Proofreading corrections

src/epub/text/a-christmas-pi.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="a-christmas-pi" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">A Christmas Pi</h2>
 			<p>I am not without claim to distinction. Although I still stick to suspenders—which, happily, reciprocate—I am negatively egregious. I have never, for instance, seen a professional baseball game, never said that George M. Cohan was “clever,” never started to keep a diary, never called Eugene Walter by his first name, never parodied “The Raven,” never written a Christmas story, never—but what denizen of Never-Never Land can boast so much? Or would, I overhear you think, if he could?</p>
-			<p>Always have I been on the lookout for the Impossible, always on the trail of the Unattainable. Someday, perhaps, I shall find a sleeping-car with a name that means something, an intelligent West Indian hallboy in a New York apartment building, a boardinghouse whose inates occasionally smile, a man born in Manhattan, a 60-cent table d’hôte that serves six oysters the portion instead of four, a Southerner who leaves you in doubt as to his birthplace longer than ten minutes after the introduction, and myself writing a Christmas story. But that will happen ten days after the millennium, and as the millennium is to be magazineless—</p>
+			<p>Always have I been on the lookout for the Impossible, always on the trail of the Unattainable. Someday, perhaps, I shall find a sleeping-car with a name that means something, an intelligent West Indian hallboy in a New York apartment building, a boardinghouse whose inmates occasionally smile, a man born in Manhattan, a 60-cent table d’hôte that serves six oysters the portion instead of four, a Southerner who leaves you in doubt as to his birthplace longer than ten minutes after the introduction, and myself writing a Christmas story. But that will happen ten days after the millennium, and as the millennium is to be magazineless—</p>
 			<p>Every June I am asked to write a Christmas story. Every August I promise, vow, insist, swear that it shall be ready in two weeks. And every November I protest that I am sorry, but I couldn't think of anything new and—well, next year, sure. It was so last year and the year before. It was so this year. And I said to myself that next year it would not be so. I would spend Christmas Eve looking about me. I would get copy from a cop, material from a mater, plot from a messenger boy. And behold! it was Christmas Eve.</p>
 			<p>It was Christmas Eve, to give a synopsis of preceding chapters. I will fine-toothcomb the town for an idea next summer, quoth I. And so I walked, rode and taxi-cabbed. I spoke to waiters, subway guards, chauffeurs and newsboys and tried to draw from them some bit of life, some experience that might make a story, a Christmas story, <abbr class="initialism">COD</abbr>, at twenty cents a word. But there was not a syllable in the silly bunch, not a comma in the comatose lot.</p>
 			<p>And then I wandered into Grand Street and I saw that which made me instinctively clutch my fountain pen. A man, unswept, unmoneyed and unstrung, was about to hurl a brick into a pawnbroker’s window. His arm was raised and he was as deliberate as Mr. Tri-Digital Brown of Chicago trying to lessen the average of Mr. John P. Hanswagner of Pittsburgh. (I always spell Pittsburgh with the final “h”; it’s a final h of a town.)</p>
@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<p>Which was my chance. “Let us withdraw to yonder inn,” I said, like a head chorus-man whose object is to “get ’em off,” “and we can discuss things.”</p>
 			<p>“What’s the game?” I asked, after the waiter had received instructions.</p>
 			<p>“I wanted to get money enough to buy my wife a Christmas present. Been out o’ work for a year. I’m desperate. I—”</p>
-			<p>“Nothing of the kind,” I contradicted. “People don’t try to steal diamonds on a crowded street for any such purpose. I’m not a detective, as yu might know by my guessing so correctly.”</p>
+			<p>“Nothing of the kind,” I contradicted. “People don’t try to steal diamonds on a crowded street for any such purpose. I’m not a detective, as you might know by my guessing so correctly.”</p>
 			<p>“Well,” he laughed, pulling out a bill and giving it to the waiter for the check; “it’s a good joke and I’ll let you in, though you can’t appreciate it. I thought if I hurled that brick in I’d get arrested quick and be sent to a cell or over on the island or something like that. You see, I’m a magazine writer and I wanted to get a real story—‘Yuletide on the Island’ or something. What’s your line, spoiler of a good story?”</p>
 			<p>“I?” I said. “My name is John Horner, and I’m a plumber.”</p>
 		</section>

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@@ -41,7 +41,7 @@
 					<br/>
 					<span>Y maldigo mi fausto destino⁠—</span>
 					<br/>
-					<span>Una vida la mas infeliz.”</span>
+					<span class="i1">Una vida la mas infeliz.”</span>
 				</p>
 			</blockquote>
 			<p>The words of it they do not understand⁠—neither Toledo nor Memphis, but words are the least important things in life. The music tears the breasts of the seekers after Nepenthe, inciting Toledo to remark:</p>
@@ -54,7 +54,7 @@
 			<p>The young woman is well-dressed, and exhibits a beauty of distinctly feminine and tender sort; an Eve-like comeliness that scarcely seems predestined to fade.</p>
 			<p>It is immaterial, the steps by which the two mount to a certain plane of good understanding; they are short and few, as befits the occasion.</p>
 			<p>A button against the wall of the partition is frequently disturbed and a waiter comes and goes at signal.</p>
-			<p>Pensive beauty would nothing of wine; two thick plaits of her blond hair hang almost to the floor; she is a lineal descendant of the Lorelei. So the waiter brings the brew; effervescent, icy, greenish golden. The orchestra on the stage is playing “Oh, Rachel.” The youngsters have exchanged a good bit of information. She calls him, “Walter” and he calls her “Miss Rosa.”</p>
+			<p>Pensive Beauty would nothing of wine; two thick plaits of her blond hair hang almost to the floor; she is a lineal descendant of the Lorelei. So the waiter brings the brew; effervescent, icy, greenish golden. The orchestra on the stage is playing “Oh, Rachel.” The youngsters have exchanged a good bit of information. She calls him, “Walter” and he calls her “Miss Rosa.”</p>
 			<p>Goodall’s tongue is loosened and he has told her everything about himself, about his home in Tennessee, the old pillared mansion under the oaks, the stables, the hunting; the friends he has; down to the chickens, and the box bushes bordering the walks. About his coming South for the climate, hoping to escape the hereditary foe of his family. All about his three months on a ranch; the deer hunts, the rattlers, and the rollicking in the cow camps. Then of his advent to Santone, where he had indirectly learned, from a great specialist, that his life’s calendar probably contains but two more leaves. And then of this death-white, choking night which has come and strangled his fortitude and sent him out to seek a port amid its depressing billows.</p>
 			<p>“My weekly letter from home failed to come,” he told her, “and I was pretty blue. I knew I had to go before long and I was tired of waiting. I went out and bought morphine at every drug store where they would sell me a few tablets. I got thirty-six quarter grains, and was going back to my room and take them, but I met a queer fellow on a bridge, who had a new idea.”</p>
 			<p>Goodall fillips a little pasteboard box upon the table. “I put ’em all together in there.”</p>

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@@ -13,11 +13,11 @@
 					<p>
 						<span>The cities are full of pride,</span>
 						<br/>
-						<span>Challenging each to each⁠—</span>
+						<span class="i1">Challenging each to each⁠—</span>
 						<br/>
 						<span>This from her mountainside,</span>
 						<br/>
-						<span>That from her burdened beach.</span>
+						<span class="i1">That from her burdened beach.</span>
 					</p>
 					<cite><abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Kipling.</cite>
 				</blockquote>

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@@ -23,12 +23,12 @@
 			<p>There now! it’s over. Hardly had time to yawn, did you? I’ve seen biographies that⁠—but let us dissemble.</p>
 			<p>I want you to consider Jacob Spraggins, <abbr>Esq.</abbr>, after he had arrived at the seventh stage of his career. The stages meant are, first, humble origin; second, deserved promotion; third, stockholder; fourth, capitalist; fifth, trust magnate; sixth, rich malefactor; seventh, caliph; eighth, <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">x</i>. The eighth stage shall be left to the higher mathematics.</p>
 			<p>At fifty-five Jacob retired from active business. The income of a czar was still rolling in on him from coal, iron, real estate, oil, railroads, manufactories, and corporations, but none of it touched Jacob’s hands in a raw state. It was a sterilized increment, carefully cleaned and dusted and fumigated until it arrived at its ultimate stage of untainted, spotless checks in the white fingers of his private secretary. Jacob built a three-million-dollar palace on a corner lot fronting on Nabob Avenue, city of New Bagdad, and began to feel the mantle of the late <abbr class="name">H. A.</abbr> Rashid descending upon him. Eventually Jacob slipped the mantle under his collar, tied it in a neat four-in-hand, and became a licensed harrier of our Mesopotamian proletariat.</p>
-			<p>When a man’s income becomes so large that the butcher actually sends him the kind of steak he orders, he begins to think about his soul’s salvation. Now, the various stages or classes of rich men must not be forgotten. The capitalist can tell you to a dollar the amount of his wealth. The trust magnate “estimates” it. The rich malefactor hands you a cigar and denies that he has bought the <abbr>P. D. &amp; Q.</abbr> The caliph merely smiles and talks about Hammerstein and the musical lasses. There is a record of tremendous altercation at breakfast in a “Where-to-Dine-Well” tavern between a magnate and his wife, the rift within the loot being that the wife calculated their fortune at a figure $3,000,000 higher than did her future divorcé. Oh, well, I, myself, heard a similar quarrel between a man and his wife because he found fifty cents less in his pockets than he thought he had. After all, we are all human⁠—Count Tolstoy, R. Fitzsimmons, Peter Pan, and the rest of us.</p>
+			<p>When a man’s income becomes so large that the butcher actually sends him the kind of steak he orders, he begins to think about his soul’s salvation. Now, the various stages or classes of rich men must not be forgotten. The capitalist can tell you to a dollar the amount of his wealth. The trust magnate “estimates” it. The rich malefactor hands you a cigar and denies that he has bought the <abbr>P. D. &amp; Q.</abbr> The caliph merely smiles and talks about Hammerstein and the musical lasses. There is a record of tremendous altercation at breakfast in a “Where-to-Dine-Well” tavern between a magnate and his wife, the rift within the loot being that the wife calculated their fortune at a figure $3,000,000 higher than did her future divorcé. Oh, well, I, myself, heard a similar quarrel between a man and his wife because he found fifty cents less in his pockets than he thought he had. After all, we are all human⁠—Count Tolstoy, <abbr class="name">R.</abbr> Fitzsimmons, Peter Pan, and the rest of us.</p>
 			<p>Don’t lose heart because the story seems to be degenerating into a sort of moral essay for intellectual readers.</p>
 			<p>There will be dialogue and stage business pretty soon.</p>
-			<p>When Jacob first began to compare the eyes of needles with the camels in the Zoo he decided upon organized charity. He had his secretary send a check for one million to the Universal Benevolent Association of the Globe. You may have looked down through a grating in front of a decayed warehouse for a nickel that you had dropped through. But that is neither here nor there. The Association acknowledged receipt of his favor of the 24th ult. with enclosure as stated. Separated by a double line, but still mighty close to the matter under the caption of “Oddities of the Day’s News” in an evening paper, Jacob Spraggins read that one “Jasper Spargyous” had “donated $100,000 to the <abbr class="eoc">U. B. A. of G.</abbr>” A camel may have a stomach for each day in the week; but I dare not venture to accord him whiskers, for fear of the Great Displeasure at Washington; but if he have whiskers, surely not one of them will seem to have been inserted in the eye of a needle by that effort of that rich man to enter the K. of H. The right is reserved to reject any and all bids; signed, S. Peter, secretary and gatekeeper.</p>
+			<p>When Jacob first began to compare the eyes of needles with the camels in the zoo he decided upon organized charity. He had his secretary send a check for one million to the Universal Benevolent Association of the Globe. You may have looked down through a grating in front of a decayed warehouse for a nickel that you had dropped through. But that is neither here nor there. The Association acknowledged receipt of his favor of the 24th <abbr>ult.</abbr> with enclosure as stated. Separated by a double line, but still mighty close to the matter under the caption of “Oddities of the Day’s News” in an evening paper, Jacob Spraggins read that one “Jasper Spargyous” had “donated $100,000 to the <abbr class="eoc">U. B. A. of G.</abbr>” A camel may have a stomach for each day in the week; but I dare not venture to accord him whiskers, for fear of the Great Displeasure at Washington; but if he have whiskers, surely not one of them will seem to have been inserted in the eye of a needle by that effort of that rich man to enter the <abbr class="eoc">K. of H.</abbr> The right is reserved to reject any and all bids; signed, <abbr>S.</abbr> Peter, secretary and gatekeeper.</p>
 			<p>Next, Jacob selected the best endowed college he could scare up and presented it with a $200,000 laboratory. The college did not maintain a scientific course, but it accepted the money and built an elaborate lavatory instead, which was no diversion of funds so far as Jacob ever discovered.</p>
-			<p>The faculty met and invited Jacob to come over and take his A B C degree. Before sending the invitation they smiled, cut out the C, added the proper punctuation marks, and all was well.</p>
+			<p>The faculty met and invited Jacob to come over and take his A B C degree. Before sending the invitation they smiled, cut out the <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">C</i>, added the proper punctuation marks, and all was well.</p>
 			<p>While walking on the campus before being capped and gowned, Jacob saw two professors strolling nearby. Their voices, long adapted to indoor acoustics, undesignedly reached his ear.</p>
 			<p>“There goes the latest <i xml:lang="fr">chevalier d’industrie</i>,” said one of them, “to buy a sleeping powder from us. He gets his degree tomorrow.”</p>
 			<p>“In foro conscientiae,” said the other. “Let’s ’eave ’arf a brick at ’im.”</p>
@@ -40,7 +40,7 @@
 			<p>Jacob must have leaked some of his benevolent intentions, for an immense person with a bald face and a mouth that looked as if it ought to have a “Drop Letters Here” sign over it hooked a finger around him and set him in a space between a barber’s pole and a stack of ash cans. Words came out of the post-office slit⁠—smooth, husky words with gloves on ’em, but sounding as if they might turn to bare knuckles any moment.</p>
 			<p>“Say, Sport, do you know where you are at? Well, dis is Mike O’Grady’s district you’re buttin’ into⁠—see? Mike’s got de stomachache privilege for every kid in dis neighborhood⁠—see? And if dere’s any picnics or red balloons to be dealt out here, Mike’s money pays for ’em⁠—see? Don’t you butt in, or something’ll be handed to you. Youse d⁠⸺ settlers and reformers with your social ologies and your millionaire detectives have got dis district in a hell of a fix, anyhow. With your college students and professors roughhousing de soda-water stands and dem rubberneck coaches fillin’ de streets, de folks down here are ’fraid to go out of de houses. Now, you leave ’em to Mike. Dey belongs to him, and he knows how to handle ’em. Keep on your own side of de town. Are you some wiser now, uncle, or do you want to scrap wit’ Mike O’Grady for de Santa Claus belt in dis district?”</p>
 			<p>Clearly, that spot in the moral vineyard was preempted. So Caliph Spraggins menaced no more the people in the bazaars of the East Side. To keep down his growing surplus he doubled his donations to organized charity, presented the <abbr class="initialism">YMCA</abbr> of his native town with a $10,000 collection of butterflies, and sent a check to the famine sufferers in China big enough to buy new emerald eyes and diamond-filled teeth for all their gods. But none of these charitable acts seemed to bring peace to the caliph’s heart. He tried to get a personal note into his benefactions by tipping bellboys and waiters $10 and $20 bills. He got well snickered at and derided for that by the minions who accept with respect gratuities commensurate to the service performed. He sought out an ambitious and talented but poor young woman, and bought for her the star part in a new comedy. He might have gotten rid of $50,000 more of his cumbersome money in this philanthropy if he had not neglected to write letters to her. But she lost the suit for lack of evidence, while his capital still kept piling up, and his <i xml:lang="la">optikos needleorum camelibus</i>⁠—or rich man’s disease⁠—was unrelieved.</p>
-			<p>In Caliph Spraggins’s $3,000,000 home lived his sister Henrietta, who used to cook for the coal miners in a twenty-five-cent eating house in Coketown, Pa., and who now would have offered John Mitchell only two fingers of her hand to shake. And his daughter Celia, nineteen, back from boarding-school and from being polished off by private instructors in the restaurant languages and those études and things.</p>
+			<p>In Caliph Spraggins’s $3,000,000 home lived his sister Henrietta, who used to cook for the coal miners in a twenty-five-cent eating house in Coketown, <abbr class="postal">Pa.</abbr>, and who now would have offered John Mitchell only two fingers of her hand to shake. And his daughter Celia, nineteen, back from boarding-school and from being polished off by private instructors in the restaurant languages and those études and things.</p>
 			<p>Celia is the heroine. Lest the artist’s delineation of her charms on this very page humbug your fancy, take from me her authorized description. She was a nice-looking, awkward, loud, rather bashful, brown-haired girl, with a sallow complexion, bright eyes, and a perpetual smile. She had a wholesome, Spraggins-inherited love for plain food, loose clothing, and the society of the lower classes. She had too much health and youth to feel the burden of wealth. She had a wide mouth that kept the peppermint-pepsin tablets rattling like hail from the slot-machine wherever she went, and she could whistle hornpipes. Keep this picture in mind; and let the artist do his worst.</p>
 			<p>Celia looked out of her window one day and gave her heart to the grocer’s young man. The receiver thereof was at that moment engaged in conceding immortality to his horse and calling down upon him the ultimate fate of the wicked; so he did not notice the transfer. A horse should stand still when you are lifting a crate of strictly new-laid eggs out of the wagon.</p>
 			<p>Young lady reader, you would have liked that grocer’s young man yourself. But you wouldn’t have given him your heart, because you are saving it for a riding-master, or a shoe-manufacturer with a torpid liver, or something quiet but rich in gray tweeds at Palm Beach. Oh, I know about it. So I am glad the grocer’s young man was for Celia, and not for you.</p>
@@ -51,7 +51,7 @@
 			<p>“He will to me,” said Celia.</p>
 			<p>“Riches⁠—” began Annette, unsheathing the not unjustifiable feminine sting.</p>
 			<p>“Oh, you’re not so beautiful,” said Celia, with her wide, disarming smile. “Neither am I; but he shan’t know that there’s any money mixed up with my looks, such as they are. That’s fair. Now, I want you to lend me one of your caps and an apron, Annette.”</p>
-			<p>“Oh, marshmallows!” cried Annette. “I see. Ain’t it lovely? It’s just like ‘Lurline, the Left-Handed; or, A Buttonhole Maker’s Wrongs.’ I’ll bet he’ll turn out to be a count.”</p>
+			<p>“Oh, marshmallows!” cried Annette. “I see. Ain’t it lovely? It’s just like <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Lurline, the Left-Handed; or, A Buttonhole Maker’s Wrongs</i>. I’ll bet he’ll turn out to be a count.”</p>
 			<p>There was a long hallway (or “passageway,” as they call it in the land of the Colonels) with one side latticed, running along the rear of the house. The grocer’s young man went through this to deliver his goods. One morning he passed a girl in there with shining eyes, sallow complexion, and wide, smiling mouth, wearing a maid’s cap and apron. But as he was cumbered with a basket of Early Drumhead lettuce and Trophy tomatoes and three bunches of asparagus and six bottles of the most expensive Queen olives, he saw no more than that she was one of the maids.</p>
 			<p>But on his way out he came up behind her, and she was whistling “Fisher’s Hornpipe” so loudly and clearly that all the piccolos in the world should have disjointed themselves and crept into their cases for shame.</p>
 			<p>The grocer’s young man stopped and pushed back his cap until it hung on his collar button behind.</p>

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@@ -27,7 +27,7 @@
 			<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>
-			<p>My rival No.2 was Bud Cunningham, whose services had been engaged by a ranch near Paloma to assist in compelling refractory cattle to keep within the bounds of decorum and order. Bud was the only cowboy off the stage that I ever saw who looked like one on it. He wore the sombrero, the chaps, and the handkerchief tied at the back of his neck.</p>
+			<p>My rival <abbr>No.</abbr> 2 was Bud Cunningham, whose services had been engaged by a ranch near Paloma to assist in compelling refractory cattle to keep within the bounds of decorum and order. Bud was the only cowboy off the stage that I ever saw who looked like one on it. He wore the sombrero, the chaps, and the handkerchief tied at the back of his neck.</p>
 			<p>Twice a week Bud rode in from the Val Verde Ranch to sup at the Parisian Restaurant. He rode a many-high-handed Kentucky horse at a tremendously fast lope, which animal he would rein up so suddenly under the big mesquite at the corner of the brush shelter that his hoofs would plough canals yards long in the loam.</p>
 			<p>Jacks and I were regular boarders at the restaurant, of course.</p>
 			<p>The front room of the Hinkle House was as neat a little parlor as there was in the black-waxy country. It was all willow rocking-chairs, and home-knit tidies, and albums, and conch shells in a row. And a little upright piano in one corner.</p>

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@@ -20,7 +20,7 @@
 			<p>I wondered if Sam had heard. He pulled a twig from a mesquite bush, chewed it gravely, and said:</p>
 			<p>“He did, did he? He killed Lester?”</p>
 			<p>“The same,” said Simmons. “And he did more. He run away with your girl, the same as to say Miss Ella Baynes. I thought you might like to know, so I rode out to impart the information.”</p>
-			<p>“I am much obliged, Jim,” said Sam, taking the chewed twig from his mouth. “Yes, I’m glad you rode Out. Yes, I’m right glad.”</p>
+			<p>“I am much obliged, Jim,” said Sam, taking the chewed twig from his mouth. “Yes, I’m glad you rode out. Yes, I’m right glad.”</p>
 			<p>“Well, I’ll be ridin’ back, I reckon. That boy I left in the feed store don’t know hay from oats. He shot Lester in the back.”</p>
 			<p>“Shot him in the back?”</p>
 			<p>“Yes, while he was hitchin’ his hoss.”</p>

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@@ -27,7 +27,7 @@
 			<p>I wonder why I have maundered so slowly through the prologue. I have it! it was simply to say to you, in the form of introduction rife through the Middle West: “Shake hands with <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Kannon.”</p>
 			<p>For, it was in her triple house that the Christmas story happened; and it was there where I picked up the incontrovertible facts from the gossip of many roomers and met Stickney⁠—and saw the necktie.</p>
 			<p>Christmas came that year on Thursday, and snow came with it.</p>
-			<p>Stickney (Harry Clarence Fowler Stickney to whomsoever his full baptismal cognominal burdens may be of interest) reached his address at six-thirty Wednesday afternoon. “Address” is New Yorkese for “home.” Stickney roomed at 45 West ‘Teenth Street, third floor rear hall room. He was twenty years and four months old, and he worked in a cameras-of-all-kinds, photographic supplies and films-developed store. I don’t know what kind of work he did in the store; but you must have seen him. He is the young man who always comes behind the counter to wait on you and lets you talk for five minutes, telling him what you want. When you are done, he calls the proprietor at the top of his voice to wait on you, and walks away whistling between his teeth.</p>
+			<p>Stickney (Harry Clarence Fowler Stickney to whomsoever his full baptismal cognominal burdens may be of interest) reached his address at six-thirty Wednesday afternoon. “Address” is New Yorkese for “home.” Stickney roomed at 45 West ’Teenth Street, third floor rear hall room. He was twenty years and four months old, and he worked in a cameras-of-all-kinds, photographic supplies and films-developed store. I don’t know what kind of work he did in the store; but you must have seen him. He is the young man who always comes behind the counter to wait on you and lets you talk for five minutes, telling him what you want. When you are done, he calls the proprietor at the top of his voice to wait on you, and walks away whistling between his teeth.</p>
 			<p>I don’t want to bother about describing to you his appearance; but, if you are a man reader, I will say that Stickncy looked precisely like the young chap that you always find sitting in your chair smoking a cigarette after you have missed a shot while playing pool⁠—not billiards but pool⁠—when you want to sit down yourself.</p>
 			<p>There are some to whom Christmas gives no Christmassy essence. Of course, prosperous people and comfortable people who have homes or flats or rooms with meals, and even people who live in apartment houses with hotel service get something of the Christmas flavor. They give one another presents with the cost mark scratched off with a penknife; and they hang holly wreaths in the front windows and when they are asked whether they prefer light or dark meat from the turkey they say: “Both, please,” and giggle and have lots of fun. And the very poorest people have the best time of it. The Army gives ’em a dinner, and the 10 <abbr class="time">a.m.</abbr> issue of the Night Final edition of the newspaper with the largest circulation in the city leaves a basket at their door full of an apple, a Lake Ronkonkoma squab, a scrambled eggplant and a bunch of Kalamazoo bleached parsley. The poorer you are the more Christmas does for you.</p>
 			<p>But, I’ll tell you to what kind of a mortal Christmas seems to be only the day before the twenty-sixth day of December. It’s the chap in the big city earning sixteen dollars a week, with no friends and few acquaintances, who finds himself with only fifty cents in his pocket on Christmas eve. He can’t accept charity; he can’t borrow; he knows no one who would invite him to dinner. I have a fancy that when the shepherds left their flocks to follow the star of Bethlehem there was a bandy-legged young fellow among them who was just learning the sheep business. So they said to him, “Bobby, we’re going to investigate this star route and see what’s in it. If it should turn out to be the first Christmas day we don’t want to miss it. And, as you are not a wise man, and as you couldn’t possibly purchase a present to take along, suppose you stay behind and mind the sheep.”</p>

src/epub/text/bestseller.xhtml

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

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@@ -30,7 +30,7 @@
 			<p>“Suppose you do find her, Ed, whereby would you profit? Miss Mangum has a mind. Perhaps it is yet uncultured, but she is destined for higher things than you could give her. I have talked with no one who seemed to appreciate more the enchantment of the ancient poets and writers and the modern cults that have assimilated and expended their philosophy of life. Don’t you think you are wasting your time looking for her?”</p>
 			<p>“My idea,” said I, “of a happy home is an eight-room house in a grove of live-oaks by the side of a charco on a Texas prairie. A piano,” I went on, “with an automatic player in the sitting-room, three thousand head of cattle under fence for a starter, a buckboard and ponies always hitched at a post for ‘the missus’⁠—and May Martha Mangum to spend the profits of the ranch as she pleases, and to abide with me, and put my slippers and pipe away every day in places where they cannot be found of evenings. That,” said I, “is what is to be; and a fig⁠—a dried, Smyrna, dago-stand fig⁠—for your curriculums, cults, and philosophy.”</p>
 			<p>“She is meant for higher things,” repeated Goodloe Banks.</p>
-			<p>“Whatever she is meant for,” I answered, just now she is out of pocket. And I shall find her as soon as I can without aid of the colleges.”</p>
+			<p>“Whatever she is meant for,” I answered, “just now she is out of pocket. And I shall find her as soon as I can without aid of the colleges.”</p>
 			<p>“The game is blocked,” said Goodloe, putting down a domino; and we had the beer.</p>
 			<p>Shortly after that a young farmer whom I knew came into town and brought me a folded blue paper. He said his grandfather had just died. I concealed a tear, and he went on to say that the old man had jealously guarded this paper for twenty years. He left it to his family as part of his estate, the rest of which consisted of two mules and a hypotenuse of non-arable land.</p>
 			<p>The sheet of paper was of the old, blue kind used during the rebellion of the abolitionists against the secessionists. It was dated June 14, 1863, and it described the hiding-place of ten burro-loads of gold and silver coin valued at three hundred thousand dollars. Old Rundle⁠—grandfather of his grandson, Sam⁠—was given the information by a Spanish priest who was in on the treasure-burying, and who died many years before⁠—no, afterward⁠—in old Rundle’s house. Old Rundle wrote it down from dictation.</p>

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@@ -21,7 +21,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘A Pittsburg millionaire in New York is like a fly in a cup of hot coffee⁠—he attracts attention and comment, but he don’t enjoy it. New York ridicules him for “blowing” so much money in that town of sneaks and snobs, and sneers. The truth is, he don’t spend anything while he is there. I saw a memorandum of expenses for a ten days trip to Bunkum Town made by a Pittsburg man worth $15,000,000 once. Here’s the way he set it down:</p>
 			<table>
 				<tr>
-					<td><abbr>R. R.</abbr> fare to and from</td>
+					<td><abbr class="initialism">RR</abbr> fare to and from</td>
 					<td>$21.00</td>
 				</tr>
 				<tr>

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

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@@ -49,7 +49,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Hunky,’ he says, putting one hand on my shoulder and one on the statue’s, ‘I’m in the holy temple of my ancestors.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Well, if looks goes for anything,’ says I, ‘you’ve struck a twin. Stand side by side with buddy, and let’s see if there’s any difference.’</p>
 			<p>“There wasn’t. You know an Indian can keep his face as still as an iron dog’s when he wants to, so when High Jack froze his features you couldn’t have told him from the other one.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘There’s some letters,’ says I, ‘on his nob’s pedestal, but I can’t make ’em out. The alphabet of this country seems to be composed of sometimes <i xml:lang="grapheme">a</i>, <i xml:lang="grapheme">e</i>, <i xml:lang="grapheme">i</i>, <i xml:lang="grapheme">o</i>, and <i xml:lang="grapheme">u</i>, but generally <i xml:lang="grapheme">z’s</i>, <i xml:lang="grapheme">l’s</i>, and <i xml:lang="grapheme">t</i>’s.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘There’s some letters,’ says I, ‘on his nob’s pedestal, but I can’t make ’em out. The alphabet of this country seems to be composed of sometimes <i xml:lang="grapheme">a</i>, <i xml:lang="grapheme">e</i>, <i xml:lang="grapheme">i</i>, <i xml:lang="grapheme">o</i>, and <i xml:lang="grapheme">u</i>, but generally <i xml:lang="grapheme">z</i>’s, <i xml:lang="grapheme">l</i>’s, and <i xml:lang="grapheme">t</i>’s.’</p>
 			<p>“High Jack’s ethnology gets the upper hand of his rum for a minute, and he investigates the inscription.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Hunky,’ says he, ‘this is a statue of Tlotopaxl, one of the most powerful gods of the ancient Aztecs.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Glad to know him,’ says I, ‘but in his present condition he reminds me of the joke Shakespeare got off on Julius Caesar. We might say about your friend:</p>
@@ -81,7 +81,7 @@
 			<p>“We lifted the three-hundred-pound stone god, and carried him into the back room of the café⁠—the temple, I mean⁠—and leaned him against the wall. It was more work than bouncing three live ones from an all-night Broadway joint on New-Year’s Eve.</p>
 			<p>“Then High Jack ran out and brought in a couple of them Indian silk shawls and began to undress himself.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Oh, figs!’ says I. ‘Is it thus? Strong drink is an adder and subtractor, too. Is it the heat or the call of the wild that’s got you?’</p>
-			<p>“But High Jack is too full of exaltation and cane-juice to reply. He stops the disrobing business just short of the Manhattan Beach rules, and then winds them red-and-white shawls around him, and goes out and. stands on the pedestal as steady as any platinum deity you ever saw. And I looks through a peek-hole to see what he is up to.</p>
+			<p>“But High Jack is too full of exaltation and cane-juice to reply. He stops the disrobing business just short of the Manhattan Beach rules, and then winds them red-and-white shawls around him, and goes out and stands on the pedestal as steady as any platinum deity you ever saw. And I looks through a peek-hole to see what he is up to.</p>
 			<p>“In a few minutes in comes the girl with the flower wreath. Danged if I wasn’t knocked a little silly when she got close, she looked so exactly much like Florence Blue Feather. ‘I wonder,’ says I to myself, ‘if she has been reincarcerated, too? If I could see,’ says I to myself, ‘whether she has a mole on her left⁠—’ But the next minute I thought she looked one-eighth of a shade darker than Florence; but she looked good at that. And High Jack hadn’t drunk all the rum that had been drank.</p>
 			<p>“The girl went up within ten feet of the bum idol, and got down and massaged her nose with the floor, like the rest did. Then she went nearer and laid the flower wreath on the block of stone at High Jack’s feet. Rummy as I was, I thought it was kind of nice of her to think of offering flowers instead of household and kitchen provisions. Even a stone god ought to appreciate a little sentiment like that on top of the fancy groceries they had piled up in front of him.</p>
 			<p>“And then High Jack steps down from his pedestal, quiet, and mentions a few words that sounded just like the hieroglyphics carved on the walls of the ruin. The girl gives a little jump backward, and her eyes fly open as big as doughnuts; but she don’t beat it.</p>

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@@ -10,7 +10,7 @@
 			<h2 epub:type="title">Helping the Other Fellow</h2>
 			<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
 				<p>“But can thim that helps others help thimselves!”</p>
-				<cite>—Mulvaney.</cite>
+				<cite>Mulvaney.</cite>
 			</blockquote>
 			<section id="helping-the-other-fellow-1" epub:type="chapter">
 				<p>This is the story that William Trotter told me on the beach at Aguas Frescas while I waited for the gig of the captain of the fruit steamer <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Andador</i> which was to take me abroad. Reluctantly I was leaving the Land of Always Afternoon. William was remaining, and he favored me with a condensed oral autobiography as we sat on the sands in the shade cast by the Bodega Nacional.</p>

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@@ -32,12 +32,12 @@
 			<p>An hour or so after luncheon he conducted us to the workshop⁠—say fifty yards from the house. Thither the guests had been conducted by the physician in charge’s understudy and sponge-holder⁠—a man with feet and a blue sweater. He was so tall that I was not sure he had a face; but the Armour Packing Company would have been delighted with his hands.</p>
 			<p>“Here,” said the physician in charge, “our guests find relaxation from past mental worries by devoting themselves to physical labour⁠—recreation, in reality.”</p>
 			<p>There were turning-lathes, carpenters’ outfits, clay-modelling tools, spinning-wheels, weaving-frames, treadmills, bass drums, enlarged-crayon-portrait apparatuses, blacksmith forges, and everything, seemingly, that could interest the paying lunatic guests of a first-rate sanitarium.</p>
-			<p>“The lady making mud pies in the corner,” whispered the physician in charge, “is no other than⁠—Lula Lulington, the authoress of the novel entitled ‘Why Love Loves.’ What she is doing now is simply to rest her mind after performing that piece of work.”</p>
+			<p>“The lady making mud pies in the corner,” whispered the physician in charge, “is no other than⁠—Lula Lulington, the authoress of the novel entitled <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Why Love Loves</i>. What she is doing now is simply to rest her mind after performing that piece of work.”</p>
 			<p>I had seen the book. “Why doesn’t she do it by writing another one instead?” I asked.</p>
 			<p>As you see, I wasn’t as far gone as they thought I was.</p>
 			<p>“The gentleman pouring water through the funnel,” continued the physician in charge, “is a Wall Street broker broken down from overwork.”</p>
 			<p>I buttoned my coat.</p>
-			<p>Others he pointed out were architects playing with Noah’s arks, ministers reading Darwin’s “Theory of Evolution,” lawyers sawing wood, tired-out society ladies talking Ibsen to the blue-sweatered sponge-holder, a neurotic millionaire lying asleep on the floor, and a prominent artist drawing a little red wagon around the room.</p>
+			<p>Others he pointed out were architects playing with Noah’s arks, ministers reading Darwin’s <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Theory of Evolution</i>, lawyers sawing wood, tired-out society ladies talking Ibsen to the blue-sweatered sponge-holder, a neurotic millionaire lying asleep on the floor, and a prominent artist drawing a little red wagon around the room.</p>
 			<p>“You look pretty strong,” said the physician in charge to me. “I think the best mental relaxation for you would be throwing small boulders over the mountainside and then bringing them up again.”</p>
 			<p>I was a hundred yards away before my doctor overtook me.</p>
 			<p>“What’s the matter?” he asked.</p>

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@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<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 outdoor obstreperousness and revolting good spirits. He was insolently brown and healthy-looking, and offensively well dressed.</p>
 			<p>“Just ran down for a few days,” said he, “to sign some papers and stuff like that. My lawyer wired me to come. Well, you indolent cockney, what are you doing in town? I took a chance and telephoned, and they said you were here. What’s the matter with that Utopia on Long Island where you used to take your typewriter and your villainous temper every summer? Anything wrong with the⁠—er⁠—swans, weren’t they, that used to sing on the farms at night?”</p>
 			<p>“Ducks,” said I. “The songs of swans are for luckier ears. They swim and curve their necks in artificial lakes on the estates of the wealthy to delight the eyes of the favorites of Fortune.”</p>
-			<p>“Also in Central Park,” said North, “to delight the eyes of immigrants and bummers. I’ve seen em there lots of times. But why are you in the city so late in the summer?”</p>
+			<p>“Also in Central Park,” said North, “to delight the eyes of immigrants and bummers. I’ve seen ’em there lots of times. But why are you in the city so late in the summer?”</p>
 			<p>“New York City,” I began to recite, “is the finest sum⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“No, you don’t,” said North, emphatically. “You don’t spring that old one on me. I know you know better. Man, you ought to have gone up with us this summer. The Prestons are there, and Tom Volney and the Monroes and Lulu Stanford and the Miss Kennedy and her aunt that you liked so well.”</p>
 			<p>“I never liked Miss Kennedy’s aunt,” I said.</p>

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@@ -62,7 +62,7 @@
 				<p>“Yes, I think <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fields is really amusing⁠—sometimes,” said Barbara. “Here is a letter for you, dear, that came by special delivery just after you had gone.”</p>
 				<p>“Who is it from?” asked Nevada, tugging at a button.</p>
 				<p>“Well, really,” said Barbara, with a smile, “I can only guess. The envelope has that queer little thing in one corner that Gilbert calls a palette, but which looks to me rather like a gilt heart on a schoolgirl’s valentine.”</p>
-				<p>“I wonder what he’s writing to me about” remarked Nevada, listlessly.</p>
+				<p>“I wonder what he’s writing to me about,” remarked Nevada, listlessly.</p>
 				<p>“We’re all alike,” said Barbara; “all women. We try to find out what is in a letter by studying the postmark. As a last resort we use scissors, and read it from the bottom upward. Here it is.”</p>
 				<p>She made a motion as if to toss the letter across the table to Nevada.</p>
 				<p>“Great catamounts!” exclaimed Nevada. “These centre-fire buttons are a nuisance. I’d rather wear buckskins. Oh, Barbara, please shuck the hide off that letter and read it. It’ll be midnight before I get these gloves off!”</p>
@@ -102,7 +102,7 @@
 				<p>“Barbara read it to me. I saw it afterward. It said: ‘Come to my studio at twelve tonight, and do not fail.’ I thought you were sick, of course, but you don’t seem to be.”</p>
 				<p>“Aha!” said Gilbert irrelevantly. “I’ll tell you why I asked you to come, Nevada. I want you to marry me immediately⁠—tonight. What’s a little snowstorm? Will you do it?”</p>
 				<p>“You might have noticed that I would, long ago,” said Nevada. “And I’m rather stuck on the snowstorm idea, myself. I surely would hate one of these flowery church noon-weddings. Gilbert, I didn’t know you had grit enough to propose it this way. Let’s shock ’em⁠—it’s our funeral, ain’t it?”</p>
-				<p>“You bet!” said Gilbert. “Where did I hear that expression?” he added to himself. “Wait a minute, Nevada; I want to do a little ’phoning.”</p>
+				<p>“You bet!” said Gilbert. “Where did I hear that expression?” he added to himself. “Wait a minute, Nevada; I want to do a little phoning.”</p>
 				<p>He shut himself in a little dressing-room, and called upon the lightnings of the heavens⁠—condensed into unromantic numbers and districts.</p>
 				<p>“That you, Jack? You confounded sleepyhead! Yes, wake up; this is me⁠—or I⁠—oh, bother the difference in grammar! I’m going to be married right away. Yes! Wake up your sister⁠—don’t answer me back; bring her along, too⁠—you <em>must</em>! Remind Agnes of the time I saved her from drowning in Lake Ronkonkoma⁠—I know it’s caddish to refer to it, but she must come with you. Yes. Nevada is here, waiting. We’ve been engaged quite a while. Some opposition among the relatives, you know, and we have to pull it off this way. We’re waiting here for you. Don’t let Agnes out-talk you⁠—bring her! You will? Good old boy! I’ll order a carriage to call for you, double-quick time. Confound you, Jack, you’re all right!”</p>
 				<p>Gilbert returned to the room where Nevada waited.</p>

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@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<p>But I beg you to observe <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> James Williams⁠—Hattie Chalmers that was⁠—once the belle of Cloverdale. Pale-blue is the bride’s, if she will; and this colour she had honoured. Willingly had the moss rosebud loaned to her cheeks of its pink⁠—and as for the violet!⁠—her eyes will do very well as they are, thank you. A useless strip of white chaf⁠—oh, no, he was guiding the auto car⁠—of white chiffon⁠—or perhaps it was grenadine or tulle⁠—was tied beneath her chin, pretending to hold her bonnet in place. But you know as well as I do that the hatpins did the work.</p>
 			<p>And on <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> James Williams’s face was recorded a little library of the world’s best thoughts in three volumes. Volume <abbr>No.</abbr> 1 contained the belief that James Williams was about the right sort of thing. Volume <abbr>No.</abbr> 2 was an essay on the world, declaring it to be a very excellent place. Volume <abbr>No.</abbr> 3 disclosed the belief that in occupying the highest seat in a Rubberneck auto they were travelling the pace that passes all understanding.</p>
 			<p>James Williams, you would have guessed, was about twenty-four. It will gratify you to know that your estimate was so accurate. He was exactly twenty-three years, eleven months and twenty-nine days old. He was well built, active, strong-jawed, good-natured and rising. He was on his wedding trip.</p>
-			<p>Dear kind fairy, please cut out those orders for money and 40 <abbr>H. P.</abbr> touring cars and fame and a new growth of hair and the presidency of the boat club. Instead of any of them turn backward⁠—oh, turn backward and give us just a teeny-weeny bit of our wedding trip over again. Just an hour, dear fairy, so we can remember how the grass and poplar trees looked, and the bow of those bonnet strings tied beneath her chin⁠—even if it was the hatpins that did the work. Can’t do it? Very well; hurry up with that touring car and the oil stock, then.</p>
+			<p>Dear kind fairy, please cut out those orders for money and 40 <abbr class="initialism">HP</abbr> touring cars and fame and a new growth of hair and the presidency of the boat club. Instead of any of them turn backward⁠—oh, turn backward and give us just a teeny-weeny bit of our wedding trip over again. Just an hour, dear fairy, so we can remember how the grass and poplar trees looked, and the bow of those bonnet strings tied beneath her chin⁠—even if it was the hatpins that did the work. Can’t do it? Very well; hurry up with that touring car and the oil stock, then.</p>
 			<p>Just in front of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> James Williams sat a girl in a loose tan jacket and a straw hat adorned with grapes and roses. Only in dreams and milliners’ shops do we, alas! gather grapes and roses at one swipe. This girl gazed with large blue eyes, credulous, when the megaphone man roared his doctrine that millionaires were things about which we should be concerned. Between blasts she resorted to Epictetian philosophy in the form of pepsin chewing gum.</p>
 			<p>At this girl’s right hand sat a young man about twenty-four. He was well-built, active, strong-jawed and good-natured. But if his description seems to follow that of James Williams, divest it of anything Cloverdalian. This man belonged to hard streets and sharp corners. He looked keenly about him, seeming to begrudge the asphalt under the feet of those upon whom he looked down from his perch.</p>
 			<p>While the megaphone barks at a famous hostelry, let me whisper you through the low-tuned cardiaphone to sit tight; for now things are about to happen, and the great city will close over them again as over a scrap of ticker tape floating down from the den of a Broad Street bear.</p>

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@@ -16,32 +16,32 @@
 			<p>Whether the old or the new report of the sock-and-buskiners be the true one is a surmise that has no place here. I offer you merely this little story of two strollers; and for proof of its truth I can show you only the dark patch above the cast-iron of the stage-entrance door of Keetor’s old vaudeville theatre made there by the petulant push of gloved hands too impatient to finger the clumsy thumb-latch⁠—and where I last saw Cherry whisking through like a swallow into her nest, on time to the minute, as usual, to dress for her act.</p>
 			<p>The vaudeville team of Hart &amp; Cherry was an inspiration. Bob Hart had been roaming through the Eastern and Western circuits for four years with a mixed-up act comprising a monologue, three lightning changes with songs, a couple of imitations of celebrated imitators, and a buck-and-wing dance that had drawn a glance of approval from the bass-viol player in more than one house⁠—than which no performer ever received more satisfactory evidence of good work.</p>
 			<p>The greatest treat an actor can have is to witness the pitiful performance with which all other actors desecrate the stage. In order to give himself this pleasure he will often forsake the sunniest Broadway corner between Thirty-fourth and Forty-fourth to attend a matinée offering by his less gifted brothers. Once during the lifetime of a minstrel joke one comes to scoff and remains to go through with that most difficult exercise of Thespian muscles⁠—the audible contact of the palm of one hand against the palm of the other.</p>
-			<p>One afternoon Bob Hart presented his solvent, serious, well-known vaudevillian face at the box-office window of a rival attraction and got his <abbr>d. h.</abbr> coupon for an orchestra seat.</p>
-			<p><i epub:type="grapheme">A</i>, <i epub:type="grapheme">B</i>, <i epub:type="grapheme">C</i>, and <i epub:type="grapheme">D</i> glowed successively on the announcement spaces and passed into oblivion, each plunging <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hart deeper into gloom. Others of the audience shrieked, squirmed, whistled, and applauded; but Bob Hart, “All the Mustard and a Whole Show in Himself,” sat with his face as long and his hands as far apart as a boy holding a hank of yarn for his grandmother to wind into a ball.</p>
+			<p>One afternoon Bob Hart presented his solvent, serious, well-known vaudevillian face at the box-office window of a rival attraction and got his <abbr class="initialism">DH</abbr> coupon for an orchestra seat.</p>
+			<p>A, B, C, and D glowed successively on the announcement spaces and passed into oblivion, each plunging <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hart deeper into gloom. Others of the audience shrieked, squirmed, whistled, and applauded; but Bob Hart, “All the Mustard and a Whole Show in Himself,” sat with his face as long and his hands as far apart as a boy holding a hank of yarn for his grandmother to wind into a ball.</p>
 			<p>But when H came on, “The Mustard” suddenly sat up straight. H was the happy alphabetical prognosticator of Winona Cherry, in Character Songs and Impersonations. There were scarcely more than two bites to Cherry; but she delivered the merchandise tied with a pink cord and charged to the old man’s account. She first showed you a deliciously dewy and ginghamy country girl with a basket of property daisies who informed you ingenuously that there were other things to be learned at the old log schoolhouse besides cipherin’ and nouns, especially “When the Teacher Kept Me in.” Vanishing, with a quick flirt of gingham apron-strings, she reappeared in considerably less than a “trice” as a fluffy “Parisienne”⁠—so near does Art bring the old red mill to the Moulin Rouge. And then⁠—</p>
 			<p>But you know the rest. And so did Bob Hart; but he saw somebody else. He thought he saw that Cherry was the only professional on the short order stage that he had seen who seemed exactly to fit the part of “Helen Grimes” in the sketch he had written and kept tucked away in the tray of his trunk. Of course Bob Hart, as well as every other normal actor, grocer, newspaper man, professor, curb broker, and farmer, has a play tucked away somewhere. They tuck ’em in trays of trunks, trunks of trees, desks, haymows, pigeonholes, inside pockets, safe-deposit vaults, handboxes, and coal cellars, waiting for <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Frohman to call. They belong among the fifty-seven different kinds.</p>
-			<p>But Bob Hart’s sketch was not destined to end in a pickle jar. He called it “Mice Will Play.” He had kept it quiet and hidden away ever since he wrote it, waiting to find a partner who fitted his conception of “Helen Grimes.” And here was “Helen” herself, with all the innocent abandon, the youth, the sprightliness, and the flawless stage art that his critical taste demanded.</p>
+			<p>But Bob Hart’s sketch was not destined to end in a pickle jar. He called it <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Mice Will Play</i>. He had kept it quiet and hidden away ever since he wrote it, waiting to find a partner who fitted his conception of “Helen Grimes.” And here was “Helen” herself, with all the innocent abandon, the youth, the sprightliness, and the flawless stage art that his critical taste demanded.</p>
 			<p>After the act was over Hart found the manager in the box office, and got Cherry’s address. At five the next afternoon he called at the musty old house in the West Forties and sent up his professional card.</p>
 			<p>By daylight, in a secular shirtwaist and plain voile skirt, with her hair curbed and her Sister of Charity eyes, Winona Cherry might have been playing the part of Prudence Wise, the deacon’s daughter, in the great (unwritten) New England drama not yet entitled anything.</p>
 			<p>“I know your act, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hart,” she said after she had looked over his card carefully. “What did you wish to see me about?”</p>
 			<p>“I saw you work last night,” said Hart. “I’ve written a sketch that I’ve been saving up. It’s for two; and I think you can do the other part. I thought I’d see you about it.”</p>
 			<p>“Come in the parlor,” said Miss Cherry. “I’ve been wishing for something of the sort. I think I’d like to act instead of doing turns.”</p>
-			<p>Bob Hart drew his cherished “Mice Will Play” from his pocket, and read it to her.</p>
+			<p>Bob Hart drew his cherished <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Mice Will Play</i> from his pocket, and read it to her.</p>
 			<p>“Read it again, please,” said Miss Cherry.</p>
-			<p>And then she pointed out to him clearly how it could be improved by introducing a messenger instead of a telephone call, and cutting the dialogue just before the climax while they were struggling with the pistol, and by completely changing the lines and business of Helen Grimes at the point where her jealousy overcomes her. Hart yielded to all her strictures without argument. She had at once put her finger on the sketch’s weaker points. That was her woman’s intuition that he had lacked. At the end of their talk Hart was willing to stake the judgment, experience, and savings of his four years of vaudeville that “Mice Will Play” would blossom into a perennial flower in the garden of the circuits. Miss Cherry was slower to decide. After many puckerings of her smooth young brow and tappings on her small, white teeth with the end of a lead pencil she gave out her dictum.</p>
+			<p>And then she pointed out to him clearly how it could be improved by introducing a messenger instead of a telephone call, and cutting the dialogue just before the climax while they were struggling with the pistol, and by completely changing the lines and business of Helen Grimes at the point where her jealousy overcomes her. Hart yielded to all her strictures without argument. She had at once put her finger on the sketch’s weaker points. That was her woman’s intuition that he had lacked. At the end of their talk Hart was willing to stake the judgment, experience, and savings of his four years of vaudeville that <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Mice Will Play</i> would blossom into a perennial flower in the garden of the circuits. Miss Cherry was slower to decide. After many puckerings of her smooth young brow and tappings on her small, white teeth with the end of a lead pencil she gave out her dictum.</p>
 			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hart,” said she, “I believe your sketch is going to win out. That Grimes part fits me like a shrinkable flannel after its first trip to a handless hand laundry. I can make it stand out like the colonel of the Forty-fourth Regiment at a Little Mothers’ Bazaar. And I’ve seen you work. I know what you can do with the other part. But business is business. How much do you get a week for the stunt you do now?”</p>
 			<p>“Two hundred,” answered Hart.</p>
 			<p>“I get one hundred for mine,” said Cherry. “That’s about the natural discount for a woman. But I live on it and put a few simoleons every week under the loose brick in the old kitchen hearth. The stage is all right. I love it; but there’s something else I love better⁠—that’s a little country home, some day, with Plymouth Rock chickens and six ducks wandering around the yard.</p>
-			<p>“Now, let me tell you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hart, I am <b>strictly business</b>. If you want me to play the opposite part in your sketch, I’ll do it. And I believe we can make it go. And there’s something else I want to say: There’s no nonsense in my makeup; I’m <em>on the level</em>, and I’m on the stage for what it pays me, just as other girls work in stores and offices. I’m going to save my money to keep me when I’m past doing my stunts. No Old Ladies’ Home or Retreat for Imprudent Actresses for me.</p>
+			<p>“Now, let me tell you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hart, I am <em>strictly business</em>. If you want me to play the opposite part in your sketch, I’ll do it. And I believe we can make it go. And there’s something else I want to say: There’s no nonsense in my makeup; I’m <em>on the level</em>, and I’m on the stage for what it pays me, just as other girls work in stores and offices. I’m going to save my money to keep me when I’m past doing my stunts. No Old Ladies’ Home or Retreat for Imprudent Actresses for me.</p>
 			<p>“If you want to make this a business partnership, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hart, with all nonsense cut out of it, I’m in on it. I know something about vaudeville teams in general; but this would have to be one in particular. I want you to know that I’m on the stage for what I can cart away from it every payday in a little manila envelope with nicotine stains on it, where the cashier has licked the flap. It’s kind of a hobby of mine to want to cravenette myself for plenty of rainy days in the future. I want you to know just how I am. I don’t know what an all-night restaurant looks like; I drink only weak tea; I never spoke to a man at a stage entrance in my life, and I’ve got money in five savings banks.”</p>
-			<p>“Miss Cherry,” said Bob Hart in his smooth, serious tones, “you’re in on your own terms. I’ve got ‘strictly business’ pasted in my hat and stenciled on my makeup box. When I dream of nights I always see a five-room bungalow on the north shore of Long Island, with a Jap cooking clam broth and duckling in the kitchen, and me with the title deeds to the place in my pongee coat pocket, swinging in a hammock on the side porch, reading Stanley’s ‘Explorations into Africa.’ And nobody else around. You never was interested in Africa, was you, Miss Cherry?”</p>
+			<p>“Miss Cherry,” said Bob Hart in his smooth, serious tones, “you’re in on your own terms. I’ve got ‘strictly business’ pasted in my hat and stenciled on my makeup box. When I dream of nights I always see a five-room bungalow on the north shore of Long Island, with a Jap cooking clam broth and duckling in the kitchen, and me with the title deeds to the place in my pongee coat pocket, swinging in a hammock on the side porch, reading Stanley’s <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Explorations into Africa</i>. And nobody else around. You never was interested in Africa, was you, Miss Cherry?”</p>
 			<p>“Not any,” said Cherry. “What I’m going to do with my money is to bank it. You can get four percent on deposits. Even at the salary I’ve been earning, I’ve figured out that in ten years I’d have an income of about $50 a month just from the interest alone. Well, I might invest some of the principal in a little business⁠—say, trimming hats or a beauty parlor, and make more.”</p>
 			<p>“Well,” said Hart, “You’ve got the proper idea all right, all right, anyhow. There are mighty few actors that amount to anything at all who couldn’t fix themselves for the wet days to come if they’d save their money instead of blowing it. I’m glad you’ve got the correct business idea of it, Miss Cherry. I think the same way; and I believe this sketch will more than double what both of us earn now when we get it shaped up.”</p>
-			<p>The subsequent history of “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>The subsequent history of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Mice Will Play</i> is the history of all successful writings for the stage. Hart &amp; Cherry cut it, pieced it, remodeled it, performed surgical operations on the dialogue and business, changed the lines, restored ’em, added more, cut ’em out, renamed it, gave it back the old name, rewrote it, substituted a dagger for the pistol, restored the pistol⁠—put the sketch through all the known processes of condensation and improvement.</p>
 			<p>They rehearsed it by the old-fashioned boardinghouse clock in the rarely used parlor until its warning click at five minutes to the hour would occur every time exactly half a second before the click of the unloaded revolver that Helen Grimes used in rehearsing the thrilling climax of the sketch.</p>
-			<p>Yes, that was a thriller and a piece of excellent work. In the act a real .32-caliber revolver was used loaded with a real cartridge. Helen Grimes, who is a Western girl of decidedly Buffalo Billish skill and daring, is tempestuously in love with Frank Desmond, the private secretary and confidential prospective son-in-law of her father, “Arapahoe” Grimes, quarter-million-dollar cattle king, owning a ranch that, judging by the scenery, is in either the Bad Lands or Amagansett, <abbr class="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, <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>Yes, that was a thriller and a piece of excellent work. In the act a real .32-caliber revolver was used loaded with a real cartridge. Helen Grimes, who is a Western girl of decidedly Buffalo Billish skill and daring, is tempestuously in love with Frank Desmond, the private secretary and confidential prospective son-in-law of her father, “Arapahoe” Grimes, quarter-million-dollar cattle king, owning a ranch that, judging by the scenery, is in either the Bad Lands or Amagansett, <abbr class="postal eoc">L. I.</abbr> Desmond (in private life <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bob Hart) wears puttees and Meadow Brook Hunt riding trousers, and gives his address as New York, leaving you to wonder why he comes to the Bad Lands or Amagansett (as the case may be) and at the same time to conjecture mildly why a cattleman should want puttees about his ranch with a secretary in ’em.</p>
+			<p>Well, anyhow, you know as well as I do that we all like that kind of play, whether we admit it or not⁠—something along in between <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Bluebeard, <abbr>Jr.</abbr></i>,” and <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Cymbeline</i> played in the Russian.</p>
+			<p>There were only two parts and a half in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Mice Will Play</i>. Hart and Cherry were the two, of course; and the half was a minor part always played by a stage hand, who merely came in once in a Tuxedo coat and a panic to announce that the house was surrounded by Indians, and to turn down the gas fire in the grate by the manager’s orders.</p>
 			<p>There was another girl in the sketch⁠—a Fifth Avenue society swelless⁠—who was visiting the ranch and who had sirened Jack Valentine when he was a wealthy club-man on lower Third Avenue before he lost his money. This girl appeared on the stage only in the photographic state⁠—Jack had her Sarony stuck up on the mantel of the Amagan⁠—of the Bad Lands droring room. Helen was jealous, of course.</p>
 			<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>
 			<p>“Gawd knows I love him; but if he has done this deed⁠—” you sabe, don’t you? And then there are some mean things said about the Fifth Avenue Girl⁠—who doesn’t come on the stage⁠—and can we blame her, with the vaudeville trust holding down prices until one actually must be buttoned in the back by a call boy, maids cost so much?</p>
@@ -53,22 +53,22 @@
 			<p>“But I will be merciful,” goes on Helen. “You shall live⁠—that will be your punishment. I will show you how easily I could have sent you to the death that you deserve. There is <em>her</em> picture on the mantel. I will send through her more beautiful face the bullet that should have pierced your craven heart.”</p>
 			<p>And she does it. And there’s no fake blank cartridges or assistants pulling strings. Helen fires. The bullet⁠—the actual bullet⁠—goes through the face of the photograph⁠—and then strikes the hidden spring of the sliding panel in the wall⁠—and lo! the panel slides, and there is the missing $647,000 in convincing stacks of currency and bags of gold. It’s great. You know how it is. Cherry practised for two months at a target on the roof of her boarding house. It took good shooting. In the sketch she had to hit a brass disk only three inches in diameter, covered by wall paper in the panel; and she had to stand in exactly the same spot every night, and the photo had to be in exactly the same spot, and she had to shoot steady and true every time.</p>
 			<p>Of course old “Arapahoe” had tucked the funds away there in the secret place; and, of course, Jack hadn’t taken anything except his salary (which really might have come under the head of “obtaining money under”; but that is neither here nor there); and, of course, the New York girl was really engaged to a concrete house contractor in the Bronx; and, necessarily, Jack and Helen ended in a half-Nelson⁠—and there you are.</p>
-			<p>After Hart and Cherry had gotten “Mice Will Play” flawless, they had a tryout at a vaudeville house that accommodates. The sketch was a house wrecker. It was one of those rare strokes of talent that inundates a theatre from the roof down. The gallery wept; and the orchestra seats, being dressed for it, swam in tears.</p>
+			<p>After Hart and Cherry had gotten <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Mice Will Play</i> flawless, they had a tryout at a vaudeville house that accommodates. The sketch was a house wrecker. It was one of those rare strokes of talent that inundates a theatre from the roof down. The gallery wept; and the orchestra seats, being dressed for it, swam in tears.</p>
 			<p>After the show the booking agents signed blank checks and pressed fountain pens upon Hart and Cherry. Five hundred dollars a week was what it panned out.</p>
 			<p>That night at 11:30 Bob Hart took off his hat and bade Cherry good night at her boardinghouse door.</p>
 			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hart,” said she thoughtfully, “come inside just a few minutes. We’ve got our chance now to make good and make money. What we want to do is to cut expenses every cent we can, and save all we can.”</p>
 			<p>“Right,” said Bob. “It’s business with me. You’ve got your scheme for banking yours; and I dream every night of that bungalow with the Jap cook and nobody around to raise trouble. Anything to enlarge the net receipts will engage my attention.”</p>
 			<p>“Come inside just a few minutes,” repeated Cherry, deeply thoughtful. “I’ve got a proposition to make to you that will reduce our expenses a lot and help you work out your own future and help me work out mine⁠—and all on business principles.”</p>
-			<p>“Mice Will Play” had a tremendously successful run in New York for ten weeks⁠—rather neat for a vaudeville sketch⁠—and then it started on the circuits. Without following it, it may be said that it was a solid drawing card for two years without a sign of abated popularity.</p>
+			<p><i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Mice Will Play</i> had a tremendously successful run in New York for ten weeks⁠—rather neat for a vaudeville sketch⁠—and then it started on the circuits. Without following it, it may be said that it was a solid drawing card for two years without a sign of abated popularity.</p>
 			<p>Sam Packard, manager of one of Keetor’s New York houses, said of Hart &amp; Cherry:</p>
 			<p>“As square and high-toned a little team as ever came over the circuit. It’s a pleasure to read their names on the booking list. Quiet, hard workers, no Johnny and Mabel nonsense, on the job to the minute, straight home after their act, and each of ’em as gentlemanlike as a lady. I don’t expect to handle any attractions that give me less trouble or more respect for the profession.”</p>
 			<p>And now, after so much cracking of a nutshell, here is the kernel of the story:</p>
-			<p>At the end of its second season “Mice Will Play” came back to New York for another run at the roof gardens and summer theatres. There was never any trouble in booking it at the top-notch price. Bob Hart had his bungalow nearly paid for, and Cherry had so many savings-deposit bank books that she had begun to buy sectional bookcases on the instalment plan to hold them.</p>
+			<p>At the end of its second season <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Mice Will Play</i> came back to New York for another run at the roof gardens and summer theatres. There was never any trouble in booking it at the top-notch price. Bob Hart had his bungalow nearly paid for, and Cherry had so many savings-deposit bank books that she had begun to buy sectional bookcases on the instalment plan to hold them.</p>
 			<p>I tell you these things to assure you, even if you can’t believe it, that many, very many of the stage people are workers with abiding ambitions⁠—just the same as the man who wants to be president, or the grocery clerk who wants a home in Flatbush, or a lady who is anxious to flop out of the Count-pan into the Prince-fire. And I hope I may be allowed to say, without chipping into the contribution basket, that they often move in a mysterious way their wonders to perform.</p>
 			<p>But, listen.</p>
-			<p>At the first performance of “Mice Will Play” in New York at the Westphalia (no hams alluded to) Theatre, Winona Cherry was nervous. When she fired at the photograph of the Eastern beauty on the mantel, the bullet, instead of penetrating the photo and then striking the disk, went into the lower left side of Bob Hart’s neck. Not expecting to get it there, Hart collapsed neatly, while Cherry fainted in a most artistic manner.</p>
+			<p>At the first performance of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Mice Will Play</i> in New York at the Westphalia (no hams alluded to) Theatre, Winona Cherry was nervous. When she fired at the photograph of the Eastern beauty on the mantel, the bullet, instead of penetrating the photo and then striking the disk, went into the lower left side of Bob Hart’s neck. Not expecting to get it there, Hart collapsed neatly, while Cherry fainted in a most artistic manner.</p>
 			<p>The audience, surmising that they viewed a comedy instead of a tragedy in which the principals were married or reconciled, applauded with great enjoyment. The Cool Head, who always graces such occasions, rang the curtain down, and two platoons of scene shifters respectively and more or less respectfully removed Hart &amp; Cherry from the stage. The next turn went on, and all went as merry as an alimony bell.</p>
-			<p>The stage hands found a young doctor at the stage entrance who was waiting for a patient with a decoction of Am. B’ty roses. The doctor examined Hart carefully and laughed heartily.</p>
+			<p>The stage hands found a young doctor at the stage entrance who was waiting for a patient with a decoction of <abbr>Am. B’ty</abbr> roses. The doctor examined Hart carefully and laughed heartily.</p>
 			<p>“No headlines for you, Old Sport,” was his diagnosis. “If it had been two inches to the left it would have undermined the carotid artery as far as the Red Front Drug Store in Flatbush and Back Again. As it is, you just get the property man to bind it up with a flounce torn from any one of the girls’ Valenciennes and go home and get it dressed by the parlor-floor practitioner on your block, and you’ll be all right. Excuse me; I’ve got a serious case outside to look after.”</p>
 			<p>After that, Bob Hart looked up and felt better. And then to where he lay came Vincente, the Tramp Juggler, great in his line. Vincente, a solemn man from Brattleboro, Vt., named Sam Griggs at home, sent toys and maple sugar home to two small daughters from every town he played. Vincente had moved on the same circuits with Hart &amp; Cherry, and was their peripatetic friend.</p>
 			<p>“Bob,” said Vincente in his serious way, “I’m glad it’s no worse. The little lady is wild about you.”</p>

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@@ -74,7 +74,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Listen,’ says Patrick Shane, with the sweat coming out on his brow. ‘I’m confidant with you, as you have, somehow, enlisted my regards. Did you ever,’ he says, ‘feel the avoirdupois power of gold⁠—not the troy weight of it, but the sixteen-ounces-to-the-pound force of it?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Never,’ says I. ‘I never take in any bad money.’</p>
 			<p>“Shane drops down on the floor and throws his arms over the sacks of gold-dust.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘I love it,’ says he. ‘I want to feel the touch of it day and night. It’s my pleasure in life. I come in this room, and I’m a king and a rich man. I’ll be a millionaire in another year. The pile’s getting bigger every month. I’ve got the whole tribe washing out the sands in the creeks. I’m the happiest man in the world, <abbr class="name">W. D.</abbr> I just want to be near this gold, and know it’s mine and it’s increasing every day. Now, you know,’ says he, ‘why my Indians wouldn’t buy your goods. They can’t. They bring all the dust to me. I’m their king. I’ve taught ’em not to desire or admire. You might as well shut up shop.’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘I love it,’ says he. ‘I want to feel the touch of it day and night. It’s my pleasure in life. I come in this room, and I’m a king and a rich man. I’ll be a millionaire in another year. The pile’s getting bigger every month. I’ve got the whole tribe washing out the sands in the creeks. I’m the happiest man in the world, <abbr class="name eoc">W. D.</abbr> I just want to be near this gold, and know it’s mine and it’s increasing every day. Now, you know,’ says he, ‘why my Indians wouldn’t buy your goods. They can’t. They bring all the dust to me. I’m their king. I’ve taught ’em not to desire or admire. You might as well shut up shop.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I’ll tell you what you are,’ says I. ‘You’re a plain, contemptible miser. You preach supply and you forget demand. Now, supply,’ I goes on, ‘is never anything but supply. On the contrary,’ says I, ‘demand is a much broader syllogism and assertion. Demand includes the rights of our women and children, and charity and friendship, and even a little begging on the street corners. They’ve both got to harmonize equally. And I’ve got a few things up my commercial sleeve yet,’ says I, ‘that may jostle your preconceived ideas of politics and economy.’</p>
 			<p>“The next morning I had McClintock bring up another mule-load of goods to the plaza and open it up. The people gathered around the same as before.</p>
 			<p>“I got out the finest line of necklaces, bracelets, hair-combs, and earrings that I carried, and had the women put ’em on. And then I played trumps.</p>
@@ -107,8 +107,8 @@
 			<p>“Sure,” said Finch. “There’ll be a dandy time.”</p>
 			<p>“Gimme five tickets,” said the cop, throwing a five-dollar bill on the showcase.</p>
 			<p>“Why,” said Finch, “ain’t you going it a little too⁠—”</p>
-			<p>“Go to h⁠⸺⁠s!” said the cop. “You got ’em to sell, ain’t you? Somebody’s got to buy ’em. Wish I could go along.”</p>
-			<p>I was glad to See Finch so well thought of in his neighborhood.</p>
+			<p>“Go to h⁠⸺!” said the cop. “You got ’em to sell, ain’t you? Somebody’s got to buy ’em. Wish I could go along.”</p>
+			<p>I was glad to see Finch so well thought of in his neighborhood.</p>
 			<p>And then in came a wee girl of seven, with dirty face and pure blue eyes and a smutched and insufficient dress.</p>
 			<p>“Mamma says,” she recited shrilly, “that you must give me eighty cents for the grocer and nineteen for the milkman and five cents for me to buy hokey-pokey with⁠—but she didn’t say that,” the elf concluded, with a hopeful but honest grin.</p>
 			<p>Finch shelled out the money, counting it twice, but I noticed that the total sum that the small girl received was one dollar and four cents.</p>

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@@ -16,8 +16,8 @@
 			<p>Young Howard Pilkins, the millionaire, got his money ornithologically. He was a shrewd judge of storks, and got in on the ground floor at the residence of his immediate ancestors, the Pilkins Brewing Company. For his mother was a partner in the business. Finally old man Pilkins died from a torpid liver, and then <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Pilkins died from worry on account of torpid delivery-wagons⁠—and there you have young Howard Pilkins with 4,000,000; and a good fellow at that. He was an agreeable, modestly arrogant young man, who implicitly believed that money could buy anything that the world had to offer. And Bagdad-on-the-Subway for a long time did everything possible to encourage his belief.</p>
 			<p>But the Rattrap caught him at last; he heard the spring snap, and found his heart in a wire cage regarding a piece of cheese whose other name was Alice von der Ruysling.</p>
 			<p>The Von der Ruyslings still live in that little square about which so much has been said, and in which so little has been done. Today you hear of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Tilden’s underground passage, and you hear <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gould’s elevated passage, and that about ends the noise in the world made by Gramercy Square. But once it was different. The Von der Ruyslings live there yet, and they received <em>the first key ever made to Gramercy Park</em>.</p>
-			<p>You shall have no description of Alice <abbr class="name">v. d. R.</abbr> Just call up in your mind the picture of your own Maggie or Vera or Beatrice, straighten her nose, soften her voice, tone her down and then tone her up, make her beautiful and unattainable⁠—and you have a faint dry-point etching of Alice. The family owned a crumbly brick house and a coachman named Joseph in a coat of many colours, and a horse so old that he claimed to belong to the order of the Perissodactyla, and had toes instead of hoofs. In the year 1898 the family had to buy a new set of harness for the Perissodactyl. Before using it they made Joseph smear it over with a mixture of ashes and soot. It was the Von der Ruysling family that bought the territory between the Bowery and East River and Rivington Street and the Statue of Liberty, in the year 1649, from an Indian chief for a quart of passementerie and a pair of Turkey-red portières designed for a Harlem flat. I have always admired that Indian’s perspicacity and good taste. All this is merely to convince you that the Von der Ruyslings were exactly the kind of poor aristocrats that turn down their noses at people who have money. Oh, well, I don’t mean that; I mean people who have <em>just</em> money.</p>
-			<p>One evening Pilkins went down to the red brick house in Gramercy Square, and made what he thought was a proposal to Alice <abbr class="name">v. d. R.</abbr> Alice, with her nose turned down, and thinking of his money, considered it a proposition, and refused it and him. Pilkins, summoning all his resources as any good general would have done, made an indiscreet references to the advantages that his money would provide. That settled it. The lady turned so cold that Walter Wellman himself would have waited until spring to make a dash for her in a dogsled.</p>
+			<p>You shall have no description of Alice <abbr class="name eoc">v. d. R.</abbr> Just call up in your mind the picture of your own Maggie or Vera or Beatrice, straighten her nose, soften her voice, tone her down and then tone her up, make her beautiful and unattainable⁠—and you have a faint dry-point etching of Alice. The family owned a crumbly brick house and a coachman named Joseph in a coat of many colours, and a horse so old that he claimed to belong to the order of the Perissodactyla, and had toes instead of hoofs. In the year 1898 the family had to buy a new set of harness for the Perissodactyl. Before using it they made Joseph smear it over with a mixture of ashes and soot. It was the Von der Ruysling family that bought the territory between the Bowery and East River and Rivington Street and the Statue of Liberty, in the year 1649, from an Indian chief for a quart of passementerie and a pair of Turkey-red portières designed for a Harlem flat. I have always admired that Indian’s perspicacity and good taste. All this is merely to convince you that the Von der Ruyslings were exactly the kind of poor aristocrats that turn down their noses at people who have money. Oh, well, I don’t mean that; I mean people who have <em>just</em> money.</p>
+			<p>One evening Pilkins went down to the red brick house in Gramercy Square, and made what he thought was a proposal to Alice <abbr class="name eoc">v. d. R.</abbr> Alice, with her nose turned down, and thinking of his money, considered it a proposition, and refused it and him. Pilkins, summoning all his resources as any good general would have done, made an indiscreet references to the advantages that his money would provide. That settled it. The lady turned so cold that Walter Wellman himself would have waited until spring to make a dash for her in a dogsled.</p>
 			<p>But Pilkins was something of a sport himself. You can’t fool all the millionaires every time the ball drops on the Western Union Building.</p>
 			<p>“If, at any time,” he said to <abbr class="name">A. v. d. R.</abbr>, “you feel that you would like to reconsider your answer, send me a rose like that.”</p>
 			<p>Pilkins audaciously touched a Jacque rose that she wore loosely in her hair.</p>

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@@ -26,7 +26,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Now listen,’ says I. ‘You know my rule, Andy, that in all my illegitimate inroads against the legal letter of the law the article sold must be existent, visible, producible. In that way and by a careful study of city ordinances and train schedules I have kept out of all trouble with the police that a five dollar bill and a cigar could not square. Now, to work this scheme we’ve got to be able to produce bodily a charming widow or its equivalent with or without the beauty, hereditaments and appurtenances set forth in the catalogue and writ of errors, or hereafter be held by a justice of the peace.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Well,’ says Andy, reconstructing his mind, ‘maybe it would be safer in case the post office or the peace commission should try to investigate our agency. But where,’ he says, ‘could you hope to find a widow who would waste time on a matrimonial scheme that had no matrimony in it?’</p>
 			<p>“I told Andy that I thought I knew of the exact party. An old friend of mine, Zeke Trotter, who used to draw soda water and teeth in a tent show, had made his wife a widow a year before by drinking some dyspepsia cure of the old doctor’s instead of the liniment that he always got boozed up on. I used to stop at their house often, and I thought we could get her to work with us.</p>
-			<p>“ ’Twas only sixty miles to the little town where she lived, so I jumped out on the <abbr>I. C.</abbr> and finds her in the same cottage with the same sunflowers and roosters standing on the washtub. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Trotter fitted our ad first rate except, maybe for beauty and age and property valuation. But she looked feasible and praiseworthy to the eye, and it was a kindness to Zeke’s memory to give her the job.</p>
+			<p>“ ’Twas only sixty miles to the little town where she lived, so I jumped out on the <abbr class="initialism">IC</abbr> and finds her in the same cottage with the same sunflowers and roosters standing on the washtub. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Trotter fitted our ad first rate except, maybe for beauty and age and property valuation. But she looked feasible and praiseworthy to the eye, and it was a kindness to Zeke’s memory to give her the job.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Is this an honest deal you are putting on, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters,’ she asks me when I tell her what we want.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Trotter,’ says I, ‘Andy Tucker and me have computed the calculation that 3,000 men in this broad and unfair country will endeavor to secure your fair hand and ostensible money and property through our advertisement. Out of that number something like thirty hundred will expect to give you in exchange, if they should win you, the carcass of a lazy and mercenary loafer, a failure in life, a swindler and contemptible fortune seeker.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Me and Andy,’ says I, ‘propose to teach these preyers upon society a lesson. It was with difficulty,’ says I, ‘that me and Andy could refrain from forming a corporation under the title of the Great Moral and Millennial Malevolent Matrimonial Agency. Does that satisfy you?’</p>

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@@ -46,7 +46,7 @@
 			<p>Thomas McQuade took in the splendors of this palatial apartment with one eye. With the other he looked for his imposing conductor⁠—to find that he had disappeared.</p>
 			<p>“B’gee!” muttered Thomas, “this listens like a spook shop. Shouldn’t wonder if it ain’t one of these Moravian Nights’ adventures that you read about. Wonder what became of the furry guy.”</p>
 			<p>Suddenly a stuffed owl that stood on an ebony perch near the illuminated globe slowly raised his wings and emitted from his eyes a brilliant electric glow.</p>
-			<p>With a fright-born imprecation, Thomas seized a bronze statuette of Hebe from a cabinet nearby and hurled it with all his might at the terrifying and impossible fowl. The owl and his perch went over with a crash. With the sound there was a click, and the room was flooded with light from a dozen frosted globes along the walls and ceiling. The gold portières parted and closed, and the mysterious automobilist entered the room. He was tall and wore evening dress of perfect cut and accurate taste. A Vandyke beard of glossy, golden brown, rather long and wavy hair, smoothly parted, and large, magnetic, orientally occult eyes gave him a most impressive and striking appearance. If you can conceive a Russian Grand Duke in a Rajah’s throne-room advancing to greet a visiting Emperor, you will gather something of the majesty of his manner. But Thomas McQuade was too near his <abbr>d.t.’s</abbr> to be mindful of his <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">p’s</i> and <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">q’s</i>. When he viewed this silken, polished, and somewhat terrifying host he thought vaguely of dentists.</p>
+			<p>With a fright-born imprecation, Thomas seized a bronze statuette of Hebe from a cabinet nearby and hurled it with all his might at the terrifying and impossible fowl. The owl and his perch went over with a crash. With the sound there was a click, and the room was flooded with light from a dozen frosted globes along the walls and ceiling. The gold portières parted and closed, and the mysterious automobilist entered the room. He was tall and wore evening dress of perfect cut and accurate taste. A Vandyke beard of glossy, golden brown, rather long and wavy hair, smoothly parted, and large, magnetic, orientally occult eyes gave him a most impressive and striking appearance. If you can conceive a Russian Grand Duke in a Rajah’s throne-room advancing to greet a visiting Emperor, you will gather something of the majesty of his manner. But Thomas McQuade was too near his <abbr class="initialism">DT</abbr>’s to be mindful of his <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">p’s</i> and <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">q’s</i>. When he viewed this silken, polished, and somewhat terrifying host he thought vaguely of dentists.</p>
 			<p>“Say, doc,” said he resentfully, “that’s a hot bird you keep on tap. I hope I didn’t break anything. But I’ve nearly got the williwalloos, and when he threw them 32-candlepower lamps of his on me, I took a snapshot at him with that little brass Flatiron Girl that stood on the sideboard.”</p>
 			<p>“That is merely a mechanical toy,” said the gentleman with a wave of his hand. “May I ask you to be seated while I explain why I brought you to my house. Perhaps you would not understand nor be in sympathy with the psychological prompting that caused me to do so. So I will come to the point at once by venturing to refer to your admission that you know the Van Smuythe family, of Washington Square North.”</p>
 			<p>“Any silver missing?” asked Thomas tartly. “Any joolry displaced? Of course I know ’em. Any of the old ladies’ sunshades disappeared? Well, I know ’em. And then what?”</p>

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@@ -61,7 +61,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Don’t mind it,’ I says to him. ‘’Twas an accident. They happen, you know, on the Fourth. After one reading of the Declaration of Independence in New York I’ve known the <abbr class="initialism">SRO</abbr> sign to be hung out at all the hospitals and police stations.’</p>
 			<p>“But then Jerry gives a howl and jumps up with one hand clapped to the back of his leg where another bullet has acted overzealous. And then comes a quantity of yells, and round a corner and across the plaza gallops General Mary Esperanza Dingo embracing the neck of his horse, with his men running behind him, mostly dropping their guns by way of discharging ballast. And chasing ’em all is a company of feverish little warriors wearing blue trousers and caps.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Assistance, amigos,’ the General shouts, trying to stop his horse. ‘Assistance, in the name of Liberty!’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘That’s the Compañia Azul, the President’s bodyguard,’ says Jones. ‘What a shame! They’ve jumped on poor old Mary just because he was helping us to celebrate. Come on, boys, it’s our Fourth;⁠—do we let that little squad of <abbr>A. D. T</abbr>’s break it up?’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘That’s the Compañia Azul, the President’s bodyguard,’ says Jones. ‘What a shame! They’ve jumped on poor old Mary just because he was helping us to celebrate. Come on, boys, it’s our Fourth;⁠—do we let that little squad of <abbr class="initialism">ADT</abbr>’s break it up?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I vote No,’ says Martin Dillard, gathering his Winchester. ‘It’s the privilege of an American citizen to drink, drill, dress up, and be dreadful on the Fourth of July, no matter whose country he’s in.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Fellow citizens!’ says old man Billfinger, ‘In the darkest hour of Freedom’s birth, when our brave forefathers promulgated the principles of undying liberty, they never expected that a bunch of blue jays like that should be allowed to bust up an anniversary. Let us preserve and protect the Constitution.’</p>
 			<p>“We made it unanimous, and then we gathered our guns and assaulted the blue troops in force. We fired over their heads, and then charged ’em with a yell, and they broke and ran. We were irritated at having our barbecue disturbed, and we chased ’em a quarter of a mile. Some of ’em we caught and kicked hard. The General rallied his troops and joined in the chase. Finally they scattered in a thick banana grove, and we couldn’t flush a single one. So we sat down and rested.</p>

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@@ -37,7 +37,7 @@
 			<p>“Is that Jimmy Dunn?” asked Kelley.</p>
 			<p>“Yes,” came the answer.</p>
 			<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>Jimmy Dunn was an <abbr class="initialism">AM</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>They talked it over for two hours, and then Dunn said; “Bring him to No. ⸻ Broadway, at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”</p>
@@ -50,7 +50,7 @@
 			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> O’Brien heard, and lifted an auriferous head. Her businesslike eye rested for an instant upon the disappearing form of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Kelley. Except in street cars one should never be unnecessarily rude to a lady.</p>
 			<p>When the gallant Colombian and his escort arrived at the Broadway address, they were held in an anteroom for half an hour, and then admitted into a well-equipped office where a distinguished looking man, with a smooth face, wrote at a desk. General Falcon was presented to the Secretary of War of the United States, and his mission made known by his old friend, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Kelley.</p>
 			<p>“Ah⁠—Colombia!” said the Secretary, significantly, when he was made to understand; “I’m afraid there will be a little difficulty in that case. The President and I differ in our sympathies there. He prefers the established government, while I⁠—” the secretary gave the General a mysterious but encouraging smile. “You, of course, know, General Falcon, that since the Tammany war, an act of Congress has been passed requiring all manufactured arms and ammunition exported from this country to pass through the War Department. Now, if I can do anything for you I will be glad to do so to oblige my old friend, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Kelley. But it must be in absolute secrecy, as the President, as I have said, does not regard favorably the efforts of your revolutionary party in Colombia. I will have my orderly bring a list of the available arms now in the warehouse.”</p>
-			<p>The Secretary struck a bell, and an orderly with the letters <abbr>A. D. T.</abbr> on his cap stepped promptly into the room.</p>
+			<p>The Secretary struck a bell, and an orderly with the letters <abbr class="initiialism">ADT</abbr> on his cap stepped promptly into the room.</p>
 			<p>“Bring me Schedule B of the small arms inventory,” said the Secretary.</p>
 			<p>The orderly quickly returned with a printed paper. The Secretary studied it closely.</p>
 			<p>“I find,” he said, “that in Warehouse 9, of Government stores, there is shipment of 2,000 stands of Winchester rifles that were ordered by the Sultan of Morocco, who forgot to send the cash with his order. Our rule is that legal-tender money must be paid down at the time of purchase. My dear Kelley, your friend, General Falcon, shall have this lot of arms, if he desires it, at the manufacturer’s price. And you will forgive me, I am sure, if I curtail our interview. I am expecting the Japanese Minister and Charles Murphy every moment!”</p>

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@@ -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 <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>“ ‘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 class="compass">S. W.</abbr> <abbr>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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@@ -92,7 +92,7 @@
 			<p>“After I’d smoked a few, and listened to the sartorial breathing of <abbr class="name">H. O.</abbr>, I happened to look out the window toward the shearing-pens, where there was a kind of a road coming up from a kind of a road across a kind of a creek farther away.</p>
 			<p>“I saw five men riding up to the house. All of ’em carried guns across their saddles, and among ’em was the deputy that had talked to me at my camp.</p>
 			<p>“They rode up careful, in open formation, with their guns ready. I set apart with my eye the one I opinionated to be the boss muckraker of this law-and-order cavalry.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Good evening, gents,’ says I. ‘Won’t you ‘light, and tie your horses?’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Good evening, gents,’ says I. ‘Won’t you ’light, and tie your horses?’</p>
 			<p>“The boss rides up close, and swings his gun over till the opening in it seems to cover my whole front elevation.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Don’t you move your hands none,’ says he, ‘till you and me indulge in a adequate amount of necessary conversation.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I will not,’ says I. ‘I am no deaf-mute, and therefore will not have to disobey your injunctions in replying.’</p>
@@ -108,7 +108,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘Cash down now?’ I asks.</p>
 			<p>“The captain has a sort of discussion with his helpmates, and they all produce the contents of their pockets for analysis. Out of the general results they figured up $102.30 in cash and $31 worth of plug tobacco.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Come nearer, capitán meeo,’ says I, ‘and listen.’ He so did.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘I am mighty poor and low down in the world,’ says I. ‘I am working for twelve dollars a month trying to keep a lot of animals together whose only thought seems to be to get asunder. Although,’ says I, ‘I regard myself as some better than the State of South Dakota, it’s a comedown to a man who has heretofore regarded sheep only in the form of chops. I’m pretty far reduced in the world on account of foiled ambitions and rum and a kind of cocktail they make along the <abbr>P. R. R.</abbr> all the way from Scranton to Cincinnati⁠—dry gin, French vermouth, one squeeze of a lime, and a good dash of orange bitters. If you’re ever up that way, don’t fail to let one try you. And, again,’ says I, ‘I have never yet went back on a friend. I’ve stayed by ’em when they had plenty, and when adversity’s overtaken me I’ve never forsook ’em.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘I am mighty poor and low down in the world,’ says I. ‘I am working for twelve dollars a month trying to keep a lot of animals together whose only thought seems to be to get asunder. Although,’ says I, ‘I regard myself as some better than the State of South Dakota, it’s a comedown to a man who has heretofore regarded sheep only in the form of chops. I’m pretty far reduced in the world on account of foiled ambitions and rum and a kind of cocktail they make along the <abbr class="initialism">PRR</abbr> all the way from Scranton to Cincinnati⁠—dry gin, French vermouth, one squeeze of a lime, and a good dash of orange bitters. If you’re ever up that way, don’t fail to let one try you. And, again,’ says I, ‘I have never yet went back on a friend. I’ve stayed by ’em when they had plenty, and when adversity’s overtaken me I’ve never forsook ’em.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘But,’ I goes on, ‘this is not exactly the case of a friend. Twelve dollars a month is only bowing-acquaintance money. And I do not consider brown beans and cornbread the food of friendship. I am a poor man,’ says I, ‘and I have a widowed mother in Texarkana. You will find Black Bill,’ says I, ‘lying asleep in this house on a cot in the room to your right. He’s the man you want, as I know from his words and conversation. He was in a way a friend,’ I explains, ‘and if I was the man I once was the entire product of the mines of Gondola would not have tempted me to betray him. But,’ says I, ‘every week half of the beans was wormy, and not nigh enough wood in camp.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Better go in careful, gentlemen,’ says I. ‘He seems impatient at times, and when you think of his late professional pursuits one would look for abrupt actions if he was come upon sudden.’</p>
 			<p>“So the whole posse unmounts and ties their horses, and unlimbers their ammunition and equipments, and tiptoes into the house. And I follows, like Delilah when she set the Philip Steins on to Samson.</p>

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@@ -10,7 +10,7 @@
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Higher Pragmatism</h2>
 			<section id="the-higher-pragmatism-1" epub:type="chapter">
 				<h3 epub:type="title z3998:roman">I</h3>
-				<p>Where to go for wisdom has become a question of serious import. The ancients are discredited; Plato is boilerplate; Aristotle is tottering; Marcus Aurelius is reeling; Æsop has been copyrighted by Indiana; Solomon is too solemn; you couldn’t get anything out of Epictetus with a pick.</p>
+				<p>Where to go for wisdom has become a question of serious import. The ancients are discredited; Plato is boilerplate; Aristotle is tottering; Marcus Aurelius is reeling; Aesop has been copyrighted by Indiana; Solomon is too solemn; you couldn’t get anything out of Epictetus with a pick.</p>
 				<p>The ant, which for many years served as a model of intelligence and industry in the school-readers, has been proven to be a doddering idiot and a waster of time and effort. The owl today is hooted at. Chautauqua conventions have abandoned culture and adopted diabolo. Graybeards give glowing testimonials to the venders of patent hair-restorers. There are typographical errors in the almanacs published by the daily newspapers. College professors have become⁠—</p>
 				<p>But there shall be no personalities.</p>
 				<p>To sit in classes, to delve into the encyclopedia or the past-performances page, will not make us wise. As the poet says, “Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers.” Wisdom is dew, which, while we know it not, soaks into us, refreshes us, and makes us grow. Knowledge is a strong stream of water turned on us through a hose. It disturbs our roots.</p>

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@@ -20,7 +20,7 @@
 			<p>Old man Ellison was a shrunken old man, with a short, yellow-white beard and a face lined and seamed by past-and-gone smiles. His ranch was a little two-room box house in a grove of hackberry trees in the lonesomest part of the sheep country. His household consisted of a Kiowa Indian man cook, four hounds, a pet sheep, and a half-tamed coyote chained to a fence-post. He owned 3,000 sheep, which he ran on two sections of leased land and many thousands of acres neither leased nor owned. Three or four times a year someone who spoke his language would ride up to his gate and exchange a few bald ideas with him. Those were red-letter days to old man Ellison. Then in what illuminated, embossed, and gorgeously decorated capitals must have been written the day on which a troubadour⁠—a troubadour who, according to the encyclopaedia, should have flourished between the eleventh and the thirteenth centuries⁠—drew rein at the gates of his baronial castle!</p>
 			<p>Old man Ellison’s smiles came back and filled his wrinkles when he saw Sam. He hurried out of the house in his shuffling, limping way to greet him.</p>
 			<p>“Hello, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ellison,” called Sam cheerfully. “Thought I’d drop over and see you a while. Notice you’ve had fine rains on your range. They ought to make good grazing for your spring lambs.”</p>
-			<p>“Well, well, well,” said old man Ellison. “I’m mighty glad to see you, Sam. I never thought you’d take the trouble to ride over to as out-of-the-way an old ranch as this. But you’re mighty welcome. ‘Light. I’ve got a sack of new oats in the kitchen⁠—shall I bring out a feed for your hoss?”</p>
+			<p>“Well, well, well,” said old man Ellison. “I’m mighty glad to see you, Sam. I never thought you’d take the trouble to ride over to as out-of-the-way an old ranch as this. But you’re mighty welcome. ’Light. I’ve got a sack of new oats in the kitchen⁠—shall I bring out a feed for your hoss?”</p>
 			<p>“Oats for him?” said Sam, derisively. “No, sir-ee. He’s as fat as a pig now on grass. He don’t get rode enough to keep him in condition. I’ll just turn him in the horse pasture with a drag rope on if you don’t mind.”</p>
 			<p>I am positive that never during the eleventh and thirteenth centuries did Baron, Troubadour, and Worker amalgamate as harmoniously as their parallels did that evening at old man Ellison’s sheep ranch. The Kiowa’s biscuits were light and tasty and his coffee strong. Ineradicable hospitality and appreciation glowed on old man Ellison’s weather-tanned face. As for the troubadour, he said to himself that he had stumbled upon pleasant places indeed. A well-cooked, abundant meal, a host whom his lightest attempt to entertain seemed to delight far beyond the merits of the exertion, and the reposeful atmosphere that his sensitive soul at that time craved united to confer upon him a satisfaction and luxurious ease that he had seldom found on his tours of the ranches.</p>
 			<p>After the delectable supper, Sam untied the green duck bag and took out his guitar. Not by way of payment, mind you⁠—neither Sam Galloway nor any other of the true troubadours are lineal descendants of the late Tommy Tucker. You have read of Tommy Tucker in the works of the esteemed but often obscure Mother Goose. Tommy Tucker sang for his supper. No true troubadour would do that. He would have his supper, and then sing for Art’s sake.</p>

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@@ -28,7 +28,7 @@
 			<p>“I looked around at Willie after Myra had gone. He had a kind of a lily-white look on him which seemed to show that her remark had, as you might say, disrupted his soul. I never noticed anything in what she said that sounded particularly destructive to a man’s ideas of self-consciousness; but he was set back to an extent you could scarcely imagine.</p>
 			<p>“After we went downstairs with our clean collars on, Willie never went near Myra again that night. After all, he seemed to be a diluted kind of a skim-milk sort of a chap, and I never wondered that Joe Granberry beat him out.</p>
 			<p>“The next day the battleship <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Maine</i> was blown up, and then pretty soon somebody⁠—I reckon it was Joe Bailey, or Ben Tillman, or maybe the Government⁠—declared war against Spain.</p>
-			<p>“Well, everybody south of Mason &amp; Hamlin’s line knew that the North by itself couldn’t whip a whole country the size of Spain. So the Yankees commenced to holler for help, and the Johnny Rebs answered the call. ‘We’re coming, Father William, a hundred thousand strong⁠—and then some,’ was the way they sang it. And the old party lines drawn by Sherman’s march and the Kuklux and nine-cent cotton and the Jim Crow streetcar ordinances faded away. We became one undivided. country, with no North, very little East, a good-sized chunk of West, and a South that loomed up as big as the first foreign label on a new eight-dollar suitcase.</p>
+			<p>“Well, everybody south of Mason &amp; Hamlin’s line knew that the North by itself couldn’t whip a whole country the size of Spain. So the Yankees commenced to holler for help, and the Johnny Rebs answered the call. ‘We’re coming, Father William, a hundred thousand strong⁠—and then some,’ was the way they sang it. And the old party lines drawn by Sherman’s march and the Kuklux and nine-cent cotton and the Jim Crow streetcar ordinances faded away. We became one undivided country, with no North, very little East, a good-sized chunk of West, and a South that loomed up as big as the first foreign label on a new eight-dollar suitcase.</p>
 			<p>“Of course the dogs of war weren’t a complete pack without a yelp from the San Augustine Rifles, Company D, of the Fourteenth Texas Regiment. Our company was among the first to land in Cuba and strike terror into the hearts of the foe. I’m not going to give you a history of the war, I’m just dragging it in to fill out my story about Willie Robbins, just as the Republican party dragged it in to help out the election in 1898.</p>
 			<p>“If anybody ever had heroitis, it was that Willie Robbins. From the minute he set foot on the soil of the tyrants of Castile he seemed to engulf danger as a cat laps up cream. He certainly astonished every man in our company, from the captain up. You’d have expected him to gravitate naturally to the job of an orderly to the colonel, or typewriter in the commissary⁠—but not any. He created the part of the flaxen-haired boy hero who lives and gets back home with the goods, instead of dying with an important despatch in his hands at his colonel’s feet.</p>
 			<p>“Our company got into a section of Cuban scenery where one of the messiest and most unsung portions of the campaign occurred. We were out every day capering around in the bushes, and having little skirmishes with the Spanish troops that looked more like kind of tired-out feuds than anything else. The war was a joke to us, and of no interest to them. We never could see it any other way than as a howling farce-comedy that the San Augustine Rifles were actually fighting to uphold the Stars and Stripes. And the blamed little señors didn’t get enough pay to make them care whether they were patriots or traitors. Now and then somebody would get killed. It seemed like a waste of life to me. I was at Coney Island when I went to New York once, and one of them downhill skidding apparatuses they call ‘roller-coasters’ flew the track and killed a man in a brown sack-suit. Whenever the Spaniards shot one of our men, it struck me as just about as unnecessary and regrettable as that was.</p>

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@@ -8,8 +8,8 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<section id="the-rose-of-dixie" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">“The Rose of Dixie”</h2>
-			<p>When <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rose of Dixie</i> magazine was started by a stock company in Toombs City, Georgia, there was never but one candidate for its chief editorial position in the minds of its owners. Col. Aquila Telfair was the man for the place. By all the rights of learning, family, reputation, and Southern traditions, he was its foreordained, fit, and logical editor. So, a committee of the patriotic Georgia citizens who had subscribed the founding fund of $100,000 called upon Colonel Telfair at his residence, Cedar Heights, fearful lest the enterprise and the South should suffer by his possible refusal.</p>
-			<p>The colonel received them in his great library, where he spent most of his days. The library had descended to him from his father. It contained ten thousand volumes, some of which had been published as late as the year 1861. When the deputation arrived, Colonel Telfair was seated at his massive white-pine centre-table, reading Burton’s “Anatomy of Melancholy.” He arose and shook hands punctiliously with each member of the committee. If you were familiar with <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rose of Dixie</i> you will remember the colonel’s portrait, which appeared in it from time to time. You could not forget the long, carefully brushed white hair; the hooked, high-bridged nose, slightly twisted to the left; the keen eyes under the still black eyebrows; the classic mouth beneath the drooping white mustache, slightly frazzled at the ends.</p>
+			<p>When <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rose of Dixie</i> magazine was started by a stock company in Toombs City, Georgia, there was never but one candidate for its chief editorial position in the minds of its owners. <abbr>Col.</abbr> Aquila Telfair was the man for the place. By all the rights of learning, family, reputation, and Southern traditions, he was its foreordained, fit, and logical editor. So, a committee of the patriotic Georgia citizens who had subscribed the founding fund of $100,000 called upon Colonel Telfair at his residence, Cedar Heights, fearful lest the enterprise and the South should suffer by his possible refusal.</p>
+			<p>The colonel received them in his great library, where he spent most of his days. The library had descended to him from his father. It contained ten thousand volumes, some of which had been published as late as the year 1861. When the deputation arrived, Colonel Telfair was seated at his massive white-pine centre-table, reading Burton’s <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Anatomy of Melancholy</i>. He arose and shook hands punctiliously with each member of the committee. If you were familiar with <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rose of Dixie</i> you will remember the colonel’s portrait, which appeared in it from time to time. You could not forget the long, carefully brushed white hair; the hooked, high-bridged nose, slightly twisted to the left; the keen eyes under the still black eyebrows; the classic mouth beneath the drooping white mustache, slightly frazzled at the ends.</p>
 			<p>The committee solicitously offered him the position of managing editor, humbly presenting an outline of the field that the publication was designed to cover and mentioning a comfortable salary. The colonel’s lands were growing poorer each year and were much cut up by red gullies. Besides, the honor was not one to be refused.</p>
 			<p>In a forty-minute speech of acceptance, Colonel Telfair gave an outline of English literature from Chaucer to Macaulay, re-fought the battle of Chancellorsville, and said that, God helping him, he would so conduct <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rose of Dixie</i> that its fragrance and beauty would permeate the entire world, hurling back into the teeth of the Northern minions their belief that no genius or good could exist in the brains and hearts of the people whose property they had destroyed and whose rights they had curtailed.</p>
 			<p>Offices for the magazine were partitioned off and furnished in the second floor of the First National Bank building; and it was for the colonel to cause <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rose of Dixie</i> to blossom and flourish or to wilt in the balmy air of the land of flowers.</p>
@@ -29,7 +29,7 @@
 			<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 <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>“All right,” said Thacker. “I read the poem, but I couldn’t tell whether it was about the depot or 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>
 			<p>“All’s right with the world⁠—Piggott passes,” said Thacker. “Well this article on Arctic exploration and the one on tarpon fishing might go. But how about this write-up of the Atlanta, New Orleans, Nashville, and Savannah breweries? It seems to consist mainly of statistics about their output and the quality of their beer. What’s the chip over the bug?”</p>
 			<p>“If I understand your figurative language,” answered Colonel Telfair, “it is this: the article you refer to was handed to me by the owners of the magazine with instructions to publish it. The literary quality of it did not appeal to me. But, in a measure, I feel impelled to conform, in certain matters, to the wishes of the gentlemen who are interested in the financial side of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rose</i>.”</p>
@@ -43,7 +43,7 @@
 			<p>Thacker reached for his thick manila envelope and dumped a mass of typewritten manuscript on the editors desk.</p>
 			<p>“Here’s some truck,” said he, “that I paid cash for, and brought along with me.”</p>
 			<p>One by one he folded back the manuscripts and showed their first pages to the colonel.</p>
-			<p>Here are four short stories by four of the highest priced authors in the United States⁠—three of ’em living in New York, and one commuting. There’s a special article on Vienna-bred society by Tom Vampson. Here’s an Italian serial by Captain Jack⁠—no⁠—it’s the other Crawford. Here are three separate exposés of city governments by Sniffings, and here’s a dandy entitled ‘What Women Carry in Dress-Suitcases’⁠—a Chicago newspaper woman hired herself out for five years as a lady’s maid to get that information. And here’s a Synopsis of Preceding Chapters of Hall Caine’s new serial to appear next June. And here’s a couple of pounds of 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>“Here are four short stories by four of the highest priced authors in the United States⁠—three of ’em living in New York, and one commuting. There’s a special article on Vienna-bred society by Tom Vampson. Here’s an Italian serial by Captain Jack⁠—no⁠—it’s the other Crawford. Here are three separate exposés of city governments by Sniffings, and here’s a dandy entitled ‘What Women Carry in Dress-Suitcases’⁠—a Chicago newspaper woman hired herself out for five years as a lady’s maid to get that information. And here’s a Synopsis of Preceding Chapters of Hall Caine’s new serial to appear next June. And here’s a couple of pounds of 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">
@@ -97,7 +97,7 @@
 			<p>“That’s the stuff,” continued Thacker. “What do you think of that?”</p>
 			<p>“I am not unfamiliar with the works of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Riley,” said the colonel, deliberately. “I believe he lives in Indiana. For the last ten years I have been somewhat of a literary recluse, and am familiar with nearly all the books in the Cedar Heights library. I am also of the opinion that a magazine should contain a certain amount of poetry. Many of the sweetest singers of the South have already contributed to the pages of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rose of Dixie</i>. I, myself, have thought of translating from the original for publication in its pages the works of the great Italian poet Tasso. Have you ever drunk from the fountain of this immortal poet’s lines, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Thacker?”</p>
 			<p>“Not even a demi-Tasso,” said Thacker. Now, let’s come to the point, Colonel Telfair. I’ve already invested some money in this as a flyer. That bunch of manuscripts cost me $4,000. My object was to try a number of them in the next issue⁠—I believe you make up less than a month ahead⁠—and see what effect it has on the circulation. I believe that by printing the best stuff we can get in the North, South, East, or West we can make the magazine go. You have there the letter from the owning company asking you to cooperate with me in the plan. Let’s chuck out some of this slush that you’ve been publishing just because the writers are related to the Skoopdoodles of Skoopdoodle County. Are you with me?”</p>
-			<p>“As long as I continue to be the editor of The Rose,” said Colonel Telfair, with dignity, “I shall be its editor. But I desire also to conform to the wishes of its owners if I can do so conscientiously.”</p>
+			<p>“As long as I continue to be the editor of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rose</i>,” said Colonel Telfair, with dignity, “I shall be its editor. But I desire also to conform to the wishes of its owners if I can do so conscientiously.”</p>
 			<p>“That’s the talk,” said Thacker, briskly. “Now, how much of this stuff I’ve brought can we get into the January number? We want to begin right away.”</p>
 			<p>“There is yet space in the January number,” said the editor, “for about eight thousand words, roughly estimated.”</p>
 			<p>“Great!” said Thacker. “It isn’t much, but it’ll give the readers some change from goobers, governors, and Gettysburg. I’ll leave the selection of the stuff I brought to fill the space to you, as it’s all good. I’ve got to run back to New York, and I’ll be down again in a couple of weeks.”</p>

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@@ -14,7 +14,7 @@
 			<p>At my “hello,” a ranch hand came from an outer building and received my thankful horse. In another minute, Ross and I sat by a stove in the dining-room of the four-room ranch house, while the big, simple welcome of the household lay at my disposal. Fanned by the whizzing norther, the fine, dry snow was sifted and bolted through the cracks and knotholes of the logs. The cook room, without a separating door, appended.</p>
 			<p>In there I could see a short, sturdy, leisurely and weather-beaten man moving with professional sureness about his red-hot stove. His face was stolid and unreadable⁠—something like that of a great thinker, or of one who had no thoughts to conceal. I thought his eye seemed unwarrantably superior to the elements and to the man, but quickly attributed that to the characteristic self-importance of a petty chef. “Camp cook” was the niche that I gave him in the Hall of Types; and he fitted it as an apple fits a dumpling.</p>
 			<p>Cold it was in spite of the glowing stove; and Ross and I sat and talked, shuddering frequently, half from nerves and half from the freezing draughts. So he brought the bottle and the cook brought boiling water, and we made prodigious hot toddies against the attacks of Boreas. We clinked glasses often. They sounded like icicles dropping from the eaves, or like the tinkle of a thousand prisms on a Louis <span epub:type="z3998:roman">XIV</span> chandelier that I once heard at a boarder’s dance in the parlor of a ten-a-week boardinghouse in Gramercy Square. Sic transit.</p>
-			<p>Silence in the terrible beauty of the snow and of the Sphinx and of the stars; but they who believe that all things, from a without-wine table d’hôte to the crucifixion, may be interpreted through music, might have found a nocturne or a symphony to express the isolation of that blotted-out world. The clink of glass and bottle, the aeolian chorus of the wind in the house crannies, its deeper trombone through the canyon below, and the Wagnerian crash of the cook’s pots and pans, united in a fit, discordant melody, I thought. No less welcome an accompaniment was the sizzling of broiling ham and venison cutlet endorsed by the solvent fumes of true Java, bringing rich promises of comfort to our yearning souls.</p>
+			<p>Silence in the terrible beauty of the snow and of the Sphinx and of the stars; but they who believe that all things, from a without-wine table d’hôte to the crucifixion, may be interpreted through music, might have found a nocturne or a symphony to express the isolation of that blotted-out world. The clink of glass and bottle, the aeolian chorus of the wind in the house crannies, its deeper trombone through the canyon below, and the Wagnerian crash of the cook’s pots and pans, united in a fit, discordant melody, I thought. No less welcome an accompaniment was the sizzling of broiling ham and venison cutlet endorsed by the solvent fumes of true java, bringing rich promises of comfort to our yearning souls.</p>
 			<p>The cook brought the smoking supper to the table. He nodded to me democratically as he cast the heavy plates around as though he were pitching quoits or hurling the discus. I looked at him with some appraisement and curiosity and much conciliation. There was no prophet to tell us when that drifting evil outside might cease to fall; and it is well, when snowbound, to stand somewhere within the radius of the cook’s favorable consideration. But I could read neither favor nor disapproval in the face and manner of our pot-wrestler.</p>
 			<p>He was about five feet nine inches, and two hundred pounds of commonplace, bull-necked, pink-faced, callous calm. He wore brown duck trousers too tight and too short, and a blue flannel shirt with sleeves rolled above his elbows. There was a sort of grim, steady scowl on his features that looked to me as though he had fixed it there purposely as a protection against the weakness of an inherent amiability that, he fancied, were better concealed. And then I let supper usurp his brief occupancy of my thoughts.</p>
 			<p>“Draw up, George,” said Ross. “Let’s all eat while the grub’s hot.”</p>
@@ -33,7 +33,7 @@
 			<p>Of all the curious knickknacks, mysteries, puzzles, Indian gifts, rattraps, and well-disguised blessings that the gods chuck down to us from the Olympian peaks, the most disquieting and evil-bringing is the snow. By scientific analysis it is absolute beauty and purity⁠—so, at the beginning we look doubtfully at chemistry.</p>
 			<p>It falls upon the world, and lo! we live in another. It hides in a night the old scars and familiar places with which we have grown heartsick or enamored. So, as quietly as we can, we hustle on our embroidered robes and hie us on Prince Camaralzaman’s horse or in the reindeer sleigh into the white country where the seven colors converge. This is when our fancy can overcome the bane of it.</p>
 			<p>But in certain spots of the earth comes the snow-madness, made known by people turned wild and distracted by the bewildering veil that has obscured the only world they know. In the cities, the white fairy who sets the brains of her dupes whirling by a wave of her wand is cast for the comedy role. Her diamond shoe buckles glitter like frost; with a pirouette she invites the spotless carnival.</p>
-			<p>But in the waste places the snow is sardonic. Sponging out the world of the outliers, it gives no foothold on another sphere in return. It makes of the earth a firmament under foot; it leaves us clawing and stumbling in space in an inimical fifth element whose evil outdoes its strangeness and beauty, There Nature, low comedienne, plays her tricks on man. Though she has put him forth as her highest product, it appears that she has fashioned him with what seems almost incredible carelessness and indexterity. One-sided and without balance, with his two halves unequally fashioned and joined, must he ever jog his eccentric way. The snow falls, the darkness caps it, and the ridiculous man-biped strays in accurate circles until he succumbs in the ruins of his defective architecture.</p>
+			<p>But in the waste places the snow is sardonic. Sponging out the world of the outliers, it gives no foothold on another sphere in return. It makes of the earth a firmament under foot; it leaves us clawing and stumbling in space in an inimical fifth element whose evil outdoes its strangeness and beauty. There Nature, low comedienne, plays her tricks on man. Though she has put him forth as her highest product, it appears that she has fashioned him with what seems almost incredible carelessness and indexterity. One-sided and without balance, with his two halves unequally fashioned and joined, must he ever jog his eccentric way. The snow falls, the darkness caps it, and the ridiculous man-biped strays in accurate circles until he succumbs in the ruins of his defective architecture.</p>
 			<p>In the throat of the thirsty the snow is vitriol. In appearance as plausible as the breakfast food of the angels, it is as hot in the mouth as ginger, increasing the pangs of the water-famished. It is a derivative from water, air, and some cold, uncanny fire from which the caloric has been extracted. Good has been said of it; even the poets, crazed by its spell and shivering in their attics under its touch, have indited permanent melodies commemorative of its beauty.</p>
 			<p>Still, to the saddest overcoated optimist it is a plague⁠—a corroding plague that Pharaoh successfully sidestepped. It beneficently covers the wheat fields, swelling the crop⁠—and the Flour Trust gets us by the throat like a sudden quinsy. It spreads the tail of its white kirtle over the red seams of the rugged north⁠—and the Alaskan short story is born. Etiolated perfidy, it shelters the mountain traveler burrowing from the icy air⁠—and, melting tomorrow, drowns his brother in the valley below.</p>
 			<p>At its worst it is lock and key and crucible, and the wand of Circe. When it corrals man in lonely ranches, mountain cabins, and forest huts, the snow makes apes and tigers of the hardiest. It turns the bosoms of weaker ones to glass, their tongues to infants’ rattles, their hearts to lawlessness and spleen. It is not all from the isolation; the snow is not merely a blockader; it is a Chemical Test. It is a good man who can show a reaction that is not chiefly composed of a drachm or two of potash and magnesia, with traces of Adam, Ananias, Nebuchadnezzar, and the fretful porcupine.</p>
@@ -46,12 +46,12 @@
 			<p>“Mee-ser-rhable!” commented Etienne, and took another three fingers.</p>
 			<p>“Complete, cast-iron, pussyfooted, blank … blank!” said Ross, and followed suit.</p>
 			<p>“Rotten,” said I.</p>
-			<p>The cook said nothing. He stood in the door weighing our outburst; and insistently from behind that frozen visage I got two messages (via the <abbr>M. A. M.</abbr> wireless). One was that George considered our vituperation against the snow childish; the other was that George did not love Dagoes. Inasmuch as Etienne was a Frenchman, I concluded I had the message wrong. So I queried the other: “Bright eyes, you don’t really mean Dagoes, do you?” and over the wireless came three deathly, psychic taps: “Yes.” Then I reflected that to George all foreigners were probably “Dagoes.” I had once known another camp cook who had thought Mons., Sig., and Millie (Trans-Mississippi for <abbr>Mlle.</abbr>) were Italian given names; this cook used to marvel therefore at the paucity of Neo-Roman precognomens, and therefore why not⁠—</p>
+			<p>The cook said nothing. He stood in the door weighing our outburst; and insistently from behind that frozen visage I got two messages (via the <abbr class="initialism">MAM</abbr> wireless). One was that George considered our vituperation against the snow childish; the other was that George did not love Dagoes. Inasmuch as Etienne was a Frenchman, I concluded I had the message wrong. So I queried the other: “Bright eyes, you don’t really mean Dagoes, do you?” and over the wireless came three deathly, psychic taps: “Yes.” Then I reflected that to George all foreigners were probably “Dagoes.” I had once known another camp cook who had thought Mons., Sig., and Millie (Trans-Mississippi for <abbr>Mlle.</abbr>) were Italian given names; this cook used to marvel therefore at the paucity of Neo-Roman precognomens, and therefore why not⁠—</p>
 			<p>I have said that snow is a test of men. For one day, two days, Etienne stood at the window, Fletcherizing his finger nails and shrieking and moaning at the monotony. To me, Etienne was just about as unbearable as the snow; and so, seeking relief, I went out on the second day to look at my horse, slipped on a stone, broke my collarbone, and thereafter underwent not the snow test, but the test of flat-on-the-back. A test that comes once too often for any man to stand.</p>
 			<p>However, I bore up cheerfully. I was now merely a spectator, and from my couch in the big room I could lie and watch the human interplay with that detached, impassive, impersonal feeling which French writers tell us is so valuable to the litterateur, and American writers to the faro-dealer.</p>
 			<p>“I shall go crazy in this abominable, mee-ser-rhable place!” was Etienne’s constant prediction.</p>
-			<p>“Never knew Mark Twain to bore me before,” said Ross, over and over. He sat by the other window, hour after hour, a box of Pittsburg stogies of the length, strength, and odor of a Pittsburg graft scandal deposited on one side of him, and “Roughing It,” “The Jumping Frog,” and “Life on the Mississippi” on the other. For every chapter he lit a new stogy, puffing furiously. This in time, gave him a recurrent premonition of cramps, gastritis, smoker’s colic or whatever it is they have in Pittsburg after a too deep indulgence in graft scandals. To fend off the colic, Ross resorted time and again to Old Doctor Still’s Amber-Colored <abbr class="initialism">USA</abbr> Colic Cure. Result, after forty-eight hours⁠—nerves.</p>
-			<p>“Positive fact I never knew Mark Twain to make me tired before. Positive fact.” Ross slammed “Roughing It” on the floor. “When you’re snowbound this-away you want tragedy, I guess. Humor just seems to bring out all your cussedness. You read a man’s poor, pitiful attempts to be funny and it makes you so nervous you want to tear the book up, get out your bandana, and have a good, long cry.”</p>
+			<p>“Never knew Mark Twain to bore me before,” said Ross, over and over. He sat by the other window, hour after hour, a box of Pittsburg stogies of the length, strength, and odor of a Pittsburg graft scandal deposited on one side of him, and <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Roughing It</i>, <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Jumping Frog</i>, and <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Life on the Mississippi</i> on the other. For every chapter he lit a new stogy, puffing furiously. This in time gave him a recurrent premonition of cramps, gastritis, smoker’s colic or whatever it is they have in Pittsburg after a too deep indulgence in graft scandals. To fend off the colic, Ross resorted time and again to Old Doctor Still’s Amber-Colored <abbr class="initialism">USA</abbr> Colic Cure. Result, after forty-eight hours⁠—nerves.</p>
+			<p>“Positive fact I never knew Mark Twain to make me tired before. Positive fact.” Ross slammed <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Roughing It</i> on the floor. “When you’re snowbound this-away you want tragedy, I guess. Humor just seems to bring out all your cussedness. You read a man’s poor, pitiful attempts to be funny and it makes you so nervous you want to tear the book up, get out your bandana, and have a good, long cry.”</p>
 			<p>At the other end of the room, the Frenchman took his finger nails out of his mouth long enough to exclaim: “Humor! Humor at such a time as thees! My God, I shall go crazy in thees abominable⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Supper,” announced George.</p>
 			<p>These meals were not the meals of Rabelais who said, “the great God makes the planets and we make the platters neat.” By that time, the ranch-house meals were not affairs of gusto; they were mental distraction, not bodily provender. What they were to be later shall never be forgotten by Ross or me or Etienne.</p>
@@ -95,7 +95,7 @@
 			<p>From my excellent vantage-point on the couch I watched the progress of that meal. Ross, muddled, glowering, disappointed; Etienne, eternally blandishing, attentive, ogling; Miss Adams, nervous, picking at her food, hesitant about answering questions, almost hysterical; now and then the solid, flitting shadow of the cook, passing behind their backs like a Dreadnaught in a fog.</p>
 			<p>I used to own a clock which gurgled in its throat three minutes before it struck the hour. I know, therefore, the slow freight of Anticipation. For I have awakened at three in the morning, heard the clock gurgle, and waited those three minutes for the three strokes I knew were to come. <i xml:lang="fr">Alors.</i> In Ross’s ranch house that night the slow freight of Climax whistled in the distance.</p>
 			<p>Etienne began it after supper. Miss Adams had suddenly displayed a lively interest in the kitchen layout and I could see her in there, chatting brightly at George⁠—not with him⁠—the while he ducked his head and rattled his pans.</p>
-			<p>“My fren’,” said Etienne, exhaling a large cloud from his cigarette and patting Ross lightly on the shoulder with a bediamonded hand which, hung limp from a yard or more of bony arm, “I see I mus’ be frank with you. Firs’, because we are rivals; second, because you take these matters so serious. I⁠—I am Frenchman. I love the women”⁠—he threw back his curls, bared his yellow teeth, and blew an unsavory kiss toward the kitchen. “It is, I suppose, a trait of my nation. All Frenchmen love the women⁠—pretty women. Now, look: Here I am!” He spread out his arms. “Cold outside! I detes’ the col-l-l! Snow! I abominate the mees-ser-rhable snow! Two men! This⁠—” pointing to me⁠—“an’ this!” Pointing to’ Ross. “I am distracted! For two whole days I stan’ at the window an’ tear my ‘air! I am nervous, upset, pr-r-ro-foun’ly distress inside my ‘ead! An’ suddenly⁠—be’old! A woman, a nice, pretty, charming, innocen’ young woman! I, naturally, rejoice. I become myself again⁠—gay, light-’earted, ’appy. I address myself to mademoiselle; it passes the time. That, m’sieu’, is wot the women are for⁠—pass the time! Entertainment⁠—like the music, like the wine!</p>
+			<p>“My fren’,” said Etienne, exhaling a large cloud from his cigarette and patting Ross lightly on the shoulder with a bediamonded hand which, hung limp from a yard or more of bony arm, “I see I mus’ be frank with you. Firs’, because we are rivals; second, because you take these matters so serious. I⁠—I am Frenchman. I love the women”⁠—he threw back his curls, bared his yellow teeth, and blew an unsavory kiss toward the kitchen. “It is, I suppose, a trait of my nation. All Frenchmen love the women⁠—pretty women. Now, look: Here I am!” He spread out his arms. “Cold outside! I detes’ the col-l-l! Snow! I abominate the mees-ser-rhable snow! Two men! This⁠—” pointing to me⁠—“an’ this!” Pointing to Ross. “I am distracted! For two whole days I stan’ at the window an’ tear my ’air! I am nervous, upset, pr-r-ro-foun’ly distress inside my ’ead! An’ suddenly⁠—be’old! A woman, a nice, pretty, charming, innocen’ young woman! I, naturally, rejoice. I become myself again⁠—gay, light-’earted, ’appy. I address myself to mademoiselle; it passes the time. That, m’sieu’, is wot the women are for⁠—pass the time! Entertainment⁠—like the music, like the wine!</p>
 			<p>“They appeal to the mood, the caprice, the temperamen’. To play with thees woman, follow her through her humor, pursue her⁠—ah! that is the mos’ delightful way to sen’ the hours about their business.”</p>
 			<p>Ross banged the table. “Shut up, you miserable yeller pup!” he roared. “I object to your pursuin’ anything or anybody in my house. Now, you listen to me, you⁠—” He picked up the box of stogies and used it on the table as an emphasizer. The noise of it awoke the attention of the girl in the kitchen. Unheeded, she crept into the room. “I don’t know anything about your French ways of lovemakin’ an’ I don’t care. In my section of the country, it’s the best man wins. And I’m the best man here, and don’t you forget it! This girl’s goin’ to be mine. There ain’t going to be any playing, or philandering, or palm reading about it. I’ve made up my mind I’ll have this girl, and that settles it. My word is the law in this neck o’ the woods. She’s mine, and as soon as she says she’s mine, you pull out.” The box made one final, tremendous punctuation point.</p>
 			<p>Etienne’s bravado was unruffled. “Ah! that is no way to win a woman,” he smiled, easily. “I make prophecy you will never win ’er that way. No. Not thees woman. She mus’ be played along an’ then keessed, this charming, delicious little creature. One kees! An’ then you ’ave her.” Again he displayed his unpleasant teeth. “I make you a bet I will kees her⁠—”</p>

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@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<p>The story of Hetty’s discharge from the Biggest Store is so nearly a repetition of her engagement as to be monotonous.</p>
 			<p>In each department of the store there is an omniscient, omnipresent, and omnivorous person carrying always a mileage book and a red necktie, and referred to as a “buyer.” The destinies of the girls in his department who live on (see Bureau of Victual Statistics)⁠—so much per week are in his hands.</p>
 			<p>This particular buyer was a capable, cool-eyed, impersonal, young, bald-headed man. As he walked along the aisles of his department he seemed to be sailing on a sea of frangipanni, while white clouds, machine-embroidered, floated around him. Too many sweets bring surfeit. He looked upon Hetty Pepper’s homely countenance, emerald eyes, and chocolate-colored hair as a welcome oasis of green in a desert of cloying beauty. In a quiet angle of a counter he pinched her arm kindly, three inches above the elbow. She slapped him three feet away with one good blow of her muscular and not especially lily-white right. So, now you know why Hetty Pepper came to leave the Biggest Store at thirty minutes’ notice, with one dime and a nickel in her purse.</p>
-			<p>This morning’s quotations list the price of rib beef at six cents per (butcher’s) pound. But on the day that Hetty was “released” by the <abbr>B. S.</abbr> the price was seven and one-half cents. That fact is what makes this story possible. Otherwise, the extra four cents would have⁠—</p>
+			<p>This morning’s quotations list the price of rib beef at six cents per (butcher’s) pound. But on the day that Hetty was “released” by the <abbr class="initialism">BS</abbr> the price was seven and one-half cents. That fact is what makes this story possible. Otherwise, the extra four cents would have⁠—</p>
 			<p>But the plot of nearly all the good stories in the world is concerned with shorts who were unable to cover; so you can find no fault with this one.</p>
 			<p>Hetty mounted with her rib beef to her $3.50 third-floor back. One hot, savory beef-stew for supper, a night’s good sleep, and she would be fit in the morning to apply again for the tasks of Hercules, Joan of Arc, Una, Job, and Little-Red-Riding-Hood.</p>
 			<p>In her room she got the graniteware stewpan out of the 2×4-foot china⁠—er⁠—I mean earthenware closet, and began to dig down in a rat’s-nest of paper bags for the potatoes and onions. She came out with her nose and chin just a little sharper pointed.</p>
@@ -34,12 +34,12 @@
 			<p>“Say, kid,” said Hetty, staying her knife, “you ain’t up against it, too, are you?”</p>
 			<p>The miniature artist smiled starvedly.</p>
 			<p>“I suppose I am. Art⁠—or, at least, the way I interpret it⁠—doesn’t seem to be much in demand. I have only these potatoes for my dinner. But they aren’t so bad boiled and hot, with a little butter and salt.”</p>
-			<p>“Child,” said Hetty, letting a brief smile soften her rigid features, “Fate has sent me and you together. I’ve had it handed to me in the neck, too; but I’ve got a chunk of meat in my, room as big as a lapdog. And I’ve done everything to get potatoes except pray for ’em. Let’s me and you bunch our commissary departments and make a stew of ’em. We’ll cook it in my room. If we only had an onion to go in it! Say, kid, you haven’t got a couple of pennies that’ve slipped down into the lining of your last winter’s sealskin, have you? I could step down to the corner and get one at old Giuseppe’s stand. A stew without an onion is worse’n a matinée without candy.”</p>
+			<p>“Child,” said Hetty, letting a brief smile soften her rigid features, “Fate has sent me and you together. I’ve had it handed to me in the neck, too; but I’ve got a chunk of meat in my room as big as a lapdog. And I’ve done everything to get potatoes except pray for ’em. Let’s me and you bunch our commissary departments and make a stew of ’em. We’ll cook it in my room. If we only had an onion to go in it! Say, kid, you haven’t got a couple of pennies that’ve slipped down into the lining of your last winter’s sealskin, have you? I could step down to the corner and get one at old Giuseppe’s stand. A stew without an onion is worse’n a matinée without candy.”</p>
 			<p>“You may call me Cecilia,” said the artist. “No; I spent my last penny three days ago.”</p>
 			<p>“Then we’ll have to cut the onion out instead of slicing it in,” said Hetty. “I’d ask the janitress for one, but I don’t want ’em hep just yet to the fact that I’m pounding the asphalt for another job. But I wish we did have an onion.”</p>
 			<p>In the shop-girl’s room the two began to prepare their supper. Cecilia’s part was to sit on the couch helplessly and beg to be allowed to do something, in the voice of a cooing ringdove. Hetty prepared the rib beef, putting it in cold salted water in the stewpan and setting it on the one-burner gas-stove.</p>
 			<p>“I wish we had an onion,” said Hetty, as she scraped the two potatoes.</p>
-			<p>On the wall opposite the couch was pinned a flaming, gorgeous advertising picture of one of the new ferryboats of the <abbr>P. U. F. F.</abbr> Railroad that had been built to cut down the time between Los Angeles and New York City one-eighth of a minute.</p>
+			<p>On the wall opposite the couch was pinned a flaming, gorgeous advertising picture of one of the new ferryboats of the <abbr class="initialism">PUFF</abbr> Railroad that had been built to cut down the time between Los Angeles and New York City one-eighth of a minute.</p>
 			<p>Hetty, turning her head during her continuous monologue, saw tears running from her guest’s eyes as she gazed on the idealized presentment of the speeding, foam-girdled transport.</p>
 			<p>“Why, say, Cecilia, kid,” said Hetty, poising her knife, “is it as bad art as that? I ain’t a critic; but I thought it kind of brightened up the room. Of course, a manicure-painter could tell it was a bum picture in a minute. I’ll take it down if you say so. I wish to the holy Saint Potluck we had an onion.”</p>
 			<p>But the miniature miniature-painter had tumbled down, sobbing, with her nose indenting the hard-woven drapery of the couch. Something was here deeper than the artistic temperament offended at crude lithography.</p>

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@@ -46,7 +46,7 @@
 			<p>The other girls soon became aware of Nancy’s ambition. “Here comes your millionaire, Nancy,” they would call to her whenever any man who looked the role approached her counter. It got to be a habit of men, who were hanging about while their womenfolk were shopping, to stroll over to the handkerchief counter and dawdle over the cambric squares. Nancy’s imitation high-bred air and genuine dainty beauty was what attracted. Many men thus came to display their graces before her. Some of them may have been millionaires; others were certainly no more than their sedulous apes. Nancy learned to discriminate. There was a window at the end of the handkerchief counter; and she could see the rows of vehicles waiting for the shoppers in the street below. She looked and perceived that automobiles differ as well as do their owners.</p>
 			<p>Once a fascinating gentleman bought four dozen handkerchiefs, and wooed her across the counter with a King Cophetua air. When he had gone one of the girls said:</p>
 			<p>“What’s wrong, Nance, that you didn’t warm up to that fellow. He looks the swell article, all right, to me.”</p>
-			<p>“Him?” said Nancy, with her coolest, sweetest, most impersonal, Van Alstyne Fisher smile; “not for mine. I saw him drive up outside. A 12 <abbr>H. P.</abbr> machine and an Irish chauffeur! And you saw what kind of handkerchiefs he bought⁠—silk! And he’s got dactylis on him. Give me the real thing or nothing, if you please.”</p>
+			<p>“Him?” said Nancy, with her coolest, sweetest, most impersonal, Van Alstyne Fisher smile; “not for mine. I saw him drive up outside. A 12 <abbr class="initialism">HP</abbr> machine and an Irish chauffeur! And you saw what kind of handkerchiefs he bought⁠—silk! And he’s got dactylis on him. Give me the real thing or nothing, if you please.”</p>
 			<p>Two of the most “refined” women in the store⁠—a forelady and a cashier⁠—had a few “swell gentlemen friends” with whom they now and then dined. Once they included Nancy in an invitation. The dinner took place in a spectacular café whose tables are engaged for New Year’s Eve a year in advance. There were two “gentlemen friends”⁠—one without any hair on his head⁠—high living ungrew it; and we can prove it⁠—the other a young man whose worth and sophistication he impressed upon you in two convincing ways⁠—he swore that all the wine was corked; and he wore diamond cuff buttons. This young man perceived irresistible excellencies in Nancy. His taste ran to shop-girls; and here was one that added the voice and manners of his high social world to the franker charms of her own caste. So, on the following day, he appeared in the store and made her a serious proposal of marriage over a box of hemstitched, grass-bleached Irish linens. Nancy declined. A brown pompadour ten feet away had been using her eyes and ears. When the rejected suitor had gone she heaped carboys of upbraidings and horror upon Nancy’s head.</p>
 			<p>“What a terrible little fool you are! That fellow’s a millionaire⁠—he’s a nephew of old Van Skittles himself. And he was talking on the level, too. Have you gone crazy, Nance?”</p>
 			<p>“Have I?” said Nancy. “I didn’t take him, did I? He isn’t a millionaire so hard that you could notice it, anyhow. His family only allows him $20,000 a year to spend. The bald-headed fellow was guying him about it the other night at supper.”</p>

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@@ -15,7 +15,7 @@
 			<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>
+			<p>When the <abbr class="initialism">PC</abbr> returns he requires an accounting. Two servants have put their talents out at usury and gained one hundred percent. Good. The unprofitable one simply digs up the talent deposited with him and hands it out on demand. A pattern of behavior for trust companies and banks, surely! In one version we read that he had wrapped it in a napkin and laid it away. But the commentator informs us that the talent mentioned was composed of 750 ounces of silver⁠—about $900 worth. So the chronicler who mentioned the napkin, had either to reduce the amount of the deposit or do a lot of explaining about the size of the napery used in those davs. Therefore in his version we note that he uses the word “pound” instead of “talent.”</p>
 			<p>A pound of silver may very well be laid away⁠—and carried away⁠—in a napkin, as any hotel or restaurant man will tell you.</p>
 			<p>But let us get away from our mutton.</p>
 			<p>When the returned nobleman finds that the one-talented servant has nothing to hand over except the original fund entrusted to him, he is as angry as a multi-millionaire would be if someone should hide under his bed and make a noise like an assessment. He orders the unprofitable servant cast into outer darkness, after first taking away his talent and giving it to the one-hundred-percent financier, and breathing strange saws, saying: “From him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.” Which is the same as to say: “Nothing from nothing leaves nothing.”</p>
@@ -26,13 +26,13 @@
 			<p>Eighty, in the pinkest of (male) Louis <span epub:type="z3998:roman">XIV</span> court costumes, shall welcome the Queen of the (mythical) Pawpaw Isles in a few well-memorized words, turning a tip-tilted nose upon the nine hundred.</p>
 			<p>Ten, in tiny lace caps, shall dust Ibsen furniture for six minutes after the rising of the curtain.</p>
 			<p>Nine shall attain the circuits, besieging with muscle, skill, eye, hand, voice, wit, brain, heel and toe the ultimate high walls of stardom.</p>
-			<p>One shall inherit Broadway. Sic venit gloria mundi.</p>
+			<p>One shall inherit Broadway. <i xml:lang="la">Sic venit gloria mundi.</i></p>
 			<p>Cliff McGowan and Mac McGowan were cousins. They lived on the West Side and were talented. Singing, dancing, imitations, trick bicycle riding, boxing, German and Irish dialect comedy, and a little sleight-of-hand and balancing of wheat straws and wheelbarrows on the ends of their chins came as easy to them as it is for you to fix your rat so it won’t show or to dodge a creditor through the swinging-doors of a well-lighted café⁠—according as you may belong to the one or the other division of the greatest prestidigitators⁠—the people. They were slim, pale, consummately self-possessed youths, whose fingernails were always irreproachably (and clothes seams reproachfully) shiny. Their conversation was in sentences so short that they made Kipling’s seem as long as court citations.</p>
 			<p>Having the temperament, they did no work. Any afternoon you could find them on Eighth Avenue either in front of Spinelli’s barber shop, Mike Dugan’s place, or the Limerick Hotel, rubbing their forefinger nails with dingy silk handkerchiefs. At any time, if you had happened to be standing, undecisive, near a pool-table, and Cliff and Mac had, casually, as it were, drawn near, mentioning something disinterestedly, about a game, well, indeed, would it have been for you had you gone your way, unresponsive. Which assertion, carefully considered, is a study in tense, punctuation, and advice to strangers.</p>
 			<p>Of all kinships it is likely that the closest is that of cousin. Between cousins there exist the ties of race, name, and favor⁠—ties thicker than water, and yet not coagulated with the jealous precipitations of brotherhood or the enjoining obligations of the matrimonial yoke. You can bestow upon a cousin almost the interest and affection that you would give to a stranger; you need not feel toward him the contempt and embarrassment that you have for one of your father’s sons⁠—it is the closer clan-feeling that sometimes makes the branch of a tree stronger than its trunk.</p>
 			<p>Thus were the two McGowans bonded. They enjoyed a quiet celebrity in their district, which was a strip west of Eighth Avenue with the Pump for its pivot. Their talents were praised in a hundred “joints”; their friendship was famed even in a neighborhood where men had been known to fight off the wives of their friends⁠—when domestic onslaught was being made upon their friends by the wives of their friends. (Thus do the limitations of English force us to repetends.)</p>
 			<p>So, side by side, grim, sallow, lowering, inseparable, undefeated, the cousins fought their way into the temple of Art⁠—art with a big A, which causes to intervene a lesson in geometry.</p>
-			<p>One night at about eleven o’clock Del Delano dropped into Mike’s place on Eighth Avenue. From that moment, instead of remaining a Place, the café became a Resort. It was as though King Edward had condescended to mingle with ten-spots of a different suit; or Joe Gans had casually strolled in to look over the Tuskegee School; or <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shaw, of England, had accepted an invitation to read selections from “Rena, the Snowbird” at an unveiling of the proposed monument to James Owen O’Connor at Chinquapin Falls, Mississippi. In spite of these comparisons, you will have to be told why the patronizing of a third-rate saloon on the West Side by the said Del Delano conferred such a specific honor upon the place.</p>
+			<p>One night at about eleven o’clock Del Delano dropped into Mike’s place on Eighth Avenue. From that moment, instead of remaining a Place, the café became a Resort. It was as though King Edward had condescended to mingle with ten-spots of a different suit; or Joe Gans had casually strolled in to look over the Tuskegee School; or <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shaw, of England, had accepted an invitation to read selections from <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Rena, the Snowbird</i> at an unveiling of the proposed monument to James Owen O’Connor at Chinquapin Falls, Mississippi. In spite of these comparisons, you will have to be told why the patronizing of a third-rate saloon on the West Side by the said Del Delano conferred such a specific honor upon the place.</p>
 			<p>Del Delano could not make his feet behave; and so the world paid him $300 a week to see them misconduct themselves on the vaudeville stage. To make the matter plain to you (and to swell the number of words), he was the best fancy dancer on any of the circuits between Ottawa and Corpus Christi. With his eyes fixed on vacancy and his feet apparently fixed on nothing, he “nightly charmed thousands,” as his press-agent incorrectly stated. Even taking night performance and matinée together, he scarcely could have charmed more than eighteen hundred, including those who left after Zora, the Nautch girl, had squeezed herself through a hoop twelve inches in diameter, and those who were waiting for the moving pictures.</p>
 			<p>But Del Delano was the West Side’s favorite; and nowhere is there a more loyal Side. Five years before our story was submitted to the editors, Del had crawled from some Tenth Avenue basement like a lean rat and had bitten his way into the Big Cheese. Patched, half-starved, cuffless, and as scornful of the Hook as an interpreter of Ibsen, he had danced his way into health (as you and I view it) and fame in sixteen minutes on Amateur Night at Creary’s (Variety) Theatre in Eighth Avenue. A bookmaker (one of the kind that talent wins with instead of losing) sat in the audience, asleep, dreaming of an impossible pickup among the amateurs. After a snore, a glass of beer from the handsome waiter, and a temporary blindness caused by the diamonds of a transmontane blonde in Box E, the bookmaker woke up long enough to engage Del Delano for a three-weeks’ trial engagement fused with a trained-dog short-circuit covering the three Washingtons⁠—Heights, Statue, and Square.</p>
 			<p>By the time this story was read and accepted, Del Delano was drawing his three-hundred dollars a week, which, divided by seven (Sunday acts not in costume being permissible), dispels the delusion entertained by most of us that we have seen better days. You can easily imagine the worshipful agitation of Eighth Avenue whenever Del Delano honored it with a visit after his terpsichorean act in a historically great and vilely ventilated Broadway theatre. If the West Side could claim forty-two minutes out of his forty-two weeks’ bookings every year, it was an occasion for bonfires and repainting of the Pump. And now you know why Mike’s saloon is a Resort, and no longer a simple Place.</p>

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@@ -13,13 +13,13 @@
 			<p>First, biography (but pared to the quick) must intervene. I am for the inverted sugarcoated quinine pill⁠—the bitter on the outside.</p>
 			<p>The Carterets were, or was (Columbia College professors please rule), an old Virginia family. Long time ago the gentlemen of the family had worn lace ruffles and carried tinless foils and owned plantations and had slaves to burn. But the war had greatly reduced their holdings. (Of course you can perceive at once that this flavor has been shoplifted from <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr class="name">F.</abbr> Hopkinson Smith, in spite of the “et” after “Carter.”) Well, anyhow:</p>
 			<p>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 secondhand store in Chelsea, kept by a man named Skzchnzski; Georgia sent the President a sixty-pound watermelon⁠—and that brings us up to the time when the story begins. My! but that was sparring for an opening! I really must brush op on my Aristotle.</p>
+			<p>Then came the Civil War. (I must condense this historical interpolation.) Stonewall Jackson was shot; Lee surrendered; Grant toured the world; cotton went to nine cents; Old Crow whiskey and Jim Crow cars were invented; the Seventy-ninth Massachusetts Volunteers returned to the Ninety-seventh Alabama Zouaves the battle flag of Lundy’s Lane which they bought at a secondhand store in Chelsea, kept by a man named Skzchnzski; Georgia sent the President a sixty-pound watermelon⁠—and that brings us up to the time when the story begins. My! but that was sparring for an opening! I really must brush up on my Aristotle.</p>
 			<p>The Yankee Carterets went into business in New York long before the war. Their house, as far as Leather Belting and Mill Supplies was concerned, was as musty and arrogant and solid as one of those old East India tea-importing concerns that you read about in Dickens. There were some rumors of a war behind its counters, but not enough to affect the business.</p>
 			<p>During and after the war, Blandford Carteret, <abbr class="initialism">FFV</abbr>, lost his plantations, juleps, marksmanship, and life. He bequeathed little more than his pride to his surviving family. So it came to pass that Blandford Carteret, the Fifth, aged fifteen, was invited by the leather-and-mill-supplies branch of that name to come North and learn business instead of hunting foxes and boasting of the glory of his fathers on the reduced acres of his impoverished family. The boy jumped at the chance; and, at the age of twenty-five, sat in the office of the firm equal partner with John, the Fifth, of the blunderbuss-and-turkey branch. Here the story begins again.</p>
 			<p>The young men were about the same age, smooth of face, alert, easy of manner, and with an air that promised mental and physical quickness. They were razored, blue-serged, straw-hatted, and pearl stick-pinned like other young New Yorkers who might be millionaires or bill clerks.</p>
 			<p>One afternoon at four o’clock, in the private office of the firm, Blandford Carteret opened a letter that a clerk had just brought to his desk. After reading it, he chuckled audibly for nearly a minute. John looked around from his desk inquiringly.</p>
 			<p>“It’s from mother,” said Blandford. “I’ll read you the funny part of it. She tells me all the neighborhood news first, of course, and then cautions me against getting my feet wet and musical comedies. After that come vital statistics about calves and pigs and an estimate of the wheat crop. And now I’ll quote some:</p>
-			<p>“ ‘And what do you think! Old Uncle Jake, who was seventy-six last Wednesday, must go travelling. Nothing would do but he must go to New York and see his “young Marster Blandford.” Old as he is, he has a deal of common sense, so I’ve let him go. I couldn’t refuse him⁠—he seemed to have concentrated all his hopes and desires into this one adventure into the wide world. You know he was born on the plantation, and has never been ten miles away from it in his life. And he was your father’s body servant during the war, and has been always a faithful vassal and servant of the family. He has often seen the gold watch⁠—the watch that was your father’s and your father’s father’s. I told him it was to be yours, And he begged me to allow him to take it to you and to put it into your hands himself.</p>
+			<p>“ ‘And what do you think! Old Uncle Jake, who was seventy-six last Wednesday, must go travelling. Nothing would do but he must go to New York and see his “young Marster Blandford.” Old as he is, he has a deal of common sense, so I’ve let him go. I couldn’t refuse him⁠—he seemed to have concentrated all his hopes and desires into this one adventure into the wide world. You know he was born on the plantation, and has never been ten miles away from it in his life. And he was your father’s body servant during the war, and has been always a faithful vassal and servant of the family. He has often seen the gold watch⁠—the watch that was your father’s and your father’s father’s. I told him it was to be yours, and he begged me to allow him to take it to you and to put it into your hands himself.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘So he has it, carefully enclosed in a buckskin case, and is bringing it to you with all the pride and importance of a king’s messenger. I gave him money for the round trip and for a two weeks’ stay in the city. I wish you would see to it that he gets comfortable quarters⁠—Jake won’t need much looking after⁠—he’s able to take care of himself. But I have read in the papers that African bishops and colored potentates generally have much trouble in obtaining food and lodging in the Yankee metropolis. That may be all right; but I don’t see why the best hotel there shouldn’t take Jake in. Still, I suppose it’s a rule.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I gave him full directions about finding you, and packed his valise myself. You won’t have to bother with him; but I do hope you’ll see that he is made comfortable. Take the watch that he brings you⁠—it’s almost a decoration. It has been worn by true Carterets, and there isn’t a stain upon it nor a false movement of the wheels. Bringing it to you is the crowning joy of old Jake’s life. I wanted him to have that little outing and that happiness before it is too late. You have often heard us talk about how Jake, pretty badly wounded himself, crawled through the reddened grass at Chancellorsville to where your father lay with the bullet in his dear heart, and took the watch from his pocket to keep it from the “Yanks.”</p>
 			<p>“ ‘So, my son, when the old man comes consider him as a frail but worthy messenger from the old-time life and home.</p>
@@ -94,7 +94,7 @@
 			<p>“It is a long journey,” said he, “from Plymouth rock to Norfolk Bay. Between the two points we find the changes that nearly three centuries have brought. In that time the old order has changed. We no longer burn witches or torture slaves. And today we neither spread our cloaks on the mud for ladies to walk over nor treat them to the ducking-stool. It is the age of common sense, adjustment, and proportion. All of us⁠—ladies, gentlemen, women, men, Northerners, Southerners, lords, caitiffs, actors, hardware-drummers, senators, hod-carriers, and politicians⁠—are coming to a better understanding. Chivalry is one of our words that changes its meaning every day. Family pride is a thing of many constructions⁠—it may show itself by maintaining a moth-eaten arrogance in a cobwebbed Colonial mansion or by the prompt paying of one’s debts.</p>
 			<p>“Now, I suppose you’ve had enough of my monologue. I’ve learned something of business and a little of life; and I somehow believe, cousin, that our great-great-grandfathers, the original Carterets, would endorse my view of this matter.”</p>
 			<p>Black-Tie wheeled around to his desk, wrote in a checkbook and tore out the check, the sharp rasp of the perforated leaf making the only sound in the room. He laid the check within easy reach of Miss De Ormond’s hand.</p>
-			<p>“Business is business,” said he. “We live in a business age. There is my personal check for $10,000. What do you say, Miss De Ormond⁠—will it he orange blossoms or cash?”</p>
+			<p>“Business is business,” said he. “We live in a business age. There is my personal check for $10,000. What do you say, Miss De Ormond⁠—will it be orange blossoms or cash?”</p>
 			<p>Miss De Ormond picked up the cheek carelessly, folded it indifferently, and stuffed it into her glove.</p>
 			<p>“Oh, this’ll do,” she said, calmly. “I just thought I’d call and put it up to you. I guess you people are all right. But a girl has feelings, you know. I’ve heard one of you was a Southerner⁠—I wonder which one of you it is?”</p>
 			<p>She arose, smiled sweetly, and walked to the door. There, with a flash of white teeth and a dip of the heavy plume, she disappeared.</p>

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

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@@ -33,7 +33,7 @@
 			<p>Volumes of Clark Russell were hard to find that evening at the Old Book Shop. And James Turner’s smarting and aching feet did not tend to improve his temper. Humble hat cleaner though he was, he had a spirit equal to any caliph’s.</p>
 			<p>“Say, you old faker,” he said, angrily, “be on your way. I don’t know what your game is, unless you want change for a bogus $40,000,000 bill. Well, I don’t carry that much around with me. But I do carry a pretty fair left-handed punch that you’ll get if you don’t move on.”</p>
 			<p>“You are a blamed impudent little gutter pup,” said the caliph.</p>
-			<p>Then James delivered his self-praised punch; old Tom seized him by the collar and kicked him thrice; the hat cleaner rallied and clinched; two bookstands were overturned, and the books sent flying. A copy came up, took an arm of each, and marched them to the nearest station house. “Fighting and disorderly conduct,” said the cop to the sergeant.</p>
+			<p>Then James delivered his self-praised punch; old Tom seized him by the collar and kicked him thrice; the hat cleaner rallied and clinched; two bookstands were overturned, and the books sent flying. A cop came up, took an arm of each, and marched them to the nearest station house. “Fighting and disorderly conduct,” said the cop to the sergeant.</p>
 			<p>“Three hundred dollars bail,” said the sergeant at once, asseveratingly and inquiringly.</p>
 			<p>“Sixty-three cents,” said James Turner with a harsh laugh.</p>
 			<p>The caliph searched his pockets and collected small bills and change amounting to four dollars.</p>