Proofreading corrections (mostly quotes)

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@@ -41,7 +41,7 @@
 			<p>“I must confess, sir, that during the eight years that I have spent in search of adventure and in relieving distress I have never encountered a more interesting or a more perplexing case. I fear that I have overlooked hens in my researches and observations. As to their habits, their times and manner of laying, their many varieties and cross-breedings, their span of life, their⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, don’t make an Ibsen drama of it!” interrupted the young man, flippantly. “Riddles⁠—especially old Hildebrant’s riddles⁠—don’t have to be worked out seriously. They are light themes such as Sim Ford and Harry Thurston Peck like to handle. But, somehow, I can’t strike just the answer. Bill Watson may, and he may not. Tomorrow will tell. Well, Your Majesty, I’m glad anyhow that you butted in and whiled the time away. I guess <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Al Rashid himself would have bounced back if one of his constituents had conducted him up against this riddle. I’ll say good night. Peace fo’ yours, and what-you-may-call-its of Allah.”</p>
 			<p>The Margrave, still with a gloomy air, held out his hand.</p>
-			<p>“I cannot express my regret,” he said, sadly. “Never before have I found myself unable to assist in some way. ‘What kind of a hen lays the longest? It is a baffling problem. There is a hen, I believe, called the Plymouth Rock that⁠—”</p>
+			<p>“I cannot express my regret,” he said, sadly. “Never before have I found myself unable to assist in some way. ‘What kind of a hen lays the longest?’ It is a baffling problem. There is a hen, I believe, called the Plymouth Rock that⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Cut it out,” said the young man. “The Caliph trade is a mighty serious one. I don’t suppose you’d even see anything funny in a preacher’s defense of John D. Rockefeller. Well, good night, Your Nibs.”</p>
 			<p>From habit the Margrave began to fumble in his pockets. He drew forth a card and handed it to the young man.</p>
 			<p>“Do me the favor to accept this, anyhow,” he said. “The time may come when it might be of use to you.”</p>

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@@ -13,7 +13,7 @@
 			<p>These devotees of curiosity swarm, like flies, in a moment in a struggling, breathless circle about the scene of an unusual occurrence. If a workman opens a manhole, if a street car runs over a man from North Tarrytown, if a little boy drops an egg on his way home from the grocery, if a casual house or two drops into the subway, if a lady loses a nickel through a hole in the lisle thread, if the police drag a telephone and a racing chart forth from an Ibsen Society reading-room, if Senator Depew or <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Chuck Connors walks out to take the air⁠—if any of these incidents or accidents takes place, you will see the mad, irresistible rush of the “rubber” tribe to the spot.</p>
 			<p>The importance of the event does not count. They gaze with equal interest and absorption at a chorus girl or at a man painting a liver pill sign. They will form as deep a cordon around a man with a clubfoot as they will around a balked automobile. They have the furor rubberendi. They are optical gluttons, feasting and fattening on the misfortunes of their fellow beings. They gloat and pore and glare and squint and stare with their fishy eyes like goggle-eyed perch at the book baited with calamity.</p>
 			<p>It would seem that Cupid would find these ocular vampires too cold game for his calorific shafts, but have we not yet to discover an immune even among the Protozoa? Yes, beautiful Romance descended upon two of this tribe, and love came into their hearts as they crowded about the prostrate form of a man who had been run over by a brewery wagon.</p>
-			<p>William Pry was the first on the spot. He was an expert at such gatherings. With an expression of intense happiness on his features, he stood over the victim of the accident, listening to his groans as if to the sweetest music. When the crowd of spectators had swelled to a closely packed circle William saw a violent commotion in the crowd opposite him. Men were hurled aside like ninepins by the impact of some moving body that clove them like the rush of a tornado. With elbows, umbrella, hatpin, tongue, and fingernails doing their duty, Violet Seymour forced her way through the mob of onlookers to the first row. Strong men who even had been able to secure a seat on the 5.30 Harlem express staggered back like children as she bucked centre. Two large lady spectators who had seen the Duke of Roxburgh married and had often blocked traffic on Twenty-third Street fell back into the second row with ripped shirtwaists when Violet had finished with them. William Pry loved her at first sight.</p>
+			<p>William Pry was the first on the spot. He was an expert at such gatherings. With an expression of intense happiness on his features, he stood over the victim of the accident, listening to his groans as if to the sweetest music. When the crowd of spectators had swelled to a closely packed circle William saw a violent commotion in the crowd opposite him. Men were hurled aside like ninepins by the impact of some moving body that clove them like the rush of a tornado. With elbows, umbrella, hatpin, tongue, and fingernails doing their duty, Violet Seymour forced her way through the mob of onlookers to the first row. Strong men who even had been able to secure a seat on the 5:30 Harlem express staggered back like children as she bucked centre. Two large lady spectators who had seen the Duke of Roxburgh married and had often blocked traffic on Twenty-third Street fell back into the second row with ripped shirtwaists when Violet had finished with them. William Pry loved her at first sight.</p>
 			<p>The ambulance removed the unconscious agent of Cupid. William and Violet remained after the crowd had dispersed. They were true Rubberers. People who leave the scene of an accident with the ambulance have not genuine caoutchouc in the cosmogony of their necks. The delicate, fine flavour of the affair is to be had only in the aftertaste⁠—in gloating over the spot, in gazing fixedly at the houses opposite, in hovering there in a dream more exquisite than the opium-eater’s ecstasy. William Pry and Violet Seymour were connoisseurs in casualties. They knew how to extract full enjoyment from every incident.</p>
 			<p>Presently they looked at each other. Violet had a brown birthmark on her neck as large as a silver half-dollar. William fixed his eyes upon it. William Pry had inordinately bowed legs. Violet allowed her gaze to linger unswervingly upon them. Face to face they stood thus for moments, each staring at the other. Etiquette would not allow them to speak; but in the Caoutchouc City it is permitted to gaze without stint at the trees in the parks and at the physical blemishes of a fellow creature.</p>
 			<p>At length with a sigh they parted. But Cupid had been the driver of the brewery wagon, and the wheel that broke a leg united two fond hearts.</p>

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@@ -40,7 +40,7 @@
 			<p>“What was the trouble?” Chalmers could not resist asking.</p>
 			<p>“Funny thing,” answered Plumer, grimly. “Never quite understood it myself. For a while I swam like a cork. I broke into the swell crowd and got commissions right and left. The newspapers called me a fashionable painter. Then the funny things began to happen. Whenever I finished a picture people would come to see it, and whisper and look queerly at one another.”</p>
 			<p>“I soon found out what the trouble was. I had a knack of bringing out in the face of a portrait the hidden character of the original. I don’t know how I did it⁠—I painted what I saw⁠—but I know it did me. Some of my sitters were fearfully enraged and refused their pictures. I painted the portrait of a very beautiful and popular society dame. When it was finished her husband looked at it with a peculiar expression on his face, and the next week he sued for divorce.”</p>
-			<p>“I remember one case of a prominent banker who sat to me. While I had his portrait on exhibition in my studio an acquaintance of his came in to look at it. ‘Bless me,’ says he, ‘does he really look like that?” I told him it was considered a faithful likeness. ‘I never noticed that expression about his eyes before,’ said he; ‘I think I’ll drop downtown and change my bank account.’ He did drop down, but the bank account was gone and so was <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Banker.</p>
+			<p>“I remember one case of a prominent banker who sat to me. While I had his portrait on exhibition in my studio an acquaintance of his came in to look at it. ‘Bless me,’ says he, ‘does he really look like that?’ I told him it was considered a faithful likeness. ‘I never noticed that expression about his eyes before,’ said he; ‘I think I’ll drop downtown and change my bank account.’ He did drop down, but the bank account was gone and so was <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Banker.</p>
 			<p>“It wasn’t long till they put me out of business. People don’t want their secret meannesses shown up in a picture. They can smile and twist their own faces and deceive you, but the picture can’t. I couldn’t get an order for another picture, and I had to give up. I worked as a newspaper artist for a while, and then for a lithographer, but my work with them got me into the same trouble. If I drew from a photograph my drawing showed up characteristics and expressions that you couldn’t find in the photo, but I guess they were in the original, all right. The customers raised lively rows, especially the women, and I never could hold a job long. So I began to rest my weary head upon the breast of Old Booze for comfort. And pretty soon I was in the free-bed line and doing oral fiction for handouts among the food bazaars. Does the truthful statement weary thee, O Caliph? I can turn on the Wall Street disaster stop if you prefer, but that requires a tear, and I’m afraid I can’t hustle one up after that good dinner.”</p>
 			<p>“No, no,” said Chalmers, earnestly, “you interest me very much. Did all of your portraits reveal some unpleasant trait, or were there some that did not suffer from the ordeal of your peculiar brush?”</p>
 			<p>“Some? Yes,” said Plumer. “Children generally, a good many women and a sufficient number of men. All people aren’t bad, you know. When they were all right the pictures were all right. As I said, I don’t explain it, but I’m telling you facts.”</p>

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@@ -122,7 +122,7 @@
 			<p>I was sure that Impy had not had time to leave the house. I inquired concerning streetcar lines and took my leave. After I was well on my way I remembered that I had not learned Azalea Adair’s name. But tomorrow would do.</p>
 			<p>That same day I started in on the course of iniquity that this uneventful city forced upon me. I was in the town only two days, but in that time I managed to lie shamelessly by telegraph, and to be an accomplice⁠—after the fact, if that is the correct legal term⁠—to a murder.</p>
 			<p>As I rounded the corner nearest my hotel the Afrite coachman of the polychromatic, nonpareil coat seized me, swung open the dungeony door of his peripatetic sarcophagus, flirted his feather duster and began his ritual: “Step right in, boss. Carriage is clean⁠—jus’ got back from a funeral. Fifty cents to any⁠—”</p>
-			<p>And then he knew me and grinned broadly. “ ‘Scuse me, boss; you is de gen’l’man what rid out with me dis mawnin’. Thank you kindly, suh.”</p>
+			<p>And then he knew me and grinned broadly. “ ’Scuse me, boss; you is de gen’l’man what rid out with me dis mawnin’. Thank you kindly, suh.”</p>
 			<p>“I am going out to 861 again tomorrow afternoon at three,” said I, “and if you will be here, I’ll let you drive me. So you know Miss Adair?” I concluded, thinking of my dollar bill.</p>
 			<p>“I belonged to her father, Judge Adair, suh,” he replied.</p>
 			<p>“I judge that she is pretty poor,” I said. “She hasn’t much money to speak of, has she?”</p>

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@@ -31,7 +31,7 @@
 			<p>The faculty met and invited Jacob to come over and take his A B C degree. Before sending the invitation they smiled, cut out the C, added the proper punctuation marks, and all was well.</p>
 			<p>While walking on the campus before being capped and gowned, Jacob saw two professors strolling nearby. Their voices, long adapted to indoor acoustics, undesignedly reached his ear.</p>
 			<p>“There goes the latest <i xml:lang="fr">chevalier d’industrie</i>,” said one of them, “to buy a sleeping powder from us. He gets his degree tomorrow.”</p>
-			<p>“In foro conscientiae,” said the other. “Let’s ‘eave ‘arf a brick at ’im.”</p>
+			<p>“In foro conscientiae,” said the other. “Let’s ’eave ’arf a brick at ’im.”</p>
 			<p>Jacob ignored the Latin, but the brick pleasantry was not too hard for him. There was no mandragora in the honorary draught of learning that he had bought. That was before the passage of the Pure Food and Drugs Act.</p>
 			<p>Jacob wearied of philanthropy on a large scale.</p>
 			<p>“If I could see folks made happier,” he said to himself⁠—“If I could see ’em myself and hear ’em express their gratitude for what I done for ’em it would make me feel better. This donatin’ funds to institutions and societies is about as satisfactory as dropping money into a broken slot machine.”</p>

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@@ -21,31 +21,31 @@
 			<p>“ ’Tis thrue,” admitted <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Dempsey, “that he seems to be a sort <span epub:type="z3998:roman">iv</span> a Dago, and too coolchured in his spache for a rale gentleman. But ye may be misjudgin’ him. Ye should niver suspect any wan of bein’ of noble descint that pays cash and pathronizes the laundry rig’lar.”</p>
 			<p>“He’s the same thricks of spakin’ and blarneyin’ wid his hands,” sighed Katy, “as the Frinch nobleman at <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Toole’s that ran away wid <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Toole’s Sunday pants and left the photograph of the Bastile, his grandfather’s chat-taw, as security for tin weeks’ rint.”</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Brunelli continued his calorific wooing. Katy continued to hesitate. One day he asked her out to dine and she felt that a dénouement was in the air. While they are on their way, with Katy in her best muslin, you must take as an entr’acte a brief peep at New York’s Bohemia.</p>
-			<p>‘Tonio’s restaurant is in Bohemia. The very location of it is secret. If you wish to know where it is ask the first person you meet. He will tell you in a whisper. ‘Tonio discountenances custom; he keeps his house-front black and forbidding; he gives you a pretty bad dinner; he locks his door at the dining hour; but he knows spaghetti as the boardinghouse knows cold veal; and⁠—he has deposited many dollars in a certain Banco di⁠—something with many gold vowels in the name on its windows.</p>
+			<p>’Tonio’s restaurant is in Bohemia. The very location of it is secret. If you wish to know where it is ask the first person you meet. He will tell you in a whisper. ’Tonio discountenances custom; he keeps his house-front black and forbidding; he gives you a pretty bad dinner; he locks his door at the dining hour; but he knows spaghetti as the boardinghouse knows cold veal; and⁠—he has deposited many dollars in a certain Banco di⁠—something with many gold vowels in the name on its windows.</p>
 			<p>To this restaurant <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Brunelli conducted Katy. The house was dark and the shades were lowered; but <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Brunelli touched an electric button by the basement door, and they were admitted.</p>
 			<p>Along a long, dark, narrow hallway they went and then through a shining and spotless kitchen that opened directly upon a back yard.</p>
-			<p>The walls of houses hemmed three sides of the yard; a high, board fence, surrounded by cats, the other. A wash of clothes was suspended high upon a line stretched from diagonal corners. Those were property clothes, and were never taken in by ‘Tonio. They were there that wits with defective pronunciation might make puns in connection with the ragout.</p>
-			<p>A dozen and a half little tables set upon the bare ground were crowded with Bohemia-hunters, who flocked there because ‘Tonio pretended not to want them and pretended to give them a good dinner. There was a sprinkling of real Bohemians present who came for a change because they were tired of the real Bohemia, and a smart shower of the men who originate the bright sayings of Congressmen and the little nephew of the well-known general passenger agent of the Evansville and Terre Haute Railroad Company.</p>
-			<p>Here is a bon mot that was manufactured at ‘Tonio’s:</p>
-			<p>“A dinner at ‘Tonio’s,” said a Bohemian, “always amounts to twice the price that is asked for it.”</p>
+			<p>The walls of houses hemmed three sides of the yard; a high, board fence, surrounded by cats, the other. A wash of clothes was suspended high upon a line stretched from diagonal corners. Those were property clothes, and were never taken in by ’Tonio. They were there that wits with defective pronunciation might make puns in connection with the ragout.</p>
+			<p>A dozen and a half little tables set upon the bare ground were crowded with Bohemia-hunters, who flocked there because ’Tonio pretended not to want them and pretended to give them a good dinner. There was a sprinkling of real Bohemians present who came for a change because they were tired of the real Bohemia, and a smart shower of the men who originate the bright sayings of Congressmen and the little nephew of the well-known general passenger agent of the Evansville and Terre Haute Railroad Company.</p>
+			<p>Here is a bon mot that was manufactured at ’Tonio’s:</p>
+			<p>“A dinner at ’Tonio’s,” said a Bohemian, “always amounts to twice the price that is asked for it.”</p>
 			<p>Let us assume that an accommodating voice inquires:</p>
 			<p>“How so?”</p>
 			<p>“The dinner costs you 40 cents; you give 10 cents to the waiter, and it makes you feel like 30 cents.”</p>
 			<p>Most of the diners were confirmed table d’hôters⁠—gastronomic adventurers, forever seeking the El Dorado of a good claret, and consistently coming to grief in California.</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Brunelli escorted Katy to a little table embowered with shrubbery in tubs, and asked her to excuse him for a while.</p>
 			<p>Katy sat, enchanted by a scene so brilliant to her. The grand ladies, in splendid dresses and plumes and sparkling rings; the fine gentlemen who laughed so loudly, the cries of “Garsong!” and “We, monseer,” and “Hello, Mame!” that distinguish Bohemia; the lively chatter, the cigarette smoke, the interchange of bright smiles and eye-glances⁠—all this display and magnificence overpowered the daughter of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Dempsey and held her motionless.</p>
-			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Brunelli stepped into the yard and seemed to spread his smile and bow over the entire company. And everywhere there was a great clapping of hands and a few cries of “Bravo!” and “ ‘Tonio! ‘Tonio!” whatever those words might mean. Ladies waved their napkins at him, gentlemen almost twisted their necks off, trying to catch his nod.</p>
+			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Brunelli stepped into the yard and seemed to spread his smile and bow over the entire company. And everywhere there was a great clapping of hands and a few cries of “Bravo!” and “ ’Tonio! ’Tonio!” whatever those words might mean. Ladies waved their napkins at him, gentlemen almost twisted their necks off, trying to catch his nod.</p>
 			<p>When the ovation was concluded <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Brunelli, with a final bow, stepped nimbly into the kitchen and flung off his coat and waistcoat.</p>
 			<p>Flaherty, the nimblest “garsong” among the waiters, had been assigned to the special service of Katy. She was a little faint from hunger, for the Irish stew on the Dempsey table had been particularly weak that day. Delicious odors from unknown dishes tantalized her. And Flaherty began to bring to her table course after course of ambrosial food that the gods might have pronounced excellent.</p>
 			<p>But even in the midst of her Lucullian repast Katy laid down her knife and fork. Her heart sank as lead, and a tear fell upon her filet mignon. Her haunting suspicions of the star lodger arose again, fourfold. Thus courted and admired and smiled upon by that fashionable and gracious assembly, what else could <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Brunelli be but one of those dazzling titled patricians, glorious of name but shy of rent money, concerning whom experience had made her wise? With a sense of his ineligibility growing within her there was mingled a torturing conviction that his personality was becoming more pleasing to her day by day. And why had he left her to dine alone?</p>
 			<p>But here he was coming again, now coatless, his snowy shirtsleeves rolled high above his Jeffriesonian elbows, a white yachting cap perched upon his jetty curls.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Tonio! ‘Tonio!” shouted many, and “The spaghetti! The spaghetti!” shouted the rest.</p>
-			<p>Never at ‘Tonio’s did a waiter dare to serve a dish of spaghetti until ‘Tonio came to test it, to prove the sauce and add the needful dash of seasoning that gave it perfection.</p>
-			<p>From table to table moved ‘Tonio, like a prince in his palace, greeting his guests. White, jewelled hands signalled him from every side.</p>
+			<p>“ ’Tonio! ’Tonio!” shouted many, and “The spaghetti! The spaghetti!” shouted the rest.</p>
+			<p>Never at ’Tonio’s did a waiter dare to serve a dish of spaghetti until ’Tonio came to test it, to prove the sauce and add the needful dash of seasoning that gave it perfection.</p>
+			<p>From table to table moved ’Tonio, like a prince in his palace, greeting his guests. White, jewelled hands signalled him from every side.</p>
 			<p>A glass of wine with this one and that, smiles for all, a jest and repartee for any that might challenge⁠—truly few princes could be so agreeable a host! And what artist could ask for further appreciation of his handiwork? Katy did not know that the proudest consummation of a New Yorker’s ambition is to shake hands with a spaghetti chef or to receive a nod from a Broadway headwaiter.</p>
 			<p>At last the company thinned, leaving but a few couples and quartettes lingering over new wine and old stories. And then came <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Brunelli to Katy’s secluded table, and drew a chair close to hers.</p>
 			<p>Katy smiled at him dreamily. She was eating the last spoonful of a raspberry roll with Burgundy sauce.</p>
-			<p>“You have seen!” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Brunelli, laying one hand upon his collar bone. “I am Antonio Brunelli! Yes; I am the great ‘Tonio! You have not suspect that! I loave you, Katy, and you shall marry with me. Is it not so? Call me ‘Antonio,’ and say that you will be mine.”</p>
+			<p>“You have seen!” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Brunelli, laying one hand upon his collar bone. “I am Antonio Brunelli! Yes; I am the great ’Tonio! You have not suspect that! I loave you, Katy, and you shall marry with me. Is it not so? Call me ‘Antonio,’ and say that you will be mine.”</p>
 			<p>Katy’s head drooped to the shoulder that was now freed from all suspicion of having received the knightly accolade.</p>
 			<p>“Oh, Andy,” she sighed, “this is great! Sure, I’ll marry wid ye. But why didn’t ye tell me ye was the cook? I was near turnin’ ye down for bein’ one of thim foreign counts!”</p>
 		</section>

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@@ -69,7 +69,7 @@
 			<p>“Why, pa,” she answered, “I like all of ’em very well. I think <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cunningham and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Jacks and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Harris are very nice young men. They are so frank and honest in everything they say to me. I haven’t known <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Vesey very long, but I think he’s a very nice young man, he’s so frank and honest in everything he says to me.”</p>
 			<p>“Now, that’s what I’m gittin’ at,” says old Hinkle. “You’ve always been sayin’ you like people what tell the truth and don’t go humbuggin’ you with compliments and bogus talk. Now, suppose you make a test of these fellers, and see which one of ’em will talk the straightest to you.”</p>
 			<p>“But how’ll I do it, pa?”</p>
-			<p>“I’ll tell you how. You know you sing a little bit, Ily; you took music-lessons nearly two years in Logansport. It wasn’t long, but it was all we could afford then. And your teacher said you didn’t have any voice, and it was a waste of money to keep on. Now, suppose you ask the fellers what they think of your singin’, and see what each one of ’em tells you. The man that’ll tell you the truth about it’ll have a mighty lot of nerve, and ‘ll do to tie to. What do you think of the plan?”</p>
+			<p>“I’ll tell you how. You know you sing a little bit, Ily; you took music-lessons nearly two years in Logansport. It wasn’t long, but it was all we could afford then. And your teacher said you didn’t have any voice, and it was a waste of money to keep on. Now, suppose you ask the fellers what they think of your singin’, and see what each one of ’em tells you. The man that’ll tell you the truth about it’ll have a mighty lot of nerve, and ’ll do to tie to. What do you think of the plan?”</p>
 			<p>“All right, pa,” said Ileen. “I think it’s a good idea. I’ll try it.”</p>
 			<p>Ileen and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hinkle went out of the room through the inside doors. Unobserved, I hurried down to the station. Jacks was at his telegraph table waiting for eight o’clock to come. It was Bud’s night in town, and when he rode in I repeated the conversation to them both. I was loyal to my rivals, as all true admirers of all Ileens should be.</p>
 			<p>Simultaneously the three of us were smitten by an uplifting thought. Surely this test would eliminate Vesey from the contest. He, with his unctuous flattery, would be driven from the lists. Well we remembered Ileen’s love of frankness and honesty⁠—how she treasured truth and candor above vain compliment and blandishment.</p>

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@@ -11,7 +11,7 @@
 			<p>The editor of the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Hearthstone Magazine</i> has his own ideas about the selection of manuscript for his publication. His theory is no secret; in fact, he will expound it to you willingly sitting at his mahogany desk, smiling benignantly and tapping his knee gently with his gold-rimmed eyeglasses.</p>
 			<p>“The <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Hearthstone</i>,” he will say, “does not employ a staff of readers. We obtain opinions of the manuscripts submitted to us directly from types of the various classes of our readers.”</p>
 			<p>That is the editor’s theory; and this is the way he carries it out:</p>
-			<p>When a batch of MSS. is received the editor stuffs every one of his pockets full of them and distributes them as he goes about during the day. The office employees, the hall porter, the janitor, the elevator man, messenger boys, the waiters at the café where the editor has luncheon, the man at the newsstand where he buys his evening paper, the grocer and milkman, the guard on the 5.30 uptown elevated train, the ticket-chopper at Sixty⁠ ⸻⁠th street, the cook and maid at his home⁠—these are the readers who pass upon MSS. sent in to the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Hearthstone Magazine</i>. If his pockets are not entirely emptied by the time he reaches the bosom of his family the remaining ones are handed over to his wife to read after the baby goes to sleep. A few days later the editor gathers in the MSS. during his regular rounds and considers the verdict of his assorted readers.</p>
+			<p>When a batch of MSS. is received the editor stuffs every one of his pockets full of them and distributes them as he goes about during the day. The office employees, the hall porter, the janitor, the elevator man, messenger boys, the waiters at the café where the editor has luncheon, the man at the newsstand where he buys his evening paper, the grocer and milkman, the guard on the 5:30 uptown elevated train, the ticket-chopper at Sixty⁠ ⸻⁠th street, the cook and maid at his home⁠—these are the readers who pass upon MSS. sent in to the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Hearthstone Magazine</i>. If his pockets are not entirely emptied by the time he reaches the bosom of his family the remaining ones are handed over to his wife to read after the baby goes to sleep. A few days later the editor gathers in the MSS. during his regular rounds and considers the verdict of his assorted readers.</p>
 			<p>This system of making up a magazine has been very successful; and the circulation, paced by the advertising rates, is making a wonderful record of speed.</p>
 			<p>The <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Hearthstone</i> Company also publishes books, and its imprint is to be found on several successful works⁠—all recommended, says the editor, by the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Hearthstone’s</i> army of volunteer readers. Now and then (according to talkative members of the editorial staff) the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Hearthstone</i> has allowed manuscripts to slip through its fingers on the advice of its heterogeneous readers, that afterward proved to be famous sellers when brought out by other houses.</p>
 			<p>For instance (the gossips say), “The Rise and Fall of Silas Latham” was unfavourably passed upon by the elevator-man; the office-boy unanimously rejected “The Boss”; “In the Bishop’s Carriage” was contemptuously looked upon by the streetcar conductor; “The Deliverance” was turned down by a clerk in the subscription department whose wife’s mother had just begun a two-months’ visit at his home; “The Queen’s Quair” came back from the janitor with the comment: “So is the book.”</p>

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@@ -56,7 +56,7 @@
 			<p>A few minutes later Alvarita stopped upon the forward platform, ready for her quest. Her handsome black skirt was shaped to the most recent proclamation of fashion. Her spotless shirtwaist gladdened the eye in that desert of sunshine, a swelling oasis, cool and fresh. A man’s split-straw hat sat firmly on her coiled, abundant hair. Beneath her serene, round, impudent chin a man’s four-in-hand tie was jauntily knotted about a man’s high, stiff collar. A parasol she carried, of white silk, and its fringe was lace, yellowly genuine.</p>
 			<p>I will grant Gallipolis as to her costume, but firmly to Seville or Valladolid I am held by her eyes; castanets, balconies, mantillas, serenades, ambuscades, escapades⁠—all these their dark depths guaranteed.</p>
 			<p>“Ain’t you afraid to go out alone, Alviry?” queried the Queen-mother anxiously. “There’s so many rough people about. Mebbe you’d better⁠—”</p>
-			<p>“I never saw anything I was afraid of yet, ma. ‘Specially people. And men in particular. Don’t you fret. I’ll trot along back as soon as I find that runaway scamp.”</p>
+			<p>“I never saw anything I was afraid of yet, ma. ’Specially people. And men in particular. Don’t you fret. I’ll trot along back as soon as I find that runaway scamp.”</p>
 			<p>The dust lay thick upon the bare ground near the tracks. Alvarita’s eye soon discovered the serrated trail of the escaped python. It led across the depot grounds and away down a smaller street in the direction of the little canon, as predicted by her. A stillness and lack of excitement in the neighbourhood encouraged the hope that, as yet, the inhabitants were unaware that so formidable a guest traversed their highways. The heat had driven them indoors, whence outdrifted occasional shrill laughs, or the depressing whine of a maltreated concertina. In the shade a few Mexican children, like vivified stolid idols in clay, stared from their play, vision-struck and silent, as Alvarita came and went. Here and there a woman peeped from a door and stood dumb, reduced to silence by the aspect of the white silk parasol.</p>
 			<p>A hundred yards and the limits of the town were passed, scattered chaparral succeeding, and then a noble grove, overflowing the bijou canon. Through this a small bright stream meandered. Park-like it was, with a kind of cockney ruralness further endorsed by the waste papers and rifled tins of picnickers. Up this stream, and down it, among its pseudo-sylvan glades and depressions, wandered the bright and unruffled Alvarita. Once she saw evidence of the recreant reptile’s progress in his distinctive trail across a spread of fine sand in the arroyo. The living water was bound to lure him; he could not be far away.</p>
 			<p>So sure was she of his immediate proximity that she perched herself to idle for a time in the curve of a great creeper that looped down from a giant water-elm. To reach this she climbed from the pathway a little distance up the side of a steep and rugged incline. Around her chaparral grew thick and high. A late-blooming ratama tree dispensed from its yellow petals a sweet and persistent odour. Adown the ravine rustled a seductive wind, melancholy with the taste of sodden, fallen leaves.</p>

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@@ -19,7 +19,7 @@
 			<p>“Well, I own them and was just sitting here studying what I’m going to do.”</p>
 			<p>“What’s the trouble?”</p>
 			<p>“Why, the walls are cracking and bulging out on the sides, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to put a lot of money into repairs. I’ve got over one hundred tenants in those buildings.”</p>
-			<p>‘Til tell you what to do.”</p>
+			<p>I’ll tell you what to do.”</p>
 			<p>“What?”</p>
 			<p>“You say the walls are bulging out?”</p>
 			<p>“Yes.”</p>

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@@ -21,7 +21,7 @@
 			<p>On a trestle stood a fresh keg of beer and his wife, who had put on a coquettish-looking cap and apron, tripped lightly behind the bar, and waving a beer mug coyly at him said:</p>
 			<p>“It’s an idea I had, Robert. I thought it would be much nicer to have you spend your money at home, and at the same time have all the amusement and pleasure that you do downtown. What will you have, sir?” she continued, with fine, commercial politeness.</p>
 			<p>Robert leaned against the bar and pawed the floor fruitlessly three or four times, trying to find the foot rest. He was a little stunned, as he always was at his wife’s original ideas. Then he braced himself and tried to conjure up a ghastly imitation of a smile.</p>
-			<p>‘Til take a beer, please,” he said.</p>
+			<p>I’ll take a beer, please,” he said.</p>
 			<p>His wife drew the beer, laid the nickel on the shelf and leaned on the bar, chatting familiarly on the topics of the day after the manner of bartenders.</p>
 			<p>“You must buy plenty, now,” she said archly, “for you are the only customer I have tonight.”</p>
 			<p>Robert felt a strong oppression of spirits, which he tried to hide. Besides the beer, which was first rate, there was little to remind him of the saloons where he had heretofore spent his money.</p>

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@@ -27,7 +27,7 @@
 			<p>In a group near the stove sat “Pigeon” McCarthy, Black Riley, and “One-ear” Mike, well and unfavorably known in the tough shoestring district that blackened the left bank of the river. They passed a newspaper back and forth among themselves. The item that each solid and blunt forefinger pointed out was an advertisement headed “One Hundred Dollars Reward.” To earn it one must return the rag-doll lost, strayed, or stolen from the Millionaire’s mansion. It seemed that grief still ravaged, unchecked, in the bosom of the too faithful Child. Flip, the terrier, capered and shook his absurd whisker before her, powerless to distract. She wailed for her Betsy in the faces of walking, talking, mama-ing, and eye-closing French Mabelles and Violettes. The advertisement was a last resort.</p>
 			<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>“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>“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>

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@@ -72,7 +72,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘are you Cornelius T. Scudder? Of Pittsburg, Pennsylvania?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I am,’ says he. ‘Come out and have a drink.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I’ve neither the time nor the desire,’ says I, ‘for such harmful and deleterious amusements. I have come from New York,’ says I, ‘on a matter of busi⁠—on a matter of art.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘I learned there that you are the owner of an Egyptian ivory carving of the time of Rameses <span epub:type="z3998:roman">II</span>., representing the head of Queen Isis in a lotus flower. There were only two of such carvings made. One has been lost for many years. I recently discovered and purchased the other in a pawn⁠—in an obscure museum in Vienna. I wish to purchase yours. Name your price.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘I learned there that you are the owner of an Egyptian ivory carving of the time of Rameses <span epub:type="z3998:roman">II</span>, representing the head of Queen Isis in a lotus flower. There were only two of such carvings made. One has been lost for many years. I recently discovered and purchased the other in a pawn⁠—in an obscure museum in Vienna. I wish to purchase yours. Name your price.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Well, the great ice jams, Profess!’ says Scudder. ‘Have you found the other one? Me sell? No. I don’t guess Cornelius Scudder needs to sell anything that he wants to keep. Have you got the carving with you, Profess?’</p>
 			<p>“I shows it to Scudder. He examines it careful all over.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘It’s the article,’ says he. ‘It’s a duplicate of mine, every line and curve of it. Tell you what I’ll do,’ he says. ‘I won’t sell, but I’ll buy. Give you $2,500 for yours.’</p>

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@@ -84,7 +84,7 @@
 			<p>“So, even after Collier was kidnapped out of the way by the revolt of his appetite, my own prospects with Mame didn’t seem to be improved. And then business played out in Guthrie.</p>
 			<p>“I had stayed too long there. The Brazilians I had sold commenced to show signs of wear, and the Kindler refused to light up right frequent on wet mornings. There is always a time, in my business, when the star of success says, ‘Move on to the next town.’ I was travelling by wagon at that time so as not to miss any of the small towns; so I hitched up a few days later and went down to tell Mame goodbye. I wasn’t abandoning the game; I intended running over to Oklahoma City and work it for a week or two. Then I was coming back to institute fresh proceedings against Mame.</p>
 			<p>“What do I find at the Dugans’ but Mame all conspicuous in a blue travelling dress, with her little trunk at the door. It seems that sister Lottie Bell, who is a typewriter in Terre Haute, is going to be married next Thursday, and Mame is off for a week’s visit to be an accomplice at the ceremony. Mame is waiting for a freight wagon that is going to take her to Oklahoma, but I condemns the freight wagon with promptness and scorn, and offers to deliver the goods myself. Ma Dugan sees no reason why not, as <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Freighter wants pay for the job; so, thirty minutes later Mame and I pull out in my light spring wagon with white canvas cover, and head due south.</p>
-			<p>“That morning was of a praiseworthy sort. The breeze was lively, and smelled excellent of flowers and grass, and the little cottontail rabbits entertained themselves with skylarking across the road. My two Kentucky bays went for the horizon until it come sailing in so fast you wanted to dodge it like a clothesline. Mame was full of talk and rattled on like a kid about her old home and her school pranks and the things she liked and the hateful ways of those Johnson girls just across the street, ‘way up in Indiana. Not a word was said about Ed Collier or victuals or such solemn subjects. About noon Mame looks and finds that the lunch she had put up in a basket had been left behind. I could have managed quite a collation, but Mame didn’t seem to be grieving over nothing to eat, so I made no lamentations. It was a sore subject with me, and I ruled provender in all its branches out of my conversation.</p>
+			<p>“That morning was of a praiseworthy sort. The breeze was lively, and smelled excellent of flowers and grass, and the little cottontail rabbits entertained themselves with skylarking across the road. My two Kentucky bays went for the horizon until it come sailing in so fast you wanted to dodge it like a clothesline. Mame was full of talk and rattled on like a kid about her old home and her school pranks and the things she liked and the hateful ways of those Johnson girls just across the street, ’way up in Indiana. Not a word was said about Ed Collier or victuals or such solemn subjects. About noon Mame looks and finds that the lunch she had put up in a basket had been left behind. I could have managed quite a collation, but Mame didn’t seem to be grieving over nothing to eat, so I made no lamentations. It was a sore subject with me, and I ruled provender in all its branches out of my conversation.</p>
 			<p>“I am minded to touch light on explanations how I came to lose the way. The road was dim and well grown with grass; and there was Mame by my side confiscating my intellects and attention. The excuses are good or they are not, as they may appear to you. But I lost it, and at dusk that afternoon, when we should have been in Oklahoma City, we were seesawing along the edge of nowhere in some undiscovered river bottom, and the rain was falling in large, wet bunches. Down there in the swamps we saw a little log house on a small knoll of high ground. The bottom grass and the chaparral and the lonesome timber crowded all around it. It seemed to be a melancholy little house, and you felt sorry for it. ’Twas that house for the night, the way I reasoned it. I explained to Mame, and she leaves it to me to decide. She doesn’t become galvanic and prosecuting, as most women would, but she says it’s all right; she knows I didn’t mean to do it.</p>
 			<p>“We found the house was deserted. It had two empty rooms. There was a little shed in the yard where beasts had once been kept. In a loft of it was a lot of old hay. I put my horses in there and gave them some of it, for which they looked at me sorrowful, expecting apologies. The rest of the hay I carried into the house by armfuls, with a view to accommodations. I also brought in the patent kindler and the Brazilians, neither of which are guaranteed against the action of water.</p>
 			<p>“Mame and I sat on the wagon seats on the floor, and I lit a lot of the kindler on the hearth, for the night was chilly. If I was any judge, that girl enjoyed it. It was a change for her. It gave her a different point of view. She laughed and talked, and the kindler made a dim light compared to her eyes. I had a pocketful of cigars, and as far as I was concerned there had never been any fall of man. We were at the same old stand in the Garden of Eden. Out there somewhere in the rain and the dark was the river of Zion, and the angel with the flaming sword had not yet put up the keep-off-the-grass sign. I opened up a gross or two of the Brazilians and made Mame put them on⁠—rings, brooches, necklaces, eardrops, bracelets, girdles, and lockets. She flashed and sparkled like a million-dollar princess until she had pink spots in her cheeks and almost cried for a looking-glass.</p>

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@@ -48,14 +48,14 @@
 			<p>As yet she could not bear to think of the life she had once desired⁠—a peaceful one in the shadow of the Green Mountains with Beriah at her side, and orders for expensive oil paintings coming in by each mail from New York. Her one fatal misstep had shattered that dream.</p>
 			<p>On the fourth day Medora powdered her face and rouged her lips. Once she had seen Carter in “Zaza.” She stood before the mirror in a reckless attitude and cried: “<i xml:lang="fr">Zut! zut!</i>” She rhymed it with “nut,” but with the lawless word Harmony seemed to pass away forever. The Vortex had her. She belonged to Bohemia for evermore. And never would Beriah⁠—</p>
 			<p>The door opened and Beriah walked in.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Dory,” said he, “what’s all that chalk and pink stuff on your face, honey?”</p>
+			<p>“ ’Dory,” said he, “what’s all that chalk and pink stuff on your face, honey?”</p>
 			<p>Medora extended an arm.</p>
 			<p>“Too late,” she said, solemnly. “The die is cast. I belong in another world. Curse me if you will⁠—it is your right. Go, and leave me in the path I have chosen. Bid them all at home never to mention my name again. And sometimes, Beriah, pray for me when I am revelling in the gaudy, but hollow, pleasures of Bohemia.”</p>
-			<p>“Get a towel, ‘Dory,” said Beriah, “and wipe that paint off your face. I came as soon as I got your letter. Them pictures of yours ain’t amounting to anything. I’ve got tickets for both of us back on the evening train. Hurry and get your things in your trunk.”</p>
+			<p>“Get a towel, ’Dory,” said Beriah, “and wipe that paint off your face. I came as soon as I got your letter. Them pictures of yours ain’t amounting to anything. I’ve got tickets for both of us back on the evening train. Hurry and get your things in your trunk.”</p>
 			<p>“Fate was too strong for me, Beriah. Go while I am strong to bear it.”</p>
-			<p>“How do you fold this easel, ‘Dory?⁠—now begin to pack, so we have time to eat before train time. The maples is all out in full-grown leaves, ‘Dory⁠—you just ought to see ’em!</p>
-			<p>“Not this early, Beriah?</p>
-			<p>“You ought to see ’em, ‘Dory; they’re like an ocean of green in the morning sunlight.”</p>
+			<p>“How do you fold this easel, ’Dory?⁠—now begin to pack, so we have time to eat before train time. The maples is all out in full-grown leaves, ’Dory⁠—you just ought to see ’em!”</p>
+			<p>“Not this early, Beriah?”</p>
+			<p>“You ought to see ’em, ’Dory; they’re like an ocean of green in the morning sunlight.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, Beriah!”</p>
 			<p>On the train she said to him suddenly:</p>
 			<p>“I wonder why you came when you got my letter.”</p>

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@@ -11,7 +11,7 @@
 			<p>The westbound train stopped at San Rosario on time at 8:20 <abbr class="time">a.m.</abbr> A man with a thick black-leather wallet under his arm left the train and walked rapidly up the main street of the town. There were other passengers who also got off at San Rosario, but they either slouched limberly over to the railroad eating-house or the Silver Dollar saloon, or joined the groups of idlers about the station.</p>
 			<p>Indecision had no part in the movements of the man with the wallet. He was short in stature, but strongly built, with very light, closely-trimmed hair, smooth, determined face, and aggressive, gold-rimmed nose glasses. He was well dressed in the prevailing Eastern style. His air denoted a quiet but conscious reserve force, if not actual authority.</p>
 			<p>After walking a distance of three squares he came to the centre of the town’s business area. Here another street of importance crossed the main one, forming the hub of San Rosario’s life and commerce. Upon one corner stood the post-office. Upon another Rubensky’s Clothing Emporium. The other two diagonally opposing corners were occupied by the town’s two banks, the First National and the Stockmen’s National. Into the First National Bank of San Rosario the newcomer walked, never slowing his brisk step until he stood at the cashier’s window. The bank opened for business at nine, and the working force was already assembled, each member preparing his department for the day’s business. The cashier was examining the mail when he noticed the stranger standing at his window.</p>
-			<p>“Bank doesn’t open ‘til nine,” he remarked curtly, but without feeling. He had had to make that statement so often to early birds since San Rosario adopted city banking hours.</p>
+			<p>“Bank doesn’t open ’til nine,” he remarked curtly, but without feeling. He had had to make that statement so often to early birds since San Rosario adopted city banking hours.</p>
 			<p>“I am well aware of that,” said the other man, in cool, brittle tones. “Will you kindly receive my card?”</p>
 			<p>The cashier drew the small, spotless parallelogram inside the bars of his wicket, and read:</p>
 			<blockquote class="card">
@@ -44,7 +44,7 @@
 			<p>“Er⁠—Major Kingman, our president⁠—er⁠—<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Nettlewick,” said the cashier.</p>
 			<p>Two men of very different types shook hands. One was a finished product of the world of straight lines, conventional methods, and formal affairs. The other was something freer, wider, and nearer to nature. Tom Kingman had not been cut to any pattern. He had been mule-driver, cowboy, ranger, soldier, sheriff, prospector, and cattleman. Now, when he was bank president, his old comrades from the prairies, of the saddle, tent, and trail found no change in him. He had made his fortune when Texas cattle were at the high tide of value, and had organized the First National Bank of San Rosario. In spite of his largeness of heart and sometimes unwise generosity toward his old friends, the bank had prospered, for Major Tom Kingman knew men as well as he knew cattle. Of late years the cattle business had known a depression, and the major’s bank was one of the few whose losses had not been great.</p>
 			<p>“And now,” said the examiner, briskly, pulling out his watch, “the last thing is the loans. We will take them up now, if you please.”</p>
-			<p>He had gone through the First National at almost record-breaking speed⁠—but thoroughly, as he did everything. The running order of the bank was smooth and clean, and that had facilitated his work. There was but one other bank in the town. He received from the Government a fee of twenty-five dollars for each bank that he examined. He should be able to go over those loans and discounts in half an hour. If so, he could examine the other bank immediately afterward, and catch the 11.45, the only other train that day in the direction he was working. Otherwise, he would have to spend the night and Sunday in this uninteresting Western town. That was why <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Nettlewick was rushing matters.</p>
+			<p>He had gone through the First National at almost record-breaking speed⁠—but thoroughly, as he did everything. The running order of the bank was smooth and clean, and that had facilitated his work. There was but one other bank in the town. He received from the Government a fee of twenty-five dollars for each bank that he examined. He should be able to go over those loans and discounts in half an hour. If so, he could examine the other bank immediately afterward, and catch the 11:45, the only other train that day in the direction he was working. Otherwise, he would have to spend the night and Sunday in this uninteresting Western town. That was why <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Nettlewick was rushing matters.</p>
 			<p>“Come with me, sir,” said Major Kingman, in his deep voice, that united the Southern drawl with the rhythmic twang of the West; “We will go over them together. Nobody in the bank knows those notes as I do. Some of ’em are a little wobbly on their legs, and some are mavericks without extra many brands on their backs, but they’ll most all pay out at the roundup.”</p>
 			<p>The two sat down at the president’s desk. First, the examiner went through the notes at lightning speed, and added up their total, finding it to agree with the amount of loans carried on the book of daily balances. Next, he took up the larger loans, inquiring scrupulously into the condition of their endorsers or securities. The new examiner’s mind seemed to course and turn and make unexpected dashes hither and thither like a bloodhound seeking a trail. Finally he pushed aside all the notes except a few, which he arranged in a neat pile before him, and began a dry, formal little speech.</p>
 			<p>“I find, sir, the condition of your bank to be very good, considering the poor crops and the depression in the cattle interests of your state. The clerical work seems to be done accurately and punctually. Your past-due paper is moderate in amount, and promises only a small loss. I would recommend the calling in of your large loans, and the making of only sixty and ninety day or call loans until general business revives. And now, there is one thing more, and I will have finished with the bank. Here are six notes aggregating something like $40,000. They are secured, according to their faces, by various stocks, bonds, shares, <abbr>etc.</abbr> to the value of $70,000. Those securities are missing from the notes to which they should be attached. I suppose you have them in the safe or vault. You will permit me to examine them.”</p>
@@ -60,13 +60,13 @@
 			<p>Nettlewick settled himself in his chair. There would be no leaving San Rosario for him that day. He would have to telegraph to the Comptroller of the Currency; he would have to swear out a warrant before the United States Commissioner for the arrest of Major Kingman; perhaps he would be ordered to close the bank on account of the loss of the securities. It was not the first crime the examiner had unearthed. Once or twice the terrible upheaval of human emotions that his investigations had loosed had almost caused a ripple in his official calm. He had seen bank men kneel and plead and cry like women for a chance⁠—an hour’s time⁠—the overlooking of a single error. One cashier had shot himself at his desk before him. None of them had taken it with the dignity and coolness of this stern old Westerner. Nettlewick felt that he owed it to him at least to listen if he wished to talk. With his elbow on the arm of his chair, and his square chin resting upon the fingers of his right hand, the bank examiner waited to hear the confession of the president of the First National Bank of San Rosario.</p>
 			<p>“When a man’s your friend,” began Major Tom, somewhat didactically, “for forty years, and tried by water, fire, earth, and cyclones, when you can do him a little favour you feel like doing it.”</p>
 			<p>(“Embezzle for him $70,000 worth of securities,” thought the examiner.)</p>
-			<p>“We were cowboys together, Bob and I,” continued the major, speaking slowly, and deliberately, and musingly, as if his thoughts were rather with the past than the critical present, “and we prospected together for gold and silver over Arizona, New Mexico, and a good part of California. We were both in the war of ‘sixty-one, but in different commands. We’ve fought Indians and horse thieves side by side; we’ve starved for weeks in a cabin in the Arizona mountains, buried twenty feet deep in snow; we’ve ridden herd together when the wind blew so hard the lightning couldn’t strike⁠—well, Bob and I have been through some rough spells since the first time we met in the branding camp of the old Anchor-Bar ranch. And during that time we’ve found it necessary more than once to help each other out of tight places. In those days it was expected of a man to stick to his friend, and he didn’t ask any credit for it. Probably next day you’d need him to get at your back and help stand off a band of Apaches, or put a tourniquet on your leg above a rattlesnake bite and ride for whisky. So, after all, it was give and take, and if you didn’t stand square with your pardner, why, you might be shy one when you needed him. But Bob was a man who was willing to go further than that. He never played a limit.</p>
+			<p>“We were cowboys together, Bob and I,” continued the major, speaking slowly, and deliberately, and musingly, as if his thoughts were rather with the past than the critical present, “and we prospected together for gold and silver over Arizona, New Mexico, and a good part of California. We were both in the war of ’sixty-one, but in different commands. We’ve fought Indians and horse thieves side by side; we’ve starved for weeks in a cabin in the Arizona mountains, buried twenty feet deep in snow; we’ve ridden herd together when the wind blew so hard the lightning couldn’t strike⁠—well, Bob and I have been through some rough spells since the first time we met in the branding camp of the old Anchor-Bar ranch. And during that time we’ve found it necessary more than once to help each other out of tight places. In those days it was expected of a man to stick to his friend, and he didn’t ask any credit for it. Probably next day you’d need him to get at your back and help stand off a band of Apaches, or put a tourniquet on your leg above a rattlesnake bite and ride for whisky. So, after all, it was give and take, and if you didn’t stand square with your pardner, why, you might be shy one when you needed him. But Bob was a man who was willing to go further than that. He never played a limit.</p>
 			<p>“Twenty years ago I was sheriff of this county, and I made Bob my chief deputy. That was before the boom in cattle when we both made our stake. I was sheriff and collector, and it was a big thing for me then. I was married, and we had a boy and a girl⁠—a four and a six year old. There was a comfortable house next to the courthouse, furnished by the county, rent free, and I was saving some money. Bob did most of the office work. Both of us had seen rough times and plenty of rustling and danger, and I tell you it was great to hear the rain and the sleet dashing against the windows of nights, and be warm and safe and comfortable, and know you could get up in the morning and be shaved and have folks call you ‘mister.’ And then, I had the finest wife and kids that ever struck the range, and my old friend with me enjoying the first fruits of prosperity and white shirts, and I guess I was happy. Yes, I was happy about that time.”</p>
 			<p>The major sighed and glanced casually out of the window. The bank examiner changed his position, and leaned his chin upon his other hand.</p>
 			<p>“One winter,” continued the major, “the money for the county taxes came pouring in so fast that I didn’t have time to take the stuff to the bank for a week. I just shoved the checks into a cigar box and the money into a sack, and locked them in the big safe that belonged to the sheriff’s office.</p>
 			<p>“I had been overworked that week, and was about sick, anyway. My nerves were out of order, and my sleep at night didn’t seem to rest me. The doctor had some scientific name for it, and I was taking medicine. And so, added to the rest, I went to bed at night with that money on my mind. Not that there was much need of being worried, for the safe was a good one, and nobody but Bob and I knew the combination. On Friday night there was about $6,500 in cash in the bag. On Saturday morning I went to the office as usual. The safe was locked, and Bob was writing at his desk. I opened the safe, and the money was gone. I called Bob, and roused everybody in the courthouse to announce the robbery. It struck me that Bob took it pretty quiet, considering how much it reflected upon both him and me.</p>
 			<p>“Two days went by and we never got a clue. It couldn’t have been burglars, for the safe had been opened by the combination in the proper way. People must have begun to talk, for one afternoon in comes Alice⁠—that’s my wife⁠—and the boy and girl, and Alice stamps her foot, and her eyes flash, and she cries out, ‘The lying wretches⁠—Tom, Tom!’ and I catch her in a faint, and bring her ’round little by little, and she lays her head down and cries and cries for the first time since she took Tom Kingman’s name and fortunes. And Jack and Zilla⁠—the youngsters⁠—they were always wild as tiger cubs to rush at Bob and climb all over him whenever they were allowed to come to the courthouse⁠—they stood and kicked their little shoes, and herded together like scared partridges. They were having their first trip down into the shadows of life. Bob was working at his desk, and he got up and went out without a word. The grand jury was in session then, and the next morning Bob went before them and confessed that he stole the money. He said he lost it in a poker game. In fifteen minutes they had found a true bill and sent me the warrant to arrest the man with whom I’d been closer than a thousand brothers for many a year.</p>
-			<p>“I did it, and then I said to Bob, pointing: ‘There’s my house, and here’s my office, and up there’s Maine, and out that way is California, and over there is Florida⁠—and that’s your range ‘til court meets. You’re in my charge, and I take the responsibility. You be here when you’re wanted.’</p>
+			<p>“I did it, and then I said to Bob, pointing: ‘There’s my house, and here’s my office, and up there’s Maine, and out that way is California, and over there is Florida⁠—and that’s your range ’til court meets. You’re in my charge, and I take the responsibility. You be here when you’re wanted.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Thanks, Tom,’ he said, kind of carelessly; ‘I was sort of hoping you wouldn’t lock me up. Court meets next Monday, so, if you don’t object, I’ll just loaf around the office until then. I’ve got one favour to ask, if it isn’t too much. If you’d let the kids come out in the yard once in a while and have a romp I’d like it.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Why not?’ I answered him. ‘They’re welcome, and so are you. And come to my house, the same as ever.’ You see, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Nettlewick, you can’t make a friend of a thief, but neither can you make a thief of a friend, all at once.”</p>
 			<p>The examiner made no answer. At that moment was heard the shrill whistle of a locomotive pulling into the depot. That was the train on the little, narrow-gauge road that struck into San Rosario from the south. The major cocked his ear and listened for a moment, and looked at his watch. The narrow-gauge was in on time⁠—10:35. The major continued:</p>
@@ -98,7 +98,7 @@
 			<p>Major Tom sat down at his desk, and drew from his vest pocket the note Roy had given him. He had read it once, but hurriedly, and now, with something like a twinkle in his eyes, he read it again. These were the words he read:</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:letter">
 				<p epub:type="z3998:salutation">Dear Tom:</p>
-				<p>I hear there’s one of Uncle Sam’s grayhounds going through you, and that means that we’ll catch him inside of a couple of hours, maybe. Now, I want you to do something for me. We’ve got just $2,200 in the bank, and the law requires that we have $20,000. I let Ross and Fisher have $18,000 late yesterday afternoon to buy up that Gibson bunch of cattle. They’ll realise $40,000 in less than thirty days on the transaction, but that won’t make my cash on hand look any prettier to that bank examiner. Now, I can’t show him those notes, for they’re just plain notes of hand without any security in sight, but you know very well that Pink Ross and Jim Fisher are two of the finest white men God ever made, and they’ll do the square thing. You remember Jim Fisher⁠—he was the one who shot that faro dealer in El Paso. I wired Sam Bradshaw’s bank to send me $20,000, and it will get in on the narrow-gauge at 10.35. You can’t let a bank examiner in to count $2,200 and close your doors. Tom, you hold that examiner. Hold him. Hold him if you have to rope him and sit on his head. Watch our front window after the narrow-gauge gets in, and when we’ve got the cash inside we’ll pull down the shade for a signal. Don’t turn him loose till then. I’m counting on you, Tom.</p>
+				<p>I hear there’s one of Uncle Sam’s grayhounds going through you, and that means that we’ll catch him inside of a couple of hours, maybe. Now, I want you to do something for me. We’ve got just $2,200 in the bank, and the law requires that we have $20,000. I let Ross and Fisher have $18,000 late yesterday afternoon to buy up that Gibson bunch of cattle. They’ll realise $40,000 in less than thirty days on the transaction, but that won’t make my cash on hand look any prettier to that bank examiner. Now, I can’t show him those notes, for they’re just plain notes of hand without any security in sight, but you know very well that Pink Ross and Jim Fisher are two of the finest white men God ever made, and they’ll do the square thing. You remember Jim Fisher⁠—he was the one who shot that faro dealer in El Paso. I wired Sam Bradshaw’s bank to send me $20,000, and it will get in on the narrow-gauge at 10:35. You can’t let a bank examiner in to count $2,200 and close your doors. Tom, you hold that examiner. Hold him. Hold him if you have to rope him and sit on his head. Watch our front window after the narrow-gauge gets in, and when we’ve got the cash inside we’ll pull down the shade for a signal. Don’t turn him loose till then. I’m counting on you, Tom.</p>
 				<footer>
 					<p epub:type="z3998:valediction">Your Old Pard,</p>
 					<p class="signature">Bob Buckley</p>

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@@ -17,7 +17,7 @@
 			<p>Close to the curb stood Jerry O’Donovan’s cab. Nighthawk was Jerry called; but no more lustrous or cleaner hansom than his ever closed its doors upon point lace and November violets. And Jerry’s horse! I am within bounds when I tell you that he was stuffed with oats until one of those old ladies who leave their dishes unwashed at home and go about having expressmen arrested, would have smiled⁠—yes, smiled⁠—to have seen him.</p>
 			<p>Among the shifting, sonorous, pulsing crowd glimpses could be had of Jerry’s high hat, battered by the winds and rains of many years; of his nose like a carrot, battered by the frolicsome, athletic progeny of millionaires and by contumacious fares; of his brass-buttoned green coat, admired in the vicinity of McGary’s. It was plain that Jerry had usurped the functions of his cab, and was carrying a “load.” Indeed, the figure may be extended and he be likened to a bread-wagon if we admit the testimony of a youthful spectator, who was heard to remark “Jerry has got a bun.”</p>
 			<p>From somewhere among the throng in the street or else out of the thin stream of pedestrians a young woman tripped and stood by the cab. The professional hawk’s eye of Jerry caught the movement. He made a lurch for the cab, overturning three or four onlookers and himself⁠—no! he caught the cap of a water-plug and kept his feet. Like a sailor shinning up the ratlins during a squall Jerry mounted to his professional seat. Once he was there McGary’s liquids were baffled. He seesawed on the mizzenmast of his craft as safe as a Steeple Jack rigged to the flagpole of a skyscraper.</p>
-			<p>“Step in, lady,” said Jerry, gathering his lines. The young woman stepped into the cab; the doors shut with a bang; Jerry’s whip cracked in the air; the crowd in the gutter scattered, and the fine hansom dashed away ‘crosstown.</p>
+			<p>“Step in, lady,” said Jerry, gathering his lines. The young woman stepped into the cab; the doors shut with a bang; Jerry’s whip cracked in the air; the crowd in the gutter scattered, and the fine hansom dashed away ’crosstown.</p>
 			<p>When the oat-spry horse had hedged a little his first spurt of speed Jerry broke the lid of his cab and called down through the aperture in the voice of a cracked megaphone, trying to please:</p>
 			<p>“Where, now, will ye be drivin’ to?”</p>
 			<p>“Anywhere you please,” came up the answer, musical and contented.</p>

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@@ -57,7 +57,7 @@
 				<p>
 					<span>“ ‘Imperious what’s-his-name, dead and turned to stone⁠—</span>
 					<br/>
-					<span>No use to write or call him on the ‘phone.’</span>
+					<span>No use to write or call him on the ’phone.’</span>
 				</p>
 			</blockquote>
 			<p>“ ‘Hunky,’ says High Jack Snakefeeder, looking at me funny, ‘do you believe in reincarnation?’</p>

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@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="his-doubt" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">His Doubt</h2>
 			<p>They lived in a neat little cottage on Prairie Avenue, and had been married about a year. She was young and sentimental and he was a clerk at fifty dollars per month. She sat rocking the cradle and looking at a bunch of something pink and white that was lying asleep, and he was reading the paper.</p>
-			<p>‘‘Charlie,” she said, presently, “you must begin to realize that you must economize and lay aside something each month for the future. You must realize that the new addition to our home that will bring us joy arid pleasure and make sweet music around our fireside must be provided for. You must be ready to meet the obligations that will be imposed upon you, and remember that another than ourselves must be considered, and that as our hands strike the chords so shall either harmony or discord be made, and as the notes mount higher and higher, we shall be held to account for our trust here below. Do you realize the responsibility?”</p>
+			<p>“Charlie,” she said, presently, “you must begin to realize that you must economize and lay aside something each month for the future. You must realize that the new addition to our home that will bring us joy arid pleasure and make sweet music around our fireside must be provided for. You must be ready to meet the obligations that will be imposed upon you, and remember that another than ourselves must be considered, and that as our hands strike the chords so shall either harmony or discord be made, and as the notes mount higher and higher, we shall be held to account for our trust here below. Do you realize the responsibility?”</p>
 			<p>Charlie said “Yes,” and then went out in the woodshed and muttered to himself: “I wonder whether she was talking about the kid, or means to buy a piano on the installment plan.”</p>
 		</section>
 	</body>

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@@ -8,14 +8,14 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<section id="hygeia-at-the-solito" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">Hygeia at the Solito</h2>
-			<p>If you are knowing in the chronicles of the ring you will recall to mind an event in the early ‘nineties when, for a minute and sundry odd seconds, a champion and a “would-be” faced each other on the alien side of an international river. So brief a conflict had rarely imposed upon the fair promise of true sport. The reporters made what they could of it, but, divested of padding, the action was sadly fugacious. The champion merely smote his victim, turned his back upon him, remarking, “I know what I done to dat stiff,” and extended an arm like a ship’s mast for his glove to be removed.</p>
+			<p>If you are knowing in the chronicles of the ring you will recall to mind an event in the early ’nineties when, for a minute and sundry odd seconds, a champion and a “would-be” faced each other on the alien side of an international river. So brief a conflict had rarely imposed upon the fair promise of true sport. The reporters made what they could of it, but, divested of padding, the action was sadly fugacious. The champion merely smote his victim, turned his back upon him, remarking, “I know what I done to dat stiff,” and extended an arm like a ship’s mast for his glove to be removed.</p>
 			<p>Which accounts for a trainload of extremely disgusted gentlemen in an uproar of fancy vests and neckwear being spilled from their pullmans in San Antonio in the early morning following the fight. Which also partly accounts for the unhappy predicament in which “Cricket” McGuire found himself as he tumbled from his car and sat upon the depot platform, torn by a spasm of that hollow, racking cough so familiar to San Antonian ears. At that time, in the uncertain light of dawn, that way passed Curtis Raidler, the Nueces County cattleman⁠—may his shadow never measure under six foot two.</p>
 			<p>The cattleman, out this early to catch the southbound for his ranch station, stopped at the side of the distressed patron of sport, and spoke in the kindly drawl of his ilk and region, “Got it pretty bad, bud?”</p>
 			<p>“Cricket” McGuire, ex-feather-weight prizefighter, tout, jockey, follower of the “ponies,” all-round sport, and manipulator of the gum balls and walnut shells, looked up pugnaciously at the imputation cast by “bud.”</p>
 			<p>“G’wan,” he rasped, “telegraph pole. I didn’t ring for yer.”</p>
 			<p>Another paroxysm wrung him, and he leaned limply against a convenient baggage truck. Raidler waited patiently, glancing around at the white hats, short overcoats, and big cigars thronging the platform. “You’re from the No’th, ain’t you, bud?” he asked when the other was partially recovered. “Come down to see the fight?”</p>
 			<p>“Fight!” snapped McGuire. “Puss-in-the-corner! ’Twas a hypodermic injection. Handed him just one like a squirt of dope, and he’s asleep, and no tanbark needed in front of his residence. Fight!” He rattled a bit, coughed, and went on, hardly addressing the cattleman, but rather for the relief of voicing his troubles. “No more dead sure t’ings for me. But Rus Sage himself would have snatched at it. Five to one dat de boy from Cork wouldn’t stay t’ree rounds is what I invested in. Put my last cent on, and could already smell the sawdust in dat all-night joint of Jimmy Delaney’s on T’irty-seventh Street I was goin’ to buy. And den⁠—say, telegraph pole, what a gazaboo a guy is to put his whole roll on one turn of the gaboozlum!”</p>
-			<p>“You’re plenty right,” said the big cattleman; “more ‘specially when you lose. Son, you get up and light out for a hotel. You got a mighty bad cough. Had it long?”</p>
+			<p>“You’re plenty right,” said the big cattleman; “more ’specially when you lose. Son, you get up and light out for a hotel. You got a mighty bad cough. Had it long?”</p>
 			<p>“Lungs,” said McGuire comprehensively. “I got it. The croaker says I’ll come to time for six months longer⁠—maybe a year if I hold my gait. I wanted to settle down and take care of myself. Dat’s why I speculated on dat five to one perhaps. I had a t’ousand iron dollars saved up. If I winned I was goin’ to buy Delaney’s café. Who’d a t’ought dat stiff would take a nap in de foist round⁠—say?”</p>
 			<p>“It’s a hard deal,” commented Raidler, looking down at the diminutive form of McGuire crumpled against the truck. “But you go to a hotel and rest. There’s the Menger and the Maverick, and⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“And the Fi’th Av’noo, and the Waldorf-Astoria,” mimicked McGuire. “Told you I went broke. I’m on de bum proper. I’ve got one dime left. Maybe a trip to Europe or a sail in me private yacht would fix me up⁠—paper!”</p>

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@@ -66,7 +66,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Why’n’t you telegraph to San Antone,’ he asks, ‘and have the bunch arrested there?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Oh, well,’ says I, ‘I always did admire telegraphy; but astronomy was what I had took up just then.’ That capitalist sure knew how to gesticulate with his hands.</p>
 			<p>“Luke got madder and madder. He investigates and finds in the depot a card one of the men had dropped that gives the address of some hombre called Scudder in New York City.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Bud,’ says Luke, ‘I’m going after that bunch. I’m going there and get the man or boy, as you say he was, and bring him back. I’m sheriff of Mojada County, and I shall keep law and order in its precincts while I’m able to draw a gun. And I want you to go with me. No Eastern Yankee can shoot up a respectable and well-known citizen of Bildad, ‘specially with a thirty-two calibre, and escape the law. Pedro Johnson,’ says Luke, ‘is one of our most prominent citizens and business men. I’ll appoint Sam Bell acting sheriff with penitentiary powers while I’m away, and you and me will take the six forty-five northbound tomorrow evening and follow up this trail.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Bud,’ says Luke, ‘I’m going after that bunch. I’m going there and get the man or boy, as you say he was, and bring him back. I’m sheriff of Mojada County, and I shall keep law and order in its precincts while I’m able to draw a gun. And I want you to go with me. No Eastern Yankee can shoot up a respectable and well-known citizen of Bildad, ’specially with a thirty-two calibre, and escape the law. Pedro Johnson,’ says Luke, ‘is one of our most prominent citizens and business men. I’ll appoint Sam Bell acting sheriff with penitentiary powers while I’m away, and you and me will take the six forty-five northbound tomorrow evening and follow up this trail.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I’m your company,’ says I. ‘I never see this New York, but I’d like to. But, Luke,’ says I, ‘don’t you have to have a dispensation or a habeas corpus or something from the state, when you reach out that far for rich men and malefactors?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Did I have a requisition,’ says Luke, ‘when I went over into the Brazos bottoms and brought back Bill Grimes and two more for holding up the International? Did me and you have a search warrant or a posse comitatus when we rounded up them six Mexican cow thieves down in Hidalgo? It’s my business to keep order in Mojada County.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘And it’s my business as office deputy,’ says I, ‘to see that business is carried on according to law. Between us both we ought to keep things pretty well cleaned up.’</p>

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@@ -29,7 +29,7 @@
 			<p>“Inflammatory?”</p>
 			<p>“Was. The inflammation has gone down.” The burglar stood for a moment or two, holding his gun on the afflicted one. He glanced at the plunder on the dresser and then, with a half-embarrassed air, back at the man in the bed. Then he, too, made a sudden grimace.</p>
 			<p>“Don’t stand there making faces,” snapped the citizen, bad-humouredly. “If you’ve come to burgle why don’t you do it? There’s some stuff lying around.”</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Scuse me,” said the burglar, with a grin; “but it just socked me one, too. It’s good for you that rheumatism and me happens to be old pals. I got it in my left arm, too. Most anybody but me would have popped you when you wouldn’t hoist that left claw of yours.”</p>
+			<p>“ ’Scuse me,” said the burglar, with a grin; “but it just socked me one, too. It’s good for you that rheumatism and me happens to be old pals. I got it in my left arm, too. Most anybody but me would have popped you when you wouldn’t hoist that left claw of yours.”</p>
 			<p>“How long have you had it?” inquired the citizen.</p>
 			<p>“Four years. I guess that ain’t all. Once you’ve got it, it’s you for a rheumatic life⁠—that’s my judgment.”</p>
 			<p>“Ever try rattlesnake oil?” asked the citizen, interestedly.</p>
@@ -49,7 +49,7 @@
 			<p>The burglar looked down at his pistol and thrust it into his pocket with an awkward attempt at ease.</p>
 			<p>“Say, old man,” he said, constrainedly, “ever try opodeldoc?”</p>
 			<p>“Slop!” said the citizen angrily. “Might as well rub on restaurant butter.”</p>
-			<p>“Sure,” concurred the burglar. “It’s a salve suitable for little Minnie when the kitty scratches her finger. I’ll tell you what! We’re up against it. I only find one thing that eases her up. Hey? Little old sanitary, ameliorating, lest-we-forget Booze. Say⁠—this job’s off⁠—‘scuse me⁠—get on your clothes and let’s go out and have some. ‘Scuse the liberty, but⁠—ouch! There she goes again!”</p>
+			<p>“Sure,” concurred the burglar. “It’s a salve suitable for little Minnie when the kitty scratches her finger. I’ll tell you what! We’re up against it. I only find one thing that eases her up. Hey? Little old sanitary, ameliorating, lest-we-forget Booze. Say⁠—this job’s off⁠—’scuse me⁠—get on your clothes and let’s go out and have some. ’Scuse the liberty, but⁠—ouch! There she goes again!”</p>
 			<p>“For a week,” said the citizen. “I haven’t been able to dress myself without help. I’m afraid Thomas is in bed, and⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Climb out,” said the burglar, “I’ll help you get into your duds.”</p>
 			<p>The conventional returned as a tidal wave and flooded the citizen. He stroked his brown-and-gray beard.</p>

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@@ -33,14 +33,14 @@
 			<p>“Make one,” said Anthony. “Take her for a walk in the park, or a straw ride, or walk home with her from church. Chance! Pshaw!”</p>
 			<p>“You don’t know the social mill, dad. She’s part of the stream that turns it. Every hour and minute of her time is arranged for days in advance. I must have that girl, dad, or this town is a blackjack swamp forevermore. And I can’t write it⁠—I can’t do that.”</p>
 			<p>“Tut!” said the old man. “Do you mean to tell me that with all the money I’ve got you can’t get an hour or two of a girl’s time for yourself?”</p>
-			<p>“I’ve put it off too late. She’s going to sail for Europe at noon day after tomorrow for a two years’ stay. I’m to see her alone tomorrow evening for a few minutes. She’s at Larchmont now at her aunt’s. I can’t go there. But I’m allowed to meet her with a cab at the Grand Central Station tomorrow evening at the 8.30 train. We drive down Broadway to Wallack’s at a gallop, where her mother and a box party will be waiting for us in the lobby. Do you think she would listen to a declaration from me during that six or eight minutes under those circumstances? No. And what chance would I have in the theatre or afterward? None. No, dad, this is one tangle that your money can’t unravel. We can’t buy one minute of time with cash; if we could, rich people would live longer. There’s no hope of getting a talk with Miss Lantry before she sails.”</p>
+			<p>“I’ve put it off too late. She’s going to sail for Europe at noon day after tomorrow for a two years’ stay. I’m to see her alone tomorrow evening for a few minutes. She’s at Larchmont now at her aunt’s. I can’t go there. But I’m allowed to meet her with a cab at the Grand Central Station tomorrow evening at the 8:30 train. We drive down Broadway to Wallack’s at a gallop, where her mother and a box party will be waiting for us in the lobby. Do you think she would listen to a declaration from me during that six or eight minutes under those circumstances? No. And what chance would I have in the theatre or afterward? None. No, dad, this is one tangle that your money can’t unravel. We can’t buy one minute of time with cash; if we could, rich people would live longer. There’s no hope of getting a talk with Miss Lantry before she sails.”</p>
 			<p>“All right, Richard, my boy,” said old Anthony, cheerfully. “You may run along down to your club now. I’m glad it ain’t your liver. But don’t forget to burn a few punk sticks in the joss house to the great god Mazuma from time to time. You say money won’t buy time? Well, of course, you can’t order eternity wrapped up and delivered at your residence for a price, but I’ve seen Father Time get pretty bad stone bruises on his heels when he walked through the gold diggings.”</p>
 			<p>That night came Aunt Ellen, gentle, sentimental, wrinkled, sighing, oppressed by wealth, in to Brother Anthony at his evening paper, and began discourse on the subject of lovers’ woes.</p>
 			<p>“He told me all about it,” said brother Anthony, yawning. “I told him my bank account was at his service. And then he began to knock money. Said money couldn’t help. Said the rules of society couldn’t be bucked for a yard by a team of ten-millionaires.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, Anthony,” sighed Aunt Ellen, “I wish you would not think so much of money. Wealth is nothing where a true affection is concerned. Love is all-powerful. If he only had spoken earlier! She could not have refused our Richard. But now I fear it is too late. He will have no opportunity to address her. All your gold cannot bring happiness to your son.”</p>
 			<p>At eight o’clock the next evening Aunt Ellen took a quaint old gold ring from a moth-eaten case and gave it to Richard.</p>
 			<p>“Wear it tonight, nephew,” she begged. “Your mother gave it to me. Good luck in love she said it brought. She asked me to give it to you when you had found the one you loved.”</p>
-			<p>Young Rockwall took the ring reverently and tried it on his smallest finger. It slipped as far as the second joint and stopped. He took it off and stuffed it into his vest pocket, after the manner of man. And then he ‘phoned for his cab.</p>
+			<p>Young Rockwall took the ring reverently and tried it on his smallest finger. It slipped as far as the second joint and stopped. He took it off and stuffed it into his vest pocket, after the manner of man. And then he ’phoned for his cab.</p>
 			<p>At the station he captured Miss Lantry out of the gadding mob at eight thirty-two.</p>
 			<p>“We mustn’t keep mamma and the others waiting,” said she.</p>
 			<p>“To Wallack’s Theatre as fast as you can drive!” said Richard loyally.</p>

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@@ -34,7 +34,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘All right,’ says he. ‘But I sort of wanted it for the collection I’m starting. I got a $5,000 one last week for $2.10.’</p>
 			<p>“Just then a telephone bell rings in the house.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Come in, Bunk,’ says the farmer, ‘and look at my place. It’s kind of lonesome here sometimes. I think that’s New York calling.’</p>
-			<p>“We went inside. The room looked like a Broadway stockbroker’s⁠—light oak desks, two ‘phones, Spanish leather upholstered chairs and couches, oil paintings in gilt frames a foot deep and a ticker hitting off the news in one corner.</p>
+			<p>“We went inside. The room looked like a Broadway stockbroker’s⁠—light oak desks, two ’phones, Spanish leather upholstered chairs and couches, oil paintings in gilt frames a foot deep and a ticker hitting off the news in one corner.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Hello, hello!’ says this funny farmer. ‘Is that the Regent Theatre? Yes; this is Plunkett, of Woodbine Centre. Reserve four orchestra seats for Friday evening⁠—my usual ones. Yes; Friday⁠—goodbye.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I run over to New York every two weeks to see a show,’ says the farmer, hanging up the receiver. ‘I catch the eighteen-hour flyer at Indianapolis, spend ten hours in the heyday of night on the Yappian Way, and get home in time to see the chickens go to roost forty-eight hours later. Oh, the pristine Hubbard squasherino of the cave-dwelling period is getting geared up some for the annual meeting of the Don’t-Blow-Out-the-Gas Association, don’t you think, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bunk?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I seem to perceive,’ says I, ‘a kind of hiatus in the agrarian traditions in which heretofore, I have reposed confidence.’</p>

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@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 			<p>“The doctor comes over and he investigates the patient.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Boys,’ says he, ‘you might as well go to playing seven-up for his saddle and clothes, for his head’s fractured and if he lives ten minutes it will be a remarkable case of longevity.’</p>
 			<p>“Of course we didn’t gamble for the poor rooster’s saddle⁠—that was one of Doc’s jokes. But we stood around feeling solemn, and all of us forgive him for having talked us to death about New York.</p>
-			<p>“I never saw anybody about to hand in his checks act more peaceful than this fellow. His eyes were fixed ‘way up in the air, and he was using rambling words to himself all about sweet music and beautiful streets and white-robed forms, and he was smiling like dying was a pleasure.</p>
+			<p>“I never saw anybody about to hand in his checks act more peaceful than this fellow. His eyes were fixed ’way up in the air, and he was using rambling words to himself all about sweet music and beautiful streets and white-robed forms, and he was smiling like dying was a pleasure.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘He’s about gone now,’ said Doc. ‘Whenever they begin to think they see heaven it’s all off.’</p>
 			<p>“Blamed if that New York man didn’t sit right up when he heard the Doc say that.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Say,’ says he, kind of disappointed, ‘was that heaven? Confound it all, I thought it was Broadway. Some of you fellows get my clothes. I’m going to get up.’</p>

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@@ -69,7 +69,7 @@
 			<p>“Can’t you get a story out of it?” he asked, huskily. “Some sort of a story, even if you have to fake part of it?”</p>
 			<p>“Not a line,” said I. “I can fancy the look on Grimes’ face if I should try to put over any slush like this. But we’ve helped the little lady out, and that’ll have to be our only reward.”</p>
 			<p>“I’m sorry,” said Tripp, almost inaudibly. “I’m sorry you’re out your money. Now, it seemed to me like a find of a big story, you know⁠—that is, a sort of thing that would write up pretty well.”</p>
-			<p>“Let’s try to forget it,” said I, with a praiseworthy attempt at gayety, “and take the next car ‘cross town.”</p>
+			<p>“Let’s try to forget it,” said I, with a praiseworthy attempt at gayety, “and take the next car ’cross town.”</p>
 			<p>I steeled myself against his unexpressed but palpable desire. He should not coax, cajole, or wring from me the dollar he craved. I had had enough of that wild-goose chase.</p>
 			<p>Tripp feebly unbuttoned his coat of the faded pattern and glossy seams to reach for something that had once been a handkerchief deep down in some obscure and cavernous pocket. As he did so I caught the shine of a cheap silver-plated watch-chain across his vest, and something dangling from it caused me to stretch forth my hand and seize it curiously. It was the half of a silver dime that had been cut in halves with a chisel.</p>
 			<p>“What!” I said, looking at him keenly.</p>

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@@ -39,7 +39,7 @@
 			<p>Gillian strolled out to where his cab was waiting.</p>
 			<p>“What would you do with a thousand dollars if you had it?” he asked the driver.</p>
 			<p>“Open a s’loon,” said the cabby, promptly and huskily. “I know a place I could take money in with both hands. It’s a four-story brick on a corner. I’ve got it figured out. Second story⁠—Chinks and chop suey; third floor⁠—manicures and foreign missions; fourth floor⁠—poolroom. If you was thinking of putting up the cap⁠—”</p>
-			<p>“Oh, no,” said Gillian, “I merely asked from curiosity. I take you by the hour. Drive ‘til I tell you to stop.”</p>
+			<p>“Oh, no,” said Gillian, “I merely asked from curiosity. I take you by the hour. Drive ’til I tell you to stop.”</p>
 			<p>Eight blocks down Broadway Gillian poked up the trap with his cane and got out. A blind man sat upon a stool on the sidewalk selling pencils. Gillian went out and stood before him.</p>
 			<p>“Excuse me,” he said, “but would you mind telling me what you would do if you had a thousand dollars?”</p>
 			<p>“You got out of that cab that just drove up, didn’t you?” asked the blind man.</p>

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@@ -38,9 +38,9 @@
 			<p>“For eight days gales and squalls and waterspouts beat us from our course. Five days only should have landed us in Esperando. Our Jonah swallowed the bad credit of it with appealing frankness; but that scarcely lessened the hardships our cause was made to suffer.</p>
 			<p>“At last one afternoon we steamed into the calm estuary of the little Rio Escondido. Three miles up this we crept, feeling for the shallow channel between the low banks that were crowded to the edge with gigantic trees and riotous vegetation. Then our whistle gave a little toot, and in five minutes we heard a shout, and Carlos⁠—my brave Carlos Quintana⁠—crashed through the tangled vines waving his cap madly for joy.</p>
 			<p>“A hundred yards away was his camp, where three hundred chosen patriots of Esperando were awaiting our coming. For a month Carlos had been drilling them there in the tactics of war, and filling them with the spirit of revolution and liberty.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘My Captain⁠—<i xml:lang="es">compadre mio!</i>‘ shouted Carlos, while yet my boat was being lowered. ‘You should see them in the drill by <em>companies</em>⁠—in the column wheel⁠—in the march by fours⁠—they are superb! Also in the manual of arms⁠—but, alas! performed only with sticks of bamboo. The guns, <i xml:lang="es">capitan</i>⁠—say that you have brought the guns!’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘My Captain⁠—<i xml:lang="es">compadre mio!</i>’ shouted Carlos, while yet my boat was being lowered. ‘You should see them in the drill by <em>companies</em>⁠—in the column wheel⁠—in the march by fours⁠—they are superb! Also in the manual of arms⁠—but, alas! performed only with sticks of bamboo. The guns, <i xml:lang="es">capitan</i>⁠—say that you have brought the guns!’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘A thousand Winchesters, Carlos,’ I called to him. ‘And two Gatlings.’</p>
-			<p>“ ’<i xml:lang="es">Valgame Dios!</i>‘ he cried, throwing his cap in the air. ‘We shall sweep the world!’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘<i xml:lang="es">Valgame Dios!</i>’ he cried, throwing his cap in the air. ‘We shall sweep the world!’</p>
 			<p>“At that moment Kearny tumbled from the steamer’s side into the river. He could not swim, so the crew threw him a rope and drew him back aboard. I caught his eye and his look of pathetic but still bright and undaunted consciousness of his guilty luck. I told myself that although he might be a man to shun, he was also one to be admired.</p>
 			<p>“I gave orders to the sailing-master that the arms, ammunition, and provisions were to be landed at once. That was easy in the steamer’s boats, except for the two Gatling guns. For their transportation ashore we carried a stout flatboat, brought for the purpose in the steamer’s hold.</p>
 			<p>“In the meantime I walked with Carlos to the camp and made the soldiers a little speech in Spanish, which they received with enthusiasm; and then I had some wine and a cigarette in Carlos’s tent. Later we walked back to the river to see how the unloading was being conducted.</p>

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@@ -61,7 +61,7 @@
 			<p>“Good boy!” he exclaimed suddenly, as if relieved. “I wondered if he was going to forget his Kathleen Mavourneen.”</p>
 			<p>Young Olivarra had reascended the steps and spoken a few words to General Pilar. Then that distinguished veteran descended to the ground and approached Pasa, who still stood, wonder-eyed, where Dicky had left her. With his plumed hat in his hand, and his medals and decorations shining on his breast, the general spoke to her and gave her his arm, and they went up the stone steps of the Casa Morena together. And then Ramon Olivarra stepped forward and took both her hands before all the people.</p>
 			<p>And while the cheering was breaking out afresh everywhere, Captain Cronin and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Vincenti turned and walked back toward the shore where the gig was waiting for them.</p>
-			<p>“There’ll be another ‘<i xml:lang="es">presidente proclamada</i>‘ in the morning,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Vincenti, musingly. “As a rule they are not as reliable as the elected ones, but this youngster seems to have some good stuff in him. He planned and maneuvered the entire campaign. Olivarra’s widow, you know, was wealthy. After her husband was assassinated she went to the States, and educated her son at Yale. The Vesuvius Company hunted him up, and backed him in the little game.”</p>
+			<p>“There’ll be another ‘<i xml:lang="es">presidente proclamada</i>’ in the morning,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Vincenti, musingly. “As a rule they are not as reliable as the elected ones, but this youngster seems to have some good stuff in him. He planned and maneuvered the entire campaign. Olivarra’s widow, you know, was wealthy. After her husband was assassinated she went to the States, and educated her son at Yale. The Vesuvius Company hunted him up, and backed him in the little game.”</p>
 			<p>“It’s a glorious thing,” said Cronin, half jestingly, “to be able to discharge a government, and insert one of your own choosing, in these days.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, it is only a matter of business,” said Vincenti, stopping and offering the stump of his cigar to a monkey that swung down from a lime tree; “and that is what moves the world of today. That extra <i xml:lang="es">real</i> on the price of bananas had to go. We took the shortest way of removing it.”</p>
 		</section>

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@@ -14,9 +14,9 @@
 			<p>Sam Webber’s sheep ranch was situated in the loneliest part of the country between the Nueces and the Frio. The ranch house⁠—a two-room box structure⁠—was on the rise of a gently swelling hill in the midst of a wilderness of high chaparral. In front of it was a small clearing where stood the sheep pens, shearing shed, and wool house. Only a few feet back of it began the thorny jungle.</p>
 			<p>Sam was going to ride over to the Chapman ranch to see about buying some more improved merino rams. At length he came out, ready for his ride. This being a business trip of some importance, and the Chapman ranch being almost a small town in population and size, Sam had decided to “dress up” accordingly. The result was that he had transformed himself from a graceful, picturesque frontiersman into something much less pleasing to the sight. The tight white collar awkwardly constricted his muscular, mahogany-colored neck. The buttonless shirt bulged in stiff waves beneath his unbuttoned vest. The suit of “ready-made” effectually concealed the fine lines of his straight, athletic figure. His berry-brown face was set to the melancholy dignity befitting a prisoner of state. He gave Randy, his three-year-old son, a pat on the head, and hurried out to where Mexico, his favorite saddle horse, was standing.</p>
 			<p>Marthy, leisurely rocking in her chair, fixed her place in the book with her finger, and turned her head, smiling mischievously as she noted the havoc Sam had wrought with his appearance in trying to “fix up.”</p>
-			<p>“Well, ef I must say it, Sam,” she drawled, “you look jest like one of them hayseeds in the picture papers, ‘stead of a free and independent sheepman of the State o’ Texas.”</p>
+			<p>“Well, ef I must say it, Sam,” she drawled, “you look jest like one of them hayseeds in the picture papers, ’stead of a free and independent sheepman of the State o’ Texas.”</p>
 			<p>Sam climbed awkwardly into the saddle.</p>
-			<p>“You’re the one ought to be ‘shamed to say so,” he replied hotly. “ ‘Stead of ‘tendin’ to a man’s clothes you’re al’ays setting around a-readin’ them billy-by-dam yaller-back novils.”</p>
+			<p>“You’re the one ought to be ’shamed to say so,” he replied hotly. “ ’Stead of ’tendin’ to a man’s clothes you’re al’ays setting around a-readin’ them billy-by-dam yaller-back novils.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, shet up and ride along,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Webber, with a little jerk at the handles of her chair; “you always fussin’ ’bout my readin’. I do a-plenty; and I’ll read when I wanter. I live in the bresh here like a varmint, never seein’ nor hearin’ nothin’, and what other ’musement kin I have? Not in listenin’ to you talk, for it’s complain, complain, one day after another. Oh, go on, Sam, and leave me in peace.”</p>
 			<p>Sam gave his pony a squeeze with his knees and “shoved” down the wagon trail that connected his ranch with the old, open Government road. It was eight o’clock, and already beginning to be very warm. He should have started three hours earlier. Chapman ranch was only eighteen miles away, but there was a road for only three miles of the distance. He had ridden over there once with one of the Half-Moon cowpunchers, and he had the direction well-defined in his mind.</p>
 			<p>Sam turned off the old Government road at the split mesquite, and struck down the arroyo of the Quintanilla. Here was a narrow stretch of smiling valley, upholstered with a rich mat of green, curly mesquite grass; and Mexico consumed those few miles quickly with his long, easy lope. Again, upon reaching Wild Duck Waterhole, must he abandon well-defined ways. He turned now to his right up a little hill, pebble-covered, upon which grew only the tenacious and thorny prickly pear and chaparral. At the summit of this he paused to take his last general view of the landscape for, from now on, he must wind through brakes and thickets of chaparral, pear, and mesquite, for the most part seeing scarcely farther than twenty yards in any direction, choosing his way by the prairie-dweller’s instinct, guided only by an occasional glimpse of a far distant hilltop, a peculiarly shaped knot of trees, or the position of the sun.</p>

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@@ -102,7 +102,7 @@
 				<p>“Barbara read it to me. I saw it afterward. It said: ‘Come to my studio at twelve to-night, and do not fail.’ I thought you were sick, of course, but you don’t seem to be.”</p>
 				<p>“Aha!” said Gilbert irrelevantly. “I’ll tell you why I asked you to come, Nevada. I want you to marry me immediately⁠—to-night. What’s a little snow-storm? Will you do it?”</p>
 				<p>“You might have noticed that I would, long ago,” said Nevada. “And I’m rather stuck on the snow-storm idea, myself. I surely would hate one of these flowery church noon-weddings. Gilbert, I didn’t know you had grit enough to propose it this way. Let’s shock ’em⁠—it’s our funeral, ain’t it?”</p>
-				<p>“You bet!” said Gilbert. “Where did I hear that expression?” he added to himself. “Wait a minute, Nevada; I want to do a little ‘phoning.”</p>
+				<p>“You bet!” said Gilbert. “Where did I hear that expression?” he added to himself. “Wait a minute, Nevada; I want to do a little ’phoning.”</p>
 				<p>He shut himself in a little dressing-room, and called upon the lightnings of the heavens⁠—condensed into unromantic numbers and districts.</p>
 				<p>“That you, Jack? You confounded sleepyhead! Yes, wake up; this is me⁠—or I⁠—oh, bother the difference in grammar! I’m going to be married right away. Yes! Wake up your sister⁠—don’t answer me back; bring her along, too⁠—you <em>must</em>! Remind Agnes of the time I saved her from drowning in Lake Ronkonkoma⁠—I know it’s caddish to refer to it, but she must come with you. Yes. Nevada is here, waiting. We’ve been engaged quite a while. Some opposition among the relatives, you know, and we have to pull it off this way. We’re waiting here for you. Don’t let Agnes out-talk you⁠—bring her! You will? Good old boy! I’ll order a carriage to call for you, double-quick time. Confound you, Jack, you’re all right!”</p>
 				<p>Gilbert returned to the room where Nevada waited.</p>

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@@ -32,7 +32,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Them’s a mighty slick outfit of habiliments you have got on, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Man,’ says he. ‘I’ll bet a hoss you never acquired the right, title, and interest in and to them clothes in Atascosa City.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Why, no,’ says I, being ready enough to exchange personalities with this moneyed monument of melancholy. ‘I had this suit tailored from a special line of coatericks, vestures, and pantings in <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis. Would you mind putting me sane,’ says I, ‘on this watch-throwing contest? I’ve been used to seeing timepieces treated with more politeness and esteem⁠—except women’s watches, of course, which by nature they abuse by cracking walnuts with ’em and having ’em taken showing in tintype pictures.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Me and George,’ he explains, ‘are up from the ranch, having a spell of fun. Up to last month we owned four sections of watered grazing down on the San Miguel. But along comes one of these oil prospectors and begins to bore. He strikes a gusher that flows out twenty thousand⁠—or maybe it was twenty million⁠—barrels of oil a day. And me and George gets one hundred and fifty thousand dollars⁠—seventy-five thousand dollars apiece⁠—for the land. So now and then we saddles up and hits the breeze for Atascosa City for a few days of excitement and damage. Here’s a little bunch of the dinero that I drawed out of the bank this morning,’ says he, and shows a roll of twenties and fifties as big around as a sleeping-car pillow. The yellowbacks glowed like a sunset on the gable end of John D.’s barn. My knees got weak, and I sat down on the edge of the board sidewalk.</p>
-			<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>“ ‘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>

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@@ -50,7 +50,7 @@
 			<p>Keogh was sprawled in the official chair, drawing caricatures of his Uncle’s head on an official pad of paper. He looked up at his visitor.</p>
 			<p>“Where’s Johnny Atwood?” inquired the sunburned young man, in a business tone.</p>
 			<p>“Gone,” said Keogh, working carefully at Uncle Sam’s necktie.</p>
-			<p>“That’s just like him,” remarked the nut-brown one, leaning against the table. “He always was a fellow to gallivant around instead of ‘tending to business. Will he be in soon?”</p>
+			<p>“That’s just like him,” remarked the nut-brown one, leaning against the table. “He always was a fellow to gallivant around instead of ’tending to business. Will he be in soon?”</p>
 			<p>“Don’t think so,” said Keogh, after a fair amount of deliberation.</p>
 			<p>“I s’pose he’s out at some of his tomfoolery,” conjectured the visitor, in a tone of virtuous conviction. “Johnny never would stick to anything long enough to succeed. I wonder how he manages to run his business here, and never be ’round to look after it.”</p>
 			<p>“I’m looking after the business just now,” admitted the pro tem consul.</p>

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@@ -199,7 +199,7 @@
 				</tr>
 				<tr>
 					<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Penne</td>
-					<td><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.”</td>
+					<td><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.’ ”</td>
 				</tr>
 				<tr>
 					<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Miss Lore</td>

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@@ -50,7 +50,7 @@
 			<p>The young farmer smiled a springtime smile.</p>
 			<p>“I dropped into that Home Restaurant next door this evening,” said he. “I don’t care who knows it; I like a dish of some kind of greens at this time of the year. I ran my eye down that nice typewritten bill of fare looking for something in that line. When I got below cabbage I turned my chair over and hollered for the proprietor. He told me where you lived.”</p>
 			<p>“I remember,” sighed Sarah, happily. “That was dandelions below cabbage.”</p>
-			<p>“I’d know that cranky capital W ‘way above the line that your typewriter makes anywhere in the world,” said Franklin.</p>
+			<p>“I’d know that cranky capital <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">W</i> ’way above the line that your typewriter makes anywhere in the world,” said Franklin.</p>
 			<p>“Why, there’s no W in dandelions,” said Sarah, in surprise.</p>
 			<p>The young man drew the bill of fare from his pocket, and pointed to a line.</p>
 			<p>Sarah recognised the first card she had typewritten that afternoon. There was still the rayed splotch in the upper right-hand corner where a tear had fallen. But over the spot where one should have read the name of the meadow plant, the clinging memory of their golden blossoms had allowed her fingers to strike strange keys.</p>

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@@ -75,7 +75,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Never,’ says I. ‘I never take in any bad money.’</p>
 			<p>“Shane drops down on the floor and throws his arms over the sacks of gold-dust.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I love it,’ says he. ‘I want to feel the touch of it day and night. It’s my pleasure in life. I come in this room, and I’m a king and a rich man. I’ll be a millionaire in another year. The pile’s getting bigger every month. I’ve got the whole tribe washing out the sands in the creeks. I’m the happiest man in the world, <abbr class="name">W. D.</abbr> I just want to be near this gold, and know it’s mine and it’s increasing every day. Now, you know,’ says he, ‘why my Indians wouldn’t buy your goods. They can’t. They bring all the dust to me. I’m their king. I’ve taught ’em not to desire or admire. You might as well shut up shop.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘I’ll tell you what you are,’ says I. ‘You’re a plain, contemptible miser. You preach supply and you forget demand. Now, supply,’ I goes on, ‘is never anything but supply. On the contrary,’ says I, ‘demand is a much broader syllogism and assertion. Demand includes the rights of our women and children, and charity and friendship, and even a little begging on the street corners. They’ve both got to harmonize equally. And I’ve got a few things up my commercial sleeve yet,’ says I, ‘that may jostle your preconceived ideas of politics and economy.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘I’ll tell you what you are,’ says I. ‘You’re a plain, contemptible miser. You preach supply and you forget demand. Now, supply,’ I goes on, ‘is never anything but supply. On the contrary,’ says I, ‘demand is a much broader syllogism and assertion. Demand includes the rights of our women and children, and charity and friendship, and even a little begging on the street corners. They’ve both got to harmonize equally. And I’ve got a few things up my commercial sleeve yet,’ says I, ‘that may jostle your preconceived ideas of politics and economy.’</p>
 			<p>“The next morning I had McClintock bring up another mule-load of goods to the plaza and open it up. The people gathered around the same as before.</p>
 			<p>“I got out the finest line of necklaces, bracelets, hair-combs, and earrings that I carried, and had the women put ’em on. And then I played trumps.</p>
 			<p>“Out of my last pack I opened up a half gross of hand-mirrors, with solid tinfoil backs, and passed ’em around among the ladies. That was the first introduction of looking-glasses among the Peche Indians.</p>

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@@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<section id="the-adventures-of-shamrock-jolnes" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Adventures of Shamrock Jolnes</h2>
-			<p>I am so fortunate as to count Shamrock Jolnes, the great New York detective, among my muster of friends. Jolnes is what is called the “inside man” of the city detective force. He is an expert in the use of the typewriter, and it is his duty, whenever there is a “murder mystery” to be solved, to sit at a desk telephone at headquarters and take down the messages of “cranks” who ‘phone in their confessions to having committed the crime.</p>
+			<p>I am so fortunate as to count Shamrock Jolnes, the great New York detective, among my muster of friends. Jolnes is what is called the “inside man” of the city detective force. He is an expert in the use of the typewriter, and it is his duty, whenever there is a “murder mystery” to be solved, to sit at a desk telephone at headquarters and take down the messages of “cranks” who ’phone in their confessions to having committed the crime.</p>
 			<p>But on certain “off” days when confessions are coming in slowly and three or four newspapers have run to earth as many different guilty persons, Jolnes will knock about the town with me, exhibiting, to my great delight and instruction, his marvellous powers of observation and deduction.</p>
 			<p>The other day I dropped in at Headquarters and found the great detective gazing thoughtfully at a string that was tied tightly around his little finger.</p>
 			<p>“Good morning, Whatsup,” he said, without turning his head. “I’m glad to notice that you’ve had your house fitted up with electric lights at last.”</p>

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@@ -38,7 +38,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘What’s the matter with you, Jeff?’ says the kid, opening his eyes wide.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Snickenwitzel!’ I repeats, and I spat, the word out. ‘I saw a man today from your town, and he told me your name. I’m not surprised you was ashamed to tell it. Snickenwitzel! Whew!’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Ah, here, now,’ says the boy, indignant and wriggling all over, ‘what’s the matter with you? That ain’t my name. It’s Conyers. What’s the matter with you?’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘And that’s not the worst of it,’ I went on quick, keeping him hot and not giving him time to think. ‘We thought you was from a nice, well-to-do family. Here’s <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Little Bear, a chief of the Cherokees, entitled to wear nine otter tails on his Sunday blanket, and Professor Binkly, who plays Shakespeare and the banjo, and me, that’s got hundreds of dollars in that black tin box in the wagon, and we’ve got to be careful about the company we keep. That man tells me your folks live ‘way down in little old Hencoop Alley, where there are no sidewalks, and the goats eat off the table with you.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘And that’s not the worst of it,’ I went on quick, keeping him hot and not giving him time to think. ‘We thought you was from a nice, well-to-do family. Here’s <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Little Bear, a chief of the Cherokees, entitled to wear nine otter tails on his Sunday blanket, and Professor Binkly, who plays Shakespeare and the banjo, and me, that’s got hundreds of dollars in that black tin box in the wagon, and we’ve got to be careful about the company we keep. That man tells me your folks live ’way down in little old Hencoop Alley, where there are no sidewalks, and the goats eat off the table with you.’</p>
 			<p>“That kid was almost crying now. ”Taint so,’ he splutters. ‘He⁠—he don’t know what he’s talking about. We live on Poplar Av’noo. I don’t ‘sociate with goats. What’s the matter with you?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Poplar Avenue,’ says I, sarcastic. ‘Poplar Avenue! That’s a street to live on! It only runs two blocks and then falls off a bluff. You can throw a keg of nails the whole length of it. Don’t talk to me about Poplar Avenue.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘It’s⁠—it’s miles long,’ says the kid. ‘Our number’s 862 and there’s lots of houses after that. What’s the matter with⁠—aw, you make me tired, Jeff.’</p>
@@ -69,7 +69,7 @@
 			<p>“On the way she tells me some of the wherefores. When he slashed her with the whip he told her he found out she was coming for the kid, and he was on the same train. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conyers had been living with her brother, and they’d watched the boy always, as her husband had tried to steal him before. I judge that man was worse than a street railway promoter. It seems he had spent her money and slugged her and killed her canary bird, and told it around that she had cold feet.</p>
 			<p>“At the hotel we found a mass meeting of five infuriated citizens chewing tobacco and denouncing the outrage. Most of the town was asleep by ten o’clock. I talks the lady some quiet, and tells her I will take the one o’clock train for the next town, forty miles east, for it is likely that the esteemed <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Conyers will drive there to take the cars. ‘I don’t know,’ I tells her, ‘but what he has legal rights; but if I find him I can give him an illegal left in the eye, and tie him up for a day or two, anyhow, on a disturbal of the peace proposition.’</p>
 			<p>“<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conyers goes inside and cries with the landlord’s wife, who is fixing some catnip tea that will make everything all right for the poor dear. The landlord comes out on the porch, thumbing his one suspender, and says to me:</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Ain’t had so much excitements in town since Bedford Steegall’s wife swallered a spring lizard. I seen him through the winder hit her with the buggy whip, and everything. What’s that suit of clothes cost you you got on? ‘Pears like we’d have some rain, don’t it? Say, doc, that Indian of yorn’s on a kind of a whizz tonight, ain’t he? He comes along just before you did, and I told him about this here occurrence. He gives a cur’us kind of a hoot, and trotted off. I guess our constable ‘ll have him in the lockup ‘fore morning.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Ain’t had so much excitements in town since Bedford Steegall’s wife swallered a spring lizard. I seen him through the winder hit her with the buggy whip, and everything. What’s that suit of clothes cost you you got on? ‘Pears like we’d have some rain, don’t it? Say, doc, that Indian of yorn’s on a kind of a whizz tonight, ain’t he? He comes along just before you did, and I told him about this here occurrence. He gives a cur’us kind of a hoot, and trotted off. I guess our constable ’ll have him in the lockup ’fore morning.’</p>
 			<p>“I thought I’d sit on the porch and wait for the one o’clock train. I wasn’t feeling saturated with mirth. Here was John Tom on one of his sprees, and this kidnapping business losing sleep for me. But then, I’m always having trouble with other people’s troubles. Every few minutes <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conyers would come out on the porch and look down the road the way the buggy went, like she expected to see that kid coming back on a white pony with a red apple in his hand. Now, wasn’t that like a woman? And that brings up cats. ‘I saw a mouse go in this hole,’ says <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cat; ‘you can go prize up a plank over there if you like; I’ll watch this hole.’</p>
 			<p>“About a quarter to one o’clock the lady comes out again, restless, crying easy, as females do for their own amusement, and she looks down that road again and listens. ‘Now, ma’am,’ says I, ‘there’s no use watching cold wheel-tracks. By this time they’re halfway to⁠—’ ‘Hush,’ she says, holding up her hand. And I do hear something coming ‘flip-flap’ in the dark; and then there is the awfulest war-whoop ever heard outside of Madison Square Garden at a Buffalo Bill matinée. And up the steps and on to the porch jumps the disrespectable Indian. The lamp in the hall shines on him, and I fail to recognize <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr class="name">J. T.</abbr> Little Bear, alumnus of the class of ’91. What I see is a Cherokee brave, and the warpath is what he has been travelling. Firewater and other things have got him going. His buckskin is hanging in strings, and his feathers are mixed up like a frizzly hen’s. The dust of miles is on his moccasins, and the light in his eye is the kind the aborigines wear. But in his arms he brings that kid, his eyes half closed, with his little shoes dangling and one hand fast around the Indian’s collar.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Pappoose!’ says John Tom, and I notice that the flowers of the white man’s syntax have left his tongue. He is the original proposition in bear’s claws and copper color. ‘Me bring,’ says he, and he lays the kid in his mother’s arms. ‘Run fifteen mile,’ says John Tom⁠—‘Ugh! Catch white man. Bring pappoose.’</p>

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@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<p>“You’ll see tonight,” said Maggie, flushed with the wine of the first grapes she had gathered in Cupid’s vineyard. “He’s swell all right. He’s two inches taller than Jimmy, and an up-to-date dresser. I’ll introduce him, Anna, just as soon as we get to the hall.”</p>
 			<p>Anna and Jimmy were among the first Clover Leafs to arrive that evening. Anna’s eyes were brightly fixed upon the door of the hall to catch the first glimpse of her friend’s “catch.”</p>
 			<p>At 8:30 Miss Toole swept into the hall with her escort. Quickly her triumphant eye discovered her chum under the wing of her faithful Jimmy.</p>
-			<p>“Oh, gee!” cried Anna, “Mag ain’t made a hit⁠—oh, no! Swell fellow? well, I guess! Style? Look at ‘um.”</p>
+			<p>“Oh, gee!” cried Anna, “Mag ain’t made a hit⁠—oh, no! Swell fellow? well, I guess! Style? Look at ’um.”</p>
 			<p>“Go as far as you like,” said Jimmy, with sandpaper in his voice. “Cop him out if you want him. These new guys always win out with the push. Don’t mind me. He don’t squeeze all the limes, I guess. Huh!”</p>
 			<p>“Shut up, Jimmy. You know what I mean. I’m glad for Mag. First fellow she ever had. Oh, here they come.”</p>
 			<p>Across the floor Maggie sailed like a coquettish yacht convoyed by a stately cruiser. And truly, her companion justified the encomiums of the faithful chum. He stood two inches taller than the average Give and Take athlete; his dark hair curled; his eyes and his teeth flashed whenever he bestowed his frequent smiles. The young men of the Clover Leaf Club pinned not their faith to the graces of person as much as they did to its prowess, its achievements in hand-to-hand conflicts, and its preservation from the legal duress that constantly menaced it. The member of the association who would bind a paper-box maiden to his conquering chariot scorned to employ Beau Brummel airs. They were not considered honourable methods of warfare. The swelling biceps, the coat straining at its buttons over the chest, the air of conscious conviction of the supereminence of the male in the cosmogony of creation, even a calm display of bow legs as subduing and enchanting agents in the gentle tourneys of Cupid⁠—these were the approved arms and ammunition of the Clover Leaf gallants. They viewed, then, genuflections and alluring poses of this visitor with their chins at a new angle.</p>

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@@ -35,7 +35,7 @@
 			<p>“A good idea,” said Grainger, mopping the tablecloth with his napkin. “I’ll speak to the waiter about it.”</p>
 			<p>Kappelman, the painter, was the cut-up. As a piece of delicate Athenian wit he got up from his chair and waltzed down the room with a waiter. That dependent, no doubt an honest, pachydermatous, worthy, taxpaying, art-despising biped, released himself from the unequal encounter, carried his professional smile back to the dumbwaiter and dropped it down the shaft to eternal oblivion. Reeves began to make Keats turn in his grave. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Pothunter told the story of the man who met the widow on the train. Miss Adrian hummed what is still called a chanson in the cafés of Bridgeport. Grainger edited each individual effort with his assistant editor’s smile, which meant: “Great! but you’ll have to send them in through the regular channels. If I were the chief now⁠—but you know how it is.”</p>
 			<p>And soon the head waiter bowed before them, desolated to relate that the closing hour had already become chronologically historical; so out all trooped into the starry midnight, filling the street with gay laughter, to be barked at by hopeful cabmen and enviously eyed by the dull inhabitants of an uninspired world.</p>
-			<p>Grainger left Mary at the elevator in the trackless palm forest of the Idealia. After he had gone she came down again carrying a small handbag, ‘phoned for a cab, drove to the Grand Central Station, boarded a 12.55 commuter’s train, rode four hours with her burnt-umber head bobbing against the red-plush back of the seat, and landed during a fresh, stinging, glorious sunrise at a deserted station, the size of a peach crate, called Crocusville.</p>
+			<p>Grainger left Mary at the elevator in the trackless palm forest of the Idealia. After he had gone she came down again carrying a small handbag, ‘phoned for a cab, drove to the Grand Central Station, boarded a 12:55 commuter’s train, rode four hours with her burnt-umber head bobbing against the red-plush back of the seat, and landed during a fresh, stinging, glorious sunrise at a deserted station, the size of a peach crate, called Crocusville.</p>
 			<p>She walked a mile and clicked the latch of a gate. A bare, brown cottage stood twenty yards back; an old man with a pearl-white, Calvinistic face and clothes dyed blacker than a raven in a coal-mine was washing his hands in a tin basin on the front porch.</p>
 			<p>“How are you, father?” said Mary timidly.</p>
 			<p>“I am as well as Providence permits, Mary Ann. You will find your mother in the kitchen.”</p>
@@ -49,7 +49,7 @@
 			<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>
 			<p>She took the three-o’clock train back to the city. At nine she sat at the round table for dinner in the Café André. Nearly the same crowd was there.</p>
-			<p>“Where have you been today?” asked <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Pothunter. “I ‘phoned to you at twelve.”</p>
+			<p>“Where have you been today?” asked <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Pothunter. “I ’phoned to you at twelve.”</p>
 			<p>“I have been away in Bohemia,” answered Mary, with a mystic smile.</p>
 			<p>There! Mary has given it away. She has spoiled my climax. For I was to have told you that Bohemia is nothing more than the little country in which you do not live. If you try to obtain citizenship in it, at once the court and retinue pack the royal archives and treasure and move away beyond the hills. It is a hillside that you turn your head to peer at from the windows of the Through Express.</p>
 			<p>At exactly half past eleven Kappelman, deceived by a new softness and slowness of riposte and parry in Mary Adrian, tried to kiss her. Instantly she slapped his face with such strength and cold fury that he shrank down, sobered, with the flaming red print of a hand across his leering features. And all sounds ceased, as when the shadows of great wings come upon a flock of chattering sparrows. One had broken the paramount law of sham-Bohemia⁠—the law of “Laisser faire.” The shock came not from the blow delivered, but from the blow received. With the effect of a schoolmaster entering the playroom of his pupils was that blow administered. Women pulled down their sleeves and laid prim hands against their ruffled side locks. Men looked at their watches. There was nothing of the effect of a brawl about it; it was purely the still panic produced by the sound of the ax of the fly cop, Conscience hammering at the gambling-house doors of the Heart.</p>

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@@ -16,7 +16,7 @@
 			<p>Of course, the rabbits do not count. Nor the Easter eggs, since the higher criticism has hard-boiled them.</p>
 			<p>The limited field of its pictorial possibilities proves that Easter, of all our festival days, is the most vague and shifting in our conception. It belongs to all religions, although the pagans invented it. Going back still further to the first spring, we can see Eve choosing with pride a new green leaf from the tree <i xml:lang="la">ficus carica</i>.</p>
 			<p>Now, the object of this critical and learned preamble is to set forth the theorem that Easter is neither a date, a season, a festival, a holiday nor an occasion. What it is you shall find out if you follow in the footsteps of Danny McCree.</p>
-			<p>Easter Sunday dawned as it should, bright and early, in its place on the calendar between Saturday and Monday. At 5.24 the sun rose, and at 10.30 Danny followed its example. He went into the kitchen and washed his face at the sink. His mother was frying bacon. She looked at his hard, smooth, knowing countenance as he juggled with the round cake of soap, and thought of his father when she first saw him stopping a hot grounder between second and third twenty-two years before on a vacant lot in Harlem, where the La Paloma apartment house now stands. In the front room of the flat Danny’s father sat by an open window smoking his pipe, with his dishevelled gray hair tossed about by the breeze. He still clung to his pipe, although his sight had been taken from him two years before by a precocious blast of giant powder that went off without permission. Very few blind men care for smoking, for the reason that they cannot see the smoke. Now, could you enjoy having the news read to you from an evening newspaper unless you could see the colors of the headlines?</p>
+			<p>Easter Sunday dawned as it should, bright and early, in its place on the calendar between Saturday and Monday. At 5:24 the sun rose, and at 10:30 Danny followed its example. He went into the kitchen and washed his face at the sink. His mother was frying bacon. She looked at his hard, smooth, knowing countenance as he juggled with the round cake of soap, and thought of his father when she first saw him stopping a hot grounder between second and third twenty-two years before on a vacant lot in Harlem, where the La Paloma apartment house now stands. In the front room of the flat Danny’s father sat by an open window smoking his pipe, with his dishevelled gray hair tossed about by the breeze. He still clung to his pipe, although his sight had been taken from him two years before by a precocious blast of giant powder that went off without permission. Very few blind men care for smoking, for the reason that they cannot see the smoke. Now, could you enjoy having the news read to you from an evening newspaper unless you could see the colors of the headlines?</p>
 			<p>“ ’Tis Easter Day,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> McCree.</p>
 			<p>“Scramble mine,” said Danny.</p>
 			<p>After breakfast he dressed himself in the Sabbath morning costume of the Canal Street importing house dray chauffeur⁠—frock coat, striped trousers, patent leathers, gilded trace chain across front of vest, and wing collar, rolled-brim derby and butterfly bow from Schonstein’s (between Fourteenth Street and Tony’s fruit stand) Saturday night sale.</p>

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@@ -34,7 +34,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Boys, boys!’ says he, through his blue spectacles, ‘is it as bad as this? Are you so far reduced?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘We’re reduced,’ says I, ‘to very vulgar fractions.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘It is indeed sad,’ says Pendergast, ‘to see my countrymen in such circumstances.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Cut ‘arf of that out, old party,’ says Liverpool. ‘Cawn’t you tell a member of the British upper classes when you see one?’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Cut ’arf of that out, old party,’ says Liverpool. ‘Cawn’t you tell a member of the British upper classes when you see one?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Shut up,’ I told Liverpool. ‘You’re on foreign soil now, or that portion of it that’s not on you.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘And on this day, too!’ goes on Pendergast, grievous⁠—‘on this most glorious day of the year when we should all be celebrating the dawn of Christian civilization and the downfall of the wicked.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I did notice bunting and bouquets decorating the town, reverend,’ says I, ‘but I didn’t know what it was for. We’ve been so long out of touch with calendars that we didn’t know whether it was summer time or Saturday afternoon.’</p>

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@@ -26,7 +26,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Two blocks from de Pump,’ says he.</p>
 			<p>“I goes on uptown, and seein’ nothin’ particular in the line of sinful delight, I strikes ’crosstown to another avenue. That was Sixth, I reckon. People was still walkin’ up and down, puttin’ first one foot in front and then the other in the irreligious and wicked manner that I suppose has given the Tenderloin its frivolous reputation. Street cars was runnin’ past, most impious and unregenerate; and the profligate Dagoes was splittin’ chestnuts to roast with a wild abandon that reminded me considerably of doings in Paris, France. The dissipated bootblacks was sleepin’ in their chairs, and the roast peanut whistles sounded gay and devilish among the mad throng that leaned ag’inst the awnin’ posts.</p>
 			<p>“A fellow with a high hat and brass buttons gets down off the top of his covered sulky, and says to me, ‘Keb, sir?’</p>
-			<p>‘ “Whereabouts is this Tenderloin, Colonel?’ I asks.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Whereabouts is this Tenderloin, Colonel?’ I asks.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘You’re right in the centre of it, boss,’ says he. ‘You are standin’ right now on the wickedest corner in New York. Not ten feet from here a pushcart man had his pocket picked last night; and if you’re here for a week I can show you at least two moonlight trolley parties go by on the New Amsterdam line.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Look here,’ says I, ‘I’m out for a razoo. I’ve got nine iron medallions of Liberty wearin’ holes in my pocket linin’. I want to split this Tenderloin in two if there’s anything in it. Now put me on to something that’s real degraded and boisterous and sizzling with cultured and uproarious sin. Something in the way of metropolitan vice that I can be proud of when I go back home. Ain’t you got any civic pride about you?’</p>
 			<p>“This sulky driver scratched the heel of his chin.</p>

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@@ -31,7 +31,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘I, too, shall assist,’ says the General, thumping his collarbone. ‘I, too, am on the side of Liberty. Noble Americans, we will make the day one to be never forgotten.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘For us American whisky,’ says Jones⁠—‘none of your Scotch smoke or anisada or Three Star Hennessey tomorrow. We’ll borrow the consul’s flag; old man Billfinger shall make orations, and we’ll have a barbecue on the plaza.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Fireworks,’ says I, ‘will be scarce; but we’ll have all the cartridges in the shops for our guns. I’ve got two navy sixes I brought from Denver.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘There is one cannon,’ said the General; ‘one big cannon that will go “BOOM!” And three hundred men with rifles to shoot.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘There is one cannon,’ said the General; ‘one big cannon that will go “<b>boom</b>!” And three hundred men with rifles to shoot.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Oh, say!’ says Jones, ‘Generalissimo, you’re the real silk elastic. We’ll make it a joint international celebration. Please, General, get a white horse and a blue sash and be grand marshal.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘With my sword,’ says the General, rolling his eyes. ‘I shall ride at the head of the brave men who gather in the name of Liberty.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘And you might,’ we suggest ‘see the commandante and advise him that we are going to prize things up a bit. We Americans, you know, are accustomed to using municipal regulations for gun wadding when we line up to help the eagle scream. He might suspend the rules for one day. We don’t want to get in the calaboose for spanking his soldiers if they get in our way, do you see?’</p>
@@ -75,7 +75,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Señor Casparis is modest,’ says General Dingo. ‘He led his brave compadres into the thickest of the fearful conflict. Yes. Without their aid the revolution would have failed.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Why, now,’ says I, ‘don’t tell me there was a revolution yesterday. That was only a Fourth of⁠—’</p>
 			<p>“But right there I abbreviated. It seemed to me it might be best.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘After the terrible struggle,’ says the bay man, ‘President Bolano was forced to fly. Today Caballo is President by proclamation. Ah, yes. Beneath the new administration I am the head of the Department of Mercantile Concessions. On my file I find one report, Señor Casparis, that you have not made ice in accord with your contract.’ And here the bay man smiles at me, ‘cute.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘After the terrible struggle,’ says the bay man, ‘President Bolano was forced to fly. Today Caballo is President by proclamation. Ah, yes. Beneath the new administration I am the head of the Department of Mercantile Concessions. On my file I find one report, Señor Casparis, that you have not made ice in accord with your contract.’ And here the bay man smiles at me, ’cute.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Oh, well,’ says I, ‘I guess the report’s straight. I know they caught me. That’s all there is to it.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Do not say so,’ says the bay man. He pulls off a glove and goes over and lays his hand on that chunk of glass.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Ice,’ says he, nodding his head, solemn.</p>

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@@ -23,7 +23,7 @@
 			<p>There is no coign of vantage more effective than the position of young lady cashier. She sits there, easily queen of the court of commerce; she is duchess of dollars and devoirs, countess of compliments and coin, leading lady of love and luncheon. You take from her a smile and a Canadian dime, and you go your way uncomplaining. You count the cheery word or two that she tosses you as misers count their treasures; and you pocket the change for a five uncomputed. Perhaps the brassbound inaccessibility multiplies her charms⁠—anyhow, she is a shirt-waisted angel, immaculate, trim, manicured, seductive, bright-eyed, ready, alert⁠—Psyche, Circe, and Ate in one, separating you from your circulating medium after your sirloin medium.</p>
 			<p>The young men who broke bread at Hinkle’s never settled with the cashier without an exchange of badinage and open compliment. Many of them went to greater lengths and dropped promissory hints of theatre tickets and chocolates. The older men spoke plainly of orange blossoms, generally withering the tentative petals by after-allusions to Harlem flats. One broker, who had been squeezed by copper proposed to Miss Merriam more regularly than he ate.</p>
 			<p>During a brisk luncheon hour Miss Merriam’s conversation, while she took money for checks, would run something like this:</p>
-			<p>“Good morning, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Haskins⁠—sir?⁠—it’s natural, thank you⁠—don’t be quite so fresh … Hello, Johnny⁠—ten, fifteen, twenty⁠—chase along now or they’ll take the letters off your cap … Beg pardon⁠—count it again, please⁠—Oh, don’t mention it … Vaudeville?⁠—thanks; not on your moving picture⁠—I was to see Carter in Hedda Gabler on Wednesday night with <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Simmons … ‘Scuse me, I thought that was a quarter … Twenty-five and seventy-five’s a dollar⁠—got that ham-and-cabbage habit yet. I see, Billy … Who are you addressing?⁠—say⁠—you’ll get all that’s coming to you in a minute … Oh, fudge! <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bassett⁠—you’re always fooling⁠—no⁠—? Well, maybe I’ll marry you some day⁠—three, four and sixty-five is five … Kindly keep them remarks to yourself, if you please … Ten cents?⁠—‘scuse me; the check calls for seventy⁠—well, maybe it is a one instead of a seven … Oh, do you like it that way, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Saunders?⁠—some prefer a pomp; but they say this Cleo de Merody does suit refined features … and ten is fifty … Hike along there, buddy; don’t take this for a Coney Island ticket booth … Huh?⁠—why, Macy’s⁠—don’t it fit nice? Oh, no, it isn’t too cool⁠—these lightweight fabrics is all the go this season … Come again, please⁠—that’s the third time you’ve tried to⁠—what?⁠—forget it⁠—that lead quarter is an old friend of mine … Sixty-five?⁠—must have had your salary raised, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Wilson … I seen you on Sixth Avenue Tuesday afternoon, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> De Forest⁠—swell?⁠—oh, my!⁠—who is she? … What’s the matter with it?⁠—why, it ain’t money⁠—what?⁠—Columbian half?⁠—well, this ain’t South America … Yes, I like the mixed best⁠—Friday?⁠—awfully sorry, but I take my jiujitsu lesson on Friday⁠—Thursday, then … Thanks⁠—that’s sixteen times I’ve been told that this morning⁠—I guess I must be beautiful … Cut that out, please⁠—who do you think I am? … Why, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Westbrook⁠—do you really think so?⁠—the idea!⁠—one⁠—eighty and twenty’s a dollar⁠—thank you ever so much, but I don’t ever go automobile riding with gentlemen⁠—your aunt?⁠—well, that’s different⁠—perhaps … Please don’t get fresh⁠—your check was fifteen cents, I believe⁠—kindly step aside and let … Hello, Ben⁠—coming around Thursday evening?⁠—there’s a gentleman going to send around a box of chocolates, and … forty and sixty is a dollar, and one is two …”</p>
+			<p>“Good morning, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Haskins⁠—sir?⁠—it’s natural, thank you⁠—don’t be quite so fresh … Hello, Johnny⁠—ten, fifteen, twenty⁠—chase along now or they’ll take the letters off your cap … Beg pardon⁠—count it again, please⁠—Oh, don’t mention it … Vaudeville?⁠—thanks; not on your moving picture⁠—I was to see Carter in Hedda Gabler on Wednesday night with <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Simmons … ’Scuse me, I thought that was a quarter … Twenty-five and seventy-five’s a dollar⁠—got that ham-and-cabbage habit yet. I see, Billy … Who are you addressing?⁠—say⁠—you’ll get all that’s coming to you in a minute … Oh, fudge! <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bassett⁠—you’re always fooling⁠—no⁠—? Well, maybe I’ll marry you some day⁠—three, four and sixty-five is five … Kindly keep them remarks to yourself, if you please … Ten cents?⁠—’scuse me; the check calls for seventy⁠—well, maybe it is a one instead of a seven … Oh, do you like it that way, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Saunders?⁠—some prefer a pomp; but they say this Cleo de Merody does suit refined features … and ten is fifty … Hike along there, buddy; don’t take this for a Coney Island ticket booth … Huh?⁠—why, Macy’s⁠—don’t it fit nice? Oh, no, it isn’t too cool⁠—these lightweight fabrics is all the go this season … Come again, please⁠—that’s the third time you’ve tried to⁠—what?⁠—forget it⁠—that lead quarter is an old friend of mine … Sixty-five?⁠—must have had your salary raised, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Wilson … I seen you on Sixth Avenue Tuesday afternoon, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> De Forest⁠—swell?⁠—oh, my!⁠—who is she? … What’s the matter with it?⁠—why, it ain’t money⁠—what?⁠—Columbian half?⁠—well, this ain’t South America … Yes, I like the mixed best⁠—Friday?⁠—awfully sorry, but I take my jiujitsu lesson on Friday⁠—Thursday, then … Thanks⁠—that’s sixteen times I’ve been told that this morning⁠—I guess I must be beautiful … Cut that out, please⁠—who do you think I am? … Why, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Westbrook⁠—do you really think so?⁠—the idea!⁠—one⁠—eighty and twenty’s a dollar⁠—thank you ever so much, but I don’t ever go automobile riding with gentlemen⁠—your aunt?⁠—well, that’s different⁠—perhaps … Please don’t get fresh⁠—your check was fifteen cents, I believe⁠—kindly step aside and let … Hello, Ben⁠—coming around Thursday evening?⁠—there’s a gentleman going to send around a box of chocolates, and … forty and sixty is a dollar, and one is two …”</p>
 			<p>About the middle of one afternoon the dizzy goddess Vertigo⁠—whose other name is Fortune⁠—suddenly smote an old, wealthy and eccentric banker while he was walking past Hinkle’s, on his way to a street car. A wealthy and eccentric banker who rides in street cars is⁠—move up, please; there are others.</p>
 			<p>A Samaritan, a Pharisee, a man and a policeman who were first on the spot lifted Banker McRamsey and carried him into Hinkle’s restaurant. When the aged but indestructible banker opened his eyes he saw a beautiful vision bending over him with a pitiful, tender smile, bathing his forehead with beef tea and chafing his hands with something frappé out of a chafing-dish. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> McRamsey sighed, lost a vest button, gazed with deep gratitude upon his fair preserveress, and then recovered consciousness.</p>
 			<p>To the Seaside Library all who are anticipating a romance! Banker McRamsey had an aged and respected wife, and his sentiments toward Miss Merriam were fatherly. He talked to her for half an hour with interest⁠—not the kind that went with his talks during business hours. The next day he brought <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> McRamsey down to see her. The old couple were childless⁠—they had only a married daughter living in Brooklyn.</p>

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@@ -55,7 +55,7 @@
 			<p>Wondering, he descended to the sidewalk. The fantastic African was still there. Rudolf confronted him with his two cards in his hand.</p>
 			<p>“Will you tell me why you gave me these cards and what they mean?” he asked.</p>
 			<p>In a broad, good-natured grin the negro exhibited a splendid advertisement of his master’s profession.</p>
-			<p>“Dar it is, boss,” he said, pointing down the street. “But I ‘spect you is a little late for de fust act.”</p>
+			<p>“Dar it is, boss,” he said, pointing down the street. “But I ’spect you is a little late for de fust act.”</p>
 			<p>Looking the way he pointed Rudolf saw above the entrance to a theatre the blazing electric sign of its new play, “The Green Door.”</p>
 			<p>“I’m informed dat it’s a fust-rate show, sah,” said the negro. “De agent what represents it pussented me with a dollar, sah, to distribute a few of his cards along with de doctah’s. May I offer you one of de doctah’s cards, sah?”</p>
 			<p>At the corner of the block in which he lived Rudolf stopped for a glass of beer and a cigar. When he had come out with his lighted weed he buttoned his coat, pushed back his hat and said, stoutly, to the lamp post on the corner:</p>

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@@ -48,11 +48,11 @@
 			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Robert began to mask, as was his habit, a tendency to softheartedness with a spurious anger.</p>
 			<p>“You⁠—you old windbag!” he growled through a cloud of swirling cigar smoke. “I believe you are crazy. I told you to go home, Bushrod. Miss Lucy said that, did she? Well, we haven’t kept the scutcheon very clear. Two years ago last week, wasn’t it, Bushrod, when she died? Confound it! Are you going to stand there all night gabbing like a coffee-coloured gander?”</p>
 			<p>The train whistled again. Now it was at the water tank, a mile away.</p>
-			<p>“Marse Robert,” said Uncle Bushrod, laying his hand on the satchel that the banker held. “For Gawd’s sake, don’ take dis wid you. I knows what’s in it. I knows where you got it in de bank. Don’ kyar’ it wid you. Dey’s big trouble in dat valise for Miss Lucy and Miss Lucy’s child’s chillun. Hit’s bound to destroy de name of Weymouth and bow down dem dat own it wid shame and triberlation. Marse Robert, you can kill dis ole nigger ef you will, but don’t take away dis ‘er’ valise. If I ever crosses over de Jordan, what I gwine to say to Miss Lucy when she ax me: ‘Uncle Bushrod, wharfo’ didn’ you take good care of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Robert?’ ”</p>
+			<p>“Marse Robert,” said Uncle Bushrod, laying his hand on the satchel that the banker held. “For Gawd’s sake, don’ take dis wid you. I knows what’s in it. I knows where you got it in de bank. Don’ kyar’ it wid you. Dey’s big trouble in dat valise for Miss Lucy and Miss Lucy’s child’s chillun. Hit’s bound to destroy de name of Weymouth and bow down dem dat own it wid shame and triberlation. Marse Robert, you can kill dis ole nigger ef you will, but don’t take away dis ’er’ valise. If I ever crosses over de Jordan, what I gwine to say to Miss Lucy when she ax me: ‘Uncle Bushrod, wharfo’ didn’ you take good care of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Robert?’ ”</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Robert Weymouth threw away his cigar and shook free one arm with that peculiar gesture that always preceded his outbursts of irascibility. Uncle Bushrod bowed his head to the expected storm, but he did not flinch. If the house of Weymouth was to fall, he would fall with it. The banker spoke, and Uncle Bushrod blinked with surprise. The storm was there, but it was suppressed to the quietness of a summer breeze.</p>
 			<p>“Bushrod,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Robert, in a lower voice than he usually employed, “you have overstepped all bounds. You have presumed upon the leniency with which you have been treated to meddle unpardonably. So you know what is in this satchel! Your long and faithful service is some excuse, but⁠—go home, Bushrod⁠—not another word!”</p>
 			<p>But Bushrod grasped the satchel with a firmer hand. The headlight of the train was now lightening the shadows about the station. The roar was increasing, and folks were stirring about at the track side.</p>
-			<p>“Marse Robert, gimme dis ‘er’ valise. I got a right, suh, to talk to you dis ‘er’ way. I slaved for you and ‘tended to you from a child up. I went th’ough de war as yo’ body-servant tell we whipped de Yankees and sent ’em back to de No’th. I was at yo’ weddin’, and I was n’ fur away when yo’ Miss Letty was bawn. And Miss Letty’s chillun, dey watches today for Uncle Bushrod when he come home ever’ evenin’. I been a Weymouth, all ’cept in colour and entitlements. Both of us is old, Marse Robert. ’Tain’t goin’ to be long till we gwine to see Miss Lucy and has to give an account of our doin’s. De ole nigger man won’t be ‘spected to say much mo’ dan he done all he could by de fambly dat owned him. But de Weymouths, dey must say dey been livin’ pure and fearless and widout reproach. Gimme dis valise, Marse Robert⁠—I’m gwine to hab it. I’m gwine to take it back to the bank and lock it up in de vault. I’m gwine to do Miss Lucy’s biddin’. Turn ‘er loose, Marse Robert.”</p>
+			<p>“Marse Robert, gimme dis ’er’ valise. I got a right, suh, to talk to you dis ’er’ way. I slaved for you and ’tended to you from a child up. I went th’ough de war as yo’ body-servant tell we whipped de Yankees and sent ’em back to de No’th. I was at yo’ weddin’, and I was n’ fur away when yo’ Miss Letty was bawn. And Miss Letty’s chillun, dey watches today for Uncle Bushrod when he come home ever’ evenin’. I been a Weymouth, all ’cept in colour and entitlements. Both of us is old, Marse Robert. ’Tain’t goin’ to be long till we gwine to see Miss Lucy and has to give an account of our doin’s. De ole nigger man won’t be ’spected to say much mo’ dan he done all he could by de fambly dat owned him. But de Weymouths, dey must say dey been livin’ pure and fearless and widout reproach. Gimme dis valise, Marse Robert⁠—I’m gwine to hab it. I’m gwine to take it back to the bank and lock it up in de vault. I’m gwine to do Miss Lucy’s biddin’. Turn ’er loose, Marse Robert.”</p>
 			<p>The train was standing at the station. Some men were pushing trucks along the side. Two or three sleepy passengers got off and wandered away into the night. The conductor stepped to the gravel, swung his lantern and called: “Hello, Frank!” at someone invisible. The bell clanged, the brakes hissed, the conductor drawled: “All aboard!”</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Robert released his hold on the satchel. Uncle Bushrod hugged it to his breast with both arms, as a lover clasps his first beloved.</p>
 			<p>“Take it back with you, Bushrod,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Robert, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “And let the subject drop⁠—now mind! You’ve said quite enough. I’m going to take the train. Tell <abbr>Mr.</abbr> William I will be back on Saturday. Good night.”</p>

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@@ -39,7 +39,7 @@
 			<p>“Seltzer. And say, Tommy, has the Kid been around today?”</p>
 			<p>“Why, no, Miss Lizzie, I haven’t saw him today.”</p>
 			<p>Fluently came the “Miss Lizzie,” for the Kid was known to be one who required rigid upholdment of the dignity of his fiancée.</p>
-			<p>“I’m lookin’ for ‘m,” said Liz, after the chaser had sputtered under her nose. “It’s got to me that he says he’ll take Annie Karlson to the dance. Let him. The pink-eyed white rat! I’m lookin’ for ‘m. You know me, Tommy. Two years me and the Kid’s been engaged. Look at that ring. Five hundred, he said it cost. Let him take her to the dance. What’ll I do? I’ll cut his heart out. Another whiskey, Tommy.”</p>
+			<p>“I’m lookin’ for ’m,” said Liz, after the chaser had sputtered under her nose. “It’s got to me that he says he’ll take Annie Karlson to the dance. Let him. The pink-eyed white rat! I’m lookin’ for ‘m. You know me, Tommy. Two years me and the Kid’s been engaged. Look at that ring. Five hundred, he said it cost. Let him take her to the dance. What’ll I do? I’ll cut his heart out. Another whiskey, Tommy.”</p>
 			<p>“I wouldn’t listen to no such reports, Miss Lizzie,” said the waiter smoothly, from the narrow opening above his chin. “Kid Mullaly’s not the guy to throw a lady like you down. Seltzer on the side?”</p>
 			<p>“Two years,” repeated Liz, softening a little to sentiment under the magic of the distiller’s art. “I always used to play out on the street of evenin’s ‘cause there was nothin’ doin’ for me at home. For a long time I just sat on doorsteps and looked at the lights and the people goin’ by. And then the Kid came along one evenin’ and sized me up, and I was mashed on the spot for fair. The first drink he made me take I cried all night at home, and got a lickin’ for makin’ a noise. And now⁠—say, Tommy, you ever see this Annie Karlson? If it wasn’t for peroxide the chloroform limit would have put her out long ago. Oh, I’m lookin’ for ‘m. You tell the Kid if he comes in. Me? I’ll cut his heart out. Leave it to me. Another whiskey, Tommy.”</p>
 			<p>A little unsteadily, but with watchful and brilliant eyes, Liz walked up the avenue. On the doorstep of a brick tenement a curly-haired child sat, puzzling over the convolutions of a tangled string. Liz flopped down beside her, with a crooked, shifting smile on her flushed face. But her eyes had grown clear and artless of a sudden.</p>

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@@ -33,7 +33,7 @@
 			<p>“The second night he was on the job he walks down from his corner to the cigar-case and calls for cigarettes. The customers at the tables all snicker out loud to show their acquaintance with history. The boss is on.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘An’⁠—let’s see⁠—oh, yes⁠—‘An anachronism,’ says the boss. ‘Cigarettes was not made at the time when halberdiers was invented.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘The ones you sell was,’ says Sir Percival. ‘Caporal wins from chronology by the length of a cork tip.’ So he gets ’em and lights one, and puts the box in his brass helmet, and goes back to patrolling the Rindslosh.</p>
-			<p>“He made a big hit, ‘specially with the ladies. Some of ’em would poke him with their fingers to see if he was real or only a kind of a stuffed figure like they burn in elegy. And when he’d move they’d squeak, and make eyes at him as they went up to the slosh. He looked fine in his halberdashery. He slept at $2 a week in a hall-room on Third Avenue. He invited me up there one night. He had a little book on the washstand that he read instead of shopping in the saloons after hours. ‘I’m on to that,’ says I, ‘from reading about it in novels. All the heroes on the bum carry the little book. It’s either Tantalus or Liver or Horace, and its printed in Latin, and you’re a college man. And I wouldn’t be surprised,’ says I, ‘if you wasn’t educated, too.’ But it was only the batting averages of the League for the last ten years.</p>
+			<p>“He made a big hit, ’specially with the ladies. Some of ’em would poke him with their fingers to see if he was real or only a kind of a stuffed figure like they burn in elegy. And when he’d move they’d squeak, and make eyes at him as they went up to the slosh. He looked fine in his halberdashery. He slept at $2 a week in a hall-room on Third Avenue. He invited me up there one night. He had a little book on the washstand that he read instead of shopping in the saloons after hours. ‘I’m on to that,’ says I, ‘from reading about it in novels. All the heroes on the bum carry the little book. It’s either Tantalus or Liver or Horace, and its printed in Latin, and you’re a college man. And I wouldn’t be surprised,’ says I, ‘if you wasn’t educated, too.’ But it was only the batting averages of the League for the last ten years.</p>
 			<p>“One night, about half past eleven, there comes in a party of these high-rollers that are always hunting up new places to eat in and poke fun at. There was a swell girl in a 40 H.-P. auto tan coat and veil, and a fat old man with white side-whiskers, and a young chap that couldn’t keep his feet off the tail of the girl’s coat, and an oldish lady that looked upon life as immoral and unnecessary. ‘How perfectly delightful,’ they says, ‘to sup in a slosh.’ Up the stairs they go; and in half a minute back down comes the girl, her skirts swishing like the waves on the beach. She stops on the landing and looks our halberdier in the eye.</p>
 			<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>

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@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<p>“How do you know it was a dollar?” asked Ragsy, the immensity of the sum inclining him to scepticism.</p>
 			<p>“The coalman seen her have it,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters. “She went out and done some washing yesterday. And look what she give me for breakfast⁠—the heel of a loaf and a cup of coffee, and her with a dollar!”</p>
 			<p>“It’s fierce,” said Ragsy.</p>
-			<p>“Say we go up and punch ‘er and stick a towel in ‘er mouth and cop the coin” suggested Kidd, viciously. “Y’ ain’t afraid of a woman, are you?”</p>
+			<p>“Say we go up and punch ’er and stick a towel in ’er mouth and cop the coin” suggested Kidd, viciously. “Y’ ain’t afraid of a woman, are you?”</p>
 			<p>“She might holler and have us pinched,” demurred Ragsy. “I don’t believe in slugging no woman in a houseful of people.”</p>
 			<p>“Gent’men,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters, severely, through his russet stubble, “remember that you are speaking of my wife. A man who would lift his hand to a lady except in the way of⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Maguire,” said Ragsy, pointedly, “has got his bock beer sign out. If we had a dollar we could⁠—”</p>

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@@ -12,7 +12,7 @@
 			<p>“Ain’t seen you in about four years, Ham,” said the seedy man. “Which way you been travelling?”</p>
 			<p>“Texas,” said the red-faced man. “It was too cold in Alaska for me. And I found it warm in Texas. I’ll tell you about one hot spell I went through there.</p>
 			<p>“One morning I steps off the International at a water-tank and lets it go on without me. ’Twas a ranch country, and fuller of spite-houses than New York City. Only out there they build ’em twenty miles away so you can’t smell what they’ve got for dinner, instead of running ’em up two inches from their neighbors’ windows.</p>
-			<p>“There wasn’t any roads in sight, so I footed it ‘cross country. The grass was shoe-top deep, and the mesquite timber looked just like a peach orchard. It was so much like a gentleman’s private estate that every minute you expected a kennelful of bulldogs to run out and bite you. But I must have walked twenty miles before I came in sight of a ranch-house. It was a little one, about as big as an elevated-railroad station.</p>
+			<p>“There wasn’t any roads in sight, so I footed it ’cross country. The grass was shoe-top deep, and the mesquite timber looked just like a peach orchard. It was so much like a gentleman’s private estate that every minute you expected a kennelful of bulldogs to run out and bite you. But I must have walked twenty miles before I came in sight of a ranch-house. It was a little one, about as big as an elevated-railroad station.</p>
 			<p>“There was a little man in a white shirt and brown overalls and a pink handkerchief around his neck rolling cigarettes under a tree in front of the door.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Greetings,’ says I. ‘Any refreshment, welcome, emoluments, or even work for a comparative stranger?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Oh, come in,’ says he, in a refined tone. ‘Sit down on that stool, please. I didn’t hear your horse coming.’</p>

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@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<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>
 			<p>“Was you acquainted maybe with Heinrich Strauss in Detroit?” asked Schwegel.</p>
-			<p>“Did I know Heinrich Strauss?” repeated Curly, affectionately. “Why, say, ‘Bo, I wish I had a dollar for every game of pinochle me and Heine has played on Sunday afternoons.”</p>
+			<p>“Did I know Heinrich Strauss?” repeated Curly, affectionately. “Why, say, ’Bo, I wish I had a dollar for every game of pinochle me and Heine has played on Sunday afternoons.”</p>
 			<p>More beer and a second plate of steaming food was set before the diplomat. And then Curly, knowing to a fluid-drachm how far a “con” game would go, shuffled out into the unpromising street.</p>
 			<p>And now he began to perceive the inconveniences of this stony Southern town. There was none of the outdoor gaiety and brilliancy and music that provided distraction even to the poorest in the cities of the North. Here, even so early, the gloomy, rock-walled houses were closed and barred against the murky dampness of the night. The streets were mere fissures through which flowed grey wreaths of river mist. As he walked he heard laughter and the chink of coin and chips behind darkened windows, and music coming from every chink of wood and stone. But the diversions were selfish; the day of popular pastimes had not yet come to San Antonio.</p>
 			<p>But at length Curly, as he strayed, turned the sharp angle of another lost street and came upon a rollicking band of stockmen from the outlying ranches celebrating in the open in front of an ancient wooden hotel. One great roisterer from the sheep country who had just instigated a movement toward the bar, swept Curly in like a stray goat with the rest of his flock. The princes of kine and wool hailed him as a new zoological discovery, and uproariously strove to preserve him in the diluted alcohol of their compliments and regards.</p>

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@@ -55,7 +55,7 @@
 				<p>“I thought so,” said Mack, grimly. “Now, that reminds me of my own case. I’ll tell you about it.”</p>
 				<p>I was indignant, but concealed it. What was this loafer’s case or anybody’s case compared with mine? Besides, I had given him a dollar and ten cents.</p>
 				<p>“Feel my muscle,” said my companion, suddenly, flexing his biceps. I did so mechanically. The fellows in gyms are always asking you to do that. His arm was as hard as cast-iron.</p>
-				<p>“Four years ago,” said Mack, “I could lick any man in New York outside of the professional ring. Your case and mine is just the same. I come from the West Side⁠—between Thirtieth and Fourteenth⁠—I won’t give the number on the door. I was a scrapper when I was ten, and when I was twenty no amateur in the city could stand up four rounds with me. ‘S a fact. You know Bill McCarty? No? He managed the smokers for some of them swell clubs. Well, I knocked out everything Bill brought up before me. I was a middle-weight, but could train down to a welter when necessary. I boxed all over the West Side at bouts and benefits and private entertainments, and was never put out once.</p>
+				<p>“Four years ago,” said Mack, “I could lick any man in New York outside of the professional ring. Your case and mine is just the same. I come from the West Side⁠—between Thirtieth and Fourteenth⁠—I won’t give the number on the door. I was a scrapper when I was ten, and when I was twenty no amateur in the city could stand up four rounds with me. ’S a fact. You know Bill McCarty? No? He managed the smokers for some of them swell clubs. Well, I knocked out everything Bill brought up before me. I was a middle-weight, but could train down to a welter when necessary. I boxed all over the West Side at bouts and benefits and private entertainments, and was never put out once.</p>
 				<p>“But, say, the first time I put my foot in the ring with a professional I was no more than a canned lobster. I dunno how it was⁠—I seemed to lose heart. I guess I got too much imagination. There was a formality and publicness about it that kind of weakened my nerve. I never won a fight in the ring. Light-weights and all kinds of scrubs used to sign up with my manager and then walk up and tap me on the wrist and see me fall. The minute I seen the crowd and a lot of gents in evening clothes down in front, and seen a professional come inside the ropes, I got as weak as ginger-ale.</p>
 				<p>“Of course, it wasn’t long till I couldn’t get no backers, and I didn’t have any more chances to fight a professional⁠—or many amateurs, either. But lemme tell you⁠—I was as good as most men inside the ring or out. It was just that dumb, dead feeling I had when I was up against a regular that always done me up.</p>
 				<p>“Well, sir, after I had got out of the business, I got a mighty grouch on. I used to go round town licking private citizens and all kinds of unprofessionals just to please myself. I’d lick cops in dark streets and car-conductors and cab-drivers and draymen whenever I could start a row with ’em. It didn’t make any difference how big they were, or how much science they had, I got away with ’em. If I’d only just have had the confidence in the ring that I had beating up the best men outside of it, I’d be wearing black pearls and heliotrope silk socks to-day.</p>
@@ -75,7 +75,7 @@
 				<p>“ ‘Cause,” said he, “you’re afraid to go in the ring. You dassen’t stand up before a professional. Your case and mine is just the same. You’re a amateur; and that means that you’d better keep outside of the ropes.”</p>
 				<p>“Well, I must be going,” I said, rising and looking with elaborate care at my watch.</p>
 				<p>When I was twenty feet away the park-bencher called to me.</p>
-				<p>“Much obliged for the dollar,” he said. “And for the dime. But you’ll never get ‘er. You’re in the amateur class.”</p>
+				<p>“Much obliged for the dollar,” he said. “And for the dime. But you’ll never get ’er. You’re in the amateur class.”</p>
 				<p>“Serves you right,” I said to myself, “for hobnobbing with a tramp. His impudence!”</p>
 				<p>But, as I walked, his words seemed to repeat themselves over and over again in my brain. I think I even grew angry at the man.</p>
 				<p>“I’ll show him!” I finally said, aloud. “I’ll show him that I can fight Reddy Burns, too⁠—even knowing who he is.”</p>

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@@ -44,7 +44,7 @@
 			<p>“Go home,” said Dry Valley. “Go home to your mother. I wonder lightnin’ don’t strike a fool like me. Go home and play in the sand. What business have you got cavortin’ around with grown men? I reckon I was locoed to be makin’ a he poll-parrot out of myself for a kid like you. Go home and don’t let me see you no more. Why I done it, will somebody tell me? Go home, and let me try and forget it.”</p>
 			<p>Panchita obeyed and walked slowly toward her home, saying nothing. For some distance she kept her head turned and her large eyes fixed intrepidly upon Dry Valley’s. At her gate she stood for a moment looking back at him, then ran suddenly and swiftly into the house.</p>
 			<p>Old Antonia was building a fire in the kitchen stove. Dry Valley stopped at the door and laughed harshly.</p>
-			<p>“I’m a pretty looking old rhinoceros to be gettin’ stuck on a kid, ain’t I, ‘Tonia?” said he.</p>
+			<p>“I’m a pretty looking old rhinoceros to be gettin’ stuck on a kid, ain’t I, ’Tonia?” said he.</p>
 			<p>“Not verree good thing,” agreed Antonia, sagely, “for too much old man to likee muchacha.”</p>
 			<p>“You bet it ain’t,” said Dry Valley, grimly. “It’s dum foolishness; and, besides, it hurts.”</p>
 			<p>He brought at one armful the regalia of his aberration⁠—the blue tennis suit, shoes, hat, gloves and all, and threw them in a pile at Antonia’s feet.</p>

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@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 			<p>“Couldn’t you draw in the other room?” asked Johnsy, coldly.</p>
 			<p>“I’d rather be here by you,” said Sue. “Besides I don’t want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves.”</p>
 			<p>“Tell me as soon as you have finished,” said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as a fallen statue, “because I want to see the last one fall. I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves.”</p>
-			<p>“Try to sleep,” said Sue. “I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I’ll not be gone a minute. Don’t try to move ‘till I come back.”</p>
+			<p>“Try to sleep,” said Sue. “I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I’ll not be gone a minute. Don’t try to move ’till I come back.”</p>
 			<p>Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michaelangelo’s Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress’s robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness in anyone, and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above.</p>
 			<p>Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy’s fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker.</p>
 			<p>Old Behrman, with his red eyes, plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings.</p>

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@@ -68,7 +68,7 @@
 			<p>“This⁠—is⁠—King⁠—James⁠—you speak⁠—of?” asked old man Ellison, while he sipped his coffee.</p>
 			<p>“You bet it was. And they took me before the county judge; and the witnesses what saw him draw his gun first was all there. Well, of course, they put me under $300 bond to appear before the court, but there was four or five boys on the spot ready to sign the bail. He won’t bother you no more, Uncle Ben. You ought to have seen how close them bullet holes was together. I reckon playing a guitar as much as I do must kind of limber a fellow’s trigger finger up a little, don’t you think, Uncle Ben?”</p>
 			<p>Then there was a little silence in the castle except for the spluttering of a venison steak that the Kiowa was cooking.</p>
-			<p>“Sam,” said old man Ellison, stroking his white whiskers with a tremulous hand, “would you mind getting the guitar and playing that ‘<i xml:lang="es">Huile, huile, palomita</i>‘ piece once or twice? It always seems to be kind of soothing and comforting when a man’s tired and fagged out.”</p>
+			<p>“Sam,” said old man Ellison, stroking his white whiskers with a tremulous hand, “would you mind getting the guitar and playing that ‘<i xml:lang="es">Huile, huile, palomita</i>’ piece once or twice? It always seems to be kind of soothing and comforting when a man’s tired and fagged out.”</p>
 			<p>There is no more to be said, except that the title of the story is wrong. It should have been called “The Last of the Barons.” There never will be an end to the troubadours; and now and then it does seem that the jingle of their guitars will drown the sound of the muffled blows of the pickaxes and trip hammers of all the Workers in the world.</p>
 		</section>
 	</body>

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@@ -43,7 +43,7 @@
 			<p>“I went in the back room with Perry. Before we closed the door, I says to Mike:</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Don’t ever let it straggle out from under your hat that you seen Buck Caperton fraternal with sarsaparilla or persona grata with a checkerboard, or I’ll make a swallow-fork in your other ear.’</p>
 			<p>“I locked the door and me and Perry played checkers. To see that poor old humiliated piece of household bric-a-brac sitting there and sniggering out loud whenever he jumped a man, and all obnoxious with animation when he got into my king row, would have made a sheepdog sick with mortification. Him that was once satisfied only when he was pegging six boards at keno or giving the faro dealers nervous prostration⁠—to see him pushing them checkers about like Sally Louisa at a school-children’s party⁠—why, I was all smothered up with mortification.</p>
-			<p>“And I sits there playing the black men, all sweating for fear somebody I knew would find it out. And I thinks to myself some about this marrying business, and how it seems to be the same kind of a game as that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Delilah played. She give her old man a hair cut, and everybody knows what a man’s head looks like after a woman cuts his hair. And then when the Pharisees came around to guy him he was so ‘shamed that he went to work and kicked the whole house down on top of the whole outfit. ‘Them married men,’ thinks I, ‘lose all their spirit and instinct for riot and foolishness. They won’t drink, they won’t buck the tiger, they won’t even fight. What do they want to go and stay married for?’ I asks myself.</p>
+			<p>“And I sits there playing the black men, all sweating for fear somebody I knew would find it out. And I thinks to myself some about this marrying business, and how it seems to be the same kind of a game as that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Delilah played. She give her old man a hair cut, and everybody knows what a man’s head looks like after a woman cuts his hair. And then when the Pharisees came around to guy him he was so ’shamed that he went to work and kicked the whole house down on top of the whole outfit. ‘Them married men,’ thinks I, ‘lose all their spirit and instinct for riot and foolishness. They won’t drink, they won’t buck the tiger, they won’t even fight. What do they want to go and stay married for?’ I asks myself.</p>
 			<p>“But Perry seems to be having hilarity in considerable quantities.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Buck old hoss,’ says he, ‘isn’t this just the hell-roaringest time we ever had in our lives? I don’t know when I’ve been stirred up so. You see, I’ve been sticking pretty close to home since I married, and I haven’t been on a spree in a long time.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Spree!’ Yes, that’s what he called it. Playing checkers in the back room of the Gray Mule! I suppose it did seem to him a little immoral and nearer to a prolonged debauch than standing over six tomato plants with a sprinkling-pot.</p>

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@@ -34,7 +34,7 @@
 			<p>“Take a drink,” said Riley. “We’ve all kinds except the lost blend.”</p>
 			<p>“I never drink,” said Con, “anything stronger than water. I am just after meeting Miss Katherine by the stairs. She said a true word. ‘There’s not anything,’ says she, ‘but is better off for a little water.’ ”</p>
 			<p>When Con had left them Riley almost felled McQuirk by a blow on the back.</p>
-			<p>“Did ye hear that?” he shouted. “Two fools are we. The six dozen bottles of ‘pollinaris we had on the ship⁠—ye opened them yourself⁠—which barrel did ye pour them in⁠—which barrel, ye mudhead?”</p>
+			<p>“Did ye hear that?” he shouted. “Two fools are we. The six dozen bottles of ’pollinaris we had on the ship⁠—ye opened them yourself⁠—which barrel did ye pour them in⁠—which barrel, ye mudhead?”</p>
 			<p>“I mind,” said McQuirk, slowly, “ ’twas in the second barrel we opened. I mind the blue piece of paper pasted on the side of it.”</p>
 			<p>“We’ve got it now,” cried Riley. “ ’Twas that we lacked. ’Tis the water that does the trick. Everything else we had right. Hurry, man, and get two bottles of ‘pollinaris from the bar, while I figure out the proportionments with me pencil.”</p>
 			<p>An hour later Con strolled down the sidewalk toward Kenealy’s café. Thus faithful employees haunt, during their recreation hours, the vicinity where they labor, drawn by some mysterious attraction.</p>

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@@ -71,7 +71,7 @@
 			<p>“About two o’clock, as near as I could guess by my watch in Peavine, home comes our laboring man and kicks up Ricks, and calls us to the streak of bright moonlight shining in the cabin door. Then he spreads out five packages of one thousand dollars each on the floor, and begins to cackle over the nest-egg like a hen.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I’ll tell you a few things about that town,’ says he. ‘It’s named Rocky Springs, and they’re building a Masonic temple, and it looks like the Democratic candidate for mayor is going to get soaked by a Pop, and Judge Tucker’s wife, who has been down with pleurisy, is getting some better. I had a talk on these liliputian thesises before I could get a siphon in the fountain of knowledge that I was after. And there’s a bank there called the Lumberman’s Fidelity and Plowman’s Savings Institution. It closed for business yesterday with $23,000 cash on hand. It will open this morning with $18,000⁠—all silver⁠—that’s the reason I didn’t bring more. There you are, trade and capital. Now, will you be bad?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘My young friend,’ says Alfred E. Ricks, holding up his hands, ‘have you robbed this bank? Dear me, dear me!’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘You couldn’t call it that,’ says Bassett. ‘Robbing” sounds harsh. All I had to do was to find out what street it was on. That town is so quiet that I could stand on the corner and hear the tumblers clicking in that safe lock⁠—“right to 45; left twice to 80; right once to 60; left to 15”⁠—as plain as the Yale captain giving orders in the football dialect. Now, boys,’ says Bassett, ‘this is an early rising town. They tell me the citizens are all up and stirring before daylight. I asked what for, and they said because breakfast was ready at that time. And what of merry Robin Hood? It must be Yoicks! and away with the tinkers’ chorus. I’ll stake you. How much do you want? Speak up. Capital.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘You couldn’t call it that,’ says Bassett. “Robbing” sounds harsh. All I had to do was to find out what street it was on. That town is so quiet that I could stand on the corner and hear the tumblers clicking in that safe lock⁠—“right to 45; left twice to 80; right once to 60; left to 15”⁠—as plain as the Yale captain giving orders in the football dialect. Now, boys,’ says Bassett, ‘this is an early rising town. They tell me the citizens are all up and stirring before daylight. I asked what for, and they said because breakfast was ready at that time. And what of merry Robin Hood? It must be Yoicks! and away with the tinkers’ chorus. I’ll stake you. How much do you want? Speak up. Capital.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘My dear young friend,’ says this ground squirrel of a Ricks, standing on his hind legs and juggling nuts in his paws, ‘I have friends in Denver who would assist me. If I had a hundred dollars I⁠—’</p>
 			<p>“Basset unpins a package of the currency and throws five twenties to Ricks.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Trade, how much?’ he says to me.</p>

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@@ -98,7 +98,7 @@
 			<p>Close following upon his last breath came the negress, bringing the medicine. With a hand gently pressing upon the closed eyelids, Doctor James told her of the end. Not grief, but a hereditary rapprochement with death in the abstract, moved her to a dismal, watery snuffling, accompanied by her usual jeremiad.</p>
 			<p>“Dar now! It’s in de Lawd’s hands. He am de jedge ob de transgressor, and de suppo’t of dem in distress. He gwine hab suppo’t us now. Cindy done paid out de last quarter fer dis bottle of physic, and it nebber come to no use.”</p>
 			<p>“Do I understand,” asked Doctor James, “that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Chandler has no money?”</p>
-			<p>“Money, suh? You know what make Miss Amy fall down and so weak? Stahvation, sub. Nothin’ to eat in dis house but some crumbly crackers in three days. Dat angel sell her finger rings and watch mont’s ago. Dis fine house, suh, wid de red cyarpets and shiny bureaus, it’s all hired; and de man talkin’ scan’lous about de rent. Dat debble⁠—‘scuse me, Lawd⁠—he done in Yo’ hands fer jedgment, now⁠—he made way wid everything.”</p>
+			<p>“Money, suh? You know what make Miss Amy fall down and so weak? Stahvation, sub. Nothin’ to eat in dis house but some crumbly crackers in three days. Dat angel sell her finger rings and watch mont’s ago. Dis fine house, suh, wid de red cyarpets and shiny bureaus, it’s all hired; and de man talkin’ scan’lous about de rent. Dat debble⁠—’scuse me, Lawd⁠—he done in Yo’ hands fer jedgment, now⁠—he made way wid everything.”</p>
 			<p>The physician’s silence encouraged her to continue. The history that he gleaned from Cindy’s disordered monologue was an old one, of illusion, wilfulness, disaster, cruelty and pride. Standing out from the blurred panorama of her gabble were little clear pictures⁠—an ideal home in the far South; a quickly repented marriage; an unhappy season, full of wrongs and abuse, and, of late, an inheritance of money that promised deliverance; its seizure and waste by the dog-wolf during a two months’ absence, and his return in the midst of a scandalous carouse. Unobtruded, but visible between every line, ran a pure white thread through the smudged warp of the story⁠—the simple, all-enduring, sublime love of the old negress, following her mistress unswervingly through everything to the end.</p>
 			<p>When at last she paused, the physician spoke, asking if the house contained whiskey or liquor of any sort. There was, the old woman informed him, half a bottle of brandy left in the sideboard by the dog-wolf.</p>
 			<p>“Prepare a toddy as I told you,” said Doctor James. “Wake your mistress; have her drink it, and tell her what has happened.”</p>

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@@ -48,7 +48,7 @@
 			<p>“It’s somethin’ like a king,” the Brushy Creek Kid hastened to explain, “only lower in the deck. Guess it comes in between the Jack and the ten-spot.”</p>
 			<p>“Don’t miscontruct me,” went on Phonograph, “as undervaluatin’ the aristocrats. Some of ’em air proper people and can travel right along with the Watson boys. I’ve herded some with ’em myself. I’ve viewed the elephant with the Mayor of Fort Worth, and I’ve listened to the owl with the gen’ral passenger agent of the Katy, and they can keep up with the percession from where you laid the chunk. But when a Marquis monkeys with the innocent affections of a cook-lady, may I inquire what the case seems to call for?”</p>
 			<p>“The leathers,” shouted Dry-Creek Smithers.</p>
-			<p>“You hearn ‘er, Charity!” was the Kid’s form of corroboration.</p>
+			<p>“You hearn ’er, Charity!” was the Kid’s form of corroboration.</p>
 			<p>“We’ve got your company,” assented the cowpunchers, in chorus.</p>
 			<p>Before the Marquis realized their intention, two of them seized him by each arm and led him up to the log. Phonograph Davis, self-appointed to carry out the sentence, stood ready, with a pair of stout leather leggings in his hands.</p>
 			<p>It was the first time they had ever laid hands on the Marquis during their somewhat rude sports.</p>
@@ -80,7 +80,7 @@
 			<p>“How’s that?” asked Hackett suspiciously.</p>
 			<p>“You’re authorized to perform the sacred rights and lefts of mattermony, air you not?”</p>
 			<p>“Well, yes,” replied Hackett. “A marriage ceremony conducted by me would be legal.”</p>
-			<p>“A wrong air to be righted in this here camp,” said Phonography, virtuously. “A aristocrat have slighted a ‘umble but beautchoos female wat’s pinin’ for his affections. It’s the jooty of the camp to drag forth the haughty descendant of a hundred⁠—or maybe a hundred and twenty-five⁠—earls, even so at the p’int of a lariat, and jine him to the weepin’ lady. Fellows! roundup Miss Sally and the Marquis; there’s goin’ to be a weddin’.”</p>
+			<p>“A wrong air to be righted in this here camp,” said Phonography, virtuously. “A aristocrat have slighted a ’umble but beautchoos female wat’s pinin’ for his affections. It’s the jooty of the camp to drag forth the haughty descendant of a hundred⁠—or maybe a hundred and twenty-five⁠—earls, even so at the p’int of a lariat, and jine him to the weepin’ lady. Fellows! roundup Miss Sally and the Marquis; there’s goin’ to be a weddin’.”</p>
 			<p>This whim of Phonograph’s was received with whoops of appreciation. The cowpunchers started to apprehend the principals of the proposed ceremony.</p>
 			<p>“Kindly prompt me,” said Hackett, wiping his forehead, though the night was cool, “how far this thing is to be carried. And might I expect any further portions of my raiment to be mistaken for wild animals and killed?”</p>
 			<p>“The boys are livelier than usual tonight,” said Saunders. “The ones they are talking about marrying are two of the boys⁠—a herd rider and the cook. It’s another joke. You and Sam will have to sleep here tonight anyway; p’rhaps you’d better see ’em through with it. Maybe they’ll quiet down after that.”</p>

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@@ -44,7 +44,7 @@
 			<p>“Well, I’m not telling you much about myself, am I, Lynn?</p>
 			<p>“I had two hundred dollars saved up, and I cut the stage the first of the summer. I went over on Long Island and found the sweetest little village that ever was, called Soundport, right on the water. I was going to spend the summer there, and study up on elocution, and try to get a class in the fall. There was an old widow lady with a cottage near the beach who sometimes rented a room or two just for company, and she took me in. She had another boarder, too⁠—the Reverend Arthur Lyle.</p>
 			<p>“Yes, he was the headliner. You’re on, Lynn. I’ll tell you all of it in a minute. It’s only a one-act play.</p>
-			<p>“The first time he walked on, Lynn, I felt myself going; the first lines he spoke, he had me. He was different from the men in audiences. He was tall and slim, and you never heard him come in the room, but you felt him. He had a face like a picture of a knight⁠—like one of that Round Table bunch⁠—and a voice like a ‘cello solo. And his manners!</p>
+			<p>“The first time he walked on, Lynn, I felt myself going; the first lines he spoke, he had me. He was different from the men in audiences. He was tall and slim, and you never heard him come in the room, but you felt him. He had a face like a picture of a knight⁠—like one of that Round Table bunch⁠—and a voice like a ’cello solo. And his manners!</p>
 			<p>“Lynn, if you’d take John Drew in his best drawing-room scene and compare the two, you’d have John arrested for disturbing the peace.</p>
 			<p>“I’ll spare you the particulars; but in less than a month Arthur and I were engaged. He preached at a little one-night stand of a Methodist church. There was to be a parsonage the size of a lunch-wagon, and hens and honeysuckles when we were married. Arthur used to preach to me a good deal about Heaven, but he never could get my mind quite off those honeysuckles and hens.</p>
 			<p>“No; I didn’t tell him I’d been on the stage. I hated the business and all that went with it; I’d cut it out forever, and I didn’t see any use of stirring things up. I was a good girl, and I didn’t have anything to confess, except being an elocutionist, and that was about all the strain my conscience would stand.</p>

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@@ -43,7 +43,7 @@
 			<p>For the next three months Bud King conducted business as usual, escaping encounters with law officers and being content with reasonable profits. The band ran off some very good companies of horses from the ranges, and a few bunches of fine cattle which they got safely across the Rio Grande and disposed of to fair advantage. Often the band would ride into the little villages and Mexican settlements, terrorizing the inhabitants and plundering for the provisions and ammunition they needed. It was during these bloodless raids that Piggy’s ferocious aspect and frightful voice gained him a renown more widespread and glorious than those other gentle-voiced and sad-faced desperadoes could have acquired in a lifetime.</p>
 			<p>The Mexicans, most apt in nomenclature, first called him The Black Eagle, and used to frighten the babes by threatening them with tales of the dreadful robber who carried off little children in his great beak. Soon the name extended, and Black Eagle, the Terror of the Border, became a recognized factor in exaggerated newspaper reports and ranch gossip.</p>
 			<p>The country from the Nueces to the Rio Grande was a wild but fertile stretch, given over to the sheep and cattle ranches. Range was free; the inhabitants were few; the law was mainly a letter, and the pirates met with little opposition until the flaunting and garish Piggy gave the band undue advertisement. Then Kinney’s ranger company headed for those precincts, and Bud King knew that it meant grim and sudden war or else temporary retirement. Regarding the risk to be unnecessary, he drew off his band to an almost inaccessible spot on the bank of the Frio. Wherefore, as has been said, dissatisfaction arose among the members, and impeachment proceedings against Bud were premeditated, with Black Eagle in high favour for the succession. Bud King was not unaware of the sentiment, and he called aside Cactus Taylor, his trusted lieutenant, to discuss it.</p>
-			<p>“If the boys,” said Bud, “ain’t satisfied with me, I’m willing to step out. They’re buckin’ against my way of handlin’ ’em. And ‘specially because I concludes to hit the brush while Sam Kinney is ridin’ the line. I saves ’em from bein’ shot or sent up on a state contract, and they up and says I’m no good.”</p>
+			<p>“If the boys,” said Bud, “ain’t satisfied with me, I’m willing to step out. They’re buckin’ against my way of handlin’ ’em. And ’specially because I concludes to hit the brush while Sam Kinney is ridin’ the line. I saves ’em from bein’ shot or sent up on a state contract, and they up and says I’m no good.”</p>
 			<p>“It ain’t so much that,” explained Cactus, “as it is they’re plum locoed about Piggy. They want them whiskers and that nose of his to split the wind at the head of the column.”</p>
 			<p>“There’s somethin’ mighty seldom about Piggy,” declared Bud, musingly. “I never yet see anything on the hoof that he exactly grades up with. He can shore holler a plenty, and he straddles a hoss from where you laid the chunk. But he ain’t never been smoked yet. You know, Cactus, we ain’t had a row since he’s been with us. Piggy’s all right for skearin’ the greaser kids and layin’ waste a crossroads store. I reckon he’s the finest canned oyster buccaneer and cheese pirate that ever was, but how’s his appetite for fightin’? I’ve knowed some citizens you’d think was starvin’ for trouble get a bad case of dyspepsy the first dose of lead they had to take.”</p>
 			<p>“He talks all spraddled out,” said Cactus, “ ’bout the rookuses he’s been in. He claims to have saw the elephant and hearn the owl.”</p>

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@@ -19,7 +19,7 @@
 			<p>Tonight John Perkins encountered a tremendous upheaval of the commonplace when he reached his door. No Katy was there with her affectionate, confectionate kiss. The three rooms seemed in portentous disorder. All about lay her things in confusion. Shoes in the middle of the floor, curling tongs, hair bows, kimonos, powder box, jumbled together on dresser and chairs⁠—this was not Katy’s way. With a sinking heart John saw the comb with a curling cloud of her brown hair among its teeth. Some unusual hurry and perturbation must have possessed her, for she always carefully placed these combings in the little blue vase on the mantel to be some day formed into the coveted feminine “rat.”</p>
 			<p>Hanging conspicuously to the gas jet by a string was a folded paper. John seized it. It was a note from his wife running thus:</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="letter">
-				<p><span epub:type="z3998:salutation">Dear John</span>: I just had a telegram saying mother is very sick. I am going to take the 4.30 train. Brother Sam is going to meet me at the depot there. There is cold mutton in the ice box. I hope it isn’t her quinzy again. Pay the milkman 50 cents. She had it bad last spring. Don’t forget to write to the company about the gas meter, and your good socks are in the top drawer. I will write tomorrow.</p>
+				<p><span epub:type="z3998:salutation">Dear John</span>: I just had a telegram saying mother is very sick. I am going to take the 4:30 train. Brother Sam is going to meet me at the depot there. There is cold mutton in the ice box. I hope it isn’t her quinzy again. Pay the milkman 50 cents. She had it bad last spring. Don’t forget to write to the company about the gas meter, and your good socks are in the top drawer. I will write tomorrow.</p>
 				<footer>
 					<p>
 						<span epub:type="z3998:valediction">Hastily,</span>
@@ -39,7 +39,7 @@
 			<p>The door opened. Katy walked in carrying a little hand satchel. John stared at her stupidly.</p>
 			<p>“My! I’m glad to get back,” said Katy. “Ma wasn’t sick to amount to anything. Sam was at the depot, and said she just had a little spell, and got all right soon after they telegraphed. So I took the next train back. I’m just dying for a cup of coffee.”</p>
 			<p>Nobody heard the click and rattle of the cogwheels as the third-floor front of the Frogmore flats buzzed its machinery back into the Order of Things. A band slipped, a spring was touched, the gear was adjusted and the wheels revolve in their old orbit.</p>
-			<p>John Perkins looked at the clock. It was 8.15. He reached for his hat and walked to the door.</p>
+			<p>John Perkins looked at the clock. It was 8:15. He reached for his hat and walked to the door.</p>
 			<p>“Now, where are you going, I’d like to know, John Perkins?” asked Katy, in a querulous tone.</p>
 			<p>“Thought I’d drop up to McCloskey’s,” said John, “and play a game or two of pool with the fellows.”</p>
 		</section>

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@@ -14,15 +14,15 @@
 			<p>Highsmith took the train the next day for Cranberry Corners. He remained in that forsaken and inanimate village three days. He found the Boggs family and corkscrewed their history unto the third and fourth generation. He amassed the facts and the local color of Cranberry Corners. The village had not grown as rapidly as had Miss Carrington. The actor estimated that it had suffered as few actual changes since the departure of its solitary follower of Thespis as had a stage upon which “four years is supposed to have elapsed.” He absorbed Cranberry Corners and returned to the city of chameleon changes.</p>
 			<p>It was in the rathskeller that Highsmith made the hit of his histrionic career. There is no need to name the place; there is but one rathskeller where you could hope to find Miss Posie Carrington after a performance of “The King’s Bathrobe.”</p>
 			<p>There was a jolly small party at one of the tables that drew many eyes. Miss Carrington, petite, marvellous, bubbling, electric, fame-drunken, shall be named first. Herr Goldstein follows, sonorous, curly-haired, heavy, a trifle anxious, as some bear that had caught, somehow, a butterfly in his claws. Next, a man condemned to a newspaper, sad, courted, armed, analyzing for press agent’s dross every sentence that was poured over him, eating his à la Newburg in the silence of greatness. To conclude, a youth with parted hair, a name that is ochre to red journals and gold on the back of a supper check. These sat at a table while the musicians played, while waiters moved in the mazy performance of their duties with their backs toward all who desired their service, and all was bizarre and merry because it was nine feet below the level of the sidewalk.</p>
-			<p>At 11.45 a being entered the rathskeller. The first violin perceptibly flatted a C that should have been natural; the clarionet blew a bubble instead of a grace note; Miss Carrington giggled and the youth with parted hair swallowed an olive seed.</p>
+			<p>At 11:45 a being entered the rathskeller. The first violin perceptibly flatted a C that should have been natural; the clarionet blew a bubble instead of a grace note; Miss Carrington giggled and the youth with parted hair swallowed an olive seed.</p>
 			<p>Exquisitely and irreproachably rural was the new entry. A lank, disconcerted, hesitating young man it was, flaxen-haired, gaping of mouth, awkward, stricken to misery by the lights and company. His clothing was butternut, with bright blue tie, showing four inches of bony wrist and white-socked ankle. He upset a chair, sat in another one, curled a foot around a table leg and cringed at the approach of a waiter.</p>
 			<p>“You may fetch me a glass of lager beer,” he said, in response to the discreet questioning of the servitor.</p>
 			<p>The eyes of the rathskeller were upon him. He was as fresh as a collard and as ingenuous as a hay rake. He let his eye rove about the place as one who regards, big-eyed, hogs in the potato patch. His gaze rested at length upon Miss Carrington. He rose and went to her table with a lateral, shining smile and a blush of pleased trepidation.</p>
 			<p>“How’re ye, Miss Posie?” he said in accents not to be doubted. “Don’t ye remember me⁠—Bill Summers⁠—the Summerses that lived back of the blacksmith shop? I reckon I’ve growed up some since ye left Cranberry Corners.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Liza Perry ’lowed I might see ye in the city while I was here. You know ‘Liza married Benny Stanfield, and she says⁠—”</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Liza Perry ’lowed I might see ye in the city while I was here. You know ’Liza married Benny Stanfield, and she says⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Ah, say!” interrupted Miss Carrington, brightly, “Lize Perry is never married⁠—what! Oh, the freckles of her!”</p>
 			<p>“Married in June,” grinned the gossip, “and livin’ in the old Tatum Place. Ham Riley perfessed religion; old <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blithers sold her place to Cap’n Spooner; the youngest Waters girl run away with a music teacher; the courthouse burned up last March; your uncle Wiley was elected constable; Matilda Hoskins died from runnin’ a needle in her hand, and Tom Beedle is courtin’ Sallie Lathrop⁠—they say he don’t miss a night but what he’s settin’ on their porch.”</p>
-			<p>“The walleyed thing!” exclaimed Miss Carrington, with asperity. “Why, Tom Beedle once⁠—say, you folks, excuse me a while⁠—this is an old friend of mine⁠—<abbr>Mr.</abbr>⁠—what was it? Yes, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Summers⁠—<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Goldstein, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ricketts, <abbr>Mr.</abbr>⁠— Oh, what’s yours? ‘Johnny”ll do⁠—come on over here and tell me some more.”</p>
+			<p>“The walleyed thing!” exclaimed Miss Carrington, with asperity. “Why, Tom Beedle once⁠—say, you folks, excuse me a while⁠—this is an old friend of mine⁠—<abbr>Mr.</abbr>⁠—what was it? Yes, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Summers⁠—<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Goldstein, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ricketts, <abbr>Mr.</abbr>⁠— Oh, what’s yours? ‘Johnny’ ’ll do⁠—come on over here and tell me some more.”</p>
 			<p>She swept him to an isolated table in a corner. Herr Goldstein shrugged his fat shoulders and beckoned to the waiter. The newspaper man brightened a little and mentioned absinthe. The youth with parted hair was plunged into melancholy. The guests of the rathskeller laughed, clinked glasses and enjoyed the comedy that Posie Carrington was treating them to after her regular performance. A few cynical ones whispered “press agent” ’ and smiled wisely.</p>
 			<p>Posie Carrington laid her dimpled and desirable chin upon her hands, and forgot her audience⁠—a faculty that had won her laurels for her.</p>
 			<p>“I don’t seem to recollect any Bill Summers,” she said, thoughtfully gazing straight into the innocent blue eyes of the rustic young man. “But I know the Summerses, all right. I guess there ain’t many changes in the old town. You see any of my folks lately?”</p>

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@@ -15,11 +15,11 @@
 			<p>“Well⁠—what is it? Anything?” asked Maxwell sharply. His opened mail lay like a bank of stage snow on his crowded desk. His keen grey eye, impersonal and brusque, flashed upon her half impatiently.</p>
 			<p>“Nothing,” answered the stenographer, moving away with a little smile.</p>
 			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pitcher,” she said to the confidential clerk, “did <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Maxwell say anything yesterday about engaging another stenographer?”</p>
-			<p>“He did,” answered Pitcher. “He told me to get another one. I notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples this morning. It’s 9.45 o’clock, and not a single picture hat or piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed up yet.”</p>
+			<p>“He did,” answered Pitcher. “He told me to get another one. I notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples this morning. It’s 9:45 o’clock, and not a single picture hat or piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed up yet.”</p>
 			<p>“I will do the work as usual, then,” said the young lady, “until someone comes to fill the place.” And she went to her desk at once and hung the black turban hat with the gold-green macaw wing in its accustomed place.</p>
 			<p>He who has been denied the spectacle of a busy Manhattan broker during a rush of business is handicapped for the profession of anthropology. The poet sings of the “crowded hour of glorious life.” The broker’s hour is not only crowded, but the minutes and seconds are hanging to all the straps and packing both front and rear platforms.</p>
 			<p>And this day was Harvey Maxwell’s busy day. The ticker began to reel out jerkily its fitful coils of tape, the desk telephone had a chronic attack of buzzing. Men began to throng into the office and call at him over the railing, jovially, sharply, viciously, excitedly. Messenger boys ran in and out with messages and telegrams. The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a storm. Even Pitcher’s face relaxed into something resembling animation.</p>
-			<p>On the Exchange there were hurricanes and landslides and snowstorms and glaciers and volcanoes, and those elemental disturbances were reproduced in miniature in the broker’s offices. Maxwell shoved his chair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a toe dancer. He jumped from ticker to ‘phone, from desk to door with the trained agility of a harlequin.</p>
+			<p>On the Exchange there were hurricanes and landslides and snowstorms and glaciers and volcanoes, and those elemental disturbances were reproduced in miniature in the broker’s offices. Maxwell shoved his chair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a toe dancer. He jumped from ticker to ’phone, from desk to door with the trained agility of a harlequin.</p>
 			<p>In the midst of this growing and important stress the broker became suddenly aware of a high-rolled fringe of golden hair under a nodding canopy of velvet and ostrich tips, an imitation sealskin sacque and a string of beads as large as hickory nuts, ending near the floor with a silver heart. There was a self-possessed young lady connected with these accessories; and Pitcher was there to construe her.</p>
 			<p>“Lady from the Stenographer’s Agency to see about the position,” said Pitcher.</p>
 			<p>Maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and ticker tape.</p>

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@@ -35,7 +35,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Your passage-money,’ says the general, businesslike, ‘shall from your pay be deduct.’</p>
 			<p>“ ’Twill not,’ says I, haughty. ‘I’ll pay my own passage.’ A hundred and eighty dollars I had in my inside pocket, and ’twas no common filibuster I was goin’ to be, filibusterin’ for me board and clothes.</p>
 			<p>“The steamer was to sail in two hours, and I went ashore to get some things together I’d need. When I came aboard I showed the general with pride the outfit. ’Twas a fine Chinchilla overcoat, Arctic overshoes, fur cap and earmuffs, with elegant fleece-lined gloves and woolen muffler.</p>
-			<p>“ ’<i xml:lang="es">Carrambos!</i>‘ says the little general. ‘What clothes are these that shall go to the tropic?’ And then the little spalpeen laughs, and he calls the captain, and the captain calls the purser, and they pipe up the chief engineer, and the whole gang leans against the cabin and laughs at Clancy’s wardrobe for Guatemala.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘<i xml:lang="es">Carrambos!</i>’ says the little general. ‘What clothes are these that shall go to the tropic?’ And then the little spalpeen laughs, and he calls the captain, and the captain calls the purser, and they pipe up the chief engineer, and the whole gang leans against the cabin and laughs at Clancy’s wardrobe for Guatemala.</p>
 			<p>“I reflects a bit, serious, and asks the general again to denominate the terms by which his country is called. He tells me, and I see then that ’twas the t’other one, Kamchatka, I had in mind. Since then I’ve had difficulty in separatin’ the two nations in name, climate and geographic disposition.</p>
 			<p>“I paid my passage⁠—twenty-four dollars, first cabin⁠—and ate at table with the officer crowd. Down on the lower deck was a gang of second-class passengers, about forty of them, seemin’ to be Dagoes and the like. I wondered what so many of them were goin’ along for.</p>
 			<p>“Well, then, in three days we sailed alongside that Guatemala. ’Twas a blue country, and not yellow as ’tis miscolored on the map. We landed at a town on the coast, where a train of cars was waitin’ for us on a dinky little railroad. The boxes on the steamer were brought ashore and loaded on the cars. The gang of Dagoes got aboard, too, the general and me in the front car. Yes, me and General De Vega headed the revolution, as it pulled out of the seaport town. That train travelled about as fast as a policeman goin’ to a riot. It penetrated the most conspicuous lot of fuzzy scenery ever seen outside a geography. We run some forty miles in seven hours, and the train stopped. There was no more railroad. ’Twas a sort of camp in a damp gorge full of wildness and melancholies. They was gradin’ and choppin’ out the forests ahead to continue the road. ‘Here,’ says I to myself, ‘is the romantic haunt of the revolutionists. Here will Clancy, by the virtue that is in a superior race and the inculcation of Fenian tactics, strike a tremendous blow for liberty.’</p>

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@@ -49,7 +49,7 @@
 			<p>For Billy Jackson was shining down on her, calm and bright and constant through the skylight. There was no world about her. She was sunk in a pit of blackness, with but that small square of pallid light framing the star that she had so whimsically and oh, so ineffectually named. Miss Longnecker must be right; it was Gamma, of the constellation Cassiopeia, and not Billy Jackson. And yet she could not let it be Gamma.</p>
 			<p>As she lay on her back she tried twice to raise her arm. The third time she got two thin fingers to her lips and blew a kiss out of the black pit to Billy Jackson. Her arm fell back limply.</p>
 			<p>“Goodbye, Billy,” she murmured faintly. “You’re millions of miles away and you won’t even twinkle once. But you kept where I could see you most of the time up there when there wasn’t anything else but darkness to look at, didn’t you? … Millions of miles … Goodbye, Billy Jackson.”</p>
-			<p>Clara, the coloured maid, found the door locked at 10 the next day, and they forced it open. Vinegar, and the slapping of wrists and burnt feathers proving of no avail, someone ran to ‘phone for an ambulance.</p>
+			<p>Clara, the coloured maid, found the door locked at 10 the next day, and they forced it open. Vinegar, and the slapping of wrists and burnt feathers proving of no avail, someone ran to ’phone for an ambulance.</p>
 			<p>In due time it backed up to the door with much gong-clanging, and the capable young medico, in his white linen coat, ready, active, confident, with his smooth face half debonair, half grim, danced up the steps.</p>
 			<p>“Ambulance call to 49,” he said briefly. “What’s the trouble?”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, yes, doctor,” sniffed <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Parker, as though her trouble that there should be trouble in the house was the greater. “I can’t think what can be the matter with her. Nothing we could do would bring her to. It’s a young woman, a Miss Elsie⁠—yes, a Miss Elsie Leeson. Never before in my house⁠—”</p>

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@@ -16,7 +16,7 @@
 			<p>On coming out <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Meeks addressed a policeman who was standing on the corner, and explained his dilemma.</p>
 			<p>“My sister is very poor,” he said, “and I am anxious to find her. I have recently made quite a lot of money in a lead mine, and I want her to share my prosperity. There is no use in advertising her, because she cannot read.”</p>
 			<p>The policeman pulled his moustache and looked so thoughtful and mighty that Meeks could almost feel the joyful tears of his sister Mary dropping upon his bright blue tie.</p>
-			<p>“You go down in the Canal Street neighbourhood,” said the policeman, “and get a job drivin’ the biggest dray you can find. There’s old women always gettin’ knocked over by drays down there. You might see ‘er among ’em. If you don’t want to do that you better go ’round to headquarters and get ’em to put a fly cop onto the dame.”</p>
+			<p>“You go down in the Canal Street neighbourhood,” said the policeman, “and get a job drivin’ the biggest dray you can find. There’s old women always gettin’ knocked over by drays down there. You might see ’er among ’em. If you don’t want to do that you better go ’round to headquarters and get ’em to put a fly cop onto the dame.”</p>
 			<p>At police headquarters, Meeks received ready assistance. A general alarm was sent out, and copies of a photograph of Mary Snyder that her brother had were distributed among the stations. In Mulberry Street the chief assigned Detective Mullins to the case.</p>
 			<p>The detective took Meeks aside and said:</p>
 			<p>“This is not a very difficult case to unravel. Shave off your whiskers, fill your pockets with good cigars, and meet me in the café of the Waldorf at three o’clock this afternoon.”</p>

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@@ -70,7 +70,7 @@
 			<p>Ross’s method of advance was brusque, domineering. “Little woman,” he said, “you’re welcome here!”⁠—and with what he thought subtle double meaning⁠—“welcome to stay here as long as you like, snow or no snow.”</p>
 			<p>Miss Adams thanked him a little wildly, some of the wintergreen berries creeping into the birch bark. She looked around hurriedly as if seeking escape. But there was none, save the kitchen and the room allotted her. She made an excuse and disappeared into her own room.</p>
 			<p>Later I, feigning sleep, heard the following:</p>
-			<p>“Mees Adams, I was almost to perish-die-of monotony w’en your fair and beautiful face appear in thees mee-ser-rhable house.” I opened my starboard eye. The beard was being curled furiously around a finger, the Svengali eye was rolling, the chair was being hunched closer to the schoolteacher’s. “I am French⁠—you see⁠—temperamental⁠—nervous! I cannot endure thees dull hours in thees ranch house; but⁠—a woman comes! Ah!” The shoulders gave nine ‘rahs and a tiger. “What a difference! All is light and gay; ever’ting smile w’en you smile. You have ‘eart, beauty, grace. My ‘eart comes back to me w’en I feel your ‘eart. So!” He laid his hand upon his vest pocket. From this vantage point he suddenly snatched at the schoolteacher’s own hand, “Ah! Mees Adams, if I could only tell you how I ad⁠—”</p>
+			<p>“Mees Adams, I was almost to perish-die-of monotony w’en your fair and beautiful face appear in thees mee-ser-rhable house.” I opened my starboard eye. The beard was being curled furiously around a finger, the Svengali eye was rolling, the chair was being hunched closer to the schoolteacher’s. “I am French⁠—you see⁠—temperamental⁠—nervous! I cannot endure thees dull hours in thees ranch house; but⁠—a woman comes! Ah!” The shoulders gave nine ’rahs and a tiger. “What a difference! All is light and gay; ever’ting smile w’en you smile. You have ’eart, beauty, grace. My ’eart comes back to me w’en I feel your ’eart. So!” He laid his hand upon his vest pocket. From this vantage point he suddenly snatched at the schoolteacher’s own hand, “Ah! Mees Adams, if I could only tell you how I ad⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Dinner,” remarked George. He was standing just behind the Frenchman’s ear. His eyes looked straight into the schoolteacher’s eyes. After thirty seconds of survey, his lips moved, deep in the flinty, frozen maelstrom of his face: “Dinner,” he concluded, “will be ready in two minutes.”</p>
 			<p>Miss Adams jumped to her feet, relieved. “I must get ready for dinner,” she said brightly, and went into her room.</p>
 			<p>Ross came in fifteen minutes late. After the dishes had been cleaned away, I waited until a propitious time when the room was temporarily ours alone, and told him what had happened.</p>
@@ -95,10 +95,10 @@
 			<p>From my excellent vantage-point on the couch I watched the progress of that meal. Ross, muddled, glowering, disappointed; Etienne, eternally blandishing, attentive, ogling; Miss Adams, nervous, picking at her food, hesitant about answering questions, almost hysterical; now and then the solid, flitting shadow of the cook, passing behind their backs like a Dreadnaught in a fog.</p>
 			<p>I used to own a clock which gurgled in its throat three minutes before it struck the hour. I know, therefore, the slow freight of Anticipation. For I have awakened at three in the morning, heard the clock gurgle, and waited those three minutes for the three strokes I knew were to come. <i xml:lang="fr">Alors.</i> In Ross’s ranch house that night the slow freight of Climax whistled in the distance.</p>
 			<p>Etienne began it after supper. Miss Adams had suddenly displayed a lively interest in the kitchen layout and I could see her in there, chatting brightly at George⁠—not with him⁠—the while he ducked his head and rattled his pans.</p>
-			<p>“My fren’,” said Etienne, exhaling a large cloud from his cigarette and patting Ross lightly on the shoulder with a bediamonded hand which, hung limp from a yard or more of bony arm, “I see I mus’ be frank with you. Firs’, because we are rivals; second, because you take these matters so serious. I⁠—I am Frenchman. I love the women”⁠—he threw back his curls, bared his yellow teeth, and blew an unsavory kiss toward the kitchen. “It is, I suppose, a trait of my nation. All Frenchmen love the women⁠—pretty women. Now, look: Here I am!” He spread out his arms. “Cold outside! I detes’ the col-l-l! Snow! I abominate the mees-ser-rhable snow! Two men! This⁠—” pointing to me⁠—“an’ this!” Pointing to’ Ross. “I am distracted! For two whole days I stan’ at the window an’ tear my ‘air! I am nervous, upset, pr-r-ro-foun’ly distress inside my ‘ead! An’ suddenly⁠—be’old! A woman, a nice, pretty, charming, innocen’ young woman! I, naturally, rejoice. I become myself again⁠—gay, light-‘earted, ‘appy. I address myself to mademoiselle; it passes the time. That, m’sieu’, is wot the women are for⁠—pass the time! Entertainment⁠—like the music, like the wine!</p>
+			<p>“My fren’,” said Etienne, exhaling a large cloud from his cigarette and patting Ross lightly on the shoulder with a bediamonded hand which, hung limp from a yard or more of bony arm, “I see I mus’ be frank with you. Firs’, because we are rivals; second, because you take these matters so serious. I⁠—I am Frenchman. I love the women”⁠—he threw back his curls, bared his yellow teeth, and blew an unsavory kiss toward the kitchen. “It is, I suppose, a trait of my nation. All Frenchmen love the women⁠—pretty women. Now, look: Here I am!” He spread out his arms. “Cold outside! I detes’ the col-l-l! Snow! I abominate the mees-ser-rhable snow! Two men! This⁠—” pointing to me⁠—“an’ this!” Pointing to’ Ross. “I am distracted! For two whole days I stan’ at the window an’ tear my ‘air! I am nervous, upset, pr-r-ro-foun’ly distress inside my ‘ead! An’ suddenly⁠—be’old! A woman, a nice, pretty, charming, innocen’ young woman! I, naturally, rejoice. I become myself again⁠—gay, light-’earted, ’appy. I address myself to mademoiselle; it passes the time. That, m’sieu’, is wot the women are for⁠—pass the time! Entertainment⁠—like the music, like the wine!</p>
 			<p>“They appeal to the mood, the caprice, the temperamen’. To play with thees woman, follow her through her humor, pursue her⁠—ah! that is the mos’ delightful way to sen’ the hours about their business.”</p>
 			<p>Ross banged the table. “Shut up, you miserable yeller pup!” he roared. “I object to your pursuin’ anything or anybody in my house. Now, you listen to me, you⁠—” He picked up the box of stogies and used it on the table as an emphasizer. The noise of it awoke the attention of the girl in the kitchen. Unheeded, she crept into the room. “I don’t know anything about your French ways of lovemakin’ an’ I don’t care. In my section of the country, it’s the best man wins. And I’m the best man here, and don’t you forget it! This girl’s goin’ to be mine. There ain’t going to be any playing, or philandering, or palm reading about it. I’ve made up my mind I’ll have this girl, and that settles it. My word is the law in this neck o’ the woods. She’s mine, and as soon as she says she’s mine, you pull out.” The box made one final, tremendous punctuation point.</p>
-			<p>Etienne’s bravado was unruffled. “Ah! that is no way to win a woman,” he smiled, easily. “I make prophecy you will never win ‘er that way. No. Not thees woman. She mus’ be played along an’ then keessed, this charming, delicious little creature. One kees! An’ then you ’ave her.” Again he displayed his unpleasant teeth. “I make you a bet I will kees her⁠—”</p>
+			<p>Etienne’s bravado was unruffled. “Ah! that is no way to win a woman,” he smiled, easily. “I make prophecy you will never win ’er that way. No. Not thees woman. She mus’ be played along an’ then keessed, this charming, delicious little creature. One kees! An’ then you ’ave her.” Again he displayed his unpleasant teeth. “I make you a bet I will kees her⁠—”</p>
 			<p>As a cheerful chronicler of deeds done well, it joys me to relate that the hand which fell upon Etienne’s amorous lips was not his own. There was one sudden sound, as of a mule kicking a lath fence, and then⁠—through the swinging doors of oblivion for Etienne.</p>
 			<p>I had seen this blow delivered. It was an aloof, unstudied, almost absentminded affair. I had thought the cook was rehearsing the proper method of turning a flapjack.</p>
 			<p>Silently, lost in thought, he stood there scratching his head. Then he began rolling down his sleeves.</p>
@@ -108,7 +108,7 @@
 			<p>George, who had been headed in my direction, slowly swivelled around and faced his employer. “Bein’ a camp cook, I ain’t overburdened with hosses,” George enlightened us. “Therefore, I am going to try to borrow this feller’s here.”</p>
 			<p>For the first time in four days my soul gave a genuine cheer. “If it’s for Lochinvar purposes, go as far as you like,” I said, grandly.</p>
 			<p>The cook studied me a moment, as if trying to find an insult in my words. “No,” he replied. “It’s for mine and the young lady’s purposes, and we’ll go only three miles⁠—to Hicksville. Now let me tell you somethin’, Ross.” Suddenly I was confronted with the cook’s chunky back and I heard a low, curt, carrying voice shoot through the room at my host. George had wheeled just as Ross started to speak. “You’re nutty. That’s what’s the matter with you. You can’t stand the snow. You’re getting nervouser, and nuttier every day. That and this Dago”⁠—he jerked a thumb at the half-dead Frenchman in the corner⁠—“has got you to the point where I thought I better horn in. I got to revolving it around in my mind and I seen if somethin’ wasn’t done, and done soon, there’d be murder around here and maybe”⁠—his head gave an imperceptible list toward the girl’s room⁠—“worse.”</p>
-			<p>He stopped, but he held up a stubby finger to keep anyone else from speaking. Then he plowed slowly through the drift of his ideas. “About this here woman. I know you, Ross, and I know what you reely think about women. If she hadn’t happened in here durin’ this here snow, you’d never have given two thoughts to the whole woman question. Likewise, when the storm clears, and you and the boys go hustlin’ out, this here whole business ‘ll clear out of your head and you won’t think of a skirt again until Kingdom Come. Just because o’ this snow here, don’t forget you’re living in the selfsame world you was in four days ago. And you’re the same man, too. Now, what’s the use o’ getting all snarled up over four days of stickin’ in the house? That there’s what I been revolvin’ in my mind and this here’s the decision I’ve come to.”</p>
+			<p>He stopped, but he held up a stubby finger to keep anyone else from speaking. Then he plowed slowly through the drift of his ideas. “About this here woman. I know you, Ross, and I know what you reely think about women. If she hadn’t happened in here durin’ this here snow, you’d never have given two thoughts to the whole woman question. Likewise, when the storm clears, and you and the boys go hustlin’ out, this here whole business ’ll clear out of your head and you won’t think of a skirt again until Kingdom Come. Just because o’ this snow here, don’t forget you’re living in the selfsame world you was in four days ago. And you’re the same man, too. Now, what’s the use o’ getting all snarled up over four days of stickin’ in the house? That there’s what I been revolvin’ in my mind and this here’s the decision I’ve come to.”</p>
 			<p>He plodded to the door and shouted to one of the ranch hands to saddle my horse.</p>
 			<p>Ross lit a stogy and stood thoughtful in the middle of the room. Then he began: “I’ve a durn good notion, George, to knock your confounded head off and throw you into that snowbank, if⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“You’re wrong, mister. That ain’t a durned good notion you’ve got. It’s durned bad. Look here!” He pointed steadily out of doors until we were both forced to follow his finger. “You’re in here for more’n a week yet.” After allowing this fact to sink in, he barked out at Ross: “Can you cook?” Then at me: “Can you cook?” Then he looked at the wreck of Etienne and sniffed.</p>

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@@ -28,7 +28,7 @@
 			<p>Girls, was this choice boon of the great little god Cupid ever vouchsafed you⁠—to have the fellow you want hard and fast, and have the one you don’t want come with a damp curl on his forehead and kneel to you and babble of Africa and love which, in spite of everything, shall forever bloom, an amaranth, in his heart? To know your power, and to feel the sweet security of your own happy state; to send the unlucky one, brokenhearted, to foreign climes, while you congratulate yourself as he presses his last kiss upon your knuckles, that your nails are well manicured⁠—say, girls, it’s galluptious⁠—don’t ever let it get by you.</p>
 			<p>And then, of course⁠—how did you guess it?⁠—the door opened and in stalked the bridegroom, jealous of slow-tying bonnet strings.</p>
 			<p>The farewell kiss was imprinted upon Helen’s hand, and out of the window and down the fire-escape sprang John Delaney, Africa bound.</p>
-			<p>A little slow music, if you please⁠—faint violin, just a breath in the clarinet and a touch of the ‘cello. Imagine the scene. Frank, white-hot, with the cry of a man wounded to death bursting from him. Helen, rushing and clinging to him, trying to explain. He catches her wrists and tears them from his shoulders⁠—once, twice, thrice he sways her this way and that⁠—the stage manager will show you how⁠—and throws her from him to the floor a huddled, crushed, moaning thing. Never, he cries, will he look upon her face again, and rushes from the house through the staring groups of astonished guests.</p>
+			<p>A little slow music, if you please⁠—faint violin, just a breath in the clarinet and a touch of the ’cello. Imagine the scene. Frank, white-hot, with the cry of a man wounded to death bursting from him. Helen, rushing and clinging to him, trying to explain. He catches her wrists and tears them from his shoulders⁠—once, twice, thrice he sways her this way and that⁠—the stage manager will show you how⁠—and throws her from him to the floor a huddled, crushed, moaning thing. Never, he cries, will he look upon her face again, and rushes from the house through the staring groups of astonished guests.</p>
 			<p>And, now because it is the Thing instead of the Play, the audience must stroll out into the real lobby of the world and marry, die, grow gray, rich, poor, happy or sad during the intermission of twenty years which must precede the rising of the curtain again.</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Barry inherited the shop and the house. At thirty-eight she could have bested many an eighteen-year-old at a beauty show on points and general results. Only a few people remembered her wedding comedy, but she made of it no secret. She did not pack it in lavender or moth balls, nor did she sell it to a magazine.</p>
 			<p>One day a middle-aged moneymaking lawyer, who bought his legal cap and ink of her, asked her across the counter to marry him.</p>

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@@ -71,7 +71,7 @@
 			<p>“That’s because you don’t know any. The only difference between swells and other people is you have to watch ’em closer. Don’t you think that red silk lining is just a little bit too bright for that coat, Lou?”</p>
 			<p>Lou looked at the plain, dull olive jacket of her friend.</p>
 			<p>“Well, no I don’t⁠—but it may seem so beside that faded-looking thing you’ve got on.”</p>
-			<p>“This jacket,” said Nancy, complacently, “has exactly the cut and fit of one that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Van Alstyne Fisher was wearing the other day. The material cost me $3.98. I suppose hers cost about $100. more.”</p>
+			<p>“This jacket,” said Nancy, complacently, “has exactly the cut and fit of one that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Van Alstyne Fisher was wearing the other day. The material cost me $3.98. I suppose hers cost about $100 more.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, well,” said Lou lightly, “it don’t strike me as millionaire bait. Shouldn’t wonder if I catch one before you do, anyway.”</p>
 			<p>Truly it would have taken a philosopher to decide upon the values of the theories held by the two friends. Lou, lacking that certain pride and fastidiousness that keeps stores and desks filled with girls working for the barest living, thumped away gaily with her iron in the noisy and stifling laundry. Her wages supported her even beyond the point of comfort; so that her dress profited until sometimes she cast a sidelong glance of impatience at the neat but inelegant apparel of Dan⁠—Dan the constant, the immutable, the undeviating.</p>
 			<p>As for Nancy, her case was one of tens of thousands. Silk and jewels and laces and ornaments and the perfume and music of the fine world of good-breeding and taste⁠—these were made for woman; they are her equitable portion. Let her keep near them if they are a part of life to her, and if she will. She is no traitor to herself, as Esau was; for she keeps her birthright and the pottage she earns is often very scant.</p>

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@@ -13,7 +13,7 @@
 			<p>The Justice of the Peace slipped his feet into his shoes, for the sake of dignity, and moved to let them enter.</p>
 			<p>“We-all,” said the woman, in a voice like the wind blowing through pine boughs, “wants a divo’ce.” She looked at Ransie to see if he noted any flaw or ambiguity or evasion or partiality or self-partisanship in her statement of their business.</p>
 			<p>“A divo’ce,” repeated Ransie, with a solemn nod. “We-all can’t git along together nohow. It’s lonesome enough fur to live in the mount’ins when a man and a woman keers fur one another. But when she’s a-spittin’ like a wildcat or a-sullenin’ like a hoot-owl in the cabin, a man ain’t got no call to live with her.”</p>
-			<p>“When he’s a no-‘count varmint,” said the woman, “without any especial warmth, a-traipsin’ along of scalawags and moonshiners and a-layin’ on his back pizen ‘ith co’n whiskey, and a-pesterin’ folks with a pack o’ hungry, triflin’ houn’s to feed!”</p>
+			<p>“When he’s a no-’count varmint,” said the woman, “without any especial warmth, a-traipsin’ along of scalawags and moonshiners and a-layin’ on his back pizen ‘ith co’n whiskey, and a-pesterin’ folks with a pack o’ hungry, triflin’ houn’s to feed!”</p>
 			<p>“When she keeps a-throwin’ skillet lids,” came Ransie’s antiphony, “and slings b’ilin’ water on the best coon-dog in the Cumberlands, and sets herself agin’ cookin’ a man’s victuals, and keeps him awake o’ nights accusin’ him of a sight of doin’s!”</p>
 			<p>“When he’s al’ays a-fightin’ the revenues, and gits a hard name in the mount’ins fur a mean man, who’s gwine to be able fur to sleep o’ nights?”</p>
 			<p>The Justice of the Peace stirred deliberately to his duties. He placed his one chair and a wooden stool for his petitioners. He opened his book of statutes on the table and scanned the index. Presently he wiped his spectacles and shifted his inkstand.</p>

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@@ -50,7 +50,7 @@
 			<p>What an interest it would give to the future menu cards of the Viewpoint Inn to have these printed lines added to them: “Only once during the more than ten years of his lonely existence did the mountain hermit leave his famous cave. That was when he was irresistibly drawn to the inn by the fascinations of Miss Beatrix Trenholme, youngest and most beautiful of the celebrated Trenholme sisters, whose brilliant marriage to⁠—”</p>
 			<p>Aye, to whom?</p>
 			<p>The hermit walked back to the hermitage. At the door stood Bob Binkley, his old friend and companion of the days before he had renounced the world⁠—Bob, himself, arrayed like the orchids of the greenhouse in the summer man’s polychromatic garb⁠—Bob, the millionaire, with his fat, firm, smooth, shrewd face, his diamond rings, sparkling fob-chain, and pleated bosom. He was two years older than the hermit, and looked five years younger.</p>
-			<p>“You’re Hamp Ellison, in spite of those whiskers and that going-away bathrobe,” he shouted. “I read about you on the bill of fare at the inn. They’ve run your biography in between the cheese and ‘Not Responsible for Coats and Umbrellas.’ What ‘d you do it for, Hamp? And ten years, too⁠—gee whilikins!”</p>
+			<p>“You’re Hamp Ellison, in spite of those whiskers and that going-away bathrobe,” he shouted. “I read about you on the bill of fare at the inn. They’ve run your biography in between the cheese and ‘Not Responsible for Coats and Umbrellas.’ What ’d you do it for, Hamp? And ten years, too⁠—gee whilikins!”</p>
 			<p>“You’re just the same,” said the hermit. “Come in and sit down. Sit on that limestone rock over there; it’s softer than the granite.”</p>
 			<p>“I can’t understand it, old man,” said Binkley. “I can see how you could give up a woman for ten years, but not ten years for a woman. Of course I know why you did it. Everybody does. Edith Carr. She jilted four or five besides you. But you were the only one who took to a hole in the ground. The others had recourse to whiskey, the Klondike, politics, and that <i xml:lang="la">similia similibus</i> cure. But, say⁠—Hamp, Edith Carr was just about the finest woman in the world⁠—high-toned and proud and noble, and playing her ideals to win at all kinds of odds. She certainly was a crackerjack.”</p>
 			<p>“After I renounced the world,” said the hermit, “I never heard of her again.”</p>

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@@ -41,7 +41,7 @@
 			<p>“Have you ever fallen into the hands of the police?” asked Tommy.</p>
 			<p>“I said ‘burglar,’ not ‘beggar,’ ” answered the cracksman.</p>
 			<p>“After you finish your lunch,” said Tommy, “and experience the usual change of heart, how shall we wind up the story?”</p>
-			<p>“Suppose,” said the burglar, thoughtfully, “that Tony Pastor turns out earlier than usual tonight, and your father gets in from ‘Parsifal’ at 10.30. I am thoroughly repentant because you have made me think of my own little boy Bessie, and⁠—”</p>
+			<p>“Suppose,” said the burglar, thoughtfully, “that Tony Pastor turns out earlier than usual tonight, and your father gets in from ‘Parsifal’ at 10:30. I am thoroughly repentant because you have made me think of my own little boy Bessie, and⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Say,” said Tommy, “haven’t you got that wrong?”</p>
 			<p>“Not on your coloured crayon drawings by B. Cory Kilvert,” said the burglar. “It’s always a Bessie that I have at home, artlessly prattling to the pale-cheeked burglar’s bride. As I was saying, your father opens the front door just as I am departing with admonitions and sandwiches that you have wrapped up for me. Upon recognizing me as an old Harvard classmate he starts back in⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Not in surprise?” interrupted Tommy, with wide, open eyes.</p>

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@@ -26,7 +26,7 @@
 			<p>Softly stepping among the clods came Tony, he of the race of Goths, who worked in the kitchen. He grinned at Burney’s elbow, and that unhappy man, full of race animosity and holding urbanity in contempt, growled at him: “What d’ye want, ye⁠—Dago?”</p>
 			<p>Tony also contained a grievance⁠—and a plot. He, too, was a Corrigan hater, and had been primed to see it in others.</p>
 			<p>“How you like-a <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Corrigan?” he asked. “You think-a him a nice-a man?”</p>
-			<p>“To hell with ‘m,” he said. “May his liver turn to water, and the bones of him crack in the cold of his heart. May dog fennel grow upon his ancestors’ graves, and the grandsons of his children be born without eyes. May whiskey turn to clabber in his mouth, and every time he sneezes may he blister the soles of his feet. And the smoke of his pipe⁠—may it make his eyes water, and the drops fall on the grass that his cows eat and poison the butter that he spreads on his bread.”</p>
+			<p>“To hell with ’m,” he said. “May his liver turn to water, and the bones of him crack in the cold of his heart. May dog fennel grow upon his ancestors’ graves, and the grandsons of his children be born without eyes. May whiskey turn to clabber in his mouth, and every time he sneezes may he blister the soles of his feet. And the smoke of his pipe⁠—may it make his eyes water, and the drops fall on the grass that his cows eat and poison the butter that he spreads on his bread.”</p>
 			<p>Though Tony remained a stranger to the beauties of this imagery, he gathered from it the conviction that it was sufficiently anti-Corrigan in its tendency. So, with the confidence of a fellow-conspirator, he sat by Burney upon the stone and unfolded his plot.</p>
 			<p>It was very simple in design. Every day after dinner it was Corrigan’s habit to sleep for an hour in his bunk. At such times it was the duty of the cook and his helper, Tony, to leave the boat so that no noise might disturb the autocrat. The cook always spent this hour in walking exercise. Tony’s plan was this: After Corrigan should be asleep he (Tony) and Burney would cut the mooring ropes that held the boat to the shore. Tony lacked the nerve to do the deed alone. Then the awkward boat would swing out into a swift current and surely overturn against a rock there was below.</p>
 			<p>“Come on and do it,” said Burney. “If the back of ye aches from the lick he gave ye as the pit of me stomach does for the taste of a bit of smoke, we can’t cut the ropes too quick.”</p>

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@@ -40,7 +40,7 @@
 			<p>“She’s well,” he continued, after his chaser. “She refused to live anywhere but in New York, where she came from. We live in a flat. Every evening at six I take that dog out for a walk. It’s Marcella’s pet. There never were two animals on earth, Jim, that hated one another like me and that dog does. His name’s Lovekins. Marcella dresses for dinner while we’re out. We eat tabble dote. Ever try one of them, Jim?”</p>
 			<p>“No, I never,” said Jim. “I seen the signs, but I thought they said ‘table de hole.’ I thought it was French for pool tables. How does it taste?”</p>
 			<p>“If you’re going to be in the city for awhile we will⁠—”</p>
-			<p>“No, sir-ee. I’m starting for home this evening on the 7.25. Like to stay longer, but I can’t.”</p>
+			<p>“No, sir-ee. I’m starting for home this evening on the 7:25. Like to stay longer, but I can’t.”</p>
 			<p>“I’ll walk down to the ferry with you,” said the dogman.</p>
 			<p>The dog had bound a leg each of Jim and the chair together, and had sunk into a comatose slumber. Jim stumbled, and the leash was slightly wrenched. The shrieks of the awakened beast rang for a block around.</p>
 			<p>“If that’s your dog,” said Jim, when they were on the street again, “what’s to hinder you from running that habeas corpus you’ve got around his neck over a limb and walking off and forgetting him?”</p>

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@@ -57,7 +57,7 @@
 			<p>“W’y, you can count me outer dis deal. You oughter know that. I’m on de bum all right enough, but dat other t’ing don’t go wit’ me. Burglary is no good. I’ll say good night and many t’anks fer⁠—”</p>
 			<p>Whistling Dick had moved away a few steps as he spoke, but he stopped very suddenly. Boston had covered him with a short revolver of roomy calibre.</p>
 			<p>“Take your seat,” said the tramp leader. “I’d feel mighty proud of myself if I let you go and spoil the game. You’ll stick right in this camp until we finish the job. The end of that brick pile is your limit. You go two inches beyond that, and I’ll have to shoot. Better take it easy, now.”</p>
-			<p>“It’s my way of doin’,” said Whistling Dick. “Easy goes. You can depress de muzzle of dat twelve-incher, and run ‘er back on de trucks. I remains, as de newspapers says, ‘in yer midst.’ ”</p>
+			<p>“It’s my way of doin’,” said Whistling Dick. “Easy goes. You can depress de muzzle of dat twelve-incher, and run ’er back on de trucks. I remains, as de newspapers says, ‘in yer midst.’ ”</p>
 			<p>“All right,” said Boston, lowering his piece, as the other returned and took his seat again on a projecting plank in a pile of timber. “Don’t try to leave; that’s all. I wouldn’t miss this chance even if I had to shoot an old acquaintance to make it go. I don’t want to hurt anybody specially, but this thousand dollars I’m going to get will fix me for fair. I’m going to drop the road, and start a saloon in a little town I know about. I’m tired of being kicked around.”</p>
 			<p>Boston Harry took from his pocket a cheap silver watch, and held it near the fire.</p>
 			<p>“It’s a quarter to nine,” he said. “Pete, you and Blinky start. Go down the road past the house, and fire the cane in a dozen places. Then strike for the levee, and come back on it, instead of the road, so you won’t meet anybody. By the time you get back the men will all be striking out for the fire, and we’ll break for the house and collar the dollars. Everybody cough up what matches he’s got.”</p>
@@ -76,7 +76,7 @@
 			<p>“Ther bloomin’ little skeezicks,” he muttered, with a grin.</p>
 			<p>As he walked up and down he could see, through a sort of natural opening or lane among the trees, the planter’s residence some seventy-five yards distant. The side of the house toward him exhibited spacious, well-lighted windows through which a soft radiance streamed, illuminating the broad veranda and some extent of the lawn beneath.</p>
 			<p>“What’s that you said?” asked Boston, sharply.</p>
-			<p>“Oh, nuttin’ ‘t all,” said Whistling Dick, lounging carelessly, and kicking meditatively at a little stone on the ground.</p>
+			<p>“Oh, nuttin’ ’t all,” said Whistling Dick, lounging carelessly, and kicking meditatively at a little stone on the ground.</p>
 			<p>“Just as easy,” continued the warbling vagrant softly to himself, “an’ sociable an’ swell an’ sassy, wit’ her ‘Merry Chris-mus,’ Wot d’yer t’ink, now!”</p>
 			<hr/>
 			<p>Dinner, two hours late, was being served in the Bellemeade plantation dining-room.</p>