes to bed. Is anything else missing?” - -“The apple pie's gone out o' the ice-box,” said Emily. - -“Oh, well, that's Mr. Bennett, I'm sure,” said Elaine. “I'll call up the -police right away, and see if they can do anything. My nice coffee-urn! -Why, it's the finest thing we had in the whole house.” - -Before the police arrived, Mrs. Bennett herself took a careful look -round the outside of the house. She found nothing unusual except a -cigar butt lying on the ground near the broken window. She picked it up -gingerly. A section of the gilt band still adhered to the wrapper. She -could read the name, _Florona._ She carried the fragment into the cellar -and threw it into the ash-can. - -Two policemen arrived shortly, examined everything, and asked -innumerable questions. Mrs. Bennett gave them a careful description of -the coffee-urn. They departed, promising to do everything possible to -trace it. They said that a piece of silver so large and unusual would -not be hard to locate with the aid of the pawnbrokers. Then Mrs. Bennett -went upstairs to think. - -It seemed very strange that the thieves should take the urn and nothing -else, when there were other pieces of silver beside it on the sideboard. -She called up Harry, who was horrified to learn of the loss. He had -slept right through the night without hearing a sound. He offered to -come home if he could do anything to help; but she would not hear of it. - -That night Mrs. Bennett had a special little dinner waiting for her -husband: his favourite soup, a tender steak, fried potatoes, ice cream -with hot chocolate sauce. And after dinner they discussed the theft of -the urn. - -“I don't understand how it was that you didn't hear anything,” said -Elaine. “You generally sleep so lightly. Did you sit up late?” - -“No,” he said; “I sat in the dining room until about ten, eating cheese -and apple pie, and smoking a cigar. Then I went to bed----” - -“Oh, you just reminded me!” cried Elaine. “I bought you a nice cigar to -smoke after your dinner, and I forgot to give it to you.” - -From the mantelpiece she gave him a cigar with a _Florona_ band. - -“Why, isn't that nice!” said he, “That's the kind I always smoke. I -didn't think you knew one brand from the other.” - -“I know more than you think, old man,” she said. - -When Harry came home the next night, he brought a bulky parcel with him. - -“I'm awfully sorry about the urn, Brownie,” he said. “I went to see the -detectives to-day, and they think there's very little chance of getting -it back; so I brought you this to take its place.” She opened the -package. It was a big China coffee-jug of rose-and-white porcelain, -flagrantly out of harmony with her silver and blue china. - -“Honey,” she said, “I think it's just lovely. It's ever and ever so much -nicer than that old urn.” - -A week later, in the afternoon, the local chief of police called up Mrs. -Bennett. - -“Come down here to the police station,” he said. “We've found your -coffee-pot. The most extraordinary thing you ever heard of. We found it -buried in a haystack, back of Webster's barn. Why any one should leave -it there is more than I know. The thief must have been frightened and -hid it. Will you come down and identify it?” - -Mrs. Bennett hastened down to the police station. There on the -sergeant's table stood the famous urn, the pride of her heart. There was -no doubt about it: the initials were there--it was hers. Tarnished and -spotted by exposure, it was still the handsomest piece of silver she had -ever seen. Involuntarily she gave a cry of delight. Then she hesitated. -After all, compared to Harry's happiness and hers, what was a silver -urn? - -“Oh, captain,” she said, “I'm so disappointed. That's not mine! It's -very much like it, but it isn't mine.” - - - - - -THE BATTLE OF MANILA ENVELOPES - -MR. BIRDLIP was a good old man, of unimpeachable simplicity. He had -achieved enormous wealth in an honourable business, and then found (to -his mild distress) that the great traffic he had built up conducted -itself automatically. He had, in a way, been gently shouldered out of -his own nest by the capable men whose fortunes he had made. But his -zealous and frugal spirit required some sort of problem to feed upon, -and he delighted his heart by owning a newspaper. _The Evening Lens_ was -his toy and the child of his dotage. - -So the Persian rugs and walnut panelling of his private suite in the -huge Birdlip Building saw him rarely. He was supremely happy in the -dingy sanctum at the back of the old _Lens_ office, where the hum of the -presses and the racket of the city room (which he still, by an innocent -misunderstanding, called the “sitting room”) delighted his guileless -heart. He would sit turning over the pages of each edition as it came -upstairs (putting his second finger up to his tongue before he turned -each leaf) and poring industriously over the market reports, the comics, -and the Woman's Page. With his pink cheeks, his dapper little figure in -a brown suit and cream-coloured waistcoat, and his eager, shy, chirping -manner, he was very like a robin. Although he was full of gigantic -schemes, which he broached naively in the editorial council every now -and then, he never wittingly interfered with his editor-in-chief, -in whom he had full confidence. But his gentle and jejune mind had a -disastrous effect on the paper no less. Almost unconsciously the Lens -was written and edited down to his standard, as a roomful of adults will -amiably prattle so as to carry along a child in the conversation. - -Mr. Birdlip's amazing success in his original field had been due partly -to his decent sagacity, honesty, and persistence, and partly to his -sheer fortune in finding (at the very outset of his enterprise) several -men of rugged ability, who became the pearls in his simple oyster-shell. -As a result of this, it had become his fixed mental habit to believe -that somewhere, some day, he would encounter the man or men who would -make the _Lens_ the greatest newspaper in the country. This, indeed, was -his candid ambition, and he never went anywhere without keeping his eyes -open for the anticipated messiah. - -He was greatly taken by broad primitive effects: when he noticed that a -Chicago daily always called itself “The World's Greatest Newspaper” he -was marvellously struck by the power of this slogan, and lamented that -he had not thought of it first. The question as to whether the slogan -were true or not never occurred to him. He liked to have the keynote -sentences in the leading editorial emphasized in blackface type, so that -there might be no danger of any one's missing the point. Desiring for -his beloved sheet “this man's art and that man's scope,” as the sonnet -puts it, every now and then he thought he had discovered the prodigy, -and some new feature would be added to the paper at outrageous expense, -only to be quietly shovelled out six months or a year later. In the -meantime, the auditor was growing very gray, and even Mr. Birdlip's -quick blue eye was sometimes hazed with faint perplexity when he studied -the circulation charts. Perhaps it would have been kinder if someone -could have told him that a boyhood spent in splitting infinitives is -not sufficient training for one to become an Abraham Lincoln of the -newspaper business. - -As he trotted in and out of the _Lens_ office, with his rosy air of -confidence and his disarming simplicity (which made his white hair seem -a wanton cruelty on the part of Time, that would wither a man's cells -while his mind was still on all fours), Mr. Birdlip was the object of -furtive but very sharp study on the part of some cynical journalists -whom he hired. It was a genuine amazement to Sanford, the dramatic -critic, that the owner was so entirely unaware of his (Sanford's) -abilities, which certainly (he thought) called for a salary of more -than sixty dollars a week. Sanford often meditated about this, and not -entirely in secret. In fact, it was generally admitted among the younger -members of the staff, when they gathered at Ventriloquo's for lunch, -that the Old Man was immaculately ignorant of all phases of the -newspaper business. While the spaghetti and mushrooms cheered the -embittered gossips, merry and quaint were the quips sped toward the -unsuspecting target. Sanford's private grievance was that though for -over a year he had been doing signed critiques of plays, which were -really spirited and honest, not once had the Old Man condescended to -mention them, or to show any sign of uttering an _Ecce Homo_ in his -direction. As far as he was concerned, he felt that the weekly battle of -Manila Envelopes was a conspicuous rout, and he frequently rehearsed the -exact tone in which he would some day say to the managing editor: “You -may fire when ready, Gridley.” Little did Sanford realize that the only -time Mr. Birdlip had attempted to read the “Exits and Entrances” column -he had met the name of Æschylus, had faltered, and retreated upon the -syndicated sermon by the Rev. Frank Crane. - -***** - -“I saw 'Ruddigore' the other evening,” said Sanford to his cronies, as -they called for a second round of coffee. “There's a line in it that -describes old Birdie fore, aft, and amidships. Something like this: 'He -is that particular variety of good old man to whom the truth is always a -refreshing novelty'.” - -They complauded. Rightly or wrongly, these high-spirited and -sophisticated young men had decided that Mr. Birdlip's naïveté was -so refreshingly complete that it gave them an aesthetic pleasure to -contemplate it. It had the exquisite beauty of any absolute perfection. -Their employer's latest venture, which had been to pay $200,000 for the -exclusive right to publish and syndicate the mysterious formulae of a -leading Memory Course, had shocked them very greatly. - -It touched them in a tender spot to know that there had been all that -money lying round the office, unused, which was now to be squandered (as -they put it) on charlatanry, when they felt that they might just as well -have had some of it. - -“The Old Man is always looking for some special stunt, and trying to -discover someone on the outside,” said one. “He can't see the material -right under his nose.” - -“It's really rather pathetic: he's crazy to get out a great newspaper, -but he hasn't the faintest idea how to do it.” - -“Yes, give him credit for sincerity. It isn't just circulation he -wants.” - -“Circulation's easy enough, if that's what you're after. The three -builders of circulation are Sordid, Sensational, and Sex--” - -“And the greatest of these is Sex.” - -“Oh, he's decent enough. He won't pander.” - -“He panders to stupidity. He's fallen for this Memory bunk. And when he -finds that's a flivver, he'll try something else, equally fatuous. He's -making the old _Lens_ ridiculous.” - -They smoked awhile, meditatively. - -“What I would like to figure out,” said Sanford, “is some way of making -an impression on the Old Man. I've got to get more money. The -trouble--some part of it is, I feel instinctively that he and I live in -different worlds. We hardly even talk the same language. Well, there's -no chance of his learning my way of thinking; so I suppose I'll have to -learn his.” - -“He's the man who puts the nil in the Manila envelope,” said one of the -others. - -“As far as we are concerned, yes. But there's plenty of the stuff going -round on Fridays for the kind of people he understands.” - -“He seems to be an absent-minded old bird. When I talk to him, it's as -though I were trying to speak through a fog.” - -“It looks to me as though his mind had overstayed its leave of absence.” - -“He likes the kind of men who, as he says, 'have both feet on the -ground'.” - -“Yes, but you've got to have at least one foot in the air if you're -going to get anywhere.” - -“See here,” said the literary editor, who was more tolerant than the -others. “What's the use of panning the Old Man? He's trying to put the -paper over, just as hard as we are. Maybe harder. But he doesn't know. -And I believe he knows he doesn't know. I think the chief trouble is, -they all knuckle down to him so. They're scared of him. They think the -only way they can hold their jobs is by agreeing with him. If someone -could only put him wise----” - -“But how _can_ you put him wise? He doesn't see anything unless it's -laid out for him in a strip cartoon or a full-page ad. The kind of thing -that interests him is the talk he hears in a Pullman smoker or club -car.” - -“That's a fact. You know he always says he likes to go travelling, -because he picks up ideas from people on the train. 'Of course I -place you! Mr. Mowbray Monk of Seattle. And is your Rotary Club still -rotating?' That kind of talk.” - -“I think you're right,” said Sanford. “He doesn't see us because we have -too much protective colouring. We are only the patient drudges. We don't -talk that Pullman palaver about Big Business. We've got to learn to -talk his language. What is that phrase of Bacon's--we've got to bring -ourselves home to his business and bosom----” - -“Let's get back to the office,” said the disillusioned literary editor. -“That's the way to bring home the bacon.” - -***** - -A few days later Sanford was at his desk, clipping and pasting press -agents' flimsies for the Saturday Theatre Page. This was a task which he -hated above all others, and he was meditating sourly on the scarcity -of truth in human affairs. At this moment Mr. Birdlip happened to pass -along the corridor outside the editorial rooms. Sanford heard him say: - -“Miss Flaccus, will you get me a seat in the club car, ten o'clock -train to-morrow? I've got to run over to New York to take lunch with Mr. -Montaigne.” - -Sanford put down his shears, relit his pipe, and began to pursue a -fugitive idea round the suburbs of his mind. Presently he drew out his -check book from a drawer and did some calculating on a sheet of paper. -“A hundred dollars,” he said to himself. “I guess it's worth it.” - -The following morning, dressed in a new suit and with shoes freshly -burnished, Sanford was at the terminal twenty minutes before train time. -With him was a young man carrying a leather portfolio. To observe the -respectful demeanour of this young man, no one would have suspected that -he was Sanford's young brother-in-law, rejoicing in cutting his classes -at college for a day's masquerading. Sanford bought some cigars (a form -of smoking which he detested) and carefully removed the bands from all -but one of them. - -Presently Mr. Birdlip appeared, cheerfully trotting up the stairs. -Sanford and his companion followed discreetly. As Mr. Birdlip went -through the gate, they were close behind. Entering the club car, Mr. -Birdlip sat down and opened a morning paper. Sanford and his companion -were prompt to take the two adjoining seats. Sanford began to look over -_System_ and _Printers' Ink_, and perhaps his interest in these vigorous -journals was not wholly unfeigned, for it was the first time he had -studied them. The young man beside him drew out a mass of papers from -his leather bag, and in a moment of stillness just before the train -started said in a clear voice: - -“Pardon, sir, but there is some important dictation here that ought to -be attended to.” - -Sanford assumed the air of a man wearied with tremendous affairs. . - -“Very well, what comes first?” - -“The New York _Budget_ has wired for an answer in regard to their -proposition.” - -Sanford blew a luxurious whiff of smoke. “Take this letter: My dear Mr. -Ralston. Replying to your inquiries as to whether I would be willing to -take charge of the editorial page of the _Budget_ for a few months, -to put the paper on its feet, I am willing to consider the matter, and -would be pleased to discuss it with you if you will run over to see me. -I am very busy just now, and could not possibly undertake the work -for some weeks. I have been retained in an advisory capacity by a big -Western syndicate which was badly in need of some circulation building; -and until I can put their paper up to a half-million figure I have not -much spare time. Their paper has gone up a couple of hundred thousand -since I mapped out a campaign for them, but I would not feel justified -in discontinuing my services to them until these gains are properly -consolidated. I will be in my office at ten o'clock next Tuesday morning -if you care to see me. Very truly yours.” - -Mr. Birdlip was hidden behind his paper, but something in the angle at -which the sheets were held led Sanford to believe that the old gentleman -was listening. - -“Very well, Edwards,” he said. “What's next?” - -“Here's this letter from Lord Southpeak of the London _Gazette_ asking -if he can see you when he comes over next month.” - -“Cable Southpeak I shall be very happy to see him if he gets here before -the fifteenth. I am going on my vacation then.” - -The attentive Edwards scribbled rapidly in his notebook. - -“Just pick out the most urgent stuff,” said Sanford. “I don't care to -bother with anything that isn't really pressing. I've got an important -conference on in New York to-day, and I want to keep my mind clear. -Blackwit of the Associated Press has asked me to say a few words to his -directors on 'Journalism as a Function of Public Conscience'.” - -Edwards ran rapidly through an imposing mass of documents. - -“That long-distance call from the Chicago _Vox_,” he said. “You promised -to give Mr. Groton some word this morning.” - -“Call him up when we get to Penn. Station,” said Sanford. “Tell him I -can't give him any decision yet awhile. Tell him that loyalty to my own -city will keep me there for some time. You might tell him that I believe -the _Lens_ has great possibilities if properly handled. I should not -care to build up the property of a Chicago paper while there is a chance -of the _Lens_ becoming the great evening paper of the East.” - -“Yes, sir,” said Edwards, jotting down what, might pass for stenography. - -The train was running smoothly through level green country, and Mr. -Birdlip laid down his paper on his lap. Sanford was ready to catch his -eye. - -“Good morning, Mr. Birdlip,” he said, genially. - -“Good morning,” said the owner of the _Lens_, whose bright gaze -exhibited a lively tincture of interest. - -“Here are the typed notes of your remarks on 'Newspaper Circulation as a -Byproduct of the Multiplication Table',” said Edwards, in a loud voice. - -“You can let those wait,” said Sanford, carelessly. “I don't want to -be bothered with anything else this morning. Give me a memorandum of -anything that needs to be attended to when we get to New York.” He -turned to Mr. Birdlip. “I find that in these busy days one has to attend -to some of one's work even on the train. It is about the only place -where one is never interrupted.” - -“Did I hear you say something about Circulation?” said Mr. Birdlip. “Are -you specially interested in that problem?” - -“I have given it a good deal of thought,” said Sanford. “But I would -hardly dignify it by calling it a problem. It is perfectly simple. It -is purely a matter of taking the right attitude toward it. So many -newspaper proprietors regard it merely as a problem in addition. Now it -should be considered rather as a matter of multiplication. Instead of -trying to add ten to your figures, why not multiply by ten? The result -is so much more satisfactory.” - -This sounded so plausible that Mr. Birdlip felt ashamed to ask how it -was to be done. - -“Will you have a cigar, sir?” asked Sanford, handing out the only one -with a band on it. Mr. Birdlip accepted it, and looked as though he were -about to ask a question. Sanford went on rapidly. - -“Speaking of circulation,” he said, “when I am consulted I am always -surprised to note that newspaper proprietors are so prone to view -the matter merely as a question of distribution; of--well, of -merchandising,” he added, as his eye fell upon that word in his copy -of _System_. “Indeed it rests upon quite another basis. The essence of -merchandising” (he repeated the word with relish, noting its soothing -effect on his employer) “is what?” - -He made a dramatic pause, and Mr. Birdlip, carried away, wondered what -indeed was the essence. - -“The essence of merchandising,” said Sanford (he smote the arm of his -chair, and leaned forward in emphasis), “and by merchandising I mean of -course in the modern sense, merchandising on a big scale, is nothing but -Confidence. Confidence, an impalpable thing, a state of mind. Now, -sir, what is it that upbuilds circulation? It is Public Confidence. The -assurance on the part of the public that the newspaper is reliable. It -is a secret and inviolable conviction on the part of the reader that the -integrity and enterprise of the paper are beyond cavil, in other words, -unimpeachable. In order to create the Will-to-Purchase on the part of -the prospect, in order to beget that desirable state of mind, there must -be a state of mind in the paper itself. Note that word _Mind_. Now -what is the Mind of the paper? I always ask every newspaper owner who -consults me, what is the Mind of his paper?” - -Without waiting for Mr. Birdlip to be embarrassed by his inability to -answer this question, the ecstatic Sanford continued: - -“The Mind of the paper is, of course, the Editorial Department. How -subtle, how delicate, how momentous, is that function of commenting on -the great affairs of the world! As I said in an address to a Rotary -club recently, of what use to have all the mechanical perfections ever -invented unless your editors are the right men? Walter Whitman, the -efficiency engineer, said: 'Produce great persons: the rest follows.' -That is the kind of production that counts most. Get great personalities -for your editors, and watch the circulation rise. Of course the right -kind of editors must be very highly paid.” - -This was a strange doctrine to Mr. Birdlip, who never read the editorial -page of his own paper, and secretly wondered how the editors found so -much to write about. - -“The great error that so many newspaper owners make,” said Sanford, -sonorously, “is to think of their product as they would of any other -article of commerce which is turned out day by day, in standardized -units, from a factory. A newspaper is not standardized. It is born anew -every issue. It is not a manufacturing routine that puts it together: -it is a human organism, built up out of human brains. Every unit -is different. It depends not primarily on machinery but on human -personalities. I cannot understand why it is that newspaper owners yearn -for the finest and most modern presses, and yet are often content to -staff their journals with second-rate men.” - -“I agree with you,” said Mr. Birdlip. “It is all a question of getting -the right man. That is one reason why I am so fond of travelling; I -always meet up with new ideas. Now, sir (I am sorry I do not know your -name, for your face is rather familiar; I think I must have met you -at some Rotary club), you seem to me a man of forceful and aggressive -character. You are the kind of man I should like to have on the _Lens_, -I heard you mention the paper to your secretary awhile back; you must be -interested in it.” - -Sanford was perfectly cool. “I might consider it,” he said. - -“I think you would find the _Lens_ a pleasant paper to work on,” said -Mr. Birdlip. “I flatter myself that the staff is a capable one, for the -most part.” - -“I should insist on being given a free hand,” said Sanford. “Perhaps the -position of circulation manager----?” - -“Let me think a moment,” said Mr. Birdlip. “I suppose I ought to visit -with my editor-in-chief before firing any one to make room for you. But I -must say I like the way you talk, straight from the shoulder, like that -Dr. Cranium, you know. That's the sort of stuff we need.” - -“Right!” cried Sanford. “If you always talk straight from the shoulder, -you'll never talk through your hat.” - -Mr. Birdlip relished this impromptu aphorism. “Well, now, let me see,” - he said, pondering. “The editor-in-chief, the managing editor, the -editorial writers--they're all pretty good men.” - -“Of course I shouldn't care for a merely routine position,” said -Sanford. “The only position I would consider would be one in which I -could really build up circulation for you.” He was wondering inwardly -whether to stand out for a ten thousand salary. - -“Quite so,” said Mr. Birdlip. “I think I have it. How would you care -to run a column? 'Straight From the Shoulder'--wouldn't that be a fine -title?” - -“Fine!” said Sanford, but not without a secret shudder. Still, he -thought, gold can assuage anything; and he reflected on the rich, -sedentary, and care-free life of a syndicated philosopher. - -“Very well,” said the owner. “I've been looking around for a man with -both feet on the ground----” - -(“Both feet on the pay envelope is my idea,” said Sanford to himself.) - -“And I think you're just the man I want. There's only one place in the -paper I can think of that really needs a change. There's a fellow on -the staff called Sanford, runs a kind of column, terrible stuff. I don't -think he amounts to much. Now why couldn't you take his job?” - -Sanford has never forgiven his brother-in-law for that curious strangled -sound he emitted. - - - - - -THE CLIMACTERIC - -MR. EUSTACE VEAL was a manufacturer of cuspidors. His beautiful factory -was one of the finest of its kind, equipped with complete automatic -sprinklers, wire-glass windows, cafeteria on the top floor, pensions for -superannuated employees, rosewood directors' dining room, mottoes from -Orison Swett Marden on the weekly pay envelopes, and a clever young man -in tortoise-shell spectacles hired at eighty dollars a week to write the -house-organ (which was called _El Cuspidorado_). - -Mr. Veal lived in the exclusive and clean-shaven suburb of Mandrake -Park, where he had built a stucco mansion with Venetian blinds, a -croquet lawn with a revolving spray on it on hot days, and a mansard -butler. Here Mrs. Veal and the two Veal girls, Dora and Petunia, led the -blameless life of the _embonpoint_ classes. The electric lights in the -bedrooms were turned on promptly at ten o'clock every night, except on -the sixteen winter evenings when the Veals occupied their box at the -opera. During “Rigoletto” or “Pagliacci” the uncomplaining Mr. Veal -would sit in silence with his head against the thick red velvet curtain -at the back of the box, thinking up new ways to get an order for ten -thousand nickel-plated seamless number 13's from the Pullman Company. - -Mr. Veal, hampered as he was by the restrictions of success, was still -full of the enjoyment of life. He had written a little brochure on “The -Cuspidor: Its Use and Abuse Since the Times of the Pharaohs,” which -was very well spoken of in the trade. A morocco-bound copy lay on -the console table in Mrs. Veal's salon. It was he who invented the -papier-maché spittoon, and the collapsible paper “companion” for -travelling salesmen. It was he who had presented a solid silver spittoon -de luxe to the King of Siam when that worthy visited the United States. -And it was his idea, too, to name the beautiful shining brass model, -especially recommended for hotel lobbies, El Cuspidorado. This was -a stroke of imaginative genius, and several rival manufacturers wept -because they had not thought of it first. - -The spittoon magnate's habits were regular and sane. He rose by alarm -clock at seven. He bathed, shaved, brushed his teeth with the vertical -motion recommended by the toothbrush advertisers, breakfasted on cereal -and cream and poached eggs, with one cup of strong coffee; walked -leisurely to the station, bought a paper, and caught the 8.13 train. He -avoided the other men who wanted him to sit with them, took the fifth -chair on the left-hand side of the smoking car, and just as the train -started he lit his first cigar. His commutation ticket was always ready -for the conductor to punch. He never kept others waiting, just as he -hated to be kept waiting himself. After his ticket had been punched -and put back into an alligator-hide pocketbook, he opened the paper and -studied it faithfully until the train got to the terminal. - -At the factory Mr. Veal's routine was equally well-ordered and uniform. -At nine o'clock he reached his private office, greeted his secretary, -and ran over the morning mail, which had been opened and lay on his -desk. Then he went through his dictation, which was carefully (even if -not grammatically) accomplished. The sales reports for the preceding day -were brought to him. Then he discussed any matters requiring attention -with his department heads, calling them in one by one. At a quarter -after twelve he walked up to the Manufacturers' Club for lunch, after -which he played one game of pool. - -He was back at the office by half-past two, and gave his passionate -and devoted attention to the salivary needs of the nation until five -o'clock. He caught the 5.23 train back to Mandrake Park, sitting on the -right-hand side of the smoker where the setting sun would not dazzle on -his newspaper. - -But one day, about the time of the March equinox, when young ladies put -furry pussywillows on their typewriter desks, and bank tellers crack the -shells of spring jokes through the brass railings, Mr. Veal's behaviour -was so peculiar as to cause anxiety among his associates. - -He had ridden on the train as usual, without showing any abnormal -symptoms. But when he was next observed, walking down Vincent Street, -there was a red spot on his cheekbones and his expression was savage. -He entered a haberdasher's shop and asked to see some neckties. When the -clerk put out a tray of silk scarves in rich, sober colours, such as are -commonly worn by successful and middle-aged merchants, Mr. Veal swore -and dashed them aside. - -“Good Lord!” he cried, “I'm not going to a funeral! Things like that are -worn by Civil War veterans. What do you think I am, seventy years old? -Give me something with some snap to it!” - -And he chose a lemon-tinted cravat with vorticist patterns of brown -and purple. He tore off the dark gray tie he had on and substituted the -gaudy new one. - -At the next corner he passed a shoe-shop. He hesitated a moment at the -plate-glass window, then he entered and glared at the brisk young puppet -who came forward with a smirk. He displayed his elastic-sided boots -of the floorwalker type (which he had worn for years on account of his -corns) and asked to have them removed. When they were off his feet -he threw them to the other end of the long, narrow room. “I want some -russet shoes with cloth tops,” he said. “And some silk socks to match, -the kind the men wear in the magazine ads.” - -When he left the shop, his feet might have been taken for those of -Charley Chaplin, or of an assistant advertising manager of a department -store. - -***** - -Mr. Veal reached his office nearly two hours late, and one of his office -boys was instantly discharged for asking him whom he wanted to see. -Indeed, in a new suit of violent black-and-white checks, and with a -crush hat of velvety substance, he was almost unrecognizable. As he -passed through the filing department a hush fell over the young ladies -there. His secretary, looking nervously from her corner outside the -private office, felt a tingling _scherzo_ run up and down the keyboard -of her spine. Never before had she seen Mr. Veal wear flowers in his -buttonhole, and as he swung the door of his office behind him, she -sniffed the vibrating air. In the rich wake of cigar-fragrance always -exhaled by her employer her sharp nostrils detected a new tang--the -sweet scent of mignonette. Heavens! Was Mr. Veal using perfume? - -Miss Stafford was an acute young woman. She had long been waiting the -adroit moment to push her employer for a raise, which was indeed due -her. She determined that this was the psychological day. When the sign -of the Ram is ascendant in the zodiac, let employers tremble. This -is when even the most faithful and long-enduring wage-earner dreams -seditiously of a fatter manila envelope. Miss Stafford's typewriter -had sung like a zither for a number of years, she had orchestrated many -curious harmonies on it, and now she had reached the point where she -was almost as indispensable to the business as Mr. Veal himself. She was -carrying what the efficiency dopesters call the peak load. - -The buzzer buzzed, and Miss Stafford hastened to the private office, -nerving herself to throw cantilevers across the Rubicon. - -To her surprise, Mr. Veal, instead of sitting glowering over the morning -mail, was standing by the window, throwing a paper-weight in the air -and failing to catch it. The sunlight blazing through the large windows -seemed to surround his emphatic clothes with a prismatic fringe. To -her amazement, instead of the customary brief and reserved greeting, he -said: - -“Hullo, Miss Stafford. Great weather, eh? Sorry I'm late, but I just -couldn't keep my schedule this morning. Went out to buy myself some golf -clubs. I think I'd better take up the game, don't you?” - -He made a swing at an imaginary golf ball, and slipped on the polished -floor, nearly falling down. He recovered himself. - -“Here's some flowers for you,” he said, taking a bunch of daffodils from -the desk. “Daffy-down-dillies, as the poets call 'em. Lovely flowers, -hey? Now comes in the sweet of the year. What ho!” - -He advanced toward her, and for one extraordinary moment she thought he -was about to chuck her under the chin. - -“Ask Mr. Foster to come in,” he said. - -“Mr. Veal,” she said, nervously, “there's just one thing--I wanted to -ask you about, my salary, don't you think, er, I think, it seems to me -about time I had a raise. I've been here----” - -“Bless my soul,” he said. “I never thought of it. Why, of course, you're -right. Miss Stafford, how old would you say I am?” - -Miss Stafford knew perfectly well that he was fifty-five, but she had -learned the cunning of all women who have to manage men, whether those -men be husbands, employers, or ticket scalpers. - -“Why, Mr. Veal, in a good light and in your new suit, I should say about -thirty-nine.” - -“What are you getting now, Miss Stafford?” - -“Thirty dollars.” - -“Tell Mr. Mason to double it.” - -The feminine mind moves in rapid zigzags, and Miss Stafford's first -conscious and coherent thought was of a certain woollen sports suit she -had seen in a window on Vincent Street marked $50.00. - -“And by the way,” said Mr. Veal, “when you see Mr. Mason, tell him I've -got a new motto for next week's pay envelopes. Here it is; I found it -in the paper this morning. I don't know who wrote it--better have him -credit it to Orison Swett Marden.” - -He handed her a slip of paper, on which he had copied out: - - Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty; - - For in my youth I never did apply - - Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood: - - Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo - - The means of weakness and debility. - - --Orison Swett Marden (?) - -“Before you call Mr. Foster,” said the secretary, “Mr. Schmaltz of the -Pullman Company is here to see you; he arrived just before you came in. -He says he wants to place a large order for the cuspidorados.” - -“Send him in,” said Mr. Veal, chuckling. “Hello, Schmaltz,” he cried, as -the customer entered. “How's this for weather?” - -“Great stuff!” said Schmaltz. “Makes us old fellows feel almost young -again, doesn't it?” - -Mr. Veal's face grew dark. He aged ten years in the instant. He pointed -morosely to a chair. - -“Mr. Veal,” said the other, “we want to place an order for ten thousand -of the cuspidorados. Can you give us the old price?” - -“I can _not_,” said Mr. Veal, shortly. “Materials have gone to the sky. -I can't give you the--the old price. I'll give you a young price, a very -young one indeed, based on the present state of the market. Eighteen and -a quarter cents is the best I can do.” - -Mr. Schmaltz raised racial hands. “Heavens!” he said, “you used to let -us have them for fourteen and a half. Why, in the old days----” - -Mr. Veal pounded the desk with his fist. - -“If you use that world _old_ again, I'll assassinate you with a dish -of ham!” he roared. “Great pigs' knuckles, what do you think this is, a -home for the aged?” - -***** - -After Mr. Schmaltz had gone Mr. Veal sent for Foster, the foreman of the -manufacturing department. - -“Well,” he said, “how about those machines?” - -“Mr. Veal,” said Foster, “we'll have to replace at least six of those -Victor stampers. They're so old they simply can't do the work. You know -when one of those machines is over five years old----” - -Mr. Veal was pointing to the door. - -“Get out!” he said. - -At lunch-time Mr. Veal went up to the club as usual. Swinging up the -street, in the bright sun and pellucid air, he felt quite cheerful, and -stopped to buy himself a rhinoceros cane. In the dining room of the club -he met Edwards, and they sat down together. - -“Hello, old man,” said Edwards. “You're looking chipper for a veteran. -Played any golf yet this year?” - -“I don't play,” said Mr. Veal. - -“Don't you? That's a mistake. It's the only game for us older fellows. -Of course we can't score like the youngsters; but still we can get round -and have a deal of fun----” - -Mr. Veal clenched his fists. Spilling his soup, he leaped up and rushed -from the room. He seized his coat and hat, forgetting the new cane, and -fled to the nearest Turkish bath. - -***** - -And all because, when going downstairs in the railway terminal that -morning, he had heard a man behind him say to another: - -“There goes Veal! He's beginning to look old, isn't he?” - -It was the first time in his life Mr. Veal had heard the damnable -adjective applied to himself in earnest. - -Wait until _your_ turn comes! - - - - - -PUNCH AND JUDY - -WHEN Judy Cronin first saw the topless towers of Manhattan rising into -the lilac vagueness of a foggy winter morning she passed into a numb -and frightened daze. Standing on the steerage deck of the _Celtic_, -she peered tremulously at those fantastic impossible profiles of stone. -Perhaps you don't know what it is to be thrown, ignorant and timid, into -a place where everything is utterly strange--particularly a place as -huge, violent, and hasty as New York. Judy, aged twenty-one, from a -little village near Queenstown, was incapable of distinguishing, in the -roaring voice of the city, that undertone of helpful kindness that -is really there. On the same steamer came the widow of a famous Irish -recusant and hungerstriker, and there were ten thousand people massed -in West Street to cheer her. Judy heard the shouts of the crowd, and -saw the lines of policemen on the pier. There was some of that quiet -but menacing scuffling with which the various branches of the -English-speaking world show their esteem for each other. Judy was not -familiar with that definition of a patriot as one who makes trouble for -his harmless fellow-citizens; but it looked as though she was blundering -into some more of the tribulations they had had at home. - -At last her sister Connie found her, sitting white and miserable on her -very small trunk, clutching her imitation-silver coin-purse. Connie had -been in New York for a couple of years, and it gave her a homesick throb -to see that coin-purse--one of those little metal pocketbooks with slots -to hold gold sovereigns and half-sovereigns. Father Daly had given it to -Judy, years ago, but it had never had gold in the little sockets until -Connie sent over the passage money to bring Judy to New York. - -The city flashed by like a current-events film. Judy found herself in a -friendly lodging-house in Brooklyn, kept by an Irishwoman who had been -kind to Connie. Her sister then explained matters. Her own employers, -with whom she had a position too good to abandon, had arranged to -go South for the latter part of the winter. They had already delayed -leaving so that Connie could meet her sister and get her settled. They -had given Connie a few days' holiday for that purpose. - -Therefore Judy must get a place as soon as possible. And that very -afternoon the sisters (Judy still in a kind of dreadful dream) went to -the office of a Brooklyn newspaper to insert an advertisement. - -A great many people were watching the _Situations Wanted_ columns, -and the next evening, at supper-time, Mrs. Leland called up the -lodging-house number, which had been given in the ad. Connie went to the -telephone. Mrs. Leland had a pleasant voice and “talked like gentry”, -Connie said. She lived in Heathwood, Long Island, which is some twenty -miles from town, and wanted a nurse to take care of two children. Connie -agreed to take Judy out to Heathwood the next morning, to see if they -could come to terms. Judy was inexperienced, but Mrs. Leland liked her -looks. In short: by the time Judy had been in America three days, she -was installed at Mrs. Leland's home in the country; and a few days later -Connie had gone off to Florida. - -Now Judy was really very fortunate in these random proceedings, for -she had found a good home under an exceptionally kind and understanding -mistress. And therefore perhaps it was unreasonable of her to be so -unhappy. But no one has ever demonstrated that human affairs are much -controlled by reason. Judy was dumbly and piteously miserable. She was -homesick and lonely, and half-mad with strangeness. She was not really -slow-witted; but the confusion of her spirits put her into a kind of -black stupor. Everything was uncouth to her: steam heat, electric light, -gas-stove, telephone--even the alarm clock in her bedroom. Not knowing -how to turn off her radiator, and having the simple person's distrust -of opening windows in a strange place, the first few nights she was sick -with heat and suffocation. In her sleep she cried out indistinguishable -words about being shot. In spite of Mrs. Leland's patient tuition, she -made every possible kind of mistake. The children, with the quickness of -youth, realized her inexperience and uncertainty, and played a thousand -impish pranks. Mrs. Leland could see that the girl had been through -distresses at home, and kept the evening papers, with their headlines -about Ireland, out of sight. But one evening, in the kitchen, Judy came -upon a Sunday rotogravure section with pictures of burnt streets in -Cork. The look of the people in those photographs went through her -heart. The men wearing caps, the women in shawls, something even in the -shape of trouser legs and heavy shoes, reminded Judy how far she was -from all that she understood. It's the little things you take for -granted at home that come back to hurt you when you're away. That night, -sitting in her bedroom next the nursery, she shook herself ill with -sobs. - -One who might have helped her greatly took pains to add to her -bewilderment. Hattie, Mrs. Leland's coloured cook, a retainer of long -standing, was sharply disgruntled at this new addition to the household. -Jealousy was the root of Hattie's irritation, and it shot up a rapid -foliage of poison ivy. The previous nurse, a bosom friend of Hattie's -own race, had been discharged in December for incompetence. Moreover, -Hattie had not forgotten poor naïve Judy's startled look when they first -encountered. Judy had hardly seen a coloured person before, and was -honestly alarmed. Hattie, though loyal to Mrs. Leland in her own -primitive fashion, deeply resented this interloper. The invasion proved -that Mrs. Leland was no longer entirely dependent on the particular -clique of Heathwood coloured society in which Hattie moved. The -cook's logic was narrow but rigorous. The sooner the intruder could be -discouraged out of the house, the sooner the Black Hussars (as Heathwood -ladies called the coloured colony on whom they largely relied for -assistance) would resume undivided sway. Mrs. Leland had had a Polish -girl as a stop-gap for a few days after the coloured nurse left; and -observing the cook's demeanour toward this unfortunate, Mr. Leland had -remarked that Hattie was working for a black Christmas. - -So Hattie, who was sharp-tongued and very capable, hectored Judy -whenever she entered the kitchen, and by all the black arts at her -command (which were many) added to the girl's distress. Judy, in spite -of her mistress's kindness, grew more and more wretched. As Mr. Leland -said in private (pursuing the train of his previous pun), the maids were -black and blue. Mrs. Leland, much goaded by domestic management and the -care of a very small baby, began to wonder whether she had not added -another child to look after rather than lightening her burdens. And then -she saw that Judy was on the verge of nervous collapse. She tried to -hearten the girl by giving her an extra holiday. Judy was given some -money, packed off to the station in a taxi, and sent on her maiden trip -to town in the hope that city sights and shop windows would revive her -interest in life. Mrs. Flaherty, the lodging-house lady in Brooklyn, was -telephoned to, and promised to send her small boy to meet the girl at -the station. - -It happened to be the eve of the genial Saint Valentine's Day. Shop -windows were gay with pleasantly exaggerated symbols of his romantic -power. Winter afternoons in the city are cruel to the unfortunate, -for the throng of the streets the light and lure of the scene, make -loneliness all the worse if there is trouble in your heart. - -Judy sat in the waiting room of the Long Island terminal in Brooklyn, -and tears were on her face. She had somehow missed Mrs. Flaherty's lad. -Then she had tried to find her way to the lodging-house, but grew more -and more frightened and bewildered as she strayed. Giving that up, she -had gone into a movie, and there, for a while, she had been happy. The -favourites of the screen are the true internationalists: they speak -a language, crude though it often is, which is known from Brooklyn to -Bombay. But then pictures were shown of scenes in Ireland. She came -out with cold hands, and wandered vaguely along the streets until dusk. -Finally, in despair, she groped back to the station at Flatbush Avenue, -and sat forlornly on a bench, too weary and sorry even to ask how to get -home. - -With the unerring instinct of the stranger for choosing the wrong place, -she had blundered into the downstairs station, by the train-gates, -missing the waiting room above where departures are duly announced by -orotund men in blue and silver. In that chilly cavern she sat, dumbly -watching the press of homeward commuters laden with parcels and papers. -Red signboards clattered up and down over the iron gates, and she -puzzled doubtfully over such names as _Speonk_, and _Far Rockaway_. The -last somehow recalled a nursery rhyme and made her feel even more lost -and homesick. Occasionally, with a gentle groan and rumble, an electric -train slid up to the railing and stared at her with two fierce hostile -eyes. The soda fountain in the corner was doing a big business: timidly -she went over, feeling cold, and asked for tea. To her amazement, there -were no hot drinks to be had. The people, all gulping iced mixtures, -stared at her curiously. Sure, this is a mad country, she thought. The -clock telling the time was the only thing she could properly understand. - -So it was the clock, at last, that brought her to startled action. It -was getting late. A tall, good-looking fellow in a blue uniform came out -of a room at the back of the station, carrying two lighted lanterns. He -halted not far from where she was sitting, and compared his watch with -the Western Union clock. Of all the hundreds she had seen, he was the -first who looked easily questionable. With a sudden impulse Judy got up, -clutching her coin-purse. - -“If you please, where will I be after taking the train to Heathwood?” - she said, nervously. - -“Heathwood? The 6:18 makes Heathwood. Right over there, the gate's just -opening. Change at Jamaica.” - -He looked down at her, wondering but kindly. He was puzzled at the -frightened way she was staring at his coat-collar; he could hardly have -guessed that to wet eyes the embroidered letters had at first seemed -to be _liar_. Her puny, pinched face was streaked with tears, the red -knitted muffler made her pallor even whiter. The little imitation fur -trimmings on her coat sleeves and collar were worn and shabby. - -“Thank you,” she said, blindly, and started off for the wrong gate. - -“Hey!” he called, and overtook her in a few long strides. “This way, -miss. Got your ticket?” - -In a sudden panic she opened her purse, and could not find it. - -“Oh, surely I've lost it,” she cried. “Where's the booking office?” - -“The booking office?” he said. “D'you mean the news-stand? Here you -are.” He picked up the ticket, which she had dropped in her nervousness. - -“That's all right,” he said, encouragingly. “This train, over here. I'm -one of the crew. I'll see you get there. Don't worry.” - -He escorted her through the gate, and found her a seat on the train, -beside a stout commuter half buried in parcels. - -“Now you stay right here,” he said. “I'll tell you when we get to -Jamaica, and show you the Heathwood train.” He smiled genially, and left -her. - -Judy got out her wet handkerchief and wiped her face. As the train ran -through the tunnel, she wished she had been on the inside of the seat, -for the dark window would have been useful as a mirror. “He saw me -crying,” she kept repeating to herself. The man beside her blanketed -himself with a newspaper, and the pile of packages on his knees kept -sliding over onto her lap, but she was oblivious. She was thinking of -the tall man in blue with the queer cap. How kind he had been. The first -real kindness she had met in all that nightmare afternoon. - -Presently he came through the car. She could see him far down the aisle, -leaning courteously over each seat. At first she thought he was just -saying a friendly word to all the passengers. Sure, that's like him, she -said to herself: he has a grand way with him. Then she saw that he was -punching tickets with a silver clipper. Glory, it's the Guard himself, -she thought. I wonder will he speak to me again? - -The man beside her thrust an arm out from his mass of bundles and held a -large oblong of red-striped cardboard across in front of her face. -This reminded Judy of her own ticket, which was so different from her -neighbour's that she worried for a moment lest it should not be valid. -Here was her friend, bending above her with a smile. - -“Everything all right?” he said. “The next stop's Jamaica. That's where -you get off. Watch for me at this door, and I'll show you the Heath-wood -train.” Click, click: the two tickets were punched, and he went on. Judy -shut up her coin purse with a snap, and began to notice the hat worn by -the lady in the seat in front. - -At Jamaica she found him in the vestibule, his head overtopping the -pushing crowd. “This way,” he said, and led her quickly across the -platform. “Jack,” he said to the brakeman on the other train, “tell this -lady when you get to Heathwood.” - -“Well, Judy,” said Mrs. Leland when her nursemaid got back to the house. -“How much better you look! Did you have a good time?” - -“Oh, a grand time,” said Judy. Her face had a touch of colour and indeed -even her awkward bog-trotting gait seemed lighter and more sprightly. -“That's good,” said her mistress. “You'd better run down and get some -supper before Hattie puts everything away. You can put Jack to bed after -you've had something to eat.” - -“Pretty late for supper,” grumbled Hattie, as Judy came into the -kitchen. “Doan' you think I got nothing to do but wait on you?” - -“I'll get my own supper,” said Judy, politely. “Don't you bother.” - -“You've got a head on your shoulders,” said Hattie, banging some dishes -on to the kitchen table. “Whyn't you use it and get back on time?” - -“The black banshee's up in arms again,” said Judy to herself. “I'll hold -my peace.” - -“That's the trouble with foreigners,” growled Hattie. “They ain't got no -sense. These Irish micks come over here, puttin' on airs, where nobody -wants 'em.” - -Judy's sallow cheek began to burn a darker tint. - -“Ah, nabocklish!” she said. “There's somebody loves me, at any rate.” - -She hurried through supper, and ran upstairs to put Jack to bed. The -six-year-old was amusing himself by snapping open and shut something -that gleamed in the lamplight. - -“Here!” she said. “What are you doing with Judy's purse?” - -Jack looked up in surprise. It was the first time that he had heard that -note of command in the meek Judy's voice. - -“I found it on your bureau,” he said. - -“Well, leave it be, darlin'.” She took it from him. “Glory above, what's -become of----?” - -She fell on her knees on the floor and began searching. - -“Ah, here, 'tis!” she cried, gladly. From the rug she picked up a tiny -red cardboard heart, and replaced it carefully in one of the sockets of -her purse. - -“What is it?” said Jack, yawning. - -“Sure, it's my Valentine!” said Judy. “It ain't many girls that gets -a Valentine from a big handsome man like that the first time he sees -them.” - -I have often wondered how many of the Long Island trainmen use a -heart-shaped punch. - - - - - -REFERRED TO THE AUTHOR - -YES, “Obedience” is a fine play. I'm glad they've revived it. Did you -know that the first time it was produced, Morgan Edwards played the part -of Dunbar? It's rather an odd story. - -I never think of Edwards without remembering the dark, creaky stairs in -that boarding-house on Seventy-third Street. That was where I first met -him. We had a comical habit of always encountering on the stairs. We -would pass with that rather ridiculous murmur and sidling obeisance -of two people who don't know each other but want to be polite. I was -interested in him at once. Even on the shadowy stairway I could see that -he had a fine head, and there was something curiously attractive about -his pale, preoccupied face. There was a touch of the unworldly about -him, and a touch of the tragic, too. You know how you divine things -about people. “He has troubles of his own” was the banal phrase that -came into my mind. Also there was something queerly familiar about him. -I wondered if I had seen Him before, or only imagined him. I was busy -writing, at that time, and my mind was peopled with energetic phantoms. -The thought struck me that perhaps he was someone I had invented for a -story, but had never given life to. I wondered, was this pale and rather -reproachful spectre going to haunt me until the tale was written? At any -rate, whatever the story was, I had forgotten it. - -One day, as I creaked up the first flight, I saw that he was standing at -the head of the stairs, waiting for me to pass. A door was open -behind him, and there was light enough to see him clearly. Tall, thin, -beautifully shaven on a fine angular jaw that would not be easy to -shave, I was surprised to see an air of sudden cheerfulness about him -that was almost incongruous. Having thought of him only as a sort -of melancholy hallucination living on a dingy stairway, it was quite -startling to see him with his face lit up like a lyric poet's, a glow of -mundane exhilaration in his eyes. For the first time in our meetings -he looked as though to speak to him would not break in upon his secret -thoughts. He was the kind of chap, you know, who usually looked as -though he was busy thinking. I remember what I said because it was so -inane. Some people don't like to cross on the stairs. I looked up as I -came to the turn in the steps, and said, “Superstitious?” He smiled and -said “No, I guess not!” - -“Only in the literal sense, at this moment,” I said. An absurd remark, -and a horrible pun which I regretted at once, for I thought I would have -to explain it. Nothing more humiliating than having to explain a bad -pun. But if I didn't explain it, it would seem rude. He looked puzzled, -then his face lit up charmingly. “Superstitious--standing above you, eh? -I never thought of the meaning before!” - -I came up the last steps. “Pardon the vile pun,” I said. Then I knew -where I had seen him before, and recognized him. “Aren't you Morgan -Edwards?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. - -“I thought so. I remember you in 'After Dinner'. I wrote the notice in -the _Observer_ .” - -“By Jove, did you? I _am_ glad to meet you. I think that was the nicest -thing any one ever said.” His gaunt and pensive face showed a quick -flash of that direct and honest friendliness which is so appealing. We -found that we were both living on the fourth floor. For similar reasons, -undoubtedly. I'm afraid he thought, at first, that I was a dramatic -critic of standing. Afterward I explained that the “After Dinner” notice -had been only a fluke. I was on the _Observer_ when the show was put on, -and one of the dramatic men happened to be ill. - -Wait a minute: give me a chance! I'll tell it exactly as it came to -me, in snips and shreds. At first I didn't pay much attention. I had -problems of my own that summer. You know what a fourth-floor hall -bedroom is in hot weather. I had given up my newspaper job, and was -trying to finish a novel. I couldn't work late at night, when it was -cool, because if I kept my typewriter going after nine-thirty the old -maid in the next room used to pound on the partition. I didn't get on -very well with the work, and the money was running low. Every now and -then I would meet Edwards in the hall. He looked ill and worried, and -I used to think there was a touching pathos in his careful neatness. -My own habits run the other way--my Palm Beach suit was a wreck, I -remember--but Edwards was always immaculate. I could see--having made -it my business to observe details--how cunningly he had mended his cuffs -and soft collars. Poor devil! I used to see him going out about noon, -with his cane and Panama hat. I dare say he scrubbed his hat with his -toothbrush. Summer is a hard time for an actor who hasn't had a job -all spring. Of course there are the pictures, and summer stock, but I -gathered that he had been ill, and then had turned down several offers -of that sort on account of something coming along that he had great -hopes for. I remembered his really outstanding work in “After Dinner”, -that satiric comedy that fell dead the winter before. Most of the -critics gave it a good roasting, but knowing what I do now I expect the -real trouble was poor direction. Fagan was the director, and what did he -know of sophisticated comedy? As I say, I had reviewed the piece for -the _Observer_, and had been greatly struck by Edwards's playing. Not a -leading part, but exquisitely done. - -But just at that time I was absorbed in my own not-too-successful -affairs. For several years I had been saying to myself that I would do -great stuff if I could only get away from the newspaper grind for a few -months. And then, when I had saved up five hundred dollars, and buried -myself there on Seventy-third Street to write, I couldn't seem to make -any headway. I got half through the novel, and then saw that it was -paltry stuff. It was flashy, spurious, and raw. One warm evening I was -sitting at my window, smoking mournfully and watching some girls who -were laughing and talking in a big apartment house that loomed over our -lodgings like an ocean liner beside a tugboat. There was a tap at the -door. Edwards asked if he could come in. I was surprised, and pleased. -He kept very much to himself. - -“Glad to see you,” I said. “Sit down and have a pipe.” - -“I didn't want to intrude,” he said. “I just wanted to ask you -something. You're a literary man. Do you know anything about Arthur -Sampson?” - -I had to confess that I had never heard the name. No one had, at that -time, you remember. - -“He's written a play,” Edwards said. “A perfectly lovely piece of work. -I've got a part in it. By heaven, it seems too good to be true--after a -summer like this: illness, the actors' strike, and all that--to get into -something so fine. I've just read the whole script. I'm so keen about -it, I'm eager to know who the author is. I thought perhaps you might -know something about him.” - -“I guess he's a new man,” I said. “What's the play called?” - -“'Obedience.' You know, I've never had such a stroke of luck--it's as if -the part had been written for me.” - -“Splendid,” I said, and I was honestly pleased to hear of his good -fortune. “Is it the lead?” - -“Oh, no. Of course they want a big name for that. Brooks is the man. My -part is only the foil--provides the contrast, you know--on the payroll -as well as on the stage.” He laughed, a little cynically. - -“Who's producing it?” - -“Upton.” - -“You don't mean to tell me Upton's got anything good?” I knew little -enough about theatrical matters, but even outsiders know Upton's sort -of producing, which mostly consists of musical shows where an atrocious -libretto is pulled through by an opulent chorus and plenty of eccentric -dancing. “A chorus that outstrips them all” was one of his favourite -advertising slogans. - -“That's why I was wondering about the author, Sampson. This must be his -first, or he'd never have given it to Upton. Or is Upton going to turn -over a new leaf?” - -“The only leaves Upton is likely to turn over are figleaves,” I said, -brutally. Upton's previous production had been called “The Figleaf -Lady”. - -“That's the amazing part of it,” said Edwards. “This thing is -really exquisite. It is beautifully written: quiet, telling, nothing -irrelevant, not a false note. What will happen to it in Upton's hands, -God knows. But he seems enthusiastic. He's a likable cutthroat: let's -hope for the best. You're busy--forgive me for breaking in.” - -***** - -Well, of course some of you have seen “Obedience” since that time, and -you know that what Edwards told me was true. The play _was_ lovely; not -even Upton could kill it altogether. It was Sampson's first. Have any of -you read it in printed form? It reads as well as it plays. And the part -that Edwards was cast for--Dunbar--is, to any competent spectator, the -centre of the action. You remember the lead: the cold, hard, successful -hypocrite; and then Dunbar, the blundering, kindly simpleton whose -forlorn attempts to create happiness for all about him only succeed in -bringing disaster to the one he loves best. It's a great picture of a -fine mind and heart, a life of rich, generous possibilities, frittered -and wasted and worn out by the needless petty obstinacies of destiny. -And all the tragedy (this was the superb touch) because the wretched -soul never had courage enough to be unkind. What was it St. Paul, or -somebody, said about not being disobedient to the heavenly vision? -Dunbar, in the play, was obedient enough, and his heavenly vision made -his life a hell. It was the old question of conflicting loyalties. How -are you going to solve that? - -I suppose the tragic farce is the most perfect conception of man's -mind--outside the higher mathematics, I dare say. Everyone knows -Sampson's touch now, but it was new then. Some of his situations came -pretty close to the nerve-roots. The pitiful absurdity of people in a -crisis, exquisite human idiocy where one can't smile because grotesque -tragedy is so close... those were the scenes that Upton's director -thought needed “working up”. But I'm getting ahead of my story. - -Well, now, let me see. I'd better be a little chronological. It must -have been September, because I know I took Labour Day off and went to -Long Beach for a swim. I had just about come to the conclusion that my -novel was worthless, and that I'd better get a job of some sort. At the -far end of the boardwalk, you remember, there's a quiet hotel where one -gets away from the crowd, and where you see quite nice-looking people. -After I'd had my swim, I thought I'd stroll up that way and have supper -there. It's not a cheap place, but I had been living on lunch-counter -food all summer, and I felt I owed myself a little extravagance. I was -on my way along the boardwalk, enjoying the cool, strong whiff that -comes off the ocean toward sunset, when I saw Edwards, on the other side -of the promenade, walking with a girl. My eye caught his, and we raised -our hats. I was going on, thinking that perhaps he wasn't so badly off -as I had imagined, when to my surprise he ran after me. He looked very -haggard and ill, and seemed embarrassed. - -“Look here,” he said, “it's frightfully awkward: I must have had my -pocket picked somehow. I've lost my railroad tickets and everything. -Could you possibly lend me enough to get back to town? I've got a lady -with me, too.” - -I didn't need to count my money to know how much I had. It was just -about five dollars, and, as you know, that doesn't go far at Long Beach. -I told him how I stood. “I can give you enough for the railroad fares, -and glad to,” I said. “But how about supper?” - -“Oh, we're not hungry,” he said; “we had a big lunch.” I knew this was -probably bravado, but I liked him for saying it. While I was feeling -in my pocket for some bills, and wondering how to pass them over to him -unobtrusively, he said, “I'd like to introduce you to Miss Cunningham. -We're going to be married in the autumn.” - -You may have seen Sylvia Cunningham? If so, you know how lovely she is. -Not pretty but with the simple charm that beauty can't---- - -Well, that's trite! She'll never be a great actress, but in the rôle of -Sylvia Cunningham she's perfect. I hate to call her slender--it's -such an overworked word, but what other is there? Dark hair and clear, -amberlucent brown eyes, and a slow, searching way of talking, as if she -were really trying to put thought into speech. She, too, poor child, had -had a bad summer, I guessed: there was a neat little mend in her glove. -She was very friendly--I think Edwards must have told her about that -_Observer_ notice. I saw that they were both much humiliated at their -mishap, and I judged that genial frankness would carry off the situation -best. - -“Life among the artists!” I said. “What are our assets?” - -“I've got seventeen cents,” said Edwards. It was a mark of fine -breeding, I thought, that he did not insist upon saying how much it was -that he had lost. - -Miss Cunningham began to open her purse. “I have----” - -“Nonsense!” I said. “What you have doesn't enter into the audit. In -the vulgar phrase, your money's no good. I've got five dollars and a -quarter. Now I suggest we go to Jamaica and get supper there, and then -go back to town by trolley. It'll be an adventure.” - -Well, that was what we did, and very jolly it was. You know how it is: -artists and actors and manicure girls and newspapermen are accustomed to -ups and downs of pocket; and when they have a misery in the right-hand -trouser they make up for it in a spirit of genial comradeship. Jamaica -is an entertaining place. In a little lunchroom, which I remembered from -a time when I covered a story out that way, we had excellent ham and -eggs, and a good talk. - -As we sat in that little white-tiled restaurant, I couldn't help -watching Edwards. I don't know how to make this plain to you, but our -talk, which was cheerful enough, was the least important part of the -occasion. Talk tells so little, anyway: most of it's a mere stumbling -in an almost foreign tongue when it comes to expressing the inward pangs -and certainties that make up life. I had a feeling, as I saw those -two, that I was coming closer than ever before to something urgent and -fundamental in the human riddle. I thought that I had never seen a man -so completely in love. When he looked at her there was a sort of--well, -a sort of possession upon him, an enthusiasm, in the true sense of that -strange word. I thought to myself that Keats must have looked at Fanny -Brawne in just that way. And--you know what writers are--I must confess -that my observation of these two began to turn into “copy” in my mind. -I was wondering whether they might not give me a hint for my stalled -novel. - -There are some engaged couples that make it a point of honour to be a -bit off-hand and jocose when any one else is with them. Just to show, -I suppose, how sure they are of each other. And somehow I had expected -actors, to whom the outward gestures of passion are a mere professional -accomplishment, to be a little blasé or polished in such matters. But -there was a perfect candour and simplicity about them that touched -me keenly. Their relation seemed a lovely thing. Too lovely, and too -intense perhaps, to be entirely happy, I thought, for I could see in -Edwards's face that his whole life and mind were wrapped up in it. I may -have been fanciful, but at that time I was seeing the human panorama not -for itself but as a reflection of my own amateurish scribblings. In -my novel I had been working on the theory--not an original one, of -course--that the essence of tragedy is fixing one's passion too deeply -on anything in life. In other words, that happiness only comes to those -who do not take life too seriously. Destiny, determined not to give up -its secrets, always maims or destroys those who press it too closely. As -we laughed and enjoyed ourselves over our meal, I was wondering whether -Edwards, with his strange air of honourable sorrow, was a proof of my -doctrine. - -Of course we talked about the new play. Edwards had persuaded Upton to -give Miss Cunningham a place in the cast, and she was radiant about it. -Her eyes were like pansies as she spoke of it. I remember one thing she -said: - -“Isn't it wonderful? Morgan and I are together again. You know how -much it means to us, for if the show has a run we can get married this -winter.” - -“This fall,” Edwards amended. - -“Morgan's part is fine,” she went on, after a look at him that made even -a hardened reporter feel that he had no right to be there. “It's really -the big thing in the play for any one who can understand. It's just made -for him.” - -She was thoughtful a moment, and then added: “It's _too much_ made for -him, that's the only trouble. You're living with him, Mr. Roberts. Don't -let him take it too hard. He thinks of nothing else.” - -I made some jocular remark, I forget what. Edwards was silent for a -minute. Then he said: “If you knew how I've longed for a part like -that--a part that I could really lose myself in.” - -“I shouldn't care,” I said, “to lose myself in a part. Suppose I -couldn't find myself again when the time came?” - -He turned to me earnestly. - -“You're not an actor, Roberts, so perhaps you hardly understand what it -means to find a play that's _real_--more real than everyday life. What -I mean is this: everyday life is so damned haphazard, troubled by a -thousand distractions and subject to every sort of cruel chance. We just -fumble along and never know what's coming next. But in a play, a good -play, it's all worked out beforehand, you can see the action progressing -under clear guidance. What a relief it is to be able to sink yourself in -your part, to live it and breathe it and get away for awhile from this -pitiless self-consciousness that tags around with us. You remember what -they used to say about Booth: that it wasn't Booth playing Hamlet, but -Hamlet playing Booth.” - -***** - -The next day, I remember, I tied up my manuscript neatly in a brown -paper parcel, marked it _Literary Remains of Leonard Roberts_ (I was -childish enough to think that the alliteration would please my literary -executor, if there should be such a person), put it away in my trunk, -and went down to Park Row to see if there were any jobs to be had. -Of course it was the usual story. I had been out of the game for -six months, and Park Row seemed to have survived the blow with great -courage. At the _Observer_ office they charitably gave me some books to -review. As I came uptown on the subway I was reflecting on the change a -few hours had made in my condition. That morning I had been an author, a -novelist if you please; and now I was not even a reporter, but that -most deplorable of all Grub Street figures, a hack reviewer. It was -mid-afternoon, and I hadn't had any lunch yet. In a fit of sulks I -went into Browne's, sat down in a corner, and ordered a chop and some -shandygaff. As I ate, I looked over the books with a peevish eye. Never -mind, I said to myself, I will write such brilliant, withering, and -scorching reviews that in six months the Authors' League will be -offering me hush money. I was framing the opening paragraph of my first -article when Johnson, whom I had known on the _Observer_, stopped at my -table. He was one of the newspaper men who had left Park Row to go into -professional publicity work. There had been a time when I sneered at -such a declension. - -“Hullo, Leonard,” he said. “What are you doing nowadays?” - -I told him, irritably, that I was writing a serial for one of the -women's magazines. There is no statement that puts envious awe into a -newspaper man so surely as that. But I also admitted that if he knew of -a good job I might be persuaded to listen to details. - -“As it happens,” he said, “I do. Upton, the theatrical producer, is -looking for a press agent. He tells me he's got something unusual under -way, and he wants a highbrow blurb-artist. He says his regular roughneck -is no good for this kind of show. Something by a new writer, rather out -of Upton's ordinary line, I guess.” - -“Is it 'Obedience'?” - -“That's it. I couldn't remember the name.” As soon as I had finished -my lunch I went round to Upton's office. It was high up in a building -overlooking Longacre Square, where the elevators were crowded with the -people of that quaint and spurious world. The men I found particularly -fascinating--you know the type, so very young in figure, often so old -and hard and dry in face, with their lively tweeds, starched blue or -green collars, silver-gray ties, and straight-brushed, purply-black -hair. It was my first introduction to the realms of theatrical -producing, and I must confess that I found Mr. Upton's office very -entertaining with its air of elaborate and transparent bunkum. I sat -underneath a coloured enlarged photo of the Garden of Eden ballet in -“The Figleaf Lady” and surveyed the small anteroom. It was all intensely -unreal. Those framed photographs, on which were scrawled _To Harry -Upton, the Best of His Kind_, or some such inscriptions, and signed by -dramatists I had never heard of; the typist pounding out contracts; -the architect's drawing of the projected Upton Theatre at Broadway and -Fiftieth Street, showing a line of people at the box office--all this, I -knew by instinct, meant nothing. The dramatists whose photographs I saw -would never write a real play; the Upton Theatre, even if it should be -built, would not house anything but “burlettas,” and the typed contracts -were not worth so much carbon paper. As for Mr. Upton himself, one -couldn't help loving him: he was such a disarming, enthusiastic, shrewd, -unreliable bandit. To abbreviate, he took me on as a member of his -“publicity staff” (consisting of myself and a typewriter, as far as I -could see) at one hundred dollars a week. His private office had three -ingenious exits; going out by one of them, I found myself in a little -alcove with the typewriter and plenty of stationery. Rehearsals of -“Obedience” had started that morning, Upton had told me; so before I -went home that afternoon I had typed and sent off the following pregnant -paragraph for the next day's papers: - -Henry Upton's first dramatic production of the season, “Obedience,” - by Arthur Sampson, began making elbow room for itself at rehearsals -yesterday. Keith Brooks will play the leading rôle, supported by Lillian -Llewellyn, Sylvia Cunningham, Morgan Edwards, and other distinguished -players. - -I had a feeling of cheerfulness that evening. The cursed novel was no -longer on my mind, there would be a hundred dollars due me the next -week, and I was about to satisfy my long-standing curiosity to know -something about the theatre from the inside. It was one of those typical -evenings of New York loveliness: a rich, tawny, lingering light, a dry, -clear air, warm enough to be pleasantly soft and yet with a sharp tingle -in the breeze. I strolled about that bright jolly neighbourhood round -the hideous Verdi statue, bought a volume of Pinero's plays at one -of those combination book, cigar, and toy shops, and as I sat in my -favourite Milwaukee Lunch I believe (if I must be frank) that some idea -of writing a play was flitting through my mind. I got back to my room -about ten o'clock. I had just sat down to read Pinero when Edwards -tapped at the door. My mouth was open to tell him my surprising news -when I saw that he was unpleasantly agitated. First he insisted on -returning my loan, although I begged him to believe that there need be -no hurry about it. - -“Rehearsals began to-day,” he said. He sat down on the bed and looked -very sombre. “The worst possible has happened,” he said. “Fagan's -directing.” - -I tried to console him. Perhaps I felt that if Upton had shown such good -sense in his choice of a press representative his judgment in directors -couldn't be altogether wrong. - -“Oh, well,” I said, “if the play's as good as you say, he can't hurt it -much. Upton believes in it, he won't let Fagan chop it about, will he? -And he's got a good cast--they won't need much direction: they know how -to handle that kind of thing.” - -“It's plain you don't know the game,” he said. “If Upton had combed -Broadway from Herald Square to Reisenweber's, he couldn't have found -a man so superbly equipped to kill the piece. As for poor Sampson, God -help him. Fagan is a typical Broadway hanger-on, with plenty of debased -cunning of his own; not a fool at all; but the last man for this kind of -show, which needs imagination, atmosphere, delicate tone and tempo. -But that's not all of it. Fagan hates me personally. He'll get me out of -the company if he possibly can. He can do it, of course: he has Upton's -ear.” - -He sat a moment, one eyebrow twitching nervously. Suddenly he cried out, -in a quivering, passionate voice which horrified and frightened me: -“I've _got_ to play Dunbar! It's my only chance. _Everything_ depends -upon it.” - -Such an outcry, in a man usually so trained a master of himself, was -pitiful. I was truly shocked, and yet I was almost on the verge of -nervous laughter, I remember, when the idiotic old spinster in the -next room pounded lustily on the wall. I suppose she thought we were -revelling. I could see that he needed to talk. I tried to soothe him -with some commonplace words and a cigarette. - -“No,” he said, “I know what I'm talking about. Fagan hates me. No need -to go into details. He directed 'After Dinner,' you know--and massacred -it. We had a row then... he tried to bully a girl in the company... I -threatened to thrash him. He hasn't forgotten, of course. He passed the -word round then that I ruined the show. If this were any other play -I'd have walked out as soon as I saw him. But this piece is different. -I--I've set my heart on it. My God, I'm just _meant_ for that part----” - -In the hope of calming him, I asked what had happened at the first -rehearsal. - -“Oh, the usual thing. We went through the first act, with the sides. -I knew my lines perfectly, the only one who did (I ought to, I've been -over them incessantly these few weeks--the thing haunts me). That seemed -to annoy Fagan. Sampson was there--a quiet little man with a bright, -thoughtful eye. For his benefit, evidently, Fagan got off his old tosh -about Victor Hugo and the preface to 'Hernani'. It's a bit of patter he -picked up somewhere, and uses to impress people with. In the middle of -it, he suddenly realized that I had heard it all before. That made him -mad. So he cut it short, and reasserted himself by saying that the first -act would have to be cut a great deal. Sampson looked pretty groggy, -but said nothing. Sampson, I can see, is my only hope. Fagan will try to -force me out of the show by hounding me until I lose my temper and quit. -He began by telling me how to cross the stage. A man who learned the -business under Frank Benson doesn't need to be taught how to walk!” - -I ventured some mild sedative opinion, because I saw it did him good to -pour out his perplexity. - -“You don't know,” he said, “how the actor is at the mercy of the -director. The director is appointed by the manager and is responsible -only to him. If the director takes a dislike to one of the cast, he can -tell the manager he 'can't work with him', and get him fired that way; -or he can make the man's position impossible by ridicule and perpetual -criticism at rehearsals. He remarked to-day that I was miscast. The -fool! I've never had such a part.” - -Well, we talked until after midnight, and only stopped then because I -was afraid that the spinster might begin to hammer again. In the end I -got him fairly well pacified. He was delighted when I told him that I -was going to be press agent, and I pleased him by making some memoranda -of his previous career, which I thought I could work up into a Sunday -story. To tell the truth, I did not, then, take all his distress at its -face value. I knew he had had a difficult summer, and was in a nervous, -high-strung state. I thought that his trouble was partly what we -call “actors' disease,” or (to put it more humanely) oversensitized -selfconsciousness. I promised to get round to the rehearsal the next -day. - -As a matter of fact, it was several days before I was able to attend a -rehearsal. For the next morning Upton asked me to go to Atlantic City, -where he had a musical show opening, to collect data for publicity. His -regular press man was ill, and it was evident that he expected me to do -plenty of work for my hundred a week. However, it was a new and amusing -job, and I was keen to absorb as much local colour as possible. I went -to Atlantic City on the train with the “Jazz You Like It” company, took -notes of all their life histories, went in swimming with the Blandishing -Blondes quartette that afternoon, had them photographed on the sand, -took care to see that they were arrested in their one-piece suits, -bailed them out, and by dinner-time had collected enough material to -fill the trashiest Sunday paper. In the evening the show opened, and -I saw what seemed to me the most appallingly vulgar and brutally silly -spectacle that had ever disgraced a stage. I wondered how a company of -quite intelligent and amusing people could ever have been drilled -into such laborious and glittering stupidity. The gallery fell for -the Blondes, but the rest of the house suffered for the most part in -silence, and I expected to see Upton crushed to earth. When I met him -in the lobby afterward I was wondering how to condole with him. To my -surprise he was radiant. “Well, I guess we've got a knockout,” he said. -“This'll sell to the roof on Broadway.” He was right, too. Well, this -is out of the story. I simply wanted to explain that I was away from New -York for several days. - -When I got back to Upton's office I was busy most of the day sending -out stuff to the papers. Then I asked the imperial young lady who -was alternately typing letters and attending to the little telephone -switchboard, where “Obedience” was rehearsing. At the Stratford, she -replied. Wondering how many of Mr. Upton's amusing and discreditable -problems were bestowed under her magnificent rippling coiffure (she was -really a stunning creature), I went round to that theatre. The middle -door was open and I slipped in. The house was dark, on the tall, naked -stage the rehearsal was proceeding. It was my first experience of this -sort of thing, and I found it extremely interesting. The stage was set -out with chairs to indicate exits and essentials of furniture; at the -back hung a huge canvas sea-scene, used in some revue that had opened -at the Stratford the night before. The electricians were tinkering -with their illuminating effects, great blazes and shafts of light -criss-crossed about the place as the rehearsal went on, much to the -annoyance of the actors. Little electric stars winked in the painted sky -portion of the blue back-drop, and men in overalls walked about gazing -at their tasks. - -I sat down quietly in the gloom, about halfway down the middle aisle. -Two or three other people, whose identity I could not conjecture, sat -singly down toward the front. In the orchestra row, in shirtsleeves, -with his feet on the brass rail and a cigar in his mouth, sat a person -who, I saw, must be the renowned Fagan. Downstage were Brooks, Edwards, -and a charming creature in summery costume who was obviously the -original of the multitudinous photographs of Lillian Llewellyn. The rest -of the company were sitting about at the back, off the scene. Edwards, -who was very pale in the violent downpour of a huge bulb hanging from a -wire just overhead, was speaking as I took my seat. - -“Wait a minute, folks--_wait a minute!_” cried Fagan, sharply. “Now! -You've got your situation planted, let's nail it to the cross. Mr. -Edwards!” - -The actors turned, wearily, and Miss Llewellyn sat down on a chair. -Brooks stood waiting with a kind of dogged endurance. At the back of the -stage a workman was hammering on a piece of metal. Fagan pulled his legs -off the rail and climbed halfway up the little steps leading from the -orchestra pit to the proscenium. - -“Mr. Edwards!” he shouted, “you're letting it drop. It's dead. Give it -to Mr. Brooks so he can pick it up and do something with it. You've got -to lift it into the domain of comedy! My God!” he cried, throwing his -cigar stub into the orchestra well, “that whole act is terrible. Take it -again from Miss Llewellyn's entrance. Mr. Edwards, try to put a little -more stuff into it. This isn't amateur theatricals.” - -Edwards turned as though about to speak, but he clenched his fist and -kept silent. Brooks, however, was less patient. - -“Pardon me, Mr. Fagan,” he said, in a clear, ironical tone. “But I -should like to ask a question, if you will allow me. You speak, very -forcibly, of lifting it into the domain of comedy. That seems a curious -phrase for this scene. Is it intended to be comic? If so, I must have -misconstrued the author's directions in the script.” - -Brooks was too well-known a performer for Fagan to bully. Brooks was “on -the lights”--in other words, when the show's electric signboard went -up, it would carry his name. Around his presence hung the mystic aura -of five hundred dollars a week, quite enough in itself to make Fagan -respectful. The director seemed a little startled by the star's caustic -accent. As a matter of fact, I don't suppose he had ever read the script -as a whole. I remembered that after the first rehearsal Edwards told me -that Fagan had admitted not having read the play. He said he preferred -to “pick up the dialogue as they went along”. This reference to the -author must have seemed to him unaccountably eccentric. I daresay he had -forgotten that there was such a person. - -He threw up his hands in mock surrender. “All right, all right, if -that's the way you take it, I've got nothing to say. Play it your own -way, folks. Mr. Edwards, you're killing Mr. Brooks's scene there. Give -him time to come down and get his effect.” - -Again I saw Edwards lift his head as though about to retort, but Brooks -whispered something to him. Fagan came back to his seat in the front row -and lit a fresh cigar. “Take it from Miss Llewellyn's first entrance,” - he shouted. - -Miss Cunningham and a third man came forward and the five regrouped -themselves. The rehearsal resumed. I watched with a curious tingle of -excitement. The dialogue meant little to me, plunging in at the middle -of the act, but I could not miss the passionate quality of Edwards's -playing. Even Brooks, a polished but very cold actor, caught the warmth. -Their speeches had the rich vibrance of anger. I was really startled -at the power and velocity of the performance, considering that they had -only rehearsed a week. As I watched, someone leaned over my shoulder -from behind and whispered: “What do you think of Dunbar?” - -My eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom. I turned and saw a little man -with a thin face and lifted eyebrows which gave him a quaint expression -of perpetual surprise. I was so absorbed in the scene that at first I -hardly understood. - -“Dunbar--? Oh, Edwards?” I whispered. “I think he's corking--fine.” - -At that moment Edwards was in the middle of a speech. Miss Cunningham -had just said something. Edwards, going toward her, had put his hand on -her shoulder and was replying in a tone of peculiar tenderness. Fagan's -loud voice broke in. - -“Dunbar! Mr. Edwards! I can't let you do it like that. You make me hold -up this scene every time. Now get it right. This is a bit of comedy, not -sob stuff. Try to be a bit facetious, if you can. You're not making love -to the girl--not yet!” - -There was a moment of silence. Those on the stage stood still, oddly -like children halted in the middle of a game. I don't suppose Fagan's -words were deliberately intended as a personal insult, but seemed to -himself a legitimate comment on the action of the piece. I think his -offences came more often from boorish obtuseness than calculated -malice. But the brutal interruption, coming after a long and difficult -afternoon, strained the players' nerves to snapping. Brooks sat down -with an air of calculated nonchalance and took out a cigarette. Then a -tinkling hammering began again somewhere up in the flies. Edwards was -flushed. - -“For God's sake stop that infernal racket up there,” he cried. Then, -coming down to the unlit gutter of footlights, he said quietly: - -“Mr. Fagan, I've studied this part rather more carefully than you have. -If the author is in the house, I'd like to appeal to him as to whether -my conception is correct.” - -There was such a quiver of passion in his voice that even Fagan seemed -taken aback. - -“What's got into you folks to-day?” he growled. “Oh, very well. Is Mr. -Sampson here?” - -The little man behind me got up and walked down the aisle in an -embarrassed way. - -“Mr. Author,” said Fagan, “have you been watching the rehearsal?” - -Sampson murmured something. - -“Is Mr. Edwards doing the part as you want it done?” - -“Mr. Edwards is perfectly right,” said Sampson. - -“Thank you, sir,” said Edwards from the stage. “Fagan, when you are -ready to conduct rehearsals like a gentleman, I will be here.” He turned -and walked off the stage. - -Brooks snapped his cigarette case to, and the sharp click seemed to -bring the scene to an end. Fagan picked up his coat from the seat beside -him. “Bolshevism!” he said. “All right, folks, ten o'clock to-morrow, -here. Miss Cunningham, will you tell Mr. Edwards ten o'clock tomorrow?” - -This last might be taken either as a surly apology, or as an added -insult. Rather subtle for Fagan, I thought. As I was getting out of my -seat, the director and a venomous-looking young man whom I had seen in -and out of Upton's office walked up the aisle together. Sampson was just -behind them. I could see that the director was either furiously angry, -or else (more likely) deemed it his duty to pretend to be. - -“This show's no good as long as Edwards is in it,” he said, loudly, -spitting out fragments of cigar-wrapper. “That fellow's breaking up the -company. I sha'n't be able to handle 'em at all, pretty soon. This kind -of thing puts an omen on a show.” - -***** - -Well, that was my introduction to “Obedience”. I watched Fagan and the -hanger-on of Upton's office--one of those innumerable black-haired young -infidels who run errands for a man like Upton, hobnob with the ticket -speculators in the enigmatic argot of the box office, and seem to look -out upon the world from behind a little grill of brass railings. They -moved up the velvet slope of the passage, arguing hoarsely. Sampson -faded gently away into the darkness and disappeared through the thick -blue curtains of the foyer. An idea struck me, and I ran behind to see -the stage manager, Cervaux, who was playing one of the minor parts. I -cajoled his own copy of the script away from him, promising to return it -to the office the next morning. I wanted to read the play entire. Going -out toward the stage door, behind a big flat of scenery I came upon Miss -Cunningham. She was sitting in a rolling chair, one of those things you -see on the boardwalk at Atlantic City. There was a whole fleet of them -drawn up in the wings, they were used in that idiotic revue playing -at the Stratford. It added to the curiously unreal atmosphere of the -occasion to see her crouching there, crying, alone in the half light, -among those absurd vehicles of joy. - -I intended to pass as though I hadn't seen her, but she called out to -me. If Upton could have seen her then, her honey-brown eyes glazed with -tears, black rings in her poor little pale face, he would have raised -her salary--or else fired her, I don't know which. - -“Mr. Roberts,” she said, slowly and tremulously--“I don't know who else -to ask. Will you try to help Morgan?” - -“Why of course,” I said. “Anything I can do----” - -“You were at the rehearsal? Then you saw how Fagan treats him. It's been -like that every day. The brute! It's abominable! You know how we had set -our hearts on playing this together, Morgan and I.... Now I've almost -come to pray that Morgan will throw it up. That's what Fagan wants, of -course, but I don't care. All I want is his happiness. I said something -to him about giving up the part, but he... Mr. Roberts, I'm _worried_. -I've never seen Morgan so strange before. He's not himself. I don't know -what's the matter, I have a feeling that something-----” - -The electricians were still fooling about with their spotlights, and a -great arrow of brilliance sliced across the stage and groped about us. -It blazed brutally upon her tear-stained face, and then see-sawed among -the little flock of rolling chairs. It was that shaft of light that -dispelled, once for all, the feeling I had had that this was all some -sort of theatrical gibberish, pantomime stuff intended to impress the -greenhorn press agent. For when she recoiled under the blow of that -sudden stroke of brightness I could read unquestionable trouble on her -face. There was not only perplexity, there was fear. - -She was silent, turning her face away. Then she stepped down from the -chair, in a blind sort of way. - -“I begged him to give it up,” she said, quietly. “He said that no -one but the author could take him out of this part. I wish the author -would.--Oh, I don't know what to wish! Morgan's making himself ill -fighting against Fagan.” - -We walked across Fortieth Street together, and I escorted her as far as -a Fifth Avenue bus. As we waited for the bus she said: - -“You'll probably see him to-night. Tell him about rehearsal to-morrow, -ten o'clock. He had gone before I could speak to him. You see, he's not -himself. We were to have taken supper together.” - -She added something that I have never forgotten: - -“The worst tragedy in the world is when lovely things get in the hands -of people who don't understand them. If you see Mr. Sampson, you might -tell him that. Some day he may write another play.” - -When I got up to Seventy-third Street I tapped at Edwards's door. He was -at his table, writing. I had intended to ask him to take dinner with me, -thinking that perhaps I could help him, but his manner showed plainly -that he wanted to be alone. If I had been an old friend of his, perhaps -I could have done something; but I did not feel I knew him well enough -to force myself upon his mood. - -“Fagan sent you word, rehearsal to-morrow at ten,” I said. “It sounds to -me like an apology.” - -He looked at me steadily. - -“You were there to-day? You will understand a little, then.” - -“I understand that Fagan is a ruffian.” - -“Fagan--Oh, I don't mean Fagan.” He paused and looked at the wet -point of his pen. “I was just writing a note to Sampson,” he said. He -hesitated a moment, and then tore the written sheet across several times -and dropped it in the basket. - -“Oh, hell,” he said. “I can't appeal to Sampson again. I'll have to work -it out myself.--Don't imagine I take Fagan too seriously. Fagan is only -an accident. A tragic accident. That's part of my weird, as the Scotch -say. I mean, you'll understand better about Dunbar.” - -I didn't quite understand, and said nothing. - -“I wouldn't let a man like Fagan stand between me and Dunbar,” he said. -“It's in the hands of the author now. You heard what he said. He put -Dunbar into the play, he's the only one who can take him out of it.” - -The next morning Upton broke the news to me that I was to go out as -advance man. The opening was set for Providence, only ten days later. -There was to be a two-weeks' tour of three-night engagements, and I had -to arrange for the publicity, poster-printing, accommodations for the -company, and so on. This did not appeal to me very strongly, but I -scrambled together a lot of photographs, interviewed the cast as to -their preferences in hotel rooms, and set off. I got back a week later. -We were then only three days away from the opening. They were rehearsing -with the sets, Upton's telephone blonde told me, and I hurried round to -the Stratford to see how the scenic artist had done the job. - -They had just knocked off for lunch when I got there, and at the stage -door I met Edwards coming out with Miss Cunningham. He looked very white -and tired. - -“Hullo,” I said; “just in time to have lunch with me! Come on, we'll go -to Maxim's. I've still got some of Upton's expense money.” - -“I've got to rush round to the modiste for a fitting,” said Miss -Cunningham. “The gowns are just finished. You take Morgan and give him a -good talking-to. He needs it.” I did not quite understand the appeal in -her eyes, but I saw that she wanted me to talk with Edwards alone. She -went toward Bryant Park, and we turned down to Thirty-eighth. Edwards -stood a moment at the corner looking after her. - -“Sylvia says I'm a fool,” he said, wearily. “I don't know: most of us -are, one way or another.--You know I told you that I put my confidence -in the author.” - -“Quite right,” I said. “I myself heard Sampson say he thought you were -corking.” - -“Well, I wonder if he's double-crossing me?” said Edwards, slowly, as -though to himself. - -“In what way?” - -“Yesterday, when I was coming down to rehearsal, there was a tie-up of -some kind on the subway. The train stood still for a long time, and -then the lights went out. We stayed in the dark for I don't know how -long--everybody got nervous. It was pitch black, and awfully hot and -stuffy. The women began to scream. I felt pretty queer myself--you know -I haven't been well--and as we sat there I went off into a kind of doze -or something. Then, just as everybody was on the edge of a panic, the -lights came on and we went ahead. When we got to Times Square I think I -must have been a bit off colour, for the damned rehearsal went out of -my head entirely. Suddenly I realized I was in a drugstore drinking some -headache fizz when I was over an hour late at the theatre. My God! I -hustled down there as fast as I could go. Queer thing. I went in through -the stage door, and as I came round behind the set I heard voices on the -stage. They were rehearsing, of course. Naturally, they couldn't wait -all morning for me. But this is what I'm getting at. You know that scene -in the second act where I say to Brooks: _It's all very well for you to -say that. Ah, hah! I see! But suppose you had been in my place---_ - -“You know that's a turning point in the act. There's a particular -inflection I give that speech--the way I say the 'Ah, hah! I see!' that -makes the point clear to the audience and gets it over. Well, they were -rehearsing that scene, and from behind the canvas I heard that speech. -And what I heard was my own voice.” - -“What on earth do you mean?” I said. - -He hesitated. He was sitting, his lunch almost untasted, with one elbow -on the table and his forehead leaning on his hand. Under his long, -sinewy fingers I could see his brows tightened and frowning downward -upon his plate. - -“Exactly what I say. It was my own voice. Or, if you prefer, Dunbar's -voice. I heard that speech uttered, tone for tone, as I had been saying -it. It was the precise accent and pitch of ironical comment which I had -thought appropriate for Dunbar at that point in the action. The sudden -change of tone, the pause, the placing of the emphasis--the words were -just as if they had come out of my own mouth. I stopped, instinctively. -I said to myself, has Fagan got someone else to play the part, and been -coaching him on the side? Someone who's been sitting in at rehearsals -and has picked up my conception of Dunbar? And at that moment I heard -Fagan sing out 'All right, folks, the carpenter wants to work on this -set. We'll quit until after lunch.' - -“I tell you, I was staggered. If I was out, I was out, but they might -have been straight with me. It was a matter for the Equity, I thought. I -didn't want to chin it over with the others just then, and I heard them -coming off, so I slipped through the door that opens into the passage -behind the stage box. I meant to tell Fagan what I thought about it. -There was Sampson sitting in one of the boxes. He saw me, and got up. He -said: 'By Jove, Mr. Edwards, you were fine this morning. I've never seen -you do it so well. It was bully, all through. Keep it like that, and -you're the hit of the play.' - -“I thought at first he was making fun of me. I was about to make some -sarcastic retort, when he put out his hand in the friendliest way, and -said: - -“'I want to thank you for what you're doing for that part, and I know it -hasn't been easy. I've never seen anything so beautifully done, and just -want to tell you that if the play is a success it will be largely due to -you.' - -“This, on the heels of the other, astounded me so that I didn't know -what to say. I made some automatic reply, and he left. I sat down in the -cool darkness of the box to rest, for I was feeling very seedy. My head -went round and round--touch of the sun, I dare say, or that foul air in -the crowded subway car. I was still there when they came back, an hour -later, for the afternoon rehearsal. I tried to talk to Sylvia about it, -but all she would say was that I ought to go to a doctor.” - -“I think she's right,” I said. “Look here, have you had any sleep -lately?” - -“You seem to have forgotten Dunbar's line,” he said. “'_There'll be -'plenty of time to sleep by and bye._'” - -“For God's sake forget about Dunbar,” I said. “Man, dear, you're on the -tip of a nervous breakdown. Now listen. This is Friday. Dress rehearsal -to-morrow. Sunday you'll have all day off. Take Miss Cunningham and go -away into the country somewhere and rest. Put the damned play out of -your mind and give her a good time. You both need it.” - -I didn't see him again until Monday morning. - -I went up to Providence on the train with the company. As I passed -through one of the Pullmans looking for a seat in a smoking compartment, -I found Miss Cunningham and Edwards sitting in adjoining chairs. To my -delight, they seemed very cheerful, and smiled up at me charmingly. - -“Took your advice yesterday,” he said. “We went down to Long Beach -again. Had a lovely day, not even a pickpocket to spoil it.” - -“What an unfortunate remark!” said Sylvia, laughing. “He means, not a -pickpocket to bring us a friend in need and give us a jolly evening in -Jamaica.” - -“I spoke the speech trippingly,” he admitted. - -“And we left Dunbar behind!” said Sylvia. She flashed me a grateful -little look that showed she knew I had tried to help. - -“Have you decided where to spend the honeymoon?” I asked, greatly -pleased to see them so happy. - -“Hush!” she said. “We'll wait till we see what sort of notices the show -gets.” - -“Think of the poor press agent. I've used up all my dope. Get spliced -while we're in Providence and it'll give me a nice little story. You -know the kind of thing--'_Critics' Praise Brings Pair to Altar; Press -Clippings Cupid's Aid_'.” - -“You're getting as vulgar as a regular press agent,” she said, merrily. -“They don't think of anything except in terms of good stories for the -paper.” - -“Oh,” I said, “the press agent has his tragedies, too. Think how many -stories he knows that he can't tell.” - -I felt that this remark was not very happily inspired, and went -on through the car calling myself a clumsy idiot. In the smoking -compartment, as luck would have it, were both Upton and Fagan, smoking -huge cigars and talking together. I sat down and lit my pipe. Fagan, in -his usual way, was trying to impress Upton with his own sagacity. There -was another musical horror of Upton's scheduled to begin rehearsal -shortly, and probably Fagan was hoping to land the job as director. - -“What did you think of Edwards at the dress rehearsal?” said Fagan. - -Upton grunted. He had a way of retaining his ideas until others had -committed themselves. - -“I've been telling you right along, he's impossible,” said Fagan. “No -one can work with him. He's too damned upstage. Now I got Billy Mitford -to promise he'd run up and see the opening. Billy is the man you need -for that part. I had him in at the dress, and he'll be there tonight. -I've given him a line on the part, and if Edwards falls down we can -start rehearsing Billy right away. He could get set in a week, and open -with the show in New York.” - -“Four hundred a week,” was Upton's comment, seemingly addressed to the -end of his cigar. - -“All right, he's worth it. He's got a following. This guy Edwards is -dear at any price. He'll kill the show. He doesn't get his stuff over. -God knows I've worked on him. And he crabs Brooks's work more'n half the -time. What you want is one of these birds that gets the women climbing -over the orchestra rail. Billy is your one best bet, take it from me.” - -“Well, we'll open her up and see what we got,” said Upton. “Is Sampson -along?” - -“No. Scared. Said he was too nervous to come. He'll learn to write -a play afterwhile. What a mess that script was until I got her -straightened out.” - -When we got to Providence I had several jobs to do around town. I -visited the newspaper offices, stopped in at the theatre where the stage -crew were busy unloading scenery, and when I returned to the hotel I -lay down in my room and had a good nap, I was awakened late in the -afternoon--about five o'clock, because I looked at my watch--by a -knocking at the door. I got up and opened. It was Edwards. To my dismay, -his cheerfulness had vanished. He had gone back to the old pallid and -anxious mood. - -“Nervous, old man?” I said. When I had booked the rooms for the company -I had arranged that he and I should be next door to each other, so that -I could keep an eye on him. - -“Nervous?” he said. “I'm ill. Had another of those damned swimming -spells in my head. Haven't got any brandy, have you?” - -I hadn't, but offered to go in search of some. He wouldn't let me. - -“Don't go,” he said. “Look here, I saw Mit-ford in the lobby just now. -What the devil is he doing here?” - -“Perhaps there's some other show on,” I suggested, miserably. - -“I told you they were trying to double-cross me,” he said. “I know -perfectly well what he's here for. Fagan is trying to razz me into a -breakdown. Then he'll put Mitford in as Dunbar. But I tell you, I'll -play this thing in spite of hell and high water.” - -He paced feverishly up and down, and I tried to ease his mind. - -“By God, they sha'n't!” he cried. “I'll put this thing up to the author. -Where's Sampson?” - -“He's not here. For heaven's sake, man, don't get in a state. -Everything's all right.” - -“Everything's all right!” he repeated, bitterly. “Yes, everything's -lovely. Let's 'lift it into the domain of comedy'. But if you see Fagan, -tell him to keep away from me.” - -I begged him to rest until dinner-time. I went into his room with him, -made him lie down on the bed, rang for a bottle of ice water, and left -him there. Then I went downstairs and wrote a couple of letters. I was -just leaving the hotel when I met Fagan coming in. He stopped me to ask -if I had taken care to put his name on the playbill as director. I -had. If the show was a flop, I at least wanted his name attached as a -participial cause. - -I wandered uneasily about the busy streets until theatre time. I -couldn't have been more nervous if I had been going on the boards -myself. I spent part of the time prowling about trying to see how much -“Obedience” paper I could find on the billboards and in shop windows. I -stopped in at a lunchroom and had some supper. The place reminded me -of the little café in Jamaica where Sylvia and Edwards and I had eaten -together. - -My mind was full of the picture of the two, and his face as he leaned -across the table toward her. I thought that I had never seen a couple -who so deserved happiness, or who had fought harder to earn it. What was -the subtle appeal in this play that made it react so strangely upon -him? The tragedy of Dunbar in the piece, the sacrifice of the poor, -well-meaning fellow whose virtue always seemed to turn and rend him, did -this echo some secret experience in his own life? I wondered whether -an actor's career was really the gay business I had conceived it. -It occurred to me that perhaps the actor's profession is doomed to -suffering, because it takes the most dangerous explosives in life and -plays with them. Love, ambition, jealousy, hatred, those are the things -actors deal with. You can't play with those without one of them going -off every now and then. They go off with a bang, and somebody gets hurt. - -I suppose I'm sentimental. I wanted those two to win out. It seemed to -me that a defeat for their fine and honourable passion would be a defeat -for Love everywhere, and for all who believe in the worthy aspirations -of the heart. I don't suppose any press agent ever pondered more -generous philosophies than I did that night, over my lunch-counter -supper. - -Time went so fast that it was after eight when I got to the theatre. I -went in and took a seat in the last row. The house, to my surprise, was -crowded. I could see Upton's big bald head, well down in front, beside -a massively carved lady, all bust and beads, whom I supposed to be Mrs. -Upton. The élite of Providence were out in force, for Brooks's name -is always a drawing card. Some of them, I feared, were going to be -disappointed. It is all very well to introduce a new Barrie or a new -Pinero to the playgoing public, but you've got to remember that it is -bound to be grievous for those who prefer the other sort of thing. - -The curtain, of course, was late, and I gave a sigh of relief when I saw -it go up. Edwards, waiting carefully for the hush, had the house with -him in three speeches. I have never seen better work, before or since. -It was noticeable that at his first exit he got a bigger hand than -Brooks at his carefully prepared entrance. The only thing that seemed -to me out of the way was his extreme pallor. The silly ass, I said to -myself, he hasn't made himself up properly. Then it struck me that it -was probably a sound touch of realism, for certainly Dunbar would not be -described as a full-blooded creature. I had read the play carefully, and -had seen it in rehearsal; but I had never known how much there was in -it. Strangely enough, Edwards was the only one who showed no trace of -nervousness. All the others, even Brooks, seemed unaccountably at a loss -now and then, trampled on their lines, and smothered their points. At -first the house was inclined to applaud, but as the action tightened, -they hushed into the perfect and passionate silence that is the -playwright's dream. There were six curtains at the end of the first act. -I could tell by the tilt of old Upton's pink pate that he was in fine -spirits. I looked about for Fagan in the lobby, as I was keen to see how -he was taking it, but missed him in the arguing and shifting crowd. - -By the time the third act was under way it was plain that we had a -sure-fire success. Novice as I was, I could read the signs when I -saw Upton scribbling telegrams at the box-office window in the second -intermission, and observed the face of Mr. Mitford. The usual slips that -always happen on first nights were there, of course. In the third act, -when Edwards had to take Sylvia in his arms, she seemed to trip and -almost fell; and I noticed that Brooks crossed the stage and helped her -off, which was not in the script; but these things were not marked by -most of the audience. Dunbar, you remember, makes his final exit several -minutes before the end of the third act. When he went off there was a -little stir among the audience--far more eloquent than applause would -have been. That beautiful delineation of a blundering high-minded -failure had made its appeal. - -After Edwards's last exit I felt my way out, quietly, and went round -through the street and up the alley to the stage door. I wanted to be -the first to congratulate him on his splendid triumph. I did not want to -break in too soon, so I waited near the door until I heard the crash of -hands that followed the curtain. The canvas rose and fell repeatedly as -the players took their calls, while the house shook with applause. From -where I stood, by the switches and buttons on the control board, I could -see them lined up in the orange glare of the gutter, bowing and smiling. -There were cries of “Dunbar! Dunbar!” and a rumbling of feet in the -gallery. It is the only time I have ever seen an audience crowd down the -aisles and stand by the orchestra rail, applauding. Then I saw why they -lingered. Edwards had not taken his call. - -The curtain fell again, and Cervaux, the stage manager, came running -off, the perspiration streaming down over his grease-paint. - -“Christ!” he cried. “Where's that fool Edwards?” - -As soon as the curtain finally shut off the house I could see the actors -turn to each other as though in dismay. Miss Cunningham came off, and I -ran to shake her hand. To my amazement she looked at me blankly, with a -dreadful face, and sat down on a trunk. - -Brooks strode across the stage. “Where's Edwards?” he shouted, angrily. -“Tell him to take this call with me, the house is crazy.” - -“Where's the author?” said someone. “They want the author, too.” - -Several hurried upstairs to the men's dressing rooms, and I followed. -The door of number 3, on which Edwards's name was scrawled in chalk, -stood open. Cervaux stood stupidly on the sill. The room was empty. - -“He's gone,” said Cervaux. “What do you know about that?” - -We could still hear the tumult of the house. - -“Take the curtain, Mr. Brooks,” said Cervaux. “Tell them he's ill.” - -I looked round number 3 dressing room. - -There was a taxi standing outside the stage door. I don't know how it -happened to be there, or who had ordered it, but I shouted to the driver -and jumped in. I have a faint impression that just as the engine started -Sylvia appeared at the door, with a cloak thrown over her stage gown, -and cried something, but I am not sure. - -When I got to the hotel, the door of the room next to mine was locked, -but the house detective got it open without any noise. There were two -men in the room. In the far corner lay Fagan, unconscious, with a broken -jaw, one arm hideously twisted under him, and a shattered water bottle -beside his bloody head. Sprawled against the bed, kneeling, with his -arms flung out across the counterpane, was Edwards.--The doctor said it -was heart disease. He had been dead since six o'clock. - -THE END - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Tales From a Rolltop Desk, by Christopher Morley - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK *** - -***** This file should be named 51957-0.txt or 51957-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/9/5/51957/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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