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[Stones] Fixup chapter title/header/filename to match story title

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src/epub/content.opf
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</spine>

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<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xmlns:epub="http://www.idpf.org/2007/ops" epub:prefix="z3998: http://www.daisy.org/z3998/2012/vocab/structure/, se: https://standardebooks.org/vocab/1.0" xml:lang="en-US">
<head>
<title>Chapter 1</title>
<title/>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="chapter-1" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<p><span class="xlarge"><b>THE ROLLING STONE</b></span>is a weekly paper published in Austin, Texasevery Saturday and will endeavor to fill along-felt want that does not appear,by the way, to be altogether in-satiable at present.<b>THE IDEA IS</b>to fill its pages with matter that will make aheart-rending appeal to every lover ofgood literature, and every person whohas a taste for reading print;and a dollar and a half fora year’s subscription.<b>OUR SPECIAL PREMIUM</b>For the next thirty days and from that timeon indefinitely, whoever will bring two dol-lars in cash to <i>The Rolling Stone</i> officewill be entered on the list of sub-scribers for one year and willhave returned to himon the spot<b>FIFTY CENTS IN CASH</b></p>
<h5>The editor’s own statement of his aims</h5>
<h2 epub:type="title">INTRODUCTION</h2>

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<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xmlns:epub="http://www.idpf.org/2007/ops" epub:prefix="z3998: http://www.daisy.org/z3998/2012/vocab/structure/, se: https://standardebooks.org/vocab/1.0" xml:lang="en-US">
<head>
<title>Chapter 10</title>
<title>A Dinner At⁠ ⸻[3]</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="chapter-10" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="a-dinner-at-3" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">A DINNER AT⁠ ⸻<a href="#footnote3">[3]</a></h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
@ -96,8 +96,8 @@
<p class="noindent">
<span class="ind15">Very truly yours,</span>
<span class="ind15"><span class="smallcaps">The Editors</span>.</span>
</p>
</header>
</p>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
</section>
</body>

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<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xmlns:epub="http://www.idpf.org/2007/ops" epub:prefix="z3998: http://www.daisy.org/z3998/2012/vocab/structure/, se: https://standardebooks.org/vocab/1.0" xml:lang="en-US">
<head>
<title>Chapter 8</title>
<title>A Fog in Santone</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="chapter-8" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="a-fog-in-santone" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">A FOG IN SANTONE</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">A Fog in Santone</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>Published in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Cosmopolitan</i> , October, 1912. Probably written in 1904, or shortly after O. Henry’s first successes in New York.</p>
<p>Published in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Cosmopolitan</i> , October, 1912. Probably written in 1904, or shortly after O. Henry’s first successes in New York.</p>
</blockquote>
</header>
<p>The drug clerk looks sharply at the white face half concealed by the high-turned overcoat collar.</p>

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<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xmlns:epub="http://www.idpf.org/2007/ops" epub:prefix="z3998: http://www.daisy.org/z3998/2012/vocab/structure/, se: https://standardebooks.org/vocab/1.0" xml:lang="en-US">
<head>
<title>Chapter 3</title>
<title>A Ruler of Men</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="chapter-3" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="a-ruler-of-men" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">A RULER OF MEN</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">A Ruler of Men</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>Written at the prime of his popularity and power, this characteristic and amusing story was published in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Everybody’s Magazine</i> in August, 1906.</p>
</blockquote>
</header
</header>
<p>I walked the streets of the City of Insolence, thirsting for the sight of a stranger face. For the City is a desert of familiar types as thick and alike as the grains in a sand-storm; and you grow to hate them as you do a friend who is always by you, or one of your own kin.</p>
<p>And my desire was granted, for I saw near a corner of Broadway and Twenty-ninth Street, a little flaxen-haired man with a face like a scaly-bark hickory-nut, selling to a fast-gathering crowd a tool that omnigeneously proclaimed itself a can-opener, a screw-driver, a button-hook, a nail-file, a shoe-horn, a watch-guard, a potato-peeler, and an ornament to any gentleman’s key-ring.</p>
<p>And then a stall-fed cop shoved himself through the congregation of customers. The vender, plainly used to having his seasons of trade thus abruptly curtailed, closed his satchel and slipped like a weasel through the opposite segment of the circle. The crowd scurried aimlessly away like ants from a disturbed crumb. The cop, suddenly becoming oblivious of the earth and its inhabitants, stood still, swelling his bulk and putting his club through an intricate drill of twirls. I hurried after Kansas Bill Bowers, and caught him by an arm.</p>

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<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xmlns:epub="http://www.idpf.org/2007/ops" epub:prefix="z3998: http://www.daisy.org/z3998/2012/vocab/structure/, se: https://standardebooks.org/vocab/1.0" xml:lang="en-US">
<head>
<title>Chapter 14</title>
<title>A Snapshot at the President</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="chapter-14" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="a-snapshot-at-the-president" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">A SNAPSHOT AT THE PRESIDENT</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">A Snapshot at the President</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>This is the kind of waggish editorial O. Henry was writing in 1894 for the readers of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rolling Stone</i>. The reader will do well to remember that the paper was for local consumption and that the allusions are to a very special place and time.</p>
<p>This is the kind of waggish editorial O. Henry was writing in 1894 for the readers of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rolling Stone</i>. The reader will do well to remember that the paper was for local consumption and that the allusions are to a very special place and time.</p>
</blockquote>
</header>
<blockquote class="small">

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<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xmlns:epub="http://www.idpf.org/2007/ops" epub:prefix="z3998: http://www.daisy.org/z3998/2012/vocab/structure/, se: https://standardebooks.org/vocab/1.0" xml:lang="en-US">
<head>
<title>Chapter 19</title>
<title>A Strange Story</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="chapter-19" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="a-strange-story" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">A STRANGE STORY</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">A Strange Story</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>From <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rolling Stone</i>.</p>
<p>From <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rolling Stone</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
</header>
<p>In the northern part of Austin there once dwelt an honest family by the name of Smothers. The family consisted of John Smothers, his wife, himself, their little daughter, five years of age, and her parents, making six people toward the population of the city when counted for a special write-up, but only three by actual count.</p>

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<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xmlns:epub="http://www.idpf.org/2007/ops" epub:prefix="z3998: http://www.daisy.org/z3998/2012/vocab/structure/, se: https://standardebooks.org/vocab/1.0" xml:lang="en-US">
<head>
<title>Chapter 21</title>
<title>An Apology</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="chapter-21" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="an-apology" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">AN APOLOGY</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">An Apology</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>This appeared in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rolling Stone</i> shortly before it “suspended publication” never to resume.</p>
<p>This appeared in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rolling Stone</i> shortly before it “suspended publication” never to resume.</p>
</blockquote>
</header>
<p>The person who sweeps the office, translates letters from foreign countries, deciphers communications from graduates of business colleges, and does most of the writing for this paper, has been confined for the past two weeks to the under side of a large red quilt, with a joint caucus of la grippe and measles.</p>

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<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xmlns:epub="http://www.idpf.org/2007/ops" epub:prefix="z3998: http://www.daisy.org/z3998/2012/vocab/structure/, se: https://standardebooks.org/vocab/1.0" xml:lang="en-US">
<head>
<title>Chapter 15</title>
<title>An Unfinished Christmas Story</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="chapter-15" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="an-unfinished-christmas-story" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">AN UNFINISHED CHRISTMAS STORY</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">An Unfinished Christmas Story</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>Probably begun several years before his death. Published, as it here appears, in <i>Short Stories</i>, January, 1911.</p>
<p>Probably begun several years before his death. Published, as it here appears, in <i>Short Stories</i>, January, 1911.</p>
</blockquote>
</header>
<p>Now, a Christmas story should be one. For a good many years the ingenious writers have been putting forth tales for the holiday numbers that employed every subtle, evasive, indirect and strategic scheme they could invent to disguise the Christmas flavor. So far has this new practice been carried that nowadays when you read a story in a holiday magazine the only way you can tell it is a Christmas story is to look at the footnote which reads: [“The incidents in the above story happened on December 25th.⁠—<span class="smallcaps">Ed</span>.”]</p>

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<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xmlns:epub="http://www.idpf.org/2007/ops" epub:prefix="z3998: http://www.daisy.org/z3998/2012/vocab/structure/, se: https://standardebooks.org/vocab/1.0" xml:lang="en-US">
<head>
<title>Chapter 17</title>
<title>Aristocracy Versus Hash</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="chapter-17" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="aristocracy-versus-hash" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">ARISTOCRACY VERSUS HASH</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">Aristocracy Versus Hash</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>From <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rolling Stone</i>.</p>
<p>From <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rolling Stone</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
</header>
<p>The snake reporter of <i>The Rolling Stone</i> was wandering up the avenue last night on his way home from the Y.M.C.A. rooms when he was approached by a gaunt, hungry-looking man with wild eyes and dishevelled hair. He accosted the reporter in a hollow, weak voice.</p>

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<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xmlns:epub="http://www.idpf.org/2007/ops" epub:prefix="z3998: http://www.daisy.org/z3998/2012/vocab/structure/, se: https://standardebooks.org/vocab/1.0" xml:lang="en-US">
<head>
<title>Chapter 23</title>
<title>Bexar Scrip No. 2692</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="chapter-23" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="bexar-scrip-no-2692" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">BEXAR SCRIP NO. 2692</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">Bexar Scrip No. 2692</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>From <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rolling Stone</i>, Saturday, March 5, 1894.</p>
<p>From <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rolling Stone</i>, Saturday, March 5, 1894.</p>
</blockquote>
</header>
<p>Whenever you visit Austin you should by all means go to see the General Land Office.</p>

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<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xmlns:epub="http://www.idpf.org/2007/ops" epub:prefix="z3998: http://www.daisy.org/z3998/2012/vocab/structure/, se: https://standardebooks.org/vocab/1.0" xml:lang="en-US">
<head>
<title>Chapter 12</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="chapter-12" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">TICTOCQ</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>These two farcical stories about Tictocq appeared in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rolling Stone</i>. They are reprinted here with all of their local references because, written hurriedly and for neighborly reading, they nevertheless have an interest for the admirer of O. Henry. They were written in 1894.</p>
</blockquote>
</header>
<div class="center">
<p class="noindent">THE GREAT FRENCH DETECTIVE, IN AUSTIN</p>
</div>
<i>A Successful Political Intrigue</i>
<section id="tictocq-1 epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>It is not generally known that Tictocq, the famous French detective, was in Austin last week. He registered at the Avenue Hotel under an assumed name, and his quiet and reserved manners singled him out at once for one not to be singled out.</p>
<p>No one knows why he came to Austin, but to one or two he vouchsafed the information that his mission was an important one from the French Government.</p>
<p>One report is that the French Minister of State has discovered an old statute among the laws of the empire, resulting from a treaty between the Emperor Charlemagne and Governor Roberts which expressly provides for the north gate of the Capital grounds being kept open, but this is merely a conjecture.</p>
<p>Last Wednesday afternoon a well-dressed gentleman knocked at the door of Tictocq’s room in the hotel.</p>
<p>The detective opened the door.</p>
<p>“Monsieur Tictocq, I believe,” said the gentleman.</p>
<p>“You will see on the register that I sign my name Q. <span epub:type="z3998:roman">X</span>. Jones,” said Tictocq, “and gentlemen would understand that I wish to be known as such. If you do not like being referred to as no gentleman, I will give you satisfaction any time after July 1st, and fight Steve O’Donnell, John McDonald, and Ignatius Donnelly in the meantime if you desire.”</p>
<p>“I do not mind it in the least,” said the gentleman. “In fact, I am accustomed to it. I am Chairman of the Democratic Executive Committee, Platform <abbr>No.</abbr> 2, and I have a friend in trouble. I knew you were Tictocq from your resemblance to yourself.”</p>
<p>“Entrez vous,” said the detective.</p>
<p>The gentleman entered and was handed a chair.</p>
<p>“I am a man of few words,” said Tictoq. “I will help your friend if possible. Our countries are great friends. We have given you Lafayette and French fried potatoes. You have given us California champagne and⁠—taken back Ward McAllister. State your case.”</p>
<p>“I will be very brief,” said the visitor. “In room <abbr>No.</abbr> 76 in this hotel is stopping a prominent Populist Candidate. He is alone. Last night some one stole his socks. They cannot be found. If they are not recovered, his party will attribute their loss to the Democracy. They will make great capital of the burglary, although I am sure it was not a political move at all. The socks must be recovered. You are the only man that can do it.”</p>
<p>Tictocq bowed.</p>
<p>“Am I to have carte blanche to question every person connected with the hotel?”</p>
<p>“The proprietor has already been spoken to. Everything and everybody is at your service.”</p>
<p>Tictocq consulted his watch.</p>
<p>“Come to this room to-morrow afternoon at 6 o’clock with the landlord, the Populist Candidate, and any other witnesses elected from both parties, and I will return the socks.”</p>
<p>“Bien, Monsieur; schlafen sie wohl.”</p>
<p>“Au revoir.”</p>
<p>The Chairman of the Democratic Executive Committee, Platform No.2, bowed courteously and withdrew.</p>
<hr class="tiny"/>
<p>Tictocq sent for the bell boy.</p>
<p>“Did you go to room 76 last night?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“Who was there?”</p>
<p>“An old hayseed what come on the 7:25.”</p>
<p>“What did he want?”</p>
<p>“The bouncer.”</p>
<p>“What for?”</p>
<p>“To put the light out.”</p>
<p>“Did you take anything while in the room?”</p>
<p>“No, he didn’t ask me.”</p>
<p>“What is your name?”</p>
<p>“Jim.”</p>
<p>“You can go.”</p>
</section>
<section id="tictocq-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>The drawing-rooms of one of the most magnificent private residences in Austin are a blaze of lights. Carriages line the streets in front, and from gate to doorway is spread a velvet carpet, on which the delicate feet of the guests may tread.</p>
<p>The occasion is the entrée into society of one of the fairest buds in the City of the Violet Crown. The rooms are filled with the culture, the beauty, the youth and fashion of society. Austin society is acknowledged to be the wittiest, the most select, and the highest bred to be found southwest of Kansas City.</p>
<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Rutabaga <abbr>St.</abbr> Vitus, the hostess, is accustomed to draw around her a circle of talent, and beauty, rarely equalled anywhere. Her evenings come nearer approaching the dignity of a salon than any occasion, except, perhaps, a Tony Faust and Marguerite reception at the Iron Front.</p>
<p>Miss <abbr>St.</abbr> Vitus, whose advent into society’s maze was heralded by such an auspicious display of hospitality, is a slender brunette, with large, lustrous eyes, a winning smile, and a charming ingénue manner. She wears a china silk, cut princesse, with diamond ornaments, and a couple of towels inserted in the back to conceal prominence of shoulder blades. She is chatting easily and naturally on a plush covered tête-à-tête with Harold <abbr>St.</abbr> Clair, the agent for a Minneapolis pants company. Her friend and schoolmate, Elsie Hicks, who married three drummers in one day, a week or two before, and won a wager of two dozen bottles of Budweiser from the handsome and talented young hack-driver, Bum Smithers, is promenading in and out the low French windows with Ethelbert Windup, the popular young candidate for hide inspector, whose name is familiar to every one who reads police court reports.</p>
<p>Somewhere, concealed by shrubbery, a band is playing, and during the pauses in conversation, onions can be smelt frying in the kitchen.</p>
<p>Happy laughter rings out from ruby lips, handsome faces grow tender as they bend over white necks and drooping beads; timid eyes convey things that lips dare not speak, and beneath silken bodice and broadcloth, hearts beat time to the sweet notes of “Love’s Young Dream.”</p>
<p>“And where have you been for some time past, you recreant cavalier?” says Miss <abbr>St.</abbr> Vitus to Harold <abbr>St.</abbr> Clair. “Have you been worshipping at another shrine? Are you recreant to your whilom friends? Speak, Sir Knight, and defend yourself.”</p>
<p>“Oh, come off,” says Harold, in his deep, musical baritone; “I’ve been having a devil of a time fitting pants on a lot of bow-legged jays from the cotton-patch. Got knobs on their legs, some of ’em big as gourds, and all expect a fit. Did you every try to measure a bow-legged⁠—I mean⁠—can’t you imagine what a jam-swizzled time I have getting pants to fit ’em? Business dull too, nobody wants ’em over three dollars.”</p>
<p>“You witty boy,” says Miss <abbr>St.</abbr> Vitus. “Just as full of bon mots and clever sayings as ever. What do you take now?”</p>
<p>“Oh, beer.”</p>
<p>“Give me your arm and let’s go into the drawing-room and draw a cork. I’m chewing a little cotton myself.”</p>
<p>Arm in arm, the handsome couple pass across the room, the cynosure of all eyes. Luderic Hetherington, the rising and gifted night-watchman at the Lone Star slaughter house, and Mabel Grubb, the daughter of the millionaire owner of the Humped-backed Camel saloon, are standing under the oleanders as they go by.</p>
<p>“She is very beautiful,” says Luderic.</p>
<p>“Rats,” says Mabel.</p>
<p>A keen observer would have noted all this time the figure of a solitary man who seemed to avoid the company but by adroit changing of his position, and perfectly cool and self-possessed manner, avoided drawing any especial attention to himself.</p>
<p>The lion of the evening is Herr Professor Ludwig von Bum, the pianist.</p>
<p>He had been found drinking beer in a saloon on East Pecan Street by Colonel <abbr>St.</abbr> Vitus about a week before, and according to the Austin custom in such cases, was invited home by the colonel, and the next day accepted into society, with large music classes at his service.</p>
<p>Professor von Bum is playing the lovely symphony in G minor from Beethoven’s “Songs Without Music.” The grand chords fill the room with exquisite harmony. He plays the extremely difficult passages in the obligato home run in a masterly manner, and when he finishes with that grand te deum with arpeggios on the side, there is that complete hush in the room that is dearer to the artist’s heart than the loudest applause.</p>
<p>The professor looks around.</p>
<p>The room is empty.</p>
<p>Empty with the exception of Tictocq, the great French detective, who springs from behind a mass of tropical plants to his side.</p>
<p>The professor rises in alarm.</p>
<p>“Hush,” says Tictocq: “Make no noise at all. You have already made enough.”</p>
<p>Footsteps are heard outside.</p>
<p>“Be quick,” says Tictocq: “give me those socks. There is not a moment to spare.”</p>
<p>“Vas sagst du?”</p>
<p>“Ah, he confesses,” says Tictocq. “No socks will do but those you carried off from the Populist Candidate’s room.”</p>
<p>The company is returning, no longer hearing the music.</p>
<p>Tictooq hesitates not. He seizes the professor, throws him upon the floor, tears off his shoes and socks, and escapes with the latter through the open window into the garden.</p>
</section>
<section id="tictocq-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 span epub:type="title z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>Tictocq’s room in the Avenue Hotel.</p>
<p>A knock is heard at the door.</p>
<p>Tictocq opens it and looks at his watch.</p>
<p>“Ah,” he says, “it is just six. Entrez, Messieurs.”</p>
<p>The messieurs entrez. There are seven of them; the Populist Candidate who is there by invitation, not knowing for what purpose; the chairman of the Democratic Executive Committee, platform <abbr>No.</abbr> 2, the hotel proprietor, and three or four Democrats and Populists, as near as could be found out.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” begins the Populist Candidate, “what in the h⁠–⁠⁠–⁠⁠–⁠⁠–⁠”</p>
<p>“Excuse me,” says Tictocq, firmly. “You will oblige me by keeping silent until I make my report. I have been employed in this case, and I have unravelled it. For the honor of France I request that I be heard with attention.”</p>
<p>“Certainly,” says the chairman; “we will be pleased to listen.”</p>
<p>Tictocq stands in the centre of the room. The electric light burns brightly above him. He seems the incarnation of alertness, vigor, cleverness, and cunning.</p>
<p>The company seat themselves in chairs along the wall.</p>
<p>“When informed of the robbery,” begins Tictocq, “I first questioned the bell boy. He knew nothing. I went to the police headquarters. They knew nothing. I invited one of them to the bar to drink. He said there used to be a little colored boy in the Tenth Ward who stole things and kept them for recovery by the police, but failed to be at the place agreed upon for arrest one time, and had been sent to jail.</p>
<p>“I then began to think. I reasoned. No man, said I, would carry a Populist’s socks in his pocket without wrapping them up. He would not want to do so in the hotel. He would want a paper. Where would he get one? At the <i>Statesman</i> office, of course. I went there. A young man with his hair combed down on his forehead sat behind the desk. I knew he was writing society items, for a young lady’s slipper, a piece of cake, a fan, a half emptied bottle of cocktail, a bunch of roses, and a police whistle lay on the desk before him.</p>
<p>“ ‘Can you tell me if a man purchased a paper here in the last three months?’ I said.</p>
<p>“ ‘Yes,’ he replied; ‘we sold one last night.</p>
<p>“ ‘Can you describe the man?’</p>
<p>“ ‘Accurately. He had blue whiskers, a wart between his shoulder blades, a touch of colic, and an occupation tax on his breath.’</p>
<p>“ ‘Which way did he go?’</p>
<p>“ ‘Out.’</p>
<p>“I then went⁠—”</p>
<p>“Wait a minute,” said the Populist Candidate, rising; “I don’t see why in the h⁠–⁠⁠–⁠⁠–⁠⁠–⁠”</p>
<p>“Once more I must beg that you will be silent,” said Tictocq, rather sharply. “You should not interrupt me in the midst of my report.”</p>
<p>“I made one false arrest,” continued Tictocq. “I was passing two finely dressed gentlemen on the street, when one of them remarked that he had ‘stole his socks.’ I handcuffed him and dragged him to a lighted store, when his companion explained to me that he was somewhat intoxicated and his tongue was not entirely manageable. He had been speaking of some business transaction, and what he intended to say was that he had ‘sold his stocks.’</p>
<p>“I then released him.</p>
<p>“An hour afterward I passed a saloon, and saw this Professor von Bum drinking beer at a table. I knew him in Paris. I said ‘here is my man.’ He worshipped Wagner, lived on limburger cheese, beer, and credit, and would have stolen anybody’s socks. I shadowed him to the reception at Colonel <abbr>St.</abbr> Vitus’s, and in an opportune moment I seized him and tore the socks from his feet. There they are.”</p>
<p>With a dramatic gesture, Tictocq threw a pair of dingy socks upon the table, folded his arms, and threw back his head.</p>
<p>With a loud cry of rage, the Populist Candidate sprang once more to his feet.</p>
<p>“Gol darn it! I WILL say what I want to. I⁠—”</p>
<p>The two other Populists in the room gazed at him coldly and sternly.</p>
<p>“Is this tale true?” they demanded of the Candidate.</p>
<p>“No, by gosh, it ain’t!” he replied, pointing a trembling finger at the Democratic Chairman. “There stands the man who has concocted the whole scheme. It is an infernal, unfair political trick to lose votes for our party. How far has thing gone?” he added, turning savagely to the detective.</p>
<p>“All the newspapers have my written report on the matter, and the <i>Statesman</i> will have it in plate matter next week,” said Tictocq, complacently.</p>
<p>“All is lost!” said the Populists, turning toward the door.</p>
<p>“For God’s sake, my friends,” pleaded the Candidate, following them; “listen to me; I swear before high heaven that I never wore a pair of socks in my life. It is all a devilish campaign lie.”</p>
<p>The Populists turn their backs.</p>
<p>“The damage is already done,” they said. “The people have heard the story. You have yet time to withdraw decently before the race.”</p>
<p>All left the room except Tictocq and the Democrats.</p>
<p>“Let’s all go down and open a bottle of fizz on the Finance Committee,” said the Chairman of the Executive Committee, Platform <abbr>No.</abbr> 2.</p>
</section>
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<head>
<title>Chapter 22</title>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="chapter-22" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">LORD OAKHURST’S CURSE</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>This story was sent to <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Beall of Greensboro, N. C., in a letter in 1883, and so is one of O. Henry’s earliest attempts at writing.</p>
</blockquote>
</header>
<section id="lord-oakhursts-curse-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>Lord Oakhurst lay dying in the oak chamber in the eastern wing of Oakhurst Castle. Through the open window in the calm of the summer evening, came the sweet fragrance of the early violets and budding trees, and to the dying man it seemed as if earth’s loveliness and beauty were never so apparent as on this bright June day, his last day of life.</p>
<p>His young wife, whom he loved with a devotion and strength that the presence of the king of terrors himself could not alter, moved about the apartment, weeping and sorrowful, sometimes arranging the sick man’s pillow and inquiring of him in low, mournful tones if anything could be done to give him comfort, and again, with stifled sobs, eating some chocolate caramels which she carried in the pocket of her apron. The servants went to and fro with that quiet and subdued tread which prevails in a house where death is an expected guest, and even the crash of broken china and shivered glass, which announced their approach, seemed to fall upon the ear with less violence and sound than usual.</p>
<p>Lord Oakhurst was thinking of days gone by, when he wooed and won his beautiful young wife, who was then but a charming and innocent girl. How clearly and minutely those scenes rose up at the call of his memory. He seemed to be standing once more beneath the old chestnut grove where they had plighted their troth in the twilight under the stars; while the rare fragrance of the June roses and the smell of supper came gently by on the breeze. There he had told her his love; how that his whole happiness and future joy lay in the hope that he might win her for a bride; that if she would trust her future to his care the devotedness of his lifetime should be hers, and his only thought would be to make her life one long day of sunshine and peanut candy.</p>
<p>How plainly he remembered how she had, with girlish shyness and coyness, at first hesitated, and murmured something to herself about “an old bald-beaded galoot,” but when he told her that to him life without her would be a blasted mockery, and that his income was £50,000 a year, she threw herself on to him and froze there with the tenacity of a tick on a brindled cow, and said, with tears of joy, “Hen-ery, I am thine.”</p>
<p>And now he was dying. In a few short hours his spirit would rise up at the call of the Destroyer and, quitting his poor, weak, earthly frame, would go forth into that dim and dreaded Unknown Land, and solve with certainty that Mystery which revealeth itself not to mortal man.</p>
</section>
<section id="lord-oakhursts-curse-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>A carriage drove rapidly up the avenue and stopped at the door. Sir Everhard FitzArmond, the famous London physician, who had been telegraphed for, alighted and quickly ascended the marble steps. Lady Oakhurst met him at the door, her lovely face expressing great anxiety and grief. “Oh, Sir Everhard, I am so glad you have come. He seems to be sinking rapidly. Did you bring the cream almonds I mentioned in the telegram?”</p>
<p>Sir Everhard did not reply, but silently handed her a package, and, slipping a couple of cloves into his mouth, ascended the stairs that led to Lord Oakhurst’s apartment. Lady Oakhurst followed.</p>
<p>Sir Everhard approached the bedside of his patient and laid his hand gently on this sick man’s diagnosis. A shade of feeling passed over his professional countenance as he gravely and solemnly pronounced these words: “Madam, your husband has croaked.”</p>
<p>Lady Oakhurst at first did not comprehend his technical language, and her lovely mouth let up for a moment on the cream almonds. But soon his meaning flashed upon her, and she seized an axe that her husband was accustomed to keep by his bedside to mangle his servants with, and struck open Lord Oakhurst’s cabinet containing his private papers, and with eager hands opened the document which she took therefrom. Then, with a wild, unearthly shriek that would have made a steam piano go out behind a barn and kick itself in despair, she fell senseless to the floor.</p>
<p>Sir Everhard FitzArmond picked up the paper and read its contents. It was Lord Oakhurst’s will, bequeathing all his property to a scientific institution which should have for its object the invention of a means for extracting peach brandy from sawdust.</p>
<p>Sir Everhard glanced quickly around the room. No one was in sight. Dropping the will, he rapidly transferred some valuable ornaments and rare specimens of gold and silver filigree work from the centre table to his pockets, and rang the bell for the servants.</p>
</section>
<section id="lord-oakhursts-curse-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title">
<span epub:type="z3998:roman">III</span>
<span epub:type="subtitle">The Curse</span>
</h3>
<p>Sir Everhard FitzArmond descended the stairway of Oakhurst Castle and passed out into the avenue that led from the doorway to the great iron gates of the park. Lord Oakhurst had been a great sportsman during his life and always kept a well-stocked kennel of curs, which now rushed out from their hiding places and with loud yelps sprang upon the physician, burying their fangs in his lower limbs and seriously damaging his apparel.</p>
<p>Sir Everllard, startled out of his professional dignity and usual indifference to human suffering, by the personal application of feeling, gave vent to a most horrible and blighting CURSE and ran with great swiftness to his carriage and drove off toward the city.</p>
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<p>O. Henry</p>
<p>
<a href="#footnotetag1">(return)</a>
</p>
</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="footnote">
<p class="noindent"><a name="footnote2"/><b>Footnote 2</b>:</p>
<p>Mother of O. Henry</p>
<p>
<a href="#footnotetag2">(return)</a>
</p>
</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="footnote">
<p class="noindent"><a name="footnote3"/><b>Footnote 3</b>:</p>
<p>See advertising column, “Where to Dine Well,” in the daily newspapers.</p>
<p>
<a href="#footnotetag3">(return)</a>
</p>
</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="footnote">
<p class="noindent"><a name="footnote4"/><b>Footnote 4</b>:</p>
<p>See advertising column, “Where to Dine Well,” in the daily newspapers.</p>
<p>
<a href="#footnotetag4">(return)</a>
</p>
</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="footnote">
<p class="noindent"><a name="footnote5"/><b>Footnote 5</b>:</p>
<p>See advertising column, “Where to Dine Well,” in the daily newspapers.</p>
<p>
<a href="#footnotetag5">(return)</a>
</p>
</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="footnote">
<p class="noindent"><a name="footnote6"/><b>Footnote 6</b>:</p>
<p>See advertising column, “Where to Dine Well,” in the daily newspapers.</p>
<p>
<a href="#footnotetag6">(return)</a>
</p>
</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="footnote">
<p class="noindent"><a name="footnote7"/><b>Footnote 7</b>:</p>
<p>See advertising column, “Where to Dine Well,” in the daily newspapers.</p>
<p>
<a href="#footnotetag7">(return)</a>
</p>
</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="footnote">
<p class="noindent"><a name="footnote8"/><b>Footnote 8</b>:</p>
<p>See advertising column, “Where to Dine Well,” in the daily newspapers.</p>
<p>
<a href="#footnotetag8">(return)</a>
</p>
</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="footnote">
<p class="noindent"><a name="footnote9"/><b>Footnote 9</b>:</p>
<p>See advertising column, “Where to Dine Well,” in the daily newspapers.</p>
<p>
<a href="#footnotetag9">(return)</a>
</p>
</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="footnote">
<p class="noindent"><a name="footnote10"/><b>Footnote 10</b>:</p>
<p>See advertising column, “Where to Dine Well,” in the daily newspapers.</p>
<p>
<a href="#footnotetag10">(return)</a>
</p>
</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="footnote">
<p class="noindent"><a name="footnote11"/><b>Footnote 11</b>:</p>
<p>See advertising column, “Where to Dine Well,” in the daily newspapers.</p>
<p>
<a href="#footnotetag11">(return)</a>
</p>
</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="footnote">
<p class="noindent"><a name="footnote12"/><b>Footnote 12</b>:</p>
<p>An estate famous in Texas legal history. It took many, many years for adjustment and a large part of the property was, of course, consumed as expenses of litigation.</p>
<p>
<a href="#footnotetag12">(return)</a>
</p>
</p>
</blockquote>
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<head>
<title>Chapter 20</title>
<title>Fickle Fortune or How Gladys Hustled</title>
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<section id="fickle-fortune-or-how-gladys-hustled" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">FICKLE FORTUNE OR HOW GLADYS HUSTLED</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">Fickle Fortune or How Gladys Hustled</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>From <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rolling Stone</i>.</p>
<p>From <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rolling Stone</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
</header>
<p>“Press me no more <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Snooper,” said Gladys Vavasour-Smith. “I can never be yours.”</p>

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<title>Chapter 5</title>
<title>Helping the Other Fellow</title>
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<section id="helping-the-other-fellow" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
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<h2 epub:type="title">HELPING THE OTHER FELLOW</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">Helping the Other Fellow</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>Originally published in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Munsey’s Magazine</i>, December, 1908.</p>
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<title>Lord Oakhurst’s Curse</title>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="lord-oakhursts-curse" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">Lord Oakhurst’s Curse</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>This story was sent to <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Beall of Greensboro, N. C., in a letter in 1883, and so is one of O. Henry’s earliest attempts at writing.</p>
</blockquote>
</header>
<section id="lord-oakhursts-curse-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>Lord Oakhurst lay dying in the oak chamber in the eastern wing of Oakhurst Castle. Through the open window in the calm of the summer evening, came the sweet fragrance of the early violets and budding trees, and to the dying man it seemed as if earth’s loveliness and beauty were never so apparent as on this bright June day, his last day of life.</p>
<p>His young wife, whom he loved with a devotion and strength that the presence of the king of terrors himself could not alter, moved about the apartment, weeping and sorrowful, sometimes arranging the sick man’s pillow and inquiring of him in low, mournful tones if anything could be done to give him comfort, and again, with stifled sobs, eating some chocolate caramels which she carried in the pocket of her apron. The servants went to and fro with that quiet and subdued tread which prevails in a house where death is an expected guest, and even the crash of broken china and shivered glass, which announced their approach, seemed to fall upon the ear with less violence and sound than usual.</p>
<p>Lord Oakhurst was thinking of days gone by, when he wooed and won his beautiful young wife, who was then but a charming and innocent girl. How clearly and minutely those scenes rose up at the call of his memory. He seemed to be standing once more beneath the old chestnut grove where they had plighted their troth in the twilight under the stars; while the rare fragrance of the June roses and the smell of supper came gently by on the breeze. There he had told her his love; how that his whole happiness and future joy lay in the hope that he might win her for a bride; that if she would trust her future to his care the devotedness of his lifetime should be hers, and his only thought would be to make her life one long day of sunshine and peanut candy.</p>
<p>How plainly he remembered how she had, with girlish shyness and coyness, at first hesitated, and murmured something to herself about “an old bald-beaded galoot,” but when he told her that to him life without her would be a blasted mockery, and that his income was £50,000 a year, she threw herself on to him and froze there with the tenacity of a tick on a brindled cow, and said, with tears of joy, “Hen-ery, I am thine.”</p>
<p>And now he was dying. In a few short hours his spirit would rise up at the call of the Destroyer and, quitting his poor, weak, earthly frame, would go forth into that dim and dreaded Unknown Land, and solve with certainty that Mystery which revealeth itself not to mortal man.</p>
</section>
<section id="lord-oakhursts-curse-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>A carriage drove rapidly up the avenue and stopped at the door. Sir Everhard FitzArmond, the famous London physician, who had been telegraphed for, alighted and quickly ascended the marble steps. Lady Oakhurst met him at the door, her lovely face expressing great anxiety and grief. “Oh, Sir Everhard, I am so glad you have come. He seems to be sinking rapidly. Did you bring the cream almonds I mentioned in the telegram?”</p>
<p>Sir Everhard did not reply, but silently handed her a package, and, slipping a couple of cloves into his mouth, ascended the stairs that led to Lord Oakhurst’s apartment. Lady Oakhurst followed.</p>
<p>Sir Everhard approached the bedside of his patient and laid his hand gently on this sick man’s diagnosis. A shade of feeling passed over his professional countenance as he gravely and solemnly pronounced these words: “Madam, your husband has croaked.”</p>
<p>Lady Oakhurst at first did not comprehend his technical language, and her lovely mouth let up for a moment on the cream almonds. But soon his meaning flashed upon her, and she seized an axe that her husband was accustomed to keep by his bedside to mangle his servants with, and struck open Lord Oakhurst’s cabinet containing his private papers, and with eager hands opened the document which she took therefrom. Then, with a wild, unearthly shriek that would have made a steam piano go out behind a barn and kick itself in despair, she fell senseless to the floor.</p>
<p>Sir Everhard FitzArmond picked up the paper and read its contents. It was Lord Oakhurst’s will, bequeathing all his property to a scientific institution which should have for its object the invention of a means for extracting peach brandy from sawdust.</p>
<p>Sir Everhard glanced quickly around the room. No one was in sight. Dropping the will, he rapidly transferred some valuable ornaments and rare specimens of gold and silver filigree work from the centre table to his pockets, and rang the bell for the servants.</p>
</section>
<section id="lord-oakhursts-curse-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title">
<span epub:type="z3998:roman">III</span>
<span epub:type="subtitle">The Curse</span>
</h3>
<p>Sir Everhard FitzArmond descended the stairway of Oakhurst Castle and passed out into the avenue that led from the doorway to the great iron gates of the park. Lord Oakhurst had been a great sportsman during his life and always kept a well-stocked kennel of curs, which now rushed out from their hiding places and with loud yelps sprang upon the physician, burying their fangs in his lower limbs and seriously damaging his apparel.</p>
<p>Sir Everllard, startled out of his professional dignity and usual indifference to human suffering, by the personal application of feeling, gave vent to a most horrible and blighting CURSE and ran with great swiftness to his carriage and drove off toward the city.</p>
</section>
</section>
</body>
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<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xmlns:epub="http://www.idpf.org/2007/ops" epub:prefix="z3998: http://www.daisy.org/z3998/2012/vocab/structure/, se: https://standardebooks.org/vocab/1.0" xml:lang="en-US">
<head>
<title>Chapter 24</title>
<title>Queries and Answers</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="chapter-24" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="queries-and-answers" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">QUERIES AND ANSWERS</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">Queries and Answers</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>From <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rolling Stone</i>, June 23, 1894.</p>
<p>From <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rolling Stone</i>, June 23, 1894.</p>
</blockquote>
</header>
<p class="jus">Can you inform me where I can buy an interest in a newspaper of some kind? I have some money and would be glad to invest it in something of the sort, if some one would allow me to put in my capital against his experience.</p>
<p class="jright"><span class="smallcaps">College Graduate</span>.</p>
<p>Telegraph us your address at once, day message. Keep telegraphing every ten minutes at our expense until we see you. Will start on first train after receiving your wire.</p>
<hr class="tiny"/>
<p class="jus"></p>
<p class="jus"/>
<p class="jus">Who was the author of the line, “Breathes there a man with soul so dead?”</p>
<p class="jright">G. F.</p>
<p>This was written by a visitor to the State Saengerfest of 1892 while conversing with a member who had just eaten a large slice of limburger cheese.</p>
<hr class="tiny"/>
<p class="jus"></p>
<p class="jus"/>
<p class="jus">Where can I get the “Testimony of the Rocks”?</p>
<p class="jright"><span class="smallcaps">Geologist</span>.</p>
<p>See the reports of the campaign committees after the election in November.</p>
<hr class="tiny"/>
<p class="jus"></p>
<p class="jus"/>
<p class="jus">Please state what the seven wonders of the world are. I know five of them, I think, but can’t find out the other two.</p>
<p class="jright"><span class="smallcaps">Scholar</span>.</p>
<p>The Temple of Diana, at Lexington, Ky.; the Great Wall of China; Judge Von Rosenberg (the Colossus of Roads); the Hanging Gardens at Albany; a San Antonio Sunday school; <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Frank Leslie, and the Populist party.</p>
<hr class="tiny"/>
<p class="jus"></p>
<p class="jus"/>
<p class="jus">What day did Christmas come on in the year 1847?</p>
<p class="jright"><span class="smallcaps">Constant Reader</span>.</p>
<p>The 25th of December.</p>
<hr class="tiny"/>
<p class="jus"></p>
<p class="jus"/>
<p class="jus">What does an F. F. <span epub:type="z3998:roman">V</span>. mean?</p>
<p class="jright"><span class="smallcaps">Ignorant</span>.</p>
<p>What does he mean by what? If he takes you by the arm and tells you how much you are like a brother of his in Richmond, he means Feel For Your Vest, for he wants to borrow a five. If he holds his head high and don’t speak to you on the street he means that he already owes you ten and is Following a Fresh Victim.</p>
<hr class="tiny"/>
<p class="jus"></p>
<p class="jus"/>
<p class="jus">Please decide a bet for us. My friend says that the sentence, “The negro bought the watermelon <i>of</i> the farmer” is correct, and I say it should be “The negro bought the watermelon from the farmer.” Which is correct?</p>
<p class="jright">R.</p>
<p>Neither. It should read, “The negro stole the watermelon from the farmer.”</p>
<hr class="tiny"/>
<p class="jus"></p>
<p class="jus"/>
<p class="jus">When do the Texas game laws go into effect?</p>
<p class="jright"><span class="smallcaps">Hunter</span>.</p>
<p>When you sit down at the table.</p>
<hr class="tiny"/>
<p class="jus"></p>
<p class="jus"/>
<p class="jus">Do you know where I can trade a section of fine Panhandle land for a pair of pants with a good title?</p>
<p class="jright"><span class="smallcaps">Land Agent</span>.</p>
<p>We do not. You can’t raise anything on land in that section. A man can always raise a dollar on a good pair of pants.</p>
<hr class="tiny"/>
<p class="jus"></p>
<p class="jus"/>
<p class="jus">Name in order the three best newspapers in Texas.</p>
<p class="jright"><span class="smallcaps">Advertiser</span>.</p>
<p>Well, the Galveston <i>News</i> runs about second, and the San Antonio <i>Express</i> third. Let us hear from you again.</p>
<hr class="tiny"/>
<p class="jus"></p>
<p class="jus"/>
<p class="jus">Has a married woman any rights in Texas?</p>
<p class="jright"><span class="smallcaps">Prospector</span>.</p>
<p>Hush, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Prospector. Not quite so loud, if you please. Come up to the office some afternoon, and if everything seems quiet, come inside, and look at our eye, and our suspenders hanging on to one button, and feel the lump on the top of our head. Yes, she has some rights of her own, and everybody else’s she can scoop in.</p>
<hr class="tiny"/>
<p class="jus"></p>
<p class="jus"/>
<p class="jus">Who was the author of the sayings, “A public office is a public trust,” and “I would rather be right than President”?</p>
<p>Eli Perkins.</p>
<hr class="tiny"/>
<p class="jus"></p>
<p class="jus"/>
<p class="jus">Is the Lakeside Improvement Company making anything out of their own town tract on the lake?</p>
<p class="jright"><span class="smallcaps">Inquisitive</span>.</p>
<p>Yes, lots.</p>

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<head>
<title>Chapter 11</title>
<title>Sound and Fury</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="chapter-11" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="sound-and-fury" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">SOUND AND FURY</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">Sound and Fury</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>O. Henry wrote this for <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Ainslee’s Magazine</i>, where it appeared in March, 1903.</p>
</blockquote>
</header>
<p class="noindent">PERSONS OF THE DRAMA</p>
<table class="med">
<tr>
<td>
<span class="smallcaps"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</span>
</td>
<td align="right">
<i>An Author</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>
<span class="smallcaps">Miss Lore </span>
</td>
<td align="right">
<i>An Amanuensis</i>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p class="noindent">PERSONS OF THE DRAMA</p>
<table class="med">
<tr>
<td>
<span class="smallcaps"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</span>
</td>
<td align="right">
<i>An Author</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>
<span class="smallcaps">Miss Lore </span>
</td>
<td align="right">
<i>An Amanuensis</i>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p class="noindent"><span class="smallcaps"><span class="xlarge">Scene</span></span>⁠—<i>Workroom of</i> <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne’s <i>popular novel factory</i>.</p>
<p><span class="smallcaps"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</span>⁠—Good morning, Miss Lore. Glad to see you so prompt. We should finish that June installment for the <i>Epoch</i> to-day. Leverett is crowding me for it. Are you quite ready? We will resume where we left off yesterday. (<i>Dictates</i>.) “Kate, with a sigh, rose from his knees, and⁠—”</p>
<p><span class="smallcaps">Miss Lore</span>⁠—Excuse me; you mean “rose from <i>her</i> knees,” instead of “his,” don’t you?</p>

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<head>
<title>Chapter 4</title>
<title>The Atavism of John Tom Little Bear</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="chapter-4" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="the-atavism-of-john-tom-little-bear" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">THE ATAVISM OF JOHN TOM LITTLE BEAR</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">The Atavism of John Tom Little Bear</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>O. Henry thought this the best of the Jeff Peters stories, all the rest of which are included in “The Gentle Grafter,” except “Cupid à la Carte” in the “Heart of the West.” “The Atavism of John Tom Little Bear” appeared in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Everybody’s Magazine</i> for July, 1903.</p>
</blockquote>

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<head>
<title>Chapter 2</title>
<title>The Dream</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="chapter-2" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="the-dream" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">THE DREAM</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">The Dream</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>This was the last work of O. Henry. The <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Cosmopolitan Magazine</i> had ordered it from him and, after his death, the unfinished manuscript was found in his room, on his dusty desk. The story as it here appears was published in the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Cosmopolitan</i> for September, 1910.</p>
</blockquote>

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<head>
<title>Chapter 9</title>
<title>The Friendly Call</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="chapter-9" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="the-friendly-call" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">THE FRIENDLY CALL</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">The Friendly Call</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>Published in “Monthly Magazine Section,” July, 1910.</p>
</blockquote>

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<head>
<title>Chapter 6</title>
<title>The Marionettes</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="chapter-6" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="the-marionettes" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">THE MARIONETTES</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">The Marionettes</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>Originally published in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Black Cat</i> for April, 1902, The Short Story Publishing <abbr>Co.</abbr></p>
</blockquote>

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<head>
<title>Chapter 7</title>
<title>The Marquis and Miss Sally</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="chapter-7" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="the-marquis-and-miss-sally" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">THE MARQUIS AND MISS SALLY</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">The Marquis and Miss Sally</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>Originally published in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Everybody’s Magazine</i>, June 1903.</p>
</blockquote>

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<head>
<title>Chapter 18</title>
<title>The Prisoner of Zembla</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="chapter-18" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="the-prisoner-of-zembla" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">THE PRISONER OF ZEMBLA</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">The Prisoner of Zembla</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>From <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rolling Stone</i>.</p>
<p>From <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rolling Stone</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
</header>
<p>So the king fell into a furious rage, so that none durst go near him for fear, and he gave out that since the Princess Ostla had disobeyed him there would be a great tourney, and to the knight who should prove himself of the greatest valor he would give the hand of the princess.</p>

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<head>
<title>Chapter 16</title>
<title>The Unprofitable Servant</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="chapter-16" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="the-unprofitable-servant" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">THE UNPROFITABLE SERVANT</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">The Unprofitable Servant</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>Left unfinished, and published as it here appears in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Everybody’s Magazine</i>, December, 1911.</p>
<p>Left unfinished, and published as it here appears in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Everybody’s Magazine</i>, December, 1911.</p>
</blockquote>
</header>
<p>I am the richer by the acquaintance of four newspaper men. Singly, they are my encyclopedias, friends, mentors, and sometimes bankers. But now and then it happens that all of them will pitch upon the same printworthy incident of the passing earthly panorama and will send in reportorial constructions thereof to their respective journals. It is then that, for me, it is to laugh. For it seems that to each of them, trained and skilled as he may be, the same occurrence presents a different facet of the cut diamond, life.</p>

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<head>
<title>Tictocq</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="tictocq" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">Tictocq</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>These two farcical stories about Tictocq appeared in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rolling Stone</i>. They are reprinted here with all of their local references because, written hurriedly and for neighborly reading, they nevertheless have an interest for the admirer of O. Henry. They were written in 1894.</p>
</blockquote>
</header>
<div class="center">
<p class="noindent">THE GREAT FRENCH DETECTIVE, IN AUSTIN</p>
</div>
<i>A Successful Political Intrigue</i>
<section id="tictocq-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>It is not generally known that Tictocq, the famous French detective, was in Austin last week. He registered at the Avenue Hotel under an assumed name, and his quiet and reserved manners singled him out at once for one not to be singled out.</p>
<p>No one knows why he came to Austin, but to one or two he vouchsafed the information that his mission was an important one from the French Government.</p>
<p>One report is that the French Minister of State has discovered an old statute among the laws of the empire, resulting from a treaty between the Emperor Charlemagne and Governor Roberts which expressly provides for the north gate of the Capital grounds being kept open, but this is merely a conjecture.</p>
<p>Last Wednesday afternoon a well-dressed gentleman knocked at the door of Tictocq’s room in the hotel.</p>
<p>The detective opened the door.</p>
<p>“Monsieur Tictocq, I believe,” said the gentleman.</p>
<p>“You will see on the register that I sign my name Q. <span epub:type="z3998:roman">X</span>. Jones,” said Tictocq, “and gentlemen would understand that I wish to be known as such. If you do not like being referred to as no gentleman, I will give you satisfaction any time after July 1st, and fight Steve O’Donnell, John McDonald, and Ignatius Donnelly in the meantime if you desire.”</p>
<p>“I do not mind it in the least,” said the gentleman. “In fact, I am accustomed to it. I am Chairman of the Democratic Executive Committee, Platform <abbr>No.</abbr> 2, and I have a friend in trouble. I knew you were Tictocq from your resemblance to yourself.”</p>
<p>“Entrez vous,” said the detective.</p>
<p>The gentleman entered and was handed a chair.</p>
<p>“I am a man of few words,” said Tictoq. “I will help your friend if possible. Our countries are great friends. We have given you Lafayette and French fried potatoes. You have given us California champagne and⁠—taken back Ward McAllister. State your case.”</p>
<p>“I will be very brief,” said the visitor. “In room <abbr>No.</abbr> 76 in this hotel is stopping a prominent Populist Candidate. He is alone. Last night some one stole his socks. They cannot be found. If they are not recovered, his party will attribute their loss to the Democracy. They will make great capital of the burglary, although I am sure it was not a political move at all. The socks must be recovered. You are the only man that can do it.”</p>
<p>Tictocq bowed.</p>
<p>“Am I to have carte blanche to question every person connected with the hotel?”</p>
<p>“The proprietor has already been spoken to. Everything and everybody is at your service.”</p>
<p>Tictocq consulted his watch.</p>
<p>“Come to this room to-morrow afternoon at 6 o’clock with the landlord, the Populist Candidate, and any other witnesses elected from both parties, and I will return the socks.”</p>
<p>“Bien, Monsieur; schlafen sie wohl.”</p>
<p>“Au revoir.”</p>
<p>The Chairman of the Democratic Executive Committee, Platform No.2, bowed courteously and withdrew.</p>
<hr class="tiny"/>
<p>Tictocq sent for the bell boy.</p>
<p>“Did you go to room 76 last night?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“Who was there?”</p>
<p>“An old hayseed what come on the 7:25.”</p>
<p>“What did he want?”</p>
<p>“The bouncer.”</p>
<p>“What for?”</p>
<p>“To put the light out.”</p>
<p>“Did you take anything while in the room?”</p>
<p>“No, he didn’t ask me.”</p>
<p>“What is your name?”</p>
<p>“Jim.”</p>
<p>“You can go.”</p>
</section>
<section id="tictocq-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>The drawing-rooms of one of the most magnificent private residences in Austin are a blaze of lights. Carriages line the streets in front, and from gate to doorway is spread a velvet carpet, on which the delicate feet of the guests may tread.</p>
<p>The occasion is the entrée into society of one of the fairest buds in the City of the Violet Crown. The rooms are filled with the culture, the beauty, the youth and fashion of society. Austin society is acknowledged to be the wittiest, the most select, and the highest bred to be found southwest of Kansas City.</p>
<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Rutabaga <abbr>St.</abbr> Vitus, the hostess, is accustomed to draw around her a circle of talent, and beauty, rarely equalled anywhere. Her evenings come nearer approaching the dignity of a salon than any occasion, except, perhaps, a Tony Faust and Marguerite reception at the Iron Front.</p>
<p>Miss <abbr>St.</abbr> Vitus, whose advent into society’s maze was heralded by such an auspicious display of hospitality, is a slender brunette, with large, lustrous eyes, a winning smile, and a charming ingénue manner. She wears a china silk, cut princesse, with diamond ornaments, and a couple of towels inserted in the back to conceal prominence of shoulder blades. She is chatting easily and naturally on a plush covered tête-à-tête with Harold <abbr>St.</abbr> Clair, the agent for a Minneapolis pants company. Her friend and schoolmate, Elsie Hicks, who married three drummers in one day, a week or two before, and won a wager of two dozen bottles of Budweiser from the handsome and talented young hack-driver, Bum Smithers, is promenading in and out the low French windows with Ethelbert Windup, the popular young candidate for hide inspector, whose name is familiar to every one who reads police court reports.</p>
<p>Somewhere, concealed by shrubbery, a band is playing, and during the pauses in conversation, onions can be smelt frying in the kitchen.</p>
<p>Happy laughter rings out from ruby lips, handsome faces grow tender as they bend over white necks and drooping beads; timid eyes convey things that lips dare not speak, and beneath silken bodice and broadcloth, hearts beat time to the sweet notes of “Love’s Young Dream.”</p>
<p>“And where have you been for some time past, you recreant cavalier?” says Miss <abbr>St.</abbr> Vitus to Harold <abbr>St.</abbr> Clair. “Have you been worshipping at another shrine? Are you recreant to your whilom friends? Speak, Sir Knight, and defend yourself.”</p>
<p>“Oh, come off,” says Harold, in his deep, musical baritone; “I’ve been having a devil of a time fitting pants on a lot of bow-legged jays from the cotton-patch. Got knobs on their legs, some of ’em big as gourds, and all expect a fit. Did you every try to measure a bow-legged⁠—I mean⁠—can’t you imagine what a jam-swizzled time I have getting pants to fit ’em? Business dull too, nobody wants ’em over three dollars.”</p>
<p>“You witty boy,” says Miss <abbr>St.</abbr> Vitus. “Just as full of bon mots and clever sayings as ever. What do you take now?”</p>
<p>“Oh, beer.”</p>
<p>“Give me your arm and let’s go into the drawing-room and draw a cork. I’m chewing a little cotton myself.”</p>
<p>Arm in arm, the handsome couple pass across the room, the cynosure of all eyes. Luderic Hetherington, the rising and gifted night-watchman at the Lone Star slaughter house, and Mabel Grubb, the daughter of the millionaire owner of the Humped-backed Camel saloon, are standing under the oleanders as they go by.</p>
<p>“She is very beautiful,” says Luderic.</p>
<p>“Rats,” says Mabel.</p>
<p>A keen observer would have noted all this time the figure of a solitary man who seemed to avoid the company but by adroit changing of his position, and perfectly cool and self-possessed manner, avoided drawing any especial attention to himself.</p>
<p>The lion of the evening is Herr Professor Ludwig von Bum, the pianist.</p>
<p>He had been found drinking beer in a saloon on East Pecan Street by Colonel <abbr>St.</abbr> Vitus about a week before, and according to the Austin custom in such cases, was invited home by the colonel, and the next day accepted into society, with large music classes at his service.</p>
<p>Professor von Bum is playing the lovely symphony in G minor from Beethoven’s “Songs Without Music.” The grand chords fill the room with exquisite harmony. He plays the extremely difficult passages in the obligato home run in a masterly manner, and when he finishes with that grand te deum with arpeggios on the side, there is that complete hush in the room that is dearer to the artist’s heart than the loudest applause.</p>
<p>The professor looks around.</p>
<p>The room is empty.</p>
<p>Empty with the exception of Tictocq, the great French detective, who springs from behind a mass of tropical plants to his side.</p>
<p>The professor rises in alarm.</p>
<p>“Hush,” says Tictocq: “Make no noise at all. You have already made enough.”</p>
<p>Footsteps are heard outside.</p>
<p>“Be quick,” says Tictocq: “give me those socks. There is not a moment to spare.”</p>
<p>“Vas sagst du?”</p>
<p>“Ah, he confesses,” says Tictocq. “No socks will do but those you carried off from the Populist Candidate’s room.”</p>
<p>The company is returning, no longer hearing the music.</p>
<p>Tictooq hesitates not. He seizes the professor, throws him upon the floor, tears off his shoes and socks, and escapes with the latter through the open window into the garden.</p>
</section>
<section id="tictocq-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>Tictocq’s room in the Avenue Hotel.</p>
<p>A knock is heard at the door.</p>
<p>Tictocq opens it and looks at his watch.</p>
<p>“Ah,” he says, “it is just six. Entrez, Messieurs.”</p>
<p>The messieurs entrez. There are seven of them; the Populist Candidate who is there by invitation, not knowing for what purpose; the chairman of the Democratic Executive Committee, platform <abbr>No.</abbr> 2, the hotel proprietor, and three or four Democrats and Populists, as near as could be found out.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” begins the Populist Candidate, “what in the h⁠–⁠⁠–⁠⁠–⁠⁠–⁠”</p>
<p>“Excuse me,” says Tictocq, firmly. “You will oblige me by keeping silent until I make my report. I have been employed in this case, and I have unravelled it. For the honor of France I request that I be heard with attention.”</p>
<p>“Certainly,” says the chairman; “we will be pleased to listen.”</p>
<p>Tictocq stands in the centre of the room. The electric light burns brightly above him. He seems the incarnation of alertness, vigor, cleverness, and cunning.</p>
<p>The company seat themselves in chairs along the wall.</p>
<p>“When informed of the robbery,” begins Tictocq, “I first questioned the bell boy. He knew nothing. I went to the police headquarters. They knew nothing. I invited one of them to the bar to drink. He said there used to be a little colored boy in the Tenth Ward who stole things and kept them for recovery by the police, but failed to be at the place agreed upon for arrest one time, and had been sent to jail.</p>
<p>“I then began to think. I reasoned. No man, said I, would carry a Populist’s socks in his pocket without wrapping them up. He would not want to do so in the hotel. He would want a paper. Where would he get one? At the <i>Statesman</i> office, of course. I went there. A young man with his hair combed down on his forehead sat behind the desk. I knew he was writing society items, for a young lady’s slipper, a piece of cake, a fan, a half emptied bottle of cocktail, a bunch of roses, and a police whistle lay on the desk before him.</p>
<p>“ ‘Can you tell me if a man purchased a paper here in the last three months?’ I said.</p>
<p>“ ‘Yes,’ he replied; ‘we sold one last night.</p>
<p>“ ‘Can you describe the man?’</p>
<p>“ ‘Accurately. He had blue whiskers, a wart between his shoulder blades, a touch of colic, and an occupation tax on his breath.’</p>
<p>“ ‘Which way did he go?’</p>
<p>“ ‘Out.’</p>
<p>“I then went⁠—”</p>
<p>“Wait a minute,” said the Populist Candidate, rising; “I don’t see why in the h⁠–⁠⁠–⁠⁠–⁠⁠–⁠”</p>
<p>“Once more I must beg that you will be silent,” said Tictocq, rather sharply. “You should not interrupt me in the midst of my report.”</p>
<p>“I made one false arrest,” continued Tictocq. “I was passing two finely dressed gentlemen on the street, when one of them remarked that he had ‘stole his socks.’ I handcuffed him and dragged him to a lighted store, when his companion explained to me that he was somewhat intoxicated and his tongue was not entirely manageable. He had been speaking of some business transaction, and what he intended to say was that he had ‘sold his stocks.’</p>
<p>“I then released him.</p>
<p>“An hour afterward I passed a saloon, and saw this Professor von Bum drinking beer at a table. I knew him in Paris. I said ‘here is my man.’ He worshipped Wagner, lived on limburger cheese, beer, and credit, and would have stolen anybody’s socks. I shadowed him to the reception at Colonel <abbr>St.</abbr> Vitus’s, and in an opportune moment I seized him and tore the socks from his feet. There they are.”</p>
<p>With a dramatic gesture, Tictocq threw a pair of dingy socks upon the table, folded his arms, and threw back his head.</p>
<p>With a loud cry of rage, the Populist Candidate sprang once more to his feet.</p>
<p>“Gol darn it! I WILL say what I want to. I⁠—”</p>
<p>The two other Populists in the room gazed at him coldly and sternly.</p>
<p>“Is this tale true?” they demanded of the Candidate.</p>
<p>“No, by gosh, it ain’t!” he replied, pointing a trembling finger at the Democratic Chairman. “There stands the man who has concocted the whole scheme. It is an infernal, unfair political trick to lose votes for our party. How far has thing gone?” he added, turning savagely to the detective.</p>
<p>“All the newspapers have my written report on the matter, and the <i>Statesman</i> will have it in plate matter next week,” said Tictocq, complacently.</p>
<p>“All is lost!” said the Populists, turning toward the door.</p>
<p>“For God’s sake, my friends,” pleaded the Candidate, following them; “listen to me; I swear before high heaven that I never wore a pair of socks in my life. It is all a devilish campaign lie.”</p>
<p>The Populists turn their backs.</p>
<p>“The damage is already done,” they said. “The people have heard the story. You have yet time to withdraw decently before the race.”</p>
<p>All left the room except Tictocq and the Democrats.</p>
<p>“Let’s all go down and open a bottle of fizz on the Finance Committee,” said the Chairman of the Executive Committee, Platform <abbr>No.</abbr> 2.</p>
</section>
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<title>Chapter 13</title>
<title>Tracked to Doom</title>
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<h2 epub:type="title">TRACKED TO DOOM</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">Tracked to Doom</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
<p>ORTHE MYSTERY OF THE RUE DE PEYCHAUD</p>
</blockquote>