[Editorial] H.P. -> hp

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@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<p>But I beg you to observe <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> James Williams⁠—Hattie Chalmers that was⁠—once the belle of Cloverdale. Pale-blue is the bride’s, if she will; and this colour she had honoured. Willingly had the moss rosebud loaned to her cheeks of its pink⁠—and as for the violet!⁠—her eyes will do very well as they are, thank you. A useless strip of white chaf⁠—oh, no, he was guiding the auto car⁠—of white chiffon⁠—or perhaps it was grenadine or tulle⁠—was tied beneath her chin, pretending to hold her bonnet in place. But you know as well as I do that the hatpins did the work.</p>
 			<p>And on <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> James Williams’s face was recorded a little library of the world’s best thoughts in three volumes. Volume <abbr>No.</abbr> 1 contained the belief that James Williams was about the right sort of thing. Volume <abbr>No.</abbr> 2 was an essay on the world, declaring it to be a very excellent place. Volume <abbr>No.</abbr> 3 disclosed the belief that in occupying the highest seat in a Rubberneck auto they were travelling the pace that passes all understanding.</p>
 			<p>James Williams, you would have guessed, was about twenty-four. It will gratify you to know that your estimate was so accurate. He was exactly twenty-three years, eleven months and twenty-nine days old. He was well built, active, strong-jawed, good-natured and rising. He was on his wedding trip.</p>
-			<p>Dear kind fairy, please cut out those orders for money and 40 <abbr class="initialism">H.P.</abbr> touring cars and fame and a new growth of hair and the presidency of the boat club. Instead of any of them turn backward⁠—oh, turn backward and give us just a teeny-weeny bit of our wedding trip over again. Just an hour, dear fairy, so we can remember how the grass and poplar trees looked, and the bow of those bonnet strings tied beneath her chin⁠—even if it was the hatpins that did the work. Can’t do it? Very well; hurry up with that touring car and the oil stock, then.</p>
+			<p>Dear kind fairy, please cut out those orders for money and 40 <abbr>hp</abbr> touring cars and fame and a new growth of hair and the presidency of the boat club. Instead of any of them turn backward⁠—oh, turn backward and give us just a teeny-weeny bit of our wedding trip over again. Just an hour, dear fairy, so we can remember how the grass and poplar trees looked, and the bow of those bonnet strings tied beneath her chin⁠—even if it was the hatpins that did the work. Can’t do it? Very well; hurry up with that touring car and the oil stock, then.</p>
 			<p>Just in front of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> James Williams sat a girl in a loose tan jacket and a straw hat adorned with grapes and roses. Only in dreams and milliners’ shops do we, alas! gather grapes and roses at one swipe. This girl gazed with large blue eyes, credulous, when the megaphone man roared his doctrine that millionaires were things about which we should be concerned. Between blasts she resorted to Epictetian philosophy in the form of pepsin chewing gum.</p>
 			<p>At this girl’s right hand sat a young man about twenty-four. He was well-built, active, strong-jawed and good-natured. But if his description seems to follow that of James Williams, divest it of anything Cloverdalian. This man belonged to hard streets and sharp corners. He looked keenly about him, seeming to begrudge the asphalt under the feet of those upon whom he looked down from his perch.</p>
 			<p>While the megaphone barks at a famous hostelry, let me whisper you through the low-tuned cardiaphone to sit tight; for now things are about to happen, and the great city will close over them again as over a scrap of ticker tape floating down from the den of a Broad Street bear.</p>

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@@ -34,7 +34,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘An’⁠—let’s see⁠—oh, yes⁠—‘An anachronism,’ says the boss. ‘Cigarettes was not made at the time when halberdiers was invented.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘The ones you sell was,’ says Sir Percival. ‘Caporal wins from chronology by the length of a cork tip.’ So he gets ’em and lights one, and puts the box in his brass helmet, and goes back to patrolling the Rindslosh.</p>
 			<p>“He made a big hit, ’specially with the ladies. Some of ’em would poke him with their fingers to see if he was real or only a kind of a stuffed figure like they burn in elegy. And when he’d move they’d squeak, and make eyes at him as they went up to the slosh. He looked fine in his halberdashery. He slept at $2 a week in a hall-room on Third Avenue. He invited me up there one night. He had a little book on the washstand that he read instead of shopping in the saloons after hours. ‘I’m on to that,’ says I, ‘from reading about it in novels. All the heroes on the bum carry the little book. It’s either Tantalus or Liver or Horace, and its printed in Latin, and you’re a college man. And I wouldn’t be surprised,’ says I, ‘if you wasn’t educated, too.’ But it was only the batting averages of the League for the last ten years.</p>
-			<p>“One night, about half past eleven, there comes in a party of these high-rollers that are always hunting up new places to eat in and poke fun at. There was a swell girl in a 40 <abbr class="initialism">H.P.</abbr> auto tan coat and veil, and a fat old man with white side-whiskers, and a young chap that couldn’t keep his feet off the tail of the girl’s coat, and an oldish lady that looked upon life as immoral and unnecessary. ‘How perfectly delightful,’ they says, ‘to sup in a slosh.’ Up the stairs they go; and in half a minute back down comes the girl, her skirts swishing like the waves on the beach. She stops on the landing and looks our halberdier in the eye.</p>
+			<p>“One night, about half past eleven, there comes in a party of these high-rollers that are always hunting up new places to eat in and poke fun at. There was a swell girl in a 40 <abbr>hp</abbr> auto tan coat and veil, and a fat old man with white side-whiskers, and a young chap that couldn’t keep his feet off the tail of the girl’s coat, and an oldish lady that looked upon life as immoral and unnecessary. ‘How perfectly delightful,’ they says, ‘to sup in a slosh.’ Up the stairs they go; and in half a minute back down comes the girl, her skirts swishing like the waves on the beach. She stops on the landing and looks our halberdier in the eye.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘You!’ she says, with a smile that reminded me of lemon sherbet. I was waiting upstairs in the slosh, then, and I was right down here by the door, putting some vinegar and cayenne into an empty bottle of tabasco, and I heard all they said.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘It,’ says Sir Percival, without moving. ‘I’m only local colour. Are my hauberk, helmet, and halberd on straight?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Is there an explanation to this?’ says she. ‘Is it a practical joke such as men play in those Griddlecake and Lamb Clubs? I’m afraid I don’t see the point. I heard, vaguely, that you were away. For three months I⁠—we have not seen you or heard from you.’</p>
@@ -48,7 +48,7 @@
 			<p>“Sir Percival kind of rattles his armour and says: ‘Helen, will you suspend sentence in this matter for just a little while? You don’t understand,’ says he. ‘I’ve got to hold this job down a little longer.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘You like being a harlequin⁠—or halberdier, as you call it?’ says she.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I wouldn’t get thrown out of the job just now,’ says he, with a grin, ‘to be appointed Minister to the Court of <abbr>St.</abbr> James’s.’</p>
-			<p>“And then the 40 <abbr class="initialism">H.P.</abbr> girl’s eyes sparkled as hard as diamonds.</p>
+			<p>“And then the 40 <abbr>hp</abbr> girl’s eyes sparkled as hard as diamonds.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Very well,’ says she. ‘You shall have full run of your serving-man’s tastes this night.’ And she swims over to the boss’s desk and gives him a smile that knocks the specks off his nose.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I think your Rindslosh,’ says she, ‘is as beautiful as a dream. It is a little slice of the Old World set down in New York. We shall have a nice supper up there; but if you will grant us one favour the illusion will be perfect⁠—give us your halberdier to wait on our table.’</p>
 			<p>“That hits the boss’s antiology hobby just right. ‘Sure,’ says he, ‘dot vill be fine. Und der orchestra shall blay “Die Wacht am Rhein” all der time.’ And he goes over and tells the halberdier to go upstairs and hustle the grub at the swells’ table.</p>

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@@ -46,7 +46,7 @@
 			<p>The other girls soon became aware of Nancy’s ambition. “Here comes your millionaire, Nancy,” they would call to her whenever any man who looked the role approached her counter. It got to be a habit of men, who were hanging about while their womenfolk were shopping, to stroll over to the handkerchief counter and dawdle over the cambric squares. Nancy’s imitation high-bred air and genuine dainty beauty was what attracted. Many men thus came to display their graces before her. Some of them may have been millionaires; others were certainly no more than their sedulous apes. Nancy learned to discriminate. There was a window at the end of the handkerchief counter; and she could see the rows of vehicles waiting for the shoppers in the street below. She looked and perceived that automobiles differ as well as do their owners.</p>
 			<p>Once a fascinating gentleman bought four dozen handkerchiefs, and wooed her across the counter with a King Cophetua air. When he had gone one of the girls said:</p>
 			<p>“What’s wrong, Nance, that you didn’t warm up to that fellow. He looks the swell article, all right, to me.”</p>
-			<p>“Him?” said Nancy, with her coolest, sweetest, most impersonal, Van Alstyne Fisher smile; “not for mine. I saw him drive up outside. A 12 <abbr class="initialism">H.P.</abbr> machine and an Irish chauffeur! And you saw what kind of handkerchiefs he bought⁠—silk! And he’s got dactylis on him. Give me the real thing or nothing, if you please.”</p>
+			<p>“Him?” said Nancy, with her coolest, sweetest, most impersonal, Van Alstyne Fisher smile; “not for mine. I saw him drive up outside. A 12 <abbr>hp</abbr> machine and an Irish chauffeur! And you saw what kind of handkerchiefs he bought⁠—silk! And he’s got dactylis on him. Give me the real thing or nothing, if you please.”</p>
 			<p>Two of the most “refined” women in the store⁠—a forelady and a cashier⁠—had a few “swell gentlemen friends” with whom they now and then dined. Once they included Nancy in an invitation. The dinner took place in a spectacular café whose tables are engaged for New Year’s Eve a year in advance. There were two “gentlemen friends”⁠—one without any hair on his head⁠—high living ungrew it; and we can prove it⁠—the other a young man whose worth and sophistication he impressed upon you in two convincing ways⁠—he swore that all the wine was corked; and he wore diamond cuff buttons. This young man perceived irresistible excellencies in Nancy. His taste ran to shop-girls; and here was one that added the voice and manners of his high social world to the franker charms of her own caste. So, on the following day, he appeared in the store and made her a serious proposal of marriage over a box of hemstitched, grass-bleached Irish linens. Nancy declined. A brown pompadour ten feet away had been using her eyes and ears. When the rejected suitor had gone she heaped carboys of upbraidings and horror upon Nancy’s head.</p>
 			<p>“What a terrible little fool you are! That fellow’s a millionaire⁠—he’s a nephew of old Van Skittles himself. And he was talking on the level, too. Have you gone crazy, Nance?”</p>
 			<p>“Have I?” said Nancy. “I didn’t take him, did I? He isn’t a millionaire so hard that you could notice it, anyhow. His family only allows him $20,000 a year to spend. The bald-headed fellow was guying him about it the other night at supper.”</p>