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@ -177,7 +177,6 @@
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<p>The most popular and recent advertising dodge in literature is the Grand Guess Contest Mystery Story. Everybody is invited to guess how the story will end, at any time before the last chapter is published, and incidentally to buy a paper or subscribe. It is the easiest thing in the world to write a story of mystery that will defy the most ingenious guessers in the country.</p>
<p>To prove it, here is one that we offer $10,000 to any man and $15,000 to any woman who guesses the mystery before the last chapter.</p>
<p>The synopsis of the story is alone given, as literary style is not our object⁠—we want mystery.</p>
<h3>Chapter I</h3>
<section id="a-guess-proof-mystery-story-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title">Chapter <span epub:type="z3998:roman">I</span></h3>
<p>Judge Smith, a highly esteemed citizen of Plunkville, is found murdered in his bed at his home. He has been stabbed with a pair of scissors, poisoned with “rough on rats.” His throat has been cut with an ivory handled razor, an artery in his arm has been opened, and he has been shot full of buckshot from a doublebarreled gun.</p>
<p>The coroner is summoned and the room examined. On the ceiling is a bloody footprint, and on the floor are found a lady’s lace handkerchief, embroidered with the initials “<abbr class="name">J. B.</abbr>,” a package of cigarettes and a ham sandwich. The coroner renders a verdict of suicide.</p>
<h3>Chapter <span epub:type="z3998:roman">II</span> </h3>
</section>
<section id="a-guess-proof-mystery-story-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title">Chapter <span epub:type="z3998:roman">II</span></h3>
<p>The judge leaves a daughter, Mabel, aged eighteen, and ravishingly lovely. The night before the murder she exhibited a revolver and an axe in the principal saloon in town and declared her intention of “doing up” the old man. The judge has his life insured for $100,000 in her favor. Nobody suspects her of the crime.</p>
<p>Mabel is engaged to a young man named Charlie, who is seen on the night of the murder by several citizens climbing out the judge’s window with a bloody razor and a shotgun in his hand. Society gives Charlie the cold shoulder.</p>
<p>A tramp is run over by a street car and before dying confesses to having committed the murder, and at the judge’s funeral his brother, Colonel Smith, breaks down and acknowledges having killed the judge in order to get his watch. Mabel sends to Chicago and employs a skilled detective to work up the case.</p>
<h3>Chapter <span epub:type="z3998:roman">III</span> </h3>
</section>
<section id="a-guess-proof-mystery-story-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title">Chapter <span epub:type="z3998:roman">III</span></h3>
<p>A beautiful strange lady dressed in mourning comes to Plunkville and registers at the hotel as Jane Bumgartner. (The initials on the handkerchief!)</p>
<p>The next day a Chinaman is found who denies having killed the judge, and is arrested by the detective. The strange lady meets Charlie on the street, and, on smelling the smoke from his cigarette, faints. Mabel discards him and engages herself to the Chinaman.</p>
<h3>Chapter <span epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</span> </h3>
</section>
<section id="a-guess-proof-mystery-story-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title">Chapter <span epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</span></h3>
<p>While the Chinaman is being tried for murder, Jane Bumgartner testifies that she saw the detective murder Judge Smith at the instance of the minister who conducted the funeral, and that Mabel is Charlie’s stepmother. The Chinaman is about to confess when footsteps are heard approaching. The next chapter will be the last, and it is safe to say that no one will find it easy to guess the ending of the story. To show how difficult this feat is, the last chapter is now given.</p>
<h3>Chapter <span epub:type="z3998:roman">V</span> </h3>
</section>
<section id="a-guess-proof-mystery-story-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title">Chapter <span epub:type="z3998:roman">V</span></h3>
<p>The footsteps prove to be those of Thomas R. Hefflebomer of Washington Territory, who introduces positive proof of having murdered the judge during a fit of mental aberration, and Mabel marries a man named Tompkins, whom she met two years later at Hot Springs.</p>
</section>
</section>
</body>
</html>

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</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="an-adjustment-of-nature" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<h2 epub:type="title">An ADJUSTMENT OF NATURE</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">An Adjustment of Nature</h2>
<p>In an art exhibition the other day I saw a painting that had been sold for $5,000. The painter was a young scrub out of the West named Kraft, who had a favourite food and a pet theory. His pabulum was an unquenchable belief in the Unerring Artistic Adjustment of Nature. His theory was fixed around corned-beef hash with poached egg. There was a story behind the picture, so I went home and let it drip out of a fountain-pen. The idea of Kraft⁠—but that is not the beginning of the story.</p>
<p>Three years ago Kraft, Bill Judkins (a poet), and I took our meals at Cypher’s, on Eighth Avenue. I say “took.” When we had money, Cypher got it “off of” us, as he expressed it. We had no credit; we went in, called for food and ate it. We paid or we did not pay. We had confidence in Cypher’s sullenness and smouldering ferocity. Deep down in his sunless soul he was either a prince, a fool or an artist. He sat at a worm-eaten desk, covered with files of waiters’ checks so old that I was sure the bottomest one was for clams that Hendrik Hudson had eaten and paid for. Cypher had the power, in common with Napoleon <span epub:type="z3998:roman">III</span> and the goggle-eyed perch, of throwing a film over his eyes, rendering opaque the windows of his soul. Once when we left him unpaid, with egregious excuses, I looked back and saw him shaking with inaudible laughter behind his film. Now and then we paid up back scores.</p>
<p>But the chief thing at Cypher’s was Milly. Milly was a waitress. She was a grand example of Kraft’s theory of the artistic adjustment of nature. She belonged, largely, to waiting, as Minerva did to the art of scrapping, or Venus to the science of serious flirtation. Pedestalled and in bronze she might have stood with the noblest of her heroic sisters as “Liver-and-Bacon Enlivening the World.” She belonged to Cypher’s. You expected to see her colossal figure loom through that reeking blue cloud of smoke from frying fat just as you expect the Palisades to appear through a drifting Hudson River fog. There amid the steam of vegetables and the vapours of acres of “ham and,” the crash of crockery, the clatter of steel, the screaming of “short orders,” the cries of the hungering and all the horrid tumult of feeding man, surrounded by swarms of the buzzing winged beasts bequeathed us by Pharaoh, Milly steered her magnificent way like some great liner cleaving among the canoes of howling savages.</p>

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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="best-seller" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<h2 epub:type="title">Best-Seller</h2>
<section id="best-seller-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>One day last summer I went to Pittsburgh⁠—well, I had to go there on business.</p>
<p>My chair-car was profitably well filled with people of the kind one usually sees on chair-cars. Most of them were ladies in brown-silk dresses cut with square yokes, with lace insertion, and dotted veils, who refused to have the windows raised. Then there was the usual number of men who looked as if they might be in almost any business and going almost anywhere. Some students of human nature can look at a man in a Pullman and tell you where he is from, his occupation and his stations in life, both flag and social; but I never could. The only way I can correctly judge a fellow-traveller is when the train is held up by robbers, or when he reaches at the same time I do for the last towel in the dressing-room of the sleeper.</p>
@ -16,6 +17,8 @@
<p>In two minutes we were faced, had shaken hands, and had finished with such topics as rain, prosperity, health, residence, and destination. Politics might have followed next; but I was not so ill-fated.</p>
<p>I wish you might know John A. Pescud. He is of the stuff that heroes are not often lucky enough to be made of. He is a small man with a wide smile, and an eye that seems to be fixed upon that little red spot on the end of your nose. I never saw him wear but one kind of necktie, and he believes in cuff-holders and button-shoes. He is as hard and true as anything ever turned out by the Cambria Steel Works; and he believes that as soon as Pittsburgh makes smoke-consumers compulsory, <abbr>St.</abbr> Peter will come down and sit at the foot of Smithfield Street, and let somebody else attend to the gate up in the branch heaven. He believes that “our” plate-glass is the most important commodity in the world, and that when a man is in his home town he ought to be decent and law-abiding.</p>
<p>During my acquaintance with him in the City of Diurnal Night I had never known his views on life, romance, literature, and ethics. We had browsed, during our meetings, on local topics, and then parted, after Chateau Margaux, Irish stew, flannel-cakes, cottage-pudding, and coffee (hey, there!⁠—with milk separate). Now I was to get more of his ideas. By way of facts, he told me that business had picked up since the party conventions, and that he was going to get off at Coketown.</p>
</section>
<section id="best-seller-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>“Say,” said Pescud, stirring his discarded book with the toe of his right shoe, “did you ever read one of these best-sellers? I mean the kind where the hero is an American swell⁠—sometimes even from Chicago⁠—who falls in love with a royal princess from Europe who is travelling under an alias, and follows her to her father’s kingdom or principality? I guess you have. They’re all alike. Sometimes this going-away masher is a Washington newspaper correspondent, and sometimes he is a Van Something from New York, or a Chicago wheat-broker worthy fifty millions. But he’s always ready to break into the king row of any foreign country that sends over their queens and princesses to try the new plush seats on the Big Four or the B. and O. There doesn’t seem to be any other reason in the book for their being here.</p>
<p>“Well, this fellow chases the royal chair-warmer home, as I said, and finds out who she is. He meets her on the <i xml:lang="de">corso</i> or the <i xml:lang="de">strasse</i> one evening and gives us ten pages of conversation. She reminds him of the difference in their stations, and that gives him a chance to ring in three solid pages about America’s uncrowned sovereigns. If you’d take his remarks and set ’em to music, and then take the music away from ’em, they’d sound exactly like one of George Cohan’s songs.</p>
@ -32,6 +35,8 @@
<p>“Think of a Chicago man packing a sword, and talking about freeing anything that sounded as much like canned pork as that! He’d be much more likely to fight to have an import duty put on it.”</p>
<p>“I think I understand you, John,” said I. “You want fiction-writers to be consistent with their scenes and characters. They shouldn’t mix Turkish pashas with Vermont farmers, or English dukes with Long Island clam-diggers, or Italian countesses with Montana cowboys, or Cincinnati brewery agents with the rajahs of India.”</p>
<p>“Or plain business men with aristocracy high above ’em,” added Pescud. “It don’t jibe. People are divided into classes, whether we admit it or not, and it’s everybody’s impulse to stick to their own class. They do it, too. I don’t see why people go to work and buy hundreds of thousands of books like that. You don’t see or hear of any such didoes and capers in real life.”</p>
</section>
<section id="best-seller-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>“Well, John,” said I, “I haven’t read a best-seller in a long time. Maybe I’ve had notions about them somewhat like yours. But tell me more about yourself. Getting along all right with the company?”</p>
<p>“Bully,” said Pescud, brightening at once. “I’ve had my salary raised twice since I saw you, and I get a commission, too. I’ve bought a neat slice of real estate out in the East End, and have run up a house on it. Next year the firm is going to sell me some shares of stock. Oh, I’m in on the line of General Prosperity, no matter who’s elected!”</p>
@ -100,6 +105,8 @@
<p>“ ‘Yes,’ says I, ‘I remember. My foot slipped as I was jumping on the step, and I nearly tumbled off.’</p>
<p>“ ‘I know,’ says she. ‘And⁠—and I⁠—<em>I was afraid you had, John A. I was afraid you had.</em>’</p>
<p>“And then she skips into the house through one of the big windows.”</p>
</section>
<section id="best-seller-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>“Coketown!” droned the porter, making his way through the slowing car.</p>
<p>Pescud gathered his hat and baggage with the leisurely promptness of an old traveller.</p>
@ -111,5 +118,6 @@
<p>I glanced downward and saw the best-seller. I picked it up and set it carefully farther along on the floor of the car, where the rain-drops would not fall upon it. And then, suddenly, I smiled, and seemed to see that life has no geographical metes and bounds.</p>
<p>“Good-luck to you, Trevelyan,” I said. “And may you get the petunias for your princess!”</p>
</section>
</section>
</body>
</html>

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<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xmlns:epub="http://www.idpf.org/2007/ops" epub:prefix="z3998: http://www.daisy.org/z3998/2012/vocab/structure/, se: https://standardebooks.org/vocab/1.0" xml:lang="en-US">
<head>
<title>‘Explaining It</title>
<title>Explaining It</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="explaining-it" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<h2 epub:type="title">‘Explaining It</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">Explaining It</h2>
<p>Member of the Texas Legislature from one of the eastern counties was at the chrysanthemum, show at Turner Hall last Thursday night, and was making himself agreeable to one of the lady managers.</p>
<p>“You were in the House at the last session, I believe?” she inquired.</p>
<p>“Well, madam,” he said, “I was in the House, but the Senate had me for about forty-five dollars when we adjourned.”</p>

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<p>“But can thim that helps others help thimselves!”</p>
<cite>—Mulvaney.</cite>
</blockquote>
<section id="helping-the-other-fellow-1" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="helping-the-other-fellow-1" epub:type="chapter">
<p>This is the story that William Trotter told me on the beach at Aguas Frescas while I waited for the gig of the captain of the fruit steamer <i epub:type="se:vessel.ship">Andador</i> which was to take me abroad. Reluctantly I was leaving the Land of Always Afternoon. William was remaining, and he favored me with a condensed oral autobiography as we sat on the sands in the shade cast by the Bodega Nacional.</p>
<p>As usual, I became aware that the Man from Bombay had already written the story; but as he had compressed it to an eight-word sentence, I have become an expansionist, and have quoted his phrase above, with apologies to him and best regards to <em>Terence</em>.</p>
</section>
<section id="helping-the-other-fellow-2" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="helping-the-other-fellow-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>“Don’t you ever have a desire to go back to the land of derby hats and starched collars?” I asked him. “You seem to be a handy man and a man of action,” I continued, “and I am sure I could find you a comfortable job somewhere in the States.”</p>
<p>Ragged, shiftless, barefooted, a confirmed eater of the lotus, William Trotter had pleased me much, and I hated to see him gobbled up by the tropics.</p>
@ -49,7 +49,7 @@
<p>“ ‘Industry,’ says I, promptly. ‘I’m hardworking, diligent, industrious, and energetic.’</p>
<p>“ ‘My dear <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Trotter,’ says he, ‘surely I’ve known you long enough to tell you you are a liar. Every man must have his own particular weakness, and his own particular strength in other things. Now, you will buy me a drink of rum, and we will call on President Gomez.’ ”</p>
</section>
<section id="helping-the-other-fellow-3" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="helping-the-other-fellow-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>“Well, sir,” Trotter went on, “we walks the four miles out, through a virgin conservatory of palms and ferns and other roof-garden products, to the president’s summer White House. It was blue, and reminded you of what you see on the stage in the third act, which they describe as ‘same as the first’ on the programs.</p>
<p>“There was more than fifty people waiting outside the iron fence that surrounded the house and grounds. There was generals and agitators and épergnes in gold-laced uniforms, and citizens in diamonds and Panama hats⁠—all waiting to get an audience with the Royal Five-Card Draw. And in a kind of a summerhouse in front of the mansion we could see a burnt-sienna man eating breakfast out of gold dishes and taking his time. I judged that the crowd outside had come out for their morning orders and requests, and was afraid to intrude.</p>
@ -85,7 +85,7 @@
<p>But a soft voice called across the blazing sands. A girl, faintly lemon-tinted, stood in the Calle Real and called. She was bare-armed⁠—but what of that?</p>
<p>“It’s her!” said William Trotter, looking. “She’s come back! I’m obliged; but I can’t take the job. Thanks, just the same. Ain’t it funny how we can’t do nothing for ourselves, but we can do wonders for the other fellow? You was about to get me with your financial proposition; but we’ve all got our weak points. Timotea’s mine. And, say!” Trotter had turned to leave, but he retraced the step or two that he had taken. “I like to have left you without saying goodbye,” said he. “It kind of rattles you when they go away unexpected for a month and come back the same way. Shake hands. So long! Say, do you remember them gunshots we heard a while ago up at the cuartel? Well, I knew what they was, but I didn’t mention it. It was Clifford Wainwright being shot by a squad of soldiers against a stone wall for giving away secrets of state to that Nicamala republic. Oh, yes, it was rum that did it. He backslided and got his. I guess we all have our weak points, and can’t do much toward helping ourselves. Mine’s waiting for me. I’d have liked to have that job with your brother, but⁠—we’ve all got our weak points. So long!”</p>
</section>
<section id="helping-the-other-fellow-4" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="helping-the-other-fellow-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>A big black Carib carried me on his back through the surf to the ship’s boat. On the way the purser handed me a letter that he had brought for me at the last moment from the post-office in Aguas Frescas. It was from my brother. He requested me to meet him at the <abbr>St.</abbr> Charles Hotel in New Orleans and accept a position with his house⁠—in either cotton, sugar, or sheetings, and with five thousand dollars a year as my salary.</p>
<p>When I arrived at the Crescent City I hurried away⁠—far away from the <abbr>St.</abbr> Charles to a dim <i xml:lang="fr">chambre garnie</i> in Bienville Street. And there, looking down from my attic window from time to time at the old, yellow, absinthe house across the street, I wrote this story to buy my bread and butter.</p>

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<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xmlns:epub="http://www.idpf.org/2007/ops" epub:prefix="z3998: http://www.daisy.org/z3998/2012/vocab/structure/, se: https://standardebooks.org/vocab/1.0" xml:lang="en-US">
<head>
<title>His Tension</title>
<title>His Pension</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="his-tension" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<h2 epub:type="title">His Tension</h2>
<h2 epub:type="title">His Pension</h2>
<p>“Speaking of the $140,000,000 paid out yearly by the government in pensions,” said a prominent member of Hood’s brigade to the Post’s representative, “I am told that a man in Indiana applied for a pension last month on account of a surgical operation he had performed on him during the war. And what do you suppose that surgical operation was?”</p>
<p>“Haven’t the least idea.”</p>
<p>“He had his retreat cut off at the battle of Gettysburg!”</p>

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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="jimmy-hayes-and-muriel" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<h2 epub:type="title">Jimmy Hayes and Muriel</h2>
<section id="jimmy-hanes-and-muriel-1" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="jimmy-hanes-and-muriel-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>Supper was over, and there had fallen upon the camp the silence that accompanies the rolling of cornhusk cigarettes. The water hole shone from the dark earth like a patch of fallen sky. Coyotes yelped. Dull thumps indicated the rocking-horse movements of the hobbled ponies as they moved to fresh grass. A half-troop of the Frontier Battalion of Texas Rangers were distributed about the fire.</p>
<p>A well-known sound⁠—the fluttering and scraping of chaparral against wooden stirrups⁠—came from the thick brush above the camp. The rangers listened cautiously. They heard a loud and cheerful voice call out reassuringly:</p>
@ -28,7 +28,7 @@
<p>The ranger took Muriel from Hayes’s knee and went back to his seat on a roll of blankets. The captive twisted and clawed and struggled vigorously in his hand. After holding it for a moment or two, the ranger set it upon the ground. Awkwardly, but swiftly the frog worked its four oddly moving legs until it stopped close by Hayes’s foot.</p>
<p>“Well, dang my hide!” said the other ranger. “The little cuss knows you. Never thought them insects had that much sense!”</p>
</section>
<section id="jimmy-hanes-and-muriel-2" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="jimmy-hanes-and-muriel-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>Jimmy Hayes became a favourite in the ranger camp. He had an endless store of good-nature, and a mild, perennial quality of humour that is well adapted to camp life. He was never without his horned frog. In the bosom of his shirt during rides, on his knee or shoulder in camp, under his blankets at night, the ugly little beast never left him.</p>
<p>Jimmy was a humourist of a type that prevails in the rural South and West. Unskilled in originating methods of amusing or in witty conceptions, he had hit upon a comical idea and clung to it reverently. It had seemed to Jimmy a very funny thing to have about his person, with which to amuse his friends, a tame horned frog with a red ribbon around its neck. As it was a happy idea, why not perpetuate it?</p>
@ -41,7 +41,7 @@
<p>So Manning’s detachment of McLean’s company, Frontier Battalion, was gloomy. It was the first blot on its escutcheon. Never before in the history of the service had a ranger shown the white feather. All of them had liked Jimmy Hayes, and that made it worse.</p>
<p>Days, weeks, and months went by, and still that little cloud of unforgotten cowardice hung above the camp.</p>
</section>
<section id="jimmy-hanes-and-muriel-3" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="jimmy-hanes-and-muriel-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>Nearly a year afterward⁠—after many camping grounds and many hundreds of miles guarded and defended⁠—Lieutenant Manning, with almost the same detachment of men, was sent to a point only a few miles below their old camp on the river to look after some smuggling there. One afternoon, while they were riding through a dense mesquite flat, they came upon a patch of open hog-wallow prairie. There they rode upon the scene of an unwritten tragedy.</p>
<p>In a big hog-wallow lay the skeletons of three Mexicans. Their clothing alone served to identify them. The largest of the figures had once been Sebastiano Saldar. His great, costly sombrero, heavy with gold ornamentation⁠—a hat famous all along the Rio Grande⁠—lay there pierced by three bullets. Along the ridge of the hog-wallow rested the rusting Winchesters of the Mexicans⁠—all pointing in the same direction.</p>

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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="lord-oakhursts-curse" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<h2 epub:type="title">Lord Oakhurst’s Curse</h2>
<section id="lord-oakhursts-curse-1" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="lord-oakhursts-curse-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>Lord Oakhurst lay dying in the oak chamber in the eastern wing of Oakhurst Castle. Through the open window in the calm of the summer evening, came the sweet fragrance of the early violets and budding trees, and to the dying man it seemed as if earth’s loveliness and beauty were never so apparent as on this bright June day, his last day of life.</p>
<p>His young wife, whom he loved with a devotion and strength that the presence of the king of terrors himself could not alter, moved about the apartment, weeping and sorrowful, sometimes arranging the sick man’s pillow and inquiring of him in low, mournful tones if anything could be done to give him comfort, and again, with stifled sobs, eating some chocolate caramels which she carried in the pocket of her apron. The servants went to and fro with that quiet and subdued tread which prevails in a house where death is an expected guest, and even the crash of broken china and shivered glass, which announced their approach, seemed to fall upon the ear with less violence and sound than usual.</p>
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<p>How plainly he remembered how she had, with girlish shyness and coyness, at first hesitated, and murmured something to herself about “an old bald-beaded galoot,” but when he told her that to him life without her would be a blasted mockery, and that his income was £50,000 a year, she threw herself on to him and froze there with the tenacity of a tick on a brindled cow, and said, with tears of joy, “Hen-ery, I am thine.”</p>
<p>And now he was dying. In a few short hours his spirit would rise up at the call of the Destroyer and, quitting his poor, weak, earthly frame, would go forth into that dim and dreaded Unknown Land, and solve with certainty that Mystery which revealeth itself not to mortal man.</p>
</section>
<section id="lord-oakhursts-curse-2" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="lord-oakhursts-curse-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>A carriage drove rapidly up the avenue and stopped at the door. Sir Everhard FitzArmond, the famous London physician, who had been telegraphed for, alighted and quickly ascended the marble steps. Lady Oakhurst met him at the door, her lovely face expressing great anxiety and grief. “Oh, Sir Everhard, I am so glad you have come. He seems to be sinking rapidly. Did you bring the cream almonds I mentioned in the telegram?”</p>
<p>Sir Everhard did not reply, but silently handed her a package, and, slipping a couple of cloves into his mouth, ascended the stairs that led to Lord Oakhurst’s apartment. Lady Oakhurst followed.</p>
@ -25,7 +25,7 @@
<p>Sir Everhard FitzArmond picked up the paper and read its contents. It was Lord Oakhurst’s will, bequeathing all his property to a scientific institution which should have for its object the invention of a means for extracting peach brandy from sawdust.</p>
<p>Sir Everhard glanced quickly around the room. No one was in sight. Dropping the will, he rapidly transferred some valuable ornaments and rare specimens of gold and silver filigree work from the centre table to his pockets, and rang the bell for the servants.</p>
</section>
<section id="lord-oakhursts-curse-3" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="lord-oakhursts-curse-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title">
<span epub:type="z3998:roman">III</span>
<span epub:type="subtitle">The Curse</span>

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<head>
<title>Red Conliris Eloquence</title>
<title>Red Conlin’s Eloquence</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="red-conliris-eloquence" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<h2 epub:type="title">Red Conliris Eloquence</h2>
<section id="red-conlins-eloquence" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<h2 epub:type="title">Red Conlin’s Eloquence</h2>
<p>They were speaking of the power of great orators, and each one had something to say of his especial favorite.</p>
<p>The drummer was for backing Bourke Cockran for oratory against the world, the young lawyer thought the suave Ingersoll the most persuasive pleader, and the insurance agent advanced the claims of the magnetic W. C. P. Breckenridge.</p>
<p>“They all talk some,” said the old cattle man, who was puffing his pipe and listening, “but they couldn’t hold a candle to Red Conlin, that run cattle below Santone in ’8o. Ever know Red?”</p>

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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="schools-and-schools" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<h2 epub:type="title">Schools and Schools</h2>
<section id="schools-and-schools-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>Old Jerome Warren lived in a hundred-thousand-dollar house at 35 East Fifty-Soforth Street. He was a downtown broker, so rich that he could afford to walk⁠—for his health⁠—a few blocks in the direction of his office every morning, and then call a cab.</p>
<p>He had an adopted son, the son of an old friend named Gilbert⁠—Cyril Scott could play him nicely⁠—who was becoming a successful painter as fast as he could squeeze the paint out of his tubes. Another member of the household was Barbara Ross, a step-niece. Man is born to trouble; so, as old Jerome had no family of his own, he took up the burdens of others.</p>
@ -23,6 +24,8 @@
<p>“Thanks,” said Nevada.</p>
<p>“And I am going to call you ‘cousin,’ ” said Gilbert, with his charming smile.</p>
<p>“Take the valise, please,” said Nevada. “It weighs a million pounds. It’s got samples from six of dad’s old mines in it,” she explained to Barbara. “I calculate they’d assay about nine cents to the thousand tons, but I promised him to bring them along.”</p>
</section>
<section id="schools-and-schools-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>It is a common custom to refer to the usual complication between one man and two ladies, or one lady and two men, or a lady and a man and a nobleman, or⁠—well, any of those problems⁠—as the triangle. But they are never unqualified triangles. They are always isosceles⁠—never equilateral. So, upon the coming of Nevada Warren, she and Gilbert and Barbara Ross lined up into such a figurative triangle; and of that triangle Barbara formed the hypotenuse.</p>
<p>One morning old Jerome was lingering long after breakfast over the dullest morning paper in the city before setting forth to his down-town fly-trap. He had become quite fond of Nevada, finding in her much of his dead brother’s quiet independence and unsuspicious frankness.</p>
@ -45,6 +48,8 @@
<p>“You bet we’ll go. I’ll answer for Miss Barbara. Tell the boy to say to <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Warren, ‘You bet we’ll go.’ ”</p>
<p>“Nevada,” called old Jerome, “pardon me, my dear, but wouldn’t it be as well to send him a note in reply? Just a line would do.”</p>
<p>“No, I won’t bother about that,” said Nevada, gayly. “Gilbert will understand⁠—he always does. I never rode in an automobile in my life; but I’ve paddled a canoe down Little Devil River through the Lost Horse Cañon, and if it’s any livelier than that I’d like to know!”</p>
</section>
<section id="schools-and-schools-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>Two months are supposed to have elapsed.</p>
<p>Barbara sat in the study of the hundred-thousand-dollar house. It was a good place for her. Many places are provided in the world where men and women may repair for the purpose of extricating themselves from divers difficulties. There are cloisters, wailing-places, watering-places, confessionals, hermitages, lawyer’s offices, beauty parlors, air-ships, and studies; and the greatest of these are studies.</p>
@ -77,6 +82,8 @@
<p>Nevada forgot her gloves for a moment.</p>
<p>“Then read it aloud,” she said. “Since you’ve already read it, what’s the difference? If <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Warren has written to me something that any one else oughtn’t to know, that is all the more reason why everybody should know it.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said Barbara, “this is what it says: ‘Dearest Nevada⁠—Come to my studio at twelve o’clock to-night. Do not fail.’ ” Barbara rose and dropped the note in Nevada’s lap. “I’m awfully sorry,” she said, “that I knew. It isn’t like Gilbert. There must be some mistake. Just consider that I am ignorant of it, will you, dear? I must go up-stairs now, I have such a headache. I’m sure I don’t understand the note. Perhaps Gilbert has been dining too well, and will explain. Good night!”</p>
</section>
<section id="schools-and-schools-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>Nevada tiptoed to the hall, and heard Barbara’s door close upstairs. The bronze clock in the study told the hour of twelve was fifteen minutes away. She ran swiftly to the front door, and let herself out into the snow-storm. Gilbert Warren’s studio was six squares away.</p>
<p>By aerial ferry the white, silent forces of the storm attacked the city from beyond the sullen East River. Already the snow lay a foot deep on the pavements, the drifts heaping themselves like scaling-ladders against the walls of the besieged town. The Avenue was as quiet as a street in Pompeii. Cabs now and then skimmed past like white-winged gulls over a moonlit ocean; and less frequent motor-cars⁠—sustaining the comparison⁠—hissed through the foaming waves like submarine boats on their jocund, perilous journeys.</p>
@ -109,6 +116,8 @@
<p>He waited a full minute, pretending to find trouble in the getting on of his overcoat, and then turned. Nevada had not moved. She was looking at him with strange and pensive directness. Her cheeks had a flush on them beyond the color that had been contributed by the wind and snow; but her eyes were steady.</p>
<p>“I was going to tell you,” she said, “anyhow, before you⁠—before we⁠—before⁠—well, before anything. Dad never gave me a day of schooling. I never learned to read or write a darned word. Now if⁠—”</p>
<p>Pounding their uncertain way up-stairs, the feet of Jack, the somnolent, and Agnes, the grateful, were heard.</p>
</section>
<section id="schools-and-schools-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p>When <abbr>Mr.</abbr> and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Gilbert Warren were spinning softly homeward in a closed carriage, after the ceremony, Gilbert said:</p>
<p>“Nevada, would you really like to know what I wrote you in the letter that you received to-night?”</p>
@ -116,5 +125,6 @@
<p>“Word for word,” said Gilbert, “it was this: ‘My dear Miss Warren⁠—You were right about the flower. It was a hydrangea, and not a lilac.’ ”</p>
<p>“All right,” said Nevada. “But let’s forget it. The joke’s on Barbara, anyway!”</p>
</section>
</section>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="sound-and-fury" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<section id="sound-and-fury" epub:type="volume se:short-story z3998:drama">
<h2 epub:type="title">Sound and Fury</h2>
<p>
<b>Persons of the Drama</b>
@ -24,7 +24,7 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>Good morning, Miss Lore. Glad to see you so prompt. We should finish that June installment for the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Epoch</i> today. Leverett is crowding me for it. Are you quite ready? We will resume where we left off yesterday. (<i>Dictates</i>.) “Kate, with a sigh, rose from his knees, and⁠—”</p>
<p>Good morning, Miss Lore. Glad to see you so prompt. We should finish that June installment for the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Epoch</i> today. Leverett is crowding me for it. Are you quite ready? We will resume where we left off yesterday. <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Dictates.</i> “Kate, with a sigh, rose from his knees, and⁠—”</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>Er⁠—no⁠—“his,” if you please. It is the love scene in the garden. (<i>Dictates</i>.) “Rose from his knees where, blushing with youth’s bewitching coyness, she had rested for a moment after Cortland had declared his love. The hour was one of supreme and tender joy. When Kate⁠—scene that Cortland never⁠—”</p>
<p>Er⁠—no⁠—“his,” if you please. It is the love scene in the garden. <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Dictates.</i> “Rose from his knees where, blushing with youth’s bewitching coyness, she had rested for a moment after Cortland had declared his love. The hour was one of supreme and tender joy. When Kate⁠—scene that Cortland never⁠—”</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -48,7 +48,7 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>The context will explain. (<em>Dictates</em>.) “When Kate⁠—scene that Cortland never forgot⁠—came tripping across the lawn it seemed to him the fairest sight that earth had ever offered to his gaze.”</p>
<p>The context will explain. <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Dictates.</i> “When Kate⁠—scene that Cortland never forgot⁠—came tripping across the lawn it seemed to him the fairest sight that earth had ever offered to his gaze.”</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -60,7 +60,7 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>(<i>dictates</i>)⁠—“Kate had abandoned herself to the joy of her newfound love so completely, that no shadow of her former grief was cast upon it. Cortland, with his arm firmly entwined about her waist, knew nothing of her sighs⁠—”</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">dictates</i> “Kate had abandoned herself to the joy of her newfound love so completely, that no shadow of her former grief was cast upon it. Cortland, with his arm firmly entwined about her waist, knew nothing of her sighs⁠—”</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -72,7 +72,7 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>(<em>frowning</em>)⁠—“Of her sighs and tears of the previous night.”</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">frowning</i> “Of her sighs and tears of the previous night.”</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -84,7 +84,7 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>(<em>dictates</em>)⁠—“To Cortland the chief charm of this girl was her look of innocence and unworldiness. Never had nun⁠—”</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">dictates</i> “To Cortland the chief charm of this girl was her look of innocence and unworldiness. Never had nun⁠—”</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -96,7 +96,7 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>(<i>emphatically</i>)⁠—“Never had nun in cloistered cell a face more sweet and pure.”</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">emphatically</i> “Never had nun in cloistered cell a face more sweet and pure.”</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -108,7 +108,7 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persoa"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>(<i>dictates</i>)⁠—“But now Kate must hasten back to the house lest her absence be discovered. After a fond farewell she turned and sped lightly away. Cortland’s gaze followed her. He watched her rise⁠—”</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">dictates</i> “But now Kate must hasten back to the house lest her absence be discovered. After a fond farewell she turned and sped lightly away. Cortland’s gaze followed her. He watched her rise⁠—”</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -120,7 +120,7 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>(<i>with extreme politeness</i>)⁠—Possibly you would gather my meaning more intelligently if you would wait for the conclusion of the sentence. (<i>Dictates</i>.) “Watched her rise as gracefully as a fawn as she mounted the eastern terrace.”</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">with extreme politeness</i> Possibly you would gather my meaning more intelligently if you would wait for the conclusion of the sentence. <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Dictates.</i> “Watched her rise as gracefully as a fawn as she mounted the eastern terrace.”</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -132,7 +132,7 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>(<i>dictates</i>)⁠—“And yet Cortland’s position was so far above that of this rustic maiden that he dreaded to consider the social upheaval that would ensue should he marry her. In no uncertain tones the traditional voices of his caste and world cried out loudly to him to let her go. What should follow⁠—”</p>
<p>(<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">dictates</> “And yet Cortland’s position was so far above that of this rustic maiden that he dreaded to consider the social upheaval that would ensue should he marry her. In no uncertain tones the traditional voices of his caste and world cried out loudly to him to let her go. What should follow⁠—”</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -144,7 +144,7 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>(<i>coldly</i>)⁠—Pardon me. I was not seeking to impose upon you the task of a collaborator. Kindly consider the question a part of the text.</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">coldly</i> Pardon me. I was not seeking to impose upon you the task of a collaborator. Kindly consider the question a part of the text.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -156,13 +156,13 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>(<i>dictates</i>)⁠—“On one side was love and Kate; on the other side his heritage of social position and family pride. Would love win? Love, that the poets tell us will last forever! (<i>Perceives that Miss Lore looks fatigued, and looks at his watch.</i>) That’s a good long stretch. Perhaps we’d better knock off a bit.”</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">dictates</i> “On one side was love and Kate; on the other side his heritage of social position and family pride. Would love win? Love, that the poets tell us will last forever! <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Perceives that Miss Lore looks fatigued, and looks at his watch.</i> That’s a good long stretch. Perhaps we’d better knock off a bit.”</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<p>(Miss Lore <i>does not reply</i>.)</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction"><span epub:type="z3998:persona">Miss Lore</span> does not reply</i>.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -180,7 +180,7 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>Very well, then, we will continue. (<i>Dictates</i>.) “In spite of these qualms and doubts, Cortland was a happy man. That night at the club he silently toasted Kate’s bright eyes in a bumper of the rarest vintage. Afterward he set out for a stroll with, as Kate on⁠—”</p>
<p>Very well, then, we will continue. <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Dictates.</i> “In spite of these qualms and doubts, Cortland was a happy man. That night at the club he silently toasted Kate’s bright eyes in a bumper of the rarest vintage. Afterward he set out for a stroll with, as Kate on⁠—”</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -192,7 +192,7 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>(<i>astounded</i>)⁠—Wh—wh⁠—I’m afraid I fail to understand you.</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">astounded</i> Wh—wh⁠—I’m afraid I fail to understand you.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -204,19 +204,19 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>(<i>still darkly wandering</i>)⁠—Will you kindly point out, Miss Lore, where I have intimated that Cortland was “full,” if you prefer that word?</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">still darkly wandering</i> Will you kindly point out, Miss Lore, where I have intimated that Cortland was “full,” if you prefer that word?</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Miss Lore</td>
<td>
<p>(<i>calmly consulting her stenographic notes</i>)⁠—It is right here, word for word. (Reads.) “Afterward he set out for a stroll with a skate on.”</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">calmly consulting her stenographic notes</i> It is right here, word for word. <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Reads.</i> “Afterward he set out for a stroll with a skate on.”</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>(<i>with peculiar emphasis</i>)⁠—Ah! And now will you kindly take down the expurgated phrase? (<i>Dictates</i>.) “Afterward he set out for a stroll with, as Kate on one occasion had fancifully told him, her spirit leaning upon his arm.”</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">with peculiar emphasis</i> Ah! And now will you kindly take down the expurgated phrase? <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Dictates.</i> “Afterward he set out for a stroll with, as Kate on one occasion had fancifully told him, her spirit leaning upon his arm.”</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -228,7 +228,7 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>(<i>dictates</i>)⁠—Chapter thirty-four. Heading⁠—“What Kate Found in the Garden.” “That fragrant summer morning brought gracious tasks to all. The bees were at the honeysuckle blossoms on the porch. Kate, singing a little song, was training the riotous branches of her favorite woodbine. The sun, himself, had rows⁠—”</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">dictates</i> Chapter thirty-four. Heading⁠—“What Kate Found in the Garden.” “That fragrant summer morning brought gracious tasks to all. The bees were at the honeysuckle blossoms on the porch. Kate, singing a little song, was training the riotous branches of her favorite woodbine. The sun, himself, had rows⁠—”</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -240,7 +240,7 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>(<i>very slowly and with desperate deliberation</i>)⁠—“The⁠—sun⁠—himself⁠—had⁠—rows⁠—of⁠—blushing⁠—pinks⁠—and⁠—hollyhocks⁠—and⁠—hyacinths⁠—waiting⁠—that⁠—he⁠—might⁠—dry⁠—their⁠—dew-drenched⁠—cups.”</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">very slowly and with desperate deliberation</i> “The⁠—sun⁠—himself⁠—had⁠—rows⁠—of⁠—blushing⁠—pinks⁠—and⁠—hollyhocks⁠—and⁠—hyacinths⁠—waiting⁠—that⁠—he⁠—might⁠—dry⁠—their⁠—dew-drenched⁠—cups.”</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -252,7 +252,7 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>(<i>dictates</i>)⁠—“The earliest trolley, scattering the birds from its pathway like some marauding cat, brought Cortland over from Oldport. He had forgotten his fair⁠—”</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">dictates</i> “The earliest trolley, scattering the birds from its pathway like some marauding cat, brought Cortland over from Oldport. He had forgotten his fair⁠—”</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -264,7 +264,7 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>(<i>very loudly</i>)⁠—“Forgotten his fair and roseate visions of the night in the practical light of the sober morn.”</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">very loudly</i> “Forgotten his fair and roseate visions of the night in the practical light of the sober morn.”</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -276,7 +276,7 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>(<i>dictates</i>)⁠—“He greeted her with his usual smile and manner. ‘See the waves,’ he cried, pointing to the heaving waters of the sea, ‘ever wooing and returning to the rockbound shore.’ ” “ ‘Ready to break,’ Kate said, with⁠—”</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">dictates</i> “He greeted her with his usual smile and manner. ‘See the waves,’ he cried, pointing to the heaving waters of the sea, ‘ever wooing and returning to the rockbound shore.’ ” “ ‘Ready to break,’ Kate said, with⁠—”</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -288,7 +288,7 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>(<i>with suspicious calmness</i>)⁠—There are times, Miss Lore, when a man becomes so far exasperated that even a woman⁠—But suppose we finish the sentence. (<i>Dictates</i>.) “ ‘Ready to break,’ Kate said, with the thrilling look of a soul-awakened woman, ‘into foam and spray, destroying themselves upon the shore they love so well.”</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">with suspicious calmness</i> There are times, Miss Lore, when a man becomes so far exasperated that even a woman⁠—But suppose we finish the sentence. <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Dictates.</i> “ ‘Ready to break,’ Kate said, with the thrilling look of a soul-awakened woman, ‘into foam and spray, destroying themselves upon the shore they love so well.”</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -300,19 +300,19 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>(<i>dictates</i>)⁠—“Cortland, in Kate’s presence heard faintly the voice of caution. Thirty years had not cooled his ardor. It was in his power to bestow great gifts upon this girl. He still retained the beliefs that he had at twenty.” (<i>To Miss Lore, wearily</i>) I think that will be enough for the present.</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">dictates</i> “Cortland, in Kate’s presence heard faintly the voice of caution. Thirty years had not cooled his ardor. It was in his power to bestow great gifts upon this girl. He still retained the beliefs that he had at twenty.” <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">To Miss Lore, wearily</i> I think that will be enough for the present.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Miss Lore</td>
<td>
<p>(<i>wisely</i>)⁠—Well, if he had the twenty that he believed he had, it might buy her a rather nice one.</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">wisely</i> Well, if he had the twenty that he believed he had, it might buy her a rather nice one.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>(<i>faintly</i>)⁠—The last sentence was my own. We will discontinue for the day, Miss Lore.</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">faintly</i> The last sentence was my own. We will discontinue for the day, Miss Lore.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
@ -324,18 +324,18 @@
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
<td>
<p>(<i>helpless under the spell</i>)⁠—If you will be so good.</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">helpless under the spell</i> If you will be so good.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<p>(<i>Exit</i> Miss Lore.)</p>
<p><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Exit <span epub:type="z3998:persona">Miss Lore</span>.</i></p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p>
<b>ASBESTOS CURTAIN</b>
<b>Asbestos Curtain</b>
</p>
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<section id="the-higher-pragmatism" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Higher Pragmatism</h2>
<section id="the-higher-pragmatism-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>Where to go for wisdom has become a question of serious import. The ancients are discredited; Plato is boiler-plate; Aristotle is tottering; Marcus Aurelius is reeling; Æsop has been copyrighted by Indiana; Solomon is too solemn; you couldn’t get anything out of Epictetus with a pick.</p>
<p>The ant, which for many years served as a model of intelligence and industry in the school-readers, has been proven to be a doddering idiot and a waster of time and effort. The owl to-day is hooted at. Chautauqua conventions have abandoned culture and adopted diabolo. Graybeards give glowing testimonials to the venders of patent hair-restorers. There are typographical errors in the almanacs published by the daily newspapers. College professors have become⁠—</p>
@ -15,6 +16,8 @@
<p>To sit in classes, to delve into the encyclopedia or the past-performances page, will not make us wise. As the poet says, “Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers.” Wisdom is dew, which, while we know it not, soaks into us, refreshes us, and makes us grow. Knowledge is a strong stream of water turned on us through a hose. It disturbs our roots.</p>
<p>Then, let us rather gather wisdom. But how to do so requires knowledge. If we know a thing, we know it; but very often we are not wise to it that we are wise, and⁠—</p>
<p>But let’s go on with the story.</p>
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<section id="the-higher-pragmatism-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>Once upon a time I found a ten-cent magazine lying on a bench in a little city park. Anyhow, that was the amount he asked me for when I sat on the bench next to him. He was a musty, dingy, and tattered magazine, with some queer stories bound in him, I was sure. He turned out to be a scrap-book.</p>
<p>“I am a newspaper reporter,” I said to him, to try him. “I have been detailed to write up some of the experiences of the unfortunate ones who spend their evenings in this park. May I ask you to what you attribute your downfall in⁠—”</p>
@ -96,5 +99,6 @@
<p>“Phil,” she said, in the Telfair, sweet, thrilling tones, “why didn’t you tell me about it before? I thought it was sister you wanted all the time, until you telephoned to me a few minutes ago!”</p>
<p>I suppose Mack and I always will be hopeless amateurs. But, as the thing has turned out in my case, I’m mighty glad of it.</p>
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