Proofreading corrections

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@@ -42,7 +42,7 @@
 			<p>“Oh, don’t make an Ibsen drama of it!” interrupted the young man, flippantly. “Riddles⁠—especially old Hildebrant’s riddles⁠—don’t have to be worked out seriously. They are light themes such as Sim Ford and Harry Thurston Peck like to handle. But, somehow, I can’t strike just the answer. Bill Watson may, and he may not. Tomorrow will tell. Well, Your Majesty, I’m glad anyhow that you butted in and whiled the time away. I guess <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Al Rashid himself would have bounced back if one of his constituents had conducted him up against this riddle. I’ll say good night. Peace fo’ yours, and what-you-may-call-its of Allah.”</p>
 			<p>The Margrave, still with a gloomy air, held out his hand.</p>
 			<p>“I cannot express my regret,” he said, sadly. “Never before have I found myself unable to assist in some way. ‘What kind of a hen lays the longest?’ It is a baffling problem. There is a hen, I believe, called the Plymouth Rock that⁠—”</p>
-			<p>“Cut it out,” said the young man. “The Caliph trade is a mighty serious one. I don’t suppose you’d even see anything funny in a preacher’s defense of John D. Rockefeller. Well, good night, Your Nibs.”</p>
+			<p>“Cut it out,” said the young man. “The Caliph trade is a mighty serious one. I don’t suppose you’d even see anything funny in a preacher’s defense of John <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Rockefeller. Well, good night, Your Nibs.”</p>
 			<p>From habit the Margrave began to fumble in his pockets. He drew forth a card and handed it to the young man.</p>
 			<p>“Do me the favor to accept this, anyhow,” he said. “The time may come when it might be of use to you.”</p>
 			<p>“Thanks!” said the young man, pocketing it carelessly. “My name is Simmons.”</p>

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

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

src/epub/text/a-cheering-thought.xhtml

@@ -13,7 +13,7 @@
 			<p>“What have you done?” asked the officer.</p>
 			<p>“I’m a miserable, low-down, lying, good-for-nothing, slandering, drunken, villainous, sacrilegious galoot, and I’m not fit to die. You might ask the jailer, also, to bring little boys in to look at me through the bars, while I gnash my teeth and curse in demoniac rage.”</p>
 			<p>“We can’t put you in jail unless you have committed some offense. Can’t you bring some more specific charge against yourself?”</p>
-			<p>“No, I just want to give myself up on general principles. You see, I went to hear Sam Jones last night, and he saw me in the crowd and diagnosed my case to a T. Up to that time I thought I was a four-horse team with a yellow dog under the wagon, but Sam took the negative side and won. I’m a danged old sore-eyed hound dog; I wouldn’t mind if you kicked me a few times before you locked me up, and sent my wife word that the old villain that has been abusin’ her for twenty years has met his deserts.”</p>
+			<p>“No, I just want to give myself up on general principles. You see, I went to hear Sam Jones last night, and he saw me in the crowd and diagnosed my case to a <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">T</i>. Up to that time I thought I was a four-horse team with a yellow dog under the wagon, but Sam took the negative side and won. I’m a danged old sore-eyed hound dog; I wouldn’t mind if you kicked me a few times before you locked me up, and sent my wife word that the old villain that has been abusin’ her for twenty years has met his deserts.”</p>
 			<p>“Aw, come now,” said the officer, “I don’t believe you are as bad as you think you are. You don’t know that Sam Jones was talking about you at all. It might have been somebody else he was hitting. Brace up and don’t let it worry you.”</p>
 			<p>“Lemme see,” said the weary-looking man reflectively. “Come to think of it there was one of my neighbors sitting right behind me who is the meanest man in Houston. He is a mangy pup, and no mistake. He beats his wife and has refused to loan me three dollars five different times. What Sam said just fits his case exactly. If I thought now—”</p>
 			<p>“That’s the way to look at it,” said the officer. “The chances are Sam wasn’t thinking about you at all.”</p>

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

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

src/epub/text/a-departmental-case.xhtml

@@ -10,7 +10,7 @@
 			<h2 epub:type="title">A Departmental Case</h2>
 			<p>In Texas you may travel a thousand miles in a straight line. If your course is a crooked one, it is likely that both the distance and your rate of speed may be vastly increased. Clouds there sail serenely against the wind. The whip-poor-will delivers its disconsolate cry with the notes exactly reversed from those of his Northern brother. Given a drought and a subsequently lively rain, and lo! from a glazed and stony soil will spring in a single night blossomed lilies, miraculously fair. Tom Green County was once the standard of measurement. I have forgotten how many New Jerseys and Rhode Islands it was that could have been stowed away and lost in its chaparral. But the legislative axe has slashed Tom Green into a handful of counties hardly larger than European kingdoms. The legislature convenes at Austin, near the centre of the state; and, while the representative from the Rio Grande country is gathering his palm-leaf fan and his linen duster to set out for the capital, the Panhandle solon winds his muffler above his well-buttoned overcoat and kicks the snow from his well-greased boots ready for the same journey. All this merely to hint that the big ex-republic of the Southwest forms a sizable star on the flag, and to prepare for the corollary that things sometimes happen there uncut to pattern and unfettered by metes and bounds.</p>
 			<p>The Commissioner of Insurance, Statistics, and History of the State of Texas was an official of no very great or very small importance. The past tense is used, for now he is Commissioner of Insurance alone. Statistics and history are no longer proper nouns in the government records.</p>
-			<p>In the year 188⁠–⁠⁠–⁠, the governor appointed Luke Coonrod Standifer to be the head of this department. Standifer was then fifty-five years of age, and a Texan to the core. His father had been one of the state’s earliest settlers and pioneers. Standifer himself had served the commonwealth as Indian fighter, soldier, ranger, and legislator. Much learning he did not claim, but he had drank pretty deep of the spring of experience.</p>
+			<p>In the year 188⁠-, the governor appointed Luke Coonrod Standifer to be the head of this department. Standifer was then fifty-five years of age, and a Texan to the core. His father had been one of the state’s earliest settlers and pioneers. Standifer himself had served the commonwealth as Indian fighter, soldier, ranger, and legislator. Much learning he did not claim, but he had drank pretty deep of the spring of experience.</p>
 			<p>If other grounds were less abundant, Texas should be well up in the lists of glory as the grateful republic. For both as republic and state, it has busily heaped honours and solid rewards upon its sons who rescued it from the wilderness.</p>
 			<p>Wherefore and therefore, Luke Coonrod Standifer, son of Ezra Standifer, ex-Terry ranger, simon-pure democrat, and lucky dweller in an unrepresented portion of the politico-geographical map, was appointed Commissioner of Insurance, Statistics, and History.</p>
 			<p>Standifer accepted the honour with some doubt as to the nature of the office he was to fill and his capacity for filling it⁠—but he accepted, and by wire. He immediately set out from the little country town where he maintained (and was scarcely maintained by) a somnolent and unfruitful office of surveying and map-drawing. Before departing, he had looked up under the <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">I</i>’s, <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">S</i>’s and <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">H</i>’s in the “Encyclopaedia Britannica” what information and preparation toward his official duties that those weighty volumes afforded.</p>

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

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@@ -32,6 +32,7 @@
 			<p>“You are a good boy, Terence,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Bellmore, sweeping her silks close to one side of her, “not to beat your mother. Sit here by me, and let’s look at the album, just as people used to do twenty years ago. Now, tell me about every one of them. Who is this tall, dignified gentleman leaning against the horizon, with one arm on the Corinthian column?”</p>
 			<p>“That old chap with the big feet?” inquired Terence, craning his neck. “That’s great-uncle O’Brannigan. He used to keep a rathskeller on the Bowery.”</p>
 			<p>“I asked you to sit down, Terence. If you are not going to amuse, or obey, me, I shall report in the morning that I saw a ghost wearing an apron and carrying schooners of beer. Now, that is better. To be shy, at your age, Terence, is a thing that you should blush to acknowledge.”</p>
+			<hr/>
 			<p>At breakfast on the last morning of her visit, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Bellmore startled and entranced everyone present by announcing positively that she had seen the ghost.</p>
 			<p>“Did it have a⁠—a⁠—a⁠—?” <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Kinsolving, in her suspense and agitation, could not bring out the word.</p>
 			<p>“No, indeed⁠—far from it.”</p>
@@ -40,7 +41,7 @@
 			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Kinsolving was in the seventh heaven. “The description is that of Captain Kinsolving, of General Greene’s army, one of our ancestors,” she said, in a voice that trembled with pride and relief. “I really think I must apologize for our ghostly relative, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Bellmore. I am afraid he must have badly disturbed your rest.”</p>
 			<p>Terence sent a smile of pleased congratulation toward his mother. Attainment was <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Kinsolving’s, at last, and he loved to see her happy.</p>
 			<p>“I suppose I ought to be ashamed to confess,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Bellmore, who was now enjoying her breakfast, “that I wasn’t very much disturbed. I presume it would have been the customary thing to scream and faint, and have all of you running about in picturesque costumes. But, after the first alarm was over, I really couldn’t work myself up to a panic. The ghost retired from the stage quietly and peacefully, after doing its little turn, and I went to sleep again.”</p>
-			<p>Nearly all listened, politely accepted <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Bellmore s story as a made-up affair, charitably offered as an offset to the unkind vision seen by <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fischer-Suympkins. But one or two present perceived that her assertions bore the genuine stamp of her own convictions. Truth and candour seemed to attend upon every word. Even a scoffer at ghosts⁠—if he were very observant⁠—would have been forced to admit that she had, at least in a very vivid dream, been honestly aware of the weird visitor.’</p>
+			<p>Nearly all listened, politely accepted <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Bellmore’s story as a made-up affair, charitably offered as an offset to the unkind vision seen by <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fischer-Suympkins. But one or two present perceived that her assertions bore the genuine stamp of her own convictions. Truth and candour seemed to attend upon every word. Even a scoffer at ghosts⁠—if he were very observant⁠—would have been forced to admit that she had, at least in a very vivid dream, been honestly aware of the weird visitor.</p>
 			<p>Soon <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Bellmore’s maid was packing. In two hours the auto would come to convey her to the station. As Terence was strolling upon the east piazza, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Bellmore came up to him, with a confidential sparkle in her eye.</p>
 			<p>“I didn’t wish to tell the others all of it,” she said, “but I will tell you. In a way, I think you should be held responsible. Can you guess in what manner that ghost awakened me last night?”</p>
 			<p>“Rattled chains,” suggested Terence, after some thought, “or groaned? They usually do one or the other.”</p>

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@@ -33,7 +33,7 @@
 			</section>
 			<section id="a-guess-proof-mystery-story-5" epub:type="chapter">
 				<h3 epub:type="title">Chapter <span epub:type="z3998:roman">V</span></h3>
-				<p>The footsteps prove to be those of Thomas R. Hefflebomer of Washington Territory, who introduces positive proof of having murdered the judge during a fit of mental aberration, and Mabel marries a man named Tompkins, whom she met two years later at Hot Springs.</p>
+				<p>The footsteps prove to be those of Thomas <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Hefflebomer of Washington Territory, who introduces positive proof of having murdered the judge during a fit of mental aberration, and Mabel marries a man named Tompkins, whom she met two years later at Hot Springs.</p>
 			</section>
 		</section>
 	</body>

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

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@@ -27,7 +27,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘There’s four normal school teachers and two abnormal; there’s three high school graduates between 37 and 42; there’s two literary old maids and one that can write; there’s a couple of society women and a lady from Haw River. Two elocutionists are bunking in the corn crib, and I’ve put cots in the hay loft for the cook and the society editress of the Chattanooga <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Opera Glass</i>. You see how names draw, gents.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘how is it that you seem to be biting your thumbs at good luck? You didn’t use to be that way.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I ain’t through,’ says Smoke-’em-out. ‘Yesterday was the day for the advent of the auspicious personages. I goes down to the depot to welcome ’em. Two apparently animate substances gets off the train, both carrying bags full of croquet mallets and these magic lanterns with pushbuttons.</p>
-			<p>“I compares these integers with the original signatures to the letters⁠—and, well, gents, I reckon the mistake was due to my poor eyesight. Instead of being the Lieutenant, the daisy chain and wild verbena explorer was none other than Levi T. Peevy, a soda water clerk from Asheville. And the Duke of Marlborough turned out to be Theo. Drake of Murfreesborough, a bookkeeper in a grocery. What did I do? I kicked ’em both back on the train and watched ’em depart for the lowlands, the low.</p>
+			<p>“I compares these integers with the original signatures to the letters⁠—and, well, gents, I reckon the mistake was due to my poor eyesight. Instead of being the Lieutenant, the daisy chain and wild verbena explorer was none other than Levi <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Peevy, a soda water clerk from Asheville. And the Duke of Marlborough turned out to be Theo. Drake of Murfreesborough, a bookkeeper in a grocery. What did I do? I kicked ’em both back on the train and watched ’em depart for the lowlands, the low.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Now you see the fix I’m in, gents,’ goes on Smoke-’em-out Smithers. ‘I told the ladies that the notorious visitors had been detained on the road by some unavoidable circumstances that made a noise like an ice jam and an heiress, but they would arrive a day or two later. When they find out that they’ve been deceived,’ says Smoke-’em-out, ‘every yard of cross barred muslin and natural waved switch in the house will pack up and leave. It’s a hard deal,’ says old Smoke-’em-out.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Friend,’ says Andy, touching the old man on the aesophagus, ‘why this jeremiad when the polar regions and the portals of Blenheim are conspiring to hand you prosperity on a hall-marked silver salver. We have arrived.’</p>
 			<p>“A light breaks out on Smoke-’em-out’s face.</p>

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@@ -19,7 +19,7 @@
 						<br/>
 						<span>That from her burdened beach.</span>
 					</p>
-					<cite>R. Kipling.</cite>
+					<cite><abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Kipling.</cite>
 				</blockquote>
 			</header>
 			<blockquote>
@@ -47,7 +47,7 @@
 				<p>In November, 1864, the Confederate General Hood advanced against Nashville, where he shut up a National force under General Thomas. The latter then sallied forth and defeated the Confederates in a terrible conflict.</p>
 			</blockquote>
 			<p>All my life I have heard of, admired, and witnessed the fine marksmanship of the South in its peaceful conflicts in the tobacco-chewing regions. But in my hotel a surprise awaited me. There were twelve bright, new, imposing, capacious brass cuspidors in the great lobby, tall enough to be called urns and so wide-mouthed that the crack pitcher of a lady baseball team should have been able to throw a ball into one of them at five paces distant. But, although a terrible battle had raged and was still raging, the enemy had not suffered. Bright, new, imposing, capacious, untouched, they stood. But, shades of Jefferson Brick! the tile floor⁠—the beautiful tile floor! I could not avoid thinking of the battle of Nashville, and trying to draw, as is my foolish habit, some deductions about hereditary marksmanship.</p>
-			<p>Here I first saw Major (by misplaced courtesy) Wentworth Caswell. I knew him for a type the moment my eyes suffered from the sight of him. A rat has no geographical habitat. My old friend, A. Tennyson, said, as he so well said almost everything:</p>
+			<p>Here I first saw Major (by misplaced courtesy) Wentworth Caswell. I knew him for a type the moment my eyes suffered from the sight of him. A rat has no geographical habitat. My old friend, <abbr class="name">A.</abbr> Tennyson, said, as he so well said almost everything:</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:poem z3998:non-fiction">
 				<p>
 					<span>Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip,</span>
@@ -130,7 +130,7 @@
 			<p>“She ain’t gwine to starve, suh,” he said slowly. “She has reso’ces, suh; she has reso’ces.”</p>
 			<p>“I shall pay you fifty cents for the trip,” said I.</p>
 			<p>“Dat is puffeckly correct, suh,” he answered humbly. “I jus’ <em>had</em> to have dat two dollars dis mawnin’, boss.”</p>
-			<p>I went to the hotel and lied by electricity. I wired the magazine: “A. Adair holds out for eight cents a word.”</p>
+			<p>I went to the hotel and lied by electricity. I wired the magazine: “<abbr class="name">A.</abbr> Adair holds out for eight cents a word.”</p>
 			<p>The answer that came back was: “Give it to her quick you duffer.”</p>
 			<p>Just before dinner “Major” Wentworth Caswell bore down upon me with the greetings of a long-lost friend. I have seen few men whom I have so instantaneously hated, and of whom it was so difficult to be rid. I was standing at the bar when he invaded me; therefore I could not wave the white ribbon in his face. I would have paid gladly for the drinks, hoping, thereby, to escape another; but he was one of those despicable, roaring, advertising bibbers who must have brass bands and fireworks attend upon every cent that they waste in their follies.</p>
 			<p>With an air of producing millions he drew two one-dollar bills from a pocket and dashed one of them upon the bar. I looked once more at the dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn through the middle, and patched with a strip of blue tissue paper. It was my dollar bill again. It could have been no other.</p>

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@@ -23,7 +23,7 @@
 			<p>The first is the freckle-faced, snub-nosed girl whom you like. The second is Maud Adams. The third is, or are, the ladies in Bouguereau’s paintings. Ileen Hinkle was the fourth. She was the mayoress of Spotless Town. There were a thousand golden apples coming to her as Helen of the Troy laundries.</p>
 			<p>The Parisian Restaurant was within a radius. Even from beyond its circumference men rode in to Paloma to win her smiles. They got them. One meal⁠—one smile⁠—one dollar. But, with all her impartiality, Ileen seemed to favor three of her admirers above the rest. According to the rules of politeness, I will mention myself last.</p>
 			<p>The first was an artificial product known as Bryan Jacks⁠—a name that had obviously met with reverses. Jacks was the outcome of paved cities. He was a small man made of some material resembling flexible sandstone. His hair was the color of a brick Quaker meeting-house; his eyes were twin cranberries; his mouth was like the aperture under a drop-letters-here sign.</p>
-			<p>He knew every city from Bangor to San Francisco, thence north to Portland, thence S. 45 E. to a given point in Florida. He had mastered every art, trade, game, business, profession, and sport in the world, had been present at, or hurrying on his way to, every headline event that had ever occurred between oceans since he was five years old. You might open the atlas, place your finger at random upon the name of a town, and Jacks would tell you the front names of three prominent citizens before you could close it again. He spoke patronizingly and even disrespectfully of Broadway, Beacon Hill, Michigan, Euclid, and Fifth avenues, and the <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis Four Courts. Compared with him as a cosmopolite, the Wandering Jew would have seemed a mere hermit. He had learned everything the world could teach him, and he would tell you about it.</p>
+			<p>He knew every city from Bangor to San Francisco, thence north to Portland, thence <abbr class="compass">S.</abbr> 45 <abbr class="compass">E.</abbr> to a given point in Florida. He had mastered every art, trade, game, business, profession, and sport in the world, had been present at, or hurrying on his way to, every headline event that had ever occurred between oceans since he was five years old. You might open the atlas, place your finger at random upon the name of a town, and Jacks would tell you the front names of three prominent citizens before you could close it again. He spoke patronizingly and even disrespectfully of Broadway, Beacon Hill, Michigan, Euclid, and Fifth avenues, and the <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis Four Courts. Compared with him as a cosmopolite, the Wandering Jew would have seemed a mere hermit. He had learned everything the world could teach him, and he would tell you about it.</p>
 			<p>I hate to be reminded of Pollok’s “Course of Time,” and so do you; but every time I saw Jacks I would think of the poet’s description of another poet by the name of <abbr class="name">G. G.</abbr> Byron who “Drank early; deeply drank⁠—drank draughts that common millions might have quenched; then died of thirst because there was no more to drink.”</p>
 			<p>That fitted Jacks, except that, instead of dying, he came to Paloma, which was about the same thing. He was a telegrapher and station-and express-agent at seventy-five dollars a month. Why a young man who knew everything and could do everything was content to serve in such an obscure capacity I never could understand, although he let out a hint once that it was as a personal favor to the president and stockholders of the <abbr>S. P. Ry.</abbr> <abbr class="eoc">Co.</abbr></p>
 			<p>One more line of description, and I turn Jacks over to you. He wore bright blue clothes, yellow shoes, and a bow tie made of the same cloth as his shirt.</p>
@@ -59,7 +59,7 @@
 			<p>Of course, we expressed our thanks and joy; but we would have been better pleased if Ileen had remained in her low rocking-chair face to face with us and let us gaze upon her. For she was no Adelina Patti⁠—not even on the farewellest of the diva’s farewell tours. She had a cooing little voice like that of a turtle-dove that could almost fill the parlor when the windows and doors were closed, and Betty was not rattling the lids of the stove in the kitchen. She had a gamut that I estimate at about eight inches on the piano; and her runs and trills sounded like the clothes bubbling in your grandmother’s iron wash-pot. Believe that she must have been beautiful when I tell you that it sounded like music to us.</p>
 			<p>Ileen’s musical taste was catholic. She would sing through a pile of sheet music on the left-hand top of the piano, laying each slaughtered composition on the right-hand top. The next evening she would sing from right to left. Her favorites were Mendelssohn, and Moody and Sankey. By request she always wound up with “Sweet Violets” and “When the Leaves Begin to Turn.”</p>
 			<p>When we left at ten o’clock the three of us would go down to Jacks’ little wooden station and sit on the platform, swinging our feet and trying to pump one another for clews as to which way Miss Ileen’s inclinations seemed to lean. That is the way of rivals⁠—they do not avoid and glower at one another; they convene and converse and construe⁠—striving by the art politic to estimate the strength of the enemy.</p>
-			<p>One day there came a dark horse to Paloma, a young lawyer who at once flaunted his shingle and himself spectacularly upon the town. His name was C. Vincent Vesey. You could see at a glance that he was a recent graduate of a southwestern law school. His Prince Albert coat, light striped trousers, broad-brimmed soft black hat, and narrow white muslin bow tie proclaimed that more loudly than any diploma could. Vesey was a compound of Daniel Webster, Lord Chesterfield, Beau Brummell, and Little Jack Horner. His coming boomed Paloma. The next day after he arrived an addition to the town was surveyed and laid off in lots.</p>
+			<p>One day there came a dark horse to Paloma, a young lawyer who at once flaunted his shingle and himself spectacularly upon the town. His name was <abbr class="name">C.</abbr> Vincent Vesey. You could see at a glance that he was a recent graduate of a southwestern law school. His Prince Albert coat, light striped trousers, broad-brimmed soft black hat, and narrow white muslin bow tie proclaimed that more loudly than any diploma could. Vesey was a compound of Daniel Webster, Lord Chesterfield, Beau Brummell, and Little Jack Horner. His coming boomed Paloma. The next day after he arrived an addition to the town was surveyed and laid off in lots.</p>
 			<p>Of course, Vesey, to further his professional fortunes, must mingle with the citizenry and outliers of Paloma. And, as well as with the soldier men, he was bound to seek popularity with the gay dogs of the place. So Jacks and Bud Cunningham and I came to be honored by his acquaintance.</p>
 			<p>The doctrine of predestination would have been discredited had not Vesey seen Ileen Hinkle and become fourth in the tourney. Magnificently, he boarded at the yellow pine hotel instead of at the Parisian Restaurant; but he came to be a formidable visitor in the Hinkle parlor. His competition reduced Bud to an inspired increase of profanity, drove Jacks to an outburst of slang so weird that it sounded more horrible than the most trenchant of Bud’s imprecations, and made me dumb with gloom.</p>
 			<p>For Vesey had the rhetoric. Words flowed from him like oil from a gusher. Hyperbole, compliment, praise, appreciation, honeyed gallantry, golden opinions, eulogy, and unveiled panegyric vied with one another for pre-eminence in his speech. We had small hopes that Ileen could resist his oratory and Prince Albert.</p>
@@ -85,7 +85,7 @@
 			<p>I admit that I faltered a little. Was there not such a thing as being too frank? Perhaps I even hedged a little in my verdict; but I stayed with the critics.</p>
 			<p>“I am not skilled in scientific music, Miss Ileen,” I said, “but, frankly, I cannot praise very highly the singing-voice that Nature has given you. It has long been a favorite comparison that a great singer sings like a bird. Well, there are birds and birds. I would say that your voice reminds me of the thrush’s⁠—throaty and not strong, nor of much compass or variety⁠—but still⁠—er⁠—sweet⁠—in⁠—er⁠—its⁠—way, and⁠—er⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Thank you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Harris,” interrupted Miss Hinkle. “I knew I could depend upon your frankness and honesty.”</p>
-			<p>And then C. Vincent Vesey drew back one sleeve from his snowy cuff, and the water came down at Lodore.</p>
+			<p>And then <abbr class="name">C.</abbr> Vincent Vesey drew back one sleeve from his snowy cuff, and the water came down at Lodore.</p>
 			<p>My memory cannot do justice to his masterly tribute to that priceless, God-given treasure⁠—Miss Hinkle’s voice. He raved over it in terms that, if they had been addressed to the morning stars when they sang together, would have made that stellar choir explode in a meteoric shower of flaming self-satisfaction.</p>
 			<p>He marshalled on his white finger-tips the grand opera stars of all the continents, from Jenny Lind to Emma Abbott, only to depreciate their endowments. He spoke of larynxes, of chest notes, of phrasing, arpeggios, and other strange paraphernalia of the throaty art. He admitted, as though driven to a corner, that Jenny Lind had a note or two in the high register that Miss Hinkle had not yet acquired⁠—but⁠—”!!!”⁠—that was a mere matter of practice and training.</p>
 			<p>And, as a peroration, he predicted⁠—solemnly predicted⁠—a career in vocal art for the “coming star of the Southwest⁠—and one of which grand old Texas may well be proud,” hitherto unsurpassed in the annals of musical history.</p>

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@@ -24,15 +24,15 @@
 			<p>Promptly at the hour his electric runabout turned into the line of stylish autos and hansoms that wait along the pavements before the most expensive hostelry on American soil.</p>
 			<p>When Miss Annabel Rankin entered the reception parlour of their choice suite of rooms Doctor Prince gave a little blink of surprise through his brilliantly polished nose glasses. The glow of perfect health and the contour of perfect beauty were visible in the face and form of the young lady. But admiration gave way to sympathy when he saw her walk. She entered at a little run, swayed, stepped off helplessly at a sharp tangent, advanced, marked time, backed off, recovered and sidled with a manoeuvring rush to a couch, where she rested, with a look of serious melancholy upon her handsome face.</p>
 			<p><abbr>Dr.</abbr> Prince proceeded with his interrogatories in the delicate, reassuring gentlemanly manner that had brought him so many patrons who placed a value upon those amenities. Miss Annabel answered frankly and sensibly, indeed, for one of her years. The feud theory of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Rankin was freely discussed. The daughter also believed in it.</p>
-			<p>Soon the physician departed, promising to call again and administer treatment. Then he buzzed down the Avenue and four doors on an asphalted side street to the office of Dn Grumbleton Myers, the great specialist in locomotor ataxia and nerve bilments. The two distinguished physicians shut themselves in a private office, and the great Myers dragged forth a decanter of sherry and a box of Havanas. When the consultation was over both shook their heads.</p>
+			<p>Soon the physician departed, promising to call again and administer treatment. Then he buzzed down the Avenue and four doors on an asphalted side street to the office of Dn Grumbleton Myers, the great specialist in locomotor ataxia and nerve ailments. The two distinguished physicians shut themselves in a private office, and the great Myers dragged forth a decanter of sherry and a box of Havanas. When the consultation was over both shook their heads.</p>
 			<p>“Fact is,” summed up Myers, “we don’t know anything about anything. I’d say treat symptoms now until something turns up; but there are no symptoms.”</p>
 			<p>“The feud diagnosis, then?” suggested Doctor Prince, archly, ridding his cigar of its ash.</p>
 			<p>“It’s an interesting case,” said the specialist, noncommittally.</p>
 			<p>“I say, Prince,” called Myers, as his caller was leaving. “Er⁠—sometimes, you know, children that fight and quarrel are shut in separate rooms. Doesn’t it seem a pity, now, that bloomers aren’t in fashion? By separ⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“But they aren’t,” smiled Doctor Prince, “and we must be fashionable, at any rate.”</p>
 			<p>Doctor Prince burned midnight oil⁠—or its equivalent, a patent, electric, soft-shaded, midnight incandescent, over his case. With such little success did his light shine that he was forced to make a little speech to the Rankins full of scientific terms⁠—a thing he conscientiously avoided with his patients⁠—which shows that he was driven to expedient. At last he was reduced to suggest treatment by hypnotism.</p>
-			<p>Being crowded further, he advised it, and appeared another day with Professor Adami, the most reputable and non-advertising one he coxild find among that school of practitioners.</p>
-			<p>Miss Annabel, gentle and melancholy, fell an easy victim⁠—or, I should say, subject⁠—to the professor’s influence. Previously instructed by Doctor Prince in the nature of the malady he was about to combat, the dealer in mental drugs proceeded to offer “suggestion “(in the language of his school) to the afilicted and unconscious young lady, impressing her mind with the conviction that her affliction was moonshine and her perambulatory powers without impairment.</p>
+			<p>Being crowded further, he advised it, and appeared another day with Professor Adami, the most reputable and non-advertising one he could find among that school of practitioners.</p>
+			<p>Miss Annabel, gentle and melancholy, fell an easy victim⁠—or, I should say, subject⁠—to the professor’s influence. Previously instructed by Doctor Prince in the nature of the malady he was about to combat, the dealer in mental drugs proceeded to offer “suggestion” (in the language of his school) to the afilicted and unconscious young lady, impressing her mind with the conviction that her affliction was moonshine and her perambulatory powers without impairment.</p>
 			<p>When the spell was removed Miss Rankin sat up, looking a little bewildered at first, and then rose to her feet, walking straight across the room with the grace, the sureness and the ease of a Diana, a Leslie-Carter, or a Vassar basketball champion. Miss Annabel’s sad face was now lit with hope and joy. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Rankin of Southern susceptibility wept a little, delightedly, upon a minute lace handkerchief. Miss Annabel continued to walk about firmly and accurately, in absolute control of the machinery necessary for her so to do. Doctor Prince quietly congratulated Professor Adami, and then stepped forward, smilingly rubbing his nose glasses with an air. His position enabled him to overshadow the hypnotizer who, contented to occupy the background temporarily, was busy estimating in his mind with how large a bill for services he would dare to embellish the occasion when he should come to the front.</p>
 			<p>Amid repeated expressions of gratitude, the two professional gentlemen made their adieus, a little elated at the success of the treatment which, with one of them, had been an experiment, with the other an exhibition.</p>
 			<p>As the door closed behind them. Miss Annabel, her usually serious and pensive temper somewhat enlivened by the occasion, sat at the piano and dashed into a stirring march. Outside, the two men moving toward the elevator heard a scream of alarm from her and hastened back. They found her on the piano-stool, with one hand still pressing the keys. The other arm was extended rigidly to its full length behind her, its fingers tightly clenched into a pink and pretty little fist. Her mother was bending over her, joining in the alarm and surprise. Miss Rankin rose from the stool, now quiet, but again depressed and sad.</p>
@@ -47,14 +47,14 @@
 			<p>“Dear Miss and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Rankin,” he said, in his most musical consolation-baritone, “we have been only partially successful. The affliction, Miss Rankin, has passed from your⁠—that is, the affliction is now in your arms.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, dear!” sighed Annabel, “I’ve a Beall arm and a Rankin arm, then. Well, I can use one hand at a time, anyway. People won’t notice it as they did before. Oh, what an annoyance those feuds were, to be sure! It seems to me they should make laws against them.”</p>
 			<p>Doctor Prince looked inquiringly at Professor Adami. That gentleman shook his head. “Another day,” he said. “I prefer not to establish the condition at a lesser interval than two or three days.”</p>
-			<p>So, three days afterward they returned, and the professor replaced Miss Rankin under control. This time there was, apparently, perfect success. She came forth from the trance, and with full muscular powers. She walked the floor with a sure, rythmic step. She played several difiicult selections upon the piano, the hands and arms moving with propriety and with allied ease. Miss Rankin seemed at last to possess a perfectly well-ordered physical being as well as a very grateful mental one.</p>
+			<p>So, three days afterward they returned, and the professor replaced Miss Rankin under control. This time there was, apparently, perfect success. She came forth from the trance, and with full muscular powers. She walked the floor with a sure, rythmic step. She played several difficult selections upon the piano, the hands and arms moving with propriety and with allied ease. Miss Rankin seemed at last to possess a perfectly well-ordered physical being as well as a very grateful mental one.</p>
 			<p>A week afterward there wafted into Doctor Prince’s office a youth, generously gilded. The hallmarks of society were deeply writ upon him.</p>
-			<p>“I’m Ashburton,” he explained; “T. Ripley Ashburton, you know. I’m engaged to Miss Rankin. I understand you’ve been training her for some breaks in her gaits⁠—” T. Ripley Ashburton caught himself. “Didn’t mean that, you know⁠—slipped out⁠—been loafing around stables quite a lot. I say, Doctor Prince, I want you to tell me. Candidly, you know. I’m awful spoons on Miss Rankin. We’re to be married in the fall. You might consider me one of the family, you know. They told me about the treatment you gave her with the⁠—er⁠—medium fellow. That set her up wonderfully, I assure you. She goes freely now, and handles her fore⁠—I mean you know, she’s over all that old trouble. But there’s something else started up that’s making the track pretty heavy; so I called, don’t you understand.”</p>
+			<p>“I’m Ashburton,” he explained; “<abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Ripley Ashburton, you know. I’m engaged to Miss Rankin. I understand you’ve been training her for some breaks in her gaits⁠—” <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Ripley Ashburton caught himself. “Didn’t mean that, you know⁠—slipped out⁠—been loafing around stables quite a lot. I say, Doctor Prince, I want you to tell me. Candidly, you know. I’m awful spoons on Miss Rankin. We’re to be married in the fall. You might consider me one of the family, you know. They told me about the treatment you gave her with the⁠—er⁠—medium fellow. That set her up wonderfully, I assure you. She goes freely now, and handles her fore⁠—I mean you know, she’s over all that old trouble. But there’s something else started up that’s making the track pretty heavy; so I called, don’t you understand.”</p>
 			<p>“I had not been advised,” said Doctor Prince, “of any recurrence of Miss Rankin’s indisposition.”</p>
-			<p>T. Ripley Ashburton produced a silver cigarette-case and contemplated it tenderly. Receiving no encouragement, he replaced it in his pocket with a sigh.</p>
+			<p><abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Ripley Ashburton produced a silver cigarette-case and contemplated it tenderly. Receiving no encouragement, he replaced it in his pocket with a sigh.</p>
 			<p>“Not a recurrence,” he said, thoughtfully, “but something different. Possibly I’m the only one in a position to know. Hate to discuss it⁠—reveal Cupid’s secrets, you know⁠—such a jolly low thing to do⁠—but suppose the occasion justifies it.”</p>
 			<p>“If you possess any information or have observed anything,” said Doctor Prince, judicially, “through which Miss Rankin’s condition might be benefited, it is your duty, of course, to apply it in her behalf. I need hardly remind you that such disclosures are held as secrets on professional honour.”</p>
-			<p>“I believe I mentioned,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ashburton, his fingers still hovering aroimd the pocket containing his cigarette case, “that Miss Rankin and I are ever so sweet upon each other. She’s a jolly, swell girl, if she did come from the Kentucky mountains. Lately she’s acted awful queerly. She’s awful affectionate one minute, and the next she turns me down like a perfect stranger. Last night I called at the hotel, and she met me at the door of their rooms. Nobody was in sight, and she gave me an awful nice kiss⁠—er⁠—engaged, you know. Doctor Prince⁠—and then she fired away and gave me an awful hard slap in the face. ‘I hate the sight of you,’ she said; ‘how dare you take the liberty!’ ” <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ashburton drew an envelope from his pocket and extracted from it a sheet of note paper of a delicate heliotrope tint. “You might read this note, you know. Can’t say if it’s a medical case, ’pon my honour, but I’m awfully queered, don’t you understand.”</p>
+			<p>“I believe I mentioned,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ashburton, his fingers still hovering around the pocket containing his cigarette case, “that Miss Rankin and I are ever so sweet upon each other. She’s a jolly, swell girl, if she did come from the Kentucky mountains. Lately she’s acted awful queerly. She’s awful affectionate one minute, and the next she turns me down like a perfect stranger. Last night I called at the hotel, and she met me at the door of their rooms. Nobody was in sight, and she gave me an awful nice kiss⁠—er⁠—engaged, you know, Doctor Prince⁠—and then she fired away and gave me an awful hard slap in the face. ‘I hate the sight of you,’ she said; ‘how dare you take the liberty!’ ” <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ashburton drew an envelope from his pocket and extracted from it a sheet of note paper of a delicate heliotrope tint. “You might read this note, you know. Can’t say if it’s a medical case, ’pon my honour, but I’m awfully queered, don’t you understand.”</p>
 			<p>Doctor Prince read the following lines:</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:letter">
 				<p epub:type="z3998:salutation">My dearest Ripley:</p>
@@ -62,16 +62,16 @@
 				<footer>
 					<p epub:type="z3998:valediction">Your very own</p>
 					<p class="signature">Annabel.</p>
-					<p epub:type="z3998:postscript"><abbr>P.S.</abbr>⁠—On second thoughts, I will ask you not to call this evening, as I shall be otherwise engaged. Perhaps it has never occurred to you that there may be two opinions about the vast pleasure you seem to think your society affords others. Clothes and the small talk of clubhouses and racetracks hardly ever succeed in making a man without other accessories.</p>
+					<p epub:type="z3998:postscript"><abbr>P. S.</abbr>⁠—On second thoughts, I will ask you not to call this evening, as I shall be otherwise engaged. Perhaps it has never occurred to you that there may be two opinions about the vast pleasure you seem to think your society affords others. Clothes and the small talk of clubhouses and racetracks hardly ever succeed in making a man without other accessories.</p>
 					<p epub:type="z3998:valediction">Very respectfully,</p>
 					<p class="signature">Annabel Rankin.</p>
 				</footer>
 			</blockquote>
-			<p>Being deprived of the aid of his consolation cylinders, T. Ripley Ashburton sat, gloomy, revolving things in his mind.</p>
+			<p>Being deprived of the aid of his consolation cylinders, <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Ripley Ashburton sat, gloomy, revolving things in his mind.</p>
 			<p>“Ah!” exclaimed Doctor Prince, aloud, but addressing the exclamation to himself; “driven from the arms to the heart!” He perceived that the mysterious hereditary contrariety had, indeed, taken up its lodging in that tender organ of the afflicted maiden.</p>
 			<p>The gilded youth was dismissed, with the promise that Doctor Prince would make a professional call upon Miss Rankin. He did so soon, in company with Professor Adami, after they had discussed the strange course taken by this annoying heritage of the Bealls and Rankins. This time, as the location of the disorder required that the subject be approached with ingenuity, some diplomacy was exercised before the young lady could be induced to submit herself to the professor’s art. But evidently she did so, and emerged from the trance as usual without a trace of unpleasant effect.</p>
 			<p>With much interest and some anxiety Doctor Prince passed several days awaiting the report of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ashburton, who, indeed, of all others would have to be depended upon to observe improvements, if any had occurred. One morning that youth dropped in, jubilant.</p>
-			<p>“It’s all right, you know,” he declared, cheerfully. “Miss Rankin’s herself again. She’s as sweet as cream, and the trouble’s all off. Never a cross word or look. I’m her ducky, all right. She won’t believe what I tell her about the way she used to treat me. Intimates I make up the stories. But it’s all right now⁠—everything’s running on rubber tires. Awfully obliged to you and the old boy⁠—er⁠—the medium, you know. And I say, now, Doctor Prince, there’s a wonderful improvement in Miss Rankin in every way. She used to be rather stiff, don’t you understand⁠—sort of superior, in a way⁠—bookish, and a habit of thinking things, you know. Well, she’s cured all round⁠—she’s a topper now of any bunch in the set⁠—swell and stylish and lively! Oh, the crowd will fall in to her lead when she becomes <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> T. Ripley. Now, I say. Doctor Prince, you and the⁠—er⁠—medium gentleman come and take supper tonight with <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> and Miss Rankin and me. I’d be delighted if you would, now⁠—I would indeed⁠—just for you to see, you know, the improvement in Miss Rankin.”</p>
+			<p>“It’s all right, you know,” he declared, cheerfully. “Miss Rankin’s herself again. She’s as sweet as cream, and the trouble’s all off. Never a cross word or look. I’m her ducky, all right. She won’t believe what I tell her about the way she used to treat me. Intimates I make up the stories. But it’s all right now⁠—everything’s running on rubber tires. Awfully obliged to you and the old boy⁠—er⁠—the medium, you know. And I say, now, Doctor Prince, there’s a wonderful improvement in Miss Rankin in every way. She used to be rather stiff, don’t you understand⁠—sort of superior, in a way⁠—bookish, and a habit of thinking things, you know. Well, she’s cured all round⁠—she’s a topper now of any bunch in the set⁠—swell and stylish and lively! Oh, the crowd will fall in to her lead when she becomes <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> <abbr>T.</abbr> Ripley. Now, I say. Doctor Prince, you and the⁠—er⁠—medium gentleman come and take supper tonight with <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> and Miss Rankin and me. I’d be delighted if you would, now⁠—I would indeed⁠—just for you to see, you know, the improvement in Miss Rankin.”</p>
 			<p>It transpired that Doctor Prince and Professor Adami accepted <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ashburton’s invitation. They convened at the hotel in the rooms of the Rankins. From there they were to proceed to the restaurant honoured by <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ashburton’s patronage.</p>
 			<p>When Miss Rankin swept gracefully into the room the professional gentlemen felt fascination and surprise conflicting in their feelings. She was radiant, bewitching, lively to effervescence. Her mother and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ashburton hung, enraptured, upon her looks and words. She was most becomingly clothed in pale blue.</p>
 			<p>“Oh, bother!” she suddenly exclaimed, most vivaciously, “I don’t like this dress, after all. You must all wait,” she commanded, with a captivating fling of her train, “until I change.” Half an hour later she returned, magnificent in a stunning costume of black lace.</p>
@@ -83,11 +83,11 @@
 			<p>“Oh, a carriage!” exclaimed Miss Rankin; “I don’t want a carriage, I want an auto. Send it away!”</p>
 			<p>“All right,” said Ashburton, cheerily, “I thought you said a carriage.”</p>
 			<p>In obedience to orders the carriage rolled away and an open auto glided up in its place.</p>
-			<p>“Stuffy, smelly thing!” cried Miss Rankin, with a winsome pout. “We’ll walk. Ripley, you and Doctor Prince look out for mamma. Come on. Professor Adami.” The indulgent victims of the charming beauty obeyed.</p>
+			<p>“Stuffy, smelly thing!” cried Miss Rankin, with a winsome pout. “We’ll walk. Ripley, you and Doctor Prince look out for mamma. Come on, Professor Adami.” The indulgent victims of the charming beauty obeyed.</p>
 			<p>“The dear, dear child!” exclaimed <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Rankin, happily, to Doctor Prince. “How full of spirits and life she is getting to be! She’s so much improved from her old self.”</p>
 			<p>“Lots,” said Ashburton, proudly and fatuously. “She’s picked up the regular metropolitan gaits. Chic and swell don’t begin to express her. She’s cut out the pensive thought business. Up-to-date. Why she changes her mind every two minutes. That’s Annabel.”</p>
-			<p>At the fashionable restaurant where they were soon seated, Doctor Prince found his curiosity and interest engaged by Miss Rankin’s behaviour. She was in an agreeably fascinating hvimour. Her actions were such as might be expected from an adored child whose vacillating whims were indulged by groveling relatives. She ordered article after article from the bill of fare, petulantly countermanding nearly everyone when they were set before her. Waiters flew and returned, collided, conciliated, apologized, and danced at her bidding. Her speech was quick and lively, deliciously inconsistent, abounding in contradictions, conflicting statements, “bulls,” discrepancies and nonconformities. In short, she seemed to have acquired within the space of a few days all that inconsequent, illogical frothiness that passes current among certain circles of fashionable life.</p>
-			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> T. Ripley Ashburton showed a doting appreciation and an addled delight at the new charms of his fiancée⁠—charms that he at once recognized as the legal tender of his set.</p>
+			<p>At the fashionable restaurant where they were soon seated, Doctor Prince found his curiosity and interest engaged by Miss Rankin’s behaviour. She was in an agreeably fascinating humour. Her actions were such as might be expected from an adored child whose vacillating whims were indulged by groveling relatives. She ordered article after article from the bill of fare, petulantly countermanding nearly everyone when they were set before her. Waiters flew and returned, collided, conciliated, apologized, and danced at her bidding. Her speech was quick and lively, deliciously inconsistent, abounding in contradictions, conflicting statements, “bulls,” discrepancies and nonconformities. In short, she seemed to have acquired within the space of a few days all that inconsequent, illogical frothiness that passes current among certain circles of fashionable life.</p>
+			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr>T.</abbr> Ripley Ashburton showed a doting appreciation and an addled delight at the new charms of his fiancée⁠—charms that he at once recognized as the legal tender of his set.</p>
 			<p>Later, when the party had broken up, Doctor Prince and Professor Adami stood, for a moment, at a corner, where their ways were to diverge.</p>
 			<p>“Well,” said the professor, who was genially softened by the excellent supper and wine, “this time our young lady seems to be more fortunate. The malady has been eradicated completely from her entity. Yes, sir, in good time, our school will be recognized by all.”</p>
 			<p>Doctor Prince scrutinized the handsome, refined countenance of the hypnotist. He saw nothing there to indicate that his own diagnosis was even guessed at by that gentleman.</p>

src/epub/text/a-ramble-in-aphasia.xhtml

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

src/epub/text/a-retrieved-reformation.xhtml

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

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

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@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<p>Flat-dwellers shall endorse my dictum that theirs is the only true happiness. If a home is happy it cannot fit too close⁠—let the dresser collapse and become a billiard table; let the mantel turn to a rowing machine, the escritoire to a spare bedchamber, the washstand to an upright piano; let the four walls come together, if they will, so you and your Delia are between. But if home be the other kind, let it be wide and long⁠—enter you at the Golden Gate, hang your hat on Hatteras, your cape on Cape Horn and go out by the Labrador.</p>
 			<p>Joe was painting in the class of the great Magister⁠—you know his fame. His fees are high; his lessons are light⁠—his highlights have brought him renown. Delia was studying under Rosenstock⁠—you know his repute as a disturber of the piano keys.</p>
 			<p>They were mighty happy as long as their money lasted. So is every⁠—but I will not be cynical. Their aims were very clear and defined. Joe was to become capable very soon of turning out pictures that old gentlemen with thin side-whiskers and thick pocketbooks would sandbag one another in his studio for the privilege of buying. Delia was to become familiar and then contemptuous with Music, so that when she saw the orchestra seats and boxes unsold she could have sore throat and lobster in a private dining-room and refuse to go on the stage.</p>
-			<p>But the best, in my opinion, was the home life in the little flat⁠—the ardent, voluble chats after the day’s study; the cozy dinners and fresh, light breakfasts; the interchange of ambitions⁠—ambitions interwoven each with the other’s or else inconsiderable⁠—the mutual help and inspiration; and⁠—overlook my artlessness⁠—stuffed olives and cheese sandwiches at 11 <abbr class="time">p.m.</abbr></p>
+			<p>But the best, in my opinion, was the home life in the little flat⁠—the ardent, voluble chats after the day’s study; the cozy dinners and fresh, light breakfasts; the interchange of ambitions⁠—ambitions interwoven each with the other’s or else inconsiderable⁠—the mutual help and inspiration; and⁠—overlook my artlessness⁠—stuffed olives and cheese sandwiches at 11 <abbr class="time eoc">p.m.</abbr></p>
 			<p>But after a while Art flagged. It sometimes does, even if some switchman doesn’t flag it. Everything going out and nothing coming in, as the vulgarians say. Money was lacking to pay <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Magister and Herr Rosenstock their prices. When one loves one’s Art no service seems too hard. So, Delia said she must give music lessons to keep the chafing dish bubbling.</p>
 			<p>For two or three days she went out canvassing for pupils. One evening she came home elated.</p>
 			<p>“Joe, dear,” she said, gleefully, “I’ve a pupil. And, oh, the loveliest people! General⁠—General <abbr class="name">A. B.</abbr> Pinkney’s daughter⁠—on Seventy-first street. Such a splendid house, Joe⁠—you ought to see the front door! Byzantine I think you would call it. And inside! Oh, Joe, I never saw anything like it before.</p>

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@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="a-tempered-wind" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">A Tempered Wind</h2>
 			<p>The first time my optical nerves was disturbed by the sight of Buckingham Skinner was in Kansas City. I was standing on a corner when I see Buck stick his straw-colored head out of a third-story window of a business block and holler, “Whoa, there! Whoa!” like you would in endeavoring to assuage a team of runaway mules.</p>
-			<p>I looked around; but all the animals I see in sight is a policeman, having his shoes shined, and a couple of delivery wagons hitched to posts. Then in a minute downstairs tumbles this Buckingham Skinner, and runs to the corner, and stands and gazes down the other street at the imaginary dust kicked up by the fabulous hoofs of the fictitious team of chimerical quadrupeds. And then B. Skinner goes back up to the third-story room again, and I see that the lettering on the window is “The Farmers’ Friend Loan Company.”</p>
+			<p>I looked around; but all the animals I see in sight is a policeman, having his shoes shined, and a couple of delivery wagons hitched to posts. Then in a minute downstairs tumbles this Buckingham Skinner, and runs to the corner, and stands and gazes down the other street at the imaginary dust kicked up by the fabulous hoofs of the fictitious team of chimerical quadrupeds. And then <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Skinner goes back up to the third-story room again, and I see that the lettering on the window is “The Farmers’ Friend Loan Company.”</p>
 			<p>By and by Straw-top comes down again, and I crossed the street to meet him, for I had my ideas. Yes, sir, when I got close I could see where he overdone it. He was Reub all right as far as his blue jeans and cowhide boots went, but he had a matinee actor’s hands, and the rye straw stuck over his ear looked like it belonged to the property man of the Old Homestead <abbr>Co.</abbr> Curiosity to know what his graft was got the best of me.</p>
 			<p>“Was that your team broke away and run just now?” I asks him, polite. “I tried to stop ’em,” says I, “but I couldn’t. I guess they’re half way back to the farm by now.”</p>
 			<p>“Gosh blame them darned mules,” says Straw-top, in a voice so good that I nearly apologized; “they’re a’lus bustin’ loose.” And then he looks at me close, and then he takes off his hayseed hat, and says, in a different voice: “I’d like to shake hands with Parleyvoo Pickens, the greatest street man in the West, barring only Montague Silver, which you can no more than allow.”</p>
@@ -52,7 +52,7 @@
 			<p>You’d think New York people was all wise; but no. They don’t get a chance to learn. Everything’s too compressed. Even the hayseeds are baled hayseeds. But what else can you expect from a town that’s shut off from the world by the ocean on one side and New Jersey on the other?</p>
 			<p>It’s no place for an honest grafter with a small capital. There’s too big a protective tariff on bunco. Even when Giovanni sells a quart of warm worms and chestnut hulls he has to hand out a pint to an insectivorous cop. And the hotel man charges double for everything in the bill that he sends by the patrol wagon to the altar where the duke is about to marry the heiress.</p>
 			<p>But old Badville-near-Coney is the ideal burg for a refined piece of piracy if you can pay the bunco duty. Imported grafts come pretty high. The customhouse officers that look after it carry clubs, and it’s hard to smuggle in even a bib-and-tucker swindle to work Brooklyn with unless you can pay the toll. But now, me and Buck, having capital, descends upon New York to try and trade the metropolitan backwoodsmen a few glass beads for real estate just as the Vans did a hundred or two years ago.</p>
-			<p>At an East Side hotel we gets acquainted with Romulus G. Atterbury, a man with the finest head for financial operations I ever saw. It was all bald and glossy except for gray side whiskers. Seeing that head behind an office railing, and you’d deposit a million with it without a receipt. This Atterbury was well dressed, though he ate seldom; and the synopsis of his talk would make the conversation of a siren sound like a cab driver’s kick. He said he used to be a member of the Stock Exchange, but some of the big capitalists got jealous and formed a ring that forced him to sell his seat.</p>
+			<p>At an East Side hotel we gets acquainted with Romulus <abbr class="name">G.</abbr> Atterbury, a man with the finest head for financial operations I ever saw. It was all bald and glossy except for gray side whiskers. Seeing that head behind an office railing, and you’d deposit a million with it without a receipt. This Atterbury was well dressed, though he ate seldom; and the synopsis of his talk would make the conversation of a siren sound like a cab driver’s kick. He said he used to be a member of the Stock Exchange, but some of the big capitalists got jealous and formed a ring that forced him to sell his seat.</p>
 			<p>Atterbury got to liking me and Buck and he begun to throw on the canvas for us some of the schemes that had caused his hair to evacuate. He had one scheme for starting a National bank on $45 that made the Mississippi Bubble look as solid as a glass marble. He talked this to us for three days, and when his throat was good and sore we told him about the roll we had. Atterbury borrowed a quarter from us and went out and got a box of throat lozenges and started all over again. This time he talked bigger things, and he got us to see ’em as he did. The scheme he laid out looked like a sure winner, and he talked me and Buck into putting our capital against his burnished dome of thought. It looked all right for a kid-gloved graft. It seemed to be just about an inch and a half outside of the reach of the police, and as moneymaking as a mint. It was just what me and Buck wanted⁠—a regular business at a permanent stand, with an open air spieling with tonsilitis on the street corners every evening.</p>
 			<p>So, in six weeks you see a handsome furnished set of offices down in the Wall Street neighborhood, with “The Golconda Gold Bond and Investment Company” in gilt letters on the door. And you see in his private room, with the door open, the secretary and treasurer, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Buckingham Skinner, costumed like the lilies of the conservatory, with his high silk hat close to his hand. Nobody yet ever saw Buck outside of an instantaneous reach for his hat.</p>
 			<p>And you might perceive the president and general manager, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr class="name">R. G.</abbr> Atterbury, with his priceless polished poll, busy in the main office room dictating letters to a shorthand countess, who has got pomp and a pompadour that is no less than a guarantee to investors.</p>
@@ -80,7 +80,7 @@
 			<p>“What did he want?” asks Buck.</p>
 			<p>“Information,” says our president. “Said he was thinking of buying some stock. He asked me about nine hundred questions, and every one of ’em hit some sore place in the business. I know he’s on a paper. You can’t fool me. You see a man about half shabby, with an eye like a gimlet, smoking cut plug, with dandruff on his coat collar, and knowing more than <abbr class="name">J. P.</abbr> Morgan and Shakespeare put together⁠—if that ain’t a reporter I never saw one. I was afraid of this. I don’t mind detectives and post-office inspectors⁠—I talk to ’em eight minutes and then sell ’em stock⁠—but them reporters take the starch out of my collar. Boys, I recommend that we declare a dividend and fade away. The signs point that way.”</p>
 			<p>Me and Buck talked to Atterbury and got him to stop sweating and stand still. That fellow didn’t look like a reporter to us. Reporters always pull out a pencil and tablet on you, and tell you a story you’ve heard, and strikes you for the drinks. But Atterbury was shaky and nervous all day.</p>
-			<p>The next day me and Buck comes down from the hotel about ten-thirty. On the way we buys the papers, and the first thing we see is a column on the front page about our little imposition. It was a shame the way that reporter intimated that we were no blood relatives of the late George W. Childs. He tells all about the scheme as he sees it, in a rich, racy kind of a guying style that might amuse most anybody except a stockholder. Yes, Atterbury was right; it behooveth the gaily clad treasurer and the pearly pated president and the rugged vice-president of the Golconda Gold Bond and Investment Company to go away real sudden and quick that their days might be longer upon the land.</p>
+			<p>The next day me and Buck comes down from the hotel about ten-thirty. On the way we buys the papers, and the first thing we see is a column on the front page about our little imposition. It was a shame the way that reporter intimated that we were no blood relatives of the late George <abbr class="name">W.</abbr> Childs. He tells all about the scheme as he sees it, in a rich, racy kind of a guying style that might amuse most anybody except a stockholder. Yes, Atterbury was right; it behooveth the gaily clad treasurer and the pearly pated president and the rugged vice-president of the Golconda Gold Bond and Investment Company to go away real sudden and quick that their days might be longer upon the land.</p>
 			<p>Me and Buck hurries down to the office. We finds on the stairs and in the hall a crowd of people trying to squeeze into our office, which is already jammed full inside to the railing. They’ve nearly all got Golconda stock and Gold Bonds in their hands. Me and Buck judged they’d been reading the papers, too.</p>
 			<p>We stopped and looked at our stockholders, some surprised. It wasn’t quite the kind of a gang we supposed had been investing. They all looked like poor people; there was plenty of old women and lots of young girls that you’d say worked in factories and mills. Some was old men that looked like war veterans, and some was crippled, and a good many was just kids⁠—bootblacks and newsboys and messengers. Some was workingmen in overalls, with their sleeves rolled up. Not one of the gang looked like a stockholder in anything unless it was a peanut stand. But they all had Golconda stock and looked as sick as you please.</p>
 			<p>I saw a queer kind of a pale look come on Buck’s face when he sized up the crowd. He stepped up to a sickly looking woman and says: “Madam, do you own any of this stock?”</p>

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@@ -24,7 +24,7 @@
 			<p>“That’s rather better than I hoped from you,” nodded the Easterner, approvingly. “The other meaning is that Buckley never goes into a fight without giving away weight. He seems to dread taking the slightest advantage. That’s quite close to foolhardiness when you are dealing with horse-thieves and fence-cutters who would ambush you any night, and shoot you in the back if they could. Buckley’s too full of sand. He’ll play Horatius and hold the bridge once too often some day.”</p>
 			<p>“I’m on there,” drawled the Kid; “I mind that bridge gang in the reader. Me, I go instructed for the other chap⁠—Spurious Somebody⁠—the one that fought and pulled his freight, to fight ’em on some other day.”</p>
 			<p>“Anyway,” summed up Broncho, “Bob’s about the gamest man I ever see along the Rio Bravo. Great Sam Houston! If she gets any hotter she’ll sizzle!” Broncho whacked at a scorpion with his four-pound Stetson felt, and the three watchers relapsed into comfortless silence.</p>
-			<p>How well Bob Buckley had kept his secret, since these men, for two years his side comrades in countless border raids and dangers, thus spake of him, not knowing that he was the most arrant physical coward in all that Rio Bravo country! Neither his friends nor his enemies had suspected him of aught else than the finest courage. It was purely a physical cowardice, and only by an extreme, grim effort of will had he forced his craven body to do the bravest deeds. Scourging himself always, as a monk whips his besetting sin, Buckley threw himself with apparent recklessness into every danger, with the hope of some day ridding himself of the despised affliction. But each successive test brought no relief, and the ranger’s face, by nature adapted to cheerfulness and good-humour, became set to the guise of gloomy melancholy. Thus, while the frontier admired his deeds, and his prowess was celebrated in print and by word of mouth in many camp-pires in the valley of the Bravo, his heart was sick within him. Only himself knew of the horrible tightening of the chest, the dry mouth, the weakening of the spine, the agony of the strung nerves⁠—the never-railing symptoms of his shameful malady.</p>
+			<p>How well Bob Buckley had kept his secret, since these men, for two years his side comrades in countless border raids and dangers, thus spake of him, not knowing that he was the most arrant physical coward in all that Rio Bravo country! Neither his friends nor his enemies had suspected him of aught else than the finest courage. It was purely a physical cowardice, and only by an extreme, grim effort of will had he forced his craven body to do the bravest deeds. Scourging himself always, as a monk whips his besetting sin, Buckley threw himself with apparent recklessness into every danger, with the hope of some day ridding himself of the despised affliction. But each successive test brought no relief, and the ranger’s face, by nature adapted to cheerfulness and good-humour, became set to the guise of gloomy melancholy. Thus, while the frontier admired his deeds, and his prowess was celebrated in print and by word of mouth in many camp-fires in the valley of the Bravo, his heart was sick within him. Only himself knew of the horrible tightening of the chest, the dry mouth, the weakening of the spine, the agony of the strung nerves⁠—the never-railing symptoms of his shameful malady.</p>
 			<p>One mere boy in his company was wont to enter a fray with a leg perched flippantly about the horn of his saddle, a cigarette hanging from his lips, which emitted smoke and original slogans of clever invention. Buckley would have given a year’s pay to attain that devil-lay-care method. Once the debonair youth said to him: “Buck, you go into a scrap like it was a funeral. Not,” he added, with a complimentary wave of his tin cup, “but what it generally is.”</p>
 			<p>Buckley’s conscience was of the New England order with Western adjustments, and he continued to get his rebellious body into as many difficulties as possible; wherefore, on that sultry afternoon he chose to drive his own protesting limbs to investigation of that sudden alarm that had startled the peace and dignity of the State.</p>
 			<p>Two squares down the street stood the Top Notch Saloon. Here Buckley came upon signs of recent upheaval. A few curious spectators pressed about its front entrance, grinding beneath their heels the fragments of a plate-glass window. Inside, Buckley found Bud Dawson utterly ignoring a bullet wound in his shoulder, while he feelingly wept at having to explain why he failed to drop the “blamed masquerooter,” who shot him. At the entrance of the ranger Bud turned appealingly to him for confirmation of the devastation he might have dealt.</p>
@@ -85,8 +85,8 @@
 			<p>Then came galloping to the spot the civic authorities; and to them the ranger awarded the prostrate disturber of the peace, whom they bore away limply across the saddle of one of their mounts. But Buckley and Alvarita lingered.</p>
 			<p>Slowly, slowly they walked. The ranger regained his belt of weapons. With a fine timidity she begged the indulgence of fingering the great .45’s, with little “Ohs” and “Ahs” of newborn, delicious shyness.</p>
 			<p>The <i xml:lang="es">cañoncito</i> was growing dusky. Beyond its terminus in the river bluff they could see the outer world yet suffused with the waning glory of sunset.</p>
-			<p>A scream⁠—a piercing scream of fright from Alvarita. Back she cowered, and the ready, protecting arm of Buckley formed her refuge. What terror so dire as to thus beset the close of the reign of the never-refore-daunted Queen?</p>
-			<p>Across the path there crawled a caterpillar⁠—a horrid, fuzzy, two-onch caterpillar! Truly, Kuku, thou went avenged. Thus abdicated the Queen of the Serpent Tribe⁠—<i xml:lang="es">viva la reina!</i></p>
+			<p>A scream⁠—a piercing scream of fright from Alvarita. Back she cowered, and the ready, protecting arm of Buckley formed her refuge. What terror so dire as to thus beset the close of the reign of the never-before-daunted Queen?</p>
+			<p>Across the path there crawled a caterpillar⁠—a horrid, fuzzy, two-inch caterpillar! Truly, Kuku, thou wert avenged. Thus abdicated the Queen of the Serpent Tribe⁠—<i xml:lang="es">viva la reina!</i></p>
 		</section>
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@@ -17,7 +17,7 @@
 			<p>“Well, no,” says Silver; “you needn’t back Epidermis to win today. I’ve only been here a month. But I’m ready to begin; and the members of Willie Manhattan’s Sunday School class, each of whom has volunteered to contribute a portion of cuticle toward this rehabilitation, may as well send their photos to the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Evening Daily</i>.</p>
 			<p>“I’ve been studying the town,” says Silver, “and reading the papers every day, and I know it as well as the cat in the City Hall knows an O’Sullivan. People here lie down on the floor and scream and kick when you are the least bit slow about taking money from them. Come up in my room and I’ll tell you. We’ll work the town together, Billy, for the sake of old times.”</p>
 			<p>Silver takes me up in a hotel. He has a quantity of irrelevant objects lying about.</p>
-			<p>“There’s more ways of getting money from these metropolitan hayseeds,” says Silver, “than there is of cooking rice in Charleston, <abbr class="postal">SC</abbr> They’ll bite at anything. The brains of most of ’em commute. The wiser they are in intelligence the less perception of cognizance they have. Why, didn’t a man the other day sell <abbr class="name">J. P.</abbr> Morgan an oil portrait of Rockefeller, Jr., for Andrea del Sarto’s celebrated painting of the young Saint John!</p>
+			<p>“There’s more ways of getting money from these metropolitan hayseeds,” says Silver, “than there is of cooking rice in Charleston, <abbr class="postal">SC</abbr> They’ll bite at anything. The brains of most of ’em commute. The wiser they are in intelligence the less perception of cognizance they have. Why, didn’t a man the other day sell <abbr class="name">J. P.</abbr> Morgan an oil portrait of Rockefeller, <abbr>Jr.</abbr>, for Andrea del Sarto’s celebrated painting of the young Saint John!</p>
 			<p>“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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@@ -13,14 +13,14 @@
 				<p>One day last summer I went to Pittsburgh⁠—well, I had to go there on business.</p>
 				<p>My chair-car was profitably well filled with people of the kind one usually sees on chair-cars. Most of them were ladies in brown-silk dresses cut with square yokes, with lace insertion, and dotted veils, who refused to have the windows raised. Then there was the usual number of men who looked as if they might be in almost any business and going almost anywhere. Some students of human nature can look at a man in a Pullman and tell you where he is from, his occupation and his stations in life, both flag and social; but I never could. The only way I can correctly judge a fellow-traveller is when the train is held up by robbers, or when he reaches at the same time I do for the last towel in the dressing-room of the sleeper.</p>
 				<p>The porter came and brushed the collection of soot on the window-sill off to the left knee of my trousers. I removed it with an air of apology. The temperature was eighty-eight. One of the dotted-veiled ladies demanded the closing of two more ventilators, and spoke loudly of Interlaken. I leaned back idly in chair <abbr>No.</abbr> 7, and looked with the tepidest curiosity at the small, black, bald-spotted head just visible above the back of <abbr>No.</abbr> 9.</p>
-				<p>Suddenly <abbr>No.</abbr> 9 hurled a book to the floor between his chair and the window, and, looking, I saw that it was “The Rose-Lady and Trevelyan,” one of the best-selling novels of the present day. And then the critic or Philistine, whichever he was, veered his chair toward the window, and I knew him at once for John A. Pescud, of Pittsburgh, travelling salesman for a plate-glass company⁠—an old acquaintance whom I had not seen in two years.</p>
+				<p>Suddenly <abbr>No.</abbr> 9 hurled a book to the floor between his chair and the window, and, looking, I saw that it was “The Rose-Lady and Trevelyan,” one of the best-selling novels of the present day. And then the critic or Philistine, whichever he was, veered his chair toward the window, and I knew him at once for John <abbr class="name">A.</abbr> Pescud, of Pittsburgh, travelling salesman for a plate-glass company⁠—an old acquaintance whom I had not seen in two years.</p>
 				<p>In two minutes we were faced, had shaken hands, and had finished with such topics as rain, prosperity, health, residence, and destination. Politics might have followed next; but I was not so ill-fated.</p>
-				<p>I wish you might know John A. Pescud. He is of the stuff that heroes are not often lucky enough to be made of. He is a small man with a wide smile, and an eye that seems to be fixed upon that little red spot on the end of your nose. I never saw him wear but one kind of necktie, and he believes in cuff-holders and button-shoes. He is as hard and true as anything ever turned out by the Cambria Steel Works; and he believes that as soon as Pittsburgh makes smoke-consumers compulsory, <abbr>St.</abbr> Peter will come down and sit at the foot of Smithfield Street, and let somebody else attend to the gate up in the branch heaven. He believes that “our” plate-glass is the most important commodity in the world, and that when a man is in his home town he ought to be decent and law-abiding.</p>
+				<p>I wish you might know John <abbr class="name">A.</abbr> Pescud. He is of the stuff that heroes are not often lucky enough to be made of. He is a small man with a wide smile, and an eye that seems to be fixed upon that little red spot on the end of your nose. I never saw him wear but one kind of necktie, and he believes in cuff-holders and button-shoes. He is as hard and true as anything ever turned out by the Cambria Steel Works; and he believes that as soon as Pittsburgh makes smoke-consumers compulsory, <abbr>St.</abbr> Peter will come down and sit at the foot of Smithfield Street, and let somebody else attend to the gate up in the branch heaven. He believes that “our” plate-glass is the most important commodity in the world, and that when a man is in his home town he ought to be decent and law-abiding.</p>
 				<p>During my acquaintance with him in the City of Diurnal Night I had never known his views on life, romance, literature, and ethics. We had browsed, during our meetings, on local topics, and then parted, after Chateau Margaux, Irish stew, flannel-cakes, cottage-pudding, and coffee (hey, there!⁠—with milk separate). Now I was to get more of his ideas. By way of facts, he told me that business had picked up since the party conventions, and that he was going to get off at Coketown.</p>
 			</section>
 			<section id="best-seller-2" epub:type="chapter">
 				<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">II</h3>
-				<p>“Say,” said Pescud, stirring his discarded book with the toe of his right shoe, “did you ever read one of these best-sellers? I mean the kind where the hero is an American swell⁠—sometimes even from Chicago⁠—who falls in love with a royal princess from Europe who is travelling under an alias, and follows her to her father’s kingdom or principality? I guess you have. They’re all alike. Sometimes this going-away masher is a Washington newspaper correspondent, and sometimes he is a Van Something from New York, or a Chicago wheat-broker worthy fifty millions. But he’s always ready to break into the king row of any foreign country that sends over their queens and princesses to try the new plush seats on the Big Four or the B. and O. There doesn’t seem to be any other reason in the book for their being here.</p>
+				<p>“Say,” said Pescud, stirring his discarded book with the toe of his right shoe, “did you ever read one of these best-sellers? I mean the kind where the hero is an American swell⁠—sometimes even from Chicago⁠—who falls in love with a royal princess from Europe who is travelling under an alias, and follows her to her father’s kingdom or principality? I guess you have. They’re all alike. Sometimes this going-away masher is a Washington newspaper correspondent, and sometimes he is a Van Something from New York, or a Chicago wheat-broker worthy fifty millions. But he’s always ready to break into the king row of any foreign country that sends over their queens and princesses to try the new plush seats on the Big Four or the <abbr class="eoc">B. and O.</abbr> There doesn’t seem to be any other reason in the book for their being here.</p>
 				<p>“Well, this fellow chases the royal chair-warmer home, as I said, and finds out who she is. He meets her on the <i xml:lang="de">corso</i> or the <i xml:lang="de">strasse</i> one evening and gives us ten pages of conversation. She reminds him of the difference in their stations, and that gives him a chance to ring in three solid pages about America’s uncrowned sovereigns. If you’d take his remarks and set ’em to music, and then take the music away from ’em, they’d sound exactly like one of George Cohan’s songs.</p>
 				<p>“Well, you know how it runs on, if you’ve read any of ’em⁠—he slaps the king’s Swiss body-guards around like everything whenever they get in his way. He’s a great fencer, too. Now, I’ve known of some Chicago men who were pretty notorious fences, but I never heard of any fencers coming from there. He stands on the first landing of the royal staircase in Castle Schutzenfestenstein with a gleaming rapier in his hand, and makes a Baltimore broil of six platoons of traitors who come to massacre the said king. And then he has to fight duels with a couple of chancellors, and foil a plot by four Austrian archdukes to seize the kingdom for a gasoline-station.</p>
 				<p>“But the great scene is when his rival for the princess’ hand, Count Feodor, attacks him between the portcullis and the ruined chapel, armed with a mitrailleuse, a yataghan, and a couple of Siberian bloodhounds. This scene is what runs the best-seller into the twenty-ninth edition before the publisher has had time to draw a check for the advance royalties.</p>
@@ -45,7 +45,7 @@
 				<p>“O-ho!” I said. “So you’ve taken time enough off from your plate-glass to have a romance?”</p>
 				<p>“No, no,” said John. “No romance⁠—nothing like that! But I’ll tell you about it.</p>
 				<p>“I was on the south-bound, going to Cincinnati, about eighteen months ago, when I saw, across the aisle, the finest-looking girl I’d ever laid eyes on. Nothing spectacular, you know, but just the sort you want for keeps. Well, I never was up to the flirtation business, either handkerchief, automobile, postage-stamp, or door-step, and she wasn’t the kind to start anything. She read a book and minded her business, which was to make the world prettier and better just by residing on it. I kept on looking out of the side doors of my eyes, and finally the proposition got out of the Pullman class into a case of a cottage with a lawn and vines running over the porch. I never thought of speaking to her, but I let the plate-glass business go to smash for a while.</p>
-				<p>“She changed cars at Cincinnati, and took a sleeper to Louisville over the L. and N. There she bought another ticket, and went on through Shelbyville, Frankfort, and Lexington. Along there I began to have a hard time keeping up with her. The trains came along when they pleased, and didn’t seem to be going anywhere in particular, except to keep on the track and the right of way as much as possible. Then they began to stop at junctions instead of towns, and at last they stopped altogether. I’ll bet Pinkerton would outbid the plate-glass people for my services any time if they knew how I managed to shadow that young lady. I contrived to keep out of her sight as much as I could, but I never lost track of her.</p>
+				<p>“She changed cars at Cincinnati, and took a sleeper to Louisville over the <abbr>L. and N.</abbr> There she bought another ticket, and went on through Shelbyville, Frankfort, and Lexington. Along there I began to have a hard time keeping up with her. The trains came along when they pleased, and didn’t seem to be going anywhere in particular, except to keep on the track and the right of way as much as possible. Then they began to stop at junctions instead of towns, and at last they stopped altogether. I’ll bet Pinkerton would outbid the plate-glass people for my services any time if they knew how I managed to shadow that young lady. I contrived to keep out of her sight as much as I could, but I never lost track of her.</p>
 				<p>“The last station she got off at was away down in Virginia, about six in the afternoon. There were about fifty houses and four hundred niggers in sight. The rest was red mud, mules, and speckled hounds.</p>
 				<p>“A tall old man, with a smooth face and white hair, looking as proud as Julius Caesar and Roscoe Conkling on the same post-card, was there to meet her. His clothes were frazzled, but I didn’t notice that till later. He took her little satchel, and they started over the plank-walks and went up a road along the hill. I kept along a piece behind ’em, trying to look like I was hunting a garnet ring in the sand that my sister had lost at a picnic the previous Saturday.</p>
 				<p>“They went in a gate on top of the hill. It nearly took my breath away when I looked up. Up there in the biggest grove I ever saw was a tremendous house with round white pillars about a thousand feet high, and the yard was so full of rose-bushes and box-bushes and lilacs that you couldn’t have seen the house if it hadn’t been as big as the Capitol at Washington.</p>
@@ -103,7 +103,7 @@
 				<p>“ ‘It’s going to be a fine evening,’ says I.</p>
 				<p>“ ‘He’s coming,’ says she. ‘He’s going to tell you, this time, the story about the old negro and the green watermelons. It always comes after the one about the Yankees and the game rooster. There was another time,’ she goes on, ‘that you nearly got left⁠—it was at Pulaski City.’</p>
 				<p>“ ‘Yes,’ says I, ‘I remember. My foot slipped as I was jumping on the step, and I nearly tumbled off.’</p>
-				<p>“ ‘I know,’ says she. ‘And⁠—and I⁠—<em>I was afraid you had, John A. I was afraid you had.</em>’</p>
+				<p>“ ‘I know,’ says she. ‘And⁠—and I⁠—<em>I was afraid you had, John <abbr class="name eoc">A.</abbr> I was afraid you had.</em>’</p>
 				<p>“And then she skips into the house through one of the big windows.”</p>
 			</section>
 			<section id="best-seller-4" epub:type="chapter">

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

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

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@@ -69,7 +69,7 @@
 			<p>“I got a pair of blue spectacles, put on my black frock coat, rumpled my hair up and became <abbr>Prof.</abbr> Pickleman. I went to another hotel, registered, and sent a telegram to Scudder to come to see me at once on important art business. The elevator dumped him on me in less than an hour. He was a foggy man with a clarion voice, smelling of Connecticut wrappers and naphtha.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Hello, Profess!’ he shouts. ‘How’s your conduct?’</p>
 			<p>“I rumpled my hair some more and gave him a blue glass stare.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘are you Cornelius T. Scudder? Of Pittsburg, Pennsylvania?’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘are you Cornelius <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Scudder? Of Pittsburg, Pennsylvania?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I am,’ says he. ‘Come out and have a drink.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I’ve neither the time nor the desire,’ says I, ‘for such harmful and deleterious amusements. I have come from New York,’ says I, ‘on a matter of busi⁠—on a matter of art.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I learned there that you are the owner of an Egyptian ivory carving of the time of Rameses <span epub:type="z3998:roman">II</span>, representing the head of Queen Isis in a lotus flower. There were only two of such carvings made. One has been lost for many years. I recently discovered and purchased the other in a pawn⁠—in an obscure museum in Vienna. I wish to purchase yours. Name your price.’</p>
@@ -81,7 +81,7 @@
 			<p>“Andy is walking up and down the room looking at his watch.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Well?’ he says.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Twenty-five hundred,’ says I. ‘Cash.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘We’ve got just eleven minutes,’ says Andy, ‘to catch the B. &amp; O. westbound. Grab your baggage.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘We’ve got just eleven minutes,’ says Andy, ‘to catch the <abbr>B. &amp; O.</abbr> westbound. Grab your baggage.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘What’s the hurry,’ says I. ‘It was a square deal. And even if it was only an imitation of the original carving it’ll take him some time to find it out. He seemed to be sure it was the genuine article.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘It was,’ says Andy. ‘It was his own. When I was looking at his curios yesterday he stepped out of the room for a moment and I pocketed it. Now, will you pick up your suit case and hurry?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Then,’ says I, ‘why was that story about finding another one in the pawn⁠—’</p>

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@@ -26,7 +26,7 @@
 			<p>“So Collier and me begins the race; the grub department lays in new supplies; Mame waits on us, jolly and kind and agreeable, and it looks like an even break, with Cupid and the cook working overtime in Dugan’s restaurant.</p>
 			<p>“ ’Twas one night in September when I got Mame to take a walk after supper when the things were all cleared away. We strolled out a distance and sat on a pile of lumber at the edge of town. Such opportunities was seldom, so I spoke my piece, explaining how the Brazilian diamonds and the fire kindler were laying up sufficient treasure to guarantee the happiness of two, and that both of ’em together couldn’t equal the light from somebody’s eyes, and that the name of Dugan should be changed to Peters, or reasons why not would be in order.</p>
 			<p>“Mame didn’t say anything right away. Directly she gave a kind of shudder, and I began to learn something.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Jeff,’ she says, ‘I’m sorry you spoke. I like you as well as any of them, but there isn’t a man in the world I’d ever marry, and there never will be. Do you know what a man is in my eye? He’s a tomb. He’s a sarcophagus for the interment of Beafsteakporkchopsliver’nbaconham-mndeggs. He’s that and nothing more. For two years I’ve watched men eat, eat, eat, until they represent nothing on earth to me but ruminant bipeds. They’re absolutely nothing but something that goes in front of a knife and fork and plate at the table. They’re fixed that way in my mind and memory. I’ve tried to overcome it, but I can’t. I’ve heard girls rave about their sweethearts, but I never could understand it. A man and a sausage grinder and a pantry awake in me exactly the same sentiments. I went to a matinee once to see an actor the girls were crazy about. I got interested enough to wonder whether he liked his steak rare, medium, or well done, and his eggs over or straight up. That was all. No, Jeff; I’ll marry no man and see him sit at the breakfast table and eat, and come back to dinner and eat, and happen in again at supper to eat, eat, eat.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Jeff,’ she says, ‘I’m sorry you spoke. I like you as well as any of them, but there isn’t a man in the world I’d ever marry, and there never will be. Do you know what a man is in my eye? He’s a tomb. He’s a sarcophagus for the interment of Beafsteakporkchopsliver’nbaconhamandeggs. He’s that and nothing more. For two years I’ve watched men eat, eat, eat, until they represent nothing on earth to me but ruminant bipeds. They’re absolutely nothing but something that goes in front of a knife and fork and plate at the table. They’re fixed that way in my mind and memory. I’ve tried to overcome it, but I can’t. I’ve heard girls rave about their sweethearts, but I never could understand it. A man and a sausage grinder and a pantry awake in me exactly the same sentiments. I went to a matinee once to see an actor the girls were crazy about. I got interested enough to wonder whether he liked his steak rare, medium, or well done, and his eggs over or straight up. That was all. No, Jeff; I’ll marry no man and see him sit at the breakfast table and eat, and come back to dinner and eat, and happen in again at supper to eat, eat, eat.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘But, Mame,’ says I, ‘it’ll wear off. You’ve had too much of it. You’ll marry some time, of course. Men don’t eat always.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘As far as my observation goes, they do. No, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.’ Mame turns, sudden, to animation and bright eyes. ‘There’s a girl named Susie Foster in Terre Haute, a chum of mine. She waits in the railroad eating house there. I worked two years in a restaurant in that town. Susie has it worse than I do, because the men who eat at railroad stations gobble. They try to flirt and gobble at the same time. Whew! Susie and I have it all planned out. We’re saving our money, and when we get enough we’re going to buy a little cottage and five acres we know of, and live together, and grow violets for the Eastern market. A man better not bring his appetite within a mile of that ranch.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Don’t girls ever⁠—’ I commenced, but Mame heads me off, sharp.</p>

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

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

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

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

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@@ -82,7 +82,7 @@
 			<p>“Gentlemen, I have just endorsed the Elias Denny survey for patenting. This office will not regard your location upon a part of it as legal.” He paused a moment, and then, extending his hand as those dear old-time ones used to do in debate, he enunciated the spirit of that Ruling that subsequently drove the land-sharks to the wall, and placed the seal of peace and security over the doors of ten thousand homes.</p>
 			<p>“And, furthermore,” he continued, with a clear, soft light upon his face, “it may interest you to know that from this time on this office will consider that when a survey of land made by virtue of a certificate granted by this state to the men who wrested it from the wilderness and the savage⁠—made in good faith, settled in good faith, and left in good faith to their children or innocent purchasers⁠—when such a survey, although overrunning its complement, shall call for any natural object visible to the eye of man, to that object it shall hold, and be good and valid. And the children of this state shall lie down to sleep at night, and rumours of disturbers of title shall not disquiet them. For,” concluded the Commissioner, “of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.”</p>
 			<p>In the silence that followed, a laugh floated up from the patent-room below. The man who carried down the Denny file was exhibiting it among the clerks.</p>
-			<p>“Look here,” he said, delightedly, “the old man has forgotten his name. He’s written ‘Patent to original grantee,’ and signed it ‘Georgia Summerfield, Comr.” ’</p>
+			<p>“Look here,” he said, delightedly, “the old man has forgotten his name. He’s written ‘Patent to original grantee,’ and signed it ‘Georgia Summerfield, <abbr class="eoc">Comr.</abbr>’ ”</p>
 			<p>The speech of the Commissioner rebounded lightly from the impregnable Hamlin and Avery. They smiled, rose gracefully, spoke of the baseball team, and argued feelingly that quite a perceptible breeze had arisen from the east. They lit fresh fat brown cigars, and drifted courteously away. But later they made another tiger-spring for their quarry in the courts. But the courts, according to reports in the papers, “coolly roasted them” (a remarkable performance, suggestive of liquid-air didoes), and sustained the Commissioner’s Ruling.</p>
 			<p>And this Ruling itself grew to be a Precedent, and the Actual Settler framed it, and taught his children to spell from it, and there was sound sleep o’ nights from the pines to the sagebrush, and from the chaparral to the great brown river of the north.</p>
 			<p>But I think, and I am sure the Commissioner never thought otherwise, that whether Kampfer was a snuffy old instrument of destiny, or whether the meanders of the Chiquito accidentally platted themselves into that memorable sweet profile or not, there was brought about “something good for a whole lot of children,” and the result ought to be called “Georgia’s Ruling.”</p>

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@@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<section id="hearts-and-hands" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">Hearts and Hands</h2>
-			<p>At Denver there was an influx of passengers into the coaches on the eastbound B. &amp; M. express. In one coach there sat a very pretty young woman dressed in elegant taste and surrounded by all the luxurious comforts of an experienced traveler. Among the newcomers were two young men, one of handsome presence with a bold, frank countenance and manner; the other a ruffled, glum-faced person, heavily built and roughly dressed. The two were handcuffed together.</p>
+			<p>At Denver there was an influx of passengers into the coaches on the eastbound <abbr>B. &amp; M.</abbr> express. In one coach there sat a very pretty young woman dressed in elegant taste and surrounded by all the luxurious comforts of an experienced traveler. Among the newcomers were two young men, one of handsome presence with a bold, frank countenance and manner; the other a ruffled, glum-faced person, heavily built and roughly dressed. The two were handcuffed together.</p>
 			<p>As they passed down the aisle of the coach the only vacant seat offered was a reversed one facing the attractive young woman. Here the linked couple seated themselves. The young woman’s glance fell upon them with a distant, swift disinterest; then with a lovely smile brightening her countenance and a tender pink tingeing her rounded cheeks, she held out a little gray-gloved hand. When she spoke her voice, full, sweet, and deliberate, proclaimed that its owner was accustomed to speak and be heard.</p>
 			<p>“Well, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Easton, if you <em>will</em> make me speak first, I suppose I must. Don’t you ever recognize old friends when you meet them in the West?”</p>
 			<p>The younger man roused himself sharply at the sound of her voice, seemed to struggle with a slight embarrassment which he threw off instantly, and then clasped her fingers with his left hand.</p>

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@@ -22,7 +22,7 @@
 				<p>Ragged, shiftless, barefooted, a confirmed eater of the lotus, William Trotter had pleased me much, and I hated to see him gobbled up by the tropics.</p>
 				<p>“I’ve no doubt you could,” he said, idly splitting the bark from a section of sugarcane. “I’ve no doubt you could do much for me. If every man could do as much for himself as he can for others, every country in the world would be holding millenniums instead of centennials.”</p>
 				<p>There seemed to be pabulum in <abbr class="name">W. T.</abbr>’s words. And then another idea came to me.</p>
-				<p>I had a brother in Chicopee Falls who owned manufactories⁠—cotton, or sugar, or <abbr>A. A.</abbr> sheetings, or something in the commercial line. He was vulgarly rich, and therefore reverenced art. The artistic temperament of the family was monopolized at my birth. I knew that Brother James would honor my slightest wish. I would demand from him a position in cotton, sugar, or sheetings for William Trotter⁠—something, say, at two hundred a month or thereabouts. I confided my beliefs and made my large propositions to William. He had pleased me much, and he was ragged.</p>
+				<p>I had a brother in Chicopee Falls who owned manufactories⁠—cotton, or sugar, or <abbr class="initialism">AA</abbr> sheetings, or something in the commercial line. He was vulgarly rich, and therefore reverenced art. The artistic temperament of the family was monopolized at my birth. I knew that Brother James would honor my slightest wish. I would demand from him a position in cotton, sugar, or sheetings for William Trotter⁠—something, say, at two hundred a month or thereabouts. I confided my beliefs and made my large propositions to William. He had pleased me much, and he was ragged.</p>
 				<p>While we were talking, there was a sound of firing guns⁠—four or five, rattlingly, as if by a squad. The cheerful noise came from the direction of the cuartel, which is a kind of makeshift barracks for the soldiers of the republic.</p>
 				<p>“Hear that?” said William Trotter. “Let me tell you about it.</p>
 				<p>“A year ago I landed on this coast with one solitary dollar. I have the same sum in my pocket today. I was second cook on a tramp fruiter; and they marooned me here early one morning, without benefit of clergy, just because I poulticed the face of the first mate with cheese omelette at dinner. The fellow had kicked because I’d put horseradish in it instead of cheese.</p>
@@ -34,7 +34,7 @@
 				<p>“ ‘I was referring,’ says he, ‘to the president of this republic. His country is in a desperate condition. Its treasury is empty, it’s on the verge of war with Nicamala, and if it wasn’t for the hot weather the people would be starting revolutions in every town. Here is a nation,’ goes on Wainwright, ‘on the brink of destruction. A man of intelligence could rescue it from its impending doom in one day by issuing the necessary edicts and orders. President Gomez knows nothing of statesmanship or policy. Do you know Adam Smith?’</p>
 				<p>“ ‘Lemme see,’ says I. ‘There was a one-eared man named Smith in Fort Worth, Texas, but I think his first name was⁠—’</p>
 				<p>“ ‘I am referring to the political economist,’ says Wainwright.</p>
-				<p>“ ‘S’mother Smith, then,’ says I. ‘The one I speak of never was arrested.’</p>
+				<p>“ ‘S’nother Smith, then,’ says I. ‘The one I speak of never was arrested.’</p>
 				<p>“So Wainwright boils some more with indignation at the insensibility of people who are not corpulent to fill public positions; and then he tells me he is going out to the president’s summer palace, which is four miles from Aguas Frescas, to instruct him in the art of running steam-heated republics.</p>
 				<p>“ ‘Come along with me, Trotter,’ says he, ‘and I’ll show you what brains can do.’</p>
 				<p>“ ‘Anything in it?’ I asks.</p>
@@ -53,7 +53,7 @@
 				<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">III</h3>
 				<p>“Well, sir,” Trotter went on, “we walks the four miles out, through a virgin conservatory of palms and ferns and other roof-garden products, to the president’s summer White House. It was blue, and reminded you of what you see on the stage in the third act, which they describe as ‘same as the first’ on the programs.</p>
 				<p>“There was more than fifty people waiting outside the iron fence that surrounded the house and grounds. There was generals and agitators and épergnes in gold-laced uniforms, and citizens in diamonds and Panama hats⁠—all waiting to get an audience with the Royal Five-Card Draw. And in a kind of a summerhouse in front of the mansion we could see a burnt-sienna man eating breakfast out of gold dishes and taking his time. I judged that the crowd outside had come out for their morning orders and requests, and was afraid to intrude.</p>
-				<p>“But C. Wainwright wasn’t. The gate was open, and he walked inside and up to the president’s table as confident as a man who knows the head waiter in a fifteen-cent restaurant. And I went with him, because I had only seventy-five cents, and there was nothing else to do.</p>
+				<p>“But <abbr class="name">C.</abbr> Wainwright wasn’t. The gate was open, and he walked inside and up to the president’s table as confident as a man who knows the head waiter in a fifteen-cent restaurant. And I went with him, because I had only seventy-five cents, and there was nothing else to do.</p>
 				<p>“The Gomez man rises from his chair, and looks, colored man as he was, like he was about to call out for corporal of the guard, post number one. But Wainwright says some phrases to him in a peculiarly lubricating manner; and the first thing you know we was all three of us seated at the table, with coffee and rolls and iguana cutlets coming as fast as about ninety peons could rustle ’em.</p>
 				<p>“And then Wainwright begins to talk; but the president interrupts him.</p>
 				<p>“ ‘You Yankees,’ says he, polite, ‘assuredly take the cake for assurance, I assure you’⁠—or words to that effect. He spoke English better than you or me. ‘You’ve had a long walk,’ says he, ‘but it’s nicer in the cool morning to walk than to ride. May I suggest some refreshments?’ says he.</p>
@@ -68,7 +68,7 @@
 				<p>“One day I inveigled him into a walk out a couple of miles from the village, where there was an old grass hut on the bank of a little river. While he was sitting on the grass, talking beautiful of the wisdom of the world that he had learned in books, I took hold of him easy and tied his hands and feet together with leather thongs that I had in my pocket.</p>
 				<p>“ ‘Lie still,’ says I, ‘and meditate on the exigencies and irregularities of life till I get back.’</p>
 				<p>“I went to a shack in Aguas Frescas where a mighty wise girl named Timotea Carrizo lived with her mother. The girl was just about as nice as you ever saw. In the States she would have been called a brunette; but she was better than a brunette⁠—I should say she was what you might term an écru shade. I knew her pretty well. I told her about my friend Wainwright. She gave me a double handful of bark⁠—calisaya, I think it was⁠—and some more herbs that I was to mix with it, and told me what to do. I was to make tea of it and give it to him, and keep him from rum for a certain time. And for two weeks I did it. You know, I liked Wainwright. Both of us was broke; but Timotea sent us goat-meat and plantains and tortillas every day; and at last I got the curse of drink lifted from Clifford Wainwright. He lost his taste for it. And in the cool of the evening him and me would sit on the roof of Timotea’s mother’s hut, eating harmless truck like coffee and rice and stewed crabs, and playing the accordion.</p>
-				<p>“About that time President Gomez found out that the advice of C. Wainwright was the stuff he had been looking for. The country was pulling out of debt, and the treasury had enough boodle in it for him to amuse himself occasionally with the night-latch. The people were beginning to take their two-hour siestas again every day⁠—which was the surest sign of prosperity.</p>
+				<p>“About that time President Gomez found out that the advice of <abbr class="name">C.</abbr> Wainwright was the stuff he had been looking for. The country was pulling out of debt, and the treasury had enough boodle in it for him to amuse himself occasionally with the night-latch. The people were beginning to take their two-hour siestas again every day⁠—which was the surest sign of prosperity.</p>
 				<p>“So down from the regular capital he sends for Clifford Wainwright and makes him his private secretary at twenty thousand Peru dollars a year. Yes, sir⁠—so much. Wainwright was on the water-wagon⁠—thanks to me and Timotea⁠—and he was soon in clover with the government gang. Don’t forget what done it⁠—calisaya bark with them other herbs mixed⁠—make a tea of it, and give a cupful every two hours. Try it yourself. It takes away the desire.</p>
 				<p>“As I said, a man can do a lot more for another party than he can for himself. Wainwright, with his brains, got a whole country out of trouble and on its feet; but what could he do for himself? And without any special brains, but with some nerve and common sense, I put him on his feet because I never had the weakness that he did⁠—nothing but a cigar for mine, thanks. And⁠—”</p>
 				<p>Trotter paused. I looked at his tattered clothes and at his deeply sunburnt, hard, thoughtful face.</p>

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@@ -11,7 +11,7 @@
 				<h2 epub:type="title">Holding Up a Train</h2>
 				<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
 					<p><b>Note.</b> The man who told me these things was for several years an outlaw in the Southwest and a follower of the pursuit he so frankly describes. His description of the modus operandi should prove interesting, his counsel of value to the potential passenger in some future “holdup,” while his estimate of the pleasures of train robbing will hardly induce anyone to adopt it as a profession. I give the story in almost exactly his own words.</p>
-					<cite><span class="signature"><abbr class="name">O. H.</abbr></span></cite>
+					<cite><span class="signature"><abbr class="name eoc">O. H.</abbr></span></cite>
 				</blockquote>
 			</header>
 			<p>Most people would say, if their opinion was asked for, that holding up a train would be a hard job. Well, it isn’t; it’s easy. I have contributed some to the uneasiness of railroads and the insomnia of express companies, and the most trouble I ever had about a holdup was in being swindled by unscrupulous people while spending the money I got. The danger wasn’t anything to speak of, and we didn’t mind the trouble.</p>

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

src/epub/text/how-it-started.xhtml

@@ -15,7 +15,7 @@
 				<header>
 					To <b>Miss Judkins</b>
 					<br/>
-					(Visiting <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> T. Montcalm Brown.)
+					(Visiting <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Montcalm Brown.)
 				</header>
 				<p>
 					<span>We love to see her wear</span>
@@ -44,7 +44,7 @@
 				<header>
 					To <b>Miss Judkins</b>
 					<br/>
-					(Visiting <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> T. Montcalm Brown.)
+					(Visiting <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Montcalm Brown.)
 				</header>
 				<p>
 					<span>We loved to see her wear</span>

src/epub/text/identified.xhtml

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

src/epub/text/madame-bo-peep-of-the-ranches.xhtml

@@ -37,9 +37,9 @@
 			<hr/>
 			<p>When <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Octavia Beaupree, née Van Dresser, stepped from the train at Nopal, her manner lost, for the moment, some of that easy certitude which had always marked her movements. The town was of recent establishment, and seemed to have been hastily constructed of undressed lumber and flapping canvas. The element that had congregated about the station, though not offensively demonstrative, was clearly composed of citizens accustomed to and prepared for rude alarms.</p>
 			<p>Octavia stood on the platform, against the telegraph office, and attempted to choose by intuition from the swaggering, straggling string of loungers, the manager of the Rancho de las Sombras, who had been instructed by <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bannister to meet her there. That tall, serious, looking, elderly man in the blue flannel shirt and white tie she thought must be he. But, no; he passed by, removing his gaze from the lady as hers rested on him, according to the Southern custom. The manager, she thought, with some impatience at being kept waiting, should have no difficulty in selecting her. Young women wearing the most recent thing in ash-coloured travelling suits were not so plentiful in Nopal!</p>
-			<p>Thus keeping a speculative watch on all persons of possible managerial aspect, Octavia, with a catching breath and a start of surprise, suddenly became aware of Teddy Westlake hurrying along the platform in the direction of the train⁠—of Teddy Westlake or his sun-browned ghost in cheviot, boots and leather-girdled hat⁠—Theodore Westlake, Jr., amateur polo (almost) champion, all-round butterfly and cumberer of the soil; but a broader, surer, more emphasized and determined Teddy than the one she had known a year ago when last she saw him.</p>
+			<p>Thus keeping a speculative watch on all persons of possible managerial aspect, Octavia, with a catching breath and a start of surprise, suddenly became aware of Teddy Westlake hurrying along the platform in the direction of the train⁠—of Teddy Westlake or his sun-browned ghost in cheviot, boots and leather-girdled hat⁠—Theodore Westlake, <abbr>Jr.</abbr>, amateur polo (almost) champion, all-round butterfly and cumberer of the soil; but a broader, surer, more emphasized and determined Teddy than the one she had known a year ago when last she saw him.</p>
 			<p>He perceived Octavia at almost the same time, deflected his course, and steered for her in his old, straightforward way. Something like awe came upon her as the strangeness of his metamorphosis was brought into closer range; the rich, red-brown of his complexion brought out so vividly his straw-coloured mustache and steel-gray eyes. He seemed more grownup, and, somehow, farther away. But, when he spoke, the old, boyish Teddy came back again. They had been friends from childhood.</p>
-			<p>“Why, ‘Tave!” he exclaimed, unable to reduce his perplexity to coherence. “How⁠—what⁠—when⁠—where?”</p>
+			<p>“Why, ’Tave!” he exclaimed, unable to reduce his perplexity to coherence. “How⁠—what⁠—when⁠—where?”</p>
 			<p>“Train,” said Octavia; “necessity; ten minutes ago; home. Your complexion’s gone, Teddy. Now, how⁠—what⁠—when⁠—where?”</p>
 			<p>“I’m working down here,” said Teddy. He cast side glances about the station as one does who tries to combine politeness with duty.</p>
 			<p>“You didn’t notice on the train,” he asked, “an old lady with gray curls and a poodle, who occupied two seats with her bundles and quarrelled with the conductor, did you?”</p>
@@ -54,10 +54,10 @@
 			<p>For a moment that strange, grownup look came back, and removed Teddy miles away from her.</p>
 			<p>“I hope you’ll excuse me,” he said, rather awkwardly. “You see, I’ve been down here in the chaparral a year. I hadn’t heard. Give me your checks, please, and I’ll have your traps loaded into the wagon. José will follow with them. We travel ahead in the buckboard.”</p>
 			<p>Seated by Teddy in a featherweight buckboard, behind a pair of wild, cream-coloured Spanish ponies, Octavia abandoned all thought for the exhilaration of the present. They swept out of the little town and down the level road toward the south. Soon the road dwindled and disappeared, and they struck across a world carpeted with an endless reach of curly mesquite grass. The wheels made no sound. The tireless ponies bounded ahead at an unbroken gallop. The temperate wind, made fragrant by thousands of acres of blue and yellow wild flowers, roared gloriously in their ears. The motion was aërial, ecstatic, with a thrilling sense of perpetuity in its effect. Octavia sat silent, possessed by a feeling of elemental, sensual bliss. Teddy seemed to be wrestling with some internal problem.</p>
-			<p>“I’m going to call you madama,” he announced as the result of his labours. “That is what the Mexicans will call you⁠—they’re nearly all Mexicans on the ranch, you know. That seems to me about the proper thing.”</p>
+			<p>“I’m going to call you <i xml:lang="es">madama</i>,” he announced as the result of his labours. “That is what the Mexicans will call you⁠—they’re nearly all Mexicans on the ranch, you know. That seems to me about the proper thing.”</p>
 			<p>“Very well, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Westlake,” said Octavia, primly.</p>
 			<p>“Oh, now,” said Teddy, in some consternation, “that’s carrying the thing too far, isn’t it?”</p>
-			<p>“Don’t worry me with your beastly etiquette. I’m just beginning to live. Don’t remind me of anything artificial. If only this air could be bottled! This much alone is worth coming for. Oh, look I there goes a deer!”</p>
+			<p>“Don’t worry me with your beastly etiquette. I’m just beginning to live. Don’t remind me of anything artificial. If only this air could be bottled! This much alone is worth coming for. Oh, look! there goes a deer!”</p>
 			<p>“Jackrabbit,” said Teddy, without turning his head.</p>
 			<p>“Could I⁠—might I drive?” suggested Octavia, panting, with rose-tinted cheeks and the eye of an eager child.</p>
 			<p>“On one condition. Could I⁠—might I smoke?”</p>
@@ -68,7 +68,7 @@
 			<p>“Room!” said Octavia, intensely. “That’s what produces the effect. I know now what I’ve wanted⁠—scope⁠—range⁠—room!”</p>
 			<p>“Smoking-room,” said Teddy, unsentimentally. “I love to smoke in a buckboard. The wind blows the smoke into you and out again. It saves exertion.”</p>
 			<p>The two fell so naturally into their old-time goodfellowship that it was only by degrees that a sense of the strangeness of the new relations between them came to be felt.</p>
-			<p>“Madama,” said Teddy, wonderingly, “however did you get it into your bead to cut the crowd and come down here? Is it a fad now among the upper classes to trot off to sheep ranches instead of to Newport?”</p>
+			<p>“<i xml:lang="es">Madama</i>,” said Teddy, wonderingly, “however did you get it into your bead to cut the crowd and come down here? Is it a fad now among the upper classes to trot off to sheep ranches instead of to Newport?”</p>
 			<p>“I was broke, Teddy,” said Octavia, sweetly, with her interest centred upon steering safely between a Spanish dagger plant and a clump of chaparral; “I haven’t a thing in the world but this ranch⁠—not even any other home to go to.”</p>
 			<p>“Come, now,” said Teddy, anxiously but incredulously, “you don’t mean it?”</p>
 			<p>“When my husband,” said Octavia, with a shy slurring of the word, “died three months ago I thought I had a reasonable amount of the world’s goods. His lawyer exploded that theory in a sixty-minute fully illustrated lecture. I took to the sheep as a last resort. Do you happen to know of any fashionable caprice among the gilded youth of Manhattan that induces them to abandon polo and club windows to become managers of sheep ranches?”</p>
@@ -88,17 +88,16 @@
 			<p>Octavia cast one of those subtle, sidelong glances toward him from beneath her lowered eyelids⁠—a glance that Teddy used to describe as an uppercut. But there was nothing in his ingenuous, weather-tanned face to warrant a suspicion that he was making an allusion⁠—nothing. Beyond a doubt, thought Octavia, he had forgotten.</p>
 			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Westlake likes his fun,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Maclntyre, as she conducted Octavia to her rooms. “But,” she added, loyally, “people around here usually pay attention to what he says when he talks in earnest. I don’t know what would have become of this place without him.”</p>
 			<p>Two rooms at the east end of the house had been arranged for the occupancy of the ranch’s mistress. When she entered them a slight dismay seized her at their bare appearance and the scantiness of their furniture; but she quickly reflected that the climate was a semitropical one, and was moved to appreciation of the well-conceived efforts to conform to it. The sashes had already been removed from the big windows, and white curtains waved in the Gulf breeze that streamed through the wide jalousies. The bare floor was amply strewn with cool rugs; the chairs were inviting, deep, dreamy willows; the walls were papered with a light, cheerful olive. One whole side of her sitting room was covered with books on smooth, unpainted pine shelves. She flew to these at once. Before her was a well-selected library. She caught glimpses of titles of volumes of fiction and travel not yet seasoned from the dampness of the press.</p>
-			<p>Presently, recollecting that she was now in a wilderness given over to mutton, centipedes and privations, the incongruity of these luxuries struck her, and, with intuitive feminine suspicion, she began turning to the flyleaves of volume after volume. Upon each one was inscribed in fluent characters the name of Theodore Westlake, Jr.</p>
+			<p>Presently, recollecting that she was now in a wilderness given over to mutton, centipedes and privations, the incongruity of these luxuries struck her, and, with intuitive feminine suspicion, she began turning to the flyleaves of volume after volume. Upon each one was inscribed in fluent characters the name of Theodore Westlake, <abbr class="eoc">Jr.</abbr></p>
 			<p>Octavia, fatigued by her long journey, retired early that night. Lying upon her white, cool bed, she rested deliciously, but sleep coquetted long with her. She listened to faint noises whose strangeness kept her faculties on the alert⁠—the fractious yelping of the coyotes, the ceaseless, low symphony of the wind, the distant booming of the frogs about the lake, the lamentation of a concertina in the Mexicans’ quarters. There were many conflicting feelings in her heart⁠—thankfulness and rebellion, peace and disquietude, loneliness and a sense of protecting care, happiness and an old, haunting pain.</p>
 			<p>She did what any other woman would have done⁠—sought relief in a wholesome tide of unreasonable tears, and her last words, murmured to herself before slumber, capitulating, came softly to woo her, were “He has forgotten.”</p>
 			<p>The manager of the Rancho de las Sombras was no dilettante. He was a “hustler.” He was generally up, mounted, and away of mornings before the rest of the household were awake, making the rounds of the flocks and camps. This was the duty of the major-domo, a stately old Mexican with a princely air and manner, but Teddy seemed to have a great deal of confidence in his own eyesight. Except in the busy seasons, he nearly always returned to the ranch to breakfast at eight o’clock, with Octavia and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Maclntyre, at the little table set in the central hallway, bringing with him a tonic and breezy cheerfulness full of the health and flavour of the prairies.</p>
 			<p>A few days after Octavia’s arrival he made her get out one of her riding skirts, and curtail it to a shortness demanded by the chaparral brakes.</p>
 			<p>With some misgivings she donned this and the pair of buckskin leggings he prescribed in addition, and, mounted upon a dancing pony, rode with him to view her possessions. He showed her everything⁠—the flocks of ewes, muttons and grazing lambs, the dipping vats, the shearing pens, the uncouth merino rams in their little pasture, the water-tanks prepared against the summer drought⁠—giving account of his stewardship with a boyish enthusiasm that never flagged.</p>
-			<p>Where was the old Teddy that she knew so well? This side of him was the same, and it was a side that pleased her; but this was all she ever saw of him now. Where was his sentimentality⁠—those old, varying moods of impetuous lovemaking, of fanciful, quixotic devotion, of heartbreaking gloom, of alternating, absurd tenderness and haughty dignity? His nature had been a sensitive one, his temperament bordering closely on the artistic. She knew that, besides being a follower of fashion and its fads and sports, he had cultivated tastes of a finer nature. He had written things, he had tampered with colours, he was something of a student in certain branches of art, and once she had been admitted to all his aspirations and thoughts. But now⁠—and she could not avoid the conclusion⁠—Teddy had</p>
-			<p>barricaded against her every side of himself except one⁠—the side that showed the manager of the Rancho de las Sombras and a jolly chum who had forgiven and forgotten. Queerly enough the words of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bannister’s description of her property came into her mind⁠—“all inclosed within a strong barbed-wire fence.”</p>
+			<p>Where was the old Teddy that she knew so well? This side of him was the same, and it was a side that pleased her; but this was all she ever saw of him now. Where was his sentimentality⁠—those old, varying moods of impetuous lovemaking, of fanciful, quixotic devotion, of heartbreaking gloom, of alternating, absurd tenderness and haughty dignity? His nature had been a sensitive one, his temperament bordering closely on the artistic. She knew that, besides being a follower of fashion and its fads and sports, he had cultivated tastes of a finer nature. He had written things, he had tampered with colours, he was something of a student in certain branches of art, and once she had been admitted to all his aspirations and thoughts. But now⁠—and she could not avoid the conclusion⁠—Teddy had barricaded against her every side of himself except one⁠—the side that showed the manager of the Rancho de las Sombras and a jolly chum who had forgiven and forgotten. Queerly enough the words of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bannister’s description of her property came into her mind⁠—“all inclosed within a strong barbed-wire fence.”</p>
 			<p>“Teddy’s fenced, too,” said Octavia to herself.</p>
-			<p>It was not difficult for her to reason out the cause of his fortifications. It had originated one night at the Hammersmiths’ ball. It occurred at a time soon after she had decided to accept Colonel Beaupree and his million, which was no more than her looks and the entrée she held to the inner circles were worth. Teddy had proposed with all his impetuosity and fire, and she looked him straight in the eyes, an said, coldly and finally: “Never let me hear any such silly nonsense from you again.” “You won’t,” said Teddy, with an expression around his mouth, and⁠—now Teddy was inclosed within a strong barbed-wire fence.</p>
-			<p>It was on this first ride of inspection that Teddy was seized by the inspiration that suggested the name of Mother Goose’s heroine, and he at once bestowed it upon Octavia. The idea, supported by both a similarity of names and identity of occupations, seemed to strike him as a peculiarly happy one, and he never tired of using it. The Mexicans on the ranch also took up the name, adding another syllable to accommodate their lingual incapacity for the final “p,” gravely referring to her as “La Madama Bo-Peepy.” Eventually it spread, and “Madame Bo-Peep’s ranch” was as often mentioned as the “Rancho de las Sombras.”</p>
+			<p>It was not difficult for her to reason out the cause of his fortifications. It had originated one night at the Hammersmiths’ ball. It occurred at a time soon after she had decided to accept Colonel Beaupree and his million, which was no more than her looks and the entrée she held to the inner circles were worth. Teddy had proposed with all his impetuosity and fire, and she looked him straight in the eyes, and said, coldly and finally: “Never let me hear any such silly nonsense from you again.” “You won’t,” said Teddy, with an expression around his mouth, and⁠—now Teddy was inclosed within a strong barbed-wire fence.</p>
+			<p>It was on this first ride of inspection that Teddy was seized by the inspiration that suggested the name of Mother Goose’s heroine, and he at once bestowed it upon Octavia. The idea, supported by both a similarity of names and identity of occupations, seemed to strike him as a peculiarly happy one, and he never tired of using it. The Mexicans on the ranch also took up the name, adding another syllable to accommodate their lingual incapacity for the final “p,” gravely referring to her as “<i xml:lang="es">La Madama Bo-Peepy</i>.” Eventually it spread, and “Madame Bo-Peep’s ranch” was as often mentioned as the “Rancho de las Sombras.”</p>
 			<p>Came the long, hot season from May to September, when work is scarce on the ranches. Octavia passed the days in a kind of lotus-eater’s dream. Books, hammocks, correspondence with a few intimate friends, a renewed interest in her old watercolour box and easel⁠—these disposed of the sultry hours of daylight. The evenings were always sure to bring enjoyment. Best of all were the rapturous horseback rides with Teddy, when the moon gave light over the windswept leagues, chaperoned by the wheeling nighthawk and the startled owl. Often the Mexicans would come up from their shacks with their guitars and sing the weirdest of heartbreaking songs. There were long, cosy chats on the breezy gallery, and an interminable warfare of wits between Teddy and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> MacIntyre, whose abundant Scotch shrewdness often more than overmatched the lighter humour in which she was lacking.</p>
 			<p>And the nights came, one after another, and were filed away by weeks and months⁠—nights soft and languorous and fragrant, that should have driven Strephon to Chloe over wires however barbed, that might have drawn Cupid himself to hunt, lasso in hand, among those amorous pastures⁠—but Teddy kept his fences up.</p>
 			<p>One July night Madame Bo-Peep and her ranch manager were sitting on the east gallery. Teddy had been exhausting the science of prognostication as to the probabilities of a price of twenty-four cents for the autumn clip, and had then subsided into an anesthetic cloud of Havana smoke. Only as incompetent a judge as a woman would have failed to note long ago that at least a third of his salary must have gone up in the fumes of those imported Regalias.</p>
@@ -126,7 +125,7 @@
 			<p>“A glove,” said Octavia, falling back as the enemy approached her ditches.</p>
 			<p>“Caste,” said Teddy, halting his firing line without loss. “I hobnobbed, half the evening with one of Hammersmith’s miners, a fellow who kept his hands in his pockets, and talked like an archangel about reduction plants and drifts and levels and sluice-boxes.”</p>
 			<p>“A pearl-gray glove, nearly new,” sighed Octavia, mournfully.</p>
-			<p>“A bang-up chap, that McArdle,” maintained Teddy approvingly. “A man who hated olives and elevators; a man who handled mountains as croquettes, and built tunnels in the air; a man who never uttered a word of silly nonsense in his life. Did you sign those lease-renewal applications yet, madama? They’ve got to be on file in the land office by the thirty-first.”</p>
+			<p>“A bang-up chap, that McArdle,” maintained Teddy approvingly. “A man who hated olives and elevators; a man who handled mountains as croquettes, and built tunnels in the air; a man who never uttered a word of silly nonsense in his life. Did you sign those lease-renewal applications yet, <i xml:lang="es">madama</i>? They’ve got to be on file in the land office by the thirty-first.”</p>
 			<p>Teddy turned his head lazily. Octavia’s chair was vacant.</p>
 			<hr/>
 			<p>A certain centipede, crawling along the lines marked out by fate, expounded the situation. It was early one morning while Octavia and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Maclntyre were trimming the honeysuckle on the west gallery. Teddy had risen and departed hastily before daylight in response to word that a flock of ewes had been scattered from their bedding ground during the night by a thunderstorm.</p>
@@ -155,10 +154,10 @@
 			<p>“One hundred⁠—” he began to repeat, but saw in her face that she knew. She held <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bannister’s letter in her hand. He knew that the game was up.</p>
 			<p>“It’s my ranch,” said Teddy, like a schoolboy detected in evil. “It’s a mighty poor manager that isn’t able to absorb the boss’s business if you give him time.”</p>
 			<p>“Why were you working down here?” pursued Octavia still struggling after the key to the riddle of Teddy.</p>
-			<p>“To tell the truth, ‘Tave,” said Teddy, with quiet candour, “it wasn’t for the salary. That about kept me in cigars and sunburn lotions. I was sent south by my doctor. ’Twas that right lung that was going to the bad on account of over-exercise and strain at polo and gymnastics. I needed climate and ozone and rest and things of that sort.”</p>
+			<p>“To tell the truth, ’Tave,” said Teddy, with quiet candour, “it wasn’t for the salary. That about kept me in cigars and sunburn lotions. I was sent south by my doctor. ’Twas that right lung that was going to the bad on account of over-exercise and strain at polo and gymnastics. I needed climate and ozone and rest and things of that sort.”</p>
 			<p>In an instant Octavia was close against the vicinity of the affected organ. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bannister’s letter fluttered to the floor.</p>
 			<p>“It’s⁠—it’s well now, isn’t it, Teddy?”</p>
-			<p>“Sound as a mesquite chunk. I deceived you in one thing. I paid fifty thousand for your ranch as soon as I found you had no title. I had just about that much income accumulated at my banker’s while I’ve been herding sheep down here, so it was almost like picking the thing up on a bargain-counter for a penny. There’s another little surplus of unearned increment piling up there, ‘Tave. I’ve been thinking of a wedding trip in a yacht with white ribbons tied to the mast, through the Mediterranean, and then up among the Hebrides and down Norway to the Zuyder Zee.”</p>
+			<p>“Sound as a mesquite chunk. I deceived you in one thing. I paid fifty thousand for your ranch as soon as I found you had no title. I had just about that much income accumulated at my banker’s while I’ve been herding sheep down here, so it was almost like picking the thing up on a bargain-counter for a penny. There’s another little surplus of unearned increment piling up there, ’Tave. I’ve been thinking of a wedding trip in a yacht with white ribbons tied to the mast, through the Mediterranean, and then up among the Hebrides and down Norway to the Zuyder Zee.”</p>
 			<p>“And I was thinking,” said Octavia, softly, “of a wedding gallop with my manager among the flocks of sheep and back to a wedding breakfast with <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> MacIntyre on the gallery, with, maybe, a sprig of orange blossom fastened to the red jar above the table.”</p>
 			<p>Teddy laughed, and began to chant:</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:verse">

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

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@@ -14,7 +14,7 @@
 			<p>But the canvas of my imagination, when it came to limning the Man About Town, was blank. I fancied that he had a detachable sneer (like the smile of the Cheshire cat) and attached cuffs; and that was all. Whereupon I asked a newspaper reporter about him.</p>
 			<p>“Why,” said he, “a ‘Man About Town’ something between a ‘rounder’ and a ‘clubman.’ He isn’t exactly⁠—well, he fits in between <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fish’s receptions and private boxing bouts. He doesn’t⁠—well, he doesn’t belong either to the Lotus Club or to the Jerry McGeogheghan Galvanised Iron Workers’ Apprentices’ Left Hook Chowder Association. I don’t exactly know how to describe him to you. You’ll see him everywhere there’s anything doing. Yes, I suppose he’s a type. Dress clothes every evening; knows the ropes; calls every policeman and waiter in town by their first names. No; he never travels with the hydrogen derivatives. You generally see him alone or with another man.”</p>
 			<p>My friend the reporter left me, and I wandered further afield. By this time the 3126 electric lights on the Rialto were alight. People passed, but they held me not. Paphian eyes rayed upon me, and left me unscathed. Diners, heimgangers, shop-girls, confidence men, panhandlers, actors, highwaymen, millionaires and outlanders hurried, skipped, strolled, sneaked, swaggered and scurried by me; but I took no note of them. I knew them all; I had read their hearts; they had served. I wanted my Man About Town. He was a type, and to drop him would be an error⁠—a typograph⁠—but no! let us continue.</p>
-			<p>Let us continue with a moral digression. To see a family reading the Sunday paper gratifies. The sections have been separated. Papa is earnestly scanning the page that pictures the young lady exercising before an open window, and bending⁠—but there, there! Mamma is interested in trying to guess the missing letters in the word N_w Yo_k. The oldest girls are eagerly perusing the financial reports, for a certain young man remarked last Sunday night that he had taken a flyer in Q., X. &amp; Z. Willie, the eighteen-year-old son, who attends the New York public school, is absorbed in the weekly article describing how to make over an old skirt, for he hopes to take a prize in sewing on graduation day.</p>
+			<p>Let us continue with a moral digression. To see a family reading the Sunday paper gratifies. The sections have been separated. Papa is earnestly scanning the page that pictures the young lady exercising before an open window, and bending⁠—but there, there! Mamma is interested in trying to guess the missing letters in the word N_w Yo_k. The oldest girls are eagerly perusing the financial reports, for a certain young man remarked last Sunday night that he had taken a flyer in <abbr class="eoc">Q., X. &amp; Z.</abbr> Willie, the eighteen-year-old son, who attends the New York public school, is absorbed in the weekly article describing how to make over an old skirt, for he hopes to take a prize in sewing on graduation day.</p>
 			<p>Grandma is holding to the comic supplement with a two-hours’ grip; and little Tottie, the baby, is rocking along the best she can with the real estate transfers. This view is intended to be reassuring, for it is desirable that a few lines of this story be skipped. For it introduces strong drink.</p>
 			<p>I went into a café to⁠—and while it was being mixed I asked the man who grabs up your hot Scotch spoon as soon as you lay it down what he understood by the term, epithet, description, designation, characterisation or appellation, <abbr>viz.</abbr>: a “Man About Town.”</p>
 			<p>“Why,” said he, carefully, “it means a fly guy that’s wise to the all-night push⁠—see? It’s a hot sport that you can’t bump to the rail anywhere between the Flatirons⁠—see? I guess that’s about what it means.”</p>

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@@ -32,7 +32,7 @@
 			<p>“Why, darn my eyes,” says the old man, with a grin; “darn my eyes if the saffron-coloured son of a seltzer lemonade ain’t asking me in to take a drink. Lemme see⁠—how long’s it been since I saved shoe leather by keeping one foot on the footrest? I believe I’ll⁠—”</p>
 			<p>I knew I had him. Hot Scotches he took, sitting at a table. For an hour he kept the Campbells coming. I sat by his side rapping for the waiter with my tail, and eating free lunch such as mamma in her flat never equalled with her homemade truck bought at a delicatessen store eight minutes before papa comes home.</p>
 			<p>When the products of Scotland were all exhausted except the rye bread the old man unwound me from the table leg and played me outside like a fisherman plays a salmon. Out there he took off my collar and threw it into the street.</p>
-			<p>“Poor doggie,” says he; “good doggie. She shan’t kiss you any more. ‘S a darned shame. Good doggie, go away and get run over by a street car and be happy.”</p>
+			<p>“Poor doggie,” says he; “good doggie. She shan’t kiss you any more. ’S a darned shame. Good doggie, go away and get run over by a street car and be happy.”</p>
 			<p>I refused to leave. I leaped and frisked around the old man’s legs happy as a pug on a rug.</p>
 			<p>“You old flea-headed woodchuck-chaser,” I said to him⁠—“you moon-baying, rabbit-pointing, egg-stealing old beagle, can’t you see that I don’t want to leave you? Can’t you see that we’re both Pups in the Wood and the missis is the cruel uncle after you with the dish towel and me with the flea liniment and a pink bow to tie on my tail. Why not cut that all out and be pards forever more?”</p>
 			<p>Maybe you’ll say he didn’t understand⁠—maybe he didn’t. But he kind of got a grip on the Hot Scotches, and stood still for a minute, thinking.</p>

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@@ -103,7 +103,7 @@
 			<p>“No,” said I. “I am always interested in psychological studies. A human heart⁠—and especially a woman’s⁠—is a wonderful thing to contemplate.”</p>
 			<p>“It is,” said Judson Tate. “And so are the trachea and bronchial tubes of man. And the larynx too. Did you ever make a study of the windpipe?”</p>
 			<p>“Never,” said I. “But I have taken much pleasure in your story. May I ask after <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Tate, and inquire of her present health and whereabouts?”</p>
-			<p>“Oh, sure,” said Judson Tate. “We are living in Bergen Avenue, Jersey City. The climate down in Oratama didn’t suit <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> T. I don’t suppose you ever dissected the arytenoid cartilages of the epiglottis, did you?”</p>
+			<p>“Oh, sure,” said Judson Tate. “We are living in Bergen Avenue, Jersey City. The climate down in Oratama didn’t suit <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> I don’t suppose you ever dissected the arytenoid cartilages of the epiglottis, did you?”</p>
 			<p>“Why, no,” said I, “I am no surgeon.”</p>
 			<p>“Pardon me,” said Judson Tate, “but every man should know enough of anatomy and therapeutics to safeguard his own health. A sudden cold may set up capillary bronchitis or inflammation of the pulmonary vesicles, which may result in a serious affection of the vocal organs.”</p>
 			<p>“Perhaps so,” said I, with some impatience; “but that is neither here nor there. Speaking of the strange manifestations of the affection of women, I⁠—”</p>

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

src/epub/text/out-of-nazareth.xhtml

@@ -8,29 +8,29 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<section id="out-of-nazareth" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">Out of Nazareth</h2>
-			<p>Okochee, in Georgia, had a boom, and J. Pinkney Bloom came out of it with a “wad.” Okochee came out of it with a half-million-dollar debt, a two and a half percent city property tax, and a city council that showed a propensity for traveling the back streets of the town. These things came about through a fatal resemblance of the river Cooloosa to the Hudson, as set forth and expounded by a Northern tourist. Okochee felt that New York should not be allowed to consider itself the only alligator in the swamp, so to speak. And then that harmless, but persistent, individual so numerous in the South⁠—the man who is always clamoring for more cotton mills, and is ready to take a dollar’s worth of stock, provided he can borrow the dollar⁠—that man added his deadly work to the tourist’s innocent praise, and Okochee fell.</p>
+			<p>Okochee, in Georgia, had a boom, and <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom came out of it with a “wad.” Okochee came out of it with a half-million-dollar debt, a two and a half percent city property tax, and a city council that showed a propensity for traveling the back streets of the town. These things came about through a fatal resemblance of the river Cooloosa to the Hudson, as set forth and expounded by a Northern tourist. Okochee felt that New York should not be allowed to consider itself the only alligator in the swamp, so to speak. And then that harmless, but persistent, individual so numerous in the South⁠—the man who is always clamoring for more cotton mills, and is ready to take a dollar’s worth of stock, provided he can borrow the dollar⁠—that man added his deadly work to the tourist’s innocent praise, and Okochee fell.</p>
 			<p>The Cooloosa River winds through a range of small mountains, passes Okochee and then blends its waters trippingly, as fall the mellifluous Indian syllables, with the Chattahoochee.</p>
 			<p>Okochee rose, as it were, from its sunny seat on the post-office stoop, hitched up its suspender, and threw a granite dam two hundred and forty feet long and sixty feet high across the Cooloosa one mile above the town. Thereupon, a dimpling, sparkling lake backed up twenty miles among the little mountains. Thus in the great game of municipal rivalry did Okochee match that famous drawing card, the Hudson. It was conceded that nowhere could the Palisades be judged superior in the way of scenery and grandeur. Following the picture card was played the ace of commercial importance. Fourteen thousand horsepower would this dam furnish. Cotton mills, factories, and manufacturing plants would rise up as the green corn after a shower. The spindle and the flywheel and turbine would sing the shrewd glory of Okochee. Along the picturesque heights above the lake would rise in beauty the costly villas and the splendid summer residences of capital. The naphtha launch of the millionaire would spit among the romantic coves; the verdured hills would take formal shapes of terrace, lawn, and park. Money would be spent like water in Okochee, and water would be turned into money.</p>
 			<p>The fate of the good town is quickly told. Capital decided not to invest. Of all the great things promised, the scenery alone came to fulfilment. The wooded peaks, the impressive promontories of solemn granite, the beautiful green slants of bank and ravine did all they could to reconcile Okochee to the delinquency of miserly gold. The sunsets gilded the dreamy draws and coves with a minting that should charm away heartburning. Okochee, true to the instinct of its blood and clime, was lulled by the spell. It climbed out of the arena, loosed its suspender, sat down again on the post-office stoop, and took a chew. It consoled itself by drawling sarcasms at the city council which was not to blame, causing the fathers, as has been said, to seek back streets and figure perspiringly on the sinking fund and the appropriation for interest due.</p>
-			<p>The youth of Okochee⁠—they who were to carry into the rosy future the burden of the debt⁠—accepted failure with youth’s uncalculating joy. For, here was sport, aquatic and nautical, added to the meagre round of life’s pleasures. In yachting caps and flowing neckties they pervaded the lake to its limits. Girls wore silk waists embroidered with anchors in blue and pink. The trousers of the young men widened at the bottom, and their hands were proudly calloused by the oft-plied oar. Fishermen were under the spell of a deep and tolerant joy. Sailboats and rowboats furrowed the lenient waves, popcorn and ice-cream booths sprang up about the little wooden pier. Two small excursion steamboats were built, and plied the delectable waters. Okochee philosophically gave up the hope of eating turtle soup with a gold spoon, and settled back, not ill content, to its regular diet of lotus and fried hominy. And out of this slow wreck of great expectations rose up J. Pinkney Bloom with his “wad” and his prosperous, cheery smile.</p>
-			<p>Needless to say J. Pinkney was no product of Georgia soil. He came out of that flushed and capable region known as the “North.” He called himself a “promoter”; his enemies had spoken of him as a “grafter”; Okochee took a middle course, and held him to be no better nor no worse than a “Yank.”</p>
+			<p>The youth of Okochee⁠—they who were to carry into the rosy future the burden of the debt⁠—accepted failure with youth’s uncalculating joy. For, here was sport, aquatic and nautical, added to the meagre round of life’s pleasures. In yachting caps and flowing neckties they pervaded the lake to its limits. Girls wore silk waists embroidered with anchors in blue and pink. The trousers of the young men widened at the bottom, and their hands were proudly calloused by the oft-plied oar. Fishermen were under the spell of a deep and tolerant joy. Sailboats and rowboats furrowed the lenient waves, popcorn and ice-cream booths sprang up about the little wooden pier. Two small excursion steamboats were built, and plied the delectable waters. Okochee philosophically gave up the hope of eating turtle soup with a gold spoon, and settled back, not ill content, to its regular diet of lotus and fried hominy. And out of this slow wreck of great expectations rose up <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom with his “wad” and his prosperous, cheery smile.</p>
+			<p>Needless to say <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney was no product of Georgia soil. He came out of that flushed and capable region known as the “North.” He called himself a “promoter”; his enemies had spoken of him as a “grafter”; Okochee took a middle course, and held him to be no better nor no worse than a “Yank.”</p>
 			<p>Far up the lake⁠—eighteen miles above the town⁠—the eye of this cheerful camp-follower of booms had spied out a graft. He purchased there a precipitous tract of five hundred acres at forty-five cents per acre; and this he laid out and subdivided as the city of Skyland⁠—the Queen City of the Switzerland of the South. Streets and avenues were surveyed; parks designed; corners of central squares reserved for the “proposed” opera house, board of trade, lyceum, market, public schools, and “Exposition Hall.” The price of lots ranged from five to five hundred dollars. Positively, no lot would be priced higher than five hundred dollars.</p>
-			<p>While the boom was growing in Okochee, J. Pinkney’s circulars, maps, and prospectuses were flying through the mails to every part of the country. Investors sent in their money by post, and the Skyland Real Estate Company (J. Pinkney Bloom) returned to each a deed, duly placed on record, to the best lot, at the price, on hand that day. All this time the catamount screeched upon the reserved lot of the Skyland Board of Trade, the opossum swung by his tail over the site of the exposition hall, and the owl hooted a melancholy recitative to his audience of young squirrels in opera house square. Later, when the money was coming in fast, J. Pinkney caused to be erected in the coming city half a dozen cheap box houses, and persuaded a contingent of indigent natives to occupy them, thereby assuming the role of “population” in subsequent prospectuses, which became, accordingly, more seductive and remunerative.</p>
-			<p>So, when the dream faded and Okochee dropped back to digging bait and nursing its two and a half percent tax, J. Pinkney Bloom (unloving of checks and drafts and the cold interrogatories of bankers) strapped about his fifty-two-inch waist a soft leather belt containing eight thousand dollars in big bills, and said that all was very good.</p>
-			<p>One last trip he was making to Skyland before departing to other salad fields. Skyland was a regular post-office, and the steamboat, <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i>, under contract, delivered the mail bag (generally empty) twice a week. There was a little business there to be settled⁠—the postmaster was to be paid off for his light but lonely services, and the “inhabitants” had to be furnished with another month’s homely rations, as per agreement. And then Skyland would know J. Pinkney Bloom no more. The owners of these precipitous, barren, useless lots might come and view the scene of their invested credulity, or they might leave them to their fit tenants, the wild hog and the browsing deer. The work of the Skyland Real Estate Company was finished.</p>
+			<p>While the boom was growing in Okochee, <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney’s circulars, maps, and prospectuses were flying through the mails to every part of the country. Investors sent in their money by post, and the Skyland Real Estate Company (<abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom) returned to each a deed, duly placed on record, to the best lot, at the price, on hand that day. All this time the catamount screeched upon the reserved lot of the Skyland Board of Trade, the opossum swung by his tail over the site of the exposition hall, and the owl hooted a melancholy recitative to his audience of young squirrels in opera house square. Later, when the money was coming in fast, <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney caused to be erected in the coming city half a dozen cheap box houses, and persuaded a contingent of indigent natives to occupy them, thereby assuming the role of “population” in subsequent prospectuses, which became, accordingly, more seductive and remunerative.</p>
+			<p>So, when the dream faded and Okochee dropped back to digging bait and nursing its two and a half percent tax, <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom (unloving of checks and drafts and the cold interrogatories of bankers) strapped about his fifty-two-inch waist a soft leather belt containing eight thousand dollars in big bills, and said that all was very good.</p>
+			<p>One last trip he was making to Skyland before departing to other salad fields. Skyland was a regular post-office, and the steamboat, <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i>, under contract, delivered the mail bag (generally empty) twice a week. There was a little business there to be settled⁠—the postmaster was to be paid off for his light but lonely services, and the “inhabitants” had to be furnished with another month’s homely rations, as per agreement. And then Skyland would know <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom no more. The owners of these precipitous, barren, useless lots might come and view the scene of their invested credulity, or they might leave them to their fit tenants, the wild hog and the browsing deer. The work of the Skyland Real Estate Company was finished.</p>
 			<p>The little steamboat <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i> was about to shove off on her regular up-the-lake trip, when a rickety hired carriage rattled up to the pier, and a tall, elderly gentleman, in black, stepped out, signaling courteously but vivaciously for the boat to wait. Time was of the least importance in the schedule of the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i>; Captain MacFarland gave the order, and the boat received its ultimate two passengers. For, upon the arm of the tall, elderly gentleman, as he crossed the gangway, was a little elderly lady, with a gray curl depending quaintly forward of her left ear.</p>
-			<p>Captain MacFarland was at the wheel; therefore it seemed to J. Pinkney Bloom, who was the only other passenger, that it should be his to play the part of host to the boat’s new guests, who were, doubtless, on a scenery-viewing expedition. He stepped forward, with that translucent, child-candid smile upon his fresh, pink countenance, with that air of unaffected sincerity that was redeemed from bluffness only by its exquisite calculation, with that promptitude and masterly decision of manner that so well suited his calling⁠—with all his stock in trade well to the front; he stepped forward to receive Colonel and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Peyton Blaylock. With the grace of a grand marshal or a wedding usher, he escorted the two passengers to a side of the upper deck, from which the scenery was supposed to present itself to the observer in increased quantity and quality. There, in comfortable steamer chairs, they sat and began to piece together the random lines that were to form an intelligent paragraph in the big history of little events.</p>
+			<p>Captain MacFarland was at the wheel; therefore it seemed to <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom, who was the only other passenger, that it should be his to play the part of host to the boat’s new guests, who were, doubtless, on a scenery-viewing expedition. He stepped forward, with that translucent, child-candid smile upon his fresh, pink countenance, with that air of unaffected sincerity that was redeemed from bluffness only by its exquisite calculation, with that promptitude and masterly decision of manner that so well suited his calling⁠—with all his stock in trade well to the front; he stepped forward to receive Colonel and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Peyton Blaylock. With the grace of a grand marshal or a wedding usher, he escorted the two passengers to a side of the upper deck, from which the scenery was supposed to present itself to the observer in increased quantity and quality. There, in comfortable steamer chairs, they sat and began to piece together the random lines that were to form an intelligent paragraph in the big history of little events.</p>
 			<p>“Our home, sir,” said Colonel Blaylock, removing his wide-brimmed, rather shapeless black felt hat, “is in Holly Springs⁠—Holly Springs, Georgia. I am very proud to make your acquaintance, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock and myself have just arrived in Okochee this morning, sir, on business⁠—business of importance in connection with the recent rapid march of progress in this section of our state.”</p>
 			<p>The Colonel smoothed back, with a sweeping gesture, his long, smooth, locks. His dark eyes, still fiery under the heavy black brows, seemed inappropriate to the face of a business man. He looked rather to be an old courtier handed down from the reign of Charles, and re-attired in a modern suit of fine, but raveling and seam-worn, broadcloth.</p>
 			<p>“Yes, sir,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom, in his heartiest prospectus voice, “things have been whizzing around Okochee. Biggest industrial revival and waking up to natural resources Georgia ever had. Did you happen to squeeze in on the ground floor in any of the gilt-edged grafts, Colonel?”</p>
 			<p>“Well, sir,” said the Colonel, hesitating in courteous doubt, “if I understand your question, I may say that I took the opportunity to make an investment that I believe will prove quite advantageous⁠—yes, sir, I believe it will result in both pecuniary profit and agreeable occupation.”</p>
-			<p>“Colonel Blaylock,” said the little elderly lady, shaking her gray curl and smiling indulgent explanation at J. Pinkney Bloom, “is so devoted to businesss. He has such a talent for financiering and markets and investments and those kind of things. I think myself extremely fortunate in having secured him for a partner on life’s journey⁠—I am so unversed in those formidable but very useful branches of learning.”</p>
+			<p>“Colonel Blaylock,” said the little elderly lady, shaking her gray curl and smiling indulgent explanation at <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom, “is so devoted to businesss. He has such a talent for financiering and markets and investments and those kind of things. I think myself extremely fortunate in having secured him for a partner on life’s journey⁠—I am so unversed in those formidable but very useful branches of learning.”</p>
 			<p>Colonel Blaylock rose and made a bow⁠—a bow that belonged with silk stockings and lace ruffles and velvet.</p>
 			<p>“Practical affairs,” he said, with a wave of his hand toward the promoter, “are, if I may use the comparison, the garden walks upon which we tread through life, viewing upon either side of us the flowers which brighten that journey. It is my pleasure to be able to lay out a walk or two. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock, sir, is one of those fortunate higher spirits whose mission it is to make the flowers grow. Perhaps, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom, you have perused the lines of Lorella, the Southern poetess. That is the name above which <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock has contributed to the press of the South for many years.”</p>
 			<p>“Unfortunately,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom, with a sense of the loss clearly written upon his frank face, “I’m like the Colonel⁠—in the walk-making business myself⁠—and I haven’t had time to even take a sniff at the flowers. Poetry is a line I never dealt in. It must be nice, though⁠—quite nice.”</p>
 			<p>“It is the region,” smiled <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock, “in which my soul dwells. My shawl, Peyton, if you please⁠—the breeze comes a little chilly from yon verdured hills.”</p>
 			<p>The Colonel drew from the tail pocket of his coat a small shawl of knitted silk and laid it solicitously about the shoulders of the lady. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock sighed contentedly, and turned her expressive eyes⁠—still as clear and unworldly as a child’s⁠—upon the steep slopes that were slowly slipping past. Very fair and stately they looked in the clear morning air. They seemed to speak in familiar terms to the responsive spirit of Lorella. “My native hills!” she murmured, dreamily. “See how the foliage drinks the sunlight from the hollows and dells.”</p>
-			<p>“<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock’s maiden days,” said the Colonel, interpreting her mood to J. Pinkney Bloom, “were spent among the mountains of northern Georgia. Mountain air and mountain scenery recall to her those days. Holly Springs, where we have lived for twenty years, is low and flat. I fear that she may have suffered in health and spirits by so long a residence there. That is one portent reason for the change we are making. My dear, can you not recall those lines you wrote⁠—entitled, I think, ‘The Georgia Hills’⁠—the poem that was so extensively copied by the Southern press and praised so highly by the Atlanta critics?”</p>
+			<p>“<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock’s maiden days,” said the Colonel, interpreting her mood to <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom, “were spent among the mountains of northern Georgia. Mountain air and mountain scenery recall to her those days. Holly Springs, where we have lived for twenty years, is low and flat. I fear that she may have suffered in health and spirits by so long a residence there. That is one portent reason for the change we are making. My dear, can you not recall those lines you wrote⁠—entitled, I think, ‘The Georgia Hills’⁠—the poem that was so extensively copied by the Southern press and praised so highly by the Atlanta critics?”</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock turned a glance of speaking tenderness upon the Colonel, fingered for a moment the silvery curl that drooped upon her bosom, then looked again toward the mountains. Without preliminary or affectation or demurral she began, in rather thrilling and more deeply pitched tones to recite these lines:</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:poem">
 				<p>
@@ -85,28 +85,28 @@
 					<span class="i1">Up in the Georgia hills.”</span>
 				</p>
 			</blockquote>
-			<p>“That’s great stuff, ma’am,” said J. Pinkney Bloom, enthusiastically, when the poetess had concluded. “I wish I had looked up poetry more than I have. I was raised in the pine hills myself.”</p>
+			<p>“That’s great stuff, ma’am,” said <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom, enthusiastically, when the poetess had concluded. “I wish I had looked up poetry more than I have. I was raised in the pine hills myself.”</p>
 			<p>“The mountains ever call to their children,” murmured <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock. “I feel that life will take on the rosy hue of hope again in among these beautiful hills. Peyton⁠—a little taste of the currant wine, if you will be so good. The journey, though delightful in the extreme, slightly fatigues me.” Colonel Blaylock again visited the depths of his prolific coat, and produced a tightly corked, rough, black bottle. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom was on his feet in an instant.</p>
 			<p>“Let me bring a glass, ma’am. You come along, Colonel⁠—there’s a little table we can bring, too. Maybe we can scare up some fruit or a cup of tea on board. I’ll ask Mac.”</p>
-			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock reclined at ease. Few royal ladies have held their royal prerogative with the serene grace of the petted Southern woman. The Colonel, with an air as gallant and assiduous as in the days of his courtship, and J. Pinkney Bloom, with a ponderous agility half professional and half directed by some resurrected, unnamed, long-forgotten sentiment, formed a diversified but attentive court. The currant wine⁠—wine home made from the Holly Springs fruit⁠—went round, and then J. Pinkney began to hear something of Holly Springs life.</p>
+			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock reclined at ease. Few royal ladies have held their royal prerogative with the serene grace of the petted Southern woman. The Colonel, with an air as gallant and assiduous as in the days of his courtship, and <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom, with a ponderous agility half professional and half directed by some resurrected, unnamed, long-forgotten sentiment, formed a diversified but attentive court. The currant wine⁠—wine home made from the Holly Springs fruit⁠—went round, and then <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney began to hear something of Holly Springs life.</p>
 			<p>It seemed (from the conversation of the Blaylocks) that the Springs was decadent. A third of the population had moved away. Business⁠—and the Colonel was an authority on business⁠—had dwindled to nothing. After carefully studying the field of opportunities open to capital he had sold his little property there for eight hundred dollars and invested it in one of the enterprises opened up by the book in Okochee.</p>
 			<p>“Might I inquire, sir,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom, “in what particular line of business you inserted your coin? I know that town as well as I know the regulations for illegal use of the mails. I might give you a hunch as to whether you can make the game go or not.”</p>
-			<p>J. Pinkney, somehow, had a kindly feeling toward these unsophisticated representatives of bygone days. They were so simple, impractical, and unsuspecting. He was glad that he happened not to have a gold brick or a block of that western Bad Boy Silver Mine stock along with him. He would have disliked to unload on people he liked so well as he did these; but there are some temptations toe enticing to be resisted.</p>
+			<p><abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney, somehow, had a kindly feeling toward these unsophisticated representatives of bygone days. They were so simple, impractical, and unsuspecting. He was glad that he happened not to have a gold brick or a block of that western Bad Boy Silver Mine stock along with him. He would have disliked to unload on people he liked so well as he did these; but there are some temptations toe enticing to be resisted.</p>
 			<p>“No, sir,” said Colonel Blaylock, pausing to arrange the queen’s wrap. “I did not invest in Okochee. I have made an exhaustive study of business conditions, and I regard old settled towns as unfavorable fields in which to place capital that is limited in amount. Some months ago, through the kindness of a friend, there came into my hands a map and description of this new town of Skyland that has been built upon the lake. The description was so pleasing, the future of the town set forth in such convincing arguments, and its increasing prosperity portrayed in such an attractive style that I decided to take advantage of the opportunity it offered. I carefully selected a lot in the centre of the business district, although its price was the highest in the schedule⁠—five hundred dollars⁠—and made the purchase at once.”</p>
-			<p>“Are you the man⁠—I mean, did you pay five hundred dollars for a lot in Skyland” asked J. Pinkney Bloom.</p>
+			<p>“Are you the man⁠—I mean, did you pay five hundred dollars for a lot in Skyland” asked <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom.</p>
 			<p>“I did, sir,” answered the Colonel, with the air of a modest millionaire explaining his success; “a lot most excellently situated on the same square with the opera house, and only two squares from the board of trade. I consider the purchase a most fortuitous one. It is my intention to erect a small building upon it at once, and open a modest book and stationery store. During past years I have met with many pecuniary reverses, and I now find it necessary to engage in some commercial occupation that will furnish me with a livelihood. The book and stationery business, though an humble one, seems to me not inapt nor altogether uncongenial. I am a graduate of the University of Virginia; and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock’s really wonderful acquaintance with belles-lettres and poetic literature should go far toward insuring success. Of course, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock would not personally serve behind the counter. With the nearly three hundred dollars I have remaining I can manage the building of a house, by giving a lien on the lot. I have an old friend in Atlanta who is a partner in a large book store, and he has agreed to furnish me with a stock of goods on credit, on extremely easy terms. I am pleased to hope, sir, that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock’s health and happiness will be increased by the change of locality. Already I fancy I can perceive the return of those roses that were once the hope and despair of Georgia cavaliers.”</p>
 			<p>Again followed that wonderful bow, as the Colonel lightly touched the pale cheek of the poetess. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock, blushing like a girl, shook her curl and gave the Colonel an arch, reproving tap. Secret of eternal youth⁠—where art thou? Every second the answer comes⁠—“Here, here, here.” Listen to thine own heartbeats, O weary seeker after external miracles.</p>
 			<p>“Those years,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock, “in Holly Springs were long, long, long. But now is the promised land in sight. Skyland!⁠—a lovely name.”</p>
 			<p>“Doubtless,” said the Colonel, “we shall be able to secure comfortable accommodations at some modest hotel at reasonable rates. Our trunks are in Okochee, to be forwarded when we shall have made permanent arrangements.”</p>
-			<p>J. Pinkney Bloom excused himself, went forward, and stood by the captain at the wheel.</p>
+			<p><abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom excused himself, went forward, and stood by the captain at the wheel.</p>
 			<p>“Mac,” said he, “do you remember my telling you once that I sold one of those five-hundred-dollar lots in Skyland?”</p>
 			<p>“Seems I do,” grinned Captain MacFarland.</p>
-			<p>“I’m not a coward, as a general rule,” went on the promoter, “but I always said that if I ever met the sucker that bought that lot I’d run like a turkey. Now, you see that old babe-in-the-wood over there? Well, he’s the boy that drew the prize. That was the only five-hundred-dollar lot that went. The rest ranged from ten dollars to two hundred. His wife writes poetry. She’s invented one about the high grounds of Georgia, that’s way up in G. They’re going to Skyland to open a book store.”</p>
-			<p>“Well,” said MacFarland, with another grin, “it’s a good thing you are along, <abbr>J. P.</abbr>; you can show ’em around town until they begin to feel at home.”</p>
-			<p>“He’s got three hundred dollars left to build a house and store with,” went on J. Pinkney, as if he were talking to himself. “And he thinks there’s an open house up there.”</p>
+			<p>“I’m not a coward, as a general rule,” went on the promoter, “but I always said that if I ever met the sucker that bought that lot I’d run like a turkey. Now, you see that old babe-in-the-wood over there? Well, he’s the boy that drew the prize. That was the only five-hundred-dollar lot that went. The rest ranged from ten dollars to two hundred. His wife writes poetry. She’s invented one about the high grounds of Georgia, that’s way up in <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">G</i>. They’re going to Skyland to open a book store.”</p>
+			<p>“Well,” said MacFarland, with another grin, “it’s a good thing you are along, <abbr class="name">J. P.</abbr>; you can show ’em around town until they begin to feel at home.”</p>
+			<p>“He’s got three hundred dollars left to build a house and store with,” went on <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney, as if he were talking to himself. “And he thinks there’s an open house up there.”</p>
 			<p>Captain MacFarland released the wheel long enough to give his leg a roguish slap.</p>
 			<p>“You old fat rascal!” he chuckled, with a wink.</p>
-			<p>“Mac, you’re a fool,” said J. Pinkney Bloom, coldly. He went back and joined the Blaylocks, where he sat, less talkative, with that straight furrow between his brows that always stood as a signal of schemes being shaped within.</p>
+			<p>“Mac, you’re a fool,” said <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom, coldly. He went back and joined the Blaylocks, where he sat, less talkative, with that straight furrow between his brows that always stood as a signal of schemes being shaped within.</p>
 			<p>“There’s a good many swindles connected with these booms,” he said presently. “What if this Skyland should turn out to be one⁠—that is, suppose business should be sort of dull there, and no special sale for books?”</p>
 			<p>“My dear sir,” said Colonel Blaylock, resting his hand upon the back of his wife’s chair, “three times I have been reduced to almost penury by the duplicity of others, but I have not yet lost faith in humanity. If I have been deceived again, still we may glean health and content, if not worldly profit. I am aware that there are dishonest schemers in the world who set traps for the unwary, but even they are not altogether bad. My dear, can you recall those verses entitled ‘He Giveth the Increase,’ that you composed for the choir of our church in Holly Springs?”</p>
 			<p>“That was four years ago,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blaylock; “perhaps I can repeat a verse or two.</p>
@@ -136,14 +136,14 @@
 			<p>“Ought to be in sight of the spires and gilded domes of Skyland now in a few minutes,” chirruped MacFarland, shaking with enjoyment.</p>
 			<p>“Go to the devil,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom, still pensive.</p>
 			<p>And now, upon the left bank, they caught a glimpse of a white village, high up on the hills, smothered among green trees. That was Cold Branch⁠—no boom town, but the slow growth of many years. Cold Branch lay on the edge of the grape and corn lands. The big country road ran just back of the heights. Cold Branch had nothing in common with the frisky ambition of Okochee with its impertinent lake.</p>
-			<p>“Mac,” said J. Pinkney suddenly, “I want you to stop at Cold Branch. There’s a landing there that they made to use sometimes when the river was up.”</p>
-			<p>“Can’t,” said the captain, grinning more broadly. “I’ve got the United States mails on board. Right today this boat’s in the government service. Do you want to have the poor old captain keelhauled by Uncle Sam? And the great city of Skyland, all disconsolate, waiting for its mail? I’m ashamed of your extravagance, <abbr class="name">J. P.</abbr>”</p>
-			<p>“Mac,” almost whispered J. Pinkney, in his danger-line voice, “I looked into the engine room of the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i> a while ago. Don’t you know of somebody that needs a new boiler? Cement and black Japan can’t hide flaws from me. And then, those shares of building and loan that you traded for repairs⁠—they were all yours, of course. I hate to mention these things, but⁠—”</p>
+			<p>“Mac,” said <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney suddenly, “I want you to stop at Cold Branch. There’s a landing there that they made to use sometimes when the river was up.”</p>
+			<p>“Can’t,” said the captain, grinning more broadly. “I’ve got the United States mails on board. Right today this boat’s in the government service. Do you want to have the poor old captain keelhauled by Uncle Sam? And the great city of Skyland, all disconsolate, waiting for its mail? I’m ashamed of your extravagance, <abbr class="name eoc">J. P.</abbr>”</p>
+			<p>“Mac,” almost whispered <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney, in his danger-line voice, “I looked into the engine room of the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i> a while ago. Don’t you know of somebody that needs a new boiler? Cement and black Japan can’t hide flaws from me. And then, those shares of building and loan that you traded for repairs⁠—they were all yours, of course. I hate to mention these things, but⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, come now, <abbr class="name">J. P.</abbr>,” said the captain. “You know I was just fooling. I’ll put you off at Cold Branch, if you say so.”</p>
 			<p>“The other passengers get off there, too,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom.</p>
 			<p>Further conversation was held, and in ten minutes the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i> turned her nose toward a little, cranky wooden pier on the left bank, and the captain, relinquishing the wheel to a roustabout, came to the passenger deck and made the remarkable announcement: “All out for Skyland.”</p>
-			<p>The Blaylocks and J. Pinkney Bloom disembarked, and the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i> proceeded on her way up the lake. Guided by the indefatigable promoter, they slowly climbed the steep hillside, pausing often to rest and admire the view. Finally they entered the village of Cold Branch. Warmly both the Colonel and his wife praised it for its homelike and peaceful beauty. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom conducted them to a two-story building on a shady street that bore the legend, “Pine-top Inn.” Here he took his leave, receiving the cordial thanks of the two for his attentions, the Colonel remarking that he thought they would spend the remainder of the day in rest, and take a look at his purchase on the morrow.</p>
-			<p>J. Pinkney Bloom walked down Cold Branch’s main street. He did not know this town, but he knew towns, and his feet did not falter. Presently he saw a sign over a door: “Frank E. Cooly, Attorney-at-Law and Notary Public.” A young man was <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cooly, and awaiting business.</p>
+			<p>The Blaylocks and <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom disembarked, and the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i> proceeded on her way up the lake. Guided by the indefatigable promoter, they slowly climbed the steep hillside, pausing often to rest and admire the view. Finally they entered the village of Cold Branch. Warmly both the Colonel and his wife praised it for its homelike and peaceful beauty. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom conducted them to a two-story building on a shady street that bore the legend, “Pine-top Inn.” Here he took his leave, receiving the cordial thanks of the two for his attentions, the Colonel remarking that he thought they would spend the remainder of the day in rest, and take a look at his purchase on the morrow.</p>
+			<p><abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom walked down Cold Branch’s main street. He did not know this town, but he knew towns, and his feet did not falter. Presently he saw a sign over a door: “Frank <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Cooly, Attorney-at-Law and Notary Public.” A young man was <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cooly, and awaiting business.</p>
 			<p>“Get your hat, son,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom, in his breezy way, “and a blank deed, and come along. It’s a job for you.”</p>
 			<p>“Now,” he continued, when <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cooly had responded with alacrity, “is there a bookstore in town?”</p>
 			<p>“One,” said the lawyer. “Henry Williams’s.”</p>
@@ -158,7 +158,7 @@
 			<p>“Your name, please?” asked the lawyer.</p>
 			<p>“Make it out to Peyton Blaylock,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom. “God knows how to spell it.”</p>
 			<p>Within thirty minutes Henry Williams was out of business, and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom stood on the brick sidewalk with <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cooly, who held in his hand the signed and attested deed.</p>
-			<p>“You’ll find the party at the Pinetop Inn,” said J. Pinkney Bloom. “Get it recorded, and take it down and give it to him. He’ll ask you a hell’s mint of questions; so here’s ten dollars for the trouble you’ll have in not being able to answer ’em. Never run much to poetry, did you, young man?”</p>
+			<p>“You’ll find the party at the Pinetop Inn,” said <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom. “Get it recorded, and take it down and give it to him. He’ll ask you a hell’s mint of questions; so here’s ten dollars for the trouble you’ll have in not being able to answer ’em. Never run much to poetry, did you, young man?”</p>
 			<p>“Well,” said the really talented Cooly, who even yet retained his right mind, “now and then.”</p>
 			<p>“Dig into it,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bloom, “it’ll pay you. Never heard a poem, now, that run something like this, did you?⁠—</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:poem">
@@ -173,7 +173,7 @@
 				</p>
 			</blockquote>
 			<p>“I believe not,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cooly.</p>
-			<p>“It’s a hymn,” said J. Pinkney Bloom. “Now, show me the way to a livery stable, son, for I’m going to hit the dirt road back to Okochee.”</p>
+			<p>“It’s a hymn,” said <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Pinkney Bloom. “Now, show me the way to a livery stable, son, for I’m going to hit the dirt road back to Okochee.”</p>
 		</section>
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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> H. 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, Pa., and the number of bones in the foreleg of a cat.</p>
+			<p>Daisy’s other suitor followed Joe by several months. He came to board in the house where she lived. His name was Dabster, and he was a philosopher. Though young, attainments stood out upon him like continental labels on a Passaic (<abbr class="postal">NJ</abbr>) suitcase. Knowledge he had kidnapped from cyclopedias and handbooks of useful information; but as for wisdom, when she passed he was left sniffling in the road without so much as the number of her motor car. He could and would tell you the proportion of water and muscle-making properties of peas and veal, the shortest verse in the Bible, the number of pounds of shingle nails required to fasten 256 shingles laid four inches to the weather, the population of Kankakee, Ill., the theories of Spinoza, the name of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr class="name">H.</abbr> McKay Twombly’s second hall footman, the length of the Hoosac Tunnel, the best time to set a hen, the salary of the railway post-office messenger between Driftwood and Red Bank Furnace, <abbr>Pa.</abbr>, and the number of bones in the foreleg of a cat.</p>
 			<p>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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@@ -28,7 +28,7 @@
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 				</footer>
 			</blockquote>
-			<p>The song was over. The words were David’s; the air, one of the countryside. The company about the inn table applauded heartily, for the young poet paid for the wine. Only the notary, M. Papineau, shook his head a little at the lines, for he was a man of books, and he had not drunk with the rest.</p>
+			<p>The song was over. The words were David’s; the air, one of the countryside. The company about the inn table applauded heartily, for the young poet paid for the wine. Only the notary, <abbr>M.</abbr> Papineau, shook his head a little at the lines, for he was a man of books, and he had not drunk with the rest.</p>
 			<p>David went out into the village street, where the night air drove the wine vapour from his head. And then he remembered that he and Yvonne had quarrelled that day, and that he had resolved to leave his home that night to seek fame and honour in the great world outside.</p>
 			<p>“When my poems are on every man’s tongue,” he told himself, in a fine exhilaration, “she will, perhaps, think of the hard words she spoke this day.”</p>
 			<p>Except the roisterers in the tavern, the village folk were abed. David crept softly into his room in the shed of his father’s cottage and made a bundle of his small store of clothing. With this upon a staff, he set his face outward upon the road that ran from Vernoy.</p>
@@ -237,10 +237,10 @@
 				<p>Then a year, and David’s father died. The sheep and the cottage descended to him. He already had the seemliest wife in the village. Yvonne’s milk pails and her brass kettles were bright⁠—ouf! they blinded you in the sun when you passed that way. But you must keep your eyes upon her yard, for her flower beds were so neat and gay they restored to you your sight. And you might hear her sing, aye, as far as the double chestnut tree above Père Gruneau’s blacksmith forge.</p>
 				<p>But a day came when David drew out paper from a long-shut drawer, and began to bite the end of a pencil. Spring had come again and touched his heart. Poet he must have been, for now Yvonne was well-nigh forgotten. This fine new loveliness of earth held him with its witchery and grace. The perfume from her woods and meadows stirred him strangely. Daily had he gone forth with his flock, and brought it safe at night. But now he stretched himself under the hedge and pieced words together on his bits of paper. The sheep strayed, and the wolves, perceiving that difficult poems make easy mutton, ventured from the woods and stole his lambs.</p>
 				<p>David’s stock of poems grew larger and his flock smaller. Yvonne’s nose and temper waxed sharp and her talk blunt. Her pans and kettles grew dull, but her eyes had caught their flash. She pointed out to the poet that his neglect was reducing the flock and bringing woe upon the household. David hired a boy to guard the sheep, locked himself in the little room at the top of the cottage, and wrote more poems. The boy, being a poet by nature, but not furnished with an outlet in the way of writing, spent his time in slumber. The wolves lost no time in discovering that poetry and sleep are practically the same; so the flock steadily grew smaller. Yvonne’s ill temper increased at an equal rate. Sometimes she would stand in the yard and rail at David through his high window. Then you could hear her as far as the double chestnut tree above Père Gruneau’s blacksmith forge.</p>
-				<p>M. Papineau, the kind, wise, meddling old notary, saw this, as he saw everything at which his nose pointed. He went to David, fortified himself with a great pinch of snuff, and said:</p>
+				<p><abbr>M.</abbr> Papineau, the kind, wise, meddling old notary, saw this, as he saw everything at which his nose pointed. He went to David, fortified himself with a great pinch of snuff, and said:</p>
 				<p>“Friend Mignot, I affixed the seal upon the marriage certificate of your father. It would distress me to be obliged to attest a paper signifying the bankruptcy of his son. But that is what you are coming to. I speak as an old friend. Now, listen to what I have to say. You have your heart set, I perceive, upon poetry. At Dreux, I have a friend, one Monsieur Bril⁠—Georges Bril. He lives in a little cleared space in a houseful of books. He is a learned man; he visits Paris each year; he himself has written books. He will tell you when the catacombs were made, how they found out the names of the stars, and why the plover has a long bill. The meaning and the form of poetry is to him as intelligent as the baa of a sheep is to you. I will give you a letter to him, and you shall take him your poems and let him read them. Then you will know if you shall write more, or give your attention to your wife and business.”</p>
 				<p>“Write the letter,” said David, “I am sorry you did not speak of this sooner.”</p>
-				<p>At sunrise the next morning he was on the road to Dreux with the precious roll of poems under his arm. At noon he wiped the dust from his feet at the door of Monsieur Bril. That learned man broke the seal of M. Papineau’s letter, and sucked up its contents through his gleaming spectacles as the sun draws water. He took David inside to his study and sat him down upon a little island beat upon by a sea of books.</p>
+				<p>At sunrise the next morning he was on the road to Dreux with the precious roll of poems under his arm. At noon he wiped the dust from his feet at the door of Monsieur Bril. That learned man broke the seal of <abbr>M.</abbr> Papineau’s letter, and sucked up its contents through his gleaming spectacles as the sun draws water. He took David inside to his study and sat him down upon a little island beat upon by a sea of books.</p>
 				<p>Monsieur Bril had a conscience. He flinched not even at a mass of manuscript the thickness of a finger length and rolled to an incorrigible curve. He broke the back of the roll against his knee and began to read. He slighted nothing; he bored into the lump as a worm into a nut, seeking for a kernel.</p>
 				<p>Meanwhile, David sat, marooned, trembling in the spray of so much literature. It roared in his ears. He held no chart or compass for voyaging in that sea. Half the world, he thought, must be writing books.</p>
 				<p>Monsieur Bril bored to the last page of the poems. Then he took off his spectacles, and wiped them with his handkerchief.</p>
@@ -268,7 +268,7 @@
 				<p>“The song of the crow!” said the poet.</p>
 				<p>He went up to his attic room and closed the door. So quiet was the village that a score of people heard the roar of the great pistol. They flocked thither, and up the stairs where the smoke, issuing, drew their notice.</p>
 				<p>The men laid the body of the poet upon his bed, awkwardly arranging it to conceal the torn plumage of the poor black crow. The women chattered in a luxury of zealous pity. Some of them ran to tell Yvonne.</p>
-				<p>M. Papineau, whose nose had brought him there among the first, picked up the weapon and ran his eye over its silver mountings with a mingled air of connoisseurship and grief.</p>
+				<p><abbr>M.</abbr> Papineau, whose nose had brought him there among the first, picked up the weapon and ran his eye over its silver mountings with a mingled air of connoisseurship and grief.</p>
 				<p>“The arms,” he explained, aside, to the curé, “and crest of Monseigneur, the Marquis de Beaupertuys.”</p>
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@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="round-the-circle" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">Round the Circle</h2>
 			<p>“Find yo’ shirt all right, Sam?” asked <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Webber, from her chair under the live-oak, where she was comfortably seated with a paperback volume for company.</p>
-			<p>“It balances perfeckly, Marthy,” answered Sam, with a suspicious pleasantness in his tone. “At first I was about ter be a little reckless and kick ‘cause ther buttons was all off, but since I diskiver that the button holes is all busted out, why, I wouldn’t go so fur as to say the buttons is any loss to speak of.”</p>
+			<p>“It balances perfeckly, Marthy,” answered Sam, with a suspicious pleasantness in his tone. “At first I was about ter be a little reckless and kick ’cause ther buttons was all off, but since I diskiver that the button holes is all busted out, why, I wouldn’t go so fur as to say the buttons is any loss to speak of.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, well,” said his wife, carelessly, “put on your necktie⁠—that’ll keep it together.”</p>
 			<p>Sam Webber’s sheep ranch was situated in the loneliest part of the country between the Nueces and the Frio. The ranch house⁠—a two-room box structure⁠—was on the rise of a gently swelling hill in the midst of a wilderness of high chaparral. In front of it was a small clearing where stood the sheep pens, shearing shed, and wool house. Only a few feet back of it began the thorny jungle.</p>
 			<p>Sam was going to ride over to the Chapman ranch to see about buying some more improved merino rams. At length he came out, ready for his ride. This being a business trip of some importance, and the Chapman ranch being almost a small town in population and size, Sam had decided to “dress up” accordingly. The result was that he had transformed himself from a graceful, picturesque frontiersman into something much less pleasing to the sight. The tight white collar awkwardly constricted his muscular, mahogany-colored neck. The buttonless shirt bulged in stiff waves beneath his unbuttoned vest. The suit of “ready-made” effectually concealed the fine lines of his straight, athletic figure. His berry-brown face was set to the melancholy dignity befitting a prisoner of state. He gave Randy, his three-year-old son, a pat on the head, and hurried out to where Mexico, his favorite saddle horse, was standing.</p>

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@@ -12,7 +12,7 @@
 			<p>I did not leave town that summer. I usually went down to a village on the south shore of Long Island. The place was surrounded by duck-farms, and the ducks and dogs and whippoorwills and rusty windmills made so much noise that I could sleep as peacefully as if I were in my own flat six doors from the elevated railroad in New York. But that summer I did not go. Remember that. One of my friends asked me why I did not. I replied:</p>
 			<p>“Because, old man, New York is the finest summer resort in the world.” You have heard that phrase before. But that is what I told him.</p>
 			<p>I was press-agent that year for Binkly &amp; Bing, the theatrical managers and producers. Of course you know what a press-agent is. Well, he is not. That is the secret of being one.</p>
-			<p>Binkly was touring France in his new C. &amp; N. Williamson car, and Bing had gone to Scotland to learn curling, which he seemed to associate in his mind with hot tongs rather than with ice. Before they left they gave me June and July, on salary, for my vacation, which act was in accord with their large spirit of liberality. But I remained in New York, which I had decided was the finest summer resort in⁠—</p>
+			<p>Binkly was touring France in his new <abbr>C. &amp; N.</abbr> Williamson car, and Bing had gone to Scotland to learn curling, which he seemed to associate in his mind with hot tongs rather than with ice. Before they left they gave me June and July, on salary, for my vacation, which act was in accord with their large spirit of liberality. But I remained in New York, which I had decided was the finest summer resort in⁠—</p>
 			<p>But I said that before.</p>
 			<p>On July the 10th, North came to town from his camp in the Adirondacks. Try to imagine a camp with sixteen rooms, plumbing, eiderdown quilts, a butler, a garage, solid silver plate, and a long-distance telephone. Of course it was in the woods⁠—if <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pinchot wants to preserve the forests let him give every citizen two or ten or thirty million dollars, and the trees will all gather around the summer camps, as the Birnam woods came to Dunsinane, and be preserved.</p>
 			<p>North came to see me in my three rooms and bath, extra charge for light when used extravagantly or all night. He slapped me on the back (I would rather have my shins kicked any day), and greeted me with out-door obstreperousness and revolting good spirits. He was insolently brown and healthy-looking, and offensively well dressed.</p>

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

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

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@@ -37,7 +37,7 @@
 			<p>James Williams belonged among the level heads. With necessary slowness he picked his way through the passengers down to the steps at the front of the car. His wife followed, but she first turned her eyes and saw the escaped tourist glide from behind the furniture van and slip behind a tree on the edge of the little park, not fifty feet away.</p>
 			<p>Descended to the ground, James Williams faced his captors with a smile. He was thinking what a good story he would have to tell in Cloverdale about having been mistaken for a burglar. The Rubberneck coach lingered, out of respect for its patrons. What could be a more interesting sight than this?</p>
 			<p>“My name is James Williams, of Cloverdale, Missouri,” he said kindly, so that they would not be too greatly mortified. “I have letters here that will show⁠—”</p>
-			<p>“You’ll come with us, please,” announced the plainclothes man. “ ‘Pinky’ McGuire’s description fits you like flannel washed in hot suds. A detective saw you on the Rubberneck up at Central Park and ‘phoned down to take you in. Do your explaining at the station-house.”</p>
+			<p>“You’ll come with us, please,” announced the plainclothes man. “ ‘Pinky’ McGuire’s description fits you like flannel washed in hot suds. A detective saw you on the Rubberneck up at Central Park and ’phoned down to take you in. Do your explaining at the station-house.”</p>
 			<p>James Williams’s wife⁠—his bride of two weeks⁠—looked him in the face with a strange, soft radiance in her eyes and a flush on her cheeks, looked him in the face and said:</p>
 			<p>“Go with ’em quietly, ‘Pinky,’ and maybe it’ll be in your favour.”</p>
 			<p>And then as the Glaring-at-Gotham car rolled away she turned and threw a kiss⁠—his wife threw a kiss⁠—at someone high up on the seats of the Rubberneck.</p>

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@@ -40,7 +40,7 @@
 			<p>The subsequent history of “Mice Will Play” 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="name">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 “Bluebeard, Jr.,” and “Cymbeline” played in the Russian.</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 “Bluebeard, <abbr>Jr.</abbr>,” and “Cymbeline” played in the Russian.</p>
 			<p>There were only two parts and a half in “Mice Will Play.” 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>
 			<p>And now for the thriller. Old “Arapahoe” Grimes dies of angina pectoris one night⁠—so Helen informs us in a stage-ferryboat whisper over the footlights⁠—while only his secretary was present. And that same day he was known to have had $647,000 in cash in his (ranch) library just received for the sale of a drove of beeves in the East (that accounts for the price we pay for steak!). The cash disappears at the same time. Jack Valentine was the only person with the ranchman when he made his (alleged) croak.</p>

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@@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<section id="suite-homes-and-their-romance" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">Suite Homes and Their Romance</h2>
-			<p>Few young couples in the Big-City-of-Bluff began their married existence with greater promise of happiness than did <abbr>Mr.</abbr> and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Claude Turpin. They felt no especial animosity toward each other; they were comfortably established in a handsome apartment house that had a name and accommodations like those of a sleeping-car; they were living as expensively as the couple on the next floor above who had twice their income; and their marriage had occurred on a wager, a ferryboat and first acquaintance, thus securing a sensational newspaper notice with their names attached to pictures of the Queen of Roumania and M. Santos-Dumont.</p>
+			<p>Few young couples in the Big-City-of-Bluff began their married existence with greater promise of happiness than did <abbr>Mr.</abbr> and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Claude Turpin. They felt no especial animosity toward each other; they were comfortably established in a handsome apartment house that had a name and accommodations like those of a sleeping-car; they were living as expensively as the couple on the next floor above who had twice their income; and their marriage had occurred on a wager, a ferryboat and first acquaintance, thus securing a sensational newspaper notice with their names attached to pictures of the Queen of Roumania and <abbr class="name">M.</abbr> Santos-Dumont.</p>
 			<p>Turpin’s income was $200 per month. On pay day, after calculating the amounts due for rent, instalments on furniture and piano, gas, and bills owed to the florist, confectioner, milliner, tailor, wine merchant and cab company, the Turpins would find that they still had $200 left to spend. How to do this is one of the secrets of metropolitan life.</p>
 			<p>The domestic life of the Turpins was a beautiful picture to see. But you couldn’t gaze upon it as you could at an oleograph of “Don’t Wake Grandma,” or “Brooklyn by Moonlight.”</p>
 			<p>You had to blink when looked at it; and you heard a fizzing sound just like the machine with a “scope” at the end of it. Yes; there wasn’t much repose about the picture of the Turpins’ domestic life. It was something like “Spearing Salmon in the Columbia River,” or “Japanese Artillery in Action.”</p>
@@ -21,7 +21,7 @@
 			<p>“Claudie, dear,” said she, touching her finger to her ruby tongue and testing the unresponsive curling irons, “you do me an injustice. <abbr>Mme.</abbr> Toinette has not seen a cent of mine since the day you paid your tailor ten dollars on account.”</p>
 			<p>Turpin’s suspicions were allayed for the time. But one day soon there came an anonymous letter to him that read:</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:letter">
-				<p>Watch your wife. She is blowing in your money secretly. I was a sufferer just as you are. The place is <abbr>No.</abbr> 345 Blank Street. A word to the wise, <abbr>etc.</abbr></p>
+				<p>Watch your wife. She is blowing in your money secretly. I was a sufferer just as you are. The place is <abbr>No.</abbr> 345 Blank Street. A word to the wise, <abbr class="eoc">etc.</abbr></p>
 				<p class="signature">A Man Who Knows.</p>
 			</blockquote>
 			<p>Turpin took this letter to the captain of police of the precinct that he lived in.</p>

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@@ -26,7 +26,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘How do they work off this unearth increment?’ I asks.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘They don’t,’ says the man. ‘It’s a case of “Ill fares the land with the great deal of velocity where wealth accumulates and there ain’t any reciprocity.” ’</p>
 			<p>“After this man and me got through our conversation, which left him dry of information, I shook hands with him and told him I was sorry I couldn’t believe him. And a month afterward I landed on the coast of this Gaudymala with $1,300 that I had been saving up for five years. I thought I knew what Indians liked, and I fixed myself accordingly. I loaded down four pack-mules with red woollen blankets, wrought-iron pails, jewelled side-combs for the ladies, glass necklaces, and safety-razors. I hired a black mozo, who was supposed to be a mule-driver and an interpreter too. It turned out that he could interpret mules all right, but he drove the English language much too hard. His name sounded like a Yale key when you push it in wrong side up, but I called him McClintock, which was close to the noise.</p>
-			<p>“Well, this gold village was forty miles up in the mountains, and it took us nine days to find it. But one afternoon McClintock led the other mules and myself over a rawhide bridge stretched across a precipice five thousand feet deep, it seemed to me. The hoofs of the beasts drummed on it just like before George M. Cohan makes his first entrance on the stage.</p>
+			<p>“Well, this gold village was forty miles up in the mountains, and it took us nine days to find it. But one afternoon McClintock led the other mules and myself over a rawhide bridge stretched across a precipice five thousand feet deep, it seemed to me. The hoofs of the beasts drummed on it just like before George <abbr class="name">M.</abbr> Cohan makes his first entrance on the stage.</p>
 			<p>“This village was built of mud and stone, and had no streets. Some few yellow-and-brown persons popped their heads out-of-doors, looking about like Welsh rabbits with Worcester sauce on em. Out of the biggest house, that had a kind of a porch around it, steps a big white man, red as a beet in color, dressed in fine tanned deerskin clothes, with a gold chain around his neck, smoking a cigar. I’ve seen United States Senators of his style of features and build, also head-waiters and cops.</p>
 			<p>“He walks up and takes a look at us, while McClintock disembarks and begins to interpret to the lead mule while he smokes a cigarette.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Hello, Buttinsky,’ says the fine man to me. ‘How did you get in the game? I didn’t see you buy any chips. Who gave you the keys of the city?’</p>

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

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

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@@ -28,7 +28,7 @@
 			<p>“A present,” said Trysdale, “from a friend. Know the species?”</p>
 			<p>“Very well. It’s a tropical concern. See hundreds of ’em around Punta every day. Here’s the name on this tag tied to it. Know any Spanish, Trysdale?”</p>
 			<p>“No,” said Trysdale, with the bitter wraith of a smile⁠—“Is it Spanish?”</p>
-			<p>“Yes. The natives imagine the leaves are reaching out and beckoning to you. They call it by this name⁠—Ventomarme. Name means in English, ‘Come and take me.’ ”</p>
+			<p>“Yes. The natives imagine the leaves are reaching out and beckoning to you. They call it by this name⁠—<i xml:lang="es">Ventomarme</i>. Name means in English, ‘Come and take me.’ ”</p>
 		</section>
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@@ -27,7 +27,7 @@
 			<p>“You go about it in a very peculiar way.”</p>
 			<p>“You have been cross with me all the evening without any cause.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, there isn’t any cause except⁠—you make me tired.”</p>
-			<p>Corny took out his card case and looked over his collection. He selected one that read: “<abbr>Mr.</abbr> R. Lionel Whyte-Melville, Bloomsbury Square, London.” This card he had inveigled from a tourist at the King Edward Hotel. Corny stepped up to the man and presented it with a correctly formal air.</p>
+			<p>Corny took out his card case and looked over his collection. He selected one that read: “<abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Lionel Whyte-Melville, Bloomsbury Square, London.” This card he had inveigled from a tourist at the King Edward Hotel. Corny stepped up to the man and presented it with a correctly formal air.</p>
 			<p>“May I ask why I am selected for the honour?” asked the lady’s escort.</p>
 			<p>Now, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Corny Brannigan had a very wise habit of saying little during his imitations of the Caliph of Bagdad. The advice of Lord Chesterfield: “Wear a black coat and hold your tongue,” he believed in without having heard. But now speech was demanded and required of him.</p>
 			<p>“No gent,” said Corny, “would talk to a lady like you done. Fie upon you, Willie! Even if she happens to be your wife you ought to have more respect for your clothes than to chin her back that way. Maybe it ain’t my butt-in, but it goes, anyhow⁠—you strike me as bein’ a whole lot to the wrong.”</p>

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@@ -15,12 +15,12 @@
 			<p>“It is,” said Jeff. “I never told you about the time when me and Andy Tucker was philanthropists, did I? It was eight years ago in Arizona. Andy and me was out in the Gila mountains with a two-horse wagon prospecting for silver. We struck it, and sold out to parties in Tucson for $25,000. They paid our check at the bank in silver⁠—a thousand dollars in a sack. We loaded it in our wagon and drove east a hundred miles before we recovered our presence of intellect. Twenty-five thousand dollars doesn’t sound like so much when you’re reading the annual report of the Pennsylvania Railroad or listening to an actor talking about his salary; but when you can raise up a wagon sheet and kick around your bootheel and hear every one of ’em ring against another it makes you feel like you was a night-and-day bank with the clock striking twelve.</p>
 			<p>“The third day out we drove into one of the most specious and tidy little towns that Nature or Rand and McNally ever turned out. It was in the foothills, and mitigated with trees and flowers and about 2,000 head of cordial and dilatory inhabitants. The town seemed to be called Floresville, and Nature had not contaminated it with many railroads, fleas or Eastern tourists.</p>
 			<p>“Me and Andy deposited our money to the credit of Peters and Tucker in the Esperanza Savings Bank, and got rooms at the Skyview Hotel. After supper we lit up, and sat out on the gallery and smoked. Then was when the philanthropy idea struck me. I suppose every grafter gets it sometime.</p>
-			<p>“When a man swindles the public out of a certain amount he begins to get scared and wants to return part of it. And if you’ll watch close and notice the way his charity runs you’ll see that he tries to restore it to the same people he got it from. As a hydrostatical case, take, let’s say, A. A made his millions selling oil to poor students who sit up nights studying political economy and methods for regulating the trusts. So, back to the universities and colleges goes his conscience dollars.</p>
-			<p>“There’s B got his from the common laboring man that works with his hands and tools. How’s he to get some of the remorse fund back into their overalls?</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Aha!’ says B, ‘I’ll do it in the name of Education. I’ve skinned the laboring man,’ says he to himself, ‘but, according to the old proverb, “Charity covers a multitude of skins.” ’</p>
+				<p>“When a man swindles the public out of a certain amount he begins to get scared and wants to return part of it. And if you’ll watch close and notice the way his charity runs you’ll see that he tries to restore it to the same people he got it from. As a hydrostatical case, take, let’s say, ‘A.’ ‘A’ made his millions selling oil to poor students who sit up nights studying political economy and methods for regulating the trusts. So, back to the universities and colleges goes his conscience dollars.</p>
+			<p>“There’s ‘B’ got his from the common laboring man that works with his hands and tools. How’s he to get some of the remorse fund back into their overalls?</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Aha!’ says ‘B’, ‘I’ll do it in the name of Education. I’ve skinned the laboring man,’ says he to himself, ‘but, according to the old proverb, “Charity covers a multitude of skins.” ’</p>
 			<p>“So he puts up eighty million dollars’ worth of libraries; and the boys with the dinner pail that builds ’em gets the benefit.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Where’s the books?’ asks the reading public.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘I dinna ken,’ says B. ‘I offered ye libraries; and there they are. I suppose if I’d given ye preferred steel trust stock instead ye’d have wanted the water in it set out in cut glass decanters. Hoot, for ye!’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘I dinna ken,’ says ‘B.’ ‘I offered ye libraries; and there they are. I suppose if I’d given ye preferred steel trust stock instead ye’d have wanted the water in it set out in cut glass decanters. Hoot, for ye!’</p>
 			<p>“But, as I said, the owning of so much money was beginning to give me philanthropitis. It was the first time me and Andy had ever made a pile big enough to make us stop and think how we got it.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Andy,’ says I, ‘we’re wealthy⁠—not beyond the dreams of average; but in our humble way we are comparatively as rich as Greasers. I feel as if I’d like to do something for as well as to humanity.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I was thinking the same thing, Jeff,’ says he. ‘We’ve been gouging the public for a long time with all kinds of little schemes from selling self-igniting celluloid collars to flooding Georgia with Hoke Smith presidential campaign buttons. I’d like, myself, to hedge a bet or two in the graft game if I could do it without actually banging the cymbalines in the Salvation Army or teaching a bible class by the Bertillon system.</p>
@@ -34,7 +34,7 @@
 			<p>“Well, sir, we finally got in shape. Over the front door was carved the words: ‘The World’s University; Peters &amp; Tucker, Patrons and Proprietors. And when September the first got a cross-mark on the calendar, the come-ons begun to roll in. First the faculty got off the tri-weekly express from Tucson. They was mostly young, spectacled, and redheaded, with sentiments divided between ambition and food. Andy and me got ’em billeted on the Floresvillians and then laid for the students.</p>
 			<p>“They came in bunches. We had advertised the University in all the state papers, and it did us good to see how quick the country responded. Two hundred and nineteen husky lads aging along from 18 up to chin whiskers answered the clarion call of free education. They ripped open that town, sponged the seams, turned it, lined it with new mohair; and you couldn’t have told it from Harvard or Goldfields at the March term of court.</p>
 			<p>“They marched up and down the streets waving flags with the World’s University colors⁠—ultramarine and blue⁠—and they certainly made a lively place of Floresville. Andy made them a speech from the balcony of the Skyview Hotel, and the whole town was out celebrating.</p>
-			<p>“In about two weeks the professors got the students disarmed and herded into classes. I don’t believe there’s any pleasure equal to being a philanthropist. Me and Andy bought high silk hats and pretended to dodge the two reporters of the Floresville Gazette. The paper had a man to kodak us whenever we appeared on the street, and ran our pictures every week over the column headed ‘Educational Notes.’ Andy lectured twice a week at the University; and afterward I would rise and tell a humorous story. Once the Gazette printed my pictures with Abe Lincoln on one side and Marshall P. Wilder on the other.</p>
+			<p>“In about two weeks the professors got the students disarmed and herded into classes. I don’t believe there’s any pleasure equal to being a philanthropist. Me and Andy bought high silk hats and pretended to dodge the two reporters of the Floresville Gazette. The paper had a man to kodak us whenever we appeared on the street, and ran our pictures every week over the column headed ‘Educational Notes.’ Andy lectured twice a week at the University; and afterward I would rise and tell a humorous story. Once the Gazette printed my pictures with Abe Lincoln on one side and Marshall <abbr class="name">P.</abbr> Wilder on the other.</p>
 			<p>“Andy was as interested in philanthropy as I was. We used to wake up of nights and tell each other new ideas for booming the University.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Andy,’ says I to him one day, ‘there’s something we overlooked. The boys ought to have dromedaries.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘What’s that?’ Andy asks.</p>

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@@ -28,8 +28,8 @@
 			<p>But tonight the pumpkin had turned to a coach and six. Terry O’Sullivan was a victorious Prince Charming, and Maggie Toole winged her first butterfly flight. And though our tropes of fairyland be mixed with those of entomology they shall not spill one drop of ambrosia from the rose-crowned melody of Maggie’s one perfect night.</p>
 			<p>The girls besieged her for introductions to her “fellow.” The Clover Leaf young men, after two years of blindness, suddenly perceived charms in Miss Toole. They flexed their compelling muscles before her and bespoke her for the dance.</p>
 			<p>Thus she scored; but to Terry O’Sullivan the honours of the evening fell thick and fast. He shook his curls; he smiled and went easily through the seven motions for acquiring grace in your own room before an open window ten minutes each day. He danced like a faun; he introduced manner and style and atmosphere; his words came trippingly upon his tongue, and⁠—he waltzed twice in succession with the paper-box girl that Dempsey Donovan brought.</p>
-			<p>Dempsey was the leader of the association. He wore a dress suit, and could chin the bar twice with one hand. He was one of “Big Mike” O’Sullivan’s lieutenants, and was never troubled by trouble. No cop dared to arrest him. Whenever he broke a pushcart man’s head or shot a member of the Heinrick B. Sweeney Outing and Literary Association in the kneecap, an officer would drop around and say:</p>
-			<p>“The Cap’n ‘d like to see ye a few minutes round to the office whin ye have time, Dempsey, me boy.”</p>
+			<p>Dempsey was the leader of the association. He wore a dress suit, and could chin the bar twice with one hand. He was one of “Big Mike” O’Sullivan’s lieutenants, and was never troubled by trouble. No cop dared to arrest him. Whenever he broke a pushcart man’s head or shot a member of the Heinrick <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Sweeney Outing and Literary Association in the kneecap, an officer would drop around and say:</p>
+			<p>“The Cap’n ’d like to see ye a few minutes round to the office whin ye have time, Dempsey, me boy.”</p>
 			<p>But there would be sundry gentlemen there with large gold fob chains and black cigars; and somebody would tell a funny story, and then Dempsey would go back and work half an hour with the six-pound dumbbells. So, doing a tightrope act on a wire stretched across Niagara was a safe terpsichorean performance compared with waltzing twice with Dempsey Donovan’s paper-box girl. At 10 o’clock the jolly round face of “Big Mike” O’Sullivan shone at the door for five minutes upon the scene. He always looked in for five minutes, smiled at the girls and handed out real perfectos to the delighted boys.</p>
 			<p>Dempsey Donovan was at his elbow instantly, talking rapidly. “Big Mike” looked carefully at the dancers, smiled, shook his head and departed.</p>
 			<p>The music stopped. The dancers scattered to the chairs along the walls. Terry O’Sullivan, with his entrancing bow, relinquished a pretty girl in blue to her partner and started back to find Maggie. Dempsey intercepted him in the middle of the floor.</p>

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

src/epub/text/the-day-we-celebrate.xhtml

@@ -28,7 +28,7 @@
 			<p>“When we saw the houses of Soledad between the trees all my disinclination toward this Liverpool Sam rose up in me. I stood him while we were two white men against the banana brindles; but now, when there were prospects of my exchanging even cuss words with an American citizen, I put him back in his proper place. And he was a sight, too, with his rum-painted nose and his red whiskers and elephant feet with leather sandals strapped to them. I suppose I looked about the same.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘It looks to me,’ says I, ‘like Great Britain ought to be made to keep such gin-swilling, scurvy, unbecoming mud larks as you at home instead of sending ’em over here to degrade and taint foreign lands. We kicked you out of America once and we ought to put on rubber boots and do it again.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Oh, you go to ‘ell,’ says Liverpool, which was about all the repartee he ever had.</p>
-			<p>“Well, Soledad, looked fine to me after Don Jaime ‘s plantation. Liverpool and me walked into it side by side, from force of habit, past the calabosa and the Hotel Grande, down across the plaza toward Chica’s hut, where we hoped that Liverpool, being a husband of hers, might work his luck for a meal.</p>
+			<p>“Well, Soledad, looked fine to me after Don Jaime’s plantation. Liverpool and me walked into it side by side, from force of habit, past the calabosa and the Hotel Grande, down across the plaza toward Chica’s hut, where we hoped that Liverpool, being a husband of hers, might work his luck for a meal.</p>
 			<p>“As we passed the two-story little frame house occupied by the American Club, we noticed that the balcony had been decorated all around with wreaths of evergreens and flowers, and the flag was flying from the pole on the roof. Stanzey, the consul, and Arkright, a goldmine owner, were smoking on the balcony. Me and Liverpool waved our dirty hands toward ’em and smiled real society smiles; but they turned their backs to us and went on talking. And we had played whist once with the two of ’em up to the time when Liverpool held all thirteen trumps for four hands in succession. It was some holiday, we knew; but we didn’t know the day nor the year.</p>
 			<p>“A little further along we saw a reverend man named Pendergast, who had come to Soledad to build a church, standing under a coconut palm with his little black alpaca coat and green umbrella.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Boys, boys!’ says he, through his blue spectacles, ‘is it as bad as this? Are you so far reduced?’</p>

src/epub/text/the-diamond-of-kali.xhtml

@@ -15,7 +15,7 @@
 			<p>The reporter stiffened a little around the lips; but he was whistling softly and contentedly between his teeth when I went over to talk with him about it an hour later.</p>
 			<p>“I don’t blame the ‘old man’,” said he, magnanimously, “for cutting it out. It did sound like funny business; but it happened exactly as I wrote it. Say, why don’t you fish that story out of the w.-b. and use it? Seems to me it’s as good as the tommyrot you write.”</p>
 			<p>I accepted the tip, and if you read further you will learn the facts about the diamond of the goddess Kali as vouched for by one of the most reliable reporters on the staff.</p>
-			<p>Gen. Marcellus B. Ludlow lives in one of those decaying but venerated old redbrick mansions in the West Twenties. The General is a member of an old New York family that does not advertise. He is a globetrotter by birth, a gentleman by predilection, a millionaire by the mercy of Heaven, and a connoisseur of precious stones by occupation.</p>
+			<p>Gen. Marcellus <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Ludlow lives in one of those decaying but venerated old redbrick mansions in the West Twenties. The General is a member of an old New York family that does not advertise. He is a globetrotter by birth, a gentleman by predilection, a millionaire by the mercy of Heaven, and a connoisseur of precious stones by occupation.</p>
 			<p>The reporter was admitted promptly when he made himself known at the General’s residence at about eight thirty on the evening that he received the assignment. In the magnificent library he was greeted by the distinguished traveller and connoisseur, a tall, erect gentleman in the early fifties, with a nearly white moustache, and a bearing so soldierly that one perceived in him scarcely a trace of the National Guardsman. His weather-beaten countenance lit up with a charming smile of interest when the reporter made known his errand.</p>
 			<p>“Ah, you have heard of my latest find. I shall be glad to show you what I conceive to be one of the six most valuable blue diamonds in existence.”</p>
 			<p>The General opened a small safe in a corner of the library and brought forth a plush-covered box. Opening this, he exposed to the reporter’s bewildered gaze a huge and brilliant diamond⁠—nearly as large as a hailstone.</p>
@@ -27,7 +27,7 @@
 			<p>“When the moon rose the depression in the clearing was suddenly filled with hundreds of shadowy, swiftly gliding forms. Then a door opened in the temple, exposing a brightly illuminated image of the goddess Kali, before which a white-robed priest began a barbarous incantation, while the tribe of worshippers prostrated themselves upon the earth.</p>
 			<p>“But what interested me most was the central eye of the huge wooden idol. I could see by its flashing brilliancy that it was an immense diamond of the purest water.</p>
 			<p>“After the rites were concluded the Thugs slipped away into the forest as silently as they had come. The priest stood for a few minutes in the door of the temple enjoying the cool of the night before closing his rather warm quarters. Suddenly a dark, lithe shadow slipped down into the hollow, leaped upon the priest; and struck him down with a glittering knife. Then the murderer sprang at the image of the goddess like a cat and pried out the glowing central eye of Kali with his weapon. Straight toward me he ran with his royal prize. When he was within two paces I rose to my feet and struck him with all my force between the eyes. He rolled over senseless and the magnificent jewel fell from his hand. That is the splendid blue diamond you have just seen⁠—a stone worthy of a monarch’s crown.”</p>
-			<p>“That’s a corking story,” said the reporter. “That decanter is exactly like the one that John W. Gates always sets out during an interview.”</p>
+			<p>“That’s a corking story,” said the reporter. “That decanter is exactly like the one that John <abbr class="name">W.</abbr> Gates always sets out during an interview.”</p>
 			<p>“Pardon me,” said General Ludlow, “for forgetting hospitality in the excitement of my narrative. Help yourself.”</p>
 			<p>“Here’s looking at you,” said the reporter.</p>
 			<p>“What I am afraid of now,” said the General, lowering his voice, “is that I may be robbed of the diamond. The jewel that formed an eye of their goddess is their most sacred symbol. Somehow the tribe suspected me of having it; and members of the band have followed me half around the earth. They are the most cunning and cruel fanatics in the world, and their religious vows would compel them to assassinate the unbeliever who has desecrated their sacred treasure.</p>
@@ -68,7 +68,7 @@
 			<p>“Come on, Reddy,” said one. “Let’s go frisk the old ‘un. He’s been showin’ a sparkler as big as a hen egg all around Eighth Avenue for two weeks past.”</p>
 			<p>“Not on your silhouette,” decided Reddy. “You see ’em rallyin’ round The Pump? They’re friends of Bill’s. Bill won’t stand for nothin’ of this kind in his district since he got that bid to Esopus.”</p>
 			<p>This exhausts the facts concerning the Kali diamond. But it is deemed not inconsequent to close with the following brief (paid) item that appeared two days later in a morning paper.</p>
-			<p>“It is rumored that a niece of Gen. Marcellus B. Ludlow, of New York City, will appear on the stage next season.</p>
+			<p>“It is rumored that a niece of Gen. Marcellus <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Ludlow, of New York City, will appear on the stage next season.</p>
 			<p>“Her diamonds are said to be extremely valuable and of much historic interest.”</p>
 		</section>
 	</body>

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

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@@ -12,7 +12,7 @@
 			<p>New York City is inhabited by 4,000,000 mysterious strangers; thus beating Bird Centre by three millions and half a dozen nine’s. They came here in various ways and for many reasons⁠—Hendrik Hudson, the art schools, green goods, the stork, the annual dressmakers’ convention, the Pennsylvania Railroad, love of money, the stage, cheap excursion rates, brains, personal column ads., heavy walking shoes, ambition, freight trains⁠—all these have had a hand in making up the population.</p>
 			<p>But every man Jack when he first sets foot on the stones of Manhattan has got to fight. He has got to fight at once until either he or his adversary wins. There is no resting between rounds, for there are no rounds. It is slugging from the first. It is a fight to a finish.</p>
 			<p>Your opponent is the City. You must do battle with it from the time the ferryboat lands you on the island until either it is yours or it has conquered you. It is the same whether you have a million in your pocket or only the price of a week’s lodging.</p>
-			<p>The battle is to decide whether you shall become a New Yorker or turn the rankest outlander and Philistine. You must be one or the other. You cannot remain neutral. You must be for or against⁠—lover or enemy⁠—bosom friend or outcast. And, oh, the city is a general in the ring. Not only by blows does it seek to subdue you. It woos you to its heart with the subtlety of a siren. It is a combination of Delilah, green Chartreuse, Beethoven, chloral and John L. in his best days.</p>
+			<p>The battle is to decide whether you shall become a New Yorker or turn the rankest outlander and Philistine. You must be one or the other. You cannot remain neutral. You must be for or against⁠—lover or enemy⁠—bosom friend or outcast. And, oh, the city is a general in the ring. Not only by blows does it seek to subdue you. It woos you to its heart with the subtlety of a siren. It is a combination of Delilah, green Chartreuse, Beethoven, chloral and John <abbr class="name">L.</abbr> in his best days.</p>
 			<p>In other cities you may wander and abide as a stranger man as long as you please. You may live in Chicago until your hair whitens, and be a citizen and still prate of beans if Boston mothered you, and without rebuke. You may become a civic pillar in any other town but Knickerbocker’s, and all the time publicly sneering at its buildings, comparing them with the architecture of Colonel Telfair’s residence in Jackson, Miss., whence you hail, and you will not be set upon. But in New York you must be either a New Yorker or an invader of a modern Troy, concealed in the wooden horse of your conceited provincialism. And this dreary preamble is only to introduce to you the unimportant figures of William and Jack.</p>
 			<p>They came out of the West together, where they had been friends. They came to dig their fortunes out of the big city.</p>
 			<p>Father Knickerbocker met them at the ferry, giving one a right-hander on the nose and the other an uppercut with his left, just to let them know that the fight was on.</p>
@@ -21,7 +21,7 @@
 			<p>“Billy,” he said, “you’re done for. The city has gobbled you up. It has taken you and cut you to its pattern and stamped you with its brand. You are so nearly like ten thousand men I have seen today that you couldn’t be picked out from them if it weren’t for your laundry marks.”</p>
 			<p>“Camembert,” finished William. “What’s that? Oh, you’ve still got your hammer out for New York, have you? Well, little old Noisyville-on-the-Subway is good enough for me. It’s giving me mine. And, say, I used to think the West was the whole round world⁠—only slightly flattened at the poles whenever Bryan ran. I used to yell myself hoarse about the free expense, and hang my hat on the horizon, and say cutting things in the grocery to little soap drummers from the East. But I’d never seen New York, then, Jack. Me for it from the rathskellers up. Sixth Avenue is the West to me now. Have you heard this fellow Crusoe sing? The desert isle for him, I say, but my wife made me go. Give me May Irwin or <abbr class="name">E. S.</abbr> Willard any time.”</p>
 			<p>“Poor Billy,” said the artist, delicately fingering a cigarette. “You remember, when we were on our way to the East how we talked about this great, wonderful city, and how we meant to conquer it and never let it get the best of us? We were going to be just the same fellows we had always been, and never let it master us. It has downed you, old man. You have changed from a maverick into a butterick.”</p>
-			<p>“Don’t see exactly what you are driving at,” said William. “I don’t wear an alpaca coat with blue trousers and a seersucker vest on dress occasions, like I used to do at home. You talk about being cut to a pattern⁠—well, ain’t the pattern all right? When you’re in Rome you’ve got to do as the Dagoes do. This town seems to me to have other alleged metropolises skinned to flag stations. According to the railroad schedule I’ve got in mind, Chicago and Saint Jo and Paris, France, are asterisk stops⁠—which means you wave a red flag and get on every other Tuesday. I like this little suburb of Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson. There’s something or somebody doing all the time. I’m clearing $8,000 a year selling automatic pumps, and I’m living like kings-up. Why, yesterday, I was introduced to John W. Gates. I took an auto ride with a wine agent’s sister. I saw two men run over by a street car, and I seen Edna May play in the evening. Talk about the West, why, the other night I woke everybody up in the hotel hollering. I dreamed I was walking on a board sidewalk in Oshkosh. What have you got against this town, Jack? There’s only one thing in it that I don’t care for, and that’s a ferryboat.”</p>
+			<p>“Don’t see exactly what you are driving at,” said William. “I don’t wear an alpaca coat with blue trousers and a seersucker vest on dress occasions, like I used to do at home. You talk about being cut to a pattern⁠—well, ain’t the pattern all right? When you’re in Rome you’ve got to do as the Dagoes do. This town seems to me to have other alleged metropolises skinned to flag stations. According to the railroad schedule I’ve got in mind, Chicago and Saint Jo and Paris, France, are asterisk stops⁠—which means you wave a red flag and get on every other Tuesday. I like this little suburb of Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson. There’s something or somebody doing all the time. I’m clearing $8,000 a year selling automatic pumps, and I’m living like kings-up. Why, yesterday, I was introduced to John <abbr class="name">W.</abbr> Gates. I took an auto ride with a wine agent’s sister. I saw two men run over by a street car, and I seen Edna May play in the evening. Talk about the West, why, the other night I woke everybody up in the hotel hollering. I dreamed I was walking on a board sidewalk in Oshkosh. What have you got against this town, Jack? There’s only one thing in it that I don’t care for, and that’s a ferryboat.”</p>
 			<p>The artist gazed dreamily at the cartridge paper on the wall. “This town,” said he, “is a leech. It drains the blood of the country. Whoever comes to it accepts a challenge to a duel. Abandoning the figure of the leech, it is a juggernaut, a Moloch, a monster to which the innocence, the genius, and the beauty of the land must pay tribute. Hand to hand every newcomer must struggle with the leviathan. You’ve lost, Billy. It shall never conquer me. I hate it as one hates sin or pestilence or⁠—the color work in a ten-cent magazine. I despise its very vastness and power. It has the poorest millionaires, the littlest great men, the lowest skyscrapers, the dolefulest pleasures of any town I ever saw. It has caught you, old man, but I will never run beside its chariot wheels. It glosses itself as the Chinaman glosses his collars. Give me the domestic finish. I could stand a town ruled by wealth or one ruled by an aristocracy; but this is one controlled by its lowest ingredients. Claiming culture, it is the crudest; asseverating its preeminence, it is the basest; denying all outside values and virtue, it is the narrowest. Give me the pure and the open heart of the West country. I would go back there tomorrow if I could.”</p>
 			<p>“Don’t you like this filet mignon?” said William. “Shucks, now, what’s the use to knock the town! It’s the greatest ever. I couldn’t sell one automatic pump between Harrisburg and Tommy O’Keefe’s saloon, in Sacramento, where I sell twenty here. And have you seen Sara Bernhardt in ‘Andrew Mack’ yet?”</p>
 			<p>“The town’s got you, Billy,” said Jack.</p>

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@@ -39,7 +39,7 @@
 			<p>“Oh, see!” exclaimed Miss Lydia, nudging his arm, and pointing to her programme.</p>
 			<p>The major put on his glasses and read the line in the cast of characters that her finger indicated.</p>
 			<blockquote>
-				<p>Col. Webster Calhoun. … H. Hopkins Hargraves.</p>
+				<p><abbr>Col.</abbr> Webster Calhoun. … <abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Hopkins Hargraves.</p>
 			</blockquote>
 			<p>“It’s our <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hargraves,” said Miss Lydia. “It must be his first appearance in what he calls ‘the legitimate.’ I’m so glad for him.”</p>
 			<p>Not until the second act did Col. Webster Calhoun appear upon the stage. When he made his entry Major Talbot gave an audible sniff, glared at him, and seemed to freeze solid. Miss Lydia uttered a little, ambiguous squeak and crumpled her programme in her hand. For Colonel Calhoun was made up as nearly resembling Major Talbot as one pea does another. The long, thin white hair, curly at the ends, the aristocratic beak of a nose, the crumpled, wide, ravelling shirt front, the string tie, with the bow nearly under one ear, were almost exactly duplicated. And then, to clinch the imitation, he wore the twin to the major’s supposed to be unparalleled coat. High-collared, baggy, empire-waisted, ample-skirted, hanging a foot lower in front than behind, the garment could have been designed from no other pattern. From then on, the major and Miss Lydia sat bewitched, and saw the counterfeit presentment of a haughty Talbot “dragged,” as the major afterward expressed it, “through the slanderous mire of a corrupt stage.”</p>
@@ -118,7 +118,7 @@
 				<p>There is something else I wanted you to know. I guess you’d better not tell Major Talbot. I was anxious to make him some amends for the great help he was to me in studying the part, and for the bad humour he was in about it. He refused to let me, so I did it anyhow. I could easily spare the three hundred.</p>
 				<footer>
 					<p epub:type="z3998:valediction">Sincerely yours,</p>
-					<p class="signature">H. Hopkins Hargraves,</p>
+					<p class="signature"><abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Hopkins Hargraves,</p>
 					<p epub:type="z3998:postscript"><abbr>P. S.</abbr> How did I play Uncle Mose?</p>
 				</footer>
 			</blockquote>

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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 Musee, 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, N. C, 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 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>“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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@@ -14,8 +14,8 @@
 			<p>The Governor’s walks up Lee Avenue, the principal street, developed in their course into a sort of memorial, triumphant procession. Everyone he met saluted him with profound respect. Many would remove their hats. Those who were honoured with his personal friendship would pause to shake hands, and then you would see exemplified the genuine beau ideal Southern courtesy.</p>
 			<p>Upon reaching the corner of the second square from the mansion, the Governor would pause. Another street crossed the venue there, and traffic, to the extent of several farmers’ wagons and a peddler’s cart or two, would rage about the junction. Then the falcon eye of General Deffenbaugh would perceive the situation, and the General would hasten, with ponderous solicitude, from his office in the First National Bank building to the assistance of his old friend.</p>
 			<p>When the two exchanged greetings the decay of modern manners would become accusingly apparent. The General’s bulky and commanding figure would bend lissomely at a point where you would have regarded its ability to do so with incredulity. The Governor would take the General’s arm and be piloted safely between the hay-wagons and the sprinkling-cart to the other side of the street. Proceeding to the post-office in the care of his friend, the esteemed statesmen would there hold an informal levee among the citizens who were come for their morning mail. Here, gathering two or three prominent in law, politics, or family, the pageant would make a stately progress along the Avenue, stopping at the Palace Hotel, where, perhaps, would be found upon the register the name of some guest deemed worthy of an introduction to the state’s venerable and illustrious son. If any such were found, an hour or two would be spent in recalling the faded glories of the Governor’s long-vanished administration.</p>
-			<p>On the return march the General would invariably suggest that, His Excellency being no doubt fatigued, it would be wise to recuperate for a few minutes at the Drug Emporium of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Appleby R. Fentress (an elegant gentleman, sir⁠—one of the Chatham County Fentresses⁠—so many of our best-blooded families have had to go into trade, sir, since the war).</p>
-			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Appleby R. Fentress was a connoisseur in fatigue. Indeed, if he had not been, his memory alone should have enabled him to prescribe, for the majestic invasion of his pharmacy was a casual happening that had surprised him almost daily for years. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fentress knew the formula of, and possessed the skill to compound, a certain potion antagonistic to fatigue, the salient ingredient of which he described (no doubt in pharmaceutical terms) as “genuine old handmade Clover Leaf ’59, Private Stock.”</p>
+			<p>On the return march the General would invariably suggest that, His Excellency being no doubt fatigued, it would be wise to recuperate for a few minutes at the Drug Emporium of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Appleby <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Fentress (an elegant gentleman, sir⁠—one of the Chatham County Fentresses⁠—so many of our best-blooded families have had to go into trade, sir, since the war).</p>
+			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Appleby <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Fentress was a connoisseur in fatigue. Indeed, if he had not been, his memory alone should have enabled him to prescribe, for the majestic invasion of his pharmacy was a casual happening that had surprised him almost daily for years. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fentress knew the formula of, and possessed the skill to compound, a certain potion antagonistic to fatigue, the salient ingredient of which he described (no doubt in pharmaceutical terms) as “genuine old handmade Clover Leaf ’59, Private Stock.”</p>
 			<p>Nor did the ceremony of administering the potion ever vary. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fentress would first compound two of the celebrated mixtures⁠—one for the Governor, and the other for the General to “sample.” Then the Governor would make this little speech in his high, piping, quavering voice:</p>
 			<p>“No, sir⁠—not one drop until you have prepared one for yourself and join us, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fentress. Your father, sir, was one of my most valued supporters and friends during My Administration, and any mark of esteem I can confer upon his son is not only a pleasure but a duty, sir.”</p>
 			<p>Blushing with delight at the royal condescension, the druggist would obey, and all would drink to the General’s toast: “The prosperity of our grand old state, gentlemen⁠—the memory of her glorious past⁠—the health of her Favourite Son.”</p>
@@ -76,7 +76,7 @@
 			<p>Elmville watched and harked with bated breath. Never until now⁠—when a Northern President of the United States should clasp hands with ex-war-Governor Pemberton would the breach be entirely closed⁠—would the country be made one and indivisible⁠—no North, not much South, very little East, and no West to speak of. So Elmville excitedly scraped kalsomine from the walls of the Palace Hotel with its Sunday best, and waited for the Voice to speak.</p>
 			<p>And Billy! We had nearly forgotten Billy. He was cast for Son, and he waited patiently for his cue. He carried his “plug” in his hand, and felt serene. He admired his father’s striking air and pose. After all, it was a great deal to be a son of a man who could so gallantly hold the position of a cynosure for three generations.</p>
 			<p>General Deffenbaugh cleared his throat. Elmville opened its mouth, and squirmed. The chieftain with the kindly, fateful face was holding out his hand, smiling. Ex-war-Governor Pemberton extended his own across the chasm. But what was this the General was saying?</p>
-			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> President, allow me to present to you one who has the honour to be the father of our foremost, distinguished citizen, learned and honoured jurist, beloved townsman, and model Southern gentleman⁠—the Honourable William B. Pemberton.”</p>
+			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> President, allow me to present to you one who has the honour to be the father of our foremost, distinguished citizen, learned and honoured jurist, beloved townsman, and model Southern gentleman⁠—the Honourable William <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Pemberton.”</p>
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@@ -31,7 +31,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Shucks, now,’ says I, in the mountain idiom, ‘don’t tell me there’s a man in Mount Nebo as bad as that.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Worse,’ says the storekeeper. ‘He steals hogs.’</p>
 			<p>“I think I will look up this <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Tatum; so a day or two after the constable turned him out I got acquainted with him and invited him out on the edge of town to sit on a log and talk business.</p>
-			<p>“What I wanted was a partner with a natural rural makeup to play a part in some little one-act outrages that I was going to book with the Pitfall &amp; Gin circuit in some of the Western towns; and this R. Tatum was born for the role as sure as nature cast Fairbanks for the stuff that kept Eliza from sinking into the river.</p>
+			<p>“What I wanted was a partner with a natural rural makeup to play a part in some little one-act outrages that I was going to book with the Pitfall &amp; Gin circuit in some of the Western towns; and this <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Tatum was born for the role as sure as nature cast Fairbanks for the stuff that kept Eliza from sinking into the river.</p>
 			<p>“He was about the size of a first baseman; and he had ambiguous blue eyes like the china dog on the mantelpiece that Aunt Harriet used to play with when she was a child. His hair waved a little bit like the statue of the dinkus-thrower at the Vacation in Rome, but the color of it reminded you of the ‘Sunset in the Grand Canon, by an American Artist,’ that they hang over the stovepipe holes in the salongs. He was the Reub, without needing a touch. You’d have known him for one, even if you’d seen him on the vaudeville stage with one cotton suspender and a straw over his ear.</p>
 			<p>“I told him what I wanted, and found him ready to jump at the job.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Overlooking such a trivial little peccadillo as the habit of manslaughter,’ says I, ‘what have you accomplished in the way of indirect brigandage or nonactionable thriftiness that you could point to, with or without pride, as an evidence of your qualifications for the position?’</p>
@@ -83,15 +83,15 @@
 			<p>“I took the pig by the hind leg. He turned on a squeal like the steam calliope at the circus.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Let me tote him in for you,’ says Rufe; and he picks up the beast under one arm, holding his snout with the other hand, and packs him into my room like a sleeping baby.</p>
 			<p>“After breakfast Rufe, who had a chronic case of haberdashery ever since I got his trousseau, says he believes he will amble down to Misfitzky’s and look over some royal-purple socks. And then I got as busy as a one-armed man with the nettle-rash pasting on wallpaper. I found an old Negro man with an express wagon to hire; and we tied the pig in a sack and drove down to the circus grounds.</p>
-			<p>“I found George B. Tapley in a little tent with a window flap open. He was a fattish man with an immediate eye, in a black skullcap, with a four-ounce diamond screwed into the bosom of his red sweater.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Are you George B. Tapley?’ I asks.</p>
+			<p>“I found George <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Tapley in a little tent with a window flap open. He was a fattish man with an immediate eye, in a black skullcap, with a four-ounce diamond screwed into the bosom of his red sweater.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Are you George <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Tapley?’ I asks.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I swear it,’ says he.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Well, I’ve got it,’ says I.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Designate,’ says he. ‘Are you the guinea pigs for the Asiatic python or the alfalfa for the sacred buffalo?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Neither,’ says I. ‘I’ve got Beppo, the educated hog, in a sack in that wagon. I found him rooting up the flowers in my front yard this morning. I’ll take the five thousand dollars in large bills, if it’s handy.’</p>
-			<p>“George B. hustles out of his tent, and asks me to follow. We went into one of the sideshows. In there was a jet black pig with a pink ribbon around his neck lying on some hay and eating carrots that a man was feeding to him.</p>
+			<p>“George <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> hustles out of his tent, and asks me to follow. We went into one of the sideshows. In there was a jet black pig with a pink ribbon around his neck lying on some hay and eating carrots that a man was feeding to him.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Hey, Mac,’ calls <abbr class="name eoc">G. B.</abbr> ‘Nothing wrong with the worldwide this morning, is there?’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Him? No,’ says the man. ‘He’s got an appetite like a chorus girl at 1 <abbr class="time">a.m.</abbr>’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Him? No,’ says the man. ‘He’s got an appetite like a chorus girl at 1 <abbr class="time eoc">a.m.</abbr>’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘How’d you get this pipe?’ says Tapley to me. ‘Eating too many pork chops last night?’</p>
 			<p>“I pulls out the paper and shows him the ad.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Fake,’ says he. ‘Don’t know anything about it. You’ve beheld with your own eyes the marvelous, worldwide porcine wonder of the four-footed kingdom eating with preternatural sagacity his matutinal meal, unstrayed and unstole. Good morning.’</p>

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@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="the-fourth-in-salvador" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Fourth in Salvador</h2>
 			<p>On a summer’s day, while the city was rocking with the din and red uproar of patriotism, Billy Casparis told me this story.</p>
-			<p>In his way, Billy is Ulysses, Jr. Like Satan, he comes from going to and fro upon the earth and walking up and down in it. Tomorrow morning while you are cracking your breakfast egg he may be off with his little alligator grip to boom a town site in the middle of Lake Okeechobee or to trade horses with the Patagonians.</p>
+			<p>In his way, Billy is Ulysses, <abbr class="eoc">Jr.</abbr> Like Satan, he comes from going to and fro upon the earth and walking up and down in it. Tomorrow morning while you are cracking your breakfast egg he may be off with his little alligator grip to boom a town site in the middle of Lake Okeechobee or to trade horses with the Patagonians.</p>
 			<p>We sat at a little, round table, and between us were glasses holding big lumps of ice, and above us leaned an artificial palm. And because our scene was set with the properties of the one they recalled to his mind, Billy was stirred to narrative.</p>
 			<p>“It reminds me,” said he, “of a Fourth I helped to celebrate down in Salvador. ’Twas while I was running an ice factory down there, after I unloaded that silver mine I had in Colorado. I had what they called a ‘conditional concession.’ They made me put up a thousand dollars cash forfeit that I would make ice continuously for six months. If I did that I could draw down my ante. If I failed to do so the government took the pot. So the inspectors kept dropping in, trying to catch me without the goods.</p>
 			<p>“One day when the thermometer was at 110, the clock at half-past one, and the calendar at July third, two of the little, brown, oily nosers in red trousers slid in to make an inspection. Now, the factory hadn’t turned out a pound of ice in three weeks, for a couple of reasons. The Salvador heathen wouldn’t buy it; they said it made things cold they put it in. And I couldn’t make any more, because I was broke. All I was holding on for was to get down my thousand so I could leave the country. The six months would be up on the sixth of July.</p>

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@@ -11,7 +11,7 @@
 			<p>One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.</p>
 			<p>There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.</p>
 			<p>While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.</p>
-			<p>In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name “<abbr>Mr.</abbr> James Dillingham Young.” The “Dillingham” had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, the letters of “Dillingham” looked blurred, as though they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever <abbr>Mr.</abbr> James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called “Jim” and greatly hugged by <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.</p>
+			<p>In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name “<abbr>Mr.</abbr> James Dillingham Young.” The “Dillingham” had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, the letters of “Dillingham” looked blurred, as though they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">D</i>. But whenever <abbr>Mr.</abbr> James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called “Jim” and greatly hugged by <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.</p>
 			<p>Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a grey cat walking a grey fence in a grey backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling⁠—something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honour of being owned by Jim.</p>
 			<p>There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.</p>
 			<p>Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its colour within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.</p>

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@@ -39,7 +39,7 @@
 			<p>“You’re a liar,” sang back Kelley, joyfully. “You’re the Secretary of War. Wait there till I come up. I’ve got the finest thing down here in the way of a fish you ever baited for. It’s a Colorado-maduro, with a gold band around it and free coupons enough to buy a red hall lamp and a statuette of Psyche rubbering in the brook. I’ll be up on the next car.”</p>
 			<p>Jimmy Dunn was an <abbr>A. M.</abbr> of Crookdom. He was an artist in the confidence line. He never saw a bludgeon in his life; and he scorned knockout drops. In fact, he would have set nothing before an intended victim but the purest of drinks, if it had been possible to procure such a thing in New York. It was the ambition of “Spider” Kelley to elevate himself into Jimmy’s class.</p>
 			<p>These two gentlemen held a conference that night at McCrary’s. Kelley explained.</p>
-			<p>“He’s as easy as a gumshoe. He’s from the Island of Colombia, where there’s a strike, or a feud, or something going on, and they’ve sent him up here to buy 2,000 Winchesters to arbitrate the thing with. He showed me two drafts for $10,000 each, and one for $5,000 on a bank here. ‘S truth, Jimmy, I felt real mad with him because he didn’t have it in thousand-dollar bills, and hand it to me on a silver waiter. Now, we’ve got to wait till he goes to the bank and gets the money for us.”</p>
+			<p>“He’s as easy as a gumshoe. He’s from the Island of Colombia, where there’s a strike, or a feud, or something going on, and they’ve sent him up here to buy 2,000 Winchesters to arbitrate the thing with. He showed me two drafts for $10,000 each, and one for $5,000 on a bank here. ’S truth, Jimmy, I felt real mad with him because he didn’t have it in thousand-dollar bills, and hand it to me on a silver waiter. Now, we’ve got to wait till he goes to the bank and gets the money for us.”</p>
 			<p>They talked it over for two hours, and then Dunn said; “Bring him to No. ⸻ Broadway, at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”</p>
 			<p>In due time Kelley called at the Hotel Español for the General. He found the wily warrior engaged in delectable conversation with <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> O’Brien.</p>
 			<p>“The Secretary of War is waitin’ for us,” said Kelley.</p>

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

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@@ -17,7 +17,7 @@
 			<p>Now, Uncle Bushrod was treasurer of the Sons and Daughters of the Burning Bush. Every association he belonged to made him treasurer without hesitation. He stood AA1 in coloured circles. He was understood among them to be <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bushrod Weymouth, of the Weymouth Bank.</p>
 			<p>The night following the day on which <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Robert mentioned his intended fishing-trip the old man woke up and rose from his bed at twelve o’clock, declaring he must go down to the bank and fetch the passbook of the Sons and Daughters, which he had forgotten to bring home. The bookkeeper had balanced it for him that day, put the cancelled checks in it, and snapped two elastic bands around it. He put but one band around other passbooks.</p>
 			<p>Aunt Malindy objected to the mission at so late an hour, denouncing it as foolish and unnecessary, but Uncle Bushrod was not to be deflected from duty.</p>
-			<p>“I done told Sister Adaline Hoskins,” he said, “to come by here for dat book to-morrer mawnin’ at sebin o’clock, for to kyar’ it to de meetin’ of de bo’d of ‘rangements, and dat book gwine to be here when she come.”</p>
+			<p>“I done told Sister Adaline Hoskins,” he said, “to come by here for dat book to-morrer mawnin’ at sebin o’clock, for to kyar’ it to de meetin’ of de bo’d of ’rangements, and dat book gwine to be here when she come.”</p>
 			<p>So, Uncle Bushrod put on his old brown suit, got his thick hickory stick, and meandered through the almost deserted streets of Weymouthville. He entered the bank, unlocking the side door, and found the passbook where he had left it, in the little back room used for consultations, where he always hung his coat. Looking about casually, he saw that everything was as he had left it, and was about to start for home when he was brought to a standstill by the sudden rattle of a key in the front door. Someone came quickly in, closed the door softly, and entered the counting-room through the door in the iron railing.</p>
 			<p>That division of the bank’s space was connected with the back room by a narrow passageway, now in deep darkness.</p>
 			<p>Uncle Bushrod, firmly gripping his hickory stick, tiptoed gently up this passage until he could see the midnight intruder into the sacred precincts of the Weymouth Bank. One dim gas-jet burned there, but even in its nebulous light he perceived at once that the prowler was the bank’s president.</p>

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@@ -41,7 +41,7 @@
 			<p>Fluently came the “Miss Lizzie,” for the Kid was known to be one who required rigid upholdment of the dignity of his fiancée.</p>
 			<p>“I’m lookin’ for ’m,” said Liz, after the chaser had sputtered under her nose. “It’s got to me that he says he’ll take Annie Karlson to the dance. Let him. The pink-eyed white rat! I’m lookin’ for ‘m. You know me, Tommy. Two years me and the Kid’s been engaged. Look at that ring. Five hundred, he said it cost. Let him take her to the dance. What’ll I do? I’ll cut his heart out. Another whiskey, Tommy.”</p>
 			<p>“I wouldn’t listen to no such reports, Miss Lizzie,” said the waiter smoothly, from the narrow opening above his chin. “Kid Mullaly’s not the guy to throw a lady like you down. Seltzer on the side?”</p>
-			<p>“Two years,” repeated Liz, softening a little to sentiment under the magic of the distiller’s art. “I always used to play out on the street of evenin’s ‘cause there was nothin’ doin’ for me at home. For a long time I just sat on doorsteps and looked at the lights and the people goin’ by. And then the Kid came along one evenin’ and sized me up, and I was mashed on the spot for fair. The first drink he made me take I cried all night at home, and got a lickin’ for makin’ a noise. And now⁠—say, Tommy, you ever see this Annie Karlson? If it wasn’t for peroxide the chloroform limit would have put her out long ago. Oh, I’m lookin’ for ‘m. You tell the Kid if he comes in. Me? I’ll cut his heart out. Leave it to me. Another whiskey, Tommy.”</p>
+			<p>“Two years,” repeated Liz, softening a little to sentiment under the magic of the distiller’s art. “I always used to play out on the street of evenin’s ’cause there was nothin’ doin’ for me at home. For a long time I just sat on doorsteps and looked at the lights and the people goin’ by. And then the Kid came along one evenin’ and sized me up, and I was mashed on the spot for fair. The first drink he made me take I cried all night at home, and got a lickin’ for makin’ a noise. And now⁠—say, Tommy, you ever see this Annie Karlson? If it wasn’t for peroxide the chloroform limit would have put her out long ago. Oh, I’m lookin’ for ‘m. You tell the Kid if he comes in. Me? I’ll cut his heart out. Leave it to me. Another whiskey, Tommy.”</p>
 			<p>A little unsteadily, but with watchful and brilliant eyes, Liz walked up the avenue. On the doorstep of a brick tenement a curly-haired child sat, puzzling over the convolutions of a tangled string. Liz flopped down beside her, with a crooked, shifting smile on her flushed face. But her eyes had grown clear and artless of a sudden.</p>
 			<p>“Let me show you how to make a cat’s-cradle, kid,” she said, tucking her green silk skirt under her rusty shoes.</p>
 			<p>And while they sat there the lights were being turned on for the dance in the hall of the Small Hours Social Club. It was the bimonthly dance, a dress affair in which the members took great pride and bestirred themselves huskily to further and adorn.</p>

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@@ -34,7 +34,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘An’⁠—let’s see⁠—oh, yes⁠—‘An anachronism,’ says the boss. ‘Cigarettes was not made at the time when halberdiers was invented.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘The ones you sell was,’ says Sir Percival. ‘Caporal wins from chronology by the length of a cork tip.’ So he gets ’em and lights one, and puts the box in his brass helmet, and goes back to patrolling the Rindslosh.</p>
 			<p>“He made a big hit, ’specially with the ladies. Some of ’em would poke him with their fingers to see if he was real or only a kind of a stuffed figure like they burn in elegy. And when he’d move they’d squeak, and make eyes at him as they went up to the slosh. He looked fine in his halberdashery. He slept at $2 a week in a hall-room on Third Avenue. He invited me up there one night. He had a little book on the washstand that he read instead of shopping in the saloons after hours. ‘I’m on to that,’ says I, ‘from reading about it in novels. All the heroes on the bum carry the little book. It’s either Tantalus or Liver or Horace, and its printed in Latin, and you’re a college man. And I wouldn’t be surprised,’ says I, ‘if you wasn’t educated, too.’ But it was only the batting averages of the League for the last ten years.</p>
-			<p>“One night, about half past eleven, there comes in a party of these high-rollers that are always hunting up new places to eat in and poke fun at. There was a swell girl in a 40 H.-P. auto tan coat and veil, and a fat old man with white side-whiskers, and a young chap that couldn’t keep his feet off the tail of the girl’s coat, and an oldish lady that looked upon life as immoral and unnecessary. ‘How perfectly delightful,’ they says, ‘to sup in a slosh.’ Up the stairs they go; and in half a minute back down comes the girl, her skirts swishing like the waves on the beach. She stops on the landing and looks our halberdier in the eye.</p>
+			<p>“One night, about half past eleven, there comes in a party of these high-rollers that are always hunting up new places to eat in and poke fun at. There was a swell girl in a 40 <abbr class="initialism">HP</abbr> auto tan coat and veil, and a fat old man with white side-whiskers, and a young chap that couldn’t keep his feet off the tail of the girl’s coat, and an oldish lady that looked upon life as immoral and unnecessary. ‘How perfectly delightful,’ they says, ‘to sup in a slosh.’ Up the stairs they go; and in half a minute back down comes the girl, her skirts swishing like the waves on the beach. She stops on the landing and looks our halberdier in the eye.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘You!’ she says, with a smile that reminded me of lemon sherbet. I was waiting upstairs in the slosh, then, and I was right down here by the door, putting some vinegar and cayenne into an empty bottle of tabasco, and I heard all they said.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘It,’ says Sir Percival, without moving. ‘I’m only local colour. Are my hauberk, helmet, and halberd on straight?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Is there an explanation to this?’ says she. ‘Is it a practical joke such as men play in those Griddlecake and Lamb Clubs? I’m afraid I don’t see the point. I heard, vaguely, that you were away. For three months I⁠—we have not seen you or heard from you.’</p>

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@@ -26,7 +26,7 @@
 			<p>“She had on a low necked dress covered with silver spangles, and diamond rings and ear bobs. Her arms was bare; and she was using a desk telephone with one hand, and drinking tea with the other.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Well, boys,’ says she after a bit, ‘what is it?’</p>
 			<p>“I told her in as few words as possible what we wanted for Bill, and the price we could pay.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Those western appointments,’ says she, ‘are easy. Le’me see, now,’ says she, ‘who could put that through for us. No use fooling with the Territorial delegates. I guess,’ says she, ‘that Senator Sniper would be about the man. He’s from somewheres in the West. Let’s see how he stands on my private menu card.’ She takes some papers out of a pigeonhole with the letter ‘S’ over it.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Those western appointments,’ says she, ‘are easy. Le’me see, now,’ says she, ‘who could put that through for us. No use fooling with the Territorial delegates. I guess,’ says she, ‘that Senator Sniper would be about the man. He’s from somewheres in the West. Let’s see how he stands on my private menu card.’ She takes some papers out of a pigeonhole with the letter <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">S</i> over it.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Yes,’ says she, ‘he’s marked with a star; that means “ready to serve.” Now, let’s see. “Age 55; married twice; Presbyterian, likes blondes, Tolstoy, poker and stewed terrapin; sentimental at third bottle of wine.” Yes,’ she goes on, ‘I am sure I can have your friend, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bummer, appointed Minister to Brazil.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Humble,’ says I. ‘And United States Marshal was the berth.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Oh, yes,’ says <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Avery. ‘I have so many deals of this sort I sometimes get them confused. Give me all the memoranda you have of the case, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters, and come back in four days. I think it can be arranged by then.’</p>
@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘A woman like that,’ says Andy, ‘ought to lead a man to the highest positions of opulence and fame.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I misdoubt,’ says I, ‘if any woman ever helped a man to secure a job any more than to have his meals ready promptly and spread a report that the other candidate’s wife had once been a shoplifter. They are no more adapted for business and politics,’ says I, ‘than Algernon Charles Swinburne is to be floor manager at one of Chuck Connor’s annual balls. I know,’ says I to Andy, ‘that sometimes a woman seems to step out into the kalsomine light as the charge d’affaires of her man’s political job. But how does it come out? Say, they have a neat little berth somewhere as foreign consul of record to Afghanistan or lockkeeper on the Delaware and Raritan Canal. One day this man finds his wife putting on her overshoes and three months supply of bird seed into the canary’s cage. “Sioux Falls?” he asks with a kind of hopeful light in his eye. “No, Arthur,” says she, “Washington. We’re wasted here,” says she. “You ought to be Toady Extraordinary to the Court of <abbr>St.</abbr> Bridget or Head Porter of the Island of Porto Rico. I’m going to see about it.”</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Then this lady,’ I says to Andy, ‘moves against the authorities at Washington with her baggage and munitions, consisting of five dozen indiscriminating letters written to her by a member of the Cabinet when she was 15; a letter of introduction from King Leopold to the Smithsonian Institution, and a pink silk costume with canary colored spats.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Well and then what?’ I goes. ‘She has the letters printed in the evening papers that match her costume, she lectures at an informal tea given in the palm room of the B. &amp; O. Depot and then calls on the President. The ninth Assistant Secretary of Commerce and Labor, the first aide-de-camp of the Blue Room and an unidentified colored man are waiting there to grasp her by the hands⁠—and feet. They carry her out to <abbr>S.W. B.</abbr> street and leave her on a cellar door. That ends it. The next time we hear of her she is writing postcards to the Chinese Minister asking him to get Arthur a job in a tea store.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Well and then what?’ I goes. ‘She has the letters printed in the evening papers that match her costume, she lectures at an informal tea given in the palm room of the <abbr>B. &amp; O.</abbr> Depot and then calls on the President. The ninth Assistant Secretary of Commerce and Labor, the first aide-de-camp of the Blue Room and an unidentified colored man are waiting there to grasp her by the hands⁠—and feet. They carry her out to <abbr>S.W. B.</abbr> street and leave her on a cellar door. That ends it. The next time we hear of her she is writing postcards to the Chinese Minister asking him to get Arthur a job in a tea store.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Then,’ says Andy, ‘you don’t think <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Avery will land the Marshalship for Bill?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I do not,’ says I. ‘I do not wish to be a septic, but I doubt if she can do as well as you and me could have done.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I don’t agree with you,’ says Andy. ‘I’ll bet you she does. I’m proud of having a higher opinion of the talent and the powers of negotiation of ladies.’</p>

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@@ -59,7 +59,7 @@
 			<p>“It’s right plausible of you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pratt,” says <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson, “to take up the curmudgeons in your friend’s behalf; but it don’t alter the fact that he has made proposals to me sufficiently obnoxious to ruffle the ignominy of any lady.”</p>
 			<p>“Why, now, now, now!” says I. “Old Idaho do that! I could believe it of myself, sooner. I never knew but one thing to deride in him; and a blizzard was responsible for that. Once while we was snowbound in the mountains he became a prey to a kind of spurious and uneven poetry, which may have corrupted his demeanour.”</p>
 			<p>“It has,” says <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson. “Ever since I knew him he has been reciting to me a lot of irreligious rhymes by some person he calls Ruby Ott, and who is no better than she should be, if you judge by her poetry.”</p>
-			<p>“Then Idaho has struck a new book,” says I, “for the one he had was by a man who writes under the nom de plume of <abbr class="name">K. M.</abbr>”</p>
+			<p>“Then Idaho has struck a new book,” says I, “for the one he had was by a man who writes under the nom de plume of <abbr class="name eoc">K. M.</abbr>”</p>
 			<p>“He’d better have stuck to it,” says <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson, “whatever it was. And today he caps the vortex. I get a bunch of flowers from him, and on ’em is pinned a note. Now, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pratt, you know a lady when you see her; and you know how I stand in Rosa society. Do you think for a moment that I’d skip out to the woods with a man along with a jug of wine and a loaf of bread, and go singing and cavorting up and down under the trees with him? I take a little claret with my meals, but I’m not in the habit of packing a jug of it into the brush and raising Cain in any such style as that. And of course he’d bring his book of verses along, too. He said so. Let him go on his scandalous picnics alone! Or let him take his Ruby Ott with him. I reckon she wouldn’t kick unless it was on account of there being too much bread along. And what do you think of your gentleman friend now, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pratt?”</p>
 			<p>“Well, ’m,” says I, “it may be that Idaho’s invitation was a kind of poetry, and meant no harm. May be it belonged to the class of rhymes they call figurative. They offend law and order, but they get sent through the mails on the grounds that they mean something that they don’t say. I’d be glad on Idaho’s account if you’d overlook it,” says I, “and let us extricate our minds from the low regions of poetry to the higher planes of fact and fancy. On a beautiful afternoon like this, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson,” I goes on, “we should let our thoughts dwell accordingly. Though it is warm here, we should remember that at the equator the line of perpetual frost is at an altitude of fifteen thousand feet. Between the latitudes of forty degrees and forty-nine degrees it is from four thousand to nine thousand feet.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pratt,” says <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sampson, “it’s such a comfort to hear you say them beautiful facts after getting such a jar from that minx of a Ruby’s poetry!”</p>

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@@ -47,7 +47,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Seems to me I do,’ says I. ‘But such things happen so often they don’t linger long in the human Texas mind. Did they overtake, overhaul, seize, or lay hands upon the despoiler?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘He escaped,’ says Ogden. ‘And I was just reading in a paper to-day that the officers have tracked him down into this part of the country. It seems the bills the robber got were all the first issue of currency to the Second National Bank of Espinosa City. And so they’ve followed the trail where they’ve been spent, and it leads this way.’</p>
 			<p>“Ogden pours out some more Bourbon, and shoves me the bottle.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘I imagine,’ says I, after ingurgitating another modicum of the royal booze, ‘that it wouldn’t be at all a disingenuous idea for a train robber to run down into this part of the country to hide for a spell. A sheep-ranch, now,’ says I, ‘would be the finest kind of a place. Who’d ever expect to find such a desperate character among these song-birds and muttons and wild flowers? And, by the way,’ says I, kind of looking H. Ogden over, ‘was there any description mentioned of this single-handed terror? Was his lineaments or height and thickness or teeth fillings or style of habiliments set forth in print?’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘I imagine,’ says I, after ingurgitating another modicum of the royal booze, ‘that it wouldn’t be at all a disingenuous idea for a train robber to run down into this part of the country to hide for a spell. A sheep-ranch, now,’ says I, ‘would be the finest kind of a place. Who’d ever expect to find such a desperate character among these song-birds and muttons and wild flowers? And, by the way,’ says I, kind of looking <abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Ogden over, ‘was there any description mentioned of this single-handed terror? Was his lineaments or height and thickness or teeth fillings or style of habiliments set forth in print?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Why, no,’ says Ogden; ‘they say nobody got a good sight of him because he wore a mask. But they know it was a train-robber called Black Bill, because he always works alone and because he dropped a handkerchief in the express-car that had his name on it.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘All right,’ says I. ‘I approve of Black Bill’s retreat to the sheep-ranges. I guess they won’t find him.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘There’s one thousand dollars reward for his capture,’ says Ogden.</p>
@@ -86,7 +86,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘I’ll drink,’ says I, ‘to any man who’s a friend to a friend. And I believe that Black Bill,’ I goes on, ‘would be that. So here’s to Black Bill, and may he have good luck.’</p>
 			<p>“And both of us drank.</p>
 			<p>“About two weeks later comes shearing-time. The sheep had to be driven up to the ranch, and a lot of frowzy-headed Mexicans would snip the fur off of them with back-action scissors. So the afternoon before the barbers were to come I hustled my underdone muttons over the hill, across the dell, down by the winding brook, and up to the ranch-house, where I penned ’em in a corral and bade ’em my nightly adieus.</p>
-			<p>“I went from there to the ranch-house. I find H. Ogden, Esquire, lying asleep on his little cot bed. I guess he had been overcome by anti-insomnia or diswakefulness or some of the diseases peculiar to the sheep business. His mouth and vest were open, and he breathed like a second-hand bicycle pump. I looked at him and gave vent to just a few musings. ‘Imperial Caesar,’ says I, ‘asleep in such a way, might shut his mouth and keep the wind away.’</p>
+			<p>“I went from there to the ranch-house. I find <abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Ogden, Esquire, lying asleep on his little cot bed. I guess he had been overcome by anti-insomnia or diswakefulness or some of the diseases peculiar to the sheep business. His mouth and vest were open, and he breathed like a second-hand bicycle pump. I looked at him and gave vent to just a few musings. ‘Imperial Caesar,’ says I, ‘asleep in such a way, might shut his mouth and keep the wind away.’</p>
 			<p>“A man asleep is certainly a sight to make angels weep. What good is all his brain, muscle, backing, nerve, influence, and family connections? He’s at the mercy of his enemies, and more so of his friends. And he’s about as beautiful as a cab-horse leaning against the Metropolitan Opera House at 12:30 <abbr class="time">a.m.</abbr> dreaming of the plains of Arabia. Now, a woman asleep you regard as different. No matter how she looks, you know it’s better for all hands for her to be that way.</p>
 			<p>“Well, I took a drink of Bourbon and one for Ogden, and started in to be comfortable while he was taking his nap. He had some books on his table on indigenous subjects, such as Japan and drainage and physical culture⁠—and some tobacco, which seemed more to the point.</p>
 			<p>“After I’d smoked a few, and listened to the sartorial breathing of <abbr class="name">H. O.</abbr>, I happened to look out the window toward the shearing-pens, where there was a kind of a road coming up from a kind of a road across a kind of a creek farther away.</p>
@@ -115,12 +115,12 @@
 			<p>“The leader of the posse shakes Ogden and wakes him up. And then he jumps up, and two more of the reward-hunters grab him. Ogden was mighty tough with all his slimness, and he gives ’em as neat a single-footed tussle against odds as I ever see.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘What does this mean?’ he says, after they had him down.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘You’re scooped in, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Black Bill,’ says the captain. ‘That’s all.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘It’s an outrage,’ says H. Ogden, madder yet.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘It’s an outrage,’ says <abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Ogden, madder yet.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘It was,’ says the peace-and-good-will man. ‘The Katy wasn’t bothering you, and there’s a law against monkeying with express packages.’</p>
-			<p>“And he sits on H. Ogden’s stomach and goes through his pockets symptomatically and careful.</p>
+			<p>“And he sits on <abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Ogden’s stomach and goes through his pockets symptomatically and careful.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I’ll make you perspire for this,’ says Ogden, perspiring some himself. ‘I can prove who I am.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘So can I,’ says the captain, as he draws from H. Ogden’s inside coat-pocket a handful of new bills of the Second National Bank of Espinosa City. ‘Your regular engraved Tuesdays-and-Fridays visiting-card wouldn’t have a louder voice in proclaiming your indemnity than this here currency. You can get up now and prepare to go with us and expatriate your sins.’</p>
-			<p>“H. Ogden gets up and fixes his necktie. He says no more after they have taken the money off of him.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘So can I,’ says the captain, as he draws from <abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Ogden’s inside coat-pocket a handful of new bills of the Second National Bank of Espinosa City. ‘Your regular engraved Tuesdays-and-Fridays visiting-card wouldn’t have a louder voice in proclaiming your indemnity than this here currency. You can get up now and prepare to go with us and expatriate your sins.’</p>
+			<p>“<abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Ogden gets up and fixes his necktie. He says no more after they have taken the money off of him.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘A well-greased idea,’ says the sheriff captain, admiring, ‘to slip off down here and buy a little sheep-ranch where the hand of man is seldom heard. It was the slickest hide-out I ever see,’ says the captain.</p>
 			<p>“So one of the men goes to the shearing-pen and hunts up the other herder, a Mexican they call John Sallies, and he saddles Ogden’s horse, and the sheriffs all ride up close around him with their guns in hand, ready to take their prisoner to town.</p>
 			<p>“Before starting, Ogden puts the ranch in John Sallies’ hands and gives him orders about the shearing and where to graze the sheep, just as if he intended to be back in a few days. And a couple of hours afterward one Percival Saint Clair, an ex-sheep-herder of the Rancho Chiquito, might have been seen, with a hundred and nine dollars⁠—wages and blood-money⁠—in his pocket, riding south on another horse belonging to said ranch.”</p>
@@ -128,7 +128,7 @@
 			<p>The fat, seedy man at his side sniffed, and shook his frowzy head slowly and disparagingly.</p>
 			<p>“What is it, Snipy?” asked the other. “Got the blues again?”</p>
 			<p>“No, I ain’t” said the seedy one, sniffing again. “But I don’t like your talk. You and me have been friends, off and on, for fifteen year; and I never yet knew or heard of you giving anybody up to the law⁠—not no one. And here was a man whose saleratus you had et and at whose table you had played games of cards⁠—if casino can be so called. And yet you inform him to the law and take money for it. It never was like you, I say.”</p>
-			<p>“This H. Ogden,” resumed the red-faced man, “through a lawyer, proved himself free by alibis and other legal terminalities, as I so heard afterward. He never suffered no harm. He did me favors, and I hated to hand him over.”</p>
+			<p>“This <abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Ogden,” resumed the red-faced man, “through a lawyer, proved himself free by alibis and other legal terminalities, as I so heard afterward. He never suffered no harm. He did me favors, and I hated to hand him over.”</p>
 			<p>“How about the bills they found in his pocket?” asked the seedy man.</p>
 			<p>“I put ’em there,” said the red-faced man, “while he was asleep, when I saw the posse riding up. I was Black Bill. Look out, Snipy, here she comes! We’ll board her on the bumpers when she takes water at the tank.”</p>
 		</section>

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@@ -72,7 +72,7 @@
 				<p>The derelict touched my sleeve with his forefinger, for emphasis, as he explained his parable.</p>
 				<p>“Every man,” said he, with some dignity, “has got his lamps on something that looks good to him. With you, it’s this dame that you’re afraid to say your say to. With me, it was to win out in the ring. Well, you’ll lose just like I did.”</p>
 				<p>“Why do you think I shall lose?” I asked warmly.</p>
-				<p>“ ‘Cause,” said he, “you’re afraid to go in the ring. You dassen’t stand up before a professional. Your case and mine is just the same. You’re a amateur; and that means that you’d better keep outside of the ropes.”</p>
+				<p>“ ’Cause,” said he, “you’re afraid to go in the ring. You dassen’t stand up before a professional. Your case and mine is just the same. You’re a amateur; and that means that you’d better keep outside of the ropes.”</p>
 				<p>“Well, I must be going,” I said, rising and looking with elaborate care at my watch.</p>
 				<p>When I was twenty feet away the park-bencher called to me.</p>
 				<p>“Much obliged for the dollar,” he said. “And for the dime. But you’ll never get ’er. You’re in the amateur class.”</p>

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

src/epub/text/the-lost-blend.xhtml

@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 			<p>When Con had left them Riley almost felled McQuirk by a blow on the back.</p>
 			<p>“Did ye hear that?” he shouted. “Two fools are we. The six dozen bottles of ’pollinaris we had on the ship⁠—ye opened them yourself⁠—which barrel did ye pour them in⁠—which barrel, ye mudhead?”</p>
 			<p>“I mind,” said McQuirk, slowly, “ ’twas in the second barrel we opened. I mind the blue piece of paper pasted on the side of it.”</p>
-			<p>“We’ve got it now,” cried Riley. “ ’Twas that we lacked. ’Tis the water that does the trick. Everything else we had right. Hurry, man, and get two bottles of ‘pollinaris from the bar, while I figure out the proportionments with me pencil.”</p>
+			<p>“We’ve got it now,” cried Riley. “ ’Twas that we lacked. ’Tis the water that does the trick. Everything else we had right. Hurry, man, and get two bottles of ’pollinaris from the bar, while I figure out the proportionments with me pencil.”</p>
 			<p>An hour later Con strolled down the sidewalk toward Kenealy’s café. Thus faithful employees haunt, during their recreation hours, the vicinity where they labor, drawn by some mysterious attraction.</p>
 			<p>A police patrol wagon stood at the side door. Three able cops were half carrying, half hustling Riley and McQuirk up its rear steps. The eyes and faces of each bore the bruises and cuts of sanguinary and assiduous conflict. Yet they whooped with strange joy, and directed upon the police the feeble remnants of their pugnacious madness.</p>
 			<p>“Began fighting each other in the back room,” explained Kenealy to Con. “And singing! That was worse. Smashed everything pretty much up. But they’re good men. They’ll pay for everything. Trying to invent some new kind of cocktail, they was. I’ll see they come out all right in the morning.”</p>

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

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@@ -14,7 +14,7 @@
 			<p>“There are two kinds of graft,” said Jeff, “that ought to be wiped out by law. I mean Wall Street speculation, and burglary.”</p>
 			<p>“Nearly everybody will agree with you as to one of them,” said I, with a laugh.</p>
 			<p>“Well, burglary ought to be wiped out, too,” said Jeff; and I wondered whether the laugh had been redundant.</p>
-			<p>“About three months ago,” said Jeff, “it was my privilege to become familiar with a sample of each of the aforesaid branches of illegitimate art. I was <i xml:lang="la">sine qua grata</i> with a member of the housebreakers’ union and one of the John D. Napoleons of finance at the same time.”</p>
+			<p>“About three months ago,” said Jeff, “it was my privilege to become familiar with a sample of each of the aforesaid branches of illegitimate art. I was <i xml:lang="la">sine qua grata</i> with a member of the housebreakers’ union and one of the John <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Napoleons of finance at the same time.”</p>
 			<p>“Interesting combination,” said I, with a yawn. “Did I tell you I bagged a duck and a ground-squirrel at one shot last week over in the Ramapos?” I knew well how to draw Jeff’s stories.</p>
 			<p>“Let me tell you first about these barnacles that clog the wheels of society by poisoning the springs of rectitude with their upas-like eye,” said Jeff, with the pure gleam of the muckraker in his own.</p>
 			<p>“As I said, three months ago I got into bad company. There are two times in a man’s life when he does this⁠—when he’s dead broke, and when he’s rich.</p>
@@ -48,10 +48,10 @@
 			<p>“Bill Bassett felt in all of them, and looked disgusted.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Not even a watch,’ he says. ‘Ain’t you ashamed of yourself, you whited sculpture? Going about dressed like a headwaiter, and financed like a Count! You haven’t even got carfare. What did you do with your transfer?’</p>
 			<p>“The man speaks up and says he has no assets or valuables of any sort. But Bassett takes his hand-satchel and opens it. Out comes some collars and socks and a half a page of a newspaper clipped out. Bill reads the clipping careful, and holds out his hand to the held-up party.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Brother,’ says he, ‘greetings! Accept the apologies of friends. I am Bill Bassett, the burglar. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters, you must make the acquaintance of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Alfred E. Ricks. Shake hands. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters,’ says Bill, ‘stands about halfway between me and you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ricks, in the line of havoc and corruption. He always gives something for the money he gets. I’m glad to meet you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ricks⁠—you and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters. This is the first time I ever attended a full gathering of the National Synod of Sharks⁠—housebreaking, swindling, and financiering all represented. Please examine <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Rick’s credentials, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Brother,’ says he, ‘greetings! Accept the apologies of friends. I am Bill Bassett, the burglar. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters, you must make the acquaintance of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Alfred <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Ricks. Shake hands. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters,’ says Bill, ‘stands about halfway between me and you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ricks, in the line of havoc and corruption. He always gives something for the money he gets. I’m glad to meet you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ricks⁠—you and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters. This is the first time I ever attended a full gathering of the National Synod of Sharks⁠—housebreaking, swindling, and financiering all represented. Please examine <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Rick’s credentials, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters.’</p>
 			<p>“The piece of newspaper that Bill Bassett handed me had a good picture of this Ricks on it. It was a Chicago paper, and it had obloquies of Ricks in every paragraph. By reading it over I harvested the intelligence that said alleged Ricks had laid off all that portion of the State of Florida that lies under water into town lots and sold ’em to alleged innocent investors from his magnificently furnished offices in Chicago. After he had taken in a hundred thousand or so dollars one of these fussy purchasers that are always making trouble (I’ve had ’em actually try gold watches I’ve sold ’em with acid) took a cheap excursion down to the land where it is always just before supper to look at his lot and see if it didn’t need a new paling or two on the fence, and market a few lemons in time for the Christmas present trade. He hires a surveyor to find his lot for him. They run the line out and find the flourishing town of Paradise Hollow, so advertised, to be about 40 rods and 16 poles S., 27 degrees E. of the middle of Lake Okeechobee. This man’s lot was under thirty-six feet of water, and, besides, had been preempted so long by the alligators and gars that his title looked fishy.</p>
-			<p>“Naturally, the man goes back to Chicago and makes it as hot for Alfred E. Ricks as the morning after a prediction of snow by the weather bureau. Ricks defied the allegation, but he couldn’t deny the alligators. One morning the papers came out with a column about it, and Ricks come out by the fire-escape. It seems the alleged authorities had beat him to the safe-deposit box where he kept his winnings, and Ricks has to westward ho! with only feetwear and a dozen 15-and-a-half English pokes in his shopping bag. He happened to have some mileage left in his book, and that took him as far as the town in the wilderness where he was spilled out on me and Bill Bassett as Elijah <span epub:type="z3998:roman">III</span> with not a raven in sight for any of us.</p>
-			<p>“Then this Alfred E. Ricks lets out a squeak that he is hungry, too, and denies the hypothesis that he is good for the value, let alone the price, of a meal. And so, there was the three of us, representing, if we had a mind to draw syllogisms and parabolas, labor and trade and capital. Now, when trade has no capital there isn’t a dicker to be made. And when capital has no money there’s a stagnation in steak and onions. That put it up to the man with the jimmy.</p>
+			<p>“Naturally, the man goes back to Chicago and makes it as hot for Alfred <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Ricks as the morning after a prediction of snow by the weather bureau. Ricks defied the allegation, but he couldn’t deny the alligators. One morning the papers came out with a column about it, and Ricks come out by the fire-escape. It seems the alleged authorities had beat him to the safe-deposit box where he kept his winnings, and Ricks has to westward ho! with only feetwear and a dozen 15-and-a-half English pokes in his shopping bag. He happened to have some mileage left in his book, and that took him as far as the town in the wilderness where he was spilled out on me and Bill Bassett as Elijah <span epub:type="z3998:roman">III</span> with not a raven in sight for any of us.</p>
+			<p>“Then this Alfred <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Ricks lets out a squeak that he is hungry, too, and denies the hypothesis that he is good for the value, let alone the price, of a meal. And so, there was the three of us, representing, if we had a mind to draw syllogisms and parabolas, labor and trade and capital. Now, when trade has no capital there isn’t a dicker to be made. And when capital has no money there’s a stagnation in steak and onions. That put it up to the man with the jimmy.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Brother bushrangers,’ says Bill Bassett, ‘never yet, in trouble, did I desert a pal. Hard by, in yon wood, I seem to see unfurnished lodgings. Let us go there and wait till dark.’</p>
 			<p>“There was an old, deserted cabin in the grove, and we three took possession of it. After dark Bill Bassett tells us to wait, and goes out for half an hour. He comes back with a armful of bread and spareribs and pies.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Panhandled ’em at a farmhouse on Washita Avenue,’ says he. ‘Eat, drink and be leary.’</p>
@@ -65,12 +65,12 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Where’s your two dollars?’ snickered Bill Bassett into my discourse. There was no use arguing with that burglar.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘No,’ he goes on; ‘you’re both babes-in-the-wood. Finance has closed the mahogany desk, and trade has put the shutters up. Both of you look to labor to start the wheels going. All right. You admit it. Tonight I’ll show you what Bill Bassett can do.’</p>
 			<p>“Bassett tells me and Ricks not to leave the cabin till he comes back, even if it’s daylight, and then he starts off toward town, whistling gay.</p>
-			<p>“This Alfred E. Ricks pulls off his shoes and his coat, lays a silk handkerchief over his hat, and lays down on the floor.</p>
+			<p>“This Alfred <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Ricks pulls off his shoes and his coat, lays a silk handkerchief over his hat, and lays down on the floor.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I think I will endeavor to secure a little slumber,’ he squeaks. ‘The day has been fatiguing. Good night, my dear <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘My regards to Morpheus,’ says I. ‘I think I’ll sit up a while.’</p>
 			<p>“About two o’clock, as near as I could guess by my watch in Peavine, home comes our laboring man and kicks up Ricks, and calls us to the streak of bright moonlight shining in the cabin door. Then he spreads out five packages of one thousand dollars each on the floor, and begins to cackle over the nest-egg like a hen.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I’ll tell you a few things about that town,’ says he. ‘It’s named Rocky Springs, and they’re building a Masonic temple, and it looks like the Democratic candidate for mayor is going to get soaked by a Pop, and Judge Tucker’s wife, who has been down with pleurisy, is getting some better. I had a talk on these liliputian thesises before I could get a siphon in the fountain of knowledge that I was after. And there’s a bank there called the Lumberman’s Fidelity and Plowman’s Savings Institution. It closed for business yesterday with $23,000 cash on hand. It will open this morning with $18,000⁠—all silver⁠—that’s the reason I didn’t bring more. There you are, trade and capital. Now, will you be bad?’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘My young friend,’ says Alfred E. Ricks, holding up his hands, ‘have you robbed this bank? Dear me, dear me!’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘My young friend,’ says Alfred <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Ricks, holding up his hands, ‘have you robbed this bank? Dear me, dear me!’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘You couldn’t call it that,’ says Bassett. “Robbing” sounds harsh. All I had to do was to find out what street it was on. That town is so quiet that I could stand on the corner and hear the tumblers clicking in that safe lock⁠—“right to 45; left twice to 80; right once to 60; left to 15”⁠—as plain as the Yale captain giving orders in the football dialect. Now, boys,’ says Bassett, ‘this is an early rising town. They tell me the citizens are all up and stirring before daylight. I asked what for, and they said because breakfast was ready at that time. And what of merry Robin Hood? It must be Yoicks! and away with the tinkers’ chorus. I’ll stake you. How much do you want? Speak up. Capital.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘My dear young friend,’ says this ground squirrel of a Ricks, standing on his hind legs and juggling nuts in his paws, ‘I have friends in Denver who would assist me. If I had a hundred dollars I⁠—’</p>
 			<p>“Basset unpins a package of the currency and throws five twenties to Ricks.</p>
@@ -78,17 +78,17 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Put your money up, Labor,’ says I. ‘I never yet drew upon honest toil for its hard-earned pittance. The dollars I get are surplus ones that are burning the pockets of damfools and greenhorns. When I stand on a street corner and sell a solid gold diamond ring to a yap for $3.00, I make just $2.60. And I know he’s going to give it to a girl in return for all the benefits accruing from a $125.00 ring. His profits are $122.00. Which of us is the biggest fakir?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘And when you sell a poor woman a pinch of sand for fifty cents to keep her lamp from exploding,’ says Bassett, ‘what do you figure her gross earnings to be, with sand at forty cents a ton?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Listen,’ says I. ‘I instruct her to keep her lamp clean and well filled. If she does that it can’t burst. And with the sand in it she knows it can’t, and she don’t worry. It’s a kind of Industrial Christian Science. She pays fifty cents, and gets both Rockefeller and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Eddy on the job. It ain’t everybody that can let the gold-dust twins do their work.’</p>
-			<p>“Alfred E. Ricks all but licks the dust off of Bill Bassett’s shoes.</p>
+			<p>“Alfred <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Ricks all but licks the dust off of Bill Bassett’s shoes.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘My dear young friend,’ says he, ‘I will never forget your generosity. Heaven will reward you. But let me implore you to turn from your ways of violence and crime.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Mousie,’ says Bill, ‘the hole in the wainscoting for yours. Your dogmas and inculcations sound to me like the last words of a bicycle pump. What has your high moral, elevator-service system of pillage brought you to? Penuriousness and want. Even Brother Peters, who insists upon contaminating the art of robbery with theories of commerce and trade, admitted he was on the lift. Both of you live by the gilded rule. Brother Peters,’ says Bill, ‘you’d better choose a slice of this embalmed currency. You’re welcome.’</p>
 			<p>“I told Bill Bassett once more to put his money in his pocket. I never had the respect for burglary that some people have. I always gave something for the money I took, even if it was only some little trifle for a souvenir to remind ’em not to get caught again.</p>
-			<p>“And then Alfred E. Ricks grovels at Bill’s feet again, and bids us adieu. He says he will have a team at a farmhouse, and drive to the station below, and take the train for Denver. It salubrified the atmosphere when that lamentable bollworm took his departure. He was a disgrace to every nonindustrial profession in the country. With all his big schemes and fine offices he had wound up unable even to get an honest meal except by the kindness of a strange and maybe unscrupulous burglar. I was glad to see him go, though I felt a little sorry for him, now that he was ruined forever. What could such a man do without a big capital to work with? Why, Alfred E. Ricks, as we left him, was as helpless as turtle on its back. He couldn’t have worked a scheme to beat a little girl out of a penny slate-pencil.</p>
+			<p>“And then Alfred <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Ricks grovels at Bill’s feet again, and bids us adieu. He says he will have a team at a farmhouse, and drive to the station below, and take the train for Denver. It salubrified the atmosphere when that lamentable bollworm took his departure. He was a disgrace to every nonindustrial profession in the country. With all his big schemes and fine offices he had wound up unable even to get an honest meal except by the kindness of a strange and maybe unscrupulous burglar. I was glad to see him go, though I felt a little sorry for him, now that he was ruined forever. What could such a man do without a big capital to work with? Why, Alfred <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Ricks, as we left him, was as helpless as turtle on its back. He couldn’t have worked a scheme to beat a little girl out of a penny slate-pencil.</p>
 			<p>“When me and Bill Bassett was left alone I did a little sleight-of-mind turn in my head with a trade secret at the end of it. Thinks I, I’ll show this <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Burglar Man the difference between business and labor. He had hurt some of my professional self-adulation by casting his Persians upon commerce and trade.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I won’t take any of your money as a gift, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bassett,’ says I to him, ‘but if you’ll pay my expenses as a travelling companion until we get out of the danger zone of the immoral deficit you have caused in this town’s finances tonight, I’ll be obliged.’</p>
 			<p>“Bill Bassett agreed to that, and we hiked westward as soon as we could catch a safe train.</p>
 			<p>“When we got to a town in Arizona called Los Perros I suggested that we once more try our luck on terra-cotta. That was the home of Montague Silver, my old instructor, now retired from business. I knew Monty would stake me to web money if I could show him a fly buzzing ’round the locality. Bill Bassett said all towns looked alike to him as he worked mainly in the dark. So we got off the train in Los Perros, a fine little town in the silver region.</p>
 			<p>“I had an elegant little sure thing in the way of a commercial slungshot that I intended to hit Bassett behind the ear with. I wasn’t going to take his money while he was asleep, but I was going to leave him with a lottery ticket that would represent in experience to him $4,755⁠—I think that was the amount he had when we got off the train. But the first time I hinted to him about an investment, he turns on me and disencumbers himself of the following terms and expressions.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Brother Peters,’ says he, ‘it ain’t a bad idea to go into an enterprise of some kind, as you suggest. I think I will. But if I do it will be such a cold proposition that nobody but Robert E. Peary and Charlie Fairbanks will be able to sit on the board of directors.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Brother Peters,’ says he, ‘it ain’t a bad idea to go into an enterprise of some kind, as you suggest. I think I will. But if I do it will be such a cold proposition that nobody but Robert <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Peary and Charlie Fairbanks will be able to sit on the board of directors.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I thought you might want to turn your money over,’ says I.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I do,’ says he, ‘frequently. I can’t sleep on one side all night. I’ll tell you, Brother Peters,’ says he, ‘I’m going to start a poker room. I don’t seem to care for the humdrum in swindling, such as peddling eggbeaters and working off breakfast food on Barnum and Bailey for sawdust to strew in their circus rings. But the gambling business,’ says he, ‘from the profitable side of the table is a good compromise between swiping silver spoons and selling penwipers at a Waldorf-Astoria charity bazar.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Then,’ says I, ‘<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bassett, you don’t care to talk over my little business proposition?’</p>
@@ -108,7 +108,7 @@
 			<p>“Always carry it with me,” said he. “So the burglar can’t corrupt or the capitalist break in and water it.”</p>
 			<p>I looked at the beautifully engraved certificate of stock.</p>
 			<p>“In Colorado, I see,” said I. “And, by the way, Jeff, what was the name of the little man who went to Denver⁠—the one you and Bill met at the station?”</p>
-			<p>“Alfred E. Ricks,” said Jeff, “was the toad’s designation.”</p>
+			<p>“Alfred <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Ricks,” said Jeff, “was the toad’s designation.”</p>
 			<p>“I see,” said I, “the president of this mining company signs himself <abbr class="name">A. L.</abbr> Fredericks. I was wondering⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Let me see that stock,” said Jeff quickly, almost snatching it from me.</p>
 			<p>To mitigate, even though slightly, the embarrassment I summoned the waiter and ordered another bottle of the Barbera. I thought it was the least I could do.</p>

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@@ -86,7 +86,7 @@
 			<p>“The boys are livelier than usual tonight,” said Saunders. “The ones they are talking about marrying are two of the boys⁠—a herd rider and the cook. It’s another joke. You and Sam will have to sleep here tonight anyway; p’rhaps you’d better see ’em through with it. Maybe they’ll quiet down after that.”</p>
 			<p>The matchmakers found Miss Sally seated on the tongue of the grub wagon, calmly smoking his pipe. The Marquis was leaning idly against one of the trees under which the supply tent was pitched.</p>
 			<p>Into this tent they were both hustled, and Phonograph, as master of ceremonies, gave orders for the preparations.</p>
-			<p>“You, Dry-Creek and Jimmy, and Ben and Taller⁠—hump yourselves to the wildwood and rustle flowers for the blowout⁠—mesquite’ll do⁠—and get that Spanish dagger blossom at the corner of the horse corral for the bride to pack. You, Limpy, get out that red and yaller blanket of your’n for Miss Sally’s skyirt. Marquis, you’ll do ‘thout fixin’; nobody don’t ever look at the groom.”</p>
+			<p>“You, Dry-Creek and Jimmy, and Ben and Taller⁠—hump yourselves to the wildwood and rustle flowers for the blowout⁠—mesquite’ll do⁠—and get that Spanish dagger blossom at the corner of the horse corral for the bride to pack. You, Limpy, get out that red and yaller blanket of your’n for Miss Sally’s skyirt. Marquis, you’ll do ’thout fixin’; nobody don’t ever look at the groom.”</p>
 			<p>During their absurd preparation, the two principals were left alone for a few moments in the tent. The Marquis suddenly showed wild perturbation.</p>
 			<p>“This foolishness must not go on,” he said, turning to Miss Sally a face white in the light of the lantern, hanging to the ridgepole.</p>
 			<p>“Why not?” said the cook, with an amused smile. “It’s fun for the boys; and they’ve always let you off pretty light in their frolics. I don’t mind it.”</p>

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

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

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@@ -33,12 +33,12 @@
 			<p>“ ‘It’s simple,’ says he, ‘when you know how. It’s the fit of the vest. They don’t cut vests right anywhere else. Coats, maybe, but not vests.’</p>
 			<p>“The white man looks at Henry Horsecollar and hesitates.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Injun,’ says Henry; ‘tame Injun.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Mellinger,’ says the man⁠—‘Homer P. Mellinger. Boys, you’re confiscated. You’re babes in the wood without a chaperon or referee, and it’s my duty to start you going. I’ll knock out the props and launch you proper in the pellucid waters of this tropical mud puddle. You’ll have to be christened, and if you’ll come with me I’ll break a bottle of wine across your bows, according to Hoyle.’</p>
-			<p>“Well, for two days Homer P. Mellinger did the honors. That man cut ice in Anchuria. He was It. He was the Royal Kafoozlum. If me and Henry was babes in the wood, he was a Robin Redbreast from the topmost bough. Him and me and Henry Horsecollar locked arms, and toted that phonograph around, and had wassail and diversions. Everywhere we found doors open we went inside and set the machine going, and Mellinger called upon the people to observe the artful music and his two lifelong friends, the Señors Americanos. The opera chorus was agitated with esteem, and followed us from house to house. There was a different kind of drink to be had with every tune. The natives had acquirements of a pleasant thing in the way of a drink that gums itself to the recollection. They chop off the end of a green coconut, and pour in on the juice of it French brandy and other adjuvants. We had them and other things.</p>
-			<p>“Mine and Henry’s money was counterfeit. Everything was on Homer P. Mellinger. That man could find rolls of bills concealed in places on his person where Hermann the Wizard couldn’t have conjured out a rabbit or an omelette. He could have founded universities, and made orchid collections, and then had enough left to purchase the colored vote of his country. Henry and me wondered what his graft was. One evening he told us.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Mellinger,’ says the man⁠—‘Homer <abbr class="name">P.</abbr> Mellinger. Boys, you’re confiscated. You’re babes in the wood without a chaperon or referee, and it’s my duty to start you going. I’ll knock out the props and launch you proper in the pellucid waters of this tropical mud puddle. You’ll have to be christened, and if you’ll come with me I’ll break a bottle of wine across your bows, according to Hoyle.’</p>
+			<p>“Well, for two days Homer <abbr class="name">P.</abbr> Mellinger did the honors. That man cut ice in Anchuria. He was It. He was the Royal Kafoozlum. If me and Henry was babes in the wood, he was a Robin Redbreast from the topmost bough. Him and me and Henry Horsecollar locked arms, and toted that phonograph around, and had wassail and diversions. Everywhere we found doors open we went inside and set the machine going, and Mellinger called upon the people to observe the artful music and his two lifelong friends, the Señors Americanos. The opera chorus was agitated with esteem, and followed us from house to house. There was a different kind of drink to be had with every tune. The natives had acquirements of a pleasant thing in the way of a drink that gums itself to the recollection. They chop off the end of a green coconut, and pour in on the juice of it French brandy and other adjuvants. We had them and other things.</p>
+			<p>“Mine and Henry’s money was counterfeit. Everything was on Homer <abbr class="name">P.</abbr> Mellinger. That man could find rolls of bills concealed in places on his person where Hermann the Wizard couldn’t have conjured out a rabbit or an omelette. He could have founded universities, and made orchid collections, and then had enough left to purchase the colored vote of his country. Henry and me wondered what his graft was. One evening he told us.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Boys,’ said he, ‘I’ve deceived you. You think I’m a painted butterfly; but in fact I’m the hardest worked man in this country. Ten years ago I landed on its shores; and two years ago on the point of its jaw. Yes, I guess I can get the decision over this ginger cake commonwealth at the end of any round I choose. I’ll confide in you because you are my countrymen and guests, even if you have assaulted my adopted shores with the worst system of noises ever set to music.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘My job is private secretary to the president of this republic; and my duties are running it. I’m not headlined in the bills, but I’m the mustard in the salad dressing just the same. There isn’t a law goes before Congress, there isn’t a concession granted, there isn’t an import duty levied but what <abbr class="name">H. P.</abbr> Mellinger he cooks and seasons it. In the front office I fill the president’s inkstand and search visiting statesmen for dirks and dynamite; but in the back room I dictate the policy of the government. You’d never guess in the world how I got my pull. It’s the only graft of its kind on earth. I’ll put you wise. You remember the old top-liner in the copy book⁠—“Honesty is the Best Policy”? That’s it. I’m working honesty for a graft. I’m the only honest man in the republic. The government knows it; the people know it; the boodlers know it; the foreign investors know it. I make the government keep its faith. If a man is promised a job he gets it. If outside capital buys a concession it gets the goods. I run a monopoly of square dealing here. There’s no competition. If Colonel Diogenes were to flash his lantern in this precinct he’d have my address inside of two minutes. There isn’t big money in it, but it’s a sure thing, and lets a man sleep of nights.’</p>
-			<p>“Thus Homer P. Mellinger made oration to me and Henry Horsecollar. And, later, he divested himself of this remark:</p>
+			<p>“Thus Homer <abbr class="name">P.</abbr> Mellinger made oration to me and Henry Horsecollar. And, later, he divested himself of this remark:</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Boys, I’m to hold a soirée this evening with a gang of leading citizens, and I want your assistance. You bring the musical corn sheller and give the affair the outside appearance of a function. There’s important business on hand, but it mustn’t show. I can talk to you people. I’ve been pained for years on account of not having anybody to blow off and brag to. I get homesick sometimes, and I’d swap the entire perquisites of office for just one hour to have a stein and a caviar sandwich somewhere on Thirty-fourth Street, and stand and watch the street cars go by, and smell the peanut roaster at old Giuseppe’s fruit stand.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘there’s fine caviar at Billy Renfrew’s café, corner of Thirty-fourth and⁠—’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘God knows it,’ interrupts Mellinger, ‘and if you’d told me you knew Billy Renfrew I’d have invented tons of ways of making you happy. Billy was my side-kicker in New York. There is a man who never knew what crooked was. Here I am working Honesty for a graft, but that man loses money on it. <i xml:lang="es">Carrambos!</i> I get sick at times of this country. Everything’s rotten. From the executive down to the coffee pickers, they’re plotting to down each other and skin their friends. If a mule driver takes off his hat to an official, that man figures it out that he’s a popular idol, and sets his pegs to stir up a revolution and upset the administration. It’s one of my little chores as private secretary to smell out these revolutions and affix the kibosh before they break out and scratch the paint off the government property. That’s why I’m down here now in this mildewed coast town. The governor of the district and his crew are plotting to uprise. I’ve got every one of their names, and they’re invited to listen to the phonograph tonight, compliments of <abbr class="name">H. P. M.</abbr> That’s the way I’ll get them in a bunch, and things are on the programme to happen to them.’</p>
@@ -51,7 +51,7 @@
 			<p>“Maybe fifty of ’em had come, and was seated, when in slid the king bee, the governor of the district. Mellinger met him at the door, and escorted him to the grand stand. When I saw that Latin man I knew that Mellinger, private secretary, had all the dances on his card taken. That was a big, squashy man, the colour of a rubber overshoe, and he had an eye like a head waiter’s.</p>
 			<p>“Mellinger explained, fluent, in the Castilian idioms, that his soul was disconcerted with joy at introducing to his respected friends America’s greatest invention, the wonder of the age. Henry got the cue and run on an elegant brass-band record and the festivities became initiated. The governor man had a bit of English under his hat, and when the music was choked off he says:</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Ver-r-ree fine. <i xml:lang="es">Gr-r-r-r-racias</i>, the American gentleemen, the so esplendeed moosic as to playee.’</p>
-			<p>“The table was a long one, and Henry and me sat at the end of it next the wall. The governor sat at the other end. Homer P. Mellinger stood at the side of it. I was just wondering how Mellinger was going to handle his crowd, when the home talent suddenly opened the services.</p>
+			<p>“The table was a long one, and Henry and me sat at the end of it next the wall. The governor sat at the other end. Homer <abbr class="name">P.</abbr> Mellinger stood at the side of it. I was just wondering how Mellinger was going to handle his crowd, when the home talent suddenly opened the services.</p>
 			<p>“That governor man was suitable for uprisings and policies. I judge he was a ready kind of man, who took his own time. Yes, he was full of attention and immediateness. He leaned his hands on the table and imposed his face toward the secretary man.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Do the American señors understand Spanish?’ he asks in his native accents.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘They do not,’ says Mellinger.</p>
@@ -60,7 +60,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘In that you will find fifty thousand dollars in money of your country. You can do nothing against us, but you can be worth that for us. Go back to the capital and obey our instructions. Take that money now. We trust you. You will find with it a paper giving in detail the work you will be expected to do for us. Do not have the unwiseness to refuse.’</p>
 			<p>“The governor man paused, with his eyes fixed on Mellinger, full of expressions and observances. I looked at Mellinger, and was glad Billy Renfrew couldn’t see him then. The sweat was popping out on his forehead, and he stood dumb, tapping the little package with the ends of his fingers. The colorado-maduro gang was after his graft. He had only to change his politics, and stuff five fingers in his inside pocket.</p>
 			<p>“Henry whispers to me and wants the pause in the programme interpreted. I whisper back: ‘<abbr class="name">H. P.</abbr> is up against a bribe, senator’s size, and the coons have got him going.’ I saw Mellinger’s hand moving closer to the package. ‘He’s weakening,’ I whispered to Henry. ‘We’ll remind him,’ says Henry, ‘of the peanut-roaster on Thirty-fourth Street, New York.’</p>
-			<p>“Henry stooped down and got a record from the basketful we’d brought, slid it in the phonograph, and started her off. It was a cornet solo, very neat and beautiful, and the name of it was ‘Home, Sweet Home.’ Not one of them fifty odd men in the room moved while it was playing, and the governor man kept his eyes steady on Mellinger. I saw Mellinger’s head go up little by little, and his hand came creeping away from the package. Not until the last note sounded did anybody stir. And then Homer P. Mellinger takes up the bundle of boodle and slams it in the governor man’s face.</p>
+			<p>“Henry stooped down and got a record from the basketful we’d brought, slid it in the phonograph, and started her off. It was a cornet solo, very neat and beautiful, and the name of it was ‘Home, Sweet Home.’ Not one of them fifty odd men in the room moved while it was playing, and the governor man kept his eyes steady on Mellinger. I saw Mellinger’s head go up little by little, and his hand came creeping away from the package. Not until the last note sounded did anybody stir. And then Homer <abbr class="name">P.</abbr> Mellinger takes up the bundle of boodle and slams it in the governor man’s face.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘That’s my answer,’ says Mellinger, private secretary, ‘and there’ll be another in the morning. I have proofs of conspiracy against every man of you. The show is over, gentlemen.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘There’s one more act,’ puts in the governor man. ‘You are a servant, I believe, employed by the president to copy letters and answer raps at the door. I am governor here. <i xml:lang="es">Señores</i>, I call upon you in the name of the cause to seize this man.’</p>
 			<p>“That brindled gang of conspirators shoved back their chairs and advanced in force. I could see where Mellinger had made a mistake in massing his enemy so as to make a grandstand play. I think he made another one, too; but we can pass that, Mellinger’s idea of a graft and mine being different, according to estimations and points of view.</p>
@@ -75,7 +75,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘I want to buy that phonograph,’ says he. ‘I liked that last tune it played at the soirée.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘This is more money than the machine is worth,’ says I.</p>
 			<p>“”Tis government expense money,’ says Mellinger. ‘The government pays for it, and it’s getting the tune-grinder cheap.’</p>
-			<p>“Me and Henry knew that pretty well. We knew that it had saved Homer P. Mellinger’s graft when he was on the point of losing it; but we never let him know we knew it.</p>
+			<p>“Me and Henry knew that pretty well. We knew that it had saved Homer <abbr class="name">P.</abbr> Mellinger’s graft when he was on the point of losing it; but we never let him know we knew it.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Now you boys better slide off further down the coast for a while,’ says Mellinger, ‘till I get the screws put on these fellows here. If you don’t they’ll give you trouble. And if you ever happen to see Billy Renfrew again before I do, tell him I’m coming back to New York as soon as I can make a stake⁠—honest.’</p>
 			<p>“Me and Henry laid low until the day the steamer came back. When we saw the captain’s boat on the beach we went down and stood in the edge of the water. The captain grinned when he saw us.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I told you you’d be waiting,’ he says. ‘Where’s the Hamburger machine?’</p>

src/epub/text/the-purple-dress.xhtml

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

src/epub/text/the-rose-of-dixie.xhtml

@@ -27,7 +27,7 @@
 			<p>“Sure,” said Thacker. “But a dollar is a dollar anywhere, North, South, or West⁠—whether you’re buying codfish, goober peas, or Rocky Ford cantaloupes. Now, I’ve been looking over your November number. I see one here on your desk. You don’t mind running over it with me?</p>
 			<p>“Well, your leading article is all right. A good write-up of the cotton-belt with plenty of photographs is a winner any time. New York is always interested in the cotton crop. And this sensational account of the Hatfield-McCoy feud, by a schoolmate of a niece of the Governor of Kentucky, isn’t such a bad idea. It happened so long ago that most people have forgotten it. Now, here’s a poem three pages long called ‘The Tyrant’s Foot,’ by Lorella Lascelles. I’ve pawed around a good deal over manuscripts, but I never saw her name on a rejection slip.”</p>
 			<p>“Miss Lascelles,” said the editor, “is one of our most widely recognized Southern poetesses. She is closely related to the Alabama Lascelles family, and made with her own hands the silken Confederate banner that was presented to the governor of that state at his inauguration.”</p>
-			<p>“But why,” persisted Thacker, “is the poem illustrated with a view of the M. &amp; O. Railroad freight depot at Tuscaloosa?”</p>
+			<p>“But why,” persisted Thacker, “is the poem illustrated with a view of the <abbr>M. &amp; O.</abbr> Railroad freight depot at Tuscaloosa?”</p>
 			<p>“The illustration,” said the colonel, with dignity, “shows a corner of the fence surrounding the old homestead where Miss Lascelles was born.”</p>
 			<p>“All right,” said Thacker. “I read the poem, but I couldn’t tell whether it was about the depot of the battle of Bull Run. Now, here’s a short story called ‘Rosies’ Temptation,’ by Fosdyke Piggott. It’s rotten. What is a Piggott, anyway?”</p>
 			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Piggott,” said the editor, “is a brother of the principal stockholder of the magazine.”</p>
@@ -43,26 +43,26 @@
 			<p>Thacker reached for his thick manila envelope and dumped a mass of typewritten manuscript on the editors desk.</p>
 			<p>“Here’s some truck,” said he, “that I paid cash for, and brought along with me.”</p>
 			<p>One by one he folded back the manuscripts and showed their first pages to the colonel.</p>
-			<p>Here are four short stories by four of the highest priced authors in the United States⁠—three of ’em living in New York, and one commuting. There’s a special article on Vienna-bred society by Tom Vampson. Here’s an Italian serial by Captain Jack⁠—no⁠—it’s the other Crawford. Here are three separate exposés of city governments by Sniffings, and here’s a dandy entitled ‘What Women Carry in Dress-Suit Cases’⁠—a Chicago newspaper woman hired herself out for five years as a lady’s maid to get that information. And here’s a Synopsis of Preceding Chapters of Hall Caine’s new serial to appear next June. And here’s a couple of pounds of vers de société that I got at a rate from the clever magazines. That’s the stuff that people everywhere want. And now here’s a write-up with photographs at the ages of four, twelve, twenty-two, and thirty of George B. McClellan. It’s a prognostication. He’s bound to be elected Mayor of New York. It’ll make a big hit all over the country. He⁠—”</p>
+			<p>Here are four short stories by four of the highest priced authors in the United States⁠—three of ’em living in New York, and one commuting. There’s a special article on Vienna-bred society by Tom Vampson. Here’s an Italian serial by Captain Jack⁠—no⁠—it’s the other Crawford. Here are three separate exposés of city governments by Sniffings, and here’s a dandy entitled ‘What Women Carry in Dress-Suit Cases’⁠—a Chicago newspaper woman hired herself out for five years as a lady’s maid to get that information. And here’s a Synopsis of Preceding Chapters of Hall Caine’s new serial to appear next June. And here’s a couple of pounds of vers de société that I got at a rate from the clever magazines. That’s the stuff that people everywhere want. And now here’s a write-up with photographs at the ages of four, twelve, twenty-two, and thirty of George <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> McClellan. It’s a prognostication. He’s bound to be elected Mayor of New York. It’ll make a big hit all over the country. He⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“I beg your pardon,” said Colonel Telfair, stiffening in his chair. “What was the name?”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, I see,” said Thacker, with half a grin. Yes, he’s a son of the General. We’ll pass that manuscript up. But, if you’ll excuse me, Colonel, it’s a magazine we’re trying to make go off⁠—not the first gun at Fort Sumter. Now, here’s a thing that’s bound to get next to you. It’s an original poem by James Whitcomb Riley. <abbr class="name">J. W.</abbr> himself. You know what that means to a magazine. I won’t tell you what I had to pay for that poem; but I’ll tell you this⁠—Riley can make more money writing with a fountain-pen than you or I can with one that lets the ink run. I’ll read you the last two stanzas:</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:poem">
 				<p>
-					<span>“ ‘Pa lays around ‘n’ loafs all day,</span>
+					<span>“ ‘Pa lays around ’n’ loafs all day,</span>
 					<br/>
-					<span class="i1">‘N’ reads and makes us leave him be.</span>
+					<span class="i1">’N’ reads and makes us leave him be.</span>
 					<br/>
 					<span>He lets me do just like I please,</span>
 					<br/>
-					<span class="i1">‘N’ when I’m bad he laughs at me,</span>
+					<span class="i1">’N’ when I’m bad he laughs at me,</span>
 					<br/>
-					<span>‘N’ when I holler loud ‘n’ say</span>
+					<span>’N’ when I holler loud ’n’ say</span>
 					<br/>
-					<span class="i1">Bad words ‘n’ then begin to tease</span>
+					<span class="i1">Bad words ’n’ then begin to tease</span>
 					<br/>
-					<span>The cat, ‘n’ pa just smiles, ma’s mad</span>
+					<span>The cat, ’n’ pa just smiles, ma’s mad</span>
 					<br/>
-					<span class="i1">‘N’ gives me Jesse crost her knees.</span>
+					<span class="i1">’N’ gives me Jesse crost her knees.</span>
 					<br/>
 					<span class="i2">I always wondered why that wuz⁠—</span>
 					<br/>
@@ -71,25 +71,25 @@
 					<span class="i3">Pa never does.</span>
 				</p>
 				<p>
-					<span>“ ‘ ‘N’ after all the lights are out</span>
+					<span>“ ‘ ’N’ after all the lights are out</span>
 					<br/>
 					<span class="i1">I’m sorry ’bout it; so I creep</span>
 					<br/>
 					<span>Out of my trundle bed to ma’s</span>
 					<br/>
-					<span class="i1">‘N’ say I love her a whole heap,</span>
+					<span class="i1">’N’ say I love her a whole heap,</span>
 					<br/>
-					<span>‘N’ kiss her, ‘n’ I hug her tight.</span>
+					<span>’N’ kiss her, ’n’ I hug her tight.</span>
 					<br/>
-					<span class="i1">‘N’ it’s too dark to see her eyes,</span>
+					<span class="i1">’N’ it’s too dark to see her eyes,</span>
 					<br/>
 					<span>But every time I do I know</span>
 					<br/>
-					<span class="i1">She cries ‘n’ cries ‘n’ cries ‘n’ cries.</span>
+					<span class="i1">She cries ’n’ cries ’n’ cries ’n’ cries.</span>
 					<br/>
 					<span class="i2">I always wondered why that wuz⁠—</span>
 					<br/>
-					<span class="i2">I guess it’s ‘cause</span>
+					<span class="i2">I guess it’s ’cause</span>
 					<br/>
 					<span class="i3">Pa never does.’</span>
 				</p>
@@ -121,7 +121,7 @@
 			<p>“I don’t seem to gather,” said he, “much about the gist of this inspired piece of literature. It sounds more like a dark horse than Pegasus to me.”</p>
 			<p>“It is a human document,” said the colonel-editor, confidently, “from a man of great accomplishments who, in my opinion, has obtained a stronger grasp on the world and its outcomes than that of any man living to-day.”</p>
 			<p>Thacker rose to his feet excitedly.</p>
-			<p>“Say!” he said. “It isn’t possible that you’ve cornered John D. Rockefeller’s memoirs, is it? Don’t tell me that all at once.”</p>
+			<p>“Say!” he said. “It isn’t possible that you’ve cornered John <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Rockefeller’s memoirs, is it? Don’t tell me that all at once.”</p>
 			<p>“No, sir,” said Colonel Telfair. “I am speaking of mentality and literature, not of the less worthy intricacies of trade.”</p>
 			<p>“Well, what’s the trouble about running the article,” asked Thacker, a little impatiently, “if the man’s well known and has got the stuff?”</p>
 			<p>Colonel Telfair sighed.</p>
@@ -138,7 +138,7 @@
 				<p><b>by</b></p>
 				<p>A Member of the Well-known</p>
 				<p><b>Bulloch Family, of Georgia</b></p>
-				<p><b>T. Roosevelt</b></p>
+				<p><b><abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Roosevelt</b></p>
 			</blockquote>
 		</section>
 	</body>

src/epub/text/the-shamrock-and-the-palm.xhtml

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

src/epub/text/the-social-triangle.xhtml

@@ -44,7 +44,7 @@
 			<p>Billy walked back to his seat. His shoulder was tingling from the accolade bestowed by royalty. A hundred eyes were now turned upon him in envy and new admiration. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> William Darragh McMahan trembled with ecstasy, so that her diamonds smote the eye almost with pain. And now it was apparent that at many tables there were those who suddenly remembered that they enjoyed <abbr>Mr.</abbr> McMahan’s acquaintance. He saw smiles and bows about him. He became enveloped in the aura of dizzy greatness. His campaign coolness deserted him.</p>
 			<p>“Wine for that gang!” he commanded the waiter, pointing with his finger. “Wine over there. Wine to those three gents by that green bush. Tell ’em it’s on me. D⁠⸺n it! Wine for everybody!”</p>
 			<p>The waiter ventured to whisper that it was perhaps inexpedient to carry out the order, in consideration of the dignity of the house and its custom.</p>
-			<p>“All right,” said Billy, “if it’s against the rules. I wonder if ’twould do to send my friend Van Duyckink a bottle? No? Well, it’ll flow all right at the caffy tonight, just the same. It’ll be rubber boots for anybody who comes in there any time up to 2 <abbr class="time">a.m.</abbr>”</p>
+			<p>“All right,” said Billy, “if it’s against the rules. I wonder if ’twould do to send my friend Van Duyckink a bottle? No? Well, it’ll flow all right at the caffy tonight, just the same. It’ll be rubber boots for anybody who comes in there any time up to 2 <abbr class="time eoc">a.m.</abbr>”</p>
 			<p>Billy McMahan was happy.</p>
 			<p>He had shaken the hand of Cortlandt Van Duyckink.</p>
 			<hr/>

src/epub/text/the-sphinx-apple.xhtml

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

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@@ -16,7 +16,7 @@
 			<p>“Sure, and I did that. But, sir, ye know gyurls will be gyurls. The more ye coax ’em the wilfuller they gets. ’Tis yer own pleadin’ that’ll get her if anything will. An’ I hopes ye may, for I tells her she’ll never get a betther offer than yours, sir. ’Tis a good girl she is, and a tidy hand for anything from the kitchen to the parlour, and she’s never a fault except, maybe, a bit too much likin’ for dances and ruffles and ribbons, but that’s natural to her age and good looks if I do say it meself, bein’ her mither, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Holcombe. Ye can spake ag’in to Katie, sir, and maybe this time ye’ll have luck unless Danny Conlan, the wild gossoon, has been at it ag’in overpersuadin’ her ag’inst ye.”</p>
 			<p>Holcombe turned slightly pale, and his lips closed tightly for a moment.</p>
 			<p>“I’ve heard of this fellow Conlan before. Why does he interfere? Why does he stand in the way? Is there anything between him and Katie? Does Katie care for him?”</p>
-			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Flynn gave a sigh, like a pufF of a locomotive, and a flap upon the washboard with a sodden garment that sent Holcombe, well splashed, six feet away.</p>
+			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Flynn gave a sigh, like a puff of a locomotive, and a flap upon the washboard with a sodden garment that sent Holcombe, well splashed, six feet away.</p>
 			<p>“Ask me no questions about what’s in a gyurl’s heart and I’ll tell ye no lies. Her own mither can’t tell any more than yerself, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Holcombe.”</p>
 			<p>Holcombe stepped inside the cottage. Katie Flynn, with rolled-up sleeves, was ironing a dress of flounced muslin. Criticism of Holcombe’s deviation from his own sphere to this star of lower orbit must have waned at the sight of the girl. Her beauty was of the most solvent and convincing sort. Dusky Irish eyes, one great braid of jetty, shining hair, a crimson mouth, dimpling and shaping itself to every mood of its owner, a figure strong and graceful, seemingly fiill of imperishable life and action⁠—Katie Flynn was one to be sought after and striven for.</p>
 			<p>Holcombe went and stood by her side as she ironed, and watched the lithe play of muscles rolling beneath the satiny skin of her rounded forearms.</p>
@@ -35,13 +35,13 @@
 			<p>“Now <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Conlan,” began Holcombe, striving to avoid the argumentum ad hominemy “listen to reason. It is only fair to let Katie choose for herself. Is it quite the square thing to try to prevent her from doing what she prefers to do? If it had not been for your interference I would have had her long ago.”</p>
 			<p>“For five cents,” pursued the unmoved <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Conlan, lowering his terms, “I’d knock your block off.”</p>
 			<p>Into Holcombe’s eye there came the light of desperate resolve. He saw but one way to clear the obstacle from his path.</p>
-			<p>“I am told,” he said quietly and firmly, “that you are a fighter. Your mind seems to dwell upion physical combat as the solution to all questions. Now, Conlan, Tm no scrapper, but I’ll fight you to a finish any time within the next three minutes to see who gets the girl. If I win she goes with me. If you win you have your way, and I’ll not trouble her again. Are you game?”</p>
+			<p>“I am told,” he said quietly and firmly, “that you are a fighter. Your mind seems to dwell upion physical combat as the solution to all questions. Now, Conlan, I’m no scrapper, but I’ll fight you to a finish any time within the next three minutes to see who gets the girl. If I win she goes with me. If you win you have your way, and I’ll not trouble her again. Are you game?”</p>
 			<p>Danny Conlan’s hard, blue eyes looked a sudden admiration.</p>
-			<p>“You’re all right,” he conceded with gruff candour. “I didn’t think you was that sort. You’re all right. It’s a dead fair sporting prop., and I’m your company. I’ll stand by the results according to terms. Come on, and I’ll show you where it can be pulled off. You’re all right.”</p>
+			<p>“You’re all right,” he conceded with gruff candour. “I didn’t think you was that sort. You’re all right. It’s a dead fair sporting <abbr>prop.</abbr>, and I’m your company. I’ll stand by the results according to terms. Come on, and I’ll show you where it can be pulled off. You’re all right.”</p>
 			<p>Katie tried to interfere, but Danny silenced her. He led Holcombe down the hill to a deep gully that sheltered them from view. Night was just closing in upon the twilight. They laid aside their coats and hats. Here was a situation in the methodical existence of Lawrence Holcombe, real estate and bond broker, representative business man of unquestionable habits and social position! Fighting with a professional tough in a gully in a squalid settlement for the daughter of an Irish washerwoman!</p>
 			<p>The combat was a short one. If it had lasted longer, Holcombe would have lost, for both his wind and his science had deteriorated from long lack of training. Therefore, he forced the fighting from the start. It is difficult to say to what he owed his victory over the once champion middleweight. One thing in his favour was that <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Conlan’s nerve and judgment had been somewhat shattered by the effects of a recent spree. Another must have been that Holcombe was stimulated to supreme exertion by an absorbing incentive to win⁠—a prompting more powerful than the instinct of the gladiator, deeper than all the motives of gallantry, and more important than the vital influence of love itself. A third fortuitous adjunct was, without doubt, a chance blow upon the projecting chin of the middleweight, under which that warrior sank to the gully’s grime and remained incapable, while Holcombe stood above him and leisurely counted him out.</p>
 			<p>Danny got shakily to his feet, and proved to be a true sport.</p>
-			<p>“You’re a’ll right,” he said. “But if we’d had it by rounds ’twould have ended different. The girl goes with you, do you see? I’m on the square.”</p>
+			<p>“You’re all right,” he said. “But if we’d had it by rounds ’twould have ended different. The girl goes with you, do you see? I’m on the square.”</p>
 			<p>They climbed back to the cottage.</p>
 			<p>“It’s settled,” announced Holcombe. “<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Conlan removes his objections.”</p>
 			<p>“That’s straight,” said Danny. “He’s all right.”</p>

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@@ -25,7 +25,7 @@
 			<p>A tainted ten certainly does get action on Broadway. I was alimony once, and got folded in a little dogskin purse among a lot of dimes. They were bragging about the busy times there were in Ossining whenever three girls got hold of one of them during the ice cream season. But it’s Slow Moving Vehicles Keep to the Right for the little Bok tips when you think of the way we bison plasters refuse to stick to anything during the rush lobster hour.</p>
 			<p>The first I ever heard of tainted money was one night when a good thing with a Van to his name threw me over with some other bills to buy a stack of blues.</p>
 			<p>About midnight a big, easygoing man with a fat face like a monk’s and the eye of a janitor with his wages raised took me and a lot of other notes and rolled us into what is termed a “wad” among the money tainters.</p>
-			<p>“Ticket me for five hundred,” said he to the banker, “and look out for everything, Charlie. I’m going out for a stroll in the glen before the moonlight fades from the brow of the cliff. If anybody finds the roof in their way there’s $60,000 wrapped in a comic supplement in the upper left-hand corner of the safe. Be bold; everywhere be bold, but be not bowled over. ‘Night.”</p>
+			<p>“Ticket me for five hundred,” said he to the banker, “and look out for everything, Charlie. I’m going out for a stroll in the glen before the moonlight fades from the brow of the cliff. If anybody finds the roof in their way there’s $60,000 wrapped in a comic supplement in the upper left-hand corner of the safe. Be bold; everywhere be bold, but be not bowled over. ’Night.”</p>
 			<p>I found myself between two $20 gold certificates. One of ’em says to me:</p>
 			<p>“Well, old shorthorn, you’re in luck tonight. You’ll see something of life. Old Jack’s going to make the Tenderloin look like a hamburg steak.”</p>
 			<p>“Explain,” says I. “I’m used to joints, but I don’t care for filet mignon with the kind of sauce you serve.”</p>

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

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@@ -12,7 +12,7 @@
 			<p>One will have it (let us say) that <abbr>Mme.</abbr> André Macarté’s apartment was looted by six burglars, who descended via the fire-escape and bore away a ruby tiara valued at two thousand dollars and a five-hundred-dollar prize Spitz dog, which (in violation of the expectoration ordinance) was making free with the halls of the Wuttapesituckquesunoowetunquah Apartments.</p>
 			<p>My second “chiel” will take notes to the effect that while a friendly game of pinochle was in progress in the tenement rooms of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Andy McCarty, a lady guest named Ruby O’Hara threw a burglar down six flights of stairs, where he was pinioned and held by a two-thousand-dollar English bulldog amid a crowd of five hundred excited spectators.</p>
 			<p>My third chronicler and friend will gather the news threads of the happening in his own happy way; setting forth on the page for you to read that the house of Antonio Macartini was blown up at 6 <abbr class="time">a.m.</abbr>, by the Black Hand Society, on his refusing to leave two thousand dollars at a certain street corner, killing a pet five-hundred-dollar Pomeranian belonging to Alderman Rubitara’s little daughter (see photo and diagram opposite).</p>
-			<p>Number four of my history-makers will simply construe from the premises the story that while an audience of two thousand enthusiasts was listening to a Rubinstein concert on Sixth Street, a woman who said she was <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Andrew M. Carter threw a brick through a plate-glass window valued at five hundred dollars. The Carter woman claimed that someone in the building had stolen her dog.</p>
+			<p>Number four of my history-makers will simply construe from the premises the story that while an audience of two thousand enthusiasts was listening to a Rubinstein concert on Sixth Street, a woman who said she was <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Andrew <abbr class="name">M.</abbr> Carter threw a brick through a plate-glass window valued at five hundred dollars. The Carter woman claimed that someone in the building had stolen her dog.</p>
 			<p>Now, the discrepancies in these registrations of the day’s doings need do no one hurt. Surely, one newspaper is enough for any man to prop against his morning water-bottle to fend off the smiling hatred of his wife’s glance. If he be foolish enough to read four he is no wiser than a Higher Critic.</p>
 			<p>I remember (probably as well as you do) having read the parable of the talents. A prominent citizen, about to journey into a far country, first hands over to his servants his goods. To one he gives five talents; to another two; to another one⁠—to every man according to his several ability, as the text has it. There are two versions of this parable, as you well know. There may be more⁠—I do not know.</p>
 			<p>When the <abbr>p.</abbr> c. returns he requires an accounting. Two servants have put their talents out at usury and gained one hundred percent. Good. The unprofitable one simply digs up the talent deposited with him and hands it out on demand. A pattern of behavior for trust companies and banks, surely! In one version we read that he had wrapped it in a napkin and laid it away. But the commentator informs us that the talent mentioned was composed of 750 ounces of silver⁠—about $900 worth. So the chronicler who mentioned the napkin, had either to reduce the amount of the deposit or do a lot of explaining about the size of the napery used in those davs. Therefore in his version we note that he uses the word “pound” instead of “talent.”</p>
@@ -67,7 +67,7 @@
 			<p>“All right,” said Mac. “I take it as an honor, of course, for you to notice my hopping around. Of course I’d like to do something in a professional line. Of course I can sing a little and do card tricks and Irish and German comedy stuff, and of course I’m not so bad on the trapeze and comic bicycle stunts and Hebrew monologues and⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“One moment,” interrupted Del Delano, “before we begin. I said you couldn’t dance. Well, that wasn’t quite right. You’ve only got two or three bad tricks in your method. You’re handy with your feet, and you belong at the top, where I am. I’ll put you there. I’ve got six weeks continuous in New York; and in four I can shape up your style till the booking agents will fight one another to get you. And I’ll do it, too. I’m of, from, and for the West Side. ‘Del Delano’ looks good on billboards, but the family name’s Crowley. Now, Mackintosh⁠—McGowan, I mean⁠—you’ve got your chance⁠—fifty times a better one than I had.”</p>
 			<p>“I’d be a shine to turn it down,” said Mac. “And I hope you understand I appreciate it. Me and my cousin Cliff McGowan was thinking of getting a tryout at Creary’s on amateur night a month from tomorrow.”</p>
-			<p>“Good stuff!” said Delano. “I got mine there. Junius T. Rollins, the booker for Kuhn &amp; Dooley, jumped on the stage and engaged me after my dance. And the boards were an inch deep in nickels and dimes and quarters. There wasn’t but nine penny pieces found in the lot.”</p>
+			<p>“Good stuff!” said Delano. “I got mine there. Junius <abbr class="name">T.</abbr> Rollins, the booker for Kuhn &amp; Dooley, jumped on the stage and engaged me after my dance. And the boards were an inch deep in nickels and dimes and quarters. There wasn’t but nine penny pieces found in the lot.”</p>
 			<p>“I ought to tell you,” said Mac, after two minutes of pensiveness, “that my cousin Cliff can beat me dancing. We’ve always been what you might call pals. If you’d take him up instead of me, now, it might be better. He’s invented a lot of steps that I can’t cut.”</p>
 			<p>“Forget it,” said Delano. “Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays of every week from now till amateur night, a month off, I’ll coach you. I’ll make you as good as I am; and nobody could do more for you. My act’s over every night at 10:15. Half an hour later I’ll take you up and drill you till twelve. I’ll put you at the top of the bunch, right where I am. You’ve got talent. Your style’s bum; but you’ve got the genius. You let me manage it. I’m from the West Side myself, and I’d rather see one of the same gang win out before I would an East-Sider, or any of the Flatbush or Hackensack Meadow kind of butt-iners. I’ll see that Junius Rollins is present on your Friday night; and if he don’t climb over the footlights and offer you fifty a week as a starter, I’ll let you draw it down from my own salary every Monday night. Now, am I talking on the level or am I not?”</p>
 			<p>Amateur night at Creary’s Eighth Avenue Theatre is cut by the same pattern as amateur nights elsewhere. After the regular performance the humblest talent may, by previous arrangement with the management, make its debut upon the public stage. Ambitious non-professionals, mostly self-instructed, display their skill and powers of entertainment along the broadest lines. They may sing, dance, mimic, juggle, contort, recite, or disport themselves along any of the ragged boundary lines of Art. From the ranks of these anxious tyros are chosen the professionals that adorn or otherwise make conspicuous the full-blown stage. Press-agents delight in recounting to open-mouthed and close-eared reporters stories of the humble beginnings of the brilliant stars whose orbits they control.</p>
@@ -75,7 +75,7 @@
 			<p>Thus they get their chance. Amateur night is a kindly boon. It is charity divested of almsgiving. It is a brotherly hand reached down by members of the best united band of coworkers in the world to raise up less fortunate ones without labelling them beggars. It gives you the chance, if you can grasp it, to step for a few minutes before some badly painted scenery and, during the playing by the orchestra of some ten or twelve bars of music, and while the soles of your shoes may be clearly holding to the uppers, to secure a salary equal to a Congressman’s or any orthodox minister’s. Could an ambitious student of literature or financial methods get a chance like that by spending twenty minutes in a Carnegie library? I do not not trow so.</p>
 			<p>But shall we look in at Creary’s? Let us say that the specific Friday night had arrived on which the fortunate Mac McGowan was to justify the flattering predictions of his distinguished patron and, incidentally, drop his silver talent into the slit of the slot-machine of fame and fortune that gives up reputation and dough. I offer, sure of your acquiescence, that we now forswear hypocritical philosophy and bigoted comment, permitting the story to finish itself in the dress of material allegations⁠—a medium more worthy, when held to the line, than the most laborious creations of the word-milliners …</p>
 			<blockquote>
-				<p>[Page of (O. Henry’s) manuscript missing here.]</p>
+				<p>[Page of (<abbr class="name">O.</abbr> Henry’s) manuscript missing here.]</p>
 			</blockquote>
 			<p>… easily among the wings with his patron, the great Del Delano. For, whatever footlights shone in the City-That-Would-Be-Amused, the freedom of their unshaded side was Del’s. And if he should take up an amateur⁠—see? and bring him around⁠—see? and, winking one of his cold blue eyes, say to the manager: “Take it from me⁠—he’s got the goods⁠—see?” you wouldn’t expect that amateur to sit on an unpainted bench sudorifically awaiting his turn, would you? So Mac strolled around largely with the nonpareil; and the seven waited, clammily, on the bench.</p>
 			<p>A giant in shirtsleeves, with a grim, kind face in which many stitches had been taken by surgeons from time to time, <abbr>i.e.</abbr>, with a long stick, looped at the end. He was the man with the Hook. The manager, with his close-smoothed blond hair, his one-sided smile, and his abnormally easy manner, pored with patient condescension over the difficult program of the amateurs. The last of the professional turns⁠—the Grand March of the Happy Huzzard⁠—had been completed; the last wrinkle and darn of their blue silkolene cotton tights had vanished from the stage. The man in the orchestra who played the kettledrum, cymbals, triangle, sandpaper, whang-doodle, hoof-beats, and catcalls, and fired the pistol shots, had wiped his brow. The illegal holiday of the Romans had arrived.</p>

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@@ -15,10 +15,10 @@
 				<i>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.</i>
 			</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 J. Churchill Wahrfield, its former president. … The officers and directors unite in requesting me to express to you their sincere esteem and thanks for your prompt and much appreciated return of the entire missing sum within two weeks from the time of its disappearance. … Can assure you that the matter will not be allowed to receive the least publicity. … Regret exceedingly the distressing death of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Wahrfield by his own hand, but … Congratulations on your marriage to Miss Wahrfield … many charms, winning manners, noble and womanly nature and envied position in the best metropolitan society …</p>
+				<p><span epub:type="z3998:salutation">My Dear <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Goodwin</span>:⁠—Your communication per <abbr>Messrs.</abbr> Howland and Fourchet, of New Orleans, has reached us. Also their draft on <abbr class="postal">NY</abbr> for $100,000, the amount abstracted from the funds of this company by the late <abbr class="name">J.</abbr> Churchill Wahrfield, its former president. … The officers and directors unite in requesting me to express to you their sincere esteem and thanks for your prompt and much appreciated return of the entire missing sum within two weeks from the time of its disappearance. … Can assure you that the matter will not be allowed to receive the least publicity. … Regret exceedingly the distressing death of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Wahrfield by his own hand, but … Congratulations on your marriage to Miss Wahrfield … many charms, winning manners, noble and womanly nature and envied position in the best metropolitan society …</p>
 				<footer>
 					<p epub:type="z3998:valediction">Cordially yours,</p>
-					<p class="signature" epub:type="z3998:sender">Lucius E. Applegate</p>
+					<p class="signature" epub:type="z3998:sender">Lucius <abbr class="name">E.</abbr> Applegate</p>
 					<p>First Vice-President</p>
 					<p>The Republic Insurance Company.</p>
 				</footer>

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

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@@ -13,7 +13,7 @@
 			<p>The Justice of the Peace slipped his feet into his shoes, for the sake of dignity, and moved to let them enter.</p>
 			<p>“We-all,” said the woman, in a voice like the wind blowing through pine boughs, “wants a divo’ce.” She looked at Ransie to see if he noted any flaw or ambiguity or evasion or partiality or self-partisanship in her statement of their business.</p>
 			<p>“A divo’ce,” repeated Ransie, with a solemn nod. “We-all can’t git along together nohow. It’s lonesome enough fur to live in the mount’ins when a man and a woman keers fur one another. But when she’s a-spittin’ like a wildcat or a-sullenin’ like a hoot-owl in the cabin, a man ain’t got no call to live with her.”</p>
-			<p>“When he’s a no-’count varmint,” said the woman, “without any especial warmth, a-traipsin’ along of scalawags and moonshiners and a-layin’ on his back pizen ‘ith co’n whiskey, and a-pesterin’ folks with a pack o’ hungry, triflin’ houn’s to feed!”</p>
+			<p>“When he’s a no-’count varmint,” said the woman, “without any especial warmth, a-traipsin’ along of scalawags and moonshiners and a-layin’ on his back pizen ’ith co’n whiskey, and a-pesterin’ folks with a pack o’ hungry, triflin’ houn’s to feed!”</p>
 			<p>“When she keeps a-throwin’ skillet lids,” came Ransie’s antiphony, “and slings b’ilin’ water on the best coon-dog in the Cumberlands, and sets herself agin’ cookin’ a man’s victuals, and keeps him awake o’ nights accusin’ him of a sight of doin’s!”</p>
 			<p>“When he’s al’ays a-fightin’ the revenues, and gits a hard name in the mount’ins fur a mean man, who’s gwine to be able fur to sleep o’ nights?”</p>
 			<p>The Justice of the Peace stirred deliberately to his duties. He placed his one chair and a wooden stool for his petitioners. He opened his book of statutes on the table and scanned the index. Presently he wiped his spectacles and shifted his inkstand.</p>
@@ -22,7 +22,7 @@
 			<p>“The regular price of a divo’ce in this co’t,” said the Justice, “air five dollars.” He stuffed the bill into the pocket of his homespun vest with a deceptive air of indifference. With much bodily toil and mental travail he wrote the decree upon half a sheet of foolscap, and then copied it upon the other. Ransie Bilbro and his wife listened to his reading of the document that was to give them freedom:</p>
 			<p>“Know all men by these presents that Ransie Bilbro and his wife, Ariela Bilbro, this day personally appeared before me and promises that hereinafter they will neither love, honour, nor obey each other, neither for better nor worse, being of sound mind and body, and accept summons for divorce according to the peace and dignity of the State. Herein fail not, so help you God. Benaja Widdup, justice of the peace in and for the county of Piedmont, State of Tennessee.”</p>
 			<p>The Justice was about to hand one of the documents to Ransie. The voice of Ariela delayed the transfer. Both men looked at her. Their dull masculinity was confronted by something sudden and unexpected in the woman.</p>
-			<p>“Judge, don’t you give him that air paper yit. ’Tain’t all settled, nohow. I got to have my rights first. I got to have my ali-money. ’Tain’t no kind of a way to do fur a man to divo’ce his wife ‘thout her havin’ a cent fur to do with. I’m a-layin’ off to be a-goin’ up to brother Ed’s up on Hogback Mount’in. I’m bound fur to hev a pa’r of shoes and some snuff and things besides. Ef Rance kin affo’d a divo’ce, let him pay me ali-money.”</p>
+			<p>“Judge, don’t you give him that air paper yit. ’Tain’t all settled, nohow. I got to have my rights first. I got to have my ali-money. ’Tain’t no kind of a way to do fur a man to divo’ce his wife ’thout her havin’ a cent fur to do with. I’m a-layin’ off to be a-goin’ up to brother Ed’s up on Hogback Mount’in. I’m bound fur to hev a pa’r of shoes and some snuff and things besides. Ef Rance kin affo’d a divo’ce, let him pay me ali-money.”</p>
 			<p>Ransie Bilbro was stricken to dumb perplexity. There had been no previous hint of alimony. Women were always bringing up startling and unlooked-for issues.</p>
 			<p>Justice Benaja Widdup felt that the point demanded judicial decision. The authorities were also silent on the subject of alimony. But the woman’s feet were bare. The trail to Hogback Mountain was steep and flinty.</p>
 			<p>“Ariela Bilbro,” he asked, in official tones, “how much did you ’low would be good and sufficient ali-money in the case befo’ the co’t.”</p>
@@ -34,17 +34,17 @@
 			<p>“The case air adjourned,” said Benaja Widdup, “till tomorrow, when you-all will present yo’selves and obey the order of the co’t. Followin’ of which the decrees of divo’ce will be delivered.” He sat down in the door and began to loosen a shoestring.</p>
 			<p>“We mout as well go down to Uncle Ziah’s,” decided Ransie, “and spend the night.” He climbed into the cart on one side, and Ariela climbed in on the other. Obeying the flap of his rope, the little red bull slowly came around on a tack, and the cart crawled away in the nimbus arising from its wheels.</p>
 			<p>Justice-of-the-peace Benaja Widdup smoked his elder-stem pipe. Late in the afternoon he got his weekly paper, and read it until the twilight dimmed its lines. Then he lit the tallow candle on his table, and read until the moon rose, marking the time for supper. He lived in the double log cabin on the slope near the girdled poplar. Going home to supper he crossed a little branch darkened by a laurel thicket. The dark figure of a man stepped from the laurels and pointed a rifle at his breast. His hat was pulled down low, and something covered most of his face.</p>
-			<p>“I want yo’ money,” said the figure, “ ‘thout any talk. I’m gettin’ nervous, and my finger’s a-wabblin’ on this here trigger.”</p>
+			<p>“I want yo’ money,” said the figure, “ ’thout any talk. I’m gettin’ nervous, and my finger’s a-wabblin’ on this here trigger.”</p>
 			<p>“I’ve only got f-f-five dollars,” said the Justice, producing it from his vest pocket.</p>
 			<p>“Roll it up,” came the order, “and stick it in the end of this here gun-bar’l.”</p>
 			<p>The bill was crisp and new. Even fingers that were clumsy and trembling found little difficulty in making a spill of it and inserting it (this with less ease) into the muzzle of the rifle.</p>
 			<p>“Now I reckon you kin be goin’ along,” said the robber.</p>
 			<p>The Justice lingered not on his way.</p>
 			<p>The next day came the little red bull, drawing the cart to the office door. Justice Benaja Widdup had his shoes on, for he was expecting the visit. In his presence Ransie Bilbro handed to his wife a five-dollar bill. The official’s eye sharply viewed it. It seemed to curl up as though it had been rolled and inserted into the end of a gun-barrel. But the Justice refrained from comment. It is true that other bills might be inclined to curl. He handed each one a decree of divorce. Each stood awkwardly silent, slowly folding the guarantee of freedom. The woman cast a shy glance full of constraint at Ransie.</p>
-			<p>“I reckon you’ll be goin’ back up to the cabin,” she said, along ‘ith the bull-cart. There’s bread in the tin box settin’ on the shelf. I put the bacon in the b’ilin’-pot to keep the hounds from gittin’ it. Don’t forget to wind the clock tonight.”</p>
+			<p>“I reckon you’ll be goin’ back up to the cabin,” she said, along ’ith the bull-cart. There’s bread in the tin box settin’ on the shelf. I put the bacon in the b’ilin’-pot to keep the hounds from gittin’ it. Don’t forget to wind the clock tonight.”</p>
 			<p>“You air a-goin’ to your brother Ed’s?” asked Ransie, with fine unconcern.</p>
 			<p>“I was ’lowin’ to get along up thar afore night. I ain’t sayin’ as they’ll pester theyselves any to make me welcome, but I hain’t nowhar else fur to go. It’s a right smart ways, and I reckon I better be goin’. I’ll be a-sayin’ goodbye, Ranse⁠—that is, if you keer fur to say so.”</p>
-			<p>“I don’t know as anybody’s a hound dog,” said Ransie, in a martyr’s voice, “fur to not want to say goodbye⁠—‘less you air so anxious to git away that you don’t want me to say it.”</p>
+			<p>“I don’t know as anybody’s a hound dog,” said Ransie, in a martyr’s voice, “fur to not want to say goodbye⁠—’less you air so anxious to git away that you don’t want me to say it.”</p>
 			<p>Ariela was silent. She folded the five-dollar bill and her decree carefully, and placed them in the bosom of her dress. Benaja Widdup watched the money disappear with mournful eyes behind his spectacles.</p>
 			<p>And then with his next words he achieved rank (as his thoughts ran) with either the great crowd of the world’s sympathizers or the little crowd of its great financiers.</p>
 			<p>“Be kind o’ lonesome in the old cabin tonight, Ranse,” he said.</p>
@@ -54,12 +54,12 @@
 			<p>“Nobody never said they didn’t.”</p>
 			<p>“Nobody never said they did. I reckon I better start on now to brother Ed’s.”</p>
 			<p>“Nobody can’t wind that old clock.”</p>
-			<p>“Want me to go back along ‘ith you in the cart and wind it fur you, Ranse?”</p>
+			<p>“Want me to go back along ’ith you in the cart and wind it fur you, Ranse?”</p>
 			<p>The mountaineer’s countenance was proof against emotion. But he reached out a big hand and enclosed Ariela’s thin brown one. Her soul peeped out once through her impassive face, hallowing it.</p>
 			<p>“Them hounds shan’t pester you no more,” said Ransie. “I reckon I been mean and low down. You wind that clock, Ariela.”</p>
-			<p>“My heart hit’s in that cabin, Ranse,” she whispered, “along ‘ith you. I ai’nt a-goin’ to git mad no more. Le’s be startin’, Ranse, so’s we kin git home by sundown.”</p>
+			<p>“My heart hit’s in that cabin, Ranse,” she whispered, “along ’ith you. I ai’nt a-goin’ to git mad no more. Le’s be startin’, Ranse, so’s we kin git home by sundown.”</p>
 			<p>Justice-of-the-peace Benaja Widdup interposed as they started for the door, forgetting his presence.</p>
-			<p>“In the name of the State of Tennessee,” he said, “I forbid you-all to be a-defyin’ of its laws and statutes. This co’t is mo’ than willin’ and full of joy to see the clouds of discord and misunderstandin’ rollin’ away from two lovin’ hearts, but it air the duty of the co’t to p’eserve the morals and integrity of the State. The co’t reminds you that you air no longer man and wife, but air divo’ced by regular decree, and as such air not entitled to the benefits and ‘purtenances of the mattermonal estate.”</p>
+			<p>“In the name of the State of Tennessee,” he said, “I forbid you-all to be a-defyin’ of its laws and statutes. This co’t is mo’ than willin’ and full of joy to see the clouds of discord and misunderstandin’ rollin’ away from two lovin’ hearts, but it air the duty of the co’t to p’eserve the morals and integrity of the State. The co’t reminds you that you air no longer man and wife, but air divo’ced by regular decree, and as such air not entitled to the benefits and ’purtenances of the mattermonal estate.”</p>
 			<p>Ariela caught Ransie’s arm. Did those words mean that she must lose him now when they had just learned the lesson of life?</p>
 			<p>“But the co’t air prepared,” went on the Justice, “fur to remove the disabilities set up by the decree of divo’ce. The co’t air on hand to perform the solemn ceremony of marri’ge, thus fixin’ things up and enablin’ the parties in the case to resume the honour’ble and elevatin’ state of mattermony which they desires. The fee fur performin’ said ceremony will be, in this case, to wit, five dollars.”</p>
 			<p>Ariela caught the gleam of promise in his words. Swiftly her hand went to her bosom. Freely as an alighting dove the bill fluttered to the Justice’s table. Her sallow cheek coloured as she stood hand in hand with Ransie and listened to the reuniting words.</p>

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@@ -11,7 +11,7 @@
 			<p>A favourite dodge to get your story read by the public is to assert that it is true, and then add that Truth is stranger than Fiction. I do not know if the yarn I am anxious for you to read is true; but the Spanish purser of the fruit steamer <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">El Carrero</i> swore to me by the shrine of Santa Guadalupe that he had the facts from the <abbr class="initialism">US</abbr> vice-consul at La Paz⁠—a person who could not possibly have been cognizant of half of them.</p>
 			<p>As for the adage quoted above, I take pleasure in puncturing it by affirming that I read in a purely fictional story the other day the line: “ ‘Be it so,’ said the policeman.” Nothing so strange has yet cropped out in Truth.</p>
 			<hr/>
-			<p>When H. Ferguson Hedges, millionaire promoter, investor and man-about- New-York, turned his thoughts upon matters convivial, and word of it went “down the line,” bouncers took a precautionary turn at the Indian clubs, waiters put ironstone china on his favourite tables, cab drivers crowded close to the curbstone in front of all-night cafés, and careful cashiers in his regular haunts charged up a few bottles to his account by way of preface and introduction.</p>
+			<p>When <abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Ferguson Hedges, millionaire promoter, investor and man-about- New-York, turned his thoughts upon matters convivial, and word of it went “down the line,” bouncers took a precautionary turn at the Indian clubs, waiters put ironstone china on his favourite tables, cab drivers crowded close to the curbstone in front of all-night cafés, and careful cashiers in his regular haunts charged up a few bottles to his account by way of preface and introduction.</p>
 			<p>As a money power a one-millionaire is of small account in a city where the man who cuts your slice of beef behind the free-lunch counter rides to work in his own automobile. But Hedges spent his money as lavishly, loudly and showily as though he were only a clerk squandering a week’s wages. And, after all, the bartender takes no interest in your reserve fund. He would rather look you up on his cash register than in Bradstreet.</p>
 			<p>On the evening that the material allegation of facts begins, Hedges was bidding dull care begone in the company of five or six good fellows⁠—acquaintances and friends who had gathered in his wake.</p>
 			<p>Among them were two younger men⁠—Ralph Merriam, a broker, and Wade, his friend.</p>
@@ -49,14 +49,14 @@
 			<p>“Ralph,” she interrupted, almost with a scream, “be my world!”</p>
 			<p>Her eyes melted; she relaxed magnificently and swayed toward Merriam so suddenly that he had to jump to catch her.</p>
 			<p>Dear me! in such scenes how the talk runs into artificial prose. But it can’t be helped. It’s the subconscious smell of the footlights’ smoke that’s in all of us. Stir the depths of your cook’s soul sufficiently and she will discourse in Bulwer-Lyttonese.</p>
-			<p>Merriam and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant were very happy. He announced their engagement at the Hotel Orilla del <abbr>Mar.</abbr> Eight foreigners and four native Astors pounded his back and shouted insincere congratulations at him. Pedrito, the Castilian-mannered barkeep, was goaded to extra duty until his agility would have turned a Boston cherry-phosphate clerk a pale lilac with envy.</p>
+			<p>Merriam and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant were very happy. He announced their engagement at the Hotel Orilla del Mar. Eight foreigners and four native Astors pounded his back and shouted insincere congratulations at him. Pedrito, the Castilian-mannered barkeep, was goaded to extra duty until his agility would have turned a Boston cherry-phosphate clerk a pale lilac with envy.</p>
 			<p>They were both very happy. According to the strange mathematics of the god of mutual affinity, the shadows that clouded their pasts when united became only half as dense instead of darker. They shut the world out and bolted the doors. Each was the other’s world. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant lived again. The remembering look left her eyes. Merriam was with her every moment that was possible. On a little plateau under a grove of palms and calabash trees they were going to build a fairy bungalow. They were to be married in two months. Many hours of the day they had their heads together over the house plans. Their joint capital would set up a business in fruit or woods that would yield a comfortable support. “Good night, my world,” would say <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant every evening when Merriam left her for his hotel. They were very happy. Their love had, circumstantially, that element of melancholy in it that it seems to require to attain its supremest elevation. And it seemed that their mutual great misfortune or sin was a bond that nothing could sever.</p>
 			<p>One day a steamer hove in the offing. Barelegged and bare-shouldered La Paz scampered down to the beach, for the arrival of a steamer was their loop-the-loop, circus, Emancipation Day and four-o’clock tea.</p>
 			<p>When the steamer was near enough, wise ones proclaimed that she was the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Pajaro</i>, bound up-coast from Callao to Panama.</p>
-			<p>The <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Pajaro</i> put on brakes a mile off shore. Soon a boat came bobbing shoreward. Merriam strolled down on the beach to look on. In the shallow water the Carib sailors sprang out and dragged the boat with a mighty rush to the firm shingle. Out climbed the purser, the captain and two passengers, ploughing their way through the deep sand toward the hotel. Merriam glanced toward them with the mild interest due to strangers. There was something familiar to him in the walk of one of the passengers. He looked again, and his blood seemed to turn to strawberry ice cream in his veins. Burly, arrogant, debonair as ever, H. Ferguson Hedges, the man he had killed, was coming toward him ten feet away.</p>
+			<p>The <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Pajaro</i> put on brakes a mile off shore. Soon a boat came bobbing shoreward. Merriam strolled down on the beach to look on. In the shallow water the Carib sailors sprang out and dragged the boat with a mighty rush to the firm shingle. Out climbed the purser, the captain and two passengers, ploughing their way through the deep sand toward the hotel. Merriam glanced toward them with the mild interest due to strangers. There was something familiar to him in the walk of one of the passengers. He looked again, and his blood seemed to turn to strawberry ice cream in his veins. Burly, arrogant, debonair as ever, <abbr class="name">H.</abbr> Ferguson Hedges, the man he had killed, was coming toward him ten feet away.</p>
 			<p>When Hedges saw Merriam his face flushed a dark red. Then he shouted in his old, bluff way: “Hello, Merriam. Glad to see you. Didn’t expect to find you out here. Quinby, this is my old friend Merriam, of New York⁠—Merriam, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Quinby.”</p>
 			<p>Merriam gave Hedges and then Quinby an ice-cold hand. “Br-r-r-r!” said Hedges. “But you’ve got a frappéd flipper! Man, you’re not well. You’re as yellow as a Chinaman. Malarial here? Steer us to a bar if there is such a thing, and let’s take a prophylactic.”</p>
-			<p>Merriam, still half comatose, led them toward the Hotel Orilla del <abbr class="eoc">Mar.</abbr></p>
+			<p>Merriam, still half comatose, led them toward the Hotel Orilla del Mar.</p>
 			<p>“Quinby and I,” explained Hedges, puffing through the slippery sand, “are looking out along the coast for some investments. We’ve just come up from Concepción and Valparaiso and Lima. The captain of this subsidized ferry boat told us there was some good picking around here in silver mines. So we got off. Now, where is that café, Merriam? Oh, in this portable soda water pavilion?”</p>
 			<p>Leaving Quinby at the bar, Hedges drew Merriam aside.</p>
 			<p>“Now, what does this mean?” he said, with gruff kindness. “Are you sulking about that fool row we had?”</p>
@@ -73,8 +73,8 @@
 			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant received her roll of newspapers at four o’clock. The boy was late in delivering them, because he had been deflected from his duty by an iguana that crossed his path and to which he immediately gave chase. But it made no hardship, for she had no letters to send.</p>
 			<p>She was idling in a hammock in the patio of the house that she occupied, half awake, half happily dreaming of the paradise that she and Merriam had created out of the wrecks of their pasts. She was content now for the horizon of that shimmering sea to be the horizon of her life. They had shut out the world and closed the door.</p>
 			<p>Merriam was coming to her house at seven, after his dinner at the hotel. She would put on a white dress and an apricot-coloured lace mantilla, and they would walk an hour under the coconut palms by the lagoon. She smiled contentedly, and chose a paper at random from the roll the boy had brought.</p>
-			<p>At first the words of a certain headline of a Sunday newspaper meant nothing to her; they conveyed only a visualized sense of familiarity. The largest type ran thus: “Lloyd B. Conant secures divorce.” And then the subheadings: “Well-known Saint Louis paint manufacturer wins suit, pleading one year’s absence of wife.” “Her mysterious disappearance recalled.” “Nothing has been heard of her since.”</p>
-			<p>Twisting herself quickly out of the hammock, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant’s eye soon traversed the half-column of the “Recall.” It ended thus: “It will be remembered that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant disappeared one evening in March of last year. It was freely rumoured that her marriage with Lloyd B. Conant resulted in much unhappiness. Stories were not wanting to the effect that his cruelty toward his wife had more than once taken the form of physical abuse. After her departure a full bottle of tincture of aconite, a deadly poison, was found in a small medicine cabinet in her bedroom. This might have been an indication that she meditated suicide. It is supposed that she abandoned such an intention if she possessed it, and left her home instead.”</p>
+			<p>At first the words of a certain headline of a Sunday newspaper meant nothing to her; they conveyed only a visualized sense of familiarity. The largest type ran thus: “Lloyd <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Conant secures divorce.” And then the subheadings: “Well-known Saint Louis paint manufacturer wins suit, pleading one year’s absence of wife.” “Her mysterious disappearance recalled.” “Nothing has been heard of her since.”</p>
+			<p>Twisting herself quickly out of the hammock, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant’s eye soon traversed the half-column of the “Recall.” It ended thus: “It will be remembered that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant disappeared one evening in March of last year. It was freely rumoured that her marriage with Lloyd <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> Conant resulted in much unhappiness. Stories were not wanting to the effect that his cruelty toward his wife had more than once taken the form of physical abuse. After her departure a full bottle of tincture of aconite, a deadly poison, was found in a small medicine cabinet in her bedroom. This might have been an indication that she meditated suicide. It is supposed that she abandoned such an intention if she possessed it, and left her home instead.”</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant slowly dropped the paper, and sat on a chair, clasping her hands tightly.</p>
 			<p>“Let me think⁠—O God!⁠—let me think,” she whispered. “I took the bottle with me … I threw it out of the window of the train … I⁠— … there was another bottle in the cabinet … there were two, side by side⁠—the aconite⁠—and the valerian that I took when I could not sleep … If they found the aconite bottle full, why⁠—but, he is alive, of course⁠—I gave him only a harmless dose of valerian … I am not a murderess in fact … Ralph, I⁠—O God, don’t let this be a dream!”</p>
 			<p>She went into the part of the house that she rented from the old Peruvian man and his wife, shut the door, and walked up and down her room swiftly and feverishly for half an hour. Merriam’s photograph stood in a frame on a table. She picked it up, looked at it with a smile of exquisite tenderness, and⁠—dropped four tears on it. And Merriam only twenty rods away! Then she stood still for ten minutes, looking into space. She looked into space through a slowly opening door. On her side of the door was the building material for a castle of Romance⁠—love, an Arcady of waving palms, a lullaby of waves on the shore of a haven of rest, respite, peace, a lotus land of dreamy ease and security⁠—a life of poetry and heart’s ease and refuge. Romanticist, will you tell me what <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant saw on the other side of the door? You cannot?⁠—that is, you will not? Very well; then listen.</p>
@@ -96,7 +96,7 @@
 			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant was ready. She had settled all business matters with Angela, and was impatiently waiting. She wore a long, loose black-silk duster that she often walked about in when the evenings were chilly. On her head was a small round hat, and over it the apricot-coloured lace mantilla.</p>
 			<p>Dusk had quickly followed the short twilight. Mateo led her by dark and grass-grown streets toward the point behind which the sloop was anchored. On turning a corner they beheld the Hotel Orilla del Mar three streets away, nebulously aglow with its array of kerosene lamps.</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant paused, with streaming eyes. “I must, I <em>must</em> see him once before I go,” she murmured in anguish. But even then she did not falter in her decision. Quickly she invented a plan by which she might speak to him, and yet make her departure without his knowing. She would walk past the hotel, ask someone to call him out and talk a few moments on some trivial excuse, leaving him expecting to see her at her home at seven.</p>
-			<p>She unpinned her hat and gave it to Mateo. “Keep this, and wait here till I come,” she ordered. Then she draped the mantilla over her head as she usually did when walking after sunset, and went straight to the Orilla del <abbr class="eoc">Mar.</abbr></p>
+			<p>She unpinned her hat and gave it to Mateo. “Keep this, and wait here till I come,” she ordered. Then she draped the mantilla over her head as she usually did when walking after sunset, and went straight to the Orilla del Mar.</p>
 			<p>She was glad to see the bulky, white-clad figure of Tio Pancho standing alone on the gallery.</p>
 			<p>“Tio Pancho,” she said, with a charming smile, “may I trouble you to ask <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Merriam to come out for just a few moments that I may speak with him?”</p>
 			<p>Tio Pancho bowed as an elephant bows.</p>

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@@ -11,7 +11,7 @@
 			<p>These are the directions for finding the office of Carteret &amp; Carteret, Mill Supplies and Leather Belting:</p>
 			<p>You follow the Broadway trail down until you pass the Crosstown Line, the Bread Line, and the Dead Line, and come to the Big Cañons of the Moneygrubber Tribe. Then you turn to the left, to the right, dodge a push-cart 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 sugar-coated 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> F. Hopkinson Smith, in spite of the “et” after “Carter.”) Well, anyhow:</p>
+			<p>The Carterets were, or was (Columbia College professors please rule), an old Virginia family. Long time ago the gentlemen of the family had worn lace ruffles and carried tinless foils and owned plantations and had slaves to burn. But the war had greatly reduced their holdings. (Of course you can perceive at once that this flavor has been shoplifted from <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr class="name">F.</abbr> Hopkinson Smith, in spite of the “et” after “Carter.”) Well, anyhow:</p>
 			<p>In digging up the Carteret history I shall not take you farther back than the year 1620. The two original American Carterets came over in that year, but by different means of transportation. One brother, named John, came in the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Mayflower</i> and became a Pilgrim Father. You’ve seen his picture on the covers of the Thanksgiving magazines, hunting turkeys in the deep snow with a blunderbuss. Blandford Carteret, the other brother, crossed the pond in his own brigantine, landed on the Virginia coast, and became an <abbr class="initialism">FFV</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 second-hand 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 op 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>