[Voice] [Editorial] Modernize hyphenation and spelling

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<p>One may hope, in spite of the metaphorists, to avoid the breath of the deadly upas tree; one may, by great good fortune, succeed in blacking the eye of the basilisk; one might even dodge the attentions of Cerberus and Argus, but no man, alive or dead, can escape the gaze of the Rubberer.</p>
<p>New York is the Caoutchouc City. There are many, of course, who go their ways, making money, without turning to the right or the left, but there is a tribe abroad wonderfully composed, like the Martians, solely of eyes and means of locomotion.</p>
<p>These devotees of curiosity swarm, like flies, in a moment in a struggling, breathless circle about the scene of an unusual occurrence. If a workman opens a manhole, if a street car runs over a man from North Tarrytown, if a little boy drops an egg on his way home from the grocery, if a casual house or two drops into the subway, if a lady loses a nickel through a hole in the lisle thread, if the police drag a telephone and a racing chart forth from an Ibsen Society reading-room, if Senator Depew or <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Chuck Connors walks out to take the air—if any of these incidents or accidents takes place, you will see the mad, irresistible rush of the “rubber” tribe to the spot.</p>
<p>The importance of the event does not count. They gaze with equal interest and absorption at a chorus girl or at a man painting a liver pill sign. They will form as deep a cordon around a man with a club-foot as they will around a balked automobile. They have the furor rubberendi. They are optical gluttons, feasting and fattening on the misfortunes of their fellow beings. They gloat and pore and glare and squint and stare with their fishy eyes like goggle-eyed perch at the book baited with calamity.</p>
<p>The importance of the event does not count. They gaze with equal interest and absorption at a chorus girl or at a man painting a liver pill sign. They will form as deep a cordon around a man with a clubfoot as they will around a balked automobile. They have the furor rubberendi. They are optical gluttons, feasting and fattening on the misfortunes of their fellow beings. They gloat and pore and glare and squint and stare with their fishy eyes like goggle-eyed perch at the book baited with calamity.</p>
<p>It would seem that Cupid would find these ocular vampires too cold game for his calorific shafts, but have we not yet to discover an immune even among the Protozoa? Yes, beautiful Romance descended upon two of this tribe, and love came into their hearts as they crowded about the prostrate form of a man who had been run over by a brewery wagon.</p>
<p>William Pry was the first on the spot. He was an expert at such gatherings. With an expression of intense happiness on his features, he stood over the victim of the accident, listening to his groans as if to the sweetest music. When the crowd of spectators had swelled to a closely packed circle William saw a violent commotion in the crowd opposite him. Men were hurled aside like ninepins by the impact of some moving body that clove them like the rush of a tornado. With elbows, umbrella, hat-pin, tongue, and fingernails doing their duty, Violet Seymour forced her way through the mob of onlookers to the first row. Strong men who even had been able to secure a seat on the 5.30 Harlem express staggered back like children as she bucked centre. Two large lady spectators who had seen the Duke of Roxburgh married and had often blocked traffic on Twenty-third Street fell back into the second row with ripped shirtwaists when Violet had finished with them. William Pry loved her at first sight.</p>
<p>The ambulance removed the unconscious agent of Cupid. William and Violet remained after the crowd had dispersed. They were true Rubberers. People who leave the scene of an accident with the ambulance have not genuine caoutchouc in the cosmogony of their necks. The delicate, fine flavour of the affair is to be had only in the after-taste—in gloating over the spot, in gazing fixedly at the houses opposite, in hovering there in a dream more exquisite than the opium-eaters ecstasy. William Pry and Violet Seymour were connoisseurs in casualties. They knew how to extract full enjoyment from every incident.</p>
<p>William Pry was the first on the spot. He was an expert at such gatherings. With an expression of intense happiness on his features, he stood over the victim of the accident, listening to his groans as if to the sweetest music. When the crowd of spectators had swelled to a closely packed circle William saw a violent commotion in the crowd opposite him. Men were hurled aside like ninepins by the impact of some moving body that clove them like the rush of a tornado. With elbows, umbrella, hatpin, tongue, and fingernails doing their duty, Violet Seymour forced her way through the mob of onlookers to the first row. Strong men who even had been able to secure a seat on the 5.30 Harlem express staggered back like children as she bucked centre. Two large lady spectators who had seen the Duke of Roxburgh married and had often blocked traffic on Twenty-third Street fell back into the second row with ripped shirtwaists when Violet had finished with them. William Pry loved her at first sight.</p>
<p>The ambulance removed the unconscious agent of Cupid. William and Violet remained after the crowd had dispersed. They were true Rubberers. People who leave the scene of an accident with the ambulance have not genuine caoutchouc in the cosmogony of their necks. The delicate, fine flavour of the affair is to be had only in the aftertaste—in gloating over the spot, in gazing fixedly at the houses opposite, in hovering there in a dream more exquisite than the opium-eaters ecstasy. William Pry and Violet Seymour were connoisseurs in casualties. They knew how to extract full enjoyment from every incident.</p>
<p>Presently they looked at each other. Violet had a brown birthmark on her neck as large as a silver half-dollar. William fixed his eyes upon it. William Pry had inordinately bowed legs. Violet allowed her gaze to linger unswervingly upon them. Face to face they stood thus for moments, each staring at the other. Etiquette would not allow them to speak; but in the Caoutchouc City it is permitted to gaze without stint at the trees in the parks and at the physical blemishes of a fellow creature.</p>
<p>At length with a sigh they parted. But Cupid had been the driver of the brewery wagon, and the wheel that broke a leg united two fond hearts.</p>
<p>The next meeting of the hero and heroine was in front of a board fence near Broadway. The day had been a disappointing one. There had been no fights on the street, children had kept from under the wheels of the street cars, cripples and fat men in negligée shirts were scarce; nobody seemed to be inclined to slip on banana peels or fall down with heart disease. Even the sport from Kokomo, Ind., who claims to be a cousin of ex-Mayor Low and scatters nickels from a cab window, had not put in his appearance. There was nothing to stare at, and William Pry had premonitions of ennui.</p>

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<section id="a-lickpenny-lover" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<h2 epub:type="title">A Lickpenny Lover</h2>
<p>There, were 3,000 girls in the Biggest Store. Masie was one of them. She was eighteen and a saleslady in the gents gloves. Here she became versed in two varieties of human beings—the kind of gents who buy their gloves in department stores and the kind of women who buy gloves for unfortunate gents. Besides this wide knowledge of the human species, Masie had acquired other information. She had listened to the promulgated wisdom of the 2,999 other girls and had stored it in a brain that was as secretive and wary as that of a Maltese cat. Perhaps nature, foreseeing that she would lack wise counsellors, had mingled the saving ingredient of shrewdness along with her beauty, as she has endowed the silver fox of the priceless fur above the other animals with cunning.</p>
<p>For Masie was beautiful. She was a deep-tinted blonde, with the calm poise of a lady who cooks butter cakes in a window. She stood behind her counter in the Biggest Store; and as you closed your hand over the tape-line for your glove measure you thought of Hebe; and as you looked again you wondered how she had come by Minervas eyes.</p>
<p>For Masie was beautiful. She was a deep-tinted blonde, with the calm poise of a lady who cooks butter cakes in a window. She stood behind her counter in the Biggest Store; and as you closed your hand over the tapeline for your glove measure you thought of Hebe; and as you looked again you wondered how she had come by Minervas eyes.</p>
<p>When the floorwalker was not looking Masie chewed tutti frutti; when he was looking she gazed up as if at the clouds and smiled wistfully.</p>
<p>That is the shopgirl smile, and I enjoin you to shun it unless you are well fortified with callosity of the heart, caramels and a congeniality for the capers of Cupid. This smile belonged to Masies recreation hours and not to the store; but the floorwalker must have his own. He is the Shylock of the stores. When he comes nosing around the bridge of his nose is a toll-bridge. It is goo-goo eyes or “git” when he looks toward a pretty girl. Of course not all floorwalkers are thus. Only a few days ago the papers printed news of one over eighty years of age.</p>
<p>One day Irving Carter, painter, millionaire, traveller, poet, automobilist, happened to enter the Biggest Store. It is due to him to add that his visit was not voluntary. Filial duty took him by the collar and dragged him inside, while his mother philandered among the bronze and terra-cotta statuettes.</p>
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<p>As he neared the vicinity of his fate he hesitated, suddenly conscious of this unknown phase of Cupids less worthy profession.</p>
<p>Three or four cheap fellows, sonorously garbed, were leaning over the counters, wrestling with the mediatorial hand-coverings, while giggling girls played vivacious seconds to their lead upon the strident string of coquetry. Carter would have retreated, but he had gone too far. Masie confronted him behind her counter with a questioning look in eyes as coldly, beautifully, warmly blue as the glint of summer sunshine on an iceberg drifting in Southern seas.</p>
<p>And then Irving Carter, painter, millionaire, <abbr>etc.</abbr>, felt a warm flush rise to his aristocratically pale face. But not from diffidence. The blush was intellectual in origin. He knew in a moment that he stood in the ranks of the ready-made youths who wooed the giggling girls at other counters. Himself leaned against the oaken trysting place of a cockney Cupid with a desire in his heart for the favor of a glove salesgirl. He was no more than Bill and Jack and Mickey. And then he felt a sudden tolerance for them, and an elating, courageous contempt for the conventions upon which he had fed, and an unhesitating determination to have this perfect creature for his own.</p>
<p>When the gloves were paid for and wrapped Carter lingered for a moment. The dimples at the corners of Masies damask mouth deepened. All gentlemen who bought gloves lingered in just that way. She curved an arm, showing like Psyches through her shirt-waist sleeve, and rested an elbow upon the show-case edge.</p>
<p>When the gloves were paid for and wrapped Carter lingered for a moment. The dimples at the corners of Masies damask mouth deepened. All gentlemen who bought gloves lingered in just that way. She curved an arm, showing like Psyches through her shirtwaist sleeve, and rested an elbow upon the showcase edge.</p>
<p>Carter had never before encountered a situation of which he had not been perfect master. But now he stood far more awkward than Bill or Jack or Mickey. He had no chance of meeting this beautiful girl socially. His mind struggled to recall the nature and habits of shopgirls as he had read or heard of them. Somehow he had received the idea that they sometimes did not insist too strictly upon the regular channels of introduction. His heart beat loudly at the thought of proposing an unconventional meeting with this lovely and virginal being. But the tumult in his heart gave him courage.</p>
<p>After a few friendly and well-received remarks on general subjects, he laid his card by her hand on the counter.</p>
<p>“Will you please pardon me,” he said, “if I seem too bold; but I earnestly hope you will allow me the pleasure of seeing you again. There is my name; I assure you that it is with the greatest respect that I ask the favor of becoming one of your fr—acquaintances. May I not hope for the privilege?”</p>
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<p>“Please dont say such things,” pleaded Carter. “Listen to me, dear. Ever since I first looked into your eyes you have been the only woman in the world for me.”</p>
<p>“Oh, aint you the kidder!” smiled Masie. “How many other girls did you ever tell that?”</p>
<p>But Carter persisted. And at length he reached the flimsy, fluttering little soul of the shopgirl that existed somewhere deep down in her lovely bosom. His words penetrated the heart whose very lightness was its safest armor. She looked up at him with eyes that saw. And a warm glow visited her cool cheeks. Tremblingly, awfully, her moth wings closed, and she seemed about to settle upon the flower of love. Some faint glimmer of life and its possibilities on the other side of her glove counter dawned upon her. Carter felt the change and crowded the opportunity.</p>
<p>“Marry me, Masie,” he whispered softly, “and we will go away from this ugly city to beautiful ones. We will forget work and business, and life will be one long holiday. I know where I should take you—I have been there often. Just think of a shore where summer is eternal, where the waves are always rippling on the lovely beach and the people are happy and free as children. We will sail to those shores and remain there as long as you please. In one of those far-away cities there are grand and lovely palaces and towers full of beautiful pictures and statues. The streets of the city are water, and one travels about in—”</p>
<p>“Marry me, Masie,” he whispered softly, “and we will go away from this ugly city to beautiful ones. We will forget work and business, and life will be one long holiday. I know where I should take you—I have been there often. Just think of a shore where summer is eternal, where the waves are always rippling on the lovely beach and the people are happy and free as children. We will sail to those shores and remain there as long as you please. In one of those faraway cities there are grand and lovely palaces and towers full of beautiful pictures and statues. The streets of the city are water, and one travels about in—”</p>
<p>“I know,” said Masie, sitting up suddenly. “Gondolas.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” smiled Carter.</p>
<p>“I thought so,” said Masie.</p>
<p>“And then,” continued Carter, “we will travel on and see whatever we wish in the world. After the European cities we will visit India and the ancient cities there, and ride on elephants and see the wonderful temples of the Hindoos and Brahmins and the Japanese gardens and the camel trains and chariot races in Persia, and all the queer sights of foreign countries. Dont you think you would like it, Masie?”</p>
<p>“And then,” continued Carter, “we will travel on and see whatever we wish in the world. After the European cities we will visit India and the ancient cities there, and ride on elephants and see the wonderful temples of the Hindus and Brahmins and the Japanese gardens and the camel trains and chariot races in Persia, and all the queer sights of foreign countries. Dont you think you would like it, Masie?”</p>
<p>Masie rose to her feet.</p>
<p>“I think we had better be going home,” she said, coolly. “Its getting late.”</p>
<p>Carter humored her. He had come to know her varying, thistle-down 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>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 Masies 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>“Oh, him?” said Masie, patting her side curls. “He aint in it any more. Say, Lu, what do you think that fellow wanted me to do?”</p>

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<p>Tis thrue,” admitted <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Dempsey, “that he seems to be a sort <span epub:type="z3998:roman">iv</span> a Dago, and too coolchured in his spache for a rale gentleman. But ye may be misjudgin him. Ye should niver suspect any wan of bein of noble descint that pays cash and pathronizes the laundry riglar.”</p>
<p>“Hes the same thricks of spakin and blarneyin wid his hands,” sighed Katy, “as the Frinch nobleman at <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Tooles that ran away wid <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Tooles Sunday pants and left the photograph of the Bastile, his grandfathers chat-taw, as security for tin weeks rint.”</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Brunelli continued his calorific wooing. Katy continued to hesitate. One day he asked her out to dine and she felt that a dénouement was in the air. While they are on their way, with Katy in her best muslin, you must take as an entracte a brief peep at New Yorks Bohemia.</p>
<p>Tonios restaurant is in Bohemia. The very location of it is secret. If you wish to know where it is ask the first person you meet. He will tell you in a whisper. Tonio discountenances custom; he keeps his house-front black and forbidding; he gives you a pretty bad dinner; he locks his door at the dining hour; but he knows spaghetti as the boarding-house knows cold veal; and—he has deposited many dollars in a certain Banco di—something with many gold vowels in the name on its windows.</p>
<p>Tonios restaurant is in Bohemia. The very location of it is secret. If you wish to know where it is ask the first person you meet. He will tell you in a whisper. Tonio discountenances custom; he keeps his house-front black and forbidding; he gives you a pretty bad dinner; he locks his door at the dining hour; but he knows spaghetti as the boardinghouse knows cold veal; and—he has deposited many dollars in a certain Banco di—something with many gold vowels in the name on its windows.</p>
<p>To this restaurant <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Brunelli conducted Katy. The house was dark and the shades were lowered; but <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Brunelli touched an electric button by the basement door, and they were admitted.</p>
<p>Along a long, dark, narrow hallway they went and then through a shining and spotless kitchen that opened directly upon a back yard.</p>
<p>The walls of houses hemmed three sides of the yard; a high, board fence, surrounded by cats, the other. A wash of clothes was suspended high upon a line stretched from diagonal corners. Those were property clothes, and were never taken in by Tonio. They were there that wits with defective pronunciation might make puns in connection with the ragout.</p>
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<p>When the ovation was concluded <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Brunelli, with a final bow, stepped nimbly into the kitchen and flung off his coat and waistcoat.</p>
<p>Flaherty, the nimblest “garsong” among the waiters, had been assigned to the special service of Katy. She was a little faint from hunger, for the Irish stew on the Dempsey table had been particularly weak that day. Delicious odors from unknown dishes tantalized her. And Flaherty began to bring to her table course after course of ambrosial food that the gods might have pronounced excellent.</p>
<p>But even in the midst of her Lucullian repast Katy laid down her knife and fork. Her heart sank as lead, and a tear fell upon her filet mignon. Her haunting suspicions of the star lodger arose again, fourfold. Thus courted and admired and smiled upon by that fashionable and gracious assembly, what else could <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Brunelli be but one of those dazzling titled patricians, glorious of name but shy of rent money, concerning whom experience had made her wise? With a sense of his ineligibility growing within her there was mingled a torturing conviction that his personality was becoming more pleasing to her day by day. And why had he left her to dine alone?</p>
<p>But here he was coming again, now coatless, his snowy shirt-sleeves rolled high above his Jeffriesonian elbows, a white yachting cap perched upon his jetty curls.</p>
<p>But here he was coming again, now coatless, his snowy shirtsleeves rolled high above his Jeffriesonian elbows, a white yachting cap perched upon his jetty curls.</p>
<p>Tonio! Tonio!” shouted many, and “The spaghetti! The spaghetti!” shouted the rest.</p>
<p>Never at Tonios did a waiter dare to serve a dish of spaghetti until Tonio came to test it, to prove the sauce and add the needful dash of seasoning that gave it perfection.</p>
<p>From table to table moved Tonio, like a prince in his palace, greeting his guests. White, jewelled hands signalled him from every side.</p>
<p>A glass of wine with this one and that, smiles for all, a jest and repartee for any that might challenge—truly few princes could be so agreeable a host! And what artist could ask for further appreciation of his handiwork? Katy did not know that the proudest consummation of a New Yorkers ambition is to shake hands with a spaghetti chef or to receive a nod from a Broadway head-waiter.</p>
<p>A glass of wine with this one and that, smiles for all, a jest and repartee for any that might challenge—truly few princes could be so agreeable a host! And what artist could ask for further appreciation of his handiwork? Katy did not know that the proudest consummation of a New Yorkers ambition is to shake hands with a spaghetti chef or to receive a nod from a Broadway headwaiter.</p>
<p>At last the company thinned, leaving but a few couples and quartettes lingering over new wine and old stories. And then came <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Brunelli to Katys secluded table, and drew a chair close to hers.</p>
<p>Katy smiled at him dreamily. She was eating the last spoonful of a raspberry roll with Burgundy sauce.</p>
<p>“You have seen!” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Brunelli, laying one hand upon his collar bone. “I am Antonio Brunelli! Yes; I am the great Tonio! You have not suspect that! I loave you, Katy, and you shall marry with me. Is it not so? Call me Antonio, and say that you will be mine.”</p>

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<p>The habitat of the sport is the lobby or the outside corner of certain hotels and combination restaurants and cafés. They are mostly men of different sizes, running from small to large; but they are unanimous in the possession of a recently shaven, blue-black cheek and chin and dark overcoats (in season) with black velvet collars.</p>
<p>Of the domestic life of the sport little is known. It has been said that Cupid and Hymen sometimes take a hand in the game and copper the queen of hearts to lose. Daring theorists have averred—not content with simply saying—that a sport often contracts a spouse, and even incurs descendants. Sometimes he sits in the game of politics; and then at chowder picnics there is a revelation of a <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sport and little Sports in glazed hats with tin pails.</p>
<p>But mostly the sport is Oriental. He believes his women-folk should not be too patent. Somewhere behind grilles or flower-ornamented fire escapes they await him. There, no doubt, they tread on rugs from Teheran and are diverted by the bulbul and play upon the dulcimer and feed upon sweetmeats. But away from his home the sport is an integer. He does not, as men of other races in Manhattan do, become the convoy in his unoccupied hours of fluttering laces and high heels that tick off delectably the happy seconds of the evening parade. He herds with his own race at corners, and delivers a commentary in his Carib lingo upon the passing show.</p>
<p>“Big Jim” Dougherty had a wife, but he did not wear a button portrait of her upon his lapel. He had a home in one of those brown-stone, iron-railed streets on the west side that look like a recently excavated bowling alley of Pompeii.</p>
<p>“Big Jim” Dougherty had a wife, but he did not wear a button portrait of her upon his lapel. He had a home in one of those brownstone, iron-railed streets on the west side that look like a recently excavated bowling alley of Pompeii.</p>
<p>To this home of his <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Dougherty repaired each night when the hour was so late as to promise no further diversion in the arch domains of sport. By that time the occupant of the monogamistic harem would be in dreamland, the bulbul silenced and the hour propitious for slumber.</p>
<p>“Big Jim” always arose at twelve, meridian, for breakfast, and soon afterward he would return to the rendezvous of his “crowd.”</p>
<p>He was always vaguely conscious that there was a <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Dougherty. He would have received without denial the charge that the quiet, neat, comfortable little woman across the table at home was his wife. In fact, he remembered pretty well that they had been married for nearly four years. She would often tell him about the cute tricks of Spot, the canary, and the light-haired lady that lived in the window of the flat across the street.</p>
<p>“Big Jim” Dougherty even listened to this conversation of hers sometimes. He knew that she would have a nice dinner ready for him every evening at seven when he came for it. She sometimes went to matinées, and she had a talking machine with six dozen records. Once when her Uncle Amos blew in on a wind from up-state, she went with him to the Eden Musée. Surely these things were diversions enough for any woman.</p>
<p>“Big Jim” Dougherty even listened to this conversation of hers sometimes. He knew that she would have a nice dinner ready for him every evening at seven when he came for it. She sometimes went to matinées, and she had a talking machine with six dozen records. Once when her Uncle Amos blew in on a wind from upstate, she went with him to the Eden Musée. Surely these things were diversions enough for any woman.</p>
<p>One afternoon <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Dougherty finished his breakfast, put on his hat and got away fairly for the door. When his hand was on the knob be heard his wifes voice.</p>
<p>“Jim,” she said, firmly, “I wish you would take me out to dinner this evening. It has been three years since you have been outside the door with me.”</p>
<p>“Big Jim” was astounded. She had never asked anything like this before. It had the flavour of a totally new proposition. But he was a game sport.</p>
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<p>“Ill be ready,” said his wife, calmly.</p>
<p>At seven she descended the stone steps in the Pompeian bowling alley at the side of “Big Jim” Dougherty. She wore a dinner gown made of a stuff that the spiders must have woven, and of a color that a twilight sky must have contributed. A light coat with many admirably unnecessary capes and adorably inutile ribbons floated downward from her shoulders. Fine feathers do make fine birds; and the only reproach in the saying is for the man who refuses to give up his earnings to the ostrich-tip industry.</p>
<p>“Big Jim” Dougherty was troubled. There was a being at his side whom he did not know. He thought of the sober-hued plumage that this bird of paradise was accustomed to wear in her cage, and this winged revelation puzzled him. In some way she reminded him of the Delia Cullen that he had married four years before. Shyly and rather awkwardly he stalked at her right hand.</p>
<p>“After dinner Ill take you back home, Dele,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Dougherty, “and then Ill drop back up to Seltzers with the boys. You can have swell chuck to-night if you want it. I made a winning on Anaconda yesterday; so you can go as far as you like.”</p>
<p>“After dinner Ill take you back home, Dele,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Dougherty, “and then Ill drop back up to Seltzers with the boys. You can have swell chuck tonight if you want it. I made a winning on Anaconda yesterday; so you can go as far as you like.”</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Dougherty had intended to make the outing with his unwonted wife an inconspicuous one. Uxoriousness was a weakness that the precepts of the Caribs did not countenance. If any of his friends of the track, the billiard cloth or the square circle had wives they had never complained of the fact in public. There were a number of table dhôte places on the cross streets near the broad and shining way; and to one of these he had purposed to escort her, so that the bushel might not be removed from the light of his domesticity.</p>
<p>But while on the way <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Dougherty altered those intentions. He had been casting stealthy glances at his attractive companion and he was seized with the conviction that she was no selling plater. He resolved to parade with his wife past Seltzers café, where at this time a number of his tribe would be gathered to view the daily evening procession. Yes; and he would take her to dine at Hoogleys, the swellest slow-lunch warehouse on the line, he said to himself.</p>
<p>The congregation of smooth-faced tribal gentlemen were on watch at Seltzers. As <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Dougherty and his reorganized Delia passed they stared, momentarily petrified, and then removed their hats—a performance as unusual to them as was the astonishing innovation presented to their gaze by “Big Jim.” On the latter gentlemans impassive face there appeared a slight flicker of triumph—a faint flicker, no more to be observed than the expression called there by the draft of little casino to a four-card spade flush.</p>
<p>Hoogleys was animated. Electric lights shone as, indeed, they were expected to do. And the napery, the glassware and the flowers also meritoriously performed the spectacular duties required of them. The guests were numerous, well-dressed and gay.</p>
<p>A waiter—not necessarily obsequious—conducted “Big Jim” Dougherty and his wife to a table.</p>
<p>“Play that menu straight across for what you like, Dele,” said “Big Jim.” “Its you for a trough of the gilded oats to-night. It strikes me that maybe weve been sticking too fast to home fodder.”</p>
<p>“Play that menu straight across for what you like, Dele,” said “Big Jim.” “Its you for a trough of the gilded oats tonight. It strikes me that maybe weve been sticking too fast to home fodder.”</p>
<p>“Big Jims” wife gave her order. He looked at her with respect. She had mentioned truffles; and he had not known that she knew what truffles were. From the wine list she designated an appropriate and desirable brand. He looked at her with some admiration.</p>
<p>She was beaming with the innocent excitement that woman derives from the exercise of her gregariousness. She was talking to him about a hundred things with animation and delight. And as the meal progressed her cheeks, colorless from a life indoors, took on a delicate flush. “Big Jim” looked around the room and saw that none of the women there had her charm. And then he thought of the three years she had suffered immurement, uncomplaining, and a flush of shame warmed him, for he carried fair play as an item in his creed.</p>
<p>But when the Honorable Patrick Corrigan, leader in Doughertys district and a friend of his, saw them and came over to the table, matters got to the three-quarter stretch. The Honorable Patrick was a gallant man, both in deeds and words. As for the Blarney stone, his previous actions toward it must have been pronounced. Heavy damages for breach of promise could surely have been obtained had the Blarney stone seen fit to sue the Honorable Patrick.</p>

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<h2 epub:type="title">Extradited from Bohemia</h2>
<p>From near the village of Harmony, at the foot of the Green Mountains, came Miss Medora Martin to New York with her color-box and easel.</p>
<p>Miss Medora resembled the rose which the autumnal frosts had spared the longest of all her sister blossoms. In Harmony, when she started alone to the wicked city to study art, they said she was a mad, reckless, headstrong girl. In New York, when she first took her seat at a West Side boardinghouse table, the boarders asked: “Who is the nice-looking old maid?”</p>
<p>Medora took heart, a cheap hall bedroom and two art lessons a week from Professor Angelini, a retired barber who had studied his profession in a Harlem dancing academy. There was no one to set her right, for here in the big city they do it unto all of us. How many of us are badly shaved daily and taught the two-step imperfectly by ex-pupils of Bastien Le Page and Gérôme? The most pathetic sight in New York—except the manners of the rush-hour crowds—is the dreary march of the hopeless army of Mediocrity. Here Art is no benignant goddess, but a Circe who turns her wooers into mewing Toms and Tabbies who linger about the doorsteps of her abode, unmindful of the flying brickbats and boot-jacks of the critics. Some of us creep back to our native villages to the skim-milk of “I told you so”; but most of us prefer to remain in the cold courtyard of our mistresss temple, snatching the scraps that fall from her divine table dhôte. But some of us grow weary at last of the fruitless service. And then there are two fates open to us. We can get a job driving a grocers wagon, or we can get swallowed up in the Vortex of Bohemia. The latter sounds good; but the former really pans out better. For, when the grocer pays us off we can rent a dress suit and—the capitalized system of humor describes it best—Get Bohemia On the Run.</p>
<p>Medora took heart, a cheap hall bedroom and two art lessons a week from Professor Angelini, a retired barber who had studied his profession in a Harlem dancing academy. There was no one to set her right, for here in the big city they do it unto all of us. How many of us are badly shaved daily and taught the two-step imperfectly by ex-pupils of Bastien Le Page and Gérôme? The most pathetic sight in New York—except the manners of the rush-hour crowds—is the dreary march of the hopeless army of Mediocrity. Here Art is no benignant goddess, but a Circe who turns her wooers into mewing Toms and Tabbies who linger about the doorsteps of her abode, unmindful of the flying brickbats and bootjacks of the critics. Some of us creep back to our native villages to the skim-milk of “I told you so”; but most of us prefer to remain in the cold courtyard of our mistresss temple, snatching the scraps that fall from her divine table dhôte. But some of us grow weary at last of the fruitless service. And then there are two fates open to us. We can get a job driving a grocers wagon, or we can get swallowed up in the Vortex of Bohemia. The latter sounds good; but the former really pans out better. For, when the grocer pays us off we can rent a dress suit and—the capitalized system of humor describes it best—Get Bohemia On the Run.</p>
<p>Miss Medora chose the Vortex and thereby furnishes us with our little story.</p>
<p>Professor Angelini praised her sketches excessively. Once when she had made a neat study of a horse-chestnut tree in the park he declared she would become a second Rosa Bonheur. Again—a great artist has his moods—he would say cruel and cutting things. For example, Medora had spent an afternoon patiently sketching the statue and the architecture at Columbus Circle. Tossing it aside with a sneer, the professor informed her that Giotto had once drawn a perfect circle with one sweep of his hand.</p>
<p>One day it rained, the weekly remittance from Harmony was overdue, Medora had a headache, the professor had tried to borrow two dollars from her, her art dealer had sent back all her water-colors unsold, and<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Binkley asked her out to dinner.</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Binkley was the gay boy of the boarding-house. He was forty-nine, and owned a fishstall in a downtown market. But after six oclock he wore an evening suit and whooped things up connected with the beaux arts. The young men said he was an “Indian.” He was supposed to be an accomplished habitué of the inner circles of Bohemia. It was no secret that he had once loaned $10 to a young man who had had a drawing printed in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Puck</i>. Often has one thus obtained his entrée into the charmed circle, while the other obtained both his entrée and roast.</p>
<p>The other boarders enviously regarded Medora as she left at <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Binkleys side at nine oclock. She was as sweet as a cluster of dried autumn grasses in her pale blue—oh—er—that very thin stuff—in her pale blue Comstockized silk waist and box-pleated voile skirt, with a soft pink glow on her thin cheeks and the tiniest bit of rouge powder on her face, with her handkerchief and room key in her brown walrus, pebble-grain hand-bag.</p>
<p>One day it rained, the weekly remittance from Harmony was overdue, Medora had a headache, the professor had tried to borrow two dollars from her, her art dealer had sent back all her watercolors unsold, and<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Binkley asked her out to dinner.</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Binkley was the gay boy of the boardinghouse. He was forty-nine, and owned a fishstall in a downtown market. But after six oclock he wore an evening suit and whooped things up connected with the beaux arts. The young men said he was an “Indian.” He was supposed to be an accomplished habitué of the inner circles of Bohemia. It was no secret that he had once loaned $10 to a young man who had had a drawing printed in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Puck</i>. Often has one thus obtained his entrée into the charmed circle, while the other obtained both his entrée and roast.</p>
<p>The other boarders enviously regarded Medora as she left at <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Binkleys side at nine oclock. She was as sweet as a cluster of dried autumn grasses in her pale blue—oh—er—that very thin stuff—in her pale blue Comstockized silk waist and box-pleated voile skirt, with a soft pink glow on her thin cheeks and the tiniest bit of rouge powder on her face, with her handkerchief and room key in her brown walrus, pebble-grain handbag.</p>
<p>And <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Binkley looked imposing and dashing with his red face and gray mustache, and his tight dress coat, that made the back of his neck roll up just like a successful novelists.</p>
<p>They drove in a cab to the Café Terence, just off the most glittering part of Broadway, which, as every one knows, is one of the most popular and widely patronized, jealously exclusive Bohemian resorts in the city.</p>
<p>Down between the rows of little tables tripped Medora, of the Green Mountains, after her escort. Thrice in a lifetime may woman walk upon clouds—once when she trippeth to the altar, once when she first enters Bohemian halls, the last when she marches back across her first garden with the dead hen of her neighbor in her hand.</p>
<p>There was a table set, with three or four about it. A waiter buzzed around it like a bee, and silver and glass shone upon it. And, preliminary to the meal, as the prehistoric granite strata heralded the protozoa, the bread of Gaul, compounded after the formula of the recipe for the eternal hills, was there set forth to the hand and tooth of a long-suffering city, while the gods lay beside their nectar and home-made biscuits and smiled, and the dentists leaped for joy in their gold-leafy dens.</p>
<p>There was a table set, with three or four about it. A waiter buzzed around it like a bee, and silver and glass shone upon it. And, preliminary to the meal, as the prehistoric granite strata heralded the protozoa, the bread of Gaul, compounded after the formula of the recipe for the eternal hills, was there set forth to the hand and tooth of a long-suffering city, while the gods lay beside their nectar and homemade biscuits and smiled, and the dentists leaped for joy in their gold-leafy dens.</p>
<p>The eye of Binkley fixed a young man at his table with the Bohemian gleam, which is a compound of the look of the Basilisk, the shine of a bubble of Würzburger, the inspiration of genius and the pleading of a panhandler.</p>
<p>The young man sprang to his feet. “Hello, Bink, old boy!” he shouted. “Dont tell me you were going to pass our table. Join us—unless youve another crowd on hand.”</p>
<p>“Dont mind, old chap,” said Binkley, of the fish-stall. “You know how I like to butt up against the fine arts. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Vandyke<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Madder—er—Miss Martin, one of the elect also in art—er—”</p>
@ -29,12 +29,12 @@
<p>“Say, Maddy,” he whispered, feelingly, “sometimes Im tempted to pay this Philistine his ten dollars and get rid of him.”</p>
<p>Madder ruffled his long, sandy locks and disarranged his careless tie.</p>
<p>“Dont think of it, Vandy,” he replied. “We are short, and Art is long.”</p>
<p>Medora ate strange viands and drank elderberry wine that they poured in her glass. It was just the color of that in the Vermont home. The waiter poured something in another glass that seemed to be boiling, but when she tasted it it was not hot. She had never felt so light-hearted before. She thought lovingly of the Green Mountain farm and its fauna. She leaned, smiling, to Miss Elise.</p>
<p>Medora ate strange viands and drank elderberry wine that they poured in her glass. It was just the color of that in the Vermont home. The waiter poured something in another glass that seemed to be boiling, but when she tasted it it was not hot. She had never felt so lighthearted before. She thought lovingly of the Green Mountain farm and its fauna. She leaned, smiling, to Miss Elise.</p>
<p>“If I were at home,” she said, beamingly, “I could show you the cutest little calf!”</p>
<p>“Nothing for you in the White Lane,” said Miss Elise. “Why dont you pad?”</p>
<p>The orchestra played a wailing waltz that Medora had learned from the hand-organs. She followed the air with nodding head in a sweet soprano hum. Madder looked across the table at her, and wondered in what strange waters Binkley had caught her in his seine. She smiled at him, and they raised glasses and drank of the wine that boiled when it was cold. Binkley had abandoned art and was prating of the unusual spring catch of shad. Miss Elise arranged the palette-and-maul-stick tie pin of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Vandyke. A Philistine at some distant table was maundering volubly either about Jerome or Gérôme. A famous actress was discoursing excitably about monogrammed hosiery. A hose clerk from a department store was loudly proclaiming his opinions of the drama. A writer was abusing Dickens. A magazine editor and a photographer were drinking a dry brand at a reserved table. A 3625-42 young lady was saying to an eminent sculptor: “Fudge for your Prax Italys! Bring one of your Venus Anno Dominis down to Cohens and see how quick shed be turned down for a cloak model. Back to the quarries with your Greeks and Dagos!”</p>
<p>The orchestra played a wailing waltz that Medora had learned from the hand-organs. She followed the air with nodding head in a sweet soprano hum. Madder looked across the table at her, and wondered in what strange waters Binkley had caught her in his seine. She smiled at him, and they raised glasses and drank of the wine that boiled when it was cold. Binkley had abandoned art and was prating of the unusual spring catch of shad. Miss Elise arranged the palette-and-maulstick tie pin of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Vandyke. A Philistine at some distant table was maundering volubly either about Jerome or Gérôme. A famous actress was discoursing excitably about monogrammed hosiery. A hose clerk from a department store was loudly proclaiming his opinions of the drama. A writer was abusing Dickens. A magazine editor and a photographer were drinking a dry brand at a reserved table. A 3625-42 young lady was saying to an eminent sculptor: “Fudge for your Prax Italys! Bring one of your Venus Anno Dominis down to Cohens and see how quick shed be turned down for a cloak model. Back to the quarries with your Greeks and Dagos!”</p>
<p>Thus went Bohemia.</p>
<p>At eleven <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Binkley took Medora to the boarding-house and left her, with a society bow, at the foot of the hall stairs. She went up to her room and lit the gas.</p>
<p>At eleven <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Binkley took Medora to the boardinghouse and left her, with a society bow, at the foot of the hall stairs. She went up to her room and lit the gas.</p>
<p>And then, as suddenly as the dreadful genie arose in vapor from the copper vase of the fisherman, arose in that room the formidable shape of the New England Conscience. The terrible thing that Medora had done was revealed to her in its full enormity. She had sat in the presence of the ungodly and looked upon the wine both when it was red and effervescent.</p>
<p>At midnight she wrote this letter:</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:letter">

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<section id="from-each-according-to-his-ability" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<h2 epub:type="title">From Each According to His Ability</h2>
<p>Vuyning left his club, cursing it softly, without any particular anger. From ten in the morning until eleven it had bored him immeasurably. Kirk with his fish story, Brooks with his Porto Rico cigars, old Morrison with his anecdote about the widow, Hepburn with his invariable luck at billiards—all these afflictions had been repeated without change of bill or scenery. Besides these morning evils Miss Allison had refused him again on the night before. But that was a chronic trouble. Five times she had laughed at his offer to make her <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Vuyning. He intended to ask her again the next Wednesday evening.</p>
<p>Vuyning walked along Forty-fourth Street to Broadway, and then drifted down the great sluice that washes out the dust of the gold-mines of Gotham. He wore a morning suit of light gray, low, dull kid shoes, a plain, finely woven straw hat, and his visible linen was the most delicate possible shade of heliotrope. His necktie was the blue-gray of a November sky, and its knot was plainly the outcome of a lordly carelessness combined with an accurate conception of the most recent dictum of fashion.</p>
<p>Vuyning walked along Forty-fourth Street to Broadway, and then drifted down the great sluice that washes out the dust of the goldmines of Gotham. He wore a morning suit of light gray, low, dull kid shoes, a plain, finely woven straw hat, and his visible linen was the most delicate possible shade of heliotrope. His necktie was the blue-gray of a November sky, and its knot was plainly the outcome of a lordly carelessness combined with an accurate conception of the most recent dictum of fashion.</p>
<p>Now, to write of a mans haberdashery is a worse thing than to write a historical novel “around” Paul Jones, or to pen a testimonial to a hay-fever cure.</p>
<p>Therefore, let it be known that the description of Vuynings apparel is germane to the movements of the story, and not to make room for the new fall stock of goods.</p>
<p>Even Broadway that morning was a discord in Vuynings ears; and in his eyes it paralleled for a few dreamy, dreary minutes a certain howling, scorching, seething, malodorous slice of street that he remembered in Morocco. He saw the struggling mass of dogs, beggars, fakirs, slave-drivers and veiled women in carts without horses, the sun blazing brightly among the bazaars, the piles of rubbish from ruined temples in the street—and then a lady, passing, jabbed the ferrule of a parasol in his side and brought him back to Broadway.</p>
@ -34,7 +34,7 @@
<p>“Oh, I suppose,” said Vuyning, with a laugh, “that my ancestors picked up the knack while they were peddling clothes from house to house a couple of hundred years ago. Im told they did that.”</p>
<p>“And mine,” said Emerson, cheerfully, “were making their visits at night, I guess, and didnt have a chance to catch on to the correct styles.”</p>
<p>“I tell you what,” said Vuyning, whose ennui had taken wings, “Ill take you to my tailor. Hell eliminate the mark of the beast from your exterior. That is, if you care to go any further in the way of expense.”</p>
<p>“Play em to the ceiling,” said Emerson, with a boyish smile of joy. “Ive got a roll as big around as a barrel of black-eyed peas and as loose as the wrapper of a two-for-fiver. I dont mind telling you that I was not touring among the Antipodes when the burglar-proof safe of the Farmers National Bank of Butterville, Ia., flew open some moonless nights ago to the tune of $16,000.”</p>
<p>“Play em to the ceiling,” said Emerson, with a boyish smile of joy. “Ive got a roll as big around as a barrel of black-eyed peas and as loose as the wrapper of a two-for-fiver. I dont mind telling you that I was not touring among the Antipodes when the burglarproof safe of the Farmers National Bank of Butterville, Ia., flew open some moonless nights ago to the tune of $16,000.”</p>
<p>“Arent you afraid,” asked Vuyning, “that Ill call a cop and hand you over?”</p>
<p>“You tell me,” said Emerson, coolly, “why I didnt keep them.”</p>
<p>He laid Vuynings pocketbook and watch—the Vuyning 100-year-old family watch—on the table.</p>
@ -49,7 +49,7 @@
<p>“Be comforted,” said Vuyning. “He has none of the little vices. He is a burglar and safe-blower, and a pal of mine.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Mary Ann!” said they. “Must you always adorn every statement with your alleged humor?”</p>
<p>It came to pass that at eight in the evening a calm, smooth, brilliant, affable man sat at Vuynings right hand during dinner. And when the ones who pass their lives in city streets spoke of skyscrapers or of the little Czar on his far, frozen throne, or of insignificant fish from inconsequential streams, this big, deep-chested man, faultlessly clothed, and eyed like an Emperor, disposed of their Lilliputian chatter with a wink of his eyelash.</p>
<p>And then he painted for them with hard, broad strokes a marvellous lingual panorama of the West. He stacked snow-topped mountains on the table, freezing the hot dishes of the waiting diners. With a wave of his hand he swept the clubhouse into a pine-crowned gorge, turning the waiters into a grim posse, and each listener into a blood-stained fugitive, climbing with torn fingers upon the ensanguined rocks. He touched the table and spake, and the five panted as they gazed on barren lava beds, and each man took his tongue between his teeth and felt his mouth bake at the tale of a land empty of water and food. As simply as Homer sang, while he dug a tine of his fork leisurely into the tablecloth, he opened a new world to their view, as does one who tells a child of the Looking-Glass Country.</p>
<p>And then he painted for them with hard, broad strokes a marvellous lingual panorama of the West. He stacked snow-topped mountains on the table, freezing the hot dishes of the waiting diners. With a wave of his hand he swept the clubhouse into a pine-crowned gorge, turning the waiters into a grim posse, and each listener into a bloodstained fugitive, climbing with torn fingers upon the ensanguined rocks. He touched the table and spake, and the five panted as they gazed on barren lava beds, and each man took his tongue between his teeth and felt his mouth bake at the tale of a land empty of water and food. As simply as Homer sang, while he dug a tine of his fork leisurely into the tablecloth, he opened a new world to their view, as does one who tells a child of the Looking-Glass Country.</p>
<p>As one of his listeners might have spoken of tea too strong at a Madison Square “afternoon,” so he depicted the ravages of “redeye” in a border town when the caballeros of the lariat and “forty-five” reduced ennui to a minimum.</p>
<p>And then, with a sweep of his white, unringed hands, he dismissed Melpomene, and forthwith Diana and Amaryllis footed it before the minds eyes of the clubmen.</p>
<p>The savannas of the continent spread before them. The wind, humming through a hundred leagues of sage brush and mesquite, closed their ears to the citys staccato noises. He told them of camps, of ranches marooned in a sea of fragrant prairie blossoms, of gallops in the stilly night that Apollo would have forsaken his daytime steeds to enjoy; he read them the great, rough epic of the cattle and the hills that have not been spoiled by the hand of man, the mason. His words were a telescope to the city men, whose eyes had looked upon Youngstown, O., and whose tongues had called it “West.”</p>
@ -58,14 +58,14 @@
<p>The next morning at ten he met Vuyning, by appointment, at a Forty-second Street café.</p>
<p>Emerson was to leave for the West that day. He wore a suit of dark cheviot that looked to have been draped upon him by an ancient Grecian tailor who was a few thousand years ahead of the styles.</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Vuyning,” said he, with the clear, ingenuous smile of the successful “crook,” “its up to me to go the limit for you any time I can do so. Youre the real thing; and if I can ever return the favor, you bet your life Ill do it.”</p>
<p>“What was that cow-punchers name?” asked Vuyning, “who used to catch a mustang by the nose and mane, and throw him till he put the bridle on?”</p>
<p>“What was that cowpunchers name?” asked Vuyning, “who used to catch a mustang by the nose and mane, and throw him till he put the bridle on?”</p>
<p>“Bates,” said Emerson.</p>
<p>“Thanks,” said Vuyning. “I thought it was Yates. Oh, about that toggery business—Id forgotten that.”</p>
<p>“Ive been looking for some guy to put me on the right track for years,” said Emerson. “Youre the goods, duty free, and half-way to the warehouse in a red wagon.”</p>
<p>“Bacon, toasted on a green willow switch over red coals, ought to put broiled lobsters out of business,” said Vuyning. “And you say a horse at the end of a thirty-foot rope cant pull a ten-inch stake out of wet prairie? Well, good-bye, old man, if you must be off.”</p>
<p>“Ive been looking for some guy to put me on the right track for years,” said Emerson. “Youre the goods, duty free, and halfway to the warehouse in a red wagon.”</p>
<p>“Bacon, toasted on a green willow switch over red coals, ought to put broiled lobsters out of business,” said Vuyning. “And you say a horse at the end of a thirty-foot rope cant pull a ten-inch stake out of wet prairie? Well, goodbye, old man, if you must be off.”</p>
<p>At one oclock Vuyning had luncheon with Miss Allison by previous arrangement.</p>
<p>For thirty minutes he babbled to her, unaccountably, of ranches, horses, cañons, cyclones, round-ups, Rocky Mountains and beans and bacon. She looked at him with wondering and half-terrified eyes.</p>
<p>“I was going to propose again to-day,” said Vuyning, cheerily, “but I wont. Ive worried you often enough. You know dad has a ranch in Colorado. Whats the good of staying here? Jumping jonquils! but its great out there. Im going to start next Tuesday.”</p>
<p>For thirty minutes he babbled to her, unaccountably, of ranches, horses, cañons, cyclones, roundups, Rocky Mountains and beans and bacon. She looked at him with wondering and half-terrified eyes.</p>
<p>“I was going to propose again today,” said Vuyning, cheerily, “but I wont. Ive worried you often enough. You know dad has a ranch in Colorado. Whats the good of staying here? Jumping jonquils! but its great out there. Im going to start next Tuesday.”</p>
<p>“No, you wont,” 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>

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<section id="little-speck-in-garnered-fruit" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<h2 epub:type="title">“Little Speck in Garnered Fruit”</h2>
<p>The honeymoon was at its full. There was a flat with the reddest of new carpets, tasselled portières and six steins with pewter lids arranged on a ledge above the wainscoting of the dining-room. The wonder of it was yet upon them. Neither of them had ever seen a yellow primrose by the rivers brim; but if such a sight had met their eyes at that time it would have seemed like—well, whatever the poet expected the right kind of people to see in it besides a primrose.</p>
<p>The bride sat in the rocker with her feet resting upon the world. She was wrapt in rosy dreams and a kimono of the same hue. She wondered what the people in Greenland and Tasmania and Beloochistan were saying one to another about her marriage to Kid McGarry. Not that it made any difference. There was no welter-weight from London to the Southern Cross that could stand up four hours—no; four rounds—with her bridegroom. And he had been hers for three weeks; and the crook of her little finger could sway him more than the fist of any 142-pounder in the world.</p>
<p>The bride sat in the rocker with her feet resting upon the world. She was wrapt in rosy dreams and a kimono of the same hue. She wondered what the people in Greenland and Tasmania and Beloochistan were saying one to another about her marriage to Kid McGarry. Not that it made any difference. There was no welterweight from London to the Southern Cross that could stand up four hours—no; four rounds—with her bridegroom. And he had been hers for three weeks; and the crook of her little finger could sway him more than the fist of any 142-pounder in the world.</p>
<p>Love, when it is ours, is the other name for self-abnegation and sacrifice. When it belongs to people across the airshaft it means arrogance and self-conceit.</p>
<p>The bride crossed her oxfords and looked thoughtfully at the distemper Cupids on the ceiling.</p>
<p>“Precious,” said she, with the air of Cleopatra asking Antony for Rome done up in tissue paper and delivered at residence, “I think I would like a peach.”</p>
@ -20,21 +20,21 @@
<p>Here he not unreasonably hesitated, for the season was yet early spring, and there seemed small chance of wresting anywhere from those chill streets and stores the coveted luscious guerdon of summers golden prime.</p>
<p>At the Italians fruit-stand on the corner he stopped and cast a contemptuous eye over the display of papered oranges, highly polished apples and wan, sun-hungry bananas.</p>
<p>“Gotta da peach?” asked the Kid in the tongue of Dante, the lover of lovers.</p>
<p>“Ah, no—” sighed the vender. “Not for one mont com-a da peach. Too soon. Gotta da nice-a orange. Like-a da orange?”</p>
<p>Scornful, the Kid pursued his quest. He entered the all-night chop-house, café, and bowling-alley of his friend and admirer, Justus OCallahan. The OCallahan was about in his institution, looking for leaks.</p>
<p>“Ah, no—” sighed the vender. “Not for one mont coma da peach. Too soon. Gotta da nice-a orange. Like-a da orange?”</p>
<p>Scornful, the Kid pursued his quest. He entered the all-night chophouse, café, and bowling-alley of his friend and admirer, Justus OCallahan. The OCallahan was about in his institution, looking for leaks.</p>
<p>“I want it straight,” said the Kid to him. “The old woman has got a hunch that she wants a peach. Now, if youve got a peach, Cal, get it out quick. I want it and others like it if youve got em in plural quantities.”</p>
<p>“The house is yours,” said OCallahan. “But theres no peach in it. Its too soon. I dont suppose you could even find em at one of the Broadway joints. Thats too bad. When a lady fixes her mouth for a certain kind of fruit nothing else wont do. Its too late now to find any of the first-class fruiterers open. But if you think the missis would like some nice oranges Ive just got a box of fine ones in that she might—”</p>
<p>“Much obliged, Cal. Its a peach proposition right from the ring of the gong. Ill try further.”</p>
<p>The time was nearly midnight as the Kid walked down the West-Side avenue. Few stores were open, and such as were practically hooted at the idea of a peach.</p>
<p>But in her moated flat the bride confidently awaited her Persian fruit. A champion welter-weight not find a peach?—not stride triumphantly over the seasons and the zodiac and the almanac to fetch an Amsdens June or a Georgia cling to his owny-own?</p>
<p>But in her moated flat the bride confidently awaited her Persian fruit. A champion welterweight not find a peach?—not stride triumphantly over the seasons and the zodiac and the almanac to fetch an Amsdens June or a Georgia cling to his owny-own?</p>
<p>The Kids eye caught sight of a window that was lighted and gorgeous with natures most entrancing colors. The light suddenly went out. The Kid sprinted and caught the fruiterer locking his door.</p>
<p>“Peaches?” said he, with extreme deliberation.</p>
<p>“Well, no, Sir. Not for three or four weeks yet. I havent any idea where you might find some. There may be a few in town from under the glass, but theyd be hard to locate. Maybe at one of the more expensive hotels—some place where theres plenty of money to waste. Ive got some very fine oranges, though—from a shipload that came in to-day.”</p>
<p>“Well, no, Sir. Not for three or four weeks yet. I havent any idea where you might find some. There may be a few in town from under the glass, but theyd be hard to locate. Maybe at one of the more expensive hotels—some place where theres plenty of money to waste. Ive got some very fine oranges, though—from a shipload that came in today.”</p>
<p>The Kid lingered on the corner for a moment, and then set out briskly toward a pair of green lights that flanked the steps of a building down a dark side street.</p>
<p>“Captain around anywhere?” he asked of the desk sergeant of the police station.</p>
<p>At that moment the captain came briskly forward from the rear. He was in plain clothes and had a busy air.</p>
<p>“Hello, Kid,” he said to the pugilist. “Thought you were bridal-touring?</p>
<p>“Got back yesterday. Im a solid citizen now. Think Ill take an interest in municipal doings. How would it suit you to get into Denver Dicks place to-night, Cap?</p>
<p>“Got back yesterday. Im a solid citizen now. Think Ill take an interest in municipal doings. How would it suit you to get into Denver Dicks place tonight, Cap?</p>
<p>“Past performances,” said the captain, twisting his moustache. “Denver was closed up two months ago.”</p>
<p>“Correct,” said the Kid. “Rafferty chased him out of the Forty-third. Hes running in your precinct now, and his games bigger than ever. Im down on this gambling business. I can put you against his game.”</p>
<p>“In my precinct?” growled the captain. “Are you sure, Kid? Ill take it as a favor. Have you got the entrée? How is it to be done?”</p>
@ -54,7 +54,7 @@
<p>“Yes, sah, I was. Has they done pinched us agin, boss?”</p>
<p>“Looks that way. Listen to me. Are there any peaches in this layout? If there aint Ill have to throw up the sponge.”</p>
<p>“There was three dozen, sah, when the game opened this evenin; but I reckon the gentlemen done eat em all up. If youd like to eat a fust-rate orange, sah, I kin find you some.”</p>
<p>“Get busy,” ordered the Kid, sternly, “and move whatever peach crop youve got quick or therell be trouble. If anybody oranges me again to-night, Ill knock his face off.”</p>
<p>“Get busy,” ordered the Kid, sternly, “and move whatever peach crop youve got quick or therell be trouble. If anybody oranges me again tonight, Ill knock his face off.”</p>
<p>The raid on Denver Dicks high-priced and prodigal luncheon revealed one lone, last peach that had escaped the epicurean jaws of the followers of chance. Into the Kids pocket it went, and that indefatigable forager departed immediately with his prize. With scarcely a glance at the scene on the sidewalk below, where the officers were loading their prisoners into the patrol wagons, he moved homeward with long, swift strides.</p>
<p>His heart was light as he went. So rode the knights back to Camelot after perils and high deeds done for their ladies fair. The Kids lady had commanded him and he had obeyed. True, it was but a peach that she had craved; but it had been no small deed to glean a peach at midnight from that wintry city where yet the February snows lay like iron. She had asked for a peach; she was his bride; in his pocket the peach was warming in his hand that held it for fear that it might fall out and be lost.</p>
<p>On the way the Kid turned in at an all-night drug store and said to the spectacled clerk:</p>

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<p>Outside in the street a high-pitched voice chanted, not unmusically, a commercial gamut of “Cand-ee-ee-ee-s! Nice, fresh cand-ee-ee-ee-ees!”</p>
<p>“Its our old candy man,” said Honoria, leaning out the window and beckoning. “I want some of his motto kisses. Theres nothing in the Broadway shops half so good.”</p>
<p>The candy man stopped his pushcart in front of the old Madison Avenue home. He had a holiday and festival air unusual to street peddlers. His tie was new and bright red, and a horseshoe pin, almost life-size, glittered speciously from its folds. His brown, thin face was crinkled into a semi-foolish smile. Striped cuffs with dog-head buttons covered the tan on his wrists.</p>
<p>“I do believe hes going to get married,” said Honoria, pityingly. “I never saw him taken that way before. And to-day is the first time in months that he has cried his wares, I am sure.”</p>
<p>“I do believe hes going to get married,” said Honoria, pityingly. “I never saw him taken that way before. And today is the first time in months that he has cried his wares, I am sure.”</p>
<p>Ives threw a coin to the sidewalk. The candy man knows his customers. He filled a paper bag, climbed the old-fashioned stoop and handed it in. “I remember—” said Ives.</p>
<p>“Wait,” said Honoria.</p>
<p>She took a small portfolio from the drawer of a writing desk and from the portfolio a slip of flimsy paper one-quarter of an inch by two inches in size.</p>
@ -56,9 +56,9 @@
<p>The candy man laughed harshly, and looked up, with his thin jaw set, while he wiped his forehead with a red-and-blue handkerchief.</p>
<p>“Yerd make a dandy magazine cover,” he said, grudgingly. “Beautiful or not is for them that cares. Its not my line. If yer lookin for bouquets apply elsewhere between nine and twelve. I think well have rain.”</p>
<p>Truly, fascinating a candy man is like killing rabbits in a deep snow; but the hunters blood is widely diffused. Mademoiselle tugged a great coil of hair from Sidonies hands and let it fall out the window.</p>
<p>“Candy man, have you a sweetheart anywhere with hair as long and soft as that? And with an arm so round?” She flexed an arm like Galateas after the miracle across the window-sill.</p>
<p>The candy man cackled shrilly as he arranged a stock of butter-scotch that had tumbled down.</p>
<p>“Smoke up!” said he, vulgarly. “Nothin doin in the complimentary line. Im too wise to be bamboozled by a switch of hair and a newly massaged arm. Oh, I guess youll make good in the calcium, all right, with plenty of powder and paint on and the orchestra playing Under the Old Apple Tree. But dont put on your hat and chase downstairs to fly to the Little Church Around the Corner with me. Ive been up against peroxide and make-up boxes before. Say, all joking aside—dont you think well have rain?”</p>
<p>“Candy man, have you a sweetheart anywhere with hair as long and soft as that? And with an arm so round?” She flexed an arm like Galateas after the miracle across the windowsill.</p>
<p>The candy man cackled shrilly as he arranged a stock of butterscotch that had tumbled down.</p>
<p>“Smoke up!” said he, vulgarly. “Nothin doin in the complimentary line. Im too wise to be bamboozled by a switch of hair and a newly massaged arm. Oh, I guess youll make good in the calcium, all right, with plenty of powder and paint on and the orchestra playing Under the Old Apple Tree. But dont put on your hat and chase downstairs to fly to the Little Church Around the Corner with me. Ive been up against peroxide and makeup boxes before. Say, all joking aside—dont you think well have rain?”</p>
<p>“Candy man,” said Mademoiselle softly, with her lips curving and her chin dimpling, “dont you think Im pretty?”</p>
<p>The candy man grinned.</p>
<p>“Savin money, aint yer?” said he, “by bein yer own press agent. I smoke, but I havent seen yer mug on any of the five-cent cigar boxes. Itd take a new brand of woman to get me goin, anyway. I know em from sidecombs to shoelaces. Gimme a good days sales and steak-and-onions at seven and a pipe and an evenin paper back there in the court, and Ill not trouble Lillian Russell herself to wink at me, if you please.”</p>
@ -70,11 +70,11 @@
<p>One afternoon she leaned far over the sill, and she did not challenge and torment him as usual.</p>
<p>“Candy man,” said she, “stand up and look into my eyes.”</p>
<p>He stood up and looked into her eyes, with his harsh laugh like the sawing of wood. He took out his pipe, fumbled with it, and put it back into big pocket with a trembling hand.</p>
<p>“That will do,” said Mademoiselle, with a slow smile. “I must go now to my masseuse. Good-evening.”</p>
<p>“That will do,” said Mademoiselle, with a slow smile. “I must go now to my masseuse. Good evening.”</p>
<p>The next evening at seven the candy man came and rested his cart under the window. But was it the candy man? His clothes were a bright new check. His necktie was a flaming red, adorned by a glittering horseshoe pin, almost life-size. His shoes were polished; the tan of his cheeks had paled—his hands had been washed. The window was empty, and he waited under it with his nose upward, like a hound hoping for a bone.</p>
<p>Mademoiselle came, with Sidonie carrying her load of hair. She looked at the candy man and smiled a slow smile that faded away into ennui. Instantly she knew that the game was bagged; and so quickly she wearied of the chase. She began to talk to Sidonie.</p>
<p>“Been a fine day,” said the candy man, hollowly. “First time in a month Ive felt first-class. Hit it up down old Madison, hollering out like I useter. Think itll rain to-morrow?”</p>
<p>Mademoiselle laid two round arms on the cushion on the window-sill, and a dimpled chin upon them.</p>
<p>“Been a fine day,” said the candy man, hollowly. “First time in a month Ive felt first-class. Hit it up down old Madison, hollering out like I useter. Think itll rain tomorrow?”</p>
<p>Mademoiselle laid two round arms on the cushion on the windowsill, and a dimpled chin upon them.</p>
<p>“Candy man,” said she, softly, “do you not love me?”</p>
<p>The candy man stood up and leaned against the brick wall.</p>
<p>“Lady,” said he, chokingly, “Ive got $800 saved up. Did I say you wasnt beautiful? Take it every bit of it and buy a collar for your dog with it.”</p>
@ -85,7 +85,7 @@
<p>Three yards he moved, and stopped. Loud shriek after shriek came from the window of Mademoiselle. Quickly he ran back. He heard a body thumping upon the floor and a sound as though heels beat alternately upon it.</p>
<p>“What is it?” he called.</p>
<p>Sidonies severe head came into the window.</p>
<p>“Mademoiselle is overcome by bad news,” she said. “One whom she loved with all her soul has gone—you may have heard of him—he is Monsieur Ives. He sails across the ocean to-morrow. Oh, you men!”</p>
<p>“Mademoiselle is overcome by bad news,” she said. “One whom she loved with all her soul has gone—you may have heard of him—he is Monsieur Ives. He sails across the ocean tomorrow. Oh, you men!”</p>
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<p>“Nothing,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Tolman.</p>
<p>“I thank you very much, sir,” said Gillian, and on he went to his cab. He gave the driver the address of his late uncles home.</p>
<p>Miss Hayden was writing letters in the library. She was small and slender and clothed in black. But you would have noticed her eyes. Gillian drifted in with his air of regarding the world as inconsequent.</p>
<p>“Ive just come from old Tolmans,” he explained. “Theyve been going over the papers down there. They found a—Gillian searched his memory for a legal term—they found an amendment or a post-script or something to the will. It seemed that the old boy loosened up a little on second thoughts and willed you a thousand dollars. I was driving up this way and Tolman asked me to bring you the money. Here it is. Youd better count it to see if its right.” Gillian laid the money beside her hand on the desk.</p>
<p>“Ive just come from old Tolmans,” he explained. “Theyve been going over the papers down there. They found a—Gillian searched his memory for a legal term—they found an amendment or a postscript or something to the will. It seemed that the old boy loosened up a little on second thoughts and willed you a thousand dollars. I was driving up this way and Tolman asked me to bring you the money. Here it is. Youd better count it to see if its right.” Gillian laid the money beside her hand on the desk.</p>
<p>Miss Hayden turned white. “Oh!” she said, and again “Oh!”</p>
<p>Gillian half turned and looked out the window.</p>
<p>“I suppose, of course,” he said, in a low voice, “that you know I love you.”</p>
@ -67,10 +67,10 @@
<p>His cab stopped again at the offices of Tolman &amp; Sharp.</p>
<p>“I have expended the thousand dollars,” he said cheerily, to Tolman of the gold glasses, “and I have come to render account of it, as I agreed. There is quite a feeling of summer in the air—do you not think so, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Tolman?” He tossed a white envelope on the lawyers table. “You will find there a memorandum, sir, of the modus operandi of the vanishing of the dollars.”</p>
<p>Without touching the envelope, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Tolman went to a door and called his partner, Sharp. Together they explored the caverns of an immense safe. Forth they dragged, as trophy of their search a big envelope sealed with wax. This they forcibly invaded, and wagged their venerable heads together over its contents. Then Tolman became spokesman.</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gillian,” he said, formally, “there was a codicil to your uncles will. It was intrusted to us privately, with instructions that it be not opened until you had furnished us with a full account of your handling of the $1,000 bequest in the will. As you have fulfilled the conditions, my partner and I have read the codicil. I do not wish to encumber your understanding with its legal phraseology, but I will acquaint you with the spirit of its contents.</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gillian,” he said, formally, “there was a codicil to your uncles will. It was entrusted to us privately, with instructions that it be not opened until you had furnished us with a full account of your handling of the $1,000 bequest in the will. As you have fulfilled the conditions, my partner and I have read the codicil. I do not wish to encumber your understanding with its legal phraseology, but I will acquaint you with the spirit of its contents.</p>
<p>“In the event that your disposition of the $1,000 demonstrates that you possess any of the qualifications that deserve reward, much benefit will accrue to you. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Sharp and I are named as the judges, and I assure you that we will do our duty strictly according to justice—with liberality. We are not at all unfavorably disposed toward you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gillian. But let us return to the letter of the codicil. If your disposal of the money in question has been prudent, wise, or unselfish, it is in our power to hand you over bonds to the value of $50,000, which have been placed in our hands for that purpose. But if—as our client, the late <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gillian, explicitly provides—you have used this money as you have money in the past, I quote the late <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gillian—in reprehensible dissipation among disreputable associates—the $50,000 is to be paid to Miriam Hayden, ward of the late <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gillian, without delay. Now, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gillian, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Sharp and I will examine your account in regard to the $1,000. You submit it in writing, I believe. I hope you will repose confidence in our decision.”</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Tolman reached for the envelope. Gillian was a little the quicker in taking it up. He tore the account and its cover leisurely into strips and dropped them into his pocket.</p>
<p>“Its all right,” he said, smilingly. “There isnt a bit of need to bother you with this. I dont suppose youd understand these itemized bets, anyway. I lost the thousand dollars on the races. Good-day to you, gentlemen.”</p>
<p>“Its all right,” he said, smilingly. “There isnt a bit of need to bother you with this. I dont suppose youd understand these itemized bets, anyway. I lost the thousand dollars on the races. Good day to you, gentlemen.”</p>
<p>Tolman &amp; Sharp shook their heads mournfully at each other when Gillian left, for they heard him whistling gayly in the hallway as he waited for the elevator.</p>
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<p>Ravenel—Ravenel, the traveller, artist and poet, threw his magazine to the floor. Sammy Brown, brokers clerk, who sat by the window, jumped.</p>
<p>“What is it, Ravvy?” he asked. “The critics been hammering your stock down?”</p>
<p>“Romance is dead,” said Ravenel, lightly. When Ravenel spoke lightly he was generally serious. He picked up the magazine and fluttered its leaves.</p>
<p>“Even a Philistine, like you, Sammy,” said Ravenel, seriously (a tone that insured him to be speaking lightly), “ought to understand. Now, here is a magazine that once printed Poe and Lowell and Whitman and Bret Harte and Du Maurier and Lanier and—well, that gives you the idea. The current number has this literary feast to set before you: an article on the stokers and coal bunkers of battleships, an exposé of the methods employed in making liverwurst, a continued story of a Standard Preferred International Baking Powder deal in Wall Street, a poem on the bear that the President missed, another story by a young woman who spent a week as a spy making overalls on the East Side, another fiction story that reeks of the garage and a certain make of automobile. Of course, the title contains the words Cupid and Chauffeur—an article on naval strategy, illustrated with cuts of the Spanish Armada, and the new Staten Island ferry-boats; another story of a political boss who won the love of a Fifth Avenue belle by blackening her eye and refusing to vote for an iniquitous ordinance (it doesnt say whether it was in the Street-Cleaning Department or Congress), and nineteen pages by the editors bragging about the circulation. The whole thing, Sammy, is an obituary on Romance.”</p>
<p>“Even a Philistine, like you, Sammy,” said Ravenel, seriously (a tone that insured him to be speaking lightly), “ought to understand. Now, here is a magazine that once printed Poe and Lowell and Whitman and Bret Harte and Du Maurier and Lanier and—well, that gives you the idea. The current number has this literary feast to set before you: an article on the stokers and coal bunkers of battleships, an exposé of the methods employed in making liverwurst, a continued story of a Standard Preferred International Baking Powder deal in Wall Street, a poem on the bear that the President missed, another story by a young woman who spent a week as a spy making overalls on the East Side, another fiction story that reeks of the garage and a certain make of automobile. Of course, the title contains the words Cupid and Chauffeur—an article on naval strategy, illustrated with cuts of the Spanish Armada, and the new Staten Island ferryboats; another story of a political boss who won the love of a Fifth Avenue belle by blackening her eye and refusing to vote for an iniquitous ordinance (it doesnt say whether it was in the Street-Cleaning Department or Congress), and nineteen pages by the editors bragging about the circulation. The whole thing, Sammy, is an obituary on Romance.”</p>
<p>Sammy Brown sat comfortably in the leather armchair by the open window. His suit was a vehement brown with visible checks, beautifully matched in shade by the ends of four cigars that his vest pocket poorly concealed. Light tan were his shoes, gray his socks, sky-blue his apparent linen, snowy and high and adamantine his collar, against which a black butterfly had alighted and spread his wings. Sammys face—least important—was round and pleasant and pinkish, and in his eyes you saw no haven for fleeing Romance.</p>
<p>That window of Ravenels apartment opened upon an old garden full of ancient trees and shrubbery. The apartment-house towered above one side of it; a high brick wall fended it from the street; opposite Ravenels window an old, old mansion stood, half-hidden in the shade of the summer foliage. The house was a castle besieged. The city howled and roared and shrieked and beat upon its double doors, and shook white, fluttering checks above the wall, offering terms of surrender. The gray dust settled upon the trees; the siege was pressed hotter, but the drawbridge was not lowered. No further will the language of chivalry serve. Inside lived an old gentleman who loved his home and did not wish to sell it. That is all the romance of the besieged castle.</p>
<p>Three or four times every week came Sammy Brown to Ravenels apartment. He belonged to the poets club, for the former Browns had been conspicuous, though Sammy had been vulgarized by Business. He had no tears for departed Romance. The song of the ticker was the one that reached his heart, and when it came to matters equine and batting scores he was something of a pink edition. He loved to sit in the leather armchair by Ravenels window. And Ravenel didnt mind particularly. Sammy seemed to enjoy his talk; and then the brokers clerk was such a perfect embodiment of modernity and the days sordid practicality that Ravenel rather liked to use him as a scapegoat.</p>
@ -48,7 +48,7 @@
<p>Through the trees one window of the old mansion could be seen clearly. In its window, draped in flowing white, leaned the angel of all his dreams of romance and poesy. Young, fresh as a drop of dew, graceful as a spray of clematis, conferring upon the garden hemmed in by the roaring traffic the air of a princesss bower, beautiful as any flower sung by poet—thus Ravenel saw her for the first time. She lingered for a while, and then disappeared within, leaving a few notes of a birdlike ripple of song to reach his entranced ears through the rattle of cabs and the snarling of the electric cars.</p>
<p>Thus, as if to challenge the poets flaunt at romance and to punish him for his recreancy to the undying spirit of youth and beauty, this vision had dawned upon him with a thrilling and accusive power. And so metabolic was the power that in an instant the atoms of Ravenels entire world were redistributed. The laden drays that passed the house in which she lived rumbled a deep double-bass to the tune of love. The newsboys shouts were the notes of singing birds; that garden was the pleasance of the Capulets; the janitor was an ogre; himself a knight, ready with sword, lance or lute.</p>
<p>Thus does romance show herself amid forests of brick and stone when she gets lost in the city, and there has to be sent out a general alarm to find her again.</p>
<p>At four in the afternoon Ravenel looked out across the garden. In the window of his hopes were set four small vases, each containing a great, full-blown rose—red and white. And, as he gazed, she leaned above them, shaming them with her loveliness and seeming to direct her eyes pensively toward his own window. And then, as though she had caught his respectful but ardent regard, she melted away, leaving the fragrant emblems on the window-sill.</p>
<p>At four in the afternoon Ravenel looked out across the garden. In the window of his hopes were set four small vases, each containing a great, full-blown rose—red and white. And, as he gazed, she leaned above them, shaming them with her loveliness and seeming to direct her eyes pensively toward his own window. And then, as though she had caught his respectful but ardent regard, she melted away, leaving the fragrant emblems on the windowsill.</p>
<p>Yes, emblems!—he would be unworthy if he had not understood. She had read his poem, “The Four Roses”; it had reached her heart; and this was its romantic answer. Of course she must know that Ravenel, the poet, lived there across her garden. His picture, too, she must have seen in the magazines. The delicate, tender, modest, flattering message could not be ignored.</p>
<p>Ravenel noticed beside the roses a small flowering-pot containing a plant. Without shame he brought his opera-glasses and employed them from the cover of his window-curtain. A nutmeg geranium!</p>
<p>With the true poetic instinct he dragged a book of useless information from his shelves, and tore open the leaves at “The Language of Flowers.”</p>
@ -61,11 +61,11 @@
<p>“By grabs!” he exclaimed. “Twenty after four! I cant stay, old man; Ive got a date at 4:30.”</p>
<p>“Why did you come, then?” asked Ravenel, with sarcastic jocularity, “if you had an engagement at that time. I thought you business men kept better account of your minutes and seconds than that.”</p>
<p>Sammy hesitated in the doorway and turned pinker.</p>
<p>“Fact is, Ravvy,” he explained, as to a customer whose margin is exhausted, “I didnt know I had it till I came. Ill tell you, old man—theres a dandy girl in that old house next door that Im dead gone on. I put it straight—were engaged. The old man says nit but that dont go. He keeps her pretty close. I can see Ediths window from yours here. She gives me a tip when shes going shopping, and I meet her. Its 4:30 to-day. Maybe I ought to have explained sooner, but I know its all right with you—so long.”</p>
<p>“Fact is, Ravvy,” he explained, as to a customer whose margin is exhausted, “I didnt know I had it till I came. Ill tell you, old man—theres a dandy girl in that old house next door that Im dead gone on. I put it straight—were engaged. The old man says nit but that dont go. He keeps her pretty close. I can see Ediths window from yours here. She gives me a tip when shes going shopping, and I meet her. Its 4:30 today. Maybe I ought to have explained sooner, but I know its all right with you—so long.”</p>
<p>“How do you get your tip, as you call it?” asked Ravenel, losing a little spontaneity from his smile.</p>
<p>“Roses,” said Sammy, briefly. “Four of em to-day. Means four oclock at the corner of Broadway and Twenty-third.”</p>
<p>“Roses,” said Sammy, briefly. “Four of em today. Means four oclock at the corner of Broadway and Twenty-third.”</p>
<p>“But the geranium?” persisted Ravenel, clutching at the end of flying Romances trailing robe.</p>
<p>“Means half-past,” shouted Sammy from the hall. “See you to-morrow.”</p>
<p>“Means half-past,” shouted Sammy from the hall. “See you tomorrow.”</p>
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<p>The feud flourished for forty years. Harknesses were shot at the plough, through their lamp-lit cabin windows, coming from camp-meeting, asleep, in duello, sober and otherwise, singly and in family groups, prepared and unprepared. Folwells had the branches of their family tree lopped off in similar ways, as the traditions of their country prescribed and authorized.</p>
<p>By and by the pruning left but a single member of each family. And then Cal Harkness, probably reasoning that further pursuance of the controversy would give a too decided personal flavour to the feud, suddenly disappeared from the relieved Cumberlands, baulking the avenging hand of Sam, the ultimate opposing Folwell.</p>
<p>A year afterward Sam Folwell learned that his hereditary, unsuppressed enemy was living in New York City. Sam turned over the big iron wash-pot in the yard, scraped off some of the soot, which he mixed with lard and shined his boots with the compound. He put on his store clothes of butternut dyed black, a white shirt and collar, and packed a carpet-sack with Spartan lingerie. He took his squirrel rifle from its hooks, but put it back again with a sigh. However ethical and plausible the habit might be in the Cumberlands, perhaps New York would not swallow his pose of hunting squirrels among the skyscrapers along Broadway. An ancient but reliable Colts revolver that he resurrected from a bureau drawer seemed to proclaim itself the pink of weapons for metropolitan adventure and vengeance. This and a hunting-knife in a leather sheath, Sam packed in the carpet-sack. As he started, muleback, for the lowland railroad station the last Folwell turned in his saddle and looked grimly at the little cluster of white-pine slabs in the clump of cedars that marked the Folwell burying-ground.</p>
<p>Sam Folwell arrived in New York in the night. Still moving and living in the free circles of nature, he did not perceive the formidable, pitiless, restless, fierce angles of the great city waiting in the dark to close about the rotundity of his heart and brain and mould him to the form of its millions of re-shaped victims. A cabby picked him out of the whirl, as Sam himself had often picked a nut from a bed of wind-tossed autumn leaves, and whisked him away to a hotel commensurate to his boots and carpet-sack.</p>
<p>Sam Folwell arrived in New York in the night. Still moving and living in the free circles of nature, he did not perceive the formidable, pitiless, restless, fierce angles of the great city waiting in the dark to close about the rotundity of his heart and brain and mould him to the form of its millions of reshaped victims. A cabby picked him out of the whirl, as Sam himself had often picked a nut from a bed of wind-tossed autumn leaves, and whisked him away to a hotel commensurate to his boots and carpet-sack.</p>
<p>On the next morning the last of the Folwells made his sortie into the city that sheltered the last Harkness. The Colt was thrust beneath his coat and secured by a narrow leather belt; the hunting-knife hung between his shoulder-blades, with the haft an inch below his coat collar. He knew this much—that Cal Harkness drove an express wagon somewhere in that town, and that he, Sam Folwell, had come to kill him. And as he stepped upon the sidewalk the red came into his eye and the feud-hate into his heart.</p>
<p>The clamor of the central avenues drew him thitherward. He had half expected to see Cal coming down the street in his shirt-sleeves, with a jug and a whip in his hand, just as he would have seen him in Frankfort or Laurel City. But an hour went by and Cal did not appear. Perhaps he was waiting in ambush, to shoot him from a door or a window. Sam kept a sharp eye on doors and windows for a while.</p>
<p>The clamor of the central avenues drew him thitherward. He had half expected to see Cal coming down the street in his shirtsleeves, with a jug and a whip in his hand, just as he would have seen him in Frankfort or Laurel City. But an hour went by and Cal did not appear. Perhaps he was waiting in ambush, to shoot him from a door or a window. Sam kept a sharp eye on doors and windows for a while.</p>
<p>About noon the city tired of playing with its mouse and suddenly squeezed him with its straight lines.</p>
<p>Sam Folwell stood where two great, rectangular arteries of the city cross. He looked four ways, and saw the world hurled from its orbit and reduced by spirit level and tape to an edged and cornered plane. All life moved on tracks, in grooves, according to system, within boundaries, by rote. The root of life was the cube root; the measure of existence was square measure. People streamed by in straight rows; the horrible din and crash stupefied him.</p>
<p>Sam leaned against the sharp corner of a stone building. Those faces passed him by thousands, and none of them were turned toward him. A sudden foolish fear that he had died and was a spirit, and that they could not see him, seized him. And then the city smote him with loneliness.</p>
<p>A fat man dropped out of the stream and stood a few feet distant, waiting for his car. Sam crept to his side and shouted above the tumult into his ear:</p>
<p>“The Rankinses hogs weighed moren ourn a whole passel, but the mast in thar neighborhood was a fine chance better than what it was down—”</p>
<p>The fat man moved away unostentatiously, and bought roasted chestnuts to cover his alarm.</p>
<p>Sam felt the need of a drop of mountain dew. Across the street men passed in and out through swinging doors. Brief glimpses could be had of a glistening bar and its bedeckings. The feudist crossed and essayed to enter. Again had Art eliminated the familiar circle. Sams hand found no door-knob—it slid, in vain, over a rectangular brass plate and polished oak with nothing even so large as a pins head upon which his fingers might close.</p>
<p>Sam felt the need of a drop of mountain dew. Across the street men passed in and out through swinging doors. Brief glimpses could be had of a glistening bar and its bedeckings. The feudist crossed and essayed to enter. Again had Art eliminated the familiar circle. Sams hand found no doorknob—it slid, in vain, over a rectangular brass plate and polished oak with nothing even so large as a pins head upon which his fingers might close.</p>
<p>Abashed, reddened, heartbroken, he walked away from the bootless door and sat upon a step. A locust club tickled him in the ribs.</p>
<p>“Take a walk for yourself,” said the policeman. “Youve been loafing around here long enough.”</p>
<p>At the next corner a shrill whistle sounded in Sams ear. He wheeled around and saw a black-browed villain scowling at him over peanuts heaped on a steaming machine. He started across the street. An immense engine, running without mules, with the voice of a bull and the smell of a smoky lamp, whizzed past, grazing his knee. A cab-driver bumped him with a hub and explained to him that kind words were invented to be used on other occasions. A motorman clanged his bell wildly and, for once in his life, corroborated a cab-driver. A large lady in a changeable silk waist dug an elbow into his back, and a newsy pensively pelted him with banana rinds, murmuring, “I hates to do it—but if anybody seen me let it pass!”</p>
<p>At the next corner a shrill whistle sounded in Sams ear. He wheeled around and saw a black-browed villain scowling at him over peanuts heaped on a steaming machine. He started across the street. An immense engine, running without mules, with the voice of a bull and the smell of a smoky lamp, whizzed past, grazing his knee. A cabdriver bumped him with a hub and explained to him that kind words were invented to be used on other occasions. A motorman clanged his bell wildly and, for once in his life, corroborated a cabdriver. A large lady in a changeable silk waist dug an elbow into his back, and a newsy pensively pelted him with banana rinds, murmuring, “I hates to do it—but if anybody seen me let it pass!”</p>
<p>Cal Harkness, his days work over and his express wagon stabled, turned the sharp edge of the building that, by the cheek of architects, is modelled upon a safety razor. Out of the mass of hurrying people his eye picked up, three yards away, the surviving bloody and implacable foe of his kith and kin.</p>
<p>He stopped short and wavered for a moment, being unarmed and sharply surprised. But the keen mountaineers eye of Sam Folwell had picked him out.</p>
<p>There was a sudden spring, a ripple in the stream of passers-by and the sound of Sams voice crying:</p>
<p>There was a sudden spring, a ripple in the stream of passersby and the sound of Sams voice crying:</p>
<p>“Howdy, Cal! Im durned glad to see ye.”</p>
<p>And in the angles of Broadway, Fifth Avenue and Twenty-third Street the Cumberland feudists shook hands.</p>
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<p>“Now, twas a peaceful and happy home that all of us had in them same Beersheba Flats. The ODowds and the Steinowitzes and the Callahans and the Cohens and the Spizzinellis and the McManuses and the Spiegelmayers and the Joneses—all nations of us, we lived like one big family together. And when the hot nights come along we kept a line of children reaching from the front door to Kellys on the corner passing along the cans of beer from one to another without the trouble of running after it. And with no more clothing on than is provided for in the statutes, sitting in all the windies, with a cool growler in every one, and your feet out in the air, and the Rosenstein girls singing on the fire-escape of the sixth floor, and Patsy Rourkes flute going in the eighth, and the ladies calling each other synonyms out the windies, and now and then a breeze sailing in over Mister Depews Central—I tell you the Beersheba Flats was a summer resort that made the Catskills look like a hole in the ground. With his person full of beer and his feet out the windy and his old woman frying pork chops over a charcoal furnace and the childher dancing in cotton slips on the sidewalk around the organ-grinder and the rent paid for a week—what does a man want better on a hot night than that? And then comes this ruling of the polis driving people out o their comfortable homes to sleep in parkstwas for all the world like a ukase of them Russianstwill be heard from again at next election time.</p>
<p>“Well, then, Officer Reagan drives the whole lot of us to the park and turns us in by the nearest gate. Tis dark under the trees, and all the children sets up to howling that they want to go home.</p>
<p>Yell pass the night in this stretch of woods and scenery, says Officer Reagan. ”Twill be fine and imprisonment for insoolting the Park Commissioner and the Chief of the Weather Bureau if ye refuse. Im in charge of thirty acres between here and the Agyptian Monument, and I advise ye to give no trouble. Tis sleeping on the grass yez all have been condemned to by the authorities. Yezll be permitted to leave in the morning, but ye must retoorn be night. Me orders was silent on the subject of bail, but Ill find out if tis required and therell be bondsmen at the gate.</p>
<p>“There being no lights except along the automobile drives, us 179 tenants of the Beersheba Flats prepared to spend the night as best we could in the raging forest. Them that brought blankets and kindling wood was best off. They got fires started and wrapped the blankets round their heads and laid down, cursing, in the grass. There was nothing to see, nothing to drink, nothing to do. In the dark we had no way of telling friend or foe except by feeling the noses of em. I brought along me last winter overcoat, me tooth-brush, some quinine pills and the red quilt off the bed in me flat. Three times during the night somebody rolled on me quilt and stuck his knees against the Adams apple of me. And three times I judged his character by running me hand over his face, and three times I rose up and kicked the intruder down the hill to the gravelly walk below. And then some one with a flavour of Kellys whiskey snuggled up to me, and I found his nose turned up the right way, and I says: Is that you, then, Patsey? and he says, It is, Carney. How long do you think itll last?</p>
<p>“There being no lights except along the automobile drives, us 179 tenants of the Beersheba Flats prepared to spend the night as best we could in the raging forest. Them that brought blankets and kindling wood was best off. They got fires started and wrapped the blankets round their heads and laid down, cursing, in the grass. There was nothing to see, nothing to drink, nothing to do. In the dark we had no way of telling friend or foe except by feeling the noses of em. I brought along me last winter overcoat, me toothbrush, some quinine pills and the red quilt off the bed in me flat. Three times during the night somebody rolled on me quilt and stuck his knees against the Adams apple of me. And three times I judged his character by running me hand over his face, and three times I rose up and kicked the intruder down the hill to the gravelly walk below. And then some one with a flavour of Kellys whiskey snuggled up to me, and I found his nose turned up the right way, and I says: Is that you, then, Patsey? and he says, It is, Carney. How long do you think itll last?</p>
<p>Im no weather-prophet, says I, but if they bring out a strong anti-Tammany ticket next fall it ought to get us home in time to sleep on a bed once or twice before they line us up at the polls.</p>
<p>A-playing of my flute into the airshaft, says Patsey Rourke, and a-perspiring in me own windy to the joyful noise of the passing trains and the smell of liver and onions and a-reading of the latest murder in the smoke of the cooking is well enough for me, says he. What is this herding us in grass for, not to mention the crawling things with legs that walk up the trousers of us, and the Jersey snipes that peck at us, masquerading under the name and denomination of mosquitoes. What is it all for Carney, and the rint going on just the same over at the flats?</p>
<p>“”Tis the great annual Municipal Free Night Outing Lawn Party, says I, given by the polis, Hetty Green and the Drug Trust. During the heated season they hold a week of it in the principal parks. Tis a scheme to reach that portion of the people thats not worth taking up to North Beach for a fish fry.</p>
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<p>And wood, says I. And marble and plaster and iron.</p>
<p>The matter will be attended to at once, says the man, putting up his book.</p>
<p>Are ye the Park Commissioner? I asks.</p>
<p>I own the Beersheba Flats, says he. God bless the grass and the trees that give extra benefits to a mans tenants. The rents shall be raised fifteen per cent. to-morrow. Good-night, says he.”</p>
<p>I own the Beersheba Flats, says he. God bless the grass and the trees that give extra benefits to a mans tenants. The rents shall be raised fifteen percent tomorrow. Good night, says he.”</p>
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<h2 epub:type="title">The Clarion Call</h2>
<p>Half of this story can be found in the records of the Police Department; the other half belongs behind the business counter of a newspaper office.</p>
<p>One afternoon two weeks after Millionaire Norcross was found in his apartment murdered by a burglar, the murderer, while strolling serenely down Broadway ran plump against Detective Barney Woods.</p>
<p>“Is that you, Johnny Kernan?” asked Woods, who had been near-sighted in public for five years.</p>
<p>“Is that you, Johnny Kernan?” asked Woods, who had been nearsighted in public for five years.</p>
<p>“No less,” cried Kernan, heartily. “If it isnt Barney Woods, late and early of old Saint Jo! Youll have to show me! What are you doing East? Do the green-goods circulars get out that far?”</p>
<p>“Ive been in New York some years,” said Woods. “Im on the city detective force.”</p>
<p>“Well, well!” said Kernan, breathing smiling joy and patting the detectives arm.</p>
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<p>“What business are you in now?” asked Woods. “You know you left Saint Jo a year before I did.”</p>
<p>“Im selling shares in a copper mine,” said Kernan. “I may establish an office here. Well, well! and so old Barney is a New York detective. You always had a turn that way. You were on the police in Saint Jo after I left there, werent you?”</p>
<p>“Six months,” said Woods. “And now theres one more question, Johnny. Ive followed your record pretty close ever since you did that hotel job in Saratoga, and I never knew you to use your gun before. Why did you kill Norcross?”</p>
<p>Kernan stared for a few moments with concentrated attention at the slice of lemon in his high-ball; and then he looked at the detective with a sudden, crooked, brilliant smile.</p>
<p>Kernan stared for a few moments with concentrated attention at the slice of lemon in his highball; and then he looked at the detective with a sudden, crooked, brilliant smile.</p>
<p>“How did you guess it, Barney?” he asked, admiringly. “I swear I thought the job was as clean and as smooth as a peeled onion. Did I leave a string hanging out anywhere?”</p>
<p>Woods laid upon the table a small gold pencil intended for a watch-charm.</p>
<p>“Its the one I gave you the last Christmas we were in Saint Jo. Ive got your shaving mug yet. I found this under a corner of the rug in Norcrosss room. I warn you to be careful what you say. Ive got it put on to you, Johnny. We were old friends once, but I must do my duty. Youll have to go to the chair for Norcross.”</p>
@ -31,29 +31,29 @@
<p>“I havent forgotten,” said Woods. “You counted out twenty fifties without a word. Ill pay it back some day. That thousand saved me and—well, they were piling my furniture out on the sidewalk when I got back to the house.”</p>
<p>“And so,” continued Kernan, “you being Barney Woods, born as true as steel, and bound to play a white mans game, cant lift a finger to arrest the man youre indebted to. Oh, I have to study men as well as Yale locks and window fastenings in my business. Now, keep quiet while I ring for the waiter. Ive had a thirst for a year or two that worries me a little. If Im ever caught the lucky sleuth will have to divide honors with old boy Booze. But I never drink during business hours. After a job I can crook elbows with my old friend Barney with a clear conscience. What are you taking?”</p>
<p>The waiter came with the little decanters and the siphon and left them alone again.</p>
<p>“Youve called the turn,” said Woods, as he rolled the little gold pencil about with a thoughtful fore-finger. “Ive got to pass you up. I cant lay a hand on you. If Id a-paid that money back—but I didnt, and that settles it. Its a bad break Im making, Johnny, but I cant dodge it. You helped me once, and it calls for the same.”</p>
<p>“Youve called the turn,” said Woods, as he rolled the little gold pencil about with a thoughtful forefinger. “Ive got to pass you up. I cant lay a hand on you. If Id a-paid that money back—but I didnt, and that settles it. Its a bad break Im making, Johnny, but I cant dodge it. You helped me once, and it calls for the same.”</p>
<p>“I knew it,” said Kernan, raising his glass, with a flushed smile of self-appreciation. “I can judge men. Heres to Barney, forhes a jolly good fellow.’ ”</p>
<p>“I dont believe,” went on Woods quietly, as if he were thinking aloud, “that if accounts had been square between you and me, all the money in all the banks in New York could have bought you out of my hands to-night.”</p>
<p>“I dont believe,” went on Woods quietly, as if he were thinking aloud, “that if accounts had been square between you and me, all the money in all the banks in New York could have bought you out of my hands tonight.”</p>
<p>“I know it couldnt,” said Kernan. “Thats why I knew I was safe with you.”</p>
<p>“Most people,” continued the detective, “look sideways at my business. They dont class it among the fine arts and the professions. But Ive always taken a kind of fool pride in it. And here is where I go busted. I guess Im a man first and a detective afterward. Ive got to let you go, and then Ive got to resign from the force. I guess I can drive an express wagon. Your thousand dollars is further off than ever, Johnny.”</p>
<p>“Oh, youre welcome to it,” said Kernan, with a lordly air. “Id be willing to call the debt off, but I know you wouldnt have it. It was a lucky day for me when you borrowed it. And now, lets drop the subject. Im off to the West on a morning train. I know a place out there where I can negotiate the Norcross sparks. Drink up, Barney, and forget your troubles. Well have a jolly time while the police are knocking their heads together over the case. Ive got one of my Sahara thirsts on to-night. But Im in the hands—the unofficial hands—of my old friend Barney, and I wont even dream of a cop.”</p>
<p>And then, as Kernans ready finger kept the button and the waiter working, his weak point—a tremendous vanity and arrogant egotism, began to show itself. He recounted story after story of his successful plunderings, ingenious plots and infamous transgressions until Woods, with all his familiarity with evil-doers, felt growing within him a cold abhorrence toward the utterly vicious man who had once been his benefactor.</p>
<p>“Oh, youre welcome to it,” said Kernan, with a lordly air. “Id be willing to call the debt off, but I know you wouldnt have it. It was a lucky day for me when you borrowed it. And now, lets drop the subject. Im off to the West on a morning train. I know a place out there where I can negotiate the Norcross sparks. Drink up, Barney, and forget your troubles. Well have a jolly time while the police are knocking their heads together over the case. Ive got one of my Sahara thirsts on tonight. But Im in the hands—the unofficial hands—of my old friend Barney, and I wont even dream of a cop.”</p>
<p>And then, as Kernans ready finger kept the button and the waiter working, his weak point—a tremendous vanity and arrogant egotism, began to show itself. He recounted story after story of his successful plunderings, ingenious plots and infamous transgressions until Woods, with all his familiarity with evildoers, felt growing within him a cold abhorrence toward the utterly vicious man who had once been his benefactor.</p>
<p>“Im disposed of, of course,” said Woods, at length. “But I advise you to keep under cover for a spell. The newspapers may take up this Norcross affair. There has been an epidemic of burglaries and manslaughter in town this summer.”</p>
<p>The word sent Kernan into a high glow of sullen and vindictive rage.</p>
<p>“To hl with the newspapers,” he growled. “What do they spell but brag and blow and boodle in box-car letters? Suppose they do take up a case—what does it amount to? The police are easy enough to fool; but what do the newspapers do? They send a lot of pin-head reporters around to the scene; and they make for the nearest saloon and have beer while they take photos of the bartenders oldest daughter in evening dress, to print as the fiancée of the young man in the tenth story, who thought he heard a noise below on the night of the murder. Thats about as near as the newspapers ever come to running down <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Burglar.”</p>
<p>“To hl with the newspapers,” he growled. “What do they spell but brag and blow and boodle in boxcar letters? Suppose they do take up a case—what does it amount to? The police are easy enough to fool; but what do the newspapers do? They send a lot of pinhead reporters around to the scene; and they make for the nearest saloon and have beer while they take photos of the bartenders oldest daughter in evening dress, to print as the fiancée of the young man in the tenth story, who thought he heard a noise below on the night of the murder. Thats about as near as the newspapers ever come to running down <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Burglar.”</p>
<p>“Well, I dont know,” said Woods, reflecting. “Some of the papers have done good work in that line. Theres the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Morning Mars</i>, for instance. It warmed up two or three trails, and got the man after the police had let em get cold.”</p>
<p>“Ill show you,” said Kernan, rising, and expanding his chest. “Ill show you what I think of newspapers in general, and your <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Morning Mars</i> in particular.”</p>
<p>Three feet from their table was the telephone booth. Kernan went inside and sat at the instrument, leaving the door open. He found a number in the book, took down the receiver and made his demand upon Central. Woods sat still, looking at the sneering, cold, vigilant face waiting close to the transmitter, and listened to the words that came from the thin, truculent lips curved into a contemptuous smile.</p>
<p>“That the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Morning Mars</i>? … I want to speak to the managing editor… Why, tell him its some one who wants to talk to him about the Norcross murder.</p>
<p>“You the editor? … All right… I am the man who killed old Norcross… Wait! Hold the wire; Im not the usual crank… Oh, there isnt the slightest danger. Ive just been discussing it with a detective friend of mine. I killed the old man at 2:30 <abbr class="time">a.m.</abbr> two weeks ago to-morrow… Have a drink with you? Now, hadnt you better leave that kind of talk to your funny man? Cant you tell whether a mans guying you or whether youre being offered the biggest scoop your dull dishrag of a paper ever had? … Well, thats so; its a bobtail scoop—but you can hardly expect me to phone in my name and address… Why? Oh, because I heard you make a specialty of solving mysterious crimes that stump the police… No, thats not all. I want to tell you that your rotten, lying, penny sheet is of no more use in tracking an intelligent murderer or highwayman than a blind poodle would be… What? … Oh, no, this isnt a rival newspaper office; youre getting it straight. I did the Norcross job, and Ive got the jewels in my suit case atthe name of the hotel could not be learned—you recognize that phrase, dont you? I thought so. Youve used it often enough. Kind of rattles you, doesnt it, to have the mysterious villain call up your great, big, all-powerful organ of right and justice and good government and tell you what a helpless old gas-bag you are? … Cut that out; youre not that big a fool—no, you dont think Im a fraud. I can tell it by your voice… Now, listen, and Ill give you a pointer that will prove it to you. Of course youve had this murder case worked over by your staff of bright young blockheads. Half of the second button on old <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Norcrosss nightgown is broken off. I saw it when I took the garnet ring off her finger. I thought it was a ruby… Stop that! it wont work.”</p>
<p>“You the editor? … All right… I am the man who killed old Norcross… Wait! Hold the wire; Im not the usual crank… Oh, there isnt the slightest danger. Ive just been discussing it with a detective friend of mine. I killed the old man at 2:30 <abbr class="time">a.m.</abbr> two weeks ago tomorrow… Have a drink with you? Now, hadnt you better leave that kind of talk to your funny man? Cant you tell whether a mans guying you or whether youre being offered the biggest scoop your dull dishrag of a paper ever had? … Well, thats so; its a bobtail scoop—but you can hardly expect me to phone in my name and address… Why? Oh, because I heard you make a specialty of solving mysterious crimes that stump the police… No, thats not all. I want to tell you that your rotten, lying, penny sheet is of no more use in tracking an intelligent murderer or highwayman than a blind poodle would be… What? … Oh, no, this isnt a rival newspaper office; youre getting it straight. I did the Norcross job, and Ive got the jewels in my suit case atthe name of the hotel could not be learned—you recognize that phrase, dont you? I thought so. Youve used it often enough. Kind of rattles you, doesnt it, to have the mysterious villain call up your great, big, all-powerful organ of right and justice and good government and tell you what a helpless old gasbag you are? … Cut that out; youre not that big a fool—no, you dont think Im a fraud. I can tell it by your voice… Now, listen, and Ill give you a pointer that will prove it to you. Of course youve had this murder case worked over by your staff of bright young blockheads. Half of the second button on old <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Norcrosss nightgown is broken off. I saw it when I took the garnet ring off her finger. I thought it was a ruby… Stop that! it wont work.”</p>
<p>Kernan turned to Woods with a diabolic smile.</p>
<p>“Ive got him going. He believes me now. He didnt quite cover the transmitter with his hand when he told somebody to call up Central on another phone and get our number. Ill give him just one more dig, and then well make a get-away.</p>
<p>“Hello! … Yes. Im here yet. You didnt think Id run from such a little subsidized, turncoat rag of a newspaper, did you? … Have me inside of forty-eight hours? Say, will you quit being funny? Now, you let grown men alone and attend to your business of hunting up divorce cases and street-car accidents and printing the filth and scandal that you make your living by. Good-by, old boy—sorry I havent time to call on you. Id feel perfectly safe in your sanctum asinorum. Tra-la!”</p>
<p>“Hes as mad as a cat thats lost a mouse,” said Kernan, hanging up the receiver and coming out. “And now, Barney, my boy, well go to a show and enjoy ourselves until a reasonable bedtime. Four hours sleep for me, and then the west-bound.”</p>
<p>“Ive got him going. He believes me now. He didnt quite cover the transmitter with his hand when he told somebody to call up Central on another phone and get our number. Ill give him just one more dig, and then well make a getaway.</p>
<p>“Hello! … Yes. Im here yet. You didnt think Id run from such a little subsidized, turncoat rag of a newspaper, did you? … Have me inside of forty-eight hours? Say, will you quit being funny? Now, you let grown men alone and attend to your business of hunting up divorce cases and streetcar accidents and printing the filth and scandal that you make your living by. Goodbye, old boy—sorry I havent time to call on you. Id feel perfectly safe in your sanctum asinorum. Tra-la!”</p>
<p>“Hes as mad as a cat thats lost a mouse,” said Kernan, hanging up the receiver and coming out. “And now, Barney, my boy, well go to a show and enjoy ourselves until a reasonable bedtime. Four hours sleep for me, and then the westbound.”</p>
<p>The two dined in a Broadway restaurant. Kernan was pleased with himself. He spent money like a prince of fiction. And then a weird and gorgeous musical comedy engaged their attention. Afterward there was a late supper in a grillroom, with champagne, and Kernan at the height of his complacency.</p>
<p>Half-past three in the morning found them in a corner of an all-night café, Kernan still boasting in a vapid and rambling way, Woods thinking moodily over the end that had come to his usefulness as an upholder of the law.</p>
<p>But, as he pondered, his eye brightened with a speculative light.</p>
<p>“I wonder if its possible,” he said to himself, “I won-der if its pos-si-ble!”</p>
<p>“I wonder if its possible,” he said to himself, “I wonder if its pos-si-ble!”</p>
<p>And then outside the café the comparative stillness of the early morning was punctured by faint, uncertain cries that seemed mere fireflies of sound, some growing louder, some fainter, waxing and waning amid the rumble of milk wagons and infrequent cars. Shrill cries they were when near—well-known cries that conveyed many meanings to the ears of those of the slumbering millions of the great city who waked to hear them. Cries that bore upon their significant, small volume the weight of a worlds woe and laughter and delight and stress. To some, cowering beneath the protection of a nights ephemeral cover, they brought news of the hideous, bright day; to others, wrapped in happy sleep, they announced a morning that would dawn blacker than sable night. To many of the rich they brought a besom to sweep away what had been theirs while the stars shone; to the poor they brought—another day.</p>
<p>All over the city the cries were starting up, keen and sonorous, heralding the chances that the slipping of one cogwheel in the machinery of time had made; apportioning to the sleepers while they lay at the mercy of fate, the vengeance, profit, grief, reward and doom that the new figure in the calendar had brought them. Shrill and yet plaintive were the cries, as if the young voices grieved that so much evil and so little good was in their irresponsible hands. Thus echoed in the streets of the helpless city the transmission of the latest decrees of the gods, the cries of the newsboys—the Clarion Call of the Press.</p>
<p>Woods flipped a dime to the waiter, and said: “Get me a <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Morning Mars</i>.”</p>

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<p>There is a saying that no man has tasted the full flavour of life until he has known poverty, love and war. The justness of this reflection commends it to the lover of condensed philosophy. The three conditions embrace about all there is in life worth knowing. A surface thinker might deem that wealth should be added to the list. Not so. When a poor man finds a long-hidden quarter-dollar that has slipped through a rip into his vest lining, he sounds the pleasure of life with a deeper plummet than any millionaire can hope to cast.</p>
<p>It seems that the wise executive power that rules life has thought best to drill man in these three conditions; and none may escape all three. In rural places the terms do not mean so much. Poverty is less pinching; love is temperate; war shrinks to contests about boundary lines and the neighbors hens. It is in the cities that our epigram gains in truth and vigor; and it has remained for one John Hopkins to crowd the experience into a rather small space of time.</p>
<p>The Hopkins flat was like a thousand others. There was a rubber plant in one window; a flea-bitten terrier sat in the other, wondering when he was to have his day.</p>
<p>John Hopkins was like a thousand others. He worked at $20 per week in a nine-story, red-brick building at either Insurance, Buckles Hoisting Engines, Chiropody, Loans, Pulleys, Boas Renovated, Waltz Guaranteed in Five Lessons, or Artificial Limbs. It is not for us to wring <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hopkinss avocation from these outward signs that be.</p>
<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Hopkins was like a thousand others. The auriferous tooth, the sedentary disposition, the Sunday afternoon wanderlust, the draught upon the delicatessen store for home-made comforts, the furor for department store marked-down sales, the feeling of superiority to the lady in the third-floor front who wore genuine ostrich tips and had two names over her bell, the mucilaginous hours during which she remained glued to the window sill, the vigilant avoidance of the instalment man, the tireless patronage of the acoustics of the dumb-waiter shaft—all the attributes of the Gotham flat-dweller were hers.</p>
<p>John Hopkins was like a thousand others. He worked at $20 per week in a nine-story, redbrick building at either Insurance, Buckles Hoisting Engines, Chiropody, Loans, Pulleys, Boas Renovated, Waltz Guaranteed in Five Lessons, or Artificial Limbs. It is not for us to wring <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hopkinss avocation from these outward signs that be.</p>
<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Hopkins was like a thousand others. The auriferous tooth, the sedentary disposition, the Sunday afternoon wanderlust, the draught upon the delicatessen store for homemade comforts, the furor for department store marked-down sales, the feeling of superiority to the lady in the third-floor front who wore genuine ostrich tips and had two names over her bell, the mucilaginous hours during which she remained glued to the window sill, the vigilant avoidance of the instalment man, the tireless patronage of the acoustics of the dumbwaiter shaft—all the attributes of the Gotham flat-dweller were hers.</p>
<p>One moment yet of sententiousness and the story moves.</p>
<p>In the Big City large and sudden things happen. You round a corner and thrust the rib of your umbrella into the eye of your old friend from Kootenai Falls. You stroll out to pluck a Sweet William in the park—and lo! bandits attack you—you are ambulanced to the hospital—you marry your nurse; are divorced—get squeezed while short on U. <abbr>P.S.</abbr> and D. O. W. N. S.—stand in the bread line—marry an heiress, take out your laundry and pay your club dues—seemingly all in the wink of an eye. You travel the streets, and a finger beckons to you, a handkerchief is dropped for you, a brick is dropped upon you, the elevator cable or your bank breaks, a table dhôte or your wife disagrees with you, and Fate tosses you about like cork crumbs in wine opened by an un-feed waiter. The City is a sprightly youngster, and you are red paint upon its toy, and you get licked off.</p>
<p>John Hopkins sat, after a compressed dinner, in his glove-fitting straight-front flat. He sat upon a hornblende couch and gazed, with satiated eyes, at Art Brought Home to the People in the shape of “The Storm” tacked against the wall. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Hopkins discoursed droningly of the dinner smells from the flat across the hall. The flea-bitten terrier gave Hopkins a look of disgust, and showed a man-hating tooth.</p>
<p>Here was neither poverty, love, nor war; but upon such barren stems may be grafted those essentials of a complete life.</p>
<p>John Hopkins sought to inject a few raisins of conversation into the tasteless dough of existence. “Putting a new elevator in at the office,” he said, discarding the nominative noun, “and the boss has turned out his whiskers.”</p>
<p>“You dont mean it!” commented <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Hopkins.</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Whipples,” continued John, “wore his new spring suit down to-day. I liked it fine Its a gray with—” He stopped, suddenly stricken by a need that made itself known to him. “I believe Ill walk down to the corner and get a five-cent cigar,” he concluded.</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Whipples,” continued John, “wore his new spring suit down today. I liked it fine Its a gray with—” He stopped, suddenly stricken by a need that made itself known to him. “I believe Ill walk down to the corner and get a five-cent cigar,” he concluded.</p>
<p>John Hopkins took his hat and picked his way down the musty halls and stairs of the flat-house.</p>
<p>The evening air was mild, and the streets shrill with the careless cries of children playing games controlled by mysterious rhythms and phrases. Their elders held the doorways and steps with leisurely pipe and gossip. Paradoxically, the fire-escapes supported lovers in couples who made no attempt to fly the mounting conflagration they were there to fan.</p>
<p>The corner cigar store aimed at by John Hopkins was kept by a man named Freshmayer, who looked upon the earth as a sterile promontory.</p>
<p>Hopkins, unknown in the store, entered and called genially for his “bunch of spinach, car-fare grade.” This imputation deepened the pessimism of Freshmayer; but he set out a brand that came perilously near to filling the order. Hopkins bit off the roots of his purchase, and lighted up at the swinging gas jet. Feeling in his pockets to make payment, he found not a penny there.</p>
<p>Hopkins, unknown in the store, entered and called genially for his “bunch of spinach, carfare grade.” This imputation deepened the pessimism of Freshmayer; but he set out a brand that came perilously near to filling the order. Hopkins bit off the roots of his purchase, and lighted up at the swinging gas jet. Feeling in his pockets to make payment, he found not a penny there.</p>
<p>“Say, my friend,” he explained, frankly, “Ive come out without any change. Hand you that nickel first time I pass.”</p>
<p>Joy surged in Freshmayers heart. Here was corroboration of his belief that the world was rotten and man a peripatetic evil. Without a word he rounded the end of his counter and made earnest onslaught upon his customer. Hopkins was no man to serve as a punching-bag for a pessimistic tobacconist. He quickly bestowed upon Freshmayer a colorado-maduro eye in return for the ardent kick that he received from that dealer in goods for cash only.</p>
<p>The impetus of the enemys attack forced the Hopkins line back to the sidewalk. There the conflict raged; the pacific wooden Indian, with his carven smile, was overturned, and those of the street who delighted in carnage pressed round to view the zealous joust.</p>
@ -31,7 +31,7 @@
<p>As Hopkins ran he became aware of a big, low, red, racing automobile that kept abreast of him in the street. This auto steered in to the side of the sidewalk, and the man guiding it motioned to Hopkins to jump into it. He did so without slackening his speed, and fell into the turkey-red upholstered seat beside the chauffeur. The big machine, with a diminuendo cough, flew away like an albatross down the avenue into which the street emptied.</p>
<p>The driver of the auto sped his machine without a word. He was masked beyond guess in the goggles and diabolic garb of the chauffeur.</p>
<p>“Much obliged, old man,” called Hopkins, gratefully. “I guess youve got sporting blood in you, all right, and dont admire the sight of two men trying to soak one. Little more and Id have been pinched.”</p>
<p>The chauffeur made no sign that he had heard. Hopkins shrugged a shoulder and chewed at his cigar, to which his teeth had clung grimly throughout the mêlée.</p>
<p>The chauffeur made no sign that he had heard. Hopkins shrugged a shoulder and chewed at his cigar, to which his teeth had clung grimly throughout the melee.</p>
<p>Ten minutes and the auto turned into the open carriage entrance of a noble mansion of brown stone, and stood still. The chauffeur leaped out, and said:</p>
<p>“Come quick. The lady, she will explain. It is the great honor you will have, monsieur. Ah, that milady could call upon Armand to do this thing! But, no, I am only one chauffeur.”</p>
<p>With vehement gestures the chauffeur conducted Hopkins into the house. He was ushered into a small but luxurious reception chamber. A lady, young, and possessing the beauty of visions, rose from a chair. In her eyes smouldered a becoming anger. Her high-arched, threadlike brows were ruffled into a delicious frown.</p>

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<section id="the-defeat-of-the-city" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Defeat of the City</h2>
<p>Robert Walmsleys descent upon the city resulted in a Kilkenny struggle. He came out of the fight victor by a fortune and a reputation. On the other hand, he was swallowed up by the city. The city gave him what he demanded and then branded him with its brand. It remodelled, cut, trimmed and stamped him to the pattern it approves. It opened its social gates to him and shut him in on a close-cropped, formal lawn with the select herd of ruminants. In dress, habits, manners, provincialism, routine and narrowness he acquired that charming insolence, that irritating completeness, that sophisticated crassness, that overbalanced poise that makes the Manhattan gentleman so delightfully small in his greatness.</p>
<p>One of the up-state rural counties pointed with pride to the successful young metropolitan lawyer as a product of its soil. Six years earlier this county had removed the wheat straw from between its huckleberry-stained teeth and emitted a derisive and bucolic laugh as old man Walmsleys freckle-faced “Bob” abandoned the certain three-per-diem meals of the one-horse farm for the discontinuous quick lunch counters of the three-ringed metropolis. At the end of the six years no murder trial, coaching party, automobile accident or cotillion was complete in which the name of Robert Walmsley did not figure. Tailors waylaid him in the street to get a new wrinkle from the cut of his unwrinkled trousers. Hyphenated fellows in the clubs and members of the oldest subpœnaed families were glad to clap him on the back and allow him three letters of his name.</p>
<p>One of the upstate rural counties pointed with pride to the successful young metropolitan lawyer as a product of its soil. Six years earlier this county had removed the wheat straw from between its huckleberry-stained teeth and emitted a derisive and bucolic laugh as old man Walmsleys freckle-faced “Bob” abandoned the certain three-per-diem meals of the one-horse farm for the discontinuous quick lunch counters of the three-ringed metropolis. At the end of the six years no murder trial, coaching party, automobile accident or cotillion was complete in which the name of Robert Walmsley did not figure. Tailors waylaid him in the street to get a new wrinkle from the cut of his unwrinkled trousers. Hyphenated fellows in the clubs and members of the oldest subpœnaed families were glad to clap him on the back and allow him three letters of his name.</p>
<p>But the Matterhorn of Robert Walmsleys success was not scaled until he married Alicia Van Der Pool. I cite the Matterhorn, for just so high and cool and white and inaccessible was this daughter of the old burghers. The social Alps that ranged about her over whose bleak passes a thousand climbers struggled—reached only to her knees. She towered in her own atmosphere, serene, chaste, prideful, wading in no fountains, dining no monkeys, breeding no dogs for bench shows. She was a Van Der Pool. Fountains were made to play for her; monkeys were made for other peoples ancestors; dogs, she understood, were created to be companions of blind persons and objectionable characters who smoked pipes.</p>
<p>This was the Matterhorn that Robert Walmsley accomplished. If he found, with the good poet with the game foot and artificially curled hair, that he who ascends to mountain tops will find the loftiest peaks most wrapped in clouds and snow, he concealed his chilblains beneath a brave and smiling exterior. He was a lucky man and knew it, even though he were imitating the Spartan boy with an ice-cream freezer beneath his doublet frappéeing the region of his heart.</p>
<p>After a brief wedding tour abroad, the couple returned to create a decided ripple in the calm cistern (so placid and cool and sunless it is) of the best society. They entertained at their red brick mausoleum of ancient greatness in an old square that is a cemetery of crumbled glory. And Robert Walmsley was proud of his wife; although while one of his hands shook his guests the other held tightly to his alpenstock and thermometer.</p>
<p>One day Alicia found a letter written to Robert by his mother. It was an unerudite letter, full of crops and motherly love and farm notes. It chronicled the health of the pig and the recent red calf, and asked concerning Roberts in return. It was a letter direct from the soil, straight from home, full of biographies of bees, tales of turnips, pæans of new-laid eggs, neglected parents and the slump in dried apples.</p>
<p>One day Alicia found a letter written to Robert by his mother. It was an unerudite letter, full of crops and motherly love and farm notes. It chronicled the health of the pig and the recent red calf, and asked concerning Roberts in return. It was a letter direct from the soil, straight from home, full of biographies of bees, tales of turnips, paeans of new-laid eggs, neglected parents and the slump in dried apples.</p>
<p>“Why have I not been shown your mothers letters?” asked Alicia. There was always something in her voice that made you think of lorgnettes, of accounts at Tiffanys, of sledges smoothly gliding on the trail from Dawson to Forty Mile, of the tinkling of pendant prisms on your grandmothers chandeliers, of snow lying on a convent roof; of a police sergeant refusing bail. “Your mother,” continued Alicia, “invites us to make a visit to the farm. I have never seen a farm. We will go there for a week or two, Robert.”</p>
<p>“We will,” said Robert, with the grand air of an associate Supreme Justice concurring in an opinion. “I did not lay the invitation before you because I thought you would not care to go. I am much pleased at your decision.”</p>
<p>“I will write to her myself,” answered Alicia, with a faint foreshadowing of enthusiasm. “Félice shall pack my trunks at once. Seven, I think, will be enough. I do not suppose that your mother entertains a great deal. Does she give many house parties?”</p>
<p>Robert arose, and as attorney for rural places filed a demurrer against six of the seven trunks. He endeavored to define, picture, elucidate, set forth and describe a farm. His own words sounded strange in his ears. He had not realized how thoroughly urbsidized he had become.</p>
<p>A week passed and found them landed at the little country station five hours out from the city. A grinning, stentorian, sarcastic youth driving a mule to a spring wagon hailed Robert savagely.</p>
<p>“Hallo, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Walmsley. Found your way back at last, have you? Sorry I couldnt bring in the automobile for you, but dads bull-tonguing the ten-acre clover patch with it to-day. Guess youll excuse my not wearing a dress suit over to meet you—it aint six oclock yet, you know.”</p>
<p>“Hallo, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Walmsley. Found your way back at last, have you? Sorry I couldnt bring in the automobile for you, but dads bull-tonguing the ten-acre clover patch with it today. Guess youll excuse my not wearing a dress suit over to meet you—it aint six oclock yet, you know.”</p>
<p>“Im glad to see you, Tom,” said Robert, grasping his brothers hand. “Yes, Ive found my way at last. Youve a right to say at last. Its been over two years since the last time. But it will be oftener after this, my boy.”</p>
<p>Alicia, cool in the summer heat as an Arctic wraith, white as a Norse snow maiden in her flimsy muslin and fluttering lace parasol, came round the corner of the station; and Tom was stripped of his assurance. He became chiefly eyesight clothed in blue jeans, and on the homeward drive to the mule alone did he confide in language the inwardness of his thoughts.</p>
<p>They drove homeward. The low sun dropped a spendthrift flood of gold upon the fortunate fields of wheat. The cities were far away. The road lay curling around wood and dale and hill like a ribbon lost from the robe of careless summer. The wind followed like a whinnying colt in the track of Phœbuss steeds.</p>
<p>By and by the farmhouse peeped gray out of its faithful grove; they saw the long lane with its convoy of walnut trees running from the road to the house; they smelled the wild rose and the breath of cool, damp willows in the creeks bed. And then in unison all the voices of the soil began a chant addressed to the soul of Robert Walmsley. Out of the tilted aisles of the dim wood they came hollowly; they chirped and buzzed from the parched grass; they trilled from the ripples of the creek ford; they floated up in clear Pans pipe notes from the dimming meadows; the whippoorwills joined in as they pursued midges in the upper air; slow-going cow-bells struck out a homely accompaniment—and this was what each one said: “Youve found your way back at last, have you?”</p>
<p>By and by the farmhouse peeped gray out of its faithful grove; they saw the long lane with its convoy of walnut trees running from the road to the house; they smelled the wild rose and the breath of cool, damp willows in the creeks bed. And then in unison all the voices of the soil began a chant addressed to the soul of Robert Walmsley. Out of the tilted aisles of the dim wood they came hollowly; they chirped and buzzed from the parched grass; they trilled from the ripples of the creek ford; they floated up in clear Pans pipe notes from the dimming meadows; the whippoorwills joined in as they pursued midges in the upper air; slow-going cowbells struck out a homely accompaniment—and this was what each one said: “Youve found your way back at last, have you?”</p>
<p>The old voices of the soil spoke to him. Leaf and bud and blossom conversed with him in the old vocabulary of his careless youth—the inanimate things, the familiar stones and rails, the gates and furrows and roofs and turns of the road had an eloquence, too, and a power in the transformation. The country had smiled and he had felt the breath of it, and his heart was drawn as if in a moment back to his old love. The city was far away.</p>
<p>This rural atavism, then, seized Robert Walmsley and possessed him. A queer thing he noticed in connection with it was that Alicia, sitting at his side, suddenly seemed to him a stranger. She did not belong to this recurrent phase. Never before had she seemed so remote, so colorless and high—so intangible and unreal. And yet he had never admired her more than when she sat there by him in the rickety spring wagon, chiming no more with his mood and with her environment than the Matterhorn chimes with a peasants cabbage garden.</p>
<p>That night when the greetings and the supper were over, the entire family, including Buff, the yellow dog, bestrewed itself upon the front porch. Alicia, not haughty but silent, sat in the shadow dressed in an exquisite pale-gray tea gown. Roberts mother discoursed to her happily concerning marmalade and lumbago. Tom sat on the top step; Sisters Millie and Pam on the lowest step to catch the lightning bugs. Mother had the willow rocker. Father sat in the big armchair with one of its arms gone. Buff sprawled in the middle of the porch in everybodys way. The twilight pixies and pucks stole forth unseen and plunged other poignant shafts of memory into the heart of Robert. A rural madness entered his soul. The city was far away.</p>

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<p>“What ails ye?” asked his mother, looking at him curiously; “are ye not feeling well the morning, maybe now?”</p>
<p>“Hes thinking along of Annie Maria Doyle,” impudently explained younger brother Tim, ten years old.</p>
<p>“Tiger” reached over the hand of a champion and swept the small McQuirk from his chair.</p>
<p>“I feel fine,” said he, “beyond a touch of the I-dont-know-what-you-call-its. I feel like there was going to be earthquakes or music or a trifle of chills and fever or maybe a picnic. I dont know how I feel. I feel like knocking the face off a policeman, or else maybe like playing Coney Island straight across the board from pop-corn to the elephant houdahs.”</p>
<p>“I feel fine,” said he, “beyond a touch of the I-dont-know-what-you-call-its. I feel like there was going to be earthquakes or music or a trifle of chills and fever or maybe a picnic. I dont know how I feel. I feel like knocking the face off a policeman, or else maybe like playing Coney Island straight across the board from popcorn to the elephant houdahs.”</p>
<p>“Its the spring in yer bones,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> McQuirk. “Its the sap risin. Time was when I couldnt keep me feet still nor me head cool when the earthworms began to crawl out in the dew of the mornin. Tis a bit of tea will do ye good, made from pipsissewa and gentian bark at the druggists.”</p>
<p>“Back up!” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> McQuirk, impatiently. “Theres no spring in sight. Theres snow yet on the shed in Donovans backyard. And yesterday they puts open cars on the Sixth Avenue lines, and the janitors have quit ordering coal. And that means six weeks more of winter, by all the signs that be.”</p>
<p>After breakfast <abbr>Mr.</abbr> McQuirk spent fifteen minutes before the corrugated mirror, subjugating his hair and arranging his green-and-purple ascot with its amethyst tombstone pin—eloquent of his chosen calling.</p>
<p>Since the strike had been called it was this particular strikers habit to hie himself each morning to the corner saloon of Flaherty Brothers, and there establish himself upon the sidewalk, with one foot resting on the bootblacks stand, observing the panorama of the street until the pace of time brought twelve oclock and the dinner hour. And <abbr>Mr.</abbr> “Tiger” McQuirk, with his athletic seventy inches, well trained in sport and battle; his smooth, pale, solid, amiable face—blue where the razor had travelled; his carefully considered clothes and air of capability, was himself a spectacle not displeasing to the eye.</p>
<p>But on this morning <abbr>Mr.</abbr> McQuirk did not hasten immediately to his post of leisure and observation. Something unusual that he could not quite grasp was in the air. Something disturbed his thoughts, ruffled his senses, made him at once languid, irritable, elated, dissastisfied and sportive. He was no diagnostician, and he did not know that Lent was breaking up physiologically in his system.</p>
<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> McQuirk had spoken of spring. Sceptically Tiger looked about him for signs. Few they were. The organ-grinders were at work; but they were always precocious harbingers. It was near enough spring for them to go penny-hunting when the skating ball dropped at the park. In the milliners windows Easter hats, grave, gay and jubilant, blossomed. There were green patches among the sidewalk debris of the grocers. On a third-story window-sill the first elbow cushion of the season—old gold stripes on a crimson ground—supported the kimonoed arms of a pensive brunette. The wind blew cold from the East River, but the sparrows were flying to the eaves with straws. A second-hand store, combining foresight with faith, had set out an ice-chest and baseball goods.</p>
<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> McQuirk had spoken of spring. Sceptically Tiger looked about him for signs. Few they were. The organ-grinders were at work; but they were always precocious harbingers. It was near enough spring for them to go penny-hunting when the skating ball dropped at the park. In the milliners windows Easter hats, grave, gay and jubilant, blossomed. There were green patches among the sidewalk debris of the grocers. On a third-story windowsill the first elbow cushion of the season—old gold stripes on a crimson ground—supported the kimonoed arms of a pensive brunette. The wind blew cold from the East River, but the sparrows were flying to the eaves with straws. A secondhand store, combining foresight with faith, had set out an ice-chest and baseball goods.</p>
<p>And then “Tigers” eye, discrediting these signs, fell upon one that bore a bud of promise. From a bright, new lithograph the head of Capricornus confronted him, betokening the forward and heady brew.</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> McQuirk entered the saloon and called for his glass of bock. He threw his nickel on the bar, raised the glass, set it down without tasting it and strolled toward the door.</p>
<p>“Wots the matter, Lord Bolinbroke?” inquired the sarcastic bartender; “want a chiny vase or a gold-lined épergne to drink it out of—hey?”</p>
@ -30,13 +30,13 @@
<p>Leaving the saloon, he walked away twenty steps and leaned in the open doorway of Lutz, the barber. He and Lutz were friends, masking their sentiments behind abuse and bludgeons of repartee.</p>
<p>“Irish loafer,” roared Lutz, “how do you do? So, not yet haf der bolicemans or der catcher of dogs done deir duty!”</p>
<p>“Hello, Dutch,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> McQuirk. “Cant get your mind off of frankfurters, can you?”</p>
<p>“Bah!” exclaimed the German, coming and leaning in the door. “I haf a soul above frankfurters to-day. Dere is springtime in der air. I can feel it coming in ofer der mud of der streets and das ice in der river. Soon will dere be bicnics in der islands, mit kegs of beer under der trees.”</p>
<p>“Bah!” exclaimed the German, coming and leaning in the door. “I haf a soul above frankfurters today. Dere is springtime in der air. I can feel it coming in ofer der mud of der streets and das ice in der river. Soon will dere be bicnics in der islands, mit kegs of beer under der trees.”</p>
<p>“Say,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> McQuirk, setting his hat on one side, “is everybody kiddin me about gentle Spring? There aint any more spring in the air than there is in a horsehair sofa in a Second Avenue furnished room. For me the winter underwear yet and the buckwheat cakes.”</p>
<p>“You haf no boetry,” said Lutz. “True, it is yedt cold, und in der city we haf not many of der signs; but dere are dree kinds of beoble dot should always feel der approach of spring first—dey are boets, lovers and poor vidows.”</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> McQuirk went on his way, still possessed by the strange perturbation that he did not understand. Something was lacking to his comfort, and it made him half angry because he did not know what it was.</p>
<p>Two blocks away he came upon a foe, one Conover, whom he was bound in honor to engage in combat.</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> McQuirk made the attack with the characteristic suddenness and fierceness that had gained for him the endearing sobriquet of “Tiger.” The defence of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Conover was so prompt and admirable that the conflict was protracted until the onlookers unselfishly gave the warning cry of “Cheese it—the cop!” The principals escaped easily by running through the nearest open doors into the communicating backyards at the rear of the houses.</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> McQuirk emerged into another street. He stood by a lamp-post for a few minutes engaged in thought and then he turned and plunged into a small notion and news shop. A red-haired young woman, eating gum-drops, came and looked freezingly at him across the ice-bound steppes of the counter.</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> McQuirk emerged into another street. He stood by a lamppost for a few minutes engaged in thought and then he turned and plunged into a small notion and news shop. A red-haired young woman, eating gumdrops, came and looked freezingly at him across the icebound steppes of the counter.</p>
<p>“Say, lady,” he said, “have you got a song book with this in it. Lets see how it leads off</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
@ -49,7 +49,7 @@
<p>“We have not,” replied the young woman, with unconcealed contempt. “But there is a new song out that begins this way:</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>Let us sit together in the old arm-chair;</span>
<span>Let us sit together in the old armchair;</span>
<br/>
<span>And while the firelight flickers well be comfortable there.’ ”</span>
</p>
@ -64,7 +64,7 @@
<p>“Jimmy,” sighed Annie Maria, suddenly disappearing in his overcoat, “dont you see that spring is all over the world right this minute?”</p>
<p>But you yourself remember how that day ended. Beginning with so fine a promise of vernal things, late in the afternoon the air chilled and an inch of snow fell—even so late in March. On Fifth Avenue the ladies drew their winter furs close about them. Only in the florists windows could be perceived any signs of the morning smile of the coming goddess Eastre.</p>
<p>At six oclock Herr Lutz began to close his shop. He heard a well-known shout: “Hello, Dutch!”</p>
<p>“Tiger” McQuirk, in his shirt-sleeves, with his hat on the back of his head, stood outside in the whirling snow, puffing at a black cigar.</p>
<p>“Tiger” McQuirk, in his shirtsleeves, with his hat on the back of his head, stood outside in the whirling snow, puffing at a black cigar.</p>
<p>“Donnerwetter!” shouted Lutz, “der vinter, he has gome back again yet!”</p>
<p>“Yer a liar, Dutch,” called back <abbr>Mr.</abbr> McQuirk, with friendly geniality, “its springtime, by the watch.”</p>
</section>

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<p>Id better explain what I mean by that. There was a girl. Now, a girl, as far as I am concerned, is a thing that belongs in a seminary or an album; but I conceded the existence of the animal in order to retain Kerners friendship. He showed me her picture in a locket—she was a blonde or a brunette—I have forgotten which. She worked in a factory for eight dollars a week. Lest factories quote this wage by way of vindication, I will add that the girl had worked for five years to reach that supreme elevation of remuneration, beginning at $1.50 per week.</p>
<p>Kerners father was worth a couple of millions He was willing to stand for art, but he drew the line at the factory girl. So Kerner disinherited his father and walked out to a cheap studio and lived on sausages for breakfast and on Farroni for dinner. Farroni had the artistic soul and a line of credit for painters and poets, nicely adjusted. Sometimes Kerner sold a picture and bought some new tapestry, a ring and a dozen silk cravats, and paid Farroni two dollars on account.</p>
<p>One evening Kerner had me to dinner with himself and the factory girl. They were to be married as soon as Kerner could slosh paint profitably. As for the ex-fathers two millions—pouf!</p>
<p>She was a wonder. Small and half-way pretty, and as much at her ease in that cheap café as though she were only in the Palmer House, Chicago, with a souvenir spoon already safely hidden in her shirt waist. She was natural. Two things I noticed about her especially. Her belt buckle was exactly in the middle of her back, and she didnt tell us that a large man with a ruby stick-pin had followed her up all the way from Fourteenth Street. Was Kerner such a fool? I wondered. And then I thought of the quantity of striped cuffs and blue glass beads that $2,000,000 can buy for the heathen, and I said to myself that he was. And then Elise—certainly that was her name—told us, merrily, that the brown spot on her waist was caused by her landlady knocking at the door while she (the girl—confound the English language) was heating an iron over the gas jet, and she hid the iron under the bedclothes until the coast was clear, and there was the piece of chewing gum stuck to it when she began to iron the waist, and—well, I wondered how in the world the chewing gum came to be there—dont they ever stop chewing it?</p>
<p>She was a wonder. Small and halfway pretty, and as much at her ease in that cheap café as though she were only in the Palmer House, Chicago, with a souvenir spoon already safely hidden in her shirt waist. She was natural. Two things I noticed about her especially. Her belt buckle was exactly in the middle of her back, and she didnt tell us that a large man with a ruby stickpin had followed her up all the way from Fourteenth Street. Was Kerner such a fool? I wondered. And then I thought of the quantity of striped cuffs and blue glass beads that $2,000,000 can buy for the heathen, and I said to myself that he was. And then Elise—certainly that was her name—told us, merrily, that the brown spot on her waist was caused by her landlady knocking at the door while she (the girl—confound the English language) was heating an iron over the gas jet, and she hid the iron under the bedclothes until the coast was clear, and there was the piece of chewing gum stuck to it when she began to iron the waist, and—well, I wondered how in the world the chewing gum came to be there—dont they ever stop chewing it?</p>
<p>A while after that—dont be impatient, the absinthe drip is coming now—Kerner and I were dining at Farronis. A mandolin and a guitar were being attacked; the room was full of smoke in nice, long crinkly layers just like the artists draw the steam from a plum pudding on Christmas posters, and a lady in a blue silk and gasolined gauntlets was beginning to hum an air from the Catskills.</p>
<p>“Kerner,” said I, “you are a fool.”</p>
<p>“Of course,” said Kerner, “I wouldnt let her go on working. Not my wife. Whats the use to wait? Shes willing. I sold that water color of the Palisades yesterday. We could cook on a two-burner gas stove. You know the ragouts I can throw together? Yes, I think we will marry next week.”</p>
<p>“Kerner,” said I, “you are a fool.”</p>
<p>“Have an absinthe drip?” said Kerner, grandly. “To-night you are the guest of Art in paying quantities. I think we will get a flat with a bath.”</p>
<p>“Have an absinthe drip?” said Kerner, grandly. “Tonight you are the guest of Art in paying quantities. I think we will get a flat with a bath.”</p>
<p>“I never tried one—I mean an absinthe drip,” said I.</p>
<p>The waiter brought it and poured the water slowly over the ice in the dripper.</p>
<p>“It looks exactly like the Mississippi River water in the big bend below Natchez,” said I, fascinated, gazing at the be-muddled drip.</p>
@ -37,7 +37,7 @@
<p>The Fool-Killer got up from his table and came over to ours. He rested his hands upon it, and turned his burning, vindictive eyes upon Kerner, ignoring me.</p>
<p>“You are a hopeless fool,” he said to the artist. “Havent you had enough of starvation yet? I offer you one more opportunity. Give up this girl and come back to your home. Refuse, and you must take the consequences.”</p>
<p>The Fool-Killers threatening face was within a foot of his victims; but to my horror, Kerner made not the slightest sign of being aware of his presence.</p>
<p>“We will be married next week,” he muttered absent-mindedly. “With my studio furniture and some second-hand stuff we can make out.”</p>
<p>“We will be married next week,” he muttered absentmindedly. “With my studio furniture and some secondhand stuff we can make out.”</p>
<p>“You have decided your own fate,” said the Fool-Killer, in a low but terrible voice. “You may consider yourself as one dead. You have had your last chance.”</p>
<p>“In the moonlight,” went on Kerner, softly, “we will sit under the skylight with our guitar and sing away the false delights of pride and money.”</p>
<p>“On your own head be it,” hissed the Fool-Killer, and my scalp prickled when I perceived that neither Kerners 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-Killers hands. Something of the fear and wonder of it must have showed itself in my face.</p>
@ -48,7 +48,7 @@
<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>
<p>“Wait here,” said I, furious; “if you dont care for your own life, I will save it for you.”</p>
<p>I hurried out and overtook the man in gray half-way down the block. He looked as I had seen him in my fancy a thousand times—truculent, gray and awful. He walked with the white oak staff, and but for the street-sprinkler the dust would have been flying under his tread.</p>
<p>I hurried out and overtook the man in gray halfway down the block. He looked as I had seen him in my fancy a thousand times—truculent, gray and awful. He walked with the white oak staff, and but for the street-sprinkler the dust would have been flying under his tread.</p>
<p>I caught him by the sleeve and steered him to a dark angle of a building. I knew he was a myth, and I did not want a cop to see me conversing with vacancy, for I might land in Bellevue minus my silver matchbox and diamond ring.</p>
<p>“Jesse Holmes,” said I, facing him with apparent bravery, “I know you. I have heard of you all my life. I know now what a scourge you have been to your country. Instead of killing fools you have been murdering the youth and genius that are necessary to make a people live and grow great. You are a fool yourself, Holmes; you began killing off the brightest and best of our countrymen three generations ago, when the old and obsolete standards of society and honor and orthodoxy were narrow and bigoted. You proved that when you put your murderous mark upon my friend Kerner—the wisest chap I ever knew in my life.”</p>
<p>The Fool-Killer looked at me grimly and closely.</p>
@ -57,7 +57,7 @@
<p>“Would you mind telling me who or what you think I am?” asked the old man.</p>
<p>I laughed boisterously and then stopped suddenly, for I remembered that it would not do to be seen so hilarious in the company of nothing but a brick wall.</p>
<p>“You are Jesse Holmes, the Fool-Killer,” I said, solemnly, “and you are going to kill my friend Kerner. I dont know who rang you up, but if you do kill him Ill see that you get pinched for it. That is,” I added, despairingly, “if I can get a cop to see you. They have a poor eye for mortals, and I think it would take the whole force to round up a myth murderer.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said the Fool-Killer, briskly, “I must be going. You had better go home and sleep it off. Good-night.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said the Fool-Killer, briskly, “I must be going. You had better go home and sleep it off. Good night.”</p>
<p>At this I was moved by a sudden fear for Kerner to a softer and more pleading mood. I leaned against the gray mans sleeve and besought him:</p>
<p>“Good <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fool-Killer, please dont kill little Kerner. Why cant you go back South and kill Congressmen and clay-eaters and let us alone? Why dont you go up on Fifth Avenue and kill millionaires that keep their money locked up and wont let young fools marry because one of em lives on the wrong street? Come and have a drink, Jesse. Will you never get on to your job?”</p>
<p>“Do you know this girl that your friend has made himself a fool about?” asked the Fool-Killer.</p>

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<p>The warble of the first robin in Hackensack, the stirring of the maple sap in Bennington, the budding of the pussy willows along Main Street in Syracuse, the first chirp of the bluebird, the swan song of the Blue Point, the annual tornado in <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis, the plaint of the peach pessimist from Pompton, N. J., the regular visit of the tame wild goose with a broken leg to the pond near Bilgewater Junction, the base attempt of the Drug Trust to boost the price of quinine foiled in the House by Congressman Jinks, the first tall poplar struck by lightning and the usual stunned picknickers who had taken refuge, the first crack of the ice jam in the Allegheny River, the finding of a violet in its mossy bed by the correspondent at Round Corners—these are the advance signs of the burgeoning season that are wired into the wise city, while the farmer sees nothing but winter upon his dreary fields.</p>
<p>But these be mere externals. The true harbinger is the heart. When Strephon seeks his Chloe and Mike his Maggie, then only is spring arrived and the newspaper report of the five-foot rattler killed in Squire Pettigrews pasture confirmed.</p>
<p>Ere the first violet blew, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ragsdale and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Kidd sat together on a bench in Union Square and conspired. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters was the DArtagnan of the loafers there. He was the dingiest, the laziest, the sorriest brown blot against the green background of any bench in the park. But just then he was the most important of the trio.</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters had a wife. This had not heretofore affected his standing with Ragsy and Kidd. But to-day it invested him with a peculiar interest. His friends, having escaped matrimony, had shown a disposition to deride <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters for his venture on that troubled sea. But at last they had been forced to acknowledge that either he had been gifted with a large foresight or that he was one of Fortunes lucky sons.</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters had a wife. This had not heretofore affected his standing with Ragsy and Kidd. But today it invested him with a peculiar interest. His friends, having escaped matrimony, had shown a disposition to deride <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters for his venture on that troubled sea. But at last they had been forced to acknowledge that either he had been gifted with a large foresight or that he was one of Fortunes lucky sons.</p>
<p>For, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Peters had a dollar. A whole dollar bill, good and receivable by the Government for customs, taxes and all public dues. How to get possession of that dollar was the question up for discussion by the three musty musketeers.</p>
<p>“How do you know it was a dollar?” asked Ragsy, the immensity of the sum inclining him to scepticism.</p>
<p>“The coalman seen her have it,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters. “She went out and done some washing yesterday. And look what she give me for breakfast—the heel of a loaf and a cup of coffee, and her with a dollar!”</p>
@ -32,7 +32,7 @@
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peterss eye calculated the distance between them. By taking her by surprise it might be possible to spring upon her, overthrow her, and apply the throttling tactics of which he had boasted to his waiting comrades. True, it had been only a boast; never yet had he dared to lay violent hands upon her; but with the thoughts of the delicious, cool bock or Culmbacher bracing his nerves, he was near to upsetting his own theories of the treatment due by a gentleman to a lady. But, with his loafers love for the more artistic and less strenuous way, he chose diplomacy first, the high card in the game—the assumed attitude of success already attained.</p>
<p>“You have a dollar,” he said, loftily, but significantly in the tone that goes with the lighting of a cigar—when the properties are at hand.</p>
<p>“I have,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Peters, producing the bill from her bosom and crackling it, teasingly.</p>
<p>“I am offered a position in a—in a tea store,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters. “I am to begin work to-morrow. But it will be necessary for me to buy a pair of—”</p>
<p>“I am offered a position in a—in a tea store,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters. “I am to begin work tomorrow. But it will be necessary for me to buy a pair of—”</p>
<p>“You are a liar,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Peters, reinterring the note. “No tea store, nor no A B C store, nor no junk shop would have you. I rubbed the skin off both me hands washin jumpers and overalls to make that dollar. Do you think it come out of them suds to buy the kind you put into you? Skiddoo! Get your mind off of money.”</p>
<p>Evidently the poses of Talleyrand were not worth one hundred cents on that dollar. But diplomacy is dexterous. The artistic temperament of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters lifted him by the straps of his congress gaiters and set him on new ground. He called up a look of desperate melancholy to his eyes.</p>
<p>“Clara,” he said, hollowly, “to struggle further is useless. You have always misunderstood me. Heaven knows I have striven with all my might to keep my head above the waves of misfortune, but—”</p>

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<p>So Miss Lynnette DArmande turned the back of her chair to her window that overlooked Broadway, and sat down to stitch in time the lisle-thread heel of a black silk stocking. The tumult and glitter of the roaring Broadway beneath her window had no charm for her; what she greatly desired was the stifling air of a dressing-room on that fairyland street and the roar of an audience gathered in that capricious quarter. In the meantime, those stockings must not be neglected. Silk does wear out so, but—after all, isnt it just the only goods there is?</p>
<p>The Hotel Thalia looks on Broadway as Marathon looks on the sea. It stands like a gloomy cliff above the whirlpool where the tides of two great thoroughfares clash. Here the player-bands gather at the end of their wanderings, to loosen the buskin and dust the sock. Thick in the streets around it are booking-offices, theatres, agents, schools, and the lobster-palaces to which those thorny paths lead.</p>
<p>Wandering through the eccentric halls of the dim and fusty Thalia, you seem to have found yourself in some great ark or caravan about to sail, or fly, or roll away on wheels. About the house lingers a sense of unrest, of expectation, of transientness, even of anxiety and apprehension. The halls are a labyrinth. Without a guide, you wander like a lost soul in a Sam Loyd puzzle.</p>
<p>Turning any corner, a dressing-sack or a cul-de-sac may bring you up short. You meet alarming tragedians stalking in bath-robes in search of rumored bathrooms. From hundreds of rooms come the buzz of talk, scraps of new and old songs, and the ready laughter of the convened players.</p>
<p>Turning any corner, a dressing-sack or a cul-de-sac may bring you up short. You meet alarming tragedians stalking in bathrobes in search of rumored bathrooms. From hundreds of rooms come the buzz of talk, scraps of new and old songs, and the ready laughter of the convened players.</p>
<p>Summer has come; their companies have disbanded, and they take their rest in their favorite caravansary, while they besiege the managers for engagements for the coming season.</p>
<p>At this hour of the afternoon the days work of tramping the rounds of the agents offices is over. Past you, as you ramble distractedly through the mossy halls, flit audible visions of houris, with veiled, starry eyes, flying tag-ends of things and a swish of silk, bequeathing to the dull hallways an odor of gaiety and a memory of frangipanni. Serious young comedians, with versatile Adams apples, gather in doorways and talk of Booth. Far-reaching from somewhere comes the smell of ham and red cabbage, and the crash of dishes on the American plan.</p>
<p>The indeterminate hum of life in the Thalia is enlivened by the discreet popping—at reasonable and salubrious intervals—of beer-bottle corks. Thus punctuated, life in the genial hostel scans easily—the comma being the favorite mark, semicolons frowned upon, and periods barred.</p>
<p>Miss DArmandes room was a small one. There was room for her rocker between the dresser and the wash-stand if it were placed longitudinally. On the dresser were its usual accoutrements, plus the ex-leading ladys collected souvenirs of road engagements and photographs of her dearest and best professional friends.</p>
<p>Miss DArmandes room was a small one. There was room for her rocker between the dresser and the washstand if it were placed longitudinally. On the dresser were its usual accoutrements, plus the ex-leading ladys collected souvenirs of road engagements and photographs of her dearest and best professional friends.</p>
<p>At one of these photographs she looked twice or thrice as she darned, and smiled friendlily.</p>
<p>“Id like to know where Lee is just this minute,” she said, half-aloud.</p>
<p>If you had been privileged to view the photograph thus flattered, you would have thought at the first glance that you saw the picture of a many-petalled white flower, blown through the air by a storm. But the floral kingdom was not responsible for that swirl of petalous whiteness.</p>
<p>You saw the filmy, brief skirt of Miss Rosalie Ray as she made a complete heels-over-head turn in her wistaria-entwined swing, far out from the stage, high above the heads of the audience. You saw the cameras inadequate representation of the graceful, strong kick, with which she, at this exciting moment, sent flying, high and far, the yellow silk garter that each evening spun from her agile limb and descended upon the delighted audience below.</p>
<p>You saw, too, amid the black-clothed, mainly masculine patrons of select vaudeville a hundred hands raised with the hope of staying the flight of the brilliant aërial token.</p>
<p>Forty weeks of the best circuits this act had brought Miss Rosalie Ray, for each of two years. She did other things during her twelve minutes—a song and dance, imitations of two or three actors who are but imitations of themselves, and a balancing feat with a step-ladder and feather-duster; but when the blossom-decked swing was let down from the flies, and Miss Rosalie sprang smiling into the seat, with the golden circlet conspicuous in the place whence it was soon to slide and become a soaring and coveted guerdon—then it was that the audience rose in its seat as a single man—or presumably so—and indorsed the specialty that made Miss Rays name a favorite in the booking-offices.</p>
<p>Forty weeks of the best circuits this act had brought Miss Rosalie Ray, for each of two years. She did other things during her twelve minutes—a song and dance, imitations of two or three actors who are but imitations of themselves, and a balancing feat with a stepladder and feather-duster; but when the blossom-decked swing was let down from the flies, and Miss Rosalie sprang smiling into the seat, with the golden circlet conspicuous in the place whence it was soon to slide and become a soaring and coveted guerdon—then it was that the audience rose in its seat as a single man—or presumably so—and endorsed the specialty that made Miss Rays name a favorite in the booking-offices.</p>
<p>At the end of the two years Miss Ray suddenly announced to her dear friend, Miss DArmande, that she was going to spend the summer at an antediluvian village on the north shore of Long Island, and that the stage would see her no more.</p>
<p>Seventeen minutes after Miss Lynnette DArmande had expressed her wish to know the whereabouts of her old chum, there were sharp raps at her door.</p>
<p>Doubt not that it was Rosalie Ray. At the shrill command to enter she did so, with something of a tired flutter, and dropped a heavy hand-bag on the floor. Upon my word, it was Rosalie, in a loose, travel-stained automobileless coat, closely tied brown veil with yard-long, flying ends, gray walking-suit and tan oxfords with lavender overgaiters.</p>
<p>Doubt not that it was Rosalie Ray. At the shrill command to enter she did so, with something of a tired flutter, and dropped a heavy handbag on the floor. Upon my word, it was Rosalie, in a loose, travel-stained automobileless coat, closely tied brown veil with yard-long, flying ends, gray walking-suit and tan oxfords with lavender overgaiters.</p>
<p>When she threw off her veil and hat, you saw a pretty enough face, now flushed and disturbed by some unusual emotion, and restless, large eyes with discontent marring their brightness. A heavy pile of dull auburn hair, hastily put up, was escaping in crinkly, waving strands and curling, small locks from the confining combs and pins.</p>
<p>The meeting of the two was not marked by the effusion vocal, gymnastical, osculatory and catechetical that distinguishes the greetings of their unprofessional sisters in society. There was a brief clinch, two simultaneous labial dabs and they stood on the same footing of the old days. Very much like the short salutations of soldiers or of travellers in foreign wilds are the welcomes between the strollers at the corners of their criss-cross roads.</p>
<p>The meeting of the two was not marked by the effusion vocal, gymnastical, osculatory and catechetical that distinguishes the greetings of their unprofessional sisters in society. There was a brief clinch, two simultaneous labial dabs and they stood on the same footing of the old days. Very much like the short salutations of soldiers or of travellers in foreign wilds are the welcomes between the strollers at the corners of their crisscross roads.</p>
<p>“Ive got the hall-room two flights up above yours,” said Rosalie, “but I came straight to see you before going up. I didnt know you were here till they told me.”</p>
<p>“Ive been in since the last of April,” said Lynnette. “And Im going on the road with a Fatal Inheritance company. We open next week in Elizabeth. I thought youd quit the stage, Lee. Tell me about yourself.”</p>
<p>Rosalie settled herself with a skilful wriggle on the top of Miss DArmandes wardrobe trunk, and leaned her head against the papered wall. From long habit, thus can peripatetic leading ladies and their sisters make themselves as comfortable as though the deepest armchairs embraced them.</p>
<p>“Im going to tell you, Lynn,” she said, with a strangely sardonic and yet carelessly resigned look on her youthful face. “And then to-morrow Ill strike the old Broadway trail again, and wear some more paint off the chairs in the agents offices. If anybody had told me any time in the last three months up to four oclock this afternoon that Id ever listen to that Leave-your-name-and-address rot of the booking bunch again, Id have given em the real <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fiske laugh. Loan me a handkerchief, Lynn. Gee! but those Long Island trains are fierce. Ive got enough soft-coal cinders on my face to go on and play Topsy without using the cork. And, speaking of corks—got anything to drink, Lynn?”</p>
<p>Miss DArmande opened a door of the wash-stand and took out a bottle.</p>
<p>“Im going to tell you, Lynn,” she said, with a strangely sardonic and yet carelessly resigned look on her youthful face. “And then tomorrow Ill strike the old Broadway trail again, and wear some more paint off the chairs in the agents offices. If anybody had told me any time in the last three months up to four oclock this afternoon that Id ever listen to that Leave-your-name-and-address rot of the booking bunch again, Id have given em the real <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fiske laugh. Loan me a handkerchief, Lynn. Gee! but those Long Island trains are fierce. Ive got enough soft-coal cinders on my face to go on and play Topsy without using the cork. And, speaking of corks—got anything to drink, Lynn?”</p>
<p>Miss DArmande opened a door of the washstand and took out a bottle.</p>
<p>“Theres nearly a pint of Manhattan. Theres a cluster of carnations in the drinking glass, but—”</p>
<p>“Oh, pass the bottle. Save the glass for company. Thanks! That hits the spot. The same to you. My first drink in three months!</p>
<p>“Yes, Lynn, I quit the stage at the end of last season. I quit it because I was sick of the life. And especially because my heart and soul were sick of men—of the kind of men we stage people have to be up against. You know what the game is to us—its a fight against em all the way down the line from the manager who wants us to try his new motor-car to the bill-posters who want to call us by our front names.</p>
<p>“Yes, Lynn, I quit the stage at the end of last season. I quit it because I was sick of the life. And especially because my heart and soul were sick of men—of the kind of men we stage people have to be up against. You know what the game is to us—its a fight against em all the way down the line from the manager who wants us to try his new motorcar to the bill-posters who want to call us by our front names.</p>
<p>“And the men we have to meet after the show are the worst of all. The stage-door kind, and the managers friends who take us to supper and show their diamonds and talk about seeing Dan and Dave and Charlie for us. Theyre beasts, and I hate em.</p>
<p>“I tell you, Lynn, its the girls like us on the stage that ought to be pitied. Its girls from good homes that are honestly ambitious and work hard to rise in the profession, but never do get there. You hear a lot of sympathy sloshed around on chorus girls and their fifteen dollars a week. Piffle! There aint a sorrow in the chorus that a lobster cannot heal.</p>
<p>“If theres any tears to shed, let em fall for the actress that gets a salary of from thirty to forty-five dollars a week for taking a leading part in a bum show. She knows shell never do any better; but she hangs on for years, hoping for the chance I that never comes.</p>
@ -43,7 +43,7 @@
<p>“But what I hated most was the men—the men leering and blathering at you across tables, trying to buy you with Würzburger or Extra Dry, according to their estimate of your price. And the men in the audiences, clapping, yelling, snarling, crowding, writhing, gloating—like a lot of wild beasts, with their eyes fixed on you, ready to eat you up if you come in reach of their claws. Oh, how I hate em!</p>
<p>“Well, Im not telling you much about myself, am I, Lynn?</p>
<p>“I had two hundred dollars saved up, and I cut the stage the first of the summer. I went over on Long Island and found the sweetest little village that ever was, called Soundport, right on the water. I was going to spend the summer there, and study up on elocution, and try to get a class in the fall. There was an old widow lady with a cottage near the beach who sometimes rented a room or two just for company, and she took me in. She had another boarder, too—the Reverend Arthur Lyle.</p>
<p>“Yes, he was the head-liner. Youre on, Lynn. Ill tell you all of it in a minute. Its only a one-act play.</p>
<p>“Yes, he was the headliner. Youre on, Lynn. Ill tell you all of it in a minute. Its only a one-act play.</p>
<p>“The first time he walked on, Lynn, I felt myself going; the first lines he spoke, he had me. He was different from the men in audiences. He was tall and slim, and you never heard him come in the room, but you felt him. He had a face like a picture of a knight—like one of that Round Table bunch—and a voice like a cello solo. And his manners!</p>
<p>“Lynn, if youd take John Drew in his best drawing-room scene and compare the two, youd have John arrested for disturbing the peace.</p>
<p>“Ill spare you the particulars; but in less than a month Arthur and I were engaged. He preached at a little one-night stand of a Methodist church. There was to be a parsonage the size of a lunch-wagon, and hens and honeysuckles when we were married. Arthur used to preach to me a good deal about Heaven, but he never could get my mind quite off those honeysuckles and hens.</p>
@ -74,8 +74,8 @@
<p>Why didnt you ever meet her? I asked. Were your positions in life so different?</p>
<p>She was far above me, says Arthur. Now, Ida, he goes on, this is all of the past. Youre not going to be jealous, are you?</p>
<p>Jealous! says I. Why, man, what are you talking about? It makes me think ten times as much of you as I did before I knew about it.</p>
<p>“And it did, Lynn—if you can understand it. That ideal love was a new one on me, but it struck me as being the most beautiful and glorious thing Id ever heard of. Think of a man loving a woman hed never even spoken to, and being faithful just to what his mind and heart pictured her! Oh, it sounded great to me. The men Id always known come at you with either diamonds, knock-out-drops or a raise of salary—and their ideals!—well, well say no more.</p>
<p>“Yes, it made me think more of Arthur than I did before. I couldnt be jealous of that far-away divinity that he used to worship, for I was going to have him myself. And I began to look upon him as a saint on earth, just as old lady Gurley did.</p>
<p>“And it did, Lynn—if you can understand it. That ideal love was a new one on me, but it struck me as being the most beautiful and glorious thing Id ever heard of. Think of a man loving a woman hed never even spoken to, and being faithful just to what his mind and heart pictured her! Oh, it sounded great to me. The men Id always known come at you with either diamonds, knockout-drops or a raise of salary—and their ideals!—well, well say no more.</p>
<p>“Yes, it made me think more of Arthur than I did before. I couldnt be jealous of that faraway divinity that he used to worship, for I was going to have him myself. And I began to look upon him as a saint on earth, just as old lady Gurley did.</p>
<p>“About four oclock this afternoon a man came to the house for Arthur to go and see somebody that was sick among his church bunch. Old lady Gurley was taking her afternoon snore on a couch, so that left me pretty much alone.</p>
<p>“In passing by Arthurs study I looked in, and saw his bunch of keys hanging in the drawer of his desk, where hed forgotten em. Well, I guess were all to the <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Bluebeard now and then, aint we, Lynn? I made up my mind Id have a look at that memento he kept so secret. Not that I cared what it was—it was just curiosity.</p>
<p>“While I was opening the drawer I imagined one or two things it might be. I thought it might be a dried rosebud shed dropped down to him from a balcony, or maybe a picture of her hed cut out of a magazine, she being so high up in the world.</p>

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<p>There are a few editor men with whom I am privileged to come in contact. It has not been long since it was their habit to come in contact with me. There is a difference.</p>
<p>They tell me that with a large number of the manuscripts that are submitted to them come advices (in the way of a boost) from the author asseverating that the incidents in the story are true. The destination of such contributions depends wholly upon the question of the enclosure of stamps. Some are returned, the rest are thrown on the floor in a corner on top of a pair of gum shoes, an overturned statuette of the Winged Victory, and a pile of old magazines containing a picture of the editor in the act of reading the latest copy of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.journal">Le Petit Journal</i>, right side up—you can tell by the illustrations. It is only a legend that there are waste baskets in editors offices.</p>
<p>Thus is truth held in disrepute. But in time truth and science and nature will adapt themselves to art. Things will happen logically, and the villain be discomfited instead of being elected to the board of directors. But in the meantime fiction must not only be divorced from fact, but must pay alimony and be awarded custody of the press despatches.</p>
<p>This preamble is to warn you off the grade crossing of a true story. Being that, it shall be told simply, with conjunctions substituted for adjectives wherever possible, and whatever evidences of style may appear in it shall be due to the linotype man. It is a story of the literary life in a great city, and it should be of interest to every author within a 20-mile radius of Gosport, Ind., whose desk holds a MS. story beginning thus: “While the cheers following his nomination were still ringing through the old court-house, Harwood broke away from the congratulating handclasps of his henchmen and hurried to Judge Creswells house to find Ida.”</p>
<p>This preamble is to warn you off the grade crossing of a true story. Being that, it shall be told simply, with conjunctions substituted for adjectives wherever possible, and whatever evidences of style may appear in it shall be due to the linotype man. It is a story of the literary life in a great city, and it should be of interest to every author within a 20-mile radius of Gosport, Ind., whose desk holds a MS. story beginning thus: “While the cheers following his nomination were still ringing through the old courthouse, Harwood broke away from the congratulating handclasps of his henchmen and hurried to Judge Creswells house to find Ida.”</p>
<p>Pettit came up out of Alabama to write fiction. The Southern papers had printed eight of his stories under an editorial caption identifying the author as the son of “the gallant Major Pettingill Pettit, our former County Attorney and hero of the battle of Lookout Mountain.”</p>
<p>Pettit was a rugged fellow, with a kind of shame-faced culture, and my good friend. His father kept a general store in a little town called Hosea. Pettit had been raised in the pine-woods and broom-sedge fields adjacent thereto. He had in his gripsack two manuscript novels of the adventures in Picardy of one Gaston Laboulaye, Vicompte de Montrepos, in the year 1329. Thats nothing. We all do that. And some day when we make a hit with the little sketch about a newsy and his lame dog, the editor prints the other one for us—or “on us,” as the saying is—and then—and then we have to get a big valise and peddle those patent air-draft gas burners. At $1.25 everybody should have em.</p>
<p>I took Pettit to the red-brick house which was to appear in an article entitled “Literary Landmarks of Old New York,” some day when we got through with it. He engaged a room there, drawing on the general store for his expenses. I showed New York to him, and he did not mention how much narrower Broadway is than Lee Avenue in Hosea. This seemed a good sign, so I put the final test.</p>
<p>Pettit was a rugged fellow, with a kind of shamefaced culture, and my good friend. His father kept a general store in a little town called Hosea. Pettit had been raised in the pine-woods and broom-sedge fields adjacent thereto. He had in his gripsack two manuscript novels of the adventures in Picardy of one Gaston Laboulaye, Vicompte de Montrepos, in the year 1329. Thats nothing. We all do that. And some day when we make a hit with the little sketch about a newsy and his lame dog, the editor prints the other one for us—or “on us,” as the saying is—and then—and then we have to get a big valise and peddle those patent air-draft gas burners. At $1.25 everybody should have em.</p>
<p>I took Pettit to the redbrick house which was to appear in an article entitled “Literary Landmarks of Old New York,” some day when we got through with it. He engaged a room there, drawing on the general store for his expenses. I showed New York to him, and he did not mention how much narrower Broadway is than Lee Avenue in Hosea. This seemed a good sign, so I put the final test.</p>
<p>“Suppose you try your hand at a descriptive article,” I suggested, “giving your impressions of New York as seen from the Brooklyn Bridge. The fresh point of view, the—”</p>
<p>“Dont be a fool,” said Pettit. “Lets go have some beer. On the whole I rather like the city.”</p>
<p>We discovered and enjoyed the only true Bohemia. Every day and night we repaired to one of those palaces of marble and glass and tilework, where goes on a tremendous and sounding epic of life. Valhalla itself could not be more glorious and sonorous. The classic marble on which we ate, the great, light-flooded, vitreous front, adorned with snow-white scrolls; the grand Wagnerian din of clanking cups and bowls, the flashing staccato of brandishing cutlery, the piercing recitative of the white-aproned grub-maidens at the morgue-like banquet tables; the recurrent lied-motif of the cash-register—it was a gigantic, triumphant welding of art and sound, a deafening, soul-uplifting pageant of heroic and emblematic life. And the beans were only ten cents. We wondered why our fellow-artists cared to dine at sad little tables in their so-called Bohemian restaurants; and we shuddered lest they should seek out our resorts and make them conspicuous with their presence.</p>
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<p>“Oh, well,” said I, “thats different. Arizona is a long way from New York. I could have a man stabbed with a lariat or chased by a pair of chaparreras if I wanted to, and it wouldnt be noticed until the usual error-sharp from around McAdams Junction isolates the erratum and writes in to the papers about it. But you are up against another proposition. This thing they call love is as common around New York as it is in Sheboygan during the young onion season. It may be mixed here with a little commercialism—they read Byron, but they look up Bradstreets, too, while theyre among the Bs, and Brigham also if they have time—but its pretty much the same old internal disturbance everywhere. You can fool an editor with a fake picture of a cowboy mounting a pony with his left hand on the saddle horn, but you cant put him up a tree with a love story. So, youve got to fall in love and then write the real thing.”</p>
<p>Pettit did. I never knew whether he was taking my advice or whether he fell an accidental victim.</p>
<p>There was a girl he had met at one of these studio contrivances—a glorious, impudent, lucid, open-minded girl with hair the color of Culmbacher, and a good-natured way of despising you. She was a New York girl.</p>
<p>Well (as the narrative style permits us to say infrequently), Pettit went to pieces. All those pains, those lovers doubts, those heart-burnings and tremors of which he had written so unconvincingly were his. Talk about Shylocks pound of flesh! Twenty-five pounds Cupid got from Pettit. Which is the usurer?</p>
<p>Well (as the narrative style permits us to say infrequently), Pettit went to pieces. All those pains, those lovers doubts, those heartburnings and tremors of which he had written so unconvincingly were his. Talk about Shylocks pound of flesh! Twenty-five pounds Cupid got from Pettit. Which is the usurer?</p>
<p>One night Pettit came to my room exalted. Pale and haggard but exalted. She had given him a jonquil.</p>
<p>“Old Hoss,” said he, with a new smile flickering around his mouth, “I believe I could write that story to-night—the one, you know, that is to win out. I can feel it. I dont know whether it will come out or not, but I can feel it.”</p>
<p>I pushed him out of my door. “Go to your room and write it,” I ordered. “Else I can see your finish. I told you this must come first. Write it to-night and put it under my door when it is done. Put it under my door to-night when it is finished—dont keep it until to-morrow.”</p>
<p>“Old Hoss,” said he, with a new smile flickering around his mouth, “I believe I could write that story tonight—the one, you know, that is to win out. I can feel it. I dont know whether it will come out or not, but I can feel it.”</p>
<p>I pushed him out of my door. “Go to your room and write it,” I ordered. “Else I can see your finish. I told you this must come first. Write it tonight and put it under my door when it is done. Put it under my door tonight when it is finished—dont keep it until tomorrow.”</p>
<p>I was reading my bully old pal Montaigne at two oclock when I heard the sheets rustle under my door. I gathered them up and read the story.</p>
<p>The hissing of geese, the languishing cooing of doves, the braying of donkeys, the chatter of irresponsible sparrows—these were in my minds ear as I read. “Suffering Sappho!” I exclaimed to myself. “Is this the divine fire that is supposed to ignite genius and make it practical and wage-earning?”</p>
<p>The story was sentimental drivel, full of whimpering soft-heartedness and gushing egoism. All the art that Pettit had acquired was gone. A perusal of its buttery phrases would have made a cynic of a sighing chambermaid.</p>
<p>The story was sentimental drivel, full of whimpering softheartedness and gushing egoism. All the art that Pettit had acquired was gone. A perusal of its buttery phrases would have made a cynic of a sighing chambermaid.</p>
<p>In the morning Pettit came to my room. I read him his doom mercilessly. He laughed idiotically.</p>
<p>“All right, Old Hoss,” he said, cheerily, “make cigar-lighters of it. Whats the difference? Im going to take her to lunch at Claremont to-day.”</p>
<p>There was about a month of it. And then Pettit came to me bearing an invisible mitten, with the fortitude of a dish-rag. He talked of the grave and South America and prussic acid; and I lost an afternoon getting him straight. I took him out and saw that large and curative doses of whiskey were administered to him. I warned you this was a true storyware your white ribbons if only follow this tale. For two weeks I fed him whiskey and Omar, and read to him regularly every evening the column in the evening paper that reveals the secrets of female beauty. I recommend the treatment.</p>
<p>“All right, Old Hoss,” he said, cheerily, “make cigar-lighters of it. Whats the difference? Im going to take her to lunch at Claremont today.”</p>
<p>There was about a month of it. And then Pettit came to me bearing an invisible mitten, with the fortitude of a dishrag. He talked of the grave and South America and prussic acid; and I lost an afternoon getting him straight. I took him out and saw that large and curative doses of whiskey were administered to him. I warned you this was a true storyware your white ribbons if only follow this tale. For two weeks I fed him whiskey and Omar, and read to him regularly every evening the column in the evening paper that reveals the secrets of female beauty. I recommend the treatment.</p>
<p>After Pettit was cured he wrote more stories. He recovered his old-time facility and did work just short of good enough. Then the curtain rose on the third act.</p>
<p>A little, dark-eyed, silent girl from New Hampshire, who was studying applied design, fell deeply in love with him. She was the intense sort, but externally glacé, such as New England sometimes fools us with. Pettit liked her mildly, and took her about a good deal. She worshipped him, and now and then bored him.</p>
<p>There came a climax when she tried to jump out of a window, and he had to save her by some perfunctary, unmeant wooing. Even I was shaken by the depths of the absorbing affection she showed. Home, friends, traditions, creeds went up like thistle-down in the scale against her love. It was really discomposing.</p>
<p>There came a climax when she tried to jump out of a window, and he had to save her by some perfunctary, unmeant wooing. Even I was shaken by the depths of the absorbing affection she showed. Home, friends, traditions, creeds went up like thistledown in the scale against her love. It was really discomposing.</p>
<p>One night again Pettit sauntered in, yawning. As he had told me before, he said he felt that he could do a great story, and as before I hunted him to his room and saw him open his inkstand. At one oclock the sheets of paper slid under my door.</p>
<p>I read that story, and I jumped up, late as it was, with a whoop of joy. Old Pettit had done it. Just as though it lay there, red and bleeding, a womans heart was written into the lines. You couldnt see the joining, but art, exquisite art, and pulsing nature had been combined into a love story that took you by the throat like the quinsy. I broke into Pettits room and beat him on the back and called him names—names high up in the galaxy of the immortals that we admired. And Pettit yawned and begged to be allowed to sleep.</p>
<p>On the morrow, I dragged him to an editor. The great man read, and, rising, gave Pettit his hand. That was a decoration, a wreath of bay, and a guarantee of rent.</p>
@ -48,8 +48,8 @@
<p>“Shakespeares sonnets?” I blurted, making a last stand. “How about him?”</p>
<p>“A cad,” said Pettit. “They give it to you, and you sell it—love, you know. Id rather sell ploughs for father.”</p>
<p>“But,” I protested, “you are reversing the decision of the worlds greatest—”</p>
<p>“Good-by, Old Hoss,” said Pettit.</p>
<p>“Critics,” I continued. “But—say—if the Major can use a fairly good salesman and book-keeper down there in the store, let me know, will you?”</p>
<p>“Goodbye, Old Hoss,” said Pettit.</p>
<p>“Critics,” I continued. “But—say—if the Major can use a fairly good salesman and bookkeeper down there in the store, let me know, will you?”</p>
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<section id="the-rathskeller-and-the-rose" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Rathskeller and the Rose</h2>
<p>Miss Posie Carrington had earned her success. She began life handicapped by the family name of “Boggs,” in the small town known as Cranberry Corners. At the age of eighteen she had acquired the name of “Carrington” and a position in the chorus of a metropolitan burlesque company. Thence upward she had ascended by the legitimate and delectable steps of “broiler,” member of the famous “Dickey-bird” octette, in the successful musical comedy, “Fudge and Fellows,” leader of the potato-bug dance in “Fol-de-Rol,” and at length to the part of the maid “Toinette” in “The Kings Bath-Robe,” which captured the critics and gave her her chance. And when we come to consider Miss Carrington she is in the heydey of flattery, fame and fizz; and that astute manager, Herr Timothy Goldstein, has her signature to iron-clad papers that she will star the coming season in Dyde Richs new play, “Paresis by Gaslight.”</p>
<p>Miss Posie Carrington had earned her success. She began life handicapped by the family name of “Boggs,” in the small town known as Cranberry Corners. At the age of eighteen she had acquired the name of “Carrington” and a position in the chorus of a metropolitan burlesque company. Thence upward she had ascended by the legitimate and delectable steps of “broiler,” member of the famous “Dickey-bird” octette, in the successful musical comedy, “Fudge and Fellows,” leader of the potato-bug dance in “Fol-de-Rol,” and at length to the part of the maid “Toinette” in “The Kings Bathrobe,” which captured the critics and gave her her chance. And when we come to consider Miss Carrington she is in the heydey of flattery, fame and fizz; and that astute manager, Herr Timothy Goldstein, has her signature to ironclad papers that she will star the coming season in Dyde Richs new play, “Paresis by Gaslight.”</p>
<p>Promptly there came to Herr Timothy a capable twentieth-century young character actor by the name of Highsmith, who besought engagement as “Sol Haytosser,” the comic and chief male character part in “Paresis by Gaslight.”</p>
<p>“My boy,” said Goldstein, “take the part if you can get it. Miss Carrington wont listen to any of my suggestions. She has turned down half a dozen of the best imitators of the rural dub in the city. She declares she wont set a foot on the stage unless Haytosser is the best that can be raked up. She was raised in a village, you know, and when a Broadway orchid sticks a straw in his hair and tries to call himself a clover blossom shes on, all right. I asked her, in a sarcastic vein, if she thought Denman Thompson would make any kind of a show in the part. Oh, no, says she. I dont want him or John Drew or Jim Corbett or any of these swell actors that dont know a turnip from a turnstile. I want the real article. So, my boy, if you want to play Sol Haytosser you will have to convince Miss Carrington. Luck be with you.”</p>
<p>Highsmith took the train the next day for Cranberry Corners. He remained in that forsaken and inanimate village three days. He found the Boggs family and corkscrewed their history unto the third and fourth generation. He amassed the facts and the local color of Cranberry Corners. The village had not grown as rapidly as had Miss Carrington. The actor estimated that it had suffered as few actual changes since the departure of its solitary follower of Thespis as had a stage upon which “four years is supposed to have elapsed.” He absorbed Cranberry Corners and returned to the city of chameleon changes.</p>
<p>It was in the rathskeller that Highsmith made the hit of his histrionic career. There is no need to name the place; there is but one rathskeller where you could hope to find Miss Posie Carrington after a performance of “The Kings Bath-Robe.”</p>
<p>It was in the rathskeller that Highsmith made the hit of his histrionic career. There is no need to name the place; there is but one rathskeller where you could hope to find Miss Posie Carrington after a performance of “The Kings Bathrobe.”</p>
<p>There was a jolly small party at one of the tables that drew many eyes. Miss Carrington, petite, marvellous, bubbling, electric, fame-drunken, shall be named first. Herr Goldstein follows, sonorous, curly-haired, heavy, a trifle anxious, as some bear that had caught, somehow, a butterfly in his claws. Next, a man condemned to a newspaper, sad, courted, armed, analyzing for press agents dross every sentence that was poured over him, eating his à la Newburg in the silence of greatness. To conclude, a youth with parted hair, a name that is ochre to red journals and gold on the back of a supper check. These sat at a table while the musicians played, while waiters moved in the mazy performance of their duties with their backs toward all who desired their service, and all was bizarre and merry because it was nine feet below the level of the sidewalk.</p>
<p>At 11.45 a being entered the rathskeller. The first violin perceptibly flatted a C that should have been natural; the clarionet blew a bubble instead of a grace note; Miss Carrington giggled and the youth with parted hair swallowed an olive seed.</p>
<p>Exquisitely and irreproachably rural was the new entry. A lank, disconcerted, hesitating young man it was, flaxen-haired, gaping of mouth, awkward, stricken to misery by the lights and company. His clothing was butternut, with bright blue tie, showing four inches of bony wrist and white-socked ankle. He upset a chair, sat in another one, curled a foot around a table leg and cringed at the approach of a waiter.</p>
@ -21,8 +21,8 @@
<p>“Howre ye, Miss Posie?” he said in accents not to be doubted. “Dont ye remember me—Bill Summers—the Summerses that lived back of the blacksmith shop? I reckon Ive growed up some since ye left Cranberry Corners.</p>
<p>Liza Perry lowed I might see ye in the city while I was here. You know Liza married Benny Stanfield, and she says—”</p>
<p>“Ah, say!” interrupted Miss Carrington, brightly, “Lize Perry is never married—what! Oh, the freckles of her!”</p>
<p>“Married in June,” grinned the gossip, “and livin in the old Tatum Place. Ham Riley perfessed religion; old <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blithers sold her place to Capn Spooner; the youngest Waters girl run away with a music teacher; the court-house burned up last March; your uncle Wiley was elected constable; Matilda Hoskins died from runnin a needle in her hand, and Tom Beedle is courtin Sallie Lathrop—they say he dont miss a night but what hes settin on their porch.”</p>
<p>“The wall-eyed thing!” exclaimed Miss Carrington, with asperity. “Why, Tom Beedle once—say, you folks, excuse me a while—this is an old friend of mine<abbr>Mr.</abbr>—what was it? Yes, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Summers<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Goldstein, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ricketts, <abbr>Mr.</abbr>⁠— Oh, whats yours? Johnny”ll do—come on over here and tell me some more.”</p>
<p>“Married in June,” grinned the gossip, “and livin in the old Tatum Place. Ham Riley perfessed religion; old <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blithers sold her place to Capn Spooner; the youngest Waters girl run away with a music teacher; the courthouse burned up last March; your uncle Wiley was elected constable; Matilda Hoskins died from runnin a needle in her hand, and Tom Beedle is courtin Sallie Lathrop—they say he dont miss a night but what hes settin on their porch.”</p>
<p>“The walleyed thing!” exclaimed Miss Carrington, with asperity. “Why, Tom Beedle once—say, you folks, excuse me a while—this is an old friend of mine<abbr>Mr.</abbr>—what was it? Yes, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Summers<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Goldstein, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ricketts, <abbr>Mr.</abbr>⁠— Oh, whats yours? Johnny”ll do—come on over here and tell me some more.”</p>
<p>She swept him to an isolated table in a corner. Herr Goldstein shrugged his fat shoulders and beckoned to the waiter. The newspaper man brightened a little and mentioned absinthe. The youth with parted hair was plunged into melancholy. The guests of the rathskeller laughed, clinked glasses and enjoyed the comedy that Posie Carrington was treating them to after her regular performance. A few cynical ones whispered “press agent” and smiled wisely.</p>
<p>Posie Carrington laid her dimpled and desirable chin upon her hands, and forgot her audience—a faculty that had won her laurels for her.</p>
<p>“I dont seem to recollect any Bill Summers,” she said, thoughtfully gazing straight into the innocent blue eyes of the rustic young man. “But I know the Summerses, all right. I guess there aint many changes in the old town. You see any of my folks lately?”</p>
@ -40,10 +40,10 @@
<p>She thrust the yellow rose into the bosom of her wonderful, dainty, silken garments, stood up and nodded imperiously at Herr Goldstein.</p>
<p>Her three companions and “Bill Summers” attended her to her cab. When her flounces and streamers were all safely tucked inside she dazzled them with au revoirs from her shining eyes and teeth.</p>
<p>“Come around to the hotel and see me, Bill, before you leave the city,” she called as the glittering cab rolled away.</p>
<p>Highsmith, still in his make-up, went with Herr Goldstein to a café booth.</p>
<p>Highsmith, still in his makeup, went with Herr Goldstein to a café booth.</p>
<p>“Bright idea, eh?” asked the smiling actor. “Ought to land Sol Haytosser for me, dont you think? The little lady never once tumbled.”</p>
<p>“I didnt hear your conversation,” said Goldstein, “but your make-up and acting was O. K. Heres to your success. Youd better call on Miss Carrington early to-morrow and strike her for the part. I dont see how she can keep from being satisfied with your exhibition of ability.”</p>
<p>At 11:45 <abbr class="time">a.m.</abbr> on the next day Highsmith, handsome, dressed in the latest mode, confident, with a fuchsia in his button-hole, sent up his card to Miss Carrington in her select apartment hotel.</p>
<p>“I didnt hear your conversation,” said Goldstein, “but your makeup and acting was O. K. Heres to your success. Youd better call on Miss Carrington early tomorrow and strike her for the part. I dont see how she can keep from being satisfied with your exhibition of ability.”</p>
<p>At 11:45 <abbr class="time">a.m.</abbr> on the next day Highsmith, handsome, dressed in the latest mode, confident, with a fuchsia in his buttonhole, sent up his card to Miss Carrington in her select apartment hotel.</p>
<p>He was shown up and received by the actresss French maid.</p>
<p>“I am sorree,” said <abbr>Mlle.</abbr> Hortense, “but I am to say this to all. It is with great regret. Mees Carrington have cancelled all engagements on the stage and have returned to live in that—how you call that town? Cranberry Cornaire!”</p>
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<section id="the-shocks-of-doom" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Shocks of Doom</h2>
<p>There is an aristocracy of the public parks and even of the vagabonds who use them for their private apartments. Vallance felt rather than knew this, but when he stepped down out of his world into chaos his feet brought him directly to Madison Square.</p>
<p>Raw and astringent as a schoolgirl—of the old order—young May breathed austerely among the budding trees. Vallance buttoned his coat, lighted his last cigarette and took his seat upon a bench. For three minutes he mildly regretted the last hundred of his last thousand that it had cost him when the bicycle cop put an end to his last automobile ride. Then he felt in every pocket and found not a single penny. He had given up his apartment that morning. His furniture had gone toward certain debts. His clothes, save what were upon him, had descended to his man-servant for back wages. As he sat there was not in the whole city for him a bed or a broiled lobster or a street-car fare or a carnation for buttonhole unless he should obtain them by sponging on his friends or by false pretenses. Therefore he had chosen the park.</p>
<p>Raw and astringent as a schoolgirl—of the old order—young May breathed austerely among the budding trees. Vallance buttoned his coat, lighted his last cigarette and took his seat upon a bench. For three minutes he mildly regretted the last hundred of his last thousand that it had cost him when the bicycle cop put an end to his last automobile ride. Then he felt in every pocket and found not a single penny. He had given up his apartment that morning. His furniture had gone toward certain debts. His clothes, save what were upon him, had descended to his manservant for back wages. As he sat there was not in the whole city for him a bed or a broiled lobster or a streetcar fare or a carnation for buttonhole unless he should obtain them by sponging on his friends or by false pretenses. Therefore he had chosen the park.</p>
<p>And all this was because an uncle had disinherited him, and cut down his allowance from liberality to nothing. And all that was because his nephew had disobeyed him concerning a certain girl, who comes not into this story—therefore, all readers who brush their hair toward its roots may be warned to read no further. There was another nephew, of a different branch, who had once been the prospective heir and favorite. Being without grace or hope, he had long ago disappeared in the mire. Now dragnets were out for him; he was to be rehabilitated and restored. And so Vallance fell grandly as Lucifer to the lowest pit, joining the tattered ghosts in the little park.</p>
<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 lifes 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 springs chilly cohorts.</p>
<p>Then arose one from a seat near the leaping fountain, and came and sat himself at Vallances 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 devils bond. He begged a match, which is the form of introduction among park benchers, and then he began to talk.</p>
<p>“Youre 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. Dont mind my talking to you for a while? Ive got to be with somebody. Im afraid—Im afraid. Ive told two or three of those bummers over about it. They think Im crazy. Say—let me tell you—all Ive had to eat to-day was a couple pretzels and an apple. To-morrow Ill 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. Dont believe it, do you?</p>
<p>“Without the slightest trouble,” said Vallance, with a laugh. “I lunched there yesterday. To-night I couldnt buy a five-cent cup of coffee.”</p>
<p>“Youre 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. Dont mind my talking to you for a while? Ive got to be with somebody. Im afraid—Im afraid. Ive told two or three of those bummers over about it. They think Im crazy. Say—let me tell you—all Ive had to eat today was a couple pretzels and an apple. Tomorrow Ill 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. Dont believe it, do you?</p>
<p>“Without the slightest trouble,” said Vallance, with a laugh. “I lunched there yesterday. Tonight I couldnt buy a five-cent cup of coffee.”</p>
<p>“You dont 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>
<p>“Its undiluted Hades, this city,” went on the other. “One day youre eating from china; the next you are eating in China—a chop-suey joint. Ive had more than my share of hard luck. For five years Ive been little better than a panhandler. I was raised up to live expensively and do nothing. Say—I dont mind telling you—Ive got to talk to somebody, you see, because Im afraid—Im afraid. My names Ide. You wouldnt think that old Paulding, one of the millionaires on Riverside Drive, was my uncle, would you? Well, he is. I lived in his house once, and had all the money I wanted. Say, havent you got the price of a couple of drinks about you—er—whats your name—”</p>
<p>“Dawson,” said Vallance. “No; Im sorry to say that Im all in, financially.”</p>
<p>“Ive been living for a week in a coal cellar on Division Street,” went on Ide, “with a crook they called Blinky Morris. I didnt have anywhere else to go. While I was out to-day a chap with some papers in his pocket was there, asking for me. I didnt know but what he was a fly cop, so I didnt go around again till after dark. There was a letter there he had left for me. Say—Dawson, it was from a big downtown lawyer, Mead. Ive seen his sign on Ann Street. Paulding wants me to play the prodigal nephew—wants me to come back and be his heir again and blow in his money. Im to call at the lawyers office at ten to-morrow and step into my old shoes again—heir to three million, Dawson, and $10,000 a year pocket money. And—Im afraid—Im afraid.”</p>
<p>“Ive been living for a week in a coal cellar on Division Street,” went on Ide, “with a crook they called Blinky Morris. I didnt have anywhere else to go. While I was out today a chap with some papers in his pocket was there, asking for me. I didnt know but what he was a fly cop, so I didnt go around again till after dark. There was a letter there he had left for me. Say—Dawson, it was from a big downtown lawyer, Mead. Ive seen his sign on Ann Street. Paulding wants me to play the prodigal nephew—wants me to come back and be his heir again and blow in his money. Im to call at the lawyers office at ten tomorrow and step into my old shoes again—heir to three million, Dawson, and $10,000 a year pocket money. And—Im afraid—Im afraid.”</p>
<p>The vagrant leaped to his feet and raised both trembling arms above his head. He caught his breath and moaned hysterically.</p>
<p>Vallance seized his arm and forced him back to the bench.</p>
<p>“Be quiet!” he commanded, with something like disgust in his tones. “One would think you had lost a fortune, instead of being about to acquire one. Of what are you afraid?”</p>
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<p>“Certainly, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Vallance,” said the bartender. “They aint all fakes. Dont like to see anybody go hungry.”</p>
<p>He folded a liberal supply of the free lunch into a napkin. Vallance went with it and joined his companion. Ide pounced upon the food ravenously. “I havent had any free lunch as good as this in a year,” he said. “Arent you going to eat any, Dawson?</p>
<p>“Im not hungry—thanks,” said Vallance.</p>
<p>“Well go back to the Square,” said Ide. “The cops wont bother us there. Ill roll up the rest of this ham and stuff for our breakfast. I wont eat any more; Im afraid Ill get sick. Suppose Id die of cramps or something to-night, and never get to touch that money again! Its eleven hours yet till time to see that lawyer. You wont leave me, will you, Dawson? Im afraid something might happen. You havent any place to go, have you?”</p>
<p>“No,” said Vallance, “nowhere to-night. Ill have a bench with you.”</p>
<p>“Well go back to the Square,” said Ide. “The cops wont bother us there. Ill roll up the rest of this ham and stuff for our breakfast. I wont eat any more; Im afraid Ill get sick. Suppose Id die of cramps or something tonight, and never get to touch that money again! Its eleven hours yet till time to see that lawyer. You wont leave me, will you, Dawson? Im afraid something might happen. You havent any place to go, have you?”</p>
<p>“No,” said Vallance, “nowhere tonight. Ill have a bench with you.”</p>
<p>“You take it cool,” said Ide, “if youve told it to me straight. I should think a man put on the bum from a good job just in one day would be tearing his hair.”</p>
<p>“I believe Ive already remarked,” said Vallance, laughing, “that I would have thought that a man who was expecting to come into a fortune on the next day would be feeling pretty easy and quiet.”</p>
<p>“Its funny business,” philosophized Ide, “about the way people take things, anyhow. Heres your bench, Dawson, right next to mine. The light dont shine in your eyes here. Say, Dawson, Ill get the old man to give you a letter to somebody about a job when I get back home. Youve helped me a lot to-night. I dont believe I could have gone through the night if I hadnt struck you.”</p>
<p>“Its funny business,” philosophized Ide, “about the way people take things, anyhow. Heres your bench, Dawson, right next to mine. The light dont shine in your eyes here. Say, Dawson, Ill get the old man to give you a letter to somebody about a job when I get back home. Youve helped me a lot tonight. I dont believe I could have gone through the night if I hadnt struck you.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” said Vallance. “Do you lie down or sit up on these when you sleep?”</p>
<p>For hours Vallance gazed almost without winking at the stars through the branches of the trees and listened to the sharp slapping of horses hoofs on the sea of asphalt to the south. His mind was active, but his feelings were dormant. Every emotion seemed to have been eradicated. He felt no regrets, no fears, no pain or discomfort. Even when he thought of the girl, it was as of an inhabitant of one of those remote stars at which he gazed. He remembered the absurd antics of his companion and laughed softly, yet without a feeling of mirth. Soon the daily army of milk wagons made of the city a roaring drum to which they marched. Vallance fell asleep on his comfortless bench.</p>
<p>At ten oclock on the next day the two stood at the door of Lawyer Meads office in Ann Street.</p>

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<h2 epub:type="title">The Voice of the City</h2>
<p>Twenty-five years ago the school children used to chant their lessons. The manner of their delivery was a singsong recitative between the utterance of an Episcopal minister and the drone of a tired sawmill. I mean no disrespect. We must have lumber and sawdust.</p>
<p>I remember one beautiful and instructive little lyric that emanated from the physiology class. The most striking line of it was this:</p>
<p>“The shin-bone is the long-est bone in the hu-man bod-y.”</p>
<p>“The shinbone is the longest bone in the human body.”</p>
<p>What an inestimable boon it would have been if all the corporeal and spiritual facts pertaining to man had thus been tunefully and logically inculcated in our youthful minds! But what we gained in anatomy, music and philosophy was meagre.</p>
<p>The other day I became confused. I needed a ray of light. I turned back to those school days for aid. But in all the nasal harmonies we whined forth from those hard benches I could not recall one that treated of the voice of agglomerated mankind.</p>
<p>In other words, of the composite vocal message of massed humanity.</p>
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<p>“Friend,” said the policeman, spinning his club, “it dont say nothing. I get my orders from the man higher up. Say, I guess youre all right. Stand here for a few minutes and keep an eye open for the roundsman.”</p>
<p>The cop melted into the darkness of the side street. In ten minutes he had returned.</p>
<p>“Married last Tuesday,” he said, half gruffly. “You know how they are. She comes to that corner at nine every night for a—comes to say hello! I generally manage to be there. Say, what was it you asked me a bit ago—whats doing in the city? Oh, theres a roof-garden or two just opened, twelve blocks up.”</p>
<p>I crossed a crows-foot of street-car tracks, and skirted the edge of an umbrageous park. An artificial Diana, gilded, heroic, poised, wind-ruled, on the tower, shimmered in the clear light of her namesake in the sky. Along came my poet, hurrying, hatted, haired, emitting dactyls, spondees and dactylis. I seized him.</p>
<p>“Bill,” said I (in the magazine he is Cleon), “give me a lift. I am on an assignment to find out the Voice of the city. You see, its a special order. Ordinarily a symposium comprising the views of Henry Clews, John L. Sullivan, Edwin Markham, May Irwin and Charles Schwab would be about all. But this is a different matter. We want a broad, poetic, mystic vocalization of the citys soul and meaning. You are the very chap to give me a hint. Some years ago a man got at the Niagara Falls and gave us its pitch. The note was about two feet below the lowest G on the piano. Now, you cant put New York into a note unless its better indorsed than that. But give me an idea of what it would say if it should speak. It is bound to be a mighty and far-reaching utterance. To arrive at it we must take the tremendous crash of the chords of the days traffic, the laughter and music of the night, the solemn tones of <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Parkhurst, the rag-time, the weeping, the stealthy hum of cab-wheels, the shout of the press agent, the tinkle of fountains on the roof gardens, the hullabaloo of the strawberry vender and the covers of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Everybodys Magazine</i>, the whispers of the lovers in the parks—all these sounds must go into your Voice—not combined, but mixed, and of the mixture an essence made; and of the essence an extract—an audible extract, of which one drop shall form the thing we seek.”</p>
<p>I crossed a crows-foot of streetcar tracks, and skirted the edge of an umbrageous park. An artificial Diana, gilded, heroic, poised, wind-ruled, on the tower, shimmered in the clear light of her namesake in the sky. Along came my poet, hurrying, hatted, haired, emitting dactyls, spondees and dactylis. I seized him.</p>
<p>“Bill,” said I (in the magazine he is Cleon), “give me a lift. I am on an assignment to find out the Voice of the city. You see, its a special order. Ordinarily a symposium comprising the views of Henry Clues, John L. Sullivan, Edwin Markham, May Irwin and Charles Schwab would be about all. But this is a different matter. We want a broad, poetic, mystic vocalization of the citys soul and meaning. You are the very chap to give me a hint. Some years ago a man got at the Niagara Falls and gave us its pitch. The note was about two feet below the lowest G on the piano. Now, you cant put New York into a note unless its better endorsed than that. But give me an idea of what it would say if it should speak. It is bound to be a mighty and far-reaching utterance. To arrive at it we must take the tremendous crash of the chords of the days traffic, the laughter and music of the night, the solemn tones of <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Parkhurst, the ragtime, the weeping, the stealthy hum of cab-wheels, the shout of the press agent, the tinkle of fountains on the roof gardens, the hullabaloo of the strawberry vender and the covers of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Everybodys Magazine</i>, the whispers of the lovers in the parks—all these sounds must go into your Voice—not combined, but mixed, and of the mixture an essence made; and of the essence an extract—an audible extract, of which one drop shall form the thing we seek.”</p>
<p>“Do you remember,” asked the poet, with a chuckle, “that California girl we met at Stivers studio last week? Well, Im on my way to see her. She repeated that poem of mine, The Tribute of Spring, word for word. Shes the smartest proposition in this town just at present. Say, how does this confounded tie look? I spoiled four before I got one to set right.”</p>
<p>“And the Voice that I asked you about?” I inquired.</p>
<p>“Oh, she doesnt sing,” said Cleon. “But you ought to hear her recite my Angel of the Inshore Wind.’ ”</p>

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<h2 epub:type="title">Transients in Arcadia</h2>
<p>There is a hotel on Broadway that has escaped discovery by the summer-resort promoters. It is deep and wide and cool. Its rooms are finished in dark oak of a low temperature. Home-made breezes and deep-green shrubbery give it the delights without the inconveniences of the Adirondacks. One can mount its broad staircases or glide dreamily upward in its aërial elevators, attended by guides in brass buttons, with a serene joy that Alpine climbers have never attained. There is a chef in its kitchen who will prepare for you brook trout better than the White Mountains ever served, sea food that would turn Old Point Comfort—“by Gad, sah!”—green with envy, and Maine venison that would melt the official heart of a game warden.</p>
<p>There is a hotel on Broadway that has escaped discovery by the summer-resort promoters. It is deep and wide and cool. Its rooms are finished in dark oak of a low temperature. Homemade breezes and deep-green shrubbery give it the delights without the inconveniences of the Adirondacks. One can mount its broad staircases or glide dreamily upward in its aërial elevators, attended by guides in brass buttons, with a serene joy that Alpine climbers have never attained. There is a chef in its kitchen who will prepare for you brook trout better than the White Mountains ever served, sea food that would turn Old Point Comfort—“by Gad, sah!”—green with envy, and Maine venison that would melt the official heart of a game warden.</p>
<p>A few have found out this oasis in the July desert of Manhattan. During that month you will see the hotels reduced array of guests scattered luxuriously about in the cool twilight of its lofty dining-room, gazing at one another across the snowy waste of unoccupied tables, silently congratulatory.</p>
<p>Superfluous, watchful, pneumatically moving waiters hover near, supplying every want before it is expressed. The temperature is perpetual April. The ceiling is painted in water colors to counterfeit a summer sky across which delicate clouds drift and do not vanish as those of nature do to our regret.</p>
<p>The pleasing, distant roar of Broadway is transformed in the imagination of the happy guests to the noise of a waterfall filling the woods with its restful sound. At every strange footstep the guests turn an anxious ear, fearful lest their retreat be discovered and invaded by the restless pleasure-seekers who are forever hounding nature to her deepest lairs.</p>
<p>Thus in the depopulated caravansary the little band of connoisseurs jealously hide themselves during the heated season, enjoying to the uttermost the delights of mountain and seashore that art and skill have gathered and served to them.</p>
<p>In this July came to the hotel one whose card that she sent to the clerk for her name to be registered read “<abbr>Mme.</abbr> Héloise DArcy Beaumont.”</p>
<p>Madame Beaumont was a guest such as the Hotel Lotus loved. She possessed the fine air of the élite, tempered and sweetened by a cordial graciousness that made the hotel employees her slaves. Bell-boys fought for the honor of answering her ring; the clerks, but for the question of ownership, would have deeded to her the hotel and its contents; the other guests regarded her as the final touch of feminine exclusiveness and beauty that rendered the entourage perfect.</p>
<p>Madame Beaumont was a guest such as the Hotel Lotus loved. She possessed the fine air of the élite, tempered and sweetened by a cordial graciousness that made the hotel employees her slaves. Bellboys fought for the honor of answering her ring; the clerks, but for the question of ownership, would have deeded to her the hotel and its contents; the other guests regarded her as the final touch of feminine exclusiveness and beauty that rendered the entourage perfect.</p>
<p>This super-excellent guest rarely left the hotel. Her habits were consonant with the customs of the discriminating patrons of the Hotel Lotus. To enjoy that delectable hostelry one must forego the city as though it were leagues away. By night a brief excursion to the nearby roofs is in order; but during the torrid day one remains in the umbrageous fastnesses of the Lotus as a trout hangs poised in the pellucid sanctuaries of his favorite pool.</p>
<p>Though alone in the Hotel Lotus, Madame Beaumont preserved the state of a queen whose loneliness was of position only. She breakfasted at ten, a cool, sweet, leisurely, delicate being who glowed softly in the dimness like a jasmine flower in the dusk.</p>
<p>But at dinner was Madames glory at its height. She wore a gown as beautiful and immaterial as the mist from an unseen cataract in a mountain gorge. The nomenclature of this gown is beyond the guess of the scribe. Always pale-red roses reposed against its lace-garnished front. It was a gown that the head-waiter viewed with respect and met at the door. You thought of Paris when you saw it, and maybe of mysterious countesses, and certainly of Versailles and rapiers and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fiske and rouge-et-noir. There was an untraceable rumor in the Hotel Lotus that Madame was a cosmopolite, and that she was pulling with her slender white hands certain strings between the nations in the favor of Russia. Being a citizeness of the worlds smoothest roads it was small wonder that she was quick to recognize in the refined purlieus of the Hotel Lotus the most desirable spot in America for a restful sojourn during the heat of mid-summer.</p>
<p>But at dinner was Madames glory at its height. She wore a gown as beautiful and immaterial as the mist from an unseen cataract in a mountain gorge. The nomenclature of this gown is beyond the guess of the scribe. Always pale-red roses reposed against its lace-garnished front. It was a gown that the headwaiter viewed with respect and met at the door. You thought of Paris when you saw it, and maybe of mysterious countesses, and certainly of Versailles and rapiers and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fiske and rouge-et-noir. There was an untraceable rumor in the Hotel Lotus that Madame was a cosmopolite, and that she was pulling with her slender white hands certain strings between the nations in the favor of Russia. Being a citizeness of the worlds smoothest roads it was small wonder that she was quick to recognize in the refined purlieus of the Hotel Lotus the most desirable spot in America for a restful sojourn during the heat of midsummer.</p>
<p>On the third day of Madame Beaumonts residence in the hotel a young man entered and registered himself as a guest. His clothing—to speak of his points in approved order—was quietly in the mode; his features good and regular; his expression that of a poised and sophisticated man of the world. He informed the clerk that he would remain three or four days, inquired concerning the sailing of European steamships, and sank into the blissful inanition of the nonpareil hotel with the contented air of a traveller in his favorite inn.</p>
<p>The young man—not to question the veracity of the register—was Harold Farrington. He drifted into the exclusive and calm current of life in the Lotus so tactfully and silently that not a ripple alarmed his fellow-seekers after rest. He ate in the Lotus and of its patronym, and was lulled into blissful peace with the other fortunate mariners. In one day he acquired his table and his waiter and the fear lest the panting chasers after repose that kept Broadway warm should pounce upon and destroy this contiguous but covert haven.</p>
<p>After dinner on the next day after the arrival of Harold Farrington Madame Beaumont dropped her handkerchief in passing out. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Farrington recovered and returned it without the effusiveness of a seeker after acquaintance.</p>
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<p>“Nor shall I,” said Farrington in a low voice, “and I shall never <em>forgive</em> the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Cedric</i>.”</p>
<p>On Sunday evening, three days afterward, the two sat at a little table on the same balcony. A discreet waiter brought ices and small glasses of claret cup.</p>
<p>Madame Beaumont wore the same beautiful evening gown that she had worn each day at dinner. She seemed thoughtful. Near her hand on the table lay a small chatelaine purse. After she had eaten her ice she opened the purse and took out a one-dollar bill.</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Farrington,” she said, with the smile that had won the Hotel Lotus, “I want to tell you something. Im going to leave before breakfast in the morning, because Ive got to go back to my work. Im behind the hosiery counter at Caseys Mammoth Store, and my vacations up at eight oclock to-morrow. That paper-dollar is the last cent Ill see till I draw my eight dollars salary next Saturday night. Youre a real gentleman, and youve been good to me, and I wanted to tell you before I went.</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Farrington,” she said, with the smile that had won the Hotel Lotus, “I want to tell you something. Im going to leave before breakfast in the morning, because Ive got to go back to my work. Im behind the hosiery counter at Caseys Mammoth Store, and my vacations up at eight oclock tomorrow. That paper-dollar is the last cent Ill see till I draw my eight dollars salary next Saturday night. Youre a real gentleman, and youve been good to me, and I wanted to tell you before I went.</p>
<p>“Ive been saving up out of my wages for a year just for this vacation. I wanted to spend one week like a lady if I never do another one. I wanted to get up when I please instead of having to crawl out at seven every morning; and I wanted to live on the best and be waited on and ring bells for things just like rich folks do. Now Ive done it, and Ive had the happiest time I ever expect to have in my life. Im going back to my work and my little hall bedroom satisfied for another year. I wanted to tell you about it, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Farrington, because I—I thought you kind of liked me, and I—I liked you. But, oh, I couldnt help deceiving you up till now, for it was all just like a fairy tale to me. So I talked about Europe and the things Ive read about in other countries, and made you think I was a great lady.</p>
<p>“This dress Ive got on—its the only one I have thats fit to wear—I bought from ODowd &amp; Levinsky on the instalment plan.</p>
<p>“Seventy-five dollars is the price, and it was made to measure. I paid $10 down, and theyre to collect $1 a week till its paid for. Thatll be about all I have to say, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Farrington, except that my name is Mamie Siviter instead of Madame Beaumont, and I thank you for your attentions. This dollar will pay the instalment due on the dress to-morrow. I guess Ill go up to my room now.”</p>
<p>“Seventy-five dollars is the price, and it was made to measure. I paid $10 down, and theyre to collect $1 a week till its paid for. Thatll be about all I have to say, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Farrington, except that my name is Mamie Siviter instead of Madame Beaumont, and I thank you for your attentions. This dollar will pay the instalment due on the dress tomorrow. I guess Ill go up to my room now.”</p>
<p>Harold Farrington listened to the recital of the Lotuss loveliest guest with an impassive countenance. When she had concluded he drew a small book like a checkbook from his coat pocket. He wrote upon a blank form in this with a stub of pencil, tore out the leaf, tossed it over to his companion and took up the paper dollar.</p>
<p>“Ive got to go to work, too, in the morning,” he said, “and I might as well begin now. Theres a receipt for the dollar instalment. Ive been a collector for ODowd &amp; Levinsky for three years. Funny, aint it, that you and me both had the same idea about spending our vacation? Ive always wanted to put up at a swell hotel, and I saved up out of my twenty per, and did it. Say, Mame, how about a trip to Coney Saturday night on the boat—what?”</p>
<p>The face of the pseudo Madame Héloise DArcy Beaumont beamed.</p>
<p>“Oh, you bet Ill go, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Farrington. The store closes at twelve on Saturdays. I guess Coneyll be all right even if we did spend a week with the swells.”</p>
<p>Below the balcony the sweltering city growled and buzzed in the July night. Inside the Hotel Lotus the tempered, cool shadows reigned, and the solicitous waiter single-footed near the low windows, ready at a nod to serve Madame and her escort.</p>
<p>At the door of the elevator Farrington took his leave, and Madame Beaumont made her last ascent. But before they reached the noiseless cage he said: “Just forget that Harold Farrington, will you?—McManus is the name—James McManus. Some call me Jimmy.”</p>
<p>“Good-night, Jimmy,” said Madame.</p>
<p>“Good night, Jimmy,” said Madame.</p>
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<p>“Whoever you are,” said the girl, in icy tones, “you must remember that I am a lady. I will excuse the remark you have just made because the mistake was, doubtless, not an unnatural one—in your circle. I asked you to sit down; if the invitation must constitute me your honeysuckle, consider it withdrawn.”</p>
<p>“I earnestly beg your pardon,” pleaded the young ran. His expression of satisfaction had changed to one of penitence and humility. “It was my fault, you know—I mean, there are girls in parks, you know—that is, of course, you dont know, but—”</p>
<p>“Abandon the subject, if you please. Of course I know. Now, tell me about these people passing and crowding, each way, along these paths. Where are they going? Why do they hurry so? Are they happy?”</p>
<p>The young man had promptly abandoned his air of coquetry. His cue was now for a waiting part; he could not guess the rôle he would be expected to play.</p>
<p>The young man had promptly abandoned his air of coquetry. His cue was now for a waiting part; he could not guess the role he would be expected to play.</p>
<p>“It <em>is</em> interesting to watch them,” he replied, postulating her mood. “It is the wonderful drama of life. Some are going to supper and some to—er—other places. One wonders what their histories are.”</p>
<p>“I do not,” said the girl; “I am not so inquisitive. I come here to sit because here, only, can I be near the great, common, throbbing heart of humanity. My part in life is cast where its beats are never felt. Can you surmise why I spoke to you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr>⁠—?”</p>
<p>“Parkenstacker,” supplied the young man. Then he looked eager and hopeful.</p>
@ -49,9 +49,9 @@
<p>“I am on the night turn,” said the young man; “it is yet an hour before my period begins. May I not hope to see you again?”</p>
<p>“I do not know. Perhaps—but the whim may not seize me again. I must go quickly now. There is a dinner, and a box at the play—and, oh! the same old round. Perhaps you noticed an automobile at the upper corner of the park as you came. One with a white body.”</p>
<p>“And red running gear?” asked the young man, knitting his brows reflectively.</p>
<p>“Yes. I always come in that. Pierre waits for me there. He supposes me to be shopping in the department store across the square. Conceive of the bondage of the life wherein we must deceive even our chauffeurs. Good-night.”</p>
<p>“Yes. I always come in that. Pierre waits for me there. He supposes me to be shopping in the department store across the square. Conceive of the bondage of the life wherein we must deceive even our chauffeurs. Good night.”</p>
<p>“But it is dark now,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Parkenstacker, “and the park is full of rude men. May I not walk—”</p>
<p>“If you have the slightest regard for my wishes,” said the girl, firmly, “you will remain at this bench for ten minutes after I have left. I do not mean to accuse you, but you are probably aware that autos generally bear the monogram of their owner. Again, good-night.”</p>
<p>“If you have the slightest regard for my wishes,” said the girl, firmly, “you will remain at this bench for ten minutes after I have left. I do not mean to accuse you, but you are probably aware that autos generally bear the monogram of their owner. Again, good night.”</p>
<p>Swift and stately she moved away through the dusk. The young man watched her graceful form as she reached the pavement at the parks edge, and turned up along it toward the corner where stood the automobile. Then he treacherously and unhesitatingly began to dodge and skim among the park trees and shrubbery in a course parallel to her route, keeping her well in sight.</p>
<p>When she reached the corner she turned her head to glance at the motor car, and then passed it, continuing on across the street. Sheltered behind a convenient standing cab, the young man followed her movements closely with his eyes. Passing down the sidewalk of the street opposite the park, she entered the restaurant with the blazing sign. The place was one of those frankly glaring establishments, all white paint and glass, where one may dine cheaply and conspicuously. The girl penetrated the restaurant to some retreat at its rear, whence she quickly emerged without her hat and veil.</p>
<p>The cashiers desk was well to the front. A red-haired girl an the stool climbed down, glancing pointedly at the clock as she did so. The girl in gray mounted in her place.</p>