Proofreading corrections

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@@ -30,7 +30,7 @@
 			<p>“If I could hear your story,” said the Margrave, with his lofty, serious smile.</p>
 			<p>“I’ll spiel it in about nine words,” said the young man, with a deep sigh, “but I don’t think you can help me any. Unless you’re a peach at guessing it’s back to the Bosphorus for you on your magic linoleum.”</p>
 			<p>
-				<b>THE STORY OF THE YOUNG MAN AND THE HARNESS MAKER’S RIDDLE</b>
+				<b>The Story of the Young Man and the Harness Maker’s Riddle</b>
 			</p>
 			<p>“I work in Hildebrant’s saddle and harness shop down in Grant Street. I’ve worked there five years. I get $18 a week. That’s enough to marry on, ain’t it? Well, I’m not going to get married. Old Hildebrant is one of these funny Dutchmen⁠—you know the kind⁠—always getting off bum jokes. He’s got about a million riddles and things that he faked from Rogers Brothers’ great-grandfather. Bill Watson works there, too. Me and Bill have to stand for them chestnuts day after day. Why do we do it? Well, jobs ain’t to be picked off every Anheuser bush⁠—And then there’s Laura.</p>
 			<p>“What? The old man’s daughter. Comes in the shop every day. About nineteen, and the picture of the blonde that sits on the palisades of the Rhine and charms the clam-diggers into the surf. Hair the color of straw matting, and eyes as black and shiny as the best harness blacking⁠—think of that!</p>

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@@ -59,7 +59,7 @@
 			<p>“At dose rock quarries⁠—working. Ach, mein Gott⁠—little Lena, she speak of drowning. I do not know if she vill do it, but if she shall I schwear I vill dot Peter Hildesmuller shoot mit a gun.”</p>
 			<p>“You Dutchers,” said Hondo Bill, his voice swelling with fine contempt, “make me plenty tired. Hirin’ out your kids to work when they ought to be playin’ dolls in the sand. You’re a hell of a sect of people. I reckon we’ll fix your clock for a while just to show what we think of your old cheesy nation. Here, boys!”</p>
 			<p>Hondo Bill parleyed aside briefly with his band, and then they seized Fritz and conveyed him off the road to one side. Here they bound him fast to a tree with a couple of lariats. His team they tied to another tree near by.</p>
-			<p>“We ain’t going to hurt you bad,” said Hondo reassuringly. “ ‘Twon’t hurt you to be tied up for a while. We will now pass you the time of day, as it is up to us to depart. Ausgespielt⁠—nixcumrous, Dutchy. Don’t get any more impatience.”</p>
+			<p>“We ain’t going to hurt you bad,” said Hondo reassuringly. “ ’Twon’t hurt you to be tied up for a while. We will now pass you the time of day, as it is up to us to depart. Ausgespielt⁠—nixcumrous, Dutchy. Don’t get any more impatience.”</p>
 			<p>Fritz heard a great squeaking of saddles as the men mounted their horses. Then a loud yell and a great clatter of hoofs as they galloped pell-mell back along the Fredericksburg road.</p>
 			<p>For more than two hours Fritz sat against his tree, tightly but not painfully bound. Then from the reaction after his exciting adventure he sank into slumber. How long he slept he knew not, but he was at last awakened by a rough shake. Hands were untying his ropes. He was lifted to his feet, dazed, confused in mind, and weary of body. Rubbing his eyes, he looked and saw that he was again in the midst of the same band of terrible bandits. They shoved him up to the seat of his wagon and placed the lines in his hands.</p>
 			<p>“Hit it out for home, Dutch,” said Hondo Bill’s voice commandingly. “You’ve given us lots of trouble and we’re pleased to see the back of your neck. Spiel! Zwei bier! Vamoose!”</p>

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@@ -26,7 +26,7 @@
 			<p>Together they hurried to the bootblack’s stand. An hour they spent there gazing at the malformed youth.</p>
 			<p>A window-cleaner fell from the fifth story to the sidewalk beside them. As the ambulance came clanging up William pressed her hand joyously. “Four ribs at least and a compound fracture,” he whispered, swiftly. “You are not sorry that you met me, are you, dearest?</p>
 			<p>“Me?” said Violet, returning the pressure. “Sure not. I could stand all day rubbering with you.”</p>
-			<p>The climax of the romance occurred a few days later. Perhaps the reader will remember the intense excitement into which the city was thrown when Eliza Jane, a colored woman, was served with a subpœna. The Rubber Tribe encamped on the spot. With his own hands William Pry placed a board upon two beer kegs in the street opposite Eliza Jane’s residence. He and Violet sat there for three days and nights. Then it occurred to a detective to open the door and serve the subpœna. He sent for a kinetoscope and did so.</p>
+			<p>The climax of the romance occurred a few days later. Perhaps the reader will remember the intense excitement into which the city was thrown when Eliza Jane, a colored woman, was served with a subpoena. The Rubber Tribe encamped on the spot. With his own hands William Pry placed a board upon two beer kegs in the street opposite Eliza Jane’s residence. He and Violet sat there for three days and nights. Then it occurred to a detective to open the door and serve the subpoena. He sent for a kinetoscope and did so.</p>
 			<p>Two souls with such congenial tastes could not long remain apart. As a policeman drove them away with his night stick that evening they plighted their troth. The seeds of love had been well sown, and had grown up, hardy and vigorous, into a⁠—let us call it a rubber plant.</p>
 			<p>The wedding of William Pry and Violet Seymour was set for June 10. The Big Church in the Middle of the Block was banked high with flowers. The populous tribe of Rubberers the world over is rampant over weddings. They are the pessimists of the pews. They are the guyers of the groom and the banterers of the bride. They come to laugh at your marriage, and should you escape from Hymen’s tower on the back of death’s pale steed they will come to the funeral and sit in the same pew and cry over your luck. Rubber will stretch.</p>
 			<p>The church was lighted. A grosgrain carpet lay over the asphalt to the edge of the sidewalk. Bridesmaids were patting one another’s sashes awry and speaking of the Bride’s freckles. Coachmen tied white ribbons on their whips and bewailed the space of time between drinks. The minister was musing over his possible fee, essaying conjecture whether it would suffice to purchase a new broadcloth suit for himself and a photograph of Laura Jane Libbey for his wife. Yea, Cupid was in the air.</p>

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@@ -15,7 +15,7 @@
 			</header>
 			<p>All that day⁠—in fact from the moment of his creation⁠—Van Sweller had conducted himself fairly well in my eyes. Of course I had had to make many concessions; but in return he had been no less considerate. Once or twice we had had sharp, brief contentions over certain points of behavior; but, prevailingly, give and take had been our rule.</p>
 			<p>His morning toilet provoked our first tilt. Van Sweller went about it confidently.</p>
-			<p>“The usual thing, I suppose, old chap,” he said, with a smile and a yawn. “I ring for a b. and s., and then I have my tub. I splash a good deal in the water, of course. You are aware that there are two ways in which I can receive Tommy Carmichael when he looks in to have a chat about polo. I can talk to him through the bathroom door, or I can be picking at a grilled bone which my man has brought in. Which would you prefer?”</p>
+			<p>“The usual thing, I suppose, old chap,” he said, with a smile and a yawn. “I ring for a <abbr>b.</abbr> and <abbr>s.</abbr>, and then I have my tub. I splash a good deal in the water, of course. You are aware that there are two ways in which I can receive Tommy Carmichael when he looks in to have a chat about polo. I can talk to him through the bathroom door, or I can be picking at a grilled bone which my man has brought in. Which would you prefer?”</p>
 			<p>I smiled with diabolic satisfaction at his coming discomfiture.</p>
 			<p>“Neither,” I said. “You will make your appearance on the scene when a gentleman should⁠—after you are fully dressed, which indubitably private function shall take place behind closed doors. And I will feel indebted to you if, after you do appear, your deportment and manners are such that it will not be necessary to inform the public, in order to appease its apprehension, that you have taken a bath.”</p>
 			<p>Van Sweller slightly elevated his brows.</p>

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@@ -14,7 +14,7 @@
 			<p>But now, there being ten sultans to one Sheherazade, she is held too valuable to be in fear of the bowstring. In consequence the art of narrative languishes. And, as the lesser caliphs are hunting the happy poor and the resigned unfortunate from cover to cover in order to heap upon them strange mercies and mysterious benefits, too often comes the report from Arabian headquarters that the captive refused “to talk.”</p>
 			<p>This reticence, then, in the actors who perform the sad comedies of their philanthropy-scourged world, must, in a degree, account for the shortcomings of this painfully gleaned tale, which shall be called</p>
 			<p>
-				<b>THE STORY OF THE CALIPH WHO ALLEVIATED HIS CONSCIENCE</b>
+				<b>The Story of the Caliph Who Alleviated His Conscience</b>
 			</p>
 			<p>Old Jacob Spraggins mixed for himself some Scotch and lithia water at his $1,200 oak sideboard. Inspiration must have resulted from its imbibition, for immediately afterward he struck the quartered oak soundly with his fist and shouted to the empty dining room:</p>
 			<p>“By the coke ovens of hell, it must be that ten thousand dollars! If I can get that squared, it’ll do the trick.”</p>

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@@ -37,7 +37,7 @@
 			<p>The clerk was impressed by the clothes and manner of Jimmy. He, himself, was something of a pattern of fashion to the thinly gilded youth of Elmore, but he now perceived his shortcomings. While trying to figure out Jimmy’s manner of tying his four-in-hand he cordially gave information.</p>
 			<p>Yes, there ought to be a good opening in the shoe line. There wasn’t an exclusive shoe-store in the place. The dry-goods and general stores handled them. Business in all lines was fairly good. Hoped <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Spencer would decide to locate in Elmore. He would find it a pleasant town to live in, and the people very sociable.</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Spencer thought he would stop over in the town a few days and look over the situation. No, the clerk needn’t call the boy. He would carry up his suitcase, himself; it was rather heavy.</p>
-			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ralph Spencer, the phœnix that arose from Jimmy Valentine’s ashes⁠—ashes left by the flame of a sudden and alterative attack of love⁠—remained in Elmore, and prospered. He opened a shoe-store and secured a good run of trade.</p>
+			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ralph Spencer, the phoenix that arose from Jimmy Valentine’s ashes⁠—ashes left by the flame of a sudden and alterative attack of love⁠—remained in Elmore, and prospered. He opened a shoe-store and secured a good run of trade.</p>
 			<p>Socially he was also a success, and made many friends. And he accomplished the wish of his heart. He met Miss Annabel Adams, and became more and more captivated by her charms.</p>
 			<p>At the end of a year the situation of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ralph Spencer was this: he had won the respect of the community, his shoe-store was flourishing, and he and Annabel were engaged to be married in two weeks. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Adams, the typical, plodding, country banker, approved of Spencer. Annabel’s pride in him almost equalled her affection. He was as much at home in the family of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Adams and that of Annabel’s married sister as if he were already a member.</p>
 			<p>One day Jimmy sat down in his room and wrote this letter, which he mailed to the safe address of one of his old friends in <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis:</p>

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@@ -102,7 +102,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘I did,’ says I. ‘At first I thought it was drums. But it wasn’t; it was snoring. Everybody in town’s asleep.’</p>
 			<p>“O’Connor tears out his watch.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Fools!’ says he. ‘They’ve set the time right at the siesta hour when everybody takes a nap. But the cannon will wake ’em up. Everything will be all right, depend upon it.’</p>
-			<p>“Just at twelve o’clock we heard the sound of a cannon⁠—BOOM!⁠—shaking the whole town.</p>
+			<p>“Just at twelve o’clock we heard the sound of a cannon⁠—<b>boom</b>!⁠—shaking the whole town.</p>
 			<p>“O’Connor loosens his sword in its scabbard and jumps for the door. I went as far as the door and stood in it.</p>
 			<p>“People were sticking their heads out of doors and windows. But there was one grand sight that made the landscape look tame.</p>
 			<p>“General Tumbalo, the comandante, was rolling down the steps of his residential dugout, waving a five-foot sabre in his hand. He wore his cocked and plumed hat and his dress-parade coat covered with gold braid and buttons. Sky-blue pajamas, one rubber boot, and one red-plush slipper completed his makeup.</p>
@@ -119,7 +119,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘How about this revolution that was to be pulled off?’ I asks.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Oh,’ says this Sancho, ‘I think too hot weather for revolution. Revolution better in wintertime. Maybe so next winter. Quien sabe?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘But the cannon went off,’ says I. ‘The signal was given.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘That big sound?’ says Sancho, grinning. ‘The boiler in ice factory he blow up⁠—BOOM! Wake everybody up from siesta. Verree sorree. No ice. Mucho hot day.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘That big sound?’ says Sancho, grinning. ‘The boiler in ice factory he blow up⁠—<b>boom</b>! Wake everybody up from siesta. Verree sorree. No ice. Mucho hot day.’</p>
 			<p>“About sunset I went over to the jail, and they let me talk to O’Connor through the bars.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘What’s the news, Bowers?’ says he. ‘Have we taken the town? I’ve been expecting a rescue party all the afternoon. I haven’t heard any firing. Has any word been received from the capital?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Take it easy, Barney,’ says I. ‘I think there’s been a change of plans. There’s something more important to talk about. Have you any money?’</p>

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@@ -11,13 +11,13 @@
 			<p>The editor of the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Hearthstone Magazine</i> has his own ideas about the selection of manuscript for his publication. His theory is no secret; in fact, he will expound it to you willingly sitting at his mahogany desk, smiling benignantly and tapping his knee gently with his gold-rimmed eyeglasses.</p>
 			<p>“The <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Hearthstone</i>,” he will say, “does not employ a staff of readers. We obtain opinions of the manuscripts submitted to us directly from types of the various classes of our readers.”</p>
 			<p>That is the editor’s theory; and this is the way he carries it out:</p>
-			<p>When a batch of MSS. is received the editor stuffs every one of his pockets full of them and distributes them as he goes about during the day. The office employees, the hall porter, the janitor, the elevator man, messenger boys, the waiters at the café where the editor has luncheon, the man at the newsstand where he buys his evening paper, the grocer and milkman, the guard on the 5:30 uptown elevated train, the ticket-chopper at Sixty⁠ ⸻⁠th street, the cook and maid at his home⁠—these are the readers who pass upon MSS. sent in to the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Hearthstone Magazine</i>. If his pockets are not entirely emptied by the time he reaches the bosom of his family the remaining ones are handed over to his wife to read after the baby goes to sleep. A few days later the editor gathers in the MSS. during his regular rounds and considers the verdict of his assorted readers.</p>
+			<p>When a batch of <abbr>MSS.</abbr> is received the editor stuffs every one of his pockets full of them and distributes them as he goes about during the day. The office employees, the hall porter, the janitor, the elevator man, messenger boys, the waiters at the café where the editor has luncheon, the man at the newsstand where he buys his evening paper, the grocer and milkman, the guard on the 5:30 uptown elevated train, the ticket-chopper at Sixty⁠ ⸻⁠th street, the cook and maid at his home⁠—these are the readers who pass upon <abbr>MSS.</abbr> sent in to the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Hearthstone Magazine</i>. If his pockets are not entirely emptied by the time he reaches the bosom of his family the remaining ones are handed over to his wife to read after the baby goes to sleep. A few days later the editor gathers in the <abbr>MSS.</abbr> during his regular rounds and considers the verdict of his assorted readers.</p>
 			<p>This system of making up a magazine has been very successful; and the circulation, paced by the advertising rates, is making a wonderful record of speed.</p>
 			<p>The <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Hearthstone</i> Company also publishes books, and its imprint is to be found on several successful works⁠—all recommended, says the editor, by the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Hearthstone’s</i> army of volunteer readers. Now and then (according to talkative members of the editorial staff) the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Hearthstone</i> has allowed manuscripts to slip through its fingers on the advice of its heterogeneous readers, that afterward proved to be famous sellers when brought out by other houses.</p>
 			<p>For instance (the gossips say), “The Rise and Fall of Silas Latham” was unfavourably passed upon by the elevator-man; the office-boy unanimously rejected “The Boss”; “In the Bishop’s Carriage” was contemptuously looked upon by the streetcar conductor; “The Deliverance” was turned down by a clerk in the subscription department whose wife’s mother had just begun a two-months’ visit at his home; “The Queen’s Quair” came back from the janitor with the comment: “So is the book.”</p>
 			<p>But nevertheless the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Hearthstone</i> adheres to its theory and system, and it will never lack volunteer readers; for each one of the widely scattered staff, from the young lady stenographer in the editorial office to the man who shovels in coal (whose adverse decision lost to the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Hearthstone</i> Company the manuscript of “The Under World”), has expectations of becoming editor of the magazine some day.</p>
 			<p>This method of the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Hearthstone</i> was well known to Allen Slayton when he wrote his novelette entitled “Love Is All.” Slayton had hung about the editorial offices of all the magazines so persistently that he was acquainted with the inner workings of everyone in Gotham.</p>
-			<p>He knew not only that the editor of the Hearthstone handed his MSS. around among different types of people for reading, but that the stories of sentimental love-interest went to Miss Puffkin, the editor’s stenographer. Another of the editor’s peculiar customs was to conceal invariably the name of the writer from his readers of MSS. so that a glittering name might not influence the sincerity of their reports.</p>
+			<p>He knew not only that the editor of the Hearthstone handed his <abbr>MSS.</abbr> around among different types of people for reading, but that the stories of sentimental love-interest went to Miss Puffkin, the editor’s stenographer. Another of the editor’s peculiar customs was to conceal invariably the name of the writer from his readers of <abbr>MSS.</abbr> so that a glittering name might not influence the sincerity of their reports.</p>
 			<p>Slayton made “Love Is All” the effort of his life. He gave it six months of the best work of his heart and brain. It was a pure love-story, fine, elevated, romantic, passionate⁠—a prose poem that set the divine blessing of love (I am transposing from the manuscript) high above all earthly gifts and honours, and listed it in the catalogue of heaven’s choicest rewards. Slayton’s literary ambition was intense. He would have sacrificed all other worldly possessions to have gained fame in his chosen art. He would almost have cut off his right hand, or have offered himself to the knife of the appendicitis fancier to have realized his dream of seeing one of his efforts published in the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Hearthstone</i>.</p>
 			<p>Slayton finished “Love Is All,” and took it to the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Hearthstone</i> in person. The office of the magazine was in a large, conglomerate building, presided under by a janitor.</p>
 			<p>As the writer stepped inside the door on his way to the elevator a potato masher flew through the hall, wrecking Slayton’s hat, and smashing the glass of the door. Closely following in the wake of the utensil flew the janitor, a bulky, unwholesome man, suspenderless and sordid, panic-stricken and breathless. A frowsy, fat woman with flying hair followed the missile. The janitor’s foot slipped on the tiled floor, he fell in a heap with an exclamation of despair. The woman pounced upon him and seized his hair. The man bellowed lustily.</p>

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@@ -60,7 +60,7 @@
 			<p>Up the six broad, limestone steps clattered the broncos of the cowpunchers. Into the resounding hallway they pattered, scattering in dismay those passing on foot. Lonny, in the lead, shoved Hot Tamales direct for the great picture. At that hour a downpouring, soft light from the second-story windows bathed the big canvas. Against the darker background of the hall the painting stood out with valuable effect. In spite of the defects of the art you could almost fancy that you gazed out upon a landscape. You might well flinch a step from the convincing figure of the life-size steer stampeding across the grass. Perhaps it seemed thus to Hot Tamales. The scene was in his line. Perhaps he only obeyed the will of his rider. His ears pricked up; he snorted. Lonny leaned forward in the saddle and elevated his elbows, winglike. Thus signals the cowpuncher to his steed to launch himself full speed ahead. Did Hot Tamales fancy he saw a steer, red and cavorting, that should be headed off and driven back to the herd? There was a fierce clatter of hoofs, a rush, a gathering of steely flank muscles, a leap to the jerk of the bridle rein, and Hot Tamales, with Lonny bending low in the saddle to dodge the top of the frame, ripped through the great canvas like a shell from a mortar, leaving the cloth hanging in ragged shreds about a monstrous hole.</p>
 			<p>Quickly Lonny pulled up his pony, and rounded the pillars. Spectators came running, too astounded to add speech to the commotion. The sergeant-at-arms of the House came forth, frowned, looked ominous, and then grinned. Many of the legislators crowded out to observe the tumult. Lonny’s cowpunchers were stricken to silent horror by his mad deed.</p>
 			<p>Senator Kinney happened to be among the earliest to emerge. Before he could speak Lonny leaned in his saddle as Hot Tamales pranced, pointed his quirt at the Senator, and said, calmly:</p>
-			<p>“That was a fine speech you made today, mister, but you might as well let up on that ‘propriation business. I ain’t askin’ the state to give me nothin’. I thought I had a picture to sell to it, but it wasn’t one. You said a heap of things about Grandfather Briscoe that makes me kind of proud I’m his grandson. Well, the Briscoes ain’t takin’ presents from the state yet. Anybody can have the frame that wants it. Hit her up, boys.”</p>
+			<p>“That was a fine speech you made today, mister, but you might as well let up on that ’propriation business. I ain’t askin’ the state to give me nothin’. I thought I had a picture to sell to it, but it wasn’t one. You said a heap of things about Grandfather Briscoe that makes me kind of proud I’m his grandson. Well, the Briscoes ain’t takin’ presents from the state yet. Anybody can have the frame that wants it. Hit her up, boys.”</p>
 			<p>Away scuttled the San Saba delegation out of the hall, down the steps, along the dusty street.</p>
 			<p>Halfway to the San Saba country they camped that night. At bedtime Lonny stole away from the campfire and sought Hot Tamales, placidly eating grass at the end of his stake rope. Lonny hung upon his neck, and his art aspirations went forth forever in one long, regretful sigh. But as he thus made renunciation his breath formed a word or two.</p>
 			<p>“You was the only one, Tamales, what seen anything in it. It <em>did</em> look like a steer, didn’t it, old hoss?”</p>

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@@ -23,7 +23,7 @@
 			<p>I was left alone with Tom, whom we had laid on a couch. He lay very still, and his eyes were half closed. I began my work of keeping him awake.</p>
 			<p>“Well, old man,” I said, “you’ve had a narrow squeak, but we’ve pulled you through. When you were attending lectures, Tom, didn’t any of the professors ever casually remark that m-o-r-p-h-i-a never spells ‘quinia,’ especially in four-grain doses? But I won’t pile it up on you until you get on your feet. But you ought to have been a druggist, Tom; you’re splendidly qualified to fill prescriptions.”</p>
 			<p>Tom looked at me with a faint and foolish smile.</p>
-			<p>“B’ly,” he murmured, “I feel jus’ like a hum’n bird flyin’ around a jolly lot of most ‘shpensive roses. Don’ bozzer me. Goin’ sleep now.”</p>
+			<p>“B’ly,” he murmured, “I feel jus’ like a hum’n bird flyin’ around a jolly lot of most ’shpensive roses. Don’ bozzer me. Goin’ sleep now.”</p>
 			<p>And he went to sleep in two seconds. I shook him by the shoulder.</p>
 			<p>“Now, Tom,” I said, severely, “this won’t do. The big doctor said you must stay awake for at least an hour. Open your eyes. You’re not entirely safe yet, you know. Wake up.”</p>
 			<p>Tom Hopkins weighs one hundred and ninety-eight. He gave me another somnolent grin, and fell into deeper slumber. I would have made him move about, but I might as well have tried to make Cleopatra’s needle waltz around the room with me. Tom’s breathing became stertorous, and that, in connection with morphia poisoning, means danger.</p>

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@@ -17,7 +17,7 @@
 			<p>In May Cherokee packed his burro and turned its thoughtful, mouse-eoloured forehead to the north. Many citizens escorted him to the undefined limits of Yellowhammer and bestowed upon him shouts of commendation and farewells. Five pocket flasks without an air bubble between contents and cork were forced upon him; and he was bidden to consider Yellowhammer in perpetual commission for his bed, bacon and eggs, and hot water for shaving in the event that luck did not see fit to warm her hands by his campfire in the Mariposas.</p>
 			<p>The name of the father of Yellowhammer was given him by the gold hunters in accordance with their popular system of nomenclature. It was not necessary for a citizen to exhibit his baptismal certificate in order to acquire a cognomen. A man’s name was his personal property. For convenience in calling him up to the bar and in designating him among other blue-shirted bipeds, a temporary appellation, title, or epithet was conferred upon him by the public. Personal peculiarities formed the source of the majority of such informal baptisms. Many were easily dubbed geographically from the regions from which they confessed to have hailed. Some announced themselves to be “Thompsons,” and “Adamses,” and the like, with a brazenness and loudness that cast a cloud upon their titles. A few vaingloriously and shamelessly uncovered their proper and indisputable names. This was held to be unduly arrogant, and did not win popularity. One man who said he was Chesterton <abbr class="name">L. C.</abbr> Belmont, and proved it by letters, was given till sundown to leave the town. Such names as “Shorty,” “Bowlegs,” “Texas,” “Lazy Bill,” “Thirsty Rogers,” “Limping Riley,” “The Judge,” and “California Ed” were in favour. Cherokee derived his title from the fact that he claimed to have lived for a time with that tribe in the Indian Nation.</p>
 			<p>On the twentieth day of December Baldy, the mail rider, brought Yellowhammer a piece of news.</p>
-			<p>“What do I see in Albuquerque,” said Baldy, to the patrons of the bar, “but Cherokee all embellished and festooned up like the Czar of Turkey, and lavishin’ money in bulk. Him and me seen the elephant and the owl, and we had specimens of this seidlitz powder wine; and Cherokee he audits all the bills, <abbr class="initialism">COD</abbr>. His pockets looked like a pool table’s after a fifteen-ball run.</p>
+			<p>“What do I see in Albuquerque,” said Baldy, to the patrons of the bar, “but Cherokee all embellished and festooned up like the Czar of Turkey, and lavishin’ money in bulk. Him and me seen the elephant and the owl, and we had specimens of this seidlitz powder wine; and Cherokee he audits all the bills, <abbr class="initialism eoc">COD</abbr>. His pockets looked like a pool table’s after a fifteen-ball run.</p>
 			<p>“Cherokee must have struck pay ore,” remarked California Ed. “Well, he’s white. I’m much obliged to him for his success.”</p>
 			<p>“Seems like Cherokee would ramble down to Yellowhammer and see his friends,” said another, slightly aggrieved. “But that’s the way. Prosperity is the finest cure there is for lost forgetfulness.”</p>
 			<p>“You wait,” said Baldy; “I’m comin’ to that. Cherokee strikes a three-eoot vein up in the Mariposas that assays a trip to Europe to the ton, and he closes it out to a syndicate outfit for a hundred thousand hasty dollars in cash. Then he buys himself a baby sealskin overcoat and a red sleigh, and what do you think he takes it in his head to do next?”</p>

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@@ -10,7 +10,7 @@
 			<h2 epub:type="title">Cupid a La Carte</h2>
 			<p>“The dispositions of woman,” said Jeff Peters, after various opinions on the subject had been advanced, “run, regular, to diversions. What a woman wants is what you’re out of. She wants more of a thing when it’s scarce. She likes to have souvenirs of things that never happened. She likes to be reminded of things she never heard of. A one-sided view of objects is disjointing to the female composition.</p>
 			<p>“ ’Tis a misfortune of mine, begotten by nature and travel,” continued Jeff, looking thoughtfully between his elevated feet at the grocery stove, “to look deeper into some subjects than most people do. I’ve breathed gasoline smoke talking to street crowds in nearly every town in the United States. I’ve held ’em spellbound with music, oratory, sleight of hand, and prevarications, while I’ve sold ’em jewelry, medicine, soap, hair tonic, and junk of other nominations. And during my travels, as a matter of recreation and expiation, I’ve taken cognisance some of women. It takes a man a lifetime to find out about one particular woman; but if he puts in, say, ten years, industrious and curious, he can acquire the general rudiments of the sex. One lesson I picked up was when I was working the West with a line of Brazilian diamonds and a patent fire kindler just after my trip from Savannah down through the cotton belt with Dalby’s Anti-explosive Lamp Oil Powder. ’Twas when the Oklahoma country was in first bloom. Guthrie was rising in the middle of it like a lump of self-raising dough. It was a boom town of the regular kind⁠—you stood in line to get a chance to wash your face; if you ate over ten minutes you had a lodging bill added on; if you slept on a plank at night they charged it to you as board the next morning.</p>
-			<p>“By nature and doctrines I am addicted to the habit of discovering choice places wherein to feed. So I looked around and found a proposition that exactly cut the mustard. I found a restaurant tent just opened up by an outfit that had drifted in on the tail of the boom. They had knocked together a box house, where they lived and did the cooking, and served the meals in a tent pitched against the side. That tent was joyful with placards on it calculated to redeem the world-worn pilgrim from the sinfulness of boarding houses and pick-me-ep hotels. ‘Try Mother’s Homemade Biscuits,’ ‘What’s the Matter with Our Apple Dumplings and Hard Sauce?’ ‘Hot Cakes and Maple Syrup Like You Ate When a Boy,’ ‘Our Fried Chicken Never Was Heard to Crow’⁠—there was literature doomed to please the digestions of man! I said to myself that mother’s wandering boy should munch there that night. And so it came to pass. And there is where I contracted my case of Mame Dugan.</p>
+			<p>“By nature and doctrines I am addicted to the habit of discovering choice places wherein to feed. So I looked around and found a proposition that exactly cut the mustard. I found a restaurant tent just opened up by an outfit that had drifted in on the tail of the boom. They had knocked together a box house, where they lived and did the cooking, and served the meals in a tent pitched against the side. That tent was joyful with placards on it calculated to redeem the world-worn pilgrim from the sinfulness of boarding houses and pick-me-up hotels. ‘Try Mother’s Homemade Biscuits,’ ‘What’s the Matter with Our Apple Dumplings and Hard Sauce?’ ‘Hot Cakes and Maple Syrup Like You Ate When a Boy,’ ‘Our Fried Chicken Never Was Heard to Crow’⁠—there was literature doomed to please the digestions of man! I said to myself that mother’s wandering boy should munch there that night. And so it came to pass. And there is where I contracted my case of Mame Dugan.</p>
 			<p>“Old Man Dugan was six feet by one of Indiana loafer, and he spent his time sitting on his shoulder blades in a rocking-chair in the shanty memorialising the great corn-crop failure of ’96. Ma Dugan did the cooking, and Mame waited on the table.</p>
 			<p>“As soon as I saw Mame I knew there was a mistake in the census reports. There wasn’t but one girl in the United States. When you come to specifications it isn’t easy. She was about the size of an angel, and she had eyes, and ways about her. When you come to the kind of a girl she was, you’ll find a belt of ’em reaching from the Brooklyn Bridge west as far as the courthouse in Council Bluffs, Ia. They earn their own living in stores, restaurants, factories, and offices. They’re chummy and honest and free and tender and sassy, and they look life straight in the eye. They’ve met man face to face, and discovered that he’s a poor creature. They’ve dropped to it that the reports in the Seaside Library about his being a fairy prince lack confirmation.</p>
 			<p>“Mame was that sort. She was full of life and fun, and breezy; she passed the repartee with the boarders quick as a wink; you’d have smothered laughing. I am disinclined to make excavations into the insides of a personal affection. I am glued to the theory that the diversions and discrepancies of the indisposition known as love should be as private a sentiment as a toothbrush. ’Tis my opinion that the biographies of the heart should be confined with the historical romances of the liver to the advertising pages of the magazines. So, you’ll excuse the lack of an itemised bill of my feelings toward Mame.</p>
@@ -76,7 +76,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘You mean Ed Collier?’ says Mame.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I do,’ I answers; ‘and a pity it is that he has gone back to crime again. I met him outside the tent, and he exposed his intentions of devastating the food crop of the world. ’Tis enormously sad when one’s ideal descends from his pedestal to make a seventeen-year locust of himself.’</p>
 			<p>“Mame looked me straight in the eye until she had corkscrewed my reflections.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Jeff,’ says she, ‘it isn’t quite like you to talk that way. I don’t care to hear Ed Collier ridiculed. A man may do ridiculous things, but they don’t look ridiculous to the girl he does ’em for. That was one man in a hundred. He stopped eating just to please me. I’d be hard-dearted and ungrateful if I didn’t feel kindly toward him. Could you do what he did?’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Jeff,’ says she, ‘it isn’t quite like you to talk that way. I don’t care to hear Ed Collier ridiculed. A man may do ridiculous things, but they don’t look ridiculous to the girl he does ’em for. That was one man in a hundred. He stopped eating just to please me. I’d be hard-hearted and ungrateful if I didn’t feel kindly toward him. Could you do what he did?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I know,’ says I, seeing the point, ‘I’m condemned. I can’t help it. The brand of the consumer is upon my brow. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Eve settled that business for me when she made the dicker with the snake. I fell from the fire into the frying-pan. I guess I’m the Champion Feaster of the Universe.’ I spoke humble, and Mame mollified herself a little.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Ed Collier and I are good friends,’ she said, ‘the same as me and you. I gave him the same answer I did you⁠—no marrying for me. I liked to be with Ed and talk with him. There was something mighty pleasant to me in the thought that here was a man who never used a knife and fork, and all for my sake.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Wasn’t you in love with him?’ I asks, all injudicious. ‘Wasn’t there a deal on for you to become <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Curiosity?’</p>

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@@ -35,7 +35,7 @@
 			<p>So, then, it was no surprise to the ranchhold when the buckboard spun to the door, and Raidler took up his debile protégé like a handful of rags and set him down upon the gallery.</p>
 			<p>McGuire looked upon things strange to him. The ranch-house was the best in the country. It was built of brick hauled one hundred miles by wagon, but it was of but one story, and its four rooms were completely encircled by a mud floor “gallery.” The miscellaneous setting of horses, dogs, saddles, wagons, guns, and cowpunchers’ paraphernalia oppressed the metropolitan eyes of the wrecked sportsman.</p>
 			<p>“Well, here we are at home,” said Raidler, cheeringly.</p>
-			<p>“It’s a h⁠—l of a looking place,” said McGuire promptly, as he rolled upon the gallery floor in a fit of coughing.</p>
+			<p>“It’s a h⁠⸺l of a looking place,” said McGuire promptly, as he rolled upon the gallery floor in a fit of coughing.</p>
 			<p>“We’ll try to make it comfortable for you, buddy,” said the cattleman gently. “It ain’t fine inside; but it’s the outdoors, anyway, that’ll do you the most good. This’ll be your room, in here. Anything we got, you ask for it.”</p>
 			<p>He led McGuire into the east room. The floor was bare and clean. White curtains waved in the gulf breeze through the open windows. A big willow rocker, two straight chairs, a long table covered with newspapers, pipes, tobacco, spurs, and cartridges stood in the centre. Some well-mounted heads of deer and one of an enormous black javeli projected from the walls. A wide, cool cot-bed stood in a corner. Nueces County people regarded this guest chamber as fit for a prince. McGuire showed his eyeteeth at it. He took out his nickel and spun it up to the ceiling.</p>
 			<p>“T’ought I was lyin’ about the money, did ye? Well, you can frisk me if you wanter. Dat’s the last simoleon in the treasury. Who’s goin’ to pay?”</p>

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@@ -16,7 +16,7 @@
 			<p>“Colonel Beaupree’s estate,” interrupted Octavia, emphasizing her words with appropriate dramatic gestures, “is of Spanish castellar architecture. Colonel Beaupree’s resources are⁠—wind. Colonel Beaupree’s stocks are⁠—water. Colonel Beaupree’s income is⁠—all in. The statement lacks the legal technicalities to which I have been listening for an hour, but that is what it means when translated.”</p>
 			<p>“Octavia!” Aunt Ellen was now visibly possessed by consternation. “I can hardly believe it. And it was the impression that he was worth a million. And the De Peysters themselves introduced him!”</p>
 			<p>Octavia rippled out a laugh, and then became properly grave.</p>
-			<p>“De mortuis nil, auntie⁠—not even the rest of it. The dear old colonel⁠—what a gold brick he was, after all! I paid for my bargain fairly⁠—I’m all here, am I not?⁠—items: eyes, fingers, toes, youth, old family, unquestionable position in society as called for in the contract⁠—no wildcat stock here.” Octavia picked up the morning paper from the floor. “But I’m not going to ‘squeal’⁠—isn’t that what they call it when you rail at Fortune because you’ve, lost the game?” She turned the pages of the paper calmly. “ ‘Stock market’⁠—no use for that. ‘Society’s doings’⁠—that’s done. Here is my page⁠—the wish column. A Van Dresser could not be said to ‘want’ for anything, of course. ‘Chambermaids, cooks, canvassers, stenographers⁠—’ ”</p>
+			<p>“<i xml:lang="la">De mortuis nil</i>, auntie⁠—not even the rest of it. The dear old colonel⁠—what a gold brick he was, after all! I paid for my bargain fairly⁠—I’m all here, am I not?⁠—items: eyes, fingers, toes, youth, old family, unquestionable position in society as called for in the contract⁠—no wildcat stock here.” Octavia picked up the morning paper from the floor. “But I’m not going to ‘squeal’⁠—isn’t that what they call it when you rail at Fortune because you’ve, lost the game?” She turned the pages of the paper calmly. “ ‘Stock market’⁠—no use for that. ‘Society’s doings’⁠—that’s done. Here is my page⁠—the wish column. A Van Dresser could not be said to ‘want’ for anything, of course. ‘Chambermaids, cooks, canvassers, stenographers⁠—’ ”</p>
 			<p>“Dear,” said Aunt Ellen, with a little tremor in her voice, “please do not talk in that way. Even if your affairs are in so unfortunate a condition, there is my three thousand⁠—”</p>
 			<p>Octavia sprang up lithely, and deposited a smart kiss on the delicate cheek of the prim little elderly maid.</p>
 			<p>“Blessed auntie, your three thousand is just sufficient to insure your Hyson to be free from willow leaves and keep the Persian in sterilized cream. I know I’d be welcome, but I prefer to strike bottom like Beelzebub rather than hang around like the Peri listening to the music from the side entrance. I’m going to earn my own living. There’s nothing else to do. I’m a⁠—Oh, oh, oh!⁠—I had forgotten. There’s one thing saved from the wreck. It’s a corral⁠—no, a ranch in⁠—let me see⁠—Texas: an asset, dear old <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bannister called it. How pleased he was to show me something he could describe as unencumbered! I’ve a description of it among those stupid papers he made me bring away with me from his office. I’ll try to find it.”</p>

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@@ -91,7 +91,7 @@
 			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock reclined at ease. Few royal ladies have held their royal prerogative with the serene grace of the petted Southern woman. The Colonel, with an air as gallant and assiduous as in the days of his courtship, and <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom, with a ponderous agility half professional and half directed by some resurrected, unnamed, long-forgotten sentiment, formed a diversified but attentive court. The currant wine⁠—wine home made from the Holly Springs fruit⁠—went round, and then <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney began to hear something of Holly Springs life.</p>
 			<p>It seemed (from the conversation of the Blaylocks) that the Springs was decadent. A third of the population had moved away. Business⁠—and the Colonel was an authority on business⁠—had dwindled to nothing. After carefully studying the field of opportunities open to capital he had sold his little property there for eight hundred dollars and invested it in one of the enterprises opened up by the book in Okochee.</p>
 			<p>“Might I inquire, sir,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom, “in what particular line of business you inserted your coin? I know that town as well as I know the regulations for illegal use of the mails. I might give you a hunch as to whether you can make the game go or not.”</p>
-			<p><abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney, somehow, had a kindly feeling toward these unsophisticated representatives of bygone days. They were so simple, impractical, and unsuspecting. He was glad that he happened not to have a gold brick or a block of that western Bad Boy Silver Mine stock along with him. He would have disliked to unload on people he liked so well as he did these; but there are some temptations toe enticing to be resisted.</p>
+			<p><abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney, somehow, had a kindly feeling toward these unsophisticated representatives of bygone days. They were so simple, impractical, and unsuspecting. He was glad that he happened not to have a gold brick or a block of that western Bad Boy Silver Mine stock along with him. He would have disliked to unload on people he liked so well as he did these; but there are some temptations too enticing to be resisted.</p>
 			<p>“No, sir,” said Colonel Blaylock, pausing to arrange the queen’s wrap. “I did not invest in Okochee. I have made an exhaustive study of business conditions, and I regard old settled towns as unfavorable fields in which to place capital that is limited in amount. Some months ago, through the kindness of a friend, there came into my hands a map and description of this new town of Skyland that has been built upon the lake. The description was so pleasing, the future of the town set forth in such convincing arguments, and its increasing prosperity portrayed in such an attractive style that I decided to take advantage of the opportunity it offered. I carefully selected a lot in the centre of the business district, although its price was the highest in the schedule⁠—five hundred dollars⁠—and made the purchase at once.”</p>
 			<p>“Are you the man⁠—I mean, did you pay five hundred dollars for a lot in Skyland” asked <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom.</p>
 			<p>“I did, sir,” answered the Colonel, with the air of a modest millionaire explaining his success; “a lot most excellently situated on the same square with the opera house, and only two squares from the board of trade. I consider the purchase a most fortuitous one. It is my intention to erect a small building upon it at once, and open a modest book and stationery store. During past years I have met with many pecuniary reverses, and I now find it necessary to engage in some commercial occupation that will furnish me with a livelihood. The book and stationery business, though an humble one, seems to me not inapt nor altogether uncongenial. I am a graduate of the University of Virginia; and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock’s really wonderful acquaintance with belles-lettres and poetic literature should go far toward insuring success. Of course, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock would not personally serve behind the counter. With the nearly three hundred dollars I have remaining I can manage the building of a house, by giving a lien on the lot. I have an old friend in Atlanta who is a partner in a large book store, and he has agreed to furnish me with a stock of goods on credit, on extremely easy terms. I am pleased to hope, sir, that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock’s health and happiness will be increased by the change of locality. Already I fancy I can perceive the return of those roses that were once the hope and despair of Georgia cavaliers.”</p>

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@@ -94,7 +94,7 @@
 				<p>“Then,” said David, dashing his glass of wine into the contemptuous eyes that mocked him, “perhaps you will condescend to fight me.”</p>
 				<p>The fury of the great lord outbroke in one sudden curse like a blast from a horn. He tore his sword from its black sheath; he called to the hovering landlord: “A sword there, for this lout!” He turned to the lady, with a laugh that chilled her heart, and said: “You put much labour upon me, madame. It seems I must find you a husband and make you a widow in the same night.”</p>
 				<p>“I know not swordplay,” said David. He flushed to make the confession before his lady.</p>
-				<p>“ ‘I know not swordplay,’ ” mimicked the marquis. “Shall we fight like peasants with oaken cudgels? Hola! François, my pistols!”</p>
+				<p>“ ‘I know not swordplay,’ ” mimicked the marquis. “Shall we fight like peasants with oaken cudgels? <i xml:lang="es">Hola!</i> François, my pistols!”</p>
 				<p>A postilion brought two shining great pistols ornamented with carven silver, from the carriage holsters. The marquis tossed one upon the table near David’s hand. “To the other end of the table,” he cried; “even a shepherd may pull a trigger. Few of them attain the honour to die by the weapon of a De Beaupertuys.”</p>
 				<p>The shepherd and the marquis faced each other from the ends of the long table. The landlord, in an ague of terror, clutched the air and stammered: “M-M-Monseigneur, for the love of Christ! not in my house!⁠—do not spill blood⁠—it will ruin my custom⁠—” The look of the marquis, threatening him, paralyzed his tongue.</p>
 				<p>“Coward,” cried the lord of Beaupertuys, “cease chattering your teeth long enough to give the word for us, if you can.”</p>

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@@ -106,7 +106,7 @@
 				<p>He shut himself in a little dressing-room, and called upon the lightnings of the heavens⁠—condensed into unromantic numbers and districts.</p>
 				<p>“That you, Jack? You confounded sleepyhead! Yes, wake up; this is me⁠—or I⁠—oh, bother the difference in grammar! I’m going to be married right away. Yes! Wake up your sister⁠—don’t answer me back; bring her along, too⁠—you <em>must</em>! Remind Agnes of the time I saved her from drowning in Lake Ronkonkoma⁠—I know it’s caddish to refer to it, but she must come with you. Yes. Nevada is here, waiting. We’ve been engaged quite a while. Some opposition among the relatives, you know, and we have to pull it off this way. We’re waiting here for you. Don’t let Agnes out-talk you⁠—bring her! You will? Good old boy! I’ll order a carriage to call for you, double-quick time. Confound you, Jack, you’re all right!”</p>
 				<p>Gilbert returned to the room where Nevada waited.</p>
-				<p>“My old friend, Jack Peyton, and his sister were to have been here at a quarter to twelve,” he explained; “but Jack is so confoundedly slow. I’ve just ‘phoned them to hurry. They’ll be here in a few minutes. I’m the happiest man in the world, Nevada! What did you do with the letter I sent you to-day?”</p>
+				<p>“My old friend, Jack Peyton, and his sister were to have been here at a quarter to twelve,” he explained; “but Jack is so confoundedly slow. I’ve just ’phoned them to hurry. They’ll be here in a few minutes. I’m the happiest man in the world, Nevada! What did you do with the letter I sent you to-day?”</p>
 				<p>“I’ve got it cinched here,” said Nevada, pulling it out from beneath her opera-cloak.</p>
 				<p>Gilbert drew the letter from the envelope and looked it over carefully. Then he looked at Nevada thoughtfully.</p>
 				<p>“Didn’t you think it rather queer that I should ask you to come to my studio at midnight?” he asked.</p>

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@@ -10,7 +10,7 @@
 			<h2 epub:type="title">Shearing the Wolf</h2>
 			<p>Jeff Peters was always eloquent when the ethics of his profession was under discussion.</p>
 			<p>“The only times,” said he, “that me and Andy Tucker ever had any hiatuses in our cordial intents was when we differed on the moral aspects of grafting. Andy had his standards and I had mine. I didn’t approve of all of Andy’s schemes for levying contributions from the public, and he thought I allowed my conscience to interfere too often for the financial good of the firm. We had high arguments sometimes. One word led on to another till he said I reminded him of Rockefeller.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘I don’t know how you mean that, Andy,’ says I, ‘but we have been friends too long for me to take offense at a taunt that you will regret when you cool off. I have yet,’ says I, ‘to shake hands with a subpœna server.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘I don’t know how you mean that, Andy,’ says I, ‘but we have been friends too long for me to take offense at a taunt that you will regret when you cool off. I have yet,’ says I, ‘to shake hands with a subpoena server.’</p>
 			<p>“One summer me and Andy decided to rest up a spell in a fine little town in the mountains of Kentucky called Grassdale. We was supposed to be horse drovers, and good decent citizens besides, taking a summer vacation. The Grassdale people liked us, and me and Andy declared a cessation of hostilities, never so much as floating the fly leaf of a rubber concession prospectus or flashing a Brazilian diamond while we was there.</p>
 			<p>“One day the leading hardware merchant of Grassdale drops around to the hotel where me and Andy stopped, and smokes with us, sociable, on the side porch. We knew him pretty well from pitching quoits in the afternoons in the court house yard. He was a loud, red man, breathing hard, but fat and respectable beyond all reason.</p>
 			<p>“After we talk on all the notorious themes of the day, this Murkison⁠—for such was his entitlements⁠—takes a letter out of his coat pocket in a careful, careless way and hands it to us to read.</p>

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@@ -55,7 +55,7 @@
 			<p>The young man drew the bill of fare from his pocket, and pointed to a line.</p>
 			<p>Sarah recognised the first card she had typewritten that afternoon. There was still the rayed splotch in the upper right-hand corner where a tear had fallen. But over the spot where one should have read the name of the meadow plant, the clinging memory of their golden blossoms had allowed her fingers to strike strange keys.</p>
 			<p>Between the red cabbage and the stuffed green peppers was the item:</p>
-			<p>“DEAREST WALTER, WITH HARD-BOILED EGG.”</p>
+			<p>“Dearest Walter, with hard-boiled egg..”</p>
 		</section>
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@@ -32,7 +32,7 @@
 			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hart,” said she, “I believe your sketch is going to win out. That Grimes part fits me like a shrinkable flannel after its first trip to a handless hand laundry. I can make it stand out like the colonel of the Forty-fourth Regiment at a Little Mothers’ Bazaar. And I’ve seen you work. I know what you can do with the other part. But business is business. How much do you get a week for the stunt you do now?”</p>
 			<p>“Two hundred,” answered Hart.</p>
 			<p>“I get one hundred for mine,” said Cherry. “That’s about the natural discount for a woman. But I live on it and put a few simoleons every week under the loose brick in the old kitchen hearth. The stage is all right. I love it; but there’s something else I love better⁠—that’s a little country home, some day, with Plymouth Rock chickens and six ducks wandering around the yard.</p>
-			<p>“Now, let me tell you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hart, I am STRICTLY BUSINESS. If you want me to play the opposite part in your sketch, I’ll do it. And I believe we can make it go. And there’s something else I want to say: There’s no nonsense in my makeup; I’m <em>on the level</em>, and I’m on the stage for what it pays me, just as other girls work in stores and offices. I’m going to save my money to keep me when I’m past doing my stunts. No Old Ladies’ Home or Retreat for Imprudent Actresses for me.</p>
+			<p>“Now, let me tell you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hart, I am <b>strictly business</b>. If you want me to play the opposite part in your sketch, I’ll do it. And I believe we can make it go. And there’s something else I want to say: There’s no nonsense in my makeup; I’m <em>on the level</em>, and I’m on the stage for what it pays me, just as other girls work in stores and offices. I’m going to save my money to keep me when I’m past doing my stunts. No Old Ladies’ Home or Retreat for Imprudent Actresses for me.</p>
 			<p>“If you want to make this a business partnership, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hart, with all nonsense cut out of it, I’m in on it. I know something about vaudeville teams in general; but this would have to be one in particular. I want you to know that I’m on the stage for what I can cart away from it every payday in a little manila envelope with nicotine stains on it, where the cashier has licked the flap. It’s kind of a hobby of mine to want to cravenette myself for plenty of rainy days in the future. I want you to know just how I am. I don’t know what an all-night restaurant looks like; I drink only weak tea; I never spoke to a man at a stage entrance in my life, and I’ve got money in five savings banks.”</p>
 			<p>“Miss Cherry,” said Bob Hart in his smooth, serious tones, “you’re in on your own terms. I’ve got ‘strictly business’ pasted in my hat and stenciled on my makeup box. When I dream of nights I always see a five-room bungalow on the north shore of Long Island, with a Jap cooking clam broth and duckling in the kitchen, and me with the title deeds to the place in my pongee coat pocket, swinging in a hammock on the side porch, reading Stanley’s ‘Explorations into Africa.’ And nobody else around. You never was interested in Africa, was you, Miss Cherry?”</p>
 			<p>“Not any,” said Cherry. “What I’m going to do with my money is to bank it. You can get four percent on deposits. Even at the salary I’ve been earning, I’ve figured out that in ten years I’d have an income of about $50 a month just from the interest alone. Well, I might invest some of the principal in a little business⁠—say, trimming hats or a beauty parlor, and make more.”</p>

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@@ -39,7 +39,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Snickenwitzel!’ I repeats, and I spat, the word out. ‘I saw a man today from your town, and he told me your name. I’m not surprised you was ashamed to tell it. Snickenwitzel! Whew!’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Ah, here, now,’ says the boy, indignant and wriggling all over, ‘what’s the matter with you? That ain’t my name. It’s Conyers. What’s the matter with you?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘And that’s not the worst of it,’ I went on quick, keeping him hot and not giving him time to think. ‘We thought you was from a nice, well-to-do family. Here’s <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Little Bear, a chief of the Cherokees, entitled to wear nine otter tails on his Sunday blanket, and Professor Binkly, who plays Shakespeare and the banjo, and me, that’s got hundreds of dollars in that black tin box in the wagon, and we’ve got to be careful about the company we keep. That man tells me your folks live ’way down in little old Hencoop Alley, where there are no sidewalks, and the goats eat off the table with you.’</p>
-			<p>“That kid was almost crying now. ”Taint so,’ he splutters. ‘He⁠—he don’t know what he’s talking about. We live on Poplar Av’noo. I don’t ‘sociate with goats. What’s the matter with you?’</p>
+			<p>“That kid was almost crying now. ‘ ’Taint so,’ he splutters. ‘He⁠—he don’t know what he’s talking about. We live on Poplar Av’noo. I don’t ’sociate with goats. What’s the matter with you?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Poplar Avenue,’ says I, sarcastic. ‘Poplar Avenue! That’s a street to live on! It only runs two blocks and then falls off a bluff. You can throw a keg of nails the whole length of it. Don’t talk to me about Poplar Avenue.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘It’s⁠—it’s miles long,’ says the kid. ‘Our number’s 862 and there’s lots of houses after that. What’s the matter with⁠—aw, you make me tired, Jeff.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Well, well, now,’ says I. ‘I guess that man made a mistake. Maybe it was some other boy he was talking about. If I catch him I’ll teach him to go around slandering people.’ And after supper I goes up town and telegraphs to <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conyers, 862 Poplar Avenue, Quincy, Ill., that the kid is safe and sassy with us, and will be held for further orders. In two hours an answer comes to hold him tight, and she’ll start for him by next train.</p>
@@ -48,7 +48,7 @@
 			<p>“That kid introduced us, with some footnotes and explanations that made things plainer than a week of rhetoric. He danced around, and punched us in the back, and tried to climb John Tom’s leg. ‘This is John Tom, mamma,’ says he. ‘He’s a Indian. He sells medicine in a red wagon. I shot him, but he wasn’t wild. The other one’s Jeff. He’s a fakir, too. Come on and see the camp where we live, won’t you, mamma?’</p>
 			<p>“It is plain to see that the life of the woman is in that boy. She has got him again where her arms can gather him, and that’s enough. She’s ready to do anything to please him. She hesitates the eighth of a second and takes another look at these men. I imagine she says to herself about John Tom, ‘Seems to be a gentleman, if his hair don’t curl.’ And <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters she disposes of as follows: ‘No ladies’ man, but a man who knows a lady.’</p>
 			<p>“So we all rambled down to the camp as neighborly as coming from a wake. And there she inspects the wagon and pats the place with her hand where the kid used to sleep, and dabs around her eyewinkers with her handkerchief. And Professor Binkly gives us ‘Trovatore’ on one string of the banjo, and is about to slide off into Hamlet’s monologue when one of the horses gets tangled in his rope and he must go look after him, and says something about ‘foiled again.’</p>
-			<p>“When it got dark me and John Tom walked back up to the Corn Exchange Hotel, and the four of us had supper there. I think the trouble started at that supper, for then was when <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Little Bear made an intellectual balloon ascension. I held on to the tablecloth, and listened to him soar. That redman, if I could judge, had the gift of information. He took language, and did with it all a Roman can do with macaroni. His vocal remarks was all embroidered over with the most scholarly verbs and prefixes. And his syllables was smooth, and fitted nicely to the joints of his idea. I thought I’d heard him talk before, but I hadn’t. And it wasn’t the size of his words, but the way they come; and ‘twasn’t his subjects, for he spoke of common things like cathedrals and football and poems and catarrh and souls and freight rates and sculpture. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conyers understood his accents, and the elegant sounds went back and forth between ’em. And now and then Jefferson <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Peters would intervene a few shopworn, senseless words to have the butter passed or another leg of the chicken.</p>
+			<p>“When it got dark me and John Tom walked back up to the Corn Exchange Hotel, and the four of us had supper there. I think the trouble started at that supper, for then was when <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Little Bear made an intellectual balloon ascension. I held on to the tablecloth, and listened to him soar. That redman, if I could judge, had the gift of information. He took language, and did with it all a Roman can do with macaroni. His vocal remarks was all embroidered over with the most scholarly verbs and prefixes. And his syllables was smooth, and fitted nicely to the joints of his idea. I thought I’d heard him talk before, but I hadn’t. And it wasn’t the size of his words, but the way they come; and ’twasn’t his subjects, for he spoke of common things like cathedrals and football and poems and catarrh and souls and freight rates and sculpture. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conyers understood his accents, and the elegant sounds went back and forth between ’em. And now and then Jefferson <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Peters would intervene a few shopworn, senseless words to have the butter passed or another leg of the chicken.</p>
 			<p>“Yes, John Tom Little Bear appeared to be inveigled some in his bosom about that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conyers. She was of the kind that pleases. She had the good looks and more, I’ll tell you. You take one of these cloak models in a big store. They strike you as being on the impersonal system. They are adapted for the eye. What they run to is inches around and complexion, and the art of fanning the delusion that the sealskin would look just as well on the lady with the warts and the pocketbook. Now, if one of them models was off duty, and you took it, and it would say ‘Charlie’ when you pressed it, and sit up at the table, why, then you would have something similar to <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conyers. I could see how John Tom could resist any inclination to hate that white squaw.</p>
 			<p>“The lady and the kid stayed at the hotel. In the morning, they say, they will start for home. Me and Little Bear left at eight o’clock, and sold Indian Remedy on the courthouse square till nine. He leaves me and the Professor to drive down to camp, while he stays up town. I am not enamored with that plan, for it shows John Tom is uneasy in his composures, and that leads to firewater, and sometimes to the green corn dance and costs. Not often does Chief Wish-Heap-Dough get busy with the firewater, but whenever he does there is heap much doing in the lodges of the palefaces who wear blue and carry the club.</p>
 			<p>“At half-past nine Professor Binkly is rolled in his quilt snoring in blank verse, and I am sitting by the fire listening to the frogs. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Little Bear slides into camp and sits down against a tree. There is no symptoms of firewater.</p>
@@ -69,7 +69,7 @@
 			<p>“On the way she tells me some of the wherefores. When he slashed her with the whip he told her he found out she was coming for the kid, and he was on the same train. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conyers had been living with her brother, and they’d watched the boy always, as her husband had tried to steal him before. I judge that man was worse than a street railway promoter. It seems he had spent her money and slugged her and killed her canary bird, and told it around that she had cold feet.</p>
 			<p>“At the hotel we found a mass meeting of five infuriated citizens chewing tobacco and denouncing the outrage. Most of the town was asleep by ten o’clock. I talks the lady some quiet, and tells her I will take the one o’clock train for the next town, forty miles east, for it is likely that the esteemed <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Conyers will drive there to take the cars. ‘I don’t know,’ I tells her, ‘but what he has legal rights; but if I find him I can give him an illegal left in the eye, and tie him up for a day or two, anyhow, on a disturbal of the peace proposition.’</p>
 			<p>“<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conyers goes inside and cries with the landlord’s wife, who is fixing some catnip tea that will make everything all right for the poor dear. The landlord comes out on the porch, thumbing his one suspender, and says to me:</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Ain’t had so much excitements in town since Bedford Steegall’s wife swallered a spring lizard. I seen him through the winder hit her with the buggy whip, and everything. What’s that suit of clothes cost you you got on? ‘Pears like we’d have some rain, don’t it? Say, doc, that Indian of yorn’s on a kind of a whizz tonight, ain’t he? He comes along just before you did, and I told him about this here occurrence. He gives a cur’us kind of a hoot, and trotted off. I guess our constable ’ll have him in the lockup ’fore morning.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Ain’t had so much excitements in town since Bedford Steegall’s wife swallered a spring lizard. I seen him through the winder hit her with the buggy whip, and everything. What’s that suit of clothes cost you you got on? ’Pears like we’d have some rain, don’t it? Say, doc, that Indian of yorn’s on a kind of a whizz tonight, ain’t he? He comes along just before you did, and I told him about this here occurrence. He gives a cur’us kind of a hoot, and trotted off. I guess our constable ’ll have him in the lockup ’fore morning.’</p>
 			<p>“I thought I’d sit on the porch and wait for the one o’clock train. I wasn’t feeling saturated with mirth. Here was John Tom on one of his sprees, and this kidnapping business losing sleep for me. But then, I’m always having trouble with other people’s troubles. Every few minutes <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conyers would come out on the porch and look down the road the way the buggy went, like she expected to see that kid coming back on a white pony with a red apple in his hand. Now, wasn’t that like a woman? And that brings up cats. ‘I saw a mouse go in this hole,’ says <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cat; ‘you can go prize up a plank over there if you like; I’ll watch this hole.’</p>
 			<p>“About a quarter to one o’clock the lady comes out again, restless, crying easy, as females do for their own amusement, and she looks down that road again and listens. ‘Now, ma’am,’ says I, ‘there’s no use watching cold wheel-tracks. By this time they’re halfway to⁠—’ ‘Hush,’ she says, holding up her hand. And I do hear something coming ‘flip-flap’ in the dark; and then there is the awfulest war-whoop ever heard outside of Madison Square Garden at a Buffalo Bill matinée. And up the steps and on to the porch jumps the disrespectable Indian. The lamp in the hall shines on him, and I fail to recognize <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr class="name">J. T.</abbr> Little Bear, alumnus of the class of ’91. What I see is a Cherokee brave, and the warpath is what he has been travelling. Firewater and other things have got him going. His buckskin is hanging in strings, and his feathers are mixed up like a frizzly hen’s. The dust of miles is on his moccasins, and the light in his eye is the kind the aborigines wear. But in his arms he brings that kid, his eyes half closed, with his little shoes dangling and one hand fast around the Indian’s collar.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Pappoose!’ says John Tom, and I notice that the flowers of the white man’s syntax have left his tongue. He is the original proposition in bear’s claws and copper color. ‘Me bring,’ says he, and he lays the kid in his mother’s arms. ‘Run fifteen mile,’ says John Tom⁠—‘Ugh! Catch white man. Bring pappoose.’</p>

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@@ -45,9 +45,9 @@
 			<p>“I’ll show you,” said Kernan, rising, and expanding his chest. “I’ll 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 it’s someone 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; I’m not the usual crank … Oh, there isn’t the slightest danger. I’ve 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, hadn’t you better leave that kind of talk to your funny man? Can’t you tell whether a man’s guying you or whether you’re being offered the biggest scoop your dull dishrag of a paper ever had? … Well, that’s so; it’s 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, that’s 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 isn’t a rival newspaper office; you’re getting it straight. I did the Norcross job, and I’ve got the jewels in my suit case at⁠—‘the name of the hotel could not be learned’⁠—you recognize that phrase, don’t you? I thought so. You’ve used it often enough. Kind of rattles you, doesn’t 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; you’re not that big a fool⁠—no, you don’t think I’m a fraud. I can tell it by your voice … Now, listen, and I’ll give you a pointer that will prove it to you. Of course you’ve had this murder case worked over by your staff of bright young blockheads. Half of the second button on old <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Norcross’s 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 won’t work.”</p>
+			<p>“You the editor? … All right … I am the man who killed old Norcross … Wait! Hold the wire; I’m not the usual crank … Oh, there isn’t the slightest danger. I’ve 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, hadn’t you better leave that kind of talk to your funny man? Can’t you tell whether a man’s guying you or whether you’re being offered the biggest scoop your dull dishrag of a paper ever had? … Well, that’s so; it’s 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, that’s 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 isn’t a rival newspaper office; you’re getting it straight. I did the Norcross job, and I’ve got the jewels in my suit case at⁠—‘the name of the hotel could not be learned’⁠—you recognize that phrase, don’t you? I thought so. You’ve used it often enough. Kind of rattles you, doesn’t 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; you’re not that big a fool⁠—no, you don’t think I’m a fraud. I can tell it by your voice … Now, listen, and I’ll give you a pointer that will prove it to you. Of course you’ve had this murder case worked over by your staff of bright young blockheads. Half of the second button on old <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Norcross’s 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 won’t work.”</p>
 			<p>Kernan turned to Woods with a diabolic smile.</p>
-			<p>“I’ve got him going. He believes me now. He didn’t quite cover the transmitter with his hand when he told somebody to call up Central on another ‘phone and get our number. I’ll give him just one more dig, and then we’ll make a ‘getaway.’</p>
+			<p>“I’ve got him going. He believes me now. He didn’t quite cover the transmitter with his hand when he told somebody to call up Central on another ’phone and get our number. I’ll give him just one more dig, and then we’ll make a ‘getaway.’</p>
 			<p>“Hello! … Yes. I’m here yet. You didn’t think I’d 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 haven’t time to call on you. I’d feel perfectly safe in your sanctum asinorum. Tra-la!”</p>
 			<p>“He’s as mad as a cat that’s lost a mouse,” said Kernan, hanging up the receiver and coming out. “And now, Barney, my boy, we’ll 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>

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@@ -35,7 +35,7 @@
 			<p>“A good idea,” said Grainger, mopping the tablecloth with his napkin. “I’ll speak to the waiter about it.”</p>
 			<p>Kappelman, the painter, was the cut-up. As a piece of delicate Athenian wit he got up from his chair and waltzed down the room with a waiter. That dependent, no doubt an honest, pachydermatous, worthy, taxpaying, art-despising biped, released himself from the unequal encounter, carried his professional smile back to the dumbwaiter and dropped it down the shaft to eternal oblivion. Reeves began to make Keats turn in his grave. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Pothunter told the story of the man who met the widow on the train. Miss Adrian hummed what is still called a chanson in the cafés of Bridgeport. Grainger edited each individual effort with his assistant editor’s smile, which meant: “Great! but you’ll have to send them in through the regular channels. If I were the chief now⁠—but you know how it is.”</p>
 			<p>And soon the head waiter bowed before them, desolated to relate that the closing hour had already become chronologically historical; so out all trooped into the starry midnight, filling the street with gay laughter, to be barked at by hopeful cabmen and enviously eyed by the dull inhabitants of an uninspired world.</p>
-			<p>Grainger left Mary at the elevator in the trackless palm forest of the Idealia. After he had gone she came down again carrying a small handbag, ‘phoned for a cab, drove to the Grand Central Station, boarded a 12:55 commuter’s train, rode four hours with her burnt-umber head bobbing against the red-plush back of the seat, and landed during a fresh, stinging, glorious sunrise at a deserted station, the size of a peach crate, called Crocusville.</p>
+			<p>Grainger left Mary at the elevator in the trackless palm forest of the Idealia. After he had gone she came down again carrying a small handbag, ’phoned for a cab, drove to the Grand Central Station, boarded a 12:55 commuter’s train, rode four hours with her burnt-umber head bobbing against the red-plush back of the seat, and landed during a fresh, stinging, glorious sunrise at a deserted station, the size of a peach crate, called Crocusville.</p>
 			<p>She walked a mile and clicked the latch of a gate. A bare, brown cottage stood twenty yards back; an old man with a pearl-white, Calvinistic face and clothes dyed blacker than a raven in a coal-mine was washing his hands in a tin basin on the front porch.</p>
 			<p>“How are you, father?” said Mary timidly.</p>
 			<p>“I am as well as Providence permits, Mary Ann. You will find your mother in the kitchen.”</p>

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@@ -12,7 +12,7 @@
 			<p>Sharp and Simpson send us a check for $50 in addition to their monthly account, to cover difference in price of a higher grade of goods shipped them last time by mistake.</p>
 			<p>Senior Partner: Do they give us another order?</p>
 			<p>Junior Partner: Yes! The longest they have ever made.</p>
-			<p>Senior Partner: Ship ’em <abbr class="initialism">COD</abbr>.</p>
+			<p>Senior Partner: Ship ’em <abbr class="initialism eoc">COD</abbr>.</p>
 			<hr/>
 			<p>“Well! how are they coming?”</p>
 			<p>“I’m getting a move on me,” said the checkerboard.</p>

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@@ -27,7 +27,7 @@
 			<p>“It was only twelve miles to Soledad, but it took me and Liverpool two days to get there. It was banana grove nearly all the way; and we got twisted time and again. It was like paging the palm room of a New York hotel for a man named Smith.</p>
 			<p>“When we saw the houses of Soledad between the trees all my disinclination toward this Liverpool Sam rose up in me. I stood him while we were two white men against the banana brindles; but now, when there were prospects of my exchanging even cuss words with an American citizen, I put him back in his proper place. And he was a sight, too, with his rum-painted nose and his red whiskers and elephant feet with leather sandals strapped to them. I suppose I looked about the same.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘It looks to me,’ says I, ‘like Great Britain ought to be made to keep such gin-swilling, scurvy, unbecoming mud larks as you at home instead of sending ’em over here to degrade and taint foreign lands. We kicked you out of America once and we ought to put on rubber boots and do it again.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Oh, you go to ‘ell,’ says Liverpool, which was about all the repartee he ever had.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Oh, you go to ’ell,’ says Liverpool, which was about all the repartee he ever had.</p>
 			<p>“Well, Soledad, looked fine to me after Don Jaime’s plantation. Liverpool and me walked into it side by side, from force of habit, past the calabosa and the Hotel Grande, down across the plaza toward Chica’s hut, where we hoped that Liverpool, being a husband of hers, might work his luck for a meal.</p>
 			<p>“As we passed the two-story little frame house occupied by the American Club, we noticed that the balcony had been decorated all around with wreaths of evergreens and flowers, and the flag was flying from the pole on the roof. Stanzey, the consul, and Arkright, a goldmine owner, were smoking on the balcony. Me and Liverpool waved our dirty hands toward ’em and smiled real society smiles; but they turned their backs to us and went on talking. And we had played whist once with the two of ’em up to the time when Liverpool held all thirteen trumps for four hands in succession. It was some holiday, we knew; but we didn’t know the day nor the year.</p>
 			<p>“A little further along we saw a reverend man named Pendergast, who had come to Soledad to build a church, standing under a coconut palm with his little black alpaca coat and green umbrella.</p>
@@ -41,12 +41,12 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Here is two dollars,’ says Pendergast digging up two Chili silver wheels and handing ’em to me. ‘Go, my men, and observe the rest of the day in a befitting manner.’</p>
 			<p>“Me and Liverpool thanked him kindly, and walked away.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Shall we eat?’ I asks.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Oh, ‘ell!’ says Liverpool. ‘What’s money for?’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Oh, ’ell!’ says Liverpool. ‘What’s money for?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Very well, then,’ I says, ‘since you insist upon it, we’ll drink.’</p>
 			<p>“So we pull up in a rum shop and get a quart of it and go down on the beach under a coconut tree and celebrate.</p>
 			<p>“Not having eaten anything but oranges in two days, the rum has immediate effect; and once more I conjure up great repugnance toward the British nation.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Stand up here,’ I says to Liverpool, ‘you scum of a despot limited monarchy, and have another dose of Bunker Hill. That good man, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pendergast,’ says I, ‘said we were to observe the day in a befitting manner, and I’m not going to see his money misapplied.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Oh, you go to ‘ell!’ says Liverpool, and I started in with a fine left-hander on his right eye.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Oh, you go to ’ell!’ says Liverpool, and I started in with a fine left-hander on his right eye.</p>
 			<p>“Liverpool had been a fighter once, but dissipation and bad company had taken the nerve out of him. In ten minutes I had him lying on the sand waving the white flag.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Get up,’ says I, kicking him in the ribs, ‘and come along with me.’</p>
 			<p>“Liverpool got up and followed behind me because it was his habit, wiping the red off his face and nose. I led him to Reverend Pendergast’s shack and called him out.</p>

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@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<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 Walmsley’s 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 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 Walmsley’s 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 Walmsley’s 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 subpoenaed families were glad to clap him on the back and allow him three letters of his name.</p>
 			<p>But the Matterhorn of Robert Walmsley’s 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 people’s 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>
@@ -22,7 +22,7 @@
 			<p>“Hallo, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Walmsley. Found your way back at last, have you? Sorry I couldn’t bring in the automobile for you, but dad’s bull-tonguing the ten-acre clover patch with it today. Guess you’ll excuse my not wearing a dress suit over to meet you⁠—it ain’t six o’clock yet, you know.”</p>
 			<p>“I’m glad to see you, Tom,” said Robert, grasping his brother’s hand. “Yes, I’ve found my way at last. You’ve a right to say ‘at last.’ It’s 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 Phœbus’s steeds.</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 Phoebus’s 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 creek’s 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 Pan’s 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: “You’ve 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 peasant’s cabbage garden.</p>

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@@ -49,7 +49,7 @@
 			<p>“I am tall, with a black beard, and I hate publicity. I have no money to speak of; I do not like oatmeal, and it is the one ambition of my life to die rich. I am of a cold and heartless disposition. I do not care for my fellowmen and I never give a cent to beggars or charity.</p>
 			<p>“Now, my dear doctor, that is the true description of myself, the man whom that shrewd detective was to hunt down. You who are familiar with the history of crime in New York of late should be able to foretell the result. When I promised you to exhibit to your incredulous gaze the sleuth who was set upon me, you laughed at me because you said that detectives and murderers never met in New York. I have demonstrated to you that the theory is possible.”</p>
 			<p>“But how did you do it?” I asked again.</p>
-			<p>“It was very simple,” replied the distinguished murderer. “I assumed that the detective would go exactly opposite to the clues he had. I have given you a description of myself. Therefore, he must necessarily set to work and trail a short man with a white beard who likes to be in the papers, who is very wealthy, is fond ‘of oatmeal, wants to die poor, and is of an extremely generous and philanthropic disposition. When thus far is reached the mind hesitates no longer. I conveyed you at once to the spot where Shamrock Jolnes was piping off Andrew Carnegie’s residence.”</p>
+			<p>“It was very simple,” replied the distinguished murderer. “I assumed that the detective would go exactly opposite to the clues he had. I have given you a description of myself. Therefore, he must necessarily set to work and trail a short man with a white beard who likes to be in the papers, who is very wealthy, is fond of oatmeal, wants to die poor, and is of an extremely generous and philanthropic disposition. When thus far is reached the mind hesitates no longer. I conveyed you at once to the spot where Shamrock Jolnes was piping off Andrew Carnegie’s residence.”</p>
 			<p>“Knight,” said I, “you’re a wonder. If there was no danger of your reforming, what a rounds man you’d make for the Nineteenth Precinct!”</p>
 		</section>
 	</body>

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@@ -65,7 +65,7 @@
 			<p>But the reporter emitted a ringing laugh, and hurled his hat triumphantly into the air.</p>
 			<p>“Guess again,” he shouted, and leaned heavily upon the iron object. “Your old fancy guys or thugs, whatever you call ’em, are up to date. Dear General, this is a pump we’ve stranded upon⁠—same as a cow in New York (hic!) see? Thas’h why the ‘nfuriated smoked guys don’t attack us⁠—see? Sacred an’mal, the pump in N’ York, my dear General!”</p>
 			<p>But further down in the shadows of Twenty-eighth Street the marauders were holding a parley.</p>
-			<p>“Come on, Reddy,” said one. “Let’s go frisk the old ‘un. He’s been showin’ a sparkler as big as a hen egg all around Eighth Avenue for two weeks past.”</p>
+			<p>“Come on, Reddy,” said one. “Let’s go frisk the old ’un. He’s been showin’ a sparkler as big as a hen egg all around Eighth Avenue for two weeks past.”</p>
 			<p>“Not on your silhouette,” decided Reddy. “You see ’em rallyin’ round The Pump? They’re friends of Bill’s. Bill won’t stand for nothin’ of this kind in his district since he got that bid to Esopus.”</p>
 			<p>This exhausts the facts concerning the Kali diamond. But it is deemed not inconsequent to close with the following brief (paid) item that appeared two days later in a morning paper.</p>
 			<p>“It is rumored that a niece of Gen. Marcellus <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Ludlow, of New York City, will appear on the stage next season.</p>

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@@ -27,7 +27,7 @@
 			<p>“It is my opinion,” said I, “that great human emotions shake up our vocabulary and leave the words best suited to express them on top. A sudden violent grief or loss or disappointment will bring expressions out of an ordinary man as strong and solemn and dramatic as those used in fiction or on the stage to portray those emotions.”</p>
 			<p>“That’s where you fellows are wrong,” said Hollis. “Plain, everyday talk is what goes. Your captain would very likely have kicked the cat, lit a cigar, stirred up a highball, and telephoned for a lawyer, instead of getting off those Robert Mantell pyrotechnics.”</p>
 			<p>“Possibly, a little later,” I continued. “But just at the time⁠—just as the blow is delivered, if something Scriptural or theatrical and deep-tongued isn’t wrung from a man in spite of his modern and practical way of speaking, then I’m wrong.”</p>
-			<p>“Of course,” said Hollis, kindly, “you’ve got to whoop her up some degrees for the stage. The audience expects it. When the villain kidnaps little Effie you have to make her mother claw some chunks out of the atmosphere, and scream: “Me chee-ild, me chee-ild!” What she would actually do would be to call up the police by ‘phone, ring for some strong tea, and get the little darling’s photo out, ready for the reporters. When you get your villain in a corner⁠—a stage corner⁠—it’s all right for him to clap his hand to his forehead and hiss: “All is lost!” Off the stage he would remark: “This is a conspiracy against me⁠—I refer you to my lawyers.’ ”</p>
+			<p>“Of course,” said Hollis, kindly, “you’ve got to whoop her up some degrees for the stage. The audience expects it. When the villain kidnaps little Effie you have to make her mother claw some chunks out of the atmosphere, and scream: “Me chee-ild, me chee-ild!” What she would actually do would be to call up the police by ’phone, ring for some strong tea, and get the little darling’s photo out, ready for the reporters. When you get your villain in a corner⁠—a stage corner⁠—it’s all right for him to clap his hand to his forehead and hiss: “All is lost!” Off the stage he would remark: “This is a conspiracy against me⁠—I refer you to my lawyers.’ ”</p>
 			<p>“I get no consolation,” said I, gloomily, “from your concession of an accentuated stage treatment. In my play I fondly hoped that I was following life. If people in real life meet great crises in a commonplace way, they should do the same on the stage.”</p>
 			<p>And then we drifted, like two trout, out of our cool pool in the great hotel and began to nibble languidly at the gay flies in the swift current of Broadway. And our question of dramatic art was unsettled.</p>
 			<p>We nibbled at the flies, and avoided the hooks, as wise trout do; but soon the weariness of Manhattan in summer overcame us. Nine stories up, facing the south, was Hollis’s apartment, and we soon stepped into an elevator bound for that cooler haven.</p>

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@@ -42,7 +42,7 @@
 			<p>“You’ll excuse me, sir,” he whined, “but sometimes I get a little mixed in my head. I am a very old man; and it is hard to remember everything.”</p>
 			<p>I knew that he was right, and that I should not try to reconcile him with Roman history; so I asked for news concerning other ancients with whom he had walked familiar.</p>
 			<p>Above my desk hung an engraving of Raphael’s cherubs. You could yet make out their forms, though the dust blurred their outlines strangely.</p>
-			<p>“Ye calls them ‘cher-rubs’,” cackled the old man. “Babes, ye fancy they are, with wings. And there’s one wid legs and a bow and arrow that ye call Cupid⁠—I know where they was found. The great-great-great-grandfather of thim all was a billy-goat. Bein’ an editor, sir, do ye happen to know where Solomon s Temple stood?”</p>
+			<p>“Ye calls them ‘cher-rubs’,” cackled the old man. “Babes, ye fancy they are, with wings. And there’s one wid legs and a bow and arrow that ye call Cupid⁠—I know where they was found. The great-great-great-grandfather of thim all was a billy-goat. Bein’ an editor, sir, do ye happen to know where Solomon’s Temple stood?”</p>
 			<p>I fancied that it was in⁠—in Persia? Well, I did not know.</p>
 			<p>“ ’Tis not in history nor in the Bible where it was. But I saw it, meself. The first pictures of cher-rubs and cupids was sculptured upon thim walls and pillars. Two of the biggest, sir, stood in the adytum to form the baldachin over the Ark. But the wings of thim sculptures was intindid for horns. And the faces was the faces of goats. Ten thousand goats there was in and about the temple. And your cher-rubs was billy-goats in the days of King Solomon, but the painters misconstrued the horns into wings.</p>
 			<p>“And I knew Tamerlane, the lame Timour, sir, very well. I saw him at Keghut and at Zaranj. He was a little man no larger than yerself, with hair the colour of an amber pipe stem. They buried him at Samarkand. I was at the wake, sir. Oh, he was a fine-built man in his coffin, six feet long, with black whiskers to his face. And I see ’em throw turnips at the Imperor Vispacian in Africa. All over the world I have tramped, sir, without the body of me findin’ any rest. ’Twas so commanded. I saw Jerusalem destroyed, and Pompeii go up in the fireworks; and I was at the coronation of Charlemagne and the lynchin’ of Joan of Arc. And everywhere I go there comes storms and revolutions and plagues and fires. ’Twas so commanded. Ye have heard of the Wandering Jew. ’Tis all so, except that divil a bit am I a Jew. But history lies, as I have told ye. Are ye quite sure, sir, that ye haven’t a drop of whiskey convenient? Ye well know that I have many miles of walking before me.”</p>

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@@ -14,7 +14,7 @@
 			<p>Not even on the fair island of Nippon was there a more enthusiastic champion of the Mikado’s men. Supporters of the Russian cause did well to keep clear of Engine-House <abbr>No.</abbr> 99.</p>
 			<p>Sometimes all thoughts of the Japs left John Byrnes’s head. That was when the alarm of fire had sounded and he was strapped in his driver’s seat on the swaying cart, guiding Erebus and Joe, the finest team in the whole department⁠—according to the crew of 99.</p>
 			<p>Of all the codes adopted by man for regulating his actions toward his fellow-mortals, the greatest are these⁠—the code of King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table, the Constitution of the United States and the unwritten rules of the New York Fire Department. The Round Table methods are no longer practicable since the invention of street cars and breach-of-promise suits, and our Constitution is being found more and more unconstitutional every day, so the code of our firemen must be considered in the lead, with the Golden Rule and Jeffries’s new punch trying for place and show.</p>
-			<p>The Constitution says that one man is as good as another; but the Fire Department says he is better. This is a too generous theory, but the law will not allow itself to be construed otherwise. All of which comes perilously near to being a paradox, and commends itself to the attention of the <abbr class="initialism">SPCA</abbr>.</p>
+			<p>The Constitution says that one man is as good as another; but the Fire Department says he is better. This is a too generous theory, but the law will not allow itself to be construed otherwise. All of which comes perilously near to being a paradox, and commends itself to the attention of the <abbr class="initialism eic">SPCA</abbr>.</p>
 			<p>One of the transatlantic liners dumped out at Ellis Island a lump of protozoa which was expected to evolve into an American citizen. A steward kicked him down the gangway, a doctor pounced upon his eyes like a raven, seeking for trachoma or ophthalmia; he was hustled ashore and ejected into the city in the name of Liberty⁠—perhaps, theoretically, thus inoculating against kingocracy with a drop of its own virus. This hypodermic injection of Europeanism wandered happily into the veins of the city with the broad grin of a pleased child. It was not burdened with baggage, cares or ambitions. Its body was lithely built and clothed in a sort of foreign fustian; its face was brightly vacant, with a small, flat nose, and was mostly covered by a thick, ragged, curling beard like the coat of a spaniel. In the pocket of the imported Thing were a few coins⁠—denarii⁠—scudi⁠—kopecks⁠—pfennigs⁠—pilasters⁠—whatever the financial nomenclature of his unknown country may have been.</p>
 			<p>Prattling to himself, always broadly grinning, pleased by the roar and movement of the barbarous city into which the steamship cut-rates had shunted him, the alien strayed away from the sea, which he hated, as far as the district covered by Engine Company <abbr>No.</abbr> 99. Light as a cork, he was kept bobbing along by the human tide, the crudest atom in all the silt of the stream that emptied into the reservoir of Liberty.</p>
 			<p>While crossing Third avenue he slowed his steps, enchanted by the thunder of the elevated trains above him and the soothing crash of the wheels on the cobbles. And then there was a new, delightful chord in the uproar⁠—the musical clanging of a gong and a great shining juggernaut belching fire and smoke, that people were hurrying to see.</p>

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@@ -56,7 +56,7 @@
 			<p>“But we were deprived of Sterrett’s treat by a lot of gunshots several squares sway, which General Dingo seemed to think he ought to look after. He spurred his old white plug up that way, and the soldiers scuttled along after him.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Mary is a real tropical bird,’ says Jones. ‘He’s turned out the infantry to help us do honour to the Fourth. We’ll get that cannon he spoke of after a while and fire some window-breakers with it. But just now I want some of that barbecued beef. Let us on to the plaza.’</p>
 			<p>“There we found the meat gloriously done, and Jerry waiting, anxious. We sat around on the grass, and got hunks of it on our tin plates. Maximilian Jones, always made tenderhearted by drink, cried some because George Washington couldn’t be there to enjoy the day. ‘There was a man I love, Billy,’ he says, weeping on my shoulder. ‘Poor George! To think he’s gone, and missed the fireworks. A little more salt, please, Jerry.’</p>
-			<p>“From what we could hear, General Dingo seemed to be kindly contributing some noise while we feasted. There were guns going off around town, and pretty soon we heard that cannon go ‘BOOM!’ just as he said it would. And then men began to skim along the edge of the plaza, dodging in among the orange trees and houses. We certainly had things stirred up in Salvador. We felt proud of the occasion and grateful to General Dingo. Sterrett was about to take a bite off a juicy piece of rib when a bullet took it away from his mouth.</p>
+			<p>“From what we could hear, General Dingo seemed to be kindly contributing some noise while we feasted. There were guns going off around town, and pretty soon we heard that cannon go ‘<b>boom</b>!’ just as he said it would. And then men began to skim along the edge of the plaza, dodging in among the orange trees and houses. We certainly had things stirred up in Salvador. We felt proud of the occasion and grateful to General Dingo. Sterrett was about to take a bite off a juicy piece of rib when a bullet took it away from his mouth.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Somebody’s celebrating with ball cartridges,’ says he, reaching for another piece. ‘Little overzealous for a nonresident patriot, isn’t it?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Don’t mind it,’ I says to him. ”Twas an accident. They happen, you know, on the Fourth. After one reading of the Declaration of Independence in New York I’ve known the <abbr class="initialism">SRO</abbr> sign to be hung out at all the hospitals and police stations.’</p>
 			<p>“But then Jerry gives a howl and jumps up with one hand clapped to the back of his leg where another bullet has acted overzealous. And then comes a quantity of yells, and round a corner and across the plaza gallops General Mary Esperanza Dingo embracing the neck of his horse, with his men running behind him, mostly dropping their guns by way of discharging ballast. And chasing ’em all is a company of feverish little warriors wearing blue trousers and caps.</p>

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@@ -30,7 +30,7 @@
 			<p>For a minute or longer Uncle Bushrod was as stone in his tracks. Had that midnight rifler of safes and vaults been any other on earth than the man he was, the old retainer would have rushed upon him and struck to save the Weymouth property. But now the watcher’s soul was tortured by the poignant dread of something worse than mere robbery. He was seized by an accusing terror that said the Weymouth name and the Weymouth honour were about to be lost. Marse Robert robbing the bank! What else could it mean? The hour of the night, the stealthy visit to the vault, the satchel brought forth full and with expedition and silence, the prowler’s rough dress, his solicitous reading of the clock, and noiseless departure⁠—what else could it mean?</p>
 			<p>And then to the turmoil of Uncle Bushrod’s thoughts came the corroborating recollection of preceding events⁠—<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Robert’s increasing intemperance and consequent many moods of royal high spirits and stern tempers; the casual talk he had heard in the bank of the decrease in business and difficulty in collecting loans. What else could it all mean but that <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Robert Weymouth was an absconder⁠—was about to fly with the bank’s remaining funds, leaving <abbr>Mr.</abbr> William, Miss Letty, little Nan, Guy, and Uncle Bushrod to bear the disgrace?</p>
 			<p>During one minute Uncle Bushrod considered these things, and then he awoke to sudden determination and action.</p>
-			<p>“Lawd! Lawd!” he moaned aloud, as he hobbled hastily toward the side door. “Sech a come-off after all dese here years of big doin’s and fine doin’s. Scan’lous sights upon de yearth when de Weymouth fambly done turn out robbers and ‘bezzlers! Time for Uncle Bushrod to clean out somebody’s chicken-coop and eben matters up. Oh, Lawd! Marse Robert, you ain’t gwine do dat. ’N Miss Letty an’ dem chillun so proud and talkin’ ‘Weymouth, Weymouth,’ all de time! I’m gwine to stop you ef I can. ‘Spec you shoot <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Nigger’s head off ef he fool wid you, but I’m gwine stop you ef I can.”</p>
+			<p>“Lawd! Lawd!” he moaned aloud, as he hobbled hastily toward the side door. “Sech a come-off after all dese here years of big doin’s and fine doin’s. Scan’lous sights upon de yearth when de Weymouth fambly done turn out robbers and ’bezzlers! Time for Uncle Bushrod to clean out somebody’s chicken-coop and eben matters up. Oh, Lawd! Marse Robert, you ain’t gwine do dat. ’N Miss Letty an’ dem chillun so proud and talkin’ ‘Weymouth, Weymouth,’ all de time! I’m gwine to stop you ef I can. ’Spec you shoot <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Nigger’s head off ef he fool wid you, but I’m gwine stop you ef I can.”</p>
 			<p>Uncle Bushrod, aided by his hickory stick, impeded by his rheumatism, hurried down the street toward the railroad station, where the two lines touching Weymouthville met. As he had expected and feared, he saw there <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Robert, standing in the shadow of the building, waiting for the train. He held the satchel in his hand.</p>
 			<p>When Uncle Bushrod came within twenty yards of the bank president, standing like a huge, gray ghost by the station wall, sudden perturbation seized him. The rashness and audacity of the thing he had come to do struck him fully. He would have been happy could he have turned and fled from the possibilities of the famous Weymouth wrath. But again he saw, in his fancy, the white reproachful face of Miss Letty, and the distressed looks of Nan and Guy, should he fail in his duty and they question him as to his stewardship.</p>
 			<p>Braced by the thought, he approached in a straight line, clearing his throat and pounding with his stick so that he might be early recognized. Thus he might avoid the likely danger of too suddenly surprising the sometimes hasty <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Robert.</p>
@@ -44,7 +44,7 @@
 			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Robert lit a cigar in the shadow, and the smoke looked like his gray ghost expanding and escaping into the night air. Somehow, Uncle Bushrod could barely force his reluctant tongue to the dreadful subject. He stood, awkward, shambling, with his feet upon the gravel and fumbling with his stick. But then, afar off⁠—three miles away, at the Jimtown switch⁠—he heard the faint whistle of the coming train, the one that was to transport the Weymouth name into the regions of dishonour and shame. All fear left him. He took off his hat and faced the chief of the clan he served, the great, royal, kind, lofty, terrible Weymouth⁠—he bearded him there at the brink of the awful thing that was about to happen.</p>
 			<p>“Marse Robert,” he began, his voice quivering a little with the stress of his feelings, “you ’member de day dey-all rode de tunnament at Oak Lawn? De day, suh, dat you win in de ridin’, and you crown Miss Lucy de queen?”</p>
 			<p>“Tournament?” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Robert, taking his cigar from his mouth. “Yes, I remember very well the⁠—but what the deuce are you talking about tournaments here at midnight for? Go ’long home, Bushrod. I believe you’re sleepwalking.”</p>
-			<p>“Miss Lucy tetch you on de shoulder,” continued the old man, never heeding, “wid a s’ord, and say: ‘I mek you a knight, Suh Robert⁠—rise up, pure and fearless and widout reproach.’ Dat what Miss Lucy say. Dat’s been a long time ago, but me nor you ain’t forgot it. And den dar’s another time we ain’t forgot⁠—de time when Miss Lucy lay on her las’ bed. She sent for Uncle Bushrod, and she say: ‘Uncle Bushrod, when I die, I want you to take good care of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Robert. Seem like’⁠—so Miss Lucy say⁠—‘he listen to you mo’ dan to anybody else. He apt to be mighty fractious sometimes, and maybe he cuss you when you try to ‘suade him but he need somebody what understand him to be ’round wid him. He am like a little child sometimes’⁠—so Miss Lucy say, wid her eyes shinin’ in her po’, thin face⁠—‘but he always been’⁠—dem was her words⁠—‘my knight, pure and fearless and widout reproach.’ ”</p>
+			<p>“Miss Lucy tetch you on de shoulder,” continued the old man, never heeding, “wid a s’ord, and say: ‘I mek you a knight, Suh Robert⁠—rise up, pure and fearless and widout reproach.’ Dat what Miss Lucy say. Dat’s been a long time ago, but me nor you ain’t forgot it. And den dar’s another time we ain’t forgot⁠—de time when Miss Lucy lay on her las’ bed. She sent for Uncle Bushrod, and she say: ‘Uncle Bushrod, when I die, I want you to take good care of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Robert. Seem like’⁠—so Miss Lucy say⁠—‘he listen to you mo’ dan to anybody else. He apt to be mighty fractious sometimes, and maybe he cuss you when you try to ’suade him but he need somebody what understand him to be ’round wid him. He am like a little child sometimes’⁠—so Miss Lucy say, wid her eyes shinin’ in her po’, thin face⁠—‘but he always been’⁠—dem was her words⁠—‘my knight, pure and fearless and widout reproach.’ ”</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Robert began to mask, as was his habit, a tendency to softheartedness with a spurious anger.</p>
 			<p>“You⁠—you old windbag!” he growled through a cloud of swirling cigar smoke. “I believe you are crazy. I told you to go home, Bushrod. Miss Lucy said that, did she? Well, we haven’t kept the scutcheon very clear. Two years ago last week, wasn’t it, Bushrod, when she died? Confound it! Are you going to stand there all night gabbing like a coffee-coloured gander?”</p>
 			<p>The train whistled again. Now it was at the water tank, a mile away.</p>

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@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="the-head-hunter" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Head-Hunter</h2>
 			<p>When the war between Spain and George Dewey was over, I went to the Philippine Islands. There I remained as bush-whacker correspondent for my paper until its managing editor notified me that an eight-hundred-word cablegram describing the grief of a pet carabao over the death of an infant Moro was not considered by the office to be war news. So I resigned, and came home.</p>
-			<p>On board the trading-vessel that brought me back I pondered much upon the strange things I had sensed in the weird archipelago of the yellow-brown people. The manœuvres and skirmishings of the petty war interested me not: I was spellbound by the outlandish and unreadable countenance of that race that had turned its expressionless gaze upon us out of an unguessable past.</p>
+			<p>On board the trading-vessel that brought me back I pondered much upon the strange things I had sensed in the weird archipelago of the yellow-brown people. The manoeuvres and skirmishings of the petty war interested me not: I was spellbound by the outlandish and unreadable countenance of that race that had turned its expressionless gaze upon us out of an unguessable past.</p>
 			<p>Particularly during my stay in Mindanao had I been fascinated and attracted by that delightfully original tribe of heathen known as the head-hunters. Those grim, flinty, relentless little men, never seen, but chilling the warmest noonday by the subtle terror of their concealed presence, paralleling the trail of their prey through unmapped forests, across perilous mountain-tops, adown bottomless chasms, into uninhabitable jungles, always near with the invisible hand of death uplifted, betraying their pursuit only by such signs as a beast or a bird or a gliding serpent might make⁠—a twig crackling in the awful, sweat-soaked night, a drench of dew showering from the screening foliage of a giant tree, a whisper at even from the rushes of a water-level⁠—a hint of death for every mile and every hour⁠—they amused me greatly, those little fellows of one idea.</p>
 			<p>When you think of it, their method is beautifully and almost hilariously effective and simple.</p>
 			<p>You have your hut in which you live and carry out the destiny that was decreed for you. Spiked to the jamb of your bamboo doorway is a basket made of green withes, plaited. From time to time, as vanity or ennui or love or jealousy or ambition may move you, you creep forth with your snickersnee and take up the silent trail. Back from it you come, triumphant, bearing the severed, gory head of your victim, which you deposit with pardonable pride in the basket at the side of your door. It may be the head of your enemy, your friend, or a stranger, according as competition, jealousy, or simple sportiveness has been your incentive to labor.</p>

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@@ -88,7 +88,7 @@
 				<p>I wondered if any accent on the first word was intended; Mildred was fine at saying things that you had to study out afterward.</p>
 				<p>“Yes,” said I. “I hope so. And now to come down to brass tacks.” I thought that rather a vernacularism, if there is such a word, as soon as I had said it; but I didn’t stop to apologize. “You know, of course, that I love you, and that I have been in that idiotic state for a long time. I don’t want any more foolishness about it⁠—that is, I mean I want an answer from you right now. Will you marry me or not? Hold the wire, please. Keep out, Central. Hello, hello! Will you, or will you <em>not</em>?”</p>
 				<p>That was just the uppercut for Reddy Burns’ chin. The answer came back:</p>
-				<p>“Why, Phil, dear, of course I will! I didn’t know that you⁠—that is, you never said⁠—oh, come up to the house, please⁠—I can’t say what I want to over the ‘phone. You are so importunate. But please come up to the house, won’t you?”</p>
+				<p>“Why, Phil, dear, of course I will! I didn’t know that you⁠—that is, you never said⁠—oh, come up to the house, please⁠—I can’t say what I want to over the ’phone. You are so importunate. But please come up to the house, won’t you?”</p>
 				<p>Would I?</p>
 				<p>I rang the bell of the Telfair house violently. Some sort of a human came to the door and shooed me into the drawing-room.</p>
 				<p>“Oh, well,” said I to myself, looking at the ceiling, “any one can learn from any one. That was a pretty good philosophy of Mack’s, anyhow. He didn’t take advantage of his experience, but I get the benefit of it. If you want to get into the professional class, you’ve got to⁠—”</p>

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@@ -23,7 +23,7 @@
 			<p>“Their fruit trees hadn’t lived up to their labels. Most of ’em had turned out to be persimmons and dogwoods, with a grove or two of blackjacks and poplars. The only one that showed any signs of bearing anything was a fine young cottonwood that had put forth a hornet’s nest and half of an old corset-cover.</p>
 			<p>“The Peaviners protracted our fruitless stroll to the edge of town. They took my watch and money on account; and they kept Bill and the wagon as hostages. They said the first time one of them dogwood trees put forth an Amsden’s June peach I might come back and get my things. Then they took off the trace chains and jerked their thumbs in the direction of the Rocky Mountains; and I struck a Lewis and Clark lope for the swollen rivers and impenetrable forests.</p>
 			<p>“When I regained intellectualness I found myself walking into an unidentified town on the <abbr>A., T. &amp; S. F.</abbr> railroad. The Peaviners hadn’t left anything in my pockets except a plug of chewing⁠—they wasn’t after my life⁠—and that saved it. I bit off a chunk and sits down on a pile of ties by the track to recogitate my sensations of thought and perspicacity.</p>
-			<p>“And then along comes a fast freight which slows up a little at the town; and off of it drops a black bundle that rolls for twenty yards in a cloud of dust and then gets up and begins to spit soft coal and interjections. I see it is a young man broad across the face, dressed more for Pullmans than freights, and with a cheerful kind of smile in spite of it all that made Phœbe Snow’s job look like a chimney-sweep’s.</p>
+			<p>“And then along comes a fast freight which slows up a little at the town; and off of it drops a black bundle that rolls for twenty yards in a cloud of dust and then gets up and begins to spit soft coal and interjections. I see it is a young man broad across the face, dressed more for Pullmans than freights, and with a cheerful kind of smile in spite of it all that made Phoebe Snow’s job look like a chimney-sweep’s.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Fall off?’ says I.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Nunk,’ says he. ‘Got off. Arrived at my destination. What town is this?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Haven’t looked it up on the map yet,’ says I. ‘I got in about five minutes before you did. How does it strike you?’</p>

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@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<p>“I can,” said the reddish-haired fellow, promptly. “I’ve cooked in camp quite a lot. I’m willing to take the job until you’ve got something else to offer.”</p>
 			<p>“Now, that’s the way I like to hear a man talk,” said the superintendent, approvingly. “I’ll give you a note to Saunders, and he’ll put you to work.”</p>
 			<p>Thus the names of John Bascom and Charles Norwood were added to the payroll of the Diamond-Cross. The two left for the roundup camp immediately after dinner. Their directions were simple, but sufficient: “Keep down the arroyo for fifteen miles till you get there.” Both being strangers from afar, young, spirited, and thus thrown together by chance for a long ride, it is likely that the comradeship that afterward existed so strongly between them began that afternoon as they meandered along the little valley of the Canada Verda.</p>
-			<p>They reached their destination just after sunset. The main camp of the roundup was comfortably located on the bank of a long water-hole, under a fine mott of timber. A number of small A tents pitched upon grassy spots and the big wall tent for provisions showed that the camp was intended to be occupied for a considerable length of time.</p>
+			<p>They reached their destination just after sunset. The main camp of the roundup was comfortably located on the bank of a long water-hole, under a fine mott of timber. A number of small <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">A</i> tents pitched upon grassy spots and the big wall tent for provisions showed that the camp was intended to be occupied for a considerable length of time.</p>
 			<p>The roundup had ridden in but a few moments before, hungry and tired, to a supperless camp. The boys were engaged in an emulous display of anathemas supposed to fit the case of the absconding cook. While they were unsaddling and hobbling their ponies, the newcomer rode in and inquired for Pink Saunders. The boss ol the roundup came forth and was given the superintendent’s note.</p>
 			<p>Pink Saunders, though a boss during working hours, was a humorist in camp, where everybody, from cook to superintendent, is equal. After reading the note he waved his hand toward the camp and shouted, ceremoniously, at the top of his voice, “Gentlemen, allow me to present to you the Marquis and Miss Sally.”</p>
 			<p>At the words both the new arrivals betray confusion. The newly employed cook started, with a surprised look on his face, but, immediately recollecting that “Miss Sally” is the generic name for the male cook in every west Texas cow camp, he recovered his composure with a grin at his own expense.</p>
@@ -53,7 +53,7 @@
 			<p>Before the Marquis realized their intention, two of them seized him by each arm and led him up to the log. Phonograph Davis, self-appointed to carry out the sentence, stood ready, with a pair of stout leather leggings in his hands.</p>
 			<p>It was the first time they had ever laid hands on the Marquis during their somewhat rude sports.</p>
 			<p>“What are you up to?” he asked, indignantly, with flashing eyes.</p>
-			<p>“Go easy, Marquis,” whispered Rube Fellows, one of the boys that held him. “It’s all in fun. Take it good-natured and they’ll let you off light. They’re only goin’ to stretch you over the log and tan you eight or ten times with the leggin’s. ‘Twon’t hurt much.”</p>
+			<p>“Go easy, Marquis,” whispered Rube Fellows, one of the boys that held him. “It’s all in fun. Take it good-natured and they’ll let you off light. They’re only goin’ to stretch you over the log and tan you eight or ten times with the leggin’s. ’Twon’t hurt much.”</p>
 			<p>The Marquis, with an exclamation of anger, his white teeth gleaming, suddenly exhibited a surprising strength. He wrenched with his arms so violently that the four men were swayed and dragged many yards from the log. A cry of anger escaped him, and then Miss Sally, his eyes cleared of the tobacco, saw, and he immediately mixed with the struggling group.</p>
 			<p>But at that moment a loud “Hallo!” rang in their ears, and a buckboard drawn by a team of galloping mustangs spun into the campfire’s circle of light. Every man turned to look, and what they saw drove from their minds all thoughts of carrying out Phonograph Davis’s rather timeworn contribution to the evening’s amusement. Bigger game than the Marquis was at hand, and his captors released him and stood staring at the approaching victim.</p>
 			<p>The buckboard and team belonged to Sam Holly, a cattleman from the Big Muddy. Sam was driving, and with him was a stout, smooth-faced man, wearing a frock coat and a high silk hat. That was the county judge, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Dave Hackett, candidate for reelection. Sam was escorting him about the county, among the camps, to shake up the sovereign voters.</p>
@@ -92,7 +92,7 @@
 			<p>“Why not?” said the cook, with an amused smile. “It’s fun for the boys; and they’ve always let you off pretty light in their frolics. I don’t mind it.”</p>
 			<p>“But you don’t understand,” persisted the Marquis, pleadingly. “That man is county judge, and his acts are binding. I can’t⁠—oh, you don’t know⁠—”</p>
 			<p>The cook stepped forward and took the Marquis’s hands.</p>
-			<p>“Sally Bascom,” he said, “I KNOW!”</p>
+			<p>“Sally Bascom,” he said, “I <b>know</b>!”</p>
 			<p>“You know!” faltered the Marquis, trembling. “And you⁠—want to⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“More than I ever wanted anything. Will you⁠—here come the boys!”</p>
 			<p>The cowpunchers crowded in, laden with armfuls of decorations.</p>

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@@ -51,7 +51,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘All right,’ says I. ‘Then why do you so recklessly chase the bright rainbow of fame? Do you expect to be elected President, or do you belong to a suicide club?’</p>
 			<p>“And then Captain Sam interferes.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘You gentlemen quit jawing and go back to your quarters,’ says he, ‘or I’ll have you escorted to the guard-house. Now, scat, both of you! Before you go, which one of you has got any chewing-tobacco?’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘We’re off, Sam,’ says I. ‘It’s supper-time, anyhow. But what do you think of what we was talking about? I’ve noticed you throwing out a good many grappling-hooks for this here balloon called fame⁠—What’s ambition, anyhow? What does a man risk his life day after day for? Do you know of anything he gets in the end that can pay him for the trouble? I want to go back home,’ says I. ‘I don’t care whether Cuba sinks or swims, and I don’t give a pipeful of rabbit tobacco whether Queen Sophia Christina or Charlie Culberson rules these fairy isles; and I don’t want my name on any list except the list of survivors. But I’ve noticed you, Sam,’ says I, ‘seeking the bubble notoriety in the cannon’s larynx a number of times. Now, what do you do it for? Is it ambition, business, or some freckle-faced Phœbe at home that you are heroing for?’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘We’re off, Sam,’ says I. ‘It’s supper-time, anyhow. But what do you think of what we was talking about? I’ve noticed you throwing out a good many grappling-hooks for this here balloon called fame⁠—What’s ambition, anyhow? What does a man risk his life day after day for? Do you know of anything he gets in the end that can pay him for the trouble? I want to go back home,’ says I. ‘I don’t care whether Cuba sinks or swims, and I don’t give a pipeful of rabbit tobacco whether Queen Sophia Christina or Charlie Culberson rules these fairy isles; and I don’t want my name on any list except the list of survivors. But I’ve noticed you, Sam,’ says I, ‘seeking the bubble notoriety in the cannon’s larynx a number of times. Now, what do you do it for? Is it ambition, business, or some freckle-faced Phoebe at home that you are heroing for?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Well, Ben,’ says Sam, kind of hefting his sword out from between his knees, ‘as your superior officer I could court-martial you for attempted cowardice and desertion. But I won’t. And I’ll tell you why I’m trying for promotion and the usual honors of war and conquest. A major gets more pay than a captain, and I need the money.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Correct for you!’ says I. ‘I can understand that. Your system of fame-seeking is rooted in the deepest soil of patriotism. But I can’t comprehend,’ says I, ‘why Willie Robbins, whose folks at home are well off, and who used to be as meek and undesirous of notice as a cat with cream on his whiskers, should all at once develop into a warrior bold with the most fire-eating kind of proclivities. And the girl in his case seems to have been eliminated by marriage to another fellow. I reckon,’ says I, ‘it’s a plain case of just common ambition. He wants his name, maybe, to go thundering down the coroners of time. It must be that.’</p>
 			<p>“Well, without itemizing his deeds, Willie sure made good as a hero. He simply spent most of his time on his knees begging our captain to send him on forlorn hopes and dangerous scouting expeditions. In every fight he was the first man to mix it at close quarters with the Don Alfonsos. He got three or four bullets planted in various parts of his autonomy. Once he went off with a detail of eight men and captured a whole company of Spanish. He kept Captain Floyd busy writing out recommendations of his bravery to send in to headquarters; and he began to accumulate medals for all kinds of things⁠—heroism and target-shooting and valor and tactics and uninsubordination, and all the little accomplishments that look good to the third assistant secretaries of the War Department.</p>

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@@ -23,7 +23,7 @@
 				<footer>
 					<p>
 						<span epub:type="z3998:valediction">Hastily,</span>
-						<span class="signature">KATY.</span>
+						<span class="signature">Katy.</span>
 					</p>
 				</footer>
 			</blockquote>

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@@ -10,7 +10,7 @@
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Pride of the Cities</h2>
 			<p>Said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Kipling, “The cities are full of pride, challenging each to each.” Even so.</p>
 			<p>New York was empty. Two hundred thousand of its people were away for the summer. Three million eight hundred thousand remained as caretakers and to pay the bills of the absentees. But the two hundred thousand are an expensive lot.</p>
-			<p>The New Yorker sat at a roof-garden table, ingesting solace through a straw. His panama lay upon a chair. The July audience was scattered among vacant seats as widely as outfielders when the champion batter steps to the plate. Vaudeville happened at intervals. The breeze was cool from the bay; around and above⁠—everywhere except on the stage⁠—were stars. Glimpses were to be had of waiters, always disappearing, like startled chamois. Prudent visitors who had ordered refreshments by ‘phone in the morning were now being served. The New Yorker was aware of certain drawbacks to his comfort, but content beamed softly from his rimless eyeglasses. His family was out of town. The drinks were warm; the ballet was suffering from lack of both tune and talcum⁠—but his family would not return until September.</p>
+			<p>The New Yorker sat at a roof-garden table, ingesting solace through a straw. His panama lay upon a chair. The July audience was scattered among vacant seats as widely as outfielders when the champion batter steps to the plate. Vaudeville happened at intervals. The breeze was cool from the bay; around and above⁠—everywhere except on the stage⁠—were stars. Glimpses were to be had of waiters, always disappearing, like startled chamois. Prudent visitors who had ordered refreshments by ’phone in the morning were now being served. The New Yorker was aware of certain drawbacks to his comfort, but content beamed softly from his rimless eyeglasses. His family was out of town. The drinks were warm; the ballet was suffering from lack of both tune and talcum⁠—but his family would not return until September.</p>
 			<p>Then up into the garden stumbled the man from Topaz City, Nevada. The gloom of the solitary sightseer enwrapped him. Bereft of joy through loneliness, he stalked with a widower’s face through the halls of pleasure. Thirst for human companionship possessed him as he panted in the metropolitan draught. Straight to the New Yorker’s table he steered.</p>
 			<p>The New Yorker, disarmed and made reckless by the lawless atmosphere of a roof garden, decided upon utter abandonment of his life’s traditions. He resolved to shatter with one rash, daredevil, impulsive, hair-brained act the conventions that had hitherto been woven into his existence. Carrying out this radical and precipitous inspiration he nodded slightly to the stranger as he drew nearer the table.</p>
 			<p>The next moment found the man from Topaz City in the list of the New Yorker’s closest friends. He took a chair at the table, he gathered two others for his feet, he tossed his broad-brimmed hat upon a fourth, and told his life’s history to his newfound pard.</p>

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@@ -11,7 +11,7 @@
 			<p>There had to be a king and queen, of course. The king was a terrible old man who wore six-shooters and spurs, and shouted in such a tremendous voice that the rattlers on the prairie would run into their holes under the prickly pear. Before there was a royal family they called the man “Whispering Ben.” When he came to own 50,000 acres of land and more cattle than he could count, they called him O’Donnell “the Cattle King.”</p>
 			<p>The queen had been a Mexican girl from Laredo. She made a good, mild, Colorado-claro wife, and even succeeded in teaching Ben to modify his voice sufficiently while in the house to keep the dishes from being broken. When Ben got to be king she would sit on the gallery of Espinosa Ranch and weave rush mats. When wealth became so irresistible and oppressive that upholstered chairs and a centre table were brought down from San Antone in the wagons, she bowed her smooth, dark head, and shared the fate of the Danae.</p>
 			<p>To avoid lèse-majesté you have been presented first to the king and queen. They do not enter the story, which might be called “The Chronicle of the Princess, the Happy Thought, and the Lion that Bungled his Job.”</p>
-			<p>Josefa O’Donnell was the surviving daughter, the princess. From her mother she inherited warmth of nature and a dusky, semi-tropic beauty. From Ben O’Donnell the royal she acquired a store of intrepidity, common sense, and the faculty of ruling. The combination was one worth going miles to see. Josefa while riding her pony at a gallop could put five out of six bullets through a tomato-can swinging at the end of a string. She could play for hours with a white kitten she owned, dressing it in all manner of absurd clothes. Scorning a pencil, she could tell you out of her head what 1545 two-year-olds would bring on the hoof, at $8.50 per head. Roughly speaking, the Espinosa Ranch is forty miles long and thirty broad⁠—but mostly leased land. Josefa, on her pony, had prospected over every mile of it. Every cowpuncher on the range knew her by sight and was a loyal vassal. Ripley Givens, foreman of one of the Espinosa outfits, saw her one day, and made up his mind to form a royal matrimonial alliance. Presumptuous? No. In those days in the Nueces country a man was a man. And, after all, the title of cattle king does not presuppose blood royalty. Often it only signifies that its owner wears the crown in token of his magnificent qualities in the art of cattle stealing.</p>
+			<p>Josefa O’Donnell was the surviving daughter, the princess. From her mother she inherited warmth of nature and a dusky, semi-tropic beauty. From Ben O’Donnell the royal she acquired a store of intrepidity, common sense, and the faculty of ruling. The combination was one worth going miles to see. Josefa while riding her pony at a gallop could put five out of six bullets through a tomato-can swinging at the end of a string. She could play for hours with a white kitten she owned, dressing it in all manner of absurd clothes. Scorning a pencil, she could tell you out of her head what 1,545 two-year-olds would bring on the hoof, at $8.50 per head. Roughly speaking, the Espinosa Ranch is forty miles long and thirty broad⁠—but mostly leased land. Josefa, on her pony, had prospected over every mile of it. Every cowpuncher on the range knew her by sight and was a loyal vassal. Ripley Givens, foreman of one of the Espinosa outfits, saw her one day, and made up his mind to form a royal matrimonial alliance. Presumptuous? No. In those days in the Nueces country a man was a man. And, after all, the title of cattle king does not presuppose blood royalty. Often it only signifies that its owner wears the crown in token of his magnificent qualities in the art of cattle stealing.</p>
 			<p>One day Ripley Givens rode over to the Double Elm Ranch to inquire about a bunch of strayed yearlings. He was late in setting out on his return trip, and it was sundown when he struck the White Horse Crossing of the Nueces. From there to his own camp it was sixteen miles. To the Espinosa ranch it was twelve. Givens was tired. He decided to pass the night at the Crossing.</p>
 			<p>There was a fine water hole in the riverbed. The banks were thickly covered with great trees, undergrown with brush. Back from the water hole fifty yards was a stretch of curly mesquite grass⁠—supper for his horse and bed for himself. Givens staked his horse, and spread out his saddle blankets to dry. He sat down with his back against a tree and rolled a cigarette. From somewhere in the dense timber along the river came a sudden, rageful, shivering wail. The pony danced at the end of his rope and blew a whistling snort of comprehending fear. Givens puffed at his cigarette, but he reached leisurely for his pistol-belt, which lay on the grass, and twirled the cylinder of his weapon tentatively. A great gar plunged with a loud splash into the water hole. A little brown rabbit skipped around a bunch of catclaw and sat twitching his whiskers and looking humorously at Givens. The pony went on eating grass.</p>
 			<p>It is well to be reasonably watchful when a Mexican lion sings soprano along the arroyos at sundown. The burden of his song may be that young calves and fat lambs are scarce, and that he has a carnivorous desire for your acquaintance.</p>
@@ -35,7 +35,7 @@
 			<p>“Poor old Bill was hungry,” interrupted Givens, in quick defence of the deceased. “We always made him jump for his supper in camp. He would lie down and roll over for a piece of meat. When he saw you he thought he was going to get something to eat from you.”</p>
 			<p>Suddenly Josefa’s eyes opened wide.</p>
 			<p>“I might have shot you!” she exclaimed. “You ran right in between. You risked your life to save your pet! That was fine, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Givens. I like a man who is kind to animals.”</p>
-			<p>Yes; there was even admiration in her gaze now. After all, there was a hero rising out of the ruins of the anticlimax. The look on Givens’s face would have secured him a high position in the <abbr class="initialism">SPCA</abbr>.</p>
+			<p>Yes; there was even admiration in her gaze now. After all, there was a hero rising out of the ruins of the anticlimax. The look on Givens’s face would have secured him a high position in the <abbr class="initialism eoc">SPCA</abbr>.</p>
 			<p>“I always loved ’em,” said he; “horses, dogs, Mexican lions, cows, alligators⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“I hate alligators,” instantly demurred Josefa; “crawly, muddy things!”</p>
 			<p>“Did I say alligators?” said Givens. “I meant antelopes, of course.”</p>

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@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<p>Down the street went Calliope, shooting right and left. Glass fell like hail; dogs vamosed; chickens flew, squawking; feminine voices shrieked concernedly to youngsters at large. The din was perforated at intervals by the staccato of the Terror’s guns, and was drowned periodically by the brazen screech that Quicksand knew so well. The occasions of Calliope’s low spirits were legal holidays in Quicksand. All along the main street in advance of his coming clerks were putting up shutters and closing doors. Business would languish for a space. The right of way was Calliope’s, and as he advanced, observing the dearth of opposition and the few opportunities for distraction, his ennui perceptibly increased.</p>
 			<p>But some four squares farther down lively preparations were being made to minister to <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Catesby’s love for interchange of compliments and repartee. On the previous night numerous messengers had hastened to advise Buck Patterson, the city marshal, of Calliope’s impending eruption. The patience of that official, often strained in extending leniency toward the disturber’s misdeeds, had been overtaxed. In Quicksand some indulgence was accorded the natural ebullition of human nature. Providing that the lives of the more useful citizens were not recklessly squandered, or too much property needlessly laid waste, the community sentiment was against a too strict enforcement of the law. But Calliope had raised the limit. His outbursts had been too frequent and too violent to come within the classification of a normal and sanitary relaxation of spirit.</p>
 			<p>Buck Patterson had been expecting and awaiting in his little ten-by-ywelve frame office that preliminary yell announcing that Calliope was feeling blue. When the signal came the city marshal rose to his feet and buckled on his guns. Two deputy sheriffs and three citizens who had proven the edible qualities of fire also stood up, ready to bandy with Calliope’s leaden jocularities.</p>
-			<p>“Gather that fellow in,” said Buck Patterson, setting forth the lines of the campaign. “Don’t have no talk, but shoot as soon as you can get a show. Keep behind cover and bring him down. He’s a nogood ‘un. It’s up to Calliope to turn up his toes this time, I reckon. Go to him all spraddled out, boys. And don’t git too reckless, for what Calliope shoots at he hits.”</p>
+			<p>“Gather that fellow in,” said Buck Patterson, setting forth the lines of the campaign. “Don’t have no talk, but shoot as soon as you can get a show. Keep behind cover and bring him down. He’s a nogood ’un. It’s up to Calliope to turn up his toes this time, I reckon. Go to him all spraddled out, boys. And don’t git too reckless, for what Calliope shoots at he hits.”</p>
 			<p>Buck Patterson, tall, muscular, and solemn-faced, with his bright “City Marshal” badge shining on the breast of his blue flannel shirt, gave his posse directions for the onslaught upon Calliope. The plan was to accomplish the downfall of the Quicksand Terror without loss to the attacking party, if possible.</p>
 			<p>The splenetic Calliope, unconscious of retributive plots, was steaming down the channel, cannonading on either side, when he suddenly became aware of breakers ahead. The city marshal and one of the deputies rose up behind some dry-goods boxes half a square to the front and opened fire. At the same time the rest of the posse, divided, shelled him from two side streets up which they were cautiously manoeuvring from a well-executed detour.</p>
 			<p>The first volley broke the lock of one of Calliope’s guns, cut a neat underbit in his right ear, and exploded a cartridge in his crossbelt, scorching his ribs as it burst. Feeling braced up by this unexpected tonic to his spiritual depression, Calliope executed a fortissimo note from his upper register, and returned the fire like an echo. The upholders of the law dodged at his flash, but a trifle too late to save one of the deputies a bullet just above the elbow, and the marshal a bleeding cheek from a splinter that a ball tore from the box he had ducked behind.</p>

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@@ -38,11 +38,11 @@
 			<hr/>
 			<p>I am telling you that Dodson, of the firm of Dodson &amp; Decker, Wall Street brokers, opened his eyes. Peabody, the confidential clerk, was standing by his chair, hesitating to speak. There was a confused hum of wheels below, and the sedative buzz of an electric fan.</p>
 			<p>“Ahem! Peabody,” said Dodson, blinking. “I must have fallen asleep. I had a most remarkable dream. What is it, Peabody?”</p>
-			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Williams, sir, of Tracy &amp; Williams, is outside. He has come to settle his deal in <abbr class="initialism">XYX</abbr>. The market caught him short, sir, if you remember.”</p>
+			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Williams, sir, of Tracy &amp; Williams, is outside. He has come to settle his deal in <abbr class="initialism eoc">XYX</abbr>. The market caught him short, sir, if you remember.”</p>
 			<p>“Yes, I remember. What is <abbr class="initialism">XYZ</abbr> quoted at today, Peabody?”</p>
 			<p>“One eighty-five, sir.”</p>
 			<p>“Then that’s his price.”</p>
-			<p>“Excuse me,” said Peabody, rather nervously “for speaking of it, but I’ve been talking to Williams. He’s an old friend of yours, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Dodson, and you practically have a corner in <abbr class="initialism">XYX</abbr>. I thought you might⁠—that is, I thought you might not remember that he sold you the stock at 98. If he settles at the market price it will take every cent he has in the world and his home too to deliver the shares.”</p>
+			<p>“Excuse me,” said Peabody, rather nervously “for speaking of it, but I’ve been talking to Williams. He’s an old friend of yours, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Dodson, and you practically have a corner in <abbr class="initialism eoc">XYX</abbr>. I thought you might⁠—that is, I thought you might not remember that he sold you the stock at 98. If he settles at the market price it will take every cent he has in the world and his home too to deliver the shares.”</p>
 			<p>The expression on Dodson’s face changed in an instant to one of cold ferocity mingled with inexorable cupidity. The soul of the man showed itself for a moment like an evil face in the window of a reputable house.</p>
 			<p>“He will settle at one eighty-five,” said Dodson. “Bolivar cannot carry double.”</p>
 		</section>

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@@ -37,7 +37,7 @@
 			<p>She looked up at him with a smile. A soft pink crept over her cheek, and her eyes were kind and frank. Maxwell leaned one elbow on her desk. He still clutched fluttering papers with both hands and the pen was above his ear.</p>
 			<p>“Miss Leslie,” he began hurriedly, “I have but a moment to spare. I want to say something in that moment. Will you be my wife? I haven’t had time to make love to you in the ordinary way, but I really do love you. Talk quick, please⁠—those fellows are clubbing the stuffing out of Union Pacific.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, what are you talking about?” exclaimed the young lady. She rose to her feet and gazed upon him, round-eyed.</p>
-			<p>“Don’t you understand?” said Maxwell, restively. “I want you to marry me. I love you, Miss Leslie. I wanted to tell you, and I snatched a minute when things had slackened up a bit. They’re calling me for the ‘phone now. Tell ’em to wait a minute, Pitcher. Won’t you, Miss Leslie?”</p>
+			<p>“Don’t you understand?” said Maxwell, restively. “I want you to marry me. I love you, Miss Leslie. I wanted to tell you, and I snatched a minute when things had slackened up a bit. They’re calling me for the ’phone now. Tell ’em to wait a minute, Pitcher. Won’t you, Miss Leslie?”</p>
 			<p>The stenographer acted very queerly. At first she seemed overcome with amazement; then tears flowed from her wondering eyes; and then she smiled sunnily through them, and one of her arms slid tenderly about the broker’s neck.</p>
 			<p>“I know now,” she said, softly. “It’s this old business that has driven everything else out of your head for the time. I was frightened at first. Don’t you remember, Harvey? We were married last evening at 8 o’clock in the Little Church Around the Corner.”</p>
 		</section>

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@@ -49,7 +49,7 @@
 			<p>“The apple,” continued Judge Menefee, charging his jury, “in modern days occupies, though undeservedly, a lowly place in our esteem. Indeed, it is so constantly associated with the culinary and the commercial that it is hardly to be classed among the polite fruits. But in ancient times this was not so. Biblical, historical, and mythological lore abounds with evidences that the apple was the aristocrat of fruits. We still say ‘the apple of the eye’ when we wish to describe something superlatively precious. We find in Proverbs the comparison to ‘apples of silver.’ No other product of tree or vine has been so utilised in figurative speech. Who has not heard of and longed for the ‘apples of the Hesperides’? I need not call your attention to the most tremendous and significant instance of the apple’s ancient prestige when its consumption by our first parents occasioned the fall of man from his state of goodness and perfection.”</p>
 			<p>“Apples like them,” said the windmill man, lingering with the objective article, “are worth $3.50 a barrel in the Chicago market.”</p>
 			<p>“Now, what I have to propose,” said Judge Menefee, conceding an indulgent smile to his interrupter, “is this: We must remain here, perforce, until morning. We have wood in plenty to keep us warm. Our next need is to entertain ourselves as best we can, in order that the time shall not pass too slowly. I propose that we place this apple in the hands of Miss Garland. It is no longer a fruit, but, as I said, a prize, in award, representing a great human idea. Miss Garland, herself, shall cease to be an individual⁠—but only temporarily, I am happy to add”⁠—(a low bow, full of the old-time grace). “She shall represent her sex; she shall be the embodiment, the epitome of womankind⁠—the heart and brain, I may say, of God’s masterpiece of creation. In this guise she shall judge and decide the question which follows:</p>
-			<p>“But a few minutes ago our friend, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Rose, favoured us with an entertaining but fragmentary sketch of the romance in the life of the former professor of this habitation. The few facts that we have learned seem to me to open up a fascinating field for conjecture, for the study of human hearts, for the exercise of the imagination⁠—in short, for story-telling. Let us make use of the opportunity. Let each one of us relate his own version of the story of Redruth, the hermit, and his ladylove, beginning where <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Rose’s narrative ends⁠—at the parting of the lovers at the gate. This much should be assumed and conceded⁠—that the young lady was not necessarily to blame for Redruth’s becoming a crazed and world-hating hermit. When we have done, Miss Garland shall render the JUDGEMENT OF WOMAN. As the Spirit of her Sex she shall decide which version of the story best and most truly depicts human and love interest, and most faithfully estimates the character and acts of Redruth’s betrothed according to the feminine view. The apple shall be bestowed upon him who is awarded the decision. If you are all agreed, we shall be pleased to hear the first story from <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Dinwiddie.”</p>
+			<p>“But a few minutes ago our friend, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Rose, favoured us with an entertaining but fragmentary sketch of the romance in the life of the former professor of this habitation. The few facts that we have learned seem to me to open up a fascinating field for conjecture, for the study of human hearts, for the exercise of the imagination⁠—in short, for story-telling. Let us make use of the opportunity. Let each one of us relate his own version of the story of Redruth, the hermit, and his ladylove, beginning where <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Rose’s narrative ends⁠—at the parting of the lovers at the gate. This much should be assumed and conceded⁠—that the young lady was not necessarily to blame for Redruth’s becoming a crazed and world-hating hermit. When we have done, Miss Garland shall render the <b>judgment of woman</b>. As the Spirit of her Sex she shall decide which version of the story best and most truly depicts human and love interest, and most faithfully estimates the character and acts of Redruth’s betrothed according to the feminine view. The apple shall be bestowed upon him who is awarded the decision. If you are all agreed, we shall be pleased to hear the first story from <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Dinwiddie.”</p>
 			<p>The last sentence captured the windmill man. He was not one to linger in the dumps.</p>
 			<p>“That’s a first-rate scheme, Judge,” he said, heartily. “Be a regular short-story vaudeville, won’t it? I used to be correspondent for a paper in Springfield, and when there wasn’t any news I faked it. Guess I can do my turn all right.”</p>
 			<p>“I think the idea is charming,” said the lady passenger, brightly. “It will be almost like a game.”</p>

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@@ -20,7 +20,7 @@
 			<p>But let us get away from our mutton.</p>
 			<p>When the returned nobleman finds that the one-talented servant has nothing to hand over except the original fund entrusted to him, he is as angry as a multi-millionaire would be if someone should hide under his bed and make a noise like an assessment. He orders the unprofitable servant cast into outer darkness, after first taking away his talent and giving it to the one-hundred-percent financier, and breathing strange saws, saying: “From him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.” Which is the same as to say: “Nothing from nothing leaves nothing.”</p>
 			<p>And now closer draw the threads of parable, precept allegory, and narrative, leading nowhere if you will, or else weaving themselves into the little fiction story about Cliff McGowan and his one talent. There is but a definition to follow; and then the homely actors trip on.</p>
-			<p>Talent: A gift, endowment or faculty; some peculiar ability, power, or accomplishment, natural or acquired. (A metaphor borrowed from the parable in Matt. <span epub:type="z3998:roman">XXV</span>. 14⁠–⁠30.)</p>
+			<p>Talent: A gift, endowment or faculty; some peculiar ability, power, or accomplishment, natural or acquired. (A metaphor borrowed from the parable in Matt. <span epub:type="z3998:roman">XXV</span> 14⁠–⁠30.)</p>
 			<p>In New York City today there are (estimated) 125,000 living creatures training for the stage. This does not include seals, pigs, dogs, elephants, prizefighters, Carmens, mind-readers, or Japanese wrestlers. The bulk of them are in the ranks of the Four Million. Out of this number will survive a thousand.</p>
 			<p>Nine hundred of these will have attained their fullness of fame when they shall dubiously indicate with the point of a hatpin a blurred figure in a flashlight photograph of a stage tout ensemble with the proud commentary: “That’s me.”</p>
 			<p>Eighty, in the pinkest of (male) Louis <span epub:type="z3998:roman">XIV</span> court costumes, shall welcome the Queen of the (mythical) Pawpaw Isles in a few well-memorized words, turning a tip-tilted nose upon the nine hundred.</p>

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@@ -56,7 +56,7 @@
 			<p>“The first thing, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Wahrfield and his daughter and I took the grip into the owner’s cabin, opened it up, and took an inventory. There was one hundred and five thousand dollars, United States treasury notes, in it, besides a lot of diamond jewelry and a couple of hundred Havana cigars. I gave the old man the cigars and a receipt for the rest of the lot, as agent for the company, and locked the stuff up in my private quarters.</p>
 			<p>“I never had a pleasanter trip than that one. After we got to sea the young lady turned out to be the jolliest ever. The very first time we sat down to dinner, and the steward filled her glass with champagne⁠—that director’s yacht was a regular floating Waldorf-Astoria⁠—she winks at me and says, ‘What’s the use to borrow trouble, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fly Cop? Here’s hoping you may live to eat the hen that scratches on your grave.’ There was a piano on board, and she sat down to it and sung better than you give up two cases to hear plenty times. She knew about nine operas clear through. She was sure enough bon ton and swell. She wasn’t one of the ‘among others present’ kind; she belonged on the special mention list!</p>
 			<p>“The old man, too, perked up amazingly on the way. He passed the cigars, and says to me once, quite chipper, out of a cloud of smoke, ‘<abbr>Mr.</abbr> O’Day, somehow I think the Republic Company will not give me the much trouble. Guard well the gripvalise of the money, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> O’Day, for that it must be returned to them that it belongs when we finish to arrive.’</p>
-			<p>“When we landed in New York I ‘phoned to the chief to meet us in that director’s office. We got in a cab and went there. I carried the grip, and we walked in, and I was pleased to see that the chief had got together that same old crowd of moneybugs with pink faces and white vests to see us march in. I set the grip on the table. ‘There’s the money,’ I said.</p>
+			<p>“When we landed in New York I ’phoned to the chief to meet us in that director’s office. We got in a cab and went there. I carried the grip, and we walked in, and I was pleased to see that the chief had got together that same old crowd of moneybugs with pink faces and white vests to see us march in. I set the grip on the table. ‘There’s the money,’ I said.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘And your prisoner?’ said the chief.</p>
 			<p>“I pointed to <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Wahrfield, and he stepped forward and says:</p>
 			<p>“ ‘The honour of a word with you, sir, to explain.’</p>

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@@ -43,7 +43,7 @@
 			<p>Then an idea came to him that brought a pleased look to his face.</p>
 			<p>He removed his socks, drew his cot close to the door, stretched himself out luxuriously, and placed his tortured feet against the cold bars of the cell door. Something hard and bulky under the blankets of his cot gave one shoulder discomfort. He reached under, and drew out a paper-covered volume by Clark Russell called “A Sailor’s Sweetheart.” He gave a great sigh of contentment.</p>
 			<p>Presently, to his cell came the doorman and said:</p>
-			<p>“Say, kid, that old gazabo that was pinched with you for scrapping seems to have been the goods after all. He ‘phoned to his friends, and he’s out at the desk now with a roll of yellowbacks as big as a Pullman car pillow. He wants to bail you, and for you to come out and see him.”</p>
+			<p>“Say, kid, that old gazabo that was pinched with you for scrapping seems to have been the goods after all. He ’phoned to his friends, and he’s out at the desk now with a roll of yellowbacks as big as a Pullman car pillow. He wants to bail you, and for you to come out and see him.”</p>
 			<p>“Tell him I ain’t in,” said James Turner.</p>
 		</section>
 	</body>

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@@ -43,7 +43,7 @@
 			<p>“I work,” declared <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Parkenstacker, “in a restaurant.”</p>
 			<p>The girl shrank slightly.</p>
 			<p>“Not as a waiter?” she said, a little imploringly. “Labor is noble, but personal attendance, you know⁠—valets and⁠—”</p>
-			<p>“I am not a waiter. I am cashier in”⁠—on the street they faced that bounded the opposite side of the park was the brilliant electric sign “RESTAURANT”⁠—“I am cashier in that restaurant you see there.”</p>
+			<p>“I am not a waiter. I am cashier in”⁠—on the street they faced that bounded the opposite side of the park was the brilliant electric sign “<b>restaurant</b>”⁠—“I am cashier in that restaurant you see there.”</p>
 			<p>The girl consulted a tiny watch set in a bracelet of rich design upon her left wrist, and rose, hurriedly. She thrust her book into a glittering reticule suspended from her waist, for which, however, the book was too large.</p>
 			<p>“Why are you not at work?” she asked.</p>
 			<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>

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@@ -37,7 +37,7 @@
 			<p>As the surrey swept even with the sidetracked tramp, the bright-eyed girl, seized by some merry, madcap impulse, leaned out toward him with a sweet, dazzling smile, and cried, “Merry Christmas!” in a shrill, plaintive treble.</p>
 			<p>Such a thing had not often happened to Whistling Dick, and he felt handicapped in devising the correct response. But lacking time for reflection, he let his instinct decide, and snatching off his battered derby, he rapidly extended it at arm’s length, and drew it back with a continuous motion, and shouted a loud, but ceremonious, “Ah, there!” after the flying surrey.</p>
 			<p>The sudden movement of the girl had caused one of the parcels to become unwrapped, and something limp and black fell from it into the road. The tramp picked it up, and found it to be a new black silk stocking, long and fine and slender. It crunched crisply, and yet with a luxurious softness, between his fingers.</p>
-			<p>“Ther bloomin’ little skeezicks!” said Whistling Dick, with a broad grin bisecting his freckled face. “W’ot d’ yer think of dat, now! Merry Chris-mus! Sounded like a cuckoo clock, da’ts what she did. Dem guys is swells, too, bet yer life, an’ der old ‘un stacks dem sacks of dough down under his trotters like dey was common as dried apples. Been shoppin’ for Chrismus, and de kid’s lost one of her new socks w’ot she was goin’ to hold up Santy wid. De bloomin’ little skeezicks! Wit’ her ‘Merry Chris-mus!’ W’ot d’ yer t’ink! Same as to say, ‘Hello, Jack, how goes it?’ and as swell as Fift’ Av’noo, and as easy as a blowout in Cincinnat.”</p>
+			<p>“Ther bloomin’ little skeezicks!” said Whistling Dick, with a broad grin bisecting his freckled face. “W’ot d’ yer think of dat, now! Merry Chris-mus! Sounded like a cuckoo clock, da’ts what she did. Dem guys is swells, too, bet yer life, an’ der old ’un stacks dem sacks of dough down under his trotters like dey was common as dried apples. Been shoppin’ for Chrismus, and de kid’s lost one of her new socks w’ot she was goin’ to hold up Santy wid. De bloomin’ little skeezicks! Wit’ her ‘Merry Chris-mus!’ W’ot d’ yer t’ink! Same as to say, ‘Hello, Jack, how goes it?’ and as swell as Fift’ Av’noo, and as easy as a blowout in Cincinnat.”</p>
 			<p>Whistling Dick folded the stocking carefully, and stuffed it into his pocket.</p>
 			<p>It was nearly two hours later when he came upon signs of habitation. The buildings of an extensive plantation were brought into view by a turn in the road. He easily selected the planter’s residence in a large square building with two wings, with numerous good-sized, well-lighted windows, and broad verandas running around its full extent. It was set upon a smooth lawn, which was faintly lit by the far-reaching rays of the lamps within. A noble grove surrounded it, and old-fashioned shrubbery grew thickly about the walks and fences. The quarters of the hands and the mill buildings were situated at a distance in the rear.</p>
 			<p>The road was now enclosed on each side by a fence, and presently, as Whistling Dick drew nearer the house, he suddenly stopped and sniffed the air.</p>
@@ -101,7 +101,7 @@
 				<p>Dere is five tuff hoboes xcept meself in the vaken lot near de road war de old brick piles is. Dey got me stuck up wid a gun see and I taken dis means of communication. 2 of der lads is gone down to set fire to de cain field below de hous and when yous fellers goes to turn de hoes on it de hole gang is goin to rob de hous of de money yoo gotto pay off wit say git a move on ye say de kid dropt dis sock in der rode tel her mery crismus de same as she told me. Ketch de bums down de rode first and den sen a relefe core to get me out of soke youres truly,</p>
 				<p class="signature">Whistlen Dick</p>
 			</blockquote>
-			<p>There was some quiet, but rapid, mavœuvring at Bellemeade during the ensuring half hour, which ended in five disgusted and sullen tramps being captured, and locked securely in an outhouse pending the coming of the morning and retribution. For another result, the visiting young gentlemen had secured the unqualified worship of the visiting young ladies by their distinguished and heroic conduct. For still another, behold Whistling Dick, the hero, seated at the planter’s table, feasting upon viands his experience had never before included, and waited upon by admiring femininity in shapes of such beauty and “swellness” that even his ever-full mouth could scarcely prevent him from whistling. He was made to disclose in detail his adventure with the evil gang of Boston Harry, and how he cunningly wrote the note and wrapped it around the stone and placed it at the toe of the stocking, and, watching his chance, sent it silently, with a wonderful centrifugal momentum, like a comet, at one of the big lighted windows of the dining-room.</p>
+			<p>There was some quiet, but rapid, mavoeuvring at Bellemeade during the ensuring half hour, which ended in five disgusted and sullen tramps being captured, and locked securely in an outhouse pending the coming of the morning and retribution. For another result, the visiting young gentlemen had secured the unqualified worship of the visiting young ladies by their distinguished and heroic conduct. For still another, behold Whistling Dick, the hero, seated at the planter’s table, feasting upon viands his experience had never before included, and waited upon by admiring femininity in shapes of such beauty and “swellness” that even his ever-full mouth could scarcely prevent him from whistling. He was made to disclose in detail his adventure with the evil gang of Boston Harry, and how he cunningly wrote the note and wrapped it around the stone and placed it at the toe of the stocking, and, watching his chance, sent it silently, with a wonderful centrifugal momentum, like a comet, at one of the big lighted windows of the dining-room.</p>
 			<p>The planter vowed that the wanderer should wander no more; that his was a goodness and an honesty that should be rewarded, and that a debt of gratitude had been made that must be paid; for had he not saved them from a doubtless imminent loss, and maybe a greater calamity? He assured Whistling Dick that he might consider himself a charge upon the honour of Bellemeade; that a position suited to his powers would be found for him at once, and hinted that the way would be heartily smoothed for him to rise to as high places of emolument and trust as the plantation afforded.</p>
 			<p>But now, they said, he must be weary, and the immediate thing to consider was rest and sleep. So the mistress spoke to a servant, and Whistling Dick was conducted to a room in the wing of the house occupied by the servants. To this room, in a few minutes, was brought a portable tin bathtub filled with water, which was placed on a piece of oiled cloth upon the floor. There the vagrant was left to pass the night.</p>
 			<p>By the light of a candle he examined the room. A bed, with the covers neatly turned back, revealed snowy pillows and sheets. A worn, but clean, red carpet covered the floor. There was a dresser with a beveled mirror, a washstand with a flowered bowl and pitcher; the two or three chairs were softly upholstered. A little table held books, papers, and a day-old cluster of roses in a jar. There were towels on a rack and soap in a white dish.</p>

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@@ -20,7 +20,7 @@
 			<p>Two days afterward the customer came in.</p>
 			<p>“Two loafs of stale bread, if you blease.</p>
 			<p>“You haf here a fine bicture, madame,” he said while she was wrapping up the bread.</p>
-			<p>“Yes?” says Miss Martha, revelling in her own cunning. “I do so admire art and” (no, it would not do to say “artists” thus early) “and paintings,” she substituted. “You think it is a good picture?”</p>
+			   <p>“Yes?” says Miss Martha, revelling in her own cunning. “I do so admire art and” (no, it would not do to say “artists” thus early) “and paintings,” she substituted. “You think it is a good picture?”</p>
 			<p>“Der balance,” said the customer, “is not in good drawing. Der bairspective of it is not true. Goot morning, madame.”</p>
 			<p>He took his bread, bowed, and hurried out.</p>
 			<p>Yes, he must be an artist. Miss Martha took the picture back to her room.</p>