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@@ -104,6 +104,10 @@ p span.i3{
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+[epub|type~="z3998:salutation"]{
+    text-align: left;
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@@ -266,4 +270,14 @@ p.signature{
 #reconciliation p:last-child{
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-}
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+#a-bird-of-bagdad header{
+    margin-bottom: 2em;
+    margin-top: 1em
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+#a-bird-of-bagdad header > p{
+    font-variant: small-caps;
+    text-align: center;
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@@ -11,7 +11,7 @@
 			<p>Without a doubt much of the spirit and genius of the Caliph Harun Al Rashid descended to the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg.</p>
 			<p>Quigg’s restaurant is in Fourth Avenue⁠—that street that the city seems to have forgotten in its growth. Fourth Avenue⁠—born and bred in the Bowery⁠—staggers northward full of good resolutions.</p>
 			<p>Where it crosses Fourteenth Street it struts for a brief moment proudly in the glare of the museums and cheap theatres. It may yet become a fit mate for its highborn sister boulevard to the west, or its roaring, polyglot, broad-waisted cousin to the east. It passes Union Square; and here the hoofs of the dray horses seem to thunder in unison, recalling the tread of marching hosts⁠—Hooray! But now come the silent and terrible mountains⁠—buildings square as forts, high as the clouds, shutting out the sky, where thousands of slaves bend over desks all day. On the ground floors are only little fruit shops and laundries and book shops, where you see copies of “Littell’s Living Age” and <abbr class="name">G. W. M.</abbr> Reynold’s novels in the windows. And next⁠—poor Fourth Avenue!⁠—the street glides into a medieval solitude. On each side are shops devoted to “Antiques.”</p>
-			<p>Let us say it is night. Men in rusty armor stand in the windows and menace the hurrying cars with raised, rusty iron gauntlets. Hauberks and helms, blunderbusses, Cromwellian breastplates, matchlocks, creeses, and the swords and daggers of an army of dead-and-gone gallants gleam dully in the ghostly light. Here and there from a corner saloon (lit with Jack-o’-lanterns or phosphorus), stagger forth shuddering, home-bound citizens, nerved by the tankards within to their fearsome journey adown that eldrich avenue lined with the bloodstained weapons of the fighting dead. What street could live inclosed by these mortuary relics, and trod by these spectral citizens in whose sunken hearts scarce one good whoop or tra-la-la remained?</p>
+			<p>Let us say it is night. Men in rusty armor stand in the windows and menace the hurrying cars with raised, rusty iron gauntlets. Hauberks and helms, blunderbusses, Cromwellian breastplates, matchlocks, creeses, and the swords and daggers of an army of dead-and-gone gallants gleam dully in the ghostly light. Here and there from a corner saloon (lit with Jack-o’-lanterns or phosphorus), stagger forth shuddering, home-bound citizens, nerved by the tankards within to their fearsome journey adown that eldrich avenue lined with the bloodstained weapons of the fighting dead. What street could live enclosed by these mortuary relics, and trod by these spectral citizens in whose sunken hearts scarce one good whoop or tra-la-la remained?</p>
 			<p>Not Fourth Avenue. Not after the tinsel but enlivening glories of the Little Rialto⁠—not after the echoing drumbeats of Union Square. There need be no tears, ladies and gentlemen; ’tis but the suicide of a street. With a shriek and a crash Fourth Avenue dives headlong into the tunnel at Thirty-fourth and is never seen again.</p>
 			<p>Near the sad scene of the thoroughfare’s dissolution stood the modest restaurant of Quigg. It stands there yet if you care to view its crumbling redbrick front, its show window heaped with oranges, tomatoes, layer cakes, pies, canned asparagus⁠—its papier-mâché lobster and two Maltese kittens asleep on a bunch of lettuce⁠—if you care to sit at one of the little tables upon whose cloth has been traced in the yellowest of coffee stains the trail of the Japanese advance⁠—to sit there with one eye on your umbrella and the other upon the bogus bottle from which you drop the counterfeit sauce foisted upon us by the cursed charlatan who assumes to be our dear old lord and friend, the “Nobleman in India.”</p>
 			<p>Quigg’s title came through his mother. One of her ancestors was a Margravine of Saxony. His father was a Tammany brave. On account of the dilution of his heredity he found that he could neither become a reigning potentate nor get a job in the City Hall. So he opened a restaurant. He was a man full of thought and reading. The business gave him a living, though he gave it little attention. One side of his house bequeathed to him a poetic and romantic adventure. The other gave him the restless spirit that made him seek adventure. By day he was Quigg, the restaurateur. By night he was the Margrave⁠—the Caliph⁠—the Prince of Bohemia⁠—going about the city in search of the odd, the mysterious, the inexplicable, the recondite.</p>
@@ -29,9 +29,9 @@
 			<p>“Gee, how you talk!” exclaimed the young man, a gleam of admiration supplanting for a moment the dull sadness of his eyes. “You’ve got the Astor Library skinned to a synopsis of preceding chapters. I mind that old Turk you speak of. I read ‘The Arabian Nights’ when I was a kid. He was a kind of Bill Devery and Charlie Schwab rolled into one. But, say, you might wave enchanted dishrags and make copper bottles smoke up coon giants all night without ever touching me. My case won’t yield to that kind of treatment.”</p>
 			<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>
-			</p>
+			<header>
+				<p>The Story of the Young Man and the Harness Maker’s Riddle</p>
+			</header>
 			<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>
 			<p>“Me? Well, it’s either me or Bill Watson. She treats us both equal. Bill is all to the psychopathic about her; and me?⁠—well, you saw me plating the roadbed of the Great Maroon Way with silver tonight. That was on account of Laura. I was spiflicated, Your Highness, and I wot not of what I wouldst.</p>

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@@ -90,7 +90,7 @@
 			<p>Evidently the colonel did not believe the story of his lost wealth; so Goree retired again into brooding silence.</p>
 			<p>By late Afternoon they had travelled ten of the twelve miles between Bethel and Laurel. Half a mile this side of Laurel lay the old Goree place; a mile or two beyond the village lived the Coltranes. The road was now steep and laborious, but the compensations were many. The tilted aisles of the forest were opulent with leaf and bird and bloom. The tonic air put to shame the pharmacopaeia. The glades were dark with mossy shade, and bright with shy rivulets winking from the ferns and laurels. On the lower side they viewed, framed in the near foliage, exquisite sketches of the far valley swooning in its opal haze.</p>
 			<p>Coltrane was pleased to see that his companion was yielding to the spell of the hills and woods. For now they had but to skirt the base of Painter’s Cliff; to cross Elder Branch and mount the hill beyond, and Goree would have to face the squandered home of his fathers. Every rock he passed, every tree, every foot of the rocky way, was familiar to him. Though he had forgotten the woods, they thrilled him like the music of “Home, Sweet Home.”</p>
-			<p>They rounded the cliff, descended into Elder Branch, and paused there to let the horses drink and splash in the swift water. On the right was a rail fence that cornered there, and followed the road and stream. Inclosed by it was the old apple orchard of the home place; the house was yet concealed by the brow of the steep hill. Inside and along the fence, pokeberries, elders, sassafras, and sumac grew high and dense. At a rustle of their branches, both Goree and Coltrane glanced up, and saw a long, yellow, wolfish face above the fence, staring at them with pale, unwinking eyes. The head quickly disappeared; there was a violent swaying of the bushes, and an ungainly figure ran up through the apple orchard in the direction of the house, zigzagging among the trees.</p>
+			<p>They rounded the cliff, descended into Elder Branch, and paused there to let the horses drink and splash in the swift water. On the right was a rail fence that cornered there, and followed the road and stream. Enclosed by it was the old apple orchard of the home place; the house was yet concealed by the brow of the steep hill. Inside and along the fence, pokeberries, elders, sassafras, and sumac grew high and dense. At a rustle of their branches, both Goree and Coltrane glanced up, and saw a long, yellow, wolfish face above the fence, staring at them with pale, unwinking eyes. The head quickly disappeared; there was a violent swaying of the bushes, and an ungainly figure ran up through the apple orchard in the direction of the house, zigzagging among the trees.</p>
 			<p>“That’s Garvey,” said Coltrane; “the man you sold out to. There’s no doubt but he’s considerably cracked. I had to send him up for moonshining once, several years ago, in spite of the fact that I believed him irresponsible. Why, what’s the matter, Yancey?”</p>
 			<p>Goree was wiping his forehead, and his face had lost its colour. “Do I look queer, too?” he asked, trying to smile. “I’m just remembering a few more things.” Some of the alcohol had evaporated from his brain. “I recollect now where I got that two hundred dollars.”</p>
 			<p>“Don’t think of it,” said Coltrane cheerfully. “Later on we’ll figure it all out together.”</p>

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@@ -25,7 +25,7 @@
 			<p>And now the dark-haired young man spoke to me, and it became evident that his mind also moved along its own set of grooves.</p>
 			<p>“I should like to be a periwinkle,” said he, mysteriously, “on the top of a valley, and sing tooralloo-ralloo.”</p>
 			<p>This was clearly too obscure, so I turned again to Coglan.</p>
-			<p>“I’ve been around the world twelve times,” said he. “I know an Esquimau in Upernavik who sends to Cincinnati for his neckties, and I saw a goat-herder in Uruguay who won a prize in a Battle Creek breakfast food puzzle competition. I pay rent on a room in Cairo, Egypt, and another in Yokohama all the year around. I’ve got slippers waiting for me in a teahouse in Shanghai, and I don’t have to tell ’em how to cook my eggs in Rio de Janeiro or Seattle. It’s a mighty little old world. What’s the use of bragging about being from the North, or the South, or the old manor house in the dale, or Euclid avenue, Cleveland, or Pike’s Peak, or Fairfax County, Va., or Hooligan’s Flats or any place? It’ll be a better world when we quit being fools about some mildewed town or ten acres of swampland just because we happened to be born there.”</p>
+			<p>“I’ve been around the world twelve times,” said he. “I know an Esquimau in Upernavik who sends to Cincinnati for his neckties, and I saw a goat-herder in Uruguay who won a prize in a Battle Creek breakfast food puzzle competition. I pay rent on a room in Cairo, Egypt, and another in Yokohama all the year around. I’ve got slippers waiting for me in a teahouse in Shanghai, and I don’t have to tell ’em how to cook my eggs in Rio de Janeiro or Seattle. It’s a mighty little old world. What’s the use of bragging about being from the North, or the South, or the old manor house in the dale, or Euclid Avenue, Cleveland, or Pike’s Peak, or Fairfax County, Va., or Hooligan’s Flats or any place? It’ll be a better world when we quit being fools about some mildewed town or ten acres of swampland just because we happened to be born there.”</p>
 			<p>“You seem to be a genuine cosmopolite,” I said admiringly. “But it also seems that you would decry patriotism.”</p>
 			<p>“A relic of the stone age,” declared Coglan, warmly. “We are all brothers⁠—Chinamen, Englishmen, Zulus, Patagonians and the people in the bend of the Kaw River. Some day all this petty pride in one’s city or State or section or country will be wiped out, and we’ll all be citizens of the world, as we ought to be.”</p>
 			<p>“But while you are wandering in foreign lands,” I persisted, “do not your thoughts revert to some spot⁠—some dear and⁠—”</p>

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@@ -30,8 +30,8 @@
 			<p>“Of course not,” said Rivington, with a sigh of relief. “I’m glad you see the difference. But if you want to hear the real old tough Bowery slang I’ll take you down where you’ll get your fill of it.”</p>
 			<p>“I would like it,” I said; “that is, if it’s the real thing. I’ve often read it in books, but I never heard it. Do you think it will be dangerous to go unprotected among those characters?”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, no,” said Rivington; “not at this time of night. To tell the truth, I haven’t been along the Bowery in a long time, but I know it as well as I do Broadway. We’ll look up some of the typical Bowery boys and get them to talk. It’ll be worth your while. They talk a peculiar dialect that you won’t hear anywhere else on earth.”</p>
-			<p>Rivington and I went east in a Forty-second street car and then south on the Third avenue line.</p>
-			<p>At Houston street we got off and walked.</p>
+			<p>Rivington and I went east in a Forty-second Street car and then south on the Third Avenue line.</p>
+			<p>At Houston Street we got off and walked.</p>
 			<p>“We are now on the famous Bowery,” said Rivington; “the Bowery celebrated in song and story.”</p>
 			<p>We passed block after block of “gents’ ” furnishing stores⁠—the windows full of shirts with prices attached and cuffs inside. In other windows were neckties and no shirts. People walked up and down the sidewalks.</p>
 			<p>“In some ways,” said I, “this reminds me of Kokomono, <abbr class="postal">Ind.</abbr>, during the peach-crating season.”</p>
@@ -41,7 +41,7 @@
 			<p>By and by Rivington stopped and said we were in the heart of the Bowery. There was a policeman on the corner whom Rivington knew.</p>
 			<p>“Hallo, Donahue!” said my guide. “How goes it? My friend and I are down this way looking up a bit of local colour. He’s anxious to meet one of the Bowery types. Can’t you put us on to something genuine in that line⁠—something that’s got the colour, you know?”</p>
 			<p>Policeman Donahue turned himself about ponderously, his florid face full of good-nature. He pointed with his club down the street.</p>
-			<p>“Sure!” he said huskily. “Here comes a lad now that was born on the Bowery and knows every inch of it. If he’s ever been above Bleecker street he’s kept it to himself.”</p>
+			<p>“Sure!” he said huskily. “Here comes a lad now that was born on the Bowery and knows every inch of it. If he’s ever been above Bleecker Street he’s kept it to himself.”</p>
 			<p>A man about twenty-eight or twenty-nine, with a smooth face, was sauntering toward us with his hands in his coat pockets. Policeman Donahue stopped him with a courteous wave of his club.</p>
 			<p>“Evening, Kerry,” he said. “Here’s a couple of gents, friends of mine, that want to hear you spiel something about the Bowery. Can you reel ’em off a few yards?”</p>
 			<p>“Certainly, Donahue,” said the young man, pleasantly. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said to us, with a pleasant smile. Donahue walked off on his beat.</p>
@@ -51,7 +51,7 @@
 			<p>“Donahue was right,” said the young man, frankly; “I was brought up on the Bowery. I have been newsboy, teamster, pugilist, member of an organized band of ‘toughs,’ bartender, and a ‘sport’ in various meanings of the word. The experience certainly warrants the supposition that I have at least a passing acquaintance with a few phases of Bowery life. I will be pleased to place whatever knowledge and experience I have at the service of my friend Donahue’s friends.”</p>
 			<p>Rivington seemed ill at ease.</p>
 			<p>“I say,” he said⁠—somewhat entreatingly, “I thought⁠—you’re not stringing us, are you? It isn’t just the kind of talk we expected. You haven’t even said ‘Hully gee!’ once. Do you really belong on the Bowery?”</p>
-			<p>“I am afraid,” said the Bowery boy, smilingly, “that at some time you have been enticed into one of the dives of literature and had the counterfeit coin of the Bowery passed upon you. The ‘argot’ to which you doubtless refer was the invention of certain of your literary ‘discoverers’ who invaded the unknown wilds below Third avenue and put strange sounds into the mouths of the inhabitants. Safe in their homes far to the north and west, the credulous readers who were beguiled by this new ‘dialect’ perused and believed. Like Marco Polo and Mungo Park⁠—pioneers indeed, but ambitious souls who could not draw the line of demarcation between discovery and invention⁠—the literary bones of these explorers are dotting the trackless wastes of the subway. While it is true that after the publication of the mythical language attributed to the dwellers along the Bowery certain of its pat phrases and apt metaphors were adopted and, to a limited extent, used in this locality, it was because our people are prompt in assimilating whatever is to their commercial advantage. To the tourists who visited our newly discovered clime, and who expected a realization of their literary guide books, they supplied the demands of the market.</p>
+			<p>“I am afraid,” said the Bowery boy, smilingly, “that at some time you have been enticed into one of the dives of literature and had the counterfeit coin of the Bowery passed upon you. The ‘argot’ to which you doubtless refer was the invention of certain of your literary ‘discoverers’ who invaded the unknown wilds below Third Avenue and put strange sounds into the mouths of the inhabitants. Safe in their homes far to the north and west, the credulous readers who were beguiled by this new ‘dialect’ perused and believed. Like Marco Polo and Mungo Park⁠—pioneers indeed, but ambitious souls who could not draw the line of demarcation between discovery and invention⁠—the literary bones of these explorers are dotting the trackless wastes of the subway. While it is true that after the publication of the mythical language attributed to the dwellers along the Bowery certain of its pat phrases and apt metaphors were adopted and, to a limited extent, used in this locality, it was because our people are prompt in assimilating whatever is to their commercial advantage. To the tourists who visited our newly discovered clime, and who expected a realization of their literary guide books, they supplied the demands of the market.</p>
 			<p>“But perhaps I am wandering from the question. In what way can I assist you, gentlemen? I beg you will believe that the hospitality of the street is extended to all. There are, I regret to say, many catchpenny places of entertainment, but I cannot conceive that they would entice you.”</p>
 			<p>I felt Rivington lean somewhat heavily against me.</p>
 			<p>“Say!” he remarked, with uncertain utterance; “come and have a drink with us.”</p>

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@@ -38,7 +38,7 @@
 			<p>So Jacob followed his nose, which led him through unswept streets to the homes of the poorest.</p>
 			<p>“The very thing!” said Jacob. “I will charter two river steamboats, pack them full of these unfortunate children and⁠—say ten thousand dolls and drums and a thousand freezers of ice cream, and give them a delightful outing up the Sound. The sea breezes on that trip ought to blow the taint off some of this money that keeps coming in faster than I can work it off my mind.”</p>
 			<p>Jacob must have leaked some of his benevolent intentions, for an immense person with a bald face and a mouth that looked as if it ought to have a “Drop Letters Here” sign over it hooked a finger around him and set him in a space between a barber’s pole and a stack of ash cans. Words came out of the post-office slit⁠—smooth, husky words with gloves on ’em, but sounding as if they might turn to bare knuckles any moment.</p>
-			<p>“Say, Sport, do you know where you are at? Well, dis is Mike O’Grady’s district you’re buttin’ into⁠—see? Mike’s got de stomachache privilege for every kid in dis neighborhood⁠—see? And if dere’s any picnics or red balloons to be dealt out here, Mike’s money pays for ’em⁠—see? Don’t you butt in, or something’ll be handed to you. Youse d⁠⸺ settlers and reformers with your social ologies and your millionaire detectives have got dis district in a hell of a fix, anyhow. With your college students and professors roughhousing de soda-water stands and dem rubberneck coaches fillin’ de streets, de folks down here are ‘fraid to go out of de houses. Now, you leave ’em to Mike. Dey belongs to him, and he knows how to handle ’em. Keep on your own side of de town. Are you some wiser now, uncle, or do you want to scrap wit’ Mike O’Grady for de Santa Claus belt in dis district?”</p>
+			<p>“Say, Sport, do you know where you are at? Well, dis is Mike O’Grady’s district you’re buttin’ into⁠—see? Mike’s got de stomachache privilege for every kid in dis neighborhood⁠—see? And if dere’s any picnics or red balloons to be dealt out here, Mike’s money pays for ’em⁠—see? Don’t you butt in, or something’ll be handed to you. Youse d⁠⸺ settlers and reformers with your social ologies and your millionaire detectives have got dis district in a hell of a fix, anyhow. With your college students and professors roughhousing de soda-water stands and dem rubberneck coaches fillin’ de streets, de folks down here are ’fraid to go out of de houses. Now, you leave ’em to Mike. Dey belongs to him, and he knows how to handle ’em. Keep on your own side of de town. Are you some wiser now, uncle, or do you want to scrap wit’ Mike O’Grady for de Santa Claus belt in dis district?”</p>
 			<p>Clearly, that spot in the moral vineyard was preempted. So Caliph Spraggins menaced no more the people in the bazaars of the East Side. To keep down his growing surplus he doubled his donations to organized charity, presented the <abbr class="initialism">YMCA</abbr> of his native town with a $10,000 collection of butterflies, and sent a check to the famine sufferers in China big enough to buy new emerald eyes and diamond-filled teeth for all their gods. But none of these charitable acts seemed to bring peace to the caliph’s heart. He tried to get a personal note into his benefactions by tipping bellboys and waiters $10 and $20 bills. He got well snickered at and derided for that by the minions who accept with respect gratuities commensurate to the service performed. He sought out an ambitious and talented but poor young woman, and bought for her the star part in a new comedy. He might have gotten rid of $50,000 more of his cumbersome money in this philanthropy if he had not neglected to write letters to her. But she lost the suit for lack of evidence, while his capital still kept piling up, and his <i xml:lang="la">optikos needleorum camelibus</i>⁠—or rich man’s disease⁠—was unrelieved.</p>
 			<p>In Caliph Spraggins’s $3,000,000 home lived his sister Henrietta, who used to cook for the coal miners in a twenty-five-cent eating house in Coketown, Pa., and who now would have offered John Mitchell only two fingers of her hand to shake. And his daughter Celia, nineteen, back from boarding-school and from being polished off by private instructors in the restaurant languages and those études and things.</p>
 			<p>Celia is the heroine. Lest the artist’s delineation of her charms on this very page humbug your fancy, take from me her authorized description. She was a nice-looking, awkward, loud, rather bashful, brown-haired girl, with a sallow complexion, bright eyes, and a perpetual smile. She had a wholesome, Spraggins-inherited love for plain food, loose clothing, and the society of the lower classes. She had too much health and youth to feel the burden of wealth. She had a wide mouth that kept the peppermint-pepsin tablets rattling like hail from the slot-machine wherever she went, and she could whistle hornpipes. Keep this picture in mind; and let the artist do his worst.</p>

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@@ -35,7 +35,7 @@
 			<p>“I met O’Connor in a boardinghouse on the West Side. He invited me to his hall-room to have a drink, and we became like a dog and a cat that had been raised together. There he sat, a tall, fine, handsome man, with his feet against one wall and his back against the other, looking over a map. On the bed and sticking three feet out of it was a beautiful gold sword with tassels on it and rhinestones in the handle.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘What’s this?’ says I (for by that time we were well acquainted). ‘The annual parade in vilification of the ex-snakes of Ireland? And what’s the line of march? Up Broadway to Forty-second; thence east to McCarty’s café; thence⁠—’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Sit down on the washstand,’ says O’Connor, ‘and listen. And cast no perversions on the sword. ’Twas me father’s in old Munster. And this map, Bowers, is no diagram of a holiday procession. If ye look again. ye’ll see that it’s the continent known as South America, comprising fourteen green, blue, red, and yellow countries, all crying out from time to time to be liberated from the yoke of the oppressor.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘I know,’ says I to O’Connor. ‘The idea is a literary one. The ten-cent magazine stole it from “Ridpath’s History of the World from the Sandstone Period to the Equator.” You’ll find it in every one of ’em. It’s a continued story of a soldier of fortune, generally named O’Keefe, who gets to be dictator while the Spanish-American populace cries “Cospetto!” and other Italian maledictions. I misdoubt if it’s ever been done. You’re not thinking of trying that, are you, Barney?’ I asks.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘I know,’ says I to O’Connor. ‘The idea is a literary one. The ten-cent magazine stole it from “Ridpath’s History of the World from the Sandstone Period to the Equator.” You’ll find it in every one of ’em. It’s a continued story of a soldier of fortune, generally named O’Keefe, who gets to be dictator while the Spanish-American populace cries “<i xml:lang="it">Cospetto!</i>” and other Italian maledictions. I misdoubt if it’s ever been done. You’re not thinking of trying that, are you, Barney?’ I asks.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Bowers,’ says he, ‘you’re a man of education and courage.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘How can I deny it?’ says I. ‘Education runs in my family; and I have acquired courage by a hard struggle with life.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘The O’Connors,’ says he, ‘are a warlike race. There is me father’s sword; and here is the map. A life of inaction is not for me. The O’Connors were born to rule. ’Tis a ruler of men I must be.’</p>
@@ -50,7 +50,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘All right, then,’ says I. ‘You can get me a bunch of draying contracts and then a quick-action consignment to a seat on the Supreme Court bench so I won’t be in line for the presidency. The kind of cannon they chasten their presidents with in that country hurt too much. You can consider me on the payroll.’</p>
 			<p>“Two weeks afterward O’Connor and me took a steamer for the small, green, doomed country. We were three weeks on the trip. O’Connor said he had his plans all figured out in advance; but being the commanding general, it consorted with his dignity to keep the details concealed from his army and cabinet, commonly known as William <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Bowers. Three dollars a day was the price for which I joined the cause of liberating an undiscovered country from the ills that threatened or sustained it. Every Saturday night on the steamer I stood in line at parade rest, and O’Connor handed ever the twenty-one dollars.</p>
 			<p>“The town we landed at was named Guayaquerita, so they told me. ‘Not for me,’ says I. ‘It’ll be little old Hilldale or Tompkinsville or Cherry Tree Corners when I speak of it. It’s a clear case where Spelling Reform ought to butt in and disenvowel it.’</p>
-			<p>“But the town looked fine from the bay when we sailed in. It was white, with green ruching, and lace ruffles on the skirt when the surf slashed up on the sand. It looked as tropical and dolce far ultra as the pictures of Lake Ronkonkoma in the brochure of the passenger department of the Long Island Railroad.</p>
+			<p>“But the town looked fine from the bay when we sailed in. It was white, with green ruching, and lace ruffles on the skirt when the surf slashed up on the sand. It looked as tropical and <i xml:lang="it">dolce far ultra</i> as the pictures of Lake Ronkonkoma in the brochure of the passenger department of the Long Island Railroad.</p>
 			<p>“We went through the quarantine and customhouse indignities; and then O’Connor leads me to a ’dobe house on a street called ‘The Avenue of the Dolorous Butterflies of the Individual and Collective Saints.’ Ten feet wide it was, and knee-deep in alfalfa and cigar stumps.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Hooligan Alley,’ says I, rechristening it.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘’Twill be our headquarters,’ says O’Connor. ‘My agent here, Don Fernando Pacheco, secured it for us.’</p>
@@ -109,15 +109,15 @@
 			<p>“The general had heard the cannon, and he puffed down the sidewalk toward the soldiers’ barracks as fast as his rudely awakened two hundred pounds could travel.</p>
 			<p>“O’Connor sees him and lets out a battle-cry and draws his father’s sword and rushes across the street and tackles the enemy.</p>
 			<p>“Right there in the street he and the general gave an exhibition of blacksmithing and butchery. Sparks flew from their blades, the general roared, and O’Connor gave the slogan of his race and proclivities.</p>
-			<p>“Then the general’s sabre broke in two; and he took to his ginger-colored heels crying out, ‘Policios,’ at every jump. O’Connor chased him a block, imbued with the sentiment of manslaughter, and slicing buttons off the general’s coat tails with the paternal weapon. At the corner five barefooted policemen in cotton undershirts and straw fiats climbed over O’Connor and subjugated him according to the municipal statutes.</p>
+			<p>“Then the general’s sabre broke in two; and he took to his ginger-colored heels crying out, ‘<i xml:lang="es">Policios</i>,’ at every jump. O’Connor chased him a block, imbued with the sentiment of manslaughter, and slicing buttons off the general’s coat tails with the paternal weapon. At the corner five barefooted policemen in cotton undershirts and straw fiats climbed over O’Connor and subjugated him according to the municipal statutes.</p>
 			<p>“They brought him past the late revolutionary headquarters on the way to jail. I stood in the door. A policeman had him by each hand and foot, and they dragged him on his back through the grass like a turtle. Twice they stopped, and the odd policeman took another’s place while he rolled a cigarette. The great soldier of fortune turned his head and looked at me as they passed. I blushed, and lit another cigar. The procession passed on, and at ten minutes past twelve everybody had gone back to sleep again.</p>
 			<p>“In the afternoon the interpreter came around and smiled as he laid his hand on the big red jar we usually kept ice-water in.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘The iceman didn’t call today,’ says I. ‘What’s the matter with everything, Sancho?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Ah, yes,’ says the liver-colored linguist. ‘They just tell me in the town. Verree bad act that Señor O’Connor make fight with General Tumbalo. Yes, general Tumbalo great soldier and big mans.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘What’ll they do to <abbr>Mr.</abbr> O’Connor?’ I asks.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘I talk little while presently with the Juez de la Paz⁠—what you call Justice-with-the-peace,’ says Sancho. ‘He tell me it verree bad crime that one Señor Americano try kill General Tumbalo. He say they keep señor O’Connor in jail six months; then have trial and shoot him with guns. Verree sorree.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘I talk little while presently with the <i xml:lang="es">Juez de la Paz</i>⁠—what you call Justice-with-the-peace,’ says Sancho. ‘He tell me it verree bad crime that one Señor Americano try kill General Tumbalo. He say they keep señor O’Connor in jail six months; then have trial and shoot him with guns. Verree sorree.’</p>
 			<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>“ ‘Oh,’ says this Sancho, ‘I think too hot weather for revolution. Revolution better in wintertime. Maybe so next winter. <i xml:lang="es">Quien sabe?</i>’</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—<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>
@@ -153,10 +153,10 @@
 			<p>“ ‘I’ve negotiated a standoff at a delicatessen hut downtown,’ I tells him. ‘Rest easy. If there’s anything to be done I’ll do it.’</p>
 			<p>“So things went along that way for some weeks. Izzy was a great cook; and if she had had a little more poise of character and smoked a little better brand of tobacco we might have drifted into some sense of responsibility for the honor I had conferred on her. But as time went on I began to hunger for the sight of a real lady standing before me in a streetcar. All I was staying in that land of bilk and money for was because I couldn’t get away, and I thought it no more than decent to stay and see O’Connor shot.</p>
 			<p>“One day our old interpreter drops around and after smoking an hour says that the judge of the peace sent him to request me to call on him. I went to his office in a lemon grove on a hill at the edge of the town; and there I had a surprise. I expected to see one of the usual cinnamon-colored natives in congress gaiters and one of Pizzaro’s cast-off hats. What I saw was an elegant gentleman of a slightly claybank complexion sitting in an upholstered leather chair, sipping a highball and reading <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Humphry Ward. I had smuggled into my brain a few words of Spanish by the help of Izzy, and I began to remark in a rich Andalusian brogue:</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Buenas dias, señor. Yo tengo⁠—yo tengo⁠—’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘<i xml:lang="es">Buenas dias, señor. Yo tengo⁠—yo tengo⁠—</i>’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Oh, sit down, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bowers,’ says he. ‘I spent eight years in your country in colleges and law schools. Let me mix you a highball. Lemon peel, or not?’</p>
 			<p>“Thus we got along. In about half an hour I was beginning to tell him about the scandal in our family when Aunt Elvira ran away with a Cumberland Presbyterian preacher. Then he says to me:</p>
-			<p>“ ‘I sent for you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bowers, to let you know that you can have your friend <abbr>Mr.</abbr> O’Connor now. Of course we had to make a show of punishing him on account of his attack on General Tumbalo. It is arranged that he shall be released tomorrow night. You and he will be conveyed on board the fruit steamer Voyager, bound for New York, which lies in the harbor. Your passage will be arranged for.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘I sent for you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bowers, to let you know that you can have your friend <abbr>Mr.</abbr> O’Connor now. Of course we had to make a show of punishing him on account of his attack on General Tumbalo. It is arranged that he shall be released tomorrow night. You and he will be conveyed on board the fruit steamer <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Voyager</i>, bound for New York, which lies in the harbor. Your passage will be arranged for.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘One moment, judge,’ says I; ‘that revolution⁠—’</p>
 			<p>“The judge lays back in his chair and howls.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Why,’ says he presently, ‘that was all a little joke fixed up by the boys around the courtroom, and one or two of our cut-ups, and a few clerks in the stores. The town is bursting its sides with laughing. The boys made themselves up to be conspirators, and they⁠—what you call it?⁠—stick Señor O’Connor for his money. It is very funny.’</p>

src/epub/text/a-service-of-love.xhtml

@@ -21,7 +21,7 @@
 			<p>But the best, in my opinion, was the home life in the little flat⁠—the ardent, voluble chats after the day’s study; the cozy dinners and fresh, light breakfasts; the interchange of ambitions⁠—ambitions interwoven each with the other’s or else inconsiderable⁠—the mutual help and inspiration; and⁠—overlook my artlessness⁠—stuffed olives and cheese sandwiches at 11 <abbr class="time eoc">p.m.</abbr></p>
 			<p>But after a while Art flagged. It sometimes does, even if some switchman doesn’t flag it. Everything going out and nothing coming in, as the vulgarians say. Money was lacking to pay <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Magister and Herr Rosenstock their prices. When one loves one’s Art no service seems too hard. So, Delia said she must give music lessons to keep the chafing dish bubbling.</p>
 			<p>For two or three days she went out canvassing for pupils. One evening she came home elated.</p>
-			<p>“Joe, dear,” she said, gleefully, “I’ve a pupil. And, oh, the loveliest people! General⁠—General <abbr class="name">A. B.</abbr> Pinkney’s daughter⁠—on Seventy-first street. Such a splendid house, Joe⁠—you ought to see the front door! Byzantine I think you would call it. And inside! Oh, Joe, I never saw anything like it before.</p>
+			<p>“Joe, dear,” she said, gleefully, “I’ve a pupil. And, oh, the loveliest people! General⁠—General <abbr class="name">A. B.</abbr> Pinkney’s daughter⁠—on Seventy-first Street. Such a splendid house, Joe⁠—you ought to see the front door! Byzantine I think you would call it. And inside! Oh, Joe, I never saw anything like it before.</p>
 			<p>“My pupil is his daughter Clementina. I dearly love her already. She’s a delicate thing⁠—dresses always in white; and the sweetest, simplest manners! Only eighteen years old. I’m to give three lessons a week; and, just think, Joe! $5 a lesson. I don’t mind it a bit; for when I get two or three more pupils I can resume my lessons with Herr Rosenstock. Now, smooth out that wrinkle between your brows, dear, and let’s have a nice supper.”</p>
 			<p>“That’s all right for you, Dele,” said Joe, attacking a can of peas with a carving knife and a hatchet, “but how about me? Do you think I’m going to let you hustle for wages while I philander in the regions of high art? Not by the bones of Benvenuto Cellini! I guess I can sell papers or lay cobblestones, and bring in a dollar or two.”</p>
 			<p>Delia came and hung about his neck.</p>

src/epub/text/according-to-their-lights.xhtml

@@ -9,9 +9,9 @@
 		<section id="according-to-their-lights" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">According to Their Lights</h2>
 			<p>Somewhere in the depths of the big city, where the unquiet dregs are forever being shaken together, young Murray and the Captain had met and become friends. Both were at the lowest ebb possible to their fortunes; both had fallen from at least an intermediate Heaven of respectability and importance, and both were typical products of the monstrous and peculiar social curriculum of their overweening and bumptious civic alma mater.</p>
-			<p>The captain was no longer a captain. One of those sudden moral cataclysms that sometimes sweep the city had hurled him from a high and profitable position in the Police Department, ripping off his badge and buttons and washing into the hands of his lawyers the solid pieces of real estate that his frugality had enabled him to accumulate. The passing of the flood left him low and dry. One month after his dishabilitation a saloon-keeper plucked him by the neck from his free-lunch counter as a tabby plucks a strange kitten from her nest, and cast him asphaltward. This seems low enough. But after that he acquired a pair of cloth top, button Congress gaiters and wrote complaining letters to the newspapers. And then he fought the attendant at the Municipal Lodging House who tried to give him a bath. When Murray first saw him he was holding the hand of an Italian woman who sold apples and garlic on Essex street, and quoting the words of a song book ballad.</p>
+			<p>The captain was no longer a captain. One of those sudden moral cataclysms that sometimes sweep the city had hurled him from a high and profitable position in the Police Department, ripping off his badge and buttons and washing into the hands of his lawyers the solid pieces of real estate that his frugality had enabled him to accumulate. The passing of the flood left him low and dry. One month after his dishabilitation a saloon-keeper plucked him by the neck from his free-lunch counter as a tabby plucks a strange kitten from her nest, and cast him asphaltward. This seems low enough. But after that he acquired a pair of cloth top, button Congress gaiters and wrote complaining letters to the newspapers. And then he fought the attendant at the Municipal Lodging House who tried to give him a bath. When Murray first saw him he was holding the hand of an Italian woman who sold apples and garlic on Essex Street, and quoting the words of a song book ballad.</p>
 			<p>Murray’s fall had been more Luciferian, if less spectacular. All the pretty, tiny little kickshaws of Gotham had once been his. The megaphone man roars out at you to observe the house of his uncle on a grand and revered avenue. But there had been an awful row about something, and the prince had been escorted to the door by the butler, which, in said avenue, is equivalent to the impact of the avuncular shoe. A weak Prince Hal, without inheritance or sword, he drifted downward to meet his humorless Falstaff, and to pick the crusts of the streets with him.</p>
-			<p>One evening they sat on a bench in a little downtown park. The great bulk of the Captain, which starvation seemed to increase⁠—drawing irony instead of pity to his petitions for aid⁠—was heaped against the arm of the bench in a shapeless mass. His red face, spotted by tufts of vermilion, week-old whiskers and topped by a sagging white straw hat, looked, in the gloom, like one of those structures that you may observe in a dark Third avenue window, challenging your imagination to say whether it be something recent in the way of ladies’ hats or a strawberry shortcake. A tight-drawn belt⁠—last relic of his official spruceness⁠—made a deep furrow in his circumference. The Captain’s shoes were buttonless. In a smothered bass he cursed his star of ill-luck.</p>
+			<p>One evening they sat on a bench in a little downtown park. The great bulk of the Captain, which starvation seemed to increase⁠—drawing irony instead of pity to his petitions for aid⁠—was heaped against the arm of the bench in a shapeless mass. His red face, spotted by tufts of vermilion, week-old whiskers and topped by a sagging white straw hat, looked, in the gloom, like one of those structures that you may observe in a dark Third Avenue window, challenging your imagination to say whether it be something recent in the way of ladies’ hats or a strawberry shortcake. A tight-drawn belt⁠—last relic of his official spruceness⁠—made a deep furrow in his circumference. The Captain’s shoes were buttonless. In a smothered bass he cursed his star of ill-luck.</p>
 			<p>Murray, at his side, was shrunk into his dingy and ragged suit of blue serge. His hat was pulled low; he sat quiet and a little indistinct, like some ghost that had been dispossessed.</p>
 			<p>“I’m hungry,” growled the Captain⁠—“by the top sirloin of the Bull of Bashan, I’m starving to death. Right now I could eat a Bowery restaurant clear through to the stovepipe in the alley. Can’t you think of nothing, Murray? You sit there with your shoulders scrunched up, giving an imitation of Reginald Vanderbilt driving his coach⁠—what good are them airs doing you now? Think of some place we can get something to chew.”</p>
 			<p>“You forget, my dear Captain,” said Murray, without moving, “that our last attempt at dining was at my suggestion.”</p>
@@ -51,7 +51,7 @@
 			<p>“I couldn’t avoid hearing,” said Murray, drearily. “I think you are the biggest fool I ever saw.”</p>
 			<p>“What would you have done?” asked the Captain.</p>
 			<p>“Nailed Pickering to the cross,” said Murray.</p>
-			<p>“Sonny,” said the Captain, huskily and without heat. “You and me are different. New York is divided into two parts⁠—above Forty-second street, and below Fourteenth. You come from the other part. We both act according to our lights.”</p>
+			<p>“Sonny,” said the Captain, huskily and without heat. “You and me are different. New York is divided into two parts⁠—above Forty-second Street, and below Fourteenth. You come from the other part. We both act according to our lights.”</p>
 			<p>An illuminated clock above the trees retailed the information that it lacked the half hour of twelve. Both men rose from the bench and moved away together as if seized by the same idea. They left the park, struck through a narrow cross street, and came into Broadway, at this hour as dark, echoing and de-peopled as a byway in Pompeii.</p>
 			<p>Northward they turned; and a policeman who glanced at their unkempt and slinking figures withheld the attention and suspicion that he would have granted them at any other hour and place. For on every street in that part of the city other unkempt and slinking figures were shuffling and hurrying toward a converging point⁠—a point that is marked by no monument save that groove on the pavement worn by tens of thousands of waiting feet.</p>
 			<p>At Ninth Street a tall man wearing an opera hat alighted from a Broadway car and turned his face westward. But he saw Murray, pounced upon him and dragged him under a street light. The Captain lumbered slowly to the corner, like a wounded bear, and waited, growling.</p>

src/epub/text/brickdust-row.xhtml

@@ -33,7 +33,7 @@
 			<p>He learned that she was twenty, and her name was Florence; that she trimmed hats in a millinery shop; that she lived in a furnished room with her best chum Ella, who was cashier in a shoe store; and that a glass of milk from the bottle on the windowsill and an egg that boils itself while you twist up your hair makes a breakfast good enough for anyone. Florence laughed when she heard “Blinker.”</p>
 			<p>“Well,” she said. “It certainly shows that you have imagination. It gives the ‘Smiths’ a chance for a little rest, anyhow.”</p>
 			<p>They landed at Coney, and were dashed on the crest of a great human wave of mad pleasure-seekers into the walks and avenues of Fairyland gone into vaudeville.</p>
-			<p>With a curious eye, a critical mind and a fairly withheld judgment Blinker considered the temples, pagodas and kiosks of popularized delights. Hoi polloi trampled, hustled and crowded him. Basket parties bumped him; sticky children tumbled, howling, under his feet, candying his clothes. Insolent youths strolling among the booths with hard-won canes under one arm and easily won girls on the other, blew defiant smoke from cheap cigars into his face. The publicity gentlemen with megaphones, each before his own stupendous attraction, roared like Niagara in his ears. Music of all kinds that could be tortured from brass, reed, hide or string, fought in the air to gain space for its vibrations against its competitors. But what held Blinker in awful fascination was the mob, the multitude, the proletariat shrieking, struggling, hurrying, panting, hurling itself in incontinent frenzy, with unabashed abandon, into the ridiculous sham palaces of trumpery and tinsel pleasures, The vulgarity of it, its brutal overriding of all the tenets of repression and taste that were held by his caste, repelled him strongly.</p>
+			<p>With a curious eye, a critical mind and a fairly withheld judgment Blinker considered the temples, pagodas and kiosks of popularized delights. Hoi polloi trampled, hustled and crowded him. Basket parties bumped him; sticky children tumbled, howling, under his feet, candying his clothes. Insolent youths strolling among the booths with hard-won canes under one arm and easily won girls on the other, blew defiant smoke from cheap cigars into his face. The publicity gentlemen with megaphones, each before his own stupendous attraction, roared like Niagara in his ears. Music of all kinds that could be tortured from brass, reed, hide or string, fought in the air to gain space for its vibrations against its competitors. But what held Blinker in awful fascination was the mob, the multitude, the proletariat shrieking, struggling, hurrying, panting, hurling itself in incontinent frenzy, with unabashed abandon, into the ridiculous sham palaces of trumpery and tinsel pleasures. The vulgarity of it, its brutal overriding of all the tenets of repression and taste that were held by his caste, repelled him strongly.</p>
 			<p>In the midst of his disgust he turned and looked down at Florence by his side. She was ready with her quick smile and upturned, happy eyes, as bright and clear as the water in trout pools. The eyes were saying that they had the right to be shining and happy, for was their owner not with her (for the present) Man, her Gentleman Friend and holder of the keys to the enchanted city of fun?</p>
 			<p>Blinker did not read her look accurately, but by some miracle he suddenly saw Coney aright.</p>
 			<p>He no longer saw a mass of vulgarians seeking gross joys. He now looked clearly upon a hundred thousand true idealists. Their offenses were wiped out. Counterfeit and false though the garish joys of these spangled temples were, he perceived that deep under the gilt surface they offered saving and apposite balm and satisfaction to the restless human heart. Here, at least, was the husk of Romance, the empty but shining casque of Chivalry, the breath-catching though safeguarded dip and flight of Adventure, the magic carpet that transports you to the realms of fairyland, though its journey be through but a few poor yards of space. He no longer saw a rabble, but his brothers seeking the ideal. There was no magic of poesy here or of art; but the glamour of their imagination turned yellow calico into cloth of gold and the megaphones into the silver trumpets of joy’s heralds.</p>

src/epub/text/calloways-code.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="calloways-code" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">Calloway’s Code</h2>
 			<p>The New York <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Enterprise</i> sent <abbr class="name">H. B.</abbr> Calloway as special correspondent to the Russo-Japanese-Portsmouth war.</p>
-			<p>For two months Calloway hung about Yokohama and Tokio, shaking dice with the other correspondents for drinks of ‘rickshaws⁠—oh, no, that’s something to ride in; anyhow, he wasn’t earning the salary that his paper was paying him. But that was not Calloway’s fault. The little brown men who held the strings of Fate between their fingers were not ready for the readers of the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Enterprise</i> to season their breakfast bacon and eggs with the battles of the descendants of the gods.</p>
+			<p>For two months Calloway hung about Yokohama and Tokyo, shaking dice with the other correspondents for drinks of rickshaws⁠—oh, no, that’s something to ride in; anyhow, he wasn’t earning the salary that his paper was paying him. But that was not Calloway’s fault. The little brown men who held the strings of Fate between their fingers were not ready for the readers of the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Enterprise</i> to season their breakfast bacon and eggs with the battles of the descendants of the gods.</p>
 			<p>But soon the column of correspondents that were to go out with the First Army tightened their field-glass belts and went down to the Yalu with Kuroki. Calloway was one of these.</p>
 			<p>Now, this is no history of the battle of the Yalu River. That has been told in detail by the correspondents who gazed at the shrapnel smoke rings from a distance of three miles. But, for justice’s sake, let it be understood that the Japanese commander prohibited a nearer view.</p>
 			<p>Calloway’s feat was accomplished before the battle. What he did was to furnish the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Enterprise</i> with the biggest beat of the war. That paper published exclusively and in detail the news of the attack on the lines of the Russian General on the same day that it was made. No other paper printed a word about it for two days afterward, except a London paper, whose account was absolutely incorrect and untrue.</p>
@@ -33,18 +33,18 @@
 			<p>“I thought of that,” said the <abbr class="initialism">ME</abbr>, “but the beginning letters contain only four vowels. It must be a code of some sort.”</p>
 			<p>“Try em in groups,” suggested Boyd. “Let’s see⁠—‘Rash witching goes’⁠—not with me it doesn’t. ‘Muffled rumour mine’⁠—must have an underground wire. ‘Dark silent unfortunate richmond’⁠—no reason why he should knock that town so hard. ‘Existing great hotly’⁠—no it doesn’t pan out. I’ll call Scott.”</p>
 			<p>The city editor came in a hurry, and tried his luck. A city editor must know something about everything; so Scott knew a little about cipher-writing.</p>
-			<p>“It may be what is called an inverted alphabet cipher,” said he. “I’ll try that. ‘R’ seems to be the oftenest used initial letter, with the exception of ‘m.’ Assuming ‘r’ to mean ‘e’, the most frequently used vowel, we transpose the letters⁠—so.”</p>
+			<p>“It may be what is called an inverted alphabet cipher,” said he. “I’ll try that. <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">R</i> seems to be the oftenest used initial letter, with the exception of <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">m</i>. Assuming <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">r</i> to mean <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">e</i>, the most frequently used vowel, we transpose the letters⁠—so.”</p>
 			<p>Scott worked rapidly with his pencil for two minutes; and then showed the first word according to his reading⁠—the word “Scejtzez.”</p>
 			<p>“Great!” cried Boyd. “It’s a charade. My first is a Russian general. Go on, Scott.”</p>
 			<p>“No, that won’t work,” said the city editor. “It’s undoubtedly a code. It’s impossible to read it without the key. Has the office ever used a cipher code?”</p>
 			<p>“Just what I was asking,” said the <abbr class="initialism">ME</abbr>. “Hustle everybody up that ought to know. We must get at it some way. Calloway has evidently got hold of something big, and the censor has put the screws on, or he wouldn’t have cabled in a lot of chop suey like this.”</p>
 			<p>Throughout the office of the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Enterprise</i> a dragnet was sent, hauling in such members of the staff as would be likely to know of a code, past or present, by reason of their wisdom, information, natural intelligence, or length of servitude. They got together in a group in the city room, with the <abbr class="initialism">ME</abbr> in the centre. No one had heard of a code. All began to explain to the head investigator that newspapers never use a code, anyhow⁠—that is, a cipher code. Of course the Associated Press stuff is a sort of code⁠—an abbreviation, rather⁠—but⁠—</p>
 			<p>The <abbr class="initialism">ME</abbr> knew all that, and said so. He asked each man how long he had worked on the paper. Not one of them had drawn pay from an <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Enterprise</i> envelope for longer than six years. Calloway had been on the paper twelve years.</p>
-			<p>“Try old Heffelbauer,” said the <abbr class="initialism">ME</abbr> “He was here when Park Row was a potato patch.”</p>
+			<p>“Try old Heffelbauer,” said the <abbr class="initialism">ME</abbr>. “He was here when Park Row was a potato patch.”</p>
 			<p>Heffelbauer was an institution. He was half janitor, half handyman about the office, and half watchman⁠—thus becoming the peer of thirteen and one-half tailors. Sent for, he came, radiating his nationality.</p>
 			<p>“Heffelbauer,” said the <abbr class="initialism">ME</abbr>, “did you ever hear of a code belonging to the office a long time ago⁠—a private code? You know what a code is, don’t you?”</p>
 			<p>“Yah,” said Heffelbauer. “Sure I know vat a code is. Yah, apout dwelf or fifteen year ago der office had a code. Der reborters in der city-room haf it here.”</p>
-			<p>“Ah!” said the <abbr class="initialism">ME</abbr> “We’re getting on the trail now. Where was it kept, Heffelbauer? What do you know about it?”</p>
+			<p>“Ah!” said the <abbr class="initialism">ME</abbr>. “We’re getting on the trail now. Where was it kept, Heffelbauer? What do you know about it?”</p>
 			<p>“Somedimes,” said the retainer, “dey keep it in der little room behind der library room.”</p>
 			<p>“Can you find it?” asked the <abbr class="initialism">ME</abbr> eagerly. “Do you know where it is?”</p>
 			<p>“Mein Gott!” said Heffelbauer. “How long you dink a code live? Der reborters call him a maskeet. But von day he butt mit his head der editor, und⁠—”</p>
@@ -52,12 +52,12 @@
 			<p>Again discomfited, the concerted wit and resource of the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Enterprise</i> huddled around Calloway’s puzzle, considering its mysterious words in vain.</p>
 			<p>Then Vesey came in.</p>
 			<p>Vesey was the youngest reporter. He had a thirty-two-inch chest and wore a number fourteen collar; but his bright Scotch plaid suit gave him presence and conferred no obscurity upon his whereabouts. He wore his hat in such a position that people followed him about to see him take it off, convinced that it must be hung upon a peg driven into the back of his head. He was never without an immense, knotted, hardwood cane with a German-silver tip on its crooked handle. Vesey was the best photograph hustler in the office. Scott said it was because no living human being could resist the personal triumph it was to hand his picture over to Vesey. Vesey always wrote his own news stories, except the big ones, which were sent to the rewrite men. Add to this fact that among all the inhabitants, temples, and groves of the earth nothing existed that could abash Vesey, and his dim sketch is concluded.</p>
-			<p>Vesey butted into the circle of cipher readers very much as Heffelbauer’s “code” would have done, and asked what was up. Someone explained, with the touch of half-familiar condescension that they always used toward him. Vesey reached out and took the cablegram from the <abbr class="initialism">ME</abbr>’s hand. Under the protection of some special Providence, he was always doing appalling things like that, and coming, off unscathed.</p>
+			<p>Vesey butted into the circle of cipher readers very much as Heffelbauer’s “code” would have done, and asked what was up. Someone explained, with the touch of half-familiar condescension that they always used toward him. Vesey reached out and took the cablegram from the <abbr class="initialism">ME</abbr>’s hand. Under the protection of some special Providence, he was always doing appalling things like that, and coming off unscathed.</p>
 			<p>“It’s a code,” said Vesey. “Anybody got the key?”</p>
 			<p>“The office has no code,” said Boyd, reaching for the message. Vesey held to it.</p>
 			<p>“Then old Calloway expects us to read it, anyhow,” said he. “He’s up a tree, or something, and he’s made this up so as to get it by the censor. It’s up to us. Gee! I wish they had sent me, too. Say⁠—we can’t afford to fall down on our end of it. ‘Foregone, preconcerted rash, witching’⁠—h’m.”</p>
 			<p>Vesey sat down on a table corner and began to whistle softly, frowning at the cablegram.</p>
-			<p>“Let’s have it, please,” said the <abbr class="initialism">ME</abbr> “We’ve got to get to work on it.”</p>
+			<p>“Let’s have it, please,” said the <abbr class="initialism">ME</abbr>. “We’ve got to get to work on it.”</p>
 			<p>“I believe I’ve got a line on it,” said Vesey. “Give me ten minutes.”</p>
 			<p>He walked to his desk, threw his hat into a wastebasket, spread out flat on his chest like a gorgeous lizard, and started his pencil going. The wit and wisdom of the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Enterprise</i> remained in a loose group, and smiled at one another, nodding their heads toward Vesey. Then they began to exchange their theories about the cipher.</p>
 			<p>It took Vesey exactly fifteen minutes. He brought to the <abbr class="initialism">ME</abbr> a pad with the code-key written on it.</p>

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@@ -82,7 +82,7 @@
 			<p>The man did not answer. He gave a deep, long-drawn sigh, leaned and kissed her on the forehead, stepped back into the other room and closed the door.</p>
 			<p>Goodwin foresaw his purpose, and jumped for the door, but the report of the pistol echoed as his hand touched the knob. A heavy fall followed, and someone swept him aside and struggled into the room of the fallen man.</p>
 			<p>A desolation, thought Goodwin, greater than that derived from the loss of cavalier and gold must have been in the heart of the enchantress to have wrung from her, in that moment, the cry of one turning to the all-forgiving, all-comforting earthly consoler⁠—to have made her call out from that bloody and dishonoured room⁠—“Oh, mother, mother, mother!”</p>
-			<p>But there was an alarm outside. The barber, Estebán, at the sound of the shot, had raised his voice; and the shot itself had aroused half the town. A pattering of feet came up the street, and official orders rang out on the still air. Goodwin had a duty to perform. Circumstances had made him the custodian of his adopted country’s treasure. Swiftly cramming the money into the valise, he closed it, leaned far out of the window and dropped it into a thick orange-tree in the little inclosure below.</p>
+			<p>But there was an alarm outside. The barber, Estebán, at the sound of the shot, had raised his voice; and the shot itself had aroused half the town. A pattering of feet came up the street, and official orders rang out on the still air. Goodwin had a duty to perform. Circumstances had made him the custodian of his adopted country’s treasure. Swiftly cramming the money into the valise, he closed it, leaned far out of the window and dropped it into a thick orange-tree in the little enclosure below.</p>
 			<p>They will tell you in Coralio, as they delight in telling the stranger, of the conclusion of that tragic flight. They will tell you how the upholders of the law came apace when the alarm was sounded⁠—the <i xml:lang="es">Comandante</i> in red slippers and a jacket like a head waiter’s and girded sword, the soldiers with their interminable guns, followed by outnumbering officers struggling into their gold lace and epaulettes; the barefooted policemen (the only capables in the lot), and ruffled citizens of every hue and description.</p>
 			<p>They say that the countenance of the dead man was marred sadly by the effects of the shot; but he was identified as the fallen president by both Goodwin and the barber Estebán. On the next morning messages began to come over the mended telegraph wire; and the story of the flight from the capital was given out to the public. In San Mateo the revolutionary party had seized the sceptre of government, without opposition, and the <i xml:lang="es">vivas</i> of the mercurial populace quickly effaced the interest belonging to the unfortunate Miraflores.</p>
 			<p>They will relate to you how the new government sifted the towns and raked the roads to find the valise containing Anchuria’s surplus capital, which the president was known to have carried with him, but all in vain. In Coralio Señor Goodwin himself led the searching party which combed that town as carefully as a woman combs her hair; but the money was not found.</p>

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@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="cherchez-la-femme" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">Cherchez La Femme</h2>
 			<p>Robbins, reporter for the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Picayune</i>, and Dumars, of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">L’Abeille</i>⁠—the old French newspaper that has buzzed for nearly a century⁠—were good friends, well proven by years of ups and downs together. They were seated where they had a habit of meeting⁠—in the little, Creole-haunted café of Madame Tibault, in Dumaine Street. If you know the place, you will experience a thrill of pleasure in recalling it to mind. It is small and dark, with six little polished tables, at which you may sit and drink the best coffee in New Orleans, and concoctions of absinthe equal to Sazerac’s best. Madame Tibault, fat and indulgent, presides at the desk, and takes your money. Nicolette and Mémé, madame’s nieces, in charming bib aprons, bring the desirable beverages.</p>
-			<p>Dumars, with true Creole luxury, was sipping his absinthe, with half-closed eyes, in a swirl of cigarette smoke. Robbins was looking over the morning <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Pic.</i>, detecting, as young reporters will, the gross blunders in the makeup, and the envious blue-pencilling his own stuff had received. This item, in the advertising columns, caught his eye, and with an exclamation of sudden interest he read it aloud to his friend.</p>
+			<p>Dumars, with true Creole luxury, was sipping his absinthe, with half-closed eyes, in a swirl of cigarette smoke. Robbins was looking over the morning <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper"><abbr>Pic.</abbr></i>, detecting, as young reporters will, the gross blunders in the makeup, and the envious blue-pencilling his own stuff had received. This item, in the advertising columns, caught his eye, and with an exclamation of sudden interest he read it aloud to his friend.</p>
 			<blockquote>
 				<p><b>Public Auction</b>.⁠—At three o’clock this afternoon there will be sold to the highest bidder all the common property of the Little Sisters of Samaria, at the home of the Sisterhood, in Bonhomme Street. The sale will dispose of the building, ground, and the complete furnishings of the house and chapel, without reserve.</p>
 			</blockquote>
@@ -84,7 +84,7 @@
 			<p>Robbins explained.</p>
 			<p>“There’s your twenty thousand dollars, with coupons attached,” he said, running his thumb around the edge of the four bonds. “Better get an expert to peel them off for you. Mister Morin was all right. I’m going out to get my ears trimmed.”</p>
 			<p>He dragged Dumars by the arm into the outer room. Madame was screaming for Nicolette and Mémé to come and observe the fortune returned to her by M’sieur Morin, that best of men, that saint in glory.</p>
-			<p>“Marsy,” said Robbins, “I’m going on a jamboree. For three days the esteemed <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Pic.</i> will have to get along without my valuable services. I advise you to join me. Now, that green stuff you drink is no good. It stimulates thought. What we want to do is to forget to remember. I’ll introduce you to the only lady in this case that is guaranteed to produce the desired results. Her name is Belle of Kentucky, twelve-year-old Bourbon. In quarts. How does the idea strike you?”</p>
+			<p>“Marsy,” said Robbins, “I’m going on a jamboree. For three days the esteemed <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper"><abbr>Pic.</abbr></i> will have to get along without my valuable services. I advise you to join me. Now, that green stuff you drink is no good. It stimulates thought. What we want to do is to forget to remember. I’ll introduce you to the only lady in this case that is guaranteed to produce the desired results. Her name is Belle of Kentucky, twelve-year-old Bourbon. In quarts. How does the idea strike you?”</p>
 			<p>“<i xml:lang="fr">Allons!</i>” said Dumars. “Cherchez la femme.”</p>
 		</section>
 	</body>

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@@ -14,7 +14,7 @@
 			<p>On the tenth of that month the Child of the Millionaire lost her rag-doll. There were many servants in the Millionaire’s palace on the Hudson, and these ransacked the house and grounds, but without finding the lost treasure. The child was a girl of five, and one of those perverse little beasts that often wound the sensibilities of wealthy parents by fixing their affections upon some vulgar, inexpensive toy instead of upon diamond-studded automobiles and pony phaetons.</p>
 			<p>The Child grieved sorely and truly, a thing inexplicable to the Millionaire, to whom the rag-doll market was about as interesting as Bay State Gas; and to the Lady, the Child’s mother, who was all form⁠—that is, nearly all, as you shall see.</p>
 			<p>The Child cried inconsolably, and grew hollow-eyed, knock-kneed, spindling, and corykilverty in many other respects. The Millionaire smiled and tapped his coffers confidently. The pick of the output of the French and German toymakers was rushed by special delivery to the mansion; but Rachel refused to be comforted. She was weeping for her rag child, and was for a high protective tariff against all foreign foolishness. Then doctors with the finest bedside manners and stopwatches were called in. One by one they chattered futilely about peptomanganate of iron and sea voyages and hypophosphites until their stopwatches showed that Bill Rendered was under the wire for show or place. Then, as men, they advised that the rag-doll be found as soon as possible and restored to its mourning parent. The Child sniffed at therapeutics, chewed a thumb, and wailed for her Betsy. And all this time cablegrams were coming from Santa Claus saying that he would soon be here and enjoining us to show a true Christian spirit and let up on the poolrooms and tontine policies and platoon systems long enough to give him a welcome. Everywhere the spirit of Christmas was diffusing itself. The banks were refusing loans, the pawnbrokers had doubled their gang of helpers, people bumped your shins on the streets with red sleds, Thomas and Jeremiah bubbled before you on the bars while you waited on one foot, holly-wreaths of hospitality were hung in windows of the stores, they who had ’em were getting their furs. You hardly knew which was the best bet in balls⁠—three, high, moth, or snow. It was no time at which to lose the rag-doll or your heart.</p>
-			<p>If Doctor Watson’s investigating friend had been called in to solve this mysterious disappearance he might have observed on the Millionaire’s wall a copy of “The Vampire.” That would have quickly suggested, by induction, “A rag and a bone and a hank of hair.” “Flip,” a Scotch terrier, next to the rag-doll in the Child’s heart, frisked through the halls. The hank of hair! Aha! <span epub:type="z3998:roman">X</span>, the unfound quantity, represented the rag-doll. But, the bone? Well, when dogs find bones they⁠—Done! It were an easy and a fruitful task to examine Flip’s forefeet. Look, Watson! Earth⁠—dried earth between the toes. Of course, the dog⁠—but Sherlock was not there. Therefore it devolves. But topography and architecture must intervene.</p>
+			<p>If Doctor Watson’s investigating friend had been called in to solve this mysterious disappearance he might have observed on the Millionaire’s wall a copy of “The Vampire.” That would have quickly suggested, by induction, “A rag and a bone and a hank of hair.” “Flip,” a Scotch terrier, next to the rag-doll in the Child’s heart, frisked through the halls. The hank of hair! Aha! <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">X</i>, the unfound quantity, represented the rag-doll. But, the bone? Well, when dogs find bones they⁠—Done! It were an easy and a fruitful task to examine Flip’s forefeet. Look, Watson! Earth⁠—dried earth between the toes. Of course, the dog⁠—but Sherlock was not there. Therefore it devolves. But topography and architecture must intervene.</p>
 			<p>The Millionaire’s palace occupied a lordly space. In front of it was a lawn close-mowed as a South Ireland man’s face two days after a shave. At one side of it, and fronting on another street was a pleasaunce trimmed to a leaf, and the garage and stables. The Scotch pup had ravished the rag-doll from the nursery, dragged it to a corner of the lawn, dug a hole, and buried it after the manner of careless undertakers. There you have the mystery solved, and no checks to write for the hypodermical wizard or fi’-pun notes to toss to the sergeant. Then let’s get down to the heart of the thing, tiresome readers⁠—the Christmas heart of the thing.</p>
 			<p>Fuzzy was drunk⁠—not riotously or helplessly or loquaciously, as you or I might get, but decently, appropriately, and inoffensively, as becomes a gentleman down on his luck.</p>
 			<p>Fuzzy was a soldier of misfortune. The road, the haystack, the park bench, the kitchen door, the bitter round of eleemosynary beds-with-shower-bath-attachment, the petty pickings and ignobly garnered largesse of great cities⁠—these formed the chapters of his history.</p>
@@ -28,7 +28,7 @@
 			<p>Black Riley came from behind the stove and approached Fuzzy in his one-sided parabolic way.</p>
 			<p>The Christmas mummer, flushed with success, had tucked Betsy under his arm, and was about to depart to the filling of impromptu dates elsewhere.</p>
 			<p>“Say, ’Bo,” said Black Riley to him, “where did you cop out dat doll?”</p>
-			<p>“This doll?” asked Fuzzy, touching Betsy with his forefinger to be sure that she was the one referred to. Why, this doll was presented to me by the Emperor of Beloochistan. I have seven hundred others in my country home in Newport. This doll⁠—”</p>
+			<p>“This doll?” asked Fuzzy, touching Betsy with his forefinger to be sure that she was the one referred to. “Why, this doll was presented to me by the Emperor of Beloochistan. I have seven hundred others in my country home in Newport. This doll⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Cheese the funny business,” said Riley. “You swiped it or picked it up at de house on de hill where⁠—but never mind dat. You want to take fifty cents for de rags, and take it quick. Me brother’s kid at home might be wantin’ to play wid it. Hey⁠—what?”</p>
 			<p>He produced the coin.</p>
 			<p>Fuzzy laughed a gurgling, insolent, alcoholic laugh in his face. Go to the office of Sarah Bernhardt’s manager and propose to him that she be released from a night’s performance to entertain the Tackytown Lyceum and Literary Coterie. You will hear the duplicate of Fuzzy’s laugh.</p>

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@@ -46,7 +46,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘That’s the voice of New York,’ goes on Andy. ‘The town’s nothing but a head waiter. If you tip it too much it’ll go and stand by the door and make fun of you to the hat check boy. When a Pittsburger wants to spend money and have a good time he stays at home. That’s where we’ll go to catch him.’</p>
 			<p>“Well, to make a dense story more condensed, me and Andy cached our paris green and antipyrine powders and albums in a friend’s cellar, and took the trail to Pittsburg. Andy didn’t have any especial prospectus of chicanery and violence drawn up, but he always had plenty of confidence that his immoral nature would rise to any occasion that presented itself.</p>
 			<p>“As a concession to my ideas of self-preservation and rectitude he promised that if I should take an active and incriminating part in any little business venture that we might work up there should be something actual and cognizant to the senses of touch, sight, taste or smell to transfer to the victim for the money so my conscience might rest easy. After that I felt better and entered more cheerfully into the foul play.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Andy,’ says I, as we strayed through the smoke along the cinderpath they call Smithfield street, ‘had you figured out how we are going to get acquainted with these coke kings and pig iron squeezers? Not that I would decry my own worth or system of drawing room deportment, and work with the olive fork and pie knife,’ says I, ‘but isn’t the entrée nous into the salons of the stogie smokers going to be harder than you imagined?’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Andy,’ says I, as we strayed through the smoke along the cinderpath they call Smithfield Street, ‘had you figured out how we are going to get acquainted with these coke kings and pig iron squeezers? Not that I would decry my own worth or system of drawing room deportment, and work with the olive fork and pie knife,’ says I, ‘but isn’t the entrée nous into the salons of the stogie smokers going to be harder than you imagined?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘If there’s any handicap at all,’ says Andy, ‘it’s our own refinement and inherent culture. Pittsburg millionaires are a fine body of plain, wholehearted, unassuming, democratic men.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘They are rough but uncivil in their manners, and though their ways are boisterous and unpolished, under it all they have a great deal of impoliteness and discourtesy. Nearly every one of ’em rose from obscurity,’ says Andy, ‘and they’ll live in it till the town gets to using smoke consumers. If we act simple and unaffected and don’t go too far from the saloons and keep making a noise like an import duty on steel rails we won’t have any trouble in meeting some of ’em socially.’</p>
 			<p>“Well Andy and me drifted about town three or four days getting our bearings. We got to knowing several millionaires by sight.</p>
@@ -54,7 +54,7 @@
 			<p>“One evening Andy failed to come to the hotel for dinner. About 11 o’clock he came into my room.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Landed one, Jeff,’ says he. ‘Twelve millions. Oil, rolling mills, real estate and natural gas. He’s a fine man; no airs about him. Made all his money in the last five years. He’s got professors posting him up now in education⁠—art and literature and haberdashery and such things.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘When I saw him he’d just won a bet of $10,000 with a Steel Corporation man that there’d be four suicides in the Allegheny rolling mills today. So everybody in sight had to walk up and have drinks on him. He took a fancy to me and asked me to dinner with him. We went to a restaurant in Diamond alley and sat on stools and had a sparkling Moselle and clam chowder and apple fritters.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Then he wanted to show me his bachelor apartment on Liberty street. He’s got ten rooms over a fish market with privilege of the bath on the next floor above. He told me it cost him $18,000 to furnish his apartment, and I believe it.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Then he wanted to show me his bachelor apartment on Liberty Street. He’s got ten rooms over a fish market with privilege of the bath on the next floor above. He told me it cost him $18,000 to furnish his apartment, and I believe it.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘He’s got $40,000 worth of pictures in one room, and $20,000 worth of curios and antiques in another. His name’s Scudder, and he’s 45, and taking lessons on the piano and 15,000 barrels of oil a day out of his wells.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘All right,’ says I. ‘Preliminary canter satisfactory. But, kay vooly, voo? What good is the art junk to us? And the oil?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Now, that man,’ says Andy, sitting thoughtfully on the bed, ‘ain’t what you would call an ordinary scutt. When he was showing me his cabinet of art curios his face lighted up like the door of a coke oven. He says that if some of his big deals go through he’ll make <abbr class="name">J. P.</abbr> Morgan’s collection of sweatshop tapestry and Augusta, Me., beadwork look like the contents of an ostrich’s craw thrown on a screen by a magic lantern.</p>

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@@ -56,7 +56,7 @@
 			<p>“That’s mine, sir. You’re not in the business of robbing women, are you?”</p>
 			<p>Now, as this was our first holdup, we hadn’t agreed upon any code of ethics, so I hardly knew what to answer. But, anyway, I replied: “Well, not as a specialty. If this contains your personal property you can have it back.”</p>
 			<p>“It just does,” she declared eagerly, and reached out her hand for it.</p>
-			<p>“You’ll excuse my taking a look at the contents,” I said, holding the stocking up by the toe. Out dumped a big gent’s gold watch, worth two hundred, a gent’s leather pocketbook that we afterward found to contain six hundred dollars, a 32-calibre revolver; and the only thing of the lot that could have been a lady’s personal property was a silver bracelet worth about fifty cents.</p>
+			<p>“You’ll excuse my taking a look at the contents,” I said, holding the stocking up by the toe. Out dumped a big gent’s gold watch, worth two hundred, a gent’s leather pocketbook that we afterward found to contain six hundred dollars, a .32-calibre revolver; and the only thing of the lot that could have been a lady’s personal property was a silver bracelet worth about fifty cents.</p>
 			<p>I said: “Madame, here’s your property,” and handed her the bracelet. “Now,” I went on, “how can you expect us to act square with you when you try to deceive us in this manner? I’m surprised at such conduct.”</p>
 			<p>The young woman flushed up as if she had been caught doing something dishonest. Some other woman down the line called out: “The mean thing!” I never knew whether she meant the other lady or me.</p>
 			<p>When we finished our job we ordered everybody back to bed, told ’em good night very politely at the door, and left. We rode forty miles before daylight and then divided the stuff. Each one of us got $1,752.85 in money. We lumped the jewellery around. Then we scattered, each man for himself.</p>

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@@ -13,7 +13,7 @@
 			<p>“One summer me and Andy Tucker, my partner, went to New York to lay in our annual assortment of clothes and gents’ furnishings. We was always pompous and regardless dressers, finding that looks went further than anything else in our business, except maybe our knowledge of railroad schedules and an autograph photo of the President that Loeb sent us, probably by mistake. Andy wrote a nature letter once and sent it in about animals that he had seen caught in a trap lots of times. Loeb must have read it ‘triplets,’ instead of ‘trap lots,’ and sent the photo. Anyhow, it was useful to us to show people as a guarantee of good faith.</p>
 			<p>“Me and Andy never cared much to do business in New York. It was too much like pothunting. Catching suckers in that town is like dynamiting a Texas lake for bass. All you have to do anywhere between the North and East rivers is to stand in the street with an open bag marked, ‘Drop packages of money here. No checks or loose bills taken.’ You have a cop handy to club pikers who try to chip in post office orders and Canadian money, and that’s all there is to New York for a hunter who loves his profession. So me and Andy used to just nature fake the town. We’d get out our spyglasses and watch the woodcocks along the Broadway swamps putting plaster casts on their broken legs, and then we’d sneak away without firing a shot.</p>
 			<p>“One day in the papier mâché palm room of a chloral hydrate and hops agency in a side street about eight inches off Broadway me and Andy had thrust upon us the acquaintance of a New Yorker. We had beer together until we discovered that each of us knew a man named Hellsmith, traveling for a stove factory in Duluth. This caused us to remark that the world was a very small place, and then this New Yorker busts his string and takes off his tin foil and excelsior packing and starts in giving us his Ellen Terris, beginning with the time he used to sell shoelaces to the Indians on the spot where Tammany Hall now stands.</p>
-			<p>“This New Yorker had made his money keeping a cigar store in Beekman street, and he hadn’t been above Fourteenth Street in ten years. Moreover, he had whiskers, and the time had gone by when a true sport will do anything to a man with whiskers. No grafter except a boy who is soliciting subscribers to an illustrated weekly to win the prize air rifle, or a widow, would have the heart to tamper with the man behind with the razor. He was a typical city Reub⁠—I’d bet the man hadn’t been out of sight of a skyscraper in twenty-five years.</p>
+			<p>“This New Yorker had made his money keeping a cigar store in Beekman Street, and he hadn’t been above Fourteenth Street in ten years. Moreover, he had whiskers, and the time had gone by when a true sport will do anything to a man with whiskers. No grafter except a boy who is soliciting subscribers to an illustrated weekly to win the prize air rifle, or a widow, would have the heart to tamper with the man behind with the razor. He was a typical city Reub⁠—I’d bet the man hadn’t been out of sight of a skyscraper in twenty-five years.</p>
 			<p>“Well, presently this metropolitan backwoodsman pulls out a roll of bills with an old blue sleeve elastic fitting tight around it and opens it up.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘There’s $5,000, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters,’ says he, shoving it over the table to me, ‘saved during my fifteen years of business. Put that in your pocket and keep it for me, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters. I’m glad to meet you gentlemen from the West, and I may take a drop too much. I want you to take care of my money for me. Now, let’s have another beer.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘You’d better keep this yourself,’ says I. ‘We are strangers to you, and you can’t trust everybody you meet. Put your roll back in your pocket,’ says I. ‘And you’d better run along home before some farmhand from the Kaw River bottoms strolls in here and sells you a copper mine.’</p>
@@ -24,7 +24,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Well,’ says Andy, ‘it does seem kind of hard on one’s professional pride to lope off with a bearded pard’s competency, especially after he has nominated you custodian of his bundle in the sappy insouciance of his urban indiscrimination. Suppose we wake him up and see if we can formulate some commercial sophistry by which he will be enabled to give us both his money and a good excuse.’</p>
 			<p>“We wakes up Whiskers. He stretches himself and yawns out the hypothesis that he must have dropped off for a minute. And then he says he wouldn’t mind sitting in at a little gentleman’s game of poker. He used to play some when he attended high school in Brooklyn; and as he was out for a good time, why⁠—and so forth.</p>
 			<p>“Andy brights up a little at that, for it looks like it might be a solution to our financial troubles. So we all three go to our hotel further down Broadway and have the cards and chips brought up to Andy’s room. I tried once more to make this Babe in the Horticultural Gardens take his five thousand. But no.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Keep that little roll for me, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters,’ says he, ‘and oblige. I’ll ask you fer it when I want it. I guess I know when I’m among friends. A man that’s done business on Beekman street for twenty years, right in the heart of the wisest old village on earth, ought to know what he’s about. I guess I can tell a gentleman from a con man or a flimflammer when I meet him. I’ve got some odd change in my clothes⁠—enough to start the game with, I guess.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Keep that little roll for me, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters,’ says he, ‘and oblige. I’ll ask you fer it when I want it. I guess I know when I’m among friends. A man that’s done business on Beekman sSreet for twenty years, right in the heart of the wisest old village on earth, ought to know what he’s about. I guess I can tell a gentleman from a con man or a flimflammer when I meet him. I’ve got some odd change in my clothes⁠—enough to start the game with, I guess.’</p>
 			<p>“He goes through his pockets and rains $20 gold certificates on the table till it looked like a $10,000 ‘Autumn Day in a Lemon Grove’ picture by Turner in the salons. Andy almost smiled.</p>
 			<p>“The first round that was dealt, this boulevardier slaps down his hand, claims low and jack and big casino and rakes in the pot.</p>
 			<p>“Andy always took a pride in his poker playing. He got up from the table and looked sadly out of the window at the street cars.</p>

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@@ -25,7 +25,7 @@
 			<p>“I want it straight,” said the Kid to him. “The old woman has got a hunch that she wants a peach. Now, if you’ve got a peach, Cal, get it out quick. I want it and others like it if you’ve got ’em in plural quantities.”</p>
 			<p>“The house is yours,” said O’Callahan. “But there’s no peach in it. It’s too soon. I don’t suppose you could even find ’em at one of the Broadway joints. That’s too bad. When a lady fixes her mouth for a certain kind of fruit nothing else won’t do. It’s too late now to find any of the first-class fruiterers open. But if you think the missis would like some nice oranges I’ve just got a box of fine ones in that she might⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Much obliged, Cal. It’s a peach proposition right from the ring of the gong. I’ll try further.”</p>
-			<p>The time was nearly midnight as the Kid walked down the West-Side avenue. Few stores were open, and such as were practically hooted at the idea of a peach.</p>
+			<p>The time was nearly midnight as the Kid walked down the West-Side Avenue. Few stores were open, and such as were practically hooted at the idea of a peach.</p>
 			<p>But in her moated flat the bride confidently awaited her Persian fruit. A champion welterweight not find a peach?⁠—not stride triumphantly over the seasons and the zodiac and the almanac to fetch an Amsden’s June or a Georgia cling to his owny-own?</p>
 			<p>The Kid’s eye caught sight of a window that was lighted and gorgeous with nature’s most entrancing colors. The light suddenly went out. The Kid sprinted and caught the fruiterer locking his door.</p>
 			<p>“Peaches?” said he, with extreme deliberation.</p>

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@@ -94,9 +94,9 @@
 			<p>The manager of the Rancho de las Sombras was no dilettante. He was a “hustler.” He was generally up, mounted, and away of mornings before the rest of the household were awake, making the rounds of the flocks and camps. This was the duty of the major-domo, a stately old Mexican with a princely air and manner, but Teddy seemed to have a great deal of confidence in his own eyesight. Except in the busy seasons, he nearly always returned to the ranch to breakfast at eight o’clock, with Octavia and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Maclntyre, at the little table set in the central hallway, bringing with him a tonic and breezy cheerfulness full of the health and flavour of the prairies.</p>
 			<p>A few days after Octavia’s arrival he made her get out one of her riding skirts, and curtail it to a shortness demanded by the chaparral brakes.</p>
 			<p>With some misgivings she donned this and the pair of buckskin leggings he prescribed in addition, and, mounted upon a dancing pony, rode with him to view her possessions. He showed her everything⁠—the flocks of ewes, muttons and grazing lambs, the dipping vats, the shearing pens, the uncouth merino rams in their little pasture, the water-tanks prepared against the summer drought⁠—giving account of his stewardship with a boyish enthusiasm that never flagged.</p>
-			<p>Where was the old Teddy that she knew so well? This side of him was the same, and it was a side that pleased her; but this was all she ever saw of him now. Where was his sentimentality⁠—those old, varying moods of impetuous lovemaking, of fanciful, quixotic devotion, of heartbreaking gloom, of alternating, absurd tenderness and haughty dignity? His nature had been a sensitive one, his temperament bordering closely on the artistic. She knew that, besides being a follower of fashion and its fads and sports, he had cultivated tastes of a finer nature. He had written things, he had tampered with colours, he was something of a student in certain branches of art, and once she had been admitted to all his aspirations and thoughts. But now⁠—and she could not avoid the conclusion⁠—Teddy had barricaded against her every side of himself except one⁠—the side that showed the manager of the Rancho de las Sombras and a jolly chum who had forgiven and forgotten. Queerly enough the words of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bannister’s description of her property came into her mind⁠—“all inclosed within a strong barbed-wire fence.”</p>
+			<p>Where was the old Teddy that she knew so well? This side of him was the same, and it was a side that pleased her; but this was all she ever saw of him now. Where was his sentimentality⁠—those old, varying moods of impetuous lovemaking, of fanciful, quixotic devotion, of heartbreaking gloom, of alternating, absurd tenderness and haughty dignity? His nature had been a sensitive one, his temperament bordering closely on the artistic. She knew that, besides being a follower of fashion and its fads and sports, he had cultivated tastes of a finer nature. He had written things, he had tampered with colours, he was something of a student in certain branches of art, and once she had been admitted to all his aspirations and thoughts. But now⁠—and she could not avoid the conclusion⁠—Teddy had barricaded against her every side of himself except one⁠—the side that showed the manager of the Rancho de las Sombras and a jolly chum who had forgiven and forgotten. Queerly enough the words of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bannister’s description of her property came into her mind⁠—“all enclosed within a strong barbed-wire fence.”</p>
 			<p>“Teddy’s fenced, too,” said Octavia to herself.</p>
-			<p>It was not difficult for her to reason out the cause of his fortifications. It had originated one night at the Hammersmiths’ ball. It occurred at a time soon after she had decided to accept Colonel Beaupree and his million, which was no more than her looks and the entrée she held to the inner circles were worth. Teddy had proposed with all his impetuosity and fire, and she looked him straight in the eyes, and said, coldly and finally: “Never let me hear any such silly nonsense from you again.” “You won’t,” said Teddy, with an expression around his mouth, and⁠—now Teddy was inclosed within a strong barbed-wire fence.</p>
+			<p>It was not difficult for her to reason out the cause of his fortifications. It had originated one night at the Hammersmiths’ ball. It occurred at a time soon after she had decided to accept Colonel Beaupree and his million, which was no more than her looks and the entrée she held to the inner circles were worth. Teddy had proposed with all his impetuosity and fire, and she looked him straight in the eyes, and said, coldly and finally: “Never let me hear any such silly nonsense from you again.” “You won’t,” said Teddy, with an expression around his mouth, and⁠—now Teddy was enclosed within a strong barbed-wire fence.</p>
 			<p>It was on this first ride of inspection that Teddy was seized by the inspiration that suggested the name of Mother Goose’s heroine, and he at once bestowed it upon Octavia. The idea, supported by both a similarity of names and identity of occupations, seemed to strike him as a peculiarly happy one, and he never tired of using it. The Mexicans on the ranch also took up the name, adding another syllable to accommodate their lingual incapacity for the final “p,” gravely referring to her as “<i xml:lang="es">La Madama Bo-Peepy</i>.” Eventually it spread, and “Madame Bo-Peep’s ranch” was as often mentioned as the “Rancho de las Sombras.”</p>
 			<p>Came the long, hot season from May to September, when work is scarce on the ranches. Octavia passed the days in a kind of lotus-eater’s dream. Books, hammocks, correspondence with a few intimate friends, a renewed interest in her old watercolour box and easel⁠—these disposed of the sultry hours of daylight. The evenings were always sure to bring enjoyment. Best of all were the rapturous horseback rides with Teddy, when the moon gave light over the windswept leagues, chaperoned by the wheeling nighthawk and the startled owl. Often the Mexicans would come up from their shacks with their guitars and sing the weirdest of heartbreaking songs. There were long, cosy chats on the breezy gallery, and an interminable warfare of wits between Teddy and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> MacIntyre, whose abundant Scotch shrewdness often more than overmatched the lighter humour in which she was lacking.</p>
 			<p>And the nights came, one after another, and were filed away by weeks and months⁠—nights soft and languorous and fragrant, that should have driven Strephon to Chloe over wires however barbed, that might have drawn Cupid himself to hunt, lasso in hand, among those amorous pastures⁠—but Teddy kept his fences up.</p>

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@@ -15,7 +15,7 @@
 			<p>When a burglar is caught who does not wear a collar he is described as a degenerate of the lowest type, singularly vicious and depraved, and is suspected of being the desperate criminal who stole the handcuffs out of Patrolman Hennessy’s pocket in 1878 and walked away to escape arrest.</p>
 			<p>The other well-known type is the burglar who wears a collar. He is always referred to as a Raffles in real life. He is invariably a gentleman by daylight, breakfasting in a dress suit, and posing as a paperhanger, while after dark he plies his nefarious occupation of burglary. His mother is an extremely wealthy and respected resident of Ocean Grove, and when he is conducted to his cell he asks at once for a nail file and the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Police Gazette</i>. He always has a wife in every State in the Union and fiancées in all the Territories, and the newspapers print his matrimonial gallery out of their stock of cuts of the ladies who were cured by only one bottle after having been given up by five doctors, experiencing great relief after the first dose.</p>
 			<p>The burglar wore a blue sweater. He was neither a Raffles nor one of the chefs from Hell’s Kitchen. The police would have been baffled had they attempted to classify him. They have not yet heard of the respectable, unassuming burglar who is neither above nor below his station.</p>
-			<p>This burglar of the third class began to prowl. He wore no masks, dark lanterns, or gum shoes. He carried a 38-calibre revolver in his pocket, and he chewed peppermint gum thoughtfully.</p>
+			<p>This burglar of the third class began to prowl. He wore no masks, dark lanterns, or gum shoes. He carried a .38-calibre revolver in his pocket, and he chewed peppermint gum thoughtfully.</p>
 			<p>The furniture of the house was swathed in its summer dust protectors. The silver was far away in safe-deposit vaults. The burglar expected no remarkable “haul.” His objective point was that dimly lighted room where the master of the house should be sleeping heavily after whatever solace he had sought to lighten the burden of his loneliness. A “touch” might be made there to the extent of legitimate, fair professional profits⁠—loose money, a watch, a jewelled stickpin⁠—nothing exorbitant or beyond reason. He had seen the window left open and had taken the chance.</p>
 			<p>The burglar softly opened the door of the lighted room. The gas was turned low. A man lay in the bed asleep. On the dresser lay many things in confusion⁠—a crumpled roll of bills, a watch, keys, three poker chips, crushed cigars, a pink silk hair bow, and an unopened bottle of bromo-seltzer for a bulwark in the morning.</p>
 			<p>The burglar took three steps toward the dresser. The man in the bed suddenly uttered a squeaky groan and opened his eyes. His right hand slid under his pillow, but remained there.</p>

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@@ -24,7 +24,7 @@
 			<p>“I think I know whom you mean,” she answered, with a gentle smile. “We see them in the same places night after night. They are the devil’s body guard, and if the soldiers of any army are as faithful as they are, their commanders are well served. We go among them, diverting a few pennies from their wickedness to the Lord’s service.”</p>
 			<p>She shook the box again and I dropped a dime into it.</p>
 			<p>In front of a glittering hotel a friend of mine, a critic, was climbing from a cab. He seemed at leisure; and I put my question to him. He answered me conscientiously, as I was sure he would.</p>
-			<p>“There is a type of ‘Man About Town’ in New York,” he answered. “The term is quite familiar to me, but I don’t think I was ever called upon to define the character before. It would be difficult to point you out an exact specimen. I would say, offhand, that it is a man who had a hopeless case of the peculiar New York disease of wanting to see and know. At 6 o’clock each day life begins with him. He follows rigidly the conventions of dress and manners; but in the business of poking his nose into places where he does not belong he could give pointers to a civet cat or a jackdaw. He is the man who has chased Bohemia about the town from rathskeller to roof garden and from Hester street to Harlem until you can’t find a place in the city where they don’t cut their spaghetti with a knife. Your ‘Man About Town’ has done that. He is always on the scent of something new. He is curiosity, impudence and omnipresence. Hansoms were made for him, and gold-banded cigars; and the curse of music at dinner. There are not so many of him; but his minority report is adopted everywhere.</p>
+			<p>“There is a type of ‘Man About Town’ in New York,” he answered. “The term is quite familiar to me, but I don’t think I was ever called upon to define the character before. It would be difficult to point you out an exact specimen. I would say, offhand, that it is a man who had a hopeless case of the peculiar New York disease of wanting to see and know. At 6 o’clock each day life begins with him. He follows rigidly the conventions of dress and manners; but in the business of poking his nose into places where he does not belong he could give pointers to a civet cat or a jackdaw. He is the man who has chased Bohemia about the town from rathskeller to roof garden and from Hester Street to Harlem until you can’t find a place in the city where they don’t cut their spaghetti with a knife. Your ‘Man About Town’ has done that. He is always on the scent of something new. He is curiosity, impudence and omnipresence. Hansoms were made for him, and gold-banded cigars; and the curse of music at dinner. There are not so many of him; but his minority report is adopted everywhere.</p>
 			<p>“I’m glad you brought up the subject; I’ve felt the influence of this nocturnal blight upon our city, but I never thought to analyse it before. I can see now that your ‘Man About Town’ should have been classified long ago. In his wake spring up wine agents and cloak models; and the orchestra plays ‘Let’s All Go Up to Maud’s’ for him, by request, instead of Händel. He makes his rounds every evening; while you and I see the elephant once a week. When the cigar store is raided, he winks at the officer, familiar with his ground, and walks away immune, while you and I search among the Presidents for names, and among the stars for addresses to give the desk sergeant.”</p>
 			<p>My friend, the critic, paused to acquire breath for fresh eloquence. I seized my advantage.</p>
 			<p>“You have classified him,” I cried with joy. “You have painted his portrait in the gallery of city types. But I must meet one face to face. I must study the Man About Town at first hand. Where shall I find him? How shall I know him?”</p>

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@@ -37,7 +37,7 @@
 			<p>“You old flea-headed woodchuck-chaser,” I said to him⁠—“you moon-baying, rabbit-pointing, egg-stealing old beagle, can’t you see that I don’t want to leave you? Can’t you see that we’re both Pups in the Wood and the missis is the cruel uncle after you with the dish towel and me with the flea liniment and a pink bow to tie on my tail. Why not cut that all out and be pards forever more?”</p>
 			<p>Maybe you’ll say he didn’t understand⁠—maybe he didn’t. But he kind of got a grip on the Hot Scotches, and stood still for a minute, thinking.</p>
 			<p>“Doggie,” says he, finally, “we don’t live more than a dozen lives on this earth, and very few of us live to be more than 300. If I ever see that flat any more I’m a flat, and if you do you’re flatter; and that’s no flattery. I’m offering 60 to 1 that Westward Ho wins out by the length of a dachshund.”</p>
-			<p>There was no string, but I frolicked along with my master to the Twenty-third street ferry. And the cats on the route saw reason to give thanks that prehensile claws had been given them.</p>
+			<p>There was no string, but I frolicked along with my master to the Twenty-third Street ferry. And the cats on the route saw reason to give thanks that prehensile claws had been given them.</p>
 			<p>On the Jersey side my master said to a stranger who stood eating a currant bun:</p>
 			<p>“Me and my doggie, we are bound for the Rocky Mountains.”</p>
 			<p>But what pleased me most was when my old man pulled both of my ears until I howled, and said: “You common, monkey-headed, rat-tailed, sulphur-coloured son of a door mat, do you know what I’m going to call you?”</p>

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@@ -76,7 +76,7 @@
 			<p>The guests crowded in confusion to the rear. Rooney’s lieutenant swung open a panel in the wall, overlooking the back yard, revealing a ladder already placed for the escape.</p>
 			<p>“Down and out, everybody!” he commanded. “Ladies first! Less talking, please! Don’t crowd! There’s no danger.”</p>
 			<p>Among the last, Cork and Ruby waited their turn at the open panel. Suddenly she swept him aside and clung to his arm fiercely.</p>
-			<p>“Before we go out,” she whispered in his ear⁠—“before anything happens, tell me again, Eddie, do you l⁠—do you really like me?”</p>
+			<p>“Before we go out,” she whispered in his ear⁠—“before anything happens, tell me again, Eddie, do you⁠—do you really like me?”</p>
 			<p>“On the dead level,” said Cork, holding her close with one arm, “when it comes to you, I’m all in.”</p>
 			<p>When they turned they found they were lost and in darkness. The last of the fleeing customers had descended. Half way across the yard they bore the ladder, stumbling, giggling, hurrying to place it against an adjoining low building over the roof of which their only route to safety.</p>
 			<p>“We may as well sit down,” said Cork grimly. “Maybe Rooney will stand the cops off, anyhow.”</p>

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@@ -82,7 +82,7 @@
 			<p>“Brace up,” said the writer. “I guess I think as much of her as you do. It’s for her benefit as well as mine. I’ve got to get a market for my stories in some way. It won’t hurt Louise. She’s healthy and sound. Her heart goes as strong as a ninety-eight-cent watch. It’ll last for only a minute, and then I’ll step out and explain to her. You really owe it to me to give me the chance, Westbrook.”</p>
 			<p>Editor Westbrook at length yielded, though but half willingly. And in the half of him that consented lurked the vivisectionist that is in all of us. Let him who has not used the scalpel rise and stand in his place. Pity ’tis that there are not enough rabbits and guinea-pigs to go around.</p>
 			<p>The two experimenters in Art left the Square and hurried eastward and then to the south until they arrived in the Gramercy neighborhood. Within its high iron railings the little park had put on its smart coat of vernal green, and was admiring itself in its fountain mirror. Outside the railings the hollow square of crumbling houses, shells of a bygone gentry, leaned as if in ghostly gossip over the forgotten doings of the vanished quality. <i xml:lang="la">Sic transit gloria urbis.</i></p>
-			<p>A block or two north of the Park, Dawe steered the editor again eastward, then, after covering a short distance, into a lofty but narrow flathouse burdened with a floridly over-decorated façade. To the fifth story they toiled, and Dawe, panting, pushed his latchkey into the door of one of the front flats.</p>
+			<p>A block or two north of the Park, Dawe steered the editor again eastward, then, after covering a short distance, into a lofty but narrow flathouse burdened with a floridly over-decorated facade. To the fifth story they toiled, and Dawe, panting, pushed his latchkey into the door of one of the front flats.</p>
 			<p>When the door opened Editor Westbrook saw, with feelings of pity, how meanly and meagerly the rooms were furnished.</p>
 			<p>“Get a chair, if you can find one,” said Dawe, “while I hunt up pen and ink. Hello, what’s this? Here’s a note from Louise. She must have left it there when she went out this morning.”</p>
 			<p>He picked up an envelope that lay on the centre-table and tore it open. He began to read the letter that he drew out of it; and once having begun it aloud he so read it through to the end. These are the words that Editor Westbrook heard:</p>

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@@ -41,7 +41,7 @@
 			<p>North and I dined on the top of a hotel; and here, for a few minutes, I thought I had made a score. An east wind, almost cool, blew across the roofless roof. A capable orchestra concealed in a bower of wistaria played with sufficient judgment to make the art of music probable and the art of conversation possible.</p>
 			<p>Some ladies in reproachless summer gowns at other tables gave animation and color to the scene. And an excellent dinner, mainly from the refrigerator, seemed to successfully back my judgment as to summer resorts. But North grumbled all during the meal, and cursed his lawyers and prated so of his confounded camp in the woods that I began to wish he would go back there and leave me in my peaceful city retreat.</p>
 			<p>After dining we went to a roof-garden vaudeville that was being much praised. There we found a good bill, an artificially cooled atmosphere, cold drinks, prompt service, and a gay, well-dressed audience. North was bored.</p>
-			<p>“If this isn’t comfortable enough for you on the hottest August night for five years,” I said, a little sarcastically, “you might think about the kids down in Delancey and Hester streets lying out on the fire-escapes with their tongues hanging out, trying to get a breath of air that hasn’t been fried on both sides. The contrast might increase your enjoyment.”</p>
+			<p>“If this isn’t comfortable enough for you on the hottest August night for five years,” I said, a little sarcastically, “you might think about the kids down in Delancey and Hester Streets lying out on the fire-escapes with their tongues hanging out, trying to get a breath of air that hasn’t been fried on both sides. The contrast might increase your enjoyment.”</p>
 			<p>“Don’t talk Socialism,” said North. “I gave five hundred dollars to the free ice fund on the first of May. I’m contrasting these stale, artificial, hollow, wearisome ‘amusements’ with the enjoyment a man can get in the woods. You should see the firs and pines do skirt-dances during a storm; and lie down flat and drink out of a mountain branch at the end of a day’s tramp after the deer. That’s the only way to spend a summer. Get out and live with nature.”</p>
 			<p>“I agree with you absolutely,” said I, with emphasis.</p>
 			<p>For one moment I had relaxed my vigilance, and had spoken my true sentiments. North looked at me long and curiously.</p>

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@@ -23,7 +23,7 @@
 			<p>And it came to pass that man-servants set before us brewage; and Lucullus Polk spake unto me, relating the wherefores of his beleaguering the antechambers of the princes of the earth.</p>
 			<p>“Did you ever hear of the <abbr>S.A. &amp; A.P.</abbr> Railroad in Texas? Well, that don’t stand for Samaritan Actor’s Aid Philanthropy. I was down that way managing a summer bunch of the gum and syntax-chewers that play the Idlewild Parks in the Western hamlets. Of course, we went to pieces when the soubrette ran away with a prominent barber of Beeville. I don’t know what became of the rest of the company. I believe there were some salaries due; and the last I saw of the troupe was when I told them that forty-three cents was all the treasury contained. I say I never saw any of them after that; but I heard them for about twenty minutes. I didn’t have time to look back. But after dark I came out of the woods and struck the <abbr>S.A. &amp; A.P.</abbr> agent for means of transportation. He at once extended to me the courtesies of the entire railroad, kindly warning me, however, not to get aboard any of the rolling stock.</p>
 			<p>“About ten the next morning I steps off the ties into a village that calls itself Atascosa City. I bought a thirty-cent breakfast and a ten-cent cigar, and stood on the Main Street jingling the three pennies in my pocket⁠—dead broke. A man in Texas with only three cents in his pocket is no better off than a man that has no money and owes two cents.</p>
-			<p>“One of luck’s favourite tricks is to soak a man for his last dollar so quick that he don’t have time to look it. There I was in a swell <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis tailor-made, blue-and-green plaid suit, and an eighteen-narat sulphate-of-copper scarf-pin, with no hope in sight except the two great Texas industries, the cotton fields and grading new railroads. I never picked cotton, and I never cottoned to a pick, so the outlook had ultramarine edges.</p>
+			<p>“One of luck’s favourite tricks is to soak a man for his last dollar so quick that he don’t have time to look it. There I was in a swell <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis tailor-made, blue-and-green plaid suit, and an eighteen-carat sulphate-of-copper scarf-pin, with no hope in sight except the two great Texas industries, the cotton fields and grading new railroads. I never picked cotton, and I never cottoned to a pick, so the outlook had ultramarine edges.</p>
 			<p>“All of a sudden, while I was standing on the edge of the wooden sidewalk, down out of the sky falls two fine gold watches in the middle of the street. One hits a chunk of mud and sticks. The other falls hard and flies open, making a fine drizzle of little springs and screws and wheels. I looks up for a balloon or an airship; but not seeing any, I steps off the sidewalk to investigate.</p>
 			<p>“But I hear a couple of yells and see two men running up the street in leather overalls and high-heeled boots and cartwheel hats. One man is six or eight feet high, with open-plumbed joints and a heartbroken cast of countenance. He picks up the watch that has stuck in the mud. The other man, who is little, with pink hair and white eyes, goes for the empty case, and says, ‘I win.’ Then the elevated pessimist goes down under his leather leg-holsters and hands a handful of twenty-yollar gold pieces to his albino friend. I don’t know how much money it was; it looked as big as an earthquake-relief fund to me.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I’ll have this here case filled up with works,’ says Shorty, ‘and throw you again for five hundred.’</p>
@@ -35,13 +35,13 @@
 			<p>“ ‘You must have knocked around a right smart,’ goes on this oil Grease-us. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised if you have saw towns more livelier than what Atascosa City is. Sometimes it seems to me that there ought to be some more ways of having a good time than there is here, ’specially when you’ve got plenty of money and don’t mind spending it.’</p>
 			<p>“Then this Mother Cary’s chick of the desert sits down by me and we hold a conversationfest. It seems that he was money-poor. He’d lived in ranch camps all his life; and he confessed to me that his supreme idea of luxury was to ride into camp, tired out from a roundup, eat a peck of Mexican beans, hobble his brains with a pint of raw whisky, and go to sleep with his boots for a pillow. When this barge-load of unexpected money came to him and his pink but perky partner, George, and they hied themselves to this clump of outhouses called Atascosa City, you know what happened to them. They had money to buy anything they wanted; but they didn’t know what to want. Their ideas of spendthriftiness were limited to three⁠—whisky, saddles, and gold watches. If there was anything else in the world to throw away fortunes on, they had never heard about it. So, when they wanted to have a hot time, they’d ride into town and get a city directory and stand in front of the principal saloon and call up the population alphabetically for free drinks. Then they would order three or four new California saddles from the storekeeper, and play crack-loo on the sidewalk with twenty-dollar gold pieces. Betting who could throw his gold watch the farthest was an inspiration of George’s; but even that was getting to be monotonous.</p>
 			<p>“Was I on to the opportunity? Listen.</p>
-			<p>“In thirty minutes I had dashed off a word picture of metropolitan joys that made life in Atascosa City look as dull as a trip to Coney Island with your own wife. In ten minutes more we shook hands on an agreement that I was to act as his guide, interpreter and friend in and to the aforesaid wassail and amenity. And Solomon Mills, which was his name, was to pay all expenses for a month. At the end of that time, if I had made good as director-general of the rowdy life, he was to pay me one thousand dollars. And then, to clinch the bargain, we called the roll of Atascosa City and put all of its citizens except the ladies and minors under the table, except one man named Horace Westervelt <abbr>St.</abbr> Clair. Just for that we bought a couple of hatfuls of cheap silver watches and egged him out of town with ’em. We wound up by dragging the harness-maker out of bed and setting him to work on three new saddles; and then we went to sleep across the railroad track at the depot, just to annoy the <abbr>S.A. &amp; A.P.</abbr> Think of having seventy-yive thousand dollars and trying to avoid the disgrace of dying rich in a town like that!</p>
+			<p>“In thirty minutes I had dashed off a word picture of metropolitan joys that made life in Atascosa City look as dull as a trip to Coney Island with your own wife. In ten minutes more we shook hands on an agreement that I was to act as his guide, interpreter and friend in and to the aforesaid wassail and amenity. And Solomon Mills, which was his name, was to pay all expenses for a month. At the end of that time, if I had made good as director-general of the rowdy life, he was to pay me one thousand dollars. And then, to clinch the bargain, we called the roll of Atascosa City and put all of its citizens except the ladies and minors under the table, except one man named Horace Westervelt <abbr>St.</abbr> Clair. Just for that we bought a couple of hatfuls of cheap silver watches and egged him out of town with ’em. We wound up by dragging the harness-maker out of bed and setting him to work on three new saddles; and then we went to sleep across the railroad track at the depot, just to annoy the <abbr>S.A. &amp; A.P.</abbr> Think of having seventy-five thousand dollars and trying to avoid the disgrace of dying rich in a town like that!</p>
 			<p>“The next day George, who was married or something, started back to the ranch. Me and Solly, as I now called him, prepared to shake off our moth balls and wing our way against the arc-lights of the joyous and tuneful East.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘No way-stops,’ says I to Solly, ‘except long enough to get you barbered and haberdashed. This is no Texas feet shampetter,’ says I, ‘where you eat chili-concarne-con-huevos and then holler “Whoopee!” across the plaza. We’re now going against the real high life. We’re going to mingle with the set that carries a Spitz, wears spats, and hits the ground in high spots.’</p>
 			<p>“Solly puts six thousand dollars in century bills in one pocket of his brown ducks, and bills of lading for ten thousand dollars on Eastern banks in another. Then I resume diplomatic relations with the <abbr>S.A. &amp; A.P.</abbr>, and we hike in a northwesterly direction on our circuitous route to the spice gardens of the Yankee Orient.</p>
 			<p>“We stopped in San Antonio long enough for Solly to buy some clothes, and eight rounds of drinks for the guests and employees of the Menger Hotel, and order four Mexican saddles with silver trimmings and white Angora <i xml:lang="es">suaderos</i> to be shipped down to the ranch. From there we made a big jump to <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis. We got there in time for dinner; and I put our thumbprints on the register of the most expensive hotel in the city.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Now,’ says I to Solly, with a wink at myself, ‘here’s the first dinner-station we’ve struck where we can get a real good plate of beans.’ And while he was up in his room trying to draw water out of the gas-pipe, I got one finger in the buttonhole of the head waiter’s Tuxedo, drew him apart, inserted a two-dollar bill, and closed him up again.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Frankoyse,’ says I, ‘I have a pal here for dinner that’s been subsisting for years on cereals and short stogies. You see the chef and order a dinner for us such as you serve to Dave Francis and the general passenger agent of the Iron Mountain when they eat here. We’ve got more than Bernhardt’s tent full of money; and we want the nose-eags crammed with all the Chief Deveries de cuisine. Object is no expense. Now, show us.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Frankoyse,’ says I, ‘I have a pal here for dinner that’s been subsisting for years on cereals and short stogies. You see the chef and order a dinner for us such as you serve to Dave Francis and the general passenger agent of the Iron Mountain when they eat here. We’ve got more than Bernhardt’s tent full of money; and we want the nose-bags crammed with all the Chief Deveries de cuisine. Object is no expense. Now, show us.’</p>
 			<p>“At six o’clock me and Solly sat down to dinner. Spread! There’s nothing been seen like it since the Cambon snack. It was all served at once. The chef called it <em>dinnay à la poker</em>. It’s a famous thing among the gormands of the West. The dinner comes in threes of a kind. There was guinea-fowls, guinea-pigs, and Guinness’s stout; roast veal, mock turtle soup, and chicken pate; shad-roe, caviar, and tapioca; canvasback duck, canvasback ham, and cottontail rabbit; Philadelphia capon, fried snails, and sloe-gin⁠—and so on, in threes. The idea was that you eat nearly all you can of them, and then the waiter takes away the discard and gives you pears to fill on.</p>
 			<p>“I was sure Solly would be tickled to death with these hands, after the bobtail flushes he’d been eating on the ranch; and I was a little anxious that he should, for I didn’t remember his having honoured my efforts with a smile since we left Atascosa City.</p>
 			<p>“We were in the main dining-room, and there was a fine-dressed crowd there, all talking loud and enjoyable about the two <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis topics, the water supply and the colour line. They mix the two subjects so fast that strangers often think they are discussing watercolours; and that has given the old town something of a rep as an art centre. And over in the corner was a fine brass band playing; and now, thinks I, Solly will become conscious of the spiritual oats of life nourishing and exhilarating his system. But <i>nong, mong frang</i>.</p>
@@ -50,12 +50,12 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Wait a minute,’ says I.</p>
 			<p>“I called the waiter, and slapped ‘<abbr class="name">S.</abbr> Mills’ on the back of the check for thirteen dollars and fifty cents.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘What do you mean,’ says I, ‘by serving gentlemen with a lot of truck only suitable for deckhands on a Mississippi steamboat? We’re going out to get something decent to eat.’</p>
-			<p>“I walked up the street with the unhappy plainsman. He saw a saddle-ehop open, and some of the sadness faded from his eyes. We went in, and he ordered and paid for two more saddles⁠—one with a solid silver horn and nails and ornaments and a six-inch border of rhinestones and imitation rubies around the flaps. The other one had to have a gold-dounted horn, quadruple-plated stirrups, and the leather inlaid with silver beadwork wherever it would stand it. Eleven hundred dollars the two cost him.</p>
+			<p>“I walked up the street with the unhappy plainsman. He saw a saddle-chop open, and some of the sadness faded from his eyes. We went in, and he ordered and paid for two more saddles⁠—one with a solid silver horn and nails and ornaments and a six-inch border of rhinestones and imitation rubies around the flaps. The other one had to have a gold-mounted horn, quadruple-plated stirrups, and the leather inlaid with silver beadwork wherever it would stand it. Eleven hundred dollars the two cost him.</p>
 			<p>“Then he goes out and heads toward the river, following his nose. In a little side street, where there was no street and no sidewalks and no houses, he finds what he is looking for. We go into a shanty and sit on high stools among stevedores and boatmen, and eat beans with tin spoons. Yes, sir, beans⁠—beans boiled with salt pork.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I kind of thought we’d strike some over this way,’ says Solly.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Delightful,’ says I, ‘That stylish hotel grub may appeal to some; but for me, give me the husky <em>table d’goat</em>.’</p>
-			<p>“When we had succumbed to the beans I leads him out of the tarpaulin-nteam under a lamp post and pulls out a daily paper with the amusement column folded out.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘But now, what ho for a merry round of pleasure,’ says I. ‘Here’s one of Hall Caine’s shows, and a stockyard company in “Hamlet,” and skating at the Hollowhorn Rink, and Sarah Bernhardt, and the Shapely Syrens Burlesque Company. I should think, now, that the Shapely⁠—’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Delightful,’ says I, ‘That stylish hotel grub may appeal to some; but for me, give me the husky table d’goat.’</p>
+			<p>“When we had succumbed to the beans I leads him out of the tarpaulin-steam under a lamp post and pulls out a daily paper with the amusement column folded out.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘But now, what ho for a merry round of pleasure,’ says I. ‘Here’s one of Hall Caine’s shows, and a stockyard company in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Hamlet</i>, and skating at the Hollowhorn Rink, and Sarah Bernhardt, and the Shapely Syrens Burlesque Company. I should think, now, that the Shapely⁠—’</p>
 			<p>“But what does this healthy, wealthy, and wise man do but reach his arms up to the second-story windows and gape noisily.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Reckon I’ll be going to bed,’ says he; ‘it’s about my time. <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis is a kind of quiet place, ain’t it?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Oh, yes,’ says I; ‘ever since the railroads ran in here the town’s been practically ruined. And the building-and-loan associations and the fair have about killed it. Guess we might as well go to bed. Wait till you see Chicago, though. Shall we get tickets for the Big Breeze tomorrow?’</p>

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@@ -37,7 +37,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘No, boys,’ says he. ‘I can’t consent to let the song of this Chicago siren waft by me on the summer breeze. I’ll fry some fat out of this ignis fatuus or burn a hole in the skillet. But I’d be plumb diverted to death to have you all go along with me. Maybe you could help some when it comes to cashing in the ticket to that 5 to 1 shot. Yes, I’d really take it as a pastime and regalement if you boys would go along too.’</p>
 			<p>“Murkison gives it out in Grassdale that he is going for a few days with <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Tucker to look over some iron ore property in West Virginia. He wires <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Smith that he will set foot in the spider web on a given date; and the three of us lights out for Chicago.</p>
 			<p>“On the way Murkison amuses himself with premonitions and advance pleasant recollections.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘In a gray suit,’ says he, ‘on the southwest corner of Wabash avenue and Lake street. He drops the paper, and I ask how the water is. Oh, my, my, my!’ And then he laughs all over for five minutes.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘In a gray suit,’ says he, ‘on the southwest corner of Wabash Avenue and Lake Street. He drops the paper, and I ask how the water is. Oh, my, my, my!’ And then he laughs all over for five minutes.</p>
 			<p>“Sometimes Murkison was serious and tried to talk himself out of his cogitations, whatever they was.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Boys,’ says he, ‘I wouldn’t have this to get out in Grassdale for ten times a thousand dollars. It would ruin me there. But I know you all are all right. I think it’s the duty of every citizen,’ says he, ‘to try to do up these robbers that prey upon the public. I’ll show ’em whether the water’s fine. Five dollars for one⁠—that’s what <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Smith offers, and he’ll have to keep his contract if he does business with Bill Murkison.’</p>
 			<p>“We got into Chicago about 7 <abbr class="time">p.m.</abbr> Murkison was to meet the gray man at half past 9. We had dinner at a hotel and then went up to Murkison’s room to wait for the time to come.</p>

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@@ -21,7 +21,7 @@
 			<p>Dear kind fairy, please cut out those orders for money and 40 <abbr>H. P.</abbr> touring cars and fame and a new growth of hair and the presidency of the boat club. Instead of any of them turn backward⁠—oh, turn backward and give us just a teeny-weeny bit of our wedding trip over again. Just an hour, dear fairy, so we can remember how the grass and poplar trees looked, and the bow of those bonnet strings tied beneath her chin⁠—even if it was the hatpins that did the work. Can’t do it? Very well; hurry up with that touring car and the oil stock, then.</p>
 			<p>Just in front of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> James Williams sat a girl in a loose tan jacket and a straw hat adorned with grapes and roses. Only in dreams and milliners’ shops do we, alas! gather grapes and roses at one swipe. This girl gazed with large blue eyes, credulous, when the megaphone man roared his doctrine that millionaires were things about which we should be concerned. Between blasts she resorted to Epictetian philosophy in the form of pepsin chewing gum.</p>
 			<p>At this girl’s right hand sat a young man about twenty-four. He was well-built, active, strong-jawed and good-natured. But if his description seems to follow that of James Williams, divest it of anything Cloverdalian. This man belonged to hard streets and sharp corners. He looked keenly about him, seeming to begrudge the asphalt under the feet of those upon whom he looked down from his perch.</p>
-			<p>While the megaphone barks at a famous hostelry, let me whisper you through the low-tuned cardiaphone to sit tight; for now things are about to happen, and the great city will close over them again as over a scrap of ticker tape floating down from the den of a Broad street bear.</p>
+			<p>While the megaphone barks at a famous hostelry, let me whisper you through the low-tuned cardiaphone to sit tight; for now things are about to happen, and the great city will close over them again as over a scrap of ticker tape floating down from the den of a Broad Street bear.</p>
 			<p>The girl in the tan jacket twisted around to view the pilgrims on the last seat. The other passengers she had absorbed; the seat behind her was her Bluebeard’s chamber.</p>
 			<p>Her eyes met those of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> James Williams. Between two ticks of a watch they exchanged their life’s experiences, histories, hopes and fancies. And all, mind you, with the eye, before two men could have decided whether to draw steel or borrow a match.</p>
 			<p>The bride leaned forward low. She and the girl spoke rapidly together, their tongues moving quickly like those of two serpents⁠—a comparison that is not meant to go further. Two smiles and a dozen nods closed the conference.</p>

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@@ -15,11 +15,11 @@
 			<p>But this is humour, and must be stopped. Let us get back to the serious questions that arise whenever Sociology turns summer boarder. You are invited to consider the scene of the story⁠—wild, Atlantic waves, thundering against a wooded and rockbound shore⁠—in the Greater City of New York.</p>
 			<p>The town of Fishampton, on the south shore of Long Island, is noted for its clam fritters and the summer residence of the Van Plushvelts.</p>
 			<p>The Van Plushvelts have a hundred million dollars, and their name is a household word with tradesmen and photographers.</p>
-			<p>On the fifteenth of June the Van Plushvelts boarded up the front door of their city house, carefully deposited their cat on the sidewalk, instructed the caretaker not to allow it to eat any of the ivy on the walls, and whizzed away in a 40-horsepower to Fishampton to stray alone in the shade⁠—Amaryllis not being in their class. If you are a subscriber to the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Toadies’ Magazine</i>, you have often⁠—You say you are not? Well, you buy it at a newsstand, thinking that the newsdealer is not wise to you. But he knows about it all. HE knows⁠—HE knows! I say that you have often seen in the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Toadies’ Magazine</i> pictures of the Van Plushvelts’ summer home; so it will not be described here. Our business is with young Haywood Van Plushvelt, sixteen years old, heir to the century of millions, darling of the financial gods and great grandson of Peter Van Plushvelt, former owner of a particularly fine cabbage patch that has been ruined by an intrusive lot of downtown skyscrapers.</p>
+			<p>On the fifteenth of June the Van Plushvelts boarded up the front door of their city house, carefully deposited their cat on the sidewalk, instructed the caretaker not to allow it to eat any of the ivy on the walls, and whizzed away in a 40-horsepower to Fishampton to stray alone in the shade⁠—Amaryllis not being in their class. If you are a subscriber to the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Toadies’ Magazine</i>, you have often⁠—You say you are not? Well, you buy it at a newsstand, thinking that the newsdealer is not wise to you. But he knows about it all. <em>He</em> knows⁠—<b>He</b> knows! I say that you have often seen in the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Toadies’ Magazine</i> pictures of the Van Plushvelts’ summer home; so it will not be described here. Our business is with young Haywood Van Plushvelt, sixteen years old, heir to the century of millions, darling of the financial gods and great grandson of Peter Van Plushvelt, former owner of a particularly fine cabbage patch that has been ruined by an intrusive lot of downtown skyscrapers.</p>
 			<p>One afternoon young Haywood Van Plushvelt strolled out between the granite gate posts of “Dolce far Niente”⁠—that’s what they called the place; and it was an improvement on dolce Far Rockaway, I can tell you.</p>
 			<p>Haywood walked down into the village. He was human, after all, and his prospective millions weighed upon him. Wealth had wreaked upon him its direfullest. He was the product of private tutors. Even under his first hobbyhorse had tan bark been strewn. He had been born with a gold spoon, lobster fork and fish-set in his mouth. For which I hope, later, to submit justification, I must ask your consideration of his haberdashery and tailoring.</p>
 			<p>Young Fortunatus was dressed in a neat suit of dark blue serge, a neat, white straw hat, neat low-cut tan shoes, of the well-known “immaculate” trade mark, a neat, narrow four-in-hand tie, and carried a slender, neat, bamboo cane.</p>
-			<p>Down Persimmon Street (there’s never tree north of Hagerstown, Md.) came from the village “Smoky” Dodson, fifteen and a half, worst boy in Fishampton. “Smoky” was dressed in a ragged red sweater, wrecked and weatherworn golf cap, run-over shoes, and trousers of the “serviceable” brand. Dust, clinging to the moisture induced by free exercise, darkened wide areas of his face. “Smoky” carried a baseball bat, and a league ball that advertised itself in the rotundity of his trousers pocket. Haywood stopped and passed the time of day.</p>
+			<p>Down Persimmon Street (there’s never tree north of Hagerstown, <abbr class="postal">Md.</abbr>) came from the village “Smoky” Dodson, fifteen and a half, worst boy in Fishampton. “Smoky” was dressed in a ragged red sweater, wrecked and weatherworn golf cap, run-over shoes, and trousers of the “serviceable” brand. Dust, clinging to the moisture induced by free exercise, darkened wide areas of his face. “Smoky” carried a baseball bat, and a league ball that advertised itself in the rotundity of his trousers pocket. Haywood stopped and passed the time of day.</p>
 			<p>“Going to play ball?” he asked.</p>
 			<p>“Smoky’s” eyes and countenance confronted him with a frank blue-and-freckled scrutiny.</p>
 			<p>“Me?” he said, with deadly mildness; “sure not. Can’t you see I’ve got a divin’ suit on? I’m goin’ up in a submarine balloon to catch butterflies with a two-inch auger.</p>
@@ -32,13 +32,13 @@
 			<p>“Smoky” picked up a fence-rail splinter and laid it on his shoulder.</p>
 			<p>“Dare you to knock it off,” he challenged.</p>
 			<p>“I wouldn’t soil my hands with you,” said the aristocrat.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Fraid,” said “Smoky” concisely. “Youse city-ducks ain’t got the I sand. I kin lick you with one-hand.”</p>
+			<p>“ ’Fraid,” said “Smoky” concisely. “Youse city-ducks ain’t got the sand. I kin lick you with one-hand.”</p>
 			<p>“I don’t wish to have any trouble with you,” said Haywood. “I asked you a civil question; and you replied, like a⁠—like a⁠—a cad.”</p>
 			<p>“Wot’s a cad?” asked “Smoky.”</p>
 			<p>“A cad is a disagreeable person,” answered Haywood, “who lacks manners and doesn’t know his place. They sometimes play baseball.”</p>
 			<p>“I can tell you what a mollycoddle is,” said “Smoky.” “It’s a monkey dressed up by its mother and sent out to pick daisies on the lawn.”</p>
 			<p>“When you have the honour to refer to the members of my family,” said Haywood, with some dim ideas of a code in his mind, “you’d better leave the ladies out of your remarks.”</p>
-			<p>“Ho! ladies!” mocked the rude one. “I say ladies! I know what them rich women in the city does. They, drink cocktails and swear and give parties to gorillas. The papers say so.”</p>
+			<p>“Ho! ladies!” mocked the rude one. “I say ladies! I know what them rich women in the city does. They drink cocktails and swear and give parties to gorillas. The papers say so.”</p>
 			<p>Then Haywood knew that it must be. He took off his coat, folded it neatly and laid it on the roadside grass, placed his hat upon it and began to unknot his blue silk tie.</p>
 			<p>“Hadn’t yer better ring fer yer maid, Arabella?” taunted “Smoky.” “Wot yer going to do⁠—go to bed?”</p>
 			<p>“I’m going to give you a good trouncing,” said the hero. He did not hesitate, although the enemy was far beneath him socially. He remembered that his father once thrashed a cabman, and the papers gave it two columns, first page. And the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Toadies’ Magazine</i> had a special article on Upper Cuts by the Upper Classes, and ran new pictures of the Van Plushvelt country seat, at Fishampton.</p>

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@@ -39,7 +39,7 @@
 			<p>“Well,” said Hart, “You’ve got the proper idea all right, all right, anyhow. There are mighty few actors that amount to anything at all who couldn’t fix themselves for the wet days to come if they’d save their money instead of blowing it. I’m glad you’ve got the correct business idea of it, Miss Cherry. I think the same way; and I believe this sketch will more than double what both of us earn now when we get it shaped up.”</p>
 			<p>The subsequent history of “Mice Will Play” is the history of all successful writings for the stage. Hart &amp; Cherry cut it, pieced it, remodeled it, performed surgical operations on the dialogue and business, changed the lines, restored ’em, added more, cut ’em out, renamed it, gave it back the old name, rewrote it, substituted a dagger for the pistol, restored the pistol⁠—put the sketch through all the known processes of condensation and improvement.</p>
 			<p>They rehearsed it by the old-fashioned boardinghouse clock in the rarely used parlor until its warning click at five minutes to the hour would occur every time exactly half a second before the click of the unloaded revolver that Helen Grimes used in rehearsing the thrilling climax of the sketch.</p>
-			<p>Yes, that was a thriller and a piece of excellent work. In the act a real 32-caliber revolver was used loaded with a real cartridge. Helen Grimes, who is a Western girl of decidedly Buffalo Billish skill and daring, is tempestuously in love with Frank Desmond, the private secretary and confidential prospective son-in-law of her father, “Arapahoe” Grimes, quarter-million-dollar cattle king, owning a ranch that, judging by the scenery, is in either the Bad Lands or Amagansett, <abbr class="name">L. I.</abbr> Desmond (in private life <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bob Hart) wears puttees and Meadow Brook Hunt riding trousers, and gives his address as New York, leaving you to wonder why he comes to the Bad Lands or Amagansett (as the case may be) and at the same time to conjecture mildly why a cattleman should want puttees about his ranch with a secretary in ’em.</p>
+			<p>Yes, that was a thriller and a piece of excellent work. In the act a real .32-caliber revolver was used loaded with a real cartridge. Helen Grimes, who is a Western girl of decidedly Buffalo Billish skill and daring, is tempestuously in love with Frank Desmond, the private secretary and confidential prospective son-in-law of her father, “Arapahoe” Grimes, quarter-million-dollar cattle king, owning a ranch that, judging by the scenery, is in either the Bad Lands or Amagansett, <abbr class="name">L. I.</abbr> Desmond (in private life <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bob Hart) wears puttees and Meadow Brook Hunt riding trousers, and gives his address as New York, leaving you to wonder why he comes to the Bad Lands or Amagansett (as the case may be) and at the same time to conjecture mildly why a cattleman should want puttees about his ranch with a secretary in ’em.</p>
 			<p>Well, anyhow, you know as well as I do that we all like that kind of play, whether we admit it or not⁠—something along in between “Bluebeard, <abbr>Jr.</abbr>,” and “Cymbeline” played in the Russian.</p>
 			<p>There were only two parts and a half in “Mice Will Play.” Hart and Cherry were the two, of course; and the half was a minor part always played by a stage hand, who merely came in once in a Tuxedo coat and a panic to announce that the house was surrounded by Indians, and to turn down the gas fire in the grate by the manager’s orders.</p>
 			<p>There was another girl in the sketch⁠—a Fifth Avenue society swelless⁠—who was visiting the ranch and who had sirened Jack Valentine when he was a wealthy club-man on lower Third Avenue before he lost his money. This girl appeared on the stage only in the photographic state⁠—Jack had her Sarony stuck up on the mantel of the Amagan⁠—of the Bad Lands droring room. Helen was jealous, of course.</p>
@@ -49,7 +49,7 @@
 			<p>They stand in the (ranch) library, which is furnished with mounted elk heads (didn’t the Elks have a fish fry in Amagensett once?), and the dénouement begins. I know of no more interesting time in the run of a play unless it be when the prologue ends.</p>
 			<p>Helen thinks Jack has taken the money. Who else was there to take it? The box-office manager was at the front on his job; the orchestra hadn’t left their seats; and no man could get past “Old Jimmy,” the stage doorman, unless he could show a Skye terrier or an automobile as a guarantee of eligibility.</p>
 			<p>Goaded beyond imprudence (as before said), Helen says to Jack Valentine: “Robber and thief⁠—and worse yet, stealer of trusting hearts, this should be your fate!”</p>
-			<p>With that out she whips, of course, the trusty 32-caliber.</p>
+			<p>With that out she whips, of course, the trusty .32-caliber.</p>
 			<p>“But I will be merciful,” goes on Helen. “You shall live⁠—that will be your punishment. I will show you how easily I could have sent you to the death that you deserve. There is <em>her</em> picture on the mantel. I will send through her more beautiful face the bullet that should have pierced your craven heart.”</p>
 			<p>And she does it. And there’s no fake blank cartridges or assistants pulling strings. Helen fires. The bullet⁠—the actual bullet⁠—goes through the face of the photograph⁠—and then strikes the hidden spring of the sliding panel in the wall⁠—and lo! the panel slides, and there is the missing $647,000 in convincing stacks of currency and bags of gold. It’s great. You know how it is. Cherry practised for two months at a target on the roof of her boarding house. It took good shooting. In the sketch she had to hit a brass disk only three inches in diameter, covered by wall paper in the panel; and she had to stand in exactly the same spot every night, and the photo had to be in exactly the same spot, and she had to shoot steady and true every time.</p>
 			<p>Of course old “Arapahoe” had tucked the funds away there in the secret place; and, of course, Jack hadn’t taken anything except his salary (which really might have come under the head of “obtaining money under”; but that is neither here nor there); and, of course, the New York girl was really engaged to a concrete house contractor in the Bronx; and, necessarily, Jack and Helen ended in a half-Nelson⁠—and there you are.</p>

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@@ -42,7 +42,7 @@
 			<p>“Now, from the start of that courtship I had Paisley Fish hobbled and tied to a post. Each one of us had a different system of reaching out for the easy places in the female heart. Paisley’s scheme was to petrify ’em with wonderful relations of events that he had either come across personally or in large print. I think he must have got his idea of subjugation from one of Shakespeare’s shows I see once called ‘Othello.’ There is a coloured man in it who acquires a duke’s daughter by disbursing to her a mixture of the talk turned out by Rider Haggard, Lew Dockstader, and <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Parkhurst. But that style of courting don’t work well off the stage.</p>
 			<p>“Now, I give you my own recipe for inveigling a woman into that state of affairs when she can be referred to as ‘née Jones.’ Learn how to pick up her hand and hold it, and she’s yours. It ain’t so easy. Some men grab at it so much like they was going to set a dislocation of the shoulder that you can smell the arnica and hear ’em tearing off bandages. Some take it up like a hot horseshoe, and hold it off at arm’s length like a druggist pouring tincture of asafoetida in a bottle. And most of ’em catch hold of it and drag it right out before the lady’s eyes like a boy finding a baseball in the grass, without giving her a chance to forget that the hand is growing on the end of her arm. Them ways are all wrong.</p>
 			<p>“I’ll tell you the right way. Did you ever see a man sneak out in the back yard and pick up a rock to throw at a tomcat that was sitting on a fence looking at him? He pretends he hasn’t got a thing in his hand, and that the cat don’t see him, and that he don’t see the cat. That’s the idea. Never drag her hand out where she’ll have to take notice of it. Don’t let her know that you think she knows you have the least idea she is aware you are holding her hand. That was my rule of tactics; and as far as Paisley’s serenade about hostilities and misadventure went, he might as well have been reading to her a time-table of the Sunday trains that stop at Ocean Grove, New Jersey.</p>
-			<p>“One night when I beat Paisley to the bench by one pipeful, my friendship gets subsidised for a minute, and I asks <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Jessup if she didn’t think a ‘H’ was easier to write than a ‘J.’ In a second her head was mashing the oleander flower in my buttonhole, and I leaned over and⁠—but I didn’t.</p>
+			<p>“One night when I beat Paisley to the bench by one pipeful, my friendship gets subsidised for a minute, and I asks <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Jessup if she didn’t think a <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">H</i> was easier to write than a <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">J</i>.’ In a second her head was mashing the oleander flower in my buttonhole, and I leaned over and⁠—but I didn’t.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘If you don’t mind,’ says I, standing up, ‘we’ll wait for Paisley to come before finishing this. I’ve never done anything dishonourable yet to our friendship, and this won’t be quite fair.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hicks,’ says <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Jessup, looking at me peculiar in the dark, ‘if it wasn’t for but one thing, I’d ask you to hike yourself down the gulch and never disresume your visits to my house.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘And what is that, ma’am?’ I asks.</p>

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@@ -13,7 +13,7 @@
 			<p>Women’s rights societies have been laboring for many years after equality with man. With what result? When they sit on a bench they must twist their ankles together and uncomfortably swing their highest French heels clear of earthly support. Begin at the bottom, ladies. Get your feet on the ground, and then rise to theories of mental equality.</p>
 			<p>Hastings Beauchamp Morley was carefully and neatly dressed. That was the result of an instinct due to his birth and breeding. It is denied us to look further into a man’s bosom than the starch on his shirt front; so it is left to us only to recount his walks and conversation.</p>
 			<p>Morley had not a cent in his pockets; but he smiled pityingly at a hundred grimy, unfortunate ones who had no more, and who would have no more when the sun’s first rays yellowed the tall paper-cutter building on the west side of the square. But Morley would have enough by then. Sundown had seen his pockets empty before; but sunrise had always seen them lined.</p>
-			<p>First he went to the house of a clergyman off Madison avenue and presented a forged letter of introduction that holily purported to issue from a pastorate in Indiana. This netted him $5 when backed up by a realistic romance of a delayed remittance.</p>
+			<p>First he went to the house of a clergyman off Madison Avenue and presented a forged letter of introduction that holily purported to issue from a pastorate in Indiana. This netted him $5 when backed up by a realistic romance of a delayed remittance.</p>
 			<p>On the sidewalk, twenty steps from the clergyman’s door, a pale-faced, fat man huskily enveloped him with a raised, red fist and the voice of a bell buoy, demanding payment of an old score.</p>
 			<p>“Why, Bergman, man,” sang Morley, dulcetly, “is this you? I was just on my way up to your place to settle up. That remittance from my aunt arrived only this morning. Wrong address was the trouble. Come up to the corner and I’ll square up. Glad to see you. Saves me a walk.”</p>
 			<p>Four drinks placated the emotional Bergman. There was an air about Morley when he was backed by money in hand that would have stayed off a call loan at Rothschilds’. When he was penniless his bluff was pitched half a tone lower, but few are competent to detect the difference in the notes.</p>
@@ -54,7 +54,7 @@
 			<p>“Smothers not Smithers,” interrupted the old man hopefully. “A heavyset man, sandy complected, about twenty-nine, two front teeth out, about five foot⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, ‘Smothers!’ ” exclaimed Morley. “Sol Smothers? Why, he lives in the next house to me. I thought you said ‘Smithers.’ ”</p>
 			<p>Morley looked at his watch. You must have a watch. You can do it for a dollar. Better go hungry than forego a gunmetal or the ninety-eight-cent one that the railroads⁠—according to these watchmakers⁠—are run by.</p>
-			<p>“The Bishop of Long Island,” said Morley, “was to meet me here at 8 to dine with me at the Kingfishers’ Club. But I can’t leave the father of my friend Sol Smothers alone on the street. By <abbr>St.</abbr> Swithin, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Smothers, we Wall street men have to work! Tired is no name for it! I was about to step across to the other corner and have a glass of ginger ale with a dash of sherry when you approached me. You must let me take you to Sol’s house, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Smothers. But, before we take the car I hope you will join me in⁠—”</p>
+			<p>“The Bishop of Long Island,” said Morley, “was to meet me here at 8 to dine with me at the Kingfishers’ Club. But I can’t leave the father of my friend Sol Smothers alone on the street. By <abbr>St.</abbr> Swithin, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Smothers, we Wall Street men have to work! Tired is no name for it! I was about to step across to the other corner and have a glass of ginger ale with a dash of sherry when you approached me. You must let me take you to Sol’s house, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Smothers. But, before we take the car I hope you will join me in⁠—”</p>
 			<p>An hour later Morley seated himself on the end of a quiet bench in Madison Square, with a twenty-five-cent cigar between his lips and $140 in deeply creased bills in his inside pocket. Content, lighthearted, ironical, keenly philosophic, he watched the moon drifting in and out amidst a maze of flying clouds. An old, ragged man with a low-bowed head sat at the other end of the bench.</p>
 			<p>Presently the old man stirred and looked at his bench companion. In Morley’s appearance he seemed to recognize something superior to the usual nightly occupants of the benches.</p>
 			<p>“Kind sir,” he whined, “if you could spare a dime or even a few pennies to one who⁠—”</p>

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@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Whist!’ says Officer Reagan on the sidewalk, rapping with his club. ‘’Tis not Jerome. ’Tis by order of the Polis Commissioner. Turn out every one of yez and hike yerselves to the park.’</p>
 			<p>“Now, ’twas a peaceful and happy home that all of us had in them same Beersheba Flats. The O’Dowds and the Steinowitzes and the Callahans and the Cohens and the Spizzinellis and the McManuses and the Spiegelmayers and the Joneses⁠—all nations of us, we lived like one big family together. And when the hot nights come along we kept a line of children reaching from the front door to Kelly’s on the corner passing along the cans of beer from one to another without the trouble of running after it. And with no more clothing on than is provided for in the statutes, sitting in all the windies, with a cool growler in everyone, and your feet out in the air, and the Rosenstein girls singing on the fire-escape of the sixth floor, and Patsy Rourke’s flute going in the eighth, and the ladies calling each other synonyms out the windies, and now and then a breeze sailing in over Mister Depew’s Central⁠—I tell you the Beersheba Flats was a summer resort that made the Catskills look like a hole in the ground. With his person full of beer and his feet out the windy and his old woman frying pork chops over a charcoal furnace and the childher dancing in cotton slips on the sidewalk around the organ-grinder and the rent paid for a week⁠—what does a man want better on a hot night than that? And then comes this ruling of the polis driving people out o’ their comfortable homes to sleep in parks⁠—’twas for all the world like a ukase of them Russians⁠—’twill be heard from again at next election time.</p>
 			<p>“Well, then, Officer Reagan drives the whole lot of us to the park and turns us in by the nearest gate. ’Tis dark under the trees, and all the children sets up to howling that they want to go home.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Ye’ll pass the night in this stretch of woods and scenery,’ says Officer Reagan. ”Twill be fine and imprisonment for insoolting the Park Commissioner and the Chief of the Weather Bureau if ye refuse. I’m in charge of thirty acres between here and the Agyptian Monument, and I advise ye to give no trouble. ’Tis sleeping on the grass yez all have been condemned to by the authorities. Yez’ll be permitted to leave in the morning, but ye must retoorn be night. Me orders was silent on the subject of bail, but I’ll find out if ’tis required and there’ll be bondsmen at the gate.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Ye’ll pass the night in this stretch of woods and scenery,’ says Officer Reagan. ‘’Twill be fine and imprisonment for insoolting the Park Commissioner and the Chief of the Weather Bureau if ye refuse. I’m in charge of thirty acres between here and the Agyptian Monument, and I advise ye to give no trouble. ’Tis sleeping on the grass yez all have been condemned to by the authorities. Yez’ll be permitted to leave in the morning, but ye must retoorn be night. Me orders was silent on the subject of bail, but I’ll find out if ’tis required and there’ll be bondsmen at the gate.’</p>
 			<p>“There being no lights except along the automobile drives, us 179 tenants of the Beersheba Flats prepared to spend the night as best we could in the raging forest. Them that brought blankets and kindling wood was best off. They got fires started and wrapped the blankets round their heads and laid down, cursing, in the grass. There was nothing to see, nothing to drink, nothing to do. In the dark we had no way of telling friend or foe except by feeling the noses of ’em. I brought along me last winter overcoat, me toothbrush, some quinine pills and the red quilt off the bed in me flat. Three times during the night somebody rolled on me quilt and stuck his knees against the Adam’s apple of me. And three times I judged his character by running me hand over his face, and three times I rose up and kicked the intruder down the hill to the gravelly walk below. And then someone with a flavour of Kelly’s whiskey snuggled up to me, and I found his nose turned up the right way, and I says: ‘Is that you, then, Patsey?’ and he says, ‘It is, Carney. How long do you think it’ll last?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I’m no weather-prophet,’ says I, ‘but if they bring out a strong anti-Tammany ticket next fall it ought to get us home in time to sleep on a bed once or twice before they line us up at the polls.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘A-playing of my flute into the airshaft,’ says Patsey Rourke, ‘and a-perspiring in me own windy to the joyful noise of the passing trains and the smell of liver and onions and a-reading of the latest murder in the smoke of the cooking is well enough for me,’ says he. ‘What is this herding us in grass for, not to mention the crawling things with legs that walk up the trousers of us, and the Jersey snipes that peck at us, masquerading under the name and denomination of mosquitoes. What is it all for Carney, and the rint going on just the same over at the flats?’</p>

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@@ -61,9 +61,9 @@
 			<p>“What’s the news?” yawned Kernan.</p>
 			<p>Woods flipped over to him the piece of writing:</p>
 			<blockquote>
-				<p epub:type="z3998:recipient">“The New York <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Morning Mars</i>:</p>
-				<p>“Please pay to the order of John Kernan the one thousand dollars reward coming to me for his arrest and conviction.</p>
-				<p class="signature">“Barnard Woods.”</p>
+				<p epub:type="z3998:recipient">The New York <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Morning Mars</i>:</p>
+				<p>Please pay to the order of John Kernan the one thousand dollars reward coming to me for his arrest and conviction.</p>
+				<p class="signature">Barnard Woods.</p>
 			</blockquote>
 			<p>“I kind of thought they would do that,” said Woods, “when you were jollying them so hard. Now, Johnny, you’ll come to the police station with me.”</p>
 		</section>

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@@ -10,7 +10,7 @@
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Coming-Out of Maggie</h2>
 			<p>Every Saturday night the Clover Leaf Social Club gave a hop in the hall of the Give and Take Athletic Association on the East Side. In order to attend one of these dances you must be a member of the Give and Take⁠—or, if you belong to the division that starts off with the right foot in waltzing, you must work in Rhinegold’s paper-box factory. Still, any Clover Leaf was privileged to escort or be escorted by an outsider to a single dance. But mostly each Give and Take brought the paper-box girl that he affected; and few strangers could boast of having shaken a foot at the regular hops.</p>
 			<p>Maggie Toole, on account of her dull eyes, broad mouth and left-handed style of footwork in the two-step, went to the dances with Anna McCarty and her “fellow.” Anna and Maggie worked side by side in the factory, and were the greatest chums ever. So Anna always made Jimmy Burns take her by Maggie’s house every Saturday night so that her friend could go to the dance with them.</p>
-			<p>The Give and Take Athletic Association lived up to its name. The hall of the association in Orchard street was fitted out with muscle-making inventions. With the fibres thus builded up the members were wont to engage the police and rival social and athletic organisations in joyous combat. Between these more serious occupations the Saturday night hop with the paper-box factory girls came as a refining influence and as an efficient screen. For sometimes the tip went ’round, and if you were among the elect that tiptoed up the dark back stairway you might see as neat and satisfying a little welterweight affair to a finish as ever happened inside the ropes.</p>
+			<p>The Give and Take Athletic Association lived up to its name. The hall of the association in Orchard Street was fitted out with muscle-making inventions. With the fibres thus builded up the members were wont to engage the police and rival social and athletic organisations in joyous combat. Between these more serious occupations the Saturday night hop with the paper-box factory girls came as a refining influence and as an efficient screen. For sometimes the tip went ’round, and if you were among the elect that tiptoed up the dark back stairway you might see as neat and satisfying a little welterweight affair to a finish as ever happened inside the ropes.</p>
 			<p>On Saturdays Rhinegold’s paper-box factory closed at 3 <abbr class="time eoc">p.m.</abbr> On one such afternoon Anna and Maggie walked homeward together. At Maggie’s door Anna said, as usual: “Be ready at seven, sharp, Mag; and Jimmy and me’ll come by for you.”</p>
 			<p>But what was this? Instead of the customary humble and grateful thanks from the non-escorted one there was to be perceived a high-poised head, a prideful dimpling at the corners of a broad mouth, and almost a sparkle in a dull brown eye.</p>
 			<p>“Thanks, Anna,” said Maggie; “but you and Jimmy needn’t bother tonight. I’ve a gentleman friend that’s coming ’round to escort me to the hop.”</p>

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@@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<section id="the-country-of-elusion" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Country of Elusion</h2>
-			<p>The cunning writer will choose an indefinable subject, for he can then set down his theory of what it is; and next, at length, his conception of what it is not⁠—and lo! his paper is covered. Therefore let us follow the prolix and unmapable trail into that mooted country, Bohemia.</p>
+			<p>The cunning writer will choose an indefinable subject, for he can then set down his theory of what it is; and next, at length, his conception of what it is not⁠—and lo! his paper is covered. Therefore let us follow the prolix and unmappable trail into that mooted country, Bohemia.</p>
 			<p>Grainger, subeditor of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Doc’s Magazine</i>, closed his roll-top desk, put on his hat, walked into the hall, punched the “down” button, and waited for the elevator.</p>
 			<p>Grainger’s day had been trying. The chief had tried to ruin the magazine a dozen times by going against Grainger’s ideas for running it. A lady whose grandfather had fought with McClellan had brought a portfolio of poems in person.</p>
 			<p>Grainger was curator of the Lion’s House of the magazine. That day he had “lunched” an Arctic explorer, a short-story writer, and the famous conductor of a slaughterhouse expose. Consequently his mind was in a whirl of icebergs, Maupassant, and trichinosis.</p>
@@ -44,7 +44,7 @@
 			<p>“You are pursuing the same avocation in the city concerning which you have advised us from time to time by letter, I trust,” said her father.</p>
 			<p>“Yes,” said Mary, “I am still reviewing books for the same publication.”</p>
 			<p>After breakfast she helped wash the dishes, and then all three sat in straight-back chairs in the bare-floored parlor.</p>
-			<p>“It is my custom,” said the old man, “on the Sabbath day to read aloud from the great work entitled the ‘Apology for Authorized and Set Forms of Liturgy,’ by the ecclesiastical philosopher and revered theologian, Jeremy Taylor.”</p>
+			<p>“It is my custom,” said the old man, “on the Sabbath day to read aloud from the great work entitled the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Apology for Authorized and Set Forms of Liturgy</i>, by the ecclesiastical philosopher and revered theologian, Jeremy Taylor.”</p>
 			<p>“I know it,” said Mary blissfully, folding her hands.</p>
 			<p>For two hours the numbers of the great Jeremy rolled forth like the notes of an oratorio played on the violoncello. Mary sat gloating in the new sensation of racking physical discomfort that the wooden chair brought her. Perhaps there is no happiness in life so perfect as the martyr’s. Jeremy’s minor chords soothed her like the music of a tom-tom. “Why, oh why,” she said to herself, “does someone not write words to it?”</p>
 			<p>At eleven they went to church in Crocusville. The back of the pine bench on which she sat had a penitential forward tilt that would have brought <abbr>St.</abbr> Simeon down, in jealousy, from his pillar. The preacher singled her out, and thundered upon her vicarious head the damnation of the world. At each side of her an adamant parent held her rigidly to the bar of judgment. An ant crawled upon her neck, but she dared not move. She lowered her eyes before the congregation⁠—a hundred-eyed Cerberus that watched the gates through which her sins were fast thrusting her. Her soul was filled with a delirious, almost a fanatic joy. For she was out of the clutch of the tyrant, Freedom. Dogma and creed pinioned her with beneficent cruelty, as steel braces bind the feet of a crippled child. She was hedged, adjured, shackled, shored up, strait-jacketed, silenced, ordered. When they came out the minister stopped to greet them. Mary could only hang her head and answer “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,” to his questions. When she saw that the other women carried their hymnbooks at their waists with their left hands, she blushed and moved hers there, too, from her right.</p>

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@@ -54,7 +54,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘He was hungry,’ says Rufe. ‘He’ll go to sleep and keep quiet now.’</p>
 			<p>“I always get up before breakfast and read the morning paper whenever I happen to be within the radius of a Hoe cylinder or a Washington hand-press. The next morning I got up early, and found a Lexington daily on the front porch where the carrier had thrown it. The first thing I saw in it was a double-column ad on the front page that read like this:</p>
 			<blockquote>
-				<p>The above amount will be paid, and no questions asked, for the return, alive and uninjured, of Beppo, the famous European educated pig, that strayed or was stolen from the sideshow tents of Binkley Bros.’ circus last night.</p>
+				<p>The above amount will be paid, and no questions asked, for the return, alive and uninjured, of Beppo, the famous European educated pig, that strayed or was stolen from the sideshow tents of Binkley <abbr>Bros.</abbr>’ circus last night.</p>
 				<footer>
 					<p class="signature"><abbr class="name">Geo. B.</abbr> Tapley, Business Manager.</p>
 					<p>At the circus grounds.</p>

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@@ -12,7 +12,7 @@
 			<p>He was as alert as a fox, as tough as a caribou cutlet and as broad-gauged as the aurora borealis. He stood sprayed by a Niagara of sound⁠—the crash of the elevated trains, clanging cars, pounding of rubberless tires and the antiphony of the cab and truck-drivers indulging in scarifying repartee. And so, with his gold dust cashed in to the merry air of a hundred thousand, and with the cakes and ale of one week in Gotham turning bitter on his tongue, the Man from Nome sighed to set foot again in Chilkoot, the exit from the land of street noises and Dead Sea apple pies.</p>
 			<p>Up Sixth Avenue, with the tripping, scurrying, chattering, bright-eyed, homing tide came the Girl from Sieber-Mason’s. The Man from Nome looked and saw, first, that she was supremely beautiful after his own conception of beauty; and next, that she moved with exactly the steady grace of a dog sled on a level crust of snow. His third sensation was an instantaneous conviction that he desired her greatly for his own. This quickly do men from Nome make up their minds. Besides, he was going back to the North in a short time, and to act quickly was no less necessary.</p>
 			<p>A thousand girls from the great department store of Sieber-Mason flowed along the sidewalk, making navigation dangerous to men whose feminine field of vision for three years has been chiefly limited to Siwash and Chilkat squaws. But the Man from Nome, loyal to her who had resurrected his long cached heart, plunged into the stream of pulchritude and followed her.</p>
-			<p>Down Twenty-third street she glided swiftly, looking to neither side; no more flirtatious than the bronze Diana above the Garden. Her fine brown hair was neatly braided; her neat waist and unwrinkled black skirt were eloquent of the double virtues⁠—taste and economy. Ten yards behind followed the smitten Man from Nome.</p>
+			<p>Down Twenty-third Street she glided swiftly, looking to neither side; no more flirtatious than the bronze Diana above the Garden. Her fine brown hair was neatly braided; her neat waist and unwrinkled black skirt were eloquent of the double virtues⁠—taste and economy. Ten yards behind followed the smitten Man from Nome.</p>
 			<p>Miss Claribel Colby, the Girl from Sieber-Mason’s, belonged to that sad company of mariners known as Jersey commuters. She walked into the waiting-room of the ferry, and up the stairs, and by a marvellous swift, little run, caught the ferryboat that was just going out. The Man from Nome closed up his ten yards in three jumps and gained the deck close beside her.</p>
 			<p>Miss Colby chose a rather lonely seat on the outside of the upper-cabin. The night was not cold, and she desired to be away from the curious eyes and tedious voices of the passengers. Besides, she was extremely weary and drooping from lack of sleep. On the previous night she had graced the annual ball and oyster fry of the West Side Wholesale Fish Dealers’ Assistants’ Social Club <abbr>No.</abbr> 2, thus reducing her usual time of sleep to only three hours.</p>
 			<p>And the day had been uncommonly troublous. Customers had been inordinately trying; the buyer in her department had scolded her roundly for letting her stock run down; her best friend, Mamie Tuthill, had snubbed her by going to lunch with that Dockery girl.</p>

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@@ -13,7 +13,7 @@
 			<p>I remember the clear picture of him that hung on the walls of my fancy during my barefoot days when I was dodging his oft-threatened devoirs. To me he was a terrible old man, in gray clothes, with a long, ragged, gray beard, and reddish, fierce eyes. I looked to see him come stumping up the road in a cloud of dust, with a white oak staff in his hand and his shoes tied with leather thongs. I may yet⁠—</p>
 			<p>But this is a story, not a sequel.</p>
 			<p>I have taken notice with regret, that few stories worth reading have been written that did not contain drink of some sort. Down go the fluids, from Arizona Dick’s three fingers of red pizen to the inefficacious Oolong that nerves Lionel Montressor to repartee in the “Dotty Dialogues.” So, in such good company I may introduce an absinthe drip⁠—one absinthe drip, dripped through a silver dripper, orderly, opalescent, cool, green-eyed⁠—deceptive.</p>
-			<p>Kerner was a fool. Besides that, he was an artist and my good friend. Now, if there is one thing on earth utterly despicable to another, it is an artist in the eyes of an author whose story he has illustrated. Just try it once. Write a story about a mining camp in Idaho. Sell it. Spend the money, and then, six months later, borrow a quarter (or a dime), and buy the magazine containing it. You find a full-page wash drawing of your hero, Black Bill, the cowboy. Somewhere in your story you employed the word “horse.” Aha! the artist has grasped the idea. Black Bill has on the regulation trousers of the <abbr>M. F. H.</abbr> of the Westchester County Hunt. He carries a parlor rifle, and wears a monocle. In the distance is a section of Forty-second Street during a search for a lost gas-pipe, and the Taj Mahal, the famous mausoleum in India.</p>
+			<p>Kerner was a fool. Besides that, he was an artist and my good friend. Now, if there is one thing on earth utterly despicable to another, it is an artist in the eyes of an author whose story he has illustrated. Just try it once. Write a story about a mining camp in Idaho. Sell it. Spend the money, and then, six months later, borrow a quarter (or a dime), and buy the magazine containing it. You find a full-page wash drawing of your hero, Black Bill, the cowboy. Somewhere in your story you employed the word “horse.” Aha! the artist has grasped the idea. Black Bill has on the regulation trousers of the <abbr class="initialism">MFH</abbr> of the Westchester County Hunt. He carries a parlor rifle, and wears a monocle. In the distance is a section of Forty-second Street during a search for a lost gas-pipe, and the Taj Mahal, the famous mausoleum in India.</p>
 			<p>Enough! I hated Kerner, and one day I met him and we became friends. He was young and gloriously melancholy because his spirits were so high and life had so much in store for him. Yes, he was almost riotously sad. That was his youth. When a man begins to be hilarious in a sorrowful way you can bet a million that he is dyeing his hair. Kerner’s hair was plentiful and carefully matted as an artist’s thatch should be. He was a cigaretteur, and he audited his dinners with red wine. But, most of all, he was a fool. And, wisely, I envied him, and listened patiently while he knocked Velasquez and Tintoretto. Once he told me that he liked a story of mine that he had come across in an anthology. He described it to me, and I was sorry that <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fitz-James O’Brien was dead and could not learn of the eulogy of his work. But mostly Kerner made few breaks and was a consistent fool.</p>
 			<p>I’d better explain what I mean by that. There was a girl. Now, a girl, as far as I am concerned, is a thing that belongs in a seminary or an album; but I conceded the existence of the animal in order to retain Kerner’s friendship. He showed me her picture in a locket⁠—she was a blonde or a brunette⁠—I have forgotten which. She worked in a factory for eight dollars a week. Lest factories quote this wage by way of vindication, I will add that the girl had worked for five years to reach that supreme elevation of remuneration, beginning at $1.50 per week.</p>
 			<p>Kerner’s father was worth a couple of millions He was willing to stand for art, but he drew the line at the factory girl. So Kerner disinherited his father and walked out to a cheap studio and lived on sausages for breakfast and on Farroni for dinner. Farroni had the artistic soul and a line of credit for painters and poets, nicely adjusted. Sometimes Kerner sold a picture and bought some new tapestry, a ring and a dozen silk cravats, and paid Farroni two dollars on account.</p>

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@@ -17,7 +17,7 @@
 			<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 eoc">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>
+			<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>
 			<p>This beautiful thing, entrancing to the eye, dashed past, and the protoplasmic immigrant stepped into the wake of it with his broad, enraptured, uncomprehending grin. And so stepping, stepped into the path of <abbr>No.</abbr> 99’s flying hose-cart, with John Byrnes gripping, with arms of steel, the reins over the plunging backs of Erebus and Joe.</p>
 			<p>The unwritten constitutional code of the fireman has no exceptions or amendments. It is a simple thing⁠—as simple as the rule of three. There was the heedless unit in the right of way; there was the hose-cart and the iron pillar of the elevated railroad.</p>
 			<p>John Byrnes swung all his weight and muscle on the left rein. The team and cart swerved that way and crashed like a torpedo into the pillar. The men on the cart went flying like skittles. The driver’s strap burst, the pillar rang with the shock, and John Byrnes fell on the car track with a broken shoulder twenty feet away, while Erebus⁠—beautiful, raven-black, best-loved Erebus⁠—lay whickering in his harness with a broken leg.</p>
@@ -27,7 +27,7 @@
 			<p>“Look at the doctor’s chalk mark on its coat,” said Reilly, the desk man. “It’s just landed. It must be a kind of a Dago or a Hun or one of them Finns, I guess. That’s the kind of truck that Europe unloads onto us.”</p>
 			<p>“Think of a thing like that getting in the way and laying John up in hospital and spoiling the best fire team in the city,” groaned another fireman. “It ought to be taken down to the dock and drowned.”</p>
 			<p>“Somebody go around and get Sloviski,” suggested the engine driver, “and let’s see what nation is responsible for this conglomeration of hair and head noises.”</p>
-			<p>Sloviski kept a delicatessen store around the corner on Third avenue, and was reputed to be a linguist.</p>
+			<p>Sloviski kept a delicatessen store around the corner on Third Avenue, and was reputed to be a linguist.</p>
 			<p>One of the men fetched him⁠—a fat, cringing man, with a discursive eye and the odors of many kinds of meats upon him.</p>
 			<p>“Take a whirl at this importation with your jawbreakers, Sloviski,” requested Mike Dowling. “We can’t quite figure out whether he’s from the Hackensack bottoms or Hongkong-on-the-Ganges.”</p>
 			<p>Sloviski addressed the stranger in several dialects that ranged in rhythm and cadence from the sounds produced by a tonsilitis gargle to the opening of a can of tomatoes with a pair of scissors. The immigrant replied in accents resembling the uncorking of a bottle of ginger ale.</p>

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@@ -16,7 +16,7 @@
 			<p>The critics have assailed every source of inspiration save one. To that one we are driven for our moral theme. When we levied upon the masters of old they gleefully dug up the parallels to our columns. When we strove to set forth real life they reproached us for trying to imitate Henry George, George Washington, Washington Irving, and Irving Bacheller. We wrote of the West and the East, and they accused us of both Jesse and Henry James. We wrote from our heart⁠—and they said something about a disordered liver. We took a text from Matthew or⁠—er⁠—yes, Deuteronomy, but the preachers were hammering away at the inspiration idea before we could get into type. So, driven to the wall, we go for our subject-matter to the reliable, old, moral, unassailable vade mecum⁠—the unabridged dictionary.</p>
 			<p>Miss Merriam was cashier at Hinkle’s. Hinkle’s is one of the big downtown restaurants. It is in what the papers call the “financial district.” Each day from 12 o’clock to 2 Hinkle’s was full of hungry customers⁠—messenger boys, stenographers, brokers, owners of mining stock, promoters, inventors with patents pending⁠—and also people with money.</p>
 			<p>The cashiership at Hinkle’s was no sinecure. Hinkle egged and toasted and griddle-caked and coffeed a good many customers; and he lunched (as good a word as “dined”) many more. It might be said that Hinkle’s breakfast crowd was a contingent, but his luncheon patronage amounted to a horde.</p>
-			<p>Miss Merriam sat on a stool at a desk inclosed on three sides by a strong, high fencing of woven brass wire. Through an arched opening at the bottom you thrust your waiter’s check and the money, while your heart went pita-pat.</p>
+			<p>Miss Merriam sat on a stool at a desk enclosed on three sides by a strong, high fencing of woven brass wire. Through an arched opening at the bottom you thrust your waiter’s check and the money, while your heart went pita-pat.</p>
 			<p>For Miss Merriam was lovely and capable. She could take 45 cents out of a $2 bill and refuse an offer of marriage before you could⁠—Next!⁠—lost your chance⁠—please don’t shove. She could keep cool and collected while she collected your check, give you the correct change, win your heart, indicate the toothpick stand, and rate you to a quarter of a cent better than Bradstreet could to a thousand in less time than it takes to pepper an egg with one of Hinkle’s casters.</p>
 			<p>There is an old and dignified allusion to the “fierce light that beats upon a throne.” The light that beats upon the young lady cashier’s cage is also something fierce. The other fellow is responsible for the slang.</p>
 			<p>Every male patron of Hinkle’s, from the <abbr class="initialism">ADT</abbr> boys up to the curbstone brokers, adored Miss Merriam. When they paid their checks they wooed her with every wile known to Cupid’s art. Between the meshes of the brass railing went smiles, winks, compliments, tender vows, invitations to dinner, sighs, languishing looks and merry banter that was wafted pointedly back by the gifted Miss Merriam.</p>

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@@ -24,7 +24,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘’Tis none of your business at all, Denny Carnahan,’ says she, sittin’ up straight. And it was the voice of no other than Norah Flynn.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Then it’s not,’ says I, ‘and we’re after having a pleasant evening, Miss Flynn. Have ye seen the sights of this new Coney Island, then? I presume ye have come here for that purpose,’ says I.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I have,’ says she. ‘Me mother and Uncle Tim they are waiting beyond. ’Tis an elegant evening I’ve had. I’ve seen all the attractions that be.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Right ye are,’ says I to Norah; and I don’t know when I’ve been that amused. After disportin’ me-self among the most laughable moral improvements of the revised shell games I took meself to the shore for the benefit of the cool air. ‘And did ye observe the Durbar, Miss Flynn?’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Right ye are,’ says I to Norah; and I don’t know when I’ve been that amused. After disportin’ meself among the most laughable moral improvements of the revised shell games I took meself to the shore for the benefit of the cool air. ‘And did ye observe the Durbar, Miss Flynn?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I did,’ says she, reflectin’; ‘but ’tis not safe, I’m thinkin’, to ride down them slantin’ things into the water.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘How did ye fancy the shoot the chutes?’ I asks.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘True, then, I’m afraid of guns,’ says Norah. ‘They make such noise in my ears. But Uncle Tim, he shot them, he did, and won cigars. ’Tis a fine time we had this day, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Carnahan.’</p>

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@@ -10,7 +10,7 @@
 			<h2 epub:type="title">“The Guilty Party”</h2>
 			<p>A red-haired, unshaven, untidy man sat in a rocking chair by a window. He had just lighted a pipe, and was puffing blue clouds with great satisfaction. He had removed his shoes and donned a pair of blue, faded carpet-slippers. With the morbid thirst of the confirmed daily news drinker, he awkwardly folded back the pages of an evening paper, eagerly gulping down the strong, black headlines, to be followed as a chaser by the milder details of the smaller type.</p>
 			<p>In an adjoining room a woman was cooking supper. Odors from strong bacon and boiling coffee contended against the cut-plug fumes from the vespertine pipe.</p>
-			<p>Outside was one of those crowded streets of the east side, in which, as twilight falls, Satan sets up his recruiting office. A mighty host of children danced and ran and played in the street. Some in rags, some in clean white and beribboned, some wild and restless as young hawks, some gentle-faced and shrinking, some shrieking rude and sinful words, some listening, awed, but soon, grown familiar, to embrace⁠—here were the children playing in the corridors of the House of Sin. Above the playground forever hovered a great bird. The bird was known to humorists as the stork. But the people of Chrystie street were better ornithologists. They called it a vulture.</p>
+			<p>Outside was one of those crowded streets of the east side, in which, as twilight falls, Satan sets up his recruiting office. A mighty host of children danced and ran and played in the street. Some in rags, some in clean white and beribboned, some wild and restless as young hawks, some gentle-faced and shrinking, some shrieking rude and sinful words, some listening, awed, but soon, grown familiar, to embrace⁠—here were the children playing in the corridors of the House of Sin. Above the playground forever hovered a great bird. The bird was known to humorists as the stork. But the people of Chrystie Street were better ornithologists. They called it a vulture.</p>
 			<p>A little girl of twelve came up timidly to the man reading and resting by the window, and said:</p>
 			<p>“Papa, won’t you play a game of checkers with me if you aren’t too tired?”</p>
 			<p>The red-haired, unshaven, untidy man sitting shoeless by the window answered, with a frown.</p>

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@@ -38,7 +38,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘You!’ she says, with a smile that reminded me of lemon sherbet. I was waiting upstairs in the slosh, then, and I was right down here by the door, putting some vinegar and cayenne into an empty bottle of tabasco, and I heard all they said.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘It,’ says Sir Percival, without moving. ‘I’m only local colour. Are my hauberk, helmet, and halberd on straight?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Is there an explanation to this?’ says she. ‘Is it a practical joke such as men play in those Griddlecake and Lamb Clubs? I’m afraid I don’t see the point. I heard, vaguely, that you were away. For three months I⁠—we have not seen you or heard from you.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘I’m halberdiering for my living,’ says the stature. ‘I’m working,’ says he. ‘I don’t suppose you know what work means.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘I’m halberdiering for my living,’ says the statue. ‘I’m working,’ says he. ‘I don’t suppose you know what work means.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Have you⁠—have you lost your money?’ she asks.</p>
 			<p>“Sir Percival studies a minute.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I am poorer,’ says he, ‘than the poorest sandwich man on the streets⁠—if I don’t earn my living.’</p>
@@ -48,7 +48,7 @@
 			<p>“Sir Percival kind of rattles his armour and says: ‘Helen, will you suspend sentence in this matter for just a little while? You don’t understand,’ says he. ‘I’ve got to hold this job down a little longer.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘You like being a harlequin⁠—or halberdier, as you call it?’ says she.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I wouldn’t get thrown out of the job just now,’ says he, with a grin, ‘to be appointed Minister to the Court of <abbr>St.</abbr> James’s.’</p>
-			<p>“And then the 40-<abbr>H.P.</abbr> girl’s eyes sparkled as hard as diamonds.</p>
+			<p>“And then the 40-<abbr class="initialism">HP</abbr> girl’s eyes sparkled as hard as diamonds.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Very well,’ says she. ‘You shall have full run of your serving-man’s tastes this night.’ And she swims over to the boss’s desk and gives him a smile that knocks the specks off his nose.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I think your Rindslosh,’ says she, ‘is as beautiful as a dream. It is a little slice of the Old World set down in New York. We shall have a nice supper up there; but if you will grant us one favour the illusion will be perfect⁠—give us your halberdier to wait on our table.’</p>
 			<p>“That hits the boss’s antiology hobby just right. ‘Sure,’ says he, ‘dot vill be fine. Und der orchestra shall blay “Die Wacht am Rhein” all der time.’ And he goes over and tells the halberdier to go upstairs and hustle the grub at the swells’ table.</p>

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@@ -22,14 +22,14 @@
 			<p>“Don’t burn your fingers,” says he. “In spite of the fact that you’re only fit to be the companion of a sleeping mud-turtle, I’ll give you a square deal. And that’s more than your parents did when they turned you loose in the world with the sociability of a rattlesnake and the bedside manner of a frozen turnip. I’ll play you a game of seven-up, the winner to pick up his choice of the book, the loser to take the other.”</p>
 			<p>We played; and Idaho won. He picked up his book; and I took mine. Then each of us got on his side of the house and went to reading.</p>
 			<p>I never was as glad to see a ten-ounce nugget as I was that book. And Idaho took at his like a kid looks at a stick of candy.</p>
-			<p>Mine was a little book about five by six inches called “Herkimer’s Handbook of Indispensable Information.” I may be wrong, but I think that was the greatest book that ever was written. I’ve got it today; and I can stump you or any man fifty times in five minutes with the information in it. Talk about Solomon or the New York <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Tribune</i>! Herkimer had cases on both of ’em. That man must have put in fifty years and travelled a million miles to find out all that stuff. There was the population of all cities in it, and the way to tell a girl’s age, and the number of teeth a camel has. It told you the longest tunnel in the world, the number of the stars, how long it takes for chicken pox to break out, what a lady’s neck ought to measure, the veto powers of Governors, the dates of the Roman aqueducts, how many pounds of rice going without three beers a day would buy, the average annual temperature of Augusta, Maine, the quantity of seed required to plant an acre of carrots in drills, antidotes for poisons, the number of hairs on a blond lady’s head, how to preserve eggs, the height of all the mountains in the world, and the dates of all wars and battles, and how to restore drowned persons, and sunstroke, and the number of tacks in a pound, and how to make dynamite and flowers and beds, and what to do before the doctor comes⁠—and a hundred times as many things besides. If there was anything Herkimer didn’t know I didn’t miss it out of the book.</p>
+			<p>Mine was a little book about five by six inches called <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Herkimer’s Handbook of Indispensable Information</i>. I may be wrong, but I think that was the greatest book that ever was written. I’ve got it today; and I can stump you or any man fifty times in five minutes with the information in it. Talk about Solomon or the New York <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Tribune</i>! Herkimer had cases on both of ’em. That man must have put in fifty years and travelled a million miles to find out all that stuff. There was the population of all cities in it, and the way to tell a girl’s age, and the number of teeth a camel has. It told you the longest tunnel in the world, the number of the stars, how long it takes for chicken pox to break out, what a lady’s neck ought to measure, the veto powers of Governors, the dates of the Roman aqueducts, how many pounds of rice going without three beers a day would buy, the average annual temperature of Augusta, Maine, the quantity of seed required to plant an acre of carrots in drills, antidotes for poisons, the number of hairs on a blond lady’s head, how to preserve eggs, the height of all the mountains in the world, and the dates of all wars and battles, and how to restore drowned persons, and sunstroke, and the number of tacks in a pound, and how to make dynamite and flowers and beds, and what to do before the doctor comes⁠—and a hundred times as many things besides. If there was anything Herkimer didn’t know I didn’t miss it out of the book.</p>
 			<p>I sat and read that book for four hours. All the wonders of education was compressed in it. I forgot the snow, and I forgot that me and old Idaho was on the outs. He was sitting still on a stool reading away with a kind of partly soft and partly mysterious look shining through his tanbark whiskers.</p>
 			<p>“Idaho,” says I, “what kind of a book is yours?”</p>
 			<p>Idaho must have forgot, too, for he answered moderate, without any slander or malignity.</p>
 			<p>“Why,” says he, “this here seems to be a volume by Homer <abbr class="name eoc">K. M.</abbr>”</p>
 			<p>“Homer <abbr class="name">K. M.</abbr> what?” I asks.</p>
 			<p>“Why, just Homer <abbr class="name">K. M.</abbr>,” says he.</p>
-			<p>“You’re a liar,” says I, a little riled that Idaho should try to put me up a tree. “No man is going ’round signing books with his initials. If it’s Homer <abbr class="name">K. M.</abbr> Spoopendyke, or Homer <abbr class="name">K. M.</abbr> McSweeney, or Homer <abbr class="name">K. M.</abbr> Jones, why don’t you say so like a man instead of biting off the end of it like a calf chewing off the tail of a shirt on a clothes-sine?”</p>
+			<p>“You’re a liar,” says I, a little riled that Idaho should try to put me up a tree. “No man is going ’round signing books with his initials. If it’s Homer <abbr class="name">K. M.</abbr> Spoopendyke, or Homer <abbr class="name">K. M.</abbr> McSweeney, or Homer <abbr class="name">K. M.</abbr> Jones, why don’t you say so like a man instead of biting off the end of it like a calf chewing off the tail of a shirt on a clothesline?”</p>
 			<p>“I put it to you straight, Sandy,” says Idaho, quiet. “It’s a poem book,” says he, “by Homer <abbr class="name eoc">K. M.</abbr> I couldn’t get colour out of it at first, but there’s a vein if you follow it up. I wouldn’t have missed this book for a pair of red blankets.”</p>
 			<p>“You’re welcome to it,” says I. “What I want is a disinterested statement of facts for the mind to work on, and that’s what I seem to find in the book I’ve drawn.”</p>
 			<p>“What you’ve got,” says Idaho, “is statistics, the lowest grade of information that exists. They’ll poison your mind. Give me old <abbr class="name">K. M.</abbr>’s system of surmises. He seems to be a kind of a wine agent. His regular toast is ‘nothing doing,’ and he seems to have a grouch, but he keeps it so well lubricated with booze that his worst kicks sound like an invitation to split a quart. But it’s poetry,” says Idaho, “and I have sensations of scorn for that truck of yours that tries to convey sense in feet and inches. When it comes to explaining the instinct of philosophy through the art of nature, old <abbr class="name">K. M.</abbr> has got your man beat by drills, rows, paragraphs, chest measurement, and average annual rainfall.”</p>
@@ -61,7 +61,7 @@
 			<p>“It has,” says <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson. “Ever since I knew him he has been reciting to me a lot of irreligious rhymes by some person he calls Ruby Ott, and who is no better than she should be, if you judge by her poetry.”</p>
 			<p>“Then Idaho has struck a new book,” says I, “for the one he had was by a man who writes under the nom de plume of <abbr class="name eoc">K. M.</abbr>”</p>
 			<p>“He’d better have stuck to it,” says <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson, “whatever it was. And today he caps the vortex. I get a bunch of flowers from him, and on ’em is pinned a note. Now, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pratt, you know a lady when you see her; and you know how I stand in Rosa society. Do you think for a moment that I’d skip out to the woods with a man along with a jug of wine and a loaf of bread, and go singing and cavorting up and down under the trees with him? I take a little claret with my meals, but I’m not in the habit of packing a jug of it into the brush and raising Cain in any such style as that. And of course he’d bring his book of verses along, too. He said so. Let him go on his scandalous picnics alone! Or let him take his Ruby Ott with him. I reckon she wouldn’t kick unless it was on account of there being too much bread along. And what do you think of your gentleman friend now, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pratt?”</p>
-			<p>“Well, ’m,” says I, “it may be that Idaho’s invitation was a kind of poetry, and meant no harm. May be it belonged to the class of rhymes they call figurative. They offend law and order, but they get sent through the mails on the grounds that they mean something that they don’t say. I’d be glad on Idaho’s account if you’d overlook it,” says I, “and let us extricate our minds from the low regions of poetry to the higher planes of fact and fancy. On a beautiful afternoon like this, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson,” I goes on, “we should let our thoughts dwell accordingly. Though it is warm here, we should remember that at the equator the line of perpetual frost is at an altitude of fifteen thousand feet. Between the latitudes of forty degrees and forty-nine degrees it is from four thousand to nine thousand feet.”</p>
+			<p>“Well, ’m,” says I, “it may be that Idaho’s invitation was a kind of poetry, and meant no harm. Maybe it belonged to the class of rhymes they call figurative. They offend law and order, but they get sent through the mails on the grounds that they mean something that they don’t say. I’d be glad on Idaho’s account if you’d overlook it,” says I, “and let us extricate our minds from the low regions of poetry to the higher planes of fact and fancy. On a beautiful afternoon like this, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson,” I goes on, “we should let our thoughts dwell accordingly. Though it is warm here, we should remember that at the equator the line of perpetual frost is at an altitude of fifteen thousand feet. Between the latitudes of forty degrees and forty-nine degrees it is from four thousand to nine thousand feet.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pratt,” says <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson, “it’s such a comfort to hear you say them beautiful facts after getting such a jar from that minx of a Ruby’s poetry!”</p>
 			<p>“Let us sit on this log at the roadside,” says I, “and forget the inhumanity and ribaldry of the poets. It is in the glorious columns of ascertained facts and legalised measures that beauty is to be found. In this very log we sit upon, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson,” says I, “is statistics more wonderful than any poem. The rings show it was sixty years old. At the depth of two thousand feet it would become coal in three thousand years. The deepest coal mine in the world is at Killingworth, near Newcastle. A box four feet long, three feet wide, and two feet eight inches deep will hold one ton of coal. If an artery is cut, compress it above the wound. A man’s leg contains thirty bones. The Tower of London was burned in 1841.”</p>
 			<p>“Go on, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pratt,” says <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson. “Them ideas is so original and soothing. I think statistics are just as lovely as they can be.”</p>
@@ -93,7 +93,7 @@
 			<p>Old doc takes the book and looks at it by means of his specs and a fireman’s lantern.</p>
 			<p>“Well, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pratt,” says he, “you evidently got on the wrong line in reading your diagnosis. The recipe for suffocation says: ‘Get the patient into fresh air as quickly as possible, and place in a reclining position.’ The flaxseed remedy is for ‘Dust and Cinders in the Eye,’ on the line above. But, after all⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“See here,” interrupts <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson, “I reckon I’ve got something to say in this consultation. That flaxseed done me more good than anything I ever tried.” And then she raises up her head and lays it back on my arm again, and says: “Put some in the other eye, Sandy dear.”</p>
-			<p>And so if you was to stop off at Rosa tomorrow, or any other day, you’d see a fine new yellow house with <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Pratt, that was <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson, embellishing and adorning it. And if you was to step inside you’d see on the marble-top centre table in the parlour “Herkimer’s Handbook of Indispensable Information,” all rebound in red morocco, and ready to be consulted on any subject pertaining to human happiness and wisdom.</p>
+			<p>And so if you was to stop off at Rosa tomorrow, or any other day, you’d see a fine new yellow house with <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Pratt, that was <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson, embellishing and adorning it. And if you was to step inside you’d see on the marble-top centre table in the parlour <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Herkimer’s Handbook of Indispensable Information</i>, all rebound in red morocco, and ready to be consulted on any subject pertaining to human happiness and wisdom.</p>
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@@ -11,9 +11,9 @@
 			<p>Curly the tramp sidled toward the free-lunch counter. He caught a fleeting glance from the bartender’s eye, and stood still, trying to look like a business man who had just dined at the Menger and was waiting for a friend who had promised to pick him up in his motor car. Curly’s histrionic powers were equal to the impersonation; but his makeup was wanting.</p>
 			<p>The bartender rounded the bar in a casual way, looking up at the ceiling as though he was pondering some intricate problem of kalsomining, and then fell upon Curly so suddenly that the roadster had no excuses ready. Irresistibly, but so composedly that it seemed almost absendmindedness on his part, the dispenser of drinks pushed Curly to the swinging doors and kicked him out, with a nonchalance that almost amounted to sadness. That was the way of the Southwest.</p>
 			<p>Curly arose from the gutter leisurely. He felt no anger or resentment toward his ejector. Fifteen years of tramphood spent out of the twenty-two years of his life had hardened the fibres of his spirit. The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune fell blunted from the buckler of his armoured pride. With especial resignation did he suffer contumely and injury at the hands of bartenders. Naturally, they were his enemies; and unnaturally, they were often his friends. He had to take his chances with them. But he had not yet learned to estimate these cool, languid, Southwestern knights of the bungstarter, who had the manners of an Earl of Pawtucket, and who, when they disapproved of your presence, moved you with the silence and despatch of a chess automaton advancing a pawn.</p>
-			<p>Curly stood for a few moments in the narrow, mesquite-paved street. San Antonio puzzled and disturbed him. Three days he had been a non-naying guest of the town, having dropped off there from a box car of an <abbr>I. &amp; G. N.</abbr> freight, because Greaser Johnny had told him in Des Moines that the Alamo City was manna fallen, gathered, cooked, and served free with cream and sugar. Curly had found the tip partly a good one. There was hospitality in plenty of a careless, liberal, irregular sort. But the town itself was a weight upon his spirits after his experience with the rushing, businesslike, systematised cities of the North and East. Here he was often flung a dollar, but too frequently a good-natured kick would follow it. Once a band of hilarious cowboys had roped him on Military Plaza and dragged him across the black soil until no respectable ragbag would have stood sponsor for his clothes. The winding, doubling streets, leading nowhere, bewildered him. And then there was a little river, crooked as a pothook, that crawled through the middle of the town, crossed by a hundred little bridges so nearly alike that they got on Curly’s nerves. And the last bartender wore a number nine shoe.</p>
+			<p>Curly stood for a few moments in the narrow, mesquite-paved street. San Antonio puzzled and disturbed him. Three days he had been a non-paying guest of the town, having dropped off there from a box car of an <abbr>I. &amp; G. N.</abbr> freight, because Greaser Johnny had told him in Des Moines that the Alamo City was manna fallen, gathered, cooked, and served free with cream and sugar. Curly had found the tip partly a good one. There was hospitality in plenty of a careless, liberal, irregular sort. But the town itself was a weight upon his spirits after his experience with the rushing, businesslike, systematised cities of the North and East. Here he was often flung a dollar, but too frequently a good-natured kick would follow it. Once a band of hilarious cowboys had roped him on Military Plaza and dragged him across the black soil until no respectable ragbag would have stood sponsor for his clothes. The winding, doubling streets, leading nowhere, bewildered him. And then there was a little river, crooked as a pothook, that crawled through the middle of the town, crossed by a hundred little bridges so nearly alike that they got on Curly’s nerves. And the last bartender wore a number nine shoe.</p>
 			<p>The saloon stood on a corner. The hour was eight o’clock. Homefarers and outgoers jostled Curly on the narrow stone sidewalk. Between the buildings to his left he looked down a cleft that proclaimed itself another thoroughfare. The alley was dark except for one patch of light. Where there was light there were sure to be human beings. Where there were human beings after nightfall in San Antonio there might be food, and there was sure to be drink. So Curly headed for the light.</p>
-			<p>The illumination came from Schwegel’s Café. On the sidewalk in front of it Curly picked up an old envelope. It might have contained a check for a million. It was empty; but the wanderer read the address, “<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Otto Schwegel,” and the name of the town and State. The postmark was Detroit.</p>
+			<p>The illumination came from Schwegel’s Café. On the sidewalk in front of it Curly picked up an old envelope. It might have contained a check for a million. It was empty; but the wanderer read the address, “<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Otto Schwegel,” and the name of the town and state. The postmark was Detroit.</p>
 			<p>Curly entered the saloon. And now in the light it could be perceived that he bore the stamp of many years of vagabondage. He had none of the tidiness of the calculating and shrewd professional tramp. His wardrobe represented the cast-off specimens of half a dozen fashions and eras. Two factories had combined their efforts in providing shoes for his feet. As you gazed at him there passed through your mind vague impressions of mummies, wax figures, Russian exiles, and men lost on desert islands. His face was covered almost to his eyes with a curly brown beard that he kept trimmed short with a pocketknife, and that had furnished him with his <i xml:lang="fr">nom de route</i>. Light-blue eyes, full of sullenness, fear, cunning, impudence, and fawning, witnessed the stress that had been laid upon his soul.</p>
 			<p>The saloon was small, and in its atmosphere the odours of meat and drink struggled for the ascendancy. The pig and the cabbage wrestled with hydrogen and oxygen. Behind the bar Schwegel laboured with an assistant whose epidermal pores showed no signs of being obstructed. Hot weinerwurst and sauerkraut were being served to purchasers of beer. Curly shuffled to the end of the bar, coughed hollowly, and told Schwegel that he was a Detroit cabinetmaker out of a job.</p>
 			<p>It followed as the night the day that he got his schooner and lunch.</p>
@@ -76,7 +76,7 @@
 			<p>Sam, the cosmopolite, who called bartenders in San Antone by their first name, stood in the door. He was a better zoologist.</p>
 			<p>“Well, ain’t that a Willie for your whiskers?” he commented. “Where’d you dig up the hobo, Ranse? Goin’ to make an auditorium for inbreviates out of the ranch?”</p>
 			<p>“Say,” said Curly, from whose panoplied breast all shafts of wit fell blunted. “Any of you kiddin’ guys got a drink on you? Have your fun. Say, I’ve been hittin’ the stuff till I don’t know straight up.”</p>
-			<p>He turned to Ranse. “Say, you shanghaied me on your d⁠—d old prairie schooner⁠—did I tell you to drive me to a farm? I want a drink. I’m goin’ all to little pieces. What’s doin’?”</p>
+			<p>He turned to Ranse. “Say, you shanghaied me on your d⁠⸺d old prairie schooner⁠—did I tell you to drive me to a farm? I want a drink. I’m goin’ all to little pieces. What’s doin’?”</p>
 			<p>Ranse saw that the tramp’s nerves were racking him. He despatched one of the Mexican boys to the ranch-house for a glass of whisky. Curly gulped it down; and into his eyes came a brief, grateful glow⁠—as human as the expression in the eye of a faithful setter dog.</p>
 			<p>“Thanky, boss,” he said, quietly.</p>
 			<p>“You’re thirty miles from a railroad, and forty miles from a saloon,” said Ranse.</p>
@@ -97,7 +97,7 @@
 			<p>“There’s a tramp on a cot in the wagon-shed. Take him something to eat. Better make it enough for two.”</p>
 			<p>Ranse walked out toward the jacals. A boy came running.</p>
 			<p>“Manuel, can you catch Vaminos, in the little pasture, for me?”</p>
-			<p>“Why not, señor? I saw him near the puerta but two hours past. He bears a drag-rope.”</p>
+			<p>“Why not, señor? I saw him near the <i xml:lang="es">puerta</i> but two hours past. He bears a drag-rope.”</p>
 			<p>“Get him and saddle him as quick as you can.”</p>
 			<p>“<i xml:lang="es">Prontito, señor.</i>”</p>
 			<p>Soon, mounted on Vaminos, Ranse leaned in the saddle, pressed with his knees, and galloped eastward past the store, where sat Sam trying his guitar in the moonlight.</p>
@@ -128,7 +128,7 @@
 			<p>“Thirty-two years I have lived on the Rancho Cibolo,” said Tia Juana. “I thought to be buried under the coma mott beyond the garden before these things should be known. Close the door, Don Ransom, and I will speak. I see in your face that you know.”</p>
 			<p>An hour Ranse spent behind Tia Juana’s closed door. As he was on his way back to the house Curly called to him from the wagon-shed.</p>
 			<p>The tramp sat on his cot, swinging his feet and smoking.</p>
-			<p>“Say, sport,” he grumbled. “This is no way to treat a man after kidnappin’ him. I went up to the store and borrowed a razor from that fresh guy and had a shave. But that ain’t all a man needs. Say⁠—can’t you loosen up for about three fingers more of that booze? I never asked you to bring me to your d⁠—d farm.”</p>
+			<p>“Say, sport,” he grumbled. “This is no way to treat a man after kidnappin’ him. I went up to the store and borrowed a razor from that fresh guy and had a shave. But that ain’t all a man needs. Say⁠—can’t you loosen up for about three fingers more of that booze? I never asked you to bring me to your d⸺d farm.”</p>
 			<p>“Stand up out here in the light,” said Ranse, looking at him closely.</p>
 			<p>Curly got up sullenly and took a step or two.</p>
 			<p>His face, now shaven smooth, seemed transformed. His hair had been combed, and it fell back from the right side of his forehead with a peculiar wave. The moonlight charitably softened the ravages of drink; and his aquiline, well-shaped nose and small, square cleft chin almost gave distinction to his looks.</p>
@@ -179,7 +179,7 @@
 			<p>“Boys,” said Ranse, “I’m much obliged. I was hoping you would. But I didn’t like to ask.”</p>
 			<p>Half a dozen six-shooters began to pop⁠—awful yells rent the air⁠—Long Collins galloped wildly across Curly’s bed, dragging the saddle after him. That was merely their way of gently awaking their victim. Then they hazed him for an hour, carefully and ridiculously, after the code of cow camps. Whenever he uttered protest they held him stretched over a roll of blankets and thrashed him woefully with a pair of leather leggings.</p>
 			<p>And all this meant that Curly had won his spurs, that he was receiving the puncher’s accolade. Nevermore would they be polite to him. But he would be their “pardner” and stirrup-brother, foot to foot.</p>
-			<p>When the fooling was ended all hands made a raid on Joe’s big coffee-eot by the fire for a Java nightcap. Ranse watched the new knight carefully to see if he understood and was worthy. Curly limped with his cup of coffee to a log and sat upon it. Long Collins followed and sat by his side. Buck Rabb went and sat at the other. Curly⁠—grinned.</p>
+			<p>When the fooling was ended all hands made a raid on Joe’s big coffee-pot by the fire for a java nightcap. Ranse watched the new knight carefully to see if he understood and was worthy. Curly limped with his cup of coffee to a log and sat upon it. Long Collins followed and sat by his side. Buck Rabb went and sat at the other. Curly⁠—grinned.</p>
 			<p>And then Ranse furnished Curly with mounts and saddle and equipment, and turned him over to Buck Rabb, instructing him to finish the job.</p>
 			<p>Three weeks later Ranse rode from the ranch into Rabb’s camp, which was then in Snake Valley. The boys were saddling for the day’s ride. He sought out Long Collins among them.</p>
 			<p>“How about that bronco?” he asked.</p>

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@@ -30,7 +30,7 @@
 			<p>Dry Valley kept indoors closely for a week except for frequent sallies after youthful strawberry snatchers. Then, a few days later, he suddenly emerged brilliantly radiant in the hectic glow of his belated midsummer madness.</p>
 			<p>A jaybird-blue tennis suit covered him outwardly, almost as far as his wrists and ankles. His shirt was ox-blood; his collar winged and tall; his necktie a floating oriflamme; his shoes a venomous bright tan, pointed and shaped on penitential lasts. A little flat straw hat with a striped band desecrated his weather-beaten head. Lemon-coloured kid gloves protected his oak-tough hands from the benignant May sunshine. This sad and optic-smiting creature teetered out of its den, smiling foolishly and smoothing its gloves for men and angels to see. To such a pass had Dry Valley Johnson been brought by Cupid, who always shoots game that is out of season with an arrow from the quiver of Momus. Reconstructing mythology, he had risen, a prismatic macaw, from the ashes of the grey-brown phoenix that had folded its tired wings to roost under the trees of Santa Rosa.</p>
 			<p>Dry Valley paused in the street to allow Santa Rosans within sight of him to be stunned; and then deliberately and slowly, as his shoes required, entered <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> O’Brien’s gate.</p>
-			<p>Not until the eleven months’ drought did Santa Rosa cease talking about Dry Valley Johnson’s courtship of Panchita O’Brien. It was an unclassifiable procedure; something like a combination of cake-ealking, deaf-and-dumb oratory, postage stamp flirtation and parlour charades. It lasted two weeks and then came to a sudden end.</p>
+			<p>Not until the eleven months’ drought did Santa Rosa cease talking about Dry Valley Johnson’s courtship of Panchita O’Brien. It was an unclassifiable procedure; something like a combination of cake-walking, deaf-and-dumb oratory, postage stamp flirtation and parlour charades. It lasted two weeks and then came to a sudden end.</p>
 			<p>Of course <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> O’Brien favoured the match as soon as Dry Valley’s intentions were disclosed. Being the mother of a woman child, and therefore a charter member of the Ancient Order of the Rattrap, she joyfully decked out Panchita for the sacrifice. The girl was temporarily dazzled by having her dresses lengthened and her hair piled up on her head, and came near forgetting that she was only a slice of cheese. It was nice, too, to have as good a match as <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Johnson paying you attentions and to see the other girls fluttering the curtains at their windows to see you go by with him.</p>
 			<p>Dry Valley bought a buggy with yellow wheels and a fine trotter in San Antonio. Every day he drove out with Panchita. He was never seen to speak to her when they were walking or driving. The consciousness of his clothes kept his mind busy; the knowledge that he could say nothing of interest kept him dumb; the feeling that Panchita was there kept him happy.</p>
 			<p>He took her to parties and dances, and to church. He tried⁠—oh, no man ever tried so hard to be young as Dry Valley did. He could not dance; but he invented a smile which he wore on these joyous occasions, a smile that, in him, was as great a concession to mirth and gaiety as turning handsprings would be in another. He began to seek the company of the young men in the town⁠—even of the boys. They accepted him as a decided damper, for his attempts at sportiveness were so forced that they might as well have essayed their games in a cathedral. Neither he nor any other could estimate what progress he had made with Panchita.</p>

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@@ -25,7 +25,7 @@
 			<p>The thing that weighed heaviest on Raggles’s soul and clogged his poet’s fancy was the spirit of absolute egotism that seemed to saturate the people as toys are saturated with paint. Each one that he considered appeared a monster of abominable and insolent conceit. Humanity was gone from them; they were toddling idols of stone and varnish, worshipping themselves and greedy for though oblivious of worship from their fellow graven images. Frozen, cruel, implacable, impervious, cut to an identical pattern, they hurried on their ways like statues brought by some miracles to motion, while soul and feeling lay unaroused in the reluctant marble.</p>
 			<p>Gradually Raggles became conscious of certain types. One was an elderly gentleman with a snow-white, short beard, pink, unwrinkled face and stony, sharp blue eyes, attired in the fashion of a gilded youth, who seemed to personify the city’s wealth, ripeness and frigid unconcern. Another type was a woman, tall, beautiful, clear as a steel engraving, goddess-like, calm, clothed like the princesses of old, with eyes as coldly blue as the reflection of sunlight on a glacier. And another was a byproduct of this town of marionettes⁠—a broad, swaggering, grim, threateningly sedate fellow, with a jowl as large as a harvested wheat field, the complexion of a baptized infant and the knuckles of a prizefighter. This type leaned against cigar signs and viewed the world with frappéd contumely.</p>
 			<p>A poet is a sensitive creature, and Raggles soon shrivelled in the bleak embrace of the undecipherable. The chill, sphinx-like, ironical, illegible, unnatural, ruthless expression of the city left him downcast and bewildered. Had it no heart? Better the woodpile, the scolding of vinegar-faced housewives at back doors, the kindly spleen of bartenders behind provincial free-lunch counters, the amiable truculence of rural constables, the kicks, arrests and happy-go-lucky chances of the other vulgar, loud, crude cities than this freezing heartlessness.</p>
-			<p>Raggles summoned his courage and sought alms from the populace. Unheeding, regardless, they passed on without the wink of an eyelash to testify that they were conscious of his existence. And then he said to himself that this fair but pitiless city of Manhattan was without a soul; that its inhabitants were manikins moved by wires and springs, and that he was alone in a great wilderness.</p>
+			<p>Raggles summoned his courage and sought alms from the populace. Unheeding, regardless, they passed on without the wink of an eyelash to testify that they were conscious of his existence. And then he said to himself that this fair but pitiless city of Manhattan was without a soul; that its inhabitants were mannequins moved by wires and springs, and that he was alone in a great wilderness.</p>
 			<p>Raggles started to cross the street. There was a blast, a roar, a hissing and a crash as something struck him and hurled him over and over six yards from where he had been. As he was coming down like the stick of a rocket the earth and all the cities thereof turned to a fractured dream.</p>
 			<p>Raggles opened his eyes. First an odor made itself known to him⁠—an odor of the earliest spring flowers of Paradise. And then a hand soft as a falling petal touched his brow. Bending over him was the woman clothed like the princess of old, with blue eyes, now soft and humid with human sympathy. Under his head on the pavement were silks and furs. With Raggles’s hat in his hand and with his face pinker than ever from a vehement burst of oratory against reckless driving, stood the elderly gentleman who personified the city’s wealth and ripeness. From a nearby café hurried the byproduct with the vast jowl and baby complexion, bearing a glass full of a crimson fluid that suggested delightful possibilities.</p>
 			<p>“Drink dis, sport,” said the byproduct, holding the glass to Raggles’s lips.</p>

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@@ -9,8 +9,8 @@
 		<section id="the-man-higher-up" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Man Higher Up</h2>
 			<p>Across our two dishes of spaghetti, in a corner of Provenzano’s restaurant, Jeff Peters was explaining to me the three kinds of graft.</p>
-			<p>Every winter Jeff comes to New York to eat spaghetti, to watch the shipping in East River from the depths of his chinchilla overcoat, and to lay in a supply of Chicago-made clothing at one of the Fulton street stores. During the other three seasons he may be found further west⁠—his range is from Spokane to Tampa. In his profession he takes a pride which he supports and defends with a serious and unique philosophy of ethics. His profession is no new one. He is an incorporated, uncapitalized, unlimited asylum for the reception of the restless and unwise dollars of his fellowmen.</p>
-			<p>In the wilderness of stone in which Jeff seeks his annual lonely holiday he is glad to palaver of his many adventures, as a boy will whistle after sundown in a wood. Wherefore, I mark on my calendar the time of his coming, and open a question of privilege at Provenzano’s concerning the little wine-stained table in the corner between the rakish rubber plant and the framed palazzio della something on the wall.</p>
+			<p>Every winter Jeff comes to New York to eat spaghetti, to watch the shipping in East River from the depths of his chinchilla overcoat, and to lay in a supply of Chicago-made clothing at one of the Fulton Street stores. During the other three seasons he may be found further west⁠—his range is from Spokane to Tampa. In his profession he takes a pride which he supports and defends with a serious and unique philosophy of ethics. His profession is no new one. He is an incorporated, uncapitalized, unlimited asylum for the reception of the restless and unwise dollars of his fellowmen.</p>
+			<p>In the wilderness of stone in which Jeff seeks his annual lonely holiday he is glad to palaver of his many adventures, as a boy will whistle after sundown in a wood. Wherefore, I mark on my calendar the time of his coming, and open a question of privilege at Provenzano’s concerning the little wine-stained table in the corner between the rakish rubber plant and the framed <i xml:lang="it">palazzio della</i> something on the wall.</p>
 			<p>“There are two kinds of graft,” said Jeff, “that ought to be wiped out by law. I mean Wall Street speculation, and burglary.”</p>
 			<p>“Nearly everybody will agree with you as to one of them,” said I, with a laugh.</p>
 			<p>“Well, burglary ought to be wiped out, too,” said Jeff; and I wondered whether the laugh had been redundant.</p>
@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<p>“Interesting combination,” said I, with a yawn. “Did I tell you I bagged a duck and a ground-squirrel at one shot last week over in the Ramapos?” I knew well how to draw Jeff’s stories.</p>
 			<p>“Let me tell you first about these barnacles that clog the wheels of society by poisoning the springs of rectitude with their upas-like eye,” said Jeff, with the pure gleam of the muckraker in his own.</p>
 			<p>“As I said, three months ago I got into bad company. There are two times in a man’s life when he does this⁠—when he’s dead broke, and when he’s rich.</p>
-			<p>“Now and then the most legitimate business runs out of luck. It was out in Arkansas I made the wrong turn at a crossroad, and drives into this town of Peavine by mistake. It seems I had already assaulted and disfigured Peavine the spring of the year before. I had sold $600 worth of young fruit trees there⁠—plums, cherries, peaches and pears. The Peaviners were keeping an eye on the country road and hoping I might pass that way again. I drove down Main street as far as the Crystal Palace drugstore before I realized I had committed ambush upon myself and my white horse Bill.</p>
+			<p>“Now and then the most legitimate business runs out of luck. It was out in Arkansas I made the wrong turn at a crossroad, and drives into this town of Peavine by mistake. It seems I had already assaulted and disfigured Peavine the spring of the year before. I had sold $600 worth of young fruit trees there⁠—plums, cherries, peaches and pears. The Peaviners were keeping an eye on the country road and hoping I might pass that way again. I drove down Main Street as far as the Crystal Palace drugstore before I realized I had committed ambush upon myself and my white horse Bill.</p>
 			<p>“The Peaviners took me by surprise and Bill by the bridle and began a conversation that wasn’t entirely disassociated with the subject of fruit trees. A committee of ’em ran some trace-chains through the armholes of my vest, and escorted me through their gardens and orchards.</p>
 			<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>

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@@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<section id="the-pendulum" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Pendulum</h2>
-			<p>“Eighty-first street⁠—let ’em out, please,” yelled the shepherd in blue.</p>
+			<p>“Eighty-first Street⁠—let ’em out, please,” yelled the shepherd in blue.</p>
 			<p>A flock of citizen sheep scrambled out and another flock scrambled aboard. Ding-ding! The cattle cars of the Manhattan Elevated rattled away, and John Perkins drifted down the stairway of the station with the released flock.</p>
 			<p>John walked slowly toward his flat. Slowly, because in the lexicon of his daily life there was no such word as “perhaps.” There are no surprises awaiting a man who has been married two years and lives in a flat. As he walked John Perkins prophesied to himself with gloomy and downtrodden cynicism the foregone conclusions of the monotonous day.</p>
 			<p>Katy would meet him at the door with a kiss flavored with cold cream and butterscotch. He would remove his coat, sit upon a macadamized lounge and read, in the evening paper, of Russians and Japs slaughtered by the deadly linotype. For dinner there would be pot roast, a salad flavored with a dressing warranted not to crack or injure the leather, stewed rhubarb and the bottle of strawberry marmalade blushing at the certificate of chemical purity on its label. After dinner Katy would show him the new patch in her crazy quilt that the iceman had cut for her off the end of his four-in-hand. At half-past seven they would spread newspapers over the furniture to catch the pieces of plastering that fell when the fat man in the flat overhead began to take his physical culture exercises. Exactly at eight Hickey &amp; Mooney, of the vaudeville team (unbooked) in the flat across the hall, would yield to the gentle influence of delirium tremens and begin to overturn chairs under the delusion that Hammerstein was pursuing them with a five-hundred-dollar-a-week contract. Then the gent at the window across the air-shaft would get out his flute; the nightly gas leak would steal forth to frolic in the highways; the dumbwaiter would slip off its trolley; the janitor would drive <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Zanowitski’s five children once more across the Yalu, the lady with the champagne shoes and the Skye terrier would trip downstairs and paste her Thursday name over her bell and letter-box⁠—and the evening routine of the Frogmore flats would be under way.</p>

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@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="the-purple-dress" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Purple Dress</h2>
 			<p>We are to consider the shade known as purple. It is a color justly in repute among the sons and daughters of man. Emperors claim it for their especial dye. Good fellows everywhere seek to bring their noses to the genial hue that follows the commingling of the red and blue. We say of princes that they are born to the purple; and no doubt they are, for the colic tinges their faces with the royal tint equally with the snub-nosed countenance of a woodchopper’s brat. All women love it⁠—when it is the fashion.</p>
-			<p>And now purple is being worn. You notice it on the streets. Of course other colors are quite stylish as well⁠—in fact, I saw a lovely thing the other day in olive green albatross, with a triple-lapped flounce skirt trimmed with insert squares of silk, and a draped fichu of lace opening over a shirred vest and double puff sleeves with a lace band holding two gathered frills⁠—but you see lots of purple too. Oh, yes, you do; just take a walk down Twenty-third street any afternoon.</p>
+			<p>And now purple is being worn. You notice it on the streets. Of course other colors are quite stylish as well⁠—in fact, I saw a lovely thing the other day in olive green albatross, with a triple-lapped flounce skirt trimmed with insert squares of silk, and a draped fichu of lace opening over a shirred vest and double puff sleeves with a lace band holding two gathered frills⁠—but you see lots of purple too. Oh, yes, you do; just take a walk down Twenty-third Street any afternoon.</p>
 			<p>Therefore Maida⁠—the girl with the big brown eyes and cinnamon-colored hair in the Beehive Store⁠—said to Grace⁠—the girl with the rhinestone brooch and peppermint-pepsin flavor to her speech⁠—“I’m going to have a purple dress⁠—a tailor-made purple dress⁠—for Thanksgiving.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, are you,” said Grace, putting away some 7½ gloves into the 6¾ box. “Well, it’s me for red. You see more red on Fifth Avenue. And the men all seem to like it.”</p>
 			<p>“I like purple best,” said Maida. “And old Schlegel has promised to make it for $8. It’s going to be lovely. I’m going to have a plaited skirt and a blouse coat trimmed with a band of galloon under a white cloth collar with two rows of⁠—”</p>

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@@ -10,7 +10,7 @@
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Remnants of the Code</h2>
 			<p>Breakfast in Coralio was at eleven. Therefore the people did not go to market early. The little wooden market-house stood on a patch of short-trimmed grass, under the vivid green foliage of a breadfruit tree.</p>
 			<p>Thither one morning the venders leisurely convened, bringing their wares with them. A porch or platform six feet wide encircled the building, shaded from the mid-morning sun by the projecting, grass-thatched roof. Upon this platform the venders were wont to display their goods⁠—newly-killed beef, fish, crabs, fruit of the country, cassava, eggs, dulces and high, tottering stacks of native tortillas as large around as the sombrero of a Spanish grandee.</p>
-			<p>But on this morning they whose stations lay on the seaward side of the market-house, instead of spreading their merchandise formed themselves into a softly jabbering and gesticulating group. For there upon their space of the platform was sprawled, asleep, the unbeautiful figure of “Beelzebub” Blythe. He lay upon a ragged strip of cocoa matting, more than ever a fallen angel in appearance. His suit of coarse flax, soiled, bursting at the seams, crumpled into a thousand diversified wrinkles and creases, inclosed him absurdly, like the garb of some effigy that had been stuffed in sport and thrown there after indignity had been wrought upon it. But firmly upon the high bridge of his nose reposed his gold-rimmed glasses, the surviving badge of his ancient glory.</p>
+			<p>But on this morning they whose stations lay on the seaward side of the market-house, instead of spreading their merchandise formed themselves into a softly jabbering and gesticulating group. For there upon their space of the platform was sprawled, asleep, the unbeautiful figure of “Beelzebub” Blythe. He lay upon a ragged strip of cocoa matting, more than ever a fallen angel in appearance. His suit of coarse flax, soiled, bursting at the seams, crumpled into a thousand diversified wrinkles and creases, enclosed him absurdly, like the garb of some effigy that had been stuffed in sport and thrown there after indignity had been wrought upon it. But firmly upon the high bridge of his nose reposed his gold-rimmed glasses, the surviving badge of his ancient glory.</p>
 			<p>The sun’s rays, reflecting quiveringly from the rippling sea upon his face, and the voices of the market-men woke “Beelzebub” Blythe. He sat up, blinking, and leaned his back against the wall of the market. Drawing a blighted silk handkerchief from his pocket, he assiduously rubbed and burnished his glasses. And while doing this he became aware that his bedroom had been invaded, and that polite brown and yellow men were beseeching him to vacate in favour of their market stuff.</p>
 			<p>If the señor would have the goodness⁠—a thousand pardons for bringing to him molestation⁠—but soon would come the compradores for the day’s provisions⁠—surely they had ten thousand regrets at disturbing him!</p>
 			<p>In this manner they expanded to him the intimation that he must clear out and cease to clog the wheels of trade.</p>

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@@ -25,7 +25,7 @@
 			<p>I know what she would have done. But one thing is clear⁠—there was something besides her brother’s disappearance between Grandemont’s pleadings for her hand and Adèle’s “yes.” Ten years had passed, and what she had seen during the space of that lightning flash remained an indelible picture. She had loved her brother, but was she holding out for the solution of that mystery or for the “Truth”? Women have been known to reverence it, even as an abstract principle. It is said there have been a few who, in the matter of their affections, have considered a life to be a small thing as compared with a lie. That I do not know. But, I wonder, had Grandemont cast himself at her feet crying that his hand had sent Victor to the bottom of that inscrutable river, and that he could no longer sully his love with a lie, I wonder if⁠—I wonder what she would have done!</p>
 			<p>But, Grandemont Charles, Arcadian little gentleman, never guessed the meaning of that look in Adèle’s eyes; and from this last bootless payment of his devoirs he rode away as rich as ever in honour and love, but poor in hope.</p>
 			<p>That was in September. It was during the first winter month that Grandemont conceived his idea of the renaissance. Since Adèle would never be his, and wealth without her were useless trumpery, why need he add to that hoard of slowly harvested dollars? Why should he even retain that hoard?</p>
-			<p>Hundreds were the cigarettes he consumed over his claret, sitting at the little polished tables in the Royal street cafés while thinking over his plan. By and by he had it perfect. It would cost, beyond doubt, all the money he had, but⁠—<i xml:lang="fr">le jeu vaut la chandelle</i>⁠—for some hours he would be once more a Charles of Charleroi. Once again should the nineteenth of January, that most significant day in the fortunes of the house of Charles, be fittingly observed. On that date the French king had seated a Charles by his side at table; on that date Armand Charles, Marquis de Brassé, landed, like a brilliant meteor, in New Orleans; it was the date of his mother’s wedding; of Grandemont’s birth. Since Grandemont could remember until the breaking up of the family that anniversary had been the synonym for feasting, hospitality, and proud commemoration.</p>
+			<p>Hundreds were the cigarettes he consumed over his claret, sitting at the little polished tables in the Royal Street cafés while thinking over his plan. By and by he had it perfect. It would cost, beyond doubt, all the money he had, but⁠—<i xml:lang="fr">le jeu vaut la chandelle</i>⁠—for some hours he would be once more a Charles of Charleroi. Once again should the nineteenth of January, that most significant day in the fortunes of the house of Charles, be fittingly observed. On that date the French king had seated a Charles by his side at table; on that date Armand Charles, Marquis de Brassé, landed, like a brilliant meteor, in New Orleans; it was the date of his mother’s wedding; of Grandemont’s birth. Since Grandemont could remember until the breaking up of the family that anniversary had been the synonym for feasting, hospitality, and proud commemoration.</p>
 			<p>Charleroi was the old family plantation, lying some twenty miles down the river. Years ago the estate had been sold to discharge the debts of its too-bountiful owners. Once again it had changed hands, and now the must and mildew of litigation had settled upon it. A question of heirship was in the courts, and the dwelling house of Charleroi, unless the tales told of ghostly powdered and laced Charleses haunting its unechoing chambers were true, stood uninhabited.</p>
 			<p>Grandemont found the solicitor in chancery who held the keys pending the decision. He proved to be an old friend of the family. Grandemont explained briefly that he desired to rent the house for two or three days. He wanted to give a dinner at his old home to a few friends. That was all.</p>
 			<p>“Take it for a week⁠—a month, if you will,” said the solicitor; “but do not speak to me of rental.” With a sigh he concluded: “The dinners I have eaten under that roof, <i xml:lang="fr">mon fils</i>!”</p>

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@@ -26,9 +26,10 @@
 			<p>“Anna Held’ll jump at it,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Skidder to himself, putting his feet up against the lambrequins and disappearing in a cloud of smoke like an aerial cuttlefish.</p>
 			<p>Presently the tocsin call of “Clara!” sounded to the world the state of Miss Leeson’s purse. A dark goblin seized her, mounted a Stygian stairway, thrust her into a vault with a glimmer of light in its top and muttered the menacing and cabalistic words “Two dollars!”</p>
 			<p>“I’ll take it!” sighed Miss Leeson, sinking down upon the squeaky iron bed.</p>
-			<p>Every day Miss Leeson went out to work. At night she brought home papers with handwriting on them and made copies with her typewriter. Sometimes she had no work at night, and then she would sit on the steps of the high stoop with the other roomers. Miss Leeson was not intended for a skylight room when the plans were drawn for her creation. She was gay-hearted and full of tender, whimsical fancies. Once she let <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Skidder read to her three acts of his great (unpublished) comedy, “It’s No Kid; or, The Heir of the Subway.”</p>
+			<p>Every day Miss Leeson went out to work. At night she brought home papers with handwriting on them and made copies with her typewriter. Sometimes she had no work at night, and then she would sit on the steps of the high stoop with the other roomers. Miss Leeson was not intended for a skylight room when the plans were drawn for her creation. She was gay-hearted and full of tender, whimsical fancies. Once she let <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Skidder read to her three acts of his great (unpublished) comedy, <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">It’s No Kid; or, The Heir of the Subway</i>.</p>
 			<p>There was rejoicing among the gentlemen roomers whenever Miss Leeson had time to sit on the steps for an hour or two. But Miss Longnecker, the tall blonde who taught in a public school and said, “Well, really!” to everything you said, sat on the top step and sniffed. And Miss Dorn, who shot at the moving ducks at Coney every Sunday and worked in a department store, sat on the bottom step and sniffed. Miss Leeson sat on the middle step and the men would quickly group around her.</p>
 			<p>Especially <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Skidder, who had cast her in his mind for the star part in a private, romantic (unspoken) drama in real life. And especially <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hoover, who was forty-five, fat, flush and foolish. And especially very young <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Evans, who set up a hollow cough to induce her to ask him to leave off cigarettes. The men voted her “the funniest and jolliest ever,” but the sniffs on the top step and the lower step were implacable.</p>
+			<hr/>
 			<p>I pray you let the drama halt while Chorus stalks to the footlights and drops an epicedian tear upon the fatness of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hoover. Tune the pipes to the tragedy of tallow, the bane of bulk, the calamity of corpulence. Tried out, Falstaff might have rendered more romance to the ton than would have Romeo’s rickety ribs to the ounce. A lover may sigh, but he must not puff. To the train of Momus are the fat men remanded. In vain beats the faithfullest heart above a 52-inch belt. Avaunt, Hoover! Hoover, forty-five, flush and foolish, might carry off Helen herself; Hoover, forty-five, flush, foolish and fat is meat for perdition. There was never a chance for you, Hoover.</p>
 			<p>As <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Parker’s roomers sat thus one summer’s evening, Miss Leeson looked up into the firmament and cried with her little gay laugh:</p>
 			<p>“Why, there’s Billy Jackson! I can see him from down here, too.”</p>

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@@ -28,7 +28,7 @@
 			<p>The corks of three bottles were drawn; the champagne bubbled in the long row of glasses set upon the bar. Billy McMahan took his and nodded, with his beaming smile, at Ikey. The lieutenants and satellites took theirs and growled “Here’s to you.” Ikey took his nectar in delirium. All drank.</p>
 			<p>Ikey threw his week’s wages in a crumpled roll upon the bar.</p>
 			<p>“C’rect,” said the bartender, smoothing the twelve one-dollar notes. The crowd surged around Billy McMahan again. Someone was telling how Brannigan fixed ’em over in the Eleventh. Ikey leaned against the bar a while, and then went out.</p>
-			<p>He went down Hester street and up Chrystie, and down Delancey to where he lived. And there his women folk, a bibulous mother and three dingy sisters, pounced upon him for his wages. And at his confession they shrieked and objurgated him in the pithy rhetoric of the locality.</p>
+			<p>He went down Hester Street and up Chrystie, and down Delancey to where he lived. And there his women folk, a bibulous mother and three dingy sisters, pounced upon him for his wages. And at his confession they shrieked and objurgated him in the pithy rhetoric of the locality.</p>
 			<p>But even as they plucked at him and struck him Ikey remained in his ecstatic trance of joy. His head was in the clouds; the star was drawing his wagon. Compared with what he had achieved the loss of wages and the bray of women’s tongues were slight affairs.</p>
 			<p>He had shaken the hand of Billy McMahan.</p>
 			<hr/>

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@@ -15,11 +15,11 @@
 			<p>Nancy you would call a shop-girl⁠—because you have the habit. There is no type; but a perverse generation is always seeking a type; so this is what the type should be. She has the high-ratted pompadour, and the exaggerated straight-front. Her skirt is shoddy, but has the correct flare. No furs protect her against the bitter spring air, but she wears her short broadcloth jacket as jauntily as though it were Persian lamb! On her face and in her eyes, remorseless type-seeker, is the typical shop-girl expression. It is a look of silent but contemptuous revolt against cheated womanhood; of sad prophecy of the vengeance to come. When she laughs her loudest the look is still there. The same look can be seen in the eyes of Russian peasants; and those of us left will see it some day on Gabriel’s face when he comes to blow us up. It is a look that should wither and abash man; but he has been known to smirk at it and offer flowers⁠—with a string tied to them.</p>
 			<p>Now lift your hat and come away, while you receive Lou’s cheery “See you again,” and the sardonic, sweet smile of Nancy that seems, somehow, to miss you and go fluttering like a white moth up over the housetops to the stars.</p>
 			<p>The two waited on the corner for Dan. Dan was Lou’s steady company. Faithful? Well, he was on hand when Mary would have had to hire a dozen subpoena servers to find her lamb.</p>
-			<p>“Ain’t you cold, Nance?” said Lou. “Say, what a chump you are for working in that old store for $8. a week! I made $18.50 last week. Of course ironing ain’t as swell work as selling lace behind a counter, but it pays. None of us ironers make less than $10. And I don’t know that it’s any less respectful work, either.”</p>
+			<p>“Ain’t you cold, Nance?” said Lou. “Say, what a chump you are for working in that old store for $8 a week! I made $18.50 last week. Of course ironing ain’t as swell work as selling lace behind a counter, but it pays. None of us ironers make less than $10. And I don’t know that it’s any less respectful work, either.”</p>
 			<p>“You can have it,” said Nancy, with uplifted nose. “I’ll take my eight a week and hall bedroom. I like to be among nice things and swell people. And look what a chance I’ve got! Why, one of our glove girls married a Pittsburg⁠—steel maker, or blacksmith or something⁠—the other day worth a million dollars. I’ll catch a swell myself some time. I ain’t bragging on my looks or anything; but I’ll take my chances where there’s big prizes offered. What show would a girl have in a laundry?”</p>
 			<p>“Why, that’s where I met Dan,” said Lou, triumphantly. “He came in for his Sunday shirt and collars and saw me at the first board, ironing. We all try to get to work at the first board. Ella Maginnis was sick that day, and I had her place. He said he noticed my arms first, how round and white they was. I had my sleeves rolled up. Some nice fellows come into laundries. You can tell ’em by their bringing their clothes in suitcases; and turning in the door sharp and sudden.”</p>
 			<p>“How can you wear a waist like that, Lou?” said Nancy, gazing down at the offending article with sweet scorn in her heavy-lidded eyes. “It shows fierce taste.”</p>
-			<p>“This waist?” cried Lou, with wide-eyed indignation. “Why, I paid $16. for this waist. It’s worth twenty-five. A woman left it to be laundered, and never called for it. The boss sold it to me. It’s got yards and yards of hand embroidery on it. Better talk about that ugly, plain thing you’ve got on.”</p>
+			<p>“This waist?” cried Lou, with wide-eyed indignation. “Why, I paid $16 for this waist. It’s worth twenty-five. A woman left it to be laundered, and never called for it. The boss sold it to me. It’s got yards and yards of hand embroidery on it. Better talk about that ugly, plain thing you’ve got on.”</p>
 			<p>“This ugly, plain thing,” said Nancy, calmly, “was copied from one that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Van Alstyne Fisher was wearing. The girls say her bill in the store last year was $12,000. I made mine, myself. It cost me $1.50. Ten feet away you couldn’t tell it from hers.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, well,” said Lou, good-naturedly, “if you want to starve and put on airs, go ahead. But I’ll take my job and good wages; and after hours give me something as fancy and attractive to wear as I am able to buy.”</p>
 			<p>But just then Dan came⁠—a serious young man with a ready-made necktie, who had escaped the city’s brand of frivolity⁠—an electrician earning 30 dollars per week who looked upon Lou with the sad eyes of Romeo, and thought her embroidered waist a web in which any fly should delight to be caught.</p>
@@ -47,7 +47,7 @@
 			<p>Once a fascinating gentleman bought four dozen handkerchiefs, and wooed her across the counter with a King Cophetua air. When he had gone one of the girls said:</p>
 			<p>“What’s wrong, Nance, that you didn’t warm up to that fellow. He looks the swell article, all right, to me.”</p>
 			<p>“Him?” said Nancy, with her coolest, sweetest, most impersonal, Van Alstyne Fisher smile; “not for mine. I saw him drive up outside. A 12 <abbr>H. P.</abbr> machine and an Irish chauffeur! And you saw what kind of handkerchiefs he bought⁠—silk! And he’s got dactylis on him. Give me the real thing or nothing, if you please.”</p>
-			<p>Two of the most “refined” women in the store⁠—a forelady and a cashier⁠—had a few “swell gentlemen friends” with whom they now and then dined. Once they included Nancy in an invitation. The dinner took place in a spectacular café whose tables are engaged for New Year’s eve a year in advance. There were two “gentlemen friends”⁠—one without any hair on his head⁠—high living ungrew it; and we can prove it⁠—the other a young man whose worth and sophistication he impressed upon you in two convincing ways⁠—he swore that all the wine was corked; and he wore diamond cuff buttons. This young man perceived irresistible excellencies in Nancy. His taste ran to shop-girls; and here was one that added the voice and manners of his high social world to the franker charms of her own caste. So, on the following day, he appeared in the store and made her a serious proposal of marriage over a box of hemstitched, grass-bleached Irish linens. Nancy declined. A brown pompadour ten feet away had been using her eyes and ears. When the rejected suitor had gone she heaped carboys of upbraidings and horror upon Nancy’s head.</p>
+			<p>Two of the most “refined” women in the store⁠—a forelady and a cashier⁠—had a few “swell gentlemen friends” with whom they now and then dined. Once they included Nancy in an invitation. The dinner took place in a spectacular café whose tables are engaged for New Year’s Eve a year in advance. There were two “gentlemen friends”⁠—one without any hair on his head⁠—high living ungrew it; and we can prove it⁠—the other a young man whose worth and sophistication he impressed upon you in two convincing ways⁠—he swore that all the wine was corked; and he wore diamond cuff buttons. This young man perceived irresistible excellencies in Nancy. His taste ran to shop-girls; and here was one that added the voice and manners of his high social world to the franker charms of her own caste. So, on the following day, he appeared in the store and made her a serious proposal of marriage over a box of hemstitched, grass-bleached Irish linens. Nancy declined. A brown pompadour ten feet away had been using her eyes and ears. When the rejected suitor had gone she heaped carboys of upbraidings and horror upon Nancy’s head.</p>
 			<p>“What a terrible little fool you are! That fellow’s a millionaire⁠—he’s a nephew of old Van Skittles himself. And he was talking on the level, too. Have you gone crazy, Nance?”</p>
 			<p>“Have I?” said Nancy. “I didn’t take him, did I? He isn’t a millionaire so hard that you could notice it, anyhow. His family only allows him $20,000 a year to spend. The bald-headed fellow was guying him about it the other night at supper.”</p>
 			<p>The brown pompadour came nearer and narrowed her eyes.</p>
@@ -55,8 +55,8 @@
 			<p>Nancy flushed a little under the level gaze of the black, shallow eyes.</p>
 			<p>“It wasn’t altogether the money, Carrie,” she explained. “His friend caught him in a rank lie the other night at dinner. It was about some girl he said he hadn’t been to the theater with. Well, I can’t stand a liar. Put everything together⁠—I don’t like him; and that settles it. When I sell out it’s not going to be on any bargain day. I’ve got to have something that sits up in a chair like a man, anyhow. Yes, I’m looking out for a catch; but it’s got to be able to do something more than make a noise like a toy bank.”</p>
 			<p>“The physiopathic ward for yours!” said the brown pompadour, walking away.</p>
-			<p>These high ideas, if not ideals⁠—Nancy continued to cultivate on $8. per week. She bivouacked on the trail of the great unknown “catch,” eating her dry bread and tightening her belt day by day. On her face was the faint, soldierly, sweet, grim smile of the preordained man-hunter. The store was her forest; and many times she raised her rifle at game that seemed broad-antlered and big; but always some deep unerring instinct⁠—perhaps of the huntress, perhaps of the woman⁠—made her hold her fire and take up the trail again.</p>
-			<p>Lou flourished in the laundry. Out of her $18.50 per week she paid $6. for her room and board. The rest went mainly for clothes. Her opportunities for bettering her taste and manners were few compared with Nancy’s. In the steaming laundry there was nothing but work, work and her thoughts of the evening pleasures to come. Many costly and showy fabrics passed under her iron; and it may be that her growing fondness for dress was thus transmitted to her through the conducting metal.</p>
+			<p>These high ideas, if not ideals⁠—Nancy continued to cultivate on $8 per week. She bivouacked on the trail of the great unknown “catch,” eating her dry bread and tightening her belt day by day. On her face was the faint, soldierly, sweet, grim smile of the preordained man-hunter. The store was her forest; and many times she raised her rifle at game that seemed broad-antlered and big; but always some deep unerring instinct⁠—perhaps of the huntress, perhaps of the woman⁠—made her hold her fire and take up the trail again.</p>
+			<p>Lou flourished in the laundry. Out of her $18.50 per week she paid $6 for her room and board. The rest went mainly for clothes. Her opportunities for bettering her taste and manners were few compared with Nancy’s. In the steaming laundry there was nothing but work, work and her thoughts of the evening pleasures to come. Many costly and showy fabrics passed under her iron; and it may be that her growing fondness for dress was thus transmitted to her through the conducting metal.</p>
 			<p>When the day’s work was over Dan awaited her outside, her faithful shadow in whatever light she stood.</p>
 			<p>Sometimes he cast an honest and troubled glance at Lou’s clothes that increased in conspicuity rather than in style; but this was no disloyalty; he deprecated the attention they called to her in the streets.</p>
 			<p>And Lou was no less faithful to her chum. There was a law that Nancy should go with them on whatsoever outings they might take. Dan bore the extra burden heartily and in good cheer. It might be said that Lou furnished the color, Nancy the tone, and Dan the weight of the distraction-seeking trio. The escort, in his neat but obviously ready-made suit, his ready-made tie and unfailing, genial, ready-made wit never startled or clashed. He was of that good kind that you are likely to forget while they are present, but remember distinctly after they are gone.</p>

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@@ -71,7 +71,7 @@
 			<p>“I ought to tell you,” said Mac, after two minutes of pensiveness, “that my cousin Cliff can beat me dancing. We’ve always been what you might call pals. If you’d take him up instead of me, now, it might be better. He’s invented a lot of steps that I can’t cut.”</p>
 			<p>“Forget it,” said Delano. “Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays of every week from now till amateur night, a month off, I’ll coach you. I’ll make you as good as I am; and nobody could do more for you. My act’s over every night at 10:15. Half an hour later I’ll take you up and drill you till twelve. I’ll put you at the top of the bunch, right where I am. You’ve got talent. Your style’s bum; but you’ve got the genius. You let me manage it. I’m from the West Side myself, and I’d rather see one of the same gang win out before I would an East-Sider, or any of the Flatbush or Hackensack Meadow kind of butt-iners. I’ll see that Junius Rollins is present on your Friday night; and if he don’t climb over the footlights and offer you fifty a week as a starter, I’ll let you draw it down from my own salary every Monday night. Now, am I talking on the level or am I not?”</p>
 			<p>Amateur night at Creary’s Eighth Avenue Theatre is cut by the same pattern as amateur nights elsewhere. After the regular performance the humblest talent may, by previous arrangement with the management, make its debut upon the public stage. Ambitious non-professionals, mostly self-instructed, display their skill and powers of entertainment along the broadest lines. They may sing, dance, mimic, juggle, contort, recite, or disport themselves along any of the ragged boundary lines of Art. From the ranks of these anxious tyros are chosen the professionals that adorn or otherwise make conspicuous the full-blown stage. Press-agents delight in recounting to open-mouthed and close-eared reporters stories of the humble beginnings of the brilliant stars whose orbits they control.</p>
-			<p>Such and such a prima donna (they will tell you) made her initial bow to the public while turning handsprings on an amateur night. One great matinée favorite made his debut on a generous Friday evening singing coon songs of his own composition. A tragedian famous on two continents and an island first attracted attention by an amateur impersonation of a newly landed Scandinavian peasant girl. One Broadway comedian that turns ’em away got a booking on a Friday night by reciting (seriously) the graveyard scene in “Hamlet.”</p>
+			<p>Such and such a prima donna (they will tell you) made her initial bow to the public while turning handsprings on an amateur night. One great matinée favorite made his debut on a generous Friday evening singing coon songs of his own composition. A tragedian famous on two continents and an island first attracted attention by an amateur impersonation of a newly landed Scandinavian peasant girl. One Broadway comedian that turns ’em away got a booking on a Friday night by reciting (seriously) the graveyard scene in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Hamlet</i>.</p>
 			<p>Thus they get their chance. Amateur night is a kindly boon. It is charity divested of almsgiving. It is a brotherly hand reached down by members of the best united band of coworkers in the world to raise up less fortunate ones without labelling them beggars. It gives you the chance, if you can grasp it, to step for a few minutes before some badly painted scenery and, during the playing by the orchestra of some ten or twelve bars of music, and while the soles of your shoes may be clearly holding to the uppers, to secure a salary equal to a Congressman’s or any orthodox minister’s. Could an ambitious student of literature or financial methods get a chance like that by spending twenty minutes in a Carnegie library? I do not not trow so.</p>
 			<p>But shall we look in at Creary’s? Let us say that the specific Friday night had arrived on which the fortunate Mac McGowan was to justify the flattering predictions of his distinguished patron and, incidentally, drop his silver talent into the slit of the slot-machine of fame and fortune that gives up reputation and dough. I offer, sure of your acquiescence, that we now forswear hypocritical philosophy and bigoted comment, permitting the story to finish itself in the dress of material allegations⁠—a medium more worthy, when held to the line, than the most laborious creations of the word-milliners …</p>
 			<blockquote>