Fix typos

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@@ -24,7 +24,7 @@
 			<p>She looked up at him shyly, yet with unmistakable love transfiguring her countenance.</p>
 			<p>“And you have saved it for me?” she asked, trembling with the first dim ecstasy of a woman beloved.</p>
 			<p>Together they hurried to the bootblack’s stand. An hour they spent there gazing at the malformed youth.</p>
-			<p>A window-cleaner fell from the fifth story to the sidewalk beside them. As the ambulance came clanging up William pressed her hand joyously. “Four ribs at least and a compound fracture,” he whispered, swiftly. “You are not sorry that you met me, are you, dearest?</p>
+			<p>A window-cleaner fell from the fifth story to the sidewalk beside them. As the ambulance came clanging up William pressed her hand joyously. “Four ribs at least and a compound fracture,” he whispered, swiftly. “You are not sorry that you met me, are you, dearest?”</p>
 			<p>“Me?” said Violet, returning the pressure. “Sure not. I could stand all day rubbering with you.”</p>
 			<p>The climax of the romance occurred a few days later. Perhaps the reader will remember the intense excitement into which the city was thrown when Eliza Jane, a colored woman, was served with a subpoena. The Rubber Tribe encamped on the spot. With his own hands William Pry placed a board upon two beer kegs in the street opposite Eliza Jane’s residence. He and Violet sat there for three days and nights. Then it occurred to a detective to open the door and serve the subpoena. He sent for a kinetoscope and did so.</p>
 			<p>Two souls with such congenial tastes could not long remain apart. As a policeman drove them away with his night stick that evening they plighted their troth. The seeds of love had been well sown, and had grown up, hardy and vigorous, into a⁠—let us call it a rubber plant.</p>

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@@ -56,7 +56,7 @@
 			<p>“I think we had better be going home,” she said, coolly. “It’s getting late.”</p>
 			<p>Carter humored her. He had come to know her varying, thistledown moods, and that it was useless to combat them. But he felt a certain happy triumph. He had held for a moment, though but by a silken thread, the soul of his wild Psyche, and hope was stronger within him. Once she had folded her wings and her cool hand had closed about his own.</p>
 			<p>At the Biggest Store the next day Masie’s chum, Lulu, waylaid her in an angle of the counter.</p>
-			<p>“How are you and your swell friend making it? she asked.</p>
+			<p>“How are you and your swell friend making it?” she asked.</p>
 			<p>“Oh, him?” said Masie, patting her side curls. “He ain’t in it any more. Say, Lu, what do you think that fellow wanted me to do?”</p>
 			<p>“Go on the stage?” guessed Lulu, breathlessly.</p>
 			<p>“Nit; he’s too cheap a guy for that. He wanted me to marry him and go down to Coney Island for a wedding tour!”</p>

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@@ -134,7 +134,7 @@
 			<p>“Waste basket.”</p>
 			<p>“The Society for Providing Healthful Recreation for Working Girls wants $20,000 from you to lay out a golf course.”</p>
 			<p>“Tell ’em to see an undertaker.”</p>
-			<p>“Cut ’em all out,” went on Jacob. “I’ve quit being a good thing. I need every dollar I can scrape or save. I want you to write to the directors of every company that I’m interested in and recommend a 10 percent cut in salaries. And say⁠—I noticed half a cake of soap lying in a corner of the hall as I came in. I want you to speak to the scrubwoman about waste. I’ve got no money to throw away. And say⁠—we’ve got vinegar pretty well in hand, haven’t we?’</p>
+			<p>“Cut ’em all out,” went on Jacob. “I’ve quit being a good thing. I need every dollar I can scrape or save. I want you to write to the directors of every company that I’m interested in and recommend a 10 percent cut in salaries. And say⁠—I noticed half a cake of soap lying in a corner of the hall as I came in. I want you to speak to the scrubwoman about waste. I’ve got no money to throw away. And say⁠—we’ve got vinegar pretty well in hand, haven’t we?”</p>
 			<p>“The Globe Spice &amp; Seasons Company,” said secretary, “controls the market at present.”</p>
 			<p>“Raise vinegar two cents a gallon. Notify all our branches.”</p>
 			<p>Suddenly Jacob Spraggins’s plump red face relaxed into a pulpy grin. He walked over to the secretary’s desk and showed a small red mark on his thick forefinger.</p>

src/epub/text/blind-mans-holiday.xhtml

@@ -152,7 +152,7 @@
 			<p>They came into a more pretentious street, where trade, it could be surmised, flourished by day. And again the priest paused; this time before a lofty building, whose great doors and windows in the lowest floor were carefully shuttered and barred. Its higher apertures were dark, save in the third story, the windows of which were brilliantly lighted. Lorison’s ear caught a distant, regular, pleasing thrumming, as of music above. They stood at an angle of the building. Up, along the side nearest them, mounted an iron stairway. At its top was an upright, illuminated parallelogram. Father Rogan had stopped, and stood, musing.</p>
 			<p>“I will say this much,” he remarked, thoughtfully: “I believe you to be a better man than you think yourself to be, and a better man than I thought some hours ago. But do not take this,” he added, with a smile, “as much praise. I promised you a possible deliverance from an unhappy perplexity. I will have to modify that promise. I can only remove the mystery that enhanced that perplexity. Your deliverance depends upon yourself. Come.”</p>
 			<p>He led his companion up the stairway. Halfway up, Lorison caught him by the sleeve. “Remember,” he gasped, “I love that woman.”</p>
-			<p>“You desired to know.</p>
+			<p>“You desired to know.”</p>
 			<p>“I⁠—Go on.”</p>
 			<p>The priest reached the landing at the top of the stairway. Lorison, behind him, saw that the illuminated space was the glass upper half of a door opening into the lighted room. The rhythmic music increased as they neared it; the stairs shook with the mellow vibrations.</p>
 			<p>Lorison stopped breathing when he set foot upon the highest step, for the priest stood aside, and motioned him to look through the glass of the door.</p>
@@ -161,7 +161,7 @@
 			<p>“You use my trust in you queerly,” said the priest sternly. “What are you about to do?”</p>
 			<p>“I am going to my wife,” said Lorison. “Let me pass.”</p>
 			<p>“Listen,” said the priest, holding him firmly by the arm. “I am about to put you in possession of a piece of knowledge of which, thus far, you have scarcely proved deserving. I do not think you ever will; but I will not dwell upon that. You see in that room the woman you married, working for a frugal living for herself, and a generous comfort for an idolized brother. This building belongs to the chief costumer of the city. For months the advance orders for the coming <span xml:lang="fr">Mardi Gras</span> festivals have kept the work going day and night. I myself secured employment here for Norah. She toils here each night from nine o’clock until daylight, and, besides, carries home with her some of the finer costumes, requiring more delicate needlework, and works there part of the day. Somehow, you two have remained strangely ignorant of each other’s lives. Are you convinced now that your wife is not walking the streets?”</p>
-			<p>“Let me go to her,” cried Lorison, again struggling, “and beg her forgiveness!’</p>
+			<p>“Let me go to her,” cried Lorison, again struggling, “and beg her forgiveness!”</p>
 			<p>“Sir,” said the priest, “do you owe me nothing? Be quiet. It seems so often that Heaven lets fall its choicest gifts into hands that must be taught to hold them. Listen again. You forgot that repentant sin must not compromise, but look up, for redemption, to the purest and best. You went to her with the finespun sophistry that peace could be found in a mutual guilt; and she, fearful of losing what her heart so craved, thought it worth the price to buy it with a desperate, pure, beautiful lie. I have known her since the day she was born; she is as innocent and unsullied in life and deed as a holy saint. In that lowly street where she dwells she first saw the light, and she has lived there ever since, spending her days in generous self-sacrifice for others. Och, ye spalpeen!” continued Father Rogan, raising his finger in kindly anger at Lorison. “What for, I wonder, could she be after making a fool of hersilf, and shamin’ her swate soul with lies, for the like of you!”</p>
 			<p>“Sir,” said Lorison, trembling, “say what you please of me. Doubt it as you must, I will yet prove my gratitude to you, and my devotion to her. But let me speak to her once now, let me kneel for just one moment at her feet, and⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Tut, tut!” said the priest. “How many acts of a love drama do you think an old bookworm like me capable of witnessing? Besides, what kind of figures do we cut, spying upon the mysteries of midnight millinery! Go to meet your wife tomorrow, as she ordered you, and obey her thereafter, and maybe some time I shall get forgiveness for the part I have played in this night’s work. Off wid yez down the shtairs, now! ’Tis late, and an ould man like me should be takin’ his rest.”</p>

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@@ -69,7 +69,7 @@
 			<p>“No, you won’t,” said Miss Allison.</p>
 			<p>“What?” said Vuyning.</p>
 			<p>“Not alone,” said Miss Allison, dropping a tear upon her salad. “What do you think?”</p>
-			<p>“Betty!” exclaimed Vuyning, “what do you mean?</p>
+			<p>“Betty!” exclaimed Vuyning, “what do you mean?”</p>
 			<p>“I’ll go too,” said Miss Allison, forcibly. Vuyning filled her glass with Apollinaris.</p>
 			<p>“Here’s to Rowdy the Dude!” he gave⁠—a toast mysterious.</p>
 			<p>“Don’t know him,” said Miss Allison; “but if he’s your friend, Jimmy⁠—here goes!”</p>

src/epub/text/georgias-ruling.xhtml

@@ -56,7 +56,7 @@
 			<p>“Beautiful,” he said, with enthusiasm. “Valley as level as this floor, with just a little swell on, like the sea, and rich as cream. Just enough brakes to shelter the cattle in winter. Black loamy soil for six feet, and then clay. Holds water. A dozen nice little houses on it, with windmills and gardens. People pretty poor, I guess⁠—too far from market⁠—but comfortable. Never saw so many kids in my life.”</p>
 			<p>“They raise flocks?” inquired the Commissioner.</p>
 			<p>“Ho, ho! I mean two-legged kids,” laughed the surveyor; “two-legged, and barelegged, and towheaded.”</p>
-			<p>“Children! oh, children!” mused the Commissioner, as though a new view had opened to him; “they raise children!</p>
+			<p>“Children! oh, children!” mused the Commissioner, as though a new view had opened to him; “they raise children!”</p>
 			<p>“It’s a lonesome country, Commissioner,” said the surveyor. “Can you blame ’em?”</p>
 			<p>“I suppose,” continued the Commissioner, slowly, as one carefully pursues deductions from a new, stupendous theory, “not all of them are towheaded. It would not be unreasonable, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ashe, I conjecture, to believe that a portion of them have brown, or even black, hair.”</p>
 			<p>“Brown and black, sure,” said Ashe; “also red.”</p>

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@@ -139,7 +139,7 @@
 			<p>After all, what a paradise this prairie country was! How it blossomed like the rose when you found things that were thought to be lost! How delicious was that morning breeze coming in the windows, fresh and sweet with the breath of the yellow ratama blooms! Might one not stand, for a minute, with shining, far-gazing eyes, and dream that mistakes might be corrected?</p>
 			<p>Why was <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Maclntyre poking about so absurdly with a broom?</p>
 			<p>“I’ve found it,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> MacIntyre, banging the door. “Here it is.”</p>
-			<p>“Did you lose something? asked Octavia, with sweetly polite non-interest.</p>
+			<p>“Did you lose something?” asked Octavia, with sweetly polite non-interest.</p>
 			<p>“The little devil!” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Maclntyre, driven to violence. “Ye’ve no forgotten him alretty?”</p>
 			<p>Between them they slew the centipede. Thus was he rewarded for his agency toward the recovery of things lost at the Hammersmiths’ ball.</p>
 			<p>It seems that Teddy, in due course, remembered the glove, and when he returned to the house at sunset made a secret but exhaustive search for it. Not until evening, upon the moonlit eastern gallery, did he find it. It was upon the hand that he had thought lost to him forever, and so he was moved to repeat certain nonsense that he had been commanded never, never to utter again. Teddy’s fences were down.</p>

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@@ -22,7 +22,7 @@
 			<p>Down Persimmon Street (there’s never tree north of Hagerstown, <abbr class="postal">Md.</abbr>) came from the village “Smoky” Dodson, fifteen and a half, worst boy in Fishampton. “Smoky” was dressed in a ragged red sweater, wrecked and weatherworn golf cap, run-over shoes, and trousers of the “serviceable” brand. Dust, clinging to the moisture induced by free exercise, darkened wide areas of his face. “Smoky” carried a baseball bat, and a league ball that advertised itself in the rotundity of his trousers pocket. Haywood stopped and passed the time of day.</p>
 			<p>“Going to play ball?” he asked.</p>
 			<p>“Smoky’s” eyes and countenance confronted him with a frank blue-and-freckled scrutiny.</p>
-			<p>“Me?” he said, with deadly mildness; “sure not. Can’t you see I’ve got a divin’ suit on? I’m goin’ up in a submarine balloon to catch butterflies with a two-inch auger.</p>
+			<p>“Me?” he said, with deadly mildness; “sure not. Can’t you see I’ve got a divin’ suit on? I’m goin’ up in a submarine balloon to catch butterflies with a two-inch auger.”</p>
 			<p>“Excuse me,” said Haywood, with the insulting politeness of his caste, “for mistaking you for a gentleman. I might have known better.”</p>
 			<p>“How might you have known better if you thought I was one?” said “Smoky,” unconsciously a logician.</p>
 			<p>“By your appearance,” said Haywood. “No gentleman is dirty, ragged and a liar.”</p>
@@ -42,7 +42,7 @@
 			<p>Then Haywood knew that it must be. He took off his coat, folded it neatly and laid it on the roadside grass, placed his hat upon it and began to unknot his blue silk tie.</p>
 			<p>“Hadn’t yer better ring fer yer maid, Arabella?” taunted “Smoky.” “Wot yer going to do⁠—go to bed?”</p>
 			<p>“I’m going to give you a good trouncing,” said the hero. He did not hesitate, although the enemy was far beneath him socially. He remembered that his father once thrashed a cabman, and the papers gave it two columns, first page. And the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Toadies’ Magazine</i> had a special article on Upper Cuts by the Upper Classes, and ran new pictures of the Van Plushvelt country seat, at Fishampton.</p>
-			<p>“Wot’s trouncing?” asked “Smoky,” suspiciously. “I don’t want your old clothes. I’m no⁠—oh, you mean to scrap! My, my! I won’t do a thing to mamma’s pet. Criminy! I’d hate to be a hand-laundered thing like you.</p>
+			<p>“Wot’s trouncing?” asked “Smoky,” suspiciously. “I don’t want your old clothes. I’m no⁠—oh, you mean to scrap! My, my! I won’t do a thing to mamma’s pet. Criminy! I’d hate to be a hand-laundered thing like you.”</p>
 			<p>“Smoky” waited with some awkwardness for his adversary to prepare for battle. His own decks were always clear for action. When he should spit upon the palm of his terrible right it was equivalent to “You may fire now, Gridley.”</p>
 			<p>The hated patrician advanced, with his shirt sleeves neatly rolled up. “Smoky” waited, in an attitude of ease, expecting the affair to be conducted according to Fishampton’s rules of war. These allowed combat to be prefaced by stigma, recrimination, epithet, abuse and insult gradually increasing in emphasis and degree. After a round of these “you’re anothers” would come the chip knocked from the shoulder, or the advance across the “dare” line drawn with a toe on the ground. Next light taps given and taken, these also increasing in force until finally the blood was up and fists going at their best.</p>
 			<p>But Haywood did not know Fishampton’s rules. <span xml:lang="fr">Noblesse oblige</span> kept a faint smile on his face as he walked slowly up to “Smoky” and said:</p>

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@@ -43,7 +43,7 @@
 			<p>The front door bell rang. The landlady answered it. Sarah left Gerard and Denys treed by a bear and listened. Oh, yes; you would, just as she did!</p>
 			<p>And then a strong voice was heard in the hall below, and Sarah jumped for her door, leaving the book on the floor and the first round easily the bear’s. You have guessed it. She reached the top of the stairs just as her farmer came up, three at a jump, and reaped and garnered her, with nothing left for the gleaners.</p>
 			<p>“Why haven’t you written⁠—oh, why?” cried Sarah.</p>
-			<p>“New York is a pretty large town,” said Walter Franklin. “I came in a week ago to your old address. I found that you went away on a Thursday. That consoled some; it eliminated the possible Friday bad luck. But it didn’t prevent my hunting for you with police and otherwise ever since!</p>
+			<p>“New York is a pretty large town,” said Walter Franklin. “I came in a week ago to your old address. I found that you went away on a Thursday. That consoled some; it eliminated the possible Friday bad luck. But it didn’t prevent my hunting for you with police and otherwise ever since!”</p>
 			<p>“I wrote!” said Sarah, vehemently.</p>
 			<p>“Never got it!”</p>
 			<p>“Then how did you find me?”</p>

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@@ -82,7 +82,7 @@
 			<p>“I wish you could see her and hear her,” said Griggs.</p>
 			<p>“But, man,” said Bob Hart, sitting up, “it’s impossible. It’s impossible, I tell you. I never dreamed of such a thing.”</p>
 			<p>“No human being,” said the Tramp Juggler, “could mistake it. She’s wild for love of you. How have you been so blind?”</p>
-			<p>“But, my God,” said Bob Hart, rising to his feet, “it’s <em>too late</em>. It’s too late, I tell you, Sam; <em>it’s too late</em>. It can’t be. You must be wrong. It’s <em>impossible</em>. There’s some mistake.</p>
+			<p>“But, my God,” said Bob Hart, rising to his feet, “it’s <em>too late</em>. It’s too late, I tell you, Sam; <em>it’s too late</em>. It can’t be. You must be wrong. It’s <em>impossible</em>. There’s some mistake.”</p>
 			<p>“She’s crying for you,” said the Tramp Juggler. “For love of you she’s fighting three, and calling your name so loud they don’t dare to raise the curtain. Wake up, man.”</p>
 			<p>“For love of me?” said Bob Hart with staring eyes. “Don’t I tell you it’s too late? It’s too late, man. Why, <em>Cherry and I have been married two years!</em>”</p>
 		</article>

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@@ -105,7 +105,7 @@
 			<p>Annie’s fingers began to wiggle in her purse.</p>
 			<p>“Sure, I’ve got money,” said she. “Lots of it. Twelve dollars.” And then she added, with woman’s ineradicable suspicion of vicarious benevolence: “Bring him here and let me see him first.”</p>
 			<p>Thomas went on his mission. The wan Bed Liner came readily enough. As the two drew near, Annie looked up from her purse and screamed:</p>
-			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Walter⁠—Oh⁠—<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Walter!</p>
+			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Walter⁠—Oh⁠—<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Walter!”</p>
 			<p>“Is that you, Annie?” said the young man meekly.</p>
 			<p>“Oh, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Walter!⁠—and the Missis hunting high and low for you!”</p>
 			<p>“Does mother want to see me?” he asked, with a flush coming out on his pale cheek.</p>

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@@ -43,7 +43,7 @@
 			<p>“On your own head be it,” hissed the Fool-Killer, and my scalp prickled when I perceived that neither Kerner’s eyes nor his ears took the slightest cognizance of Jesse Holmes. And then I knew that for some reason the veil had been lifted for me alone, and that I had been elected to save my friend from destruction at the Fool-Killer’s hands. Something of the fear and wonder of it must have showed itself in my face.</p>
 			<p>“Excuse me,” said Kerner, with his wan, amiable smile; “was I talking to myself? I think it is getting to be a habit with me.”</p>
 			<p>The Fool-Killer turned and walked out of Farroni’s.</p>
-			<p>“Wait here for me,” said I, rising; “I must speak to that man. Had you no answer for him? Because you are a fool must you die like a mouse under his foot? Could you not utter one squeak in your own defence?</p>
+			<p>“Wait here for me,” said I, rising; “I must speak to that man. Had you no answer for him? Because you are a fool must you die like a mouse under his foot? Could you not utter one squeak in your own defence?”</p>
 			<p>“You are drunk,” said Kerner, heartlessly. “No one addressed me.”</p>
 			<p>“The destroyer of your mind,” said I, “stood above you just now and marked you for his victim. You are not blind or deaf.”</p>
 			<p>“I recognized no such person,” said Kerner. “I have seen no one but you at this table. Sit down. Hereafter you shall have no more absinthe drips.”</p>

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@@ -22,7 +22,7 @@
 			<p>I turned in sudden rage to <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Stamford, as sober as the verger of a cathedral. In a moment I had become aware that we were swine cast before a pearl.</p>
 			<p>“You beast,” I said, “this is half your doing. And the other half is the fault of this cursed country. I’d better have gone back to Sleepy-town and died in a wild orgy of currant wine and buns than to have had this happen.”</p>
 			<p>Stamford filled the empty street with his roaring laughter.</p>
-			<p>“You too!” he cried. “And all as quick as the popping of a cork. Well, she does seem to strike agreeably upon the retina. But don’t burn your fingers. All Mojada will tell you that Louis Devoe is the man.</p>
+			<p>“You too!” he cried. “And all as quick as the popping of a cork. Well, she does seem to strike agreeably upon the retina. But don’t burn your fingers. All Mojada will tell you that Louis Devoe is the man.”</p>
 			<p>“We will see about that,” said I. “And, perhaps, whether he is <em>a</em> man as well as <em>the</em> man.”</p>
 			<p>I lost no time in meeting Louis Devoe. That was easily accomplished, for the foreign colony in Mojada numbered scarce a dozen; and they gathered daily at a half-decent hotel kept by a Turk, where they managed to patch together the fluttering rags of country and civilization that were left them. I sought Devoe before I did my pearl of the doorway, because I had learned a little of the game of war, and knew better than to strike for a prize before testing the strength of the enemy.</p>
 			<p>A sort of cold dismay⁠—something akin to fear⁠—filled me when I had estimated him. I found a man so perfectly poised, so charming, so deeply learned in the world’s rituals, so full of tact, courtesy, and hospitality, so endowed with grace and ease and a kind of careless, haughty power that I almost overstepped the bounds in probing him, in turning him on the spit to find the weak point that I so craved for him to have. But I left him whole⁠—I had to make bitter acknowledgment to myself that Louis Devoe was a gentleman worthy of my best blows; and I swore to give him them. He was a great merchant of the country, a wealthy importer and exporter. All day he sat in a fastidiously appointed office, surrounded by works of art and evidences of his high culture, directing through glass doors and windows the affairs of his house.</p>

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@@ -61,7 +61,7 @@
 			<p>“You make a specialty of divorce cases,” he said, in, an agitated but businesslike tone.</p>
 			<p>“I may say,” began Lawyer Gooch, “that my practice has not altogether avoided⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“I know you do,” interrupted client number three. “You needn’t tell me. I’ve heard all about you. I have a case to lay before you without necessarily disclosing any connection that I might have with it⁠—that is⁠—”</p>
-			<p>“You wish,” said Lawyer Gooch, “to state a hypothetical case.</p>
+			<p>“You wish,” said Lawyer Gooch, “to state a hypothetical case.”</p>
 			<p>“You may call it that. I am a plain man of business. I will be as brief as possible. We will first take up hypothetical woman. We will say she is married uncongenially. In many ways she is a superior woman. Physically she is considered to be handsome. She is devoted to what she calls literature⁠—poetry and prose, and such stuff. Her husband is a plain man in the business walks of life. Their home has not been happy, although the husband has tried to make it so. Some time ago a man⁠—a stranger⁠—came to the peaceful town in which they lived and engaged in some real estate operations. This woman met him, and became unaccountably infatuated with him. Her attentions became so open that the man felt the community to be no safe place for him, so he left it. She abandoned husband and home, and followed him. She forsook her home, where she was provided with every comfort, to follow this man who had inspired her with such a strange affection. Is there anything more to be deplored,” concluded the client, in a trembling voice, “than the wrecking of a home by a woman’s uncalculating folly?”</p>
 			<p>Lawyer Gooch delivered the cautious opinion that there was not.</p>
 			<p>“This man she has gone to join,” resumed the visitor, “is not the man to make her happy. It is a wild and foolish self-deception that makes her think he will. Her husband, in spite of their many disagreements, is the only one capable of dealing with her sensitive and peculiar nature. But this she does not realize now.”</p>

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@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<p>“That will cost the old man an extra five hundred dollars,” says Bill, climbing over the wheel.</p>
 			<p>That boy put up a fight like a welterweight cinnamon bear; but, at last, we got him down in the bottom of the buggy and drove away. We took him up to the cave and I hitched the horse in the cedar brake. After dark I drove the buggy to the little village, three miles away, where we had hired it, and walked back to the mountain.</p>
 			<p>Bill was pasting court-plaster over the scratches and bruises on his features. There was a fire burning behind the big rock at the entrance of the cave, and the boy was watching a pot of boiling coffee, with two buzzard tail-feathers stuck in his red hair. He points a stick at me when I come up, and says:</p>
-			<p>“Ha! cursed paleface, do you dare to enter the camp of Red Chief, the terror of the plains?</p>
+			<p>“Ha! cursed paleface, do you dare to enter the camp of Red Chief, the terror of the plains?”</p>
 			<p>“He’s all right now,” says Bill, rolling up his trousers and examining some bruises on his shins. “We’re playing Indian. We’re making Buffalo Bill’s show look like magic-lantern views of Palestine in the town hall. I’m Old Hank, the Trapper, Red Chief’s captive, and I’m to be scalped at daybreak. By Geronimo! that kid can kick hard.”</p>
 			<p>Yes, sir, that boy seemed to be having the time of his life. The fun of camping out in a cave had made him forget that he was a captive himself. He immediately christened me Snake-eye, the Spy, and announced that, when his braves returned from the warpath, I was to be broiled at the stake at the rising of the sun.</p>
 			<p>Then we had supper; and he filled his mouth full of bacon and bread and gravy, and began to talk. He made a during-dinner speech something like this:</p>
@@ -89,7 +89,7 @@
 			<p>“I was rode,” says Bill, “the ninety miles to the stockade, not barring an inch. Then, when the settlers was rescued, I was given oats. Sand ain’t a palatable substitute. And then, for an hour I had to try to explain to him why there was nothin’ in holes, how a road can run both ways and what makes the grass green. I tell you, Sam, a human can only stand so much. I takes him by the neck of his clothes and drags him down the mountain. On the way he kicks my legs black-and-blue from the knees down; and I’ve got to have two or three bites on my thumb and hand cauterized.</p>
 			<p>“But he’s gone”⁠—continues Bill⁠—“gone home. I showed him the road to Summit and kicked him about eight feet nearer there at one kick. I’m sorry we lose the ransom; but it was either that or Bill Driscoll to the madhouse.”</p>
 			<p>Bill is puffing and blowing, but there is a look of ineffable peace and growing content on his rose-pink features.</p>
-			<p>“Bill,” says I, “there isn’t any heart disease in your family, is there?</p>
+			<p>“Bill,” says I, “there isn’t any heart disease in your family, is there?”</p>
 			<p>“No,” says Bill, “nothing chronic except malaria and accidents. Why?”</p>
 			<p>“Then you might turn around,” says I, “and have a took behind you.”</p>
 			<p>Bill turns and sees the boy, and loses his complexion and sits down plump on the round and begins to pluck aimlessly at grass and little sticks. For an hour I was afraid for his mind. And then I told him that my scheme was to put the whole job through immediately and that we would get the ransom and be off with it by midnight if old Dorset fell in with our proposition. So Bill braced up enough to give the kid a weak sort of a smile and a promise to play the Russian in a Japanese war with him as soon as he felt a little better.</p>

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@@ -21,7 +21,7 @@
 			<p>Brother Cristofer was appealed to for information. By that time the monks had passed into the refectory. He could not tell to which one they referred. Bellchambers? Ah, the brothers of <abbr>St.</abbr> Gondrau abandoned their worldly names when they took the vows. Did the gentlemen wish to speak with one of the brothers? If they would come to the refectory and indicate the one they wished to see, the reverend abbot in authority would, doubtless, permit it.</p>
 			<p>Eyres and Gilliam went into the dining hall and pointed out to Brother Cristofer the man they had seen. Yes, it was Johnny Bellchambers. They saw his face plainly now, as he sat among the dingy brothers, never looking up, eating broth from a coarse, brown bowl.</p>
 			<p>Permission to speak to one of the brothers was granted to the two travelers by the abbot, and they waited in a reception room for him to come. When he did come, treading softly in his sandals, both Eyres and Gilliam looked at him in perplexity and astonishment. It was Johnny Bellchambers, but he had a different look. Upon his smooth-shaven face was an expression of ineffable peace, of rapturous attainment, of perfect and complete happiness. His form was proudly erect, his eyes shone with a serene and gracious light. He was as neat and well-groomed as in the old New York days, but how differently was he clad! Now he seemed clothed in but a single garment⁠—a long robe of rough brown cloth, gathered by a cord at the waist, and falling in straight, loose folds nearly to his feet. He shook hands with his visitors with his old ease and grace of manner. If there was any embarrassment in that meeting it was not manifested by Johnny Bellchambers. The room had no seats; they stood to converse.</p>
-			<p>“Glad to see you, old man,” said Eyres, somewhat awkwardly. “Wasn’t expecting to find you up here. Not a bad idea though, after all. Society’s an awful sham. Must be a relief to shake the giddy whirl and retire to⁠—er⁠—contemplation and⁠—er⁠—prayer and hymns, and those things.</p>
+			<p>“Glad to see you, old man,” said Eyres, somewhat awkwardly. “Wasn’t expecting to find you up here. Not a bad idea though, after all. Society’s an awful sham. Must be a relief to shake the giddy whirl and retire to⁠—er⁠—contemplation and⁠—er⁠—prayer and hymns, and those things.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, cut that, Tommy,” said Bellchambers, cheerfully. “Don’t be afraid that I’ll pass around the plate. I go through these thing-um-bobs with the rest of these old boys because they are the rules. I’m Brother Ambrose here, you know. I’m given just ten minutes to talk to you fellows. That’s rather a new design in waistcoats you have on, isn’t it, Gilliam? Are they wearing those things on Broadway now?”</p>
 			<p>“It’s the same old Johnny,” said Gilliam, joyfully. “What the devil⁠—I mean why⁠—Oh, confound it! what did you do it for, old man?”</p>
 			<p>“Peel the bathrobe,” pleaded Eyres, almost tearfully, “and go back with us. The old crowd’ll go wild to see you. This isn’t in your line, Bell. I know half a dozen girls that wore the willow on the quiet when you shook us in that unaccountable way. Hand in your resignation, or get a dispensation, or whatever you have to do to get a release from this ice factory. You’ll get catarrh here, Johnny⁠—and⁠—My God! you haven’t any socks on!”</p>

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@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 			<p>“I see,” said Thacker. “Next we have two pages of selections from ‘Lalla Rookh,’ by Thomas Moore. Now, what Federal prison did Moore escape from, or what’s the name of the <abbr class="initialism">F.F.V.</abbr> family that he carries as a handicap?”</p>
 			<p>“Moore was an Irish poet who died in 1852,” said Colonel Telfair, pityingly. “He is a classic. I have been thinking of reprinting his translation of Anacreon serially in the magazine.”</p>
 			<p>“Look out for the copyright laws,” said Thacker, flippantly. “Who’s Bessie Belleclair, who contributes the essay on the newly completed waterworks plant in Milledgeville?”</p>
-			<p>“The name, sir,” said Colonel Telfair, “is the <span xml:lang="fr">nom de guerre</span> of Miss Elvira Simpkins. I have not the honor of knowing the lady; but her contribution was sent to us by Congressman Brower, of her native state. Congressman Brower’s mother was related to the Polks of Tennessee.</p>
+			<p>“The name, sir,” said Colonel Telfair, “is the <span xml:lang="fr">nom de guerre</span> of Miss Elvira Simpkins. I have not the honor of knowing the lady; but her contribution was sent to us by Congressman Brower, of her native state. Congressman Brower’s mother was related to the Polks of Tennessee.”</p>
 			<p>“Now, see here, Colonel,” said Thacker, throwing down the magazine, “this won’t do. You can’t successfully run a magazine for one particular section of the country. You’ve got to make a universal appeal. Look how the Northern publications have catered to the South and encouraged the Southern writers. And you’ve got to go far and wide for your contributors. You’ve got to buy stuff according to its quality without any regard to the pedigree of the author. Now, I’ll bet a quart of ink that this Southern parlor organ you’ve been running has never played a note that originated above Mason &amp; Hamlin’s line. Am I right?”</p>
 			<p>“I have carefully and conscientiously rejected all contributions from that section of the country⁠—if I understand your figurative language aright,” replied the colonel.</p>
 			<p>“All right. Now I’ll show you something.”</p>
@@ -114,7 +114,7 @@
 			<p>“Oh, come, Colonel,” said Thacker, good-naturedly. “I didn’t do anything like that to you. It sounds like an indictment by the fourth assistant attorney-general. Let’s get back to business. What’s this 8,000 to 1 shot about?”</p>
 			<p>“The article,” said Colonel Telfair, acknowledging the apology by a slight bow, “covers a wide area of knowledge. It takes up theories and questions that have puzzled the world for centuries, and disposes of them logically and concisely. One by one it holds up to view the evils of the world, points out the way of eradicating them, and then conscientiously and in detail commends the good. There is hardly a phase of human life that it does not discuss wisely, calmly, and equitably. The great policies of governments, the duties of private citizens, the obligations of home life, law, ethics, morality⁠—all these important subjects are handled with a calm wisdom and confidence that I must confess has captured my admiration.”</p>
 			<p>“It must be a crackerjack,” said Thacker, impressed.</p>
-			<p>“It is a great contribution to the world’s wisdom,” said the colonel. “The only doubt remaining in my mind as to the tremendous advantage it would be to us to give it publication in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rose of Dixie</i> is that I have not yet sufficient information about the author to give his work publicity in our magazine.</p>
+			<p>“It is a great contribution to the world’s wisdom,” said the colonel. “The only doubt remaining in my mind as to the tremendous advantage it would be to us to give it publication in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rose of Dixie</i> is that I have not yet sufficient information about the author to give his work publicity in our magazine.”</p>
 			<p>“I thought you said he is a distinguished man,” said Thacker.</p>
 			<p>“He is,” replied the colonel, “both in literary and in other more diversified and extraneous fields. But I am extremely careful about the matter that I accept for publication. My contributors are people of unquestionable repute and connections, which fact can be verified at any time. As I said, I am holding this article until I can acquire more information about its author. I do not know whether I will publish it or not. If I decide against it, I shall be much pleased, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Thacker, to substitute the matter that you are leaving with me in its place.”</p>
 			<p>Thacker was somewhat at sea.</p>

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@@ -14,7 +14,7 @@
 			<p>Sitting there, he leaned far back on the hard bench and laughed a jet of cigarette smoke up to the lowest tree branches. The sudden severing of all his life’s ties had brought him a free, thrilling, almost joyous elation. He felt precisely the sensation of the aeronaut when he cuts loose his parachute and lets his balloon drift away.</p>
 			<p>The hour was nearly ten. Not many loungers were on the benches. The park-dweller, though a stubborn fighter against autumnal coolness, is slow to attack the advance line of spring’s chilly cohorts.</p>
 			<p>Then arose one from a seat near the leaping fountain, and came and sat himself at Vallance’s side. He was either young or old; cheap lodging-houses had flavoured him mustily; razors and combs had passed him by; in him drink had been bottled and sealed in the devil’s bond. He begged a match, which is the form of introduction among park benchers, and then he began to talk.</p>
-			<p>“You’re not one of the regulars,” he said to Vallance. “I know tailored clothes when I see ’em. You just stopped for a moment on your way through the park. Don’t mind my talking to you for a while? I’ve got to be with somebody. I’m afraid⁠—I’m afraid. I’ve told two or three of those bummers over about it. They think I’m crazy. Say⁠—let me tell you⁠—all I’ve had to eat today was a couple pretzels and an apple. Tomorrow I’ll stand in line to inherit three millions; and that restaurant you see over there with the autos around it will be too cheap for me to eat in. Don’t believe it, do you?</p>
+			<p>“You’re not one of the regulars,” he said to Vallance. “I know tailored clothes when I see ’em. You just stopped for a moment on your way through the park. Don’t mind my talking to you for a while? I’ve got to be with somebody. I’m afraid⁠—I’m afraid. I’ve told two or three of those bummers over about it. They think I’m crazy. Say⁠—let me tell you⁠—all I’ve had to eat today was a couple pretzels and an apple. Tomorrow I’ll stand in line to inherit three millions; and that restaurant you see over there with the autos around it will be too cheap for me to eat in. Don’t believe it, do you?”</p>
 			<p>“Without the slightest trouble,” said Vallance, with a laugh. “I lunched there yesterday. Tonight I couldn’t buy a five-cent cup of coffee.”</p>
 			<p>“You don’t look like one of us. Well, I guess those things happen. I used to be a high-flyer myself⁠—some years ago. What knocked you out of the game?”</p>
 			<p>“I⁠—oh, I lost my job,” said Vallance.</p>

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@@ -31,7 +31,7 @@
 			<p>“Never mind the expense,” said Meeks; “we’ll try it.”</p>
 			<p>The sleuth led him back to the Waldorf. “Engage a couple of bedrooms and a parlour,” he advised, “and let’s go up.”</p>
 			<p>This was done, and the two were shown to a superb suite on the fourth floor. Meeks looked puzzled. The detective sank into a velvet armchair, and pulled out his cigar case.</p>
-			<p>“I forgot to suggest, old man,” he said, “that you should have taken the rooms by the month. They wouldn’t have stuck you so much for ’em.</p>
+			<p>“I forgot to suggest, old man,” he said, “that you should have taken the rooms by the month. They wouldn’t have stuck you so much for ’em.”</p>
 			<p>“By the month!” exclaimed Meeks. “What do you mean?”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, it’ll take time to work the game this way. I told you it would cost you more. We’ll have to wait till spring. There’ll be a new city directory out then. Very likely your sister’s name and address will be in it.”</p>
 			<p>Meeks rid himself of the city detective at once. On the next day someone advised him to consult Shamrock Jolnes, New York’s famous private detective, who demanded fabulous fees, but performed miracles in the way of solving mysteries and crimes.</p>

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@@ -46,7 +46,7 @@
 			<p>“Yes, suh; I got it in my hand, suh. I’m gwine give it to you right away in jus’ a minute. Old Missus told me to put it in young Marse Blandford’s hand and tell him to wear it for the family pride and honor. It was a mighty longsome trip for an old nigger man to make⁠—ten thousand miles, it must be, back to old <span epub:type="z3998:roman">Vi</span>’ginia, suh. You’ve growed mightily, young marster. I wouldn’t have reconnized you but for yo’ powerful resemblance to old marster.”</p>
 			<p>With admirable diplomacy the old man kept his eyes roaming in the space between the two men. His words might have been addressed to either. Though neither wicked nor perverse, he was seeking for a sign.</p>
 			<p>Blandford and John exchanged winks.</p>
-			<p>“I reckon you done got you ma’s letter,” went on Uncle Jake. “She said she was gwine to write to you ’bout my comin’ along up this er-way.</p>
+			<p>“I reckon you done got you ma’s letter,” went on Uncle Jake. “She said she was gwine to write to you ’bout my comin’ along up this er-way.”</p>
 			<p>“Yes, yes, Uncle Jake,” said John briskly. “My cousin and I have just been notified to expect you. We are both Carterets, you know.”</p>
 			<p>“Although one of us,” said Blandford, “was born and raised in the North.”</p>
 			<p>“So if you will hand over the watch⁠—” said John.</p>

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@@ -34,7 +34,7 @@
 			<p>“You should know,” she explained, in an indulgent tone, “that we of the non-useful class depend for our amusement upon departure from precedent. Just now it is a fad to put ice in champagne. The idea was originated by a visiting Prince of Tartary while dining at the Waldorf. It will soon give way to some other whim. Just as at a dinner party this week on Madison Avenue a green kid glove was laid by the plate of each guest to be put on and used while eating olives.”</p>
 			<p>“I see,” admitted the young man, humbly.</p>
 			<p>“These special diversions of the inner circle do not become familiar to the common public.”</p>
-			<p>“Sometimes,” continued the girl, acknowledging his confession of error by a slight bow, “I have thought that if I ever should love a man it would be one of lowly station. One who is a worker and not a drone. But, doubtless, the claims of caste and wealth will prove stronger than my inclination. Just now I am besieged by two. One is a Grand Duke of a German principality. I think he has, or has had, a wife, somewhere, driven mad by his intemperance and cruelty. The other is an English Marquis, so cold and mercenary that I even prefer the diabolism of the Duke. What is it that impels me to tell you these things, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Packenstacker?</p>
+			<p>“Sometimes,” continued the girl, acknowledging his confession of error by a slight bow, “I have thought that if I ever should love a man it would be one of lowly station. One who is a worker and not a drone. But, doubtless, the claims of caste and wealth will prove stronger than my inclination. Just now I am besieged by two. One is a Grand Duke of a German principality. I think he has, or has had, a wife, somewhere, driven mad by his intemperance and cruelty. The other is an English Marquis, so cold and mercenary that I even prefer the diabolism of the Duke. What is it that impels me to tell you these things, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Packenstacker?”</p>
 			<p>“Parkenstacker,” breathed the young man. “Indeed, you cannot know how much I appreciate your confidences.”</p>
 			<p>The girl contemplated him with the calm, impersonal regard that befitted the difference in their stations.</p>
 			<p>“What is your line of business, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Parkenstacker?” she asked.</p>

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@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<p>In order to test her theory as to his occupation, she brought from her room one day a painting that she had bought at a sale, and set it against the shelves behind the bread counter.</p>
 			<p>It was a Venetian scene. A splendid marble palazzio (so it said on the picture) stood in the foreground⁠—or rather forewater. For the rest there were gondolas (with the lady trailing her hand in the water), clouds, sky, and chiaro-oscuro in plenty. No artist could fail to notice it.</p>
 			<p>Two days afterward the customer came in.</p>
-			<p>“Two loafs of stale bread, if you blease.</p>
+			<p>“Two loafs of stale bread, if you blease.”</p>
 			<p>“You haf here a fine bicture, madame,” he said while she was wrapping up the bread.</p>
 			<p>“Yes?” says Miss Martha, revelling in her own cunning. “I do so admire art and” (no, it would not do to say “artists” thus early) “and paintings,” she substituted. “You think it is a good picture?”</p>
 			<p>“Der balance,” said the customer, “is not in good drawing. Der bairspective of it is not true. Goot morning, madame.”</p>