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@@ -22,7 +22,7 @@
 			<p>“Pinched,” remarked the young man, looking up at him with expressionless eyes. “Pinched by a painless dentist. Take me away, flatty, and give me gas. Some lay eggs and some lay none. When is a hen?”</p>
 			<p>Still deeply seized by some inward grief, but tractable, he allowed Quigg to lead him away and down the street to a little park.</p>
 			<p>There, seated on a bench, he upon whom a corner of the great Caliph’s mantle has descended, spake with kindness and discretion, seeking to know what evil had come upon the other, disturbing his soul and driving him to such ill-considered and ruinous waste of his substance and stores.</p>
-			<p>“I was doing the Monte Cristo act as adapted by Pompton, <abbr class="postal">NJ</abbr>, wasn’t I?” asked the young man.</p>
+			<p>“I was doing the Monte Cristo act as adapted by Pompton, <abbr epub:type="z3998:place">NJ</abbr>, wasn’t I?” asked the young man.</p>
 			<p>“You were throwing small coins into the street for the people to scramble after,” said the Margrave.</p>
 			<p>“That’s it. You buy all the beer you can hold, and then you throw chicken feed to⁠—Oh, curse that word chicken, and hens, feathers, roosters, eggs, and everything connected with it!”</p>
 			<p>“Young sir,” said the Margrave kindly, but with dignity, “though I do not ask your confidence, I invite it. I know the world and I know humanity. Man is my study, though I do not eye him as the scientist eyes a beetle or as the philanthropist gazes at the objects of his bounty⁠—through a veil of theory and ignorance. It is my pleasure and distraction to interest myself in the peculiar and complicated misfortunes that life in a great city visits upon my fellow-men. You may be familiar with the history of that glorious and immortal ruler, the Caliph Harun Al Rashid, whose wise and beneficent excursions among his people in the city of Bagdad secured him the privilege of relieving so much of their distress. In my humble way I walk in his footsteps. I seek for romance and adventure in city streets⁠—not in ruined castles or in crumbling palaces. To me the greatest marvels of magic are those that take place in men’s hearts when acted upon by the furious and diverse forces of a crowded population. In your strange behavior this evening I fancy a story lurks. I read in your act something deeper than the wanton wastefulness of a spendthrift. I observe in your countenance the certain traces of consuming grief or despair. I repeat⁠—I invite your confidence. I am not without some power to alleviate and advise. Will you not trust me?”</p>

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@@ -17,7 +17,7 @@
 			<p>The ambulance removed the unconscious agent of Cupid. William and Violet remained after the crowd had dispersed. They were true Rubberers. People who leave the scene of an accident with the ambulance have not genuine caoutchouc in the cosmogony of their necks. The delicate, fine flavour of the affair is to be had only in the aftertaste⁠—in gloating over the spot, in gazing fixedly at the houses opposite, in hovering there in a dream more exquisite than the opium-eater’s ecstasy. William Pry and Violet Seymour were connoisseurs in casualties. They knew how to extract full enjoyment from every incident.</p>
 			<p>Presently they looked at each other. Violet had a brown birthmark on her neck as large as a silver half-dollar. William fixed his eyes upon it. William Pry had inordinately bowed legs. Violet allowed her gaze to linger unswervingly upon them. Face to face they stood thus for moments, each staring at the other. Etiquette would not allow them to speak; but in the Caoutchouc City it is permitted to gaze without stint at the trees in the parks and at the physical blemishes of a fellow creature.</p>
 			<p>At length with a sigh they parted. But Cupid had been the driver of the brewery wagon, and the wheel that broke a leg united two fond hearts.</p>
-			<p>The next meeting of the hero and heroine was in front of a board fence near Broadway. The day had been a disappointing one. There had been no fights on the street, children had kept from under the wheels of the street cars, cripples and fat men in negligee shirts were scarce; nobody seemed to be inclined to slip on banana peels or fall down with heart disease. Even the sport from Kokomo, <abbr class="postal">Ind.</abbr>, who claims to be a cousin of ex-Mayor Low and scatters nickels from a cab window, had not put in his appearance. There was nothing to stare at, and William Pry had premonitions of ennui.</p>
+			<p>The next meeting of the hero and heroine was in front of a board fence near Broadway. The day had been a disappointing one. There had been no fights on the street, children had kept from under the wheels of the street cars, cripples and fat men in negligee shirts were scarce; nobody seemed to be inclined to slip on banana peels or fall down with heart disease. Even the sport from Kokomo, <abbr epub:type="z3998:place">Ind.</abbr>, who claims to be a cousin of ex-Mayor Low and scatters nickels from a cab window, had not put in his appearance. There was nothing to stare at, and William Pry had premonitions of ennui.</p>
 			<p>But he saw a large crowd scrambling and pushing excitedly in front of a billboard. Sprinting for it, he knocked down an old woman and a child carrying a bottle of milk, and fought his way like a demon into the mass of spectators. Already in the inner line stood Violet Seymour with one sleeve and two gold fillings gone, a corset steel puncture and a sprained wrist, but happy. She was looking at what there was to see. A man was painting upon the fence: “Eat Bricklets⁠—They Fill Your Face.”</p>
 			<p>Violet blushed when she saw William Pry. William jabbed a lady in a black silk raglan in the ribs, kicked a boy in the shin, bit an old gentleman on the left ear and managed to crowd nearer to Violet. They stood for an hour looking at the man paint the letters. Then William’s love could be repressed no longer. He touched her on the arm.</p>
 			<p>“Come with me,” he said. “I know where there is a bootblack without an Adam’s apple.”</p>

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@@ -21,7 +21,7 @@
 			<p>“Would you mind telling me,” I began, “whether you are from⁠—”</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>“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 epub:type="z3998:place">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>
 			<p>“I should like to be a periwinkle,” said he, mysteriously, “on the top of a valley, and sing tooralloo-ralloo.”</p>
 			<p>This was clearly too obscure, so I turned again to Coglan.</p>

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@@ -34,7 +34,7 @@
 			<p>At Houston Street we got off and walked.</p>
 			<p>“We are now on the famous Bowery,” said Rivington; “the Bowery celebrated in song and story.”</p>
 			<p>We passed block after block of “gents’ ” furnishing stores⁠—the windows full of shirts with prices attached and cuffs inside. In other windows were neckties and no shirts. People walked up and down the sidewalks.</p>
-			<p>“In some ways,” said I, “this reminds me of Kokomono, <abbr class="postal">Ind.</abbr>, during the peach-crating season.”</p>
+			<p>“In some ways,” said I, “this reminds me of Kokomono, <abbr epub:type="z3998:place">Ind.</abbr>, during the peach-crating season.”</p>
 			<p>Rivington was nettled.</p>
 			<p>“Step into one of these saloons or vaudeville shows,” said he, “with a large roll of money, and see how quickly the Bowery will sustain its reputation.”</p>
 			<p>“You make impossible conditions,” said I, coldly.</p>

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@@ -24,7 +24,7 @@
 				</blockquote>
 			</header>
 			<p><b>Dear Reader</b>: It was summertime. The sun glared down upon the city with pitiless ferocity. It is difficult for the sun to be ferocious and exhibit compunction simultaneously. The heat was⁠—oh, bother thermometers!⁠—who cares for standard measures, anyhow? It was so hot that⁠—</p>
-			<p>The roof gardens put on so many extra waiters that you could hope to get your gin fizz now⁠—as soon as all the other people got theirs. The hospitals were putting in extra cots for bystanders. For when little, woolly dogs loll their tongues out and say “woof, woof!” at the fleas that bite ’em, and nervous old black bombazine ladies screech “Mad dog!” and policemen begin to shoot, somebody is going to get hurt. The man from Pompton, <abbr class="postal">NJ</abbr>, who always wears an overcoat in July, had turned up in a Broadway hotel drinking hot Scotches and enjoying his annual ray from the calcium. Philanthropists were petitioning the Legislature to pass a bill requiring builders to make tenement fire-escapes more commodious, so that families might die all together of the heat instead of one or two at a time. So many men were telling you about the number of baths they took each day that you wondered how they got along after the real lessee of the apartment came back to town and thanked ’em for taking such good care of it. The young man who called loudly for cold beef and beer in the restaurant, protesting that roast pullet and Burgundy was really too heavy for such weather, blushed when he met your eye, for you had heard him all winter calling, in modest tones, for the same ascetic viands. Soup, pocketbooks, shirt waists, actors and baseball excuses grew thinner. Yes, it was summertime.</p>
+			<p>The roof gardens put on so many extra waiters that you could hope to get your gin fizz now⁠—as soon as all the other people got theirs. The hospitals were putting in extra cots for bystanders. For when little, woolly dogs loll their tongues out and say “woof, woof!” at the fleas that bite ’em, and nervous old black bombazine ladies screech “Mad dog!” and policemen begin to shoot, somebody is going to get hurt. The man from Pompton, <abbr epub:type="z3998:place">NJ</abbr>, who always wears an overcoat in July, had turned up in a Broadway hotel drinking hot Scotches and enjoying his annual ray from the calcium. Philanthropists were petitioning the Legislature to pass a bill requiring builders to make tenement fire-escapes more commodious, so that families might die all together of the heat instead of one or two at a time. So many men were telling you about the number of baths they took each day that you wondered how they got along after the real lessee of the apartment came back to town and thanked ’em for taking such good care of it. The young man who called loudly for cold beef and beer in the restaurant, protesting that roast pullet and Burgundy was really too heavy for such weather, blushed when he met your eye, for you had heard him all winter calling, in modest tones, for the same ascetic viands. Soup, pocketbooks, shirt waists, actors and baseball excuses grew thinner. Yes, it was summertime.</p>
 			<p>A man stood at Thirty-fourth Street waiting for a downtown car. A man of forty, gray-haired, pink-faced, keen, nervous, plainly dressed, with a harassed look around the eyes. He wiped his forehead and laughed loudly when a fat man with an outing look stopped and spoke with him.</p>
 			<p>“No, siree,” he shouted with defiance and scorn. “None of your old mosquito-haunted swamps and skyscraper mountains without elevators for me. When I want to get away from hot weather I know how to do it. New York, sir, is the finest summer resort in the country. Keep in the shade and watch your diet, and don’t get too far away from an electric fan. Talk about your Adirondacks and your Catskills! There’s more solid comfort in the borough of Manhattan than in all the rest of the country together. No, siree! No tramping up perpendicular cliffs and being waked up at 4 in the morning by a million flies, and eating canned goods straight from the city for me. Little old New York will take a few select summer boarders; comforts and conveniences of homes⁠—that’s the ad that I answer every time.”</p>
 			<p>“You need a vacation,” said the fat man, looking closely at the other. “You haven’t been away from town in years. Better come with me for two weeks, anyhow. The trout in the Beaverkill are jumping at anything now that looks like a fly. Harding writes me that he landed a three-pound brown last week.”</p>

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@@ -40,7 +40,7 @@
 			<p>Jacob must have leaked some of his benevolent intentions, for an immense person with a bald face and a mouth that looked as if it ought to have a “Drop Letters Here” sign over it hooked a finger around him and set him in a space between a barber’s pole and a stack of ash cans. Words came out of the post-office slit⁠—smooth, husky words with gloves on ’em, but sounding as if they might turn to bare knuckles any moment.</p>
 			<p>“Say, Sport, do you know where you are at? Well, dis is Mike O’Grady’s district you’re buttin’ into⁠—see? Mike’s got de stomachache privilege for every kid in dis neighborhood⁠—see? And if dere’s any picnics or red balloons to be dealt out here, Mike’s money pays for ’em⁠—see? Don’t you butt in, or something’ll be handed to you. Youse d⁠⸺ settlers and reformers with your social ologies and your millionaire detectives have got dis district in a hell of a fix, anyhow. With your college students and professors roughhousing de soda-water stands and dem rubberneck coaches fillin’ de streets, de folks down here are ’fraid to go out of de houses. Now, you leave ’em to Mike. Dey belongs to him, and he knows how to handle ’em. Keep on your own side of de town. Are you some wiser now, uncle, or do you want to scrap wit’ Mike O’Grady for de Santa Claus belt in dis district?”</p>
 			<p>Clearly, that spot in the moral vineyard was preempted. So Caliph Spraggins menaced no more the people in the bazaars of the East Side. To keep down his growing surplus he doubled his donations to organized charity, presented the <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">Y.M.C.A.</abbr> of his native town with a $10,000 collection of butterflies, and sent a check to the famine sufferers in China big enough to buy new emerald eyes and diamond-filled teeth for all their gods. But none of these charitable acts seemed to bring peace to the caliph’s heart. He tried to get a personal note into his benefactions by tipping bellboys and waiters $10 and $20 bills. He got well snickered at and derided for that by the minions who accept with respect gratuities commensurate to the service performed. He sought out an ambitious and talented but poor young woman, and bought for her the star part in a new comedy. He might have gotten rid of $50,000 more of his cumbersome money in this philanthropy if he had not neglected to write letters to her. But she lost the suit for lack of evidence, while his capital still kept piling up, and his <i xml:lang="la">optikos needleorum camelibus</i>⁠—or rich man’s disease⁠—was unrelieved.</p>
-			<p>In Caliph Spraggins’s $3,000,000 home lived his sister Henrietta, who used to cook for the coal miners in a twenty-five-cent eating house in Coketown, <abbr class="postal">Pa.</abbr>, and who now would have offered John Mitchell only two fingers of her hand to shake. And his daughter Celia, nineteen, back from boarding-school and from being polished off by private instructors in the restaurant languages and those études and things.</p>
+			<p>In Caliph Spraggins’s $3,000,000 home lived his sister Henrietta, who used to cook for the coal miners in a twenty-five-cent eating house in Coketown, <abbr epub:type="z3998:place">Pa.</abbr>, and who now would have offered John Mitchell only two fingers of her hand to shake. And his daughter Celia, nineteen, back from boarding-school and from being polished off by private instructors in the restaurant languages and those études and things.</p>
 			<p>Celia is the heroine. Lest the artist’s delineation of her charms on this very page humbug your fancy, take from me her authorized description. She was a nice-looking, awkward, loud, rather bashful, brown-haired girl, with a sallow complexion, bright eyes, and a perpetual smile. She had a wholesome, Spraggins-inherited love for plain food, loose clothing, and the society of the lower classes. She had too much health and youth to feel the burden of wealth. She had a wide mouth that kept the peppermint-pepsin tablets rattling like hail from the slot-machine wherever she went, and she could whistle hornpipes. Keep this picture in mind; and let the artist do his worst.</p>
 			<p>Celia looked out of her window one day and gave her heart to the grocer’s young man. The receiver thereof was at that moment engaged in conceding immortality to his horse and calling down upon him the ultimate fate of the wicked; so he did not notice the transfer. A horse should stand still when you are lifting a crate of strictly new-laid eggs out of the wagon.</p>
 			<p>Young lady reader, you would have liked that grocer’s young man yourself. But you wouldn’t have given him your heart, because you are saving it for a riding-master, or a shoe-manufacturer with a torpid liver, or something quiet but rich in gray tweeds at Palm Beach. Oh, I know about it. So I am glad the grocer’s young man was for Celia, and not for you.</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 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>“There’s more ways of getting money from these metropolitan hayseeds,” says Silver, “than there is of cooking rice in Charleston, <abbr epub:type="z3998:place">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>

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@@ -37,14 +37,14 @@
 			<p>Scott worked rapidly with his pencil for two minutes; and then showed the first word according to his reading⁠—the word “Scejtzez.”</p>
 			<p>“Great!” cried Boyd. “It’s a charade. My first is a Russian general. Go on, Scott.”</p>
 			<p>“No, that won’t work,” said the city editor. “It’s undoubtedly a code. It’s impossible to read it without the key. Has the office ever used a cipher code?”</p>
-			<p>“Just what I was asking,” said the <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism" class="eoc">M.E.</abbr> “Hustle everybody up that ought to know. We must get at it some way. Calloway has evidently got hold of something big, and the censor has put the screws on, or he wouldn’t have cabled in a lot of chop suey like this.”</p>
+			<p>“Just what I was asking,” said the <abbr class="eoc" epub:type="z3998:initialism">M.E.</abbr> “Hustle everybody up that ought to know. We must get at it some way. Calloway has evidently got hold of something big, and the censor has put the screws on, or he wouldn’t have cabled in a lot of chop suey like this.”</p>
 			<p>Throughout the office of the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Enterprise</i> a dragnet was sent, hauling in such members of the staff as would be likely to know of a code, past or present, by reason of their wisdom, information, natural intelligence, or length of servitude. They got together in a group in the city room, with the <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">M.E.</abbr> in the centre. No one had heard of a code. All began to explain to the head investigator that newspapers never use a code, anyhow⁠—that is, a cipher code. Of course the Associated Press stuff is a sort of code⁠—an abbreviation, rather⁠—but⁠—</p>
 			<p>The <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">M.E.</abbr> knew all that, and said so. He asked each man how long he had worked on the paper. Not one of them had drawn pay from an <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Enterprise</i> envelope for longer than six years. Calloway had been on the paper twelve years.</p>
-			<p>“Try old Heffelbauer,” said the <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism" class="eoc">M.E.</abbr> “He was here when Park Row was a potato patch.”</p>
+			<p>“Try old Heffelbauer,” said the <abbr class="eoc" epub:type="z3998:initialism">M.E.</abbr> “He was here when Park Row was a potato patch.”</p>
 			<p>Heffelbauer was an institution. He was half janitor, half handyman about the office, and half watchman⁠—thus becoming the peer of thirteen and one-half tailors. Sent for, he came, radiating his nationality.</p>
 			<p>“Heffelbauer,” said the <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">M.E.</abbr>, “did you ever hear of a code belonging to the office a long time ago⁠—a private code? You know what a code is, don’t you?”</p>
 			<p>“Yah,” said Heffelbauer. “Sure I know vat a code is. Yah, apout dwelf or fifteen year ago der office had a code. Der reborters in der city-room haf it here.”</p>
-			<p>“Ah!” said the <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism" class="eoc">M.E.</abbr> “We’re getting on the trail now. Where was it kept, Heffelbauer? What do you know about it?”</p>
+			<p>“Ah!” said the <abbr class="eoc" epub:type="z3998:initialism">M.E.</abbr> “We’re getting on the trail now. Where was it kept, Heffelbauer? What do you know about it?”</p>
 			<p>“Somedimes,” said the retainer, “dey keep it in der little room behind der library room.”</p>
 			<p>“Can you find it?” asked the <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">M.E.</abbr> eagerly. “Do you know where it is?”</p>
 			<p>“Mein Gott!” said Heffelbauer. “How long you dink a code live? Der reborters call him a maskeet. But von day he butt mit his head der editor, und⁠—”</p>
@@ -57,7 +57,7 @@
 			<p>“The office has no code,” said Boyd, reaching for the message. Vesey held to it.</p>
 			<p>“Then old Calloway expects us to read it, anyhow,” said he. “He’s up a tree, or something, and he’s made this up so as to get it by the censor. It’s up to us. Gee! I wish they had sent me, too. Say⁠—we can’t afford to fall down on our end of it. ’Foregone, preconcerted rash, witching’⁠—h’m.”</p>
 			<p>Vesey sat down on a table corner and began to whistle softly, frowning at the cablegram.</p>
-			<p>“Let’s have it, please,” said the <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism" class="eoc">M.E.</abbr> “We’ve got to get to work on it.”</p>
+			<p>“Let’s have it, please,” said the <abbr class="eoc" epub:type="z3998:initialism">M.E.</abbr> “We’ve got to get to work on it.”</p>
 			<p>“I believe I’ve got a line on it,” said Vesey. “Give me ten minutes.”</p>
 			<p>He walked to his desk, threw his hat into a wastebasket, spread out flat on his chest like a gorgeous lizard, and started his pencil going. The wit and wisdom of the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Enterprise</i> remained in a loose group, and smiled at one another, nodding their heads toward Vesey. Then they began to exchange their theories about the cipher.</p>
 			<p>It took Vesey exactly fifteen minutes. He brought to the <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">M.E.</abbr> a pad with the code-key written on it.</p>

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@@ -17,7 +17,7 @@
 			<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 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 epub:type="z3998:initialism" class="eoc">C.O.D.</abbr> His pockets looked like a pool table’s after a fifteen-ball run.</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="eoc" epub:type="z3998:initialism">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>
 			<p>“Seems like Cherokee would ramble down to Yellowhammer and see his friends,” said another, slightly aggrieved. “But that’s the way. Prosperity is the finest cure there is for lost forgetfulness.”</p>
 			<p>“You wait,” said Baldy; “I’m comin’ to that. Cherokee strikes a three-foot vein up in the Mariposas that assays a trip to Europe to the ton, and he closes it out to a syndicate outfit for a hundred thousand hasty dollars in cash. Then he buys himself a baby sealskin overcoat and a red sleigh, and what do you think he takes it in his head to do next?”</p>

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@@ -34,7 +34,7 @@
 			<p>“Oh, I suppose,” said Vuyning, with a laugh, “that my ancestors picked up the knack while they were peddling clothes from house to house a couple of hundred years ago. I’m told they did that.”</p>
 			<p>“And mine,” said Emerson, cheerfully, “were making their visits at night, I guess, and didn’t have a chance to catch on to the correct styles.”</p>
 			<p>“I tell you what,” said Vuyning, whose ennui had taken wings, “I’ll take you to my tailor. He’ll eliminate the mark of the beast from your exterior. That is, if you care to go any further in the way of expense.”</p>
-			<p>“Play ’em to the ceiling,” said Emerson, with a boyish smile of joy. “I’ve got a roll as big around as a barrel of black-eyed peas and as loose as the wrapper of a two-for-fiver. I don’t mind telling you that I was not touring among the Antipodes when the burglarproof safe of the Farmers’ National Bank of Butterville, <abbr class="postal">Ia.</abbr>, flew open some moonless nights ago to the tune of $16,000.”</p>
+			<p>“Play ’em to the ceiling,” said Emerson, with a boyish smile of joy. “I’ve got a roll as big around as a barrel of black-eyed peas and as loose as the wrapper of a two-for-fiver. I don’t mind telling you that I was not touring among the Antipodes when the burglarproof safe of the Farmers’ National Bank of Butterville, <abbr epub:type="z3998:place">Ia.</abbr>, flew open some moonless nights ago to the tune of $16,000.”</p>
 			<p>“Aren’t you afraid,” asked Vuyning, “that I’ll call a cop and hand you over?”</p>
 			<p>“You tell me,” said Emerson, coolly, “why I didn’t keep them.”</p>
 			<p>He laid Vuyning’s pocketbook and watch⁠—the Vuyning 100-year-old family watch⁠—on the table.</p>
@@ -44,7 +44,7 @@
 			<hr/>
 			<p>“Boys, and elderly gents,” said Vuyning, five days later at his club, standing up against the window where his coterie was gathered, and keeping out the breeze, “a friend of mine from the West will dine at our table this evening.”</p>
 			<p>“Will he ask if we have heard the latest from Denver?” said a member, squirming in his chair.</p>
-			<p>“Will he mention the new twenty-three-story Masonic Temple, in Quincy, <abbr class="postal">Ill.</abbr>?” inquired another, dropping his nose-glasses.</p>
+			<p>“Will he mention the new twenty-three-story Masonic Temple, in Quincy, <abbr epub:type="z3998:place">Ill.</abbr>?” inquired another, dropping his nose-glasses.</p>
 			<p>“Will he spring one of those Western Mississippi River catfish stories, in which they use yearling calves for bait?” demanded Kirk, fiercely.</p>
 			<p>“Be comforted,” said Vuyning. “He has none of the little vices. He is a burglar and safe-blower, and a pal of mine.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, Mary Ann!” said they. “Must you always adorn every statement with your alleged humor?”</p>
@@ -52,7 +52,7 @@
 			<p>And then he painted for them with hard, broad strokes a marvellous lingual panorama of the West. He stacked snow-topped mountains on the table, freezing the hot dishes of the waiting diners. With a wave of his hand he swept the clubhouse into a pine-crowned gorge, turning the waiters into a grim posse, and each listener into a bloodstained fugitive, climbing with torn fingers upon the ensanguined rocks. He touched the table and spake, and the five panted as they gazed on barren lava beds, and each man took his tongue between his teeth and felt his mouth bake at the tale of a land empty of water and food. As simply as Homer sang, while he dug a tine of his fork leisurely into the tablecloth, he opened a new world to their view, as does one who tells a child of the Looking-Glass Country.</p>
 			<p>As one of his listeners might have spoken of tea too strong at a Madison Square “afternoon,” so he depicted the ravages of “redeye” in a border town when the caballeros of the lariat and “forty-five” reduced ennui to a minimum.</p>
 			<p>And then, with a sweep of his white, unringed hands, he dismissed Melpomene, and forthwith Diana and Amaryllis footed it before the mind’s eyes of the clubmen.</p>
-			<p>The savannas of the continent spread before them. The wind, humming through a hundred leagues of sage brush and mesquite, closed their ears to the city’s staccato noises. He told them of camps, of ranches marooned in a sea of fragrant prairie blossoms, of gallops in the stilly night that Apollo would have forsaken his daytime steeds to enjoy; he read them the great, rough epic of the cattle and the hills that have not been spoiled by the hand of man, the mason. His words were a telescope to the city men, whose eyes had looked upon Youngstown, <abbr class="postal">O.</abbr>, and whose tongues had called it “West.”</p>
+			<p>The savannas of the continent spread before them. The wind, humming through a hundred leagues of sage brush and mesquite, closed their ears to the city’s staccato noises. He told them of camps, of ranches marooned in a sea of fragrant prairie blossoms, of gallops in the stilly night that Apollo would have forsaken his daytime steeds to enjoy; he read them the great, rough epic of the cattle and the hills that have not been spoiled by the hand of man, the mason. His words were a telescope to the city men, whose eyes had looked upon Youngstown, <abbr epub:type="z3998:place">O.</abbr>, and whose tongues had called it “West.”</p>
 			<p>In fact, Emerson had them “going.”</p>
 			<hr/>
 			<p>The next morning at ten he met Vuyning, by appointment, at a Forty-second Street café.</p>

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@@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<article id="jeff-peters-as-a-personal-magnet" epub:type="se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">Jeff Peters as a Personal Magnet</h2>
-			<p>Jeff Peters has been engaged in as many schemes for making money as there are recipes for cooking rice in Charleston, <abbr class="postal">SC</abbr>.</p>
+			<p>Jeff Peters has been engaged in as many schemes for making money as there are recipes for cooking rice in Charleston, <abbr epub:type="z3998:place">SC</abbr>.</p>
 			<p>Best of all I like to hear him tell of his earlier days when he sold liniments and cough cures on street corners, living hand to mouth, heart to heart with the people, throwing heads or tails with fortune for his last coin.</p>
 			<p>“I struck Fisher Hill, Arkansaw,” said he, “in a buckskin suit, moccasins, long hair and a thirty-carat diamond ring that I got from an actor in Texarkana. I don’t know what he ever did with the pocket knife I swapped him for it.</p>
 			<p>“I was <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Waugh-hoo, the celebrated Indian medicine man. I carried only one best bet just then, and that was Resurrection Bitters. It was made of life-giving plants and herbs accidentally discovered by Ta-qua-la, the beautiful wife of the chief of the Choctaw Nation, while gathering truck to garnish a platter of boiled dog for the annual corn dance.</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 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>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 epub:type="z3998:place">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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@@ -47,7 +47,7 @@
 			<p>Whereupon he resisted arrest so cheerfully and industriously that cops had to be whistled for, and afterwards the reserves, to disperse a few thousand delighted spectators.</p>
 			<p>At the station-house the desk sergeant asked for his name.</p>
 			<p>“McDoodle, the Pink, or Pinky the Brute, I forget which,” was James Williams’s answer. “But you can bet I’m a burglar; don’t leave that out. And you might add that it took five of ’em to pluck the Pink. I’d especially like to have that in the records.”</p>
-			<p>In an hour came <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> James Williams, with Uncle Thomas, of Madison Avenue, in a respect-compelling motor car and proofs of the hero’s innocence⁠—for all the world like the third act of a drama backed by an automobile <abbr>mfg.</abbr> <abbr class="eoc">co</abbr>.</p>
+			<p>In an hour came <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> James Williams, with Uncle Thomas, of Madison Avenue, in a respect-compelling motor car and proofs of the hero’s innocence⁠—for all the world like the third act of a drama backed by an automobile <abbr>mfg.</abbr> <abbr class="eoc">co.</abbr></p>
 			<p>After the police had sternly reprimanded James Williams for imitating a copyrighted burglar and given him as honourable a discharge as the department was capable of, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Williams rearrested him and swept him into an angle of the station-house. James Williams regarded her with one eye. He always said that Donovan closed the other while somebody was holding his good right hand. Never before had he given her a word of reproach or of reproof.</p>
 			<p>“If you can explain,” he began rather stiffly, “why you⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Dear,” she interrupted, “listen. It was an hour’s pain and trial to you. I did it for her⁠—I mean the girl who spoke to me on the coach. I was so happy, Jim⁠—so happy with you that I didn’t dare to refuse that happiness to another. Jim, they were married only this morning⁠—those two; and I wanted him to get away. While they were struggling with you I saw him slip from behind his tree and hurry across the park. That’s all of it, dear⁠—I had to do it.”</p>

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@@ -19,7 +19,7 @@
 			<p>One afternoon young Haywood Van Plushvelt strolled out between the granite gate posts of “<span xml:lang="it">Dolce far Niente</span>”⁠—that’s what they called the place; and it was an improvement on <span xml:lang="it">dolce</span> Far Rockaway, I can tell you.</p>
 			<p>Haywood walked down into the village. He was human, after all, and his prospective millions weighed upon him. Wealth had wreaked upon him its direfullest. He was the product of private tutors. Even under his first hobbyhorse had tan bark been strewn. He had been born with a gold spoon, lobster fork and fish-set in his mouth. For which I hope, later, to submit justification, I must ask your consideration of his haberdashery and tailoring.</p>
 			<p>Young Fortunatus was dressed in a neat suit of dark blue serge, a neat, white straw hat, neat low-cut tan shoes, of the well-known “immaculate” trade mark, a neat, narrow four-in-hand tie, and carried a slender, neat, bamboo cane.</p>
-			<p>Down Persimmon Street (there’s never tree north of Hagerstown, <abbr class="postal">Md.</abbr>) came from the village “Smoky” Dodson, fifteen and a half, worst boy in Fishampton. “Smoky” was dressed in a ragged red sweater, wrecked and weatherworn golf cap, run-over shoes, and trousers of the “serviceable” brand. Dust, clinging to the moisture induced by free exercise, darkened wide areas of his face. “Smoky” carried a baseball bat, and a league ball that advertised itself in the rotundity of his trousers pocket. Haywood stopped and passed the time of day.</p>
+			<p>Down Persimmon Street (there’s never tree north of Hagerstown, <abbr epub:type="z3998:place">Md.</abbr>) came from the village “Smoky” Dodson, fifteen and a half, worst boy in Fishampton. “Smoky” was dressed in a ragged red sweater, wrecked and weatherworn golf cap, run-over shoes, and trousers of the “serviceable” brand. Dust, clinging to the moisture induced by free exercise, darkened wide areas of his face. “Smoky” carried a baseball bat, and a league ball that advertised itself in the rotundity of his trousers pocket. Haywood stopped and passed the time of day.</p>
 			<p>“Going to play ball?” he asked.</p>
 			<p>“Smoky’s” eyes and countenance confronted him with a frank blue-and-freckled scrutiny.</p>
 			<p>“Me?” he said, with deadly mildness; “sure not. Can’t you see I’ve got a divin’ suit on? I’m goin’ up in a submarine balloon to catch butterflies with a two-inch auger.”</p>

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@@ -39,7 +39,7 @@
 			<p>“Well,” said Hart, “You’ve got the proper idea all right, all right, anyhow. There are mighty few actors that amount to anything at all who couldn’t fix themselves for the wet days to come if they’d save their money instead of blowing it. I’m glad you’ve got the correct business idea of it, Miss Cherry. I think the same way; and I believe this sketch will more than double what both of us earn now when we get it shaped up.”</p>
 			<p>The subsequent history of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Mice Will Play</i> is the history of all successful writings for the stage. Hart &amp; Cherry cut it, pieced it, remodeled it, performed surgical operations on the dialogue and business, changed the lines, restored ’em, added more, cut ’em out, renamed it, gave it back the old name, rewrote it, substituted a dagger for the pistol, restored the pistol⁠—put the sketch through all the known processes of condensation and improvement.</p>
 			<p>They rehearsed it by the old-fashioned boardinghouse clock in the rarely used parlor until its warning click at five minutes to the hour would occur every time exactly half a second before the click of the unloaded revolver that Helen Grimes used in rehearsing the thrilling climax of the sketch.</p>
-			<p>Yes, that was a thriller and a piece of excellent work. In the act a real .32 caliber revolver was used loaded with a real cartridge. Helen Grimes, who is a Western girl of decidedly Buffalo Billish skill and daring, is tempestuously in love with Frank Desmond, the private secretary and confidential prospective son-in-law of her father, “Arapahoe” Grimes, quarter-million-dollar cattle king, owning a ranch that, judging by the scenery, is in either the Bad Lands or Amagansett, <abbr class="postal eoc">L. I.</abbr> Desmond (in private life <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bob Hart) wears puttees and Meadow Brook Hunt riding trousers, and gives his address as New York, leaving you to wonder why he comes to the Bad Lands or Amagansett (as the case may be) and at the same time to conjecture mildly why a cattleman should want puttees about his ranch with a secretary in ’em.</p>
+			<p>Yes, that was a thriller and a piece of excellent work. In the act a real .32 caliber revolver was used loaded with a real cartridge. Helen Grimes, who is a Western girl of decidedly Buffalo Billish skill and daring, is tempestuously in love with Frank Desmond, the private secretary and confidential prospective son-in-law of her father, “Arapahoe” Grimes, quarter-million-dollar cattle king, owning a ranch that, judging by the scenery, is in either the Bad Lands or Amagansett, <abbr class="eoc" epub:type="z3998:place">L. I.</abbr> Desmond (in private life <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bob Hart) wears puttees and Meadow Brook Hunt riding trousers, and gives his address as New York, leaving you to wonder why he comes to the Bad Lands or Amagansett (as the case may be) and at the same time to conjecture mildly why a cattleman should want puttees about his ranch with a secretary in ’em.</p>
 			<p>Well, anyhow, you know as well as I do that we all like that kind of play, whether we admit it or not⁠—something along in between <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Bluebeard, <abbr>Jr.</abbr></i>, and <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Cymbeline</i> played in the Russian.</p>
 			<p>There were only two parts and a half in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Mice Will Play</i>. Hart and Cherry were the two, of course; and the half was a minor part always played by a stage hand, who merely came in once in a Tuxedo coat and a panic to announce that the house was surrounded by Indians, and to turn down the gas fire in the grate by the manager’s orders.</p>
 			<p>There was another girl in the sketch⁠—a Fifth Avenue society swelless⁠—who was visiting the ranch and who had sirened Jack Valentine when he was a wealthy club-man on lower Third Avenue before he lost his money. This girl appeared on the stage only in the photographic state⁠—Jack had her Sarony stuck up on the mantel of the Amagan⁠—of the Bad Lands droring room. Helen was jealous, of course.</p>

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@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<article id="the-call-of-the-tame" epub:type="se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Call of the Tame</h2>
 			<p>When the inauguration was accomplished⁠—the proceedings were made smooth by the presence of the Rough Riders⁠—it is well known that a herd of those competent and loyal ex-warriors paid a visit to the big city. The newspaper reporters dug out of their trunks the old broad-brimmed hats and leather belts that they wear to North Beach fish fries, and mixed with the visitors. No damage was done beyond the employment of the wonderful plural “tenderfeet” in each of the scribe’s stories. The Westerners mildly contemplated the skyscrapers as high as the third story, yawned at Broadway, hunched down in the big chairs in hotel corridors, and altogether looked as bored and dejected as a member of Ye Ancient and Honorable Artillery separated during a sham battle from his valet.</p>
-			<p>Out of this sightseeing delegations of good King Teddy’s Gentlemen of the Royal Bear-hounds dropped one Greenbrier Nye, of Pin Feather, <abbr class="postal eoc">Ariz</abbr>.</p>
+			<p>Out of this sightseeing delegations of good King Teddy’s Gentlemen of the Royal Bear-hounds dropped one Greenbrier Nye, of Pin Feather, <abbr class="eoc" epub:type="z3998:place">Ariz</abbr>.</p>
 			<p>The daily cyclone of Sixth Avenue’s rush hour swept him away from the company of his pardners true. The dust from a thousand rustling skirts filled his eyes. The mighty roar of trains rushing across the sky deafened him. The lightning-flash of twice ten hundred beaming eyes confused his vision.</p>
 			<p>The storm was so sudden and tremendous that Greenbrier’s first impulse was to lie down and grab a root. And then he remembered that the disturbance was human, and not elemental; and he backed out of it with a grin into a doorway.</p>
 			<p>The reporters had written that but for the wide-brimmed hats the West was not visible upon these gauchos of the North. Heaven sharpen their eyes! The suit of black diagonal, wrinkled in impossible places; the bright blue four-in-hand, factory tied; the low, turned-down collar, pattern of the days of Seymour and Blair, white glazed as the letters on the window of the open-day-and-night-except-Sunday restaurants; the out-curve at the knees from the saddle grip; the peculiar spread of the half-closed right thumb and fingers from the stiff hold upon the circling lasso; the deeply absorbed weather tan that the hottest sun of Cape May can never equal; the seldom-winking blue eyes that unconsciously divided the rushing crowds into fours, as though they were being counted out of a corral; the segregated loneliness and solemnity of expression, as of an Emperor or of one whose horizons have not intruded upon him nearer than a day’s ride⁠—these brands of the West were set upon Greenbrier Nye. Oh, yes; he wore a broad-brimmed hat, gentle reader⁠—just like those the Madison Square Post Office mail carriers wear when they go up to Bronx Park on Sunday afternoons.</p>

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@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<article id="the-city-of-dreadful-night" epub:type="se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The City of Dreadful Night</h2>
 			<p>“During the recent warmed-over spell,” said my friend Carney, driver of express wagon <abbr>No.</abbr> 8,606, “a good many opportunities was had of observing human nature through peekaboo waists.</p>
-			<p>“The Park Commissioner and the Commissioner of Polis and the Forestry Commission gets together and agrees to let the people sleep in the parks until the Weather Bureau gets the thermometer down again to a living basis. So they draws up open-air resolutions and has them OK’d by the Secretary of Agriculture, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Comstock and the Village Improvement Mosquito Exterminating Society of South Orange, <abbr class="postal">NJ</abbr>.</p>
+			<p>“The Park Commissioner and the Commissioner of Polis and the Forestry Commission gets together and agrees to let the people sleep in the parks until the Weather Bureau gets the thermometer down again to a living basis. So they draws up open-air resolutions and has them OK’d by the Secretary of Agriculture, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Comstock and the Village Improvement Mosquito Exterminating Society of South Orange, <abbr epub:type="z3998:place">NJ</abbr>.</p>
 			<p>“When the proclamation was made opening up to the people by special grant the public parks that belong to ’em, there was a general exodus into Central Park by the communities existing along its borders. In ten minutes after sundown you’d have thought that there was an undress rehearsal of a potato famine in Ireland and a Kishineff massacre. They come by families, gangs, clambake societies, clans, clubs and tribes from all sides to enjoy a cool sleep on the grass. Them that didn’t have oil stoves brought along plenty of blankets, so as not to be upset with the cold and discomforts of sleeping outdoors. By building fires of the shade trees and huddling together in the bridle paths, and burrowing under the grass where the ground was soft enough, the likes of 5,000 head of people successfully battled against the night air in Central Park alone.</p>
 			<p>“Ye know I live in the elegant furnished apartment house called the Beersheba Flats, over against the elevated portion of the New York Central Railroad.</p>
 			<p>“When the order come to the flats that all hands must turn out and sleep in the park, according to the instructions of the consulting committee of the City Club and the Murphy Draying, Returfing and Sodding Company, there was a look of a couple of fires and an eviction all over the place.</p>

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@@ -12,7 +12,7 @@
 			<p>Sharp and Simpson send us a check for $50 in addition to their monthly account, to cover difference in price of a higher grade of goods shipped them last time by mistake.</p>
 			<p>Senior Partner: Do they give us another order?</p>
 			<p>Junior Partner: Yes! The longest they have ever made.</p>
-			<p>Senior Partner: Ship ’em <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism" class="eoc">C.O.D.</abbr></p>
+			<p>Senior Partner: Ship ’em <abbr class="eoc" epub:type="z3998:initialism">C.O.D.</abbr></p>
 			<hr/>
 			<p>“Well! how are they coming?”</p>
 			<p>“I’m getting a move on me,” said the checkerboard.</p>

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@@ -12,7 +12,7 @@
 			<p>Metes and bounds have been assigned to it. I know. Realists have prated of “from Fourteenth to Forty-second,” and “as far west as” <abbr>etc.</abbr>, but the larger meaning of the word remains with me.</p>
 			<p>Confirmation of my interpretation of the famous slaughterhouse noun-adjective came to me from Bill Jeremy, a friend out of the West. Bill lives in a town on the edge of the prairie-dog country. At times Bill yearns to maintain the tradition that “ginger shall be hot i’ the mouth.” He brought his last yearning to New York. And it devolved upon me. You know what that means.</p>
 			<p>I took Bill to see the cavity that has been drilled in the city’s tooth, soon to be filled with the new gold subway; and the Eden Musée, and the Flatiron and the crack in the front windowpane of Russell Sage’s house, and the old man that threw the stone that did it when he was a boy⁠—and I asked Bill what he thought of New York.</p>
-			<p>“You may mean well,” said Bill, with gentle reproach, “but you’ve got in a groove. You thought I was underwear buyer for the Blue-Front Dry Goods Emporium of Pine Knob, <abbr class="postal">NC</abbr>, didn’t you? Or the junior partner of Slowcoach &amp; Green, of Geegeewocomee, State of Goobers, come on for the fall stock of jeans, lingerie, and whetstones? Don’t treat me like a business friend.</p>
+			<p>“You may mean well,” said Bill, with gentle reproach, “but you’ve got in a groove. You thought I was underwear buyer for the Blue-Front Dry Goods Emporium of Pine Knob, <abbr epub:type="z3998:place">NC</abbr>, didn’t you? Or the junior partner of Slowcoach &amp; Green, of Geegeewocomee, State of Goobers, come on for the fall stock of jeans, lingerie, and whetstones? Don’t treat me like a business friend.</p>
 			<p>“Do you suppose the wild, insensate longing I feel for metropolitan gayety is going to be satisfied by waxworks and razorback architecture? Now you get out the old envelope with the itinerary on it, and cross out the Brooklyn Bridge and the cab that Morgan rides home in and the remaining objects of interest, for I am going it alone. The Tenderloin, well done, is what I shall admire for to see.”</p>
 			<p>Bill Jeremy has a way of doing as he says he will. So I did not urge upon him the bridge, or Carnegie Hall or the great Tomb⁠—wonders that the unselfish New Yorker reserves, unseen, for his friends.</p>
 			<p>That evening Bill descended, unprotected, upon the Tenderloin. The next day he came and put his feet upon my desk and told me about it.</p>

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@@ -17,7 +17,7 @@
 				<p>“Charming widow, beautiful, home loving, 32 years, possessing $3,000 cash and owning valuable country property, would remarry. Would prefer a poor man with affectionate disposition to one with means, as she realizes that the solid virtues are oftenest to be found in the humble walks of life. No objection to elderly man or one of homely appearance if faithful and true and competent to manage property and invest money with judgment. Address, with particulars.</p>
 				<footer>
 					<p>Lonely,</p>
-					<p epub:type="z3998:signature">Care of Peters &amp; Tucker, agents, Cairo, <abbr class="postal eoc">Ill.</abbr></p>
+					<p epub:type="z3998:signature">Care of Peters &amp; Tucker, agents, Cairo, <abbr class="eoc" epub:type="z3998:place">Ill.</abbr></p>
 				</footer>
 			</blockquote>
 			<p>“ ‘So far, so pernicious,’ says I, when we had finished the literary concoction. ‘And now,’ says I, ‘where is the lady.’</p>

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@@ -14,7 +14,7 @@
 			<p>Not even on the fair island of Nippon was there a more enthusiastic champion of the Mikado’s men. Supporters of the Russian cause did well to keep clear of Engine-House <abbr>No.</abbr> 99.</p>
 			<p>Sometimes all thoughts of the Japs left John Byrnes’s head. That was when the alarm of fire had sounded and he was strapped in his driver’s seat on the swaying cart, guiding Erebus and Joe, the finest team in the whole department⁠—according to the crew of 99.</p>
 			<p>Of all the codes adopted by man for regulating his actions toward his fellow-mortals, the greatest are these⁠—the code of King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table, the Constitution of the United States and the unwritten rules of the New York Fire Department. The Round Table methods are no longer practicable since the invention of street cars and breach-of-promise suits, and our Constitution is being found more and more unconstitutional every day, so the code of our firemen must be considered in the lead, with the Golden Rule and Jeffries’s new punch trying for place and show.</p>
-			<p>The Constitution says that one man is as good as another; but the Fire Department says he is better. This is a too generous theory, but the law will not allow itself to be construed otherwise. All of which comes perilously near to being a paradox, and commends itself to the attention of the <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism" class="eoc">S.P.C.A.</abbr></p>
+			<p>The Constitution says that one man is as good as another; but the Fire Department says he is better. This is a too generous theory, but the law will not allow itself to be construed otherwise. All of which comes perilously near to being a paradox, and commends itself to the attention of the <abbr class="eoc" epub:type="z3998:initialism">S.P.C.A.</abbr></p>
 			<p>One of the transatlantic liners dumped out at Ellis Island a lump of protozoa which was expected to evolve into an American citizen. A steward kicked him down the gangway, a doctor pounced upon his eyes like a raven, seeking for trachoma or ophthalmia; he was hustled ashore and ejected into the city in the name of Liberty⁠—perhaps, theoretically, thus inoculating against kingocracy with a drop of its own virus. This hypodermic injection of Europeanism wandered happily into the veins of the city with the broad grin of a pleased child. It was not burdened with baggage, cares or ambitions. Its body was lithely built and clothed in a sort of foreign fustian; its face was brightly vacant, with a small, flat nose, and was mostly covered by a thick, ragged, curling beard like the coat of a spaniel. In the pocket of the imported Thing were a few coins⁠—denarii⁠—scudi⁠—kopecks⁠—pfennigs⁠—pilasters⁠—whatever the financial nomenclature of his unknown country may have been.</p>
 			<p>Prattling to himself, always broadly grinning, pleased by the roar and movement of the barbarous city into which the steamship cut-rates had shunted him, the alien strayed away from the sea, which he hated, as far as the district covered by Engine Company <abbr>No.</abbr> 99. Light as a cork, he was kept bobbing along by the human tide, the crudest atom in all the silt of the stream that emptied into the reservoir of Liberty.</p>
 			<p>While crossing Third Avenue he slowed his steps, enchanted by the thunder of the elevated trains above him and the soothing crash of the wheels on the cobbles. And then there was a new, delightful chord in the uproar⁠—the musical clanging of a gong and a great shining juggernaut belching fire and smoke, that people were hurrying to see.</p>

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@@ -10,7 +10,7 @@
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Harbinger</h2>
 			<p>Long before the springtide is felt in the dull bosom of the yokel does the city man know that the grass-green goddess is upon her throne. He sits at his breakfast eggs and toast, begirt by stone walls, opens his morning paper and sees journalism leave vernalism at the post.</p>
 			<p>For, whereas, spring’s couriers were once the evidence of our finer senses, now the Associated Press does the trick.</p>
-			<p>The warble of the first robin in Hackensack, the stirring of the maple sap in Bennington, the budding of the pussy willows along Main Street in Syracuse, the first chirp of the bluebird, the swan song of the Blue Point, the annual tornado in <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis, the plaint of the peach pessimist from Pompton, <abbr class="postal">NJ</abbr>, the regular visit of the tame wild goose with a broken leg to the pond near Bilgewater Junction, the base attempt of the Drug Trust to boost the price of quinine foiled in the House by Congressman Jinks, the first tall poplar struck by lightning and the usual stunned picknickers who had taken refuge, the first crack of the ice jam in the Allegheny River, the finding of a violet in its mossy bed by the correspondent at Round Corners⁠—these are the advance signs of the burgeoning season that are wired into the wise city, while the farmer sees nothing but winter upon his dreary fields.</p>
+			<p>The warble of the first robin in Hackensack, the stirring of the maple sap in Bennington, the budding of the pussy willows along Main Street in Syracuse, the first chirp of the bluebird, the swan song of the Blue Point, the annual tornado in <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis, the plaint of the peach pessimist from Pompton, <abbr epub:type="z3998:place">NJ</abbr>, the regular visit of the tame wild goose with a broken leg to the pond near Bilgewater Junction, the base attempt of the Drug Trust to boost the price of quinine foiled in the House by Congressman Jinks, the first tall poplar struck by lightning and the usual stunned picknickers who had taken refuge, the first crack of the ice jam in the Allegheny River, the finding of a violet in its mossy bed by the correspondent at Round Corners⁠—these are the advance signs of the burgeoning season that are wired into the wise city, while the farmer sees nothing but winter upon his dreary fields.</p>
 			<p>But these be mere externals. The true harbinger is the heart. When Strephon seeks his Chloe and Mike his Maggie, then only is spring arrived and the newspaper report of the five-foot rattler killed in Squire Pettigrew’s pasture confirmed.</p>
 			<p>Ere the first violet blew, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ragsdale and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Kidd sat together on a bench in Union Square and conspired. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters was the D’Artagnan of the loafers there. He was the dingiest, the laziest, the sorriest brown blot against the green background of any bench in the park. But just then he was the most important of the trio.</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters had a wife. This had not heretofore affected his standing with Ragsy and Kidd. But today it invested him with a peculiar interest. His friends, having escaped matrimony, had shown a disposition to deride <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters for his venture on that troubled sea. But at last they had been forced to acknowledge that either he had been gifted with a large foresight or that he was one of Fortune’s lucky sons.</p>

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@@ -10,7 +10,7 @@
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Marionettes</h2>
 			<p>The policeman was standing at the corner of Twenty-fourth Street and a prodigiously dark alley near where the elevated railroad crosses the street. The time was two o’clock in the morning; the outlook a stretch of cold, drizzling, unsociable blackness until the dawn.</p>
 			<p>A man, wearing a long overcoat, with his hat tilted down in front, and carrying something in one hand, walked softly but rapidly out of the black alley. The policeman accosted him civilly, but with the assured air that is linked with conscious authority. The hour, the alley’s musty reputation, the pedestrian’s haste, the burden he carried⁠—these easily combined into the “suspicious circumstances” that required illumination at the officer’s hands.</p>
-			<p>The “suspect” halted readily and tilted back his hat, exposing, in the flicker of the electric lights, an emotionless, smooth countenance with a rather long nose and steady dark eyes. Thrusting his gloved hand into a side pocket of his overcoat, he drew out a card and handed it to the policeman. Holding it to catch the uncertain light, the officer read the name “Charles Spencer James, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title" class="eoc">M.D.</abbr>” The street and number of the address were of a neighborhood so solid and respectable as to subdue even curiosity. The policeman’s downward glance at the article carried in the doctor’s hand⁠—a handsome medicine case of black leather, with small silver mountings⁠—further endorsed the guarantee of the card.</p>
+			<p>The “suspect” halted readily and tilted back his hat, exposing, in the flicker of the electric lights, an emotionless, smooth countenance with a rather long nose and steady dark eyes. Thrusting his gloved hand into a side pocket of his overcoat, he drew out a card and handed it to the policeman. Holding it to catch the uncertain light, the officer read the name “Charles Spencer James, <abbr class="eoc" epub:type="z3998:name-title">M.D.</abbr>” The street and number of the address were of a neighborhood so solid and respectable as to subdue even curiosity. The policeman’s downward glance at the article carried in the doctor’s hand⁠—a handsome medicine case of black leather, with small silver mountings⁠—further endorsed the guarantee of the card.</p>
 			<p>“All right, doctor,” said the officer, stepping aside, with an air of bulky affability. “Orders are to be extra careful. Good many burglars and holdups lately. Bad night to be out. Not so cold, but⁠—clammy.”</p>
 			<p>With a formal inclination of his head, and a word or two corroborative of the officer’s estimate of the weather, Doctor James continued his somewhat rapid progress. Three times that night had a patrolman accepted his professional card and the sight of his paragon of a medicine case as vouchers for his honesty of person and purpose. Had any one of those officers seen fit, on the morrow, to test the evidence of that card he would have found it borne out by the doctor’s name on a handsome doorplate, his presence, calm and well dressed, in his well-equipped office⁠—provided it were not too early, Doctor James being a late riser⁠—and the testimony of the neighborhood to his good citizenship, his devotion to his family, and his success as a practitioner the two years he had lived among them.</p>
 			<p>Therefore, it would have much surprised any one of those zealous guardians of the peace could they have taken a peep into that immaculate medicine case. Upon opening it, the first article to be seen would have been an elegant set of the latest conceived tools used by the “box man,” as the ingenious safe burglar now denominates himself. Specially designed and constructed were the implements⁠—the short but powerful “jimmy,” the collection of curiously fashioned keys, the blued drills and punches of the finest temper⁠—capable of eating their way into chilled steel as a mouse eats into a cheese, and the clamps that fasten like a leech to the polished door of a safe and pull out the combination knob as a dentist extracts a tooth. In a little pouch in the inner side of the “medicine” case was a four-ounce vial of nitroglycerine, now half empty. Underneath the tools was a mass of crumpled banknotes and a few handfuls of gold coin, the money, altogether, amounting to eight hundred and thirty dollars.</p>

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@@ -11,7 +11,7 @@
 			<p>There are a few editor men with whom I am privileged to come in contact. It has not been long since it was their habit to come in contact with me. There is a difference.</p>
 			<p>They tell me that with a large number of the manuscripts that are submitted to them come advices (in the way of a boost) from the author asseverating that the incidents in the story are true. The destination of such contributions depends wholly upon the question of the enclosure of stamps. Some are returned, the rest are thrown on the floor in a corner on top of a pair of gum shoes, an overturned statuette of the Winged Victory, and a pile of old magazines containing a picture of the editor in the act of reading the latest copy of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.journal">Le Petit Journal</i>, right side up⁠—you can tell by the illustrations. It is only a legend that there are waste baskets in editors’ offices.</p>
 			<p>Thus is truth held in disrepute. But in time truth and science and nature will adapt themselves to art. Things will happen logically, and the villain be discomfited instead of being elected to the board of directors. But in the meantime fiction must not only be divorced from fact, but must pay alimony and be awarded custody of the press despatches.</p>
-			<p>This preamble is to warn you off the grade crossing of a true story. Being that, it shall be told simply, with conjunctions substituted for adjectives wherever possible, and whatever evidences of style may appear in it shall be due to the linotype man. It is a story of the literary life in a great city, and it should be of interest to every author within a 20-mile radius of Gosport, <abbr class="postal">Ind.</abbr>, whose desk holds a <abbr>MS.</abbr> story beginning thus: “While the cheers following his nomination were still ringing through the old courthouse, Harwood broke away from the congratulating handclasps of his henchmen and hurried to Judge Creswell’s house to find Ida.”</p>
+			<p>This preamble is to warn you off the grade crossing of a true story. Being that, it shall be told simply, with conjunctions substituted for adjectives wherever possible, and whatever evidences of style may appear in it shall be due to the linotype man. It is a story of the literary life in a great city, and it should be of interest to every author within a 20-mile radius of Gosport, <abbr epub:type="z3998:place">Ind.</abbr>, whose desk holds a <abbr>MS.</abbr> story beginning thus: “While the cheers following his nomination were still ringing through the old courthouse, Harwood broke away from the congratulating handclasps of his henchmen and hurried to Judge Creswell’s house to find Ida.”</p>
 			<p>Pettit came up out of Alabama to write fiction. The Southern papers had printed eight of his stories under an editorial caption identifying the author as the son of “the gallant Major Pettingill Pettit, our former County Attorney and hero of the battle of Lookout Mountain.”</p>
 			<p>Pettit was a rugged fellow, with a kind of shamefaced culture, and my good friend. His father kept a general store in a little town called Hosea. Pettit had been raised in the pine-woods and broom-sedge fields adjacent thereto. He had in his gripsack two manuscript novels of the adventures in Picardy of one Gaston Laboulaye, Vicompte de Montrepos, in the year 1329. That’s nothing. We all do that. And some day when we make a hit with the little sketch about a newsy and his lame dog, the editor prints the other one for us⁠—or “on us,” as the saying is⁠—and then⁠—and then we have to get a big valise and peddle those patent air-draft gas burners. At $1.25 everybody should have ’em.</p>
 			<p>I took Pettit to the redbrick house which was to appear in an article entitled “Literary Landmarks of Old New York,” some day when we got through with it. He engaged a room there, drawing on the general store for his expenses. I showed New York to him, and he did not mention how much narrower Broadway is than Lee Avenue in Hosea. This seemed a good sign, so I put the final test.</p>

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@@ -35,7 +35,7 @@
 			<p>“Poor old Bill was hungry,” interrupted Givens, in quick defence of the deceased. “We always made him jump for his supper in camp. He would lie down and roll over for a piece of meat. When he saw you he thought he was going to get something to eat from you.”</p>
 			<p>Suddenly Josefa’s eyes opened wide.</p>
 			<p>“I might have shot you!” she exclaimed. “You ran right in between. You risked your life to save your pet! That was fine, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Givens. I like a man who is kind to animals.”</p>
-			<p>Yes; there was even admiration in her gaze now. After all, there was a hero rising out of the ruins of the anticlimax. The look on Givens’s face would have secured him a high position in the <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism" class="eoc">S.P.C.A.</abbr></p>
+			<p>Yes; there was even admiration in her gaze now. After all, there was a hero rising out of the ruins of the anticlimax. The look on Givens’s face would have secured him a high position in the <abbr class="eoc" epub:type="z3998:initialism">S.P.C.A.</abbr></p>
 			<p>“I always loved ’em,” said he; “horses, dogs, Mexican lions, cows, alligators⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“I hate alligators,” instantly demurred Josefa; “crawly, muddy things!”</p>
 			<p>“Did I say alligators?” said Givens. “I meant antelopes, of course.”</p>

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@@ -10,7 +10,7 @@
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Red Roses of Tonia</h2>
 			<p>A trestle burned down on the International Railroad. The southbound from San Antonio was cut off for the next forty-eight hours. On that train was Tonia Weaver’s Easter hat.</p>
 			<p>Espirition, the Mexican, who had been sent forty miles in a buckboard from the Espinosa Ranch to fetch it, returned with a shrugging shoulder and hands empty except for a cigarette. At the small station, Nopal, he had learned of the delayed train and, having no commands to wait, turned his ponies toward the ranch again.</p>
-			<p>Now, if one supposes that Easter, the Goddess of Spring, cares any more for the after-church parade on Fifth Avenue than she does for her loyal outfit of subjects that assemble at the meetinghouse at Cactus, <abbr class="postal">Tex.</abbr>, a mistake has been made. The wives and daughters of the ranchmen of the Frio country put forth Easter blossoms of new hats and gowns as faithfully as is done anywhere, and the Southwest is, for one day, a mingling of prickly pear, Paris, and paradise. And now it was Good Friday, and Tonia Weaver’s Easter hat blushed unseen in the desert air of an impotent express car, beyond the burned trestle. On Saturday noon the Rogers girls, from the Shoestring Ranch, and Ella Reeves, from the Anchor-O, and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Bennet and Ida, from Green Valley, would convene at the Espinosa and pick up Tonia. With their Easter hats and frocks carefully wrapped and bundled against the dust, the fair aggregation would then merrily jog the ten miles to Cactus, where on the morrow they would array themselves, subjugate man, do homage to Easter, and cause jealous agitation among the lilies of the field.</p>
+			<p>Now, if one supposes that Easter, the Goddess of Spring, cares any more for the after-church parade on Fifth Avenue than she does for her loyal outfit of subjects that assemble at the meetinghouse at Cactus, <abbr epub:type="z3998:place">Tex.</abbr>, a mistake has been made. The wives and daughters of the ranchmen of the Frio country put forth Easter blossoms of new hats and gowns as faithfully as is done anywhere, and the Southwest is, for one day, a mingling of prickly pear, Paris, and paradise. And now it was Good Friday, and Tonia Weaver’s Easter hat blushed unseen in the desert air of an impotent express car, beyond the burned trestle. On Saturday noon the Rogers girls, from the Shoestring Ranch, and Ella Reeves, from the Anchor-O, and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Bennet and Ida, from Green Valley, would convene at the Espinosa and pick up Tonia. With their Easter hats and frocks carefully wrapped and bundled against the dust, the fair aggregation would then merrily jog the ten miles to Cactus, where on the morrow they would array themselves, subjugate man, do homage to Easter, and cause jealous agitation among the lilies of the field.</p>
 			<p>Tonia sat on the steps of the Espinosa ranch house flicking gloomily with a quirt at a tuft of curly mesquite. She displayed a frown and a contumelious lip, and endeavored to radiate an aura of disagreeableness and tragedy.</p>
 			<p>“I hate railroads,” she announced positively. “And men. Men pretend to run them. Can you give any excuse why a trestle should burn? Ida Bennet’s hat is to be trimmed with violets. I shall not go one step toward Cactus without a new hat. If I were a man I would get one.”</p>
 			<p>Two men listened uneasily to this disparagement of their kind. One was Wells Pearson, foreman of the Mucho Calor cattle ranch. The other was Thompson Burrows, the prosperous sheepman from the Quintana Valley. Both thought Tonia Weaver adorable, especially when she railed at railroads and menaced men. Either would have given up his epidermis to make for her an Easter hat more cheerfully than the ostrich gives up his tip or the aigrette lays down its life. Neither possessed the ingenuity to conceive a means of supplying the sad deficiency against the coming Sabbath. Pearson’s deep brown face and sunburned light hair gave him the appearance of a schoolboy seized by one of youth’s profound and insolvable melancholies. Tonia’s plight grieved him through and through. Thompson Burrows was the more skilled and pliable. He hailed from somewhere in the East originally; and he wore neckties and shoes, and was made dumb by woman’s presence.</p>

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@@ -38,11 +38,11 @@
 			<hr/>
 			<p>I am telling you that Dodson, of the firm of Dodson &amp; Decker, Wall Street brokers, opened his eyes. Peabody, the confidential clerk, was standing by his chair, hesitating to speak. There was a confused hum of wheels below, and the sedative buzz of an electric fan.</p>
 			<p>“Ahem! Peabody,” said Dodson, blinking. “I must have fallen asleep. I had a most remarkable dream. What is it, Peabody?”</p>
-			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Williams, sir, of Tracy &amp; Williams, is outside. He has come to settle his deal in <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism" class="eoc">XYX</abbr>. The market caught him short, sir, if you remember.”</p>
+			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Williams, sir, of Tracy &amp; Williams, is outside. He has come to settle his deal in <abbr class="eoc" epub:type="z3998:initialism">XYX</abbr>. The market caught him short, sir, if you remember.”</p>
 			<p>“Yes, I remember. What is <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">XYZ</abbr> quoted at today, Peabody?”</p>
 			<p>“One eighty-five, sir.”</p>
 			<p>“Then that’s his price.”</p>
-			<p>“Excuse me,” said Peabody, rather nervously “for speaking of it, but I’ve been talking to Williams. He’s an old friend of yours, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Dodson, and you practically have a corner in <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism" class="eoc">XYX</abbr>. I thought you might⁠—that is, I thought you might not remember that he sold you the stock at 98. If he settles at the market price it will take every cent he has in the world and his home too to deliver the shares.”</p>
+			<p>“Excuse me,” said Peabody, rather nervously “for speaking of it, but I’ve been talking to Williams. He’s an old friend of yours, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Dodson, and you practically have a corner in <abbr class="eoc" epub:type="z3998:initialism">XYX</abbr>. I thought you might⁠—that is, I thought you might not remember that he sold you the stock at 98. If he settles at the market price it will take every cent he has in the world and his home too to deliver the shares.”</p>
 			<p>The expression on Dodson’s face changed in an instant to one of cold ferocity mingled with inexorable cupidity. The soul of the man showed itself for a moment like an evil face in the window of a reputable house.</p>
 			<p>“He will settle at one eighty-five,” said Dodson. “Bolivar cannot carry double.”</p>
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 			<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 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>
+				<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 epub:type="z3998:place">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 epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Applegate</p>

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 			<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 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 epub:type="z3998:initialism" class="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>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="eoc" epub:type="z3998:initialism">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>
 			<p>During and after the war, Blandford Carteret, <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">F.F.V.</abbr>, lost his plantations, juleps, marksmanship, and life. He bequeathed little more than his pride to his surviving family. So it came to pass that Blandford Carteret, the Fifth, aged fifteen, was invited by the leather-and-mill-supplies branch of that name to come North and learn business instead of hunting foxes and boasting of the glory of his fathers on the reduced acres of his impoverished family. The boy jumped at the chance; and, at the age of twenty-five, sat in the office of the firm equal partner with John, the Fifth, of the blunderbuss-and-turkey branch. Here the story begins again.</p>