Proofreading corrections

src/epub/text/a-bird-of-bagdad.xhtml

@@ -34,7 +34,7 @@
 			</p>
 			<p>“I work in Hildebrant’s saddle and harness shop down in Grant Street. I’ve worked there five years. I get $18 a week. That’s enough to marry on, ain’t it? Well, I’m not going to get married. Old Hildebrant is one of these funny Dutchmen⁠—you know the kind⁠—always getting off bum jokes. He’s got about a million riddles and things that he faked from Rogers Brothers’ great-grandfather. Bill Watson works there, too. Me and Bill have to stand for them chestnuts day after day. Why do we do it? Well, jobs ain’t to be picked off every Anheuser bush⁠—And then there’s Laura.</p>
 			<p>“What? The old man’s daughter. Comes in the shop every day. About nineteen, and the picture of the blonde that sits on the palisades of the Rhine and charms the clam-diggers into the surf. Hair the color of straw matting, and eyes as black and shiny as the best harness blacking⁠—think of that!</p>
-			<p>“Me? well, it’s either me or Bill Watson. She treats us both equal. Bill is all to the psychopathic about her; and me?⁠—well, you saw me plating the roadbed of the Great Maroon Way with silver tonight. That was on account of Laura. I was spiflicated, Your Highness, and I wot not of what I wouldst.</p>
+			<p>“Me? Well, it’s either me or Bill Watson. She treats us both equal. Bill is all to the psychopathic about her; and me?⁠—well, you saw me plating the roadbed of the Great Maroon Way with silver tonight. That was on account of Laura. I was spiflicated, Your Highness, and I wot not of what I wouldst.</p>
 			<p>“How? Why, old Hildebrandt says to me and Bill this afternoon: ‘Boys, one riddle have I for you gehabt haben. A young man who cannot riddles antworten, he is not so good by business for ein family to provide⁠—is not that⁠—hein?’ And he hands us a riddle⁠—a conundrum, some calls it⁠—and he chuckles interiorly and gives both of us till tomorrow morning to work out the answer to it. And he says whichever of us guesses the repartee end of it goes to his house o’ Wednesday night to his daughter’s birthday party. And it means Laura for whichever of us goes, for she’s naturally aching for a husband, and it’s either me or Bill Watson, for old Hildebrant likes us both, and wants her to marry somebody that’ll carry on the business after he’s stitched his last pair of traces.</p>
 			<p>“The riddle? Why, it was this: ‘What kind of a hen lays the longest? Think of that! What kind of a hen lays the longest? Ain’t it like a Dutchman to risk a man’s happiness on a fool proposition like that? Now, what’s the use? What I don’t know about hens would fill several incubators. You say you’re giving imitations of the old Arab guy that gave away⁠—libraries in Bagdad. Well, now, can you whistle up a fairy that’ll solve this hen query, or not?”</p>
 			<p>When the young man ceased the Margrave arose and paced to and fro by the park bench for several minutes. Finally he sat again, and said, in grave and impressive tones:</p>

src/epub/text/a-midsummer-knights-dream.xhtml

@@ -44,7 +44,7 @@
 			<p>Cool and dry as the finest wine came the breath of the shadowed forest. The valley below was a vision seen through an opal haze. A white mist from hidden falls blurred the green of a hand’s breadth of tree tops halfway down the gorge. Youth made merry hand-in-hand with young summer. Nothing on Broadway like that.</p>
 			<p>The villagers gathered to see the city folks pursue their mad drollery. The woods rang with the laughter of pixies and naiads and sprites. Gaines caught most of the rings. His was the privilege to crown the queen of the tournament. He was the conquering knight⁠—as far as the rings went. On his arm he wore a white scarf. Compton wore light blue. She had declared her preference for blue, but she wore white that day.</p>
 			<p>Gaines looked about for the queen to crown her. He heard her merry laugh, as if from the clouds. She had slipped away and climbed Chimney Rock, a little granite bluff, and stood there, a white fairy among the laurels, fifty feet above their heads.</p>
-			<p>Instantly he and Compton accepted the implied challenge. The bluff was easily mounted at the rear, but the front offered small hold to hand or foot. Each man quickly selected his route and began to climb, A crevice, a bush, a slight projection, a vine or tree branch⁠—all of these were aids that counted in the race. It was all foolery⁠—there was no stake; but there was youth in it, cross reader, and light hearts, and something else that Miss Clay writes so charmingly about.</p>
+			<p>Instantly he and Compton accepted the implied challenge. The bluff was easily mounted at the rear, but the front offered small hold to hand or foot. Each man quickly selected his route and began to climb. A crevice, a bush, a slight projection, a vine or tree branch⁠—all of these were aids that counted in the race. It was all foolery⁠—there was no stake; but there was youth in it, cross reader, and light hearts, and something else that Miss Clay writes so charmingly about.</p>
 			<p>Gaines gave a great tug at the root of a laurel and pulled himself to Miss Mary’s feet. On his arm he carried the wreath of roses; and while the villagers and summer boarders screamed and applauded below he placed it on the queen’s brow.</p>
 			<p>“You are a gallant knight,” said Miss Mary.</p>
 			<p>“If I could be your true knight always,” began Gaines, but Miss Mary laughed him dumb, for Compton scrambled over the edge of the rock one minute behind time.</p>

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

@@ -57,7 +57,7 @@
 			<p>At Ninth Street a tall man wearing an opera hat alighted from a Broadway car and turned his face westward. But he saw Murray, pounced upon him and dragged him under a street light. The Captain lumbered slowly to the corner, like a wounded bear, and waited, growling.</p>
 			<p>“Jerry!” cried the hatted one. “How fortunate! I was to begin a search for you tomorrow. The old gentleman has capitulated. You’re to be restored to favor. Congratulate you. Come to the office in the morning and get all the money you want. I’ve liberal instructions in that respect.”</p>
 			<p>“And the little matrimonial arrangement?” said Murray, with his head turned sidewise.</p>
-			<p>“Why.⁠—er⁠—well, of course, your uncle understands⁠—expects that the engagement between you and Miss Vanderhurst shall be⁠—”</p>
+			<p>“Why⁠—er⁠—well, of course, your uncle understands⁠—expects that the engagement between you and Miss Vanderhurst shall be⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Good night,” said Murray, moving away.</p>
 			<p>“You madman!” cried the other, catching his arm. “Would you give up two millions on account of⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Did you ever see her nose, old man?” asked Murray, solemnly.</p>

src/epub/text/blind-mans-holiday.xhtml

@@ -23,7 +23,7 @@
 			<p>Man is too thoroughly an egoist not to be also an egotist; if he love, the object shall know it. During a lifetime he may conceal it through stress of expediency and honour, but it shall bubble from his dying lips, though it disrupt a neighbourhood. It is known, however, that most men do not wait so long to disclose their passion. In the case of Lorison, his particular ethics positively forbade him to declare his sentiments, but he must needs dally with the subject, and woo by innuendo at least.</p>
 			<p>On this night, after the usual meal at the Carabine d’Or, he strolled with his companion down the dim old street toward the river.</p>
 			<p>The Rue Chartres perishes in the old Place d’Armes. The ancient Cabildo, where Spanish justice fell like hail, faces it, and the Cathedral, another provincial ghost, overlooks it. Its centre is a little, iron-railed park of flowers and immaculate gravelled walks, where citizens take the air of evenings. Pedestalled high above it, the general sits his cavorting steed, with his face turned stonily down the river toward English Turn, whence come no more Britons to bombard his cotton bales.</p>
-			<p>Often the two sat in this square, but tonight Lorison guided her past the stone-stepped gate, and still riverward. As they walked, he smiled to himself to think that all he knew of her⁠—except that be loved her⁠—was her name, Norah Greenway, and that she lived with her brother. They had talked about everything except themselves. Perhaps her reticence had been caused by his.</p>
+			<p>Often the two sat in this square, but tonight Lorison guided her past the stone-stepped gate, and still riverward. As they walked, he smiled to himself to think that all he knew of her⁠—except that he loved her⁠—was her name, Norah Greenway, and that she lived with her brother. They had talked about everything except themselves. Perhaps her reticence had been caused by his.</p>
 			<p>They came, at length, upon the levee, and sat upon a great, prostrate beam. The air was pungent with the dust of commerce. The great river slipped yellowly past. Across it Algiers lay, a longitudinous black bulk against a vibrant electric haze sprinkled with exact stars.</p>
 			<p>The girl was young and of the piquant order. A certain bright melancholy pervaded her; she possessed an untarnished, pale prettiness doomed to please. Her voice, when she spoke, dwarfed her theme. It was the voice capable of investing little subjects with a large interest. She sat at ease, bestowing her skirts with the little womanly touch, serene as if the begrimed pier were a summer garden. Lorison poked the rotting boards with his cane.</p>
 			<p>He began by telling her that he was in love with someone to whom he durst not speak of it. “And why not?” she asked, accepting swiftly his fatuous presentation of a third person of straw. “My place in the world,” he answered, “is none to ask a woman to share. I am an outcast from honest people; I am wrongly accused of one crime, and am, I believe, guilty of another.”</p>
@@ -81,9 +81,9 @@
 			<p>Surely it needed all the strength of her charm to carry off this astounding behaviour. It was no discredit to Lorison’s strength of mind that his head began to whirl. Pocketing his hands, he rambled vacuously over to the druggist’s windows, and began assiduously to spell over the names of the patent medicines therein displayed.</p>
 			<p>As soon as be had recovered his wits, he proceeded along the street in an aimless fashion. After drifting for two or three squares, he flowed into a somewhat more pretentious thoroughfare, a way much frequented by him in his solitary ramblings. For here was a row of shops devoted to traffic in goods of the widest range of choice⁠—handiworks of art, skill and fancy, products of nature and labour from every zone.</p>
 			<p>Here, for a time, he loitered among the conspicuous windows, where was set, emphasized by congested floods of light, the cunningest spoil of the interiors. There were few passers, and of this Lorison was glad. He was not of the world. For a long time he had touched his fellow man only at the gear of a levelled cogwheel⁠—at right angles, and upon a different axis. He had dropped into a distinctly new orbit. The stroke of ill fortune had acted upon him, in effect, as a blow delivered upon the apex of a certain ingenious toy, the musical top, which, when thus buffeted while spinning, gives forth, with scarcely retarded motion, a complete change of key and chord.</p>
-			<p>Strolling along the pacific avenue, he experienced singular, supernatural calm, accompanied by an unusual a activity of brain. Reflecting upon recent affairs, he assured himself of his happiness in having won for a bride the one he had so greatly desired, yet he wondered mildly at his dearth of active emotion. Her strange behaviour in abandoning him without valid excuse on his bridal eve aroused in him only a vague and curious speculation. Again, he found himself contemplating, with complaisant serenity, the incidents of her somewhat lively career. His perspective seemed to have been queerly shifted.</p>
+			<p>Strolling along the pacific avenue, he experienced singular, supernatural calm, accompanied by an unusual activity of brain. Reflecting upon recent affairs, he assured himself of his happiness in having won for a bride the one he had so greatly desired, yet he wondered mildly at his dearth of active emotion. Her strange behaviour in abandoning him without valid excuse on his bridal eve aroused in him only a vague and curious speculation. Again, he found himself contemplating, with complaisant serenity, the incidents of her somewhat lively career. His perspective seemed to have been queerly shifted.</p>
 			<p>As he stood before a window near a corner, his ears were assailed by a waxing clamour and commotion. He stood close to the window to allow passage to the cause of the hubbub⁠—a procession of human beings, which rounded the corner and headed in his direction. He perceived a salient hue of blue and a glitter of brass about a central figure of dazzling white and silver, and a ragged wake of black, bobbing figures.</p>
-			<p>Two ponderous policemen were conducting between them a woman dressed as if for the stage, in a short, white, satiny skirt reaching to the knees, pink stockings, and a sort of sleeveless bodice bright with relucent, armour-like scales. Upon her curly, light hair was perched, at a rollicking angle, a shining tin helmet. The costume was to be instantly recognized as one of those amazing conceptions to which competition has harried the inventors of the spectacular ballet. One of the officers bore a long cloak upon his arm, which, doubtless, had been intended to veil the I candid attractions of their effulgent prisoner, but, for some reason, it had not been called into use, to the vociferous delight of the tail of the procession.</p>
+			<p>Two ponderous policemen were conducting between them a woman dressed as if for the stage, in a short, white, satiny skirt reaching to the knees, pink stockings, and a sort of sleeveless bodice bright with relucent, armour-like scales. Upon her curly, light hair was perched, at a rollicking angle, a shining tin helmet. The costume was to be instantly recognized as one of those amazing conceptions to which competition has harried the inventors of the spectacular ballet. One of the officers bore a long cloak upon his arm, which, doubtless, had been intended to veil the candid attractions of their effulgent prisoner, but, for some reason, it had not been called into use, to the vociferous delight of the tail of the procession.</p>
 			<p>Compelled by a sudden and vigorous movement of the woman, the parade halted before the window by which Lorison stood. He saw that she was young, and, at the first glance, was deceived by a sophistical prettiness of her face, which waned before a more judicious scrutiny. Her look was bold and reckless, and upon her countenance, where yet the contours of youth survived, were the fingermarks of old age’s credentialed courier, Late Hours.</p>
 			<p>The young woman fixed her unshrinking gaze upon Lorison, and called to him in the voice of the wronged heroine in straits:</p>
 			<p>“Say! You look like a good fellow; come and put up the bail, won’t you? I’ve done nothing to get pinched for. It’s all a mistake. See how they’re treating me! You won’t be sorry, if you’ll help me out of this. Think of your sister or your girl being dragged along the streets this way! I say, come along now, like a good fellow.”</p>
@@ -120,7 +120,7 @@
 			<p>“Now, my son,” he said.</p>
 			<p>Lorison poured a twelve month’s accumulated confidence into Father Rogan’s ear. He told all; not sparing himself or omitting the facts of his past, the events of the night, or his disturbing conjectures and fears.</p>
 			<p>“The main point,” said the priest, when he had concluded, “seems to me to be this⁠—are you reasonably sure that you love this woman whom you have married?”</p>
-			<p>“Why,” exclaimed Lorison, rising impulsively to his feet⁠—“why should I deny it? But look at me⁠—am fish, flesh or fowl? That is the main point to me, I assure you.”</p>
+			<p>“Why,” exclaimed Lorison, rising impulsively to his feet⁠—“why should I deny it? But look at me⁠—am I fish, flesh or fowl? That is the main point to me, I assure you.”</p>
 			<p>“I understand you,” said the priest, also rising, and laying down his pipe. “The situation is one that has taxed the endurance of much older men than you⁠—in fact, especially much older men than you. I will try to relieve you from it, and this night. You shall see for yourself into exactly what predicament you have fallen, and how you shall, possibly, be extricated. There is no evidence so credible as that of the eyesight.”</p>
 			<p>Father Rogan moved about the room, and donned a soft black hat. Buttoning his coat to his throat, he laid his hand on the doorknob. “Let us walk,” he said.</p>
 			<p>The two went out upon the street. The priest turned his face down it, and Lorison walked with him through a squalid district, where the houses loomed, awry and desolate-looking, high above them. Presently they turned into a less dismal side street, where the houses were smaller, and, though hinting of the most meagre comfort, lacked the concentrated wretchedness of the more populous byways.</p>
@@ -138,7 +138,7 @@
 			<p>The priest lit the lamp, and Lorison saw a tiny, towsled-haired boy, with a thin, delicate face, sitting up in a small bed in a corner. Quickly, also, his rapid glance considered the room and its contents. It was furnished with more than comfort, and its adornments plainly indicated a woman’s discerning taste. An open door beyond revealed the blackness of an adjoining room’s interior.</p>
 			<p>The boy clutched both of Father Rogan’s hands. “I’m so glad you came,” he said; “but why did you come in the night? Did sister send you?”</p>
 			<p>“Off wid ye! Am I to be sint about, at me age, as was Terence McShane, of Ballymahone? I come on me own r-r-responsibility.”</p>
-			<p>Lorison had also advanced to the boy’s bedside. He was fond of children; and the wee fellow, laying himself down to sleep alone in that dark room, stirred-his heart.</p>
+			<p>Lorison had also advanced to the boy’s bedside. He was fond of children; and the wee fellow, laying himself down to sleep alone in that dark room, stirred his heart.</p>
 			<p>“Aren’t you afraid, little man?” he asked, stooping down beside him.</p>
 			<p>“Sometimes,” answered the boy, with a shy smile, “when the rats make too much noise. But nearly every night, when sister goes out, Mother Geehan stays a while with me, and tells me funny stories. I’m not often afraid, sir.”</p>
 			<p>“This brave little gentleman,” said Father Rogan, “is a scholar of mine. Every day from half-past six to half-past eight⁠—when sister comes for him⁠—he stops in my study, and we find out what’s in the inside of books. He knows multiplication, division and fractions; and he’s troubling me to begin wid the chronicles of Ciaran of Clonmacnoise, Corurac McCullenan and Cuan O’Lochain, the gr-r-reat Irish histhorians.” The boy was evidently accustomed to the priest’s Celtic pleasantries. A little, appreciative grin was all the attention the insinuation of pedantry received.</p>

src/epub/text/from-each-according-to-his-ability.xhtml

@@ -34,7 +34,7 @@
 			<p>“Oh, I suppose,” said Vuyning, with a laugh, “that my ancestors picked up the knack while they were peddling clothes from house to house a couple of hundred years ago. I’m told they did that.”</p>
 			<p>“And mine,” said Emerson, cheerfully, “were making their visits at night, I guess, and didn’t have a chance to catch on to the correct styles.”</p>
 			<p>“I tell you what,” said Vuyning, whose ennui had taken wings, “I’ll take you to my tailor. He’ll eliminate the mark of the beast from your exterior. That is, if you care to go any further in the way of expense.”</p>
-			<p>“Play ’em to the ceiling,” said Emerson, with a boyish smile of joy. “I’ve got a roll as big around as a barrel of black-eyed peas and as loose as the wrapper of a two-for-fiver. I don’t mind telling you that I was not touring among the Antipodes when the burglarproof safe of the Farmers’ National Bank of Butterville, Ia., flew open some moonless nights ago to the tune of $16,000.”</p>
+			<p>“Play ’em to the ceiling,” said Emerson, with a boyish smile of joy. “I’ve got a roll as big around as a barrel of black-eyed peas and as loose as the wrapper of a two-for-fiver. I don’t mind telling you that I was not touring among the Antipodes when the burglarproof safe of the Farmers’ National Bank of Butterville, <abbr class="postal">Ia.</abbr>, flew open some moonless nights ago to the tune of $16,000.”</p>
 			<p>“Aren’t you afraid,” asked Vuyning, “that I’ll call a cop and hand you over?”</p>
 			<p>“You tell me,” said Emerson, coolly, “why I didn’t keep them.”</p>
 			<p>He laid Vuyning’s pocketbook and watch⁠—the Vuyning 100-year-old family watch⁠—on the table.</p>
@@ -44,7 +44,7 @@
 			<hr/>
 			<p>“Boys, and elderly gents,” said Vuyning, five days later at his club, standing up against the window where his coterie was gathered, and keeping out the breeze, “a friend of mine from the West will dine at our table this evening.”</p>
 			<p>“Will he ask if we have heard the latest from Denver?” said a member, squirming in his chair.</p>
-			<p>“Will he mention the new twenty-three-story Masonic Temple, in Quincy, Ill.?” inquired another, dropping his nose-glasses.</p>
+			<p>“Will he mention the new twenty-three-story Masonic Temple, in Quincy, <abbr class="postal">Ill.</abbr>?” inquired another, dropping his nose-glasses.</p>
 			<p>“Will he spring one of those Western Mississippi River catfish stories, in which they use yearling calves for bait?” demanded Kirk, fiercely.</p>
 			<p>“Be comforted,” said Vuyning. “He has none of the little vices. He is a burglar and safe-blower, and a pal of mine.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, Mary Ann!” said they. “Must you always adorn every statement with your alleged humor?”</p>
@@ -52,7 +52,7 @@
 			<p>And then he painted for them with hard, broad strokes a marvellous lingual panorama of the West. He stacked snow-topped mountains on the table, freezing the hot dishes of the waiting diners. With a wave of his hand he swept the clubhouse into a pine-crowned gorge, turning the waiters into a grim posse, and each listener into a bloodstained fugitive, climbing with torn fingers upon the ensanguined rocks. He touched the table and spake, and the five panted as they gazed on barren lava beds, and each man took his tongue between his teeth and felt his mouth bake at the tale of a land empty of water and food. As simply as Homer sang, while he dug a tine of his fork leisurely into the tablecloth, he opened a new world to their view, as does one who tells a child of the Looking-Glass Country.</p>
 			<p>As one of his listeners might have spoken of tea too strong at a Madison Square “afternoon,” so he depicted the ravages of “redeye” in a border town when the caballeros of the lariat and “forty-five” reduced ennui to a minimum.</p>
 			<p>And then, with a sweep of his white, unringed hands, he dismissed Melpomene, and forthwith Diana and Amaryllis footed it before the mind’s eyes of the clubmen.</p>
-			<p>The savannas of the continent spread before them. The wind, humming through a hundred leagues of sage brush and mesquite, closed their ears to the city’s staccato noises. He told them of camps, of ranches marooned in a sea of fragrant prairie blossoms, of gallops in the stilly night that Apollo would have forsaken his daytime steeds to enjoy; he read them the great, rough epic of the cattle and the hills that have not been spoiled by the hand of man, the mason. His words were a telescope to the city men, whose eyes had looked upon Youngstown, O., and whose tongues had called it “West.”</p>
+			<p>The savannas of the continent spread before them. The wind, humming through a hundred leagues of sage brush and mesquite, closed their ears to the city’s staccato noises. He told them of camps, of ranches marooned in a sea of fragrant prairie blossoms, of gallops in the stilly night that Apollo would have forsaken his daytime steeds to enjoy; he read them the great, rough epic of the cattle and the hills that have not been spoiled by the hand of man, the mason. His words were a telescope to the city men, whose eyes had looked upon Youngstown, <abbr class="postal">O.</abbr>, and whose tongues had called it “West.”</p>
 			<p>In fact, Emerson had them “going.”</p>
 			<hr/>
 			<p>The next morning at ten he met Vuyning, by appointment, at a Forty-second Street café.</p>

src/epub/text/roses-ruses-and-romance.xhtml

@@ -24,19 +24,19 @@
 				<p>
 					<span>“One rose I twined within your hair⁠—</span>
 					<br/>
-					<span>(White rose, that spake of worth);</span>
+					<span class="i1">(White rose, that spake of worth);</span>
 					<br/>
 					<span>And one you placed upon your breast⁠—</span>
 					<br/>
-					<span>(Red rose, love’s seal of birth).</span>
+					<span class="i1">(Red rose, love’s seal of birth).</span>
 					<br/>
 					<span>You plucked another from its stem⁠—</span>
 					<br/>
-					<span>(Tea rose, that means for aye);</span>
+					<span class="i1">(Tea rose, that means for aye);</span>
 					<br/>
 					<span>And one you gave⁠—that bore for me</span>
 					<br/>
-					<span>The thorns of memory.”</span>
+					<span class="i1">The thorns of memory.”</span>
 				</p>
 			</blockquote>
 			<p>“That’s a crackerjack,” said Sammy, admiringly.</p>

src/epub/text/sisters-of-the-golden-circle.xhtml

@@ -47,7 +47,7 @@
 			<p>Whereupon he resisted arrest so cheerfully and industriously that cops had to be whistled for, and afterwards the reserves, to disperse a few thousand delighted spectators.</p>
 			<p>At the station-house the desk sergeant asked for his name.</p>
 			<p>“McDoodle, the Pink, or Pinky the Brute, I forget which,” was James Williams’s answer. “But you can bet I’m a burglar; don’t leave that out. And you might add that it took five of ’em to pluck the Pink. I’d especially like to have that in the records.”</p>
-			<p>In an hour came <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> James Williams, with Uncle Thomas, of Madison Avenue, in a respect-compelling motor car and proofs of the hero’s innocence⁠—for all the world like the third act of a drama backed by an automobile mfg. co.</p>
+			<p>In an hour came <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> James Williams, with Uncle Thomas, of Madison Avenue, in a respect-compelling motor car and proofs of the hero’s innocence⁠—for all the world like the third act of a drama backed by an automobile <abbr>mfg.</abbr> <abbr class="eoc">co</abbr>.</p>
 			<p>After the police had sternly reprimanded James Williams for imitating a copyrighted burglar and given him as honourable a discharge as the department was capable of, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Williams rearrested him and swept him into an angle of the station-house. James Williams regarded her with one eye. He always said that Donovan closed the other while somebody was holding his good right hand. Never before had he given her a word of reproach or of reproof.</p>
 			<p>“If you can explain,” he began rather stiffly, “why you⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Dear,” she interrupted, “listen. It was an hour’s pain and trial to you. I did it for her⁠—I mean the girl who spoke to me on the coach. I was so happy, Jim⁠—so happy with you that I didn’t dare to refuse that happiness to another. Jim, they were married only this morning⁠—those two; and I wanted him to get away. While they were struggling with you I saw him slip from behind his tree and hurry across the park. That’s all of it, dear⁠—I had to do it.”</p>

src/epub/text/telemachus-friend.xhtml

@@ -8,15 +8,15 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<section id="telemachus-friend" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">Telemachus, Friend</h2>
-			<p>Returning from a hunting trip, I waited at the little town of Los Pinos, in New Mexico, for the southbound train, which was one hour late. I sat on the porch of the Summit House and discussed the functions of life with Telemachus Hicks, the hotel proprietor.</p>
+			<p>Returning from a hunting trip, I waited at the little town of Los Piños, in New Mexico, for the southbound train, which was one hour late. I sat on the porch of the Summit House and discussed the functions of life with Telemachus Hicks, the hotel proprietor.</p>
 			<p>Perceiving that personalities were not out of order, I asked him what species of beast had long ago twisted and mutilated his left ear. Being a hunter, I was concerned in the evils that may befall one in the pursuit of game.</p>
 			<p>“That ear,” says Hicks, “is the relic of true friendship.”</p>
 			<p>“An accident?” I persisted.</p>
 			<p>“No friendship is an accident,” said Telemachus; and I was silent.</p>
-			<p>“The only perfect case of true friendship I ever knew,” went on my host, “was a cordial intent between a Connecticut man and a monkey. The monkey climbed palms in Barranquilla and threw down coconuts to the man. The man sawed them in two and made dippers, which he sold for two reales each and bought rum. The monkey drank the milk of the nuts. Through each being satisfied with his own share of the graft, they lived like brothers.</p>
+			<p>“The only perfect case of true friendship I ever knew,” went on my host, “was a cordial intent between a Connecticut man and a monkey. The monkey climbed palms in Barranquilla and threw down coconuts to the man. The man sawed them in two and made dippers, which he sold for two <i xml:lang="es">reales</i> each and bought rum. The monkey drank the milk of the nuts. Through each being satisfied with his own share of the graft, they lived like brothers.</p>
 			<p>“But in the case of human beings, friendship is a transitory art, subject to discontinuance without further notice.</p>
 			<p>“I had a friend once, of the entitlement of Paisley Fish, that I imagined was sealed to me for an endless space of time. Side by side for seven years we had mined, ranched, sold patent churns, herded sheep, took photographs and other things, built wire fences, and picked prunes. Thinks I, neither homocide nor flattery nor riches nor sophistry nor drink can make trouble between me and Paisley Fish. We was friends an amount you could hardly guess at. We was friends in business, and we let our amicable qualities lap over and season our hours of recreation and folly. We certainly had days of Damon and nights of Pythias.</p>
-			<p>“One summer me and Paisley gallops down into these San Andres mountains for the purpose of a month’s surcease and levity, dressed in the natural store habiliments of man. We hit this town of Los Pinos, which certainly was a roof-garden spot of the world, and flowing with condensed milk and honey. It had a street or two, and air, and hens, and a eating-house; and that was enough for us.</p>
+			<p>“One summer me and Paisley gallops down into these San Andres mountains for the purpose of a month’s surcease and levity, dressed in the natural store habiliments of man. We hit this town of Los Piños, which certainly was a roof-garden spot of the world, and flowing with condensed milk and honey. It had a street or two, and air, and hens, and a eating-house; and that was enough for us.</p>
 			<p>“We strikes the town after suppertime, and we concludes to sample whatever efficacy there is in this eating-house down by the railroad tracks. By the time we had set down and pried up our plates with a knife from the red oilcloth, along intrudes Widow Jessup with the hot biscuit and the fried liver.</p>
 			<p>“Now, there was a woman that would have tempted an anchovy to forget his vows. She was not so small as she was large; and a kind of welcome air seemed to mitigate her vicinity. The pink of her face was the in hoc signo of a culinary temper and a warm disposition, and her smile would have brought out the dogwood blossoms in December.</p>
 			<p>“Widow Jessup talks to us a lot of garrulousness about the climate and history and Tennyson and prunes and the scarcity of mutton, and finally wants to know where we came from.</p>
@@ -41,7 +41,7 @@
 			<p>“In a few minutes Paisley drops around, with oil of bergamot on his hair, and sits on the other side of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Jessup, and inaugurates a sad tale of adventure in which him and Pieface Lumley has a skinning-match of dead cows in ’95 for a silver-mounted saddle in the Santa Rita valley during the nine months’ drought.</p>
 			<p>“Now, from the start of that courtship I had Paisley Fish hobbled and tied to a post. Each one of us had a different system of reaching out for the easy places in the female heart. Paisley’s scheme was to petrify ’em with wonderful relations of events that he had either come across personally or in large print. I think he must have got his idea of subjugation from one of Shakespeare’s shows I see once called ‘Othello.’ There is a coloured man in it who acquires a duke’s daughter by disbursing to her a mixture of the talk turned out by Rider Haggard, Lew Dockstader, and <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Parkhurst. But that style of courting don’t work well off the stage.</p>
 			<p>“Now, I give you my own recipe for inveigling a woman into that state of affairs when she can be referred to as ‘née Jones.’ Learn how to pick up her hand and hold it, and she’s yours. It ain’t so easy. Some men grab at it so much like they was going to set a dislocation of the shoulder that you can smell the arnica and hear ’em tearing off bandages. Some take it up like a hot horseshoe, and hold it off at arm’s length like a druggist pouring tincture of asafoetida in a bottle. And most of ’em catch hold of it and drag it right out before the lady’s eyes like a boy finding a baseball in the grass, without giving her a chance to forget that the hand is growing on the end of her arm. Them ways are all wrong.</p>
-			<p>“I’ll tell you the right way. Did you ever see a man sneak out in the back yard and pick up a rock to throw at a tomcat that was sitting on a fence looking at him? He pretends he hasn’t got a thing in his hand, and that the cat don’t see him, and that he don’t see the cat. That’s the idea. Never drag her hand out where she’ll have to take notice of it. Don’t let her know that you think she knows you have the least idea she is aware you are holding her hand. That was my rule of tactics; and as far as Paisley’s serenade about hostilities and misadventure went, he might as well have been reading to her a time-eable of the Sunday trains that stop at Ocean Grove, New Jersey.</p>
+			<p>“I’ll tell you the right way. Did you ever see a man sneak out in the back yard and pick up a rock to throw at a tomcat that was sitting on a fence looking at him? He pretends he hasn’t got a thing in his hand, and that the cat don’t see him, and that he don’t see the cat. That’s the idea. Never drag her hand out where she’ll have to take notice of it. Don’t let her know that you think she knows you have the least idea she is aware you are holding her hand. That was my rule of tactics; and as far as Paisley’s serenade about hostilities and misadventure went, he might as well have been reading to her a time-table of the Sunday trains that stop at Ocean Grove, New Jersey.</p>
 			<p>“One night when I beat Paisley to the bench by one pipeful, my friendship gets subsidised for a minute, and I asks <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Jessup if she didn’t think a ‘H’ was easier to write than a ‘J.’ In a second her head was mashing the oleander flower in my buttonhole, and I leaned over and⁠—but I didn’t.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘If you don’t mind,’ says I, standing up, ‘we’ll wait for Paisley to come before finishing this. I’ve never done anything dishonourable yet to our friendship, and this won’t be quite fair.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hicks,’ says <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Jessup, looking at me peculiar in the dark, ‘if it wasn’t for but one thing, I’d ask you to hike yourself down the gulch and never disresume your visits to my house.’</p>
@@ -60,7 +60,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Man,’ says <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Jessup, turning around to Paisley, ‘if you was to drop in to the celebration of mine and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hicks’s silver wedding, twenty-five years from now, do you think you could get it into that Hubbard squash you call your head that you are <i xml:lang="la">nix cum rous</i> in this business? I’ve put up with you a long time because you was <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hicks’s friend; but it seems to me it’s time for you to wear the willow and trot off down the hill.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Jessup,’ says I, without losing my grasp on the situation as fiancé, ‘<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Paisley is my friend, and I offered him a square deal and a equal opportunity as long as there was a chance.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘A chance!’ says she. ‘Well, he may think he has a chance; but I hope he won’t think he’s got a cinch, after what he’s been next to all the evening.’</p>
-			<p>“Well, a month afterwards me and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Jessup was married in the Los Pinos Methodist Church; and the whole town closed up to see the performance.</p>
+			<p>“Well, a month afterwards me and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Jessup was married in the Los Piños Methodist Church; and the whole town closed up to see the performance.</p>
 			<p>“When we lined up in front and the preacher was beginning to sing out his rituals and observances, I looks around and misses Paisley. I calls time on the preacher. ‘Paisley ain’t here,’ says I. ‘We’ve got to wait for Paisley. A friend once, a friend always⁠—that’s Telemachus Hicks,’ says I. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Jessup’s eyes snapped some; but the preacher holds up the incantations according to instructions.</p>
 			<p>“In a few minutes Paisley gallops up the aisle, putting on a cuff as he comes. He explains that the only dry-goods store in town was closed for the wedding, and he couldn’t get the kind of a boiled shirt that his taste called for until he had broke open the back window of the store and helped himself. Then he ranges up on the other side of the bride, and the wedding goes on. I always imagined that Paisley calculated as a last chance that the preacher might marry him to the widow by mistake.</p>
 			<p>“After the proceedings was over we had tea and jerked antelope and canned apricots, and then the populace hiked itself away. Last of all Paisley shook me by the hand and told me I’d acted square and on the level with him and he was proud to call me a friend.</p>

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@@ -23,7 +23,7 @@
 			<p>In a third-story room, in an atmosphere opaque with smoke, he hung for ten minutes above a roulette wheel. Then downstairs he crept, and was out-sped by the important negro, jingling in his pocket the 40 cents in silver that remained to him of his five-dollar capital. At the corner he lingered, undecided.</p>
 			<p>Across the street was a drug store, well lighted, sending forth gleams from the German silver and crystal of its soda fountain and glasses. Along came a youngster of five, headed for the dispensary, stepping high with the consequence of a big errand, possibly one to which his advancing age had earned him promotion. In his hand he clutched something tightly, publicly, proudly, conspicuously.</p>
 			<p>Morley stopped him with his winning smile and soft speech.</p>
-			<p>“Me?” said the youngster. “I’m doin’ to the drug ‘tore for mamma. She dave me a dollar to buy a bottle of med’cin.”</p>
+			<p>“Me?” said the youngster. “I’m doin’ to the drug ’tore for mamma. She dave me a dollar to buy a bottle of med’cin.”</p>
 			<p>“Now, now, now!” said Morley. “Such a big man you are to be doing errands for mamma. I must go along with my little man to see that the cars don’t run over him. And on the way we’ll have some chocolates. Or would he rather have lemon drops?”</p>
 			<p>Morley entered the drug store leading the child by the hand. He presented the prescription that had been wrapped around the money.</p>
 			<p>On his face was a smile, predatory, parental, politic, profound.</p>

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@@ -9,12 +9,12 @@
 		<section id="the-call-of-the-tame" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Call of the Tame</h2>
 			<p>When the inauguration was accomplished⁠—the proceedings were made smooth by the presence of the Rough Riders⁠—it is well known that a herd of those competent and loyal ex-warriors paid a visit to the big city. The newspaper reporters dug out of their trunks the old broad-brimmed hats and leather belts that they wear to North Beach fish fries, and mixed with the visitors. No damage was done beyond the employment of the wonderful plural “tenderfeet” in each of the scribe’s stories. The Westerners mildly contemplated the skyscrapers as high as the third story, yawned at Broadway, hunched down in the big chairs in hotel corridors, and altogether looked as bored and dejected as a member of Ye Ancient and Honorable Artillery separated during a sham battle from his valet.</p>
-			<p>Out of this sightseeing delegations of good King Teddy’s Gentlemen of the Royal Bear-hounds dropped one Greenbrier Nye, of Pin Feather, Ariz.</p>
+			<p>Out of this sightseeing delegations of good King Teddy’s Gentlemen of the Royal Bear-hounds dropped one Greenbrier Nye, of Pin Feather, <abbr class="postal eoc">Ariz</i>.</p>
 			<p>The daily cyclone of Sixth Avenue’s rush hour swept him away from the company of his pardners true. The dust from a thousand rustling skirts filled his eyes. The mighty roar of trains rushing across the sky deafened him. The lightning-flash of twice ten hundred beaming eyes confused his vision.</p>
 			<p>The storm was so sudden and tremendous that Greenbrier’s first impulse was to lie down and grab a root. And then he remembered that the disturbance was human, and not elemental; and he backed out of it with a grin into a doorway.</p>
 			<p>The reporters had written that but for the wide-brimmed hats the West was not visible upon these gauchos of the North. Heaven sharpen their eyes! The suit of black diagonal, wrinkled in impossible places; the bright blue four-in-hand, factory tied; the low, turned-down collar, pattern of the days of Seymour and Blair, white glazed as the letters on the window of the open-day-and-night-except-Sunday restaurants; the out-curve at the knees from the saddle grip; the peculiar spread of the half-closed right thumb and fingers from the stiff hold upon the circling lasso; the deeply absorbed weather tan that the hottest sun of Cape May can never equal; the seldom-winking blue eyes that unconsciously divided the rushing crowds into fours, as though they were being counted out of a corral; the segregated loneliness and solemnity of expression, as of an Emperor or of one whose horizons have not intruded upon him nearer than a day’s ride⁠—these brands of the West were set upon Greenbrier Nye. Oh, yes; he wore a broad-brimmed hat, gentle reader⁠—just like those the Madison Square Post Office mail carriers wear when they go up to Bronx Park on Sunday afternoons.</p>
 			<p>Suddenly Greenbrier Nye jumped into the drifting herd of metropolitan cattle, seized upon a man, dragged him out of the stream and gave him a buffet upon his collarbone that sent him reeling against a wall.</p>
-			<p>The victim recovered his hat, with the angry look of a New Yorker who has suffered an outrage and intends to write to the Trib. about it. But he looked at his assailant, and knew that the blow was in consideration of love and affection after the manner of the West, which greets its friends with contumely and uproar and pounding fists, and receives its enemies in decorum and order, such as the judicious placing of the welcoming bullet demands.</p>
+			<p>The victim recovered his hat, with the angry look of a New Yorker who has suffered an outrage and intends to write to the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper"><abbr>Trib</abbr></i>. about it. But he looked at his assailant, and knew that the blow was in consideration of love and affection after the manner of the West, which greets its friends with contumely and uproar and pounding fists, and receives its enemies in decorum and order, such as the judicious placing of the welcoming bullet demands.</p>
 			<p>“God in the mountains!” cried Greenbrier, holding fast to the foreleg of his cull. “Can this be Longhorn Merritt?”</p>
 			<p>The other man was⁠—oh, look on Broadway any day for the pattern⁠—business man⁠—latest rolled-brim derby⁠—good barber, business, digestion and tailor.</p>
 			<p>“Greenbrier Nye!” he exclaimed, grasping the hand that had smitten him. “My dear fellow! So glad to see you! How did you come to⁠—oh, to be sure⁠—the inaugural ceremonies⁠—I remember you joined the Rough Riders. You must come and have luncheon with me, of course.”</p>

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@@ -49,7 +49,7 @@
 			<p>“I’ll tell you then,” said Andy, wisely, “but I guess you won’t understand it exactly. You’ve heard of Mike Sullivan, haven’t you? ‘Big Mike’ Sullivan, everybody calls him.”</p>
 			<p>“No, I haven’t,” said Maggie. “And I don’t want to, if he makes you act like this. Who is he?”</p>
 			<p>“He’s the biggest man in New York,” said Andy, almost reverently. “He can about do anything he wants to with Tammany or any other old thing in the political line. He’s a mile high and as broad as East River. You say anything against Big Mike, and you’ll have a million men on your collarbone in about two seconds. Why, he made a visit over to the old country awhile back, and the kings took to their holes like rabbits.</p>
-			<p>“Well, Big Mike’s a friend of mine. I ain’t more than deuce-high in the district as far as influence goes, but Mike’s as good a friend to a little man, or a poor man as he is to a big one. I met him today on the Bowery, and what do you think he does? Comes up and shakes hands. ‘Andy,’ says he, ‘I’ve been keeping cases on you. You’ve been putting in some good licks over on your side of the street, and I’m proud of you. What’ll you take to drink?” He takes a cigar, and I take a highball. I told him I was going to get married in two weeks. ‘Andy,’ says he, ‘send me an invitation, so I’ll keep in mind of it, and I’ll come to the wedding.’ That’s what Big Mike says to me; and he always does what he says.</p>
+			<p>“Well, Big Mike’s a friend of mine. I ain’t more than deuce-high in the district as far as influence goes, but Mike’s as good a friend to a little man, or a poor man as he is to a big one. I met him today on the Bowery, and what do you think he does? Comes up and shakes hands. ‘Andy,’ says he, ‘I’ve been keeping cases on you. You’ve been putting in some good licks over on your side of the street, and I’m proud of you. What’ll you take to drink?’ He takes a cigar, and I take a highball. I told him I was going to get married in two weeks. ‘Andy,’ says he, ‘send me an invitation, so I’ll keep in mind of it, and I’ll come to the wedding.’ That’s what Big Mike says to me; and he always does what he says.</p>
 			<p>“You don’t understand it, Maggie, but I’d have one of my hands cut off to have Big Mike Sullivan at our wedding. It would be the proudest day of my life. When he goes to a man’s wedding, there’s a guy being married that’s made for life. Now, that’s why I’m maybe looking sore tonight.”</p>
 			<p>“Why don’t you invite him, then, if he’s so much to the mustard?” said Maggie, lightly.</p>
 			<p>“There’s a reason why I can’t,” said Andy, sadly. “There’s a reason why he mustn’t be there. Don’t ask me what it is, for I can’t tell you.”</p>

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@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="the-dog-and-the-playlet" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Dog and the Playlet</h2>
 			<p>Usually it is a cold day in July when you can stroll up Broadway in that month and get a story out of the drama. I found one a few breathless, parboiling days ago, and it seems to decide a serious question in art.</p>
-			<p>There was not a soul left in the city except Hollis and me⁠—and two or three million sunworshippers who remained at desks and counters. The elect had fled to seashore, lake, and mountain, and had already begun to draw for additional funds. Every evening Hollis and I prowled about the deserted town searching for coolness in empty cafés, dining-rooms, and roofgardens. We knew to the tenth part of a revolution the speed of every electric fan in Gotham, and we followed the swiftest as they varied. Hollis’s fiancée. Miss Loris Sherman, had been in the Adirondacks, at Lower Saranac Lake, for a month. In another week he would join her party there. In the meantime, he cursed the city cheerfully and optimistically, and sought my society because I suffered him to show me her photograph during the black coffee every time we dined together.</p>
+			<p>There was not a soul left in the city except Hollis and me⁠—and two or three million sunworshippers who remained at desks and counters. The elect had fled to seashore, lake, and mountain, and had already begun to draw for additional funds. Every evening Hollis and I prowled about the deserted town searching for coolness in empty cafés, dining-rooms, and roofgardens. We knew to the tenth part of a revolution the speed of every electric fan in Gotham, and we followed the swiftest as they varied. Hollis’s fiancée, Miss Loris Sherman, had been in the Adirondacks, at Lower Saranac Lake, for a month. In another week he would join her party there. In the meantime, he cursed the city cheerfully and optimistically, and sought my society because I suffered him to show me her photograph during the black coffee every time we dined together.</p>
 			<p>My revenge was to read to him my one-act play.</p>
 			<p>It was one insufferable evening when the overplus of the day’s heat was being hurled quiveringly back to the heavens by every surcharged brick and stone and inch of iron in the panting town. But with the cunning of the two-legged beasts we had found an oasis where the hoofs of Apollo’s steed had not been allowed to strike. Our seats were on an ocean of cool, polished oak; the white linen of fifty deserted tables flapped like seagulls in the artificial breeze; a mile away a waiter lingered for a heliographic signal⁠—we might have roared songs there or fought a duel without molestation.</p>
 			<p>Out came Miss Loris’s photo with the coffee, and I once more praised the elegant poise of the neck, the extremely low-coiled mass of heavy hair, and the eyes that followed one, like those in an oil painting.</p>
@@ -23,7 +23,7 @@
 			<p>“I beg your pardon!” I said, as sweetly as I could.</p>
 			<p>“Come now,” went on Hollis, “don’t be an idiot. You know very well that nobody spouts any stuff like that these days. That sketch went along all right until you rang in the skyrockets. Cut out that right-arm exercise and the Adam and Eve stunt, and make your captain talk as you or I or Bill Jones would.”</p>
 			<p>“I’ll admit,” said I, earnestly (for my theory was being touched upon), “that on all ordinary occasions all of us use commonplace language to convey our thoughts. You will remember that up to the moment when the captain makes his terrible discovery all the characters on the stage talk pretty much as they would, in real life. But I believe that I am right in allowing him lines suitable to the strong and tragic situation into which he falls.”</p>
-			<p>“Tragic, my eye!” said my friend, irreverently. “In Shakespeare’s day he might have sputtered out some high-cockalorum nonsense of that sort, because in those days they ordered ham and eggs in blank verse and discharged the cook with an epic. But not for B’way in the summer of 1905!”</p>
+			<p>“Tragic, my eye!” said my friend, irreverently. “In Shakespeare’s day he might have sputtered out some high-cockalorum nonsense of that sort, because in those days they ordered ham and eggs in blank verse and discharged the cook with an epic. But not for <abbr>B’way</abbr> in the summer of 1905!”</p>
 			<p>“It is my opinion,” said I, “that great human emotions shake up our vocabulary and leave the words best suited to express them on top. A sudden violent grief or loss or disappointment will bring expressions out of an ordinary man as strong and solemn and dramatic as those used in fiction or on the stage to portray those emotions.”</p>
 			<p>“That’s where you fellows are wrong,” said Hollis. “Plain, everyday talk is what goes. Your captain would very likely have kicked the cat, lit a cigar, stirred up a highball, and telephoned for a lawyer, instead of getting off those Robert Mantell pyrotechnics.”</p>
 			<p>“Possibly, a little later,” I continued. “But just at the time⁠—just as the blow is delivered, if something Scriptural or theatrical and deep-tongued isn’t wrung from a man in spite of his modern and practical way of speaking, then I’m wrong.”</p>

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@@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<section id="the-duel" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Duel</h2>
-			<p>The gods, lying beside their nectar on ‘Lympus and peeping over the edge of the cliff, perceive a difference in cities. Although it would seem that to their vision towns must appear as large or small anthills without special characteristics, yet it is not so. Studying the habits of ants from so great a height should be but a mild diversion when coupled with the soft drink that mythology tells us is their only solace. But doubtless they have amused themselves by the comparison of villages and towns; and it will be no news to them (nor, perhaps, to many mortals), that in one particularity New York stands unique among the cities of the world. This shall be the theme of a little story addressed to the man who sits smoking with his Sabbath-slippered feet on another chair, and to the woman who snatches the paper for a moment while boiling greens or a narcotized baby leaves her free. With these I love to sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of Kings.</p>
+			<p>The gods, lying beside their nectar on ’Lympus and peeping over the edge of the cliff, perceive a difference in cities. Although it would seem that to their vision towns must appear as large or small anthills without special characteristics, yet it is not so. Studying the habits of ants from so great a height should be but a mild diversion when coupled with the soft drink that mythology tells us is their only solace. But doubtless they have amused themselves by the comparison of villages and towns; and it will be no news to them (nor, perhaps, to many mortals), that in one particularity New York stands unique among the cities of the world. This shall be the theme of a little story addressed to the man who sits smoking with his Sabbath-slippered feet on another chair, and to the woman who snatches the paper for a moment while boiling greens or a narcotized baby leaves her free. With these I love to sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of Kings.</p>
 			<p>New York City is inhabited by 4,000,000 mysterious strangers; thus beating Bird Centre by three millions and half a dozen nine’s. They came here in various ways and for many reasons⁠—Hendrik Hudson, the art schools, green goods, the stork, the annual dressmakers’ convention, the Pennsylvania Railroad, love of money, the stage, cheap excursion rates, brains, personal column ads, heavy walking shoes, ambition, freight trains⁠—all these have had a hand in making up the population.</p>
 			<p>But every man Jack when he first sets foot on the stones of Manhattan has got to fight. He has got to fight at once until either he or his adversary wins. There is no resting between rounds, for there are no rounds. It is slugging from the first. It is a fight to a finish.</p>
 			<p>Your opponent is the City. You must do battle with it from the time the ferryboat lands you on the island until either it is yours or it has conquered you. It is the same whether you have a million in your pocket or only the price of a week’s lodging.</p>

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@@ -35,7 +35,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Suppose I can manage to get you in the papers,’ says I⁠—‘a column or two every day in all of ’em and your picture in most of ’em for a week. How much would it be worth to you?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Ten thousand dollars,’ says Vaucross, warm in a minute. ‘But no murder,’ says he; ‘and I won’t wear pink pants at a cotillon.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I wouldn’t ask you to,’ says I. ‘This is honorable, stylish and uneffeminate. Tell the waiter to bring a demi tasse and some other beans, and I will disclose to you the opus moderandi.’</p>
-			<p>“We closed the deal an hour later in the rococo rouge et noise room. I telegraphed that night to Miss Artemisia in Salina. She took a couple of photographs and an autograph letter to an elder in the Fourth Presbyterian Church in the morning, and got some transportation and $80. She stopped in Topeka long enough to trade a flashlight interior and a valentine to the vice-president of a trust company for a mileage book and a package of five-dollar notes with $250 scrawled on the band.</p>
+			<p>“We closed the deal an hour later in the <i xml:lang="fr">rococo rouge et noise</i> room. I telegraphed that night to Miss Artemisia in Salina. She took a couple of photographs and an autograph letter to an elder in the Fourth Presbyterian Church in the morning, and got some transportation and $80. She stopped in Topeka long enough to trade a flashlight interior and a valentine to the vice-president of a trust company for a mileage book and a package of five-dollar notes with $250 scrawled on the band.</p>
 			<p>“The fifth evening after she got my wire she was waiting, all décolletée and dressed up, for me and Vaucross to take her to dinner in one of these New York feminine apartment houses where a man can’t get in unless he plays bezique and smokes depilatory powder cigarettes.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘She’s a stunner,’ says Vaucross when he saw her. ‘They’ll give her a two-column cut sure.’</p>
 			<p>“This was the scheme the three of us concocted. It was business straight through. Vaucross was to rush Miss Blye with all the style and display and emotion he could for a month. Of course, that amounted to nothing as far as his ambitions were concerned. The sight of a man in a white tie and patent leather pumps pouring greenbacks through the large end of a cornucopia to purchase nutriment and heartsease for tall, willowy blondes in New York is as common a sight as blue turtles in delirium tremens. But he was to write her love letters⁠—the worst kind of love letters, such as your wife publishes after you are dead⁠—every day. At the end of the month he was to drop her, and she would bring suit for $100,000 for breach of promise.</p>

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@@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<section id="the-guilty-party" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">“The Guilty Party”</h2>
-			<p>A Red-haired, unshaven, untidy man sat in a rocking chair by a window. He had just lighted a pipe, and was puffing blue clouds with great satisfaction. He had removed his shoes and donned a pair of blue, faded carpet-slippers. With the morbid thirst of the confirmed daily news drinker, he awkwardly folded back the pages of an evening paper, eagerly gulping down the strong, black headlines, to be followed as a chaser by the milder details of the smaller type.</p>
+			<p>A red-haired, unshaven, untidy man sat in a rocking chair by a window. He had just lighted a pipe, and was puffing blue clouds with great satisfaction. He had removed his shoes and donned a pair of blue, faded carpet-slippers. With the morbid thirst of the confirmed daily news drinker, he awkwardly folded back the pages of an evening paper, eagerly gulping down the strong, black headlines, to be followed as a chaser by the milder details of the smaller type.</p>
 			<p>In an adjoining room a woman was cooking supper. Odors from strong bacon and boiling coffee contended against the cut-plug fumes from the vespertine pipe.</p>
 			<p>Outside was one of those crowded streets of the east side, in which, as twilight falls, Satan sets up his recruiting office. A mighty host of children danced and ran and played in the street. Some in rags, some in clean white and beribboned, some wild and restless as young hawks, some gentle-faced and shrinking, some shrieking rude and sinful words, some listening, awed, but soon, grown familiar, to embrace⁠—here were the children playing in the corridors of the House of Sin. Above the playground forever hovered a great bird. The bird was known to humorists as the stork. But the people of Chrystie street were better ornithologists. They called it a vulture.</p>
 			<p>A little girl of twelve came up timidly to the man reading and resting by the window, and said:</p>
@@ -39,15 +39,15 @@
 			<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>“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>
 			<p>“Let me show you how to make a cat’s-cradle, kid,” she said, tucking her green silk skirt under her rusty shoes.</p>
 			<p>And while they sat there the lights were being turned on for the dance in the hall of the Small Hours Social Club. It was the bimonthly dance, a dress affair in which the members took great pride and bestirred themselves huskily to further and adorn.</p>
 			<p>At 9 o’clock the President, Kid Mullaly, paced upon the floor with a lady on his arm. As the Loreley’s was her hair golden. Her “yes” was softened to a “yah,” but its quality of assent was patent to the most Milesian ears. She stepped upon her own train and blushed, and⁠—she smiled into the eyes of Kid Mullaly.</p>
 			<p>And then, as the two stood in the middle of the waxed floor, the thing happened to prevent which many lamps are burning nightly in many studies and libraries.</p>
-			<p>Out from the circle of spectators in the hall leaped Fate in a green silk skirt, under the <i>nom de guerre</i> of “Liz.” Her eyes were hard and blacker than jet. She did not scream or waver. Most unwomanly, she cried out one oath⁠—the Kid’s own favorite oath⁠—and in his own deep voice; and then while the Small Hours Social Club went frantically to pieces, she made good her boast to Tommy, the waiter⁠—made good as far as the length of her knife blade and the strength of her arm permitted.</p>
+			<p>Out from the circle of spectators in the hall leaped Fate in a green silk skirt, under the nom de guerre of “Liz.” Her eyes were hard and blacker than jet. She did not scream or waver. Most unwomanly, she cried out one oath⁠—the Kid’s own favorite oath⁠—and in his own deep voice; and then while the Small Hours Social Club went frantically to pieces, she made good her boast to Tommy, the waiter⁠—made good as far as the length of her knife blade and the strength of her arm permitted.</p>
 			<p>And next came the primal instinct of self-preservation⁠—or was it self-annihilation, the instinct that society has grafted on the natural branch?</p>
 			<p>Liz ran out and down the street swift and true as a woodcock flying through a grove of saplings at dusk.</p>
 			<p>And then followed the big city’s biggest shame, its most ancient and rotten surviving canker, its pollution and disgrace, its blight and perversion, its forever infamy and guilt, fostered, unreproved and cherished, handed down from a long-ago century of the basest barbarity⁠—the Hue and Cry. Nowhere but in the big cities does it survive, and here most of all, where the ultimate perfection of culture, citizenship and alleged superiority joins, bawling, in the chase.</p>

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@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<p>Boston construed herself to the poetic Raggles in an erratic and singular way. It seemed to him that he had drunk cold tea and that the city was a white, cold cloth that had been bound tightly around his brow to spur him to some unknown but tremendous mental effort. And, after all, he came to shovel snow for a livelihood; and the cloth, becoming wet, tightened its knots and could not be removed.</p>
 			<p>Indefinite and unintelligible ideas, you will say; but your disapprobation should be tempered with gratitude, for these are poets’ fancies⁠—and suppose you had come upon them in verse!</p>
 			<p>One day Raggles came and laid siege to the heart of the great city of Manhattan. She was the greatest of all; and he wanted to learn her note in the scale; to taste and appraise and classify and solve and label her and arrange her with the other cities that had given him up the secret of their individuality. And here we cease to be Raggles’s translator and become his chronicler.</p>
-			<p>Raggles landed from a ferryboat one morning and walked into the core of the town with the blasée air of a cosmopolite. He was dressed with care to play the role of an “unidentified man.” No country, race, class, clique, union, party clan or bowling association could have claimed him. His clothing, which had been donated to him piecemeal by citizens of different height, but same number of inches around the heart, was not yet as uncomfortable to his figure as those speciments of raiment, self-measured, that are railroaded to you by transcontinental tailors with a suit case, suspenders, silk handkerchief and pearl studs as a bonus. Without money⁠—as a poet should be⁠—but with the ardor of an astronomer discovering a new star in the chorus of the milky way, or a man who has seen ink suddenly flow from his fountain pen, Raggles wandered into the great city.</p>
+			<p>Raggles landed from a ferryboat one morning and walked into the core of the town with the blasé air of a cosmopolite. He was dressed with care to play the role of an “unidentified man.” No country, race, class, clique, union, party clan or bowling association could have claimed him. His clothing, which had been donated to him piecemeal by citizens of different height, but same number of inches around the heart, was not yet as uncomfortable to his figure as those speciments of raiment, self-measured, that are railroaded to you by transcontinental tailors with a suit case, suspenders, silk handkerchief and pearl studs as a bonus. Without money⁠—as a poet should be⁠—but with the ardor of an astronomer discovering a new star in the chorus of the milky way, or a man who has seen ink suddenly flow from his fountain pen, Raggles wandered into the great city.</p>
 			<p>Late in the afternoon he drew out of the roar and commotion with a look of dumb terror on his countenance. He was defeated, puzzled, discomfited, frightened. Other cities had been to him as long primer to read; as country maidens quickly to fathom; as send-price-of-subscription-with-answer rebuses to solve; as oyster cocktails to swallow; but here was one as cold, glittering, serene, impossible as a four-carat diamond in a window to a lover outside fingering damply in his pocket his ribbon-counter salary.</p>
 			<p>The greetings of the other cities he had known⁠—their homespun kindliness, their human gamut of rough charity, friendly curses, garrulous curiosity and easily estimated credulity or indifference. This city of Manhattan gave him no clue; it was walled against him. Like a river of adamant it flowed past him in the streets. Never an eye was turned upon him; no voice spoke to him. His heart yearned for the clap of Pittsburg’s sooty hand on his shoulder; for Chicago’s menacing but social yawp in his ear; for the pale and eleemosynary stare through the Bostonian eyeglass⁠—even for the precipitate but unmalicious boot-toe of Louisville or <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis.</p>
 			<p>On Broadway Raggles, successful suitor of many cities, stood, bashful, like any country swain. For the first time he experienced the poignant humiliation of being ignored. And when he tried to reduce this brilliant, swiftly changing, ice-cold city to a formula he failed utterly. Poet though he was, it offered him no color similes, no points of comparison, no flaw in its polished facets, no handle by which he could hold it up and view its shape and structure, as he familiarly and often contemptuously had done with other towns. The houses were interminable ramparts loopholed for defense; the people were bright but bloodless spectres passing in sinister and selfish array.</p>

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@@ -10,7 +10,7 @@
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Marry Month of May</h2>
 			<p>Prithee, smite the poet in the eye when he would sing to you praises of the month of May. It is a month presided over by the spirits of mischief and madness. Pixies and flibbertigibbets haunt the budding woods: Puck and his train of midgets are busy in town and country.</p>
 			<p>In May nature holds up at us a chiding finger, bidding us remember that we are not gods, but overconceited members of her own great family. She reminds us that we are brothers to the chowder-doomed clam and the donkey; lineal scions of the pansy and the chimpanzee, and but cousins-german to the cooing doves, the quacking ducks and the housemaids and policemen in the parks.</p>
-			<p>In May Cupid shoots blindfolded⁠—millionaires marry stenographers; wise professors woo white-aproned gum-chewers behind quick-lunch counters; schoolma’ams make big bad boys remain after school; lads with ladders steal lightly over lawns where Juliet waits in her trellissed window with her telescope packed; young couples out for a walk come home married; old chaps put on white spats and promenade near the Normal School; even married men, grown unwontedly tender and sentimental, whack their spouses on the back and growl: “How goes it, old girl:”</p>
+			<p>In May Cupid shoots blindfolded⁠—millionaires marry stenographers; wise professors woo white-aproned gum-chewers behind quick-lunch counters; schoolma’ams make big bad boys remain after school; lads with ladders steal lightly over lawns where Juliet waits in her trellissed window with her telescope packed; young couples out for a walk come home married; old chaps put on white spats and promenade near the Normal School; even married men, grown unwontedly tender and sentimental, whack their spouses on the back and growl: “How goes it, old girl?”</p>
 			<p>This May, who is no goddess, but Circe, masquerading at the dance given in honour of the fair débutante, Summer, puts the kibosh on us all.</p>
 			<p>Old <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Coulson groaned a little, and then sat up straight in his invalid’s chair. He had the gout very bad in one foot, a house near Gramercy Park, half a million dollars and a daughter. And he had a housekeeper, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Widdup. The fact and the name deserve a sentence each. They have it.</p>
 			<p>When May poked <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Coulson he became elder brother to the turtledove. In the window near which he sat were boxes of jonquils, of hyacinths, geraniums and pansies. The breeze brought their odour into the room. Immediately there was a well-contested round between the breath of the flowers and the able and active effluvium from gout liniment. The liniment won easily; but not before the flowers got an uppercut to old <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Coulson’s nose. The deadly work of the implacable, false enchantress May was done.</p>
@@ -25,7 +25,7 @@
 			<p>He took his dose and then <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Widdup’s hand. She blushed. Oh, yes, it can be done. Just hold your breath and compress the diaphragm.</p>
 			<p>“<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Widdup,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Coulson, “the springtime’s full upon us.”</p>
 			<p>“Ain’t that right?” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Widdup. “The air’s real warm. And there’s bock-beer signs on every corner. And the park’s all yaller and pink and blue with flowers; and I have such shooting pains up my legs and body.”</p>
-			<p>“ ‘In the spring,’ ” quoted <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Coulson, curling his mustache, “ ‘a y⁠⸺ that is, a man’s⁠—fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.’ ”</p>
+			<p>“ ‘In the spring,’ ” quoted <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Coulson, curling his mustache, “ ‘a y⁠—that is, a man’s⁠—fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.’ ”</p>
 			<p>“Lawsy, now!” exclaimed <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Widdup; “ain’t that right? Seems like it’s in the air.”</p>
 			<p>“ ‘In the spring,’ ” continued old <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Coulson, “ ‘a livelier iris shines upon the burnished dove.’ ”</p>
 			<p>“They do be lively, the Irish,” sighed <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Widdup pensively.</p>

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@@ -11,7 +11,7 @@
 			<p>There are a few editor men with whom I am privileged to come in contact. It has not been long since it was their habit to come in contact with me. There is a difference.</p>
 			<p>They tell me that with a large number of the manuscripts that are submitted to them come advices (in the way of a boost) from the author asseverating that the incidents in the story are true. The destination of such contributions depends wholly upon the question of the enclosure of stamps. Some are returned, the rest are thrown on the floor in a corner on top of a pair of gum shoes, an overturned statuette of the Winged Victory, and a pile of old magazines containing a picture of the editor in the act of reading the latest copy of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.journal">Le Petit Journal</i>, right side up⁠—you can tell by the illustrations. It is only a legend that there are waste baskets in editors’ offices.</p>
 			<p>Thus is truth held in disrepute. But in time truth and science and nature will adapt themselves to art. Things will happen logically, and the villain be discomfited instead of being elected to the board of directors. But in the meantime fiction must not only be divorced from fact, but must pay alimony and be awarded custody of the press despatches.</p>
-			<p>This preamble is to warn you off the grade crossing of a true story. Being that, it shall be told simply, with conjunctions substituted for adjectives wherever possible, and whatever evidences of style may appear in it shall be due to the linotype man. It is a story of the literary life in a great city, and it should be of interest to every author within a 20-mile radius of Gosport, Ind., whose desk holds a MS. story beginning thus: “While the cheers following his nomination were still ringing through the old courthouse, Harwood broke away from the congratulating handclasps of his henchmen and hurried to Judge Creswell’s house to find Ida.”</p>
+			<p>This preamble is to warn you off the grade crossing of a true story. Being that, it shall be told simply, with conjunctions substituted for adjectives wherever possible, and whatever evidences of style may appear in it shall be due to the linotype man. It is a story of the literary life in a great city, and it should be of interest to every author within a 20-mile radius of Gosport, <abbr class="postal">Ind.</abbr>, whose desk holds a MS. story beginning thus: “While the cheers following his nomination were still ringing through the old courthouse, Harwood broke away from the congratulating handclasps of his henchmen and hurried to Judge Creswell’s house to find Ida.”</p>
 			<p>Pettit came up out of Alabama to write fiction. The Southern papers had printed eight of his stories under an editorial caption identifying the author as the son of “the gallant Major Pettingill Pettit, our former County Attorney and hero of the battle of Lookout Mountain.”</p>
 			<p>Pettit was a rugged fellow, with a kind of shamefaced culture, and my good friend. His father kept a general store in a little town called Hosea. Pettit had been raised in the pine-woods and broom-sedge fields adjacent thereto. He had in his gripsack two manuscript novels of the adventures in Picardy of one Gaston Laboulaye, Vicompte de Montrepos, in the year 1329. That’s nothing. We all do that. And some day when we make a hit with the little sketch about a newsy and his lame dog, the editor prints the other one for us⁠—or “on us,” as the saying is⁠—and then⁠—and then we have to get a big valise and peddle those patent air-draft gas burners. At $1.25 everybody should have ’em.</p>
 			<p>I took Pettit to the redbrick house which was to appear in an article entitled “Literary Landmarks of Old New York,” some day when we got through with it. He engaged a room there, drawing on the general store for his expenses. I showed New York to him, and he did not mention how much narrower Broadway is than Lee Avenue in Hosea. This seemed a good sign, so I put the final test.</p>
@@ -35,7 +35,7 @@
 			<p>The story was sentimental drivel, full of whimpering softheartedness and gushing egoism. All the art that Pettit had acquired was gone. A perusal of its buttery phrases would have made a cynic of a sighing chambermaid.</p>
 			<p>In the morning Pettit came to my room. I read him his doom mercilessly. He laughed idiotically.</p>
 			<p>“All right, Old Hoss,” he said, cheerily, “make cigar-lighters of it. What’s the difference? I’m going to take her to lunch at Claremont today.”</p>
-			<p>There was about a month of it. And then Pettit came to me bearing an invisible mitten, with the fortitude of a dishrag. He talked of the grave and South America and prussic acid; and I lost an afternoon getting him straight. I took him out and saw that large and curative doses of whiskey were administered to him. I warned you this was a true story⁠—‘ware your white ribbons if only follow this tale. For two weeks I fed him whiskey and Omar, and read to him regularly every evening the column in the evening paper that reveals the secrets of female beauty. I recommend the treatment.</p>
+			<p>There was about a month of it. And then Pettit came to me bearing an invisible mitten, with the fortitude of a dishrag. He talked of the grave and South America and prussic acid; and I lost an afternoon getting him straight. I took him out and saw that large and curative doses of whiskey were administered to him. I warned you this was a true story⁠—’ware your white ribbons if only follow this tale. For two weeks I fed him whiskey and Omar, and read to him regularly every evening the column in the evening paper that reveals the secrets of female beauty. I recommend the treatment.</p>
 			<p>After Pettit was cured he wrote more stories. He recovered his old-time facility and did work just short of good enough. Then the curtain rose on the third act.</p>
 			<p>A little, dark-eyed, silent girl from New Hampshire, who was studying applied design, fell deeply in love with him. She was the intense sort, but externally glacé, such as New England sometimes fools us with. Pettit liked her mildly, and took her about a good deal. She worshipped him, and now and then bored him.</p>
 			<p>There came a climax when she tried to jump out of a window, and he had to save her by some perfunctary, unmeant wooing. Even I was shaken by the depths of the absorbing affection she showed. Home, friends, traditions, creeds went up like thistledown in the scale against her love. It was really discomposing.</p>

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@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="the-rubaiyat-of-a-scotch-highball" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Rubaiyat of a Scotch Highball</h2>
 			<p>This document is intended to strike somewhere between a temperance lecture and the “Bartender’s Guide.” Relative to the latter, drink shall swell the theme and be set forth in abundance. Agreeably to the former, not an elbow shall be crooked.</p>
-			<p>Bob Babbitt was “off the stuff.” Which means⁠—as you will discover by referring to the unabridged dictionary of Bohemia⁠—that he had “cut out the booze;” that he was “on the water wagon.” The reason for Bob’s sudden attitude of hostility toward the “demon rum”⁠—as the white ribboners miscall whiskey (see the “Bartender’s Guide”), should be of interest to reformers and saloon-keepers.</p>
+			<p>Bob Babbitt was “off the stuff.” Which means⁠—as you will discover by referring to the unabridged dictionary of Bohemia⁠—that he had “cut out the booze”; that he was “on the water wagon.” The reason for Bob’s sudden attitude of hostility toward the “demon rum”⁠—as the white ribboners miscall whiskey (see the “Bartender’s Guide”), should be of interest to reformers and saloon-keepers.</p>
 			<p>There is always hope for a man who, when sober, will not concede or acknowledge that he was ever drunk. But when a man will say (in the apt words of the phrase-distiller), “I had a beautiful skate on last night,” you will have to put stuff in his coffee as well as pray for him.</p>
 			<p>One evening on his way home Babbitt dropped in at the Broadway bar that he liked best. Always there were three or four fellows there from the downtown offices whom he knew. And then there would be highballs and stories, and he would hurry home to dinner a little late but feeling good, and a little sorry for the poor Standard Oil Company. On this evening as he entered he heard someone say: “Babbitt was in last night as full as a boiled owl.”</p>
 			<p>Babbitt walked to the bar, and saw in the mirror that his face was as white as chalk. For the first time he had looked Truth in the eyes. Others had lied to him; he had dissembled with himself. He was a drunkard, and had not known it. What he had fondly imagined was a pleasant exhilaration had been maudlin intoxication. His fancied wit had been drivel; his gay humors nothing but the noisy vagaries of a sot. But, never again!</p>

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@@ -29,7 +29,7 @@
 			<p>I found myself between two $20 gold certificates. One of ’em says to me:</p>
 			<p>“Well, old shorthorn, you’re in luck tonight. You’ll see something of life. Old Jack’s going to make the Tenderloin look like a hamburg steak.”</p>
 			<p>“Explain,” says I. “I’m used to joints, but I don’t care for filet mignon with the kind of sauce you serve.”</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Xcuse me,” said the twenty. “Old Jack is the proprietor of this gambling house. He’s going on a whiz tonight because he offered $50,000 to a church and it refused to accept it because they said his money was tainted.”</p>
+			<p>“ ’Xcuse me,” said the twenty. “Old Jack is the proprietor of this gambling house. He’s going on a whiz tonight because he offered $50,000 to a church and it refused to accept it because they said his money was tainted.”</p>
 			<p>“What is a church?” I asked.</p>
 			<p>“Oh, I forgot,” says the twenty, “that I was talking to a tenner. Of course you don’t know. You’re too much to put into the contribution basket, and not enough to buy anything at a bazaar. A church is⁠—a large building in which penwipers and tidies are sold at $20 each.”</p>
 			<p>I don’t care much about chinning with gold certificates. There’s a streak of yellow in ’em. All is not gold that’s quitters.</p>

src/epub/text/the-voice-of-the-city.xhtml

@@ -24,7 +24,7 @@
 			<p>“All cities,” said Aurelia, judicially, “say the same thing. When they get through saying it there is an echo from Philadelphia. So, they are unanimous.”</p>
 			<p>“Here are 4,000,000 people,” said I, scholastically, “compressed upon an island, which is mostly lamb surrounded by Wall Street water. The conjunction of so many units into so small a space must result in an identity⁠—or, or rather a homogeneity that finds its oral expression through a common channel. It is, as you might say, a consensus of translation, concentrating in a crystallized, general idea which reveals itself in what may be termed the Voice of the City. Can you tell me what it is?”</p>
 			<p>Aurelia smiled wonderfully. She sat on the high stoop. A spray of insolent ivy bobbed against her right ear. A ray of impudent moonlight flickered upon her nose. But I was adamant, nickel-plated.</p>
-			<p>“I must go and find out,” I said, “what is the Voice of this City. Other cities have voices. It is an assignment. I must have it. New York,” I continued, in a rising tone, “had better not hand me a cigar and say: ‘Old man, I can’t talk for publication.’ No other city acts in that way. Chicago says, unhesitatingly, ‘I will;’ I Philadelphia says, ‘I should;’ New Orleans says, ‘I used to;’ Louisville says, ‘Don’t care if I do;’ <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis says, ‘Excuse me;’ Pittsburg says, ‘Smoke up.’ Now, New York⁠—”</p>
+			<p>“I must go and find out,” I said, “what is the Voice of this City. Other cities have voices. It is an assignment. I must have it. New York,” I continued, in a rising tone, “had better not hand me a cigar and say: ‘Old man, I can’t talk for publication.’ No other city acts in that way. Chicago says, unhesitatingly, ‘I will’; Philadelphia says, ‘I should’; New Orleans says, ‘I used to’; Louisville says, ‘Don’t care if I do’; <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis says, ‘Excuse me’; Pittsburg says, ‘Smoke up.’ Now, New York⁠—”</p>
 			<p>Aurelia smiled.</p>
 			<p>“Very well,” said I, “I must go elsewhere and find out.”</p>
 			<p>I went into a palace, tile-floored, cherub-ceilinged and square with the cop. I put my foot on the brass rail and said to Billy Magnus, the best bartender in the diocese:</p>