Update semantics

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@@ -43,7 +43,7 @@
 				<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>“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 <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Rockefeller. Well, good night, Your Nibs.”</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 <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">D.</abbr> 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>
 				<p>“Thanks!” said the young man, pocketing it carelessly. “My name is Simmons.”</p>

src/epub/text/a-call-loan.xhtml

@@ -14,8 +14,8 @@
 			<p>Long Bill was a graduate of the camp and trail. Luck and thrift, a cool head, and a telescopic eye for mavericks had raised him from cowboy to be a cowman. Then came the boom in cattle, and Fortune, stepping gingerly among the cactus thorns, came and emptied her cornucopia at the doorstep of the ranch.</p>
 			<p>In the little frontier city of Chaparosa, Longley built a costly residence. Here he became a captive, bound to the chariot of social existence. He was doomed to become a leading citizen. He struggled for a time like a mustang in his first corral, and then he hung up his quirt and spurs. Time hung heavily on his hands. He organised the First National Bank of Chaparosa, and was elected its president.</p>
 			<p>One day a dyspeptic man, wearing double-magnifying glasses, inserted an official-looking card between the bars of the cashier’s window of the First National Bank. Five minutes later the bank force was dancing at the beck and call of a national bank examiner.</p>
-			<p>This examiner, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Edgar Todd, proved to be a thorough one.</p>
-			<p>At the end of it all the examiner put on his hat, and called the president, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> William <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Longley, into the private office.</p>
+			<p>This examiner, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Edgar Todd, proved to be a thorough one.</p>
+			<p>At the end of it all the examiner put on his hat, and called the president, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> William <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R.</abbr> Longley, into the private office.</p>
 			<p>“Well, how do you find things?” asked Longley, in his slow, deep tones. “Any brands in the roundup you didn’t like the looks of?”</p>
 			<p>“The bank checks up all right, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Longley,” said Todd; “and I find your loans in very good shape⁠—with one exception. You are carrying one very bad bit of paper⁠—one that is so bad that I have been thinking that you surely do not realise the serious position it places you in. I refer to a call loan of $10,000 made to Thomas Merwin. Not only is the amount in excess of the maximum sum the bank can loan any individual legally, but it is absolutely without endorsement or security. Thus you have doubly violated the national banking laws, and have laid yourself open to criminal prosecution by the Government. A report of the matter to the Comptroller of the Currency⁠—which I am bound to make⁠—would, I am sure, result in the matter being turned over to the Department of Justice for action. You see what a serious thing it is.”</p>
 			<p>Bill Longley was leaning his lengthy, slowly moving frame back in his swivel chair. His hands were clasped behind his head, and he turned a little to look the examiner in the face. The examiner was surprised to see a smile creep about the rugged mouth of the banker, and a kindly twinkle in his light-blue eyes. If he saw the seriousness of the affair, it did not show in his countenance.</p>

src/epub/text/a-cosmopolite-in-a-cafe.xhtml

@@ -11,15 +11,15 @@
 			<p>At midnight the café was crowded. By some chance the little table at which I sat had escaped the eye of incomers, and two vacant chairs at it extended their arms with venal hospitality to the influx of patrons.</p>
 			<p>And then a cosmopolite sat in one of them, and I was glad, for I held a theory that since Adam no true citizen of the world has existed. We hear of them, and we see foreign labels on much luggage, but we find travellers instead of cosmopolites.</p>
 			<p>I invoke your consideration of the scene⁠—the marble-topped tables, the range of leather-upholstered wall seats, the gay company, the ladies dressed in demi-state toilets, speaking in an exquisite visible chorus of taste, economy, opulence or art; the sedulous and largess-loving <span xml:lang="fr">garçons</span>, the music wisely catering to all with its raids upon the composers; the mélange of talk and laughter⁠—and, if you will, the Würzburger in the tall glass cones that bend to your lips as a ripe cherry sways on its branch to the beak of a robber jay. I was told by a sculptor from Mauch Chunk that the scene was truly Parisian.</p>
-			<p>My cosmopolite was named <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Rushmore Coglan, and he will be heard from next summer at Coney Island. He is to establish a new “attraction” there, he informed me, offering kingly diversion. And then his conversation rang along parallels of latitude and longitude. He took the great, round world in his hand, so to speak, familiarly, contemptuously, and it seemed no larger than the seed of a Maraschino cherry in a <span xml:lang="fr">table d’hôte</span> grape fruit. He spoke disrespectfully of the equator, he skipped from continent to continent, he derided the zones, he mopped up the high seas with his napkin. With a wave of his hand he would speak of a certain bazaar in Hyderabad. Whiff! He would have you on skis in Lapland. Zip! Now you rode the breakers with the Kanakas at Kealaikahiki. Presto! He dragged you through an Arkansas post-oak swamp, let you dry for a moment on the alkali plains of his Idaho ranch, then whirled you into the society of Viennese archdukes. Anon he would be telling you of a cold he acquired in a Chicago lake breeze and how old Escamila cured it in Buenos Aires with a hot infusion of the <i xml:lang="es">chuchula</i> weed. You would have addressed a letter to “<abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Rushmore Coglan, <abbr>Esq.</abbr>, the Earth, Solar System, the Universe,” and have mailed it, feeling confident that it would be delivered to him.</p>
+			<p>My cosmopolite was named <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Rushmore Coglan, and he will be heard from next summer at Coney Island. He is to establish a new “attraction” there, he informed me, offering kingly diversion. And then his conversation rang along parallels of latitude and longitude. He took the great, round world in his hand, so to speak, familiarly, contemptuously, and it seemed no larger than the seed of a Maraschino cherry in a <span xml:lang="fr">table d’hôte</span> grape fruit. He spoke disrespectfully of the equator, he skipped from continent to continent, he derided the zones, he mopped up the high seas with his napkin. With a wave of his hand he would speak of a certain bazaar in Hyderabad. Whiff! He would have you on skis in Lapland. Zip! Now you rode the breakers with the Kanakas at Kealaikahiki. Presto! He dragged you through an Arkansas post-oak swamp, let you dry for a moment on the alkali plains of his Idaho ranch, then whirled you into the society of Viennese archdukes. Anon he would be telling you of a cold he acquired in a Chicago lake breeze and how old Escamila cured it in Buenos Aires with a hot infusion of the <i xml:lang="es">chuchula</i> weed. You would have addressed a letter to “<abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Rushmore Coglan, <abbr>Esq.</abbr>, the Earth, Solar System, the Universe,” and have mailed it, feeling confident that it would be delivered to him.</p>
 			<p>I was sure that I had found at last the one true cosmopolite since Adam, and I listened to his worldwide discourse fearful lest I should discover in it the local note of the mere globetrotter. But his opinions never fluttered or drooped; he was as impartial to cities, countries and continents as the winds or gravitation.</p>
-			<p>And as <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Rushmore Coglan prattled of this little planet I thought with glee of a great almost-cosmopolite who wrote for the whole world and dedicated himself to Bombay. In a poem he has to say that there is pride and rivalry between the cities of the earth, and that “the men that breed from them, they traffic up and down, but cling to their cities’ hem as a child to the mother’s gown.” And whenever they walk “by roaring streets unknown” they remember their native city “most faithful, foolish, fond; making her mere-breathed name their bond upon their bond.” And my glee was roused because I had caught <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Kipling napping. Here I had found a man not made from dust; one who had no narrow boasts of birthplace or country, one who, if he bragged at all, would brag of his whole round globe against the Martians and the inhabitants of the Moon.</p>
-			<p>Expression on these subjects was precipitated from <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Rushmore Coglan by the third corner to our table. While Coglan was describing to me the topography along the Siberian Railway the orchestra glided into a medley. The concluding air was “Dixie,” and as the exhilarating notes tumbled forth they were almost overpowered by a great clapping of hands from almost every table.</p>
+			<p>And as <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Rushmore Coglan prattled of this little planet I thought with glee of a great almost-cosmopolite who wrote for the whole world and dedicated himself to Bombay. In a poem he has to say that there is pride and rivalry between the cities of the earth, and that “the men that breed from them, they traffic up and down, but cling to their cities’ hem as a child to the mother’s gown.” And whenever they walk “by roaring streets unknown” they remember their native city “most faithful, foolish, fond; making her mere-breathed name their bond upon their bond.” And my glee was roused because I had caught <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Kipling napping. Here I had found a man not made from dust; one who had no narrow boasts of birthplace or country, one who, if he bragged at all, would brag of his whole round globe against the Martians and the inhabitants of the Moon.</p>
+			<p>Expression on these subjects was precipitated from <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Rushmore Coglan by the third corner to our table. While Coglan was describing to me the topography along the Siberian Railway the orchestra glided into a medley. The concluding air was “Dixie,” and as the exhilarating notes tumbled forth they were almost overpowered by a great clapping of hands from almost every table.</p>
 			<p>It is worth a paragraph to say that this remarkable scene can be witnessed every evening in numerous cafés in the City of New York. Tons of brew have been consumed over theories to account for it. Some have conjectured hastily that all Southerners in town hie themselves to cafés at nightfall. This applause of the “rebel” air in a Northern city does puzzle a little; but it is not insolvable. The war with Spain, many years’ generous mint and watermelon crops, a few long-shot winners at the New Orleans racetrack, and the brilliant banquets given by the Indiana and Kansas citizens who compose the North Carolina Society have made the South rather a “fad” in Manhattan. Your manicure will lisp softly that your left forefinger reminds her so much of a gentleman’s in Richmond, Va. Oh, certainly; but many a lady has to work now⁠—the war, you know.</p>
 			<p>When “Dixie” was being played a dark-haired young man sprang up from somewhere with a Mosby guerrilla yell and waved frantically his soft-brimmed hat. Then he strayed through the smoke, dropped into the vacant chair at our table and pulled out cigarettes.</p>
 			<p>The evening was at the period when reserve is thawed. One of us mentioned three Würzburgers to the waiter; the dark-haired young man acknowledged his inclusion in the order by a smile and a nod. I hastened to ask him a question because I wanted to try out a theory I had.</p>
 			<p>“Would you mind telling me,” I began, “whether you are from⁠—”</p>
-			<p>The fist of <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Rushmore Coglan banged the table and I was jarred into silence.</p>
+			<p>The fist of <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Rushmore Coglan banged the table and I was jarred into silence.</p>
 			<p>“Excuse me,” said he, “but that’s a question I never like to hear asked. What does it matter where a man is from? Is it fair to judge a man by his post-office address? Why, I’ve seen Kentuckians who hated whiskey, Virginians who weren’t descended from Pocahontas, Indianians who hadn’t written a novel, Mexicans who didn’t wear velvet trousers with silver dollars sewed along the seams, funny Englishmen, spendthrift Yankees, cold-blooded Southerners, narrow-minded Westerners, and New Yorkers who were too busy to stop for an hour on the street to watch a one-armed grocer’s clerk do up cranberries in paper bags. Let a man be a man and don’t handicap him with the label of any section.”</p>
 			<p>“Pardon me,” I said, “but my curiosity was not altogether an idle one. I know the South, and when the band plays ‘Dixie’ I like to observe. I have formed the belief that the man who applauds that air with special violence and ostensible sectional loyalty is invariably a native of either Secaucus, <abbr class="postal">NJ</abbr>, or the district between Murray Hill Lyceum and the Harlem River, this city. I was about to put my opinion to the test by inquiring of this gentleman when you interrupted with your own⁠—larger theory, I must confess.”</p>
 			<p>And now the dark-haired young man spoke to me, and it became evident that his mind also moved along its own set of grooves.</p>
@@ -29,11 +29,11 @@
 			<p>“You seem to be a genuine cosmopolite,” I said admiringly. “But it also seems that you would decry patriotism.”</p>
 			<p>“A relic of the stone age,” declared Coglan, warmly. “We are all brothers⁠—Chinamen, Englishmen, Zulus, Patagonians and the people in the bend of the Kaw River. Some day all this petty pride in one’s city or State or section or country will be wiped out, and we’ll all be citizens of the world, as we ought to be.”</p>
 			<p>“But while you are wandering in foreign lands,” I persisted, “do not your thoughts revert to some spot⁠—some dear and⁠—”</p>
-			<p>“Nary a spot,” interrupted <abbr class="name">E. R.</abbr> Coglan, flippantly. “The terrestrial, globular, planetary hunk of matter, slightly flattened at the poles, and known as the Earth, is my abode. I’ve met a good many object-bound citizens of this country abroad. I’ve seen men from Chicago sit in a gondola in Venice on a moonlight night and brag about their drainage canal. I’ve seen a Southerner on being introduced to the King of England hand that monarch, without batting his eyes, the information that his grandaunt on his mother’s side was related by marriage to the Perkinses, of Charleston. I knew a New Yorker who was kidnapped for ransom by some Afghanistan bandits. His people sent over the money and he came back to Kabul with the agent. ‘Afghanistan?’ the natives said to him through an interpreter. ‘Well, not so slow, do you think?’ ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ says he, and he begins to tell them about a cab driver at Sixth Avenue and Broadway. Those ideas don’t suit me. I’m not tied down to anything that isn’t 8,000 miles in diameter. Just put me down as <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Rushmore Coglan, citizen of the terrestrial sphere.”</p>
+			<p>“Nary a spot,” interrupted <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E. R.</abbr> Coglan, flippantly. “The terrestrial, globular, planetary hunk of matter, slightly flattened at the poles, and known as the Earth, is my abode. I’ve met a good many object-bound citizens of this country abroad. I’ve seen men from Chicago sit in a gondola in Venice on a moonlight night and brag about their drainage canal. I’ve seen a Southerner on being introduced to the King of England hand that monarch, without batting his eyes, the information that his grandaunt on his mother’s side was related by marriage to the Perkinses, of Charleston. I knew a New Yorker who was kidnapped for ransom by some Afghanistan bandits. His people sent over the money and he came back to Kabul with the agent. ‘Afghanistan?’ the natives said to him through an interpreter. ‘Well, not so slow, do you think?’ ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ says he, and he begins to tell them about a cab driver at Sixth Avenue and Broadway. Those ideas don’t suit me. I’m not tied down to anything that isn’t 8,000 miles in diameter. Just put me down as <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Rushmore Coglan, citizen of the terrestrial sphere.”</p>
 			<p>My cosmopolite made a large adieu and left me, for he thought he saw someone through the chatter and smoke whom he knew. So I was left with the would-be periwinkle, who was reduced to Würzburger without further ability to voice his aspirations to perch, melodious, upon the summit of a valley.</p>
 			<p>I sat reflecting upon my evident cosmopolite and wondering how the poet had managed to miss him. He was my discovery and I believed in him. How was it? “The men that breed from them they traffic up and down, but cling to their cities’ hem as a child to the mother’s gown.”</p>
-			<p>Not so <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Rushmore Coglan. With the whole world for his⁠—</p>
-			<p>My meditations were interrupted by a tremendous noise and conflict in another part of the café. I saw above the heads of the seated patrons <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Rushmore Coglan and a stranger to me engaged in terrific battle. They fought between the tables like Titans, and glasses crashed, and men caught their hats up and were knocked down, and a brunette screamed, and a blonde began to sing “Teasing.”</p>
+			<p>Not so <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Rushmore Coglan. With the whole world for his⁠—</p>
+			<p>My meditations were interrupted by a tremendous noise and conflict in another part of the café. I saw above the heads of the seated patrons <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Rushmore Coglan and a stranger to me engaged in terrific battle. They fought between the tables like Titans, and glasses crashed, and men caught their hats up and were knocked down, and a brunette screamed, and a blonde began to sing “Teasing.”</p>
 			<p>My cosmopolite was sustaining the pride and reputation of the Earth when the waiters closed in on both combatants with their famous flying wedge formation and bore them outside, still resisting.</p>
 			<p>I called McCarthy, one of the French <span xml:lang="fr">garçons</span>, and asked him the cause of the conflict.</p>
 			<p>“The man with the red tie” (that was my cosmopolite), said he, “got hot on account of things said about the bum sidewalks and water supply of the place he come from by the other guy.”</p>

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@@ -25,7 +25,7 @@
 			<p>“Why, no,” said the Kid gently, “I reckon not. I never saw it before. I was just looking at it. Not thinking of selling it, are you?”</p>
 			<p>“Not this trip,” said the captain. “I’ll send it to you <abbr class="initialism">C.O.D.</abbr> when I get back to Buenas Tierras. Here comes that capstanfooted lubber with the chewin’. I ought to’ve weighed anchor an hour ago.”</p>
 			<p>“Is that your ship out there?” asked the Kid.</p>
-			<p>“Why, yes,” answered the captain, “if you want to call a schooner a ship, and I don’t mind lyin’. But you better say Miller and Gonzales, owners, and ordinary plain, Billy-be-damned old Samuel <abbr class="name">K.</abbr> Boone, skipper.”</p>
+			<p>“Why, yes,” answered the captain, “if you want to call a schooner a ship, and I don’t mind lyin’. But you better say Miller and Gonzales, owners, and ordinary plain, Billy-be-damned old Samuel <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">K.</abbr> Boone, skipper.”</p>
 			<p>“Where are you going to?” asked the refugee.</p>
 			<p>“Buenas Tierras, coast of South America⁠—I forgot what they called the country the last time I was there. Cargo⁠—lumber, corrugated iron, and machetes.”</p>
 			<p>“What kind of a country is it?” asked the Kid⁠—“hot or cold?”</p>

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@@ -17,7 +17,7 @@
 					<span epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</span>
 				</h3>
 				<p>Judge Smith, a highly esteemed citizen of Plunkville, is found murdered in his bed at his home. He has been stabbed with a pair of scissors, poisoned with “rough on rats.” His throat has been cut with an ivory handled razor, an artery in his arm has been opened, and he has been shot full of buckshot from a double-barreled gun.</p>
-				<p>The coroner is summoned and the room examined. On the ceiling is a bloody footprint, and on the floor are found a lady’s lace handkerchief, embroidered with the initials “<abbr class="name">J. B.</abbr>,” a package of cigarettes and a ham sandwich. The coroner renders a verdict of suicide.</p>
+				<p>The coroner is summoned and the room examined. On the ceiling is a bloody footprint, and on the floor are found a lady’s lace handkerchief, embroidered with the initials “<abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J. B.</abbr>,” a package of cigarettes and a ham sandwich. The coroner renders a verdict of suicide.</p>
 			</section>
 			<section id="a-guess-proof-mystery-story-2" epub:type="chapter">
 				<h3>
@@ -48,7 +48,7 @@
 					<span epub:type="label">Chapter</span>
 					<span epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</span>
 				</h3>
-				<p>The footsteps prove to be those of Thomas <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Hefflebomer of Washington Territory, who introduces positive proof of having murdered the judge during a fit of mental aberration, and Mabel marries a man named Tompkins, whom she met two years later at Hot Springs.</p>
+				<p>The footsteps prove to be those of Thomas <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R.</abbr> Hefflebomer of Washington Territory, who introduces positive proof of having murdered the judge during a fit of mental aberration, and Mabel marries a man named Tompkins, whom she met two years later at Hot Springs.</p>
 			</section>
 		</article>
 	</body>

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@@ -23,7 +23,7 @@
 			<p>“Then why do they become infuriated and make threats of lynching?” asked the New Yorker.</p>
 			<p>“To assure the motorman,” answered the tall man, “that he is safe. If they really wanted to do him up they would go into the houses and drop bricks on him from the third-story windows.”</p>
 			<p>“New Yorkers are not cowards,” said the other man, a little stiffly.</p>
-			<p>“Not one at a time,” agreed the tall man, promptly. “You’ve got a fine lot of single-handed scrappers in your town. I’d rather fight three of you than one; and I’d go up against all the Gas Trust’s victims in a bunch before I’d pass two citizens on a dark corner, with my watch chain showing. When you get rounded up in a bunch you lose your nerve. Get you in crowds and you’re easy. Ask the ‘L’ road guards and George <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Cortelyou and the tintype booths at Coney Island. Divided you stand, united you fall. <i xml:lang="la">E pluribus nihil.</i> Whenever one of your mobs surrounds a man and begins to holler, ‘Lynch him!’ he says to himself, “Oh, dear, I suppose I must look pale to please the boys, but I will, forsooth, let my life insurance premium lapse tomorrow. This is a sure tip for me to play Methuselah straight across the board in the next handicap.’</p>
+			<p>“Not one at a time,” agreed the tall man, promptly. “You’ve got a fine lot of single-handed scrappers in your town. I’d rather fight three of you than one; and I’d go up against all the Gas Trust’s victims in a bunch before I’d pass two citizens on a dark corner, with my watch chain showing. When you get rounded up in a bunch you lose your nerve. Get you in crowds and you’re easy. Ask the ‘L’ road guards and George <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">B.</abbr> Cortelyou and the tintype booths at Coney Island. Divided you stand, united you fall. <i xml:lang="la">E pluribus nihil.</i> Whenever one of your mobs surrounds a man and begins to holler, ‘Lynch him!’ he says to himself, “Oh, dear, I suppose I must look pale to please the boys, but I will, forsooth, let my life insurance premium lapse tomorrow. This is a sure tip for me to play Methuselah straight across the board in the next handicap.’</p>
 			<p>“I can imagine the tortured feelings of a prisoner in the hands of New York policemen when an infuriated mob demands that he be turned over to them for lynching. ‘For God’s sake, officers,’ cries the distracted wretch, ‘have ye hearts of stone, that ye will not let them wrest me from ye?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Sorry, Jimmy,’ says one of the policemen, ‘but it won’t do. There’s three of us⁠—me and Darrel and the plain-clothes man; and there’s only sivin thousand of the mob. How’d we explain it at the office if they took ye? Jist chase the infuriated aggregation around the corner, Darrel, and we’ll be movin’ along to the station.’ ”</p>
 			<p>“Some of our gatherings of excited citizens have not been so harmless,” said the New Yorker, with a faint note of civic pride.</p>

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@@ -27,7 +27,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘There’s four normal school teachers and two abnormal; there’s three high school graduates between 37 and 42; there’s two literary old maids and one that can write; there’s a couple of society women and a lady from Haw River. Two elocutionists are bunking in the corn crib, and I’ve put cots in the hay loft for the cook and the society editress of the Chattanooga <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Opera Glass</i>. You see how names draw, gents.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘how is it that you seem to be biting your thumbs at good luck? You didn’t use to be that way.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I ain’t through,’ says Smoke-’em-out. ‘Yesterday was the day for the advent of the auspicious personages. I goes down to the depot to welcome ’em. Two apparently animate substances gets off the train, both carrying bags full of croquet mallets and these magic lanterns with pushbuttons.</p>
-			<p>“I compares these integers with the original signatures to the letters⁠—and, well, gents, I reckon the mistake was due to my poor eyesight. Instead of being the Lieutenant, the daisy chain and wild verbena explorer was none other than Levi <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Peevy, a soda water clerk from Asheville. And the Duke of Marlborough turned out to be Theo. Drake of Murfreesborough, a bookkeeper in a grocery. What did I do? I kicked ’em both back on the train and watched ’em depart for the lowlands, the low.</p>
+			<p>“I compares these integers with the original signatures to the letters⁠—and, well, gents, I reckon the mistake was due to my poor eyesight. Instead of being the Lieutenant, the daisy chain and wild verbena explorer was none other than Levi <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Peevy, a soda water clerk from Asheville. And the Duke of Marlborough turned out to be Theo. Drake of Murfreesborough, a bookkeeper in a grocery. What did I do? I kicked ’em both back on the train and watched ’em depart for the lowlands, the low.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Now you see the fix I’m in, gents,’ goes on Smoke-’em-out Smithers. ‘I told the ladies that the notorious visitors had been detained on the road by some unavoidable circumstances that made a noise like an ice jam and an heiress, but they would arrive a day or two later. When they find out that they’ve been deceived,’ says Smoke-’em-out, ‘every yard of cross barred muslin and natural waved switch in the house will pack up and leave. It’s a hard deal,’ says old Smoke-’em-out.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Friend,’ says Andy, touching the old man on the aesophagus, ‘why this jeremiad when the polar regions and the portals of Blenheim are conspiring to hand you prosperity on a hall-marked silver salver. We have arrived.’</p>
 			<p>“A light breaks out on Smoke-’em-out’s face.</p>
@@ -42,7 +42,7 @@
 			<p>“One lady says to me: ‘How did that last venture of yours turn out, sir?’</p>
 			<p>“Now, I’d clean forgot to have an understanding with Andy which I was to be, the duke or the lieutenant. And I couldn’t tell from her question whether she was referring to Arctic or matrimonial expeditions. So I gave an answer that would cover both cases.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Well, ma’am,’ says I, ‘it was a freeze out⁠—right smart of a freeze out, ma’am.’</p>
-			<p>“And then the flood gates of Andy’s perorations was opened and I knew which one of the renowned ostensible guests I was supposed to be. I wasn’t either. Andy was both. And still furthermore it seemed that he was trying to be the mouthpiece of the whole British nobility and of Arctic exploration from Sir John Franklin down. It was the union of corn whiskey and the conscientious fictional form that <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr class="name">W. D.</abbr> Howletts admires so much.</p>
+			<p>“And then the flood gates of Andy’s perorations was opened and I knew which one of the renowned ostensible guests I was supposed to be. I wasn’t either. Andy was both. And still furthermore it seemed that he was trying to be the mouthpiece of the whole British nobility and of Arctic exploration from Sir John Franklin down. It was the union of corn whiskey and the conscientious fictional form that <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W. D.</abbr> Howletts admires so much.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Ladies,’ says Andy, smiling semicircularly, ‘I am truly glad to visit America. I do not consider the magna charta,’ says he, ‘or gas balloons or snowshoes in any way a detriment to the beauty and charm of your American women, skyscrapers or the architecture of your icebergs. The next time,’ says Andy, ‘that I go after the North Pole all the Vanderbilts in Greenland won’t be able to turn me out in the cold⁠—I mean make it hot for me.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Tell us about one of your trips, Lieutenant,’ says one of the normals.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Sure,’ says Andy, getting the decision over a hiccup. ‘It was in the spring of last year that I sailed the Castle of Blenheim up to latitude 87 degrees Fahrenheit and beat the record. Ladies,’ says Andy, ‘it was a sad sight to see a Duke allied by a civil and liturgical chattel mortgage to one of your first families lost in a region of semiannual days.’ And then he goes on, ‘At four bells we sighted Westminster Abbey, but there was not a drop to eat. At noon we threw out five sandbags, and the ship rose fifteen knots higher. At midnight,’ continues Andy, ‘the restaurants closed. Sitting on a cake of ice we ate seven hot dogs. All around us was snow and ice. Six times a night the boatswain rose up and tore a leaf off the calendar, so we could keep time with the barometer. At 12,’ says Andy, with a lot of anguish on his face, ‘three huge polar bears sprang down the hatchway, into the cabin. And then⁠—’</p>

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@@ -19,7 +19,7 @@
 						<br/>
 						<span class="i1">That from her burdened beach.</span>
 					</p>
-					<cite><abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Kipling.</cite>
+					<cite><abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R.</abbr> Kipling.</cite>
 				</blockquote>
 			</header>
 			<blockquote>
@@ -35,7 +35,7 @@
 			<p>The mixture will give you an approximate conception of a Nashville drizzle. It is not so fragrant as a mothball nor as thick as pea-soup; but ’tis enough⁠—’twill serve.</p>
 			<p>I went to a hotel in a tumbril. It required strong self-suppression for me to keep from climbing to the top of it and giving an imitation of Sidney Carton. The vehicle was drawn by beasts of a bygone era and driven by something dark and emancipated.</p>
 			<p>I was sleepy and tired, so when I got to the hotel I hurriedly paid it the fifty cents it demanded (with approximate lagniappe, I assure you). I knew its habits; and I did not want to hear it prate about its old “marster” or anything that happened “befo’ de wah.”</p>
-			<p>The hotel was one of the kind described as “renovated.” That means $20,000 worth of new marble pillars, tiling, electric lights and brass cuspidors in the lobby, and a new <abbr class="name">L.</abbr> &amp; <abbr class="name">N.</abbr> time table and a lithograph of Lookout Mountain in each one of the great rooms above. The management was without reproach, the attention full of exquisite Southern courtesy, the service as slow as the progress of a snail and as good-humored as Rip Van Winkle. The food was worth traveling a thousand miles for. There is no other hotel in the world where you can get such chicken livers <span xml:lang="fr">en brochette</span>.</p>
+			<p>The hotel was one of the kind described as “renovated.” That means $20,000 worth of new marble pillars, tiling, electric lights and brass cuspidors in the lobby, and a new <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">L.</abbr> &amp; <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">N.</abbr> time table and a lithograph of Lookout Mountain in each one of the great rooms above. The management was without reproach, the attention full of exquisite Southern courtesy, the service as slow as the progress of a snail and as good-humored as Rip Van Winkle. The food was worth traveling a thousand miles for. There is no other hotel in the world where you can get such chicken livers <span xml:lang="fr">en brochette</span>.</p>
 			<p>At dinner I asked a Negro waiter if there was anything doing in town. He pondered gravely for a minute, and then replied: “Well, boss, I don’t really reckon there’s anything at all doin’ after sundown.”</p>
 			<p>Sundown had been accomplished; it had been drowned in the drizzle long before. So that spectacle was denied me. But I went forth upon the streets in the drizzle to see what might be there.</p>
 			<blockquote>
@@ -47,7 +47,7 @@
 				<p>In November, 1864, the Confederate General Hood advanced against Nashville, where he shut up a National force under General Thomas. The latter then sallied forth and defeated the Confederates in a terrible conflict.</p>
 			</blockquote>
 			<p>All my life I have heard of, admired, and witnessed the fine marksmanship of the South in its peaceful conflicts in the tobacco-chewing regions. But in my hotel a surprise awaited me. There were twelve bright, new, imposing, capacious brass cuspidors in the great lobby, tall enough to be called urns and so wide-mouthed that the crack pitcher of a lady baseball team should have been able to throw a ball into one of them at five paces distant. But, although a terrible battle had raged and was still raging, the enemy had not suffered. Bright, new, imposing, capacious, untouched, they stood. But, shades of Jefferson Brick! the tile floor⁠—the beautiful tile floor! I could not avoid thinking of the battle of Nashville, and trying to draw, as is my foolish habit, some deductions about hereditary marksmanship.</p>
-			<p>Here I first saw Major (by misplaced courtesy) Wentworth Caswell. I knew him for a type the moment my eyes suffered from the sight of him. A rat has no geographical habitat. My old friend, <abbr class="name">A.</abbr> Tennyson, said, as he so well said almost everything:</p>
+			<p>Here I first saw Major (by misplaced courtesy) Wentworth Caswell. I knew him for a type the moment my eyes suffered from the sight of him. A rat has no geographical habitat. My old friend, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">A.</abbr> Tennyson, said, as he so well said almost everything:</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:poem z3998:non-fiction">
 				<p>
 					<span>Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip,</span>
@@ -130,7 +130,7 @@
 			<p>“She ain’t gwine to starve, suh,” he said slowly. “She has reso’ces, suh; she has reso’ces.”</p>
 			<p>“I shall pay you fifty cents for the trip,” said I.</p>
 			<p>“Dat is puffeckly correct, suh,” he answered humbly. “I jus’ <em>had</em> to have dat two dollars dis mawnin’, boss.”</p>
-			<p>I went to the hotel and lied by electricity. I wired the magazine: “<abbr class="name">A.</abbr> Adair holds out for eight cents a word.”</p>
+			<p>I went to the hotel and lied by electricity. I wired the magazine: “<abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">A.</abbr> Adair holds out for eight cents a word.”</p>
 			<p>The answer that came back was: “Give it to her quick you duffer.”</p>
 			<p>Just before dinner “Major” Wentworth Caswell bore down upon me with the greetings of a long-lost friend. I have seen few men whom I have so instantaneously hated, and of whom it was so difficult to be rid. I was standing at the bar when he invaded me; therefore I could not wave the white ribbon in his face. I would have paid gladly for the drinks, hoping, thereby, to escape another; but he was one of those despicable, roaring, advertising bibbers who must have brass bands and fireworks attend upon every cent that they waste in their follies.</p>
 			<p>With an air of producing millions he drew two one-dollar bills from a pocket and dashed one of them upon the bar. I looked once more at the dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn through the middle, and patched with a strip of blue tissue paper. It was my dollar bill again. It could have been no other.</p>

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@@ -22,8 +22,8 @@
 			<p>When old Jacob was young Jacob he was a breaker boy in a Pennsylvania coal mine. I don’t know what a breaker boy is; but his occupation seems to be standing by a coal dump with a wan look and a dinner-pail to have his picture taken for magazine articles. Anyhow, Jacob was one. But, instead of dying of overwork at nine, and leaving his helpless parents and brothers at the mercy of the union strikers’ reserve fund, he hitched up his galluses, put a dollar or two in a side proposition now and then, and at forty-five was worth $20,000,000.</p>
 			<p>There now! it’s over. Hardly had time to yawn, did you? I’ve seen biographies that⁠—but let us dissemble.</p>
 			<p>I want you to consider Jacob Spraggins, <abbr>Esq.</abbr>, after he had arrived at the seventh stage of his career. The stages meant are, first, humble origin; second, deserved promotion; third, stockholder; fourth, capitalist; fifth, trust magnate; sixth, rich malefactor; seventh, caliph; eighth, <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">x</i>. The eighth stage shall be left to the higher mathematics.</p>
-			<p>At fifty-five Jacob retired from active business. The income of a czar was still rolling in on him from coal, iron, real estate, oil, railroads, manufactories, and corporations, but none of it touched Jacob’s hands in a raw state. It was a sterilized increment, carefully cleaned and dusted and fumigated until it arrived at its ultimate stage of untainted, spotless checks in the white fingers of his private secretary. Jacob built a three-million-dollar palace on a corner lot fronting on Nabob Avenue, city of New Bagdad, and began to feel the mantle of the late <abbr class="name">H. A.</abbr> Rashid descending upon him. Eventually Jacob slipped the mantle under his collar, tied it in a neat four-in-hand, and became a licensed harrier of our Mesopotamian proletariat.</p>
-			<p>When a man’s income becomes so large that the butcher actually sends him the kind of steak he orders, he begins to think about his soul’s salvation. Now, the various stages or classes of rich men must not be forgotten. The capitalist can tell you to a dollar the amount of his wealth. The trust magnate “estimates” it. The rich malefactor hands you a cigar and denies that he has bought the <abbr>P. D. &amp; Q.</abbr> The caliph merely smiles and talks about Hammerstein and the musical lasses. There is a record of tremendous altercation at breakfast in a “Where-to-Dine-Well” tavern between a magnate and his wife, the rift within the loot being that the wife calculated their fortune at a figure $3,000,000 higher than did her future divorcé. Oh, well, I, myself, heard a similar quarrel between a man and his wife because he found fifty cents less in his pockets than he thought he had. After all, we are all human⁠—Count Tolstoy, <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Fitzsimmons, Peter Pan, and the rest of us.</p>
+			<p>At fifty-five Jacob retired from active business. The income of a czar was still rolling in on him from coal, iron, real estate, oil, railroads, manufactories, and corporations, but none of it touched Jacob’s hands in a raw state. It was a sterilized increment, carefully cleaned and dusted and fumigated until it arrived at its ultimate stage of untainted, spotless checks in the white fingers of his private secretary. Jacob built a three-million-dollar palace on a corner lot fronting on Nabob Avenue, city of New Bagdad, and began to feel the mantle of the late <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H. A.</abbr> Rashid descending upon him. Eventually Jacob slipped the mantle under his collar, tied it in a neat four-in-hand, and became a licensed harrier of our Mesopotamian proletariat.</p>
+			<p>When a man’s income becomes so large that the butcher actually sends him the kind of steak he orders, he begins to think about his soul’s salvation. Now, the various stages or classes of rich men must not be forgotten. The capitalist can tell you to a dollar the amount of his wealth. The trust magnate “estimates” it. The rich malefactor hands you a cigar and denies that he has bought the <abbr>P. D. &amp; Q.</abbr> The caliph merely smiles and talks about Hammerstein and the musical lasses. There is a record of tremendous altercation at breakfast in a “Where-to-Dine-Well” tavern between a magnate and his wife, the rift within the loot being that the wife calculated their fortune at a figure $3,000,000 higher than did her future divorcé. Oh, well, I, myself, heard a similar quarrel between a man and his wife because he found fifty cents less in his pockets than he thought he had. After all, we are all human⁠—Count Tolstoy, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R.</abbr> Fitzsimmons, Peter Pan, and the rest of us.</p>
 			<p>Don’t lose heart because the story seems to be degenerating into a sort of moral essay for intellectual readers.</p>
 			<p>There will be dialogue and stage business pretty soon.</p>
 			<p>When Jacob first began to compare the eyes of needles with the camels in the zoo he decided upon organized charity. He had his secretary send a check for one million to the Universal Benevolent Association of the Globe. You may have looked down through a grating in front of a decayed warehouse for a nickel that you had dropped through. But that is neither here nor there. The Association acknowledged receipt of his favor of the 24th <abbr>ult.</abbr> with enclosure as stated. Separated by a double line, but still mighty close to the matter under the caption of “Oddities of the Day’s News” in an evening paper, Jacob Spraggins read that one “Jasper Spargyous” had “donated $100,000 to the <abbr>U.</abbr> <abbr>B.</abbr> <abbr>A.</abbr> of <abbr class="eoc">G.</abbr>” A camel may have a stomach for each day in the week; but I dare not venture to accord him whiskers, for fear of the Great Displeasure at Washington; but if he have whiskers, surely not one of them will seem to have been inserted in the eye of a needle by that effort of that rich man to enter the <abbr class="eoc">K. of H.</abbr> The right is reserved to reject any and all bids; signed, <abbr>S.</abbr> Peter, secretary and gatekeeper.</p>

src/epub/text/a-poor-rule.xhtml

@@ -24,8 +24,8 @@
 			<p>The Parisian Restaurant was within a radius. Even from beyond its circumference men rode in to Paloma to win her smiles. They got them. One meal⁠—one smile⁠—one dollar. But, with all her impartiality, Ileen seemed to favor three of her admirers above the rest. According to the rules of politeness, I will mention myself last.</p>
 			<p>The first was an artificial product known as Bryan Jacks⁠—a name that had obviously met with reverses. Jacks was the outcome of paved cities. He was a small man made of some material resembling flexible sandstone. His hair was the color of a brick Quaker meetinghouse; his eyes were twin cranberries; his mouth was like the aperture under a drop-letters-here sign.</p>
 			<p>He knew every city from Bangor to San Francisco, thence north to Portland, thence <abbr class="compass">S.</abbr> 45 <abbr class="compass">E.</abbr> to a given point in Florida. He had mastered every art, trade, game, business, profession, and sport in the world, had been present at, or hurrying on his way to, every headline event that had ever occurred between oceans since he was five years old. You might open the atlas, place your finger at random upon the name of a town, and Jacks would tell you the front names of three prominent citizens before you could close it again. He spoke patronizingly and even disrespectfully of Broadway, Beacon Hill, Michigan, Euclid, and Fifth Avenues, and the <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis Four Courts. Compared with him as a cosmopolite, the Wandering Jew would have seemed a mere hermit. He had learned everything the world could teach him, and he would tell you about it.</p>
-			<p>I hate to be reminded of Pollok’s “Course of Time,” and so do you; but every time I saw Jacks I would think of the poet’s description of another poet by the name of <abbr class="name">G. G.</abbr> Byron who “Drank early; deeply drank⁠—drank draughts that common millions might have quenched; then died of thirst because there was no more to drink.”</p>
-			<p>That fitted Jacks, except that, instead of dying, he came to Paloma, which was about the same thing. He was a telegrapher and station-and-express-agent at seventy-five dollars a month. Why a young man who knew everything and could do everything was content to serve in such an obscure capacity I never could understand, although he let out a hint once that it was as a personal favor to the president and stockholders of the <abbr class="name">S. P.</abbr> <abbr>Ry.</abbr> <abbr class="eoc">Co.</abbr></p>
+			<p>I hate to be reminded of Pollok’s “Course of Time,” and so do you; but every time I saw Jacks I would think of the poet’s description of another poet by the name of <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">G. G.</abbr> Byron who “Drank early; deeply drank⁠—drank draughts that common millions might have quenched; then died of thirst because there was no more to drink.”</p>
+			<p>That fitted Jacks, except that, instead of dying, he came to Paloma, which was about the same thing. He was a telegrapher and station-and-express-agent at seventy-five dollars a month. Why a young man who knew everything and could do everything was content to serve in such an obscure capacity I never could understand, although he let out a hint once that it was as a personal favor to the president and stockholders of the <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">S. P.</abbr> <abbr>Ry.</abbr> <abbr class="eoc">Co.</abbr></p>
 			<p>One more line of description, and I turn Jacks over to you. He wore bright blue clothes, yellow shoes, and a bow tie made of the same cloth as his shirt.</p>
 			<p>My rival <abbr>No.</abbr> 2 was Bud Cunningham, whose services had been engaged by a ranch near Paloma to assist in compelling refractory cattle to keep within the bounds of decorum and order. Bud was the only cowboy off the stage that I ever saw who looked like one on it. He wore the sombrero, the chaps, and the handkerchief tied at the back of his neck.</p>
 			<p>Twice a week Bud rode in from the Val Verde Ranch to sup at the Parisian Restaurant. He rode a many-high-handed Kentucky horse at a tremendously fast lope, which animal he would rein up so suddenly under the big mesquite at the corner of the brush shelter that his hoofs would plough canals yards long in the loam.</p>
@@ -59,7 +59,7 @@
 			<p>Of course, we expressed our thanks and joy; but we would have been better pleased if Ileen had remained in her low rocking-chair face to face with us and let us gaze upon her. For she was no Adelina Patti⁠—not even on the farewellest of the diva’s farewell tours. She had a cooing little voice like that of a turtledove that could almost fill the parlor when the windows and doors were closed, and Betty was not rattling the lids of the stove in the kitchen. She had a gamut that I estimate at about eight inches on the piano; and her runs and trills sounded like the clothes bubbling in your grandmother’s iron wash-pot. Believe that she must have been beautiful when I tell you that it sounded like music to us.</p>
 			<p>Ileen’s musical taste was catholic. She would sing through a pile of sheet music on the left-hand top of the piano, laying each slaughtered composition on the right-hand top. The next evening she would sing from right to left. Her favorites were Mendelssohn, and Moody and Sankey. By request she always wound up with “Sweet Violets” and “When the Leaves Begin to Turn.”</p>
 			<p>When we left at ten o’clock the three of us would go down to Jacks’ little wooden station and sit on the platform, swinging our feet and trying to pump one another for clues as to which way Miss Ileen’s inclinations seemed to lean. That is the way of rivals⁠—they do not avoid and glower at one another; they convene and converse and construe⁠—striving by the art politic to estimate the strength of the enemy.</p>
-			<p>One day there came a dark horse to Paloma, a young lawyer who at once flaunted his shingle and himself spectacularly upon the town. His name was <abbr class="name">C.</abbr> Vincent Vesey. You could see at a glance that he was a recent graduate of a southwestern law school. His Prince Albert coat, light striped trousers, broad-brimmed soft black hat, and narrow white muslin bow tie proclaimed that more loudly than any diploma could. Vesey was a compound of Daniel Webster, Lord Chesterfield, Beau Brummell, and Little Jack Horner. His coming boomed Paloma. The next day after he arrived an addition to the town was surveyed and laid off in lots.</p>
+			<p>One day there came a dark horse to Paloma, a young lawyer who at once flaunted his shingle and himself spectacularly upon the town. His name was <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">C.</abbr> Vincent Vesey. You could see at a glance that he was a recent graduate of a southwestern law school. His Prince Albert coat, light striped trousers, broad-brimmed soft black hat, and narrow white muslin bow tie proclaimed that more loudly than any diploma could. Vesey was a compound of Daniel Webster, Lord Chesterfield, Beau Brummell, and Little Jack Horner. His coming boomed Paloma. The next day after he arrived an addition to the town was surveyed and laid off in lots.</p>
 			<p>Of course, Vesey, to further his professional fortunes, must mingle with the citizenry and outliers of Paloma. And, as well as with the soldier men, he was bound to seek popularity with the gay dogs of the place. So Jacks and Bud Cunningham and I came to be honored by his acquaintance.</p>
 			<p>The doctrine of predestination would have been discredited had not Vesey seen Ileen Hinkle and become fourth in the tourney. Magnificently, he boarded at the yellow pine hotel instead of at the Parisian Restaurant; but he came to be a formidable visitor in the Hinkle parlor. His competition reduced Bud to an inspired increase of profanity, drove Jacks to an outburst of slang so weird that it sounded more horrible than the most trenchant of Bud’s imprecations, and made me dumb with gloom.</p>
 			<p>For Vesey had the rhetoric. Words flowed from him like oil from a gusher. Hyperbole, compliment, praise, appreciation, honeyed gallantry, golden opinions, eulogy, and unveiled panegyric vied with one another for preeminence in his speech. We had small hopes that Ileen could resist his oratory and Prince Albert.</p>
@@ -85,7 +85,7 @@
 			<p>I admit that I faltered a little. Was there not such a thing as being too frank? Perhaps I even hedged a little in my verdict; but I stayed with the critics.</p>
 			<p>“I am not skilled in scientific music, Miss Ileen,” I said, “but, frankly, I cannot praise very highly the singing-voice that Nature has given you. It has long been a favorite comparison that a great singer sings like a bird. Well, there are birds and birds. I would say that your voice reminds me of the thrush’s⁠—throaty and not strong, nor of much compass or variety⁠—but still⁠—er⁠—sweet⁠—in⁠—er⁠—its⁠—way, and⁠—er⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Thank you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Harris,” interrupted Miss Hinkle. “I knew I could depend upon your frankness and honesty.”</p>
-			<p>And then <abbr class="name">C.</abbr> Vincent Vesey drew back one sleeve from his snowy cuff, and the water came down at Lodore.</p>
+			<p>And then <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">C.</abbr> Vincent Vesey drew back one sleeve from his snowy cuff, and the water came down at Lodore.</p>
 			<p>My memory cannot do justice to his masterly tribute to that priceless, God-given treasure⁠—Miss Hinkle’s voice. He raved over it in terms that, if they had been addressed to the morning stars when they sang together, would have made that stellar choir explode in a meteoric shower of flaming self-satisfaction.</p>
 			<p>He marshalled on his white fingertips the grand opera stars of all the continents, from Jenny Lind to Emma Abbott, only to depreciate their endowments. He spoke of larynxes, of chest notes, of phrasing, arpeggios, and other strange paraphernalia of the throaty art. He admitted, as though driven to a corner, that Jenny Lind had a note or two in the high register that Miss Hinkle had not yet acquired⁠—but⁠—“!!!”⁠—that was a mere matter of practice and training.</p>
 			<p>And, as a peroration, he predicted⁠—solemnly predicted⁠—a career in vocal art for the “coming star of the Southwest⁠—and one of which grand old Texas may well be proud,” hitherto unsurpassed in the annals of musical history.</p>
@@ -97,7 +97,7 @@
 			<p>We rushed into the kitchen, meeting Pa Hinkle coming out with two cups of hot coffee in his hands.</p>
 			<p>“Where’s Ileen?” we asked, in recitative.</p>
 			<p>Pa Hinkle was a kindly man. “Well, gents,” said he, “it was a sudden notion she took; but I’ve got the money, and I let her have her way. She’s gone to a corn⁠—a conservatory in Boston for four years for to have her voice cultivated. Now, excuse me to pass, gents, for this coffee’s hot, and my thumbs is tender.”</p>
-			<p>That night there were four instead of three of us sitting on the station platform and swinging our feet. <abbr class="name">C.</abbr> Vincent Vesey was one of us. We discussed things while dogs barked at the moon that rose, as big as a five-cent piece or a flour barrel, over the chaparral.</p>
+			<p>That night there were four instead of three of us sitting on the station platform and swinging our feet. <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">C.</abbr> Vincent Vesey was one of us. We discussed things while dogs barked at the moon that rose, as big as a five-cent piece or a flour barrel, over the chaparral.</p>
 			<p>And what we discussed was whether it is better to lie to a woman or to tell her the truth.</p>
 			<p>And as all of us were young then, we did not come to a decision.</p>
 		</article>

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@@ -49,9 +49,9 @@
 			<p>Doctor Prince looked inquiringly at Professor Adami. That gentleman shook his head. “Another day,” he said. “I prefer not to establish the condition at a lesser interval than two or three days.”</p>
 			<p>So, three days afterward they returned, and the professor replaced Miss Rankin under control. This time there was, apparently, perfect success. She came forth from the trance, and with full muscular powers. She walked the floor with a sure, rhythmic step. She played several difficult selections upon the piano, the hands and arms moving with propriety and with allied ease. Miss Rankin seemed at last to possess a perfectly well-ordered physical being as well as a very grateful mental one.</p>
 			<p>A week afterward there wafted into Doctor Prince’s office a youth, generously gilded. The hallmarks of society were deeply writ upon him.</p>
-			<p>“I’m Ashburton,” he explained; “<abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Ripley Ashburton, you know. I’m engaged to Miss Rankin. I understand you’ve been training her for some breaks in her gaits⁠—” <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Ripley Ashburton caught himself. “Didn’t mean that, you know⁠—slipped out⁠—been loafing around stables quite a lot. I say, Doctor Prince, I want you to tell me. Candidly, you know. I’m awful spoons on Miss Rankin. We’re to be married in the fall. You might consider me one of the family, you know. They told me about the treatment you gave her with the⁠—er⁠—medium fellow. That set her up wonderfully, I assure you. She goes freely now, and handles her fore⁠—I mean you know, she’s over all that old trouble. But there’s something else started up that’s making the track pretty heavy; so I called, don’t you understand.”</p>
+			<p>“I’m Ashburton,” he explained; “<abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Ripley Ashburton, you know. I’m engaged to Miss Rankin. I understand you’ve been training her for some breaks in her gaits⁠—” <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Ripley Ashburton caught himself. “Didn’t mean that, you know⁠—slipped out⁠—been loafing around stables quite a lot. I say, Doctor Prince, I want you to tell me. Candidly, you know. I’m awful spoons on Miss Rankin. We’re to be married in the fall. You might consider me one of the family, you know. They told me about the treatment you gave her with the⁠—er⁠—medium fellow. That set her up wonderfully, I assure you. She goes freely now, and handles her fore⁠—I mean you know, she’s over all that old trouble. But there’s something else started up that’s making the track pretty heavy; so I called, don’t you understand.”</p>
 			<p>“I had not been advised,” said Doctor Prince, “of any recurrence of Miss Rankin’s indisposition.”</p>
-			<p><abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Ripley Ashburton produced a silver cigarette-case and contemplated it tenderly. Receiving no encouragement, he replaced it in his pocket with a sigh.</p>
+			<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Ripley Ashburton produced a silver cigarette-case and contemplated it tenderly. Receiving no encouragement, he replaced it in his pocket with a sigh.</p>
 			<p>“Not a recurrence,” he said, thoughtfully, “but something different. Possibly I’m the only one in a position to know. Hate to discuss it⁠—reveal Cupid’s secrets, you know⁠—such a jolly low thing to do⁠—but suppose the occasion justifies it.”</p>
 			<p>“If you possess any information or have observed anything,” said Doctor Prince, judicially, “through which Miss Rankin’s condition might be benefited, it is your duty, of course, to apply it in her behalf. I need hardly remind you that such disclosures are held as secrets on professional honour.”</p>
 			<p>“I believe I mentioned,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ashburton, his fingers still hovering around the pocket containing his cigarette case, “that Miss Rankin and I are ever so sweet upon each other. She’s a jolly, swell girl, if she did come from the Kentucky mountains. Lately she’s acted awful queerly. She’s awful affectionate one minute, and the next she turns me down like a perfect stranger. Last night I called at the hotel, and she met me at the door of their rooms. Nobody was in sight, and she gave me an awful nice kiss⁠—er⁠—engaged, you know, Doctor Prince⁠—and then she fired away and gave me an awful hard slap in the face. ‘I hate the sight of you,’ she said; ‘how dare you take the liberty!’ ” <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ashburton drew an envelope from his pocket and extracted from it a sheet of note paper of a delicate heliotrope tint. “You might read this note, you know. Can’t say if it’s a medical case, ’pon my honour, but I’m awfully queered, don’t you understand.”</p>
@@ -67,7 +67,7 @@
 					<p epub:type="z3998:signature">Annabel Rankin.</p>
 				</footer>
 			</blockquote>
-			<p>Being deprived of the aid of his consolation cylinders, <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Ripley Ashburton sat, gloomy, revolving things in his mind.</p>
+			<p>Being deprived of the aid of his consolation cylinders, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Ripley Ashburton sat, gloomy, revolving things in his mind.</p>
 			<p>“Ah!” exclaimed Doctor Prince, aloud, but addressing the exclamation to himself; “driven from the arms to the heart!” He perceived that the mysterious hereditary contrariety had, indeed, taken up its lodging in that tender organ of the afflicted maiden.</p>
 			<p>The gilded youth was dismissed, with the promise that Doctor Prince would make a professional call upon Miss Rankin. He did so soon, in company with Professor Adami, after they had discussed the strange course taken by this annoying heritage of the Bealls and Rankins. This time, as the location of the disorder required that the subject be approached with ingenuity, some diplomacy was exercised before the young lady could be induced to submit herself to the professor’s art. But evidently she did so, and emerged from the trance as usual without a trace of unpleasant effect.</p>
 			<p>With much interest and some anxiety Doctor Prince passed several days awaiting the report of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ashburton, who, indeed, of all others would have to be depended upon to observe improvements, if any had occurred. One morning that youth dropped in, jubilant.</p>

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@@ -20,7 +20,7 @@
 			<hr/>
 			<p>I woke with stiff and cramped muscles from having slept long on the incommodious seat of a day coach. I leaned my head against the seat and tried to think. After a long time I said to myself: “I must have a name of some sort.” I searched my pockets. Not a card; not a letter; not a paper or monogram could I find. But I found in my coat pocket nearly $3,000 in bills of large denomination. “I must be someone, of course,” I repeated to myself, and began again to consider.</p>
 			<p>The car was well crowded with men, among whom, I told myself, there must have been some common interest, for they intermingled freely, and seemed in the best good humor and spirits. One of them⁠—a stout, spectacled gentleman enveloped in a decided odor of cinnamon and aloes⁠—took the vacant half of my seat with a friendly nod, and unfolded a newspaper. In the intervals between his periods of reading, we conversed, as travelers will, on current affairs. I found myself able to sustain the conversation on such subjects with credit, at least to my memory. By and by my companion said:</p>
-			<p>“You are one of us, of course. Fine lot of men the West sends in this time. I’m glad they held the convention in New York; I’ve never been East before. My name’s <abbr class="name">R. P.</abbr> Bolder⁠—Bolder &amp; Son, of Hickory Grove, Missouri.”</p>
+			<p>“You are one of us, of course. Fine lot of men the West sends in this time. I’m glad they held the convention in New York; I’ve never been East before. My name’s <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R. P.</abbr> Bolder⁠—Bolder &amp; Son, of Hickory Grove, Missouri.”</p>
 			<p>Though unprepared, I rose to the emergency, as men will when put to it. Now must I hold a christening, and be at once babe, parson and parent. My senses came to the rescue of my slower brain. The insistent odor of drugs from my companion supplied one idea; a glance at his newspaper, where my eye met a conspicuous advertisement, assisted me further.</p>
 			<p>“My name,” said I, glibly, “is Edward Pinkhammer. I am a druggist, and my home is in Cornopolis, Kansas.”</p>
 			<p>“I knew you were a druggist,” said my fellow traveler, affably. “I saw the callous spot on your right forefinger where the handle of the pestle rubs. Of course, you are a delegate to our National Convention.”</p>
@@ -38,7 +38,7 @@
 			<p>“Here’s another one of these fake aphasia cases,” he said, presently, handing me his newspaper, and laying his finger upon an article. “I don’t believe in ’em. I put nine out of ten of ’em down as frauds. A man gets sick of his business and his folks and wants to have a good time. He skips out somewhere, and when they find him he pretends to have lost his memory⁠—don’t know his own name, and won’t even recognize the strawberry mark on his wife’s left shoulder. Aphasia! Tut! Why can’t they stay at home and forget?”</p>
 			<p>I took the paper and read, after the pungent headlines, the following:</p>
 			<blockquote>
-				<p>“<b>Denver</b>, June 12.⁠—Elwyn <abbr class="name">C.</abbr> Bellford, a prominent lawyer, is mysteriously missing from his home since three days ago, and all efforts to locate him have been in vain. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bellford is a well-known citizen of the highest standing, and has enjoyed a large and lucrative law practice. He is married and owns a fine home and the most extensive private library in the State. On the day of his disappearance, he drew quite a large sum of money from his bank. No one can be found who saw him after he left the bank. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bellford was a man of singularly quiet and domestic tastes, and seemed to find his happiness in his home and profession. If any clue at all exists to his strange disappearance, it may be found in the fact that for some months he has been deeply absorbed in an important law case in connection with the <abbr>Q.</abbr> <abbr>Y.</abbr> and <abbr>Z.</abbr> Railroad Company. It is feared that overwork may have affected his mind. Every effort is being made to discover the whereabouts of the missing man.”</p>
+				<p>“<b>Denver</b>, June 12.⁠—Elwyn <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">C.</abbr> Bellford, a prominent lawyer, is mysteriously missing from his home since three days ago, and all efforts to locate him have been in vain. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bellford is a well-known citizen of the highest standing, and has enjoyed a large and lucrative law practice. He is married and owns a fine home and the most extensive private library in the State. On the day of his disappearance, he drew quite a large sum of money from his bank. No one can be found who saw him after he left the bank. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bellford was a man of singularly quiet and domestic tastes, and seemed to find his happiness in his home and profession. If any clue at all exists to his strange disappearance, it may be found in the fact that for some months he has been deeply absorbed in an important law case in connection with the <abbr>Q.</abbr> <abbr>Y.</abbr> and <abbr>Z.</abbr> Railroad Company. It is feared that overwork may have affected his mind. Every effort is being made to discover the whereabouts of the missing man.”</p>
 			</blockquote>
 			<p>“It seems to me you are not altogether uncynical, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bolder,” I said, after I had read the despatch. “This has the sound, to me, of a genuine case. Why should this man, prosperous, happily married, and respected, choose suddenly to abandon everything? I know that these lapses of memory do occur, and that men do find themselves adrift without a name, a history or a home.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, gammon and jalap!” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bolder. “It’s larks they’re after. There’s too much education nowadays. Men know about aphasia, and they use it for an excuse. The women are wise, too. When it’s all over they look you in the eye, as scientific as you please, and say: ‘He hypnotized me.’ ”</p>
@@ -55,7 +55,7 @@
 			<p>The following few days were as gold and silver. Edward Pinkhammer, yet counting back to his birth by hours only, knew the rare joy of having come upon so diverting a world full-fledged and unrestrained. I sat entranced on the magic carpets provided in theatres and roof-gardens, that transported one into strange and delightful lands full of frolicsome music, pretty girls and grotesque drolly extravagant parodies upon human kind. I went here and there at my own dear will, bound by no limits of space, time or comportment. I dined in weird cabarets, at weirder tables d’hôte to the sound of Hungarian music and the wild shouts of mercurial artists and sculptors. Or, again, where the night life quivers in the electric glare like a kinetoscopic picture, and the millinery of the world, and its jewels, and the ones whom they adorn, and the men who make all three possible are met for good cheer and the spectacular effect. And among all these scenes that I have mentioned I learned one thing that I never knew before. And that is that the key to liberty is not in the hands of License, but Convention holds it. Comity has a tollgate at which you must pay, or you may not enter the land of Freedom. In all the glitter, the seeming disorder, the parade, the abandon, I saw this law, unobtrusive, yet like iron, prevail. Therefore, in Manhattan you must obey these unwritten laws, and then you will be freest of the free. If you decline to be bound by them, you put on shackles.</p>
 			<p>Sometimes, as my mood urged me, I would seek the stately, softly murmuring palm rooms, redolent with highborn life and delicate restraint, in which to dine. Again I would go down to the waterways in steamers packed with vociferous, bedecked, unchecked lovemaking clerks and shop-girls to their crude pleasures on the island shores. And there was always Broadway⁠—glistening, opulent, wily, varying, desirable Broadway⁠—growing upon one like an opium habit.</p>
 			<p>One afternoon as I entered my hotel a stout man with a big nose and a black mustache blocked my way in the corridor. When I would have passed around him, he greet me with offensive familiarity.</p>
-			<p>“Hello, Bellford!” he cried, loudly. “What the deuce are you doing in New York? Didn’t know anything could drag you away from that old book den of yours. Is <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> along or is this a little business run alone, eh?”</p>
+			<p>“Hello, Bellford!” he cried, loudly. “What the deuce are you doing in New York? Didn’t know anything could drag you away from that old book den of yours. Is <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">B.</abbr> along or is this a little business run alone, eh?”</p>
 			<p>“You have made a mistake, sir,” I said, coldly, releasing my hand from his grasp. “My name is Pinkhammer. You will excuse me.”</p>
 			<p>The man dropped to one side, apparently astonished. As I walked to the clerk’s desk I heard him call to a bell boy and say something about telegraph blanks.</p>
 			<p>“You will give me my bill,” I said to the clerk, “and have my baggage brought down in half an hour. I do not care to remain where I am annoyed by confidence men.”</p>
@@ -107,7 +107,7 @@
 			<p>“Very well, if you care to,” I replied, “and will excuse me if I take it comfortably; I am rather tired.” I stretched myself upon a couch by a window and lit a cigar. He drew a chair nearby.</p>
 			<p>“Let us speak to the point,” he said, soothingly. “Your name is not Pinkhammer.”</p>
 			<p>“I know that as well as you do,” I said, coolly. “But a man must have a name of some sort. I can assure you that I do not extravagantly admire the name of Pinkhammer. But when one christens one’s self suddenly, the fine names do not seem to suggest themselves. But, suppose it had been Scheringhausen or Scroggins! I think I did very well with Pinkhammer.”</p>
-			<p>“Your name,” said the other man, seriously, “is Elwyn <abbr class="name">C.</abbr> Bellford. You are one of the first lawyers in Denver. You are suffering from an attack of aphasia, which has caused you to forget your identity. The cause of it was over-application to your profession, and, perhaps, a life too bare of natural recreation and pleasures. The lady who has just left the room is your wife.”</p>
+			<p>“Your name,” said the other man, seriously, “is Elwyn <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">C.</abbr> Bellford. You are one of the first lawyers in Denver. You are suffering from an attack of aphasia, which has caused you to forget your identity. The cause of it was over-application to your profession, and, perhaps, a life too bare of natural recreation and pleasures. The lady who has just left the room is your wife.”</p>
 			<p>“She is what I would call a fine-looking woman,” I said, after a judicial pause. “I particularly admire the shade of brown in her hair.”</p>
 			<p>“She is a wife to be proud of. Since your disappearance, nearly two weeks ago, she has scarcely closed her eyes. We learned that you were in New York through a telegram sent by Isidore Newman, a traveling man from Denver. He said that he had met you in a hotel here, and that you did not recognize him.”</p>
 			<p>“I think I remember the occasion,” I said. “The fellow called me ‘Bellford,’ if I am not mistaken. But don’t you think it about time, now, for you to introduce yourself?”</p>

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@@ -33,7 +33,7 @@
 			<p>Jimmy collared a boy that was loafing on the steps of the bank as if he were one of the stockholders, and began to ask him questions about the town, feeding him dimes at intervals. By and by the young lady came out, looking royally unconscious of the young man with the suitcase, and went her way.</p>
 			<p>“Isn’t that young lady Polly Simpson?” asked Jimmy, with specious guile.</p>
 			<p>“Naw,” said the boy. “She’s Annabel Adams. Her pa owns this bank. What’d you come to Elmore for? Is that a gold watch-chain? I’m going to get a bulldog. Got any more dimes?”</p>
-			<p>Jimmy went to the Planters’ Hotel, registered as Ralph <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Spencer, and engaged a room. He leaned on the desk and declared his platform to the clerk. He said he had come to Elmore to look for a location to go into business. How was the shoe business, now, in the town? He had thought of the shoe business. Was there an opening?</p>
+			<p>Jimmy went to the Planters’ Hotel, registered as Ralph <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">D.</abbr> Spencer, and engaged a room. He leaned on the desk and declared his platform to the clerk. He said he had come to Elmore to look for a location to go into business. How was the shoe business, now, in the town? He had thought of the shoe business. Was there an opening?</p>
 			<p>The clerk was impressed by the clothes and manner of Jimmy. He, himself, was something of a pattern of fashion to the thinly gilded youth of Elmore, but he now perceived his shortcomings. While trying to figure out Jimmy’s manner of tying his four-in-hand he cordially gave information.</p>
 			<p>Yes, there ought to be a good opening in the shoe line. There wasn’t an exclusive shoe-store in the place. The dry-goods and general stores handled them. Business in all lines was fairly good. Hoped <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Spencer would decide to locate in Elmore. He would find it a pleasant town to live in, and the people very sociable.</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Spencer thought he would stop over in the town a few days and look over the situation. No, the clerk needn’t call the boy. He would carry up his suitcase, himself; it was rather heavy.</p>
@@ -49,7 +49,7 @@
 					<p epub:type="z3998:signature">Jimmy.</p>
 				</footer>
 			</blockquote>
-			<p>On the Monday night after Jimmy wrote this letter, Ben Price jogged unobtrusively into Elmore in a livery buggy. He lounged about town in his quiet way until he found out what he wanted to know. From the drugstore across the street from Spencer’s shoe-store he got a good look at Ralph <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Spencer.</p>
+			<p>On the Monday night after Jimmy wrote this letter, Ben Price jogged unobtrusively into Elmore in a livery buggy. He lounged about town in his quiet way until he found out what he wanted to know. From the drugstore across the street from Spencer’s shoe-store he got a good look at Ralph <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">D.</abbr> Spencer.</p>
 			<p>“Going to marry the banker’s daughter are you, Jimmy?” said Ben to himself, softly. “Well, I don’t know!”</p>
 			<p>The next morning Jimmy took breakfast at the Adamses. He was going to Little Rock that day to order his wedding-suit and buy something nice for Annabel. That would be the first time he had left town since he came to Elmore. It had been more than a year now since those last professional “jobs,” and he thought he could safely venture out.</p>
 			<p>After breakfast quite a family party went downtown together⁠—<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Adams, Annabel, Jimmy, and Annabel’s married sister with her two little girls, aged five and nine. They came by the hotel where Jimmy still boarded, and he ran up to his room and brought along his suitcase. Then they went on to the bank. There stood Jimmy’s horse and buggy and Dolph Gibson, who was going to drive him over to the railroad station.</p>
@@ -67,7 +67,7 @@
 			<p>“Can’t you do something, Ralph⁠—<em>try</em>, won’t you?”</p>
 			<p>He looked at her with a queer, soft smile on his lips and in his keen eyes.</p>
 			<p>“Annabel,” he said, “give me that rose you are wearing, will you?”</p>
-			<p>Hardly believing that she heard him aright, she unpinned the bud from the bosom of her dress, and placed it in his hand. Jimmy stuffed it into his vest-pocket, threw off his coat and pulled up his shirtsleeves. With that act Ralph <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Spencer passed away and Jimmy Valentine took his place.</p>
+			<p>Hardly believing that she heard him aright, she unpinned the bud from the bosom of her dress, and placed it in his hand. Jimmy stuffed it into his vest-pocket, threw off his coat and pulled up his shirtsleeves. With that act Ralph <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">D.</abbr> Spencer passed away and Jimmy Valentine took his place.</p>
 			<p>“Get away from the door, all of you,” he commanded, shortly.</p>
 			<p>He set his suitcase on the table, and opened it out flat. From that time on he seemed to be unconscious of the presence of anyone else. He laid out the shining, queer implements swiftly and orderly, whistling softly to himself as he always did when at work. In a deep silence and immovable, the others watched him as if under a spell.</p>
 			<p>In a minute Jimmy’s pet drill was biting smoothly into the steel door. In ten minutes⁠—breaking his own burglarious record⁠—he threw back the bolts and opened the door.</p>

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@@ -48,7 +48,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘I’m not working,’ I told him; ‘but how is it to be? Do I eat during the fomentation of the insurrection, or am I only to be Secretary of War after the country is conquered? Is it to be a pay envelope or only a portfolio?’</p>
 			<p>“I’ll pay all expenses,’ says O’Connor. ‘I want a man I can trust. If we succeed you may pick out any appointment you want in the gift of the government.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘All right, then,’ says I. ‘You can get me a bunch of draying contracts and then a quick-action consignment to a seat on the Supreme Court bench so I won’t be in line for the presidency. The kind of cannon they chasten their presidents with in that country hurt too much. You can consider me on the payroll.’</p>
-			<p>“Two weeks afterward O’Connor and me took a steamer for the small, green, doomed country. We were three weeks on the trip. O’Connor said he had his plans all figured out in advance; but being the commanding general, it consorted with his dignity to keep the details concealed from his army and cabinet, commonly known as William <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Bowers. Three dollars a day was the price for which I joined the cause of liberating an undiscovered country from the ills that threatened or sustained it. Every Saturday night on the steamer I stood in line at parade rest, and O’Connor handed ever the twenty-one dollars.</p>
+			<p>“Two weeks afterward O’Connor and me took a steamer for the small, green, doomed country. We were three weeks on the trip. O’Connor said he had his plans all figured out in advance; but being the commanding general, it consorted with his dignity to keep the details concealed from his army and cabinet, commonly known as William <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Bowers. Three dollars a day was the price for which I joined the cause of liberating an undiscovered country from the ills that threatened or sustained it. Every Saturday night on the steamer I stood in line at parade rest, and O’Connor handed ever the twenty-one dollars.</p>
 			<p>“The town we landed at was named Guayaquerita, so they told me. ‘Not for me,’ says I. ‘It’ll be little old Hilldale or Tompkinsville or Cherry Tree Corners when I speak of it. It’s a clear case where Spelling Reform ought to butt in and disenvowel it.’</p>
 			<p>“But the town looked fine from the bay when we sailed in. It was white, with green ruching, and lace ruffles on the skirt when the surf slashed up on the sand. It looked as tropical and <i xml:lang="it">dolce far ultra</i> as the pictures of Lake Ronkonkoma in the brochure of the passenger department of the Long Island Railroad.</p>
 			<p>“We went through the quarantine and customhouse indignities; and then O’Connor leads me to a ’dobe house on a street called ‘The Avenue of the Dolorous Butterflies of the Individual and Collective Saints.’ Ten feet wide it was, and knee-deep in alfalfa and cigar stumps.</p>
@@ -144,7 +144,7 @@
 			<p>“I caught hold of his arm.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Don’t look it up,’ says I. ‘Marriage is a lottery anyway. I’m willing to take the risk about the license if you are.’</p>
 			<p>“The consul went back to Hooligan Alley with me. Izzy called her ma to come in, but the old lady was picking a chicken in the patio and begged to be excused. So we stood up and the consul performed the ceremony.</p>
-			<p>“That evening <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Bowers cooked a great supper of stewed goat, tamales, baked bananas, fricasseed red peppers and coffee. Afterward I sat in the rocking-chair by the front window, and she sat on the floor plunking at a guitar and happy, as she should be, as <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> William <abbr class="name eoc">T. B.</abbr></p>
+			<p>“That evening <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Bowers cooked a great supper of stewed goat, tamales, baked bananas, fricasseed red peppers and coffee. Afterward I sat in the rocking-chair by the front window, and she sat on the floor plunking at a guitar and happy, as she should be, as <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> William <abbr epub:type="z3998:personal-name" class="eoc">T. B.</abbr></p>
 			<p>“All at once I sprang up in a hurry. I’d forgotten all about O’Connor. I asked Izzy to fix up a lot of truck for him to eat.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘That big, oogly man,’ said Izzy. ‘But all right⁠—he your friend.’</p>
 			<p>“I pulled a rose out of a bunch in a jar, and took the grub-basket around to the jail. O’Connor ate like a wolf. Then he wiped his face with a banana peel and said: ‘Have you heard nothing from Dona Isabel yet?’</p>

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@@ -21,7 +21,7 @@
 			<p>But the best, in my opinion, was the home life in the little flat⁠—the ardent, voluble chats after the day’s study; the cozy dinners and fresh, light breakfasts; the interchange of ambitions⁠—ambitions interwoven each with the other’s or else inconsiderable⁠—the mutual help and inspiration; and⁠—overlook my artlessness⁠—stuffed olives and cheese sandwiches at 11 <abbr class="time eoc">p.m.</abbr></p>
 			<p>But after a while Art flagged. It sometimes does, even if some switchman doesn’t flag it. Everything going out and nothing coming in, as the vulgarians say. Money was lacking to pay <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Magister and Herr Rosenstock their prices. When one loves one’s Art no service seems too hard. So, Delia said she must give music lessons to keep the chafing dish bubbling.</p>
 			<p>For two or three days she went out canvassing for pupils. One evening she came home elated.</p>
-			<p>“Joe, dear,” she said, gleefully, “I’ve a pupil. And, oh, the loveliest people! General⁠—General <abbr class="name">A. B.</abbr> Pinkney’s daughter⁠—on Seventy-first Street. Such a splendid house, Joe⁠—you ought to see the front door! Byzantine I think you would call it. And inside! Oh, Joe, I never saw anything like it before.</p>
+			<p>“Joe, dear,” she said, gleefully, “I’ve a pupil. And, oh, the loveliest people! General⁠—General <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">A. B.</abbr> Pinkney’s daughter⁠—on Seventy-first Street. Such a splendid house, Joe⁠—you ought to see the front door! Byzantine I think you would call it. And inside! Oh, Joe, I never saw anything like it before.</p>
 			<p>“My pupil is his daughter Clementina. I dearly love her already. She’s a delicate thing⁠—dresses always in white; and the sweetest, simplest manners! Only eighteen years old. I’m to give three lessons a week; and, just think, Joe! $5 a lesson. I don’t mind it a bit; for when I get two or three more pupils I can resume my lessons with Herr Rosenstock. Now, smooth out that wrinkle between your brows, dear, and let’s have a nice supper.”</p>
 			<p>“That’s all right for you, Dele,” said Joe, attacking a can of peas with a carving knife and a hatchet, “but how about me? Do you think I’m going to let you hustle for wages while I philander in the regions of high art? Not by the bones of Benvenuto Cellini! I guess I can sell papers or lay cobblestones, and bring in a dollar or two.”</p>
 			<p>Delia came and hung about his neck.</p>

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@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<article id="a-tempered-wind" epub:type="se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">A Tempered Wind</h2>
 			<p>The first time my optical nerves was disturbed by the sight of Buckingham Skinner was in Kansas City. I was standing on a corner when I see Buck stick his straw-colored head out of a third-story window of a business block and holler, “Whoa, there! Whoa!” like you would in endeavoring to assuage a team of runaway mules.</p>
-			<p>I looked around; but all the animals I see in sight is a policeman, having his shoes shined, and a couple of delivery wagons hitched to posts. Then in a minute downstairs tumbles this Buckingham Skinner, and runs to the corner, and stands and gazes down the other street at the imaginary dust kicked up by the fabulous hoofs of the fictitious team of chimerical quadrupeds. And then <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Skinner goes back up to the third-story room again, and I see that the lettering on the window is “The Farmers’ Friend Loan Company.”</p>
+			<p>I looked around; but all the animals I see in sight is a policeman, having his shoes shined, and a couple of delivery wagons hitched to posts. Then in a minute downstairs tumbles this Buckingham Skinner, and runs to the corner, and stands and gazes down the other street at the imaginary dust kicked up by the fabulous hoofs of the fictitious team of chimerical quadrupeds. And then <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">B.</abbr> Skinner goes back up to the third-story room again, and I see that the lettering on the window is “The Farmers’ Friend Loan Company.”</p>
 			<p>By and by Straw-top comes down again, and I crossed the street to meet him, for I had my ideas. Yes, sir, when I got close I could see where he overdone it. He was Reub all right as far as his blue jeans and cowhide boots went, but he had a matinee actor’s hands, and the rye straw stuck over his ear looked like it belonged to the property man of the Old Homestead <abbr>Co.</abbr> Curiosity to know what his graft was got the best of me.</p>
 			<p>“Was that your team broke away and run just now?” I asks him, polite. “I tried to stop ’em,” says I, “but I couldn’t. I guess they’re half way back to the farm by now.”</p>
 			<p>“Gosh blame them darned mules,” says Straw-top, in a voice so good that I nearly apologized; “they’re a’lus bustin’ loose.” And then he looks at me close, and then he takes off his hayseed hat, and says, in a different voice: “I’d like to shake hands with Parleyvoo Pickens, the greatest street man in the West, barring only Montague Silver, which you can no more than allow.”</p>
@@ -52,10 +52,10 @@
 			<p>You’d think New York people was all wise; but no. They don’t get a chance to learn. Everything’s too compressed. Even the hayseeds are baled hayseeds. But what else can you expect from a town that’s shut off from the world by the ocean on one side and New Jersey on the other?</p>
 			<p>It’s no place for an honest grafter with a small capital. There’s too big a protective tariff on bunco. Even when Giovanni sells a quart of warm worms and chestnut hulls he has to hand out a pint to an insectivorous cop. And the hotel man charges double for everything in the bill that he sends by the patrol wagon to the altar where the duke is about to marry the heiress.</p>
 			<p>But old Badville-near-Coney is the ideal burg for a refined piece of piracy if you can pay the bunco duty. Imported grafts come pretty high. The customhouse officers that look after it carry clubs, and it’s hard to smuggle in even a bib-and-tucker swindle to work Brooklyn with unless you can pay the toll. But now, me and Buck, having capital, descends upon New York to try and trade the metropolitan backwoodsmen a few glass beads for real estate just as the Vans did a hundred or two years ago.</p>
-			<p>At an East Side hotel we gets acquainted with Romulus <abbr class="name">G.</abbr> Atterbury, a man with the finest head for financial operations I ever saw. It was all bald and glossy except for gray side whiskers. Seeing that head behind an office railing, and you’d deposit a million with it without a receipt. This Atterbury was well dressed, though he ate seldom; and the synopsis of his talk would make the conversation of a siren sound like a cab driver’s kick. He said he used to be a member of the Stock Exchange, but some of the big capitalists got jealous and formed a ring that forced him to sell his seat.</p>
+			<p>At an East Side hotel we gets acquainted with Romulus <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">G.</abbr> Atterbury, a man with the finest head for financial operations I ever saw. It was all bald and glossy except for gray side whiskers. Seeing that head behind an office railing, and you’d deposit a million with it without a receipt. This Atterbury was well dressed, though he ate seldom; and the synopsis of his talk would make the conversation of a siren sound like a cab driver’s kick. He said he used to be a member of the Stock Exchange, but some of the big capitalists got jealous and formed a ring that forced him to sell his seat.</p>
 			<p>Atterbury got to liking me and Buck and he begun to throw on the canvas for us some of the schemes that had caused his hair to evacuate. He had one scheme for starting a National bank on $45 that made the Mississippi Bubble look as solid as a glass marble. He talked this to us for three days, and when his throat was good and sore we told him about the roll we had. Atterbury borrowed a quarter from us and went out and got a box of throat lozenges and started all over again. This time he talked bigger things, and he got us to see ’em as he did. The scheme he laid out looked like a sure winner, and he talked me and Buck into putting our capital against his burnished dome of thought. It looked all right for a kid-gloved graft. It seemed to be just about an inch and a half outside of the reach of the police, and as moneymaking as a mint. It was just what me and Buck wanted⁠—a regular business at a permanent stand, with an open air spieling with tonsilitis on the street corners every evening.</p>
 			<p>So, in six weeks you see a handsome furnished set of offices down in the Wall Street neighborhood, with “The Golconda Gold Bond and Investment Company” in gilt letters on the door. And you see in his private room, with the door open, the secretary and treasurer, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Buckingham Skinner, costumed like the lilies of the conservatory, with his high silk hat close to his hand. Nobody yet ever saw Buck outside of an instantaneous reach for his hat.</p>
-			<p>And you might perceive the president and general manager, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr class="name">R. G.</abbr> Atterbury, with his priceless polished poll, busy in the main office room dictating letters to a shorthand countess, who has got pomp and a pompadour that is no less than a guarantee to investors.</p>
+			<p>And you might perceive the president and general manager, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R. G.</abbr> Atterbury, with his priceless polished poll, busy in the main office room dictating letters to a shorthand countess, who has got pomp and a pompadour that is no less than a guarantee to investors.</p>
 			<p>There is a bookkeeper and an assistant, and a general atmosphere of varnish and culpability.</p>
 			<p>At another desk the eye is relieved by the sight of an ordinary man, attired with unscrupulous plainness, sitting with his feet up, eating apples, with his obnoxious hat on the back of his head. That man is no other than Colonel Tecumseh (once “Parleyvoo”) Pickens, the vice-president of the company.</p>
 			<p>“No recherché rags for me,” I says to Atterbury, when we was organizing the stage properties of the robbery. “I’m a plain man,” says I, “and I do not use pajamas, French, or military hairbrushes. Cast me for the role of the rhinestone-in-the-rough or I don’t go on exhibition. If you can use me in my natural, though displeasing form, do so.”</p>
@@ -78,9 +78,9 @@
 			<p>We said we didn’t.</p>
 			<p>“I don’t either,” says Atterbury, wiping off his head; “but I’ll bet enough Gold Bonds to paper a cell in the Tombs that he’s a newspaper reporter.”</p>
 			<p>“What did he want?” asks Buck.</p>
-			<p>“Information,” says our president. “Said he was thinking of buying some stock. He asked me about nine hundred questions, and every one of ’em hit some sore place in the business. I know he’s on a paper. You can’t fool me. You see a man about half shabby, with an eye like a gimlet, smoking cut plug, with dandruff on his coat collar, and knowing more than <abbr class="name">J. P.</abbr> Morgan and Shakespeare put together⁠—if that ain’t a reporter I never saw one. I was afraid of this. I don’t mind detectives and post-office inspectors⁠—I talk to ’em eight minutes and then sell ’em stock⁠—but them reporters take the starch out of my collar. Boys, I recommend that we declare a dividend and fade away. The signs point that way.”</p>
+			<p>“Information,” says our president. “Said he was thinking of buying some stock. He asked me about nine hundred questions, and every one of ’em hit some sore place in the business. I know he’s on a paper. You can’t fool me. You see a man about half shabby, with an eye like a gimlet, smoking cut plug, with dandruff on his coat collar, and knowing more than <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J. P.</abbr> Morgan and Shakespeare put together⁠—if that ain’t a reporter I never saw one. I was afraid of this. I don’t mind detectives and post-office inspectors⁠—I talk to ’em eight minutes and then sell ’em stock⁠—but them reporters take the starch out of my collar. Boys, I recommend that we declare a dividend and fade away. The signs point that way.”</p>
 			<p>Me and Buck talked to Atterbury and got him to stop sweating and stand still. That fellow didn’t look like a reporter to us. Reporters always pull out a pencil and tablet on you, and tell you a story you’ve heard, and strikes you for the drinks. But Atterbury was shaky and nervous all day.</p>
-			<p>The next day me and Buck comes down from the hotel about ten-thirty. On the way we buys the papers, and the first thing we see is a column on the front page about our little imposition. It was a shame the way that reporter intimated that we were no blood relatives of the late George <abbr class="name">W.</abbr> Childs. He tells all about the scheme as he sees it, in a rich, racy kind of a guying style that might amuse most anybody except a stockholder. Yes, Atterbury was right; it behooveth the gaily clad treasurer and the pearly pated president and the rugged vice-president of the Golconda Gold Bond and Investment Company to go away real sudden and quick that their days might be longer upon the land.</p>
+			<p>The next day me and Buck comes down from the hotel about ten-thirty. On the way we buys the papers, and the first thing we see is a column on the front page about our little imposition. It was a shame the way that reporter intimated that we were no blood relatives of the late George <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W.</abbr> Childs. He tells all about the scheme as he sees it, in a rich, racy kind of a guying style that might amuse most anybody except a stockholder. Yes, Atterbury was right; it behooveth the gaily clad treasurer and the pearly pated president and the rugged vice-president of the Golconda Gold Bond and Investment Company to go away real sudden and quick that their days might be longer upon the land.</p>
 			<p>Me and Buck hurries down to the office. We finds on the stairs and in the hall a crowd of people trying to squeeze into our office, which is already jammed full inside to the railing. They’ve nearly all got Golconda stock and Gold Bonds in their hands. Me and Buck judged they’d been reading the papers, too.</p>
 			<p>We stopped and looked at our stockholders, some surprised. It wasn’t quite the kind of a gang we supposed had been investing. They all looked like poor people; there was plenty of old women and lots of young girls that you’d say worked in factories and mills. Some was old men that looked like war veterans, and some was crippled, and a good many was just kids⁠—bootblacks and newsboys and messengers. Some was workingmen in overalls, with their sleeves rolled up. Not one of the gang looked like a stockholder in anything unless it was a peanut stand. But they all had Golconda stock and looked as sick as you please.</p>
 			<p>I saw a queer kind of a pale look come on Buck’s face when he sized up the crowd. He stepped up to a sickly looking woman and says: “Madam, do you own any of this stock?”</p>

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@@ -17,7 +17,7 @@
 			<p>“Well, no,” says Silver; “you needn’t back Epidermis to win today. I’ve only been here a month. But I’m ready to begin; and the members of Willie Manhattan’s Sunday School class, each of whom has volunteered to contribute a portion of cuticle toward this rehabilitation, may as well send their photos to the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Evening Daily</i>.</p>
 			<p>“I’ve been studying the town,” says Silver, “and reading the papers every day, and I know it as well as the cat in the City Hall knows an O’Sullivan. People here lie down on the floor and scream and kick when you are the least bit slow about taking money from them. Come up in my room and I’ll tell you. We’ll work the town together, Billy, for the sake of old times.”</p>
 			<p>Silver takes me up in a hotel. He has a quantity of irrelevant objects lying about.</p>
-			<p>“There’s more ways of getting money from these metropolitan hayseeds,” says Silver, “than there is of cooking rice in Charleston, <abbr class="postal">SC</abbr>. They’ll bite at anything. The brains of most of ’em commute. The wiser they are in intelligence the less perception of cognizance they have. Why, didn’t a man the other day sell <abbr class="name">J. P.</abbr> Morgan an oil portrait of Rockefeller, <abbr>Jr.</abbr>, for Andrea del Sarto’s celebrated painting of the young Saint John!</p>
+			<p>“There’s more ways of getting money from these metropolitan hayseeds,” says Silver, “than there is of cooking rice in Charleston, <abbr class="postal">SC</abbr>. They’ll bite at anything. The brains of most of ’em commute. The wiser they are in intelligence the less perception of cognizance they have. Why, didn’t a man the other day sell <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J. P.</abbr> Morgan an oil portrait of Rockefeller, <abbr>Jr.</abbr>, for Andrea del Sarto’s celebrated painting of the young Saint John!</p>
 			<p>“You see that bundle of printed stuff in the corner, Billy? That’s gold mining stock. I started out one day to sell that, but I quit it in two hours. Why? Got arrested for blocking the street. People fought to buy it. I sold the policeman a block of it on the way to the station-house, and then I took it off the market. I don’t want people to give me their money. I want some little consideration connected with the transaction to keep my pride from being hurt. I want ’em to guess the missing letter in Chic⁠—go, or draw to a pair of nines before they pay me a cent of money.</p>
 			<p>“Now there’s another little scheme that worked so easy I had to quit it. You see that bottle of blue ink on the table? I tattooed an anchor on the back of my hand and went to a bank and told ’em I was Admiral Dewey’s nephew. They offered to cash my draft on him for a thousand, but I didn’t know my uncle’s first name. It shows, though, what an easy town it is. As for burglars, they won’t go in a house now unless there’s a hot supper ready and a few college students to wait on ’em. They’re slugging citizens all over the upper part of the city and I guess, taking the town from end to end, it’s a plain case of assault and Battery.”</p>
 			<p>“Monty,” says I, when Silver had slacked, up, “you may have Manhattan correctly discriminated in your perorative, but I doubt it. I’ve only been in town two hours, but it don’t dawn upon me that it’s ours with a cherry in it. There ain’t enough rus in urbe about it to suit me. I’d be a good deal much better satisfied if the citizens had a straw or more in their hair, and run more to velveteen vests and buckeye watch charms. They don’t look easy to me.”</p>
@@ -29,7 +29,7 @@
 			<p>“A thousand,” I told him.</p>
 			<p>“I’ve got $1,200,” says he. “We’ll pool and do a big piece of business. There’s so many ways we can make a million that I don’t know how to begin.”</p>
 			<p>The next morning Silver meets me at the hotel and he is all sonorous and stirred with a kind of silent joy.</p>
-			<p>“We’re to meet <abbr class="name">J. P.</abbr> Morgan this afternoon,” says he. “A man I know in the hotel wants to introduce us. He’s a friend of his. He says he likes to meet people from the West.”</p>
+			<p>“We’re to meet <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J. P.</abbr> Morgan this afternoon,” says he. “A man I know in the hotel wants to introduce us. He’s a friend of his. He says he likes to meet people from the West.”</p>
 			<p>“That sounds nice and plausible,” says I. “I’d like to know <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Morgan.”</p>
 			<p>“It won’t hurt us a bit,” says Silver, “to get acquainted with a few finance kings. I kind of like the social way New York has with strangers.”</p>
 			<p>The man Silver knew was named Klein. At three o’clock Klein brought his Wall Street friend to see us in Silver’s room. “<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Morgan” looked some like his pictures, and he had a Turkish towel wrapped around his left foot, and he walked with a cane.</p>

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@@ -13,9 +13,9 @@
 				<p>One day last summer I went to Pittsburgh⁠—well, I had to go there on business.</p>
 				<p>My chair-car was profitably well filled with people of the kind one usually sees on chair-cars. Most of them were ladies in brown-silk dresses cut with square yokes, with lace insertion, and dotted veils, who refused to have the windows raised. Then there was the usual number of men who looked as if they might be in almost any business and going almost anywhere. Some students of human nature can look at a man in a Pullman and tell you where he is from, his occupation and his stations in life, both flag and social; but I never could. The only way I can correctly judge a fellow-traveller is when the train is held up by robbers, or when he reaches at the same time I do for the last towel in the dressing-room of the sleeper.</p>
 				<p>The porter came and brushed the collection of soot on the windowsill off to the left knee of my trousers. I removed it with an air of apology. The temperature was eighty-eight. One of the dotted-veiled ladies demanded the closing of two more ventilators, and spoke loudly of Interlaken. I leaned back idly in chair <abbr>No.</abbr> 7, and looked with the tepidest curiosity at the small, black, bald-spotted head just visible above the back of <abbr>No.</abbr> 9.</p>
-				<p>Suddenly <abbr>No.</abbr> 9 hurled a book to the floor between his chair and the window, and, looking, I saw that it was <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Rose-Lady and Trevelyan</i>, one of the best-selling novels of the present day. And then the critic or Philistine, whichever he was, veered his chair toward the window, and I knew him at once for John <abbr class="name">A.</abbr> Pescud, of Pittsburgh, travelling salesman for a plate-glass company⁠—an old acquaintance whom I had not seen in two years.</p>
+				<p>Suddenly <abbr>No.</abbr> 9 hurled a book to the floor between his chair and the window, and, looking, I saw that it was <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Rose-Lady and Trevelyan</i>, one of the best-selling novels of the present day. And then the critic or Philistine, whichever he was, veered his chair toward the window, and I knew him at once for John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">A.</abbr> Pescud, of Pittsburgh, travelling salesman for a plate-glass company⁠—an old acquaintance whom I had not seen in two years.</p>
 				<p>In two minutes we were faced, had shaken hands, and had finished with such topics as rain, prosperity, health, residence, and destination. Politics might have followed next; but I was not so ill-fated.</p>
-				<p>I wish you might know John <abbr class="name">A.</abbr> Pescud. He is of the stuff that heroes are not often lucky enough to be made of. He is a small man with a wide smile, and an eye that seems to be fixed upon that little red spot on the end of your nose. I never saw him wear but one kind of necktie, and he believes in cuff-holders and button-shoes. He is as hard and true as anything ever turned out by the Cambria Steel Works; and he believes that as soon as Pittsburgh makes smoke-consumers compulsory, <abbr>St.</abbr> Peter will come down and sit at the foot of Smithfield Street, and let somebody else attend to the gate up in the branch heaven. He believes that “our” plate-glass is the most important commodity in the world, and that when a man is in his home town he ought to be decent and law-abiding.</p>
+				<p>I wish you might know John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">A.</abbr> Pescud. He is of the stuff that heroes are not often lucky enough to be made of. He is a small man with a wide smile, and an eye that seems to be fixed upon that little red spot on the end of your nose. I never saw him wear but one kind of necktie, and he believes in cuff-holders and button-shoes. He is as hard and true as anything ever turned out by the Cambria Steel Works; and he believes that as soon as Pittsburgh makes smoke-consumers compulsory, <abbr>St.</abbr> Peter will come down and sit at the foot of Smithfield Street, and let somebody else attend to the gate up in the branch heaven. He believes that “our” plate-glass is the most important commodity in the world, and that when a man is in his home town he ought to be decent and law-abiding.</p>
 				<p>During my acquaintance with him in the City of Diurnal Night I had never known his views on life, romance, literature, and ethics. We had browsed, during our meetings, on local topics, and then parted, after Château Margaux, Irish stew, flannel-cakes, cottage-pudding, and coffee (hey, there!⁠—with milk separate). Now I was to get more of his ideas. By way of facts, he told me that business had picked up since the party conventions, and that he was going to get off at Coketown.</p>
 			</section>
 			<section id="bestseller-2" epub:type="chapter">
@@ -26,7 +26,7 @@
 				<p>“But the great scene is when his rival for the princess’ hand, Count Feodor, attacks him between the portcullis and the ruined chapel, armed with a mitrailleuse, a yataghan, and a couple of Siberian bloodhounds. This scene is what runs the bestseller into the twenty-ninth edition before the publisher has had time to draw a check for the advance royalties.</p>
 				<p>“The American hero shucks his coat and throws it over the heads of the bloodhounds, gives the mitrailleuse a slap with his mitt, says ‘Yah!’ to the yataghan, and lands in Kid McCoy’s best style on the count’s left eye. Of course, we have a neat little prizefight right then and there. The count⁠—in order to make the go possible⁠—seems to be an expert at the art of self-defence, himself; and here we have the Corbett-Sullivan fight done over into literature. The book ends with the broker and the princess doing a John Cecil Clay cover under the linden-trees on the Gorgonzola Walk. That winds up the love-story plenty good enough. But I notice that the book dodges the final issue. Even a bestseller has sense enough to shy at either leaving a Chicago grain broker on the throne of Lobsterpotsdam or bringing over a real princess to eat fish and potato salad in an Italian chalet on Michigan Avenue. What do you think about ’em?”</p>
 				<p>“Why,” said I, “I hardly know, John. There’s a saying: ‘Love levels all ranks,’ you know.”</p>
-				<p>“Yes,” said Pescud, “but these kind of love-stories are rank⁠—on the level. I know something about literature, even if I am in plate-glass. These kind of books are wrong, and yet I never go into a train but what they pile ’em up on me. No good can come out of an international clinch between the Old-World aristocracy and one of us fresh Americans. When people in real life marry, they generally hunt up somebody in their own station. A fellow usually picks out a girl that went to the same high-school and belonged to the same singing-society that he did. When young millionaires fall in love, they always select the chorus-girl that likes the same kind of sauce on the lobster that he does. Washington newspaper correspondents always marry widow ladies ten years older than themselves who keep boardinghouses. No, sir, you can’t make a novel sound right to me when it makes one of <abbr class="name">C. D.</abbr> Gibson’s bright young men go abroad and turn kingdoms upside down just because he’s a Taft American and took a course at a gymnasium. And listen how they talk, too!”</p>
+				<p>“Yes,” said Pescud, “but these kind of love-stories are rank⁠—on the level. I know something about literature, even if I am in plate-glass. These kind of books are wrong, and yet I never go into a train but what they pile ’em up on me. No good can come out of an international clinch between the Old-World aristocracy and one of us fresh Americans. When people in real life marry, they generally hunt up somebody in their own station. A fellow usually picks out a girl that went to the same high-school and belonged to the same singing-society that he did. When young millionaires fall in love, they always select the chorus-girl that likes the same kind of sauce on the lobster that he does. Washington newspaper correspondents always marry widow ladies ten years older than themselves who keep boardinghouses. No, sir, you can’t make a novel sound right to me when it makes one of <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">C. D.</abbr> Gibson’s bright young men go abroad and turn kingdoms upside down just because he’s a Taft American and took a course at a gymnasium. And listen how they talk, too!”</p>
 				<p>Pescud picked up the bestseller and hunted his page.</p>
 				<p>“Listen at this,” said he. “Trevelyan is chinning with the Princess Alwyna at the back end of the tulip-garden. This is how it goes:</p>
 				<blockquote>
@@ -65,7 +65,7 @@
 				<p>“And then I told her why I had come, as respectful and earnest as I could. And I told her everything about myself, and what I was making, and how that all I asked was just to get acquainted with her and try to get her to like me.</p>
 				<p>“She smiles a little, and blushes some, but her eyes never get mixed up. They look straight at whatever she’s talking to.</p>
 				<p>“ ‘I never had anyone talk like this to me before, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pescud,’ says she. ‘What did you say your name is⁠—John?’</p>
-				<p>“ ‘John <abbr class="name">A.</abbr>,’ says I.</p>
+				<p>“ ‘John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">A.</abbr>,’ says I.</p>
 				<p>“ ‘And you came mighty near missing the train at Powhatan Junction, too,’ says she, with a laugh that sounded as good as a mileage-book to me.</p>
 				<p>“ ‘How did you know?’ I asked.</p>
 				<p>“ ‘Men are very clumsy,’ said she. ‘I knew you were on every train. I thought you were going to speak to me, and I’m glad you didn’t.’</p>
@@ -103,7 +103,7 @@
 				<p>“ ‘It’s going to be a fine evening,’ says I.</p>
 				<p>“ ‘He’s coming,’ says she. ‘He’s going to tell you, this time, the story about the old negro and the green watermelons. It always comes after the one about the Yankees and the game rooster. There was another time,’ she goes on, ‘that you nearly got left⁠—it was at Pulaski City.’</p>
 				<p>“ ‘Yes,’ says I, ‘I remember. My foot slipped as I was jumping on the step, and I nearly tumbled off.’</p>
-				<p>“ ‘I know,’ says she. ‘And⁠—and I⁠—<em>I was afraid you had, John <abbr class="name eoc">A.</abbr> I was afraid you had.</em>’</p>
+				<p>“ ‘I know,’ says she. ‘And⁠—and I⁠—<em>I was afraid you had, John <abbr epub:type="z3998:personal-name" class="eoc">A.</abbr> I was afraid you had.</em>’</p>
 				<p>“And then she skips into the house through one of the big windows.”</p>
 			</section>
 			<section id="bestseller-4" epub:type="chapter">

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@@ -121,7 +121,7 @@
 			<p>After dark that night a man opened cautiously one of the lower windows of the Land Office, crept out with great circumspection and disappeared in the shadows.</p>
 			<hr/>
 			<p>One afternoon, a week after this time, Sharp lingered behind again after the clerks had left and the office closed. The next morning the first comers noticed a broad mark in the dust on the upstairs floor, and the same mark was observed below stairs near a window.</p>
-			<p>It appeared as if some heavy and rather bulky object had been dragged along through the limestone dust. A memorandum book with “<abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Harris” written on the flyleaf was picked up on the stairs, but nothing particular was thought of any of these signs.</p>
+			<p>It appeared as if some heavy and rather bulky object had been dragged along through the limestone dust. A memorandum book with “<abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Harris” written on the flyleaf was picked up on the stairs, but nothing particular was thought of any of these signs.</p>
 			<p>Circulars and advertisements appeared for a long time in the papers asking for information concerning Edward Harris, who left his mother’s home on a certain date and had never been heard of since.</p>
 			<p>After a while these things were succeeded by affairs of more recent interest, and faded from the public mind.</p>
 			<hr/>

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@@ -45,9 +45,9 @@
 			<p>The ragged man smiled, filled the glasses, and then, his face taking on a deep frown as his mind reverted to his story, he continued.</p>
 			<p>“I turned first to the local page. The first item that met my eyes was this:</p>
 			<blockquote>
-				<p>“ ‘Colonel <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Henry Gwinn, the administrator of the Perkins estate, has robbed the family of the deceased of over $75,000. The heirs will bring suit for that amount at an early date.’</p>
+				<p>“ ‘Colonel <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Henry Gwinn, the administrator of the Perkins estate, has robbed the family of the deceased of over $75,000. The heirs will bring suit for that amount at an early date.’</p>
 			</blockquote>
-			<p>“I remembered that the man who fired at me looked a good deal like Colonel <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Henry Gwinn. The next item was as follows:</p>
+			<p>“I remembered that the man who fired at me looked a good deal like Colonel <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Henry Gwinn. The next item was as follows:</p>
 			<blockquote>
 				<p>“ ‘A certain city alderman residing not many miles from <abbr>No.</abbr> 1204 West Thirty-Second Street, has recently built a $10,000 residence. Votes in the city council must be getting higher.’</p>
 			</blockquote>

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@@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<article id="calloways-code" epub:type="se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">Calloway’s Code</h2>
-			<p>The New York <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Enterprise</i> sent <abbr class="name">H. B.</abbr> Calloway as special correspondent to the Russo-Japanese-Portsmouth war.</p>
+			<p>The New York <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Enterprise</i> sent <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H. B.</abbr> Calloway as special correspondent to the Russo-Japanese-Portsmouth war.</p>
 			<p>For two months Calloway hung about Yokohama and Tokyo, shaking dice with the other correspondents for drinks of rickshaws⁠—oh, no, that’s something to ride in; anyhow, he wasn’t earning the salary that his paper was paying him. But that was not Calloway’s fault. The little brown men who held the strings of Fate between their fingers were not ready for the readers of the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Enterprise</i> to season their breakfast bacon and eggs with the battles of the descendants of the gods.</p>
 			<p>But soon the column of correspondents that were to go out with the First Army tightened their field-glass belts and went down to the Yalu with Kuroki. Calloway was one of these.</p>
 			<p>Now, this is no history of the battle of the Yalu River. That has been told in detail by the correspondents who gazed at the shrapnel smoke rings from a distance of three miles. But, for justice’s sake, let it be understood that the Japanese commander prohibited a nearer view.</p>

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@@ -15,7 +15,7 @@
 			<p>Yellowhammer was made up of men who took off their hats to a smiling loser; so they invited Cherokee to say what he wanted.</p>
 			<p>“Me?” said Cherokee, “oh, grubstakes will be about the thing. I reckon I’ll prospect along up in the Mariposas. If I strike it up there I will most certainly let you all know about the facts. I never was any hand to hold out cards on my friends.”</p>
 			<p>In May Cherokee packed his burro and turned its thoughtful, mouse-coloured forehead to the north. Many citizens escorted him to the undefined limits of Yellowhammer and bestowed upon him shouts of commendation and farewells. Five pocket flasks without an air bubble between contents and cork were forced upon him; and he was bidden to consider Yellowhammer in perpetual commission for his bed, bacon and eggs, and hot water for shaving in the event that luck did not see fit to warm her hands by his campfire in the Mariposas.</p>
-			<p>The name of the father of Yellowhammer was given him by the gold hunters in accordance with their popular system of nomenclature. It was not necessary for a citizen to exhibit his baptismal certificate in order to acquire a cognomen. A man’s name was his personal property. For convenience in calling him up to the bar and in designating him among other blue-shirted bipeds, a temporary appellation, title, or epithet was conferred upon him by the public. Personal peculiarities formed the source of the majority of such informal baptisms. Many were easily dubbed geographically from the regions from which they confessed to have hailed. Some announced themselves to be “Thompsons,” and “Adamses,” and the like, with a brazenness and loudness that cast a cloud upon their titles. A few vaingloriously and shamelessly uncovered their proper and indisputable names. This was held to be unduly arrogant, and did not win popularity. One man who said he was Chesterton <abbr class="name">L. C.</abbr> Belmont, and proved it by letters, was given till sundown to leave the town. Such names as “Shorty,” “Bowlegs,” “Texas,” “Lazy Bill,” “Thirsty Rogers,” “Limping Riley,” “The Judge,” and “California Ed” were in favour. Cherokee derived his title from the fact that he claimed to have lived for a time with that tribe in the Indian Nation.</p>
+			<p>The name of the father of Yellowhammer was given him by the gold hunters in accordance with their popular system of nomenclature. It was not necessary for a citizen to exhibit his baptismal certificate in order to acquire a cognomen. A man’s name was his personal property. For convenience in calling him up to the bar and in designating him among other blue-shirted bipeds, a temporary appellation, title, or epithet was conferred upon him by the public. Personal peculiarities formed the source of the majority of such informal baptisms. Many were easily dubbed geographically from the regions from which they confessed to have hailed. Some announced themselves to be “Thompsons,” and “Adamses,” and the like, with a brazenness and loudness that cast a cloud upon their titles. A few vaingloriously and shamelessly uncovered their proper and indisputable names. This was held to be unduly arrogant, and did not win popularity. One man who said he was Chesterton <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">L. C.</abbr> Belmont, and proved it by letters, was given till sundown to leave the town. Such names as “Shorty,” “Bowlegs,” “Texas,” “Lazy Bill,” “Thirsty Rogers,” “Limping Riley,” “The Judge,” and “California Ed” were in favour. Cherokee derived his title from the fact that he claimed to have lived for a time with that tribe in the Indian Nation.</p>
 			<p>On the twentieth day of December Baldy, the mail rider, brought Yellowhammer a piece of news.</p>
 			<p>“What do I see in Albuquerque,” said Baldy, to the patrons of the bar, “but Cherokee all embellished and festooned up like the Czar of Turkey, and lavishin’ money in bulk. Him and me seen the elephant and the owl, and we had specimens of this seidlitz powder wine; and Cherokee he audits all the bills, <abbr class="initialism eoc">C.O.D.</abbr> His pockets looked like a pool table’s after a fifteen-ball run.</p>
 			<p>“Cherokee must have struck pay ore,” remarked California Ed. “Well, he’s white. I’m much obliged to him for his success.”</p>

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@@ -8,12 +8,12 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<article id="city-perils" epub:type="se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">City Perils</h2>
-			<p>Jeremiah <abbr class="name">Q.</abbr> Dilworthy lives away up on San Jacinto Street. He walks home every night. On January first, he promised his wife he would not take another drink in a year. He forgot his promise and on Tuesday night we met some of the boys, and when he started home about nine o’clock he was feeling a trifle careless.</p>
+			<p>Jeremiah <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">Q.</abbr> Dilworthy lives away up on San Jacinto Street. He walks home every night. On January first, he promised his wife he would not take another drink in a year. He forgot his promise and on Tuesday night we met some of the boys, and when he started home about nine o’clock he was feeling a trifle careless.</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Dilworthy was an old resident of Houston, and on rainy nights he always walked in the middle of the street, which is well paved.</p>
 			<p>Alas! if <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Dilworthy had only remembered the promise made his wife!</p>
 			<p>He started out all right, and just as he was walking up San Jacinto Street he staggered over to one side of the street.</p>
 			<p>A policeman standing on the comer heard a loud yell of despair, and turning, saw a man throw up his arms and then disappear from sight. Before the policeman could call someone who could swim the man had gone for the third and last time.</p>
-			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Jeremiah <abbr class="name">Q.</abbr> Dilworthy had fallen into the sidewalk.</p>
+			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Jeremiah <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">Q.</abbr> Dilworthy had fallen into the sidewalk.</p>
 		</article>
 	</body>
 </html>

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@@ -13,23 +13,23 @@
 			</header>
 			<p><i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Short Fiction</i><br/>
 			was compiled from short stories written between 1883 and 1910 by<br/>
-			<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/O._Henry"><abbr class="name">O.</abbr> Henry</a>.</p>
+			<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/O._Henry"><abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">O.</abbr> Henry</a>.</p>
 			<p>This ebook was produced for<br/>
 			<a href="https://standardebooks.org">Standard Ebooks</a><br/>
 			by<br/>
 			<a href="https://www.brokenandsaved.com">Vince Rice</a>,<br/>
 			and is based on transcriptions produced by<br/>
-			<b class="name">Joseph E. Lowenstein</b>, <b class="name">Charles Franks</b>, <b class="name">Greg Weeks</b>, <b class="name">John Bickers</b>, <b class="name">Dagny</b>, <b class="name">Earl <abbr class="name">C.</abbr> Beach</b>, <b class="name">Glynn Burleson</b>, <b class="name">Jim Tinsley</b>, <b class="name">Tim O’Connell</b>, <b class="name">Vince Rice</b>, and <a href="https://www.pgdp.net">The Online Distributed Proofreading Team</a><br/>
+			<b epub:type="z3998:personal-name">Joseph E. Lowenstein</b>, <b epub:type="z3998:personal-name">Charles Franks</b>, <b epub:type="z3998:personal-name">Greg Weeks</b>, <b epub:type="z3998:personal-name">John Bickers</b>, <b epub:type="z3998:personal-name">Dagny</b>, <b epub:type="z3998:personal-name">Earl <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">C.</abbr> Beach</b>, <b epub:type="z3998:personal-name">Glynn Burleson</b>, <b epub:type="z3998:personal-name">Jim Tinsley</b>, <b epub:type="z3998:personal-name">Tim O’Connell</b>, <b epub:type="z3998:personal-name">Vince Rice</b>, and <a href="https://www.pgdp.net">The Online Distributed Proofreading Team</a><br/>
 			for<br/>
 			Project Gutenberg (<a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2777">Cabbages and Kings</a>, <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2776">The Four Million</a>, <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3707">The Trimmed Lamp</a>, <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1725">Heart of the West</a>, <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1805">The Gentle Grafter</a>, <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1444">Voice of the City</a>, <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1646">Roads of Destiny</a>, <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1583">Options</a>, <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2141">Strictly Business</a>, <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1595">Whirligigs</a>, <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2851">Sixes and Sevens</a>, <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3815">Rolling Stones</a>, and <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2295">Waifs and Strays</a>)<br/>
 			and on digital scans available at the<br/>
 			Internet Archive (<a href="https://archive.org/details/cu31924022067254">Cabbages and Kings</a>, <a href="https://archive.org/details/cu31924012602755">The Four Million</a>, <a href="https://archive.org/details/cu31924022015394">The Trimmed Lamp</a>, <a href="https://archive.org/details/cu31924022025799">Heart of the West</a>, <a href="https://archive.org/details/gentlegrafter02henrgoog">The Gentle Grafter</a>, <a href="https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.93860">Voice of the City</a>, <a href="https://archive.org/details/roadsdestiny00henrgoog">Roads of Destiny</a>, <a href="https://archive.org/details/cu31924022025807">Options</a>, <a href="https://archive.org/details/StrictlyBusiness">Strictly Business</a>, <a href="https://archive.org/details/whirligigs02henrgoog">Whirligigs</a>, <a href="https://archive.org/details/sixesandsevens00henrgoog">Sixes and Sevens</a>, <a href="https://archive.org/details/rollingstones04henrgoog">Rolling Stones</a>, <a href="https://archive.org/details/waifsandstrayst00henrgoog">Waifs and Strays</a>, <a href="https://archive.org/details/ohenryanaseveno00presgoog">O Henryana</a>, <a href="https://archive.org/details/postscripts00henr">Postscripts</a>), the<br/>
-			HathiTrust Digital Library (<a href="https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/007926272"><abbr class="name">O.</abbr> Henry Encore</a>), and the<br/>
+			HathiTrust Digital Library (<a href="https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/007926272"><abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">O.</abbr> Henry Encore</a>), and the<br/>
 			Portal to Texas History (<a href="https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth139383">A Christmas Pi</a>, <a href="https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth139429">The Lotus and the Cockleburrs</a>).</p>
 			<p>The cover page is adapted from<br/>
 			<i epub:type="se:name.visual-art.painting">The Soul of the Soulless City</i>,<br/>
 			a painting completed in 1920 by<br/>
-			<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christopher_R._W._Nevinson">Christopher <abbr class="name">R. W.</abbr> Nevinson</a>.<br/>
+			<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christopher_R._W._Nevinson">Christopher <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R. W.</abbr> Nevinson</a>.<br/>
 			The cover and title pages feature the<br/>
 			<b epub:type="se:name.visual-art.typeface">League Spartan</b> and <b epub:type="se:name.visual-art.typeface">Sorts Mill Goudy</b><br/>
 			typefaces created in 2014 and 2009 by<br/>

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@@ -59,7 +59,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Then he wanted to show me his bachelor apartment on Liberty Street. He’s got ten rooms over a fish market with privilege of the bath on the next floor above. He told me it cost him $18,000 to furnish his apartment, and I believe it.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘He’s got $40,000 worth of pictures in one room, and $20,000 worth of curios and antiques in another. His name’s Scudder, and he’s 45, and taking lessons on the piano and 15,000 barrels of oil a day out of his wells.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘All right,’ says I. ‘Preliminary canter satisfactory. But, kay vooly, voo? What good is the art junk to us? And the oil?’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Now, that man,’ says Andy, sitting thoughtfully on the bed, ‘ain’t what you would call an ordinary scutt. When he was showing me his cabinet of art curios his face lighted up like the door of a coke oven. He says that if some of his big deals go through he’ll make <abbr class="name">J. P.</abbr> Morgan’s collection of sweatshop tapestry and Augusta, Me., beadwork look like the contents of an ostrich’s craw thrown on a screen by a magic lantern.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Now, that man,’ says Andy, sitting thoughtfully on the bed, ‘ain’t what you would call an ordinary scutt. When he was showing me his cabinet of art curios his face lighted up like the door of a coke oven. He says that if some of his big deals go through he’ll make <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J. P.</abbr> Morgan’s collection of sweatshop tapestry and Augusta, Me., beadwork look like the contents of an ostrich’s craw thrown on a screen by a magic lantern.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘And then he showed me a little carving,’ went on Andy, ‘that anybody could see was a wonderful thing. It was something like 2,000 years old, he said. It was a lotus flower with a woman’s face in it carved out of a solid piece of ivory.</p>
 			<p>“Scudder looks it up in a catalogue and describes it. An Egyptian carver named Khafra made two of ’em for King Rameses <span epub:type="z3998:roman">II</span> about the year <abbr class="era">BC</abbr>. The other one can’t be found. The junkshops and antique bugs have rubbered all Europe for it, but it seems to be out of stock. Scudder paid $2,000 for the one he has.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Oh, well,’ says I, ‘this sounds like the purling of a rill to me. I thought we came here to teach the millionaires business, instead of learning art from ’em?’</p>
@@ -73,7 +73,7 @@
 			<p>“I got a pair of blue spectacles, put on my black frock coat, rumpled my hair up and became <abbr>Prof.</abbr> Pickleman. I went to another hotel, registered, and sent a telegram to Scudder to come to see me at once on important art business. The elevator dumped him on me in less than an hour. He was a foggy man with a clarion voice, smelling of Connecticut wrappers and naphtha.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Hello, Profess!’ he shouts. ‘How’s your conduct?’</p>
 			<p>“I rumpled my hair some more and gave him a blue glass stare.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘are you Cornelius <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Scudder? Of Pittsburg, Pennsylvania?’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘are you Cornelius <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> 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>

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@@ -41,7 +41,7 @@
 			<p>The sloop was now on its outward tack; but from it came a clear, answering hail:</p>
 			<p>“Goodbye, Billy⁠ ⁠… going home⁠—bye!”</p>
 			<p>The <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Andador</i> was the sloop’s destination. No doubt some passenger with a sailing permit from some up-the-coast point had come down in this sloop to catch the regular fruit steamer on its return trip. Like a coquettish pigeon the little boat tacked on its eccentric way until at last its white sail was lost to sight against the larger bulk of the fruiter’s side.</p>
-			<p>“That’s old <abbr class="name">H. P.</abbr> Mellinger,” explained Keogh, dropping back into his chair. “He’s going back to New York. He was private secretary of the late hotfoot president of this grocery and fruit stand that they call a country. His job’s over now; and I guess old Mellinger is glad.”</p>
+			<p>“That’s old <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H. P.</abbr> Mellinger,” explained Keogh, dropping back into his chair. “He’s going back to New York. He was private secretary of the late hotfoot president of this grocery and fruit stand that they call a country. His job’s over now; and I guess old Mellinger is glad.”</p>
 			<p>“Why does he disappear to music, like Zo-zo, the magic queen?” asked Johnny. “Just to show ’em that he doesn’t care?”</p>
 			<p>“That noise you heard is a phonograph,” said Keogh. “I sold him that. Mellinger had a graft in this country that was the only thing of its kind in the world. The tooting machine saved it for him once, and he always carried it around with him afterward.”</p>
 			<p>“Tell me about it,” demanded Johnny, betraying interest.</p>

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@@ -13,7 +13,7 @@
 					<p>An estate famous in Texas legal history. It took many, many years for adjustment and a large part of the property was, of course, consumed as expenses of litigation. <a href="fickle-fortune-or-how-gladys-hustled.xhtml#noteref-1" epub:type="backlink">↩</a></p>
 				</li>
 				<li id="note-2" epub:type="endnote">
-					<p>The methods of the <abbr>Rev.</abbr> Sam Jones, who was the Billy Sunday of his time, were frequently the subject of <abbr class="name">O.</abbr> Henry’s satire. <a href="an-unsuccessful-experiment.xhtml#noteref-2" epub:type="backlink">↩</a></p>
+					<p>The methods of the <abbr>Rev.</abbr> Sam Jones, who was the Billy Sunday of his time, were frequently the subject of <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">O.</abbr> Henry’s satire. <a href="an-unsuccessful-experiment.xhtml#noteref-2" epub:type="backlink">↩</a></p>
 				</li>
 				<li id="note-3" epub:type="endnote">
 					<p>See advertising column, “Where to Dine Well,” in the daily newspapers. <a href="a-dinner-at.xhtml#noteref-3" epub:type="backlink">↩</a></p>

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@@ -9,52 +9,52 @@
 		<article id="fickle-fortune-or-how-gladys-hustled" epub:type="se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">Fickle Fortune or How Gladys Hustled</h2>
 			<p>“Press me no more <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Snooper,” said Gladys Vavasour-Smith. “I can never be yours.”</p>
-			<p>“You have led me to believe different, Gladys,” said Bertram <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Snooper.</p>
+			<p>“You have led me to believe different, Gladys,” said Bertram <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">D.</abbr> Snooper.</p>
 			<p>The setting sun was flooding with golden light the oriel windows of a magnificent mansion situated in one of the most aristocratic streets west of the brick yard.</p>
-			<p>Bertram <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Snooper, a poor but ambitious and talented young lawyer, had just lost his first suit. He had dared to aspire to the hand of Gladys Vavasour-Smith, the beautiful and talented daughter of one of the oldest and proudest families in the county. The bluest blood flowed in her veins. Her grandfather had sawed wood for the Hornsbys and an aunt on her mother’s side had married a man who had been kicked by General Lee’s mule.</p>
-			<p>The lines about Bertram <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Snooper’s hands and mouth were drawn tighter as he paced to and fro, waiting for a reply to the question he intended to ask Gladys as soon as he thought of one.</p>
+			<p>Bertram <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">D.</abbr> Snooper, a poor but ambitious and talented young lawyer, had just lost his first suit. He had dared to aspire to the hand of Gladys Vavasour-Smith, the beautiful and talented daughter of one of the oldest and proudest families in the county. The bluest blood flowed in her veins. Her grandfather had sawed wood for the Hornsbys and an aunt on her mother’s side had married a man who had been kicked by General Lee’s mule.</p>
+			<p>The lines about Bertram <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">D.</abbr> Snooper’s hands and mouth were drawn tighter as he paced to and fro, waiting for a reply to the question he intended to ask Gladys as soon as he thought of one.</p>
 			<p>At last an idea occurred to him.</p>
 			<p>“Why will you not marry me?” he asked in an inaudible tone.</p>
 			<p>“Because,” said Gladys firmly, speaking easily with great difficulty, “the progression and enlightenment that the woman of today possesses demand that the man shall bring to the marriage altar a heart and body as free from the debasing and hereditary iniquities that now no longer exist except in the chimerical imagination of enslaved custom.”</p>
 			<p>“It is as I expected,” said Bertram, wiping his heated brow on the window curtain. “You have been reading books.”</p>
 			<p>“Besides that,” continued Gladys, ignoring the deadly charge, “you have no money.”</p>
-			<p>The blood of the Snoopers rose hastily and mantled the cheek of Bertram <abbr class="name eoc">D.</abbr> He put on his coat and moved proudly to the door.</p>
+			<p>The blood of the Snoopers rose hastily and mantled the cheek of Bertram <abbr epub:type="z3998:personal-name" class="eoc">D.</abbr> He put on his coat and moved proudly to the door.</p>
 			<p>“Stay here till I return,” he said, “I will be back in fifteen years.”</p>
 			<p>When he had finished speaking he ceased and left the room.</p>
 			<p>When he had gone, Gladys felt an uncontrollable yearning take possession of her. She said slowly, rather to herself than for publication, “I wonder if there was any of that cold cabbage left from dinner.”</p>
 			<p>She then left the room.</p>
 			<p>When she did so, a dark-complexioned man with black hair and gloomy, desperate looking clothes, came out of the fireplace where he had been concealed and stated:</p>
-			<p>“Aha! I have you in my power at last, Bertram <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Snooper. Gladys Vavasour-Smith shall be mine. I am in the possession of secrets that not a soul in the world suspects. I have papers to prove that Bertram Snooper is the heir to the Tom Bean estate,<a href="endnotes.xhtml#note-1" id="noteref-1" epub:type="noteref">1</a> and I have discovered that Gladys’ grandfather who sawed wood for the Hornsby’s was also a cook in Major Rhoads Fisher’s command during the war. Therefore, the family repudiate her, and she will marry me in order to drag their proud name down in the dust. Ha, ha, ha!”</p>
-			<p>As the reader has doubtless long ago discovered, this man was no other than Henry <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Grasty. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Grasty then proceeded to gloat some more, and then with a sardonic laugh left for New York.</p>
+			<p>“Aha! I have you in my power at last, Bertram <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">D.</abbr> Snooper. Gladys Vavasour-Smith shall be mine. I am in the possession of secrets that not a soul in the world suspects. I have papers to prove that Bertram Snooper is the heir to the Tom Bean estate,<a href="endnotes.xhtml#note-1" id="noteref-1" epub:type="noteref">1</a> and I have discovered that Gladys’ grandfather who sawed wood for the Hornsby’s was also a cook in Major Rhoads Fisher’s command during the war. Therefore, the family repudiate her, and she will marry me in order to drag their proud name down in the dust. Ha, ha, ha!”</p>
+			<p>As the reader has doubtless long ago discovered, this man was no other than Henry <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R.</abbr> Grasty. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Grasty then proceeded to gloat some more, and then with a sardonic laugh left for New York.</p>
 			<hr/>
 			<p>Fifteen years have elapsed.</p>
 			<p>Of course, our readers will understand that this is only supposed to the case.</p>
 			<p>It really took less than a minute to make the little stars that represent an interval of time.</p>
 			<p>We could not afford to stop a piece in the middle and wait fifteen years before continuing it.</p>
 			<p>We hope this explanation will suffice. We are careful not to create any wrong impressions.</p>
-			<p>Gladys Vavasour-Smith and Henry <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Grasty stood at the marriage altar.</p>
+			<p>Gladys Vavasour-Smith and Henry <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R.</abbr> Grasty stood at the marriage altar.</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Grasty had evidently worked his rabbit’s foot successfully, although he was quite a while in doing so.</p>
-			<p>Just as the preacher was about to pronounce the fatal words on which he would have realized ten dollars and had the laugh on <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Grasty, the steeple of the church fell off and Bertram <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Snooper entered.</p>
+			<p>Just as the preacher was about to pronounce the fatal words on which he would have realized ten dollars and had the laugh on <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Grasty, the steeple of the church fell off and Bertram <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">D.</abbr> Snooper entered.</p>
 			<p>The preacher fell to the ground with a dull thud. He could ill afford to lose ten dollars. He was hastily removed and a cheaper one secured.</p>
-			<p>Bertram <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Snooper held a <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Statesman</i> in his hand.</p>
+			<p>Bertram <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">D.</abbr> Snooper held a <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Statesman</i> in his hand.</p>
 			<p>“Aha!” he said, “I thought I would surprise you. I just got in this morning. Here is a paper noticing my arrival.”</p>
-			<p>He handed it to Henry <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Grasty.</p>
+			<p>He handed it to Henry <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R.</abbr> Grasty.</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Grasty looked at the paper and turned deadly pale. It was dated three weeks after <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Snooper’s arrival.</p>
 			<p>“Foiled again!” he hissed.</p>
-			<p>“Speak, Bertram <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Snooper,” said Gladys, “why have you come between me and Henry?”</p>
+			<p>“Speak, Bertram <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">D.</abbr> Snooper,” said Gladys, “why have you come between me and Henry?”</p>
 			<p>“I have just discovered that I am the sole heir to Tom Bean’s estate and am worth two million dollars.”</p>
 			<p>With a glad cry Gladys threw herself in Bertram’s arms.</p>
-			<p>Henry <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Grasty drew from his breast pocket a large tin box and opened it, took therefrom 467 pages of closely written foolscap.</p>
+			<p>Henry <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R.</abbr> Grasty drew from his breast pocket a large tin box and opened it, took therefrom 467 pages of closely written foolscap.</p>
 			<p>“What you say is true, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Snooper, but I ask you to read that,” he said, handing it to Bertram Snooper.</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Snooper had no sooner read the document than he uttered a piercing shriek and bit off a large chew of tobacco.</p>
 			<p>“All is lost,” he said.</p>
 			<p>“What is that document?” asked Gladys. “Governor Hogg’s message?”</p>
 			<p>“It is not as bad as that,” said Bertram, “but it deprives me of my entire fortune. But I care not for that, Gladys, since I have won you.”</p>
 			<p>“What is it? Speak, I implore you,” said Gladys.</p>
-			<p>“Those papers,” said Henry <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Grasty, “are the proofs of my appointment as administrator of the Tom Bean estate.”</p>
-			<p>With a loving cry Gladys threw herself in Henry <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Grasty’s arms.</p>
+			<p>“Those papers,” said Henry <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R.</abbr> Grasty, “are the proofs of my appointment as administrator of the Tom Bean estate.”</p>
+			<p>With a loving cry Gladys threw herself in Henry <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R.</abbr> Grasty’s arms.</p>
 			<hr/>
-			<p>Twenty minutes later Bertram <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Snooper was seen deliberately to enter a beer saloon on Seventeenth Street.</p>
+			<p>Twenty minutes later Bertram <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">D.</abbr> Snooper was seen deliberately to enter a beer saloon on Seventeenth Street.</p>
 		</article>
 	</body>
 </html>

src/epub/text/friends-in-san-rosario.xhtml

@@ -25,7 +25,7 @@
 			<p>Perry Dorsey, the teller, was already arranging his cash on the counter for the examiner’s inspection. He knew it was right to a cent, and he had nothing to fear, but he was nervous and flustered. So was every man in the bank. There was something so icy and swift, so impersonal and uncompromising about this man that his very presence seemed an accusation. He looked to be a man who would never make nor overlook an error.</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Nettlewick first seized the currency, and with a rapid, almost juggling motion, counted it by packages. Then he spun the sponge cup toward him and verified the count by bills. His thin, white fingers flew like some expert musician’s upon the keys of a piano. He dumped the gold upon the counter with a crash, and the coins whined and sang as they skimmed across the marble slab from the tips of his nimble digits. The air was full of fractional currency when he came to the halves and quarters. He counted the last nickle and dime. He had the scales brought, and he weighed every sack of silver in the vault. He questioned Dorsey concerning each of the cash memoranda⁠—certain checks, charge slips, <abbr>etc.</abbr>, carried over from the previous day’s work⁠—with unimpeachable courtesy, yet with something so mysteriously momentous in his frigid manner, that the teller was reduced to pink cheeks and a stammering tongue.</p>
 			<p>This newly-imported examiner was so different from Sam Turner. It had been Sam’s way to enter the bank with a shout, pass the cigars, and tell the latest stories he had picked up on his rounds. His customary greeting to Dorsey had been, “Hello, Perry! Haven’t skipped out with the boodle yet, I see.” Turner’s way of counting the cash had been different, too. He would finger the packages of bills in a tired kind of way, and then go into the vault and kick over a few sacks of silver, and the thing was done. Halves and quarters and dimes? Not for Sam Turner. “No chicken feed for me,” he would say when they were set before him. “I’m not in the agricultural department.” But, then, Turner was a Texan, an old friend of the bank’s president, and had known Dorsey since he was a baby.</p>
-			<p>While the examiner was counting the cash, Major Thomas <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Kingman⁠—known to everyone as “Major Tom”⁠—the president of the First National, drove up to the side door with his old dun horse and buggy, and came inside. He saw the examiner busy with the money, and, going into the little “pony corral,” as he called it, in which his desk was railed off, he began to look over his letters.</p>
+			<p>While the examiner was counting the cash, Major Thomas <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">B.</abbr> Kingman⁠—known to everyone as “Major Tom”⁠—the president of the First National, drove up to the side door with his old dun horse and buggy, and came inside. He saw the examiner busy with the money, and, going into the little “pony corral,” as he called it, in which his desk was railed off, he began to look over his letters.</p>
 			<p>Earlier, a little incident had occurred that even the sharp eyes of the examiner had failed to notice. When he had begun his work at the cash counter, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Edlinger had winked significantly at Roy Wilson, the youthful bank messenger, and nodded his head slightly toward the front door. Roy understood, got his hat, and walked leisurely out, with his collector’s book under his arm. Once outside, he made a beeline for the Stockmen’s National. That bank was also getting ready to open. No customers had, as yet, presented themselves.</p>
 			<p>“Say, you people!” cried Roy, with the familiarity of youth and long acquaintance, “you want to get a move on you. There’s a new bank examiner over at the First, and he’s a stem-winder. He’s counting nickles on Perry, and he’s got the whole outfit bluffed. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Edlinger gave me the tip to let you know.”</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Buckley, president of the Stockmen’s National⁠—a stout, elderly man, looking like a farmer dressed for Sunday⁠—heard Roy from his private office at the rear and called him.</p>

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@@ -28,7 +28,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Better fifty years of Europe than a cyclone in the bay,’ says High Jack Snakefeeder. So we get the captain to send us ashore in a dory when the squall seemed to cease from squalling.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘We will find ruins here or make ’em,’ says High. ‘The Government doesn’t care which we do. An appropriation is an appropriation.’</p>
 			<p>“Boca de Coacoyula was a dead town. Them biblical towns we read about⁠—Tired and Siphon⁠—after they was destroyed, they must have looked like Forty-second Street and Broadway compared to this Boca place. It still claimed 1300 inhabitants as estimated and engraved on the stone courthouse by the census-taker in 1597. The citizens were a mixture of Indians and other Indians; but some of ’em was light-colored, which I was surprised to see. The town was huddled up on the shore, with woods so thick around it that a subpoena-server couldn’t have reached a monkey ten yards away with the papers. We wondered what kept it from being annexed to Kansas; but we soon found out that it was Major Bing.</p>
-			<p>“Major Bing was the ointment around the fly. He had the cochineal, sarsaparilla, logwood, annatto, hemp, and all other dyewoods and pure food adulteration concessions cornered. He had five-sixths of the Boca de Thingama-jiggers working for him on shares. It was a beautiful graft. We used to brag about Morgan and <abbr class="name">E. H.</abbr> and others of our wisest when I was in the provinces⁠—but now no more. That peninsula has got our little country turned into a submarine without even the observation tower showing.</p>
+			<p>“Major Bing was the ointment around the fly. He had the cochineal, sarsaparilla, logwood, annatto, hemp, and all other dyewoods and pure food adulteration concessions cornered. He had five-sixths of the Boca de Thingama-jiggers working for him on shares. It was a beautiful graft. We used to brag about Morgan and <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E. H.</abbr> and others of our wisest when I was in the provinces⁠—but now no more. That peninsula has got our little country turned into a submarine without even the observation tower showing.</p>
 			<p>“Major Bing’s idea was this. He had the population go forth into the forest and gather these products. When they brought ’em in he gave ’em one-fifth for their trouble. Sometimes they’d strike and demand a sixth. The Major always gave in to ’em.</p>
 			<p>“The Major had a bungalow so close on the sea that the nine-inch tide seeped through the cracks in the kitchen floor. Me and him and High Jack Snakefeeder sat on the porch and drank rum from noon till midnight. He said he had piled up $300,000 in New Orleans banks, and High and me could stay with him forever if we would. But High Jack happened to think of the United States, and began to talk ethnology.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Ruins!’ says Major Bing. ‘The woods are full of ’em. I don’t know how far they date back, but they was here before I came.’</p>

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@@ -23,7 +23,7 @@
 				<p>“Don’t you ever have a desire to go back to the land of derby hats and starched collars?” I asked him. “You seem to be a handy man and a man of action,” I continued, “and I am sure I could find you a comfortable job somewhere in the States.”</p>
 				<p>Ragged, shiftless, barefooted, a confirmed eater of the lotus, William Trotter had pleased me much, and I hated to see him gobbled up by the tropics.</p>
 				<p>“I’ve no doubt you could,” he said, idly splitting the bark from a section of sugarcane. “I’ve no doubt you could do much for me. If every man could do as much for himself as he can for others, every country in the world would be holding millenniums instead of centennials.”</p>
-				<p>There seemed to be pabulum in <abbr class="name">W. T.</abbr>’s words. And then another idea came to me.</p>
+				<p>There seemed to be pabulum in <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W. T.</abbr>’s words. And then another idea came to me.</p>
 				<p>I had a brother in Chicopee Falls who owned manufactories⁠—cotton, or sugar, or <abbr class="initialism">A.A.</abbr> sheetings, or something in the commercial line. He was vulgarly rich, and therefore reverenced art. The artistic temperament of the family was monopolized at my birth. I knew that Brother James would honor my slightest wish. I would demand from him a position in cotton, sugar, or sheetings for William Trotter⁠—something, say, at two hundred a month or thereabouts. I confided my beliefs and made my large propositions to William. He had pleased me much, and he was ragged.</p>
 				<p>While we were talking, there was a sound of firing guns⁠—four or five, rattlingly, as if by a squad. The cheerful noise came from the direction of the cuartel, which is a kind of makeshift barracks for the soldiers of the republic.</p>
 				<p>“Hear that?” said William Trotter. “Let me tell you about it.</p>
@@ -55,7 +55,7 @@
 				<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
 				<p>“Well, sir,” Trotter went on, “we walks the four miles out, through a virgin conservatory of palms and ferns and other roof-garden products, to the president’s summer White House. It was blue, and reminded you of what you see on the stage in the third act, which they describe as ‘same as the first’ on the programs.</p>
 				<p>“There was more than fifty people waiting outside the iron fence that surrounded the house and grounds. There was generals and agitators and épergnes in gold-laced uniforms, and citizens in diamonds and Panama hats⁠—all waiting to get an audience with the Royal Five-Card Draw. And in a kind of a summerhouse in front of the mansion we could see a burnt-sienna man eating breakfast out of gold dishes and taking his time. I judged that the crowd outside had come out for their morning orders and requests, and was afraid to intrude.</p>
-				<p>“But <abbr class="name">C.</abbr> Wainwright wasn’t. The gate was open, and he walked inside and up to the president’s table as confident as a man who knows the head waiter in a fifteen-cent restaurant. And I went with him, because I had only seventy-five cents, and there was nothing else to do.</p>
+				<p>“But <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">C.</abbr> Wainwright wasn’t. The gate was open, and he walked inside and up to the president’s table as confident as a man who knows the head waiter in a fifteen-cent restaurant. And I went with him, because I had only seventy-five cents, and there was nothing else to do.</p>
 				<p>“The Gomez man rises from his chair, and looks, colored man as he was, like he was about to call out for corporal of the guard, post number one. But Wainwright says some phrases to him in a peculiarly lubricating manner; and the first thing you know we was all three of us seated at the table, with coffee and rolls and iguana cutlets coming as fast as about ninety peons could rustle ’em.</p>
 				<p>“And then Wainwright begins to talk; but the president interrupts him.</p>
 				<p>“ ‘You Yankees,’ says he, polite, ‘assuredly take the cake for assurance, I assure you’⁠—or words to that effect. He spoke English better than you or me. ‘You’ve had a long walk,’ says he, ‘but it’s nicer in the cool morning to walk than to ride. May I suggest some refreshments?’ says he.</p>
@@ -70,7 +70,7 @@
 				<p>“One day I inveigled him into a walk out a couple of miles from the village, where there was an old grass hut on the bank of a little river. While he was sitting on the grass, talking beautiful of the wisdom of the world that he had learned in books, I took hold of him easy and tied his hands and feet together with leather thongs that I had in my pocket.</p>
 				<p>“ ‘Lie still,’ says I, ‘and meditate on the exigencies and irregularities of life till I get back.’</p>
 				<p>“I went to a shack in Aguas Frescas where a mighty wise girl named Timotea Carrizo lived with her mother. The girl was just about as nice as you ever saw. In the States she would have been called a brunette; but she was better than a brunette⁠—I should say she was what you might term an écru shade. I knew her pretty well. I told her about my friend Wainwright. She gave me a double handful of bark⁠—calisaya, I think it was⁠—and some more herbs that I was to mix with it, and told me what to do. I was to make tea of it and give it to him, and keep him from rum for a certain time. And for two weeks I did it. You know, I liked Wainwright. Both of us was broke; but Timotea sent us goat-meat and plantains and tortillas every day; and at last I got the curse of drink lifted from Clifford Wainwright. He lost his taste for it. And in the cool of the evening him and me would sit on the roof of Timotea’s mother’s hut, eating harmless truck like coffee and rice and stewed crabs, and playing the accordion.</p>
-				<p>“About that time President Gomez found out that the advice of <abbr class="name">C.</abbr> Wainwright was the stuff he had been looking for. The country was pulling out of debt, and the treasury had enough boodle in it for him to amuse himself occasionally with the night-latch. The people were beginning to take their two-hour siestas again every day⁠—which was the surest sign of prosperity.</p>
+				<p>“About that time President Gomez found out that the advice of <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">C.</abbr> Wainwright was the stuff he had been looking for. The country was pulling out of debt, and the treasury had enough boodle in it for him to amuse himself occasionally with the night-latch. The people were beginning to take their two-hour siestas again every day⁠—which was the surest sign of prosperity.</p>
 				<p>“So down from the regular capital he sends for Clifford Wainwright and makes him his private secretary at twenty thousand Peru dollars a year. Yes, sir⁠—so much. Wainwright was on the water-wagon⁠—thanks to me and Timotea⁠—and he was soon in clover with the government gang. Don’t forget what done it⁠—calisaya bark with them other herbs mixed⁠—make a tea of it, and give a cupful every two hours. Try it yourself. It takes away the desire.</p>
 				<p>“As I said, a man can do a lot more for another party than he can for himself. Wainwright, with his brains, got a whole country out of trouble and on its feet; but what could he do for himself? And without any special brains, but with some nerve and common sense, I put him on his feet because I never had the weakness that he did⁠—nothing but a cigar for mine, thanks. And⁠—”</p>
 				<p>Trotter paused. I looked at his tattered clothes and at his deeply sunburnt, hard, thoughtful face.</p>

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@@ -12,7 +12,7 @@
 				<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
 					<p><b>Note.</b> The man who told me these things was for several years an outlaw in the Southwest and a follower of the pursuit he so frankly describes. His description of the <span xml:lang="la">modus operandi</span> should prove interesting, his counsel of value to the potential passenger in some future “holdup,” while his estimate of the pleasures of train robbing will hardly induce anyone to adopt it as a profession. I give the story in almost exactly his own words.</p>
 					<cite epub:type="z3998:signature">
-						<abbr class="name eoc">O. H.</abbr>
+						<abbr epub:type="z3998:personal-name" class="eoc">O. H.</abbr>
 					</cite>
 				</blockquote>
 			</header>

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@@ -14,7 +14,7 @@
 				<p>Me and Caligula Polk, of Muskogee in the Creek Nation, was down in the Mexican State of Tamaulipas running a peripatetic lottery and monte game. Now, selling lottery tickets is a government graft in Mexico, just like selling forty-eight cents’ worth of postage-stamps for forty-nine cents is over here. So Uncle Porfirio he instructs the <span xml:lang="es">rurales</span> to attend to our case.</p>
 				<p><span xml:lang="es">Rurales</span>? They’re a sort of country police; but don’t draw any mental crayon portraits of the worthy constables with a tin star and a gray goatee. The <span xml:lang="es">rurales</span>⁠—well, if we’d mount our Supreme Court on broncos, arm ’em with Winchesters, and start ’em out after John Doe et <abbr>al.</abbr> we’d have about the same thing.</p>
 				<p>When the <span xml:lang="es">rurales</span> started for us we started for the States. They chased us as far as Matamoras. We hid in a brickyard; and that night we swum the Rio Grande, Caligula with a brick in each hand, absentminded, which he drops upon the soil of Texas, forgetting he had ’em.</p>
-				<p>From there we emigrated to San Antone, and then over to New Orleans, where we took a rest. And in that town of cotton bales and other adjuncts to female beauty we made the acquaintance of drinks invented by the Creoles during the period of Louey Cans, in which they are still served at the side doors. The most I can remember of this town is that me and Caligula and a Frenchman named McCarty⁠—wait a minute; Adolph McCarty⁠—was trying to make the French Quarter pay up the back trading-stamps due on the Louisiana Purchase, when somebody hollers that the johndarms are coming. I have an insufficient recollection of buying two yellow tickets through a window; and I seemed to see a man swing a lantern and say “All aboard!” I remembered no more, except that the train butcher was covering me and Caligula up with Augusta <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Evans’s works and figs.</p>
+				<p>From there we emigrated to San Antone, and then over to New Orleans, where we took a rest. And in that town of cotton bales and other adjuncts to female beauty we made the acquaintance of drinks invented by the Creoles during the period of Louey Cans, in which they are still served at the side doors. The most I can remember of this town is that me and Caligula and a Frenchman named McCarty⁠—wait a minute; Adolph McCarty⁠—was trying to make the French Quarter pay up the back trading-stamps due on the Louisiana Purchase, when somebody hollers that the johndarms are coming. I have an insufficient recollection of buying two yellow tickets through a window; and I seemed to see a man swing a lantern and say “All aboard!” I remembered no more, except that the train butcher was covering me and Caligula up with Augusta <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Evans’s works and figs.</p>
 				<p>When we become revised, we find that we have collided up against the State of Georgia at a spot hitherto unaccounted for in time tables except by an asterisk, which means that trains stop every other Thursday on signal by tearing up a rail. We was waked up in a yellow pine hotel by the noise of flowers and the smell of birds. Yes, sir, for the wind was banging sunflowers as big as buggy wheels against the weatherboarding and the chicken coop was right under the window. Me and Caligula dressed and went downstairs. The landlord was shelling peas on the front porch. He was six feet of chills and fever, and Hongkong in complexion though in other respects he seemed amenable in the exercise of his sentiments and features.</p>
 				<p>Caligula, who is a spokesman by birth, and a small man, though red-haired and impatient of painfulness of any kind, speaks up.</p>
 				<p>“Pardner,” says he, “good morning, and be darned to you. Would you mind telling us why we are at? We know the reason we are where, but can’t exactly figure out on account of at what place.”</p>
@@ -39,7 +39,7 @@
 				<p>That town of Mountain Valley wasn’t going. About a dozen people permeated along the sidewalks; but what you saw mostly was rain-barrels and roosters, and boys poking around with sticks in piles of ashes made by burning the scenery of Uncle Tom shows.</p>
 				<p>And just then there passes down on the other side of the street a high man in a long black coat and a beaver hat. All the people in sight bowed, and some crossed the street to shake hands with him; folks came out of stores and houses to holler at him; women leaned out of windows and smiled; and all the kids stopped playing to look at him. Our landlord stepped out on the porch and bent himself double like a carpenter’s rule, and sung out, “Good morning, Colonel,” when he was a dozen yards gone by.</p>
 				<p>“And is that Alexander, pa?” says Caligula to the landlord; “and why is he called great?”</p>
-				<p>“That, gentlemen,” says the landlord, “is no less than Colonel Jackson <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Rockingham, the president of the Sunrise &amp; Edenville Tap Railroad, mayor of Mountain Valley, and chairman of the Perry County board of immigration and public improvements.”</p>
+				<p>“That, gentlemen,” says the landlord, “is no less than Colonel Jackson <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Rockingham, the president of the Sunrise &amp; Edenville Tap Railroad, mayor of Mountain Valley, and chairman of the Perry County board of immigration and public improvements.”</p>
 				<p>“Been away a good many years, hasn’t he?” I asked.</p>
 				<p>“No, sir; Colonel Rockingham is going down to the post-office for his mail. His fellow-citizens take pleasure in greeting him thus every morning. The colonel is our most prominent citizen. Besides the height of the stock of the Sunrise &amp; Edenville Tap Railroad, he owns a thousand acres of that land across the creek. Mountain Valley delights, sir, to honor a citizen of such worth and public spirit.”</p>
 				<p>For an hour that afternoon Caligula sat on the back of his neck on the porch and studied a newspaper, which was unusual in a man who despised print. When he was through he took me to the end of the porch among the sunlight and drying dishtowels. I knew that Caligula had invented a new graft. For he chewed the ends of his mustache and ran the left catch of his suspenders up and down, which was his way.</p>
@@ -59,8 +59,8 @@
 			</section>
 			<section id="hostages-to-momus-3" epub:type="chapter">
 				<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
-				<p>Me and Caligula spent the next three days investigating the bunch of mountains into which we proposed to kidnap Colonel Jackson <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Rockingham. We finally selected an upright slice of topography covered with bushes and trees that you could only reach by a secret path that we cut out up the side of it. And the only way to reach the mountain was to follow up the bend of a branch that wound among the elevations.</p>
-				<p>Then I took in hand an important subdivision of the proceedings. I went up to Atlanta on the train and laid in a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar supply of the most gratifying and efficient lines of grub that money could buy. I always was an admirer of viands in their more palliative and revised stages. Hog and hominy are not only inartistic to my stomach, but they give indigestion to my moral sentiments. And I thought of Colonel Jackson <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Rockingham, president of the Sunrise &amp; Edenville Tap Railroad, and how he would miss the luxury of his home fare as is so famous among wealthy Southerners. So I sunk half of mine and Caligula’s capital in as elegant a layout of fresh and canned provisions as Burdick Harris or any other professional kidnappee ever saw in a camp.</p>
+				<p>Me and Caligula spent the next three days investigating the bunch of mountains into which we proposed to kidnap Colonel Jackson <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Rockingham. We finally selected an upright slice of topography covered with bushes and trees that you could only reach by a secret path that we cut out up the side of it. And the only way to reach the mountain was to follow up the bend of a branch that wound among the elevations.</p>
+				<p>Then I took in hand an important subdivision of the proceedings. I went up to Atlanta on the train and laid in a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar supply of the most gratifying and efficient lines of grub that money could buy. I always was an admirer of viands in their more palliative and revised stages. Hog and hominy are not only inartistic to my stomach, but they give indigestion to my moral sentiments. And I thought of Colonel Jackson <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Rockingham, president of the Sunrise &amp; Edenville Tap Railroad, and how he would miss the luxury of his home fare as is so famous among wealthy Southerners. So I sunk half of mine and Caligula’s capital in as elegant a layout of fresh and canned provisions as Burdick Harris or any other professional kidnappee ever saw in a camp.</p>
 				<p>I put another hundred in a couple of cases of Bordeaux, two quarts of cognac, two hundred Havana regalias with gold bands, and a camp stove and stools and folding cots. I wanted Colonel Rockingham to be comfortable; and I hoped after he gave up the ten thousand dollars he would give me and Caligula as good a name for gentlemen and entertainers as the Greek man did the friend of his that made the United States his bill collector against Africa.</p>
 				<p>When the goods came down from Atlanta, we hired a wagon, moved them up on the little mountain, and established camp. And then we laid for the colonel.</p>
 				<p>We caught him one morning about two miles out from Mountain Valley, on his way to look after some of his burnt umber farm land. He was an elegant old gentleman, as thin and tall as a trout rod, with frazzled shirt-cuffs and specs on a black string. We explained to him, brief and easy, what we wanted; and Caligula showed him, careless, the handle of his forty-five under his coat.</p>
@@ -95,14 +95,14 @@
 				<p>About four o’clock in the afternoon, Caligula, who was acting as lookout, calls to me:</p>
 				<p>“I have to report a white shirt signalling on the starboard bow, sir.”</p>
 				<p>I went down the mountain and brought back a fat, red man in an alpaca coat and no collar.</p>
-				<p>“Gentlemen,” says Colonel Rockingham, “allow me to introduce my brother, Captain Duval <abbr class="name">C.</abbr> Rockingham, vice-president of the Sunrise &amp; Edenville Tap Railroad.”</p>
+				<p>“Gentlemen,” says Colonel Rockingham, “allow me to introduce my brother, Captain Duval <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">C.</abbr> Rockingham, vice-president of the Sunrise &amp; Edenville Tap Railroad.”</p>
 				<p>“Otherwise the King of Morocco,” says I. “I reckon you don’t mind my counting the ransom, just as a business formality.”</p>
 				<p>“Well, no, not exactly,” says the fat man, “not when it comes. I turned that matter over to our second vice-president. I was anxious after Brother Jackson’s safetiness. I reckon he’ll be along right soon. What does that lobster salad you mentioned taste like, Brother Jackson?”</p>
 				<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Vice-President,” says I, “you’ll oblige us by remaining here till the second <abbr class="initialism">V.P.</abbr> arrives. This is a private rehearsal, and we don’t want any roadside speculators selling tickets.”</p>
 				<p>In half an hour Caligula sings out again:</p>
 				<p>“Sail ho! Looks like an apron on a broomstick.”</p>
 				<p>I perambulated down the cliff again, and escorted up a man six foot three, with a sandy beard and no other dimension that you could notice. Thinks I to myself, if he’s got ten thousand dollars on his person it’s in one bill and folded lengthwise.</p>
-				<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Patterson <abbr class="name">G.</abbr> Coble, our second vice-president,” announces the colonel.</p>
+				<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Patterson <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">G.</abbr> Coble, our second vice-president,” announces the colonel.</p>
 				<p>“Glad to know you, gentlemen,” says this Coble. “I came up to disseminate the tidings that Major Tallahassee Tucker, our general passenger agent, is now negotiating a peachcrate full of our railroad bonds with the Perry County Bank for a loan. My dear Colonel Rockingham, was that chicken gumbo or cracked goobers on the bill of fare in your note? Me and the conductor of fifty-six was having a dispute about it.”</p>
 				<p>“Another white wings on the rocks!” hollers Caligula. “If I see any more I’ll fire on ’em and swear they was torpedo-boats!”</p>
 				<p>The guide goes down again, and convoys into the lair a person in blue overalls carrying an amount of inebriety and a lantern. I am so sure that this is Major Tucker that I don’t even ask him until we are up above; and then I discover that it is Uncle Timothy, the yard switchman at Edenville, who is sent ahead to flag our understandings with the gossip that Judge Pendergast, the railroad’s attorney, is in the process of mortgaging Colonel Rockingham’s farming lands to make up the ransom.</p>
@@ -124,7 +124,7 @@
 				<p>“Pick,” interrupts Caligula, mussing up his red hair, “what are you going to do with that chickenfeed?”</p>
 				<p>I hands the money back to Major Tucker; and then I goes over to Colonel Rockingham and slaps him on the back.</p>
 				<p>“Colonel,” says I, “I hope you’ve enjoyed our little joke. We don’t want to carry it too far. Kidnappers! Well, wouldn’t it tickle your uncle? My name’s Rhinegelder, and I’m a nephew of Chauncey Depew. My friend’s a second cousin of the editor of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Puck</i>. So you can see. We are down South enjoying ourselves in our humorous way. Now, there’s two quarts of cognac to open yet, and then the joke’s over.”</p>
-				<p>What’s the use to go into details? One or two will be enough. I remember Major Tallahassee Tucker playing on a jew’sharp, and Caligula waltzing with his head on the watch pocket of a tall baggage-master. I hesitate to refer to the cakewalk done by me and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Patterson <abbr class="name">G.</abbr> Coble with Colonel Jackson <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Rockingham between us.</p>
+				<p>What’s the use to go into details? One or two will be enough. I remember Major Tallahassee Tucker playing on a jew’sharp, and Caligula waltzing with his head on the watch pocket of a tall baggage-master. I hesitate to refer to the cakewalk done by me and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Patterson <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">G.</abbr> Coble with Colonel Jackson <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Rockingham between us.</p>
 				<p>And even on the next morning, when you wouldn’t think it possible, there was a consolation for me and Caligula. We knew that Raisuli himself never made half the hit with Burdick Harris that we did with the Sunrise &amp; Edenville Tap Railroad.</p>
 			</section>
 		</article>

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@@ -14,7 +14,7 @@
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:poem">
 				<header>
 					<p>To <b>Miss Judkins</b><br/>
-					(Visiting <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Montcalm Brown.)</p>
+					(Visiting <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Montcalm Brown.)</p>
 				</header>
 				<p>
 					<span>We love to see her wear</span>
@@ -42,7 +42,7 @@
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:poem">
 				<header>
 					<p>To <b>Miss Judkins</b><br/>
-					(Visiting <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Montcalm Brown.)</p>
+					(Visiting <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Montcalm Brown.)</p>
 				</header>
 				<p>
 					<span>We loved to see her wear</span>

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@@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<article id="how-she-got-in-the-swim" epub:type="se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">How She Got in the Swim</h2>
-			<p>There was no happier couple in all Houston than George <abbr class="name">W.</abbr> <abbr>St.</abbr> Bibbs and his wife before the shadow of the tempter crossed their path. It is remarkable how the tempter always comes up so his shadow will fall across one’s path, isn’t it? It seems as if a tempter who knew his business would either approach on the other side or select a cloudy day for crossing people’s paths. But, we digress.</p>
+			<p>There was no happier couple in all Houston than George <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W.</abbr> <abbr>St.</abbr> Bibbs and his wife before the shadow of the tempter crossed their path. It is remarkable how the tempter always comes up so his shadow will fall across one’s path, isn’t it? It seems as if a tempter who knew his business would either approach on the other side or select a cloudy day for crossing people’s paths. But, we digress.</p>
 			<p>The <abbr>St.</abbr> Bibbses lived in a cosy and elegantly furnished cottage, and had everything that could be procured on credit. They had two charming little girls named Dolly and Polly.</p>
 			<p>George <abbr>St.</abbr> Bibbs loved fashionable society and his wife was domestic in her ways, so she had made him move to Houston, so that he would not have a chance to gratify his tastes. However, George still went to functions, and things of that kind, and left his wife at home.</p>
 			<p>One night there was to be a very high-toned blowout by society people, gotten up by the Business League and the Daughters of the Survivors of the Confederate Reunion.</p>

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@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<article id="identified" epub:type="se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">Identified</h2>
 			<p>A stranger walked into a Houston bank the other day and presented a draft to the cashier for payment.</p>
-			<p>“You will have to be identified,” said the cashier, “by someone who knows your name to be Henry <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Saunders.”</p>
+			<p>“You will have to be identified,” said the cashier, “by someone who knows your name to be Henry <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">B.</abbr> Saunders.”</p>
 			<p>“But I don’t know anybody in Houston,” said the stranger. “Here’s a lot of letters addressed to me, and a telegram from my firm, and a lot of business cards. Won’t they be identification enough?”</p>
 			<p>“I am sorry,” said the cashier, “but while I have no doubt that you are the party, our rule is to require better identification.”</p>
 			<p>The man unbuttoned his vest and showed the initial, <abbr class="name">H. B. S.</abbr>, on his shirt. “Does that go?” he asked. The cashier shook his head. “You might have Henry B. Saunders’ letters, and his papers, and also his shirt on, without being the right man. We are forced to be very careful.”</p>

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@@ -33,7 +33,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘As man to man,’ says I, ‘I’ll go and look him over.’ So I put a bottle of Resurrection Bitters in my pocket and goes up on the hill to the mayor’s mansion, the finest house in town, with a mansard roof and two cast iron dogs on the lawn.</p>
 			<p>“This Mayor Banks was in bed all but his whiskers and feet. He was making internal noises that would have had everybody in San Francisco hiking for the parks. A young man was standing by the bed holding a cup of water.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Doc,’ says the Mayor, ‘I’m awful sick. I’m about to die. Can’t you do nothing for me?’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Mayor,’ says I, ‘I’m not a regular preordained disciple of <abbr class="name">S. Q.</abbr> Lapius. I never took a course in a medical college,’ says I. ‘I’ve just come as a fellow man to see if I could be off assistance.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Mayor,’ says I, ‘I’m not a regular preordained disciple of <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">S. Q.</abbr> Lapius. I never took a course in a medical college,’ says I. ‘I’ve just come as a fellow man to see if I could be off assistance.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I’m deeply obliged,’ says he. ‘Doc Waugh-hoo, this is my nephew, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Biddle. He has tried to alleviate my distress, but without success. Oh, Lordy! Ow-ow-ow!!’ he sings out.</p>
 			<p>“I nods at <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Biddle and sets down by the bed and feels the mayor’s pulse. ‘Let me see your liver⁠—your tongue, I mean,’ says I. Then I turns up the lids of his eyes and looks close that the pupils of ’em.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘How long have you been sick?’ I asked.</p>

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@@ -8,9 +8,9 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<article id="lucky-either-way" epub:type="se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">Lucky Either Way</h2>
-			<p>The Memphis Commercial-Appeal, in commenting on errors in grammar made by magazines, takes exception to an error in construction occurring in Gode’s Magazine in which, in <abbr class="name">J. H.</abbr> Connelly’s story entitled “<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pettigrew’s Bad Dog,” a character is made to say: “You will be lucky if you escape with only marrying one.”</p>
+			<p>The Memphis Commercial-Appeal, in commenting on errors in grammar made by magazines, takes exception to an error in construction occurring in Gode’s Magazine in which, in <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J. H.</abbr> Connelly’s story entitled “<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pettigrew’s Bad Dog,” a character is made to say: “You will be lucky if you escape with only marrying one.”</p>
 			<p>A man says this to another one who is being besieged by two ladies, and the Commercial-Appeal thinks he intended to say: “You will be lucky if you escape with marrying only one.”</p>
-			<p>Now, after considering the question, it seems likely that there is more in <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr class="name">J. H.</abbr> Connelly’s remark than is dreamed of in the philosophy of the Commercial-Appeal.</p>
+			<p>Now, after considering the question, it seems likely that there is more in <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J. H.</abbr> Connelly’s remark than is dreamed of in the philosophy of the Commercial-Appeal.</p>
 			<p>The history of matrimony gives color to the belief that, to whichever one of the ladies the gentleman might unite himself, he would be lucky if he escaped with only marrying her. Getting married is the easiest part of the affair. It is what comes afterward that makes a man sometimes wish a wolf had carried him into the forest when he was a little boy. It takes only a little nerve, a black coat, from five to ten dollars, and a girl, for a man to get married. Very few men are lucky enough to escape with only marrying a woman. Women are sometimes so capricious and unreasonable that they demand that a man stay around afterward, and board and clothe them, and build fires, and chop wood, and rock the chickens out of the garden, and tell the dressmaker when to send in her bill again.</p>
 			<p>We would like to read “<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pettigrew’s Bad Dog” and find out whether the man was lucky enough to only marry the lady, or whether she held on to him afterward and didn’t let him escape.</p>
 		</article>

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@@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<article id="mammon-and-the-archer" epub:type="se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">Mammon and the Archer</h2>
-			<p>Old Anthony Rockwall, retired manufacturer and proprietor of Rockwall’s Eureka Soap, looked out the library window of his Fifth Avenue mansion and grinned. His neighbour to the right⁠—the aristocratic clubman, <abbr class="name">G.</abbr> Van Schuylight Suffolk-Jones⁠—came out to his waiting motorcar, wrinkling a contumelious nostril, as usual, at the Italian renaissance sculpture of the soap palace’s front elevation.</p>
+			<p>Old Anthony Rockwall, retired manufacturer and proprietor of Rockwall’s Eureka Soap, looked out the library window of his Fifth Avenue mansion and grinned. His neighbour to the right⁠—the aristocratic clubman, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">G.</abbr> Van Schuylight Suffolk-Jones⁠—came out to his waiting motorcar, wrinkling a contumelious nostril, as usual, at the Italian renaissance sculpture of the soap palace’s front elevation.</p>
 			<p>“Stuck-up old statuette of nothing doing!” commented the ex-Soap King. “The Eden Musée’ll get that old frozen Nesselrode yet if he don’t watch out. I’ll have this house painted red, white, and blue next summer and see if that’ll make his Dutch nose turn up any higher.”</p>
 			<p>And then Anthony Rockwall, who never cared for bells, went to the door of his library and shouted “Mike!” in the same voice that had once chipped off pieces of the welkin on the Kansas prairies.</p>
 			<p>“Tell my son,” said Anthony to the answering menial, “to come in here before he leaves the house.”</p>
@@ -65,7 +65,7 @@
 			<p>The story should end here. I wish it would as heartily as you who read it wish it did. But we must go to the bottom of the well for truth.</p>
 			<p>The next day a person with red hands and a blue polka-dot necktie, who called himself Kelly, called at Anthony Rockwall’s house, and was at once received in the library.</p>
 			<p>“Well,” said Anthony, reaching for his chequebook, “it was a good bilin’ of soap. Let’s see⁠—you had $5,000 in cash.”</p>
-			<p>“I paid out $300 more of my own,” said Kelly. “I had to go a little above the estimate. I got the express wagons and cabs mostly for $5; but the trucks and two-horse teams mostly raised me to $10. The motormen wanted $10, and some of the loaded teams $20. The cops struck me hardest⁠—$50 I paid two, and the rest $20 and $25. But didn’t it work beautiful, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Rockwall? I’m glad William <abbr class="name">A.</abbr> Brady wasn’t onto that little outdoor vehicle mob scene. I wouldn’t want William to break his heart with jealousy. And never a rehearsal, either! The boys was on time to the fraction of a second. It was two hours before a snake could get below Greeley’s statue.”</p>
+			<p>“I paid out $300 more of my own,” said Kelly. “I had to go a little above the estimate. I got the express wagons and cabs mostly for $5; but the trucks and two-horse teams mostly raised me to $10. The motormen wanted $10, and some of the loaded teams $20. The cops struck me hardest⁠—$50 I paid two, and the rest $20 and $25. But didn’t it work beautiful, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Rockwall? I’m glad William <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">A.</abbr> Brady wasn’t onto that little outdoor vehicle mob scene. I wouldn’t want William to break his heart with jealousy. And never a rehearsal, either! The boys was on time to the fraction of a second. It was two hours before a snake could get below Greeley’s statue.”</p>
 			<p>“Thirteen hundred⁠—there you are, Kelly,” said Anthony, tearing off a check. “Your thousand, and the $300 you were out. You don’t despise money, do you, Kelly?”</p>
 			<p>“Me?” said Kelly. “I can lick the man that invented poverty.”</p>
 			<p>Anthony called Kelly when he was at the door.</p>

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@@ -30,7 +30,7 @@
 			<p>Bud ceased his reminiscences. And then someone asked him what he considered the most striking and prominent trait of New Yorkers.</p>
 			<p>“The most visible and peculiar trait of New York folks,” answered Bud, “is New York. Most of ’em has New York on the brain. They have heard of other places, such as Waco, and Paris, and Hot Springs, and London; but they don’t believe in ’em. They think that town is all Merino. Now to show you how much they care for their village I’ll tell you about one of ’em that strayed out as far as the Triangle B while I was working there.</p>
 			<p>“This New Yorker come out there looking for a job on the ranch. He said he was a good horseback rider, and there was pieces of tanbark hanging on his clothes yet from his riding school.</p>
-			<p>“Well, for a while they put him to keeping books in the ranch store, for he was a devil at figures. But he got tired of that, and asked for something more in the line of activity. The boys on the ranch liked him all right, but he made us tired shouting New York all the time. Every night he’d tell us about East River and <abbr class="name">J. P.</abbr> Morgan and the Eden Musée and Hetty Green and Central Park till we used to throw tin plates and branding irons at him.</p>
+			<p>“Well, for a while they put him to keeping books in the ranch store, for he was a devil at figures. But he got tired of that, and asked for something more in the line of activity. The boys on the ranch liked him all right, but he made us tired shouting New York all the time. Every night he’d tell us about East River and <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J. P.</abbr> Morgan and the Eden Musée and Hetty Green and Central Park till we used to throw tin plates and branding irons at him.</p>
 			<p>“One day this chap gets on a pitching pony, and the pony kind of sidled up his back and went to eating grass while the New Yorker was coming down.</p>
 			<p>“He come down on his head on a chunk of mesquite wood, and he didn’t show any designs toward getting up again. We laid him out in a tent, and he begun to look pretty dead. So Gideon Peas saddles up and burns the wind for old Doc Sleeper’s residence in Dogtown, thirty miles away.</p>
 			<p>“The doctor comes over and he investigates the patient.</p>

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@@ -30,7 +30,7 @@
 			<p>“Fergus McMahan was a friend of mine in the capital. For a handsome man I’ll admit he was the duty-free merchandise. He had blond curls and laughing blue eyes and was featured regular. They said he was a ringer for the statue they call Herr Mees, the god of speech and eloquence resting in some museum at Rome. Some German anarchist, I suppose. They are always resting and talking.</p>
 			<p>“But Fergus was no talker. He was brought up with the idea that to be beautiful was to make good. His conversation was about as edifying as listening to a leak dropping in a tin dishpan at the head of the bed when you want to go to sleep. But he and me got to be friends⁠—maybe because we was so opposite, don’t you think? Looking at the Hallowe’en mask that I call my face when I’m shaving seemed to give Fergus pleasure; and I’m sure that whenever I heard the feeble output of throat noises that he called conversation I felt contented to be a gargoyle with a silver tongue.</p>
 			<p>“One time I found it necessary to go down to this coast town of Oratama to straighten out a lot of political unrest and chop off a few heads in the customs and military departments. Fergus, who owned the ice and sulphur-match concessions of the republic, says he’ll keep me company.</p>
-			<p>“So, in a jangle of mule-train bells, we gallops into Oratama, and the town belonged to us as much as Long Island Sound doesn’t belong to Japan when <abbr class="name">T. R.</abbr> is at Oyster Bay. I say us; but I mean me. Everybody for four nations, two oceans, one bay and isthmus, and five archipelagoes around had heard of Judson Tate. Gentleman adventurer, they called me. I had been written up in five columns of the yellow journals, 40,000 words (with marginal decorations) in a monthly magazine, and a stickful on the twelfth page of the New York <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Times</i>. If the beauty of Fergus McMahan gained any part of our reception in Oratama, I’ll eat the price-tag in my Panama. It was me that they hung out paper flowers and palm branches for. I am not a jealous man; I am stating facts. The people were Nebuchadnezzars; they bit the grass before me; there was no dust in the town for them to bite. They bowed down to Judson Tate. They knew that I was the power behind Sancho Benavides. A word from me was more to them than a whole deckle-edged library from East Aurora in sectional bookcases was from anybody else. And yet there are people who spend hours fixing their faces⁠—rubbing in cold cream and massaging the muscles (always toward the eyes) and taking in the slack with tincture of benzoin and electrolyzing moles⁠—to what end? Looking handsome. Oh, what a mistake! It’s the larynx that the beauty doctors ought to work on. It’s words more than warts, talk more than talcum, palaver more than powder, blarney more than bloom that counts⁠—the phonograph instead of the photograph. But I was going to tell you.</p>
+			<p>“So, in a jangle of mule-train bells, we gallops into Oratama, and the town belonged to us as much as Long Island Sound doesn’t belong to Japan when <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T. R.</abbr> is at Oyster Bay. I say us; but I mean me. Everybody for four nations, two oceans, one bay and isthmus, and five archipelagoes around had heard of Judson Tate. Gentleman adventurer, they called me. I had been written up in five columns of the yellow journals, 40,000 words (with marginal decorations) in a monthly magazine, and a stickful on the twelfth page of the New York <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Times</i>. If the beauty of Fergus McMahan gained any part of our reception in Oratama, I’ll eat the price-tag in my Panama. It was me that they hung out paper flowers and palm branches for. I am not a jealous man; I am stating facts. The people were Nebuchadnezzars; they bit the grass before me; there was no dust in the town for them to bite. They bowed down to Judson Tate. They knew that I was the power behind Sancho Benavides. A word from me was more to them than a whole deckle-edged library from East Aurora in sectional bookcases was from anybody else. And yet there are people who spend hours fixing their faces⁠—rubbing in cold cream and massaging the muscles (always toward the eyes) and taking in the slack with tincture of benzoin and electrolyzing moles⁠—to what end? Looking handsome. Oh, what a mistake! It’s the larynx that the beauty doctors ought to work on. It’s words more than warts, talk more than talcum, palaver more than powder, blarney more than bloom that counts⁠—the phonograph instead of the photograph. But I was going to tell you.</p>
 			<p>“The local Astors put me and Fergus up at the Centipede Club, a frame building built on posts sunk in the surf. The tide’s only nine inches. The Little Big High Low Jack-in-the-game of the town came around and kowtowed. Oh, it wasn’t to Herr Mees. They had heard about Judson Tate.</p>
 			<p>“One afternoon me and Fergus McMahan was sitting on the seaward gallery of the Centipede, drinking iced rum and talking.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Judson,’ says Fergus, ‘there’s an angel in Oratama.’</p>
@@ -103,7 +103,7 @@
 			<p>“No,” said I. “I am always interested in psychological studies. A human heart⁠—and especially a woman’s⁠—is a wonderful thing to contemplate.”</p>
 			<p>“It is,” said Judson Tate. “And so are the trachea and bronchial tubes of man. And the larynx too. Did you ever make a study of the windpipe?”</p>
 			<p>“Never,” said I. “But I have taken much pleasure in your story. May I ask after <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Tate, and inquire of her present health and whereabouts?”</p>
-			<p>“Oh, sure,” said Judson Tate. “We are living in Bergen Avenue, Jersey City. The climate down in Oratama didn’t suit <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> I don’t suppose you ever dissected the arytenoid cartilages of the epiglottis, did you?”</p>
+			<p>“Oh, sure,” said Judson Tate. “We are living in Bergen Avenue, Jersey City. The climate down in Oratama didn’t suit <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> I don’t suppose you ever dissected the arytenoid cartilages of the epiglottis, did you?”</p>
 			<p>“Why, no,” said I, “I am no surgeon.”</p>
 			<p>“Pardon me,” said Judson Tate, “but every man should know enough of anatomy and therapeutics to safeguard his own health. A sudden cold may set up capillary bronchitis or inflammation of the pulmonary vesicles, which may result in a serious affection of the vocal organs.”</p>
 			<p>“Perhaps so,” said I, with some impatience; “but that is neither here nor there. Speaking of the strange manifestations of the affection of women, I⁠—”</p>

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@@ -41,7 +41,7 @@
 			<p>“Then Denver draws his chair up close and gives out his scheme.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Sully,’ says he, with seriousness and levity, ‘I’ve been a manager of one thing and another for over twenty years. That’s what I was cut out for⁠—to have somebody else to put up the money and look after the repairs and the police and taxes while I run the business. I never had a dollar of my own invested in my life. I wouldn’t know how it felt to have the dealer rake in a coin of mine. But I can handle other people’s stuff and manage other people’s enterprises. I’ve had an ambition to get hold of something big⁠—something higher than hotels and lumberyards and local politics. I want to be manager of something way up⁠—like a railroad or a diamond trust or an automobile factory. Now here comes this little man from the tropics with just what I want, and he’s offered me the job.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘What job?’ I asks. ‘Is he going to revive the Georgia Minstrels or open a cigar store?’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘He’s no ‘coon,’ says Denver. ‘He’s General Rompiro⁠—General Josey Alfonso Sapolio Jew-Ann Rompiro⁠—he has his cards printed by a news-ticker. He’s the real thing, Sully, and he wants me to manage his campaign⁠—he wants Denver <abbr class="name">C.</abbr> Galloway for a president-maker. Think of that, Sully! Old Denver romping down to the tropics, plucking lotus-flowers and pineapples with one hand and making presidents with the other! Won’t it make Uncle Mark Hanna mad? And I want you to go too, Sully. You can help me more than any man I know. I’ve been herding that brown man for a month in the hotel so he wouldn’t stray down Fourteenth Street and get roped in by that crowd of refugee tamale-eaters down there. And he’s landed, and <abbr class="name">D. C. G.</abbr> is manager of General <abbr class="name">J. A. S. J.</abbr> Rompiro’s presidential campaign in the great republic of⁠—what’s its name?’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘He’s no ‘coon,’ says Denver. ‘He’s General Rompiro⁠—General Josey Alfonso Sapolio Jew-Ann Rompiro⁠—he has his cards printed by a news-ticker. He’s the real thing, Sully, and he wants me to manage his campaign⁠—he wants Denver <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">C.</abbr> Galloway for a president-maker. Think of that, Sully! Old Denver romping down to the tropics, plucking lotus-flowers and pineapples with one hand and making presidents with the other! Won’t it make Uncle Mark Hanna mad? And I want you to go too, Sully. You can help me more than any man I know. I’ve been herding that brown man for a month in the hotel so he wouldn’t stray down Fourteenth Street and get roped in by that crowd of refugee tamale-eaters down there. And he’s landed, and <abbr class="name">D. C. G.</abbr> is manager of General <abbr class="name">J. A. S. J.</abbr> Rompiro’s presidential campaign in the great republic of⁠—what’s its name?’</p>
 			<p>“Denver gets down an atlas from a shelf, and we have a look at the afflicted country. ’Twas a dark blue one, on the west coast, about the size of a special delivery stamp.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘From what the General tells me,’ says Denver, ‘and from what I can gather from the encyclopaedia and by conversing with the janitor of the Astor Library, it’ll be as easy to handle the vote of that country as it would be for Tammany to get a man named Geoghan appointed on the White Wings force.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Why don’t General Rumptyro stay at home,’ says I, ‘and manage his own canvass?’</p>
@@ -50,7 +50,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Wasn’t I just giving you his rating?’ says Denver. ‘His country is one of the few in South America where the presidents are elected by popular ballot. The General can’t go there just now. It hurts to be shot against a wall. He needs a campaign manager to go down and whoop things up for him⁠—to get the boys in line and the new two-dollar bills afloat and the babies kissed and the machine in running order. Sully, I don’t want to brag, but you remember how I brought Coughlin under the wire for leader of the nineteenth? Ours was the banner district. Don’t you suppose I know how to manage a little monkey-cage of a country like that? Why, with the dough the General’s willing to turn loose I could put two more coats of Japan varnish on him and have him elected Governor of Georgia. New York has got the finest lot of campaign managers in the world, Sully, and you give me a feeling of <span xml:lang="fr">hauteur</span> when you cast doubts on my ability to handle the political situation in a country so small that they have to print the names of the towns in the appendix and footnotes.’</p>
 			<p>“I argued with Denver some. I told him that politics down in that tropical atmosphere was bound to be different from the nineteenth district; but I might just as well have been a Congressman from North Dakota trying to get an appropriation for a lighthouse and a coast survey. Denver Galloway had ambitions in the manager line, and what I said didn’t amount to as much as a fig-leaf at the National Dressmakers’ Convention. ‘I’ll give you three days to cogitate about going,’ says Denver; ‘and I’ll introduce you to General Rompiro tomorrow, so you can get his ideas drawn right from the rose wood.’</p>
 			<p>“I put on my best reception-to-Booker-Washington manner the next day and tapped the distinguished rubber-plant for what he knew.</p>
-			<p>“General Rompiro wasn’t so gloomy inside as he appeared on the surface. He was polite enough; and he exuded a number of sounds that made a fair stagger at arranging themselves into language. It was English he aimed at, and when his system of syntax reached your mind it wasn’t past you to understand it. If you took a college professor’s magazine essay and a Chinese laundryman’s explanation of a lost shirt and jumbled ’em together, you’d have about what the General handed you out for conversation. He told me all about his bleeding country, and what they were trying to do for it before the doctor came. But he mostly talked of Denver <abbr class="name">C.</abbr> Galloway.</p>
+			<p>“General Rompiro wasn’t so gloomy inside as he appeared on the surface. He was polite enough; and he exuded a number of sounds that made a fair stagger at arranging themselves into language. It was English he aimed at, and when his system of syntax reached your mind it wasn’t past you to understand it. If you took a college professor’s magazine essay and a Chinese laundryman’s explanation of a lost shirt and jumbled ’em together, you’d have about what the General handed you out for conversation. He told me all about his bleeding country, and what they were trying to do for it before the doctor came. But he mostly talked of Denver <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">C.</abbr> Galloway.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Ah, señor,’ says he, ‘that is the most fine of mans. Never I have seen one man so magnifico, so gr-r-rand, so conformable to make done things so swiftly by other mans. He shall make other mans do the acts and himself to order and regulate, until we arrive at seeing accomplishments of a suddenly. Oh, yes, señor. In my countree there is not such mans of so beegness, so good talk, so compliments, so strongness of sense and such. Ah, that Señor Galloway!’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Yes,’ says I, ‘old Denver is the boy you want. He’s managed every kind of business here except filibustering, and he might as well complete the list.’</p>
 			<p>“Before the three days was up I decided to join Denver in his campaign. Denver got three months’ vacation from his hotel owners. For a week we lived in a room with the General, and got all the pointers about his country that we could interpret from the noises he made. When we got ready to start, Denver had a pocket full of memorandums, and letters from the General to his friends, and a list of names and addresses of loyal politicians who would help along the boom of the exiled popular idol. Besides these liabilities we carried assets to the amount of $20,000 in assorted United States currency. General Rompiro looked like a burnt effigy, but he was Br’er Fox himself when it came to the real science of politics.</p>
@@ -61,7 +61,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Does he want to be tattooed, would you think?’ asks Denver, wrinkling up his eyes.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Stupid!’ says I. ‘He wants you to draw on him for election expenses. It’ll be worse than tattooing. More like an autopsy.’</p>
 			<p>“Me and Denver steamed down to Panama, and then hiked across the Isthmus, and then by steamer again down to the town of Espiritu on the coast of the General’s country.</p>
-			<p>“That was a town to send <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Howard Payne to the growler. I’ll tell you how you could make one like it. Take a lot of Filipino huts and a couple of hundred brickkilns and arrange ’em in squares in a cemetery. Cart down all the conservatory plants in the Astor and Vanderbilt greenhouses, and stick ’em about wherever there’s room. Turn all the Bellevue patients and the barbers’ convention and the Tuskegee school loose in the streets, and run the thermometer up to 120 in the shade. Set a fringe of the Rocky Mountains around the rear, let it rain, and set the whole business on Rockaway Beach in the middle of January⁠—and you’d have a good imitation of Espiritu.</p>
+			<p>“That was a town to send <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Howard Payne to the growler. I’ll tell you how you could make one like it. Take a lot of Filipino huts and a couple of hundred brickkilns and arrange ’em in squares in a cemetery. Cart down all the conservatory plants in the Astor and Vanderbilt greenhouses, and stick ’em about wherever there’s room. Turn all the Bellevue patients and the barbers’ convention and the Tuskegee school loose in the streets, and run the thermometer up to 120 in the shade. Set a fringe of the Rocky Mountains around the rear, let it rain, and set the whole business on Rockaway Beach in the middle of January⁠—and you’d have a good imitation of Espiritu.</p>
 			<p>“It took me and Denver about a week to get acclimated. Denver sent out the letters the General had given him, and notified the rest of the gang that there was something doing at the captain’s office. We set up headquarters in an old ’dobe house on a side street where the grass was waist high. The election was only four weeks off; but there wasn’t any excitement. The home candidate for president was named Roadrickeys. This town of Esperitu wasn’t the capital any more than Cleveland, Ohio, is the capital of the United States, but it was the political centre where they cooked up revolutions, and made up the slates.</p>
 			<p>“At the end of the week Denver says the machine is started running.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Sully,’ says he, ‘we’ve got a walkover. Just because General Rompiro ain’t Don Juan-on-the-spot the other crowd ain’t at work. They’re as full of apathy as a territorial delegate during the chaplain’s prayer. Now, we want to introduce a little hot stuff in the way of campaigning, and we’ll surprise ’em at the polls.’</p>

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@@ -8,29 +8,29 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<article id="out-of-nazareth" epub:type="se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">Out of Nazareth</h2>
-			<p>Okochee, in Georgia, had a boom, and <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom came out of it with a “wad.” Okochee came out of it with a half-million-dollar debt, a two and a half percent city property tax, and a city council that showed a propensity for traveling the back streets of the town. These things came about through a fatal resemblance of the river Cooloosa to the Hudson, as set forth and expounded by a Northern tourist. Okochee felt that New York should not be allowed to consider itself the only alligator in the swamp, so to speak. And then that harmless, but persistent, individual so numerous in the South⁠—the man who is always clamoring for more cotton mills, and is ready to take a dollar’s worth of stock, provided he can borrow the dollar⁠—that man added his deadly work to the tourist’s innocent praise, and Okochee fell.</p>
+			<p>Okochee, in Georgia, had a boom, and <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom came out of it with a “wad.” Okochee came out of it with a half-million-dollar debt, a two and a half percent city property tax, and a city council that showed a propensity for traveling the back streets of the town. These things came about through a fatal resemblance of the river Cooloosa to the Hudson, as set forth and expounded by a Northern tourist. Okochee felt that New York should not be allowed to consider itself the only alligator in the swamp, so to speak. And then that harmless, but persistent, individual so numerous in the South⁠—the man who is always clamoring for more cotton mills, and is ready to take a dollar’s worth of stock, provided he can borrow the dollar⁠—that man added his deadly work to the tourist’s innocent praise, and Okochee fell.</p>
 			<p>The Cooloosa River winds through a range of small mountains, passes Okochee and then blends its waters trippingly, as fall the mellifluous Indian syllables, with the Chattahoochee.</p>
 			<p>Okochee rose, as it were, from its sunny seat on the post-office stoop, hitched up its suspender, and threw a granite dam two hundred and forty feet long and sixty feet high across the Cooloosa one mile above the town. Thereupon, a dimpling, sparkling lake backed up twenty miles among the little mountains. Thus in the great game of municipal rivalry did Okochee match that famous drawing card, the Hudson. It was conceded that nowhere could the Palisades be judged superior in the way of scenery and grandeur. Following the picture card was played the ace of commercial importance. Fourteen thousand horsepower would this dam furnish. Cotton mills, factories, and manufacturing plants would rise up as the green corn after a shower. The spindle and the flywheel and turbine would sing the shrewd glory of Okochee. Along the picturesque heights above the lake would rise in beauty the costly villas and the splendid summer residences of capital. The naphtha launch of the millionaire would spit among the romantic coves; the verdured hills would take formal shapes of terrace, lawn, and park. Money would be spent like water in Okochee, and water would be turned into money.</p>
 			<p>The fate of the good town is quickly told. Capital decided not to invest. Of all the great things promised, the scenery alone came to fulfilment. The wooded peaks, the impressive promontories of solemn granite, the beautiful green slants of bank and ravine did all they could to reconcile Okochee to the delinquency of miserly gold. The sunsets gilded the dreamy draws and coves with a minting that should charm away heartburning. Okochee, true to the instinct of its blood and clime, was lulled by the spell. It climbed out of the arena, loosed its suspender, sat down again on the post-office stoop, and took a chew. It consoled itself by drawling sarcasms at the city council which was not to blame, causing the fathers, as has been said, to seek back streets and figure perspiringly on the sinking fund and the appropriation for interest due.</p>
-			<p>The youth of Okochee⁠—they who were to carry into the rosy future the burden of the debt⁠—accepted failure with youth’s uncalculating joy. For, here was sport, aquatic and nautical, added to the meagre round of life’s pleasures. In yachting caps and flowing neckties they pervaded the lake to its limits. Girls wore silk waists embroidered with anchors in blue and pink. The trousers of the young men widened at the bottom, and their hands were proudly calloused by the oft-plied oar. Fishermen were under the spell of a deep and tolerant joy. Sailboats and rowboats furrowed the lenient waves, popcorn and ice-cream booths sprang up about the little wooden pier. Two small excursion steamboats were built, and plied the delectable waters. Okochee philosophically gave up the hope of eating turtle soup with a gold spoon, and settled back, not ill content, to its regular diet of lotus and fried hominy. And out of this slow wreck of great expectations rose up <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom with his “wad” and his prosperous, cheery smile.</p>
-			<p>Needless to say <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney was no product of Georgia soil. He came out of that flushed and capable region known as the “North.” He called himself a “promoter”; his enemies had spoken of him as a “grafter”; Okochee took a middle course, and held him to be no better nor no worse than a “Yank.”</p>
+			<p>The youth of Okochee⁠—they who were to carry into the rosy future the burden of the debt⁠—accepted failure with youth’s uncalculating joy. For, here was sport, aquatic and nautical, added to the meagre round of life’s pleasures. In yachting caps and flowing neckties they pervaded the lake to its limits. Girls wore silk waists embroidered with anchors in blue and pink. The trousers of the young men widened at the bottom, and their hands were proudly calloused by the oft-plied oar. Fishermen were under the spell of a deep and tolerant joy. Sailboats and rowboats furrowed the lenient waves, popcorn and ice-cream booths sprang up about the little wooden pier. Two small excursion steamboats were built, and plied the delectable waters. Okochee philosophically gave up the hope of eating turtle soup with a gold spoon, and settled back, not ill content, to its regular diet of lotus and fried hominy. And out of this slow wreck of great expectations rose up <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom with his “wad” and his prosperous, cheery smile.</p>
+			<p>Needless to say <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney was no product of Georgia soil. He came out of that flushed and capable region known as the “North.” He called himself a “promoter”; his enemies had spoken of him as a “grafter”; Okochee took a middle course, and held him to be no better nor no worse than a “Yank.”</p>
 			<p>Far up the lake⁠—eighteen miles above the town⁠—the eye of this cheerful camp-follower of booms had spied out a graft. He purchased there a precipitous tract of five hundred acres at forty-five cents per acre; and this he laid out and subdivided as the city of Skyland⁠—the Queen City of the Switzerland of the South. Streets and avenues were surveyed; parks designed; corners of central squares reserved for the “proposed” opera house, board of trade, lyceum, market, public schools, and “Exposition Hall.” The price of lots ranged from five to five hundred dollars. Positively, no lot would be priced higher than five hundred dollars.</p>
-			<p>While the boom was growing in Okochee, <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney’s circulars, maps, and prospectuses were flying through the mails to every part of the country. Investors sent in their money by post, and the Skyland Real Estate Company (<abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom) returned to each a deed, duly placed on record, to the best lot, at the price, on hand that day. All this time the catamount screeched upon the reserved lot of the Skyland Board of Trade, the opossum swung by his tail over the site of the exposition hall, and the owl hooted a melancholy recitative to his audience of young squirrels in opera house square. Later, when the money was coming in fast, <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney caused to be erected in the coming city half a dozen cheap box houses, and persuaded a contingent of indigent natives to occupy them, thereby assuming the role of “population” in subsequent prospectuses, which became, accordingly, more seductive and remunerative.</p>
-			<p>So, when the dream faded and Okochee dropped back to digging bait and nursing its two and a half percent tax, <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom (unloving of checks and drafts and the cold interrogatories of bankers) strapped about his fifty-two-inch waist a soft leather belt containing eight thousand dollars in big bills, and said that all was very good.</p>
-			<p>One last trip he was making to Skyland before departing to other salad fields. Skyland was a regular post-office, and the steamboat, <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i>, under contract, delivered the mail bag (generally empty) twice a week. There was a little business there to be settled⁠—the postmaster was to be paid off for his light but lonely services, and the “inhabitants” had to be furnished with another month’s homely rations, as per agreement. And then Skyland would know <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom no more. The owners of these precipitous, barren, useless lots might come and view the scene of their invested credulity, or they might leave them to their fit tenants, the wild hog and the browsing deer. The work of the Skyland Real Estate Company was finished.</p>
+			<p>While the boom was growing in Okochee, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney’s circulars, maps, and prospectuses were flying through the mails to every part of the country. Investors sent in their money by post, and the Skyland Real Estate Company (<abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom) returned to each a deed, duly placed on record, to the best lot, at the price, on hand that day. All this time the catamount screeched upon the reserved lot of the Skyland Board of Trade, the opossum swung by his tail over the site of the exposition hall, and the owl hooted a melancholy recitative to his audience of young squirrels in opera house square. Later, when the money was coming in fast, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney caused to be erected in the coming city half a dozen cheap box houses, and persuaded a contingent of indigent natives to occupy them, thereby assuming the role of “population” in subsequent prospectuses, which became, accordingly, more seductive and remunerative.</p>
+			<p>So, when the dream faded and Okochee dropped back to digging bait and nursing its two and a half percent tax, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom (unloving of checks and drafts and the cold interrogatories of bankers) strapped about his fifty-two-inch waist a soft leather belt containing eight thousand dollars in big bills, and said that all was very good.</p>
+			<p>One last trip he was making to Skyland before departing to other salad fields. Skyland was a regular post-office, and the steamboat, <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i>, under contract, delivered the mail bag (generally empty) twice a week. There was a little business there to be settled⁠—the postmaster was to be paid off for his light but lonely services, and the “inhabitants” had to be furnished with another month’s homely rations, as per agreement. And then Skyland would know <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom no more. The owners of these precipitous, barren, useless lots might come and view the scene of their invested credulity, or they might leave them to their fit tenants, the wild hog and the browsing deer. The work of the Skyland Real Estate Company was finished.</p>
 			<p>The little steamboat <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i> was about to shove off on her regular up-the-lake trip, when a rickety hired carriage rattled up to the pier, and a tall, elderly gentleman, in black, stepped out, signaling courteously but vivaciously for the boat to wait. Time was of the least importance in the schedule of the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i>; Captain MacFarland gave the order, and the boat received its ultimate two passengers. For, upon the arm of the tall, elderly gentleman, as he crossed the gangway, was a little elderly lady, with a gray curl depending quaintly forward of her left ear.</p>
-			<p>Captain MacFarland was at the wheel; therefore it seemed to <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom, who was the only other passenger, that it should be his to play the part of host to the boat’s new guests, who were, doubtless, on a scenery-viewing expedition. He stepped forward, with that translucent, child-candid smile upon his fresh, pink countenance, with that air of unaffected sincerity that was redeemed from bluffness only by its exquisite calculation, with that promptitude and masterly decision of manner that so well suited his calling⁠—with all his stock in trade well to the front; he stepped forward to receive Colonel and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Peyton Blaylock. With the grace of a grand marshal or a wedding usher, he escorted the two passengers to a side of the upper deck, from which the scenery was supposed to present itself to the observer in increased quantity and quality. There, in comfortable steamer chairs, they sat and began to piece together the random lines that were to form an intelligent paragraph in the big history of little events.</p>
+			<p>Captain MacFarland was at the wheel; therefore it seemed to <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom, who was the only other passenger, that it should be his to play the part of host to the boat’s new guests, who were, doubtless, on a scenery-viewing expedition. He stepped forward, with that translucent, child-candid smile upon his fresh, pink countenance, with that air of unaffected sincerity that was redeemed from bluffness only by its exquisite calculation, with that promptitude and masterly decision of manner that so well suited his calling⁠—with all his stock in trade well to the front; he stepped forward to receive Colonel and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Peyton Blaylock. With the grace of a grand marshal or a wedding usher, he escorted the two passengers to a side of the upper deck, from which the scenery was supposed to present itself to the observer in increased quantity and quality. There, in comfortable steamer chairs, they sat and began to piece together the random lines that were to form an intelligent paragraph in the big history of little events.</p>
 			<p>“Our home, sir,” said Colonel Blaylock, removing his wide-brimmed, rather shapeless black felt hat, “is in Holly Springs⁠—Holly Springs, Georgia. I am very proud to make your acquaintance, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock and myself have just arrived in Okochee this morning, sir, on business⁠—business of importance in connection with the recent rapid march of progress in this section of our state.”</p>
 			<p>The Colonel smoothed back, with a sweeping gesture, his long, smooth, locks. His dark eyes, still fiery under the heavy black brows, seemed inappropriate to the face of a business man. He looked rather to be an old courtier handed down from the reign of Charles, and re-attired in a modern suit of fine, but raveling and seam-worn, broadcloth.</p>
 			<p>“Yes, sir,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom, in his heartiest prospectus voice, “things have been whizzing around Okochee. Biggest industrial revival and waking up to natural resources Georgia ever had. Did you happen to squeeze in on the ground floor in any of the gilt-edged grafts, Colonel?”</p>
 			<p>“Well, sir,” said the Colonel, hesitating in courteous doubt, “if I understand your question, I may say that I took the opportunity to make an investment that I believe will prove quite advantageous⁠—yes, sir, I believe it will result in both pecuniary profit and agreeable occupation.”</p>
-			<p>“Colonel Blaylock,” said the little elderly lady, shaking her gray curl and smiling indulgent explanation at <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom, “is so devoted to businesss. He has such a talent for financiering and markets and investments and those kind of things. I think myself extremely fortunate in having secured him for a partner on life’s journey⁠—I am so unversed in those formidable but very useful branches of learning.”</p>
+			<p>“Colonel Blaylock,” said the little elderly lady, shaking her gray curl and smiling indulgent explanation at <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom, “is so devoted to businesss. He has such a talent for financiering and markets and investments and those kind of things. I think myself extremely fortunate in having secured him for a partner on life’s journey⁠—I am so unversed in those formidable but very useful branches of learning.”</p>
 			<p>Colonel Blaylock rose and made a bow⁠—a bow that belonged with silk stockings and lace ruffles and velvet.</p>
 			<p>“Practical affairs,” he said, with a wave of his hand toward the promoter, “are, if I may use the comparison, the garden walks upon which we tread through life, viewing upon either side of us the flowers which brighten that journey. It is my pleasure to be able to lay out a walk or two. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock, sir, is one of those fortunate higher spirits whose mission it is to make the flowers grow. Perhaps, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom, you have perused the lines of Lorella, the Southern poetess. That is the name above which <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock has contributed to the press of the South for many years.”</p>
 			<p>“Unfortunately,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom, with a sense of the loss clearly written upon his frank face, “I’m like the Colonel⁠—in the walk-making business myself⁠—and I haven’t had time to even take a sniff at the flowers. Poetry is a line I never dealt in. It must be nice, though⁠—quite nice.”</p>
 			<p>“It is the region,” smiled <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock, “in which my soul dwells. My shawl, Peyton, if you please⁠—the breeze comes a little chilly from yon verdured hills.”</p>
 			<p>The Colonel drew from the tail pocket of his coat a small shawl of knitted silk and laid it solicitously about the shoulders of the lady. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock sighed contentedly, and turned her expressive eyes⁠—still as clear and unworldly as a child’s⁠—upon the steep slopes that were slowly slipping past. Very fair and stately they looked in the clear morning air. They seemed to speak in familiar terms to the responsive spirit of Lorella. “My native hills!” she murmured, dreamily. “See how the foliage drinks the sunlight from the hollows and dells.”</p>
-			<p>“<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock’s maiden days,” said the Colonel, interpreting her mood to <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom, “were spent among the mountains of northern Georgia. Mountain air and mountain scenery recall to her those days. Holly Springs, where we have lived for twenty years, is low and flat. I fear that she may have suffered in health and spirits by so long a residence there. That is one portent reason for the change we are making. My dear, can you not recall those lines you wrote⁠—entitled, I think, ‘The Georgia Hills’⁠—the poem that was so extensively copied by the Southern press and praised so highly by the Atlanta critics?”</p>
+			<p>“<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock’s maiden days,” said the Colonel, interpreting her mood to <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom, “were spent among the mountains of northern Georgia. Mountain air and mountain scenery recall to her those days. Holly Springs, where we have lived for twenty years, is low and flat. I fear that she may have suffered in health and spirits by so long a residence there. That is one portent reason for the change we are making. My dear, can you not recall those lines you wrote⁠—entitled, I think, ‘The Georgia Hills’⁠—the poem that was so extensively copied by the Southern press and praised so highly by the Atlanta critics?”</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock turned a glance of speaking tenderness upon the Colonel, fingered for a moment the silvery curl that drooped upon her bosom, then looked again toward the mountains. Without preliminary or affectation or demurral she began, in rather thrilling and more deeply pitched tones to recite these lines:</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:poem">
 				<p>
@@ -85,28 +85,28 @@
 					<span class="i1">Up in the Georgia hills.”</span>
 				</p>
 			</blockquote>
-			<p>“That’s great stuff, ma’am,” said <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom, enthusiastically, when the poetess had concluded. “I wish I had looked up poetry more than I have. I was raised in the pine hills myself.”</p>
+			<p>“That’s great stuff, ma’am,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom, enthusiastically, when the poetess had concluded. “I wish I had looked up poetry more than I have. I was raised in the pine hills myself.”</p>
 			<p>“The mountains ever call to their children,” murmured <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock. “I feel that life will take on the rosy hue of hope again in among these beautiful hills. Peyton⁠—a little taste of the currant wine, if you will be so good. The journey, though delightful in the extreme, slightly fatigues me.” Colonel Blaylock again visited the depths of his prolific coat, and produced a tightly corked, rough, black bottle. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom was on his feet in an instant.</p>
 			<p>“Let me bring a glass, ma’am. You come along, Colonel⁠—there’s a little table we can bring, too. Maybe we can scare up some fruit or a cup of tea on board. I’ll ask Mac.”</p>
-			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock reclined at ease. Few royal ladies have held their royal prerogative with the serene grace of the petted Southern woman. The Colonel, with an air as gallant and assiduous as in the days of his courtship, and <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom, with a ponderous agility half professional and half directed by some resurrected, unnamed, long-forgotten sentiment, formed a diversified but attentive court. The currant wine⁠—wine home made from the Holly Springs fruit⁠—went round, and then <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney began to hear something of Holly Springs life.</p>
+			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock reclined at ease. Few royal ladies have held their royal prerogative with the serene grace of the petted Southern woman. The Colonel, with an air as gallant and assiduous as in the days of his courtship, and <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom, with a ponderous agility half professional and half directed by some resurrected, unnamed, long-forgotten sentiment, formed a diversified but attentive court. The currant wine⁠—wine home made from the Holly Springs fruit⁠—went round, and then <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney began to hear something of Holly Springs life.</p>
 			<p>It seemed (from the conversation of the Blaylocks) that the Springs was decadent. A third of the population had moved away. Business⁠—and the Colonel was an authority on business⁠—had dwindled to nothing. After carefully studying the field of opportunities open to capital he had sold his little property there for eight hundred dollars and invested it in one of the enterprises opened up by the book in Okochee.</p>
 			<p>“Might I inquire, sir,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom, “in what particular line of business you inserted your coin? I know that town as well as I know the regulations for illegal use of the mails. I might give you a hunch as to whether you can make the game go or not.”</p>
-			<p><abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney, somehow, had a kindly feeling toward these unsophisticated representatives of bygone days. They were so simple, impractical, and unsuspecting. He was glad that he happened not to have a gold brick or a block of that western Bad Boy Silver Mine stock along with him. He would have disliked to unload on people he liked so well as he did these; but there are some temptations too enticing to be resisted.</p>
+			<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney, somehow, had a kindly feeling toward these unsophisticated representatives of bygone days. They were so simple, impractical, and unsuspecting. He was glad that he happened not to have a gold brick or a block of that western Bad Boy Silver Mine stock along with him. He would have disliked to unload on people he liked so well as he did these; but there are some temptations too enticing to be resisted.</p>
 			<p>“No, sir,” said Colonel Blaylock, pausing to arrange the queen’s wrap. “I did not invest in Okochee. I have made an exhaustive study of business conditions, and I regard old settled towns as unfavorable fields in which to place capital that is limited in amount. Some months ago, through the kindness of a friend, there came into my hands a map and description of this new town of Skyland that has been built upon the lake. The description was so pleasing, the future of the town set forth in such convincing arguments, and its increasing prosperity portrayed in such an attractive style that I decided to take advantage of the opportunity it offered. I carefully selected a lot in the centre of the business district, although its price was the highest in the schedule⁠—five hundred dollars⁠—and made the purchase at once.”</p>
-			<p>“Are you the man⁠—I mean, did you pay five hundred dollars for a lot in Skyland” asked <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom.</p>
+			<p>“Are you the man⁠—I mean, did you pay five hundred dollars for a lot in Skyland” asked <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom.</p>
 			<p>“I did, sir,” answered the Colonel, with the air of a modest millionaire explaining his success; “a lot most excellently situated on the same square with the opera house, and only two squares from the board of trade. I consider the purchase a most fortuitous one. It is my intention to erect a small building upon it at once, and open a modest book and stationery store. During past years I have met with many pecuniary reverses, and I now find it necessary to engage in some commercial occupation that will furnish me with a livelihood. The book and stationery business, though an humble one, seems to me not inapt nor altogether uncongenial. I am a graduate of the University of Virginia; and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock’s really wonderful acquaintance with belles-lettres and poetic literature should go far toward insuring success. Of course, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock would not personally serve behind the counter. With the nearly three hundred dollars I have remaining I can manage the building of a house, by giving a lien on the lot. I have an old friend in Atlanta who is a partner in a large book store, and he has agreed to furnish me with a stock of goods on credit, on extremely easy terms. I am pleased to hope, sir, that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock’s health and happiness will be increased by the change of locality. Already I fancy I can perceive the return of those roses that were once the hope and despair of Georgia cavaliers.”</p>
 			<p>Again followed that wonderful bow, as the Colonel lightly touched the pale cheek of the poetess. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock, blushing like a girl, shook her curl and gave the Colonel an arch, reproving tap. Secret of eternal youth⁠—where art thou? Every second the answer comes⁠—“Here, here, here.” Listen to thine own heartbeats, O weary seeker after external miracles.</p>
 			<p>“Those years,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock, “in Holly Springs were long, long, long. But now is the promised land in sight. Skyland!⁠—a lovely name.”</p>
 			<p>“Doubtless,” said the Colonel, “we shall be able to secure comfortable accommodations at some modest hotel at reasonable rates. Our trunks are in Okochee, to be forwarded when we shall have made permanent arrangements.”</p>
-			<p><abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom excused himself, went forward, and stood by the captain at the wheel.</p>
+			<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom excused himself, went forward, and stood by the captain at the wheel.</p>
 			<p>“Mac,” said he, “do you remember my telling you once that I sold one of those five-hundred-dollar lots in Skyland?”</p>
 			<p>“Seems I do,” grinned Captain MacFarland.</p>
 			<p>“I’m not a coward, as a general rule,” went on the promoter, “but I always said that if I ever met the sucker that bought that lot I’d run like a turkey. Now, you see that old babe-in-the-wood over there? Well, he’s the boy that drew the prize. That was the only five-hundred-dollar lot that went. The rest ranged from ten dollars to two hundred. His wife writes poetry. She’s invented one about the high grounds of Georgia, that’s way up in <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">G</i>. They’re going to Skyland to open a book store.”</p>
-			<p>“Well,” said MacFarland, with another grin, “it’s a good thing you are along, <abbr class="name">J. P.</abbr>; you can show ’em around town until they begin to feel at home.”</p>
-			<p>“He’s got three hundred dollars left to build a house and store with,” went on <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney, as if he were talking to himself. “And he thinks there’s an open house up there.”</p>
+			<p>“Well,” said MacFarland, with another grin, “it’s a good thing you are along, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J. P.</abbr>; you can show ’em around town until they begin to feel at home.”</p>
+			<p>“He’s got three hundred dollars left to build a house and store with,” went on <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney, as if he were talking to himself. “And he thinks there’s an open house up there.”</p>
 			<p>Captain MacFarland released the wheel long enough to give his leg a roguish slap.</p>
 			<p>“You old fat rascal!” he chuckled, with a wink.</p>
-			<p>“Mac, you’re a fool,” said <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom, coldly. He went back and joined the Blaylocks, where he sat, less talkative, with that straight furrow between his brows that always stood as a signal of schemes being shaped within.</p>
+			<p>“Mac, you’re a fool,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom, coldly. He went back and joined the Blaylocks, where he sat, less talkative, with that straight furrow between his brows that always stood as a signal of schemes being shaped within.</p>
 			<p>“There’s a good many swindles connected with these booms,” he said presently. “What if this Skyland should turn out to be one⁠—that is, suppose business should be sort of dull there, and no special sale for books?”</p>
 			<p>“My dear sir,” said Colonel Blaylock, resting his hand upon the back of his wife’s chair, “three times I have been reduced to almost penury by the duplicity of others, but I have not yet lost faith in humanity. If I have been deceived again, still we may glean health and content, if not worldly profit. I am aware that there are dishonest schemers in the world who set traps for the unwary, but even they are not altogether bad. My dear, can you recall those verses entitled ‘He Giveth the Increase,’ that you composed for the choir of our church in Holly Springs?”</p>
 			<p>“That was four years ago,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock; “perhaps I can repeat a verse or two.</p>
@@ -136,14 +136,14 @@
 			<p>“Ought to be in sight of the spires and gilded domes of Skyland now in a few minutes,” chirruped MacFarland, shaking with enjoyment.</p>
 			<p>“Go to the devil,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom, still pensive.</p>
 			<p>And now, upon the left bank, they caught a glimpse of a white village, high up on the hills, smothered among green trees. That was Cold Branch⁠—no boom town, but the slow growth of many years. Cold Branch lay on the edge of the grape and corn lands. The big country road ran just back of the heights. Cold Branch had nothing in common with the frisky ambition of Okochee with its impertinent lake.</p>
-			<p>“Mac,” said <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney suddenly, “I want you to stop at Cold Branch. There’s a landing there that they made to use sometimes when the river was up.”</p>
-			<p>“Can’t,” said the captain, grinning more broadly. “I’ve got the United States mails on board. Right today this boat’s in the government service. Do you want to have the poor old captain keelhauled by Uncle Sam? And the great city of Skyland, all disconsolate, waiting for its mail? I’m ashamed of your extravagance, <abbr class="name eoc">J. P.</abbr>”</p>
-			<p>“Mac,” almost whispered <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney, in his danger-line voice, “I looked into the engine room of the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i> a while ago. Don’t you know of somebody that needs a new boiler? Cement and black Japan can’t hide flaws from me. And then, those shares of building and loan that you traded for repairs⁠—they were all yours, of course. I hate to mention these things, but⁠—”</p>
-			<p>“Oh, come now, <abbr class="name">J. P.</abbr>,” said the captain. “You know I was just fooling. I’ll put you off at Cold Branch, if you say so.”</p>
+			<p>“Mac,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney suddenly, “I want you to stop at Cold Branch. There’s a landing there that they made to use sometimes when the river was up.”</p>
+			<p>“Can’t,” said the captain, grinning more broadly. “I’ve got the United States mails on board. Right today this boat’s in the government service. Do you want to have the poor old captain keelhauled by Uncle Sam? And the great city of Skyland, all disconsolate, waiting for its mail? I’m ashamed of your extravagance, <abbr epub:type="z3998:personal-name" class="eoc">J. P.</abbr>”</p>
+			<p>“Mac,” almost whispered <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney, in his danger-line voice, “I looked into the engine room of the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i> a while ago. Don’t you know of somebody that needs a new boiler? Cement and black Japan can’t hide flaws from me. And then, those shares of building and loan that you traded for repairs⁠—they were all yours, of course. I hate to mention these things, but⁠—”</p>
+			<p>“Oh, come now, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J. P.</abbr>,” said the captain. “You know I was just fooling. I’ll put you off at Cold Branch, if you say so.”</p>
 			<p>“The other passengers get off there, too,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom.</p>
 			<p>Further conversation was held, and in ten minutes the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i> turned her nose toward a little, cranky wooden pier on the left bank, and the captain, relinquishing the wheel to a roustabout, came to the passenger deck and made the remarkable announcement: “All out for Skyland.”</p>
-			<p>The Blaylocks and <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom disembarked, and the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i> proceeded on her way up the lake. Guided by the indefatigable promoter, they slowly climbed the steep hillside, pausing often to rest and admire the view. Finally they entered the village of Cold Branch. Warmly both the Colonel and his wife praised it for its homelike and peaceful beauty. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom conducted them to a two-story building on a shady street that bore the legend, “Pine-top Inn.” Here he took his leave, receiving the cordial thanks of the two for his attentions, the Colonel remarking that he thought they would spend the remainder of the day in rest, and take a look at his purchase on the morrow.</p>
-			<p><abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom walked down Cold Branch’s main street. He did not know this town, but he knew towns, and his feet did not falter. Presently he saw a sign over a door: “Frank <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Cooly, Attorney-at-Law and Notary Public.” A young man was <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cooly, and awaiting business.</p>
+			<p>The Blaylocks and <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom disembarked, and the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i> proceeded on her way up the lake. Guided by the indefatigable promoter, they slowly climbed the steep hillside, pausing often to rest and admire the view. Finally they entered the village of Cold Branch. Warmly both the Colonel and his wife praised it for its homelike and peaceful beauty. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom conducted them to a two-story building on a shady street that bore the legend, “Pine-top Inn.” Here he took his leave, receiving the cordial thanks of the two for his attentions, the Colonel remarking that he thought they would spend the remainder of the day in rest, and take a look at his purchase on the morrow.</p>
+			<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom walked down Cold Branch’s main street. He did not know this town, but he knew towns, and his feet did not falter. Presently he saw a sign over a door: “Frank <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Cooly, Attorney-at-Law and Notary Public.” A young man was <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cooly, and awaiting business.</p>
 			<p>“Get your hat, son,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom, in his breezy way, “and a blank deed, and come along. It’s a job for you.”</p>
 			<p>“Now,” he continued, when <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cooly had responded with alacrity, “is there a bookstore in town?”</p>
 			<p>“One,” said the lawyer. “Henry Williams’s.”</p>
@@ -158,7 +158,7 @@
 			<p>“Your name, please?” asked the lawyer.</p>
 			<p>“Make it out to Peyton Blaylock,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom. “God knows how to spell it.”</p>
 			<p>Within thirty minutes Henry Williams was out of business, and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom stood on the brick sidewalk with <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cooly, who held in his hand the signed and attested deed.</p>
-			<p>“You’ll find the party at the Pinetop Inn,” said <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom. “Get it recorded, and take it down and give it to him. He’ll ask you a hell’s mint of questions; so here’s ten dollars for the trouble you’ll have in not being able to answer ’em. Never run much to poetry, did you, young man?”</p>
+			<p>“You’ll find the party at the Pinetop Inn,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom. “Get it recorded, and take it down and give it to him. He’ll ask you a hell’s mint of questions; so here’s ten dollars for the trouble you’ll have in not being able to answer ’em. Never run much to poetry, did you, young man?”</p>
 			<p>“Well,” said the really talented Cooly, who even yet retained his right mind, “now and then.”</p>
 			<p>“Dig into it,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom, “it’ll pay you. Never heard a poem, now, that run something like this, did you?⁠—</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:poem">
@@ -173,7 +173,7 @@
 				</p>
 			</blockquote>
 			<p>“I believe not,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cooly.</p>
-			<p>“It’s a hymn,” said <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom. “Now, show me the way to a livery stable, son, for I’m going to hit the dirt road back to Okochee.”</p>
+			<p>“It’s a hymn,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom. “Now, show me the way to a livery stable, son, for I’m going to hit the dirt road back to Okochee.”</p>
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@@ -13,7 +13,7 @@
 			<p>Colonel Pollock has a suite of rooms permanently engaged in a Washington City hotel, where he passes, however, only a small portion of his time. He always spends his summers in Europe, principally in Naples and Florence, but he rarely stays in one place more than a few weeks or months.</p>
 			<p>Colonel Pollock is now on his way to South America to look after his interests in some valuable mahogany forests there.</p>
 			<p>The colonel chatted freely and most interestingly about his experiences, and told to an admiring and attentive group of listeners some excellent stories about well known people.</p>
-			<p>“Did I ever tell you?” he asked, as he puffed at his long black Principe, “about an adventure I had in Africa a few years ago? No? Well, I see Paderewski is coming to Houston soon, and the story may not be inapropos. You have all heard Paderewski’s wonderful hair spoken of, of course. Well, very few people know how he came by it. This is how it was. A few years ago, some of us made up a party to go lion hunting in Africa. There was Nat Goodwin, Paderewski, John <abbr class="name">L.</abbr> Sullivan, Joe Pulitzer, and myself. That was before any of us had acquired fame, but we were all ambitious, and everyone of us needed the rest and recreation we were taking. We were a congenial, jolly crowd, and had a rattling good time on the trip. When we landed we hired guides, and stocked up with provisions and ammunition for a month’s trip into the Zambesi country.</p>
+			<p>“Did I ever tell you?” he asked, as he puffed at his long black Principe, “about an adventure I had in Africa a few years ago? No? Well, I see Paderewski is coming to Houston soon, and the story may not be inapropos. You have all heard Paderewski’s wonderful hair spoken of, of course. Well, very few people know how he came by it. This is how it was. A few years ago, some of us made up a party to go lion hunting in Africa. There was Nat Goodwin, Paderewski, John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">L.</abbr> Sullivan, Joe Pulitzer, and myself. That was before any of us had acquired fame, but we were all ambitious, and everyone of us needed the rest and recreation we were taking. We were a congenial, jolly crowd, and had a rattling good time on the trip. When we landed we hired guides, and stocked up with provisions and ammunition for a month’s trip into the Zambesi country.</p>
 			<p>“We were all anxious to kill a lion, and we penetrated into quite a wild and unexplored region.</p>
 			<p>“We had great times at night over our camp fire, chatting and chaffing one another, and thoroughly enjoying ourselves.</p>
 			<p>“Paderewski was the only member of our party who had been making money. It was just about the time there was such a furor about his playing, and he had plied up quite a neat sum from his piano recitals.</p>

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@@ -23,7 +23,7 @@
 			<p>“Store!”⁠—a fine scorn was expressed by Daisy’s uptilted nose⁠—“sardine box! Waitin’ for me, you say? Gee! you’d have to throw out about a hundred pounds of candy before I could get inside of it, Joe.”</p>
 			<p>“I wouldn’t mind an even swap like that,” said Joe, complimentary.</p>
 			<p>Daisy’s existence was limited in every way. She had to walk sideways between the counter and the shelves in the candy store. In her own hall bedroom coziness had been carried close to cohesiveness. The walls were so near to one another that the paper on them made a perfect Babel of noise. She could light the gas with one hand and close the door with the other without taking her eyes off the reflection of her brown pompadour in the mirror. She had Joe’s picture in a gilt frame on the dresser, and sometimes⁠—but her next thought would always be of Joe’s funny little store tacked like a soap box to the corner of that great building, and away would go her sentiment in a breeze of laughter.</p>
-			<p>Daisy’s other suitor followed Joe by several months. He came to board in the house where she lived. His name was Dabster, and he was a philosopher. Though young, attainments stood out upon him like continental labels on a Passaic (<abbr class="postal">NJ</abbr>) suitcase. Knowledge he had kidnapped from cyclopedias and handbooks of useful information; but as for wisdom, when she passed he was left sniffling in the road without so much as the number of her motor car. He could and would tell you the proportion of water and muscle-making properties of peas and veal, the shortest verse in the Bible, the number of pounds of shingle nails required to fasten 256 shingles laid four inches to the weather, the population of Kankakee, Ill., the theories of Spinoza, the name of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr class="name">H.</abbr> McKay Twombly’s second hall footman, the length of the Hoosac Tunnel, the best time to set a hen, the salary of the railway post-office messenger between Driftwood and Red Bank Furnace, <abbr>Pa.</abbr>, and the number of bones in the foreleg of a cat.</p>
+			<p>Daisy’s other suitor followed Joe by several months. He came to board in the house where she lived. His name was Dabster, and he was a philosopher. Though young, attainments stood out upon him like continental labels on a Passaic (<abbr class="postal">NJ</abbr>) suitcase. Knowledge he had kidnapped from cyclopedias and handbooks of useful information; but as for wisdom, when she passed he was left sniffling in the road without so much as the number of her motor car. He could and would tell you the proportion of water and muscle-making properties of peas and veal, the shortest verse in the Bible, the number of pounds of shingle nails required to fasten 256 shingles laid four inches to the weather, the population of Kankakee, Ill., the theories of Spinoza, the name of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H.</abbr> McKay Twombly’s second hall footman, the length of the Hoosac Tunnel, the best time to set a hen, the salary of the railway post-office messenger between Driftwood and Red Bank Furnace, <abbr>Pa.</abbr>, and the number of bones in the foreleg of a cat.</p>
 			<p>The weight of learning was no handicap to Dabster. His statistics were the sprigs of parsley with which he garnished the feast of small talk that he would set before you if he conceived that to be your taste. And again he used them as breastworks in foraging at the boardinghouse. Firing at you a volley of figures concerning the weight of a lineal foot of bar-iron 5 × 2¾ inches, and the average annual rainfall at Fort Snelling, Minn., he would transfix with his fork the best piece of chicken on the dish while you were trying to rally sufficiently to ask him weakly why does a hen cross the road.</p>
 			<p>Thus, brightly armed, and further equipped with a measure of good looks, of a hair-oily, shopping-district-at-three-in-the-afternoon kind, it seems that Joe, of the Lilliputian emporium, had a rival worthy of his steel. But Joe carried no steel. There wouldn’t have been room in his store to draw it if he had.</p>
 			<p>One Saturday afternoon, about four o’clock, Daisy and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Dabster stopped before Joe’s booth. Dabster wore a silk hat, and⁠—well, Daisy was a woman, and that hat had no chance to get back in its box until Joe had seen it. A stick of pineapple chewing gum was the ostensible object of the call. Joe supplied it through the open side of his store. He did not pale or falter at sight of the hat.</p>

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@@ -48,7 +48,7 @@
 			<p>“He gazed across the table at me. There was four square yards of it, looking like the path of a cyclone that has wandered through a stock-kard, a poultry-farm, a vegetable-garden, and an Irish linen mill. Solly gets up and comes around to me.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Luke,’ says he, ‘I’m pretty hungry after our ride. I thought you said they had some beans here. I’m going out and get something I can eat. You can stay and monkey with this artificial layout of grub if you want to.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Wait a minute,’ says I.</p>
-			<p>“I called the waiter, and slapped ‘<abbr class="name">S.</abbr> Mills’ on the back of the check for thirteen dollars and fifty cents.</p>
+			<p>“I called the waiter, and slapped ‘<abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">S.</abbr> Mills’ on the back of the check for thirteen dollars and fifty cents.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘What do you mean,’ says I, ‘by serving gentlemen with a lot of truck only suitable for deckhands on a Mississippi steamboat? We’re going out to get something decent to eat.’</p>
 			<p>“I walked up the street with the unhappy plainsman. He saw a saddle-chop open, and some of the sadness faded from his eyes. We went in, and he ordered and paid for two more saddles⁠—one with a solid silver horn and nails and ornaments and a six-inch border of rhinestones and imitation rubies around the flaps. The other one had to have a gold-mounted horn, quadruple-plated stirrups, and the leather inlaid with silver beadwork wherever it would stand it. Eleven hundred dollars the two cost him.</p>
 			<p>“Then he goes out and heads toward the river, following his nose. In a little side street, where there was no street and no sidewalks and no houses, he finds what he is looking for. We go into a shanty and sit on high stools among stevedores and boatmen, and eat beans with tin spoons. Yes, sir, beans⁠—beans boiled with salt pork.</p>

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@@ -20,11 +20,11 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Lot’s of good men get ’em,’ says Andy. ‘If you don’t answer the first letter they let you drop. If you answer it they write again asking you to come on with your money and do business.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘But think of ’em writing to <em>me</em>!’ says Murkison.</p>
 			<p>“A few days later he drops around again.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Boys,’ says he, ‘I know you are all right or I wouldn’t confide in you. I wrote to them rascals again just for fun. They answered and told me to come on to Chicago. They said telegraph to <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Smith when I would start. When I get there I’m to wait on a certain street corner till a man in a gray suit comes along and drops a newspaper in front of me. Then I am to ask him how the water is, and he knows it’s me and I know it’s him.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Boys,’ says he, ‘I know you are all right or I wouldn’t confide in you. I wrote to them rascals again just for fun. They answered and told me to come on to Chicago. They said telegraph to <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Smith when I would start. When I get there I’m to wait on a certain street corner till a man in a gray suit comes along and drops a newspaper in front of me. Then I am to ask him how the water is, and he knows it’s me and I know it’s him.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Ah, yes,’ says Andy, gaping, ‘it’s the same old game. I’ve often read about it in the papers. Then he conducts you to the private abattoir in the hotel, where <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Jones is already waiting. They show you brand new real money and sell you all you want at five for one. You see ’em put it in a satchel for you and know it’s there. Of course it’s brown paper when you come to look at it afterward.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Oh, they couldn’t switch it on me,’ says Murkison. ‘I haven’t built up the best paying business in Grassdale without having witticisms about me. You say it’s real money they show you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Tucker?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I’ve always⁠—I see by the papers that it always is,’ says Andy.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Boys,’ says Murkison, ‘I’ve got it in my mind that them fellows can’t fool me. I think I’ll put a couple of thousand in my jeans and go up there and put it all over ’em. If Bill Murkison gets his eyes once on them bills they show him he’ll never take ’em off of ’em. They offer $5 for $1, and they’ll have to stick to the bargain if I tackle ’em. That’s the kind of trader Bill Murkison is. Yes, I jist believe I’ll drop up Chicago way and take a 5 to 1 shot on <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Smith. I guess the water’ll be fine enough.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Boys,’ says Murkison, ‘I’ve got it in my mind that them fellows can’t fool me. I think I’ll put a couple of thousand in my jeans and go up there and put it all over ’em. If Bill Murkison gets his eyes once on them bills they show him he’ll never take ’em off of ’em. They offer $5 for $1, and they’ll have to stick to the bargain if I tackle ’em. That’s the kind of trader Bill Murkison is. Yes, I jist believe I’ll drop up Chicago way and take a 5 to 1 shot on <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Smith. I guess the water’ll be fine enough.’</p>
 			<p>“Me and Andy tries to get this financial misquotation out of Murkison’s head, but we might as well have tried to keep the man who rolls peanuts with a toothpick from betting on Bryan’s election. No, sir; he was going to perform a public duty by catching these green goods swindlers at their own game. Maybe it would teach ’em a lesson.</p>
 			<p>“After Murkison left us me and Andy sat a while prepondering over our silent meditations and heresies of reason. In our idle hours we always improved our higher selves by ratiocination and mental thought.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Jeff,’ says Andy after a long time, ‘quite unseldom I have seen fit to impugn your molars when you have been chewing the rag with me about your conscientious way of doing business. I may have been often wrong. But here is a case where I think we can agree. I feel that it would be wrong for us to allow <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Murkison to go alone to meet those Chicago green goods men. There is but one way it can end. Don’t you think we would both feel better if we was to intervene in some way and prevent the doing of this deed?’</p>
@@ -35,11 +35,11 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Right, Jeff,’ says Andy. ‘We’ll stick right along with Murkison if he insists on going and block this funny business. I’d hate to see any money dropped in it as bad as you would.’</p>
 			<p>“Well, we went to see Murkison.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘No, boys,’ says he. ‘I can’t consent to let the song of this Chicago siren waft by me on the summer breeze. I’ll fry some fat out of this ignis fatuus or burn a hole in the skillet. But I’d be plumb diverted to death to have you all go along with me. Maybe you could help some when it comes to cashing in the ticket to that 5 to 1 shot. Yes, I’d really take it as a pastime and regalement if you boys would go along too.’</p>
-			<p>“Murkison gives it out in Grassdale that he is going for a few days with <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Tucker to look over some iron ore property in West Virginia. He wires <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Smith that he will set foot in the spider web on a given date; and the three of us lights out for Chicago.</p>
+			<p>“Murkison gives it out in Grassdale that he is going for a few days with <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Tucker to look over some iron ore property in West Virginia. He wires <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Smith that he will set foot in the spider web on a given date; and the three of us lights out for Chicago.</p>
 			<p>“On the way Murkison amuses himself with premonitions and advance pleasant recollections.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘In a gray suit,’ says he, ‘on the southwest corner of Wabash Avenue and Lake Street. He drops the paper, and I ask how the water is. Oh, my, my, my!’ And then he laughs all over for five minutes.</p>
 			<p>“Sometimes Murkison was serious and tried to talk himself out of his cogitations, whatever they was.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Boys,’ says he, ‘I wouldn’t have this to get out in Grassdale for ten times a thousand dollars. It would ruin me there. But I know you all are all right. I think it’s the duty of every citizen,’ says he, ‘to try to do up these robbers that prey upon the public. I’ll show ’em whether the water’s fine. Five dollars for one⁠—that’s what <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Smith offers, and he’ll have to keep his contract if he does business with Bill Murkison.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Boys,’ says he, ‘I wouldn’t have this to get out in Grassdale for ten times a thousand dollars. It would ruin me there. But I know you all are all right. I think it’s the duty of every citizen,’ says he, ‘to try to do up these robbers that prey upon the public. I’ll show ’em whether the water’s fine. Five dollars for one⁠—that’s what <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Smith offers, and he’ll have to keep his contract if he does business with Bill Murkison.’</p>
 			<p>“We got into Chicago about 7 <abbr class="time">p.m.</abbr> Murkison was to meet the gray man at half past 9. We had dinner at a hotel and then went up to Murkison’s room to wait for the time to come.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Now, boys,’ says Murkison, ‘let’s get our gumption together and inoculate a plan for defeating the enemy. Suppose while I’m exchanging airy bandage with the gray capper you gents come along, by accident, you know, and holler: “Hello, Murk!” and shake hands with symptoms of surprise and familiarity. Then I take the capper aside and tell him you all are Jenkins and Brown of Grassdale, groceries and feed, good men and maybe willing to take a chance while away from home.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘ “Bring ’em along,” he’ll say, of course, “if they care to invest.” Now, how does that scheme strike you?’</p>

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@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<article id="strictly-business" epub:type="se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">Strictly Business</h2>
 			<p>I suppose you know all about the stage and stage people. You’ve been touched with and by actors, and you read the newspaper criticisms and the jokes in the weeklies about the Rialto and the chorus girls and the long-haired tragedians. And I suppose that a condensed list of your ideas about the mysterious stageland would boil down to something like this:</p>
-			<p>Leading ladies have five husbands, paste diamonds, and figures no better than your own (madam) if they weren’t padded. Chorus girls are inseparable from peroxide, Panhards and Pittsburg. All shows walk back to New York on tan oxford and railroad ties. Irreproachable actresses reserve the comic-landlady part for their mothers on Broadway and their step-aunts on the road. Kyrle Bellew’s real name is Boyle O’Kelley. The ravings of John McCullough in the phonograph were stolen from the first sale of the Ellen Terry memoirs. Joe Weber is funnier than <abbr class="name">E. H.</abbr> Sothern; but Henry Miller is getting older than he was.</p>
+			<p>Leading ladies have five husbands, paste diamonds, and figures no better than your own (madam) if they weren’t padded. Chorus girls are inseparable from peroxide, Panhards and Pittsburg. All shows walk back to New York on tan oxford and railroad ties. Irreproachable actresses reserve the comic-landlady part for their mothers on Broadway and their step-aunts on the road. Kyrle Bellew’s real name is Boyle O’Kelley. The ravings of John McCullough in the phonograph were stolen from the first sale of the Ellen Terry memoirs. Joe Weber is funnier than <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E. H.</abbr> Sothern; but Henry Miller is getting older than he was.</p>
 			<p>All theatrical people on leaving the theatre at night drink champagne and eat lobsters until noon the next day. After all, the moving pictures have got the whole bunch pounded to a pulp.</p>
 			<p>Now, few of us know the real life of the stage people. If we did, the profession might be more overcrowded than it is. We look askance at the players with an eye full of patronizing superiority⁠—and we go home and practise all sorts of elocution and gestures in front of our looking glasses.</p>
 			<p>Latterly there has been much talk of the actor people in a new light. It seems to have been divulged that instead of being motoring bacchanalians and diamond-hungry <i xml:lang="fr">loreleis</i> they are businesslike folk, students and ascetics with childer and homes and libraries, owning real estate, and conducting their private affairs in as orderly and unsensational a manner as any of us good citizens who are bound to the chariot wheels of the gas, rent, coal, ice, and wardmen.</p>

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@@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<article id="suite-homes-and-their-romance" epub:type="se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">Suite Homes and Their Romance</h2>
-			<p>Few young couples in the Big-City-of-Bluff began their married existence with greater promise of happiness than did <abbr>Mr.</abbr> and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Claude Turpin. They felt no especial animosity toward each other; they were comfortably established in a handsome apartment house that had a name and accommodations like those of a sleeping-car; they were living as expensively as the couple on the next floor above who had twice their income; and their marriage had occurred on a wager, a ferryboat and first acquaintance, thus securing a sensational newspaper notice with their names attached to pictures of the Queen of Romania and <abbr class="name">M.</abbr> Santos-Dumont.</p>
+			<p>Few young couples in the Big-City-of-Bluff began their married existence with greater promise of happiness than did <abbr>Mr.</abbr> and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Claude Turpin. They felt no especial animosity toward each other; they were comfortably established in a handsome apartment house that had a name and accommodations like those of a sleeping-car; they were living as expensively as the couple on the next floor above who had twice their income; and their marriage had occurred on a wager, a ferryboat and first acquaintance, thus securing a sensational newspaper notice with their names attached to pictures of the Queen of Romania and <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">M.</abbr> Santos-Dumont.</p>
 			<p>Turpin’s income was $200 per month. On pay day, after calculating the amounts due for rent, instalments on furniture and piano, gas, and bills owed to the florist, confectioner, milliner, tailor, wine merchant and cab company, the Turpins would find that they still had $200 left to spend. How to do this is one of the secrets of metropolitan life.</p>
 			<p>The domestic life of the Turpins was a beautiful picture to see. But you couldn’t gaze upon it as you could at an oleograph of “Don’t Wake Grandma,” or “Brooklyn by Moonlight.”</p>
 			<p>You had to blink when you looked at it; and you heard a fizzing sound just like the machine with a “scope” at the end of it. Yes; there wasn’t much repose about the picture of the Turpins’ domestic life. It was something like “Spearing Salmon in the Columbia River,” or “Japanese Artillery in Action.”</p>

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@@ -26,7 +26,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘How do they work off this unearth increment?’ I asks.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘They don’t,’ says the man. ‘It’s a case of “Ill fares the land with the great deal of velocity where wealth accumulates and there ain’t any reciprocity.” ’</p>
 			<p>“After this man and me got through our conversation, which left him dry of information, I shook hands with him and told him I was sorry I couldn’t believe him. And a month afterward I landed on the coast of this Gaudymala with $1,300 that I had been saving up for five years. I thought I knew what Indians liked, and I fixed myself accordingly. I loaded down four pack-mules with red woollen blankets, wrought-iron pails, jewelled side-combs for the ladies, glass necklaces, and safety-razors. I hired a black mozo, who was supposed to be a mule-driver and an interpreter too. It turned out that he could interpret mules all right, but he drove the English language much too hard. His name sounded like a Yale key when you push it in wrong side up, but I called him McClintock, which was close to the noise.</p>
-			<p>“Well, this gold village was forty miles up in the mountains, and it took us nine days to find it. But one afternoon McClintock led the other mules and myself over a rawhide bridge stretched across a precipice five thousand feet deep, it seemed to me. The hoofs of the beasts drummed on it just like before George <abbr class="name">M.</abbr> Cohan makes his first entrance on the stage.</p>
+			<p>“Well, this gold village was forty miles up in the mountains, and it took us nine days to find it. But one afternoon McClintock led the other mules and myself over a rawhide bridge stretched across a precipice five thousand feet deep, it seemed to me. The hoofs of the beasts drummed on it just like before George <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">M.</abbr> Cohan makes his first entrance on the stage.</p>
 			<p>“This village was built of mud and stone, and had no streets. Some few yellow-and-brown persons popped their heads out-of-doors, looking about like Welsh rabbits with Worcester sauce on em. Out of the biggest house, that had a kind of a porch around it, steps a big white man, red as a beet in color, dressed in fine tanned deerskin clothes, with a gold chain around his neck, smoking a cigar. I’ve seen United States Senators of his style of features and build, also headwaiters and cops.</p>
 			<p>“He walks up and takes a look at us, while McClintock disembarks and begins to interpret to the lead mule while he smokes a cigarette.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Hello, Buttinsky,’ says the fine man to me. ‘How did you get in the game? I didn’t see you buy any chips. Who gave you the keys of the city?’</p>
@@ -36,13 +36,13 @@
 			<p>“ ‘This man will take care of your outfit,’ says he, ‘and I’ll take care of you.’</p>
 			<p>“He leads me into the biggest house, and sets out the chairs and a kind of a drink the color of milk. It was the finest room I ever saw. The stone walls was hung all over with silk shawls, and there was red and yellow rugs on the floor, and jars of red pottery and Angora goat skins, and enough bamboo furniture to misfurnish half a dozen seaside cottages.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘In the first place,’ says the man, ‘you want to know who I am. I’m sole lessee and proprietor of this tribe of Indians. They call me the Grand Yacuma, which is to say King or Main Finger of the bunch. I’ve got more power here than a chargé d’affaires, a charge of dynamite, and a charge account at Tiffany’s combined. In fact, I’m the Big Stick, with as many extra knots on it as there is on the record run of the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Lusitania</i>. Oh, I read the papers now and then,’ says he. ‘Now, let’s hear your entitlements,’ he goes on, ‘and the meeting will be open.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘I am known as one <abbr class="name">W. D.</abbr> Finch. Occupation, capitalist. Address, 541 East Thirty-second⁠—’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘I am known as one <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W. D.</abbr> Finch. Occupation, capitalist. Address, 541 East Thirty-second⁠—’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘New York,’ chips in the Noble Grand. ‘I know,’ says he, grinning. ‘It ain’t the first time you’ve seen it go down on the blotter. I can tell by the way you hand it out. Well, explain “capitalist.” ’</p>
 			<p>“I tells this boss plain what I come for and how I come to came.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Gold-dust?’ says he, looking as puzzled as a baby that’s got a feather stuck on its molasses finger. ‘That’s funny. This ain’t a gold-mining country. And you invested all your capital on a stranger’s story? Well, well! These Indians of mine⁠—they are the last of the tribe of Peches⁠—are simple as children. They know nothing of the purchasing power of gold. I’m afraid you’ve been imposed on,’ says he.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Maybe so,’ says I, ‘but it sounded pretty straight to me.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘<abbr class="name">W. D.</abbr>,’ says the King, all of a sudden, ‘I’ll give you a square deal. It ain’t often I get to talk to a white man, and I’ll give you a show for your money. It may be these constituents of mine have a few grains of gold-dust hid away in their clothes. Tomorrow you may get out these goods you’ve brought up and see if you can make any sales. Now, I’m going to introduce myself unofficially. My name is Shane⁠—Patrick Shane. I own this tribe of Peche Indians by right of conquest⁠—single handed and unafraid. I drifted up here four years ago, and won ’em by my size and complexion and nerve. I learned their language in six weeks⁠—it’s easy: you simply emit a string of consonants as long as your breath holds out and then point at what you’re asking for.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘I conquered ’em, spectacularly,’ goes on King Shane, ‘and then I went at ’em with economical politics, law, sleight-of-hand, and a kind of New England ethics and parsimony. Every Sunday, or as near as I can guess at it, I preach to ’em in the council-house (I’m the council) on the law of supply and demand. I praise supply and knock demand. I use the same text every time. You wouldn’t think, <abbr class="name">W. D.</abbr>,’ says Shane, ‘that I had poetry in me, would you?’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘<abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W. D.</abbr>,’ says the King, all of a sudden, ‘I’ll give you a square deal. It ain’t often I get to talk to a white man, and I’ll give you a show for your money. It may be these constituents of mine have a few grains of gold-dust hid away in their clothes. Tomorrow you may get out these goods you’ve brought up and see if you can make any sales. Now, I’m going to introduce myself unofficially. My name is Shane⁠—Patrick Shane. I own this tribe of Peche Indians by right of conquest⁠—single handed and unafraid. I drifted up here four years ago, and won ’em by my size and complexion and nerve. I learned their language in six weeks⁠—it’s easy: you simply emit a string of consonants as long as your breath holds out and then point at what you’re asking for.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘I conquered ’em, spectacularly,’ goes on King Shane, ‘and then I went at ’em with economical politics, law, sleight-of-hand, and a kind of New England ethics and parsimony. Every Sunday, or as near as I can guess at it, I preach to ’em in the council-house (I’m the council) on the law of supply and demand. I praise supply and knock demand. I use the same text every time. You wouldn’t think, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W. D.</abbr>,’ says Shane, ‘that I had poetry in me, would you?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘I wouldn’t know whether to call it poetry or not.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Tennyson,’ says Shane, ‘furnishes the poetic gospel I preach. I always considered him the boss poet. Here’s the way the text goes:</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:poem">
@@ -55,10 +55,10 @@
 			<p>“ ‘You see, I teach ’em to cut out demand⁠—that supply is the main thing. I teach ’em not to desire anything beyond their simplest needs. A little mutton, a little cocoa, and a little fruit brought up from the coast⁠—that’s all they want to make ’em happy. I’ve got ’em well trained. They make their own clothes and hats out of a vegetable fibre and straw, and they’re a contented lot. It’s a great thing,’ winds up Shane, ‘to have made a people happy by the incultivation of such simple institutions.’</p>
 			<p>“Well, the next day, with the King’s permission, I has the McClintock open up a couple of sacks of my goods in the little plaza of the village. The Indians swarmed around by the hundred and looked the bargain-counter over. I shook red blankets at ’em, flashed finger-rings and ear-bobs, tried pearl necklaces and side-combs on the women, and a line of red hosiery on the men. ’Twas no use. They looked on like hungry graven images, but I never made a sale. I asked McClintock what was the trouble. Mac yawned three or four times, rolled a cigarette, made one or two confidential side remarks to a mule, and then condescended to inform me that the people had no money.</p>
 			<p>“Just then up strolls King Patrick, big and red and royal as usual, with the gold chain over his chest and his cigar in front of him.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘How’s business, <abbr class="name">W. D.</abbr>?’ he asks.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘How’s business, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W. D.</abbr>?’ he asks.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Fine,’ says I. ‘It’s a bargain-day rush. I’ve got one more line of goods to offer before I shut up shop. I’ll try ’em with safety-razors. I’ve got two gross that I bought at a fire sale.’</p>
 			<p>“Shane laughs till some kind of mameluke or private secretary he carries with him has to hold him up.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘O my sainted Aunt Jerusha!’ says he, ‘ain’t you one of the Babes in the Goods, <abbr class="name">W. D.</abbr>? Don’t you know that no Indians ever shave? They pull out their whiskers instead.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘O my sainted Aunt Jerusha!’ says he, ‘ain’t you one of the Babes in the Goods, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W. D.</abbr>? Don’t you know that no Indians ever shave? They pull out their whiskers instead.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘that’s just what these razors would do for ’em⁠—they wouldn’t have any kick coming if they used ’em once.’</p>
 			<p>“Shane went away, and I could hear him laughing a block, if there had been any block.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Tell ’em,’ says I to McClintock, ‘it ain’t money I want⁠—tell ’em I’ll take gold-dust. Tell ’em I’ll allow ’em sixteen dollars an ounce for it in trade. That’s what I’m out for⁠—the dust.’</p>
@@ -67,14 +67,14 @@
 			<p>“ ‘They’ve got the dust hid out somewhere,’ says I, ‘or they wouldn’t have been so sensitive about it.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘They haven’t,’ says Shane. ‘What’s this gag you’ve got about gold? You been reading Edward Allen Poe? They ain’t got any gold.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘They put it in quills,’ says I, ‘and then they empty it in jars, and then into sacks of twenty-five pounds each. I got it straight.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘<abbr class="name">W. D.</abbr>,’ says Shane, laughing and chewing his cigar, ‘I don’t often see a white man, and I feel like putting you on. I don’t think you’ll get away from here alive, anyhow, so I’m going to tell you. Come over here.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘<abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W. D.</abbr>,’ says Shane, laughing and chewing his cigar, ‘I don’t often see a white man, and I feel like putting you on. I don’t think you’ll get away from here alive, anyhow, so I’m going to tell you. Come over here.’</p>
 			<p>“He draws aside a silk fibre curtain in a corner of the room and shows me a pile of buckskin sacks.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Forty of ’em,’ says Shane. ‘One arroba in each one. In round numbers, $220,000 worth of gold-dust you see there. It’s all mine. It belongs to the Grand Yacuma. They bring it all to me. Two hundred and twenty thousand dollars⁠—think of that, you glass-bead peddler,’ says Shane⁠—‘and all mine.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Little good it does you,’ says I, contemptuously and hatefully. ‘And so you are the government depository of this gang of moneyless moneymakers? Don’t you pay enough interest on it to enable one of your depositors to buy an Augusta (Maine) Pullman carbon diamond worth $200 for $4.85?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Listen,’ says Patrick Shane, with the sweat coming out on his brow. ‘I’m confidant with you, as you have, somehow, enlisted my regards. Did you ever,’ he says, ‘feel the avoirdupois power of gold⁠—not the troy weight of it, but the sixteen-ounces-to-the-pound force of it?’</p>
 			<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 eoc">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 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 epub:type="z3998:personal-name" class="eoc">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>“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>
@@ -94,7 +94,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Going! Going!’ says I. ‘Gold-dust or cash takes the entire stock. The dust weighed before you, and taken at sixteen dollars the ounce⁠—the highest price on the Gaudymala coast.’</p>
 			<p>“Then the crowd disperses all of a sudden, and I don’t know what’s up. Mac and me packs away the hand-mirrors and jewelry they had handed back to us, and we had the mules back to the corral they had set apart for our garage.</p>
 			<p>“While we was there we hear great noises of shouting, and down across the plaza runs Patrick Shane, hotfoot, with his clothes ripped half off, and scratches on his face like a cat had fought him hard for every one of its lives.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘They’re looting the treasury, <abbr class="name">W. D.</abbr>,’ he sings out. ‘They’re going to kill me and you, too. Unlimber a couple of mules at once. We’ll have to make a getaway in a couple of minutes.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘They’re looting the treasury, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W. D.</abbr>,’ he sings out. ‘They’re going to kill me and you, too. Unlimber a couple of mules at once. We’ll have to make a getaway in a couple of minutes.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘They’ve found out,’ says I,’ the truth about the law of supply and demand.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘It’s the women, mostly,’ says the King. ‘And they used to admire me so!’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘They hadn’t seen looking-glasses then,’ says I.</p>

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@@ -45,7 +45,7 @@
 			<p>“The habit of observation⁠—nothing more,” said Jolnes. “If the old gentleman gets off the car before we do, I think I can demonstrate to you the accuracy of my deduction.”</p>
 			<p>Three blocks farther along the gentleman rose to leave the car. Jolnes addressed him at the door:</p>
 			<p>“Pardon me, sir, but are you not Colonel Hunter, of Norfolk, Virginia?”</p>
-			<p>“No, suh,” was the extremely courteous answer. “My name, suh, is Ellison⁠—Major Winfield <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Ellison, from Fairfax County, in the same state. I know a good many people, suh, in Norfolk⁠—the Goodriches, the Tollivers, and the Crabtrees, suh, but I never had the pleasure of meeting yo’ friend, Colonel Hunter. I am happy to say, suh, that I am going back to Virginia tonight, after having spent a week in yo’ city with my wife and three daughters. I shall be in Norfolk in about ten days, and if you will give me yo’ name, suh, I will take pleasure in looking up Colonel Hunter and telling him that you inquired after him, suh.”</p>
+			<p>“No, suh,” was the extremely courteous answer. “My name, suh, is Ellison⁠—Major Winfield <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R.</abbr> Ellison, from Fairfax County, in the same state. I know a good many people, suh, in Norfolk⁠—the Goodriches, the Tollivers, and the Crabtrees, suh, but I never had the pleasure of meeting yo’ friend, Colonel Hunter. I am happy to say, suh, that I am going back to Virginia tonight, after having spent a week in yo’ city with my wife and three daughters. I shall be in Norfolk in about ten days, and if you will give me yo’ name, suh, I will take pleasure in looking up Colonel Hunter and telling him that you inquired after him, suh.”</p>
 			<p>“Thank you,” said Jolnes; “tell him that Reynolds sent his regards, if you will be so kind.”</p>
 			<p>I glanced at the great New York detective and saw that a look of intense chagrin had come upon his clear-cut features. Failure in the slightest point always galled Shamrock Jolnes.</p>
 			<p>“Did you say your <em>three</em> daughters?” he asked of the Virginia gentleman.</p>

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@@ -17,7 +17,7 @@
 			<p>“O-ho!” sang Jeff, lighting his pipe (which was a good sign). “Yes, the Indian! I’m looking. I hasten to contemplate the redman as a standard bearer of progress. He’s the same as the other brown boys. You can’t make an Anglo-Saxon of him. Did I ever tell you about the time my friend John Tom Little Bear bit off the right ear of the arts of culture and education and spun the teetotum back round to where it was when Columbus was a little boy? I did not?</p>
 			<p>“John Tom Little Bear was an educated Cherokee Indian and an old friend of mine when I was in the Territories. He was a graduate of one of them Eastern football colleges that have been so successful in teaching the Indian to use the gridiron instead of burning his victims at the stake. As an Anglo-Saxon, John Tom was copper-colored in spots. As an Indian, he was one of the whitest men I ever knew. As a Cherokee, he was a gentleman on the first ballot. As a ward of the nation, he was mighty hard to carry at the primaries.</p>
 			<p>“John Tom and me got together and began to make medicine⁠—how to get up some lawful, genteel swindle which we might work in a quiet way so as not to excite the stupidity of the police or the cupidity of the larger corporations. We had close upon $500 between us, and we pined to make it grow, as all respectable capitalists do.</p>
-			<p>“So we figured out a proposition which seems to be as honorable as a gold mine prospectus and as profitable as a church raffle. And inside of thirty days you find us swarming into Kansas with a pair of fluent horses and a red camping wagon on the European plan. John Tom is Chief Wish-Heap-Dough, the famous Indian medicine man and Samaritan Sachem of the Seven Tribes. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters is business manager and half owner. We needed a third man, so we looked around and found <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Conyngham Binkly leaning against the want column of a newspaper. This Binkly has a disease for Shakespearian roles, and an hallucination about a 200 nights’ run on the New York stage. But he confesses that he never could earn the butter to spread on his William <abbr class="name">S.</abbr> roles, so he is willing to drop to the ordinary baker’s kind, and be satisfied with a 200-mile run behind the medicine ponies. Besides Richard <span epub:type="z3998:roman">III</span>, he could do twenty-seven coon songs and banjo specialties, and was willing to cook, and curry the horses. We carried a fine line of excuses for taking money. One was a magic soap for removing grease spots and quarters from clothes. One was a Sum-wah-tah, the great Indian Remedy made from a prairie herb revealed by the Great Spirit in a dream to his favorite medicine men, the great chiefs McGarrity and Siberstein, bottlers, Chicago. And the other was a frivolous system of pick-pocketing the Kansasters that had the department stores reduced to a decimal fraction. Look ye! A pair of silk garters, a dream book, one dozen clothespins, a gold tooth, and ‘When Knighthood Was in Flower’ all wrapped up in a genuine Japanese silkarina handkerchief and handed to the handsome lady by <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters for the trivial sum of fifty cents, while Professor Binkly entertains us in a three-minute round with the banjo.</p>
+			<p>“So we figured out a proposition which seems to be as honorable as a gold mine prospectus and as profitable as a church raffle. And inside of thirty days you find us swarming into Kansas with a pair of fluent horses and a red camping wagon on the European plan. John Tom is Chief Wish-Heap-Dough, the famous Indian medicine man and Samaritan Sachem of the Seven Tribes. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters is business manager and half owner. We needed a third man, so we looked around and found <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Conyngham Binkly leaning against the want column of a newspaper. This Binkly has a disease for Shakespearian roles, and an hallucination about a 200 nights’ run on the New York stage. But he confesses that he never could earn the butter to spread on his William <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">S.</abbr> roles, so he is willing to drop to the ordinary baker’s kind, and be satisfied with a 200-mile run behind the medicine ponies. Besides Richard <span epub:type="z3998:roman">III</span>, he could do twenty-seven coon songs and banjo specialties, and was willing to cook, and curry the horses. We carried a fine line of excuses for taking money. One was a magic soap for removing grease spots and quarters from clothes. One was a Sum-wah-tah, the great Indian Remedy made from a prairie herb revealed by the Great Spirit in a dream to his favorite medicine men, the great chiefs McGarrity and Siberstein, bottlers, Chicago. And the other was a frivolous system of pick-pocketing the Kansasters that had the department stores reduced to a decimal fraction. Look ye! A pair of silk garters, a dream book, one dozen clothespins, a gold tooth, and ‘When Knighthood Was in Flower’ all wrapped up in a genuine Japanese silkarina handkerchief and handed to the handsome lady by <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters for the trivial sum of fifty cents, while Professor Binkly entertains us in a three-minute round with the banjo.</p>
 			<p>“ ’Twas an eminent graft we had. We ravaged peacefully through the State, determined to remove all doubt as to why ’twas called bleeding Kansas. John Tom Little Bear, in full Indian chief’s costume, drew crowds away from the parchesi sociables and government ownership conversaziones. While at the football college in the East he had acquired quantities of rhetoric and the art of calisthenics and sophistry in his classes, and when he stood up in the red wagon and explained to the farmers, eloquent, about chilblains and hyperaesthesia of the cranium, Jeff couldn’t hand out the Indian Remedy fast enough for ’em.</p>
 			<p>“One night we was camped on the edge of a little town out west of Salina. We always camped near a stream, and put up a little tent. Sometimes we sold out of the Remedy unexpected, and then Chief Wish-Heap-Dough would have a dream in which the Manitou commanded him to fill up a few bottles of Sum-wah-tah at the most convenient place. ’Twas about ten o’clock, and we’d just got in from a street performance. I was in the tent with the lantern, figuring up the day’s profits. John Tom hadn’t taken off his Indian makeup, and was sitting by the campfire minding a fine sirloin steak in the pan for the Professor till he finished his hair-raising scene with the trained horses.</p>
 			<p>“All at once out of dark bushes comes a pop like a firecracker, and John Tom gives a grunt and digs out of his bosom a little bullet that has dented itself against his collarbone. John Tom makes a dive in the direction of the fireworks, and comes back dragging by the collar a kid about nine or ten years young, in a velveteen suit, with a little nickel-mounted rifle in his hand about as big as a fountain-pen.</p>
@@ -48,7 +48,7 @@
 			<p>“That kid introduced us, with some footnotes and explanations that made things plainer than a week of rhetoric. He danced around, and punched us in the back, and tried to climb John Tom’s leg. ‘This is John Tom, mamma,’ says he. ‘He’s a Indian. He sells medicine in a red wagon. I shot him, but he wasn’t wild. The other one’s Jeff. He’s a fakir, too. Come on and see the camp where we live, won’t you, mamma?’</p>
 			<p>“It is plain to see that the life of the woman is in that boy. She has got him again where her arms can gather him, and that’s enough. She’s ready to do anything to please him. She hesitates the eighth of a second and takes another look at these men. I imagine she says to herself about John Tom, ‘Seems to be a gentleman, if his hair don’t curl.’ And <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters she disposes of as follows: ‘No ladies’ man, but a man who knows a lady.’</p>
 			<p>“So we all rambled down to the camp as neighborly as coming from a wake. And there she inspects the wagon and pats the place with her hand where the kid used to sleep, and dabs around her eyewinkers with her handkerchief. And Professor Binkly gives us ‘Trovatore’ on one string of the banjo, and is about to slide off into Hamlet’s monologue when one of the horses gets tangled in his rope and he must go look after him, and says something about ‘foiled again.’</p>
-			<p>“When it got dark me and John Tom walked back up to the Corn Exchange Hotel, and the four of us had supper there. I think the trouble started at that supper, for then was when <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Little Bear made an intellectual balloon ascension. I held on to the tablecloth, and listened to him soar. That redman, if I could judge, had the gift of information. He took language, and did with it all a Roman can do with macaroni. His vocal remarks was all embroidered over with the most scholarly verbs and prefixes. And his syllables was smooth, and fitted nicely to the joints of his idea. I thought I’d heard him talk before, but I hadn’t. And it wasn’t the size of his words, but the way they come; and ’twasn’t his subjects, for he spoke of common things like cathedrals and football and poems and catarrh and souls and freight rates and sculpture. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conyers understood his accents, and the elegant sounds went back and forth between ’em. And now and then Jefferson <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Peters would intervene a few shopworn, senseless words to have the butter passed or another leg of the chicken.</p>
+			<p>“When it got dark me and John Tom walked back up to the Corn Exchange Hotel, and the four of us had supper there. I think the trouble started at that supper, for then was when <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Little Bear made an intellectual balloon ascension. I held on to the tablecloth, and listened to him soar. That redman, if I could judge, had the gift of information. He took language, and did with it all a Roman can do with macaroni. His vocal remarks was all embroidered over with the most scholarly verbs and prefixes. And his syllables was smooth, and fitted nicely to the joints of his idea. I thought I’d heard him talk before, but I hadn’t. And it wasn’t the size of his words, but the way they come; and ’twasn’t his subjects, for he spoke of common things like cathedrals and football and poems and catarrh and souls and freight rates and sculpture. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conyers understood his accents, and the elegant sounds went back and forth between ’em. And now and then Jefferson <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">D.</abbr> Peters would intervene a few shopworn, senseless words to have the butter passed or another leg of the chicken.</p>
 			<p>“Yes, John Tom Little Bear appeared to be inveigled some in his bosom about that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conyers. She was of the kind that pleases. She had the good looks and more, I’ll tell you. You take one of these cloak models in a big store. They strike you as being on the impersonal system. They are adapted for the eye. What they run to is inches around and complexion, and the art of fanning the delusion that the sealskin would look just as well on the lady with the warts and the pocketbook. Now, if one of them models was off duty, and you took it, and it would say ‘Charlie’ when you pressed it, and sit up at the table, why, then you would have something similar to <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conyers. I could see how John Tom could resist any inclination to hate that white squaw.</p>
 			<p>“The lady and the kid stayed at the hotel. In the morning, they say, they will start for home. Me and Little Bear left at eight o’clock, and sold Indian Remedy on the courthouse square till nine. He leaves me and the Professor to drive down to camp, while he stays up town. I am not enamored with that plan, for it shows John Tom is uneasy in his composures, and that leads to firewater, and sometimes to the green corn dance and costs. Not often does Chief Wish-Heap-Dough get busy with the firewater, but whenever he does there is heap much doing in the lodges of the palefaces who wear blue and carry the club.</p>
 			<p>“At half-past nine Professor Binkly is rolled in his quilt snoring in blank verse, and I am sitting by the fire listening to the frogs. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Little Bear slides into camp and sits down against a tree. There is no symptoms of firewater.</p>
@@ -71,7 +71,7 @@
 			<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>“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>“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 epub:type="z3998:given-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>
 			<p>“The little woman is in extremities of gladness. She must wake up that stir-up trouble youngster and hug him and make proclamation that he is his mamma’s own precious treasure. I was about to ask questions, but I looked at <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Little Bear, and my eye caught the sight of something in his belt. ‘Now go to bed, ma’am,’ says I, ‘and this gadabout youngster likewise, for there’s no more danger, and the kidnapping business is not what it was earlier in the night.’</p>
 			<p>“I inveigled John Tom down to camp quick, and when he tumbled over asleep I got that thing out of his belt and disposed of it where the eye of education can’t see it. For even the football colleges disapprove of the art of scalp-taking in their curriculums.</p>

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@@ -27,7 +27,7 @@
 			<p>“You go about it in a very peculiar way.”</p>
 			<p>“You have been cross with me all the evening without any cause.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, there isn’t any cause except⁠—you make me tired.”</p>
-			<p>Corny took out his card case and looked over his collection. He selected one that read: “<abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Lionel Whyte-Melville, Bloomsbury Square, London.” This card he had inveigled from a tourist at the King Edward Hotel. Corny stepped up to the man and presented it with a correctly formal air.</p>
+			<p>Corny took out his card case and looked over his collection. He selected one that read: “<abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R.</abbr> Lionel Whyte-Melville, Bloomsbury Square, London.” This card he had inveigled from a tourist at the King Edward Hotel. Corny stepped up to the man and presented it with a correctly formal air.</p>
 			<p>“May I ask why I am selected for the honour?” asked the lady’s escort.</p>
 			<p>Now, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Corny Brannigan had a very wise habit of saying little during his imitations of the Caliph of Bagdad. The advice of Lord Chesterfield: “Wear a black coat and hold your tongue,” he believed in without having heard. But now speech was demanded and required of him.</p>
 			<p>“No gent,” said Corny, “would talk to a lady like you done. Fie upon you, Willie! Even if she happens to be your wife you ought to have more respect for your clothes than to chin her back that way. Maybe it ain’t my butt-in, but it goes, anyhow⁠—you strike me as bein’ a whole lot to the wrong.”</p>

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@@ -34,7 +34,7 @@
 			<p>“Well, sir, we finally got in shape. Over the front door was carved the words: ‘The World’s University; Peters &amp; Tucker, Patrons and Proprietors. And when September the first got a cross-mark on the calendar, the come-ons begun to roll in. First the faculty got off the tri-weekly express from Tucson. They was mostly young, spectacled, and redheaded, with sentiments divided between ambition and food. Andy and me got ’em billeted on the Floresvillians and then laid for the students.</p>
 			<p>“They came in bunches. We had advertised the University in all the state papers, and it did us good to see how quick the country responded. Two hundred and nineteen husky lads aging along from 18 up to chin whiskers answered the clarion call of free education. They ripped open that town, sponged the seams, turned it, lined it with new mohair; and you couldn’t have told it from Harvard or Goldfields at the March term of court.</p>
 			<p>“They marched up and down the streets waving flags with the World’s University colors⁠—ultramarine and blue⁠—and they certainly made a lively place of Floresville. Andy made them a speech from the balcony of the Skyview Hotel, and the whole town was out celebrating.</p>
-			<p>“In about two weeks the professors got the students disarmed and herded into classes. I don’t believe there’s any pleasure equal to being a philanthropist. Me and Andy bought high silk hats and pretended to dodge the two reporters of the Floresville Gazette. The paper had a man to kodak us whenever we appeared on the street, and ran our pictures every week over the column headed ‘Educational Notes.’ Andy lectured twice a week at the University; and afterward I would rise and tell a humorous story. Once the Gazette printed my pictures with Abe Lincoln on one side and Marshall <abbr class="name">P.</abbr> Wilder on the other.</p>
+			<p>“In about two weeks the professors got the students disarmed and herded into classes. I don’t believe there’s any pleasure equal to being a philanthropist. Me and Andy bought high silk hats and pretended to dodge the two reporters of the Floresville Gazette. The paper had a man to kodak us whenever we appeared on the street, and ran our pictures every week over the column headed ‘Educational Notes.’ Andy lectured twice a week at the University; and afterward I would rise and tell a humorous story. Once the Gazette printed my pictures with Abe Lincoln on one side and Marshall <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">P.</abbr> Wilder on the other.</p>
 			<p>“Andy was as interested in philanthropy as I was. We used to wake up of nights and tell each other new ideas for booming the University.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Andy,’ says I to him one day, ‘there’s something we overlooked. The boys ought to have dromedaries.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘What’s that?’ Andy asks.</p>

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@@ -28,7 +28,7 @@
 			<p>But tonight the pumpkin had turned to a coach and six. Terry O’Sullivan was a victorious Prince Charming, and Maggie Toole winged her first butterfly flight. And though our tropes of fairyland be mixed with those of entomology they shall not spill one drop of ambrosia from the rose-crowned melody of Maggie’s one perfect night.</p>
 			<p>The girls besieged her for introductions to her “fellow.” The Clover Leaf young men, after two years of blindness, suddenly perceived charms in Miss Toole. They flexed their compelling muscles before her and bespoke her for the dance.</p>
 			<p>Thus she scored; but to Terry O’Sullivan the honours of the evening fell thick and fast. He shook his curls; he smiled and went easily through the seven motions for acquiring grace in your own room before an open window ten minutes each day. He danced like a faun; he introduced manner and style and atmosphere; his words came trippingly upon his tongue, and⁠—he waltzed twice in succession with the paper-box girl that Dempsey Donovan brought.</p>
-			<p>Dempsey was the leader of the association. He wore a dress suit, and could chin the bar twice with one hand. He was one of “Big Mike” O’Sullivan’s lieutenants, and was never troubled by trouble. No cop dared to arrest him. Whenever he broke a pushcart man’s head or shot a member of the Heinrick <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Sweeney Outing and Literary Association in the kneecap, an officer would drop around and say:</p>
+			<p>Dempsey was the leader of the association. He wore a dress suit, and could chin the bar twice with one hand. He was one of “Big Mike” O’Sullivan’s lieutenants, and was never troubled by trouble. No cop dared to arrest him. Whenever he broke a pushcart man’s head or shot a member of the Heinrick <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">B.</abbr> Sweeney Outing and Literary Association in the kneecap, an officer would drop around and say:</p>
 			<p>“The Cap’n ’d like to see ye a few minutes round to the office whin ye have time, Dempsey, me boy.”</p>
 			<p>But there would be sundry gentlemen there with large gold fob chains and black cigars; and somebody would tell a funny story, and then Dempsey would go back and work half an hour with the six-pound dumbbells. So, doing a tightrope act on a wire stretched across Niagara was a safe terpsichorean performance compared with waltzing twice with Dempsey Donovan’s paper-box girl. At 10 o’clock the jolly round face of “Big Mike” O’Sullivan shone at the door for five minutes upon the scene. He always looked in for five minutes, smiled at the girls and handed out real perfectos to the delighted boys.</p>
 			<p>Dempsey Donovan was at his elbow instantly, talking rapidly. “Big Mike” looked carefully at the dancers, smiled, shook his head and departed.</p>

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@@ -20,7 +20,7 @@
 			<p>Grainger escaped the meringue. As he waited his spirits sank still lower. The atmosphere of the room was as vapid as a zephyr wandering over a Vesuvian lava-bed. Relics of some feast lay about the room, scattered in places where even a prowling cat would have been surprised to find them. A straggling cluster of deep red roses in a marmalade jar bowed their heads over tobacco ashes and unwashed goblets. A chafing-dish stood on the piano; a leaf of sheet music supported a stack of sandwiches in a chair.</p>
 			<p>Mary came in, dressed and radiant. Her gown was of that thin, black fabric whose name through the change of a single vowel seems to summon visions ranging between the extremes of man’s experience. Spelled with an “ê” it belongs to Gallic witchery and diaphanous dreams; with an “a” it drapes lamentation and woe.</p>
 			<p>That evening they went to the Café André. And, as people would confide to you in a whisper that André’s was the only truly Bohemian restaurant in town, it may be well to follow them.</p>
-			<p>André began his professional career as a waiter in a Bowery ten-cent eating-house. Had you seen him there you would have called him tough⁠—to yourself. Not aloud, for he would have “soaked” you as quickly as he would have soaked his thumb in your coffee. He saved money and started a basement <span xml:lang="fr">table d’hôte</span> in Eighth (or Ninth) Street. One afternoon André drank too much absinthe. He announced to his startled family that he was the Grand Llama of Tibet, therefore requiring an empty audience hall in which to be worshiped. He moved all the tables and chairs from the restaurant into the back yard, wrapped a red tablecloth around himself, and sat on a stepladder for a throne. When the diners began to arrive, madame, in a flurry of despair, laid cloths and ushered them, trembling, outside. Between the tables clotheslines were stretched, bearing the family wash. A party of Bohemia hunters greeted the artistic innovation with shrieks and acclamations of delight. That week’s washing was not taken in for two years. When André came to his senses he had the menu printed on stiffly starched cuffs, and served the ices in little wooden tubs. Next he took down his sign and darkened the front of the house. When you went there to dine you fumbled for an electric button and pressed it. A lookout slid open a panel in the door, looked at you suspiciously, and asked if you were acquainted with Senator Herodotus <abbr class="name">Q.</abbr> McMilligan, of the Chickasaw Nation. If you were, you were admitted and allowed to dine. If you were not, you were admitted and allowed to dine. There you have one of the abiding principles of Bohemia. When André had accumulated $20,000 he moved uptown, near Broadway, in the fierce light that beats upon the thrown-down. There we find him and leave him, with customers in pearls and automobile veils, striving to catch his excellently graduated nod of recognition.</p>
+			<p>André began his professional career as a waiter in a Bowery ten-cent eating-house. Had you seen him there you would have called him tough⁠—to yourself. Not aloud, for he would have “soaked” you as quickly as he would have soaked his thumb in your coffee. He saved money and started a basement <span xml:lang="fr">table d’hôte</span> in Eighth (or Ninth) Street. One afternoon André drank too much absinthe. He announced to his startled family that he was the Grand Llama of Tibet, therefore requiring an empty audience hall in which to be worshiped. He moved all the tables and chairs from the restaurant into the back yard, wrapped a red tablecloth around himself, and sat on a stepladder for a throne. When the diners began to arrive, madame, in a flurry of despair, laid cloths and ushered them, trembling, outside. Between the tables clotheslines were stretched, bearing the family wash. A party of Bohemia hunters greeted the artistic innovation with shrieks and acclamations of delight. That week’s washing was not taken in for two years. When André came to his senses he had the menu printed on stiffly starched cuffs, and served the ices in little wooden tubs. Next he took down his sign and darkened the front of the house. When you went there to dine you fumbled for an electric button and pressed it. A lookout slid open a panel in the door, looked at you suspiciously, and asked if you were acquainted with Senator Herodotus <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">Q.</abbr> McMilligan, of the Chickasaw Nation. If you were, you were admitted and allowed to dine. If you were not, you were admitted and allowed to dine. There you have one of the abiding principles of Bohemia. When André had accumulated $20,000 he moved uptown, near Broadway, in the fierce light that beats upon the thrown-down. There we find him and leave him, with customers in pearls and automobile veils, striving to catch his excellently graduated nod of recognition.</p>
 			<p>There is a large round table in the northeast corner of André’s at which six can sit. To this table Grainger and Mary Adrian made their way. Kappelman and Reeves were already there. And Miss Tooker, who designed the May cover for the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Ladies’ Notathome Magazine</i>. And <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Pothunter, who never drank anything but black and white highballs, being in mourning for her husband, who⁠—oh, I’ve forgotten what he did⁠—died, like as not.</p>
 			<p>Spaghetti-weary reader, wouldst take one penny-in-the-slot peep into the fair land of Bohemia? Then look; and when you think you have seen it you have not. And it is neither thimbleriggery nor astigmatism.</p>
 			<p>The walls of the Café André were covered with original sketches by the artists who furnished much of the color and sound of the place. Fair woman furnished the theme for the bulk of the drawings. When you say “sirens and siphons” you come near to estimating the alliterative atmosphere of André’s.</p>

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@@ -10,12 +10,12 @@
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Diamond of Kali</h2>
 			<p>The original news item concerning the diamond of the goddess Kali was handed in to the city editor. He smiled and held it for a moment above the wastebasket. Then he laid it back on his desk and said: “Try the Sunday people; they might work something out of it.”</p>
 			<p>The Sunday editor glanced the item over and said: “H’m!” Afterward he sent for a reporter and expanded his comment.</p>
-			<p>“You might see General Ludlow,” he said, “and make a story out of this if you can. Diamond stories are a drug; but this one is big enough to be found by a scrubwoman wrapped up in a piece of newspaper and tucked under the corner of the hall linoleum. Find out first if the General has a daughter who intends to go on the stage. If not, you can go ahead with the story. Run cuts of the Kohinoor and <abbr class="name">J. P.</abbr> Morgan’s collection, and work in pictures of the Kimberley mines and Barney Barnato. Fill in with a tabulated comparison of the values of diamonds, radium, and veal cutlets since the meat strike; and let it run to a half page.”</p>
+			<p>“You might see General Ludlow,” he said, “and make a story out of this if you can. Diamond stories are a drug; but this one is big enough to be found by a scrubwoman wrapped up in a piece of newspaper and tucked under the corner of the hall linoleum. Find out first if the General has a daughter who intends to go on the stage. If not, you can go ahead with the story. Run cuts of the Kohinoor and <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J. P.</abbr> Morgan’s collection, and work in pictures of the Kimberley mines and Barney Barnato. Fill in with a tabulated comparison of the values of diamonds, radium, and veal cutlets since the meat strike; and let it run to a half page.”</p>
 			<p>On the following day the reporter turned in his story. The Sunday editor let his eye sprint along its lines. “H’m!” he said again. This time the copy went into the wastebasket with scarcely a flutter.</p>
 			<p>The reporter stiffened a little around the lips; but he was whistling softly and contentedly between his teeth when I went over to talk with him about it an hour later.</p>
 			<p>“I don’t blame the ‘old man’,” said he, magnanimously, “for cutting it out. It did sound like funny business; but it happened exactly as I wrote it. Say, why don’t you fish that story out of the <abbr>w.-b.</abbr> and use it? Seems to me it’s as good as the tommyrot you write.”</p>
 			<p>I accepted the tip, and if you read further you will learn the facts about the diamond of the goddess Kali as vouched for by one of the most reliable reporters on the staff.</p>
-			<p>Gen. Marcellus <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Ludlow lives in one of those decaying but venerated old redbrick mansions in the West Twenties. The General is a member of an old New York family that does not advertise. He is a globetrotter by birth, a gentleman by predilection, a millionaire by the mercy of Heaven, and a connoisseur of precious stones by occupation.</p>
+			<p>Gen. Marcellus <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">B.</abbr> Ludlow lives in one of those decaying but venerated old redbrick mansions in the West Twenties. The General is a member of an old New York family that does not advertise. He is a globetrotter by birth, a gentleman by predilection, a millionaire by the mercy of Heaven, and a connoisseur of precious stones by occupation.</p>
 			<p>The reporter was admitted promptly when he made himself known at the General’s residence at about eight thirty on the evening that he received the assignment. In the magnificent library he was greeted by the distinguished traveller and connoisseur, a tall, erect gentleman in the early fifties, with a nearly white moustache, and a bearing so soldierly that one perceived in him scarcely a trace of the National Guardsman. His weather-beaten countenance lit up with a charming smile of interest when the reporter made known his errand.</p>
 			<p>“Ah, you have heard of my latest find. I shall be glad to show you what I conceive to be one of the six most valuable blue diamonds in existence.”</p>
 			<p>The General opened a small safe in a corner of the library and brought forth a plush-covered box. Opening this, he exposed to the reporter’s bewildered gaze a huge and brilliant diamond⁠—nearly as large as a hailstone.</p>
@@ -27,7 +27,7 @@
 			<p>“When the moon rose the depression in the clearing was suddenly filled with hundreds of shadowy, swiftly gliding forms. Then a door opened in the temple, exposing a brightly illuminated image of the goddess Kali, before which a white-robed priest began a barbarous incantation, while the tribe of worshippers prostrated themselves upon the earth.</p>
 			<p>“But what interested me most was the central eye of the huge wooden idol. I could see by its flashing brilliancy that it was an immense diamond of the purest water.</p>
 			<p>“After the rites were concluded the Thugs slipped away into the forest as silently as they had come. The priest stood for a few minutes in the door of the temple enjoying the cool of the night before closing his rather warm quarters. Suddenly a dark, lithe shadow slipped down into the hollow, leaped upon the priest; and struck him down with a glittering knife. Then the murderer sprang at the image of the goddess like a cat and pried out the glowing central eye of Kali with his weapon. Straight toward me he ran with his royal prize. When he was within two paces I rose to my feet and struck him with all my force between the eyes. He rolled over senseless and the magnificent jewel fell from his hand. That is the splendid blue diamond you have just seen⁠—a stone worthy of a monarch’s crown.”</p>
-			<p>“That’s a corking story,” said the reporter. “That decanter is exactly like the one that John <abbr class="name">W.</abbr> Gates always sets out during an interview.”</p>
+			<p>“That’s a corking story,” said the reporter. “That decanter is exactly like the one that John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W.</abbr> Gates always sets out during an interview.”</p>
 			<p>“Pardon me,” said General Ludlow, “for forgetting hospitality in the excitement of my narrative. Help yourself.”</p>
 			<p>“Here’s looking at you,” said the reporter.</p>
 			<p>“What I am afraid of now,” said the General, lowering his voice, “is that I may be robbed of the diamond. The jewel that formed an eye of their goddess is their most sacred symbol. Somehow the tribe suspected me of having it; and members of the band have followed me half around the earth. They are the most cunning and cruel fanatics in the world, and their religious vows would compel them to assassinate the unbeliever who has desecrated their sacred treasure.</p>
@@ -68,7 +68,7 @@
 			<p>“Come on, Reddy,” said one. “Let’s go frisk the old ’un. He’s been showin’ a sparkler as big as a hen egg all around Eighth Avenue for two weeks past.”</p>
 			<p>“Not on your silhouette,” decided Reddy. “You see ’em rallyin’ round The Pump? They’re friends of Bill’s. Bill won’t stand for nothin’ of this kind in his district since he got that bid to Esopus.”</p>
 			<p>This exhausts the facts concerning the Kali diamond. But it is deemed not inconsequent to close with the following brief (paid) item that appeared two days later in a morning paper.</p>
-			<p>“It is rumored that a niece of Gen. Marcellus <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Ludlow, of New York City, will appear on the stage next season.</p>
+			<p>“It is rumored that a niece of Gen. Marcellus <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">B.</abbr> Ludlow, of New York City, will appear on the stage next season.</p>
 			<p>“Her diamonds are said to be extremely valuable and of much historic interest.”</p>
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@@ -10,7 +10,7 @@
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Discounters of Money</h2>
 			<p>The spectacle of the money-caliphs of the present day going about Bagdad-on-the-Subway trying to relieve the wants of the people is enough to make the great Al Raschid turn Haroun in his grave. If not so, then the assertion should do so, the real caliph having been a wit and a scholar and therefore a hater of puns.</p>
 			<p>How properly to alleviate the troubles of the poor is one of the greatest troubles of the rich. But one thing agreed upon by all professional philanthropists is that you must never hand over any cash to your subject. The poor are notoriously temperamental; and when they get money they exhibit a strong tendency to spend it for stuffed olives and enlarged crayon portraits instead of giving it to the instalment man.</p>
-			<p>And still, old Haroun had some advantages as an eleemosynarian. He took around with him on his rambles his vizier, Giafar (a vizier is a composite of a chauffeur, a secretary of state, and a night-and-day bank), and old Uncle Mesrour, his executioner, who toted a snickersnee. With this entourage a caliphing tour could hardly fail to be successful. Have you noticed lately any newspaper articles headed, “What Shall We Do With Our Ex-Presidents?” Well, now, suppose that <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Carnegie could engage <em>him</em> and Joe Gans to go about assisting in the distribution of free libraries? Do you suppose any town would have had the hardihood to refuse one? That caliphalous combination would cause two libraries to grow where there had been only one set of <abbr class="name">E. P.</abbr> Roe’s works before.</p>
+			<p>And still, old Haroun had some advantages as an eleemosynarian. He took around with him on his rambles his vizier, Giafar (a vizier is a composite of a chauffeur, a secretary of state, and a night-and-day bank), and old Uncle Mesrour, his executioner, who toted a snickersnee. With this entourage a caliphing tour could hardly fail to be successful. Have you noticed lately any newspaper articles headed, “What Shall We Do With Our Ex-Presidents?” Well, now, suppose that <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Carnegie could engage <em>him</em> and Joe Gans to go about assisting in the distribution of free libraries? Do you suppose any town would have had the hardihood to refuse one? That caliphalous combination would cause two libraries to grow where there had been only one set of <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E. P.</abbr> Roe’s works before.</p>
 			<p>But, as I said, the money-caliphs are handicapped. They have the idea that earth has no sorrow that dough cannot heal; and they rely upon it solely. Al Raschid administered justice, rewarding the deserving, and punished whomsoever he disliked on the spot. He was the originator of the short-story contest. Whenever he succoured any chance pickup in the bazaars he always made the succouree tell the sad story of his life. If the narrative lacked construction, style, and esprit he commanded his vizier to dole him out a couple of thousand ten-dollar notes of the First National Bank of the Bosphorus, or else gave him a soft job as Keeper of the Bird Seed for the Bulbuls in the Imperial Gardens. If the story was a crackerjack, he had Mesrour, the executioner, whack off his head. The report that Haroun Al Raschid is yet alive and is editing the magazine that your grandmother used to subscribe for lacks confirmation.</p>
 			<p>And now follows the Story of the Millionaire, the Inefficacious Increment, and the Babes Drawn from the Wood.</p>
 			<p>Young Howard Pilkins, the millionaire, got his money ornithologically. He was a shrewd judge of storks, and got in on the ground floor at the residence of his immediate ancestors, the Pilkins Brewing Company. For his mother was a partner in the business. Finally old man Pilkins died from a torpid liver, and then <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Pilkins died from worry on account of torpid delivery-wagons⁠—and there you have young Howard Pilkins with 4,000,000; and a good fellow at that. He was an agreeable, modestly arrogant young man, who implicitly believed that money could buy anything that the world had to offer. And Bagdad-on-the-Subway for a long time did everything possible to encourage his belief.</p>

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@@ -29,7 +29,7 @@
 			<p>So, of the seven condemned only three called their farewells to Murray as he marched down the corridor between the two guards⁠—Bonifacio, Marvin, who had killed a guard while trying to escape from the prison, and Bassett, the train-robber, who was driven to it because the express-messenger wouldn’t raise his hands when ordered to do so. The remaining four smoldered, silent, in their cells, no doubt feeling their social ostracism in Limbo Lane society more keenly than they did the memory of their less picturesque offences against the law.</p>
 			<p>Murray wondered at his own calmness and nearly indifference. In the execution room were about twenty men, a congregation made up of prison officers, newspaper reporters, and lookers-on who had succeeded</p>
 			<hr/>
-			<p>Here, in the very middle of a sentence, the hand of Death interrupted the telling of <abbr class="name">O.</abbr> Henry’s last story. He had planned to make this story different from his others, the beginning of a new series in a style he had not previously attempted. “I want to show the public,” he said, “that I can write something new⁠—new for me, I mean⁠—a story without slang, a straightforward dramatic plot treated in a way that will come nearer my idea of real story-writing.” Before starting to write the present story, he outlined briefly how he intended to develop it: Murray, the criminal accused and convicted of the brutal murder of his sweetheart⁠—a murder prompted by jealous rage⁠—at first faces the death penalty, calm, and, to all outward appearances, indifferent to his fate. As he nears the electric chair he is overcome by a revulsion of feeling. He is left dazed, stupefied, stunned. The entire scene in the death-chamber⁠—the witnesses, the spectators, the preparations for execution⁠—become unreal to him. The thought flashes through his brain that a terrible mistake is being made. Why is he being strapped to the chair? What has he done? What crime has he committed? In the few moments while the straps are being adjusted a vision comes to him. He dreams a dream. He sees a little country cottage, bright, sunlit, nestling in a bower of flowers. A woman is there, and a little child. He speaks with them and finds that they are his wife, his child⁠—and the cottage their home. So, after all, it is a mistake. Someone has frightfully, irretrievably blundered. The accusation, the trial, the conviction, the sentence to death in the electric chair⁠—all a dream. He takes his wife in his arms and kisses the child. Yes, here is happiness. It was a dream. Then⁠—at a sign from the prison warden the fatal current is turned on.</p>
+			<p>Here, in the very middle of a sentence, the hand of Death interrupted the telling of <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">O.</abbr> Henry’s last story. He had planned to make this story different from his others, the beginning of a new series in a style he had not previously attempted. “I want to show the public,” he said, “that I can write something new⁠—new for me, I mean⁠—a story without slang, a straightforward dramatic plot treated in a way that will come nearer my idea of real story-writing.” Before starting to write the present story, he outlined briefly how he intended to develop it: Murray, the criminal accused and convicted of the brutal murder of his sweetheart⁠—a murder prompted by jealous rage⁠—at first faces the death penalty, calm, and, to all outward appearances, indifferent to his fate. As he nears the electric chair he is overcome by a revulsion of feeling. He is left dazed, stupefied, stunned. The entire scene in the death-chamber⁠—the witnesses, the spectators, the preparations for execution⁠—become unreal to him. The thought flashes through his brain that a terrible mistake is being made. Why is he being strapped to the chair? What has he done? What crime has he committed? In the few moments while the straps are being adjusted a vision comes to him. He dreams a dream. He sees a little country cottage, bright, sunlit, nestling in a bower of flowers. A woman is there, and a little child. He speaks with them and finds that they are his wife, his child⁠—and the cottage their home. So, after all, it is a mistake. Someone has frightfully, irretrievably blundered. The accusation, the trial, the conviction, the sentence to death in the electric chair⁠—all a dream. He takes his wife in his arms and kisses the child. Yes, here is happiness. It was a dream. Then⁠—at a sign from the prison warden the fatal current is turned on.</p>
 			<p>Murray had dreamed the wrong dream.</p>
 		</article>
 	</body>

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@@ -12,16 +12,16 @@
 			<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>
-			<p>The battle is to decide whether you shall become a New Yorker or turn the rankest outlander and Philistine. You must be one or the other. You cannot remain neutral. You must be for or against⁠—lover or enemy⁠—bosom friend or outcast. And, oh, the city is a general in the ring. Not only by blows does it seek to subdue you. It woos you to its heart with the subtlety of a siren. It is a combination of Delilah, green Chartreuse, Beethoven, chloral and John <abbr class="name">L.</abbr> in his best days.</p>
+			<p>The battle is to decide whether you shall become a New Yorker or turn the rankest outlander and Philistine. You must be one or the other. You cannot remain neutral. You must be for or against⁠—lover or enemy⁠—bosom friend or outcast. And, oh, the city is a general in the ring. Not only by blows does it seek to subdue you. It woos you to its heart with the subtlety of a siren. It is a combination of Delilah, green Chartreuse, Beethoven, chloral and John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">L.</abbr> in his best days.</p>
 			<p>In other cities you may wander and abide as a stranger man as long as you please. You may live in Chicago until your hair whitens, and be a citizen and still prate of beans if Boston mothered you, and without rebuke. You may become a civic pillar in any other town but Knickerbocker’s, and all the time publicly sneering at its buildings, comparing them with the architecture of Colonel Telfair’s residence in Jackson, Miss., whence you hail, and you will not be set upon. But in New York you must be either a New Yorker or an invader of a modern Troy, concealed in the wooden horse of your conceited provincialism. And this dreary preamble is only to introduce to you the unimportant figures of William and Jack.</p>
 			<p>They came out of the West together, where they had been friends. They came to dig their fortunes out of the big city.</p>
 			<p>Father Knickerbocker met them at the ferry, giving one a right-hander on the nose and the other an uppercut with his left, just to let them know that the fight was on.</p>
 			<p>William was for business; Jack was for Art. Both were young and ambitious; so they countered and clinched. I think they were from Nebraska or possibly Missouri or Minnesota. Anyhow, they were out for success and scraps and scads, and they tackled the city like two Lochinvars with brass knucks and a pull at the City Hall.</p>
 			<p>Four years afterward William and Jack met at luncheon. The business man blew in like a March wind, hurled his silk hat at a waiter, dropped into the chair that was pushed under him, seized the bill of fare, and had ordered as far as cheese before the artist had time to do more than nod. After the nod a humorous smile came into his eyes.</p>
 			<p>“Billy,” he said, “you’re done for. The city has gobbled you up. It has taken you and cut you to its pattern and stamped you with its brand. You are so nearly like ten thousand men I have seen today that you couldn’t be picked out from them if it weren’t for your laundry marks.”</p>
-			<p>“Camembert,” finished William. “What’s that? Oh, you’ve still got your hammer out for New York, have you? Well, little old Noisyville-on-the-Subway is good enough for me. It’s giving me mine. And, say, I used to think the West was the whole round world⁠—only slightly flattened at the poles whenever Bryan ran. I used to yell myself hoarse about the free expense, and hang my hat on the horizon, and say cutting things in the grocery to little soap drummers from the East. But I’d never seen New York, then, Jack. Me for it from the rathskellers up. Sixth Avenue is the West to me now. Have you heard this fellow Crusoe sing? The desert isle for him, I say, but my wife made me go. Give me May Irwin or <abbr class="name">E. S.</abbr> Willard any time.”</p>
+			<p>“Camembert,” finished William. “What’s that? Oh, you’ve still got your hammer out for New York, have you? Well, little old Noisyville-on-the-Subway is good enough for me. It’s giving me mine. And, say, I used to think the West was the whole round world⁠—only slightly flattened at the poles whenever Bryan ran. I used to yell myself hoarse about the free expense, and hang my hat on the horizon, and say cutting things in the grocery to little soap drummers from the East. But I’d never seen New York, then, Jack. Me for it from the rathskellers up. Sixth Avenue is the West to me now. Have you heard this fellow Crusoe sing? The desert isle for him, I say, but my wife made me go. Give me May Irwin or <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E. S.</abbr> Willard any time.”</p>
 			<p>“Poor Billy,” said the artist, delicately fingering a cigarette. “You remember, when we were on our way to the East how we talked about this great, wonderful city, and how we meant to conquer it and never let it get the best of us? We were going to be just the same fellows we had always been, and never let it master us. It has downed you, old man. You have changed from a maverick into a butterick.”</p>
-			<p>“Don’t see exactly what you are driving at,” said William. “I don’t wear an alpaca coat with blue trousers and a seersucker vest on dress occasions, like I used to do at home. You talk about being cut to a pattern⁠—well, ain’t the pattern all right? When you’re in Rome you’ve got to do as the Dagoes do. This town seems to me to have other alleged metropolises skinned to flag stations. According to the railroad schedule I’ve got in mind, Chicago and Saint Jo and Paris, France, are asterisk stops⁠—which means you wave a red flag and get on every other Tuesday. I like this little suburb of Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson. There’s something or somebody doing all the time. I’m clearing $8,000 a year selling automatic pumps, and I’m living like kings-up. Why, yesterday, I was introduced to John <abbr class="name">W.</abbr> Gates. I took an auto ride with a wine agent’s sister. I saw two men run over by a street car, and I seen Edna May play in the evening. Talk about the West, why, the other night I woke everybody up in the hotel hollering. I dreamed I was walking on a board sidewalk in Oshkosh. What have you got against this town, Jack? There’s only one thing in it that I don’t care for, and that’s a ferryboat.”</p>
+			<p>“Don’t see exactly what you are driving at,” said William. “I don’t wear an alpaca coat with blue trousers and a seersucker vest on dress occasions, like I used to do at home. You talk about being cut to a pattern⁠—well, ain’t the pattern all right? When you’re in Rome you’ve got to do as the Dagoes do. This town seems to me to have other alleged metropolises skinned to flag stations. According to the railroad schedule I’ve got in mind, Chicago and Saint Jo and Paris, France, are asterisk stops⁠—which means you wave a red flag and get on every other Tuesday. I like this little suburb of Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson. There’s something or somebody doing all the time. I’m clearing $8,000 a year selling automatic pumps, and I’m living like kings-up. Why, yesterday, I was introduced to John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W.</abbr> Gates. I took an auto ride with a wine agent’s sister. I saw two men run over by a street car, and I seen Edna May play in the evening. Talk about the West, why, the other night I woke everybody up in the hotel hollering. I dreamed I was walking on a board sidewalk in Oshkosh. What have you got against this town, Jack? There’s only one thing in it that I don’t care for, and that’s a ferryboat.”</p>
 			<p>The artist gazed dreamily at the cartridge paper on the wall. “This town,” said he, “is a leech. It drains the blood of the country. Whoever comes to it accepts a challenge to a duel. Abandoning the figure of the leech, it is a juggernaut, a Moloch, a monster to which the innocence, the genius, and the beauty of the land must pay tribute. Hand to hand every newcomer must struggle with the leviathan. You’ve lost, Billy. It shall never conquer me. I hate it as one hates sin or pestilence or⁠—the color work in a ten-cent magazine. I despise its very vastness and power. It has the poorest millionaires, the littlest great men, the lowest skyscrapers, the dolefulest pleasures of any town I ever saw. It has caught you, old man, but I will never run beside its chariot wheels. It glosses itself as the Chinaman glosses his collars. Give me the domestic finish. I could stand a town ruled by wealth or one ruled by an aristocracy; but this is one controlled by its lowest ingredients. Claiming culture, it is the crudest; asseverating its preeminence, it is the basest; denying all outside values and virtue, it is the narrowest. Give me the pure and the open heart of the West country. I would go back there tomorrow if I could.”</p>
 			<p>“Don’t you like this filet mignon?” said William. “Shucks, now, what’s the use to knock the town! It’s the greatest ever. I couldn’t sell one automatic pump between Harrisburg and Tommy O’Keefe’s saloon, in Sacramento, where I sell twenty here. And have you seen Sara Bernhardt in ‘Andrew Mack’ yet?”</p>
 			<p>“The town’s got you, Billy,” said Jack.</p>

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@@ -39,7 +39,7 @@
 			<p>“Oh, see!” exclaimed Miss Lydia, nudging his arm, and pointing to her programme.</p>
 			<p>The major put on his glasses and read the line in the cast of characters that her finger indicated.</p>
 			<blockquote>
-				<p><abbr>Col.</abbr> Webster Calhoun.⁠ ⁠… <abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Hopkins Hargraves.</p>
+				<p><abbr>Col.</abbr> Webster Calhoun.⁠ ⁠… <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H.</abbr> Hopkins Hargraves.</p>
 			</blockquote>
 			<p>“It’s our <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hargraves,” said Miss Lydia. “It must be his first appearance in what he calls ‘the legitimate.’ I’m so glad for him.”</p>
 			<p>Not until the second act did Col. Webster Calhoun appear upon the stage. When he made his entry Major Talbot gave an audible sniff, glared at him, and seemed to freeze solid. Miss Lydia uttered a little, ambiguous squeak and crumpled her programme in her hand. For Colonel Calhoun was made up as nearly resembling Major Talbot as one pea does another. The long, thin white hair, curly at the ends, the aristocratic beak of a nose, the crumpled, wide, ravelling shirt front, the string tie, with the bow nearly under one ear, were almost exactly duplicated. And then, to clinch the imitation, he wore the twin to the major’s supposed to be unparalleled coat. High-collared, baggy, empire-waisted, ample-skirted, hanging a foot lower in front than behind, the garment could have been designed from no other pattern. From then on, the major and Miss Lydia sat bewitched, and saw the counterfeit presentment of a haughty Talbot “dragged,” as the major afterward expressed it, “through the slanderous mire of a corrupt stage.”</p>
@@ -118,7 +118,7 @@
 				<p>There is something else I wanted you to know. I guess you’d better not tell Major Talbot. I was anxious to make him some amends for the great help he was to me in studying the part, and for the bad humour he was in about it. He refused to let me, so I did it anyhow. I could easily spare the three hundred.</p>
 				<footer>
 					<p epub:type="z3998:valediction">Sincerely yours,</p>
-					<p epub:type="z3998:signature"><abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Hopkins Hargraves,</p>
+					<p epub:type="z3998:signature"><abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H.</abbr> Hopkins Hargraves,</p>
 					<p epub:type="z3998:postscript"><abbr class="initialism">P.S.</abbr> How did I play Uncle Mose?</p>
 				</footer>
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@@ -14,15 +14,15 @@
 			<p>The Governor’s walks up Lee Avenue, the principal street, developed in their course into a sort of memorial, triumphant procession. Everyone he met saluted him with profound respect. Many would remove their hats. Those who were honoured with his personal friendship would pause to shake hands, and then you would see exemplified the genuine beau ideal Southern courtesy.</p>
 			<p>Upon reaching the corner of the second square from the mansion, the Governor would pause. Another street crossed the venue there, and traffic, to the extent of several farmers’ wagons and a peddler’s cart or two, would rage about the junction. Then the falcon eye of General Deffenbaugh would perceive the situation, and the General would hasten, with ponderous solicitude, from his office in the First National Bank building to the assistance of his old friend.</p>
 			<p>When the two exchanged greetings the decay of modern manners would become accusingly apparent. The General’s bulky and commanding figure would bend lissomely at a point where you would have regarded its ability to do so with incredulity. The Governor would take the General’s arm and be piloted safely between the hay-wagons and the sprinkling-cart to the other side of the street. Proceeding to the post-office in the care of his friend, the esteemed statesmen would there hold an informal levee among the citizens who were come for their morning mail. Here, gathering two or three prominent in law, politics, or family, the pageant would make a stately progress along the Avenue, stopping at the Palace Hotel, where, perhaps, would be found upon the register the name of some guest deemed worthy of an introduction to the state’s venerable and illustrious son. If any such were found, an hour or two would be spent in recalling the faded glories of the Governor’s long-vanished administration.</p>
-			<p>On the return march the General would invariably suggest that, His Excellency being no doubt fatigued, it would be wise to recuperate for a few minutes at the Drug Emporium of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Appleby <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Fentress (an elegant gentleman, sir⁠—one of the Chatham County Fentresses⁠—so many of our best-blooded families have had to go into trade, sir, since the war).</p>
-			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Appleby <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Fentress was a connoisseur in fatigue. Indeed, if he had not been, his memory alone should have enabled him to prescribe, for the majestic invasion of his pharmacy was a casual happening that had surprised him almost daily for years. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fentress knew the formula of, and possessed the skill to compound, a certain potion antagonistic to fatigue, the salient ingredient of which he described (no doubt in pharmaceutical terms) as “genuine old handmade Clover Leaf ’59, Private Stock.”</p>
+			<p>On the return march the General would invariably suggest that, His Excellency being no doubt fatigued, it would be wise to recuperate for a few minutes at the Drug Emporium of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Appleby <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R.</abbr> Fentress (an elegant gentleman, sir⁠—one of the Chatham County Fentresses⁠—so many of our best-blooded families have had to go into trade, sir, since the war).</p>
+			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Appleby <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R.</abbr> Fentress was a connoisseur in fatigue. Indeed, if he had not been, his memory alone should have enabled him to prescribe, for the majestic invasion of his pharmacy was a casual happening that had surprised him almost daily for years. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fentress knew the formula of, and possessed the skill to compound, a certain potion antagonistic to fatigue, the salient ingredient of which he described (no doubt in pharmaceutical terms) as “genuine old handmade Clover Leaf ’59, Private Stock.”</p>
 			<p>Nor did the ceremony of administering the potion ever vary. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fentress would first compound two of the celebrated mixtures⁠—one for the Governor, and the other for the General to “sample.” Then the Governor would make this little speech in his high, piping, quavering voice:</p>
 			<p>“No, sir⁠—not one drop until you have prepared one for yourself and join us, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fentress. Your father, sir, was one of my most valued supporters and friends during My Administration, and any mark of esteem I can confer upon his son is not only a pleasure but a duty, sir.”</p>
 			<p>Blushing with delight at the royal condescension, the druggist would obey, and all would drink to the General’s toast: “The prosperity of our grand old state, gentlemen⁠—the memory of her glorious past⁠—the health of her Favourite Son.”</p>
 			<p>Someone of the Old Guard was always at hand to escort the Governor home. Sometimes the General’s business duties denied him the privilege, and then Judge Broomfield or Colonel Titus, or one of the Ashford County Slaughters would be on hand to perform the rite.</p>
 			<p>Such were the observances attendant upon the Governor’s morning stroll to the post-office. How much more magnificent, impressive, and spectacular, then, was the scene at public functions when the General would lead forth the silver-haired relic of former greatness, like some rare and fragile waxwork figure, and trumpet his pristine eminence to his fellow citizens!</p>
 			<p>General Deffenbaugh was the Voice of Elmville. Some said he was Elmville. At any rate, he had no competitor as the Mouthpiece. He owned enough stock in the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Daily Banner</i> to dictate its utterance, enough shares in the First National Bank to be the referee of its loans, and a war record that left him without a rival for first place at barbecues, school commencements, and Decoration Days. Besides these acquirements he was possessed with endowments. His personality was inspiring and triumphant. Undisputed sway had moulded him to the likeness of a fatted Roman emperor. The tones of his voice were not otherwise than clarion. To say that the General was public-spirited would fall short of doing him justice. He had spirit enough for a dozen publics. And as a sure foundation for it all, he had a heart that was big and stanch. Yes; General Deffenbaugh was Elmville.</p>
-			<p>One little incident that usually occurred during the Governor’s morning walk has had its chronicling delayed by more important matters. The procession was accustomed to halt before a small brick office on the Avenue, fronted by a short flight of steep wooden steps. A modest tin sign over the door bore the words: “<abbr class="name">Wm. B.</abbr> Pemberton: Attorney-at-Law.”</p>
+			<p>One little incident that usually occurred during the Governor’s morning walk has had its chronicling delayed by more important matters. The procession was accustomed to halt before a small brick office on the Avenue, fronted by a short flight of steep wooden steps. A modest tin sign over the door bore the words: “<abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">Wm. B.</abbr> Pemberton: Attorney-at-Law.”</p>
 			<p>Looking inside, the General would roar: “Hello, Billy, my boy.” The less distinguished members of the escort would call: “Morning, Billy.” The Governor would pipe: “Good morning, William.”</p>
 			<p>Then a patient-looking little man with hair turning gray along the temples would come down the steps and shake hands with each one of the party. All Elmville shook hands when it met.</p>
 			<p>The formalities concluded, the little man would go back to his table, heaped with law books and papers, while the procession would proceed.</p>
@@ -76,7 +76,7 @@
 			<p>Elmville watched and harked with bated breath. Never until now⁠—when a Northern President of the United States should clasp hands with ex-war-Governor Pemberton would the breach be entirely closed⁠—would the country be made one and indivisible⁠—no North, not much South, very little East, and no West to speak of. So Elmville excitedly scraped kalsomine from the walls of the Palace Hotel with its Sunday best, and waited for the Voice to speak.</p>
 			<p>And Billy! We had nearly forgotten Billy. He was cast for Son, and he waited patiently for his cue. He carried his “plug” in his hand, and felt serene. He admired his father’s striking air and pose. After all, it was a great deal to be a son of a man who could so gallantly hold the position of a cynosure for three generations.</p>
 			<p>General Deffenbaugh cleared his throat. Elmville opened its mouth, and squirmed. The chieftain with the kindly, fateful face was holding out his hand, smiling. Ex-war-Governor Pemberton extended his own across the chasm. But what was this the General was saying?</p>
-			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> President, allow me to present to you one who has the honour to be the father of our foremost, distinguished citizen, learned and honoured jurist, beloved townsman, and model Southern gentleman⁠—the Honourable William <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Pemberton.”</p>
+			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> President, allow me to present to you one who has the honour to be the father of our foremost, distinguished citizen, learned and honoured jurist, beloved townsman, and model Southern gentleman⁠—the Honourable William <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">B.</abbr> Pemberton.”</p>
 		</article>
 	</body>
 </html>

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@@ -31,7 +31,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Shucks, now,’ says I, in the mountain idiom, ‘don’t tell me there’s a man in Mount Nebo as bad as that.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Worse,’ says the storekeeper. ‘He steals hogs.’</p>
 			<p>“I think I will look up this <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Tatum; so a day or two after the constable turned him out I got acquainted with him and invited him out on the edge of town to sit on a log and talk business.</p>
-			<p>“What I wanted was a partner with a natural rural makeup to play a part in some little one-act outrages that I was going to book with the Pitfall &amp; Gin circuit in some of the Western towns; and this <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Tatum was born for the role as sure as nature cast Fairbanks for the stuff that kept Eliza from sinking into the river.</p>
+			<p>“What I wanted was a partner with a natural rural makeup to play a part in some little one-act outrages that I was going to book with the Pitfall &amp; Gin circuit in some of the Western towns; and this <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R.</abbr> Tatum was born for the role as sure as nature cast Fairbanks for the stuff that kept Eliza from sinking into the river.</p>
 			<p>“He was about the size of a first baseman; and he had ambiguous blue eyes like the china dog on the mantelpiece that Aunt Harriet used to play with when she was a child. His hair waved a little bit like the statue of the dinkus-thrower at the Vacation in Rome, but the color of it reminded you of the ‘Sunset in the Grand Canon, by an American Artist,’ that they hang over the stovepipe holes in the salongs. He was the Reub, without needing a touch. You’d have known him for one, even if you’d seen him on the vaudeville stage with one cotton suspender and a straw over his ear.</p>
 			<p>“I told him what I wanted, and found him ready to jump at the job.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Overlooking such a trivial little peccadillo as the habit of manslaughter,’ says I, ‘what have you accomplished in the way of indirect brigandage or nonactionable thriftiness that you could point to, with or without pride, as an evidence of your qualifications for the position?’</p>
@@ -56,7 +56,7 @@
 			<blockquote>
 				<p>The above amount will be paid, and no questions asked, for the return, alive and uninjured, of Beppo, the famous European educated pig, that strayed or was stolen from the sideshow tents of Binkley <abbr>Bros.</abbr>’ circus last night.</p>
 				<footer>
-					<p epub:type="z3998:signature"><abbr class="name">Geo. B.</abbr> Tapley, Business Manager.</p>
+					<p epub:type="z3998:signature"><abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">Geo. B.</abbr> Tapley, Business Manager.</p>
 					<p>At the circus grounds.</p>
 				</footer>
 			</blockquote>
@@ -83,14 +83,14 @@
 			<p>“I took the pig by the hind leg. He turned on a squeal like the steam calliope at the circus.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Let me tote him in for you,’ says Rufe; and he picks up the beast under one arm, holding his snout with the other hand, and packs him into my room like a sleeping baby.</p>
 			<p>“After breakfast Rufe, who had a chronic case of haberdashery ever since I got his trousseau, says he believes he will amble down to Misfitzky’s and look over some royal-purple socks. And then I got as busy as a one-armed man with the nettle-rash pasting on wallpaper. I found an old Negro man with an express wagon to hire; and we tied the pig in a sack and drove down to the circus grounds.</p>
-			<p>“I found George <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Tapley in a little tent with a window flap open. He was a fattish man with an immediate eye, in a black skullcap, with a four-ounce diamond screwed into the bosom of his red sweater.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Are you George <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Tapley?’ I asks.</p>
+			<p>“I found George <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">B.</abbr> Tapley in a little tent with a window flap open. He was a fattish man with an immediate eye, in a black skullcap, with a four-ounce diamond screwed into the bosom of his red sweater.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Are you George <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">B.</abbr> Tapley?’ I asks.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I swear it,’ says he.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Well, I’ve got it,’ says I.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Designate,’ says he. ‘Are you the guinea pigs for the Asiatic python or the alfalfa for the sacred buffalo?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Neither,’ says I. ‘I’ve got Beppo, the educated hog, in a sack in that wagon. I found him rooting up the flowers in my front yard this morning. I’ll take the five thousand dollars in large bills, if it’s handy.’</p>
-			<p>“George <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> hustles out of his tent, and asks me to follow. We went into one of the sideshows. In there was a jet black pig with a pink ribbon around his neck lying on some hay and eating carrots that a man was feeding to him.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Hey, Mac,’ calls <abbr class="name eoc">G. B.</abbr> ‘Nothing wrong with the worldwide this morning, is there?’</p>
+			<p>“George <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">B.</abbr> hustles out of his tent, and asks me to follow. We went into one of the sideshows. In there was a jet black pig with a pink ribbon around his neck lying on some hay and eating carrots that a man was feeding to him.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Hey, Mac,’ calls <abbr epub:type="z3998:personal-name" class="eoc">G. B.</abbr> ‘Nothing wrong with the worldwide this morning, is there?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Him? No,’ says the man. ‘He’s got an appetite like a chorus girl at 1 <abbr class="time eoc">a.m.</abbr>’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘How’d you get this pipe?’ says Tapley to me. ‘Eating too many pork chops last night?’</p>
 			<p>“I pulls out the paper and shows him the ad.</p>

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@@ -19,7 +19,7 @@
 				<p>Last Wednesday afternoon a well-dressed gentleman knocked at the door of Tictocq’s room in the hotel.</p>
 				<p>The detective opened the door.</p>
 				<p>“Monsieur Tictocq, I believe,” said the gentleman.</p>
-				<p>“You will see on the register that I sign my name <abbr class="name">Q. X.</abbr> Jones,” said Tictocq, “and gentlemen would understand that I wish to be known as such. If you do not like being referred to as no gentleman, I will give you satisfaction any time after July 1st, and fight Steve O’Donnell, John McDonald, and Ignatius Donnelly in the meantime if you desire.”</p>
+				<p>“You will see on the register that I sign my name <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">Q. X.</abbr> Jones,” said Tictocq, “and gentlemen would understand that I wish to be known as such. If you do not like being referred to as no gentleman, I will give you satisfaction any time after July 1st, and fight Steve O’Donnell, John McDonald, and Ignatius Donnelly in the meantime if you desire.”</p>
 				<p>“I do not mind it in the least,” said the gentleman. “In fact, I am accustomed to it. I am Chairman of the Democratic Executive Committee, Platform <abbr>No.</abbr> 2, and I have a friend in trouble. I knew you were Tictocq from your resemblance to yourself.”</p>
 				<p>“<i xml:lang="fr">Entrez vous</i>,” said the detective.</p>
 				<p>The gentleman entered and was handed a chair.</p>

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@@ -26,16 +26,16 @@
 			<p>I sat and read that book for four hours. All the wonders of education was compressed in it. I forgot the snow, and I forgot that me and old Idaho was on the outs. He was sitting still on a stool reading away with a kind of partly soft and partly mysterious look shining through his tanbark whiskers.</p>
 			<p>“Idaho,” says I, “what kind of a book is yours?”</p>
 			<p>Idaho must have forgot, too, for he answered moderate, without any slander or malignity.</p>
-			<p>“Why,” says he, “this here seems to be a volume by Homer <abbr class="name eoc">K. M.</abbr>”</p>
-			<p>“Homer <abbr class="name">K. M.</abbr> what?” I asks.</p>
-			<p>“Why, just Homer <abbr class="name">K. M.</abbr>,” says he.</p>
-			<p>“You’re a liar,” says I, a little riled that Idaho should try to put me up a tree. “No man is going ’round signing books with his initials. If it’s Homer <abbr class="name">K. M.</abbr> Spoopendyke, or Homer <abbr class="name">K. M.</abbr> McSweeney, or Homer <abbr class="name">K. M.</abbr> Jones, why don’t you say so like a man instead of biting off the end of it like a calf chewing off the tail of a shirt on a clothesline?”</p>
-			<p>“I put it to you straight, Sandy,” says Idaho, quiet. “It’s a poem book,” says he, “by Homer <abbr class="name eoc">K. M.</abbr> I couldn’t get colour out of it at first, but there’s a vein if you follow it up. I wouldn’t have missed this book for a pair of red blankets.”</p>
+			<p>“Why,” says he, “this here seems to be a volume by Homer <abbr epub:type="z3998:personal-name" class="eoc">K. M.</abbr>”</p>
+			<p>“Homer <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">K. M.</abbr> what?” I asks.</p>
+			<p>“Why, just Homer <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">K. M.</abbr>,” says he.</p>
+			<p>“You’re a liar,” says I, a little riled that Idaho should try to put me up a tree. “No man is going ’round signing books with his initials. If it’s Homer <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">K. M.</abbr> Spoopendyke, or Homer <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">K. M.</abbr> McSweeney, or Homer <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">K. M.</abbr> Jones, why don’t you say so like a man instead of biting off the end of it like a calf chewing off the tail of a shirt on a clothesline?”</p>
+			<p>“I put it to you straight, Sandy,” says Idaho, quiet. “It’s a poem book,” says he, “by Homer <abbr epub:type="z3998:personal-name" class="eoc">K. M.</abbr> I couldn’t get colour out of it at first, but there’s a vein if you follow it up. I wouldn’t have missed this book for a pair of red blankets.”</p>
 			<p>“You’re welcome to it,” says I. “What I want is a disinterested statement of facts for the mind to work on, and that’s what I seem to find in the book I’ve drawn.”</p>
-			<p>“What you’ve got,” says Idaho, “is statistics, the lowest grade of information that exists. They’ll poison your mind. Give me old <abbr class="name">K. M.</abbr>’s system of surmises. He seems to be a kind of a wine agent. His regular toast is ‘nothing doing,’ and he seems to have a grouch, but he keeps it so well lubricated with booze that his worst kicks sound like an invitation to split a quart. But it’s poetry,” says Idaho, “and I have sensations of scorn for that truck of yours that tries to convey sense in feet and inches. When it comes to explaining the instinct of philosophy through the art of nature, old <abbr class="name">K. M.</abbr> has got your man beat by drills, rows, paragraphs, chest measurement, and average annual rainfall.”</p>
+			<p>“What you’ve got,” says Idaho, “is statistics, the lowest grade of information that exists. They’ll poison your mind. Give me old <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">K. M.</abbr>’s system of surmises. He seems to be a kind of a wine agent. His regular toast is ‘nothing doing,’ and he seems to have a grouch, but he keeps it so well lubricated with booze that his worst kicks sound like an invitation to split a quart. But it’s poetry,” says Idaho, “and I have sensations of scorn for that truck of yours that tries to convey sense in feet and inches. When it comes to explaining the instinct of philosophy through the art of nature, old <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">K. M.</abbr> has got your man beat by drills, rows, paragraphs, chest measurement, and average annual rainfall.”</p>
 			<p>So that’s the way me and Idaho had it. Day and night all the excitement we got was studying our books. That snowstorm sure fixed us with a fine lot of attainments apiece. By the time the snow melted, if you had stepped up to me suddenly and said: “Sanderson Pratt, what would it cost per square foot to lay a roof with twenty by twenty-yight tin at nine dollars and fifty cents per box?” I’d have told you as quick as light could travel the length of a spade handle at the rate of one hundred and ninety-two thousand miles per second. How many can do it? You wake up ’most any man you know in the middle of the night, and ask him quick to tell you the number of bones in the human skeleton exclusive of the teeth, or what percentage of the vote of the Nebraska Legislature overrules a veto. Will he tell you? Try him and see.</p>
 			<p>About what benefit Idaho got out of his poetry book I didn’t exactly know. Idaho boosted the wine-agent every time he opened his mouth; but I wasn’t so sure.</p>
-			<p>This Homer <abbr class="name">K. M.</abbr>, from what leaked out of his libretto through Idaho, seemed to me to be a kind of a dog who looked at life like it was a tin can tied to his tail. After running himself half to death, he sits down, hangs his tongue out, and looks at the can and says:</p>
+			<p>This Homer <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">K. M.</abbr>, from what leaked out of his libretto through Idaho, seemed to me to be a kind of a dog who looked at life like it was a tin can tied to his tail. After running himself half to death, he sits down, hangs his tongue out, and looks at the can and says:</p>
 			<p>“Oh, well, since we can’t shake the growler, let’s get it filled at the corner, and all have a drink on me.”</p>
 			<p>Besides that, it seems he was a Persian; and I never hear of Persia producing anything worth mentioning unless it was Turkish rugs and Maltese cats.</p>
 			<p>That spring me and Idaho struck pay ore. It was a habit of ours to sell out quick and keep moving. We unloaded our grubstaker for eight thousand dollars apiece; and then we drifted down to this little town of Rosa, on the Salmon river, to rest up, and get some human grub, and have our whiskers harvested.</p>
@@ -51,7 +51,7 @@
 			<p>“From observation, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson,” I tells her. “I keep my eyes open when I go about the world.”</p>
 			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pratt,” says she, “I always did admire a man of education. There are so few scholars among the sap-headed plug-uglies of this town that it is a real pleasure to converse with a gentleman of culture. I’d be gratified to have you call at my house whenever you feel so inclined.”</p>
 			<p>And that was the way I got the goodwill of the lady in the yellow house. Every Tuesday and Friday evening I used to go there and tell her about the wonders of the universe as discovered, tabulated, and compiled from nature by Herkimer. Idaho and the other gay Lutherans of the town got every minute of the rest of the week that they could.</p>
-			<p>I never imagined that Idaho was trying to work on <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson with old <abbr class="name">K. M.</abbr>’s rules of courtship till one afternoon when I was on my way over to take her a basket of wild hog-plums. I met the lady coming down the lane that led to her house. Her eyes was snapping, and her hat made a dangerous dip over one eye.</p>
+			<p>I never imagined that Idaho was trying to work on <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson with old <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">K. M.</abbr>’s rules of courtship till one afternoon when I was on my way over to take her a basket of wild hog-plums. I met the lady coming down the lane that led to her house. Her eyes was snapping, and her hat made a dangerous dip over one eye.</p>
 			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pratt,” she opens up, “this <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Green is a friend of yours, I believe.”</p>
 			<p>“For nine years,” says I.</p>
 			<p>“Cut him out,” says she. “He’s no gentleman!”</p>
@@ -59,7 +59,7 @@
 			<p>“It’s right plausible of you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pratt,” says <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson, “to take up the curmudgeons in your friend’s behalf; but it don’t alter the fact that he has made proposals to me sufficiently obnoxious to ruffle the ignominy of any lady.”</p>
 			<p>“Why, now, now, now!” says I. “Old Idaho do that! I could believe it of myself, sooner. I never knew but one thing to deride in him; and a blizzard was responsible for that. Once while we was snowbound in the mountains he became a prey to a kind of spurious and uneven poetry, which may have corrupted his demeanour.”</p>
 			<p>“It has,” says <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson. “Ever since I knew him he has been reciting to me a lot of irreligious rhymes by some person he calls Ruby Ott, and who is no better than she should be, if you judge by her poetry.”</p>
-			<p>“Then Idaho has struck a new book,” says I, “for the one he had was by a man who writes under the <span xml:lang="fr">nom de plume</span> of <abbr class="name eoc">K. M.</abbr>”</p>
+			<p>“Then Idaho has struck a new book,” says I, “for the one he had was by a man who writes under the <span xml:lang="fr">nom de plume</span> of <abbr epub:type="z3998:personal-name" class="eoc">K. M.</abbr>”</p>
 			<p>“He’d better have stuck to it,” says <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson, “whatever it was. And today he caps the vortex. I get a bunch of flowers from him, and on ’em is pinned a note. Now, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pratt, you know a lady when you see her; and you know how I stand in Rosa society. Do you think for a moment that I’d skip out to the woods with a man along with a jug of wine and a loaf of bread, and go singing and cavorting up and down under the trees with him? I take a little claret with my meals, but I’m not in the habit of packing a jug of it into the brush and raising Cain in any such style as that. And of course he’d bring his book of verses along, too. He said so. Let him go on his scandalous picnics alone! Or let him take his Ruby Ott with him. I reckon she wouldn’t kick unless it was on account of there being too much bread along. And what do you think of your gentleman friend now, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pratt?”</p>
 			<p>“Well, ’m,” says I, “it may be that Idaho’s invitation was a kind of poetry, and meant no harm. Maybe it belonged to the class of rhymes they call figurative. They offend law and order, but they get sent through the mails on the grounds that they mean something that they don’t say. I’d be glad on Idaho’s account if you’d overlook it,” says I, “and let us extricate our minds from the low regions of poetry to the higher planes of fact and fancy. On a beautiful afternoon like this, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson,” I goes on, “we should let our thoughts dwell accordingly. Though it is warm here, we should remember that at the equator the line of perpetual frost is at an altitude of fifteen thousand feet. Between the latitudes of forty degrees and forty-nine degrees it is from four thousand to nine thousand feet.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pratt,” says <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson, “it’s such a comfort to hear you say them beautiful facts after getting such a jar from that minx of a Ruby’s poetry!”</p>

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@@ -40,14 +40,14 @@
 			<p>“This Henry Ogden was a peculiar kind of ranchman. He wore finger-rings and a big gold watch and careful neckties. And his face was calm, and his nose-spectacles was kept very shiny. I saw once, in Muscogee, an outlaw hung for murdering six men, who was a dead ringer for him. But I knew a preacher in Arkansas that you would have taken to be his brother. I didn’t care much for him either way; what I wanted was some fellowship and communion with holy saints or lost sinners⁠—anything sheepless would do.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Well, Saint Clair,’ says he, laying down the book he was reading, ‘I guess it must be pretty lonesome for you at first. And I don’t deny that it’s monotonous for me. Are you sure you corralled your sheep so they won’t stray out?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘They’re shut up as tight as the jury of a millionaire murderer,’ says I. ‘And I’ll be back with them long before they’ll need their trained nurse.’</p>
-			<p>“So Ogden digs up a deck of cards, and we play casino. After five days and nights of my sheep-camp it was like a toot on Broadway. When I caught big casino I felt as excited as if I had made a million in Trinity. And when <abbr class="name">H. O.</abbr> loosened up a little and told the story about the lady in the Pullman car I laughed for five minutes.</p>
+			<p>“So Ogden digs up a deck of cards, and we play casino. After five days and nights of my sheep-camp it was like a toot on Broadway. When I caught big casino I felt as excited as if I had made a million in Trinity. And when <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H. O.</abbr> loosened up a little and told the story about the lady in the Pullman car I laughed for five minutes.</p>
 			<p>“That showed what a comparative thing life is. A man may see so much that he’d be bored to turn his head to look at a $3,000,000 fire or Joe Weber or the Adriatic Sea. But let him herd sheep for a spell, and you’ll see him splitting his ribs laughing at ‘Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight,’ or really enjoying himself playing cards with ladies.</p>
 			<p>“By-and-by Ogden gets out a decanter of Bourbon, and then there is a total eclipse of sheep.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Do you remember reading in the papers, about a month ago,’ says he, ‘about a train holdup on the <abbr>M. K. &amp; T.</abbr>? The express agent was shot through the shoulder and about $15,000 in currency taken. And it’s said that only one man did the job.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Seems to me I do,’ says I. ‘But such things happen so often they don’t linger long in the human Texas mind. Did they overtake, overhaul, seize, or lay hands upon the despoiler?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘He escaped,’ says Ogden. ‘And I was just reading in a paper today that the officers have tracked him down into this part of the country. It seems the bills the robber got were all the first issue of currency to the Second National Bank of Espinosa City. And so they’ve followed the trail where they’ve been spent, and it leads this way.’</p>
 			<p>“Ogden pours out some more Bourbon, and shoves me the bottle.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘I imagine,’ says I, after ingurgitating another modicum of the royal booze, ‘that it wouldn’t be at all a disingenuous idea for a train robber to run down into this part of the country to hide for a spell. A sheep-ranch, now,’ says I, ‘would be the finest kind of a place. Who’d ever expect to find such a desperate character among these songbirds and muttons and wild flowers? And, by the way,’ says I, kind of looking <abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Ogden over, ‘was there any description mentioned of this single-handed terror? Was his lineaments or height and thickness or teeth fillings or style of habiliments set forth in print?’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘I imagine,’ says I, after ingurgitating another modicum of the royal booze, ‘that it wouldn’t be at all a disingenuous idea for a train robber to run down into this part of the country to hide for a spell. A sheep-ranch, now,’ says I, ‘would be the finest kind of a place. Who’d ever expect to find such a desperate character among these songbirds and muttons and wild flowers? And, by the way,’ says I, kind of looking <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H.</abbr> Ogden over, ‘was there any description mentioned of this single-handed terror? Was his lineaments or height and thickness or teeth fillings or style of habiliments set forth in print?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Why, no,’ says Ogden; ‘they say nobody got a good sight of him because he wore a mask. But they know it was a train-robber called Black Bill, because he always works alone and because he dropped a handkerchief in the express-car that had his name on it.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘All right,’ says I. ‘I approve of Black Bill’s retreat to the sheep-ranges. I guess they won’t find him.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘There’s one thousand dollars reward for his capture,’ says Ogden.</p>
@@ -86,10 +86,10 @@
 			<p>“ ‘I’ll drink,’ says I, ‘to any man who’s a friend to a friend. And I believe that Black Bill,’ I goes on, ‘would be that. So here’s to Black Bill, and may he have good luck.’</p>
 			<p>“And both of us drank.</p>
 			<p>“About two weeks later comes shearing-time. The sheep had to be driven up to the ranch, and a lot of frowzy-headed Mexicans would snip the fur off of them with back-action scissors. So the afternoon before the barbers were to come I hustled my underdone muttons over the hill, across the dell, down by the winding brook, and up to the ranch-house, where I penned ’em in a corral and bade ’em my nightly adieus.</p>
-			<p>“I went from there to the ranch-house. I find <abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Ogden, Esquire, lying asleep on his little cot bed. I guess he had been overcome by anti-insomnia or diswakefulness or some of the diseases peculiar to the sheep business. His mouth and vest were open, and he breathed like a secondhand bicycle pump. I looked at him and gave vent to just a few musings. ‘Imperial Caesar,’ says I, ‘asleep in such a way, might shut his mouth and keep the wind away.’</p>
+			<p>“I went from there to the ranch-house. I find <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H.</abbr> Ogden, Esquire, lying asleep on his little cot bed. I guess he had been overcome by anti-insomnia or diswakefulness or some of the diseases peculiar to the sheep business. His mouth and vest were open, and he breathed like a secondhand bicycle pump. I looked at him and gave vent to just a few musings. ‘Imperial Caesar,’ says I, ‘asleep in such a way, might shut his mouth and keep the wind away.’</p>
 			<p>“A man asleep is certainly a sight to make angels weep. What good is all his brain, muscle, backing, nerve, influence, and family connections? He’s at the mercy of his enemies, and more so of his friends. And he’s about as beautiful as a cab-horse leaning against the Metropolitan Opera House at 12:30 <abbr class="time">a.m.</abbr> dreaming of the plains of Arabia. Now, a woman asleep you regard as different. No matter how she looks, you know it’s better for all hands for her to be that way.</p>
 			<p>“Well, I took a drink of Bourbon and one for Ogden, and started in to be comfortable while he was taking his nap. He had some books on his table on indigenous subjects, such as Japan and drainage and physical culture⁠—and some tobacco, which seemed more to the point.</p>
-			<p>“After I’d smoked a few, and listened to the sartorial breathing of <abbr class="name">H. O.</abbr>, I happened to look out the window toward the shearing-pens, where there was a kind of a road coming up from a kind of a road across a kind of a creek farther away.</p>
+			<p>“After I’d smoked a few, and listened to the sartorial breathing of <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H. O.</abbr>, I happened to look out the window toward the shearing-pens, where there was a kind of a road coming up from a kind of a road across a kind of a creek farther away.</p>
 			<p>“I saw five men riding up to the house. All of ’em carried guns across their saddles, and among ’em was the deputy that had talked to me at my camp.</p>
 			<p>“They rode up careful, in open formation, with their guns ready. I set apart with my eye the one I opinionated to be the boss muckraker of this law-and-order cavalry.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Good evening, gents,’ says I. ‘Won’t you ’light, and tie your horses?’</p>
@@ -115,12 +115,12 @@
 			<p>“The leader of the posse shakes Ogden and wakes him up. And then he jumps up, and two more of the reward-hunters grab him. Ogden was mighty tough with all his slimness, and he gives ’em as neat a single-footed tussle against odds as I ever see.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘What does this mean?’ he says, after they had him down.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘You’re scooped in, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Black Bill,’ says the captain. ‘That’s all.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘It’s an outrage,’ says <abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Ogden, madder yet.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘It’s an outrage,’ says <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H.</abbr> Ogden, madder yet.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘It was,’ says the peace-and-goodwill man. ‘The Katy wasn’t bothering you, and there’s a law against monkeying with express packages.’</p>
-			<p>“And he sits on <abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Ogden’s stomach and goes through his pockets symptomatically and careful.</p>
+			<p>“And he sits on <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H.</abbr> Ogden’s stomach and goes through his pockets symptomatically and careful.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I’ll make you perspire for this,’ says Ogden, perspiring some himself. ‘I can prove who I am.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘So can I,’ says the captain, as he draws from <abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Ogden’s inside coat-pocket a handful of new bills of the Second National Bank of Espinosa City. ‘Your regular engraved Tuesdays-and-Fridays visiting-card wouldn’t have a louder voice in proclaiming your indemnity than this here currency. You can get up now and prepare to go with us and expatriate your sins.’</p>
-			<p>“<abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Ogden gets up and fixes his necktie. He says no more after they have taken the money off of him.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘So can I,’ says the captain, as he draws from <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H.</abbr> Ogden’s inside coat-pocket a handful of new bills of the Second National Bank of Espinosa City. ‘Your regular engraved Tuesdays-and-Fridays visiting-card wouldn’t have a louder voice in proclaiming your indemnity than this here currency. You can get up now and prepare to go with us and expatriate your sins.’</p>
+			<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H.</abbr> Ogden gets up and fixes his necktie. He says no more after they have taken the money off of him.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘A well-greased idea,’ says the sheriff captain, admiring, ‘to slip off down here and buy a little sheep-ranch where the hand of man is seldom heard. It was the slickest hideout I ever see,’ says the captain.</p>
 			<p>“So one of the men goes to the shearing-pen and hunts up the other herder, a Mexican they call John Sallies, and he saddles Ogden’s horse, and the sheriffs all ride up close around him with their guns in hand, ready to take their prisoner to town.</p>
 			<p>“Before starting, Ogden puts the ranch in John Sallies’ hands and gives him orders about the shearing and where to graze the sheep, just as if he intended to be back in a few days. And a couple of hours afterward one Percival Saint Clair, an ex-sheepherder of the Rancho Chiquito, might have been seen, with a hundred and nine dollars⁠—wages and blood-money⁠—in his pocket, riding south on another horse belonging to said ranch.”</p>
@@ -128,7 +128,7 @@
 			<p>The fat, seedy man at his side sniffed, and shook his frowzy head slowly and disparagingly.</p>
 			<p>“What is it, Snipy?” asked the other. “Got the blues again?”</p>
 			<p>“No, I ain’t” said the seedy one, sniffing again. “But I don’t like your talk. You and me have been friends, off and on, for fifteen year; and I never yet knew or heard of you giving anybody up to the law⁠—not no one. And here was a man whose saleratus you had et and at whose table you had played games of cards⁠—if casino can be so called. And yet you inform him to the law and take money for it. It never was like you, I say.”</p>
-			<p>“This <abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Ogden,” resumed the red-faced man, “through a lawyer, proved himself free by alibis and other legal terminalities, as I so heard afterward. He never suffered no harm. He did me favors, and I hated to hand him over.”</p>
+			<p>“This <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H.</abbr> Ogden,” resumed the red-faced man, “through a lawyer, proved himself free by alibis and other legal terminalities, as I so heard afterward. He never suffered no harm. He did me favors, and I hated to hand him over.”</p>
 			<p>“How about the bills they found in his pocket?” asked the seedy man.</p>
 			<p>“I put ’em there,” said the red-faced man, “while he was asleep, when I saw the posse riding up. I was Black Bill. Look out, Snipy, here she comes! We’ll board her on the bumpers when she takes water at the tank.”</p>
 		</article>

src/epub/text/the-hypotheses-of-failure.xhtml

@@ -18,17 +18,17 @@
 			<p>Lawyer Gooch, then, sat idle in the middle room of his clientless suite. A small anteroom connected⁠—or rather separated⁠—this apartment from the hallway. Here was stationed Archibald, who wrested from visitors their cards or oral nomenclature which he bore to his master while they waited.</p>
 			<p>Suddenly, on this day, there came a great knocking at the outermost door.</p>
 			<p>Archibald, opening it, was thrust aside as superfluous by the visitor, who without due reverence at once penetrated to the office of Lawyer Gooch and threw himself with good-natured insolence into a comfortable chair facing that gentlemen.</p>
-			<p>“You are Phineas <abbr class="name">C.</abbr> Gooch, attorney-at-law?” said the visitor, his tone of voice and inflection making his words at once a question, an assertion and an accusation.</p>
+			<p>“You are Phineas <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">C.</abbr> Gooch, attorney-at-law?” said the visitor, his tone of voice and inflection making his words at once a question, an assertion and an accusation.</p>
 			<p>Before committing himself by a reply, the lawyer estimated his possible client in one of his brief but shrewd and calculating glances.</p>
 			<p>The man was of the emphatic type⁠—large-sized, active, bold and debonair in demeanour, vain beyond a doubt, slightly swaggering, ready and at ease. He was well-clothed, but with a shade too much ornateness. He was seeking a lawyer; but if that fact would seem to saddle him with troubles they were not patent in his beaming eye and courageous air.</p>
-			<p>“My name is Gooch,” at length the lawyer admitted. Upon pressure he would also have confessed to the Phineas <abbr class="name eoc">C.</abbr> But he did not consider it good practice to volunteer information. “I did not receive your card,” he continued, by way of rebuke, “so I⁠—”</p>
+			<p>“My name is Gooch,” at length the lawyer admitted. Upon pressure he would also have confessed to the Phineas <abbr epub:type="z3998:personal-name" class="eoc">C.</abbr> But he did not consider it good practice to volunteer information. “I did not receive your card,” he continued, by way of rebuke, “so I⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“I know you didn’t,” remarked the visitor, coolly; “And you won’t just yet. Light up?” He threw a leg over an arm of his chair, and tossed a handful of rich-hued cigars upon the table. Lawyer Gooch knew the brand. He thawed just enough to accept the invitation to smoke.</p>
 			<p>“You are a divorce lawyer,” said the cardless visitor. This time there was no interrogation in his voice. Nor did his words constitute a simple assertion. They formed a charge⁠—a denunciation⁠—as one would say to a dog: “You are a dog.” Lawyer Gooch was silent under the imputation.</p>
 			<p>“You handle,” continued the visitor, “all the various ramifications of busted-up connubiality. You are a surgeon, we might saw, who extracts Cupid’s darts when he shoots ’em into the wrong parties. You furnish patent, incandescent lights for premises where the torch of Hymen has burned so low you can’t light a cigar at it. Am I right, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gooch?”</p>
 			<p>“I have undertaken cases,” said the lawyer, guardedly, “in the line to which your figurative speech seems to refer. Do you wish to consult me professionally, <abbr>Mr.</abbr>⁠—” The lawyer paused, with significance.</p>
 			<p>“Not yet,” said the other, with an arch wave of his cigar, “not just yet. Let us approach the subject with the caution that should have been used in the original act that makes this powwow necessary. There exists a matrimonial jumble to be straightened out. But before I give you names I want your honest⁠—well, anyhow, your professional opinion on the merits of the mix-up. I want you to size up the catastrophe⁠—abstractly⁠—you understand? I’m <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Nobody; and I’ve got a story to tell you. Then you say what’s what. Do you get my wireless?”</p>
 			<p>“You want to state a hypothetical case?” suggested Lawyer Gooch.</p>
-			<p>“That’s the word I was after. ‘Apothecary’ was the best shot I could make at it in my mind. The hypothetical goes. I’ll state the case. Suppose there’s a woman⁠—a deuced fine-looking woman⁠—who has run away from her husband and home? She’s badly mashed on another man who went to her town to work up some real estate business. Now, we may as well call this woman’s husband Thomas <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Billings, for that’s his name. I’m giving you straight tips on the cognomens. The Lothario chap is Henry <abbr class="name">K.</abbr> Jessup. The Billingses lived in a little town called Susanville⁠—a good many miles from here. Now, Jessup leaves Susanville two weeks ago. The next day <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Billings follows him. She’s dead gone on this man Jessup; you can bet your law library on that.”</p>
+			<p>“That’s the word I was after. ‘Apothecary’ was the best shot I could make at it in my mind. The hypothetical goes. I’ll state the case. Suppose there’s a woman⁠—a deuced fine-looking woman⁠—who has run away from her husband and home? She’s badly mashed on another man who went to her town to work up some real estate business. Now, we may as well call this woman’s husband Thomas <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R.</abbr> Billings, for that’s his name. I’m giving you straight tips on the cognomens. The Lothario chap is Henry <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">K.</abbr> Jessup. The Billingses lived in a little town called Susanville⁠—a good many miles from here. Now, Jessup leaves Susanville two weeks ago. The next day <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Billings follows him. She’s dead gone on this man Jessup; you can bet your law library on that.”</p>
 			<p>Lawyer Gooch’s client said this with such unctuous satisfaction that even the callous lawyer experienced a slight ripple of repulsion. He now saw clearly in his fatuous visitor the conceit of the lady-killer, the egoistic complacency of the successful trifler.</p>
 			<p>“Now,” continued the visitor, “suppose this <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Billings wasn’t happy at home? We’ll say she and her husband didn’t gee worth a cent. They’ve got incompatibility to burn. The things she likes, Billings wouldn’t have as a gift with trading-stamps. It’s Tabby and Rover with them all the time. She’s an educated woman in science and culture, and she reads things out loud at meetings. Billings is not on. He don’t appreciate progress and obelisks and ethics, and things of that sort. Old Billings is simply a blink when it comes to such things. The lady is out and out above his class. Now, lawyer, don’t it look like a fair equalization of rights and wrongs that a woman like that should be allowed to throw down Billings and take the man that can appreciate her?”</p>
 			<p>“Incompatibility,” said Lawyer Gooch, “is undoubtedly the source of much marital discord and unhappiness. Where it is positively proved, divorce would seem to be the equitable remedy. Are you⁠—excuse me⁠—is this man Jessup one to whom the lady may safely trust her future?”</p>
@@ -43,7 +43,7 @@
 			<p>The breezy gentleman seated himself with obliging acquiescence, and took up a magazine. The lawyer returned to the middle office, carefully closing behind him the connecting door.</p>
 			<p>“Show the lady in, Archibald,” he said to the office boy, who was awaiting the order.</p>
 			<p>A tall lady, of commanding presence and sternly handsome, entered the room. She wore robes⁠—robes; not clothes⁠—ample and fluent. In her eye could be perceived the lambent flame of genius and soul. In her hand was a green bag of the capacity of a bushel, and an umbrella that also seemed to wear a robe, ample and fluent. She accepted a chair.</p>
-			<p>“Are you <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Phineas <abbr class="name">C.</abbr> Gooch, the lawyer?” she asked, in formal and unconciliatory tones.</p>
+			<p>“Are you <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Phineas <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">C.</abbr> Gooch, the lawyer?” she asked, in formal and unconciliatory tones.</p>
 			<p>“I am,” answered Lawyer Gooch, without circumlocution. He never circumlocuted when dealing with a woman. Women circumlocute. Time is wasted when both sides in debate employ the same tactics.</p>
 			<p>“As a lawyer, sir,” began the lady, “you may have acquired some knowledge of the human heart. Do you believe that the pusillanimous and petty conventions of our artificial social life should stand as an obstacle in the way of a noble and affectionate heart when it finds its true mate among the miserable and worthless wretches in the world that are called men?”</p>
 			<p>“Madam,” said Lawyer Gooch, in the tone that he used in curbing his female clients, “this is an office for conducting the practice of law. I am a lawyer, not a philosopher, nor the editor of an ‘Answers to the Lovelorn’ column of a newspaper. I have other clients waiting. I will ask you kindly to come to the point.”</p>
@@ -53,7 +53,7 @@
 			<p>“You wish to state a hypothetical case?” said Lawyer Gooch.</p>
 			<p>“I was going to say that,” said the lady, sharply. “Now, suppose there is a woman who is all soul and heart and aspirations for a complete existence. This woman has a husband who is far below her in intellect, in taste⁠—in everything. Bah! he is a brute. He despises literature. He sneers at the lofty thoughts of the world’s great thinkers. He thinks only of real estate and such sordid things. He is no mate for a woman with soul. We will say that this unfortunate wife one day meets with her ideal⁠—a man with brain and heart and force. She loves him. Although this man feels the thrill of a newfound affinity he is too noble, too honourable to declare himself. He flies from the presence of his beloved. She flies after him, trampling, with superb indifference, upon the fetters with which an unenlightened social system would bind her. Now, what will a divorce cost? Eliza Ann Timmins, the poetess of Sycamore Gap, got one for three hundred and forty dollars. Can I⁠—I mean can this lady I speak of get one that cheap?”</p>
 			<p>“Madam,” said Lawyer Gooch, “your last two or three sentences delight me with their intelligence and clearness. Can we not now abandon the hypothetical and come down to names and business?”</p>
-			<p>“I should say so,” exclaimed the lady, adopting the practical with admirable readiness. “Thomas <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Billings is the name of the low brute who stands between the happiness of his legal⁠—his legal, but not his spiritual⁠—wife and Henry <abbr class="name">K.</abbr> Jessup, the noble man whom nature intended for her mate. I,” concluded the client, with an air of dramatic revelation, “am <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Billings!”</p>
+			<p>“I should say so,” exclaimed the lady, adopting the practical with admirable readiness. “Thomas <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R.</abbr> Billings is the name of the low brute who stands between the happiness of his legal⁠—his legal, but not his spiritual⁠—wife and Henry <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">K.</abbr> Jessup, the noble man whom nature intended for her mate. I,” concluded the client, with an air of dramatic revelation, “am <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Billings!”</p>
 			<p>“Gentlemen to see you, sir,” shouted Archibald, invading the room almost at a handspring. Lawyer Gooch arose from his chair.</p>
 			<p>“<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Billings,” he said courteously, “allow me to conduct you into the adjoining office apartment for a few minutes. I am expecting a very wealthy old gentleman on business connected with a will. In a very short while I will join you, and continue our consultation.”</p>
 			<p>With his accustomed chivalrous manner, Lawyer Gooch ushered his soulful client into the remaining unoccupied room, and came out, closing the door with circumspection.</p>
@@ -66,7 +66,7 @@
 			<p>Lawyer Gooch delivered the cautious opinion that there was not.</p>
 			<p>“This man she has gone to join,” resumed the visitor, “is not the man to make her happy. It is a wild and foolish self-deception that makes her think he will. Her husband, in spite of their many disagreements, is the only one capable of dealing with her sensitive and peculiar nature. But this she does not realize now.”</p>
 			<p>“Would you consider a divorce the logical cure in the case you present?” asked Lawyer Gooch, who felt that the conversation was wandering too far from the field of business.</p>
-			<p>“A divorce!” exclaimed the client, feelingly⁠—almost tearfully. “No, no⁠—not that. I have read, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gooch, of many instances where your sympathy and kindly interest led you to act as a mediator between estranged husband and wife, and brought them together again. Let us drop the hypothetical case⁠—I need conceal no longer that it is I who am the sufferer in this sad affair⁠—the names you shall have⁠—Thomas <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Billings and wife⁠—and Henry <abbr class="name">K.</abbr> Jessup, the man with whom she is infatuated.”</p>
+			<p>“A divorce!” exclaimed the client, feelingly⁠—almost tearfully. “No, no⁠—not that. I have read, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gooch, of many instances where your sympathy and kindly interest led you to act as a mediator between estranged husband and wife, and brought them together again. Let us drop the hypothetical case⁠—I need conceal no longer that it is I who am the sufferer in this sad affair⁠—the names you shall have⁠—Thomas <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R.</abbr> Billings and wife⁠—and Henry <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">K.</abbr> Jessup, the man with whom she is infatuated.”</p>
 			<p>Client number three laid his hand upon <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gooch’s arm. Deep emotion was written upon his careworn face. “For Heaven’s sake,” he said fervently, “help me in this hour of trouble. Seek out <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Billings, and persuade her to abandon this distressing pursuit of her lamentable folly. Tell her, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gooch, that her husband is willing to receive her back to his heart and home⁠—promise her anything that will induce her to return. I have heard of your success in these matters. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Billings cannot be very far away. I am worn out with travel and weariness. Twice during the pursuit I saw her, but various circumstances prevented our having an interview. Will you undertake this mission for me, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gooch, and earn my everlasting gratitude?”</p>
 			<p>“It is true,” said Lawyer Gooch, frowning slightly at the other’s last words, but immediately calling up an expression of virtuous benevolence, “that on a number of occasions I have been successful in persuading couples who sought the severing of their matrimonial bonds to think better of their rash intentions and return to their homes reconciled. But I assure you that the work is often exceedingly difficult. The amount of argument, perseverance, and, if I may be allowed to say it, eloquence that it requires would astonish you. But this is a case in which my sympathies would be wholly enlisted. I feel deeply for you sir, and I would be most happy to see husband and wife reunited. But my time,” concluded the lawyer, looking at his watch as if suddenly reminded of the fact, “is valuable.”</p>
 			<p>“I am aware of that,” said the client, “and if you will take the case and persuade <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Billings to return home and leave the man alone that she is following⁠—on that day I will pay you the sum of one thousand dollars. I have made a little money in real estate during the recent boom in Susanville, and I will not begrudge that amount.”</p>
@@ -94,7 +94,7 @@
 			<p>“Billings!” shouted the now thoroughly moved client. “I’ll Billings you, you old idiot!”</p>
 			<p>Turning, he hurled his satchel with fury at the lawyer’s head. It struck that astounded peacemaker between the eyes, causing him to stagger backward a pace or two. When Lawyer Gooch recovered his wits he saw that his client had disappeared. Rushing to the window, he leaned out, and saw the recreant gathering himself up from the top of a shed upon which he had dropped from the second-story window. Without stopping to collect his hat he then plunged downward the remaining ten feet to the alley, up which he flew with prodigious celerity until the surrounding building swallowed him up from view.</p>
 			<p>Lawyer Gooch passed his hand tremblingly across his brow. It was a habitual act with him, serving to clear his thoughts. Perhaps also it now seemed to soothe the spot where a very hard alligator-hide satchel had struck.</p>
-			<p>The satchel lay upon the floor, wide open, with its contents spilled about. Mechanically, Lawyer Gooch stooped to gather up the articles. The first was a collar; and the omniscient eye of the man of law perceived, wonderingly, the initials <abbr class="name">H. K. J.</abbr> marked upon it. Then came a comb, a brush, a folded map, and a piece of soap. Lastly, a handful of old business letters, addressed⁠—every one of them⁠—to “Henry <abbr class="name">K.</abbr> Jessup, <abbr class="eoc">Esq.</abbr>”</p>
+			<p>The satchel lay upon the floor, wide open, with its contents spilled about. Mechanically, Lawyer Gooch stooped to gather up the articles. The first was a collar; and the omniscient eye of the man of law perceived, wonderingly, the initials <abbr class="name">H. K. J.</abbr> marked upon it. Then came a comb, a brush, a folded map, and a piece of soap. Lastly, a handful of old business letters, addressed⁠—every one of them⁠—to “Henry <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">K.</abbr> Jessup, <abbr class="eoc">Esq.</abbr>”</p>
 			<p>Lawyer Gooch closed the satchel, and set it upon the table. He hesitated for a moment, and then put on his hat and walked into the office boy’s anteroom.</p>
 			<p>“Archibald,” he said mildly, as he opened the hall door, “I am going around to the Supreme Court rooms. In five minutes you may step into the inner office, and inform the lady who is waiting there that”⁠—here Lawyer Gooch made use of the vernacular⁠—“that there’s nothing doing.”</p>
 		</article>

src/epub/text/the-lotus-and-the-bottle.xhtml

@@ -26,7 +26,7 @@
 			<p>Geddie took his seat, and unrolled with luxurious laziness his bundle of newspapers. Here in Coralio for two days or longer he would read of goings-on in the world very much as we of the world read those whimsical contributions to inexact science that assume to portray the doings of the Martians. After he had finished with the papers they would be sent on the rounds of the other English-speaking residents of the town.</p>
 			<p>The paper that came first to his hand was one of those bulky mattresses of printed stuff upon which the readers of certain New York journals are supposed to take their Sabbath literary nap. Opening this the consul rested it upon the table, supporting its weight with the aid of the back of a chair. Then he partook of his meal deliberately, turning the leaves from time to time and glancing half idly at the contents.</p>
 			<p>Presently he was struck by something familiar to him in a picture⁠—a half-page, badly printed reproduction of a photograph of a vessel. Languidly interested, he leaned for a nearer scrutiny and a view of the florid headlines of the column next to the picture.</p>
-			<p>Yes; he was not mistaken. The engraving was of the eight-hundred-ton yacht <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Idalia</i>, belonging to “that prince of good fellows, Midas of the money market, and society’s pink of perfection, <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Ward Tolliver.”</p>
+			<p>Yes; he was not mistaken. The engraving was of the eight-hundred-ton yacht <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Idalia</i>, belonging to “that prince of good fellows, Midas of the money market, and society’s pink of perfection, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Ward Tolliver.”</p>
 			<p>Slowly sipping his black coffee, Geddie read the column of print. Following a listed statement of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Tolliver’s real estate and bonds, came a description of the yacht’s furnishings, and then the grain of news no bigger than a mustard seed. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Tolliver, with a party of favoured guests, would sail the next day on a six weeks’ cruise along the Central American and South American coasts and among the Bahama Islands. Among the guests were <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cumberland Payne and Miss Ida Payne, of Norfolk.</p>
 			<p>The writer, with the fatuous presumption that was demanded of him by his readers, had concocted a romance suited to their palates. He bracketed the names of Miss Payne and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Tolliver until he had well-nigh read the marriage ceremony over them. He played coyly and insinuatingly upon the strings of “on dit” and “Madame Rumour” and “a little bird” and “no one would be surprised,” and ended with congratulations.</p>
 			<p>Geddie, having finished his breakfast, took his papers to the edge of the gallery, and sat there in his favourite steamer chair with his feet on the bamboo railing. He lighted a cigar, and looked out upon the sea. He felt a glow of satisfaction at finding he was so little disturbed by what he had read. He told himself that he had conquered the distress that had sent him, a voluntary exile, to this far land of the lotus. He could never forget Ida, of course; but there was no longer any pain in thinking about her. When they had had that misunderstanding and quarrel he had impulsively sought this consulship, with the desire to retaliate upon her by detaching himself from her world and presence. He had succeeded thoroughly in that. During the twelve months of his life in Coralio no word had passed between them, though he had sometimes heard of her through the dilatory correspondence with the few friends to whom he still wrote. Still he could not repress a little thrill of satisfaction at knowing that she had not yet married Tolliver or anyone else. But evidently Tolliver had not yet abandoned hope.</p>

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@@ -14,7 +14,7 @@
 			<p>“There are two kinds of graft,” said Jeff, “that ought to be wiped out by law. I mean Wall Street speculation, and burglary.”</p>
 			<p>“Nearly everybody will agree with you as to one of them,” said I, with a laugh.</p>
 			<p>“Well, burglary ought to be wiped out, too,” said Jeff; and I wondered whether the laugh had been redundant.</p>
-			<p>“About three months ago,” said Jeff, “it was my privilege to become familiar with a sample of each of the aforesaid branches of illegitimate art. I was <i xml:lang="la">sine qua grata</i> with a member of the housebreakers’ union and one of the John <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Napoleons of finance at the same time.”</p>
+			<p>“About three months ago,” said Jeff, “it was my privilege to become familiar with a sample of each of the aforesaid branches of illegitimate art. I was <i xml:lang="la">sine qua grata</i> with a member of the housebreakers’ union and one of the John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">D.</abbr> Napoleons of finance at the same time.”</p>
 			<p>“Interesting combination,” said I, with a yawn. “Did I tell you I bagged a duck and a ground-squirrel at one shot last week over in the Ramapos?” I knew well how to draw Jeff’s stories.</p>
 			<p>“Let me tell you first about these barnacles that clog the wheels of society by poisoning the springs of rectitude with their upas-like eye,” said Jeff, with the pure gleam of the muckraker in his own.</p>
 			<p>“As I said, three months ago I got into bad company. There are two times in a man’s life when he does this⁠—when he’s dead broke, and when he’s rich.</p>
@@ -48,10 +48,10 @@
 			<p>“Bill Bassett felt in all of them, and looked disgusted.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Not even a watch,’ he says. ‘Ain’t you ashamed of yourself, you whited sculpture? Going about dressed like a headwaiter, and financed like a Count! You haven’t even got carfare. What did you do with your transfer?’</p>
 			<p>“The man speaks up and says he has no assets or valuables of any sort. But Bassett takes his hand-satchel and opens it. Out comes some collars and socks and a half a page of a newspaper clipped out. Bill reads the clipping careful, and holds out his hand to the held-up party.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Brother,’ says he, ‘greetings! Accept the apologies of friends. I am Bill Bassett, the burglar. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters, you must make the acquaintance of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Alfred <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Ricks. Shake hands. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters,’ says Bill, ‘stands about halfway between me and you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ricks, in the line of havoc and corruption. He always gives something for the money he gets. I’m glad to meet you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ricks⁠—you and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters. This is the first time I ever attended a full gathering of the National Synod of Sharks⁠—housebreaking, swindling, and financiering all represented. Please examine <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Rick’s credentials, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Brother,’ says he, ‘greetings! Accept the apologies of friends. I am Bill Bassett, the burglar. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters, you must make the acquaintance of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Alfred <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Ricks. Shake hands. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters,’ says Bill, ‘stands about halfway between me and you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ricks, in the line of havoc and corruption. He always gives something for the money he gets. I’m glad to meet you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ricks⁠—you and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters. This is the first time I ever attended a full gathering of the National Synod of Sharks⁠—housebreaking, swindling, and financiering all represented. Please examine <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Rick’s credentials, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters.’</p>
 			<p>“The piece of newspaper that Bill Bassett handed me had a good picture of this Ricks on it. It was a Chicago paper, and it had obloquies of Ricks in every paragraph. By reading it over I harvested the intelligence that said alleged Ricks had laid off all that portion of the State of Florida that lies under water into town lots and sold ’em to alleged innocent investors from his magnificently furnished offices in Chicago. After he had taken in a hundred thousand or so dollars one of these fussy purchasers that are always making trouble (I’ve had ’em actually try gold watches I’ve sold ’em with acid) took a cheap excursion down to the land where it is always just before supper to look at his lot and see if it didn’t need a new paling or two on the fence, and market a few lemons in time for the Christmas present trade. He hires a surveyor to find his lot for him. They run the line out and find the flourishing town of Paradise Hollow, so advertised, to be about 40 rods and 16 poles <abbr class="compass">S.</abbr>, 27 degrees <abbr class="compass">E.</abbr> of the middle of Lake Okeechobee. This man’s lot was under thirty-six feet of water, and, besides, had been preempted so long by the alligators and gars that his title looked fishy.</p>
-			<p>“Naturally, the man goes back to Chicago and makes it as hot for Alfred <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Ricks as the morning after a prediction of snow by the weather bureau. Ricks defied the allegation, but he couldn’t deny the alligators. One morning the papers came out with a column about it, and Ricks come out by the fire-escape. It seems the alleged authorities had beat him to the safe-deposit box where he kept his winnings, and Ricks has to westward ho! with only feetwear and a dozen 15-and-a-half English pokes in his shopping bag. He happened to have some mileage left in his book, and that took him as far as the town in the wilderness where he was spilled out on me and Bill Bassett as Elijah <span epub:type="z3998:roman">III</span> with not a raven in sight for any of us.</p>
-			<p>“Then this Alfred <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Ricks lets out a squeak that he is hungry, too, and denies the hypothesis that he is good for the value, let alone the price, of a meal. And so, there was the three of us, representing, if we had a mind to draw syllogisms and parabolas, labor and trade and capital. Now, when trade has no capital there isn’t a dicker to be made. And when capital has no money there’s a stagnation in steak and onions. That put it up to the man with the jimmy.</p>
+			<p>“Naturally, the man goes back to Chicago and makes it as hot for Alfred <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Ricks as the morning after a prediction of snow by the weather bureau. Ricks defied the allegation, but he couldn’t deny the alligators. One morning the papers came out with a column about it, and Ricks come out by the fire-escape. It seems the alleged authorities had beat him to the safe-deposit box where he kept his winnings, and Ricks has to westward ho! with only feetwear and a dozen 15-and-a-half English pokes in his shopping bag. He happened to have some mileage left in his book, and that took him as far as the town in the wilderness where he was spilled out on me and Bill Bassett as Elijah <span epub:type="z3998:roman">III</span> with not a raven in sight for any of us.</p>
+			<p>“Then this Alfred <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Ricks lets out a squeak that he is hungry, too, and denies the hypothesis that he is good for the value, let alone the price, of a meal. And so, there was the three of us, representing, if we had a mind to draw syllogisms and parabolas, labor and trade and capital. Now, when trade has no capital there isn’t a dicker to be made. And when capital has no money there’s a stagnation in steak and onions. That put it up to the man with the jimmy.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Brother bushrangers,’ says Bill Bassett, ‘never yet, in trouble, did I desert a pal. Hard by, in yon wood, I seem to see unfurnished lodgings. Let us go there and wait till dark.’</p>
 			<p>“There was an old, deserted cabin in the grove, and we three took possession of it. After dark Bill Bassett tells us to wait, and goes out for half an hour. He comes back with a armful of bread and spareribs and pies.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Panhandled ’em at a farmhouse on Washita Avenue,’ says he. ‘Eat, drink and be leary.’</p>
@@ -65,12 +65,12 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Where’s your two dollars?’ snickered Bill Bassett into my discourse. There was no use arguing with that burglar.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘No,’ he goes on; ‘you’re both babes-in-the-wood. Finance has closed the mahogany desk, and trade has put the shutters up. Both of you look to labor to start the wheels going. All right. You admit it. Tonight I’ll show you what Bill Bassett can do.’</p>
 			<p>“Bassett tells me and Ricks not to leave the cabin till he comes back, even if it’s daylight, and then he starts off toward town, whistling gay.</p>
-			<p>“This Alfred <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Ricks pulls off his shoes and his coat, lays a silk handkerchief over his hat, and lays down on the floor.</p>
+			<p>“This Alfred <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Ricks pulls off his shoes and his coat, lays a silk handkerchief over his hat, and lays down on the floor.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I think I will endeavor to secure a little slumber,’ he squeaks. ‘The day has been fatiguing. Good night, my dear <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘My regards to Morpheus,’ says I. ‘I think I’ll sit up a while.’</p>
 			<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 <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Ricks, holding up his hands, ‘have you robbed this bank? Dear me, dear me!’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘My young friend,’ says Alfred <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> 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>“ ‘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>
@@ -78,17 +78,17 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Put your money up, Labor,’ says I. ‘I never yet drew upon honest toil for its hard-earned pittance. The dollars I get are surplus ones that are burning the pockets of damfools and greenhorns. When I stand on a street corner and sell a solid gold diamond ring to a yap for $3.00, I make just $2.60. And I know he’s going to give it to a girl in return for all the benefits accruing from a $125.00 ring. His profits are $122.00. Which of us is the biggest fakir?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘And when you sell a poor woman a pinch of sand for fifty cents to keep her lamp from exploding,’ says Bassett, ‘what do you figure her gross earnings to be, with sand at forty cents a ton?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Listen,’ says I. ‘I instruct her to keep her lamp clean and well filled. If she does that it can’t burst. And with the sand in it she knows it can’t, and she don’t worry. It’s a kind of Industrial Christian Science. She pays fifty cents, and gets both Rockefeller and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Eddy on the job. It ain’t everybody that can let the gold-dust twins do their work.’</p>
-			<p>“Alfred <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Ricks all but licks the dust off of Bill Bassett’s shoes.</p>
+			<p>“Alfred <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Ricks all but licks the dust off of Bill Bassett’s shoes.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘My dear young friend,’ says he, ‘I will never forget your generosity. Heaven will reward you. But let me implore you to turn from your ways of violence and crime.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Mousie,’ says Bill, ‘the hole in the wainscoting for yours. Your dogmas and inculcations sound to me like the last words of a bicycle pump. What has your high moral, elevator-service system of pillage brought you to? Penuriousness and want. Even Brother Peters, who insists upon contaminating the art of robbery with theories of commerce and trade, admitted he was on the lift. Both of you live by the gilded rule. Brother Peters,’ says Bill, ‘you’d better choose a slice of this embalmed currency. You’re welcome.’</p>
 			<p>“I told Bill Bassett once more to put his money in his pocket. I never had the respect for burglary that some people have. I always gave something for the money I took, even if it was only some little trifle for a souvenir to remind ’em not to get caught again.</p>
-			<p>“And then Alfred <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Ricks grovels at Bill’s feet again, and bids us adieu. He says he will have a team at a farmhouse, and drive to the station below, and take the train for Denver. It salubrified the atmosphere when that lamentable bollworm took his departure. He was a disgrace to every nonindustrial profession in the country. With all his big schemes and fine offices he had wound up unable even to get an honest meal except by the kindness of a strange and maybe unscrupulous burglar. I was glad to see him go, though I felt a little sorry for him, now that he was ruined forever. What could such a man do without a big capital to work with? Why, Alfred <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Ricks, as we left him, was as helpless as turtle on its back. He couldn’t have worked a scheme to beat a little girl out of a penny slate-pencil.</p>
+			<p>“And then Alfred <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Ricks grovels at Bill’s feet again, and bids us adieu. He says he will have a team at a farmhouse, and drive to the station below, and take the train for Denver. It salubrified the atmosphere when that lamentable bollworm took his departure. He was a disgrace to every nonindustrial profession in the country. With all his big schemes and fine offices he had wound up unable even to get an honest meal except by the kindness of a strange and maybe unscrupulous burglar. I was glad to see him go, though I felt a little sorry for him, now that he was ruined forever. What could such a man do without a big capital to work with? Why, Alfred <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Ricks, as we left him, was as helpless as turtle on its back. He couldn’t have worked a scheme to beat a little girl out of a penny slate-pencil.</p>
 			<p>“When me and Bill Bassett was left alone I did a little sleight-of-mind turn in my head with a trade secret at the end of it. Thinks I, I’ll show this <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Burglar Man the difference between business and labor. He had hurt some of my professional self-adulation by casting his Persians upon commerce and trade.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I won’t take any of your money as a gift, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bassett,’ says I to him, ‘but if you’ll pay my expenses as a travelling companion until we get out of the danger zone of the immoral deficit you have caused in this town’s finances tonight, I’ll be obliged.’</p>
 			<p>“Bill Bassett agreed to that, and we hiked westward as soon as we could catch a safe train.</p>
 			<p>“When we got to a town in Arizona called Los Perros I suggested that we once more try our luck on terra-cotta. That was the home of Montague Silver, my old instructor, now retired from business. I knew Monty would stake me to web money if I could show him a fly buzzing ’round the locality. Bill Bassett said all towns looked alike to him as he worked mainly in the dark. So we got off the train in Los Perros, a fine little town in the silver region.</p>
 			<p>“I had an elegant little sure thing in the way of a commercial slungshot that I intended to hit Bassett behind the ear with. I wasn’t going to take his money while he was asleep, but I was going to leave him with a lottery ticket that would represent in experience to him $4,755⁠—I think that was the amount he had when we got off the train. But the first time I hinted to him about an investment, he turns on me and disencumbers himself of the following terms and expressions.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Brother Peters,’ says he, ‘it ain’t a bad idea to go into an enterprise of some kind, as you suggest. I think I will. But if I do it will be such a cold proposition that nobody but Robert <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Peary and Charlie Fairbanks will be able to sit on the board of directors.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Brother Peters,’ says he, ‘it ain’t a bad idea to go into an enterprise of some kind, as you suggest. I think I will. But if I do it will be such a cold proposition that nobody but Robert <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Peary and Charlie Fairbanks will be able to sit on the board of directors.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I thought you might want to turn your money over,’ says I.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I do,’ says he, ‘frequently. I can’t sleep on one side all night. I’ll tell you, Brother Peters,’ says he, ‘I’m going to start a poker room. I don’t seem to care for the humdrum in swindling, such as peddling eggbeaters and working off breakfast food on Barnum and Bailey for sawdust to strew in their circus rings. But the gambling business,’ says he, ‘from the profitable side of the table is a good compromise between swiping silver spoons and selling penwipers at a Waldorf-Astoria charity bazar.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Then,’ says I, ‘<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bassett, you don’t care to talk over my little business proposition?’</p>
@@ -108,8 +108,8 @@
 			<p>“Always carry it with me,” said he. “So the burglar can’t corrupt or the capitalist break in and water it.”</p>
 			<p>I looked at the beautifully engraved certificate of stock.</p>
 			<p>“In Colorado, I see,” said I. “And, by the way, Jeff, what was the name of the little man who went to Denver⁠—the one you and Bill met at the station?”</p>
-			<p>“Alfred <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Ricks,” said Jeff, “was the toad’s designation.”</p>
-			<p>“I see,” said I, “the president of this mining company signs himself <abbr class="name">A. L.</abbr> Fredericks. I was wondering⁠—”</p>
+			<p>“Alfred <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Ricks,” said Jeff, “was the toad’s designation.”</p>
+			<p>“I see,” said I, “the president of this mining company signs himself <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">A. L.</abbr> Fredericks. I was wondering⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Let me see that stock,” said Jeff quickly, almost snatching it from me.</p>
 			<p>To mitigate, even though slightly, the embarrassment I summoned the waiter and ordered another bottle of the Barbera. I thought it was the least I could do.</p>
 		</article>

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@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<p>The moon was very bright, you will understand, and I saw upon Kinney’s face a sort of amused and pregnant expression, as though there were things behind it that might be expounded.</p>
 			<p>“You came up the trail from the Double-Elm Fork,” he said promisingly. “As you crossed it you must have seen an old deserted <span xml:lang="es">jacal</span> to your left under a comma mott.”</p>
 			<p>“I did,” said I. “There was a drove of <i xml:lang="es">javalis</i> rooting around it. I could see by the broken corrals that no one lived there.”</p>
-			<p>“That’s where this music proposition started,” said Kinney. “I don’t mind telling you about it while we smoke. That’s where old Cal Adams lived. He had about eight hundred graded merinos and a daughter that was solid silk and as handsome as a new stake-rope on a thirty-dollar pony. And I don’t mind telling you that I was guilty in the second degree of hanging around old Cal’s ranch all the time I could spare away from lambing and shearing. Miss Marilla was her name; and I had figured it out by the rule of two that she was destined to become the chatelaine and lady superior of Rancho Lomito, belonging to <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Kinney, <abbr>Esq.</abbr>, where you are now a welcome and honoured guest.</p>
+			<p>“That’s where this music proposition started,” said Kinney. “I don’t mind telling you about it while we smoke. That’s where old Cal Adams lived. He had about eight hundred graded merinos and a daughter that was solid silk and as handsome as a new stake-rope on a thirty-dollar pony. And I don’t mind telling you that I was guilty in the second degree of hanging around old Cal’s ranch all the time I could spare away from lambing and shearing. Miss Marilla was her name; and I had figured it out by the rule of two that she was destined to become the chatelaine and lady superior of Rancho Lomito, belonging to <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R.</abbr> Kinney, <abbr>Esq.</abbr>, where you are now a welcome and honoured guest.</p>
 			<p>“I will say that old Cal wasn’t distinguished as a sheepman. He was a little, old stoop-shouldered hombre about as big as a gun scabbard, with scraggy white whiskers, and condemned to the continuous use of language. Old Cal was so obscure in his chosen profession that he wasn’t even hated by the cowmen. And when a sheepman don’t get eminent enough to acquire the hostility of the cattlemen, he is mighty apt to die unwept and considerably unsung.</p>
 			<p>“But that Marilla girl was a benefit to the eye. And she was the most elegant kind of a housekeeper. I was the nearest neighbour, and I used to ride over to the Double-Elm anywhere from nine to sixteen times a week with fresh butter or a quarter of venison or a sample of new sheep-dip just as a frivolous excuse to see Marilla. Marilla and me got to be extensively inveigled with each other, and I was pretty sure I was going to get my rope around her neck and lead her over to the Lomito. Only she was so everlastingly permeated with filial sentiments toward old Cal that I never could get her to talk about serious matters.</p>
 			<p>“You never saw anybody in your life that was as full of knowledge and had less sense than old Cal. He was advised about all the branches of information contained in learning, and he was up to all the rudiments of doctrines and enlightenment. You couldn’t advance him any ideas on any of the parts of speech or lines of thought. You would have thought he was a professor of the weather and politics and chemistry and natural history and the origin of derivations. Any subject you brought up old Cal could give you an abundant synopsis of it from the Greek root up to the time it was sacked and on the market.</p>

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@@ -45,7 +45,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘If you’ve got to get rid of your excess verbiage,’ says I, ‘why not go out on the river bank and speak a piece? It seems to me there was an old spellbinder named Cantharides that used to go and disincorporate himself of his windy numbers along the seashore.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘No,’ says Andy, ‘I must have an audience. I feel like if I once turned loose people would begin to call Senator Beveridge the Grand Young Sphinx of the Wabash. I’ve got to get an audience together, Jeff, and get this oral distension assuaged or it may turn in on me and I’d go about feeling like a deckle-edge edition de luxe of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> <abbr class="name">E. D. E. N.</abbr> Southworth.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘On what special subject of the theorems and topics does your desire for vocality seem to be connected with?’ I asks.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘I ain’t particular,’ says Andy. ‘I am equally good and varicose on all subjects. I can take up the matter of Russian immigration, or the poetry of John <abbr class="name">W.</abbr> Keats, or the tariff, or Kabyle literature, or drainage, and make my audience weep, cry, sob and shed tears by turns.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘I ain’t particular,’ says Andy. ‘I am equally good and varicose on all subjects. I can take up the matter of Russian immigration, or the poetry of John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W.</abbr> Keats, or the tariff, or Kabyle literature, or drainage, and make my audience weep, cry, sob and shed tears by turns.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Well, Andy,’ says I, ‘if you are bound to get rid of this accumulation of vernacular suppose you go out in town and work it on some indulgent citizen. Me and the boys will take care of the business. Everybody will be through dinner pretty soon, and salt pork and beans makes a man pretty thirsty. We ought to take in $1,500 more by midnight.’</p>
 			<p>“So Andy goes out of the Blue Snake, and I see him stopping men on the street and talking to ’em. By and by he has half a dozen in a bunch listening to him; and pretty soon I see him waving his arms and elocuting at a good-sized crowd on a corner. When he walks away they string out after him, talking all the time; and he leads ’em down the main street of Bird City with more men joining the procession as they go. It reminded me of the old legerdemain that I’d read in books about the Pied Piper of Heidsieck charming the children away from the town.</p>
 			<p>“One o’clock came; and then two; and three got under the wire for place; and not a Bird citizen came in for a drink. The streets were deserted except for some ducks and ladies going to the stores. There was only a light drizzle falling then.</p>

src/epub/text/the-phonograph-and-the-graft.xhtml

@@ -33,12 +33,12 @@
 			<p>“ ‘It’s simple,’ says he, ‘when you know how. It’s the fit of the vest. They don’t cut vests right anywhere else. Coats, maybe, but not vests.’</p>
 			<p>“The white man looks at Henry Horsecollar and hesitates.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Injun,’ says Henry; ‘tame Injun.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Mellinger,’ says the man⁠—‘Homer <abbr class="name">P.</abbr> Mellinger. Boys, you’re confiscated. You’re babes in the wood without a chaperon or referee, and it’s my duty to start you going. I’ll knock out the props and launch you proper in the pellucid waters of this tropical mud puddle. You’ll have to be christened, and if you’ll come with me I’ll break a bottle of wine across your bows, according to Hoyle.’</p>
-			<p>“Well, for two days Homer <abbr class="name">P.</abbr> Mellinger did the honors. That man cut ice in Anchuria. He was It. He was the Royal Kafoozlum. If me and Henry was babes in the wood, he was a Robin Redbreast from the topmost bough. Him and me and Henry Horsecollar locked arms, and toted that phonograph around, and had wassail and diversions. Everywhere we found doors open we went inside and set the machine going, and Mellinger called upon the people to observe the artful music and his two lifelong friends, the Señors Americanos. The opera chorus was agitated with esteem, and followed us from house to house. There was a different kind of drink to be had with every tune. The natives had acquirements of a pleasant thing in the way of a drink that gums itself to the recollection. They chop off the end of a green coconut, and pour in on the juice of it French brandy and other adjuvants. We had them and other things.</p>
-			<p>“Mine and Henry’s money was counterfeit. Everything was on Homer <abbr class="name">P.</abbr> Mellinger. That man could find rolls of bills concealed in places on his person where Hermann the Wizard couldn’t have conjured out a rabbit or an omelette. He could have founded universities, and made orchid collections, and then had enough left to purchase the colored vote of his country. Henry and me wondered what his graft was. One evening he told us.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Mellinger,’ says the man⁠—‘Homer <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">P.</abbr> Mellinger. Boys, you’re confiscated. You’re babes in the wood without a chaperon or referee, and it’s my duty to start you going. I’ll knock out the props and launch you proper in the pellucid waters of this tropical mud puddle. You’ll have to be christened, and if you’ll come with me I’ll break a bottle of wine across your bows, according to Hoyle.’</p>
+			<p>“Well, for two days Homer <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">P.</abbr> Mellinger did the honors. That man cut ice in Anchuria. He was It. He was the Royal Kafoozlum. If me and Henry was babes in the wood, he was a Robin Redbreast from the topmost bough. Him and me and Henry Horsecollar locked arms, and toted that phonograph around, and had wassail and diversions. Everywhere we found doors open we went inside and set the machine going, and Mellinger called upon the people to observe the artful music and his two lifelong friends, the Señors Americanos. The opera chorus was agitated with esteem, and followed us from house to house. There was a different kind of drink to be had with every tune. The natives had acquirements of a pleasant thing in the way of a drink that gums itself to the recollection. They chop off the end of a green coconut, and pour in on the juice of it French brandy and other adjuvants. We had them and other things.</p>
+			<p>“Mine and Henry’s money was counterfeit. Everything was on Homer <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">P.</abbr> Mellinger. That man could find rolls of bills concealed in places on his person where Hermann the Wizard couldn’t have conjured out a rabbit or an omelette. He could have founded universities, and made orchid collections, and then had enough left to purchase the colored vote of his country. Henry and me wondered what his graft was. One evening he told us.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Boys,’ said he, ‘I’ve deceived you. You think I’m a painted butterfly; but in fact I’m the hardest worked man in this country. Ten years ago I landed on its shores; and two years ago on the point of its jaw. Yes, I guess I can get the decision over this ginger cake commonwealth at the end of any round I choose. I’ll confide in you because you are my countrymen and guests, even if you have assaulted my adopted shores with the worst system of noises ever set to music.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘My job is private secretary to the president of this republic; and my duties are running it. I’m not headlined in the bills, but I’m the mustard in the salad dressing just the same. There isn’t a law goes before Congress, there isn’t a concession granted, there isn’t an import duty levied but what <abbr class="name">H. P.</abbr> Mellinger he cooks and seasons it. In the front office I fill the president’s inkstand and search visiting statesmen for dirks and dynamite; but in the back room I dictate the policy of the government. You’d never guess in the world how I got my pull. It’s the only graft of its kind on earth. I’ll put you wise. You remember the old top-liner in the copy book⁠—“Honesty is the Best Policy”? That’s it. I’m working honesty for a graft. I’m the only honest man in the republic. The government knows it; the people know it; the boodlers know it; the foreign investors know it. I make the government keep its faith. If a man is promised a job he gets it. If outside capital buys a concession it gets the goods. I run a monopoly of square dealing here. There’s no competition. If Colonel Diogenes were to flash his lantern in this precinct he’d have my address inside of two minutes. There isn’t big money in it, but it’s a sure thing, and lets a man sleep of nights.’</p>
-			<p>“Thus Homer <abbr class="name">P.</abbr> Mellinger made oration to me and Henry Horsecollar. And, later, he divested himself of this remark:</p>
+			<p>“ ‘My job is private secretary to the president of this republic; and my duties are running it. I’m not headlined in the bills, but I’m the mustard in the salad dressing just the same. There isn’t a law goes before Congress, there isn’t a concession granted, there isn’t an import duty levied but what <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H. P.</abbr> Mellinger he cooks and seasons it. In the front office I fill the president’s inkstand and search visiting statesmen for dirks and dynamite; but in the back room I dictate the policy of the government. You’d never guess in the world how I got my pull. It’s the only graft of its kind on earth. I’ll put you wise. You remember the old top-liner in the copy book⁠—“Honesty is the Best Policy”? That’s it. I’m working honesty for a graft. I’m the only honest man in the republic. The government knows it; the people know it; the boodlers know it; the foreign investors know it. I make the government keep its faith. If a man is promised a job he gets it. If outside capital buys a concession it gets the goods. I run a monopoly of square dealing here. There’s no competition. If Colonel Diogenes were to flash his lantern in this precinct he’d have my address inside of two minutes. There isn’t big money in it, but it’s a sure thing, and lets a man sleep of nights.’</p>
+			<p>“Thus Homer <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">P.</abbr> Mellinger made oration to me and Henry Horsecollar. And, later, he divested himself of this remark:</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Boys, I’m to hold a soirée this evening with a gang of leading citizens, and I want your assistance. You bring the musical corn sheller and give the affair the outside appearance of a function. There’s important business on hand, but it mustn’t show. I can talk to you people. I’ve been pained for years on account of not having anybody to blow off and brag to. I get homesick sometimes, and I’d swap the entire perquisites of office for just one hour to have a stein and a caviar sandwich somewhere on Thirty-fourth Street, and stand and watch the street cars go by, and smell the peanut roaster at old Giuseppe’s fruit stand.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘there’s fine caviar at Billy Renfrew’s café, corner of Thirty-fourth and⁠—’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘God knows it,’ interrupts Mellinger, ‘and if you’d told me you knew Billy Renfrew I’d have invented tons of ways of making you happy. Billy was my side-kicker in New York. There is a man who never knew what crooked was. Here I am working Honesty for a graft, but that man loses money on it. <i xml:lang="es">Carrambos!</i> I get sick at times of this country. Everything’s rotten. From the executive down to the coffee pickers, they’re plotting to down each other and skin their friends. If a mule driver takes off his hat to an official, that man figures it out that he’s a popular idol, and sets his pegs to stir up a revolution and upset the administration. It’s one of my little chores as private secretary to smell out these revolutions and affix the kibosh before they break out and scratch the paint off the government property. That’s why I’m down here now in this mildewed coast town. The governor of the district and his crew are plotting to uprise. I’ve got every one of their names, and they’re invited to listen to the phonograph tonight, compliments of <abbr class="name">H. P. M.</abbr> That’s the way I’ll get them in a bunch, and things are on the programme to happen to them.’</p>
@@ -51,7 +51,7 @@
 			<p>“Maybe fifty of ’em had come, and was seated, when in slid the king bee, the governor of the district. Mellinger met him at the door, and escorted him to the grandstand. When I saw that Latin man I knew that Mellinger, private secretary, had all the dances on his card taken. That was a big, squashy man, the colour of a rubber overshoe, and he had an eye like a head waiter’s.</p>
 			<p>“Mellinger explained, fluent, in the Castilian idioms, that his soul was disconcerted with joy at introducing to his respected friends America’s greatest invention, the wonder of the age. Henry got the cue and run on an elegant brass-band record and the festivities became initiated. The governor man had a bit of English under his hat, and when the music was choked off he says:</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Ver-r-ree fine. <i xml:lang="es">Gr-r-r-r-racias</i>, the American gentleemen, the so esplendeed moosic as to playee.’</p>
-			<p>“The table was a long one, and Henry and me sat at the end of it next the wall. The governor sat at the other end. Homer <abbr class="name">P.</abbr> Mellinger stood at the side of it. I was just wondering how Mellinger was going to handle his crowd, when the home talent suddenly opened the services.</p>
+			<p>“The table was a long one, and Henry and me sat at the end of it next the wall. The governor sat at the other end. Homer <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">P.</abbr> Mellinger stood at the side of it. I was just wondering how Mellinger was going to handle his crowd, when the home talent suddenly opened the services.</p>
 			<p>“That governor man was suitable for uprisings and policies. I judge he was a ready kind of man, who took his own time. Yes, he was full of attention and immediateness. He leaned his hands on the table and imposed his face toward the secretary man.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Do the American señors understand Spanish?’ he asks in his native accents.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘They do not,’ says Mellinger.</p>
@@ -59,8 +59,8 @@
 			<p>“The governor man then draws a package wrapped in paper from his pocket, and lays it on the table by Mellinger’s hand.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘In that you will find fifty thousand dollars in money of your country. You can do nothing against us, but you can be worth that for us. Go back to the capital and obey our instructions. Take that money now. We trust you. You will find with it a paper giving in detail the work you will be expected to do for us. Do not have the unwiseness to refuse.’</p>
 			<p>“The governor man paused, with his eyes fixed on Mellinger, full of expressions and observances. I looked at Mellinger, and was glad Billy Renfrew couldn’t see him then. The sweat was popping out on his forehead, and he stood dumb, tapping the little package with the ends of his fingers. The colorado-maduro gang was after his graft. He had only to change his politics, and stuff five fingers in his inside pocket.</p>
-			<p>“Henry whispers to me and wants the pause in the programme interpreted. I whisper back: ‘<abbr class="name">H. P.</abbr> is up against a bribe, senator’s size, and the coons have got him going.’ I saw Mellinger’s hand moving closer to the package. ‘He’s weakening,’ I whispered to Henry. ‘We’ll remind him,’ says Henry, ‘of the peanut-roaster on Thirty-fourth Street, New York.’</p>
-			<p>“Henry stooped down and got a record from the basketful we’d brought, slid it in the phonograph, and started her off. It was a cornet solo, very neat and beautiful, and the name of it was ‘Home, Sweet Home.’ Not one of them fifty odd men in the room moved while it was playing, and the governor man kept his eyes steady on Mellinger. I saw Mellinger’s head go up little by little, and his hand came creeping away from the package. Not until the last note sounded did anybody stir. And then Homer <abbr class="name">P.</abbr> Mellinger takes up the bundle of boodle and slams it in the governor man’s face.</p>
+			<p>“Henry whispers to me and wants the pause in the programme interpreted. I whisper back: ‘<abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H. P.</abbr> is up against a bribe, senator’s size, and the coons have got him going.’ I saw Mellinger’s hand moving closer to the package. ‘He’s weakening,’ I whispered to Henry. ‘We’ll remind him,’ says Henry, ‘of the peanut-roaster on Thirty-fourth Street, New York.’</p>
+			<p>“Henry stooped down and got a record from the basketful we’d brought, slid it in the phonograph, and started her off. It was a cornet solo, very neat and beautiful, and the name of it was ‘Home, Sweet Home.’ Not one of them fifty odd men in the room moved while it was playing, and the governor man kept his eyes steady on Mellinger. I saw Mellinger’s head go up little by little, and his hand came creeping away from the package. Not until the last note sounded did anybody stir. And then Homer <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">P.</abbr> Mellinger takes up the bundle of boodle and slams it in the governor man’s face.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘That’s my answer,’ says Mellinger, private secretary, ‘and there’ll be another in the morning. I have proofs of conspiracy against every man of you. The show is over, gentlemen.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘There’s one more act,’ puts in the governor man. ‘You are a servant, I believe, employed by the president to copy letters and answer raps at the door. I am governor here. <i xml:lang="es">Señores</i>, I call upon you in the name of the cause to seize this man.’</p>
 			<p>“That brindled gang of conspirators shoved back their chairs and advanced in force. I could see where Mellinger had made a mistake in massing his enemy so as to make a grandstand play. I think he made another one, too; but we can pass that, Mellinger’s idea of a graft and mine being different, according to estimations and points of view.</p>
@@ -75,7 +75,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘I want to buy that phonograph,’ says he. ‘I liked that last tune it played at the soirée.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘This is more money than the machine is worth,’ says I.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘ ’Tis government expense money,’ says Mellinger. ‘The government pays for it, and it’s getting the tune-grinder cheap.’</p>
-			<p>“Me and Henry knew that pretty well. We knew that it had saved Homer <abbr class="name">P.</abbr> Mellinger’s graft when he was on the point of losing it; but we never let him know we knew it.</p>
+			<p>“Me and Henry knew that pretty well. We knew that it had saved Homer <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">P.</abbr> Mellinger’s graft when he was on the point of losing it; but we never let him know we knew it.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Now you boys better slide off further down the coast for a while,’ says Mellinger, ‘till I get the screws put on these fellows here. If you don’t they’ll give you trouble. And if you ever happen to see Billy Renfrew again before I do, tell him I’m coming back to New York as soon as I can make a stake⁠—honest.’</p>
 			<p>“Me and Henry laid low until the day the steamer came back. When we saw the captain’s boat on the beach we went down and stood in the edge of the water. The captain grinned when he saw us.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I told you you’d be waiting,’ he says. ‘Where’s the Hamburger machine?’</p>

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@@ -60,7 +60,7 @@
 			<p>It was half-past eleven when a man galloped into the West Forty-seventh Street Police Station with the story of his wrongs.</p>
 			<p>“Nine hundred and fifty dollars,” he gasped, “all my share of grandmother’s farm.”</p>
 			<p>The desk sergeant wrung from him the name Jabez Bulltongue, of Locust Valley farm, Ulster County, and then began to take descriptions of the strong-arm gentlemen.</p>
-			<p>When Conant went to see the editor about the fate of his poem, he was received over the head of the office boy into the inner office that is decorated with the statuettes by Rodin and <abbr class="name">J. G.</abbr> Brown.</p>
+			<p>When Conant went to see the editor about the fate of his poem, he was received over the head of the office boy into the inner office that is decorated with the statuettes by Rodin and <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J. G.</abbr> Brown.</p>
 			<p>“When I read the first line of ‘The Doe and the Brook,’ ” said the editor, “I knew it to be the work of one whose life has been heart to heart with Nature. The finished art of the line did not blind me to that fact. To use a somewhat homely comparison, it was as if a wild, free child of the woods and fields were to don the garb of fashion and walk down Broadway. Beneath the apparel the man would show.”</p>
 			<p>“Thanks,” said Conant. “I suppose the check will be round on Thursday, as usual.”</p>
 			<p>The morals of this story have somehow gotten mixed. You can take your choice of “Stay on the Farm” or “Don’t Write Poetry.”</p>

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@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 			<p>“So I understood,” said the fat man. “The hotel clerk said it was Alex Sweet.”</p>
 			<p>He handed them the card and skipped out the side door. The card read:</p>
 			<blockquote class="card">
-				<p><abbr class="name">L. X.</abbr> Wheat</p>
+				<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">L. X.</abbr> Wheat</p>
 				<p>Representing Kansas City</p>
 				<p>Smith and Jones Mo.</p>
 				<p>Wholesale Undertakers’ Supplies</p>

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@@ -23,7 +23,7 @@
 			<p>Maida had saved $18 after eight months of economy; and this had bought the goods for the purple dress and paid Schlegel $4 on the making of it. On the day before Thanksgiving she would have just enough to pay the remaining $4. And then for a holiday in a new dress⁠—can earth offer anything more enchanting?</p>
 			<p>Old Bachman, the proprietor of the Beehive Store, always gave a Thanksgiving dinner to his employees. On every one of the subsequent 364 days, excusing Sundays, he would remind them of the joys of the past banquet and the hopes of the coming ones, thus inciting them to increased enthusiasm in work. The dinner was given in the store on one of the long tables in the middle of the room. They tacked wrapping paper over the front windows; and the turkeys and other good things were brought in the back way from the restaurant on the corner. You will perceive that the Beehive was not a fashionable department store, with escalators and pompadours. It was almost small enough to be called an emporium; and you could actually go in there and get waited on and walk out again. And always at the Thanksgiving dinners <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ramsay⁠—</p>
 			<p>Oh, bother! I should have mentioned <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ramsay first of all. He is more important than purple or green, or even the red cranberry sauce.</p>
-			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ramsay was the head clerk; and as far as I am concerned I am for him. He never pinched the girls’ arms when he passed them in dark corners of the store; and when he told them stories when business was dull and the girls giggled and said: “Oh, pshaw!” it wasn’t <abbr class="name">G.</abbr> Bernard they meant at all. Besides being a gentleman, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ramsay was queer and original in other ways. He was a health crank, and believed that people should never eat anything that was good for them. He was violently opposed to anybody being comfortable, and coming in out of snow storms, or wearing overshoes, or taking medicine, or coddling themselves in any way. Every one of the ten girls in the store had little pork-chop-and-fried-onion dreams every night of becoming <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Ramsay. For, next year old Bachman was going to take him in for a partner. And each one of them knew that if she should catch him she would knock those cranky health notions of his sky high before the wedding cake indigestion was over.</p>
+			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ramsay was the head clerk; and as far as I am concerned I am for him. He never pinched the girls’ arms when he passed them in dark corners of the store; and when he told them stories when business was dull and the girls giggled and said: “Oh, pshaw!” it wasn’t <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">G.</abbr> Bernard they meant at all. Besides being a gentleman, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ramsay was queer and original in other ways. He was a health crank, and believed that people should never eat anything that was good for them. He was violently opposed to anybody being comfortable, and coming in out of snow storms, or wearing overshoes, or taking medicine, or coddling themselves in any way. Every one of the ten girls in the store had little pork-chop-and-fried-onion dreams every night of becoming <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Ramsay. For, next year old Bachman was going to take him in for a partner. And each one of them knew that if she should catch him she would knock those cranky health notions of his sky high before the wedding cake indigestion was over.</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ramsay was master of ceremonies at the dinners. Always they had two Italians in to play a violin and harp and had a little dance in the store.</p>
 			<p>And here were two dresses being conceived to charm Ramsay⁠—one purple and the other red. Of course, the other eight girls were going to have dresses too, but they didn’t count. Very likely they’d wear some shirtwaist-and-black-skirt-affairs⁠—nothing as resplendent as purple or red.</p>
 			<p>Grace had saved her money, too. She was going to buy her dress ready-made. Oh, what’s the use of bothering with a tailor⁠—when you’ve got a figger it’s easy to get a fit⁠—the ready-made are intended for a perfect figger⁠—except I have to have ’em all taken in at the waist⁠—the average figger is so large waisted.</p>

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@@ -16,8 +16,8 @@
 			<p>The staff of assistants and contributors that Editor-Colonel Telfair drew about him was a peach. It was a whole crate of Georgia peaches. The first assistant editor, Tolliver Lee Fairfax, had had a father killed during Pickett’s charge. The second assistant, Keats Unthank, was the nephew of one of Morgan’s Raiders. The book reviewer, Jackson Rockingham, had been the youngest soldier in the Confederate army, having appeared on the field of battle with a sword in one hand and a milk-bottle in the other. The art editor, Roncesvalles Sykes, was a third cousin to a nephew of Jefferson Davis. Miss Lavinia Terhune, the colonel’s stenographer and typewriter, had an aunt who had once been kissed by Stonewall Jackson. Tommy Webster, the head office-boy, got his job by having recited Father Ryan’s poems, complete, at the commencement exercises of the Toombs City High School. The girls who wrapped and addressed the magazines were members of old Southern families in Reduced Circumstances. The cashier was a scrub named Hawkins, from Ann Arbor, Michigan, who had recommendations and a bond from a guarantee company filed with the owners. Even Georgia stock companies sometimes realize that it takes live ones to bury the dead.</p>
 			<p>Well, sir, if you believe me, <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rose of Dixie</i> blossomed five times before anybody heard of it except the people who buy their hooks and eyes in Toombs City. Then Hawkins climbed off his stool and told on ’em to the stock company. Even in Ann Arbor he had been used to having his business propositions heard of at least as far away as Detroit. So an advertising manager was engaged⁠—Beauregard Fitzhugh Banks⁠—a young man in a lavender necktie, whose grandfather had been the Exalted High Pillow-slip of the Kuklux Klan.</p>
 			<p>In spite of which <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rose of Dixie</i> kept coming out every month. Although in every issue it ran photos of either the Taj Mahal or the Luxembourg Gardens, or Carmencita or La Follette, a certain number of people bought it and subscribed for it. As a boom for it, Editor-Colonel Telfair ran three different views of Andrew Jackson’s old home, “The Hermitage,” a full-page engraving of the second battle of Manassas, entitled “Lee to the Rear!” and a five-thousand-word biography of Belle Boyd in the same number. The subscription list that month advanced 118. Also there were poems in the same issue by Leonina Vashti Haricot (pen-name), related to the Haricots of Charleston, South Carolina, and Bill Thompson, nephew of one of the stockholders. And an article from a special society correspondent describing a tea-party given by the swell Boston and English set, where a lot of tea was spilled overboard by some of the guests masquerading as Indians.</p>
-			<p>One day a person whose breath would easily cloud a mirror, he was so much alive, entered the office of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rose of Dixie</i>. He was a man about the size of a real-estate agent, with a self-tied tie and a manner that he must have borrowed conjointly from <abbr class="name">W. J.</abbr> Bryan, Hackenschmidt, and Hetty Green. He was shown into the editor-colonel’s pons asinorum. Colonel Telfair rose and began a Prince Albert bow.</p>
-			<p>“I’m Thacker,” said the intruder, taking the editor’s chair⁠—“<abbr class="name">T. T.</abbr> Thacker, of New York.”</p>
+			<p>One day a person whose breath would easily cloud a mirror, he was so much alive, entered the office of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rose of Dixie</i>. He was a man about the size of a real-estate agent, with a self-tied tie and a manner that he must have borrowed conjointly from <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W. J.</abbr> Bryan, Hackenschmidt, and Hetty Green. He was shown into the editor-colonel’s pons asinorum. Colonel Telfair rose and began a Prince Albert bow.</p>
+			<p>“I’m Thacker,” said the intruder, taking the editor’s chair⁠—“<abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T. T.</abbr> Thacker, of New York.”</p>
 			<p>He dribbled hastily upon the colonel’s desk some cards, a bulky manila envelope, and a letter from the owners of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rose of Dixie</i>. This letter introduced <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Thacker, and politely requested Colonel Telfair to give him a conference and whatever information about the magazine he might desire.</p>
 			<p>“I’ve been corresponding with the secretary of the magazine owners for some time,” said Thacker, briskly. “I’m a practical magazine man myself, and a circulation booster as good as any, if I do say it. I’ll guarantee an increase of anywhere from ten thousand to a hundred thousand a year for any publication that isn’t printed in a dead language. I’ve had my eye on <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rose of Dixie</i> ever since it started. I know every end of the business from editing to setting up the classified ads. Now, I’ve come down here to put a good bunch of money in the magazine, if I can see my way clear. It ought to be made to pay. The secretary tells me it’s losing money. I don’t see why a magazine in the South, if it’s properly handled, shouldn’t get a good circulation in the North, too.”</p>
 			<p>Colonel Telfair leaned back in his chair and polished his gold-rimmed glasses.</p>
@@ -43,9 +43,9 @@
 			<p>Thacker reached for his thick manila envelope and dumped a mass of typewritten manuscript on the editors desk.</p>
 			<p>“Here’s some truck,” said he, “that I paid cash for, and brought along with me.”</p>
 			<p>One by one he folded back the manuscripts and showed their first pages to the colonel.</p>
-			<p>“Here are four short stories by four of the highest priced authors in the United States⁠—three of ’em living in New York, and one commuting. There’s a special article on Vienna-bred society by Tom Vampson. Here’s an Italian serial by Captain Jack⁠—no⁠—it’s the other Crawford. Here are three separate exposés of city governments by Sniffings, and here’s a dandy entitled ‘What Women Carry in Dress-Suitcases’⁠—a Chicago newspaper woman hired herself out for five years as a lady’s maid to get that information. And here’s a Synopsis of Preceding Chapters of Hall Caine’s new serial to appear next June. And here’s a couple of pounds of <span xml:lang="fr">vers de société</span> that I got at a rate from the clever magazines. That’s the stuff that people everywhere want. And now here’s a write-up with photographs at the ages of four, twelve, twenty-two, and thirty of George <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> McClellan. It’s a prognostication. He’s bound to be elected Mayor of New York. It’ll make a big hit all over the country. He⁠—”</p>
+			<p>“Here are four short stories by four of the highest priced authors in the United States⁠—three of ’em living in New York, and one commuting. There’s a special article on Vienna-bred society by Tom Vampson. Here’s an Italian serial by Captain Jack⁠—no⁠—it’s the other Crawford. Here are three separate exposés of city governments by Sniffings, and here’s a dandy entitled ‘What Women Carry in Dress-Suitcases’⁠—a Chicago newspaper woman hired herself out for five years as a lady’s maid to get that information. And here’s a Synopsis of Preceding Chapters of Hall Caine’s new serial to appear next June. And here’s a couple of pounds of <span xml:lang="fr">vers de société</span> that I got at a rate from the clever magazines. That’s the stuff that people everywhere want. And now here’s a write-up with photographs at the ages of four, twelve, twenty-two, and thirty of George <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">B.</abbr> McClellan. It’s a prognostication. He’s bound to be elected Mayor of New York. It’ll make a big hit all over the country. He⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“I beg your pardon,” said Colonel Telfair, stiffening in his chair. “What was the name?”</p>
-			<p>“Oh, I see,” said Thacker, with half a grin. Yes, he’s a son of the General. We’ll pass that manuscript up. But, if you’ll excuse me, Colonel, it’s a magazine we’re trying to make go off⁠—not the first gun at Fort Sumter. Now, here’s a thing that’s bound to get next to you. It’s an original poem by James Whitcomb Riley. <abbr class="name">J. W.</abbr> himself. You know what that means to a magazine. I won’t tell you what I had to pay for that poem; but I’ll tell you this⁠—Riley can make more money writing with a fountain-pen than you or I can with one that lets the ink run. I’ll read you the last two stanzas:</p>
+			<p>“Oh, I see,” said Thacker, with half a grin. Yes, he’s a son of the General. We’ll pass that manuscript up. But, if you’ll excuse me, Colonel, it’s a magazine we’re trying to make go off⁠—not the first gun at Fort Sumter. Now, here’s a thing that’s bound to get next to you. It’s an original poem by James Whitcomb Riley. <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J. W.</abbr> himself. You know what that means to a magazine. I won’t tell you what I had to pay for that poem; but I’ll tell you this⁠—Riley can make more money writing with a fountain-pen than you or I can with one that lets the ink run. I’ll read you the last two stanzas:</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:poem">
 				<p>
 					<span>“ ‘Pa lays around ’n’ loafs all day,</span>
@@ -121,7 +121,7 @@
 			<p>“I don’t seem to gather,” said he, “much about the gist of this inspired piece of literature. It sounds more like a dark horse than Pegasus to me.”</p>
 			<p>“It is a human document,” said the colonel-editor, confidently, “from a man of great accomplishments who, in my opinion, has obtained a stronger grasp on the world and its outcomes than that of any man living today.”</p>
 			<p>Thacker rose to his feet excitedly.</p>
-			<p>“Say!” he said. “It isn’t possible that you’ve cornered John <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Rockefeller’s memoirs, is it? Don’t tell me that all at once.”</p>
+			<p>“Say!” he said. “It isn’t possible that you’ve cornered John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">D.</abbr> Rockefeller’s memoirs, is it? Don’t tell me that all at once.”</p>
 			<p>“No, sir,” said Colonel Telfair. “I am speaking of mentality and literature, not of the less worthy intricacies of trade.”</p>
 			<p>“Well, what’s the trouble about running the article,” asked Thacker, a little impatiently, “if the man’s well known and has got the stuff?”</p>
 			<p>Colonel Telfair sighed.</p>
@@ -147,7 +147,7 @@
 					<b>Bulloch Family, of Georgia</b>
 				</p>
 				<p>
-					<b><abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Roosevelt</b>
+					<b><abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Roosevelt</b>
 				</p>
 			</blockquote>
 		</article>

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@@ -47,7 +47,7 @@
 			<p>“The general man expanded his rotundity and laughed considerable. Yes, he laughed very long and loud, and I, Clancy, stood and waited.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Comical mans!’ he shouts, at last. ‘So you will kill me from the laughing. Yes; it is hard to find the brave, strong mans to aid my country. Revolutions? Did I speak of r-r-revolutions? Not one word. I say, big, strong mans is need in Guatemala. So. The mistake is of you. You have looked in those one box containing those gun for the guard. You think all boxes is contain gun? No.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘There is not war in Guatemala. But work? Yes. Good. T’irty dollar in the month. You shall shoulder one pickaxe, señor, and dig for the liberty and prosperity of Guatemala. Off to your work. The guard waits for you.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Little, fat, poodle dog of a brown man,’ says I, quiet, but full of indignations and discomforts, ‘things shall happen to you. Maybe not right away, but as soon as <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Clancy can formulate somethin’ in the way of repartee.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Little, fat, poodle dog of a brown man,’ says I, quiet, but full of indignations and discomforts, ‘things shall happen to you. Maybe not right away, but as soon as <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Clancy can formulate somethin’ in the way of repartee.’</p>
 			<p>“The boss of the gang orders us to work. I tramps off with the Dagoes, and I hears the distinguished patriot and kidnapper laughin’ hearty as we go.</p>
 			<p>“ ’Tis a sorrowful fact, for eight weeks I built railroads for that misbehavin’ country. I filibustered twelve hours a day with a heavy pick and a spade, choppin’ away the luxurious landscape that grew upon the right of way. We worked in swamps that smelled like there was a leak in the gas mains, trampin’ down a fine assortment of the most expensive hothouse plants and vegetables. The scene was tropical beyond the wildest imagination of the geography man. The trees was all skyscrapers; the underbrush was full of needles and pins; there was monkeys jumpin’ around and crocodiles and pink-tailed mockin’-birds, and ye stood knee-deep in the rotten water and grabbled roots for the liberation of Guatemala. Of nights we would build smudges in camp to discourage the mosquitoes, and sit in the smoke, with the guards pacin’ all around us. There was two hundred men workin’ on the road⁠—mostly Dagoes, nigger-men, Spanish-men and Swedes. Three or four were Irish.</p>
 			<p>“One old man named Halloran⁠—a man of Hibernian entitlements and discretions, explained it to me. He had been workin’ on the road a year. Most of them died in less than six months. He was dried up to gristle and bone, and shook with chills every third night.</p>
@@ -92,7 +92,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Overtime,’ says O’Hara, lookin’ over me suspicious. ‘Want some of it?’</p>
 			<p>“Fifty-forty-six is the celebrated city ordinance authorizin’ arrest, conviction and imprisonment of persons that succeed in concealin’ their crimes from the police.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Don’t ye know Jimmy Clancy?’ says I. ‘Ye pink-gilled monster.’ So, when O’Hara recognized me beneath the scandalous exterior bestowed upon me by the tropics, I backed him into a doorway and told him what I wanted, and why I wanted it. ‘All right, Jimmy,’ says O’Hara. ‘Go back and hold the bench. I’ll be along in ten minutes.’</p>
-			<p>“In that time O’Hara strolled through Lafayette Square and spied two Weary Willies disgracin’ one of the benches. In ten minutes more <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Clancy and General De Vega, late candidate for the presidency of Guatemala, was in the station house. The general is badly frightened, and calls upon me to proclaim his distinguishments and rank.</p>
+			<p>“In that time O’Hara strolled through Lafayette Square and spied two Weary Willies disgracin’ one of the benches. In ten minutes more <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Clancy and General De Vega, late candidate for the presidency of Guatemala, was in the station house. The general is badly frightened, and calls upon me to proclaim his distinguishments and rank.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘The man,’ says I to the police, ‘used to be a railroad man. He’s on the bum now. ’Tis a little bughouse he is, on account of losin’ his job.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘<i xml:lang="es">Carrambos!</i>’ says the general, fizzin’ like a little soda-water fountain, ‘you fought, señor, with my forces in my native country. Why do you say the lies? You shall say I am the General De Vega, one soldier, one caballero⁠—’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Railroader,’ says I again. ‘On the hog. No good. Been livin’ for three days on stolen bananas. Look at him. Ain’t that enough?’</p>

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@@ -15,7 +15,7 @@
 			<p>“Gentlemen,” cried Bildad Rose from his seat, swathed in coats and robes, “tear me down two panels of that fence, so I can drive in. That is old man Redruth’s shanty. I thought we must be nigh it. They took him to the foolish house in August.”</p>
 			<p>Cheerfully the four passengers sprang at the snow-capped rails. The exhorted team tugged the coach up the slant to the door of the edifice from which a midsummer madness had ravished its proprietor. The driver and two of the passengers began to unhitch. Judge Menefee opened the door of the coach, and removed his hat.</p>
 			<p>“I have to announce, Miss Garland,” said he, “the enforced suspension of our journey. The driver asserts that the risk in travelling the mountain road by night is too great even to consider. It will be necessary to remain in the shelter of this house until morning. I beg that you will feel that there is nothing to fear beyond a temporary inconvenience. I have personally inspected the house, and find that there are means to provide against the rigour of the weather, at least. You shall be made as comfortable as possible. Permit me to assist you to alight.”</p>
-			<p>To the Judge’s side came the passenger whose pursuit in life was the placing of the Little Goliath windmill. His name was Dunwoody; but that matters not much. In travelling merely from Paradise to Sunrise City one needs little or no name. Still, one who would seek to divide honours with Judge Madison <abbr class="name">L.</abbr> Menefee deserves a cognomenal peg upon which Fame may hang a wreath. Thus spake, loudly and buoyantly, the aerial miller:</p>
+			<p>To the Judge’s side came the passenger whose pursuit in life was the placing of the Little Goliath windmill. His name was Dunwoody; but that matters not much. In travelling merely from Paradise to Sunrise City one needs little or no name. Still, one who would seek to divide honours with Judge Madison <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">L.</abbr> Menefee deserves a cognomenal peg upon which Fame may hang a wreath. Thus spake, loudly and buoyantly, the aerial miller:</p>
 			<p>“Guess you’ll have to climb out of the ark, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> McFarland. This wigwam isn’t exactly the Palmer House, but it turns snow, and they won’t search your grip for souvenir spoons when you leave. <em>We’ve</em> got a fire going; and <em>we’ll</em> fix you up with dry Tilbys and keep the mice away, anyhow, all right, all right.”</p>
 			<p>One of the two passengers who were struggling in a melee of horses, harness, snow, and the sarcastic injunctions of Bildad Rose, called loudly from the whirl of his volunteer duties: “Say! some of you fellows get Miss Solomon into the house, will you? Whoa, there! you confounded brute!”</p>
 			<p>Again must it be gently urged that in travelling from Paradise to Sunrise City an accurate name is prodigality. When Judge Menefee⁠—sanctioned to the act by his grey hair and widespread repute⁠—had introduced himself to the lady passenger, she had, herself, sweetly breathed a name, in response, that the hearing of the male passengers had variously interpreted. In the not unjealous spirit of rivalry that eventuated, each clung stubbornly to his own theory. For the lady passenger to have reasseverated or corrected would have seemed didactic if not unduly solicitous of a specific acquaintance. Therefore the lady passenger permitted herself to be Garlanded and McFarlanded and Solomoned with equal and discreet complacency. It is thirty-five miles from Paradise to Sunrise City. <i xml:lang="es">Compagnon de voyage</i> is name enough, by the gripsack of the Wandering Jew! for so brief a journey.</p>
@@ -84,7 +84,7 @@
 			<p>A lean form, in rusty-brown clothing, sitting like a frog, his arms wrapped about his legs, his chin resting upon his knees. Smooth, oakum-coloured hair; long nose; mouth like a satyr’s, with upturned, tobacco-stained corners. An eye like a fish’s; a red necktie with a horseshoe pin. He began with a rasping chuckle that gradually formed itself into words.</p>
 			<p>“Everybody wrong so far. What! a romance without any orange blossoms! Ho, ho! My money on the lad with the butterfly tie and the certified checks in his trouserings.</p>
 			<p>“Take ’em as they parted at the gate? All right. ‘You never loved me,’ says Redruth, wildly, ‘or you wouldn’t speak to a man who can buy you the ice-cream.’ ‘I hate him,’ says she. ‘I loathe his sidebar buggy; I despise the elegant cream bonbons he sends me in gilt boxes covered with real lace; I feel that I could stab him to the heart when he presents me with a solid medallion locket with turquoises and pearls running in a vine around the border. Away with him! ’Tis only you I love.’ ‘Back to the cozy corner!’ says Redruth. ‘Was I bound and lettered in East Aurora? Get platonic, if you please. No jackpots for mine. Go and hate your friend some more. For me the Nickerson girl on Avenue B, and gum, and a trolley ride.’</p>
-			<p>“Around that night comes John <abbr class="name">W.</abbr> Croesus. ‘What! tears?’ says he, arranging his pearl pin. ‘You have driven my lover away,’ says little Alice, sobbing: ‘I hate the sight of you.’ ‘Marry me, then,’ says John W., lighting a Henry Clay. ‘What!’ she cries indignantly, ‘marry you! Never,’ she says, ‘until this blows over, and I can do some shopping, and you see about the licence. There’s a telephone next door if you want to call up the county clerk.’ ”</p>
+			<p>“Around that night comes John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W.</abbr> Croesus. ‘What! tears?’ says he, arranging his pearl pin. ‘You have driven my lover away,’ says little Alice, sobbing: ‘I hate the sight of you.’ ‘Marry me, then,’ says John W., lighting a Henry Clay. ‘What!’ she cries indignantly, ‘marry you! Never,’ she says, ‘until this blows over, and I can do some shopping, and you see about the licence. There’s a telephone next door if you want to call up the county clerk.’ ”</p>
 			<p>The narrator paused to give vent to his cynical chuckle.</p>
 			<p>“Did they marry?” he continued. “Did the duck swallow the June-bug? And then I take up the case of Old Boy Redruth. There’s where you are all wrong again, according to my theory. What turned him into a hermit? One says laziness; one says remorse; one says booze. I say women did it. How old is the old man now?” asked the speaker, turning to Bildad Rose.</p>
 			<p>“I should say about sixty-five.”</p>

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@@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<article id="the-theory-and-the-hound" epub:type="se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Theory and the Hound</h2>
-			<p>Not many days ago my old friend from the tropics, <abbr class="name">J. P.</abbr> Bridger, United States consul on the island of Ratona, was in the city. We had wassail and jubilee and saw the Flatiron building, and missed seeing the Bronxless menagerie by about a couple of nights. And then, at the ebb tide, we were walking up a street that parallels and parodies Broadway.</p>
+			<p>Not many days ago my old friend from the tropics, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J. P.</abbr> Bridger, United States consul on the island of Ratona, was in the city. We had wassail and jubilee and saw the Flatiron building, and missed seeing the Bronxless menagerie by about a couple of nights. And then, at the ebb tide, we were walking up a street that parallels and parodies Broadway.</p>
 			<p>A woman with a comely and mundane countenance passed us, holding in leash a wheezing, vicious, waddling, brute of a yellow pug. The dog entangled himself with Bridger’s legs and mumbled his ankles in a snarling, peevish, sulky bite. Bridger, with a happy smile, kicked the breath out of the brute; the woman showered us with a quick rain of well-conceived adjectives that left us in no doubt as to our place in her opinion, and we passed on. Ten yards farther an old woman with disordered white hair and her bankbook tucked well hidden beneath her tattered shawl begged. Bridger stopped and disinterred for her a quarter from his holiday waistcoat.</p>
 			<p>On the next corner a quarter of a ton of well-clothed man with a rice-powdered, fat, white jowl, stood holding the chain of a devil-born bulldog whose forelegs were strangers by the length of a dachshund. A little woman in a last-season’s hat confronted him and wept, which was plainly all she could do, while he cursed her in low sweet, practised tones.</p>
 			<p>Bridger smiled again⁠—strictly to himself⁠—and this time he took out a little memorandum book and made a note of it. This he had no right to do without due explanation, and I said so.</p>

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@@ -12,7 +12,7 @@
 			<p>One will have it (let us say) that <abbr>Mme.</abbr> André Macarté’s apartment was looted by six burglars, who descended via the fire-escape and bore away a ruby tiara valued at two thousand dollars and a five-hundred-dollar prize Spitz dog, which (in violation of the expectoration ordinance) was making free with the halls of the Wuttapesituckquesunoowetunquah Apartments.</p>
 			<p>My second “chiel” will take notes to the effect that while a friendly game of pinochle was in progress in the tenement rooms of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Andy McCarty, a lady guest named Ruby O’Hara threw a burglar down six flights of stairs, where he was pinioned and held by a two-thousand-dollar English bulldog amid a crowd of five hundred excited spectators.</p>
 			<p>My third chronicler and friend will gather the news threads of the happening in his own happy way; setting forth on the page for you to read that the house of Antonio Macartini was blown up at 6 <abbr class="time">a.m.</abbr>, by the Black Hand Society, on his refusing to leave two thousand dollars at a certain street corner, killing a pet five-hundred-dollar Pomeranian belonging to Alderman Rubitara’s little daughter (see photo and diagram opposite).</p>
-			<p>Number four of my history-makers will simply construe from the premises the story that while an audience of two thousand enthusiasts was listening to a Rubinstein concert on Sixth Street, a woman who said she was <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Andrew <abbr class="name">M.</abbr> Carter threw a brick through a plate-glass window valued at five hundred dollars. The Carter woman claimed that someone in the building had stolen her dog.</p>
+			<p>Number four of my history-makers will simply construe from the premises the story that while an audience of two thousand enthusiasts was listening to a Rubinstein concert on Sixth Street, a woman who said she was <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Andrew <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">M.</abbr> Carter threw a brick through a plate-glass window valued at five hundred dollars. The Carter woman claimed that someone in the building had stolen her dog.</p>
 			<p>Now, the discrepancies in these registrations of the day’s doings need do no one hurt. Surely, one newspaper is enough for any man to prop against his morning water-bottle to fend off the smiling hatred of his wife’s glance. If he be foolish enough to read four he is no wiser than a Higher Critic.</p>
 			<p>I remember (probably as well as you do) having read the parable of the talents. A prominent citizen, about to journey into a far country, first hands over to his servants his goods. To one he gives five talents; to another two; to another one⁠—to every man according to his several ability, as the text has it. There are two versions of this parable, as you well know. There may be more⁠—I do not know.</p>
 			<p>When the <abbr class="initialism">P.C.</abbr> returns he requires an accounting. Two servants have put their talents out at usury and gained one hundred percent. Good. The unprofitable one simply digs up the talent deposited with him and hands it out on demand. A pattern of behavior for trust companies and banks, surely! In one version we read that he had wrapped it in a napkin and laid it away. But the commentator informs us that the talent mentioned was composed of 750 ounces of silver⁠—about $900 worth. So the chronicler who mentioned the napkin, had either to reduce the amount of the deposit or do a lot of explaining about the size of the napery used in those davs. Therefore in his version we note that he uses the word “pound” instead of “talent.”</p>
@@ -67,14 +67,14 @@
 			<p>“All right,” said Mac. “I take it as an honor, of course, for you to notice my hopping around. Of course I’d like to do something in a professional line. Of course I can sing a little and do card tricks and Irish and German comedy stuff, and of course I’m not so bad on the trapeze and comic bicycle stunts and Hebrew monologues and⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“One moment,” interrupted Del Delano, “before we begin. I said you couldn’t dance. Well, that wasn’t quite right. You’ve only got two or three bad tricks in your method. You’re handy with your feet, and you belong at the top, where I am. I’ll put you there. I’ve got six weeks continuous in New York; and in four I can shape up your style till the booking agents will fight one another to get you. And I’ll do it, too. I’m of, from, and for the West Side. ‘Del Delano’ looks good on billboards, but the family name’s Crowley. Now, Mackintosh⁠—McGowan, I mean⁠—you’ve got your chance⁠—fifty times a better one than I had.”</p>
 			<p>“I’d be a shine to turn it down,” said Mac. “And I hope you understand I appreciate it. Me and my cousin Cliff McGowan was thinking of getting a tryout at Creary’s on amateur night a month from tomorrow.”</p>
-			<p>“Good stuff!” said Delano. “I got mine there. Junius <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Rollins, the booker for Kuhn &amp; Dooley, jumped on the stage and engaged me after my dance. And the boards were an inch deep in nickels and dimes and quarters. There wasn’t but nine penny pieces found in the lot.”</p>
+			<p>“Good stuff!” said Delano. “I got mine there. Junius <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Rollins, the booker for Kuhn &amp; Dooley, jumped on the stage and engaged me after my dance. And the boards were an inch deep in nickels and dimes and quarters. There wasn’t but nine penny pieces found in the lot.”</p>
 			<p>“I ought to tell you,” said Mac, after two minutes of pensiveness, “that my cousin Cliff can beat me dancing. We’ve always been what you might call pals. If you’d take him up instead of me, now, it might be better. He’s invented a lot of steps that I can’t cut.”</p>
 			<p>“Forget it,” said Delano. “Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays of every week from now till amateur night, a month off, I’ll coach you. I’ll make you as good as I am; and nobody could do more for you. My act’s over every night at 10:15. Half an hour later I’ll take you up and drill you till twelve. I’ll put you at the top of the bunch, right where I am. You’ve got talent. Your style’s bum; but you’ve got the genius. You let me manage it. I’m from the West Side myself, and I’d rather see one of the same gang win out before I would an East-Sider, or any of the Flatbush or Hackensack Meadow kind of butt-iners. I’ll see that Junius Rollins is present on your Friday night; and if he don’t climb over the footlights and offer you fifty a week as a starter, I’ll let you draw it down from my own salary every Monday night. Now, am I talking on the level or am I not?”</p>
 			<p>Amateur night at Creary’s Eighth Avenue Theatre is cut by the same pattern as amateur nights elsewhere. After the regular performance the humblest talent may, by previous arrangement with the management, make its debut upon the public stage. Ambitious non-professionals, mostly self-instructed, display their skill and powers of entertainment along the broadest lines. They may sing, dance, mimic, juggle, contort, recite, or disport themselves along any of the ragged boundary lines of Art. From the ranks of these anxious tyros are chosen the professionals that adorn or otherwise make conspicuous the full-blown stage. Press-agents delight in recounting to open-mouthed and close-eared reporters stories of the humble beginnings of the brilliant stars whose orbits they control.</p>
 			<p>Such and such a prima donna (they will tell you) made her initial bow to the public while turning handsprings on an amateur night. One great matinée favorite made his debut on a generous Friday evening singing coon songs of his own composition. A tragedian famous on two continents and an island first attracted attention by an amateur impersonation of a newly landed Scandinavian peasant girl. One Broadway comedian that turns ’em away got a booking on a Friday night by reciting (seriously) the graveyard scene in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Hamlet</i>.</p>
 			<p>Thus they get their chance. Amateur night is a kindly boon. It is charity divested of almsgiving. It is a brotherly hand reached down by members of the best united band of coworkers in the world to raise up less fortunate ones without labelling them beggars. It gives you the chance, if you can grasp it, to step for a few minutes before some badly painted scenery and, during the playing by the orchestra of some ten or twelve bars of music, and while the soles of your shoes may be clearly holding to the uppers, to secure a salary equal to a Congressman’s or any orthodox minister’s. Could an ambitious student of literature or financial methods get a chance like that by spending twenty minutes in a Carnegie library? I do not trow so.</p>
 			<p>But shall we look in at Creary’s? Let us say that the specific Friday night had arrived on which the fortunate Mac McGowan was to justify the flattering predictions of his distinguished patron and, incidentally, drop his silver talent into the slit of the slot-machine of fame and fortune that gives up reputation and dough. I offer, sure of your acquiescence, that we now forswear hypocritical philosophy and bigoted comment, permitting the story to finish itself in the dress of material allegations⁠—a medium more worthy, when held to the line, than the most laborious creations of the word-milliners⁠ ⁠…</p>
-			<p class="editorial">[Page of <abbr class="name">O.</abbr> Henry’s manuscript missing here.]</p>
+			<p class="editorial">[Page of <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">O.</abbr> Henry’s manuscript missing here.]</p>
 			<p>… easily among the wings with his patron, the great Del Delano. For, whatever footlights shone in the City-That-Would-Be-Amused, the freedom of their unshaded side was Del’s. And if he should take up an amateur⁠—see? and bring him around⁠—see? and, winking one of his cold blue eyes, say to the manager: “Take it from me⁠—he’s got the goods⁠—see?” you wouldn’t expect that amateur to sit on an unpainted bench sudorifically awaiting his turn, would you? So Mac strolled around largely with the nonpareil; and the seven waited, clammily, on the bench.</p>
 			<p>A giant in shirtsleeves, with a grim, kind face in which many stitches had been taken by surgeons from time to time, <abbr class="initialism">i.e.</abbr>, with a long stick, looped at the end. He was the man with the Hook. The manager, with his close-smoothed blond hair, his one-sided smile, and his abnormally easy manner, pored with patient condescension over the difficult program of the amateurs. The last of the professional turns⁠—the Grand March of the Happy Huzzard⁠—had been completed; the last wrinkle and darn of their blue silkolene cotton tights had vanished from the stage. The man in the orchestra who played the kettledrum, cymbals, triangle, sandpaper, whang-doodle, hoof-beats, and catcalls, and fired the pistol shots, had wiped his brow. The illegal holiday of the Romans had arrived.</p>
 			<p>While the orchestra plays the famous waltz from “The Dismal Wife,” let us bestow two hundred words upon the psychology of the audience.</p>

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@@ -13,10 +13,10 @@
 			<p>But our programme ends with a brief “turn” or two; and then to the exits. Whoever sits the show out may find, if he will, the slender thread that binds together, though ever so slightly, the story that, perhaps, only the Walrus will understand.</p>
 			<p>Extracts from a letter from the first vice-president of the Republic Insurance Company, of New York City, to Frank Goodwin, of Coralio, Republic of Anchuria.</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:letter">
-				<p><span epub:type="z3998:salutation">My Dear <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Goodwin</span>:⁠—Your communication per <abbr>Messrs.</abbr> Howland and Fourchet, of New Orleans, has reached us. Also their draft on <abbr class="postal">NY</abbr> for $100,000, the amount abstracted from the funds of this company by the late <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Churchill Wahrfield, its former president.⁠ ⁠… The officers and directors unite in requesting me to express to you their sincere esteem and thanks for your prompt and much appreciated return of the entire missing sum within two weeks from the time of its disappearance.⁠ ⁠… Can assure you that the matter will not be allowed to receive the least publicity.⁠ ⁠… Regret exceedingly the distressing death of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Wahrfield by his own hand, but⁠ ⁠… Congratulations on your marriage to Miss Wahrfield⁠ ⁠… many charms, winning manners, noble and womanly nature and envied position in the best metropolitan society⁠ ⁠…</p>
+				<p><span epub:type="z3998:salutation">My Dear <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Goodwin</span>:⁠—Your communication per <abbr>Messrs.</abbr> Howland and Fourchet, of New Orleans, has reached us. Also their draft on <abbr class="postal">NY</abbr> for $100,000, the amount abstracted from the funds of this company by the late <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Churchill Wahrfield, its former president.⁠ ⁠… The officers and directors unite in requesting me to express to you their sincere esteem and thanks for your prompt and much appreciated return of the entire missing sum within two weeks from the time of its disappearance.⁠ ⁠… Can assure you that the matter will not be allowed to receive the least publicity.⁠ ⁠… Regret exceedingly the distressing death of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Wahrfield by his own hand, but⁠ ⁠… Congratulations on your marriage to Miss Wahrfield⁠ ⁠… many charms, winning manners, noble and womanly nature and envied position in the best metropolitan society⁠ ⁠…</p>
 				<footer>
 					<p epub:type="z3998:valediction">Cordially yours,</p>
-					<p epub:type="z3998:signature z3998:sender">Lucius <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Applegate</p>
+					<p epub:type="z3998:signature z3998:sender">Lucius <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Applegate</p>
 					<p>First Vice-President</p>
 					<p>The Republic Insurance Company.</p>
 				</footer>

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@@ -15,7 +15,7 @@
 			<p>The other day I became confused. I needed a ray of light. I turned back to those school days for aid. But in all the nasal harmonies we whined forth from those hard benches I could not recall one that treated of the voice of agglomerated mankind.</p>
 			<p>In other words, of the composite vocal message of massed humanity.</p>
 			<p>In other words, of the Voice of a Big City.</p>
-			<p>Now, the individual voice is not lacking. We can understand the song of the poet, the ripple of the brook, the meaning of the man who wants $5 until next Monday, the inscriptions on the tombs of the Pharaohs, the language of flowers, the “step lively” of the conductor, and the prelude of the milk cans at 4 <abbr class="time">a.m.</abbr> Certain large-eared ones even assert that they are wise to the vibrations of the tympanum produced by concussion of the air emanating from <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr class="name">H.</abbr> James. But who can comprehend the meaning of the voice of the city?</p>
+			<p>Now, the individual voice is not lacking. We can understand the song of the poet, the ripple of the brook, the meaning of the man who wants $5 until next Monday, the inscriptions on the tombs of the Pharaohs, the language of flowers, the “step lively” of the conductor, and the prelude of the milk cans at 4 <abbr class="time">a.m.</abbr> Certain large-eared ones even assert that they are wise to the vibrations of the tympanum produced by concussion of the air emanating from <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H.</abbr> James. But who can comprehend the meaning of the voice of the city?</p>
 			<p>I went out for to see.</p>
 			<p>First, I asked Aurelia. She wore white Swiss and a hat with flowers on it, and ribbons and ends of things fluttered here and there.</p>
 			<p>“Tell me,” I said, stammeringly, for I have no voice of my own, “what does this big⁠—er⁠—enormous⁠—er⁠—whopping city say? It must have a voice of some kind. Does it ever speak to you? How do you interpret its meaning? It is a tremendous mass, but it must have a key.”</p>
@@ -39,7 +39,7 @@
 			<p>The cop melted into the darkness of the side street. In ten minutes he had returned.</p>
 			<p>“Married last Tuesday,” he said, half gruffly. “You know how they are. She comes to that corner at nine every night for a⁠—comes to say ‘hello!’ I generally manage to be there. Say, what was it you asked me a bit ago⁠—what’s doing in the city? Oh, there’s a roof-garden or two just opened, twelve blocks up.”</p>
 			<p>I crossed a crow’s-foot of streetcar tracks, and skirted the edge of an umbrageous park. An artificial Diana, gilded, heroic, poised, wind-ruled, on the tower, shimmered in the clear light of her namesake in the sky. Along came my poet, hurrying, hatted, haired, emitting dactyls, spondees and dactylis. I seized him.</p>
-			<p>“Bill,” said I (in the magazine he is Cleon), “give me a lift. I am on an assignment to find out the Voice of the city. You see, it’s a special order. Ordinarily a symposium comprising the views of Henry Clues, John <abbr class="name">L.</abbr> Sullivan, Edwin Markham, May Irwin and Charles Schwab would be about all. But this is a different matter. We want a broad, poetic, mystic vocalization of the city’s soul and meaning. You are the very chap to give me a hint. Some years ago a man got at the Niagara Falls and gave us its pitch. The note was about two feet below the lowest G on the piano. Now, you can’t put New York into a note unless it’s better endorsed than that. But give me an idea of what it would say if it should speak. It is bound to be a mighty and far-reaching utterance. To arrive at it we must take the tremendous crash of the chords of the day’s traffic, the laughter and music of the night, the solemn tones of <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Parkhurst, the ragtime, the weeping, the stealthy hum of cab-wheels, the shout of the press agent, the tinkle of fountains on the roof gardens, the hullabaloo of the strawberry vender and the covers of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Everybody’s Magazine</i>, the whispers of the lovers in the parks⁠—all these sounds must go into your Voice⁠—not combined, but mixed, and of the mixture an essence made; and of the essence an extract⁠—an audible extract, of which one drop shall form the thing we seek.”</p>
+			<p>“Bill,” said I (in the magazine he is Cleon), “give me a lift. I am on an assignment to find out the Voice of the city. You see, it’s a special order. Ordinarily a symposium comprising the views of Henry Clues, John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">L.</abbr> Sullivan, Edwin Markham, May Irwin and Charles Schwab would be about all. But this is a different matter. We want a broad, poetic, mystic vocalization of the city’s soul and meaning. You are the very chap to give me a hint. Some years ago a man got at the Niagara Falls and gave us its pitch. The note was about two feet below the lowest G on the piano. Now, you can’t put New York into a note unless it’s better endorsed than that. But give me an idea of what it would say if it should speak. It is bound to be a mighty and far-reaching utterance. To arrive at it we must take the tremendous crash of the chords of the day’s traffic, the laughter and music of the night, the solemn tones of <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Parkhurst, the ragtime, the weeping, the stealthy hum of cab-wheels, the shout of the press agent, the tinkle of fountains on the roof gardens, the hullabaloo of the strawberry vender and the covers of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Everybody’s Magazine</i>, the whispers of the lovers in the parks⁠—all these sounds must go into your Voice⁠—not combined, but mixed, and of the mixture an essence made; and of the essence an extract⁠—an audible extract, of which one drop shall form the thing we seek.”</p>
 			<p>“Do you remember,” asked the poet, with a chuckle, “that California girl we met at Stiver’s studio last week? Well, I’m on my way to see her. She repeated that poem of mine, ‘The Tribute of Spring,’ word for word. She’s the smartest proposition in this town just at present. Say, how does this confounded tie look? I spoiled four before I got one to set right.”</p>
 			<p>“And the Voice that I asked you about?” I inquired.</p>
 			<p>“Oh, she doesn’t sing,” said Cleon. “But you ought to hear her recite my ‘Angel of the Inshore Wind.’ ”</p>

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@@ -11,7 +11,7 @@
 			<p>A favourite dodge to get your story read by the public is to assert that it is true, and then add that Truth is stranger than Fiction. I do not know if the yarn I am anxious for you to read is true; but the Spanish purser of the fruit steamer <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">El Carrero</i> swore to me by the shrine of Santa Guadalupe that he had the facts from the <abbr class="initialism">U.S.</abbr> vice-consul at La Paz⁠—a person who could not possibly have been cognizant of half of them.</p>
 			<p>As for the adage quoted above, I take pleasure in puncturing it by affirming that I read in a purely fictional story the other day the line: “ ‘Be it so,’ said the policeman.” Nothing so strange has yet cropped out in Truth.</p>
 			<hr/>
-			<p>When <abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Ferguson Hedges, millionaire promoter, investor and man-about-New-York, turned his thoughts upon matters convivial, and word of it went “down the line,” bouncers took a precautionary turn at the Indian clubs, waiters put ironstone china on his favourite tables, cab drivers crowded close to the curbstone in front of all-night cafés, and careful cashiers in his regular haunts charged up a few bottles to his account by way of preface and introduction.</p>
+			<p>When <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H.</abbr> Ferguson Hedges, millionaire promoter, investor and man-about-New-York, turned his thoughts upon matters convivial, and word of it went “down the line,” bouncers took a precautionary turn at the Indian clubs, waiters put ironstone china on his favourite tables, cab drivers crowded close to the curbstone in front of all-night cafés, and careful cashiers in his regular haunts charged up a few bottles to his account by way of preface and introduction.</p>
 			<p>As a money power a one-millionaire is of small account in a city where the man who cuts your slice of beef behind the free-lunch counter rides to work in his own automobile. But Hedges spent his money as lavishly, loudly and showily as though he were only a clerk squandering a week’s wages. And, after all, the bartender takes no interest in your reserve fund. He would rather look you up on his cash register than in Bradstreet.</p>
 			<p>On the evening that the material allegation of facts begins, Hedges was bidding dull care begone in the company of five or six good fellows⁠—acquaintances and friends who had gathered in his wake.</p>
 			<p>Among them were two younger men⁠—Ralph Merriam, a broker, and Wade, his friend.</p>
@@ -53,7 +53,7 @@
 			<p>They were both very happy. According to the strange mathematics of the god of mutual affinity, the shadows that clouded their pasts when united became only half as dense instead of darker. They shut the world out and bolted the doors. Each was the other’s world. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant lived again. The remembering look left her eyes. Merriam was with her every moment that was possible. On a little plateau under a grove of palms and calabash trees they were going to build a fairy bungalow. They were to be married in two months. Many hours of the day they had their heads together over the house plans. Their joint capital would set up a business in fruit or woods that would yield a comfortable support. “Good night, my world,” would say <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant every evening when Merriam left her for his hotel. They were very happy. Their love had, circumstantially, that element of melancholy in it that it seems to require to attain its supremest elevation. And it seemed that their mutual great misfortune or sin was a bond that nothing could sever.</p>
 			<p>One day a steamer hove in the offing. Barelegged and bare-shouldered La Paz scampered down to the beach, for the arrival of a steamer was their loop-the-loop, circus, Emancipation Day and four-o’clock tea.</p>
 			<p>When the steamer was near enough, wise ones proclaimed that she was the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Pajaro</i>, bound up-coast from Callao to Panama.</p>
-			<p>The <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Pajaro</i> put on brakes a mile off shore. Soon a boat came bobbing shoreward. Merriam strolled down on the beach to look on. In the shallow water the Carib sailors sprang out and dragged the boat with a mighty rush to the firm shingle. Out climbed the purser, the captain and two passengers, ploughing their way through the deep sand toward the hotel. Merriam glanced toward them with the mild interest due to strangers. There was something familiar to him in the walk of one of the passengers. He looked again, and his blood seemed to turn to strawberry ice cream in his veins. Burly, arrogant, debonair as ever, <abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Ferguson Hedges, the man he had killed, was coming toward him ten feet away.</p>
+			<p>The <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Pajaro</i> put on brakes a mile off shore. Soon a boat came bobbing shoreward. Merriam strolled down on the beach to look on. In the shallow water the Carib sailors sprang out and dragged the boat with a mighty rush to the firm shingle. Out climbed the purser, the captain and two passengers, ploughing their way through the deep sand toward the hotel. Merriam glanced toward them with the mild interest due to strangers. There was something familiar to him in the walk of one of the passengers. He looked again, and his blood seemed to turn to strawberry ice cream in his veins. Burly, arrogant, debonair as ever, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H.</abbr> Ferguson Hedges, the man he had killed, was coming toward him ten feet away.</p>
 			<p>When Hedges saw Merriam his face flushed a dark red. Then he shouted in his old, bluff way: “Hello, Merriam. Glad to see you. Didn’t expect to find you out here. Quinby, this is my old friend Merriam, of New York⁠—Merriam, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Quinby.”</p>
 			<p>Merriam gave Hedges and then Quinby an ice-cold hand. “Br-r-r-r!” said Hedges. “But you’ve got a frappéd flipper! Man, you’re not well. You’re as yellow as a Chinaman. Malarial here? Steer us to a bar if there is such a thing, and let’s take a prophylactic.”</p>
 			<p>Merriam, still half comatose, led them toward the Hotel Orilla del Mar.</p>
@@ -73,8 +73,8 @@
 			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant received her roll of newspapers at four o’clock. The boy was late in delivering them, because he had been deflected from his duty by an iguana that crossed his path and to which he immediately gave chase. But it made no hardship, for she had no letters to send.</p>
 			<p>She was idling in a hammock in the patio of the house that she occupied, half awake, half happily dreaming of the paradise that she and Merriam had created out of the wrecks of their pasts. She was content now for the horizon of that shimmering sea to be the horizon of her life. They had shut out the world and closed the door.</p>
 			<p>Merriam was coming to her house at seven, after his dinner at the hotel. She would put on a white dress and an apricot-coloured lace mantilla, and they would walk an hour under the coconut palms by the lagoon. She smiled contentedly, and chose a paper at random from the roll the boy had brought.</p>
-			<p>At first the words of a certain headline of a Sunday newspaper meant nothing to her; they conveyed only a visualized sense of familiarity. The largest type ran thus: “Lloyd <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Conant secures divorce.” And then the subheadings: “Well-known Saint Louis paint manufacturer wins suit, pleading one year’s absence of wife.” “Her mysterious disappearance recalled.” “Nothing has been heard of her since.”</p>
-			<p>Twisting herself quickly out of the hammock, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant’s eye soon traversed the half-column of the “Recall.” It ended thus: “It will be remembered that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant disappeared one evening in March of last year. It was freely rumoured that her marriage with Lloyd <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Conant resulted in much unhappiness. Stories were not wanting to the effect that his cruelty toward his wife had more than once taken the form of physical abuse. After her departure a full bottle of tincture of aconite, a deadly poison, was found in a small medicine cabinet in her bedroom. This might have been an indication that she meditated suicide. It is supposed that she abandoned such an intention if she possessed it, and left her home instead.”</p>
+			<p>At first the words of a certain headline of a Sunday newspaper meant nothing to her; they conveyed only a visualized sense of familiarity. The largest type ran thus: “Lloyd <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">B.</abbr> Conant secures divorce.” And then the subheadings: “Well-known Saint Louis paint manufacturer wins suit, pleading one year’s absence of wife.” “Her mysterious disappearance recalled.” “Nothing has been heard of her since.”</p>
+			<p>Twisting herself quickly out of the hammock, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant’s eye soon traversed the half-column of the “Recall.” It ended thus: “It will be remembered that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant disappeared one evening in March of last year. It was freely rumoured that her marriage with Lloyd <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">B.</abbr> Conant resulted in much unhappiness. Stories were not wanting to the effect that his cruelty toward his wife had more than once taken the form of physical abuse. After her departure a full bottle of tincture of aconite, a deadly poison, was found in a small medicine cabinet in her bedroom. This might have been an indication that she meditated suicide. It is supposed that she abandoned such an intention if she possessed it, and left her home instead.”</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant slowly dropped the paper, and sat on a chair, clasping her hands tightly.</p>
 			<p>“Let me think⁠—O God!⁠—let me think,” she whispered. “I took the bottle with me⁠ ⁠… I threw it out of the window of the train⁠ ⁠… I⁠—⁠ ⁠… there was another bottle in the cabinet⁠ ⁠… there were two, side by side⁠—the aconite⁠—and the valerian that I took when I could not sleep⁠ ⁠… If they found the aconite bottle full, why⁠—but, he is alive, of course⁠—I gave him only a harmless dose of valerian⁠ ⁠… I am not a murderess in fact⁠ ⁠… Ralph, I⁠—O God, don’t let this be a dream!”</p>
 			<p>She went into the part of the house that she rented from the old Peruvian man and his wife, shut the door, and walked up and down her room swiftly and feverishly for half an hour. Merriam’s photograph stood in a frame on a table. She picked it up, looked at it with a smile of exquisite tenderness, and⁠—dropped four tears on it. And Merriam only twenty rods away! Then she stood still for ten minutes, looking into space. She looked into space through a slowly opening door. On her side of the door was the building material for a castle of Romance⁠—love, an Arcady of waving palms, a lullaby of waves on the shore of a haven of rest, respite, peace, a lotus land of dreamy ease and security⁠—a life of poetry and heart’s ease and refuge. Romanticist, will you tell me what <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant saw on the other side of the door? You cannot?⁠—that is, you will not? Very well; then listen.</p>

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@@ -11,7 +11,7 @@
 			<p>These are the directions for finding the office of Carteret &amp; Carteret, Mill Supplies and Leather Belting:</p>
 			<p>You follow the Broadway trail down until you pass the Crosstown Line, the Bread Line, and the Dead Line, and come to the Big Canyons of the Moneygrubber Tribe. Then you turn to the left, to the right, dodge a pushcart and the tongue of a two-ton four-horse dray and hop, skip, and jump to a granite ledge on the side of a twenty-one-story synthetic mountain of stone and iron. In the twelfth story is the office of Carteret &amp; Carteret. The factory where they make the mill supplies and leather belting is in Brooklyn. Those commodities⁠—to say nothing of Brooklyn⁠—not being of interest to you, let us hold the incidents within the confines of a one-act, one-scene play, thereby lessening the toil of the reader and the expenditure of the publisher. So, if you have the courage to face four pages of type and Carteret &amp; Carteret’s office boy, Percival, you shall sit on a varnished chair in the inner office and peep at the little comedy of the Old Nigger Man, the Hunting-Case Watch, and the Open-Faced Question⁠—mostly borrowed from the late <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Frank Stockton, as you will conclude.</p>
 			<p>First, biography (but pared to the quick) must intervene. I am for the inverted sugarcoated quinine pill⁠—the bitter on the outside.</p>
-			<p>The Carterets were, or was (Columbia College professors please rule), an old Virginia family. Long time ago the gentlemen of the family had worn lace ruffles and carried tinless foils and owned plantations and had slaves to burn. But the war had greatly reduced their holdings. (Of course you can perceive at once that this flavor has been shoplifted from <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr class="name">F.</abbr> Hopkinson Smith, in spite of the “et” after “Carter.”) Well, anyhow:</p>
+			<p>The Carterets were, or was (Columbia College professors please rule), an old Virginia family. Long time ago the gentlemen of the family had worn lace ruffles and carried tinless foils and owned plantations and had slaves to burn. But the war had greatly reduced their holdings. (Of course you can perceive at once that this flavor has been shoplifted from <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">F.</abbr> Hopkinson Smith, in spite of the “et” after “Carter.”) Well, anyhow:</p>
 			<p>In digging up the Carteret history I shall not take you farther back than the year 1620. The two original American Carterets came over in that year, but by different means of transportation. One brother, named John, came in the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Mayflower</i> and became a Pilgrim Father. You’ve seen his picture on the covers of the Thanksgiving magazines, hunting turkeys in the deep snow with a blunderbuss. Blandford Carteret, the other brother, crossed the pond in his own brigantine, landed on the Virginia coast, and became an <abbr class="initialism eoc">F.F.V.</abbr> John became distinguished for piety and shrewdness in business; Blandford for his pride, juleps; marksmanship, and vast slave-cultivated plantations.</p>
 			<p>Then came the Civil War. (I must condense this historical interpolation.) Stonewall Jackson was shot; Lee surrendered; Grant toured the world; cotton went to nine cents; Old Crow whiskey and Jim Crow cars were invented; the Seventy-ninth Massachusetts Volunteers returned to the Ninety-seventh Alabama Zouaves the battle flag of Lundy’s Lane which they bought at a secondhand store in Chelsea, kept by a man named Skzchnzski; Georgia sent the President a sixty-pound watermelon⁠—and that brings us up to the time when the story begins. My! but that was sparring for an opening! I really must brush up on my Aristotle.</p>
 			<p>The Yankee Carterets went into business in New York long before the war. Their house, as far as Leather Belting and Mill Supplies was concerned, was as musty and arrogant and solid as one of those old East India tea-importing concerns that you read about in Dickens. There were some rumors of a war behind its counters, but not enough to affect the business.</p>

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@@ -40,7 +40,7 @@
 			<p>On a street corner, standing under a gaslight and looking over the elevated road at the moon, was a man. A long man he was, dressed decent, with a segar between his teeth, and I saw that his nose made two twists from bridge to end, like the wriggle of a snake. Tobin saw it at the same time, and I heard him breathe hard like a horse when you take the saddle off. He went straight up to the man, and I went with him.</p>
 			<p>“Good night to ye,” Tobin says to the man. The man takes out his segar and passes the compliments, sociable.</p>
 			<p>“Would ye hand us your name,” asks Tobin, “and let us look at the size of it? It may be our duty to become acquainted with ye.”</p>
-			<p>“My name” says the man, polite, “is Friedenhausman⁠—Maximus <abbr class="name">G.</abbr> Friedenhausman.”</p>
+			<p>“My name” says the man, polite, “is Friedenhausman⁠—Maximus <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">G.</abbr> Friedenhausman.”</p>
 			<p>“ ’Tis the right length,” says Tobin. “Do you spell it with an ‘o’ anywhere down the stretch of it?”</p>
 			<p>“I do not,” says the man.</p>
 			<p>“<em>Can</em> ye spell it with an ‘o’?” inquires Tobin, turning anxious.</p>

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@@ -43,7 +43,7 @@
 			<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 <i epub:type="se:name.music.opera">Parsifal</i> 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 <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> 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 on your coloured crayon drawings by <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">B.</abbr> 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>
 			<p>“He starts back in the doorway,” continued the burglar. And then he rose to his feet and began to shout “Rah, rah, rah! rah, rah, rah! rah, rah, rah!”</p>
 			<p>“Well,” said Tommy, wonderingly, “that’s, the first time I ever knew a burglar to give a college yell when he was burglarizing a house, even in a story.”</p>

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@@ -81,7 +81,7 @@
 			<p>Old François Beongfallong, the great astronomer, who is studying the sidereal spheres from his attic window in the Rue de Bologny, shudders as he turns his telescope upon the solitary figure upon the spire.</p>
 			<p>“Sacrè Bleu!” he hisses between his new celluloid teeth. “It is Tictocq, the detective. I wonder whom he is following now?”</p>
 			<p>While Tictocq is watching with lynx-like eyes the hill of Montmartre, he suddenly hears a heavy breathing beside him, and turning, gazes into the ferocious eyes of the Gray Wolf.</p>
-			<p>Carnaignole Cusheau had put on his <abbr class="name">W. U.</abbr> <abbr>Tel.</abbr> <abbr>Co.</abbr> climbers and climbed the steeple.</p>
+			<p>Carnaignole Cusheau had put on his <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W. U.</abbr> <abbr>Tel.</abbr> <abbr>Co.</abbr> climbers and climbed the steeple.</p>
 			<p>“<i xml:lang="fr">Parbleu</i>, monsieur,” says Tictocq. “To whom am I indebted for the honor of this visit?”</p>
 			<p>The Gray Wolf smiled softly and depreciatingly.</p>
 			<p>“You are Tictocq, the detective?” he said.</p>

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@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<p>“Did you live down with the monkeys?” asked the other, made tepidly garrulous by the sunshine and the alleviating meal of juicy fruit. “I was down there, once myself. But only for a few hours. That was when I was with the Columbia Detective Agency. The monkey people did me up. I’d have my job yet if it hadn’t been for them. I’ll tell you about it.</p>
 			<p>“One day the chief sent a note around to the office that read: ‘Send O’Day here at once for a big piece of business.’ I was the crack detective of the agency at that time. They always handed me the big jobs. The address the chief wrote from was down in the Wall Street district.</p>
 			<p>“When I got there I found him in a private office with a lot of directors who were looking pretty fuzzy. They stated the case. The president of the Republic Insurance Company had skipped with about a tenth of a million dollars in cash. The directors wanted him back pretty bad, but they wanted the money worse. They said they needed it. They had traced the old gent’s movements to where he boarded a tramp fruit steamer bound for South America that same morning with his daughter and a big gripsack⁠—all the family he had.</p>
-			<p>“One of the directors had his steam yacht coaled and with steam up, ready for the trip; and he turned her over to me, cart blongsh. In four hours I was on board of her, and hot on the trail of the fruit tub. I had a pretty good idea where old Wahrfield⁠—that was his name, <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Churchill Wahrfield⁠—would head for. At that time we had a treaty with about every foreign country except Belgium and that banana republic, Anchuria. There wasn’t a photo of old Wahrfield to be had in New York⁠—he had been foxy there⁠—but I had his description. And besides, the lady with him would be a dead-give-away anywhere. She was one of the high-flyers in Society⁠—not the kind that have their pictures in the Sunday papers⁠—but the real sort that open chrysanthemum shows and christen battleships.</p>
+			<p>“One of the directors had his steam yacht coaled and with steam up, ready for the trip; and he turned her over to me, cart blongsh. In four hours I was on board of her, and hot on the trail of the fruit tub. I had a pretty good idea where old Wahrfield⁠—that was his name, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Churchill Wahrfield⁠—would head for. At that time we had a treaty with about every foreign country except Belgium and that banana republic, Anchuria. There wasn’t a photo of old Wahrfield to be had in New York⁠—he had been foxy there⁠—but I had his description. And besides, the lady with him would be a dead-give-away anywhere. She was one of the high-flyers in Society⁠—not the kind that have their pictures in the Sunday papers⁠—but the real sort that open chrysanthemum shows and christen battleships.</p>
 			<p>“Well, sir, we never got a sight of that fruit tub on the road. The ocean is a pretty big place; and I guess we took different paths across it. But we kept going toward this Anchuria, where the fruiter was bound for.</p>
 			<p>“We struck the monkey coast one afternoon about four. There was a ratty-looking steamer off shore taking on bananas. The monkeys were loading her up with big barges. It might be the one the old man had taken, and it might not. I went ashore to look around. The scenery was pretty good. I never saw any finer on the New York stage. I struck an American on shore, a big, cool chap, standing around with the monkeys. He showed me the consul’s office. The consul was a nice young fellow. He said the fruiter was the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Karlsefin</i>, running generally to New Orleans, but took her last cargo to New York. Then I was sure my people were on board, although everybody told me that no passengers had landed. I didn’t think they would land until after dark, for they might have been shy about it on account of seeing that yacht of mine hanging around. So, all I had to do was to wait and nab ’em when they came ashore. I couldn’t arrest old Wahrfield without extradition papers, but my play was to get the cash. They generally give up if you strike ’em when they’re tired and rattled and short on nerve.</p>
 			<p>“After dark I sat under a coconut tree on the beach for a while, and then I walked around and investigated that town some, and it was enough to give you the lions. If a man could stay in New York and be honest, he’d better do it than to hit that monkey town with a million.</p>
@@ -32,8 +32,8 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Three minutes gone,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you again while the other two tick off.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘You’ll admit being the president of the Republic, won’t you?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I am,’ says he.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Well, then,’ says I, ‘it ought to be plain to you. Wanted, in New York, <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Churchill Wahrfield, president of the Republic Insurance Company.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Also the funds belonging to said company, now in that grip, in the unlawful possession of said <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Churchill Wahrfield.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Well, then,’ says I, ‘it ought to be plain to you. Wanted, in New York, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Churchill Wahrfield, president of the Republic Insurance Company.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Also the funds belonging to said company, now in that grip, in the unlawful possession of said <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Churchill Wahrfield.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Oh-h-h-h!’ says the young lady, as if she was thinking, ‘you want to take us back to New York?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘To take <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Wahrfield. There’s no charge against you, miss. There’ll be no objection, of course, to your returning with your father.’</p>
 			<p>“Of a sudden the girl gave a tiny scream and grabbed the old boy around the neck. ‘Oh, father, father!’ she says, kind of contralto, ‘can this be true? Have you taken money that is not yours? Speak, father!’ It made you shiver to hear the tremolo stop she put on her voice.</p>

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@@ -33,7 +33,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘They was all sassy, just like you,’ says old Doc, ‘but we lowered their temperature considerable. Yes, sir, I reckon we sent a good many of ye over to old <i xml:lang="la">mortuis nisi bonum</i>. Look at Antietam and Bull Run and Seven Pines and around Nashville! There never was a battle where we didn’t lick ye unless you was ten to our one. I knew you were a blame Yankee the minute I laid eyes on you.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Don’t reopen the chasm, Doc,’ I begs him. ‘Any Yankeeness I may have is geographical; and, as far as I am concerned, a Southerner is as good as a Filipino any day. I’m feeling too bad too argue. Let’s have secession without misrepresentation, if you say so; but what I need is more laudanum and less Lundy’s Lane. If you’re mixing that compound gefloxide of gefloxicum for me, please fill my ears with it before you get around to the battle of Gettysburg, for there is a subject full of talk.’</p>
 			<p>“By this time Doc Millikin had thrown up a line of fortifications on square pieces of paper; and he says to me: ‘Yank, take one of these powders every two hours. They won’t kill you. I’ll be around again about sundown to see if you’re alive.’</p>
-			<p>“Old Doc’s powders knocked the chagres. I stayed in San Juan, and got to knowing him better. He was from Mississippi, and the red-hottest Southerner that ever smelled mint. He made Stonewall Jackson and <abbr class="name">R. E.</abbr> Lee look like Abolitionists. He had a family somewhere down near Yazoo City; but he stayed away from the States on account of an uncontrollable liking he had for the absence of a Yankee government. Him and me got as thick personally as the Emperor of Russia and the dove of peace, but sectionally we didn’t amalgamate.</p>
+			<p>“Old Doc’s powders knocked the chagres. I stayed in San Juan, and got to knowing him better. He was from Mississippi, and the red-hottest Southerner that ever smelled mint. He made Stonewall Jackson and <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R. E.</abbr> Lee look like Abolitionists. He had a family somewhere down near Yazoo City; but he stayed away from the States on account of an uncontrollable liking he had for the absence of a Yankee government. Him and me got as thick personally as the Emperor of Russia and the dove of peace, but sectionally we didn’t amalgamate.</p>
 			<p>“ ’Twas a beautiful system of medical practice introduced by old Doc into that isthmus of land. He’d take that bracket-saw and the mild chloride and his hypodermic, and treat anything from yellow fever to a personal friend.</p>
 			<p>“Besides his other liabilities Doc could play a flute for a minute or two. He was guilty of two tunes⁠—‘Dixie’ and another one that was mighty close to the ‘Suwanee River’⁠—you might say one of its tributaries. He used to come down and sit with me while I was getting well, and aggrieve his flute and say unreconstructed things about the North. You’d have thought that the smoke from the first gun at Fort Sumter was still floating around in the air.</p>
 			<p>“You know that was about the time they staged them property revolutions down there, that wound up in the fifth act with the thrilling canal scene where Uncle Sam has nine curtain-calls holding Miss Panama by the hand, while the bloodhounds keep Senator Morgan treed up in a coconut-palm.</p>
@@ -55,7 +55,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Now, see here, O’Keefe,’ says the consul, getting the best of a hiccup, ‘what do you want to bother the State Department about this matter for?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ says I; ‘I’m to be shot in two weeks. Did you think I said I was going to a lawn-party? And it wouldn’t hurt of Roosevelt could get the Japs to send down the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Yellowyamtiskookum</i> or the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Ogotosingsing</i> or some other first-class cruisers to help. It would make me feel safer.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Now, what you want,’ says the consul, ‘is not to get excited. I’ll send you over some chewing tobacco and some banana fritters when I go back. The United States can’t interfere in this. You know you were caught insurging against the government, and you’re subject to the laws of this country. To tell the truth, I’ve had an intimation from the State Department⁠—unofficially, of course⁠—that whenever a soldier of fortune demands a fleet of gunboats in a case of revolutionary <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">katzenjammer</i>, I should cut the cable, give him all the tobacco he wants, and after he’s shot take his clothes, if they fit me, for part payment of my salary.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Consul,’ says I to him, ‘this is a serious question. You are representing Uncle Sam. This ain’t any little international tomfoolery, like a universal peace congress or the christening of the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Shamrock <span epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</span></i>. I’m an American citizen and I demand protection. I demand the Mosquito fleet, and Schley, and the Atlantic squadron, and Bob Evans, and General <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Byrd Grubb, and two or three protocols. What are you going to do about it?’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Consul,’ says I to him, ‘this is a serious question. You are representing Uncle Sam. This ain’t any little international tomfoolery, like a universal peace congress or the christening of the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Shamrock <span epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</span></i>. I’m an American citizen and I demand protection. I demand the Mosquito fleet, and Schley, and the Atlantic squadron, and Bob Evans, and General <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Byrd Grubb, and two or three protocols. What are you going to do about it?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Nothing doing,’ says the consul.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Be off with you, then,’ says I, out of patience with him, ‘and send me Doc Millikin. Ask Doc to come and see me.’</p>
 			<p>“Doc comes and looks through the bars at me, surrounded by dirty soldiers, with even my shoes and canteen confiscated, and he looks mightily pleased.</p>

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@@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<article id="what-you-want" epub:type="se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">“What You Want”</h2>
-			<p>Night had fallen on that great and beautiful city known as Bagdad-on-the-Subway. And with the night came the enchanted glamour that belongs not to Arabia alone. In different masquerade the streets, bazaars and walled houses of the occidental city of romance were filled with the same kind of folk that so much interested our interesting old friend, the late <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr class="name">H. A.</abbr> Rashid. They wore clothes eleven hundred years nearer to the latest styles than <abbr class="name">H. A.</abbr> saw in old Bagdad; but they were about the same people underneath. With the eye of faith, you could have seen the Little Hunchback, Sinbad the Sailor, Fitbad the Tailor, the Beautiful Persian, the one-eyed Calenders, Ali Baba and Forty Robbers on every block, and the Barber and his Six Brothers, and all the old Arabian gang easily.</p>
+			<p>Night had fallen on that great and beautiful city known as Bagdad-on-the-Subway. And with the night came the enchanted glamour that belongs not to Arabia alone. In different masquerade the streets, bazaars and walled houses of the occidental city of romance were filled with the same kind of folk that so much interested our interesting old friend, the late <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H. A.</abbr> Rashid. They wore clothes eleven hundred years nearer to the latest styles than <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H. A.</abbr> saw in old Bagdad; but they were about the same people underneath. With the eye of faith, you could have seen the Little Hunchback, Sinbad the Sailor, Fitbad the Tailor, the Beautiful Persian, the one-eyed Calenders, Ali Baba and Forty Robbers on every block, and the Barber and his Six Brothers, and all the old Arabian gang easily.</p>
 			<p>But let us revenue to our lamb chops.</p>
 			<p>Old Tom Crowley was a caliph. He had $42,000,000 in preferred stocks and bonds with solid gold edges. In these times, to be called a caliph you must have money. The old-style caliph business as conducted by <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Rashid is not safe. If you hold up a person nowadays in a bazaar or a Turkish bath or a side street, and inquire into his private and personal affairs, the police court’ll get you.</p>
 			<p>Old Tom was tired of clubs, theatres, dinners, friends, music, money and everything. That’s what makes a caliph⁠—you must get to despise everything that money can buy, and then go out and try to want something that you can’t pay for.</p>

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@@ -45,7 +45,7 @@
 			<p>Without hesitation he climbed the fence to windward. He found himself in an apparently disused lot, where piles of old bricks were stacked, and rejected, decaying lumber. In a corner he saw the faint glow of a fire that had become little more than a bed of living coals, and he thought he could see some dim human forms sitting or lying about it. He drew nearer, and by the light of a little blaze that suddenly flared up he saw plainly the fat figure of a ragged man in an old brown sweater and cap.</p>
 			<p>“Dat man,” said Whistling Dick to himself softly, “is a dead ringer for Boston Harry. I’ll try him wit de high sign.”</p>
 			<p>He whistled one or two bars of a ragtime melody, and the air was immediately taken up, and then quickly ended with a peculiar run. The first whistler walked confidently up to the fire. The fat man looked up, and spake in a loud, asthmatic wheeze:</p>
-			<p>“Gents, the unexpected but welcome addition to our circle is <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Whistling Dick, an old friend of mine for whom I fully vouches. The waiter will lay another cover at once. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr class="name">W. D.</abbr> will join us at supper, during which function he will enlighten us in regard to the circumstances that gave us the pleasure of his company.”</p>
+			<p>“Gents, the unexpected but welcome addition to our circle is <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Whistling Dick, an old friend of mine for whom I fully vouches. The waiter will lay another cover at once. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W. D.</abbr> will join us at supper, during which function he will enlighten us in regard to the circumstances that gave us the pleasure of his company.”</p>
 			<p>“Chewin’ de stuffin’ out ’n de dictionary, as usual, Boston,” said Whistling Dick; “but t’anks all de same for de invitashun. I guess I finds meself here about de same way as yous guys. A cop gimme de tip dis mornin’. Yous workin’ on dis farm?”</p>
 			<p>“A guest,” said Boston, sternly, “shouldn’t never insult his entertainers until he’s filled up wid grub. ’Tain’t good business sense. Workin’!⁠—but I will restrain myself. We five⁠—me, Deaf Pete, Blinky, Goggles, and Indiana Tom⁠—got put on to this scheme of Noo Orleans to work visiting gentlemen upon her dirty streets, and we hit the road last evening just as the tender hues of twilight had flopped down upon the daisies and things. Blinky, pass the empty oyster-can at your left to the empty gentleman at your right.”</p>
 			<p>For the next ten minutes the gang of roadsters paid their undivided attention to the supper. In an old five-gallon kerosene can they had cooked a stew of potatoes, meat, and onions, which they partook of from smaller cans they had found scattered about the vacant lot.</p>

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@@ -12,7 +12,7 @@
 			<p>The bartender glanced at him and then went on chipping lemon peel into a saucer.</p>
 			<p>“Say,” said the man with the red tie, “it makes me right sick to think about it.”</p>
 			<p>“What?” said the bartender, “water?”</p>
-			<p>“No sir; the apathy displayed by the people of the state in regard to presenting the battleship Texas with a suitable present. It is a disgrace to our patriotism. I was talking to <abbr class="name">W. G.</abbr> Cleveland this morning and we both agreed that something must be done at once. Would you give ten dollars toward a silver service to be presented to the ship?”</p>
+			<p>“No sir; the apathy displayed by the people of the state in regard to presenting the battleship Texas with a suitable present. It is a disgrace to our patriotism. I was talking to <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W. G.</abbr> Cleveland this morning and we both agreed that something must be done at once. Would you give ten dollars toward a silver service to be presented to the ship?”</p>
 			<p>The bartender reached behind him and took up a glass that was sitting on the shelf.</p>
 			<p>“I don’t know that I would give you ten dollars,” he said, “but here’s some whisky that I put some turpentine in by mistake this morning and forgot to throw it out. Will that do as well?”</p>
 			<p>“It will,” said the man with the red tie, reaching for the glass, “and I am also soliciting aid for the Cuban patriots. If you want to assist the cause of liberty and can’t spare the cash, if you could rustle up a glass of beer with a fly in it, I would⁠—”</p>