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diff --git a/old/60529-0.txt b/old/60529-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c54361d..0000000 --- a/old/60529-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12245 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Fascinating Stranger And Other Stories, by -Booth Tarkington - -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: The Fascinating Stranger And Other Stories - -Author: Booth Tarkington - -Release Date: October 19, 2019 [EBook #60529] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FASCINATING STRANGER, OTHER STORIES *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines, Cindy Beyer & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net - - - - - - - - - - - - [Dustcover Illustration] - [Cover Illustration] - - - - - B O O K S B Y - B O O T H T A R K I N G T O N - - ALICE ADAMS - BEASLEY’S CHRISTMAS PARTY - BEAUTY AND THE JACOBIN - CHERRY - CONQUEST OF CANAAN - GENTLE JULIA - HARLEQUIN AND COLUMBINE - HIS OWN PEOPLE - IN THE ARENA - MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE - PENROD - PENROD AND SAM - RAMSEY MILHOLLAND - SEVENTEEN - THE BEAUTIFUL LADY - THE FASCINATING STRANGER AND - OTHER STORIES - THE FLIRT - THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA - THE GUEST OF QUESNAY - THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS - THE MAN FROM HOME - THE TURMOIL - THE TWO VANREVELS - - - - - The - Fascinating Stranger - And Other Stories - - By - Booth Tarkington - - [Illustration] - - Garden City New York - Doubleday, Page & Company - 1923 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY - DOUDLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY - - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION - INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN - - COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY IN THE UNITED STATES - AND GREAT BRITAIN - - COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY THE RIDGWAY COMPANY IN THE UNITED STATES - AND GREAT BRITAIN - - COPYRIGHT, 1921, 1922, BY CONSOLIDATED MAGAZINES CORPORATION - (THE RED BOOK MAGAZINE) ALL RIGHTS RESERVED - - COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY THE McCALL COMPANY, AND UNITED FEATURE SYNDICATE - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES - AT - THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. - - _First Edition_ - _After the Printing of 377 De Luxe Copies_ - - - - - TO - S. K. T. - - - - - C O N T E N T S - - PAGE - THE FASCINATING STRANGER........... 1 - THE PARTY.......................... 57 - THE ONE-HUNDRED-DOLLAR BILL........ 85 - JEANNETTE.......................... 121 - THE SPRING CONCERT................. 159 - WILLAMILLA......................... 194 - THE ONLY CHILD..................... 236 - LADIES’ WAYS....................... 275 - MAYTIME IN MARLOW.................. 312 - “YOU”.............................. 360 - “US”............................... 391 - THE TIGER.......................... 418 - MARY SMITH......................... 460 - - - - - THE FASCINATING STRANGER - AND OTHER STORIES - - - - - THE FASCINATING STRANGER - - -MR. GEORGE TUTTLE, reclining at ease in his limousine, opened one eye -just enough to perceive that daylight had reached his part of the world, -then closed that eye, and murmured languidly. What he said, however, was -not, “Home, Parker,” or “To the club, Eugene;” this murmur of his was -not only languid but plaintive. A tear appeared upon the lower lid of -the eye that had opened, for it was a weak and drowsy eye, and after -hours of solid darkness the light fretted it. Moreover, the tear, as a -greeting to the new day, harmonized perfectly with Mr. Tuttle’s murmur, -which was so little more than a husky breathing that only an acute ear -close by could have caught it: “Oh, Gosh!” Then he turned partly over, -shifting his body so as to lie upon his left side among the shavings -that made his limousine such a comfortable bedroom. - -After thousands of years of wrangling, economists still murder one -another to emphasize varying ideas of what constitutes the ownership of -anything; and some people (the most emphatic of all) maintain that -everybody owns everything, which is obviously the same as saying that -nobody owns anything, especially his own right hand. So it may be a -little hasty to speak of this limousine, in which Mr. Tuttle lay -finishing his night’s sleep, as belonging to him in particular; but he -was certainly the only person who had the use of it, and no other person -in the world believed himself to be its owner. A doubt better founded -may rest upon a definition of the word “limousine;” for Mr. Tuttle’s -limousine was not an automobile; it had no engine, no wheels, no -steering-gear; neither had it cushions nor glass; yet Mr. Tuttle thought -of it and spoke of it as his limousine, and took some pleasure in such -thinking and speaking. - -Definitely, it was what is known as a “limousine body” in an extreme but -permanent state of incompletion. That is to say, the wooden parts of a -“limousine body” had been set up, put together on a “buck,” or trestle, -and then abandoned with apparently the same abruptness and finality that -marked the departure of the Pompeiian baker who hurried out of his -bakery and left his bread two thousand years in the oven. So sharply the -“post-war industrial depression” had struck the factory, that the -workmen seemed to have run for their lives from the place, leaving -everything behind them just as it happened to be at the moment of panic. -And then, one cold evening, eighteen months afterward, the excavator, -Tuttle, having dug within the neighbouring city dump-heap to no -profitable result, went to explore the desert spaces where once had been -the bustling industries, and found this body of a limousine, just as it -had been abandoned by the workmen fleeing from ruin. He furnished it -plainly with simple shavings and thus made a home. - -His shelter was double, for this little house of his itself stood -indoors, under a roof that covered acres. When the watery eye of Mr. -Tuttle opened, it beheld a room vaster than any palace hall, and so -littered with unaccountable other automobile bodies in embryo that their -shapes grew vague and small in the distance. But nothing living was here -except himself; what leather had been in the great place was long since -devoured, and the rats had departed. A night-watchman, paid by the -receiver-in-bankruptcy, walked through the long shops once or twice a -night, swinging a flashlight; but he was unaware of the tenant, and -usually Mr. Tuttle, in slumber, was unaware of him. - -The watery eye, having partly opened and then wholly closed, remained -closed for another hour. All round about, inside and outside the great -room, there was silence; for beyond these shops there were only other -shops and others and others, covering square miles, and all as still as -a village midnight. They were as quiet as that every day in the week; -but on weekdays the cautious Tuttle usually went out rather early, -because sometimes a clerk from the receiver’s office dawdled about the -place with a notebook. To-day was Sunday; no one would come; so he slept -as long as he could. - -His reasons were excellent as reasons, though immoral at the -source;—that is to say, he should not have had such reasons. He was not -well, and sleep is healing; his reasons for sleeping were therefore -good: but he should not have been unwell; his indisposition was produced -by sin; he had broken the laws of his country and had drunk of illegal -liquor, atrocious in quality; his reasons for sleeping were therefore -bad. His sleep was not a good sleep. - -From time to time little manifestations proved its gross character; he -lay among the shavings like a fat grampus basking in sea-foam, and he -breathed like one; but sometimes his mouth would be pushed upward in -misdirected expansions; his cheeks would distend, and then suddenly -collapse, after explosion. Lamentable sounds came from within his -corrugated throat, and from deeper tubes; a shoulder now and then jumped -suddenly; and his upper ear, long and soiled, frequently twitched enough -to move the curl of shaving that lay upon it. For a time one of his legs -trembled violently; then of its own free will and without waking him, it -bent and straightened repeatedly, using the motions of a leg that is -walking and confident that it is going somewhere. Having arrived at its -destination, it rested; whereupon its owner shivered, and, thinking he -pulled a blanket higher about his shoulders, raked a few more shavings -upon him. Finally, he woke, and, still keeping his eyes closed, stroked -his beard. - -It was about six weeks old and no uncommon ornament with Mr. Tuttle; for -usually he wore either a beard or something on the way to become one; he -was indifferent which, though he might have taken pride in so much -originality in an over-razored age. His round and somewhat oily head, -decorated with this beard upon a face a little blurred by puffiness, was -a relic; the last survival of a type of head long ago gloriously -portrayed and set before a happy public by that adept in the most -perishable of the arts, William Hoey. Mr. Tuttle was heavier in body -than the blithe comedian’s creation, it is true; he was incomparably -slower in wit and lower in spirits, yet he might well enough have sat -for the portrait of an older brother of Mr. Hoey’s masterpiece, “Old -Hoss.” - -Having stroked his beard with a fat and dingy hand, he uttered detached -guttural complaints in Elizabethan monosyllables, followed these with -sighing noises; then, at the instigation of some abdominal feeling of -horror, shuddered excessively, opened his eyes to a startled wideness -and abruptly sat up in his bed. To the interior of his bosky ear, just -then, was borne the faint religious sound of church bells chiming in a -steeple miles away in the centre of the city, and he was not pleased. An -expression of disfavour slightly altered the contours of his face; he -muttered defiantly, and decided to rise and go forth. - -Nothing could have been simpler. The April night had been chilly, and he -had worn his shoes; no nightgear had to be exchanged for other -garments;—in fact no more was to be done than to step out of the -limousine. He did so, taking his greenish and too plastic “Derby” hat -with him; and immediately he stood forth upon the factory floor as well -equipped to face the public as ever. Thus, except for several -safety-pins, glinting too brightly where they might least have been -expected, he was a most excellent specimen of the protective coloration -exhibited by man; for man has this instinct, undoubtedly. On the bright -beaches by the sea, how gaily he conforms is to be noted by the dullest -observer; in the autumnal woods man goes dull green and dead leaf brown; -and in the smoky city all men, inside and out, are the colour of smoke. -Mr. Tuttle stood forth, the colour of the grimy asphalt streets on which -he lived; and if at any time he had chosen to rest in a gutter, no -extraneous tint would have hinted of his presence. - -Not far from him was a faucet over a sink; and he went to it, but not -for the purpose of altering his appearance. Lacking more stimulating -liquid, it was the inner man that wanted water; and he set his mouth to -the faucet, drinking long, but not joyously. Then he went out to the -sunshine of that spring morning, with the whole world before him, and -his the choice of what to do with it. - -He chose to walk toward the middle part of the city, the centre of -banking and trade; but he went slowly, his eye wandering over the -pavement; and so, before long, he decided to smoke. He was near the -great building of the railway station at the time, and, lighting what -was now his cigarette (for he had a match of his own) he leaned back -against a stone pilaster, smoked and gazed unfavourably upon the -taxicabs in the open square before the station. - -As he stood thus, easing his weight against the stone and musing, he was -hailed by an acquaintance, a tall negro, unusually limber at the knees -and naïvely shabby in dress, but of amiable expression and soothing -manners. - -“How do, Mist’ Tuttle,” he said genially, in a light tenor voice. “How -the worl’ treatin’ you vese days, Mist’ Tuttle? I hope evathing movin’ -the ri’ way to please you nicely.” - -Mr. Tuttle shook his head. “Yeh!” he returned sarcastically. “Seems like -it, don’t it! Look at ’em, I jest ast you! _Look_ at ’em!” - -“Look at who?” - -“At them taxicabs,” Mr. Tuttle replied, with sudden heat. “That’s a nice -sight fer decent people to haf to look at!” And he added, with rancour: -“On a Sunday, too!” - -“Well, you take them taxicabs now,” the negro said, mildly -argumentative, “an’ what hurt they doin’ to nobody to jes’ look at ’em, -Mist’ Tuttle? I fine myse’f in some difficulty to git the point of what -you was a-settin’ you’se’f to point out, Mist’ Tuttle. What make you so -industrious ’gains’ them taxicabs?” - -“I’ll tell you soon enough,” Mr. Tuttle said ominously. “I reckon if -they’s a man alive in this here world to-day, I’m the one ’t can tell -you jest exackly what I got against them taxicabs. In the first place, -take and look where the United States stood twenty years ago, when they -wasn’t any o’ them things, and then take and look where the United -States stands to-day, when it’s full of ’em! I don’t ast you to take my -word fer it; I only ast you to use your own eyes and take and look -around you and see where the United States stands to-day and what it’s -comin’ to!” - -But the coloured man’s perplexity was not dispelled; he pushed back his -ancient soft hat in order to assist his brain, but found the organ still -unstimulated after adjacent friction, and said plaintively: “I cain’ -seem to grasp jes’ whur you aiminin’ at. What you say the United States -comin’ to?” - -“Why, nowhere at all!” Mr. Tuttle replied grimly. “This country’s be’n -all ruined up. You take and look at what’s left of it, and what’s the -use of it? I jest ast you the one simple question: What’s the use of it? -Just tell me that, Bojus.” - -“You got me, Cap’n!” Bojus admitted. “I doe’ know what you aiminin’ to -say ’t all! What _do_ all them taxicabs do?” - -“Do?” his friend repeated hotly. “Wha’d they do? You take and look at -this city. You know how many people it’s got in it?” - -“No, I don’t, Mist’ Tuttle. Heap of ’em, though!” - -“Heap? I sh’d say they was! They’s hunderds and hunderds and hunderds o’ -thousands o’ men, women and chuldern in this city; you know that as well -as I do, Bojus. Well, with all the hunderds o’ thousands o’ men, women -and chuldern in this city, I ast you, how many livery-stables has this -city got in it?” - -“Livvy-stables, Mist’ Tuttle? Lemme see. I ain’t made the observation of -no livvy-stable fer long time.” - -Tuttle shook a soiled forefinger at him severely. “You ain’t answered my -question. Didn’t you hear me? I ast you the simple question: How many -livery-stables is they?” - -“Well, I ain’t _see_ none lately; I guess I doe’ know, Cap’n.” - -“Then I’ll tell you,” said Tuttle fiercely. “They ain’t _any_! What’s -more, I’ll bet twenty thousand dollars they ain’t five livery-stables -left in the whole United States! That’s a nice thing, ain’t it!” - -Bojus looked at him inquiringly, still rather puzzled. “You interust -you’se’f in livvy-stables, Mist’ Tuttle?” - -At this Mr. Tuttle looked deeply annoyed; then he thought better of it -and smiled tolerantly. “Listen here,” he said. “You listen, my friend, -and I’ll tell you something ’t’s worth any man’s while to try and -understand the this-and-that of it. I grew up in the livery-stable -business, and I guess if they’s a man alive to-day, why, I know more -about the livery-stable business than all the rest the men, women and -chuldern in this city put together.” - -“Yes, suh. You own a livvy-stable one time, Mist’ Tuttle?” - -“I didn’t exackly own one,” said the truthful Tuttle, “but that’s the -business I grew up in. I’m a horse man, and I like to sleep around a -horse. I drove a hack for the old B. P. Thomas Livery and Feed Company -more than twenty years, off and on;—off and on, I did. I was a horse -man all my life and I was in the horse business. I could go anywhere in -the United States and I didn’t haf to carry no money with me when I -travelled; I could go into any town on the map and make all the money -I’d care to handle. I’d never go to a boarding-house. What’s the use of -a hired room and all the useless fixin’s in it they stick you fer? No -man that’s got the gumption of a man wants to waste his money like that -when they’s a whole nice livery-stable to sleep in. You take some -people—women, most likely!—and they git finicky and say it makes you -kind of smell. ‘Oh, don’t come near _me_!’ they’ll say. Now, what kind -of talk is that? You take me, why, I _like_ to smell like a horse.” - -“Yes, suh,” said Bojus. “Hoss smell ri’ pleasan’ smell.” - -“Well, I should _say_ it is!” Mr. Tuttle agreed emphatically. “But you -take a taxicab, all you ever git a chance to smell, it’s burnt grease -and gasoline. Yes, sir, that’s what you got to smell of if you run one -o’ them things. Nice fer a man to carry around on him, ain’t it?” He -laughed briefly, in bitterness; and continued: “No, sir; the first time -I ever laid eyes on one, I hollered, ‘Git a horse!’ but if you was to -holler that at one of ’em to-day, the feller’d prob’ly answer, ‘Where’m -I goin’ to git one?’ I ain’t seen a horse I’d be willin’ to _call_ a -horse, not fer I don’t know how long!” - -“No, suh,” Bojus assented. “I guess so. Man go look fer good hoss he -fine mighty fewness of ’em. I guess automobile put hoss out o’ -business—an’ hoss man, too, Mist’ Tuttle.” - -“Yes, sir, I guess it did! First four five years, when them things come -in, why, us men in the livery-stable business, we jest laughed at ’em. -Then, by and by, one or two stables begun keepin’ a few of ’em to hire. -Perty soon after that they all wanted ’em, and a man had to learn to run -one of ’em or he was liable to lose his livin’. They kep’ gittin’ worse -and worse—and then, my goodness! didn’t even the undertakers go and git -’em? ‘Well,’ I says, ‘I give up! _I_ give up!’ I says. ‘Men in this -business that’s young enough and ornery enough,’ I says, ‘why, they can -go ahead and learn to run them things. I can git along nice with a -horse,’ I says. ‘A horse knows what you say to him, but I ain’t goin’ to -try and talk to no engine!’” - -He paused, frowning, and applied the flame of a match to the half-inch -of cigarette that still remained to him. “Them things ought to be -throwed in the ocean,” he said. “That’s what _I’d_ do with ’em!” - -“You doe’ like no automobile?” Bojus inquired. “You take you’ enjoyment -some way else, I guess, Mist’ Tuttle.” - -“There’s jest one simple question I want to ast you,” Mr. Tuttle said. -“S’pose a man’s been drinkin’ a little; well, he can git along with a -horse all right—like as not a horse’ll take him right on back home to -the stable—but where’s one o’ _them_ things liable to take him?” - -“Jail,” Bojus suggested. - -“Yes, sir, or right over the bank into some creek, maybe. I don’t want -nothin’ to do with ’em, and that’s what I says from the first. I don’t -want nothin’ to do with ’em, I says, and I’ve stuck to it.” Here he was -interrupted by a demand upon his attention, for his cigarette had become -too short to be held with the fingers; he inhaled a final breath of -smoke and tossed the tiny fragment away. “I own one of ’em, though,” he -said lightly. - -At this the eyes of Bojus widened. “You own automobile, Mist’ Tuttle?” - -“Yes, I got a limousine.” - -“What!” Bojus cried, and stared the more incredulously. “You got a -limousine? Whur you got it?” - -“I got it,” Mr. Tuttle replied coldly. “That’s enough fer me. I got it, -but I don’t go around in it none.” - -“What you _do_ do with it?” - -“I use it,” said Tuttle, with an air of reticence. “I got my own use fer -it. I don’t go showin’ off like some men.” - -Bojus was doubtful, yet somewhat impressed, and his incredulous -expression lapsed to a vagueness. “No,” he said. “Mighty nice to ride -roun’ in, though. I doe’ know where evabody git all the money. Money -ain’t come knockin’ on Bojus’ do’ beggin’ ‘Lemme in, honey!’ No, suh; -the way money act with me, it act like it think I ain’ goin’ use it -right. Money act like I ain’t its lovin’ frien’!” - -He laughed, and Mr. Tuttle smiled condescendingly. “Money don’t amount -to so much, Bojus,” he said. “Anybody can make money!” - -“They _kin_?” - -“Why, you take a thousand dollars,” said Tuttle; “and you take and put -it out at compound interest; jest leave it lay and go on about your -business—why, it’ll pile up and pile up, you can’t stop it. You know -how much it’d amount to in twenty-five years? More than a million -dollars.” - -“Whur all that million dolluhs come from?” - -“It comes from the poor,” said Mr. Tuttle solemnly. “That’s the way all -them rich men git their money, gougin’ the poor.” - -“Well, suh,” Bojus inquired reasonably, “what about me? I like git rich, -too. Whur’s some poor I kin go gouge? I’m willin’ to do the gougin’ if I -kin git the money.” - -“Money ain’t everything,” his friend reminded him. “Some day the people -o’ this country’s goin’ to raise and take all that money away from them -rich robbers. What _right_ they got to it? That’s what I want to know. -We’re goin’ to take it and divide it among the people that need it.” - -Bojus laughed cheerfully. “Tell Bojus when you goin’ begin dividin’! -_He_ be on han’!” - -“Why, anybody could have all the money he wants, any time,” Tuttle -continued, rather inconsistently. “Anybody could.” - -“How anybody goin’ git it?” - -“I didn’t say anybody _was_ goin’ to; I said anybody _could_.” - -“How could?” - -“Well, you take me,” said Tuttle. “John Rockafeller could drive right up -here now, if he wanted to. S’pose he did; s’pose he was to drive right -up to that curbstone there and s’pose he was to lean out and say, ‘Howdy -do, Mr. Tuttle. Git right in and set down, and let’s take a drive. Now, -how much money would you like me to hand you, Mr. Tuttle?’” - -“Hoo-_oo_!” cried Bojus in high pleasure, for the sketch seemed -beautiful to him; so he amplified it. “‘How much money you be so kine as -to invite me to p’litely han’ ovuh to you?’ _Hoo!_ Jom B. Rockfelluh -take an’ ast _me_, I tell ’im, ‘Well, jes han’ me out six, sevvum, -eight, nine hunnud dolluhs; that’ll do fer _this_ week, but you come -’roun’ _nex’_ Sunday an’ ast me same. Don’t let me ketch you not comin’ -roun’ every Sunday, now!’ _Hoo!_ I go Mist’ Rockfelluh’s house to -dinnuh; he say, ‘What dish I serve you p’litely, Mist’ Bojus?’ I say, -‘Please pass me that big gol’ dish o’ money an’ a scoop, so’s I kin fill -my soup-plate!’ Hoo-_oo_!” He laughed joyously; and then, with some -abruptness descended from these roseate heights and looked upon the -actual earth. “I reckon Jom B. Rockfelluh ain’ stedyin’ about how much -money you and me like to use, Mist’ Tuttle,” he concluded. “He ain’ -comin’ roun’ _this_ Sunday, nohow!” - -“No, and I didn’t say he was,” Mr. Tuttle protested. “I says he _could_, -and you certainly know enough to know he _could_, don’t you, Bojus?” - -“Well,” said Bojus, “whyn’t he go on ahead an’ do it, then? If he kin do -it as well as not, what make him all time decide fer _not_? Res’ of us -willin’!” - -“That’s jest the trouble,” Tuttle complained, with an air of reproof. -“You’re willin’ but you don’t use your brains.” - -“Brains?” said Bojus, and laughed. “Brains ain’ goin’ make Bojus no -money. What I need is a good lawn-mo’. If I could take an’ buy me a nice -good lawn-mo’, I could make all the money I’m a-goin’ a need the -live-long summuh.” - -“Lawn-mower?” his friend inquired. “You ain’t got no house and lot, have -you? What you want of a lawn-mower?” - -“I awready got a rake,” Bojus explained. “If I had a lawn-mo’ I could -make th’ee, fo’, fi’ dolluhs a day. See that spring sun settin’ up there -a-gittin’ ready to shine so hot? She’s goin’ to bring up the grass -knee-high, honey, ’less somebody take a lawn-mo’ an’ cut it down. I kin -take a lawn-mo’ an’ walk ’long all vese resident’al streets; git a dozen -jobs a day if I kin do ’em. I truly would like to git me a nice good -lawn-mo’, but I ain’ got no money. I got a diamon’ ring, though. I give -a diamon’ ring fer a good lawn-mo’.” - -“Diamon’ ring?” Mr. Tuttle inquired with some interest. “Le’ss see it.” - -“Gran’ big diamon’ ring,” Bojus said, and held forth his right hand for -inspection. Upon the little finger appeared a gem of notable dimensions, -for it was a full quarter of an inch in width, but no one could have -called it lustrous; it sparkled not at all. Yet its dimness might have -been a temporary condition that cleaning would relieve, and what struck -Mr. Tuttle most unfavourably was the fact that it was set in a metal of -light colour. - -“Why, it ain’t even gold,” he said. “That’s a perty pore sample of a -diamon’ ring I expect, Bojus. Nobody’d want to wear a diamon’ ring with -the ring part made o’ silver. Truth is, I never see no diamon’ ring jest -made o’ silver, before. Where’d you git it?” - -“Al Joles.” - -“Wha’d you give Al Joles fer it?” - -“Nothin’,” said Bojus, and laughed. “Al Joles, he come to where my -cousin Mamie live, las’ Feb’uary an ’bo’de with ’er week or so, ’cause -he tryin’ keep ’way f’m jail. One day he say this city too hot; he got -to leave, an’ Mamie tuck an’ clean up after him an’ she foun’ this ring -in a crack behine the washstan’. Al Joles drop it an’ fergit it, I -reckon. He had _plenty_ rings!” - -“I reckon!” - -“Al Joles show Mamie fo’ watches an’ a whole big han’ful o’ diamon’ pins -and rings an’ chains. Say he got ’em in Chicago an’ he tuck ’em all with -him when he lit out. Mamie she say this ring worf fi’, six thousan’ -dolluhs.” - -“Then what fer’d she take and give it to you, Bojus?” - -“She di’n’,” said Bojus. “She tuck an’ try to sell it to Hillum’s secon’ -han’ joolry sto’ an’ Hillum say he won’ bargain fer it ’count its bein’ -silvuh. So she trade it to me fer a nice watch chain. I like silvuh ring -well as gol’ ring. ’S the diamon’ counts: diamon’ worf fi’, six thousan’ -dolluhs, I ain’ carin’ what jes’ the _ring_ part is.” - -“Well, it’s right perty,” Tuttle observed, glancing at it with some -favour. “I don’t hardly expect you could trade it fer no lawn-mower, -though. I expect——” But at this moment a symptom of his indisposition -interrupted his remarks. A slight internal convulsion caused him to -shudder heavily; he fanned his suddenly bedewed forehead with his hat, -and seemed to eat an impalpable but distasteful food. - -“You feel sick, Mist’ Tuttle?” Bojus inquired sympathetically, for his -companion’s appearance was a little disquieting. “You feel bad?” - -“Well, I do,” Tuttle admitted feebly. “I eat a hambone yestiddy that up -and disagreed on me. I ain’t be’n feelin’ none too well all morning, if -the truth must be told. The fact is, what I need right now—and I need -it right bad,” he added—“it’s a little liquor.” - -“Yes, suh; I guess so,” his friend agreed. “That’s somep’n ain’ goin’ -hurt nobody. I be willin’ use a little myse’f.” - -“You know where any is?” - -“Don’t I!” the negro exclaimed. “I know whur plenty _is_, but the -trouble is: How you an’ me goin’ git it?” - -“Where is it?” - -“Ri’ dow’ my cousin Mamie’ celluh. My cousin Mamie’ celluh plum full o’ -Whi’ Mule. Man say he goin’ buy it off her but ain’ show up with no -money. Early ’s mawn’ I say, ‘Mamie, gi’ me little nice smell o’ you’ -nice whisky?’ No, suh! Take an’ fretten me with a brade-knife! Mad -’cause man ain’ paid ’er, I reckon.” - -“Le’ss go on up there and ast her again,” Tuttle suggested. “She might -be feelin’ in a nicer temper by this time. Me bein’ sick, and it’s -Sunday and all, why, she ought to show some decency about it. Anyways, -it wouldn’t hurt anything to jest try.” - -“No, suh, tha’s so, Mist’ Tuttle,” the negro agreed with ready -hopefulness. “If she say no, she say no; but if she say yes, we all fix -fine! Le’ss go!” - -They went up the street, walking rather slowly, as Mr. Tuttle, though -eager, found his indisposition increased with any rapidity of movement; -then they turned down an alley, followed it to another alley, and at the -intersection of that with another, entered a smoke-coloured cottage of -small pretensions, though it still displayed in a front window the card -of a Red Cross subscriber to the “drive” of 1918. - -“Mamie!” Bojus called, when they had closed the door behind them. -“Mamie!” - -Then, as they heard the response to this call, both of them had the -warming sense of sunshine rushing over them: the world grew light and -bright and they perceived that luck did not always run against worthy -people. Mamie’s answer was not in words, yet it was a vocal sound and -human: somewhere within her something quickened to the call and -endeavoured to speak. Silently they opened the door of her bedroom and -looked upon her where she reposed. - -She had consoled herself for her disappointment; she was peaceful -indeed; and the callers at once understood that for several hours, at -least, she could deny them nothing they would ask. They paused but a -moment to gaze, and then, without a word of comment upon their -incredible good fortune, they exchanged a single hurried glance, and -forthwith descended to the cellar. - -An hour later they were singing there, in that cool dimness. They sang -of romantic love, of maternal sacrifices, of friendship; and this last -theme held them longest, for Tuttle prevailed upon his companion to join -him many, many times in a nineteenth century tribute to brotherly -affection. With their hands resting fondly upon each other’s shoulders, -they sang over and over: - - Comrades, comrades, _ev_-er since we was boys, - Sharing each other’s sorrows, sharing each other’s joys, - Comrades when manhood was _daw_-ning—— - -Our own, our native land, somewhat generally lawless in mood of late, -has produced few illegal commodities more effective than the ferocious -liquid rich in fusel oil and known as White Mule. Given out of the -imaginative heart of a race that has a genius for naming things, this -perfect name tells everything of the pale liquor it so precisely labels. -The silence of the mule is there, the sinister inertia of his apparent -complete placidity as he stands in an interval of seeming patience;—for -this is the liquor as it rests in the bottle. And the mule’s sudden -utter violence is there, with a hospital cot as a never-remote -contingency for those who misunderstand. - -Over-confidence in himself was not a failing of the experienced Tuttle; -and he well knew the potencies of the volcanic stuff with which he -dealt. His sincere desire was but to rid himself of the indisposition -and nervousness that depressed him, and he indulged himself to-day with -a lighter hand than usual. He wished to be at ease in body and mind, to -be happy and to remain happy; therefore he stopped at the convivial, -checking himself firmly, and took a little water. Not so the less -calculating Bojus who had nothing of the epicure about him. Half an hour -after the two friends had begun to sing “Comrades,” Bojus became -unmusical in execution, though his impression was that he still sang; -and a little later Mr. Tuttle found himself alone, so far as song, -conversation and companionship were concerned. Bojus still lived, but -had no animation. - -His more cautious friend, on the contrary, felt life freshening within -him; his physical uncertainties had disappeared from his active -consciousness; he was a new man, and said so. “Hah!” he said with great -satisfaction and in a much stronger voice than he had dared to use -earlier in the day. “I’m a new man!” And he slapped himself on the -chest, repeatedly. Optimism came to him; he began to believe that he was -at the end of all his troubles, and he decided to return to the fresh -air, the sunshine and an interesting world. “Le’ss git outdoors and see -what all’s goin’ _on_!” he said heartily. - -But first he took some precautions for the sake of friendship. Fearing -that all might not go well with Bojus if Mamie were the first to be -stirring and happened to look into her cellar, he went to the top of the -stairs and locked the door there upon the inside. Then he came down -again and once more proved his moderation by placing only one flask of -Mamie’s distillation in his pocket. He could have taken much more if he -wished, but he sometimes knew when to say no. In fact, he now said it -aloud and praised himself a little. “No! No, sir!” he said to some -applicant within him. “I know what’s good fer you and what ain’t. If you -take any more you’re liable to go make a hog of yourself again. Why, -jest look how you felt when you woke up this morning! I’m the man that -knows and I’m perty smart, too, if you ever happen to notice! You take -and let well enough alone.” - -He gave a last glance at Bojus, a glance that lingered with some -interest upon the peculiar diamond ring; but he decided not to carry it -away with him, because Bojus might be overwhelmingly suspicious later. -“No, sir,” he said. “You come along now and let well enough alone. We -want to git out and see what’s goin’ on all over town!” - -The inward pleader consented, he placed a box against the wall, mounted -it and showed a fine persistence in overcoming what appeared to be -impossibilities as he contrived to wriggle himself through a window -narrower than he was. Then, emerging worm-like upon a dirty brick path -beside the cottage, he arose brightly and went forth from that quarter -of the city. - -It suited his new mood to associate himself now with all that was most -brilliant and prosperous; and so, at a briskish saunter he walked those -streets where stood fine houses in brave lawns. It was now an hour and -more after noon, the air was lively yet temperate in the sunshine, and -the wealth he saw in calm display about him invigorated him. Shining -cars passed by, proud ladies at ease within them; rich little children -played about neat nursemaids as they strolled the cement pavements; -haughty young men strode along, flashing their walking-sticks; noble big -dogs with sparkling collars galloped over the bright grass under tall -trees; and with all of this, Tuttle now felt himself congenial, and even -intimate. Moreover, he had the conviction that some charming and -dramatic adventure was about to befall him; it seemed to be just ahead. - -The precise nature of this adventure remained indefinite in his -imagination for a time, but gradually the thought of eating (abhorrent -to him earlier in the day) again became pleasant, and he sketched some -little scenes climaxing in banquets. “One these here millionaires could -do it easy as not,” he said, speaking only in fancy and not vocally. -“One of ’em might jest as well as not look out his big window, see me, -and come down his walk and say, ‘Step right in, Mr. Tuttle. We got quite -a dinner-party to-day, but they’s always room fer you, Mr. Tuttle. Now -what’d you like to have to eat? Liver and chili and baked beans and ham -and eggs and a couple of ice-cold muskmelons? We can open three or four -cans o’ sardines fer you, too, if you’d like to have ’em. You only got -to say the word, Mr. Tuttle.’” - -He began to regret Bojus’s diamond ring a little; perhaps he could have -traded it for a can of sardines at a negro restaurant he knew; but the -regret was a slight one; he worried himself little about obtaining food, -for people will always give it. However, he did not ask for it among the -millionaires, whose servants are sometimes cold-hearted; but turned into -an unpretentious cross-street and walked a little more slowly, -estimating the houses. He had not gone far when he began to smell his -dinner. - -The odour came from the open front door of a neat white frame house in a -yard of fair size; and here, near the steps of the small veranda, a man -of sixty and his wife were discussing the progress of a row of tulips -about to bloom. Their clothes new-looking, decorous and worn with a -little unfamiliarity, told everybody that this man and his wife had been -to church; that they dined at two o’clock on Sunday, owned their house, -owned a burial lot in the cemetery, paid their bills, and had something -comfortable in a safety deposit box. Tuttle immediately walked into the -yard, took off his hat and addressed the wife. - -“Lady,” he said, in a voice hoarser from too much singing than he would -have liked to make it, “Lady, I be’n out o’ work fer some time back. I -took sick, too, and I be’n in the hospital. What I reely wish to ast fer -is work, but the state of unemployment in this city is awful bad. I -don’t ast fer no money; all I want is a chance to work.” - -“On Sunday?” she said reprovingly. “Of course there isn’t any work on -Sunday.” - -Tuttle stepped a little closer to her—a mistake—and looked appealing. -“Then how’m I a-goin’ to git no nourishment?” he asked. “If you can’t -give me no work, I ain’t eat nothin’ at all since day before yestiddy -and I’d be truly thankful if you felt you could spare me a little -nourishment.” - -But she moved back from him, her nostrils dilating slightly and her -expression unfavourable. “I’d be glad to give you all you want to eat,” -she said coldly, “but I think you’d better sign the pledge first.” - -“Ma’am?” said Tuttle in plaintive astonishment. - -“I think you’ve been drinking.” - -“No, lady! No!” - -“I’m sure you have. I don’t believe in doing anything for people that -drink; it doesn’t do them any good.” - -“Lady——” Tuttle began, and he was about to continue his protest to -her, when her husband interfered. - -“Run along!” he said, and tossed the applicant for nourishment a dime. - -Tuttle looked sadly at the little round disk of silver as it lay shining -in his asphalt coloured palm; then he looked at the donor and murmured: -“I ast fer bread—and they give me a stone!” - -“Go along!” said the man. - -Tuttle went slowly, seeming to be bowed in thoughtful melancholy; he -went the more reluctantly because there was a hint of fried chicken on -the air; and before he reached the pavement a buxom fair woman, readily -guessed to be of Scandinavian descent, appeared in the doorway. -“Dinner’s served, Mrs. Pinney,” she called briskly. - -Tuttle turned and looked at Mrs. Pinney with eloquence, but she shook -her head disapprovingly. “You ought to sign the pledge!” she said. - -“Yes, lady,” he said, and abruptly turned away. He walked out into the -street, where a trolley car at that moment happened to stop for another -passenger, jumped on the step, waved his hand cordially, and continued -to wave it as the car went down the street. - -“Well of _all_!” Mrs. Pinney exclaimed, dumfounded, but her husband -laughed aloud. - -“That’s a good one!” he said. “Begged for ‘nourishment’ and when I gave -him a dime went off for a street-car ride! Come on in to dinner, ma; I -guess he’s passed out of our lives!” - -Nothing was further from Mr. Tuttle’s purpose, however; and Mr. and Mrs. -Pinney had not finished their dinner, half an hour later, when he pushed -the bell-button in their small vestibule, and the buxom woman opened the -door, but not invitingly, for she made the aperture a narrow one when -she saw who stood before her. - -“Howdydo,” he said affably. “Ole lady still here, isn’t she?” - -“What you want?” the woman inquired. - -“Jest ast her to look this over,” he said, and proffered a small -paper-bound Bible, open, with a card between the leaves. “I’ll wait -here,” he added serenely, as she closed the door. - -She took the Bible to the dining-room, and handed it to Mrs. Pinney, -remarking, “That tramp’s back. He says to give you this. He’s waitin’.” - -The Bible was marked with a rubber stamp: “Presented by Door of Hope -Rescue Mission 337 South Maryland Street,” and the card was a solemn -oath and pledge to refrain from intoxicants, thenceforth and forever. It -was dated that day, and signed, in ink still almost wet, “Arthur T. De -Morris.” - -Mrs. Pinney stared at the pledge, at first frowningly, then with a -tendency toward a slight emotion; and without speaking she passed it to -her husband for inspection, whereupon he became incredulous enough to -laugh. - -“That’s about the suddenest conversion on record, I guess!” he said. -“Used the dime to get down to the Door of Hope and back before our -dinner was over. It beats all!” - -“You don’t think it could be genuine, Henry?” - -“Well, no; not in twenty minutes.” - -“It _could_ be—just possibly,” she said gently. “We never know when the -right word _may_ touch some poor fellow’s heart.” - -“Now, ma,” he remonstrated, “don’t you go and get one of your spells of -religious vanity. That was about as tough an old soak as I ever saw, and -I’m afraid it’ll take more than one of your ‘right words’ to convert -him.” - -“Still——” she said, and a gentle pride showed in her expression. “We -can’t tell. It seems a little quick, of course, but he may have been -just at the spiritual point for the right word to reach him. Anyhow, he -did go right away and get a pledge and sign it—and got a Bible, too. It -might be—I don’t say it probably is, but it just might be the beginning -of a new life for him, and it wouldn’t be right to discourage him. -Besides he must really be hungry: he’s proved that, anyhow.” She turned -to the woman in waiting. “Give him back the Bible and his card, Tilly,” -she said, “and take him out in the kitchen and let him have all he wants -to eat. Tell him to wait when he gets through; and you let me know; I’ll -come and talk to him. His name’s Mr. De Morris, Tilly, when you speak to -him.” - -Tilly’s expression was not enthusiastic, but she obeyed the order, -conducted the convert to the kitchen and set excellent food before him -in great plenty; whereupon Mr. Tuttle, being not without gallantry, put -his hat on the floor beside his chair, and thanked her warmly before he -sat down. His appetite was now vigorous, and at first he gave all his -attention to the fried chicken, but before long he began to glance -appreciatively, now and then, at the handmaiden who had served him. She -was a well-shaped blonde person of thirty-five or so, tall, comely, -reliable looking, visibly energetic, and, like her kitchen, incredibly -clean. His glances failed to interest her, if she took note of them; and -presently she made evident her sense of a social gulf. She prepared a -plate for herself, placed it upon a table across the room from him and -sat there, with her profile toward him, apparently unconscious of his -presence. - -“Plenty room at my table,” he suggested hospitably. “_I_ jest as soon -you eat over here.” - -“No,” she said discouragingly. - -Not abashed, but diplomatic, he was silent for a time, then he inquired -casually, “Do all the work here?” - -“Yep.” - -“Well, well,” he said. “You look too young fer sech a rough job. Don’t -they have nobody ’tend the furnace and cut the grass?” - -“Did,” said Tilly. “Died last week.” - -“Well, ain’t that too bad! Nice pleasant feller was he?” - -“Coloured man,” said Tilly. - -“You Swedish?” Tuttle inquired. - -“No. My folks was.” - -“Well sir, that’s funny,” Tuttle said genially, “I knowed they was -_some_p’n Swedish about you, because I always did like Swedish people. I -don’t know why, but I always did taken a kind o’ likin’ to Swedish -people, and Swedish people always taken kind of a likin’ to me. My ways -always seem to suit Swedish people—after we git well acquainted I mean. -The better Swedish people git acquainted with me the more they always -seem to taken a likin’ to me. I ast a Swedish man oncet why it was he -taken sech a likin’ to me and he says it was my ways. ‘It’s jest your -ways, George,’ he says. ‘It’s because Swedish people like them ways you -got, George,’ he says.” Here Tuttle laughed deprecatingly and added, “I -guess he must ’a’ be’n right, though.” - -Tilly made no response; she did not even glance at him, but continued -gravely to eat her dinner. Then, presently, she said, without any -emphasis: “I thought your name was Arthur.” - -“What?” - -“That pledge you signed,” Tilly said, still not looking at him, but -going on with her dinner;—“ain’t it signed Arthur T. De Morris?” - -For the moment Mr. Tuttle was a little demoralized, but he recovered -himself, coughed, and explained. “Yes, that’s my _name_,” he said. “But -you take the name George, now, it’s more kind of a nickname I have when -anybody gits real well acquainted with me like this Swedish man I was -tellin’ you about; and besides that, it was up in _Dee_-troit. Most -everybody I knowed up in _Dee_-troit, they most always called me George -fer a nickname like. You know anybody in _Dee_-troit?” - -“No.” - -“Married?” Tuttle inquired. - -“No.” - -“Never be’n?” he said. - -“No.” - -“Well, now, that’s too bad,” he said sympathetically. “It ain’t the -right way to live. I’m a widower myself, and I ain’t never be’n the same -man since I lost my first wife. She was an Irish lady from Chicago.” He -sighed; finished the slice of lemon pie Tilly had given him, and drank -what was left of his large cup of coffee, holding the protruding spoon -between two fingers to keep it out of his eye. He set the cup down, -gazed upon it with melancholy, then looked again at the unresponsive -Tilly. - -She had charm for him; and his expression, not wholly lacking a kind of -wistfulness, left no doubt of it. No doubt, too, there fluttered a wing -of fancy somewhere in his head: some picture of what might-have-been -trembled across his mind’s-eye’s field of vision. For an instant he may -have imagined a fireside, with such a competent fair creature upon one -side of it, himself on the other, and merry children on the hearth-rug -between. Certainly he had a moment of sentiment and sweet longing. - -“You ever think about gittin’ married again?” he said, rather -unfortunately. - -“I told you I ain’t been married.” - -“Excuse _me_!” he hastened to say. “I was thinkin’ about myself. I mean -when I says ‘again’ I was thinkin’ about myself. I mean I was astin’ -you: You think about gittin’ married at all?” - -“No.” - -“I s’pose not,” he assented regretfully; and added in a gentle tone: -“Well, you’re a mighty fine-lookin’ woman; I never see no better build -than what you got on you.” - -Tilly went out and came back with Mrs. Pinney, who mystified him with -her first words. “Well, De Morris?” she said. - -“What?” he returned blankly, then luckily remembered, and said, “Oh, -yes, ma’am?” - -“I _hope_ you meant it when you signed that pledge, De Morris.” - -“Why, lady, of course I did,” he assured her warmly. “If the truth must -be told, I don’t never drink hardly at all, anyways. Now we got -prohibition you take a poor man out o’ work, why where’s _he_ goin’ to -git any liquor, lady? It’s only rich people that’s usually able to git -any reel good stew on, these days, if I’m allowable to used the -expression, so to speak. But that’s the unfairness of it, and it makes -poor people ready to break out most anytime. Not that it concerns me, -because I put all that behind me when I signed the pledge like you told -me to. If the truth must be told, I was goin’ to sign the pledge some -time back, but I kep’ kind o’ puttin’ it off. Well, lady, it’s done now, -and I’m thankful fer it.” - -“I do hope so, I’m sure,” Mrs. Pinney said earnestly. “And I want to -help you; I’ll be glad to. You said you wanted some work.” - -“Yes’m,” he said promptly, and if apprehension rose within him he kept -it from appearing upon the surface. Behind Mrs. Pinney stood Tilly, -looking straight at him with a frigid skepticism of which he was fully -conscious. “Yes’m. Any honest work I can turn my hand to, that’s all I -ast of anybody. I’d be glad to help wash the dishes if it’s what you had -in your mind, lady.” - -“No. But if you’ll come back to-morrow morning about nine or ten -o’clock, I’ll give you two dollars for cutting the grass. It isn’t a -_very_ large yard, and you can get through by evening.” - -“I ain’t got no lawn-mower, lady.” - -“We have one in the cellar,” said Mrs. Pinney. “If you come back, -Tilly’ll have it on the back porch for you. That’s all to-day, De -Morris.” - -“All right, lady. I thank you for your hospitillity and I’ll be back in -the morning,” he said, and as he turned toward the door he glanced aside -at Tilly and saw that her mouth quivered into the shape of a slight -smile—a knowing smile. “I will!” he said defiantly. “I’ll be back here -at ten o’clock to-morrow morning. You’ll see!” - -But when the door closed behind him, Tilly laughed aloud—and was at -once reproved by her mistress. “We always ought to have faith that the -better side of people will conquer, Tilly. I really think he’ll come.” - -“Yes’m, like that last one ’t said he was comin’ back, and stole the -knife and fork he ate with,” said Tilly, laughing again. - -“But this one didn’t steal anything.” - -“No’m, but he’ll never come back, to _work_,” said Tilly. “He said -‘You’ll see,’ and you will, but you won’t see _him_!” - -They had a mild argument upon the point, and then Mrs. Pinney returned -to her husband, who was waiting for her to put on her Sunday wrap and -hat, and go with him to spend their weekly afternoon among the babies at -their son’s house. She found her husband to be strongly of Tilly’s -opinion, and when they came home that evening, she renewed the argument -with both of them; so that this mild and orderly little household was -slightly disturbed (a most uncommon thing in its even life) over the -question of the vagrant’s return. Thus, Mrs. Pinney prepared a little -triumph for herself;—at ten o’clock the next morning Tuttle opened the -door of Tilly’s bright kitchen and inquired: - -“Where’s that lawn-mower?” - -He was there. He had defeated the skeptic and proved himself a worthy -man, but at a price; for again he was far from well, and every movement -he made increased well-founded inward doubts of his constitution. -Unfortunately, he had taken his flask of White Mule to bed with him in -his limousine, and in that comfortable security moderation had seemed -useless to the verge of absurdity. The point of knowing when to say no -rests in the “when;” and when a man is already at home and safe in bed, -“Why, my Glory!” he had reasoned it, “Why, if they ever _is_ a time to -say yes, it must be then!” So he had said “Yes,” to the White Mule and -in the morning awoke feeling most perishable. Even then, as in the -night, from time to time he had vagrant thoughts of Tilly and her noble -build, of the white and shining kitchen, and of those disbelieving cool -blue eyes that seemed to triumph over him and indict him, accusing him -of things she appeared to think he would do if he had the chance. There -was something in her look that provoked him, as if she would stir his -conscience, and though his conscience disturbed him no more than a -baby’s disturbs a baby, he was indeed somewhat disquieted by that cold -look of hers. And so, when he had collected his mind a little, upon -waking, he muttered feebly. “I’ll show her!” Something strange and -forgotten worked faintly within him, fluttered a little; and so, walking -carefully, he kept his word and came to her door. - -She looked at him in a startled way. Unquestionably he caused her to -feel something like an emotion, and she said not a word, but went -straightway and brought him the lawn-mower. He looked in her eyes as he -took it from her hand. - -“You thought I wouldn’t come,” he said. - -“Yes,” she admitted gravely. - -“Well,” he said, and smiled affably, “you certainly got a fine build on -you!” And with that, pushing the lawn-mower before him, he went out to -his work, leaving her visibly not offended. - -“You showed her!” he said to himself. - -In the yard he looked thoughtfully upon the grass, which was rather long -and had not been cut since the spring had enlivened it to a new growing. -The lot seemed longer than it had the day before; he saw that it must be -two hundred feet from the street on which it fronted to the alley in the -rear; it was a hundred feet wide, at least, and except for the area -occupied by the house, which was of modest proportions, all of this was -grass. He sighed profoundly: “Oh, Gosh!” he mourned. But he meant to do -the work, and began it manfully. - -With the mower rolling before him, reversed, the knives upward, he went -to the extreme front of the lot, turned the machine over, and, surveying -the prospect, decided to attack the lawn with long straight swathes, -running from the front clear through to the alley—though, even before -he began, the alley seemed far, far away. However, he turned up the -sleeves of his ancient coat an inch or two, and went at his task with a -good heart. That is to say, he started with a good heart, but the -lawn-mower was neither new nor sharp; the grass was tough, the sun hot, -and his sense of unwellness formidable. When he had gone ten feet, he -paused, wiped his forehead with a sleeve, and leaned upon the handle of -the mower in an attitude not devoid of pathos. But he was yet -determined; he thought of the blue eyes in the kitchen and resolved that -they should not grow scornful again. Once more he set the mower in -motion. - -Mrs. Pinney heard the sound of it in her room upstairs, looked from the -window, and with earnest pleasure beheld the workman at his toil. Her -heart rejoiced her to have been the cause of a reformation, and -presently she went down to the kitchen to gloat gently over a defeated -antagonist in argument. - -“Yes’m,” Tilly admitted meekly. “He fooled me.” - -“You see I was right, Tilly. We always ought to have faith that the best -part of our natures will conquer.” - -“Yes’m; it looks so.” - -“Have we some buttermilk in the refrigerator, Tilly?” - -“Yes’m.” - -“Then I think you might have some ready for him, if he gets too hot. I -don’t think he looks very well and you might ask him if he’d like some. -You might ask him now, Tilly.” - -“Now?” Tilly asked, and coloured a little. “You mean right now, Mrs. -Pinney?” - -“Yes. It might do him good and help keep him strong for his work.” - -“All right,” Tilly said, and turned toward the ice-box; but at a thought -she paused. “I don’t hear the lawn-mower,” she said. “It seems to me I -ain’t heard it since we began talking.” - -“Perhaps he’s resting,” Mrs. Pinney suggested, but her voice trembled a -little with foreboding. “We might just go out and see.” - -They went out and saw. Down the full length of the yard, from the street -to the alley, there was one long swathe of mowed grass; and but one, -though it was perfect. Particularly as the trail of a fugitive it was -perfect, and led straight to the alley, which, being paved with brick, -offered to the searchers the complete bafflement of a creek to the -bloodhound. A brick alley shows no trace of a reversed lawn-mower -hurrying over it—yet nothing was clearer than that such a hurrying must -have taken place. For Arthur T. De Morris was gone, and so was the -lawn-mower. - -“Mr. Pinney’ll laugh at me I guess, too!” Mrs. Pinney said, swallowing, -as she stood with Tilly, staring at the complete vacancy of the brick -alley. - -“Yes’m, he will,” said Tilly, and laughed again, a little harshly. - - • • • • • • • - -The fugitive, already some blocks distant, propelled the ravished mower -before him, and went so openly through the streets in the likeness of an -honest toiler seeking lawns to mow that he had to pause and decline -several offers, on his hurried way. He took note of these opportunities, -however, remembering the friend he was on his way to see, and, after -some difficulty, finding him in a negro pool-room, proffered him the -lawn-mower in exchange for five dollars, spot cash. - -“I ain’ got it,” replied Bojus, flaccid upon a bench. “I ain’ feelin’ -like cuttin’ nobody’s grass to-day, nohow, an’ besides I’m goin’ stay -right here till coas’ clear. Mamie ain’ foun’ out who make all her -trouble, ’cause I clim’ out the window whiles she was engage’ kickin’ on -celluh do’; but neighbours say she mighty s’picious who ’twas. I don’ -need no lawn-mo’ in a pool-room.” - -“Well, you ain’t goin’ to stay in no pool-room forever; you got to git -out and earn your livin’ some time,” Tuttle urged him. “Every man that’s -got the gumption of a man, he’s got to do that!” And upon Bojus’s -lifeless admission of the truth of this statement, the bargaining began. -It ended with Bojus’s becoming the proprietor of the lawn-mower and -Tuttle’s leaving the pool-room after taking possession of everything in -the world that Bojus owned except a hat, a coat, a pair of trousers, a -shirt, two old shoes and four safety-pins. The spoil consisted of -seventy-eight cents in money, half of a package of bent cigarettes, a -pair of dice, a “mouth-organ” and the peculiar diamond ring. - -This latter Mr. Tuttle placed upon his little finger, and as he walked -along he regarded it with some pleasure; but he decided to part with it, -and carried it to a pawn-shop he knew, having had some acquaintance with -the proprietor in happier days. - -He entered the place with a polite air, removing his hat and bowing, for -the shop was a prosperous one. - -“Golly!” said the proprietor, who happened to be behind a counter, -instructing a new clerk. “I believe it’s old George the hackman.” - -“That’s who, Mr. Breitman,” Tuttle responded. “Many’s the cold night I -yousta drive you all over town and——” - -“Never mind, George,” the pawnbroker interrupted crisply. “You payin’ me -just a social call, or you got some business you want to do?” - -“Business,” said Tuttle. “If the truth must be told, Mr. Breitman, I got -a diamon’ ring worth somewheres along about five or six thousand -dollars, I don’t know which.” - -Breitman laughed, “Oh, you got a ring worth either five or six thousand, -you don’t know which, and you come in to ask me to settle it. Is that -it?” - -“Yes. I don’t want to hock her; I jest want to git a notion if I ever do -decide to sell her.” He set the ring upon the glass counter before -Breitman. “Ain’t she a beauty?” - -Breitman glanced at the ring and laughed, upon which the owner hastily -protested: “Oh, I know the ring part ain’t gold: you needn’t think I -don’t know that much! It’s the diamon’ I’m talkin’ about. Jest set your -eye on her.” - -The pawnbroker set his eye on her—that is, he put on a pair of -spectacles, picked up the ring and looked at it carelessly, but after -his first glance his expression became more attentive. “So you say I -needn’t think you don’t know the ‘ring part’ ain’t gold, George? So you -knew it was platinum, did you?” - -“Of course, I knowed it was plapmun,” Tuttle said promptly, rising to -the occasion, though he had never before heard of this metal. “I reckon -I know plapmun when I see it.” - -“I think it’s worth about ten or twelve dollars,” Breitman said. “I’ll -give you twelve if you want to sell it.” - -Eager acceptance rushed to Tuttle’s lips, but hung there unspoken as -caution checked him. He drew a deep breath and said huskily, “Why, you -can’t fool me on this here ring, Mr. Breitman. I ain’t worryin’ about -what I can git fer the plapmun part; all I want to know is how much I -ought ast fer the diamon’. I ain’t fixin’ to sell it to you; I’m fixin’ -to sell it to somebody else.” - -“Oh, so that’s it,” said Breitman, still looking at the ring. “Where’d -you get it?” - -Tuttle laughed ingratiatingly. “It’s kind of funny,” he said, “how I got -that ring. Yet it’s all open and above-board, too. If the truth must be -told, it belonged to a lady-cousin o’ mine in Auburndale, Wisconsin, and -her aunt-by-marriage left it to her. Well, this here lady-cousin o’ -mine, I was visitin’ her last summer, and she found I had a good claim -on the house and lot she was livin’ in, account of my never havin’ -knowed that my grandfather—he was her grandfather, too—well, he never -left no will, and this house and lot come down to her, but I never made -no claim on it because I thought it had be’n willed to her till I found -out it hadn’t, when I went up there. Well, the long and short of it come -out like this: the house and lot’s worth about nine or ten thousand -dollars, but she didn’t have no money, so she handed me over this ring -to settle my claim. Name’s Mrs. Moscoe, Mrs. Wilbur N. Moscoe, -three-thirty-two South Liberty Street, Auburndale, Wisconsin.” - -“I see,” Breitman said absently. “Just wait here a minute, George; I -ain’t going to steal it.” And, taking the ring with him, he went into a -room behind the shop, remaining there closeted long enough for Tuttle to -grow a little uneasy. - -“Hay!” he called. “You ain’t tryin’ to eat that plapmun ring are you, -Mr. Breitman?” - -Breitman appeared in the doorway. There was a glow in his eyes, and -although he concealed all other traces of a considerable excitement, -somehow Tuttle caught a vibration out of the air, and began to feel the -presence of Fortune. “Step in here and sit down, George,” the pawnbroker -said. “I wanted to look at this stone a little closer, and of course I -had to go over my lists and see if it was on any of ’em.” - -“What lists?” Tuttle asked as he took a chair. - -“From the police. Stolen goods.” - -“Looky here! I told you how that ring come to me. My cousin ain’t no -crook. Her name’s Mrs. Wilbur N. Moscoe, South Liberty Street, -Auburnd——” - -“Never mind,” Breitman interrupted. “_I_ ain’t sayin’ it ain’t so. -Anyway, this ring ain’t on any of the lists and——” - -“I should say it ain’t!” - -“Well, don’t get excited. Now look here, George”—Breitman seated -himself close to his client and spoke in a confidential tone—“George, -you know I always took a kind of interest in you, and I want to tell you -what you need. You ought to go get yourself all fixed up. You ought to -go to a barber’s and get your hair cut and your whiskers trimmed. Don’t -go to no cheap barber’s; go to a good one, and tell ’em to fix your -whiskers so’s you’ll have a Van Dyke——” - -“A what?” - -“A Van Dyke beard. It’s swell,” said Breitman. “Then you go get you a -fine pearl-gray Fedora hat, with a black band around it, and a light -overcoat, and some gray gloves with black stitching, and a nice cane and -a nobby suit o’ clo’es and some fancy top shoes——” - -“Listen here!” Tuttle said hoarsely, and he set a shaking hand on the -other’s knee, “how much you willin’ to bid on my plapmun ring?” - -“Don’t go so fast!” Breitman said, but his eyes were becoming more and -more luminous. He had the hope of a great bargain; yet feared that -Tuttle might have a fairly accurate idea of the value of the diamond. -“Hold your hosses a little, George! You don’t need so awful much to go -and get yourself fixed up like I’m tellin’ you, and you’ll have a lot o’ -money left to go around and see high life with. I’ll send right over to -the bank and let you have it in cash, too, if you meet my views.” - -“How much?” Tuttle gasped. “How much?” - -Breitman looked at him shrewdly. “Well, I’m takin’ chances: the market -on stones is awful down these days, George. Your cousin must have fooled -you _bad_ when she talked about four or five thousand dollars! That’s -ridiculous!” - -“How _much_?” - -“Well, I’ll say!—I’ll say seven hundred and fifty dollars.” - -Tuttle’s head swam. “Yes!” he gasped. - - • • • • • • • - -No doubt as he began that greatest period in his whole career, half an -hour later, he thought seriously of a pair of blue eyes in a white -kitchen;—seven hundred and fifty dollars, with a competent Swedish wife -to take care of it and perhaps set up a little shop that would keep her -husband out of mischief and busy—— But there the thought stopped short -and his expression became one of disillusion: the idea of orderliness -and energy and profit was not appetizing. He had seven hundred and fifty -dollars in his pocket; and Tuttle knew what romance could come to him -instantly at the bidding of this illimitable cash: he knew where the big -crap games were; he knew where the gay flats and lively ladies were; he -knew where the fine liquor gurgled—not White Mule; he knew how to find -the lights, the lights and the music! - -Forthwith he approached that imperial orgy of one heaped and glorious -week, all of high-lights, that summit of his life to be remembered with -never-failing pride when he went back, after it was all over, to his -limousine and the shavings. - -It was glorious straight through to the end, and the end was its perfect -climax: the most dazzling memory of all. He forgave automobiles, on that -last day, and in the afternoon he hired a splendid, red new open car, -with a curly-haired chauffeur to drive it. Then driving to a large -hardware store he spent eighteen dollars, out of his final fifty, upon -the best lawn-mower the store could offer him. He had it placed in the -car and drove away, smoking a long cigar in a long holder. Such was his -remarkable whim; and it marks him as an extraordinary man. - -That nothing might be lacking, his destiny arranged that Mrs. Pinney was -superintending Tilly in the elimination of dandelions from the front -yard when the glittering equipage, to their surprise, stopped at the -gate. Seated beside the lawn-mower in the tonneau they beheld a superb -stranger, portly and of notable presence. His pearl-gray hat sat amiably -upon his head; the sleeves of his fawn-coloured overcoat ran pleasantly -down to pearl gloves; his Van Dyke beard, a little grizzled, conveyed an -impression of distinction not contradicted by a bagginess of the -eyelids; for it is strangely true that dissipation sometimes even adds -distinction to certain types of faces. All in all, here was a man who -might have recalled to a student of courts some aroma of the entourage -of the late King Edward at Hombourg. There was just that about him. - -He alighted slowly—he might well have been credited with the gout—and -entering the yard, approached with a courteous air, being followed by -the chauffeur, who brought the lawn-mower. - -“Good afternoon, lady and Tilly,” he said, in a voice unfortunately -hoarse; and he removed his pearl-gray hat with a dignified gesture. - -They stared incredulously, not believing their eyes. - -“I had a little trouble with your lawn-mower, so I up and got it fixed,” -he said. “It’s the same one. I took and got it painted up some.” - -“Oh, me!” Tilly said, in a whisper. “Oh, me!” And she put her hand to -her heart. - -He perceived that he dazzled her; that she felt deeply; and almost he -wished, just for this moment, to be sober. He was not—profoundly -not—yet he maintained his dignity and his balance throughout the -interview. “I thought you might need it again some day,” he said. - -“Mis-ter De _Mor_-ris!” Mrs. Pinney cried, in awed recognition. “Why, -what on earth——” - -“Nothin’,” he returned lightly. “Nothin’ at all.” He waved his hand to -the car. “One o’ my little automobiles,” he said. - -With that he turned, and, preceded by the chauffeur, walked down the -path to the gate. Putting his whole mind upon it, he contrived to walk -without wavering; and at the gate, he paused and looked wistfully back -at Tilly. “You certainly got a good build on you,” he said. - -Then beautifully and romantically he concluded this magnificent -gesture—this unsolvable mystery story that the Pinneys’ very -grandchildren were to tell in after years, and that kept Tilly a maiden -for many months in the hope of the miraculous stranger’s return—at -least to tell her who and what he was! - -He climbed into the car, placed the long holder of the long cigar in his -mouth, and, as the silent wheels began to turn, he took off his hat -again and waved it to them graciously. - -“I kept the pledge!” he said. - - - - - THE PARTY - - -THE thoughts of a little girl are not the thoughts of a little boy. Some -will say that a little girl’s thoughts are the gentler; and this may be, -for the boy roves more with his tribe and follows its hardier leaders; -but during the eighth or ninth year, and sometimes a little earlier, -there usually becomes evident the beginning of a more profound -difference. The little girl has a greater self-consciousness than the -boy has, but conceals hers better than he does his; moreover, she has -begun to discover the art of getting her way indirectly, which mystifies -him and outrages his sense of justice. Above all, she is given -precedence and preference over him, and yet he is expected to suppress -what is almost his strongest natural feeling, and be polite to her! The -result is that long feud between the sexes during the period running -from the ages of seven and eight to fifteen, sixteen and seventeen, when -reconciliation and reconstruction set in—often rapidly. - -Of course the period varies with individuals;—however, to deal in -averages, a male of five will play with females of similar age almost as -contentedly as with other males, but when he has reached eight, though -he may still at times “play with girls,” he feels a guilt, or at least a -weakness, in doing so; for within him the long hatred has begun to -smoulder. - -Many a parent and many an aunt will maintain that the girls are passive, -that it is the boys who keep the quarrel alive, though this is merely to -deny the relation between cause and result, and the truth is that the -boys are only the noisier and franker in the exchange of reciprocal -provocations. And since adults are but experienced children, we find -illumination upon such a point in examples of the feud’s revival in -middle age; for it is indeed sometimes revived, even under conditions of -matrimony. A great deal of coldness was shown to the suburban butcher -who pushed his wife into his sausage vat. “Stay!” the philosopher -protested. “We do not know what she had said to him.” - -The feud is often desultory and intermittent; and of course it does not -exist between every boy and every girl; a _Montagu_ may hate the -_Capulets_ with all his vitals, yet feel an extraordinary kindness -toward one exceptional _Capulet_. Thus, Master Laurence Coy, nine, -permitted none to surpass him in hating girls. He proclaimed his -bitterness, and made the proclamation in public. (At a party in his own -house and given in his own honour, with girls for half his guests, he -went so far as to state—not in a corner, whispering, but in the centre -of the largest room and shouting—that he hated every last thing about -’em. It seemed that he wished to avoid ambiguity.) And yet, toward one -exceptional little girl he was as water. - -Was what he felt for Elsie Threamer love? Naturally, the answer must -depend upon a definition of the word; and there are definitions varying -from the frivolous _mots_ tossed off by clergymen to the fanatical -dogmas of coquettes. Mothers, in particular, have their own definitions, -which are so often different from those of their sons that no one will -ever be able to compute the number of mothers who have informed sons, -ranging in age from fourteen to sixty-two, that what those sons mistook -for love, and insisted was love, was not love. Yet the conclusion seems -to be inevitable that behind all the definitions there is but one actual -thing itself; that it may be either a force, or a condition produced by -a force, or both; and that although the phenomena by which its presence -may be recognized are of the widest diversity, they may be somewhat -roughly classified according to the ages of the persons affected. -Finally, a little honest research will convince anybody that these ages -range from seven months to one hundred and thirty-four years; and if -scriptural records are accepted, the latter figure must be much -expanded. - -Hence there appears to be warranted accuracy in the statement that -Laurence Coy was in a state of love. When he proclaimed his hatred of -all girls and every last thing about ’em, that very proclamation was -produced by his condition—it was a phenomenon related to the phenomena -of crime, to those uncalled-for proclamations of innocence that are -really the indications of guilt. He was indeed inimical to all other -girls; but even as he declared his animosity, he hoped Elsie was -noticing him. - -Whenever he looked at her, he swallowed and had a warm but sinking -sensation in his lower chest. If he continued to be in her presence for -some time—that is, for more than four or five minutes—these symptoms -were abated but did not wholly disappear; the neck was still a little -uneasy, moving in a peculiar manner at intervals, as if to release -itself from contact with the collar, and there was a feeling of -looseness about the stomach. - -In absence, her image was not ever and always within his doting fancy -shrined; far from it! When he did think of her, the image was fair, -doubtless; yet he had in mind nothing in particular he wished to say to -its original. And when he heard that she had the scarlet fever, he did -not worry. No, he only wondered if she could see him from a window as he -went by her house, and took occasion to pass that way with a new kite. -Truth to say, here was the gist of his love in absence; it consisted -almost entirely of a wish to have her for an audience while he -performed; and that’s not so far from the gist of divers older loves. - -In her presence it was another matter; self-consciousness expanded to -the point of explosion, for here was actually the audience of his -fragmentary day-dreams, and great performances were demanded. Just at -this point, however, there was a difficulty;—having developed neither a -special talent nor even a design of any kind, he was forced back upon -the more rudimentary forms of self-expression. Thus it comes about that -sweet love itself will often be found the hidden cause of tumults that -break up children’s parties. - -The moment of Elsie’s arrival at Laurence’s party could have been -determined by an understanding person even if Elsie had been invisible -to that person. Until then Laurence was decorous, greeting his arriving -guests with a little arrogance natural to the occasion, since this was -his own party and on his own premises; but the instant his glance fell -upon the well-known brazen glow of apparently polished curls, as Elsie -came toward him from the hall where she had left her pretty hat and -little white coat, his decorum vanished conspicuously. - -The familiar symptoms had assailed him, and automatically he reacted to -prevent their unmanning him. Girls, generically, had been mentioned by -no one, and he introduced the topic without prelude, stating at the top -of his voice that he hated every last thing about ’em. Then, not waiting -for Elsie to greet him, not even appearing to be aware of her approach, -or of her existence, he ran across the room, shouting, “Hay, there, -Mister!” and hurled himself against a boy whose back was toward him. -Rebounding, he dashed upon another, bumping into him violently, with the -same cry of “Hay, there, Mister!” and went careening on, from boy to -boy, repeating the bellow with the bumping as he went. - -Such easy behaviour on the part of the host immediately dispersed that -formal reticence which characterizes the early moments of most -children’s parties; the other boys fell in with Laurence’s idea and -began to plunge about the room, bumping one another with a glad -disregard of little girls who unfortunately got in their way. “Hay, -there, Mister!” was the favoured cry, shouted as loudly as possible; and -the bumping was as vigorous as the slogan. Falls were many and -uproarious; annoyed little girls were upset; furniture also fell; the -noise became glorious; and thus Laurence Coy’s party was a riot almost -from the start. - - * * * * * - -Now when boys at a party get this mob mood going, the state of mind of -the little girls is warrantably that of grown ladies among drunken men. -There is this difference, of course: that the adult ladies leave the -place and go home as soon as they can extricate themselves, whereas the -little girls are incapable of even imagining such a course of action; -they cannot imagine leaving a party before the serving of -“refreshments,” at the earliest. For that matter, children of both sexes -sometimes have a miserable time at a party yet remain to the bitter end -for no reason except that their minds are not equal to the conception of -a departure. A child who of his own impulse leaves a party before it is -over may be set down as either morbid or singularly precocious—he may -be a genius. - -When the bumping and bellowing broke out at Laurence’s party, most of -the little girls huddled discontentedly close to the walls or in -corners, where they were joined by those who had been overturned; and -these last were especially indignant as they smoothed down their rumpled -attire. It cannot be said, however, that the little girls reduced the -general clamour; on the contrary, they increased it by the loudest -criticism. - -Every one of the rumpled naturally singled out the bellowing bumper who -had overturned herself, and declared him to be the worst of the -malefactors bent upon “spoiling the party.” But as the rioting -continued, the ladies’ criticism shifted in a remarkable way, and -presently all of it became hotly concentrated upon one particular -rioter. The strange thing about this was that the individual thus made -the centre of odium was not Laurence, the founder of the objectionable -game and the ringleader of the ruffians; not fat Bobby Eliot, the -heaviest and most careless of his followers; not Thomas Kimball, the -noisiest; not any of the boys, indeed, but on the peculiar contrary, a -person of the resentful critics’ own sex. - -One little girl alone, among those overturned, had neither fled to the -wall nor sought the protection of a corner; she remained upon the floor -where Laurence, too blindly bumping, had left her; and it must be -related that, thus recumbent, she kicked repeatedly at all who happened -to pass her way. “Hay there, Mister!” she said. “_I’ll_ show you!” - -Her posture had no dignity; her action lacked womanliness; she seemed -unconventional and but little aware of those qualities which a young -female appearing in society should at least affect to possess. Hence it -is no wonder that even before she decided to stop kicking and rise from -the floor, she was already being censured. And what indeed was the -severity of that censure, when after rising, she bounced herself -violently against Laurence, ricocheted upon Thomas Kimball, and -shrilling, “Hay, there, Mister! _I’ll_ show you!” proceeded to enter -into the game with an enthusiasm surpassing that of any other -participant! - -It cannot be said that she was welcomed by the male players; they made -it as clear as possible that they considered her enthusiasm gratuitous. -“Here, you!” the fat Eliot boy objected sternly, as she caromed into -him. “You ole Daisy Mears, you! You ought to know you might ruin a -person’s stummick, doing like that with your elbow.” - -But Miss Mears was not affected by his severity; she projected herself -at him again. “Hay, there, Mister!” she whooped. “_I’ll_ show you!” And -so bounced on to the next boy. - -Her voice, shrill beyond compare, could be heard—and by a sensitive ear -heard painfully—far above the bellowing and the criticism. Her -“Hay-there-Mister-_I’ll_-show-you!” was both impetuous and continuous; -and she covered more ground than any of the boys. Floored again, not -once but many times, she recovered herself by a method of her own; the -feet were quickly elevated as high as possible, then brought down, while -a simultaneous swing of the shoulders threw the body forward; and never -for an instant did she lose her up-and-at-’em spirit. She devised a new -manner of bumping—charging upon a boy, she would turn just at the -instant of contact, and back into him with the full momentum acquired in -the charge. Usually they both fell, but she had the advantage of being -the upper, which not only softened the fall for her but enabled her to -rise with greater ease because of her opponent’s efforts to hoist her -from him. - -Now, here was a strange thing: the addition of this blithe companion -seemed to dull the sport for those who most keenly loved it. In -proportion as her eagerness for it increased, their own appeared to -diminish. Dozens of times, probably, she was advised to “cut it out,” -and with even greater frankness requested to “get on out o’ here!” -Inquiries were directed to her, implying doubts of her sanity and even -of her consciousness of her own acts. “Hay, listen!” several said to -her. “Do you think you know what you’re doin’?” - -Finally she was informed, once more by implication, that she was -underweight—though here was a paradox, for her weight was visibly -enough to have overthrown the informer, who was Laurence. But this was -the second time she had done it, and his warmth of feeling was natural. - -“Get off o’ me,” he said, and added the paradoxical appraisement of her -figure. His words were definite, but to the point only as reprisal for -her assault; Daisy Mears was properly a person, not a “thing”; neither -was she “old,” being a month or so younger than Laurence; nor did his -loose use of another adjective do credit to his descriptive accuracy. It -was true that Daisy’s party manners had lacked suavity, true that her -extreme vivacity had been uncalled-for, true that she was not beautiful; -but she was no thinner than she was stout, and she must have wished to -insist upon a recognition of this fact. - -She was in the act of rising from a sitting posture upon Laurence when -he used the inaccurate word; and he had struggled to his hands and -knees, elevating her; but at once she sat again, with violence, -flattening him. “_Who’s_ skinny?” she inquired. - -“You get up off o’ me!” he said fiercely. - -She rose, laughing with all her shrillness, and Laurence would have -risen too, but Miss Mears, shouting, “Hay, there, Mister!” easily pushed -him down, for the polished floor was slippery and gave no footing. -Laurence tried again, and again the merry damsel aided him to prostrate -himself. This mortifying process was repeated and repeated until it -attracted the attention of most of the guests, while bumping stopped and -the bumpers gathered to look on; even to take an uproarious part in the -contest. Some of them pushed Daisy; some of them pushed Laurence; and -the latter, furious and scarlet, with his struggling back arched, and -his head lowering among his guests’ shoes and slippers, uttered many -remonstrances in a strangled voice. - -Finally, owing to the resentful activity of the fat Eliot boy, who -remembered his stummick and pushed Daisy with ungallant vigour, the -dishevelled Laurence once more resumed the upright position of a man, -but only to find himself closely surrounded by rosily flushed faces, all -unpleasantly mirthful at his expense. The universe seemed to be made of -protuberant, taunting eyes and noisy open mouths. - -“Ya-a-a-ay, Laur-runce!” they vociferated. - -A lock of his own hair affected the sight of one of his eyes; a single -hair of his late opponent was in his mouth, where he considered a hair -of anybody’s out of place, and this one peculiarly so, considering its -source. Miss Mears herself, still piercing every tympanum with her -shrillness, rolled upon the floor but did not protract her hilarity -there. Instead she availed herself of him, and with unabated disrespect, -came up him hand-over-hand as if he had been a rope. - -Then, as he strove to evade her too-familiar grasp, there fell a sorry -blow. Beyond the nearer spectators his unhampered eye caught the brazen -zigzag gleam of orderly curls moving to the toss of a dainty head; and -he heard the voice of Elsie, incurably sweet in tone, but oh, how -destroying in the words! Elsie must have heard some grown person say -them, and stored them for effective use. - -“Pooh! Fighting with that rowdy child!” - -“Fightin’?” shouted Miss Mears. “_That_ wasn’t fightin’!” - -“It wasn’t?” Thomas Kimball inquired waggishly. “What was it?” And he -added with precocious satire: “I s’pose you call it makin’ love!” - -To Laurence’s horror, Master Kimball’s waggish idea spread like a -virulent contagion, even to Laurence’s most intimate friends. “Ya-a-ay, -Laur-runce!” they shouted. “Daisy Mears is your _girl_! Daisy Mears is -Laurunce’s _girl_! Oh, Laur-_runce_!” - -He could only rage and bellow. “She is _not_! You hush up! I hate her! I -hate her worse’n I do _any_body!” - -But his protests were disallowed and shouted down; the tormentors -pranced, pointing at him with hateful forefingers, making other dreadful -signs, sickening him unutterably. “Day-zy Mears and Laur-runce Coy! -Daisy Mears is Laurunce’s _girl_!” - -“She is _not_!” he bawled. “You hush _opp_! I hate her! I hate her -worse’n I do—worse’n I do—I hate her worse’n I do garbidge!” - -It may have been that this comparison, so frankly unbowdlerized, helped -to inspire Miss Daisy Mears. More probably what moved her was merely a -continuation of the impulse propelling her from the moment of her first -fall to the floor upon being accidentally bumped by Laurence. -Surprisingly enough, in view of her present elations, Daisy had always -been thought a quiet and unobtrusive little girl; indeed, she had always -believed herself to be that sort of little girl. Never, until this -afternoon, had she attracted special notice at a party, or anywhere -else. Her nose, in particular, was almost unfortunately inconspicuous, -her hair curled so temporarily, even upon artificial compulsion, that -two small pigtails were found to be its best expression. She was the -most commonplace of little girls; yet it has never been proved that -commonplace people are content with their condition. Finding herself -upon the floor and kicking, this afternoon, Daisy Mears discovered, for -the first time in her life, that she occupied a prominent position and -was being talked about. Then and there rose high the impulse to increase -her prominence. What though comment were adverse, she was for once and -at last the centre of it! And for some natures, to taste distinction is -to determine upon the whole drunken cup: Daisy Mears had entered upon an -orgy. - -Laurence’s choice of a phrase to illustrate the disfavour in which he -held her had a striking effect upon all his guests: the little girls -were shocked, said “Oh!” and allowed their mouths to remain open -indefinitely; the boys were seemingly maddened by their host’s free -expression—they howled, leaped, beat one another; but the most novel -course of action was that adopted by the newly ambitious Daisy. She ran -upon Laurence from behind, and threw her arms about him in a manner -permitting some question whether her intention might be an embrace or a -wrestling match. Her indiscreet words, however, dismissed the doubt. - -“He’s my dear little pet!” she shouted. - -For a moment Laurence was incredulous; then in a dazed way he began to -realize his dreadful position. He knew himself to be worse than -compromised: a ruinous claim to him seemed upon the point of being -established; and all the spectators instantly joined in the effort to -establish it. They circled about him, leaping and pointing. They bawled -incessantly within the very cup of his ear. - -“She _is_! She is _too_ your girl! She says so _herself_!” - -To Laurence the situation was simply what it would have been to Romeo -had an unattractive hoyden publicly claimed him for her own, embracing -him in Juliet’s presence, with the entire population of Verona -boisterously insisting upon the hoyden’s right to him. Moreover, Romeo’s -experience would have given him an advantage over Laurence. Romeo would -have known how to point out that it takes two to make a bargain, would -have requested the claimant to set forth witnesses or documents; he -could have turned the public in his favour, could have extricated -himself, and might have done so even with some grace. The Veronese would -have respected his argument. - -Not so with Laurence’s public—for indeed his whole public now -surrounded him. This was a public upon whom evidence and argument were -wasted; besides, he had neither. He had only a dim kind of reasoning, -very hurried—a perception that his only way out was to make his conduct -toward Daisy Mears so consistently injurious that neither she nor the -public could pretend to believe that anything so monstrous as affection -existed between them. And since his conception of the first thing to be -done was frankly elemental, it was well for his reputation as a -gentleman and a host that his mother and his Aunt Ella happened to come -into the living-room just then, bringing some boxes of games and -favours. The mob broke up, and hurried in that direction. - -Mrs. Coy looked benevolently over their heads, and completely mistaking -a gesture of her son, called to him smilingly: “Come, Laurence; you can -play tag with little Daisy after a while. Just now we’ve got some other -games for you.” Then, as he morosely approached, attended by Daisy, Mrs. -Coy offered them a brightly coloured cardboard box. “Here’s a nice -game,” she said, and continued unfortunately: “Since you want to play -with Daisy, you can amuse yourselves with that. It’s a game for just -two.” - -“I won’t!” Laurence returned, and added distinctly: “I rather die!” - -“But I thought you wanted to play with little Daisy,” Mrs. Coy explained -in her surprise. “I thought——” - -“I rather die!” said Laurence, speaking so that everybody might hear -him. “I rather die a hunderd times!” And that no one at all might -mistake his meaning, he concluded: “I’d rather eat a million boxes of -rat-poison than play with her!” - -So firm and loud a declaration of preference, especially in the -unpreferred person’s presence, caused a slight embarrassment to Mrs. -Coy. “But Laurence, dear,” she began, “you mustn’t——” - -“I would!” he insisted. “I rather eat a million, _million_ boxes of -rat-poison than play with her! She——” - -“_She’s your girl!_” - -The sly interruption stopped him. It came from a person to be identified -only as one of a group clustering about his Aunt Ella’s boxes; and it -was accompanied by a general giggle but half-suppressed in spite of the -adult presences. - -“You hush _opp_!” Laurence shouted. - -“Laurence! Laurence!” said Mrs. Coy. “What _is_ the matter, dear? It -seems to me you’re really not at all polite to poor little Daisy.” - -Laurence pursued the line of conduct he had set for himself as his only -means of safety. “I wouldn’t be polite to her,” he said; “I wouldn’t be -polite to her if I had to eat a million——” - -“Laurence!” - -“I wouldn’t!” he stoutly maintained. “Not if I had to eat a million, -_million_——” - -“Never mind!” his mother said with some emphasis. “Plenty of the other -boys will be delighted to play with dear little Daisy.” - -“No,” said Daisy brightly, “I _got_ to play with Laurence.” - -Laurence looked at her. When a grown person looks at another in that -way, it is time for the police, and Mrs. Coy was conscious of an -emergency. She took Laurence by the shoulders, faced him about and told -him to run and play with some one else; then she turned back to Daisy. -“We’ll find some _nice_ little boy——” she began. But Daisy had -followed Laurence. - -She gave him a lively tap on the shoulder. “Got your tag!” she cried, -and darted away, but as he did not follow, she returned to him. “Well, -what _are_ we goin’ to play?” she inquired. - -Laurence gave her another look. “You hang around me a little longer,” he -said, “an’ I’ll—I’ll—I’ll——” - -Again came the giggled whisper: - -“_She’s your girl!_” - -Laurence ran amuck. Head down, he charged into the group whence came the -whisper, and successfully dispersed it. The component parts fled, -squawking; Laurence pursued; boys tripped one another, wrestled, -skirmished in groups; and, such moods being instantly contagious among -males under twelve, many joined in the assault with a liveliness not -remote, at least in appearance, from lunacy. - -“Laurence! Laurence!” his mother exclaimed in vain, for he was the chief -disturber; but he was too actively occupied in that capacity to be aware -of her. She and Aunt Ella could only lament and begin to teach the -little girls and two or three of the older and nobler boys to “play -games,” while troups of gangsters swept out of the room, then through it -and out again, through other rooms, through halls and then were heard -whooping and thumping on the front stairway. - -One little girl was not with the rather insulted players of the -cardboard games in the living-room. She accompanied the gangsters, -rioting with the best, her little muslin skirt fluttering with the speed -of her going; while ever was heard, with slight intermission, her -piercing battle-cry: “_Hay_, there, Mister! _I’ll_ show you!” But the -male chorus had a new libretto to work from, evidently: all through the -house, upstairs, downstairs and in my lady’s chamber, their merciless -gaieties resounded: - -“Ya-a-ay, Laur-runce! Wait for your _girl_! Your _girl_ wants you, -Laurunce!” - -“What a curious child that Daisy Mears is!” Aunt Ella said to Laurence’s -mother. “I’d always thought she was such a quiet little girl.” - -“‘_Quiet!_’” Mrs. Coy exclaimed. And then as a series of shocks overhead -noticeably jarred the ceiling, she started. “Good heavens! They’re -upstairs—they’ll have the roof on us!” - -She hurried into the hall, but the outlaws were already descending. Just -ahead of them plunged Laurence, fleeing like some rabid thing. Behind -him, in the ruck of boys, Daisy Mears seemed to reach for him at the -full length of her extended arms; and so the rout went on and out -through the open front doors to the yard, where still was heard above -all other cries, “_Hay_, there, Mister! _I’ll_ show you!” - -Mrs. Coy returned helplessly to the guests of sweeter behaviour, and did -what she could to amuse them, but presently she was drawn to a window by -language without. - -It was the voice of her son in frenzy. He stood on the lawn, swinging a -rake about him circularly. “Let her try it!” he said. “Let her try it -just once more, an’ _I’ll_ show her!” - -For audience, out of reach of the rake, he had Daisy Mears and all his -male guests save the two or three spiritless well-mannered at feeble -play in the living-room; and this entire audience, including Miss Mears, -replied in chanting chorus: “Daisy Mears an’ Laurunce Coy! She’s your -_girl_!” Such people are hard to convince. - -Laurence swung the rake, repeating: - -“Just let her try it; that’s all I ast! Just let her try to come near me -again!” - -“_Laurence!_” said his mother from the window. - -He looked up, and there was the sincerest bitterness in his tone as he -said: “Well, I stood _enough_ around here this afternoon!” - -“Put down the rake,” she said. “The idea of shaking a rake at a little -girl!” - -The idea she mentioned seemed reasonable to Laurence, in his present -state of mind, and in view of what he had endured. “I bet _you’d_ shake -it at her,” he said, “if she’d been doin’ to you what she’s been doin’ -to me!” - -Now, from Mrs. Coy’s standpoint, that was nothing short of grotesque; -yet actually there was something in what he said. Mrs. Coy was in love -with Mr. Coy; and if another man—one whom she disliked and thought -homely and unattractive—had bumped into her at a party, upsetting her -frequently, sitting on her, pushing her over repeatedly as she attempted -to rise, then embracing her and claiming her as his own, and following -her about, and pursuing her even when she fled, insisting upon his claim -to her and upon embracing her again and again, causing Mr. Coy to -criticize her with outspoken superiority—and if all this had taken -place with the taunting connivance of absolutely every one of the best -people she knew—why, under such parallel circumstances, Mrs. Coy might -or might not have armed herself with a rake, but this would have -depended, probably, on whether or not there was a rake handy, and -supposing there was, upon whether or not she became too hysterical to -use it. - -Mrs. Coy had no realization whatever that any such parallel could be -drawn; she coldly suggested that the party was being spoiled and that -Laurence might well be ashamed of himself. “It’s really _very_ naughty -of you,” she said; and at a word from Aunt Ella, she added: “Now you’ve -all had enough of this rough romping and you must come in quietly and -behave yourselves like little gentlemen—and like a little lady! The -pianist from the dancing-school has come, and dear little Elsie Threamer -is going to do her fancy dance for us.” - -With that, under her eye, the procession filed into the house—and took -seats in the living-room without any renewal of undesirable -demonstrations. Laurence had the brooding air of a person who has been -dangerously trifled with; but he seated himself in an orderly manner, -and unfortunately did not observe which of his guests just afterward -came to occupy the next chair. Elsie, exquisitely dainty, a lovely -sight, was standing alone in the open space in the centre of the room. - -The piano rippled out a tinkling run of little bells, and the graceful -child began to undulate and pirouette. Her conscientious eyes she kept -all the while downcast, with never a glance to any spectator, least of -all to the lorn Laurence; but he had a miserable sense of what those -veiled eyes thought about him, and he felt low and contaminated by the -repulsive events connected with another of his guests. As he dumbly -looked at Elsie, while she danced so prettily, beautiful things seemed -to be floating about him in a summer sky: angels like pigeons with -lovely faces, large glass globes in rainbow colours, and round, pure -white icing cakes. His spiritual nature was uplifted; and almost his -sufferings had left him, when his spine chilled at a sound behind him—a -choked giggle and a hoarse but piercing whisper. - -“Look at who Laurence is sittin’ by! _Oh_, oh!” - -He turned and found Daisy in the chair next to his. Her small bright -eyes were fixed upon him in an intolerable mirth; her shoulders were -humped with the effect to control that same, and her right hand tensely -covered her mouth. From behind him came further gurgles and the words: - -“Sittin’ by his _girl_!” - -At this moment Elsie was just concluding her dance with a series of -charming curtseys. Laurence could not wait for them to be finished; he -jumped from his chair, and crossed before the lovely dancer to a seat on -the other side of the room, a titter following him. More than the titter -followed him, in fact. Daisy walked on tiptoe just behind him. - -But when she reached the centre of the room, she was suddenly inspired -by the perception of a new way to increase her noticeableness. She -paused before the curtseying _danseuse_ and also sank in curtseys as -deep, though not so adept. Then she too began to dance, and the piano -having stopped, accompanied herself by singing loudly, “Ti-didy-um-tum, -dee-dee-dee!” She pirouetted, undulated, hopped on one leg with the -other stiff and rather high before her; she pranced in a posture of -outrageous convexity from one point of view, of incredible concavity -from the other. Then she curtsied again, in recognizable burlesque of -the original, and flounced into the chair next to Laurence’s, for he had -been so shortsighted as to leave a vacancy beside him. This time his -Aunt Ella had to take him out into the hall by force and talk to him. - -A little later, when ice-cream, paper caps, and favours had been -distributed, the party was over; and among those who presented -themselves in the polite formalities of leavetaking was, naturally, -Daisy Mears. On account of continued surveillance on the part of his -Aunt Ella, Laurence was unable to respond in words, but his expression -said a thousand eloquent things for him. - -Daisy curtsied demurely. “G’by. Thank you for a wunnaful time, -Laurence,” she said; and went out of the house with a character that had -changed permanently during the brief course of a children’s party. - -As for Laurence, he had been through a dog’s time; and he showed it. -Every night, after he said his bedside prayers, there was an additional -rite his mother had arranged for him; he was to say: “I know that I have -a character, and I know that I am a soul.” But to-night he balked. - -“Go on,” his mother bade him. “Say it, Laurence.” - -“I doe’ want to,” he said dully. - -Mrs. Coy sighed. “I don’t know what’s the matter with you: you behave so -queerly sometimes! Don’t you know you ought to appreciate what your -mamma does for you—when she went to all the trouble to give you a nice -party just to make you happy? Oughtn’t you to do what she wants you to, -to pay her for all that happiness?” - -“I guess so.” The poor child somehow believed it—but as he went through -his formula and muttered that he knew he had a character, it is probable -that he felt a strong doubt in the matter. This may have caused his -aversion to saying it. - - - - - THE ONE-HUNDRED-DOLLAR BILL - - -THE new one-hundred-dollar bill, clean and green, freshening the heart -with the colour of springtime, slid over the glass of the teller’s -counter and passed under his grille to a fat hand, dingy on the -knuckles, but brightened by a flawed diamond. This interesting hand was -a part of one of those men who seem to have too much fattened muscle for -their clothes: his shoulders distended his overcoat; his calves strained -the sprightly checked cloth, a little soiled, of his trousers; his short -neck bulged above the glossy collar. His hat, round and black as a pot, -and appropriately small, he wore slightly obliqued; while under its -curled brim his small eyes twinkled surreptitiously between those upper -and nether puffs of flesh that mark the too faithful practitioner of -unhallowed gaieties. Such was the first individual owner of the new -one-hundred-dollar bill, and he at once did what might have been -expected of him. - -Moving away from the teller’s grille, he made a cylindrical packet of -bills smaller in value—“ones” and “fives”—then placed round them, as a -wrapper, the beautiful one-hundred-dollar bill, snapped a rubber band -over it; and the desired inference was plain: a roll all of -hundred-dollar bills, inside as well as outside. Something more was -plain, too: obviously the man’s small head had a sportive plan in it, -for the twinkle between his eye-puffs hinted of liquor in the offing and -lively women impressed by a show of masterly riches. Here, in brief, was -a man who meant to make a night of it; who would feast, dazzle, compel -deference, and be loved. For money gives power, and power is loved; no -doubt he would be loved. He was happy, and went out of the bank -believing that money is made for joy. - -So little should we be certain of our happiness in this world: the -splendid one-hundred-dollar bill was taken from him untimely, before -nightfall that very evening. At the corner of two busy streets he parted -with it to the law, though in a mood of excruciating reluctance and only -after a cold-blooded threatening on the part of the lawyer. This latter -walked away thoughtfully, with the one-hundred-dollar bill, now not -quite so clean, in his pocket. - -Collinson was the lawyer’s name, and in years he was only twenty-eight, -but already had the slightly harried appearance that marks the young -husband who begins to suspect that the better part of his life has been -his bachelorhood. His dark, ready-made clothes, his twice-soled shoes -and his hair, which was too long for a neat and businesslike aspect, -were symptoms of necessary economy; but he did not wear the eager look -of a man who saves to “get on for himself”: Collinson’s look was that of -an employed man who only deepens his rut with his pacing of it. - -An employed man he was, indeed; a lawyer without much hope of ever -seeing his name on the door or on the letters of the firm that employed -him, and his most important work was the collection of small debts. This -one-hundred-dollar bill now in his pocket was such a collection, small -to the firm and the client, though of a noble size to himself and the -long-pursued debtor from whom he had just collected it. - -The banks were closed; so was the office, for it was six o’clock, and -Collinson was on his way home when by chance he encountered the debtor: -there was nothing to do but to keep the bill over night. This was no -hardship, however, as he had a faint pleasure in the unfamiliar -experience of walking home with such a thing in his pocket; and he felt -a little important by proxy when he thought of it. - -Upon the city the November evening had come down dark and moist, holding -the smoke nearer the ground and enveloping the buildings in a soiling -black mist. Lighted windows and street lamps appeared and disappeared in -the altering thicknesses of fog, but at intervals, as Collinson walked -on northward, he passed a small shop, or a cluster of shops, where the -light was close to him and bright, and at one of these oases of -illumination he lingered a moment, with a thought to buy a toy in the -window for his three-year-old little girl. The toy was a gaily coloured -acrobatic monkey that willingly climbed up and down a string, and he -knew that the “baby,” as he and his wife still called their child, would -scream with delight at the sight of it. He hesitated, staring into the -window rather longingly, and wondering if he ought to make such a -purchase. He had twelve dollars of his own in his pocket, but the toy -was marked “35 cents” and he decided he could not afford it. So he -sighed and went on, turning presently into a darker street. - -Here the air was like that of a busy freight-yard, thick with coal-dust -and at times almost unbreathable so that Collinson was glad to get out -of it even though the exchange was for the early-evening smells of the -cheap apartment house where he lived. - -His own “kitchenette” was contributing its share, he found, the baby was -crying over some inward perplexity not to be explained; and his wife, -pretty and a little frowzy, was as usual, and as he had expected. That -is to say, he found her irritated by cooking, bored by the baby, and -puzzled by the dull life she led. Other women, it appeared, had happy -and luxurious homes, and, during the malnutritious dinner she had -prepared, she mentioned many such women by name, laying particular -stress upon the achievements of their husbands. Why should she (“alone,” -as she put it) lead the life she did in one room and a kitchenette, -without even being able to afford to go to the movies more than once or -twice a month? Mrs. Theodore Thompson’s husband had bought a perfectly -beautiful little sedan automobile; he gave his wife everything she -wanted. Mrs. Will Gregory had merely mentioned that her old Hudson seal -coat was wearing a little, and her husband had instantly said, “What’ll -a new one come to, girlie? Four or five hundred? Run and get it!” Why -were other women’s husbands like that—and why, oh, why! was hers like -_this_? An eavesdropper might well have deduced from Mrs. Collinson’s -harangue that her husband owned somewhere a storehouse containing all -the good things she wanted and that he withheld them from her out of his -perverse wilfulness. Moreover, he did not greatly help his case by -protesting that the gratification of her desires was beyond his powers. - -“My goodness!” he said. “You talk as if I had sedans and sealskin coats -and theatre tickets _on_ me! Well, I haven’t; that’s all!” - -“Then go out and get ’em!” she said fiercely. “Go out and get ’em!” - -“What with?” he inquired. “I have twelve dollars in my pocket, and a -balance of seventeen dollars at the bank; that’s twenty-nine. I get -twenty-five from the office day after to-morrow—Saturday; that makes -fifty-four; but we have to pay forty-five for rent on Monday; so that’ll -leave us nine dollars. Shall I buy you a sedan and a sealskin coat on -Tuesday out of the nine?” - -Mrs. Collinson began to weep a little. “The old, old story!” she said. -“Six long, long years it’s been going on now! I ask you how much you’ve -got, and you say, ‘Nine dollars,’ or ‘Seven dollars,’ or ‘Four dollars’; -and once it was sixty-five cents! Sixty-five cents; that’s what we have -to live on! Sixty-five _cents_!” - -“Oh, hush!” he said wearily. - -“Hadn’t you better hush a little yourself?” she retorted. “You come home -with twelve dollars in your pocket and tell your wife to hush! That’s -nice! Why can’t you do what decent men do?” - -“What’s that?” - -“Why, give their wives something to live for. What do you give me, I’d -like to know! Look at the clothes I wear, please!” - -“Well, it’s your own fault,” he muttered. - -“What did you say? Did you say it’s my fault I wear clothes any woman I -know wouldn’t be _seen_ in?” - -“Yes, I did. If you hadn’t made me get you that platinum ring——” - -“What!” she cried, and flourished her hand at him across the table. -“Look at it! It’s platinum, yes; but look at the stone in it, about the -size of a pin-head, so’t I’m ashamed to wear it when any of my friends -see me! A hundred and sixteen dollars is what this magnificent ring cost -you, and how long did I have to beg before I got even _that_ little out -of you? And it’s the best thing I own and the only thing I ever did get -out of you!” - -“Oh, Lordy!” he moaned. - -“I wish you’d seen Charlie Loomis looking at this ring to-day,” she -said, with a desolate laugh. “He happened to notice it, and I saw him -keep glancing at it, and I wish you’d seen Charlie Loomis’s expression!” - -Collinson’s own expression became noticeable upon her introduction of -this name; he stared at her gravely until he completed the mastication -of one of the indigestibles she had set before him; then he put down his -fork and said: - -“So you saw Charlie Loomis again to-day. Where?” - -“Oh, my!” she sighed. “Have we got to go over all that again?” - -“Over all what?” - -“Over all the fuss you made the last time I mentioned Charlie’s name. I -thought we settled it you were going to be a little more sensible about -him.” - -“Yes,” Collinson returned. “I was going to be more sensible about him, -because you were going to be more sensible about him. Wasn’t that the -agreement?” - -She gave him a hard glance, tossed her head so that the curls of her -bobbed hair fluttered prettily, and with satiric mimicry repeated his -question: “‘Agreement! Wasn’t that the agreement?’ Oh, my, but you do -make me tired, talking about ‘agreements’! As if it was a crime my going -to a vaudeville matinée with a man kind enough to notice that my husband -never takes me anywhere!” - -“Did you go to a vaudeville with him to-day?” - -“No, I didn’t!” she said. “I was talking about the time when you made -such a fuss. I didn’t go anywhere with him to-day.” - -“I’m glad to hear it,” Collinson said. “I wouldn’t have stood for it.” - -“Oh, you wouldn’t?” she cried, and added a shrill laugh as further -comment. “You ‘wouldn’t have stood for it!’ How very, very dreadful!” - -“Never mind,” he returned doggedly. “We went over all that the last -time, and you understand me: I’ll have no more foolishness about Charlie -Loomis.” - -“How nice of you! He’s a friend of yours; you go with him yourself; but -your wife mustn’t even look at him just because he happens to be the one -man that amuses her a little. That’s fine!” - -“Never mind,” Collinson said again. “You say you saw him to-day. I want -to know where.” - -“Suppose I don’t choose to tell you.” - -“You’d better tell me, I think.” - -“Do you? I’ve got to answer for every minute of my day, do I?” - -“I want to know where you saw Charlie Loomis.” - -She tossed her curls again, and laughed. “Isn’t it funny!” she said. -“Just because I like a man, he’s the one person I can’t have anything to -do with! Just because he’s kind and jolly and amusing and I like his -jokes and his thoughtfulness toward a woman, when he’s with her, I’m not -to be allowed to see him at all! But my _husband_—oh, that’s entirely -different! _He_ can go out with Charlie whenever he likes and have a -good time, while I stay home and wash the dishes! Oh, it’s a lovely -life!” - -“Where did you see him to-day?” - -Instead of answering his question, she looked at him plaintively, and -allowed tears to shine along her lower eyelids. “Why do you treat me -like this?” she asked in a feeble voice. “Why can’t I have a man friend -if I want to? I do like Charlie Loomis. I do like him——” - -“Yes! That’s what I noticed!” - -“Well, but what’s the good of always insulting me about him? He has time -on his hands of afternoons, and so have I. Our janitor’s wife is crazy -about the baby and just adores to have me leave her in their flat—the -longer the better. Why shouldn’t I go to a matinée or a picture-show -sometimes with Charlie? Why should I just have to sit around instead of -going out and having a nice time when he wants me to?” - -“I want to know where you saw him to-day!” - -Mrs. Collinson jumped up. “You make me sick!” she said, and began to -clear away the dishes. - -“I want to know where——” - -“Oh, hush up!” she cried. “He came here to leave a note for you.” - -“Oh,” said her husband. “I beg your pardon. That’s different.” - -“How sweet of you!” - -“Where’s the note, please?” - -She took it from her pocket and tossed it to him. “So long as it’s a -note for _you_ it’s all right, of course!” she said. “I wonder what -you’d do if he’d written one to me!” - -“Never mind,” said Collinson, and read the note. - - DEAR COLLIE: Dave and Smithie and Old Bill and Sammy Hoag and - maybe Steinie and Sol are coming over to the shack about - eight-thirt. Home-brew and the old pastime. _You_ know! Don’t - fail.—CHARLIE. - -“You’ve read this, of course,” Collinson said. “The envelope wasn’t -sealed.” - -“I have not,” his wife returned, covering the prevarication with a cold -dignity. “I’m not in the habit of reading other peoples’s -correspondence, thank you! I suppose you think I do so because you’d -never hesitate to read any note _I_ get; but I don’t do everything you -do, you see!” - -“Well, you can read it now,” he said, and gave her the note. - -Her eyes swept the writing briefly, and she made a sound of wonderment, -as if amazed to find herself so true a prophet. “And the words weren’t -more than out of mouth! _You_ can go and have a grand party right in his -flat, while your wife stays home and gets the baby to bed and washes the -dishes!” - -“I’m not going.” - -“Oh, no!” she said mockingly. “I suppose not! I see you missing one of -Charlie’s stag-parties!” - -“I’ll miss this one.” - -But it was not to Mrs. Collinson’s purpose that he should miss the -party; she wished him to be as intimate as possible with the debonair -Charlie Loomis; and so, after carrying some dishes into the kitchenette -in meditative silence, she reappeared with a changed manner. She went to -her husband, gave him a shy little pat on the shoulder and laughed -good-naturedly. “Of course you’ll go,” she said. “I do think you’re -silly about my never going out with him when it would give me a little -innocent pleasure and when you’re not home to take me, yourself; but I -wasn’t really in such terrible earnest, all I said. You work hard the -whole time, honey, and the only pleasure you ever do have, it’s when you -get a chance to go to one of these little penny-ante stag-parties. You -haven’t been to one for ever so long, and you never stay after twelve; -it’s really all right with me. I want you to go.” - -“Oh, no,” said Collinson. “It’s only penny-ante, but I couldn’t afford -to lose anything at all.” - -“But you never do. You always win a little.” - -“I know,” he said. “I’ve figured out I’m about sixteen dollars ahead at -penny-ante on the whole year. I cleaned up seven dollars and sixty cents -at Charlie’s last party; but of course my luck might change, and we -couldn’t afford it.” - -“If you did lose, it’d only be a few cents,” she said. “What’s the -difference, if it gives you a little fun? You’ll work all the better if -you go out and enjoy yourself once in a while.” - -“Well, if you really look at it that way, I’ll go.” - -“That’s right, dear,” she said, smiling. “Better put on a fresh collar -and your other suit, hadn’t you?” - -“I suppose so,” he assented, and began to make the changes she -suggested. He went about them in a leisurely way, played with the baby -at intervals, while Mrs. Collinson sang cheerfully over her work; and -when he had completed his toilet, it was time for him to go. She came in -from the kitchenette, kissed him, and then looked up into his eyes, -letting him see a fond and brightly amiable expression. - -“There, honey,” she said. “Run along and have a nice time. Then maybe -you’ll be a little more sensible about some of _my_ little pleasures.” - -He held the one-hundred-dollar bill, folded, in his hand, meaning to -leave it with her, but as she spoke a sudden recurrence of suspicion -made him forget his purpose. “Look here,” he said. “I’m not making any -bargain with you. You talk as if you thought I was going to let you run -around to vaudevilles with Charlie because you let me go to this party. -Is that your idea?” - -It was, indeed, precisely Mrs. Collinson’s idea, and she was instantly -angered enough to admit it in her retort. “Oh, aren’t you _mean_!” she -cried. “I might know better than to look for any fairness in a man like -you!” - -“See here——” - -“Oh, hush up!” she said. “Shame on you! Go on to your party!” With that -she put both hands upon his breast, and pushed him toward the door. - -“I won’t go. I’ll stay here.” - -“You will, too, go!” she cried shrewishly. “_I_ don’t want to look at -you around here all evening. It’d make me sick to look at a man without -an ounce of fairness in his whole mean little body!” - -“All right,” said Collinson, violently, “I _will_ go!” - -“Yes! Get out of my sight!” - -And he did, taking the one-hundred-dollar bill with him to the -penny-ante poker party. - -The gay Mr. Charlie Loomis called his apartment “the shack” in jocular -depreciation of its beauty and luxury, but he regarded it as a perfect -thing, and in one way it was; for it was perfectly in the family -likeness of a thousand such “shacks.” It had a ceiling with false beams, -walls of green burlap spotted with coloured “coaching prints,” brown -shelves supporting pewter plates and mugs, “mission” chairs, a leather -couch with violent cushions, silver-framed photographs of lady-friends -and officer-friends, a drop-light of pink-shot imitation alabaster, a -papier-mâché skull tobacco-jar among moving-picture magazines on the -round card-table; and, of course, the final Charlie Loomis touch—a -Japanese man-servant. - -The master of all this was one of those neat, stoutish young men with -fat, round heads, sleek, fair hair, immaculate, pale complexions and -infirm little pink mouths—in fact, he was of the type that may suggest -to the student of resemblances a fastidious and excessively clean white -pig with transparent ears. Nevertheless, Charlie Loomis was of a -free-handed habit in some matters, being particularly indulgent to -pretty women and their children. He spoke of the latter as “the -kiddies,” of course, and liked to call their mothers “kiddo,” or -“girlie.” One of his greatest pleasures was to tell a woman that she was -“the dearest, bravest little girlie in the world.” Naturally he was a -welcome guest in many households, and would often bring a really -magnificent toy to the child of some friend whose wife he was courting. -Moreover, at thirty-three, he had already done well enough in business -to take things easily, and he liked to give these little card-parties, -not for gain, but for pastime. He was cautious and disliked high stakes -in a game of chance. - -That is to say, he disliked the possibility of losing enough money to -annoy him, though of course he set forth his principles as resting upon -a more gallant and unselfish basis. “I don’t consider it hospitality to -have any man go out o’ my shack sore,” he was wont to say. “Myself, I’m -a bachelor and got no obligations; I’ll shoot any man that can afford it -for anything he wants to. Trouble is, you never can tell when a man -_can’t_ afford it, or what harm his losin’ might mean to the little -girlie at home and the kiddies. No, boys, penny-ante and ten-cent limit -is the highest we go in this ole shack. Penny-ante and a few steins of -the ole home-brew that hasn’t got a divorce in a barrel of it!” - -Penny-ante and the ole home-brew had been in festal operation for half -an hour when the morose Collinson arrived this evening. Mr. Loomis and -his guests sat about the round table under the alabaster drop-light; -their coats were off; cigars were worn at the deliberative poker angle; -colourful chips and cards glistened on the cloth; one of the players -wore a green shade over his eyes; and all in all, here was a little -poker party for a lithograph. To complete the picture, several of the -players continued to concentrate upon their closely held cards, and paid -no attention to the newcomer or to their host’s lively greeting of him. - -“Ole Collie, b’gosh!” Mr. Loomis shouted, humorously affecting the -bucolic. “Here’s your vacant cheer; stack all stuck out for you ’n’ -ever’thin’! Set daown, neighbour, an’ Smithie’ll deal you in, next hand. -What made you so late? Helpin’ the little girlie at home get the kiddy -to bed? That’s a great kiddy of yours, Collie. I got a little Christmas -gift for her I’m goin’ to bring around some day soon. Yes, sir, that’s a -great little kiddy Collie’s got over at his place, boys.” - -Collinson took the chair that had been left for him, counted his chips, -and then as the playing of a “hand” still preoccupied three of the -company, he picked up a silver dollar that lay upon the table near him. -“What’s this?” he asked. “A side bet? Or did somebody just leave it here -for me?” - -“Yes; for you to look at,” Mr. Loomis explained. “It’s Smithie’s.” - -“What’s wrong with it?” - -“Nothin’. Smithie was just showin’ it to us. Look at it.” - -Collinson turned the coin over and saw a tiny inscription that had been -lined into the silver with a point of steel. “‘Luck,’” he read;—“‘Luck -hurry back to me!’” Then he spoke to the owner of this marked dollar. “I -suppose you put that on there, Smithie, to help make sure of getting our -money to-night.” - -But Smithie shook his head, which was a large, gaunt head, as it -happened—a head fronted with a sallow face shaped much like a coffin, -but inconsistently genial in expression. “No,” he said. “It just came in -over my counter this afternoon, and I noticed it when I was checkin’ up -the day’s cash. Funny, ain’t it: ‘Luck hurry back to me!’” - -“Who do you suppose marked that on it?” Collinson said thoughtfully. - -“Golly!” his host exclaimed. “It won’t do you much good to wonder about -that!” - -Collinson frowned, continuing to stare at the marked dollar. “I guess -not, but really I should like to know.” - -“I would, too,” Smithie said. “I been thinkin’ about it. Might ’a’ been -somebody in Seattle or somebody in Ipswich, Mass., or New Orleans or St. -Paul. How you goin’ to tell? Might ’a’ been a woman; might ’a’ been a -man. The way I guess it out, this poor boob, whoever he was, well, -prob’ly he’d had good times for a while, and maybe carried this dollar -for a kind of pocket piece, the way some people do, you know. Then he -got in trouble—or she did, whichever it was—and got flat broke and had -to spend this last dollar he had—for something to eat, most likely. -Well, he thought a while before he spent it, and the way I guess it out, -he said to himself, he said, ‘Well,’ he said, ‘most of the good luck -I’ve enjoyed lately,’ he said, ‘it’s been while I had this dollar on me. -I got to kiss ’em good-bye now, good luck and good dollar together; but -maybe I’ll get ’em both back some day, so I’ll just mark the wish on the -dollar, like this: Luck hurry back to me! That’ll help some, maybe, and -anyhow I’ll _know_ my luck dollar if I ever do get it back.’ That’s the -way I guess it out, anyhow. It’s funny how some people like to believe -luck depends on some little thing like that.” - -“Yes, it is,” Collinson assented, still brooding over the coin. - -The philosophic Smithie extended his arm across the table, collecting -the cards to deal them, for the “hand” was finished. “Yes, sir, it’s -funny,” he repeated. “Nobody knows exactly what luck is, but the way I -guess it out, it lays in a man’s _believin’_ he’s in luck, and some -little object like this makes him kind of concentrate his mind on -thinkin’ he’s goin’ to be lucky, because of course you often _know_ -you’re goin’ to win, and then you do win. You don’t win when you _want_ -to win, or when you need to; you win when you _believe_ you’ll win. I -don’t know who was the dummy that said, ‘Money’s the root of all evil’; -but I guess he didn’t have _too_ much sense! I suppose if some man -killed some other man for a dollar, the poor fish that said that would -let the man out and send the dollar to the chair. No, sir; money’s just -as good as it is bad; and it’ll come your way if you _feel_ it will; so -you take this marked dollar o’ mine——” - -But here this garrulous and discursive guest was interrupted by -immoderate protests from several of his colleagues. “Cut it out!” “My -Lord!” “_Do_ something!” “Smith_ie_! Are you ever goin’ to _deal_?” - -“I’m goin’ to shuffle first,” he responded, suiting the action to the -word, though with deliberation, and at the same time continuing his -discourse. “It’s a mighty interesting thing, a piece o’ money. You take -this dollar, now: Who’s it belonged to? Where’s it been? What different -kind o’ funny things has it been spent for sometimes? What funny kind of -secrets do you suppose it could ’a’ heard if it had ears? Good people -have had it and bad people have had it: why, a dollar could tell more -about the human race—why, it could tell _all_ about it!” - -“I guess it couldn’t tell all about the way you’re dealin’ these cards,” -said the man with the green shade. “You’re mixin’ things all up.” - -“I’ll straighten ’em all out then,” said Smithie cheerfully. “I knew of -a twenty-dollar bill once; a pickpocket prob’ly threw it in the gutter -to keep from havin’ it found on him when they searched him, but anyway a -woman I knew found it and sent it to her young sister out in Michigan to -take some music lessons with, and the sister was so excited she took -this bill out of the letter and kissed it. That’s where they thought she -got the germ she died of a couple o’ weeks later, and the undertaker got -the twenty-dollar bill, and got robbed of it the same night. Nobody -knows where it went then. They say, ‘Money talks.’ Golly! If it _could_ -talk, what couldn’t it tell? _No_body’d be safe. _I_ got this dollar -now, but who’s it goin’ to belong to next, and what’ll _he_ do with it? -And then after _that_! Why for years and years and years it’ll go on -from one pocket to another, in a millionaire’s house one day, in some -burglar’s flat the next, maybe, and in one person’s hand money’ll do -good, likely, and in another’s it’ll do harm. We all _want_ money; but -some say it’s a bad thing, like that dummy I was talkin’ about. Lordy! -Goodness or badness, I’ll take all anybody——” - -He was interrupted again, and with increased vehemence. Collinson, who -sat next to him, complied with the demand to “ante up,” then placed the -dollar near his little cylinders of chips, and looked at his cards. They -proved unencouraging, and he turned to his neighbour. “I’d sort of like -to have that marked dollar, Smithie,” he said. “I’ll give you a paper -dollar and a nickel for it.” - -But Smithie laughed, shook his head, and slid the coin over toward his -own chips. “No, sir. I’m goin’ to keep it—awhile, anyway.” - -“So you do think it’ll bring you luck, after all!” - -“No. But I’ll hold onto it for this evening, anyhow.” - -“Not if we clean you out, you won’t,” said Charlie Loomis. “You know the -rules o’ the ole shack: only cash goes in _this_ game; no I. O. U. stuff -ever went here or ever will. Tell you what I’ll do, though, before you -lose it: I’ll give you a dollar and a quarter for your ole silver -dollar, Smithie.” - -“Oh, you want it, too, do you? I guess I can spot what sort of luck -_you_ want it for, Charlie.” - -“Well, Mr. Bones, what sort of luck do I want it for?” - -“_You_ win, Smithie,” one of the other players said. “We all know what -sort o’ luck ole Charlie wants your dollar for—he wants it for luck -with the dames.” - -“Well, I might,” Charlie admitted, not displeased. “I haven’t been so -lucky that way lately—not so dog-_gone_ lucky!” - -All of his guests, except one, laughed at this; but Collinson frowned, -still staring at the marked dollar. For a reason he could not have put -into words just then, it began to seem almost vitally important to him -to own this coin if he could, and to prevent Charlie Loomis from getting -possession of it. The jibe, “He wants it for luck with the dames,” -rankled in Collinson’s mind: somehow it seemed to refer to his wife. - -“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Smithie,” he said. “I’ll bet two dollars -against that dollar of yours that I hold a higher hand next deal than -you do.” - -“Here! Here!” Charlie remonstrated. “Shack rules! Ten-cent limit.” - -“That’s only for the game,” Collinson said, turning upon his host with a -sudden sharpness. “This is an outside bet between Smithie and me. Will -you do it, Smithie? Where’s your sporting spirit?” - -So liberal a proposal at once roused the spirit to which it appealed. -“Well, I might, if some o’ the others’ll come in too, and make it really -worth my while.” - -“I’m in,” the host responded with prompt inconsistency; and others of -the party, it appeared, were desirous of owning the talisman. They -laughed and said it was “crazy stuff,” yet they all “came in,” and, for -the first time in the history of this “shack,” what Mr. Loomis called -“real money” was seen upon the table as a stake. It was won, and the -silver dollar with it, by the largest and oldest of the gamesters, a fat -man with a walrus moustache that inevitably made him known in this -circle as “Old Bill.” He smiled condescendingly, and would have put the -dollar in his pocket with the “real money,” but Mr. Loomis protested. - -“Here! What you doin’?” he shouted, catching Old Bill by the arm. “Put -that dollar back on the table.” - -“What for?” - -“What _for_? Why, we’re goin’ to play for it again. Here’s two dollars -against it I beat you on the next hand.” - -“No,” said Old Bill calmly. “It’s worth more than two dollars to me. -It’s worth five.” - -“Well, five then,” his host returned. “I want that dollar!” - -“So do I,” said Collinson. “I’ll put in five dollars if you do.” - -“Anybody else in?” Old Bill inquired, dropping the coin on the table; -and all of the others again “came in.” Old Bill won again; but once more -Charlie Loomis prevented him from putting the silver dollar in his -pocket. - -“Come on now!” Mr. Loomis exclaimed. “Anybody else but me in on this for -five dollars next time?” - -“I am,” said Collinson, swallowing with a dry throat; and he set forth -all that remained to him of his twelve dollars. In return he received a -pair of deuces, and the jubilant Charlie won. - -He was vainglorious in his triumph. “Didn’t that little luck piece just -keep on tryin’ to find the right man?” he cried, and read the -inscription loudly. “‘Luck hurry back to me!’ Righto! You’re home where -you belong, girlie! Now we’ll settle down to our reg’lar little game -again.” - -“Oh, no,” said Old Bill. “You wouldn’t let me keep it. Put it out there -and play for it again.” - -“I won’t. She’s mine now.” - -“I want my luck piece back myself,” said Smithie. “Put it out and play -for it. You made Old Bill.” - -“I won’t do it.” - -“Yes, you will,” Collinson said, and he spoke without geniality. “You -put it out there.” - -“Oh, yes, I will,” Mr. Loomis returned mockingly. “I will for ten -dollars.” - -“Not I,” said Old Bill. “Five is foolish enough.” And Smithie agreed -with him. “Nor me!” - -“All right, then. If you’re afraid of ten, I keep it. I thought the -ten’d scare you.” - -“Put that dollar on the table,” Collinson said. “I’ll put ten against -it.” - -There was a little commotion among these mild gamesters; and someone -said, “You’re crazy, Collie. What do you want to do that for?” - -“I don’t care,” said Collinson. “That dollar’s already cost me enough, -and I’m going after it.” - -“Well, you see, I want it, too,” Charlie Loomis retorted cheerfully; and -he appealed to the others. “I’m not askin’ him to put up ten against it, -am I?” - -“Maybe not,” Old Bill assented. “But how long is this thing goin’ to -keep on? It’s already balled our game all up, and if we keep on foolin’ -with these side bets, why, what’s the use?” - -“My goodness!” the host exclaimed. “_I_’m not pushin’ this thing, am I? -_I_ don’t want to risk my good old luck piece, do I? It’s Collie that’s -crazy to go on, ain’t it?” He laughed. “He hasn’t showed his money yet, -though, I notice, and this ole shack is run on strickly cash principles. -I don’t believe he’s got ten dollars more on him!” - -“Oh, yes, I have.” - -“Let’s see it then.” - -Collinson’s nostrils distended a little; but he said nothing, fumbled in -his pocket, and then tossed the one-hundred-dollar bill, rather -crumpled, upon the table. - -“Great heavens!” shouted Old Bill. “Call the doctor: I’m all of a -swoon!” - -“Look at what’s spilled over our nice clean table!” another said, in an -awed voice. “Did you claim he didn’t have _ten_ on him, Charlie?” - -“Well, it’s nice to look at,” Smithie observed. “But I’m with Old Bill. -How long are you two goin’ to keep this thing goin’? If Collie wins the -luck piece, I suppose Charlie’ll bet him fifteen against it, and -then——” - -“No, I won’t,” Charlie interrupted. “Ten’s the limit.” - -“Goin’ to keep on bettin’ ten against it all night?” - -“No,” said Charlie. “I tell you what I’ll do with you, Collinson; we -both of us seem kind o’ set on this luck piece, and you’re already out -some on it. I’ll give you a square chance at it and at catchin’ even. -It’s twenty minutes after nine. I’ll keep on these side bets with you -till ten o’clock, but when my clock hits ten, we’re through, and the one -that’s got it then keeps it, and no more foolin’. You want to do that, -or quit now? I’m game either way.” - -“Go ahead and deal,” said Collinson. “Whichever one of us has it at ten -o’clock, it’s his, and we quit.” - -But when the little clock on Charlie’s green-painted mantel shelf struck -ten, the luck piece was Charlie’s and with it an overwhelming lien on -the one-hundred-dollar bill. He put both in his pocket; “Remember this -ain’t my fault; it was you that insisted,” he said, and handed Collinson -four five-dollar bills as change. - -Old Bill, platonically interested, discovered that his cigar was -sparkless, applied a match, and casually set forth his opinion. “Well, I -guess that was about as poor a way of spendin’ eighty dollars as I ever -saw, but it all goes to show there’s truth in the old motto that -anything at all can happen in any poker game! That was a mighty nice -hundred-dollar bill you had on you, Collie; but it’s like what Smithie -said: a piece o’ money goes hoppin’ around from one person to -another—_it_ don’t care!—and yours has gone and hopped to Charlie. The -question is, Who’s it goin’ to hop to next?” He paused to laugh, glanced -over the cards that had been dealt him, and concluded: “My guess is ’t -some good-lookin’ woman’ll prob’ly get a pretty fair chunk o’ that -hundred-dollar bill out o’ Charlie. Well, let’s settle down to the ole -army game.” - -They settled down to it, and by twelve o’clock (the invariable closing -hour of these pastimes in the old shack) Collinson had lost four dollars -and thirty cents more. He was commiserated by his fellow gamesters as -they put on their coats and overcoats, preparing to leave the hot little -room. They shook their heads, laughed ruefully in sympathy, and told him -he oughtn’t to carry hundred-dollar bills upon his person when he went -out among friends. Old Bill made what is sometimes called an unfortunate -remark. - -“Don’t worry about Collie,” he said jocosely. “That hundred-dollar bill -prob’ly belonged to some rich client of his.” - -“What!” Collinson said, staring. - -“Never mind, Collie; I wasn’t in earnest,” the joker explained. “Of -course I didn’t mean it.” - -“Well, you oughtn’t to say it,” Collinson protested. “People say a thing -like that about a man in a joking way, but other people hear it -sometimes and don’t know he’s joking, and a story gets started.” - -“My goodness, but you’re serious!” Old Bill exclaimed. “You look like -you had a misery in your chest, as the rubes say; and I don’t blame you! -Get on out in the fresh night air and you’ll feel better.” - -He was mistaken, however; the night air failed to improve Collinson’s -spirits as he walked home alone through the dark and chilly streets. -There was indeed a misery in his chest, where stirred a sensation -vaguely nauseating; his hands were tremulous and his knees infirm as he -walked. In his mind was a confusion of pictures and sounds, echoes from -Charlie Loomis’s shack: he could not clear his mind’s eye of the -one-hundred-dollar bill; and its likeness, as it lay crumpled on the -green cloth under the drop-light, haunted and hurt him as a face in a -coffin haunts and hurts the new mourner. Bits of Smithie’s -discursiveness resounded in his mind’s ear, keeping him from thinking. -“In one person’s hands money’ll do good likely, and in another’s it’ll -do harm.”—“The dummy that said, ‘Money’s the root of all evil!’” - -It seemed to Collinson then that money was the root of all evil and the -root of all good, the root and branch of all life, indeed. With money, -his wife would have been amiable, not needing gay bachelors to take her -to vaudevilles. Her need of money was the true foundation of the -jealousy that had sent him out morose and reckless to-night; of the -jealousy that had made it seem, when he gambled with Charlie Loomis for -the luck dollar, as though they really gambled for luck with her. - -It still seemed to him that they had gambled for luck with her: Charlie -had wanted the talisman, as Smithie said, in order to believe in his -luck—his luck with women—and therefore actually be lucky with them; -and Charlie had won. But as Collinson plodded homeward in the chilly -midnight, his shoulders sagging and his head drooping, he began to -wonder how he could have risked money that belonged to another man. What -on earth had made him do what he had done? Was it the mood his wife had -set him in as he went out that evening? No; he had gone out feeling like -that often enough, and nothing had happened. - -Something had brought this trouble on him, he thought; for it appeared -to Collinson that he had been an automaton, having nothing to do with -his own actions. He must bear the responsibility for them; but he had -not willed them. If the one-hundred-dollar bill had not happened to be -in his pocket—— That was it! And at the thought he mumbled desolately -to himself: “I’d been all right if it hadn’t been for that.” If the -one-hundred-dollar bill had not happened to be in his pocket, he’d have -been “all right.” The one-hundred-dollar bill had done this to him. And -Smithie’s romancing again came back to him: “In one person’s hands -money’ll do good, likely; in another’s it’ll do harm.” It was the money -that did harm or good, not the person; and the money in his hands had -done this harm to himself. - -He had to deliver a hundred dollars at the office in the morning, -somehow, for he dared not take the risk of the client’s meeting the -debtor. There was a balance of seventeen dollars in his bank, and he -could pawn his watch for twenty-five, as he knew well enough, by -experience. That would leave fifty-eight dollars to be paid, and there -was only one way to get it. His wife would have to let him pawn her -ring. She’d _have_ to! - -Without any difficulty he could guess what she would say and do when he -told her of his necessity: and he knew that never in her life would she -forego the advantage over him she would gain from it. He knew, too, what -stipulations she would make, and he had to face the fact that he was in -no position to reject them. The one-hundred-dollar bill had cost him the -last vestiges of mastery in his own house; and Charlie Loomis had really -won not only the bill and the luck, but the privilege of taking -Collinson’s wife to vaudevilles. But it all came back to the same -conclusion: the one-hundred-dollar bill had done it to him. “What kind -of a thing _is_ this life?” Collinson mumbled to himself, finding -matters wholly perplexing in a world made into tragedy at the caprice of -a little oblong slip of paper. - -Then, as he went on his way to wake his wife and face her with the -soothing proposal to pawn her ring early the next morning, something -happened to Collinson. Of itself the thing that happened was nothing, -but he was aware of his folly as if it stood upon a mountain top against -the sun—and so he gathered knowledge of himself and a little of the -wisdom that is called better than happiness. - -His way was now the same as upon the latter stretch of his walk home -from the office that evening. The smoke fog had cleared, and the air was -clean with a night wind that moved briskly from the west; in all the -long street there was only one window lighted, but it was sharply -outlined now, and fell as a bright rhomboid upon the pavement before -Collinson. When he came to it he paused at the hint of an inward impulse -he did not think to trace; and, frowning, he perceived that this was the -same shop window that had detained him on his homeward way, when he had -thought of buying a toy for the baby. - -The toy was still there in the bright window; the gay little acrobatic -monkey that would climb up or down a red string as the string slacked or -straightened; but Collinson’s eye fixed itself upon the card marked with -the price: “35 cents.” - -He stared and stared. “Thirty-five cents!” he said to himself. -“Thirty-five cents!” - -Then suddenly he burst into loud and prolonged laughter. - -The sound was startling in the quiet night, and roused the interest of a -meditative policeman who stood in the darkened doorway of the next shop. -He stepped out, not unfriendly. - -“What _you_ havin’ such a good time over, this hour o’ the night?” he -inquired. “What’s all the joke?” - -Collinson pointed to the window. “It’s that monkey on the string,” he -said. “Something about it struck me as mighty funny!” - -So, with a better spirit, he turned away, still laughing, and went home -to face his wife. - - - - - JEANNETTE - - -THE nurses at the sanitarium were all fond of the gentlest patient in -the place, and they spoke of him as “Uncle Charlie,” though he was so -sweetly dignified that usually they addressed him as “Mr. Blake,” even -when it was necessary to humour his delusion. The delusion was peculiar -and of apparently interminable persistence; he had but the one during -his sixteen years of incarceration—yet it was a misfortune painful only -to himself (painful through the excessive embarrassment it cost him) and -was never for an instant of the slightest distress to any one else, -except as a stimulant of sympathy. For all that, it closed him in, -shutting out the moving world from him as completely as if he had been -walled up in concrete. Moreover, he had been walled up overnight—one -day he was a sane man, and the next he was in custody as a lunatic; yet -nothing had happened in this little interval, or during any preceding -interval in his life, to account for a seizure so instantaneous. - -In 1904 no more commonplace young man could have been found in any of -the great towns of our Eastern and near-Eastern levels. “Well brought -up,” as we used to say, he had inherited the quiet manner, the good -health, and the moderate wealth of his parents; and not engaging in any -business or profession, he put forth the best that was in him when he -planned a lunch for a pretty “visiting girl,” or, again, when he bought -a pair of iron candle-snuffers for what he thought of as his -“collection.” This “collection,” consisting of cheerless utensils and -primitive furniture once used by woodsmen and farmers, and naturally -discarded by their descendants, gave him his principal occupation, -though he was sometimes called upon to lead a cotillion, being -favourably regarded in the waltz and two-step; but he had no -eccentricities, no habitual vices, and was never known to exhibit -anything in the nature of an imagination. - -It was in the autumn of the year just mentioned that he went for the -first time to Europe, accompanying his sister, Mrs. Gordon Troup, an -experienced traveller. She took him through the English cathedrals, then -across the Channel; and they arrived unfatigued at her usual hotel in -Paris after dark on a clear November evening—the fated young -gentleman’s last evening of sanity. Yet, as Mrs. Troup so often recalled -later, never in his life had her brother been more “absolutely normal” -than all that day: not even the Channel had disturbed him, for it was as -still as syrup in a pantry jug; he slept on the French train, and when -he awoke, played gently with Mrs. Troup’s three-year-old daughter -Jeannette who, with a nurse, completed the small party. His talk was not -such as to cause anxiety, being in the main concerned with a tailor who -had pleased him in London, and a haberdasher he made sure would please -him in Paris. - -They dined in the salon of their apartment; and at about nine o’clock, -as they finished their coffee, flavoured with a little burnt cognac, -Mrs. Troup suggested the theatre—a pantomime or ballet for preference, -since her brother’s unfamiliarity with the French language rapidly -spoken might give him a dull evening at a comedy. So, taking their -leisure, they went to the Marigny, where they saw part of a potpourri -called a “revue,” which Mrs. Troup declared to be at once too feeble and -too bold to detain them as spectators; and they left the Marigny for the -Folies Bergères, where she had once seen a fine pantomime; but here they -found another “revue,” and fared no better. The “revue” at the Folies -Bergères was even feebler, she observed to her brother, and much bolder -than that at the Marigny: the feebleness was in the wit, the boldness in -the anatomical exposures, which were somewhat discomfiting—“even for -Paris!” she said. - -She remembered afterward that he made no response to her remark but -remained silent, frowning at the stage, where some figurantes just then -appeared to be dressed in ball gowns, until they turned, when they -appeared to be dressed almost not at all. “Mercy!” said Mrs. Troup; and -presently, as the costume designer’s ideas became less and less -reassuring, she asked her brother if he would mind taking her back to -the hotel: so much dullness and so much brazenness together fatigued -her, she explained. - -He assented briefly, though with some emphasis; and they left during the -entr’acte, making their way through the outer room where a “Hungarian” -band played stormily for a painted and dangerous-looking procession -slowly circling like torpid skaters in a rink. The _bang-whang_ of the -music struck full in the face like an impulsive blow from a fist; so did -the savage rouging of the promenaders; and young Mr. Blake seemed to be -startled: he paused for a moment, looking confused. But Mrs. Troup -pressed his arm. “Let’s get out to the air,” she said. “Did you ever see -anything like it?” - -He replied that he never did, went on quickly; they stepped into a cab -at the door; and on the way to the hotel Mrs. Troup expressed contrition -as a courier. “I shouldn’t have given you this for your first impression -of Paris,” she said. “We ought to have waited until morning and then -gone to the Sainte Chapelle. I’ll try to make up for to-night by taking -you there the first thing to-morrow.” - -He murmured something to the effect that he would be glad to see -whatever she chose to show him, and afterward she could not remember -that they had any further conversation until they reached their -apartment in the hotel. There she again expressed her regret, not with -particular emphasis, of course, but rather lightly; for to her mind, at -least, the evening’s experience was the slightest of episodes; and her -brother told her not to “bother,” but to “forget it.” He spoke casually, -even negligently, but she was able to recall that as he went into his -own room and closed the door, his forehead still showed the same frown, -perhaps of disapproval, that she had observed in the theatre. - -The outer door of the apartment, giving entrance to their little -hallway, opened upon a main corridor of the hotel; she locked this door -and took the key with her into her bedchamber, having some vague idea -that her jewels were thus made safer; and this precaution of hers later -made it certain that her brother had not gone out again, but without -doubt passed the night in his own room—in his own room and asleep, so -far as might be guessed. - - * * * * * - -Her little girl’s nurse woke her the next morning; and the woman’s voice -and expression showed such distress, even to eyes just drowsily opening, -that Mrs. Troup jumped up at once. “Is something wrong with Jeannette?” - -“No, ma’am. It is Mr. Blake.” - -“Is he ill?” - -“I think so. That is, I don’t know, ma’am. A _valet-de-chambre_ went -into his room half an hour ago, and Mr. Blake hid himself under the -bed.” - -“What?” - -“Perhaps you’d better come and see, ma’am. The _valet-de-chambre_ is -very frightened of him.” - -But it was poor young Mr. Blake who was afraid of the -_valet-de-chambre_, and of everybody else, for that matter, as Mrs. -Troup discovered. He declined to come out from under the bed so long as -she and the nurse and the valet were present, and in response to his -sister’s entreaties, he earnestly insisted that she should leave the -room at once and take the servants with her. - -“But what’s the matter, Charlie dear?” she asked, greatly disturbed. -“_Why_ are you under the bed?” - -In his voice, as he replied, a pathetic indignation was audible: -“Because I haven’t got any clothes on!” - -At this her relief was manifest, and she began to laugh. “Good -heavens——” - -“But no, madame!” the valet explained. “He has his clothes on. He is -dressed all entirely. If you will stoop and look——” - -She did as he suggested, and saw that her brother was fully dressed and -making gestures as eloquently plaintive as the limited space permitted. -“Can’t you take these people away?” he cried pettishly. “Do you think -it’s nice to stand around looking at a person that’s got nothing on?” - -He said the same thing an hour later to the doctor Mrs. Troup summoned, -though by that time he had left his shelter under the bed and had locked -himself in a wardrobe. And thus, out of a clear sky and with no -premonitory vagaries, began his delusion—his long, long delusion, which -knew no variation in the sixteen years it possessed him. From first to -last he was generally regarded as a “strange case;” yet his state of -mind may easily be realized by anybody who dreams; for in dreams, -everybody has undergone, however briefly, experiences similar to those -in which Mr. Blake fancied himself so continuously involved. - -He was taken from the hotel to a private asylum near Paris, where he -remained until the following year, when Mrs. Troup had him quietly -brought home to a suburban sanitarium convenient for her to visit at -intervals; and here he remained, his condition changing neither for the -better nor for the worse. He was violent only once or twice in the whole -period, and, though he was sometimes a little peevish, he was the most -tractable patient in the institution, so long as his delusion was -discreetly humoured; yet it is probable that the complete records of -kleptomania would not disclose a more expert thief. - -This was not a new form of his disease, but a natural by-product and -outgrowth of it, which within a year or two had developed to the point -of fine legerdemain; and at the end of ten years Doctor Cowrie, the -chief at the sanitarium, declared that his patient, Uncle Charlie Blake, -could “steal the trousers off a man’s legs without the man’s knowing -it.” The alienist may have exaggerated; but it is certain that “Uncle -Charlie” could steal the most carefully fastened and safety-pinned apron -from a nurse, without the nurse’s being aware of it. Indeed, attendants, -nurses and servants who wore aprons learned to remove them before -entering his room; for the most watchful could seldom prevent what -seemed a miraculous exchange, and “Uncle Charlie” would be wearing the -apron that had seemed, but a moment before, to be secure upon the -intruder. It may be said that he spent most of his time purloining and -collecting aprons; for quantities of them were frequently discovered -hidden in his room, and taken away, though he always wore several, by -permission. Nor were other garments safe from him: it was found that he -could not be allowed to take his outdoor exercise except in those -portions of the grounds remotest from the laundry yard; and even then as -he was remarkably deft in concealing himself behind trees and among -shrubberies, he was sometimes able to strip a whole length of -clothesline, to don many of the damp garments, and to hide the others, -before being detected. - -He read nothing, had no diversions, and was immersed in the sole -preoccupation of devising means to obtain garments, which, immediately -after he put them on, were dissolved into nothingness so far as his -consciousness was concerned. Mrs. Troup could not always resist the -impulse to argue with him as if he were a rational man; and she made -efforts to interest him in “books and the outside world,” kindly efforts -that only irritated him. “How can I read books and newspapers?” he -inquired peevishly from under the bed, where he always remained when he -received her. “Don’t you know any better than to talk about intellectual -pursuits to a man that hasn’t got a stitch of clothes to his name? Try -it yourself if you want to know how it feels. Find yourself totally -undressed, with all sorts of people likely to drop in on you at any -minute, and then sit down and read a newspaper! Please use your _reason_ -a little, Frances!” - -Mrs. Troup sighed, and rose to depart—but found that her fur cloak had -disappeared under the bed. - -In fact, though Mrs. Troup failed to comprehend this, he had explained -his condition to her quite perfectly: it was merely an excessive -protraction of the nervous anxiety experienced by a rational person -whose entire wardrobe is missing. No sensitive gentleman, under such -circumstances, has attention to spare from his effort to clothe himself; -and all information not bearing upon that effort will fail of important -effect upon his mind. You may bring him the news that the Brooklyn -Bridge has fallen with a great splash, but the gravity of the event will -be lost upon him until he has obtained trousers. - -Thus, year after year, while Uncle Charlie Blake became more and more -dextrous at stealing aprons, history paced on outside the high iron -fence inclosing the grounds of the sanitarium, and all the time he was -so concerned with his embarrassment, and with his plans and campaigns to -relieve it, that there was no room left in his mind for the plans and -campaigns of Joffre and Hindenburg and Haig and Foch. Armistice Day, as -celebrated by Uncle Charlie, was the day when, owing to some cheerful -preoccupation on the part of doctors and attendants, he stole nine -aprons, three overcoats, a waistcoat and seventeen pillow-slips. - - * * * * * - -Rip Van Winkle beat Uncle Charlie by four years. The likeness between -the two experiences is pathetically striking, and the difference between -them more apparent than actual; for though Rip Van Winkle’s body lay -upon the hill like a stone, the while his slumber was vaguely decorated -with thousands of dreams, and although Uncle Charlie Blake had the full -use of his body, and was all the time lost in one particular and -definite dream, still if Rip Van Winkle could wake, so could Uncle -Charlie. At least, this was the view of the younger alienist, Doctor -Morphy, who succeeded Doctor Cowrie in 1919. - -In the course of some long and sympathetic talks with his patient, -Doctor Morphy slightly emphasized a suggestion that of late tin had come -to be considered the most desirable clothing material: the stiffness and -glitter of tin, as well as the sound of it, enabled a person to be -pretty sure he had something over him, so long as he wore one of the new -tin suits, the Doctor explained. Then he took an engraving of _Don -Quixote_ in armour to a tinsmith, had him make a suit of armour in tin, -and left it in Uncle Charlie’s corridor to be stolen. - -The awakening, or cure, began there; for the patient accepted the tin -armour as substance, even when it was upon him, the first apparel he had -believed to be tangible and opaque enough for modesty since the night -his sister had taken him to the Folies Bergères in 1904. The patient’s -satisfaction when he had put on this _Don Quixote_ armour was instant, -but so profound that at first he could express it only in long sighs, -like those of a swimmer who has attained the land with difficulty and -lies upon the bank flaccid with both his struggle and his relief. That -morning, for the first time, he made no dive under his bed at the sound -of a knock upon the door, and when he went out for his exercise, he -broke his long habit of darting from the shelter of one tree to another. -He was even so confident as to walk up to a woman nurse and remark that -it was a pleasant day. - -Thence onward, the measures to be taken for his restoration to society -were obvious. The tin greaves pinched him at the joints when he moved, -and Doctor Morphy pointed out that silver cloth, with rows of tiny bells -sewed upon it here and there, would glitter and sound even better than -tin. Then, when the patient had worn a suit of this silver cloth, -instead of tin, for a few weeks, the bells were gradually removed, a row -at a time, until finally they were all gone, and Uncle Charlie was -convinced by only the glitter that he went apparelled. After that, the -silver was secretly tarnished, yet the patient remained satisfied. Next -a woollen suit of vivid green and red plaid was substituted; and others -followed, each milder than its predecessor, until at last Uncle Charlie -grew accustomed to the daily thought that he was clothed, and, relieved -of his long anxiety, began to play solitaire in his room. His delusion -had been gradually worn away, but not to make room for another; -moreover, as it lost actuality to him, he began to forget it. His -intelligence cleared, in fact, until upon Thanksgiving Day, 1920, when -Mrs. Troup came to take him away, he was in everything—except a body -forty-six years old—the same young man who had arrived in Paris on a -November evening in 1904. His information, his point of view and his -convictions were those of a commonplace, well-brought-up, conventional -young American of that period; he had merely to bridge the gap. - -Doctor Morphy advised Mrs. Troup that the bridging must be done with as -little strain as possible upon the convalescent’s mind—a mind never too -hardily robust—and therefore the devoted lady took her brother to a -mountain health resort, where for a month they lived in a detached -cottage, walked footpaths in the woods, went to bed at nine, and made no -acquaintances. Mrs. Troup dispensed with newspapers for the time (her -charge did not appear to be aware of their absence) but she had brought -such books as she thought might be useful; and every day she talked to -him, as instructively as she could, of the terrific culminations history -had seen during the latter part of his incarceration. - -Of Bolshevism he appeared unable to make anything at all, though Mrs. -Troup’s explanations struck out a single spark from his memory. “Oh, -yes,” he said, “I remember a rather talky chap—he was one of the guests -at that queer place where I used to live, you know—well, he used to -make speeches the whole day long. He said the doctors got all the money -and it was _our_ money. If it wasn’t for us, the doctors wouldn’t have a -cent, he said; and since we produced all the wealth, we ought to -organize, and lock the doctors up in the cellar, and get the money -ourselves. I remember some of the other guests seemed to think there was -a good deal in the talky chap’s speeches, and I suppose it must be -something of this sort that’s happened in Russia. It’s very confusing, -though.” - -And when her lessons, as mild as she could make them, had proceeded -somewhat further, he passed his hand over his brow, professing himself -more confused than ever. - -“I declare!” he said. “No sensible person could make head or tail of it, -if I may use such an expression. I never dreamed anything could actually -come of all these eccentricities—women’s rights, socialism, blue -Sundays, prohibition and what not. I’ve heard of such people—heard -jokes about ’em—but never in my life _met_ a person that went in -seriously for any of ’em, except that speechifying chap I told you -about. How on earth did it all _happen_?” - -Upon this she was able to enlighten him but feebly, and he rubbed his -forehead again. - -“It’s no use,” he told her. “There’s no _reason_ behind these things: -the only thing to do is to realize that the world’s gone crazy. We used -to think that civilization was something made of parts working together -as they do in an engine; but from what you tell me, it must have been -trying to split itself up, all the time. The nations split up and began -to fight one another; and as soon as they’d all got so crippled and in -debt that they couldn’t fight any more, the other splits began. -Everybody had to be on the side of the women or on the side of the men, -and the women won. Now everybody has to be either a capitalist or a -labourer, it seems, no matter what _else_ he is; and even if he doesn’t -know which he is, he’ll have to fight, because somebody’s sure to hit -him. And besides _that_, the people have gone and split themselves into -those that drink and the others that won’t let ’em. How many _more_ -splits are there going to be, with the people on each side just bound to -run the world their way? There are plenty of other _kinds_ of splits -that could be made, and I suppose we might as well expect ’em; for -instance, we can have all the married people on one side in a -‘class-conscious class,’ as you were explaining, and all the unmarried -ones on the other. Or all the parents on one side and all the children -on the other.” He paused, and laughed, adding: “However, I don’t suppose -it’s gone quite so far as children versus parents yet, has it?” - -Mrs. Troup looked thoughtful. “I suppose it always _has_ been ‘children -versus parents’ at least, in a sense,” she said. “I’ve been thinking -lately, though, that since all revolts are more apt to take place -against feeble governments than against strong ones, if the children -_are_ in revolt, it must be because the parents are showing greater -laxity than they used to.” - -Mr. Blake went to his afternoon nap, shaking his head, but in silence. -Naturally he was confused by what he heard from her, and once or twice -he was confused by some things he saw, though in their seclusion he saw -little. One mistake he made, however, amazed his sister. - -From their pleasant veranda a rounded green slope descended slowly to -the level lawn surrounding the Georgian upheavings of an endless hotel; -and at a porte cochère of this hotel a dozen young women, come from a -ride on the hills, were getting down from their saddles. Mr. Blake, upon -the veranda of the cottage a hundred yards distant, observed them -thoughtfully. - -“It may be only the difference in fashions,” he remarked; “but people’s -figures look very queer to me. The actual shapes seem to have changed as -much as the clothes. You’re used to them, I suppose, and so they don’t -surprise you, but down there at that porte cochère, for instance, the -figures all look odd and—well, sort of bunchy. To me, every single one -of those boys seems to be either knock-kneed or bow-legged.” - -“‘Boys!’” Mrs. Troup cried. - -He stared at her. “What are they?” - -“Good gracious! Don’t you see? They’re women!” - -He still stared at her, while his incredulous expression slowly changed -to one of troubled perplexity. But he said nothing at all, and after a -moment more, turned away and went to his room, where he remained until -dinner-time. When he appeared at the table, he made no reference to his -mistake, but reverted to the topic of which they had been speaking that -afternoon before his attention wandered to the horsewomen at the porte -cochère. - -“Prohibition must have altered a great many people’s lives quite -violently,” he said. “I suppose it was quite a shock for people who’d -always had wine or Scotch at dinner—giving it up so suddenly.” - -“I suppose so—I don’t know——” A little colour showed below Mrs. -Troup’s eyes. “Of course, quite a number of people had supplies on hand -when the day came.” - -“But most of that must be gone by this time.” - -“Quite a good deal of it is gone, yes; you don’t see wine very often any -more. People who have any left are getting very piggish about it, I -believe.” - -“It must be odd,” he said contemplatively, “the whole country’s being -absolutely sober and dry, like this.” - -“Well——” she began; then, after a pause, went on: “It isn’t like -that—exactly. You see——” - -“Oh, of course there would be a few moonshine stills and low dives,” he -interrupted. “But people of our circle——” - -“Aren’t exactly ‘dry,’ Charles.” - -“But if they have no wine or——” - -“It’s my impression,” said Mrs. Troup, “that certain queer kinds of -whisky and gin——” - -“But we were speaking of ‘our circle’—the kind of people _we_——” - -“Yes, I know,” she said. “They carry these liquids about with them in -the most exquisite flasks. Jeannette has one—a boy friend gave it to -her—and it must have been made by a silversmith who is a real artist. -It must have been fearfully expensive.” - -Mr. Blake’s open mouth remained distended for a moment. “Your -Jeannette!” he exclaimed. “Why, she’s only——” - -“Oh, she’s nineteen,” his sister informed him soothingly. - -“But was it exactly nice for her to receive such a gift from a young -man?” - -“Oh, he’s one of the nicest boys we know,” Mrs. Troup explained. “They -swim together every day.” - -“‘Swim together’?” her brother inquired feebly. - -“Yes,” said Mrs. Troup. “His aunt has a tank.” - -“‘His aunt has a tank,’” the convalescent repeated in a low voice, as if -he wished to get the sentence by heart. “‘His aunt has a tank.’” - -Mrs. Troup coughed placatively. “It may be a little difficult for you to -understand,” she said. “Of course, even I feel obliged to have something -in the house at home—a certain amount of whisky. I don’t approve of -such things, naturally, but Jeannette feels it’s necessary on account of -the young men and the other girls. She doesn’t like whisky and never -touches it herself.” - -Jeannette’s uncle uttered a sigh of relief. “I should think not! I was -afraid, from what you told me of her flask——” - -“Oh, in that,” said Mrs. Troup, “she keeps gin.” - -“Gin?” he said in a whisper. “Gin?” - -“She’s rather fond of gin,” Mrs. Troup informed him. “She makes it -herself from a recipe; it’s quite simple I believe.” - -“And she _carries_ this flask——” - -“Oh, not all the time!” Mrs. Troup protested, laughing. “Only to dances -and girls’ lunches.” And, observing her brother’s expression, she added: -“Of course, she never takes too _much_; you mustn’t get a wrong idea of -Jeannette. She and all the girls of her set don’t believe in _that_, at -all—I’m positive none of them has ever been intoxicated. They have the -very highest principles.” - -“They have?” - -“Yes; you see, Jeannette has read Wells and Shaw since she was twelve. -When we go home and you meet Jeannette, you must try to understand that -she belongs to a different generation, Charles. You see, Jeannette has -had so _many_ influences that didn’t affect your own youth at all. For -instance, she always insisted on going to the movies even when she was a -little girl, and I rather enjoy them myself, when I’m tired; and then -there’s the new stage—and the new novel—you know, we have everything -on the stage and in books that we used to think could only be in books -and on the stage in France, because here the police——” - -“But in France,” he interrupted, “—in France they didn’t let the _jeune -fille_ read the books or go to the theatre.” - -“No,” she agreed. “But of course over here we’ve had feminism——” - -“What’s that?” - -“I don’t know exactly, but I think it’s something to do with the -emancipation of women.” She paused, then added thoughtfully: “Of course, -Jeannette smokes.” - -“What!” - -“Oh, that’s nothing at all,” she said hastily. “They’ve had to permit it -in nearly all the restaurants.” - -He rose, leaning heavily upon his chair, as if for support, and looking -rather more pallid than usual. In fact, his brow was damp from the -exertion its interior workings had undergone in the effort to comprehend -his sister’s conversation. “I think, if you don’t mind,” he murmured, -“I’ll go directly to bed and rest.” - -“Do,” she said sympathetically. “We’ll talk some more about Jeannette -to-morrow. She’s the most lovably pretty thing in the world, and you’ll -be cra——” She changed the phrase hastily. “You’ll be delighted to have -such a niece.” - -But, as it happened, when she began to speak of Jeannette the next day, -he gently protested, asking her to choose another topic. “I’m sure I -couldn’t understand,” he said, “and the effort rather upsets me. It -would be better to wait and let me form my own impressions when I see -her.” - -His sister assented without debate; and nothing more was said about -Jeannette until a week later when they were on the train, and half the -way home. A telegram was handed to Mrs. Troup by the porter, and after -reading it, she glanced rather apprehensively toward her brother, who, -in the opposite seat, was so deeply attentive to a book that he had not -noticed the delivery of the telegram; in fact, he did not observe it, -still in her hand, when he looked up vaguely, after a time, to speak a -thought suggested by his reading. - -“So many of these books about the war and the after-effects of the war -say that there is to be a ‘new world.’ All the young people have made up -their minds that the old world was a failure and they’re going to have -something different. I don’t know just what they mean by this ‘new -world’ the writers talk so much about, because they never go into the -details of the great change. It’s clear, though, that the young people -intend the new world to be much more spiritual than the old one. Well, -I’m anxious to see it, and, of course, it’s a great advantage to me, -because I stayed so long at that queer place—where the doctors were—it -will be easier to start in with a new world than it would be, maybe, to -get used to the changes in the old one. I’m mighty anxious to see these -new young people who——” - -His sister interrupted him. “You’ll see some of them soon enough, it -appears. I really think Jeannette shouldn’t have done this.” And she -handed him the telegram to read. - - =Thought I better let you know in case you prefer taking - Uncle Charles to hotel for first night at home as am throwing - toddle about forty couples at house sausage breakfast at four am - to finish the show and blackamaloo band might disturb Uncle - Charles=. - -Uncle Charles was somewhat disturbed, in fact, by the telegram itself. -“‘Am throwing toddle’——” he murmured. - -“She means she’s giving a dance,” his sister explained, frowning. “It’s -really not very considerate of her, our first evening at home; but -Jeannette is just made of impulses. She’s given I don’t know how many -dances since I went away with you, and she might have let this one drop. -I’m afraid it may be very upsetting for you, Charles.” - -“You could send her a telegram from the next station,” he suggested. -“You could ask her to telephone her friends and postpone the——” - -“Not Jeannette!” Mrs. Troup laughed. “I could wire, but she wouldn’t pay -any attention. _I_ have no influence with her.” - -“You haven’t?” - -“No.” And upon this Mrs. Troup became graver. “I don’t think her father -would have had any either, if he had lived; he was so easy-going and -used to sing so loudly after dinner. Jeannette always seemed to think he -was just a joke, even when she was a child. The truth is, she’s like a -great many of her friends: they seem to lack the quality of respect. -When we were young, Charles, we had that, at least; our parents taught -us to have that quality.” - -“But haven’t you taught Jeannette to have it?” - -“Indeed I have,” Mrs. Troup sighed. “I’ve told her every day for years -that she hadn’t any. I noticed it first when she was thirteen years old. -It seemed to break out on her, as it were, that year.” - -“How did it happen?” - -“Why, we were staying at a summer hotel, a rather gay place, and I’m -afraid I left her too much to her governess—I was feeling pretty blue -that summer and I wanted distraction. I liked tangoing——” - -“‘Tangoing’?” he said inquiringly. “Was it a game?” - -“No; a dance. They called it ‘the tango’; I don’t know why. And there -was ‘turkey-trotting,’ too——” - -“‘Turkey-trotting’?” he said huskily. - -“Well, that,” she explained, “was really the _machiche_ that tourists -used to see in Paris at the _Bal Bullier_. In fact, you saw it yourself, -Charles. A couple danced the _machiche_ that night at the Folies -Ber——” She checked herself hastily, bit her lip, and then, recovering, -she said: “I got quite fond of all those dances after we imported them.” - -“You mean you got used to looking at them?” he asked slowly. “You went -to see them at places where they were allowed?” - -At this she laughed. “No, of course not! I danced them myself.” - -“_What!_” - -“Why, of course!” - -“No one——” He faltered. “No one ever _saw_ you do it?” - -“Why, of course. It’s a little difficult to explain this to you, -Charles, but all those dances that used to seem so shocking to us when -we went to look on at them in foreign places—well, it turned out that -they were _perfectly_ all right and proper when you dance them yourself. -Of course I danced them, and enjoyed them very much; and besides, it’s a -wholesome exercise and good for the health. _Everybody_ danced them. -People who’d given up dancing for years—the oldest _kind_ of -people—danced them. It began the greatest revival of dancing the -world’s ever seen, Charles, and the——” - -He interrupted her. “Go a little slower, please,” he said, and applied a -handkerchief to his forehead. “About your seeming to lose your authority -with Jeannette——” - -“Yes; I was trying to tell you. She used to sit up watching us dancing -in the hotel ballroom that summer, and I just _couldn’t_ make her go to -bed! That was the first time she deliberately disobeyed me, but it was a -radical change in her; and I’ve never since then seemed to have any -weight with her—none at all; she’s just done exactly what she pleased. -I’ve often thought perhaps that governess had a bad influence on her.” - -He wiped his forehead again, and inquired: “You say she’s given dances -while you’ve been away with me?” - -“Oh, she asks plenty of married people, of course.” - -“And it wouldn’t be any use to telegraph her to postpone this one?” - -“No. She’d just go ahead, and when we got home, she’d be rather annoyed -with me for thinking a dance _could_ be postponed at the last minute. We -must make the best of it.” - -“I suppose so.” - -“We won’t reach the house till almost nine, and you can go straight to -bed, Charles. I’m afraid the music may disturb you; that’s all. Dance -music is rather loudish, nowadays.” - -“I was thinking,” he said slowly, “—I was thinking maybe I’d dress and -look on for a while; I do want to see these new young people. It might -be a good thing for me to begin to get accustomed——” - -“So it might,” she agreed, brightening. “I was only bothered on your -account, and if you take it that way, it will be all right.” She -laughed. “The truth is, I enjoy Jeannette’s dances myself. I like to -enter into things with her and be more like a sisterly companion than a -mother in the old-fashioned strict sense. That’s the modern spirit, -Charles; to be a hail-fellow of your children—more a wise comrade than -a parent. So, if you feel that you would be interested in looking on, -and won’t be disturbed—well, that’s just too lovely! And you’ll adore -Jeannette!” - -He was sure of that, he said; and added that as he was Jeannette’s uncle -he supposed it would be proper to kiss her when she met them at the -station. - -“Oh, she won’t be at the station,” said his sister. “In fact, I’ll be -surprised if she remembers to send the car for us.” - -But as it happened, Mrs. Troup was surprised: Jeannette sent the car, -and they were comfortably taken homeward through a city that presented -nothing familiar to Charles Blake, though he had spent his youth in it. -The first thing he found recognizable was the exterior of his sister’s -big house, for she had lived in it ever since her marriage; but indoors -she had remodelled it, and he was as lost as he had been under the great -flares of light down-town. Mrs. Troup led him up to his room and left -him there. “Jeannette’s dressing, they tell me,” she said. “Hurry and -dress, yourself, so as to see her a minute before she gets too busy -dancing. It’s late.” - -In spite of her instruction, he was too nervous to dress quickly, and -several times decided to get into bed instead of proceeding with his -toilet; but an ardent curiosity prevailed over his timidity, and he -continued to prepare himself for a state appearance, until a strange -event upset him. - -There were a few thin squeaks and low blats of warning—small noises -incomprehensible to him, and seemingly distant—when suddenly burst -forth the most outrageous uproar he had ever heard, and he thought it -just outside his door. When it happened, he was standing with his right -foot elevated to penetrate the orifice of that leg of his trousers, but -the shock of sound overturned him; his foot became entangled, and he -fell upon the floor. - -Lying there, helpless, he heard a voice sweet as silver bells, even when -it screamed, as it had to scream now to make itself heard. “No, _no_! I -don’t want ‘The Maiden’s Dream’! _Stop it; dam it!_” And the outrage -became silence, murmurously broken by only the silvery voice which was -itself now indistinguishable, except as ineffable sound; he could not -make out the words. - -Fingers tapped on his door. “Do hurry, Charles dear,” Mrs. Troup said. -“Jeannette’s arguing with the musicians, but she might have a moment or -two to see you now. People are just beginning to come.” - -“With whom?” he asked hoarsely, not attempting to move. - -“‘With whom’ what? I don’t understand,” his sister inquired, shouting -through the closed door. - -“You said she’s arguing. With whom?” - -“With the musicians.” - -“With whom?” - -“The musicians. They began to play ‘The Maiden’s Dream,’ but she doesn’t -like it: she wants something livelier.” - -“Livelier?” - -“I must run,” Mrs. Troup shouted. “Do hurry, Charles.” - -In spite of this departing urgency, Charles remained inert for some -time, his cheek upon a rug, his upper eye contemplating the baseboard of -the wall, and his right foot shackled in his trousers. Meanwhile, voices -began to rise without in an increasing strident babble, until finally -they roused him. He rose, completed his toilet and stepped outside his -door. - -He found himself upon a gallery which looked down upon a broad hall -floored in wood now darkly lustrous with wax. He had a confused -impression of strewn and drifting great tropical flowers in haphazard -clusters and flaring again, in their unfamiliar colours, from the -reflecting darkness of the polished floor; such dresses as he had never -seen; and flesh-tints, too, of ivory and rose so emphasized and in such -profusion as likewise he had never seen. And from these clusters and -from the short-coated men among them, the shouting voices rose to him in -such uproarious garbling chorus that though he had heard choruses not -very different, long ago, it increased his timidity; and a little -longing floated into his emotion—a homesickness for the old asylum, -where everything had been so orderly and reasonable. - -Suddenly he jumped: his hands were clutched upon the railing of the -gallery, and they remained there; but his feet leaped inches into the -air with the shock; for the crash that so startled him came from -directly beneath the part of the gallery where he stood. In his -nervousness, he seemed about to vault over the railing, but as his feet -descended, he recognized the sound: it was of a nature similar to that -which had overcome him in his room, and was produced by those whom his -sister had defined as “the musicians:” they had just launched the dance -music. The clusters of tropical flowers were agitated, broke up. The -short black coats seized upon them, and they seized upon the short black -coats; something indescribable began. - -The dance music did not throb—the nervous gentleman in the gallery -remembered dance music that throbbed, dance music that tinkled merrily, -dance music that swam, dance music that sang, and sometimes sang sadly -and perhaps too sweetly of romantic love—but this was incredible: it -beat upon his brain with bludgeons and blackjacks, rose in hideous -upheavals of sound, fell into chaos, squawked in convulsions, seemed -about to die, so that eighty pairs of shoes and slippers were heard in -husky whispers against the waxed floor; then this music leaped to life -again more ferociously than ever. - -The thumping and howling of it brought to the gallery listener a dim -recollection: once, in his boyhood, he had been taken through a -slaughter-house; and this was what came back to him now. Pigs have -imaginations, and as they are forced, crowding against one another, -through the chute, their feet pounding the thunderous floor, the -terrible steams they smell warn them of the murderers’ wet knives ahead: -the pigs scream horror with their utmost lungs; and the dumfounded -gentleman recalled these mortal squealings now, though there was more to -this music. There should be added, among other noises, all the agony -three poisoned cats can feel in their entrails, the belabourings of -hollow-log tomtoms by Aruwimi witch-doctors, and incessant cries of -passion from the depths of negroes ecstasized with toddy. - -A plump hand touched Mr. Blake’s shoulder, and lifting his pale glance -from below he found that his sister had ascended the gallery stairs to -speak to him. - -“What are they doing down there?” he shouted. - -“Toddling.” - -“You mean _dancing_?” - -“Yes; toddling. It’s dancing—great fun, too!” - -He was still incredulous, and turned to look again. To his perturbed -mind everybody seemed bent upon the imitation of an old coloured woman -he had once seen swaying on the banks of a creek, at a baptism. She -jiggled the upper portions of her, he remembered, as if she were at once -afflicted and uplifted by her emotions; and at the same time she -shuffled slowly about, her very wide-apart feet keeping well to the -ground. All of these couples appeared to have studied some such ancient -religious and coloured person anxiously; but this was not all that -interested the returned Mr. Blake. Partners in the performance below him -clung to each other with a devotion he had never seen except once or -twice, and then under chance circumstances which had cost him a hurried -apology. Some, indeed, had set their cheeks together for better harmony; -moreover, the performers, who in this exhibition of comedy abandoned -forever all hope of ever being taken seriously by any spectator, were by -no means all of the youthfulness with which any such recklessness of -dignity had heretofore been associated in Mr. Blake’s mind: heads white -as clouds moved here and there among the toddlers; so did dyed heads, -and so did portly figures. - -“I came up to point Jeannette out to you,” Mrs. Troup explained, -shouting in her brother’s ear. “I wanted you to see her dancing: she -looks so beautiful. There she is! See! _Doesn’t_ she look pretty?” - -His eyes aimed along her extended forefinger and found Jeannette. - -Jeannette did “look pretty” indeed, even when she toddled—there could -be no test more cruel. She was a glowing, dark-eyed, dark-haired, -exquisite young thing shimmering with innocent happiness. One of her -childish shoulders bore a jewelled string; the other nothing. Most of -her back and a part of each of her sides were untrammelled; and her -skirt came several inches below the knee, unless she sat. Nothing her -uncle had ever seen had been so pretty as Jeannette. - -To her four grandparents, Jeannette would have been merely unbelievable. -Her eight great-grandparents, pioneers and imaginative, might have -believed her and her clothes possible, but they would have believed with -horror. In fact, to find ancestors who would not be shocked at -Jeannette, one would have to go back to the Restoration of Charles -Stuart. At that time she had five hundred and twelve -great-great-great-great-great-great-grandparents, and probably some of -them were familiar with the court. They would have misunderstood -Jeannette, and they would not have been shocked. - -“I just wanted you to see her,” Mrs. Troup shouted. “I must run back to -my partner and finish this. Come down when this number is over and meet -some people.” - -He did not attempt to reply, but stared at her blankly. As she turned -away, more of her was seen than when she stood beside him; and a -sculptor would have been interested. “Don’t forget to come down,” she -called back, as she descended the stairway. - -But he did not appear at the end of the dance; nor could she find him in -the gallery or in his room; so, a little anxious, she sent a maid to -look for him; and presently the maid came back and said that she had -found him standing alone in the dining-room, but that when she told him -Mrs. Troup was looking for him, he said nothing; he had walked away in -the direction of the kitchen. - -“How strange!” Mrs. Troup murmured; but as her troubled eyes happened to -glance downward, both of her hands rose in a gesture of alarm. “Jennie, -where’s your _apron_?” she cried. - -“It’s on me, ma’am,” said Jennie; then she discovered that it wasn’t. -“Why, how in the world——” - -But Mrs. Troup was already fluttering to the kitchen. She found trouble -there between the caterer’s people and her own: the caterer’s _chef_ was -accusing Mrs. Troup’s cook of having stolen a valuable apron. - -Uncle Charles was discovered in the coal cellar. He had upon him both of -the missing aprons, several others, a fur overcoat belonging to one of -the guests, and most of the coal. - - - - - THE SPRING CONCERT - - -THE town was only about eighty years old, but it loved to think of -itself as a “good old place,” and it habitually spoke of the residence -of its principal citizen as “that old-fashioned Ricketts property.” - -This was an under-statement: the Ricketts place was more than merely -old-fashioned. So rapidly do fashions change in houses, nowadays, in -small towns as well as in big, and so quickly does life become history, -that the “Ricketts property” at fifty years of age was an actual -archæological relic. Contemplating the place you contemplated a -prevalent way of life already abandoned, and learned a bit of Midland -history. The Ricketts place was a left-over from that period when every -Midland townsman was his own farmer, according to his means; and if he -was able, kept his cow and chickens, and raised corn and pigs at home. - -The barn was a farm barn, with a barnyard about it; here were the empty -pig-pens and the chicken house, the latter still inhabited. In summer, -sweet corn was still grown in the acre lot adjoining the barnyard; and, -between that lot and the driveway from the barn, there was a kitchen -garden, there was an asparagus bed, and there was a strawberry patch -fringed with currant-bushes. Behind the house were out-buildings: the -storeroom, the washhouse, the smoke-house. Here was the long -grape-arbour, and here stood the two pumps: one of iron, for the -cistern; the other a wooden flute that sang higher and higher to an -incredible pitch before it fetched the water. - -The house was a large, pensive-looking, honest old brick thing, with a -“front porch” all across it; and the most casual passer-by must have -guessed that there was a great deal of clean oilcloth on the hall -floors, and that cool mattings were laid, in summer, in all the -rooms—mattings pleasant to the bare feet of children. It was a house -that “smelled good”: aromas at once sweet and spicy were wont to swim -down the mild breezes of Pawpaw Street, whereon the Ricketts place -fronted. - -In the latter part of April the perfume of apple-blossoms was adrift on -those breezes, too; for all the west side of the big yard was an apple -orchard, and trees stood so close to the house that a branch of blossoms -could be gathered from one of the “sitting-room” windows—and on a warm -end-of-April day, when that orchard was full abloom, there sat reading a -book, beneath the carnival clouds of blossom, an apple-blossom of a -girl. - -So she was informed by Mr. Lucius Brutus Allen. Mr. Allen came walking -up Pawpaw Street from Main Street, about five o’clock in the afternoon; -a broad, responsible figure with a broad, irresponsible face, and a -good, solid, reddish-haired head behind the face. He was warm, it -appeared; inclined to refresh his legs with a pause of leisure, his nose -with the smell of the orchard, his eyes with the sight of its occupant. -He halted, rested his stout forearms upon the top of the picket fence, -and in his own way made the lady acquainted with his idea of her -appearance. - -“A generous soil makes a generous people, Miss Mary,” he observed; and -she looked up gravely from her book at the sound of his tremulous tenor -voice. “You see, most of this country in the Ohio and Mississippi -valleys is fertile. We don’t have to scratch the rocks for our crops, so -we have time to pronounce our _r_’s. We’ve even got the leisure to drawl -a little. A Yankee, now, he’s too pinched for time, between his hard -rocks and his hard winters, to pronounce his _r_’s; so he calls his -mother ‘motha’, and hurries on. But he’s conscientious, Miss Mary; he -knows he’s neglected something, and so, to make up for it, he calls his -sister ‘Mariar.’ Down South it’s too hot for a fellow to trouble about -the whole blame alphabet, so he says, ‘Lessee, which lettuhs goin’ to be -the easies’ to leave out?’ he says. ‘Well, the _r_’s, I reckon,’ he -says. ‘An’ _g_,’ he says. ‘I’ll leave _r_ out most the time, an’ _g_ -whenevuh I get the chance—an’ sometimes _d_ an’ _t_. That’ll be a heap -easiuh,’ he says, ‘when I’m claimin’ my little boy is the smahtis’ chile -in the worl’.” - -Mr. Allen paused genially, then concluded: “You see, Miss Mary, I’ve -just been leading up logically to the question: Which is you and which -is the rest of the apple-blossoms?” - -Miss Ricketts made no vocal reply, but there was a slight concentration -of the fine space between her eyebrows; decidedly no symptom of -pleasure, though she might properly have enjoyed the loiterer’s little -extravagance, which was far from being inaccurate as extravagances go. -Mr. Allen was forced to remind himself that “nobody loves a fat man,” -though he decided not to set his thoughts before the lady. - -A smile of some ruefulness became just visible upon the ample surface of -his face, then withdrew to the interior, and was transmuted into a -quality of his odd and pleasant voice, which was distinctly rueful, as -he said: - -“It’s the weather, Miss Mary. You mustn’t mind what anybody says along -during the first warm days in spring. People are liable to say anything -at all.” - -“Yes,” Miss Ricketts returned, not mollified. “I’ve just noticed.” She -gave him one dark glance, wholly unfavourable, as she spoke, and then -looked down at her book again, allowing him no possible doubt that she -wished to proceed with her reading. - -“I’m a hard man to discourage,” said Mr. Allen. “The band’s going to -play in the Square to-night. It’s been practising ‘Annie Laurie’ and -‘Tenting To-night’ all winter, up in the storeroom over Tom Leggett’s -wall-paper and book emporium, and of course the boys are anxious to give -their first concert. What I wanted to say was this: If I came by for you -after supper, would you care to go?” - -“No,” said Miss Ricketts quietly, not looking up. - -Before continuing and concluding the conversation, Lucius Brutus Allen -paused to contemplate the top of her pink-and-white hat, which was -significantly presented to his view as she bent over her book; and the -pause was a wistful one on his part. “Seeing as that’s the case,” he -said, finally, “I may be a hard man to discourage, and I _was_ on my way -home, but I believe I’ll just turn right square around and go on back to -the National House bar—and get me a drink of lemonade. I want to show -people I’m as desperate as anybody, when I’m crossed.” - -Immediately, with an air of resolution, Mr. Allen set off upon the path -by which he had come. He debouched upon Main Street, at the foot of -Pawpaw, crossed the Square to the dismal brick pile much too plainly -labelled, “National House, Will Wheen Propr,” and passed between two -swinging green doors on the ground floor. “George,” he said to the -bartender, “I’m not happy. Have you any lemons?” - -The bartender rubbed the back of his neck, stooped, and poked and peered -variously beneath the long bar. “Seems like I _did_ have some, Lu,” he -said thoughtfully. “I remember seein’ them lemons last Mon——” - -“No,” Mr. Allen interrupted, sighing. “I’ve been through this before -with you, George. I’ll take buttermilk.” - -“Oh, got plenty _buttermilk_!” the bartender said, brightening; and -supplied his customer from a large, bedewed white pitcher. “Buttermilk -goes good this weather, don’t it, Lu?” - -“It do,” said Lucius gravely. - -Glass in hand, he went to a small round table where sat the only other -present patron of the bar—a young man well-favoured, but obviously in a -state morbid if not moribund. He did not look up at Mr. Allen’s -approach; continuing to sit motionless with his far-away gaze marooned -upon a stratum of amber light in his glass on the table before him. - -He was a picturesque young man, and, with his rumpled black hair, so -thick and wavy about his brooding white face, the picture he most -resembled was that of a provincial young lawyer stricken with the -stage-disease and bound to play _Hamlet_. This was no more than a -resemblance, however; his intentions were different, as he roused -himself to make clear presently, though without altering his attitude, -or even the direction of his glance. - -“What do you mean?” he inquired huskily, a moment after Mr. Allen had -seated himself at the table. “What do you mean, slamming a glass of -buttermilk down on my table, Lucius Brutus Allen?” - -Mr. Allen put on a pair of eye-glasses, and thoughtfully examined the -morose gentleman’s countenance before replying, “I would consume this -flagon of buttermilk in congenial melancholy, Joseph Pitney Perley.” - -Mr. Perley, still motionless, demanded: “Can’t you see what I’m doing?” - -“What are you doing, Joe?” - -“Drinking!” - -“Professionally?” Mr. Allen inquired. “Or only for the afternoon?” - -“I don’t want to be talked to!” - -“I do,” said Lucius. “Talk to me.” - -Here the bartender permitted himself the intervention of a giggle, and -wiped his dry bar industriously—his favourite gesture. “You ain’t goin’ -to git much talk out o’ _Joe_, Lu!” he said. “All he’s said sence he -come in here was jest, ‘Gimme same, George.’ _I_ tell him he ain’t goin’ -to be in no condition to ’tend the band concert ’s evening if he keeps -on another couple hours or so. Me, I don’t mind seein’ a man drink some, -but I like to see him git a little fun out of it!” - -“Have you considered the band concert, Joe?” Mr. Allen inquired. “Do you -realize what strange euphonies you’ll miss unless you keep sober until -seven-thirty?” - -The sombre Perley relaxed his gaze, and uttered a fierce monosyllable of -denunciation. “Sober!” he added, afterward. “I’m sober. That’s my -trouble. I’ve been trying to get tight for three hours!” - -“I’ll say this fer you,” the bartender volunteered—“you been tryin’ -_good_, too!” - -“Ever experiment any?” Lucius suggested. “Why don’t you go over to Doc -Willis’s Painless Dental Parlours? He’s got a tank of gas there, and all -you do is put a rubber thing over your nose and breathe. Without any -trouble at all you’ll be completely out of business in forty-five -seconds.” - -“Yeh,” said the bartender. “But it don’t last more’n about four -minutes.” - -“No; that’s true,” Lucius admitted. “But maybe Joe could hire Doc to tap -him behind the ear with one of those little lead mallets when he sees -him coming out of the gas. Joe’d feel just about the same to-morrow as -he will if he stays here running up a bill with you. Fact is, I believe -he’d feel better.” - -“I tell you,” said Mr. Perley, with emphasis, “I’m drinking!” And for -further emphasis he rattled his glass. “Give me the same, George,” he -said. - -George held a bottle to the light. He meditated, rubbing the back of his -head; then spoke: “Tell you what I’ll do. The wife’s waitin’ supper fer -me now; I want to git back up-town early fer the trade before the -concert, because I look fer quite a rush——” - -“Yes,” interrupted Mr. Allen musingly. “Our community is going to see a -night of wine and music, George.” - -“I’ll jest open a fresh bottle fer you, Joe,” the bartender continued; -“and when I git back I’ll charge you with how many drinks you take out -of it. I’m goin’ on home to supper. You want any more buttermilk, Lu?” - -“Bring the pitcher,” said Mr. Allen. “I will sup upon it.” - -“All right.” And George brought to the table the pitcher of buttermilk, -a dim saucer of crackers and cheese, a brown bottle, ice-water, and -fresh glasses. After that he doffed his apron, put on his hat, but no -coat, and went to the door, where he turned to say: “If anybody else -comes in here before I git back——” - -“And calls for liquor,” Mr. Allen took up the sentence, as George paused -in thought, “we shall be glad to——” - -“Tell ’em,” said George, “they don’t git it!” He departed. - -Mr. Allen helped himself to buttermilk, ate a cracker, leaned back in -his chair, and began to hum “Annie Laurie.” - -“Stop that!” said Perley sharply. - -“Certainly,” said Lucius. “I’ll whistle instead.” - -“If you do,” the troubled young man warned him, apparently in good -faith, “I’ll kill you!” - -“What can I do to entertain you, Joe?” - -“You might clear out,” his friend suggested darkly. “God knows I haven’t -asked for your society!” - -“No,” said Lucius. “Our fairest gifts do oft arrive without petition. -What an unusual thought! Have you noticed——” - -But the other burst out suddenly in a tragic fury: “Shut up! What’s the -matter with you? Can’t you see I want to be alone?” - -Mr. Allen remained placid. “What difference do I make?” he asked. “I -thought you said you were ‘drinking’? If you’re really in earnest about -it you don’t care who’s here or anywhere else.” - -“Don’t you see I’m in _misery_?” cried Perley. - -“The ayes have it.” - -“Well, then, why in Heaven’s name can’t you——” - -“I’ll tell you,” said Lucius. “I’m in misery, too. Terrible!” - -“Well, what the devil do _I_ care for that?” - -“Haven’t I got a right to sit here?” Lucius inquired mildly. “Haven’t I -got a right to sit here and drink, and cuss inside my innards, and take -on the way you’re doing? Mary Ricketts just told me that she wouldn’t go -to the band concert with me.” - -“Oh, do dry up!” - -“Well, you’re responsible for Mary’s treatment of me, aren’t you?” said -Lucius. “I thought probably there’d be trouble when I saw you headed -this way this afternoon.” - -“You do beat any ordinary lunatic!” the distressed young man protested. -“I ‘headed this way’ this afternoon because I got one of my spells. You -know well enough how it is with me, and how it was with my father before -me—every so often the spell come on me, and I’ve _got_ to drink. What -in the Lord’s name has that to do with Mary Ricketts? I don’t suppose -I’ve even seen her for a month. Never did see anything of her, to speak -of, in my life.” - -Mr. Allen replenished his glass from the pitcher of buttermilk before -replying, and appeared to muse sorrowfully. “Well, maybe I was -mistaken,” he said. “But I——” He broke off a line of thought; then -sighed and inquired: “When this ‘spell’ comes on you, Joe, you feel that -you’ve ‘_got_’ to go on until——” - -“You know I do! I don’t want to talk about it.” - -“But suppose,” said Lucius, “suppose something took your mind off of -it.” - -“Nothing could. Nothing on earth!” - -“But just suppose something did turn up—right in the start of a spell, -say—something you found you’d rather do. You know, Joe, I believe if it -did and you found something else was _really_ pleasanter, it might be -you’d never start in again. You’d understand it wasn’t the fun you think -it is, maybe.” - -“Fun!” Joe cried. “I don’t _want_ to drink!” - -And at that his stocky companion burst into outright laughter. “I know -you think so, Joe,” he said apologetically, when his hilarity was -sufficiently diminished. “Of course you believe it. I’m not denying -that.” - -“By George!” the unfortunate young man explained. “You _do_ make me -sick! I suppose if I had smallpox you’d say you weren’t denying I -believed I had it! You sit there and drink your buttermilk, and laugh at -me like a ninny because you can’t understand! No man on earth can -understand, unless he has the thirst come on him the way mine does on -me! And yet you tell me I only ‘believe’ I have it!” - -“Yes, I ought to explain,” said Mr. Allen soothingly. “It did sound -unfeeling. One of the reasons you drink, Joe, is because this is a small -town;—you have an active mind, a lot of the time there’s nothing much -to do, and you get bored.” - -“I told you nobody could understand such a thirst as mine—nobody except -the man that’s got one like it!” - -“This hankering is something inside you, isn’t it, Joe?” - -“What of that?” - -“It comes on you about every so often?” - -“Yes.” - -“If there weren’t any liquor in the world, you’d have the thirst for it -just the same, would you?” - -“Just the same,” Perley answered. “And go crazy from it.” - -“Whereas,” Mr. Allen returned, “since liquor’s obtainable you prefer to -go crazy from the imbibing of it instead of from the hanker for it. You -find that more ossedalious, and nobody can blame you. But suppose -alcohol had never been discovered, would you have the hanker?” - -“No, because I wouldn’t have inherited it from my father. You know as -well as I do, how it runs in my family.” - -“So I do, Joe; so I do!” Mr. Allen sighed reminiscently. “Both your -father and your Uncle Sam went that way. I remember them very well, and -how they enjoyed it. That’s different from you, Joe.” - -“Different!” Joe laughed bitterly. “Do you suppose I get any ‘enjoyment’ -out of it? Three days I’ll drink now; then I’ll be in hell—and I’ve got -to go on. I’ve _got_ to!” - -“Funny about its being hereditary,” said Lucius, musing aloud. “I expect -you rather looked forward to that, Joe?” - -His companion stared at him fiercely. “What do you mean by that?” he -demanded. - -“You always thought it was _going_ to be hereditary, didn’t you, Joe? -From almost when you were a boy?” - -“Yes, I did. What of it?” - -“And maybe—” Lucius suggested, with the utmost mildness—“just -possibly, say about the time you began to use liquor a little at first, -you decided that this hereditary thing was inevitable, and the idea made -you melancholy about yourself, of course; but after all, you felt that -the hereditary thing made a pretty fair excuse to yourself, didn’t you?” - -“See here,” Joe said angrily, “I’m not in any mood to stand——” - -“Pshaw!” Lucius interrupted. “I was only going on to say that it’s more -and more curious to me about this hereditary notion. I’m thirty-five, -and you’re only twenty-six. I remember well when your father began to -drink especially. I was seventeen years old, and you were about eight. -You see you were already born then, and so I can’t understand about the -thirst being heredi——” - -“Damn it all!” Joe Perley shouted; and he struck the table with his -fist. “I told you I don’t want to talk, didn’t I? Didn’t you hear me say -I was _drinking_!” - -The amiable man across the table produced two cigars from his coat -pocket. “We’ll change the subject,” he said. “Smoke, Joe?” - -“No, thank you.” - -“We’ll change the subject,” Lucius repeated. “I gather that this one is -painful to you. You don’t mind my staying here if we talk about -something else?” - -“No—not much.” - -“I mentioned that I asked Mary Ricketts to go with me to the band -concert to-night, didn’t I?” Mr. Allen inquired, as he lit his cigar. “I -was telling you about that, wasn’t I, Joe?” - -“You said something about it,” Mr. Perley replied with evident ennui. - -“You know, Joe,” said Lucius, his tone becoming confidential, “I walk -past the old Ricketts property every afternoon on my way home. It’s -quite considerable out of my way, but I always do. Fact is,” he chuckled -ruefully, “I can’t help it.” - -“I suppose you want me to ask you why,” said his gloomy companion, with -sincere indifference. - -“Yes, Joe, will you?” - -“All right. Why can’t you help it?” - -“Well, there’s something about that old place so kind of pleasant and -healthy and reliable. This is a funny world: there’s a lot of things a -fellow’s got to be afraid of in it, and the older he gets the more he -sees to scare him. I think what I like best about that old Ricketts -property is the kind of _safe_ look it has. It looks as if anybody that -belonged in there was safe from ’most any kind of disaster—bankruptcy, -lunacy, ‘social ambition,’ money ambition, evil thoughts, or turning -into a darn fool of any kind. You don’t happen to walk by there much, do -you, Joe?” - -“No, I don’t.” - -“Well, sir, you ought to!” said Lucius genially. “The orchard’s in -bloom, and you ought to see it. The Ricketts orchard is the show of this -county. The good old judge has surely looked after those old apple-trees -of his; they’re every one just solid blossom. Yes, sir, every last one! -Why, it made me feel like a dryad!” - -“Like a who?” - -“You mean that I’m thirty-five”—so Mr. Allen thought fit to interpret -this question—“and that I’m getting a little fat, some baldish and a -whole lot reddish. So I am; but I’ll tell you something, young Joseph: -romance is a thing inside a person, just the same as your thirst. It -doesn’t matter what his outside is like. My trousers always bag at the -knees, even when they’re new, but my knees themselves are pure Grecian. -It’s the skinny seamstress of forty that dreams the most of marquises in -silver armour; and darky boys in school forget the lesson in reveries -about themselves—they think of themselves on horseback as generals with -white faces and straight blond hair. And everybody knows that the best -poets are almost always outrageously ordinary to look at. This is -springtime, Joseph; and the wren lays an egg no bigger than a fairy’s. -The little birds——” - -“By George!” Mr. Perley exclaimed, in real astonishment. “See here!” he -said. “Had you been drinking, yourself, before you came in? If not, it’s -the first time I knew a person could get a talking jag on buttermilk.” - -“No,” said Lucius, correcting him. “It’s on apple-blossoms. She was -sitting under ’em pretending to read a book, but I suppose she was -thinking about you, Joe.” - -“Who was?” - -“Mary,” Mr. Allen replied quietly. “Mary Ricketts.” - -“You say she was thinking about _me_?” - -“Probably she was, Joe. She was sitting there, and the little birds——” - -“I know you’re a good lawyer,” Joe interrupted, shaking his head in -gloomy wonder, “but everybody in town thinks you’re a nut, except when -you’re on a law case, and I guess they’re about right. You certainly -talk like one!” - -Mr. Allen nodded. “A reputation like that is mighty helpful sometimes.” - -“Well, if you like it you’re free to refer all inquirers to me,” said -Joe heartily. “You’re trying to tell me Mary Ricketts was ‘thinking’ -about me, and I don’t suppose I’ve seen her as much as five times this -year; and I haven’t known her—not to speak of—since we were children. -I don’t suppose I’ve had twenty minutes’ talk with her, all told, since -I got back from college. The only girl I ever see anything of at all is -Molly Baker, and that’s only because she happens to live next door. I -don’t see even Molly to speak to more than once or twice a month. I -don’t have anything to do with _any_ of the girls. I keep _away_ from -’em, because a man with the curse I’ve got hanging over me——” - -“Thought you didn’t want to talk about that, Joe.” - -“I don’t,” the young man said angrily. “But I want to know what you mean -by this nonsense about Mary Ricketts and me.” - -“I don’t know if I ought to tell you—exactly.” Here Lucius frowned as -with a pressure of conscience. “I’m not sure I ought to. Do you insist -on it, Joe?” - -“Not if you’ve got to talk any more about ‘the little birds!’” Joe -returned with sour promptness. “But if you can leave them out and talk -in a regular way, I’d like to hear you.” - -“Have you ever noticed,” Mr. Allen began, “that Mary Ricketts is a -beautiful girl?” - -“She’s not,” said Joe. “She’s not anything like ‘beautiful.’ Everybody -in town knows and always has known that Mary Ricketts is an ordinarily -good-looking girl. You can call her pretty if you want to stretch it a -little, but that’s all.” - -“That all, you think?” - -“Certainly!” - -“You ought to see her in the orchard, Joe!” - -“Well, I’m not very likely to.” - -“Well, just why not, now?” - -“Well, why should I?” - -“You mean you’ve never given much thought to her?” - -“Certainly I haven’t,” said Joe. “Why should I?” - -“Isn’t it strange now!” Mr. Allen shook his head wistfully. “I mentioned -that I asked her to go to the band concert with me, didn’t I, Joe?” - -“You did.” - -“And did I tell you that she refused?” - -“Lord, yes!” - -“Well, that was it,” said Mr. Allen gently. “She just said, ‘No!’ She -didn’t say ‘No, thank you.’ No, sir, nothing like that; just plain ‘No!’ -‘Well,’ I thought to myself, ‘now why is that? Naturally, she’d _want_ -to go to the concert, wouldn’t she? Why, of course she would; it’s the -first public event that’s happened since the lecture on “Liquid Air” at -Masonic Hall, along back in February. Certainly she’d want to go. Well, -then, what’s the matter? It must be simply she doesn’t want to go with -_you_, Lucius Brutus Allen!’ That’s what I said to myself, Joe. ‘You’re -practically a fat old man from _her_ point of view,’ I said to myself. -‘She wants to go, but you aren’t the fellow she wants to go _with_. -Well, who is it? Evidently,’ I reasoned, ‘evidently he hasn’t turned up, -because she’s just the least bit snappish the way she tells me she isn’t -pining for _my_ escort.’ Well, sir, I began to cast around in my mind to -think who on earth it could be. ‘It isn’t Henry Wheen,’ I thought, -‘because she discouraged Henry so hard, more than a year ago, that Henry -went and married that waitress here at his father’s hotel. And it isn’t -Bax Lewis,’ I thought, ‘because she showed Bax _he_ didn’t stand any -chance from the first. And it isn’t Charlie McGregor or Cal Veedis,’ I -thought, ‘because she just _wouldn’t_ have anything to do with either of -them, though they both tried to make her till the judge pretty near had -to tell ’em right out that they’d better stay away. Well, it isn’t Doc -Willis, and it isn’t Carlos Bollingbroke Thompson, nor Whit Connor,’ I -thought, ‘because they’re _old_ bachelors like me—and that just about -finishes the list.’ Well, sir, there’s where I had to scratch my head. -‘It must be somebody,’ I thought, ‘somebody that hasn’t been coming -around the Ricketts property at all, so far, because she’s never gone -any place she could help with those that _have_ been coming around -there.’ Then I thought of you, Joe. ‘By George!’ I thought. ‘By George, -it might be Joe Perley! He’s the only young man in town not married, -engaged, or feeble-minded, that hasn’t ever showed any interest in Miss -Mary. There’s no two ways about it: likely as not it’s liable to be Joe -Perley!’” - -“I never heard anything crazier in my life!” Joe said. “I don’t suppose -Mary Ricketts has given me two thoughts in the last five years.” - -Mr. Allen tilted back in his chair, his feet upon a rung of the table. -He placed his cigar at the left extremity of his mouth, gazed at the -ceiling, and waved his right hand in a take-it-or-leave-it gesture. - -“Well, _why_ would she?” Joe demanded. “There’s nothing about _me_ -that——” - -“No,” said his friend. “Nothing except she doesn’t know you very well.” - -At that Joe Perley laughed. “You are the funniest old Lucius!” he said. -“Just because I’ve never been around there and the rest have, you say -that proves——” - -Mr. Allen waved his hand again. “I only say there’s _somebody_ could get -her to go to that concert with him. Absolutely! Why absolutely? It’s -springtime; she’s twenty-three. Of course, if it _is_ you, she isn’t -very liable to hear the music except along with her family—not when -you’ve got such pressing engagements _here_, of course! I’m thinking of -going up there again pretty soon myself, to see if maybe Judge and Mrs. -Ricketts aren’t going to walk up-town for the concert, and maybe I can -sort of push myself in among the family so that I can walk anyway in the -same _group_ with Mary! It’s going to be moonlight, and as balmy as a -night in a piece of poetry! By George! you can smell apple-blossoms from -one end of the town to the other, Joe!” - -“How you hate talking!” Mr. Perley remarked discouragingly. - -“I hear the band is going to try ‘Schubert’s Serenade,’” Lucius -continued. “The boys aren’t so bad as we make out, after all; the truth -is, they play almighty well. I expect you’ll be able to hear some of it -from in here, Joe; but take _me_ now—I want to be out in the moonlight -in that apple-blossom smell when they play ‘Schubert’s Serenade!’ I want -to be somewhere where I can see the moonshine shadow of Mary Ricketts’s -hat fall across her cheek, so I can spend my time guessing whether she’s -listening to the music with her eyes shut or open. It’s a pink-and-white -hat, and she’s wearing a pink-and-white dress, too, to-day, Joe. She was -sitting under those apple-blossoms, and the little bir——” - -Sudden, loud and strong expressions suffered him not to continue for -several moments. - -“Certainly, Joe,” Mr. Allen then resumed. “I will not mention them -again. I was only leading to the remark that nightingales serenading -through the almond-groves of Sicily probably have nothing particular on -our enterprising little city during a night in apple-blossom time. My -great trouble, Joe, is never getting _used_ to its being springtime. -Every year when it comes around again it hits me just the same -way—maybe a little more so each year that I grow older. And this has -been the first plumb genuine spring day we’ve had. At the present hour -this first true blue spring day is hushing itself down into the first -spring evening, and in a little while there’ll be another miracle: the -first scented and silvered spring night. All over town the old folks are -coming out from their suppers to sit on their front porches, and the -children are beginning to play hi-spy in and out among the trees. Pretty -soon they’ll all, old and young, be strolling up-town to hear the band -play on the courthouse steps. I expect some of the young couples already -_have_ started; they like to walk slowly and not say much, on the way to -the spring concert, you know.” - -Mr. Allen drank another glass of buttermilk, smiled, then murmured with -repletion and the pathos of a concluding bit of enthusiasm. “Oh, Lordy, -Lordy!” he said, “What it is to be twenty or twenty-five in springtime!” - -“Not for me,” Mr. Perley rejoined, shaking his head. - -“No, I suppose not. It does seem pretty rough,” said Lucius, -sympathetically, “to think of you sitting here in this reeky hole, when -pretty nearly every other young fellow in town will be strolling through -the apple-blossom smell in the moonlight with a girl on his arm, and the -band playing, and all. Old soak Beeslum’ll probably be in here to join -you after while, though; and four or five farm hands, and some of the -regular Saturday-night town drunks, and maybe two or three Swedes. Oh, I -expect you’ll have _company_ enough, Joe!” - -“I guess so. Anyhow, I haven’t much choice! This thing’s got me, and -I’ve got to go through with it, Lucius.” - -“I see. Yes, sir, it’s too bad! Too bad!” And Lucius looked -sympathetically down, then cheerfully up again, as the swinging-doors -parted to admit the entrance of the returned bartender. “Hello, George!” - -“Back a’ready,” said George self-approvingly. “Ham, fried potatoes, -coffee, and griddle-cakes, all tucked inside o’ me, too! Didn’t miss any -customers, did I?” - -“No.” - -George came to the table. “Lemme look how many drinks you owe me fer -sence I went out, Joe,” he said. “I had the place where she come to in -the neck of the bottle marked with my thumb.” He lifted the bottle, -regarded it thoughtfully at first, then with some surprise. He set it -down upon the table without comment, began to whistle “Little Annie -Rooney,” went behind the bar, doffed his hat, resumed his apron, and -continued to whistle. - -Mr. Allen rose, dusting some crumbs of cracker from his attire. “I guess -I must have won the buttermilk record, George,” he said, as he placed a -silver dollar upon the bar. “If buttermilk were intoxicating there -wouldn’t be a sober creature on the face of the earth. Trouble with your -other stuff, George, it _tastes_ so rotten!” - -“I take buttermilk sometimes myself, Lu,” said George as he made change. -“I guess there ain’t nobody seen me carryin’ much hard liquor sence my -second child was born. That was the time they had to jug me, and—whoo, -_gosh!_ you’d ought to seen what I went through when I got home that -night! She’s little and she was sick-abed, too, but that didn’t git in -_her_ way none! No, sir!” - -“Good night,” said Lucius cheerily. “I’m going to stroll along Pawpaw -Street before the band starts. Moon’ll be ’way up in a little while now, -and on such a night as this is going to be did Jessica, the Jew’s -daughter—— _You_ know what I mean, George.” - -“Yep,” said George blankly. “I gotcha, Lu.” - -“I’m going,” said Lucius, “to go and push in with some folks to listen -to the band with. Good night, Joe.” - -Joe Perley did not turn his head, but sat staring fixedly at the table, -his attitude being much the same as that in which Lucius had discovered -him. - -“Good night, Joe,” the departing gentleman paused to repeat. - -“What?” - -“Nothing,” said Lucius. “I only said ‘good night.’” - -“All right,” said Joe absently. “Good night.” - -Mr. Allen took a musical departure. “Oh, as I strolled out one summer -evening,” he sang, “for to meet Miss Nellie Green, all the birds and the -flow’rs was singing sweetly, wherev-urr they was to be seen!” - -Thus, singing heartily, he passed between the swinging-doors and out to -the street. Here he continued his euphonic mood, but moderated his -expression of it to an inconspicuous humming. Dusk had fallen, a dusk as -scented and as alive with spring as he had claimed it would be; and a -fair shaft of the rising moon already struck upon the white cupola of -the courthouse. - - * * * * * - -. . . Mary Ricketts was leaning upon the front gate of the Ricketts -place when he came there. - -“Good evening, Miss Mary,” he said. “Are the Judge and your mother at -home?” - -“They’re right there on the front porch, Mr. Allen,” she said cordially. -“Won’t you come in?” - -“In a minute,” he responded. “It does me good to hear you answer when I -ask for your parents, Miss Mary.” - -“How is that?” - -“Why,” he said, “you always sound so friendly when I ask for _them_!” - -She laughed, and explained her laughter by saying, “It’s funny you don’t -always ask for them!” - -“Just so,” he agreed. “I’ve been thinking about that. Are you all going -up to the Square pretty soon, to hear the concert?” - -“Father and mother are, I think,” she said. “I’m not.” - -“Just ‘waiting at the gate’?” - -“Not _for_ any one!” - -Lucius took off his hat and fanned himself, a conciliatory gesture. “I -tell you I feel mighty sorry for one young man in this town to-night,” -he said. - -“Who’s that, Mr. Allen?” - -“Well——” he hesitated. “I don’t know if I ought to tell _you_ about -it.” - -“Why not me?” she asked, not curiously. - -“Well—it’s that young Joe Perley.” - -Miss Ricketts was mildly amused; Lucius’s tone was serious, and if she -had any interest whatever in Mr. Perley it was of a quality most casual -and remote. “Why should you either tell me or not tell me anything about -him?” she asked. - -“You know he’s such a good-looking young fellow,” said Lucius. “And he’s -going to make a fine lawyer, too; I’ve had him with me in a couple of -cases, and I’ve an idea he might have something like a real career, -if——” He paused. - -“Yes?” she said idly. “If what? And why is it you feel so sorry for him, -and why did you hesitate to tell _me_? What’s it all about, Mr. Allen?” - -“I suppose I’d better explain, now I’ve gone this far,” he said, a -little embarrassed. “I was talking with Joe to-day, and—well, the fact -is we got to talking about you.” - -“You did?” Her tone betokened an indifference unmistakably genuine. -“Well?” - -Lucius laughed with increased embarrassment. “Well—the fact is we -talked about you a long while.” - -“Indeed?” she said coldly, but there was a slight interest now -perceptible under the coldness; for Miss Mary Ricketts was not unhuman. -“Was there a verdict?” - -“It—it wasn’t so much what he said, exactly—no, not so much that,” -Lucius circumlocuted. “It was more the—the length of time we were -talking about you. That was the thing that struck _me_ about it, because -I didn’t know—that is, I’d never heard—I——” - -“What _are_ you trying to say, Mr. Allen?” - -“Well, I mean,” said Lucius, “I mean I hadn’t known that he came around -here at all.” - -“He doesn’t.” - -“That’s why I was so surprised.” - -“Surprised at what?” she said impatiently. - -“Why,” said Lucius, “surprised at the length of time that we were -talking about you!” - -“What nonsense!” she cried. “_What_ nonsense! I don’t suppose he’s said -two words to me or I to him in two years!” - -“Yes,” Lucius assented. “That’s what makes it all the more remarkable! I -supposed the only girl he ever thought _anything_ about was Molly Baker, -but he told me the only reason he ever goes there is just because she -lives next door to him.” - -“Not very polite to Molly!” said Miss Ricketts, and she laughed with -some indulgence for this ungallantry. - -“Still, Molly’s a determined girl,” Lucius suggested; “and she -might——” - -“She might what?” - -“Nothing,” said Lucius. “I was only remembering I’d always heard she was -such a—such a _grasping_ sort of girl.” - -“Had you?” - -“Yes, hadn’t you?” - -She was thoughtful for a moment. “Oh, I don’t know.” - -“So it seemed to me—well——” He laughed hesitatingly. “Well, it -certainly was curious, the length of time we were talking about you -to-day!” And he paused again as if awaiting her comment; but she offered -none. “Well,” he said, finally, “I expect I better go join the old folks -on the porch where I belong.” - -He was heartily received and made welcome in that sedate retreat, where, -as he said, he belonged; but throughout the greetings and the subsequent -conversation he kept a corner of his eye upon the dim white figure in -the shadow of the maple trees down by the gate. - -Presently another figure, a dark one, graceful and young, came slowly -along the sidewalk—slowly, and rather hesitatingly. This figure paused, -took a few steps onward again; then definitely halted near the gate. - -“Who is that young man out there, talking to Mary?” asked Mary’s mother. -“Can you make out, father?” - -“It’s that young Joe Perley.” - -“I’ve heard he drinks a good deal sometimes,” said Mrs. Ricketts -thoughtfully. “His mother says he tries not to, but that it comes over -him, and that he’s afraid he’ll turn out like his father.” - -Mr. Allen laughed cheerfully. “Anybody at Joe’s age can turn out any way -he wants to,” he said. “Mrs. Perley needn’t worry about Joe any more. I -just sat with him an hour down at the National House, and there was an -open whisky bottle on the table before us, and he never once touched it -all the time I was talking with him.” - -“Well, I’m glad of that,” said Mrs. Ricketts. “That ought to show he has -plenty of will-power, anyhow.” - -“Plenty,” said Lucius. - -Then Mary’s young voice called from the spaces of night. “I’m going to -walk up-town to the concert with Mr. Perley, mother. You’d better wear -your shawl if _you_ come.” - -And there was the click of the gate as she passed out. - -“We might as well be going along then, I suppose,” said Mrs. Ricketts, -rising. “You’ll come with us old folks, Lucius?” - - * * * * * - -As the three old folks sauntered along the moon-speckled sidewalk the -two slim young figures in advance were faintly revealed to them, -likewise sauntering. And Lucius was right: you could smell -apple-blossoms from one end of the town to the other. - -“I hope our boys will win the band tournament at the county fair next -summer,” said Mrs. Ricketts. “Don’t you think there’s a pretty good -chance of it, Lucius?” - -For a moment he appeared not to have heard her, and she gently repeated -her question: - -“Don’t you think there’s a pretty good chance of it?” - -“Yes, more than a chance,” he dreamily replied. “It only takes a hint in -springtime. They’ll do practically anything you tell ’em to. It’s mostly -the apple-blossoms and the little birds.” - - - - - WILLAMILLA - - -MASTER LAURENCE COY, aged nine, came down the shady sidewalk one summer -afternoon, in a magnificence that escaped observation. To the careless -eye he was only a little boy pretending to be a drummer; for although he -had no drum and his clenched fingers held nothing, it was plain that he -drummed. But to be merely a drummer was far below the scope of his -intentions; he chose to employ his imagination on the grand scale, and -to his own way of thinking, he was a full drum-corps, marching between -lines of tumultuous spectators. And as he came gloriously down the -shouting lane of citizenry he pranced now and then; whereupon, without -interrupting his drumming, he said sharply: “Whoa there, Jenny! Git up -there, Gray!” This drum-corps was mounted. - -He vocalized the bass drums and the snare drums in a staccato chant, -using his deepest voice for the bass, and tones pitched higher, and in -truth somewhat painfully nasal, for the snare; meanwhile he swung his -right arm ponderously on the booms, then resumed the rapid employment of -both imaginary sticks for the rattle of the tenor drums. Thus he -projected and sketched, all at the same time, every detail of this great -affair. - -“_Boom!_” he said. “_Boom! Boomety, boomety, boom!_” Then he added: - - “Boom! Boom! - Boom bought a rat trap, - Bigger than a bat trap, - Bigger than a _cat_ trap! - Boom! Boom! - Boomety, boomety, boom!” - -So splendid was the effect upon himself of all this pomp and realism, -that the sidewalk no longer contented him. Vociferating for the moment -as a bugle, the drum-corps swung to the right and debouched to the -middle of the street, where such a martial body was more in place, and -thenceforth marched, resounding. “_Boom! Boom! Boomety, boomety, boom!_” -There followed repetitions of the chant concerning the celebrated trap -purchased by Mr. Boom. - -A little girl leaned upon a gate that gave admission to a pleasant yard, -shaded by a vast old walnut tree, and from this point she watched the -approach of the procession. She was a homely little girl, as people say; -but a student of small affairs would have guessed that she had been -neatly dressed earlier in the day; and even now it could be seen that -the submergence of her right stocking into its own folds was not due to -any lack of proper equipment, for equipment was visible. She stood -behind the gate, eagerly looking forth, and by a coincidence not unusual -in that neighbourhood, a beautiful little girl was at the gate of the -next yard, some eighty or a hundred feet beyond; but this second little -girl’s unspotted attire had suffered no disarrangements, and her face -was clean; even her hands were miraculously clean. - -When the sonorous Laurence came nearer, the homely little girl almost -disappeared behind her gate; her arms rested upon the top of it, and -only her hair, forehead and eyes could be seen above her arms. The eyes, -however, had become exceedingly sharp, and they shone with an elfin -mirth that grew even brighter as the drum-corps drew closer. - -“_Boom!_” said Laurence. “_Boomety, boomety, boom!_” And again he gave -an account of Mr. Boom’s purchase; but he condescended to offer no sign -betokening a consciousness of the two spectators at their gates. He went -by the first of these in high military order, executing a manœuvre as he -went—again briefly becoming a trumpeter, swinging to the right, then to -the left, and so forward once more, as he resumed the drums. “_Boom! -Boom! Boomety, boomety, boom!_ - - “Boom! Boom! - Boom bought a rat trap, - Bigger than a bat trap——” - -But here he was profoundly annoyed by the conduct of the homely little -girl. She darted out of her gate, ran to the middle of the street and -pranced behind him in outrageous mockery. In a thin and straining voice, -altogether inappropriate for the representation of a drum-corps, she -piped: - - “Boom bought a rat trap, - Bigger than a bat trap, - Bigger than a _cat_ trap! - Boom!” - -Laurence turned upon her. “For heavenses’ sakes!” he said. “My -good-_nuss_, Daisy Mears, haven’t you got _any_ sense? For heavenses’ -sakes, pull up your ole stockin’s!” - -“I won’t,” Miss Mears returned with instant resentment. “I guess you -can’t order _me_ around, Mister Laurence Coy! I doe’ know who ever -’pointed you to be _my_ boss! Besides, only one of ’em’s fell down.” - -“Well, pull _it_ up, then,” he said crossly. “Or else don’t come hangin’ -around me!” - -“Oh, you don’t say so!” she retorted. “Thank you ever so kinely an’ -p’litely for your complimunts just the same, but I pull up my stockin’s -whenever _I_ want to, not when every person I happen to meet in the -street goes an’ takes an’ tells me to!” - -“Well, you better!” said Laurence, at a venture, for he was not -absolutely certain of her meaning. “Anyway, you needn’t hang around _me_ -unless——” - -He stopped, for Daisy Mears had begun, not to hang around him indeed, -but to dance around him, and indecorously at that! She levelled her -small, grimy right forefinger at him, appearing to whet it with her left -forefinger, which was equally begrimed, and at the same time she -capered, squealing triumphantly: “Ya-ay, Laurunce! Showin’ off! Showin’ -off ’cause Elsie Threamer’s lookin’ at you! Showin’ off for Elsie! -Showin’ off for Elsie!” - -“I am not!” Laurence made loud denial, but he coloured and glanced -wretchedly at the other little girl, who had remained at her own gate. -Her lovely, shadowy eyes appeared to be unaware of the dispute in the -street; and, crooning almost soundlessly to herself, she had that -perfect detachment from environment and events so often observed in -Beauties. - -“I am _not_!” Laurence repeated. “If I was goin’ to show off before -anybody, I wouldn’t show off before Elsie!” And on the spur of the -moment, to prove what he said, he made a startling misrepresentation of -his sentiments. “I hate her!” he shouted. - -But his tormentress was accustomed to deal with wild allegations of this -sort, and to discount them. “Ya-ay, Laur-runce!” she cried. “Showin’ off -for Elsie! Yes, you were! Showin’ off for Elsie! Show-win’ off for -Ell-_see_!” And circling round him in a witch dance, she repeated the -taunt till it nauseated him, his denials became agonized and his -assertions that he hated Elsie, uproarious. Thus within the space of -five minutes a pompous drum-corps passed from a state of discipline to -one of demoralization. - -“Children! Children!” a woman’s voice called from an open window. “Get -out of the street, children. Look out for the automobiles!” - -Thereupon the witch dance stopped, and the taunting likewise; Daisy -returned to the sidewalk with a thoughtful air; and Master Coy followed -her, looking rather morbid, but saying nothing. They leaned against the -hedge near where the indifferent and dreamy Elsie stood at her gate; and -for some time none of the three spoke: they had one of those apparently -inexplicable silences that come upon children. It was Laurence who broke -it, with a muttering. - -“Anyways, I wasn’t,” he said, seemingly to himself. - -“You was, too,” Daisy said quietly. - -“Well, how you goin’ to prove it?” Laurence inquired, speaking louder. -“If it’s so, then you got to prove it. You either got to prove it or -else you got to take it back.” - -“I don’t either haf to!” - -“You do too haf to!” - -“All right, then,” said Daisy. “I’ll prove it by Elsie. He was, wasn’t -he, Elsie?” - -“What?” Elsie inquired vaguely. - -“Wasn’t Laurence showin’ off out in the street? He _was_ showin’ off, -wasn’t he?” - -“I was not!” - -“You was, too! Wasn’t he, Elsie?” - -“I doe’ know,” Elsie said, paying no attention to them; for she was -observing a little group that had made its appearance at the next -corner, a few moments earlier, and now came slowly along the sidewalk in -the mottled shade of the maple trees. “Oh, look!” she cried. “Just look -at that _darling_ little coloured baby!” - -Her companions turned to look where she pointed, and Daisy instantly -became as ecstasized as Elsie. “Oh, _look_ at the precious, darling, -little _thing_!” she shouted. - -As for Laurence, what he saw roused little enthusiasm within his bosom; -on the contrary, he immediately felt a slight but distinct antipathy; -and he wondered as, upon occasion he had wondered before, why in the -world little girls of his own age, and even younger girls, as well as -older girls and grown-up women, so often fell into a gesticular and -vocal commotion at the sight of a baby. However, he took some interest -in the dog accompanying this one. - -The baby sat in a small and rickety wooden wagon which appeared to be of -home manufacture, since it was merely a brown box on small wheels or -disks of solid wood. A long handle projected behind as a propelling -device, but the course of the vehicle was continually a little devious, -on account of a most visible eccentricity of the front wheels. The -infant was comfortable among cushions, however, and over its head a -little, ancient, fringed red parasol had been ingeniously erected, -probably as much for style as for shade. Moreover, this note of fashion -was again touched in the baby’s ribboned cap, and in the embroidered -scarf that served as a coverlet, and, though plainly a relic, still -exhibited a lively colour. - -An unevenly ponderous old coloured woman pushed the wagon; but her -complexion was incomparably darker than the occupant’s, which was an -extremely light tan, so that no one would have guessed them to be as -nearly related as they really were. And although this deeply coloured -woman’s weight was such a burden to her that she advanced at a slow, -varying gait, more a sag-and-shuffle than a walk, she was of an -exuberantly gracious aspect. In fact, her expression was so benevolent -that it was more than striking; it was surprising. Her eyes, rolling and -curiously streaked, were visibly moist with kindness; her mouth was -murmurous in loving phrases addressed sometimes to life generally, -sometimes to the baby, and sometimes to the dog accompanying the -cortège. - -This dog was one of those dogs who feel themselves out of place in the -street, and show that they do by the guardedness of their expressions. -Their relief when they reach an alley is evident; then they relax at -once; the look of strain vanishes from their eyes, and their nerves -permit them once more to sit when they massage their ears. They seem -intended to be white, but the intention appears to have become early -enfeebled, leaving them the colour of a pale oyster;—and they do not -wear collars, these dogs. A collar upon one of them would alter his -status disturbingly, and he would understand that, and feel confused and -troubled. In a word, even when these dogs are seen in an aristocratic -environment, for some straying moment, they are dogs instantly -recognizable as belonging to coloured persons. - -This one was valued highly by his owners; at least that was implied by -what the benevolent old woman said to him as they moved slowly along the -sidewalk toward the three children at Elsie Threamer’s gate. - -“Hossifer,” she said, addressing the dog, “Hossifer, I b’lieve my soul -you the fines’ dog in a worl’! I feel the lovin’es’ to you I ever feel -any dog. You wuff fo’, fi’ hunnud dolluhs, Hossifer. You wuff fousan’ -dolluhs; yes, you is! You a lovin’ dog, Hossifer!” Then she spoke to the -baby, but affection and happiness almost overcame her coherence. -“Dah-li-dah-li-dah-li-deedums!” she said. “Oh, but you the lovin’, -lovin’, lovin’ baby, honey! You is my swee’, swee’, li’l dee-dee-do! Oh, -oh, oh, bless Lawd, ain’ it a fine day! Fine day fer my honey lovin’ -baby! Fine day f’um lovin’ heaven! Oh, oh, oh, I’m a-happy! Swee’ lovin’ -livin’, lem me sing! _Oh_, lem me _sing_!” - -She sang, and so loudly that she astonished the children; whereupon, -observing their open mouths and earnestly staring eyes, she halted near -them and laughed. - -“Why all you look at me so funny?” she inquired hilariously. “Li’l whi’ -boy, what fer you open you’ mouf at me, honey?” - -“I didn’t,” Laurence said. - -“Yes’m, indeed you did, honey,” she gaily insisted. “You all free did. -Open you’ moufs and look so funny at me—make me laugh an’ holler!” And -with unconventional vivacity she whooped and cackled strangely. - -Finding her thus so vociferously amiable, Daisy felt encouraged to -approach the wagon; and bending down over it, she poked the mulatto baby -repeatedly in an affectionate manner. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “I do think -this is the darlingest baby!” - -“Ain’ it!” the coloured woman cried. “Ain’ it! Yes’m, you say what’s -_so_! Ain’ it!” - -“Does it belong to you?” Daisy inquired. - -“Yes’m, indeed do! I’m baby’ grammaw. Baby my li’l lovin’ gran’chile.” - -It was plain that all three children thought the statement remarkable; -they repeatedly looked from the light tan grandchild to the dark brown -grandmother and back again, while Daisy, in particular, had an air of -doubt. “Are you _sure_?” she asked. “Are you _sure_ you’re its gran’ma?” - -“Yes’m indeed!” - -“Honest?” - -“Yes’m indeed!” - -“Well——” Daisy began, and was about to mention the grounds of her -doubt; but tact prevailed with her, and she asked a question instead. - -“What’s its name?” - -“Name Willamilla.” - -“What?” - -“Name Willamilla.” - -“Willamilla?” said Daisy. “I never heard it before, but it’s a right -pretty name.” - -“Yes’m indeed!” the coloured woman agreed enthusiastically. “Willamilla -lovin’, happy, _gran’_ name!” - -“What’s the dog’s name?” Laurence asked. - -“Hossifer.” - -Laurence frowned importantly. “Is he full-blooded?” he inquired. - -“Is he who?” - -“I guess he isn’t very full-blooded,” Laurence said. “Will he bite?” - -“Hossifer?” she said. “Hossifer, he a mighty lovin’ dog! Bite? He ain’ -bite nobody. Hossifer, he a lovin’-hearted dog.” - -Elsie had come out of her gate, and she bent over the wagon with Daisy. -“Oh, my!” she said wistfully. “I do wish we could have this baby to play -with.” - -“Couldn’t we?” Daisy asked of the baby’s grandmother. “Would you be -willing to sell it to us?” - -“No’m,” the coloured woman replied, though she manifested no surprise at -the question. “No’m; my son-’law, he wouldn’ lem me sell no Willamilla.” - -“Well, would you give it to us, then?” - -“No’m. Can’ give Willamilla ’way.” - -“Oh, my!” Daisy exclaimed. “I do wish we could have this baby to play -with awhile, anyway.” - -The woman appeared to consider this, and her processes of considering it -interested the children. Her streaked eyes were unusually large and -protuberant; she closed them, letting the cumbrous lids roll slowly down -over them, and she swayed alarmingly as she did this, almost losing her -balance, but she recovered herself, opened her eyes widely, and said: - -“How long you want play with Willamilla, honey?” - -“Oh!” Daisy cried. “Will you let us? Oh, all afternoon!” - -“Listen me,” said Willamilla’s grandmother. “I got errand I love to go -on. Wagon push ri’ heavy, too. I leave Willamilla with you lovin’ li’l -whi’ chillun, an’ come back free o’clock.” - -“Oh, lovely!” Daisy and Elsie both shouted. - -“Free o’clock,” said the coloured woman. - -“That’ll give us _lots_ o’ time,” said Elsie. “Maybe almost an hour!” - -The woman took a parcel from the wagon; it was wrapped in an old -newspaper, and its shape was the shape of a bottle, though not that of -an infant’s milk-bottle. Also, the cork was not quite secure, and the -dampened paper about the neck of this bottle gave forth a faint odour of -sweet spirits of niter mingled with the spicy fragrance of a decoction -from juniper, but naturally neither the odour nor the shape of the -parcel meant anything to the children. It meant a great, great deal to -Willamilla’s grandma, however; and her lovingness visibly increased as -she took the parcel in her arms. - -“I’m go’ take this nice loaf o’ bread to some po’ ole sick folks whut -live up the alley ovuh yonnuh,” she said. “Hossifer he go’ stay with -Willamilla an’ li’l wagon.” She moved away, but paused to speak to -Hossifer, who followed her. “Hossifer, you the lovin’est dog in a wide -worl’, but you go on back, honey!” She petted him, then waved him away. -“Go on back, Hossifer!” And Hossifer returned to the wagon, while she -crossed the street toward the mouth of an alley. - -The children stared after her, being even more interested just then in -her peculiar progress than they were in their extraordinary new -plaything. When the coloured woman reached a point about half way across -the street, she found a difficulty in getting forward; her feet bore her -slowly sidewise for some paces; she seemed to wander and waver; then, -with an effort at concentration, she appeared to see a new path before -her, followed it, and passed from sight down the alley. - -Behind her she left a strongly favourable impression. Never had Daisy -and Elsie met an adult more sympathetic to their wishes or one more -easily persuaded than this obliging woman, and they turned to the baby -with a pleasure in which there was mingled a slight surprise. They began -to shout endearing words at Willamilla immediately, however, and even -Master Coy looked upon the infant with a somewhat friendly eye, for he -was warmed toward it by a sense of temporary proprietorship, and also by -a feeling of congeniality, due to a supposition of his in regard to -Willamilla’s sex. But of course Laurence’s greater interest was in -Hossifer, though the latter’s manner was not encouraging. Hossifer’s -brow became furrowed with lines of suspicion; he withdrew to a distance -of a dozen yards or so, and made a gesture indicating that he was about -to sit down, but upon Laurence’s approaching him, he checked the -impulse, and moved farther away, muttering internally. - -“Good doggie!” Laurence said. “_I_ won’t hurt you. Hyuh, Hossifer! Hyuh, -Hossifer!” - -Hossifer’s mutterings became more audible, his brow more furrowed, and -his eyes more undecided. Thus by every means he sought to make plain -that he might adopt any course of action whatever, that he but awaited -the decisive impulse, would act as it impelled, and declined -responsibility for what he should happen to do on the spur of the -moment. Laurence made a second effort to gain his confidence, but after -failing conspicuously he thought best to return to Willamilla and the -ladies. - -“My goodness!” he said. “What on earth you doin’ to that baby?” - -Chattering in the busiest and most important way, they had taken -Willamilla from the wagon and had settled which one was to have the -“first turn.” This fell to Daisy, and holding Willamilla in her arms -rather laboriously—for Willamilla was fourteen months old and fat—she -began to walk up and down, crooning something she no doubt believed to -be a lullaby. - -“It’s my turn,” Elsie said. “I’ve counted a hunderd.” - -“No fair!” Daisy protested at once. “You counted too fast.” And she -continued to pace the sidewalk with Willamilla while Elsie walked beside -her, insisting upon a rightful claim. - -“Here!” Laurence said, coming up to them. “Listen! You’re holdin’ him -all sprawled out and everything—you better put him back in the wagon. I -bet if you hold him that way much longer you’ll spoil somep’m in him.” - -“_Him?_” Both of his fair friends shouted; and they stared at Laurence -with widening eyes. “Well, I declare!” Elsie said pettishly. “Haven’t -you even got sense enough to know it’s a girl, Laurence Coy?” - -“It is not!” - -“It is, too!” they both returned. - -“Listen here!” said Laurence. “Look at his name! I guess that settles -it, don’t it?” - -“It settles it he’s a girl,” Daisy cried. “I bet you don’t even know -what her name is.” - -“Oh, I don’t?” - -“Well, what is it, then?” - -“Willie Miller.” - -“What?” - -“Willie Miller!” Laurence said. “That’s what his own gran’mother said -his name was. She said his name’s Willie Miller.” - -Upon this the others shouted in derision; and with the greatest -vehemence they told him over and over that Willamilla’s name was -Willamilla, that Willamilla was a girl’s name, that Willamilla was -consequently a girl, that she was a girl anyhow, no matter what her name -was, but that her name actually was Willamilla, as her own grandmother -had informed them. Grandmothers, Daisy and Elsie explained pityingly, -are supposed to know the names of their own grandchildren. - -Laurence resisted all this information as well as he was able, setting -forth his own convictions in the matter, and continuing his argument -while they continued theirs, but finally, in desperation, he proposed a -compromise. - -“Go on an’ _call_ him Willamilla,” he said bitterly, “—if you got to! -_I_ doe’ care if you haven’t got any more sense’n to call him Willamilla -when his real name’s Willie Miller an’ his own gran’mother says so! -_I_’m goin’ to call him Willie Miller till I die; only for heavenses’ -sake, hush up!” - -The ladies declined to do as he suggested; whereupon he withdrew from -the dispute, and while they talked on, deriding as well as instructing -him, he leaned upon the gate and looked gloomily at the ground. However, -at intervals, he formed with his lips, though soundlessly, the stubborn -words, “His name’s Willie Miller!” - -“Oh, I tell you what’d be lovely!” Daisy cried. “Maybe she knows how to -_walk_! Let’s put her down and see—and if she doesn’t know how already, -why, we can teach her!” - -Elsie gladly fell in with her friend’s idea, and together they -endeavoured to place Willamilla upon her feet on the ground. In this -they were confronted with insuperable difficulties: Willamilla proved -unable to comprehend their intentions; and although Daisy knelt and -repeatedly placed the small feet in position, the experiment was wholly -unsuccessful. Nevertheless the experimenters, not at all discouraged, -continued it with delight, for they _played_ that Willamilla was -walking. They heaped praises upon her. - -“My darling baby!” Daisy cried. “Doesn’t she walk _beautiful_?” - -“The precious little love!” Elsie echoed. “She just walks _beautiful_!” - -At this the gloomy person in the background permitted himself to sneer. -“That ain’t walkin’,” he said. - -“It is, too! You doe’ know what you’re talkin’ about!” the chorus of two -retorted, not interrupting their procedure. - -“He ain’t walkin’,” Laurence maintained. - -“She is, too!” said Elsie. - -“She’s walkin’ now,” said Daisy. “She’s walkin’ all the time.” - -“No, he’s not,” Laurence said. “His feet are sort of curly, and they’re -_’way_ too wide apart. I bet there’s somep’m the matter with him.” - -“There is not!” The two little girls looked round at him indignantly; -for this unwarranted intimation of some structural imperfection roused -them. “Shame on you!” Daisy said; and to Willamilla: “Show mamma how -beautiful she walks.” - -“He can’t do it,” Laurence said obdurately. “I bet there _is_ somep’m -the matter with him.” - -“There is _not_!” - -“Yes, sir,” said Laurence, and he added, with conviction: “His legs -ain’t fixed on him right.” - -“Shame on you, Laurence Coy!” - -But Laurence persisted in his view. - -“Listen!” he said, arguing. “Look at _my_ legs. Look at anybody’s legs -that can walk. Well, are they fixed on ’em the way _his_ are?” - -“Yes, they are!” Daisy returned sharply. “Only hers are fixed on better -than yours!” - -“They ain’t,” said Laurence. “Mine are fixed on like other people’s, and -his are—well, they’re terrable!” - -“Oh, isn’t he tiresome?” Elsie said pettishly. “Do be quiet about your -ole legs!” - -“Yes, _do_!” said Daisy; and then she jumped up, a new idea lighting her -eyes. “_I_ tell you what let’s do,” she cried. “Let’s put her back in -the wagon, an’ play we’re takin’ a walk on Sunday with our baby an’ all -the family.” - -“How’ll we play it?” Elsie asked. - -“Well, _I_’ll be the mamma and push the wagon,” Daisy said excitedly. -“Elsie, you be some lady that’s visitin’ us, an’ sort of walk along with -us, an’——” - -“No,” Elsie interrupted. “_I_ want to be the mamma and push the wagon, -an’ _you_ be some lady that’s visitin’ _us_.” - -Daisy looked a little annoyed, but she compromised. “Well, we’ll go a -long walk, and I’ll be the mamma the first block, an’ then the next -block you can be the mamma, and I’ll be the lady that’s visitin’ us, an’ -then the next block it’ll be my turn again.” - -“All right,” said Elsie. “What’ll we have Laurence be?” - -“We’ll have him be the father.” - -Laurence frowned; the idea was rather distasteful to him, and for some -reason a little embarrassing. “Listen!” he said. “What do I haf to do?” - -“Oh, just walk along and kind of talk an’ everything.” - -“Well——” he said uncertainly; then he brightened a little. “I’ll be -smokin’ cigars,” he said. - -“All right, you can.” And having placed Willamilla in the wagon, Daisy -grasped the handle, pushing the vehicle before her. Laurence put a twig -in his mouth, puffing elaborately; Elsie walked beside Willamilla; and -so the procession moved—Hossifer, still in a mood of indecision, -following at a varying distance. And Daisy sang her lullaby as they -went. - -This singing of hers had an unfavourable effect upon Laurence. For a few -minutes after they started he smoked his twig with a little satisfaction -and had a slight enjoyment in the thought that he was the head of a -family—but something within him kept objecting to the game; he found -that really he did not like it. He bore it better on the second and -fourth blocks, for Elsie was the mother then, but he felt a strong -repulsion when Daisy assumed that relation. He intensely disliked being -the father when she was the mother, and he was reluctant to have anybody -see him serving in that capacity. Daisy’s motherhood was aggressive; she -sang louder and louder, and even without the singing the procession -attracted a great deal of attention from pedestrians. Laurence felt that -Daisy’s music was in bad taste, especially as she had not yet pulled up -her stocking. - -She made up the tune, as well as the words, of her lullaby; the tune -held beauty for no known ears except her own and these were the words: - - “Oh, my da-ar-luh-un baby, - My-y lit-tull baby! - Go to sleep! Go to _slee_-heep! - Oh, my dear lit-_tull_ baby! - My baby, my dar-luh-un bay-bee, - My bay-bee, my bay-_hay_-bee!” - -As she thus soothed the infant, who naturally slumbered not, with -Daisy’s shrill voice so near, some people on the opposite side of the -street looked across and laughed; and this caused a blush of -mortification to spread over the face of the father. - -“Listen!” he remonstrated. “You don’t haf to make all that noise.” - -She paid no attention but went on singing. - -“Listen!” said Laurence nervously. “Anyways, you don’t haf to open your -mouth so wide when you sing, do you? It looks terrable!” - -She opened it even wider and sang still louder: - - “My lit-tull baby, my da-ar-_luh_-un _bay_-bee! - My _bay_-bee! My bay-_hay_-bee!” - -“Oh, my!” Laurence said, and he retired to the rear; whereupon Hossifer -gave him a look and fell back a little farther. “Listen!” Laurence -called to Daisy. “You scared the dog!” - -Daisy stopped singing and glanced back over her shoulder. “I did not!” -she said. “You scared her yourself.” - -“_Who?_” Laurence advanced to the side of the wagon, staring -incredulously. “Who you talkin’ about?” - -“She was walkin’ along nice only a little way behind us,” Daisy said, -“until you went near her.” - -“I went near _who_?” Laurence asked, looking very much disturbed. “_Who_ -was walkin’ along nice?” - -“Hossifer was. You said _I_ scared her, and all the time she——” - -“Listen!” said Laurence, breathing rapidly. “I won’t stand it. This dog -isn’t a girl!” - -“Hossifer’s a girl’s name,” said Daisy placidly. “I bet you never heard -of a boy by that name in your life!” - -“Well, what if I never?” - -“Well,” said Daisy authoritatively, “that proves it. Hossifer’s a girl’s -name and you just the same as said so yourself. Elsie, didn’t he say -Hossifer isn’t a boy’s name, an’ doesn’t that prove Hossifer’s a girl?” - -“Yes, it does,” Elsie returned with decision. - -Laurence looked at them; then he shook his head. “Oh, _my_!” he said -morosely, for these two appeared set upon allowing him no colleagues or -associates whatever, and he felt himself at the end of his resources. - -Daisy began to sing again at once. - -“Oh, my dar-lun lit-_tull_ bay-hay-_bee_-hee!” she sang; and she may -have been too vehement for Willamilla, who had thus far remained -remarkably placid under her new circumstances; Willamilla began to cry. - -She began in a mild way, with a whimper, inaudible on account of the -lullaby; then she slightly increased her protest, making use of a voice -like the tinnier tones of a light saxophone; and having employed this -mild mechanism for some time, without securing any relief from the -shrillness that bothered her, she came to the conclusion that she was -miserable. Now, she was of this disposition: once she arrived at such a -conclusion, she remained at it, and nothing could convey to her mind -that altered conditions had removed what annoyed her, until she became -so exhausted by the protraction of her own protests that she slept, -forgot and woke to a new life. - -She marked the moment of her decision, this afternoon, by the utterance -of a wail that rose high over the singing; she lifted up her voice and -used the full power of lungs and throat to produce such a sound that -even the heart of the father was disquieted, while the mamma and the -visiting lady at once flung themselves on their knees beside the wagon. - -“Whassa _matta_? Whassa _matta_?” Daisy and Elsie inquired some dozens -of times, and they called Willamilla a “peshus baby” even oftener, but -were unable to quiet her. Indeed, as they shouted their soothing -endearments, her tears reached a point almost torrential, and she beat -the coverlet with her small fat hands. - -“He’s mad about somep’m, I guess,” the father observed, looking down -upon her. “Or else he’s got a spasm, maybe.” - -“She hasn’t either,” Daisy said. “She’ll stop in a minute.” - -“Well, it might not be spasms,” Laurence said. “But I bet whatever it -is, it happened from all that singin’.” - -Daisy was not pleased with his remark. “I’ll thank you not to be so -kinely complimentary, Mister Laurence Coy!” she said, and she took up -Willamilla in her arms, and rather staggeringly began to walk to and fro -with her, singing: - - “Oh, my peshus litt-_tull_ bay-_hay_-bee-hee!” - -Elsie walked beside her, singing too, while Willamilla beat upon the air -with desperate hands and feet, closed her effervescent eyes as tightly -as she could, opened her mouth till the orifice appeared as the most -part of her visage, and allowed the long-sustained and far-reaching -ululations therefrom to issue. Laurence began to find his position -intolerable. - -“For heavenses’ sakes!” he said. “If this keeps up much longer, _I_’m -goin’ _home_. Everybody’s a-lookin’ at us all up an’ down the street! -Whyn’t you quit singin’ an’ give him a chance to get over whatever’s the -matter with him?” - -“Well, why don’t you do somep’m to help stop her from cryin’, yourself?” -Elsie asked crossly. - -“Well, I will,” he promised, much too rashly. “I’d stop him in a minute -if I had my way.” - -“All right,” Daisy said unexpectedly, halting with Willamilla just in -front of him. “Go on an’ stop her, you know so much!” - -“He’ll stop when _I_ tell him to,” Laurence said, in the grim tone his -father sometimes used, and with an air of power and determination, he -rolled up the right sleeve of his shirtwaist, exposing the slender arm -as far as the elbow. Then he shook his small fist in Willamilla’s face. - -“You quit your noise!” he said sternly. “You hush up! Hush up this -minute! Hush _opp_!” - -Willamilla abated nothing. - -“Didn’t you hear me tell you to hush up?” Laurence asked her fiercely. -“You goin’ to _do_ it?” And he shook his fist at her again. - -Upon this, Willamilla seemed vaguely to perceive something personal to -herself in his gesture, and to direct her own flagellating arms as if to -beat at his approaching fist. - -“Look out!” Laurence said threateningly. “Don’t you try any o’ that with -_me_, Mister!” - -But the mulatto baby’s squirmings were now too much for Daisy; she -staggered, and in fear of dropping the lively burden, suddenly thrust it -into Laurence’s arms. - -“Here!” she gasped. “I’m ’most worn out! Take her!” - -“Oh, golly!” Laurence said. - -“Don’t _drop_ her!” both ladies screamed. “Put her back in the wagon.” - -Obeying them willingly for once, he turned to the wagon to replace -Willamilla therein; but as he stooped, he was forced to pause and stoop -no farther. Hossifer had stationed himself beside the wagon and made it -clear that he would not allow Willamilla to be replaced. He growled; his -upper lip quivered in a way that exhibited almost his whole set of teeth -as Laurence stooped, and when Laurence went round to the other side of -the wagon, and bent over it with his squirming and noisy bundle, -Hossifer followed, and repeated the demonstration. He heightened its -eloquence, in fact, making feints and little jumps, and increasing the -visibility of his teeth, as well as the poignancy of his growling. Thus -menaced, Laurence straightened up and moved backward a few steps, while -his two friends, some distance away, kept telling him, with unreasonable -insistence, to do as they had instructed him. - -“Put her in the wagon, and come _on_!” they called. “We got to go -_back_! It’s after three _o’clock_! Come _on_!” - -Laurence explained the difficulty in which he found himself. “He won’t -let me,” he said. - -“Who won’t?” Daisy asked, coming nearer. - -“This dog. He won’t let me put him back in the wagon; he almost bit me -when I tried it. Here!” And he tried to restore Willamilla to Daisy. -“You take her an’ put her in.” - -But Daisy, retreating, emphatically declined—which was likewise the -course adopted by Elsie when Laurence approached her. Both said that -Hossifer “must _want_” Laurence to keep Willamilla, for thus they -interpreted Hossifer’s conduct. - -“Well, I _won’t_ keep her,” Laurence said hotly. “I don’t expect to go -deaf just because some old dog don’t want her in the wagon! I’m goin’ to -slam her down on the sidewalk and let her lay there! I’m gettin’ mighty -tired of all this.” - -But when he moved to do as he threatened, and would have set Willamilla -upon the pavement, the unreasonable Hossifer again refused permission. -He placed himself close to Laurence, growling loudly, displaying his -teeth, bristling, poising dangerously, and Laurence was forced to -straighten himself once more without having deposited the infant, whom -he now hated poisonously. - -“My _good_nuss!” he said desperately. - -“Don’t you see?” Daisy cried, and her tone was less sympathetic than -triumphant. “It’s just the way we said; Hossifer _wants_ you to keep -her!” - -Elsie agreed with her, and both seemed pleased with themselves for -having divined Hossifer’s intentions so readily, though as a matter of -fact they were entirely mistaken in this intuitional analysis. Hossifer -cared nothing at all about Laurence’s retaining Willamilla; neither was -the oyster-coloured dog’s conduct so irrational as the cowed and -wretched Laurence thought it. In the first place, Hossifer was never -quite himself away from an alley; he had been upon a strain all that -afternoon. Then, when the elderly coloured woman had forbidden him to -accompany her, and he found himself with strangers, including a white -boy, and away from everything familiar, except Willamilla, in whom he -had never taken any personal interest, he became uneasy and fell into a -querulous mood. His uneasiness naturally concerned itself with the boy, -and was deepened by two definite attempts of this boy to approach him. - -When the family Sunday walk was undertaken, Hossifer followed Willamilla -and the wagon; for of course he realized that this was one of those -things about which there can be no question: one does them, and that’s -all. But his thoughts were constantly upon the boy, and he resolved to -be the first to act if the boy made the slightest hostile gesture. -Meanwhile, his nerves were unfavourably affected by the strange singing, -and they were presently more upset by the blatancies of Willamilla. Her -wailing acted unpleasantly upon the sensitive apparatus of his ear—the -very thing that made him so strongly dislike tinny musical instruments -and brass bands. And then, just as he was feeling most disorganized, he -saw the boy stoop. Hossifer did not realize that Laurence stooped -because he desired to put Willamilla into the wagon; Hossifer did not -connect Willamilla with the action at all. He saw only that the boy -stooped. Now, why does a boy stoop? He stoops to pick up something to -throw at a dog. Hossifer made up his mind not to let Laurence stoop. - -That was all; he was perfectly willing for Willamilla to be put back in -the wagon, and the father, the mother and the visiting lady were alike -mistaken—especially the father, whose best judgment was simply that -Hossifer was of a disordered mind and had developed a monomania for a -very special persecution. Hossifer was sane, and his motives were -rational. Dogs who are over two years of age never do anything without a -motive; Hossifer was nearing seven. - -Daisy and Elsie, mistaken though they were, insisted strongly upon their -own point-of-view in regard to him. “She _wants_ you to keep her! She -_wants_ you to keep her!” they cried, and they chanted it as a sort of -refrain; they clapped their hands and capered, adding their noise to -Willamilla’s, and showing little appreciation of the desperate state of -mind into which events had plunged their old friend Laurence. - -“She _wants_ you to keep her!” they chanted. “She _wants_ you to keep -her. She _wants_ you to keep her, Laurence!” - -Laurence piteously entreated them to call Hossifer away; but the latter -was cold to their rather sketchy attempts to gain his attention. -However, they succeeded in making him more excited, and he began to bark -furiously, in a bass voice. Having begun, he barked without -intermission, so that with Hossifer’s barking, Willamilla’s relentless -wailing, and the joyous shouting of Daisy and Elsie, Laurence might well -despair of making himself heard. He seemed to rave in a pantomime of -oral gestures, his arms and hands being occupied. - -A man wearing soiled overalls, with a trowel in his hand, came from -behind a house near by and walking crossly over the lawn, arrived at the -picket fence beside which stood the abandoned wagon. - -“Gosh, I never _did_!” he said, bellowing to be audible. “Git away from -here! Don’t you s’pose nobody’s got no _ears_? There’s a sick lady in -this house right here, and she don’t propose to have you kill her! Go on -git away from here now! Go on! I never _did_!” - -Annoyed by this labourer’s coarseness, Elsie and Daisy paused to stare -at him in as aristocratic a manner as they could, but he was little -impressed. - -“_Gosh_, I never did!” he repeated. “Git on out the neighbourhood and go -where you b’long; you don’t b’long around here!” - -“I should think _not_,” Daisy agreed crushingly. “Where _we_ live, if -there’s any sick ladies, they take ’em out an’ bury ’em!” Just what she -meant by this, if indeed she meant anything, it is difficult to imagine, -but she felt no doubt that she had put the man in his ignoble and proper -place. Tossing her head, she picked up the handle of the wagon and moved -haughtily away, her remarkably small nose in the air. Elsie went with -her in a similar attitude. - -“Go on! You hear me?” The man motioned fiercely with his trowel at -Laurence. “Did you hear me tell you to take that noise away from here? -How many more times I got to——” - -“My gracious!” Laurence interrupted thickly. “_I_ doe’ want to stay -here!” - -He feared to move; he was apprehensive that Hossifer might not like it, -but upon the man’s threatening to vault over the fence and hurry him -with the trowel, he ventured some steps; whereupon Hossifer stopped -barking and followed closely, but did nothing worse. Laurence therefore -went on, and presently made another attempt to place Willamilla upon the -pavement—and again Hossifer supported the ladies’ theory that he wanted -Laurence to keep Willamilla. - -“_Listen!_” Laurence said passionately to Hossifer. “_I_ never did -anything to you! What’s got the matter of you, anyway? How long I got to -keep all this _up_?” - -Then he called to Elsie and Daisy, who were hurrying ahead and -increasing the distance between him and them, for Willamilla’s weight -made his progress slow and sometimes uncertain. “Wait!” he called. “Can’ -chu _wait_? What’s the _matter_ of you? Can’ chu even _wait_ for me?” - -But they hurried on, chattering busily together, and his troubles were -deepened by his isolation with the uproarious Willamilla and Hossifer. -Passers-by observed him with hearty amusement; and several boys, total -strangers to him, gave up a game of marbles and accompanied him for a -hundred yards or so, speculating loudly upon his relationship to -Willamilla, but finally deciding that Laurence was in love with her and -carrying her off to a minister’s to marry her. - -He felt that his detachment from the rest of his party was largely -responsible for exposing him to these insults, and when he had shaken -off the marble-players, whose remarks filled him with horror, he made a -great effort to overtake the two irresponsible little girls. - -“_Hay!_ Can’ chu _wait_?” he bawled. “Oh, my good-_nuss_! For heavenses’ -sakes! Dog-_gone_ it. Can’ chu _wait_! _I_ can’t carry this baby _all_ -the way!” - -But he did. Panting, staggering, perspiring, with Willamilla never -abating her complaint for an instant, and Hossifer warning him fiercely -at every one of his many attempts to set her down, Laurence struggled -on, far behind the cheery vanguard. Five blocks of anguish he covered -before he finally arrived at Elsie Threamer’s gate, whence this -unfortunate expedition had set out. - -Elsie and Daisy were standing near the gate, looking thoughtfully at -Willamilla’s grandmother, who was seated informally on the curbstone, -and whistling to herself. - -Laurence staggered to her. “_Oh_, my! Oh, _my_!” he quavered, and would -have placed Willamilla in her grandmother’s arms, but once more Hossifer -interfered—for his was a mind bent solely upon one idea at a time—and -Laurence had to straighten himself quickly. - -“Make him _quit_ that!” he remonstrated. “He’s done it to me more than -five hunderd times, an’ I’m mighty tired of all this around here!” - -But the coloured woman seemed to have no idea that he was saying -anything important, or even that he was addressing himself to her. She -rolled her eyes, indeed, but not in his direction, and continued her -whistling. - -“Listen! _Look!_” Laurence urged her. “It’s Willie Miller! I wish he was -dead; _then_ I wouldn’t hold him any longer, I bet you! I’d just throw -him away like I ought to!” And as she went on whistling, not even -looking at him, he inquired despairingly: “My goodness, what’s the -_matter_ around here, anyways?” - -“_Elsie!_” a voice called from a window of the house. - -“Yes, mamma.” - -“Come in, dear. Come in quickly.” - -“Yes’m.” - -She had no more than departed when another voice called from a window of -the house next door, “Daisy! Come in right away! Do you hear, Daisy?” - -“Yes, mamma.” And Daisy went hurriedly upon the summons. - -Laurence was left alone in a world of nightmare. The hated Willamilla -howled within his ear and weighed upon him like a house; his arms ached, -his head rang; his heart was shaken with the fear of Hossifer; and -Willamilla’s grandmother sat upon the curbstone, whistling musically, -with no apparent consciousness that there was a busy world about her, or -that she had ever a grandchild or a dog. His terrible and mystifying -condition began to appear to Laurence as permanent, and the accursed -Willamilla an Old-Man-of-the-Sea to be his burden forever. A weariness -of life—a sense of the futility of it all—came upon him, and yet he -could not even sink down under it. - -Then, when there was no hope beneath the sky, out of the alley across -the street came a delivering angel—a middle-aged, hilarious coloured -man seated in an enfeebled open wagon, and driving a thin gray antique -shaped like a horse. Upon the side of the wagon was painted, “P. SkoNe -MoVeiNG & DeLiVRys,” and the cheerful driver was probably P. Skone -himself. - -He brought his wagon to the curb, descended giggling to Willamilla’s -grandmother, and by the exertion of a muscular power beyond his -appearance, got her upon her feet. She became conscious of his presence, -called him her lovin’ Peter, blessed and embraced him, and then, -consenting to test the tensile strength of the wagon, reclined upon him -while he assisted her into it. After performing this feat, he extended -his arms for Willamilla. - -“He won’t let me,” Laurence said, swallowing piteously. “He wants me to -keep him, an’ he’ll bite me if I——” - -“Who go’ bite you, white boy?” the cheerful coloured man inquired. -“Hossifer?” Laughing, he turned to the faithful animal, and swept the -horizon with a gesture. “Hossifer, you git in nat wagon!” - -With the manner of a hunted fugitive, Hossifer instantly obeyed; the man -lifted Willamilla’s little vehicle into the wagon, took Willamilla in -his arms, and climbed chuckling to the driver’s seat. “Percy,” he said -to the antique, “you git up!” - -Then this heavenly coloured man drove slowly off with Willamilla, her -grandmother, Hossifer and the baby-wagon, while Laurence sank down upon -the curbstone, wiped his face upon his polka-dotted sleeve and watched -them disappear into the dusty alley. Willamilla was still crying; and to -one listener it seemed that she had been crying throughout long, -indefinite seasons, and would probably continue to cry forever, or at -least until a calamity should arrive to her, in regard to the nature of -which he had a certain hope. - -He sat, his breast a vacancy where lately so much emotion had been, and -presently two gay little voices chirped in the yard behind him. They -called his name; and he turned to behold his fair friends. They were -looking brightly at him over the hedge. - -“Mamma called me to come in,” Daisy said. - -“So’d mine,” said Elsie. - -“Mamma told me I better stay in the house while that ole coloured woman -was out here,” Daisy continued. “Mamma said she wasn’t very nice.” - -“So’d mine,” Elsie added. - -“What did you do, Laurence?” Daisy asked. - -“Well——” said Laurence. “They’re gone down that alley.” - -“Come on in,” Daisy said eagerly. “We’re goin’ to play I-Spy. It’s lots -more fun with three. Come on!” - -“Come on!” Elsie echoed. “Hurry, Laurence.” - -He went in, and a moment later, unconcernedly and without a care in the -world, or the recollection of any, began to play I-Spy with the lady of -his heart and her next neighbour. - - - - - THE ONLY CHILD - - -THE little boy was afraid to go into the dark room on the other side of -the hall, and the little boy’s father was disgusted with him. “Aren’t -you ashamed of yourself, Ludlum Thomas?” the father called from his seat -by the library lamp. “Eight years old and scared! Scared to step into a -room and turn the light on! Why, when I was your age I used to go out to -the barn after dark in the winter-time, and up into the loft, all by -myself, and pitch hay down to the horse through the chute. You walk -straight into that dining-room, turn on the light, and get what you -want; and don’t let’s have any more fuss about it. You hear me?” - -Ludlum disregarded this speech. “Mamma,” he called, plaintively, “I want -you to come and turn the light on for me. _Please_, mamma!” - -Mrs. Thomas, across the library table from her husband, looked troubled, -and would have replied, but the head of the house checked her. - -“Now let me,” he said. Then he called again: “You going in there and do -what I say, or not?” - -“Please come on, mamma,” Ludlum begged. “Mamma, I lef’ my bow-an’-arry -in the dining-room, an’ I want to get it out o’ there so’s I can take it -up to bed with me. Mamma, won’t you please come turn the light on for -me?” - -“No, she will not!” Mr. Thomas shouted. “What on earth are you afraid -of?” - -“Mamma——” - -“Stop calling your mother! She’s not coming. You were sitting in the -dining-room yourself, not more than an hour ago, at dinner, and you -weren’t afraid then, were you?” - -Ludlum appeared between the brown curtains of the library doorway—the -sketch of a rather pale child-prince in black velvet. “No, but——” he -said. - -“But what?” - -“It was all light in there then. Mamma an’ you were in there, too.” - -“Now look here!” Mr. Thomas paused, rested his book upon his knee, and -spoke slowly. “You know there’s nothing in that dining-room except the -table and the chairs and the sideboard, don’t you?” - -Ludlum’s eyes were not upon his father but upon the graceful figure at -the other side of the table. “Mamma,” he said, “won’t you _please_ come -get my bow-an’-arry for me?” - -“Did you hear what I said?” - -“Yes, sir,” the boy replied, with eyes still pleadingly upon his mother. - -“Well, then, what is there to be afraid of?” - -“I’m not afraid,” said Ludlum. “It’s dark in there.” - -“It won’t be dark if you turn on the light, will it?” - -“Mamma——” - -“Now, that’s enough!” the father interrupted testily. “It’s after eight. -You go on up to bed.” - -Ludlum’s tone began to indicate a mental strain. “I don’t _want_ to go -to bed without my bow-an’-arry!” - -“What do you want your bow and arrow when you’re in bed for?” - -“I got to have it!” - -“See here!” said Mr. Thomas. “You march up to bed and quit talking about -your bow and arrow. You can take them with you if you go in there right -quick and get them; but whether you do that or not you’ll march to bed -inside of one minute from now!” - -“I _got_ to have my bow-an’-arry. I got to, to go upstairs _with_.” - -“You don’t want your bow and arrow in bed with you, do you?” - -“Mamma!” Thus Ludlum persisted in his urgent appeal to that court in -whose clemency he trusted. “Mamma, will you _please_ come get my -bow-an’——” - -“No, she won’t.” - -“Then will you come upstairs with me, mamma?” - -“No, she won’t! You’ll go by yourself, like a man.” - -“Mamma——” - -Mrs. Thomas intervened cheerily. “Don’t be afraid, dearie,” she said. -“Your papa thinks you ought to begin to learn how to be manly; but the -lights are lit all the way, and I told Annie to turn on the one in your -room. You just go ahead like a good boy, and when you’re all undressed -and ready to jump in bed, then you just whistle for me——” - -“I don’t want to whistle,” said Ludlum irritably. “I want my -bow-an’-arry!” - -“Look here!” cried his father. “You start for——” - -“I got to have my bow-an’——” - -“You mean to disobey me?” - -“I _got_ to have my——” - -Mr. Thomas rose; his look became ominous. “We’ll see about that!” he -said; and he approached his son, whose apprehensions were expressed in a -loud cry. - -“_Mamma!_” - -“Don’t hurt his feel——” Mrs. Thomas began. - -“Something’s got to be done,” her husband said grimly, and his hand fell -upon Ludlum’s shoulder. “You march!” - -Ludlum muttered vaguely. - -“You march!” - -“I got to have my bow-an’-arry! I _can’t_ go to bed ’less mamma comes -with me! She’s _got_ to come with me!” - -Suddenly he made a scene. Having started it, he went in for all he was -worth and made it a big one. He shrieked, writhed away from his father’s -hand, darted to his mother, and clung to her with spasmodic violence -throughout the protracted efforts of the sterner parent to detach him. - -When these efforts were finally successful, Ludlum plunged upon the -floor, and fastened himself to the leg of a heavy table. Here, for a -considerable time, he proved the superiority of an earnest boy’s wind -and agility over those of a man: as soon as one part of him was -separated from the leg of the table another part of him became attached -to it; and all the while he was vehemently eloquent, though -unrhetorical. - -The pain he thus so powerfully expressed was undeniable; and nowadays -few adults are capable of resisting such determined agony. The end of it -was, that when Ludlum retired he was accompanied by both parents, his -father carrying him, and Mrs. Thomas following close behind with the -bow-an’-arry. - -They were thoughtful when they returned to the library. - -“I _would_ like to know what got him into such a state,” said the -father, groaning, as he picked up his book from the floor. “He used to -march upstairs like a little man, and he wasn’t afraid of the dark, or -of anything else; but he’s beginning to be afraid of his own shadow. -What’s the matter with him?” - -Mrs. Thomas shook her head. “I think it’s his constitution,” she said. -“I don’t believe he’s as strong as we thought he was.” - -“‘Strong!’” her husband repeated incredulously. “Have I been dreaming, -or _were_ you looking on when I was trying to pry him loose from that -table-leg?” - -“I mean nervously,” she said. “I don’t think his nerves are what they -ought to be at all.” - -“His nerve isn’t!” he returned. “That’s what I’m talking about! Why was -he afraid to step into our dining-room—not thirty feet from where we -were sitting?” - -“Because it was dark in there. Poor child, he _did_ want his bow and -arrow!” - -“Well, he got ’em! What did he want ’em for?” - -“To protect himself on the way to bed.” - -“To keep off burglars on our lighted stairway?” - -“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Thomas. “Burglars or something.” - -“Well, where’d he get such ideas _from_?” - -“I don’t know. Nearly all children do get them.” - -“I know one thing,” Mr. Thomas asserted, “_I_ certainly never was afraid -like that, and none of my brothers was, either. Do you suppose the -children Ludlum plays with tell him things that make him afraid of the -dark?” - -“I don’t think so, because he plays with the same children now that he -played with before he got so much this way. Of course he’s always been a -_little_ timid.” - -“Well, I’d like to know what’s at the root of it. Something’s got into -his head. That’s certain, isn’t it?” - -“I don’t know,” Mrs. Thomas said musingly. “I believe fear of the dark -is a sort of instinct, don’t you?” - -“Then why does he keep having it more and more? Instinct? No, sir! I -don’t know where he gets this silly scaredness from, nor what makes it, -but I know that it won’t do to humour him in it. We’ve got to be firmer -with him after this than we were to-night. I’m not going to have a son -of mine grow up to be afraid!” - -“Yes; I suppose we ought to be a _little_ firmer with him,” she said -dreamily. - -However, for several days and nights there was no occasion to exercise -this new policy of firmness with Ludlum, one reason being that he was -careful not to leave his trusty bow and arrow in an unlighted room after -dark. Three successive evenings, weapon in hand, he “marched” sturdily -to bed; but on the fourth he was reluctant, even though equipped as -usual. - -“Is Annie upstairs?” he inquired querulously, when informed that his -hour had struck. - -“I’m not sure, dearie,” said his mother. “I think so. It’s her evening -out, but I don’t think she’s gone.” - -Standing in the library doorway, Ludlum sent upward a series of piercing -cries: “Annie! Ann_ee_! Ann-_ee_! Oh, _Ann-nee-ee_!” - -“Stop it!” Mr. Thomas commanded fiercely. “You want to break your -mother’s ear-drums?” - -“Ann-nee-_eeee_!” - -“Stop that noise!” - -“Ann——” - -“Stop it!” Mr. Thomas made the gesture of rising, and Ludlum, -interrupting himself abruptly, was silent until he perceived that his -father’s threat to rise was only a gesture, whereupon he decided that -his vocalizations might safely be renewed. - -“Ann-_nee-ee_!” - -“What _is_ the matter with him?” - -“Ludlum, dear,” said Mrs. Thomas, “what is it you want Annie for?” - -“I want to know if she’s upstairs.” - -“But what for?” - -Ludlum’s expression became one of determination. “Well, I want to know,” -he replied. “I got to know if Annie’s upstairs.” - -“By George!” Mr. Thomas exclaimed suddenly. “I believe _now_ he’s afraid -to go upstairs unless he knows the housemaid’s up there!” - -“Martha’s probably upstairs if Annie isn’t,” Mrs. Thomas hurriedly -intervened. “You needn’t worry about whether Annie’s up there, Luddie, -if Martha is. Martha wouldn’t let anything hurt you any more than Annie -would, dear.” - -“Great heavens!” her husband cried. “There’s nothing up there that’s -going to hurt him whether a hundred cooks and housemaids are upstairs or -downstairs, or in the house or out of it! _That’s_ no way to talk to -him, Jennie! Ludlum, you march straight——” - -“Ann-_nee-ee_!” - -“But, dearie,” said Mrs. Thomas, “I told you that Martha wouldn’t let -anything hurt——” - -“She isn’t there,” Ludlum declared. “I can hear her chinkin’ tin and -dishes around in the kitchen.” And, again exerting all his vocal powers -of penetration, “_Oh, Ann-ee-ee!_” he bawled. - -“By George!” Mr. Thomas exclaimed. “This is awful! It’s just awful!” - -“Don’t call any more, darling,” the mother gently urged. “It disturbs -your papa.” - -“But, Jennie, that isn’t the reason he oughtn’t to call. It does disturb -me, but the real reason he oughtn’t to do it is because he oughtn’t to -be afraid to——” - -“_Ann-ee-EE!_” - -Mr. Thomas uttered a loud cry of his own, and, dismissing gestures, rose -from his chair prepared to act. But his son briskly disappeared from the -doorway; he had been reassured from the top of the stairs. Annie had -responded, and Ludlum sped upward cheerfully. The episode was -closed—except in meditation. - -There was another one during the night, however. At least, Mr. Thomas -thought so, for at the breakfast table he inquired: “Was any one out of -bed about half-past two? Something half woke me, and I thought it -sounded like somebody knocking on a door, and then whispering.” - -Mrs. Thomas laughed. “It was only Luddie,” she explained. “He had bad -dreams, and came to my door, so I took him in with me for the rest of -the night. He’s all right, now, aren’t you, Luddie? Mamma didn’t let the -bad dream hurt her little boy, did she?” - -“It wasn’t dreams,” said Ludlum. “I was awake. I thought there was -somep’m in my room. I bet there _was_ somep’m in there, las’ night!” - -“Oh, murder!” his father lamented. “Boy nine years old got to go and -wake up his _mamma_ in the middle of the night, because he’s scared to -sleep in his own bed with a hall-light shining through the transom! What -on earth were you afraid of?” - -Ludlum’s eyes clung to the consoling face of his mother. “I never said I -_was_ afraid. I woke up, an’ I thought I saw somep’m in there.” - -“What kind of a ‘something’?” - -Ludlum looked resentful. “Well, I guess I know what I’m talkin’ about,” -he said importantly. “I bet there _was_ somep’m, too!” - -“I declare I’m ashamed,” Mr. Thomas groaned. “Here’s the boy’s godfather -coming to visit us, and how’s he going to help find out we’re raising a -coward?” - -“John!” his wife exclaimed. “The idea of speaking like that just because -Luddie can’t help being a little imaginative!” - -“Well, it’s true,” he said. “I’m ashamed for Lucius to find it out.” - -Mrs. Thomas laughed, and then, finding the large eyes of Ludlum fixed -upon her hopefully, she shook her head. “Don’t you worry, darling,” she -reassured him. “You needn’t be afraid of what Uncle Lucius will think of -his dear little Luddie.” - -“I’m not,” Ludlum returned complacently. “He gave me a dollar las’ time -he was here.” - -“Well, he won’t this time,” his father declared crossly. “Not after the -way you’ve been behaving lately. I’ll see to that!” - -Ludlum’s lower lip moved pathetically and his eyes became softly -brilliant—manifestations that increased the remarkable beauty he -inherited from his mother. - -“John!” cried Mrs. Thomas indignantly. - -Ludlum wept at once, and between his gulpings implored his mother to -prevent his father from influencing Uncle Lucius against the giving of -dollars. “Don’t _let_ him, mamma!” he quavered. “An’ ’fif Uncle Lucius -wuw-wants to give me a dollar, he’s got a right to, hasn’t he, mamma? -_Hasn’t_ he got a right to, mamma?” - -“There, dearie! Of course!” she comforted him. “Papa won’t tell Uncle -Lucius. Papa is sorry, and only wants you to be happy and not cry any -more.” - -Papa’s manner indicated somewhat less sympathy than she implied; -nevertheless, he presently left the house in a condition vaguely -remorseful, which still prevailed, to the extent of a slight -preoccupation, when he met Uncle Lucius at the train at noon. - -Uncle Lucius—Lucius Brutus Allen, attorney-at-law of Marlow, Illinois, -population more than three thousand, if you believed him—this Uncle -Lucius was a reassuring sight, even to the eyes of a remorseful father -who had been persecuting the beautiful child of a lovely mother. - -Mr. Allen was no legal uncle to Ludlum: he was really Mrs. Thomas’s -second cousin, and, ever since she was eighteen and he twenty-four, had -been her favoured squire. In fact, during her young womanhood, Mrs. -Thomas and others had taken it as a matter of course that Lucius was in -love with her; certainly that appeared to be his condition. - -However, with the advent of Mr. John Thomas, Lucius Brutus Allen gave -ground without resistance, and even assisted matters in a way which -might have suggested to an outsider that he was something of a -matchmaker as well as something of a lover. With a bravery that touched -both the bride and bridegroom, he had stood up to the functions of Best -Man without a quaver—and, of course, since the day of Ludlum’s arrival -in the visible world, had been “Uncle Lucius.” - -He was thirty-five; of a stoutish, stocky figure; large-headed and -thin-haired; pinkish and cheerful and warm. His warmth was due partly to -the weather, and led to a continuous expectancy on the part of Ludlum, -for it was the habit of Uncle Lucius to keep his handkerchief in a -pocket of his trousers. From the hour of his arrival, every time that -Uncle Lucius put his hand in his pocket and drew forth a handkerchief to -dry his dewy brow, Ludlum suffered a disappointment. - -In fact, the air was so sticky that these disappointments were almost -continuous, with the natural result that Ludlum became peevish; for -nobody can be distinctly disappointed a dozen or so times an hour, -during the greater part of an afternoon, and remain buoyantly amiable. - -Finally he could bear it no longer. He had followed his parents and -Uncle Lucius out to the comfortable porch, which gave them ampler air -and the pretty sight of Mrs. Thomas’s garden, but no greater coolness; -and here Uncle Lucius, instead of bringing forth from his pocket a -dollar, produced, out of that storage, a fresh handkerchief. - -“Goodness me, but you got to wipe your ole face a lot!” said Ludlum in a -voice of pure spitefulness. “I guess why you’re so hot mus’ be you stuff -yourself at meals, an’ got all fat the way you are!” - -Wherewith, he emitted a shrill and bitter laugh of self-applause for -wit, while his parents turned to gaze upon him—Mrs. Thomas with -surprise, and Mr. Thomas with dismay. To both of them his rudeness -crackled out of a clear sky; they saw it as an effect detached from -cause; therefore inexplicable. - -“Ludlum!” said the father sharply. - -“Dearie!” said the mother. - -But the visitor looked closely at the vexed face. “What is it you’ve -decided you don’t like about me, Luddie?” he asked. - -“You’re too fat!” said Ludlum. - -Both parents uttered exclamations of remonstrance, but Mr. Allen -intervened. “I’m not so very fat,” he said. “I’ve just realized what the -trouble between us is, Luddie. I overlooked something entirely, but I’ll -fix it all right when we’re alone together. Now that I’ve explained -about it, you won’t mind how often I take my handkerchief out of my -pocket, will you?” - -“What in the world!” Mrs. Thomas exclaimed. “What are you talking -about?” - -“It’s all right,” said Lucius. - -Ludlum laughed; his face was restored to its serene beauty. Obviously, -he again loved his Uncle Lucius, and a perfect understanding, mysterious -to the parents, now existed between godfather and godson. In -celebration, Ludlum shouted and ran to caper in the garden. - -“By George!” said John Thomas. “You seem to understand him! I don’t. I -don’t know what the dickens is in his mind, half the time.” - -Mrs. Thomas laughed condescendingly. “No wonder!” she said. “You’re -down-town all the daytime and never see him except at breakfast and in -the evenings.” - -“There’s one thing puzzles me about it,” said John. “If you understand -him so well, why don’t you ever tell _me_ how to? What made him so -smart-alecky to Lucius just now?” - -Again she laughed with condescension. “Why, Luddie didn’t mean to be -fresh at all. He just spoke without thinking.” - -But upon hearing this interpretation, Mr. Allen cast a rueful glance at -his lovely cousin. “Quite so!” he said. “Children can’t tell their -reasons, but they’ve always got ’em!” - -“Oh, no, they haven’t,” she laughed. And then she jumped, for there came -a heavy booming of thunder from that part of the sky which the roof of -the porch concealed from them. The sunshine over the pink-speckled -garden vanished; all the blossoms lost colour and grew wan, fluttering -in an ominous breeze; at once a high wind whipped round the house and -the row of straight poplars beyond the garden showed silver sides. - -“_Luddie!_” shrieked Mrs. Thomas; and he shrieked in answer; came -running, just ahead of the rain. She seized his hand, and fled with him -into the house. - -“You remember how afraid they are of lightning,” said John -apologetically. “Lightning and thunder. I never could understand it, but -I suppose it’s genuine and painful.” - -“It’s both,” the visitor remarked. “You wouldn’t think I’m that way, -too, would you?” - -“You are?” - -“Makes me nervous as a cat.” - -“Did you inherit it?” - -“I don’t think so,” said Lucius; and he waved his host’s silent offer of -a cigar. “No, thanks. Never want to smoke in a thunder-storm. -I—_Whoo!_” he interrupted himself, as a flare of light and a -catastrophe of sound came simultaneously. “Let’s go in,” he said mildly. - -“Not I. I love to watch it.” - -“Well——” Lucius paused, but at a renewal of the catastrophe, “Excuse -_me_!” he said, and tarried no longer. - -He found Mrs. Thomas and Ludlum in the centre of the darkened -drawing-room. She was sitting in a gilt chair with her feet off the -floor and upon a rung of the chair; and four heavy, flat-bottomed -drinking-glasses were upon the floor, each of them containing the foot -of a leg of the gilt chair. Ludlum was upon her lap. - -“Don’t you believe in insulation, Lucius?” she asked anxiously. “As long -as we sit like this, we can’t be struck, can we?” - -He put on his glasses and gave her a solemn stare before replying. “I -don’t know about that,” he said. “Of course John is safer out on the -porch than we are in here.” - -“Oh, no, no!” she cried. “A porch is the most dangerous place there -_is_!” - -“I don’t know whether or not he’s safe from the lightning,” Lucius -explained. “I mean he’s safe from being troubled about it the way we -are.” - -“I don’t call that being safe,” his lady-cousin began. “I don’t see -what——” - -But she broke off to find place for a subdued shriek, as an admiral’s -salute of great guns jarred the house. Other salutes followed, -interjected, in spite of drawn shades and curtains, with spurts of light -into the room, and at each spurt Mrs. Thomas shivered and said “Oh!” in -a low voice, whereupon Ludlum jumped and said “Ouch!” likewise in a low -voice. Then, at the ensuing crash, Mrs. Thomas emitted a little scream, -and Ludlum emitted a large one. - -“Ouch! _Ow!_” he vociferated. “Mamma, I want it to stop! Mamma, I can’t -stand it! I can’t _stand_ it!” - -“It’s odd,” said Lucius, during an interregnum. “The thunder frightens -us more than the lightning, doesn’t it?” - -“They’re both so horrible,” she murmured. “I’m glad they affect you this -way, too, Lucius. It’s comforting. Do you think it’s almost over?” - -“I’ll see,” he said; and he went to a window, whither Ludlum, having -jumped down, followed him. - -“Don’t open the curtains much,” Mrs. Thomas begged, not leaving her -chair. “Windows are always dangerous. And come away from the window, -Luddie. The lightning might——” - -She shrieked at a flash and boom, and Luddie came away from the window. -Voiceless—he was so startled—he scrambled toward his mother, his arms -outstretched, his feet slipping on the polished floor; then, leaping -upon her lap, he clung to her wildly; gulped, choked, and found his -voice. He howled. - -“That was about the last, I think,” observed Lucius, from the window. -“It’s beginning to clear already. Nothing but a shower to make things -cooler for us. Let’s go play with old John again. Come on, Luddie.” - -But Ludlum clung to his mother, remonstrating. “No!” he cried. “Mamma, -you got to stay in the house. I don’t want to go out there. It might -begin again!” - -She laughed soothingly. “But Uncle Lucius says it’s all over now, -darling. Let’s go and——” - -“I _d’wawn_’ to! I won’t go out of the house. You tell me a story.” - -“Well,” she began, “once upon a time there was a good fairy and there -was a bad fairy——” - -“Where’d they live?” - -“Oh, in a town—under some flowers in a garden in the town.” - -“Like our garden?” - -“I suppose so,” she assented. “And the good fairy——” - -“Listen, mamma,” said Ludlum. “If they lived in the garden like those -fairies you were tellin’ me about yesterday, they could come in the -windows of the house where the pretty little boy lived, couldn’t they?” - -“I suppose so.” - -At this Ludlum’s expression became apprehensive and his voice peevish. -“Well, then,” he complained, “if there was a window open at night, or -just maybe through a crack under the door, the bad fairy could slip up -behind the pretty little boy, or into the pretty little boy’s bedroom, -an’——” - -“No, no!” his mother laughed, stroking his head. “You see, the good -fairy would always be watching, too, and the good fairy wouldn’t let the -bad fairy hurt the pretty little boy.” - -The apprehensive expression was not altogether soothed from the pretty -little boy’s face. However, he said: “Go on. Tell what happened. Did the -pretty little boy——” - -“Lucius!” Mrs. Thomas exclaimed, “don’t stay here to be bored by Luddie -and me. I’ve got to tell him this story——” - -“Yes,” Ludlum eagerly agreed. “An’ then afterward she has to read me a -chapter in our book.” - -“So you go and make John tell _you_ a story, Lucius. I have to be polite -to Luddie because he’s had such a fright, poor blessed child!” - -Lucius was obedient: he rejoined John upon the porch, and the two men -chatted for a time. - -“What book is Jennie reading to the boy?” Mr. Allen inquired, after a -subsequent interval of silence. - -“I don’t know just now. Classic fiction of some sort, probably. She’s -great on preparing his mind to be literary; reads an hour to him every -day, and sometimes longer—translations—mythology—everything. All -about gods and goddesses appearing out of the air to heroes, and Medusa -heads and what not. Then standard works: Cooper, Bulwer, Scott, -Hugo—some of the great romances.” - -“I see,” said Lucius. “She always did go at things thoroughly. I -remember,” he went on, with a musing chuckle, “I remember how I got hold -of Bulwer’s ‘Zanoni’ and ‘Strange Story’ when I was about ten years old. -By George! I’ve been afraid to go home in the dark ever since!” - -“You have?” John smiled; then sent a serious and inquiring glance at the -visitor, who remained placid. “Of course Jennie doesn’t read ‘Zanoni’ to -Ludlum.” - -“No, she wouldn’t,” said Lucius. “Not till he’s older. She’d read him -much less disturbing things at his age, of course.” - -His host made no additional comment upon the subject, but appeared to -sit in some perplexity. - -Mr. Allen observed him calmly; then, after a time, went into the -house—to get a cigar of his own, he said. - -In the hall he paused, listening. From the library came Mrs. Thomas’s -voice, reading with fine dramatic fire: - -“‘What! thou frontless dastard, thou—thou who didst wait for opened -gate and lowered bridge, when Conrad Horst forced his way over moat and -wall, must _thou_ be malapert? Knit him up to the stanchions of the -hall-window! He shall beat time with his feet while we drink a cup to -his safe passage to the devil!’ - -“‘The doom was scarce sooner pronounced than accomplished; and in a -moment the wretch wrestled out his last agonies, suspended from the iron -bars. His body still hung there when our young hero entered the hall, -and, intercepting the pale moonbeam, threw on the castle-floor an -uncertain shadow, which dubiously yet fearfully intimated the nature of -the substance which produced it. - -“‘When the syndic——’” - -Ludlum interrupted. “Mamma, what’s a stanchion?” His voice was low and a -little husky. - -“It’s a kind of an iron bar, or something, I think,” Mrs. Thomas -answered. “I’m not sure.” - -“Well, does it mean—mamma, what does it mean when it says ‘he wrested -out his last annogies?’” - -“‘Agonies,’ dear. It doesn’t mean anything that little boys ought to -think about. This is a very unpleasant part of the book, and we’ll hurry -on to where it’s all about knights and ladies, and pennons fluttering in -the sunshine and——” - -“No; I don’t want you to hurry. I like to hear this part, too. It’s -nice. Go on, mamma.” - -She continued, and between the curtains at the door, Lucius caught a -glimpse of them. Sunlight touched them through a window; she sat in a -high-backed chair; the dark-curled boy, upon a stool, huddling to her -knee; and, as they sat thus, reading “Quentin Durward,” they were like a -mother and son in stained glass—or like a Countess, in an old romance, -reading to the Young Heir. And Lucius Brutus Allen had the curious -impression that, however dimly, both of them were conscious of some such -picturesque resemblance. - -Unseen, he withdrew from the renewed sound of the reading, and again -went out to sit with John upon the porch, but Mrs. Thomas and Ludlum did -not rejoin them until the announcement of dinner. When the meal was -over, Lucius and his hostess played cribbage in the library; something -they did at all their reunions—a commemoration of an evening habit of -old days. But to-night their game was interrupted, a whispering in the -hall becoming more and more audible as it increased in virility; while -protests on the part of a party of the second part punctuated and -accented the whispering: - -“I _d’wawn_’ to!” . . . “I won’t!” . . . “I _will_ ast mama!” . . . -“Leggo!” - -The whispering became a bass staccato, though subdued, under the breath; -protests became monosyllabic, but increased in passion; short-clipped -squealings and infantile grunts were heard—and then suddenly, yet -almost deliberately, a wide-mouthed roar of human agony dismayed the -echoing walls. - -The cavern whence issued the horrid sound was the most conspicuous thing -in the little world of that house, as Ludlum dashed into the library. -Even in her stress of sympathy, the mother could not forbear to cry: -“Don’t, Luddie! Don’t stretch your mouth like that! You’ll spoil the -shape of it.” - -But Ludlum cared nothing for shape. Open to all the winds, he plunged -toward his mother; and cribbage-board, counters, and cards went to the -floor. - -“Darling!” she implored. “What has hurt mamma’s little boy so awfully? -Tell mamma!” - -In her arms, his inclement eyes salting his cheeks, the vocal pitch of -his despair rose higher and higher like the voice of a reluctant pump. - -“_Papa twissud my wrist!_” he finally became coherent enough to declare. - -“What!” - -“He did!” All in falsetto Ludlum sobbed his version of things. “He—he -suss-said I had to gug-go up to bed all—all alone. He grabbed me! He -hurt! He said I couldn’t interrup’ your ole gug-game! ’N’ he said, ‘I’ll -show you!’ ’N’ then—then—then—he _twissud_ my _wrist_!” - -At that she gathered him closer to her, and rose, holding him in her -arms. Her face was deeply flushed, and her shining eyes avoided her -husband, who stood near the doorway. - -“Put him down, Jennie,” he said mildly. “I——” - -Straightway she strode by him, carrying her child. She did not pause, -nor speak aloud, yet Lucius and John both heard the whispered word that -crumpled the latter as the curtains waved with the angry breeze of her -passing. “Shame!” - -Meanwhile, Lucius, on his knees—for he never regarded his trousers -seriously—began to collect dispersed cards and pegs. “What say?” he -inquired, upon some gaspings of his unfortunate friend, John. - -“She believed it!” (These stricken words came from a deep chair in the -shadows.) “She thought I actually did twist his wrist!” - -“Oh, no,” said Lucius. “She didn’t believe anything of the kind. Darn -that peg!” With face to the floor and in an attitude of Oriental -devotion, he appeared to be worshipping the darkness under a divan. “She -was merely reacting to the bellow of her offspring. She knew he invented -it, as well as you did.” - -“It’s incredible!” said John. “The cold-blooded cunning of it! He was -bound to have his way, and make her go up with him; and I’d turned him -toward the stairway by his shoulders, and he tried to hold himself back -by catching at one of those big chairs in the hall. I caught his wrist -to keep him from holding to the chair—and I held him a second or two, -not moving. The little pirate decided on the thing then and there, in -his mind. He understood perfectly well he could make it all the more -horrible because you were here, visiting us. I swear it appals me! What -sort of a nature _is_ that?” - -“Oh,” said Lucius, “just natural nature. Same as you and me.” - -“I’d hate to believe that!” - -“You and I got ashamed long ago of the tricks that came in our minds to -play,” said Lucius, groping under the divan. “We got ashamed so often -that they don’t come any more.” - -“Yes, but it ought to be time they stopped coming into that boy’s mind. -He was eight last month.” - -“Yes—darn that peg!—there seems to be something in what you say. But -of course Luddie thought he was in a fix that was just as bad to him as -it would be to me if somebody were trying to make me walk into Pancho -Villa’s camp all alone. _I’d_ make a fuss about that, if the fuss would -bring up the whole United States Army to go with me. That’s what it -amounted to with Luddie.” - -“I suppose so,” groaned the father. “It all comes down to his being a -coward.” - -“It all comes down to the air being full of queer things when he’s -alone,” said Lucius. - -“Well, I’d like to know what makes it full of queer things. Where does -his foolishness come _from_?” - -“And echo answers——” Lucius added, managing to get his head and -shoulders under the divan, and thrusting with arms and legs to get more -of himself under. - -But a chime of laughter from the doorway answered in place of echo. -“What are you doing, Lucius?” Mrs. Thomas inquired. “Swimming lessons? I -never saw anything——” And laughter so overcame her that she could -speak no further, but dropped into a chair, her handkerchief to her -mouth. - -Lucius emerged crabwise, and placed a cribbage-peg upon the table, but -made no motion to continue the game. Instead he dusted himself -uselessly, lit a cigar, and sat. - -“Luddie’s all right,” said the lady, having recovered her calmness. “I -think probably something he ate at dinner upset him a little. Anyhow, he -was all right as soon as he got upstairs. Annie’s sitting with him and -telling him stories.” - -“I wonder if that lightning struck anything this afternoon,” Lucius said -absently. “Some of it seemed mighty near.” - -“It was awful.” - -“Do you remember,” Lucius asked her, “when you first began to be nervous -about it?” - -“Oh, I’ve always been that way, ever since I was a little child. I -haven’t the faintest idea how it got hold of me. Children just get -afraid of certain things, it seems to me, and that’s all there is to it. -You know how Luddie is about lightning, John.” - -John admitted that he knew how Luddie was about lightning. “I do,” was -all he said. - -Mrs. Thomas’s expression became charmingly fond, even a little -complacent. “I suppose he inherits it from me,” she said. - -“My mother has that fear to this day,” Lucius remarked. “And I have it, -too, but I didn’t inherit it from her.” - -“How do you know?” his cousin asked quickly. “What makes you think you -didn’t inherit it?” - -“Because my father used to tell me that when I was three and four years -old he would sit out on the porch during a thunder-storm, and hold me in -his lap, and every time the thunder came both of us would laugh, and -shout ‘Boom!’ Children naturally like a big noise. But when I got a -little bit older and more imaginative, and began to draw absurd -conclusions from things, I found that my mother was frightened during -thunder-storms—though she tried her best to conceal it—and, of course, -seeing _her_ frightened, I thought something pretty bad must be the -matter. So the fear got fastened on me, and I can’t shake it off though -I’m thirty-five years old. Curious thing it is!” - -Mrs. Thomas’s brilliant eyes were fixed upon her cousin throughout this -narrative with an expression at first perplexed, then reproachful, -finally hostile. A change, not subtle but simple and vivid, came upon -her face, while its habitual mobility departed, leaving it radiantly -still, with a fierce smoldering just underneath. How deep and fast her -breathing became, was too easily visible. - -“Everything’s curious, though, for the matter o’ that,” Lucius added. -And without looking at his cousin—without needing to look at her, to -understand the deadliness of her silence—he smoked unconcernedly. “Yes, -sir, it’s all curious; and _we’re_ all curious,” he continued, -permitting himself the indulgence of a reminiscent chuckle. “You know I -believe my father and mother got to be rather at outs about me—one -thing and another, goodness knows what!—and it was years before they -came together and found a real sympathy between them again. Truth is, I -suspect where people aren’t careful, their children have about twice as -much to do with driving ’em apart as with drawing ’em -together—especially in the case of an only child. I really do think -that if _I_ hadn’t been an only child my father and mother might have -been——” - -A sibilant breath, not a word and not quite a hiss, caused Lucius to -pause for a moment, though not to glance in the direction of the lips -whence came the sound. He appeared to forget the sentence he had left -incomplete; at all events he neglected to finish it. However, he went -on, composedly: - -“Some of my aunts tell me I was the worst nuisance they ever knew. In -fact, some of ’em go out of their way to tell me that, even yet. They -never could figure out what was the matter with me—except that I was -spoiled; but I never meet Aunt Mira Hooper on the street at home, to -this day, that she doesn’t stop to tell me she hasn’t learned to like -me, because she got such a set against me when I was a child—and I meet -her three or four times a week! She claims there was _some_ kind of a -little tragedy over me, in our house, every day or so, for years and -years. She blames _me_ for it, but Lord knows it wasn’t my fault. For -instance, a lot of it was my father’s.” - -“What did he do?” asked John. - -Lucius chuckled again. “The worst he did was to tell me stories about -Indians and pioneer days. Sounds harmless enough, but father was a good -story-teller, and that was the trouble. You see, the foundation of -nearly all romance, whether it’s Indian stories or fairy-stories—it’s -all hero and villain. Something evil is always just going to jump out of -somewhere at the hero, and the reader or the listener is always the -hero. Why, _I_ got so I wouldn’t go into a darkened room, even in the -daytime! As we grow older we forget the horrible visions we had when we -were children; and what’s worse, we forget there’s no need for children -to have ’em. Children ought to be raised in the _real_ world, not the -dream one. Yes, sir, I lay all my Aunt Mira Hooper’s grudge against me -to my father’s telling me stories so well and encouraging me to read the -classics and——” - -“Lucius,” Mrs. Thomas spoke in a low voice, but in a tone that checked -him abruptly. - -“Yes, Jennie?” - -“Don’t you think that’s enough?” - -“I suppose it is tiresome,” he said. “Too much autobiography. I was just -rambling on about——” - -“You meant me!” she cried. - -“You, Jennie?” - -“You did! And you meant Ludlum was a ‘nuisance’; not you. And I don’t -think it’s very nice! Do you?” - -“Why, I nev——” - -But his cousin’s emotions were no longer to be controlled. She rose, -trembling. “What a fool I was this afternoon!” she exclaimed bitterly. -“I didn’t suspect you; yet I never remembered your being nervous in a -thunder-storm before. I thought you were sympathetic, and all the time -you were thinking these cruel, wicked things about Luddie and me!” - -Lucius rose, too. “You know what I think about you, all the time, -Jennie,” he said genially. “John, if you can remember where you put my -umbrella when we came in, it’s about time for me to be catching a -street-car down to the station.” - -She opposed him with a passionate gesture. “No!” she cried fiercely. -“You can’t say such things to me and then slip out like that! You tell -me I’ve taught my child to be a coward and that I’ve made a spoilt brat -of him——” - -“Jennie!” he protested. “I was talking about _me_!” - -“Shame on you to pretend!” she said. “You think I’m making John _hate_ -Luddie——” - -“_Jennie!_” he shouted in genuine astonishment. - -“You do! And you come here pretending to be such a considerate, -sympathetic friend—and every minute you’re criticizing and condemning -me in your heart for all my little stories to my child—all -because—because—” suddenly she uttered a dry sob—“because I want to -raise my boy to be a—a poet!” - -“John,” said Lucius desperately, “_do_ you think you can find that -umbrella?” - -With almost startling alacrity John rose and vanished from the room, and -Lucius would have followed, but the distressed lady detained him. She -caught a sagging pocket of his coat, and he found it necessary to remain -until she should release him. - -“You sha’n’t!” she cried. “Not till you’ve taken back that accusation.” - -“But what accusa——” - -“Shame on you! Ah, I didn’t think you’d ever come here and do such a -thing to me. And this morning I was looking forward to a happy day! It’s -a good thing you’re a bachelor!” - -With which final insult she hurled his pocket from her—at least that -was the expression of her gesture—and sank into a chair, weeping -heart-brokenly. “You don’t understand!” she sobbed. “How could any man -understand—or any woman not a mother! You think these hard things of -me, but—but John doesn’t always love Luddie. Don’t you get even a -little glimpse of what that means to me? There are times when John -doesn’t even _like_ Luddie!” - -“Take care,” said Lucius gently. “Take care that those times don’t come -oftener.” - -She gasped, and would have spoken, but for a moment she could not, and -was able only to gaze at him fiercely through her tears. Yet there was a -hint of fear behind the anger. - -“You dare to say such a thing as that to a mother?” she said, when she -could speak. - -Lucius’s eyes twinkled genially; he touched her upon the shoulder, and -she suffered him. “Mother,” he said lightly, “have pity on your child!” -Somehow, he managed to put more solemnity into this parting prayer of -his than if he had spoken it solemnly; and she was silent. - -Then he left the room, and, on his way, stumbled over a chair, as he -usually did at the dramatic moments in his life. - -John was standing in the open doorway, Lucius’s umbrella in his hand. “I -think I hear a car coming, old fellow,” he said. - -“Got to get my hat,” Mr. Allen muttered. He had been reminded of -something; a small straw hat, with a blue ribbon round it, was upon the -table, and he fumbled with it a moment before seizing his own and -rushing for the door at the increasing warning of a brass gong in the -near distance. Thus, when he had gone, a silver dollar was pocketed -within the inside band of the small straw hat with the blue ribbon. -. . . John Thomas, returning in sharp trepidation to the lovely, -miserable figure in the library, encountered one of the many surprises -of his life. - -“He never could tell the truth to save his life!” she said. “He doesn’t -know what truth _means_! Did you hear him sitting up there and telling -us he was ‘an only child’? He has a brother and four sisters living, and -I don’t know how many dead!” - -“You don’t mean it!” said John, astounded. “That certainly was pecu——” - -He lost his breath at that moment. She rose and threw her arms round him -with the utmost heartiness. “He’s such an old smart Aleck!” she cried, -still weeping. “That’s why I married you instead of him. I love you for -not being one! If you want to spank Luddie for telling that story about -his wrist I wish you’d go and wake him up and do it!” - -“No,” said John. “Lucius called to me as he was running for the car that -he’s going to be married next week. I’ll wait and spank one of his -children. They’ll be the worst spoiled children in the world!” - - - - - LADIES’ WAYS - - -TWO young people, just out of college and pleasing to the eye, ought to -appreciate the advantage of living across the street from each other: -but Miss Muriel Eliot’s mood, that summer, was so advanced and -intellectual that she found all round about her only a cultural desert, -utterly savourless. This was her own definition of her surroundings, and -when she expressed herself thus impressively to Mr. Renfrew Mears, the -young gentleman who lived directly opposite her, he was granted little -choice but to suppose himself included among the unspiced vacancies she -mentioned. “The whole deadly environment crushes me,” she told him, as -they paused at her gate on returning from a walk. “This town is really a -base thing.” - -“Do you think so, Muriel?” he said. “Well, I don’t know; around here -it’s a right pleasant place to live—nice big yards and trees and all. -And you know the population is increasing by fifteen to twenty thousand -every year. The papers say——” - -“Listen, Renfrew,” she interrupted, and then said deliberately: “It is a -cultural desert, utterly savourless!” - -When she had spoken in this way, the first feeling of young Mr. Mears -appeared to be one of admiration, and perhaps she understood, or even -expected, that some such sensation on his part would be inevitable, for -she allowed her eyes to remain uplifted gloomily toward the summer sky -above them, so that he might look at her a little while without her -seeming to know it. Then she repeated slowly, with a slight shake of the -head: “Yes—a cultural desert, utterly savourless!” - -But Renfrew now became uneasy. “You mean the _looks_ of the place and -the——” - -“I mean the whole environment,” she said. “These Victorian houses with -their Victorian interiors and the Victorian thoughts of the people that -live in ’em. It’s all, _all_ Victorian!” - -“‘Victorian?’” said Renfrew doubtfully, for he was far from certain of -her meaning. His vague impression was that the word might in some remote -way bear upon an issue of bonds with which he had some recent -familiarity through an inheritance from his grandfather. “You think -it’s—Victorian—do you, Muriel?” he thought best to inquire. - -“Absolutely!” she said. “Culturally it’s a Victorian desert and utterly -savourless.” - -“But you don’t mean all of it?” he ventured, being now certain that -“Victorian” meant something unfavourable. “That is, not the people?” - -“It’s the people I’m talking about,” explained Muriel coldly. - -“Well—but not _all_ of ’em?” - -“Yes, everybody!” - -“You don’t mean every last one of ’em, though, do you, Muriel?” he asked -plaintively. - -“Yes, I do.” - -“Well, but look here,” he said. “You couldn’t mean _that_. It would -include your own family, and all your old family neighbours. Why, it -might include some of your very best friends!” - -She sighed. “Since I’ve come home, I’ve felt that really I had nothing -in common with a single soul in the place. I don’t live on the same -plane. I don’t think the same thoughts. I don’t speak the same -language.” - -He appeared to swallow a little air and to find some difficulty in doing -so. “I know,” he said, “you do talk a lot more intellectually than the -rest of us dubs around here. It’s because you’ve got a more intellectual -nature, and everything like that; and that’s one of the reasons I look -up to you the way I do. I always used to think that a girl that usually -had an intellectual nature had to wear horn spectacles and have her -dress higher on one side than it was on the other, and wear these -sensible-looking shoes, and everything like that. But you’ve showed me I -was mistaken, Muriel. You made me see that a girl could have an -intellectual nature and be prettier and dress niftilier than all the -brainless ones put together. But what worries _me_ is——” He paused -uncomfortably, and repeated, “What worries _me_ is——” then paused -again, and, with his head on one side, moved his forefinger to and fro -between his collar and his neck as if he felt a serious tightness there. - -“Well?” Muriel said, after waiting for some time. “Do you wish me to -understand it’s your neckwear that worries you, Renfrew?” - -“No,” he said absently, and frowning in his pained earnestness, again -repeated: “What worries _me_ is——” Once more he stopped. - -“Well, well!” - -“It’s simply this,” he said. “What worries me is simply this. It’s like -this. For instance, do you think it’s absolutely necessary for them -_both_ to have an intellectual nature?” - -“‘Both?’” she inquired. “What do you mean—‘both?’” - -“I mean the man and the woman,” he said. “Do you think they _both_ have -to have——” - -“_What_ man and woman?” - -“I mean,” said Renfrew, “I mean the husband and the wife.” - -“Why, what in the world——” - -“Would they _both_ have to have one?” he asked hopefully. “They wouldn’t -_both_ have to have an intellectual nature, would they?” - -“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” she said with -emphasis, though a delicate colour had risen in her cheeks, and people -seldom blush on account of being puzzled. “I don’t believe you know what -you mean, yourself.” - -“Yes, I do,” he insisted, his earnestness constantly increasing. “I -mean, for instance, wouldn’t it be all right for the woman to go on -following her intellectual nature in her own way, if the man provided -the house and the food and everything like that? Even if he didn’t have -an intellectual nature himself, don’t you think they could get along -together all right, especially if he respected hers and looked up to it -and was glad she had one, and so—well, and so they could go on and on -together—and on and on——” - -“Renfrew!” she cried. “How long are _you_ going ‘on and on’ about -nothing?” - -He looked depressed. “I only meant—did you—did you really mean -_everybody_, Muriel?” - -“When?” - -“When you said that about—about the savage desert that didn’t have any -culture or anything.” - -“That wasn’t what I said, Renfrew,” she reminded him, and her expression -became one of cold disapproval. “I said, ‘A cultural!——’” - -“Well, anyway,” he urged, “you didn’t really mean _everybody_, did you?” - -“Seriously, Renfrew,” she said; “—seriously, I don’t understand how you -can live the life you do.” - -“Why, I’m not living any life,” he said reproachfully. “I never did do -anything very dissipated.” - -“I don’t mean that,” she returned impatiently. “I mean what are you -doing with your mind, your soul, your spirit? You never have a thought -that the common herd around us doesn’t have. You never read a book that -the common herd doesn’t read, and you don’t even read many of _them_! -What do you do with your time? I’m asking you!” - -“Well, the truth is,” he said meekly, “if you come right down _to_ it: -why, most of the time I loaf around in our front yard waiting to see if -you’re not coming out or anything.” - -His truthfulness did little to appease her. “Yes!” she said. “You sit -hours and hours under that walnut tree over there in a perfect vacuum!” - -“Well, it _is_ like that,” he agreed, “when you don’t come out, Muriel.” - -“I’m not talking about anything of that sort!” she said quickly. “I -mean, how can you bear to stay on such a plane? You don’t have to just -sit down and live on what your grandfather left you, do you?” - -“Well, _but_,” he protested, “I told you I was thinking of trying to run -for the legislature!” - -She stared at him. “Good heavens!” she said. “Do you think _that_ would -be rising to a higher plane?” - -“A person has to begin,” he ventured to remind her. “Even at that, they -tell me I probably couldn’t get nominated till I tried for it two or -three times. They tell me I have to keep on going around till I get well -known.” - -“Renfrew!” - -“Well, I haven’t made up my mind about it,” he said. “I see you don’t -think much of it, and I’m not sure I do, myself. What do you think I -ought to do?” - -“What do I think you ought to do?” she cried. “Why, do -anything—_anything_ rather than be one of the commonplace herd on the -commonplace plane!” - -“Well, what do I have to do to get off of it?” - -“What?” - -“I mean, what’s the best way for me to get on some other plane, the kind -you mean? If you think it’s no good my trying for the legislature, what -do you think I _had_ better do?” - -He asked for information; in all honesty he simply wanted to be told. “I -just don’t know how to go about it,” he added; “I don’t know how to even -start; that’s the trouble. What had I better do first?” - -Muriel stared at him; for in truth, she found herself at a loss. Faced -with a request for grovelling details of the lofty but somewhat -indefinite processes she had sketched, she was as completely a vacancy -as could be found in all the cultural desert about her. - -“Really!” she said. “If you don’t know such things for yourself, I don’t -believe you could ever find out from anybody else!” - -In this almost epigrammatic manner she concealed from him—and almost -from herself—that she had no instructions to give him; nor was she -aware that she had employed an instinctive device of no great novelty. -Self-protection inspires it wherever superiority must be preserved; it -has high official and military usages, but is most frequently in -operation upon the icier intellectual summits. Yet, like a sword with a -poisonous hilt, it always avenges its victim, and he who employs it will -be irritable for some time afterward—he is really irritated with -himself, but naturally prefers to think the irritation is with the -stupidity that stumped him. - -Thus Muriel departed abruptly, clashing the gate for all her expression -of farewell, and left startled young Mr. Mears standing there, a figure -of obvious pathos. She went indoors, and, having ascended to her own -room, presently sat down and engaged herself with writing materials. -Little shadows of despondency played upon her charming forehead as she -wrote: - - “Life is so terrible! - Far off—far, far—oh, infinitely distant—oh, - Where far-flung fleets and argosies - Of nobler thoughts abound - Than those I find around me - In this crass, provincial town, - I must go! - For I am lonely here, - One lonely, lonely little figure - Upbearing still one white, white light invisible. - How could those see whose thoughts are all - Of marts and churches, dancing, and the links?” - -She paused to apply the blotter upon a tiny area of ink, oozed from the -pen to her forefinger, which had pressed too ardently, being tense with -creative art; and having thus broken the spell of composition, she -glanced frowningly out of the window beside her desk. Across the way, -she could see Renfrew Mears sitting under the walnut tree in his own -yard. He was not looking toward her, but leaned back in a wicker chair, -and to a sympathetic observation his attitude and absent skyward gaze -might have expressed a contemplative bafflement. However, this was not -Muriel’s interpretation, for she wrote: - - “Across the street, ignoble in content, - Under a dusty walnut tree, - A young man flanneled sits, - And dreams his petty burgher dreams - Of burghers’ petty offices. - He’s nothing. - So, lonely in the savourless place, I find - No comrade for my white, white light, - No single soul that understands, - Or glimpses just, my meanings.” - -Again the lonely girl looked out of the window, but this time with the -sharpest annoyance, and wished herself even lonelier and more remote -than her poem declared. Half a dozen lively children, including her own -fat little brother Robert, had begun to play in the yard across the -street, where the young man flanneled sat; and sometimes one of them -came to hide behind his chair, though Renfrew was so immersed in his -petty burgher dreams that he did not appear to know it. The shouting of -the children interfered with composition, however, and while the poetess -struggled on, the interference grew so poignant that it became actually -a part of the texture of her poem: - - “Oh, I am lonely in this world of noises, - This world of piercing senseless outcries, - I hate it so! I hear the shrill, - Malignant yowls of children, - Growing up like all the rest - Without the power of thinking. - Oh, noises how accursed——” - -Here her poem came to an end forever—that is to say, it had no end, was -never completed, remained a fragment. Muriel jumped up, and the -expressions she employed were appropriate for a maddened poet’s use, -though they befitted not a maiden’s. The accursed noises across the -street had become unbearable; they roused Renfrew from his petty dreams, -and he straightened up in his chair to see what was going on. - -“Here, here!” he said. “This isn’t the Fourth of July. Quiet down a -little, will you?” - -Four boys, Masters Robert Eliot, Laurence Coy, Thomas Kimball and -Freddie Mears, an eight-year-old cousin of Renfrew’s, were advancing -upon him, each evidently operating an imaginary machine-gun. “Bang! -Bang! Bang! Bangity, Bangity, Bang! _Bang!_” they shouted with the -utmost violence of their lungs. - -“Stop it!” Renfrew commanded, and as the machine-guns seemed to be -levelled straight at himself, he added: “Let me alone. I haven’t done -anything to you. What do you want to kill _me_ for?” - -He mistook their meaning, as he discovered immediately. “_Ping! Ping! -Ping!_” a shrill voice cried out from the ground just behind his -chair—another machine-gun, or else an “ottomatick.” - -“_Pingity, pingity, ping. Ur-r-r-r-r-ping!_” - -The voice was that of Renfrew’s nine-year-old sister Daisy; and looking -round and down, he discovered her crouching low behind his chair, firing -continuously. Renfrew perceived that he was a fortification of some -sort; for although the presence of a grown person has naturally a -stultifying effect upon children, they readily forget him if he remains -in his own sphere; then he becomes but part of their landscape; they -will use him as a castle, or perhaps as a distant Indian. Renfrew was -now a log cabin. - -“_Ping! Ping! Pingety ur-r-r-r-r-ping!_” Daisy shrieked from behind him. -“You’re all dead! Lay down!” - -“You’re dead yourself,” Robert Eliot retorted. “I guess all us four -filled you fuller o’ wounds than you did us, didn’t we? Lay down -yourself!” - -“I won’t!” And Daisy, rising, began to argue the question vehemently. “I -saw you all the time when you came around the house. I shot you first, -didn’t I? Wasn’t I sayin’ ‘_Ping_,’ before ever any one of you said -‘Bang?’” - -“No, you wasn’t,” Laurence Coy hotly replied. “Why, if we’d of had real -guns, they wouldn’t be enough left o’ you to bury in a hen’s nest.” - -“They would, too!” Daisy shouted. “If I’d had a real gun, they wouldn’t -be enough left of you to bury in _half_ a hen’s nest!” - -“They would, too!” Laurence retorted, and his comrades in arms loudly -echoed him. “They would, too!” they shouted. - -“You’re _dead_!” Daisy insisted. “You got to all four lay down. You got -to!” - -But upon this they raised such a chorus of jeering that she stamped her -foot. “You _got_ to!” she cried. - -“Listen!” said Laurence. “Listen here! I killed you myself, first thing -when we came around the house. I leave it to Elsie Threamer.” - -He referred to the one other little girl who was present, though she -took no part in these military encounters and seemed, in fact, to -disapprove of them. Fastidiously remaining at a distance from the -belligerents, she sat alone upon the steps of the large front porch—a -dainty little figure in strong contrast to the strident Daisy. Elsie was -in smooth and unspotted white linen; and Daisy, too, had been in smooth -and unspotted white linen—for a few minutes—but this one point of -resemblance was now lost. Elsie was a beautiful child, whereas even the -fonder of Daisy’s two grandmothers had never gone so far as to say that -Daisy was a beauty. Elsie was known for her sweet disposition, though -some people thought that living next door to Daisy was injuring it. When -Elsie came into a room where grown people were, they looked pleased; -when Daisy came into a room where grown people were, they looked at -their watches. - -“Yes,” said Robert Eliot, confirming Master Coy’s choice of an umpire. -“_I_ leave it to Elsie. Whoever Elsie says is dead, why, they got to -_be_ dead.” - -“Leave it to Elsie,” the other boys agreed. “Daisy’s dead, isn’t she, -Elsie?” - -“I am _not_!” Daisy cried. “I don’t care what Elsie says. I killed every -last one of you, and if you don’t lay down, I’ll make you.” - -“You will?” the bulky Robert inquired. “How you goin’ to make us?” - -“I’ll _frow_ you down,” said the determined Daisy; and she added -vindictively: “Then I’ll walk all over you!” - -The enemy received this with unanimous hootings. “Yes, you will!” -Laurence Coy boasted satirically. “Come on and try it if you don’t know -any better!” And he concluded darkly: “Why, you wouldn’t live a minute!” - -“Anyway,” Daisy insisted, “I won’t leave it to Elsie, whether I’m dead -or not.” - -“You got to,” said Laurence, and walking toward Elsie, he pointed to -Daisy, and spoke with some deference. “Tell her she’s dead, Elsie.” - -Elsie shook her head. “I doe’ care ’nything about it,” she said coldly. -“I doe’ care whether she’s dead or whether she isn’t.” - -“But she didn’t kill _us_, did she, Elsie?” Laurence urged her. “Our -side’s alive, isn’t it, Elsie?” - -“I doe’ care whether you are or whether you’re not,” the cold and -impartial Miss Threamer returned. “I doe’ care ’nything about it which -you are.” - -“I am _not_ dead!” Daisy shouted, jumping up and down as she pranced -toward the steps where sat the indifferent judge. “I doe’ care if Elsie -says I’m dead a thousan’ times, I guess I got my rights, haven’t I?” - -“No, you haven’t,” Robert Eliot informed her harshly. - -“I have, too!” she cried. “I have, too, got my rights.” - -“You haven’t, either,” Laurence said. “You haven’t got any rights. -Whatever Elsie says is goin’ to be the rights.” - -Daisy strained her voice to its utmost limits: “I got my RIGHTS!” she -bawled. - -They crowded about Elsie, arguing, jeering, gesticulating, a shrill and -active little mob; meanwhile Elsie, seated somewhat above them, rested -her chin on her clean little hand, and looked out over their heads with -large, far-away eyes that seemed to take no account of them and their -sordid bickerings. And Renfrew, marking how aloof from them she seemed, -was conscious of a vague resemblance; Elsie, like Muriel, seemed to -dwell above the common herd. - -Then, as she watched the clamorous group, he noticed that whenever -Laurence Coy appealed to Elsie, his voice, though loud, betrayed a -certain breathlessness, while frequently after speaking to her he opened -his mouth and took in a little air, which he then swallowed with some -difficulty, his neck becoming obviously uneasy. Indeed, this symptom was -so pronounced that Renfrew, observing it with great interest, felt that -there was something reminiscent about it—that is, it reminded him of -something; he could not think just what. But he began to feel that -Laurence perceived that Elsie was on a higher plane. - -Elsie seemed to think so herself. “I doe’ care ’nything about it,” -remained her unaltered verdict. “I doe’ care a thing which is dead or -which isn’t.” - -“Well, then,” said Laurence Coy, “we might as well play somep’m else.” - -“All right,” Daisy agreed. “Le’s play I’m a grea’ big Injun woyer, an’ -all the rest of you are children I got to come an’ scalp.” - -Her proposal met with no general favour—with no favour at all, in fact. -“For heaven’s sakes!” Thomas Kimball said. “I’d like to know what you -take us for!” And in this scornful view he was warmly seconded by all -his fellows. - -“Well, this is my yard,” Daisy reminded them severely. “I guess as long -as you’re in my yard, you’ll please be p’lite enough to play what I say. -I guess I got _some_ rights in my own yard, haven’t I?” - -“I guess you better remember you ast us over here to play with you,” -Laurence Coy retorted, and his severity was more than equal to hers. “We -never came an’ ast you if we _could_, did we? You better learn sense -enough to know that long as you ast _us_, we got a right to play what we -want to, because we’re company, an’ we aren’t goin’ to play have you -scalp us!” - -“You _haf_ to,” Daisy insisted. “I got a perfect right to play what I -want to in my own yard.” - -“You go on play it, an’ scalp yourself, then,” Laurence returned -ungallantly. “Elsie, what _you_ want to play?” - -“I doe’ want to play rough games,” Elsie said. “I doe’ like those -fighting games.” - -“Well, what do you like?” - -“Well, nice quiet games,” she replied. “I’d be willing to play school.” - -“How do you play it?” - -“Well, I’d be willing to be the teacher,” she said. “You all sit down in -a row, an’ I’ll say what punishments you haf to have.” - -Daisy instantly objected. “No, _I’ll_ be the teacher!” - -“You won’t!” Laurence said. “Elsie’s got to be the teacher because she’s -company, an’ anyway she said so first.” And the majority agreeing to -this, it was so ordered; whereupon Daisy, after some further futile -objections, took her place with the boys. They sat in a row upon the -grass, facing Elsie, who stood on the steps confronting them. - -“Now, the first thing to do,” she said, “I better find out who’s the -worst; because you every one been very, very naughty an’ deserve the -terrablest punishments I can think of. I haf to think what I’m goin’ to -do to you.” She paused, then pointed at Laurence. “Laurence Coy, you’re -the very worst one of this whole school.” - -“What did I do?” Laurence inquired. - -“You said you hated girls.” - -“Well, I did say that,” he admitted; and then, lest his comrades suspect -him of weakening, he added: “I hate every last thing about ’em!” - -“I bet you don’t,” said Daisy Mears, giggling. - -Laurence blushed. “I _do_!” he shouted. “I hate every last——” - -“Hush!” said the teacher. “That’s very, very, very naughty, and you haf -to be punished. You haf to be—well, I guess you haf to be spanked.” - -“I doe’ care!” Laurence said, seeming to forget that this was only a -game. “I hate girls and every last thing about ’em!” - -“Hush!” Elsie said again. “I ’point Robert Eliot and Freddie Mears -monitors. Robert must hold you while Freddie spanks you.” - -But Daisy jumped up, uncontrollably vociferous. “No, no!” she shouted. -“_I’m_ goin’ to be a monitor! This is my yard, an’ I guess I got _some_ -rights around here! Robert can hold him, but I got to spank him.” - -“Very well,” said Elsie primly. “I ’point Daisy in Freddie’s place.” - -Master Coy did not take this well; he rose and moved backward from the -enthusiastic Daisy. “I won’t do it,” he said. “I won’t let her spank -me.” - -“You _haf_ to,” Daisy told him, clapping her hands. “You haf to do -whatever Elsie says. You said so yourself; you said she had to be the -teacher, an’ we haf to do whatever she tells us.” - -“I won’t!” he responded doggedly, for now he felt that his honour was -concerned. “I won’t do it!” - -“Robert Eliot!” Elsie said reprovingly. “Did you hear me ’point you a -monitor to hold Laurence while he’s punished?” - -“You better keep away from me,” Laurence warned Robert, as the latter -approached, nothing loth. “I won’t do it!” - -“_I’m_ goin’ to do it,” said Daisy. “All you haf to do is hold still.” - -“I won’t!” said Laurence. - -“I guess I better do it with this,” Daisy remarked, and, removing her -left slipper as she and Robert continued their advance upon Laurence, -she waved it merrily in the air. “What you so ’fraid of, Laurence?” she -inquired boastingly. “This isn’t goin’ to hurt you—_much_!” - -“No, it isn’t,” he agreed. “And you better put it back where it was if -you ever want to see it again. I’ll take that ole slipper, an’ I’ll——” - -“Teacher!” Daisy called, looking back to where Elsie stood. “Didn’t you -say this naughty boy had to be spanked?” - -“Yes, I did,” Elsie replied. “You hurry up and do it!” - -Her voice was sweet; yet she spoke with sharpness, even with a hint of -acidity, which the grown-up observer, forgotten by the children, noted -with some surprise. Renfrew had been sure that he detected in Master Coy -the symptoms of a tender feeling for Elsie. Laurence had deferred to -her, had been the first to appeal to her when she sat aloof, had -insisted that she should choose the game to play, and when she had -chosen, hotly championed her claim to be the “teacher.” Above all was -the difference in his voice when he spoke to her, and that swallowing of -air, that uneasiness of the neck. Renfrew was sure, too, that Elsie -herself must be at least dimly aware of these things, must have some -appreciation of the preference for her that they portended—and yet when -she was given authority, her very first use of it was to place Master -Coy in a position unspeakably distasteful to himself. Sometimes children -were impossible to understand, Renfrew thought—and so were some grown -people, he added, in his mind, with a despondent glance across the -street. - -Having glanced that way, his eyes came to rest upon the open window of a -room upstairs, where the corner of a little satinwood writing-table was -revealed—Muriel’s, he knew. Branches of a tall maple tree gave half the -window a rococo frame, and beyond this bordering verdure sometimes he -had caught glimpses of a graceful movement, shadowy within the room—a -white hand would appear for an instant moving something on the desk, or -adjusting the window-shade for a better light; or at the best, it might -be half revealed, half guessed, that Muriel was putting on her hat at a -mirror. But this befell only on days when she was in a gentle mood with -him, and so it was seldom. Certainly it was not to-day, though she might -be there; for when she was gloomiest about her environment (of which he -was so undeniably a part) she might indeed sit at that charming little -satinwood table to write, but sat invisible to him, the curtains veiling -her. Of course, at such times, there was only one thing left for Renfrew -to do, and legend offers the parallel of the niggardly mother who locked -up the butter in the pantry, but let her children rub their dry bread on -the knob of the pantry door. Renfrew could look at the window. - -The trouble was that when he looked at it, he was apt to continue to -look at it for an indefinite period of time, during which his faculties -lost their usefulness; people whom he knew might pass along the -sidewalk, nod graciously to him, and then, not realizing his condition, -vow never to speak again to so wooden a young snob. And into such a -revery—if revery it were that held no thoughts, no visions, but only -the one glamorous portrait of an empty window—he fell to-day. The -voices of the children, sharp with purpose, shrill with protest, but -died in his tranced ear as if they came from far away. The whole summer -day, the glancing amber of the sunshine, the white clouds ballooning -overhead between the tree-tops, the warm touch and smell of the -air—these fell away from his consciousness. “He’s nothing,” the lonely -poetess brusquely wrote of him; and now, for the time, it was almost -true, since he was little more than a thought of a vacant window. - -When Renfrew was in this jellied state, something rather unusual was -needed to rouse him—though a fire-department ladder-truck going by, -with the gong palavering, had done it. What roused him to-day were -sounds less metallic, but comparable in volume and in certain ways more -sensational. As he stood, fixed upon the window, he slowly and vaguely -became aware that the children seemed to be excited about something. -Like some woodland dreamer who discovers that a crow commune overhead -has been in hot commotion for some time without his noticing it, he was -not perturbed, but gradually wakened enough to wonder what the matter -was. Then he turned and looked mildly about him. - -His sister Daisy still held her slipper, but it was now in her left -hand; in her right she had a shingle. Accompanied by Robert Eliot, she -was advancing in a taunting manner upon Laurence Coy; and all three, as -well as the rest of the children, may be described as continuously -active and poignantly vociferous. Master Coy had armed himself with a -croquet mallet, and his face expressed nothing short of red desperation; -he was making a last stand. He warned the world that he would not be -responsible for what he did with this mallet. - -Master Eliot also had a mallet; he and Daisy moved toward Laurence, -feinting, charging and retreating, while the other children whooped, -squealed, danced and gave shrill advice how the outlaw might best be -taken. - -Daisy was the noisiest of all. “_I’ll_ show you, Mister Laurence Coy!” -she cried. “You went an’ tore my collar, an’ you hit me with your elbow -on my nose, an’——” - -“I’m glad I did!” Laurence returned. - -“It _hurts_ me, too!” Daisy proclaimed. - -“I’m glad it does! You had no business to grab me, an’ I’m glad I——” - -“_We’ll_ show you!” she promised him. “Soon as we get hold of you I’m -goin’ to spank you till this shingle’s all wore out, an’ then I’m goin’ -to keep on till my slipper’s all wore out, an’ then I’m goin’ to take -off my _other_ slipper an’——” - -“_Look_, Daisy!” Elsie Threamer cried. “While Robert keeps in front of -him, why don’t you go round behind him? Then you could grab his mallet, -and Robert could throw him down.” - -At this the dreamy Renfrew looked at Elsie in a moderate surprise. -Elsie, earlier so aloof upon her higher plane, was the lady who had -objected to roughness; it was she who said she didn’t like “those -fighting games.” Yet here she was now, dancing and cheering on the -attack, as wolfish as the rest, as intent as any upon violence to the -unfortunate Laurence. Nay, it was she who had devised and set in motion -the very engine for his undoing. - -“Get behind him, Daisy,” she squealed. “That’ll fix him!” - -“She better _not_ get behind me!” the grim Laurence warned them. “Her -ole nose got _one_ crack already to-day, an’ if it gets another——” - -“I’ll take care o’ that, Mister Laurence Coy!” Daisy assured him. “I’ll -look after my own nose, I kinely thank you.” - -“Yes, you will!” he retorted bitterly. “It ain’t hardly big enough to -see it, an’ I bet if it comes off on this mallet, nobody could tell it -was gone.” - -“I’ll—I’ll show you!” Daisy returned, finding no better repartee, -though she evidently strove. “I’ll pay you with this paddle for every -one of your ole insulks!” - -“Run _behind_ him!” Elsie urged her. “Why didn’t you run behind and grab -him?” - -“You watch!” Daisy cried. “You keep pokin’ at him in front, Robert.” And -she darted behind Laurence, striking at the swinging mallet with her -shingle. - -But Laurence turned too, pivoting; and as he did, Robert Eliot, swinging -his own weapon, rushed forward. The two mallets clattered together; -there was a struggle—a confused one, for there were three parties to -it, Daisy seeming to be at once the most involved and the most vigorous -of the three. Her left arm clung about Laurence’s neck, with the sole of -her slipper pressed against his face, which he strove hard to disengage -from this undesirable juxtaposition; her right arm rose and fell -repeatedly, producing a series of muffled sounds. - -“I’ll show you!” she said. “I’ll show you whose nose you better talk -about so much!” - -“Ya-a-ay, Laurence!” the other children shouted. “Gettin’ spanked by a -_girl_! Ya-ay, Laur-_runce_!” - -They uproariously capered between Renfrew and the writhing group; but it -struck him that the two mallets, which were both moving rather wildly, -might do damage; and he moved toward the mêlée. - -“Here!” he called. “What’s all this nonsense? Put down those mallets.” - -He spoke too late. The maddened Laurence’s feelings differed little from -those of a warrior manhandled by a squaw in the midst of the taunting -tribe; and in his anguish his strength waxed exceedingly. His mallet -described a brief arc in the air, and not Daisy’s nose, but the more -evident nose of fat Robert Eliot, was the recipient. Contact was -established audibly. - -Robert squawked. He dropped his mallet, clasped his nose, and lay upon -the good earth. Then when he looked at his ensanguined fingers, he -seemed to feel that his end was hard upon him. He shrieked indeed. - -Daisy also complained, an accident having befallen her, though she took -it for no accident. “_Ooh!_” she said. “You made your elbow hit me in -the stummick, Laurence Coy!” She stood as a semicircle, and clasped -herself, while the noise of the other children was hushed—except the -extreme noise of Robert—and the discomfort of sudden calamity fell upon -them. Their silent mouths were all open, particularly that of Laurence -Coy, whom Daisy did little to reassure. - -“I bet I haf to have the doctor,” she prophesied ominously; and then, -pointing to the fallen, she added: “An’ I bet Robert’s goin’ to _die_.” - -“Nonsense!” her brother said, bending over Robert. “Nonsense!” - -But Laurence Coy did not hear this optimistic word. Laurence had no -familiarity with mortal wounds;—to his quaking eye, Robert bore a fatal -appearance, and Daisy’s chill prophecy seemed horribly plausible. -Laurence departed. One moment he stood there, pallid and dumfounded, but -present; and the next, no one could have defined his whereabouts with -certainty. All that could be known was that he had gone, and from the -manner of his going, it might well be thought that he was shocked to -find himself forgetting a rendezvous appointed for this very moment at -some distant spot;—he had a hurried air. - -Others were almost as deeply affected by Daisy’s gloomy prophecy. As -soon as she put the thought in their minds, Thomas Kimball, Freddie -Mears and the remarkable Elsie were all convinced that Robert was near -his passing, and with natural solicitude they had but the one thought in -common: to establish an alibi. - -“Well, _I_ never went anywhere near him,” Elsie said. “I never even -_touched_ a mallet!” - -“Neither’d I!” said Thomas Kimball. “I wasn’t in ten feet of him.” - -“_I_ wasn’t in a hunderd!” said Freddie. - -“It wasn’t _me_!” Thomas protested. “_I_ didn’t have anything to do with -it.” - -“It was Laurence Coy,” said Freddie. “_That’s_ who it was.” - -“It was every _bit_ Laurence Coy,” said Elsie. “I _told_ them not to -play such rough games.” - -Thus protesting, the three moved shyly toward various exits from the -yard, and protesting still, went forth toward their several -dwelling-places—and went unnoticed, for Robert was the centre of -attention. The volume of sound he produced was undiminished, though the -tone had elevated somewhat in pitch, and he seemed to intend words, -probably of a reproachful nature; but as his excess of emotion enabled -him to produce only vowels, the effect was confused, and what he wished -to say could be little more than guessed. - -“Hush, hush!” said Renfrew, trying to get him to stand up. “You’ll bring -the whole town here!” - -Robert became more coherent. “He _him_ me om my _mose_!” - -“I know,” said Renfrew. “But you’re not much hurt.” - -Appearing to resent this, Robert cried the louder. “I am, too!” he -wailed. “I bet I _do_ die!” - -“Nonsense!” - -“_I_ bet he does,” said the gloomy Daisy. “He _is_ goin’ to die, -Renfrew.” - -Pessimism is useful sometimes, but this was not one of the times. When -Robert heard Daisy thus again express her conviction, he gave forth an -increased bellowing; and it was with difficulty that Renfrew got him to -a hydrant in the side yard. Here, plaintively lowing, with his head -down, Robert incarnadined Renfrew’s trousers at intervals, while the -young man made a cold compress of a handkerchief and applied it to the -swelling nose. - -“If I—’f I—’f I die,” the patient blubbered, during this process, -“they got to ketch that lull-little Lull-Laurence Coy and huh-hang him!” - -“Nonsense!” said Renfrew. “Stand still; your nose isn’t even broken.” - -“Well, my stummick is,” Daisy said, attending upon them and still in the -semicircular attitude she had assumed for greater comfort. “I guess he -broke _that_, if he never broke anything else, and whether he gets hung -or not, I bet my mother’ll tell his mother she’s got to whip him, when -she finds out.” - -“When she finds out what?” Renfrew asked. - -“When she finds out what he did to my stummick!” - -“Pooh,” said Renfrew. “Both of you were teasing Laurence, and worrying -him till he hardly knew what he was doing. Besides, there isn’t really -anything to speak of the matter with either of you.” - -Both resented his making light of injuries so sensational as theirs; and -Robert released his voice in an intolerable howl. “There is, _too_! An’ -if I got to _die_——” - -“Stop that!” Renfrew commanded. “How many times must I tell you? You’re -not any more likely to die than I am!” - -With that he was aware of a furious maiden entering the gate and running -toward them across the lawn, and even as she sped, completing a hasty -“putting up” of her hair. - -“If he isn’t ‘likely to die,’” she cried, “I’d be glad to know whose -fault it is! Not yours, I think, Renfrew Mears!” - -At sight of his sister, Master Eliot bellowed anew; he wanted to tell -his troubles all over again; but emotion in the presence of sympathy was -too much for him; and once more he became all vowels, so that nothing -definite could be gathered. Muriel clasped him to her. “Poor darling -Bobby!” she said. “Don’t cry, darling! _Sister’ll_ take care of you!” - -“Here,” said Renfrew, proffering a fresh handkerchief. “Be careful. His -nose isn’t _quite_——” - -She took the handkerchief and applied it, but gave the donor no thanks. -“I never in all my life saw anything like it!” she exclaimed. “I never -saw anything to compare with it!” - -“Why, it didn’t amount to so very much,” Renfrew said mildly, though he -was surprised at her vehemence. “The children were playing, and they got -to teasing, and Robert got tapped on the——” - -“‘Tapped!’” she cried. “He might have been killed! But what I meant was -_you_!” - -“Me?” - -“Certainly! You! I never saw anything like your behaviour, and I saw it -all from the sofa in my room. If I hadn’t had to dress, I’d have been -over here in time to stop it long before you did, Renfrew Mears!” - -“Why, I don’t understand at all,” he protested feebly. “You seem angry -with _me_! But all I’ve done was to put cold water on Robert’s nose.” - -“That’s it!” she cried. “You stood there—I _saw_ you. You stood there, -and never lifted a finger while those children were having the most -dreadful fight _with croquet mallets_, not forty feet from you! They -might _all_ have been killed; and my poor darling little brother almost -_was_ killed——” - -At this, Robert interrupted her with fresh outcries, and clung to her -pitifully. She soothed him, and turned her flashing and indignant eyes -upon Renfrew. - -“You stood there, not like a man but like a block of wood,” she said. -“You didn’t even _look_ at them!” - -“Why, no,” said Renfrew. “I was looking at your window.” - -Apparently he felt that this was an explanation that explained -everything. He seemed to imply that any man would naturally demean -himself like a block of wood while engaged in the act of observation he -mentioned, even though surrounded by circumstances of murder. - -It routed Muriel. She had no words to express her feeling about a person -who talked like that; and giving him but one instant to take in the full -meaning of her compressed lips, her irate colour and indignant -breathing, she turned pointedly away. Then, with Robert clinging to her, -she went across the lawn and forth from the gate, while Mr. Mears and -his small sister watched in an impressed silence. - -Some one else watched Muriel as she supported the feeble steps of the -weeping fat boy across the street; and this was the self-styled -woman-hater and celebrated malleteer, Master Laurence Coy. He was at a -far distance down the street, and in the thorny middle of a hedge where -no sheriff might behold him; but he could see, and he was relieved -(though solely on his own account) to discover that Robert was still -breathing. He was about to come out from the hedge when the disquieting -afterthought struck him: Robert might have expressed a wish to be taken -to die in his own home. Therefore Laurence remained yet a while where he -was. - -By the hydrant, Daisy was so interested in the departure of the injured -brother and raging sister that she had forgotten her broken stummick and -the semicircular position she had assumed to assuage it, or possibly to -keep the broken parts together. She stood upright, watching the two -emotional Eliots till they had disappeared round their own house in the -direction of their own hydrant. Then she turned and looked up brightly -at her brother. - -“She’s fearful mad, isn’t she?” Daisy said, laughing. “She treats you -awful, don’t she?” - -“Never mind,” Renfrew said, and then he remembered something that had -puzzled him not so painfully; and he wondered if Daisy might shed a -light on this. “Daisy, what in the world made you pick on poor little -Laurence the way you did?” - -“Me?” she asked, surprised. “Why, it was Elsie told us to.” - -“That’s it,” Renfrew said. “That’s what I want to know. Laurence was -just as nice to her as he could be; he did everything he could think of -to please her, and the first chance she got, she set the whole pack of -you on him. What did she do a thing like that for?” - -Daisy picked a dandelion from the grass and began to eat it. “What?” she -inquired. - -“What makes Elsie so mean to poor little Laurence Coy?” - -“Oh, well,” said Daisy casually, “she likes him best. She likes him best -of all the boys in town.” And then, swallowing some petals of the -dandelion, she added: “She treats him awful.” - -Renfrew looked at her thoughtfully; then his wondering eyes moved slowly -upward till they rested once more upon the maple-embowered window over -the way, and into his expression there came a hint of something almost -hopeful. - -“So she does!” he said. - - - - - MAYTIME IN MARLOW - - -IN MAY, when the maple leaves are growing large, the Midland county seat -and market town called Marlow so disappears into the foliage that -travellers, gazing from Pullman windows, wonder why a railroad train -should stop to look at four or five preoccupied chickens in a back yard. -On the other hand, this neighbourly place is said to have a population -numbering more than three thousand. At least, that is what a man from -Marlow will begin to claim as soon as he has journeyed fifteen or twenty -miles from home; but to display the daring of Midland patriotism in a -word, there have been Saturdays (with the farmers in town) when -strangers of open-minded appearance have been told, right down on the -Square itself, that Marlow consisted of upwards of four thousand mighty -enterprising inhabitants. - -After statistics so dashing, it seems fairly conservative to declare -that upon the third Saturday of last May one idea possessed the minds -and governed the actions of all the better bachelors of Marlow who were -at that time between the ages of seventeen and ninety, and that the same -idea likewise possessed and governed all the widowers, better and worse, -age unlimited. - -She was first seen on the Main Street side of the Square at about nine -o’clock in the morning. To people familiar with Marlow this will mean -that all the most influential business men obtained a fair view of her -at an early hour, so that the news had time to spread to the -manufacturers and professional men before noon. - -Mr. Rolfo Williams, whose hardware establishment occupies a corner, was -the first of the business men to see her. He was engaged within a cool -alcove of cutlery when he caught a glimpse of her through a window; but -in spite of his weight he managed to get near the wide-spread front -doors of his store in time to see her framed by the doorway as a passing -silhouette of blue against the sunshine of the Square. His clerk, a -young married man, was only a little ahead of him in reaching the -sidewalk. - -“My goodness, George!” Mr. Williams murmured. “Who _is_ that?” - -“Couldn’t be from a bit more’n half a mile this side o’ New York!” said -George, marvelling. “Look at the clo’es!” - -“No, George,” his employer corrected him gently. “To me it’s more the -figger.” - -The lady was but thirty or forty feet away, and though she did not catch -their words, the murmur of the two voices attracted her attention. Not -pausing in her light stride forward, she looked back over her shoulder, -and her remarkable eyes twinkled with recognition. She smiled -charmingly, then nodded twice—first, unmistakably to Mr. Williams, and -then, with equal distinctness, to George. - -These dumfounded men, staring in almost an agony of blankness, were -unable to return the salutation immediately. The attractive back of her -head was once more turned to them by the time they recovered -sufficiently to bow, but both of them did bow, in spite of that, being -ultimately conscientious no matter how taken aback. Even so, they were -no more flustered than was old Mr. Newton Truscom (Clothier, Hatter, and -Gents’ Furnisher), just emerging from his place of business next door; -for Mr. Truscom was likewise sunnily greeted. - -“My goodness!” Mr. Williams gasped. “I never saw her from Adam!” - -Mr. Truscom, walking backward, joined the hardware men. “Seems like -fine-lookin’ girls liable to take considerable of a fancy to us three -fellers,” he said; “whether they know us or not!” - -“Shame on you, Newt!” George returned. “Didn’t you see her give me the -eye? Of course, after that, she wanted to be polite to you and Mr. -Williams. Thought him and you were prob’ly my pappy and gran’daddy!” - -“Look!” said Mr. Truscom. “She’s goin’ in Milo Carter’s drug-store. -Sody-water, I shouldn’t wonder!” - -“It just this minute occurred to me how a nectar and pineapple was what -I needed,” said George. “Mr. Williams, I’ll be back at the store in a -few min—” - -“No, George,” his employer interrupted. “I don’t mind your lollin’ -around on the sidewalk till she comes out again, because that’s about -what I’m liable to do myself, but if you don’t contain yourself from no -nectar and pineapple, I’m goin’ to tell your little bride about it—and -you know what Birdie will say!” - -“Rolfo, did you notice them _shoes_?” Mr. Truscom asked, with sudden -intensity. “If Baker and Smith had the enterprise to introduce a pattern -like that in our community——” - -“No, Newt, I didn’t take so much notice of her shoes. To me,” said Mr. -Williams dreamily, “to me it was more the whole figger, as it were.” - -The three continued to stare at the pleasing glass front of Milo -Carter’s drug-store; and presently they were joined by two other men of -business who had perceived from their own doorways that something -unusual was afoot; while that portion of Main Street lying beyond Milo -Carter’s also showed signs of being up with the times. Emerging from -this section, P. Borodino Thompson and Calvin Burns, partners in -Insurance, Real Estate, Mortgages and Loans, appeared before the -drug-store, hovered a moment in a non-committal manner that was really -brazen, then walked straight into the store and bought a two-cent stamp -for the firm. - -Half an hour later, Mortimer Fole was as busy as he could be. That is to -say, Mortimer woke from his first slumber in a chair in front of the -National House, heard the news, manœuvred until he obtained a view of -its origin, and then drifted about the Square exchanging comment with -other shirt-sleeved gossips. (Mortimer was usually unemployed; but there -was a Mexican War pension in the family.) - -“Heard about it?” he inquired, dropping into E. J. Fuller’s (E. J. -Fuller & Co., Furniture, Carpets and Wall-Paper). - -“Yes, Mortimore,” E. J. Fuller replied. “Anybody know anything?” - -“Some of ’em claim they do,” said Mortimer. “Couple fellers _I_ heard -says she must belong with some new picture theatre they claim an -out-o’-town firm’s goin’ to git goin’ here, compete with the Vertabena. -Howk, he says thinks not; claims it’s a lady he heard was comin’ to -settle here from Wilkes-Barry, Pennsylvania, and give embroidery lessons -and card-playin’. Cousin of the Ferrises and Wheelers, so Howk claims. I -says, ‘She is, is she?’ ‘Well,’ he says, ‘that’s the way _I_ look at -it.’ ‘Oh, you do, do you?’ I says. ‘Then what about her speakin’ to -everybody?’ I ast him, right to his face; and you’d ought to seen him! -Him and all of ’em are wrong.” - -“How do you know, Mortimore?” asked Mr. Fuller. “What makes you think -so?” - -“Listen here, Ed,” said Mortimer. “What’d she do when she went into -Charlie Murdock’s and bought a paper o’ pins? You heard about that, -yet?” - -“No.” - -“She went in there,” said Mr. Fole, “and spoke right _to_ Charlie. ‘How -are you, Mister Murdock?’ she says. Charlie like to fell over backwards! -And then, when he got the pins wrapped up and handed ’em to her she -says, ‘How’s your wife, Mr. Murdock?’ Well, sir, _Charlie_ says his wife -was just about the last woman in the world he had in his mind right -then!” - -“Where’s she supposed to be now?” Mr. Fuller inquired, not referring to -Mrs. Murdock. “Over at the hotel?” - -“Nope,” Mortimer replied. “She ain’t puttin’ up there. Right now she’s -went upstairs in the Garfield Block to Lu Allen’s office. Haven’t heard -what Lu’s got to say or whether she’s come out. You git to see her yet?” - -“No, sir,” Mr. Fuller returned, rather indifferently. “What’s she look -like, Mortimore?” - -“Well, sir, I can give you a right good notion about that,” said -Mortimer. “I expect I’m perty much the only man in town that could, too. -You remember the time me and you went over to Athens City and took in -the Athens City lodge’s excursion to Chicago? Well, remember somebody -got us to go to a matinée show without any much cuttin’ up or singin’ in -it, but we got so we liked it anyhow—and went back there again same -night?” - -“Yes, sir. Maude Adams.” - -“Well, sir, it ain’t her, but that’s who she kind o’ put me in mind of. -Carryin’ a blue parasol, too.” - -Mr. Fuller at once set down the roll of wall-paper he was measuring, and -came out from behind his counter. - -“Where goin’, Ed?” Mortimer inquired, stretching himself elaborately, -though somewhat surprised at Mr. Fuller’s abrupt action—for Mortimer -was indeed capable of stretching himself in a moment of astonishment. - -“What?” - -“Where goin’?” - -Mr. Fuller, making for the open, was annoyed by the question. “Out!” he -replied. - -“I got nothin’ much to do right now,” said the sociable Mortimer. “I’ll -go with you. Where’d you say you was goin’, Ed?” - -“Business!” Mr. Fuller replied crossly. - -“That suits _me_, Ed. I kind o’ want to see Lu Allen, myself!” - -Thereupon they set forth across the Square, taking a path that ran -through the courthouse yard; but when they came out from behind the old, -red brick building and obtained a fair view of the Garfield Block, they -paused. She of the blue parasol was disappearing into the warm obscurity -of Pawpaw Street; and beside her sauntered Mr. Lucius Brutus Allen, -Attorney at Law, his stoutish figure and celebrated pongee coat as -unmistakable from the rear as from anywhere. In the deep, congenial -shade of the maple trees her parasol was unnecessary, and Lucius dangled -it from his hand, or poked its ferule idly at bugs in shrubberies -trembling against the picket fences that lined the way. - -At any distance it could be seen that his air was attentive and -gallant—perhaps more than that, for there was even a tenderness -expressed in the oblique position of his shoulders, which seemed to -incline toward his companion. Mr. Rolfo Williams, to describe this mood -of Lucius Allen’s, made free use of the word “sag.” Mr. Williams stood -upon the corner with his wife, that amiable matron, and P. Borodino -Thompson, all three staring unaffectedly. “That’s Lu Allen’s lady-walk,” -said Rolfo, as E. J. Fuller and Mortimer joined them. “He always kind o’ -sags when he goes out walkin’ with the girls. Sags toe-_ward_ ’em. I’ll -say this much: I never see him sag deeper than what he is right now. -Looks to me like he’s just about fixin’ to lean on her!” - -“Don’t you worry!” his wife said testily. “Lucy’d slap him in a minute! -She always was that kind of a girl.” - -“‘Lucy!’” Mortimer echoed. “Lucy who?” - -“Lucy Cope.” - -“What on earth are you talkin’ about, Miz Williams? That ain’t Lucy -Cope!” - -Mrs. Williams laughed. “Just why ain’t it?” she asked satirically. “I -expect some o’ the men in this town better go get the eye-doctor to take -a look at ’em! Especially”—she gave her husband a compassionate -glance—“especially the fat, old ones! Mrs. Cal Burns come past my house -’while ago; says, ‘Miz Williams, I expect you better go on up-town look -after your husband,’ she says. ‘I been huntin’ fer mine,’ she says, ‘but -I couldn’t locate him, because he knows better than to let me to,’ she -says, ‘after what P. Borodino Thompson’s just been tellin’ me about him! -Lucy Cope Ricketts is back in town,’ she says, ‘and none the men -reckanized her yet,’ she says, ‘and you better go on up to the Square -and take a look for yourself how they’re behavin’! _I_ hear,’ she says, -‘_I_ hear hasn’t anybody been able to get waited on at any store-counter -in town so far this morning, except Lucy herself.’” - -“Well, sir,” Mr. Williams declared. “I couldn’t hardly of believed it, -but it certainly is her.” He shook his head solemnly at Mrs. Williams, -and, gently detaching her palm-leaf fan from her hand, used it for his -own benefit, as he continued: “Boys, what I’m always tellin’ ma here is -that there ain’t nothin’ on earth like bein’ a widow to bring out the -figger!” - -“You hush up!” she said, but was constrained to laugh and add, “I guess -you’d be after _me_ all right if I was a widow!” - -“No, Carrie,” he said, “I wouldn’t be after nobody if you was a widow.” - -“I mean if I was anybody else’s,” Mrs. Williams explained. “Look how -George says you been actin’ all morning about this one!” - -Mr. Fuller intervened in search of information. He was not a native, and -had been a citizen of Marlow a little less than four years. “Did you say -this lady was one of the Ricketts family, Mrs. Williams?” he inquired. - -“No. She married a Ricketts. She’s a Cope; she’s all there is left of -the Copes.” - -“Did I understand you to say she was a widow?” - -“I didn’t say she was one,” Mrs. Williams replied. “She is one now, -though. Her and Tom Ricketts got married ten years ago and went to live -in California. He’s been dead quite some time—three-four years -maybe—and she’s come back to live in the Copes’ ole house, because it -belongs to her, I expect. Everybody knew she was comin’ some time this -spring—everybody’d heard all about it—but none you _men_ paid any -attention to it. I’ll have to let you off, Mr. Fuller. You’re a widower -and ain’t lived here long, and you needn’t take what I’m sayin’ to -yourself. But the rest of all you rag-tag and bob-tail aren’t goin’ to -hear the last o’ this for some time! Mr. Fuller, if you want to know why -they never took any interest up to this morning in Lucy Cope Ricketts’ -goin’ to come back and live here again, it’s because all they ever -remembered her she was kind of a peakid girl; sort of thin, and never -seemed to have much complexion to speak of. You wouldn’t think it to -look at her now, but that’s the way she was up to when she got married -and went away. Now she’s back here, and a _widow_, not a one of ’em -reckanized her till Mrs. Cal Burns come up-town and told ’em—and look -how they been actin’!” - -“It all goes to show what I say,” said Rolfo. “She always did have kind -of a sweet-lookin’ face, but I claim that there’s nothin’ in the world -like being a happy widow to bring out the complexion and the——” - -“Listen to you!” his wife interrupted. “How you do keep out o’ jail so -long _I_ certainly don’t know!” She turned to the others. “That man’s a -born bigamist,” she declared. “And at that I don’t expect he’s so much -worse’n the rest of you!” - -“You ought to leave me out along with E. J. Fuller, Mrs. Williams,” Mr. -Thompson protested. “I’ve never even been married at all.” - -But this only served to provoke Rolfo’s fat chuckle, and the barbed -comment: “It _is_ a heap cheaper at mealtimes, Bore!” - -“How’s it happen Lu Allen’s so thick with Mrs. Ricketts?” E. J. Fuller -inquired. “How’s it come that he——” - -“He’s her lawyer,” Mrs. Williams informed him, “and he was executor of -the Cope will, and all. Besides that, he used to be awful attentive to -her, and nobody was hardly certain which she was goin’ to take, Lu Allen -or Tom Ricketts, right up to a year or two before she got married. Looks -like Lu was goin’ to get a second chance, and money throwed in!” - -“Well, Lu’s a talker, but he’ll have to talk some now!” P. Borodino -Thompson announced thoughtfully. “I used to know her, too, but I never -expected she was going to turn out like this!” - -“You and I been gettin’ to be pretty fair friends, Bore,” said Mr. -Fuller, genially, as the group broke up. “Think you could kind of slide -me in along with you when you go up there to call?” - -“No, sir!” Mr. Thompson replied emphatically. “Red-headed Lu Allen isn’t -much of a rival, but he’s enough for me. If _you_ think of starting in, -first thing I do I’m going to tell her you’re an embezzler. I’m going -home now to get out my cutaway suit and white vest, and you can tell ’em -all to keep out of my road! I’m going calling this evening, right after -supper!” - -“Never mind!” Fuller warned him. “I’ll get up there _some_ way!” - -Meanwhile, in the sun-checkered shadow of a honeysuckle vine that -climbed a green trellis beside an old doorway, Mr. Lucius Brutus Allen -was taking leave of his lovely friend. - -“Will you come this evening, Lucius, and help me decide on some -remodeling for the house?” she asked; and probably no more -matter-of-fact question ever inspired a rhapsody in the bosom of a man -of thirty-five. - -“No, thanks,” said Mr. Allen. “I never could decide which I thought your -voice was like, Lucy: a harp or a violin. It’s somewhere between, I -suspect; but there are pictures in it, too. Doesn’t make any difference -what you _say_, whenever you speak a person can’t help thinking of wild -roses shaking the dew off of ’em in the breezes that blow along about -sunrise. You might be repeating the multiplication table or talking -about hiring a cook, but the sound of your voice would make pictures -like that, just the same. I had to hear it again to find out how I’ve -been missing it. I must have been missing it every single day of these -ten years whether I knew it or not. It almost makes me sorry you’ve come -back, because if you hadn’t I’d never have found out how I must have -been suffering.” - -Mrs. Ricketts looked at him steadily from within the half-shadow of the -rim of her pretty hat. “When will you come and help me with the plans?” -she asked. - -“I don’t know,” Mr. Allen returned absently; and he added with immediate -enthusiasm: “I never in my life saw any girl whose hair made such a -lovely shape to her head as yours, Lucy! It’s just where you want a -girl’s hair to be, and it’s not any place you don’t want it to be. It’s -the one thing in the world without any fault _at all_—the only thing -the Lord made just perfect—except your nose and maybe the Parthenon -when it was new.” - -That brought a laugh from her, and Lucius, who was pink naturally and -pinker with the warm day, grew rosy as he listened to Lucy’s laughter. -“By George!” he said. “To hear you laugh again!” - -“You always did make me laugh, Lucius.” - -“Especially if I had anything the matter with me,” he said. “If I had a -headache or toothache I’d always come around to get you to laugh. -Sometimes if the pain was pretty bad, it wouldn’t go away till you -laughed two or three times!” - -She laughed the more; then she sighed. “Over ten years, almost -eleven—and you saying things like this to every girl and woman you met, -all the time!” - -“Well,” Mr. Allen said thoughtfully, “nobody takes much notice what a -chunky kind of man with a reddish head and getting a little bald says. -It’s quite a privilege.” - -She laughed again, and sighed again. “Do you remember how we used to sit -out here in the evenings under the trees, Lucius? One of the things I’ve -often thought about since then was how when _you_ were here, papa and -mamma would bring their chairs and join us, and you’d talk about the -moon, and astronomy, and the Hundred Years War, and——” - -“Yes!” Lucius interrupted ruefully. “And then some other young fellow -would turn up—some slim, dark-haired Orlando—and you’d go off walking -with him while I stayed with the old folks. I’d be talking astronomy -with them, but you and Orlando were strolling under the stars—and -didn’t care what they were made of!” - -“No,” she said. “I mean what I’ve thought about was that papa and mamma -never joined us unless _you_ were here. It took me a long while to -understand that, Lucius; but finally I did.” She paused, musing a -moment; then she asked: “Do the girls and boys still sit out on front -steps and porches, or under the trees in the yard in the evenings the -way we used to? Do you remember how we’d always see old Doctor Worley -jogging by in his surrey exactly as the courthouse bell rang nine, every -night; his wife on the back seat and the old doctor on the front one, -coming home from their evening drive? There are so many things I -remember like that, and they all seem lovely now—and I believe they -must be why I’ve come back here to live—though I didn’t think much -about them at the time. Do the girls and boys still sit out in the yards -in the evening, Lucius?” - -Lucius dangled the ferule of the long-handled blue parasol over the -glowing head of a dandelion in the grass. “Not so much,” he answered. -“And old Doc Worley and his wife don’t drive in their surrey in the -summer evenings any more. They’re both out in the cemetery now, and the -surrey’s somewhere in the air we breathe, because it was burnt on a -trash-heap the other day, though I’ve seemed to see it driving home in -the dusk a hundred times since it fell to pieces. Nowadays hardly any, -even of the old folks, ride in surreys. These ten years have changed the -world, Lucy. Money and gasoline. Even Marlow’s got into the world; and -in the evenings they go out snorting and sirening and blowing-out and -smoking blue oil all over creation. Bore Thompson’s about the only man -in town that’s still got any use for a hitching-post. He drives an old -white horse to a phaeton, and by to-morrow afternoon at the latest -you’ll find that old horse and phaeton tied to the ring in the hand of -that little old cast-iron stripe-shirted nigger-boy in front of your -gate yonder.” - -Mrs. Ricketts glanced frowningly at the obsolete decoration he -mentioned; then she smiled. “That’s one of the things I want you to -advise me about,” she said. “I don’t know how much of the place to alter -and how much to leave as it is. And _why_ will I find Mr. Thompson’s -horse tied to our poor old cast-iron darky boy?” - -“He’s seen you, hasn’t he?” - -“Yes, but he looked startled when I spoke to him. Besides, he used to -see me when I was a girl, and he was one of the beaux of the town, and -he never came then.” - -“He will now,” said Lucius. - -“Oh, surely not!” she protested, a little dismayed. - -“He couldn’t help it if he tried, poor thing!” - -At that she affected to drop him a curtsey, but nevertheless appeared -not over-pleased. “You seem to be able to help it, Lucius,” she said; -and the colour in his cheeks deepened a little as she went on: “Of -course you don’t know that the way you declined to come this evening is -one of the things that make life seem such a curious and mixed-up thing -to me. After I—when I’d gone away from here to live, you were what I -always remembered when I thought of Marlow, Lucius. And I remembered -things you’d said to me that I hadn’t thought of at all when you were -saying them. It was so strange! I’ve got to knowing you better and -better all the long, long time I’ve been away from you—and I could -always remember you more clearly than anybody else. It seems queer and -almost a little wicked to say it, but I could remember you even more -clearly than I could papa and mamma—and, oh! how I’ve looked forward to -seeing you again and to having you talk to me about _everything_! Why -won’t you come this evening? Aren’t you really glad I’m home again?” - -“That’s the trouble!” he said; and seemed to feel that he had offered a -satisfactory explanation. - -“What in the world do you mean?” she cried. - -“I gather,” he said slowly, “from what you’ve said, that you think more -about me when I’m not around where you have to look at me! Besides——” - -“Besides what?” she insisted, as he moved toward the gate. - -“I’m afraid!” said Lucius; and his voice was husky and honest. “I’m -afraid,” he repeated seriously, as he closed the gate behind him. “I’m -afraid to meet Maud and Bill.” - -She uttered half of a word of protest, not more than that; and it went -unheard. Frowning, she compressed her lips, and in troubled silence -stood watching his departure. Then, all at once, the frown vanished from -her forehead, the perplexity from her eyes; and she pressed an -insignificant handkerchief to a charming mouth overtaken by sudden -laughter. But she made no sound or gesture that would check Lucius -Brutus Allen or rouse him to the realization of what he was doing. - -The sturdy gentleman was marching up Pawpaw Street toward the Square, -unconscious that he had forgotten to return the long-handled blue -parasol to its owner—and that he was now jauntily carrying it over his -right shoulder after the manner of a musket. Above the fence, the blue -parasol and the head of Lucius bobbed rhythmically with his gait, and -Mrs. Ricketts, still with her handkerchief to her lips, watched that -steady bobbing until intervening shrubberies closed the exhibition. -Then, as she opened the door of the old frame house, she spoke -half-aloud: - -“Nobody—not one—never _any_where!” she said; and she meant that Lucius -was unparalleled. - - * * * * * - -When Mr. Allen debouched upon Main Street from Pawpaw, he encountered -Mortimer Fole, who addressed him with grave interest: - -“Takin’ it to git mended, I suppose, Lu?” - -“Get what mended?” asked Lucius, pausing. - -“Her parasol,” Mr. Fole responded. “If you’ll show me where it’s out of -order, I expect I could get it fixed up about as well as anybody. Frank -Smith that works over at E. J. Fuller’s store, he’s considerable of a -tinker, and I reckon he’d do it fer nothin’ if it was me ast him to. I’d -be willin’ to carry it up to her house for you, too. I go by there -anyhow, on my way home.” - -“No, Mortimore, thank you.” Lucius brought the parasol down from his -shoulder and stood regarding it seriously. “No; it isn’t out of order. -I—I just brought it with me. What’s the news?” - -“Well, I don’t know of much,” said Mortimer, likewise staring -attentively at the parasol. “Some wall-paperin’ goin’ on here and there -over town, E. J. Fuller says. Ed says P. Borodino Thompson told him he -was goin’ to drop round and _call_ this evening, he says; but afterwards -I was up at the hardware store, and Bore come in there and Rolfo -Williams’s wife talked him out o’ goin’. ‘My heavens!’ she says, ‘can’t -you even give her a couple days to git unpacked and straighten up the -house?’ So Bore says he guessed he’d wait till to-morrow afternoon and -ast her to go buggy-ridin’ in that ole mud-coloured phaeton of his. Milo -Carter’s fixin’ to go up there before long, and I hear Henry Ledyard -says _he’s_ liable to start in mighty soon, too. You and Bore better -look out, Lu. Henry’s some years younger than what you and Bore are. He -ain’t as stocky as what you are, nor as skinny as what Bore is, and he -certainly out-dresses the both of you every day in the week an’ twicet -on Sunday!” - -“Thank you, Mortimore,” Lucius responded, nodding. “I’d been calculating -a little on a new necktie—but probably it wouldn’t be much use if Henry -Ledyard’s going to——” - -“No, sir,” Mortimer interrupted to agree. “Henry buys ’em a couple or -more at a time. Newt Truscom’s goin’ to be a rich man if Henry don’t -quit. So long, Lu!” - -Mr. Allen, turning in at the entrance to the stairway that led to his -office, waved his left hand in farewell, his right being employed in an -oddly solicitous protection of the parasol—though nothing threatened -it. But Mortimer, having sauntered on a few steps, halted, and returned -to the stairway entrance, whence he called loudly upward: - -“Lu! Oh, Lu Allen!” - -“What is it?” - -“I forgot to mention it. You want to be lookin’ out your window along -around three o’clock or half-past, to-morrow afternoon.” - -“What for?” - -“Why, P. Borodino was talkin’ and all so much, about that buggy-ride, -you know, so Rolfo Williams bet him a safety-razor against three -dollars’ worth of accident insurance that he wouldn’t git her to go with -him, and Bore’s got to drive around the Square, first thing after they -start, to prove it. There’s quite a heap of interest around town in all -this and that; and you better keep your eye out your window from three -o’clock on!” - -Thus, at three o’clock, the next afternoon, Mr. Allen was in fact -looking—though somewhat crossly—out of his office window. Below, P. -Borodino Thompson was in view, seated in his slowly moving phaeton, -exuberantly clad for a man of his special reputation for “closeness,” -and with his legs concealed by a new dust-robe, brilliantly bordered; -but he was as yet unaccompanied. - -A loud and husky voice ascended to the window: “On his way!” And Lucius -marked the form and suspender of Mortimer upon the sidewalk below; -whereupon Mortimer, seeing that Lucius observed him, clapped hand to -mouth, and simulated a jocular writhing in mockery of P. Borodino. “Hay, -Bore!” he bellowed. “Floyd Kilbert’s wife’s got a sewin’-machine she -wants you to move fer her in that empty seat you’ll have in your phaeton -when you git back here to the Square in a few minutes!” - -Mr. Thompson waved his whip condescendingly, attempting no other retort; -and turned into the maple shade of Pawpaw Street. Five minutes later, -“General,” the elderly white horse, was nosing the unyielding hand of -the cast-iron darky boy, and the prophecy made by Mr. Allen on the -preceding morning was fulfilled. - -A neat young woman, descendant of vikings, but tamed in all except -accent, showed Mr. Thompson into an Eighteen-Eighty parlour; went away, -returned, and addressed him as “yentleman.” Mrs. Ricketts would be glad -to see him, she reported, adding: “Yust wait some minute.” - -The visitor waited some minutes, then examined his reflection in the -glass over the Eastlake mantel; and a slight rustling in the hall, near -the doorway, failed to attract his attention, for he was engaged in a -fundamental rearrangement of his tie. - -“Wookin’ at himseff in the wookin’-gwass!” - -This unfavourable comment caused him to tuck his tie back into the neck -of his white waistcoat in haste, and to face the doorway somewhat -confusedly. Two pretty little children stood there, starchy and fresh, -and lustrously clean, dressed in white: a boy about seven and a girl -about five—and both had their mother’s blue eyes and amber hair. - -“He’s dressin’ himself,” said the boy. - -“Wookin’ at himseff in the wookin’-gwass!” the little girl repeated, -and, pointing a curling forefinger, she asked: “Who? Who that man?” - -“Well, tots,” the visitor said, rather uncomfortably, but with proper -graciousness, “who are _you_? What’s your name, little girl?” - -“Maud,” the little girl replied, without any shyness. - -“What’s yours, little man?” - -“Bill,” said the boy. “Bill Ricketts. You got somep’m stickin’ out of -your vest at the top.” - -Mr. Thompson incautiously followed an impulse to turn again to the -mirror, whereupon the child, Maud, instantly shouted: - -“Wookin’ at himseff in the wookin’-gwass!” - -Her voice was so loud, and the information it imparted so discomfiting, -that the visitor felt himself breaking out suddenly into a light -perspiration. Foolishly, he attempted to defend himself against the -accusation. “Why, no, I wasn’t, little Maudie,” he said, with an uneasy -laugh. - -To his horror, she responded by shouting at an even higher pitch than -before: - -“_Wookin’ at himseff in the wookin’-gwass!_” - -She did not stop at that, for children in such moods are terrible, and -they have no pity. P. Borodino Thompson, substantial citizen, of -considerable importance financially, not only in Marlow but throughout -the county, and not without dignity to maintain, found himself at the -mercy of this child who appeared to be possessed (for no reason -whatever) by the old original Fiend of malice. She began to leap into -the air repeatedly; leaping higher and higher, clapping her hands -together, at arms’-length above her head, while she shrieked, squealed, -and in all ways put pressure upon her lungs and vocal organs to -distribute over the world the scandal that so horridly fascinated her: - -“Caught him! Wookin’ at himseff in the wookin’-gwass! Caught him wookin’ -at himseff in the _wookin’-gwass_! Wookin’ at himseff in the -wookin’-GWASS!” - -Meanwhile, her brother did not escape infection. He, likewise, began to -leap and to vociferate, so that it was not possible to imagine any part -of the house, or of the immediate neighbourhood, to which the indictment -was not borne. - -“Stickin’ out of his vest!” shouted Bill. “Got somep’n stickin’ out of -his vest! Out of his vest, vest, vest! Out of his vest, vest, VEST!” - -Then, without warning, he suddenly slapped his sister heartily upon the -shoulder. “Got your tag!” he cried; darted away, and out through the -open front door to the green sunshiny yard, whither Maud instantly -pursued him. - -Round and round the front yard they went, the two little flitting white -figures, and round the house, and round and round the old back yard with -its long grape-arbour and empty stable. By and by, when each had fallen -separately four or five times, they collided and fell together, -remaining prone, as by an unspoken agreement. Panting, they thus -remained for several minutes; then Bill rose and walked into the stable, -until now unexplored; and Maud followed him. - -When they came out, two minutes later, Bill was carrying, to the extreme -damage of his white blouse, a large can of red paint, while Maud was -swinging a paint-brush that had been reposing in the can; and the look -upon their two flushed faces was studious but inscrutable. - -Maud applied the brush to the side of the house, leaving a broad red -streak upon the gray weather-boarding; but Bill indignantly snatched the -brush from her hand. - -“Shame!” he said. “You know what you got once!” - -“When?” Maud demanded. “When did I got it?” - -“_You_ know!” her brother responded darkly. “For markin’ on the nurs’ry -wall with my little box o’ paints.” - -“She did not!” - -“She did, too!” - -“Not!” - -“Did!” said Bill. “And you’ll get one now if she finds out you stuck -paint on the house. You will!” - -“I won’t!” - -“Will, too! You _know_ it’s wrong to stick paint on a house.” - -“’Tisn’t!” Maud insisted. “She spanks you more’n she spanks me.” - -“You wait an’ see!” - -He shook his head ominously, and for a moment Maud was depressed, but -the signs of foreboding vanished from her angelic brow, and she made the -natural inquiry: - -“What we _goin’_ to paint?” - -To Bill also, it was evident that something had to be painted; but as he -looked about him, the available material seemed sparse. As a being -possessed of reason, he understood that a spanking applied to his sister -in order to emphasize the immunity of houses, might well be thought to -indicate that stables and fences were also morally unpaintable. Little -appeared to remain at the disposal of a person who had just -providentially acquired a can of red paint and a brush. Shrubberies were -obviously impracticable, and Bill had his doubts about the trunks of -trees: they were made of wood, he knew, like many houses and fences and -stables. - -As he stood, thinking profoundly, there came loudly through the still -afternoon the sound of General, shaking his harness and stamping the -ground, as a May fly persisted in annoying him. - -Maud pointed with her curling forefinger. “Wet’s paint that,” she said. - -“That” was the horse; Maud was pointing at General. And immediately -Bill’s eyes showed his relief from a great strain, and became eager and -confident: nobody had ever told him not to paint a horse. - -Hand-in-hand, the brother and sister approached General. The kind old -horse, worried by the fly and the heat, was pleased to have the fly -chased away; and after the first stroke of the cool wet brush on his -right foreleg, he closed one eye in hushed ecstasy and stood motionless, -lest he break the spell. - -General’s owner, meanwhile, in the quiet parlour, had not quite -recovered his usual pallor; but the departure of the children mightily -relieved him, and he found time to complete the bestowal of his tie. -Thereafter, Mrs. Ricketts still not making her appearance, he had -leisure to acquaint himself with the design of romantic musical -instruments inlaid in pearl upon the top of the centre-table; and with -the two tall alabaster pitchers upon the mantelpiece, each bearing the -carved word “Souvenir;” and with the Toreador burnt upon a panel of wood -and painted, but obscure with years of standing in an empty -house—though nothing was dusty, for plainly the daughter of vikings had -been “over” everything thoroughly. Altogether, Mr. Thompson considered -the room (which spoke of Lucy Cope’s mother rather than of Lucy) a -pleasant and comfortable one—that is, if those children—— - -A step descending the stair, a whispering of silk—and Mr. Thompson, -after a last settling of his neck into his collar, coughed reassuringly, -and faced the door with a slight agitation. More would have been -warranted by the vision that appeared there. - -She came quickly toward him and gave him her hand. “How kind of you to -remember me and come to see me!” she said. “And how inhospitable you’re -thinking me to have kept you waiting so long in such a stuffy room!” She -turned to the nearest window as she spoke, and began to struggle -delicately with the catch of the old-fashioned “inside shutters.” “We’ll -let some air in and some light, too; so that we can both see how little -we’ve changed. The children were the reason I was so long: they were -washed and dressed like little clean angels, but they’re in rather high -spirits—you know how children are for the first few days after coming -to a new place—and they slipped down into the cellar, which we haven’t -had time to get put in order yet, and they found an old air-passage to -the furnace, and crawled through it, and so they had to be all washed -and dressed over again; and when I got through doing it, _I_ had to be -all washed and dressed over again! I hope they didn’t annoy you, Mr. -Thompson: I thought I heard them romping down here, somewhere. They’re -really not so wild as they must seem; it’s only that coming to a place -altogether strange to them has upset them a little, and—— There!” The -catch yielded, and she spread the shutters wide. “Now we can have a -little more li——” - -She paused in the middle of the word, gazing fixedly out of the window. - -But the caller did not follow the direction of Mrs. Ricketts’s gaze; he -was looking at her with concentrated approval, and mentally preparing -the invitation it was his purpose to extend. After coughing rather -formally, “I have called,” he said, “or, rather, I have stopped by on my -way to take a drive, because I thought, perhaps, as the weather was -warm, it might be cooler than sitting indoors to take a turn around the -Square first and then drive out toward the Athens City Pike, and return -by way of——” - -“_Mercy!_” exclaimed Mrs. Ricketts in a tone so remarkable that he -stopped short; and then his eyes followed the direction of hers. - -He uttered a stricken cry. - -All four of General’s legs had been conscientiously painted, and Maud, -standing directly under his stomach, so to speak, was holding the can of -paint clasped in her arms, while the older artist began work on the -under side of General’s ribs. General’s expression was one of dreamy -happiness, though his appearance, and that of the children’s clothes, -hands, cheeks, and noses suggested a busy day at the abattoir. - -“Don’t move!” Mrs. Ricketts called suddenly, but not alarmingly, as she -raised the window. “Stand still, Maud! Now walk straight this way—walk -toward _me_. Instantly!” - -And as Maud obeyed, her mother jumped out of the window, a proceeding -that both children recognized as extraordinary and ill-omened. Bill -instinctively began to defend himself. - -“You never _told_ us we couldn’t paint horses!” he said hotly. “We -haven’t painted him much, we’ve only——” - -“March!” said his mother in the tone that meant the worst. “Round to the -kitchen—not through the _house_! Both of you! Quick!” - -Bill opened his mouth to protest further, but, almost to his own -surprise, a wail came forth instead of an argument, and at that sound, -Maud dropped the sanguinary can and joined him in loud dole. Shouting -with woe, holding their unspeakable hands far from them, with fingers -spread wide, they marched. Round the corner of the house went the dread -pageant, and the green grass looked like murder where it passed. But -when Mrs. Ricketts returned, after delivering Maud and Bill into the -hands of a despairing servitress, General and the phaeton were gone. - -“Oh, oh, _oh_!” she murmured, and, overcome by the dreadful picture that -rose before her imagination, she went droopingly into the house. In her -mind’s eye she saw Mr. Thompson in all his special dressiness and -lemon-yellow tie, driving through the streets and explaining to people: -“Yes, Lucy Ricketts has come back and her children did this!” She saw -him telling Lucius—and she remembered what Lucius had said: “I’m afraid -to meet Maud and Bill!” - -She began to feel strickenly sure that Lucius would return her parasol -by a messenger. If he did that (she thought) what was the use of coming -all the way from California to live in a town like Marlow! - -But the parasol was not sent, nor did Lucius bring it. It remained, as -did Mr. Allen himself, obscured from her sight and from her knowledge. -Nor was there brought to her any account of P. Borodino’s making a -dreadful progress through the town as she had imagined. Mr. Thompson -had, in fact, led General as hastily as possible into the nearest -alley—so Mortimer Fole explained to Lucius one week later, almost to -the hour. - -Mortimer had dropped into Mr. Allen’s office and had expressed surprise -at finding its tenant in town. “I been up here two three times a day fer -a week, Lu,” he said, seating himself. “Where on earth you been?” - -“Argument before the Federal court in Springfield,” Lucius answered. -“What did you want to see me about, Mortimer?” - -“Well, they’s been some talk about our pension goin’ out the family,” -said Mortimer, “in case it happened my wife’s stepmother _was_ to die. -It comes through that branch, you know, Lu.” - -“Is she ailing?” - -“No,” said Mortimer. “She gits the best of care. We were only talkin’ it -over, and some of ’em says, ‘Suppose she _was_ to go, what then?’” - -“I wouldn’t worry about it until she did,” his legal adviser suggested. -“Anything else?” - -Mortimer removed his hat, and from the storage of its inner band took -half of a cigar, which, with a reflective air, he placed in the corner -of his mouth. Then he put his hat on again, tilted back against the -wall, and hooked his heels over a rung of his chair. “Heard about Henry -Ledyard yet?” he inquired. - -“No.” - -“Well, sir, he went up there,” said Mortimer. “He only went oncet!” - -“What was the trouble?” - -Mr. Fole cast his eyes high aloft, an ocular gesture expressing -deplorable things. - -“Maud and Bill,” he said. - -“What did they do?” - -“Henry was settin’ in the parlour talkin’ to their mother, and, the way -I heard it, all of a sudden they heard somep’n go ‘Pop!’ outside, in the -hall, and when they come to look, it was that new, stiff, high-crowned -straw hat he went and ordered from New York and had shipped out here by -express. They got a woman up there cookin’ and a Norwegian lady to do -extra work, and I hear this here Norwegian tells some that the way it -happened was Maud was settin’ on it, kind of jouncin’ around to see if -it wouldn’t bounce her up and down. Seems this Norwegian she says -spankin’ and shuttin’ up in the closet don’t do neither of ’em one -little bit o’ good. Says there ain’t nothin’ in the world’ll take it out -of ’em. Them two chuldern have just about got this town buffaloed, Lu!” - -“Oh, only breaking a straw hat,” said Lucius. “I don’t see how -that’s——” - -“The two of ’em come up-town,” Mortimer interrupted firmly. “They come -up-town to the Square, the next afternoon after they busted Henry’s -twelve-dollar hat, and they went into E. J. Fuller’s store and Ed says -they come mighty near drivin’ him crazy, walkin’ up and down behind him -singin’ ‘Gran’-mammy Tipsytoe.’ Then they went on over to Milo Carter’s, -and they had a dollar and forty cents with ’em that they’d went and got -out of their little bank. They et seven big ice-cream sodies apiece and -got sick right in the store. Milo had to telephone fer their mother, and -her and the Norwegian come and had to about carry ’em home. And _that_ -ain’t half of it!” - -“What’s the other half?” Lucius asked gravely. - -“Well, you heard about _Bore_, of course.” - -“No, I haven’t.” - -Mortimer again removed his hat, this time to rub his head. “I reckon -that might be so,” he admitted. “I guess you must of left town by the -time it leaked out.” - -“By the time what leaked out?” - -“Well, you remember how he started off, that day,” Mortimer began, “to -git her to go out buggy-ridin’ in his phaeton with ole General?” - -“Yes.” - -“Well, sir, you know he was goin’ to drive back here and around the -Square to win that bet off o’ Rolfo, and he never come. ’Stead o’ that -he turned up at the hardware store about two hours later and settled the -bet. Says he lost it because she wasn’t feelin’ too well when he got -there, and so they just set around and talked, instead of ridin’. But -Bore never went back there, and ain’t goin’ to, you bet, any more than -what Henry Ledyard is! There ain’t hardly a man in town but what Maud -and Bill’s got buffaloed, Lu.” - -Mr. Allen occupied himself with the sharpening of a pencil. “What did -they do to Thompson?” he asked casually. - -“Well, sir, fer the first few days I expect I was the only man in town -knowed what it was.” Mr. Fole spoke with a little natural pride. “You -see, after he went up there and wasn’t no sign of him on the Square fer -awhile, why I didn’t have nothin’ much to do just then, and thinks I, -‘Why not go see what’s come of him?’ thinks I. So I walked around there -the back way, by Copes’s alley, and just as I was turnin’ in one end the -alley, by Glory! here come P. Borodino Thompson leadin’ ole General and -the phaeton in at the other end, and walkin’ as fur away from him as he -could and yet still lead him. - -“Well, sir, I almost let out a holler: first thing I thought was they -must of been in the worst accident this town had ever saw. Why, pore ole -General—honest, he looked more like a slaughter-house than he did like -a horse, Lu! ‘What in the name of God is the matter, Bore!’ I says, and -you never hear a man take on the way he done. - -“Seems Maud and Bill had painted ole General red, and they painted him -thick, too, while Bore was in the house fixin’ to take their mother out -on this here buggy-ride. And, well, sir, to hear him take on, you’d of -thought _I_ was responsible for the whole business! Says it might as -well be all over town, now he’d ran into _me_! Truth is, he talked like -he was out of his mind, but I kind o’ soothed him down, and last I fixed -it up with him to give me credit fer a little insurance my wife’s been -wantin’ to take out on her stepmother, if I’d put General and the -phaeton in George Coles’s empty barn, there in the alley, until after -dark, and not say nothin’ to George or anybody about it, and then drive -him over to Bore’s and unhitch him and wash him off with turpentine that -night. - -“Well, sir, we got it all fixed up, and I done everything I said I -would, but of course you can’t expect a thing like that not to leak out -_some_ way or other; so I’m not breakin’ any obligation by tellin’ you -about it, because it got all over town several days ago. If I’ve told -Bore Thompson once I’ve told him a hunderd times, what’s the use his -actin’ the fool about it! ‘What earthly good’s it goin’ to do,’ I says, -‘to go around _mad_,’ I says, ‘and abusin’ the very ones,’ I says, ‘that -done the most to help you out? The boys are bound to have their joke,’ I -says to him, ‘and if it hadn’t been you, why, like as not they might of -been riggin’ somep’n on Lu Allen or Cal Burns, or even me,’ I says, -‘because _they_ don’t spare _no_body! Why, look,’ I says. ‘Ain’t they -goin’ after Milo Carter almost as much as they are you and Henry,’ I -says, ‘on account of what happened to Milo’s store?’ I says, ‘And look -at E. J. Fuller,’ I says. ‘Ain’t the name o’ Gran’-mammy Tipsytoe perty -near fastened on him fer good? _He_ don’t go all up and down pickin’ at -his best friend,’ I says. ‘E. J. Fuller’s got a little common _sense_!’ -I says. Yes, sir, that’s the way _I_ look at it, Lu.” - -Mortimer unhooked his heels, and, stretching himself, elevated his legs -until the alternation thus effected in the position of his centre of -gravity brought his tilted chair to a level—whereupon he rose, -stretched again, sighed, and prepared to conclude the interview. - -“Speakin’ o’ the devil, Lu,” he said, as he moved to the door—“yes, -sir, them two chuldern, Maud and Bill, have perty much got our whole -little city buffaloed! They’s quite some talk goin’ on about the brain -work _you_ been showin’ Lu. I expect your reputation never did stand no -higher in that line than what it does right to-day. I shouldn’t wonder -it’d bring you a good deal extry law-practice, Lu: Mrs. Rolfo Williams -says she always _did_ know you were the smartest man in this town!” - -“_Now_ what are you talking about?” Lucius demanded sharply, but he was -growing red to the ears, and over them. - -“Goin’ out o’ town,” said Mortimer admiringly. “Keepin’ out the way o’ -them chuldern and lettin’ other fellers take the brunt of ’em. Yes, sir; -there isn’t a soul raises the question but what their mother is the -finest-lookin’ lady that ever lived here, or but what she does every -last thing any mortal could do in the line o’ disci_plinn_; but much as -everybody’d enjoy to git better acquainted with her and begin to see -somep’n of her, they all think she’s liable to lead kind of a lonesome -life in our community unless—” Mortimer paused with his hand upon the -door-knob—“unless somep’n happens to Maud and Bill!” - -He departed languidly, his farewell coming back from the stairway: “So -long, Lu!” - -But the blush that had extended to include Mr. Allen’s ears, at the -sound of so much praise of himself, did not vanish with the caller; it -lingered and for a time grew even deeper. When it was gone, and its -victim restored to his accustomed moderate pink, he pushed aside his -work and went to a locked recess beneath his book-shelves. Therefrom he -took the blue parasol, and a small volume in everything dissimilar to -the heavy, calf-bound legal works that concealed all the walls of the -room; and, returning to his swivel-chair, placed the parasol gently upon -the desk. Then, allowing his left hand to remain lightly upon the -parasol, he held the little book in his right and read musingly. - -He read, thus, for a long time—in fact, until the setting in of -twilight; and, whatever the slight shiftings of his position, he always -kept one hand in light contact with the parasol. Some portions of the -book he read over and over, though all of it was long since familiar to -him; and there was one part of it in which his interest seemed quite -unappeasable. Again and again he turned back to the same page; but at -last, as the room had grown darker, and his eye-glasses tired him, he -let the book rest in his lap, took off the glasses and used them to beat -time to the rhythm of the cadences, as he murmured, half-aloud: - - “The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise, - As I turn it low to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes. - And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke - Its fate with my tobacco and to vanish with the smoke. - ’Tis a fragrant retrospection—for the loving thoughts that start - Into being are like perfume from the blossoms of the heart: - And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine—— - When my truant fancy wanders with that old sweet-heart of mine.” - -He fell silent; then his lips moved again: - - “And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure eyes - As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies. - I can see——” - -Suddenly he broke off, and groaned aloud: “My Lord!” he said all in a -breath. “And thirty-five years old—blame near thirty-six!” - -He needs interpretation, this unfortunate Lucius. He meant that it was -inexplicable and disgraceful for a man of his age to be afraid of a boy -of seven and a girl of five. He had never been afraid of anybody else’s -children. No; it had to be _hers_! And that was why he was afraid of -them; he knew the truth well enough: he was afraid of them because they -_were_ hers. He was a man who had always “got on” with children -beautifully; but he was afraid of Maud and Bill. He was afraid of what -they would do to him and of what they would think of him. - -There, in brief, is the overwhelming part that children can play in true -romance! - -“Lordy, Lordy!” sighed Lucius Brutus Allen. “_Oh_, Lordy!” - -But at last he bestirred himself. He knew that Saruly, his elderly darky -cook, must be waiting for him with impatience; she would complain -bitterly of dishes overcooked because of his tardiness. Having glanced -down into the Square and found it virtually devoid of life, for this was -the universal hour of supper, he set his brown straw hat upon his head, -and took the parasol under his arm—not because he meant to return it. -He took it with him merely for the pleasure of its society. - -Upon the bottom step of the flight of stairs that led down to the -street, he found seated a small figure in a white “sailor suit.” This -figure rose and spoke politely. - -“How do you do?” it said. “Are you Uncle Lucius?” - -“Who—— What’s your name?” - -“Bill. Bill Ricketts,” said Bill. - -Lucius made a hasty motion to reascend the stairs, but Bill confidingly -proffered a small, clean hand that Mr. Allen was constrained to accept. -Once having accepted it, he found himself expected to retain it. - -“Mamma lef’ me sittin’ here to wait till you came downstairs,” Bill -explained. “That man that came out said he couldn’t say but he was -pretty sure you were up there. She told me to wait till either you came -downstairs or she came back for me. She wants her parasol. Come on!” - -“Come on where?” - -“Up to your house,” said Bill. “She lef’ Maud waitin’ up _there_ for -you.” - -It was the truth. And after a rather hurried walk, during which the boy -spoke not once unless spoken to, but trotted contentedly at Lucius’s -side, confidingly hand-in-hand with him, when they came in sight of the -small brick house in the big yard, where Lucius lived, a tiny white -figure was discernible through the dusk, rocking patiently in a wicker -rocking-chair on the veranda. - -At sight of them she jumped up and came running to the gate to meet -them. But there she paused, gravely. - -She made a curtsey, formal but charming. - -“How do do, Uncka Wucius?” she said. “Mamma would wike her paraso’.” - -Saruly, looming dark and large behind her, supplemented this -information: “Miz Ricketts done lef’ the little girl here to wait fer -you, Mist’ Allen. She tell me ask you please be so kine as to bring the -chillun along home with you, an’ her parasol with ’em. She tell _me_ the -chillun been a little upset, jest at first, ’count o’ movin’ to a new -place, but they all quieted down now, an’ she think it’ll be safe fer -you to stay to dinnuh. An’ as ev’ything in my kitchen’s plum done to a -crisp ’count o’ you bein’ so late, Mist’ Allen, if you leave it to me I -think you bettuh.” - -“I’ll leave it to you, Saruly,” said Lucius, gently. “I think I’d -better.” - -And then, with the parasol under his arm, and the hand of a child -resting quietly in each of his, he turned with Bill and Maud, and, under -the small, bright stars of the May evening, set forth from his own gate -on his way to Lucy’s. - - - - - “YOU” - - -MURIEL ELIOT’S friends and contemporaries were in the habit of -describing her as “the most brilliant girl in town.” She was “up on -simply everything,” they said, and it was customary to add the -exclamation: “How on earth she finds the _time_!” And since Muriel also -found time to be always charmingly dressed, in harmony with her notable -comeliness, the marvel of so much upness in her infant twenties may -indeed need a little explaining. - -Her own conception was that she was a “serious” person and cared for -“serious reading”—that is to say, after she left college, she read, not -what is acceptably called literature, but young journalists’ musings -about what aspires to be called that; she was not at all interested in -buildings or pictures or statues themselves, but thought she was, read a -little of what is printed about such things in reviews, and spoke of -“art” and “literature” with authoritative conviction. She was a -kind-hearted girl, and she believed that “capitalism” was the cunning -device of greedy men to keep worthy persons under heel; hence it -followed that all “capital” should be taken away from the “capitalist -class” by the “people;” and, not picturing herself as in any way -uncomfortably affected by the process of seizure, she called herself a -“socialist.” - -In addition to all this, Muriel’s upness included “the new psychology” -and the appropriate humorous contempt for the Victorian Period, that -elastic conception of something-or-other which, according to the writing -young ladies and gentlemen who were her authorities, seemed to extend -from about the time of Custer’s Last Fight to the close of President -Wilson’s first administration. Muriel, like her original sources of -information, was just becoming conscious of herself as an authority at -about the latter date—she was sixteen then; and at twenty she began to -speak of having spent her youth in the Late Victorian Period. That -obscure decade before her birth, that time so formless and dark between -the years of our Lord 1890 and 1900, was Mid-Victorian; people still -mistook Tennyson and Longfellow for poets. - -Sometimes older women thought Muriel a little hard; she was both -brilliant and scholarly, they admitted; but the papers she wrote for the -women’s clubs were so “purely intellectual,” so icily scientific, so -little reticent in the discussion of love, marriage and children, that -these ladies shook their heads. The new generation, as expressed by -Muriel, lacked something important, they complained; for nothing less -than maidenliness itself had been lost, and with it the rosebud -reveries, the twilight half-dreams of a coming cavalier, the embowered -guitar at moonrise. In a word, the charm of maidenhood was lost because -romance was lost. Muriel lacked the romantic imagination, they said, a -quality but ill replaced by so much “new thought.” - -They made this mistake the more naturally because Muriel herself made -it, though of course she did not think of her supposed lack of romance -as a fault. She believed herself to be a severely practical person, and -an originally thinking person, as a quotation from one of her essays may -partly explain. “I face the actual world as it is; I face it without -superstition, and without tradition. Despising both the nonsense and the -misery into which former generations have been led by romance, I permit -no illusions to guide my thinking. I respect nothing merely because it -is established; I examine mathematically; I think mathematically; I -believe nothing that I do not prove. I am a realist.” - -When she wrote this, she was serious and really thought it true; but as -a matter of fact, what she believed to be her thinking was the -occasional mulling over of scattered absorptions from her reading. Her -conception of her outward appearance, being somewhat aided by mirrors, -came appreciably near the truth, but her conception of her mind had no -such guide. Her mind spent the greater part of its time adrift in -half-definite dreaming, and although she did not even suspect such a -thing, her romantic imagination was the abode in which she really dwelt. - -There is an astronomer who knows as much about the moon as can yet be -known; but when that moon is new in the sky, each month, he will be a -little troubled if he fails to catch his first glimpse of it over the -right shoulder. When he does fail, his disappointment is so slight that -he forgets all about it the next moment, and should you ask him if he -has any superstition he will laugh disdainfully, with no idea that he -deceives both his questioner and himself. This is the least of the -mistakes he makes about his own thoughts; he is mistaken about most of -them; and yet he is a great man, less given to mistakes than the rest of -us. Muriel Eliot’s grandmother, who used to sing “Robin Adair,” who -danced the Spanish Fandango at the Orphan Asylum Benefit in 1877, and -wrote an anonymous love-letter to Lawrence Barrett, was not actually so -romantic as Muriel. - -The point is that Muriel’s dreaminess, of which she was so little aware, -had a great deal more to do with governing her actions than had her -mathematical examinings and what she believed to be her thinking. -Moreover, this was the cause of her unkindness to young Renfrew Mears, -who lived across the street. Even to herself she gave other reasons for -rejecting him; but the motive lay deep in her romanticism; for Muriel, -without knowing it, believed in fairies. - -Had she been truly practical, she would have seen that young Mr. Mears -was what is called an “ideal match” for her. His grandfather, a cautious -banker, had thought so highly of the young man’s good sense as to leave -him the means for a comfortable independence; yet Renfrew continued to -live at home with his family and was almost always in bed by eleven -o’clock. He was of a pleasant appearance; he was kind, modest, -thoughtfully polite, and in everything the perfect material from which -the equerry or background husband of a brilliant woman is constructed. -No wonder her mother asked her what on earth she _did_ want! Muriel -replied that she despised the capitalistic institution of marriage, and -she believed that she meant what she said; but of course what she really -wanted was a fairy-story. - -In those wandering and somewhat shapeless reveries that controlled her -so much more than she guessed, there were various repetitions that had -become rather definite, though never quite so. One of these was the -figure of her Mate. Her revery-self never showed her this mystery -clearly in contours and colours, but rather in shadowy outlines, though -she was sure that her Mate had dark and glowing eyes. He was somewhere, -and sometime she would see him. When she did see him, she would -recognize him instantly; the first look exchanged would bring the full -revelation to both of them—they would ever have little need of spoken -words. But her most frequent picture of this mystic encounter was a -painful one: she saw herself a bride upon the bridegroom’s arm and -coming down the steps of the church;—a passing stranger, halting -abruptly upon the pavement, gave her one look from dark and glowing -eyes, a look fateful with reproach and a tragic derision, seeming to -say: “You did not wait till _I_ came, but took that fool!” - -Then he passed on, forever; and it was unfortunate for young Mr. Mears -that the figure of the bridegroom in these foreshadowings invariably -bore a general resemblance to his own. Renfrew had more to overcome than -appeared upon the surface; he had shadows to fight; and so have other -lovers—more of them than is guessed—when ladies are reluctant. For -that matter, the thing is almost universal; and rare is the girl, -however willing, who says “Yes,” without giving up at least some faint -little tremulous shadow of a dream—though she may forget it and deny it -as honestly as that astronomer forgets and denies the moon and his right -shoulder. - -Renfrew’s case with his pretty neighbour was also weakened by the liking -and approval of her father and mother, who made the mistake of -frequently praising him to her; for when parents do this, with the -daughter adverse, the poor lover is usually ruined—the reasons being -obvious to everybody except the praising parents. Mrs. Eliot talked -Renfrew Mears and his virtues at her daughter till the latter naturally -declared that she hated him. “I do!” she said one morning. “I really do -hate him, mamma!” - -“What nonsense!” her mother exclaimed. “When I heard the two of you -chatting together on the front porch for at least an hour, only last -evening!” - -“Chatting!” Muriel repeated scornfully. “Chatting together! That shows -how much you observe, mamma! I don’t think he said more than a dozen -words the whole evening.” - -“Well, don’t you like a good listener?” - -“Yes,” Muriel replied emphatically. “Indeed, I do! A good listener is -one who understands what you’re saying. Renfrew Mears has just lately -learned enough to keep quiet, for fear if he speaks at all, it’ll show -he doesn’t understand _any_thing!” - -“Well, if he doesn’t, why did you talk to him?” - -“Good gracious!” Muriel cried. “We can’t always express ourselves as we -wish to in this life, mamma; I should think you’d know that by this -time! I can’t throw rocks at him and say, ‘Go back home!’ every time he -comes poking over here, can I? I have to be polite, even to Renfrew -Mears, don’t you suppose?” - -The mother, sighing, gave her daughter one of those little -half-surreptitious glances in which mothers seem to review troubled -scenes with their own mothers; then she said gently: “Your father and I -do wish you could feel a little more kindly toward the poor boy, -Muriel.” - -“Well, I can’t, and I don’t want to. What’s more, I wouldn’t marry him -if I did.” - -“Not if you were in love?” - -“Poor mamma!” Muriel said compassionately. “What has love to do with -marrying? I expect to retain my freedom; I don’t propose to enter upon a -period of child-rearing——” - -“Oh, good gracious!” Mrs. Eliot cried. “What a way to talk!” - -“But if I did,” Muriel continued, with some sharpness, “I should never -select Renfrew Mears to be my assistant in the task. And as for what you -call ‘love,’ it seems to me a rather unhealthy form of excitement that -I’m not subject to, fortunately.” - -“You _are_ so queer,” her mother murmured; whereupon Muriel laughed. - -No doubt her laughter was a little condescending. “Queer?” she said. -“No—only modern. Only frank and wholesome! Thinking people look at life -as it really is, nowadays, mamma. I am a child of the new age; but more -than that, I am not the slave of my emotions; I am the product of my -thinking. Unwholesome excitement and queer fancies have no part in my -life, mamma.” - -“I hope not,” her mother responded with a little spirit. “I’m not -exactly urging anything unwholesome upon you, Muriel. You’re very -inconsistent, it seems to me.” - -“I!” Muriel said haughtily. “Inconsistent!” - -“Why, when I just mention that your father and I’d be glad if you could -feel a little kinder toward a good-looking, fine young man that we know -all about, you begin talking, and pretty soon it sounds as though we -were trying to get you to do something criminal! And then you go on to -say you haven’t got any ‘queer fancies!’ Isn’t it a queer fancy to think -we’d want you to do anything unhealthy or excited? That’s why I say -you’re inconsistent.” - -Muriel coloured; her breathing quickened; and her eyes became -threateningly bright. “The one thing I _won’t_ be called,” she said, “is -‘inconsistent!’” - -“Well, but——” - -“I won’t!” she cried, and choked. “You _know_ it makes me furious; -that’s why you do it!” - -“Did I understand you to say you never permitted your emotions to -control you?” her mother asked dryly. - -In retort, Muriel turned to the closet where she kept her hats; for her -favourite way of meeting these persecutions was to go out of the house -abruptly, leaving her mother to occupy it in full remorse; but this time -Mrs. Eliot forestalled her. A servant appeared in the doorway and -summoned her: “There’s someone downstairs wants to see you; I took him -in the library.” - -“I’ll come,” said Mrs. Eliot, and with a single dignified glance at her -daughter, she withdrew, leaving Muriel to digest a discomfiture. For the -art of domestic altercation lies almost wholly in the withdrawal, since -here the field is won by abandoning it. In family embroilments she -proves herself right, and the others wrong, who adroitly seizes the -proper moment to make an unexpected departure either with dignity or in -tears. People under stress of genuine emotion have been known to -practice this art, seeming thereby to indicate the incompatible presence -of a cool dramatist somewhere in the back of their heads; yet where is -there anything that is not incompatible? Muriel, injured by the word -“inconsistent,” had meant to withdraw in silent pain, thus putting her -mother in the wrong; but, in the sometimes invaluable argot of the -race-course, Mrs. Eliot got away first. Muriel felt severely baffled. - -There remained to her, however, a retreat somewhat enfeebled by her -mother’s successful withdrawal: Mrs. Eliot had gone out of the room; -Muriel could still go out of the house. Therefore she put on a hat, -descended the stairs and went toward the front door in a manner intended -to symbolize insulted pride taking a much more important departure than -the mere walking out of a room. - -Her mother, of course, was intended to see her pass the open double -doors of the library, but Mrs. Eliot’s back happened to be toward these -doors, and she was denied the moving-picture of the daughter sweeping -through the hall. The caller, however, suffered no such deprivation; he -sat facing the doorway, and although Muriel did not look directly at -him, she became aware of a distinguished presence. The library was -shadowy, the hall much lighter; she passed the doors quickly; but she -was almost startled by the impression made upon her by this young man -whom she had never before seen. Then, as she went on toward the front -door, she had suddenly a sensation queerly like dizziness; it seemed to -her that this stranger had looked at her profoundly as she passed, and -that the gaze he bent upon her had come from a pair of dark and glowing -eyes. - -She went out into the yard, but not, as she had intended, to the street; -and turning the corner of the house, she crossed the sunny lawn to some -hydrangea bushes in blossom, where she paused and stood, apparently in -contemplation of the flowers. She was trembling a little, so strong was -her queer consciousness of the stranger in the library and of his dark -and glowing eyes. Such sensations as hers have often been described as -“unreal;” that is to say, “she seemed to be in a dream.” Her own eyes -had not fully encountered the dark and glowing ones, but never had any -person made so odd and instantaneous an impression upon her. What else -was she to conclude but that there must have been “something psychic” -about it? And how, except by telepathy, could she have so suddenly found -in her mind the conviction that the distinguished-looking young man was -a painter? For to her own amazement, she was sure of this. - -After a time she went back into the house, and again passed through the -hall and by the open doors, but now her bearing was different. In a -sweet, low voice she hummed a careless air from Naples, while in her -arms she bore a sheaf of splendid hydrangea blossoms, thus offering, in -the momentary framing of the broad doorway, a composition rich in colour -and also of no mean decorative charm in contour, it may be said. “The -Girl from the Garden” might have been the title she wished to suggest to -a painter’s mind, but when she came into the view of her mother’s -caller, consciousness of him increased all at once so overwhelmingly -that she forgot herself. She had meant to pass the doorway with a cool -leisureliness and entirely in profile—a Girl from the Garden with no -other thought than to enliven her room with an armful of hydrangea -blossoms—but she came almost to a halt midway, and, for the greater -part of a second packed with drama, looked full upon the visitor. - -He was one of those black-and-white young men: clothes black, linen -white, a black bow at the collar, thick black hair, the face of a fine -pallor, and black eyes lustrously comprehending. What they must have -comprehended now was at least a little of the significance of the -arrested attitude beyond the doorway, and more than a little of what was -meant by the dark and lustrous eyes that with such poignant inquiry met -his own. For Muriel’s fairly shouted at him the startled question: “Who -are _you_?” - -Time, life and love are made of seconds and bits of seconds: Muriel had -gone on, carrying her question clamouring down the hall with her, before -this full second elapsed. She ran up the stairs and into her own room, -dropped the hydrangeas upon a table, and in two strides confronted a -mirror. A moment later she took up the hydrangeas again, with a care to -hold them as she had held them in the hall below, then walked by the -mirror, paused, gave the glass a deep, questioning look and went on. -After that she seated herself beside an open window that commanded a -view of the front gate, and waited, the great question occupying her -tumultuously. - -By this time the great question had grown definite, and of course it -was, “Is this He?” Other questions came tumbling after it: How did she -know he was a painter, this young man of whom she had never heard? It is -only in the moving pictures that a doctor must look like a doctor, a -judge like a judge, an anarchist like an anarchist, a painter like a -painter; the age of machines, hygiene and single-type clothing has so -blurred men into indistinguishability that only a few musicians still -look like musicians, a feat accomplished simply by the slight -impoverishment of barbers. The young man in the library was actually a -painter, but Muriel may well have been amazed that she knew it; for -nowadays it is a commonplace that a Major General in mufti may -reasonably be taken for a plumber, while an unimportant person -soliciting alms at the door is shown into the house under the impression -that a Senator is calling. - -Why (Muriel asked herself) had her mother not mentioned such an -appointment? But perhaps there had been no appointment; perhaps he had -called without one. What for? To ask permission to paint the daughter’s -portrait? Had he seen her somewhere before to-day? Where did he live? In -Paris? - -The front door could be heard closing below, and she looked down upon a -white straw hat with a black band. This hat moved quickly down the path -to the gate, and the young stranger was disclosed beneath the hat: a -manly figure with an elastic step. Outside the gate he paused, looking -back thoughtfully with his remarkable eyes; and Muriel, who had -instantly withdrawn into the concealment of a window-curtain, marked -that this look of his had the quality of covering the whole front of the -house at a glance. It was a look, moreover, that seemed to comprehend -the type of the house and even to measure its dimensions—a look of the -kind that “takes in everything,” as people say. Muriel trembled again. -Did he say to himself: “This is Her house?” Did he think: “I should like -to set my easel here by the gate and paint this house, because it is the -house where She dwells”? - -His pause at the gate was only a momentary one; he turned toward the -region of commerce and hotels and walked quickly away, the intervening -foliage of the trees almost immediately cutting him off from the -observation of the girl at the window. Then she heard her mother coming -up the stairs and through the upper hall; whereupon Muriel, still -tremulous, began hastily to alter the position of the little silver -implements upon her dressing-table, thus sketching a preoccupation with -small housewifery, if Mrs. Eliot should come into the room. But to the -daughter’s acute disappointment, the mother passed the open door without -even looking in, and retired to her own apartment. - -Muriel most urgently wished to follow her and shower her with questions: -“Who _is_ he? Isn’t he a painter? Why did he come to see you? What were -you talking about? When is he coming again? What did he say when he saw -me?” But remembering the terms upon which she and her mother had so -recently parted, and that odious word “inconsistent,” Muriel could not -bend to the intimacy of such a questioning. In fact, her own thought -took the form, “I’d rather die!” - -She turned to the window again, looked out at that gate so lately made -significant by the passage of the stranger—and there was young Mr. -Renfrew Mears, just coming in. He was a neat picture of a summer young -gentleman for any girl’s eye; but to Muriel he was a too-familiar -object, and just now about as interesting as a cup of tepid -barley-water. She tried to move away before he saw her, but Renfrew had -always a fatal quickness for seeing her. He called to her. - -“Oh, Muriel!” - -“Well—what?” she said reluctantly. - -“There’s something I want to ask you about. Will you come down a few -minutes?” - -“Oh, well—I suppose so,” was her not too heartening response; but on -the way downstairs a thought brightened her. Perhaps Renfrew might know -something about a dark young man—a painter—lately come to town. - -He was blank upon this subject, however, as she discovered when they had -seated themselves upon a wicker settee on the veranda. “No,” he said. “I -haven’t heard of any artist that’s come here lately. Where’d you hear -about one?” - -“Oh, around,” she said casually. “I’m not absolutely certain he’s an -artist, but I got that idea somewhere. The reason I wanted to know is -because I thought he might be one of the new group that have broken -away, like Matisse and Gaugin.” - -“Who?” - -“Never mind. Haven’t you heard of anybody at _all_ that’s a stranger -here—visiting somebody, perhaps?” - -“Not exactly,” Renfrew replied, thinking it over conscientiously. “I -don’t believe I have, exactly.” - -“What do you mean, you don’t think you have ‘exactly’?” she asked -irritably. “Have you, or haven’t you?” - -“Well,” he said, “my Aunt Milly from Burnetsville is visiting my -cousins, the Thomases, but she’s an invalid and you probably -wouldn’t——” - -“No, I wouldn’t!” Muriel said. “Don’t strain your mind any more, -Renfrew.” - -“I could inquire around,” he suggested. “I thought it wouldn’t likely be -my aunt, but you said ‘anybody at all.’” - -“Never mind! What was it you wanted to ask me?” - -“Well, it’s something that’s rather important, but of course maybe you -won’t think so, Muriel. Anyway, though, I hope you’ll think it’s _sort_ -of important.” - -“But what _is_ it? Don’t hang fire so, Renfrew!” - -“I just wanted to lead up to it a little,” he explained mildly. “I’ve -been thinking about getting a new car, and I wondered what sort you -think I’d better look at. I didn’t want to get one you wouldn’t like.” - -Her lips parted to project that little series of sibilances commonly -employed by adults to make children conscious of error. “Why on earth -should you ask me?” she said sharply. “Is that your idea of an important -question?” - -Renfrew’s susceptible complexion showed an increase of colour, but he -was growing more and more accustomed to be used as a doormat, and he -responded, without rancour: “I meant I hoped you’d sort of think it -important, my not wanting to get one you wouldn’t like.” - -“Now, what do you mean by that?” - -“Well,” he said, “I mean I hoped you’d think it was important, my -thinking it was important to ask you.” - -“I don’t,” she returned as a complete answer. - -“You say——” - -“I say I don’t,” she repeated. “I don’t. I don’t think it’s important. -Isn’t that clear enough, Renfrew?” - -“Yes,” he said, and looked plaintively away from her. “I guess I don’t -need any new car.” - -“Is there anything more this morning?” she was cruel enough to inquire. - -“No,” he answered, rising. “I guess that’s all.” Then, having received -another of his almost daily rejections, he went away, leaving her to -watch his departing figure with some exasperation, though she might well -have admired him for his ingenuity: every day or two he invented a new -way of proposing to her. In comparison, her refusals were commonplace, -but of course she neither realized that nor cared to be brilliant for -Renfrew; and also, this was a poor hour for him, when the electric -presence of the black-and-white stranger was still vibrant in the very -air. Muriel returned to her room and put the hydrangeas in a big silver -vase; she moved them gently, with a touch both reverent and caressing, -for they had borne a part in a fateful scene, and already she felt it -possible that in the after years she would never see hydrangeas in -blossom without remembering to-day and the First Meeting. - -Impulsively she went to her desk and wrote: - -“Is it true that You have come? My hand trembles, and I know that if I -spoke to my mother about You, my voice would tremble. Oh, I could never -ask her a question about You! A moment ago I sat upon the veranda with a -dull man who wants to marry me. It seemed a desecration to listen to -him—an offense to You! He has always bored me. How much more terribly -he bored me when perhaps I had just seen You for the first time in my -life! Perhaps it is not for the first time in eternity, though! Was I -ever a Queen in Egypt and were You a Persian sculptor? Did we meet in -Ephesus once? - -“It is a miracle that we should meet at all. I might have lived in -another century—or on another planet! Should we then have gone seeking, -seeking one another always vainly? All my life I have been waiting for -You. Always I have known that I was waiting, but until to-day I did not -know it was for just You. My whole being trembled when I saw You—if it -_was_ You? I am trembling now as I think of You, as I write of -You—write _to_ You! A new life has possibly begun for me in this hour! - -“And some day will I show You this writing? That thought is like fire -and like ice. I burn with it and freeze with it, in terror of You! See! -Here is my heart opened like a book for your reading! - -“Oh, is it, _is_ it You? I think that You are a painter; that is all I -know of You—and why do I think it? It _came_ to me as I stood in a -garden, thrilling with my first quick glimpse of You. Was that the proof -of our destiny, yours and mine? Yes, the miracle of my knowing that You -are a painter when I do not even know your name—that is the answer! It -must be You! I tremble with excitement as I write that word ‘You’ which -has suddenly leaped into such fiery life and meaning: I tremble and I -could weep! Oh, You—You—You! _Is_ it?” - -Twice, during the latter phases of this somewhat hasty record of ardour, -she had been summoned to lunch, and after hurrying the final words upon -the page, she put the paper into a notebook and locked it inside her -desk. Then she descended the stairs and went toward the dining-room, but -halted suddenly, unseen, outside the door. She had caught the word -“painter,” spoken by her father. - -“Well, I’m glad you liked that painter.” - -“Yes,” Mrs. Eliot said. “I talked it over with him, and I’m afraid he -agreed with you instead of with me. Naturally, he would, though! I was -quite interested in him.” - -“You were?” - -“Yes—such an unexpected type.” - -“Well, no,” Mr. Eliot said. “Nobody’s an unexpected type nowadays. Isn’t -Muriel coming down at all?” - -“Jennie’s been up for her twice,” his wife informed him. “I suppose -she’ll come eventually. She’s cross this morning.” - -“What about?” - -“Oh, I just asked her if she couldn’t be a little fairer to a certain -somebody. I suppose I’d better not have mentioned it, because it made -her very peevish.” - -Upon this, Muriel made her entrance swiftly enough to let her mother -know that the last words had been overheard, an advantage the daughter -could not forego. She took her place at the table opposite to her -gourmandizing little brother Robert, and in silence permitted her facial -expression alone to mention what she thought of a mother who called her -“peevish” when she was not present to defend herself. - -Only a moment before, she had been thrilled inexpressibly: the -black-and-white stranger, so mysteriously spoken of by her parents, was -indeed a painter. That proved his You-ness, proved everything! Her whole -being (as she would have said) shook with the revelation, and her -anxiety to hear more of him was consuming; but the word “peevish” -brought about an instantaneous reversion. She entered the dining-room in -an entirely different mood, for her whole being was now that of a -daughter embattled with a parent who attacks unfairly—so intricately -elastic are the ways of our whole beings! - -Mrs. Eliot offered only the defense of a patient smile; Mr. Eliot looked -puzzled and oppressed; and for a time there was no conversation during -the further progress of this uncomfortable meal. Nothing was to be heard -in the room except the movements of a servant and the audible eating of -fat little Robert, who was incurably natural with his food. - -It was Muriel who finally decided to speak. “I’m sorry to have -interrupted your conversation,” she said frostily. “Perhaps, though, -you’d prefer not to say any more about me to papa and Robert while I’m -here to explain what really happened, mamma.” - -“Oh, nonsense!” Mr. Eliot said. “I suppose even the Pope gets ‘peevish’ -now and then; it’s no deadly insult to say a person got a little -peevish. We weren’t having a ‘conversation’ about you at all. We were -talking about other matters, and just barely mentioned you.” - -Muriel looked at him quickly. “What other things were you talking -about?” - -He laughed. “My! How suspicious you are!” - -“Not at all; I simply asked you what other things you were talking -about.” - -Instead of replying, “About a distinguished young painter who saw you on -the street and wants to paint your portrait,” Mr. Eliot laughed again -and rose, having finished his coffee. He came round the table to her and -pinched her ear on his way to the door. “Good gracious!” he said. “Don’t -you suppose your mother and I ever talk about anything except what a -naughty daughter we have?” And with that he departed. Mrs. Eliot said, -“Excuse me,” rather coldly to Muriel, followed him to the front door, -and failed to return. - -Muriel did not see her mother again during the afternoon, and in the -evening Mr. and Mrs. Eliot went out to a dinner of their bridge-club, -leaving their daughter to dine in the too audible company of Robert. She -dressed exquisitely, though not for Robert, whose naturalness at the -table brought several annoyed glances from her. “_Can’t_ you manage it -more quietly, Robert?” she asked at last, with the dessert. “Try!” - -“Whaffor?” he inquired. - -“Only because it’s so hideous!” - -“Oh, hush!” he said rudely, and, being offended, became more natural -than ever, on purpose. - -She sighed. With the falling of the dusk, her whole being, not -antagonized by her mother’s presence, had become an uplifted and -mysterious expectation; and the sounds made by the gross child Robert -were not to be borne. She left the table, went out into the starlight, -and stood by the hydrangeas, an ethereal figure in draperies of mist. - -“Oh, You!” she whispered, and let a bare arm be caressed by the clumps -of great blossoms. “When are you coming again, You? To-night?” - -She quivered with the sense of impending drama; it seemed to her certain -that the next moment she would see him—that he would come to her out of -the darkness. The young painter should have done so; he should have -stepped out of the vague night-shadows, a poetic and wistful figure, -melancholy with mystery yet ineffably radiant. “Mademoiselle, step -lightly!” he should have said. “Do you not see the heart beneath your -slipper? It was mine until I threw it there!” - -“Ah, You!” she murmured to the languorous hydrangeas. - -At such a moment the sound of peanuts being eaten, shells and all, could -not fail to prove inharmonious. She shivered with the sudden anguish of -a dislocated mood; but she was Robert’s next of available kin and -recognized a duty. She crossed the lawn to the veranda, where he sat, -busy with a small paper sack upon his knee. - -“Robert! Stop that!” - -“I ain’t doin’ anything,” he said crossly. - -“You _are_. What do you mean, eating peanuts when you’ve just finished -an enormous dinner?” - -“Well, what hurt is that?” - -“And with the shells on!” she cried. - -“Makes more _to_ ’em,” he explained. - -“Stop it!” - -“I won’t,” Robert said doggedly. “I’m goin’ to do what I please -to-night, no matter how much trouble I get into to-morrow!” - -“What ‘trouble’ do you expect to-morrow?” - -“Didn’t you hear about it?” he asked. “Papa and mamma were talkin’ about -it at lunch.” - -“I didn’t hear them.” - -“I guess it was before you came down,” Robert said; and then he gave her -a surprise. “The painter was here this morning, and they got it all -fixed up.” - -Muriel moved back from him a step, and inexplicably a dismal foreboding -took her. “What?” she said. - -“Well, the thing that bothers _me_ is simply this,” Robert informed her: -“He told mamma he’d have to bring his little boy along and let him play -around here as long as the work went on. He said he has to take this boy -along with him, because his wife’s a dentist’s ’sistant and can’t keep -him around a dentist office, and they haven’t got any place to leave -him. He’s about nine years old, and I’ll bet anything I have trouble -with him before the day’s over.” - -“Do you mean the—the painter is married, Robert?” - -“Yes, and got this boy,” Robert said, shaking his head. “I bet I _do_ -have trouble with him, if he’s got to be around here until they get -three coats o’ paint on our house. Mamma thought they only needed two, -but papa said three, and the painter talked mamma into it this morning.” - -“The house?” Muriel said. “We’re going to have the—the house painted?” - -Robert was rather surprised. “Why, don’t you remember how much papa and -mamma were talkin’ about it, two or three weeks ago? And then they -thought not and didn’t say so much about it, but for a while papa was -goin’ to have every painter in town come up here and make a bid. Don’t -you remember?” - -“I do now,” Muriel said feebly; and a moment later she glanced toward -the bright windows of the house across the street. “Robert,” she said, -“if you’ve finished those horrible peanuts, you might run and ask Mr. -Renfrew Mears if he’d mind coming over a little while.” - -She had been deeply stirred by the subject that had occupied her all -day, and it was a spiritual necessity for her (so to say) to continue -upon the topic with somebody—even with Renfrew Mears! However, she -rejected him again, though with a much greater consideration for his -feelings than was customary; and when he departed, she called after him: - -“Look out for your clothes when you come over to-morrow. We’re going to -have the house painted.” - -Then, smiling contentedly, she went indoors and up to her room. The -great vase of hydrangeas stood upon a table; she looked at it absently, -and was reminded of something. She took some sheets of written paper -from a notebook in her desk, tossed them into a waste-basket, yawned, -and went to bed. - - - - - “US” - - -“HIGHLAND PLACE” was one of those new little cross-streets in a new -little bosky neighbourhood, that had “grown up over night,” as we say, -meaning grown up in four or five years; so that when citizens of the -older and more solid and soiled central parts of the city come driving -through the new part, of a Sunday afternoon in spring, they are pleased -to be surprised. “My goodness!” they exclaim. “When did all _this_ -happen? Why, it doesn’t seem more’n a year or so since we used to have -Fourth o’ July picnics out here! And now just look at it—all built up -with bride-and-groom houses!” - -“Highland Place” was the name given to this cross-street by the -speculative land company that “developed” it, and they did not call it -“Waverley Place” because they had already produced a “Waverley Place” a -block below. Both “Places” were lined with green-trimmed small white -houses, “frame” or stucco; and although the honeymoon suggestion was -architecturally so strong, as a matter of fact most of the inhabitants -held themselves to be “settled old married people,” some of the couples -having almost attained to a Tin Wedding Anniversary. - -The largest of the houses in “Highland Place” was the “hollow-tile and -stucco residence of Mr. and Mrs. George M. Sullender.” Thus it had been -defined, under a photographic reproduction, with the caption “New -Highland Place Sullender Home,” in one of the newspapers, not long after -the little street had been staked out and paved; and since the -“Sullender Home” was not only the largest house but the first to be -built in the “Place,” and had its picture in the paper, it naturally -took itself for granted as being the most important. - -Young Mrs. William Sperry, whose equally young husband had just bought -the smallest but most conspicuously bride-and-groom cottage in the whole -“Place,” was not so deeply impressed with the Sullender importance as -she should have been, since the Sperrys were the newcomers of the -neighbourhood, had not yet been admitted to its intimacies, and might -well have displayed a more amiable deference to what is established. - -“No,” Mrs. Sperry said to her husband, when they got home after their -first experience of the “Place’s” hospitality, a bridge-party at the -Sullenders’—“I just can’t stand those people, Will. They’re really -_awful_!” - -“Why, what’s the matter with ’em?” he inquired. “I thought they were -first rate. They seemed perfectly friendly and hospitable and——” - -“Oh, yes! Lord and Lady of the Manor entertaining the tenantry! I don’t -mind being tenantry,” young Mrs. Sperry explained;—“but I can’t stand -the Lord-and-Lady-of-the-Manor style in people with a nine-room house -and a one-car garage.” - -“It may be one-car,” her husband laughed; “but it has two stories. They -have a chauffeur, you know, and he lives in the upstairs of the garage.” - -“So that entitles the Sullenders to the Manor style?” - -“But I didn’t notice any of that style,” he protested. “I thought they -seemed right nice and cordial. Of course Sullender feels that he’s been -making quite a success in business and it naturally gives him a rather -condescending air, but he’s really all right.” - -“He certainly was condescending,” she grumbled, and went on with some -satire: “Did you hear him allude to himself as a ‘Realtor?’” - -“Well, why shouldn’t he? He _is_ one. That’s his business.” - -“My Lord the Realtor!” Mrs. Sperry cried mockingly. “There ought to be -an opera written called ‘Il Realtor’ like the one there used to be with -the title ‘Il Janitor.’ Those are such romantic words! ‘Toreador,’ -‘Realtor,’ ‘Humidor’——” - -“Here, here!” her husband said. “Calm down! You seem to have got -yourself worked up into a mighty sarcastic mood for some reason. Those -people only want to be nice to us and they’re all right.” - -Mrs. Sperry looked at him coldly. “Did you hear Mr. Sullender saying -that his company had sold seven ‘_homes_’ this month?” she inquired. - -“Oh, you can’t expect everybody to know all the purist niceties of the -English language,” he said. “Sullender’s all right and his wife struck -me as one of the nicest, kindest women I ever——” - -“Kind!” Mrs. Sperry echoed loudly. “She doesn’t stop at being ‘kind’! -She’s so caressingly tender, so angelically loving, that she can’t -possibly pronounce a one-syllabled word without making two syllables of -it! Did you notice that she said ‘yay-yus’ for ‘yes’, and ‘no-oh’ for -‘no’? I do hate the turtle-dove style of talking, and I never met a -worse case of it. Mrs. Sullender’s the sweetest sweet-woman I ever saw -in my life and I’m positive she leads her husband a dog’s life!” - -“What nonsense!” - -“It serves him right for his Realtoring, though,” Mrs. Sperry added -thoughtfully. “He _ought_ to have that kind of a wife!” - -“But you just said she was the sweetest——” - -“Yes, the sweetest sweet-woman I ever saw. I do hate the whole clan of -sweet-women!” - -The young husband looked perplexed. “I don’t know what you’re talking -about,” he admitted. “I always thought——” - -“I’m talking about the sweet-woman type that Mrs. Sullender belongs to. -They use _intended_ sweetness. They speak to total strangers with -sweetness. They wear expressions of saintly sweetness. Everybody speaks -of a sweet-woman with loving reverence, and it’s generally felt that it -would be practically immoral to contradict one of ’em. To be actually -sassy to a sweet-woman would be a cardinal sin! They let their voices -linger beautifully on the air; and they listen, themselves, to the -lovely sounds they make. They always have the most exquisitely -self-sacrificing reasons for every action of their lives; but they _do_ -just exactly what they _want_ to do, and everybody else has to do what a -sweet-woman wants him to. That’s why I’m sure Mr. Sullender, in spite of -all his pomposity, leads a dog’s life at home.” - -“Of all the foolish talk!” young Sperry exclaimed. “Why, everybody says -they’re the most ideally married couple and that they lead the happiest -life together that——” - -“‘Everybody says!’” she mocked him, interrupting. “How often have you -known what ‘everybody says’ turn out to be the truth about anything? And -besides, we don’t know a thing about any of these people, and we don’t -know anybody else that does! Who is this ‘everybody’ that’s told you how -happy the Sullenders are?” - -“Well, it’s just a general impression I got,” he admitted. “I think I -heard someone down-town alluding to Sullender’s domestic relations being -very fortunate and pleasant.” - -“Oh, you _think_ so? Is _that_ all? You don’t really know a thing about -it, then.” - -“No matter. You’re wrong this time, Bella. The Sullenders——” - -But Bella shook her pretty young head, interrupting him again. “You’ll -see! I do hope there won’t have to be too much intimacy but you can’t -live across the street from people very long, in a neighbourhood like -this, without getting to know the real truth about ’em. You wait and see -what we get to know about the Sullenders!” - -“Yes, I’ll wait,” he laughed. “But how long?” - -“Oh, I don’t know; maybe a year, maybe a month——” - -“Let’s make it a month, Bella,” he said, and put his arm about her. “If -we don’t find out in a month that the Sullenders are miserable together, -will you admit you’re wrong?” - -“No, I won’t! But you’ll probably have to admit that I’m right before -that long. I have a _sense_ for these things, Will, and I never go wrong -when I trust it. Women know intuitively things that men never suspect. I -_know_ I’m right about Mrs. Sullender.” - -Her husband permitted the discussion to end with this, wisely fearing -that if he sought further to defend his position Bella might plausibly -accuse him of “always insisting upon the last word.” And so, for that -night, at least, the matter was dropped from their conversation, though -not from the thoughts of Mrs. Sperry. Truth to tell, she was what is -sometimes called an “obstinate little body,” and, also, she appreciated -the advisability of a young wife’s building for future and lifelong use -the foundations of infallibility. That is to say, she was young and -therefore inexperienced, but she had foresight. - -Moreover, she had attentively observed the matrimonial condition of her -parents and aunts and uncles. Many and many a time had she heard a -middle-aged husband speak to his wife of like years somewhat in this -manner: “No, Fannie, you’re wrong again. You’re mistaken about this now, -just as you were about James Thompson’s adding machine in 1897. And you -were wrong about painting the house, the year after that, too. Don’t you -remember how you insisted dark green was the right colour, and finally -had to admit, yourself, that dark green was awful, and light yellow -would have been just right, as I all along said it would?” - -Thus, young Mrs. Sperry, looking to times far ahead, had determined to -be wrong about nothing whatever during these early years of her -matrimony. Moreover, since argument had arisen concerning the -Sullenders, she had made up her mind to be right about them, and to -“prove” herself right, “whether she really _was_ or not!” And that is -why, on the morning after her arraignment of sweet-women generally, and -of her too gracious neighbour particularly, the pretty newcomer in -“Highland Place” found herself most pleasurably excited by the naïve but -sinister revelations of a stranger eight years of age. - -At a little before nine o’clock, Mr. William Sperry had departed (in a -young husband’s car) for his place of business, some five miles distant -in the smoky heart of the city; and not long afterward the thoughtful -Bella, charmingly accoutred as a gardener, came forth with a trowel to -uproot weeds that threatened a row of iris she had set out along the -gravel path leading from the tiny white veranda to the white picket -gate. Thus engaged, she became aware of a small presence fumbling at the -latch of this gate, and she changed her position from that of one on all -fours, who gropes intently in the earth, to that of one upright from the -knees, but momentarily relaxed. - -“Do you want to come in?” she inquired, looking out from the shade of -her broad hat to where the little figure in blue overalls was marked off -into stripes of sunshine and shadow by the intervening pickets of the -gate. “Is there something you want here, little boy?” - -He succeeded in operating the latch, came in, and looked attentively -over her excavations. “Have you found any nice worms?” he asked. - -“No, I haven’t found any at all,” she said, somewhat surprised by his -adjective. “But I don’t think there are any ‘nice’ worms anywhere. Worms -are all pretty horrid.” - -“No, they ain’t,” he returned promptly and seriously. “There’s lots o’ -nice worms.” - -“Oh, I don’t think so.” - -“Yes, there is.” - -“Oh, no.” - -“There is, too,” he said stubbornly and with some asperity. “Everybody -knows there’s plenty of nice worms.” - -“Where did you get such nonsense in your head?” Bella asked, a little -sharply. “Whoever told you there are nice worms?” - -“Well, there is!” - -“But what makes you think so?” she insisted. - -“Well——” He hesitated, then said with a conclusive air, settling the -question: “My mother. I guess _she_ knows!” - -Bella stared at him incredulously for a moment. - -“What’s your name?” - -“My name’s George. My name’s George, the same as my papa,” he replied -somewhat challengingly. - -“Don’t you live just across the street?” she asked. - -“Yes, I do.” He turned, pointing to the “George M. Sullender residence”; -and Bella thought she detected a note of inherited pride in his tone as -he added, “That’s where _I_ live!” - -“But, George, you don’t mean,” she insisted curiously;—“you don’t mean -that your _mother_ told you there are nice worms? Surely not!” - -“My mother did,” he asserted, and then with a little caution, modified -the assertion. “My mother just the _same_ as did.” - -“How was that?” - -And his reply, so unexpected by his questioner, sent a thrill of coming -triumph through her. “My mother called my father a worm.” - -“What!” - -“She did,” said George. “She called him a worm over and over——” - -“What!” - -“And if he’s a worm,” George went on, stoutly, “well, I guess _he’s_ -nice, isn’t he? So there got to be plenty nice worms if he’s one.” - -“George!” - -“She calls him a worm most every little while, _these_ days,” said -George, expanding, and he added, in cold blood, “I like him a great deal -better than what I do her.” - -“You do?” - -“She hit him this morning,” George thought fit to mention. - -“_What?_” - -“With a cloe’s-brush,” he said, dropping into detail. “She hit him on -the back of the head with the wooden part of it and he said, ‘_Ooh_’!” - -“But she was just in fun, of course!” - -“No, she wasn’t; she was mad and said she was goin’ to take me with her -and go back to my grampaw’s. I won’t go with her. She’s mad all the -time, _these_ days.” - -Bella stared, her lips parted, and she wished him to continue, but -remembered her upbringing and tried to be a lady. “Georgie,” she said -severely;—“you shouldn’t tell such things. Don’t you know better than -to speak in this way of what happens between your poor papa and your -mother?” - -The effect upon George was nothing, for even at eight years of age a -child is able to understand what interests an adult listener, and -children deeply enjoy being interesting. In response to her admonition, -he said simply: “Yesterday she threw a glass o’ water at him and cut -where his ear is. It made a big mark on him.” - -“Georgie! I’m afraid you’re telling me a dreadful, dreadful story!” -Bella said, though it may not be denied that in company with this -suspicion there arrived a premonitory symptom of disappointment. “Why, I -saw your papa yesterday evening, myself, and there wasn’t any mark or -anything like——” - -“It don’t show,” George explained. “It took him a good while, but he got -it fixed up so’s it didn’t show much. Then he brushed his hair over -where it was.” - -“Oh!” - -“My mother hates my papa,” said George. “She just hates and hates him!” - -“What _for_?” Bella couldn’t stop this question. - -“She wants him to have more money and he says what good would that do -because she’d only throw it around.” - -“No!” - -“Yes,” said George. “And she’s mad because once he got so mad at her he -hit _her_.” - -“What!” - -“He did, too,” George informed her, nodding, his large eyes as honest as -they were earnest. “She said she was goin’ to see my grampaw and she -left me at home, but my papa catched her at the Pitcher Show with Mr. -Grumbaugh.” - -“Who?” - -“Mr. Grumbaugh,” George repeated, with the air of explaining everything. -“So my papa made her come home and he hit her, and she hit him, too!” - -“Before _you_!” Bella exclaimed, horrified. - -“Sure!” George said, and looked upon her with some superiority. “They do -it all before me. Last week they had a _big_ fight——” - -He would have continued willingly, but at this point he was interrupted. -Across the street a door opened, and out of it came Mrs. Sullender, -leading a five-year-old girl by the hand. She called loudly, though in a -carefully sweet and musical tone: - -“George? Jaw—_aurge_? Oh, Jaw-_aur_-gie?” - -“Yes’m?” he shouted. - -Mrs. Sullender nodded smilingly to Bella, and called across: “Georgie, -you dear little naughty thing! Didn’t I tell you half an hour ago to -come indoors and play with poor dear little Natalie? She’s been waiting -and waiting so patiently!” - -George looked morose, but began to move in the desired direction. “I’m -comin’,” he muttered, and was so gross as to add, under his breath, -“Doggone you!” - -However, he went across the street; and then Mrs. Sullender, -benevolently leading the two children by the hand, nodded again to Bella -with a sweetness that was evident even at a distance, and reëntered the -house, taking George and the tiny Natalie with her. - -Bella remained upon her knees, staring violently at the “Sullender -Home,” and her thoughts were centred upon her husband. “Just _wait_ till -he gets here!” she thought. - -But she saved her triumph until after dinner, when he had made himself -comfortable upon the lounge in their tiny “living-room” and seemed to be -in good content with his briar pipe. - -“I had a caller after you left, this morning,” she informed him sunnily. - -“Who was it?” - -“Mr. George M. Sullender.” - -“So? That’s odd,” said Sperry. “I saw him starting down-town in his car -just before I did. How did he happen to come back here?” - -“He didn’t. This was Mr. George M. Sullender, Junior.” - -“Who’s that?” - -“Their little boy,” said Bella. “You’ve seen him playing in their yard -with the little sister.” - -“Oh, yes. Did his mother send him over on an errand?” - -“No. He came to see if I’d found any ‘nice worms’,” Bella said, and -added, in a carefully casual tone, but with a flashing little glance -from the corner of her eye: “He said _some_ worms must be nice because -Mrs. Sullender is in the habit of calling Mr. Sullender a worm, and -Georgie thinks his father is nice.” - -Young Mr. Sperry took his pipe from his mouth and looked at his wife -incredulously. “What did you say about Mrs. Sullender’s calling Mr. -Sullender——” - -“A ‘worm,’ William,” said Bella. “She calls him a ‘worm,’ William, -because he doesn’t make even more money than he does, poor man. The -child really hates his mother: he never once spoke of her as ‘mamma’ but -he always said ‘my papa’ when he mentioned Mr. Sullender. I think I must -have misjudged that poor creature a little, by the way. Of course he -_is_ pompous, but I think his pomposity is probably just assumed to -cover up his agony of mind. He has a recent scar that his wife put on -his head, too, to cover up.” - -“Bella!” - -“Yes,” she said reflectively. “I think he’s mainly engaged in covering -things up, poor thing. Of course he does _strike_ his sweet-woman, now -and then, when he finds her at the movies with gentlemen he doesn’t -approve of; but one can hardly blame him, considering the life she leads -him. It was last week, though, when they had their _big_ fight, I -understand—with the children looking on.” - -But at this, William rose to his feet and confronted her. “What on earth -are you talking about, Bella?” - -“The Sullenders,” she said. “It was curious. It was like having the -front of their house taken off, the way a curtain rolls up at the -theatre and shows you one of those sordid Russian plays, for instance. -There was the whole sickening actual life of this dreadful family laid -bare before me: the continual petty bickerings that every hour or so -grow into bitter quarrels with blows and epithets—and then, when other -people are there, as we were, last night, the assumption of suavity, the -false, too-sweet sweetness and absurd pomposities—oh, what an ugly -revelation it is, Will! It’s so ugly it makes me almost sorry you were -wrong about them—as you’re rather likely to be in your flash judgments, -you poor dear!” - -Bella (who was “literary” sometimes) delivered herself of this speech -with admirable dramatic quality, especially when she made her terse -little realistic picture of the daily life of the Sullenders, but there -was just a shade of happy hypocrisy and covert triumph in the final -sentence, and she even thought fit to add a little more on the point. -“How strange it is to think that only last night we were arguing about -it!” she exclaimed. “And that I said we’d not need to wait a month to -prove that I was right! Here it is only the next day, and it’s proved I -was a thousand times righter than I said I was!” - -“Well, perhaps you’ll enlighten me——” he began, and she complied so -willingly that she didn’t let him finish his request. - -She gave him Georgie’s revelation in detail, emphasizing and colouring -it somewhat with her own interpretations of many things only suggested -by the child’s meagre vocabulary; and she was naturally a little -indignant when, at first, her husband declined to admit his defeat. - -“Why, it’s simply not believable,” he said. “Those people _couldn’t_ -seem what they seemed to be last night, and be so depraved. They were -genuinely affectionate in the tone they used with each other and -they——” - -“Good gracious!” Bella cried. “Do you think I’m making this up?” - -“No, of course not,” he returned hastily. “But the child may have made -it up.” - -“About his own father and mother?” - -“Oh, I know; yet some children are the most wonderful little -story-tellers: they tell absolutely inexplicable lies and hardly know -why themselves.” - -But at this, Bella looked at him pityingly. “Listen a moment! There was -all the sordid daily life of these people laid out before me in the poor -little child’s prattle: a whole realistic novel, complete and -consistent, and I’d like to know how you account for a child of seven or -eight being able to compose such a thing—and on the spur of the moment, -too! When children make up stories they make ’em up about extraordinary -and absurd things, not about the sordid tragedies of everyday domestic -life. Do you actually think this child made up what he told me?” - -“Well, it certainly does seem peculiar!” - -“‘Peculiar?’ Why, it’s terrible and it’s _true_!” - -“Well, if it is,” he said gloomily, “we certainly don’t want to get -mixed up in it. We don’t want to come into a new neighbourhood and get -involved in a scandal—or even in gossiping about one. We must be -careful not to say anything about this, Bella.” - -She looked away from him thoughtfully. “I suppose so, though of course -these people aren’t friends of ours; they’re hardly acquaintances.” - -“No, but that’s all the more reason for our not appearing to be -interested in their troubles. We’ll certainly be careful not to say -anything about this, won’t we, Bella?” - -“Oh, I suppose so,” she returned absently. “Since the people are really -nothing to us, though, I don’t suppose it matters whether we say -anything or not.” - -“Oh, but it does!” he insisted, and then, something in her tone having -caught his attention, he inquired: “You _haven’t_ said anything to any -one about it, have you, Bella?” - -“What?” - -“You haven’t repeated to any one what the child told you, have you?” - -“Oh, no,” she said lightly. “Not to any one who would have any personal -interest in it.” - -“Oh, my!” William exclaimed, dismayed. “Who’d you tell?” - -“Nobody that has the slightest interest in the Sullenders,” Bella -replied, with cold dignity. “Nobody that cares the slightest thing about -them.” - -“Well, then, what in the world did you tell ’em _for_?” - -“Why, to pass the time, I suppose,” Bella said, a little offended. -“Cousin Ethel dropped in for a while this afternoon and the whole thing -was so extraordinary I just sketched it to her. What are you making such -a fuss about?” - -“I’m not,” he protested feebly. “But even if the thing’s true, we don’t -want to get the name of people that gossip about their——” - -“Oh, my!” she sighed impatiently. “I’ve told you Cousin Ethel hasn’t the -slightest personal interest in these people, and besides she’ll never -repeat what I told her.” - -“Well, if she doesn’t, it’ll be the first time!” - -“Will, please!” - -“Golly, I hope it won’t get back to the Sullenders!” - -“Such horrible people as that, what difference would it make?” Bella -demanded. “And how could it get back? Cousin Ethel doesn’t move in -Sullender circles. Not precisely!” - -“No, but her close friend, Mrs. Howard Peebles, is the aunt of Mrs. -Frank Deem and Frank Deem is Sullender’s business partner.” - -“Oh, a Realtor, is he?” Bella said icily. - -William returned to the lounge, but did not recline. Instead, he sat -down and took his head in his hands. “I do wish you hadn’t talked about -it,” he said gloomily. - -Bella was sensitive; therefore she began to be angry. “Do you think it’s -very intelligent,” she asked, “to imply that I don’t know enough not to -make neighbourhood trouble? You may not recall that only last night you -were sure that you were right and I was wrong about what sort of people -these Sullenders are. Already, the very next day, you’ve had to confess -that you were utterly mistaken and that your wife is wholly in the -right. I suppose you may feel a little depressed about that and want to -change the question to something else and claim I’m in the wrong about -_that_. But don’t you think it’s a little bit childish of you, Will? -Don’t you think that the way you’re taking your defeat is just a little -bit—small?” - -He was hurt, and looked up at her with an expression that showed the -injury. “I’d hardly have expected you’d call me that,” he said. “At -least, not quite so soon after our wedding-trip!” - -“Well, I might have expected you wouldn’t be accusing me of gossiping -harmfully,” she retorted. “Not _quite_ so soon!” - -Young Mr. Sperry rose again. “Do you think that’s as bad as using the -epithet ‘small’ to your husband?” - -“‘Epithet’?” she echoed. “You charge me with using ‘epithets’?” - -“Well, but didn’t——” - -“I think I’ll ask you to excuse me,” Bella said, with an aspect of -nobility in suffering. Thereupon, proudly, she betook herself from the -room. - -It was a tiff. Next day they were as polite to each other as if they had -just been introduced, and this ceremonial formality was maintained -between them until the third evening after its installation, when a -calamity caused them to abandon it. After a stately dinner in their -hundred square feet of dining-room, Bella had gone out into the twilight -to refresh her strips of iris with fair water from the garden hose, and -William reclined upon his lounge, solitary with a gloomy pipe. -Unexpectedly, he was summoned: Bella looked in upon him from the door -and spoke hastily. “Uh—Mr. and Mrs. Sullender——” she said. “Uh——” -And as hastily she withdrew. - -Perturbed, he rose and went out to the little veranda, where, with a -slightly nervous hospitality, Bella was now offering chairs to Mrs. -George M. Sullender and her husband. Mrs. Sullender smilingly, and in -her angelic voice, declined the offer. - -“Oh, no,” she said. “We came in for a moment to admire your lovely -irises at closer range; we’re just passing on our way to some friends in -Waverley Place.” - -“We’d be so glad——” Bella fluttered. - -“No, no, no,” Mrs. Sullender murmured caressingly. “We’ve only a -moment—I’m so sorry you disturbed your husband—we’re just going over -for bridge. I suppose you know most of the people in Waverley Place?” - -“No, I don’t think I know any.” - -“Well, of course _we_ don’t think it compares to Highland Place,” Mrs. -Sullender said, with a little deprecatory laugh. “I’m afraid it’s -rather—well, gossipy.” - -“Oh——” Bella said. “Is it?” - -“I’m afraid so,” the gentle-mannered lady returned. “Of course that’s a -great pity, too, in such a new little community where people are bound -to be thrown together a great deal. Don’t you think it’s a great pity, -Mrs. Sperry?” - -“Oh—naturally,” Bella acquiesced. “Yes, indeed.” - -“I knew you would. Of course it’s just thoughtlessness—most of the -people who live there are so young—but we heard a really dreadful story -only yesterday. It came from a _very_ young newly-married couple, and my -husband and I were _so_ sorry to hear they’d started out by telling such -dreadful things about their neighbours. Don’t you think it’s most -unwise, Mrs. Sperry?” - -Mrs. Sullender’s voice, wholly unruffled, and as indomitably tender as -ever, gave no intimation that she spoke with a peculiar significance; -but William Sperry was profoundly alarmed, and, with a sympathy that -held no triumph in it, he knew that Bella was in a similar or worse -condition. - -“Ye-es,” Bella murmured. “Of—of course I do.” - -“I knew you _would_ feel that way,” said Mrs. Sullender soothingly. -“It’s unwise, because gossip travels so. It nearly always goes straight -back to the people it’s about. In fact, I don’t believe I ever knew of -one single case where it didn’t. Did you, Mrs. Sperry?” - -“I—I don’t—that is, well, no,” Bella stammered. - -“No. It’s _so_ unwise!” Mrs. Sullender insisted, with a little murmur of -tender laughter. Then she took the arm of her solemn and silent husband, -and they turned together toward the gate, but paused. “Oh, I’d meant to -tell you, Mrs. Sperry——” - -“Uh—yes?” - -“That dear little boy Georgie—the little boy you were chatting with the -other morning when I called him in to play with my little girl—you -remember, Mrs. Sperry?” - -“Yes!” Bella gasped. - -“I thought you made such friends with him you’d be sorry to know you -won’t see him any more.” - -“No?” - -“No,” Mrs. Sullender cooed gently. “Poor little Georgie Goble!” - -“Georgie—who?” - -“Georgie Goble,” said Mrs. Sullender. “He was Goble, our chauffeur’s -little boy. They lived over our garage and had quite a distressing time -of it, poor things! The wife finally persuaded Goble to move to another -town where she thinks chauffeurs’ pay is higher. I was sure you’d be -sorry to hear the poor dear little boy had gone. They left yesterday. -Good night. Good night, Mr. Sperry.” - -With that, followed by somewhat feeble good-nights from both the -Sperrys, she passed through the gate with her husband, and a moment -later disappeared in the clean dusk of “Highland Place.” - -Then Bella turned to her troubled William. “She—she certainly made it -pl-plain!” - -“Yes,” he said. “But after all, she really did let us down pretty easy.” - -“‘Us,’” the young wife demanded sharply. “Did you say ‘_Us?_’” - -“Yes,” he answered. “I think she let us down about as easy as we could -have expected.” - -Bella instantly threw herself in his arms. “Oh, William!” she cried. -“William, _do_ be the kind of husband that won’t throw this up at me -when we’re forty and fifty! William, _promise_ me you’ll always say ‘Us’ -when I get us in trouble!” - -And William promised and William did. - - - - - THE TIGER - - -THE two little girls, Daisy Mears and Elsie Threamer, were nine years -old, and they lived next door to each other; but there the coincidence -came to an end; and even if any further similarity between them had been -perceptible, it could not have been mentioned openly without causing -excitement in Elsie’s family. Elsie belonged to that small class of -exquisite children seen on canvas in the days when a painter would -exhibit without shame a picture called “Ideal Head.” She was one of -those rare little fair creatures at whom grown people, murmuring -tenderly, turn to stare; and her childhood was attended by the -exclamations not only of strangers but of people who knew her well. -“Greuze!” they said, or “A child Saint Cecilia!” or “That angelic -sweetness!” But whatever form preliminary admiration might take, the -concluding tribute was almost always the same: “And so unconscious, with -it all!” When some unobservant and rambling-minded person did wander -from the subject without mentioning Elsie’s unconsciousness, she was apt -to take a dislike to him. - -People often wondered what that ineffable child with the shadowy -downcast eyes was thinking about. They would “give _anything_,” they -declared, to know what she was thinking about. But nobody wondered what -Daisy Mears was thinking about—on the contrary, people were frequently -only too sure they knew what Daisy was thinking about. - -From the days of her earliest infancy, Elsie, without making any effort, -was a child continually noticed and acclaimed; whereas her next -neighbour was but an inconspicuous bit of background, which may have -been more trying for Daisy than any one realized. No doubt it also -helped great aspirations to sprout within her, and was thus the very -cause of the abrupt change in her character during their mutual tenth -summer. For it was at this time that Daisy all at once began to be more -talked about than Elsie had ever been. All over the neighbourhood and -even beyond its borders, she was spoken of probably dozens of times as -often as Elsie was—and with more feeling, more emphasis, more -gesticulation, than Elsie had ever evoked. - -Daisy had accidentally made the discovery that the means of becoming -prominent are at hand for anybody, and that the process of using them is -the simplest in the world; for of course all that a person desirous of -prominence needs to do is to follow his unconventional impulses. In this -easy way prodigious events can be produced at the cost of the most -insignificant exertion, as is well understood by people who have felt a -temptation to step from the roof of a high building, or to speak out -inappropriately in church. Daisy still behaved rather properly in -church, but several times she made herself prominent in Sunday school; -and she stepped off the roof of her father’s garage, merely to become -more prominent among a small circle of coloured people who stood in the -alley begging her not to do it. - -She spent the rest of that day in bed—for after all, while fame may so -easily be obtained, it has its price, and the bill is inevitably sent -in—but she was herself again the next morning, and at about ten o’clock -announced to her mother that she had decided to “go shopping.” - -Mrs. Mears laughed, and, just to hear what Daisy would say, asked -quizzically: “‘Go shopping?’ What in the world do you mean, Daisy?” - -“Well, I think it would be a nice thing for me to do, mamma,” Daisy -explained. “You an’ grandma an’ Aunt Clara, you always keep sayin’, ‘I -believe I’ll go shopping.’ _I_ want to, too.” - -“What would you do?” - -“Why, I’d go shopping the way _you_ do. I’d walk in a store an’ say: -‘Have you got any unb’eached muslin? Oh, I thought _this’d_ be only six -cents a yard! Haven’t you got anything nicer?’ Everything like that. _I_ -know, mamma. I know any amount o’ things to say when I go shopping. -_Can’t_ I go shopping, mamma?” - -“Yes, of course,” her mother said, smiling. “You can pretend our big -walnut tree is a department store and shop all you want.” - -“Well——” Daisy began, and then realizing that the recommendation of -the walnut tree was only a suggestion, and not a command, she said, -“Well, thank you, mamma,” and ran outdoors, swinging her brown straw hat -by its elastic cord. The interview had taken place in the front hall, -and Mrs. Hears watched the lively little figure for a moment as it was -silhouetted against the ardent sunshine at the open doors; then she -turned away, smiling, and for the rest of the morning her serene thought -of Daisy was the picture of a ladylike child playing quietly near the -walnut tree in the front yard. - -Daisy skipped out to the gate, but upon the public sidewalk, just -beyond, she moderated her speed and looked as important as she could, -assuming at once the rôle she had selected in the little play she was -making up as she went along. In part, too, her importance was meant to -interest Elsie Threamer, who was standing in graceful idleness by the -hedge that separated the Threamers’ yard from the sidewalk. - -“Where you goin’, Daisy?” the angelic neighbour inquired. - -Daisy paused and tried to increase a distortion of her face, which was -her conception of a businesslike concentration upon “shopping.” “What?” -she inquired, affecting absent-mindedness. - -“Where you goin’?” - -“I haf to go shopping to-day, Elsie.” - -Elsie laughed. “No, you don’t.” - -“I do, too. I go shopping almost all the time lately. I haf to.” - -“You don’t, either,” Elsie said. “You don’t either haf to.” - -“I do, _too_, haf to!” Daisy retorted. “I’m almos’ worn out, I haf to go -shopping so much.” - -“Where?” - -“Every single place,” Daisy informed her impressively. “I haf to go -shopping all the way down-town. I’ll take you with me if you haf to go -shopping, too. D’you want to?” - -Elsie glanced uneasily over her shoulder, but no one was visible at any -of the windows of her house. Obviously, she was interested in her -neighbour’s proposal, though she was a little timorous. “Well——” she -said. “Of course I _ought_ to go shopping, because the truth is I got -more shopping to do than ’most anybody. I haf to go shopping so _much_ I -just have the backache all the time! I guess——” - -“Come on,” said Daisy. “I haf to go shopping in every single store -down-town, and there’s lots o’ stores on the way we can go shopping in -before we get there.” - -“All right,” her friend agreed. “I guess I rilly better.” - -She came out to the sidewalk, and the two turned toward the city’s -central quarter of trade, walking quickly and talking with an -accompaniment of many little gestures. “I rilly don’t know how I do it -all,” said Elsie, assuming a care-worn air. “I got so much shopping to -do an’ everything, my fam’ly all say they wonder I don’t break down an’ -haf to go to a sanitanarian or somep’m because I _do_ so much.” - -“Oh, it’s worse’n that with _me_, my dear!” said Daisy. “I declare I -doe’ know how I do live through it all! Every single day, it’s like -this: I haf to go shopping all day _long_, my dear!” - -“Well, I haf to, too, my dear! I _never_ get time to even sit _down_, my -dear!” - -Daisy shook her head ruefully. “Well, goodness knows the last time _I_ -sat down, my dear!” she said. “My fam’ly say I got to take _some_ rest, -but how can I, with all this terrable shopping to do?” - -“Oh, my dear!” Elsie exclaimed. “Why, my dear, _I_ haven’t sat down -since Christmus!” - -Thus they enacted a little drama, improvising the dialogue, for of -course every child is both playwright and actor, and spends most of his -time acting in scenes of his own invention—which is one reason that -going to school may be painful to him; lessons are not easily made into -plays, though even the arithmetic writers do try to help a little, with -their dramas of grocers and eggs, and farmers and bushels and quarts. A -child is a player, and an actor is a player; and both “play” in almost -the same sense—the essential difference being that the child’s art is -instinctive, so that he is not so conscious of just where reality begins -and made-up drama ends. Daisy and Elsie were now representing and -exaggerating their two mothers, with a dash of aunt thrown in; they felt -that they _were_ the grown people they played they were; and the more -they developed these “secondary personalities,” the better they believed -in them. - -“An’ with all my trouble an’ everything,” Daisy said, “I jus’ never get -a minute to myself. Even my shopping, it’s all for the fam’ly.” - -“So’s mine,” Elsie said promptly. “Mine’s every single bit for the -fam’ly, an’ I never, never get through.” - -“Well, look at _me_!” Daisy exclaimed, her hands fluttering in movements -she believed to be illustrative of the rush she lived in. “My fam’ly -keep me on the run from the minute I get up till after I go to bed. I -declare I don’t get time to say my prayers! To-day I thought I _might_ -get a little rest for once in my life. But no! I haf to go shopping!” - -“So do I, my dear! I haf to look at—— Well, what do _you_ haf to look -at when we go in the stores?” - -“Me? I haf to look at everything! There isn’t a thing left in our house. -I haf to look at doilies, an’ all kinds embrawdries, an’ some aperns for -the servants, an’ taffeta, an’ two vases for the liberry mantelpice, an’ -some new towerls, an’ kitchen-stove-polish, an’ underwear, an’ oilcloth, -an’ lamp-shades, an’ some orstrich feathers for my blue vevvut hat. An’ -then I got to get some——” - -“Oh, my dear! _I_ got more’n that _I_ haf to look at,” Elsie -interrupted. And she, likewise, went into details; but as Daisy -continued with her own, and they both talked at the same time, the -effect was rather confused, though neither seemed to be at all disturbed -on that account. Probably they were pleased to think they were thus all -the more realistically adult. - -It was while they were chattering in this way that Master Laurence Coy -came wandering along a side-street that crossed their route, and, -catching sight of them, considered the idea of joining them. He had a -weakness for Elsie, and an antipathy for Daisy, the latter feeling -sometimes not unmingled with the most virulent repulsion; but there was -a fair balance struck; in order to be with Elsie, he could bear being -with Daisy. Yet both were girls, and, regarded in that light alone, not -the company he cared to be thought of as deliberately choosing. -Nevertheless, he had found no boys at home that morning; he was at a -loss what to do with himself, and bored. Under these almost compulsory -circumstances, he felt justified in consenting to join the ladies; and, -overtaking them at the crossing, he stopped and spoke to them. - -“Hay, there,” he said, taking care not to speak too graciously. “Where -you two goin’, talkin’ so much?” - -They paid not the slightest attention to him, but continued busily on -their way. - -“My _dear_ Mrs. Smith!” Daisy exclaimed, speaking with increased -loudness. “_I_ jus’ pozza_tiv_ely never have a _minute_ to my own -affairs! If I doe’ get a rest from my housekeepin’ pretty soon, I doe’ -know what on earth’s goin’ to become o’ my nerves!” - -“Oh, Mrs. Jones!” Elsie exclaimed. “It’s the same way with me, my dear. -_I_ haf to have the _doctor_ for _my_ nerves, every morning at seven or -eight o’clock. Why, my dear, I never——” - -“_Hay!_” Laurence called. “I said: ‘Where you goin’, talkin’ so much?’ -Di’n’chu hear me?” - -But they were already at some distance from him and hurrying on as if -they had seen and heard nothing whatever. Staring after them, he caught -a dozen more “my dears” and exclamatory repetitions of “Mrs. Smith, you -don’t say so!” and “Why, _Mis-suz_ Jones!” He called again, but the two -little figures, heeding him less than they did the impalpable sunshine -about them, hastened on down the street, their voices gabbling, their -heads waggling importantly, their arms and hands incessantly lively in -airy gesticulation. - -Laurence was thus granted that boon so often defined by connoisseurs of -twenty as priceless—a new experience. But he had no gratitude for it; -what he felt was indignation. He lifted up his voice and bawled: - -“HAY! Di’n’chu hear what I SAID? Haven’t you got ’ny EARS?” - -Well he knew they had ears, and that these ears heard him; but on the -spur of the moment he was unable to think of anything more scathing than -this inquiry. The shoppers went on, impervious, ignoring him with all -their previous airiness—with a slight accentuation of it, indeed—even -when he bellowed at them a second time and a third. Stung, he was -finally inspired to add: “_Hay!_ Are you gone _crazy_?” But they were -halfway to the next crossing. - -A bitterness came upon Laurence. “What _I_ care?” he muttered. “I’ll -_show_ you what I care!” However, his action seemed to deny his words, -for instead of setting about some other business to prove his -indifference, he slowly followed the shoppers. He was driven by a -necessity he felt to make them comprehend his displeasure with their -injurious flouting of himself and of etiquette in general. “Got ’ny -politeness?” he muttered, and replied morosely: “No, they haven’t—they -haven’t got sense enough to know what politeness means! Well, _I’ll_ -show ’em! They’ll _see_ before _I_ get through with ’em! _Oh_, oh! Jus’ -wait a little: they’ll be beggin’ me quick enough to speak to ’em. ‘Oh, -Laur-runce, _please_!’ they’ll say. ‘_Please_ speak to us, Laur-runce. -Won’ chu _please_ speak to us, Laurunce? We’d jus’ give _anything_ to -have you speak to us, Laurunce! Won’ chu, Laurunce, pull-_lease_?’ Then -I’ll say: ‘_Yes_, I’ll speak to you, an’ you better listen if you want -to learn some sense!’ Then I’ll call ’em everything I can think of!” - -It might have been supposed that he had some definite plan for bringing -them thus to their knees in supplication, but he was only solacing -himself by sketching a triumphant climax founded upon nothing. Meanwhile -he continued morbidly to follow, keeping about fifty yards behind them. - -“Poot!” he sneered. “Think they’re wunnaful, don’t they? You wait! -They’ll see!” - -He came to a halt, staring. “_Now_ what they doin’?” - -Elsie and Daisy had gone into a small drug-store, where Daisy -straightway approached the person in charge, an elderly man of weary -appearance. “Do you keep taffeta?” she asked importantly. Since she and -her friend were “playing” that they were shopping, of course they found -it easily consistent to “play” that the druggist was a clerk in a -department store; and no doubt, too, the puzzlement of the elderly man -gave them a profound if secret enjoyment. - -He moved toward his rather shabby soda-fountain, replying: “I got -chocolate and strawb’ry and v’nilla. I don’t keep no fancy syrups.” - -“Oh, my, no!” Daisy exclaimed pettishly. “I mean taffeta you wear.” - -“What?” - -“I mean taffeta you wear.” - -“‘Wear’?” he said. - -“I want to look at some _taffeta_,” Daisy said impatiently. “_Taffeta._” - -“Taffy?” the man said. “I don’t keep no line of candies.” - -Daisy frowned, and shook her head. “I guess he’s kind of deaf or -somep’m,” she said to Elsie; and then she shouted again at the elderly -man: “Taffe_tah_! It’s somep’m you _wear_. You wear it _on_ you!” - -“What for?” he said. “I ain’t deaf. You mean some brand of porous -plaster? Mustard plaster?” - -“Oh, my, _no_!” Daisy exclaimed, and turned to Elsie. “This is just the -way it is. Whenever I go shopping, they’re _always_ out of everything I -want!” - -“Oh, it’s exackly the same with me, my dear,” Elsie returned. “It’s too -provoking! Rilly, the shops in this town——” - -“Listen here,” the proprietor interrupted, and he regarded these -fastidious customers somewhat unfavourably. “You’re wastin’ my time on -me. Say what it is you want or go somewheres else.” - -“Well, have you got some _very_ nice blue-silk lamp-shades?” Daisy -inquired, and she added: “With gold fringe an’ tassels?” - -“Lamp-shades!” he said, and he had the air of a person who begins to -feel seriously annoyed. “Listen! Go on out o’ here!” - -But Daisy ignored his rudeness. “Have you got any _very_ good unb’eached -muslin?” she asked. - -“You go on out o’ here!” the man shouted. “You go on out o’ here or I’ll -untie my dog.” - -“Well, I declare!” Elsie exclaimed as she moved toward the door. “I -never was treated like this in all my days!” - -“What kind of a dog is it?” Daisy asked, for she was interested. - -“It’s a _biting_ dog,” the drug-store man informed her; and she thought -best to retire with Elsie. The two came out to the sidewalk and went on -their way, giggling surreptitiously, and busier than ever with their -chatter. After a moment the injured party in the background again -followed them. - -“They’ll find _out_ what’s goin’ to happen to ’em,” he muttered, -continuing his gloomy rhapsody. “‘_Please_ speak to us, Laurunce,’ -they’ll say. ‘Oh, Laurunce, pull-_lease_!’ An’ then I’ll jus’ keep on -laughin’ at ’em an’ callin’ ’em everything the worst I ever heard, while -they keep hollerin’: ‘Oh, Laur-runce, pull-_lease_!’” - -A passer-by, a kind-faced woman of middle age, caught the murmur from -his slightly moving lips, and halted inquiringly. - -“What is it, little boy?” she asked. - -“What?” he said. - -“Were you speaking to me, little boy? Didn’t you say ‘Please’?” - -“No, I didn’t,” he replied, colouring high; for he did not like to be -called “little boy” by anybody, and he was particularly averse to this -form of address on the lips of a total stranger. Moreover, no indignant -person who is talking to himself cares to be asked what he is saying. “I -never said a thing to you,” he added crossly. “What’s the matter of you, -anyhow?” - -“Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “What a bad, rude little boy! Shame on -you!” - -“I ain’t a little boy, an’ shame on your own self!” he retorted; but she -had already gone upon her way, and he was again following the busy -shoppers. As he went on his mouth was slightly in motion, though it was -careful not to open, and his slender neck was imperceptibly distended by -small explosions of sound, for he continued his dialogues, but omitted -any enunciation that might attract the impertinence of strangers. “It’s -none o’ your ole biznuss!” he said, addressing the middle-aged woman in -this internal manner. “_I’ll_ show you who you’re talkin’ to! I guess -when you get through with _me_ you’ll know somep’m! Shame on your own -self!” Then his eyes grew large as they followed the peculiar behaviour -of the two demoiselles before him. “My goodness!” he said. - -Daisy was just preceding Elsie into a barber-shop. - -“Do you keep taffeta or—or lamp-shades?” Daisy asked of the barber -nearest the door. - -This was a fat coloured man, a mulatto. He had a towel over the jowl and -eyes of his helpless customer, and standing behind the chair, employed -his thumbs and fingers in a slow and rhythmic manipulation of the man’s -forehead. Meanwhile he continued an unctuous monologue, paying no -attention whatever to Daisy’s inquiry. “I dess turn roun’ an’ walk away -little bit,” said the barber. “’N’en I turn an’ look ’er over up an’ -down from head to foot. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You use you’ mouth full freely,’ -I say, ‘but dess kinely gim me leave fer to tell you, you ain’t got -nothin’ to rouse up no int’est o’ _mine_ in you. I make mo’ money,’ I -say, ‘I make mo’ money in a day than whut Henry ever see in a full year, -an’ if you tryin’ to climb out o’ Henry’s class an’ into mine——’” - -“Listen!” Daisy said, raising her voice. “Do you keep taffeta or——” - -“Whut you say?” the barber asked, looking coldly upon her and her -companion. - -“We’re out shopping,” Daisy explained. “We want to look at some——” - -“Listen me,” the barber interrupted. “Run out o’ here. Run out.” - -Daisy moved nearer him. “What you doin’ to that man’s face?” she asked. - -“Nem mine! Nem mine!” he said haughtily. - -“What were you tellin’ him?” Daisy inquired. “I mean all about Henry’s -class an’ usin’ her mouth so full freely. Who was?” - -“Run _out_!” the barber shouted. “Run _out_!” - -“Well, I declare!” Daisy exclaimed, as she and Elsie followed his -suggestion and emerged from the shop. “It’s just this same way whenever -I go shopping! I never _can_ find the things I want; they act almos’ -like they don’t care whether they keep ’em or not.” - -“It’s dreadful!” Elsie agreed, and, greatly enjoying the air of -annoyance they were affecting, they proceeded on their way. No one would -have believed them aware that they were being followed; and neither had -spoken a word referring to Master Coy; but they must have understood -each other perfectly in the matter, for presently Daisy’s head turned -ever so slightly, and she sent a backward glance out of the very tail of -her eye. “_He’s still comin’!_” she said in a whisper that was ecstatic -with mirth. And Elsie, in the same suppressed but joyous fashion, said: -“Course he is, the ole thing!” This was the only break in their manner -of being the busiest shoppers in the world; and immediately after it -they became more flauntingly shoppers than ever. - -As for Laurence, his curiosity was now almost equal to his bitterness. -The visit to the drug-store he could understand, but that to the -barber-shop astounded him; and when he came to the shop he paused to -flatten his nose upon the window. The fat mulatto barber nearest the -window was still massaging the face of the recumbent customer and -continuing his narrative; the other barbers were placidly grooming the -occupants of their chairs, while two or three waiting patrons, lounging -on a bench, read periodicals of a worn and flaccid appearance. Nothing -gave any clue to the errand of Laurence’s fair friends; on the contrary, -everything that was revealed to his staring eyes made their visit seem -all the more singular. - -He went in, and addressed himself to the fat barber. “Listen,” he said. -“Listen. I want to ast you somep’m.” - -“Dess ’bout when she was fixin’ to holler,” the barber continued, to his -patron, “I take an’ slap my money ri’ back in my pocket. ‘You talk ’bout -tryin’ show me some _class_,’ I say. ‘Dess lem me——’” - -“Listen!” Laurence said, speaking louder. “I want to ast you somep’m.” - -“‘Dess lem me tell you, if you fixin’ show me some class,’” the barber -went on; “‘if you fixin’ show me some class,’ I say. ‘Dess lem me tell -you if——’” - -“_Listen!_” Laurence insisted. “I want to ast you somep’m.” - -For a moment the barber ceased to manipulate his customer and gave -Laurence a look of disapproval. “Listen _me_, boy!” he said. “Nex’ time -you flatten you’ face on nat window you don’ haf to breave on nat glass, -do you? Ain’ you’ folks taught you no better’n go roun’ dirtyin’ up nice -clean window?” - -“What I want to know,” Laurence said: “—What were they doin’ in here?” - -“What were who doin’ in here?” - -“Those two little girls that were in here just now. What did they come -here for?” - -“My goo’nuss!” the barber exclaimed. “Man’d think barber got nothin’ do -but stan’ here all day ’nanswer questions! Run out, boy!” - -“But, listen!” Laurence urged him. “What were they——” - -“Run out, boy!” the barber said, and his appearance became formidable. -“Run _out_, boy!” - -Laurence departed silently, though in his mind he added another outrage -to the revenge he owed the world for the insults and mistreatments he -was receiving that morning. “I’ll show you!” he mumbled in his throat as -he came out of the shop. “You’ll wish you had some _sense_, when I get -through with you, you ole barber, you!” - -Then, as he looked before him, his curiosity again surpassed his sense -of injury. The busy shoppers were just coming out of a harness-shop, -which was making a bitter struggle to survive the automobile; and as -they emerged from the place, they had for a moment the hasty air of -ejected persons. But this was a detail that escaped Laurence’s -observation, for the gestures and chatter were instantly resumed, and -the two hurried on as before. - -“My gracious!” said Laurence, and when he came to the harness-shop he -halted and looked in through the open door; but the expression of the -bearded man behind a counter was so discouraging that he thought it best -to make no inquiries. - -The bearded man was as irritable as he looked. “Listen!” he called. -“Don’t block up that door, d’you hear me? Go on, get away from there and -let some air in. Gosh!” - -Laurence obeyed morosely. “Well, doggone it!” he said. - -He had no idea that the pair preceding him might have been received as -cavalierly, for their air of being people engaged in matters of -importance had all the effect upon him they desired, and deceived him -perfectly. Moreover, the mystery of what they had done in the -barber-shop and in the harness-shop was actually dismaying; they were -his colleagues in age and his inferiors in sex; and yet all upon a -sudden, this morning, they appeared to deal upon the adult plane and to -have business with strange grown people. Laurence was unwilling to give -them the slightest ground for a conceited supposition that he took any -interest in them, or their doings, but he made up his mind that if they -went into another shop, he would place himself in a position to observe -what they did, even at the risk of their seeing him. - -Four or five blocks away, the business part of the city began to be -serious; buildings of ten or twelve stories, several of much more than -that, were piled against the sky; but here, where walked the shoppers -and their disturbed shadower, the street had fallen upon slovenly days. -Farther out, in the quarter whence they had come, it led a life of -domestic prosperity, but gradually, as it descended southward, its -character altered dismally until just before it began to be respectable -again, as a business street, it was not only shabby but had a covert air -of underhand enterprise. And the shop windows had not been arranged with -the idea of offering a view of the interiors. - -Of course Elsie and Daisy did not concern themselves with the changed -character of the street; one shop was as good as another for the -purposes involved in the kind of shopping that engaged them this -morning; and they were having too glorious a time to give much -consideration to anything. Elsie had fallen under the spell of a daring -leadership; she was as excited as Daisy, as intent as she upon -preserving the illusion they maintained between them; and both of them -were delightedly aware that they must be goading their frowning follower -with a splendid series of mysteries. - -“I declare!” Daisy said, affecting peevishness. “I forgot to look at -orstrich feathers an’ unb’eached muslin at both those two last places we -went. Let’s try in here.” - -By “in here” she referred to a begrimed and ignoble façade once painted -dark green, but now the colour of street dust mixed with soot. Admission -was to be obtained by double doors, with the word “_Café_” upon both of -the panels. “_Café_” was also repeated upon a window, where a -sign-painter of great inexperience had added the details: “_Soft Drinks -Candys Cigars & C._” And upon three shelves in the window were -displayed, as convincing proof of the mercantile innocence of the place, -three or four corncob pipes, some fly-specked packets of tobacco, -several packages of old popcorn and a small bottle of catsup. - -Daisy tugged at the greasy brass knob projecting from one of the once -green doors, and after some reluctance it yielded. “Come on,” she said. -The two then walked importantly into the place, and the door closed -behind them. - -Laurence immediately hurried forward; but what he beheld was -discouraging. The glass of the double door was frankly opaque; and that -of the window was so dirty and besooted, and so obstructed by the -shelves of sparse merchandise, that he could see nothing whatever beyond -the shelves. - -“Well, dog-_gone_ it!” he said. - - * * * * * - -Daisy and Elsie found themselves the only visible occupants of an -interior unexampled in their previous experience. Along one side of the -room, from wall to wall, there ran what they took to be a counter for -the display of goods, though it had nothing upon it except a blackened -little jar of matches and a short thick glass goblet, dimmed at the -bottom with an ancient sediment. A brass rail extended along the base of -the counter, and on the wall, behind, was a long mirror, once lustrous, -no doubt, but now coated with a white substance that had begun to suffer -from soot. Upon the wall opposite the mirror there were two old -lithographs, one of a steamboat, the other of a horse and jockey; and -there were some posters advertising cigarettes, but these decorations -completed the invoice of all that was visible to the shoppers. - -“Oh, dear!” Daisy said. “Wouldn’t it be too provoking if they’d gone to -lunch or somep’m!” And she tapped as loudly as she could upon the -counter, calling: “Here! Somebody come an’ wait on us! I want to look at -some of your nicest unb’eached muslin an’ some orstrich feathers.” - -There was a door at the other end of the room and it stood open, -revealing a narrow and greasy passage, with decrepit walls that showed -the laths, here and there, where areas of plaster had fallen. “I guess I -better go call in that little hallway,” said Daisy. “They don’t seem to -care _how_ long they keep their customers waitin’!” - -But as she approached the door, the sound of several muffled explosions -came from the rear of the building and reached the shoppers through the -funnel of the sinister passage. - -“That’s funny,” said Daisy. “I guess somebody’s shootin’ off -firecrackers back there.” - -“What for?” Elsie asked. - -“I guess they think it must be the Fourth o’ July,” Daisy answered; and -she called down the passageway: “Here! Come wait on us. We want to look -at some unb’eached muslin an’ _orstrich_ feathers. Can’t you hurry -_up_?” - -No one replied, but voices became audible, approaching;—voices in -simultaneous outbursts, and manifesting such poignant emotion that -although there were only two of them, a man’s and a woman’s, Daisy and -Elsie at first supposed that seven or eight people were engaged in the -controversy. For a moment they also supposed the language to be foreign, -but discovered that some of the expressions used were familiar, though -they had been accustomed to hear them under more decorous circumstances. - -“They’re makin’ an awful fuss,” Elsie said. “What _are_ they talkin’ -about?” - -“The way it sounds,” said Daisy, “it sounds like they’re talkin’ about -things in the Bible.” - -Then another explosion was heard, closer; it seemed to come from a -region just beyond the passageway; and it was immediately followed by a -clatter of lumber and an increase of eloquence in the vocal argument. - -“You _quit_ that!” the man’s voice bellowed plaintively. “You don’t know -what you’re doin’; you blame near croaked me that time! You _quit_ that, -Mabel!” - -“I’m a-goin’ to learn you!” the woman’s voice announced. “You come out -from under them boards, and I’ll learn you whether I know what I’m doin’ -or not! Come out!” - -“_Please_ go on away and lea’ me alone,” the man implored. “_I_ never -done nothin’ to you. I never seen a _cent_ o’ that money! _Honest_, -George never give me a cent of it. Why’n’t you go an ast _him_? He’s -right in yonder. Oh, my goodness, whyn’t you ast _him_?” - -“Come out from under them boards!” - -The man’s voice became the more passionate in its protesting. “Oh, my -goodness! Mabel, can’t you jest ast George? He ain’t left the place; -_you_ know _that_! He can’t show his face in daytime, and he’s right -there in the bar, and so’s Limpy. Limpy’ll tell you jest the same as -what George will, if you’ll only go and ast ’em. _Why_ can’t you go and -_ast_ ’em?” - -“Yes!” the woman cried. “And while I’m in there astin’ ’em, where’ll -_you_ be? Over the alley fence and a mile away! You come out from under -them boards and git croaked like you’re a-goin’ to!” - -“Oh, my _good_ness!” the man wailed. “I _wish_ I had somep’m on me to -lam you with! Jest once! That’s all I’d ast—jest one little short crack -at you!” - -“You come out from under them boards!” - -“I won’t! I’ll lay here till——” - -“We’ll _see_!” the woman cried. “I’m a-goin’ to dig you out. I’m a-goin’ -to take them boards off o’ you and then I’m a-goin’ to croak you. I am!” - -Elsie moved toward the outer door. “They talk so—so funny!” she said -with a little anxiety. “I doe’ b’lieve it’s about the Bible.” - -“I guess she’s mad at somebody about somep’m,” Daisy said, much amused; -and stepping nearer the passageway, she called: “_Here!_ We want to look -at some unb’eached muslin an’ _orstrich_ feathers!” - -But the room beyond the passage was now in turmoil: planks were -clattering again, and both voices were uproarious. The man’s became a -squawk as another explosion took place; he added an incomplete -Scriptural glossary in falsetto; and Elsie began to be nervous. - -“That’s awful big firecrackers they’re usin’,” she said. “I guess we -ought to go home, Daisy.” - -“Oh, they’re just kind of quarrellin’ or somep’m,” Daisy explained, not -at all disturbed. “If you listen up our alley, you can hear coloured -people talkin’ like that lots o’ times. They do this way, an’ they -settle down again, or else they’re only in fun. But I do wish these -people’d come, because I just _haf_ to finish my shopping!” And, as yet -another explosion was heard, she exclaimed complacently: “My! That’s a -big one!” - -Then, beyond the passage, there seemed to be a final upheaval of lumber; -the discussion reached a climax of vociferation, and a powerful, -bald-headed man, without a coat, plunged through the passage and into -the room. His unscholarly brow and rotund jowls were beaded; his -agonized eyes saw nothing; he ran to the bar, and vaulted over it, -vanishing behind it half a second before the person looking for him -appeared in the doorway. - -She was a small, rather shabby woman, who held one hand concealed in the -folds of her skirt, while with the other she hastily cleared her eyes of -some loosened strands of her reddish hair. - -“I got you, Chollie!” she said. “You’re behind the bar, and I’m a-goin’ -to make a good job of it, and get George and Limpy, too. I’m goin’ to -get all three of you!” - -With that she darted across the room and ran behind the bar; whereupon -Daisy and Elsie were treated to a scene like a conjuror’s trick. Until -the bald-headed man’s arrival, they had supposed themselves to be quite -alone in the room, but as the little woman ran behind the counter, not -only this fugitive popped up from it, but two other panic-stricken men -besides—one with uneven whiskers all over his mottled face, the other a -well-dressed person, elderly, but just now supremely agile. The three -shot up simultaneously like three Jacks-in-the-box, and, scrambling over -the counter, dropped flat on the floor in front of it, leaving the -little woman behind. - -“Crawl up to the end o’ the bar, George,” the bald-headed man said -hoarsely. “When she comes out from behind it, jump and grab her wrist.” - -“Think I’m deef?” the little woman inquired raucously. “George’s got a -fat chance to grab _my_ wrist!” - -Then her eyes, somewhat inflamed, fell upon Daisy and Elsie. “Well, -what—what—what——” she said. - -Daisy stepped toward the counter, for she felt that she had indeed -delayed her business long enough. - -“We’d like to look at some nice unb’eached muslin,” she said, “an’ some -of your _very_ best orstrich feathers.” - -The subsequent commotions, as well as the preceding ones, were -indistinctly audible to the mystified person who waited upon the -sidewalk outside the place. Finding that his eyes revealed nothing of -the interior, he had placed his ear against the window, and the muffled -reports, mistaken for firecrackers by Daisy and Elsie, were similarly -interpreted by Laurence; but he supposed Daisy and Elsie to have a -direct connection with the sounds. A thought of the Fourth of July -entered his mind, as it had Daisy’s, but it solved nothing for him: the -Fourth was long past; this was not the sort of store that promised -firecrackers; and even if Daisy and Elsie had taken firecrackers with -them, how had it happened that they were allowed to explode them -indoors? As for an “ottomatick” or a “revolaver,” he knew that neither -maiden would touch such a thing, for he had heard them express their -aversion to the antics of Robert Eliot, on an occasion when Master Eliot -had surreptitiously borrowed his father’s “good ole six-shooter” to -disport himself with in the Threamers’ garage. - -Nothing could have been more evident than that Daisy and Elsie had -definite affairs to transact in this café; the air with which they -entered it was a conclusive demonstration of that. But the firecrackers -made guessing at the nature of those affairs even more hopeless than -when the pair had visited the barber-shop and the harness-shop. Then, as -a closer report sounded, Laurence jumped. “_Giant_ firecracker!” he -exclaimed huskily, and his eyes still widened; for now vague noises of -tumult and altercation could be heard. - -“Well, my go-o-od-_nuss_!” he said. - -Two pedestrians halted near him. - -“Say, listen,” one of them said. “What’s goin’ on in there?” - -“Golly!” the other exclaimed, adding: “I happen to know it’s a blind -tiger.” - -Laurence’s jaw dropped, and he stared at the man incredulously. -“Wha-wha’d you say?” - -“Listen,” the man returned. “How long’s all this been goin’ on in -there?” - -“Just since _they_ went in there. It was just a little while ago. Wha’d -you say about——” - -But he was interrupted. Several other passers-by had paused, and they -began to make interested inquiries of the first two. - -“What’s the trouble in there? What’s going on here? What’s all the -shooting? What’s——” - -“There’s _something_ pretty queer goin’ on,” said the man who had spoken -to Laurence; and he added: “It’s a blind tiger.” - -“Yes, _I_ know that,” another said. “I was in there once, and I know -from my own eyes it’s a blind tiger.” - -Laurence began to be disconcerted. - -“‘A blind tiger’?” he gasped. “A blind tiger?” What caused his emotion -was not anxiety for the safety of his friends; the confident importance -with which they had entered the place convinced him that if there -actually was a blind tiger within, they were perfectly aware of the -circumstance and knew what they were doing when they entered the -animal’s presence. His feeling about them was indefinite and hazy; yet -it was certainly a feeling incredulous but awed, such as any one might -have about people well known to him, who suddenly appear to be possessed -of supernatural powers. “Honest, d’you b’lieve there’s a blind tiger in -there?” he asked of the man who had confirmed the strange information. - -“Sure!” - -“Honest, is one in there? Do you _honest_——” - -But no one paid him any further attention. By this time a dozen or more -people had gathered; others were arriving; and as the tumult behind the -formerly green door increased, hurried discussion became general on the -sidewalk. Several men said that somebody ought to go in and see what the -matter was; others said that they themselves would be willing to go in, -but they didn’t like to do it without a warrant; and two or three -declared that nobody ought to go in just at that time. One of these was -emphatic, especially upon the duty men owe to themselves. “A man owes -_something_ to himself,” he said. “A man owes it to himself not to git -no forty-four in his gizzard by takin’ and pushin’ into a place where -somebody’s _usin’_ a forty-four. A man owes it to himself to keep out o’ -trouble unless he’s got some call to take and go bullin’ into it; -_that’s_ what he owes to himself!” - -Another seemed to be depressed by the scandal involved. He was an -unshaven person of a general appearance naïvely villainous, and, without -a hat or coat, he had hurried across the street from an establishment -not essentially unlike that under discussion—precisely like it, in -fact, in declaring itself (though without the accent) to be a place -where coffee in the French manner might be expected. “What worries _me_ -is,” he said gloomily, and he repeated this over and over, “what worries -_me_ is, it gives the neighbourhood kind of a poor name. What worries -_me_, it’s gittin’ the neighbourhood all talked about and everything, -the way you wouldn’t want it to, yourself.” - -Laurence took a fancy to this man, whose dejection had a quality of -pathos that seemed to imply a sympathetic nature. - -“_Is_ there one—honestly?” Laurence asked him. “Cross your _heart_ -there is one?” - -The gloomy man continued to address his lament to the one or two -acquaintances who were listening to him. “It’s just like this—what -worries _me_ is——” - -But Laurence tugged at his soiled shirt-sleeve. “Is there _honest_ one -in there?” - -“Is there one _what_ in there?” the man asked with unexpected gruffness. - -“A blind tiger!” - -The gloomy man instantly became of a terrifying aspect. He roared: - -“Git away f’m here!” - -Then, as Laurence hastily retreated, the man shook his head, and added -to his grown listeners: “Ain’t that jest what I says? It gits everybody -to talkin’—even a lot of awnry dressed-up little boys! It ain’t -_right_, and Chollie and Mabel ought to have some consideration. Other -folks has got to live as well as them! Why, I tell you——” - -He stopped, and with a woeful exclamation pointed to the street-corner -south of them. “Look there! It’s that blame sister-in-law o’ George’s. I -reckon _she_ must of run out through the alley. Now they _have_ done -it!” - -His allusion was to a most blonde young woman, whose toilet, evidently -of the hastiest, had called upon one or two garments for the street as -an emergency supplement to others eloquent of the intimate boudoir. She -came hurrying, her blue crocheted slippers scurrying in and out of -variegated draperies; and all the while she talked incessantly, and with -agitation, to a patrolman in uniform who hastened beside her. Naturally, -they brought behind them an almost magically increasing throng of -citizens, aliens and minors. - -They hurried to the once green doors; the patrolman swung these open, -and he and the blonde young woman went in. So did the crowd, thus headed -and protected by the law’s very symbol; and Laurence went with them. -Carried along, jostled and stepped upon, he could see nothing; and -inside the solidly filled room he found himself jammed against a woman -who surged in front of him. She was a fat woman, and tall, with a great, -bulbous, black cotton cloth back; and just behind Laurence there pressed -a short and muscular man who never for an instant relaxed the most -passionate efforts to see over the big woman. He stood on tiptoe, -stretching himself and pushing hard down on Laurence’s shoulders; and he -constantly shoved forward, inclosing Laurence’s head between himself and -the big woman’s waist, so that Laurence found breathing difficult and -uncomfortable. The black cotton cloth, against which his nose was pushed -out of shape, smelled as if it had been in the rain—at least that was -the impression obtained by means of his left nostril, which remained -partially unobstructed; and he did not like it. - -In a somewhat dazed and hazy way he had expected to see Daisy and Elsie -and a blind tiger, but naturally, under these circumstances, no such -expectation could be realized. Nor did he hear anything said about -either the tiger or the little girls; the room was a chaos of voices, -though bits of shrill protestation, and gruffer interruptions from the -central group, detached themselves. - -“I _never_!” cried the shrillest voice. “I never even _pointed_ it at -_any_ of ’em! So help me——” - -“Now look _here_——” Laurence somehow got an idea that this was the -policeman’s voice. “Now look _here_——” it said loudly, over and over, -but was never able to get any further; for the shrill woman and the -plaintive but insistent voices of three men interrupted at that point, -and persisted in interrupting as long as Laurence was in the room. - -He could bear the black cotton back no longer, and, squirming, he made -his elbow uncomfortable to the aggressive man who tortured him. - -“_Here!_” this person said indignantly. “Take your elbow out o’ my -stomach and stand still. How d’you expect anybody to see what’s going on -with _you_ making all this fuss? Be quiet!” - -“I won’t,” said Laurence thickly. “You lea’ me out o’ here!” - -“Well, for heaven’s sakes!” the oppressive little man exclaimed. “Make -some _more_ trouble for people that want to see something! Go on and -_get_ out, then! _Oh_, Lordy!” - -This last was a petulant wail as Laurence squirmed round him; then the -pressure of the crowd filled the gap by throwing the little man against -the fat woman’s back. “Dam _boy_!” he raved, putting all his troubles -under one head. - -But Laurence heard him not; he was writhing his way to the wall; and, -once he reached it, he struggled toward the open doors, using his -shoulder as a wedge between spectators and the wall. Thus he won free of -the press and presently got himself out to the sidewalk, panting. And -then, looking about him, he glanced up the street. - -At the next crossing to the north two busy little figures were walking -rapidly homeward. They were gesturing importantly; their heads were -waggling to confirm these gestures; and they were chattering -incessantly. - -“Well—dog-_gone_ it!” Laurence whispered. - -He followed them; but now his lips moved not at all, and there was no -mumbling in his throat. He stared at them amazedly, in a great mental -silence. - - * * * * * - -“What wears _me_ out the _most_,” Daisy said, as they came into their -own purlieus again, “it’s this shopping, shopping, shopping, and they -never have one single thing!” - -“No, they don’t,” Elsie agreed. “Not a thing! It just wears me _out_!” - -“F’instance,” Daisy continued, “look at how they acted in that las’ -place when I wanted to see some orstrich feathers. Just said ‘What!’ -about seven hundred times! An’ then that ole pleeceman came in!” - -For a moment Elsie dropped her rôle as a tired shopper, and giggled -nervously. “I was scared!” she said. - -But Daisy tossed her head. “It’s no use goin’ shopping in a store like -that; they never _have_ anything, and I’ll never waste my time on ’em -again. Crazy things!” - -“They did act crazy,” Elsie said thoughtfully, as they paused at her -gate. “I guess we better not tell about it to our mothers, maybe.” - -“No,” Daisy agreed; and then with an elaborate gesture of fatigue she -said: “_Well_, my dear, I hope you’re not as worn out as _I_ am! My -nerves are jus’ comp’etely _gone_, my dear!” - -“So’re mine!” said Elsie; and then, after a quick glance to the south, -she giggled. “There’s that ole _thing_, still comin’ along;—no, he’s -stopped, an’ lookin’ at us!” She went into the yard. “Well, my dear, I -must go in an’ lay down an’ rest myself. We’ll go shopping again just as -soon as my nerves get better, my dear!” - -She skipped into the house, and Daisy, humming to herself, walked to her -own gate, went in, and sat in a wicker rocking-chair under the walnut -tree. She rocked herself and sang a wordless song, but becoming aware of -a presence that lingered upon the sidewalk near the gate, she checked -both her song and the motion of the chair and looked that way. Master -Coy was staring over the gate at her; and she had never known that he -had such large eyes. - -He was full of formless questions, but he had no vocabulary; in truth, -his whole being was one intensified interrogation. - -“What you want?” Daisy called. - -“I was there,” he announced solemnly. “I was there, too. I was in that -place where the pleeceman was.” - -“_I_ doe’ care,” Daisy said, and began to sing and to rock the chair -again. “_I_ doe’ care where you went,” she said. - -“I was there,” said Laurence. “_I_ saw that ole bline tiger. That’s -nothin’!” - -Daisy had no idea of what he meant, but she remained undisturbed. “I -doe’ care,” she sang. “I doe’ care, I doe’ care, I doe’ care what you -saw.” - -“Well, I did!” said Laurence, and he moved away, walking backward and -staring at her. - -She went on singing, “I doe’ care,” and rocking, and Laurence continued -to walk backward and stare at her. He walked backward, still staring, -all the way to the next corner. There, as it was necessary for him to -turn toward his own home, he adopted a more customary and convenient -manner of walking—but his eyes continued to be of unnatural dimensions. - - - - - MARY SMITH - - -HENRY MILLICK CHESTER, rising early from intermittent slumbers, found -himself the first of the crowded Pullman to make a toilet in the men’s -smoke-and-wash-room, and so had the place to himself—an advantage of -high dramatic value to a person of his age and temperament, on account -of the mirrors which, set at various angles, afford a fine view of the -profile. Henry Millick Chester, scouring cinders and stickiness from his -eyes and rouging his ears with honest friction, enriched himself of this -too unfamiliar opportunity. He smiled and was warmly interested in the -results of his smile in reflection, particularly in some pleasant -alterations it effected upon an outline of the cheek usually invisible -to the bearer. He smiled graciously, then he smiled sardonically. Other -smiles he offered—the tender smile, the forbidding smile, the austere -and the seductive, the haughty and the pleading, the mordant and the -compassionate, the tolerant but incredulous smile of a man of the world, -and the cold, ascetic smile that shows a woman that her shallow soul has -been read all too easily—pastimes abandoned only with the purely -decorative application of shaving lather to his girlish chin. However, -as his unbeetling brow was left unobscured, he was able to pursue his -physiognomical researches and to produce for his continued enlightenment -a versatile repertory of frowns—the stern, the quizzical, the bitter, -the treacherous, the bold, the agonized, the inquisitive, the ducal, and -the frown of the husband who says: “I forgive you. Go!” A few minutes -later Mr. Chester, abruptly pausing in the operation of fastening his -collar, bent a sudden, passionate interest upon his right forearm, -without apparent cause and with the air of never having seen it until -that moment. He clenched his fingers tightly, producing a slight -stringiness above the wrist, then crooked his elbow with intensity, -noting this enormous effect in all the mirrors. Regretfully, he let his -shirtsleeves fall and veil the rare but private beauties just -discovered, rested his left hand negligently upon his hip, extended his -right in a gesture of flawlessly aristocratic grace, and, with a slight -inclination of his head, uttered aloud these simple but befitting words: -“I thank ye, my good people.” T’ yoong Maister was greeting the loyal -tenantry who acclaimed his return to Fielding Manor, a flowered progress -thoroughly incomprehensible to the Pullman porter whose transfixed -eye—glazed upon an old-gold face intruded through the narrow -doorway—Mr. Chester encountered in the glass above the nickeled -washbasins. The Libyan withdrew in a cloud of silence, and t’ yoong -Maister, flushing somewhat, resumed his toilet with annoyed precision -and no more embroidery. He had yesterday completed his sophomore year; -the brushes he applied to his now adult locks were those of a junior. -And with a man’s age had come a man’s cares and responsibilities. -Several long years had rolled away since for the last time he had made -himself sick on a train in a club-car orgy of cubebs and sarsaparilla -pop. - -Zigzagging through shoe-bordered aisles of sleepers in morning -dishevelment, he sought the dining car, where the steward escorted him -to an end table for two. He would have assumed his seat with that air of -negligent hauteur which was his chosen manner for public appearances, -had not the train, taking a curve at high speed, heaved him into the -undesirable embrace of an elderly man breakfasting across the aisle. -“Keep your feet, sonny; keep your feet,” said this barbarian, little -witting that he addressed a member of the nineteen-something prom. -committee. People at the next table laughed genially, and Mr. Chester, -muttering a word of hostile apology, catapulted into his assigned place, -his cheeks hot with the triple outrage. - -He relieved himself a little by the icy repulsion with which he -countered the cordial advances of the waiter, who took his order and -wished him a good morning, hoped he had slept well, declared the weather -delightful and, unanswered, yet preserved his beautiful courtesy -unimpaired. When this humble ambassador had departed on his mission to -the kitchen Henry Millick Chester, unwarrantably persuaded that all eyes -were searching his every inch and angle—an impression not -uncharacteristic of his years—gazed out of the window with an -indifference which would have been obtrusive if any of the other -breakfasters had happened to notice it. The chill exclusiveness of his -expression was a rebuke to such prying members of the proletariat as -might be striving to read his thoughts, and barred his fellow passengers -from every privilege to his consideration. The intensely reserved -gentleman was occupied with interests which were the perquisites of only -his few existing peers in birth, position, and intelligence, none of -whom, patently, was in that car. - -He looked freezingly upon the abashed landscape, which fled in shame; -nor was that wintry stare relaxed when the steward placed someone -opposite him at the little table. Nay, our frosty scholar now -intensified the bleakness of his isolation, retiring quite to the pole -in reproval of this too close intrusion. He resolutely denied the -existence of his vis-à-vis, refused consciousness of its humanity, even -of its sex, and then inconsistently began to perspire with the horrible -impression that it was glaring at him fixedly. It was a dreadful -feeling. He felt himself growing red, and coughed vehemently to afford -the public an explanation of his change of colour. At last, his -suffering grown unendurable, he desperately turned his eyes full upon -the newcomer. She was not looking at him at all, but down at the edge of -the white cloth on her own side of the table; and she was the very -prettiest girl he had ever seen in his life. - -She was about his own age. Her prettiness was definitely extreme, and -its fair delicacy was complete and without any imperfection whatever. -She was dressed in pleasant shades of tan and brown. A brown veil misted -the rim of her hat, tan gloves were folded back from her wrists; and -they, and all she wore, were fresh and trim and ungrimed by the dusty -journey. She was charming. Henry Millick Chester’s first gasping -appraisal of her was perfectly accurate, for she _was_ a peach—or a -rose, or anything that is dewy and fresh and delectable. She was indeed -some smooth. She was the smoothest thing in the world, and the world -knows it! - -She looked up. - -Henry Millick Chester was lost. - -At the same instant that the gone feeling came over him she dropped her -eyes again to the edge of the table. Who can tell if she knew what she -had done? - -The conversation began with appalling formalities, which preluded the -most convenient placing of a sugar bowl and the replenishing of an -exhausted salt cellar. Then the weather, spurned as the placative -offering of the gentle waiter, fell from the lips of the princess in -words of diamonds and rubies and pearls. Our Henry took up the weather -where she left it; he put it to its utmost; he went forward with it, -prophesying weather; he went backward with it, recalling weather; he -spun it out and out, while she agreed to all he said, until this -overworked weather got so stringy that each obscurely felt it to be -hideous. The thread broke; fragments wandered in the air for a few -moments, but disappeared; a desperate propriety descended, and they fell -into silence over their eggs. - -Frantically Mr. Chester searched his mind for some means to pursue the -celestial encounter. According to the rules, something ought to happen -that would reveal her as Patricia Beekman, the sister of his roommate, -Schuyler Beekman, and to-night he should be handing the imperturbable -Dawkins a wire to send: “My dear Schuyler, I married your sister this -afternoon.” But it seemed unlikely, because his roommate’s name was Jake -Schmulze, and Jake lived in Cedar Rapids; and, besides, this train -wasn’t coming from or going to Palm Beach—it was going to St. Louis -eventually, and now hustled earnestly across the placid and largely -unbutlered plains of Ohio. - -Often—as everyone knows—people have been lost to each other forever -through the lack of a word, and few have realized this more poignantly -than our Henry, as he helplessly suffered the precious minutes to -accumulate vacancy. True, he had thought of something to say, yet he -abandoned it. Probably he was wiser to wait, as what he thought of -saying was: “Will you be my wife?” It might seem premature, he feared. - -The strain was relieved by a heavenly accident which saved the life of a -romance near perishing at birth. That charming girl, relaxing slightly -in her chair, made some small, indefinite, and entirely ladylike -movement of restfulness that reached its gentle culmination upon the two -feet of Mr. Chester which, obviously mistaken for structural adjuncts of -the table, were thereby glorified and became beautiful on the mountains. -He was not the man to criticise the remarkable ignorance of dining car -table architecture thus displayed, nor did he in any wise resent being -mistaken up to the ankles for metal or wood. No. The light pressure of -her small heels hardly indented the stout toes of his brown shoes; the -soles of her slippers reposed upon his two insteps, and rapture shook -his soul to its foundations, while the ineffable girl gazed lustrously -out of the window, the clear serenity of her brilliant eyes making plain -her complete unconsciousness of the nature of what added to her new -comfort. - -A terrific blush sizzled all over him, and to conceal its visible area -he bent low to his coffee. She was unaware. He was transported, she—to -his eyes—transfigured. Glamour diffused itself about her, sprayed about -them both like showers of impalpable gold-dust, and filled the humble -dining car—it filled the whole world. Transformed, seraphic waiters -passed up and down the aisle in a sort of obscure radiance. A nimbus -hovered faintly above the brown veil; a sacred luminosity was exhaled by -the very tablecloth, where an angel’s pointed fingers drummed absently. - -It would be uncharitable to believe that a spirit of retaliation -inspired the elderly and now replete man across the aisle, and yet, when -he rose, he fell upon the neck of Henry as Henry had fallen upon his, -and the shock of it jarred four shoes from the acute neighbourliness of -their juxtaposition. The accursed graybeard, giggling in his senility, -passed on; but that angel leaped backward in her chair while her -beautiful eyes, wide open, stunned, her beautiful mouth, wide open, -incredulous, gave proof that horror can look bewitching. - -“Murder!” she gasped. “Were those your _feet_?” - -And as he could compass no articulate reply, she grew as pink as he, -murmured inaudibly, and stared at him in wider and wilder amazement. - -“It—it didn’t hurt,” he finally managed to stammer. - -At this she covered her blushes with her two hands and began to gurgle -and shake with laughter. She laughed and laughed and laughed. It became -a paroxysm. He laughed, too, because she laughed. Other passengers -looked at them and laughed. The waiters laughed; they approved—coloured -waiters always approve of laughter—and a merry spirit went abroad in -the car. - -At last she controlled herself long enough to ask: - -“But what did you think of me?” - -“It—it didn’t hurt,” he repeated idiotically, to his own mortification, -for he passionately aspired to say something airy and winsome; but, as -he couldn’t think of anything like that, he had to let it go. “Oh, not -at all,” he added feebly. - -However, “though not so deep as a well,” it served, ’twas enough, for -she began to laugh again, and there loomed no further barrier in the way -of acquaintance. Therefore it was pleasantly without constraint, and -indeed as a matter of course, that he dropped into a chair beside her -half an hour later, in the observation car; and something in the way she -let the _Illustrated London News_ slide into the vacant chair on the -other side of her might have suggested that she expected him. - -“I was still wondering what you must have thought of me.” - -This gave him an opportunity, because he had thought out a belated reply -for the first time she had said it. Hence, quick as a flash, he made the -dashing rejoinder: - -“It wasn’t so much what I thought of you, but what I thought of -myself—I thought I was in heaven!” - -She must have known what pretty sounds her laughter made. She laughed a -great deal. She even had a way of laughing in the middle of some of her -words, and it gave them a kind of ripple. There are girls who naturally -laugh like that; others learn to; a few won’t, and some can’t. It isn’t -fair to the ones that can’t. - -“But you oughtn’t to tell me that,” she said. - -It was in the middle of “oughtn’t” that she rippled. A pen cannot -express it, neither can a typewriter, and no one has yet invented a way -of writing with a flute; but the effect on Henry shows what a wonderful -ripple it was. Henry trembled. From this moment she had only to ripple -to make Henry tremble. Henry was more in love than he had been at -breakfast. Henry was a Goner. - -“Why oughtn’t I to?” he demanded with white intensity. “If anything’s -true it’s right to tell it, isn’t it? I believe that everybody has a -right to tell the truth, don’t you?” - -“Ye-es——” - -“You take the case of a man that’s in love,” said this rather -precipitate gentleman; “isn’t it right for him to——” - -“But suppose,” she interrupted, becoming instantly serious with the -introduction of the great topic—“Suppose he isn’t _really_ in love. -Don’t you think there are very few cases of people truly and deeply -caring for each other?” - -“There are men,” he said firmly, “who know how to love truly and deeply, -and could never in their lives care for anybody but the one woman they -have picked out. I don’t say all men feel that way; I don’t think they -do. But there are a few that are capable of it.” The seats in an -observation car are usually near neighbours, and it happened that the -brown cuff of a tan sleeve, extended reposefully on the arm of her -chair, just touched the back of his hand, which rested on the arm of -his. This ethereally light contact continued. She had no apparent -cognizance of it, but a vibrant thrill passed through him, and possibly -quite a hearty little fire might have been built under him without his -perceiving good cause for moving. He shook, gulped, and added: “I am!” - -“But how could you be sure of that,” she said thoughtfully, “until you -tried?” And as he seemed about to answer, perhaps too impulsively, she -checked him with a smiling, “At your age!” - -“You don’t know how old I am. I’m older than you!” - -“How old are you?” - -“Twenty-one next March.” - -“What day?” - -“The seventh.” - -“That is singular!” - -“Why?” - -“Because,” she began in a low tone and with full recognition of the -solemn import of the revelation—“Because my birthday is only one day -after yours. I was twenty years old the eighth of last March.” - -“By George!” The exclamation came from him, husky with awe. - -There was a fateful silence. - -“Yes, I was born on the eighth,” she said slowly. - -“And me on the seventh!” At such a time no man is a purist. - -“It is strange,” she said. - -“Strange! I came into the world just one day before you did!” - -They looked at each other curiously, deeply stirred. Coincidence could -not account for these birthdays of theirs, nor chance for their meeting -on a train “like this.” Henry Millick Chester was breathless. The -mysteries were glimpsed. No doubt was possible—he and the wondrous -creature at his side were meant for each other, intended from the -beginning of eternity. - -She dropped her eyes slowly from his, but he was satisfied that she had -felt the marvel precisely as he had felt it. - -“Don’t you think,” she said gently, “that a girl has seen more of the -world at twenty than a man?” - -Mr. Chester well wished to linger upon the subject of birthdays; -however, the line of original research suggested by her question was -alluring also. “Yes—and no,” he answered with admirable impartiality. -“In some ways, yes. In some ways, no. For instance, you take the case of -a man that’s in love——” - -“Well,” interrupted the lady, “I think, for instance, that a girl -understands men better at twenty than men do women.” - -“It may be,” he admitted, nodding. “I like to think about the deeper -things like this sometimes.” - -“So do I. I think they’re interesting,” she said with that perfect -sympathy of understanding which he believed she was destined to extend -to him always and in all things. “Life itself is interesting. Don’t you -think so?” - -“I think it’s the most interesting subject there can be. Real life, that -is, though—not just on the surface. Now, for instance, you take the -case of a man that’s in——” - -“Do you go in much for reading?” she asked. - -“Sure. But as I was saying, you take——” - -“I think reading gives us so many ideas, don’t you?” - -“Yes. I get a lot out of it. I——” - -“I do, too. I try to read only the best things,” she said. “I don’t -believe in reading everything, and there’s so much to read nowadays that -isn’t really good.” - -“Who do you think,” he inquired with deference, “is the best author -now?” - -It was not a question to be settled quite offhand; she delayed her -answer slightly, then, with a gravity appropriate to the literary -occasion, temporized: “Well, since Victor Hugo is dead, it’s hard to say -just who is the best.” - -“Yes, it is,” he agreed. “We get that in the English course in college. -There aren’t any great authors any more. I expect probably Swinburne’s -the best.” - -She hesitated. “Perhaps; but more as a poet.” - -He assented. “Yes, that’s so. I expect he would be classed more as a -poet. Come to think of it, I believe he’s dead, too. I’m not sure, -though; maybe it was Beerbohm Tree—somebody like that. I’ve forgotten; -but, anyway, it doesn’t matter. I didn’t mean poetry; I meant who do you -think writes the best books? Mrs. Humphry Ward?” - -“Yes, she’s good, and so’s Henry James.” - -“I’ve never read anything by Henry James. I guess I’ll read some of his -this summer. What’s the best one to begin on?” - -The exquisite pink of her cheeks extended its area almost imperceptibly. -“Oh, any one. They’re all pretty good. Do you care for Nature?” - -“Sure thing,” he returned quickly. “Do you?” - -“I love it!” - -“So do I. I can’t do much for mathematics, though.” - -“Br-r!” She shivered prettily. “I hate it!” - -“So do I. I can’t give astronomy a whole lot, either.” - -She turned a softly reproachful inquiry upon him. “Oh, don’t you love to -look at the stars?” - -In horror lest the entrancing being think him a brute, he responded with -breathless haste: “Oh, rath-er-r! To look at ’em, sure thing! I meant -astronomy in college; that’s mostly math, you know—just figures. But -stars to look at—of course that’s different. Why, I look up at ’em for -hours sometimes!” He believed what he was saying. “I look up at ’em, and -think and think and think——” - -“So do I.” Her voice was low and hushed; there was something almost holy -in the sound of it, and a delicate glow suffused her lovely, upraised -face—like that picture of Saint Cecilia, he thought. “Oh, I love the -stars! And music—and flowers——” - -“And birds,” he added automatically in a tone that, could it by some -miracle have been heard at home, would have laid his nine-year-old -brother flat on the floor in a might-be mortal swoon. - -A sweet warmth centred in the upper part of his diaphragm and softly -filtered throughout him. The delicious future held no doubts or shadows -for him. It was assured. He and this perfect woman had absolutely -identical tastes; their abhorrences and their enthusiasms marched -together; they would never know a difference in all their lives to come. -Destiny unrolled before him a shining pathway which they two would walk -hand-in-hand through the summer days to a calm and serene autumn, -respected and admired by the world, but finding ever their greatest and -most sacred joy in the light of each other’s eyes—that light none other -than the other could evoke. - -Could it be possible, he wondered, that he was the same callow boy who -but yesterday pranced and exulted in the “pee-rade” of the new juniors! -How absurd and purposeless that old life seemed; how far away, how -futile, and how childish! Well, it was over, finished. By this time -to-morrow he would have begun his business career. - -Back in the old life, he had expected to go through a law school after -graduating from college, subsequently to enter his father’s office. That -meant five years before even beginning to practice, an idea merely -laughable now. There was a men’s furnishing store on a popular corner at -home; it was an establishment which had always attracted him, and what -pleasanter way to plow the road to success than through acres of -variously woven fabrics, richly coloured silks, delicate linens, silver -mountings and odorous leathers, in congenial association with neckties, -walking-sticks, hosiery, and stickpins? He would be at home a few hours -hence, and he would not delay. After lunch he would go boldly to his -father and say: “Father, I have reached man’s estate and I have put away -childish things. I have made up my mind upon a certain matter and you -will only waste time by any effort to alter this, my firm determination. -Father, I here and now relinquish all legal ambitions, for the reason -that a mercantile career is more suited to my inclinations and my -abilities. Father, I have met the one and only woman I can ever care -for, and I intend to make her my wife. Father, you have always dealt -squarely with me; I will deal squarely with you. I ask you the simple -question: Will you or will you not advance me the funds to purchase an -interest in Paul H. Hoy & Company’s Men’s Outfitting Establishment? If -you will not, then I shall seek help elsewhere.” - -Waking dreams are as swift, sometimes, as the other kind—which, we -hear, thread mazes so labyrinthine “between the opening and the closing -of a door”; and a twenty-year-old fancy, fermenting in the inclosure of -a six-and-seven-eighth plaid cap, effervesces with a power of sizzling -and sparkling and popping. - -“I believe I love music best of all,” said the girl dreamily. - -“Do you play?” he asked, and his tone and look were those of one who -watches at the sick-bed of a valued child. - -“Yes, a little.” - -“I love the piano.” He was untroubled by any remorse for what he and -some of his gang had done only two days since to a previously fine -instrument in his dormitory entry. He had forgotten the dead past in his -present vision, which was of a luxurious room in a spacious mansion, and -a tired man of affairs coming quietly into that room—from a conference -at which he had consolidated the haberdashery trade of the world—and -sinking noiselessly upon a rich divan, while a beautiful woman in a -dress of brown and tan, her hair slightly silvered, played to him -through the twilight upon a grand piano, the only other sound in the -great house being the softly murmurous voices of perfectly trained -children being put to bed in a distant nursery upstairs. - -“I like the stage, too,” she said. “Don’t you?” - -“You know! Did you see The Tinkle-Dingle Girl?” - -“Yes. I liked it.” - -“It’s a peach show.” He spoke with warranted authority. During the -university term just finished he had gone eight times to New York, and -had enriched his critical perceptions of music and the drama by ten -visits to The Tinkle-Dingle Girl, two of his excursions having fallen on -matinée days. “Those big birds that played the comedy parts were funny -birds, weren’t they?” - -“The tramp and the brewer? Yes. Awfully funny.” - -“We’ll go lots to the theatre!” He spoke eagerly and with superb -simplicity, quite without consciousness that he was skipping much that -would usually be thought necessarily intermediate. An enchanting vision -engrossed his mind’s eye. He saw himself night after night at The -Tinkle-Dingle Girl, his lovely wife beside him—growing matronly, -perhaps, but slenderly matronly—with a grace of years that only added -to her beauty, and always wearing tan gloves and a brown veil. - -The bewilderment of her expression was perhaps justified. - -“What!” - -At this he realized the import of what he had said and what, in a -measure, it did assume. He became pinkish, then pink, then more pink; -and so did she. Paralyzed, the blushing pair looked at each other -throughout this duet in colour, something like a glint of alarm -beginning to show through the wide astonishment in her eyes; and with -the perception of this he was assailed by an acute perturbation. He had -spoken thoughtlessly, even hastily, he feared; he should have given her -more time. Would she rise now with chilling dignity and leave him, it -might be forever? Was he to lose her just when he had found her? He -shuddered at the ghastly abyss of loneliness disclosed by the -possibility. But this was only the darkest moment before a radiance that -shot heavenward like the flaming javelins of an equatorial sunrise. - -Her eyes lowered slowly till the long, brown lashes shadowed the -rose-coloured cheek and the fall of her glance came to rest upon the -arms of their two chairs, where the edge of her coat sleeve just touched -the knuckle of his little finger. Two people were passing in front of -them; there was no one who could see; and with a lightning-swift impulse -she turned her wrist and for a half second, while his heart stopped -beating, touched all his fingers with her own, then as quickly withdrew -her hand and turned as far away from him as the position of her chair -permitted. - -It was a caress of incredible brevity, and so fleeting, so airy, that it -was little more than a touch of light itself, like the faint quick light -from a flying star one might just glimpse on one’s hand as it passed. -But in our pleasant world important things have resulted from touches as -evanescent as that. Nature has its uses for the ineffable. - -Blazing with glory, dumb with rapture, Henry Millick Chester felt his -heart rebound to its work, while his withheld breath upheaved in a gulp -that half suffocated him. Thus, blinded by the revelation of the -stupefying beauty of life, he sat through a heaven-stricken interval, -and time was of no moment. Gradually he began to perceive, in the midst -of the effulgence which surrounded the next chair like a bright mist, -the adorable contour of a shoulder in a tan coat and the ravishing -outline of a rosy cheek that belonged to this divine girl who was his. - -By and by he became dreamily aware of other objects beyond that cheek -and that shoulder, of a fat man and his fat wife on the opposite side of -the car near the end. Unmistakably they were man and wife, but it seemed -to Henry that they had no reason to be—such people had no right to be -married. They had no obvious right to exist at all; certainly they had -no right whatever to exist in that car. Their relation to each other had -become a sickening commonplace, the bleakness of it as hideously evident -as their overfed convexity. It was visible that they looked upon each -other as inevitable nuisances which had to be tolerated. They were -horrible. Had Love ever known these people? It was unthinkable! For lips -such as theirs to have pronounced the name of the god would have been -blasphemy; for those fat hands ever to have touched, desecration! Henry -hated the despicable pair. - -All at once his emotion changed: he did not hate them, he pitied them. -From an immense height he looked down with compassion upon their -wretched condition. He pitied everybody except himself and the roseate -being beside him; they floated together upon a tiny golden cloud, alone -in the vast sky at an immeasurable altitude above the squalid universe. -A wave of pity for the rest of mankind flooded over him, but most of all -he pitied that miserable, sodden, befleshed old married couple. - -He was dimly aware of a change that came over these fat people, a -strangeness; but he never did realize that at this crisis his eyes, -fixed intently upon them and aided by his plastic countenance, had -expressed his feelings and sentiments regarding them in the most lively -and vivid way. For at the moment when the stout gentleman laid his paper -down, preparatory to infuriated inquiry, both he and his wife were -expunged from Henry’s consciousness forever and were seen of him -thenceforth no more than if they had been ether and not solid flesh. The -exquisite girl had been pretending to pick a thread out of her left -sleeve with her right hand—but now at last she leaned back in her chair -and again turned her face partly toward Henry. Her under lip was caught -in slightly beneath her upper teeth, as if she had been doing something -that possibly she oughtn’t to be doing, and though the pause in the -conversation had been protracted—it is impossible to calculate how -long—her charming features were still becomingly overspread with rose. -She looked toward her rapt companion, not at him, and her eyes were -preoccupied, tender, and faintly embarrassed. - -The pause continued. - -He leaned a little closer to her. And he looked at her and looked at her -and looked at her. At intervals his lips moved as if he were speaking, -and yet he was thinking wordlessly. Leaning thus toward her, his gaze -and attitude had all the intensity of one who watches a ninth-inning tie -in the deciding game of a championship series. And as he looked and -looked and looked, the fat man and his wife, quite unaware of their -impalpability, also looked and looked and looked in grateful -fascination. - -“Did you——” Henry Millick Chester finally spoke these words in a voice -he had borrowed, evidently from a stranger, for it did not fit his -throat and was so deep that it disappeared—it seemed to fall down a -coal-hole and ended in a dusty choke. “Did you——” he began again, two -octaves higher, and immediately squeaked out. He said “Did you” five -times before he subjugated the other two words. - -“Did you—mean that?” - -“What?” Her own voice was so low that he divined rather than heard what -she said. He leaned even a little closer—and the fat man nudged his -wife, who elbowed his thumb out of her side morbidly: she wasn’t missing -anything. - -“Did you—did you mean that?” - -“Mean what?” - -“That!” - -“I don’t know what you mean.” - -“When you—when you—oh, you know!” - -“No, I don’t.” - -“When you—when you took my hand.” - -“I!” - -With sudden, complete self-possession she turned quickly to face him, -giving him a look of half-shocked, half-amused astonishment. - -“When I took your hand?” she repeated incredulously. “What are you -saying?” - -“You—you know,” he stammered. “A while ago when—when—you—you——” - -“I didn’t do anything of the kind!” Impending indignation began to cloud -the delicate face ominously. “Why in the world should I?” - -“But you——” - -“I didn’t!” She cut him off sharply. “I couldn’t. Why, it wouldn’t have -been nice! What made you dream I would do a thing like that? How dare -you imagine such things!” - -At first dumfounded, then appalled, he took the long, swift, sickening -descent from his golden cloud with his mouth open, but it snapped tight -at the bump with which he struck the earth. He lay prone, dismayed, -abject. The lovely witch could have made him believe anything; at least -it is the fact that for a moment she made him believe he had imagined -that angelic little caress; and perhaps it was the sight of his utter -subjection that melted her. For she flashed upon him suddenly with a -dazing smile, and then, blushing again but more deeply than before, her -whole attitude admitting and yielding, she offered full and amazing -confession, her delicious laugh rippling tremulously throughout every -word of it. - -“It must have been an accident—partly!” - -“I love you!” he shouted. - -The translucent fat man and his wife groped for each other feverishly, -and a coloured porter touched Henry Millick Chester on the shoulder. - -“Be in Richmon’ less’n fi’ minutes now,” said the porter. He tapped the -youth’s shoulder twice more; it is his office to awaken the rapt -dreamer. “Richmon,’ In’iana, less’n fi’ minutes now,” he repeated more -slowly. - -Henry gave him a stunned and dishevelled “What?” - -“You get off Richmon’, don’t you?” - -“What of it? We haven’t passed Dayton yet.” - -“Yessuh, long ’go. Pass’ Dayton eight-fifty. Be in Richmon’ mighty quick -now.” - -The porter appeared to be a malicious liar. Henry appealed pitifully to -the girl. - -“But we haven’t passed Dayton?” - -“Yes, just after you sat down by me. We stopped several minutes.” - -“Yessuh. Train don’t stop no minutes in Richmon’ though,” said the -porter with a hard laugh, waving his little broom at some outlying -freight cars they were passing. “Gittin’ in now. I got you’ bag on -platfawm.” - -“I don’t want to be brushed,” Henry said, almost sobbing. “For heaven’s -sake, get out!” - -Porters expect anything. This one went away solemnly without even -lifting his eyebrows. - -The brakes were going on. - -One class of railway tragedies is never recorded, though it is the most -numerous of all and fills the longest list of heartbreaks; the statics -ignore it, yet no train ever leaves its shed, or moves, that is not -party to it. It is time and overtime that the safety-device inventors -should turn their best attention to it, so that the happy day may come -at last when we shall see our common carriers equipped with something to -prevent these lovers’ partings. - -The train began to slow down. - -Henry Millick Chester got waveringly to his feet; she rose at the same -time and stood beside him. - -“I am no boy,” he began, hardly knowing what he said, but automatically -quoting a fragment from his forthcoming address to his father. “I have -reached man’s estate and I have met the only——” He stopped short with -an exclamation of horror. “You—you haven’t even told me your name!” - -“My name?” the girl said, a little startled. - -“Yes! And your address!” - -“I’m not on my way home now,” she said. “I’ve been visiting in New York -and I’m going to St. Louis to make another visit.” - -“But your name!” - -She gave him an odd glance of mockery, a little troubled. - -“You mightn’t like my name!” - -“Oh, please, please!” - -“Besides, do you think it’s quite proper for me to——” - -“Oh, please! To talk of that now! Please!” The train had stopped. - -The glint of a sudden decision shone in the lovely eyes. “I’ll write it -for you so you won’t forget.” - -She went quickly to the writing desk at the end of the compartment, he -with her, the eyes of the fat man and his wife following them like two -pairs of searchlights swung by the same mechanism. - -“And where you live,” urged Henry. “I shall write to you every day.” He -drew a long, deep breath and threw back his head. “Till the day—the day -when I come for you.” - -“Don’t look over my shoulder.” She laughed shyly, wrote hurriedly upon a -loose sheet, placed it in an envelope, sealed the envelope, and then, as -he reached to take it, withheld it tantalizingly. “No. It’s my name and -where I live, but you can’t have it. Not till you’ve promised not to -open it until the train is clear out of the station.” - -Outside the window sounded the twice-repeated “Awl aboh-oh,” and far -ahead a fatal bell was clanging. - -“I promise,” he gulped. - -“Then take it!” - -With a strange, new-born masterfulness he made a sudden impetuous -gesture and lifted both the precious envelope and the fingers that -inclosed it to his lips. Then he turned and dashed to the forward end of -the car where a porter remained untipped as Henry leaped from the -already rapidly moving steps of the car to the ground. Instantly the -wonderful girl was drawn past him, leaning and waving from the railed -rear platform whither she had run for this farewell. And in the swift -last look that they exchanged there was in her still-flushing, lovely -face a light of tenderness and of laughter, of kindness and of something -like a fleeting regret. - -The train gained momentum, skimming onward and away, the end of the -observation car dwindling and condensing into itself like a magician’s -disappearing card, while a white handkerchief, waving from the platform, -quickly became an infinitesimal shred of white—and then there was -nothing. The girl was gone. - -Probably Henry Millick Chester owes his life to the fact that there are -no gates between the station building and the tracks at Richmond. For -gates and a ticket-clipping official might have delayed Henry’s father -in the barely successful dash he made to drag from the path of a backing -local a boy wholly lost to the outward world in a state of helpless -puzzlement, which already threatened to become permanent as he stared -and stared at a sheet of railway notepaper whereon was written in a -charming hand: - - Mary Smith - Chicago - Ill. - - - - - TRANSCRIBER NOTES - -Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple -spellings occur, majority use has been employed. - -Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors -occur. - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Fascinating Stranger And Other -Stories, by Booth Tarkington - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FASCINATING STRANGER, OTHER STORIES *** - -***** This file should be named 60529-0.txt or 60529-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/5/2/60529/ - -Produced by Al Haines, Cindy Beyer & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net - -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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